Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (5 page)

Maryam caught sight of Charlie in a heated argument with Sergeant Littlejohn at the entrance to the administration building. She wasn't close enough to hear what they were saying but could see the flush of anger on Charlie's neck as Littlejohn raised his index finger to prod him belligerently in the chest.

Charlie took a step backward, his hands tensing into fists. Maryam sensed his fury, and watched in admiration as he fought to rein in his anger. He stormed through the gates and made his way toward the noisy crowd gathered by the cells. Maryam pushed through the crowd behind him, tugging at his sleeve to draw his attention as she reached his side.

He spun around so violently she flinched, until recognition softened his stance. “Strewth! You shouldn't oughta do that to a man. You nearly got a knuckle sandwich in the mush!”

Maryam shook her head. “Sorry Charlie.” She drew a deep breath. “You have to let poor Aanjay out.”

Charlie raised one eyebrow. “No kidding?” He jerked his head toward the administration block. “You think I haven't tried? There's no way that prick will listen—she dared to raise her voice to him and he's so fricken macho and up himself he has to put the little lady in her place.”

She stared at him, wide eyed. It was like Charlie kept slipping into completely foreign language. “He won't release her?”

Charlie's gaze was sweeping the agitated crowd. A muscle
in his jaw twitched as the women united in a chanting prayer. “Later, kiddo. I've gotta calm things down.” He began to elbow his way toward the doorway of the cell block.

“Charlie!” Maryam took advantage of the cleared space to follow in his wake. “Let me go inside. At least I could comfort her. It can't do any harm.”

“Forget it.” He had reached the doorway, and purposefully placed himself between the two armed guards and the chanting crowd.

“But if you let me in it might appease the crowd and help to calm things down.”

His gaze flicked to her for a moment, then back to the sea of angry faces. “Christ,” he muttered, eyeing up a rear-guard of fidgety men. “Okay. It's worth a try.” He turned to one of the guards. “Let the kid inside, then go fetch some food and water for them both—and make the delivery of it a bloody good show. You understand?”

It looked as though the guard was going to refuse, but as Charlie took a menacing step toward the man he shrugged and slowly lowered his gun. “It's on your head, mate. Anyone asks, I'm only doing what I'm told.”

The guard unlocked the door but opened it only a fraction—just enough to squeeze Maryam through the gap. As she disappeared into the building she could hear Charlie making an announcement to the crowd, and just before the door banged shut she thought she heard a smattering of applause. Dear Charlie. If only he could run the camp. But then if Charlie was in charge, this camp would not exist.

She leaned back against the door to steel her nerves. This place brought back so many memories…Lazarus was beaten
in here; she was trussed. It was here she'd first encountered Charlie—and Jo; here that Lazarus had first pleaded his case for forgiveness…What a fool she'd been to ever believe him. In this very building she'd watched as he and Jo began the deceit that would culminate in his release. His alone. Her bitterness at his betrayal would stay forever in her heart.

But she had to think of Aanjay now and put her own hurt feelings aside. She walked down the gloomy corridor, peering into each cell as she passed. In the first, a bearded man knelt on his sleeping mat, deep in prayer. In the second a teenage boy sprawled upon his mat, fast asleep. The third housed a man who lunged at her and ranted incomprehensibly as she dodged past. Finally, after passing four more of the awful little cells, she found Aanjay. Her normally neat clothes looked crumpled and dishevelled, and her beautiful dark almond-shaped eyes were rimmed with red.

“Maryam!” She rose from the grubby sleeping mat and stuck her arms out through the bars as Maryam reached in to embrace her.

“You shouldn't be in here.”

Aanjay shrugged off Maryam's arms and squatted down beside the bars. “It was to be expected. No man likes to be put in his place—least of all a bully like the sergeant.”

“Charlie's doing everything he can to get you out.”

“He, at least, is a good man. But you must not put yourself into the path of danger by coming here.”

Maryam inclined her head to indicate the noisy rabble outside and grinned. “Right now it's probably safer than what's going on out there. Everyone is on your side.”

“They must go back to their huts and keep the peace,”
Aanjay insisted. “All their protests will do is cause more pain.” She looked so sad and tired, as if the flame that always lit her from within had died.

“I doubt they would listen. They want you out.”

Suddenly Aanjay dropped her head into her hands and began to weep. Her body shook as if each painful sob stripped more of the life-force from her. Maryam felt powerless to make her stop. Shocked at the sight of such distress, all she could do was reach in through the bars and pat Aanjay's heaving back. Aanjay had always been the one with an answer or a strategy for coping with the hardships of the camp. To see her succumb to this wave of hopelessness was tough indeed. Maryam felt her own eyes welling up.

Only the arrival of the guard bearing food and drink saved her from breaking down completely. The man refused to speak, merely grunting as he banged a bowl of clumpy rice and a jug of water at Maryam's feet.

As he made to leave, Aanjay drew in a deep shud-dering breath and called him back. “Please,” she said. “If you will let me speak to the people gathered outside for a moment I will ask them to disperse.”

The guard stopped in his tracks and slowly turned toward them, although he seemed incapable of meeting Aanjay's eye. “All right. I'll mention it to Charlie,” he muttered. He swung back around and left the building in an ungainly rush.

Aanjay sighed, and brushed a shaky hand through her hair. She tried to smile, but her chin quivered with the threat of more tears. “You know, Maryam, we have a saying: Despite all appearances, no one is really evil. They are led astray by ignorance.”

Maryam thought about Father Joshua and all the Apostles who allowed him to continue with his dangerous game. About Sergeant Littlejohn and his fellow Territorials who barred anyone remotely different from ever settling on their shores. She thought of Lazarus…In spite of all Aanjay's fine notions, she was not convinced.

“Do you really believe that?” she said.

Aanjay stared down at her hands, and answered in a whisper. “I no longer know.”

Now the door crashed open and Charlie thundered down the corridor.

“The boss'll probably sack me for this, but a word from you sure would help.” He unlocked the cell door, flicking his gaze to Maryam as he ushered Aanjay out. “Maryam, you come too, so they can see you're both okay, and if you want to stay in here to keep her company afterward I'll make sure LJ lets both of you out after the evening meal. Okay?”

“Of course.” Maryam followed a little way behind them, curious to hear what Aanjay said.

As soon as Aanjay appeared behind Charlie in the doorway a cheer went up from the crowd milling outside. She straightened, her eyes clearing of her private misery.

“My dear friends, thank you for your concern, but I am fine. I lost my temper and for that I have to pay.” The women around her murmured, but she raised her hand to stop them. “Please, go back now. I am sure that I will be released very soon.”

The women shuffled, as though pondering whether to give up and leave. Just as Maryam thought it all was over, Aanjay lifted her chin and spoke again, this time in her own lilting tongue.

“Menaklukkan orang yang marah oleh cinta. Menaklukkan pria bertabiat…” The words had their own kind of music, stilling the listeners as they soaked it in. “…Anda sendiri tidak bisa melukai musuh sebanyak yang Anda sendiri pikiran terjaga.” She clasped her hands before her and bowed her head as those around her did the same.

There was such calmness in the exchange—almost a kind of beauty—that Maryam found herself smiling as she followed Aanjay back into the cramped little cell. As soon as Charlie had gone, she asked her what the words had meant.

“It is from our holy teachings—something I should have remembered before I foolishly took on Sergeant Littlejohn. Translated it means: Conquer the angry man by love. Conquer the ill-natured man by goodness. Conquer the miser with generosity. Conquer the liar with truth…your own enemy cannot harm you as much as your own unguarded thoughts.”

The words seemed to take on form in the air around them, phantom butterflies of good intention that fluttered into Maryam's heart. Love, goodness, generosity and truth. She felt excited by the words, recognising in them the same simple instruction as the lessons of the Lord. Why was it that the two beliefs were held at odds? To her they seemed to complement, not challenge or complicate, the teachings of the Holy Book. She must tell Ruth of this. Must—

Aanjay's words cut through her thoughts. “Maryam, there is something important I have decided, that I hope you'll understand.” There were no fluttering butterflies in Aanjay's voice now: it sounded dead and flat. “I see in you a strength, and I hope you will bear the torch of unity when I am gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am going to leave—take up the option to return back home.”

“But that's crazy! You told me it was unsafe.”

“I cannot bear the thought of dying in this place like my poor dear mother—not even granted a proper send-off to her next incarnation. It is wrong.”

“But if you go back—”

“—then I will die at peace. The means of death is of no consequence, so long as it does not happen in a foreign land.”

“But there are people here who need you. Love you.” Maryam's head started to pound. Aanjay couldn't desert them, they needed her here.

“You do not understand!” Aanjay leapt up and started to pace the cell. “I've lost my discipline. My inner calm. I meditate and try to strip the angry thoughts out of my mind, but the notion of these monsters treating my mother's final journey with such disrespect…” She slammed her hands against the metal bars, banging as if she could somehow physically evict the angry thoughts.

“Aanjay, stop!” Maryam lunged at her, dragging her away from the bars and wrapping her in a firm restraining embrace. Slowly she felt Aanjay's body slacken beneath her grasp, as if the charge that had suddenly fired her up now just as quickly ebbed away. Then she felt Aanjay tremble as her rage once again gave way to grief. Through all this Maryam continued to hold her, unsure what else she could do.

There was no point arguing with Aanjay's decision. However unbearable the thought of losing her, Maryam realised she understood. The place where you were born—its colours and smells, its crystal waterways, lush plants and trees and, most of
all, its all-encompassing familiarity that made you feel as if it was the one place in all the world where you truly belonged—this place was where you also wished to rest your bones and those of everyone you loved.

And suddenly it struck her that for all she longed to return to Onewēre with the cure for Te Matee Iai, in truth she really just wanted to go back there because it was her home. She missed it and she loved it still. Dear Aanjay, even in her own terrible grief she had helped Maryam solve the one remaining puzzle in her plan. She knew now how to get out of the camp and cross the sea. Could not, in fact, believe she'd been so blind to such an easy course.

She would follow Aanjay's lead and ask the Territorials to deport them back—her and Ruth. The baby should have the right to know the place, to understand the secret workings of the trees and of the tide. But, most importantly, Ruth's baby should have the right to call the beautiful island of Onewēre “home.”

It was well after dark before she and Aanjay were released. When at last Charlie ushered them out of the gloomy cell block Maryam was surprised to find a large contingent of women still waiting outside. They clapped and cheered as Aanjay emerged from the building, rushing in to bury her in welcome.

Back in their hut, Maryam settled down with Ruth to tell her of the decision to seek deportation. Her heart thumped with excitement. At last she could make real her promise to return Ruth safely home.

“I don't know why I didn't think of it before,” she said, as Ruth stared at her open-mouthed. “I think I was too scared to trust them, imagining it might be better to do it on my own.”

Ruth's hands flew to the small mound of her belly, and she spread her fingers over the bump as if to protect it. Her eyes grew glassy as she gnawed at her bottom lip, and Maryam couldn't read what was going on inside her head.

“Aanjay says they'll put us on a big boat like the one that brought us here and take us all the way back home.” Maryam tried to sustain enthusiasm against Ruth's odd response. “Think of it: we won't have to worry about a thing.”

“Except what they might have in store for our people there,” Ruth muttered.

“What?” She didn't understand Ruth's reaction. Isn't this what she'd prayed for from the start? “They'll drop us off and leave. The last thing the Territorials want is to make a fuss and let the people of Onewēre know they're there.”

“So what are they going to do? Ditch us over the side beyond the reef at night and make us swim ashore?”

“What's going on? This is what you've wanted all along. I thought you'd be overjoyed.”

“And I thought you'd have more sense than to remind the Territorials that Onewēre might be some kind of threat. Don't you remember how Lazarus worried about this? You saw the bones at Marawa Island—the Territorials killed all those people just because they asked for help. Is that what you want?”

Maryam's fury at Lazarus re-ignited. These were his arguments, not Ruth's own…“Look, Ruthie, I—”

“Stop calling me Ruthie! My name is Ruth. I'm going to have a baby…be a mother. I am not a child.”

Maryam reeled as if she'd been slapped. It was odd how it annoyed her so, that Ruth could somehow use her pregnancy to claim greater maturity—superiority—especially when it was the result of violent assault and not the intentional outcome of someone who had weighed up all the pros and cons. In truth, she felt like crying. She didn't understand Ruth's resistance to the plan or her growing defensiveness at all. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that,” she muttered.

“There's something else you need to know…” Ruth didn't meet her eyes. She simply stared down at her hands as they caressed her baby bump, the seconds dragging into minutes whilst her silence built.

Unease churned Maryam's stomach. She'd heard almost exactly these same words once already today from Aanjay. “What?”

“I'm going to stay.”

“You're what?” Maryam shook her head. “That's crazy. Why would you want to stay imprisoned here?”

Ruth flounced to her feet, a flush encircling her neck. “I knew you wouldn't understand.”

“How could I?” Maryam countered. She rose as well, shaky from the shock. “All you've done since we first left is complain about wanting to go home. Well, here's your chance.”

“And all you've ever done since then is tell me how dangerous it would be if I did.”

Maryam opened her mouth to answer back, but shut it again as she recognised the truth of Ruth's words. But this was different, wasn't it? Now she had a decent opportunity to bring the Apostles down. “That was before I found out about the cure, Ruthi—sorry. Now we have a real chance of changing people's lives.”

“But I'm already doing that, don't you see? They need me here. I can teach them how to speak English and to write. I can teach them how to read the Holy Book.”

For the first time since they'd met as little girls, Maryam felt herself chill toward her oldest friend. Why couldn't Ruth just leave other people's beliefs be? If they did not want to live by the Holy Book it was their private business—not hers. But she knew better than to charge Ruthie with that.

“But your baby will be born in prison! Is that what you want?”

“Is it so bad? We have shelter, water and enough food each day. We are safe. Can you promise this to my baby if we go back home?”

“You don't understand. I've seen the files Sergeant Littlejohn keeps on the detainees. Hundreds have died—women and babies too.”

“You don't understand.” Now Ruth met Maryam's gaze and
held it. “Can you promise me that Father Joshua won't take my baby and never give her back?”

Ah, this is the crux of it. Ruth was right. She couldn't promise this at all.

Maryam pressed her forehead against the hut's rough metal wall, warm from the residual heat of the day. It seemed she had to make a choice: stay here with Ruth, or leave her friend behind and never—ever—see her again.

Her mind flooded with memories of their shared childhood: the reckless races through the jungle; the quiet moments in their sleeping hut when they dreamed aloud about the joy and riches they'd discover in the Holy City when they Crossed. She thought about Ruth's faithfulness—not just to the Lord, but to her friend. How she had trusted Maryam and loved her, and how Maryam had loved her back, as she would a real birth sister—and how she loved Ruth still, despite her worrying desire to push her faith down others’ throats.

But, as Ruth said, their childhood was over and she had every right to speak her mind. Besides, she had a life inside her to consider now, no matter what the sinful act that put it there, and Ruth was right to want to keep it safe. They'd both grown up since they first fled Onewēre, and this time Maryam knew she had no right to make Ruth come with her. The trouble was, however much Maryam truly wished she could accept this fate and continue to support her friend, she knew she couldn't stay here in this evil place—she had a destiny back on Onewēre to fulfil.

She turned again to Ruth, knowing her friend would see in her face the terrible decision she'd just made. “You're right. I can't protect either of you. You should stay.”

All Ruth's anger bled away. “You're still going to return—alone?”

Maryam nodded, and pulled Ruth into a misery-fuelled embrace. The thought of losing her hurt more than the fear she'd felt when she faced the possibility of losing her own arm. More, almost, than losing Joseph. Yes, more. “How can I stay here when I know there is a cure for Te Matee Iai? You have your mission, I guess, and I have mine.”

“I didn't really think you'd go.” Ruth groaned. “Oh Lord, and Aanjay too. What will I do?”

“Charlie and Veramina will never let you down.” The words sounded strained and false even to her ears.

“But what if Lazarus sends for us? Shouldn't you wait a little longer just in case?”

Maryam almost laughed. “Forget Lazarus. He has forsaken us and we'd do well to never think of him again.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes!” Maryam's facade of calm fell away. She couldn't take any more of Ruth's badgering. They had their own opinions about Lazarus, sure enough, but it was pointless debating them—they'd never agree on his intentions, and she could no longer even bother to try.

Suddenly she felt claustrophobic, as if there wasn't enough air. She told Ruth she needed to relieve herself and fled from the hut. Outside, the camp was quietening down for the night, the jangle of children's voices giving way to a more mournful refrain. It didn't seem to matter which part of the camp she wandered into, Maryam realised, there was always an undertone of misery: a wailing voice, the unrelenting drone of weeping, a garbled deranged cry that carried through the night. It ate into
her soul, a constant irritant, just like the high-pitched whining of the blood-sucking maninnaras that bred in stagnant pools all around the camp. If Ruth could block this out and find some peace within the confines of these fences Maryam was glad—but she could not. She'd rather risk failing in her mission than die, like Aanjay's mother, trapped forever in this waypoint on the edge of Hell.

After wandering aimlessly down the emptying walkways, Maryam found herself by the main gates, peering through the wire at the armed guards beyond. Their guns glinted in the stark light that flooded access to the camp. The tales of these weapons that could kill at great distance and penetrate the body more lethally than any spear terrified her. What kind of people had the old ones been before the Tribulation, who used their superior knowledge to make instruments of death such as these?

She shuddered, thinking of the piled bones back at Marawa Island, and for the first time truly thought through the risk of drawing the Territorials’ gaze to Onewēre's shores. Was it really safe? When Lazarus had first raised his doubts, she'd thought he did it merely to protect his father and the Apostles, but now, thanks to Ruth's disquiet, Maryam wondered if it was a valid point. If the Territorials thought Onewēre posed any kind of threat, they'd have no qualms about asserting control, deadly or otherwise. No, she couldn't in good conscience risk this—but it threw up as many problems as it solved.

She'd have to convince Sergeant Littlejohn they'd lied…that they were, in fact, the last survivors from Marawa Island and that it was to Marawa Island she now wished to be returned. But, even if he believed her and sent her back, how on earth was she to reach Onewēre from there? She had no idea.

Beyond the gates, the guards were changing shifts. As their ugly accents cut through the night, Maryam forced her tired brain to concentrate a little harder. All right, so it had taken Joseph's father several years to build the boat they used to escape Onewēre, and he'd had drawings from a book to guide his way. There was no way she could attempt to construct such a complicated craft, even if she had the plans. But—perhaps—there was some other means of sailing? Some craft she could fashion and operate all on her own? After all, every person in the camp must have fled across the sea to escape their homeland one way or another…perhaps someone here would have a solution she did not?

She returned to her hut, resolving to tackle the two issues head on. Tomorrow she would seek out Aanjay's help to find a way to cross the sea between the two islands, and then she'd go to Sergeant Littlejohn and ask to be returned to Marawa Island, claiming it as her rightful home.

“Jal Sutti built a raft,” Aanjay assured her late the next morning as she and Maryam made their way along the maze of walkways to Filza's hut. “It carried him safely on the ocean for three weeks before the Territorials’ navy picked him up.”

“Three weeks? That's perfect. Do you think he'd tell me how?”

“Of course. But I must warn you, he is in a very fragile state of mind. His wife and only child died one week into the voyage, and he's never quite regained his mental strength.”

Maryam's heart faltered. Joseph's death was hard enough. To lose a wife and child…

But they had arrived at Filza's hut. The old woman was sitting in the doorway, her elbows on her wide-spread knees, and she smoked a pipe crafted from whittled wood. The smell reminded Maryam of Judgement time, when all the village chiefs would band together and smoke aro ni mi teuana leaves to put them in a trance before the dance that preceded the final sacrifice of the seven sacred goats.

“Ah, mahkota bunga obat girl,” Filza greeted her. She winked at Aanjay. “You bring gift?”

Maryam blushed, but was surprised to hear Aanjay laugh. “You old rogue, Filza Zimbanto! Stop your teasing.”

Filza shrugged, blowing a long thin line of smoke from her pleated lips. “No try, no get!” She hauled herself to her feet, breaking wind loudly as she bent back down to knock the smouldering remnants from her pipe onto the ground. “Very sorry! Puji bagi Buddha!”

She beckoned Maryam and Aanjay into her hut and motioned for them to sit opposite her as she collapsed in her haphazard fashion onto a mat. With no further ceremony she began to speak, describing how to make the cure: “You girl. Listen good. Need two whole plants, ready with seeds. Boil all bulu halus—”

“What's that?”

Aanjay translated. “It means fluff.”