“I know. She was perfectly well when I took her up the stairsabout three, but she must have died almost the moment she retired.Mrs. Smith found her at six this evening. By then she’d been deadso long she was hideous; the room was shut up like an incubatorall through the heat of the day. Dear Lord, I pray to forget the sightof her! Unspeakable, Harry, awful.”

     “She’ll be buried tomorrow?”“She’ll have to be.”“What time is it? Ten? We must eat dinner as late as the Spaniardsin this heat, but no need to worry, it’s too late to start phoningpeople. Would you like me to do that for you, Father?”“Thank you, it would be a great kindness. I only came into Gillyfor vestments. I never expected to be saying a Requiem when Istarted out. I must get back to Drogheda as quickly as I can; theyneed me. The Mass will be at nine in the morning.” 

     “Tell Paddy I’ll bring her will with me, so I can deal with itstraight after the funeral. You’re a beneficiary, too, Father, so I’dappreciate your staying for the reading.”“I’m afraid we have a slight problem, Harry. Mary made anotherwill, you see. Last night after she left the party she gave me a sealedenvelope, and made me promise I’d open it the moment I saw herdead body for myself. When I did so I found it contained a freshwill.” 

     “Mary made a new will? Without me?” 

     “It would appear so. I think it was something she had beenmulling for a long time, but as to why she chose to be so secretiveabout it, I don’t know.”“Do you have it with you now, Father?” “Yes.” The priest reached inside his shirt and handed over thesheets of paper, folded small. 

     The lawyer had no compunction about reading them on the spot.When he finished he looked up, and there was a great deal in hiseyes Father Ralph would rather not have seen. Admiration, anger,a certain contempt.“Well, Father, congratulations! You got the lot after all.” Hecould say it, not being a Catholic.“Believe me, Harry, it came as a bigger surprise to me than itdoes to you.”“This is the only copy?”“As far as I know, yes.”“And she gave it to you as late as last night?”“Yes.”“Then why didn’t you destroy it, make sure poor old Paddy gotwhat’s rightfully his? The Church has no right to Mary Carson’spossessions at all.” 

     The priest’s fine eyes were bland. “Ah, but that wouldn’t havebeen fitting, Harry, would it now? It was Mary’s property, to disposeof in any manner she wished.”“I shall advise Paddy to contest.”“I think you should.”And on that note they parted. 

     By the time everyone arrived inthe morning to see Mary Carson buried, the whole of Gillanboneand all points of the compass around it would know where themoney was going. The die was cast, there could be no turning back.It was four in the morning when Father Ralph got through the lastgate and into the Home Paddock, for he hadn’t hurried on the returndrive. All through it he had willed his mind to blankness; hewouldn’t let himself think. Not of Paddy or of Fee, or Meggie orthat stinking gross thing they had (he devoutly hoped) poured intoher coffin. Instead he opened his eyes and his mind to the night,to the ghostly silver of dead trees standing lonely in the gleaminggrass, to the heart-of- darkness shadows cast by stands of timber, to the full moon ridingthe heavens like an airy bubble. Once he stopped the car and gotout, walked to a wire fence and leaned on its tautness while hebreathed in the gums and the bewitching aroma of wildflowers.The land was so beautiful, so pure, so indifferent to the fates of thecreatures who presumed to rule it. They might put their hands toit, but in the long run it ruled them. Until they could direct theweather and summon up the rain, it had the upper hand.He parked his car some distance behind the house and walkedslowly toward it. Every window was full of light; faintly from thehousekeeper’s quarters he could hear the sound of Mrs. Smithleading the two Irish maids in a rosary. A shadow moved underthe blackness of the wistaria vine; he stopped short, his hacklesrising. She had got to him in more ways than one, the old spider.But it was only Meggie, patiently waiting for him to come back.She was in jodhpurs and boots, very much alive.“You gave me a fright,” he said abruptly.“I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to. But I didn’t want to be insidethere with Daddy and the boys, and Mum is still down at our housewith the babies. I suppose I ought to be praying with Mrs. Smithand Minnie and Cat, but I don’t feel like praying for her. That’s asin, isn’t it?”He was in no mood to pander to the memory of Mary Carson.“I don’t think it’s a sin, Meggie, whereas hypocrisy is. I don’t feellike praying for her, either. She wasn’t…a very good person.” Hissmile flashed. “So if you’ve sinned in saying it, so have I, and moreseriously at that. I’m supposed to love everyone, a burden whichisn’t laid upon you.”“Are you all right, Father?”“Yes, I’m all right.” He looked up at the house, and sighed. “Idon’t want to be in there, that’s all. I don’t want to be where sheis until it’s light and the demons of the darkness are driven away. If I saddle the horses, will youride with me until dawn?”Her hand touched his black sleeve, fell. “I don’t want to go inside,either.”“Wait a minute while I put my soutane in the car.”“I’ll go on to the stables.”For the first time she was trying to meet him on his ground, adultground; he could sense the difference in her as surely as he couldsmell the roses in Mary Carson’s beautiful gardens. Roses. Ashesof roses. Roses, roses, everywhere. Petals in the grass. Roses ofsummer, red and white and yellow. Perfume of roses, heavy andsweet in the night. Pink roses, bleached by the moon to ashes.Ashes of roses, ashes of roses. My Meggie, I have forsaken you.But can’t you see, you’ve become a threat? Therefore have I crushedyou beneath the heel of my ambition; you have no more substanceto me than a bruised rose in the grass. The smell of roses. The smellof Mary Carson. Roses and ashes, ashes of roses.“Ashes of roses,” he said, mounting. “Let’s get as far from thesmell of roses as the moon. Tomorrow the house will be full ofthem.”He kicked the chestnut mare and cantered ahead of Meggie downthe track to the creek, longing to weep; for until he smelled the futureadornments of Mary Carson’s coffin it had not actually impingedon his thinking brain as an imminent fact. He would begoing away very soon. Too many thoughts, too many emotions,all of them ungovernable. They wouldn’t leave him in Gilly a dayafter learning the terms of that incredible will; they would recallhim to Sydney immediately. Immediately! He fled from his pain,never having known such pain, but it kept pace with him effortlessly.It wasn’t something in a vague sometime; it was going to happenimmediately. And he could almost see Paddy’s face, the revulsion,the turning away. After this he wouldn’t be welcome on Drogheda, and hewould never see Meggie again.The disciplining began then, hammered by hoofs and in a sensationof flying. It was better so, better so, better so. Galloping onand on. Yes, it would surely hurt less then, tucked safely in somecell in a bishop’s palace, hurt less and less, until finally even theache faded from consciousness. It had to be better so. Better thanstaying in Gilly to watch her change into a creature he didn’t want,then have to marry her one day to some unknown man. Out ofsight, out of mind.Then what was he doing with her now, riding through the standof box and coolibah on the far side of the creek? He couldn’t seemto think why, he only felt the pain. Not the pain of betrayal; therewasn’t room for that. Only for the pain of leaving her.“Father, Father! I can’t keep up with you! Slow down, Father,please!”It was the call to duty, and reality. Like a man in slow motionhe wrenched the mare around, sat it until it had danced out its excitement.And waited for Meggie to catch him up. That was thetrouble. Meggie was catching him up.Close by them was the roar of the borehead, a great steamingpool smelling of sulphur, with a pipe like a ship’s ventilator jettingboiling water into its depths. All around the perimeter of the littleelevated lake like spokes from a wheel’s hub, the bore drainsdribbled off across the plain whiskered in incongruously emeraldgrass. The banks of the pool were slimy grey mud, and the freshwatercrayfish called yabbies lived in the mud.Father Ralph started to laugh. “It smells like Hell, Meggie, doesn’tit? Sulphur and brimstone, right here on her own property, in herown backyard. She ought to recognize the smell when she getsthere decked in roses, oughtn’t she? Oh, Meggie…”The horses were trained to stand on a dangling rein; there wereno fences nearby, and no trees closer than half a mile away. But there was a log on the side of the pool farthestfrom the borehead itself, where the water was cooler. It was theseat provided for winter bathers as they dried their feet and legs.Father Ralph sat down and Meggie sat some way from him,turned side on to watch him.“What’s the matter, Father?”It sounded peculiar, his off-asked question from her lips, to him.He smiled.