Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (23 page)

“Seize her,” the chief cried.

“No, wait!” Vanesse stepped into the clearing, her broad face fraught with nerves as her plea halted several avengers in their tracks. She motioned for Lesuna, who followed tentatively in her wake. “Let her speak. Our Sister knows something I think you'll want to hear.”

“The Apostles use the Sisters to steal our blood,” Maryam said, lifting her voice so every single villager in the vast crowd could hear. “They are no more immune to Te Matee Iai than you or I. Even Father Joshua is blighted with the plague.”

“Lies!” the chief burst out. “The Lord protects his Apostles. Your mouth is filled with filthy lies.”

“The only lies are those told by the Apostles,” Maryam countered, anger rising in her now.
How can they not see I tell the truth?
“I have experienced their cruelty first hand. But more than this, I can prove their words are lies.” She beckoned Lesuna forward. “Here is your sister Lesuna from Aneaba, who was dying from Te Matee Iai until I returned with knowledge of a cure!”

“It's true,” Lesuna said, her face flushed bougainvillea red, emphasising the last of Te Matee Iai's fading bruises around her neck. “And those from my village will confirm it. Only a few days ago I was dying from the plague, but thanks to Sister Maryam I am cured!”

“And Lazarus, son of the Holy Father himself!” Vanesse added. “He, too, has been saved by Sister Maryam from death's dark door.”

A whirlwind of murmurs stirred the crowd.

“I am here to offer all of you the cure,” Maryam continued. “It's time to stop the murder of your sisters and daughters. It's time to rise and tell the Apostles we have had enough!”

To her amazement, one of the drummers shed his instrument and crossed to Maryam's side. She could see at once he bore the first markings of Te Matee Iai. “If what you say is true, Sister, then cure me too. I have no wish to die.” He knelt down and kissed the hem of her gown, declaring, “If I may touch but His clothes, I shall be whole.”

Maryam stared down at him in horror. This was not what she intended—some hysterical reference to the Holy Book—not what she had planned at all. But villager after villager flooded forward as well. So many sick: some bearing the ugly purple bruises, some blind and maimed, and some so weak they had to be escorted by another to make it to her side. They gathered around her, laying their hands upon her as if the mere act of touching her could cure their ills.

“Why let the girl talk like this?” The chief jumped onto the table to make himself heard above the frantic bleating of the goats and the pandemonium of the crowd. “She is blaspheming! No one can cure the plague but the Lord alone.” He brandished the machete, slicing the air. “Rule Number Ten: Let any who reject the word of the Apostles of the Lamb be cast from the flock and punished in the name of the Lord.”

“The Rules are there to enslave our will!” Maryam yelled above the chaos. “We must reject them if we are ever to be free.” Her head was pulsing, her stomach knotting as the crush around her started to get out of control.

Vanesse was trying to push through to help her, but even with her added weight she couldn't break through the wall of villagers who flocked to be healed. She cupped her hands around her mouth to project her voice.

“Move back! If you want to learn about the cure you'll have to leave her be. Move back!”

But no one took any notice of her words and the people surged forward. Amidst all the pushing and shoving, Maryam started to lose focus. Her hair was being pulled, her gown tugged awry. She had to get out of here. Had to find some air. In total desperation she dropped to her knees and began to crawl out between the legs of the pleading mob. She managed to scramble to the outer edge of the fray as Vanesse reached her, helping haul her back up to her feet. She was crying now, cut and bruised and scraped—and terrified of what would happen next. If only Lazarus was still here to support her as well, though the Lord only knew what terrors he now faced inside the ship.

Meanwhile the chief was still screaming from his vantage point on the table. “She has been hiding, that is all. No one leaves Onewēre and survives. There is nothing beyond our shores but death.”

“Show them the treasures,” Vanesse said, shoving the abandoned bag into Maryam's unsteady hand. “This may well be your only chance.”

For a moment Maryam could do nothing. Her mind had gone blank. Then a picture of Lazarus's meeting with his parents came into her mind, and she knew she had to persevere—he had met his dread head on and so must she. She had to do whatever it took to change the villagers’ minds, so every islander—including Lazarus—was freed from the Apostles’ deadly grip.

She tucked the bag under her arm and ploughed into the crowd again, raked by their grabbing hands as she approached the chief. “You are wrong!” she said, scrambling up onto the table beside him so they confronted each other nose to nose. The sour sweat of him mixed with the stinking urine and droppings from the agitated goats and this, compounded with her
own nauseous nerves, made her want to gag. She swallowed compulsively to hold it back.

Maryam reached into the bag and drew out a box of the Territorials’ matches. “Look,” she said, fumbling to strike one of the sticks. “This is just one of the many magical things devised by the people beyond our shores—the people they call the Territorials.” When the match flared the chief took a surprised step backward and lost his footing, fighting to regain his balance by flailing his arms and legs. It might have been funny had it not just enraged him further, and he rose from the urine-soaked ground with murder written in his eyes.

“More tricks from Lucifer,” he spat, but the villagers paid little heed as Maryam now brandished the torch and switched it on.

“This too,” she said, “came from the Territorials’ home. And this.” She drew out a length of the finely woven rope, knowing there was nothing even vaguely comparable on Onewēre. She threw it down into the crowd, flinching at the fight that erupted as several of the villagers vied to claim it as their own.

She pressed on, upending the bag now to produce the strange metal tins of food they had discovered in the larder of the yacht—performing a cack-handed job of opening one of them with the peculiar hinged tool Lazarus had shown her how to use. She sensed that even the chief was transfixed as she upended the tin to pour crescents of moist yellow fruit and syrup into the hands that reached up from below.

Quickly she opened another, this time handing a tin labelled “Corned Beef Brisket” straight to the chief. He snatched it from her, sniffing it suspiciously before pinching up a little of the contents to taste. His look of puzzlement was quickly replaced
by a smiling nod and he dug in again, cramming a larger portion into his mouth.

“The Territorials have riches like this beyond your wildest dreams,” Maryam told the villagers, relieved that at last they'd stopped their jostling to listen more intently to her words. “But, trust me, they are also cruel and guard their riches with terrible weapons that can strike a man dead from great distance. The omen you saw in the skies was one of their flying machines—just pray their interest in us has been quenched and that they'll leave us be.”

A rumble of unease was picked up by the chief, who'd now consumed the entire contents of the tin. “I told you she was dangerous! Father Joshua said the omen was a warning that Lucifer was on the loose.” He beckoned to several strong young men. “Let's hear no more of this. Seize her and take her to the Holy Father so he can punish her for her blasphemous sins once and for all.”

Before Maryam could scramble down from the table the men burst through the ranks and surrounded her, one of them shoving her so hard from behind she stumbled forward and fell to the ground. While two others roughly grasped her arms and pinned them tight behind her back, the chief retrieved the abandoned bag and claimed it as his own.

“Take her,” he ordered, shouting to be heard above the rekindled din.

Her captors manhandled her through the milling villagers, ignoring the desperate pleas of Vanesse and Lesuna. But just as Maryam was despairing for her life, the six women whose daughters had just been Chosen at the Judgement blocked their path. Again a hush fell over the assembly, and one of the grieving mothers addressed the chief.

“If this girl speaks the truth, our babies are at risk. We demand to have our children back until we know, one way or the other, if Sister Maryam's accusations are true.” A cheer burst from the crowd. “And,” she continued, raising her chin to underline her resolve, “we demand that you allow her to tell us of the cure.”

Maryam couldn't believe it: at last others had the courage to fight! A great warmth flowed through her as, one by one, the other mothers stepped forward, insisting their children be returned and Maryam released to share the secret potion that could defeat Te Matee Iai. It felt as if all the pain and terror she'd endured finally made sense, her destiny blossoming into ripe nourishing fruit for all to share. If only Joseph and Ruth—and Lazarus—were here to experience such a tangible turning of the tide.

Vanesse and Lesuna reappeared at her side, eyeing Maryam's captors with such venom the men slackened their grip and let her go, edging away to join their chief. He had lost the sympathy of the villagers, and he knew it, clutching Charlie's bag in one hand as he swigged on toddy with the other, clearly deciding to wipe his hands of the situation and wait until the Apostles reasserted their control.

With the indomitable group of mothers to protect her, Maryam made her way back to the Judgement table and allowed herself to be hoisted back onto its top. At last the faces peering up at her were eager to receive her words. She told her tale of the indignities she'd suffered since she Crossed, feeling the wave of shock ripple through the congregation when she spoke of the blood-letting, of Sister Sarah's death and Rebekah's suicide, and of Father Joshua's brutal impregnation of Ruth.
Only the unsettled goats made comment as she described the utter devastation of Marawa Island's people, and the cruelty she and her companions had encountered at the camp. Her gaze shifted from one gaping face to another as her story unfolded, noting how each person's concentration climaxed when she told them, step by step now, how to brew the cure. When, finally, her words ran dry, an explosion of voices broke the silence, bubbling up around her as each listener turned to his or her neighbour to discuss the news.

“Come away quickly now while they digest it,” Vanesse said, reaching out to help Maryam leap from the table. She wrapped her arm around Maryam's shoulders like a protective cloak as she and Lesuna edged her around the side of the chapel. “Go straight back to Motirawa and wait for Brother Lazarus,” she advised. “Once word of the women's demands to release the newly Chosen reaches the Apostles’ ears, there's still a chance this goodwill will turn to bad.”

Maryam kissed Vanesse and Lesuna in turn. “I know, she said, “and thank you. I couldn't have managed this without you.” She felt elated, as though the worst of her job was done.

Vanesse patted Maryam's back. “You did well, little Sister. The thanks are ours to give. We will stay for the feast, and then let Lesuna rest a little before we return tomorrow to tell you what unfolds.”

“And I am forever in your debt.” Lesuna stroked a finger down Maryam's cheek. “Your mother, Safaila, would be so very proud.”

Big ripe tears formed in Maryam's eyes as she waved goodbye, then turned and fled off down the jungle path. The toddy could flow freely now for all she cared. The truth is
out, and now Onewēre's future lies in the lap of the gods. The thought made her brush away the tears and laugh aloud as she remembered literally curling into the Buddha's hard stone lap. Compassion, generosity and truth…how she wished Aanjay was here to see His words made real. Thanks to the tugging heartstrings of the mothers on this island, her people now had a real chance of breaking free—and despite the twisted teachings of the Apostles, she truly believed that even the self-sacrificing Lamb Himself could not have wished for less.

It was well after dark, and already high tide, when Maryam arrived back at the entrance to the cave where
Windstalker
was berthed. She braved the water, swimming into the vaulted grotto while the bats circled and squealed above her. At last she scrambled ashore and climbed aboard the little yacht, dripping, chilly but content. She couldn't believe how smoothly it had gone back at Kakaonimaki, considering the dangers of her plan, and couldn't wait to tell Lazarus everything that had happened. His confinement with his parents was her only real worry now. Would he still be able to get away and join her here? She needed his cool head to help her, until enough momentum had built up for the villagers to wrestle back their destinies for themselves.

She dried herself off and curled into a nest of blankets, too tired and emotionally drained even to bother eating. With the villagers’ cheers resounding in her ears, she fell fast asleep. The next morning, sunlight filtered down through the sinkholes as she scavenged some of Lazarus's strange assortment of supplies. She sat on the bow of the yacht, watching the shimmering
display of light that bounced back off the water to wash around the jagged rock formations in the cave, and eating small orange fruits straight from the opened tin. She ran over the previous day's events in her mind. There was no telling how the villagers would react now that her story was out, but she was sure there would be many already brewing up the miriki-tarai shrubs to make the cure. The thought made her feel light-headed and filled with hope: Te Matee Iai was on the run and six wee Sisters were to be rescued from that awful fate. Still, until Lazarus was safely back, her worry for him would continue to niggle like a midnight itch.