If Blood Should Stain the Wattle

by Jackie French

  ‘And yet the poor woman died,’ said Jed. ‘Surely Ra Zacharia should have been prosecuted for fraud?’

  ‘Except Mrs Tetlock didn’t die from the cancer,’ said Carol dryly. ‘She was killed when the car she was in ran off the road and over a cliff. The driver, her other son, was killed as well.’

  ‘Could Ra Zacharia have . . . arranged the accident?’

  ‘Severed the brake lines, or something like that? You’ve been reading too many Agatha Christies. There was no way of telling if any mechanical fault caused the crash — the car burst into flames on impact. But they’d been at a big family party and witnesses at the inquest said Mrs Tetlock’s son had been drunk, so drunk that he’d become abusive and was asked to leave. It seems he was drunk quite often.’

  ‘An alcoholic?’

  Carol shrugged. ‘I’ve only got what was said at the inquest.’

  ‘So no autopsy to see if the ovarian cancer was still there or not. Did your investigator say what her son had been abusive about?’

  ‘Not his mother’s involvement with Ra Zacharia. He’d been accusing his brother of sponging off their mother. Which it seemed he had been.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Jed again. ‘One son an alcoholic, one sponging off her. Or both. I don’t suppose either was much support to her. No wonder she became so close to Ra Zacharia. He’d have given her sympathy, at least. Any other grateful patients who have left him money in their wills? Or been especially generous?’

  ‘Possibly. There’s been one death at the community here. A heart attack. Nothing got into the Gibberer, because there were no suspicious circumstances. The deceased was a Mr Alan Rigonati, who left everything he owned, valued at two hundred and fifty-two dollars, less probate duty, to his son, who hadn’t seen him in a year. If there have been any bequests to Ra Zacharia, none have landed him in court or the main newspapers. We’d need to hunt through every will in every state registry in Australia and the USA to see if he was listed when the wills were probated. It’d be easier if we knew the names of everyone who’s lived there.’

  ‘The Chosen are called by numbers,’ said Jed slowly. ‘They give up their old names when they join the group.’

  ‘Convenient.’

  ‘Not for us,’ said Jed. ‘Or anyone else trying to make enquiries. What about the college he went to?’

  ‘Seems genuine enough, though it’s not exactly Yale. But it’s not a mail-order degree place either, if that’s what you’re asking. “Dennis O’Lachlan” spent four years there and graduated, then did his PhD. The Californian investigator talked to a few people who had known him. Several of them said that he’d enrolled in the herbalism course because conventional medicine had failed him. One of them mentioned a brain tumour. They all knew about the Chosen of the Universe — he’d begun it before he enrolled or attempted to anyway.’

  Carol shrugged. ‘None of the people they spoke to had joined the Chosen. They seemed to think it was all a bit of a joke, especially the alien stuff. Dennis O’Lachlan must have realised his fellow students and the staff there weren’t buying the “messages from an alien spacecraft stuff” because he stopped talking about aliens after that first year. They seemed to like him well enough. But no one described him as charismatic or a natural leader.’

  ‘Wait a sec,’ said Jed. ‘How did he afford to go to a college in the USA? He couldn’t have worked there without a work visa, and they’re not easy to get.’

  ‘One of his former friends said an elderly woman paid the fees, and that he lived in her house. Presumably Mrs Tetlock. He came back to Australia straight after the estate was settled.’ Carol shrugged again. ‘Maybe because of the bad publicity. He might even have been homesick. I don’t know. He didn’t start calling himself Ra Zacharia till he left the USA.’

  ‘When did he start the community of the Chosen here?’

  ‘1968. Their headquarters was a terrace house in Sydney, then he bought the land here. But the investigator couldn’t find out how many members they have now.’

  ‘At least forty-eight,’ said Jed, remembering Mark 48 drooling at the loom. ‘Not many more than that, I think, unless there are adherents elsewhere. Are there?’

  ‘Not that the investigator could find. But there’s something else from an old friend of mine. He works at Parkes Observatory now and edits a small astronomy journal. I mentioned the messages from aliens to him, just in case there might be something in it.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘Look, strange things do happen. Anyway, my friend said it was rubbish too. But he did remember the name. It’s hard to forget. Ra Zacharia submitted an article about two years ago. The journal didn’t accept it, of course, but there was no stamped return address envelope, so my friend couldn’t send it back. He sent me a photocopy of it.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘The same stuff as in his book, mostly. But apparently there’s been a new message from the aliens. One that hadn’t been received when Ra Zacharia wrote his book four years ago.’ Carol paused dramatically.

  ‘Please, no dramatic pauses!’ said Jed.

  ‘Okay. The aliens have given Ra Zacharia an exact date and location. They are going to land on the afternoon of 11 November 1975. And the location . . .’

  ‘Is outside Gibber’s Creek. Of course. Why else buy up barren paddocks?’

  ‘Exactly. In a year and a half Gibber’s Creek is going to have an alien invasion. Presumably peace on earth for all mankind. And even perhaps women.’

  ‘We’ll probably just get a mob of angry followers demanding the aliens they were promised,’ said Jed.

  ‘Don’t underestimate human gullibility. He’ll probably just say it was a mistranslation and the aliens will arrive in another ten or twenty years. That’s what gurus usually do when their predictions don’t come on schedule. And their followers mostly swallow it.’

  Jed nodded, remembering the slightly frightening uniform smiles out at the community of the Chosen.

  ‘There’s not much else that the investigator can find,’ added Carol. ‘Ra Zacharia’s mum is still alive, up in Townsville. He paid off her mortgage as soon as he came into the money. He goes up there for Christmas and her birthday each year. He uses his real name up there, and wears normal clothes. The neighbours say he’s very nice and good to his mum. None of them mentioned his brain tumour. It’s possible his mother never knew about it either.’

  ‘If it ever existed,’ muttered Jed.

  ‘If it ever existed,’ agreed Carol. ‘But I’m pretty sure that Ra Zacharia at least believed in it, and that changed his life. Don’t worry — the investigator was very discreet up in Townsville.’

  ‘Good.’ The last thing Jed wanted was to scare an elderly widow with the news that her son might have a brain tumour. ‘I suppose he goes around Australia giving talks to get more members? Elderly wealthy members to leave him more dough?’

  ‘If he does, there’s no record of it. The last public talk seems to have been at Sydney University, just before they came out here. That must have been the one where Scarlett’s Mark was recruited. The Chosen don’t seem to be trying to recruit anyone these days. On the contrary.’

  ‘But Ra Zacharia tried to recruit Scarlett.’ Or had he? Had he only promised she would walk again?

  Carol shook her head. ‘It’s . . . odd. On the surface the Chosen of the Universe seem like the classic con, a charismatic bloke fleecing followers. But cults mostly don’t allow their members to visit their families, much less attend events on their own.’

  ‘But the Chosen do mostly keep to themselves. And Ra Zacharia changed his name.’

  ‘So did Leafsong. And you, for that matter. So far this guy seems to be sincere. Jed, I think you need to accept that Ra Zacharia may be a harmless crackpot, a bloke who was lucky enough to befriend a wealthy woman and who’s using the money she left him to help others. Maybe some or even all of them are deluded about their cures and the alien spaceship. But from all the investigators have foun
d out, and from all you’ve told me, there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Unless Scarlett decides to join the community.’

  ‘Keep your hackles down, mother bear. If Scarlett really thought Ra Zacharia could make her walk, don’t you think she’d have said, “Prove it”?’

  ‘Then why hasn’t she?’

  ‘I suspect she doesn’t want to hurt or embarrass Mark when his leader can’t keep his promises. I bet Scarlett forgets all about the Chosen of the Universe as soon as she gets to uni.’ Carol grinned. ‘And Scarlett’s Mark checks out. The Sydney investigator went to see his mum. She’s not happy that he’s with the Chosen, but he visits her and writes to her on and off.’

  ‘Maybe Ra Zacharia thinks Mark is tied to him so securely he can risk him going to visit his mum.’

  ‘Maybe. Or as I said, maybe there is no fraud at all.’

  ‘You mean Ra Zacharia isn’t after my money?’

  ‘Of course he’s after your money,’ said Carol, exasperated. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’s a con man.’

  ‘It doesn’t?’

  ‘Con men don’t believe their own lies. It’s possible he is genuinely deluded.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jed. She had been a con woman once too. She knew how you could make yourself believe that the impossible might just be true, then spin the lie to another, pretending to yourself you only told the truth.

  And yet her not-quite lie had turned out to be true. She was Tommy’s great-granddaughter. But that had always been a possibility, however remote. Curing a girl with a deformed spine and aliens sending coded messages to earth were not.

  And there was something she couldn’t put her finger on. His intensity? Was that it? And suddenly she had it. ‘We’ve missed something. Ra Zacharia says he’s uncoded the messages from a spaceship heading to earth.’

  Carol nodded.

  ‘Did the article say why the aliens are coming here?’ asked Jed slowly.

  Carol shrugged. ‘To give us peace, harmony and love everlasting, I presume.’

  ‘A planet-wide commune like Halfway to Eternity?’ said Jed facetiously, then felt guilty. Carol had been discreet, sympathetic and helpful. She had no reason to mock her.

  Carol sat back in her ancient office chair. ‘We didn’t fail, you know. We just didn’t get it right the first time. The geodesic dome may be falling down, but the cottages are good and so is Broccoli Bill and Susan’s place. People around here are putting in drip irrigation instead of overhead spraying, and solar hot-water panels. Sam’s doing good work, even if it’s up at Nimbin, not here. And so am I, and so is Leafsong. We may be more like a cooperative than a commune these days, but we still cooperate. Which is why my back aches from hauling pumpkins all day.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to say.’ Which was more frightening? A con man, simply out to get her money, or a true believer, who actually thought he could heal a crippled girl and was going to greet the aliens who would usher in a new dawn for all humankind?

  ‘It’s okay. Here’s my bill.’ Carol passed it over the desk. ‘If you’re worried, just ask Scarlett not to go out there.’

  ‘I . . . I think I might. I know how to deal with con men. If you ignore them, they find easier prey. But then if Ra Zacharia really believes all this, he could be truly dangerous.’

  Jed suddenly realised she had never actually asked Scarlett not to do anything. Her behaviour had been more Fairy Godmother than sister . . .

  ‘How do you tell a sister what to do?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘You’ve more experience than me.’

  ‘Interesting question. Tell me when you find the answer,’ said Carol wryly.

  ‘Scarlett is so determined. And stubborn . . .’

  ‘Yeah. So is Leafsong.’ They shared the look of older sisters down the millennia.

  Chapter 53

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 20 May 1974

  Country Party Candidate Announces his Retirement from Politics

  Unsuccessful Country Party candidate for the last election, Mr Kevin Briggs, today announced that he would be retiring from politics. Mr Briggs served the voters of Gibber’s Creek from 1957 to 1972. Labor Party MP, Nicholas Brewster, who holds a lead of more than 8,000 primary votes in Saturday’s election results, wished Mr Briggs well. ‘Kevin Briggs served his country and the people of Gibber’s Creek for more than a decade. We all owe him our gratitude and best wishes for a very happy and long retirement.’

  SCARLETT

  Gibber’s Creek is dead, dead, dead after six pm, thought Scarlett as she peeled potatoes for Leafsong’s moussaka and gazed out the café window at the deserted town.

  ‘I’ve counted six cars, eight pigeons and a dog in the past hour,’ she said to Leafsong.

  Leafsong grinned and shrugged. Scarlett had half expected her friend to begin speaking now that she finally had her own life. Dr McAlpine had agreed the only physical things that might cause such a sudden cessation of speech were either a cancer or something neurological, like a stroke or brain tumour. But those calamities would have shown other symptoms long before this.

  Leafsong’s muteness might be psychological, or it might be by choice. Sometimes Scarlett found herself on the verge of asking Leafsong if she had chosen to be silent, and if so, why.

  But some things stayed private, unless you wanted to share them, like how a girl who could not use her arms till she was in her teens had been kept clean.

  ‘Another car. Two more pigeons. A cat: look out, pigeons. A white ute —’ She stopped, recognising both ute and driver. The ute slowed suddenly, as if the driver had recognised Jed’s sports car. It turned and parked at the kerb outside the café.

  Scarlett wheeled out to the front of the café as Mark came through the door. ‘Hi. Where were you —?’ She gazed at Mark. He was pale and blinking. Suddenly he dropped to the floor, his body shuddering, his eyes showing more white than colour.

  ‘Leafsong!’

  She had never hated her helpless body more, stuck in her chair unable to do anything. No, she could do something . . . ‘Put a cushion under his head,’ she told Leafsong. ‘Roll him onto his side. Yes, like that. Check his breathing.’

  Should she yell for Jed and Carol? Or call an ambulance? But the references she had read said an ambulance was only needed if the seizure went on for more than three minutes. This had only been five seconds . . . She glanced at her watch, just as Mark’s shaking ceased. Leafsong looked up, questioningly.

  ‘How is his breathing? Steady?’

  Leafsong nodded.

  ‘Keep your hand on his shoulder so he knows there’s someone there. Mark, can you hear me?’

  ‘I . . .’ He blinked, turning to look up at her.

  ‘Don’t try to sit up yet.’

  ‘I’m okay . . .’ He sat, his head in his hands.

  ‘Tea,’ ordered Scarlett. ‘Two sugars.’ She wondered if Mark had lost control of his bladder or bowels, though there was no smell or stain, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask. Thank goodness Jed and Carol hadn’t seen the seizure, which would have humiliated him further.

  ‘Do you think you can get up onto the sofa?’ She could reach him there.

  Mark nodded. He heaved himself up and staggered across the room. She wheeled over to him, then took his large hands in her small ones. ‘It’s okay. You weren’t out for long. Here, sip this.’ She handed him the cup Leafsong had brought over and was relieved his hands were steady, that he was able to swallow.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  To her horror he began to cry, silent tears that became sobs. She took the cup from him quickly, then manoeuvred herself and her chair so she could put her arms around him. Leafsong vanished. Scarlett was glad. Mark would want as few people as possible seeing his embarrassment. But he needed one person, as a friend.

  At last the sobs decreased. She handed him a paper napkin to blow his nose on.

  ‘Sorry,’ he breathed.

  ‘Don’t be.’ She wanted to say that she had spe
nt most of her life in far more humiliating positions; that humiliation only bit you if you let it. But to say either would underscore what he must feel was a lack of control and overwhelming vulnerability. She settled for, ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s all gone wrong.’ Mark looked so bereft she took his hand again.

  ‘You mean your epilepsy? Have you been having more seizures?’ If he had, she’d drag him to see a doctor. A real doctor, not Ra Zacharia.

  He shook his head, but she wondered. Sometimes people had petits mals without knowing.

  ‘The community is breaking up,’ whispered Mark, as if a whisper made it not quite as real. ‘Mark 38 left yesterday, and Mark 39 with him. Not to work elsewhere, but because they felt they weren’t healed.’

  She tried to remember who the numbers were. ‘Is 39 the woman with the grey bun who weaves?’

  ‘No, that’s 41. Mark 39 worked in the kitchen. Mark 38 is his wife. She worked there too. Mark 39 had pancreatic cancer till Ra Zacharia healed him. But he’s been having pains in his back. He probably pulled a muscle, that’s all.’

  And getting as thin as a rake and grey in the face, thought Scarlett, thinking of the couple she had seen on her last visit out there a fortnight earlier.

  ‘Mark 39 convinced him that his cancer has come back.’ Mark’s voice was still hoarse and shaken. ‘Ra Zacharia told them his pain and weakness were just the toxins leaving his body . . .’

  Balderdash, thought Scarlett, but she couldn’t say that to Mark. Not now, not yet.

  ‘But they wouldn’t listen. And this morning 16 and 24 said they were leaving too. They just don’t understand! Ra Zacharia has explained that we may not be fully healed just now. But it’s going to be different soon.’

  ‘How different?’ asked Scarlett quietly. Mark seemed almost drunk, either from the after-effects of his seizure or from emotional overdose. Or was it something else, she wondered, a herbal combination Ra Zacharia may have given him to control his seizures?