Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) (26 page)

“I’d love to.”

Burriwi wagged his head. Hopeless. He sobered. “If Dibbie learns to read and forgets his fathers, don’ you go teaching him to read, eh? Fathers more important’n reading. Oh, and I found out about your Jesus yesterday. Not in your book. My book.”

Luke’s ears didn’t snap erect literally, but he perked up like a dog who first notices a chunk of fresh meat. “Tell me!”

“I asked a whitefeller you don’ know, he says about Jesus same as you. Now I know it’s not just you and your book.”

“And what have you decided?”

“Eh, what you said. That Jesus is real, and He’s stronger ’n the spirits I know. He’s the best way. We talk a long time.”

“Burriwi, that’s wonderful. Who is this man?”

“Here. Why not you come along? Bet we can find him, talk to him more, mebbe, eh? Name’s Abner Gardell. Wise man; wise about the forest.”

Luke bounced to his feet with the kind of grin Dibbie saved for acknowledging special treats.

“Besides,” Burriwi smiled with all his uncounted teeth, “he keeps good eye on Sugarlea. Watch out for your lady friend.”

Luke’s face hardened. “He works for Sloan?”

“Ask him.” Burriwi was not about to get all mixed up in the various machinations of these outlanders. But then, Luke claimed to be very close to this Jesus fellow (in His present spirit form, apparently), and Abner Gardell admitted losing contact with Him. Burriwi would simply put the two men together and sit back to listen. The encounter ought be informative—at the very least, entertaining.

It was logical that the spirit world should extend far beyond the realities within blackfeller ken, just as did the physical world. This might provide Burriwi insight into the spirit world of the whitefellers, if indeed there was any, and he could pass what he learned on to the others. It might even help explain the whitefellers’ strange, inhuman drives and hungers.

Luke Vinson had the same effect on the forest that a sugar tram has on a quiet conversation. It took Burriwi most of the day to locate Abner Gardell, despite the fact that the fossicker was not at all trying to hide. Burriwi finally left Luke sitting—the man got tired easier than Dibbie did—located Gardell, and brought him to the preacher with as few words of explanation as possible.

Burriwi knew that whitefellers, having no custom for finding out how to greet one another, tended to be guarded and formal at first. But he certainly didn’t expect the feeling of just plain hostility that bristled between these men who purported to know Jesus. Nor did their talk go the way he had thought it would.

“I understand you work for Sloan.” Luke studied Gardell warily.

“No. Never met him. Seen you around his place now and then, though.”

“We’re not friends. I’ve formed a friendship with one of the young women in his employ.”

“Yeah? From the looks of your face there, I’d say you were out kissing a reef.”

Silence. Glaring silence.

Burriwi broke it. “Abner, friend, how do you smell me like that?”

The man burst out laughing. “Burriwi, I was leading you on. Since I realized Abos were keeping an eye on me, I’ve just been shouting that at the forest now and then. Couple times a day. If the boys are following me, they step right out and walk with me; I feel better keeping an eye on them. Didn’t think it worked on you, though.”

Burriwi snorted. Embarrassing, but the hostile spirit evaporated. He settled against a pandanus trunk and waited.

Either Luke didn’t catch on or he was good at hiding it. “Burriwi says you keep an eye on Sugarlea. May I ask why?”

Gardell snapped his head around to Burriwi. “You said he was a man I’d be interested to talk to. About Sloan?”

“‘Bout Jesus. He big-notes Jesus and you don’ talk to Him no more.” Burriwi shrugged and grinned. “So whata you say?”

“Ah!” Luke recovered his boyish grin and the feeling of hostility fled. He settled down cross-legged on the ground and explained to Gardell what he had told Burriwi. Then he recited what Burriwi said and what he understood Gardell to have said…. And in all this Burriwi plucked the men’s words from the air and shook them through the sifting-basket of his own thoughts.

He perceived how barren and colorless is the spirit world of whitefellers. Only four entities need be considered seriously. And yet, those entities were each so powerful, they performed by themselves all the blessings and curses that in the world of the blackfellers’ spirits were assigned to a host of specializing entities.

Amazing, too, was the black and white nature of their spirits—wholly evil or wholly good. Gardell seemed particularly concerned with the effects the evil one had upon him. He spoke of an unforgiveness, a smoldering hatred. Both men agreed this came from the evil spirit, a single entity called by either of two names. They agreed that this unforgiveness erected a barrier to intimacy with Jesus.

These two men, diverse in many ways, agreed completely on the powerful influence of their few spirits. Burriwi dismissed any doubts about the reality of Jesus, God the father, His Holy Spirit and Satan, whom they referred to as the devil now and then. And yet, if the three good spirits were so powerful, why did they exert so little influence on whitefellers, on Gardell especially? In a contest of three against one, how could Satan prevail? He must be powerful indeed.

Perhaps the raw strength of the evil spirit explained the whitefellers’ common traits of insane greed and callousness. Perhaps Burriwi felt this malign spirit directly when he felt Sloan’s spirit. But Luke’s book said man himself bears an evil nature. Burriwi thought about the petty jealousies and power plays within his own clan, much less these men. Luke’s book was probably right on that point. So then, how does one discern between the evil spirit’s malign work and the evil within the man himself? That was not coming out in this discussion at all.

Good thing he was listening with one ear, at least; Luke addressed him directly. “Burriwi, I’m glad you brought me. After conversing here with Abner, I realize I have to re-examine my own motives for confronting Sloan. Am I truly interested in the higher morality of freedom and human dignity, or am I exercising vindictiveness toward a man with whom I disagree, who doesn’t approach life as I do because he doesn’t have the light of God to go by?”

He had just used five words not in Burriwi’s vocabulary. Since the little speech didn’t add anything to the questions in Burriwi’s mind, he let it go by. “Glad you’re glad, Friend.”

Gardell chewed pensively on his lower lip. “What you’re saying, Vinson, at the core of it, is that if I want to get back together with God, I’m going to have to forgive and forget.”

“In essence, yes, if you want wholeness with Him.”

“I can’t.”

Out of curiosity, Burriwi asked, “Who is strongest, really? The good spirits or the evil spirit?”

Luke glanced at Gardell. “Strength for strength, God, of course. But God does not impose His power on us. He doesn’t make us obey Him. We have to want to, to do it voluntarily.” He translated his own long word. “On our own.”

“Sometimes we can’t.” Gardell scowled, somber.

Luke nodded. “It may seem so. Satan knows how to use the wrongdoing and evil within ourselves to add to his own strength. He’s able frequently to get the upper hand that way. Abner here has that very war going on within him—Satan using Abner’s own nature to keep him away from God.”

That answered the question exactly, and the way Luke sometimes talked a long trail to reach a short destination, Burriwi was mildly surprised. Gardell might have problems, but the matter was clear in Burriwi’s mind.

He would transfer his trust from the many spirits of sea and forest to the great God who was more powerful than all of them. That meant, he knew, that he must also believe about Jesus. No problems. And that surely meant, too, that the evil spirit would try to separate him from God, as it was doing to Gardell. He saw that he must guard against that.

Gardell was wagging his shaggy head sadly. “The past, Vinson. The past. It makes slaves of us all.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Disaster and Tragedy

Brilliant late-morning sun set the rippled sea to glowing, bluer than blue. Dazzling sand and bright water made Samantha’s eyes hurt as she walked the narrow strand below the house. She sat for a few moments beneath a small, gnarled tree. She had to tuck in and hunch over to fit beneath its low, spreading branches.

Out over the water a large white sea-eagle came soaring. Its gray-tipped wings dipped and spread; it looked more like a monstrously huge butterfly than a bird of prey. It coasted low to the light-dapples, its long white legs hanging down, then dropped suddenly. When it rose with mighty wingbeats, a silver fish flapped in its talons.

From above the trees here on shore—from out of nowhere—a dark wedge-tailed eagle zoomed by. It made a menacing pass at the sea-eagle. The second threat worked; the white eagle dropped its fish and angled away from the danger on its huge spreading wings. The dark eagle had the fish in its own claws before the trophy could touch water.

Why did this primitive act of avian piracy enrage Samantha so? It probably happened frequently; indeed, it had occurred quickly, as if rehearsed. And it was certainly none of her affair. Nature has its own rules for heroes and villains.

She’d best get back and commence luncheon preparations.
That is one sorry thing about being a cook,
she thought wearily.
Your creations disappear three times daily—or oftener—and must be constantly recreated.
She squirmed out from under her shady retreat and started home.

She was within a few rods of the house when hoofbeats came clattering from up ahead. Here came Mr. Sloan on Gypsy, wearing a city suit. She stepped out of the way.

He pulled up beside her. “I won’t be back for lunch. Have a supper waiting late.”

“Ye look upset, sir. Meg? Something meself can help with?”

He smirked. “Bankers I can’t manipulate. Don’t let the place burn down while I’m gone.” He twisted Gypsy’s head around and cantered away.

He did not get back for supper, though she kept it waiting for him until past eleven. He did not return at all that night. When he finally did ride in, grim and weary, the sun was ready to set on the next day.

Samantha put her pen down, her letter to Mum only half finished. She watched him through the flynet on the back door as he pulled Gypsy’s bridle and let her find her own way up to Fat Dog and her manger. He washed his face off perfunctorily at the ewer and basin on the back porch, shoved through the kitchen door, and flopped into the chair by the table.

“What do you have from dinner? Sandwich, maybe?”

She tied on her apron. “Fish chowder. Linnet’s friends brought us some very nice rock cod. And perhaps a bit of lamb.”

He nodded, not a bit enthusiastic about rock cod chowder.

She ladled a serving of the chowder into a smaller pot so that it might heat more quickly. “Ye don’t appear to have fared well with yer recalcitrant bankers.”

He laughed wryly. “Recalcitrant. Love it. I’m one step ahead of ruin, but at least I’m still that step ahead.” The forced cheer melted into gloom. “Ever use a telephone?”

“Aye. They have some in Cork. Hard to hear from—dim and scratchy—but ’tis a grand improvement over running ’cross town.”

“They have ’em in Sydney, too. Also in Melbourne, and their telephones caught me, Sam. The bankers got together and discovered among themselves that I’ve encumbered the same land twice.”

“Meaning?”

“I took out a loan using land as collateral that already had a mortgage outstanding on it. Now they want their money. All of it. Or else proof that if I go under they’ll get what’s theirs. That there’s enough real estate for all the vultures to feed on.”

As she sliced a slab off the leg of lamb, Samantha added two and two and came up with Butts. “Ye’re going to foreclose on the tea lands, hoping to impress the bankers with your real worth.”

“Tried that approach.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “I thought my clear title to that, plus Sugarlea, would convince them they shouldn’t call in their loans. No luck. So I managed to sell the tea land to a starry-eyed emigrant from Liverpool who hopes to make his fortune here in the brave new land. Gave the bankers a hefty sum; let ’em talk about that on their telephone. Now I wait to see if that’ll hold ’em.”

She turned and stared at him. The anger boiled up in her. How could he do that to … ?
Hold your blabbing tongue. You’re a servant and no more
.

“When will ye know their mind?”

“You ever hear of the sword of Damocles?”

“Aye.” She set the lamb before him and dished out the soup. “I’ll steep ye a fresh pot of black pekoe. This old tea be strong enough to roll up the sides of yer tongue.”

“Gardell still up on the hill?”

“I presume so. Fat Dog’s nephews look in on him now and again, and Burriwi keeps an eye out. Meself has heard nae new.”

“Like a bloody carrion bird he sits there. A vulture. Watching me, waiting for the carcass to cool off.”

“Or mayhap simply scratching about in search of gold and dinnae know or care ye exist.”

“He knows. And believe me, he cares.” Mr. Sloan poked absently at his soup with his spoon, but his interest picked up when he tasted it. Rock cod makes an exceptional chowder.

Samantha sat down at the table, the better to meet him eye to eye. “Mr. Gardell distresses ye almost more than yer bankers. Why?”

“None of a housemaid’s business.”

“True enough, sir.” She stood up in part because she knew when she wasn’t wanted and in part because someone was knocking at the front door.

Meg was just ushering Constable Thurlow inside as Samantha got there.

Thurlow twisted his cap nervously about in his hands. “So Cole’s not returned from business yet.”

“Arrived moments ago, sir. Margaret may not have heard him come in.” Samantha turned back toward the kitchen. She would have preferred the man wait in the foyer until summoned, but he followed on her heels. She got to the kitchen three steps ahead of him. “Constable Thurlow, sir, to see you.”