Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (6 page)

“Fluff, yes, from place of seeds.”

Now Maryam understood what the old woman was describing: the silken fibres that burst from the seed pod of the miriki-tarai shrub at the time the seeds dispersed. “I see,” she said. “Go on.”

“Boil fluff with milky sap from stems—and peepee. Much peepee. Two big cups.”

Maryam screwed up her face. “Peepee?” She couldn't possibly mean—

Filza pointed to her private place. “Make water. Peepee.” She chuckled. “Not old woman peepee—too little, too weak. Use big strong boys.” She shifted on the mat, and Maryam heard the disconcerting grind of bone on bone. “Last thing add all leaves, then boil up fifteen minutes before cool. Now you.” She peered at Maryam expectantly.

“All right,” Maryam said. “I need the sap of two whole miriki-tarai shrubs and all their leaves, plus the fluff from their seedpods and two full cups of…peepee…then boil for fifteen minutes and cool. What next?”

Filza tapped her forehead and grinned. “Maybe smart girl after all.” She twisted to one side, freeing her buttock from the mat as she broke more wind. “Ah, better now. Okay. Leave whole night. Sun comes up pour through cloth.”

“You mean to strain out all the bits?”

“Yes yes. Strain bits. Sick one drink all up, then do again.” She splayed the fingers of one hand out before her and counted off each finger with her other hand. “Satu…dua…tiga…empat…lima. Lima hari.” She turned to Aanjay. “Miss sehari dan itu tidak akan berhasil.”

Aanjay nodded. “She says you have to do this five days in a row—and if you miss a day then it won't work.”

Maryam grinned. “That's a lot of peepee to find!”

“Lotta peepee! Lotta big big boys!” Filza laughed so hard she snorted mucous from her nose. Without any embarrassment, she wiped it away with the back of her hand then licked it off. “Nose wax good obat too.”

Maryam dared not meet Aanjay's eye as she struggled to
curb the bubbling urge to laugh. She had to focus; had to get the remedy right in every way if she was to claim she knew the cure. But the old woman was so crazy. Could she really be sure this strange treatment would work?

She posed this nagging doubt to Aanjay after they'd finally left Filza's hut. “How will I know until I see it cure someone with my own eyes? What if she's wrong? Making it up?” Or just plain forgetful. “She's very old.”

“Just because her English is not good, do not discount her. Her mind is as sharp as yours or mine.”

“You're sure?”

“You have to trust that it is so,” Aanjay replied. “The Buddha said: Have confidence in the Truth, although you may not be able to comprehend it, although you may suppose its sweetness to be bitter, although you may shrink from it at first…Have faith in the Truth and live it.”

“But are you confident she's telling the truth? The mix of ingredients sounds very strange.”

Aanjay paused mid-step and turned to Maryam, taking up her hand. “All faith calls for radical trust, Maryam. In the end we cannot rely on others to prove if something is right or wrong, true or false—or even if it exists at all. All we can rely on is the truth that speaks to us through our heart.” She lifted their linked hands and pressed Maryam's to her chest. “What does your heart tell you?”

Maryam closed her eyes, concentrating on the gentle rhythmic beating of the life-force beneath her palm. She understood what Aanjay was trying to say—that at some point you had to ignore all the swirling in your head and let the whisperings of your heart lead the way. But was it true that faith and
trust were one and the same? All Maryam had observed of faith first-hand was truth and trust abused. Come on, now. Focus…Did she trust the old woman's cure to work?

From somewhere deep within her a sigh burst forth. She realised she didn't really have a choice. If she wanted to go forward with her plan, she had to believe it would work. Had to have faith.

She had no time to stew over this further, for Aanjay was taking her to meet Jal Sutti, who'd been detained after the interception of his self-built raft. For the next hour he led Maryam through the intricate details of the building process, even sketching her specific features of his plan. Despite the fact that Aanjay had to translate every word, Maryam found his concept more understandable and potentially achievable than she had imagined. It would be time consuming, there was no denying that, but it seemed to her that the two biggest challenges would be the felling and transport of the timber that would form the raft's platform and mast, and how she'd transfer the craft from dry land to the water once it had been built.

Jal Sutti seemed quite happy to impart his knowledge of the raft, but when Maryam explained, via Aanjay, the reason for her interest, he shook his head and waved his hands angrily about him as his eyes filled up with tears. Aanjay refused to translate his words and Maryam didn't press her—what could he tell her of the potential risks that she didn't already know?

Afterward, her head near bursting with information and what she could only assume was Jal Sutti's heart-felt warning, she bade goodbye to Aanjay and made her way to the main gates. There was no point delaying her decision to request deportation, even though it was Charlie's day off. If she didn't
do it now, before the thought of leaving Ruth blighted her plan, she'd lose her nerve.

She approached the wire and called out to the nearest guard. “Excuse me. I'd like to speak with Sergeant Littlejohn.”

The guard cast a suspicious eye over her, and she recognised him as one of the men who'd seen her feign madness so she could get access to a cure for Lazarus. “Bugger off.”

She held her ground, standing a little straighter as she tried again. “I wish to speak to the leader of this camp. It is my right.”

“And it's my right to tell you to shove it, little miss loony-bin. There's no way I'm gonna open the gates for you.” He swaggered a little closer, standing right before her with his legs astride and hips thrust forward like a threat. “Now piss off or I'll lock you in the cells.”

Maryam took a step backward, considering her options as she scanned the goings-on beyond the fence. The door to the administration block was open wide, as were all its windows—including the window to Sergeant Littlejohn's office. She shrugged, pretending she was cowed by the guard's words, and slowly made her way down the fenceline until she was as close to the open office window as possible.

Now she cupped her hands around her mouth to pitch her voice. “Sergeant Littlejohn!” she hollered, dredging every scrap of air from her lungs. “I need to see you NOW!”

She could feel the guards’ attention swing toward her, but didn't falter. “Sergeant Littlejohn! I need to talk to you! Can you please come out?”

The same belligerent guard jogged over to her, his whole bearing so infused with fury that for a moment the force of
it stole away her breath. But she had little time: if she didn't raise the sergeant's interest right here and now, they'd shut her down.

“Sergeant Littlejohn. Please! I really need your help!”

From somewhere inside the building she heard a crash, and then for a split second she saw the gleam of the sergeant's bald head as he peered out the window. One flash, but then it was gone.

“Please! Sergeant Littlejohn. We have to talk!”

The guard dashed back to the gates and wrestled with the lock, his face murderous as he slipped inside and marched toward her at a menacing trot. “You really are a crazy little slut,” he snapped, lunging forward and grasping her vulnerable arm.

Maryam froze, terrified he'd force the arm up high behind her back. Although the stitches were out now and the wound had healed, the newly-pinned bone was still far too fragile for any sudden jolts or shocks.

“I just want to talk to him,” she explained, trying to keep her tone calm and conversational, even as she conceded to herself that she'd lost this round. She'd have to wait until Charlie was back at work.

The guard shoved her backward, nearly felling her, then raised the barrel of his gun. “Get the hell out of here or else I'll—”

“Parsons! Bring her here.” Sergeant Littlejohn stood at the door of the administration building.

Standing to attention now, the guard motioned with his gun toward the gates. “You heard him. Get over there!”

Maryam tried to ignore the hostility of the guards as they escorted her into the office where Sergeant Littlejohn now
waited behind his desk. He looked her up and down with his calculating pale eyes, and the chill in his gaze sent a shiver down her spine. This was not a man to cross, yet now she had to lie to him—and make it so convincing he'd agree to let her go.

“Well,” he said. “Speak up.”

Maryam bobbed her head in greeting, wanting to ensure he thought she held him in especially high esteem. If only he knew the truth. She clenched her hands behind her back, digging her fingernails into her palms as she recalled the damning papers in the boxes down the hall. She did not underestimate his power.

“I have come to seek your forgiveness and that of your great Confederated Territories.”

“Oh yes.” He didn't sound as interested or as pleased as she had hoped.

“We…I…have lied to you. I've come to repent and atone.” The weight of what she was about to do pressed in on her, as all the teachings of her childhood screamed that lying was a mortal sin. “I told you we had come from Onewēre, but the truth is we were the last of those who once lived on Marawa Island…The boy Lazarus, who you've now released, was shipwrecked there some years ago. The only other survivors are my sister Ruth and me.” She was amazed how easily the lies fell from her tongue.

Sergeant Littlejohn's eyes narrowed as he studied her. He scratched his nose. “Why tell me now?”

“We suspect that Lazarus has already told you the truth.” She swallowed hard, trying to quell the sudden dryness of her throat.

“Do ya just.” He slowly blinked. His eyes were lash-less, just like a lizard's. “Why lie in the first place?”

“We were scared. We knew about…what happened. When our mother died last year Lazarus convinced us we should leave with him. We didn't want to end up…punished…like our forefathers, but we were too scared to stay there on our own.”

Sergeant Littlejohn's nostrils pinched as he inhaled air. “Convinced ya, eh? I knew the little prick was using both of you to dip his wick.” He scratched his bulging belly, revealing clumps of reddish hair where the buttons of his shirt strained to hold back the vast expanse of fat. Now he suddenly leaned forward, slapping his hands down on the desktop. “So what's ya point?”

“I want to go home.”

“Oh yeah? To where?”

“My home…Marawa Island.” She tried to hold his gaze but there was something in his pale staring eyes that made her feel sick. She focused on his mouth instead, appalled yet mesmerised as she watched a drop of sweat form beneath his nose and course down his top lip, only to be licked away with his coated tongue. “I'd rather die alone next to the bones of all my ancestors than remain here.” This, at least, was not a lie.

Sergeant Littlejohn massaged between his eyes. “Christ, there must be something in the water. You're the second one today.” Aanjay, Maryam guessed. So she, too, dared not wait in case the urge to leave should wane. “What about your sister then?”

Maryam shrugged. “She is carrying a child and has decided to stay.”

“Hah! I knew he was a sneaky wee bastard. Gets one of his boongas up the duff then runs. You've almost gotta give him credit…”

Now he cocked his head to one side and stared at her as if he could see right through her clothes. She forced herself to remain compliant, even though her brain cried out that she should run. But there was a guard at the door behind her. She had no choice but suffer beneath his denuding gaze.

At last he blinked his lizard eyes and smiled the kind of smile she guessed Lucifer would present to some poor sinner as He stole their soul. From the piles of paperwork on his desk Sergeant Littlejohn drew forth some kind of ledger, flicking through until he jabbed one of his stumpy index fingers onto a page and nodded his head.

“Right you are. The next shipment out is in two weeks. You wanna go back to that god-forsaken jungle, that's okey-doke with me.” He opened a drawer and removed a sheet of paper, sliding it across the desk. Next he handed her a pen. “Sign this, my dusky little bewdy, and we have ourselves a deal.”

It was so easy, in the end, to convince Sergeant Littlejohn to ship her back to Marawa Island, Maryam left his office in a state of shock. This came, in part, from annoyance at her own stupidity: she'd known about the deportations from the start, yet she'd viewed them as something dire, to be avoided at all costs. Instead, this so-called punishment played perfectly into her hands. True, she wasn't going to be taken all the way to Onewēre—but she was confident that somehow she would cross that last tract of sea when the time was right. Jal Sutti's plans made good sense to her and she was keen to test her skills.

The second cause for shock was far more complex and intense. What had started as a grand idea only a few weeks earlier had blossomed into something tangible, and Maryam felt as if she was staring down the barrel of one of those awful guns, convinced it could go off at any time. Suddenly she understood Ruth's desire to stay: here, each hardship was known—and so, to some extent, could still be controlled. But by setting the deportation in motion, Maryam was heading off into another dangerous void…no guarantees, no safety nets. No other person to rely on but herself.

The two weeks she was given to mentally prepare and say her goodbyes had seemed an age when Sergeant Littlejohn first set the date, but as the days rushed past Maryam wished the time would stretch and slow. Every conversation she had with Ruth was tempered by a painful mix of sadness on her part and subtle accusations on Ruth's. She longed to set their relationship
back onto its old comfortable footing before she left, but the closer the date for her departure came, the less likely it seemed. Ruth set about distancing herself, spending more and more of her time teaching and befriending the other girls her age, and reading from the Holy Book Charlie had sourced. It was as if she was purposely exorcising Maryam from her mind. Every barbed word was another building block in Ruth's defensive wall.

On the final night before the two parted forever, they sat in the hut after their meagre meal, the silence between them so dense it seemed to form a solid mass that neither could breach—until footsteps rang out from the walkway, alerting them to the approach of guests. It was Charlie and Veramina. Maryam was surprised to see them: Charlie had been vocal in his opinion that her return to Onewēre was madness.

“Vera was keen to come and say proper goodbyes tonight,” Charlie announced, his voice unusually gruff.

He squatted down in the entranceway while Veramina joined Maryam on her mat. “That's right, honey,” she laughed. “It had nothing whatsoever to do with my grumpy old man!” She drew Maryam's arm toward her. “Let me take one last peep at your arm before you go, eh?”

She unbound the bandage, examining the scar tissue closely before testing the movement of Maryam's elbow, wrist and fingers one by one. “Any pain?”

“Hardly any,” Maryam said. “If I use it too much it starts to ache, but otherwise it's fine.”

Veramina inclined her head toward Charlie. “His Lordship has put together a bag of useful bits and pieces for you to take tomorrow. I've popped in a box of general antibiotics. If you
have any sign of infection—here, or anywhere else—take them all.”

Maryam glanced over at Charlie. “You have?”

He squirmed, firing a peevish frown at Veramina. “Just this and that. I'll bring it before you leave tomorrow.”

“Thank you! That's very kind.”

“Don't get your hopes up,” he grumbled. “It's just a few basics.”

Veramina shook her head at him. “He's sulking, sweetheart. Pay him no mind.” She proceeded to re-bandage Maryam's arm. “Keep this bound for as long as possible to help support it, okay? And you'll be careful, won't you, love? Promise me you'll think before you act.”

Ruth snorted. “That would be a first.”

Maryam forced a smile. “I plan to be as sensible and cautious as my dear friend Ruth.”

Veramina raised an eyebrow. “Okay…I see we're all feeling the strain.” She shuffled across the hut on her broad backside until she berthed alongside Ruth. “And how are you feeling, love? I see a little tummy now.”

Ruth stroked her distended belly—a subconscious, insular gesture that had started to make Maryam feel more and more sidelined as the days went by. “The vomiting has slowed. I feel good.”

“Remember you can contact me through Charlie if you need my help.” She patted Ruth's shoulder and lowered her voice to a more intimate murmur. “I know how much you'll miss your friend.”

Ruth shrugged off Veramina's hand, her face as unreadable as a clouded sky at night. “I'll be fine.”

“Of course you will, honey. Of that I have no doubt. But sometimes it's nice to know that someone's there…”

Maryam watched as Veramina's kindness buffeted against the wall of Ruth's resentment. She knew how it felt to be rebuffed. But to see Ruth acting in this way to someone else, without her own feelings smarting in the equation, was revealing. Ruth was hurting just as much as she—and time was running out. She threw a lifeline to Veramina, hoping it would also thaw the mood.

“Have you heard how well Ruth's doing teaching English? Aanjay says she's even better at teaching than Jo.”

“Is that so, sweet pea?” Veramina clapped her hands. “Maybe I should send our lazy boy Lemah to you! He sure could do with the help.”

“If you like.” Ruth still didn't crack a smile, but Maryam knew her well enough to see that she was pleased.

“Crikey, woman!” Charlie groaned. “Give the poor boy a break.” He stood up now, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “Come on, love, we'd better go.”

Veramina leaned over and kissed Ruth on the cheek. “Keep in touch, you hear?” Then she hefted herself to her feet and pulled Maryam up with her, catching her in an all-encompassing embrace. “Take care, child, and God bless you. You have the heart of a prajurit—a warrior—no doubt of that.”

“Thank you so much for everything,” Maryam said. She found she was crying, and pressed her face in Veramina's ample bosom until the uncontrollable urge to howl aloud had lessened enough to let her go.

She leaned in the doorway to watch the couple walk away, struck by how hard it would be to farewell Charlie in the morning—the only white man, bar Joseph, who'd ever shown
her kindness and proof of a trustworthy heart. For a while it had looked as though she could add Lazarus to this list, but now she knew better—the taint of the father was forever in the son. How different Lazarus might have been with Charlie as a father…his son Lemah was a lucky boy indeed.

Behind her, Maryam could hear Ruth starting up her prayers and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she was tempted to join in. It wasn't so much that she wanted to make contact with the Lord, it was more for the comfort the familiar words might bring. The thought of what lay ahead suddenly weighed heavy. She reached up to the shelf she'd constructed by the doorway and took down the small iridescent blue stone Ruth had gifted her when she'd first Crossed. Somehow, through all the upheavals, she had it still, the only tactile link she had to home—and to Joseph. Something in its luminous blue depths, so like his eyes, still spoke to her, able to calm her down when all else failed. She rubbed the stone between her fingers now, intent on how it warmed beneath her touch. That Ruth had understood how much this stone would mean to her spoke volumes of their bond—something she needed to acknowledge and be thankful for now, before the chance was gone.

She spun around, not caring that she interrupted Ruth's commune with the Lord, and pressed the stone into her hand. “Here, this is the most precious thing I own. I want you to have it back—to give to your baby when she is old enough, so you can tell her about me. No matter how far apart we'll be, I am her adopted aunty and I love her too.” It was such a relief to drop away the bristling defensiveness of the past two weeks. A ball of unshed tears built in her chest.

Ruth fingered the stone, rolling it over and over in her
palm. When finally she spoke her voice shook with emotion. “If it's a boy I'm going to call him Joseph.”

Maryam clapped her hand over her mouth to hold back the torrent of tears she felt damming up behind. Breathe through it now. There's too much still left to be said. Slowly, through stubborn application of her will, the pressure subsided and she withdrew her hand. “I think that would be wonderful. He'd be so proud.”

“And if it's a girl, I'm going to call her Nanona, after you.”

This broke all Maryam's resolve. She rushed forward and hugged Ruth so tightly her sobs rocked Ruth as well. Nanona—the name her birth parents had gifted her when she was born. How foolish they'd been to waste these last two precious weeks on petty snipes.

She fought to collect herself before saying aloud the things that had been swirling around inside her head. “If I succeed in denouncing the Apostles and can somehow help to set our people free, will you come home then?” She stared intently into Ruth's warm amber eyes, willing her to acquiesce.

“How would I know to come?” Ruth didn't look defensive now, merely puzzled by the thought.

“I don't know. But I promise you that, if I can, I'll find a way to fetch you or to let you know.”

As if in slow motion, Ruth nodded her head. “If that happened, I would come.”

“Promise?”

“I do.”

“Swear on the blue stone of Onewēre?”

“Yes.”

“On the memory of Joseph?”

“Yes.”

“And even on the Holy Book?”

Now Ruth laughed. “All right! Yes, even on the Holy Book.” She wriggled down the sleeping mat until she sprawled on her back, then tugged Maryam down beside her so they nestled in each other's arms, just as they'd done when they were two little girls in need of comfort in the night. Above their heads, a translucent yellow lizard zigzagged across the ceiling, making for the door.

“Do you remember the time we put that bright orange lizard into Mother Elizabeth's bed?”

As Maryam giggled at the memory and trumped it with one of her own, the darkness grew thick and torpid around them. In the small silences between their recollections, she heard the death-throes of the foolish moths that beat against the walkway lights and, still more subtly, the undertone of clustered humanity that never fully stilled. In many ways it felt to Maryam as if they'd been transported back to their small sleeping hut on the atoll, before this whole nightmare began. Just her and Ruth, whispering into the night—providing such solace that neither girl wished this precious time to end. They filled the tipping hour with words. They blearily welcomed the chilling drop in temperature that preceded dawn. Only when the foolish old rooster cleared his throat to herald the first tendrils of light did the two friends finally doze off.

But the reprieve of exhausted slumber did not last long. Maryam surfaced through a sleepy haze to find Aanjay shaking her.

“Maryam! We have only half an hour before we leave!” Her eyes were dark-ringed as if she, too, had spent the night awake.

“Half an hour?”

Maryam was up and out the door immediately, determined
to have one last shower before she left. She finished just in time to meet up with Ruth, who hurried down the walkway with a bundle of ragged clothes clutched in her arms.

“Here.” Ruth thrust the clothes at Maryam. “You may as well take these.” Her face was pale and drawn, and she attached herself like a limpet to Maryam's side as they made for the front gates. “Oh Lord, you've not had time for breakfast!”

Maryam shrugged. “No matter. To be honest, I feel a bit sick.” In fact, she felt so terrified her knees could hardly hold her weight. Only the sight of Aanjay, surrounded by a throng of wailing women, stopped her bailing out of the entire plan. All around her women tore at their clothes and hair, while children cried to see their elders so upset. And at their centre Aanjay was almost swamped beneath the tidal wave of heartache. The two friends stood quietly to one side, holding hands while tears slid unabated down Ruth's cheeks. Maryam suddenly felt removed, as if she were an uninvolved observer, the colours around her spilling into each other and transforming the scene into a joyless palate of dusty gun-metal grey and sun-basted wood and stone.

There were others arriving at the gates now. Each had the same stunned appearance that identified them as fellow deportees, and they, too, clutched small parcels of personal belongings. As a truck rumbled into the yard, Charlie materialised beside the girls and placed a bulging leather bag on the ground at Maryam's feet.

“What is this?”

“Bits and bobs. Antibiotics and bandages from Vera. Some decent rope. Matches. Things like that.” He reached into the pocket of his shorts and produced a small paper-wrapped parcel. “Here. Lemah made you up some cheese and bread.”

“Oh Charlie, how will I ever thank you?” She'd been around him long enough to know he hated making scenes, but she threw her arms around him regardless and farewelled him as she would a father, kissing the rough crop of greying bristles on his cheek. As he made to disentangle himself from her embrace, she whispered in his ear. “Please, please, watch over Ruth.”

“Of course.” His voice was brusque with suppressed emotion. “And you take bloody good care of yourself now, young lady. You hear?” He leaned over and quickly pecked her on the top of her head, before turning away to push back through the crowd—but not before Maryam spied him wiping away a tear.