Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (3 page)

Only a short distance from the building's entrance, Sergeant Littlejohn was checking off the names of thirty or so miserable detainees who were being herded onto the back of a large flat-decked truck. Thin, blank-eyed men and women coaxed malnourished children up over the tailgate of the vehicle, their faces set as though they knew full well they'd condemned themselves and their children to death.

Charlie quickly swung Maryam around until his body blocked her from Sergeant Littlejohn's view, and led her down the steps toward the camp's heavily guarded central gate. Beyond the mesh of the second fence a hostile crowd—mostly swarthy bearded men and ragged youths—pressed toward the gateway and jeered, prompting the heavily armed guards onto high alert.

“Hurry!” Charlie urged Maryam as they approached the gate. It was standing open for the last of the deportees, and Charlie guided her into the seething fray, holding his stocky arm out in front of him to clear a path. He leaned over and muttered in her ear. “Listen, there's something I have to tell you—”

Again he was cut off, this time by Maryam herself. “Lazarus!” She had nearly bumped straight into him; was shocked by the dismay that flooded his pale face.

Lazarus opened his mouth to speak, but a gun-toting guard closed in behind him and prodded the butt of the weapon into Lazarus's back, forcing him forward toward the truck.

“No!” Maryam cried, turning to Charlie. “They can't deport him too.”

Charlie shifted his hand from her elbow to her shoulder and
squeezed as though to ground her. “It's not what you think. He's—”

“You can't let them do this, Charlie. If they send him back, his father could well order his death.”

She twisted from his clasp and spun around to follow in Lazarus's wake, protecting her sling with her good arm and pressing through the throng to reach him. But she was thwarted by another of the guards, who shook his gun and motioned angrily for her to step back inside the fence. She took one conciliatory step backward before shouting out for all she was worth. “Lazarus! Wait!”

He turned at the sound of her voice and looked as though he was going to push back through the crowd when the guard seized him roughly by the arm and hauled him over to the truck. Maryam could only watch in icy shock as Lazarus was hoisted up into the mob of deportees, crushed into the back like panicked shoaling fish. His straggly blond hair and pale skin stood out as he worked his way to the side, the whites of his eyes bright in the sun as he sought her out and locked his gaze on hers.

“I'm sorry,” he mouthed.

She was stunned by how resigned he seemed, sure they must have threatened him with force if he tried to resist. There was nothing else in her mind now but to stop the Territorials from taking him away. She ducked around the distracted guard, ignoring Charlie's warning call, and rushed toward the truck.

Maryam reached out her hand, but already the truck was revving as the last of the deportees were crammed aboard. Lazarus stretched his arm toward her, and his fingers just brushed hers before someone grabbed Maryam roughly by the shoulder and pulled her away.

“He couldn't give a stuff about you,” Sergeant Littlejohn hissed at her. “Best you find a boyfriend among your own kind.” His fingers dug into the tender shoulder muscles of her bandaged arm as he pushed her, none too gently, back toward the gates. “Get this bloody girl away.”

Two armed guards lunged forward to grab her, but it was Charlie who stepped in and tucked her arm firmly through his. “For God's sake,” he snarled. “Are you trying to get us all sprung?” He hauled her back inside the gates as she craned her neck around to stay connected to Lazarus's mournful eyes. But the guards were already locking in the restless crowd. Undeterred, they surged up against the netting to call out their last farewells as the truck rolled forward and juddered off in a swirl of reeking phosphate dust.

“Maryam!” Lazarus shrieked above the din. “It's not—” The rest of his sentence was swallowed by the roar of the truck's motor as it gained speed and drove off through the outer gate.

Maryam rounded on Charlie. “How can they do that? Don't they know his father is insane?”

“Whoa! Hold on a minute.” Charlie pulled her off to the side of the milling crowd. “I've been trying to tell you. The word came through from the mainland this morning…Jo managed to convince the authorities to let him in.”

“Let him in? To where?”

“To the mainland of the Confederated Territories. To settle there.” Charlie shrugged. “It seems all her lobbying on his behalf's paid off.”

“What?” Maryam felt as if all the bones inside her melted to nothing. Her knees gave way, and she had to reach out to steady herself on Charlie's arm. As she struggled to take in what
he had said, Sergeant Littlejohn's angry outburst that morning flooded back into her mind. Righteous little bastard…better to let the slimy little boonga-lover leave…It all made sense now. Awful, hurtful, back-stabbing sense.

“Does Ruth know?” she asked.

“They brought him straight from the men's quarters, so probably not.”

Oh great. Now she'd have to break the news to Ruth. Rage as deadly as a water-spout spiralled up inside her now. How could they have been so trusting, believing all Lazarus's grand claims of friendship and remorse, when all the time he'd been plotting to desert both her and Ruth? To think that she had saved him—risked her life to bring him the life-saving drugs—when all the time he couldn't wait to abandon them and leave.

“The order only came through this morning. I'm sure he would've told you both if he'd had the chance.” Charlie studied her through narrowed eyes. “You look done in, kiddo. Go back to your hut now and get some rest. I'll be by later to check on how you are.” He patted her shoulder before giving her a gentle push to set her on her way.

Maryam stumbled off down the walkway that led to the cramped hut she shared with Ruth. Around her, the other detainees seemed more subdued than usual, no doubt reacting to the deportations with the same sick sense of disbelief and hopelessness as Maryam felt. The reasoning of the leaders of
the Confederated Territories—that none bar those who had the fortune to be born within their boundaries had any right to live there—was beyond comprehension, when so many others suffered and were in need of help.

What was it the guard aboard the ship had told them—that the Confederated Territories would only ever shelter Christian Territorials? Cee Tees for Cee Tees, he'd said, when what he should've said, Maryam fumed, was that only white-skinned people, like the double-crossing Lazarus, would ever be permitted to settle on their shores. It was so unfair. Especially when the Territorials claimed to love the Lord, yet practised none of His calls for generosity and love.

She found Ruth lying on her sleeping mat, her long-limbed body curled up in a ball of misery. One glance at her and Maryam guessed that somehow she'd already been told.

“Ruthie, I'm back.” Maryam knelt down, and stroked the hair away from Ruth's saturated face.

Ruth looked up, her chin wobbling as she took in the line of Maryam's arm inside the sling. “They saved it?” She smiled a little as Maryam nodded to assure her all was well. Then her features collapsed back into utter grief. “I have to tell you something—”

“About Lazarus? I already know.” Maryam let her own furious tears flow now. “I just saw him leaving with the other deportees. So much for sticking together, eh? He couldn't wait to get away from us and join the Territorials in their precious home.”

“He's gone?” Ruth sounded shocked. She pushed herself up and leaned against the corroded metal wall, resting her chin on her knees as she reached across and claimed Maryam's free hand. “But he didn't even say goodbye.”

Maryam choked on her disgust. “Can you believe he'd just desert us, after everything we've done? I thought Jo was on our side as well.”

“I can't believe it. I truly thought he'd changed,” said Ruth.
She sniffed, rubbing her face to wipe away the residue of tears as though ashamed of them. “I didn't expect you back so soon.” Now she fingered the sling that supported Maryam's arm. “Tell me all about the operation. Is your arm really saved?”

Maryam described the night she'd spent inside Sergeant Littlejohn's domain, choosing to leave out the damning contents of the boxes for now, then reassured Ruth her arm was on the mend.

“The Lord be praised for that at least.” Ruth released a shuddery sigh, then bent forward to brush a kiss onto Maryam's cheek. “Who cares about Lazarus? At least there's still you and me. That's all we need.”

Maryam didn't bother answering, just wrapped her arm around her best friend's neck and hugged her close, sinking her nose into Ruth's lush black hair. They'd shared their lives for over twelve years now, as close as real sisters after everything they had endured. She didn't need Lazarus and his lies to help make real her plan. In fact, she was better off without him. All he'd ever done was try to take control. Who needs him and his arrogant ways?

Still, there was no denying that his betrayal hurt. She'd come to think of him as a friend. He was all she had left of Joseph, and now he'd gone as well.

While Maryam rested, Ruth went in search of leftovers from breakfast, returning with two small portions of cold rice that Maryam wolfed down after her long-enforced fast. But the food sank to the bottom of her gut, churning with the stony disillusionment that Lazarus's desertion had formed inside. She felt so powerless and cheated. As if Lazarus's betrayal were not enough, Maryam now had to question everything the woman Jo had said. Was she still to be trusted? She'd appeared so genuine, so outraged by the degradation of the detainees inside the camp, so convincing in assuring Maryam she would help. But now Maryam had to wonder if it was all some kind of cynical act? She'd placed her faith in Jo's support, never for a moment suspecting the woman might be scheming with Lazarus behind her back. Once again, it seemed, her faith had been ill-founded. When would she ever learn? She'd counted on Lazarus and Jo's support to help her return home, not wanting to burden Charlie and Veramina further when they'd already risked so much to save her arm.
What now?
There was so much she had to plan, so many details she must think through, yet she knew she had to rest before she could put any plans in place.

With a sigh that seemed to reverberate long after it had been expelled, she followed Ruth along the dusty walkway to the shaded courtyard where Ruth now taught most days, having taken up the mantle of teacher when Jo had left. She met the challenge with the same intensity she'd put into her study of the Holy Book, patiently helping the mothers and
their grimy offspring learn to communicate in basic English, and to read and write. Somehow she had the power to make her meaning clear. Already her pupils loved her, gifting her shy smiles whenever she went past, and now, as the two girls approached the courtyard, a murmur of anticipation swept the assembled group.

Ruth made her way up to the front while Maryam planted herself down on the ground at the rear of the students, too tired to move among the women and help them trace their wobbly letters into the thick layer of chalky dust. Today she would just watch and revel in the pride she felt at seeing her friend blossom beneath the students’ expectant gaze. She studied Ruth as if observing her for the first time: this tall, solidly built girl whose broad face shone with goodness as she clasped her hands together and dipped her head in greeting, smiling like the rising sun as she said “Good morning” and the women and their children echoed back the greeting in a sing-song chant.

But there was a worrying difference in her friend that Maryam hadn't consciously discerned before: the healthy bloom in Ruth's cheeks had faded, and where there once were rolls of fat on her powerful body now there were none. Then she remembered the reflection of her own wan face in the mirror at the hospital just the night before, and glanced down at her spindly arms and legs. In a few scant weeks both she and Ruth had come to look like every other miserable captive in this place: emaciated, malnourished and bereft of hope.

Yet looks, she knew, could be deceiving: within the chest of each and every woman in the group there beat a questing heart. Here they were, laughing and cajoling their restless children as they practised greeting each other in the language of their
captors. “Good morning,” they chimed, their accents twisting the simple words in new exotic ways. “How are you today?…I am fine…” Their musical chanting put Maryam into a sleepy trance, and it was only their applause at the end of the session that brought her back into the present.

As the class dispersed, Ruth made her way to Maryam's side.

“How is the pain?” she asked.

“Nothing that the paracetamol won't fix,” Maryam assured her. “But how are you? You don't look well.”

A wave of unidentifiable emotion flashed across Ruth's face before she harnessed it back under control. “I'm fine. I just didn't get enough sleep last night.”

“Are you sure? You're very pale.”

Tears welled up in Ruth's eyes. She clapped her hand across her mouth as though to trap a wail, then with a sob she ran off, leaving Maryam shaken in her wake. What on earth was going on? Maryam chased after her, gritting her teeth as the jolt of her feet on the walkway pulsed through her arm. “Ruth! Wait!”

Maryam rounded a corner and nearly crashed into Ruth, who was vomiting against the wall of the adjoining hut. The acidic stench had attracted an immediate flurry of flies. All Maryam could do was pat Ruth's back as she retched on and on until nothing more was left.

Finally Ruth straightened, supporting herself against the wall with a shaky hand. “Sorry,” she murmured, her eyes still glassy from the shock of tears.

Maryam studied the regurgitated rice as if it could reveal the source of Ruth's attack. “Did you eat something bad, Ruthie?”

Ruth shrugged but did not meet Maryam's eye. “Don't worry. It passes just as quickly as it comes.”

“You mean it's not the first time?”

“I didn't want to worry you.”

Ruth turned and set off along the walkway again at a frantic trot, not stopping until she reached the hut and threw herself face-down onto the sleeping mat. Maryam hunkered down beside her, and shifted Ruth's hair away from the beads of perspiration that coated the back of her neck. Joseph's sweating, pale face shot to her mind. And Lazarus, before he took the cure. What if Ruthie has Te Matee Iai?

“What's going on? If you're ill you should say, so I can get you help.”

But Ruth just stared up at her like a dumb-struck child, fear clouding her eyes.

“Ruthie!” Maryam tried again. She grasped Ruth by the shoulder to break through the wall of her defence. “You have to say.”

Ruth groaned, but slowly uncoiled to sit, slouched and uneasy, against the wall. She drew in a reedy breath. “Don't worry,” she said at last. “It's not Te Matee Iai.”

Praise be! Relief flooded through Maryam like cool winter rain. “What is it then?”

“I don't know,” Ruth said. A flush roared up her neck to consume her face. “I think that I have something…wrong…inside.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think the Lord is punishing me for swerving from His path.”

Maryam felt like shaking her again. “For goodness’ sake, Ruthie! You're the most pious person I know! The Lord would no more punish you than…than—” It was such a stupid claim she couldn't even find the words.

“See! You know it's true.”

“It's not true, you silly girl!” She blew out a deep breath, trying to calm herself before she tried again. She had to find out if Ruth was really ill. “Look, whatever the reason, just tell me what's wrong inside. How many times have you been sick like this before?”

Ruth picked at a spot of grime on the sleeping mat as she spoke. “Almost every day for the last two weeks.”

“Every day? Why didn't you say?”

“Because I didn't want to bother you. You had enough to deal with, helping Lazarus and sorting out your arm.”

Maryam cringed. It was true she'd been so focused on Lazarus's recovery and her own fears of amputation that she'd hardly taken any notice of Ruth—bar relief when she'd slipped into the role of teacher to occupy her time. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “Have you noticed anything else?”

The flush on Ruth's face heightened until she glowed with heat. “I fear I have some kind of demon like a taimonio inside. I feel as though it's stealing all my energy…and I have pain here.” She pointed to her breasts. “They look…different, too. And, worst of all, my Bloods have not returned.”

“They've stopped?” Oh Lord. Had Father Joshua's assault caused some terrible kind of damage inside? On issues such as this she was way out of her depth. “We have to get you help. Aanjay perhaps? Or…I know! We can ask Veramina when she comes to check my arm.” Yes, this was by far the best course. “She's a nurse. She'll know just what to do.”

Now Ruth rushed her with a ferocious embrace. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner—I've been so scared. I prayed and prayed, but every day I've just felt worse.”

“No more secrets,” Maryam insisted. “Whatever is going on, we'll find out and we'll get you help.” And just this once keep on praying, she thought. In this place Ruth would need all the divine help she could get.

It was mid-afternoon the following day before Veramina's reassuring shape came into view. She carried a small bag and set it down beside Maryam inside the hut.

“Right, missy. Let's look at that arm.” Without further preamble she began to remove the bandage from Maryam's arm. Her brow knotted as she carefully peeled back the blood-soaked dressing to reveal the wound.

It was the first time Maryam had seen it since the operation, and her stomach contracted as she peered down at the swollen flesh. The ragged gouge created by the excised tissue was drawn together with neat stitches, the jutting break in the bone no longer visible, and Maryam presumed they'd straightened it back into place. Seeing it like this was a stark reminder of how close she'd come to losing her arm: any more infected flesh and there would have been nothing left to buffer or support the fractured bone.

“Not bad,” Veramina said. She opened the bag at her side and produced a small bottle, dabbing its bright purple contents over the wound. “Gentian violet,” she explained. “It'll help to keep any new bacterial infections away.” She looked up sternly. “You are taking the antibiotics with every meal?”

“I am.”

“Make sure you do, right to the end.” Veramina placed
the cap back on the bottle and started to re-bandage the arm, her face a picture of concentration as she carefully wrapped the dressing in a neat figure of eight to protect the wound. “Good,” she said when she had finished. “I'll be back early next week to take the stitches out. Just make sure you rest it well and take the pills religiously till then.”

She had gathered up her bag and was about to leave when Maryam placed a steadying hand on her arm. “Please,” she said. “My friend Ruth here is not well.”

Ruth blushed as red as a frigate bird's gular pouch.

“What is it, child?” Veramina asked.

As Ruth described her symptoms in a wavering voice, Veramina began to smile and then to laugh. “Lord love you! Have you been hanky panky-ing with the boys?”

Confused, Ruth looked to Maryam for translation, though Maryam herself was struggling with their meaning. Hanky panky? Boys? Oh Lord. Could Veramina be implying that Ruth was with child? Heat roared up her neck. Why hadn't she thought of this? Poor Ruth was going to die of shame.

She ignored Ruth's puzzled eyes, and answered Veramina on her behalf. “My dear friend Ruth has the purest of hearts…” She tried to stress the words so Veramina would understand Ruth's piety. “She was, however…assaulted…before we escaped.”

Ruth's eyes widened. “Why tell her that?” she hissed, rising to her feet now, ready to flee.

The smile dropped from Veramina's face as she took all this in, perhaps now recognising how naive and innocent Ruth really was. She leaned over and caught Ruth's fingers, tugging her back to the sleeping mat so she could not escape. “Forgive me, angel. I didn't mean to joke.”

She asked Ruth to lie down on her back, then took her pulse and gently prodded her bared stomach in a thorough sweep from her belly button and her pubic bone. Then, to Ruth's great mortification, she insisted on examining Ruth inside. Maryam couldn't bear to watch—the tears that slid down Ruth's cheeks could well have been her own, such was her pain for her friend.

She knew Ruth would be remembering their awful initiation at the hands of the Apostles when they'd Crossed—remembering how Mother Lilith had examined them in much the same humiliating way, yet with none of Veramina's care nor skill. But what pained her most was knowing that it was the cruel face of Father Joshua Ruth would see inside her mind. He had trapped her in the storeroom and brutally attacked her. So-called “hanky panky” played no part.

Finally Veramina patted Ruth's thigh and told her to sit up, then she gave her verdict. “There's no doubt about it, you are going to have a child.”

“What?” Ruth blindly scrabbled for Maryam's hand. “But how?”

Veramina smiled. “There's only one way that I know of, love. Many a child has been created through force, but it doesn't stop its existence being a wondrous gift.”

Horror drained Ruth's face of colour as Veramina's words sank in, and Maryam found herself fighting back tears. How could Ruth not have suspected this? She felt a strange kind of fury at her: naivety was one thing, but they had been told how babies were made…Had Ruth simply decided to wipe the knowledge from her mind?