Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (16 page)

For a moment Maryam had a sickening flash of Brother Mark, who was lashed for helping her escape the Holy City and later died from his wounds. How could beating someone to death be condoned by the Lord? She longed to fire this question at Father Joshua—to stand before him and all his disciples and speak the truth. Yet, even as she thought this, she was swept by fear. There was a good chance standing up to him meant she would die, and if Lazarus—

“Listen, Lazarus,” she said. “If staying with me is going to put you more at risk, then go. I'll manage on my own. I—”

“Are you crazy? I'm not leaving you to fight this on your own. Besides—” he pointed a finger at her accusingly—“and I don't want you to use this to constantly throw back in my face—I concede that my having jumped boat with you has now put you more at risk. It never occurred to me that Father would blame you.”

So he could admit he was wrong…“All right,” she giggled, “but you have to let me say it just once: I told you so!”

Lazarus groaned and fell back on his mat as if struck. He played dead for a few seconds before opening one eye to check she was still smiling. “But seriously…” he said, and now he really did grow grave. “If you think my presence could make it harder for you, then let me know. Just say the word and I'll be gone.” His blue eyes held hers, and she was trapped in the intensity of his stare.

Did she want him to go? Ever since he'd forced his way onto the boat she'd wished it, yet now the thought of losing his company made her panic in a way that she could not explain. He was the only one who knew what she had been through—seen Marawa Island, survived the camp, mourned with her as they'd tipped Joseph's lifeless body from the boat…She'd saved him from Te Matee Iai and he, for all his arrogant hostility, had pulled her from the sea and saved her life as well.

“I'm sorry, Brother Lazarus,” she finally replied. “But, after due consideration, I think it's best you stick with me.”

“All right,” he said, offering her his hand to seal the pact. “Let's get this underway.”

With no reason to stay any longer at Motirawa, and no desire to be recognised there, Maryam and Lazarus began their trek around the coast to Aneaba, Maryam's place of birth. She had no memory of her first years before she was Chosen at the Judgement—merely a vague picture of her mother's face that came to her in dreams.

She tried to put aside her fears about their likely reception and simply enjoy the journey—it felt so good to be back on familiar ground. The sun had burnt off its early-morning haze, and everything around them seemed to sparkle with such freshness, it was as if they were the first ever to walk these shores. The sea, so calm it reflected back the faded hibiscus-blue of the sky, barely broke as it lapped the sand. Maryam and Lazarus ambled along in its shallows, drinking in the view.

“I went to Aneaba with Father once,” Lazarus told her as they walked. “I think I was about five or six. He was there to consecrate the choosing of the chief—”

“My father? You were there?”

Lazarus nodded. “I suppose. I don't remember much about the man, just how long and tedious everything felt. I had to sit through hours of prayer and speeches but Father absolutely refused to let me leave his side. Even when I needed to relieve myself I was forbidden to move. I remember the humiliation when I lost control…” He laughed, glancing at her sideways as a flush rose up his throat. “You should've seen my father when he realised I'd wet myself. He nearly wrung my neck.”

She resisted the urge to tease him, amazed that he would share such an intimate tale. “That's ridiculous. You were a little boy.”

“That never stopped him,” Lazarus said, all humour dropping from his face. “The thing I remember most, though, was the celebration that went on into the night. Father produced a whole barrel of toddy and everyone was forced to drink it—even me. I have this memory of wild dancing and, later, men and women doing things together that I didn't understand at the time. Then I threw up and someone put me into bed.”

Maryam stayed silent. She knew what they must have been up to and, though her brain told her it was wrong, her abdomen argued otherwise—pulsing with a dangerous heat. What was the matter with her? Ever since those rare moments of intimacy with Joseph, her body seemed to respond to indecent thoughts against her conscious will. This act between a man and woman terrified her, so why then did it still have the power to claim such a persistent place inside her head?

“The toddy is a potent weapon of control,” she said now, forcing these unsettling thoughts away. “I've seen the way it stains the servers’ eyes.” She pictured the yellow cast—how it consumed the white and dulled all life inside.

“In Newbrizzy they have many different drinks that do the same,” said Lazarus. “If you think our toddy burns, then try the poison of the Territorials!” He shuddered. “One night I drank so much I swear I can't remember two whole days.”

“Why even try it then?” Maryam asked. “You're quick enough to label toddy drinking by the servers as weak.” She couldn't quite keep down her annoyance. She'd seen him use the toddy to stupefy a server, after all. He knew full well its powerful intoxicating force.

He rounded on her, bristling right back. “Have you never just wanted to wipe everything away?” He scuffed his foot through the tide, sending a spray of water out in front of them.

“Of course. You think that you—”

“I don't mean that I have suffered more,” he butted in. “Just that there are times when toddy has the power to take the pain away.” He resumed walking, muttering under his breath: “Maybe you should try it sometime. Give yourself a break.”

“I heard that!” she snarled back at him. “I've had toddy forced down my throat and I can assure you all it did was make things worse.”

“Not like that,” Lazarus insisted. “Just a little—enough to calm the mind.”

“The mind can be calmed by practice and by strength of will. Aanjay taught me that.”

“Well, good for you. Perhaps I'm just not as righteous.”

Or self-controlled, Maryam added to herself. But she let the conversation drop. Their tussle had put a dampener on the simple glory of the day. The trouble was, neither she nor Lazarus could let go of their past, even with the best of intentions. It stood between them always, like a restless ghost. He talked of pain, yet not so very long ago he'd had no scruples about causing it in others. This irked her still.

They trudged on in silence. Just before noon, as they were about to cross another of the small streams that trickled down toward the sea, Lazarus called a halt.

“Let's have a breather over there and sit out the worst of the heat,” he suggested, pointing to the glade where the stream emerged between a stand of pandanus palms. “Besides, it's probably better we approach your friend Vanesse once it's dark.”

Maryam nodded, too hot and too disgruntled to speak. How in heaven's name would they survive this crazy endeavour if every time they spoke it turned into a fight? She headed up the beach and chose a cool spot on the bank of the stream, sinking her hot feet into the water as Lazarus dropped the bag down with a grunt and joined her on the bank.

“Are you ever going to talk to me again?” he asked, peering at her from beneath his straggly fringe of hair.

She shrugged. Is it really worth the bother? Perhaps now they were safely home it would be better if they split after all.

“Look,” Lazarus said. “I'm not the enemy, I'm here to help. I understand the intrigues of the Holy City and I know the workings of my father's mind. Could we not just call a truce once and for all?”

Maryam reached down and drew up a handful of water, drinking it while she considered what he'd said. She knew she was being unreasonable, taking offence where he meant none. It was just that seeing him back in Onewēre, where every place held a memory of his arrogant pursuit of her…and of the death of Joseph, and poor Mother Deborah, not to mention Sarah, Brother Mark and the assault on dearest Ruth…so many memories to lay to rest and losses to grieve…Out of nowhere she was ambushed by a storm of tears. It was one thing to have great plans for liberation of her people, but quite another to be confronted by the reality of the dangers ahead.

She hid her face in her hands, ashamed that he should see her weakness but, no matter how she tried, she could not halt the tears.

“Maryam, shhhhh.” Lazarus reached over and awkwardly patted her back. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” He sounded almost as distressed as she was. “Please don't cry.”

Now, with all the determination she could muster, she fought to rein back the tears. She heard Ruth's voice:
Fear thou not: for I am with thee; be not dismayed…
and though she knew the words were from the Holy Book she felt as if Ruth's spirit reached out to give her strength. She wiped her eyes, sniffing loudly as she slowly regained control.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I think the news of Mother Deborah's death has shaken me more than I thought.”

Lazarus dropped his hand from her back. “You and me both.” He sighed. “Are you all right now?”

“Yes.” She must put her doubts about Lazarus behind her, even if there were times he simply drove her mad. After all, she needed every scrap of help she could get, and he had just as much to lose as her. Father Joshua was hardly going to welcome him back once he heard his son had chosen to leave and now taken her side.

They decided to pass the hot afternoon beneath the pandanus palms, so Lazarus went off to collect cockles for their lunch. She watched him search for the tell-tale dimples in the sand, then squirm the ball of his foot into its soft surface until he flicked the cockle out of the hole with the tip of his toes. Maryam dozed then, drifting in and out of sleep to ponder how she'd approach Vanesse with her plan once night fell. She could not remember precisely where Vanesse lived, but hoped she'd recognise her hut once they came to the village. If not, perhaps an unattended village child would help—the young ones were unlikely to be as suspicious as the adults. So long as Vanesse's mind had not been poisoned by Father Joshua's claims, all would be well. Lazarus, meantime, had disappeared into the jungle, and he woke Maryam with a start when he returned to dangle two uprooted miriki-tarai shrubs under her nose.

“Is this what you need?” he asked. He looked so pleased with himself, as if he was presenting her with a precious gift—which, indeed, he was.

She examined the plants closely for evidence of the ripe seed pods, and her heart banged out its joy as she saw that he had chosen well. “That's wonderful,” she cried. She sank her nose into a dying star-shaped flower. Ah yes. This was the scent she'd remembered in the camp. Sweet, like honeysuckle, yet peppery and very strong. “Perfect!” she said, and Lazarus beamed.

Hope somewhat restored, they set off again as the heat faded, using the last few hours of light to bring them to the start of the curving bay where Aneaba nestled beneath a canopy of palms at the far end. The sun was setting now and the sea near the village was sprinkled with fishermen setting their nets. Long streamers of wood smoke rose above the palms as cooking fires were stoked, and even from their distant hiding place Maryam and Lazarus could hear the clatter and racket of village life.

When at last the beach was clear, they made their way along the tree line, stopping just short of the village huts. The smell of cooked fish and spices wafted on the air. Maryam tried to spot Vanesse, or her hut, but it was impossible to do so in the fading light. And the children remained uncharacteristically close to home, not one seeming to stray from the pools of firelight outside their houses. Was this the fallout from all the talk of Lucifer and omens—inflated fear designed to boost the status of the Apostles in the villagers’ minds?

Maryam and Lazarus crept closer, and had almost reached the far side of the village when at last Maryam made out a familiar figure.

“Lazarus,” she whispered. “There she is!” She pointed
through the undergrowth to where Vanesse was stringing a line of wet clothing between two palms.

“What now?” He laid the miriki-tarai shrubs down at his feet.

Maryam stepped out from the undergrowth. “Vanesse? It's me. Sister Maryam.”

The poor woman startled so badly she dropped the last of her washing onto the ground. Maryam rushed forward to retrieve it as Vanesse backed away, her hand flattened across her heart.

“Dear Lord,” she muttered, the whites of her eyes trapping the very last of the light to set them eerily aglow. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

“Vanesse,” Maryam tried again, draping the wet washing over the line. “Please don't be frightened. I have come to help.”

Vanesse dropped to her knees and clasped her hands together as she prayed even more fervently than before. “Hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come…”

“Maryam,” Lazarus hissed. “She thinks you're a ghost.”

Of course! Maryam crossed to the kneeling woman in one stride and crouched down beside her, taking up Vanesse's hand even as she shrank away. “It's really me, Vanesse. I am not dead. Here—” She forced Vanesse's hand onto her own chest, so she could feel the desperate beating of her heart.

For a moment all Maryam could hear was the thrumming of blood as it pulsed through her ears. Then, very slowly, she felt the woman's hand relax.

“You are not dead, little Sister?” She rested back on her haunches, her gaze fixed on Maryam's face.

“Not that I'm aware of!” Maryam smiled, warmth for Vanesse surging through her. Thank goodness not everyone
she'd counted on for support was dead. Vanesse had defended Maryam against her father's wrath; nursed both her and Joseph in their hour of need. She reached her arms around Vanesse's substantial frame and embraced her, breathing in the sharp sweat of her dissipating fear. “It's so very, very good to see you.” She looked back over her shoulder and indicated for Lazarus to come out from hiding as well. “I have brought a…friend.”

He stepped into the pool of light cast from the door-way of the hut, and Maryam felt Vanesse stiffen again.

“Brother Joseph?”

“No.” Lazarus squatted down beside them. “I am Lazarus. I'm afraid my cousin Joseph was taken by Te Matee Iai.”

Vanesse shook herself from Maryam's grip and shot to her feet. “The Holy Father's son?”

“It's all right,” Maryam reassured her, rising now as well. “He comes in friendship.”

They stood awkwardly together as Vanesse processed Maryam's words. Then, after what seemed an age, Vanesse motioned for them to follow. “So be it. Please come inside.”

They followed her into the candle-lit hut and immediately saw that another person lay sleeping within. Lesuna, Vanesse's cousin. She tossed restlessly on a sleeping mat, the ugly purple markings of Te Matee Iai standing out on her face and neck. Vanesse pulled a discarded blanket back over her, then indicated for Maryam and Lazarus to sit with her on the far side of the room.

“I never thought to see you again,” she said to Maryam, keeping her voice low. “There was much talk of you when poor Mother Deborah took her life and it was discovered you had vanished with three of the Apostles’ faithful.”

“Trust me,” Maryam said. “There is much to tell.”