Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (14 page)

Together they worked to haul the yacht as far up the beach as possible, then tied it off fore and aft to hold it steady in the shifting tides. When the job was finally done Maryam clambered back onto the beach and collapsed on the water-smoothed pebbles, watching as Lazarus rechecked the yacht's mooring ropes before he disappeared inside, taking the torch with him. Darkness descended throughout the cave again, the constant drip of water and rustling of bats accompanied by the distant rumble of the sea as it jousted with the reef. She breathed in the dank fishy scent of kelp, feeling how it permeated right through her body, its familiarity acknowledged cell by cell. How good it was to be back home.

But, instead of the sense of calm she expected, the reality of what she faced burst forth from the far reaches of her brain to hit her like a landslide, thought piling on thought, worry on worry, fear on fear. This was no longer a reckless dream conjured up from the comparative safety of a foreign shore. She was back in the Apostles’ world of lies and Rules, and the next few days or weeks would see her fighting for her life.

Lazarus clambered down from the yacht and joined Maryam on the shingle beach. He carried the torch and the leather bag, filled with the provisions they thought they'd need over the next few days.

“We should go to Aunt Deborah's now,” he said, “before it gets too late.”

“You don't think we should wait a little longer, until we're sure everyone is asleep?” Now that the time had come to leave the relative safety and secrecy of the cave, her body seemed to baulk.

“I think it's better we just act as though we belong there, not sneak around. Remember, no one will dare question me…” He left the rest of the statement implied: the son of Holy Father Joshua and heir to his domain.

Although she knew Lazarus was right, it still irked her. The fact he'd been allowed to act with such impunity in the past was one of the reasons he'd become such a monster in the years before his flight. It worried her that now he was returning to the fold, all his new-found humanity would peel away to reveal more soft flesh just ripe for rot.

Around them, the darkness filled with the ear-splitting chitter of the fruit bats as they left the cave to forage for food. Their underbellies glowed in the scraps of moonlight that filtered in through the cave's entrance and sinkholes, seeming to turn the world upside down as their bodies transformed the ceiling into a sinewy wash of rippling sea. The sense of disorientation
wasn't helped by the continued swaying motion after three days aboard the yacht, and Maryam wobbled as she rose to her feet.

“All right. Let's go.” She took the bag from Lazarus and pointed to the ledge that snaked along the side of the cave, accessible now as the tide continued to drop. “We can walk along there.”

Lazarus nodded. “If you go first, I'll shine the torch so both of us can see.”

They edged around the dripping mineral-streaked walls. Everything beyond the penetration of the torchlight's beam was enveloped in a thick blanket of darkness. It was as though they traversed a narrow bridge high in the heavens, with nothing around them except the black reaches of space. Time seemed to stop, the mouse-like scratchings and squealings of the bats adding a further unearthly dimension as they inched along the slippery ledge of rock and clay.

Once they cleared the cave, Lazarus turned off the torch to give their eyes time to adjust. They stood quietly in the moonlight as the music of the surf boiled up around them and the fresh littoral scents of Onewēre welcomed them home. But who else will welcome me? Maryam shivered as the cooling night nipped at her damp clothes. Who indeed? Dear old Hushai, if he still lived. And Mother Deborah—though who knew how she'd react when she heard of Joseph's death? It struck Maryam that there was no one else. No Ruth. Joseph, Rebekah, Brother Mark and Sarah all dead. Mother Elizabeth no longer on her side. Her father? No. It was fruitless hoping for something he would not give.

“Do you have friends you'll be pleased to see again?” she
asked Lazarus, conscious of how little she knew about his former life.

The fallout of his cynical snort sprayed her cheek. “It is a long time since any so-called friends were truly courting me. I'm merely the conduit to my father: they usually figure if they win me over, they win Father over too.” He looked up at the sky, swivelling his head to take in the panorama of familiar stars. “It's strange, you know. Even though conditions in Newbrizzy were really bad, I think in some ways the time I spent working there was the best in my life.”

“Best? I thought you said it was terrible.”

“Confederation Town was terrible, but the people I worked with down at the wharves…” He paused for a moment, scooping up a stone to lob into the water, where it landed with a satisfying splash. “We were all the same there—no one person better than another. No one judging me for who my father was. They seemed to like me just for being me. To be honest, apart from Joseph, I don't think I've ever had a friend who didn't judge me or befriend me purely on the basis that I'm Father Joshua's son.”

Maryam was thankful it was night so he couldn't see the shame heating her face. Rarely, since the first awful day of her Crossing, had she thought of Lazarus as separate from his father. The two were usually entwined—and dually implicated—in her mind. “I'm sure there's someone…”

Lazarus slapped his sides, dismissing the discussion, then hoisted the bag from Maryam's hand and handed her the torch instead. “Come on. You're shivering. Let's get to my aunt.”

They made slow progress over the jagged rocks that swathed the headland, and Maryam was grateful once again for Charlie's gift of the boots. The terrain was so uneven and unpredictable
it was tempting to turn the torch back on, but there was no knowing who would be out on such a night. Although they were still in the sacred burial area watched over by the village's great ancestor Te Ikawai—who held the ordinary villagers at bay—she didn't want to take the risk of being caught. The long artificial beam of the torchlight would be enough to draw curious attention to them, let alone discovery by someone who might have thought them dead.

By the time they'd passed beneath the limestone pillars that held aloft Te Ikawai's ancient ancestral mask, and which marked the border to his private domain, Maryam's eyes had finally adjusted to the moonlight. And it was just as well, as the track now took them through the scrubby wasteland that wove between the trees toward Motirawa village itself. She could hear a dog in the distance, its lazy yapping more likely prompted by boredom than defence, and now she could smell the faint lingering comfort of wood smoke on the cool breeze that had arisen since they came to land. With any luck Mother Deborah would have a roaring fire to thaw them—although her clothes were slowly drying, Lazarus was right about her shivering. Now it had started, she just couldn't stop. Unsure if it was driven by cold or fear, she had to clench her teeth to stop them clashing together, and it was only the promise of Mother Deborah's warm welcome that spurred her on.

Now, as the landscape became more cultivated and controlled, they approached the true outskirts of the village. Fire-and candle-light glowed from the windows of several thatched huts, though many were already in total darkness, their occupants no doubt asleep. As she and Lazarus made their way through the village, trying to look relaxed yet at the same
time hugging the shadows, the sounds of human occupation replaced the murmur of the sea. Babies crying, a sudden laugh, a woman's voice softly singing in Onewēre's native tongue. Not unlike the camp, Maryam thought, yet the people who lived in Motirawa thought they were free.

Ahead, Mother Deborah's large thatched hut stood slightly apart from the other dwellings. It appeared to be in darkness and Maryam felt her apprehension growing as she contemplated waking Mother Deborah with the news that Maryam had survived the voyage while her precious son had not.

They paused outside the solid timber door. Even if she hadn't known Mother Deborah lived here, Maryam could have picked this place as housing an Apostle—no other hut was so substantial or had anywhere near as much privacy or space. Lazarus raised his fist, ready to rap on the door, but first he glanced at Maryam's face as if to check that she was ready. She drew in a deep breath and nodded. Lazarus knocked.

Nothing stirred inside the hut. He tried again, this time a little more urgently. Again, there was no reply. Now he lifted the wooden latch and pushed the door open, crossing the threshold with Maryam close behind him as he called.

“Aunt Deborah? It's me. Lazarus. Are you awake?”

The house was strangely cold and so silent it felt as though it held its breath. Pitch black inside—no light at all—they crept across the big main room toward the windows, surprised to find that all the shutters had been closed.

“Maybe she's away,” Maryam whispered, tripping over Lazarus as he came to an abrupt halt.

He didn't answer, but took the torch from Maryam's hand and switched it on.

“Lazarus, don't—”

But as Lazarus slowly tracked the beam around the room it became obvious the entire hut was stripped of human occupation. The huge bookshelves that had so impressed Maryam stood empty and the bright tapa hangings that used to brighten the woven pandanus walls had vanished too. No furniture, no utensils in the kitchen, no beds or clothes in the empty bedrooms. Nothing. All trace of Mother Deborah's existence in this hut was gone.

“Oh Lord.” Icy fingers of unease tracked up Maryam's spine. “Do you think she's moved back to the Holy City?”

Lazarus shook his head, pacing the empty rooms like a wild boar corralled into a cage. “I don't believe she'd go there unless she was forced.”

“What do we do now?”

“I guess we try to get some sleep.” He stopped his pacing and squatted in front of the sooty stone fire place, shining the torch up the chimney to check that it was clear. “Let's light a fire, then think this through.” He headed for the door. “I'll find some wood.”

As she waited for Lazarus to return, Maryam crept into the smallest of the rooms, where Joseph once had slept. She unlatched the shutters and opened them, inviting in the reassuring whisper of the surf, then rested her head against the window frame and closed her eyes. Where are you? she called to Mother Deborah, trying to summon up her face: her tired eyes of washed-out blue, her fair hair greying to silver, her leathery sun-dried skin. Until Maryam could unburden herself of the news of Joseph's loss, she knew she wouldn't sleep—for how could she rest until his mother knew of Joseph's fate?

Lazarus returned with an armload of wood and kindling, and set about lighting the fire with the miraculous matches Charlie had packed into the bag. In no time at all flames were licking at the wood, spilling light out into the barren room. The crackling promise of warmth drew Maryam to the fire; she knelt down beside Lazarus and thrust her hands out to the heat to speed their thaw.

The flames were mesmerising and the heat enticing, sending Maryam into a tired trance as the long, fraught day caught up with her. She barely noticed as Lazarus left to collect more wood, her mind closing down to idle in a place of exhaustion, free from thought. But she was brought abruptly back to the present by raised voices outside.

“Stop! What are you doing here?” A man's voice, accusing and gruff.

“I came in search of my aunt,” she heard Lazarus explain.

Maryam leapt to her feet and charged for the doorway in time to see Lazarus step out from behind the shadow of a banana palm to face the older man directly. A native of the village, he was in his dotage, as twisted and bent as old Filza but with eyes so sharp they cut the night.

“Brother Lazarus?” He took a step closer, holding his arm out as if to test whether this vision was real. “Is that really you?”

Now Lazarus laughed so openly that Maryam relaxed. Whoever this was, Lazarus obviously knew him and felt no threat. “Koko! You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Indeed, for a moment I thought I had. The Lord be praised! I was going down to check my night nets when I noticed smoke coming from the chimney and saw a shutter unlatched. I thought I'd better check in case those rowdy boys from Aneaba were up to no good.”

“Where is my aunt?” Lazarus asked.

“You do not know?” Lazarus shook his head, and the old man put a steadying hand on his arm. “Come. I think we'd better go inside.”

Maryam fled back into Joseph's room, peeking from the doorway as Lazarus dropped his armload of wood and joined the old man in crouching by the fire.

“It's all right,” he called to Maryam. “You can come out.”

She crept back into the room, aware of the old man's surprised gaze upon her.

“Brother Kokoria is an old friend of my aunt,” Lazarus explained to her. “I've known him since I was small. Koko, this is Sister Maryam.”

“You!” Brother Kokoria said, his face giving nothing away, good or bad. “My brother and dear Mother Deborah thought much of you, despite what others said.”

Maryam could think of no appropriate answer, her heart beating so hard and fast it seemed to pulse right through her, setting off alarm bells in her brain. Something is wrong here. Very wrong. “Mother Deborah?” she said as she joined them by the fire. “Where is she?”

Brother Kokoria stripped the bark off a piece of wood and tossed it into the flames, before turning his gaze back to Lazarus. “Your aunt is with the Lord.”

“She's dead?” Lazarus tipped backward off his haunches, bumping onto the floor. “When? And how?”

“Two nights after you and young Joseph disappeared.” He turned to Maryam. “They said you lured them both out past the reef to feed the bakoas. It is also said that our dear Mother believed this and could not go on.”

Maryam felt as if a hand clawed at her throat as Lazarus cried out, “She took her own life?”

“I am so sorry to be the bearer of this news.” Brother Kokoria reached out and placed his hand on Lazarus's shoulder. “We found her in bed, surrounded by all Father Jonah's and young Joseph's prized possessions—she had sliced open her wrists and bled to death.”

Maryam choked on a sob. “Why would she do that? I don't understand.”

“Don't you?” Lazarus's face took on the harsh, closed look she'd hated so in the past. Now she realised it was holding in a great well of pain. “She knew she'd never see Joseph again, even if he lived, and she still mourned Uncle Jonah. She'd lost everything she loved. Why go on?”