Maria flicked back the red-and-white-checked tea towel on top of the basket. ‘Maybe this will help?’
Tansy’s eyes brightened. ‘I dare say it would.’
‘Come on,’ Maria said, poking out her elbow like a wing for Tansy to link with. ‘We’re taking a small walk and then we’ll have our picnic.’
Tansy pressed the locking device on the key ring and the car blinked its orange lights and chirped cheerfully. Together they walked in silence that was filled with seriousness, but also with solidarity.
‘I wish I’d met Dougal before he left,’ Maria said once they’d passed the Yellow Tara and Green Tara cabins to find the beginning of a dirt path.
‘He would have liked that,’ Tansy said.
Maria wondered if she’d get to meet him at all now. An uncomfortable prickling sensation inched its way up her spine as she wondered, for the first time, if her newfound relatives would visit her in jail.
They began the ascent up the steep hill and passed a middle-aged German couple who were backpacking around the world and had booked in for the weekend. They greeted them with guten Tag and kept going.
‘Why haven’t I been up here yet?’ Tansy asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Maria said. ‘I think I’ve been up here so often that now I tend to leave it for the visitors to experience. And I’m always so busy in the garden or with the bees, or preparing for the markets, or doing bookings and so on.’
The path became steeper, and here logs had been set in the ground to create steps. They adjusted their pace to accommodate these new footholds. The tall trees gave way to open space. Soon they’d reached the top, with a view to the horizon in all directions. There was a narrow bench and a small curved viewing platform with a safety rail and mud map of the area, hand-drawn before Maria’s time here, laminated and mounted on a post. The map identified a tall gum tree on the northern side, its head sticking far above the others around it, the oldest known tree in the area. It also showed the position of a waterfall off to the west, in a natural gully at the base of one of the hills. A creek system, wending and looping through the forest. Caves. Camping grounds. Small towns. Populated beach areas. The ocean.
‘Wow!’ Tansy rested with her hands on her hips, barely puffing, unlike Maria, whose heart thumped in her chest.
‘Special, isn’t it?’ Maria said. She cast her eyes over the map, checking to see if it was still accurate or if developments had encroached or land had been cleared. Or if trees had grown, obscuring what was once visible. But it all looked in order.
‘Which direction is Noosa?’ Tansy asked, getting her bearings.
‘That way.’ Maria pointed.
Tansy talked through the process of identifying landmarks and estimating where Hastings Street and her unit might be. Finally satisfied she’d roughly found it, she shook her head. ‘It’s so beautiful. We live in the most gorgeous part of the world. I can’t imagine leaving here,’ she said. ‘I just can’t imagine myself in Canada.’
Maria didn’t say anything, instead thinking that she couldn’t imagine leaving here either. In a few foolish, romantic moments, she’d dreamed of her life ending here, amid her garden and her bees. But now? Now it would likely end behind bars.
She waited a moment and then sat down on the bench, her back resting against the railing, and uncovered her basket of goodies. ‘Can I interest you in a glass of mead and some cheese and crackers?’
‘Absolutely.’ Tansy sat down and Maria handed her a glass and poured them each a small drink.
‘Cheers.’ They toasted and sipped.
Tansy coughed and her eyes watered. ‘Whoa. Is this stuff legal?’
Maria widened her eyes. ‘Perhaps a little too long on the brewing,’ she said, but sipped more nonetheless.
Tansy went back for another sip and took a larger amount this time. ‘I always wanted hair on my chest,’ she said.
They both chuckled.
And then Maria began her story.
23
It was hard to know where to start, of course. Where was the beginning of this tale, exactly? When had Maria’s moment of absolute certainty of the path she must take finally crystallised into a clear plan?
Perhaps a good place to start would be with Michelle Karakas, a once bright, bubbly, engaged fourteen-year-old who, seemingly overnight, turned quiet and sullen and withdrew from her friends. Who dragged her feet into confession as she stepped across the threshold and closed the door, alone inside with Father Peter Cunningham. Who came out with her eyes downcast and her hands trembling. Who refused to look at Maria when she’d asked if there was anything wrong, if there was anything troubling her, if there was anything she could help with. Who only ever shook her head and said, ‘No, Sister.’
Once a popular, friendly girl, she became a victim of bullying. The other girls taunted her and Maria overheard a couple of them call her a slut. After that incident, Maria followed Michelle to the girls toilets and found her sobbing uncontrollably on the ground, pulling at her hair.
And that was when Michelle had broken down and told her the truth. She had gone to confession one day, wanting to relieve herself of her burden and be forgiven for her sinful behaviour. She’d found a special spot on her body that felt good to touch. She’d not known it was there but had come across it in the shower one day. For some reason, she knew she couldn’t tell anyone else about it. But she could tell the one person who was there to save her soul.
Father Peter told her that she was a dirty, sinful girl. He told her she would go to hell if she didn’t do what he asked of her. He was the voice of God. He was filled with the Holy Spirit and was the mouthpiece of Jesus, Son of God. Only he, Father Peter, could absolve her of her sins.
And so he insisted that she see him regularly and allow him to touch her, all the while telling her how awful she was, how dirty, how wicked and evil. What a grave disappointment she was to her parents. That she was no longer pure. He caused her pain in that special spot, and when she cried he told her that was good—her pain and her tears would cleanse her soul.
And while doling out her penance, he informed her that they weren’t finished. She must also touch him, to see what a real man was like, a worthy man, so she would know what to do if she ever found a husband—one who could forgive her for being ruined. Then, at least, she could serve him properly and keep him satisfied so he wouldn’t need to look elsewhere outside of their marriage to have his needs met.
It went on for months.
Of course, Maria went to Mother Veronica.
While Maria spoke, Veronica pursed her lips and folded her arms. Then she said, ‘Leave it with me.’
Maria left, feeling sick but also relieved that Veronica knew. Now someone would do something.
But a day went by. A week. A month. And nothing happened. Veronica never mentioned the matter again. Never called Maria to her office. Michelle Karakas started coming to school less and less.
Finally, Maria went to Michelle’s house to visit her and talk to her parents. When Mr Karakas saw Maria coming, he rolled his eyes. ‘Is this because her grades are falling?’ he called from the front door when Maria was only halfway down the footpath.
She stopped. ‘No.’
‘Because she’s already been punished. We’ll handle it from here. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do, Sister,’ he said, and closed the door.
Maria went cold all over.
She went back to see Veronica and demanded her help. Why hadn’t anything been done? It was unacceptable. Illegal. Immoral.
‘Silence,’ Veronica said, and then reminded Maria of the church’s edict on internal secrecy. They were all bound to silence—the Vatican had decreed it and they could not question it. They had to trust that their superiors were handling it; it was not a concern of the nuns.
That afternoon, Maria wept in the garden with her bees.
Then she went to the police station. She committed a grave sin, breaking the most important of all her vows: obedience. Sh
e was bound by absolute obedience to the church and to her superiors. Breaking that vow felt like a physical tearing of her body as she walked out through the front gates of the convent. Part of her left the church for good that day.
Unfortunately, the officer she saw was Michael O’Grady—the perfect Irish Catholic. He too knew of the church’s policy. He would not take her testimony and he warned her that no one else there would either; it was a matter for the church to deal with.
Maria was stunned. This monster was going to continue to do this for the rest of his life and no one would stop him, he was untouchable. Shakily, she left the station, knowing that life as she knew it was over.
Over the next few days, she was constantly angry, stewing in her own bitterness, disgust and devastation. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t eat. She went through the motions in the classroom, demanding silence from the girls; there were too many thoughts in her head to deal with their chatter too. The only thing that gave her solace was her garden and her bees, which, thankfully, she’d managed to keep hold of despite her extra duties.
Then one Friday, after all the students had left, the opportunity arrived for her to do something to help. She was in the garden, digging a trench to lay seed potatoes, panting and sweating from the exertion. The weather was fine and warm and the bees were happily humming about, industriously working to maintain their society’s order. One of her girls landed on Maria’s bare forearm and she stood up. She took off her gloves and picked up the bee with her bare hand. She wasn’t afraid of being stung.
She smiled. ‘Hello there, darling girl.’ And her heart swelled with joy. The little bee wiped her wings with her back legs and then took a few steps along Maria’s arm, probably attracted to her sweat. Maria marvelled at the way the sun shone through her fine wings and all the veins turned iridescent purples and blues. There was still good in the world.
But the happy moment burst with the smarmy sound of Peter Cunningham’s voice. Maria jumped and spun around.
‘Good afternoon, Sister.’ He smirked. ‘Sorry to frighten you.’ He stood rocking on his heels, a small prayer book clasped between his folded hands.
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even look him in the eye. Instead, she gently brushed off the worker bee and got her flying again.
Peter’s face dropped. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you were working with the bees.’ He stepped backwards, trampling spinach seedlings and bumping into the old disused well. He ducked nervously and swatted at air as a bee flew in his vicinity. ‘I’m just on my way to afternoon tea with Sister Celine,’ he said abruptly. Then the lovely bee who had just been on Maria’s arm landed on his shoulder. He froze. At the sight of him paralysed by fear, Maria smiled.
But then his hand shot up, lightning fast, and crushed the bee with the prayer book.
Her smile was dashed. She heard her own sharp intake of breath.
He had killed one of her hive.
She watched as he flicked the dead bee to the ground in disgust. Screwing up his nose, he put the toe of his shoe over its body and ground it into the dirt for good measure.
Maria stared at the remains of her dutiful worker bee, lost for words that anyone could so carelessly destroy something so beautiful and innocent. Then something inside her snapped—that was precisely what he’d been doing to children for years.
‘Good day, Sister.’ He strode off towards the sitting room for his afternoon tea.
Maria turned back to the garden, filled with waves of bone-penetrating distress. Her knees folded beneath her. Her ears buzzed. She felt sick.
Then her mind cleared.
It was simple. She was a servant of God. God did not condone what Peter Cunningham did to children, of that she was certain, and she didn’t need the Vatican to tell her if she was right.
Someone had to stop Peter, and if no one else would do it, she would have to.
It was the strangest thing, but as she knelt on the ground that day she felt a strong, comforting warmth all around her. She felt the presence of Mother Mary and of Jesus too, standing at her side. She would never again let an institution stop her from doing what was right.
Another bee came and landed on her. A beautiful, innocent furry bee. She watched its eyes watching her. Bees had five eyes—two huge compound eyes on the sides, with almost seven thousand lenses in each, and three more on the top of their head. They saw infinitely more than human eyes. She wondered what the world looked like to a bee. Were there more colours than humans could detect? Could they see the goodness of a person just by looking at them? Could they see angels, saints and spirits? With eyes on the top of their heads, they were always looking to the heavens.
Maria and the bee held each other’s gaze.
Take me.
It was a whisper, but still perfectly clear, a message from the small insect, herself a master of esoteric communication of the highest order.
Take me.
Peter claimed he was allergic to bees; that was why he hated them. If that was true—though she still suspected it wasn’t—then a perfectly placed sting to his throat, around his airway, could kill him in minutes. If it was true.
Her eyes drifted to a paper bag on the ground that had held seed potatoes. With calm hands, as though watching herself do it, she opened it and held it near the bee. Without hesitation, the bee walked inside.
Maria lightly scrunched down the top to keep it contained and safe. And then she waited until Peter had finished his meal of whatever food Celine might have prepared for him. His last meal. If the allergy claim was true. She prayed that it was.
Tansy had stopped eating and drinking a while ago, though Maria wasn’t entirely sure when. But the sun had begun its afternoon descent and the shadows were extending; and her buttocks were aching on the hard bench, which reminded her of her fall yesterday when Ian had invaded her home. She stood up to stretch and Tansy watched her wide-eyed. If she’d been pale when she arrived, she was ghostly white now.
‘And did you do it? Did you make the bee sting him?’ Tansy squeaked.
Maria looked out at the expanse of undulating land rolling ever downwards to the sea. ‘Yes.’ A great silence yawned out across the gully below. She knew Tansy wanted to know if Peter had died but was afraid to ask. ‘The only people who know about this are you and Ian Tully. And the bees, of course.’ Maria managed a small smile of affection for her bees—they’d been there beside her through everything, then and now, the only constant in her life since the day she’d joined the convent.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Tansy asked.
Turning to face her, Maria took a deep breath and let it out heavily. ‘I guess because you were here when Ian turned up yesterday.’
Tansy’s face had now regained some colour, and at the reminder of the man in black who’d scared them both, she set her jaw. ‘Tell me about that. Why was he here? What’s he got to do with it all?’ There was a protective note in her voice. She’d moved quickly from horror to something else. If Maria was hearing it correctly—and she hoped she was—it was camaraderie.
‘He wants an unblemished record in his run towards the position of cardinal. He has a lot to lose, and I could destroy everything for him.’
Tansy shook her head. ‘How?’
Maria sat down and resumed her story.
Peter Cunningham had taken his blessed time having afternoon tea. Or maybe it had just seemed extraordinarily long because Maria was waiting to kill him. That would make time slow down, surely. A hysterical giggle erupted at one point—she was plotting to murder a priest. It was ludicrous.
The giggles ceased.
Had she lost her mind?
Her hands began to shake then, and sweat poured from her armpits. She nearly opened the bag and let the bee escape. But all she had to do was think of what that man had done to Michelle Karakas, and to Sarah’s two students, and God knew how many others, and the trembling stopped.
At last Peter emerged from the doorway of the sitting room, wiping his b
row with a handkerchief and loosening the top button at his neck with the other hand, so full and bloated he was from gorging on the offerings of his stupid, obedient, obeisant nuns. She hated them all in that moment. Hated herself for buying into this elaborate lie.
Her feet began to move, almost as though she had no control over them. She could hear them treading lightly across the grass. Everything was vivid. The blossoming wattle flowers were more intensely yellow than anything she’d ever seen before. A young magpie hopped across the ground and screeched while its mother collected food and neatly deposited it in its mouth. The sun blazed in her eyes. Children’s laughter, from somewhere out on the street, sent chills down her spine. As did the sight of Father Peter, walking down the small path, his feet crunching on the stones.
He stopped suddenly, noticing her making straight for him. He must have registered something odd in her face, because he looked wary. ‘Sister?’
She stood in front of him. Her heart felt as though it might jump right out of her chest. She stared him straight in the eye. ‘Father,’ she said, amazed at how even her voice was.
He looked down at the paper bag in her hand. ‘Can I help you?’ he said uneasily, then covered his mouth as a belch escaped. ‘Forgive me.’ He wiped his mouth with his hanky. ‘I’m afraid I let Sister Celine talk me into one of her new creations today.’ His eyes widened. ‘She tries hard but she isn’t the best cook. But she seemed so pleased with herself I didn’t feel I could refuse.’
A pinprick of resistance then. A softening of her resolve. The man had, after all, some sort of heart, some sense of compassion. She felt her mind spin. This was her final moment to back out of the plan she’d hatched while he was eating that last meal—which, as it turned out, had been rather unpleasant, a thought that made Maria both glad and sad at the same time.
‘She is known for her unusual creations,’ she heard her own voice say, making small talk. ‘We stopped allowing her to cook main meals not long after she arrived. But more fool us, we thought she was okay with biscuits and cakes and that sort of thing.’
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