Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (8 page)

Even though she knew the island was uninhabited, Maryam felt the eyes of its dead upon her as she peered into the tangle of trees. Once a sophisticated race had lived here, the tumbledown temple complex with its unearthly statues and chiselled reliefs clear evidence of that. She felt drawn toward it now, despite the
terrible stack of human bones that lay brittle and deserted at the Buddha's feet. It was as if they called to her, demanding that she acknowledge them and seek their permission for her stay.

She rinsed her sweaty clothes, dressed quickly, then unearthed the boots from Charlie's bag. They fitted fairly well—a little large, perhaps—but they would certainly aid her progress through the snarled undergrowth without the need to assess every step. Spiders, beetles, snakes…she had no idea what poisonous creatures she might meet. They'd not encountered any last time, bar one harmless snake and the blood-thirsty insects that buzzed them in the night, but it was foolish not to be prepared. Besides, she knew the rocky ground was baked so hard it bruised the feet. She side-stepped through a noisy colony of brown boobies, keeping an eye out for their strong white beaks, and soon found herself swallowed by the thick weave of vegetation at the jungle's edge. The colours struck at her—verdant greens of every shade, riots of red, soft silvers, rusty coppers, burnished blacks—everything so vivid and alive after the dusty monotony of the camp. The dark loamy smells whispered of a world secure within its own continuous life cycle, that never-ending process of birth, death and decay. It made her think of Aanjay's belief in rebirth: that everything cycled around time after time until it gained the ultimate state of grace.

When she reached the first tumble-down stone village, so overgrown and deconstructed that its crumbling walls were now as organic as the jungle itself, she recalled their discovery of this place—how, as she, Joseph, Ruth and Lazarus looked around, it had dawned on them that Marawa Island would not provide the refuge they sought. It was the first in a series of disappointments that led to growing disillusionment, and to the
awful calamities that led to Joseph's death. In a real but totally unfathomable way, Maryam felt as though Joseph walked beside her now, spurring her on. There was nothing on this forsaken island that she feared as much as its restless dead, so to have him keep pace with her was comforting—and crucial, she realised, if she was to survive her time alone here without going insane.

It was not long before the crumbled village lay behind her and she started the slow uphill grind toward the plateau. She spied a banana palm off to her right and harvested a small bunch that had escaped plunder by the birds. The fruit was so sweet, saliva pooled in her mouth and washed the pulp down like a drink. It was such a relief to eat fresh food, she immediately peeled another and quickly disposed of that as well. Revived, she continued through the undergrowth, coming upon the stone stairway that led to the temple complex sooner than she expected.

Even though she'd seen them before, the two-taloned stone creatures that flanked the crumbling steps still had the power to halt her in her tracks. Like guardians to a mythical world, their presence acted as a warning to proceed with caution: powerful forces were at work.

Maryam crested the fallen tree at the top of the stairway and passed beneath the extraordinary stone head that topped the portal to the plateau itself. Like the ravaged depictions of the Lord on the Cross, the square, parapeted temple at the centre of the complex embodied the destructive force of human hate, fear and greed. Designed as a place of worship—to Aanjay's Buddha, not the Lord—it had been reduced by the murderous Territorials to a crumbling burial mound, its power further eroded by weather and time. But life rose again, as did the Lord,
with the jungle creeping back in to re-colonise the huge hewn structures with lush shrubs, trees, grass and mosses, and the raucous bird-life that followed close behind.

She clambered through the ruins of smaller out-buildings until she came to the side wall of the temple. As she passed along it she ran her fingers over the reliefs that had been carved into the stone. The people depicted there seemed more familiar to her now, their faces sharing the fine sculptural features of Aanjay and the others at the camp who spoke her lyrical language—so different from the flat-nosed, generously lipped natives of Maryam's home. But as she studied the intricate carvings more closely she realised that, in fact, she could see other islanders who looked like her—the cowering slaves, the war vanquished, the women being sacrificed to nightmare gods with cloven hooves and entrail-dripping mouths like the beaks of birds.

A shiver ran through her as she recalled Joseph speaking of his father's belief that once the peoples of Marawa Island and Onewēre had been as close as siblings. Surely if these etchings held any truth they must mean that before this great building was completed the first people of Marawa Island had been enslaved? Perhaps even wholly destroyed? She shook her head. How strange that the very people who built this monument to Buddha—who, according to Aanjay, preached compassion and love—would permit such an act. It was as contradictory as the Apostles preaching of the Lord's love and forgiveness, or the Territorials claiming their Christian rights…She'd never understand. The only lesson she could take from this was the very same lesson she'd confronted time after time since she'd Crossed: that once she started to look around and take notice of what she saw, nothing was as straightforward as it first seemed.

To delay having to face the pile of bones inside the temple, she roamed around the outer edges of the complex, checking if there was any food nearby. However much this place spooked her, she'd decided she'd stay here for the first night at least, rather than try to rig up some kind of shelter near the beach. Better to face her fears head on than to feel the prickle of them at her back.

Among a small grove of trees at the northern-most boundary she discovered a wealth of potential food: mangoes, papaya, breadfruit, banana, figs, and an unfamiliar orange fruit. The birds had well and truly picked over the ripest and most accessible, and she had to content herself with the bruised windfalls. Still, after the paltry diet of rice and watery soup she'd grown accustomed to, she savoured every bite.

Replete now, she went in search of water, figuring there must have been a source to service those who'd once made this great temple home. At first she hoped she'd be able to hear the flow, but the racket of the black-naped terns made this impossible. They reeled in the sky above her, broadcasting her movements to every other species on the island with a barrage of ear-splitting screeches. Instead, she wandered the outer boundaries of the plateau until she spied a lush thicket of shrubs and grasses sprouting from the rubble by the eastern wall. Yes! There, amid a tangle of competing plants, she found a bubbling stream that looked as though it once had been contained by a series of stone-lined trenches dug right around the perimeter of the outer boundary wall. But now the trenches were dry, filled with the accumulated debris of wind and time, and the clear spring water spilled over a dam of broken stone and plant detritus to disappear into the moisture-hungry ground.

Maryam scooped up handful after handful of the cool sweet water to quench her thirst until she felt so bloated she could drink no more. She'd forgotten how delicious and precious such fresh water was. Refreshed, she knew she could no longer put off her meeting with the island's ancestors. She plodded back across the compound, feeling nervous goosebumps rise on her arms as she approached the tumbledown temple doors. Inside, she picked her way across the littered tile floor, trying to avoid the stinking piles of bird droppings and feathers and the impassable stairwells to the parapets that lay in ruins to either side. Within the foyer, plant life burst from every crack and broken seam. Maryam approached the two elaborately carved pillars that flanked the entrance to the great dark space that contained the Buddha. For the first time she noticed that their intricate symbols depicted some form of ancient script. Perhaps they told the tale of the building of this place or recorded the Buddha's teachings? She didn't know. But she ran her fingers across the grimy grooves regardless, feeling they might help to ground her before she stepped through into the cavernous hall that housed Marawa Island's dead.

She paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the gloom. Then the tread of her boots echoed around the chamber as she followed the path of flagstones toward the dais where the giant Buddha sat cross-legged, his hands resting relaxed and open on his knees. The statue's gentle smile belied the carnage at his feet. The bones of Marawa's last people lay tangled on the floor—men, women, children, babies—intertwined as if the whole group had been embracing at the moment of their deaths.

Now that she knew the Territorials were responsible for the slaughter, Maryam allowed fury to overtake revulsion as
she crept forward to study the bones. It was the tiny skeletons that most affected her, the little bundles still clasped in their mothers’ fleshless arms. She thought of Ruth and the little one she carried inside, and shuddered. Had she been right to let Ruth stay under the Territorials’ control, when those animals could do this to innocent babies? She should have insisted that Ruth join her. Should have made her see it was for the best.

Without thinking through exactly what she was doing, Maryam rummaged through Charlie's bag and pulled out four of the candles and a box of the magic striking sticks. She placed the candles at even points around the rough circle of bones and lit their wicks, dripping hot wax onto the flagstones to fix the candles to the ground so they would stand in place. There was no obvious wind outside, yet the candles flickered as though disturbed by someone's breath, projecting disconcerting shadows out into the gloom. They cast their wavering light up into the Buddha's face, animating his broad features as Maryam climbed the dais to join him in his vigil over the dead.

Up close the statue was battered and pocked with age, its gritty stone surface streaked with dark brown lichen that almost matched her own skin tone. He was so large she could barely reach the top of his bended knee, but she tugged off the boots and clambered up, using her bare toes to grip the rough surface until she stood in the hollow of his lap, between his enormous open hands. The stone felt warmer than she expected and she had no sense of trespassing, despite the fact that, to some, he was a kind of god.

Below her, the candlelight caressed the clutch of bones, transforming them from a nightmare image into something more untainted and natural: the skulls like emptied seed pods;
the latticework of brittle bones like complex growths of coral dredged up from the depths.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered to the dead, the huge expanse of space picking up her words and volleying them back at her as if the bones replied.

She felt that she should say or do something to cleanse them—to set their tortured spirits free. Ruth would have known the perfect text to read from the Holy Book, but Maryam shied from this, aware of the Buddha at her back. She dredged through her memory for an appropriate song, baulking again when only the favourites of the Apostles sprang to her mind. But then her eye caught the flickering candles below her, and a song she'd learnt as a child on the atoll slipped into her mind.

“This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine…” She sang the simple words, her hesitant reedy voice blossoming into full-throated conviction as the song ran on. “Hide it under a bushel? No! I'm going to let it shine…” The flames flared and seemed to grow brighter, as though the souls of the dead rose up from their defeat and joined Maryam in defying the darkness that had led to this inhuman deed. Meanwhile, inside her heart, the words took on a more personal meaning: a battle-cry against those who'd love to see her fail. The song challenged her to persevere, to stand up for what she knew was right and let her innate power shine.

She turned to the Buddha and peered up into his massive face. His lowered eyes seemed to stare right back into hers, his gentle smile affirming her resolve. She found herself smiling up at him in easy communion, feeling his calm aura wash over her and wipe all worries from her mind, at least for now. And so she curled up in the hollow of his lap, resting her head on her
forearm as she watched the candles burn themselves out. Almost in unison, they let out one last spluttering flare of light, and in that fleeting moment Maryam hoped the souls of Marawa's dead had finally been released.

The next morning Maryam woke with the first strident birdcalls. She had fallen into such a deep dreamless sleep that it took several heart-stopping seconds to remember where she was. Below her, the bones lay heaped in their incriminating mound, contained within the four points of melted wax, but they no longer spooked her as they had the night before. In the first snaking rays of light the skeletons seemed at peace with the surrounding decay, as if the story of their passing was now one with the ancient history of the entire site. They
belonged
, just as Aanjay's bones would settle more easily into her own native soil…or as Maryam's would one day when she reached her home. By staying with the dead overnight and acknowledging their existence rather than running from it, she felt she'd somehow helped to heal a wound and stopped the pain of the dead from further infecting the atmosphere of everything beyond these walls.

She did not linger there, however. Determination and excitement drove her from the Buddha's company to collect more windfalls before trekking back down to the beach. If she was to construct a raft to get her home and launch it single-handedly, she'd need to build it as close to the water as possible. Today she would erect a shelter and catch some fish, then she would scope out the area to see what resources were at hand to build the raft.

The circular hearth of stones Ruth and Lazarus had placed above the high-tide line lay as they had left it on the beach, along with a pile of firewood. This seemed to Maryam as good
a place as any to build her shelter, especially as it would benefit from the fire's light at night. She cleared rocks and debris from a flat section of ground just shy of the trees, shooing away a dozen incumbent brown boobies who creeled their indignation. For a moment she hesitated, sympathising with the birds, but she couldn't resist the urge that itched to do something—to take control.

She took Charlie's machete and went in search of pandanus leaves. She knew she'd have no trouble finding the palms: they littered the jungle like weeds. She cut two large armfuls of the long thin fronds, then returned to the building site to strip them of their spiky edges and to scrape away the waxy outer coating. She split them further into fine pliable strands, soaked them in the shallows, and then began to weave all the strands together into one rope. She could have used the ropes Charlie had given her, but she planned to save them for the raft, where their strength would be doubly welcome. Besides, the weaving pleased her, transporting her back to her childhood, when Mother Elizabeth had taught her how to weave everything from food baskets to ropes and mats. It was soothing, sitting under the shade of an overhanging te buka tree and weaving to the steady rhythm of the surf. From time to time she paused to give her healing arm some rest, but the rewarding output of her labours always seduced her back. Meanwhile, her mind flitted from thought to thought, resting nowhere long enough to cause her stress. After so many weeks of high drama, it was as refreshing and relaxing as floating in the sea.

Once she'd produced enough rope to secure the shelter, she sought out two straight branches roughly her height. She stripped one of all its foliage, and repeated the exercise with
the other, leaving a short fork at one end. Now she lashed the two branches together, bedding one into the fork of the other for extra strength. She plugged the unbound ends into the sand until they stood upright on their own to form a wide triangular opening for the shelter.

Next, she trawled through the jungle for a beam even longer and sturdier than the previous two. She settled on the trunk of a small coconut palm which had fallen to the ground and shed its fronds, and dragged it back to her base. Sweat poured off her as she finally lifted the tip of her roof beam into the raised fork between the first two lashed struts.

Her stomach was beginning to rumble, and the position of the sun told her it was noon, but she wanted to complete the job before she ate. She scoured the area for palm fronds to thatch the roof. Again, Charlie's machete was a godsend, and she sent her thanks back to him on an ineffectual midday breeze. Once she'd sourced enough raw material she wove the pandanus rope between the fronds to secure them to the central beam until several layers formed a thick water-resistant roof. All she needed to complete the job were some large soft banana leaves to cover the ground inside. This done, she stood back to survey the completed shelter with a real sense of pride. Thank goodness she and the other Sisters had been indulged when they were young, free to roam the atoll, making huts and playing house within their innocent world. Maryam settled down in the shade of her hut and ate a lunch of fruit and fresh coconut, washed down by watery coconut milk. The meal filled her belly, but she knew she'd need something more substantial if she was to have enough strength to build the raft and make the voyage home.

She took the unfamiliar transparent fishing line from the bag and tried to tie a steel fish hook to it, fumbling as the line slipped in her fingers and refused to tighten into knots. It was infuriating, pulling the line with all her strength only to watch it loosen of its own accord. Eventually she devised a more effective plan, looping the line through the eye of the hook, then passing the hook through the loop and pulling it tight. At last it held! She looped on two of the hooks, deciding to experiment with the line before she risked the others. She had still to find a sinker to weigh down the hooks, and chose a rough sliver of stone, its surface so irregular she hoped it would help to hold the line in place. She wound the line around the stone several times before tying it off as best she could.

At the farthest end of the bay a jagged headland protruded out into the sea. Maryam put on Charlie's boots and clambered up over it, marvelling at how easily she could move on the sharp rocks. She found a small pool with some bwa-oysters to prise off with her knife, and hooked the flesh from their shells for bait—taking note of the pool's position, as bwa-oysters also made for a delicious meal.

Now she unwound a length of the line, spun it around above her head and released it just as the line swung out toward the sea. It sped through her fingers, casting the hooks right out into the open water beyond the rocks, where the sinker broke the surface with a silvery splash before it disappeared below. Maryam felt as if all her senses had revived. Everything had an aura of magic; every tiny task a joy. She was back in the natural world she loved. Back in control.

Out by the reef a squall of diving birds blurred the horizon, their cries drifting back across the water in gossipy waves.
Maryam closed her eyes, focusing her entire being on the line that threaded through her fingers. She could feel the rise and fall of the swell as it tugged on the sinker, but tried to screen this out lest she miss any signs of nibbling fish. There! She was sure of it. She jerked the line, then paused again to check for a response. Yes! Something was struggling to get away.

It was harder than she expected to bring in the catch, the line slippery beneath her fingers as she wound it back onto the wooden spool. Whatever she had caught was fighting for its life now, careering through the water to escape. But she must have well and truly hooked it—at last she saw flashes of silver as the flagging fish drew near. Her hands were stinging from the unforgiving line but she threw all her stubborn fury into hauling the fish to land. It slapped down on the rocks beside her, a large mullet, and she cast around quickly for something heavy to strike it dead.

One slam to the head with a large rock, and the mullet lay at her feet, its two dorsal fins quivering for several seconds after its life had fled. Forgive me, she thought. Somehow, since Joseph's death, life seemed more precious…all life. But then she pictured Ruth's response to such a prissy thought, and laughed. “For goodness’ sake,” she scoffed aloud. “You have to eat!”

She left the mullet dangling from the hook, its body slapping against her thigh as she jumped back down onto the sparkling sand. Again the song from her childhood slipped into her head, and she hummed it to herself as she made her way back to the camp.
This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine…
She was aware of a primal sense of power at work inside her, just as it was when Lazarus had accosted her at the pool near Joseph's home and she'd felt as though someone or something other than
her own consciousness had slipped into her skin. Then, it had scared her a little. Now, she welcomed the sensation back. It was so good not always to feel afraid.

Once she'd hacked off the mullet's head, bled it, scaled it and removed the guts, Maryam wrapped the carcass in a banana leaf and laid it under the shelter until evening. Now she took to the sea herself, gently stretching the limits of her arm to try to build its strength. It still caused her pain if she twisted or strained it, but she was amazed how well the bone and scar had healed. Her thoughts returned to Charlie and Veramina, and she wondered if, one day, they too could move to Onewēre's shores. It seemed impossible, yet who knew what might be possible once she'd built the raft and set sail for home. For now, however, she would savour this unexpected gift of life.

That evening, after several hours harvesting pandanus leaf to weave a sail, she lit a fire in the rock surround and staked the mullet over the flames to cook. The sun was just sinking, colour-washing the sky anemone-pink, and the birds were finally quietening down. Both her arms ached from her day's exertion, but her scarred arm pulsed as though it smouldered inside. She took two of the painkillers Charlie had packed for her, and waited restlessly for the pain to subside. Please, she sent up to Joseph, let it be healed and put this to an end.

Invoking his support brought Joseph clearly to her mind—no surprise, really, when the last time she'd sat beside this fire he'd been very much alive. As she picked the flesh off the mullet and devoured it, her mind returned to the night they'd spent
here, lying in each other's arms. Just the thought lit her inside, heat boiling up through her as she relived the slow track of his hands over her skin. To be touched like that…she shook her head, fighting the urge to trace the path his fingers had made with her own. She yearned for release of the whirlpool of desire such intimacy had stirred, ashamed that her longing had never fully faded. One day, perhaps, she'd experience such a release, sin or not, but for now she had to stifle these urges and drive them from her mind.

Weary and dissatisfied, she eventually crawled into her shelter and dreamed of Joseph. She awoke refreshed, though slightly shocked by how her dreams had the power to make her blush, and made her way down to the sea for an early-morning swim. She struck out as far as she could across the bay. If she kept this up, she figured, her arm would soon strengthen and heal.

After a breakfast of fruit and cold left-over fish, she set off with her machete to find the perfect platform for her raft. Jal Sutti had used palm trunks but she knew she'd never have the strength to move such a raft once it was built. She hoped instead to find a thicket of giant bamboo or similar—the mature shoots grew as thick as her thigh yet would be light enough to carry back to camp. The trouble was, she couldn't remember seeing bamboo in any of the places she'd been so far, so now she dived into the mesh of trees directly behind her shelter and headed north instead. She cut a path through the undergrowth to mark her way should she get lost, but cursed the host of biting insects that swarmed her arms and legs. Thankfully, off to her left, she recognised a scrubby tii tree and clambered over, using the machete to strip away the tree's rough outer bark. Beneath its lizard-grey exterior the stark white softwood oozed an oily
sap she used to slather onto every bare patch of skin. That was better: now the insects would be held at bay.

It was hot, the thick damp air trapped within the jungle's protective dome of leaves. Already sweat dripped down between her breasts, plastering her grimy white shirt to her skin and running down her brow into her eyes. It blurred her sight, transforming the jungle into a rich mosaic of greens, silvers and yellows as the sunlight filtered down in tiny shafts of light. Brilliantly coloured birds, sporting feathers of the most lurid greens, intense sky-blues, flame-orange and stark berry-reds, fled through the upper canopy, protesting at her with ear-splitting taunts.