Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (12 page)

“Good idea,” Lazarus responded. “I reckon Aunt Deborah's is the best place to start. Still, before we do anything else, we first must tell her of my cousin's death.”

“I know,” Maryam said. “I dread that almost as much as I do confronting your father. It will break her heart.”

“When do you plan to leave?”

Again she shrugged. “I don't know now. It was always my intention to leave as soon as I'd floated the raft.”

Lazarus propped himself up onto one elbow and looked into her eyes. “If we re-provision
Windstalker
this afternoon, we could sail on the first slack tide tomorrow if you want. I'm not that tired. After Newbrizzy I have this terrible urge for home.”

So soon? The thought made her feel dizzy. Faced with the reality, was she really brave enough to see this through?

She sat up, tossing one flawless black pebble into the middle of the pool, and watched as the ripples radiated out in perfect ever-increasing circles from its new water-bound home. She had feared this moment of decision for weeks now, trying to fob it off with the busy work of construction, but Lazarus's arrival was as dramatic—yet somehow as completely predictable—as the pebble's faultless arc though the air.

Yes, as with nature, so with her quest. One action triggering another, on and on, until all the vital elements were linked together and the surface was forever changed. It was the way of all natural things. The way it had to be.

She blew out a resigned breath. “All right then. Tomorrow we will leave.”

In reality there was little to do to prepare to set sail again, apart from replenishing the yacht's supply of fresh water and stocking up on food. With an abundance of fish, coconuts, fresh fruit and gull eggs there for the taking, the job was completed long before the sun had set.

As Maryam lit the fire and nestled the wrapped takabe under the coals to bake, Lazarus disappeared around the coast, drawn to her disastrous raft-building venture to see the fallout for himself. She waited for his return with trepidation, not sure if he could resist rubbing in her failure. But when he returned, just as the sun was setting clear-weather red, his demeanour was not mocking at all.

“From what I can see, you did a really good job,” he said, drawing close to the fire as she hooked the package of fish from the embers and replaced it with fresh water to boil inside a pot she'd borrowed from the yacht. “That landslide was just plain bad luck.”

Maryam shrugged, trying not to let him see how much the disaster had upset her. Bad luck already clung to her like an extra layer of skin and she didn't want to tempt fate by speaking of it further. “Tomorrow, before we leave, I want to go one last time to see the Buddha,” she said, knowing this would shift the direction of his thoughts.

“Why?” Lazarus asked. He began to pick away the outer layers of scorched banana leaves, revealing the delicious mango-encrusted fish inside.

“I can't really explain. There's just something about being there that makes me feel calm.”

Lazarus laughed. “You're a strange one, all right. How can going to the site of a mass murder make you calm?” He scraped a handful of the fish off its bones and dropped it in his mouth with a greedy slurp.

“It's funny, but I feel as if those people rest in peace. I can't explain it, but I think whatever evil took place there is long gone.”

“Sister Ruth wouldn't approve. She'd say you were being seduced by a pagan god.” He eyed her in such a way she couldn't tell if he was serious or not.

“Ruth wouldn't understand. She sees things as either very good or very bad—to her there's no in-between where similarities or inconsistencies could possibly exist. But it seems to me that the teachings of both the Lord and the Buddha had useful things to say—and some of them not so very different when you boil them down.”

“Like what?”

“Like caring for people and showing compassion to those less fortunate. And about focusing on love, not hate.”

“Not values my dear father is keen to promote,” Lazarus said. “He has a knack for finding texts that he can bend at will—and you can guarantee that if he heard you say what you've just said to me, he'd string you up as a heretic quick as that.” He snapped his fingers together sharply. “Please, Maryam—when we return you must be very careful what you say.”

“You think I don't know this? Every night I lie in bed and tell myself it's time to plan exactly how to put things in motion, but it's so overwhelming my mind just shies away.”

“But it's important to plan. I was thinking—”

“Don't,” Maryam said. “This is the conclusion I've come to: that it's impossible to plan anything before we get to Onewēre and find out what's actually happening there—then, I think, my actions must respond to that.”

“But we still have to have a rough idea…to go there with no plans at all is foolish and dangerous. You know how risky it will be.”

“One step at a time, that's all I'm saying. Step one: get there safely. Step two: find Mother Deborah and seek her help. Step three simply can't be planned until those first two steps are followed through.” Maryam yawned. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I think I need to sleep now. It's been quite a day! Tomorrow, when we're rested, we can talk again.”

“Fair enough. A decent rest sounds good to me as well.” Lazarus pulled the pot off the fire with the help of two sturdy sticks. “I'll sleep aboard
Windstalker
to make sure she holds her anchor in the night.” He held the pot of warmed water out for her and tipped it slightly so she could wash the sticky juices off her fingers and sluice her face. He rinsed his own, then stood up and stretched. “Good night then.”

He made to leave, but Maryam called him back. “Lazarus—wait!” She looked up at him. “I just want to say thank you again. I'm…glad…you're here.”

“Me too,” he said, his voice a little croaky. “Night.” He turned away and headed back into the sea to swim out to the yacht.

She watched his progress through the water, phosphorescence trailing out behind him like the tail of a shooting star. How extraordinary that he was here, she thought, remembering one of Ruth's favourite sayings:
The Lord works in mysterious ways
.
Whether it was the Lord who'd brought him here, or Joseph's spirit, or merely Lazarus's own desire to go back home, she wasn't sure. But, no matter the reason, she was glad of his company—for, though she fought hard to deny it, she was truly scared.

Maryam slept fitfully, the enormity of what she was about to embark on flailing around inside her head like a snared bird. Finally, when the first tendrils of light nudged at the dark surface of the sea, she rose and pulled on her boots, determined to head up to the temple for one last goodbye.

The dawn chorus was still clearing its collective throat as she clambered through the crumbling village and made her way up the incline to the steps that led to the plateau. The deep rich smells of the jungle served to settle her mind a little, so that by the time she stepped beneath the huge stone head atop the portal to the complex she found herself hurrying across the overgrown grounds, excited to return to the Buddha's company as if he were a trusted friend.

She didn't hesitate this time: marched straight past the bones and hauled herself up the Buddha's side until she was once again cradled in his protective lap. Here she sat, cross-legged like the great deity himself, and closed her eyes, feeling how his enormous stone body seemed to mould around her as if she were a tiny child supported within its father's loving arms.

Her dear old friend Hushai's words slipped unbidden to her mind.
There are many different kinds of faith. Mine, I take not from the Rules that fetter us. I look to the mountains and the sea, the sun and moon, the distant stars. We are all bonded together with this hallowed
earth on which we stand…
Of all the doctrines and beliefs she'd come to know of since her Crossing, this was the one that sat most comfortably with her, she realised now.

She was a girl shaped by the land and sea, no more or less important than any other living thing. Just as Aanjay had explained the cycle of birth, death and rebirth as being like the seasons of a tree, she too felt one with nature. In this crumbling world, where humans had tried to assert their will upon the landscape, only nature had prevailed. A wind-blown seed, patient in its resting place amid the cracks in the stonework, could wait an eternity for human folly to over-reach itself and cause its unnatural structures to tumble down—at which time that patient seed would finally sprout and prosper, subsuming the ruins into the eternal cycles of the growing tree, each part interconnected by the force of nature's inclusive will.

In Onewēre's story she must be the patient seed: ready to sprout amidst the cracks, and grow until the structure the Apostles had built tumbled back down and reverted into the essential—natural—goodness of all living things. She must believe it. Had to believe it if she was now to reveal the cure—the miriki-tarai and its bounteous gift of life—that, thanks to nature's goodness, was growing unimpeded on Onewēre's shores.

As they prepared to set off late morning, Lazarus stunned Maryam by revealing that they didn't need to raise the sails until they'd made it safely out through the reef.

“There's a little motor,” he told her, grinning at the picture of shock Maryam could feel forming on her face. “It's only
meant for emergencies, but I have to say it's very reassuring to know it's there.”

“A motor? How do you even know how to use it?”

Lazarus laughed. “The old man who gave me the boat showed me how to work it all. It was amazing: he could hardly walk at all, his bones were so twisted, yet when he got on board he seemed as fit as me. He said sailing was in his blood!” He dragged her over to a huge wheel. “This is where you steer it—like the tiller, only round.” He pointed to a strange object mounted on top of the strong post that supported the wheel. It was as rounded and translucent as an eyeball, with unfamiliar markings inside. “This here's a compass—like the one we had on the way over here, only bigger and better. Look!” As the boat swung on its anchor, Maryam saw the needle of the compass swivel to match. “No losing this one, eh?”

It all seemed so complicated Maryam was certain she wouldn't be able to help sail the yacht, but under Lazarus's surprisingly clear and competent tutelage she grasped the fundamentals fast. Everything was so much easier to operate; lighter and way more responsive than the big timber craft and handmade fittings Joseph's father had built.

They hoisted the white canvas-like sails (Lazarus crowing that there were even spare sails in case they lost one overboard) and set a course directly east for Onewēre. As the pristine backdrop of Marawa Island dwindled in the distance, Maryam bade it a silent farewell. In many ways she was sad to leave: it would forever hold a special place in her heart—not just for the memories of Joseph, but for the peaceful weeks she'd just spent there. A change had come over her in this time, she was sure. A growing up. A growing into herself in a way she couldn't quite
explain. For the first time in her life she'd been completely in control, at the whim of no one but herself, and she'd discovered a budding capacity for mental peace.

Later, after the night closed in, Maryam helmed the yacht under Lazarus's watchful eye. Above them, the sky was aglow with moonlight, painting all the peaks of water with soft silver tints. A steady breeze filled the wraith-white sails.

“How does it feel to be back on the ocean?” Lazarus asked her now.

“This is fine,” Maryam answered. “But every time I think about the possibility of a storm I feel sick.”

“I had a patch of rough weather when I first left Newbrizzy,” Lazarus said. “I totally panicked. This yacht is far less stable than our last one—when the wind hits the sails hard, the whole hull leans right over. The first few times I really thought it was going to flip.”

The terrifying memory of being caught in the tumble of water and debris when their first boat had been turned over was fresh in Maryam's mind. “Let's just hope the weather stays on our side.”

“It should be more settled. The old man who owned the yacht was amazed we'd even tried to sail right in the middle of the windy season.”

“It was?” She tallied the weeks in her mind. “I can't believe we didn't think of that.”

“I suppose there were more pressing reasons to leave right then…” Lazarus's voice sounded wary, as if he didn't want to stir up her anger.

She leaned back against her seat and forced her mind away from the suffering in her past. The night was beautiful, and she
intended to enjoy such peace while it lasted. She knew full well that once they reached Onewēre there'd be few chances to enjoy it. But the very act of trying to appreciate the moment tipped her into doubt. What was she doing? Right now she was safe and free, yet if she continued with her intention there was a high chance she would lose it all. Just what did she think gave her the right to call the Apostles’ bluff?