Free Hill of Grace by Stephen Orr Page B

ching-chongs and pagans and witches, the makers of Horus heads and the chanters of Navajo spells. ‘Again, if two thousand four hundred and nine days meant two thousand four hundred and nine years . . .’
    By now they were hanging off his every word.
    â€˜And if we remember that the decree of Artaxerxes was issued in 457 BC . . .’
    Seymour put his head down, fulfilling his role as the disciple of simple mathematics. ‘Two thousand four hundred and nine minus four hundred and fifty seven . . .’
    But even Ron could do this maths. ‘1952.’
    William smiled.
    â€˜Next year?’ Arthur asked.
    â€˜Next year,’ William replied.
    Ron Rohwer stood and pushed his chair in. Although he had no doubt that Christ would return one day, it was a bit much to believe it would be next year. ‘You can work the figures any way you like, there’s enough of them in the Bible,’ he said. ‘If it could have been done it would have.’ Going on to explain how a monkey could accidentally type out Hamlet , given a billion years or so.
    â€˜I’ve looked at dozens of possibilities,’ William defended, ‘but this is the only one that makes sense.’
    â€˜It doesn’t.’
    And with that Ron pulled on his coat and walked out of William’s back door.
    Seymour Hicks believed faith and mathematics were two very different things. When he arrived home that night he was still attempting to reconcile them. Maybe, he thought, if the maths were beyond dispute the belief would follow. After all, it was as much faith as maths which had built the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Early visions of its two arms growing together had concerned many. But eventually they joined. This was the engineer’s faith. That numbers would conspire to support thousands of tonnes.
    Trying to create his own faith he scribbled on the back of the Lutheran Times :
    2409 - 457 = 1952 Again and again, as if poor numeracy might lead to greater disaster. The next step was to go to Daniel and check the dates. Correct. The decree of Artaxerxes. Correct. For a moment he wondered if the dates had any relationship beyond the maths, but then dismissed this, guessing that William must have understood deeper reasons.
    Seymour was contented to let the truth simmer. It would either burn or fill the house of God with wonderful smells. He ripped out the dates and placed them in his wallet, beside the article on Korea he’d kept to consider. Seymour’s glueless scrap-book was for his own sake. There was no point convincing others if you weren’t convinced yourself.
    Nathan stood on the platform of Tanunda station, pulling potato sack undies out of his arse, adjusting the suit his father had lent him. The elbows and seat had nearly worn through, but William insisted there was a few good years in it yet. The pin-striped Nathan had all but resigned himself to looking like a hay-cutting Amish in a truck stop, but if that’s what it took. A job interview with the Railways wasn’t something to be taken lightly, William had explained. First impressions were crucial.
    He heard his father’s voice – ‘Back from the line’ – and shuffled away from the edge of the platform. Contemplating the shiny steel rails and oil-soaked gravel he tried to remember if chlorophyll constituted 6.6 per cent of shade- or sun-grown algae. And other questions, such as the possible vectors and intercepts of a line with the form y = 3x - 1.7 (ab). Protein synthesis in plant cells.
    Polynomials. The unfathomable differences between mitosis and meiosis. Pages of them. Staring up at him. Saying, in their own meaningless way, everyone else in this room understands, they spent their study day working.
    Bluma adjusted his jacket and straightened his tie. ‘Remember,’ she said, ‘if you’re asked a question, no funny stuff.’
    â€˜Mum.’
    â€˜ Why would you like to work here? ’ she asked,