Into the Wilderness: Blood of the Lamb (Book Two) (23 page)

She found Aanjay cross-legged on the floor of her hut, gently teasing out the knots in an old woman's long thin hair.

“Ah, Maryam. Is everything all right?” The fading light emphasised how tired and fragile she looked, her skin as dry and translucent as butterfly wings.

“I came for news.” Maryam squatted in the doorway, embarrassed now, not wanting to intrude on the tiny space. “I'm sorry, I will leave you be.”

“No need,” said Aanjay. “My mother here can neither hear nor see. You won't disturb her.”

On the far wall of the hut a makeshift shrine glowed in the
light of two fluttering candles, and Maryam recognised the image of the man they'd seen depicted on the buildings at Marawa Island.

“Who's that?” she asked, inclining her head towards the shrine. “I've seen him before.”

“That is the Buddha,” Aanjay said.

“He is your god?”

“No, not god. Merely the wise one who showed us how to start the journey towards enlightenment.”

Enlightenment? What does she mean?
“Then who is your god?”

Aanjay laughed. “No god. Instead, we try to find the godlike qualities in each of us. It is a personal journey, one that takes many, many different lifetimes to achieve.” She looked at her mother and smiled. “Only when we release our attachment to desire and to the self can we reach Nirvana. My venerable mother is now very close.”

Many lifetimes?
“You mean that we come back again after we die?” This she could not comprehend. Was death not final—the destination either Heaven or Hell?

“When the withering leaf falls, a new leaf grows to replace it. It is similar to the old leaf, but not identical. This is the way of all life.”

“But how do people know how to act if they have no god to make the rules?”

“We must discover the compassion and love inside ourselves for others, and forget our own desires, then we are truly on the right path.” Aanjay gathered up her mother's hair and split it into three thin strands to plait. “But this is not what you came here for. Tell me what you want.”

“Just news.” She shrugged, her mind still juggling everything Aanjay had said. It didn't sound so very heathen…

“The hunger strikers have been convinced to eat. Our good friend Jo leaked word of the trouble back on the mainland and Sergeant Littlejohn will do anything to shut the protest down. It is heartening to know that some over there still care about our fate—although I've been here long enough to know that any gains are only temporary.”

“So not all Territorials support what's happening at this camp?”

“Most believe what they're told—that we're a threat to their security. But there are some who still speak out.”

Try as she might, Maryam could not conjure up a picture of The Confederated Territories in her mind. Was it all one big country or many joined together under the same rule? “What is it like there?”

Aanjay sighed. “Most people still have very hard lives, but there are a few who control the power and wealth and live extremely well. This is why so many are desperate to go there—they're all hoping to escape the tyranny at home and somehow join that select few.”

“But it's not right! The Holy Book says the Lord will feed the righteous and thwart the craving of the wicked.” The teachings of her childhood welled up in her like a jungle stream after the rains. Was not the Holy Book written in the Lamb's own words?

“Your Holy Book can say whatever it likes, but if there is greed and evil in a man's heart, he will always find the words to justify his acts.”

The old woman yawned and murmured to Aanjay, and Maryam sensed she was taking up too much precious time. She thanked them both and ran back through the drizzly evening,
their curious conversation still tumbling over in her head. If the goal was this Nirvana, not Heaven or Hell, and lives could be relived, did that mean one day Joseph might be reborn? Every cell in her body wanted it so, yet the concept fought with everything she knew. Only the Lamb had ever been reborn, to prove His rightful place beside the Lord. Surely it was sacrilege to think mere human beings could do the same—however much she wished it to be true?

As she approached the hut she saw Ruth waiting anxiously at the doorway. “What took you so long?” she snapped. “You're needed here.”

“Sorry,” Maryam puffed. “What's wrong?”

“Lazarus,” Ruth hissed through barely moving lips. “He knows.”

“How?”

“He sneaked over to the showers for a wash, and saw.”

Maryam pushed past her through the doorway, but his sleeping mat was bare. “Where is he?” All her hope dissolved.
What now?
Would he make real his threat to end his life? Her knees buckled and she had to reach out for the wall to brace herself.

“I don't know.” Ruth's voice rose to a frightened wail. “He came back and started yelling at me, telling me we're both liars and cheats. I tried to explain why we'd kept it secret and that Jo said she'd help, but he just took off. I started to chase after him, but he threatened to hit me…I didn't know what to do, Maryam. I'm so sorry. He looked so hot and sticky and I thought a shower would do him good.”

“It's not your fault, Ruthie. He was always going to have to know sooner or later.” She pulled Ruth towards her and hugged
her tight. “You stay here, in case he returns. I'll go and see if I can find him.”

“But what if he's still really mad?” There was real fear in her voice and Maryam realised that, for all Ruth's apparent acceptance of his apology, his violence haunted her still. Words could only heal so much.

“Then scream. The other women here will help.” Already she was trying to imagine where Lazarus might have gone. The gates were still locked to the men's side, so at least her search would not have to take her there. She squeezed Ruth one last time for good measure, then released her. “I'll be back soon.”

Her first stop was the shower blocks: perhaps he'd returned to the mirrors to check for the signs of Te Matee Iai again. But the place was packed with mothers bathing children before bed, and it was obvious he'd not still be close by.

She searched one walkway after another, weaving in and out of the labyrinth of huts, hoping to catch sight of his blond hair among the mass of people preparing for their night. She startled chickens from their roosts and turned the heads of many puzzled onlookers as she ran from block to block, calling out his name. Finally, as the night was closing in around her and the drizzle transformed the air to mist, she found herself out on the open ground beyond the huts. She skirted the gardens, checking down between the rows. Her lungs burned from the effort of running, and her broken arm throbbed hard within its plaster cast. It was hopeless. He could be anywhere. Could already be planning some means to end his life. As she spun her head from side to side for fear she'd miss him in her panic, she could hear Joseph's voice whispering that same urgent message in her ears:
Give him a chance.

What more do you want of me?
she threw back into the night.
I'm doing everything I can.
But he did not answer, just filled her with a sense of failure and disappointment that seemed to burden her further as she tripped over loose rocks and stumbled in the waning light. Her hair was soaked now, plastered to her head, and despite the heat that still rose up from the ground she shivered uncontrollably as she ran on.

She'd almost reached the very back boundary of the camp, where the looming fence bordered a craggy sea of knife-sharp rocks that fell away steeply to the bay below, when the rain came down in earnest. It stabbed the rocky ground, disturbing the layer of phosphate so it ran in white rivulets at her feet. It was hopeless, the rain so dense it was impossible to see ahead. She could only trust that Lazarus had by now returned to the hut of his own accord. If he was still out in the open, the chill would feed the hungry plague more greedily than ever…She found herself crying from frustration and helplessness—at the awful sense of having been through this same ordeal once before. She hadn't been able to save Joseph, and now it seemed she'd fail to save his cousin as well.

Above her, a clap of thunder sucked the air out of the sky, shaking the world by its throat. “Typical!” she screamed to the heavens, the rain pummelling her face and driving into her open mouth. She stamped the ground, making the stinking white sludge splash up around her, and raised her clenched fists at the Lord.

A great bolt of lightning ripped across the sky, blasting the landscape with a flash that brought everything around her into stark relief. There, at the very edge of her vision, something moved. The light was gone before she had a chance to identify
it, but she ran towards the phantom movement in one last stubborn surge. The thunder roared at her again, mocking her feeble body as the force of it shook the ground. It was as though her words had called the Lord's wrath down to make His dominance over His wayward creation plain.

She was nearly at the fenceline now, could hear the rain pinging off the wire above her ragged breath. Then, as another fork of lightning flared overhead, she saw Lazarus, scrabbling up the wires of the razor-topped fence. She pitched herself over to him, too tired to call out, and flung herself up at his legs. He yelped, surprised as she took hold of his ankles now, the drag on her arm so painful it felt as if it would snap off at the point of the break. But, though he tried to kick her off, she steadfastly held on.

“Leave me alone,” he fumed, his voice competing with the clatter of the rain. He twisted beneath her grasp and she nearly lost him, the shift in position almost breaking her hold. But she refused to let Joseph down; would not allow another life to slip away. She held on to Lazarus for all she was worth, crying out as she swung her weight into action while he struggled to hold his grip on the slippery wire.

In one final desperate surge she tugged as hard as possible, a cry fuelled by pain and fury breaking from her as she fought to bring him down. Then, as the sky lit up again above them, he dropped.

He fell heavily on top of her. Together, they were sent sprawling out across the sodden earth.

The fall winded Lazarus. He rolled away from Maryam, clutching his ribs and gasping to regain his breath. She sat up gingerly and wiped away the mud that caked her face, raising it into the driving rain to rinse the grit from her eyes.

“Get away from me,” he snarled between his laboured breaths. He scrambled to his feet, headed straight back to the fence and, once again, prepared to climb.

“Stop it!” Maryam shouted, forcing herself up off the ground. She grabbed at his muddy shirt and held on tight. “I won't let you do this.”

“I don't care. Don't you understand?” He reached for her wrists, trying to break her hold on him, and she nearly cried out again as renewed pain shot through her arm.

“Don't you dare give up,” she yelled. His shirt was ripping and she couldn't keep her hold on it beneath his brutal grasp.

She let him go, and for a moment they stood face to face, glaring at each other through the sheets of rain. Then he turned his back on her and began to climb again, pushing his bare toes into the footholds formed by the mesh of wires. Once more she threw herself at him, wrapping her good arm around his waist and reaching around with the other to lock her hands together in a stranglehold below his ribs. He writhed within her grasp, trying to dislodge her, and one of his elbows smashed into her nose.

A starburst exploded behind her eyes, and she fell back with a splash into the stinking sludge. Her nose felt as if it had been flattened, and tears welled in her eyes. The whole situation was
absurd, futile. Still she heard Joseph's voice inside her head:
Give him a chance.
Why, oh why, did his spirit have to nag her so? He asked too much of her; forgot that she was nothing but a puny runt who had a knack for losing everyone she cared about and infuriating everybody else.

“Go on then,” she hurled at Lazarus above the throbbing pain, vaguely aware that he had stopped in his tracks and turned to her as she fell. “Take your life! See if I care!” She staggered up, light-headed, and spat the words at him. “I knew you wouldn't have the courage to see this out.”

Lazarus reeled at her taunt, but she pressed on. If he climbed again, she knew she no longer had the strength to pull him back.

“That's right, leave Ruth and me to suffer here all on our own. It's more than obvious you never really cared.” Her anger was taking over now. “I never should have believed you when you said you'd changed. All you ever think of is yourself.”

“That's not fair,” he shrieked back at her. “I'm doing this for you.”

How dare he lay this at my feet?
“You think this is what I want? You think you understand my mind?”

“I'm going to die. You know it and I know it. Why make you suffer through this too?”

“How will you smashing yourself to pieces on those rocks below make me feel better, Lazarus? You selfish pig. Joseph would despise you for running away when things got rough.”

She saw him flinch at her words. They were both shaking violently, chilled to the bone. Lazarus was so pale his face glowed, wraith-like, through the darkness. Maryam realised that if she didn't get him under shelter she may as well leave
him to die right where he was. She reached over and took his hand, her own so numb she barely felt his fingers.

“Come on,” she said.

Lazarus was strangely compliant as she hauled him back across the muddy ground. Once at the gardens she made for the hut that housed the tools. It was barely standing, but the timber roof would at least hold out the worst of the rain.

Inside it was drier than Maryam expected. Moonlight seeped in through the holes in the walls, illuminating an old blanket hanging by the door. She took it down and told Lazarus to peel off his muddy shirt. He didn't even try to fight her, just stood there with a blank expression as she wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and began to rub him down.

The friction revived him a little. “N-now you,” he stammered, holding the damp blanket out to her. She took it from him, and he squatted down against the wall, dropping his head into his hands.

She draped the blanket around her, and carefully removed her sodden shirt. Wrung out the fabric then wrestled the shirt back on over her clammy skin. She felt colder than ever, but she didn't want to keep the blanket any longer when Lazarus had greater need of its warmth. She dropped it back over his shoulders and squatted down beside him. “I'm sorry for what I said.”

Lazarus didn't respond, so she tried again.

“I didn't mean any of it. I just wanted you to stop.”

“But what's the point?” he mumbled through his hands.

“Ruth told you. Jo can get you something that will make you well. I spoke with her today.”

Slowly he raised his head. “Why didn't you tell me the marks were there?”

She swallowed hard. This was the question she had dreaded all day. “I didn't know what to do. I went and talked to Aanjay, and that's when she told me there's a cure.” She shook him by the shoulder. “Do you hear me? There
is
a cure!”

He coughed, struggling to catch his breath. “You think if it's so simple my mother wouldn't know?”

It was a fair question and she took a moment to think it through. “Surely if she'd known she would have used it to cure your father?”

“No one survives Te Matee Iai. That's the truth.”

“How can you say that? There's so much we didn't know about back home. Did you ever think you'd see a boat that moves without the need for sails? A truck? Aanjay says she's seen people cured of the plague.”

He glanced over at her. “Totally cured?”

“So she says. I have no reason to doubt her. Why would she lie?”

The tiny spark of interest she'd ignited in him petered back out. “All people lie,” he said flatly.

“I've never lied to you.” As soon as she said this, she tried to reach back in her mind and reassure herself that it was true. Had she? She wasn't so sure. “But I
am
sorry I got angry back there—I was scared.” She was so cold now she could hardly speak. Her teeth chattered each time she closed her mouth.

“Here,” he said, and he held the blanket open so she could share its warmth.

She moved in closer to him, too cold to worry about how near he was, and gratefully wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. Heat was radiating off his body, no doubt caused by fever, but it helped to warm her all the same. “Thanks.”

“Look,” Lazarus said, “I'm sorry I scared you and yelled at Ruth, but my anger wasn't really meant for her. It's just—even though I half suspected it—seeing the proof in the mirror took me by surprise.”

“You suspected it?”

He nodded. “To be honest I've felt run down for ages.”

“How long?” To think he'd kept his fears about his own health locked inside while Joseph died.

He sniffed, and she could tell by the way he swallowed so compulsively that he was fighting back a cough.

“I don't remember now for sure, but it was around the time we first learnt Uncle Jonah had it too.” He moved towards her slightly, until his shoulder pressed against her own and she could feel how he shivered still. “I had a big fight with Mother. Couldn't believe she'd refused to help. I told her it was wrong to let my uncle die, even if he had turned down her help before.”

“What did she say?”

“She slapped my face. Told me it was time I grew up; that Father had worked hard to leave his son in a better position than the one he had inherited from his. She said something ridiculous, along the lines that I should be grateful Father had let Uncle Jonah live as long as that, given he'd defied him—”

“It's true.” The words flew from her lips before she had time to stop them.

“What do you mean? What's true?”

“Your father. He threatened your uncle with death if he did not leave the Holy City and stay away.” She could feel the shock rippling off him like heat. “It
is
true. Joseph told me at Marawa Island.”

Lazarus slammed his fist against his forehead, as though
trying to lodge this new revelation in his brain. “Of course. Why did I listen to his lies? That all makes sordid sense.” He shuddered, whether from disgust or cold she couldn't tell. “Lord, I hate him.”

For several minutes he just sat in silence, fuming over what she'd said. Then he snorted, the sound filled with bitter self-contempt. “You know what I couldn't stomach in the end? My mother harping on about how I had the potential to be just like him and how I should be proud of what my father had achieved.”

“I guess she
is
his wife…”

“She truly thinks he's a living god. She does, honestly. I swear on the Holy Book, she said it to my face. It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd just been saying it for show, but she believed it, Maryam. She bought the lot. When I realised this for sure, I knew I had to get away from them or else I'd end up crazy too…and then I found out you and Joseph had access to a boat.” He rushed the last part of the sentence, anticipating another prolonged fit of coughing.

When the spasm had died down Maryam pressed on, determined that nothing more would stand between them from this time on. “So why did you continue to be so cruel yourself?”

He groaned deep inside his throat. “I
told
you. I was furious with everyone.” He shrugged, and a damp blast of air slipped in under the blanket. “Besides, I knew the power my father could exert over people who criticised him or crossed his path…” His voice dwindled away to nothing and when he continued it was little more than a whisper. “If what you say is true, then Uncle Jonah wasn't alone in fearing for his life…to be honest, I was scared to death of what would happen if I didn't toe the
line.” He sniffed again. “Pathetic, I know, and, honestly, I see now that it's no excuse.”

For the first time Maryam
could
at least partly excuse him. If Joseph and his family were so intimidated by Father Joshua's threat that Joseph could not reveal it until safely away from Onewēre, then Lazarus was right to fear the man as well. Father or not, he was not someone to challenge. She did not even want to think about what it must have meant to try to please him. He and his cold-hearted wife really were insane.

All of a sudden Lazarus began to cry. He buried his face in his hands as huge shuddering sobs consumed him. She did the only thing she could, wrapping her arm around him to help disperse his pain. But the crying made his coughing worse, and she could feel the bones of his back straining as his lungs worked overtime to dredge in air.

Outside, the storm had done its worst; the rain was easing as the thunder and lightning moved away. Maryam felt stiff from squatting so awkwardly but for a long time dared not move. He needed to let this out. Only when Lazarus's sobbing had slowed did she drop her arm from his shoulder.

“Come on,” she said. “Let's go back to the hut and get you properly dry. Ruth will be frantic by now.”

She leaned forward to give herself enough momentum to stand, and as she did so he turned and kissed her quickly on the cheek. “You're quite a girl,” he said. “It's no wonder my cousin loved you so.”

She blushed, feeling the rising tide of heat sweep over her neck and face, and tried to make light of it, though she could still feel the place his lips branded her cheek. “He probably wouldn't if he saw me now. I must look a real sight!”

“You and me both.”

Relieved to hear him rallying, Maryam helped him to his feet. Together they trudged back through the water-logged camp, three times forced to stop as Lazarus was wracked by coughs. Finally they reached the hut to find a very agitated Ruth.

“Praise the Lord!” she cried, rushing forward to meet them. “I was worried you'd be struck by lightning.”

“Close,” Maryam muttered, automatically fingering her nose. It was not broken, she was sure of that, but it felt tender and swollen all the same. “Do you think you could find something to help get us dry?”

As Ruth scurried off Maryam sank gratefully onto the doorstep. She glanced over at Lazarus, who crouched in a growing puddle against the wall, able to see him properly now beneath the walkway lights. He looked a wreck: his eyes puffy and red from crying and his rash raised and purple on his neck. Yet, beneath the coating of mud and bruises, he was deathly pale. She thought instantly of Joseph. The fact he'd been drenched by rain after the climb down the mountain at Marawa, and later by the storm at sea, had undoubtedly hastened his end. It would surely be the same for Lazarus, unless Jo came back quickly with the cure.

Ruth returned with two thin moth-eaten blankets and two strips of cloth the women in the camp called sarongs. She had also conjured up another bowl of rice and, as soon as they were dried and changed, Maryam tucked into it ravenously while trying to coax Lazarus to eat as well. But he took only two or three mouthfuls before he sank onto a sleeping mat and wound the damp blanket tightly around himself for extra warmth. Within a matter of minutes he fell into a fitful doze.