Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (18 page)

What had he been about to say? Surely not love? No, that was ridiculous.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, children laughed and called out to each other from the village. Maryam didn't know what to say. Then, just as she'd determined to say something—anything—to move past the awkwardness, Umatu appeared in the doorway, her bird-like eyes taking in the scene. Her nostrils flared, as if she could smell the tension and embarrassment in the hut. Seconds later, Vanesse entered, more uprooted miriki-tarai shrubs dangling from her arms.

“My cousin has drunk it all and now she sleeps,” she announced, dropping the plants beside Maryam. “Come, we must prepare more of the potion.”

Old Umatu clicked her tongue, jerking her head first toward Maryam and then to Lazarus as Vanesse followed her gaze.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, a frown building between her eyes.

Maryam scooped up the plants and made ready to work, not daring even to glance in Lazarus's direction. “Of course,” she lied to Vanesse. “Everything is fine.”

As Maryam helped Vanesse prepare a fresh batch of the miriki-tarai shrubs for the pot she tried to buffer herself against Lazarus's mood, which swirled around him like a bilious storm cloud, filling the whole hut. She was not quite sure why he was angry with her, but his unfinished sentence sat inside her mind and filled her with a deep unease. Just what, exactly, had he been about to say? The word could just have easily been loathe as love.

Curse Lazarus and his little games! Unease was already boiling up inside her as they waited to see if Lesuna responded to Filza's cure. Once again she had to fight back the fear of what would happen if the potion didn't work. The island was controlled by the Apostles and if she stayed it was only a matter of time before they found her. Then what? She was too threatening to be let loose—her continued resistance would be like a kakang burr under their skin—and she had no doubt what their solution would be. They'd kill her, she was sure of it. Yet if she fled back to Marawa Island, what would become of her there? She'd be free but all alone. At best, she would grow old there, until her sorry bones joined those of all the other luckless people abandoned there to die.

Forcing herself back to the present, she asked Vanesse how her father had reacted to the pills.

“He is so weak he put up little resistance,” Vanesse replied. Her gaze slid to Maryam's face, her eyes alight with sympathy. “I think you should see him for yourself. I fear that if you wait until you have confronted the Apostles it will be too late.”

“You think he will die?”

“It does not look good,” Vanesse said. She put down the stone she was using to pound the stems of the miriki-tarai and cleared her throat. “I know he is a foolish, stubborn man, but perhaps you should find it in your heart to forgive him before he dies.”

“It wasn't me who put this distance between us,” Maryam replied defensively. “He had me trussed like a chicken for slaughter. He called me a witch.” The memory of his rejection hurt like a freshly inflicted wound.

Old Umatu, who had been stripping leaves from the stems, clicked with her tongue to draw their attention. She rose and pulled out a long strip of cloth from a box in the corner, indicating that Maryam should wrap it around her head.

“I don't understand,” Maryam said.

A slow smile of comprehension crossed Vanesse's face. “As usual you are right, old friend.” She turned to Maryam. “What if we hid your face beneath this bandage, only leaving free your eyes, nostrils and mouth? We could say you had been sent here from another village for Umatu's healing powers—and this way you could go to your father and help to tend him. Give him time to accept your ministrations before he discovers who you are.”

“Surely he'll know it's me?”

“We see what we want to see, Sister. Natau will not be expecting you, therefore he will remain blind to the truth.” She took up Maryam's hand. “For your own sake, child, I think you should make your peace.” She glanced over at Lazarus, who still brooded in the corner. “If nothing else, it will give you some freedom to roam the village while still hiding who you really are.”

“You should do it,” Lazarus said, his voice flat and cold. “We can't remain cramped up in here for the next five days. You tend to Lesuna and your father, and I'll go back to Motirawa and wait out news of her recovery from there. If all is successful, we can meet up again to go to Kakaonimaki village at Judgement time.”

“What will you do in Motirawa that you can't do here?”

“Stay on
Windstalker
and replenish her supplies in case we need to beat a speedy retreat. Besides, from there I can seek out more news from Koko so we're ready to act.”

“What if you're found out?” Maryam asked. “What then?”

“Give me some credit,” Lazarus snapped. “If I stay trapped here I'll go mad.” He glanced over at Umatu and Vanesse. “No offence.”

“None taken, Brother Lazarus,” Vanesse said. “I think that is an excellent plan.”

Maryam shrugged, trying to tamp down her unease. “Do whatever you want,” she said. “It's all the same to me.”

For a split second she saw pain cloud his eyes, before it was smothered by the hard film of anger she recognised so well. “Fine.” He rose without further ado and picked up Charlie's bag. “I'll take this, if it's all right with you.”

“Fine,” she echoed back at him. Just go and take your moody anger somewhere else. He was as prickly as a stonefish, and as poisonous when cornered.

“Fine,” he spat yet again, bowing his head to Umatu and Vanesse as he stalked from the hut.

“Stay inland,” she called to his retreating back, suddenly worried, despite everything. “And…Lazarus…be careful.”

For a moment he stalled and she could see the bones of his
shoulders flex beneath his shirt as he shifted uneasily, but then he disappeared into the thick jungle beyond Umatu's hut. In his wake Umatu shook in silent mirth, pointing from the space left by his departure to Maryam, and winking in a bawdy way.

“Our old one sees everything,” Vanesse chuckled. “Even before we are ready to see it for ourselves.”

“What do you mean?” Maryam flared.

“All will be revealed in time,” Vanesse said. She retrieved the strip of bandage from Umatu's hand and passed it to Maryam. “Come,” she continued. “Let us disguise you so you can attend Natau.”

Together the two women wrapped the bandage around Maryam's head until she was so swathed in the fabric no one could possibly recognise her. Now Vanesse put together a bundle of swabs and dressings, and motioned for Maryam to follow her to Natau's hut.

Maryam kept her eyes averted from curious stares as they walked through the village.

“Speak as little as you are able,” Vanesse suggested. “And, if you do, somehow disguise your voice. As any blind one will tell you, the voice betrays much.”

“But what if he does realise it's me?” The thought of her father rejecting her again made her feel nauseous and sweaty, as though she had eaten something that had lain too long inside a pot. Compounding this, the bandage heated her head, and already she could feel her scalp prickle and itch beneath its restrictive wrapping.

“Trust me,” Vanesse said. “He is in no state right now to cause you further grief.”

They approached a solid well-sized hut. Just before Vanesse
entered she turned back to Maryam and placed a gentle hand on her arm to pause her. “Prepare yourself, Sister. He is not the man he was.”

The smell was the first thing that assaulted Maryam's senses: the sickly sweet stink of rotting flesh. She knew this smell—had experienced it on a lesser scale when the cast had first been removed from her own badly infected arm. The stench was so dense it clung to the inside of her nostrils, adding to the nervous nausea she was already fighting to control.

The hut's only light bled in from the open doorway and the narrow gaps between the bamboo shutters, infusing the room with gloomy underwater tones of brown and gold. In one corner a sleeping mat had been raised off the ground by a rough frame of wood, and Maryam could hear her father's feverish breath before she made his shape out beneath a ragged sheet.

“Brother Natau.” Vanesse approached his bed, signalling for Maryam to follow suit. “I have brought another sufferer to help tend you. This is—” She hesitated slightly, obviously searching for an appropriate name. “This is Tevia. She will stay with you and help.” She reached for Maryam's elbow now and thrust her forward.

Maryam stared down at her father, fighting to hold back the wail that threatened to erupt. He had wasted away to nothing more than skin and bone, his fine high cheekbones—exactly like her own—so sharp beneath his skin they looked as though they would pierce right through. His arms, no more substantial than the discarded bones on Marawa Island, were strung with knotted sinews and veins, and the distinctive tattoo that marked him as native to Aneaba—the stylised frigate birds above a wavy line of sea—had sunk into the pleats of loose skin
that ringed his neck. The fearful figure who had haunted her dreams since his rejection of her was gone, leaving this frail relic in his place.

“Blessings on you, Brother,” Maryam murmured, dropping her voice so it was much lower than usual.

“I need no help,” her father rasped. His eyes, watery and ringed with red, still flashed a little of their former power.

“Now, now.” Vanesse clucked over him, ignoring his remonstrations as she peeled back the sweat-laden sheet to reveal his leg. The wound was packed with tabunea moss and loosely bound with bandages like those that hid Maryam's face—and she was grateful that they did so as Vanesse removed the packing to expose the wound. She could feel herself flinching at the sight of the weeping ulcerated tissue that had been eaten away by the infection to reveal the unhealthy shimmer of his bone. Greying dead skin curled at its edges, while beyond the actual site of the wound the limb was bloated with swelling and a fiery red.

“Holy Father!” The words escaped before Maryam could dam them back. She could feel vomit churning inside her, ready to erupt, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, barely making it out the door before she heaved up every last grain of Umatu's special breakfast treat. Never in her life had she seen such decay on a human being, not even the terrible infection that nearly cost Maryam her own arm. Dear Lord, the antibiotics had to work.

A mangy village dog rushed out from the doorway of an adjoining hut and consumed the vomit right in front of her, doing nothing to help Maryam's stomach settle. She turned from the disgusting sight and steeled herself to return to the hut,
swabbing at the bandage around her mouth with her sleeve. Her mouth tasted foul, the juices thrown up from her stomach sour and sharp.

Vanesse said nothing when Maryam returned to her side, but simply continued to clean away the layer of thick yellow pus with a potion of steeped te buka leaves—the local remedy to help ward off infection, yet clearly not strong enough to counter such a septic wound. She jerked her head toward the box of pills that lay beside Natau's bed and Maryam popped two of the antibiotics from their shiny strip. As Vanesse continued to dab at the rotting skin, Maryam gently tucked her arm under her father's neck and elevated his head so he could swallow down the pills with a little of the liquid from the cup beside his bed. She recognised the smell at once: anga kerea toddy—the stupefying drink the Apostles used to dull the minds of the servers and villagers to help keep them under their control.

“You want him to drink this?” she asked, feeling foolish talking to her friend in such an unnatural voice.

“His pain is great,” Vanesse said. “The toddy helps to relax him so he can sleep.”

Beneath her grip Maryam could feel the heat radiating off Natau like the midday sun. His skin felt dry and scaly even though his forehead and upper lip were caked with beads of sweat. She fanned his forehead to cool him a little before she reached over to pick up the cup.

He drank down the toddy greedily, each gulp so laboured and loud the sound filled the room. It was heartbreaking to hold him so close she could smell the stale call of death on his breath despite the toddy's bitter fumes.
Father, please don't die
. For all that he had hurt her, she loved him—her only connection to
the life stolen from her by the Apostles all those years ago. He was the one tangible link to her mother, the woman who had died not long after her daughter's loss. Just to know this—that, once, she had been part of a loving family who cherished her—was hard indeed, for where were the same supports for her now? Certainly not in this relative stranger, who chose fidelity to the Apostles over love for her. The Apostles’ reign relied on absolute obedience.
Rule Number Nine: None may question the authority of the Lord's chosen representatives: the sacred Apostles of the Lamb
. How well she knew The Rules and loathed them now.

At last Vanesse finished packing the leg in fresh tabunea moss. Natau blew out a foul breath of relief that tainted the air.

“Tevia will sit with you, Brother,” she said. She flicked her gaze up to Maryam's to check for her agreement, then handed her Natau's battered Holy Book. “Read to him, child. The words will bring him comfort and distract him from the pain until the toddy puts him to sleep.” With that, she gathered up the stinking detritus of her work and left the hut.

Maryam held the Holy Book in her trembling hands, feeling as a prisoner might when confronted by her jailer. The Book held no comfort for her now; instead it symbolised the means by which the Apostles maintained their strict rule.

“What would you have me read, Brother?” she asked.

Natau closed his eyes, dredging up words as though from the deep. “Open it at will and read. The Lord's word is truth.”

“As you wish.” She let the Book fall open in her lap, the pages parting to reveal the Book of Proverbs. She nearly laughed aloud. No wonder the Sisters in the Apostles’ world are held in such disdain. She took a deep breath, not daring turn the page for fear he would reprimand her, and began to read. “The lips of
a strange woman drop honey, And her mouth is smoother than oil: But her latter end is bitter as wormwood, Sharp as a two-edged sword…”