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Fabienne G. Durdin

Sonata for Flute

http://www.sonata.durdin.net/

Sonata for Flute Fabienne G. Durdin

FABIENNE. G. DURDIN Publisher http://www.sonata.durdin.net

To my husband, brother in Christ, and best friend, John Macgregor Durdin

SONATA FOR FLUTE Copyright © 1994, 1999 by Fabienne Gabrielle Durdin First published 1999 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, posting on another website, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data: Durdin, Fabienne G. Sonata for flute. ISBN 0 9577741 0 9. I. Title. A823.3

Published by Fabienne G. Durdin http://www.sonata.durdin.net/sonata.pdf Cover illustration © 1995 by Fabienne G. Durdin.

PRELUDIO "O LORD, You have examined me through and through and You know everything about me... You planned and recorded all the days of my life before even one of them occurred." PSALM 139:1,16

Mrs. Taylor wiped her hands on her apron as she came out of her kitchen. She stood by the living room door and watched the small boy who was sitting on the chair by her front window, gazing out at the street expectantly. He had been back and forth between her kitchen and his lookout post all afternoon. His blue eyes at first had been bright with the excitement of anticipation, but as the hours went past they became increasingly clouded by confusion and anxiety. Now he sat swinging his legs, his light brown hair blowing about in the breeze from the open window. He caught sight of her, and for the umpteenth time that hour he jumped down from the chair and skipped over to her. Hopping from one foot to the other, he looked up at her appealingly. "Mrs. Taylor, when are they coming?" he asked, "Why is it taking so long?" With both his hands he took hold of the elderly woman's hand and gazed up at her as he waited for her answer. Although she couldn't complain about his behaviour, Mrs. Taylor had been finding the boy more wearying than usual that day. The boy, a bright, gentle lad of four years, and his parents were her neighbours, and now and then she minded him in the daytime when the regular babysitter was at school. She was the one who had offered to look after him on this special day when his mother would be coming home from hospital with her new baby. She had started to become anxious about an hour after lunch, when his parents still hadn't arrived. Now it was almost evening. The boy's father had dropped him off mid-morning. "We should be back in about an hour or so," he had told her. Several hours had gone by since he had driven off to pick up his wife and still there was no sign of them. Should she call the police? Surely he would have rung if they had been held up for some reason. Maybe they'd had car trouble? She was about to answer the boy's question when she thought she heard a car pulling up next door, at his home. She squeezed his hand and smiled at him. "I expect they've had a flat tyre or something like that," she said, trying to reassure him, "They should be home soon." I hope that's them now, she thought, though that didn't really sound like their car. She went to the window and glanced towards their house, and what she saw made her heart skip a beat. The boy was regarding her with a puzzled expression as she turned to him. "You just sit here for a bit while I go to your house," she said, trying not to sound anxious, "There's some visitors

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just arrived and I'll go tell them no-one's home. You stay here in case Daddy gets back while I'm over at your place. Okay?" "Okay," he answered, gave a little hop, and went to sit in one of her flowered armchairs. He sat quietly, as he'd been taught to, and waited, tracing around the flowered pattern of the upholstery with his finger and humming softly to himself. Mrs. Taylor walked out of her front door as calmly as she could, shut the door, then hurried along the footpath to the front of her neighbours' house. The police sedan parked in their driveway was real all right, and so were the two constables standing on the front porch. A few minutes later she returned to her house accompanied by the two policemen. As they walked up to the front door, the boy heard one of them talking and for a moment mistook the voice for his father's. He raced to the door and opened it, then stopped short when he saw the men in uniform. Like most small boys he was in awe of policemen, but he had never seen one quite as close as this. He wondered what occasion had brought him this privilege. Then he noticed Mrs. Taylor's face—she was pale and her eyes were red, her face wet. She was twisting her handkerchief nervously as she walked up the path with the two men. Something was wrong. He couldn't recall ever having seen Mrs. Taylor crying before. "Don't worry, I'll deal with it," one of the men was saying to her, "I've got kids of my own, I'll talk to the lad." Then he looked towards the house and saw the boy standing there staring at them. He felt a sudden pang of pity for the child and a dreadful feeling almost of guilt for the job he had to carry out. "Come inside, dear," Mrs. Taylor said, taking the boy's hand as she got to the door, "The constables want to talk to you." Her tone of voice, almost flat and expressionless, frightened him. As he followed Mrs. Taylor into the living room he glanced anxiously over his shoulder at the policemen. Had he done something wrong? Were they coming to take him to gaol? He knew that one of the jobs policemen performed was taking people who did bad things to gaol. He tried to remember what he had done that day, but he couldn't remember being naughty. He had simply sat looking out of the window, drawing pictures, or talking with Mrs. Taylor. And he had eaten all his lunch, even the bits he didn't like. The two men sat down at the old lady's invitation. The boy stood halfhidden behind an armchair, watching them shyly. "I'll just go and put the kettle on for a cuppa," Mrs. Taylor said uneasily, and hurriedly left the room. One of the policemen smiled and beckoned to the boy. "Come here, son," he said gently, "I need to talk with you." His apprehension somewhat allayed by the man's kind tone of voice, the boy went over to him. Still smiling, the policeman picked him up and sat him on his knee. "Well, my boy," he said kindly, "I've got a little boy like you. His name is Peter. Tell me now, what's your name?"

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The boy was rather amazed that a real policeman should be talking to him, and he felt a little overwhelmed. "Carl. With a 'c'," he answered timidly, looking at his feet. He glanced up at the policeman to see his reaction. The constable nodded. "Carl, with a 'c'," he repeated thoughtfully, "Have you got a last name, too?" "Yep, and a middle name, too!" Carl, feeling more at ease now, answered brightly. "Can you tell me all of your names, then?" the man urged gently. Carl straightened his shoulders and looked at him proudly. "Carl... Emmanuel... Slade!" he answered confidently. "And I'm four years old," he added, holding up four fingers to illustrate. "Well, those are very good names for a big boy of four," the policeman said, ruffling his hair and grinning. Carl, feeling rather pleased with himself, turned to look at the other man and saw him writing in a small notebook. "What's he writing?" he asked the first man. "Your name," the constable replied, and added to his colleague, "That's Carl with a 'c'—make sure you get it right!" The other man nodded but did not look up. Carl was feeling bolder now. "What's your name?" he asked his new friend. "I'm Constable Smithers," the policeman answered, and then he remembered why he was there. He gazed sadly at the child, swallowed hard, and put his arm around his shoulders. He kept thinking of his own two small children. His little Peter was only four... "Well, Carl," he said, and his tone of voice, suddenly sober, brought back all Carl's apprehensions, "I have something very, very sad to tell you. You're going to have to be very brave, Carl." He hesitated, wondering how far the boy's understanding went. "You've been waiting for Mummy and Daddy to come home, haven't you?" Carl nodded, his eyes wide. "Yep," he said dubiously. "Well, Carl," Constable Smithers said quietly, "I'm afraid that Mummy and Daddy are not going to come home." Carl's eyes grew even wider with a mixture of incredulity and fear. "They aren't?" he asked in a small voice. "There's been a horrible accident and your Mummy and Daddy are dead, Carl." The boy stared at him. He knew about accidents—on the way to the hospital with Daddy the other day he'd seen two smashed cars surrounded by ambulances, police cars, tow trucks, and people. Accidents were when cars smashed. Dead—that was what had happened to their cat. It was dead because a car had hit it. Dead meant it didn't move any more, it was all stiff, and it got put in a hole in the ground... Understanding slowly dawned on him.

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"No!" he yelled, pushing away from the man, jumping off his knee, and backing away from the two of them, "Mummy and Daddy aren't dead! They aren't dead! They aren't dead! You're lying! You're nasty liars!" Mrs. Taylor had been about to bring the tea-tray into the lounge, but she decided to delay and retreated into the kitchen. Crises were things she had always let her husband deal with, until the crisis of his death. She was always at a loss in this sort of situation—especially if a child was involved. Now she was afraid she would be asked to take on looking after Carl and she couldn't face that. She was too old. Minding the boy now and then was one thing—he was not a difficult lad—but she knew she would not be able to cope with him on a permanent basis. Carl stood in the corner of the living room, his blue eyes full of defiance, as if daring the policeman to repeat what he'd said. Horror and negation fought in his mind. That his parents would never come back was something his four years of life experience would not let him believe. Constable Smithers left his chair and crouched down in front of the boy. He gently took Carl's hands and pulled him closer. The boy eyed him warily but didn't resist. Despite his terrible words, the policeman was not a frightening man. "Carl," Smithers said softly, "I wish I could tell you that it's all a mistake, that it isn't true. But I can't. Your Mummy and Daddy's car was hit by a big truck. It was smashed. Mummy and Daddy are dead. They will never come home again." Carl continued staring at him in disbelief. Then, to Smithers' astonishment, he smiled. "That means I'll have to take care of Helen for them, won't I?" he said brightly, "I told her I'd look after her!" The policeman was stunned. "Helen? Who's Helen?" he asked. "She's my baby sister," Carl answered cheerfully, "She's only new, she's very, very little. I can hold her, she's not very heavy." Oh, my God, the man thought, He doesn't realize she's gone too—I didn't tell him! His heart ached at the thought of having to disillusion the boy. Once again he put his arm around Carl's shoulders. "Carl," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper, "I have something horrible I have to tell you. Helen isn't coming home either. She was also in the car. She's dead too." ! ! ! Only four days before, Carl had met his new sister. His father had taken him to the hospital to see his mother and the new baby the day after she was born. Carl had felt very small in the maze of hospital corridors through which his father had led him, but he had also felt quite safe holding tightly onto Daddy's hand and skip-running to keep up with his father's long and sure strides. As they had waited for the lift, his father had grinned at him conspiratorially—he had a surprise for Mummy in his pocket—and Carl, feeling very important about being let in on the secret, had grinned back. The hallways through which they walked seemed enormous to a small boy of four. Their cream-tiled surfaces echoed every sound, the fluorescent 4

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lamps bathed them in a strange whiteness, the chemical smells permeating the air tickled his nose. He was glad of his father's hand. It would be horrible to get lost in here—one might just keep going round and round forever. And all those mysterious doors... He caught glimpses of weird machinery beyond some of the open ones. When they reached his mother's room they found her sitting in an armchair, with a small bundle in her arms. As they came in she looked up, and smiled joyfully as she saw them. She got up and put the bundle down in a little trolley by her bed, then went to Carl and gathered him in her arms. "Hello, my big boy," she said, kissing him on the cheek, "I'm so glad to see you!" "Hello, Mummy," he replied, automatically kissing her, but then he wriggled out of her arms and looked around the room, as if searching for something. "Where is she, Mummy?" he asked, "Where's my new sister?" "Hang on a minute, Carl," his father said, "Let me say hello to Mummy, too." His parents embraced, much to Carl's annoyance, for to him it seemed far more important right now to find this sister of his. "Come on, Mummy," he pleaded, tugging at her dressing-gown, "I wanna see her." His mother laughed and reached for the bundle in the trolley. "Go sit in the chair, Carl," she told him, "Would you like to hold her?" "I can hold her?" he asked wide-eyed. His father picked him up and sat him right back in the armchair, and his mother placed the bundle in his arms, keeping one hand on it in case it proved too hard for him to hold. Carl had seen many babies, he had even held one or two before, but somehow he hadn't associated 'babyness' with his new sister, and no-one had thought to tell him that this little sister who had just been born was a baby. They had assumed it would be obvious to him. His parents had talked about 'the baby' many times, but when Mrs. Taylor had announced the birth to him after the phone call the day before he hadn't put the two ideas together. For the first time, and for the last time, Carl saw his little sister's face. How small she was! Her face was like a doll's, with a tiny nose—he touched the tip of it with his finger—and a funny little mouth that she kept puckering up. There was a halo of downy black hair on her head—he was surprised at how soft it was. Her eyes—he was pleased to see they were also blue—were wide open and looking straight at him! He looked up at his parents and grinned. "She's looking at me, she is!" he whispered excitedly. His mother, crouching by the chair, smiled back. His father took a photo. Carl gazed at the baby in wonder. Again he marvelled, She's so tiny! One small hand poked out of the blanket in which she was wrapped, and he took it gently in his own hand. Her fingers curled around his thumb. Her smallness overwhelmed him. How could she be safe? Even in his four 5

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short years of life he had become aware that the world was full of dangers, and he found himself wanting very much to protect this tiny person. Then and there he assigned himself the role of protector of his sister. "What's her name, Mummy?" he whispered. "We've named her Helen," she answered, "Helen Joy." Carl leant his face close to the baby's, hugging her tightly. "Hello, Helen," he whispered to her, "I'm Carl, and I'm your big brother, and I'm gonna look after you, you know." Helen didn't seem terribly impressed, but this didn't worry Carl. He felt completely happy in his new self-appointed role. How wonderful to be a big brother! He looked at her fondly a while longer, then up at his parents, his blue eyes shining with bliss. His mother took Helen from him, to his relief for she was getting heavy and he was afraid he might drop her. He slid off the chair, skipped over to his father, and gave him a hug, then he gave his mother a hug as she went to sit down in the chair with Helen in her arms. He wanted to hug everyone, he felt so incredibly happy. ! ! ! At the constable's words, Carl's face turned as white as the wall behind him. "They're never coming back home?" he asked fearfully, "Not Mummy, not Daddy, not Helen? Never?" His eyes searched the constable's face for any hint of hope, in vain. Smithers' statement had hit him with the finality of the last axe-blow on a tree being felled. "She's dead too." The world he knew came crashing down around him with all the horror he had ever experienced in his worst nightmares. He cried out, in the same terrified way that he did whenever he woke from a bad dream, "Mummy!" He hid his face on the man's shoulder and then the tears came, first slowly, and then in a flood, and Constable Smithers picked him up and went to sit with him cradled in his arms on his lap. Carl sobbed wretchedly, unconsolably, until he wore himself out with crying and fell asleep, still sobbing, in Smithers' arms. ! ! ! As it turned out, nobody seemed to want Carl, although several people were keen to direct his future. None of his relatives were interested in adding to their own broods. Mrs. Taylor said she was too old to take him on permanently although he'd be welcome for short stays. Other friends of the family were sympathetic but, alas, they already had their hands full with their own problems... After the funeral one of his aunts on his father's side, a member of the Protection Party as well as of Federal Parliament, arranged for him to become a Ward of the State. Using her not insubstantial political clout and the proceeds from Carl's father's small life insurance policy, she also 6

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managed to persuade the very progressive Rainbow Garden Children's Home to add Carl E. Slade to its list of resident orphans.

7

FIRST MOVEMENT: ADAGIO PESANTE

"At a time when people are declaring that they have peace and security they will suddenly face destruction in the way a pregnant woman suddenly finds herself in labour, and not one will escape." I THESSALONIANS 5:3 "...there was once in man a true happiness, but now only a hint and the empty trace of it are left, and in vain he tries to fill this space with everything around him... this infinite chasm can only be filled by something infinite and immutable, that is, God Himself..." BLAISE PASCAL, 'Pensées'

Chapter 1

The Rainbow Garden Children's Home was a private orphanage sponsored by the Protection Party. This was an obscure and small but rapidly growing group of progressive thinkers who had their own social and educational philosophies, and whose power was increasing even faster than the number of its adherents. They had only one representative in Parliament, and this was Carl's aunt. Despite her controversial pronouncements and her belligerent attitude her popularity with the public had increased very quickly. The ranks of the Protectioners had swelled along with her success. Within a fortnight of the funeral of his parents and sister Carl was in the Rainbow Garden Children's Home. He was too young to understand what was happening or the finality of it. He had spent the fortnight at his aunt's house, a place he had never visited before and where despite his young age he could tell he was not welcome. As soon as all the arrangements were made he was taken to the Home, and that was the last he ever saw of his aunt, though she continued to monitor him for many years. At first he missed his parents terribly. In the Children's Home there was not a person he knew. Death was still something confusing and misunderstood for him, and he kept expecting his parents to turn up to take him home. This unmet hope was like a daily whipping—the pain of it was almost physical. The people who had been everything to him were gone forever, and his complete happiness of such a short time before had been so suddenly and utterly shattered. Every night he had nightmares about wandering down huge, brightly lit and strange-smelling hospital corridors crying out for his father. He would wake up screaming for his mother, and this happened several times a night, usually waking some of the other children.

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Carl noticed very soon that the other children in the Home did not seem to like him. Most of them were older than him and looked on him with disdain. He thought that it was his nightmares which caused their hostility, and this was in fact partly true. There had to be other reasons, however, because they called him names that he didn't understand and which had nothing to do with keeping people awake at night. Even most of the children who were closer to his age avoided him, for the older ones had warned them that if they made friends with him they would also have nightmares. He had never experienced rejection before, and he felt its pain keenly. None of his attempts to make friends met with success, and after a while he gave up. As the weeks and months went by he withdrew ever further into himself and began to develop a quick temper. After a few months he had more or less settled into the routine of the Home, but he still had no friends. Unconsciously now he avoided becoming attached to anyone—he could not face risking the pain of separation. The initial rejection by the residents of the Home had only made it easier for him to have this attitude. Over the years the staff and the other orphans would find that Carl Slade was not someone you could get close to. He willingly joined in games, he liked to have fun, he willingly helped with chores, but he had built a fence around himself beyond which no one seemed able to go. Anyone who tried soon ran into his anger. Carl himself was not aware that he had put up a barrier. He just assumed others avoided him because they didn't like him. Even at the age of four he had found that many of his ideas were ridiculed or even censured by the others. He soon discovered that there were ways of thinking which were not welcome at Rainbow Garden Children's Home. For most of the residents, it was easier to give in and fit in with what was acceptable. Carl, however, simply buried his ideas and pretended to fit in. Each week the children in the Home had to take part in group sessions called "Sharing". During these they were urged to freely talk about their feelings with the staff and the other children. Carl dreaded the Sharings. He hardly ever had anything to say in those sessions and both staff and children badgered him about it. They would pester him and "try to pry"—as he called it—until he would become furious. There were occasions when he quite lost control and lashed out violently. Whenever that happened he would be sent to his room until the next mealtime. Being banned to solitude for a few hours was considered the worst punishment in the Home. To Carl it was welcome relief. As he grew up he forgot what his parents and his baby sister had looked like, and there were even times when he wondered if he had simply imagined them. He had no photographs of them, no memento of them except for one framed print that had once hung on their living room wall. Of course, Carl was not the only child there who knew nothing about his parents, but the other children were company for each other. Because of his increasingly violent temper, however, the other children and many of the staff at the Home avoided him as much as possible. In an effort to get 9

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some attention he tried to be helpful to the staff, often succeeding only in being a nuisance. His efforts actually served to further alienate him from the other children. At one point there was talk of sending Carl to a State children's home, but his aunt heard of it and intervened to ensure it would not happen. For her own reasons, she wanted him brought up strictly within the Protection philosophy of child-rearing and education. This contended that "children should be encouraged in every way to find their own individual, personal truth, to develop their limitless potential, and to express themselves freely from their inner source." "Self-Fulfillment first—the rest will follow," was one of their slogans. Externally-imposed values would hamper such a process, thus they could not be allowed. The Rainbow Garden Children's Home had its own school, where "Self-Expression" was the core and aim of the curriculum, especially in what was referred to as "The Expressive Arts"—a term which covered everything from painting and music to cooking and architecture. To the Protectioners, what they termed "Sexual Celebration" was the pinnacle of Self-Expression and Self-Fulfillment. A person was only truly free when able to take part in any kind of sexual activity without any feelings of guilt. Thus Protectioners and their sympathisers promoted free living as part of their policies. This policy was made viable by the recent development of an effective vaccine against the dreaded AIDS disease which had been such a scourge at the turn of the century. There was even the promise of a cure being "just around the corner". There were many who objected to the Protectioners' teaching, and a large number of experts were quoted in its defense. However, it did not need much for it to become generally acceptable among most of the population, for whom SelfFulfillment had become the life-goal. As they entered adolescence, the residents of the Home were encouraged to embrace Sexual Celebration wholeheartedly. All except one complied. Fifteen-year-old Carl was further ostracised as he and the other residents of the home became aware that he had deeply-ingrained feelings about sex which were in stark contrast to the permissiveness of the Protection teaching. The thought of indulging in the fleeting relationships and experimentation that his peers soon considered an essential part of their growing up horrified him. But he couldn't explain to anyone why he felt the way he did—he didn't know himself. The children's home staff, concerned about what they saw as abnormal behaviour, tried in diverse ways to get him to conform. Once they even sent one of the girls to his room in the middle of the night in the hope that when half asleep he would respond more positively. He had woken up to find the girl, wearing nothing at all, climbing into his bed, and he had panicked. The whole Home had been awakened as he had raged at her to leave his room and had slammed and locked his door behind her. At that point, after two years of their own efforts, the staff gave up and arranged a visit with a psychologist.

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Carl had only one meeting with the psychologist. It was shortly after his seventeenth birthday and, "so he wouldn't feel threatened", the woman met with him in the study of the Home's director rather than in her own office downtown. Carl had been told that Dr. Millner could help him with his hang-ups and he had been encouraged by the Home's director to be frank and open with her. Carl did not exactly welcome this advice. Dr. Millner was waiting for him in the study when he went there at the appointed time just after lunch. She was a graying but still trim and attractive middle-aged woman, dressed in the latest Protection-approved fashion guaranteed to embarrass a self-conscious and guilt-ridden adolescent. As Carl came through the open study door warily she greeted him cheerfully. "Come in, Carl, come in," she said, almost singing it, "Take a seat, make yourself comfortable." She indicated one of the armchairs to one side of the director's desk. Carl took a seat on the very edge of the armchair she had pointed out, and nervously clasped his hands together in front of him. He glanced quickly around the room, as if he expected to see other people present, but he did not look at Dr. Millner. He was not there because he wanted to be and he did not feel very warmly toward this person whom, as he understood it, was there to pry and coerce. Dr. Millner closed the door and walked briskly to the other armchair. "Well, Carl," she said brightly, "I think the first thing we ought to do is get acquainted, don't you? I'm Dr. Agnes Millner, but everyone calls me Agnes. I'm a psychologist, and I counsel young people like you who need help understanding themselves." Carl nodded but said nothing, and stared at the pattern on the carpet in front of him. Dr. Millner waited a few moments, then suddenly got up and fetched a large, thin briefcase from the desk. She resumed her seat, pulled out a folder of papers from the briefcase, and opened it. "Carl E. Slade," she read out, "Oh, I see you've just turned seventeen." She looked up and beamed at him. "Well," she said, "Happy birthday, Carl. It's a bit late, I know, but better late than never, eh?" Carl glanced at her and grimaced. "Thanks," he mumbled, and looked back at the floor. Dr. Millner was not easily disconcerted. She was used to having to draw out her patients. "Well, Carl, what seems to be the problem?" she asked, "Why makes you so unhappy?" She waited for his reply, her smile frozen on her face. Carl raised his head slowly and gazed at her, but did not answer right away. What kind of nonsense was this? What was this woman expecting him to say? She looks ridiculous in that stupid outfit, he thought, Thinks she's still sixteen or something. Why does she think I'm the one who has a problem? "I don't have a problem," he said finally, "I'm perfectly happy the way I am. It's Thomas and Jarelle and Kate who say I have a problem. They just won't leave me alone and they get all the kids and the rest of the staff to bug me about what they think I ought to do." 11

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"From the information they gave me I understand that you don't mix freely with the girls here. Is that right?" Carl sighed. Not again! he said to himself. "They mean I don't have sex with them, don't they?" he said wearily, and felt anger growing inside him. "Yes, but—" "If that's what they mean, why don't they say that?" he snapped, "Always talking in doubletalk! They don't seem to be able to say anything straight!" Dr. Millner was taken off-guard, but she stayed calm. "Now, Carl," she said softly, "There's no need to get upset. We can just talk about this reasonably and quietly." "Maybe you can!" he exclaimed hotly, "You haven't been hounded day and night because you won't go to bed with a girl—a different girl, what's more—every night, have you? It's all they've got on their mind! They don't seem to see all the other things I do right, they just think I should be like everybody else and ---- every girl in sight!" The directness of the expletive seemed to make Dr. Millner slightly uneasy. "Well," she said, "I don't think they would go quite so far as to—" "So far as to send a naked girl into my bedroom in the middle of the night?" Carl asked defiantly, interrupting her. Dr. Millner changed her position slightly, and also changed the subject. "Let's talk about you for a bit, Carl," she said calmingly, "Tell me, what do you like to do most of all?" Again he did not reply immediately. He was sick of people asking him to talk about himself. Whenever he did, they always latched onto something about which they could pester him. "I like playing the flute," he blurted out at last, and right away he knew he shouldn't have said it. Dr. Millner's response confirmed his misgivings. "Now why would an intelligent boy like you play such an old-fashioned instrument?" she asked, "It's the sort of thing that you have to spend countless boring hours practising! Surely it's more to the point to use a Musicmaker. No boring practice sessions—all you have to do is push a few buttons and you can have any piece of music you like, played any way you want!" "I happen to enjoy practising on my flute," Carl said defiantly. "Perhaps if you gave it up, Carl, you'd find you have more energy to pursue other things," Dr. Millner suggested softly. "Like ---- girls, you mean?" he said sarcastically, "Whatever happened to Self-Expression, then? What if I prefer playing my flute to bedding down with a girl? Can't I do what I feel like doing? Everybody else is allowed to!" The psychologist didn't answer. She considered him pensively for some moments as he frowned at the floor. Then she took another folder out of her briefcase and spread out its contents on the low table in front of Carl. "Take a look at these, Carl," she said, "and tell me how they make you feel." He took one quick look at the photographs, blushed crimson, and turned his back on them. The pictures—some of women, some of men and women—left nothing to the imagination. "Put them away," he said hoarsely, "I don't want to see them." Please put them away, because I do 12

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want to look at them and yet I don't, and I'll have nightmares all night again if I do see them. Oh why can't I be like everybody else? "Do they excite you, Carl?" Dr. Millner asked levelly, "Do they make you want to do those things too? Why don't you look at them?" "Put them away," he repeated, quietly but fiercely, keeping his back to them and to her. She sighed, and replaced the photographs and folder in the briefcase. "Is it girls that are the problem, Carl?" she asked, "Maybe that's what's bothering you. Perhaps you should try some of the boys. Perhaps that's more your leaning. It's perfectly all right, you know. Several of the boys here are gay, and no-one thinks anything of it. Why don't you approach them?" Carl wheeled around and stared at her speechlessly. He had grown up with the teaching that all kinds of sexual behaviour were acceptable and yet he was still convinced that there was only one right condition for sex, and that was within marriage. He clung to this conviction as if his life depended on it. This wasn't the first time sex with a man had been suggested to him— didn't Dr. Millner's notes tell her how he'd reacted to that advice before? "Why on earth are you people so determined to get me into bed with someone else?" he asked fiercely, "I don't want to do it! You people keep asking me why I don't want to! I don't know why—I just don't want to!" He started shouting. "Self-Expression is the motto of the Protection Party, isn't it? This is my way of expressing myself! You're not going to change it with any of your psychology stuff! I'm happy the way I am, I told you! Why don't you just leave me alone?" Dr. Millner seemed unruffled by his outburst. "You seem to be a very unhappy young man, Carl," she said quietly, "From what my notes tell me, you have no friends, you spend a great deal of time playing your music or walking about by yourself in the gardens, you don't take part in the Sharings, and of course, you have your sexual hangups as well. I'm going to suggest to Thomas that I have a few counselling sessions with you, to sort out these inhibitions and get you straightened out. You'll be much happier, you'll see. Don't lose hope." "Lose hope?" Carl echoed incredulously, "I didn't ask to meet with you, Dr. Millner, it was Thomas and Jarelle who made me come! I keep telling you, I'm happy! I'm happy the way I am! I'm not using doubletalk, just plain English! I-am-happy! Do psychologists understand plain English? I don't have a problem—I'm just expressing myself, me, who I am!" He stubbornly refused to have any more to do with the psychologist. He insisted that his way of seeing things was just another way of expressing oneself, and the staff at Rainbow Garden eventually decided to agree with him. because of his aunt thay couldn't get rid of hom, but they were tired of the battle. They reckoned there would be other ways of getting him on the "Straight" track, and to his great relief they finally dropped the subject. In many ways Carl wanted to be like his peers and give in to his natural urges and desires, if only because then they might accept him and he wouldn't be so lonely. Whenever he seriously considered following their 13

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example, however, his whole being revolted and his nightmares would start again. He wondered why in the world he felt that strongly about it, but, search as he might, he couldn't find a reason in his memory. In the end he decided that he would just have to live his life his own way and put up with the loneliness. Despite all the "freedom" being preached and practised by society during Carl's growing-up years, people still got married, although what was understood by 'marriage' was becoming more and more vague. Somewhere Carl had got the idea that marriage was supposed to be a lifelong commitment of a man and a woman to each other, and he held on to this notion despite all attempts to prove to him that liberal divorce laws meant it needn't be so binding. To such arguments he always countered that there was no point in going through all the rigmarole of getting married if one intended to divorce at the first sign of dissatisfaction. Once a classmate was extolling the wonders of wedding feasts after just having expressed relief that divorce laws were further being relaxed. The contradiction didn't seem to strike the others who were listening to her, including the teacher. Carl saw it, however, and for once voiced his opinion. "A wedding is supposed to be the start of a lifetime together," he said, "Divorce ought to be made harder, not easier." "What if you get married and find you've married the wrong person, then?" the girl replied, her tone defensive, "You think you ought to to be miserable for the rest of your life?" "If you're going to insist on the trial and error approach," Carl retorted sarcastically, "then you ought to just live together in a so-called partnership! It's a lot less complicated than getting married and you don't have all that farce and expense of a wedding! You live in the same house, decide who owns what, sleep together, and when you're tired of each other, you simply move in with someone else! It's quite acceptable and you don't have all that rigmarole of getting a divorce. Why have a wedding and all those silly promises if you don't intend to stay together all your life?" "So you think those things people say at weddings are binding for life, huh?" the teacher said. "It seems to me," Carl replied, turning to face him, "that the best thing would be for a man and a woman to marry for life, to promise to live together and share everything, and look out for each other, no matter what." "Do you mean a monogamous relationship, with no other sexual partners, then?" the man asked dubiously. "Yes, of course," Carl said, "If both the man and the woman promised to be faithful to each other, and they meant it, then they would never have to worry about anyone else taking their partner away, would they?" "Well, it wouldn't work, you know," the man laughed, "Research in the nineties showed that our genes program us to be polygamous. Nature intends us to have more than one partner. So it isn't healthy to restrict oneself to just one person. It goes against nature." 14

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"I still think it would be wonderful to live with the same woman all my life," Carl replied dreamily, oblivious to the sniggering going on around him, "To know that we'd promised to be faithful to each other and to love each other no matter what, you know. Even if everybody says it isn't natural." "Do you really think any woman would willingly enter into that kind of relationship with a man these days? To promise to be stuck with him for life even if they turn out to be incompatible? It's cruel to expect that of any woman. Or any man, for that matter." "Well, but wouldn't they be able to sort it out somehow, to find a way to cope with the incompatibility? Surely they could find enough things they have in common to compensate? Or maybe they could compromise or something?" His teacher crossed his arms and looked at him with some disdain. "Well, now, how many women do you know, Carl," he sneered, "who'd be willing to live all their lives with you?" Carl stared at him in dismayed astonishment, and became aware that his classmates were finding the exchange very amusing. He lowered his eyes to his desk. "Uh, I don't know of any, actually," he said very quietly. "Well, then?" the teacher said triumphantly. Carl looked up quickly. "But I don't know of any girl I'd want to marry, either!" he protested. "Do you have any idea what sort of girl you're looking for?" "Yes, I do, but none of those I know come anywhere near to it..." "There you are, then! You can see yourself this 'marriage for life' idea is a stupid notion. It requires a kind of person that doesn't exist." The argument didn't convince Carl, and he insisted that lifelong marriage had to be the best way. That was how he saw it, and he stuck to his idea. Anything else was for him unthinkable. By this time his classmates were in stitches. The teacher looked at him darkly. "You'd better be careful who you talk to about this, boy," he warned, "Put these ridiculous ideas out of your head! Only those weirdoes, the Rebels, believe that marriage is for life, and they're way out of touch with the times! You wouldn't want people to think you're one of them, would you?" A flurry of whispering around him in which he caught the word "rebel" several times convinced Carl to drop the argument. He knew that to be thought a Rebel would be the ultimate black mark. Rebels were the bane of the Republic, and there were many people who hoped a final solution would soon be found to this social problem. It was bad enough not having any friends—to be seen as a Rebel would guarantee him enemies and he certainly didn't want any. "No, Sir," he said, "I wouldn't want to be one of them or to have people think I am."

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Chapter 2

About the time Carl reached adulthood a new form of entertainment was becoming very popular. These were the Fantasy Dreamers, machines that enabled one to escape the problems of real life and live out one's fantasies in colourful, imaginary, computer-produced interactive settings. At first one could only indulge in a Fantasy Dream in special Fantasy Arcades dotted around the country. But by the time the new Republic was ten years old, they were fast replacing CD-viewers in people's homes. Many people devoted an entire room to the machine or several of them. New house plans included a Fantasy Dream Room as standard, and those who did not have such a room were regarded as deprived. Most of the men and women Carl knew spent a great deal of time pursuing they knew not what in Fantasy Dreamers. After trying it once, Carl had no intention of repeating what for him had turned out to be a most unpleasant experience. The sensation of being detached from reality was one he did not enjoy—it reminded him of his nightmares. But he began to understand why the people around him often seemed to have no ideas of their own but just accepted whatever the increasingly influential Protection Party offered them. A person in a Fantasy Dreamer did not have to think, they only had to react. The machine's computer did all the thinking for them. Carl's solitude enabled him to develop interests which other people considered a waste of time or simply childish. He enjoyed the beauties of nature for their own sake and he delighted in making music on the flute. His walks in the garden and his hours of flute practice were his only comforts. He longed to be able to share with some of his fellow residents the pleasure that was his, but he never dared to—he knew they would laugh at him if he did. He was puzzled that so few people seemed to be able to enjoy beauty for its own sake. One day as he lay resting after lunch he noticed the picture hanging on the wall above his bed. It was a reproduction of a Redouté watercolour of a rose which had once adorned his parents' living room. It was the only one of his parents' belongings that had come to him after his relatives had gone through their home after the funeral—he had been told that his aunt was holding the rest in trust. He took the picture down and sat on his bed studying it. He walked to the window and looked out at the real roses growing in the garden. What is beauty? he asked himself, What makes a rose different from say, an old rag? Why are the print and the real rose beautiful? Why does the warbling of that currawong out there make me happy when the screech of an electric saw has the opposite effect? Why isn't anyone else interested in such questions? He shrugged, put the picture back on the wall, got out his flute, and spent the remaining hour before lunch trying to imitate the currawong's song.

16

Sonata for Flute

Playing and improvising on the flute was Carl's one real escape from the pain of being a misfit. He had started learning at the age of twelve, at a time when fewer and fewer people in the Republic were taking up the classical instruments. Playing such instruments was too much hard work— getting computers to produce music on a synthesizer was so much easier. Playing the flute would have been enough to label Carl as peculiar. As it was it only meant one more oddity in the list of his peculiarities. That the director of the Children's Home had even allowed him to take it up, let alone provided an instrument, was an inexplicable aberration in the eyes of the rest of the staff, but they did not dare to argue with their boss. One of the things about himself which bothered Carl greatly was his short temper. He could fly into a rage at the hint of a sneer and too often he lashed out in self-defense and got into trouble as a result. Despite all the talk about Self-Expression, some forms of self-expression remained less acceptable than others, and anger was one of them. Carl was distressed by his inability to control his anger. At the suggestion of one of the Home staff who thought getting rid of excess energy might help cool his temper, he took up running. He would go for a long run every morning before breakfast, but although he enjoyed the activity, it didn't help his temper. Someone else pointed out to him that repressing himself in other areas was what made it so difficult for him in that one, but Carl wasn't about to try indulging his sexual desires in an attempt to control his temper. In any case, he had a sneaking suspicion it probably wouldn't work. He couldn't imagine that having a guilty conscience from going against his convictions could possibly help his temper. At the turn of the century certain enlightened chemists had perfected several drugs which allowed those who took them to change their personalities, at least for the duration of the effects of a dose. These drugs, dubbed "Personality Pills" were eagerly greeted by the vast number of people who were dissatisfied with the characters they had been given by nature. A shy, retiring fellow could become the life of the party just by popping a pill as he walked in the door. An extrovert with foot-in-mouth disease could swallow a taciturnity capsule which would make him reluctant to voice his opinions freely. A woman who had trouble relating to men could enjoy a few hours of no inhibitions simply by taking a tablet. For Carl, the Personality Pills offered the hope of a cure for his bad temper—even if only for a few hours at a time. He asked the Children's Home nurse if she thought they might help. She told him that, yes, help was indeed as close as swallowing a pill now, and offered him a dose of the appropriate one. His hopes high, he decided to try it, and took the tablet before going to classes the next morning. That was the first and last time he made the attempt. Not only did the tablet make no difference to his temper, but he discovered that he was one of those very rare individuals whom the Personality Pills made violently ill. Within two or three minutes of taking the tablet he had double vision, became so dizzy and nauseous he felt as if the room was bouncing up and down, and developed the worst headache he had ever experienced. His 17

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breakfast refused to remain in his stomach and he collapsed on the floor of his bedroom. The cleaner found him and took him to the nurse's office, where he spent a miserable morning under observation. "No more Personality Pills for you," the nurse told him when she let him go that afternoon, "You'll just have to cope with life with your own personality." In a way Carl didn't mind. Although it would have been nice to be able to solve his problem that simply, it would only have been a temporary cure every time. For a permanent solution he would have to keep trying to control his anger himself anyway. It was all right, however, only as long as his frustration level remained below boiling point. On most occasions it didn't. When he finished school, Carl decided to continue studying, and aimed at qualifying in Social Welfare. He longed to do something to redeem himself, and he saw helping other people as the way to do it. From what he understood, the whole point of social work was to help people. He enrolled in the Training College of the Welfare Ministry, determined that he would fit in completely with their programme and become a "Straight Thinker". That would mean he would then be able to work in the Welfare Ministry after he graduated. Carl put all his efforts into his studies, even relegating his daily flute practice to three times weekly instead of daily. In his field work he was careful to do everything according to what was prescribed by the Welfare Ministry. He was terrified of being rejected by them. His five years in the Training College seemed to succeed where all the years of childhood indoctrination had failed. He excelled in all his courses and easily spouted all the accepted relativist teachings of the Protectioners: "tolerance", Eastern philosophy, eco-conservationism, and nationalism. He feared the Protectioners more than anything else. As he neared the end of his studies it seemed clear to him that Brent Denson, the leader of the Protection Party, was likely to win the next Presidential elections. He wanted to be on the right side of the Protection when that happened. Already the Protectioners had won many important seats in Parliament, and the effects of this were being felt throughout the Republic. At the turn of the century the new Republic had been proclaimed and the northern part of the country had seceded. The southern states which formed the Republic had been plunged into an unprecedented deep economic depression for many industries were closed down and moved elsewhere. Thousands of inhabitants of the Republic, most of them of nonAnglo-Saxon background, had left and moved to other countries in search of work and better living. The rate of unemployment hit an all-time high, prices were getting much too high, and the crime rate soared. The consequent atmosphere of despair in the Republic led most of the remaining population to seek escape from the realities of daily life in all sorts of amusements, drug-induced euphorias, and electronic fantasies. The government, having an agenda of its own, was only too happy to provide the funding to make it easier for people to indulge in escapism—it stopped them asking questions. 18

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Amid the growing gloom of the late Tens and early Twenties the Protection Party came to the fore. Since they had managed to achieve ownership of most of the media, their teachings, as well as Brent Denson's own peculiar version of conservatism, suffused all of the Republic. The majority of the population lived from one Fantasy Dream to the next and refused to consider the future. They yearned only for peace, security, and safety at any price, and thus they greeted the policies of the Protectioners enthusiastically. The stage was well set for Brent Denson to appear offering hope with his "Glory to the Nation" and "Back to Basics" platforms in his campaign for the Presidency. Denson was a pragmatist who was able to gauge accurately the public's frame of mind. To serve his own ends, he offered them what they thought they wanted. Very few people in the Republic had ever heard of the Roman Empire and the history of its fall. During those years when thinking was an unpopular occupation it was very easy to convince the people that it was high time books were done away with. Books used up far too many resources to produce and were too difficult to store and keep in good condition. Video-CDs and Fantasy Dreamers were aggressively promoted as a much more comfortable and civilised alternative to books. From every angle the public was told that the government and the increaasingly powerful Protection Party were "leading the way for the world's march towards a brighter and better future". Only a handful of people outside the government were aware that the rest of the world was not in fact following this path, and only they and the government knew that it was far easier to control the content of CD's than that of books. Generous bonuses in kind—that is, in Video-CDs—were offered to all who handed their books in at their local Ministry of Information office. The occasional warnings from those few who realized the dangers went unheeded by a population devoted to self-fulfillment and seduced by several decades of "free" gifts. In the nineties the socio-political catchcry had been "Political Correctness". In the late tens it became "Straight Thinking." Anyone who didn't fit in with the prevalent attitude of conformity was viewed with suspicion. Thousands of "Crooked Thinkers" fled the Republic when they found the majority of the population turning, sometimes violently, against them. People saw these "Crooked Thinkers" as threats to society because they refused to believe in the dangers of absolute values, or to recognise the superiority of women, or to uphold the Republic without reservations. Although Carl's professors and advisers in the Welfare Ministry Training College were puzzled by his lack of social life, they found him to be a trouble-free, obedient, and enthusiastic student. When he graduated they recommended him to the Ministry hierarchy as one of their best Straight Thinkers, and on the strength of this he was immediately granted a position as one of the Welfare Ministry's elite Welfare Officers. Strangely enough, no-one seemed unduly worried by the fact that he apparently did not to apply "Straight Thinking" to his own lifestyle. Perhaps they felt that it was

19

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his own problem as long as it didn't affect anyone else and as long as he carried out the duties of his job properly. A major part of his work as Welfare Officer involved searching out and "taking into care" to the Ministry the school-age children of parents identified as Rebels. He would turn up at their home with a Police Officer and a warrant and take the children away. The devastated parents had no idea where their children were taken—they simply disappeared. Carl himself didn't know what happened to the children. He assumed that they were put into state children's homes. He had tried to find out once, but had quickly discovered it wouldn't do to ask questions about areas which were not his responsibility. He had arrived back at the Welfare Ministry with yet another group of children, two small girls and their brother, who had been removed from their parents' custody. Another Welfare Officer met him to take charge of the children when he arrived back at the Ministry. "These are the Walker children," he told her, "The boy is six, the girls are five and seven. Their parents are Rebels and they have been warned to cease their antisocial activities. They were also told the procedure for getting their children back should they change their lifestyle." He looked down at the frightened children beside him and smiled at them. "Officer Bryson will look after you," he said, speaking softly to try and re-assure them. "I'll take over now," the woman replied, "Come this way, children. Officer Slade, please fill in the log as usual, won't you?" She started to lead the children away, but Carl started to follow her. "Just a minute, please, Officer Bryson," he called, "Could I have a word with you?" She stopped and looked back at him, frowning. "What is it?" "Uh, I just wanted to ask you," he said cautiously, "Where are you taking the children?" Bryson stared at him coldly. "Officer Slade," she said warningly, "Please fill in the log." "I just wanted to know where the children go from here," Carl said quietly. "Have you forgotten how to switch on the compufiler, Officer?" Bryson asked sarcastically, and loudly, "Here, let me show you. Children, stay where you are for a minute." She went over to the desk and studied the compufiler. The children huddled together and followed her with their eyes. Carl leant over the desk to see what she was doing. Bryson switched on the compufiler and beckoned him closer. "You're an idiot, Slade," she whispered, "Don't you value your position? Mind your own business." Out loud, she added, "There you are, will you remember next time?" "Uh, yes, I expect so," Carl replied uncertainly as he straightened up. Bryson went back to the children and shepherded them briskly down the hall and through a doorway. Carl watched them until the door slid shut behind them, wondering why he wasn't allowed to know what would 20

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happen to the children. Slowly he turned back to the compufiler, tapped in the information for the log, and switched the machine off. Carl was angry at himself for his imprudence. He would have to be more careful and try not be curious. Questions were dangerous—"why" questions most of all, but any questions that were not part of one's actual duties. He knew that—it had been drilled into him for years now. Now and then, however, he forgot, and he was lucky that so far he hadn't actually got into trouble because of these lapses. I must remember to keep my thoughts to myself, he thought, Better yet, I should try not to think at all. It would be terrible to be seen as a non-conformist. The Protection Party was against "Crooked Thinkers", as they called nonconformists. In particular they were against the group of people who had become variously known as the Rebels, the Secret Ones, or the Subversives. The Rebels believed that there was such a thing as Absolute Truth, but in this new society there was no room for that kind of thinking. Absolute Truth was a concept that was out of date, divisive, and dangerous. Carl's knowledge of the Rebel teachings was practically non-existent, but he was vehemently at enmity with them on principle, for he had been taught over and over that they were the worst enemies of the Republic. They refused to bow to the policies of either the government or the Protectioners and that could not be allowed. It was even suggested that they were mentally unstable and should all be taken into care. However, the Rebels were the ones who did all the menial work, so the government was reluctant to follow such a course of action. They did increase the ranks of the Police Force in order, they said, to protect the general population from possible attacks by the Rebels. The Protectioners were instrumental in establishing the Neighbour Watchers movement. They promoted it as a vast improvement on the old "neighbourhood watch" programmes so popular in the West in the eighties and nineties. With the building up of the Police Force and the faithful reporting by the Neighbour Watchers representatives there was a marked decrease in crime all over the Republic within months. This was greeted with great pleasure and relief by a population that had become terrorised by criminals of all sorts. They overlooked that under the new political guidelines the definition of the word crime had become relative. One could never know now when a particular activity might be considered a crime by the Police Force. A key part of the programme of the Enwuh—as the Neighbour Watchers were popularly called—was the forbidding of meetings in homes. Parties and celebrations had to have official permission from the local Enwuh chapter—with strict control over number and names of guests and an Enwuh representative attending. For this reason, and also because of the effort and expense involved, by the mid-tens parties in private homes became rather rare. When Denson came to power a nightly curfew was imposed. It was strictly patrolled by Enwuh reps with the help of sophisticated electronic equipment. 21

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The prohibition of meetings, the curfew, and the patrols served to discourage any gatherings in private homes after sunset, and certainly made it difficult for the Rebels to gather in groups. And yet, although it took much ingenuity for them to get together without being discovered by the authorities, get together they did. It was one of the frustrations the Protectioners seemed unable to get rid of. By the time Brent Denson won the Presidential election in 2026, his mechanisms for full control of the population were already in place. Even a fully electrified Border Fence along the inland border had been built with almost complete ignorance of it on the part of the population. It had been easy enough to describe the work as "upgrading and repairing of the existing fence". There were a few people who realized what was going on and tried to sound the alarm. Not only were they dismissed as paranoid nut-cases by the media and the people, but they were quickly tracked down by the Enwuh and "taken into care". On the day following Denson's victory his troops appeared as if out of nowhere, the Protectorate was declared with much fanfare and fireworks, and a special ceremony was held closing the borders, ports, and airports of the Protectorate to the "nefarious and inimical influences of outsiders who would presume to rob our nation of its glory." The people, immersed in the thick fog of their over-entertained minds, cheered. The foreign diplomats who were still in the country left en masse. One of the first moves of Denson's government was to close down all religious buildings, of which there were very few left as it was. Churches, mosques and temples of most religions had closed down following the exodus in the 2010s of the followers of those religions. Increasingly violent xenophobia had made life intolerable for most of these people and they found a welcome in the North that was denied them in the South. Their temples and other buildings had also become too expensive as the Republican government had imposed heavier and heavier taxes on all religious property. The northern states which had seceded from the Republic had at first remained independent, but after two years, by majority approval in a referendum, they had become a province of the country to the north, Kawanyama, to the amazement of the world community. After 2026, the Kawanyaman government tried to apply pressure on the Protectorate to reopen its borders but as no other nation was willing to be partner to these moves they decided in the end that instead they would simply continue to offer asylum to the few people who still managed to escape from the Protectorate. Thereafter the Protectorate was essentially ignored by the rest of the world, at least on the surface. A few years after 2026, however, a handful of individuals formed an underground movement with members in both Kawanyama and the Protectorate and secret support from a dozen other nations. Most of the members of the Underground in the Protectorate were Rebels, and their main aim was to liberate that country, not only from the Protectioners' grasp, but especially from the grasp of the endless entertainment and fear 22

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which dulled the people's thinking. It was a sore point with Denson and his government that so far they had been unable to trace the whereabouts of the Underground. Despite all the resources they were putting into their campaign against the new group they were even unable to break the code they used in their radio communications. Five years into the Protectorate, the Police Counselling Institute was established. Its purpose was to deal with the growing problem of Crooked Thinking among the population. Because of his excellent record as a Welfare Officer, Carl was offered a position as one of five Head Counsellors by the Chief of the Counselling Institute, Ross Lancaster. Of course, Carl realized that he didn't really have the choice of rejecting the offer, for that would be seen as suspicious. Besides, it was quite a promotion and included lodgings, board, and a car. A Police Counsellor was considered a high official in the government of the Protectorate. Carl never questioned what his work would entail. He had been told that the main aim of the Institute was to persuade non-conformists to wholeheartedly embrace the Protection philosophy, and this was a goal he was happy to agree to. That he himself might be a non-conformist didn’t even cross his mind.

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Chapter 3 Welfare Officers whose duty it was to rescue children from the homes of Rebels were always accompanied by a Police Officer in case the children's parents gave any trouble. Occasionally a Police Officer had to intervene when a distressed parent attacked the Welfare Officer, but in general the removal of children went ahead without any aggression on the part of the parents. At first Carl had been assigned a male Police Officer, a Black man by the name of Andrew Parker. The Police Escort roster was changed regularly, however, and in the next duty list Carl saw that Officer Cecilia Janssen was to be his Police Escort. Carl was not pleased about Janssen's being assigned to accompany him, and not only because Lieutenant Parker and he had become friends. He'd had one or two encounters with Janssen when she had first arrived at the Ministry and she frightened him. He had the impression—not mistakenly— that Cecilia Janssen very willingly subscribed to the Protectioners’ teachings on relationships between men and women and that she viewed every man she had dealings with as a potential bedmate. The first time he had come across her, at a Ministry get-together, he had found to his disquiet that he couldn't keep his eyes off her. Since the wearing of uniforms had been optional for this function, she had chosen to wear her most revealing evening wear, a flowing violet silk dress with a sleeveless bodice and a floor-length skirt split thigh-high in several places so that her legs were visible no matter how she stood. Although Carl hadn't been the only man there whose eyes kept straying to her corner of the room, Janssen had soon become aware of Carl's fascination, and she had decided that she fancied him. She had encouraged his interest by making sure that she was always—and enticingly so—within his field of vision during the whole gathering. She had kept an eye on him so that every time she had noticed him looking her way she had smiled at him. He'd had difficulty concentrating on conversations with others and had kept finding his mind wandering back to the subject of Cecilia Janssen's attractions. He had even found himself agreeing with the other men that Janssen was too attractive to be a Police Officer and should instead have been acting in Fantasy Dream productions. Halfway through the evening the Minister for Welfare had made a speech and everyone had stood still to listen to him. Janssen had sidled over to stand next to Carl and he had found it almost beyond his strength to avoid touching her. The perfume she had been wearing had overwhelmed him and had emphasised her presence. On top of that, she had kept brushing his hand with hers and several times she had moved so that she was actually leaning against him. The only thing that had prevented Carl from giving in to what his whole body was screaming for had been the memory of his stand against sex outside marriage. Even after all the years of indoctrination he still believed his idea was right. Cecilia Janssen's 24

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behaviour had made him begin to waver in his conviction, however. She was attractive and she knew it. She had chosen to pay attention to him rather than to any of the other men and it was difficult for him not to feel flattered. Although he had been mildly disappointed, relief had been his strongest feeling when at one point Janssen had needed to leave the room briefly. It had given him time to collect himself and renew his resolve to wait and control himself until he found the woman he wanted to marry. One thing he was quite certain about was that Cecilia Janssen was not that woman. When, at the end of the evening, Janssen had started to make her way towards him again, her intentions fully spelt out by the way she moved and looked at him, he had forced himself to turn around and walk hurriedly out of the room. As soon as he had reached the hallway he had fled outside to his car and had driven home as fast as he could, his whole body urging him go back and succumb to Janssen while his heart revolted at the whole idea. There had been other occasions when Cecilia Janssen had tried to seduce him, and more than once she had almost succeeded. Each time, the struggle between his heart and his body had worn him out, and he did not relish having anything to do with her—he had no idea how long he would be able to hold out against her spell. When Carl had seen on the duty list that Janssen was to be his Police Escort, his first reaction was to head for the Personnel Manager's office to submit an Assignment Objection form. He caught himself before he got there, however. What reason could he possibly give—sexual attraction?! Unfortunately, he realized that he couldn't very well submit an Objection to the Ministry for that sort of reason—after all, they would expect him, as a “Straight Thinker”, not to be bothered by such a thing but rather to welcome it. The Ministry was more likely to side with Janssen than with him if he objected to her. Besides being an attractive woman, Cecilia Janssen was ambitious, and she never worried about who she had to get out of her way in order to achieve her ambitions. She had set her sights on power, and one of her aims was to have power over men who had power. On the way she intended to enjoy having power over any other man she wanted, even if only for one night. Cecilia Janssen acted on only one principle—her own advancement. She was an almost fanatical follower of the Protection Party and had joined the Police Force when the Protectorate was barely one month old. They had been glad to have her for she had come with highest recommendations from the Party as a zealous upholder of their policies. Although she was not very tall, Janssen was physically strong and fit, the legacy of a childhood and adolescence spent in gymnastics and athletics. She was just tall enough to meet the requirements of the Police Force recruiters, who had noted with satisfaction that she followed the accepted fashions in clothing and hairstyle. Her wavy black hair, though it covered her ears, was trimmed quite short apart from a fringe which covered her forehead almost to her narrow eyebrows and made her small, upturned nose look more prominent than it actually was. Her small mouth had full 25

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lips made startling by the use of violet lipstick which matched the colour of her fingernails. It would have made her skin look too white in comparison, had it not been for the artificial tan that she got touched up regularly. Her dark brown, almost black, eyes were never still, and the recruiters found that she missed very little of what was happening around her. She usually dressed in the kind of coloured tights and body-hugging thigh-length sleeveless vests which most women wore, and had been a little dismayed to find that the uniform she would be wearing did not display her figure to advantage. She soon worked out how to overcome this drawback, however, for she knew how to catch a man's attention. One of the points both for and against her when she had joined the Police Force had been her fierce stubbornness. When Cecilia Janssen wanted something, she did not give up until she had it. When she bore a grudge, she bore it with a vengeance. On the other hand, when she was given an assignment, she carried it out all the way, and sometimes even too far. Her instructors had noted in her file that she was to be handled with care. As a newly-commissioned Police Officer she was sent to the Welfare Ministry as one of the Police Escorts for Welfare Officers. It was in this capacity that she was assigned to accompany Welfare Officer Carl Slade. But Officer Slade did not want her accompanying him. If only he could find a valid reason for filing an Assigment Objection! It was Janssen herself, however, who provided Carl with a valid reason, and she did so on her first shift as his Police Escort. When he came out of the Ministry building that morning she was already waiting for him, lounging against his Ministry car, and she smiled alluringly as he reached the vehicle. He did not smile back but nodded curtly to her, trying to avoid looking at her, and especially at her eyes, as he unlocked the car. As soon as he had caught sight of her the fight in himself had started, and conflicting thoughts about being in her company were wreaking havoc in his mind. He felt almost as if he were two people— one wanting to run away from this woman as fast as possible, the other trying to think of a way to be alone with her somewhere. He suddenly remembered that Freeway Rest Areas offered Pleasure Rooms for the use of those who needed a break from driving. No! he reminded himself, Pleasure Rooms, Pleasure Houses, and Fantasy Dreamers are all out of bounds when one is on duty! He was dismayed to realize that he had to be blushing, for his face felt hot. "Good morning, Officer Janssen," he said abruptly, trying to hide his disquiet, "We're to pick up four children in one of the far southern suburbs today." "Good morning, Carl," she answered languidly, drawing his name out to two syllables, "That's quite a long drive, isn't it?" Carl winced. She’s already taking liberties, using my first name, and like that, too, he thought, I’d better put a stop to it right away. Don't look at her, don't even appear interested, he said to himself. It was all he could do to keep his head from turning to look at Janssen, but he was aware of her every move from the corner of his eye. How does she manage to be so 26

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seductive in a Police uniform? he asked himself, None of the other women Officers are like that! "You're to call me Officer Slade," he said testily, "Yes, it's a long drive, so get in and let's go!" "Yes, Carl," Janssen purred in reply to his order, smiling sweetly. Her audacity made him bristle, especially as he was struggling with an urge to flirt back which made him angry at himself. He clenched his teeth and made no comment, but got into the driver's seat, slammed his door, and started the engine. Janssen climbed in hurriedly and pulled her door closed just as the car started moving. Carl drove out towards the Southern Freeway. He forced himself to keep his eyes on the road and on the traffic and tried to think of the job ahead, but he felt uneasy about Janssen, for he was conscious that she kept eyeing him furtively. His misgivings were fully confirmed when they got to the Freeway. He drove into the stream of traffic, set the car on "cruise", and typed the exit number into the computer. Although the traffic was light and the car was steering itself, he gripped the steering wheel with both hands and watched the other cars, wishing all the time that he were somewhere else, far away from Cecilia Janssen, and free from this awful battle with himself. "You're not very talkative, are you, Carl?" Janssen said suddenly in a husky voice. "My name is Officer Slade," Carl said grimly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Janssen stretch and smile widely to herself. He hastily pushed down a sudden urge to stop the car and take her in his arms. This is madness, he thought, Why on earth is this woman having this effect on me? In the next instant Janssen did two things which almost caused an accident. "Let's stop for a bit at that rest area that's coming up," she said silkily, pointing at a sign they were passing, "There's no rush to get those brats, after all. We could have a good time, you and I." As she spoke she leant over and took hold of the steering wheel with her left hand, pulling it around slightly, and at the same time she placed her right hand on Carl’s thigh. He was so startled that he wrenched the steering wheel over hard to the right, overriding the cruise command and causing the car to swerve violently into the next lane. It narrowly missed another car which had just overtaken them. His heart beating from fright like a pile-driver gone wild, he hastily switched off the cruise command, slowed the car down, and steered it back into its own lane. Then he drove onto the shoulder and stopped. He turned to Janssen, his face livid with rage. "Keep your hands to yourself, Officer!" he exploded, "You could have got us killed!" Janssen was pale, for the near miss had given her quite a fright too, but she was also vexed by Carl's continued refusal of her advances. She scowled. "Why didn't you just pull into the rest area, like I said?” she said sullenly, “There’s a Pleasure Room there. We could have had a bit of fun, the two of us. Collecting brats is such a dull job." 27

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To his astonishment the suggestion actually made him feel sick now, and he stared at her with a mixture of anger and incredulity. Finally he sat back in his seat and started up the car. "Your career in the Police Force won't last long with that kind of behaviour, Officer," he said harshly, “Pleasure Rooms are off-limits during duty hours and you know it. Even suggesting their use is reportable.” "Is that a threat?" Janssen spat. Carl kept his eyes on the oncoming traffic. "A self-imposed one, Officer," he answered levelly, “You're the one who made the suggestion.” He eased the car back onto the Freeway and continued towards the southern suburbs. This time he didn't reset the cruise command, and he concentrated on driving. He didn't even glance once at Janssen the rest of the way, but he was aware that she was sulking and fuming to herself. As he drove he puzzled over his sudden discovery that she was no longer attractive to him. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but her spell was broken and the battle between his body and his heart was over. This impression was underlined by her behaviour at their destination. From the moment they arrived, Janssen seemed bent on verbally, and almost physically, abusing the parents of the children they had come to pick up. He ordered her to go back to the car while he dealt with them, but she ignored him and was as unpleasant as possible. To his disgust she seemed to take delight in the tears and stricken faces of the parents and children. As far as Carl was concerned, his job was that of getting children out of what he understod were potentially harmful home situations, but he had no particular ill-feelings towards the parents he dealt with and always treated them courteously, if firmly. Taking the children away was just part of his work. He liked children, and he always tried to be gentle with the children he had to take from their families, although with some of them he found his patience wore thin very quickly. Janssen's attitude was another matter—she treated the parents like dirt and was quite rough with the children. She had been frustrated and she was taking it out on them. The worst part of it, as far as Carl was concerned, was that she was apparently enjoying abusing them. Thus she had now provided Carl with two definitely acceptable reasons for submitting an official Assignment Objection, and he proceeded to do just that as soon as he returned to the Ministry. On the form he indicated that Janssen had breached rules by suggesting using a Pleasure Room during duty hours, and she had attempted to soil the good name of the Protection Party by her behaviour on the job. His Objection was granted and Janssen was re-assigned to a different role in the Police Force. This was a slight to her pride which she was not prepared to forgive. She already had a long mental list of people whom she did not intend to forgive, and now she added Carl Slade to the list. She would work against him as long as necessary. No man who refused her attentions could consider himself or his career safe from then on if she had anything to say about it, especially if he then went and spoiled her record 28

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with accusations! She now hated Carl both for refusing her and for the black mark on her work file. Janssen now turned most of her efforts to the pursuit of Ross Lancaster, an up-and-coming favourite disciple of President Brent Denson. The fact that Lancaster was married didn't matter to her, and from what she knew about the man it didn't matter much to him either. As far as either of them was concerned, Myra Lancaster was not even in the way. Lancaster had begun to notice Janssen and her interest in him, for he was growing tired of his latest mistress. He decided at last that not only could she be very useful to him, as a member of the Police Force, but she could provide him with some the extra services which she seemed actually to be offering him. When President Denson appointed him Chief of the Police Counselling Institute he offered Janssen the position of Head Carer of the Women's Residential Facility in return for those services. He had observed a certain sadistic streak in her and felt this was appropriate for the job. The position was quite a promotion from her current one, and becoming Lancaster's mistress provided her with the kind of hold on him that she wanted—or so she thought. Ross Lancaster had been a Protectioner almost from the cradle. He had still been a preschooler—in a very progressively thinking establishment— when the Party had first inoculated him against anything that might carry absolute truth. Throughout his schooling and his University studies—in Politics and Management—he had never wavered in his zeal for the cause of self-advancement. The policies of the Protectioners suited him very well for they allowed him to be ruthless in his pursuit of power and wealth, with impunity. His marriage to Myra Strathmore had been one of mutual convenience—he needed her father’s inheritance and she needed his connections. They had had only one child, stricken with anencephaly, and she had lived only a few hours. From then on the very idea of any sort of handicap, physical or mental, made Ross Lancaster throw up. He became one of the most vocal supporters in Brent Denson’s campaign for “Healthy minds in Healthy bodies” which was eventually to lead to enforced euthanasia of the handicapped in the Protectorate. Although he was above average in height, Lancaster was also heavily built. He thought of himself as handsome and carried himself with an air of importance. His face was on the pudgy side, his small grey eyes looking mockingly out at the world from under thick black eyebrows. He had a large nose which tended to turn red in cold weather, much to his dismay. His mouth was small and looked even smaller than its real size because of his tendency to purse his lips in disdain, and because he seldom smiled except sideways. He was very proud of his thick black hair although he deemed it prudent to keep it always trimmed to a crew cut. One day he would be the one setting the fashions, he reminded himself. Both Lancaster and Janssen were under the impression that by pairing up they had achieved a small victory towards their ultimate goals. In addition, in her new job Janssen saw an opportunity to get back at Carl Slade who was now a Counsellor at the Institute. She decided to aim at 29

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turning Lancaster against Slade by carefully manipulating who was assigned to him for counselling. It might take two or three years or more to destroy Counsellor Slade's career—maybe even his sanity—but she was quite prepared to take her time about it. She intended to enjoy herself as she did this little by little. At the same time, however, she was not about to give up trying to get him to surrender to her charms. What Janssen didn't realize, though she could have guessed it had she tried, was that Ross Lancaster was at least as unscrupulous as she was. His goal was nothing less than the Presidency, and he considered that by having got into Denson's good books he was halfway there. Slowly but surely, he planned to worm his way into Denson's place. Taking Janssen as his mistress would help him towards his goal. She could get information for him in many ways—he didn't mind sharing her around—but he would happily get rid of her when her usefulness ran out or he tired of her. He had the upper hand there—he was her boss. President Denson had no inkling that his favourite disciple was plotting against him, but perhaps that didn't matter because he trusted no-one, not even Lancaster. Denson was a charismatic but ruthless man. He had celebrated his fiftieth birthday on the same day he had proclaimed both his victory at the polls and the founding of the Protectorate. Physically he was unremarkable, with thinning grey hair and a sallow face covered in age spots and showing many scars from the removal of skin cancers. Nevertheless, he had quite a large following of both women and men whose interest in him was definitely not political and whom he indulged when he felt like it—but only when he felt like it. He aimed to keep his aides very busy, and giving Lancaster the honour of the directorship of the Police Counselling Institute was a way of making sure he had no time for mischief. In his palace in the capital or wherever else he went, Denson surrounded himself with bodyguards day and night because, like all tyrants, he was afraid.

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Chapter 4 Police Lieutenant Andrew Parker arrived home to be greeted enthusiastically by his two children, Christopher and Elsie. They were waiting for him at the top of the stairs to their floor and, as usual, they were full of the news of their day. Andrew was thankful that his family did not have one of those Fantasy Dreamers that dulled the minds of so many of the people he knew and denied their children the joys of discovering the wonders around them. He loved to sit down with his wife and children after his day at work and hear about their day. This time was all the more precious to him these days, for he was finding his own job at the Counselling Institute increasingly depressing. Denise, his wife of almost ten years, greeted him with a hug at the door to their flat and the two of them walked arm in arm into the apartment. The children followed, skipping into the hallway and shutting the door behind them. They all went straight to the kitchen, where Andrew hung his jacket and cap on the back of a chair and sat down with his family to have a cup of tea. This was their ritual of every afternoon, a time to which all of them looked forwards and with which almost nothing else could interfere. Even when Andrew brought a friend home, the visitor joined them at the kitchen table and was welcome to contribute to the family news time. Andrew was always very careful about who he brought home. The Parkers’ kitchen was very small, like all the kitchens in their block of flats. Unlike most of the other kitchens in the building, however, it was a room full of warmth and life because of its owners. A counter-top with cupboards and drawers under it ran along three walls, interrupted below the window by a sink and halfway along the wall to the left by an upright stove. Denise had chosen the buttercup-coloured furnishings and warm yellow and white tiles back in the days before she and Andrew had met, when she was studying at the University of the Republic and working as a shop assistant. The window, with white daisy-sprinkled yellow curtains on either side, looked out over the centre of Densonia towards the telecommunications tower and satellite dishes on Lakeside Hill. Although on this particular day it was raining, whenever the day was fine the kitchen at this time of the afternoon would be bright with the light of the westering sun, which suffused the room with a warm golden glow. Andrew often said, with a twinkle in his eyes, that it was afternoon tea in Denise's kitchen that had won his heart to her. On the end of the counter to the right, near the doorway, stood a collection of jars and plastic containers which held plants and seeds at various stages of growth as well as an assortment of small creatures such as grasshoppers and minnows. This was the children’s end of the counter, where they observed their tiny menagerie, followed the development of beanplants and carrot stalks, and rolled out interestingly shaped objects 31

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from coloured flourdough which Denise prepared for them. Denise knew of no other children who did such things. From what her pupils had told her, when they were not at school they sat in Fantasy Dreamers at home or at one of the many arcades throughout the city. The tiny kitchen, with just enough floor space to allow one to walk around the table, was a special room. But that went for all four rooms in the Parker flat. Even the bathroom, a tiny space with sink, shower stall, and toilet so crowded together there was hardly any floor between them, was a special spot, for that was where Denise did their washing. As she scrubbed their clothing early in the morning before going to work she did a great deal of her singing, very softly, and Andrew and the children would often sit in the hallway outside the bathroom to finish their breakfast, just so they could listen to her. Sometimes they joined in. The Protectorate had been declared very shortly after Andrew and Denise were married, and soon after the new government took over, the housing market was frozen and people who had been in the process of selling or buying a house found that they had to move into whatever housing the government assigned to them. The Parkers were very glad that they had decided to make Denise's flat their home rather than look for a house. Andrew’s job with the Police Force did not cover even their everyday expenses, and anyway the Protectioners required all able-bodied women to work outside the home, so Denise had applied for a teaching position at one of the primary schools. When Chris and Elsie had started school she had hoped they could go to the one where she taught. It was government policy, however, that school-age children were not to be near their parents during school hours, so Chris and Elsie were sent to the nearby Primary School Number Six while their mother worked at School Number Five in the next suburb. She was thankful that Chris and Elsie were at home in the evenings and on Wednesdays. Denise brought the teapot and matching cups, one of their few remaining wedding presents, to the table. She had already poured out some milk for the children, who had also sat down at the table and were chatting happily with their father. As Denise poured tea into their cups, Andrew turned his attention to her. "How were your pupils today, Denise?" he asked. "They were quite a handful," she answered, handing him his cup, "They could hardly stay still for two seconds, all day. I thought perhaps there might be a thunderstorm brewing, but so far all we've had is a downpour without the fireworks!" "Did you two have trouble keeping still at school, too?" Andrew asked Chris and Elsie with a grin. "We didn't have to," six-year-old Elsie answered cheerfully, and bounced up and down as if to illustrate her answer, “but we had to listen, and write, and read our lessons, and—" "We had to stand up in class assembly!" interrupted her brother with eight-year-old importance, "because Billy Anderson said his grandfather had disappeared and boy was he glad about it, because his grandfather was 32

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a pain, always talking that religious stuff, and our teacher said we should stand up to cheer Billy." Andrew looked at Denise and frowned. "Isn't Billy's grandfather the elderly man who lives with the Mercers?" he asked. She nodded and her pretty, dark brown face turned very serious. "Yes," she said quietly, "That’s him, Chester Brown. They took him to the Institute this morning." Andrew caught his breath and stared at the wall for a moment. Then he shook himself, sat back on his chair, and looked puzzled. “Must’ve been while I was in the Monitoring Centre,” he muttered, "Usually I’m one of the Officers they send out to pick up counsellees during the day.” He shrugged helplessly. “I suppose we shouldn't be surprised that he was taken into care, though—he was one of the more vocal of the Rebels. In a way I'm surprised they waited this long. You'd have thought they'd want to try to reform him in time to get him into one of the retirement communities..." Denise, glancing at the children, decided to change the subject. The less they heard the less they could say at school, by accident or otherwise. She got up and took a bag of potatoes out of a cupboard. She put a few potatoes in the sink and started scrubbing them. "Were you on the monitoring roster again today?" she asked Andrew. "No, but I had to report to the MC,” he replied wryly, “I start on the new roster tomorrow. Carl gets a new counsellee and I get the joy of monitoring his sessions..." "Is that Uncle Carl, Daddy?" Christopher asked. His question reminded Andrew the children were still in the room. "Yes, Chris," he replied, and turned to them. "Now, Chris, Elsie, I want you to go to the lounge and play by yourselves for a bit,” he said, “I want to talk with Mummy." “Okay, Daddy,” Christopher said. He got up and took his sister by the hand. "C'mon, let's go to the lounge," he said. The two children skipped out of the kitchen and their parents could hear them laughing together as they went down the hallway. Andrew got up and joined his wife at the counter by the window. He gazed down through the rain at the traffic on the Northern Freeway for a moment, then sighed and started helping Denise to prepare the evening meal by peeling the potatoes. “You’ve got something on your mind, Andrew,” Denise said, “What’s the problem? Is it Chester Brown?” "That's a worry, yes, but it's not what's really bugging me, Denise," he replied, "I'm worried about Carl. You know how he's highly strung at the best of times, but lately he's been on a short fuse so much of the time that I'm afraid one of these days he'll do something stupid." “Something stupid?” “Say something he shouldn’t. Lose his temper with the wrong person. Have a breakdown or worse. I don’t know, but whatever, it would be stupid for it to happen.” "Do you have any idea what’s troubling him?" 33

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"I'm thinking that he's having doubts..." "Doubts? About his counselling work, do you mean?" "No, more fundamental than that. About the whole reason for the Counselling Institute's existing at all." "Oh, about the Protection teachings, you mean." "Yes." Andrew's handsome dark face was very sober. "If I'm right, he's in a very dangerous spot. You know how Chief Lancaster reacts to those who don't toe the line, don’t you, especially if they work at the Institute... And I’d say Carl hasn’t been very good lately at toeing Lancaster’s line." "You've known Carl some ten years, haven’t you?" Denise asked. "Almost ten years, that's right," he answered, "ever since I was assigned to work as his Police Escort when he worked in the Welfare Ministry. That was just before the start of the Protectorate, if you remember, not long after we got married." "Yes, I remember. Has he ever been in this sort of state before? Since you've known him?" "Nothing as bad as this. Oh, he's had plenty of down times, as you know. When he starts to think deeply he tends to get rather morose, but this is different somehow. And again, his temper's always been very short, but lately he seems to be intent on making a storm in every teacup he encounters. He has been thinking too much, probably. It’s dangerous." Denise was pensive for a moment. "Do you think perhaps we should have that talk with him?" she asked finally. Andrew leant on the counter and gazed out of the window towards the hill. "Mmmm... No, probably not at this stage," he said slowly, "I don't think he's ready for that. But he's going to be starting this new round of counselling tomorrow and I'm worried the stress is going to be too much, especially if he gets assigned someone difficult. He had a bad enough time with the last counsellee. It’s quite likely, for example, that Lancaster would assign Chester Brown to him, and I think that old man could be quite a challenge." He finished peeling the potatoes, handed them to Denise, and washed his hands at the sink. "Do you think I'd be asking too much of you if I suddenly decided to ask him to come and spend all his evenings with us?" he asked quietly. "Do you think that would be necessary?" she asked, “Is it really that bad?” He turned to her and sighed deeply. "Yes, I think it’s that bad,” he replied. "Look, Andrew,” Denise said firmly, “If Carl's sanity is at stake and we can prevent his going over the edge by getting him to spend most of his free time here, by all means tell him to come. He's your closest friend. You're like brothers. You'd never forgive yourself if anything happened to him because he wasn't welcome here. I'd never forgive myself, either!" "I didn't think you'd refuse," he said, "but I didn't think I should just presume, either. Thank you." He gave his wife a hug and kiss. "I think I'll take my cup to the lounge and see what the children have up their sleeves this evening." 34

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"Okay. Tea will be ready in about ten minutes." "We'll see that the table is set in time, m'lady." He bowed to her with a grin, picked up his cup of tea, and went out of the kitchen. ! ! ! Emma Winston stood in the porch shaking the rainwater off her umbrella. The downpour had started again shortly after she had set off to walk home from her job as cleaner at the local primary school. Rather than seek shelter she had continued on her way, walking through the heavy rain singing hymns. One didn't often get the chance to sing the Lord's praises out loud in the Protectorate, and Emma was not one to pass up such an opportunity. She left her umbrella and wet shoes in the porch and went inside. There was no one in the front room but she could hear her sister-in-law Rose working in the kitchen. She went through the room to the back hallway and into the bathroom where she hung up her sodden raincoat over the bath. Her shoulder-length brown hair had got wet despite the umbrella, and she towelled it and brushed it out before going to join her Rose in the kitchen. Rose, her long, straw-coloured hair in a plait wound round her head, was sitting slicing vegetables at the big, old, wooden kitchen table. She had bought the table many years ago from a farm which had been razed to make way for a new suburb. The lady who had sold it to her had told her the history of every mark on it, and as she worked on it she often thought about the people who had owned it before her. She had obviously been thinking along those lines then, for as Emma arrived she noticed Rose tracing along one of the scratches with her finger, a faraway look in her eyes. Emma reached into the pantry for her apron. “Hi, Rose,” she said cheerfully, “Was that one the cut from the knife that missed someone’s finger by a hairbreadth?” Rose laughed. "Hello, Emma,” she answered, “No, this one’s the scratch done by the two-year-old who wanted to ‘help Mummy’. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if he got too near his own fingers too!” She transferred a pile of carrot slices to a bowl and started working on a chunk of cabbage. “How was your work today?” she asked Emma. "Same as usual,” Emma replied, “Except that those children must have had another cooking session, so there was quite a mess to clear up in the kitchen area, and crumbs from one end of the school to the other." She grinned at Rose. "It was very satisfying to see it all clean when I finished!" "Did you get caught in the rain?” Rose asked, glancing out of the window, “Oh, of course you did—it's still raining!" Emma put the kettle on the stove and settled down to help her sister-inlaw to prepare dinner. "Yes, I did," she said, "and I got wet, but I had a lovely session of singing in the shower!" She laughed. "Thank you, Lord, for such a blessing."

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When Brent Denson had come to power, Emma had been living in her parents' house, not far from where Rose and her husband Jack, Emma's brother, lived. Her parents, her younger brother Mike, and Jack's twin sister Liz had gone overseas to Europe for a long holiday, visiting scattered relatives they hadn't seen for many years. Emma had stayed home as she was just finishing her nursing course and couldn't get time off. When the government had changed, she had been informed that her parents' house was being requisitioned since the owners were not in the country and would not be allowed back for they had been classified as Rebels. Another family was to live in the house and she was told she would have to leave it and move to a government-appointed flat unless the new family were willing for her to stay and board with them, which was unlikely. Rose had asked Jack if Emma might be able to live with them, and he had made the offer to his sister. Emma had accepted their invitation very happily. Her nephews and niece would have been delighted to know that their Auntie Emma would be living with their family, for they had always enjoyed it when she came to stay with them. It took Emma some time after she moved in to get used to their not being around, even though she remembered the day a few months before when they had been taken away by the Welfare Ministry. For almost ten years now, Jack and Rose’s home had also been Emma’s home. Every day for almost ten years she had been cleaning the local school and Rose had been cleaning at the City Hospital. "How did your day at the hospital go, Rose?" Emma asked. Rose stopped slicing the cabbage and gazed at nothing. "It was quiet, just the usual cleaning, until just after lunch," she answered, "I was down in Casualty today. Just after lunch they brought in a man who must have been in some awful accident—he was a mess, bleeding profusely all over. There was even blood dripping off the trolley. They told me to clean up around him, and so I was able to talk to him." "You mean he was conscious?" Emma was surprised. If he had bleeding that much she would have expected him to be in deep shock. "Oh, yes, amazingly, he was conscious, and so frightened! I suppose he must have been around thirty, it was hard to tell, he was so torn up, even his face. But they just left him there, you know, no one with him in the cubicle but me. They must have decided he was going to die anyway, so put him down as low priority. It was ages before anyone got back to him." Rose paused, then said, soberly, "It was too late to save his life then, his physical life, that is..." Emma’s dark brown eyes widened in astonishment. "Was he a Christian, then?" she asked. "He wasn't when he was brought in, but when he left, I'm sure it was heaven that he went to," Rose said quietly, "And you know, Emma, I know I told him about Jesus and shared the Gospel with him, but I haven't a clue what I actually said. I can remember trying to say some words of comfort to start with, but he obviously realized he was likely to die and he was terrified—you could see it in his eyes—so I asked him if he would like me to 36

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pray for him and he nodded ever so slightly. After that, I don't know what I said. All I can remember is the look on his face and what he said before he lost consciousness. He only said one thing: "Jesus." Then he smiled, yes, he smiled, then he blacked out. He died about five minutes later. I was out of the cubicle by then. A nurse came and shooed me out, but only a few minutes after she arrived she called for an orderly to wheel him out, and the sheet was over his head." "Euthanasia?" Emma asked grimly. Rose had tears in her eyes. "Probably. She had a hypo in her hand when she went in to the cubicle," she said, "It happens all the time in Casualty." "Yeah, I know...” Emma said sadly, then exclaimed bitterly, “When I was doing my nursing training, hospitals were still for saving lives! How long has it been since that was true?" "But praise the Lord, that young man's true life is safe!" Rose reminded her. Emma went around the table to her and gave her a hug. "I'm so glad you were there, Rose!" she said, "Thank God!" Rose looked embarrassed. "Yes, thank God," she said, and got up. "Well... we'd better get on and get tea cooking," she continued, "Jack should be home soon and I expect he'll be hungry after walking all over town." "Where did he go?" "I'm not sure, but he was planning to visit some of our people." The two women continued working and talking as they worked. The food rationing system provided meager supplies for each household, and many people, the Winstons among them, grew vegetables in their tiny back yards or on their balconies to supplement what they were able to buy. Rose and Emma together had worked out many ways of stretching meals, so that even on the rare occasions when Jack brought home an unexpected guest there was enough for everyone, at least for the evening meal. “I was really pleased about the rain today,” Rose said, “It meant the garden got a decent watering for once. It needed it.” “It was wonderful to be able to sing hymns out loud, you know," Emma said softly, "I so often want to sing at the top of my voice..." She trailed off, remembering those days years ago when she used to sing out loud all the time. Mike and Liz would get tired of it and ask her to stop and give them a bit of peace and quiet for a change, while Jack, ten years her senior and very fond of his little sister, would tease them by joining in the singing with her. "Thank God for the rain this evening, then, in more ways than one!" Rose laughed. She, too, could remember the days when singing hymns was not forbidden. Emma smiled. She still felt the need to make more music. "If you don't mind,” she said to Rose, “once tea's cooking I'd like to play a few pieces while we wait for Jack." 37

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"Oh, Emma, you know I love to listen to you playing," Rose exclaimed, “Go now and play something!" Emma didn't need to be cajoled into playing the piano. "All right, then, I will," she replied. Without further ado she washed her hands at the sink and hung her apron up in the pantry, then went into the lounge to sit down at the old upright piano. The Winstons' living and dining room was not large, but it was warmly welcoming. Rose had done the best she could with the little they had to make the once drab and cheerless front room into a haven for residents and visitors alike. The original blue-grey carpet, first installed when the house had been built in the mid-20th century, still covered the floor. Though it was not a pretty colour, it was made of good-quality wool and had survived the wear of the years quite well, even after Rose had scrubbed it in order to get rid of most of the stains on it. The windows were hung with heavy lined curtains for it got quite cold in the winter in Densonia. In the Protectorate, an added benefit of the thick drapes was that they hid well the fellowship meetings that were occasionally held in the Winstons' front room. The Winstons had no lounge suite, and only one armchair. Rose had managed to cover a couple of mattresses with colourful flowered fabric and had made some cushions to match so that they had somewhere reasonably comfortable for visitors to sit. The piano had belonged to Jack and Emma's parents, who had moved it to Jack's house when they had been making renovations to their own home. They hadn't got around to taking it back before the fateful holiday overseas from which they were unable to return. Emma had often thanked God that the piano had been at Jack’s when the government took over her parents’ house and all its furnishings. Playing it was one of her joys in life. She began playing one of Schubert’s Impromptus, but was not even halfway through it when her brother came in the front door. He shut the door more brusquely than was his habit and started to remove his raincoat. Emma stopped playing and turned to look at him. He seemed quite distressed, and she got up and took the raincoat from him. “I'll hang it up for you," she said, "Whatever's the matter, Jack? You seem awfully upset." He pushed his wet hair back from his face with his hand and headed towards the kitchen. "Come over to the kitchen," he replied, "I'll tell you both at the same time." She took his raincoat into the bathroom then went into the kitchen. Jack was sitting on one of the stools at the table and Rose, looking concerned, was pouring him a cup of tea. He was drumming his fingers on the table, as he tended to do when something upset him. He looked from Rose to Emma and back to Rose. His brown eyes were troubled, his round face more serious than usual. Again he combed his hair back with his fingers. When his hair was wet it had an annoying habit of falling down in front of his eyes. "I've got some very disturbing news," he began, speaking slowly, "Chester was taken to the Counselling Institute this morning..." 38

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“Oh, no!” Rose said, her eyes widening in horror. Emma stood by the table, her hands gripping the edge, her face white. "Not Uncle Chester!” she cried, “Why? How?" Jack's fingers continued their drumming and he stared down at them as if wondering how they did it. "Apparently he was caught sharing the Gospel in the City Park with a man who turned out to be a Police Officer," he said sadly. "Oh dear," Rose said, "Do you think it was a trap?" Emma, still whitefaced, sat down abruptly and stared at Rose. "Oh, Rose," she blurted out, "Do you realize the same thing might have happened to you if you'd been caught today?" Jack turned to his wife in surprise. "Why, Rose," he said, "What happened today?" Rose quietly told him about the injured man at the hospital. "Well, praise God you were there," said Jack softly, then added, "That poor man..." "Do you think Uncle Chester was set up, Jack?" Emma asked, returning to Rose’s question. "I expect so, Em," Jack shook his head sadly, "It's the kind of thing they do, and I’m sure Chester's been under scrutiny for some time now." "Oh, we must pray for him, Jack," Rose said anxiously, "Right now!" She turned off the stove and all three sat where they were. Jack led them, and they prayed with tears in their eyes for this beloved Elder of the little group of believers of Densonia. They had some idea of what it meant to be taken to the Counselling Institute. They knew of enough people who had been broken by a stay in that place—and Uncle Chester was over seventy. When they had finished, they set the table for their evening meal together, and the three of them sat down to eat in silence, wondering if they would ever see the old man again. Chester Brown, known as "Uncle Chester" to most of the Christians in Densonia, was like a father to them and to many of the other believers. He was an encourager and a man of wisdom. They felt quite sure he would never turn his back on Jesus Christ, no matter what was done to him, but they also knew that so far, those counsellees who did not give in to the Institute treatment had never been seen again. Unlike the government people who were occasionally arrested for treason, they were never executed publicly. No one seemed to know what happened to them. Emma knew that Uncle Chester, to whom she was especially close, would not have wanted any sadness for his sake. After dinner she decided to go and play his favourite hymns and songs on the piano. As she played the songs one after the other, she was very tempted to sing them as well. She resisted the temptation, for she knew that sometimes Jack’s house was monitored. Anyone found singing religious songs risked being taken to the Counselling Institute. When they had finished clearing up in the kitchen, Rose and Jack joined Emma in the lounge. Jack brought out his Bible and they all sat down around the table for their nightly devotions. Jack read out Psalm 37 to 39

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them, and it seemed a very apt passage as they thought about Uncle Chester's situation. As they talked about it, Emma had a thought. "You know," she observed, "I think it would be a good idea if we had a Scripture verse which we could use in case one or the other of us got 'taken into care'. I mean— if we were able somehow to get a message out or something, we could use the verse as a sort of password. What do you think?" "It sounds like a good idea to me," Rose said. Jack agreed. "Do you have a particular verse in mind?" he asked. "I hadn't thought about it until just now," Emma said, "but I guess I would choose Job, chapter nineteen, verse twenty-five. It's my favourite verse, as you know: 'I know that my Redeemer lives.'" "Yes, that's a good one," Rose agreed. "All right,” Jack said, “Job nineteen, twenty-five it is—but let's hope we never have to put this idea to the test. Let's pray now.” As they did every evening, Jack, Rose, and Emma knelt down by the dining table and prayed quietly together.

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Chapter 5 The next morning, Carl and Andrew arrived at the Counselling Institute at the same time, from opposite directions. "G'day, Carl!" Andrew greeted his friend, "I gather you've got a new counsellee today." "Morning, Andrew. Yes, that's right," Carl said, "Some old bloke who got caught preaching religion to people in the City Park." Together they crossed the carpark towards the main entrance of the Institute. "Well, it looks like I'm assigned to monitor your sessions again, so you'd better take it easy," Andrew warned him. Carl stopped, frowning. "What do you mean?" he asked defensively. Andrew patted him on the shoulder. "Watch your temper, mate," he suggested quietly. Carl scowled but didn't comment, and resumed walking towards the building. Went for a run as usual this morning," he said, changing the subject, "About sunrise. Thought I'd go alongside the lake even though it was still drizzling. Not much of a sunrise, though." "See anything interesting?" "Nothing unusual, if that's what you mean." "I know you'd notice if there were," Andrew said. He stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to the main doorway. "Hey, that reminds me—don't ask me what the connection is—how about coming and having tea with us some evening this week? Denise reminded me that it's been over a week since last time." "I'd really appreciate that. Would tomorrow night be all right?" "I'm sure that'd be fine. Be sure to bring your flute, too. We can play a few things together." "I will, thanks," Carl said, glancing at his watch, "but we'd better get to work now." He was feeling very nervous about the coming counselling sessions, and disconcertingly he was finding Andrew's solicitude annoying. The two of them went into the building and stopped at the front desk. Andrew picked up their ID cards and handed Carl his. He gave his friend a neutral nod and went off towards the Monitoring Centre. Carl took a lift to his floor. As he walked towards his office he wondered how long it would take to make this new counsellee see the light. An old man—it might be quite easy, for the fellow probably wouldn't want to miss out on his retirement. On the other hand, in his experience elderly people could be quite stubborn. He had also heard from fellow Protectioners that this particular elderly man had an unshakeable faith, and this worried him. He placed his hand on the ID panel to open his office door and walked through as it slid open. He still had half an hour before the new counsellee would be brought in. He shut his door, pulled up the blind behind his desk, and sat down on the counter-top beneath the window to contemplate the view of the City Park and the Lake.

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Andrew was right about his temper. How many times over the years had he tried to control it and failed? It seemed that the harder he tried, the harder he failed. These days he was losing his cool at the least little provocation, and so far nothing in Protection teaching or custom offered any lasting help. As he drank in the beauty of the view from his window, Carl wondered again, as he had been doing with ever-increasing frequency, why he found such solace in beauty, especially the beauties of nature. So few people he knew shared this attitude. Most saw it as childish and preferred to indulge in Fantasy Dreams. For Carl, his love of beauty was like something calling out to the very depths of his being. Sometimes he stood on the balcony of his flat of an evening, before curfew, gazing at the night sky and wondering how one answered such an ethereal call. Was it because his job was becoming so ugly to him that the "voice" seemed to be getting louder? It was certainly true that over the last several months he had been finding that his work was getting him down more and more. The teachings of the Protectioners, which he had accepted as his own beliefs years ago, were beginning to lose their hold on him. He was no longer convinced. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that there were too many contradictions in the Protectioners' philosophy. And yet, what else was there? Even if the Protection Party doctrines left him feeling more and more empty, the thought of discarding them was frightening. As far as he knew, there was no alternative to them. This situation resulted in a dilemma for Carl. How does one convince someone else of something one no longer believes in? he asked himself, Yet there is nothing else I can believe in—I have to try again. Perhaps as I work on this old man I'll be able to see clearly again? He realized that he was afraid that he might fail again with this counsellee, not only because it would be another black mark on his record, but especially because it would increase his feelings of despair. He would have to use all the methods available if the man turned out to be obstinate. The thought of this only increased his turmoil for he was also finding that the idea of the "treatment" used on counsellees made him increasingly uncomfortable. During the five years Carl had worked in the Institute, only a complicated process of rationalisation had made it possible for him to accept the what he knew was the torturing of counsellees. Part of the process had been the constant drumming into him over the years of the idea that nonProtectioner beliefs such as Christianity were dangerous not only to the Protectorate but indeed more so to the poor souls who professed them. Thus one had to use all means available to "cure" them of this condition. Had he been required to administer the "treatment" himself, he didn't think he could have done it. He had been able to accept it because it was carried out by the Carers, the prison guards of the Institute, and his presence was not required while they did it. However, his lack of confidence in the philosophy he had once accepted as truth only served to undermine that process of rationalization. He had even gone as far as to wonder whether he 42

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shouldn't find out just exactly how the Carers "treated" the counsellees he sent them. Counsellors were discouraged from doing that, but it wasn't actually forbidden them. Perhaps he should observe this new counsellee's treatment, or at least the recordings of it? He looked at his watch and with sinking heart saw it was almost time for the counselling session. Reluctantly, he pulled down the blind, sat down at his desk, and called up Chester Brown's records on his compufiler. ! ! ! A few months after the founding of the Police Counsellng Institute Emma and Jack had been helping Rose to clear the table after a meal. Emma had taken the opportunity to ask Jack about the new Institute for she had been starting to suspect that its purpose was not quite what the public had been told. "Jack, do you know what happens to people who are taken to the Counselling Institute?" she had asked, "The ones I've seen who've come back from there seem so broken, and most of them claim they're no longer Christians. What do they do to them? What does 'counselling' involve?" "Well," Jack had answered, "It's obvious that what they call 'counselling' is not the same thing I studied when I was training for pastoring. In those days it meant giving someone advice to help them sort out a problem. Of course, in my case we were taught to seek advice in the Bible whenever we counselled anyone. But psychologists, social workers, and lots of other people who didn't believe the Bible did counselling too. The aim was usually to help people with their problems. It could go on for years, what's more." "And the aim now isn't still to help people?" Rose had asked him. "No, Rose, it isn't," Jack had replied slowly, "I think the aim, in the Protectorate, anyway, is to stamp out truth. 'Truth' to the Protectioners means Christianity and anything else—Judaism, for example, and even the few vestiges of Islam left in this country—anything else that goes contrary to the teachings of the Protection. Anything that suggests that there is such a thing as absolute Truth." "But why? Why are they so afraid of Truth?" Emma had asked. Jack had thought about this for a moment. "Why?" he said, "Em, Truth is a light, and it makes those who do wrong or who lie very uncomfortable, because it shows up the wrong they do. It also tends to wake people up. If the people of this country were allowed even a hint that there is something other than the fog and dreams they live in day to day, Brent Denson would soon find himself without a following. They're fed fictions and fantasies day and night so that they no longer have any idea of what is real and what is imagined. They think they're happy, and Denson wants them to continue thinking it. But, as you know, since you're one of them, there are a few people who are opposed to what Denson represents. The Police Counselling Institute is one of the most aggressive forms of the attack on Denson's opposition, and from what I've been able to find out, he also uses it to feed certain of his followers' megalomanic hunger. I suppose they get a kick out 43

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of having power of life and death over the people taken into so-called 'care'. But," he had hastened to add, "I gather that not everyone who works at the Institute is there because of a sadistic bent. For some, it's just their job and they've effectively killed their own consciences. Others are there because they are deathly afraid not to be. They were given a choice which was no choice at all. And one or two are there because that's where God wants them to be at this point in time." "How do you know all this?" Emma had asked. "I'm afraid I can't tell you, Em," Jack had replied, apologetically, "It could put someone else's life in jeopardy if I did. There is such a thing as information that cannot be shared." "Oh," Emma had said softly. She had paused to consider this, and not for the first time she had wondered how large a burden of unshareable information her brother carried. "I'm afraid I can't tell you," was something he said every other day, it had seemed to her. She had long admired Jack for his quiet wisdom, and for the way he willingly shared in the joys and sorrows of his flock. Her esteem for him had embraced Rose as well, for the two of them, so different in personality, were yet so much of one heart and mind in their service to others. She had longed to be as devoted to her Lord as they were. And she had often wished she could be as discreet as they were—it was difficult for her not to speak her mind when challenged. After a moment she had reminded Jack of her original question. "I still don't understand what happens to people there that can cause them to turn from God." "They torture them, Emma...." Jack had spoken as if explaining the obvious to a child. "Hadn't you thought of that possibility?" Emma had put the dishes she had just picked up back on the table and had sat down on one of the chairs. "Yes, Jack, I had, more than once," she had told him, "But I guess I kept hoping it wasn't true. I hoped fervently that it wasn't so." Tears had streamed down her cheeks. "But how can they do that? How can anyone torture another human being?" "My dear little sister," Jack had said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder, "It's only by the grace of God that you and I and Rose don't torture other people. It's part of fallen human nature and anyone could stoop that low given enough incentive—fear, or power-greed, and so on— unless they're restrained by God's mercy. Don't be surprised that it happens—just pray for the people who are involved, both the victims and the torturers. In fact, I'd say the torturers are more in need of pity than the victims—'They know not what they do'." Now Emma recalled that conversation. She had known many of the believers who had already been taken there, but none had been as old as Chester Brown. The elderly man had been taken to the Counselling Institute only the day before! The thought of Uncle Chester being tortured was horrifying. After breakfast she asked Jack if she thought it was likely that Chester would be tortured. 44

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"I expect so," Jack said soberly, "He isn't likely to give in easily, if at all." Rose was very distressed at the idea. "Would Uncle Chester survive that sort of treatment?" she asked, "He's over seventy. He's pretty fit for his age, but he's still old." "We can only pray that the Lord will sustain him through it," Jack replied, "but, you know, we can be thankful as well that patience is definitely not one of the virtues of the Protectioners and that such treatment does not keep going for long—usually a few weeks at most. In former times and other places it could go on for years..." "But what if he doesn't give in, if he stands firm, as he's likely to, what then?" Emma asked anxiously, "What will happen to him?" Jack shook his head sadly. "I don't know, Em," he said softly, "I don't know. "I only know what happens to those who do give in, and my heart aches for them." Rose looked at the clock on the wall and jumped up from her chair. "Emma, we'll be late for work!" she exclaimed, and hurriedly started to clear the table. Emma also sprang up from her chair to help her. "Rose, Em, don't worry about the table," Jack said to them, "I'll do it, you two just get to work. This is not the time to get into trouble with your jobs." Rose gave her husband a hug. "Thank you, Jack," she said, "We'll just get our things and go, then." She gathered together her raincoat and umbrella, gave Emma hers, and the two women hurried out the front door. Emma turned to Jack before she left. "Thanks, Jack, God be with you," she said, and went out, shutting the door behind her. Jack, still sitting at the table, put his head down on his arms and cried out to God for Chester Brown and for whoever would be "counselling" him. ! ! ! Carl counselled Chester Brown for five weeks. At the end of those five weeks he had to admit defeat. He had never had to cope with someone who clung so obstinately to his beliefs, or who endured so patiently the treatment meted out by the Carers. Carl had lost his temper himself, violently, so many times he had lost count. He was exhausted, and his nights were plagued by recurring nightmares. Yet the old man was always serene, his grey eyes gazing at him with such a sad expression that finally Carl couldn't bear to look at him. In the end he had handed him over to Lieutenant Parker to take to the Experimental Farm. He knew this would incur the wrath of Chief Lancaster, but there was no alternative. He made himself review all the recordings of his sessions with Chester Brown, not only the required once, but three times. He'd tried everything from just straight discussion to detailed threats of the Farm, through humiliation, beatings, and worse. As the days and then the weeks had gone by, his frustration and fear of failure had become unbearable, to the 45

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point that even playing his flute did not console him. Chester Brown had an exasperating habit of quoting from the Christians' book, the Bible, in answer to almost everything Carl said, and this had caused Carl to fly into a rage each time. Chester's words had struck a chord in his heart, something that he would rather not acknowledge, to which, in fact, he was afraid to admit. Andrew had monitored Brown's counselling sessions, and he had watched with concern the growing battle going on in his friend. He worried more than ever that Carl might be headed for a breakdown, and he tried to help him by being available as a sounding board and by making sure that Carl spent most of his evenings with him and his family. In the end he had even approached Chief Lancaster with the suggestion that Counsellor Slade be given a couple of weeks off work to recover from the sessions with Brown. Lancaster, fuming about Counsellors who sent their counsellees to the Experimental Farm, had reluctantly agreed to Parker's request, for he had other things on his mind at the time. Carl spent the two weeks taking long walks by the Lake, sleeping every afternoon, and playing his flute for hours on end, finishing each day with dinner at the Parkers' home. He felt incredibly sad, as if he were mourning for the old man. Chester Brown might have driven him to distraction with his obstinate faith, but Carl's admiration for him had increased, not decreased, over the five weeks of dealing with him, and sending him to the Experimental Farm had been a move of desperation. As he walked in the Park he thought about some of the things Brown had said, and he compared them to the philosophies he himself had lived by most of his life. Although to him Brown's beliefs didn't make sense, it occurred to him that if by some incredible chance it turned out Brown was right—a suggestion that kept springing up in his mind uninvited—then his career, both in the Welfare Ministry and in the Institute, had been worse than just a waste of time and of a great part of his life. It would essentially imply, he felt, that his whole life had been an absurdity, completely meaningless. Such a thought was unendurable and he pushed it away every time. He also wondered why, if Christianity was a form of mental illness, were government people executed practically on the spot if they converted? Surely they should be put through the counselling at the Institute in the same way as other people? Perhaps it had been found that this didn't work? Then why weren't they just given an injection to put them out of their misery as was done with other incurables? Why public execution? That was how criminals and traitors were treated. It puzzled him, but he didn't dwell on it at length. He had been trained not to question the government. Asking questions is dangerous, he reminded himself. He kept his thoughts on this to himself, not even sharing them with Andrew. A careless slip of the tongue could mean being "taken into care". Towards the end of his leave, Carl was asked by Myra Lancaster if he could get his trio together to play at a gathering she was hosting. Carl agreed to it, thinking it would do him good to get back into playing music 46

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together with Andrew and Matt. It seemed like years since the time when they had last met together, before Brown's counselling. Matt Lewis was one of the other four Head Counsellors and although in every other way he seemed to be a model "Straight Thinker" with a "Straight" lifestyle, he had one oddity—he played the violin. For the last three years he had joined with Carl and Andrew in playing as a trio. Since musicians who played classical instruments were a rarity in the Protectorate, Carl's trio had had quite a few opportunities to play for high-level Protection officials, the only ones who would dare have such live music played at their social events. Matt and Andrew were agreeable to playing for the Lancasters' party, so the three of them got together in Carl's flat several times to practice beforehand. Both Carl himself and Andrew had hoped it would cheer Carl up. If anything, it made him more melancholy than ever, for Matt's conversation made the growing gap between Carl's thoughts and the Protectioners' line even more obvious to himself. He found himself losing his temper at every wrong note played during their practice sessions. Will I ever be able to sort myself out? he silently asked the night sky when his fellow musicians had gone home after a particularly stormy practice session. The stars blinked at him but didn't answer his question, and he stood on his balcony contemplating them, his unanswered questions dancing fearfully in his mind.

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Chapter 6 Jack Winston stood at one end of the room and gazed around at the people gathered there. About thirty of them had come together in the small living room of the Mercers' home that night. There had been no announcement about the meeting, the time, or the venue, yet all of them had known about it. A few at a time, they had made their way to Ted and Anne's house as the day drew to its end. By eight o'clock they had all arrived. Jack marvelled at the mysterious ways of his God. Even though this kind of thing and even more wonderful things had been happening more and more often over the years since the Protection's power against the believers had begun to be felt, he still felt a thrill of joy each time it happened. How could one ever get enough of the loving care of the Lord God Almighty for His children? The men and women gathered in the room had come together for a time of worshipping God and praying together, yet from outside the house there was not a hint of their presence within. According to the laws of the Protectorate the meeting was illegal, and they could not afford to show any sign that it was going on. The heavy drapes at the windows were closed tightly but even so the only light in the room was provided by a small lamp with a low-powered globe which sat around the corner on the hall table. Ted and Anne had left on the light in their own bedroom, as if it were occupied. The door to the kitchen was shut, lest any stray sound reach out through the back door. Any talking was whispered, and right now the group was "singing" a hymn in whispers. Already they had prayed quietly and at length, in the name of Jesus Christ, for their country, their families, their brothers and sisters who had been "taken into care" by the Protection. Jack was the pastor of this secret church. He was in his mid-forties, a quiet, gentle man with receding dark brown hair, of medium height and medium build, slightly overweight—the sort of man one doesn't notice in a crowd. His deep brown eyes, already surrounded by dozens of smilewrinkles, gazed with a quizzical kindness at all who had anything to do with him, whether friend or foe. When he wasn't actually beaming or laughing, he wore a perpetual half-smile which made anyone who met him feel that life must be very pleasant for him and that was why he was full of goodwill towards everyone. Jack and his wife, Rose, and his sister, Emma, were treasured by the believers in Densonia. Their love for Jesus Christ was evident in the countless ways in which they served and encouraged the believers and in Jack's perseverance in pastoring the church despite the constant threat of arrest. Like most of the parents in that part of the community known as Rebels—a name imposed by the government and which included Christians and Jews—Jack and Rose had seen their children taken away by the Welfare Ministry to be schooled in the ways of the Protectioners. They had no idea where they were. Every day they and their congregation prayed fervently 48

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that none of their children would lose the love for God that had been instilled in them from when they were tiny. The Winstons had put into their little flock all the energy they would have spent on bringing up their children. Although they never forgot their children, they trusted them to God, and decided that these, their spiritual children, were now their responsibility in the way their physical children would have been. Nonetheless, there were times when Rose found the pain of separation from her three offspring very hard to bear, as on their birthdays, or when she remembered particular traits, or came across one of their toys or clothes which somehow had not been packed away. At those times Jack would just hold his slightly-built wife tightly in his arms and let her weep her grief out, his own tears dropping onto her blond head, as he asked the Lord to comfort them and to give them strength to keep going. Almost from the day the Republic had been declared, it had been a long, hard road, and it wasn't getting any easier. It was very difficult to keep the Protection teachings out of the minds and hearts of the believers, for they pervaded every aspect of life in the Republic. If the Christians had only made a regular discipline of praying and of reading and memorizing the Scriptures, they would have been alert to the lies being spread by the relativists. Jack did all he could to warn them, in his sermons, in his talks, and through the Bible studies he and the elders led. Other pastors throughout the Republic who were faithful to the Word had found that they were up against the same challenge. But life had become too easy, thinking ahead too bothersome. Television, then CD-vision, Fantasy Dreamers, spectator sports, and other entertainment featured prominently in the daily lives of their congregations, and blunted their minds to the danger. They lived from one source of pleasure to the next. Few of them read much of anything other than popular magazines, let alone the Bible. Their children were being fed the Protection philosophies in school and the parents had no way of countering the lies, for they themselves were increasingly living in a fog of fantasy, dissipated living, and lies. Jack, Rose, and Emma spent hours every week, by themselves or with other pastors and elders and their wives, praying for their people. With heavy hearts they saw their flocks shrink as this or that member left for the pleasures of the world. But those who remained grew stronger in their faith as the persecutions increased. When the Protectorate had been established, church properties had been taken over by the State and Christians and Jews had come to be referred to as "Crooked Thinkers" and almost considered mentally ill. Along with other non-conformists they had been declared Rebels and accused of being involved in subversion. Some of them had been "taken into care" by the State, to be "counselled" into "Straight Thinking", first at the Ministry of Welfare, then, five years later, at the Counselling Institute. The true believers had not been daunted, and they became very adept at making the most of every opportunity to pray, to meet together for fellowship, and to read the Scriptures. The Bible had become even more precious to them since they now had access only to those copies they 49

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already owned. Those who had been only nominally Christian fell away very quickly, some of them even turning against those whom just a few days before they had been calling "Brother" and "Sister." Many of them, believing they were doing the right thing to protect society, became eager members of the Neighbour Watchers. Most were unaware that the role of the Enwuh had taken on a more sinister meaning. Life for the believers became very much a matter of looking to God for wisdom at all times. Priorities became rather clear for them. For those believers with school-age children, the coming of the Protection had been harrowing. Their beloved sons and daughters were taken away from them and they had no way of finding out where they were. As it had for Jack and Rose, separation had come when the Welfare Ministry had decided that these "fanatical" parents were having a detrimental effect on the development of their offspring. Welfare Officers were sent out regularly to take these children considered "at risk" away from their parents. One could get one's children back, of course—it was a "simple" matter of denying God and embracing the Protection. For a handful of Jack's flock, the pain had been too hard to bear, and in order to see their children again they had publicly proclaimed that henceforth they would serve the Protectorate, not Christ. ! ! ! A sudden crash interrupted the whispered hymn as the front door was battered down to let in a mob of Police Officers wielding stunners and nightsticks. The interruption was only momentary, however, for the believers started singing out loud even as the officers methodically lashed out at them. As soon as the Police had entered, the worshippers on the far side of the room had opened the door leading to the kitchen and the back door, and had started escaping. Two of the men near Jack and Rose grabbed the couple and pushed them out of the room, through the kitchen, and out of the house. Emma saw them leave but couldn't follow as she was supporting one of the other women who had fainted next to her when the police had come in. "Jack!" she yelled, "Remember Job! The verse from Job! Jack! Rose! Don't forget!" She had no idea whether they had heard her over the general tumult, but she hoped they would remember the signal to which they had agreed in case anything should go wrong. Somehow Emma had known that tonight "something would go wrong" and here it was... The room had rapidly emptied of most of the people, until only six of the believers were left, three men and three women—one of the elders and his wife, a middle aged man who had been hampered by a sprained ankle and one of the younger men in the church who had been trying to help him escape, and Emma and her companion who had now revived. The officers prodded them with their stunners and herded them out to a van parked in front of the house. On the side of the van were stencilled in dark green the 50

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words Police Counselling Institute and the logo of the Institute, a "helping hand" reaching down towards another hand stretched upwards as if seeking help. They were pushed into the van and the doors slammed shut behind them. A wave of fear washed over them, and the elder's wife was quietly sobbing on her husband's shoulder, but the younger man quietly started to sing a chorus of praise. The rest of them, taking the cue, joined in as the van sped through the deserted city streets. They sang it a few times, then another one, and then the elder, his arm around his wife, prayed aloud for them all. The van stopped, having reached its destination, as he got to the end of his prayer. He gave his wife a hug and kissed her, and whispered something to her. The others smiled their thanks to him, and he smiled back encouragingly, as the doors opened and they were ordered out of the van. The officers roughly separated the elder and his wife, and the women and the men were led away in opposite directions. Emma would never see those three men again. ! ! ! In the richly appointed reception room of the Lancaster mansion on the southern shore of the Lake, a chamber ensemble finished playing the last few notes of a Bach trio. A ripple of applause swept around the room. The musicians stood up and bowed to their audience. Ross Lancaster, their host, full of the assurance of his importance, got up from his seat in the front row and went up onto the musicians' low dais. "Well, well!" he boomed jovially, and clapped Counsellor Matt Lewis on the shoulder, almost making him drop his violin. He turned and glanced at the other two musicians. "Thank you very much, Gentlemen, for a very pleasant ending to the day. We have enjoyed your talented playing very much, as always." "It's a pleasure to play for such an appreciative audience, Sir," Lewis replied, bowing again, this time to Lancaster. The Chief of the Police Counselling Institute acknowledged him with a nod, then beckoned him forwards. Lewis went to stand by the man, who put a hand on his shoulder and turned to his guests. "My dear friends," he announced, "May I present to you one of my most successful Counsellors, Matthew Lewis. Not one of his counsellees has failed to be cured of their dangerous attitudes. He is an asset to our Institute." The men and women in the room applauded and Lewis bowed yet again, a self-satisfied smile on his face. He turned and glanced at his companions, expecting to receive their adulation as well, and was surprised to find that they were not even looking at him. Carl, still acutely conscious of his failure with Chester Brown, felt humiliated, and he busied himself with cleaning his flute so he wouldn't have to look at Matt. Andrew, frowning as if deep in thought, was putting his cello away very carefully, as if the instrument had suddenly become more fragile than usual.

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Lancaster did not notice the little scene behind his back. He now suggested to his guests that they might like to avail themselves of the refreshments prepared for them at the back of the room, and went off to try and impress some of them with his conversation. Carl watched the audience get up and disperse as he folded up his music stand. Some intimate gathering, this! he thought. There had to be at least a hundred people in the room, most of them important government officials, military officers and academics, Police Chiefs. When Myra Lancaster had asked him if he and his friends would play for an "intimate gathering of friends" he had imagined there would be about ten guests at most, as would be the case with parties in the homes of other officials. It had been a shock to his weary system to see such a crowd gathered for their little concert. Still, I did enjoy playing the music, he told himself, the rest shouldn't matter, even that vexing commendation of Matt by the Chief. He felt unconvinced by his own rebuke. Andrew finished packing up his cello and music, and looked up at his fellow-musicians. "Well, Carl, Matt, what do we play next time?" he asked lightly, "We're running out of new pieces for our repertoire, you know. We're going to have to start repeating our previous concerts." "You'll just have to compose something, Andrew!" Matt joked. "I'll try, but only if you promise me you'll play it!" Andrew retorted, grinning. "As far as I can tell we've exhausted what's available on the public network," Carl said, "We'll have to try one of the private ones." "Maybe the Chief has some." Matt said as he folded up his music stand. He pointed towards Lancaster with his chin. "The Chief being rather fond of music, he ought to have some sources, don't you think?" At that point a loud voice interrupted their exchange. "Oh, Carl, that was simply wonderful!" A short, pretty woman with very short black hair, dressed in a long, flowing purple gown, had approached them. "You do play the flute so wonderfully!" she gushed. Carl went pale, but did not turn around. He closed his flute case abruptly and began to gather up his music books into his briefcase. "Carer Janssen, Counsellor Slade is not deaf, you know," Andrew scolded the woman, "Would you mind lowering your voice?" Janssen looked at Andrew disdainfully, as if he were something dirty. "Mind your own business, Blackie!" she sneered. Andrew felt very ungentlemanly towards her, but he held his tongue. She turned her attention back to the flautist, grabbing him by his arm and forcing him to turn around to face her. Won't this woman ever leave me alone? Carl grumbled to himself, Surely after all these years she must have got the message... "Oh, Carl," she said invitingly, "I would just love it if you would come and play at my place some—" "Excuse me, Carer Janssen," Carl interrupted angrily, his eyes flashing now, "I'm not interested in going to your home at any time, or in playing 52

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the flute for you, and right now, I'd like to try some of Mrs. Lancaster's fruit punch before it's all gone. Good evening." He shook her hand off his arm and walked off hurriedly towards the refreshments table, leaving Janssen staring open-mouthed after him and Matt and Andrew doing their best not to laugh. The woman's face creased into a dark scowl, and she walked off towards Ross Lancaster. Andrew and Matt joined their friend by the bowl of punch. "That took care of the Carer!" chuckled Andrew, clapping Carl on the shoulder, "Has the Counsellor recovered from the attack?" "I don't find it at all amusing, Andrew!" Carl snapped. "Wow, sorry, didn't mean to add to it," Andrew murmured, throwing a glance at Matt, who shrugged. "How's the punch?" he said, changing the subject. "As usual. Go easy on it, you have to get home in one piece," Carl answered, handing him a glass of it. "I wouldn't mind drowning in it, myself," he added bitterly. Carl's evening had been thoroughly spoiled, first by the Chief's action and now by the episode with Janssen, and he grimaced at Andrew. "There's no rush for that music, you know," he said gloomily, "I'll get around to asking Lancaster sometime. Or maybe Matt should, he seems to be in the Chief's good books these days." "Speaking of the Chief," Matt muttered over the rim of his glass, "Here he comes now." Lancaster came over to where they stood and took hold of Carl's arm. With great difficulty, Carl resisted the urge to shrug him off. "Counsellor Slade, I must have a word with you," the Chief said, "Would you mind coming over to my study for a minute." It was an order, not an invitation. The Chief didn't sound quiet as affable as he had when he'd thanked them for their music. "Yes, Sir, of course." Carl put his glass down on the table and glanced at his companions uneasily. "I'll see you fellows after," he said, and followed his boss to the study which opened off the reception room. Matt and Andrew watched as Carl moved away. "Is it my imagination, or is Carl's temper worse than ever, Andrew ?" Matt asked, "He seems to be reacting, even over-reacting, so much of the time these days." "Yeah, he certainly does," agreed Andrew, "Just look at the way he lost his cool whenever we played a wrong note during practice, for example." "Well, I must admit,” Matt said, “he's never been one of those people you can easily explain. Still, it seems to me that something's not quite right at the moment." "Perhaps he's getting too involved with his cases?" Andrew suggested, "You know, not being detached enough, thinking about them outside working hours, that sort of thing?" He wanted to protect his friend and felt uncomfortable discussing him with Matt. "Or maybe Carer Janssen has been running after him too much?" Matt chuckled again at the thought.

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"I somehow don't think she's quite the kind of lady Carl would be interested in, Matt," Andrew said defensively. "Is Carl interested in any kind of lady?" Matt exclaimed, "I can't recall ever seeing him with a woman other than at work! That's one of the things that keep puzzling me about him: he has no interest in either the ladies or the lads, as far as I can see. And no way can you talk to him about it, he just flies off the handle! He's forty, never been married, lives by himself, hardly ever has visitors, eats all his meals at the Institute... Maybe he's afraid of something? Ha! Who knows what he's hiding in his past... One wonders how he ever made it to Counsellor!" "Did you know that he grew up in a children's home?" Andrew asked quietly, "One of those experimental ones that were so popular in the late nineties. Must have had his temper back then, too. I gather he often got into trouble. Maybe they taught him a thing or two..." "Ha! Repressed him, more like!" Matt said, and drained his glass. "All except his temper!" he added after a moment. "Well, he's a pretty good friend, despite his oddities, Matt," Andrew said, "and he's a good flautist, too! Each to his own. You know, selfexpression and all that..." Andrew couldn't see any point in continuing this analysis of Carl. "Hey, let's have some of those edibles before they get all eaten up!" he said as he picked up a plate of snacks and offered it to Matt. ! ! ! Lancaster held the study door open for Carl to enter and then closed it behind him. "Take a seat, Counsellor." Again it was an order. Lancaster sounded annoyed. Carl sat down on one of the velvet chairs facing Lancaster's enormous carved mahogany desk and glanced around the room. It had not changed much since his last summons there two years before. The walnut-panelled wall behind the desk still held the same huge portraits of Brent Denson and of Lancaster himself, the windows to the left were still hidden behind heavy wine-coloured velvet curtains, the same carved mahogany cupboard which occupied the entire wall to the right hid whatever Lancaster put in it behind ornate locked doors. Three standard lamps sheltered their flurolite tubes under wine-coloured silk shades, and a smaller, similarly dressed table lamp illuminated the desk top. Lancaster's compufiler was sequestered in a built-in enclosure behind his desk. In the corner between the desk and the window a deep, velvet-covered armchair rested invitingly. Like everything in the Chief's house, the furnishings of his study spoke of a plush, luxurious lifestyle. Carl had never felt comfortable with the seeming contradiction between the Chief's lavish standard of living and his constant preaching of Protection dogma, which imposed "simple living" on the inhabitants of the Protectorate. Even in choosing the furnishings of the Counsellors' flats Lancaster had strictly followed his interpretation of the Protection's directives, and imposed "simplicity". But not in his own home. 54

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The Chief sat down in his velvet-covered swivel chair behind the massive desk. He picked up a pen and toyed with it as he considered his subordinate in what Carl felt was an ominous manner. "Well, Counsellor," he said, in a tone as if he were addressing a schoolboy, "I expect that you're aware that we've picked up a new lot of counsellees tonight." "Yes, I did see that a raid was planned and that I'm scheduled to start a new course of counselling tomorrow morning," Carl answered cautiously. He was on the defensive, and he didn't like the Chief's tone of voice. "Slade, until now your record as a Counsellor, and before that, as a Welfare Officer, was impeccable. However, over the last year you have had more than one failure, and as you know, I wasn't very happy with your last case, that old man, I forget his name..." "Chester Brown, Sir." Carl usually made a point of forgetting his counsellees' names once he had finished with them, but that old man he simply could not forget. Nor could he forget that he'd failed to get him to change. Nor, apparently, could Ross Lancaster. "Yes, well, his name doesn't matter, really." Lancaster dismissed Brown with a flick of the pen, as one might brush away an annoying fly. "The fact is you failed with him and he ended up at the Farm." The Chief did not like sending counsellees to the Experimental Farm—it gave the Institute a bad name. Of course the Farm needed subjects for all those experiments, but he'd rather they got them elsewhere. He wanted his Institute's statistics to look good. A counsellee sent to the Farm was a negative mark on the list of the Institute's achievements. "Chief," Carl exclaimed, "I tried everything with that bloke. He was the most stubborn person I've ever come across! He clung to all that nonsense no matter what. Even the threat of the Farm didn't budge him!" He wondered what this interview was leading up to. He'd already gone over Brown's case with Lancaster and he didn't relish the idea of going over it again. "I assume that you've reviewed the CDs of all the sessions?" Lancaster asked, tapping his pen on his chin. "Yes, Sir, several times!" He knows that already, Carl thought, Why's he asking again? Lancaster sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and continued to toy with the pen, now tapping it on the desktop, now twirling it between his fingers. He was taking his time and it was getting on Carl's nerves. The Chief suddenly straightened up, put the pen down and looked at him grimly. "Counsellor, tomorrow I'm assigning one of the women to you for counselling," he snapped, "Emma Winston, Jack Winston's sister. You know who Jack Winston is, don't you? One of the Rebel leaders." Carl nodded. He couldn't speak. His heart sank as he heard he was being assigned a female counsellee. Quite apart from his own problems in relating to women, he knew that to be assigned a counsellee of the opposite sex was a demotion in the Institute.

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"It should be no trouble at all," Lancaster continued, "to get a silly spinster like her to come to her senses, don't you agree?" He actually leered as he said it. Carl knew what he was thinking, and he felt sick, because he knew that Lancaster was aware of his difficulties with regards to women. He had never liked the Chief, and tonight's experience was not improving his opinion of the man. "I should think it will be no trouble at all," he said somewhat defiantly. But I'll use my own approach, if you don't mind, he added to himself. Lancaster got up and walked to the door. "Tomorrow, then, Counsellor," he said, and his tone was still vaguely menacing, "And I suggest that you go home and get a good night's rest now. Good night, Counsellor." Was it Carl's imagination, or had he heard Lancaster emphasize the word 'now'? In any case, he got the message—he was no longer welcome at this party. "Good night, Sir," he said, and went back into the reception room. Andrew caught sight of him as he went to collect his flute and music, and came over to him. "What, are you leaving already?" he asked. "Yes, big day at work tomorrow, you know," Carl answered sarcastically, "I have to get some rest. I've been told!" "Ah! Right you are, Carl." Andrew was familiar with being told. He too had had his encounters with the Chief. "See you tomorrow, Carl," he said quietly, "Be careful." "I will be, don't you worry, mate," Carl muttered, "but I'm not sure that it'll guarantee my safety. I've been assigned a female counsellee." "Oh, I'm sorry," Andrew said, realizing that Lancaster had effectively told Carl he was being demoted and what a blow that must be to his friend, "Do you have any idea who it is?" "Jack Winston's sister, Emma Winston." Andrew frowned at the name, but didn't comment. He patted Carl on the shoulder. "Better do as you're told, mate," he warned, "before you get any further into trouble." "Yeah, thanks," Carl grimaced, "See you tomorrow, Andrew." Actually, he wasn't completely unhappy about having to leave. He enjoyed playing the music at such gatherings, but although he could hold his own in the small talk that went on afterwards, he never took pleasure in it and so didn't really mind not being involved. This time, Lancaster's censure had added to his gloom. Perhaps an early night wasn't such a bad idea after all. ! ! ! That night Carl dreamt that he was running down the hospital corridors, calling out, searching for something, but he couldn't remember what it was he was looking for. The tiled hallways seemed endless and echoed his cries over and over so that it sounded like they were laughing maliciously at him. 56

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He woke up feeling panicky. He hadn't had that particular dream for a long time, and it brought back painful memories of fear and rejection. Rejection... He not only felt humiliated at being assigned a female counsellee, he was horrified at the prospect of having to counsel a woman. On top of that was his fear of renewed failure, and his increasing doubts about all he'd believed in only increased his panic. He dreaded the weeks ahead.

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SECOND MOVEMENT: AGITATO "Love your enemies. Do good to people who hate you. Bless people who curse you. Pray for people who treat you badly." LUKE 6:27, 28 "God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform;" WILLIAM COWPER, 'Light Shining Out of Darkness'

Chapter 7

It appeared that they were in an underground carpark, and Emma assumed they were at the Police Counselling Institute. She had heard their captors talking about "counsellees", and decided that they must have been referring to their prisoners. The three women were led to one of several steel doors at one end of the carpark. One of the officers pressed his palm to the ID panel next to the door and it slid open. "Get in, you lot," he growled, and prodded the women forward, and they entered the cubicle which the opening of the door had revealed. The door slid shut behind them, the officers remaining outside. There was barely enough room for the three women to move inside the tiny space between the door through which they had entered and another steel door, which remained shut, in front of them. A female voice spoke harshly from a speaker in the ceiling. "Remove all your clothing and put on the Institute uniforms," the voice ordered. The women looked at each other, embarrassed and frightened at the same time. They looked around them for the uniforms that had been referred to, and saw some dark blue tracksuits hanging on hooks on the wall, and blue sneakers on the floor beneath them. "One size fits all, I guess," muttered the woman who had fainted earlier. "We'd better do as she says," Emma suggested. They hurriedly undressed and put on the loose-fitting outfits, dropping their own clothing on the floor. What were they supposed to do with it? they wondered. "Pick up your clothes," the voice from the speaker said, as if answering the unspoken question. The second steel door slid open. The voice spoke again, only this time it was not coming from the speaker above their heads, but from the doorway. "Come out and place your clothing in the barrel." The door opened into a long, white-tiled passageway, harshly lit by flurolite lamps. There was a large metal receptacle just outside the door, into which they obediently dropped their bundles as they walked out of the little room. In front of them stood three women in yellow uniforms of jacket 58

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and slacks and wearing dark glasses—the Carers who were in charge of them. Each one carried a stunner. "Walk in front of the Carers," one of the guards barked. They recognized the voice they'd heard over the speaker. The guards motioned to their prisoners to walk ahead down the passageway. Emma squeezed her companions' hands to encourage them. "Remember Joshua 1:9," she whispered to them. "Keep your hands to yourself and shut up!" commanded one of their escorts. They turned down another hallway which sloped downwards. One of the Carers stopped and called out the name of the woman who had fainted, who turned around. The Carer pointed to a door on their left which she had just opened, and motioned for the woman to go in, which she did. The Carer touched the ID panel on the wall, and the door slid shut. "Look straight ahead and keep moving!" ordered the guard. They continued down the passageway and the second counsellee was locked into her cell—for the rooms behind the doors were just small cubicles. That was the last time Emma ever saw the two women who had been arrested with her. As each prisoner had been locked up, the Carer in charge of her had turned around and gone back the way they had come. Now only Emma and her guard, a short woman with black hair, were left. The Carer's dark glasses, protecting her eyes from the constant glare of the flurolite lamps, made it impossible to know what she really looked like, or what her attitude to her prisoner might be. Emma wondered what she was like outside working hours. Would her voice be as harsh as it was now? Did she have a family? It was rumoured that the Counsellors, both male and female, were not married—apparently one of President Denson's whims— but many of the Carers and Police Officers did have families. Emma found it hard to imagine this woman cradling a baby. The Carer's voice cut across her thoughts. "Stop your dreaming and do as I said!" the woman shouted, and used her stunner to emphasize what had apparently been an order to turn left. They now went into a passageway that sloped upwards. There seems to be quite a maze of corridors under the Institute! Emma thought to herself. The Carer made her stop in front of door number 143, pressed the ID panel, pushed her in when the door slid open, and then slid the door shut. The tiny room, like the passageways, was completely tiled in white except for a sprinkling of tiles bearing the green Institute logo of the "helping hand". The cell was lit by a flurolite lamp recessed in the ceiling behind a locked screen. The ceiling also bore a speaker and what Emma assumed was a video lens. Opposite the door, in one corner of the cell, was a covered bucket, and in the corner facing it, an open bucket of water with a metal cup chained to it. A straw mat lay rolled up along the wall, between the two buckets.

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She turned around and looked at the door. It was another steel door, but it had what looked like a sliding panel a third of the way down it. For passing things through without opening the door? she wondered, or for checking on one? Perhaps both? I wonder if the light stays on all the time? she thought to herself, it could be difficult to sleep if it does. She thought it must be around midnight, she'd better try to get some sleep. What would morning bring? She knew that despite the image of caring and helping that was promulgated about the Institute it was really just a prison. I'll find out all too soon, she decided, I'd better not worry about it, but rather I should pray for the Lord to have His way. She was distressed to find that little hints of doubt began to spring up in her mind about the fact that she was here—had God abandoned her? Why was He letting this happen? Is this what was meant by God's loving care? Was this how God treated those who submitted to Him? What had she done to deserve this? The doubts were like a swarm of bees buzzing in her head, and she felt herself on the edge of panic. She suddenly remembered Uncle Chester and how he'd disappeared into the Institute and never come out. What had happened to him? Would the same thing happen to her? She told herself that she should not be worrying about it, it only made the situation worse. But, oh God, only You can calm my fears, she cried in her heart, "You will keep him—her!—in perfect peace whose mind is on You, because his—her—trust is in You." Who else can I trust but You, Lord, in this place? Dear Lord, You know Yourself what it's like, after all. You are with me, I know, because You've promised me You would be. I'll trust you, Lord, because I know You're faithful. The doubts fled and she knew God that was indeed with her. She unrolled the mat on the floor and knelt on it. She turned all her thoughts to God and prayed, praising and thanking Him for being with her. She asked for courage and wisdom, and that she might stand firm no matter what. She prayed for her brother and his wife, for her fellowprisoners. And then somehow Matthew 5:44 came to her mind, like a gentle tap on the shoulder—"Love your enemies and pray for those people who persecute you."—and she prayed for whoever was going to be "counselling" her, and for her guard. Then, her heart at peace, she lay down on the mat and tried to sleep. At first sleep eluded her, and she wondered again if she would be able to sleep in that brightly-lit cell, until she remembered Jack's advice on insomnia. "Think of all the Scriptures you've learned by heart, and review them in your mind," he'd said, "There is nothing better last thing at night than to fall asleep with God's Word going through your mind." She started with Job 19:25, of course, then reviewed verses learned recently, then less recently, until she fell asleep thinking about John 16:33, "Be encouraged [Jesus said]! I have overcome the world." ! ! !

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The sound of the steel door sliding open woke Emma up, and she opened her eyes to see a pair of yellow shoes in front of her face. They were on the feet of her Carer, who stood by her mat. Cecilia Janssen glowered down at her, and prodded her with the stunner. "Get up," Janssen barked, "Prepare for your counselling session. Now." We'll use this one to finally trap that man, she thought, this will be the end of his career for sure, maybe even of his life. Very thoughtful of Ross to take my advice and assign a female counsellee to Slade, especially this one. This one will never budge, just like that old fellow. Slade will pay to the end for his refusal of me, for his rudeness. It pays to have Ross Lancaster on side. Carer Janssen felt smug. It had taken some seven years, but her desire for revenge was reaching its goal. She'd had the satisfaction of watching Carl Slade's ever-increasing distress over that time, and she thought it was all her own manipulations that had achieved it. Emma got up slowly and stretched, keeping her eyes on the guard and trying to stay just out of reach. She was determined to avoid the stunner as far as possible. "I'll come to fetch you in two minutes, you'd better be ready!" the Carer said loudly, and went out, sliding the door close behind her. Emma realized that the covered bucket was meant to be used as a toilet. She sighed, and went to use it, aware that her every move was probably being watched by someone via the "eye" in the ceiling. As she replaced the lid on the bucket, she wondered how they expected her to wash. Oh, well, there isn't time for that now, anyway. She went to the water bucket and dipped the cup into it. She drank the water, and it made her aware that she was quite hungry. As she dipped the cup a second time, it occurred to her that the Carer had not mentioned breakfast. Oh, Lord, please keep my mind off food if it's going to be like that, please, she prayed. The door slid open again and Carer Janssen motioned to her impatiently. "Come on, it's time for your session," she barked, "Walk ahead of me, that way!" She pointed down the passage. Emma did as she was told. At each turn the Carer prodded her with the stunner to indicate a right or left turn. They came to a lift and the guard used the ID panel on the lift door to open it. They got in, and the lift rose several levels, then stopped, and the door opened. They got out into a wood-panelled and carpeted hallway discreetly lit by concealed flurolite lamps. The difference between this and the subterranean corridors made Emma gasp. "Quiet!" Janssen ordered, then made her turn right. This time they didn't go very far. They stopped in front of a polishedwood door and the guard pressed a signal cube to let the occupant behind the door know of their arrival. The door slid open to reveal a sizeable room with a white tile floor, furnished as an office and also illuminated by concealed lighting. Immediately in front of them was a large oakwood desk with a compufiler on the left end of it, which was against the wall. In front of the desk were two straight-backed metal chairs, and behind it stood a swivel armchair 61

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upholstered in dark green wool. Behind the desk there appeared to be a window running the length of the wall, but it was covered by a heavy grey blind. Along the wall under the window ran a low counter-top cupboard with sliding wooden doors. The oak-panelled wall to the right held a lone framed print of a rose. On the left side, the wall as far as the desk was covered by what appeared to be two built-in cupboards with wooden sliding doors. Emma wondered if all this wood was the real thing, for she was familiar with the Protection Party's strong words about conservation. It certainly looks like real wood, she thought, how odd. A tall man wearing the dark green uniform of a Police Counsellor was standing leaning back against the upright between the two cupboards, his arms crossed, and as they walked into the room he kept his eyes on Emma, not even glancing at the Carer. Emma felt as if he were inspecting her, but she decided she couldn't let it bother her. She gazed at him with interest as she remembered what Jack had told her about the Counselling Institute. So this was a Counsellor. She wasn't close enough to be able to read the name on his badge. Never mind. He was well above average in height—something more than a metre eighty. Like Uncle Chester, Emma thought. He had slightly wavy, light brown hair which was a bit too long and worn in a swept-back style which was not common among government people, who tended to favour crewcuts like their president. His somewhat oblong face, Emma felt, looked like it could use a bit of sunlight on it, both literally and figuratively. His long, straight nose and his too wide, thin-lipped mouth gave him a disdainful air, although his wide-set blue eyes and rounded chin softened the effect. He's not especially good-looking, she concluded, which is just as well, in his sort of job.

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Chapter 8 Carl had not been sure whether he had ever seen Emma Winston before, although he had come across her brother Jack several times. He watched her as she walked into his office, trying to guess by her manner whether he would have trouble with her or not. He was used to assessing his counsellees as they came in for their first session, and had usually been able to tell which of them would be difficult to deal with. He had been right about his last counsellee—as soon as the tall old man had walked in the door Carl had known he was as firm as a rock in his faith. But all his previous clients had been men, of course. Could he assess a woman's attitude the same way? Emma Winston did not seem cowered by her circumstances, he noticed with some uneasiness. In fact, she seemed to be more curious than anything else. He saw her glance quickly around the room, her gaze lingering a little longer on the Redouté print than on the rest of the furnishings. She finally caught sight of him as she turned to look at that side of the room. As she looked at him he had the impression that she was sizing him up, too, and this irritated him. At least she's good-looking, he thought, not that it makes any difference, but it would be a double insult to have to counsel an unpleasant-looking female. He was annoyed with himself, however, for finding Emma attractive. This is stupid, he scolded himself, I hardly ever look at women and here I am appraising a Rebel, of all things! I must admit, though, she has a good figure—doesn't take after her brother, anyway!—and her face is pretty, with those brown eyes and straight nose and full mouth, even that slight frown, and framed nicely with all that brown hair. She may need counselling, but she won't be hard on the eyes. Those Rebels have the right idea, insisting that their women wear their hair long. This last thought, heretical as it was for a Protectioner, took him so by surprise that it brought him back to reality. I am a Police Counsellor and I have a job to do, he told himself, This woman is a Rebel, she is involved with traitors to the Protectorate, and it is my task to set her straight, no matter what it takes to do it. Dwelling on her looks will not make my job easier... Nor will having that Janssen woman hanging around! "Carer Janssen," he said curtly, without looking at the guard, "I will call you to fetch the counsellee when the session is ended. You may leave." Janssen went out and the door slid shut behind her. Emma stood where Janssen had left her, wondering what she was about to face. The Counsellor's voice had startled her. It had a commanding, deep sound and seemed to announce to her that he was someone to reckon with. Carl noticed the twinge of disquiet which appeared fleetingly on her face when he spoke. He straightened up, walked over to the desk and pressed a switch to lock the door.

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He indicated the two chairs in front of the desk. "Sit down," he said abruptly, and Emma did as she was told. She sat up straight on the chair, her feet tucked under it, and clasped her hands lightly in her lap, noticing that her palms were very moist. Not knowing what to expect, she prayed in her heart for wisdom. The Counsellor went to sit down behind his desk and looked at his computer screen. "You're Emma Winston," he read out from the display, "thirty-five years old, now resident in Cell 143, found last night associating with elements who are undermining our Protectorate." He tapped on the keyboard and continued his introduction. "I'm Counsellor Slade and my job is to help you get your thinking straightened out now that you're away from those corrupting influences. Unfortunately your records show that you've been under that influence all your life—that's thirty-five years! It could take much work and effort to sort you out..." He glanced at her, then looked back at the screen. His eyes are awfully blue, Emma observed to herself, irrelevantly. Carl went on, "You can reduce the number of counselling sessions and the length of your stay at the Institute by being cooperative and determined to learn quickly, and to forget all the nonsense that's been taught you all those years." "It isn't nonsense, it's the truth!" Emma blurted out, incensed that this man should call 'nonsense' all that was most precious to her, as she knew quite well he meant her Christian faith. "Miss Winston, do not interrupt!" Carl snapped, slapping the desktop, "You'll talk only when asked a question!" Wow, Emma thought, this man has a quick temper. I'd better be more careful. Carl was annoyed at himself because he was finding it difficult to look this woman in the eye the way he had always done with his male counsellees. It seemed that his initial reaction to her—seeing her as a woman first and a counsellee second—had unsettled him. Had that been part of Chief Lancaster's plan in assigning a woman to him? He was still feeling vexed at Lancaster's obvious lack of confidence in him, and on top of that he was rather annoyed that the Chief had put Carer Janssen in charge of this counsellee. His sense of frustration was such that his control over his temper felt about as effective to him as a saucepan lid on a volcano about to erupt. Emma Winston's immediate reaction to his statement also told to him that here was another strong believer who would be very hard to reform. He had a fleeting recollection of Chester Brown's first session. He stood up, walked out from behind his desk, and leant back on it in front of her, crossing his arms. "I'm sure you're aware that your whole system of belief is quite contrary to the teachings of the Protection." he said dryly, looking down at her, "therefore you won't be surprised to find out that it poses a threat to the stability of the Protectorate. Ultimately your beliefs are a threat to you, too, since a threat to the Protectorate is a threat to any of its citizens, and vice versa. We all have the responsibility to do what is best for the Protectorate so that all may live happy, peaceful lives." 64

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"It's impossible to have peace or real happiness without God," Emma answered levelly, looking straight at him. He did not appreciate her interruption. His face livid, he slapped her hard on the face. "I told you to keep quiet!" he shouted at her, "You are not to talk unless you are asked a question, do you understand?" Emma stared at him in fright, her hand on her injured cheek. He was appalled that he had slapped her. Why, he didn't know. He'd slapped previous counsellees more times than he could remember, without obvious remorse—but this time his action had unnerved him. On the other hand, he couldn't let her guess that—he had to stay in control of the session. "Put your hand down and answer me!" he ordered through clenched teeth. "Y-y-yes, Sir," Emma stammered, putting her hand down and clasping it with the other. Her cheek was aching, but nowhere near as much as her heart. Carl was now not only horrified because of his outburst but angry with himself as well. This was not at all the way he had planned to start. It would have been much better to begin with a gentler approach, but now he'd messed it up because of his temper. He walked away from her, trying to force himself to calm down. When he reached the cupboard he turned around and looked back at her He spoke in a more controlled tone of voice. "My last counsellee was an old man who started out pretty much the way you're—" "Uncle Chester!" Emma exclaimed, and gasped as she realized that she'd interrupted him again. Her hands shot up to cover her face. But this time Carl restrained himself. He glared at her, then cleared his throat and continued speaking. "Yes, his name was Chester Brown. Obviously you knew him quite well. He refused to reform and just hung on to these silly ideas like yours and your bro—" "You mean he stood firm, he held on to the faith," Emma blurted out with joy, clapping her hand over her mouth in the next instant, her eyes wide with horror as she waited for his reaction. Carl regarded her with exasperation. "You have a bad habit of interrupting!" he snapped, "We'll have to work on that too!" Nonetheless her statement about Brown had struck him, and he thought in passing about the difference between being stubborn and standing firm. Only in passing, however. He returned to his chair behind the desk, and tried to get back to the Introductory Session procedure. "As I was saying, Miss Winston, you can shorten the time of your counselling by being cooperative and reforming as quickly as possible. In these sessions you will be taught the correct manner in which to think and therefore to act in order to be a good citizen of the Protectorate. The faster you learn, the more quickly you will be able to leave the Institute. Is what I'm telling you clear? Do you understand?" He paused for her to answer. "Yes, Sir, I understand that the sooner I turn my back on God the sooner you'll let me go," Emma said softly, "What if I refuse to do that?"

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Carl took a deep breath to avoid loosing his cool again. "If you're obstinate it will take much longer and the training will be much harder on you." He shrugged. "It's up to you." "I think I understand," she said, quietly. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "I have no intention of denying my faith," she informed him, "I think I'd better tell you at the outset." Carl's blue eyes turned stormy. Anger overwhelmed him—at Lancaster for doing this to him, at Emma for being determined to hold out, at himself for bungling his first session with her. With considerable effort he kept a hold on himself, and contemplated her coldly. "If I were you I would not be so cocky, Miss Winston," he said in a tight voice, "This is only your first session. We keep going for as long as necessary, up to a point. Beyond that point are things I'm sure you'd prefer never to encounter. Chester Brown went beyond that point." "I know you're trying to frighten me into submission, Sir, but I have no intention of conforming to the teachings of the Protectorate, which go against my Lord Jesus Christ." "Shut up! Shut up!" Carl shouted, slamming both hands down on his desk top. He was seething with rage. He lowered his voice menacingly. "Miss Winston, I will repeat it once more: You are not to talk unless you are asked to. This is a warning. If you interrupt me again you'll be punished." Dear Lord Jesus, please help me to hold my tongue, Emma prayed in her heart. For a moment she looked at the floor, then she looked up at the Counsellor again, the thought having come to her that unlike her, the man was lost—he did not know Jesus Christ. This is madness, Carl thought, why am I losing control so easily? I have a bad temper, but this is ridiculous. And I wish she wouldn't look at me like that! I'll have to try and avoid her eyes... "Now, having settled that," he said, sitting back in his chair, "We'll start your counselling properly." He began to recite a litany that was all too familiar to Emma. "We citizens of the Protectorate embrace the principles of diversity and tolerance," he intoned, "Nature, in all its variations, including human beings, is all one, and all good, so that what each one thinks is right for himself or herself is as valid as what others think is right for themselves. What is right for someone else may not be right for me. You may not tell me I'm wrong just because I think differently from you." "But you've just told me that my views are wrong," Emma pointed out in astonishment, "That they're a threat to society..." Carl was taken aback, and for a moment he was at a loss as to how to respond, for he recognized in her statement the basis of all his doubts—the unresolvable contradictions in the Protection propaganda. He looked at her with a puzzled frown as he searched for some way to answer. He didn't seem to have taken notice this time of the fact that she had interrupted him yet again. "Your beliefs are a threat to our Protectorate because you people insist that you're the only ones who are right," he said finally, "You don't believe in diversity, you have to try and get everyone to convert!" 66

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"Christianity is the only right way, because it's God's way!" Emma countered, "But aren't you doing precisely what you hold against us? You're trying to convert me to your view! Trying to force me to adopt your views! The Gospel gives people a choice—no-one is forced to believe." "Ah, but your choice isn't much of one, is it?" he replied, avoiding her point, "Believe and all will be well. However, don't believe and burn in hell. Some choice!" "It isn't quite like that—" "Miss Winston, I didn't ask you to tell me about your views," he interjected irritably, "You're here to change them, to learn and accept the Protection teaching." He didn't want to hear any more of her arguments. Their reasonableness made him uncomfortable and therefore more irritable. Even Chester Brown hadn't done this sort of thing. This Emma Winston was rather sure of her views, and not especially timid in letting them be known, either. He continued his lecture. "If, as the movements of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries have shown, truth is relative to the situation each individual finds himself or herself in, then you can understand that there is no way of proving that something is right or wrong. However, there is one thing that is always right and that is for each person to make self-realization their goal, because it's only as self-realization and enlightenment are attained by everyone that we can have peace and unity in society, because then the whole of society will be enlightened." "Is that why everyone spends hours in Fantasy Dreamers, Pleasure Houses, parties, and so on?" Emma asked, "To attain self-realization?" Carl stared at her wordlessly. Since those things had no appeal for him, and he saw them only as a waste of time and money, he did not often think about them. Once or twice he had wondered why the Protectioners were so keen to promote their use, and he could only conclude that they were a means of keeping people under control. Whether that led to 'self-realization' was anyone's guess. His frustration increased as she hit yet another of his doubts. "Those things help people relax," he said dryly. Yes, mate, he said to himself sarcastically, I noticed just how relaxing they are when I tried them! "It helps them come to a consciousness of their essential oneness with nature," he added, shrugging. "You mean, they end up behaving like animals!" Emma said indignantly. "Would you stop interrupting!" he snapped. His anger was rising dangerously again. She was rubbing too many of his sore spots. Why on earth had the Chief done this to him? He took up the now tenuous thread of his recitation. "Each of us sees reality in his or her own way," he recited, "that is, uh... reality is what I make it for me and that doesn't mean any one else sees it the same way. Uh... the fact is that we each create our own reality and we each need to express ourselves from that reality." Emma was finding it hard to listen to what she knew was a pack of nonsensical lies. She looked down at the floor and wondered why it wasn't carpeted like the hallway, and tried to distract herself by counting the tiles. 67

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It occurred to her to pray that somehow this man might see the absurdity of the things he was saying and start searching for the Truth. Little did she know that her being there at all was part of the answer to her own prayer... Carl suddenly realised that Emma was not listening. "Pay attention!" he shouted, pounding his desk with his fist. Emma jumped, and reacted. "I don't see why I should listen to this stuff which I've heard so many times and which is all lies!" she replied crossly. This was too much for Carl's fragile hold on his temper. He leapt from his seat, came around his desk, and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her up from her chair. "Miss Winston, you will listen, and you will learn," he yelled, "And you will endeavour not to interrupt!" He threw her against the panelled wall with all his strength. She hit it so hard that the picture of the rose came off its hook and fell on the floor, smashing glass and frame. Emma bounced off the wall onto the floor, where the back of her head hit the tiles hard enough that she blacked out. Shaking with fury and with horror at his own behaviour, Carl turned away, sank onto her chair, and buried his face in his hands. Why had he done that? Why was he losing control so easily? Why, oh why, couldn't she shut up? A thought flashed through his mind—what if she's right? No, no! That's insane! She can't be right! Alarmed, he dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. Emma, recovering consciousness, groaned, and he turned to look at her. She slowly sat herself up and leaned against the wall. He stood up, and she winced at his sudden movement and raised her arm protectively in front of her face. But he did not go near her. He gave her a few minutes to recover, then told her to get up and get back on her chair. She slowly complied. Carl went back to his seat behind the desk. He felt wearier than ever. He leant his elbows on the desk and held his chin on his clasped hands, and watched her. Emma looked down at her feet. She had an incredible headache and it hurt her eyes to look at the white floor tiles. She closed her eyes and held her hands over her face. He sat looking at her, a jumble of thoughts rushing about his mind. Chester Brown had infuriated him, and now Emma Winston was having the same effect. Why? Well, he said to himself, why am I trying to convince her about something I'm not even sure about, when she's obviously very sure about her own beliefs? That's only likely to lead to frustration, isn't it? But that was part of the problem—he couldn't stand the fact that she was sure and he wasn't. If he succeeded in converting her, would he be able to convince himself, too? What would Lancaster do if he failed with this counsellee as he had with Brown? Maybe he should get Janssen to deal with her? After all, that was the usual procedure—get the Carers to do the "treatment". For the first time in his career, he shuddered at the idea. He knew that Janssen would take great pleasure in "treating" a counsellee—everyone in the Institute knew 68

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what Janssen was like in the "treatment room". He was so repelled by the thought of putting his counsellee into Janssen's hands that he was quite confused. He had never worried about what a Carer might do to his counsellee before. He looked for some reason for not handing Emma Winston to Janssen to deal with, and almost immediately found one. Getting the Carer involved hadn't worked with Chester Brown—why should it work with Emma Winston? With relief he turned from that direction. His thoughts took on a new tack. How could Winston be so sure about her beliefs? And there again, without warning, was that quiet little question. It seemed to hide in the back of his mind, never quite going away, popping out when he least wanted to hear it. What if Brown is right? What if Emma Winston's right? Time to get back to business, he scolded himself. He looked again at his counsellee. She was sitting up, leaning against the back of her chair and gazing at her hands clasped in front of her. She looked somewhat the worse for wear. Her left cheek still bore the mark of his hand, her hair was in disarray, and her face had turned quite pale, probably from the blow to her head when she fell. This was the first time he had actually done more himself to a counsellee than just insult and slap. He looked at his hands. I've got to the point where I'll actually beat someone up myself, he realised. It was small comfort to him that he didn't get any pleasure out of it. He wondered vaguely whether he should just give up right now. Was there any point in going on with this when he was clearly bound to fail? But no—he couldn't assume that. Lancaster had seemed to think that he should be able to get through easily to a female counsellee. But then, of course, he knew very well what the Chief had in mind—female counsellees were usually threatened with rape. Yet Lancaster was aware of Carl's "hang-ups", as he called them. He would have known that Carl was hardly likely to take that approach. Or did he expect Carl to hand Winston over to the male Carers? What had the Chief been planning when he assigned Winston to him? The unfairness of the assignment was getting to him again, and he swore out loud, banging his hand on his desk. Emma looked up with a start. "Wh-what's the matter?" she blurted out automatically. Carl wasn't expecting such a question, and he also reacted automatically. "Oh, I was just thinking of the unfair—" He caught himself. "Miss Winston, I'm the one who asks the questions here, not you!" "Sorry, Sir," she said apologetically, and gritted her teeth because of the pain in her head. Carl looked at his watch and decided to end the session, even if it was a bit early. Make a fresh start tomorrow, he thought. "You're going back to your cell now," he said, "Tomorrow we'll start again, and I want you to think hard and consider how you'll cooperate." Emma nodded. Her head throbbed and she felt confused. Carl pressed the switch on his intercom. "Carer Janssen, come and fetch Number 143," he ordered. 69

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Janssen came in shortly, pulled Emma up roughly and led her out. Carl did not look up from his desk until the door slid shut. He mentally reviewed what had happened, and he felt sick. Why on earth had he so completely lost control? He dreaded having to review the recording of the session, which he would have to do that afternoon. He stood up to open the blind and caught sight of the broken glass and frame and crumpled print on the floor. He went and retrieved the picture, making a mental note to call in a cleaner later. The print was creased, and he did his best to smooth it out. He felt sad about the damage to the print. As the only one of his parents' things that he owned, it was a link with a nebulous but precious past. He rolled it up tightly and put it in his flute case. He would get a new frame for it sometime. His rage having abated, Carl felt empty and bewildered, and wondered again why this was happening to him. Why couldn't he just be like the other Counsellors, like the other Protectioners, sure of what they believed and always doing exactly what they were supposed to? He opened the blind and stared out of the window at the City Park and the Lake. A vague longing hovered in his mind. A longing for what? He didn't know. What he did know was that it was there more and more of the time, and it was like an ache that one couldn't exactly locate, but that was nonetheless there and just strong enough to upset all one's life. What he also knew was that there was nothing in the Protection which would remove the longing. He decided to go to the Monitoring Centre to collect the CD of the session. He would have a word with Andrew, whom he knew had been monitoring the session this morning. He was grateful that it was his friend who had been assigned to monitor his counselling sessions with Emma Winston. Andrew might even have some suggestions for the next session. At the very least, he could be counted on to be willing to listen.

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"Well, Carl," Andrew said, looking up from the recording desk as Carl came into the Monitoring Centre, "that was some performance this morning..." Carl scowled at his friend and sat down on a chair next to him. He stared unseeing at the bank of monitoring screens and control instruments in front of him. "I really botched it this time," he grumbled, "I'd been planning to start off gently, easily, but wouldn't you know it, that woman had to go and be so damned sure of herself!" He slammed his fist down on the desk as he said this, making Andrew jump, "She's just like that old man—you'd think Lancaster's doing it on purpose!" Andrew put his hand placatingly on Carl's shoulder. "Calm down, Mate, the session's over now," he said quietly, "Maybe Lancaster's suddenly got something against you, but you're not going to improve things—or get anywhere with that counsellee—the way you're getting yourself into a frenzy at the drop of a hat, you know." "I know! I know!" Carl almost yelled, "I don't know what's wrong with me, Andrew. I realize I've got a bad temper, but I seem to be going off the deep end continuously lately." He got up, stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked over to the CD file. "I'd better have a look at that recording before anyone else does," he muttered. "It's still in the recorder," Andrew told him, and reached over to remove the disc from the machine. He put it in a case and handed it to Carl, who had resumed his seat by the recording desk. "Tell you what, Mate," he said, "Why don't you have a break. Let's go have some lunch, then you can lock yourself in your office and get your flute out for an hour or so before you review that CD, okay? Then come and share one of Denise's culinary delights tonight before you go home. What do you say?" Carl looked at his friend gratefully. "Thanks, Andrew," he said quietly, "I'll do that." He watched as Andrew methodically switched off equipment, labelled CD cases, filled in the log, and checked that everything was in its place. At one point Andrew turned to him. "I don't think I labelled that disc," he said, "The one of your session this morning, I mean." He reached out for it and Carl handed it to him. He marked it and gave it back to Carl, who automatically read the sticker. Defective, it announced in Andrew's bold handwriting. He looked up at the Police Officer in surprise. Andrew grinned. "It happens now and then, you know," he said cheerfully, and winked, "I don't know what was wrong with the disc, but it's certainly a description of the recording. Rather messy, don't you think?" Carl was astounded. Did Andrew realise the risk he was taking by doing that? Yes, surely he must be aware of the close watch Lancaster kept on

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the Monitoring Centre records... He must feel pretty certain that the disc would not be missed. Carl sighed. "Thank you," he said. What else could he say? Andrew patted his shoulder, then rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "Well, everything's ship-shape in here," he announced, "Let's go get some tucker!" He led the way out of the Monitoring Centre, pausing by the door to register his departure in the compufiler log. As they were leaving it suddenly struck Carl that none of the other Centre staff had been there. He stopped in the doorway and glanced back around the room. "Hey, Andrew, where are the rest of the MC mob?" he asked. "They had a meeting with the Department Head. He told me to hold the fort," Andrew answered lightly, "Good thing, no?" He took Carl's arm and pulled him out of the way so he could shut the door, then he led him off towards the lift to the dining hall. Over a lunch of veal cutlets, cottage fries, and broccoli in cheese sauce, Andrew talked about his family, about music, about some of the other Police Officers' problems—anything to take his friend's mind off the morning's fiasco. But Carl was brooding, and kept coming back to the topic of Emma Winston, until Andrew gave up trying to distract him. "You're really upset, aren't you?" he remarked, "This is going to be just like your last lot of counselling, I can see. Or worse." "Just thinking about the fact that tomorrow brings another session with that woman is almost enough to make me want to scream," Carl muttered as he toyed with his food. He hadn't eaten much. "And today was only the first session!" he added. "She might turn out to be a lot less convinced about her beliefs than she seems," Andrew suggested. "Ha! You saw the whole session and you can say that?" Carl exclaimed angrily, "Anyone with half a brain can tell she's going to be at least as much trouble as Brown!" Andrew put his finger to his lips briefly. "Keep calm, Mate," he whispered, "This is the Institute dining hall, not your flat." "Sorry," Carl mumbled, stirring the cheese sauce around his plate with his knife, "Must try to keep calm. Wouldn't do to lose my temper here, would it?" He looked up at his friend. "What time do you want me to come over tonight?" "Straight from work. Is that all right with you? Gives us more time before curfew." "Fine," Carl said, and sighed, "Sometimes I wish I were back in the Welfare Ministry... Rescuing children and keeping tabs on Enwuh reps was far less trouble..." Andrew looked horrified. "Better keep such ideas to yourself, Carl," he said softly, "If anyone hears you say that you'll be in far more trouble than anything you've seen yet!" Carl sighed again and looked slowly around the dining hall. Few of the tables were occupied, as it was not yet lunchtime for most of the Institute 72

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staff. He recognized two of the Enwuh reps at a table halfway across the hall from them. They were not looking in his direction and so did not see him scowl, but Andrew, who had followed his gaze, did. "Time to get back to your office, Carl," he said warningly. "Yeah, you're right," Carl agreed. He, too, realised that his guard was too far down for his own good. He got up from the table and put on his cap. He smiled wearily at Andrew. "If you come up with any ideas on new counselling tactics," he said, "let me know, won't you?" Andrew grimaced. "Uh-uh," he said non-committally. "See you tonight," Carl said, and walked off. "Take care," Andrew replied, and watched him leave before continuing his meal. ! ! ! In her cell, Emma lay down on the mat and wept. Her head throbbed and she felt confused and frightened. She'd never met with such an outburst of rage, and she wondered briefly if the Counsellor was sane. She tried to pray, but could only manage, Dear God, help me, please. Lying on the floor, her face wet with tears and still sore from the Counsellor's slap, she finally drifted off to sleep. The clatter of a metal bowl being placed on the floor beside her woke her up, and she opened her eyes just in time to see a yellow-uniformed figure disappear as her door slid shut. She sat up carefully. Her headache was gone, but the bruise on the back of her head was very sore. She looked at the dish in front of her and realized that she was quite hungry. She had no idea what time it might be, but she knew that she hadn't eaten since tea the night before. In the bowl was a nondescript mush which didn't look very appetizing, but which smelled like some sort of stew. There was no spoon or other eating implement with it, and she wondered how they expected her to eat it. She shrugged, picked up the dish, and sipped the stew in small mouthfuls. It tasted all right, but it was a messy way to eat, as some of the stew dripped down her chin. She'd hardly finished when the panel in her door slid open, a hand came through, and a woman's voice called for the bowl. Emma handed it to her unseen guard, who withdrew her hand and slammed the panel shut. Emma stared at the door, and suddenly felt very alone. She thought of home, of Jack and Rose, and a wave of homesickness almost defeated her. Angry thoughts came to mind. Why had God let this happen? Hadn't she always done the right thing by Him? What had she done to deserve this? How could God have let this happen to her? With a start she realized where those thoughts were coming from. Thanking God for the reminder, she resolutely pushed them aside, and asked Him to keep her from dwelling on them should they return. I know that you love me, Lord, that you haven't let me down. Don't let me give in to self-pity, please. 73

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She sat back down on the mat, cross-legged, and considered her situation. She looked up at the lens in the ceiling and wondered if she was being observed. Although she didn't like the thought of it, she decided she couldn't let it worry her. It looked like her stay in this place could drag on a long time—the Counsellor certainly seemed like a determined man who would not give up easily. She thought of people she knew who had broken under "counselling" and denied the Lord. Would the accumulation of the kind of treatment she'd got today cause her to do the same? Deep down, she felt a reassurance that it would not. She wasn't here on her own. She remembered exhorting her fellow-prisoners to think of Joshua 1:9, "Don't be frightened or discouraged, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go." Now she thought about that verse herself. And yet, she had been very frightened by the violence of Counsellor Slade's reactions. She had never seen anyone other than Police Officers behaving like that. What if the violence increased? What other forms of persuasion was he likely to try? Could she withstand such a daily onslaught of pain and fear? For weeks on end? The train of her thoughts switched track and she pondered on the Counsellor himself. What could make a man be so full of anger? Why did her words enrage him so? Did he really believe all that Protection stuff? She decided that he must believe it, or he wouldn't be trying to convince others of it. But surely then he needn't get so angry about it... Her thoughts turned into a prayer for him, and then into asking the Lord to help her to forgive him and to keep her from any bitterness towards him or the Carer. She thought back to the meeting the previous night—how wonderful it was that they had all assembled without anyone but the Lord planning it, without any announcement being made... And then it struck her—how had the Police known? Somehow they had found out about the meeting. She had to conclude that there had been a betrayer in the church, someone who had also been told about the meeting by the Lord, and then had used the information against His people... Or else the Mercers' house was being watched... On the other hand, God had known it would happen! The words of Isaiah 55 came to her mind unbidden: "I do not think the way you think, and My ways are not the same as yours," says the LORD. "As the skies are high above the earth, so My ways are far above yours and My thoughts are far above your thoughts. Just as the rain and the snow come down from the sky and water the ground to make it produce..., so My Word that comes out of My mouth will not be fruitless, but will accomplish all that I sent it for." Yes, God was with her here, He would see her through, for He had His plans and she was willing to fit in with them. She knelt and closed her eyes. Her heart was brimming over with love for her Lord. She thought of what Jesus Christ had endured for her sake, and she told Him that she was willing to go through anything He wanted her to, for Him. She knelt there praising and worshipping, for quite a long 74

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time, then feeling refreshed and encouraged, she sat back on her heels and wondered what time it could be. It looked like the light in her cell would be on all the time—there was no way for her to know if it was night or day. She would have to set herself some sort of routine. All right, the meal she'd been served a little while ago could be considered as lunch, she decided. Morning would be when the Carer came to get her for the counselling session. Would there be a session in the afternoon as well? No way of knowing unless it happened. After "lunch" she would spend time in prayer and meditating on the Scriptures she had memorized. She could also do some exercises so as to keep fit. She wondered if there would be an evening meal of some sort. Would she get to wash sometime? Already she was feeling rather grubby and her hair was quite tangled. She combed it out with her fingers as best she could. She decided to take her shoes off when she was in her cell, so she removed the blue sneakers that she'd been issued with the uniform and placed them by the door. What else could she do? Oh, yes, she could try and sing all the hymns and songs she knew, maybe even hum all the piano pieces she liked to play. Why not start right now? She began to sing, quietly at first, the first verse of Great is Thy Faithfulness. As she sang she felt more confident and sang more loudly. She thought of the many times she had sung this with Jack and Rose and the other believers, and was encouraged. "Shut up!" Carer Janssen's voice came over the speaker, "You are not allowed to speak or make any other noise!" Emma was startled, then dismayed. But not being one to stay down very long, she decided she could still sing in whispers or even in her heart, and proceeded to do so, working her way through half a dozen hymns and meditating on the words as well as singing them. At least the Carer could not hear her thoughts, only God could. For quite some time—several hours?—she was alone in her cell. No-one came to get her; no-one yelled through the speaker. Then suddenly the panel in the door slid open again, and a chunk of bread was thrown in. She went to pick it up and assumed that this must be tea. She sat down again and examined the bread. It wasn't exactly fresh, but at least it was food. She thanked the Lord for providing it, and ate it as slowly as possible, tearing off small pieces at a time and savouring each mouthful as long as possible. When she had finished the bread she had another drink of water, which she sipped very slowly, washing each mouthful around in her mouth before swallowing it. She deliberately moved slowly, trying to fill up the time which she could see could threaten to stretch out seemingly endlessly when she was in her cell. Finally, she made use of the covered bucket, then lay down on the mat and began, as on the previous night, to review her memorized Bible verses. But she was very tired, and didn't get through many verses before she fell asleep.

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Chapter 10 Carl drove up to the block of flats where the Parkers lived and stopped his car in the visitors' carpark. It was still daylight, but he had not driven straight there from the Institute. Instead, he had gone for a drive right around the Lake before heading back towards the Parkers' home. He knew that Andrew and he had left the Institute at the same time, and he felt happier about giving his friend a chance to warn his family that he was coming for tea. He walked slowly up the stairs to the fourth floor, grateful that in his own building there was a lift, for he lived on the sixth floor of the Counsellors' Residence. He didn't like stairs much, they reminded him of the children's home. Andrew opened the door when he pressed the buzzer. "Come on in, Carl," he said, "How are you doing?" "A lot better than when you saw me at lunchtime, Andrew," Carl answered, "I went for a drive around the Lake before coming here. The Park is beautiful at this time of year. How's Denise?" "I'm fine, Carl," Denise laughed as she came up to the door behind her husband, "Let me take your jacket." He took his green coat off and handed it to her, and she hung it up on the coat-rack by the door. He hung his cap over it. "Why don't you go to the lounge, Carl," Andrew suggested, taking his wife's hand and leading the way, "You go sit down while I give Denise a hand with finishing the cooking." Christopher and Elsie came skipping over, greeting Carl happily. He gave each of them a hug and each took one of his hands and led him to the lounge, where they sat down, one on each side of him, on the sofa. The Parkers' lounge was living, dining, and playing room as well as Denise's study. It was not a big room, and the armchairs, dining suite, piano, and two cupboards took up most of the floor space. For Carl it was almost more home than his own flat, for he was always welcome in the Parkers' flat and never felt he was in the way. On more than one occasion he had spent the night on the Parkers' sofa when he hadn't got away before curfew, but he tried not to let that happen very often for he knew that staying overnight in other people's homes without Enwuh permission was frowned upon by the government. He also knew that the Enwuh rep lived on the same floor as the Parkers and that she had reported his overnight stay more than once. Andrew's children had known Carl all their short lives. As far back as they could remember he had been a regular visitor in their home, and he had always enjoyed spending some time playing with them and reading to them, even when they were babies. "Uncle Carl, please read us a story," piped Elsie, handing him a wellworn children's storybook that dated back to Denise's childhood.

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"Chris, Elsie," their father warned them, "Uncle Carl's had a very difficult day at work, so go easy on him, hey?" "It's okay, Andrew," Carl smiled, "This is probably the best medicine anyone could prescribe for me at this point." Andrew went off to join Denise in the kitchen and Carl opened the book and flipped through looking for a story he hadn't read too recently. He found one and began reading slowly, his deep voice calm and expressive. The children leant against him and listened attentively, even though they'd heard the story many times before. It was always special when Uncle Carl read to them. Carl delighted in the affection freely lavished on him by Andrew's children, and to them he was able to return affection in equal measure. Chris and Elsie were the only people with whom he had never lost patience, and this was something which hadn't escaped Andrew's observant eye. When Carl was with their children, Andrew and Denise caught glimpses of another side of their friend's character, one which they had also seen hints of on odd occasions when they'd had a good time playing music together. Much as Carl's foul temper often drove them to distraction, they couldn't help but assume from those glimpses that there was hope for him yet. There were times when Carl feared that the children might somehow find out what he was like at other times, when he wasn't with them. Would they also reject him, as almost every one else he had ever known did? What if they knew about the sort of work he did? What if, say, their schoolmates told them? He wasn't sure if schoolchildren would know the nature of a Police Counsellor's job, actually, but it was a fear that haunted him. He had voiced this to Andrew once, and his friend had immediately reassured him. "We've told Chris and Elsie that sometimes you get very angry, so if it did happen when they're around it wouldn't be a complete shock to them," Andrew had explained, "but we've also told them that it makes you very unhappy when you do lose your temper, and they understand that, because they don't like it when they get cross. I think as long as it wasn't directed at themselves they'd be able to cope with your temper, Carl. I think they'd be able to cope with knowing what your work is, too—they know it gets you down, they're not blind. They love you, Carl—we all do. No matter what, you're our friend, Carl, for real. Chris and Elsie think you're wonderful, and you are, you know. No matter what, Carl, you'll always be welcome here, you know that." To Carl, Andrew's words had been like a revelation. He knew that the Parkers considered him their friend, he knew he was always welcome in their home, but to hear Andrew actually say it had been like finding a shelter on a stormy night. He'd been speechless with gratitude, his blue eyes speaking all that he couldn't put into words, and Andrew had received his hug as the thanks it was meant to be.

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When Carl finished reading the children their story, Denise called them all to the table in the kitchen, and they sat down to eat. Carl felt the tensions of the day dissolve in the company of the Parker family. As they sat around the table and ate together they talked about many things, but the Counselling Institute was never mentioned. The meal over, Carl helped Andrew and Denise to clear the table and wash up. Unlike most of the Institute employees, Andrew ate his evening meals at home with his family, and washing up formed an important part of their custom. By choice, they didn't own a dishwasher. This was a time when Andrew and Denise could discuss all sorts of things that might be on their minds while Elsie and Chris played quietly in the lounge before their bedtime. Usually, when Carl came to tea he took part in these discussions, although on some occasions he would choose instead to play a game with the children before they went to bed. But the discussions in the kitchen were something he valued, for it was only with these friends that he could freely talk about whatever was on his mind. ! ! ! Their friendship had started when Andrew had been assigned to the Welfare Ministry to work as police escort for Welfare Officers on their "missions of mercy". Once, several years before, as they were driving out on one of their first jobs together, Carl had asked Andrew why he had joined the Police Force. "Same reason you went into Welfare work, Carl," Andrew had answered slowly, "I wanted to help uphold the Protection and to help people live in peace and safety." He'd been about to add something, but apparently had thought better of it, and changed the subject. At first, as they went about their errands for the Ministry they had been cautious in this way about their topics of conversation. And then one day, as they were travelling down the Southern Freeway to an assignment, they had heard a cello solo on the car radio, a rare occurrence. "One of my favourite pieces," Andrew had said suddenly and dreamily, "I wish I could play it that well!" Carl, astonished, had glanced quickly at him, wondering at his admitting to what amounted to Crooked Thinking. Was Andrew trying to trap him? For a moment he didn't know whether he should respond to Andrew's comment or not, but finally he'd decided to risk it. He had heard that there were one or two government officials besides himself who had odd habits. Lieutenant Parker might well be one of them. Oh, how he'd longed all those years for someone to whom he could talk openly! Carefully he'd turned down the microphone on the two-way radio and turned up the volume on the music. "Do you play the cello, then?" he'd asked Andrew in as casual a tone as he could muster, "I didn't think anyone in the Protectorate did." "I've been playing it since I was ten," Andrew had replied cheerfully, "I fell in love with the instrument after hearing a recording of Pablo Casals 78

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playing music by Bach. He was a master cellist in the middle of last century—Casals, I mean. I pestered my father for lessons until he agreed to pay for them. Of course that was long before the Protectorate, when they still had a cellist on staff at the School of Music." For how many years have I been longing for someone else to play music with? Carl had thought, I wonder if Andrew has too? "Do you know of any music for cello and flute together?" he'd asked. "Not offhand, but I could find out. Why?" "Well, I've played the flute since I was twelve. But I've only ever played by myself. It would be great to play duets. There are so few people in this country who play the classical instruments..." "Yeah, Fantasy Dreamers, Pleasure Houses, Personality Pills!" Andrew had exclaimed airily, waving his hands around, "No-one has the incentive or perseverance to do anything that means a little extra effort. And that includes making music on the classical instruments! Punch a few buttons on a synthesizer, yes! Practise for hours, no!" Fiercely, he had added, "Everyone's living in a fog of well-being, their minds slowly rotting away..." Carl had been thoroughly amazed. In all his thirty years he had no recollection of ever hearing anyone echo his own thoughts this way. "Don't you use any of those things?" he'd asked Andrew cautiously. "No way!" Andrew had answered, "Look, Mate, I value my mind, and I want to enjoy life, all of it! Those things dull your senses, stop your brain working properly, and what's more, they're addictive! Start taking part in those fantasies, keep popping pills to change your personality to suit the occasion, and soon you can't bear life in the real world! You end up glassyeyed, walking around in a daze, only coming alive in your FantasyDreamer. That's how it is with most of the people I know, except Denise. She's my girlfriend. She doesn't like them either. Do you make use of them?" Carl had been taken aback by Andrew's vehemence, but his heart had leapt for joy at finding someone of like mind after all his years of loneliness. All thoughts of caution and of a possible trap had flown as Andrew had been speaking. "Well, no, I don't, actually," he'd replied, "I've tried them, but I can't say I was attracted. Those Pills—I did try them once, I hoped they would help me control my temper. Well, they made me violently ill, and my temper was just as short as ever. The Fantasy Dreamer... That made me feel like I was disembodied, not really there, you know, sort of floating about. It was horrible! I've never felt inclined to visit a Pleasure House— vicarious sex doesn't draw me." "Doesn't attract me either," Andrew had said, and then had asked with apparent interest, "What about the real thing?" Carl had reddened considerably at the question. "Uh... I don't know," he'd muttered, "I've never found the right girl..." He'd quickly changed the subject. "We'll soon be getting to that house. You'd better get the warrant out so we can get this over with quickly. I can't bear the parents' reactions..."

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Later that day, as he'd prepared for bed, it had suddenly struck Carl that Andrew and he had shared their "Crooked" thoughts very freely, something which would normally be unthinkable, for to admit to such thoughts was asking to be "taken into care" by the Welfare Ministry. Most people had been well trained by the Neighbour Watchers to report immediately any cases of "Crooked Thinking". He himself had been known to report a neighbour or fellow-worker once or twice, and normally he knew better than to let anyone else know his own thoughts about anything. He'd been staggered at how easily he had thrown caution to the wind. Yet somehow he knew that he was safe with Andrew. There was something about that black man which told Carl that he could talk freely with him and his words would never be reported. What an incredible relief it had been to be able to talk freely! What had amazed him even more, however, was that Andrew had obviously trusted him, too... ! ! ! "If you don't mind my mentioning the Institute," Denise ventured to ask Carl as the three of them worked in the kitchen, "How are things going at work these days?" Carl hesitated. He glanced at Andrew, who raised his eyebrows but remained silent, then he stared at the dish he was drying up as he answered Denise's question. "If you really want to know, Denise," he said slowly, "Things at work are pretty bad. This current lot of counselling's got off to a very bad start." "Why do you say that?" she asked gently. "Why? Because I bungled it, I messed it up!" "Oh. How?" "Because of my rotten temper!" Carl said fiercely, "And because Lancaster assigned to me the most stubborn woman he could find." "He assigned a woman to you? Who's your counsellee?" Denise asked. Carl stared at her. Did the counsellee's identity matter? Denise had never asked him about names before. One didn't ask such questions. Again he looked at Andrew before answering. Andrew shrugged. "Her name's Emma Winston," Carl said hesitantly, "She's Jack Winston's sister. You know who he is, don't you? One of the Rebel leaders. Well, this Winston woman shows every sign of being as obstinate as Chester Brown. He was my last counsellee, and I failed to convert him. After my encounter with Chief Lancaster last night, the thought of another course of counselling ending in failure fills me with dismay." Denise looked surprised. "What makes you think you'll fail?" Carl hesitated again. Why was Denise asking him these questions? She had never done this before. But it was good to be able to talk about it, and with people who cared about him. And of course, that's why she was asking—because she cared. "Well, uh... my experience with that bloke Brown, for one thing," he answered, "The fact that I lost my temper 80

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thoroughly and disastrously in the very first session, for another, and the frightening fact that I'm not even sure if I subscribe to the Protection line any more, for a third..." Denise looked at Andrew and nodded. His guess had been right. Carl noticed the silent exchange and he looked at Andrew questioningly. "I thought as much," Andrew said quietly, "Just things you've said to me now and then... You'd better not mention that to too many people, Mate." "I won't, to anyone, you can be sure about that," Carl assured him, "But perhaps you two can help me?" "We can talk about it with you and listen to anything you care to tell us, and it'll be safe with us," Andrew said, "but in the end you have to make up your own mind, you know, we can't do that for you." "I know, but it's good to be able to talk about it, you know," Carl said quietly, "I feel like I'm going mad, sometimes, having to keep it all bottled up and being afraid I'll blurt it all out in my sleep or something." "No wonder you keep losing your temper," Denise said, "It must be awful to have doubts and no-one to turn to." "Well, Carl does have someone to turn to," Andrew said, and looking at Carl, added, "so don't you hesitate to turn to us, all right?" "All right," Carl replied, "Thanks. I won't." When they had finished clearing up, Denise got the children ready for bed while Andrew got out his cello and tuned it to the piano. When they were ready, Christopher and Elsie said their goodnights and were put to bed by their father. That done, the three adults went back into the lounge. Carl took his flute out of its case and assembled and tuned it to the piano while Denise and Andrew set up the music stands and looked through their collection of sheet music. "What do you fancy playing tonight?" Andrew asked Carl. "How about some of that Japanese music you found the other week?" Carl suggested. "Okay! Actually, Denise has been learning the piano accompaniment to some of those pieces, isn't that lucky?" Andrew handed the scores around, and Carl tried a few bars of the first piece. "Yes, I can still play this," he said, "Let's get on with it!" Andrew settled himself in his corner with his cello. "Denise, the piano plays the introduction," he said, "Off you go!" They played the first piece through, then the rest of the suite, and then went on to play other pieces for about an hour. By then the curfew was not far off, and Denise suggested they have a cup of tea before Carl had to leave. She went out to the kitchen while Carl and Andrew put away their instruments and music. "Thank you for that," Carl said as they worked, "It was a good remedy for my state of mind." "We ought to get Matt to join us here sometime with his violin," Andrew replied.

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Carl's reaction to the suggestion took him by surprise. "No way!" he exclaimed angrily, "Not one of Lancaster's successful Counsellors! Not after he's been commended for his perfect record at the same party where Lancaster told me off for failing with Brown! Didn't you see Matt smirk last night? Look, Andrew, at least while I'm involved in this round of counselling I do not want to see Matt Lewis, especially not here!" Andrew was annoyed that Carl should react this way. Yes, Matt was a successful Counsellor but he did play the violin, and because of this peculiarity he had few friends besides Carl and Andrew. "Aren't you being rather unfair, Carl?" Andrew said impatiently. "No, I'm not being unfair!" Carl was almost shouting now. "The one being unfair is the Chief! Why did he assign Emma Winston to me? Why not give Matt a challenge for a change? He gets all the easy cases! Now wonder he never fails!" Denise came running into the lounge, looking very apprehensive. "What are you two fighting about?" she said urgently, "Could you keep your voices down? You'll wake the children—and the Enwuh rep." They both looked at her in surprise, and then felt rather abashed. "It was my fault, Denise," Andrew said quietly, taking her hand. "I'm sorry," he added, turning to Carl, "I should have known better than to suggest something like that at this stage. Now I've gone and spoiled the evening for you." Carl looked sheepishly at the flute in his hands, his face red. "It's okay, Andrew," he replied, "I'm the one who spoiled the evening by blowing my top about it. I seem to be getting rather petty." He looked down a moment longer, took a deep breath, and looked up at them again. "Let's have that cup of tea," he said softly, "then I'd better leave before the curfew." He followed Andrew and Denise into the kitchen, where Denise poured out their tea. The three of them sat down around the table in silence. Carl felt ashamed about his outburst. Andrew was afraid to say anything more in case he put his foot in it again. Denise glanced from one to the other and waited for one of them to speak. Finally she broke the silence herself. "I hope you'll sleep well tonight, Carl," she said, "A good night's sleep should help you a lot." "I hope so too, Denise," he answered, "I certainly haven't been sleeping well lately. I seem to be having a lot of nightmares." "Well, let's hope tonight will be different," Andrew said. He looked at his watch. "You'd better get moving, you've got just long enough to get home before curfew." Carl got up and went to the lounge to pick up his flute case, and Denise and Andrew followed him to the door. He took his cap and coat down and put them on, then turned to his friends. "Thank you for a lovely evening," he said quietly, "I mean that. Sorry I messed it up at the end... You two are very good to me—I don't know where I'd be if it wasn't for you and the way you look after me." He paused, frowning at the floor as if trying to remember something. He was reluctant to go. Here was warmth and trust and love. Out there in the cold were only 82

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suspicion, hate, and loneliness. But he reminded himself that he knew he could come here whenever he needed to. He looked up at them again and smiled. "Good night, Denise, Andrew." "Good night, Carl," they answered. Denise added, "Take care. See you next time." Andrew opened the door to let him out. Carl smiled at them again, then turned and strode off towards the stairs. Andrew shut the door and he and his wife went back into their flat in a pensive mood.

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When Carer Janssen brought Emma to Counsellor Slade's office the next morning, she pushed Emma into the room and lingered at his door, her arms crossed, staring at him through her dark glasses and hating him. Carl, sitting behind his desk, was irritated by Janssen's continued presence. "You may leave, Carer," he said testily, "You'll be called when needed." He was well aware that he had no intention of calling her for anything other than to take Emma back to her cell at the end of the session. He had made a firm decision—he would not be handing this counsellee over for treatment. After having seen, earlier that morning, some of the recordings of the treatment Chester Brown had undergone, there was no way he would be handing any more counsellees over to the Carers. He had no words to describe how he had felt when he'd seen to what he had sent Chester Brown. That the old man had stood firm in his faith through all that was incomprehensible to him, and he found himself admiring Brown and wondering what could have made him so strong in the face of all that he had suffered. But there was no way he wanted to put anyone else through such treatment, no matter how stubborn they might be. He pressed the switch to make his door slide shut and Carer Janssen stepped back just in time to avoid it. He locked the door, then turned his attention to Emma who was standing by the chair in front of his desk. He didn't tell her to sit down. Instead, he got up and came around to the front of his desk, crossed his arms, and looked down at her. "Have you thought at all about changing your views since yesterday?" he asked her. "No, Sir," Emma replied, levelly, "I told you I've no intention of changing my views." She winced involuntarily, expecting a reaction like the previous day's. Carl clenched his fists but controlled himself. He walked brusquely away from her, considering his next move. He returned to his seat behind the desk. "Sit down," he ordered, and Emma obeyed. "Perhaps we ought to discuss this matter for a bit," he suggested reasonably, "I realize that it's possible that with the upbringing you had you may be confused to such an extent that only an exposition of the errors in your ideas will help you see how futile they are." "Sir, in my experience they are not futile," Emma said quietly. Here we go again, he thought, She's interrupting already. He looked daggers at her. "You've been warned about speaking out of turn," he said menacingly, "Kindly stop doing it." He paused for a moment to let the warning sink in, then started on his lecture. "The Protection assures us that everyone has certain rights which are to be respected as long as they do not disrupt the order of our society. Your religious beliefs are disruptive. Your religion says that you're better than other people—" "It does not!" Emma exclaimed.

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"Shut up!" Carl yelled, and banged his fist down on his desk. Emma jumped. I must try to stop interrupting him, she told herself. And yet, how can I be silent when he attacks the Truth? Carl succeeded in calming himself down. "You believe that you're the only ones who are right, but you're mistaken," he went on, "There's no such thing as absolute truth, as you claim. There are many roads to fulfillment, many ways of looking at life, many styles of living. Some are right for some people, others are right for other people. Thus they are, all of them, right. You can't say that your way is right and someone else's is wrong because it's different from yours. You must remember that for our society to progress, it must be made up of happy, self-fulfilled citizens, and each one's path to self-fulfillment is an individual choice." "'There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death.' Proverbs fourteen, verse twelve," Emma offered. Carl was speechless. Chester Brown had said something like that to him, and to have Emma repeat it infuriated him. Still trying very hard to keep his temper, he groped for some answer to what she'd said, and grasped at the last word she'd said. "Death is only a gateway," he said, "the way to the next step in the process of self-realization and union with the Universal. Each death and re-incarnation brings one closer to that ultimate destination." "I'm not talking about physical death," she pointed out, "I'm talking about spiritual death, eternal separation from God." "Since there is no such thing as God, your talk is nonsense," Carl replied. "Do you really believe that?" Emma asked gently, but incredulously. Carl stared at her. The question was one that until recently he had always avoided asking himself, and now here he was being asked it by one of his counsellees for the second time in less than two months. When Brown had asked him the same question, he'd just called in the Carer to "set the old man straight". Now he was angry at Emma for rubbing an increasingly sore spot. There was no calling the Carer in this time, however. Not only that, but he knew that he wasn't sure any more what he believed or didn't believe, and this only increased his agitation. "Of course I believe it!" he snapped, rather too defensively, "Stop interrupting!" He looked down in confusion at the notes he had been using. What had he been telling her? Something about self-fulfillment... He took a long breath. "At the end of the last century," he continued, "before the Protectorate was established, a movement which was the forerunner of the Protection had already started in this country. There was complete freedom of expression and the Arts flourished." For some unfathomable reason he suddenly thought of his Redouté print and the old masters reproductions in his flat and contrasted them with what was now called Art. He pushed the thought away hastily and went on with his talk. "Alternative lifestyles became completely acceptable and the family was redefined," he said, "We see the results of that revolutionary movement in the great diversity of family groups in our city. The only dissenting voice 85

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in those days, and even still today, was that of the Christians and the Jews and other people we know as Rebels, who keep insisting that life should be directed by the tenets in a book many thousands of years out of date." Emma couldn't contain herself. "God's Word is eternal and it doesn't change just because you want it to!" she blurted out. Carl glared at her. "God does not exist, Miss Winston," he repeated, pointedly and angrily, "What you call God's Word is just a collection of writings put together by ignorant men centuries ago. They are quite irrelevant to twenty-first century people!" Emma stared at him open-mouthed. She knew—she knew to the depths of her being—that God does exist, that without Him nothing else can exist, even that He was right there with them at that moment, but she couldn't prove it, she couldn't show Him to Counsellor Slade, she didn't even know how to respond to his statement. Lord, I've got to leave it to You to show him, she prayed in her heart, I can't do it, I don't know how. Please show him You're real. To her surprise and Carl's, she burst into tears. "What are you crying about?" he asked, his tone annoyed. "I-I don't know," she stammered, "No. I mean yes, I do know," she added, tears streaming down her face, "I'm crying because you blasphemed and you have no idea of what you've done. And because God does exist and you don't even know it. And you don't even know how much He loves you. Because you're lost. And because you think His Word is irrele—" As she spoke Carl lost his hold on his mounting fury. He got up and walked around his desk, and grabbing her by the arm he pulled her up from her chair and slapped her over and over. Then he threw her to the floor and began kicking her, pouring out his rage. "Stop it! Stop it!" he roared, "I don't want to hear about your God and His Word! Shut up! Shut up! Do you understand?! Do you?!" Emma held her arms over her head and tried to keep her mouth shut. He kicked her side, and she was unable to stop herself crying out in pain. Her cry brought Carl back to his senses. He looked down at her in horror. His thoughts were in a whirl and sweat was pouring down his face and his back. He felt as if he were two people—one a monster who did such things, the other a man whose world was falling apart and who was pleading for help. Completely bewildered by his own behaviour, he pulled Emma up by her arm and almost threw her back onto her chair, where she just caught herself from falling off. She bent over in pain, and was breathing in short, noisy gasps. Carl stood for a few minutes with his back to her, his arms crossed, trying to catch his breath and staring at the place on the wall where the print of the rose had hung. He had never before attacked anyone so viciously. Was he going mad? At that idea, he put the blame on her—why did she have to provoke him? How long was she going to go on like this? Finally he turned around but avoided looking at her. "You have no choice but to change your ideas or you'll have to undergo much worse

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treatment," he said crossly, though his anger was not directed at her this time. Emma was taking shallow breaths because of a sharp pain in her side, and had difficulty speaking. "I-I can't change m-my ideas, Sir," she replied, "I c-can't turn m-my back on God. How c-can a person choose to return to d-darkness once they've known His light?" He had no idea what she was talking about, and this only added to his distress. He went back to his seat behind the desk. "You're going back to your cell," he said wearily, "You'd better consider turning to the light of the Protection before it's too late!" He pressed the intercom switch and called Janssen to take Number 143 back to her cell. When they had gone, he crossed his arms on his desk and buried his face in them. ! ! ! Towards the end of the second week of counselling Emma Winston, Carl decided that he would have to find some other approach if he was to get anywhere with her. He needed to discuss her case with someone else, but he found himself reluctant to talk it over with any of the other Counsellors, or even the Department Head. He was acutely aware that having a woman counsellee assigned to him had caused him to become an object of ridicule at the Institute. Everyone knew that Lancaster had demoted him on the same night that he'd commended Matt Lewis. The worst of it was that, apart from his failures earlier in the year and then his failure with Chester Brown, he had no idea what he done that he had ended up on the wrong side of the Chief. Other Counsellors who'd failed—more often than he had, even—were still working as usual. The other, and perhaps more compelling, reason for his reluctance to consult with his colleagues, were his doubts about the Protection itself. He could hardly confide his waverings to hard-line Protectioners! In the end he made up his mind to talk about Emma Winston's case with Andrew again. Andrew—the faithful friend who kept picking him up whenever he went to pieces! He could tell him anything and he was never betrayed, even when Andrew was angry with him. Andrew would listen, and he would think about it, and he might even have some answers. Andrew was a gentle man who took an interest in people and was always ready and willing to lend a hand, a very rare thing in the Protectorate. It never occurred to Carl to wonder why Andrew was the way he was, though he'd sometimes puzzled about how he got away with so much apparently "Crooked Thinking" in his kind of job. Andrew was the one true friend he had and he was simply grateful for him. The other good reason for consulting Andrew was that he'd been monitoring his sessions with Emma, and he'd monitored a large number of Carl's counselling assignments since they'd both arrived at the Institute five years before. He should be familiar with Carl's counselling procedures. 87

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Except that he hadn't exactly been using his usual procedure with Winston... It did occur to Carl then that it was perhaps strange that his career and Andrew's had been linked in one way or another even when they'd been moved from the Welfare Ministry to the Counselling Institute. He mused about this. Should it seem strange? It was almost as if someone had planned it that way. Was it just a coincidence that his closest friend should be the one monitoring his work? It struck him suddenly how painful it must be for Andrew to have that job. What kept him in the Police Force? For that matter, why did he stay on at the Institute? Andrew had agreed to meet him at the City Park after work. They walked along the lakeside in silence for a while, watching the water and the moorhens, until finally Carl began to talk. "Andrew, does your job ever get you down? Have you ever thought of changing jobs?" he asked his friend. "Not the way yours gets you down," Andrew replied, "but yes, I do find it extremely unpleasant at times. And yes, I've often wondered if I shouldn't change jobs." "What keeps you at the Institute, then? Aren't there any other options?" Andrew smiled as if he were privy to a secret that he wasn't about to share, but Carl's eyes were on the water of the Lake. "Oh, there are plenty of other options," Andrew said, "but so far I don't feel right about moving. It's hard to explain, but for the time being it seems I'm where I belong." Carl looked at him for a moment, puzzled by his answer. He sighed. "I, for one, am very glad that you're there," he said, "but sometimes I find it strange that almost from the start we've been teamed up in some way." "Perhaps you shouldn't worry about it and just make the most of it," Andrew replied, and laughed, much to Carl's annoyance. On a more serious note, he added, "But surely that's not what you wanted to talk about, is it?" Carl stopped at one of the picnic tables scattered throughout the Park. "You're right. What I need to talk about is my current counsellee and how to deal with her. Let's sit down, shall we?" They sat down, one on each side of the table. Carl had his back to the Lake, and he turned around on the bench, leaning back against the table, so he could face it. He gazed at the water and watched a small flotilla of ducks gliding past. "Andrew," he began, "you've seen how my sessions with Emma Winston have been going. You've seen me lose my temper more times than I care to remember. You've seen a side of me in those sessions that has no doubt horrified you—it's certainly horrified me. You can remember the course I put Chester Brown through and how I failed with him. Do you have any suggestions which might help me get through this course without failing?" He added in almost a whisper, "And without killing my counsellee?" Andrew had been tracing the patterns on the concrete table top with his finger as he listened to Carl. He continued to do so as he considered Carl's question. He didn't answer for some minutes. 88

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At last he got up and walked around to Carl's side of the table, his hands in his trouser pockets. "Well, Mate, I don't know if my comments can help you or not," he said at last, "but I'll give them to you, for all they're worth, since you ask." He stood half-facing the Lake, half-facing Carl. His friend continued gazing at the water. "Point one," he said, "It's pretty obvious to me that Emma Winston is not going to budge, no matter what you do to her—and you haven't exhausted the possibilities, as you know. But this is my first comment, Carl—you are going to fail, as you put it. You're not going to succeed in getting her to deny her faith. You're going to have to cope with that. I may be wrong, of course, but to me, her position looks no different from Chester Brown's. I think you said as much yourself back on the first day." Having hoped for some words of encouragement from Andrew, Carl was dismayed at hearing the opposite. His heart sank as he realized that he had to agree with Andrew's analysis. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his head on his hands as if it ached. "Surely it can't be that hopeless," he said, knowing full well that it was. Emma Winston was a rock-steady believer. "Don't you think there's some approach I haven't tried that just might work?" he asked Andrew. "Point two," Andrew said quietly, not answering him, "Your uncontrollable temper keeps getting in your way, it keeps fouling everything up. Unless you can master it, Carl, you'll end up killing either yourself or your counsellee, or both. Forty is still too young to die of a heart attack, you know... or worse... And as you know, a dead counsellee isn't likely to get you back into the Chief's good books, either!" "Andrew!" Carl jumped up and grabbed his friend's shoulders, "You know I've tried and tried and tried to control my anger! I can't do it! Just when I think I've finally achieved it something happens and it's worse than ever! That last session with the Winston woman, this morning—I thought I'd finally managed to stay calm for a whole session, and I even thought she was beginning to actually pay attention. And what did she go and do? She quoted all this stuff from her Bible which contradicted everything I'd just said! She just sat there and lectured me with it!" He flung up his arms in exasperation, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and scowled at the ground. "You saw how I reacted to that..." he said despondently. Andrew came up and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, I saw," he said, "She's got two awful black eyes now, and probably a whopping headache..." Carl was startled to feel his friend shudder. "My point still stands, though," Andrew continued, "and you've only confirmed it. Your quick temper is a big handicap." He paused, then added, "And may I suggest that you try and keep calm while we're out in the open, what's more." Carl walked down to the edge of the lake. The dark water was lapping the bank in little oily waves. He crouched down, picked up a pebble and

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tried to skip it across the water, unsuccessfully. The pebble just sank. He sighed deeply. Andrew joined him by the water's edge and stood watching him. He did not stand up, but continued trying to skip pebbles. "Have you ever considered suicide, Andrew?" he suddenly asked, quietly, "Have you ever felt that your life had become so unbearable that the only thing you could possibly do was to end it?" What's he leading to? Andrew wondered, taken by surprise by the question. "No," he answered, "I can't say I have. Have you?" "Yes." Carl kept throwing in pebbles, some of which skipped many times, some of which just disappeared into the water. He didn't say any more, and Andrew waited to see if he would. After a while Carl looked up at him. "I was just thinking that perhaps that would be best, you know—to let myself sink beneath the surface of the Lake, like the pebbles that get to the end of their skipping. I don't mean that literally—I'm a coward and drowning is too much of a challenge. I'd make it an overdose of sleeping tablets. Sink beneath the surface of sleep. Go to bed and never wake up again." He threw in a pebble, hard. "No more having to face Lancaster." Another pebble. "No more having to cope with my temper." A third one. "No more having to deal with Emma Winston..." As he said her name, he became aware, with a shock, that he actually liked Emma Winston and her strong faith. He became aware that the last thing he wanted was for her to deny her faith. He wanted her to remain rock-steady. He liked her faith. He liked her. He stood up hastily. He now felt even more bewildered than ever. This was a complication he had never expected. Andrew was silent. He felt Carl's anguish pierce his heart. He himself had never got to such a low point that suicide seemed desirable. The very idea made him feel sick. Yet here was his best friend actually talking about killing himself, and the tone of his voice convinced him that it wasn't idle talk. To Andrew, ever the optimist, Carl's situation didn't look anywhere near that disastrous. It was clear to him, however, that Carl saw it very differently. He was not aware, of course, of the complications to which Carl had just then woken up. Carl sighed again, and stared out over the lake. Feeling quite incapable of facing it, he pushed his new dilemma to the back of his mind, and returned to the question of suicide. "It happened when I was counselling Brown, too," he said, "I even worked out the dose I'd need and bought the tablets." He smiled wryly at Andrew. "Do you know what stopped me?" he asked. His friend shook his head, his dark eyes watching Carl with compassion. "What stopped you?" he asked softly. "It was knowing that you and Denise were expecting me to come for dinner that evening. That Chris and Elsie were looking forwards to my visit. That's what stopped me. And that's what's stopping me now, Andrew. It's

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you and your family. You, and Denise, and your children—you're my link with sanity. I-I guess you're my family!" As he blurted out the last words, Carl turned and started walking rapidly along the shore. He didn't want Andrew to see the tears which had suddenly come to his eyes. Andrew followed him, almost running to try and keep up. It was already evening, and the sun was low near the horizon. The sky had clothed itself in tangerine robes and the train of them spread itself over the Lake. There were few people in the Park now, and presently Carl slowed down and Andrew caught up with him. He sat down on a bench and Andrew sat down next to him. "There are no two sunsets alike, ever, anywhere in the world," Carl mused out loud, "Isn't that incredible? The same goes for sunrises. How can that be? How many sunsets and sunrises have there been since the beginning of time? No two alike, ever... I love watching the sun rise in the morning, Andrew. Dawn is my favourite time of day. And yet, these days, I find myself dreading the sunrise, because it means another day full of confusion..." Andrew said nothing. Carl sighed yet again. "Denise will be wondering what's happened to us, Andrew," he said, "But before we go, I'd like to ask you to finish your comments, if you don't mind." Andrew took a deep breath. Carl didn't like leaving anything unfinished, did he? Every time they gave a concert, each piece had to be practised to perfection beforehand. A story read to Chris and Elsie had to be finished in one go. Even suicide had to be planned properly! The only thing Carl never completed was tidying up his flat. Neatness was unimportant to him. So he wanted to finish off their discussion about the sessions with Emma Winston. "Well... All right," Andrew said, "I had been wondering—why haven't you got the Carer to deal with Winston? It's the normal practice, after all." "The Carer in charge of her is Cecilia Janssen," Carl replied, shuddering, "I can't stand her, and she obviously hates my guts. I've never had any problem before with handing a counsellee over for treatment. But I have to admit, and to you I can admit it: Over the course of Brown's counselling I began to feel uncomfortable about it—to feel guilty, perhaps? It's common knowledge that Janssen's a sadist. She'd take great pleasure in lashing into Emma Winston, I'm sure. I find the whole idea of handing Winston over to Janssen quite repulsive. In fact, I find the idea of handing over any counsellee to a Carer quite repulsive now. I went through some of the CDs of Brown's treatment one morning last week..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I had no idea, Andrew, until then," he said slowly, "of what that man went through, of what any of my counsellees went through. I had no idea..." "Ah," Andrew said, "I see..." Carl gave him a puzzled glance. He thought briefly about his sudden discovery of his feelings about Emma Winston, but decided he couldn't talk 91

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about that with anyone, not even Andrew. "And anyway," he added, bitterly, "as you've seen, I'm quite capable of doing my own dirty work!" "Mmmmm..." was all Andrew said. He stood up and paced back and forth in front of the bench. "Look, Carl, I have a suggestion," he said, "I think this is an approach you've never used and which might be worth trying. Why don't you ask her about her religion? Let her tell you about it. Ask her questions. Then you'll have something to work from when you go to tell her about Protection teaching. Start off with her own beliefs." Carl was skeptical. "Isn't that a bit risky?" he asked, "What if she ends up converting me, instead?" To his surprise, Andrew laughed. "I don't think that will happen! I don't think she can convince you!" He patted Carl on the shoulder. "Come on," he said, "We'd better get on home, it's getting dark and you need to have some dinner before curfew."

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Chapter 12 "Miss Winston," Carl began when Emma had sat down, "this is now the third week of counselling for you, and you have yet to submit to the Protection and admit that the Protection is right and you are wrong." He paused a few seconds to let her consider his words, then resumed, "Today you're going to tell me about those beliefs to which you hold onto so tenaciously. You'll answer my questions. Do you understand?" "I think so, Sir," Emma replied, "You want me to tell you about faith in Jesus Christ." She was glad to be given the opportunity to talk about her faith, but she was wary. What was Counsellor Slade up to? She prayed in her heart for wisdom, for the right words to use. Carl cleared his throat and began his questioning. "To start with," he said, "you were brought here from a secret meeting of Rebels. As you know, these meetings are specifically forbidden by law. Yet they keep taking place. And I gather from our sources that you're a regular member of these meetings. This was only one of many such meetings we've broken up. Why do you people persist in getting together like this when the risk is obvious?" "Because it's expressly commanded in God's Word," Emma replied, "that we are to meet together regularly to worship Him, to encourage each other, to be taught, to pray together, and to share the Lord's Supper." "To share the Lord's Supper? What's that?" Carl asked. "It's like a meal that believers have together to remember that Jesus died for our sins and shed His blood for our sakes," she explained, "We share bread and wine. Well, it's supposed to be wine, but it's usually grape juice or even blackcurrant juice, or whatever closest thing to wine we happen to have on hand. Real wine is way too expensive." "That doesn't sound like a very satisfying meal to me." "We don't have it for the food. It's the getting together and remembering that's important, because Jesus told us to do it to remember Him and that He died for us. In fact, before the Protectorate started we used to have an ordinary meal all together before we shared the Lord's Supper. It was part of a real meal. Some of us—like my brother and his wife and me, for example—some of us share the Lord's Supper after our midday meal on Sundays." To Carl it seemed like a quaint custom, but he couldn't see that it was worth risking everything just to maintain it, and he told her so. "But you see, Sir," she pointed out, "Jesus Himself commanded us to do this. We do it out of obedience to Him." "But in so doing you're deliberately disobeying the laws of our country!" he exclaimed, "How can you justify that?" "We must obey God rather than man's laws if the two come into conflict," she answered evenly, "and Jesus Christ being God, it is Him we must obey when human laws contradict His commands."

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This sort of thinking was baffling to Carl, who had spent so many years meticulously following man's laws out of his fear of rejection. "You seem very sure of the existence of this God you talk about," he said, "How can you believe so firmly?" "Because it's the truth, Sir," she replied, "Christianity is the only faith that fits the facts." This statement puzzled Carl considerably. "The facts?" he asked, "What do you mean?" "Sir," she answered, "the facts are, for example: One, that the universe exists, in all its beauty and complexity; two, that human beings exist and are different from animals in that they are conscious of their existence and they are able to appreciate the beauty of the universe; three, that people at heart are depraved yet they long for what is good but are unable to achieve it because evil has a hold on them. God—" "Wait a minute," Carl interrupted, "Why do you say that people are depraved?" "Isn't it obvious? Given a choice, we opt for war and crime, rather than peace and justice; we choose to get rich and powerful no matter whom we crush in the process; we'd rather sit in our Fantasy Dreamers than reach out to people who might end up hurting us; we push ahead to be first, to have all the advantages. We're all utterly selfish, all evil at heart, don't you see?" No, no, she can't be right! Carl's mind objected as that question came up again in his thoughts. He did not like to be included in her description of the depravity of human beings. Only people like Janssen and Lancaster, who took pleasure in inflicting suffering on others, were depraved. Only evil people, those who enjoyed evil, were depraved. He didn't consider himself an evil man. Evil gave him no pleasure at all. "Why do you keep saying 'we'?" he exclaimed with exasperation, "This is your religion, not mine, not that of my colleagues. Speak for yourself!" "I can only speak the truth, Sir," Emma replied, "and it doesn't depend on whether you're a Christian or not. The truth is that every one of us human beings is evil at heart and selfish unless Jesus saves us." "What about people who aren't selfish, then?" he asked irritably, "People who do reach out to others—even when those people hurt them— who don't make wealth or power their goals, who are kind and generous?" People like Andrew and Denise, he thought. "I know people like that. Do you call them depraved, too?" "Are they like that all the time?" Emma asked gently, "Maybe they're Christians. Or perhaps they're like that only when you're around them... But what about when you don't see them? Do you know what they're like then? Do you know their secret thoughts? Maybe they steal, or lie, or lose their tempers, or commit adultery—" "Adultery?" Without thinking, in his frustration Carl latched onto that topic for argument. "'Adultery' is a Crooked Term, Miss Winston. This is the Protectorate, not the Middle Ages!"

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"Oh, Mr. Slade, I'm well aware that Sexual Celebration is part of Protection policy. It was pretty much the policy in all the West by the turn of the century!" Although she had no way of guessing it, Emma actually knew far more about history than Counsellor Slade did. "That doesn't make it right! Tell me why, Sir," she went on, "if everyone is free to have sex with whomever they wish, people still get married. And why do they still get divorced when one or the other spouse is unfaithful? Why is it that so many people are heartbroken when their spouse or lover leaves them for someone else, and so on? There is a Law which we all know about, deep down, and by that Law, which is God's, sex with anyone other than one's spouse is still wrong! Do you know why? When a man and a woman come together they become 'one flesh', as we're told in the Bible." Emma spoke quietly but earnestly, echoing words Jack had once spoken in a sermon on marriage. "That means they are in essence one being. God has joined them together. To separate them and join them to someone else is like cutting each one in half. Can you understand from that what promiscuity does to a person?" Carl gazed at her uneasily. She didn't know about his feelings on the subject, of course. She had no way of knowing that on this subject, anyway, he agreed with her, though to his continued confusion he could no more explain now why he felt the way he did about it than he could when he was fifteen. Nor could he explain how his convictions had survived thirty-six years of indoctrination quite opposed to them. He normally avoided the subject the way one might avoid a man-eating tiger, and he dearly wished it hadn't come up, in a counselling session of all places. However, he still had a job to do. He couldn't let his personal opinions get in the way when counselling. To do so could be very dangerous for him. "Miss Winston, those instances you mention are aberrations. No-one," he lied, "except for such exceptions, and, it would seem, Rebels and their ilk, believes in so-called faithfulness. It isn't healthy, it means repressing quite natural desires, it short-circuits perfect communication in relationships." Who are you trying to fool? he asked himself. "Mr. Slade," Emma asked quietly, "in your experience does 'sleeping around' or attending Pleasure Houses make you healthier, improve your relationships, particularly with your wife? In short does it make you happy and fulfilled?" Carl felt his face redden. "I'm not married!" he snapped, "None of the Counsellors are! And I don't 'sleep around', as you put it!" He did not like the way this discussion had gone—it had got rather personal. He was annoyed, too, that he'd felt the need to deny her assumptions. He decided it was time to get back to the question of her faith. He glared at her coldly. "Miss Winston, I'm here to question you, not the other way around," he said angrily, "Kindly get back to telling me about your faith. Explain it to me. Explain how you can be so convinced of it." He emphasised the last words by slapping the desktop. Emma sighed. She'd been surprised by his denials. She had assumed that as a Protectioner he lived according to Protection teachings. If he did not, perhaps he might not be as sold on them as she'd thought he was. 95

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"Mr. Slade, I don't know how much you know about Christianity, about God, about Jesus Christ," she pointed out, "I'm not sure where to start." "Assume I know nothing," he replied. Which is pretty much the case, he added to himself. "Well, the basic thing is that God is, He exists," she said, "He's eternal, that is, He's always existed and always will. He's all-powerful—there's nothing that's impossible for Him. He's good—there's no evil in Him and He hates evil. He created the whole universe, everything in it, out of nothing." "How can you be so certain about that?" Carl asked, "Show me this God you talk about. If He really exists, why have I never seen Him?" "God is a spirit, Sir, we can't see Him. He tells us in His Word, even, in the Bible, that no-one can see Him and live. Think about it—He made the whole universe, all those galaxies, all those huge distances." Emma didn't know that Counsellor Slade knew almost as little about the universe as he did about her religion. His education had been very narrow, and he had almost never had access to information outside the confines of Welfare Officer training. "Think of the enormous size of the universe!" she continued eagerly, "He's greater than all of that! Even if He were visible, how could we possibly see Him?" Emma spoke animatedly and Carl was dismayed to realise again that he found her enthusiasm appealing. Her words aroused that aching longing in him—a yearning for something outside himself, outside the Protection, something solid and dependable and unchanging, but he felt quite unprepared to cope with what he saw only as more confusion and that he knew could only be a danger to him. He reacted by being on the defensive. "Keep to the point, would you?" he said irritably, "And stop shouting, I'm not deaf!" Emma stared at him, disconcerted. Hadn't she been doing just that, keeping to the point? Wasn't God the point? What did this man want? And had she been shouting? "Well, Sir," she said, somewhat timidly, "as I said, God is good and He hates evil. Now, we human beings love evil and so we've made ourselves enemies of God. But God loves us—He made us, and He loves us." She was warming to her subject again. "He ought to hate us and just throw the lot of us into hell because we prefer evil to Him, and justice—His justice—demands that evil be punished. But because He loves us He wanted to give us a chance, a chance to turn to Him away from evil and to love Him back, and that's where Jesus Christ comes in..." "There you go again, you keep saying 'we'!" Carl said testily, "I told you before: Speak for yourself!" Once again she stared at him. It seemed to her that although he'd asked her about her faith, he didn't really want to know. He was afraid to know. He was blind and he was afraid to see. She prayed silently for him. Oh Lord, please open his eyes, let him see You, let him hear Your call, show Him that You are real and that You love him. Her gaze made Carl uncomfortable—it felt to him as if she were reading his thoughts. This session just was not at all going the way he had hoped, 96

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admittedly against hope, that it might. His counsellee was not showing any hint of uncertainty about what she believed. If anything, she was reinforcing not only her own beliefs but also his doubts. Emma looked down at the floor and tried to recover her train of thought. "There's no way for human beings to be reconciled to God without being punished for their evil." she said, looking up at Carl again, "However, the punishment for our evil is to be left in it, forever separated from God. That's hell. That makes it impossible for us to turn to Him. So God made a way. He took the punishment on Himself. He became a man, the man Jesus, and as representative of the whole human race, Jesus took upon Himself the evil and the punishment for it. He was nailed to a cross and died physically. And He also went through the spiritual death that is our punishment. It-it's hard to explain this. But you see, because He's God, it couldn't destroy Him. He defeated it. But because Jesus shed His blood for us, we can be saved from that love for evil." Emma smiled warmly at him. If only he could understand that Jesus had died for him too! It was Carl's turn to stare. He definitely did not understand. And he'd never had a counsellee smile at him before. "That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard," he said at last, "For one thing, if this God of yours is so great and mighty, how could He possibly become a man? He wouldn't fit inside a man!" He stood up and came round to the front of his desk, closer to her. He noticed that she did not smell too good, and he wondered when she had last had a wash. It did make it easier for him to be further annoyed. "I've had enough of this nonsense," he said crossly, "You can go back to your cell and we'll resume the standard procedure tomorrow." "But, Sir, you haven't let me finish explaining it to you properly!" Emma exclaimed, jumping up and facing him. Carl slammed his fist down on his desk in exasperation. "I'm the one who decides when you finish, not you!" he barked. "But you said you wanted to—" "Shut up!" he yelled, and slapped her hard across the face. Oh, no! No! Here I go again... Emma had fallen back onto her chair from the force of his blow. She held both hands over her face and wept silently. He moved away from her, switched on his intercom and called for Carer Janssen. When she arrived, he pointed to Emma. "Take her back to her cell," he ordered, "And get her washed, would you! She stinks!" "Yes, Sir," Janssen took Emma's arm roughly and dragged her away. Carl shut his door. He pulled up the blind behind his desk and looked out over the Park and the Lake. There were few people in the Park at this time of day—almost everyone worked. He could see a couple of elderly women sitting on a bench talking together, and another one walking a small child. There was no wind and the waters of the Lake were calm. How he longed for stillness in himself! He sat down on the top of the counter and listened

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again to that quiet voice he was becoming used to hearing after every session with Emma Winston: What if she's right? But how could she be right? The things she said sounded quite crazy. What was this Spirit she talked about? How could the Creator of the universe—if there even was such a being—be interested in such minute denizens of the universe as human beings? As to becoming a man Himself, well, it all sounded like a fairy tale! And besides, he, Carl Slade, did not love evil, he hated it. Why else had he become a Welfare Officer? And then again, if he didn't love evil, why couldn't he find peace? Why was he feeling increasingly uncomfortable—dare he say guilty?—about his work? If only he could convince Winston of the error of what she believed. Maybe then he would also see more clearly? But what if the error was his, not hers? He thought he'd gone through all this when he was counselling Chester Brown, yet it seemed he was no further along in sorting out his confusion. He had taken out his flute and he polished it lightly with his handkerchief as he mused. Then he sat there with it in his hands, staring at it, considering. Why did he find making music with the flute such a comfort? The Redouté print was still in his flute case. He put his flute down on the desk, took the print out and looked at it. Why did he enjoy beauty? Why did he like Emma Winston? What if she is right? Unable to answer his own questions, he rolled up the print and replaced it in the flute case. For the next half hour or so he played his flute, and it seemed to him that it would always be like this, that he would never have any answers to those questions.

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Ross Lancaster sat in his office on the top floor of the Counselling Institute and watched the recordings of Emma's first two weeks of counselling sessions. He did not like what he saw and heard. Here was another obstinate counsellee, and the way Counsellor Slade was handling the sessions it looked like she might well end up at the Experimental Farm like Slade's previous client, the old man. Why had Cecilia pestered him to assign Winston to Counsellor Slade? It would only mess up the Institute record further, from what he could see. On the other hand, he would have thought that Slade would have had this woman converted in no time. It wasn't as if he were a new recruit! Of course, Ross Lancaster had never tried to convert a believer to the Protection's way of thinking. He had attained his position as head of the Counselling Institute through his connections with President Denson, not by his counselling skills. However, he was in the habit of bullying opponents out of his way, and he expected his Counsellors to work under the same principle. He could never identify with the frustration experienced by those who, like Carl, attempt to move a mountain with a teaspoon rather than a bulldozer. Disguised as numbers, the Chief's easily-overcome obstacles, such as the counsellees assigned to the likes of Matt Lewis, looked most impressive on a chart of Institute statistics. On the other hand, the mountains, like Chester Brown and Emma Winston, remained steadfast and ended up displayed on the charts as "Sent to the Experimental Farm." Every number in that particular column Lancaster saw as a personal affront from the Counsellor responsible for it. It looked very much like Counsellor Slade was about to add another one. That would be two in a row from him. Five in one year! Lancaster remembered an incident about two years before, when one of the Counsellors, instead of converting her client, had been herself converted to her counsellee's Christian faith. As happened to all traitors to the Protectorate, she had been sentenced to death, without trial, and shot the next day at dawn in a public execution. Counsellor Slade would have to be very careful indeed—too many failures and he might start to wonder about his counsellees' beliefs. The Chief did not want another traitor in the Institute—such a blot on the Institute's record would not endear him to President Denson. "Have you got the recording of the first session, Officer?" he asked the man from the Monitoring Centre who had brought the CDs. "No, Sir," Officer Wang answered, "It wasn't in the file, so I looked it up in the log. It was entered as 'defective'. It happens now and then, Sir. Defective CDs are usually destroyed." "Who was monitoring that session, do you know?"

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"I think Lieutenant Parker's been monitoring all of them, Sir," Wang answered cautiously. He wouldn't want the Chief to think he himself had been doing it. "Another bungler! You'd think he would have checked the disc before using it!" "One can't always tell just from looking at a disc, Sir," Officer Wang reminded him. "I expect it was much the same as these sessions, anyway," Lancaster shrugged, "Not exactly an improvement on his sessions with that old bloke." A thought struck him. "Now, why hasn't he had the Carer in yet to deal with that woman?" Wang shrugged but didn't answer. This wasn't his area of expertise. Lancaster went to his compufiler and called up Carer Janssen's reports on Emma Winston. He studied them for a moment, then looked up and saw that Officer Wang was still there. "You're dismissed, Officer," he said, "Replace the discs in the MC file." "Yes, Sir." Wang saluted, picked up the discs, and left the room. "Send me Carer Janssen from Women's," Lancaster ordered over his intercom. While he waited he continued reading Janssen's reports. Emma Winston was certainly an obstinate woman, he thought. It was about time she'd been brought to the Institute, but it would take quite an effort to make her change her ideas. Again he wondered why Janssen had urged him to assign Winston to Counsellor Slade. He'd agreed with her that Slade needed taking down a notch—although as he thought about it, he couldn't quite remember why. He didn't much like Slade, but until this year the man had been doing his job quite competently, and he never gave any trouble. But never mind, Slade was an odd one anyway and it was about time he was challenged in certain areas. It did puzzle him, though, that Janssen had insisted so much—did she have something against Counsellor Slade, perhaps? He might probe her on that sometime... His door buzzer sounded, and he let Carer Janssen into his office. He motioned to her to come over to where he sat next to his compufiler. She approached him in the suggestive manner which he usually found amusing. "What's on your mind, Ross?" she asked silkily, sat down on the arm of his chair and put an arm around his neck. He pushed her away and stood up. He was not in that sort of mood. It even crossed his mind that he was getting tired of Cecilia Janssen. Six years plus was a long time. He walked to his desk and sat down on the edge of it. "This counsellee, Emma Winston, who's in your charge," he said gruffly, "how long do you reckon it will take her to come good?" Janssen was surprised at the question. She took off her dark glasses and shrugged. "Hard to say, but it doesn't look promising at the moment, does it?" she replied, "Of course, Counsellor Slade for some reason hasn't yet asked me to deal with her..." "Why do you think it doesn't look promising?"

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"The way Winston's behaving in her cell. She's set herself some sort of routine, and she doesn't appear to be prone to the fits of depression the other women have. I've forbidden her to sing, but that doesn't seem to faze her." "Ah! She likes music, does she?" Lancaster sneered, "Well, well, well! Looks like we'll have to give her some, my dear Celia." He made it clear by his tone what he meant by "music". He didn't have in mind the kind played by Counsellor Slade's trio. "I think I get your meaning, Ross," Janssen said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Something her dear little spinster's heart will just love, huh, something with a nice, strong beat? Something suggestive? Or perhaps something to make her think of what Counsellor Slade might do to her?" She had moved to his side and was stroking his arm. Lancaster had noticed the disgust with which she had said Slade's name. So, she does have something against the man, he thought. He wondered what that might be. Perhaps she played a double game? He lifted her chin roughly with his finger, and she let out a whimper of pain which he ignored. "That sounds like just what she needs, my dear," he said, "Loud music. Loud, noisy music. With a heavy beat. With interesting lyrics. Twenty-four hours a day. Starting now!" He said the last words forcefully, at the same time propelling her towards the door with a well-aimed spanking. Janssen turned around and scowled at him as she reached the door, and put her glasses back on. He gestured with his arm for her to leave quickly as he pressed the switch for the door. She walked out and he slid the door shut and locked it. Left alone, Lancaster asked the compufiler for Counsellor Slade's records. Something was amiss here. Why was it that Janssen seemed to hate the man? ! ! ! Emma finished the lunchtime bowlful of indeterminate mush and sat down to wait for her bowl to be collected. She ached all over from the beatings she had received through the two weeks, and from the pain in her side which made it hard to breathe she deduced that she had a broken rib. Probably from when Counsellor Slade kicked me, she figured. Her determination to stand firm had not abated, however, and she realised that this sort of treatment, or worse, could well go on for weeks. The thought frightened her The panel slid open and she handed the dish to the guard. Then she sat down again and tried to concentrate on praying. Her thoughts were in turmoil. Would she be able to hold on through weeks of this? She was scared of Counsellor Slade and his unpredictable fits of rage. Again she asked God to get her through, to keep her faith strong no matter what.

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The door slid open and Carer Janssen shouted at her to get up. "You're to have a wash," she said, pointing in the opposite direction from the usual down the tiled corridor, "Walk ahead of me." Emma felt relieved at the thought of being able to get clean. She had never been so long without a bath or shower before, and she could well imagine that she mustn't be smelling too good. Her skin felt uncomfortable and itchy as well, and her hair was tangled and matted with sweat and grease. They didn't go very far this time before they stopped and Janssen pushed her roughly through another doorway. Emma found herself in a room much like her cell but with a shower rose on one wall and a drain in the far corner. The tap for the shower was by the door, not near the shower itself. A large, uncovered, metal box also stood by the door. Janssen handed her a bar of soap. "Strip and shower," she ordered, "Put your dirty clothes in the box and put on those." She pointed to another track suit hanging on a hook on the other side of the door. Emma waited for her to leave, but it seemed the woman had no intention of doing so. She just stood with her hands on her hips, staring at Emma. "What are you waiting for? Get a move on!" she barked, prodding her with the stunner again, "Do you think you get the luxury of privacy here?" Emma removed her shoes and placed them near the door. Then, with her back to Janssen and trying to pretend to herself that she was alone, she took off the tracksuit she was wearing and put it in the barrel. Janssen turned on the shower, then turned to look at her prisoner. "Well, well," she sneered as she saw the many bruises on Emma's body. She grabbed Emma's arm and swung her around to face her, and looked her up and down. "Pity Counsellor Slade isn't here to see his handiwork!" she added, leering, and pushed Emma under the shower. Emma gasped—the water was very cold! She shivered and gritted her teeth, but stayed under the shower, keeping her back to the Carer. As quickly as she could, she washed herself, soaped her hair, then rinsed off. Janssen continued to comment rudely on her body and its injuries but she tried to concentrate on other things so as not to listen to her. The guard turned the water off as soon as she had finished, and Emma suddenly realised she hadn't seen any sign of a towel. Without looking at Janssen, she handed her the soap, rubbed as much of the water off herself as she could, and put on the clean uniform and the sneakers. Carer Janssen pushed her out as the door slid open, prodded her with the stunner again, and walked her back to cell 143. As her door slid shut, Emma sat down on the mat and removed her shoes. She was still wet, but she breathed a prayer of thanks for having been able to get clean. Despite Carer Janssen's attempt to humiliate her, she felt in a much better frame of mind. She combed her hair with her fingers, doing her best to get rid of the many tangles. All of a sudden the speaker in the ceiling came to life. A loud noise which after a moment she recognized as some currently popular music with a heavy beat blared out. It was not at all the type of music she liked, and 102

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she found it especially unpleasant, this loud! The music was almost deafening, and as it bounced around the tiled walls of her cell it was nightmarish. She put her hands over her ears, but her arms soon tired of the effort. As the hours went by there was no hint of the noise being stopped. How long is this going to go on? she wondered, Are they going to try and drive me mad? She tried hard to pray, to sing, to remember Scriptures, but the music just seemed to reverberate in her head and it effectively prevented her concentrating on anything. Soon her inability to think was joined by a throbbing headache. The evening chunk of bread was thrown into her cell, and still the music continued. She started to eat her bread in the usual way, breaking off small pieces and chewing them slowly. After a few mouthfuls, she was about to put another one in her mouth when she had an idea. She stared at the bread in her hand. It was a godsend. Had her evening meal been anything else, it wouldn't have worked. Hoping she wasn't being observed on the video system, Emma broke off and stuffed a piece of bread into each ear. As she had hoped, this greatly reduced the intensity of the noise, and with great relief she felt that she would probably have a chance to sleep. She was also able to pray and even to remember some verses before closing her eyes. With tears in her eyes, she thanked the Lord for the gift of the bread. In the morning Carer Janssen was dismayed and angered to find that her prisoner had been able to sleep despite the music. Emma was thankful that Janssen did not notice her "earplugs" when she came to wake her up. She removed them and threw them into the covered bucket before Janssen came back to fetch her for the counselling session. ! ! ! As soon as Counsellor Slade's office door had shut, Emma asked him about the music. "Sir," she said as courteously as she could, "Why have you had them put that awful noise on in my cell? Carl was surprised at her question. What was she talking about? He hadn't had anything done in her cell. The only order he had given about her was that she be given a wash. He wondered what was going on. "What are you talking about?" he asked, frowning at her. "The noise in my cell! The so-called music that's been coming over the speaker in my cell since yesterday afternoon! Are you trying to make me go mad?" He stared at her uncomprehendingly, annoyed that here was something being done to his counsellee that he didn't know about. It must be an order from Lancaster, he thought, Why is he doing this? He sighed. He couldn't let her know that he didn't know about it. He did not answer her question. "Stand over there by the wall," he ordered, waving his hand toward the panelled wall where the Redouté print had once hung.

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Emma did as he told her, and stood with her back to the wall, but she wondered why he hadn't answered her. Carl got up from his desk and went to stand in front of her. He crossed his arms and considered her for a moment, and she tried not to look apprehensive. "I suppose that you're aware that the religion you follow is over two thousand years old?" he asked, finally. This bit of information he had gleaned from Andrew, although he had been somewhat surprised that his friend should know such a thing. "Yes, Sir, I know that," she replied. "How can you believe that such an antique is relevant today, in the Protectorate?" Carl asked, and was only mildly surprised to realise that he was actually interested to know. "'Heaven and earth shall pass away, but My Words shall never pass away.'" Emma replied quietly, "That's what Jesus said, Sir, and He meant that His Words would always be relevant." "But this Jesus died some two thousand years ago!" Carl exclaimed. "He died, but He didn't stay dead," she replied, "He rose from the dead on the third day after He was crucified. Just as God had said He would. He died but He isn't dead." "You really believe that He rose from the dead?" Carl said, "That doesn't happen! Even now, with all the advances of science at our disposal, people can't be brought back to life once they've died! How can you believe such rubbish!" Carl was aware that his temper had already begun to fray and he had barely started the session. He was tired—tired of trying to convince Emma Winston of something he no longer believed, tired of the nightmares that kept him from sleep, tired of the questions that raced around his mind unanswered, tired of Ross Lancaster interfering with his work, tired of losing his temper. He was utterly weary. He found her calm exasperating, if only because it was such a challenge to his own lack of it. And Emma couldn't let his statement stand. "For God it isn't impossible to bring someone back to life," she said, "and Jesus Himself is God—so you can see that He certainly wasn't going to remain dead! All life comes from Him!" "But what proof can you have of all this?" Carl asked, "You can't just believe such ideas without any proof, surely?" "It isn't a matter of proof, Sir, it's a matter of faith, of taking God at His word, of believing God, believing God's Word!" Oh, here we go again, Carl thought, she's going to quote her Bible at me again! "So what Word of God do you believe about this, then?" he asked irritably. "'I know that my Redeemer lives.'" She said it quietly, looking straight at Carl and smiling, her eyes shining. It was too much for him. He resented her profession of faith, her complete assurance of its truth, her obvious delight in the words. Carl's feeble hold on his temper vanished. He slapped her face resoundingly, and 104

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his fury got the better of him and he slapped her again, and again, and again... until she fainted and slumped on the floor. But Carl had got to the very end of his tether. His anger had not abated, and he was almost mad with it. He went to his desk, poured out a glass of iced water from his decanter, and flung the water in Emma's face to revive her. She groaned and slowly sat up. He told her to stand up, which she did, slowly, leaning against the wall. She felt dizzy and sick and her face stung. Her ears were ringing and her head ached. Then Carl gave her an order which shook her considerably. "All right," he said ominously, "Strip. Now." He had no idea why he told her to do that. He'd never done that before to any counsellee, but then he'd never been assigned a female counsellee before, either. He also had no idea what he would do once she complied. But he was too furious to think rationally now. Emma only stared at him, horrified. She made no move to obey. "I said to strip," he yelled angrily, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her, "Don't you know what that means? Take your clothes off!" "Oh, Lord, not that," Emma cried out, "Please, God, stop him! Not that!" She had hardly blurted out the words when Carl's door buzzer sounded. He swung around to look at the door in astonishment, then turned and stared at Emma. I can't believe it, was all he could think, Her God answered her... He looked at the door again. It can't just be a coincidence... The buzzer sounded again, and Carl recovered himself and switched on the intercom. "What is it?" he asked curtly. "There's an urgent meeting for all Counsellors in the Department Head's office, Sir," the voice of one of the Institute clerks answered, "You are required to attend." "I'll be right there," he informed her, and switched the intercom to a different line. "Carer Janssen, fetch Number 143 to her cell." Emma was sitting on the floor by the wall, her hands over her face, weeping silently. Carl picked up his cap and stood looking at her thoughtfully a moment. His anger had flown and he wished he could undo what he had done. But he couldn't, and there was no way out of this situation except to send her to the Farm, and the thought of doing that to her was suddenly more than he could bear. He knew now that she was right, that Chester Brown had been right. Their God had answered her cry and stopped him. Did he need any more proof of His existence? Carl left the room, Emma Winston's voice echoing in his mind. "I know that my Redeemer lives!" ! ! ! Throughout the Department meeting, the subject of which he could never remember afterwards, the verse kept going through Carl's head in Emma's quiet but decisive voice. He kept remembering the look on her face when she had said it—that complete and joyful certainty. He kept longing 105

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for that same assurance. He kept trying to think of a way to avoid sending her to the Farm. And he felt as if he were surrounded by unscalable walls, with the answer to his longings far above them, beyond his reach. Through the afternoon, as he reviewed the recording of the session and as he wrote up his report, he couldn't keep his mind off the verse. He didn't dare discuss it with Andrew, and he avoided seeing him. Normally very rarely avoided his friend and he wasn't entirely sure why he was doing so now, but he didn't want to have to talk to him. He ate a small tea at the Institute, and then he drove straight home. He showered, changed into his nightclothes, and took out his flute, Emma's verse still taunting him. Even as he played his flute he thought of what Emma had said, and of how the counselling session had been interrupted. For the first time since all his doubts had started, he felt there just might be an alternative to the Protection teachings. But how to get to it? To God? He went to bed earlier than usual, but had trouble getting to sleep. Several times he dozed off only to start dreaming about the endless hospital corridors. He dreamt he was running down them shouting, "Emma, Emma, where is He? Where is He?" and woke up in a panic because he couldn't find either Emma or Him. After this happened for the third time he was so tense he couldn't hope to get back to sleep. He tossed and turned for a while, and finally got up. He looked at his watch. It was just after 10 o'clock, which meant it was an over an hour after curfew. Even a greenuniformed Police Counsellor was not allowed out after curfew without a pass. Yet Carl knew he needed to find some answers. Now. He had to know for sure before his next session counselling Emma Winston. Too bad about the curfew! he decided, I'll take the risk. He would go and visit Jack Winston, Emma's brother. If anyone should have answers, it would be him. He dressed in dark clothes and made his way stealthily out of the block of flats, going down the twelve flights of stairs rather than taking the lift. It was only two blocks to the Winston home, but the Enwuh electronic patrols were everywhere. He hoped he would not be seen.

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Despite the lateness of the hour, Jack and Rose Winston were still kneeling by the table in their living room, praying, as they did every evening. The heavy curtains over the windows were pulled shut, and the only light on in the room was the small lamp on the dining table. At this point they were praying for Emma and for the other members of their church who had been arrested with her. After two weeks, there still had been no news of any of them and Jack and Rose's hearts were heavy. There was a quiet knock on the front door. They looked at each other, stunned. "Who would be out at this time of night?" Rose whispered, "It's long after curfew!" Jack glanced towards the door. "Whoever it is has come to the front door, too..." he muttered softly. Rose got up, motioning to her husband to stay put. "I'll go, Jack," she whispered, "You keep praying." There was another knock, more insistent this time. Rose unlocked the door, and opened it just enough to see who was there. It was not a sliding door as was found in more recent buildings, but an old-fashioned type of door, on hinges, and which opened inward. The dim light coming out onto the porch through the door barely showed up their visitor. She did not recognize the man standing in the porch. "Good evening, can I help you?" she asked him, speaking very softly, "It's after curfew, you know." Carl just stared at her. His mind seemed to have gone blank. He couldn't answer her, and he felt like an idiot. He was afraid she would shut the door, which would be a reasonable thing to do since no one with any sense of self-preservation wanted to be caught breaking curfew. Even opening one's front door after nine o'clock at night was considered to be breaking curfew. He searched his mind hastily for something to say, a reason for being there, in vain. All he could think of was Emma's verse, and before he could stop himself, he blurted it out. "I-I-I know that my Redeemer lives!" He wasn't prepared for Rose's reaction, and it startled him. Her face lit up, she opened the door a little wider, reached out and pulled at his sleeve. "Please, please come in, quickly," she whispered urgently. Carl slipped through the door and she closed and locked it behind him. Then she turned to her husband, who was still kneeling by the table. She went over to him, glowing with excitement. "Jack! Jack!" she said in a loud whisper, "Jack, it's Job Nineteen! Do you realize—" Jack looked up as she called him and he caught sight of Carl standing just inside the door. He frowned briefly as he looked at their visitor, then got up and caught his wife's hand, squeezing it tightly. "Steady, Rose," he said quietly to her, and turned to smile at Carl. "Do you have news of

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Emma, then?" he asked, coming over to where Carl stood. Where do I know this man from? he wondered. Carl was again taken by surprise. What made them think he was bringing news of Emma? How had her name come up, anyway? He wondered about her words that he had repeated when Rose had opened the door. Were they some sort of code message? Rose had said something about "jobe nineteen" to Jack. What was "jobe nineteen"? But no—Emma had told him they were words from the Bible. Or had she? He couldn't remember, actually. He looked from one to the other, and he didn't know what to say. He felt quite out of his depth. Jack could see that for some reason their guest was very uncomfortable. But Rose was eager to have news of her sister-in-law. "Did Emma send a message, have you seen her?" she asked Carl, "How—?" "One thing at a time, Rose," Jack said softly, taking her hand again. He turned back to Carl. "Please have a seat," he said, indicating the only armchair in the room. "Thank you," Carl answered, and was relieved to have found his tongue once more. He sat down. Jack brought two chairs over from the table for himself and Rose. "Well, do you have news of Emma?" Jack asked as he took a seat. Again Carl wondered why they were talking about Emma. Did they realise who he was? Did they know he worked at the Counselling Institute? He sighed. He decided that since he did know what was happening to Emma, he might as well tell them something. "Yes, I do..." he said tentatively. "How is she? Please tell us," Rose urged. What do I tell them? Carl asked himself. That she's all right? But she isn't—at least I don't think they would think she's all right if they saw her. On the other hand, she's not giving in. He had a sudden idea, and groped in his memory for the words Emma had used about Chester Brown. "She's... uh... standing firm, uh... and holding on," he stammered. "Oh, praise God!" Jack and Rose exclaimed together. But Jack wasn't quite satisfied. "How is she really, though? Physically, I mean," he asked, adding, "Are you aware that she's my sister?" "Yes, I know," Carl muttered. He was seeing in his mind how he had slapped Emma until she had fainted. He swallowed hard before replying to Jack's first question. "She is... uh... she's doing, well, all right, I think," he said miserably, not looking at Jack, "That is, uh, considering what she's been through." Jack detected the despondency in Carl's voice. He had a sudden disquieting thought. "How do you know this?" he asked curiously, "Have you been able to see her?" Carl stared at the floor, not daring to look at them. He felt terribly, overwhelmingly ashamed of his profession. It suddenly seemed to him to be the most despicable occupation in the world. His reply was almost inaudible. "I'm her Counsellor," he whispered. 108

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He looked up at the Winstons. His statement had had the expected effect on Rose. She was gaping at him, white-faced, and Jack had put an arm around her. But Jack himself seemed more puzzled than horrified. Carl wanted to reassure them, somehow. He looked down again. "It's true, she really is standing firm," he said quietly, "She's absolutely certain about what she believes, and she hasn't given in on anything. She's the one who told me that, about knowing that her Redeemer lives..." He trailed off, unsure of whether to say anything more. Jack studied him as he spoke, his gaze gentle as it always was when he was trying to take stock of someone new, and he felt more sure all the time that he knew Carl from somewhere. "Why have you come here?" he asked, not unkindly, though he was wary. He kept his arm around Rose, who was still watching Carl nervously. "I want to know about this... uh... Redeemer," Carl answered earnestly, "About this God Emma keeps talking about, this Jesus Christ. I couldn't sleep tonight. What your sister said just kept going through my mind. I came to you because I figured you'd be able to help me. Can you? Please?" "Job nineteen, twenty-five," Jack said, absent-mindedly. He looked hard at Carl and added, "Did you know that verse was to be a sign to us of a message from her?" Well, that explained Mrs. Winston's reaction at the door, Carl thought. "No, I'd no idea," he said, "It's what she said this morning, in her counselling session, when I asked her if she really believed all that about Jesus rising from the dead." He wished he could take back all the slaps he had given her when she had said it. "I don't know why it's made such an impression, but anyway it comes on top of a long week of wondering if she and Chester Brown might be right after all..." "Chester Brown—did you counsel him too?" Jack asked. Carl glanced up quickly, swallowed hard, and nodded. "You knew him?" he whispered, "Emma did." "Yes," Jack replied, "We called him 'Uncle' Chester." "I'm sorry," Carl mumbled, "I counselled him for five weeks. He didn't budge. He was an incredible man. His God was real, and kept him strong. I know that now, but it's too late..." Jack nodded slowly, but made no comment. His eyes showed no sign of resentment towards Carl, only that same sadness Carl had seen so much of in Chester Brown's eyes. He glanced at Rose. She seemed to be recovering from the shock. He turned back to Carl and considered him for some time. He prayed for wisdom, for discernment. Was the man genuine? Or was this some new Police tactic, some trap? He decided to assume that their visitor was sincerely seeking the Truth and to behave accordingly. He was still trying to figure out why the man looked familiar—he was sure he'd seen those blue eyes before. He suddenly realised that they still didn't know their guest's name. "What's your name?" he asked Carl gently, "You haven't told us yet."

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Carl was non-plussed—he'd thought that Jack knew who he was. It's been some ten years, after all, he said to himself, feeling somewhat relieved that he hadn't been recognised. "Oh, I'm sorry... I thought you knew..." he said apologetically, "I'm Carl Slade, Police Counsellor Carl Slade." Jack started. Carl Slade. The name was very familiar to him—he prayed every day for Carl Slade, but he had forgotten what the man looked like. And here he was, ten years later. It all came back to him, with a rush, that awful day ten years ago... And Carl saw the look of recognition on his face. !

! !

It had been early in the morning, not long after sunrise. Rose had only been up about ten minutes and Jack had just got the children up. They had three children—Jemima, ten; Michael, eight; and Simeon, five. He had been getting them to put on their dressing gowns before going to breakfast. There was a loud knock at the front door, and almost right away another one. Commanding knocks, not quiet ones, like tonight's. Then a man's voice called for the door to be opened. Jack, still clad in his pajamas and dressing-gown, had hurried to open up, leaving the children in their bedroom. There were two men at the door. One was a police officer, a fairly hefty black man in the dark blue uniform that had become too familiar since the Police Force had been increased. The other, wearing the maroon coat of an Officer of the Welfare Ministry, was a white man, very tall, with light brown, wavy hair, and penetrating blue eyes. He held an official warrant which he held out to Jack. "I have an order from the Welfare Ministry to take into care three children residing at this address," he said, courteously but firmly, "Please bring the children named on this warrant to me immediately." "Noooo!" Rose screamed. Jack hadn't noticed that she had followed him into the room. She ran back to the children's room, where she pulled the three of them into her arms and held onto them tightly. Jack left the men at the door and went to the children's room after Rose. He knew that there was no point resisting the order. They were not the first to have their children taken away suddenly—many of the Christian families they knew had gone through this. Those who had resisted had been "taken into care" themselves and disappeared. If he and Rose fought the order, they too would also disappear, and it would do no good to anyone, least of all their children. No, they must comply, trust their children to God, and fall on their knees and pray. His heart ached at the thought. To have to hand over their three gifts from the Lord to those people who hated God...! He sat down next to Rose on Michael's bed and explained this to her, gently taking the bewildered children from her. Then he knelt on the floor, gestured to Rose and the children to join him, and with his arms around 110

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them he prayed very simply. "Lord God, our Father, help us, please," he said, "Make us strong. Keep our love for Jesus growing. Look after our children, Your children, wherever they may go." Tears were streaming down his wife's face, but Jack fought to keep calm despite his breaking heart. He spoke firmly to his children, looking at each one in turn in his gentle way. "Jemima, Michael, Simeon, you have to go away from us for a while. I don't know for how long," he said softly, "Remember that God loves you very, very much, and will always be with you. Remember, too, that your Mummy and Daddy love you and will never stop praying for you. Now please go quietly, be polite and well-behaved as you know how to be, and be lights for Jesus wherever they take you." He hugged each one and motioned for them to hug their mother. Then he got up, helped Rose up, and with his arm around her turned to lead the family into the front room. Emma, who had been spending the week with them, was at the bedroom door. They hadn't heard her come. "What's happening, what's wrong?" she asked anxiously, "Who are those men by the front door?" "They're taking the children, Emma," Jack said softly to his sister, "Please pray for us all." "Daddy, don't worry," Jemima said cheerfully as she looked up at her father, "We'll never forget you or Mummy or Jesus or Auntie Emma. I'll make sure Mike and Simeon remember." Jack squeezed his daughter's hand and smiled. "That's my girl," he said. Then he led them to the front room, where the two men were still waiting just inside the door. "Should they get dressed?" he asked them, "Do they need to take anything with them?" "That won't be necessary," the man in the maroon uniform answered, "The Ministry will provide all they need." "All right, children," Jack said softly to his three precious offspring, "Go along with—" He turned to the man. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name..." "Welfare Officer Carl Slade," the man said. "Go with Officer Slade, and be very good," Jack said to the children. He kissed each child on the head as they went past him. Rose and Emma kissed each one on the cheek and smiled bravely at them, but they avoided looking at the two men who were taking the children away. The two officers took the children by the hand and led them to the Ministry car. Officer Slade got into the driver's seat while the Police Officer helped the children into the car. Jemima, Michael, and Simeon turned and waved to their parents and aunt who were standing on the footpath in front of the porch. When the children had got into the car, the Police Officer closed the door, got into the front passenger seat, and the car sped away down the street. Jack, Rose, and Emma stood in front of the house gazing after it until it disappeared around the corner. Jack suddenly became aware of an audience. Several people stood on the footpath in front of his house, also watching the car disappear down the street. A few of them glanced coldly at the Winstons, then went back to

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their homes. The rest came over to them, helped them back into their house, and grieved with them... That evening, Jack noticed the Ministry order still lying on the small table by the front door. He picked it up and stared at it. He read his children's names. He read that they had been taken into care by the Welfare Ministry because they were being brought up in a system of belief dangerous to their well-being and that of the country. He read the signature: Carl E. Slade, Welfare Officer. He finally broke down and wept. He dropped to his knees by the little table and his tears flowed unhindered for his children, for his wife, for himself. They coursed freely down his cheeks for all the children "in care", for their parents, for their friends. They fell copiously for the system which did this, for the Police who enforced it, and... for Officer Carl Slade. When Rose and Emma came to call him to dinner, they found him still on his knees by the front door. He was praying for them all. ! ! ! Carl saw written all over Jack's face the emotional upheaval brought on by memories, but he decided not to say anything about it unless Jack brought it up first. He had the feeling that Rose had not recognised him at all, and he didn't want to add to her apprehension. Jack glanced at Rose. No, he couldn't tell her what he had just remembered—this situation was difficult enough. He turned back to Carl. The man wanted to know about God! Ten years of praying for this man... He felt his heart leap. He suddenly knew how to approach Carl's enquiries. "Yes, Carl," he said, having decided to address him by his first name, "I can help you with your questions. But I think that the best way to do that is to give you the information you want straight from God's Word, the Bible. Have you got the time? This could take quite some time." "I have as much time as is necessary," Carl replied, "Right now there's nothing else more important to me. I wouldn't have taken the risk of coming here, except for the fact that I'm desperate!" Carl's vehemence convinced Jack that he was in earnest. "Rose, would you please make us a cup of tea?" he asked his wife, smiling happily at her. She would feel better if she did something active for a few minutes, and the drink would be welcome. This was going to be a long evening. Rose got up, smiled uncertainly at the two men, and went out to the kitchen. Jack also got up from his chair. "Excuse me a minute, Carl," he said, "I'll just go and fetch my Bible." He left the room and went to his bedroom. Before picking up his Bible, he knelt by his desk and prayed for wisdom and guidance in choosing which passages to read to Carl. "Lord, you know what will speak to his heart," he said quietly, "Let me choose only those words, that there may be no confusion for him."

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Carl, left alone, scanned the Winston's living room. Apart from the chairs that Jack and Rose had been sitting on, and three others by the small dining table, there was little furniture in the Winstons' lounge. The armchair he was using, the little table by the door, a piano, and a small sideboard near the dining table were the lot, unless one counted the two mattresses on the floor near the piano as furniture. He noticed a vase of flowers on the sideboard, and a couple of small framed pictures. He got up to have a closer look at them. The flowers in the vase, a mixture of natives and exotics, were fresh. They must come from their garden, he thought. One of the frames next to the vase held a photograph of three smiling children. Even after almost ten years, Carl could remember them. He even recalled how well-behaved, polite, and cheerful they had been and how he'd been quite taken by them. He found himself wondering what had become of them. His job had been to identify them as children "at risk", to remove them from their family, and to deliver them to the Ministry. After that, they had disappeared into the system, he had no idea where. He picked up the frame and thought about that day so many years before. He wondered how it felt to have one's children taken away for ever. It was a question he had never thought of asking himself when he had that job. One just couldn't ask questions like that. He thought of Andrew's family and tried to imagine their children being taken away—Chris and Elsie, to whom he himself was very much attached... Jack came back into the room and found him looking at the photograph. He stopped in the doorway, a wave of conflicting emotions washing through him. Oh, God, I've been praying for him all this time, he prayed silently, surely I've forgiven him. He gazed at Carl and considered how he felt towards him. And he found that he felt only joy and relief at having Carl here, in his house, asking him about the Lord. He looked forwards to the next few hours in which he would read out to Carl what the Lord wanted to tell him in answer to his questions. Carl looked up, and their eyes met. The two men gazed at each other wordlessly. Carl suddenly felt like a thief caught stealing, and he put the picture back where it belonged. The other frame held a photograph of a butterfly, with something written under it. Jack came over, picked it up, and read the caption out loud. "'Anyone who is in Christ is a new creation. His old nature is gone and behold! he has a new nature.'" He smiled warmly at Carl. "That is what our Redeemer does," he said. Carl wondered what it meant. He also wondered at Jack's self-control. The pastor obviously still felt keenly the absence of his children, yet he could smile at the man who had taken them away from him—and smile warmly at that—and treat him as a welcome guest. Jack patted Carl's shoulder gently, walked over to the table and put his Bible down on it. "Come and sit over here and we can start reading," he said as he pulled out a chair for him.

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Carl joined him at the table. He felt nervous, as if he were embarking on some mysterious adventure that might well be a one-way trip. As they sat down, Rose came back carrying a tray with three mugs of hot, black tea. "I'm afraid we have no milk," she said, putting the tray on the table, "But we do have a bit of sugar." She placed a mug on the table near Carl, and handed him the sugar bowl and a spoon. "Thank you," Carl said, and tried to smile but couldn't. He was too aware of the secret of who he was. He put a spoonful of sugar in his cup and stirred his tea. His hands were shaking and he had a sudden urge to flee. Thoughts about what might happen to him if he were found in the Winston's home having a cup of tea with them raced through his mind. Thoughts about what awaited a Counsellor who committed high treason by becoming a Christian assailed him. He swallowed hard. He realised full well that the outcome of his visit would probably be just that—he would leave the Winstons' home as a Christian. Jack was watching Carl and could sense that his guest was in turmoil. The Lord's working in his heart, he thought, and there's a fight going on in him. Little did he know how many years that fight had been going on! He wondered what dark things were to be found in a Counsellor's life, then mentally kicked himself. Idle curiosity had no place here. He pulled out another chair, sat down, and opened his Bible at the first chapter of Genesis. "I'll start at the beginning, I think," he said to Carl, "with God creating the universe and everything in it." Rose went to sit in the armchair. The men had their backs to her as they sat at the table, and both of them soon forgot that she was there. As she sipped her tea and listened to Jack reading, she prayed for him and for their visitor. Over the next three hours, as Jack read, first from the Old Testament and then from the New, Carl listened intently. He felt like a small child discovering the wonders of nature for the first time. He was fascinated, horrified, amazed, and aghast in turn, and sometimes all at the same time. There was something about what Jack was reading out that rang true, that convinced him that what he was listening to was the Truth. How could he know? It was a strange certainty deep inside him, like a still, small voice whispering to him, answering all those questions, all those yearnings which had so frustrated him. The edifice that the Protection had spent thirty-six years building in his mind, already leaning at a precarious angle after his months of doubts, crumbled before the onslaught of the Truth. Carl felt like a man deprived of water for days who has just tasted a few drops of cool, clear spring water. He was thirsty for a full draught of it. Finally Jack closed his Bible, bowed his head, and prayed silently. Lord, please let Your light shine in Carl's heart. Let him hear Your call. Show him that he needs You, convict him, bring him to repentance. Bring him to Yourself. Carl was sitting with his elbows on the table, his chin on his clasped hands, lost in thought. He was oblivious to Jack, to the room, to everything but the extraordinary things he had just heard. He had 114

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recognised some of the things Emma had told him, only now they fitted into a broad picture, and he could see enough of the picture to know that he had found what he had been searching for for so long. Jack got up and went over to his wife. She had her eyes closed and he wondered if she was asleep. It was certainly very late, but they hadn't finished yet, and they needed her prayers. "Rose," he said softly, patting her arm, "are you awake?" "Yes, Jack, I'm awake," she whispered, opening her eyes and smiling, "Don't you worry about me, Jack, you just keep going." Jack went back to the table and Carl turned to him. "What must I do, Jack?" he asked, "I'm quite sure that everything you read to me is true. I couldn't begin to say how I know, I just do. But what should I do about it? All these years, I've been living for a lie. I just don't know what to do, yet I know that I have to do something now that I've heard the truth." Jack thought for a moment, and had an idea. "Why don't you ask Jesus that question, Carl?" he suggested. Carl stared at him open-mouthed. "How?" he exclaimed apprehensively, "How do I ask Him? I know you've told me He's alive, that He's with us here, but how do I talk to Him? I can't see Him!" "Just talk to Him the same way you talk to me, or to anyone," Jack answered quietly, "Just ask Him the way you asked me." He got up from the table and put a hand lightly on Carl's shoulder. "Carl, usually when we talk to our Lord we kneel, because He is God and deserves every sign of respect we can show Him," he told him, "Would you like to kneel with us now and talk to Him?" Carl could not remember having ever knelt to anyone in his life. To him it seemed a humiliating position—in fact, hadn't he forced Chester Brown to kneel for several hours once to do just that, humiliate him? And yet, how many times had Jack just read to him about people kneeling in the presence of God? Yes, there was no doubt about it, he would have to kneel. He got up slowly from his chair. "Uh... where should I kneel?" he asked Jack, uncertainly. "Anywhere you like," replied Jack, "I'll kneel with Rose." He went over to his wife, and the two of them knelt and bowed their heads, and prayed silently for Carl. For some reason which he could not have explained, Carl felt strongly that he should kneel right in the middle of the room, and so he did. He wondered what he should say. He thought of what Jack had told him: "Just talk to Him like you talk to anyone else." He closed his eyes because that seemed the thing to do when addressing someone he couldn't see and, feeling somewhat silly, he spoke out loud. "Jesus Christ, uh, God," he said hesitantly, "I do believe that You are here and that You care about me. I've listened to all that Jack read tonight and I believe it is the Truth. But I don't know what I should do about it. Please, can You tell me? What should I do?" He had no idea what to expect, or even if he should expect anything, but what did happen was a complete surprise. He started remembering 115

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every wrong thing he had ever done and every right thing he had ever failed to do in his forty years of life. As each memory was piled on top of all the others, he became more and more horrified at what he saw and felt in himself. It was as if a huge burden were growing into a mountain on top of him, and in front of him all was blackness like an infinitely deep well into which he was about to fall. He fell forwards on his face on the floor and cried out in terror. Rose and Jack looked up and Rose was about to get up to go to him, but Jack held her arm and signalled, "No." He motioned to her that they should just keep praying. Carl had an overwhelming sense of complete helplessness—there was nothing he could do to remove that terrible darkness, that dreadful weight. He began to weep because of all the evil he saw in himself and that he could not get rid of, and soon he was crying disconsolately, great wrenching sobs that made him feel as if he was being torn apart, as if a dam inside him had burst. And the darkness only kept getting heavier and heavier. "O God!" he cried out loud, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I had no idea I was so evil! I don't know what to do, please save me!" Unexpectedly, he felt a hand lightly on his shoulder—he thought it was Jack's. And then a man's voice—which wasn't Jack's—spoke to him gently, as if to a child. "Carl, Carl," the man's voice said, "Now you can understand why I had to die—only I could take on such a burden of sin and the punishment for it, and rescue you from that dark pit. And I have taken it, and overcome it, Carl, only believe it and trust Me. I am alive, and your sins are forgiven." The next words were spoken as a command. "Come, Carl, follow Me." Carl looked up from where he lay on the floor. He wanted to see who was speaking to him, but he had to close his eyes almost immediately, for the light he saw was far too bright for them. He put his head down again. He couldn't say a word, but his whole being was shouting, "Yes, Lord, I will follow You! I'll follow You wherever You take me!" The intolerable burden was gone, the darkness had evaporated, and he knew to the depths of his soul that he now belonged to the Man who had spoken to him and that the Man was Jesus. "I know that my Redeemer lives!" He was clean—he felt clean—he could start life again, and get it right this time, because Jesus Christ had saved him. He lay on the floor, weeping softly, and his tears welled up out of his joy and gratitude. Jesus Christ had been the answer to his despair all along, and he had finally found Him. Carl had no idea how long he lay there, but after some time had passed, Jack decided to get up and check on him. "Carl, are you okay?" he asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Carl looked up at him, his face radiant. Slowly he sat up, and beamed at Jack. Rose came over and knelt next to Jack. "Are you all right?" she asked Carl.

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"I think he's more all right than he's ever been, Rose," Jack said, grinning at his wife. He had seen Carl's face when he had first looked up. "Did you hear Him?" Carl asked them, softly, "Did you see Him?" "Who?" Rose asked him. She and Jack looked at each other, then back at their guest. Carl could only be referring to one Person. "He spoke to you, you heard Him?" Jack asked him. "He put His hand on my shoulder, and called my name, and said my sins are forgiven. And He said to follow Him. I looked up, but I could hardly see Him, the light around Him was so bright. And I felt like all of me was shouting, 'Yes, I'll follow You!'" Jack and Rose stared at Carl incredulously. "You saw Jesus..." Rose whispered. The three of them sat on the floor in the middle of the room for a while, pondering this miracle. Suddenly, Jack laughed with delight and flung himself at Carl, hugging him tightly. "Welcome, my brother, welcome!" he exclaimed, and Rose hugged the two of them and praised God, and then both she and Jack started singing praises to God as they knelt on the floor with their arms around Carl. ! ! ! When Carl got back to his flat, the night was almost over, but he had got there safely, without meeting any Enwuh patrols. Never afterwards could he remember how he had got home, for he had no memory of his return trip. As he'd been leaving the Winstons' home, Jack had handed him a small pocket Bible. "You'd better take this. You'll need it," he told Carl, "And please, give our love to Emma..." More wide awake than he had ever been in his life, Carl spent what was left of the night reading from the Bible.

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Chapter 15 For the twenty-third time since Emma had been brought to the Counselling Institute, Carl's office door slid open and Carer Janssen pushed Emma through it. Carl was sitting on the edge of the counter by the window and the blind was up, and he was looking out at the City Park and the Lake. He didn't turn around when they came in. The sight of the world beyond the Institute basking in the light of an early spring morning made Emma terribly homesick. Was it really only two weeks since she'd last been out there? Carl told Janssen to leave, and when she was gone, he turned around, pressed the switch to close the door, and indicated the chairs in front of his desk to Emma. "Please sit down," he said. Emma was so startled by this sudden courteousness on his part that she just stood where she had stopped, and stared blankly at him. He looked at her questioningly, and repeated what he'd said. "Please. Sit down." She sat down cautiously on the edge of the nearest chair, keeping her eyes on him, bracing herself for the sudden outburst of temper she had come to expect from him. Carl turned back to gaze out of the window again. Was that last dreadful session with her really only yesterday? he asked himself. He was amazed at how drastically his life had changed over those twenty-four hours. He was also aware that what he was about to do could cost him his life, yet that didn't seem so important, somehow, as did letting Emma Winston know about the change. He wondered vaguely who was monitoring this session— he hadn't checked the Monitoring Centre roster—but he figured it was probably still Andrew. How should I go about this? he thought, then told himself, Just get on with it, just tell her—don't keep stalling. Emma was watching him curiously, wondering at this different behaviour. He turned to face her, and for the first time was really shocked as he saw the bruises and cuts, even two black eyes, on her face. Why hadn't he taken notice of them before? And how many more injuries were hidden by her track suit? Each one of them inflicted by him! Forgive me, O God, please forgive me, he prayed silently. He had a fleeting recollection of all the other people he had counselled. Was he any less guilty in their cases for having had someone else do the "dirty work"? He sat down in his chair, clasped his hands on the desk, and cleared his throat to speak. His demeanor puzzled Emma—she couldn't figure out why he was different, but there was definitely something different about him. Carl spoke to her. "Miss Winston, uh..." His voice trailed off. He wasn't very sure how to word this. "Sir?" Emma responded. She felt confused. Her sessions had never started this way before. She didn't know whether to be on her guard or not. There didn't seem to be that cloud of irritability surrounding him this morning. The impression of imminent explosion was not there. Instead, 118

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Counsellor Slade seemed quite calm. Had he ever been calm in any of her previous sessions? Carl looked down at his desk for a moment, took a deep breath, then looked up again, straight at her. "Miss Winston... uh.... I just want to tell you that I'm terribly sorry for everything I've done to you since you first came into my office," he said softly, and an incredible peace flooded him as he spoke, "I'm truly sorry for every minute of it, every blow, every insult, every time I yelled at you, every time I hit you. Please, can you possibly forgive me?" She was completely astounded and just stared at him speechlessly. Did he really say what I think I heard him say? Is he really asking me to forgive him? Then she noticed his eyes. The chill, hostile look was gone. His blue eyes were gentle and warm. Something's happened to him since yesterday, she thought, He really means what he's saying. Carl was looking down at his desk again, waiting for her answer. Maybe it's too much to ask, he thought, maybe it's impossible for her to forgive me for all that. Never mind if that's so, at least she knows I'm sorry. I know I have Your forgiveness, Lord, and that's all that matters. Emma found her voice at last. He looked up as she began speaking. "Well, S-Sir, you see, uh... I c-can't forgive you," she stammered. She sighed and spoke more slowly. "You see," she said, "I've already forgiven you." It was Carl's turn to wonder if he was hearing right. "You've already forgiven me?" he asked, bewildered, "How? When?" "Every time. I mean, after every session with you," she replied, "When I was back in my cell. I asked God to help me to forgive you, and to take away any bitterness in my heart towards you—and towards the Carers. I-I pray for you every day..." Carl was struck dumb. He felt completely overwhelmed. He recalled the treatment she'd received at his hands, because of his foul temper. And she's forgiven me? After every session? And she prays for me? Every day? He suddenly felt very small. "Thank you," he said softly, "Thank you so very much." His heart was leaping and yelling and singing—he felt so full of joy. The unbelievable had happened. God had forgiven him. Emma Winston had forgiven him. On the outside, he seemed quiet and pensive. Emma watched him, hardly daring to guess what had caused the change. "Mr. Slade," she said cautiously, "What's happened to you? You're different..." Carl's face broke into a warm smile, and it struck her that this was actually the first time she had seen him smile. "Since about two o'clock this morning, Miss Winston," he replied, his eyes shining, his quiet tone full of certainty, "I know that my Redeemer lives." Her guess had been right. Counsellor Slade had met Jesus Christ, and he had been changed by Him. This was a miracle, and Emma was awestruck. She suddenly felt like weeping, and she swallowed hard, but her eyes filled nevertheless. Joy and relief coursed through her. She sat 119

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back on her chair and took another deep breath, closing her eyes. Thank You, Lord, she prayed, thank You, thank You! She looked up at Carl, who was still smiling, and she could see the joy in his eyes. Counsellor Slade was a new person—he had turned to Christ. But yesterday morning he had been so angry at her when she'd told him about Christ rising from the dead! What had happened—how had this incredible change taken place? Truly it was a miracle! "Would you... uh... could you... I mean, what happened?" she asked him. "Do you remember how yesterday's session ended?" he replied, "How you said, 'I know that my Redeemer lives', and I reacted... uh... rather violently?" She nodded. "Yes, I remember," she said quietly. "Afterwards, I couldn't get that—what you'd said—out of my head. It just kept coming back, over and over. Even when I went to bed, I couldn't sleep for it. I had nightmares, and every time I woke up, that phrase would be there: 'I know that my Redeemer lives'. And I kept thinking, too, what if Chester Brown and Emma Winston are right and I'm wrong?" He got up from his desk and started walking around, his hands in his pockets. "That thought's been pestering me for weeks, in fact," he continued, "So I decided I just had to find out. And I decided to go see your brother, even if it meant I had to risk breaking the curfew. This was after nine o'clock, you see. I thought it was worth the risk. Besides, I really was feeling desperate. And it seemed to me that Jack, of all people, ought to be able to help me." "You knew where my brother lives?" Emma asked, with another pang of homesickness at the thought of Jack and Rose. "Yes, of course. Everyone knows where he lives. He's one of the leaders of the Rebels," he answered, adding by way of an afterthought, "Amazing, really, that he's never been taken into care..." He looked strangely at Emma. "Besides, I've been there before." "And you managed to avoid all the Enwuh's electronic patrols?" she asked. "Yes. I was rather surprised about that, but I didn't stop to think about it. However, I was certainly glad of your brother's covered front porch, it meant I wasn't so conspicuous waiting there for the door to open. But I had to knock twice before she opened the door." "Rose, you mean." "Yes. Rose. She asked what I wanted, and for the first time in my life that I know of I was quite tongue-tied—I had no idea what to say. I just stood there staring at her. Then guess what I actually did say." He paused as he recalled his own surprise at his words. "What did you say?" "'I know that my Redeemer lives!'" "Oh, no! She must have thought—" "She did. She thought I had a message from you." "Oh dear, what did she do?"

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"She pulled me in the door and shut it, then rushed over to Jack—he was kneeling over by the table—she said something about 'jobe nineteen'. He got up and stopped her and looked at me. Then he smiled and asked if I had news from you." Carl frowned. "I hadn't expected that—I wondered how your name had come up at all! Rose started asking me again but again Jack stopped her, and he asked me to sit down and brought over two chairs for them." "Of course. The armchair is for guests." Emma smiled as she thought of home. "Did they know who you were?" "I wasn't wearing my uniform, but Jack kept staring at me as if he were trying to place me. Anyway, when we'd sat down, he asked me again if I had news of you. I figured that since I actually did know your situation I might as well tell them something. Rose asked how you were, and I recalled something you'd said about Chester Brown—" "Oh gosh, what did you tell them?" Emma interrupted again. He smiled wryly. "I said that you were, uh, standing firm, you were holding on—what you'd said about Chester Brown, you know?" "I-I'm really not sure. There're quite a lot of things I don't remember about my... uh... c-counselling sessions." Carl considered her for a moment as he recalled once more the way he had treated her over the past two weeks. He leant with his hands on the back of the other chair and looked down. "You've had a rough time, to put it mildly. I'm sorry," he said quietly, "It's true, though, you have stood firm and held on to your faith, you and Brown both. That's why this has happened." He looked over at her and smiled. "How can I ever thank you for pointing out the Way to me?" "Don't thank me," Emma answered, "It's Jesus Christ, God, who did it. He called you. It wasn't anything I did. Only God can give you faith." Carl straightened up and mused about that. Was it God, then who'd kept asking him that insistent question, What if she's right? He certainly hadn't been asking the question himself, and it had annoyed him the way it kept coming up without warning. And that verse Emma had quoted? Why had it stuck in his mind that way? And why had he decided to visit Jack? As he thought back to the previous evening, he recalled that the idea had popped into his mind unbidden. And he'd got there and back safely... God had done it all. To save him, Carl Slade, despite himself. Why? He had a sudden fleeting hint of the unfathomableness of God and it sent shivers up and down his spine. He started walking back and forth again, contemplating this awesome thought. As he walked around his office he came up to the lens in the wall. I suppose this is being recorded? he wondered vaguely. He knew that everything he'd been saying was signing his death warrant. He shrugged. He was too full of joy to worry about it. He turned back towards Emma and grimaced. "They asked me how you were physically. That was not easy to answer! I almost choked as I told them that you were okay considering the rough time you'd had." He frowned again. "By the way, how are you? Physically, I mean. Tell me, please." 121

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Emma's face turned red. "I guess I'm not too badly off," she answered quietly. "I don't believe that, tell me more," he insisted. She hesitated to answer, but saw by the look on his face that he really did want to know. "Well, uh... I think I might have a broken rib," she said falteringly, "My left side really hurts here, especially when I breathe in. I can't lie on that side... And-and I ache all over... But it's not too bad, really, considering... Don't worry about it..." He looked at her sadly. "I wish I could undo it all..." he said, "I'm sorry." "It'll heal up, please don't worry about it," she said earnestly, "You can't change any of it, and I know you're sorry. Please, tell me what happened next at Jack's." Carl gazed at her thoughtfully a moment before answering. He was amazed at how easily she could dismiss two weeks of what amounted to torture and talk to him as if it had never happened. This woman is incredible, he thought to himself. He sat down on the chair next to hers and leant forwards with his elbows on his knees. He gazed at his desk, not seeing it, as he went on. "They thanked God that you were all right, you know, and then suddenly Jack looked straight at me and asked me how I knew!" He looked down at the floor. "I told them the truth, that I'm your Counsellor," he said quietly, "Rose's face went quite white—just like yours that time when... uh..." He glanced over at her. "Well, you wouldn't know what your face looked like—" "What my face looked like when?" "Yesterday, when your prayer was answered..." "My prayer? Which prayer?" She couldn't remember ever having prayed out loud in any of her sessions. "Don't you remember? It was... uh..." Carl's face went pink. "Wh-When I told you to, uh, remove your clothes, well, your face just went completely white and you cried out something like, 'Oh Lord, please, not that!' Do you remember? It was only yesterday." "I didn't know I'd said it out loud..." "Do you remember what happened? You'd hardly said that when the door buzzer sounded, and I was called out to an urgent meeting! I was really taken aback, because it seemed to me that the two things were connected—your prayer was answered instantly! Even before you said it, actually, if you think about it..." "Yes, I remember I was awfully relieved." "Well, actually, I was too... I've no idea what I would have done if I hadn't been interrupted. I'd never told anyone to do that before. I just wanted to humiliate you..." Emma decided it was time to get back to their original topic. "What did Jack and Rose do?" she asked, "It must have been a frightful shock to them to hear that." "After a moment, Jack asked me why I'd come. I said I wanted to know more about this Redeemer you kept talking about. Jack asked me my 122

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name, and when I told him, he finally recognised me, or at least, he remembered where he'd seen me before." He paused and gave Emma a puzzled look. "Come to think of it, you didn't recognise me either, did you?" he said. "Should I have?" she replied, frowning as she searched her memory, "I don't recall ever meeting you before coming here." "But you did, you know, both you and Rose, as well as Jack." "But when?" "When I took their children away..." Emma sat bolt upright on her chair, her eyes wide. "That was you?" she exclaimed, "You took them away?" "I was a Welfare Officer then, with the Welfare Ministry, and it was part of my job," he answered soberly, "It was my understanding that the way your brother was bringing up his children was dangerous for them and they had to be taken into care by the Ministry." "It was part of your job? Do you mean you regularly took people's children away from them?" "Yes. Several times a week. There were three of us on the Child Welfare task. We took turns going. We always had a Police Officer with us." "But didn't you think of how the parents felt about it?" "What effect it had on the parents was irrelevant, unless they vowed allegiance to the Protection, in which case they'd get their children back. Your brother obviously didn't do that, thank God, though it must have caused him a great deal of pain to lose his children." "It did. It still does." "I didn't know any better, I didn't stop to think about all that. I just did my job. In fact, I only thought of it for the first time last night when Jack recognised me. Asking questions about such things was dangerous. It still is." "Do you know where the children are?" Emma asked hopefully. "I'm sorry, I haven't a clue," he answered miserably, "I don't even know how to find out..." "I must have been so preoccupied with the children and Rose that you just didn't register," she mused aloud, "I certainly don't remember seeing you. But then it was almost ten years ago!" "Well, Jack certainly recognised me when I told him my name," Carl observed, "But he didn't say anything, not even when he found me looking at their photograph." "You can be sure that Jack forgave you years ago. You know, every day we pray for the children, but I have no doubt whatsoever that Jack also prays every day for the Officers who took them away." She paused and stared at Carl as she realised what the previous night must have meant to Jack. "Jack must have seen ten years of prayer answered last night..." she said softly. "He called me 'brother'," Carl said, "He made me feel—they both did, you know—as if I'd come home after years of absence..."

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Eamma smiled. "You have come home, and you'll always be home, now, wherever you are. From now on, home is wherever the Lord is, and He's everywhere," she assured him. "You have no idea what a comforting thought that is," Carl said musingly. She gave him a look of amazement. "I don't?" she said, raising her eyebrows. Carl realised what he had said, and reddened. Who else had kept her faith strong if not God? "I'm sorry," he said, "I guess you do know. Of course you do." "And you're right," Emma agreed, It is a comforting thought." She sighed, and asked, "What did they do after they found out who you were?" Before Carl could continue his narrative, the door buzzer sounded. He stood up, leant over his desk, and switched on the intercom. "Who is it?" he asked. "Lieutenant Andrew Parker, Sir," a man's voice answered. Andrew? Carl thought, What's he doing here at this time of day? He's supposed to be in the MC! Well, seeing as he's here, I might as well let him in. He pressed the door switch and the door slid open. Andrew hurried through, and he closed the door. Andrew put a hand on Carl's shoulder and spoke urgently, waving a CD case in his other hand. "I've been monitoring your session again this morning," he said, "and just as well, too! I heard everything, saw everything! It's all on this CD." He held it up in front of Carl's face, then put it into his own jacket pocket. "Another one to mark as defective..." he grinned briefly at his friend, then was serious again. "Carl, you've got to get out of here! Lancaster will murder you, literally, when he finds out!" Emma stared from one to the other. Carl was taken aback by his friend's vehemence. "What do you mean?" he asked, but he knew what Andrew was referring to, and he was suddenly frightened. "Shot at dawn. Public execution. Remember?" Andrew said earnestly, "Come on, Carl, there's no time for questions. As soon as I realized what was going on in here, I worked out what you have to do. I've made a couple of special calls. You've got to get away, and that means both of you." He let go of Carl and waved towards Emma. "You know what Lancaster would do to her, don't you?" Carl nodded, but didn't speak. His stomach was churning. "Can you trust me, Mate?" Andrew asked quietly. Carl felt dizzy with fear. He grabbed his friend's arms. "Andrew, you're about the only person I've ever been able to trust!" he exclaimed. "Okay, this is what we have to do," Andrew explained, extricating himself from Carl's grasp and turning to indicate Emma, "I'll take Emma here and act as if you've asked me to take her to the Farm. You go to your car, drive out as calmly as you can, then take the road out towards the National Forest. About six kilometres into the Forest there's a sign indicating a winding road ahead—remember it, on the way to the Farm?"

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God, please take this awful fear away, Carl prayed silently, I can hardly think. He nodded to Andrew. "Yeah, I know the one," he said. "Well, stop your car there, get out, lock it, and throw the ignition key away into the bush. Then walk on ahead, but not on the road, get off into the bush just far enough so you can't easily be seen but not so far that you'll get lost. Be thankful your uniform is green. Actually, no, don't walk—run. Are you getting all this?" Stop the car. At the sign. Stop at the sign. Lock the car. Throw away the keys. Keep going, but go running through the bush. Carl nodded again. "Right," Andrew went on, "Eventually you'll get to a narrow track. Stop there and wait. Hide, even. Just in case. I'll drive out with Emma, drop her off at the start of the track, and she'll follow it to meet you where you're waiting. Then, both of you, keep going down that track, as fast as you can, until someone stops you. They'll tell you what to do next. You've got to leave the Protectorate or you'll be dead and no help to anyone. Now, the important thing is to get moving and keep moving." He grinned. He knew his friend well. "Be sure to take your flute, Carl, you'll certainly need it over there." Carl gripped his friend's arm. He felt panic rising again. O God, help me, please, to keep calm! "No one can leave the Protectorate, Andrew!" he exclaimed, "You know that! How in the world do you propose we do it? Why are you—" "I told you there's no time for questions," Andrew replied urgently, "You'll find out eventually. Right now you've got to go!" He took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. "Emma, hold out your hands, I've got to handcuff you if I'm supposed to be taking you to the Farm." Emma did as he told her and he snapped the handcuffs onto her wrists. It's strange, she thought, I know for sure that this Police Officer can be trusted and yet I've never met him before. How can I be so sure? And yet I am. Could he possibly be... a believer? Can a Police Officer be a believer without being found out? What's more, it seems that he is a good—a very good—friend of Counsellor Slade's. This is a puzzle. Andrew turned to Carl, grabbed hold of his shoulders again and gazed at him a moment, smiling warmly at him. Carl smiled back uneasily. Andrew suddenly gave his startled friend a bear hug, then stood back to look at him again for an instant. "So long, Mate," he said very quietly, and Emma noticed that his voice shook, "I'll say goodbye for you to Denise and the children. We all love you, Carl, don't you forget it, ever. Now, open that door, let us out, wait about a minute, and then you follow, and hurry!"

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Chapter 16 Carl opened the door and Andrew took Emma by the arm and led her out, pausing in the doorway to salute Carl, who watched them leave, then closed the door. He walked to the window and gazed for a moment at the familiar sight of the City Park and the Lake, and sighed. Leave the Protectorate... Leave everything that he had ever known behind. To go where? He assumed their destination would be Kawanyama. There was nowhere else to go, as far as he knew. What would they find in Kawanyama? Would they ever come back? Would he ever see Andrew again? And on top of all this, Emma Winston would have to flee with him. His heart skipped a beat. She was no longer his counsellee. All of a sudden, just like that, the one woman he had ever been attracted to was to accompany him into the unknown. With God, he reminded himself, God will be with us all the way and wherever we end up. There is nothing to fear. But there is reason to make haste. A minute since Andrew led Emma away. Better get moving, he told himself. He reached into his desk drawer and took out his flute case. His hands had started shaking again. He grabbed his cap and shoved it onto his head. Oh, God, please keep me calm, he prayed. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he opened the door again. As he walked out, he almost collided with Carer Janssen who was just coming up to his office door. "I've come to fetch Number 143," she said. Carl fortunately recovered quickly from his shock at her sudden appearance. He looked at her as coldly as he could. "I'm afraid Number 143 has been sent off to the Farm, Carer," he said curtly, "I'll be reporting to Chief Lancaster. You may return to your other duties." Janssen could not keep the look of triumph off her face, and Carl saw it. He suddenly understood a great many things about the past few months, about some of the events of the last few years. Her pursuit of him at the Lancasters' parties, the succession of difficult counsellees, the encounters with Lancaster... Janssen had been avenging herself. All these years! He was surprised that he felt no anger towards her, only pity and sadness, but he didn't have time right then to think about it. "Excuse me," he said abruptly, looking at his watch, "I have an appointment at ten o'clock." He figured that that would be about the time he would reach the sign in the Forest. He set off towards the main lifts and Janssen strode off, almost strutting, towards the Women's Residential Facility lift. Carl took a lift down to the ground floor and headed for the main entrance of the Institute. He left his ID badge at the front desk, and hastened down the steps to the Counsellors' parking area. When he got to his car, he pressed the ID panel to unlock it and started to get in. Then it occurred to him that he might never return, so he got back out and stood for a few seconds gazing at the imposing structure of the Counselling Institute. How strange to think that I will never work there again, 126

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he thought, and it was a wonderful thought. Then he remembered where he was supposed to be going and got into his car, started it up, and drove slowly out of the Institute grounds. He steered the car down the street and turned into the approach to the Northern Freeway. Once on the freeway, he speeded up to the limit and headed towards the outskirts of the city. He worried that the traffic was light, as it made his car with the Institute logo more conspicuous. Oh God, he prayed, please don't let anyone notice, make this car invisible, somehow... Sooner than he'd expected, he came to the turn-off to the National Forest. He took the exit and then remembered there was a Police checkpoint at the entrance to the Forest. An ice-cold finger of panic touched him. Please, God, don't let them see me! he prayed. And then, remembering, Please, God, don't let me give in to fear, I know You're with me. His car went around a bend in the road and he saw the checkpoint ahead. To his amazement the barrier was up and there was no-one in sight. With an incredible feeling of relief and gratitude he drove through the checkpoint and on into the Forest. He didn't try to understand how it happened that the two Officers who were normally on duty there were not at their post. What he did understand was that God was looking after him, for some reason, for His own reasons. A few kilometres further on he came to the sign that Andrew had referred to, and he stopped his car next to it. He picked up his flute case off the passenger seat, got out of the car, locked its doors, and threw the ignition key as far as he could into the bush. He lengthened the carrying strap on the flute case, slid it over his head and shoulder, and swung the case behind his back. Then he jumped over the ditch alongside the road and pushed his way through the underbrush into the woods. When he was far enough that he could only just make out the road beyond the trees, he turned northwards and began to run. This was not easy to do, for the underbrush was quite thick in places. He wondered vaguely if there were any snakes around. Oh, well, he was probably making enough noise to frighten anything out of his way. The branches lashed at his face and hands as he ran through, and he had to take his cap off and stuff it into his pocket as it kept getting flicked off. He could feel a painful bruise developing where his flute case banged against his hip as he ran. But he couldn't let these things worry him. He had to escape, he had to flee from Ross Lancaster. He had no doubts that Lancaster would now be his mortal enemy. He was after all a traitor to the Protection. He had no idea how far he had gone when he came to the track. He almost kept going past it but saw it just in time. He assumed this had to be the right one, that Andrew would have told him had there been more than one. He was glad to stop and catch his breath. Although he was in the habit of running a couple of kilometres in the Park every morning, he had never done it with a sense of urgency, and the added stress left him feeling 127

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somewhat washed out. He suddenly remembered, too, that he hadn't had much sleep the previous night... Sweat was pouring down his face, and he wiped it off with his handkerchief. Then he put his cap back on, sat down among the bushes, hoping he wasn't visible from the path, and waited for Emma. After a while he heard hurried footsteps approaching down the track from the direction of the road. He strained to see through the branches between him and the path, and saw it was Emma. She was walking, with a slight limp, as fast as she could, glancing right and left as she went, with a look of apprehension on her face. She went right past his hiding spot without seeing him, and he jumped up and called to her. "Emma, over here!" She heard him and stopped. She was out of breath and stood there panting, waiting for him to catch up. He noticed that the handcuffs were gone and looked back towards the road, but it was not visible from where they stood. "He drove off straight away," Emma said. Carl nodded slowly, and stood there a moment, still looking in that direction and wondering when—if?—he would ever see Andrew and his family again. He sighed deeply. The pain of separation... For the first time in thirty-six years he knew it again. His eyes stung and he swallowed hard. But there wasn't time to think about it, they had to keep running. He turned back to Emma and saw her looking at him with concern. "What happened to your face?" she asked. "My face?" he said, feeling over his cheeks with his hands, and suddenly aware that his face was stinging. "It's all scratched," she said, "You're hurt." "Oh, that's from the branches, I think. From when I was running through the bush." He shrugged. "Don't worry about it. It isn't bothering me." He could hardly believe it. Here he had a few little scratches on his face and she was concerned about it—she who was covered in cuts and bruises from head to toe and even had a broken rib, thanks to him! Would this woman ever cease to amaze him? He felt strangely moved by the incident, and turned away so she wouldn't see the tears that had suddenly filled his eyes. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face with it, and took a deep breath as he put it back in his pocket. "Well," he said, turning back towards Emma, "I gather we still have a long way to go, so we'd better get moving. Let's go." He set off, jogging down the trail, and she followed him. After a few minutes she couldn't go on and just had to stop. She just didn't have the strength to keep going at this pace after the treatment of the last two weeks. Her limp was getting worse, and the broken rib was also very painful, making it hard for her to breathe properly. "Mr. Slade!" she called out, "Mr. Slade, wait!" Carl stopped and looked back. He saw that she had stopped and that she seemed to be in some discomfort, for she was standing there leaning

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slightly over and holding her side. He walked quickly back towards her. "What's the matter?" he asked. "I-I can't keep up," she gasped, "I can't keep going, I hurt too much." He stared at her as the implications of what she was saying sank in. They had to keep going, and as fast as possible. Every minute counted, every minute that went past brought them one minute closer to when Lancaster would start searching for them. He would have to help her somehow. After all, it was entirely his fault she was having trouble. He considered the situation a moment. Never before in his life had he ever done anything like this. Never before had he helped someone who had trouble moving. He decided on what he could do, moved his flute case forwards, and reached for her left hand. To his dismay she flinched at his sudden movement. "It's all right, Emma," he said quietly, "I'm not going to hurt you. Put your arm around my waist and hold on to my jacket." He placed her hand behind his back and added, "I'll try and help you walk. We'll just have to keep going as best we can." He put his arm around her to support her and they set off. They continued down the track in this ungainly manner, with Carl half-carrying, half-pushing Emma. His long legs kept them going at a fairly fast pace, but he wondered how long he could keep it up. His arm was rapidly developing a cramp, and Emma felt heavier with every few steps. She herself was having trouble getting her legs to keep up with his, and now her right side ached too where Carl was holding onto her. With her left hand she hung on grimly to his waist, grasping his jacket. It seemed that she could feel every bruise on her body, and her joints felt as if they would seize up any moment. After what seemed a considerable time the track, which had been going slightly downhill all along, came to a long, steep slope. They stopped at the top and could see the path going down the hillside in switchbacks. "Can we get down there?" Emma said apprehensively. "We have to," Carl answered grimly. God, help us to keep going, give us strength, please, he prayed silently. Over the last hour or so, as they moved down the trail, his goal had somehow changed from getting away from Lancaster to getting Emma to safety. He was no longer worried about himself, surprisingly, but he knew that he had to get her to a safe place. He wasn't sure at what point during their run he had switched focus, but there it was, and it gave him far more impetus to persevere. Emma looked at him questioningly and he smiled down at her. "We'll take it slowly," he encouraged her, "Just hang on." They started off and he walked her carefully down the zigzag trail. She did her best to keep her legs moving, but about halfway down he could feel that she was on the verge of collapse. As they went down he kept looking out ahead for any spot where they could rest but still be hidden from view. At last he noticed a small thicket a few metres from the bottom of the hill, where several gum trees grew close together surrounded by some dense 129

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bushes. He also spotted a narrow creek crossing the trail just beyond the thicket and realised he was very thirsty. When they reached level ground he helped Emma into the thicket. "You need to rest and I think here we won't be visible from the track or the hill," he said as he helped her to sit down with her back against a tree trunk. Her face was red from the exertion and she was having trouble catching her breath. She felt as if she might explode any minute, the pain inside her body was like a fire, and her pulse was roaring in her ears so that she shook her head from side to side in an attempt to stop the noise. Carl was alarmed at her behaviour and wondered how he could get some water with which to cool her down. He suddenly thought of his cap, took it off, and examined it, asking himself whether it would hold water. Well, he'd find out! Checking carefully that there was no-one about, he crept to the creek and filled the cap with water. It would do. He came back to Emma and started splashing some water over her face with his free hand, when she suddenly grabbed the cap with both hands and emptied it over her head. "P-please, m-more," she gasped, handing it back to him. He hurried back to the creek, refilled the cap, then brought it back to her. "Th-thanks," she said. Emma's breathing was slower now and her face was less flushed. She threw another handful of water over her face, then to his surprise she started to drink from the cap. After a few mouthfuls she looked up at him, hesitated, then held it out to him. "Do you want some?" she asked. "I guess I could use a drink too," he admitted, and followed her example. He returned a second time to the creek for another capful of water and they both had another drink. "Handy things, caps," he said as he shook it out and put it back on his head, "Actually, I don't think it's ever been used this way before." Emma didn't answer. Her eyes were closed and he thought she might have gone to sleep. He sat down wearily near her and wondered what their next move should be. He looked at his watch. Almost noon. Around them the bush was quiet in the mid-day warmth. Somewhere in the undergrowth nearby he could hear some small creature scratching around in the leaves—a bird, perhaps. There were no other sounds, not even the rustling of leaves in a breeze, for the air, redolent of eucalyptus in the heat, was still. He was not accustomed to such quietude and it made him drowsy. He leant back against a tree and reviewed the past few hours. It had all happened so fast—Andrew coming to his office; taking Emma away; sending him off to the Forest; their awkward race down the track. Was this the right action to be taking? He didn't know—he had to trust Andrew's judgment. He wondered how far they would have to go before they found—or rather, were found by—the "someone" Andrew had told them

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about. They certainly hadn't seen any sign of other people being around, so far. And then it suddenly occurred to him to wonder who the people Andrew could be referring to were, and how Andrew knew them. Those were two questions which might not be answered for a long time, maybe never. He would have to set them aside, and just trust his friend. He closed his eyes and dozed.

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Chapter 17 As Carl and Emma sat resting among the trees of the thicket, they were unaware that they were being observed. They hadn't seen anyone else and had unconsciously come to the conclusion that there was no-one else around. So it was something of a shock when a short, dark-haired man pushed through the bushes into the thicket where they were hiding. Carl jumped to his feet, but Emma simply looked up in surprise. She was simply too exhausted to move. "What are you doing here?" the newcomer asked, frowning. Carl didn't answer, but he wondered if this was the person they were supposed to meet. Emma was the one who answered him. She reasoned that if this man was a friend he needed to know how to help them, and if he was an enemy it didn't matter, they'd be dead soon whether she told him or not. "We have to get out of the Protectorate," she said wearily, "They want to kill us." The stranger studied them silently. He recognized their uniforms—the dark green of the Counsellor's and the dark blue of the counsellee's. It was so very unlikely that one would find the two together anywhere else but in a so-called counselling session, that it convinced him that these were the people for whom he had been on the lookout. The woman's answer also told him that they were in earnest. "Can you help us?" Carl asked, more to break the awkward silence than anything. The man smiled as he replied. "I think so," he said, "Come with me." Then he turned and started out of the thicket. "Wait, can you give us a hand?" Carl called after him. "What's up?" the man asked, coming back to them. "Emma here can't walk any further, and I'm not sure I can help her on my own anymore." "Right, hang on then." The man helped Emma up, motioned to Carl to support her on one side, and between the two of them they helped her out of the thicket. "This way," their guide said, and led them on down the track. Before they had gone very far he turned off onto a barely visible sidetrack which disappeared into the bush. They moved slowly because of Emma, but both Emma and Carl felt relieved as they realised that this man was probably the person Andrew had been referring to. Neither of them had ever seen him before. After about fifteen minutes' tramping through the bush and undergrowth they came to a cabin in a small clearing. Set on a concrete slab, it was built of tarred logs and had obviously been there a long time. A decrepit picnic table sat forlornly to one side of it, almost hidden by tall weeds. The cabin had a shingle roof which had seen many seasons and was sprouting a liberal amount of greenery. A stone chimney, sporting a headful of grass and weeds, made its way up the far end of the small building to peek over 132

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the roof. Carl surmised that the cabin had once been a bushwalkers' shelter. He wondered who was using it now. The man brought them to the door, where he knocked twice and then again twice. He then opened the door and they went in. There were three other men in the hut. One of them, a tall, lanky man about Carl's age, with curly straw-coloured hair and dancing grey eyes, was sitting on the lower level of a built-in bunkbed, apparently listening to a radio through a pair of headphones. The other two were poring over a map spread out on the rough table in the centre of the single room. They were all looking up expectantly as the door opened. One of the men by the table, whose straight black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes betrayed his Japanese ancestry, immediately came and took Emma from them and gently helped her onto the bunk as the man with the radio got up and brought a stool over for Carl to sit on. "These are the folk we need to get out of the country as quickly as possible," the man who had brought them informed his companions. "Death sentence, isn't it?" asked the man with the radio, who had sat down on another stool and was putting his headphones back on. "That's what the Dark Watcher told us, wasn't it?" the first man answered. He turned to Carl and asked, "Why do they want to kill you?" "I'm a Police Counsellor and I've just become a Christian," Carl told him. "Praise God!" said the older of the other two men, a silver-haired man in his early sixties. "Yeah, but that sure puts you in a dangerous spot, doesn't it?" observed his colleague, "It's high treason for a government official to turn to the Lord." "What about her?" the blond man asked, indicating Emma. "She was my current counsellee," Carl replied, "and they'd have assumed it was her who converted me, so she had to come too." "Who told you to come here?" asked the older man. He had been pouring water from a cooler into plastic mugs and now handed one each to Carl, Emma, and their guide. "Thank you," Carl said, taking the cup from him, "It was Andrew Parker, a friend of mine at the Counselling Institute. Do you know him?" "He knows of us and he sent you to us. He's on our side," the older man answered enigmatically. He's on our side. Who are these people? Carl asked himself, and why would they want to help me? How does Andrew know them? It struck him that all of a sudden there was a lot he didn't know about his friend. Andrew's reaction to what he had witnessed over the MC monitor was both a relief and a puzzle to him. What were those "special calls" he'd made? Obviously they had led to this meeting, but how had Andrew arranged such a meeting using Institute telephones, without being caught? "You must be wondering who we are," the first man said, as if in answer to Carl's thoughts, "Let me introduce us." The older man was Paul. The blond man with the radio was Barnabas, "Because he's always encouraging us." The Asian man was Peter. "He's 133

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always believing we can accomplish the impossible," their guide told them, "And I'm Silas—I do a lot of travelling." Emma leant up on her elbow and laughed. "Code names from the Bible!" she said, and immediately lay back on the hard, dusty mattress again. "That's Emma," Carl said, waving his hand towards her, "And I'm Carl." In s vague hope that the others might reveal more about themselves he added, "Those are our real names, though." "Well, we're glad we can be of help to you," Paul said, ignoring the hint, "and if you'll excuse us for a minute, we need to discuss a few things right now." Carl leant back against the wall as he sat on the stool near the door slowly sipping his water. As the other men gathered to talk quietly together on the other side of the table, he looked around the room. The log walls were not tarred on the inside of the cabin, and showed ample evidence of termite activity, though here and there were signs that at some point in the past the walls had had a coating of some kind. The wooden table was bolted to the concrete, but the boltheads were rusted away, and when Paul and Peter had leant on it while looking at their map it had shown a tendency to move from its moorings. On the left side of the cabin was the bunkbed, its wooden supports also nibbled by white-ants. There was a very old mattress on the lower bunk, but the upper bunk not only did not have a mattress, it was also missing a plank from its bed. The big stone fireplace on the right, at the end of the room opposite the bunks, looked as if it had not seen a fire for decades. In fact the remains of what looked like a birdnest sat prominently in the middle of the hearth. The concrete slab which formed the floor would have been bare had it not been for the considerable layer of dust and leaves on it. Carl's gaze went from the details of the cabin to those of its occupants. Paul was of average build, and looked very fit for his age, but he had the sallow skin of so many of the Protectorate's citizens, who never had quite enough to eat. His silver hair was thinning above his wrinkled forehead, but was still surprisingly thick otherwise. It gave him the appearance of scholarly wisdom and, combined with his light brown eyes surrounded by the imprints of a lifetime of smiles, an air of grandfatherly patience. Peter was of similar height to Paul, but the resemblance ended there. His age was difficult to guess, for his face was as smooth as a child's, and a perpetual mischievous half-smile made him looke quite youthful. The man with the radio, Barnabas, was so thin it was almost a surprise when he moved. One did not expect him to have the strength. Carl had been taken aback by how deep his voice was. The fourth man, their guide Silas, was short and stocky. His olive skin, upturned nose, black eyes, and dark wavy hair suggested a Mediterranean or South American origin. He moved silently and with the graceful ease of one who is at all times completely alert to his surroundings. One got the impression, somehow, that Silas would be able to walk through a pitchblack room full of obstacles without stumbling into any of them.

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For some reason Carl felt safe with these men. How could he know that they were trustworthy? Yet he was quite sure that they were. He could relax here, and he certainly needed to—he was exhausted. The only other place in the Protectorate where he had felt he could relax with other people around was at the Parkers'. That was one of the curses of the Protection— you couldn't trust anyone and you always had to be on your guard lest you betray by your words or actions any "Crooked Thoughts." Fear and suspicion marked every waking hour—one could not even trust those who called themselves one's friends. The fear often filled one's sleep with nightmares. Carl finally finished his drink. He stood up, put his cup down on the table, and went over to the bunkbed. Emma was lying on her right side, facing the room, her knees drawn up, one hand under her cheek. She looked up at him sleepily. "How are you doing?" he asked quietly. "Better, thanks," she replied, "It's awfully good to be able to lie down." Paul was just coming over to them and heard her answer. "You won't be able to lie down for very long, I'm afraid," he said, "If we're to get you out of the country quickly we'll have to get moving. We have to be out of here well within the next hour." "How are you going to do it?" Carl asked, "I'd always understood it was impossible. That fence along the border is guarded, electrified, and rigged with alarms. Surely you can't fly us out." "Firstly," Paul answered, his smile emphasising the wrinkles around his eyes, "we're going to thank the Lord for getting you this far, then we'll ask Him for wisdom as to the best way to get you out to Kawanyama. It's been done before, but it's not necessarily a good idea to do it the same way twice. Will you join us as we pray?" Prayer was still a very new thing to Carl, and praying with other people was completely new. He nodded and answered hesitantly. "Yes, all right." "Yes, of course," Emma replied softly. Peter, Silas, and Barnabas had come over and the four men knelt down by the bunkbed. Carl followed suit, and all of them bowed their heads while Paul led them in prayer. Emma closed her eyes, and as they prayed she fell fast asleep. When they had finished praying, the men held a brief whispered discussion and decided they could let Emma sleep for a while. Paul and Silas sat down with Carl at the table to look at the map and to explain to him the escape plan they had in mind. Barnabas went back to his radio. As details were worked out he relayed them to some distant colleague in a language Carl did not recognise. After a while Peter went out, and he returned shortly carrying two backpacks and accompanied by a tall, grey-haired woman with a kind but no-nonsense face. He must have told her about the visitors because she showed no surprise on seeing them. Paul introduced her. "Carl, this is Dorcas."

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Carl stood up and greeted her with a short bow, and she bowed back, smiling. She was carrying a small briefcase of the sort used by doctors, and she put it down on the table beside the map. Carl resumed his seat and Silas continued his explanations while Peter and Paul busied themselves with the contents of the backpacks. Dorcas walked over to the bunks and looked at Emma with concern. She puzzled over the injuries on Emma's face and noticed her shallow breathing. She turned to look at Carl and noticed his uniform, and looked back pensively at Emma. Finally she seemed satisfied with whatever conclusion she had reached. She sighed and walked back to the table. Silas finished instructing Carl and showing him the map. He folded it up and handed it, and a compass, to Carl. "The next thing we have to do is to get rid of that transponder behind your ear, Carl," Paul said. Carl automatically felt behind his ears. "Get rid of what?" he exclaimed. "All government officials have a miniature transmitter inserted behind their left ear when they start in service," Barnabas explained, "Don't tell me you didn't know that!" "Well, no, I didn't. It's news to me," Carl answered, "I don't recall anything like that. Are you sure I have one?" "It's easy to find out," Dorcas said, "Excuse me." She looked behind his ear, and sure enough, she found the scar she expected. "You've got one, all right," she said, "and the sooner it's destroyed the better. Let's hope they haven't set it off yet." "When they want to find you they just switch on the right signal to activate the transmitter and they can locate you in no time," Barnabas offered, then added, musingly, "Satellites are such useful things..." For Carl, this explained how on certain occasions when he thought he couldn't be located, when he had wanted some time on his own, his boss had easily found him. But he puzzled over when the transponder had been inserted. He had no recollection of it. "How do you propose to remove it?" he asked Paul. The man grinned. "Well, it so happens that Dr. Dorcas here is quite skilled in surgery," he said, "and she happens to have the equipment for such a minor op right here with her. We thought such a step might be necessary and we are prepared..." "Now the table is clear, I can get ready," Dorcas remarked, "Give me about ten minutes and I'll be all set." Carl stood up and stretched, and walked over to the bunk. He gazed down at Emma, who was still asleep. Even in the dim light of the lower bunk, the bruising on her neck and face stood out. He noticed, too, that her breathing was careful, even though she was asleep. The fractured rib. How long does that take to heal? he wondered. He found himself wishing again that he could somehow erase the bruises, the fracture, the black eyes, and the pain that went with them, and suddenly he remembered a small boy holding a tiny baby fondly and longing to protect her from whatever threats might come her way. Today, for the first time since that 136

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day so long ago when life had come crashing down around him, he found himself wanting to protect someone other than himself. He was astounded. He sat down on the floor so abruptly that the others in the room all turned to look at him. He was oblivious to them, however, and leant back against the wall, his arms stretched out on his knees, and closed his eyes. For thirty-six years he had carefully, if not always consciously, erected and maintained a wall—or should he call it a rampart?—between himself and his own feelings, and the rest of the world. Last night an invincible power, the Power of God, had demolished his wall and set him free from that overwhelming fear of pain, emotional or otherwise, that had ruled his every action from the day he had entered the children's home. He realized with astonishment and thankfulness that he was no longer afraid of what Lancaster, or anyone else, could do to him if he was caught. On the other hand, he was determined to do all he could to make sure Emma would be safe. He thought back to the point during their run when he had become aware that it was Emma he wanted to protect and not himself. Strange, how that realisation had encouraged him. Yet the irony of the fact that for two whole weeks she had not been protected from him did not escape him. He got up on his knees and, leaning his head against the upright of the bunkbed, he closed his eyes and prayed aloud, softly. He thanked God for Emma and asked Him to help him to help Emma, to protect her and get her to safety. "She loves You so, and she trusts You, God, don't let her down, please. Even if You can't get me out of the Protectorate, please help Emma. Thank you for saving me from the horror of that awful pit I was in. I'll fit in with whatever You have in mind for me. But please, God, get Emma out of the country." As he knelt there he recalled something that Jack had read out to him— how strange that he should be able to remember it so clearly, out of those hours of Bible passages! "...those who trust in the LORD will have their strength renewed. Like eagles they will rise on wings; they will run without getting worn out; they will walk without getting tired." A great sense of peace flooded him, an assurance that all would be well. Emma's voice broke into his thoughts. "Mr. Slade, are you all right?" she said. He raised his head and opened his eyes. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking anxiously at him. He smiled at her as he got up. "I'm very much all right, Emma," he said, "I can't explain how I know it, but everything will turn out fine." Emma understood quite well how he knew. She nodded, and smiled back. "How are you feeling?" he asked her. "Much better, after that sleep," she replied. And after hearing you praying for me, she thought to herself. It was his voice as he prayed that 137

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had woken her up. Counsellor Slade praying for his counsellee... No, he was no longer a Counsellor... He was her brother in Christ now. Dorcas called Carl over to the table, which she had covered with a clean sheet and on which she had placed a small, hard pillow. She pointed to a stool by the table. "I want you to sit on that stool and place your head on that pillow," she explained, "Clasp your hands together and keep them on your lap, under the table. I'll be covering your head with this cloth." She showed him a sealed plastic bag containing a folded piece of green cloth. "Then I'll inject some local anaesthetic and wait for it to take. As soon as it does, I'll make an incision, remove the chip, and then sew up. It will only take a few minutes. I trust you can hold perfectly still for a few minutes?" "I hope so," Carl replied. He did as she told him. The operation, as she had said, took only a few minutes, and she soon placed the chip on the table. Silas, assisting her, taped a dressing behind Carl's ear as soon as she finished stitching. Carl sat up, feeling peculiar due to the numbness on the left side of his head. He picked up the tiny chip gingerly and grimaced. "Would you like the pleasure of smashing it?" Peter asked, grinning and handing him a hammer. Carl placed the transponder on the concrete floor of the cabin and gave it several blows with the hammer, reducing it to powder and a few slivers of metal. ! ! ! At the Police Counselling Institute, the radio technician recorded one short signal from Carl's transponder—not enough to locate him. He couldn't raise another one. Chief Lancaster's voice let loose a flood of foulness. "Now how do we find him?" he roared. At that moment a Police Officer ran into the communications room. "Chief, they've just found Counsellor Slade's car abandoned in the National Forest!" she announced. "Right! Get me Chief Spencer at the Search and Rescue Bureau," Lancaster ordered, "We'll have to get that forest combed through." ! ! ! Dorcas motioned to Emma to come over. She showed her a small plastic bottle, some dressings in sealed envelopes, and some antiseptic wipes in foil wrappers. "Do you know how to change a dressing?" she asked her. "Yes, I do," Emma said. "You two are going to be on your own for a couple of days once we drop you off, before you get to safety. You'll have to change the dressing behind his ear at least twice a day, more if it gets particularly dirty. I think this is enough for a week, but I hope that long before you run out you'll have reached our folk in Kawanyama." 138

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She put the dressings, wipes, and bottle of antibiotic powder into a thick, sealable, plastic bag. "It's important not to forget to change the dressing," she warned Emma, "He can't afford an infection there because it can easily spread to the bone, the ear, or the brain." "Will this bag fit into one of your pockets, Mr. Slade?" Emma asked, handing the bag to Carl. He tried putting it into one of the ample pockets of his uniform jacket. "No problem," he said, "You'd think this was designed specially for the purpose." Paul, who had left the cabin earlier while Dorcas had been operating, came back and told them that it was time to get going. Peter had been packing everything back into the backpacks. Silas checked that nothing was being left behind, and used a leafy branch to erase their footprints from the floor of the hut. Then they all followed Paul down a narrow track behind it. They walked briskly for a couple of kilometres, Carl and Dorcas helping Emma along. The track ended at an old logging road, where a small four-wheel drive van was waiting, with Barnabas at the wheel. Paul opened the rear door, pushed in the backpacks, and held the door open for them to climb in. There were bench seats on each side of the van behind the driver's seat. Dorcas got in first and she patted the seat next to her as Emma got in. "Please sit here," she asked, and Emma sat down next to her. Carl sat down facing them, his knees almost touching Emma's across the narrow space between the benches. Peter and Silas clambered aboard and closed the door, and Paul got into the front seat next to Barnabas. They set off down the road, heading north. "You seem to have been through a rough time," Dorcas commented quietly to Emma. Emma glanced at Carl before answering her. He raised his eyebrows and grimaced. "I guess it has been ...uh... rather stressful," she said, finally, "but God knows what He's doing, He has it all in hand." She smiled reassuringly at Carl, who nodded. "That's right, He does," Dorcas replied, "You may need to keep reminding yourself of that over the next couple of days." "I won't forget," Emma assured her. They drove for about an hour along the old logging roads until they came to a sealed road. Barnabas turned off onto this, and continued on it until they were out of the forest. He drove down onto the freeway, joining the northbound traffic. Carl wondered how far they were from Densonia. He had never seen this part of the freeway. "Where are we?" he asked Peter, sitting next to him. "About an hour's drive north of Densonia," was the cryptic reply. Carl then realised that questions of that sort would not really be answered. He had no idea what lay an hour's drive north of the city. He pictured the map Paul had shown him in his mind, but all it showed, he recalled, was the area of bush he and Emma had to cross to get to the border. 139

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Peter distributed some sandwiches, and both Carl and Emma were suddenly aware of how hungry they were. Carl had not eaten anything since early that morning, and Emma's last meal had been the previous evening's chunk of bread. Carl wondered if they had been missed yet and how long it would be before the search for them was on in earnest. Would the authorities guess where they were heading? Or would they assume that they had gone into hiding? He was well aware of what would happen if Lancaster got his hands on them. For him, public execution, without trial, as a traitor to the Protectorate. For Emma... He shuddered as he thought of the Experimental Farm. Oh, God, please don't let that happen to her, he prayed silently. Emma saw him frowning and wondered what was troubling him. "You look terribly worried, Mr. Slade," she said, "Don't be. Trust God. We're in His hands and He'll see us through." Paul turned around and interrupted her. "It will help if you change your jacket, though," he said to Carl, "You stand out like a yakka after a bushfire with that Counsellor's uniform on you." "I've got a sportscoat here which might fit you," Peter offered, handing it to him. Although in the confines of the vehicle it was something of a contorsionist feat to do so, Carl managed to take his jacket off. He passed it to Peter, and tried on the sportscoat. It was a bit tight, but it would do. "Don't forget the dressings in your pocket," Emma reminded him. Peter felt in the pockets of the green jacket, found the packet, and handed it to Carl, who put it into the inside pocket of the sportscoat. "Would you like something else for another pocket?" Peter asked, holding up a small brown book. "What have you got there?" Emma asked in surprise as she saw what he had found. Peter handed her the book, and she opened it to the front flyleaf. "Where did you get this?" she asked Carl, her eyes wide with amazement. "Your brother gave it to me as I was leaving his house, last night," he replied. Emma turned the open book towards him. The name written on the flyleaf was Emma Winston. "It's yours!" he exclaimed, "Do you know, I spent most of the rest of last night reading that Bible and I didn't even notice your name in it!" Was it really only last night? he thought to himself. So much seemed to have happened since then... "Better put it in your pocket, we're sure to need it!" Emma said, grinning, and handed him the book. "By the way, have any of you seen my cap?" Carl asked as he put the small Bible in his pocket, "a green one, with the emblem of the Institute on the front?" No-one seemed to remember having seen his cap. "You weren't wearing one when you got to the cabin," Peter said.

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Silas recalled that he had been wearing it when he first saw him. "You must have lost it on the way to the cabin," he suggested, "Perhaps it got knocked off by a branch or something." "Well, I suppose I won't be needing it any more, anyway," Carl murmured, "Never mind." Dorcas had been gazing at him thoughtfully for some time. "Were you Emma's Counsellor?" she asked him suddenly. He was startled by her question, and reddened considerably. Emma wondered at Dorcas' question too. "Yes, I was," Carl replied softly, "Why?" "God is great," Dorcas said, "I never thought I would ever see a counsellee smiling at a Counsellor. How long did you counsel her for?" "Two awful weeks." "And I suppose the Carers did their usual?" "No," Carl answered barely audibly, "I did it myself." Emma opened her mouth as if to say something, but Silas beat her to it. "And you hated yourself for it, didn't you?" he asked. Carl stared at him, and nodded slowly. "It's all over, it's all forgiven," Emma protested, "Please stop talking about it." Carl gave her a look of such gratitude she almost expected him to jump up and hug her. Paul, in the front passenger seat, turned around. "I agree with Emma," he said, "Carl is our brother, he is no longer a Counsellor. As far as we're concerned, it's as if he'd never been one. Don't forget that." "Thank you," Carl said to him, "Thank you, Paul." Paul grinned. "Thank the Lord Jesus Christ, Carl," he said, "He's the one Who makes that statement true, as he did it for my namesake, who also was once a persecutor of Christians." "And for my father, who was a member of the secret police in his country," Silas added, "before a coup caused him and my mother to emigrate in a hurry." "Where was that?" Emma asked. "Somewhere in Central America," he replied, "They always refused to tell me exactly where." "And your father became a Christian?" Peter asked. "Yes. So did my mother." "That was before the Protectorate?" Emma asked. "Yes. And my parents and brothers fled to Kawanyama in 2015 because they couldn't cope with the racism." "You stayed behind?" Carl asked in surprise. "Yes." "Why?" "Because the Lord made it quite clear to me that He wanted me to stay." "Are you married?" Emma asked. "Would anyone like another sandwich?" Peter asked, changing the subject helpfully. The less Carl and Emma knew about their rescuers, the better, at least until they were safely in Kawanyama. 141

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They all wanted another sandwich, and for the next little while conversation was dropped in favour of eating. After they had been on the road about three hours, Barnabas warned Emma and Carl that they were approaching the exit he had told them about, and that they had better be ready to leave as soon as he stopped. Dorcas gave Emma a hug and patted Carl's knee. "God bless you two," she said kindly, "May He get you safely to Kawanyama. Please don't forget us back here." "We'll never forget," Emma assured her, "Thank you for everything, for all your help." She looked fondly from one to another of their rescuers in turn. "God bless you all," she added. Silas handed Carl a small backpack and two canteens. "Here's your tucker," he said, "We wouldn't want you to starve after all this. It's not the most wonderful food, but it had to be stuff that doesn't need cooking or refrigerating. Don't take the backpack and canteens with you over the border, just hide them under a bush or something. You won't need them once you're over there and they'd just get in your way." "Thank you very much," Carl said warmly, smiling at him, "May God reward you all, and keep you safe." He put his flute case into the backpack, along with the map and compass which Peter handed him. They had left the freeway, and had been driving along a narrow road for some ten minutes, and now they came to a sign indicating a rest area. Barnabas turned into the driveway, and stopped by a picnic shelter. "All right, out you get, and hurry, you two," he ordered, "The track starts behind this hut." Paul had jumped out of the truck as soon as it had stopped, and he opened the back door for them. Carl climbed out and helped Emma out, and Paul closed the door. He hurried back into the front seat of the vehicle, closed the door, and leaned out of the window. "Goodbye, and God be with you. Now go!" he said, and the van drove away. Carl caught hold of Emma's wrist and led her rapidly behind the shelter, where he stopped for a moment. Well, this is it, he thought, we're on our own now, just Emma and me, until we reach Kawanyama. No, not entirely on our own, he reminded himself, God's with us. This is the second time today I've been dropped off in the bush with Counsellor Slade, Emma thought, This is becoming a habit! "What next, Mr. Slade?" she asked. In answer, Carl handed her one of the canteens and she hung it over her shoulder. He himself put on the backpack and the other canteen. "By the way, Emma, my name is Carl," he said, smiling, "Come on, let's go!" He took her arm again and they set off into the forest.

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The track behind the picnic shelter led down to a creek which flowed through the extensive forest lying between them and the border. Silas had told Carl to follow the creek upstream until they came to a very large scribbly gum—here they would be able to cross over easily by stepping on stones in the creek bed. Emma and Carl walked as fast as they could along the creek and crossed over when they came to the white gum. Carl looked for the blue-green arrow Silas had said they would find at the start of the next part of the trail. He found the blaze where Silas had said he would, low on the trunk of a large wattle bush and partly hidden by grass and weeds. They lost no time in following the track, wanting to do as Silas had told them and get a long way from the road as fast as possible. Fortunately the late afternoon was relatively cool and the sky was overcast but not threatening. Carl led the way and Emma almost had to run to keep up with him. They kept going for about an hour, then stopped to rest for a few minutes. "How are you doing?" Carl asked Emma as she took a drink from her canteen, "Do you think you can keep going at this pace?" "I hope so, but it's hard work. That rest in the hut helped a lot." she replied, "But my normal work is cleaning a school and it doesn't necessarily keep me very fit." Nor does being beaten for two weeks, Carl thought to himself. Out loud he said, "Tell me if you need help, okay?" "I will, thanks." He surveyed their surroundings as they sat there catching their breath. The bush in this part of the country was quite different from the National Forest, whose pine tree plantations were the only woodland with which he was familiar. Here the trees were all eucalypts, with few other species. Back there, the gumtrees were scattered thinly among the pine trees which had been planted many years before. The undergrowth in the National Forest, which had resulted not only from natural growth and bushfires but had been amply supplied with windborne seeds from suburban sources, was very thick, especially near the roadways. The bushes here, however, were not crowded together as if to keep intruders out. The trail, thickly overgrown to prove it was seldom used, wound its way among the bushes and between the trees in a leisurely fashion which defied his attempts to keep track of the direction in which they were headed. He walked around a bit, studying the boughs discarded by the nearby trees, and found two sturdy branches they could use as walking sticks. He gave Emma one of them, and they set off to continue along the trail which took them farther into the bush. At their next stop Carl looked at the map Silas had given him, and checked the compass direction. As far as he could tell, they were going in

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the right direction, but he hoped the blue arrows marking the track were still all where they should be. He'd had no experience with anything other than road maps and Silas had had to give him a crash course in how to read a survey map and use a compass. He wouldn't like to have to depend on his map-reading to get them all the way to the Border Fence. After some time they became aware that the daylight had grown dimmer and decided to look for a sheltered spot in which to spend the night. A short distance from the track, and not very visible from it, they found an overhang of rock which formed a sort of small cave with a sandy floor. Emma swept it smooth with a leafy branch and they checked it for ants' nests, spider holes, and snake hideouts. Carl crouched down at the entrance of the cave. "Sleeping on the ground isn't going to be very comfortable," he said dubiously, patting the hard floor. "Let's just hope it doesn't rain," Emma laughed, "I don't want to find out whether the roof leaks." She became serious and added quietly, "If you're as tired as I am, you won't have any trouble sleeping on the ground." He looked up at her and grimaced. "You know what you're talking about," he said, "It can't be much different from the floor of a cell, can it?" "Probably softer," she whispered, not looking at him. She sighed, and walked away a short distance into the bush for privacy. When she came back, Carl was sitting on the ground just outside their shelter, undoing the straps on the backpack. "Time for tea, I think," he said as she sat down on a low rock nearby. He pulled out a packet of crackers and one of processed cheese, and a pocket knife. "Will this do?" he asked, looking unimpressed as he cut open the wrapper around the cheese. "Well, we have to eat, don't we, and that doesn't need cooking," Emma answered, "Is there anything else?" Carl put the cheese and knife down on the towel he had spread on his lap and looked through the bag. "A couple of apples, some more cheese, some more crackers, a torch," he said, "It's not much, but I guess we won't be needing this after tomorrow night..." "I must admit that cheese and crackers sounds a lot more appetizing than a piece of dry bread..." Emma commented as she opened the packet of crackers. Carl grimaced. "Is that what they gave you to eat back there?" he asked, realising to his shame that he'd never bothered to find out what counsellees were fed. "That was the evening meal," she told him, "For lunch I had some unidentifiable sludge which didn't taste too bad. But it was difficult to eat it without a spoon!" "What about breakfast?" he asked her. "No breakfast," she answered simply, "I had a drink of water when I got up, just before the Carer came to get me."

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Carl stared at her. He remembered the meals he'd been having while she was on that kind of diet. He wished he could offer her a banquet to make up for it. Emma noticed the look on his face. "Let's thank God, shall we?" she suggested gently, and went on to give thanks for their having got so far, for the friends who had helped them, for the shelter they had found, and for the food. She was about to start eating when she remembered something. "I think I'd better change that dressing behind your ear before it gets dark, don't you?" she said. "I guess so," Carl replied, "We can eat in the dark, but you can't easily change a bandage in the dark!" They put their food down on the backpack and Carl took the dressings pack out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. As she took one of the antiseptic wipes out of the packet, she wondered how best to go about the task. "Why don't you sit with your knees drawn up and cross your arms on top of them, and put your head, turned sideways, down on your arms?" she suggested. Carl did as she advised, and she knelt on the ground next to him. She removed the soiled bandage, gently wiped the wound clean, and dusted it with the antibiotic powder. "Does it hurt?" she asked him as she placed a clean dressing over the wound. "A bit," he said, not wanting her to worry about it, though the wound actually was quite painful, "You're being very careful." Emma replaced the powder bottle in the bag and gave it to Carl to put back in his pocket. She dug a hole under a bush and buried the used dressing and wipe, then washed her hands with a small amount of water from her canteen. "When did they put that thing in behind your ear?" she asked. "Well, I was wondering about that myself," he answered, "I didn't even know it was there until Paul told me it had to be removed! The only thing I can suggest is that it was inserted when I had appendicitis and had to have an operation, back when I worked for the Welfare Ministry. In fact, I do have a vague memory of wondering at the time why I had a dressing behind my ear as well as one on my abdomen." He paused, thinking back. "Yes, now I remember asking, and they gave me some story about removing a growth or something like that... I suppose they took advantage of my having a general anaesthetic to insert the transponder. I don't know why they didn't tell me the truth about it. I wonder if other people who had them knew about it. I certainly don't remember anyone ever mentioning anything like that." "I'm surprised you couldn't feel it through the skin." "Well, I guess it was a very small chip, as you saw. There was a lumpy scar that I could feel, but of course I expected that. Sometimes I found the scar would become almost unbearably itchy, though." "Scars often do get itchy. I'm not sure why," Emma said, "It's just one of those things, I guess." 145

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She went back to sit on the rock, and Carl handed her her food. They ate in silence. Emma thought about Jack and Rose and wondered if they knew about her escape. It wasn't the sort of thing that would be on the evening news report, of course, but perhaps Jack had contacts in the Underground? Carl speculated as to how long it would be before Chief Lancaster figured out what had happened to Counsellor Slade, then decided it was better not to think about Lancaster at all. Think instead about the present circumstances. He felt a little uncomfortable. He realised with a shock that in all his adult years he had never been alone with a woman except in a work situation—in which case one was never really alone—and what was more he had never wanted to be, for in the circles he frequented he had never met one whose company he appreciated. He shuddered as the memory of several incidents with Cecilia Janssen made a fleeting appearance in his mind. And that woman had somehow had something to do with Emma Winston's being assigned to him... He was quite sure that Janssen had not intended that series of counselling to end this way! And now he was somewhat nonplussed to realise that he was actually enjoying being with Emma. Sitting cross-legged on the sand, a piece of cheese in one hand and a cracker in the other, he gazed at her as he ate. Why was she different from those other women? Was it because she was a Christian? He thought about how he'd treated her over the previous two weeks. Yet as soon as he'd told her he had become a Christian she'd believed him. What had she seen that encouraged her to do that? Had turning to Christ really made him that different? Even overnight? Emma had been absently watching a trail of ants at her feet in the growing gloom as she ate, when she was suddenly aware that Carl had been staring at her. She looked up at him curiously and their eyes met. He blushed in confusion, but in the dim light she did not notice his face reddening. "Is something the matter?" she asked him. "Uh... No, nothing. I was just thinking," he answered haltingly. Pausing, and looking for a distraction, he remembered the apples in the backpack. "Would you like some apple?" he asked. "Yes, please," she said. She wondered what he had been thinking about, and this reminded her that he had never finished his account of his visit to her brother's home. "With our sudden rush away and all, you know, you never did get around to telling me what happened to you last night at Jack's," she said to him as he handed her half an apple, "I'd still like to hear about it, if that's okay with you." "Oh, I do want to tell you about it," he replied, "Thanks for reminding me. Do you mind if I finish my apple first?" "No, of course not," she laughed, "It's pretty hard to talk with one's mouth full of apple! I'll finish mine, too."

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Again they ate without talking, and Carl considered once more his feelings about being with Emma. He wondered if it was just a physical attraction, whether the novelty of being alone, far from anyone else, with an attractive woman, was perhaps causing his long-repressed normal desires to surface. Well, she is attractive, he thought, somewhat astounded at himself even though it wasn't the first time he'd thought that, but there's more to it than just her looks. I've been enjoying talking with her, she seems to be on the same wavelength, she doesn't treat me as if I'm mad... And suddenly he realised what made her so appealing to him. She trusts me! She took me at my word and she trusts me, despite all I did to her over the past two weeks... And yes, of course being a Christian makes her different from other women I've known! Being a Christian, even a day-old Christian, has made an incredible difference in me—it has to make her different. What was it Jack read out last night? Something about having Christ living in one? I'll have to ask her where that is in the Bible, so I can read it for myself. Around them the crickets, frogs, and other small nocturnal creatures had begun their nighttime music, and not too far off they could hear the mournful cry of a mopoke. To Emma it brought back memories of camping trips in the bush with her family when she was a child. She wondered where the rest of her family was—probably still overseas somewhere, or they surely would have contacted Jack and her. She'd been so thankful that Jack and Rose had been around when she had suddenly found herself alone. She wondered once again if they had any idea where she was. Carl interrupted her thoughts as he started to tell her of his time with the Winstons. "After I'd told your brother and his wife who I was," he said, "and that I wanted to know about this Redeemer, you know, that you kept talking about, Jack said he wanted to read to me from the Bible. He said that was the best way to answer my questions. Rose made us a cup of tea, and Jack and I sat down at the table, and for some two or three hours he read out loud from his Bible. He explained a bit here and there, but mostly he just read. And you know, it all made sense—it was marvelous how it did. I-I can't really explain what I mean, but it was like a whole new world opening up, as if I'd been blind and suddenly I could see, like that man whom Jesus healed." "John Newton felt that way, too," Emma said softly. "Who's John Newton?" Carl asked. "I'll tell you about him another time," she replied, "He lived in the eighteenth century." "Oh... Well, when Jack finished reading I couldn't say anything for ages. I was seeing everything I'd been living for, you know, all that I'd believed, just falling to pieces. It couldn't stand up to what I'd just heard... I knew what Jack had read to me was the Truth. How I knew, I couldn't tell you, I just knew. Perhaps because of all that I'd heard from you and Chester Brown? I don't know." He paused and thought for a minute. It was already quite dark and Emma could barely see him. She waited in silence for him to continue. 147

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When he spoke again it was in a voice full of sadness. "All those people who suffered at my hands..." he said, "And you, too... All for nothing but a dreadful heap of lies... I feel sick at the thought... Thirty-six years of life completely wasted, serving falsehoods..." "Carl," Emma said softly, "You may have wasted those years, but believe me, God hasn't." "What do you mean?" he said in surprise. "God allowed you to go through that. He knew what He was doing, even if you didn't. 'Everything works together for good for those who love God, those whom He has chosen in accordance with His plans,' applies in this as in everything else. That's from chapter eight of Paul's letter to the believers in Rome." Carl was silent again for a few moments as he considered her words. "I'll have to think about that some more," he said shortly, "Right now I think I'll continue with what happened at Jack's." "Yes, please do," she urged. "As I said, I believed that all he'd read was true," Carl went on, "Well, I felt that I had to do something about this, you know—that there was some sort of obligation on my part now that I was no longer ignorant, I guess. I told Jack, and asked him what I should do." "And what did he say?" "He-He said, 'Why don't you ask Jesus Himself?'" Carl replied in an awe-struck voice, "Little did he know..." The memory of what had happened was so vivid—the terror, the despair, the incredible joy. "Well, what did you do, then?" Emma asked softly, sensing that something unusual had taken place. When Carl answered, he spoke slowly and carefully, his voice muted in wonder. He wanted to get across to Emma something of the awesomeness of what he had experienced. He discovered to his surprise that it was very important to him that she be able to understand it to the extent that it was possible to, second-hand. "Jack went to kneel with Rose by the armchair. He told me they usually kneel when they talk to God, you know, to show Him reverence, and he suggested I might like to kneel too. I don't think I've ever felt so self-conscious in my life as when I knelt down right in the middle of that room. I felt very strongly that I had to kneel there." Carl paused again, remembering the strange compulsion. "I asked the question out loud. It seemed reasonable enough, you know, and yet I felt a bit silly. I'd closed my eyes, I'm not sure why, I just closed them, I suppose, because I was talking to someone I couldn't see? And then... as I knelt there, I became aware, all in a rush, one after the other, of all the wrong things I'd ever done in my life, and all the right things I'd ever failed to do... It was as if someone had picked up a huge weight and gradually let it down onto my back. It seemed to me as if I were kneeling on the edge of a black, bottomless pit, and as the weight settled on me I fell forwards. I did, literally, onto the floor, with my arms stretched out, you know, the way one does to stop a fall... And I cried out because I was terrified. You see, it felt as if I was falling into that pit. And I was also terribly, terribly sorry. 148

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I'd no idea there was so much evil in me. I cried out to God, telling Him I was sorry, and what should I do? I wanted so much to undo all that wrong, and I couldn't... And I just started to cry and cry like I've never wept before. I was full of despair..." Carl stopped, wondering if perhaps he was sharing too much. Would Emma think he was mad? Would she find his story ridiculous, the way he had found her description of her faith far-fetched? Emma was quiet; she was amazed at what he was telling her. He couldn't see her, but he heard her sigh and realized that she had moved closer and was sitting on the sand near him. No, he decided, she doesn't think it's ridiculous—she believes me. The realisation encouraged him unbelievably. He started speaking again, slowly and deliberately. "And then I felt someone touch my shoulder and I thought it was Jack. I heard a man's voice, but it wasn't Jack's voice. The Man spoke to me as if He were comforting a small child, you know, and He said to me—He actually called me by my name—He said, 'Carl, only I could take the burden of your sins and the punishment for them, and I've done it, and your sins are forgiven. I am alive.' Then He also said, but He said it more like a command this time: 'Come, follow Me.'" Carl stopped, and sighed deeply. "Did you answer Him?" Emma whispered. He felt a surge of joy, for the way she asked, even the fact that she'd moved closer, confirmed for him that she did believe what he'd been telling her, and that she was sharing in the awesomeness of his experience. "I couldn't say a word," he replied happily, "but it was as if all of me was shouting, 'Yes, Lord, I'll go with You wherever You want!'" Once more his voice became hushed. "But I wanted to see who was speaking to me, you know, even though I knew without a doubt that it was Jesus, so I looked up. It was a very short look, only a split second, believe me! He was surrounded by such an intense light I had to quickly shut my eyes. But I caught a glimpse of Him, of a man dressed in very white garments—I can't even describe them, but they were the whitest white I've ever seen..." "You saw Jesus..." Emma whispered wonderingly. They sat, not saying anything, for quite some time, neither of them feeling it right to break the silence. Emma had tears flowing down her face. She felt overwhelmed by the account of the miracle Carl had experienced. Should it really be any surprise that he was so changed? And yet it was a surprise. Although she had been a witness to miracles more times than she had ever expected to be, she had never come across one quite like this. One could not be complacent about any miracle—the only attitude to have was one of worship and praise to God, and Emma's heart was overflowing. Carl was joyfully aware that she had been able to relate to everything he was telling her. To his consternation, however, he was also suddenly very aware of her physical presence beside him and of an almost overwhelming desire to take her in his arms and make love to her. He was thankful for the darkness, which meant that she couldn't see his distress, and he prayed 149

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earnestly that the desire would pass before he lost control. Her friendship had become very precious to him, and the last thing he wanted to do was take advantage of her. He had an idea that if he were to make advances she would not be able to resist because of the state of mind they were both in at that moment, and it would be something they would both deeply regret forever after. His whole being, that had responded so gladly and readily to the call of Christ the night before, was now fighting a terrible urge to give in to the desires of the flesh. He felt on the brink of disaster and he wrapped his arms around his knees, put his head down, and kept praying. He understood now what Jack had read out about the devil laying traps. The only way to resist him and avoid falling into the traps was to look to God. Emma, quite unaware of the battle being waged beside her, suddenly broke the silence. "Carl," she said softly. He started, and sat up. "What?" he answered, and his voice sounded too loud to him. "I know you play the flute, but can you sing?" Her question took him by surprise, and he was amazed that she didn't seem to have noticed anything untoward. God had answered his prayer, and his heart was warm with gratitude. "Uh... After a fashion," he said hesitantly, "I can hold a tune, I think, but I, uh, don't often sing. Why?" "After what you've just told me, I just feel like singing praises to God," Emma replied, "Would you like to learn a song to the Lord?" The idea appealed very much to Carl. "Yes, please," he said, "Will you teach me one?" "Of course," she replied, "I'd love to. I can start by teaching you one of the old hymns. It dates back to the eighteenth century, but I think that you'll have no trouble relating to it. A man named Charles Wesley wrote it. He wrote hundreds of hymns." She began singing softly: "And can it be that I should gain An interest in the Saviour's Blood? Died He for me, who caused His pain, For me, who Him to death pursued? Amazing love! How can it be, That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?" Emma had a clear alto voice, and in the earlier free days before the Protection she had often helped to lead the singing in her brother's church. She knew by heart dozens of hymns and Scripture songs. Now she sang, not just to teach Carl the hymn, but especially in thanksgiving to God for the miracle of new birth in him. Carl listened, moved not only by the words—he understood what Wesley was on about—but also by the beauty of Emma's graceful voice. It was a sudden shock to him to realise that he could not remember ever having listened to someone sing since he was a child, let alone sung along with anyone else. He wondered if he would, in fact, be able to join in the hymn. 150

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Emma sang the first, fourth, and last verses three times, and as she started singing them a fourth time she heard Carl's baritone joining in softly. They sang the three verses through, then sang them again. At last Emma stopped singing, to catch her breath, but Carl sang the first verse through again before stopping. "Thank you for that," he said when he had finished, "It was a wonderful idea." "Would you mind if I keep on singing?" she asked, "I just feel like I could praise God all night for all that He's done over the last two days!" "Please do sing, Emma," he answered, delighted that he might continue listening to her, and wanting somehow to prolong the joy he felt, "I don't know any songs other than what you've just taught me, but I'll join you in my heart, if you know what I mean." "I know what you mean," she assured him. He too wanted to express his gratitude to God. He thought briefly of his flute, but decided against getting it out. The sound of it would probably carry too far in the still night. He would just do as he had said, and praise God in his heart. Softly, over the next twenty minutes or so, Emma sang hymns and songs of praise one after the other. As she sang, Carl got to his knees. He wondered how one goes about praising and thanking God when, after a few minutes he found that words of worship and thanksgiving came to him effortlessly. Emma could hear him praying quietly as she sang. Finally, after she had worked her way through half a dozen hymns, they stopped. They knelt in silence for a few moments, then Carl slowly got up, felt around for the backpack and got the torch out of it. He turned it on so he could find his canteen, and offered Emma a drink. She took the canteen, and he looked at his watch. It was later than he'd thought. "We'd better get some sleep," he warned, "We have to be off as soon after dawn as possible." He drank some water when she handed the canteen back, then he took off his jacket and rolled it up. "Here," he said, offering it to Emma, "Why don't you use this for a pillow?" "What about you?" she asked. "I'll use the towel," he replied, "Go on, take it." She understood his wanting to make up somehow for his past mistreatment of her. "Thank you," she said, "It'll be nice to have something soft to rest my head on." She took the coat and by the light of the torch found a level spot in the cave where she could lie down. When she had settled down, Carl switched off the torch, and lay down across the entrance to the shelter with his head pillowed on the towel. "Good night, Carl," Emma whispered. "Good night, Emma," he answered, "Thank you for trusting me, despite all that's gone before." And all that you don't know about, he thought. He felt deeply grateful to God that he'd been rescued in time from breaking her trust. 151

Chapter 19 As was his habit, Carl was awake and up before dawn. Emma was still asleep and he decided to let her sleep a little longer. Then he had what he thought was probably a crazy idea, but decided it was well worth trying. He felt in the backpack for his flute case, brought it out, and opened it. He hesitated, wondering how far the sound would carry. But he didn't hesitate for long. There's probably no-one around to hear me except for birds and animals. And Emma. As he took out his flute he noticed that the Redouté print was still in the case. He took it out and unrolled it, and gazed at it for a moment before putting it back in the case. He suddenly had a new perspective on the circumstances which had led to his putting it there—if it hadn't fallen off the wall back then it would still be in his office and his one link with his parents would be gone. "All things work together for good..." But that meant God knew back then that he would one day love Him. He thought about this as he assembled his flute. Holding it carefully, he crawled out of the shelter and stood up. The sky was only just beginning to lighten. He put the flute to his lips and softly blew a few notes. Then he listened as a few birds here and there started singing and calling. It was a completely new experience for him to be out in the bush at dawn. For years he'd gone down to the City Park every morning at first light, as soon as the curfew was lifted, but there he'd been constantly very aware of the Police and the Enwuh reps who were always watching one's every action. In Densonia one was always surrounded by either fear or utter apathy. Here in the bush he was aware of something very different: there was nothing around to induce fear. He was not afraid of nature, only people. There was no-one watching or listening—unless Emma woke up, of course, but there was no threat in that. In fact, he wished she would wake up, so that she might also enjoy the sounds of the early morning—and of his flute. For the first time in nearly thirty years of playing that instrument, he wanted to play it especially for someone else rather than for his own pleasure. He wanted to play it as an act of worship and thanks to God, and he wanted to play it for Emma. The sky was continuing to lighten, and as the light increased so did the singing of the birds. Carl joined in with his flute, playing variations on Respighi's arrangement of "The Nightingale". With joy overflowing his heart he offered up the music to God. In the cave, Emma woke up, stretched, and rolled over onto her back. She rubbed her eyes and saw that Carl was gone, and then she heard the flute and noticed the flute case by the backpack. Her first reaction was to be afraid someone would hear him, someone who might be looking for them. But she decided that the chance of that happening was yet small. If they were looking for them, they probably wouldn't start near the border— they would assume that she and Carl were hiding somewhere around Densonia. She listened for a moment to the music, amazed that Carl could 152

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play so beautifully. It had never occurred to her that a Police Counsellor might be interested enough in music to actually master an instrument. She moved over to the opening of the cave and looked out. There he was, standing a little distance away, with his back to her, playing his flute, and swaying gently in time to the music as he played. She sat down in front of the shelter and stayed there watching him and listening as if mesmerized. The music of the flute and the bird songs joined in magical effect in the pastel light of the dawn. Something told her that this was the real Carl Slade she was seeing, that perhaps for the first time in his life he was completely free. She could almost imagine him in heaven performing on his flute like this for God. There was something sacred in the way he was playing, as if he were pouring his soul out with the flow of the notes. And indeed, Carl's playing at this time was in the way of a prayer. He didn't know any hymns or praise songs apart from the three verses Emma had taught him, but when he'd woken up his heart had still been full of gratitude to God, and how else could he express it best? He had never allowed himself to play with as much emotion as he was doing now. The thought went through his mind that it was odd that he had been able to control that when he had never been able to dominate his temper. He moved around slightly and, catching sight of Emma from the corner of his eye, he turned around to face her. The daylight was bright enough now so that he could see her face. He wondered, as he started playing Massenet's "Meditation", whether she knew the piece. He played it through, and when he finished, walked over to her, grinning happily. He sat down next to her and started cleaning the flute. "I couldn't resist doing that," he said, smiling at her now and then as he worked, "I hope you didn't mind." "It was beautiful," she whispered, still caught up in the wonder of it. She wasn't quite sure of how to express what she meant. "It was... It was like angels singing." "I wanted to praise God, to worship Him," Carl explained, "and there was my flute, and there were the birds singing their praises to Him. I just had to join them..." He didn't add that he had wanted to play for her too— he suddenly felt self-conscious about it Emma gazed at him. She was still in awe of the extent of the change in him. Was this really the same man who'd yelled at her to shut up when she talked about God? Only two days ago? Who had beaten her up in his rage at her holding firmly to her faith? She thought of Saul approving the stoning of Stephen one day and then a few days later preaching about Jesus in Damascus. What did God have in store for this man, that He'd transformed him so dramatically? Carl replaced his flute in its case, pulled out the backpack from the cave, and looked through it. "What would you like for breakfast?" he asked Emma with a grin, "cheese and crackers, or crackers and cheese?" "How about cheese with crackers?" she joked back, then added, "I know I should be thankful, but I think I could get tired of crackers and cheese for breakfast, lunch, and tea!" 153

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"It's a bit monotonous, I agree," he replied, "But don't forget we can have some apple for morning and afternoon break. Anyway, it beats going hungry, don't you think?" "Yes, it certainly does..." she answered quietly, remembering the fare at the Counselling Institute. Carl set the crackers out on the empty wrapper and began to slice the cheese onto them. "If you'll excuse me, I have to disappear for a minute," Emma said, getting up, "Also, when we've eaten, remind me to change your dressing." While she went off into the bush, Carl finished slicing the cheese. He picked up the towel and put it and his flute case and the rest of the food into the backpack. Then he retrieved his jacket, and shook it out before putting it on. He took the dressings pack and Emma's Bible from his pockets. When Emma came back, he asked her to read something out from her Bible. She chose the eighth chapter of Paul's letter to the Romans, and read it out slowly. He thought carefully about what she read. He was struck by the Apostle's complete confidence in what God had accomplished in him through Christ. "Since God is for us, who can be against us?" He was beginning to understand why Emma had been able to hang onto her faith in the Institute... He put the Bible back in his pocket when she finished reading, and Emma watched him and wondered what he was thinking. "Well, let's get on and eat," he said shortly, picking up his food and handing hers to Emma, "We still have a long way to go so we shouldn't tarry. Remember that Paul and Silas warned us that we have to cross the border tonight." They ate as fast as one can eat crackers and cheese, and helped the food down with a drink of water from their canteens. "Let me change that dressing, then we can be on our way," Emma said when they'd finished eating. She poured some water on her hands to wash them, "We'll have to find some water at some point today," she observed, "There's not much left in here." "The map shows a couple of creeks on the way, we can probably fill up the canteens there," he said, "By the way, how's that pain in your side?" "Still there, but I'll be all right, don't worry about it. If I need to rest, I'll tell you." After changing Carl's bandage she handed him the packet and he put it back in his pocket along with the Bible. He stood up, put on the backpack, Emma hung the two canteens over her shoulder, and they set off at a fast pace down the track. They continued at a similar speed for some two hours before stopping for a short break. At one point, as he started around a bend in the path, Carl stopped abruptly. He caught Emma by the arm as she came up and motioned for her to be quiet, then pointed to a spot just off the trail ahead. "There's an animal just went across the trail, it's behind that bush," he 154

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whispered, "I think it's a spiny anteater. I've never seen a real, live one before, have you?" She seemed startled at his question, and looked at him curiously. "Yes," she answered hesitantly, "when we were camping, years ago." Then she glanced at the bush, and added softly, but with some excitement, "D'you think it's still there?" "I don't know," he said, "I'm going to have a look, anyway." They crept over quietly to the bush and looked around it. A busy echidna was demolishing an ants' nest and having a feast. "Oh!" Emma cried out in spite of herself, and the startled animal waddled hurriedly away to suddenly bury itself at extraordinary speed under another bush. "Did you see that?" Carl exclaimed in delighted surprise, "I couldn't dig a hole that fast, let alone bury anything in it!" Again Emma seemed to be taken aback. She frowned in puzzlement. "They usually do that when they feel threatened," she told him. She looked at him searchingly. "Are you interested in animals?" He turned to her, a wondering look on his face. "Well... Yes, I've always been fascinated by nature—what I could see of it in Densonia, anyhow. I did go for a walk in the National Forest once or twice, but I was warned not to do it again. So I had to be content with the possums and ducks in the City Park. Insects, too." He shrugged. "Most people think I'm off my head or worse if I suggest I'm interested in animals for their own sake, not because of ecology or that sort of thing, so I never talk about it." "My family used to go camping when we were children," Emma said, "We saw a lot of wildlife. Once we were in a rainforest and we heard a kookaburra down in the bushes. We were puzzled because kookaburras generally don't 'laugh' except when they're sitting up high in a tree or something, or flying. When we investigated, we found it was a lyrebird! It sounded just like a kookaburra! Fortunately, it didn't see us, and it went on to imitate several other birds." "That must have been quite remarkable, I didn't know lyrebirds did that," Carl said, and looked pensive. After a moment, he added, "When I was younger I used to try to imitate bird songs on my flute. I ought to try it again sometime." He re-adjusted the backpack on his shoulders. "We'd better go on now, we've still got a long way to go." As they walked along, Emma thought about the echidna episode and realised what it was that had so surprised her about it. Carl's reaction had been quite natural and unpremeditated. He had actually been excited about seeing a real, live echidna in the wild! She was well aware that such a reaction revealed what the Protectioners called "Crooked Thinking". Yet his answer to her question told her this was not a new thing for him. How on earth had he got away with it all these years, even to the point of being appointed a Police Counsellor? About mid-morning they stopped for a rest and ate half of the second apple. The country was now more hilly and Emma was finding it difficult to keep going. Carl, too, was beginning to feel very tired, especially as he 155

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had to help Emma on the steeper parts of the trail. He hoped and prayed that they would be able to make it to the border in good time, despite their weariness. The forest didn't end, but the trees and undergrowth kept changing with the character of the land. Even though he was tired, Carl found that he was enjoying this new experience of walking through the bush, and he had more than a suspicion that having Emma's company had a lot to do with it. Every now and then they would spot a small animal or bird crossing the path and one or both of them would exclaim about it, and they would talk about it for a little while afterwards. Emma seemed to have a treasurehoard of knowledge about nature, and it fascinated him to listen to her expound about the habits of the creatures of the bush. They stopped to eat lunch at about mid-day, and drank the last of the water from the canteens. They were sitting on a large flat rock by the side of the trail, and Emma longed to just lie down on it and go to sleep. In order to force herself to ignore her fatigue and the pain in her side, she got up and sauntered up and down the trail as she ate, examining the bushes and plants around them. Carl remained seated on the rock, watching her. "Wow! Come and see this!" she said to him all of a sudden. He got up and came over to where she crouched looking at something on the ground beside the track, among the fallen branches and scrubby grass. "What is it?" he asked her, then saw what she was pointing to, a small plant whose single stalk held what looked like a maroon bumblebee. "Is that a real flower?" he exclaimed incredulously, squatting down for a closer look. "It's called a bearded orchid—you can see why," she explained, "They're not all that common." "It's amazing," he said quietly, and glancing at her, then back at the flower, "I tend to forget about wildflowers. You don't often find them in the Park, except for dandelions or other things that come up in the lawns and which the gardeners promptly pull up." He turned to her. "Have you ever looked closely at those little blue flowers, tiny ones, that grow on long vines in the lawns?" he asked. "You mean speedwells?" "Is that what they're called? Anyway, I picked one up, once, to have a good look at it, and I was amazed at how beautiful a flower it was. So tiny, you know, so easily ignored as you walk through the grass, and yet so delicately patterned and coloured..." "Yes, I've seen them," she said, smiling, "God doesn't need to use a big canvas to produce a work of art, does He?" "No, He doesn't," Carl replied, "but it doesn't stop Him doing it, just the same—just look at all this." He swept his arm around to include the bush around them. He looked at the orchid again a moment, then back at Emma. "Do you like flowers too, then?" he asked her. "Oh, yes! Flowers, trees, animals, I find them all wonderfully fascinating—all the things God's made. People, too, but in a different way." 156

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She picked up a small stone. "Look at the patterns on this—just an ordinary stone, and yet it manages to be beautiful too. Isn't God wonderful?" she laughed happily. Then, unexpectedly, she was serious, and looking at Carl strangely again. "You like beautiful things," she said softly, "You're fond of animals. You get all excited about seeing an echidna. You enjoy flowers, to the point of picking speedwells and being fascinated by their beauty. You play the flute like an angel." It was a statement, not a question. She sighed. "Have you always been like that?" she asked quietly. "As far back as I can remember..." He suddenly realised what she was getting at, and looked stricken. "I know, it doesn't fit, does it, with Counselling, with beating people up?" he asked softly, looking at his feet, "It isn't 'Straight Thinking'..." Emma didn't reply, but looked at him quizzically. He looked at her again and noticed, with a pang, that the pallor caused by her fatigue made the bruising on her face stand out even more. She finds flowers, trees, animals fascinating, he thought to himself, And people—she said people, too. How do I feel about people? he asked himself. Andrew. Denise. Matt. Ross Lancaster. Cecilia Janssen. Paul. Silas. Barnabas. Peter. Chester Brown. All the names that come to mind right now. Emma... What I did to her does not reflect how I feel about her. If only I could erase those two weeks. If only I could have saved Chester Brown from the Farm. Too late, now... He stood up and gazed around at the trees without seeing them, his hands in his pockets. "Yes, I've always been fascinated by beauty, by nature, by music," he sighed, "That's why I took up the flute when I was twelve. That's why I spend a lot of my free time in the Park. People think I'm peculiar, and I avoid them—except for Andrew and his family, of course." He hesitated, then went on, "There's nothing beautiful about the Protection, though, is there? But I was a coward, you see, I was afraid, so I clung to it, I convinced myself that it was right. I was terrified of falling foul of the Protectioners. When my doubts increased, I tried to ignore them. It took me a long time to get around to listening to God's voice calling me, didn't it?" Emma realized his question was rhetorical, and didn't answer him. What a strange man he is! she thought as she too stood up. Maybe someday I'll ask him to tell me about himself, about his childhood, his family... Carl came out of his reverie, took one last look at the orchid, and started back towards the rock. "Much as I'm enjoying discovering the wonders of the bush, I'm afraid we have to keep going if we want to reach the border before nightfall," he remarked briskly. He pulled out the map and spread it on the rock to look at it, then checked the compass. As far as he could work out, they were making good progress. Emma had followed him back to the rock. She picked up the two canteens. "I hope we'll get to that creek soon, or we could get awfully thirsty," she commented, upturning them to show they were empty. "According to the map, and if I'm reading it right, it's not too far," he said, folding up the map and putting it in his pocket, "Let's go!" 157

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Travelling became even more difficult in the afternoon because of their increasing weariness. They had to force themselves to keep going, and only the urgent need to get to the border before it got dark kept them persevering. After about an hour they came across a small clear stream where they washed their faces and filled their canteens. Emma expressed some apprehension about polluted water, but Carl thought the stream was probably isolated enough to be reasonably clean. Anyway, as he pointe out reasonably, they had to have water and that was all there was. In the middle of the afternoon they stopped for ten minutes to eat what was left of the crackers and the apples. They would eat the remaining cheese in the evening. After another drink from their canteens, they continued on their way.

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Chapter 20 The Search and Rescue squads had spread out on both sides of the National Forest, pushing their way through the bush looking for clues as to where Counsellor Slade might have gone. In the late afternoon, one searcher found a green Counsellor's cap on a sidetrack leading to an old bushwalkers' cabin. It was assumed to be Slade's though it was not marked with his name, and they could find no other sign that he'd actually been in that area. At the Counselling Institute the next morning, Chief Ross Lancaster sat in his office with Chief Joe Spencer of the Search and Rescue Bureau. Spencer, his carefully trimmed grey hair matching his grey uniform, his hooked nose and dark eyes giving the impression of a bird of prey, lounged comfortably on the sofa in the corner of Lancaster's office. He had once been a military man and could still stand straight as a pole when the occasion demanded it, but his preference was very much for his ease. Lancaster, who was never at ease with those he saw as rivals in gaining President Densons's favour, indulged Spencer's tastes in an attempt to keep him on side. He had no idea that Joe Spencer found him highly amusing. "Can you give me any clues as to why your Counsellor Slade would have disappeared, Ross?" Spencer asked around a mouthful of some of Lancaster's personal store of cream pastries. "What sort of clues do you have in mind, Joe?" Lancaster was wary. He felt his own reputation, not only the Institute's, was at stake because of this whole business. He had heard some of the jokes Spencer had made about the "providers of guinea pigs to the Farm". "Well, for example," Spencer said, "was he in trouble of any sort, might he have failed in his work, anything that might cause him to want to leave the Institute?" "Aaah... well, now, he certainly wasn't doing very well in his counselling work lately." Spencer helped himself to another pastry from Lancaster's fridge. "What about the police officer, Lieutenant Parker," he said, "Do you think his little adventure is connected to Slade's disappearance? By the way, you don't mind if I have another, do you?" "No, no, of course not," Lancaster lied ingratiatingly, "Feel free. Now—I don't see how Parker's encounter could have anything to do with it. As far as I can tell the only connection is that the counsellee he was taking to the Farm was Slade's latest failure." "Right. Can you tell me about that incident again?" "Parker said that he was driving through the National Forest to deliver Winston to the Experimental Farm when apparently he was ambushed and forced to hand her over by some gang." Spencer chewed his latest mouthful thoughtfully, considering once again this odd story. He swallowed, got up, and sauntered over to Lancaster's desk. He leant forwards in what Lancaster felt was an intimidating manner. 159

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"Did he mention whether he came across Slade's car or not?" he asked, tapping Lancaster's desk with an insistent finger. The Chief of the Police Counselling Institute stood up hurriedly to dispel the feeling of inferiority imparted to him by Spencer's manner. "Well, yes," he answered, "That's why he'd stopped—he was surprised to see the car there, empty. That's when he was attacked." He walked over to the window and briefly turned his back on Spencer, who straightened up and smirked to himself. Must keep Lancaster in his place... "Did he see his assailants' faces, did he say?" Spencer asked. "Apparently they were wearing balaclavas or something of that ilk," Lancaster replied, turning from the window, "He could only see their eyes." He paused, looking puzzled. "Do you think the two disappearances are connected?" Spencer returned to the sofa, sat down, and crossed his legs. "They might be," he said, "There are at least two possibilities that come to my mind. The first one is that a group of Rebels—and such groups do exist, as you know, despite efforts to hunt them down and get rid of them—some group of Rebels somehow found out that Winston was being taken to the Farm and decided to rescue her, and somehow they lured Slade to the Forest to capture him and exact revenge for his treatment of her, and possibly of others." "It seems to me that sort of thing would require an insider—here, in the Institute—to inform them of movements in the Institute," Lancaster commented. Spencer smiled wryly and re-crossed his legs. "You can't rule that out, I'm afraid," he warned. Then suddenly, he asked, "Tell me, what was Slade's state of mind, lately?" "According to several people, including the Enwuh rep in his building, he's been greatly agitated much of the time, losing his temper over little nothings, and so on. From what I've seen of the recordings of his sessions with Winston, I would say he was heading for a breakdown." "Aaaah... Well," Spencer said, looking satisfied, "that brings us to the second possibility—" He was interrupted by the buzzing of the intercom. Lancaster strode to his desk and pushed the switch angrily. "Yes, what is it?" he snapped, annoyed at the interruption. "Chief Lancaster, Sir, this is Communications. We have an urgent message for Chief Spencer from one of his squads," said the voice through the speaker. "Put it through on my phone," Lancaster said, passing the handset to Spencer without looking at him. Spencer listened to his officer's report, quietly asked a few questions, then told him to stand by for instructions. He lowered the handset and spoke to Lancaster. "Body's been found in a gully in the Forest, wearing a Counsellor's uniform. Shot in the head. Could be suicide. Slade may have been closer to breakdown than you thought."

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"Have them take it to your morgue. We'll have to have positive identification," Lancaster suggested. To Spencer's surprise and disgust, he actually looked pleased. "Officer Wells," Spencer said into the phone, "Have the body taken to the Bureau morgue for identification. What?" He paused and listened, then added, "Well, there are other ways of identifying a body, Officer. Just get it to the morgue as quickly as possible." He gave the handset back to Lancaster. "Do you have Slade's medical records?" he asked, "We'll need them for identification. Apparently the fellow's face and left side of his head were practically blown off." "That would explain why the transponder failed!" Lancaster exclaimed, slapping his desktop, "I'll get Records to send his CD-file to the front desk. We can pick it up on our way out. Did they find anything on the body besides clothing?" "Only the gun, as far as I know." "It's strange that the recording of that last session is missing, not even recorded in the logbook," Lancaster muttered, rubbing his chin, "They didn't find a video-CD on him? Or in the car?" "I don't know whether they found anything in his pockets," Spencer replied, "When they finally got into his car they found nothing, no clues at all. Certainly no CD's or anything like that. His keys were missing. We had to get an impression of his handprint from Central in order to unlock the car. They found his keys some distance from the car, in the bush. Like they were dropped there. And there were no signs of a struggle, or fingerprints other than Slade's. It's beginning to look to me like the two incidents are quite unconnected and Slade did away with himself, for some reason." Lancaster made a call to the Records office and ordered that Counsellor Slade's medical records be taken to the front desk for him to collect. Then he started walking around his office, thinking hard. Joe Spencer sat back, crossed his arms, and watched Lancaster in silence. He had no difficulty believing that Slade had killed himself—he knew what kind of man Lancaster was towards those under him and how he treated those who did not fulfill his expectations. Better to be dead than to face Lancaster's wrath. If Slade wasn't performing as required, he'd had plenty to be afraid of. Lancaster stopped, and sat down on the corner of his desk. He spoke half to himself, half to Spencer. "We'll have to interview the Monitoring Officer," he said, "find out what went on in that last session that could have triggered something, what happened to the recording, and so on." "Will you do that yourself or assign the job to one of your Officers?" Spencer asked. "I'll get one of the Officers to do it," the Chief answered, "There's no rush. If Slade committed suicide, it could be helpful to know why, for future reference. But I can't see any point in putting too much effort into finding out. Good riddance, I say. He was getting on my nerves, with all those counsellees he was sending to the Farm. Now, there's still the matter of that counsellee who was captured. Someone must have known Parker 161

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was taking her to the Farm... It can only be someone in the Institute... Slade would have known, of course, but he would hardly contribute to the rescue of his counsellee! I don't think he'd lost his mind to that extent!" "You can't rule it out, though, especially if he was mentally unbalanced," Spencer pointed out. He went to the fridge and took out another pastry. "Yeeees... I realise that," Lancaster said uncomfortably, mentally dismissing the suggestion, and annoyed by Spencer's gluttony, "but there's another person who would have known about Winston—Cecilia Janssen, the Carer in charge of Winston." He recalled his behaviour towards Janssen in their last interview. He wouldn't put it past her to get her own back by humiliating him in this way. "I'll have her put into custody and questioned." He went to his phone and passed on the order. The Chief of the Search and Rescue Bureau pushed a last mothful of cake into his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "We'd better get over to the Bureau and identify that body," he reminded Lancaster, "Thanks for the treats." Lancaster shrugged. He picked up his cap and his portable phone. "Right," he said, "Let's go." He opened his office door and led his visitor to the lift. At the Search and Rescue Bureau Headquarters, he followed Spencer through the main entrance into the building. Spencer led the way to his office, where he invited Lancaster to sit down for a few minutes while he made some calls. First he called the morgue. The body had not been brought in yet, and he asked to be informed as soon as it was. He called another department and asked if there were any new developments in the case of the counsellee who'd disappeared. Nothing new there, either. Spencer put down his phone and stood up. "Let's go to the map room and see how things are progressing," he suggested. The two men walked down to the large centre where the movements of Search squads were monitored. On one wall of the room a giant screen showed a map of the National Forest and the area around it. The various squads were moving lights on the map. Flashing points of light showed where Counsellor Slade's car, car keys, cap, and what was assumed to be his body, had been found. A different-coloured marker, near the one showing Slade's car, indicated where Lieutenant Parker said he had been ambushed and Emma Winston had been kidnapped. Spencer studied the map for a few minutes. "They've pretty much covered the southern and western sectors now, from the looks of it," he commented to Lancaster. He indicated the lights referring to Counsellor Slade. "It's interesting that Slade's car and car keys were found down here," he observed, "but his cap was found just off this track over here. His body was found quite a long way away, where the same track goes through a deep gully. I wonder why he stopped here." He pointed to the light referring to the cap. "Unless this hut is where he had the gun hidden," he went on, "or the other possibility, as I have mentioned, is that he was captured by 162

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someone, and this person or persons took him to the hut before doing away with him." Lancaster shifted impatiently. "How long before the body gets here?" he asked. "Not very long. I'd say it'll be here within ten minutes. They'd have had to carry it out to this point," Spencer replied, showing a track on the map, "which is as close to it as they'd be able to get a vehicle. Once it's in the van it'd take less than fifteen minutes to get here from there." "Chief, a call for you, Sir," one of the Officers at the control desk announced, and held out a handset to Spencer. He took the phone and listened a moment, frowning. "Could they tell which way it went?" he asked, and listened again to the speaker on the phone. "Right," he added, "Well, see if the tyres can be traced, and let me know as soon as you come up with anything." He replaced the handset in its cradle and turned to Lancaster. "Seems there's a new lead in the case of the counsellee. One of the squads, over here," he said, pointing to a spot on the map, "found recent tyre marks on this disused logging road. Fourwheel drive. The road heads north. They'll follow the marks as far as they can. I've also asked them to trace the tyres. If we can find the vehicle we may find the abductors." "Well, I hope they find something soon!" Lancaster grumbled, "Could we go back to your office? I'd like to call the Institute while we're waiting for that body and see what's being done with Janssen." "Yes, of course." Spencer led the way and the two men returned to his office. Lancaster made his call on his portable phone and found out that, as he fully expected, Janssen was refusing to cooperate. "Give her her own treatment," he said curtly, "and report back to me at the Search and Rescue Bureau." He switched his phone off just as Spencer got a message on his intercom that the body had arrived. "Let's go down to the morgue, then," Spencer said, "Bring Slade's records along." Lancaster gave him the disc. "It's your job, this identifying of bodies," he said curtly. They took a lift down to the basement of the Bureau, which, like that of the Institute, was a maze of white-tiled corridors. They arrived at the morgue as the body was being wheeled in by the attendants. Spencer greeted the pathologist and his assistant who had come over to meet them as they approached. He introduced the middle-aged balding man in a white lab coat to Lancaster. "Chief Lancaster, this is Doctor Harry Selznic". He turned to the pathologist. "Let's see if we can identify Slade without any fancy tests," he said, rubbing his hands briskly. The attendants had placed the body on one of the tables and were wheeling the trolley out as they entered the room. "It's freezing in here," Lancaster observed.

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"We needn't be long," Spencer assured him, "If we can't tell from a look at him, there's nothing further we can do but wait until Doctor Selznic has done some tests. Let's have a look at him, Doc." Selznic beckoned them over and lifted the sheet off the head and shoulders of the corpse. Lancaster blanched, turned around hurriedly, and threw up, to Joe Spencer's amusement. "Well, Ross, does it look like him?" Spencer asked airily. He glanced again at the mangled mess revealed on the table. Chief Spencer had a strong stomach. He had seen much worse in the course of his career. Lancaster was still recovering, leaning on the other table and breathing hard. One of the attendants was cleaning up after him. "You can tell as well as I can that this bloke is unrecognizable!" he spat at Spencer without turning around. "Do you reckon the man did this to himself?" Spencer, unruffled, asked Dr. Selznic, "In other words, does it look like suicide to you?" Selznic stared at the body for a moment, then replaced the sheet and looked thoughtfully at Spencer. "Could be," he replied tentatively, "Guy must have used a rocket launcher on himself, though, to achieve that," he added, indicating the body with his chin. "I understand the gun wasn't quite that big," Spencer grinned, "Did they take it up to Weapons?" "Assume so," the pathologist replied. "Well, it looks like you'll have to use your magic tricks to identify this one, Doc," Spencer said as he handed Slade's CD-file to the pathologist, "This is who we think it might be—see if it matches up. How long d'you reckon it'll take?" "Should be able to tell you for sure tomorrow morning early, Chief," Selznic answered. "Right-oh, get to work, then." Spencer turned around and tapped Lancaster on the shoulder. "Come on, Ross, let's go." "Yeah," Lancaster waved vaguely to the pathologist and followed Spencer out of the morgue. He still felt queasy and he was also angry at Spencer for not being sick too. Chief Lancaster wasn't used to feeling humiliated and he didn't like it one bit. They returned to Spencer's office, where the Chief of the Search and Rescue Bureau offered him a drink to help him recover. "Well, we're not much further along, are we?" Lancaster said glumly. "It's only a matter of a few more hours," Spencer replied, making himself comfortable on his sofa, "You'll just have to be patient!"

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Chapter 21 Late in the afternoon the track became less well-defined, but Carl and Emma had been warned that this would be the case. Silas had told them that after a few hundred metres of this it would become almost invisible and they would have to keep an eye out for the painted blazes marking it. Thus it was imperative that they move as rapidly as possible while there was still enough light to see the blazes. "They're not very obvious, for the simple reason that they're supposed to be seen only by those who know of their existence," Silas had explained, "Look for a blue-green dot of paint low on the trunks of small trees, and on the sides of rocks." They spotted the first blaze, looked for the second one and found it, and kept going like this along the trail. The sun was getting low in the sky, and Emma thought it would be wise to stop and change Carl's dressing before the light got any less. They stopped for about ten minutes so she could do this, and to have a drink. Carl had another look at the map and saw that they did not have too much further to go. They continued moving as fast as they could, following the blazes, as the sun was sinking low in the sky and the light in the forest was getting dimmer. Soon it would be too dark to find the blazes. It was with immense relief that they reached the giant rock their friends had described to them. "It's a very large sandstone boulder, almost a small hill, it's so big." Peter had told them, "In fact it's got a couple of trees growing on top of it and a few bushes, too. When you get to it, proceed very, very cautiously. Watch where you place your feet—don't step on twigs and that sort of thing. On the other side of that rock is the no-man's-land in front of the Border Fence. It's about twenty metres wide." "There's a patrol that moves up and down that section of the Fence every hour—one hour up, one hour down—they could easily be just on the other side of the rock when you get there," Silas had added. "There's a copse, a thicket, at the left end of the rock as you approach it from the trail," Peter had continued, "It's quite thick except in the centre. Hide in there until the moon sets, which will be around ten o'clock. Have you got a watch?" Carl had nodded. "Does it have a light?" Carl had answered affirmatively. "Good," Peter had resumed, "The hollow under the Fence is directly in front of the centre of the rock. Look for the large root of the tree on top of the rock that comes down on that side of the rock. You should have no trouble finding it by touch. The way out is straight ahead under the Fence from that root. Once it's dark, listen for the patrol going past. Give them fifteen minutes to get far enough away. Then get out, find that root, and go straight to the Fence. Feel along the ground for the hole, but be careful not to touch the Fence itself. It's electrified and you'd be roasted alive! You'll have to crawl through very carefully, but you should have plenty of time. Once you're on the other side, run! And keep running

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north until you come to a road. Follow it up the hill. Our friends will find you in the morning." "Well, now, please repeat everything we've just told you," Silas had said. Carl first, then Emma, had gone through the instructions again to Silas' satisfaction. Now they approached the rock very slowly and carefully. Emma pointed to the thicket and they made their way to it. Before pushing through the bushes they listened for sounds of a patrol nearby. All was quiet except for a few frogs chirping in the distance. The sun must have set, for the daylight had become quite dim. They pushed their way into the bushes and after checking for snakes and ants' nests they sat down with their backs against the rock. Carl took his flute case out of the backpack and hung it over his shoulder, then he pulled out the remaining cheese and shared it out between them. They had a drink from the canteens, then put them in the backpack and Carl pushed the pack under a bush. They wouldn't be taking it with them. He put the pocket knife in one of his trouser pockets. "Do you want to try and sleep for a bit?" he asked Emma, "It's a while before ten o'clock." "I-I don't think I could sleep, I'm too keyed up," she whispered. They sat in the gathering gloom and prepared to wait. Carl knelt and prayed that they might make it safely to the other side of the Fence. He thanked God for looking after them through the day. He asked that they might have no trouble finding the tree root and that they might also be able to get through the hole under the Fence easily. Emma asked that God would keep them from touching the Fence. They strained to hear the sound of the patrol and after what seemed an age they heard a low murmur of voices coming nearer. There seemed to be two or three people in conversation walking past. They waited for the voices to fade in the distance as the patrol moved away. "They don't seem very concerned about being heard," Emma commented in a low voice. "They probably haven't seen anyone other than themselves around here for many months!" Carl said. "At least it makes it easy to know when they're near..." It was now quite dark. A sliver of moon stood out in the sky above them. The frog chorus seemed louder, somewhere out beyond the rock. The patrol came back, went on their way, came back again some time later and went on past the rock. The moon set. Emma dozed, and woke with a start when Carl spoke. "Now, Emma," he said in a low voice, "It's after ten, the moon's set, the patrol went by about fifteen minutes ago." They crept out of the trees to the front of the boulder and moved alongside it towards the centre of it. Carl felt along it until he found the tree root. He stood with his back to it as Emma reached him. "Straight across from here," he said, taking hold of her arm, "Let's go." He strode forwards, still holding her arm. Emma almost had to run to keep up. They could just make out the silhouette of the Fence in the 166

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starlight as they got closer. Carl got down on hands and knees, and Emma followed his example. He felt along the ground for a hollow. Please let me find it soon without touching the Fence, he prayed. His hand went down. "I've found it!" he whispered. "Thank God!" Emma whispered back. She heard a faint splashing sound. "It's full of water!" Carl whispered again. "Oh, no!" "We'll just have to get wet. Can you swim?" "This is no time for jokes!" "Sorry," he said softly, "You'd better go first. I think it might be easier to crawl through on your back, keeping as low as possible." "Feet first or head first?" Emma asked. "Head first, I think. Push yourself backwards with your feet. Keep your knees down." "I hope I can do all that," Emma whispered apprehensively, "Okay. Here goes." She felt around for the hole. She lay on her back, took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to ignore the pain in her side, and inched backwards into the hollow. She gasped as the water seeped into her clothes, her hair, and her ears. A feeling of panic threatened to overwhelm her and she stopped and forced herself to relax. She continued to push backwards, keeping as low as she could. It seemed to her that a century went by before she felt the ground sloping upwards behind her. She pushed herself grimly until she was out of the hollow. She knelt beside it and took a few deep breaths to calm herself down. "I'm through," she whispered to Carl. "Right, I'm coming through," he answered. She could hear the swishing of the water and mud as he started moving. "Oh, blast!" he exclaimed suddenly. "What is it?" she asked. "This blasted flute case is in the way. Do you think I can pass it to you? Through the water?" "Won't the flute get damaged?" "The case seals fairly well. Anyhow, that's the least of my worries right now." Emma felt around in the water until her hand encountered the case. She caught the strap and pulled. "I've got it," she informed Carl. "Okay, now I'm coming through," he answered. But Emma had heard another sound. It was the sound of voices coming nearer. "Carl, the patrol!" she whispered urgently. "What? We haven't been here that long! Emma, lie flat, don't move, don't make a sound." The voices were discussing heatedly as they approached. "I think I dropped it around here somewhere. Have you got a torch?" said one voice impatiently.

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"Hang on, yes," answered a second voice, "I'm afraid the batteries need recharging—it's not very bright." "Let me have it," said the first voice in a tone of exasperation. The torch was switched on and showed up two patrol officers standing between them and the rock, looking at the ground as if searching for something. Carl, flat on his back in the hole under the Fence, the back of his head in the water, held his breath and prayed. Emma lay as still as she could on the damp ground, pushed her fist against her mouth so as not to make a sound, and prayed. Although the night was cool, she was sweating profusely. The two figures on the other side of the Fence looked around the patch of ground where they stood, then their torch suddenly went dark. "Well, that's the end of those batteries," said the second voice, sounding relieved, "I'm afraid you'll have to come back when it's light and look around for it." "Yeah, I guess we'd better move. We're running late." said the first voice resignedly. The voices continued but faded away as the patrol moved off. Carl let out his breath and thanked the Lord. Emma relaxed her tense muscles and slowly sat up. Carl continued to push through the water. Another hundred years seemed to go by and then he was out on the Kawanyaman side of the Fence. "Well, that was scary," he said quietly, "I thought we'd had it for sure!" He sat up and his hand brushed against his flute case. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. "Hello," he whispered cheerfully to Emma, "Fancy meeting you here!" Emma was incredulous. This man is full of surprises, she thought to herself, I really do find myself wondering if it's still the same man. Two days ago I could never have believed he had any sense of humour at all. "Do you always crack jokes when you're in a tight spot?" she asked him. "Actually, not as a rule," he answered musingly, and after a pause added, again cheerfully, "Looks like I'm picking up a new habit, eh?" They stood up and he took Emma's arm again. "Come on, let's get out of here!" he said. He set off at a run away from the fence, holding onto Emma. She did her best to keep up. Carl was trying not to run too fast for her, but even so it was hard going. They kept running for a long time, until Emma thought her heart would burst out and her lungs explode. They crashed through bushes, went up and down hills, stubbed their feet on stones, stumbled over branches and roots, and finally, almost ran headlong into a tree. Carl swerved just in time, lost his balance, and the two of them crashed to the ground. They lay there for a few minutes, trying to catch their breath. Emma groaned and held her side. After a while, Carl sat up. "Emma, are you all right?" he asked in a low voice. "I-I think so," she stammered, pushing herself into a sitting position. The knees of her tracksuit pants were torn and felt sticky now as well as wet. "I think I've grazed my knees," she said, "but otherwise I'm okay." 168

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Carl checked his watch. It was almost midnight. "Do you realize all that took us less than an hour and a half?" he exclaimed. "It felt like eternity to me," Emma replied. "'They will run and not get tired...'" Carl remembered the verse coming to mind when he had prayed back in the cabin. "Emma," he said softly, "Do you realise that you've kept going since early yesterday afternoon and you're still reasonably okay, despite your injuries?" "Yes," she said soberly, "Thanks be to God..." "Thanks be to God, yes indeed," he agreed, and stood up. "Ready to keep going?" he asked, and helped her to her feet. "Yeah, I guess so," she replied, less than enthusiastically. There are times when how one feels has nothing to do with what one has to accomplish. They went on, this time walking at an easy pace, thankful that the countryside seemed to have fewer trees to run into. After quite some time, Emma stopped suddenly. "There's a fence here," she said, "Barbed wire. I wonder if there's a road on the other side?" "Hang on, I'll have a look," Carl replied, and crawled through the wires. A few seconds later Emma heard the crunching of gravel. "There certainly is a road here," Carl said, "Come on over." Emma climbed through the fence and joined him on the road. "How's your sense of direction?" he asked her, "Do you have any idea which way is North?" Emma looked up at the sky. There were few clouds now and the stars shone brightly. "There's the Southern Cross," she answered, pointing to it. She turned around and pointed up the hill. "North is that way." They walked along the road for a short while, their footsteps sounding strangely loud in the darkness. After some time, Emma came to a halt again. "Carl, I've got to stop," she announced, "I've had it, I think. I can't keep going any more." "I'll see if I can find a spot where we can rest. Wait there." He walked off to the side of the road. Emma could barely see him in the starlight, but she could hear his footsteps. "There's a paddock here with a hedge around it," he said shortly, "Let's see if I can find a gate into it." She heard him walking away and after a few minutes, coming back. He took her arm. "Come along," he said, "There's a gate over here." He led her to the gate, opened it, and led her through. He closed the gate behind them and walked along the hedge a short way, still holding onto her arm. "We can lie down in here," he said, "I haven't any way of knowing whether it's empty, but I can't hear anything nearby." He took off his coat and rolled it up as he'd done the previous night, although this time it was rather damp. "Here," he said, handing it to her, "Use this for a pillow. Sorry it's a bit damp. Lie down and try and get to sleep." "What about you?" she asked. "I'll be all right," he replied, stretching out on the grass. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. "Thank you for getting us 169

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through, Lord," he prayed out loud, and sighed. Emma lay down nearby with her head on the rolled-up coat and echoed his prayer. Within minutes they were both asleep.

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"And we, who reflect the glory of the Lord with our faces uncovered, are being transformed with ever greater glory by the Lord, who is the Spirit, into His likeness." 2 CORINTHIANS 3:18 "Nothing before, nothing behind; The steps of faith Fall on the seeming void, and find The rock beneath." JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 'Faith'

Chapter 22 The noise of the dawn chorus of bird songs woke Carl up. The hedge seemed to be full of small birds, and the gum trees appeared to be home to a very large number of magpies and currawongs, such was the musical tumult among their branches. For an instant Carl wondered where he was. Then he remembered. He yawned and stretched, sat up, and looked around. Emma was curled up on the grass a little distance away, her head pillowed on his coat, still asleep. As he'd thought when he had led Emma through the gate, they were indeed in a paddock. There was even a mob of sheep sharing it with them, but the nervous animals were huddled at the other end of the paddock, a long way from them. The field was surrounded on three sides by a high, thick hedge, and the fourth side, behind the sheep, seemed to be an ordinary barbed-wire fence. A few gum trees were scattered through the paddock. He reflected on the events of the night before. It all felt rather like a dream, but the mud and the rents in his clothes assured him it had all been very real. I guess this is part of Kawanyama, he mused, I wonder if we'll be welcome. Emma stirred and rolled onto her back, and he crept over to where she was. She opened her eyes, and gave a start when she saw him. "Oh, boy," she exclaimed, "You gave me a fright!" He sat down on the grass next to her as she sat up slowly. "It's not the first time," he muttered. Emma sighed and stretched. All her joints ached and she felt very weary. Her clothes were still quite damp and chafed her skin. She turned to Carl, looked him up and down, and grimaced. "You do look a sight!" she laughed. He grinned. "You could use a wash yourself!" he retorted.

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But Emma was suddenly serious, and she jumped up. "Your dressing!" she exclaimed, "Did it get wet last night?" "I'm afraid so," he answered, feeling behind his ear. The wound was quite painful, probably from being wet all night. She picked up his coat and shook it out. "Your coat's still quite damp, too," she said, "I wonder if the dressings are all right." She felt in the pocket for the plastic bag, pulled it out, and was surprised to find the pocket Bible in it, along with the dressings. She opened the bag and was relieved to find that the contents were dry. "I'd better clean that up and put on a new dressing," she said to Carl, "That was a good idea, putting the Bible in the bag. It would have got wet otherwise." "I did it while you were crawling under the Fence." He sat up as before and put his head down on his knees. Emma pulled off a rather muddy dressing and gently cleaned the wound with one of the antiseptic wipes. All of a sudden Carl jerked his head up. "Hey, hold still!" she exclaimed as she sat back on her heels, almost losing her balance. He was looking towards the gate and she followed his gaze. A somewhat portly man with a walking stick was standing just inside the gate, and he was looking at them. He started walking towards them, and as he approached, they were surprised to see that he was smiling. They were even more astounded by what he said as he came up to them. "Are you two by any chance Emma and Carl?" he asked. They looked at each other, then back at him. Carl shrugged, and grinned. "That's us," he said, "Please excuse us using your paddock as a dormitory and hospital..." The man laughed, and Emma stared at Carl. There he is, being funny again, she thought, It's so strange to hear him joking. Carl turned toward her again, and saw that she was still kneeling there with an antiseptic wipe in one hand and the antibiotic powder in the other. He turned back to the newcomer. "Would you excuse us a minute, please? Emma was in the middle of changing a dressing when her patient stopped cooperating. I'd better let her finish." He put his head down again and she completed the task. "Okay, all done," she informed him, and started putting away the dressings bag. Carl looked up at the man again, then got to his feet. Emma put the bag in his coat pocket and handed him the coat, which he hung over his arm. "How do you know our names?" he asked the other man. "A good friend named Barnabas told me about you," the man replied, "and said to look out for you this morning. He gave me a good description," he added, looking at them with obvious amusement, "I started down the road to look for you and I heard your voices as I walked past this paddock. I peeked over the gate and decided you had to be the right people. You do indeed look like you've been crawling through mud." He paused, smiling at each one in turn. "I should introduce myself. My name is George Newman. Welcome to Kawanyama."

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He held out his hand, but neither Carl nor Emma responded. The handshake had been discarded from the first by the Protectioners so that neither of them was in the habit of shaking hands. Apparently unconcerned by their lack of response, the man put his hand in his pocket. "From your appearance," he continued, "I would venture to suggest that you are in great need of a bath and clean clothes. And perhaps some breakfast?" "How did Barnabas tell you about us? He's back in the Protectorate..." Emma asked curiously. "Why, by radio, of course," George answered, surprised that it wasn't obvious to her. "I thought all the bands were monitored," Carl said. "Ah yes, so they are, but unfortunately—for the Protection folk, that is—few people over there seem to speak Aramaic!" "Barnabas speaks Aramaic?" Emma asked, astonished, "Where on earth did he learn that?" "I taught him. Years ago, at university, when he was majoring in Middle East Studies," George replied with a smile, inclining his head slightly. Carl recalled hearing Barnabas speaking a strange language into his radio when they were in the hut with him and his friends. He interrupted George. "Excuse my ignorance," he said, "but where is Aramaic normally spoken?" "Nowadays, apart from over our radio link, and perhaps by the odd Bible scholar or historical linguist, nowhere," George explained, beaming, "It was the language spoken by Jesus and His countrymen in everyday life. There was a very small group of people who spoke it until the turn of the century, in the Middle East, but they either died or switched to Arabic. It comes in very handy when you don't want to be understood by those folk listening in." Professor Newman was in his late sixties, balding, his dark grey eyes having an apparently permanent twinkle, as if there was nothing in life without its amusing side. He was not very tall but carried himself very erect. Few people knew he had a steel rod down his back which had been inserted to correct a spinal defect when he was in his early 20's. He walked with a slight limp, with the aid of a walking stick, of which he had a quite considerable collection. Only his wife knew of the constant pain he suffered—and that only because he had to tell someone about it now and then when it really slowed him down, not because he complained about it. George was almost invariably cheerful and courteous to everyone. "Come," he said to them, "I'll take you up to Bethany Lodge, and you can get cleaned up, and tell us your story over some breakfast, eh? It's about half a kilometre up the hill, can you manage that? We don't have to hurry." He could see that they were worn out. Carl helped Emma up from where she had sat down on the grass. He looked at her with a mixture of dismay and amusement. Her tracksuit was splattered and streaked with mud and torn in several places, her sneakers had split, her hair was a tangled mess caked with mud. Their run through the countryside had added more cuts to the collection of cuts and bruises 173

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on her face. He figured that he probably looked quite messy himself, judging by Emma's earlier comment. He put on his jacket, checked that the dressings bag was back in the pocket, and picked up his flute case. "Can you manage it, d'you think?" he asked Emma. "If we take it slowly, like Mr. Newman says," she replied, "but it would help if I can hang onto your arm for support." He gave her his arm and she leant on it as they followed George out to the road. The older man closed the gate behind them and started walking slowly up the hill, leaning on his stick. Carl found that he had to half-carry Emma as they walked up the road, for the efforts of the previous night had sapped most of her strength. George glanced at them every now and then, and noticed Emma's predicament. "I should have brought a couple more of my walking sticks, shouldn't I?" he joked. Emma smiled. "I'm not sure they'd be enough," she said, "Carl's practically carrying me!" "Well, we're almost there, so you'll soon be able to sit down," George reassured them. He pointed up the hill a short distance. "See that hedge and that wall over there? That wall marks the bottom of the garden. The house is at the top of the hill, you can just see the driveway gates. We have a wonderful view from up there." They walked another few minutes and arrived at the large double gates. These were ornate cast-iron and hung from tall sandstone gateposts with the hedge on either side. George opened the gate and they walked onto the property. A short, metalled driveway lined with low, neatly-trimmed bushes led up to a large, two-storey sandstone house surrounded by a wide verandah. Shallow stone steps led from the driveway up to the verandah. Around the house was spread a lawn which ran down to the wall they had seen from the road. Flowerbeds ablaze with marigolds were scattered throughout the garden and also formed a border along the front of the house. Behind the house they could just see some wooden outbuildings and a tractor. On the north side of the house a large, spreading raintree graced the lawn. George led them up the steps onto the verandah, where he pointed to some wicker armchairs and sofas. "Sit down and have a rest while I see what can be arranged ablutions-wise," he said kindly. A small silver bell on the screen door tinkled as he went into the house. Carl helped Emma sit down on one of the sofas and lifted her legs onto it. He himself sat down heavily in one of the armchairs next to it. They just sat in silence, recovering from the ascent. They were too out of breath to be able to say anything. After a short while, George returned. With him was a slight, elderly Chinese woman with greying, short, wavy hair, whom he quickly introduced to them. "This is my wife, Mei Li," he said, "She's an angel in disguise, as you will shortly realise. My dear, these are the people Barney told us about, Emma and Carl. As you can see, they're a little the worse for wear." 174

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"Welcome to Bethany Lodge," Mei Li said, her whole face radiating the warmth of her smile, "We hope you'll feel at home here and find it as peaceful and restful as we do." Now that they had arrived in what was obviously a safe and friendly place, Emma and Carl had relaxed to the point where all their weariness had caught up with them, and they could only nod and smile back at Mei Li. Still smiling, she looked at the two of them pensively, then went over to Emma and patted her on the arm. "My dear," she said firmly, "I think the first thing we'll do with you is give you a nice, long soak in a warm bath, wash your hair, and get you some clean clothes. George will take care of Carl." She glanced at Carl then turned to her husband. "Do you think Will's clothes would fit him?" she asked. George studied Carl's tall frame thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling. "Just, I think," he replied finally, "I'll find some of his looser clothes." Mei Li turned back to Emma. "Why don't you just lie here and rest while I run you a bath and find some clothes for you," she suggested, "I'll come and get you when it's ready." "Thank you," Emma whispered. She put her head back against the arm of the sofa and closed her eyes, and Mei Li went back into the house. George motioned to CArl and opened the screen door. "Carl," he said, "Come along with me and I'll show you where you can get cleaned up." He turned to go inside. "I'll see what I can find you in the way of clothes." Carl got up to follow him. As he went past Emma he patted her hand, and she opened her eyes and looked up at him questioningly. "Hope we recognise each other when we next meet," he said, grinning, "What with baths and clean clothes, we should be transformed!" She nodded, and grinned at his joke. Counsellor Slade, who'd ever have thought you had a sense of humour? George and Carl went into the house, and she could hear their footsteps growing fainter as they went upstairs. She looked around her. The verandah was quite wide, and had been made comfortable by setting up little groups of wicker armchairs and low tables. At one corner a hammock had been strung up. From where she lay she couldn't see over the low wall running the length of the verandah. She laid her head back on the arm of the chair and thought about the last few days and all that had transpired. She thought about the dramatic transformation of Carl Slade over that short time. It was almost difficult for her to think of Counsellor Slade and Carl as being the same man. Counsellor Slade had terrified her. With Carl Slade she felt safe. It suddenly dawned on her that he had not lost his temper once since that amazing last session when Andrew Parker had made them leave. "Anyone who is in Christ is a new creation. His old nature is gone and behold! he has a new nature." Carl is certainly an illustration of the truth of that Scripture, she mused. The story of Saul/Paul's conversion on the road to Damascus came to mind again. She remembered God's words to Ananias about Saul: "I will show him how much he will have to suffer in My name." She wondered what God had in store for Carl Slade. 175

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She had hardly closed her eyes again when Mei Li came back to get her. "My dear, how did you manage to get so much mud in your hair?" Mei Li asked as she helped her up. "I think it must have been when we crawled under the Border Fence," Emma replied, "The hole was full of water." "Oh yes, it rains a fair bit around here at this time of year," Mei Li laughed, "And Barney must have realised it. He said you'd be covered in mud! Well, let's see if we can find your hair, and the rest of you, under all that dirt." She had her arm around Emma, to support her, as they made their way into the house. "I decided to use the bathroom down here so you wouldn't have to climb the stairs," she told her as she led her to the back of the house. They entered the bathroom, and Mei Li asked Emma if she thought she might need help. Emma decided she would, so Mei Li helped her undress and get into the bath. The older woman noticed all the bruising on her body. "You've had a rough time lately, haven't you?" she commented. "I-I guess so," Emma admitted, "They wanted me to turn from the Lord." "I see," Mei Li murmured, "Were you in the Counselling Institute?" "Yes." Mei Li could tell from her tone that Emma didn't really want to talk about it just then. She dropped the subject. After Emma had been in the water some time, she helped her to wash and then to get out of the tub. She wrapped a large bathtowel around her and suggested she kneel by the bath to have her hair washed. Once the mud had been washed and rinsed out of Emma's hair, Mei Li sat her in a chair and gently combed the tangles out of her hair. Then she helped Emma into clean clothes. Emma thought back to her shower at the Institute. What a difference! "Oh, it feels so wonderful to be clean!" she said to Mei Li, then asked, "Where did the clothes come from? They're very pretty." "They're Adela's, my daughter's," Mei Li answered, "She always keeps a few sets of clothes here so that when she and her family come to visit they don't have to carry a lot of bags. I'm sure she won't mind you using them for a few days, at least until I can take you to town to buy some of your own. I'm glad they fit you." She opened the bathroom door. "Come over to the lounge. We have a rocking chair you can sit in and you can put your feet up. Will's been preparing some breakfast and I expect it'll be ready soon." "Who's Will?" Emma asked. It was the second time Mei Li had mentioned the name. "He's our eldest—we have four children. Will's thirty-eight and still living at home!" Mei Li laughed, "He's a big help with the property and the farm, though. He's been the manager of Bethany Farm since George retired." "You have a farm here, then?" "Only a small one," Mei Li said as they reached the living room, "We raise sheep and a few cattle. Oh, I see George and Carl are here already. Well, let's get better acquainted, then."

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The living room at Bethany Lodge was not very large. It was a long room, however, with windows facing north and east to the verandah and the raintree. It was a very inviting room, with pale flowered wallpaper and light brown carpet. An upright piano, with an untidy stack of sheet music and music books on top of it, stood along the wall to the left of the door. An aging cream-coloured lounge suite and a large wooden rocking chair with a matching footstool occupied most of the rest of the room. A small child's table and chairs and basket of toys occupied one corner, and a thriving potted fern had pride of place in the corner by the piano. A couple of paintings graced the walls, one a seascape with a fishing boat, the other a view of mountains at sunrise. A wooden plaque hung over the piano announced in gold letters, "Come to Me, all ye burdened and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." Mei Li led Emma to the rocking chair and helped her sit down and put her feet up on the footstool. Then she went to sit down on the sofa next to her husband. Carl was sitting in an armchair next to the rocking chair. He had watched Emma as she'd come into the room and was astonished at the change in her appearance. She was wearing a flowered skirt and blouse which to him made her look very feminine. He became aware that up until that moment he had only seen her wearing the Institute tracksuit, which was hardly a flattering garment. He wondered what sort of clothes she had worn back in the Protectorate, before her arrest. He had the feeling that she would never have worn the revealing fashions so popular with the women he knew. She had smiled as she caught sight of him and as he smiled warmly back he found himself wondering why in the world she had never married. and then realised that he was glad she hadn't. "Well, you two look quite transformed!" George said heartily, "Are you feeling a bit better now?" "Yes, thank you," Carl replied. "I still feel quite weary," Emma said, "but it's lovely to be clean at last." "Well, tell us some more about yourselves now," George said, "Barney only told us your first names, said you were running for your lives, and told us you'd probably be very muddy." Mei Li looked from one to the other. "So, are you husband and wife, then?" she asked, not aware of what a bombshell she was dropping. Carl was speechless and Emma's eyes went wide. They stared, dumbfounded, at Mei Li, then looked at each other, and Emma started to giggle. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle her mirth, in vain. Carl, too, found himself trying to restrain laughter, but within seconds they were both laughing uncontrollably, with tears in their eyes. The tension of the past days dissolved in the face of the unconscious incongruity of Mei Li's question. George and his wife were completely taken aback. They wondered what was so funny about Mei Li's question and waited for Carl and Emma to calm down. They were probably over-reacting after the stress under which they had been the last two days. 177

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A tall but stocky dark-haired man came into the lounge and stopped short at the scene. "Looks like I missed a good joke!" he exclaimed, and seeing George and Mei Li's bewildered faces, added, "Looks like you missed it, too!" Mei Li felt quite confused. "I'm not sure what made them laugh," she said, "I only asked them if they were married..." Carl had put his head back and closed his eyes, had both arms flung over his face, and was taking slow, deep breaths. Emma was leaning forwards with her head on her arms, also trying to calm down. After some time they felt more in control, but they kept their eyes shut. Anything could easily trigger another fit of laughter. Finally, Mei Li got up and went over to Emma. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked, patting her shoulder. Emma looked up at her helplessly. "Y-yes, I-I think so," she stammered. Mei Li turned to Carl. "How about you, Carl?" "I-I think I'll live," he answered, looking embarrassed. George turned to the new arrival. "I think breakfast is ready," he said briskly, "Is that right, William?" "Yes, that's what I came to tell you," answered the man. Though a fair bit taller than either of his parents he was obviously Mei Li and George's son. "Let's go to the dining room and have something to eat," George suggested, getting to his feet with the help of his walkin stick. "Yes, let's," Carl muttered, getting up from his chair and avoiding looking at Emma. She, likewise, avoided looking at Carl for fear of starting to laugh again. With Mei Li giving her a hand, she got up and followed the others out of the room. The dining room was a pleasant, light room with windows at one end and along the wall facing the front of the house. From the end windows there was a view down the garden to the wall at the bottom and beyond to the hills where Carl could just make out the shadowy line of the Border Fence. We certainly went a long way last night! he marvelled as he gazed out the window. William pointed out their seats around the large dining table which was set for five although it could easily seat twelve. He had placed Emma and Carl facing each other, but as they sat down they still pointedly looked anywhere but at each other. George said a short prayer of thanks, then Mei Li poured out tea while her husband introduced their son. "Carl, Emma, this is our eldest, William, also known as Will," he announced, "Besides being manager of Bethany Farm he is an excellent cook, mechanic, and Jack-of-all-trades." Carl and Emma smiled at William who bowed slightly and grinned. He began serving out the meal while Mei Li handed out toast and butter. "Is it safe to talk about you two now, do you think?" she asked Emma and Carl cautiously. 178

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"Yes, I think we can talk without going into hysterics now," Emma replied with a grin, and finally risked a glance at Carl. She was startled to find him smiling quizzically at her, his chin on his hand, his blue eyes twinkling. She blushed and hastily shifted her gaze towards the others, pushing down the urge to start giggling again. She took a deep breath. "Well," she began, "I guess you know that we had to leave the Protectorate in a hurry because they—I mean the Protectioners—would have killed us, otherwise." "Yes, we understand that Carl has only just come to Christ quite recently," George interrupted, "And that's why he's under death sentence. Is that right?" "Yes, less than three days ago, in fact. In a way it was my fault—" "Your fault! 'Fault' is hardly the right word!" Carl exclaimed hotly, "You didn't exactly choose to come to the Institute!" "Is this the Police Counselling Institute you're referring to?" Will asked, "We had someone else come through a couple of months back who'd escaped from there." "Yes, that's the place," Emma confirmed, "The Police crashed in on a service we were holding in someone's house and took six of us to the Institute. We were all put into separate cells—I don't know what happened to the others. The idea was to try and convince us to accept the Protection and to deny God." "Was Carl one of the six or was he there already when you were taken there?" George asked. There was a long pause. Emma looked at Carl. He looked back at her sadly a moment, then lowered his eyes and spoke softly, not looking at anyone. "I'd been there five years," he said, "I was one of the Head Counsellors. The Chief assigned Emma to me for counselling..." Mei Li understood now their unexpected reaction to her earlier question. Talk about a faux pas! Then it struck her that she must be looking at the man responsible for Emma's injuries. Once again she felt confused. They did not behave the way one would have expected. Emma didn't seem to be afraid of Carl. In fact, they seemed to her to be good friends! "Tell us the whole story, please," she urged them. "I assume you're intending to ask for asylum," George said, "We'll need to know the background to your escape for that purpose as well." So between the two of them, and between mouthfuls of food, Emma and Carl told their hosts about their experiences of the previous two weeks.

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Chapter 23 Early in the morning of the day after his visit to the Search and Rescue Bureau, Ross Lancaster received a phone call from Joe Spencer. The Chief of Search and Rescue was not in a good mood. "You'll be interested to know, Ross," he said, skipping the usual preliminaries, "that the body that was found in the Forest was definitely not Carl Slade's. By the way, I'll send his records back to you by courier. Now, whose body it was remains to be investigated. However, it's clear that it was meant for us to think it was Slade, since his uniform was on the body. Why, is anybody's guess. Who is behind this is also a mystery. Whether there's any connection with the disappearance of his counsellee is also unknown. Now, my job is search and rescue, and I like my operations to solve mysteries, not start them. So I suggest you hand all this over to the Investigations Bureau and get them to work it out." "Right. I'll do that," Lancaster answered, "But, Joe, you'll keep working on Winston's case, won't you?" "I'm not inclined to, though I'll let you know what my team finds out about that vehicle," Spencer replied. He was aware of the long-standing animosity Lancaster had towards the Chief of Investigations, Ronald Velasquez, so he knew why Lancaster preferred that he continue with the case. But he didn't care to—he had other things to do than clean up after the Institute's crises. "Besides, you know quite well that this sort of thing is in Velasquez's province, not mine," he told Lancaster, "Call him." "We did find out something from Janssen, though," Lancaster said quickly, "Do you want to hear about it?" "I still won't continue with your cases, even if you tell me." "Slade had an appointment with someone at ten o'clock in the morning on the day he disappeared—that's what she said. We checked his computer diary but he had no entry for that time." "So why did she tell you he did?" "She told us that he was just leaving for it when she came to pick up Winston to take her back to her cell. He almost knocked her over coming out of his office. She said he told her Winston had been taken to the Farm and he'd be reporting to me, and that he had an appointment at ten. Apparently he was carrying his idiotic flute case. However, she also insisted, even under treatment, that she told no-one about Winston being taken to the Farm. Of course, the entry about it in the log at the front desk is available for anyone to see, so she didn't need to tell anyone for someone else to know about it..." "Well, that's all very interesting. Put it into Velasquez's pipe for him to smoke, won't you?" Spencer chuckled, "I've got an appointment now myself, so see you later, Ross!" And he hung up. Lancaster stared at his handset, then angrily replaced it in its cradle. The last thing he wanted to do was get Velasquez involved in this, he fumed. But he would have to—the Institute was not equipped to carry out 180

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this kind of work. He picked up the phone again. "Get me Chief Velasquez at Investigations," he barked. When Velasquez had been reached, Lancaster gave him an outline of the situation and arranged to meet with him to discuss the case that afternoon. He suggested that Search and Rescue be asked to send over their records of the case to help in starting the investigation. At the appointed time, he walked into Velasquez's office. "Have a seat, Ross," Ronald Velasquez said cheerily as he greeted Lancaster with his widest smile, "I got the CD-files from Joe and I've just been running through them. Quite an interesting little mystery you've managed to put together!" "Well, I can tell you that we could happily have done without this, Ron," Lancaster grumbled, "We have enough work to keep us busy without Counsellors and counsellees disappearing!" "Perhaps I can encourage you with a seemingly unrelated bit of news, Ross," Velasquez said in the tone of someone offering a child a sweet, "The Ministry of the Interior approached me this morning with a little mystery of their own. Someone, or maybe several someones, escaped to Kawanyama under the Border Fence last night." "How do they know?" Lancaster asked curiously. "Quite by accident, as it happens. One member of last night's border patrol dropped his stunner and couldn't find it when it happened because the torch he had on hand had spent batteries. So he went back to look in the morning. Well, he found it, but he also found something else—a pocket knife which someone had dropped near it, and a large hole under the fence. Further investigation in the area revealed a small backpack of the sort used by schoolchildren, containing some empty cracker packets, a towel, and two water canteens. Initial fingerprinting was being done by Interior's folk, but they want us to take up the case." "Well, doesn't sound like it'll be too hard to solve, if they've got fingerprints. Not much you can do about the escapees, though. They're gone! They'll probably get asylum over there and we won't be able to touch them." Velasquez's phone buzzed and he answered it. The caller told him something but his face showed Lancaster no hint of what it might be, though he was curious to know. "Ah, that's very interesting, now," Velasquez responded, "That's a very big help indeed. Send the disc over, won't you?" He hung up, rubbed his hands in satisfaction and gave Lancaster a mischievous smile, his dark eyes triumphant. "You'll never guess whose fingerprints were on those canteens, Ross!" he said tantalizingly. "Whose?" Lancaster asked suspiciously. Velasquez smoothed his mustache with his finger. "Counsellor Carl Slade of the Counselling Institute, and Emma Winston, cleaner at Densonia Public School Number Six..." he replied happily, "Voilà! Mystery solved! Without any effort on the part of my Officers! I wish every job were this easy..." 181

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Lancaster was stunned. He stared at Velasquez with his mouth open for a moment, then let loose a stream of profanity which surprised Velasquez even though in his work he was well used to hearing that kind of language. "Whoa, there, Ross," he exclaimed, "No need to lose your head! There are still the people who got them out, you know. They can't have done it without help. That vehicle, for example. Once they've traced the tyres, it won't take long to find who it belongs to. You'll still have something to show in the end." "We'll be waiting for it anxiously, Ron," Lancaster said sarcastically, then he looked puzzled. "Why would Slade want to leave the Protectorate?" he said, almost to himself, "Winston, yes, but Slade? With his counsellee?" "Perhaps he'd turned traitor," Velasquez suggested, "Joined the Rebels, maybe? It's not our problem, anyway. We'll concentrate on finding the accomplices." "The CD recording of the last session..." Lancaster mused aloud, "It's still missing... That's where the answer is. I wonder where it's gone to..." "What's this?" Velasquez asked, raising his eyebrows. "As I'm sure you know, every counselling session is monitored," Lancaster answered, "and also recorded on Video-CD. The discs are filed for future reference. Well, the disc of Slade's last session with Winston, on the day they disappeared, has also vanished!" "Sounds to me like you need to question whoever was monitoring the session," Velasquez commented. "Yeeees... May I use your phone,?" Lancaster reached for the handset. "Go ahead." Lancaster called the Counselling Institute. "Send Lieutenant Andrew Parker, from the M.C., to his Department Head," he ordered, "I want him questioned about Counsellor Slade's sessions with Emma Winston. Tell the D.H. I'll be over shortly to take part in the questioning." Velasquez listened to his conversation with interest. "If you'll excuse me," Lancaster said, putting down the handset and getting up, "I'll just go back to the Institute right now. If anything new comes up, let me know." "I will," Velasquez promised, waving at him as he walked to the door, but not getting up, "So long." A few minutes after Lancaster had left his office, Velasquez locked his door, pulled open a drawer, and took out a small radio unit. He pulled up the antenna, switched on the radio, and put on the headset. Then he pressed a switch on the unit. A small lamp lit up on the set as he heard a voice respond to his signal. "Yes, this is Philip, Barney," he said in Aramaic, "Get the Dark Lady and her two followers to a safe place now. The Dark Watcher is under arrest. And Barney, pray for all you're worth." Barnabas acknowledged his call, and Velasquez switched the radio off, replaced it in the secret compartment of his drawer, and locked the drawer.

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! ! ! After breakfast and devotions, George suggested that Carl and Emma should rest for the remainder of the day, but he wanted to let them know first the conditions to which they needed to agree in order to stay at Bethany Lodge. "Firstly, you do realise that you're in this country illegally, don't you?" he asked them, "You didn't come in with proper papers, or through a border checkpoint, and so on. However, you're not the first people to escape from the Protectorate, either, and our government has put into action a system for coping with people like you. Eight to ten years ago, there was a flood of refugees from over there, but now the flow is down to a trickle because the Protectioners have made sure that few escape. Now, because the head of our government and a majority of our politicians, are not anti-Christian and some are even on our side, we here at Bethany Lodge have been able to get an agreement from the immigration authorities to let us host those escapees who come our way and who want to ask the government for asylum. The only thing is, you're not allowed off the property until asylum is granted. The process has been taking longer each time, so you're probably stuck here for some time!" "We have certain expectations of our guests, though," Will announced, "We like them to earn their keep by helping out on the farm and in the house. It not only helps us, but it also saves you getting bored. How do you feel about that?" "It sounds reasonable to me," Emma said, "We have no other way of paying for room and board..." "And to me," Carl agreed, "But what kind of work do you mean? I've never worked on a farm in my life!" "Are you willing to learn?" Will asked. "Yes," Carl replied, "I'm willing." "Then I'll teach you and you'll pick it up as we go along, simple as that! At least you seem to be reasonably fit." "I'll be very happy of help in and around the house, Emma, once you're up to it," Mei Li said. "And I'll be very happy to provide it," Emma smiled. "Well, I suggest now that you go sit in the lounge, or on the verandah, put your feet up, and have a good rest," George told them as he got up from the table, "Sometime today Mei Li will get your rooms ready." "If you would prefer to go lie down, I can do that now," Mei Li offered. "No, don't worry," Emma replied, "We'll go sit out on the verandah." "Don't worry about helping to clear the table this time," Mei Li said to Emma who had started stacking dishes, "Just go and rest. You've had a rough time." Carl and Emma went out of the dining room and headed towards the front door. "You go on ahead," Carl said, "I'll just get my flute case from upstairs and bring it down. I want to check out the state of my flute."

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He went up the stairs and Emma went to sit in the hammock, swinging it slowly back and forth. Carl arrived a couple of minutes later and sat down in one of the armchairs next to the hammock. He looked at the outside of his flute case. "The water doesn't seem to have done too much damage to the outside of the case, apart from getting it dirty," he said. He set the case on his knees and opened it carefully. He took out the flute sections and put them on a small table in front of him. "It looks like the water didn't get into the case, the lining seems to be fine, and the flute looks clean." Emma had noticed something fall out of the case. "You dropped something," she said, reaching for it, and picked up a rolled-up piece of heavy paper. She handed it to Carl. He unrolled and smoothed out the paper. "Would you like to see it?" he asked. She reached for it and he gave it back to her. "What is it?" she asked. "A picture of a rose." She looked at the print. "Isn't this the picture you had in your office?" she asked. "Yes, it is," he replied, "and if it hadn't been for you, it would still be over there. It's all I have of my parents' belongings." "Where are your parents?" Emma asked, "And what do you mean, 'if it hadn't been for me'?" "My parents are dead—they died when I was a child," Carl said, and sighed. "And that print fell off the wall when I... uh... threw you against it," he added quietly, "The frame smashed, so I rolled the picture up and put it in the case with my flute. I figured I'd get another frame for it sometime." "Oh..." Emma replied, but didn't know what else to say. That first horrible session seemed so long ago now. She looked at the picture again, "It's a Redouté rose. It's beautiful, isn't it? It looks almost real. You almost expect that butterfly to flutter away." "I'm glad you like it," Carl smiled, "I'd like you to have it." "Me? Why? It's all you have from your parents, you said!" "Why? For two reasons. The first is that you trusted me all the way here, you know, you believed me right away when I told you that I had turned to Christ, and you trusted me, despite all that I'd done to you. You have no idea how much that means to me. The second is what I just told you, that the picture is here because of you. Apart from my flute, it's all I own now. Except that it's yours now, if you'll take it." Emma looked at the print again, and then back at Carl. To refuse the print would be to deny all that he'd just said. To accept his gift, though, was to underline his words. "Thank you, Carl," she said softly, then held it out to him. "Please could you keep it for now, I don't have anywhere to put it." "Of course. Maybe I can ask Mei Li about getting a new frame for it sometime soon." He rolled it up and replaced it in the flute case. Emma lay back in the hammock. After their incredible adventure she felt exhausted. She watched 184

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as Carl assembled his flute and blew a few scales. Satisfied that the instrument was in working order, he began to play. Emma recognized the opening bars of the hymn she had taught him. She closed her eyes and listened to the clear notes of the flute, but after a while they seemed to get further away and then ceased altogether for her as she drifted off to sleep. Carl noticed that Emma had fallen asleep, but he continued to play for a short time. After playing a few pieces, he put his flute away. He took a cushion from one of the armchairs, put it on the floor of the verandah, and lay down to have a nap. Both he and Emma slept solidly until Mei Li came to call them for lunch. ! ! ! When the midday meal was over, George went outside with Carl so they could have a chat. George studied Carl for a moment as they sat on the back verandah. He had the distinct impression that he had met this man somewhere before, but he couldn't think where. Perhaps they had met sometime before the Protectorate began? "Carl, how long have you been a Christian?" he asked. "About two and a half days," Carl answered. He was surprised himself as he said it. For some reason it seemed much longer ago that he'd had that wonderful experience in the Winstons' home. "Two and a half days..." George mused, "Tell me, do you think you're different from what you were three and a half days ago?" Carl looked at him solemnly. "I'm at peace," he replied, "I know that God is real and He loves me. I know for sure that the Protection philosophy is a pack of lies. I'm no longer afraid of the future. I want, more than anything else, to do what God wants. Three and a half days ago, none of those things were true for me. But the person who can best answer your question is Emma. She saw the change from one day to the next. Why don't you ask her?" "I certainly will, Carl," George smiled, "I always check out miracles with the witnesses! But right now I'd like to suggest something to you. I imagine that your knowledge of the Bible is rather limited. Am I right?" "You certainly are," Carl answered, "As I told you this morning, when Jack agreed to answer my questions he did it by reading many passages from the Bible to me. Then I continued reading for myself the rest of that night after I got home. But apart from a chapter that Emma read out two nights ago, that's been it, so far." "Well, that's actually quite a lot for two and a half days! But what I'm suggesting is that you and I spend some time each day—say an hour or two—doing some Bible study together, starting with an overview of the Bible." "I'd very much like to do that," Carl said eagerly, "I'd like to study the Bible, but I've no idea how to start. This is all very new to me. I'd be very happy to do some studying with you, George."

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"You should continue reading the Bible at other times, too, other than for study," George continued, "God often talks to His children through His Word when they read it at times of prayer. By reading His Word you get to know Him better, you get to know how He expects you to live, you develop a foundation against which you can test things which do not come from Him." "I noticed that Emma has memorised many passages of the Bible. Is that a common practice among Christians?" "Not as common as it should be. I’d encourage you to do it. If you memorise Scripture you have it when you need it, even if you've left your Bible at home. If Christians memorised Scripture habitually they would recognise error and falsehood as soon as they met them, and they would be armed against them, as Jesus was when He was tempted in the desert." "And as Emma was in her counselling sessions..." Carl added softly. George nodded gravely, his eyes on Carl's face. Carl smiled wryly, and the older man patted him on the knee. "Thank God," he said, "Thank God." He smiled at Carl, then continued, "You may have noticed that we have a library here, Carl, in the study upstairs. You're welcome to read anything from it. Just help yourself. And I'm usually around, so if you want to discuss anything at any time, I'm available." "Thanks, George," Carl said, "I expect I'll be taking you up on that. After some things Emma's said, I'm beginning to realise there are many areas about which I'm completely ignorant. History, for one. She mentioned the Republic at one point and I realised that the only thing I could remember about its beginning was waving a little flag on the day it was declared, when I was ten years old! And the things she knows about wildlife and plants! And stars and the universe! I have a lot to learn..." "If you like, I'll take you up to the study now and you can have a look at the books," George offered. "Yes, please, I'd like that," Carl replied, and the two men went indoors and climbed the stairs to George's study. While George and Carl had been talking out on the verandah, Emma had been sitting at the kitchen table, her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands. Mei Li was busy washing up. "Mei Li, how long does the process of applying for asylum take?" Emma asked. "Well, it depends on how long it is before the Immigration authorities send someone down to interview you and on whether they expect anything from you in return or not," Mei Li answered, "It used to be that they'd have someone down on the next plane when we let them know of a new arrival, but they seem to have got a bit more relaxed. They assume we can keep an eye on you until they get their act together, I guess. George sent a Telemail to the capital this morning, so they know you're here." "Are they likely to expect something from us?" "I don't know about you, but I think they'll want Carl to prove he's genuine, because of his past."

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"I see," Emma said doubtfully, "Well, I guess we'll just have to wait to find out." "That's right. Just be patient," Mei Li replied. She handed Emma a bowl of string beans and a knife, asking her to string and slice them, and sat down at the table with some potatoes to peel. The two women worked as they continued talking. "How long has Carl been a Christian, then?" Mei Li asked. "Uh... about two and a half days!" Emma replied. Is that all? she thought, it seems much longer than that! "Have you seen much difference in him since his conversion?" "Have I ever! It's like seeing two different people! The man I encountered in my counselling sessions, Counsellor Slade, terrified me. I never knew what he was going to do next. He had a violent temper and I never knew when he'd lose control of it and lash out. He seemed to hate Christians and he was determined to make me deny my faith. In one session he asked me to explain Christianity to him, but he got furious every time I talked about God!" "Yes, you bear rather a lot of evidence on you of his violence, my dear," Mei Li commented quietly, "What about after his conversion?" "That was just incredible!" Emma answered, "He was so different, I wondered what was going on. The first thing he did was to ask me to forgive him, and then he started telling me about what had happened to him at my brother's home. One thing that struck me very much was that he was suddenly gentle, and he was polite to me, not ordering me around any more. But what's struck me most is that he hasn't lost his temper one single time since that last time I went into his office. Not once. Not even when I interrupted him for the umpteenth time when he was talking. He's looked after me and he's been so patient. You'd have had to know him before his conversion to understand just how different he is. He really is a new person. It's almost as if he even looks different, if you know what I mean." "I think I know what you mean," Mei Li said, "A man at peace with God does look different." "You know, he gave me something this morning," Emma said quietly, "the only thing he has, now, apart from his flute. It's a Redouté picture of a rose, the only thing he has of his parents'—he said they died when he was a child—and he said he wanted me to have it because I believed him and I trusted him and that meant a lot to him. The funny thing is, that I had no problem at all trusting him. I felt safe with him the whole time from when he told me that he also knew that his Redeemer lives." She paused thoughtfully, recalling the unbelievable relief and joy she had felt when he had told her of his conversion, then went on, "My brother once said to me that there's something about a true believer that another believer can recognise even if they don't speak the same language. That something is the Holy Spirit in them, he said. It needn't be a conscious thing, like you're aware that you recognise it, but there's a rightness about the other person that makes you feel almost like you've met before, even if there isn't the 187

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remotest chance that you have. Jack explained it much better than I can. But that's how I felt about Carl when we set out on the track in the National Forest—although at first I flinched if he moved suddenly, but I think that was just a reflex I'd developed because of the counselling sessions. I must say, though, that I've never met a new Christian who'd been changed that dramatically overnight. I can't help thinking of Saul of Tarsus whenever I think about the change in Carl. And I can't help feeling that Carl has some hard times ahead of him." "That's quite possible, Emma," Mei Li said, "Only God knows for sure, though. But I know what you mean about true believers. It's that sense of belonging to the same family, as it were. I certainly feel that way about you two." "Speaking about other believers, how will we be able to meet with others in the church if we can't leave the property?" "That's not a problem—some of the church will come to us! You see, Bethany Lodge is partly supported by the church in Warden, partly by the income from the farm. When we have live-in guests, some of the people in town come up here to join us for worship and we all have lunch together and spend the afternoon in fellowship. If it's a fine day we have our service and then lunch outside under the raintree, otherwise we gather on the verandah." "What day is it today? I've lost track of which day is which," Emma said as she finished slicing the last bean. "It's Friday," Mei Li told her. Emma got up from the table. "Mei Li, I think I'll go and lie down again for a while. My side still hurts and I'm still very sleepy." "All right, dear, you do that. See you at teatime." Emma went out to the verandah where she lay down in the hammock again. How thankful she was that they had ended up in this place! The peacefulness of the countryside and the kindness of the Newmans were so soothing and refreshing after the horrors of the Counselling Institute. This must be a little corner of heaven, Lord. Thank You for bringing us here.

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Chapter 24 The people who were coming from the nearby town, Warden, for the fellowship gathering at Bethany Lodge started arriving early on Sunday morning. The household had just finished the devotional time after breakfast when the first visitors rang the doorbell. Will welcomed them and brought them to the lounge. They were a couple in their forties with a teenage son who gave the distinct impression that he would rather be anywhere else than there. "Emma, Carl, these are Amy and Roger Amherst and their son Brian," Will introduced them, "Emma and Carl are our latest guests from the Protectorate." Carl and Emma bowed slightly to them. "Welcome to Kawanyama," Roger said, and held out his hand to Carl, then withdrew it in confusion when Carl didn't respond. "People aren't in the habit of shaking hands over there, Roger," Will laughed, "You should know that by now!" "Well, never mind," Roger smiled sheepishly, then addressed Carl and Emma. "When did you get here?" he asked. "Friday morning," Emma answered, "George found us in his paddock and brought us up here." "How did you cross the border?" Amy asked. "By crawling through a hole under the Border Fence," Emma told her. Carl noticed out of the corner of his eye that Brian had sat down on the piano stool and was scowling in the general direction of his parents. His dark brown hair was untidy and his thin frame made his clothes look large on him. He was wearing a strange, multicoloured, longsleeved shirt with a hood attached, and bright purple trousers. I wonder what he's thinking, Carl asked himself, I'll have a chat with him shortly. He could still remember his own painful adolescence, and was surprised that a lad who still had both his parents should look so unhappy. "I'd better go and give Mei Li a hand in the kitchen," Emma said. "I'll come along," Amy offered, following her. She glanced at her son as she passed him. "Now you behave yourself, Brian," she warned him, and he grimaced. Roger had sat down to talk with Will and George, seemingly forgetting about Carl, who glanced again at Brian and decided he needed some attention. He approached the boy, who looked up at him warily. "Would you like to sit out on the verandah, Brian?" he asked, smiling, "We could talk without annoying the others." The boy shrugged and got up, and followed Carl to the chairs on the front verandah, where they sat down. Brian sat stiffly on the edge of the wicker sofa, his hands on his knees, looking at the floor. Carl sat in an armchair beside the sofa, not quite facing Brian. He didn't say anything for a moment—he was praying for wisdom and

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understanding. Then he smiled at the boy again. "Feeling a bit out of place with all us adults, are you?" he asked tentatively. "Mmmmm," Brian mumbled, non-committally, glancing up briefly. "Where would you rather be?" Carl asked quietly. Brian looked startled, as if he wasn't in the habit of being asked his preference. "With my mates," he replied, "They've all gone to the new Fantasy Dreams arcade." He nodded towards the house. "I have to come with them. To this boring place!" he added bitterly. Carl was taken aback. Bethany Lodge certainly did not seem boring to him. He was also dismayed to learn that Kawanyama had Fantasy Dreamers. He felt a twinge of apprehension. What would he find out there, once he was allowed to leave the confines of Bethany Lodge Farm? He sat back and put his hands behind his head. "This is interesting," he said, "Could you tell me why this place is boring? I haven't been here long enough to really get to know it, only two days. And I slept most of the first day..." "There's nothing to do here!" Brian snapped. Carl ignored the boy's tone, and thought of what Will had told him about farm work the day before. Nothing to do? Well, maybe not right now, but surely not at any other time! "Nothing to do..." he said quietly, "Well, we haven't started the... uh... what do they call it, worship service? We're all just waiting for the others to arrive." "They can take their service and ----- it!" Brian exclaimed forcefully, and crossing his arms, he scowled at his shoes. Carl was startled, but he tried not to show it. "You find the, uh, service, boring too?" he asked softly. "Yeah! What's the point of it? Singing all those stupid hymns, listening to people droning on and on... I don't even believe any of that stuff!" "You don't?" Carl tried not to sound surprised, though he was quite astonished. Imagine choosing not to believe when one had freedom to believe! "May I ask why?" he said. "It's all nonsense, this Christian stuff—kills all your fun, makes life dreary," Brian muttered without looking up. Carl didn't quite know how to respond to this. He gave the boy a puzzled look. "I don't understand," he said finally, "That's not my experience so far. Could you explain to me why you feel that way so I can understand?" Brian stared at carl defiantly, his hazel eyes flashing. "You wouldn't understand!" he said impatiently, "You've been a Christian for years—all your life, even, maybe. How could you understand!" Carl took his hands down and leant forward slightly, as if he were about to share a secret. "Brian," he said quietly, "I've been a Christian all of four days..." The boy now stared at him in amazement, and all the defiance drained away. "Only four days? Really?" he asked incredulously, "Is that why you had to leave, uh, over there?" He nodded towards the southern hills. "Yes."

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"Why did you become a Christian? I've heard that they persecute Christians over there. It's not worth it, surely?" "It is, Brian," Carl replied softly, "Believe me, it's worth everything." And it took me so long to get there. "I became a Christian because Jesus Christ called me. I had a choice, in a way. My life was a disaster area, I was horribly confused. There was only one alternative—suicide. But Christ was calling me, and I couldn't ignore His voice. In the end, I was able to surrender to Him, and He gave me peace." "Did you really want to kill yourself?" Brian said, almost in a whisper. "I almost did." "Why didn't you?" "The thought of what it would do to my best friend is what stopped me, on the surface of it. But actually, looking back, I think God stopped me." "I've thought of killing myself..." "Why?" "Because life is so dull. Because nobody cares..." "Do you care, Brian?" "About what?" "All sorts of things—your friends, the things you do together, the trees, the birds, other people, your parents..." The boy looked surprised. There was a hint of a smile on his lips. "I've never thought of it that way," he said, "I just wanted them to care about me. My parents, I mean." "Don't they care about you?" Carl asked. "They don't act like it!" the boy replied, "They just ignore me all the time. They drag me along everywhere, tell me to behave myself, then they have fun with their friends while I have to sit around being bored!" "All the time?" Carl sounded surprised, but he didn't comment further. Instead, he asked the boy, "What would you do if they didn't take you along?" "Go to the Fantasy Dream arcade with my mates!" "How old are you, Brian?" "Fifteen." "Have you ever been to a Fantasy Dream arcade?" "Yeah, once." "How long do you reckon you could keep going there before it got boring?" Brian stared at the floor, thinking this over. He looked up at Carl and gazed at him a moment before answering. "Not very long, I guess," he said hesitantly, "Then I'd want something more..." Carl didn't comment. He thought of the Pleasure Houses, the "something more" of the Protectorate. He thought of people who lived from one Fantasy Dream to the next. He sat back in his chair, put his arms back behind his head, and changed the subject. "Brian, have you ever had a niggling thought keep going through your mind over and over no matter how hard you tried to get rid of it or ignore it?" "Yeah, now and then." "What was it?" 191

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"You won't laugh if I tell you?" the boy asked anxiously. Carl looked him straight in the eye. "I won't laugh." "Well, there's this funny idea that keeps going through my head," Brian explained, "especially when I'm in a bad mood. 'Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.' It's rather odd, since I don't even believe in God." "You don't?" Carl asked gently, "Are you sure?" Brian gazed at the sky thoughtfully. "No," he said slowly, "I guess I do believe in Him. Where else does everything come from? I've often wondered about that. I guess God must exist." "Have you tried giving thanks to Him, then, especially when you're in a bad mood?" "No, I haven't. Do you think I ought to?" "Well, since the idea keeps popping into your head, I'd say it's worth a try. Maybe even giving thanks for the reason you're in a bad mood? 'Thank You Lord, for these hormones which are turning me from a boy into a man, even if they do make me moody.'" Brian laughed. "That sounds so funny!" Carl could see the gates at the end of the driveway from where he sat, and now he caught sight of a car driving up to them. He had a feeling Brian might prefer not to be seen talking with him. He stood up. "It looks like some more people are arriving, Brian," he said, "I think I'll go back inside and let Will know. Are you coming in, too?" "No, I'd like to sit out here for a bit," Brian replied, "I'll come along for the service, though. Thanks for our talk." He smiled at Carl, got up, and headed for the chairs at the far end of the verandah. "Okay. See you later," Carl said, and went back into the house. ! ! ! By ten o'clock all the folk who had come to Bethany Lodge were gathered under the raintree where they had set out chairs and rugs to sit on during the service. Everyone had brought some food to share for the lunch they would have together, and this had all been taken to the kitchen. George went around with Emma and Carl, introducing them to the church members. Carl found himself increasingly puzzled as he talked with the different guests. It seemed to him that something here didn't fit in his understanding of what Christians were about when they met together. The remarks these people were making seemed as irrelevant to anything as the introductions at one of Lancaster's parties. Perhaps worse, even, for as far as Carl understood there was complete freedom of speech in Kawanyama. People did not have to keep their faith a secret here. Yet they talked about anything but their faith. He thought back briefly to what Emma had told him once about the meetings of believers in the Protectorate. He decided he would have to talk with her afterwards. He wanted to ask her more about the church in Densonia. The service was to be led by the pastor of one of the churches in Warden. He arrived with his wife shortly before ten, having rushed off from the 192

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church in town where he had taken an early morning service. George called Carl over. "Carl, I'd like you to meet Pastor Simon Banks, and his wife, Jessica," he said, "Simon, Jess, Carl just got out of the land down south, a couple of days ago, as I told you on the phone." "Welcome to Kawanyama, Carl," Simon, a ruddy-faced man with the build of a footballer, said heartily, and his wife smiled. "We pray every day for the church down there, and for the rest of the country," he added. "Thank you," Carl said, warmed by the thought that others besides Emma and the Newmans were praying for the Protectorate, "The church down there certainly needs your prayers." "What part of the Protectorate have you come from?" Jessica asked him. "From the capital, Densonia," Carl replied. "Oh, who leads the church there?" Simon asked. "Jack Winston. He's Emma's brother." "Emma?" Jessica asked. "Haven't you met her yet? She escaped from the Protectorate with me," Carl answered, looking around for Emma, "Over there, the one with the light blue dress." He pointed her out. They nodded, and Simon looked at him strangely. "So why did you leave, Carl?" he asked. "Because they'd have killed us, otherwise. We hope that by staying alive we might be of some use to the church back there, eventually." At that moment George and Will came up and told them everyone was ready to start. Pastor Simon and his wife went off to the front of the group, and Carl followed George and Will back to where Mei Li was sitting with Emma, in a sunny spot on the edge of the group. He noticed as he passed that Brian was sitting with his parents and wasn't even looking uncomfortable. Song books were handed around, and Simon announced the starting hymn. It was the first time that Carl had ever attended a worship service. He really didn't know what to expect, despite having asked George about it beforehand, but he had formed an idea of what would happen. He was surprised that everyone stayed seated to sing—for some reason he'd thought they'd stand or kneel. He was also surprised that no-one except him knelt to pray. He'd assumed that all Christians knelt when they talked with God. He did notice that Emma glanced at him as he knelt down and that after a moment she was kneeling too. The music and the words of the hymns moved him deeply and he felt incredibly thankful to be able to join with other believers to worship God. But there was still something about the meeting that bothered him. The prayers and the sharing of the Lord's Supper moved Carl to such an extent he had tears in his eyes as he ate the piece of bread and considered what it was meant to remind him of. He recalled the Man who had spoken to him at Jack's house and thought of Him dying for the horror his life had been. In the middle of the service, however, he was brought down to earth abruptly as one of the men read out a long list of announcements about 193

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church activities and fund-raising. The Sunday School were having their semi-annual picnic in two weeks' time. The women's fellowship group were holding a cake stall in the shopping centre on Wednesday. Would the people who hadn't collected their pledge envelopes please get them from Mr. Smith before next Sunday. And so on. Carl glanced around to see if anyone else was as startled as he was, and was grateful to observe that Emma looked distinctly uncomfortable. Simon preached a sermon based on Matthew 6:33, 'Seek first the kingdom of God,' and Carl listened intently to the pastor's exposition, wanting to learn from an experienced Christian about this new life and its priorities. But there was a jarring note that disturbed him—the message didn't quite match with the announcements that had been made. By the end of the service Carl was quite distressed, and he could sense that Emma had misgivings as well. He determined to talk with her as soon as there was an opportunity. Something was wrong here, and it scared him. When the service was over, several of the women and some of the men went to set up the lunch dishes on the long trestle table that had been placed under the tree. The others milled around or just stayed sitting where they were, chatting. Carl was wondering what he should do when Brian walked over to him. "Do you understand what I meant about the service, now?" he asked Carl. "It's not what you think, Brian," Carl replied, "There's certainly something disconcerting about it, though. Not boring, worrying." Brian eyed him thoughtfully. "So you feel it too, then?" he asked. "I definitely feel something," Carl said, "and I find it quite alarming." He paused. "What do you feel about it, Brian?" The boy shrugged. "Like it's not for real. Like it's a game." "That's a rather cynical statement." "Oh, no, I'm not being cynical at all!" Brian said earnestly, "I mean it, that's how it comes across to me!" "You may have put your finger on what's bothering me, you know," Carl said musingly, then asked him, "Brian, do you pray?" "Do you mean, do I talk to God, or do you mean, do I recite prayers?" the boy asked in reply. "I mean, do you talk to God, Brian?" Carl had only one understanding of the word "prayer." But he could tell that Brian didn't like the word much. "Yes, I do, actually, despite what I said before. I do talk to Him—a lot." "Brian, talk to Him about the church, won't you? Ask Him to give the church in Warden a good kick in the pants before it's too late!" Brian was startled by Carl's way of putting it, and by his vehemence, and stared at him. "Okay," he said meekly. "What was that hymn we sang—it's the first time I've ever sung it." Carl picked up a hymn book and flipped through it. "Here it is: 'Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus'. That's what they—we—need to do, Brian: We need to keep our eyes on Jesus. You talk to God about that, okay? And about anything else that comes to mind, of course."

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"I will," Brian replied, smiling, then added, "Uh... excuse me, what's your name?" "Carl Slade." "Mr. Slade, thanks for caring," Brian said quietly, looking at the ground, "And-And I did thank God for my parents this morning, too." Carl said nothing, but he clapped the boy on the shoulder, they smiled at each other, and Carl went off to look for Emma. She was helping to dish out food to the many children who had come to the Lodge with their parents. As he approached the table she happened to look up and she smiled warmly on seeing him. He was so relieved to find her that he wanted to hug her, but he kept himself under control and just smiled back. "Emma," he said to her as he came up to the table, "I need to talk to you about all this. Soon, please. It's important." "I'd like to talk to you about it too, Carl. It bothers me, I'm not sure why." Carl looked at her gratefully. She was sensing it too. Thank God. I wonder how George and Mei Li see it, he thought, catching sight of them at the other end of the table. "Have something to eat," Emma said, handing him a plate. "I'm not very hungry," he replied, glancing over the dishes covering the table, "I might have some fruit, maybe." "Well, have something to drink, at least," she suggested, handing him a glass of orange juice. She frowned with concern as she looked at him. "Are you feeling all right?" "I'm okay. It's just that somehow this morning's disturbed me. We can talk about it later. I suppose we really should talk with these people while they're here. I'll catch you later, Emma." He put a few pieces of fruit on his plate, picked up his glass, and turned to survey the group of people under the raintree. He was wondering who he should approach when an older woman, in her seventies, perhaps, came over to him. "Won't you come and sit with us and tell us a bit about yourself?" she asked him. "Us" turned out to be the core of the women's fellowship group, a handful of women ranging in age from mid-thirties to mid-seventies. The woman who had called him indicated a chair and he sat down. "You don't have very much to eat," observed one rather overweight woman, "Can I get you something more substantial?" "No, thank you," Carl replied, smiling, "This is fine, it's all I want." One of the younger women addressed him. "Where did you say you were from, Mr., uh, Mr.—" "Slade," Carl offered. He was startled by her question. Simon Banks had mentioned Emma and him during the service—hadn't she heard? "I'm from the Protectorate," he replied, "We escaped from there last Thursday night." "Oh," the younger woman said, "I didn't know there were any Christians over there!" The other women nodded and made small comments of agreement. 195

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Carl almost choked on the piece of apple he was eating. He had a fit of coughing, and one of the older women patted him on the back. He took a mouthful of orange juice, and as he swallowed it he glanced at the younger woman incredulously. He was too shocked to say anything. When the women saw that he was all right, they relaxed and resumed eating. After a few minutes they seemed to have forgotten him entirely as they launched into a heated argument about the cake stall they were planning. Feeling unexpectedly sad, Carl slowly got up and went to put his plate down on the table. He felt as if he were walking in a dream. He was suddenly aware that his head was throbbing and that he felt cold, despite the afternoon sunshine. Mei Li, walking past on the other side of the table, stopped and looked at him with disquiet. "Carl, are you all right?" she asked, "You look dreadful!" She hurried around the table and came over to him, and looked him over with her practised nurse's eyes. "I think you'd better go and lie down, Carl," she suggested, "You're not well. Why don't you go and lie in the hammock for a while? Come on." She took his elbow and led him to the verandah where she shooed some children away from the hammock, then made him sit down in it. She went into the house and came out again after a few minutes with a basin of water and a face-washer, and she bathed his face and neck. George came up on the verandah. He'd seen Mei Li leading Carl away and had come over to see what had happened to him. "What's the matter with Carl, my dear?" he asked his wife, "Is he sick?" "I think he may have been out in the sun too long," she answered, "He probably isn't used to it. Could you get him a large glass of water—room temperature—with a pinch of salt in it? Oh, and a straw, so he can sip it." George hurried to do as she asked. He soon returned with the water and handed it to Mei Li. "Carl," she said, putting the glass in his hand, "Sip this, please, slowly." Carl did as Mei Li asked, grateful to let someone else think for him. When he'd emptied the glass, he lay back in the hammock. He still felt as if he were floating, and it was too hard to think. Mei Li stood up. "I'll come back and check on you in a little while," she said, "You just stay there and rest." She and George went back to their guests in the garden as Carl closed his eyes.

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Chapter 25 Carl lay in the hammock but didn't go to sleep. He felt lightheaded and dizzy, and his head still ached. He was grateful for the quiet coolness of the verandah, and just lay there with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the crowd in the garden. After quite some time, he heard footsteps coming towards him on the verandah, and he opened his eyes to see who was approaching. It was Emma. "Mei Li told me you were resting up here and asked me to check on you," she told him. She felt his forehead with her wrist. "At least your temperature feels pretty much normal, and your colour's a bit better than what she described. Looks like you had a bout of heat exhaustion. How do you feel?" "Like someone picked me up and wrung me out. And my head's pounding," he answered, "I'm awfully thirsty. Would you mind getting me a drink of water, please?" "Of course I don't mind. I'll see if Mei Li has something for your headache, too. I'll be right back." Emma went to the kitchen, poured out a glass of water, and got some tablets from the kit in the pantry. She returned to the verandah and gave them to Carl. "Thanks, Emma," he said, sitting up slowly to take them, "You'd make a good nurse." "I am a nurse," she exclaimed, "Didn't you know? I did four years of general and surgical training before the Protectorate clamped down and I was handed a job as a cleaner!" "Well!" he said, looking surprised, "No wonder you did a good job with those dressings!" "That reminds me, how's that wound doing?" She looked behind his ear and lifted a corner of the dressing. "Looks all right—we might dispense with the dressings after today. Does it hurt?" Carl shook his head and lay back in the hammock. "Emma," he said, having decided that this was a good time to bring up the subject, "What was wrong with that service this morning?" She sat down on the floor next to the hammock and thought about it a moment before answering. "I'm not sure," she said pensively, "It's as if people weren't really terribly sure why they were there, like it was something they felt they had to do but they didn't really know why. Is that how you see it?" "In a way, yes," Carl replied, "I wasn't really sure what to expect, but when it kept being referred to as a 'worship service' I thought that was what we were going to do: Worship." "And what did we do instead?" "We sang some hymns, we 'recited some prayers'," he replied, quoting Brian, "We heard some announcements, and we heard a, uh, sermon about seeking first the kingdom of God." 197

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She smiled at him. "What did you do, Carl?" "I got more and more confused." "What do you understand by the word 'worship'?" "Praising God, focussing on Him, declaring His greatness, trusting Him, and living accordingly." "Where did you get that from?" she asked, surprised. "I looked up 'worship' in George's Bible dictionary this morning..." He paused. "'They fell at His feet and worshipped Him'," he said softly. After another pause, he continued, "There was something else that I found disturbing this morning." "What was that?" "There was no sense of momentousness, of 'this is the most important part of our lives, focussing on God', of 'God is the whole reason for our existence'. It was as if it had to be got through as quickly as possible, with a minimum of fuss. Didn't Jesus say, 'Without Me you can do nothing'?" "Have you been memorising Scriptures, Carl?" she asked, surprised again. After all, he'd only been a believer some four days. "Some," he answered, reddening, "I read them, and they stick in my mind." "Your colour's a bit better," she teased him, "But that's wonderful—the more Scriptures you know by heart, the better. But make sure you remember their context, though, even if you don't memorise it word-forword." Carl's ability to concentrate seemed to have gone on holiday and his mind kept flitting from one thing to another. Yet he wanted very much to work out what it was that upset him about the morning's events. "Emma, have you any idea what a 'cake stall' is?" he asked. "Well... I think it might be a place where people sell cakes for fundraising." "What for? In the church, I mean." "I don't know. You'll have to ask George or Mei Li that. Perhaps to buy hymnbooks?" Carl's mind changed tracks again. "What's the church in Densonia like? I've only met the pastor, his wife, and one elder, so far. Oh, and the pastor's sister." He grinned. "I'm impressed with what I've seen." "What about your other counsellees? Most of them would have been Christians, wouldn't they?" "Well, that's why they were taken to the Institute," Carl said pensively, "but when they left they'd turned away—which is why they could leave at all... No, I'm not referring to them, because I don't suppose they're in the church anymore. I'm referring to the Christians who, uh, stand firm in their faith, like you, like Chester Brown. What is the real church in Densonia like—the one that continues to meet together no matter what? The one the Protectioners call the Rebels?" "Well, there isn't much to it, really. Just people. We all love the Lord and each other and we take every opportunity to meet together for worship, and we spend a lot of time praying, and reading the Bible, mostly in family 198

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groups or individually, but otherwise we just have to live out our faith each one on his or her own. Well, not all alone, of course, Jesus is always with us. And we make the most of every opportunity that comes our way to share the Gospel." "How do you do that? Isn't it risky?" "Of course. Uncle Chester was taken into care when he shared the Gospel with a Police Officer in the Park, for example." She noticed that Carl winced when she mentioned Chester. "But Jesus still expects us to obey Him. I had an unexpected opportunity once, at the school where I clean. One of the teachers stayed back after school one afternoon, seemingly to prepare something for her lessons the following day. But what she really wanted to do was ask me about the Lord. She became a Christian. She was taken into care a few weeks later... She had told one of the other teachers about Jesus... I never saw her again." "That's it! I think I know what the problem might be, Emma." Carl sat up too fast, then lay back in the hammock again as his head swam from his sudden movement. He closed his eyes a moment before continuing. "The Christians here are too comfortable. They've become laid-back. There's no risk in being a believer here. They're not concerned with putting God first any more. They don't trust Him fully any more. That's why they have business announcements in the middle of a time meant for worshipping Him." "That really stunned you, didn't it? I saw the look of incredulity on your face. You know, our church used to do that too, years ago. It was one of the first things that was dropped, when persecution came." "What is 'Sunday School'?" Carl asked, changing the topic yet again. "It's usually a time for teaching the children in the church about God and Jesus and the Christian life. Some churches have Sunday School for everyone, adults as well as children, as well as the service. Other churches, like this one here, have Sunday School for the children during the service." "Why do they have picnics?" "To have fun together, I suppose." "Does the Densonia church have Sunday School picnics?" "We don't have a Sunday School. Teaching the children is seen as the responsibility of the parents, like we're told in the Bible. When persecution started, a lot of things were found to be superfluous. A building, for example. Denson's government confiscated it and we found that we didn't need it. We could meet anywhere—in people's homes, in the National Forest, scattered in small groups about the Park, and so on." "How did you know where to meet? Who would decide about it and announce it?" "The Lord would tell us." "You mean—" He stopped, looking at her with amazement. "The meeting where they arrested you," he asked softly, "is that how it happened?" "Yes." 199

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"And you all knew where to go, and when?" "Yes." "Wow," he marvelled, then a thought struck him, "But you didn't know how it would end." "Actually, I had a feeling something would go wrong that night." "And you went anyway?" "I had no reason not to. When I decided to go despite my feelings, the Lord didn't check me." "'Check' you?" "That means you feel like He's wanting you to stop what you're doing, or to do something else." "Like, for example, asking me, 'What if Emma Winston's right?'" "Yes, that's one way." "Oh, Emma," he exclaimed, "Are these people listening to the 'checks', do you think?" "They may not be able to hear them any more." "What do you mean?" "They may have been listening to too many other voices." "I think Brian used the right picture," Carl said, "They're playing a game. And they're losing. We ought to say something, don't you think? That's how the Protectioners got into power, you know—people lost sight of their true purpose in life, they lost sight of the Truth." "Who's Brian?" Emma asked. "You know the people who arrived first? The Amhersts? Their son. Fifteen years old and searching. And finding, I think. Or rather, being found." "And he said this was a game?" "He was referring to the service. But it certainly might apply to the whole situation, mightn't it?" "Carl, I think we ought to talk about this with George and Mei Li, don't you? It's obviously something very serious indeed." "I agree," Carl said, "I'll ask George if we can get together with them one evening this week." He got out of the hammock and stretched. "Right now I think I might have a word with Simon Banks." "Are you feeling okay?" "A lot better, thanks, but I'll take things slowly, I think." He reached for her hand. "Would you like some help to get up?" "Thanks, yes." He pulled her to her feet and they walked down towards the raintree. Emma went over to the group of women still sitting together under the raintree, and Carl walked slowly around, looking for Pastor Simon. At last he spotted him, sitting on the lawn a little distance from the raintree, talking with George who was seated on the bench next to the bottlebrush tree. He strode over to them. "Hallo, Carl," George greeted him, "How are you feeling?"

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"I think I'll be all right, George, thanks," he replied, "I guess I'm not used to sitting out in the sun all morning." He looked from one to the other. "May I join you?" "Yes, of course," said George, "You can sit on the bench or on Simon's rug. Take your pick." "Perhaps you can fill me in on the situation over there," Simon commented, shifting his position as Carl sat down on the rug next to him. Carl prayed silently for wisdom and discernment and the right words to say. He had found his first meeting with the pastor somewhat disquieting, and his reaction to the service was still very much on his mind. "Simon's been asking me about you and Emma, Carl," George explained, and Carl noticed the twinkle in his eyes, "I told him how you came over, but I suggested he ask you two about the rest, as you're more familiar with the details than I am." "What's your background, Carl? How did you come to the Lord?" Simon asked him. "Well, I was a government official and definitely not a Christian. I don't know how much you know about the Protection, the government of the Protectorate, but I'm sure you're aware that they are anti-Christian." "Yes, that's what I'd understood," Simon nodded. "Through Emma and her brother, I came to know about the Lord Jesus Christ, and He saved me. For a government official to become a Christian means an instant death sentence over there. A friend of mine who had connections, on finding out that I'd converted, arranged to get me out of the country. Since Emma could be directly implicated in my conversion, I had to take her along or she'd have been killed too. It was quite an adventure, but here we are, and now we're waiting on your government's decision about us and on the Lord's next signpost." "And was Emma also a government official?" "No, she worked as a cleaner. She was known to be a Christian, and they're given all the menial jobs. She was arrested at a secret meeting and ended up in the Police Counselling Institute." "So, how long did it take you to get out? Before crossing the border, that is." "Oh, the best part of two days, and two nights. My friend's associates dropped us off at the start of the trail and we had to make our way to the Border Fence through the bush." "So," said Simon, "You and Emma were in the bush together two days and two nights before getting across the border. Is she your wife?" Out of the corner of his eye, Carl noticed George sit up and raise his eyebrows. He himself didn't like what was implied by the question and the tone in which it was asked. "No, nor anyone else's, as far as I know," he answered evenly, then he couldn't help adding, "Is it a prerequisite for escaping from the Protectorate that one be married to the person one escapes with?" George sat back and sighed. Simon looked wary. "Well, those sorts of conditions are a bit tough on people, aren't they?" Simon said 201

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meaningfully, "The temptation to seek comfort from each other could be very strong, couldn't it?" George sat up again. Oh, boy, Carl thought, no wonder this church has problems—a pastor who assumes the worst at first glance! "Temptation can be very strong indeed, Simon," Carl said, looking him straight in the eye, and remembering that first evening on the trail, "But, 'He that is in us is greater than he that is in the world'. One doesn't need to yield to temptation when all the power of God is within reach at all times to fight it off." Did I really just say that? Carl asked himself. He was astonished. All the power of God is indeed within reach of His children who trust Him. Thank You, Lord God our Father. He continued, "I don't know how familiar you are with the bush, but it's not a terribly comfortable place. It was just as well it didn't rain, though we managed to get soaked anyway. The hole under the Border Fence was full of water!" "You should have seen them when they arrived here!" George put in, "Covered in mud from head to toe!" "That must have been a sight to behold," Simon commented, "You must have been pretty exhausted from your trip, too?" "We did sleep most of our first day here, yes," Carl smiled, "Our hosts can't have been very impressed with their guests." He winked at George, who grinned. The fuse had been removed. "We don't know much about the church over there," Simon explained, "Tell me about it." "I've been a Christian just four days, Simon," Carl pointed out, "I don't know much about the church in the Protectorate except that the believers are persecuted, tortured, and even killed because of their faith. That goes for the Jews there, too, by the way. The believers have no buildings, nothing, only the believers themselves, a few Bibles, and of course, God. Which means they have everything they need, for their entire trust is in God alone. In Jesus Christ, 'the author and finisher of our faith'." Simon had looked at him oddly as he talked, and now he was looking very uneasy, and Carl felt sorry for him. "Shall we go get a drink?" he suggested, standing up, "I'm rather thirsty, myself, and I'd rather not repeat what happened to me at lunchtime!" "Good idea," George agreed, "There might even be some orange juice left in the cooler." Simon got up, shook out the rug, and folded it up. He was silent, eyeing Carl sideways, not sure what to make of him. He looked at his watch. "George, I think Jess and I might head for home now," he said, "We've a busy week ahead and I'd like to take it easy for the rest of the afternoon." "All right, Simon," George replied, "Thanks for coming and taking the service! See you around town sometime." "Sure thing." Simon walked off towards his wife, who was chatting with a small group of people. He called to her and she joined him, waving to the people as she left them. When she reached her husband, he must have said something 202

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about Carl for she turned around and stared at him a moment. Then they collected their belongings and went to their car. George and Carl walked slowly and silently back to the house, both of them deep in thought. As he poured out two glasses of orange juice, Carl spoke to the older man. "George, I wonder if we—Emma and I, that is— could have a chat with you, and Mei Li too, if she'd like, one evening this week. Today's events have raised a lot of questions in our minds, and we'd like to discuss them with you." "Why, of course, Carl," George answered, smiling, "Any evening you want. Tonight, even, if you like. Though perhaps you might prefer an early night after your little episode at lunchtime..." "Thank you, George. You people are being awfully good to us, considering we're perfect strangers." "Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my boy," George grinned at him, "In God's family there are no 'perfect strangers'. We're all relatives. Blood brothers, as it were. By Christ's Blood. You'll see, you'll do the same for other believers, too, you'll be good to them because they're your kinsmen. The harder thing is being good to your enemies." His words made Carl think about Emma forgiving him, who had then been her enemy, even before he was sorry. He wondered just what that had cost her. Yet she'd trusted him from the moment he'd told her he'd come to Christ... She treated him as she would a brother... He sighed, drained his glass, and put it back on the table. "I'll let you know at tea-time if we want to have that talk tonight, George. It depends on whether Emma's up to it, too. I think I might go up to my room and rest for a bit, right now." "Fine, Carl, take it easy. We'll see you at tea." ! ! ! That evening after tea the whole household sat together in the lounge. "What was it you two wanted to discuss with us?" George asked Carl. "This morning's service," Carl and Emma said at the same time. "Is this going to be a choral presentation, then?" Will teased. Emma looked at Carl and smiled. "You'd better speak first," she said. "All right," he replied, "Well, the service this morning was not quite what I'd been expecting. I actually found it rather disturbing, but I couldn't put my finger on why until Brian pointed it out." "Brian?" Mei Li asked, "You mean Roger and Amy's son?" "Yes, that's him," Carl replied, "He said that to him it was as if the people there were playing a game, and I saw what he meant because in a way that's how I felt, too." "How did you get Brian to say all that?" Will exclaimed, "He usually sits off in a corner by himself looking daggers at everyone!" "Actually, I did notice that he was sitting with his parents this morning," Mei Li observed, "I was quite surprised! He didn't even look that unhappy." "We had a chat together before the service," Carl continued, "Do you remember? They arrived rather early. He mentioned that he found the 203

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services rather boring, and I asked him why. Later on, after the service, he came and asked me if I understood what he'd meant, and I told him that the problem wasn't so much that it was boring, it was more serious than that. And that's when he told me that to him it seemed like they were playing a game." "Do you know that most people can't get near that boy, he's that hostile?" Will pointed out, "He's an only child and has been rather spoilt, and both his parents work full time. Mum is about the only adult at church he's talked to!" "George is the other one," Mei Li smiled. Carl looked puzzled. He shrugged. "Well, he seems like a nice young man to me," he said, "And not particularly difficult to talk to. I got the impression he's trying to decide which of all the voices calling to him he should listen to, and I think God's voice was somewhat clearer to him this morning than perhaps it's been before." George was looking at Carl with an amused expression on his face. "You know, Carl," he said, "You've only been here a couple of days, but from what I've seen of you I have a feeling you'd find the most reticent hermit easy to talk to!" Carl reddened and looked at the floor. "Could we go back to talking about the service?" he asked quietly. "I found it disconcerting too," Emma said, coming to his rescue, "Having come straight from the Protectorate and the church over there, I got the impression this morning that people weren't quite sure why they were here. In the service, I mean. Even afterwards, when I talked to some of the women. They seemed to be preoccupied with things like the price of potatoes, clothes whose colours run in the wash, what to wear for the Sunday School picnic, even the latest programs for Fantasy Dreamers..." She shuddered, and looked stricken as she added, softly, "I found it difficult to explain to them why I have all this bruising on my face...." George was thoughtful. For some time now he'd been uneasy about their church, but he wasn't sure that the problem wasn't with him rather than the church. When he'd tried to share his misgivings in a conversation with Simon Banks he'd found the man to be on the defensive almost straight away, so he'd dropped the subject and determined to pray and search the Scriptures before bringing it up again. Now here was one of his guests, a very new Christian, pointing out the same things to him. He told them what he was thinking. "I suppose it's because we've just arrived from the Protectorate, and I'm well aware of what the Christians there risk by not giving up their faith, and Emma knows first-hand," Carl responded, "We... uh... if you don't mind my saying it... we feel that it's too comfortable being a Christian here, God isn't their first priority any more..." "I saw the look on your face when the announcements were read out, Carl," Will commented, "You looked like a small child whose big, beautiful balloon has just popped! That really upset you, didn't it?"

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"Well... I-I guess it was as if God had been pushed aside for a while so we could get on with business. Something like that... We'd just been singing that hymn—Crown Him with Many Crowns, I think it's called—and my mind was full of it, and that first announcement was like a slap in the face." "Mmmm... I can see what you mean," Will said thoughtfully, "I haven't stopped to think about it before. It's just the way it's done in our church, was my attitude." "The ladies were having an argument, you know, about the cake stall," Emma said in a small voice, "What is a cake stall for?" "It's for selling cakes made by the ladies in the church, to raise funds for the church," Mei Li explained, "They set it up in the shopping centre in town, and people come and buy the cakes." "What's the money used for?" Carl asked. "Oh, different things... Sunday School materials, songbooks, things like that." There was a long silence while they all pondered this. Carl wondered how Jack Winston would react to the idea of a cake stall. Emma thought back to the days when she was a child, when the Densonia church raised funds by similar means. George and Mei Li wondered why they hadn't seen before the absurdity of asking the non-believing community to support the church. "May I be blunt?" Carl asked suddenly. They all looked at him expectantly. "Go ahead," George said. "The feeling I got was that, at least among the people who were here this morning, God doesn't matter much. It doesn't cost them anything to be Christians. I gather there's no persecution here, right? In fact it seems it gives them a nice way of getting together socially on Sundays. Maybe I'm being unfair. Please tell me if I am. But I was shocked to hear people saying they didn't think there were any Christians in the Protectorate. I was shocked to hear Christian women squabbling about how they would organize a cake stall. I was shocked to hear the pastor assuming the worst about Emma and me on first meeting me. You see, the Christians over there suffer a great deal because God is everything to them. They love and forgive and pray, not only for each other, but for their bitter enemies who persecute them. Their pastor welcomed as a brother a new Christian about whom he knew, not just guessed, the worst... The theme of Simon's talk was 'Seek first the kingdom of God', and that's something we all need to keep in mind, but I feel that this group of people have forgotten it, even after hearing it this morning." He looked around at the others. "If you think I'm wrong, please set me straight." "You're not wrong," Will said quietly, "I wish I could say that you are. But you've seen something we've all become blind to, it seems. Our church needs a good kick in the pants."

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Carl burst out laughing, and the others stared at him in astonishment. "That's what I asked Brian to pray for, specifically!" he exclaimed delightedly. "What, in those words?" Emma asked, startled. "In those very words..."

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Chapter 26 About midmorning on the Monday following Carl and Emma's arrival at Bethany Lodge, George called to Carl, who was working with Will in the shed. "I need to have a talk with you," he said, "Come on up to the house and we can sit on the verandah." "I'll be right over," Carl answered, wiping his hands on a rag as he stood at the shed door. He glanced back at Will. "I'll come back and give you a hand when we're through," he said. "Sure thing, Carl," Will replied, not looking up from his work. Carl went into the house through the kitchen, where he washed his hands before joining George on the front verandah. The older man was standing looking out at the countryside, but he turned around and went to sit down at the sound of the bell on the screen door when Carl arrived. Carl took a seat in one of the wicker armchairs next to George's. "Well, Carl," George said with a smile, "It's high time we got started on your application for asylum. The Immigration folk are aware that you two are here—I sent them a Telemail the day you arrived, Friday. They're also aware of the reasons for your presence in this country, and, as they usually do, have given permission for you to stay here as long as you don't leave the property. However, bureaucracy is bureaucracy, no matter how good the government, and there is this little matter of making a formal application for asylum. So, in view of this there are all sorts of forms to be filled in, and they'll be sending some of their people down to interview you two. Do you have any questions?" "Yes, plenty," Carl replied, "But I can't think of any of them just now!" "Well, let me ask you some, then. Firstly, I don't suppose you two have any sort of identity papers with you, do you?" Carl felt in his pockets for the plastic card he'd always carried back in the Protectorate. "Only my driver's licence, I'm afraid," he said, "but Emma has nothing. She came straight from the Institute." "So the only way we can positively identify you is by getting someone to sign a declaration of identity, a sort of affidavit. Someone who knows you. Well, we have someone who knows Emma, but I don't know of anyone who knows you, Carl." "No, I suppose you wouldn't—I guess they're all back in the Protectorate! But let me see if I can find that driver's licence..." Carl finally remembered that he wasn't wearing his own clothes, then he realized that his driver's licence was probably still in the Counsellor's coat that he'd handed over to Peter! "I'm afraid I don't even have that, George, I left it in my jacket, back there. So I have nothing with which to identify myself." "Well, I'm sure we can come up with a solution to that somehow," George said, "It's not the first time this has happened. I'm still trying to get hold of this fellow who knows who Emma is, and hopefully we'll see him soon. In the meantime the folk from Immigration will come down sometime. 207

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I must warn you that they'll probably want some proof from you, because of your past career, that you're genuine about your faith and have no allegiance to the Protectorate. They could possibly ask you to do some work for the Kawanyaman government to prove you're fair dinkum. Carl, I suggest you start praying now that if they do ask, it will be something you can feel free to agree to. And pray for wisdom for both of you during that interview." "Do you think they might give us a hard time?" Carl asked. "They might give you, Carl, a hard time. They might decide to give you some of your own back, as they would put it. We had one Police Officer from the Protectorate come through whom they treated like a criminal, just to test him, but they almost broke the man. Pray that they won't feel the need to treat you that way." "I'll pray for whatever God thinks I need, George," Carl said quietly, "If He thinks I need some disciplining He'll give me the grace to take it." George studied Carl's face thoughtfully. No, Carl wasn't being facetious— he was serious. "What about Emma—are they likely to give her a hard time?" Carl asked him, "I hope not, she's been through enough already." "No, I think they know enough about her. Jack Winston is not unknown in these parts. They'll grant her asylum automatically," George replied, "Of course, there's the possibility they might just ask Emma to vouch for you. It depends on who actually interviews you. It certainly would make it easier for you." "What kind of work might they ask me to do?" "One possibility that was mentioned to one of our previous guests was some kind of assistance to a delegation they're thinking of sending to the Protectorate on an official visit. But it would have been too difficult to make her unrecognisable, so they just asked her to share any information she could that they might want. But they might ask you to go with such a delegation. That's one possibility." "Well, the same thing applies—how do I avoid being recognised?" George looked amused. "Have you ever grown a beard, Carl?" he asked. Carl got his meaning and laughed. "Only once, George. For three days, last week." "You won't know until the interview what they'll want. Maybe not even then. Just pray about it in the meantime." Carl reflected on what George had told him, and it reminded him that he knew little about Kawanyama. "Tell me about this country, George," he said, changing the subject, "All I know about it is that it lies to the north of the Protectorate and our government considers it a potential enemy. I remember that when the old country became a Republic the North seceded and then joined Kawanyama. That happened when I was in my teens, and I didn't pay much attention then. When President Denson came to power ten years ago, we lost all contact with the outside world, so I don't know much about this place at all."

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"Well, we're quite a big country, and our population is probably the most racially and culturally mixed in the world. There was a strong move of God here, as in most of Asia, in the late 'tens, and a very large number of our people are Christians. This is very much in contrast to the situation in the rest of the world, where the New Age-type beliefs or Islam hold sway. We have many missionaries in those other places. Not everyone in our government is Christian, but our President is, and of course that has an effect on the country as a whole. You might say our government is a limited democracy. People know their duties as well as their rights. The Christian church is free from interference by the state as long as it does nothing illegal. Unfortunately, as you've seen, we are beginning to see the same things happening in the church here as were happening in the late 20th century in the so-called Western church. People are listening to the siren calls of the world. As you said, it is too easy to be a Christian here, where opposition is rare." "The Christians in the Protectorate certainly don't have an easy time of it," Carl observed, "I should know." "And what is their faith like, from what you've seen?" George asked. "The true believers are immovable, like Emma. Now I can understand why. Back before my conversion I just thought they were stubborn and stupid, even mentally ill... One incident I remember which really made me angry, mostly because it seemed so crazy to me at the time, was in one of my sessions counselling Emma. I had just yelled at her that God didn't exist, and she burst into tears. Not because I'd scared her, or hurt her or anything like that. She was crying because I had no idea that God exists and that He loves me. In other words, because I was lost. And you know, when I look back to when I went to see Jack and Rose a couple of days later, I can see that the same thing was in Jack's—and I guess Rose's—heart. They cared that I was lost. They cared enough to face the risk that I might just be laying a trap for them. Just as Emma cared enough to weep about my lostness and to risk being further beaten by asking me to let her continue to tell me about the Lord. The true believers get beaten up, they get insulted, their children get taken away from them, they get arrested, yet they still look on us with love and they still treat us with great kindness..." "Us?" queried George. Carl looked surprised, then understood. "Well, 'them', now, I suppose," he said, "Don't forget that this time last week I was still one of 'them'." "'Forgetting what is past and striving toward what is ahead, I continue running towards the goal...'" George quoted, "That's from Paul's letter to the believers in Philippi. It's what you do from now on that matters, Carl— the past is gone. In that passage, Paul was warning the Philippians about putting their confidence in the things of the flesh, of the world, and he showed them how in his case he had plenty of seemingly valid reasons for doing just that. But it was all in the past, and the past was gone. He said, 'I see every other pursuit as a waste when compared to the supreme 209

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greatness of knowing Jesus Christ, my Lord.' Let that be your attitude, too, Carl. You're a new child of God, and though I admit that I'm exceedingly amazed by the transformation He's worked in you, I must warn you that the devil isn't going to ignore you and he'll try to destroy every new thing that God does in you. So keep that as your goal every minute of every day—to know Jesus Christ as your Lord. To know Him in your thoughts, in your words, in your actions." "But shouldn't I keep in mind what He saved me from?" Carl asked, "Shouldn't I remember the horror of what I was before He took hold of me?" "Only when you're tempted to become proud, Carl," George replied, "Then He will remind you of the cesspit He pulled you out of. But more importantly, remember that the Holy One, the Almighty, shed His own Blood to wash you clean." "'Amazing love! How can it be that Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?'" Carl sang the words softly, almost to himself as he pulled the little Bible from his pocket. He'd kept Emma's pocket Bible at her insistence, and he carried it in his pocket all the time so he could read from it whenever he had a free moment. "What were you quoting from, George?" he asked, "Paul's letter to whom?" "The Philippians. It's in the New Testament, after his letter to the Ephesians." "Was there anything else we needed to talk about? If not, I'll just have a read of it before I go back to help Will." "Not at the moment, Carl, but be sure to ask me—or Mei Li, or Will—if you have any queries on the subject of your application for asylum. Or anything else, for that matter!" "Yes, thanks, George, I will," Carl replied. George got up from his chair, winked at him, then turned and slowly made his way to the steps down to the garden, leaning heavily on his walking stick. Carl watched him go thoughtfully, then sat back and looked up 'Philippians' in his Bible. ! ! ! A few days later, Carl and Will were in the Far Paddock doing some maintenance on the old windmill that pumped water from the bore into the paddock troughs. After some instructions from Will, Carl was working on the pump. Will was up on the tower. "I've been reading a very disturbing book the last couple of days," Carl said. "Mmmmmm," Will responded as he tightened up a nut, "What book's that? What's it about?" "It's about the Nazis," Carl replied, pronouncing it 'nahzees', "and what they did, back in the 1930's and 40's, to the Jews, mostly, but to other people they didn't like, too." "Ah," Will said, "Not a pretty part of history, that."

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"Well, I gather it's not an isolated case. Emma mentioned Cambodia, Uganda, Romania, among others last century. And this century—the Protectorate. Do you realise, Will, that I was well headed in that direction, becoming like those people? My conscience bothered me at times, but I'd got quite good at rationalising..." Emma had found Carl in the study at lunchtime. He was reading at the desk, his face wet with tears. "Whatever's the matter?" she had asked him in astonishment. "Emma, have you read this book?" he asked her, handing it to her, and wiping his face with his handkerchief. She looked at it and read the summary on the cover. "Well, I haven't read this particular one, but I've read others about Nazi Germany. And other countries where things like that happened. It's pretty ghastly, isn't it?" "Emma, what's the difference between that and what goes on in the Protectorate? Do you realize what God saved me from?" he asked earnestly, "That's why I was crying... Does that make sense? Or am I going overboard?" She'd sat down in one of the armchairs and was studying him meditatively. He left the desk and came to sit in the chair next to hers. "It makes sense to me," she assured him, "I know what you were like before..." They sat in silence for a moment, remembering. Presently Carl spoke again. "Did you say that sort of thing happened in other places, too?" he asked her, "Where?" "Ancient Egypt—remember the Hebrews who had to make bricks without straw and who had to kill their baby boys? Ancient Rome. France during their Revolution. All through history. And just last century. Nazi Germany was possibly the worst, and of course it stood out because it resulted in a World War and because of the Jews, but there was also Romania, and Cambodia, and Uganda, and China, and Argentina, and the Soviet Union, and others... But this sort of thing has gone on all through history. Read Foxe's Annals of the Martyrs sometime. George has a copy of it." "Oh, Emma, I still have an awful lot to learn about history, and geography, and all sorts of other things, too. I don't seem to have learned very much at all in all my years of schooling and training back in the Protectorate." "You'll get there, Carl, just don't give up. It's a real blessing, actually, that we can't leave the property—it means you have time to read all George's books!" "God is great..." Will answered when Carl finished telling him about his conversation with Emma. "God is full of mercy," Carl added. After a pause, he spoke again, "Something else I've been reading about, Will, is in the Bible. What does it mean when it says, 'believe and be baptised'? What did Philip and the Ethiopian do when they saw some water and Philip baptised the Ethiopian?" 211

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"Haven't you been baptised, Carl?" Will asked in surprise. He climbed down the tower and wiped his hands on a rag, "There, that's done. Have you finished with the pump?" "Almost," Carl replied, "And, no, I haven't been baptised, I don't think, or I'd know what it is, wouldn't I?" "Yeah, I guess you would," Will laughed as he packed up his tools. "Hey, you know, once this pump's going and the trough's filled up, there's no reason why I couldn't baptise you!" "Ah! Baptising involves water!" Carl said mischievously. "Sorry," Will said, getting his meaning, "I haven't answered your question yet, have I?" "No, you haven't," Carl grinned, "Please can you explain to me what this baptising is all about? And by the way, you can release the windmill now, the pump's done." "Oh, thanks! You could have told me when I was still up there!" "The pump wasn't ready yet, then..." Will climbed up and released the brake. The windmill turned into the wind and the troughs began to fill up with water. He climbed down again and picked up his toolbox. "Let's go sit in the shade and I'll tell you about baptism," he said to Carl. He put the toolbox in the boot of the car, and they went to sit on the ground on the shady side of the car, leaning their backs against it. Carl poured them each a mug of water from the cooler and handed one to Will, who drained it and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Baptism is a symbol of dying to the old life and being born again into the new life," he said, "It's a way of showing that we consider ourselves to have died with Jesus Christ and to have been raised with Him into the new life." "So it's something one should do straight away, as soon as one believes, like the Ethiopian, or Paul, or the jailer, and so on?" "That's how I read it," Will said, "But not all Christians agree on that, or on how much water should be used, or on who should be baptised, or even on what baptism means." "Does one have to be baptised to be a Christian?" "Of course not!" Will exclaimed, "What makes a Christian is Christ living in us through His Spirit. But Jesus did say that whoever believes and is baptised shall be saved, so He wants us to be baptised. It's a matter of obedience. It's also a public statement of faith, and in some countries, as you'd know, it's a very drastic step to take indeed." Carl was thoughtful for a few minutes. He had a vague memory of a group of Christians in Densonia being arrested for something they had been doing in the Lake. It must have been a baptism, he realised. Those people had been obeying their Lord and they paid a high price for their obedience.. "All right, then," he said shortly, "To echo the Ethiopian, why shouldn't I be baptised?" "No reason at all why you shouldn't be," Will replied, "And every reason why you should be. I can baptise you right here in one of the troughs, if you like." 212

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Carl considered this, again for some minutes. "What's on your mind?" Will asked him, sensing he was thinking deeply. "I was just musing about this death, burial, and resurrection business," Carl replied, "And how well it describes what happened to me at the Winstons' home..." He paused again, and glanced at the nearby trough, which was now almost full. "D'you reckon I'd fit in there?" "Sure, no problem. We've baptised people in the troughs before." Carl stood up and brushed bits of grass off his trousers. "All right, then, Will," he said, "Please baptise me."

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Chapter 27 Two weeks later, the members of the household were sitting together at breakfast in the dining room. "Still no further news about your application for asylum," George informed Carl and Emma, "I went through my Telemail messages this morning and there was nothing about it. But I wouldn't worry," he added quickly, seeing the look of consternation on Emma's face, "Just be patient, I'm sure we'll hear soon enough." Will came into the room, carrying a notepad and sweeping his fingers briskly through his hair. He looked even more serious than usual. "Just had a message from Barnabas," he said soberly, "Seems there's been another public execution over there. This morning at dawn." Carl felt a stab of apprehension, and he looked up quickly at Will, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. "Did he say who?" he asked, putting his fork back on his plate. Will checked his notepad. "Yes, someone from the Counselling Institute," he said, "For high treason... Lieutenant Andrew Parker." Emma gasped, and looked anxiously across the table at Carl. She saw his face go white, and heard him draw in his breath sharply. Mei Li noticed their reactions. "Did you know him?" she asked gently. Carl took a deep breath and stared at his plate. He didn't answer immediately. This can't be real, he thought, this is a nightmare and I'm going to wake up in a minute and everything will be all right... Andrew? They've shot Andrew? Andrew is dead? Andrew, my friend? "He was my friend, my closest friend," he said after a moment, very softly. "Oh... I'm awfully sorry," Mei Li comforted, her heart going out to him, "What an awful shock!" George and Will regarded him silently, not knowing what to say. Carl just stared unseeingly at his breakfast. Memories of Andrew flew through his mind. His heart ached as if someone had put it into a vice. He felt distressed and confused. He looked up at Will. "Are you sure that was the name he said?" he asked hopefully, though his mind told him that of course Will had heard right. "Yes, quite sure," Will replied, "Lieutenant Andrew Parker." He added softly, "I'm sorry, Carl. I wish I could tell you I'd heard wrong..." Carl looked back at his plate. He thought of God. O Lord, why? What about Denise and the children? Why did You let this happen, why did You? He stood up suddenly, catching his chair just in time as it toppled over. "Excuse me," he said, not looking at the others, his voice shaking, "I-I need to go outside." There was a murmur of sympathetic noises from the others as he headed for the door at the other end of the room. Emma got up and called to him. "Carl?" He paused by the door, but didn't turn around. "Mmmmm?" he replied absently. 214

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"May I come along?" "If you like," he muttered non-committally, and left the room. Emma glanced at the others around the table, then followed Carl out the door. He had already left the house and was striding down the lawn towards the southern wall overlooking the border hills. She ran to catch up. When she got to him he was leaning on the wall, gazing towards the hills where the dark line of the Fence was just visible. He had picked up a twig of wattle from the ground and was absent-mindedly rolling up the leaves on it one after the other as he stared at the horizon. Emma leant against the wall a short distance from him. He was aware of her being there, but didn't look towards her. They remained thus silently for some time. Emma was acutely aware of their surroundings in the stillness. A flock of sparrows was twittering in a nearby bush. A rooster crowed in the distance and another rooster answered. A car was crawling silently along the road at the foot of the hill. She could feel a slight breeze and hear it rustling the leaves of the red gum behind them. A busy trail of ants wound itself around the irregularities of the top of the wall. She thought about Andrew Parker. All she really knew about him was that he was a Police Officer who worked at the Counselling Institute, that he was Carl's closest friend, that he had saved their lives, and the little he had told her as he had driven her to the National Forest. She did get the impression, from things Carl had said, and from the lengths Andrew had gone to in order to help them escape, that he'd been a very special person. "Oh, dear God!" Carl exclaimed, so suddenly and forcefully that Emma jumped. He hurled the twig to the ground, put his head down on his arms on top of the wall, and burst into tears. He let his grief pour out with abandon, his whole frame heaving with his sobs. Emma was momentarily non-plussed but as always she quickly recovered. She moved to Carl's side and put her hand on his shoulder, but didn't say anything. Her tears were flowing freely as she shared his sorrow, though she cried silently. She recalled the ride to the Forest in Andrew's car. Andrew had explained to her about the track she had to follow to meet up with Carl, and then had been silent for a while. After some time he had told her about having met her brother Jack and his wife in the City Park some years previously when he and his wife Denise were out for a walk. It had been the turning point in their lives, but it had left Andrew with a dilemma. If he stayed in the Institute he would be able to help the counsellees brought there in some ways, but he would have to keep his new-found faith a secret, even from his closest friend. Yet as a father he wanted to bring up his children in the knowledge of the Lord. It was Denise who resolved the dilemma by pointing out that if he admitted to his faith at work he would be shot the next day and would hardly be able to help anyone or bring up his children! She encouraged him to keep on at the Institute—she would look after the children's nurture if necessary, but she was sure God could help them bring up their children to love Him. When they had arrived at the trail in the Forest, Andrew had removed the handcuffs and let Emma out of the 215

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car, saying a few more words to her with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. "God bless you, Emma," he told her, "Look after Carl for us, won't you? He's a great guy!" Then he had driven away, and she had set off to find Carl. After some time Carl became quiet, but did not raise his head. He not only felt immense sadness at the loss of his friend, he also felt terribly guilty as he reasoned that Andrew had been put to death as a direct result of helping them escape. He remembered Andrew's mischievous grin when he'd mislabelled the recording of Emma's first counselling session. He remembered Andrew playing his cello. He remembered Andrew and Denise so happy together. He remembered Andrew playing with Chris and Elsie. Oh, God, what's going to happen to Denise and the children? he prayed, Please look after them, don't let them come to any harm... He started to straighten up and Emma pulled her hand away, but he caught it and held it in both his hands on top of the wall. He still didn't look at her. She didn't know what to do, so she waited. She felt a bit strange standing so close to him with him holding her hand. Carl sighed deeply. "He helped us get away, and they got him," he murmured sadly, "They got him—they didn't get us." He fell silent again. After a short while he spoke again, quietly. "He was a great guy," he said, unwittingly using the words Andrew had used of him, "He was somehow different from the rest of us there at the Institute—he cared about people. It can't have been easy for him to monitor counselling sessions... And he and Denise were so good to me..." Emma thought she should tell him what she knew about Andrew that Carl did not seem to be aware of. "He was a believer, you know," she said gently. Carl turned to her in astonishment. "He was? How do you know?" "He told me. In the car, on the way to the Forest. That also cleared up a mystery for me, actually. Jack had once mentioned that he knew a Christian in the Institute but he couldn't say any more for fear of endangering him. It was Jack and Rose who led Andrew and his wife to Christ." Carl was astounded. How had Andrew managed to keep that quiet? But it did explain a lot of puzzling things about Andrew and Denise and yes, their children. How they could cope with him, for one thing... He realised with a start that Andrew would have been praying for him, too, for quite some time. Thank God. Thank You, Lord, that he's with You.. "Let's go sit down, Emma," he suggested, and still holding her hand, he led her to the swing seat a few metres away. He let go her hand then, and sat down next to her. Elbows on knees, he leant forwards and propped his chin on his clasped hands. Emma sat watching him, wondering what was going through his mind. Presently he sighed, sat back on the bench seat, and made it swing slowly back and forth. "You know, I had a little sister, once," he began, as if about to tell a story. Emma was taken aback by the sudden change in topic. "I thought she was the most beautiful, wonderful baby in the whole world. I was so proud to be her big brother—I 216

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was all of four years old, mind you—and I felt like a knight in armour prepared to defend his lady to the death!" He jerked his fist up, making the seat swing violently in reaction to his sudden movement. He glanced sheepishly at Emma, who had grabbed the swing frame. "Sorry," he said, stilling the seat. "Never mind, go on," she encouraged him. "She was so tiny and helpless. I'd already had enough misadventures in my four short years to realise it was a tough world out there. Little did I guess! I just wanted to protect this little person who was my sister. I decided she would be my responsibility..." "She must have appreciated such a loving big brother very much," Emma said, smiling. Carl did not respond right away, and she wondered if she'd said something wrong. When he turned to face her, his blue eyes were full of sadness. "She never knew," he spoke softly, almost in a whisper, "She died when she was only five days old." "Oh," was all Emma could say. Carl leant back again, and closed his eyes. "My parents, and the baby—her name was Helen—were killed in a crash on the way home from hospital." He paused. "Ever since then, I've never protected anyone except myself. Not even my best friend," he added bitterly. "Oh." Again Emma didn't know what to say. "I suppose I was afraid of the pain, of getting hurt like that again. You see, when my family was killed, nobody wanted me. So I guess, quite early on I decided I would look out for myself and only for myself. I suppose that helped me in my work as Counsellor!" "Didn't you have any other relatives, aunts, uncles, cousins?" "They didn't want to have anything to do with me. I don't even know who they are or where any of them are. I was put in a children's home where I was fed Protection doctrine twenty-four hours a day from the word go!" he exclaimed savagely. Emma was silent, waiting for him to go on. When he didn't, she ventured to speak. "Have you ever forgiven them, Carl?" she asked gently. Carl sat up abruptly and stared at her. The seat swung crookedly and he grabbed the frame to stop the motion. Then he sat back slowly to avoid jerking the seat again. "No, I guess I never have," he sighed, "And anyway, would it help if I did? It wouldn't change the facts." "Have you got the little Bible with you?" Emma asked him, "I'd like to show you something in it." He took it out and handed it to her. She leafed through it, found the passage she wanted, and handed him the open book. "There, look at verses twenty-one to thirty-five, on the left page." He took the Bible and read out the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant. Yes, he understood what she was getting at. He thought of all that God had forgiven him. He looked at Emma. He remembered that she'd forgiven him for all he'd done to her, even before he'd been sorry about it. "God forgave me," he thought out loud, "You forgave me. How dare I not forgive them!" 217

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He took Emma's hand and squeezed it, smiling gently at her. Then he got off the seat and knelt on the lawn in front of it. He always does that, she thought, every time he prays, wherever he is, he kneels. I wonder why? None of the other believers I know automatically kneel to pray, including me. She closed her eyes as he began to pray out loud. That too, she thought, He always prays out loud. Even before we left the Protectorate. "Oh, Lord Jesus Christ," Carl prayed quietly, "You've forgiven me so much, and I thank you with all my heart, and because of Your forgiveness so freely given to me I want to forgive all those people in the past who didn't want me, or who hurt me, or who taught me the wrong things. Please help me to do it—take all the bitterness out of me, let me be willing to think of them all with love..." He knelt silently for a few moments, then got up and walked back to the wall. Emma followed him. When he got to the wall, he turned around and leant back against it, his arms crossed, and, smiling warmly, watched her approaching. "You know, Emma," he said to her when she reached the wall, "I lost my closest friend this morning—he was my only friend over there, really. I was so overcome with grief at Andrew's death that I forgot that God in His great love and mercy had already given me another friend. He hasn't left me high and dry. My heart aches at the loss of Andrew, but God just reminded me that He sent you with me out of the Protectorate—not to replace Andrew, but to make sure I still have a friend. Only a true friend would have done what you just did, and in such a kind and gentle manner." Emma stood by the wall with her hands on top of it and gazed at the distant hills as she considered this statement of Carl's. Do I think of myself as his friend? Wouldn't I have done this for anyone in his position? When I offered to come out here with him, why did I do it? The others seem to have assumed that he wanted to be alone. But if he wanted to be alone, why did he let me come along? Because he needed someone to share his grief, I suppose. But why did I come with him? I guess it must be so I would be there if he needed me. Because I'm his friend. Then she looked at this from another viewpoint. Does he consider himself to be my friend now? So it seems. How do I know? Of course—because he helped me get out of the Protectorate. Because he shares so many things with me—his love for music, his love for the beauties of nature, his discoveries in George's library, his prayers. Because he asks me to share with him how I feel about things, and to pray with him, and to sing with him, and so on. And I find I can share just about anything with him, and he's interested. How did this happen? He seemed to be my bitter enemy less than three weeks ago... Only God can change enemies into friends. It's God who's made us friends, just like Carl said. She hadn't really thought about the change in their relationship, even though she had thought much about the change in Carl. There had been too much that was new happening around them, and it had needed a crisis to make her realize that the man whom she had once considered an enemy was now her closest friend. "You know," she smiled back at him, "God's 218

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given me another friend too. I don't know if I'll ever see my friends back in Densonia again, but I do know now that you are my friend too, and I thank God for that." He put his arm around her shoulders and they stood for a few minutes by the wall, looking down towards the country of their birth and thinking of all that it held captive, each of them wondering whether they would ever be able to return there. Then Emma remembered her earlier puzzlement, and looked up at him. "Carl, why do you always kneel when you pray, no matter where you are?" she asked him. Carl put his arm down and took her hand instead. He looked surprised. "Because I'm talking to God," he answered, "Isn't that why you kneel?" "Yes, but I don't always kneel; sometimes I pray sitting down, or standing up. Or even lying down, sometimes." "Emma, ever since I knelt for the first time in your brother's living room I've felt that I should kneel to talk to God," he explained, "Perhaps it's because His presence then was so overwhelming, it's like there's always a bit of that whenever I pray." He stared towards the hills, thinking. "Do you recall telling me, once, that Jesus was God become man, and I answered that that was absurd, God could never fit inside a man?" "Yes, I remember that." "Well, I saw God-become-Man, I saw Jesus, at Jack's house that night." Carl spoke almost in a whisper, and his eyes shone. "That's always in my mind when I pray, that incredible light, that feeling of being in the presence of the most awesome power there is, the power of God's love, of Pure Love. It's the most wonderful, and yet the most terrifying thing I know. That's why I have to kneel when I come to talk with Him. Can you understand that?" Emma was gazing at his face with awe. Here's a man who's fallen headover-heels in love with God, she thought. He's not going to give God halfmeasures, he's determined to give Him everything "Yes, I think I understand," she said in a small voice, "Carl, can you teach me to love God like you do?" "Oh, Emma!" he exclaimed, turning to her in amazement, "I can't do that, you love Him far more than I do!" She stared at him, wondering how he could think that, then she recalled Jack telling her once that she should never compare herself to others, but that she should just let God work in her the way He wanted to, which might or might not be the way He'd work in someone else, because God has different plans for each of His children. "I thank God so much that Andrew loved Him, too," Carl said quietly, looking again towards the Protectorate border, "It is a comfort to know he's with the Lord, and that Denise and the children are safely in God's care, wherever they are, because they trust God." He leant against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. He still held her hand, and she gave his hand a squeeze. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. Andrew was gone, and it would take a long time to get over his 219

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death, but he wouldn't be facing his grief alone. Thank you, Lord God our Father, he prayed in his heart. "Let's go and finish our breakfast, eh?" he suggested. Emma nodded, smiling, and hand in hand they walked back up the garden toward the house.

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A few days after Carl had learnt of Andrew's death, the Kawanyaman government sent three members of its Asylum Committee to Bethany Lodge to interview Carl and Emma. George had got the message of the representatives' planned arrival on his Telemail receiver the day before, and had warned Emma and Carl when the household had gathered together for tea. "You may find their approach somewhat intimidating," he told them, "but remember that they have to put the security of our country ahead of consideration for people's feelings. May I suggest that we all go to the lounge after tea to pray specifically for this interview." "Yes, we certainly must do that," Mei Li agreed, "but I expect these two have probably already been praying about it ever since they arrived!" "It's one of the things we've been praying about, it's true," Emma said, "But we'd really appreciate praying about it with you folk, too." Carl nodded but didn't say anything. He wondered what kind of questions the representatives would ask, aside from the obvious ones. Would they be hard on Emma? What if they decided that asylum couldn't be granted? What if it was granted to one of them and not to the other one? Oh, Lord, he prayed silently, if one of us is to be sent back, don't let it be Emma. Let her stay here, where she's safe, please. He knew what would happen to her if she was sent back to the Protectorate, and he shuddered at the thought. For some reason, the thought of what would happen to him, if he was sent back, didn't bother him anywhere near as much. The Newmans and Carl and Emma gathered in the lounge after tea. George opened his Bible and read out Psalm Ninety-One, then they all knelt together and prayed, asking for wisdom for Carl and Emma, and that asylum would be granted to both of them. The next morning three government representatives arrived in an official car. They were accompanied by four soldiers who posted themselves at the front and back doors. George had already met the officials several times before. He greeted them at the front door and led them into the dining room, where Carl and Emma were already seated and waiting nervously. They both stood up as the men entered the room. George introduce them. "Gentlemen, these are our guests who have asked for asylum from the Kawanyaman government, Emma Winston and Carl Slade, from the Protectorate. Carl, Emma, may I introduce General Stephen Wong of the Kawanyaman Army, and Mr. Ian Scott and Mr. Iqbal Muhammad from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs." They all shook hands and sat down as George left the room and closed the door. Carl and Emma sat on one side of the table and their interviewers sat facing them, on the other side. Carl was grateful that he could see out of the window from where he sat. The view of the garden from the Newmans' dining room calmed him.

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"Let's not waste any time on unnecessary preliminaries," Mr. Scott suggested in a business-like manner as he switched on a small, portable compufiler on the table in front of him, "We have your names and the reasons for your leaving the Protectorate. Our job is to confirm those reasons or otherwise, and to find out more about you." "Have you any proof of identity with you?" General Wong asked abruptly. "I'm afraid not," Carl answered, "We left in rather a hurry and didn't even think of such things." "That will make our task somewhat more difficult," Scott said, "unless there is someone here in Kawanyama who knows you and whose identity has been proven to our satisfaction, but it's not an insurmountable obstacle." "Mrs. Newman said they're trying to get hold of someone who knows me," Emma said. "Yes, well, when they do get hold of this person, I assume they'll contact us," Mr. Muhammad said. "Your name is Carl E. Slade," the General said, looking at Carl, "What does the 'E' stand for?" "I don't know," Carl replied, "I was told in the children's home where I grew up that it stands just for itself, 'E'. That's always seemed strange to me, but no-one's ever been able to tell me anything different." "I've come across this sort of thing before," Scott offered, "Some parents just have funny ideas about middle initials." "Mmmmm. Yes. Well, now, Mr. Slade, what was your profession over in the Protectorate?" General Wong asked. "I was a government employee, Sir, a Police Counsellor." "From my understanding that is a position of some prestige. Why did you feel you had to leave the Protectorate?" "I became a Christian. For a government official to do that is considered treason and the punishment is execution by firing squad," Carl said. Hegrinned. "I wasn't all that keen on the idea." "Mr. Slade, we are not here to joke," Muhammad snapped, "Cut the witty comments!" Carl was taken aback by his brusqueness. Emma thought back to her counselling sessions and hoped this interview wouldn't be like that. "You." General Wong suddenly pointed to Emma. "What's your name?" "Emma Grace Winston, Sir," she answered. "Profession?" "Cleaner in Public School number six in Densonia. But I'm a trained surgical nurse." Muhammad raised his eyebrows. "Why would a nurse work as a cleaner?" he asked. "Known Christians are given all the menial jobs in the Protectorate, no matter what their training," Emma replied. "I gather you have a brother, Miss Winston?" Scott asked her. "I have two brothers. One is Jack Winston, pastor of the ch—"

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Wong interrupted her. "Miss Winston, you may leave the room. We know who you are and why you're here. Thank you." Emma, somewhat flustered, hesitated and looked at Carl. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Miss Winston, please leave the room," Muhammad repeated pointedly. Emma got up from her seat and, with another uneasy glance at Carl, went out of the dining room. She went to look for Mei Li and George, and found them in the lounge. She asked if they could all pray for Carl because she thought he might be in for a difficult time. Back in the dining room, Carl's interview continued. "Mr. Slade, as a government official, did you have access to highsecurity information in the Protectorate?" Wong asked. "No, Sir, my job had nothing to do with that." "What did you do in your work, Mr. Slade?" Scott enquired. "I tried to get people to change over to Protection Party teachings. Mostly Christians." "And how did you go about that?" "I'd rather not talk about it, Sir," Carl frowned, "Those are very unpleasant memories." "Why?" Wong asked him. "Because it involved mistreating people, Sir." "Torture, you mean?" Scott asked. "Yes." "I can understand your reluctance," Muhammad said, "but you must realise that we need the information." "Are you planning to torture anyone, Mr. Muhammad?" Carl asked quietly. "We ask the questions, Mr. Slade, not you!" General Wong snapped. "Because of your position as a government official, Mr. Slade," Scott explained, "you will have to prove to us that your profession of the Christian faith is genuine and that you don't have allegiance to the Protectorate government. To that end, your cooperation in this interview is necessary." "Tell us, now, how you made your counsellees turn from their faith," Muhammad said. Carl sighed, and prayed in his heart for the right words. "I tried persuasion by discussion first, and if that didn't work, I handed the counsellee over to the Institute guards for treatment." "Treatment?" Scott queried. "Mistreatment." "How long did it take to persuade a counsellee?" Wong asked. "Anywhere from a few days to, say, five weeks, when they did change to Protection policy. Some didn't," Carl answered, then added, "Do we really have to talk about this? I find it very upsetting." "What happened to those who didn't change over?" Scott asked, ignoring his question. "They got sent to the Experimental Farm." 223

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"What's that?" Muhammad asked. "A research institution—bioengineering, mostly." "What did they do with the counsellees?" Wong enquired. Carl's face was grey and his blue eyes showed his distress. "They-they used them for their experiments! Please can we stop talking about this?" he pleaded. "Why was Emma Winston with you when you left the Protectorate, Mr. Slade?" Ian Scott asked, finally changing the subject. "Because she was my counsellee, and she knew I'd become a Christian, and if I hadn't taken her along they'd have blamed her and done awful things to her and then killed her." "So you took her with you to save her life?" Wong asked. "That was the idea, yes." "Was she the one who converted you?" Muhammad asked him. "Well, no, it was God who did that, Mr. Muhammad. He used her to point to Himself, and then He used her brother, Jack, to get me where He wanted me." "Was Jack Winston also your counsellee?" Scott asked. "No, I went to his house to ask him about Jesus Christ." "Who is Jesus Christ, Mr. Slade?" General Wong asked him suddenly. Carl's face lit up. Here was a question he was delighted to answer. "Jesus Christ is God become man," he said, his eyes shining, and smiling warmly at the General, "He died on a cross so that I might be saved from eternal damnation, and He rose from death to reign over all creation. He's my Saviour and my Lord, Sir." General Wong gazed at him pensively, but did not comment. "Mr. Slade, would you be willing to prove that you are here in Kawanyama in good faith by doing some work for the government?" Scott asked him. This was the question Carl had expected and had prayed about every day. He knew what his answer had to be. "Yes, I would," he replied without hesitation. "I'm very pleased to hear your answer, Mr. Slade," Scott smiled at him, "We will let the Committee know." "What kind of work do you have in mind?" Carl asked. "We will let you know in due course," Muhammad said, "First your application for asylum has to be considered." "This interview is at an end," General Wong announced with a satisfied smile, "I think we have the information we want. Thank you, Mr. Slade." The three men rose from their seats and started towards the door. Carl got up to accompany them to the front door. There the men shook hands with him again and took their leave before going down the steps to their vehicle, escorted by the soldiers. When they had driven off, Carl went into the lounge, feeling somewhat bewildered. "I'm not sure I understand what that was all about," he said to Emma and the Newmans, "But I'm glad it's over." "Were they nasty?" Emma asked. 224

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"Not especially, although they asked some unpleasant questions, but I can't figure out what the point of most of the questions was..." "Well, never mind," George said, "It's over, and no doubt we'll hear from them in the next week or so to tell us asylum has been granted you." "That soon?" Emma asked. "Oh, yes," Mei Li answered, "Once they've interviewed you and asked the right questions and are happy with your answers it's just a formality." "Well, I certainly hope some of those questions were the 'right' ones!" Carl exclaimed. "They were, and you obviously gave the right answers," George said, "If they didn't think you should be granted asylum they'd have taken you into custody..."

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Chapter 29 There had been no service up at Bethany Lodge after the first Sunday after Carl and Emma's arrival. Early on the Thursday following their interview with the Asylum Committee members, Simon Banks dropped in at the Lodge to make arrangements with George about the next service. He parked his car on the driveway near the house, and as he got out he noticed the sound of a flute coming from the southern end of the garden. Seeing as he was early, he decided to find out who was playing the flute. He didn't remember anyone at the Lodge ever playing that instrument. He walked down the lawn towards the swing seat, and saw that Emma and Carl were sitting there and that it was Carl who was playing. He stopped out of sight of them and listened for a few moments, enjoying the novelty of hearing a flute out of doors in the early morning. When Carl stopped, Simon walked over to them and complimented him on his skill. "How long have you been playing?" he asked. "Since about sunrise," Carl replied. Emma hit him lightly on the shoulder and laughed. "He means how many years, Carl!" she exclaimed. "Oh, sorry. You'll have to excuse me, I'm not all that with it this early in the day," Carl said, and grinned sheepishly at Simon, "I've been playing the flute since I was twelve. It's been a real comfort to me through the years." "Would you like to sit down with us?" Emma asked Simon, "We usually come here first thing in the morning to pray and read from the Bible together before breakfast. It's so lovely and quiet at this time of day—except for the birds singing, of course. But that's not noise. Carl likes to play his flute for a bit as well." Carl got up and indicated his seat to Simon. "Well, I'll stop and have a chat before I go up to see George," Simon replied as he sat down, "I must agree with you that this is a beaut time of day, especially in this place." He looked at Carl. "Could you possibly play something else for me?" "With pleasure. Is there anything in particular you'd like to hear?" "No, just play whatever you like," Simon replied, "I just like the sound of a flute well-played." Carl played for a few minutes, starting with some Mozart and then changing over to some of Emma's favourite pieces. Over the last three weeks he'd discovered that it was no longer so much for himself that he played his flute. There were two now for whom he delighted to play—God first, then Emma. Although it was Simon who asked him to play in this particular instant, it was for them that he played. "Thank you," Simon said when Carl finished, "I enjoyed that very much."

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Carl sat down on the grass and laid his flute on its open case next to him. "Simon, since you're here," he said, "Would you mind if I ask you about a few things?" The pastor, remembering his conversation with Carl two weeks previously, was immediately on his guard. "Why, no, I don't mind," he answered cautiously, "What about?" "Excuse my being blunt," Carl said quietly, "but I'd like to ask you why you thought the worst about Emma and me as soon as you were introduced to us?" Simon was startled and upset by the question. He wasn't sure he wanted to answer it, or even if he could. Emma stared at Carl, astonished at his apparent rudeness. What is he up to? she wondered. Neither Carl nor George had mentioned Simon's comments about their time in the bush to her, so she didn't know what Carl was referring to. "Maybe I should phrase my question in a different way," Carl said as he noticed Simon's hesitation and embarrassment, "Simon, is it a habit with you to do that?" he asked gently. Simon looked nonplussed, and glanced from Carl to Emma, then looked at his feet. He didn't answer right away. Presently he sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid it is," he admitted, "I wasn't really aware of it until you asked me that way, but it's true. I tend to assume the worst about people. Even if I don't know them." He paused. "Or even if I do know them." Emma was now staring at Simon. This was new to her. It had never occurred to her to assume other than the best about people. Maybe that's why I've so often been disappointed by people's behaviour, she thought, but isn't it better that way than to be negative to start with? Or should one assume the worst and then be pleasantly surprised? Or would one then never notice good things about people? She was suddenly rather confused. "Why do you do that?" Carl asked Simon. Simon looked at him thoughfully. "I'm not sure..." he said, "As a pastor I've seen so much of the worst in people, that I just assume everybody's the same and those who don't seem that way at first are just hiding the fact. I suppose that's why. You see, we're all sinners, all capable of the worst, and so in the end I assumed that we all do the worst, I guess." "Do you assume the worst of yourself, Simon?" Carl asked gently. Emma caught her breath at his audacity. Simon blanched, and stared at him. Carl regarded him, unblinking, his blue eyes smiling. "N-No, you're right, I don't," Simon stammered, reddening, "I-I think rather highly of myself, Carl." He was upset by Carl's forthrightness, yet he found that he wanted to be honest with him. Was it because Carl was being honest? He wasn't sure. "How did you know?" he asked Carl. "I didn't know," Carl replied truthfully, "I just felt I had to ask you that." He paused for a moment, and added, "You see, Simon, I found my first experience of a gathering of Christians very distressing. That was the service here two weeks ago. You led that service and you preached the sermon. You're the pastor of that group of believers. I suppose that means 227

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you carry some sort of reponsibility for the whole thing. My first encounter with you wasn't terribly positive, you must admit. I felt almost condemned for something I hadn't even done!" "Yes, I can see now what you mean," Simon remarked quietly, "I'm sorry about that, it was an awful thing to do, especially considering why you're here." "Well, let's forget it now, it's forgiven, Simon," Carl said, "But I would like to talk about the other concerns I mentioned, if you have time, because I find them frightening. Have you got time?" Simon was curious to hear what Carl had to say. He looked at his watch. "I've got time," he said. "I was rather upset about that service, too," Emma said hesitantly, "We had a talk about it to George and Mei Li the same evening, I don't know if they said anything to you." "I've been away most of the past ten days, at a pastors' conference. I haven't seen them since I got back," Simon explained, "But what is it that you found so disturbing?" "You know Brian, Roger and Amy Amherst's son?" Carl asked him. "Most unpleasant kid, yes I know him." Simon made a face. "Is that one of your assumptions, or is your description of him based on experience?" Carl felt cruel asking him the question, but knew he had to ask it. Emma gasped. Simon bristled. "You have a nerve!" he snapped, getting up and glaring at Carl, his hands on his hips, "You've been stuck up here all this time, you don't know anything about me or my church, and you come and attack me like this! You don't even know that kid!" He stamped off towards the wall a few paces, then turned back to face them, scowling. Carl had got up as Simon moved away. He walked over to Simon and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I'm hurting you, Simon," he said quietly, "and I realise it seems presumptuous of me to say the things I've been saying, but I've been praying about this every day since that Sunday, asking the Lord to give me an opportunity to talk to you about it and to guide me if He did." He closed his eyes for a moment. "I do know Brian, but it seems that I've met a Brian that no-one else knows, except perhaps Emma and Mei Li." "What do you mean?" Simon's curiosity was aroused again. "Brian and I had a chat together that first Sunday we were here. In fact, we had two chats. He's a thoughtful lad, very lonely, and rather discerning for his age. I found him quite pleasant and friendly overall, not difficult to talk with. Didn't you, Emma?" he asked, turning to her. "Yes, he seems to be a nice boy," she answered, coming down to join them, "He came up with his parents last Saturday and we went for a walk around the farm with him and Will while Roger and Amy visited with George and Mei Li."

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"He showed rather a lot of interest in the workings of the farm, actually, and even asked Will if he could come and help him sometimes on weekends," Carl added. "What did Will say?" Simon asked, surprised. "He said he'd be very welcome, he always appreciates willing helpers, and suggested Brian might like to come and help during shearing, even," Emma replied. Simon looked at Carl oddly. "And you say you found him easy to talk to?" "Yes. Shouldn't I have?" Simon shrugged. "I can never get anything more than a grunt out of him," he muttered. "Brian said that the way he saw it, the people who were here that Sunday were playing a game," Carl said quietly. Simon looked shocked. "What on earth made him say that?" "I asked him what he thought was wrong with the service." "You asked Brian what was wrong with the service?!" "He seemed to be sensing the same thing I was..." "But that kid's a rebel! He hates anything to do with God! He'd rather be out with that gang of louts he calls his friends!" Simon spat the words out. Carl looked at him sadly. "Why do you think that might be?" he asked softly. Simon was speechless. He stared at Carl open-mouthed. Emma held her breath. All of a sudden Simon's shoulders sagged, and he looked at the ground and sighed deeply. Then he walked back to the swing seat and sat down, his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands. He still looked at the ground. Emma and Carl stood still where they were, waiting. After some time, Simon spoke. "Are there many teenagers in the church over there?" he asked. Carl looked at Emma and raised his eyebrows questioningly. "In Densonia, yes, they're quite a large number, percentage-wise," Emma told him. She and Carl walked over to the swing seat but didn't sit down. "What do you think Brian meant?" Simon asked Carl. "He meant that they'd lost track of why they were there, I think," Carl replied. "Is that what you thought too?" "In a way." "Why do you think that?" "I'll answer that with a question. What do you know about the church in the Protectorate?" "Not very much, really—we haven't really looked into it." "I gathered that. One of the ladies said she didn't know there were any Christians there!" "I lied to you that day, you know," Simon said softly, his hands over his face, "when I said we prayed for the church there every day..." 229

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Carl sat down next to him. His heart ached for Simon, yet he knew he was going to cause him even more pain as he showed him what he'd seen that Sunday. Lord, have mercy, don't let this take too long, please, he prayed. "The church in the Protectorate is made up of people, the believers," he told the pastor, "those who have been saved by faith in Jesus Christ and who bow down to Him as their Lord. And that's all it is, Simon. No buildings, no organisations, no Sunday Schools, no cake stalls, no pledge envelopes, just people. The Body of Christ. His people. So in tune with their God that He tells them where and when to meet to worship Him together. So obedient to Him that they sing His praises in a prison cell because they know that He's brought them there for His own purposes." He glanced at Emma and she saw that he had tears in his eyes. "So full of His love that they pray for those who persecute them and bless those who curse them. Their children are taken away from them because they are Christians. They risk everything in order to tell others the Gospel because Jesus Christ told them to, and because if you know the Way of Life, how can you keep it to yourself when everyone around you is headed for eternal damnation?" Carl had become increasingly earnest, his voice shook, and tears were streaming down his face as he spoke. He was vaguely aware that Emma was holding his hand tightly. Simon looked up at him when he paused, and was startled by his obvious emotion. "Why are you telling me all this?" he asked quietly. "Do you know why I'm here today and not still in the Protectorate, Simon?" Carl asked instead of answering him, "Because a Christian loved me enough to forgive me every time I beat her up for her faith. Because a Christian family looked after me as if I were one of their own and prayed for me for years. Because a pastor whom I had persecuted prayed for me for ten years and then led me to Christ. Because a Christian risked his life, and lost it, so that I could escape. Would the people in your church do that, Simon? Would you?" "I-I don't know," Simon answered softly, "I don't think I could." "Simon, you could, and you would, given the opportunity, if your whole reason for living were Jesus Christ and His Church instead of Simon Banks and his reputation. Give it a try. Get your eyes back onto Jesus and keep them there. Get those people to turn back to God, Simon. Get on your knees and pray together, read the Word together, do what God tells you to do. Love one another as He has loved you. Look at Brian through God's love. Look at everyone through God's love. And go out and tell them about God's love, and show it to them. Then you won't be playing a game, Simon, you'll be worshipping the Lord God Almighty, not just in a service, as you call it, but in His service, in all of your life." Carl had his hand on Simon's shoulder as he spoke. Now he removed it, as Simon sat up and regarded him, frowning. "How long did you say you've been a Christian, Carl?" he asked quietly. "Three weeks," Carl replied. 230

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"Three weeks," Simon echoed softly, shaking his head, "You know, Carl, I've been a Christian over twenty-five years." He looked up at him. "Don't ever fall as I've fallen, Carl. Don't let pride get the upper hand. Don't ever take your eyes off Jesus Christ." He covered his face with his hands. Carl put an arm around his shoulders. "'The LORD makes firm the steps of a righteous man and He delights in his way; though he might stumble, he will not fall, for the LORD Himself supports him.' You've stumbled, but you can get up again, Simon," he said, "Just hang on to God. 'He'll lift you up.'" "'The wounds of a friend are faithful,'" Simon replied, sitting up and grinning at Carl, "I can quote Scripture, too, Carl." He stood up, as did Carl, and held out his hand. Carl looked puzzled, but took his hand. "Thank you, Carl, thank you so very much," Simon said warmly as they shook hands, "This has been one of the most painful experiences I've ever been through, but it was the pain of life-saving surgery. Thank you." He gave Carl a hug, and Carl received his hug with a pang of grief as he suddenly remembered thanking Andrew Parker with a hug a few years before. Andrew had been a Christian and he'd never known it... "Keep your eyes on Jesus, Simon, and you'll stay on top of the waves," Carl said softly. "I'd better go and see George now, I guess," Simon moved to go. "Before you go, could we just pray together a moment?" Carl asked him. "Please," he answered. Carl knelt on the lawn, and Emma knelt, too, and after a second's hesitation, Simon followed suit. Carl led them in prayer for Simon and his family, for his congregation, and for the church in Kawanyama, and then Simon prayed feelingly for the church in the Protectorate and for Carl's and Emma's future in Kawanyama. They got up from their knees and Simon went off towards the house to find George. Carl took Emma's hand and kissed it. "Thank you for staying with me," he said, smiling warmly at her. "You were awfully hard on him, Carl," she said softly. "I was praying the whole time that I might not hurt him more than absolutely necessary." "So was I." He picked up his flute, sat down on the swing seat, and blew a few notes. Then he looked up at her and smiled again. "You go ahead and go have breakfast, Emma," he said, "I think I'll just stay here for a while." "All right, Carl. See you later." As Emma walked back to the house she listened to the music of Carl's flute and thanked God that He was giving the Kawanyaman church a kick in the pants...

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A few days later, Emma was working in the kitchen preparing the evening meal when Carl and Will came in from their day in the paddocks. They took their boots off on the verandah and came into the room in their stocking feet. Carl went to the kitchen sink to wash his hands while Will used the sink in the pantry. "How are the fence repairs going?" Emma asked Will. "Almost done," he replied, "It's a huge difference having two of us doing it!" "It's hard physical work, though," Carl said, "I'm not used to it!" "Ha! We'll make a farmer out of you yet!" Will laughed as he left the kitchen. "Could you come out to the garden with me for a few minutes, Emma?" Carl asked as he dried his hands, "I'd like to talk to you." "Why, yes, sure," she replied, "Just let me clean this mess up first." She cleared the vegetable peelings off the table where she had been working, washed her hands, and hung up her apron. "Okay, that's done," she said, going to the door and taking off her slippers to put shoes on. Carl slipped his shoes on and they walked down the steps and around the side of the house. Mei Li, carrying a bunch of flowers she had just cut, was coming towards them from the garden. "I was just going to find you two," she said, "to tell you that we've got a guest coming for tea. George only just found out that he'll be here tonight. This is the man he's been trying to get hold of. We'll have to cook a bit more than I'd planned. But I thought I'd let you know he's coming." "We shouldn't be long, Mei Li," Emma said, "Carl wants to talk to me about something, then I'll come and help you." "Who's your guest?" Carl asked. "George said it should be a surprise," Mei Li answered, smiling enigmatically, "So I can't tell you. You'll find out when he gets here. I'll go and warn Will, too. See you shortly!" Mei Li went on towards the back of the house, and Carl led Emma down the slope towards the wall overlooking the valley. It was late in the afternoon, and the sunlight was already tinged with orange. The hills in the distance were hazy from the heat of the day so that they couldn't distinguish the Fence. A family of blue wrens darted around the bushes near the swing seat, and they stood still watching the tiny birds' antics, for a few minutes. "I love watching them," Carl whispered, "They're such pretty little birds with their long tails up in the air, and those big heads. And always the whole family together!" "Did you know that blue wrens mate for life?" Emma asked him.

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"No, I didn't," he replied, "I don't know much about birds at all." He gave her a puzzled look. "Where did you pick up all these bits of information you keep coming out with, about all sorts of things?" "My brother still has all my father's books," she told him, "He keeps them well hidden, but not from Rose or me... My father had a huge collection of books. When they were doing some work on their house—my parents' house, that is—they stored a lot of things in Jack's house, including the books and the piano. They're still there, waiting for my parents to return. There's both fiction and non-fiction, and I love reading." "I can see why, if your father's collection is anything like George's. I'm developing a taste for reading myself—that study is a treasure-house." Carl paused, took a deep breath, then asked her quietly, "Where are your parents?" "I don't know," she answered, "They went on a long holiday to Europe with my other brother and my sister—I have two brothers, Jack and Mike, and a sister, Liz. That was just before the Protectorate. I was studying, so I couldn't go with them. The government changed while they were away, and they weren't allowed back. And as you know, there's been no way of communicating with the outside world since then." A sudden thought struck her. She stopped and grabbed hold of his arm, her eyes wide. "Now that we're out of there we might be able to find out where they are!" she said excitedly. "We can give it a try," Carl said, taking her hand, "George may be able to help us." They reached the wall and stood with their elbows resting on top of it, gazing towards the hills. For a few moments neither of them said anything. Then Carl turned around and leant back against the wall. "One thing about physical work," he said, "It frees your mind to think about things while you're doing it." "So what have you been thinking about lately?" Emma asked, smiling, "You've been reading a lot and having long discussions with George as well as with me, so I know you've had plenty to ponder." He looked at her soberly. "Emma, do you know what the last three weeks have been for me?" he asked. "What?" she said, smiling. "I've been reading about deserts, among other things," he replied, "Those deserts which occasionally get rain, you know, like the deserts of the Australian continent. For ages, they bake under a hot sun, freeze at night. Then one fine day, the rains come, and overnight the desert becomes a garden, with flowers everywhere, little animals such as frogs come out of their hiding places, creeks and ponds fill with water." Emma nodded. She had also read about deserts, once. "Well, Emma, for thirtysix years, ever since I entered that children's home, my life has been a desert, 'protected' from rain by the Protectioners, and now the rains have come into my life, and the garden is flowering, and all sorts of things are coming alive." He laughed. "I can't get enough of it. Just in the Bible itself—I'd no idea there was so much to learn!" 233

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He took hold of her arm and gently turned her around to face him. "Do you understand, Emma, or do you think I'm going mad?" he asked seriously. "I understand, Carl," she smiled, "You've been let out of prison, haven't you?" He gazed at her gratefully. "You're amazing," he said. And then he astonished her by reciting from the Psalms. "'The skies declare the glory of God and show forth the works He has done. Day after day and night after night they speak of all they know. Their voice can be heard everywhere, all over the world, no matter what the language.'" He paused, gazing into the distance. "Funny, isn't it," he said dreamily, "how one can see and delight in the night sky for years and yet be blind to the glory of God that it proclaims..." He turned back to Emma. "But I'd better get to the reason I wanted to talk to you." "Yes, please tell me," she said. "Well," he began, "As I've been working with Will, I've been thinking a lot about all that's happened over the last few weeks—the most incredible weeks in my life! You know—Chester Brown's sessions, your sessions, my despair, your brother's kindness, my conversion, our escape, this place, and so on. Even Andrew's death." He sighed. "And I've asked myself, why? Why has all this happened? Why did it happen now, why not five years ago, five years from now? Why did it happen the way it did? What does God want of me? And also, when I've been praying, by myself, or with you, or with the others, the same idea keeps coming to me... Sort of like that thought that kept coming back, what if you're right and I'm wrong? I can't ignore it any longer, Emma." "What is it?" she asked. "It all came to a head when I was reading in the New Testament this morning. I started reading Second Corinthians again, and verses three and four might as well have been written in bold print, the way they grabbed my atten—" "Do you have the little Bible with you?" Emma interrupted, "I'd like to read those verses." He smiled and pulled the book out of his pocket. "I always have it with me," he said as he handed it to her, "Here, read them out loud. Chapter one." "'Praises be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,'" she read out, "'The Father full of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we may be able to comfort others with the same comfort that we have received from God!'" She handed the Bible back to Carl and looked at him expectantly. "The thought that keeps popping up is that I should go back..." Carl said softly. "Go back where?" Emma asked, surprised, "Not to the Protectorate, surely?" "To the Protectorate," he confirmed, "I'm not sure how—I can't just walk over the border, I'd be arrested instantly! But I feel very strongly that I'll 234

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have to go back there somehow, sometime, for the reason given in that passage. To help others, as we were helped. To tell them about Jesus Christ, about God. To offer them hope." "How could you possibly help anyone over there?" Emma exclaimed, "Like you've just said, they'd arrest you instantly! They'd probably shoot you on sight!" She was suddenly aware that she didn't want him to go anywhere at all—she didn't want to be separated from him. "But, my love," Carl said, grabbing her by the shoulders in his excitement, "don't you see that if God wants me to go back there, He'll provide a way of doing it that will work?" Emma heard only the first words of that statement. She stared at him in shock. "Carl," she said, softly, slowly, "What did you call me?" It was Carl's turn to be surprised. He dropped his hands and frowned at her, confused. "What did I call you? When?" "Just then. You said, 'But—'" "'My love,'" he finished for her. He'd said it almost without realising it. His slip of the tongue made him aware that it was time to share some other thoughts with her. He wondered how she'd react to those... He walked off towards the swing seat and Emma, puzzled, followed him. He sat down at one end of the bench. Emma hesitated, then sat down at the other end. He made the seat swing slightly back and forth as he mulled over how best to bring up what was on his mind. He leant forwards, his elbows on his knees, and cleared his throat. He glanced at Emma, who was still regarding him curiously, but then looked back at the ground. "Emma," he began, tentatively, "Uh... there's something I have to tell you that I've never told anyone else before..." He paused, not sure how to continue. "If you've never told anyone else, are you sure you ought to tell me?" she asked gently. He gave her a startled look, then sat up and gazed into the distance. "What I need to tell you is this." He finally turned to her, his blue eyes shining, and took her hand. "Emma, I love you. You're the most amazing and beautiful woman I've ever known. I've never felt about anyone else the way I feel about you. I've never been so happy in someone's company as I am whenever I'm with you. I've never wanted to share all of myself, my deepest feelings, even, with anyone before, but with you... Emma, I'd like to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you be my wife?" She was speechless, bewildered, and stared at him, a confusion of thoughts racing through her mind. Marry Carl? Do I want to get married at all? Should I get married at all? Would it be right? And this talk about going back to the Protectorate—does he mean both of us? And besides, they'd only known each other a bit over five weeks, and she preferred not to count the first two. "C-Carl," she stammered, "How can you want me to marry you? You-you hardly know me!" He was still holding her hand, and he squeezed it and smiled. "I know you a lot better than you think I do," he said softly, "And you're the most wonderful person I've ever met." 235

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She looked at him pleadingly. "I-I need to think about it, Carl, I need toto pray about it," she said, "I-I feel very confused." He pondered that a moment. He sat back and thought back to her encounters with him at the Institute. He was suddenly aghast that he'd assumed that she might even consider such a step. He did not doubt that she had forgiven him, that wasn't in question, but surely it wasn't that easy for her to forget? Would those memories keep coming back to haunt her if she married him? "I'm sorry, Emma," he said presently, "I don't want to put any pressure on you. Take your time. Think and pray about it. I'll pray too. If it is right, if it's what God wants for us, you'll know, you'll feel at peace about it." And if it isn't the right thing for us, he thought to himself, it will break my heart—but I guess the Lord is able to deal with that. She looked at him gratefully and nodded. Her thoughts were still in turmoil. She sat gazing at the distant hills. How do I really feel about this man? she asked herself, A few minutes ago I was horrified at the thought of being separated from him. Why? I like him, I enjoy being with him, but do I love him? Enough to marry him? She suddenly remembered her promise to Mei Li, and looked at Carl's watch. "Oh dear," she exclaimed, "I'd promised to help Mei Li and it's already tea-time and I'm still here!" She jumped up from the seat, and Carl followed suit and took her hand. "It's all right, it's my fault" he said, "I'll apologise to her, don't worry. Come on." He didn't let go her hand as he led her back up to the house, and she was surprised that she didn't want him to let go—she found it comforting despite the turmoil in her heart. The Newmans' guest had already arrived. He was in the lounge with George, Mei Li told them as they came into the kitchen. The aroma of dinner cooking filled the room, and Emma apologised for not coming back in time as she'd promised to. Carl said it was his fault for keeping her, not to blame Emma. "I'm not blaming anyone," Mei Li laughed, "Emma had done most of the work already anyway before you went out there! Come on, I'll take you to meet our dinner-guest. Actually, he'll be staying a few days with us, as he lives some distance away." She led them down the hall towards the lounge. Emma followed her, and Carl, deep in thought, came behind, more slowly. Mei Li went into the lounge and moved aside to let Emma through. "Emma," she said, touching her arm lightly, "I think you know Chester Brown." A tall elderly man who was sitting near the window talking with George had got up as Emma came forward. His face broke into a wide smile as Emma rushed forwards and embraced him. "Uncle Chester!" she cried, "Praise the Lord!" "My dear Emma, how wonderful to see you here!" He held her at arm's length to see her better and smiled. "How did you manage to get out of the Protectorate? Is Jack with you? And Rose?" 236

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"No. No, they're not, Uncle Chester, they're still... back there. It was Carl who brought me—us—out." "Carl? Who's Carl?" the old man asked, not remembering anyone by that name, and then he caught sight of Carl, who had just come into the room and was staring at him in shock. All the colour drained out of Chester's face and he began to tremble. Emma helped him back into his chair, realising what was happening. He looked from Emma, to George, to Mei Li, and back to Carl. "I-I don't understand," he stammered, "CCounsellor Slade is here? How? Why?" The horrors of what he'd had Chester Brown put through came flooding back to Carl's memory. He had to set aside the question of how Chester came to be here—he could make a shrewd guess, anyway. There was something more important he had to do. He walked slowly over to Chester, not looking at him but looking down at the floor, dropped on his knees in front of him, and bent his head down onto the old man's knees. The others in the room watched in stunned silence. Chester, bewildered, straightened up and stared at him. "Mr. Brown," Carl said, lifting his head up, his face pale, and looking at Chester, "I would like to offer my apologies for all the wrong I did to you, for all the suffering I made you go through." His voice was shaking as he kept on remembering. "I'm terribly, terribly sorry, and I wish I could undo it all, but I can't. You were right and I was so very, very wrong. I-I don't know if you can possibly forgive me, but I'd like you to know that I praise the Lord and I'm rejoicing to see that you are safe here." He buried his face in his hands. Chester considered him in astonishment for a moment, then suddenly stood up and took hold of his shoulders. "Please, stand up, Counsellor," he said softly, helping Carl up. Chester was quite tall and the two men stood eye-to-eye. Carl looked at him wonderingly, and Chester, frowning and pensive, searched his face at length. He still held on to Carl's shoulders. Then he suddenly smiled broadly and gave the astonished Carl a bear hug. "Brother Slade," he exclaimed, "Of course I forgive you! And I praise and thank God for answering my prayers and bringing you to Himself. All that is in the past now, and the past is gone. Hallelujah! So I have two wonderful reasons for rejoicing—seeing Emma again and meeting a new brother in Christ!" Chester had released Carl but he had his hand on his shoulder. He looked and smiled at the others, George, Mei Li, Will, Emma, who now recovered from their amazement and joined in hugging Chester and Carl. Emma took Carl's hand in both her own, and he looked down at her and smiled affectionately. Chester noticed their actions with interest. Something's going on here, he thought, I'll have to get to know Carl Slade better over the next few days. "Uncle Chester, how did you get here, how did you escape from the Farm?" Emma asked him, taking his arm with one hand.

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"I never got to the Farm," Chester replied, glancing at Carl, "The man who was supposed to take me there took me instead to his flat, and from there some other folk got me away and out of the country." "Andrew." Carl wasn't surprised—this was what he had guessed. "It was Andrew Parker who was supposed to drive you to the Farm. A black Police Lieutenant." "Yes, that's right," Chester agreed, "With a lovely wife and children who all love the Lord." He suddenly noticed they all looked stricken. "Why, what's the matter?" "Uncle Chester," Emma told him, "Andrew Parker was Carl's closest friend... He was executed a week ago..." Chester sat down heavily. "They shot him... They found out... What about his wife and children?" "We don't know, Chester," George said, "Barney only told us about Andrew." "And here I am, free and well, thanks to him, and he's dead, and his family are captive over there..." "It was Andrew who got us away, too..." Emma informed him quietly. "And Andrew who picked up the pieces when I was falling apart," Carl added. He swallowed hard as his grief overwhelmed him again. They were all quiet for a few minutes. George and Mei Li prayed silently for their friends to be comforted. Carl prayed for Denise and the children and remembered the many, many times Andrew's family had looked after him. Emma recalled Andrew's request that she look after Carl—"He's a great guy"—and wondered just what he'd meant. After a while Chester addressed Emma again. "Well, Emma, how did you get out of the Protectorate? How long have you been here?" "Uncle Chester, it's a long story, and I think dinner is ready," she replied, "How about we tell you the story while we eat?" "Why, of course." Chester turned to Mei Li. "Do you want us to move to the dining room now, then?" "Yes, please," she answered, "You must all be hungry, and tea is ready." They all went out to the dining room. Once they had given thanks and started eating, Chester reminded Emma of his request. Emma glanced at Carl. "I guess I should start out by pointing out that if it hadn't been for Carl, Uncle Chester, I wouldn't have got out at all. He practically carried me all the way!" Chester looked thoughtfully at Carl. How he must have changed since he'd last seen him almost two months before! He turned his attention back to Emma. "So, tell me all about it, my dear," he urged.

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Chapter 31 After dinner, Emma helped Mei Li in the kitchen. She thought about Carl's proposal and decided she needed advice. Who best to give it to her than Mei Li, who was becoming like a mother to her? She stopped what she was doing for a moment. "Mei Li, I wonder if I could have a serious talk with you sometime very soon," she asked the older woman, "Something's come up about which I think I need some advice." Mei Li noticed the suppressed urgency in her voice. "Yes, of course we can have a chat about it," she told her, "Shall we go to the study when we finish in here?" "Yes, please," Emma answered, "If you don't think the others will mind." "Oh, I think the men won't mind having some time together without us women around," Mei Li laughed, "Will you, George?" she asked her husband as he came into the kitchen with Chester. "Eh, what's this?" George asked warily. "Emma wants to have a serious talk with me, and I suggested we go to the study when we finish in here," his wife answered, grinning, "I said I didn't think you men would mind an evening without us women." "No, of course we don't," George laughed, "especially since Carl would like a serious talk with Chester and me!" Emma blushed when she heard this, and busied herself by the sink so she wouldn't have to look at the two men. She wondered if Carl wanted to talk to them about the same topic she wanted to bring up with Mei Li? She was a bit surprised that Chester was involved until she reminded herself that Carl seemed to have been doing surprising things ever since the day of his conversion. He was not a predictable man. George and Chester collected some glasses and a jug of water and started out of the kitchen. "We'll be in the lounge, Mei Li," George said, "Poor Will has to fend for himself tonight!" "I daresay he can manage," Mei Li said in a mock-serious tone. When the two women had done with the clearing up, Mei Li took a jug of water and two glasses and led the way to the study at the top of the landing. They went into the room and Emma switched on the standard lamp in the corner. They sat down in two of the armchairs grouped near the bookcases. "Let's pray before we start talking, Emma," Mei Li suggested, "It's always good to ask the Lord to provide His wisdom." Emma agreed, and they bowed their heads. The older woman prayed simply, asking God to be with them, and with the men, and to give them wisdom and understanding about whatever the matter was that was to be discussed. Emma wondered how much Mei Li had guessed already. "Well, what is it you have on your mind?" Mei Li sat up and smiled, "Has it got to do with your chat with Carl this afternoon?"

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"Yes, it does," Emma answered, blushing again, "It's - It's, well... uh... Oh dear, I should just tell you straight out—Carl's asked me to marry him!" "Oh, I see..." Mei Li did not seem especially surprised. She thought for a minute. "How long have you known each other, Emma?" "Five weeks. But I feel that the first two weeks don't count." "Why is that?" Mei Li asked, though she understood quite well why. "Well, because that was before he knew the Lord, that was when he was still a Counsellor," she said, in a tone as if it should be obvious, "He wasn't the same person he is now." "Were you the same person you are now?" Emma was surprised at the question. "Uh... yes, I suppose so... Why?" "Well, looking at it from Carl's point of view..." Mei Li left the sentence unfinished. "Oh." Emma wasn't quite sure what Mei Li was aiming at. "What do you mean?" she asked. "It's obvious he's in love with you," the older woman said, "But do you know when he started falling in love with you? There's a chance it was before his conversion, isn't there?" "Boy, he sure didn't act like it!" Emma said, skeptically. "But someone else thought he might have," Mei Li countered, "Do you remember what you told me about Andrew Parker? What he said to you when he dropped you off in the Forest?" "'Look after Carl for me, he's a great guy,'" Emma recalled. "Do you think that's what he meant?" she asked incredulously, "That I ought to marry Carl?" "It's just a thought," Mei Li replied, "We have no way of knowing whether he meant he thought you ought to marry Carl. But then, how else would he want you to look after his best friend? Remember that Andrew was a Christian. From what Carl has told us about him I doubt that he would have had anything immoral in mind. Nor would he want you to 'mother Carl'. And I can't imagine he meant you to look for a wife for him." "Well, he probably just meant 'look after him', generally, with no hidden meanings," Emma shrugged. "All right, then, what do you understand by that?" Mei Li enquired. Emma considered the question. She felt confused. "I... uh... I don't know," she said lamely. Mei Li smiled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get you muddled, Emma," she said, "Let's go back to my first question. You've known each other five weeks. You don't want to count the first two. Understandably. All right, so you've known each other three weeks. That's not very long. On the other hand, you've spent a great deal of that time together, mostly having long talks and praying together. That counts for a lot. Also, you're not children. He's forty, you're thirty-five. You have a lot of life experience behind you." She looked thoughfully at Emma. "If you don't mind telling me, why didn't you ever get married?" "No-one's ever asked me before." 240

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"Did you have any boyfriends when you were younger?" "There was one fellow when I was doing my nursing training who was interested in me, but his family moved overseas shortly before the Protectorate and I never heard from him again. That's probably because the Protection Party stopped all international mail." "I'm just trying to understand why you've remained single all these years when you're quite an attractive person. Not just physically, I mean—your whole personality. I'd have thought that many young men would have been interested in you." "Well... There were a few, but they didn't like it, I guess, when they found out that God took first priority in my life. When they found out that I didn't believe in Sexual Celebration or spending time in Fantasy Dreamers or that sort of thing." "I see. Well then, what do you think has attracted Carl to you?" Emma reddened again. "I-I'm not sure," she said softly, "He said he'd never met anyone like me, someone that he wanted to share all of himself with. I-I'm not sure what he meant." "Does he tell you how he feels about things, how he thinks?" Mei Li knew the answer to this, but wanted Emma to say it herself. "Oh, yes," she answered, smiling, "He's always telling me about his discoveries in the library, about how a certain piece of music makes him feel, about his thoughts on the Protection, about the lessons God is teaching him. And he gets so excited about those things! He takes me for walks at dawn so we can watch the sunrise and listen to the birds singing. He serenades me with his flute in the evenings after dinner. He asks me to pray with him and for us to read the Bible together. He asks me to tell him how I feel about these things, too, and to tell him about the things I like, and don't like." "And do you?" "Yes, I can't help it, his enthusiasm is rather contagious, and he listens and he understands what I'm talking about. I can talk to him about anything, and he's interested." Emma suddenly looked bewildered. "Why are you asking me all this?" "For you to listen to your answers, my dear," Mei Li said, and smiled warmly. "Tell me, how do you feel about Carl?" Emma thought a moment before answering. "I guess I like him, I like being with him," she said, "It seems strange, doesn't it? I certainly didn't like him before! But Andrew Parker said he was a 'great guy'... He'd obviously seen a different side of him. He's certainly been a nice person to be with since that day... I love the way he gets excited about even little things, and the way he's so natural about his love for God, and the way his eyes light up when something makes him happy. I enjoy his company, and I feel very much at ease with him." She paused and stared in surprise at Mei Li, and added, softly, "I guess I'm in love with him too..." "Emma, shall I let you in on a secret?" Mei Li asked with a grin. "If you want," Emma answered uncertainly.

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"It's been common knowledge at Bethany Lodge for at least a week that Emma and Carl are in love with each other," Mei Li said gently, "It was Will who pointed it out to George, who told me, but I'd already noticed for myself. You two wear your feelings on your sleeves. I don't know how you managed to survive in the Protectorate for so long when you are obviously not Straight Thinkers. I can only assume that God was looking after you for His own reasons. Now, I got the distinct impression when you first arrived here that Carl was rather attracted to you. He didn't try to hide the fact, either. But I must admit that I am surprised that you weren't aware yourself of how you felt about Carl." She paused and smiled at Emma, who was looking more perplexed than ever. "How did you feel when Carl asked you to marry him?" "I felt confused. I thought I didn't really know how I felt towards him. I wondered if getting married was the right thing for me to do after all these years. I thought I needed time to think about it, to pray about it." "Is that what you told him?" "Well, no, I just said I was confused, I wanted to pray about it." "And what did he say to that?" "He said to take my time, to pray about it. He said he'd pray too, and that if it was the right thing to do I'd feel at peace about it. He said he didn't want to put any pressure on me." Emma suddenly realised why Carl had said that—he would have been wanting to avoid anything that would remind her of the counselling sessions. She gazed at the painting on the wall by the door, a rendition of the parable of the Good Shepherd. She thought about things Carl had said about protecting people he loved. And she remembered his prayer back in the hut in the National Forest. Did he already love her then? And when they were going through the bush to the border? Mei Li interrupted her thoughts. "Have you prayed about it?" she asked. "Well, I haven't had time to, much, what with Uncle Chester arriving, and dinner. I did pray some while I was washing up, but I think I have to ask the Lord about it some more, alone, in my room." Mei Li got up and poured them each a glass of water. She handed one to Emma and sat down with hers. "Emma, what does marriage mean, to you?" she asked gently. "Well, I think it means that a man and a woman promise to live together, look after each other, belong to each other, in a way, for the rest of their lives. It means to bring up children together if they can have children. It means that they face life together, sort of like a team, but more so, rather than individually—make decisions together, that sort of thing. I guess I base my opinion on what I've seen of my brother's marriage, and what I've read in Scripture." "Do you consider your brother's marriage to be a good one?" "Oh, yes. Rose and Jack love each other very much, they're very happy together, they support each other all the time. They both love the Lord and I guess that's an important part of their relationship. They trust 242

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each other implicitly. It was awfully hard for them when the children were taken away, but it's because their relationship is so good that they've been able to cope with that. And with having me around all the time. They work at it, though, always looking for ways to show each other their love, that sort of thing." "Who makes the decisions in their home?" "Well, they talk things over, and they pray together, but Jack makes the final decisions." "What do you think of that?" "It seems to me that's part of the husband's being head of the home, isn't it? He loves his wife so he takes her opinion into consideration, but it's his responsibility to make the final decision. And God's Word tells us that a wife should submit to her husband." "This is a different topic, but it's relevant. How do you feel as you look back to those two weeks when you were a counsellee of Carl's? Have you been able to forgive him for the way he treated you?" "I'm very thankful that it was only two weeks. Yes, I've forgiven him. I forgave him after every session. That was the grace of God, it didn't get easier as the days went past. But I knew I had to forgive him, and God enabled me to do it. The hardest thing, Mei Li, is to forget, and I can't seem to be able to do that." "Does it upset you when you remember your sessions?" "Not exactly, it all seems a bit like a nightmare now, you know—a bad dream, like maybe it didn't really happen. But I still hurt from the broken rib so I know it did. But sometimes there's this doubt that comes up— maybe Carl could lose his temper that way again." "Why do you think he was so angry?" "He says it's because he was so frustrated by his doubts about the things he'd believed in just about all his life. He was also angry because of his Chief's lack of confidence in him, and because of his doubts about himself, and because of my certainty about my faith, and by his failure to change Uncle Chester, and other things." "Do you believe him?" Emma seemed astonished at the question. "Yes, of course I believe him," she said, "I think he's telling the truth." "Why do you think he's telling the truth?" Emma was becoming distressed by the way Mei Li was questioning her. She moved to the edge of her chair and looked appealingly at Mei Li. "Because I have no reason to think he isn't telling the truth!" she exclaimed vehemently, "He doesn't tell lies! He loves God too much to tell lies!" Mei Li reached over and squeezed her hand. "It's all right, Emma. It's good to know you trust Carl." She sat back in her chair again. "You don't have to tell me the answer to this next question," she went on, "but I would like you to think very hard about it and answer it to yourself. Would you be willing to submit to Carl? Keep in mind that you've been a Christian for a long time, and also that you have far more knowledge in 243

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general than he has. Do you think you could submit to a man who in those areas—which are important factors in decision-making—is in many ways inferior to you?" "I'm not so sure about that," Emma said, "He may be a very new Christian, but he's way ahead of many older Christians I know, and he's got absolute trust in God. As for his lack of general knowledge, well, he's been making up for that by soaking it up in George's library, hasn't he?" She smiled as she thought of him telling her about the latest thing he'd discovered—poetry—and reading to her out of a volume of Banjo Patterson's ballads. She'd been surprised at how well he read out loud. "They're not the only factors, though," she added, "The most important one is God, His Holy Spirit, and Carl seems to think He is the only factor that really matters." Mei Li was interested to hear this. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Well, for example: when we were interviewed, and Carl was asked if he'd be willing to work for the Kawanyama government, he said yes, he would be. He told me afterwards that he'd prayed about what he should answer to such a question every day since George warned him he might be asked it, and that he was quite sure the answer had to be 'yes', even if he himself had misgivings. He told me that as he said the word, in answer to the officer's question, he felt such a sense of peace that it was a confirmation to him that it definitely was the right answer. And he's quite sure he won't be asked to do anything he couldn't agree to, even though they haven't given him any guarantees to that effect. Another example— the way he acted when he recognised Uncle Chester this evening. And the way he can just go and talk to someone and know how to talk to them even when he's never met them before. And when he told me to pray about my answer to him as long as I need. He believes that if you ask God for wisdom then that's what you get, even if it seems crazy to other people." "Yes, I see what you mean," Mei Li said thoughtfully, "Many people would think those actions of his were foolish or crazy, but he was looking to God, not to what people think." "So," Mei Li continued, "Think about that question of submission. It's a very important one." "Yes," Emma agreed, "and yes—I don't mind telling you—I would be willing to submit to Carl, because that's what God expects a wife to do, submit to her husband. And besides, he wants to submit to God in everything." "Well, and what if Carl made a mistake?" the older woman asked, "Would that make a difference to what you just said?" "I would hope not," Emma replied emphatically, "If I say I submit to my husband, surely it means that I trust God to deal with the consequences of that, since it's God that I'm obeying." "I'm glad you see it that way, Emma, because the best of husbands is still only human and unfortunately that means he can make mistakes." "As can the best of wives?" Emma asked mischievously.

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Mei Li laughed. "As George could tell you, Emma!" Then she was serious again. "There's another point. Do you know whether Carl has been married before? He may well be married already—he's forty, after all." Emma turned very red. "He told me in one of the counselling sessions that he wasn't married," she said, "and... uh... that he didn't 'sleep around'." "He told you that in a counselling session?" Mei Li asked, astonished, "Why?" "Well, it did surprise me, actually, that he would say that. It's not what one would expect from a Counsellor. You expect that since he's trying to convince you about what the Protectioners teach that he lives accordingly. But he seemed intent on making sure I was not mistaken about how he lived, like he had to defend himself." "But how did it come up?" "Well, in this session he'd asked me to explain my beliefs—I'll have to ask him sometime what that was all about, it was terribly confusing—and somehow the subject of adultery came up and he said how it was oldfashioned to think that way, so I asked him if in his experience 'sleeping around' and so on improved his relationships, especially with his wife. He just yelled that he wasn't married, and he didn't sleep around and that he would ask the questions!" "Well, that's not conclusive, is it?" Mei Li pointed out, "For all you know he may have been living with someone all that time without being married." Emma was silent. This was something that hadn't occurred to her. She would have to find out. How? I guess I'll just ask him, she decided. Somehow she knew his answer would put her mind at rest. The way he shared his thoughts with her told her he had nothing to hide. Mei Li stood up and put her glass down on the table. "Has this been any help to you?" she asked, "Is there anything else you want to talk about?" Emma got up and hugged her. "It's been a wonderful help, Mei Li, thank you so much. You've helped me sort out how I feel about Carl, and now I can go and pray about what I should do about it, without being so confused. Thank you!" "George and I, and I expect Chester, too, will be praying about it with you, and Carl, Emma. God bless you." "I think I'll go straight to my room, now, Mei Li. Could you say good night for me to the others, and give them my apologies, please?" She felt shy about seeing Carl again so soon after this talk with Mei Li. Mei Li understood. "Yes, I'll do that," she said. "Good night, Emma. See you in the morning."

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Chapter 32 After dinner everyone had helped to clear the table, even Chester, but then Mei Li had shooed the men out of the kitchen because, as she said, there wasn't enough room for them all in there and cleaning up would be done much more efficiently if it was left to Emma and her. The men had gone off to the lounge, where Carl had got out his flute and he and Will had started to play duets. After playing a few pieces right through one after the other, they'd stopped for Carl to catch his breath. "I'm rather out of practice at playing non-stop," he declared as he sat down next to George. "Nevertheless, it was very enjoyable," George said to him, grinning, "We should have you do this every evening." Carl cleaning his flute before putting it in its case. "Actually, I'd like that very much," he said, looking up at George. "but tonight I'd like to ask you a favour, if I may. There's something I'd like some advice about, and I wonder if I could have a talk with you about it." "Tonight?" George asked him, raising his eyebrows. "Yes, please, if it's at all possible. It's rather important." "I'd like to put a condition to that, before I say 'yes'," George replied, "Would you mind if Chester is present?" Carl was taken aback by the request. He thought about it for a moment, and decided that it might actually be an advantage to include Chester in the discussion, since he knew Emma very well. He knew, too, where Chester stood with God—the old man would be depending on God for wisdom. "No, I don't mind," he told George, "In fact, it would be good to have him along, if he really wants to be there." Chester was standing by the piano, talking to Will. george called him, and the old man came over to where George and Carl were sitting. "Yes, George," he said, "What's up?" "Carl here would like to discuss something important with me and is hoping for advice," George said, "and I was wondering if you could join us?" Chester turned to Carl. "How do you feel about that?" he asked. "I'm happy for you to be in on it, if you'd like," Carl replied. "Fine, I'll join you, then. But first let's get something to drink from the kitchen. Discussions have a way of making one thirsty." George and Chester went out to get some water to drink, and Carl went over to Will. "Uh, Will," he said, apologetically, "There's something I need to discuss with your father and Chester and it's rather personal. Should we go to the study, or should we stay here in the lounge?" Will clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. "Stay here in the lounge, Carl, I'm not staying inside," he said, "I have some work out in the shed I'd like to finish. Don't worry about me—I'll see you in the morning." "Thanks, Will. I really appreciate that." Will winked at him. "Good night, Carl." he said mischievously, and went out. 246

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Carl mused about Will's reaction. I wonder what he thinks I want to talk about, he thought to himself. He started tidying up the music books they had used, but he was nervous and kept dropping them, so he gave up and went to sit in the rocking chair. George and Chester came back and George shut the door as he came in. Chester poured out some water for them and handed each a glass, then poured some for himself. He noticed that Carl seemed rather nervous. The two older men sat down. "Let's ask the Lord to be with us in this discussion," Chester suggested, "And to give us all wisdom and discernment in the matter." The two older men bowed their heads and Carl knelt as usual, and Chester prayed for their meeting. "Well, Carl, what did you want to discuss?" George asked kindly as Carl sat down in the rocking chair again. Carl had the distinct impression that George could guess what he wanted to talk about, and he reddened. "I... uh... I'm not sure how to start," he faltered. He got up and stood looking at the seascape. Come on, you idiot, he told himself, tell them. They won't bite. It's not as if you're going to tell them something terrible. He turned to face George and Chester and, feeling like a naughty boy making a confession, he told them that he'd decided to ask Emma to marry him. George's face registered no surprise—in fact Carl thought he looked amused—but Chester looked astounded. "How long have you known her?" he asked Carl. "Uh, five weeks," Carl told him. "Including the so-called counselling sessions?" "Yes." "Have you asked her yet?" George put in. He had an idea that this was what Emma might be talking about with Mei Li. "Yes, I asked her this afternoon, just before we came in to meet you," Carl replied, looking at Chester. Chester remembered Emma taking Carl's hand earlier in the evening. "What did she say?" he asked. "She said how could I want to marry her when I hardly knew her," Carl said, and sat down again, but on the edge of the chair. "And you said that you knew her better than she thought you did?" George smiled. Carl was startled. He stared at George, whose eyes were twinkling as usual. "How did you know?" he asked, bewildered. "That's what I would have said, under your circumstances," George shrugged, "Because it's true. You can't have dealt with her the way you did for two weeks without gaining some idea of what she's like. Am I right?" Carl was blushing furiously as he realised that George was far more discerning than he'd expected. "Yes, you're right, George," he answered, "And what's more, I'd actually begun to like her. I would never have admitted it, not even to Andrew, that I was getting rather fond of Emma 247

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and her assurance, but I was so confused because I was afraid of failing to convince her that it only increased my bad temper. You see, I wasn't convinced any more myself about what I was trying to get her to believe, but I couldn't see any alternative and the more frustrated I got, the more I lost my temper and the more violent I got. She'd never have guessed I liked her. I didn't even admit it to myself until we were out in the bush going to the border, really. And then at first I couldn't decide if it was just physical attraction. I'd never been on my own with a woman before." "Never?" George was astonished. Chester looked skeptical. "Never, except in a work situation, and you're always being monitored then so you're never really alone. Besides, I wasn't interested in any kind of relationship other than marriage. I don't know why, considering that I was brought up with the Protection ideas, but I always felt very strongly about it. On the other hand, I never met any woman I would have wanted to marry. Until Emma came along, that is." He looked embarrassed. "You're probably wondering if perhaps there's something wrong with me. Plenty of people over there did wonder. When I was a teenager they even sent me to a psychologist because I refused to join in what they call Sexual Celebration over there. They considered me peculiar, odd. My taking up the flute only encouraged that opinion." The two older men regarded Carl in silence for a while. His was indeed a strange story. Chester thought back to his own sessions with Carl and recalled how he had prayed for him even while Carl lectured him. His heart was full of joy and gratitude to God for answering his prayers. In the last few hours he'd seen that Carl had been changed far beyond any of his expectations, and he rejoiced that he could be a witness to this transformation. "When did you realise that you were beginning to like Emma?" he asked gently. "Sometime in the second week, I think," Carl replied, "When Andrew asked me, and I asked myself, why I was so turned off the idea of Carer Janssen dealing with her. I-I should explain. Janssen—a rather horrid woman, a sadist, really—was the guard in charge of Emma. Normally, as you know from bitter experience, Chester, the Counsellors get the Carers to do their 'dirty work'—that is, the Carers do the beating up. I was no exception. That's until Emma was assigned to me, and I found I couldn't bring myself to hand her over to Janssen. As a result, I discovered some pretty awful things about myself, and I also found the Lord." He looked at George and Chester and smiled. "And I fell in love with Emma Winston. Or so I think, anyway." "How did you feel when you were suddenly faced with the prospect of having to ask Emma to forgive you?" Chester asked him, "I wanted to ask you that when you were telling us about it at teatime, but I decided I should probably ask you when Emma wasn't around." "I felt very nervous, but I also felt very happy about it. Finally I could do something good, instead of being horrid to her." "Did it occur to you that she might not forgive you?" George added.

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"Yes, but it didn't worry me particularly. I thought that what mattered was that I should tell her I was sorry, and that I really be sorry. It was up to her whether she wanted to forgive me or not. It was rather a shock to find out that she'd forgiven me already..." Chester gazed at Carl thoughtfully. He was still amazed as he considered that this was the man whom he had known as Counsellor Slade only a couple of months before. "Carl, what makes you think you love Emma?" he asked. Carl pondered this for a moment before answering. "I suppose it's because I want to make her happy, to look after her, to protect her, to encourage her, and I'd like nothing better than to spend the rest of my life with her. We seem to understand each other. We like the same kinds of things and we enjoy being together. I feel I can be myself with her. She doesn't laugh at the odd things I say. And she loves God so much. You know, when I was counselling her and she would talk about the Lord she'd make me long to know Him too... But I was afraid to admit it, even to myself, and it would make me furious. It's so wonderful now that we can talk about God and even to Him together" "You said a few minutes ago that when you were out in the bush together you couldn't decide if your liking for her was just physical attraction," George said, "When, how did you decide that it was more than that?" "Almost as soon as I asked myself the question, actually," Carl replied, "The first evening out in the bush, she'd asked me about my experience at Jack's and I wanted so much for her to really understand what I'd gone through, and she obviously did, and I had this overwhelming desire to take her in my arms and... uh, well... do more than just hug her." He blushed again. "I knew then that if I loved her there was no way I could allow myself to give in to that urge. It was all I could do to restrain myself and I prayed for some way out and I was terribly grateful to God and to her when she suggested that we sing. I'm sure she had no idea of what had just gone through my mind. Fortunately it was dark and she couldn't see my face." "Why did you feel you should restrain yourself, Carl?" George asked. Carl stared at him in astonishment. "Be-because we aren't married," he said, in a tone of stating the obvious, "Because it would have been a terrible thing to do to her, it would have been taking advantage of her. The state of mind we were in, I don't know if she'd have been able to resist, and then she'd have felt horribly guilty... and so would I." "What makes you think Emma would have felt guilty?" Carl felt bewildered by the way George was questioning him. "She doesn't believe in sex outside marriage either!" he exclaimed, "Any more than I do! I already knew that! What kind of a question is that?!" George looked at him kindly. "I'm sorry I upset you, Carl," he said, "You have a very high opinion of Emma, don't you?" "Yes, I do," Carl answered quietly, "She's an amazing woman. I've never met anyone like her. Like, for example, Andrew's wife, Denise, is a pretty special person, but even so, there's no comparison. Emma's just wonderful. How can I make it any clearer? There isn't anyone like her." He 249

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smiled at George as he realised what the older men had been doing with their questioning: leading him to see that his love for Emma was genuine. "Did Emma have anything else to say when you asked her to marry you?" Chester asked. "Yes, she asked me to let her think and pray about it because she felt confused." "So what did you say then?" the old man asked. "I told her to go ahead and pray about it, to take her time, that if it was the right thing to do she'd have peace about it. I didn't want to put any pressure on her." "What do you think her answer will be?" "I don't know. But I hope it will be 'yes'..." George laughed. "You'd really be odd if you were hoping it would be 'no'!" he exclaimed. Carl's face went a deep shade of red, and he suddenly seemed to have decided to study his shoes. "Anyway, it's late," Chester pointed out, "and I think we should all get some sleep. We'll all pray about this with you and Emma, Carl. We know God wants the best for you, as He does for all His children." "Thank you, Chester," Carl said softly, then turned to George, "And thank you, George." Chester went over to Carl and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I never thought that one day I would have the privilege of seeing you like this, Carl," he said, "and I thank God for it. Do you know, as we sat here talking, I was finding it difficult to remember clearly what you were like before?" He smiled at Carl's astonishment. "I was married for over forty years," he continued, "My wife died of cancer three years ago, and I miss her terribly. She was a marvelous person." He sighed, and patted Carl's shoulder as he went on, "I also hope that Emma will say 'yes', Carl. I hope so very much."

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Chapter 33 The following morning Carl knocked on Emma's door to ask her if she would like to go for their usual walk before breakfast. "Maybe we should give it a miss this morning," she suggested, "It's rather late already, almost breakfast time." "Well, all right, if you think we'd better not," he replied, but she could see he was disappointed. Mei Li's right, she thought, We don't seem to be able to hide our feelings. She remembered that she wanted to talk with him, however, and she had an idea. "Actually, there's something I need to ask you about, anyway," she said, "Could we just go and sit on the verandah for a bit before breakfast, maybe?" Carl brightened up at the suggestion. "All right, we can talk out on the verandah, then. Come on, let's go down there." "I'll be right down, you go on ahead," she said, "I just need to brush my hair first." Carl went downstairs and Emma went back into her room and closed the door. Not only did she brush her hair, but she also took time to pray about what she wanted to ask Carl. When she got to the verandah she found him sitting in the hammock, swinging slowly to and fro. She sat down in an armchair near him. "Did you have a good talk with Mei Li last night?" he asked her. "Yes, it was very helpful," she answered, "How about you? I heard you had a chat with George and Chester." "Yes, it was very helpful," he echoed, and grinned at her. Emma blushed and looked away. It wasn't going to be as easy as she'd hoped, asking him about his past, especially if he was in a teasing mood. Carl considered her for a moment, and he thought about his conversation with the older men the previous night. There really was noone else like her—how wonderful if she were to be his wife! "You said you wanted to ask me about something, Emma," he said presently, "Something important?" She reddened again and stared at his feet. "Yes, it is important," she replied. She took a deep breath then went on, hesitantly, but without looking at him. "Carl, uh... have you ever been married before?" He didn't answer right away, and her heart skipped a beat. Did that mean he had? She looked up at his face. He was regarding her with a quizzical smile, his blue eyes full of kindness. He'd understood her question. "Emma," he said very gently, "What you really want to know is whether I've ever had an intimate relationship with another woman, isn't it? With or without marriage?" She nodded, lowering her eyes. He got up from the hammock and sat down on the chair next to hers. "Emma, look at me," he said softly. She did so, and he smiled at her affectionately, taking her chin with his hand.

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She stared wide-eyed at him. "Strange as it may seem, my love," he said quietly, "If we get married, our wedding night will be my very first time." He let that sink in. Emma was still staring at him but he noticed that her eyes were rather moist. "I've never been married," he continued, still quietly, "I've never had sex with a woman or a man. You may be astonished to know that I've never even kissed anyone on the mouth. I was considered to be very odd, over there, as you can imagine." He waved his hand towards the hills on the southern horizon. "Perhaps you think I'm odd, too?" he asked, grinning. Emma turned away and looked down at the floor. Tears were streaming down her face, but she made no sound. "Emma, do you believe me?" Carl asked, frowning. She turned back and smiled at him through her tears. "Oh, yes, yes," she said, "Oh, Carl, I do believe you. I'm not sure why I'm crying. Relief, maybe? I don't know. I feel bad that I felt I had to ask you. I think you would have told me if it'd been otherwise for you." "If it helps any, I can also tell you that there was only ever one woman with whom I really wanted very much to make love, and I mean make love, and I wanted to so much that it was all I could do to restrain myself. But I did restrain myself, by the grace of God." "Who was she?" Emma asked softly, wondering if he would be willing to tell her. "You." She looked startled, and then blushed crimson and looked down again. "When was that?" she whispered, "If you don't mind telling me, that is." "That first evening in the bush, after I'd told you about my conversion." He paused, then added quietly, "And other times since, but not quite that fiercely..." "Oh." She looked up at him. "Thank you for restraining yourself, Carl." "It's God you have to thank, not me. I had to pray for help for all I was worth, Emma. He did the rest." "But it was still your choice, Carl," she replied, "You know, thinking back to that night, I don't know that I could have refused if you'd gone ahead, the way I felt then. I-I think I would've wanted to also... And then I'd have regretted it always... Thank you, Carl." She got up and walked to the side of the verandah and looked down at the garden. Carl stayed seated and watched her, wondering what was going through her mind. She stood there for a few minutes, gazing at the countryside, then turned around and walked slowly back to her chair. "Carl," she said, looking at him with a puzzled frown, "If we get married, would you be wanting to have children?" He smiled warmly as he answered. "If we were to be blessed with children I would be delighted," he said, "Is that how you feel?" "Yes, it is," she replied, "But you do realise, don't you, that I'd be considered old for a first-time mother? The risks are greater for someone my age, and for the baby."

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Carl gazed at her seriously. "Shall we leave that in God's hands, Emma?" he said, "If He wants us to have children, I think He can take care of the details." "You're right," she agreed, "And anyway, we don't know yet that we are getting married." Her last statement hit him like a knife. He'd forgotten that she hadn't given him an answer yet. Emma saw his reaction as his eyes registered his pain. She felt awful, and yet, she still felt that she needed more time to pray about his proposal. They sat in awkward silence for some time. Finally, Carl got up, kissed her on the forehead, and took her hand. "Let's go inside, Emma," he said quietly, smiling, "The others will be waiting for us, to start breakfast." She got up and smiled back apologetically, and followed him back into the house and to the dining room. ! ! ! At breakfast a few days later, Mei Li declared that it was a good day for working in the garden as the sky was overcast, and she asked Emma to help her weed the flowerbeds. Will and Carl would be out all day finishing their work on the fences and George and Chester had to attend to some business in town. During devotions after breakfast they all made a point of praying about Carl and Emma's future. Chester, especially, prayed at length for them, with much insight and kindness. After devotions, when Emma was clearing up in the kitchen, Carl came over to her on his way out. He was dressed in a pair of Will's jeans and an old long-sleeved shirt. "You look just like a farmer," she laughed. "Good," he answered, grinning, "I'll have to look the part if I'm to become a farmer!" Emma stopped wiping up the stove and looked at him in surprise. "Are you serious?" she asked. "You bet I'm serious," he answered, "George has offered me a job as assistant manager here if I'm happy to learn the ropes from Will. I'm happy to, all right. All the training I received in the Protectorate is of no use whatsoever here. I don't know yet what the government will want me to do for them, but I can't just sit around doing nothing while I'm waiting to hear. I'm thoroughly enjoying the work I've been doing with Will, even doing the accounts, so I've told George I'd like to take up his offer." He grinned and bowed to her. "You are now looking at William Newman's new apprentice!" Emma grinned too, and bowed back. "Pleased to meet you," she said, and the two of them laughed. She was suddenly serious. "It's a far cry from counselling, isn't it?" she said softly. "As far as I could get, I think, without going into space," Carl replied, "And Will's also enrolled me in some courses at the Agricultural College, 253

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now that we're here legally. There's another thing: They want to fix up the old shearer's quarters and use it for retreat groups. That's going to require a lot of work, before and after. Before, to do the renovations, and after, to look after the place and cater for the groups. There's a small cottage there— two rooms, a little kitchen, a bathroom." He paused and took her hand, and added, "George said we could live there, if we'd be willing to be the caretakers. If we get married, that is." Emma was silent for a moment. Remembering the look in Carl's eyes a few mornings before, she didn't want to comment about the question of marriage. "George and Mei Li and Will are being awfully good to us, Carl," she said finally. "Yes, I'm glad that I can be of use to them in return," he replied. He sighed. He'd noticed her lack of comment about the cottage. Better to change the subject. "There was something I wanted to ask you. I've been thinking of Jack and Rose and I was wondering if you could tell me more about them sometime. Obviously I don't know them very well." "Yes, of course," she answered, and sighed too. "You know, Carl, I do miss them terribly. I wonder if they know we've got away?" "As far as I know there's no way of finding out, I'm afraid," he said. A thought occurred to him. "Do you think they'd approve of us marrying?" he asked, walking to the door as he spoke. "I hadn't thought about that, but I don't think they'd be against it if we felt it was what God wanted. Jack's always said that when someone turns to Christ one should stop seeing them in their old nature and only look forwards to what God is doing in them. I think they'd be considering you as you are now, not as you were before." Carl had gone out through the screen door and was standing just outside, putting on his boots. "I shouldn't keep Will waiting any longer," he said. He put his head in at the door and said to her, "I've been using George's topical index to look up all the references in Scripture to marriage as it should be. It's sobering reading. Could we go through it together some time, Em?" "Carl," she said, quietly but pointedly, "I'm still praying about the question." He grinned at her. "See you later, Em!" He said cheerfully, and closed the door and left. Emma just stared at the door in astonishment. Mei Li came in from hanging out washing and found her standing there. "What's the matter?" she asked, "You're looking rather bemused." "It-It's something Carl said," Emma stammered, "Or-Or rather, it's the way he said it." "Oh?" Mei Li replied, "He did look rather pleased about something as he went out to the shed." Emma sat down, put her head down on her arms on the kitchen table, and burst into tears. The older woman sat down next to her and just let her cry for a few minutes. Then she put her hand on her shoulder. "Emma, what's wrong?" she asked gently, "Has something gone wrong?" 254

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Emma sat up and turned her tear-stained face to her. "Oh, Mei Li, I just don't know if I should marry Carl or not! I've been praying about it—I was up most of last night praying and thinking about it—and I can't tell if it's God's will or not, if it's the right thing to do. He asked me if we could go through what the Bible says about marriage together some time and I reminded him that I'm still praying about it, and he just grinned and said, 'See you later'!" Mei Li got up. "Come and sit on the verandah, and let's talk about this for a bit," she suggested. The two women walked out onto the back verandah and sat down on two chairs looking down over the paddocks. They were quiet for a while, watching the old paddock car driving out to the Far Paddock, as the Newmans called their westernmost field. It stopped by a gate and they saw Carl get out to open the gate. The car went through, Carl closed the gate, then he got back into the car and it drove on. "My dear," Mei Li said presently, "Are you afraid of getting married?" Emma sat back in her chair and pondered her question. Am I afraid? Is that the problem? If it is, what in particular am I afraid of? Having to look after my own home? No, I know how to care for a home and family: Rose has trained me well. Am I afraid of having to submit to a fallible husband? No, we worked that out the other night, it's not a problem. Am I afraid of sex? Well, it's certainly an unknown, but God ordained it in marriage, so it's not something to be afraid of but, as Rose once told me, a special part of being husband and wife. I have no experience of it, but then neither does Carl, and that's as it should be. Is it the lifelong commitment? No, I can't imagine getting married without that commitment. So, what, if anything, am I afraid of? "I don't know, Mei Li," she said, "I can't think of any particular aspect of it that frightens me, really." "Well, if you're not afraid of it, then what's the problem?" Mei Li asked, "Were you ever able to ask him whether he's been married before?" "Yes, I asked him, and no, he hasn't. Or anything else, for that matter." "So he's been celibate all these years, is that right?" "Yes." "All right, then, you both love the Lord, Carl loves you, you love him, why not get married?" Mei Li asked her, and added with a chuckle, "Do you know that when Will came in from the shed last night, he asked me if you two had set a date yet?" "Do you think maybe I should just stop deliberating about it and just say, 'yes'?" "You have to decide, my dear." Emma sighed, walked over to the edge of the verandah and leaned against one of the posts. She gazed at the paddocks, and towards the Far Paddock where she could just make out Carl and Will working. Why am I finding it so difficult, Lord? she asked silently, Why can't I decide? Am I just not trusting You to keep me from making a mistake? If I 255

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agree to marry Carl, would You consider it a step of faith? All right, then, I give up. Please, God, stop us if it's not the right thing, but I'll tell Carl when he gets back tonight that I'll be his wife. She turned to Mei Li and smiled. "I'd better go and finish washing up so we can get out into the garden," she said. Mei Li smiled back but didn't say anything. She realised that Emma had come to some decision, and if she wanted to tell her about it, she would do so when she felt ready to do so. She got up from her chair and they went inside, and she went to get the next load of washing to hang out while Emma continued to clear up in the kitchen. When Mei Li came back through the kitchen she noticed that Emma was singing softly as she washed the dishes, but again she didn't comment and just continued out the door, smiling to herself. Throughout the day Emma worked cheerfully in the garden with Mei Li. They weeded most of the flower beds and cut some bouquets for the house. Emma sang softly most of the time. Her heart felt light and she found herself looking forwards to giving Carl her answer, to seeing his blue eyes light up, to making him happy. "If it's the right thing for us, you'll know, you'll have peace about it," he'd said, and a joyful peace is what she had in her heart. It was indeed the right thing—God did want her to be Carl's wife. And once she had made the decision, she had realised, with some astonishment, that that was what she, too, wanted. At afternoon tea time, Mei Li could no longer contain herself. She had to say something. She stood up, dusted off her knees, and picked up her tools. "Time to go in, I think," she said, "Emma, you've been singing all day. What's happened?" "Mei Li, I'd rather tell you later, if that's all right," Emma answered, smiling enigmatically. "All right, Emma, I understand." The two women packed up their gardening tools and went back to the house to bathe before starting to prepare dinner. After her shower, Emma changed into the flowered dress that Carl had once told her he liked to see her wearing. She went down to the kitchen, picked up the bowl of peas to be podded, and went to sit on the back steps with it. The men would soon be back from the paddocks. As the sun got lower in the sky, she heard the car coming back to the yard, and presently Carl and Will came walking over from the shed. Will greeted her cheerily and went into the house. Carl stopped on the lawn, his hands on his hips, and gazed at her with an amused smile. "You look very pretty sitting there in your best dress, podding peas, Em," he said. She blushed, but she smiled back at him. He started up the steps toward the verandah. "I'll go have a shower before tea," he said, "After a day in the paddocks there's a fair bit of grime to get rid of." "Carl?" Emma called him as he bent over by the back door to remove his boots. "Yes?" he said, looking back at her. 256

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"Yes," she echoed, grinning. "What?" he said, and came back towards her, looking puzzled. "You said, 'yes?' and I said, 'yes'," she told him. Carl stared at her, uncomprehending, then slowly it dawned on him what she meant. Emma was watching his eyes and she saw the light of joy fill them as he finally understood. He walked slowly down the steps, keeping his eyes on her, wonder on his face. He sat down on the step next to her, took the bowl of peas from her and placed it on the verandah, and took both her hands in his. "Emma, you will be my wife?" he whispered. "Yes, Carl, I will," she answered, also in a whisper. "Thank you, Lord," Carl said softly, his eyes closed, "You've made me the happiest man in the world!" He opened his eyes, stood up, and pulled Emma up. "That shower can wait," he said, "Let's go for a walk!" Holding her hand, he led her down into the garden. I feel like running around yelling my head off, he thought, but I'd get everybody embarrassed, so I'll just grin from ear to ear for the rest of the evening! He looked down at Emma and decided that she looked more beautiful than ever as she looked up at him, smiling happily. He put his arm around her shoulders, and she put her arm around his waist, and she was reminded of that first part of their escape when they'd hurried down the track with Carl almost carrying her. That was when he'd started to look after her, and he'd been doing it ever since. Why has it taken me so long to realise it? she wondered. They reached the wall at the bottom of the garden. Somehow this was where they always ended up, with the view towards their homeland. Carl turned Emma around to face him, and held her hands. "Emma," he said quietly, "I would very much like to kiss you—properly, I mean—but I decided some time ago that I wouldn't do it until we're actually married. I hope you don't mind. I'd like to kiss you for the first time only at our wedding." "Oh, Carl, I've waited so long I think I can wait another few weeks!" "Thank you," he said, soberly, then added, "We have to think about when this wedding will take place, now." "How long should we wait?" Emma asked. Carl laughed. "My love, if it affected only you and me, I'd ask George to marry us tonight!" he said, "But since there are other people involved in this, and quite a bit of work to do before we can move into the cottage, we'd better give it at least a week, probably two." "Can George marry us? I didn't know that!" "Apparently, yes, he's a licensed marriage celebrant," Carl replied, "He's got a lot of surprises up his sleeve, that man!" "Do you want to set a date now, or talk it over with them?" "I'll set a date now. Does Saturday two weeks from now sound reasonable? Or do you think our wonderfully romantic Mei Li will want such an elaborate wedding that it will take months of preparation?" Emma laughed. "Mei Li is romantic, but she isn't silly," she said, "On the contrary. She and George are two of the wisest people I've ever met." 257

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"You're right about that," Carl agreed, "I've appreciated their counsel very much. And George has helped me tremendously in getting to know the Lord, over these last few weeks." "Do you think two weeks is maybe a bit soon, Carl?" "A bit soon? I don't know. It sounds like a long time to me." "I suppose we're old enough not to have to wait so long..." "How long do people usually wait to actually get married, once they've decided on it? Do you know? It's not one of those things I ever paid attention to." "I guess it depends on a lot of things, how long they wait. Their families might have a say in it, and so on... But some people don't wait very long, I suppose." Emma stopped and thought for a moment. Then she looked up at Carl and smiled. "If it's the right thing for us to marry, then maybe two weeks isn't too soon, Carl. I guess I don't really want to wait too long either. I know now that I really do love you and I really do want to be your wife..." Carl grinned, and squeezed her shoulder. "Well, then, Saturday fortnight it will be!" he exclaimed, "We've got our work all cut out for the next two weeks, you know. That cottage needs a lot of repairs and decorating! And we have a few things to learn about this marriage business!" He gave her a quick hug, then taking her hand he started back towards the house. "I'd better go and have a shower, Em," he said, "I ought to be presentable when we tell the others!" "Wait a sec, Carl, there's something I wanted to ask you," Emma said, pulling on his hand, "Why did you seem so pleased this morning when you left the house?" He stopped and looked sober. "Emma, I knew you would agree to marry me," he said quietly, "The Lord let me know it this morning. I don't know why He did, and funnily enough it was still such a surprise when you did say 'yes'—maybe because of the way you did that—but I knew, before it happened." "Oh, Carl," Emma said softly, "It was the way you said, 'See you later, Em,' so cheerfully that in the end got me to make up my mind, because Mei Li found me looking bewildered and asked me what was wrong, and I just started crying, and she helped me to see that God wouldn't give me peace until I decided one way or another. As soon as I made the decision, I knew it was the right one, and I was looking forwards all day to telling you." She grinned. "I was really looking forwards to seeing the happiness in your eyes..." "Praise the Lord! Thank You, Lord!" Carl threw up his hands and to her astonishment, did a little dance on the spot, then he caught her in his arms and whirled her around. "After I've got changed," he added, taking both her hands, "let's go to the lounge and play some music together before tea. To celebrate. Okay?" "Okay!" she grinned. They walked happily back to the house, where the Newmans immediately guessed that there would be an announcement that evening... 258

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"Will, have you seen Carl and Emma this morning?" George asked his son the following Saturday. Will was doing maintenance on the tractor behind the house. It was still early in the day, and as they did every Saturday, the various members of the household had breakfasted at different times, depending on what they planned to do that day. George and Mei Li had just finished their morning meal, and George had set out in search of their guests. "Yes, Dad." Will pointed down the garden. "I think you'll find them down at the swing seat. They headed down there at dawn, I think!" he laughed, "Those two are early risers!" George walked slowly down the slope, leaning on his walking stick. As he got nearer to the swing seat he could hear Carl's voice and as he reached it he saw that Carl was reading aloud from the Bible Chester Brown had given him. Carl was seated at one end of the seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Emma sat at the other end, and had her eyes closed as she listened. Neither of them noticed his arrival, and he stood listening to Carl read for a few minutes. He was reading from the Gospel of John, and George was impressed by his ability to read with expression, bringing the text to life. He sounds like he's used to reading aloud. He cleared his throat, startling Emma and causing Carl to look up in surprise. He smiled at them. "Good morning," he said, "Excuse my interrupting you. Will told me I would find you here. I have something I'd like to show you." He looked at Carl meaningfully. "Good morning, George." Emma patted the bench between Carl and herself. "Would you like to sit down?" "Thank you, I will," George replied, and sat down between them. He turned to Carl and asked, "Where did you learn to read aloud so well?" "I used to read to Andrew's children, Elsie and Chris, quite often." "I see," George murmured, nodding. Another one of Carl's oddities that somehow escaped the Protectioners' selection process. This man's story gets curiouser and curiouser, as Alice might have said, he thought, but then perhaps Alice didn't know about God... "George, do you want to talk to Carl alone, or is it okay for me to stay?" Emma asked. "Oh, I'm sure it's okay for you to stay, Emma," he answered, "I'm sure you'll be interested in my news too." He felt in the inside pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a thin brown envelope. "Let me start at the beginning," he said, "When you two first arrived here—that is, once we'd got you cleaned up, anyway—for some reason I felt that you, Carl, looked familiar. As the days passed, the feeling persisted and it was echoed by Mei Li. She also felt that you reminded her of someone. And your surname rang a bell, too. So, priding ourselves on our abilities as amateur

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detectives, we decided to do some investigating. In our boxes in the attic, that is!" Carl had straightened up and closed his Bible, and his blue eyes were rivetted on George. Was it because of George's tone of voice? Whatever the reason, he had the impression that George was about to give him some momentous news. "We have a collection of photographs given to us over the years by friends," George went on, "You know the kind—wedding photos, new baby, first day of school, and so on. Well, we found one that had been sent to us years ago, in the nineties in fact, by a young couple in our church with whom we were friends. They had a child a bit older than Will and had just had a new baby. Frank had taken some photos and immediately had copies made to hand around, he was that excited about having a daughter. He posted us a copy the third or fourth day after she was born—we were away at the time, on a long field trip in Israel." Emma noticed that the knuckles of Carl's hand with which he was holding the Bible were white, he was gripping it so hard. He was sitting bolt upright and looked like he was holding his breath, too. "I found the photo," George continued, holding up the envelope, "And I thought you might like to have it, Carl." He handed the envelope to Carl and got up, and walked slowly away towards the wall. Carl's hands were trembling so hard that he couldn't open it and he passed it to Emma. "Here, you open it, would you, please?" he said softly, his voice shaking, "I-I can't hold my hands still enough. I might rip it." She took the envelope and opened it. Carefully, she pulled out the photograph, and Carl slid over next to her to look at it. There's no mistaking his eyes, thought Emma as she studied the photo, They still look like that! The photo showed a slight woman in a dressing gown crouching next to a chair in which sat a small boy holding a very new baby. The woman had a hand on the baby. The boy was looking up, smiling, with a look of wonder on his face, his blue eyes shining. I guess that's his mother next to him, Emma decided, and the baby must be Helen. "I can't believe it," Carl whispered, "I can't believe it..." He reached for the photo and she gave it to him. He turned it over and read out the handwritten note on the back. "Dear George and Mei Li. Thought you'd like to know we've got a daughter, born two days ago—Helen Joy. Carl obviously approves! Love from Frank and Ingrid." He looked at the photo again. He stared at it, his heart beating fast. A bridge had suddenly formed between the present and the distant past. His pre-Protection past was real. He looked towards George who was leaning on the wall gazing at the hills. And then it hit him—something George had said a few minutes before. No! he thought, It can't be! I must have heard wrong! He got up suddenly and hurried over to the older man. Emma followed him, wondering what was going on.

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"George!" he cried, his voice trembling again, "George, what was that you said just now? I mean, when you told us where the photo came from. Did you say, 'a young couple from church'?" He put a hand on George's shoulder and leant against the wall, looking intently at the older man as he answered. "Why, yes, that is what I said," George said, his eyes twinkling. He grinned and glanced at Emma. "Your parents were Christians, Carl—fair dinkum believers." "Oh, wow!" Emma gasped. Carl couldn't say anything. He just stared at the photograph again. Presently he looked up. "George, can you tell me about them? I know practically nothing about them. I didn't even know their names... Do you remember them at all?" "I remember some, but it was over thirty-five years ago, Carl," he smiled, "If we weren't such packrats we might not even still have the photo. Don't forget that we never saw them again either." He was deep in thought for a moment, and Carl watched him expectantly. "Tell you what," he suggested, "Let's go back to the house, make a cup of tea, get Mei Li, and sit down together to talk about this. We'll be more comfortable and also Mei Li can help with the remembering. She's good at that." The three of them walked slowly up the hill to the Lodge. They found Mei Li, appropriately enough, pouring herself a cup of tea in the kitchen. George asked Carl if they'd had breakfast, but Carl was non-committal and George didn't press the point. He didn't know that Carl and Emma had decided in their first week at Bethany Lodge to set aside early Saturday mornings to fast and pray for the church in the Protectorate. Emma helped Mei Li put together a tea-tray, then they all moved to the dining room and sat down at the end of the big table overlooking the view to the hills. Emma sat down next to Carl, and George took his usual seat at the head of the table, with Mei Li on his right, facing them across the table. Carl was in a daze. He kept looking at the photograph and reading the note on the back of it and shaking his head. Mei Li handed him a cup of tea and he took it so absent-mindedly he almost dropped it. This jolted him back to reality. "Thanks, Mei Li," he said, "Sorry I'm not all here. This is something of a shock." "That's putting it mildly, I think," Mei Li answered, patting his hand. "Could I have another look at the photo, please, Carl?" Emma asked him. "Yes, of course you can," he replied, giving it to her. "You were quite a good-looking little boy," Emma commented, "You certainly look happy in this photo." "As I think I may have told you, I was on top of the world," Carl replied softly, "I'd decided that I liked being a big brother! It's funny—I have only the vaguest memory of the policeman telling me about the accident, but I have a very vivid memory of my one and only encounter with my sister, even thirty-six years later."

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George took a mouthful of tea, swallowed it, and put down his cup. "Well, Carl, what would you like to know about your parents?" he asked, "We'll do our best to answer your questions." Carl thought a moment before answering. "I guess the first thing that always comes to my mind if I think about them is—what were they like? Their personalities, I mean. I only have this very vague memory of them. My father seemed like a tower of strength to me. I seem to be always holding his hand in my memories of him, feeling warm and safe with him. Of course I think of him as being tall, I was only a little boy then. Was he tall?" "About as tall as you, I'd say," George answered, "In fact, physically you're a lot like him. I seem to remember that he walked the same way you do, even. That's probably why I felt as if I'd met you before—it was your father I was remembering." "Except for your eyes," Mei Li put in, "Your father's were grey, yours are very blue, like your mother's. I guess that's the Swedish ancestry coming through." "Swedish ancestry?" Carl was puzzled. "Was my mother Swedish?" "Well, I don't think she was born over there, but her parents were," Mei Li replied. She paused, thinking back. "I seem to recall that Ingrid once said that Carl was named after her grandfather. Is that right, George?" "Yes, yes, I think that's right." George confirmed. The memories were coming back more clearly now as they talked about them. "They named him for the only other Christian that they knew of on either side of the family. Now what was his surname, was it Anderson?" "No, Nilsson, I think," Mei Li replied, "Yes, it was Nilsson. Anderson's the name of Chester's son-in-law." "Nilsson," Carl repeated the name slowly, dreamily. "Nilsson. Ingrid Nilsson and Frank Slade. Ingrid and Frank Slade. I didn't know their names... My mother and my father. I can't even remember whether I called them 'Mummy' and 'Daddy'... And yet I remembered Helen's name all these years—Helen Joy. I wonder why." Emma squeezed his hand and he turned to smile at her. "Your baby sister made quite an impression on you," she said, "You must have felt very special. Your parents must have loved you very much." She suddenly remembered what Mei Li and George had said about Carl's name. "Do you mean that Carl's parents were the only Christians in their families?" she asked Mei Li in surprise. "Yes, that's right, and they got a lot of flak about it, what's more," Mei Li answered, "Some of their relatives were into the faddish cults and other such things and were very anti-Christian." "Except Ingrid's grandfather," added George, "He was her father's father, if I recall rightly. He'd come out with the family when they migrated from Sweden, and he lived in a flat attached to their house." "Frank's family—were any of them Christians?" Emma asked.

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"Not a one. Frank was it," George replied, "You know, they didn't even give them a Christian funeral, the families didn't. Our church held a separate memorial service." "You wouldn't happen to have a photo of my father, would you?" Carl asked hopefully. "I don't think so, but then we have so many photos," Mei Li answered, "I can have another look through. He might even be in the background, or something like that, in a photo of someone else." Carl was aware that his original query hadn't been answered yet. "Could we go back to my first question?" he asked, "What were they like?" Mei Li thought about it. How strange it is, she thought to herself, For some thirty years we haven't thought about that family, and now all of a sudden it all comes back in a rush... And that little boy who used to ask me all those questions when I helped in the children's room on Sundays, that quiet little boy with the bright blue eyes who would listen so carefully to my answers and think hard about them—this is him, here. Just look at him, and just think of all that he went through all these years, all that he put others through, even this woman who's sitting next to him and that he loves so much now... Mei Li gazed at Carl and thought about the goodness and mercy of the Lord and silently sent up a prayer of thanks to God. What were his parents like, she said to herself, Carl asked me—I must try to remember... "Your father was a quiet man, a deep thinker," she said shortly, speaking slowly as she searched her memory, "but he had a mischievous sense of humour. You're a lot like him, I think. He loved children, and they loved him. He loved everybody, really, because he loved the Lord so much. He had a special relationship with the older people in the church, too." "Yes, they were both very much on fire for the Lord, as we used to say," George said, taking over, "Your mother was more of an extrovert than your father, but she wasn't boisterous or anything like that. She was very thoughtful, too, and she was always doing little things to help other people, or to encourage them. They were quite strict with you, though—some people even thought they were too strict. But the result was that you were probably the best-behaved child in the congregation, and the old people especially were very fond of you." "Actually, in many ways Carl's mother was rather like Emma here," Mei Li said pensively, turning to her. Carl looked at Emma. What an odd idea, he thought, Emma being like my mother. Is that why I like her so much? Well, I guess if I'm that much like my father it isn't all that strange if I like someone who is like my mother... Emma was looking at the photograph again. How strange to think that the woman in the photo was similar to me in personality—certainly not in looks, Emma thought. I wonder if we'd have got on well together? If she were still alive she would soon be my mother-in-law, after all. It's funny, I always thought all Swedes were blond, yet here's one with black hair. Ingrid. Carl's mother. She does look like a kind person on this photo, and very fond of her children... 263

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"Can you remember what their marriage was like?" Carl asked. "They were very happy together, from what I recall," George answered, "When we visited their home it was always a pleasure to see them being thoughtful of each other in all sorts of little ways." "Their house was not a fancy place at all," Mei Li added as more memories came back to her, "Frank was still studying—agronomy, interestingly. He had a part-time job, too. I think he worked as a shop assistant—in a hardware store, I think it was. Ingrid had made their little house a very welcoming sort of place just by her special touch with odds and ends. She loved flowers and beautiful things—simple beauty, though, not lots of curlicues and such." "Whenever I think about my parents," Carl said, "I seem to hear my mother singing..." "Oh, yes, she loved music and singing," Mei Li confirmed, "She'd play the piano at church now and then. There were several people who took turns. She did sing a lot. I can remember her teaching the children hymns, too." Emma frowned. "There's something that puzzles me..." she said quietly. "What's that?" George asked her. "If Frank and Ingrid were so well-liked at church, why didn't someone from your church take Carl in, since his relatives didn't want him?" "I'm not sure what happened, but it had to do with one of his relatives who was determined that he would not be brought up as a Christian," George said, "We were still in the Middle East when all that happened, and when we returned no one seemed to know where Carl had gone. I assume his this person had more say because they were next-of-kin." Carl nodded. If my relatives were Protectioners they certainly would have had a lot of say, he thought. He had a sudden idea. "George, Mei Li, do you happen to know what my middle initial stands for?" he asked eagerly, "No one has ever been able to tell me what that 'E' means. In fact they said that was it—my middle name was 'E'! From what you've just told me about my parents I can't imagine they'd do that. Do you know what it means?" "'E'..." George repeated, "Do you know what it stands for, dear?" he asked Mei Li. "Carl... Slade... " Mei Li closed her eyes and thought back to those distant days when Ingrid and Frank had introduced their son to them. George, Carl, and Emma waited expectantly. "Yes, Carl! I remember!" she said excitedly after a few moments, "The 'E' stands for 'Emmanuel'!" George looked quite surprised. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Yes, yes, I'm sure," Mei Li assured him, "Emmanuel. Carl, Emmanuel, Slade." "Oh, boy!" Emma gasped, grasping Carl's arm, "Do you know what that name means, Carl?" "Uh... No, I don't," he replied, somewhat nonplussed by their obvious excitement and looking from one to the other. "It means 'God with us'. It's a Hebrew name." Emma explained. 264

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"'God with us'..." Carl repeated in astonishment, "Oh! As it says in Isaiah, you mean? 'A virgin will be with child and will bear a son and will call his name Emmanuel?' No wonder they wouldn't tell me... God with us... God with me..." He swallowed hard as the implications of the phrase hit home. "There's something that's become rather evident in all this, it seems to me," George announced, looking around at them, "and that is, that Frank and Ingrid, having dedicated their son to the Lord when he was a new baby, proceeded to pray faithfully for him and to train him in the way he should go. They had no idea how precious little time they would have with you, Carl, but it's clear that their training, example, and prayers had a profound impact on your life, even if it took thirty-six years to all come together. I'd say the Lord has some difficult times ahead for you, but as I know from our past discussions, you're well aware that He will never leave you or forsake you." "I can see now that He never has..." Carl murmured. He turned to Emma and smiled. "Do you recall telling me that He hasn't wasted all those years?" "Yes, when you said that all that time before your conversion had been wasted," Emma answered, giving him a hug, "God is wonderful,, isn't He?" Carl's smile of gratitude couldn't have been warmer. "Thank you so much," he said to George and Mei Li, "I'm sure you must realise how much this talk has meant to me. It's cleared up a lot of confusion. I think I know now where some of my 'odd' ideas and so-called 'hang-ups' came from, and I'm very thankful for them." He put his arm around Emma. "Especially for Emma's sake..." he said, and closed his eyes. Very softly he added, "'God with us'... Thank You, Lord God our Father." "Amen!" George said, and stood up. "And now we'd better all get on with our work!"

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Chapter 35 During the two weeks preceding their wedding, Carl and Emma spent most of their spare time fixing up the cottage near the old shearers' quarters by the East Paddock. As soon as tea was over they would drive the paddock car down the hill to the cottage and then work a few hours before returning to the main house for the night. Some evenings Will would join them, and on the Saturday, when they worked on the renovations all day, Brian Amherst came up from town to help. "Actually, I have a special project for which I need your expert advice and assistance," Carl had told Brian the first day, "Your skills picked up in woodworking classes will come in very handy." Brian had excelled in woodwork and metalwork at school, and his desire was to continue improving his skills and eventually obtain a job using them. His parents, however, had other ambitions for him, and wanted him to study at university. His academic abilities were barely mediocre, though, and his parents would get very upset about his school reports, thinking his low grades were due to laziness and rebellion. "How can I get it through to them that I'm just no good at science and maths, or writing, or that sort of thing?" he had asked Carl and Will one weekend as he helped them on the farm, "I've tried my hardest, but I just can't keep up with the whizzkids in my class! And besides, I don't want to go to uni, anyway." "If your grades are that low, you haven't a hope of getting in to a university, Brian," Will had pointed out, "So you don't have to worry about that. But somehow your parents need to understand that God's given you certain abilities that are needed in society as much as academic skills are." "I've even thought of just leaving home and getting work of some sort," Brian had said, "just so they'd get the message!" "Maybe you should have a chat with Pastor Simon. Your parents get on well with him. He might be willing to talk to them for you," Carl had suggested, "The main thing is that you don't do anything out of defiance or disobedience. God made it one of His commandments that we should honour our parents. Make sure you honour and respect your parents, Brian, and obey them—unless they tell you to do something against God's commands, which is highly unlikely. Things might not work out the way you'd like, but you won't have a guilty conscience, and God will work things out in the best way for you." Carl's project was to build a swing seat that would hang from the rafters on the front porch, and Brian had eagerly set to designing one and working out the materials that would be needed. Carl had bought them during the week when he and Will had driven into town on their weekly supplies trip. Now, a week before the wedding, he and Brian got down to actually putting the seat together. Carl found himself admiring Brian's ability in handling wood many times throughout the hours that they worked together. Most of the time Brian was telling him what to do, for Carl's experience in 266

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working with his hands was limited to what he had done around the farm since his arrival at Bethany Lodge. By the end of the day, Emma had finished painting the bedroom, Will had fixed all the leaks in the roof, and the swing seat hung waiting for the first coat of varnish. The four of them sat on the porch steps feeling rather worn out but also very pleased with their achievements. "That's a very impressive piece of work," Will remarked, waving towards the swing seat, "We must get your parents to come down and see it when they come to pick you up, Brian." "Have you ever made anything especially for them?" Emma asked Brian. "I made a few things in shop that they have around the house now," he replied. "But did you make them especially for your Mum and Dad, I mean?" she asked. "Not really, I guess," he admitted, "They were things we had to make, to learn from. Assignments, like." "Maybe there's something you could make for them that they'd really appreciate," Carl said. "Like a fancy swing seat for their front porch, say!" Will exclaimed mischievously, winking at Emma. Carl gave him a push. Brian ignored the two men pointedly. "I'll ask them, maybe..." he mused out loud. "Well, they'll be here soon to get you, so I suggest we all go up to the house and get cleaned up!" Emma said, getting up from the step. The men also got up, they all got into the car and Will drove them up to the house. Brian's parents arrived shortly after to pick him up, and were greeted on the front verandah by Will. "I wonder if you'd have the time just to come down to the cottage with me," he said to them, "There's something I think you'd be interested to see." Roger looked at his watch and told Will they had plenty of time, so he led them to his car and took them down the hill to the cottage. "What did you want to show us?" Amy asked him as they got out of the car. "This," Will replied, going up the porch steps and sweeping his hand towards the swing seat. "Well, now, that's a beauty!" Roger said, "Where did you get that?" "Is it one of those kits you can buy?" Amy asked. Will grinned. "Your son Brian designed it and built it," he said, "With a bit—and only a very little bit—of help from Carl." "What? He designed it?" Roger said incredulously, "You mean he drew a plan, worked out materials, and so on?" "That's right." "I had no idea he could do that sort of thing," Amy said quietly, shaking her head. "Did you say he had Carl's help?" Roger asked hopefully.

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"Yes, Carl helped him, but there was no question who was in charge of the work and who knew just what to do when, and that wasn't Carl," Will replied, "Until he started working with Brian, I don't think Carl knew one end of a nail from the other! Let alone how to make something out of wood!" Roger sat down on the porch step, looking thoughtful. "There seem to be quite a lot of things we didn't know about Brian," he said shortly, to no-one in particular. Amy sat down next to her husband. "It's hard, when we're so busy all the time. We just haven't had the time to spend with him," she said. "You know, Will," Roger said, looking up at him, "Brian seems to have changed quite a bit over the last few weeks, since he's been coming to help you here. He seems a lot happier in himself. Do you know why that is?" "Brian likes to do things with his hands, Roger," Will answered, sitting down beside them, "He gets plenty of opportunities to do that, here. He's particularly gifted at woodwork and metalwork. He built me a new sheeprace when the old wooden one fell apart. He's mended quite a few things for Mum and Dad up at the house. He made a beautiful frame for a print of a rose that Carl had given to Emma. But I must point out that he wouldn't even be coming here to help if Carl hadn't taken the first step and brought him out of his shell." "How did he do that?" asked Amy, "He didn't even know Brian, yet he got him to actually sit with us and not even complain during that service. And he always sits with us, quite cheerfully, every Sunday at church now. How did Carl do it?" "Carl would be the first one to tell you that he didn't do it, that it was God and Brian who achieved that. I know, because that's exactly what Carl said to me when I asked him the same question. He just prayed for wisdom and talked with Brian, he said, and God used that in His own way." Will paused, chuckled to himself, then continued, "On the other hand, as my Dad said, Carl is one of those people who could get a brick wall to talk to him! I think it's a gift from the Lord that he has, like Brian's talent with wood." "Amy," Roger said, turning to his wife, "I wonder if perhaps we should encourage Brian to continue with woodwork and metalwork, or something like that, rather than go to university, seeing as how he's obviously gifted at this, but he's not that good with schoolwork. What do you think?" "Maybe it would be better," she replied, "He's certainly always enthusiastic about shop at school, but he's always saying he hates maths and science." "Jesus was a carpenter," Will commented softly. Roger turned and smiled at him. "Thanks for showing us the swing seat, Will," he said, "I think we might have a talk with Brian about his future when we get home." "Maybe we should take him out for tea, Roger," Amy suggested, "It's been a long time since we did something special with him." "That's a good idea," Roger answered, "Let's see if he'd like that."

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Will drove them back to the house, where Brian was waiting for them on the front verandah. He thanked Carl and Emma and waved to Will who was putting his car away, and left with his parents. Emma and Carl were still sitting on the verandah when Will came back to the house. "They liked the swing seat," he said to them, "I think things might start looking up for our teenage friend soon." "What did you tell them?" Emma asked him. Will was about to go into the house. He stopped, his hand on the handle of the screen door, and looked pensively at the bell hanging from it. Then he looked over his shoulder and grinned. "I told them your future husband doesn't know one end of a nail from the other, but that under Brian's able instruction he's learning fast!" Carl threw a cushion at him, but he dodged it, laughing, and went into the house.

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Early on the morning of the wedding, Carl disappeared into town with Will and when they came back they refused to tell anyone what they had been doing. Emma looked at them suspiciously and Carl simply grinned and gave her a hug. The ceremony was to be held in the late afternoon, under the raintree, with only a handful of guests present—Chester Brown; the Newmans' daughter Adela and her family, who were visiting Bethany Lodge for a couple of weeks to help at shearing time; Brian and his parents; and Simon and Jessica Banks. Both Emma and Carl were still finding it difficult to cope with large groups of people, and both of them missed the loved ones they had left behind in the Protectorate more than ever. Carl, especially, was still mourning for his friend Andrew, whom he knew would have been delighted at the way God had blessed him. He was all too aware that if it hadn't been for Andrew all this wouldn't have been happening to him, and Emma and he wouldn't be getting married. How he wished Andrew could have been at their wedding! Mei Li, Emma, and Adela worked all morning preparing a meal for after the ceremony while Carl and Adela's husband, Roger, took the children for a walk around the farm with George and Will. After lunch, Carl took his flute and led Emma down to the swing seat in the garden. They sat down and he pulled Emma's little Bible out of his pocket. "I'd just like to read out Paul's description of love from One Corinthians again," he said, "I know it doesn't refer just to married love, but I'm equally sure it applies to married love as much as to love in general." "Yes, I'm sure you're right," Emma smiled at him. "It's good to remind ourselves of that, especially today." How like Carl to bring the Word to bear on this so very important event of our lives! she thought. She watched him fondly as she listened to the verses. "'Love is patient and kind," he read out, "It isn't jealous, it doesn't boast, it isn't proud. Love isn't rude, it doesn't demand its rights, it doesn't get angry easily, it doesn't hold things against others. Love does not enjoy evil, on the contrary, it rejoices in the truth. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and never gives up. Love never fails.'" He paused. "Quite a tall order, isn't it?" "We don't have to rely on ourselves in order to carry it out, though, do we?" Emma said, "Thank God! We just have to set out to obey, and He enables us to do it." "That's one of the reasons I brought you down here. We're setting out to obey Him, and we want to do it in everything, but we'll need His enabling every step of the way. Emma, I'd like us to pray together about this afternoon, tonight, and our marriage. All right?" She looked at him in surprise. "Of course it's all right!" she answered, "Did you think I'd say 'No'? Please, indeed, let's pray, right now!"

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He grinned and gave her a hug, and knelt on the lawn, and she knelt down next to him. He put his arm around her shoulders, and together they lifted their voices to God in prayer about the new life on which they were embarking. Mei Li was in the dining room, getting it ready for the evening. She glanced out of the window as she worked, and caught sight of Carl and Emma kneeling in the garden. To her they had become almost as two more of her children, and as she stood by the window, seeing them out there praying together, her love for them welled up into a heartfelt prayer for their future. George happened to walk past the dining room door and, seeing his wife watching at the window, came over to her to see what she was looking at. He, too, joined in silent prayer with the couple in the garden, his arm around Mei Li, distant memories of their own wedding day dancing in his mind. When Carl and Emma got up, Carl picked up his flute and began to play one of the hymns they liked to sing together. After a few bars, he stopped. "Emma, would you sing while I play my flute? Let's praise the Lord together for a little while before we go back to the house to get ready." He started playing again and she joined him, singing the words of the hymn and marvelling at how God had blessed them so in bringing them to such a day. After a while, Carl put his flute back in its case and they went back to the house and went to get dressed for their wedding. Carl had decided to wear the long-sleeved floral shirt and dark trousers of Kawanyaman formal wear. "We're going to be living here," he had explained to Will as they had driven into Warden one afternoon the previous week so Will could help him find an appropriate suit, "I might as well get used to local customs. Besides, I rather like the look of the Kawanyaman formal clothes." "At least it should look okay on you," Will had commented, "It always looks a bit odd on fair-haired fellows." "When I tried yours on, Emma said she liked it very much. I was still wavering a bit, but that decided me! In some ways I suppose I'm trying to avoid anything that reminds us of my past role, especially as concerns our wedding." "What's Emma going to wear? A traditional white wedding dress?" "No. She liked the idea, but she didn't see it as being necessary, though she can certainly understand why most brides prefer it. She told me that she'd rather I bought her a dress—something I like—and she'd wear it for the first time for our wedding, then keep it for special occasions, and as a reminder." "Have you bought it yet?" "Not yet. We'll go into town together and buy it. I want to be sure she likes what I choose, too!" ! ! !

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It was a very simple ceremony, and Carl and Emma had chosen to exchange traditional vows which they had found in an old English prayerbook in George's library. Their study of what the Bible had to say about marriage, and the counsel of the Newmans and Chester had confirmed to them that the vows they were about to make were for life, and they had searched through George's books until they found a wording which was not only Scriptural but appropriately solemn. They sat under the raintree, surrounded by their friends, and listened as Chester talked to them about Christian marriage and what it stands for, about what God expects of husband and wife, about love for each other. Then they stood together in front of George, who led them in the exchange of vows and rings and then prayed for them. As she spoke her vows, Emma felt as if she were embarking on a strange and wonderful adventure, but one that she knew would require from her all that she had to give. She was nervous, but full of joy as she promised Carl to be his wife and to love him and submit to him for as long as they should both live. Carl, too, was nervous, but as he slipped the ring on Emma's finger he felt a great sense of wonder that God should have brought him to this point, despite everything in his past. He marvelled that this woman whom he had so mistreated should now be his loving bride, and he thanked God for His great mercy and grace. He held Emma's hand tightly as he promised to love and cherish her, for better or for worse, in sickness or in health. Oh Lord, he prayed, may I always be able to keep this vow. George then called on the others to come around and pray for Carl and Emma, and when this was done he proclaimed them married in the eyes of God, the Church, and the Republic of Kawanyama. Then Carl turned and gazed at this radiant woman next to him who was now his wife and whose husband he now was, and once again he was filled with awe that this should be happening to them, that God should have poured out such blessing on them. He took her in his arms and his blue eyes were full of wonder as he smiled at her. Emma, suddenly feeling shy in front of all the others, smiled up at him and tried to forget for a moment that the others were there. Then they kissed for the first time, and Carl thought his heart might burst with the joy that filled it. The bride and groom and their guests gathered together in the dining room of Bethany Lodge after the ceremony, to share the meal that the women had prepared in the morning. It was a happy and noisy gathering, and after the feast everyone went to the lounge to sing together. Carl took out his flute and Will and Emma played the piano and together they all sang songs of praise to God. Quite early in the evening, however, Carl went over to Mei Li and told her that he and Emma were about to leave and go down to the cottage. Mei Li smiled her approval, and got George to announce to the small group gathered in the lounge that the newlyweds were about to go. They all came to take their leave of Carl and Emma, and Will handed Carl his car keys.

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"Here, why don't you drive down?" he grinned, winking at Carl, "It's a long way to walk and we wouldn't want you to get home exhausted." "Thanks, Will," Carl said quietly, taking the keys, "You're a true brother." When they reached Will's car, Carl burst out laughing, for Will had gone to great pains to decorate it with leafy branches and flowers from the garden, and with a colourful banner announcing that the occupants were newly married. "There's no-one to see it on the way down," Emma giggled, "Except maybe the sheep!" "Will has to get some fun out of this, too, you know," George said with a laugh. He had followed them out to see their reaction. Not far behind him the rest of the party, and Will, came to see them off. Will perched himself on the verandah railing. "Thanks for your artwork, Will!" Emma shouted to him. "My pleasure, Emma!" he shouted back, laughing. "Remember, we don't want to see you two up here for a couple of days," Mei Li reminded Carl, "You're on holidays. Go and explore the area, visit the town, enjoy yourselves, and God bless you both!" "But shearing starts on Wednesday and I want all hands on deck for that!" yelled Will. Brian whooped and threw his hat up in the air. Carl held the passenger door open for Emma to get into the car, then got in on the driver's side. After several tries—for Carl's hands were shaking, he was still so nervous—the car finally started, and they drove off down the hill. When they reached the cottage, Carl stopped the car and let Emma out, but he didn't take her towards the house. Instead he led her to the back of the car, lifted her up and sat her on the boot, and climbed up beside her. "What are you doing?" she asked, puzzled. "I wanted to sit out here with you and look at the stars for a while," he replied, putting his arm around her, "and listen to the night sounds. It's a beautiful spring night and we have a car to sit on, for once." Emma laughed and put her head on his shoulder. "Oh, Carl," she said, "I hope you never stop being full of surprises." "I have no intention of doing so, my dear Mrs. Slade," he answered. She sat up and looked at him with wide eyes. "Oh, that sounds so strange! Mrs. Slade. Emma Slade. I've been Emma Winston for so long!" "I wonder what Jack and Rose will say when they find out you've changed your name," Carl said with a mischievous smile. "How could they find out?" she asked. "I don't know," he answered, gazing up at the sky, "but I ought to warn you that tomorrow I start growing a beard." Emma was taken aback by this apparent non sequitur. "What does that have to do with Jack and Rose?" she asked, "And why are you going to grow a beard?" "Do you remember that the Kawanyaman government want me to do some work for them? Well, they said it just might involve a trip down 273

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south, and they've told me they want me to be ready in case it does. It wouldn't be for some months, though. I should look quite unrecognizable by then! Do you see now what it has to do with Jack and Rose?" "Yes," she laughed, then was serious. "I don't know that I like the idea of your going back there... It's an awful risk, even if you do grow a beard." "Let's not think about that now, we've got many months to prepare for it. Tonight is our wedding night, remember?" "So what are we doing sitting on the back of Will's car?" For answer, Carl jumped off the car, lifted her down, and whirled her around. "I don't know," he said airily, "Would you rather dance instead?" "Carl! What are you up to?!" she exclaimed when he stopped. He held her at arm's length and gazed at her in the light from the porch. "Emma," he said softly, pulling her close, "aren't you just a little scared of tonight?" She looked up at him wonderingly. She could hardly see his face in the dim starlight. "Yes, I guess I am scared, a bit," she whispered, "Are you?" "Come and sit on the porch for a minute." He led her to the swing seat Brian had built with him. "Emma," he began, when they'd sat down, their arms around each other, "What we're about to do is going to change us and change our relationship irrevocably. Legally, we're married, yes, but we could change our minds right now and of course it would cause a lot of upset, but it would just be a parting of the ways and life would go on much as before." "I suppose so..." Emma said, dubiously. "Do you realize what it means, to 'become one flesh'? For my body to belong to you, and your body to belong to me?" She heard the awe in his voice as he spoke, and she felt it herself. "It means that until one of us dies," she answered softly, "wherever we are, together or apart, we are two people who yet are one. It means that if we change our minds after we come together, it would be tearing each other in half..." She shuddered, and put both her arms around him. "That's what makes it scary, Emma. Knowing that it's a one-way trip, there's no turning back. Even though we very much want to take this trip, it's still scary. It's not just because we've never experienced it before, though that also makes it a bit scary. It's like becoming a Christian, you know. To change one's mind about the Lord would be like tearing oneself to bits. And once we've made love we can never undo the fact, we can never turn our backs on it without tearing ourselves apart." He was silent for a while, just holding her close and swinging slowly back and forth. "That's why I've been taking my time, Emma," he said presently, "I want this to be very, very special for us. I don't want to rush. So that we can look back in years to come and say, 'On that night we two became one flesh, and God saw that it was very good.'" He kissed her lightly on the forehead, then got up and pulled her up. "Let's go inside, shall we?" He went to the door and opened it, put his hand around the door jamb and turned the light on, and motioned for her to go in first. Emma took two steps inside the door and stopped, her mouth open in amazement. The 274

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small living room was full of flowers! Some half-a-dozen large vases around the room held as many multi-coloured bouquets. She turned around to Carl, who was grinning, his blue eyes laughing in delight at her astonishment. "Wh-When did you do this?" she asked in a small voice. "I had a little agreement with a friend," he answered mysteriously, hugging her, "He's done a good job, hasn't he?" "It's beautiful!" she said quietly, turning back to look at the room again. Carl closed the door behind them and took her in his arms. "Not half as beautiful as my bride," he said, and kissed her, then taking her hand he led her towards their bedroom, "'Come, my dearest, my beautiful one,'" he said, "'Come with me.'"

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Chapter 37 Carl and Emma had three days to themselves during which they went for long walks in the countryside, explored the small town of Warden nearby, and spent many hours talking, praying, and singing together. They talked about their future together, about the possibility of children, and many other things. Carl played his flute for his wife in the early morning as they sat in the swing seat on the porch. They worked together at finishing the few repairs to the cottage that remained to be done. And Emma took special delight in her first opportunity to cook meals especially for her husband. These first few peaceful days of their new life together came to an abrupt end when the shearing started early on the morning of the Wednesday after their wedding. Until the last sheep was shorn and dipped, Carl and Emma hardly saw each other from morning until night, as Carl helped with the sheep and Emma helped with the food preparation and the cleaning up. At the end of each day both of them fell fast asleep almost as soon as they went to bed, from sheer exhaustion. They had never before in their lives taken part in such frenetic and demanding activity. Will seemed suddenly to have turned into a slave-driver, and when Emma asked him about it at breakfast one morning, George laughed. "This always happens to Will at shearing time!" he exclaimed, "It's like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He'll be back to normal when the shearers leave and the woolpacks have been shipped off! Just pray he doesn't give himself a heart attack in the meantime." "Or drive us into our graves!" Carl added, grimacing at Will, who frowned back and cracked an imaginary whip at him, and then the two grinned at each other. Will was a quiet man, but he had a gift for organising which was put to good use in his work managing Bethany Farm. Despite his size and strength—the physical work he did on the farm kept him very fit—he was a gentle man like his father, but he had a mischievous sense of humour. Anyone to whom he took a liking was sure to be teased by him. Following Carl and Emma's arrival at Bethany Lodge he'd made a point of getting to know Carl as he taught him how to work on the farm, and he'd found that Carl was someone he liked and with whom he could work well. It was Will who'd suggested to George that he offer Carl the position of assistant manager for the farm. Of course, Carl had soon found out that being around Will meant being teased. To Will's delight Carl's reaction was invariably to laugh and often to tease him back. The two men got on like brothers. What Carl had never noticed, however, was that Will had taken a special liking to Emma when he first met her. As the days passed, Will found his liking for her turning into an interest in her as a life companion. He mentioned it to George, who told him it was a little early to make any such decisions, that he should wait a few weeks and just get to know Emma better and pray about it in the meantime. 276

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Will had followed his father's advice, and had soon come to the realisation that someone else was very interested in Emma—Carl. From then on he'd decided that Emma would be a sister to him, nothing else. As far as he was concerned, she was Carl's and there was no way he would come between them. George understood his decision; he also understood how painful it had been for Will to make it. But he agreed with his son—it was obvious that Carl and Emma were meant for each other. The week after the shearing ended, Carl passed his driving test and was given a licence, and he also started attending lectures at the Agricultural College in town. Emma continued working with Mei Li at the main house, and helped with the renovations of the old shearers' quarters. Every other night they went up to the Newmans' home to join in the devotional time after the evening meal. Carl, delighting in being able at last to share all of his life with a woman who loved him and whom he loved, felt as if he'd been given a preview of heaven. And yet the call he'd felt to return to the Protectorate was never far from his mind, especially as his growing beard reminded him of the possibility of a trip there in the near future. As the days and weeks passed, his conviction grew that ultimately he was to return to his country as a bringer of Good News, as a preacher of the Gospel of salvation in Jesus Christ. He had no doubts whatsoever that the Gospel was the only hope for his people. How it would happen, how he would be able to return there, he had no idea, but he didn't doubt that God had it all worked out. He prayed with Emma about it every day, and it bothered him that she still had doubts about his going back. ! ! ! A few months later, Emma came into the kitchen of the main house as she did every morning. "Mei Li," she said, "Would you mind terribly if I go back home today instead of helping you? I feel dreadfully ill." Mei Li noticed her pallor and took her arm gently. "You don't look very well, Emma," she answered, "How long have you felt sick?" "I felt sort of queasy all day yesterday, then when I got up this morning I threw up, but I felt better then for a while and Carl dropped me off here as usual on his way to town, but now I feel—" Unable to finish her sentence, she rushed out of the kitchen and into the downstairs bathroom, and Mei Li followed her. When she reached the bathroom, she saw that Emma had vomited into the bath and was leaning against it, her face very pale. Mei Li rinsed the bath out, wiped Emma's face with a washcloth, then led her back to the kitchen and sat her down on a chair. She felt her forehead. "You don't seem to have a raised temperature," she remarked, sitting down next to her, "Tell me, when was your last period?" "Ages ago..." Emma muttered, then sat up and stared at Mei Li. "Do you think I might be pregnant?"

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Mei Li nodded, smiling. "There's a good chance, isn't there? It's the most likely cause of your illness, I'd say. It tends to happen to married couples, you know! Surely you picked that up when you did your nurse's training!" "But... Oh, gosh... So soon... We've not been married all that long. Three months... almost four months? Oh, dear. How do I find out for sure if I am?" "Carl could take you to Dr. Prentice when he goes to town one day this week," Mei Li suggested, "Why don't I ring and see if you can have an appointment tomorrow morning?" She went out to the phone in the lounge to make the call. She came back smiling. "Tomorrow morning at seven thirty. That gives Carl enough time to bring you back before his classes. Now I suggest you go and lie down in the hammock out front where there's plenty of fresh air, and I'll make you a cup of tea." The next morning Carl sat in the waiting room while Emma was being examined by Dr. Prentice. Emma hadn't told him about Mei Li's suspicions when she had asked him to take her to the doctor's. She wanted to see Carl's reaction if they proved to be correct. "Well, Mr. Slade," Dr. Prentice said as she showed a smiling Emma out of her office, "I assume, from the way your wife reacted, that you'll be pleased to know that in about seven months or so you'll be a father." Carl's face lit up with astonishment and delight and he hugged Emma. "I'm absolutely thrilled! Thank You, Lord!" He grinned at Emma, then looked back at Dr. Prentice. "Actually, Doctor," he said, "doesn't that make me a father already? This baby is already here, even if he or she is going to hide away for another few months!" To their surprise, Dr. Prentice looked distinctly ill-at-ease. "Well... I suppose so, if you want to look at it that way... " she said, shrugging. Back at Bethany Lodge, after Carl had dropped her off and returned to Warden for his classes, Emma told Mei Li about the result of her visit to Dr. Prentice. "You should have seen Carl's face, Mei Li!" she said joyfully, "I just love the way his eyes light up when he's happy about something!" She grew pensive, and played absently with some grains of sugar that had been spilt on the kitchen table. "He feels things very deeply, doesn't he? He made a funny comment on the way home..." "What about?" Mei Li was curious. "About what Dr. Prentice said." She looked up at Mei Li. "When she told him he was going to be a father in a few months' time, he asked her if he wasn't a father already since the baby already exists. She said something like, she guessed so, if that's how he saw it. She looked rather uncomfortable." "What was Carl's comment?" "He said, 'It seems that Dr. Prentice doesn't like babies to be babies until they're born.' We were just driving up to the house when he said it. He'd been very quiet most of the way home, and I asked him what he was 278

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thinking. He said he'd explain what he meant when he comes back, he had to get back to town for his lessons. But I think I know what he has in mind." "Unfortunately," Mei Li said sadly, "it's well known around this area that Dr. Prentice runs a private termination clinic, Emma." Emma looked at her with horror. "Oh, no! How could she do that? How can she deliver babies on one side and kill them on the other?" Mei Li looked thoughtfully at Emma. "My dear, when you were doing your training, did you do a stint in midwifery?" she asked her. "Yes. Three months," Emma answered. "Didn't you come across obstetricians and even G.P.'s who were happy to do either—patient's choice?" "Yes, I guess I did. But I wasn't pregnant then... I didn't think about it much... I just tried to ignore that side of it since I wasn't required to be involved in it, and just enjoyed the babies that were being born... Mei Li, is there any other doctor in this area I could go to? Who doesn't do abortions?" "I'll ask around, Emma, and let you know." "Thanks, Mei Li," she said, getting up from the table, "I think I'll go lie down now. I feel awfully sleepy and awfully sick." When Carl got back from his classes, Emma asked him about what he had said in the car that morning. "Years ago, when I was a Welfare Officer, Em, I came across an awful lot of people who saw babies, particularly unborn ones, as just nuisances. It bothered me even then. I could understand all the arguments about too many children, mother's health, wrong timing, career priorities, unwanted children, ad infinitum, but it still bothered me. I didn't pay all that much attention because it had little to do with my own job, but I did once go to the Welfare Ministry Archives with Andrew to find out about the development of babies before birth, when Denise was expecting her first, Christopher. From the information we found—there were dozens and dozens of CD's on the subject and we only looked at one or two—I had no doubts whatsoever that human beings are human beings right from the moment of conception. I certainly have no doubts now, knowing what I do about God! What puzzles me is that there is an unbelievably large number of people, Dr. Prentice among them, I think, who just ignore all that information and declare that babies are not to be considered human beings until they're born. If they don't actually say it in that many words, they say it by what they do. Of course, in the Protectorate, people are no longer considered to be human beings once they reach the age of eighty, either... or if they're severely handicapped..." "Dr. Prentice runs a termination clinic..." Emma said quietly. "I was afraid of that, from the way she reacted to what I said to her," Carl replied sadly, "We should find a different doctor, Em. I want someone who respects human life to look after my wife and child." "But maybe Dr. Prentice needs to hear from people like us, who believe that we become parents as soon as the baby is conceived." 279

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"We can approach her about that some other way, and we will, but I want you in the care of someone who loves God and people, all right?" "Yes, Carl," she smiled and hugged him, "I know you love me, uh, us! I felt the same way about it, and Mei Li said she'd ask around and let us know if she finds someone else."

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"'I do not think the way you think, and My ways are not the same as yours,' says the LORD." ISAIAH 55:8 "I have a place where my spirit sings, In the hollow of God's palm." EDWIN MARKHAM, 'The Place of Peace'

Chapter 38

As the weeks went by, Emma got larger much more rapidly than she'd expected, and by the end of the fourth month she decided to ask Mei Li what she thought about that. "Well, are there any twins on Carl's side of the family, or yours?" Mei Li asked. "I don't know about Carl's side—I think you know more about them than either of us does—but on my side, well, Jack and Liz are twins. You know about Jack, my brother in Densonia. I still don't know where Liz, or the rest of our family, is." "It seems to me that there's a good chance that you might be carrying two babies, my dear," Mei Li smiled, "It would certainly explain the fact that you look at least five months pregnant when you're only four, and this is your first child. Or children?" When Carl came back from town, Emma asked him if he had any idea whether there were twins in his family. "I think you ought to ask Mei Li. She knows more about my family than I do," he said. He was sitting in the swing seat next to her, and he looked at her in amazement. "Does she think you might be carrying twins?" he asked. "Yes. She said it would explain why I'm so big already." She started, and stared at him, wide-eyed. "There it is again!" she exclaimed. "There is what again?" Carl asked, puzzled. She took his hand and placed it low on her belly. "Did you feel that? The baby?" she whispered. Carl grinned. "Or should we say, 'the babies'?" he asked, "Yes, I felt it. And again. What have you got in there, a football team?" She laughed and threw her arms around him. "Isn't this exciting, Carl?" she said eagerly, "Isn't it wonderful? How do you feel about having twins?" "I-I don't know, love, it all seems quite wonderful, whether it's two, or only one, it's a miracle, either way." "That's right, that's what it is, a miracle!"

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She was suddenly very serious, and Carl sat up, looking at her with concern. "What's up, Em?" he asked, "Is something the matter?" She turned around slowly and stared at him. "Carl," she said, very quietly, almost whispering, "Do you realize that every single human being that has ever lived or will ever live is the result of a miracle?" "That's right," he answered, also softly, "What are you thinking?" "No wonder Jesus told us to love our enemies..." "It does put a different light on things, doesn't it? He loves us all—we're all miracles of His." "Carl," she said softly, taking his hands in both of hers, "I understand now why He wants you to go back to the Protectorate..." ! ! ! Not long after Emma and Carl had found out that they were expecting twins, Simon and Jessica Banks came up to Bethany Lodge for lunch one Sunday after church. It was a cool, overcast, and windy day and Mei Li served lunch in the dining room rather than on the verandah as she had originally planned to do. Jessica walked to the window at the end of the room and looked down towards the southern hills. "I've always found the view from this window exhilarating, no matter what the weather's like," she remarked. Simon noticed Carl sigh as he gazed at the view. "Do you ever get homesick?" he asked Carl. "Yes and no," Carl replied thoughtfully, "I miss one or two people, mainly Andrew's family—I told you about Andrew Parker—but I can't say I miss Densonia. I know next to nothing about the rest of the Protectorate..." "It seems strange that you never went out of the capital district," Simon commented, "that you just lived all your life in the one city." "Not quite—in the early days, when I was a boy, the staff of the children's home occasionally took us out to nearby towns. Once they even took us down to the ocean, which was a two-hour drive." Carl paused as he remembered the effect that seeing the ocean had had on him. It had frightened him and yet at the same time had made him long for something—he didn't really know what, it was just an abstraction. He wanted to see what was beyond the ocean, he wanted to see what was beyond the Protectorate, he longed for something other than what he knew in Densonia—and it was all beyond his reach. He couldn't even talk about his feelings and thoughts to anyone. At best they would laugh at him—he dared not think about the worst... Once again he'd buried his feelings and when they'd got back to the children's home he'd spent two hours straight locked in his room, playing his flute. "That was the only time, until two weeks ago, that I'd ever seen the ocean..." he continued, "Most of my life I was certainly restricted to Densonia. We weren't even allowed to wander in the National Forest—I found out the hard way!" He paused pensively again, then went on, "Actually, Simon, there is a part of Densonia that I do miss, and that's the 282

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City Park and the Lake. I used to spend a great deal of my spare time in the Park, and I used to go for a run there, along the lakeshore, every morning at dawn." "I miss my brother and his wife very much," Emma said, "and the others in the church, and some of the people who live in that area. In some ways I even miss Densonia. But I expect we'll go back there some day— Carl's quite sure that God wants him to." "You still feel that way, do you?" Jessica asked Carl. "Oh, yes, the conviction gets stronger all the time," he replied firmly, "Emma's right—we will go back one day. The Lord will show us how when it's the right time." George had been quietly following the conversation, and realized that unless something was said they would never get around to eating, and the food was getting cold. "Shall we sit down now and have lunch?" he suggested. Will indicated their seats and they all sat down around the table. George prayed and gave thanks, and Mei Li started serving the food. As they ate, the conversation turned to the state of the church in Kawanyama in general and in Warden in particular. Simon mused out loud about the gradual slide of his congregation into complacency. "I suppose we just let the everyday concerns get the upper hand, and we got more concerned with appearances than with what was in our hearts," he said, "We didn't read the Bible enough, even in church on Sundays, so we started to go off the track. Traditions, buildings, and fund-raising became more important than they should be." "If Carl hadn't come along and compared our church to the church in Densonia so that we saw what was wrong, we'd still be off on the wrong track," Jessica observed. "If I hadn't come along, I expect someone else would have," Carl commented quietly, "God wants His people to know when they're headed in the wrong direction. The crunch comes in whether His people listen or not. Thankfully, you people listened to Him rather than just continuing the way you were going—that's what's important." "As an Elder in the church I was also very much to blame for the slide," George said, "and I'm very thankful that God sent Carl and Emma to us and woke me up!" "And I'm grateful that God brought us here so I could learn about Him from you people..." Carl murmured. "It's obvious to us now that the world's methods were the wrong ones, that God's methods are the only right ones," George continued, "It should have been obvious before, of course... So, to stay on the right tack, we must read the Scriptures as much as possible, we must spend many hours praying every week, we must listen to the Counsellor!" Carl started. "Say that again!" he exclaimed, staring at George. Emma looked from Carl to George. She knew what Carl was thinking. George was taken aback by Carl's reaction. "What do you mean?" he asked. 283

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"You said, 'We must listen to the-the Counsellor?'" Carl replied uncertainly. "Ah, the Counsellor." George understood now. "That's one of the names the Bible gives us for God the Holy Spirit. He is the true Counsellor. It's also one of the names given for Jesus in Isaiah's prophecies: 'He shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Mighty God...'" "I'm sure I've come across it in my Bible reading," Carl said, "It just didn't register, I guess, until you said that just now. I had to hear it. Do you realize the horror of the deception Denson was carrying out when he started the Police Counselling Institute? How he distorted that word, 'counsellor'?" "The distortion started long before Denson's time, Carl," George pointed out, "He just took it to its logical conclusion. In fact, the distortion began at the turn of the century with the fad for counselling of all sorts. It was done in the right sense, at first, you know, helping people find solutions to their problems, only it got to the point where people were told to get counselling when they didn't really have problems. Often the counselling created problems where there hadn't been any! The worst thing was that Christians went in for this counselling business as if it were a new gift from God. More and more of those counsellors, even the Christian ones, began to depend on the wisdom of the world and worse. They willy-nilly adopted first, humanist, then New Age, and then Protection philosophies in their counselling. Worse, many Christians were sent, by other Christians— pastors, doctors, mission leaders, and so on—to non-Christian counsellors. In the end they all ended up pointing people away from Christ. Even the counsellors who used His name did! Well, it was only a matter of time before Denson's definition of 'counselling' became the accepted one— 'eliminating non-conformists'. Even now, though, I gather that people in the Protectorate are still deluded enough to think that the Counselling Institute actually helps people solve their problems!" Carl shuddered. "Even I thought, for the first few years anyway, that what I was doing as a Counsellor was supposed to help the counsellee." He grimaced. "I feel sick when I think about it." Simon patted his shoulder. "Well, that's all in the past now, Carl, and forgiven. And what's more, your counsel now is helpful—you're a counsellor in the true meaning of the word, a man of God and a wise counsellor." Carl blushed crimson and looked down at his plate in confusion. Emma leaned over to him and kissed his cheek. "It's true, Carl, what Simon's saying," she said softly, "You are a counsellor, but not in any way Brent Denson would recognize. Your counsel is wise and true because you listen to God, to the True Counsellor, and you get your counsel from Him, and because you love people and you want their greatest good." Carl looked at Emma. "Thank you, Em," he said, quietly but feelingly. Coming from her, with her two weeks as his counsellee behind them, those words held far more than a casual observer could ever guess.

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"At first I found your counsel very hard to take, Carl," Simon remarked, "but when I stopped to really think about it, I knew you were right—you'd been listening to God, I hadn't." "Well, that's what we'll be doing a lot more in our church, Simon, won't we?" Mei Li said, "Listening to God." "And growing instead of shrinking," Will added, "because we'll be feeding on the right food—His Word." "Amen!" Simon and George said together.

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Towards the end of their fifth month of marriage, Emma decided that it was time she put some things that had been bothering her to rest. She'd wanted to talk with Carl about the counselling sessions many times since they'd left the Protectorate, but she'd never felt at peace before about bringing up the subject with him. She knew from things he'd said over that time that it was a topic he preferred not to dwell on, but she had been mulling over several aspects of the sessions for months now, and she felt she really did need to get them sorted out. It puzzled her especially that Carl had been so violent, for she knew now that the violence had to be out of character for him. He had a basically gentle nature which was not entirely the result of his conversion—it was part of his God-given personality. The way he spoke about the children he had taken from their parents when he was a Welfare Officer, and about the parents, was one of the indications of this. The way he spoke about Andrew's children, too, was revealing. And hadn't Andrew himself seen a different side to Counsellor Slade? She had often wondered how Carl had felt after the sessions with her. They were sitting in the swing seat on the porch early one morning when she decided to address the matter. "Carl, would you mind very much if I bring up the subject of the counselling sessions?" she asked tentatively. He frowned, and his blue eyes clouded. "Why do you want to talk about that?" he asked, "It's a subject I find rather distressing. I'd rather try to forget them, especially the ones with you." "They're the ones I wanted to ask you about, actually," she said apologetically, "I've had them on my mind on and off all this time, but I never felt right about asking you about them until now. There're some things I've puzzled about ever since we left." He gazed at her pensively for a moment, debating in his mind what he should do. Much as he hated to look back on those days, he decided that perhaps it would be better to talk about them rather than have Emma brooding about them indefinitely. He ut his arm around her and pulled her close. "All right, Em," he said, "What's troubling you?" "I know you've told me about your anger before, and the things that made you angry, but, Carl, why were you so violent? You're not a violent person." He thought back to his complete loss of control in all those sessions with her. He wasn't sure himself that he understood his outbursts of rage, and he told her so. "Although I blamed you, and the way you were responding, for provoking me," he added, "I knew that the real provocation came from inside me, from my own insecurity, from my frustrations, from my hatred for and fear of Lancaster. That I didn't admit that to myself I suppose only added to the problem. But I don't really know why it came out as such violent and vicious actions against you, especially in those later sessions." 286

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"Why especially then?" "Because," he started replying, but stopped and looked at her with surprise. "But wait," he said, "I don't think I've ever told you this, have I, though I did tell George once? Because by the middle of the second week I'd become rather fond of you. I liked you, I admired your strong faith, and I was aware that I liked you, but I didn't want to admit it, even to myself. I found all sorts of excuses for telling myself it wasn't true. It was when I was talking to Andrew one evening about my frustration with the sessions that I realised how I actually felt about you. I'd told him about how I felt like committing suicide and—" "You wanted to kill yourself?" Emma asked incredulously. He'd never mentioned this before. "Yes, I did. It wasn't the first time, either," Carl said slowly, remembering the despair he'd known back then, "and it was when I said to Andrew that if I took an overdose of sleeping tablets I could just go to sleep and never wake up again, and then I'd no longer have to deal with you, that I became aware that I very much did want to have to deal with you, only not as a Counsellor. Well, I guess that only helped to add to the frustration, because there was no way that I knew of that the situation could possibly change! And I was still terrified of failing to convert you... I was a horrible mess, and I couldn't see any way out. Do you remember, the next day was when I asked you to tell me about Christianity?" "Oh, that was the most confusing of the sessions," Emma exclaimed, "I couldn't figure out what you were trying to do, because you asked me about my faith and then you got angry every time I mentioned God!" "You should have seen the confusion that was reigning in my heart, Em!" he said, quietly but earnestly, "Deep down I longed for what you had, I suppose I even knew by then that it was God that I longed for, but I was so frightened of the possibility that I might only end up adding to my confusion that I felt I just had to push all that away. And I was still afraid of what Lancaster could do." He paused and considered that, then added, "I was afraid of dying..." "Even though you'd wanted to kill yourself?" "Even though I'd wanted to kill myself," he confirmed, "I guess I would never have done it, maybe, or perhaps that's why I'd decided on sleeping tablets. I had this idea that I could die without knowing about it. I don't know if that's so—if one can—and I have no intention of finding out. You know, it was thinking of what it would do to Andrew and his family that stopped me, both times. Knowing how much pain it would cause them. They'd shown me so much love. They'd really become my family." He paused again, musing on the fact that the Parkers were Christians and he'd never guessed it. He wondered why they'd never told him about Jesus Christ, then he realised that if they had, in all probability he wouldn't have listened, and he would probably have ended up betraying his best friend because of his own fear of Lancaster. God had used a different way to get through to him, and as one of the results he was now married to Emma. He smiled and hugged her as he shared these thoughts with her. 287

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"Andrew said that you would never be able to convince me about God— asking you about Christianity was his idea, you see—and I've just realized what he meant. It's God who does the convincing. He was the one who brought me to faith. But He did use you, and Chester, and of course Jack, and even Andrew, to get me headed in the right direction." Emma rested her head on his shoulder. "It may sound strange, but I am glad I ended up at the Counselling Institute, you know," she said. "Why do you say that?" he asked, though he was not really surprised to hear it. "For two reasons: I found out that my faith was for real and that God really is with me as He promises to be, wherever I am, and also I met you, even if it wasn't under the nicest circumstances. I must admit, though, that I didn't like you at all, then. You were terrifying. I never knew what you'd do next and you seemed to hate me so..." "If you don't mind my asking, Em, when did you change your mind about that?" "I'm not completely sure, but I know that in that last session, when you were so different from what you'd been the previous day, I stopped being afraid of you. In fact, and maybe this seems odd, but from when you told me that you knew Jesus too, I felt safe with you. And my trust wasn't misplaced, was it?" "It was that same day that I realised that I felt more towards you than just liking. By that first evening in the bush I knew that you'd become very special to me. I tried to figure out what made you different from other women I knew, why it was that I was enjoying so much just being with you. You'll recall that I'd never been alone with a woman before, I was too afraid of most of them to risk being alone with them. I came to the conclusion that your being a Christian had a great deal to do with your being different, and also the fact that you obviously trusted me completely by then. And over the next couple of weeks, as I got to know you better—we spent so much time talking together, especially that first week here—I found that there was very little about you that I didn't like, and I realised that I would very much like to marry you." He remembered something, laughed, and said, "You know, it was all Mei Li's fault! She put the idea into my head!" "She did?" Emma asked, astonished. "Do you remember how she asked us if we were husband and wife and we had hysterics?" Emma giggled at the memory. "Yes, I do. Oh dear, was she ever embarrassed!" Carl grinned. "Once I'd calmed down, when we were sitting at breakfast, it occurred to me that it was rather a nice idea... You'd have been shocked, wouldn't you, if you'd known what I was thinking?" "Well, I was quite taken aback by the way you were looking at me," Emma laughed. "You did look away very quickly, it's true..." he smiled, "Well, look at where it's all led. Here we are, married five months, expecting our first child. I mean, children. I wonder where we'll be in a year's time?" 288

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"Only God knows that, and He's not telling!" she said cheerfully, "But I have a feeling that wherever we are we'll be busy parents!" "That's true," Carl replied, "Oh, Em, I pray that we'll be good parents. I can't follow my father's example, I don't remember it." "We'll have to trust God in that, too. He knows what our children will need—He can lead us," she said quietly. They were silent for a while, pondering parenthood. After a short time, Emma spoke again. "Going back to our original topic, Carl," she said, "There was something else I've wondered about. I know how the sessions made me feel. How did they make you feel?" He gazed sorrowfully at her as he thought back to those awful two weeks. How had he felt after the sessions? He'd hated himself, he knew. He'd been horrified by his own behaviour. "After that first session with you," he said in a monotone, "I felt completely empty, and thoroughly disgusted with myself. I felt like giving up there and then. As I saw it, it was pretty obvious that you were going to be very obstinate." He paused, then added softly, "After the second session, you know, when I kicked you..." Emma nodded. "After that session, I wept..." He fell silent, closing his eyes for a few moments. "And later?" she whispered when he opened his eyes again. "I was bewildered, I was confused, I was furious. I hated your determination to stand firm. I hated Lancaster. But most of all, I hated myself. I was terrified of what I was seeing in myself. I had nightmares and couldn't sleep. I played my flute and it didn't help. The only place where I had any kind of peace was Andrew's home, or in the early morning, running along the lakeshore. In the end, as you know, despair drove me to your brother's house. Thank God." The way he said the last words carried a world of meaning. Relief. Gratitude. Joy. Emma snuggled up to her husband and spoke softly. "Thank you, Carl," she said, "Thank you for talking about it. I felt I needed to know, to understand better what it was like for you." "It's a topic I would like to bury, Em, if we can. Only let God bring it up if He thinks it's necessary, say if I'm getting proud or something like that. Do you mind?" "No, of course I don't. I'd rather think of you as if you'd always been the way you are now. And I think I can bury it now I've got it off my chest. Anyway, it's all in the past and the past is gone. The Bible tells us to look forwards, to press on, and to forget the past." "So that's what we'll do, Em, and we certainly have much to look forwards to." He looked at his watch. "Right now I have my classes in town to look forwards to, and if I don't get a move-on I'll miss them! We'd better go inside and have some breakfast, Em, and then I'd better go!" He grinned and kissed her, then got up and helped her up. She gave him another hug. "I love you, Carl," she whispered, burying her face on his shoulder. "And I love you, too, my precious Emma."

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The day finally arrived when Carl left for the capital for his first meeting with the members of the proposed Kawanyaman delegation to the Protectorate. Will drove him to the nearby Air Force base, where he was to board an official flight with the representative of the Foreign Affairs Ministry. "How long did you say you'll be over there, again?" Will asked him as they drove along. "They said two weeks, for this first time," Carl answered, "They have to introduce me to all sorts of people, and to all sorts of Kawanyaman customs which are new to me. They also want me to tell them about the Protectorate. But then they said that I'd have to make another, longer trip to be briefed about the actual trip down south." "Any chance of taking Emma with you next time, d'you think?" Will asked, "She's going to miss you very much. I remember when Roger had to go away for several weeks when Adela was expecting their second, she could hardly cope while he was gone, even though she came and stayed with us. Pregnancy does things to women, you know. Some women, anyway." "I intend to ask them about that," Carl replied, "I'm going to miss her very much, too! But I think Em will be all right—she takes one day at a time, with God, never in her own strength. Remember what she's been through." "Yeah..." Will said slowly, "Your wife's pretty special, isn't she?" "Emma is the most wonderful woman in the world, as far as I'm concerned," Carl said happily. Silently he thanked God for his wife and for her faith, and then he turned to Will. "Do you mind if I ask you why you're not married, Will?" "No, I don't mind," Will replied, and fell silent. Carl regarded him curiously, waiting for him to go on. "Well," he said after a moment, "aren't you going to tell me?" Will laughed. "Oh, you actually wanted me to tell you why I'm not married?" he chuckled, "I thought you just wanted to know if I minded if you asked." If Will hadn't been driving, Carl might have given him a shove. Instead he laughed too. "All right, mate," he said, "Tell me. Why aren't you married?" "I might have been. I was engaged to a lovely girl—Melissa was her name—when I was twenty-five," Will said quietly, "At least, I thought she was lovely then. She broke our engagement off two weeks before our wedding because she met another man she said she liked better..." "Oh," Carl said, and didn't know what else to say. "Yeah, I was pretty speechless too, you can imagine!" Will said, "It took me quite a while to recover. But then I was very grateful that it had happened before we got married. On the other hand, the whole business

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made me rather wary of trying again. But I needn't have worried—I'm still looking for a wife. After thirteen years I still haven't found her." "You're still looking? Does that mean you'd like to get married?" "You bet!" Will exclaimed, "And I keep praying the Lord will allow it, and soon!" He glanced at Carl. "Don't you recommend the married state?" Carl smiled and didn't answer right away. He thought about the few months of his marriage to Emma. "Will," he said presently, "I highly recommend marriage if that's the Lord's plan for you. I hope it is. And I hope he will bless you with a wife who is as easy to love as Em is." "And I pray that if I do marry," Will said quietly, "I can be as good a husband to my wife as you are to Emma, mate." Carl glanced quickly at him, but Will wasn't laughing. He wasn't even grinning. He knew when not to tease. When they drove up to the main gate of the Base, Carl showed the guard the document signed by General Wong. The guard told Carl he could come through, but Will would not be allowed in. "Well, I guess I'll see you when I get back, Will," Carl said, getting out of the car, "Look after Emma for me, won't you?" "Don't worry, we'll make sure she keeps out of mischief!" Will laughed, handing Carl his bag from the boot, "Go with the Lord, Carl!" Will got back into the car and drove away, and Carl walked through the gate into the base, where he was led to the waiting plane. The flight to the capital was uneventful, if long. Mr. Aidit, representing the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and also a member of the delegation, had greeted Carl on his arrival at the Air Force base. He was a short, darkskinned man with a perpetual look of amazement accentuated by the round frames of his glasses, extremely polite and very fastidious in his dress, but also very friendly. Carl liked him right away, and decided that if Aidit was typical of the Kawanyaman delegation, his stay in the capital and his trip to the Protectorate would be quite enjoyable. When they arrived in the capital it was already dark, and pouring with rain, so Carl's first impressions were not very clear. He was taken to the residence of the Vice-President, Yaqob Surito, who would be heading the delegation. Surito received Carl in his study on the ground floor of his home, which although very large, struck Carl as simple and unpretentious. He contrasted it with his memories of Ross Lancaster's mansion in Densonia. He had always found Lancaster's study overpowering, with its massive wooden furniture, dark panelled walls, and velvet everywhere. Surito's study welcomed visitors with its pale cream walls decorated with a couple of Kawanyaman weavings on two of them, a large framed photograph next to the window showing a flower-strewn hillside descending towards a lake, and a simple, low, teak desk surrounded by four rattan armchairs. A wide rattan bookcase standing on the terrazzo floor lined the wall to the right of the door, under one of the weavings. The shuttered windows could be covered with a blind of narrow bamboo slats which at the moment was rolled up at the top of the window. 291

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"Good evening, Mr. Slade," Surito greeted Carl, holding out his hand, "I'm very pleased to welcome you to my home." By now Carl was used to the once unfamiliar custom of shaking hands, and he took Surito's hand firmly. "Good evening, Mr. Surito, it's an honour to be here," he said, bowing slightly. It was not so easy to discard the Protectorate greeting. "Please, sit down," Surito said, indicating one of the armchairs, "My wife has organized dinner for us and it should be ready shortly. Did you have a good flight?" "I suppose it was a good flight, Mr. Surito," Carl smiled, "It's the first time I've ever flown anywhere, so I don't have anything to compare it with." "Well, it won't be your last flight!" Surito laughed, "Actually, our trip to your country will be the first time in ten years that an aircraft from outside the Protectorate will be landing there, did you know that?" "I knew that apart from military aircraft now and then there has been no flying in the Protectorate since shortly after it was proclaimed in 2021," Carl replied. "How did you feel, then, boarding a plane for the first time in your life?" Surito asked with interest. He had a fast, clipped way of speaking and a strange accent which Carl found fascinating. Remembering his reaction, Carl grinned. "I was like a small boy with a new toy," he laughed, "I was terribly excited about it. I didn't really know what to expect. Mr. Aidit must have thought I was rather peculiar, asking him all sorts of questions about planes and flying, staring out of the window for half the flight, and wanting to see inside the, uh, cockpit!" Vice-President Surito gazed at Carl thoughtfully, amusement dancing in his black eyes. "What was your work in the Protectorate, Mr. Slade?" he asked, shortly. Not that he didn't already know... "Uh... I was a Police Counsellor, Sir," Carl answered uncertainly. He was taken aback by the sudden change of topic. "Do you know what that is?" "Yes. Actually, I already knew the answer. Just thought I ought to confirm it," Surito said, "Tell me, why did you leave the Protectorate?" "I became a Christian, didn't they tell you?" Carl was puzzled. Hadn't Surito seen the record of his interview? The Vice-President considered him for a moment. Carl wondered what was going on, and felt slightly uncomfortable under the man's steady but amused gaze. Surito removed his glasses, took a lens cloth out of his desk drawer, and sat back in his chair to clean them. He continued to smile at Carl while he did all this, but didn't say anything. When he'd put his glasses back on, he smiled, and suddenly asked, "So you love the Lord Jesus Christ, Carl?" Carl felt his heart skip a beat. So the Vice-President was also a believer! He had noticed, too, that Surito had used his first name. He answered with much feeling. "Oh yes! He's my Lord and my Saviour, Mr. Surito, my God in Whom I trust."

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"He's my Saviour and Lord too," Surito said, confirming Carl's guess, "That makes us brothers, Carl. Please, except for official occasions, would you call me Yaqob?" "I'll try, but I'm not sure I can pronounce it that way!" "Just pull your tongue right back when you hit the 'q', as if you were going to choke on it," Yaqob chuckled, "It's an Arabic name." The Kawanyaman Vice-President had looked through Carl's file once again before he arrived, and had already decided, from what he read of Carl's interview with the Asylum Committee, and the statements made by those who had got to know Carl over his first few weeks at Bethany Lodge, that here was someone with whom he would get on very well. He'd sensed that Carl was a kindred spirit despite their very disparate backgrounds, and he now found, as they continued their conversation, that he hadn't been wrong. Later in the evening, over dinner, he had a confession to make to Carl. "I was very curious to know your reaction to being in an aircraft, Carl," he said, looking decidedly mischievous, "You see, although I spend quite a lot of time in planes, I react much the same way every time! It drives my secretary, Mr. Feizal, round the twist, but I can't help it, I just get excited about going up in an aeroplane..." He shrugged, and grinned at his wife, who was smiling at him affectionately. When his wife had come to the study to tell them that dinner was ready, Yaqob had introduced her to Carl. "This is Salma, my wife, who has coped with me and my peculiarities for fifteen years," he'd expalined, "I don't know where I'd be without her support and love." Salma had smiled shyly but said nothing as she shook Carl's hand, then when they were seated at dinner she finally asked him if he was married. "I've been married almost eight months, Mrs. Surito," he replied, "My wife Emma is expecting our first children in a few months." "Children?" Yaqob raised his eyebrows, "Are you expecting twins, then?" "Yes! It was a bit of a shock when it was confirmed, but not for long..." "Would you happen to have a photograph of your wife with you, Carl?" "I do. I always have it, in my Bible," he replied, taking the little Bible out of his pocket. He took the photo out of it and passed it to Yaqob, who studied it a moment before showing it to his wife. "Is there any chance you could bring her along, next time you come?" Yaqob asked. "Actually, I was going to ask you that question. I gather my next trip will be a longer one, and I would like to bring Emma with me if that's possible." "By all means, Carl, I hope you'll bring her," Yaqob said, "We would all like to meet her, I'm sure." His heart had been warmed by what he had read about Carl and Emma in their files, and he wanted to get to know both of them. He handed the photo back to Carl. "Do you have children, Mrs. Surito?" Carl asked. "Please, call me Salma," she replied, "Yes, we have three children— Mathias, who is twelve; Ana, who is ten; and Elisa, who is seven. They 293

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had dinner early, but you'll meet them before they go to bed. We usually have a short devotional time with them before bedtime." "You're welcome to join us for that, if you'd like," Yaqob said. "Thank you, I'd like to," Carl replied, "Do you mind if I ask how long you've been Christians?" he added. "Not at all. We've been Christians since before we were married, some eighteen years, I think," Yaqob replied, looking at his wife for confirmation. "Yes, that's right," she agreed, "We both came to the Lord the same day, it was also the day we first met!" "Emma became a Christian when she was very young," Carl said, "I've been a Christian less than ten months..." "Well, it's the same Spirit who lives in you as lives in us and in Emma, Carl, and He's the same age in all of us—eternal!" All three were silent for a moment, pondering that amazing thought. No matter how long a person had been a believer, that person's new life was eternal life, the Life that only comes from God through Jesus Christ. "I don't really want to change the subject," Carl said at last, "but if you don't mind my asking, where will I be staying while I'm here?" "Oh, we assumed you'd be staying with us. Didn't Aidit tell you?" Yaqob said, looking surprised, "We've got plenty of room here—there's no need to send you off to some hotel..." The thought of staying with this family was very welcome to Carl, and he smiled gratefully at his hosts. "Thank you," he said quietly, "It will be wonderful to stay with you." When the meal was over they went into the Suritos' living room and the children joined them for their evening devotions. Yaqob was delighted to see that his children warmed to Carl as soon as they met him. As they prayed silently together after the Bible reading, he thanked the Lord for, among other things, bringing someone of like mind and heart to accompany him to the Protectorate. Carl was not the only one who was apprehensive about the trip south. ! ! ! The two weeks of Carl's stay in the capital were a time of intensive study in the history, customs, and politics of Kawanyama. He was introduced to all the Foreign Affairs staff who were concerned with relations with the Protectorate as well as to the other members of the delegation he was to accompany. He was given tours of the capital and surrounding country, for this area was very different from that around Bethany Lodge. Feizal, Yaqob Surito's secretary, took him shopping to buy the formal clothing he would need for official functions both before and during the trip. At the end of the first week he had his first meeting with the whole delegation. At the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, Aidit took him to one of the conference rooms where the other members of the delegation had already gathered. "May I introduce Mr. Charles Manuel, the new aide to VicePresident Surito and our cultural relations officer for the trip to the 294

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Protectorate," Aidit said to the men seated around the big conference table, "Mr. Manuel has extensive knowledge of the Protectorate and will brief us on cultural differences, expected behaviour, and protocol, and will be with us on the trip to make sure we behave ourselves!" One of the decisions it had been necessary to make about Carl's participation in the delegation concerned his name. It was obvious that he could not go back to the Protectorate as Carl Slade, thus his name had to be changed. It was Surito who suggested that his new name shouldn't be so different as to cause an identity crisis, but it should be different enough so that the connection between his new name and his real name was not obvious. "Charles is the English form of Carl, and sounds different enough, I think, and Manuel, the Portuguese version of your middle name, is not an unusual surname in Kawanyama. From what you told us your middle name is not generally known over there, so 'Manuel' should not draw attention. From now on everyone here will call you Charles, understood? And any communication with you will use that name. You might like to get your wife used to it when you go home, too." Carl was exhausted by the programme that had been arranged for him and he was glad that most evenings he was free. He chose to spend those evenings at the Suritos' home, for he found the atmosphere there reminded him of the Parkers' home. Although the Vice-President and his wife were out for official functions of one sort or another several times during the week, they made a point of spending some time in prayer together each evening and they invited Carl to join in. They also took him to their church on Sunday morning, and Carl was relieved to find that the small congregation was earnestly seeking to worship God in all of life and to take every opportunity to spread the Gospel. On his return to Bethany Lodge, Carl spent a large part of the first day sleeping. He was so worn out by the intensity of the time he'd spent in the capital that he had found it difficult to stay awake even on the drive home from the Air Force Base. After about ten minutes of trying to have a conversation with him, Will had given up and let him doze. Will dropped him off at the cottage, where Emma greeted him enthusiastically. She was surprised at how tired he was, but she was so glad to have him home that she happily let him go to bed. He managed to get up for a short while at lunchtime, apologizing to Emma for his behaviour, but then went back to bed for another few hours in the afternoon. By evening he was feeling somewhat more like himself and was able to stay up and tell her about his trip and his new identity. "It'll sound very strange to hear people calling you 'Charles' or 'Mr. Manuel'," Emma said, "Will they mind if I continue to call you 'Carl'?" "Not if you remember to call me Charles when we're with other people," Carl replied, "But I must say I much prefer you to call me by my own name!"

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"Will you be as frantically busy on the next trip as you were this time, d'you think?" "From what Yaqob told me, yes, I will," he answered, "But don't worry. You'll love being at the Suritos' home. It's a real haven of peace, like this place." So on Carl's second trip to the capital Emma went along, and although she didn't see much of him during the daytime, she was glad to be able to share in his experience of a different part of the country. She also thoroughly enjoyed being with the Suritos, as he had assured her she would. She thanked God that Carl and Yaqob had become friends, for she was still anxious about the trip to the Protectorate and it was comforting to know that Carl would be going there with a friend. Carl was getting used to being called "Charles" or "Mr. Manuel" by everyone except Emma, and he practised signing his new name so that it would come naturally to him to sign "Charles Manuel". "This is a bit like being two people, Yaqob," he said at dinner one evening, "Emma still calls me 'Carl', of course, and I wouldn't want her to change over unless it becomes absolutely necessary, but everyone else calls me 'Charles'. Who am I?" "A fine brother in the Lord whom I'm privileged to call my friend," Yaqob answered, grinning, "and who has become an indispensable and much appreciated member of the Kawanyaman delegation to the Protectorate. Hallelujah! May the Lord's name be praised, for I'm sure He has His own plans for bringing you to us and for the two trips we'll be making." "Yes, I agree with you there," Carl said, "The more I've been involved in this, the more I've felt that God is organizing the whole business for His own purposes." He turned to Emma. "How do you feel about it, Em?" he asked. "I certainly feel at peace about it, that it's what God wants you to do, even if I don't actually like the idea of your going down there," she replied. "I think something unexpected will happen as the result of your visit there," Salma remarked. "Well, seeing as we're all agreed, let's go into the lounge and spend some time worshipping the Lord and talking with Him before Salma and I have to leave for that reception," Yaqob suggested. "May I accompany our singing on your piano, Yaqob?" Emma asked. "By all means, that would be very welcome," he answered, getting up from the table and leading the way out of the dining room. Salma went to fetch her children, and when she brought them to the lounge, the two families from such different backgrounds but with a common faith happily joined together in worshipping their Lord and God in unity of heart and mind.

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Chapter 41 As the small passenger jet approached the airbase just outside Densonia, Carl felt a wave of apprehension sweep over him. Was he likely to meet someone who would recognise him despite his full beard? He knew what was likely to happen to him if such a situation eventuated. He thought about Emma back in Kawanyama. Dear God, he prayed, keep me safe, please, for her sake. "Well, Charles," Yaqob Surito said, leaning over from his seat across the aisle. "This is our first time arriving at Densonia Airbase. Feizal has just reminded me of the likely procedure, according to the information they sent us. As soon as we're allowed to leave the plane I'll go out. They'll have somebody to meet us, some sort of ceremony of welcome or such-like. You come behind, after my secretary. The rest of the party will follow. I'll introduce you and the rest of the team. Don't say anything, just smile. I'll do the talking for all of us. Besides, that laryngitis of yours doesn't seem to be clearing up, does it?" He smiled at Carl, who nodded. "We have to be very careful or we might say the wrong things and that could be awkward." "It's awkward enough not being able to talk properly as it is," Carl whispered. "Agreed. Anyway, after the introductions, they'll take us into the building where they'll probably have some kind of afternoon tea prepared for us. While we enjoy that, they'll be bringing our luggage in from the plane. They'll probably take us directly to the Densonia Hotel—their one and only hotel! Near the Lake, you said it is. Tonight there'll probably be a banquet to welcome us, so we'd want to change for that. Any questions?" "Yes," Carl replied hoarsely, "Could we please pray, right now, about this visit? I'm being threatened by an overwhelming sense of panic, Yaqob. I'm afraid someone will recognise me!" "By all means, Charles, let's pray," Yaqob agreed, "Our trust is in God, and only He can take away any fear we might have. Let's pray now." The head of the Kawanyaman delegation and his aide bowed their heads and Surito asked God that they might all be filled with His Holy Spirit so that in all their words and actions while in Densonia they might be fitting ambassadors not only of their country, but more importantly, of His kingdom. He prayed that any fear or apprehension might be cast out as they trusted in Him. He also prayed that seeing eyes might be made blind to certain things, especially Charles Manuel's true identity. The aircraft taxied to a stop by the main building of the airbase, and the steward opened the door and let down the steps. A ground crew rolled out a long strip of maroon carpet from the steps to the door of the building. A group of men and women who had been waiting by the door walked up to the plane and stood in a line alongside the carpet. Vice-President Surito, followed by his secretary, Mr. Feizal, moved to the door of the plane and onto the top step. Carl followed behind them, stooping to clear the doorway, and the rest of the delegation lined up 297

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behind him. Surito slowly descended the steps, keeping his eyes on the welcomers. The Kawanyaman group came down after him, and he introduced them to the Protectorate representatives. Carl was relieved to see that he didn't know any of them, though he thought he might have seen one or two of them at the Lancasters' musical evenings. The Protectorate group was led by the Minister for Foreign Affairs, a man he had never met. He was thankful that one did not shake hands in the Protectorate, for his own hands were trembling. In Kawanyama one had to shake hands all the time, and he was used to it, but then he was not in danger of his life there. Their arrival in Densonia happened much as Yaqob had told Carl it would, and Carl didn't mind in the least that most of the attention was directed at the Vice-President. It seemed that the rest of the delegation was essentially ignored apart from seeing that basic needs were met. Despite this, Carl remained on the alert, for he was all too aware of the way people in the Protectorate were monitored. You never knew when someone might be checking on you. He assumed this would apply even, and maybe especially, to visitors from abroad. And as far as he knew, the Kawanyamans were the first visitors from abroad in the short history of the Protectorate. The Protectioners would be very much on their guard. In the car on the way to the hotel Carl stared out of the window with great curiosity. He was seeing his homeland through new and very different eyes. After his conversion he had left the Protectorate in such a hurry that he hadn't been able to see it from this new perspective. He became aware of many things he had never noticed before, or that he had always taken for granted. There were no shop-windows that he could see. He knew there were shops, but goods just weren't displayed, for the simple reason that there were no goods to display. He thought of the shops in the Kawanyaman capital, or even in Warden, with their elaborate displays, and of the proliferation of goods there—in fact he remembered being appalled at the wastefulness in evidence in Kawanyama. Here in Densonia, what he saw could only be described as great poverty by Kawanyaman standards. There seemed to be Police Officers everywhere. He didn't recall being particularly aware of them before, but then he had been used to their presence. All government officials wore uniforms of one sort or another, each Ministry or Department being recognized by the colour of their uniforms. He spotted a couple of Search and Rescue Officers in their brown coats, and a member of the Welfare Ministry in a maroon uniform, but most of the uniforms he was seeing were dark blue, the colour of the Police Force. He watched the people. They moved along the streets without looking at each other, or eyeing each other suspiciously. Even in the queues, and there were many of these, they behaved as if each one was alone. He didn't see anyone along the streets having a conversation with anyone else. Had it been like that before he left? He tried to remember his own behaviour when out on the street. Yes, the only person he'd ever talked to in public was Andrew, and then only in the Park, where it wasn't quite as suspicious, 298

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especially if they were in uniform. Otherwise he had behaved exactly as the people he was seeing behaved—he had avoided talking to anyone and he had ignored everyone around him. He recognised several people walking along the streets as Enwuh reps by their confident and even smug demeanor, and remembered the fear those watchdogs could inspire in anyone they approached. He shuddered at the thought that he had been a willing instrument of that system for so long... As the car stopped for a traffic signal, Carl observed the men and women standing in line at the entrance to a Pleasure House. They all seemed to be staring unseeing at their surroundings. Certainly they did not look at each other. Their eyes looked glazed. As they moved slowly forwards, closer to the building, their faces took on a hungry look, and he suddenly remembered something Emma had said to him in one of her counselling sessions—"You mean, they end up behaving like animals!" When the car moved on, Carl sat back and closed his eyes. His heart ached for these people, his countrymen, who had no idea that God exists and that He hates the evils to which they devoted their entire lives; who had no idea that they were behaving like animals; whose minds had been so dulled by constant entertainment, Protection propaganda, and fear that they were unable to see that they didn't have to live this way... Lord God, please get your Gospel to my countrymen, he prayed in his heart, and please open their eyes and their ears and their hearts to receive it, somehow. Bring them hope, please, Lord. A verse from Isaiah came to his mind: "And then I heard the Lord God say, 'Whom can I send? Who will go for us?' And I cried, 'I'm here! Send me!'" Carl opened his eyes abruptly. He knew the voice of the Lord—he'd heard it before! And he'd told the Lord that yes! he would follow Him wherever He took him... He knew then, as the car drove on through Densonia, that he, Carl Emmanuel—'God with us!'—Slade, was the answer to his own prayer. He suddenly felt very small. How in the world could he get the Gospel to these people? He couldn't just stand up and preach, he'd last two minutes at most before an Enwuh rep arrested him! 'It won't be by mighty deeds, nor in you own strength, but by My Spirit,' says the Lord God Almighty.' I just have to be willing to obey—the Lord will show me how at the right time, he told himself. A sense of peace and joy filled his heart. There was hope for the captives of the Protectorate, and God was willing to use him to bring it to them, despite his weakness. They were approaching the centre of town now, and his heart skipped a beat as they drove past the Counselling Institute. Behind it he could see the Park and the Lake which had been so dear to him. Beyond the Lake loomed the hill of Denson's Presidential Palace with its giant flag. Nearer the hotel they passed the apartment building where the Parkers lived. Were Denise and the children still there? The cars came to a stop in front of the main entrance to the Densonia Hotel, and doormen hurried to open the passengers' doors. Carl and his fellow passenger, Aidit, representing the Kawanyaman Ministry for Foreign Affairs, got out and followed Vice-President Surito into the lobby. 299

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The Kawanyaman party were immediately taken to their suite. The official who was to be their guide and escort for the two and a half days announced that they were expected that evening at the Presidential Palace for an official banquet. The government cars would come for them at six o'clock. Dress would be formal. Since the first time he'd worn it, for his wedding, Carl had got used to the Kawanyaman idea of formal wear, quite different from what he had known in the Protectorate. The long-sleeved, floral-patterned shirts with narrow collars and belted across the back at the waist contrasted sharply with the dark suits, white shirts, and white ties of the Protectorate officials who came to fetch them to take them to the Palace. He did notice that the Kawanyaman shirts were not quite warm enough in the cold air of the Densonian spring, and promised himself that he would bring a warm undershirt next time they came. The huge marble lobby of the Palace, with its twin staircases, was calculated to dwarf all who entered and make them feel small in the face of the might of the Government. The Palace had been built in the eighties and was a veritable rabbit-warren of hallways, offices, and huge meeting rooms, with living quarters and other facilities extending all over the hill and deep underneath it. Carl had never visited the Palace before and he found it ironic that his first entrance to it should be as a representative of another country. The first thing that met the eye as they entered the Palace was a floor-toceiling bronze statue of Brent Denson. Carl noticed that the Protectorate officials all bowed low to it as they came in. None of the Kawanyamans did this, and they received many looks of disapproval from their hosts. They were led along the vast hallways for some distance before arriving at the banqueting hall. Carl recalled his view of hospital corridors as a fouryear-old. The only difference, it seemed to him, was that these halls were lined with marble, not tiles—he found them just as intimidating. The hundred or so guests who were already seated in the banqueting hall stood up as the delegation was announced. There were three long tables. The head table was reserved for the Presidential party and the visitors. The other two tables, set perpendicularly to the head table but separated from it by a few metres, were for the remaining guests. The Kawanyamans and the Protectorate officials accompanying them were shown to their seats, then everyone stood as President Denson entered the room with his bodyguards and went to his seat. As soon as Denson sat down, everyone else resumed their seats. Vice-president Surito was seated to the right of Denson, with the Protectorate Foreign Affairs Minister to his own right. Carl sat next to the latter. He looked at Denson. He'd never seen him this close up, and he was surprised at how old he looked for his sixty years. He wondered what it did to a man to live in constant fear and suspicion of everyone around him, until he remembered what fear had done in his own life—the fear he had known before he had met the Lord.

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He looked down towards the other tables. Various Ministers and ViceMinisters were seated there, and he recognised several Bureau and Institute Chiefs, including Ross Lancaster halfway down the table on the left. He hoped fervently that no-one would recognize him. He prayed silently for wisdom and the right words to say should he be addressed during the meal. The man on his right introduced himself. "Geoffrey Meister, Minister for Trade," he said, inclining his head, "and you are..." "Charles Manuel, Mr. Meister," Carl whispered, "Aide to Vice-President Surito. Please excuse my not being brilliant at conversation, Sir, but I'm suffering from a severe attack of laryngitis." "Oh, how unfortunate!" exclaimed Meister, "Isn't it amazing how things like that always seem to happen at the most inconvenient times?" And he launched into a lengthy description of illnesses he had suffered at various critical stages of his career. When Yaqob Surito had suggested to Carl that it might be an idea to give himself drug-induced laryngitis, at least for the first two days of the trip, so his voice wouldn't be recognisable, Carl had baulked, thinking of it as yet another deception. He felt the trip involved rather a lot of deception as it was. On the morning of their planned departure, however, he discovered that he had come down with a real case of laryngitis, and instead of taking a drug to cause aphasia, he found he had to take medicine to treat it. Now he listened so absently to Meister's litany that he didn't notice when the man changed topics. "You seem to have a lot of Spanish surnames in your country," he suddenly heard Meister say to him, referring to Carl's assumed surname. Carl's heart jumped at this unexpected focusing on his identity, and he hoped that his face hadn't gone as white as he felt it had. But Meister wasn't even looking at him as he asked him if his ancestors were Spanish or Latin American. "Neither, my great-grandfather was half Portuguese," Carl croaked. This was actually as true for Carl Slade as it supposedly was for Charles Manuel. It was Mei Li who had managed to remember this fact, once told her by Carl's mother. "We have very few people of Spanish or Portuguese descent here," Meister said importantly. Carl deduced from his tone that he was proud of the fact. He recalled that one of Denson's policies was to glorify the Republic's, and then the Protectorate's, Anglo-Saxon heritage. He had never before realised how appalling a policy like that was in a country so full of immigrants from all over the world. No wonder half the population had fled! He was about to respond to Meister's comment when the other guests began applauding, and he saw that President Denson had stood up to give his welcoming speech. Carl braced himself to listen to what he guessed would be Denson's usual pompous style. The President first thanked his guests for attending the banquet—not that they had a choice once invited—then he introduced Vice-President 301

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Surito as his guest of honour. Surito stood up, bowed left and right, and resumed his seat. For the next twenty minutes Brent Denson extolled at length the achievements of his government. Carl became aware that he had never really listened to Denson's speeches, and now that he was paying attention he was disgusted by the man's bombast and his disdain for his supporters. Carl scanned the audience. Can't they hear him? he wondered, Can't they understand his insults? But they didn't seem to notice—all were looking towards Denson with a fixed smile as if hypnotized. Well, I suppose they're not really listening either, he said to himself. Then he remembered that most of these people would have prepared themselves for this event by a visit to a Pleasure House or a session in their Fantasy Dreamer. No doubt most of them were also under the influence of a Personality Pill. As he gazed from face to face, Carl was once again filled with compassion for a people who were so incredibly lost. And he knew how lost, for not many months ago he himself had been one of them... As he continued to look around the tables, wondering if any at all of the guests were believers, Carl was suddenly shocked to recognize one elderly woman at the table on the right as Dorcas! Well, he certainly knew where she stood! What role might she play in Denson's government? Perhaps something in the Ministry of Health? He shifted his gaze, for he did not want her to notice him. He wasn't sure that even being recognised by a friend would be a good idea, though he had a suspicion that Dorcas would probably give no hint of recognition even if she did realise who he was. When Denson had finished his speech there was much applause. Carl clapped his hands with everyone else, telling himself he was clapping because the speech was finally over and they could get on with eating! It seemed that Surito was not expected to give a speech, for as soon as Denson sat down their food was served, and the President engaged his guest of honour in conversation. The Foreign Minister tried to chat with Carl, but he soon gave up because the noise level in the hall made it almost impossible for him to hear Carl's responses. Meister had got into a long discussion with Aidit who was seated at the other side of him, so Carl ate in silence, which he didn't mind. He observed his fellow-diners, and prayed for them. He thought of Emma and the household at Bethany Lodge, and missed them terribly. He tried to figure out which of the guests were Enwuh reps, and spotted a couple. He was glad when the meal was over and the delegation rose to leave after Denson's departure. Seldom before had he felt so alone in the middle of a crowd. The two days of the Kawanyaman delegation's visit to the Protectorate were a whirlwind of meetings with officials, formal meals, and guided tours of Densonia. The Kawanyamans hardly had time to think between events, and Surito finally had to ask if they could possibly rest for an hour after lunch on the second day, lest they collapse. Along with Carl, Feizal, and Aidit, he spent that hour praying, for he knew that the hours ahead would determine whether the Protectorate governement would welcome the 302

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suggestion of a follow-up trip. He was sure that a second trip was crucial to the continuing of relations between the two governments. Although the talks with Protectorate officials apparently led precisely nowhere, Yaqob Surito felt at peace about the whole trip. He had managed to contact some key members of the Underground and had warned them of their planned second trip, and he had also got the impression that Brent Denson welcomed the interest shown by the Kawanyaman government as giving his own government some of the prestige he desired. The flight back to Kawanyama was uneventful, but the members of the delegation were very subdued. The contrast between the way the government officials lived and the conditions the under which the majority of the people suffered was all too evident to them. It wasn't so long ago that their own country had harboured that kind of contrast. They hoped that by encouraging the Protectorate government to open up to the outside world they could foster changes that would help the people of that country. Emma was full of questions when Carl got back to their home. She was also very excited about having seen the twins on the screen of a scanner, and almost as soon as he came in the door she showed him the photograph that had been taken of the screen image. "Slow down, Em!" Carl exclaimed impatiently as she fired questions at him, "I can only answer one thing at a time!" "Oh, Carl," she replied in dismay at his tone, "it's just that I'm so glad you're back, and I want to hear all about your trip, and I'm so excited about this photo of the twins!" He hugged her and gave her a kiss. "I'm so glad to be back, too, Em. Sorry I yelled at you," he replied wearily, "I'm tired out, and emotionally I'm feeling overwhelmed. I'd never seen the Protectorate as it really is..." Emma was taken aback by the sudden change in his tone. She searched his face, which was lined by weariness and a heavy heart. "What happened, Carl?" she asked him softly, "Did anything go wrong?" "No, the trip went all right, Em, and they're happy for us to make the second trip," he replied, "It's just that I had no idea of the darkness that covers our country... When we left I hadn't had time to notice. I guess you must have been aware of it. Were you?" He didn't give her time to answer before adding, "Of course you were—anyone can tell by the way you pray for our people. And now I've seen it, too... It's heartbreaking, Em—we've got to go back and give them hope. We've got to somehow let them know about God, about Jesus Christ." His eyes had misted over as he spoke, and his hold on her hand had tightened until she had to tell him gently that he was hurting her. "I'm sorry, I didn't know," he apologized. He let her hand go and instead put his arms around her again. "Oh, Em, those poor people..." "Did you see anyone you know?" she asked quietly. "Only from a distance, mostly. I did sit next to Geoffrey Meister for one meal, but I think he was high on something, because he did all the talking. The man on the other side of me, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, gave up talking to me very soon, because I had laryngitis."

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"You had laryngitis?" Emma said in surprise, "Well, at least that means your voice couldn't be recognised either!" "The next trip is in two weeks' time. I wonder what that will be like..." Carl said, sitting down on their sofa and putting his legs up on it. Emma sat down next to him on the edge of the sofa and he put his arm around her. "I missed you terribly, Em," he said softly, "I'm so glad to be home."

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Chapter 42 Emma had felt rather strange all afternoon. She wondered if there was a possibility she might go into premature labour, and she prayed that she wouldn't. She couldn't bear the thought of her babies starting off life in such risky fashion, and with Carl due to leave on his second trip with VicePresident Surito the next day, the thought was doubly unwelcome. She mentioned it to Carl when he came home, and he immediately suggested that they kneel down and pray about it right then, for the thought was not welcome to him either. "Lord God," he prayed, kneeling with Emma in the middle of their living room, "You know how scary the thought of the twins being born at this time is to us. Please don't let it happen, let them wait until closer to term, especially as I'm going to be so far away from Emma for the next few days. But we do know, Lord, that whatever you allow is the best thing, so if they are to be born early, please give us the grace to cope with it in a way that glorifies You." He rose and helped Emma to get up. "If only you could come with me tomorrow!" he said, hugging her, "I hate to have to leave you at this stage..." "You won't be away very long, only a couple of days," she replied, trying to feel as certain as she sounded, "I'll keep busy and the time will go quickly." "I'm glad you've got George and Mei Li nearby. I know that you'll be in good hands if anything untoward happens, thank God." In the early hours of the next morning Emma woke up screaming, and Carl flung his arms around her and pulled her close. "Emma! It's all right, it's all right!" he murmured, hugging and rocking her, "It's all right, Em, calm down!" She was gripping him tightly, her face buried on his shoulder, and shaking with frightened sobs. He just continued to hug her and after a while she did calm down. He let go of her for a moment to reach over and switch on the bedside lamp. "Oh, Carl, hold me, don't let go of me, ever, please!" Emma pleaded. "Did you have a nightmare, Em?" he asked her softly, taking her in his arms again. "It was horrible, oh, it was horrible! I dreamt that they shot you, that they killed you, Carl, over there! That this woman, one of those Carers, you know, handed you over to the firing squad, and they shot you! And it was so real! So horribly real!" Carl stared at her in shock. After a moment he sat up, helped her to sit up, and put his arms around her again. He took a deep breath before speaking. "Em, I hate to say this, but I dreamt exactly the same thing, just before you woke up screaming," he said quietly, "I felt it was a warning, not to stop me going, but just to let me know something unpleasant's going to happen over there and to remind me that God's 305

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looking after me. It was strange, you know, I woke up covered in sweat and shaking, but completely at peace about it. And then you screamed!" He kissed her forehead. "Emma, my love, it looks like this trip may have its dark moments. It looks like something dreadful might be going to happen. But whatever happens, Em, remember to trust God unconditionally—no strings attached." "Carl, how can I face your going away knowing that you might never come back?" she asked fearfully. "Emma, think," he said soberly, "With or without dreams, there was never any guarantee that I would come back from any trip, not even a quick trip down to the Far Paddock, was there? Anyway, even if something awful happens, it doesn't necessarily mean I won't come back. It can just mean I'll be delayed. Don't be afraid, Em, my love, every time you start feeling afraid, tell the Lord about it, and just trust Him. I'll do the same. You have to be strong, for these little ones' sake." He put his hand on her belly and smiled. "And for my sake," he added. "I'll try, Carl," she replied, "With God's help, I'll try." He lay back down and she lay on her side next to him, her head on his shoulder. He could feel the twins moving and it gave him a strange, warm feeling. I'm the father of twins, he thought, There they are, so close to me and yet so remote... And I might never see them... Emma broke into his thoughts softly. "Carl, speaking of these little ones, what should their names be? We haven't decided on any names yet. If there's a chance you might not come back, it would be better if we decide now. You have to have a say in it, you're their father." Her voice suddenly shook. "I-I d-don't want to have to ch-choose names all by—all by myself!" "Helen Mei Li and Andrew George," Carl replied evenly, "It's a girl and a boy." Emma raised herself up on her elbow and stared at him in astonishment. "What makes you so sure?" she asked. "I don't know, Em." He didn't smile. "I just am sure." "And those are the only names you'll consider?" "No, of course not. I'm happy to consider other names. Do you have any others to suggest?" She stared at him again, but with a puzzled look. "No," she said finally, in a small voice, "Those are the same names I had in mind..." "Well, that settles it, then," Carl grinned, "That was nicely painless, wasn't it? I've heard that some people actually come to blows about choosing their children's names!" He looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. "How awful it must be for a couple when they turn in opposite directions," he whispered, "However can they face the future?" He drew his wife back down on his shoulder and kissed her. "Let's try and get back to sleep, Em. It won't do any good to be overtired." He turned off the lamp then wrapped his arms around her, and suddenly felt very reluctant even to go to sleep, let alone to leave for another country from which he might not return. He prayed silently for courage and

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peace, and for Emma and the twins. Oh, how I want to see and hold my children! he thought, Please, Lord. ! ! ! The first round of talks during the Kawanyamans' second visit to Densonia seemed more promising than any of those that had been held during their first visit. It appeared that perhaps Denson's government would at last be open to suggestions of cooperation with other countries if not at this stage, at least at a date in the not-too-distant future. VicePresident Surito and his delegation felt on this first day that their trip was not in vain. It was puzzling, however, that so far they hadn't gone near the Presidential Palace on this visit. They sensed that something was going on that no-one was talking about. After the meetings, the Kawanyaman party arrived back at the hotel accompanied by several officials who were to dine with them that evening. One of them was Ronald Velasquez. After the dinner, the whole group was taken to one of the private lounges for informal coffee and drinks. Velasquez chatted with various members of the Kawanyaman delegation, then endeavoured to engage the Vice-President's aide in conversation when he noticed that the man was alone for a moment. "My name is Ronald Velasquez, Chief of the Investigations Bureau," he said, bowing slightly to Carl with a smile, adding in a whisper, "Also known as Philip." "Charles Manuel, aide to Vice-President Surito," Carl smiled and bowed back to him. He knew Velasquez, having met him both through his previous work and at Lancaster's parties. "Do you still play the flute, my friend?" Velasquez whispered, leaning over and pretending to study the fabric of Carl's shirt, then added out loud, "Interesting how they weave these patterns in your country... We have mainly plain colours in our fabrics these days." He straightened up. "Mr. Manuel, what do you think of our capital city?" he asked, "I gather this is only your second visit here?" Carl's throat had gone dry when Velasquez indicated that he had recognised him. He was puzzled by his first whispered statement, and was trying to remember where he'd heard of 'Philip'. "It's a remarkable city, Sir," he answered, non-committally, his voice sounding odd to himself, "Quite different from our own towns. The lake makes it very picturesque, doesn't it?" "Would you mind if we sit down?" Velasquez asked him, "I've been standing a bit too long for my bad leg." He led the way to two chairs at the side of the room and sat down. Carl took the other chair. He couldn't remember the Chief of Investigations having a bad leg, but then he'd never really paid much attention to the man. "Don't worry, and try not to look surprised, I won't give you away," the Chief assured Carl quietly, smiling, "Peter asked me to try to talk to you and ask if you want to meet with the Winstons while you're here."

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"How long have you been in on this?" Carl asked, doing his best not to show his astonishment, "I had no idea..." "Oh, I've been there longer than you might think!" Velasquez laughed, then added more quietly, "Are you good at acting?" "I don't know, I've never tried it—" Velasquez smiled and raised his eyebrows at the same time. "So what do you think you've been doing all day?" he asked, "Be prepared to do quite a bit tomorrow, if you want to meet them. Peter will arrange it." "I'd really appreciate that," Carl said warmly. "Well, then, I'll get my driver to pick you up from the hotel at eleven thirty and take you to the Bureau. We can have lunch in my office and discuss those matters. It could be a serious problem if it keeps happening." Velasquez raised his eyebrows again as he noticed Carl's confusion at his response. "I'd better check with Mr. Surito that he won't be needing me. Excuse me, please," Carl got up and walked over to the Vice-President, who was listening to a monologue by Geoff Meister and who welcomed Carl's interruption gratefully. "Charles, is there a problem?" Surito turned towards his aide, effectively stopping Meister's talk, to the latter's annoyance. "Excuse me, please, Mr. Meister." "No problem, Sir," Carl replied, "But I thought I should check whether you'd be needing me at lunchtime tomorrow. Mr. Velasquez, Chief of the Investigations Bureau, has invited me to have lunch with him so we can discuss those border problems." He had picked the first topic that came to mind to explain the invitation. "No, I don't think I'll be needing you, Charles," Surito told him, "But how will you get there?" "He said he'd send his driver to pick me up here at eleven thirty." "Well, that's fine, go right ahead. It'll be good to bring those issues up since you have the opportunity. Just remember that I'll need you back by two for the next talks." "Thank you, Sir," Carl said, nodding to him. As he went back to Velasquez it crossed his mind that Surito had shown no surprise at this sudden turn of events. "The Vice-President is happy for me to join you for lunch tomorrow," he said to Velasquez. "Well, that's all settled then," Velasquez answered, "My driver will pick you up at eleven thirty. Would you like him to give you a little tour of the city on your way to the Bureau?" "If you think it's appropriate, Sir, I'd like that very much. But I do have to be back here by two o'clock." "Well, just a short one, then," Velasquez smiled, "You might find it, uh, interesting." "Thank you, Sir," Carl replied, "I appreciate your kindness. I haven't had a chance yet to see all of your city properly."

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Velasquez stood up and bowed to Carl. "It looks like my party is leaving," he remarked, "so I'll say good night, and I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Manuel." "Good night, Mr. Velasquez." As he made his way back to the Kawanyaman suite, Carl puzzled over his meeting with Velasquez. Was the man laying a trap for him? Where had he heard the name, "Philip"? It could be one of the Underground code names. He decided to ask Surito about it. The other thing that he wondered about was how Peter knew that he was here, and that he was with the Kawanyaman delegation. He was becoming aware that the Underground was much better organized than he'd thought. Back in the suite, Surito, sitting on the sofa in the lounge, beckoned to him. Carl went over and sat down next to him. "Do be very, very careful tomorrow, Charles," Surito warned him quietly, "Velasquez—Philip—is in the Underground but he's surrounded by people who aren't. Don't blow either his cover or yours. Remember that you're Charles Manuel, aide to Vice-President Surito of Kawanyama and that he's the Chief of the Investigations Bureau. Remember whenever anyone else is with you that you're there to discuss border problems." "I won't forget, Yaqob, don't worry," Carl said, "One thing, though—he suggested I might want to meet with Jack Winston. You may recall that Jack's my brother-in-law, besides being the pastor of the Densonia church. I assume Philip means tomorrow. He said it would require some acting on my part! I wonder if you could pray with me, both about the wisdom or otherwise of meeting with Jack, and about the meeting if it actually happens." "Will do, Charles, by all means," the Vice-President assured him. "I actually have a letter from Emma with me, for her brother and his wife, in case I had an opportunity to get it to them!" Carl laughed, "Emma was quite sure I'd get a chance... By the way, where have I heard of Philip before? Do you know?" "Yes! I mentioned him to you in passing, last month, I think it was. I forget what we were talking about when his name came up. He's the leader of the Underground. Did you know he speaks Aramaic? He picked it up when he was at university. It's a very useful thing to know, in the Underground."

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Chapter 43 "Well, I've got some interesting news tonight, Rose," Jack Winston told his wife as he sat down to tea. He had just arrived home from his daily visiting round a bit later than usual. "What's up?" Rose asked as she dished out the meal. "I've got a message from Peter that there's someone from over the border who needs to speak to us, Rose," he replied, "Both of us. He wants to see both of us." "How is he going to manage that?" she asked, "It would be awfully risky for him or us to be seen meeting together." "It's all arranged, Rose—Peter's worked it all out. Tomorrow's Saturday. We're to take a picnic lunch, in a large basket, down to the Park, at noon. The man will be sitting at one of the picnic tables reading. Peter is organizing people to occupy all the other tables so we can't miss him! He wants us to go up to the fellow and ask if it's all right with him if we have our picnic at one end of the table. He'll say it's okay but he'll refuse an invitation to join us, and he'll turn around so he isn't completely facing us, but he'll be able to continue talking while he pretends to keep reading. Peter said not to worry if the man behaves strangely. We must appear to be having an ordinary picnic lunch the whole time. Feel up to a bit of playacting?" "Did he say why this man wants to see us?" Rose asked anxiously, without answering his question. "No. He said we'd find out when we meet him." "Kawanyama..." Rose mused, "Maybe this man's got news of Emma?" "I suppose that's a possibility," Jack said, "but then surely Peter would have told me?" "Well, perhaps he's afraid we might be too excited and not be able to 'act' properly... I guess we'll find out tomorrow." ! ! ! Velasquez's driver arrived promptly at eleven thirty, and Carl got into the front seat of the car. The driver seemed somewhat disconcerted. "I gather you're going to show me some of the sights," Carl said to him, "I think I'll have a better view from the front seat, don't you?" "Yes, Mr. Manuel, you certainly will," the man replied, "I was just a bit surprised, because Mr. Velasquez usually sits in the back seat." Where the monitors never work... he said to himself. They drove out towards the Lake and across the bridge. Carl felt as if it were years ago that he'd left Densonia, it looked so different from his new perspective. He wondered what Velasquez thought he might find "interesting". The driver continued towards the Presidential Palace, then drove right around it, coming back to the front of the building which looked over the Lake. 310

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Then Carl saw it, on the side of Denson Hill on the other side of the Lake, defying the Palace and all it stood for—a huge Cross. It looked like some sort of mosaic. He was astonished that it should be there. Did any of the Protectioners still know that it was the symbol of Christianity? Surely if they did it would have been removed as soon as it was noticed? He glanced at Velasquez's driver. The man showed no hint of having seen anything unusual. The car drove on and he gazed pensively out of the window, commenting now and then when the driver pointed something out to him. Finally they arrived at the building housing the Investigations Bureau. Velasquez was waiting for him at the main door. "Welcome, Mr. Manuel," he said cordially, bowing to Carl, who bowed back. He dismissed his driver, asking him to be ready to take Mr. Manuel back to the hotel at one-thirty. "Come on up to my office," he said to Carl, and led the way to the lifts. Velasquez had arranged for the meal to be served in his office, and it was waiting for them when they entered. He told the caterers who had brought it that he would let them know when he'd finished, and they left the room. Velasquez locked his door. "Interestingly enough," he said cheerfully to Carl, "The monitoring equipment in this office keeps failing." He winked. "It causes no end of frustration, not least because I waste so much time having to get it repaired all the time..." He grinned and made wringing motions with his hands, then shrugged. Carl smiled as he understood why the equipment was less than reliable. They sat down at the table set up by the caterers. Velasquez gave thanks to God, and they began eating. "Unfortunately," he said after a few minutes, "I made an appointment with one of my Officers for twelve-thirty, and I'd forgotten about it when I invited you here yesterday." He raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps you'd like to take a walk in the Park while he's here, maybe sit down over there and read for a while, or something like that? He shouldn't be too long. There'll be people having picnics down there, I expect. You may be able to make some interesting cultural observations, perhaps?" Carl looked puzzled. "What do you have in mind?" he asked. Velasquez chuckled. "Jack and Rose Winston will be having a picnic lunch down there around that time. Peter arranged it all. Let me tell you his instructions." Velasquez then explained how Peter had worked out a way of allowing Carl and the Winstons to meet without giving Carl away, and how Carl should go about it. "Now repeat all that to me," he said when he'd finished. Carl did so, and Velasquez seemed satisfied. "I happen to have a few books from which you can choose one to take down there," he said, "Remember that someone reading a book tends to be rather conspicuous here. Fortunately your outrageous clothing marks you as a member of the visiting delegation. But be on the alert nevertheless. You can't afford to forget who you're supposed to be."

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"I'll be very careful. I wouldn't want to get Jack and Rose into trouble," Carl assured him. "Now, however, if you don't mind my changing the subject, I'd like to repeat the question I asked you last night. How long have you been involved in this?" "Oh, quite a few years. Five? Six?" Velasquez replied, "I've had this position some eight years now, ever since old Forrester died, and I became a Christian about two years after I became Chief, so, yes, about five years ago I started the Underground movement." "You started it?" Carl exclaimed, "How did you manage that?" "Well, I had help, of course, and believe me, we prayed and fasted a lot about it. Paul, Peter, Dorcas—I believe you've met them." Carl nodded, and automatically felt the scar behind his ear. "Well, they, and others, were, shall we say, founding members," Velasquez went on, "There are many, many people involved, both here and in Kawanyama. A handful of us speak Aramaic, which is very handy. Those of us who speak it were all at one time doing Middle Eastern Studies at Uni, under Professor George Newman, whom you also know." He picked up the jug and poured himself some fruit juice. "Would you like some more juice?" he asked Carl. "Yes, thanks. But how have you been able to keep your faith a secret, in your position?" "I give all the credit for that to God, Carl." Carl's surprise as he said his name made him grin. "Yes, I remember your name," he said, "As long as God needs me here He'll keep me here. I'm always ready—I think, anyway—for Him to blow my cover once He doesn't require my services in this place." Carl considered him pensively. He was aware of the risk he himself was running, in his position, but he did not seem able to cope with it very well. He kept having to stop and pray, asking the Lord for wisdom, courage, strength to get him through the next half hour or so. He wished he had Velasquez's calm assurance, and he told him so. Velasquez looked at him with astonishment. "Carl, you have it already!" he exclaimed, "I have to pray all the time, too! I'm completely dependent on Him, too, and I frequently find myself shaking in my boots when no-one else seems to notice it." He looked at his watch. "Actually, I suggest that we both get down on our knees and pray as soon as we finish this meal, before my Officer arrives for his appointment. Also, you need to take a book with you." "Thank you, Philip," Carl said, "Now I know why you've got that name. Ever ready to do the Lord's bidding. Who chose it for you?" "Your brother-in-law, actually. Jack. I think it was Paul who asked him to find an appropriate code-name for me." "Is Jack in the Underground, too?" "Not officially. He has his hands more than full pastoring under the conditions here. But in a way, all the Christians here are in the Underground, aren't they?" "Mmmm. Yes, I suppose so."

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"Have you finished eating, or would you like anything else?" Velasquez asked, folding up his serviette. "Thank you, I've finished," Carl replied. "Let's pray, then, Carl." Velasquez knelt by his chair, and Carl followed his example. The Chief started by quoting a Psalm of praise, reminding them of the Lord's greatness and sovereignty, then he prayed for Carl and for his meeting with the Winstons, and for his safety during the rest of his stay in Densonia. Carl thanked God for His people in Densonia, and for Velasquez and the encouragement he'd given him. He prayed for continued wisdom and protection for his new friend. They got up and Velasquez showed Carl the handful of books he kept in his office. Carl took one and slipped it in his pocket. The book's topic didn't really matter, he told Velasquez, since he wasn't really going to be reading it. Velasquez laughed. "Just make sure you hold it the right way up, then!" he teased, "I don't think that even in Kawanyama they read upside-down! Come on, I'll take you down to the main door. You know your way to the Park, I know, but I'll show you anyway, for appearance's sake, eh? Remember—the empty table near the bay tree." Carl suddenly remembered that he'd wanted to ask Velasquez about the cross on Denson Hill. "Philip, on the way here, I think I saw what you were referring to when you suggested a drive around the city: the Cross on the hill. How long has it been there?" "A couple of days," Velasquez replied, "Stands out, doesn't it?" "Rather! What is it? It looks like some sort of mosaic. Who put it there?" "The believers, of course. For some reason Denson hasn't been able to remove it..." Carl had the feeling that Velasquez knew more about it than he was letting on, but decided it was better for his sake not to press further. "I wonder what God has in mind there," he said, finally. "Please don't mention it to Jack or Rose," Velasquez warned him, "They know about it, but it's risky to talk about it." "I won't. Thank you for everything, Philip. I guess I'll meet your driver at the main entrance, is that right?" "Yes, but come into the lobby and say goodbye before you leave, won't you? And call me Ronald, out there. And keep an eye on that border. You never know who'll get through next..." ! ! ! Rose and Jack walked through the Park looking around at the tables. There certainly were a lot of people having lunch in the Park! Every table seemed to be occupied by groups of two or three people. A few children were running around, playing. "Peter has a lot of friends, hasn't he?" Rose commented. "There's one table over there with a fellow sitting reading a book," Jack pointed out. 313

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"Where? Oh, over there." The man was sitting with his back to them, facing the Lake. Rose grabbed her husband's arm. "Jack," she whispered, "It's Carl Slade!" "Carl Slade? Oh, come on, Rose, it couldn't be! Besides, this fellow looks like he has a beard." "Jack, I stared at Carl's back and the back of his head on and off for some three hours when you and he were sitting at the table reading the Bible that night he came to our house. That's him!" "Well, okay, we'll find out in a moment, anyway. This has to be the bloke we're supposed to meet. He fits Peter's description." He glanced around but couldn't see any obvious Enwuh reps in the area. They walked over to the table and Jack placed their basket on it. "Excuse me, please," he said loudly to the man sitting there, "Would it be all right for us to use one end of this table for our lunch? All the other tables are taken." The man looked up from his book and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. Jack caught his breath. It was Carl! With a beard. "Yes, that's okay," Carl said, "I'll just move to the other end, don't mind me." He slid to one end of the bench and half-turned away from them, continuing to read his book. "This is going to be an odd conversation, I'm warning you," he added in a whisper. Jack and Rose started unpacking their basket. Rose leant over towards Carl. "Would you like to join us, Sir?" she asked him aloud, "We've got plenty here if you'd like something to eat." "No thank you, I've already eaten," Carl answered, looking up at her and smiling, then turning back to his book. Every few minutes he turned a page, "Keep talking, but as if you were having a conversation between yourselves. I'll be pretending to read most of the time," he added, sotto voce. Jack spoke quietly as he buttered a piece of bread. "Peter said you were from Kawanyama. We'd heard you and Emma had escaped across the border. Who got you out?" "And what are you doing here?" Rose added, as if she were talking to Jack. "Yes, we escaped, thanks to Andrew Parker and Peter and friends," Carl said, "I'm here with a Kawanyaman delegation, as you can tell by my clothes. This is my free time." He turned another page and shifted his position slightly. "Did anyone else get out with you?" Rose asked, handing the salt and pepper to Jack. "When did you get out?" Jack asked. "We got out two days after my visit to you. Just me and Emma," Carl said in a low voice. "Andrew Parker got you in touch with the Underground..." Rose said. She took a mouthful of her sandwich as she remembered they were supposed to be having a picnic, and chewed it slowly.

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"Emma's safe in Kawanyama. Praise the Lord!" Jack said quietly, "Do you live near her? Do you get to see her at all?" "Jack, I want you to laugh out loud after I answer you, as if Rose had said something funny. Rose, ask me something, too, about Emma," Carl said, shifting on the seat again. "How is she doing?" Rose asked. "Don't forget, laugh. Yes, I see her every day! She's my wife, and she's fine, and she's the most wonderful woman in the world, and she's expecting twins in a month's time, thanks be to God." Jack burst out laughing and Rose smiled at him, then started giggling as she realised why Carl had told Jack to laugh. He'd looked up from his book and was staring at them with a slightly annoyed expression, but his eyes were dancing. After a moment he shrugged and turned back to the book. Jack and Rose looked at each other. They were amazed at what Carl had just told them. They wanted to do something about it, to hug him, congratulate him, whatever, and they couldn't. If they showed any hint of knowing who Carl was they ran the risk of betraying him to the nearest Enwuh rep. Then Jack had an idea. "Rose," he said, looking at his wife, "We're going to pray for Carl and Emma. I'll say something, then you say something, and so on, so it looks like a conversation, okay?" "That's a great idea, Jack! Okay." "Lord God our Father, thank you so much for allowing us to meet with Carl and to hear his good news. Thank you for getting him and Emma safely out of this country," Jack prayed. "Thank you, Lord, for bringing them together as husband and wife, and for the little ones that You're giving them," Rose added. "Please keep Emma and the babies healthy, and may their birth be easy and safe." "And, dear Lord, please surround Carl with Your angels, keep him safe while he's here, and get him safely back to his family. Bless them with ever-increasing faith and love for You." "And if it's at all possible, Lord, allow us all to meet again somehow, someday," Jack finished. "Lord God, keep my brother and sister safe and let them be re-united with their children soon, please," Carl said very softly. He paused for a moment, then asked, not looking up from his book, "Have you any idea what might have happened to Denise Parker and her children, Jack?" "Yes," Jack answered, "They're safe, in hiding. Philip had arranged it quite some time ago in case anything should happen to Andrew. I didn't realise you knew them." "Andrew was my closest friend—my only friend, really," Carl replied, turning a page and sighing, "He and his family were my family." "Ah, that explains quite a few things Andrew mentioned now and again," Jack muttered, "His death must have been an awful blow to you." "It was. But it was also a relief when Emma told me Andrew was a Christian, thanks to you." 315

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"Thanks to God, Carl, thanks to God." "Are you and Emma happy together, Carl?" Rose asked. "I think we must be the happiest people on earth, Rose," Carl whispered, "God has been so good to us." The three of them sat in silence for a short while, Jack and Rose eating, Carl continuing his pretense of reading, all three of them basking in the blessing of this brief reunion. After some time Carl spoke again. "I'll have to go in a minute, I have to get back to the others. Could you move your basket closer to me? I have something to put in it and I have to do it without being noticed. Don't look this way at all until I get up." Jack put some of the food back in the basket and pushed it abruptly towards Carl, who feigned surprise and annoyance, half stood up and pushed the basket back towards them, and sat down again with his back to them. Jack glanced at him then leant across the table and took Rose's hands in his. "Thank you very much for arranging this, Carl," he said, looking at Rose and smiling, "It's wonderful that you and Emma are married and obviously happy and walking with Jesus. That's an incredible encouragement to us." Rose smiled back at her husband. "Do give Emma lots of hugs from us, won't you? We pray for her—and you—every day. We had no idea how our prayers were being answered. Praise the Lord!" she said to Carl without taking her eyes off Jack. "I'll say goodbye, now, Jack, Rose. We love you and pray for you too. Hang in there with the Lord, and may He bless you with His peace and His joy. Until we meet again, goodbye." Carl looked at his watch, closed his book, and got up. He stretched, glanced at Rose and Jack, and winked, then turned and walked off slowly towards the Park gate. He did not notice the woman who had been sitting on a bench at the water's edge and who walked off rapidly in the opposite direction as he left. The Winstons remained seated at the table for another twenty minutes or so, finishing their lunch, and talking about the encounter. They longed to see what Carl had put in their basket, but decided they would have to wait until they got home. Back in their kitchen that afternoon, they unpacked the picnic basket and found the brown envelope Carl had slipped into it. There were three photographs in it. One was of the Newmans in front of their house— "George, Mei Li, and their eldest son Will, at Bethany Lodge. They've become another family for us," Emma had written. Another was of Carl and Emma's wedding under the raintree. The third photo was of Carl and Emma in front of their cottage—"I was about four months pregnant when this was taken, and we were beginning to wonder about twins, I was already so large!" There was also a long letter from Emma in which she described their escape and their first few months in Kawanyama. She told them how much 316

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she missed them, what a wonderful husband Carl was, and how much the Lord was blessing and teaching them through the Newmans, the local Christians, and Uncle Chester. "Chester got out, too!" Jack exclaimed, "Andrew didn't tell us about that! He took an awful lot of risks—no wonder they caught him in the end... We'll have to let Denise see this, Rose." "Yes, she'll be glad to know about it." All that evening they read and reread the letter and stared at the photos, and thanked the Lord for them and for the encouragement Carl's visit had brought them.

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Chapter 44 Late that afternoon, Carl stood at the window in the hotel suite, looking out at the view over the City Park and the Lake. He wondered if he should risk going for a walk in the Park, which for him held so many memories. He turned around to Surito who was seated at the table nearby. "Unless you need me around, Yaqob, I think I might go for a walk down by the Lake," he said. Surito looked up from the papers he was reading and considered this. Carl had told him about his walks in the Park, and he understood why he should want to go out there despite the risk. "At the moment I don't need you, Charles. By all means, get some fresh air," he replied, "but I suggest you don't go alone. Maybe Aidit could go with you. How about it, Aidit?" he asked his Foreign Affairs delegate. "Yes, I haven't got anything pressing to do right now," Aidit answered, "I wouldn't mind having a look at this Park. I haven't had time to get out and just relax yet." The two men left the hotel and walked through the tunnel under the freeway to get to the Park. They followed the footpath to the edge of the Lake and stood for a moment enjoying the breeze. "Their Presidential Palace is quite a place, isn't it?" Aidit commented as he gazed at the massive buildings across the Lake, "Rivals anything up our way!" "Yes, it does," Carl agreed "It must have cost a fair bit to build. The main part was built in the eighties, I gather." They walked on along the shore, looking around at the people scattered here and there in the Park, admiring the gardens, and watching the waterbirds on and around the water. Neither of them noticed that they were being followed. Carl felt strangely at home in the Park. After all, it had been, apart from Andrew's home, the one place he had most often repaired to when he needed a change of scene or an escape. His early morning runs along the lakeshore seemed like something out of a dream now. He stopped and gazed out over the Lake again. "What are you looking at?" Aidit asked. "Nothing in particular," he answered, "I was just thinking that this must be a lovely place in the summer." At that moment two Police Officers walked up to them. One of them laid a hand on Carl's arm. "Counsellor Carl Slade, you are under arrest, charged with high treason to the Protectorate," he said, "Come quietly. Do not resist." The other Police Offficer emphasized the order by pointing a stunner at Carl. Carl turned around, his face white as a sheet. He recognized the Officers—they worked at the Counselling Institute. He also recognized the woman in a yellow uniform accompanying them—Cecilia Janssen.

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"What's going on?" Aidit asked, looking from one to the other in confusion, "Charles, what do they want?" "You heard them, Aidit," Carl replied quietly, "Please go and tell Mr. Surito what has happened. They're taking me to the Counselling Institute. Please pray." Aidit glanced at the Officers. One of them gestured to him to leave. He nodded and spoke to Carl. "I will. Go with the Lord, Charles." He turned and hurried back to the hotel. "Oh, so your name is Charles, now, is it?" Janssen sneered, "Well, Charlie, prepare to receive some of your own medicine." She turned to the Police Officers. "Take him to the Institute." The Officers, one on each side of Carl, led him to an Institute van parked just outside the Park gates. They pushed him into the back of the van, and climbed in the front with Janssen. At the Counselling Institute, Janssen got out first and told the Officers to wait in the van. She went to an intercom and called Lancaster's office. "Ross, dear," she said when he answered, "I've got that little surprise that I promised you earlier. Shall I bring it up?" "All right, but it had better be worth it!" Lancaster answered gruffly. Ever since the fruitless "treatment" she had received by his orders, Janssen had annoyed him by reminding him of his "little mistake", as she referred to Carl's escape. "Take him up to the Chief's office," Janssen told the Officers. They opened the back doors and pulled Carl out roughly. "It's okay, I'm coming quietly," Carl told them. They marched him through the lobby to the lift to Lancaster's floor and Janssen used her stunner to push him in. Carl hadn't seen the Institute for many months, but it looked no different, yet it seemed different somehow. It all looked terribly familiar and yet incredibly strange, like a scene which one sees in a dream. There were the Monitoring Centre, where Andrew used to work; the lifts to the Counsellors' section; the door to the dining hall—places he knew intimately which now seemed foreign to him. The lift stopped at the top floor. The Officers, still holding onto Carl, led him to Lancaster's office. Janssen pressed the buzzer cube, and the door slid open. She preceded Carl and his guards into the office. "Well, Ross, here's my surprise," she announced as she waved her arm to indicate Carl, "Counsellor Carl Slade, also known as Charles Manuel, aide to VicePresident Surito of Kawanyama!" Lancaster had stood up abruptly and walked out from behind his desk when he saw the man in Kawanyaman clothing. He grabbed Janssen by the shoulders. "What are you trying to do? Get us all shot? They'll create a stink and Denson'll hit the roof!" Janssen looked at him disdainfully. "Don't you think I've done my homework? They can't do a thing about it. He's still a citizen of the

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Protectorate, and he's charged with high treason!" Triumphantly, she repeated, "They can't do a thing about it!" Lancaster, somewhat reassured, walked over to Carl and looked him up and down. "Well, Counsellor, you've changed a bit since we last met," he sneered, "How long did you think you could get away with this little game?" Carl did not reply. He returned Lancaster's stare equably, feeling more sad than anything else. Lancaster shrugged, then turned to one of the Officers. "Take him to the Men's Facility. Get him shaved—I hate beards—and don't let them be too gentle about it, either. I'll arrange something for him. He knows what will happen tomorrow at dawn. Go!" He waved them away and took Janssen's arm as the door slid shut behind them. In the Men's Residential Facility Carl was ordered to change into the counsellee uniform, then a Carer pushed him down the corridor to a small room where he was made to sit on a stool so they could shave him. Two Carers held Carl firmly by the arms while the first man cut off most of his beard with scissors, pulling on the whiskers as hard and as much as he could. Carl kept his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, trying to stifle the groans caused by the pain. The Carer then began shaving the rest of his beard off with a razor that was quite blunt, taking care to cut his face many times in the process. When he had finished, he threw a basinful of cold water at Carl's face, then motioned for him to get up. He took Carl to a cell, pushed him in, and shut the door. Carl took stock of the tiny room, noticing the two buckets and the mat. So this is what Emma had to live in for those two weeks, he thought. He unrolled the mat and sat down on it, hugging his knees. He put his head down and wept for Emma. Tomorrow he was supposed to come home, and instead she would hear he was dead... He was well aware that Lancaster had been referring to the fact that he would be executed in the morning. Those dreams had been accurate after all... He prayed for her and for the others at Bethany Lodge whom he had come to love as family. After a while he got up and knelt on the mat, and prayed for the strength he would need in the hours ahead. He was surprised to find that he wasn't afraid, but he felt terribly sad that it should all end this way, and his heart ached as he thought of what it would do to Emma, and as he realised that he would never see his children now. Well, Andrew, I deserve it more than you ever did, he thought wryly. The thought of Andrew led to another thought which made his heart skip a beat. I'll be with the Lord tomorrow morning! All of a sudden he found himself overwhelmed with doubts. What had been the point of turning to Christ, if this is how it was to end? How would this get the Gospel to people in the Protectorate? What kind of God did this to those He calls His children? What kind of a joke was this to play on Emma, after all she'd done for Him? Had God abandoned them? The questions whirled through his mind, taunting him and mocking him, and

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he felt on the verge of panic. He couldn't let it continue—he had to trust God, despite of, because of, what was happening. "Oh God! You are my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust!" he yelled at the top of his voice, "Jesus, I know You'll never leave me!" The door of his cell slid open and two Carers ran in and began to kick him violently, and to beat him with their truncheons, over and over again. "Shut up! D'you hear!" one of them shouted, "You're to shut up in here!" The Carers left again and the door slid shut. Carl lay curled up on the mat, breathing hard and moaning. He was in shock from the suddenness and speed and violence of the attack. After some time, having recovered somewhat, he remembered Emma telling him once that she'd passed the time in her cell by recalling as many as possible of the Scriptures she'd memorized. The thought of her brought tears to his eyes again, and he prayed for her once more. He lay on the mat and began to review what he'd memorized of the account of Jesus' Passion from the gospel of Matthew. As he went through the verses, he found great comfort in knowing that Jesus knew from His own experience what he was going through. As he meditated on the verses about Jesus' crucifixion, he realized for the first time the horrors of what Jesus had gone through, voluntarily—for He did have a choice, from what Carl understood. He went through all that for me... For others, too, yes, but also for me. And tomorrow I'll be shot, for Him. I deserve to be shot—He deserves, and has only ever deserved, all "praise and honour and glory and power, for ever and ever!" Slowly he got back on his knees, this time overwhelmed with the desire to praise and worship this God, the Almighty One, the Most High, who in His amazing love, had died for him. He closed his eyes and raised his hands and whispered praises, recalling words from the Psalms, and from hymns he had learned, until he was exhausted. Almost without thinking about it, he slowly lay down again and fell asleep, his heart at peace in the joy of the Lord. A few hours later, he was awakened by the two Carers who came to take him to the Treatment Room. The rest of the night turned into a nightmare of pain and confusion for him, as Lancaster's men carried out their orders and tried to get him to inform on the members of the Underground. But Carl kept calling out to God instead of answering them, and in the end they gave up, dressed him in a Counsellor's uniform, and took him out to the firing squad. Outside, a new day was dawning on the Protectorate as a crowd gathered to watch the execution.

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Mei Li hurried to answer the insistent ringing of the front doorbell, but she was not fast enough. The caller opened the door and let himself in just as she reached the door. "Silas!" she exclaimed, seeing who it was, "What—" silas interrupted her and took both her hands. "Mei Li!" he cried, "Is Emma here? I need to see her! It's urgent!" "What's the matter?" George asked. He'd come out of the study when he'd heard the doorbell, and was coming slowly down the stairs. "Emma's down at the cottage," Mei Li said to Silas, "That's where they live." "Can you get her to come up here?" Silas asked, earnestly, "I'd rather speak to her with you there too. Or can we go down there?" "Yes, Will can take us down in the car," Mei Li replied, "Are you coming too, George?" "Yes, of course I'm coming," George answered. He could tell that Silas had some rather upsetting news, and he had a strong feeling it had to do with Carl. Why else would he be wanting to see Emma so urgently? "Let's go!" Silas cried, hurrying down the hall towards the kitchen, "Is Will out in the shed?" "Yes," George told him. George and Mei Li followed Silas out of the house and down the steps. Silas had called out to Will as he'd come out of the house, and Will came to the shed door. "Silas! What are you doing here?" he yelled in surprise. "No time for questions and answers, Will," Silas yelled back, walking over to Will's car, "Take us down to Emma's place!" Will heard the note of urgency in Silas' voice and ran over to his car, Silas following. Mei Li and George reached it a moment after and climbed in the back, and Will drove out of the yard, down the hill towards the old shearers' quarters. Silas jumped out of the car as soon as it stopped in front of the cottage, and opened Mei Li's door. "Come with me, Mei Li," he said. Mei Li got out and they walked over to the cottage. She opened the front door and called out. "Emma, are you there?" Emma was just coming in at the back door. She'd heard the car stopping out front and was coming to see who it was. "Coming, Mei Li," she called back. She walked slowly into the front room from the kitchen, and went to sit down in an armchair, putting her feet up on a hassock. "You'll have to excuse me, Mei Li," she said, "I have to do this all the time now, these babies are making me so huge I can't stand up for long." She looked up and suddenly recognised the man who was with Mei Li. "Silas! What are you doing here?" She moved to stand up again. "Don't get up, Emma," he said, "We'll sit down."

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He brought a chair over from the table and Mei Li sat down in the other armchair as Will and George came into the room. Father and son also sat down, at the table. Emma looked around at them, surprised at this sudden visit. Silas leant forwards and took Emma's hand. "Emma," he said gently, "I have some bad news to tell you..." "Carl?" Emma whispered, looking at him in nervous expectancy, her face pale. "Yes," Silas replied, "Carl. Th-They shot him this morning, Emma. I'm sorry..." He squeezed her hand. Emma stared at him, hardly breathing, her eyes filling with tears. Mei Li had taken her other hand. All were hushed. George and Will came over from the table. "I knew," Emma said softly, "I knew already that something terrible had happened to him. When I prayed this morning. I just hoped I'd heard wrong. But He'd warned us, He'd prepared us for it." "Who warned you?" Mei Li asked, surprised. "God did," Emma answered, her voice shaking,, "We both had the same dream, before Carl left." She reached out towards the older woman, who put her arms around her. Memories of Carl flooded her mind—their escape together through the bush; Carl playing the flute; Carl on his knees, praying; Carl's blue eyes full of joy when she said 'yes'; Carl fixing up the cottage with Brian; Carl making love to her; Carl telling her about his dreams... "Oh, Mei Li, what will I do without him?" she wailed, and wept on Mei Li's shoulder. Mei Li herself was weeping freely as she hugged Emma. Will walked over to Silas, who had got up and was staring out of the window, his hands in his pockets. Something was puzzling him. "How did you get out and get here so quickly?" he asked Silas in a low voice. "I flew up to the Warden base and then drove straight down. On a diplomatic pass from Mr. Surito," Silas replied, "He's still in Densonia". "You flew? From Densonia?" Will exclaimed, "Since when are there flights from the Protectorate?" "Haven't you heard?" Silas whirled round in astonishment, "George, Mei Li, Emma, haven't you heard about the coup?" "The coup?" George's eyebrows went up. "The Protectorate has collapsed!" Silas exclaimed, "Denson was arrested this morning—most of his troops had turned against him. They took over the Palace and other government buildings. It was rather awkward for the Kawanyaman people who were visiting. Mr. Surito and his delegation were all at their hotel, fortunately..." He paused and looked at Emma, and added, softly, "All except Carl..." "Silas," Emma said in a small voice, "How did they get him? How did they recognise him?" "From what I understand," he replied, "Some woman officer from the Counselling Institute recognised him, and they grabbed him as soon as he was alone, yesterday afternoon." 323

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"Like the dream," Emma said softly. "Didn't Mr. Surito do anything?" George asked, "Surely he could have done something!" "He tried, but his hands were tied, in effect, because Carl of course was still a citizen of the Protectorate, and they'd charged him with high treason." "'The Lord gave,'" Emma murmured, "And how wonderfully He gave! 'The Lord has taken away. M-May the Name of the L-Lord be p-praised.'" She buried her face on Mei Li's shoulder once more and sobbed. Mei Li hugged her tightly. The three men came and stood silently around Emma and Mei Li. After a while, Emma's sobbing diminished and George suggested that they pray. The men knelt down and George led them as they prayed for God's comfort, first for Emma, then for the rest of them. He held Emma's hand gently as he prayed. They were all quiet for a while, then, sharing their grief in silence. The stillness was suddenly broken by the beeping of Will's pager. "There's a call on the radio," he said, getting up, "I'd better get up to the house!" "Let's all go back to the house," Mei Li suggested, "Come on, Emma, I'll help you to the car." Once they were all in the car, Will drove rather fast up the hill. He stopped the car by the back steps, leapt out, and ran into the house. The others got out more slowly, and Mei Li and Silas helped Emma up the steps. They went into the lounge and Emma sat down in the rocking chair. She caught sight of Carl's flute case on top of the piano and burst into tears again. She was only dimly aware of Will letting out a whoop up in the study, but Mei Li, sitting in the chair next to hers and holding her hand, looked up with a puzzled expression. George and Silas went upstairs to investigate. A few minutes later, a very sober-looking Will, followed by George and Silas, came down to the lounge and over to where the two women were sitting. "That must be the most amazing call I've ever had on that radio," he said, crouching down in front of Emma and taking her hand, "It concerns you, Emma. Listen carefully." he took a deep breath and added, "Carl is alive—" "He's alive?" Emma straightened up abruptly, her eyes wide, and promptly fainted. Will caught her just in time as she fell forwards off her chair. "Ooooofff, she's heavy!" he groaned, easing her onto her side on the floor. He looked up at Mei Li who had knelt down next to her. "When are the twins due, Mum?" he asked. "In about three and a half to four weeks, if she goes full-term," his mother replied. Emma came to, and started to get up, but Mei Li told her to stay lying down for a while. She looked up at Will. "He-he's alive?" she asked, incredulous, "But I thought Silas said they'd shot him..."

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"They did. And they hit him. He's in hospital, but he's alive," Will explained, "Apparently what happened was that someone fired a cannon salute at the Presidential Palace when Denson's arrest was announced. It went off at the exact same time that Carl was to be shot, and the police executioners were so startled that their aim was off to the extent that, although they did hit him, they didn't kill him. Somebody took him straight to the hospital. I don't know who. I expect they were members of the Underground. Remember the executions were public so there would have been a crowd there. Paul was there but he didn't see who looked after Carl, and then he heard that he'd been taken to the hospital, so he went there and found out that Carl is in intensive care, in the Presidential Suite no less!" "In intensive care! Then he's still at risk," Mei Li pointed out, "We'd better pray..." "Hang on, I haven't finished!" Will exclaimed, "That's not the end of the message." "What else did they say?" Emma asked. "There's an army helicopter—from Kawanyama—flying over to Densonia from the local base, which is the one nearest the border, to pick up some of the delegation, and General Wong, who's with Mr. Surito, told them to stop here on the way and pick up Silas and you, Emma, and take you to Densonia. It's a four-hour trip. They'll be here very soon, so you have to be ready. I told them to land in the East Paddock, the one behind the cottage. That's our flattest paddock, with no trees and, at the moment, no sheep either." "But I'm eight months pregnant!" Emma exclaimed, "Did you tell them? And that I'm carrying twins?" "Yeah, I told them," Will laughed, "They said, 'Never mind, if it comes to the worst we'll drop her off at the hospital!'" "We'd better get back to the cottage and pack you a bag, Emma," Mei Li said, "Or at least add a few things to the bag you've already packed! You'd better take some of Carl's things as well." They all headed back to the car again and Will drove them down to the cottage. Mei Li told Emma to stay in the car and went inside to fetch her things. When she came back to the car, Will drove out to the paddock. As they all got out of the car, George pointed out the helicopter in the distance, a spot in the sky just above the northern horizon. "Looks like we timed it right," he said, "here they come already." When the helicopter landed, a soldier jumped out and came over to help Emma. She gave Mei Li and George a hug and blew Will a kiss, but the noise of the helicopter precluded any talking. Silas took her bag and, waving to the others, followed Emma and the soldier into the aircraft. It took off after a few minutes and soon disappeared towards the south. "That all happened so fast I'm still catching my breath!" George exclaimed, leaning on his walking stick and watching the aircraft disappear from sight.

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"I won't be straying far from the radio in the next few days," Will said, "I want to keep track of this!" "George, Will, let's pray," Mei Li reminded them, "Now!" The three of them bowed their heads, right there by the car, and prayed for Emma and Carl and the twins, and for the new nation to the south. ! ! ! The noise level in the helicopter was much too high to allow any conversation, but Emma and Silas had been given a pair of headphones each to wear to protect their hearing and on which they could overhear the pilot and copilot talking with each other and with their base. Emma gazed out at the countryside going past underneath them. In less than half an hour they flew right across the huge tract of bushland she and Carl had taken a day and a half to traverse. As she watched the land below them slipping by, she thought back to that time, so many months ago now, when she had first encountered Carl Slade in the Counselling Institute. She found it difficult now to remember him as he was then, and she wasn't unhappy about that. She recalled their escape through the bush and across the border, their first weeks at Bethany Lodge, Carl's studies, their wedding, the excitement of finding they were expecting twins, Carl's first trip back to Densonia, the dreams about this second trip. She thanked the Lord for saving his life, but she wondered what she would find in the intensive care unit of the Presidential suite. What condition was Carl in? Was he out of danger? Would he even still be alive when she got there? She realised she was getting frightened again, and Silas had obviously noticed, too, for he reached over and squeezed her hand, smiling at her. She closed her eyes and prayed for calmness and ability to just take one step at a time. She dozed for a while, and when she woke up, the thought struck her that she would be able to see Jack and Rose again, and this encouraged her a great deal. She patted her stomach. The twins were being very active. Maybe they're excited about all this, she joked to herself, Funny that—they'll probably be born in Densonia now. Only four weeks to go, maybe less, being twins. I wonder if Carl will be well enough by then to be with me? At least Rose will be there. She found herself feeling eager to get to Densonia. Even if Carl was in bad shape, at least she would see him, she would be with him. And she would be re-united with her beloved brother and his wife. Thank You, Lord, she prayed silently, for Carl's friendship with Yaqob Surito which has made this flight possible. She was glad when they finally reached their destination for, in her condition, sitting in the confines of the helicopter had become increasingly uncomfortable. They landed at the Densonia Airbase in the mid-afternoon, and Silas and she were taken straight into the main building, where Yaqob Surito himself, accompanied by his secretary and some other people, was waiting to greet them.

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"Emma," he said, "Let me introduce you to these people, then we'll take you straight to the hospital." He pointed to each one in turn, "Feizal you already know. This is Aidit, who was with Carl when they arrested him. This is Dr. Elaine West, also known as Dorcas, whom you may have met." The older woman gave Emma a hug, confirming Yaqob's words. The VicePresident indicated a man with dark, wavy hair and a mustache who bowed to Emma and grinned engagingly as Surito introduced him. "And this is Ronald Velasquez," Surito said, "alias Philip, the leader of the Underground movement in the Protectorate. Come along, now. Philip has arranged a car to take you and Silas directly to the hospital. By the way, last we heard, Carl was stable and off the respirator, so that's good news. He wasn't conscious when I saw him this morning, but apparently he has been conscious at least some of the time since. Dorcas'll go with you and she can fill you in on the rest on your way there." Velasquez led them out to his car. He opened the car door for Emma and Silas helped her into the front seat. Velasquez's driver greeted them as he opened the back door for Dr. West. Silas put Emma's bag in the boot and got in the back of the car with Dr. West. Surito and the rest of his group took their leave and went off to board the helicopter. As they drove towards the city, Dorcas began telling Emma about the events that had led up to the demise of the Protectorate. "It started with the Christians—well some of them, anyway—after Jack, your brother, was warned that he was risking house arrest and could no longer go out visiting the believers." "Jack!" Emma exclaimed. "I must tell you that Jack had become very bold lately and rather vocal about the Gospel. It's amazing that he was never actually arrested! I guess no-one could touch him without God's allowing it. But when they threatened to put him under house arrest that was taken up as a challenge by many of the believers, and they decided to do something about it. I wonder if anyone really had any idea of how many Christians there actually were in Densonia?" "Why do you say that?" Emma asked. "Well, there were many, many people involved in the protest... Do you know what they did? They went up on Denson Hill about three days ago and formed a cross on the side of the hill facing across to the Presidential Palace. The believers, that is—they sat down in a cross-shaped formation. Very visible from the other side of the Lake, it was. They sat there all day and all night, praying and singing hymns. People took turns getting food and drink for each other. Denson called on the Police Force to arrest them all. They didn't. They said the Christians weren't breaking any laws, as far as they could see. So he called in the Army. Unfortunately for him, neither the Police Force nor the Army had been paid for some months, and the Army declined to help. This morning at dawn, the Presidential Guards opened up the Palace and let in the Commander of the Army and his men, who arrested Denson and his aides—they were still in bed—and declared the end of the Protectorate. Not a single casualty, not a single fight. The only 327

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one who was hurt was Carl, because the coup didn't happen in time to save him. But the reason he's alive is that when the Army took over they fired a salute on one of the cannons in front of the Palace, just at the time when the firing squad shot him, and the firing squad's aim was off. Unfortunately, it wasn't off enough, they still hit him." "Where did the bullets hit?" "There were five bullets, and four of them hit him. One at the top of his right lung, one in his left thigh, one in his stomach, and the fourth in his abdomen. He had a lot of internal bleeding. That last bullet lodged itself in his spine and caused some trauma to the spinal cord. Only time will tell how badly it's damaged, if he'll be permanently paralyzed or not." Emma was quiet for a moment, recalling as best she could from her nurse's training the implications of Carl's injuries. She decided that his chances of recovery were good, since he had received medical care almost right away, and she thanked God once more for saving his life. "Who took him to the hospital?" she asked, "Will said Paul had been there but he didn't see who took him to hospital." "Jack, Philip, and I did," Dorcas replied, "One of our people in the Institute warned us about the planned execution. We let Jack know and he wanted to be there so at least he could claim Carl's body. When Carl collapsed I went straight to him, and I quickly realised that he was still alive. We didn't waste any time, then. Philip's car was there, of course, and when we realized that Carl had been hit but not killed, he called to his driver to bring the car over. By then there was quite a lot of confusion and people were running around in every direction, because of the cannon-shot. We got him into the car as carefully but as quickly as we could, and drove straight to the hospital. I got him into surgery as fast as possible." "Did you scrub, too?" Emma asked. "Yes, I was there the whole time, assisting Dr. Soames, who's our head surgeon, and Dr. Robinson, our neurosurgeon. They did a wonderful job, too. Dr. Soames's the one who suggested putting Carl in Denson's private suite." They arrived at the hospital and the driver stopped the car at the main entrance. Silas helped Emma out while the driver got her bag out of the boot. As they walked into the lobby, Emma recognised the couple walking over to greet them. "Jack! Rose!" she cried. They hurried to her and the three embraced with tears running down their faces. "You're a bit larger than when I last saw you, Em!" Jack teased his sister. "Oh, Jack, I'm so glad to see you and Rose again! It's been such a long time!" "We'll catch up with each other later, Em," Jack said soberly, "Right now I expect you want to see Carl. Come on, we'll take you up there. Come along, Silas, Dorcas."

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They took a lift to the floor taken up by the Presidential suite. The lift opened onto the lounge of the suite, an enormous room decorated in satins and velvets, with a deep wool carpet. "This is a hospital room?" Emma asked, bewildered. "No, this is just the lounge," Rose replied with a laugh, "You'll have to see the other room some other time, though, Carl's in the ICU still." "Denson had his own ICU?" Emma asked. "So it seems," Jack answered. Dorcas had gone over to a wide door at one end of the lounge, opened it slightly, and was talking quietly to someone in the other room. Then she beckoned to Emma to come over. A nurse came out of the room and spoke to Emma. "Have you ever seen an ICU?" she asked her. "Yes, I did a stint on the ICU when I did my training," Emma replied. "Good, so you know what to expect." The nurse seemed relieved. "However, seeing as it's your husband who's in there, I'd better warn you that he looks ghastly, mostly because of the treatment he got before they shot him. He's conscious, but he's heavily drugged because of the pain." She turned to Dorcas. "Are you coming in with her, Doctor West?" she asked hopefully. "Yes, I'll come with her," Dorcas replied, smiling, "You can take a short break." The nurse thanked her and walked away. Dorcas and Emma went into the room. The Presidential Intensive Care Unit was a much smaller, and much less ornate, room than the lounge. It contained two beds, the various instruments and machines for keeping alive and monitoring a patient, a supply cupboard, a sink, and two chairs. A door at one side led to a small bathroom. On one wall was mounted an X-ray viewer, but the other walls were unadorned. There were clicking sounds from the heart monitor and the IV pump, but otherwise the room was quiet. Dorcas put her arm around Emma and led her to Carl's bed. Emma regarded him silently for a moment. The nurse had been right—he was hardly recognizable. She noticed his wrists had been tied to the sides of the bed. He must have tried to pull the tubes out, she thought. He seemed to have tubes and wires everywhere—monitors, drains, IV's. Although she had known that would be the case, it was still a shock to see them on Carl. She wondered if he had needed a transfusion. The sheet covered him up to his waist and his chest had a large dressing over it. She could see that his arms were covered in bruises and cuts and his hands were purple and swollen. She was shocked at the condition of his face, which was covered with cuts, terribly swollen, and black and blue with bruises. He had two black eyes and although his eyes were closed, she could see that he wouldn't be able to open them very much anyway. She gently took hold of his right hand and he stirred. "Carl," she said softly, "It's Emma. Yaqob had me brought down to see you. Can you hear me?"

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Carl heard with unbelievable joy the beloved voice he had thought he would never hear again, and slowly turned his head towards her. He tried to smile, but it required too much of an effort. His hand, despite the swelling, seemed to respond better. He pressed her hand slightly. He tried to open his eyes, but the swelling around them made it too difficult. He tried to say something, and managed a syllable. "Em," he said, almost inaudibly. Emma wanted to cheer, to dance around the room, to do something, preferably noisy, to let everyone know that Carl knew who she was. Instead she thanked God in her heart, turned and smiled at Dorcas, and squeezed Carl's hand gently. Then she had an idea. "Carl, I love you, I love you so very much," she said to him, "I'm so glad you're alive." She paused, hoping her idea was workable, and added, "I'm going to ask you some questions. Yes-or-no questions. Squeeze my hand once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'. Can you do that?" He squeezed once. "Are you in a lot of pain?" she asked. One squeeze. "Do you know the Protectorate is finished?" A pause. Three squeezes. Carl was so astounded that he managed to open his eyes, and he stared at her. "It's true," she assured him, "That's what saved your life. Denson's gone to prison. Isn't it wonderful?" "Yes," he whispered, "God." He closed his eyes again. "Do you realise what that means? That we can tell everyone about Jesus?" One squeeze. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us, Carl, you'd better recover quickly." One squeeze. "I don't want to exhaust you. I'll let you rest now and come back in a little while. I love you." He squeezed her hand once and she held onto his hand a little longer, then let go. She would have liked to kiss him, but her bulk made it impossible for her to lean over. She laid her hand on his forehead gently for a moment. "Em," he mumbled again. "See you later, Carl," she said softly. Dorcas had sat down, and Emma went to sit next to her on the other chair, looking pensive. "What work are you thinking of?" Dorcas whispered. "Why, we've got to tell all these people about Jesus Christ!" Emma whispered back, "They've never heard of Him! They have no hope in their lives! That's what the Lord told Carl He wanted him to do, but we had no idea how it would happen. Little did we know how it would work out that we'd end up back here... But how long will it take for him to get better?" 330

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The nurse came back into the room, and Dorcas got up and motioned to Emma to come with her, back to the lounge. Emma gazed at Carl for a moment—he seemed to have gone to sleep—then she smiled at the nurse and followed Dorcas out of the room. They went over to where the others were sitting in the Presidential armchairs. Jack saw that his sister looked happy, and he got up and put his arm around her shoulders. "Carl was awake, was he? And he knew it was you?" he asked her. "Yes, he did," she smiled, "May I sit down, Jack? My legs are about to give up." He led her to the sofa where Rose was sitting, and she sat down. Rose moved over to the end. "Put your feet up, Emma," she suggested, and Emma did so. "When are your babies due?" "Theoretically, in four weeks. In reality, it's anybody's guess from now on! I just hope Carl's well enough by the time they make their appearance..." Dorcas laughed. "If you want my professional opinion," she said, "and speaking from long experience, I reckon that Carl is going to progress by leaps and bounds now that his other half is here!"

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Chapter 46 After a couple of days, Carl's condition had improved enough that he could receive other visitors, and Rose had got in touch with Denise Parker to ask her if she would like to visit him now that it was safe for her to come out of hiding. "Emma's here, too, so you can get to meet her. She spends most of the day at the hospital." "Is she all right? I gather she's expecting, and I've heard that the kind of shock she'd have received can trigger premature labour. It must have been an awful shock for her when they told her Carl had been shot." Rose knew that Denise was speaking from experience. "She's fine and coping very well with it all," she replied, "Carl has improved a lot since she arrived. Those two are madly in love with the Lord and with each other— that's the best medicine!" "It'll be so good to see Carl happy, even though he's not well," Denise said, "You've no idea how low he used to get. Andrew told me once that he'd even considered suicide." "He misses Andrew very much. They must have been very good friends," Rose observed, "He keeps talking about him." "Oh, they were like brothers, Rose," Denise confirmed, "What's more, Andrew prayed for years for Carl to come to Christ, too. Come on, take me to see Carl and Emma, Rose. Can the children come too?" "I think it'd be better to wait until Carl's in better shape before they visit him. He looks quite dreadful. Do you have anyone to look after them?" "Yes, we can drop them off at Anne Mercer's on the way to the hospital. They're always welcome there." At the hospital, Jack came into Carl's room, a wide grin on his face. "Carl, Rose has a surprise for you today," he told his brother-in-law, "Guess what it is!" "I can't guess, Jack, I'm too tired, my brain's not working!" Carl replied wearily. He turned to Emma, who was sitting by his bed. "Do you know about it?" "No, I'm not aware of her preparing any surprises," she answered, looking puzzled. "Shall I tell her to come in, then?" Jack asked. "Sure, go ahead," Carl said. Jack went to the door, opened it, and beckoned. "He'll see you, come on in," he announced. It wasn't Rose who walked into the room but a smiling Black woman, with Rose following close behind her. She went over to the bed and looked down at Carl. Emma guessed who she was and grinned at Rose, who nodded. "Denise!" Carl exclaimed, "You're the surprise!" "Well, Carl," Denise said, feigning horror, "You look a mess. Don't you tidy yourself up for your guests?"

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"You sound like Andrew, Denise," he laughed, "He's the one who used to say things like that!" Denise, with tears in her eyes at Carl's mention of Andrew, turned to Emma and gave her a hug. "Hello, Emma," she said, "I've been looking forwards to meeting you ever since you and Carl left Densonia and Andrew told me about you. He was so sure you two would end up getting married." "He was?" Emma asked, astonished, recalling Mei Li's thoughts on the matter, "It's funny, Mei Li thought he was, too." She glanced at Carl, who raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and grimaced with the resulting pain. "When's your baby due?" Denise asked. "In about three weeks. We're having twins!" "Oh, that's exciting—twins! You'll have your hands full, though," Denise remarked, looking from Emma to Carl. "We'll cope with things as they come, not before," Emma said, smiling, "One day at a time." "How are Chris and Elsie?" Carl asked Denise. "They're very well, and looking forwards to when they can see you, though they do miss their father very much," she replied, then added, softly, "I still miss him terribly, Carl." "Of course you do, you two were so very close. I guess you'll always miss him to some extent, Denise," he said. Emma put her arm around her. "The only time I ever had anything to do with him was when he drove me out to the Forest the day we escaped, but from everything Carl's told me about Andrew I think he must have been quite an exceptional man." "He was. And he and Carl were very like-minded in many ways, even though they're such different personalities. Andrew used to find monitoring your work very distressing, Carl, and the only thing that kept him persevering was the hope of seeing you come to Christ. He had this assurance that it would happen. Then when it did, he had to get you out of the country straight away! And he knew he'd never see you again in this life... It nearly broke his heart, and on top of that he was getting quite depressed about the amount of deception involved in getting you two out of the Protectorate. He knows that God hates lying, and he didn't really believe that the end justifies the means. The business with the body, especially, was something which really got him upset." "The body? Which body?" Carl asked. "It was Philip's idea, to put the Search people off your trail so you'd have time to get over the border. He got the idea when Andrew mentioned to him that you'd once thought of suicide. This fellow had committed suicide—he'd almost blown his head off, so he was unrecognizable, I gather—and they had the body in the morgue at the Investigations Bureau. Philip "borrowed" it and it was left in the Forest, wearing your uniform, so the Search people would think it was you, Carl. By the time they realised it wasn't, Philip had been put in charge of the investigation, so he could make sure all the loose ends got tied up."

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"I wonder how Philip copes with all that deception, in his position," Carl commented, thinking of Velasquez's delight in his "malfunctioning" monitoring equipment. "Well," Denise continued, "Andrew felt very guilty about all the lies he'd had to tell Lancaster and the others about what happened when he was supposed to have been taking Emma to the Experimental Farm. He'd had a long talk with Philip about it, and that's when Philip made arrangements for getting me and the children to safety, because he realised that Andrew was likely to be arrested, and then he'd probably tell them the truth about his own part in the escape. Maybe about Uncle Chester's escape, too." "And they did arrest him..." Emma said quietly. "When Paul and Barney came to get me and the children I knew we'd never see Andrew again..." Denise said softly, her eyes brimming, "It still hurts, even though it's a whole year since it happened." She was standing next to the bed and Emma had her arm around her. Carl reached over and took her hand. "Denise," he said, "I have no way of thanking you properly for all that you and Andrew did for me, or of making up for the fact that your husband died so that I might live, but I want to do everything I can to show my gratitude to you and to my best friend." "Carl, you're in no position to do much at all at the moment," Denise smiled, "But you can pray. And when you're well, I know that you're going to do all you can to bring the people here out of their darkness. That will be how you can thank us, because that's what Andrew prayed for after you left—that you'd come back and tell them about Jesus Christ." "That's what I think the Lord has called us to do, Denise," he replied, "Although at the moment I can't see how it's going to happen..." "It'll happen, don't you two give up now!" "We've no intention of giving up," Emma said, "We intend to do what the Lord wants us to do. It's just that right now it looks almost impossible..." ! ! ! Six days after Emma's arrival back in Densonia, Jack accompanied her to the hospital for her daily visit with Carl. He went up with her to the neurology ward, to which Carl had been moved, and told her he wanted to sit in the lounge for a while. "You go ahead and see Carl," he said, "I'll come over in a little while, I'd like to just sit and think for a bit." "Okay, Jack," Emma said, "See you in a little while." When she entered the room, she was upset to see that Carl did not turn his head but lay staring at the wall on the other side of his bed. She also noticed that the urine bag was still in place, hanging at the side of the bed, and she realised that things were not going as well for him as they might be. She went over to him and took his hand. "Carl," she said softly, "Are you awake?" She could see quite well that he was. He turned his head and gazed at her with a look so full of pain that it made her heart skip a beat. She tried to smile, but felt more like crying.

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"What's the matter? Why are you looking so sad?" she asked him, though she had an idea what the reason might be. "The doctor, the neurologist, came to see me earlier this morning..." he trailed off, and turned his face back towards the wall, swallowing hard. She waited for him to continue, and after a minute he turned back towards her, pushed himself up on his elbow, and grabbed her arm. "Em, he said I might never walk again!" he exclaimed fiercely, "That I might have no feeling from the waist down! I'll only be half a man!" "Oh, Carl!" Emma stared at him, disconcerted, as he let go her arm and let himself fall back on his pillows. O God, she thought, why couldn't I have been with him when he was told? "Carl," she said softly, taking his hand again, "It's not the end of the world, and-and he might be wrong! He's not God!" Carl turned his head abruptly and stared at her, his eyes flashing. "Em," he snapped, "I have no feeling from the waist down now. I can't move my legs, I can't control my bladder, I can't move! He's right!" "But it might not be permanent, you could quite well recover all that as your body heals up!" "He certainly didn't seem to think so!" "But it happens all the time! Paraplegia isn't always permanent!" "How would you know?" he yelled at her, "You're not a neurologist, you're just a nurse, and you've never even practised!" "Neurologists don't know everything! They're not the ones who care for the patients!" she shouted back at him. "Caring has nothing to do with it! The man's seen hundreds of cases like mine—he knows what he's talking about!" "You talk as if you know more about it than I do! Since when do you know anything about paraplegia?" "Since now! I can't even feel my legs. I can't feel anything below my waist. I'll be completely useless!" "Don't be ridiculous! And besides, you're only hurting yourself by that kind of attitude—stop feeling sorry for yourself!" "I'm not feeling sorry for myself!" he shouted, "I'm feeling sorry for you— what kind of a husband are you left with? I won't be able to make love, either, you know! And how am I going to help you with those babies? How am I going to work on the farm?" Emma was alarmed at the way they were behaving, and by the tone of Carl's voice. They had never shouted at each other like this. In fact, Carl had not shouted at her at all since the day they'd escaped to Kawanyama, since God had saved him. She took a deep breath. "You're forgetting about God, Carl," she said quietly, "You're forgetting He's in this with us." "Oh, shut up!" he snapped, "Leave God out of this, will you?" The instant he spoke the words he saw in his mind's eye a picture of himself, in Counsellor's uniform, yelling at Emma and slapping her until she fainted. He stared at her, his eyes wide with horror. He closed his eyes a moment then opened them and reached out both arms towards her. She 335

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took hold of his hands, wishing she were able to lean over and put her arms around him. "Oh, Emma," he whispered, "I'm sorry, forgive me, please." "Carl, Carl, I love you," she replied softly, "You're not half a man, you're my husband, with everything that word means! Oh, I wish I could hug you! These babies do get in the way, don't they?" He let go one hand, patted her tummy and smiled affectionately at her. "It won't be long, love," he said, "before you can give me proper hugs again... In the meantime, I know you love me. You show me all the time how much you love me..." He lay back on the bed again, and closed his eyes. "O Lord, my God," he prayed softly, "forgive me for what I just said and did, for insulting You and hurting my wife. Forgive me, please, for wallowing in self-pity and forgetting that all you allow in my life is good. I'm truly sorry, Lord God, I really am." There was a knock at the door and Jack looked in, a wide grin on his face. "If you two have finished yelling at each other," he said, "there's someone out here who wants to see you, if you're willing." Carl and Emma both blushed and glanced at each other as Jack came in and closed the door. "Could you hear us out there, Jack?" Emma asked, embarrassed. "Well, it did sound like you were rather in earnest about something," Jack replied, then he grinned again, "It happens to the best of us, don't worry about it. It looks to me like you're still on speaking terms, anyway." Emma looked at Carl and they smiled at each other. Then Carl turned to Jack. "Who's our visitor?" he asked. "A lady called Cecilia Janssen. She was looking for your room when I came out of the lounge. She wasn't sure you'd want to see her, she said, but she thought she'd try." Carl and Emma looked at each other again, each with the same thought. Carer Janssen? What does she want? Emma squeezed Carl's hand and sat herself on the edge of his bed. She looked at him questioningly, and he nodded. "It's okay, Jack," she said to her brother, "Let her in. But please, you stay, too." Jack opened the door and beckoned to Janssen to come in. She walked in slowly, hesitantly, and Carl and Emma were both startled as they almost didn't recognize her. They had both pictured her as they had last seen her, wearing the yellow Carer's uniform and cap, and now she was dressed in a simple skirt and blouse and her hair was uncovered. Janssen was smiling nervously as she walked over to the bed, and Emma held her breath as she wondered at the reason for her visit. Janssen sat down on the chair near the bed and looked down at the floor, as if she were unsure of herself. What had happened to the arrogant woman they had known at the Counselling Institute? Emma glanced at Carl, who gave her a puzzled look. Janssen finally looked up at them. "I-I don't quite know how to say this," she began uncertainly, "but I'd like to tell you how sorry I am for all my

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behaviour towards you in the past, especially for handing you over to Chief Lancaster, Counse— I mean, Mr. Slade." "Why have you suddenly become sorry, Carer?" Carl asked, though he'd already guessed. "I-I've become a Christian," she answered, looking him in the eye, then turning to Emma. The look in her eyes, and on her face, as she said it, and especially the nudging of the Spirit, assured them that she was telling the truth. "How did this happen?" Emma asked. "It was after they shot him," she replied, indicating Carl, "And I saw Mr. Winston—" She glanced at Jack, then looked back at Emma. "and some other people, too, putting him in a car and driving off towards the hospital. I was surprised, as I thought for sure that he was dead. So I got someone to drive me over to the hospital, here, and I went to the enquiries desk to ask about him. The woman there wouldn't tell me anything, but Mr. Winston was standing there and heard me and he came and asked me if I was a friend of yours. I said, 'Not exactly', but he asked me to sit down with him and his wife for a bit, as Mr. Slade was in surgery and they were also waiting to hear how he was." Emma looked over at Jack, who nodded. He had been standing near the door, leaning against the wall, but now he came and sat down on the end of Carl's bed. "He and Mrs. Winston asked me who I was," Janssen continued, "and how I knew Mr. Slade and that sort of thing, but I didn't want to tell them, and they didn't insist. But then Mr. Winston here suddenly said that they were going to pray about Mr. Slade's operation, for it to be successful, and for his recovery, and he said for me to join in if I liked. I just wanted to get up and run, but for some reason I didn't, and while they were praying, and I could hear from their words how much they love you, I just started to cry and cry. I saw what an abominable thing I'd done and then I realised I'd spent my whole life doing horrible things and using people and I was so completely empty of anything good. I'd never even thought about whether I was good or bad before. I don't know why I suddenly did. They didn't stop praying, but all of a sudden Mrs. Winston put her arm around me and then I realized they were praying for me! After a while I stopped crying and Mr. Winston asked me if I knew Jesus Christ, and when I said 'no', they told me about Him and about repentance, and being saved through His death on the cross, and I knew I wanted to be saved from all that my life had been and I asked Jesus Christ to save me, and I-I guess He did!" "He certainly did," Jack said, "He was just waiting for her to stop and listen to Him calling her, and your being shot, Carl, is what He used to finally get her attention." "They—the Winstons, I mean," Janssen pointed out, "They still didn't know who I was, and Mrs. Winston after a while asked me again, and that time I told them, and they both said that you people would be so glad to know about what had happened to me..."

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"Oh, we are, we are!" Emma slid off the bed and awkwardly gave Janssen a hug. "Excuse my ungainly movements, please, I'm not very agile at the moment," she said, and patted her tummy. "Oh, I was so surprised to find out that you'd got married, Mr. Slade," Janssen exclaimed, looking a t Carl, "I don't think that's ever happened before, a Counsellor marrying a counsellee!" "I hadn't been a Counsellor for some time when we were married," Carl pointed out dryly, "nor was Emma a counsellee..." "Your baby must be due any day now, isn't it?" Janssen asked, looking at Emma questioningly. "They have another week or two yet, I hope," Emma replied happily, "We're having twins!" "Miss Janssen," Carl said, "I have to tell you that we do forgive you, and we thank God that He answered Emma's prayers for you. But I also have to ask your forgiveness, because I didn't realise until just now that I still hated you, and I have never prayed for you. Please forgive me." "Oh, I do, Mr. Slade, and I'll also pray with the Winstons and Mrs. Slade, that you'll recover completely from all this, and that the babies will be born safely, and that God will bless you in every way." "And I'll pray, Cecilia," Emma said, smiling at her and taking her hand, "that you'll be blessed with a husband who loves the Lord and who'll love you the way Carl loves me." Janssen stood up, still smiling nervously, and looked at each one in turn. "I don't know if we'll ever meet again here on earth," she said, "I'm going back to my hometown to see if my family want me back. Thank you so much for your welcome, and your forgiveness, and may God bless you all." She squeezed Emma's hand, smiled at Carl and Jack, and left. Emma went back to sit on the bed next to Carl. He took her hand and gazed pensively at her. "Do you realise," he said shortly, "That if I hadn't gone for that walk by the Lake with Aidit she might never have heard God calling her? You're right, my love, when you keep reminding me that 'Everything works together for good for those who love God, those whom He has chosen in accordance with His plans.'" "We don't always know His reasons for letting things happen to us," Jack said, "But we always know that His plans are for our good and for His glory." "And I guess that applies to my being paralysed from the waist down, too," Carl said resignedly, looking at the ceiling. "Oh, don't sound so glum about it!" Emma laughed. He frowned at her, then grinned mischievously. "My dear wife," he said, "Since you're so able to see the funny side of things, give me a kiss. Now!" Emma laughed again. "Oh, Carl, you know I'm quite unable to bend over!" She turned to her brother. "Jack, can you give us a hand, please?" "What do you want me to do?" "Could you help Carl sit up in bed so I can kiss him?" Jack grinned and did as she asked, winking at Carl, then he discreetly left the room. 338

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"I'll be glad when these babies aren't constantly between us!" Emma exclaimed as she sat up on the side of the bed, "Carl, please just look at my face so you don't have to see how awkwardly I have to sit just to be able to kiss you!" He laughed and brought her face close to his. "Oh, how I thank God for you, Emma!" he said softly, and kissed her. After a moment he sat back again, and sighed. "Will I ever be able to move again without getting exhausted all the time, Em?" he asked wearily. "Of course you will," she assured him, "Your body's still recovering from all those injuries; it takes time. Now they've started you on physiotherapy you'll find the exercise will help. You're able to sit up again, and to use a wheelchair. You'll have your work cut out, and so will we all, keeping your legs exercised so they don't seize up and so your circulation keeps going. We'll have to get your flute sent down so you don't forget how to play it, and so you can exercise your lungs, too!" "How do you feel about a husband in a wheelchair, Em?" he asked her, his eyes clouded. "The same way I feel about him whether he's lying down, sitting up, playing his flute, or standing on his head!" She grinned at him. "Carl, I love you! Of course it's not going to be easy, especially on top of coping with two babies, but as in everything else, we'll take one day at a time, and we'll do it with God! Look at this, for one thing: He made sure you'd have a trained nurse for your wife! That's a big plus, you know—you won't have to have a stranger helping you with certain embarrassing aspects of your condition." "But it'll put a big load on you, Em," he pointed out. "One day at a time, Carl," she repeated. "Lean over and kiss me again, my wife whose 'price is above rubies'," he smiled, "I can see you're not going to give up!" "We can't give up, not after everything the Lord's done for us, Carl," Emma smiled too, leaning closer to him, "And He has so much for us to do—and He will make it happen, one way or another." "Well, if you're not giving up, Em," he declared, "I'm not giving up, either!"

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Chapter 47 One morning a week later, Carl had just finished brushing his teeth after breakfast when a nurse, pushing a wheelchair, came briskly into his room, followed by Jack. "Mr. Slade," she said, smiling, "I don't know what plans you had for today, but you can forget them. I'm afraid your presence is required down in the labour ward." "Emma's been having regular contractions for a couple of hours, now," Jack added, "We decided not to wait around seeing as she's early. Rose is with her. I'll wheel you down there." Carl, feeling a mixture of excitement and anxiety, took the dressing gown the nurse was handing him and put it on. With her help and Jack's he slid from the bed onto the wheelchair. The nurse replaced the armrest, and Jack steered the chair into the corridor towards the lift. "How is she, Jack?" Carl asked. "As well as any woman in labour might be expected to be, I think," Jack laughed, "She's pretty excited, though, in between contractions. You know Emma!" "You know, Jack, when they arrested me I thought I'd never see my children," Carl said pensively, "I thank God He's actually going to let me see them being born!" "It's very special, Carl," Jack said, "It's a long time ago now, but I can still remember our children's births!" They were in the lift, and Carl, his face pale, looked up at Jack. "Do you think there's a chance you might find your children now, Jack?" he asked quietly, "I'll do all I can to help you." Jack patted his shoulder and grinned. "Oh yes, I'm sure we'll find them," he assured Carl, "I'm sure the Lord took special note of your prayer in the Park, Carl." He added softly, "He loves you very much." Jack wheeled the chair out of the lift and down more corridors, through the maternity ward. Finally they came to the double doors leading to the labour ward. A nurse stopped them. "Excuse me, only fathers or partners are allowed in the labour ward with the mothers," she said politely but firmly. "Well, I'm a father," Carl grinned, "and my wife's in there, so would you let me in, please?" "What about you?" the nurse looked at Jack. "His wife's my sister and my wife is with her," Jack laughed, "but at the moment I'm just his chauffer and I don't need to go in there if you're willing to take over my job!" "What's your wife's name?" the nurse asked Carl. "Emma. Emma Slade." "Oh," she said, her eyes went wide, "Does your wife always sing hymns when she's in labour?"

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"I-I don't know." Carl stared at her in astonishment. "This is our first time. But it sounds like the sort of thing she'd do, yes. Please can you take me to her?" "Yes, yes, of course," the nurse replied, taking Jack's place behind the wheelchair. "I'll see you later, Carl," Jack said, and patted his shoulder again, "Kick Rose out, will you? Go with the Lord!" The nurse wheeled Carl through the doors, took him into one of the labour rooms, and stopped his chair next to the bed. Emma, wearing a hospital gown, was sitting up, cross-legged, obviously coping with a contraction. Rose was sitting on the edge of the bed, next to her. She came over to Carl and gave him a quick hug. "Hello, Carl," she said, "You can be proud of your wife, she's doing well." "Thanks, Rose," he smiled, "Jack's waiting out there, and he asked me to kick you out." He indicated his legs and grinned. "D'you mind if I don't? Mechanical difficulties..." "I'll leave under my own power!" Rose laughed. Emma sat staring at him incredulously. It was good to hear Carl joking again! "Becoming a father is doing things to your brain, Carl," she said, smiling, "Fancy joking about your paralysed legs! You're going mad!" "Miracles do happen, don't they?" Carl said, "Only a week ago I thought I'd never be able to joke again." Rose patted his shoulder, then went to the door. She turned and smiled at them before leaving. "Take care, you two, we'll see you later," she said, and went out. Emma was busy again, and Carl sat watching her, wondering how much pain she was experiencing. He marvelled that almost every woman who'd ever lived should have to go through this at least once in her life. He'd looked up every reference to labour and birth in the Bible and had been amazed at just how many there were. What an incredible thing that such a miracle as birth should be such a commonplace event! "Can I help you in any way, Em?" he asked her, feeling very helpless. "You're a wonderful help just being here, Carl," she said, and smiled at him warmly, then added, "Please, sing with me. In between contractions, that is." He answered by starting to sing, and with increasingly frequent interruptions, they sang their way through all the hymns they knew, oblivious to the nurses' comings and goings. The first of the twins was born two hours later, and the midwife, after wrapping her in a blanket, handed her to Carl to hold while the second twin was being born. He gazed down at the tiny face with amazement. She looks just like Emma! he thought, Had I been expecting her to look like my sister Helen, maybe? Well, actually, she does look like Helen, like herself—Helen's her name, after all. He felt overwhelmed by the realisation that this time, this tiny person really was his responsibility—he was her father! Hearing Emma 341

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groan as she pushed, he looked up. And there's another one! Dear Lord, may I be a good father to these children! I don't feel very competent.... He looked down at his daughter again, and smiled. You're beautiful, little one, just like your mother. I hope you'll be as beautiful a person... "A girl and a boy, congratulations, Mr. Slade," the midwife beamed at him, "You're looking very pleased with yourself, with reason, too!" Carl looked up at her, his eyes shining, and smiled gently. "Oh, no," he said quietly, "it's God who's produced this miracle. It's Him who's got reason to be pleased, and I'm so thankful to Him." He turned to Emma. She was holding their son to her breast, slowly stroking the tiny back with her free hand and smiling blissfully. Carl stared at her speechlessly. He felt he had never seen anything as lovely as his wife feeding her newborn son. You're doing miracles all over the place, Lord! he thought, Here we are in a hospital room, Emma's half undressed, lying in an unflattering position, her hair's drenched in sweat, she's cradling this baby who's still streaked with blood... and yet it's such a beautiful sight I feel like weeping! He looked down at the bundle in his own arms. Her eyes were open. He turned her so she was looking towards him, and she gazed back at him unblinking. He moved his head, and her eyes followed his. He laughed, and Emma turned to look at him. "Why are you laughing?" she asked. "Your daughter's wondering how in the world she got landed with such a father!" he grinned, then became serious, and asked, "Don't you want to feed her, too? "Yes, of course I do." They looked helplessly at each other. How do I get this baby to her? Carl asked himself, Everybody else is busy. He called to the midwife. "Please, Emma wants to feed this one, too, can you take her?" he asked her. "Of course. I'm sorry, I should have thought of that," the woman said, taking the baby and giving her to Emma, "In a minute we'll have finished cleaning your wife up and I'll lower the bed, and bring your chair closer, too." When the bed was down and his chair had been wheeled up to it, Carl leaned over and put his hand on Emma's as she cradled the babies. "'How beautiful you are, my dearest, oh, how beautiful!'" he quoted, smiling affectionately, "Can I take one of these babies for you? You have your hands rather full!" "Here, how about meeting your son, this time," Emma answered, grinning, handing him one of the babies. Carl sat back in the wheelchair, cradling another tiny bundle. Two at once! he marvelled. One baby is a miracle, but two babies... Hallo, who do you look like, little one? You look vaguely familiar... Emma interrupted his thoughts. "Doesn't he look like you, Carl?" she said. She watched him affectionately, remembering the photograph of the four-year-old Carl holding his sister. It looks so very right, Carl cradling his son, she thought. Oh gosh, what's his name? "Carl," she said suddenly,

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"with everything that's been going on, do you realize we haven't even thought of names for these children?" "Oh, I know their names," Carl answered, looking up at her in surprise, "Don't you?" Emma stared at him in amazement and realised that she did know their names. "Oh, Carl, you're right, I do too," she whispered. She remembered the night of the dreams. "Helen Mei Li and Andrew George," they said in unison, and laughed. Each one holding one of their children, they clasped their free hands and gazed at each other in wonder for a long while. ! ! ! After the birth of the twins, Emma stayed in the hospital several days, and Carl spent as much time as he could, between his meals and his physiotherapy sessions, in her room on the maternity ward. He was taking great pleasure in being with Emma and their children, and looked forwards to the time when they could all be home together. "Where is 'home', Carl?" Emma asked him one morning when he had mentioned this to her. "You told me once that 'Home is where the Lord is', Em," he grinned, "Have you changed your mind?" "You know very well that's not what I'm talking about!" she laughed. "All right, then," he said, seriously, "For some time our home was at Bethany Lodge, and I hope that it will continue to be a 'home' we can retreat to, because the people there have become an important part of our family. But at this time, I believe our home will be here in Densonia—or whatever this city's going to be renamed—because this is where God has called us to be. I'm not sure where we'll live, though at first we'll take your brother up on his offer. I'll have to find out if my flat is still available, but it's rather small and maybe not the right sort of place for children. Even if we can live there, I don't know if it will be for long. Does that answer your question?" "Yes, I guess," she replied, "Though I miss our cottage at Bethany Lodge." "Yes, I miss it too, Em. But I'm sure you realised very quickly, as I did, that I'm no longer able to work on the farm, didn't you?" "Well, I'm not completely convinced that it's out of the question, Carl," Emma pointed out, "I'm still hoping you'll recover the use of your legs. All that tingling you complain about means something's going on with your nerves, I'm sure." "You're an eternal optimist, Em!" he laughed, "And maybe you'll turn out to be right, but considering present circumstances I can't count on it, much as I wish it were otherwise. I did enjoy working on the farm very much, as you know." He paused meditatively. "Perhaps if this hadn't happened I would find it extremely difficult to obey the Lord with regard to working here?" 343

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"What are the Newmans going to do, though? After all, you were the assistant manager. They'll have to find someone else to do that, and to look after the retreat centre." "All I know is that Will's going to live in the cottage," Carl replied, "as George wrote. Beyond that, well, that's up to them, isn't it?" "I suppose so..." Emma said, "At least we're together, Carl, and now we've got two little ones to think about as well." "I'm very thankful that they were born here. For me it underlines the fact that we belong here for the time being, you know." "Speaking of little ones, I think one of them is waking up," Emma said, getting up to take Andrew George from his bassinet, "It's feeding time again, and you're due at the pool for physio." Carl held out his hands. "Let me hold him for a minute before I go," he said. She placed the baby in his arms and watched him as he sat in the wheelchair cuddling his son and talking to him. She had seen him now with their own babies, with the Surito and the Parker children, with teenaged Brian. He's going to be a good father, she thought happily. Carl handed Andrew George back to her and she leant over and kissed him, then he left to go to the rehabilitation centre. When Emma and the twins came out of the hospital they went back to Jack and Rose's home. Rose had borrowed two cots from other church families, and many of these people had also provided much-needed clothing, nappies, and other baby items for the twins. Emma found life with newborn twins very tiring. It was difficult for her to find the time to do anything other than feeding and caring for her babies, and going out with the twins was like going on a major expedition. She could not visit Carl in the hospital every day as she used to do before the twins were born, and she looked forwards to the day when Carl would be allowed to go home. ! ! ! Five weeks after the fall of the Protectorate Carl was discharged from hospital and went to join his wife and children at the Winstons'. Rose had put them in the largest bedroom so they would have room for the babies' cots. Even so, there wasn't much space in which to move around, and Carl felt that they should make it a priority to find a home of their own. When his wheelchair was parked by the bed in such a way that he could easily get from one to the other no-one else could enter or leave the room or close the door! Rose continued working at her cleaning job at the hospital, and for a while her income was all they had for the two families, so it took much ingenuity on her part and Emma's to be able to make it stretch as far as possible. Jack continued with his pastoring work, but in the end decided to take a part-time job, also as a cleaner, to help their financial situation.

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Several people in the church had offered to help with Carl's physiotherapy, and they set up a roster for themselves. This not only provided the much-needed help, but also meant that Carl and Emma were not isolated although they were housebound a great deal of the time. On the third morning after Carl had come home, Emma had got up early, after the babies' first feed of the day, in order to get the washing started early. She'd left Carl sitting up in their bed, reading his Bible. After a while he decided to get up and join her in the kitchen while the twins slept. He moved to the edge of the bed and slowly lowered his legs over the side. As his feet touched the floor he stopped, stunned. "Emmaaa!" he bellowed, "Emmaaa, come here!" She came running from the kitchen, expecting to find some disaster and stood breathlessly, staring at him incredulously, when she saw him just sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning from ear to ear. "What-What's the matter?" she stammered, "Wha-What happened? Why did you yell?" By this time Rose and Jack had also come out of their room and were standing in the doorway wondering what was going on. Amazingly, the twins slept on. Carl was so excited he could hardly speak. He motioned to Emma to come closer, and he took her hands. His eyes shone and he laughed. "I can feel the floor, Em, I can feel the floor!" he exclaimed, "I put my feet down as usual, but when they touched the floor it wasn't as usual. I felt it! I can still feel it!" "Oh, praise the Lord! Carl, that means you'll be able to walk again, do you realise?" Emma sat down next to him and hugged him, "If you can feel the floor, you can learn to walk again!" Rose and Jack came and sat with them on the bed, and Carl put his arms around them all as far as he could and led them in a prayer of thanksgiving. When he finished, Emma got down on the floor and lifted one of his feet. She ran her finger up the sole of his foot and he grimaced. "You've got a reflex, that's another good sign," she observed, "Did you feel that?" "I certainly did!" he replied, "Please don't do it again." She put his foot down and sat up on the bed again. "I can't wait to see how the neurologist will react to this piece of news!" she exclaimed. "He'll be delighted, I should think," Rose said. "We're certainly delighted!" Jack said, "We've got to celebrate this somehow!" "This explains all those 'pins and needles' you've been feeling," Emma said, "It looks like your spinal cord is recovering after all. At least to this extent." Carl smiled happily at them as he got into his wheelchair. He started wheeling it towards the door, then stopped and turned to grin at them. "Let's go and have some breakfast," he suggested, "All this excitement has made me hungry!"

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Jack laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "You can treat us to this kind of excitement anytime you like, mate," he said, "We'll happily keep you well-fed." ! ! ! The call he felt God had put on him to preach the Gospel in the new Republic was on Carl's mind much of the time, and he began to feel impatient with being confined to the wheelchair. He spent several hours each day praying and reading the Scriptures, but he longed to go out there and tell people. "Jack," he said to his brother-in-law one evening, "Is there any way I can get started with this even though I'm stuck in this chair? I can't stand this continuing delay! I know I'm handicapped, but I'm not disabled!" Jack considered his question a moment. "I don't see why it should stop you," he said, "In fact, if you want, I'll take you to the Park and you can sit in the Forum and preach! Remember the Forum, where people used to voice their opinions way back before the Protectorate?" "Let's pray about it, Jack," Carl suggested, "And ask Rose and Emma to pray, too, and see whether that's the way to go. It appeals to me. I hope people wouldn't mind that I'm not able to walk." "I don't see why they should mind," Jack said, "Walking has nothing to do with it." "Jack, it's not very long—only a few weeks, really—since all handicapped people were sent to the Experimental Farm," Carl said quietly, "That's bound to have affected people's opinions." "I suppose so..." "Still, I can't let that stop me either," Carl said emphatically, "if it's what God shows me to do. Let's pray about it." In the end, Carl did go out to the Forum. A small group of curious people listened to him the first day, but not one of them showed much interest in what he was saying. This disturbed him, and he wondered if he was doing the right thing, but he made up his mind to persevere, and to leave the consequences to God. "After all," he said to Emma as they discussed it, "He's the One who does the calling, and He does it whichever way He wants to." "As long as you're obedient to Him and you do your part, He can make use of it if He wants," Emma replied, "He's not limited to that, but He doesn't necessarily do what we think He might do. The wind of the Holy Spirit blows where He decides. Look at how He blew on you! Who would ever have guessed it would happen that way?" "What if Jack had refused to pray for me all those years?" Carl asked, "What if he'd refused to tell me about Jesus Christ that night, in case I was trying to trap him? Yes, the Spirit blows where he decides, but usually He decides to blow through us. We still have to obey Him, even if we don't see the results ourselves."

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The believers in Densonia were now able to meet together freely again, and Jack encouraged them to continue getting together in small groups in homes rather than combining into one large group, so that the need for buildings, programmes, and fund-raising would not arise. After his discussions with Emma and Carl about the situation in Kawanyama he was acutely aware of the traps his own church could easily fall into. With increased freedom it would be so easy to let the concerns of daily living take priority over those of the Kingdom of God. When it had been an all-ornothing choice, it was quite clear what had to have first place, but now the world's voice had become quieter, more subtle, and far more dangerous. It would be so easy to compromise, to be practical, to fit in with the rest of society, if they didn't stay on the alert. It would be so easy to forget that they were following Christ at all... "On top of all that, we also need to be alert for the traps we aren't aware of," Jack pointed out to the small group of people meeting in the Winston home, "In other words, we must keep our focus on God, on Jesus Christ, we must know His Word, we must pray constantly. And we must never forget the last ten years and how God sustained us through them..."

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After several weeks of living with the Winstons, the Slades were told they would be able to move into the flat that had been Carl's home when he was a Counsellor. It was still registered as his in the government housing department, and the authorities decided that it might as well remain in his name. With all the paperwork resulting from the change of government there was enough confusion in the public service that anything which made things easier was welcome. Allowing former government workers to live in the housing that had been assigned to them was one way to cut down on paperwork. Despite its connection with Carl's former profession, both Carl and Emma thought they might be happy to be able to live there, especially as it was within walking distance of the City Park and the Lake. Just after permission for the family to live in the flat had been granted they decided to go and see it, however, for neither of them was completely sure of how they felt about moing to the flat. As they approached the building, Carl asked Emma to stop his wheelchair for a moment. He gazed at the brown brick structure which he'd last seen the morning after the visit to the Winstons' home which had so radically changed his life. "It's not terribly attractive as buildings go, is it?" he remarked. "I've seen better, yes," Emma replied, "Never mind what it looks like— we need somewhere to live, don't we? Let's see this flat of yours." He looked at her over his shoulder. "Em, they've given us permission to use it, but I've no idea what state it's in," he said, "After we left the Protectorate Lancaster may well have passed it on to someone else to use. There were forty Counsellors, after all—one of the others may have been promoted to my position." "Well, I suppose so," Emma said, "but then wouldn't it have been listed under someone else's name in the records? Yet it's still listed under your name, they said at the Housing Ministry. That's why they're letting us live there, they said." "You've got a point, Em. Still, that doesn't mean it hasn't changed... All right, let's go in." Emma pushed the wheelchair through the front door and a narrow lobby and into the lift. "Which floor?" she asked as the door closed behind them. In answer, Carl reached over and pressed one of the numbers on the panel, and the lift started moving upwards. When the door opened, Emma pushed his chair into the hallway. Four doors painted dark green faced them on three sides, and on the fourth side, next to the lift, was a window overlooking the front of the building. The walls of the hall, which were a light shade of green, and the floor of speckled cream terrazzo tiles gave the whole place an institutional appearance.

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Emma looked around curiously. "Uh... It's not terribly cheerful, is it?" she commented. Carl grimaced. "It matched the job, I suppose," he said, "I never spent much time in the hallway, though, so I didn't think much about its appearance." "Just as well—you were probably depressed enough as it was, from what you've told me." Carl pointed to a door on the far right. "That's my flat, over there." They moved towards the door he had indicated. There was an ID panel to the right of the door, with a name label above it. Head Counsellor Carl E. Slade, the label announced. Emma moved the chair so that Carl would be able to reach the panel. He stared at the label on the wall for a moment, his face pale. Emma stood watching. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but decided not to. She waited to see if he would say anything himself. He shifted in the wheelchair and looked back the way they had come, and towards the other doors. He wondered if the name labels were unchanged there too. Counsellors Travis, Allstone, and Duncombe had been his neighbours. All three had taken their own lives when the Protectorate fell. He might well have done the same, had he not gone to Jack Winston's home and met Christ... He decided against asking Emma to have a look at the labels. Maybe later... "This is a very strange feeling, Em," he said after a while, "This place doesn't seem to have changed, even after all this time." He moved his hands towards the ID panel. "Do you think it will still recognize your handprint?" Emma asked. "The lift panel did," he replied, "but they may have re-programmed this one. We'll soon know." He pressed his palm to the panel. To his surprise, the door to the flat slid open. His heart skipped a beat and he slumped back in the wheelchair, staring at the door. "Well, well," he muttered, "My flat still remembers me. Fancy that." "You're a very memorable man, Carl," Emma laughed. "Em," Carl said very softly, "I don't feel like laughing..." He turned to look up at her, and she was surprised at the pain in his blue eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I didn't mean to-to hurt you." "It's all right, Em, I know you didn't. It's just that so many memories have come flooding back suddenly..." He reached his hand up over his shoulder and she took hold of it and squeezed it. "Shall we go in?" Emma pushed the wheelchair through the entrance, and the door slid shut behind them. They were in the living room of the flat, a long and cheaply furnished room with a light cream-coloured carpet. To the left, the room led to sliding glass doors opening onto a balcony with a view over the City Park. Dark brown curtains framed the doors. At least they don't clash with the carpet or the furniture, Emma thought, but I can't say I like brown curtains.

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In front of the glass doors was a lounge suite of imitation leather. On the walls overlooking the sofa and two armchairs were framed prints of paintings by old Australian masters. To the right, also with a framed print above it, stood a pine sideboard and dining suite with three chairs, in front of a window covered by more brown curtains. Emma wondered why there weren't four chairs until she caught sight of the fourth chair over by the sliding doors, next to a music stand. There was an open music book on the stand, and a disorderly pile of books and sheet music on the chair. On the coffee table in front of the sofa sat a mug with a spoon in it and a plate with a small dried-up piece of food on it. These things, combined with a navyblue pullover draped over the back of one of the armchairs, a mound of papers at one end of the dining table, and a pile of Video-CDs on the sideboard, made the room look like it had been recently occupied. Only the cobwebs in the corners and around the flurolite fixtures, and a layer of dust on everything, suggested that no-one had lived there for some time. Carl had caught his breath as they stopped inside the door. Both of them gazed slowly around the room in silence. After a few moments Carl spoke. "It hasn't changed..." he whispered, "They haven't been here at all..." "You mean they left it alone, all this time?" Emma asked, "Even though you'd left the country and all?" "It certainly looks that way. It's just as I left it that morning after my visit to Jack and Rose. The way it was when I left for work, I mean. I didn't know I wouldn't return, of course." "Until now." "Mmmm." "You can remember how you left it, after all these months?" "Oh, yes, no problem. I can even tell you what the music on the stand is—a trio sonata by Bach." Emma wheeled his chair over to the music stand. He couldn't reach the music from his seat, so she handed it to him. "You're right," she said as she saw the title on the cover. She turned to look out through the sliding doors. "You had a lovely view from here, didn't you?" Carl didn't answer and she turned back to him, and was startled to find him with his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking. The music book had fallen to the floor. He was crying. She crouched down by the wheelchair and put her hand on his arm, but didn't say anything. He put his hand over hers and sighed deeply. She took his hand in both of hers. "What's wrong, Carl?" she whispered. He sighed again and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "I-I was remembering, Em," he replied, "I looked at the music, and I could hear it in my head. We played it together so many times..." He stopped and swallowed hard. "Who was 'we'?" Emma asked, guessing the answer. "Andrew Parker, Matt Lewis, and me," Carl said, "I've told you about our trio, I think." "Yes, you have." 350

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"I miss Andrew, Em. I still miss him. Until you came along, he was my only real friend. We were like brothers." He placed his free hand over hers and smiled wistfully. "I thought I'd got over Andrew's death, Em," he sighed, "but when I read that music I was just overwhelmed. Andrew was executed because he helped us out of the country. He really is dead. He'll never accompany my flute with his cello again. The reality of that hit me then in a way it never had before, not even when we went to his flat—I mean, Denise's flat." "Well, it was his flat too, of course." "Yes... Well, do you know, Em, that's one of the last pieces of music we all played together. It was at a concert at Chief Lancaster's house. We never all three of us played together again after that concert. And now both Andrew and Matt are dead..." "Matt killed himself, didn't he?" "Yeah... So many of the Counsellors did..." They were silent a few moments, gazing out through the glass doors, as they thought of the horrors that had been perpetrated by the Police Counselling Institute during the Protectorate. At last Emma picked up the music book and replaced it on the stand. "You know something else, Em?" Carl said, "When we last played that piece together was the night Lancaster informed me that you were to be my next counsellee. Little did either he or I realize what that would lead to!" He stared at the music stand a moment, then sighed again and turned his wheelchair to face the room. He gazed at the prints on the walls, a halfsmile on his lips. "I wonder why they left my flat alone?" he mused out loud, "Why is it just as I left it?" "Maybe they just didn't get around to doing anything about it," Emma suggested, "In some areas they weren't a particularly efficient government." "That's true." He started to wheel the chair towards an archway between the lounge and dining areas which led to the rest of the flat. Emma moved to push the wheelchair, but he told her he could wheel it himself. "You can use a rest from pushing," he said, "You've been doing it since we left Jack's place." She gladly let him do as he suggested, for her arms had begun to ache from the effort of moving the wheelchair. She looked around the room once more as she followed him towards the archway. "Did you choose the furniture in here?" she asked. "No, that was all here when I moved in," Carl replied, "All the Counsellors' flats had much the same furniture—all chosen by our dear Chief." He laughed wryly as he remembered Lancaster's own luxurious mansion. "What I did choose," he continued, "was the paintings—prints, rather. Another of those odd things about me, you know. I liked the old masters—the ones who loved the beauty of the bush, of nature, and put all that love into what they painted, you know, and made it look real." He pointed to the picture hanging over the sideboard. "That one, for example," he said, "the gum trees and cattle in the early morning—I could look at that for ages and never tire of it. And I did, often. But I got tired within five 351

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minutes of moving in here of the circles and squares that were in here originally, believe me!" Emma laughed. "I never had much time for that sort of so-called art either!" she said, "but I like your choice. Very much." "I'm glad you do—I'd like to keep them." "Oh, so would I! Leave them right where they are!" He gave her a warm smile, then turned and proceeded through the archway into a short hallway with a curtained window—in brown again—at the end of it. There were two doors on either side of the hallway. "To our left," he announced as if giving a guided tour, "the kitchen and the bathroom. To the right, a bedroom and a study. The study was actually meant to be the Fantasy Dreamer room, but I didn't have one of those, so I got hold of a desk and put it in there and called it a study. I never used that room at all, actually." They went into the kitchen. It was a small room and did not appear to have been much used. Emma looked in the cupboards. She found cooking utensils but no food other than a packet of tea, a jar of coffee, and a container of sugar. She looked in the fridge. It contained half a loaf of bread, black with mould, and a small bottle of congealed milk. "Phew!" she exclaimed, hurriedly closing the door, "That bread and milk have been around a while!" "Over a year, you know," Carl grinned. "The fridge is still running. Did you notice?" "Yes. Odd, isn't it? I wonder who's been paying for the electricity?" "The government, I guess," Emma said, "Let's hope they don't ask you for a refund." "Well, the fridge doesn't use all that much power." "You didn't have much food in this place." "I didn't eat at home, except for the odd cup of coffee and piece of toast," Carl explained, "I ate most of my meals at the Institute. Sometimes I had tea at Andrew's—every night, in fact, when I was counselling you, except for that last night, the one when I went to Jack's. I couldn't face even Andrew that evening." He opened a drawer and looked in it. "I expect you can make good use of this kitchen, Em," he said, "It's got everything we need, most of it pretty much in new condition." "It's not like the kitchen at the cottage at Bethany Farm," Emma said wistfully, "but I guess I'll get used to it." She looked through the window. "At least it has a nice view of the Lake and the Park." Carl moved back to the hall and towards the door next to the kitchen, which led into a small bathroom. As she looked into the room, Emma thought of the difficulties Carl had in using the shower and bath at Jack and Rose's house. "We'll have to put in some handrails," she said, "This bathroom was obviously designed for able-bodied people." "I hope the time will soon come when I join their ranks again," Carl said, "Let's go look at the bedroom and study." The room he called the study was next to the living room. It had a builtin wardrobe, a desk, and a swivel chair. The window hid behind the 352

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inevitable brown curtains. "The first thing I'll do when we move in is to change all the curtains," Emma announced, "This brown stuff is rather dreary!" "Lancaster's idea of 'simple living'," Carl chuckled, "I changed the ones in my room, though. I didn't dare change the others." He waved at the room. "This could be the children's room. There's plenty of space for their cots, or for beds later on." They moved on to the second bedroom. This contained a large double bed, two bedside tables, another built-in wardrobe, and an armchair. Above the bed was hung another painting of the bush. The curtains were cream with a wattle blossom and leaf pattern, and the blue-green of the bedspread, what Emma could see of it, matched that of the wattle leaves. The bed was unmade, clothes were scattered on the armchair and the floor beside it, the wardrobe door was ajar, and there was another pile of sheet music on one of the bedside tables. "Let me guess—this was your room," Emma said, smiling, "You haven't changed, that way, have you? You're still just as untidy." Carl grinned at her, and wheeled his chair right up to the bed, put on the brake, and proceeded to move himself from the chair onto the bed. He lay down on it, put his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. Emma had watched him, wondering what he was up to. "Are you tired?" she asked. "Not really," he answered, "I just wanted to try the bed out again, and to remember that last night I was here, what it was like." He paused a moment, then added, "This bed's quite comfortable, really." "Why a double bed? Weren't all the Counsellors single?" Emma asked. Carl made a face. "They were, but it was assumed that a Counsellor would want company at night, of one sort or another. As for myself, I just enjoyed having a large bed. I was its only occupant." He smiled at her mischievously. "Of course, I don't have to be its only occupant anymore," he said, "Why don't you come and lie down and try it out for yourself?" Again Emma laughed. "In a minute, Sir," she replied, "May I have a look in your wardrobe first?" "Yes, of course, go ahead," Carl said, then added, but too late, "No, wait. My uniforms—" Emma had opened the wardrobe door wide and she found herself staring at three dark green Police Counsellor's uniforms hanging there. Carl saw her face go white and heard her gasp. "I tried to warn you..." he said softly. "I know," she replied, "Thanks. It was a bit of a shock, that's all." She recovered herself and opened the other wardrobe door. Behind this one she found clothes that were more ordinary—slacks, shirts, a blazer, and a chest of drawers containing underwear, socks, pullovers, and other items of clothing in various stages of disarray. On top of the chest of drawers was a Counsellor's cap with the Institute logo on its badge. She picked it up and looked at it pensively, then took out one of the uniforms and examined that. She fingered the name tag over the right breast pocket. "Counsellor Slade", it proclaimed. 353

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Carl watched his wife, wondering what was going through her mind as she handled those reminders of what he had once been and what she had been through. She turned around, still holding the cap and uniform, and came to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. "What were you planning to do with these?" she asked. "I hadn't thought about it," he said, "but I guess we ought to destroy them." "Perhaps we should keep the trousers," Emma, always practical, ventured, "They're good material, and you need some more trousers..." "I've got several pairs of perfectly good non-uniform trousers in that wardrobe, Em," Carl replied, "No, I want those uniforms destroyed, every bit of them. Don't keep so much as a button. Will you do it for me, Em? There's an incinerator in the kitchen..." Emma gazed for a moment at the uniform she was holding, glanced at the ones in the wardrobe, then turned back to Carl. Vague images of her counselling sessions flitted through her mind. "I'll destroy them, Carl," she whispered, "You're right—we don't want to be reminded of all that." "Thank you, Em," he said warmly, "I'm glad you agree." She got up and took out the other uniforms. "If the incinerator works, I'll do it right now, okay?" "All right, Em. That's a good idea." She left the room and he could hear her in the kitchen as she tried the controls on the incinerator and then used it to destroy the symbols of the confusion and despair in which he had lived before his encounter with Jesus Christ. He thanked God, as he had so many times since that day, that he had been saved out of that dreadful life, that Emma had forgiven him, that they were so happily married. After some ten minutes, Emma walked slowly back into the room. "All done?" he asked. She nodded but didn't say anything. Instead she climbed onto the bed and lay down next to him, put her arm over him and her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears. "Emma, what's the matter?" he cried, distressed by this sudden turn of events, "Tell me, love, what's wrong?" She just continued to cry for several minutes, unable to answer him, and he put his arms around her and waited for her to calm down. "Oh, Carl," she said finally, "I was burning those-those uniforms, and I was thinking of you wearing them, of what they represented, and then I thought of you living here by yourself, living each day with the knowledge of what you'd done, and all the doubts you had, and all your fears, and how terribly lonely you must have been..." "You're right, there, Em," he replied quietly, "I was lonely—terribly lonely." He kissed her forehead. "But I'm not lonely anymore now, Em— I've got Jesus Christ and I've got you. Don't cry, Em, I'm all right now. All that's in the past—it's finished now." She wiped her face with her hand and rolled onto her back. She looked up at the ceiling, and suddenly she laughed with delight. She was looking 354

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at a sky full of stars! "Oh, Carl, did you put those up there?" she asked, "Where did you get them?" He grinned at her and nodded. "Yes, I put them there. I found them in a box, somewhere, I don't quite remember where, but it may have been in one of the storerooms at the Institute. They had all sorts of stuff in those storerooms—I haven't a clue where they got them from or even why they had them at all. When I had trouble sleeping I used to lie here looking at them. I even counted them sometimes. They shine in the dark, you know." Emma was silent for a few minutes, gazing at the ceiling and musing about her husband and what life must have been like for him back then. "You know," she said after a while, "It's strange to think that here you were, living here all by yourself, sleeping, eating, bathing, reading, playing your flute, and so on, only two blocks from where I lived with my brother and his wife, and I had no idea you existed—let alone that I would one day be your wife!—and that, only a year and a half ago..." "Well, I can't say I didn't know you existed, because I knew about you from reading Enwuh reports, and I'd seen you that time when I took Jack's children away, but I was certainly not interested in you until Lancaster assigned you to me. And as you know, that wasn't exactly a welcome assignment!" "How strange life can be..." "'God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform...'" "Yes, and isn't it marvellous?" she said, turning back to him and giving him a hug, "But speaking of moving," she added, looking at his watch, "It's time we headed back to Jack's. The twins will be wanting a feed and Rose might find it difficult to cope with two babies crying at once." "I guess so, Em," Carl replied, sitting up and moving his legs to the edge of the bed to get into the wheelchair, "Let's go. We'll have plenty of time to get used to this place after we move in, won't we?." "You're happy to move back here, then?" "If you are too." "Yes, I am, Carl. It's big enough for us, and it's really a gift from the Lord, don't you think? The fact that it wasn't touched, that all your things were still here, and that Housing are happy for us to have it?" "Yes, it is. But I hope you'll make it your flat as well as mine, won't you?" "You mean, change some things to suit me?" "Yes." "Well, I'll certainly change all those brown curtains! That's for sure! Where did you get that fabric with the wattle flowers?"

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"Praise the Lord, for the Lord our God, the Almighty reigns—let us rejoice and be glad and glorify Him!" REVELATION 19:6,7

One fine summer afternoon Jack and Rose had offered to look after the twins for a couple of hours so that Carl and Emma could go to the Park together, and now Emma pushed Carl's wheelchair down the footpath that led to the lakeshore. At his insistence she had tied his walking frame to the back of the chair. He wanted to be able to try walking out of doors a bit. So far he had only used the walking frame indoors. "It's rather awkward pushing your chair with this thing fastened on the back!" Emma grumbled light-heartedly. "I can wheel it myself if you'd like, Em," Carl offered. "You won't have any strength left for using the frame if I let you do that!" "Well, that's probably right," he answered, "And since this dilemma is the result of my wanting to bring the frame along, I suppose I'd better be able to use it or you'll never speak to me again, right?" "Right!" Emma laughed, "Well, here you are, Sir, by the Lake. Would you like to go for a swim?" "I think I'll give it a miss this time," Carl replied, eyeing the water with distaste, "The water doesn't look very inviting. Untie that frame instead. No, wait, could we go further towards the bridge first?" "Okay." As she pushed the wheelchair along the footpath, Emma remembered Carl telling her how he used to go running along the lakeshore almost every day at dawn. He used to go for a run before breakfast every other day at Bethany Lodge, too. I wonder how he feels, coming back in a wheelchair to where he used to run? she wondered, but didn't voice her thoughts. They reached a spot where there was a bench overlooking the Lake and the view towards the former Presidential Palace. "Here. Stop here," Carl said. "Do you want the frame, now?" "Yes, please." Emma untied the walking frame, checked that the chair's brakes were on properly, and lifted the footrests out of the way. She handed the frame to Carl. He leant forwards, placing the frame on the ground in front of him, and pulled himself out of the chair into a standing position. She moved the chair out of the way and off the footpath, and parked it next to the bench. Carl stood where he was for a few moments, simply enjoying standing up out-of-doors, with the breeze blowing around him, watching Emma, and remembering. "It's funny to think I used to go running along here once," he said to her as she came back to where he stood, "I wonder if I'll ever be able to run again?"

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"Maybe you shouldn't worry about it and just concentrate on getting to walking without a frame?" "Yeah, you're right," he sighed, and started moving slowly across the footpath towards the lawn. He stopped abruptly, and gazed across the Lake towards what was now the Government Assembly Building. He looked around from side to side and behind him. "This is where they arrested me, Em," he said, "It seems such a long time ago now. I thought that was the end of everything, that I'd never see you again, I'd never see the twins, I'd be with the Lord the next day... Only the third point gave me anything to look forwards to. Poor Aidit! He didn't know what to do. I had to tell him to go back to the hotel and tell Yaqob." "It must have been awful for them when they realised they couldn't do anything about it... When they realised you'd be executed for treason..." Carl resumed his step-by-step progression. "Let's think about more cheerful things," he suggested, "such as sitting on the grass by the Lake and watching the ducks, or something equally romantic?" He stopped and eased himself down onto the lawn, then moved the frame to the side. Emma sat down beside him. Propping himself up with one arm, he put his other arm around her shoulders. "I shall be eternally grateful to Jack and Rose for allowing us this time together, just the two of us," Carl said as he gazed at the water, "Much as I love those little ones, there are times when I long to be with just my wife and no children!" "I feel the same way, though I guess in many ways my bond with them is stronger, for obvious reasons," Emma responded, "It's awful how I feel almost guilty leaving them for an hour or two—even though they're in perfectly good hands!" "Did Jack say anything about how their search for their children is going?" "No, he didn't, remind me to ask him when we go back." They sat in silence for a while. Carl mused about the future of this new Republic. Already the new government was quibbling about proposed changes to the various Ministries. Politicians were asking for pay rises. Workers were demanding back pay they hadn't got under the Protectorate. The man in the street was protesting the closing down of the Pleasure Houses. It'll always be the same, he thought, no matter who's at the helm of the country, unless there is a radical change of heart in every single person, unless they believe that Jesus Christ is Lord and died for their sins. "And how are they to believe in Him of whom they haven't heard? And how will they hear about Him unless someone preaches to them? And how is someone to preach to them unless he is sent out?" Lord, you've sent me here, Carl prayed, to preach about Your Son Jesus Christ, to point to the One in whom we are to believe, the only One who saves. May I always be faithful to Your calling. Emma wondered how long it would be before Carl could walk without any aids. His recovery was a long, slow process, but now that he had the hope of unaided walking to reach towards he was happy to be patient and to persevere towards that goal. He was also getting a great deal of 357

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encouragement and help from Jack in his preaching work. He spent hours each day studying the Bible and reading the works of the great preachers of the past, in between his exercises and helping her with the babies. He took every opportunity that came his way to tell people about Christ, with that strange way he had of discerning just where a person was at. Where did she fit in all this? She turned and looked up at him, and he smiled and kissed her on the nose, making her laugh. Where did she fit? "Her husband trusts her completely and thus lacks nothing worthwhile. She only ever does him good, never harm." I'm Carl's wife, she said to herself, the mother of his children, and the keeper of our home. My place is to be where he needs me to be, loving him, encouraging him, praying for and with him, making our home a joyful place, looking after our children. What about all my training as a nurse? Well, it's there if the Lord wants me to make use of it, but it doesn't look like He does at the moment, except for looking after Carl. Their thoughts were interrupted by a most unexpected question. "Excuse me, please, are you by any chance my Auntie Emma?" Startled, Emma looked up at the speaker, whose voice was astonishingly like Rose's. She saw a young woman with light brown hair and a round face like Jack's—like her own. In fact she felt almost as if she were looking at herself in a mirror. She jumped up, almost knocking Carl over in the process. "My name is Emma," she said, "Who are you?" "I'm Jemima Winston," the girl replied. "Jemima!" Emma exclaimed, "Oh, my goodness! I-I mean, you've changed a bit since I last saw you, you know," she held the girl by the shoulders, staring at her in amazement. "You haven't changed at all!" Jemima said, "You look just as I remember you." "However, I have changed. I'm eleven years older, Jemima," Emma pointed out, "A lot can happen in eleven years." "Would either of you care to tell me what's going on?" Carl asked, reminding them of his presence. "Carl! This is Jemima, Jack's eldest!" He stared at the girl. He recalled the ten-year-old who had assured him that she would never let her brothers forget their parents. He felt very strange, as if he'd been someone else back then. I suppose that in a way I was, he thought. Emma introduced him to her niece. "Jemima, this is my husband Carl. Carl Slade." Jemima looked at him curiously. "That's funny, you've got the same name as the Welfare Officer who took us away from Mum and Dad. You even look a bit like him." Carl reddened and looked away. "You tell her, Em," he said, "I'm going to get up." "He is the same man, Jemima," Emma told her, "But at the same time, he isn't. Carl is a Christian now." "What's wrong with him?" Jemima asked, watching Carl struggling to pull himself up with the help of the walking frame. 358

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"He's recovering from an accident." Carl managed to stand up, and he took a few steps towards them. He stood facing them, leaning on the frame. "Where are your brothers, do you know?" he asked Jemima. The girl stared at him with disgust for a moment before answering. "Yes, I do know," she replied bitterly, "What's it to you? You didn't care what happened to us once you grabbed us away from our home—why should you ask now?" Emma stared at her niece, then went over to Carl and put her hand on his. He glanced at her, but didn't say anything. The pain caused by Jemima's words was too great—he might say something he'd regret. We must ask her to come back to the flat with us, Emma thought, Jack will be able to handle this. "Your parents are minding our children, Jemima," she said, "Would you like to come home with us and see them?" "I'd rather see them at our own home, Auntie Emma, by myself, not with him around, or even you," her niece answered, indicating Carl with her chin. She'd never expected this kind of a shock when she'd set out to walk along the lakeshore to her parents' home and had suddenly spotted Emma. A thought struck her now. "Are you telling me that Mum and Dad let you marry this man?" she asked. "Your Dad is the one who led him to Christ," Emma said quietly, ignoring the rudeness of the question. "But how could you marry him? After what he did to us!" Jemima exclaimed. "Do you know what a Counsellor was?" Emma asked her in reply. "Yeah, why?" "Do you know what a counsellee was?" "That, too." "Carl was a Counsellor. I was the counsellee assigned to him," Emma said. "I don't understand what you're getting at, Auntie Emma," her niece said. "He went to visit your father one night. When he left your father's house he was no longer a Counsellor. He had been born again. He belonged to Christ. When I saw him the next day he was not the same man I'd seen the previous day. He asked my forgiveness for what he'd done to me. We had to escape from the Protectorate and the Underground people helped us. We went to Kawanyama. We came to realise we loved each other and we got married. And now we have children of our own. And your parents have loved Carl like a brother, from the moment he entered their house that night. Carl has agonised about you and your brothers ever since that night he saw your photograph on the sideboard in their house. He's prayed every day since that your parents would find you again. He never had any idea what had happened to you. He tried to find out and almost got arrested." Emma spoke more and more earnestly, then suddenly stopped. She paused, gazed pensively at her niece, and asked her, "Jemima, do you still love Jesus Christ?" 359

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"Yes, I do, Auntie Emma," the girl assured her, "I've never stopped loving Him, and neither did Mike or Simeon." "Then you have no right to hate my husband, Jemima, even if he were still your bitter enemy, which he definitely is not. A follower of Christ is commanded by His Lord to love his neighbour as himself. Or herself. Because Christ died for us when we were still His enemies. Can you forgive your uncle, Jemima, the way your parents have forgiven him?" The young woman hung her head. She was struggling with what Emma had just said to her, and she was quiet for several minutes. Finally, she looked up again. "I'm sorry... Uncle Carl," she said softly, "And I forgive you. Please forgive me." "Thank you, Jemima," Carl said, and smiled warmly at her, "And I forgive you too. Now would you like to come and see your parents? Don't keep them waiting any longer. They've waited eleven years already." "Yes, I'll come. I've waited eleven years, too. I want to see them so much..." "May I repeat my earlier question?" Carl asked, "Do you know where your brothers are?" "Yes, I do. We share a small house in one of the northern suburbs. I told them I'd find Mum and Dad first and then bring them to them." "And you said they've kept their faith, too?" Emma asked. "Oh, yes, they both love the Lord." "Isn't our God wonderful!" Carl cried happily, "Nothing can stand against His power!" He made his way back onto the footpath and Emma brought him his wheelchair. "Would you mind very much if I ask you to carry this frame for me, please?" he asked Jemima as he sat back in the wheelchair, "It will be much easier for Emma to push the chair if that's not tied on the back." And it gives you a chance to show yourself that you really can forgive me, he added silently. "Yes, I'll carry it," she replied, "Is it far to where you live?" "Just that brown block of flats over there," Emma pointed, "It's not far." "I can't wait to see Jack and Rose's faces!" Carl exclaimed in delight, "Look what we found in the Park!" ! ! ! That evening, after Jack and Rose had left for their home with Jemima, and after the twins had been put to bed again, Carl sat on the floor in the lounge and finished exercising his legs with Emma's help. Emma stood up and stretched. "That's the lot for today," she said, "Do you want your frame?" "Not just yet. I think I'll sit here for a bit," he replied, "Could you hand me my flute, please?" She did so, and sat back down on the floor with him, and he played a few of the pieces that she especially liked. Then he played several hymns, while she sang the words. 360

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"You know, my love," he said, pausing in his playing, "this is one of my favourite occupations—you and I together making music for the Lord." "It's one of my favourite activities too, Carl," she replied, hugging him, "And I praise Him for allowing you to be able to continue playing your flute. If that bullet that hit your lung had gone a little more to the left and hit your spine you might not have been able to use your arms and hands anymore..." She shuddered. "Well, it didn't, thank God," Carl said, "He doesn't try us beyond what He thinks we need. And I guess He decided I didn't need to be incapacitated quite to that extent." "I guess He likes to hear you playing the flute too..." Carl started playing again, and continued for a while, with Emma singing along when he played a song or a hymn. Finally he stopped again. "Em," he said, "I think I'd like to make a little trip up north in a few weeks' time, when I can move around a bit more easily." "Do you mean to Kawanyama, to Bethany Lodge?" "I do," he replied, "It's about time we showed off our twins to their adoptive grandparents, don't you think?" She gave him another hug. "That would be wonderful, Carl," she said happily, "But how are we going to pay for it?" "Haven't you looked at today's mail yet?" "No, I haven't had time." "Yaqob and Salma have invited us to go up and spend a few weeks in Kawanyama—one week with them, and the rest wherever else we want to go. As if Yaqob didn't know where that would be! But he's offering to pay for all the expenses. Plus they never got around to paying me for my part in the delegation..." "Oh, it'll be so nice to see George and Mei Li and Will again! And Simon and Jess! And our cottage! But will you be able to take time off from your preaching?" "It's about time Jack and the others took over again. When we come back from our trip I intend to start preaching in other places besides this city. There are heaps of people out there who've never heard of Christ." "But you can't go off travelling on your own yet!" "I'm not going to. You three are coming with me. This is going to be a family project." "How are we going to meet our expenses, Carl? Neither of us has a job! And we can't get one, either, if we're always on the move." "We're going to trust God to look after us, Em. He's the One calling us to do this, He knows we need to eat and so on, and He'll provide our needs. We'll tell Him only. And He does provide, you know. He's already given us a camper truck, with hand controls, for us to live and travel in..." "He has? Where is it? When did you get it? How?" "Parked in front of Jack's house. It was taken there last night. Jack and Rose were sworn to secrecy, because I wanted to tell you about it." "Where did it come from?" "Philip." 361

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"He knows what you intend to do? You've told him?" "No, the Lord did. He bought the truck because he was quite sure God wanted him to, though he had no idea what for. Remember when he took me out to lunch last week? Halfway through the meal he told me about it. He only realised at that point what—or rather, who—the truck was for, he said. And he's arranged for me to have lessons to learn to drive with hand controls." She hugged him again and grinned at him. "Well, Carl, you keep on being full of surprises, just like you said you would, don't you?" Carl played the tune of "And Can It Be" on his flute, then turned to her and smiled at her, his blue eyes shining with joy. "No, Em," he said, "It's not me who's full of surprises, it's the Lord. Our God who is always faithful. May His name be praised in all places, forever!" ! ! ! And can it be that I should gain An int'rest in the Saviour's blood? Died He for me, who caused His pain? For me, who him to death pursued? Amazing love! How can it be That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me? Amazing love! How can it be That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me? 'Tis mystery all! Th'Immortal dies! Who can explore His strange design? In vain the mighty angels try To sound the depths of love divine! 'Tis mercy all! let earth adore, Let angel minds inquire no more. He left His Father's throne above, So free, so infinite His grace; Emptied Himself of all but love, And bled for Adam's helpless race. 'Tis mercy all! immense and free; For, O my God, it found out me! Long my imprisoned spirit lay Fast bound in sin and nature's night; Thine eye sent forth a quick'ning ray, I woke, the dungeon flamed with light! My chains fell off, my heart was free; I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.

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No condemnation now I dread; Jesus, and all in Him, is mine! Alive in Him, my living Head, And clothed in righteousness divine, Bold I approach th'eternal throne, And claim the crown, through Christ my own. Charles Wesley, 1707-1788

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SONATA FOR FLUTE How could he go on living with such "Crooked Thinking" racing around in his mind? Even playing his flute was no longer a help - the turmoil was too strong.

The Protectorate was ten years old. Carl Slade had been a Police Counsellor for five of those years. His job and all that stood behind it were getting to him. No longer could he accept the Protectioners' teachings with all their contradictions. Yet there seemed to be nothing else to hold onto -- until Chester Brown and then Emma Winston were sent to him for Counselling. That was the start of a very different path for Carl. He had to flee his country to save his and Emma's lives, but in the end he would come back to share with his countrymen the Truth he had finally found.

ISBN 0 9577741 0 9