The Second Cure

by Margaret Morgan

  Brigid watched the electronic sign count through the waiting passengers, summoning them to get their results and the electro-tagged passport chips that allowed them to go to the departure gates. She had only twenty-two minutes until her flight left, and there were others there who’d arrived before she had. She’d cut it fine in the past and she knew it was entirely possible she could miss her plane. She also knew there was no point in complaining.

  Another number flashed on the display and the mother checked her documentation. It was their turn. She hurried her son to unfold his legs, and then herded him and carried her still-whimpering baby to the results counter. Just as she reached it, a siren bleated in time with a red light that flashed blindingly above the desk. Five masked CSSA officers converged on them. The mother’s eyes grew with fear. Brigid had never seen this happen before, not at the airport, but had heard the stories.

  ‘No, we’re not, we can’t be!’ the woman told the officers. The boy wrapped his arms around her leg and the baby cried more loudly.

  ‘Not your children, madam, just you,’ one of them said.

  ‘I can’t be unclean! You’ve made a mistake – I’ve had the vaccine, I’ve been tested.’

  ‘And you’ll be retested. That is your right. Please cooperate, madam.’ A female officer stepped forwards, hands outstretched, and it was at that point that the woman realised her baby was being taken from her arms. ‘No, you can’t, no, no!’ The last ‘no’ was a long, pulsating shriek.

  The baby was prised away as the boy was deftly scooped up by another officer, held by his waist. ‘Mummy!’ he screamed. ‘Stop them! Mummy, no!’

  Eyes flashing at the people around her, the woman desperately sought assistance that she must have known wouldn’t come. Instead, a teenaged boy spat a gob of mucus at her. It splattered on the grey tiles at her feet.

  Then, abruptly, they were all gone. The children through one door, their mother through another. The echo of their cries faded, succeeded by the studied nonchalance of the other passengers, silent and avoiding each other’s gaze. Another number flashed on the screen. It was Brigid’s. She would make the plane after all. She collected her passport and visa chip, retrieved her overnight bag and made her way to the gates.

  It was only half an hour into the flight that she realised her jaw was still clenched.

  The Cairns hinterland, Republic of Capricornia

  Tricia Townsend’s god was a vengeful god.

  He was a god of punishment rather than reward. At least, in the short term. A god who watched and judged. When He judged, that judgement could be fierce, demolishing entire cities, peoples and individuals. For millennia, He had seemed muted, ‘non-interventionist’ in the language of the theologians, almost absent, despite the extravagant and self-serving claims of some religious leaders who attempted to attribute every natural disaster to His ire.

  Pastor Jack had explained this, warning about false prophets.

  Now, though, God’s hand was unmistakeable. With the Plague, He was demonstrating His will as surely as He ever had in the days of the Old Testament. Satan had returned to poison the minds of the believers, infecting their very brains with doubt and sin and lust and disobedience. God was calling upon His creation to join the fight for the very soul of humanity, and today, at last, Tricia was on the frontline of the battle. Her devotion was no longer to be expressed on the periphery, no longer reduced to church flowers and scones. Its fierceness had been recognised and acknowledged, and now, rewarded.

  Her god was also a god of compassion, through his Son, Jesus Christ. He listened to her prayers. While she wouldn’t put her struggles over the years on the same level as Jonah’s, her faith in Jesus had allowed her to survive, and she had no doubt He was why she was here today. She had been called to serve.

  She thought about Winnie and what she’d think of this. Not the Winnie who lost her faith, but the real Winnie, the Christian Winnie. Would she have been proud of her? Fifteen years since her death, and there was not a day that Tricia didn’t miss her. Winnie was kind and she was patient and she always knew the right thing to say. She was all the things Tricia aspired and failed to be. Their last conversation. Tricia winced as she remembered her clumsy attempt to help, driving Winnie off into the rain and to her suicide.

  And then at the funeral, trying so hard and foundering so thoroughly. Phillip Guthrie dragging her away – that’s what he was doing, with everyone watching – and behind her, she heard Richard’s son asking the others, ‘Did she actually just say that God smote Mum?’ They didn’t understand, how could they? But everything she tried to say to them to give them comfort had come out wrong, as it always did.

  Winnie was the first person Tricia lost to the Plague, but she wasn’t to be the last. Her death was the first of the trials God had sent, blows so deep she couldn’t help but recognise the message. One by one, He was taking from her the people she loved. He was showing her just how wicked the Plague was, how it was her spiritual destiny to fight it and all that it stood for. All the sin it spawned, all the grief it spread. With each test, she’d become stronger, like steel tempered in the hottest fire. With each test, she knew God better, and her devotion became absolute.

  She was a warrior in the service of God.

  As the car approached the gates to the Effenberg compound, Tricia silently uttered a prayer of thanks. Then she adjusted her purity mask, an expensive one she’d bought especially for today, and patted her newly coiffed hair.

  ‘Compound’ brought to mind concrete bunkers, barbed wire and armed guards, and while the latter were in evidence, once you were past security the property looked more like the private estate of a branch of European royalty. Outside, dense rainforest grew but the grounds within revealed perfectly tamed gardens with ornate flowerbeds. A vast lake with an impressive fountain was surrounded by parklands of neatly groomed turf. The house itself was a mansion reminiscent of the ante-bellum American South. It had, she knew, been purpose built by the Effenbergs as their family home and the workplace of their closest aides.

  And she was there. Not bad for a girl from Baulkham Hills.

  At first, she’d been disappointed to learn she’d be working at the compound rather than at Redemption Tower in the centre of Cairns. As well as it being the tallest building in Capricornia, it was also the nation’s political, bureaucratic and spiritual centre, housing the country’s single house of congress, its major government departments, and the largest place of worship in the southern hemisphere. Such a breathtaking outlook was almost unbearably alluring. But now, seeing the compound, she realised she had nothing to regret.

  The car swung around to a stop on the circular gravel drive and the chauffeur (chauffeur!) briskly got out to open her door and then collected her luggage from the boot. Meanwhile, a woman in white, with a mask so lacy you could easily see her lips, walked down from the marble steps to greet her. She introduced herself, and Tricia, in her nervousness, instantly forgot her name. As they entered the vast entry hall, with its pair of stone staircases curling up to the mezzanine, Tricia heard the clip of their heels on the checkerboard tiles echo through the immense space. She was deposited into an anteroom full of leather and dark wood, heavy drapes and subdued lighting. It wasn’t what she’d expected as the decor of the Daughters, but it was, perhaps, a room also used by Pastor Jack.

  Left alone, she sat on the edge of a brown leather sofa with studs and little give. And waited. It was so silent she could hear the rhythm of her own breath. Her mouth was dry with nerves, and she was on the verge of standing up and walking around to relieve the tension when a door at the other end of the room opened.

  It was Marion Effenberg. Her robe was long, white and diaphanous, and her hair, silver-grey and wavy, flowed over her shoulders. Shockingly, she wasn’t wearing a mask. Tricia had never seen her mouth naked, not in person, not in any photos from the last decade or more.

  Marion extended her hand, her face bathed in warmth and welcome. ‘Tricia. I am so, so thril
led you’re here. We all are.’

  Tricia was frozen. Marion read her expression. ‘You’re wondering why I’m not wearing a purity mask. There is no need for modesty here. We’re all Daughters. And the men, well, they are as pure as can be. They won’t be tempted. Take yours off. Really, it’s fine.’

  So Tricia removed her mask. It had been many years since she’d been anywhere outside her own home without wearing one, and she felt naked and vulnerable.

  ‘Good. Now come with me into the Daughters’ wing.’

  Tricia followed her through the doorway from which Marion had come, and the transition in decor was stark. The dark woodiness of the anteroom was replaced by light and airiness. Sheer white curtains billowed gently from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the walls were pale blue, and the polished floorboards here were covered in lush, deep rugs in pastel hues. The air on her lips felt cold and alien, and she found herself covering her mouth with her hands.

  She was intimidated by Marion, for all her friendliness. She had a grace that made Tricia feel gauche and lumpen, a way of setting people at ease as naturally as Tricia managed to do the opposite. She seemed more down to earth than Tricia had expected, with a kindliness that had left her humbled. During her final job interview, she’d been asked about her family. The conversation had been going well until then. Tricia’s words dried up. Talking about what had happened was physically painful to her. But Marion’s gentle manner had beguiled her. Her eyes were warm, reaching into her heart. She felt the love of God in them.

  She could trust this woman. Her darkest shame and fears were unleashed and, in a rush of emotion, she told her things she’d never spoken of before. She confessed that her daughter, Faith, had a late-term stillbirth soon after they moved to Cairns – the result of infection by the Plague. She lost more than a grandchild. It shattered her family. She lost her daughter and her husband. Faith abandoned the church, and she and her husband returned to Sydney. Tricia’s own husband stayed with her for a few months, but hated her growing connection with God and the Song of Light. The rift with his only daughter was too great to bear, and so he went south to join her.

  She knew that the family blamed her for her insistence that it was Satan pulling them apart. That the only reasonable, the only possible response was to redouble one’s commitment to God and the church. God couldn’t have spoken more clearly to her, but they were deaf to Him. He was revealing Himself, and they were denying Him. They forced the choice on her: them or God. The loss of her family was the hardest thing she’d ever experienced, and every day the pain of it was like a knife being twisted in her chest, but it was a pain that she knew proved her love to God. The Plague had taken her only real friend, her daughter and her husband and killed her grandchild, but it had brought her face-to-face with God, it had shown her His truth. His love.

  Her mask had been wet with tears when she finally fell silent. She looked at Marion, at those eyes so intense with love it was hard to hold the gaze.

  When Marion had leant forwards and held her hand it felt like absolution. Tricia sobbed with gratitude. Someone who understood her passion. Someone who didn’t blame her or think she was a fool. Someone who knew God.

  ‘This is why I want you for this job, Tricia,’ she’d said. ‘Your trials have been far greater than many could shoulder, yet your faith in God has flourished. You are a holy woman. You belong with the Daughters. We will take away your pain. We will give you your destiny.’

  Now they passed along corridors, with glimpses of rooms that seemed part office, part home, all with the same atmosphere of freshness and light. Marion opened a door and ushered Tricia in.

  ‘This is your office.’

  Tricia restrained a gasp. The room was perfect, with a solid oak desk and matching bookshelves, on which were Bibles, books of prayer, and the collected writings of Marion and Jack Effenberg. Through gossamer curtains she could see the fountain on the lake.

  Marion indicated the door at the side of the room. ‘That is my suite. Much of the time, I imagine that door will be wide open. We’ll be spending a lot of time together. So, there we are. I hope you’ll be happy here, Tricia.’

  ‘I’m sure I will be. It’s all just wonderful.’

  ‘Good.’ Marion smiled. ‘This is that purpose in your life you’ve always known was there but have never been able to attain. Now you will serve God as someone of your piety deserves, and His blessings will be bestowed upon you.’

  Tricia could scarcely trust herself to speak. She was overwhelmed by Marion’s gaze.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed.

  ‘Now, I want to talk with you about tattoos.’

  Sydney

  The ease with which Richard and Charlie had anthropomorphised the house computer had startled her initially, but then she recalled that back when something as mindless as vacuum robots came on the market people rapidly assigned them not only names but also personalities. Perhaps it was some sort of innate human trait, this ready assumption of agency in any object that was animated or given voice. Perhaps it was a defence, a way of making the technology less threatening. When it was first installed, they were advised to choose a gender-neutral voice until they started to get a ‘sense’ of its ‘identity’, words that seemed absurd to them at first. But soon things changed. The computer became the voice of the house itself, controlling and responding to its rhythms. And given that the builder of this home had permeated it to its very foundations with his eccentric essence, the decision to call the house computer ‘Grandfather’ came easily, and Richard tweaked the tone and accent of its voice to match what he remembered of Winnie’s father’s.

  And tonight, at the party, Grandfather would be testing his chops. This was the first time he was required to do anything more onerous than order groceries running low in the larder or fridge, regulate the interior climate and the watering of the garden, or send the Auto2 up to the solar co-op to recharge its battery or off to collect the shopping. Now Grandfather would be coordinating with the caterers to time the nibbles, ensuring there was sufficient ice for the drinks, operating the HappySnaps PhotoDrone (Richard’s latest toy), adjusting the music inside the house according to the hour and the level of ambient conversation, and organising the smartwalls’ displays of the photos, videos and artworks that represented Richard’s adult life and work. Quite a test for a new house computer, but Charlie had come to have confidence in Grandfather.

  She subvocced, They’ll be here in half an hour. Is everything ready?

  Reckon, replied Grandfather through her vocomm. All systems are apples. Charlie winced. They’d set his vernacular to 1950s Australian, but she feared it might wear thin. Did anyone ever really talk like that?

  Richard came into the kitchen pushing a trolley that carried the beer keg he’d ordered.

  ‘That’s enormous!’ said Charlie.

  ‘So’s my age.’ He grinned. ‘Where should I set it up?’

  ‘In the marquee, I guess. Next to the table with the glasses.’

  She held open the flyscreen of the back door and he wheeled the keg down the stairs. Goblin, who’d been asleep on the verandah, stood up stiffly and hobbled down to investigate. As Richard positioned the keg and set to tapping it, Charlie walked down into the garden and past the marquee, and surveyed the bush. She was relieved that darkness would fall soon. She couldn’t look at their blackened valley without feeling a pang. Although fresh growth was sprouting from the trunks of charcoaled eucalypts and a new generation of wattles was emerging from the ashen soil, the desolation of the previous summer’s bushfire still felt raw. April’s cyclone (and she still couldn’t get used to that term applying to temperate Sydney) had furthered the damage, washing away topsoil already unsecured by the searing death of so many plant roots. The erosion had made the process of healing even harder. A couple more years of extremes like this and it would never be the same. Loss of species, loss of habitat. It made her hurt within.

  ‘At least you’re doing well, Winnie.’ She ran her h
and down the trunk of the magnolia tree, its bark cool and rough to her touch. She and Richard had planted it in Winnie’s memory and in her ashes, and now it was close to six metres tall. It was nowhere near the height and maturity of the tree Winnie had grown in her own garden, but its flowers were just as magnificent, lush and wanton as the petals splayed and exposed themselves. At this time of year, mid-winter, they were at their prime. Winnie had once told Charlie that when she’d been pregnant with Richard, overdue and beyond ready for him to emerge, she’d doggedly trudged the suburban streets hoping to encourage his birth. She’d been so beguiled by the sight of the masses of dark pink and cream blooms in so many front yards that she’d determined to plant her own to celebrate her firstborn’s life. So when it came to choosing the species of tree that would become ‘Winnie’ in Charlie’s imagination – and which, in a physical sense, would incorporate her in its very cells – there was no possibility of any other.

  Richard didn’t know that Charlie talked to ‘Winnie’. He’d have laughed at her. She didn’t actually think that Winnie was there in any real manner, obviously, but she did find thinking out loud in the presence of the tree had helped her process some of the unfinished business left after the death. She didn’t have nearly as much unfinished business as Richard and Brigid, of course, and she wondered how they coped with it. It had not been a topic of conversation in the years since her death, at least not in her presence, and she assumed it never would be.

  ‘We all have our ghosts,’ she murmured to Winnie, and walked back to the house.

  The house computer clocked Brigid as she alighted from the Auto2 that delivered her from the airport and it opened the front door for her as she climbed the stairs to the porch. ‘G’day, Brigid, welcome back,’ it said to her. ‘I’m Grandfather.’