Concerto for Flute and Orchestra

been filled with water, the roof of the shaft beneath it had collapsed, so that
the lake had ended up being much deeper than planned. "And if you hadn't
come along when you did, I'd be at the bottom of it now..." he said pensively,
"Thank God you did come along."
As Henry was talking a car was approaching them along the road. It
slowed down, moved over to the side of the road where they were walking,
and as he went past, the driver leaned out and spat at Henry, hitting him
full in the face. Then he sped off.
Carl, stunned, watched the car driving off. He couldn't believe what he'd
seen. He had believed Henry's story about the way the members of his
church had treated him, but he hadn't expected to actually witness it.
Henry was wiping his face with his handkerchief. When he was done he
turned to Carl. "That was one of the Elders..." he said miserably.
"One of the Elders? From your church?" Carl felt as if the world had
suddenly started spinning backwards.
"Yes, from my church." Henry shrugged and continued walking towards
the park.
Carl finally got his feet to move again, and followed him. Henry led the
way to the carpark and to a small green sedan. Using the ID panel he
unlocked it, and opened the passenger door for Carl. "Hop in," he said, "It's
about ten minutes' drive to my place."
Carl, still in a daze, got into the car and pulled the door shut, and they
drove off.

!!!

Henry Smith lived in a small house on the northern side of Goldridge.

The neighbourhood was a quiet one, with tree-lined streets of similar small
houses radiating from a central shopping centre.
This part of the town had been built during the lean years of the Republic
just preceding the Protectorate, and the style of the homes certainly reflected
that fact. Henry's house was identical, apart from its colour, to all the others
on Wattle Street. Built of cinder blocks, looking much like a block itself, it
squatted behind a few metres of lawn which separated it from the footpath.
On the northern end of it was a garage with a short driveway leading up to
its rollaway door. A gravelled path went from the front door, past a small
bottlebrush bush, to the footpath. The walls of the house were painted light
blue, with doors and window frames contrasting in a dark navy.
"I'm within walking distance of the shops down the street," Henry said as
he parked his car in the driveway, "It comes in handy now and then."
They got out and walked to the front door. Carl glanced around and up
and down the street. Not another soul in sight. He found this strange, and
somewhat uncomfortable. Even in Apmirra one saw people walking along
the streets no matter what the time of day.
"The church building is on Eucalyptus Street, as you saw on the letter.
That's also within walking distance, on the next street over." Henry waved in

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the general direction of his church as he opened the door to his house.
"Come on in, just make yourself at home."
"Thank you," Carl said, and followed him in.
The small L-shaped front room was both living and dining room. To the
left and straight ahead, a three-piece lounge suite upholstered in blue-grey
chintz surrounded a low glass-and-steel coffee table. A print of the
McCubbin tryptich surrounded by a narrow silver frame graced the wall
behind the sofa and a rather old-fashioned standard lamp with a gold-
coloured shade clashed with the rest of the room in the far corner. The
window to the left of the door had no curtains, but a dark blue sliding blind
was pulled a third of the way across it. Below the window was a small metal
bookshelf sagging with the weight of rather more books than it had been
designed to hold.
To the right, an identical window looked onto the dining section of the
room. A varnished pine sideboard cluttered with two candlesticks, some
cups and saucers, an assortment of untidy papers and books, and three
different versions of the Bible stood against the far wall and faced a small
dining table with four chairs. Rembrandt's version of Jacob blessing
Joseph's sons hung above the sideboard and looked quite out of place there.
The table, also piled high with papers and books, apparently was used
mostly as a desk. A large number of newspapers was stacked up on the floor
under it.
"I eat in the kitchen, usually," Henry said, noticing Carl looking at the
table, "When I used to have guests over for a meal—that hasn't happened for
a long time—I'd just move all that stuff to the sideboard."
"I see," Carl said. It occurred to him that it might be just as well that
Henry didn't have guests—the added weight could possibly be the
sideboard's undoing... "Actually, I was wondering where your books came
from."
"They were all hidden away during the Protectorate. It was like Christmas
when I was able to dig them out again!"
"The Protectorate..." Carl muttered. He sat down on the sofa and
stretched out his legs. "Henry, how is it that the believers here—in this
town—seem to have forgotten what they went through during the
Protectorate? So quickly?"
Henry sat down in an armchair and leant his chin on his left hand, his
elbow on the arm of the chair.
"I don't know, Carl," he replied, "and what's more I'm just as bad as any
of them. We were drunk with freedom, you might say, and maybe we got too
engrossed in non-essentials. But I think the tare-sowing has something to
do with it too. Over the last two years, maybe even longer, we've somehow
managed to ignore the past, forget the future's coming, and just live for the
present. It became too difficult to remember Denson's time. In fact some
people have even started suggesting that it wasn't really as bad as all that...
Besides, the Protectioners are gone, they say—the fall of the Protectorate
was the end of the Protection, too."

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 Concerto for Flute and Orchestra

Carl sighed, and gazed at Henry without smiling. "The Protectioners

aren't likely to have given up that easily, Henry," he said presently, "I'm
beginning to think they are more active than people thought..."
The pastor looked at him strangely. "What makes you say that?"
"I'm rather familiar with the Protection's way of doing things," Carl
replied.
"How do you mean?"
"I was a staunch supporter of the Protection for some twenty years,
Henry. I was a government official in the Protectorate."
Henry just continued to stare at him. He didn't say anything.
"Do you remember the Police Counselling Institute in Densonia?" Carl
asked quietly, "where Christians and other dissenters—the Rebels—were
taken for so-called treatment, which was really torture and brainwashing?"
"Yes. Some of our folk ended up there. Some of them came back, and
some we never saw again."
"Well, I was a Counsellor there, for five years, until I became a Christian.
Before that I'd been a Welfare Officer, and one of my main tasks was taking
the children of Christians from their families. One of my other jobs was
keeping track of Enwuh activities—do you remember the Neighbour
Watchers?"
"Yes, I do, but I-I find it hard to believe you were one of them, Carl,"
Henry said, still looking oddly at him, "You don't seem like that kind of
man."
"You have to keep in mind that I wasn't a Christian, Henry. I grew up in a
Protection-sponsored orphanage, and the Protection was all I knew. I was
afraid of getting on the wrong side of the Party."
"How did you become a Christian, then? The Protection was violently
anti-Christian."
"I began to have doubts about the Protection philosophy. There was also
a woman in the Institute—one of the guards—who hated me, and who
manipulated my assignments in such a way that I would ultimately fail in
my work so badly I'd get kicked out of the Institute. She got the Chief to
assign two die-hard Christians to me as counsellees, one after the other. I
would have killed myself during that first assignment if it hadn't been for
one of the Police Officers who was my closest friend and whose family looked
after me as if I were one of them. I didn't know it at the time—I only found
out after he was killed—but he was a Christian too. Anyhow, I was going to
pieces and I was assigned a woman counsellee, which was not only
extremely difficult for me, because I was pretty much scared of women in
general, but it was actually also a demotion, so that only added to my
despair. Emma was also a rock-steady believer that I hadn't a hope of
converting. In the end I just had to find out more about her faith, and I went
out to her brother's house one night. Emma's brother is Jack Winston—he's
also a pastor."
Henry nodded.
"Oh, you've heard of him?" Carl asked.
Again Henry nodded, but he kept silent.

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"Well," Carl went on, "he's a steadfast man of God. He just read from the
Bible and somehow I knew that was the answer I'd been looking for. That
night I met Jesus Christ, Henry." Carl paused—the memory of that
extraordinary experience was still very vivid. "My whole life was turned right-
side-up. The next day, at Andrew's—my friend's—urging, and with the help
of the Underground, we were on the run, escaping to Kawanyama. Emma
and I, that is."
Henry just kept staring at Carl wordlessly.
"Hey!" Carl laughed, "You don't have to look so flabbergasted, mate!"
"I'm sorry, it's very rude of me to stare at you like that," Henry muttered,
shaking his head, "It's just so unbelievable—what you just told me. If I
hadn't—" He stopped and cleared his throat. "I mean, so you've been a
Christian only some four or five years, is that right?"
"Five years, that's right," Carl replied.
"You're married, aren't you?"
"Yes, and we have four-year-old twins."
"Is your wife a Christian, too?"
"Oh, yes. Most definitely. I should have told you—Emma Winston is my
wife. We got married about six weeks after we left the Protectorate. The
twins were born a week before our first anniversary!"
"Six weeks?" Henry said. He paused to think. "Wait a minute," he addded
after a moment, "Emma Winston... Are you telling me you married your
counsellee?"
"Well, yes," Carl smiled, "I know it seems unbelievable, but we've never
regretted it. We've been friends since the day Christ saved me, you see.
Emma is a very special person and a wonderful wife and mother."
Henry was astounded. He had to meet this family! "Did you bring your
family with you?" he asked.
"Normally we do all travel together, but this time Helen—that's our
daughter—was quite sick the day before we were supposed to leave, and we
decided I'd have to come down on my own. I'll only be away five days, and
Emma's got her brother and his family living in Apmirra."
"Well—I guess I am flabbergasted!" Henry said, "I've heard some strange
stories, but yours is the strangest by a long way!"
Carl looked at his watch. He smiled. "It's even stranger than what you've
heard so far, but I'll tell you the rest some other time. Right now we need to
decide what we're going to do about your situation. Besides that, I still have
to preach this afternoon, and I need to spend some time praying and
thinking about that. So far, I've only managed ten minutes! And I have a
feeling that my message will be rather different from what I originally had in
mind."
"Well, if you can stand another cup of tea, I'll go make some," Henry
offered, getting up and heading towards the door which led to the back of
the house, "Why don't you work at the table? Just push things out of your
way to make some space. There's paper and pens there, and some Bibles on
the sideboard. Use whatever you need."

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"Thank you," Carl said, glancing at the table and then back at Henry who
had paused in the doorway.
The pastor looked at him with a peculiar expression on his face for a
moment, then he turned and left the room.

30
 CHAPTER 5

Carl decided to walk to the church on Eucalyptus Street, following

Henry's directions for getting there. "Might I suggest that you stay home," he
said to Henry, "and keep your door locked."
"It's probably a good idea," Henry said, "I'm not too popular at the
moment..."
"And please pray for me," Carl added, "I'm rather nervous about this
meeting, after all you've told me."
"Don't you worry, I'll be praying, all right. You're sure you don't want me
to drive you over?"
"I'm sure. As you said yourself, it wouldn't be wise for you to be seen with
me, either for you or for me. Not considering what you've told me, and the
fact that this is your church."
"You're right, Carl," Henry said, "Okay, off you go, then. See you when
you get back."
It was quite a pleasant walk, down Wattle Street to the shopping centre
and then up Eucalyptus Street towards the Church of the Good Shepherd.
The sun was shining and a cool, gentle breeze was blowing. Carl didn't see
anyone else out walking, and he still thought it odd. Children were playing
in one or two of the front gardens he walked past. None of the houses had
much land around them—the homes which had been built just before the
Protectorate had a minimum of land. The area would have looked like a field
with giant shoeboxes scattered all over it if it hadn't been for all the trees
lining the streets.
As he approached the church, Carl slowed down and prayed again
silently about what he should say and do when he got there. He could see
several cars in the carpark next to the building—including the one that had
passed Henry and him that morning. The church itself was a very plain and
unpretentious cream-coloured building—essentially a larger version of the
shoebox houses around it—with three tall, narrow windows of frosted yellow
glass looking out towards the street. A narrow lawn spread across the front
between the building and the street, with some shade provided by a large
liquidamber tree displaying spring foliage.
Little groups of three or four people were standing around the lawn and
the carpark, and he could see a few folk in the church entrance. They were
all dressed to the nines, and Carl suddenly remembered that he was still
wearing the casual sports shirt, slacks, and blazer he'd put on that morning
to go to the park. He shrugged. He didn't really have anything more formal
to wear, anyway. At least he had his Bible with him.
He walked slowly up the path toward the church, noticing out of the
corner of his eye that the groups of talkers had all turned to stare at him.

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Before going up the wide steps to the double glass doors, he read the
board on the wall next to them:

Church of the Good Shepherd—Nondenominational.

Pastor Henry Smith. 12 Eucalyptus Street.

A heavy-set man wearing a dark blue suit over a red shirt had come out
of the church and approached Carl. Being somewhat shorter than Carl, he
kept the advantage of height by staying two steps up from the footpath
where Carl stood. "Anything I can do for you?" he asked Carl loudly in a
business-like manner.
"Uh—yes," Carl replied, turning to him, "I think I've made a mistake. I'm
looking for a church, and I was directed here, but according to that sign this
isn't the right place."
"Aah, well, I'm sure I can help you there," the man said, continuing to
use his self-confident tone, "I know where all the churches in town are.
Now—which one in particular are you looking for?"
"The Lutherite church," Carl replied.
The man gave him a peculiar look and glanced back at the people inside,
who were staring curiously at Carl, before answering. "Well, now, who told
you there was a Lutherite church in this town?" he asked Carl ingratiatingly.
Carl smiled. "Alfred Greenstone," he said.
The man's mouth opened as if he were about to speak, stayed open a
second or two, then snapped shut. He looked Carl up and down
suspiciously. "And who might you be?" he asked, in a tone bordering on
disdain.
Carl still smiled, though on the inside he felt more like yelling. "Carl
Slade," he replied, "I'm supposed to be speaking at the Lutherite church this
afternoon." He looked at his watch. "I'm due there in five minutes—could
you tell me where it is, please?"
The man gasped, and looked Carl up and down again. "You are Carl
Slade?" he asked in astonishment.
"Anything I can do, Alf?"
Another man had come out of the building and came down the steps to
join them. He was tall and thin, with rounded shoulders and steely blue
eyes. His trim blond moustache matched his carefully groomed, short, blond
hair which contrasted sharply with his black suit and dark grey shirt.
Carl thought of undertakers. Perhaps not so incongruously, he said to
himself. He had a strange feeling of having seen this man somewhere before,
but he couldn't think where.
The first man, Alf—could this be Alfred Greenstone himself?—was of
medium height, generously endowed with chins, and bald except for a
wreath of short, grey hair. His small brown eyes never seemed to be still. He
gestured towards Carl. "Apparently this is our speaker," he said.
Carl bowed slightly to the two of them, and they bowed back
automatically, which confirmed a suspicion that was growing in Carl's mind.

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The second man raised his eyebrows. "So, you are Mr. Carl Slade, the
evangelist?" he said, looking at Carl in the manner of a scientist examining
some strange new species of insect. He looked around. "Where is your
family? Your vehicle?"
"My family are home in Apmirra," Carl said, "I walked."
"What! From Apmirra?" Alf blurted out.
Carl laughed. "No, of course not! My truck's at the caravan park. But it
was such a nice day I decided to walk here."
The second man had recovered his composure and was suddenly all
affability. "Well, Mr. Slade, welcome to our church!" he said, and smiled—a
smile that was so warm it made Carl think of funerals again. He grasped
Carl's arm to lead him into the building. "My name is Geoff Hillman, by the
way, and this is Alf Greenstone." He indicated the first man, confirming
Carl's guess.
"Ah, so you're Mr. Greenstone," Carl exclaimed, extending his right hand
to the man, "Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Greenstone."
Greenstone eyed Carl's hand with distaste—which did not surprise Carl—
then suddenly recovered himself and shook it feebly.
Hillman still held Carl's left arm, and the three of them started up the
steps. Carl stopped suddenly before they reached the door. "Wait a minute!"
he said, "I'm supposed to speak at the Lutherite church, not here!" He looked
from one man to the other. "You've got me rather confused." Well, a little
confused, anyway, Carl thought to himself. "Is this the right church or not?"
He looked at Greenstone. "You just told me there isn't a Lutherite church
here. Now you're taking me into this building. What's going on?"
Hillman glanced at Greenstone as if to say, "Your turn."
"Well, Mr. Slade," Greenstone said smoothly, "What I said was right." Carl
noticed he said right, not true. "There is no Lutherite church here. No
building, that is. For the time being we're meeting in this building, by
permission of the Pastor."
"I see," Carl muttered. I see more than you know, mate, he thought
bitterly.
"Well, let me introduce you to some of our folk," Hillman said loudly as
they entered the church, and proceeded to lead Carl from one group of
people to another, telling him their names and introducing him as the
speaker. Then he looked at his watch and declared it was time to start.
"We'll sing a couple of hymns, have some prayer, then the show will be
yours," he said to Carl as he led him up the aisle towards the front of the
church. He stopped halfway and looked Carl up and down as Greenstone
had done. "You really ought to have worn a suit, you know," he said.
"I'm sorry," Carl said, smiling, "I don't own a suit."
Hillman was obviously taken aback, but he shrugged and showed Carl to
a seat at the right side of the lectern.
Someone had started the synthesizer playing, and the congregation was
filing into the church as Carl sat down. From where he sat he could see both
the unadorned auditorium and the platform at the front. It wasn't an
especially large room, and he estimated that it could seat at most a hundred

33
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and fifty people comfortably, two hundred if they were squeezed in. The
seating consisted of plain metal-framed benches with backs, with padded
vinyl-covered seats which dated from the turn of the century and looked
their age. There were two parallel rows of them, with a wide aisle between
the rows and narrow aisles between the rows and the side walls. The floor
was parquet which had not seen any kind of polish for at least two decades,
and from the railing along the floor on either side of the centre aisle, Carl
deduced there had once been a carpet. There was a potted palm at each end
of the platform, and along the back of the platform were four high-backed
chairs with moth-eaten velvet covered seats.
As they walked to their places most of the people glanced at Carl, and
some of them even stared at him. He was startled to recognize the man
who'd spat at Henry from his car that morning. One of the Elders. The man
apparently did not recognize him as Smith's companion of the morning.
Perhaps he hadn't noticed him at the time—perhaps he'd been too intent on
the horrible action he'd carried out...
As he watched the people coming in, Carl prayed for them. He didn't
quite know how he should pray for them, but he asked God to give him the
words.
A man other than the two who'd met him was leading the meeting,
although Greenstone and Hillman were seated on the platform as well. The
third man told the people to stand up for the first hymn, and they started
singing A Mighty Fortress Is Our God, a hymn Carl knew by heart. The
second hymn was one he'd never heard, and as no-one had thought to give
him a hymnbook he could only listen to it. He wasn't sure he would have
wanted to join in, anyway, as he listened to its words. There was much in it
about man's triumph but little about God's glory.
The hymns were followed by a lengthy prayer mumbled by Alf
Greenstone, and then the congregation sat down and looked expectantly at
Carl.
He stood up and bowed, and walked to the lectern. His stomach was tied
up in knots and his knees felt as if they'd turned to jelly. But his mind was
sharply clear, and he was angry. He looked around at the people, but he
didn't smile the way he normally would when about to preach. He knew
what the Lord had told him to talk about, and it was no smiling matter.
"Let us bow our heads and ask the Lord to give me wisdom as I speak,
and to give you all open hearts to receive his message," he began, and went
on to pray.
He couldn't see the looks on people's faces as his deep voice praised and
thank God and asked for wisdom. His eyes were shut. If he'd been watching,
he might have found it disconcerting—some people were made
uncomfortable by his words, some were puzzled, some were outraged. Only
one person looked to be in agreement with the speaker—a small, plumpish,
elderly woman with bright eyes, seated at the back of the church. Carl's
prayer warmed her heart, and she silently joined in with him.
When he finished praying, Carl looked up and surveyed his audience
again. He even turned and looked at the people on the platform near him.

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Oh, God, he prayed in his heart, I'm scared stiff, they seem so hostile.
You've got to hold me up, Lord, if I'm to get through this!
He took a deep breath and began to talk.
"You're probably familiar with the book of Jeremiah, the prophet who
kept warning the Jews that unless they repented they would be taken into
captivity, and who as a result of his prophesying was persecuted and
rejected. One of the messages Jeremiah brought to his countrymen is found
in chapter twenty-three. There Jeremiah tells the false prophets and
teachers of the people just what God has in store for them."
He took out his pocket Bible and read out loud from it.
"From verse twelve: '"Therefore they will slip and slide on their way; they
will be thrown into the outer darkness and there they will fall. I will bring
them to calamity in the season of their punishment," says the LORD.' Verse
seventeen: '"They keep telling those who despise Me, 'Peace will come to you,
says the LORD.' Then they say to those who follow their own willful hearts,
'You will not be harmed.'"' Verse nineteen: 'Behold, the LORD will cause a
fierce gale to storm down; He will send a whirlwind to twist around on the
heads of those who do evil.' You see, those false prophets had been leading
God's people astray, encouraging them to worship false gods and telling
them that it was okay and God wouldn't mind. They'd been letting them get
away with all their wickedness!"
"Isaiah, too, had quite a few things to say about those false prophets.
Just read Isaiah, chapter nine, verses fifteen and sixteen: 'the elders and
important men are the head, the false prophets are the tail. The men who
direct the people lie to them, and those who listen to them are deceived.'
Look at chapter thirty—where God makes it clear that it's not just the
prophets that are at fault but also the people who listen to them and even
urge them on: 'They tell the men who see visions not to see them any more,
and they tell the prophets not to give them visions of righteousness. Instead
they ask for illusions and fantasies.'"
"In verse fifteen, however," Carl said, suddenly quietly, "God tells us, '"If
you repent and trust in Me you will be saved; if you are calm and depend on
me you will be strong. But you refused."' Turn to chapter forty-two, verses
eighteen to twenty-four and read them carefully. They refer to what God
thinks of those who turn to lies. In chapters fity-six and fifty-seven He
describes them and their destiny. You have to keep in mind when you read
those verses that God is talking about people who call themselves by His
name, who lead others astray and use God's name to do it!"
Carl looked around at his audience and raised his voice again. "These are
the sort of people Jesus meant when He talked about wolves in sheep's
clothing in Matthew seven," he said, "They are the false teachers Paul
warned Timothy and Titus about: 'They tell you that they know God but
everything they do is against Him.' They are mentioned by Peter in his
second letter: 'They will be punished for the damage they have done.'"
"And God makes it clear that those who willingly listen to these false
teachers are also to blame. His people, who have been bought at infinite
price—Jesus died for them!—cannot then turn aside to falsehoods and think

35