Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (9 page)

Somewhere ahead she could hear the sound of running water, and she worked her way toward it. The ground was rising now, growing ever more rocky as the thick ferns and shrubs that formed the undergrowth gave way to a tangle of creepers so densely woven that, despite the aid of the machete, she could not break through. She was forced to follow a more accessible route downhill, and to clamber over mossy rocks and fungus-laced tree trunks in what she guessed must be a gully leading to the coast. In a moment's inattention she stepped onto an unstable rock that gave way beneath her, sending her skidding on a bumpy ride through loamy leaf-litter and over a sudden drop—right into space. She crashed down onto a shingle bank, followed seconds later by the machete landing only inches from her hand.

At first she thought she was dreaming as a cloud of butterflies welled up around her, winged creatures of every size and colour that flew in groups of three or four like tiny flocks of birds. The shingle bank on which she'd landed adjoined a deep
circular pool fed by a small but ferocious waterfall. Around the water's edge big waxy leaves of wild ginger hosted bright orange butterflies, the swirls on their wings resembling azure eyes; several velvety black moths with vibrant red underbellies hung underneath the leaves like flowers or exotic fruit. Maryam felt as though she'd landed in the Garden of Eden.

As she sat there, stunned, another of the tiny creatures—this one black, with flares of brightest yellow—alighted on her knee. She slowly drew it toward her, until she could examine it at closer range. As she moved, it used its wings to balance, as though adjusting sails, its delicate black legs flexing up and down to hold it firm. Amazed, she watched it unfurl a coiled tongue—or perhaps a feeler—from beneath its head to probe her skin as if searching for food. But when it found nothing to its liking it wafted back into the air and drifted off, gliding on the updraughts from the water's noisy fall.

She stood now and slipped into the water, unable to resist its pull. It was as tepid as a cooling bath and she waded over to the waterfall to stand directly beneath its flow. Spray pummelled down on her head, stinging like tiny spears, and she burst out of it tingling all over, her skin aglow. How good to wash in fresh water again.

After she had lain on the bank long enough to dry and watch the multi-coloured procession flutter back and forth in an ethereal display, she cut a track back up to where she'd slipped. She promised herself she would return to this enchanted spot soon. But for now she must make haste downhill. As the terrain flattened out again she came upon a patch of ground slightly less overgrown than the jungle around it. She paused, unconsciously kicking at the earth as she surveyed the scene, and her boot
dug through the humus to strike something hard. She scuffed her heel through the dirt, surprised to see the smooth profile of a flagstone emerge from the black leaf-litter—then another, and another as she swept away the dirt. There must have been a building here once, she supposed, scanning the edges of the site. And, indeed, piles of crumbled rock around the clearing's perimeter spoke of tumbledown walls and a ruin of generous proportions.

She unearthed a small stream flowing through some kind of addition to the main building's side, its foundations now no more than mossy indentations in the soil. But what pleased her most was the discovery of a sprawling thicket of bamboo just beyond the clearing. She approached it with caution, keeping an eye out for snakes or any other creatures that might have made a home inside the thicket's protective core. There were plenty of good-sized shoots for her to choose from, and she took to the first of them with gusto, working her way around its thick base with a series of cuts. Syrupy sap sprayed her as she worked, triggering a long-forgotten memory: old Zakariya, who tended the atoll's gardens and animals, showing Maryam and a group of Sisters how to cut and leach bamboo. Harvest at dawn or dusk of a full moon, he'd told the distracted little girls, and never, ever in the heat of the day when the sugar in the sap is at its highest. And he'd shown them how to leach it of what little sap it may have left, raising the cut bamboo off the ground and leaving it to air for two full weeks until he deemed it ready for use. She couldn't recall now why this mattered, just knew it did.

“Damn it,” she said aloud, trying out the curse for the first time. She felt a certain reckless power in using such un-Sisterly
words, but the realisation that she'd have to wait at least two weeks before she could be sure the bamboo had dried and reached its maximum strength was so frustrating it called for nothing less. Why was she so stupid, knowing this yet blocking it from her mind until now? It was as if her brain was playing tag with her, only delivering up such crucial facts when she'd finally pounced on them and they could run no more.

Now she had no choice: if two weeks were called for, then two weeks it would have to be. But this didn't mean she should relax. Oh no. She'd cut all the bamboo down today, not stopping until enough stalks had been left leaching to build the entire raft. This decided, she set about choosing the thickest and straightest of the shoots, notching over thirty to remind herself which she'd picked. It was coming up to midday by the time she was ready for the actual harvest, so she paused long enough to eat a couple of bananas she'd found nearby and then readied herself to start the real work. Midday or not, she wasn't going to hang around.

She struggled with her technique over the first two or three, but after that she worked into a rhythm, sweeping the machete in a smooth arc to hit the bamboo with maximum force. However, by the time she'd felled the first dozen or so shoots, blisters were forming on the soft mounds of her palm, and her shoulder ached. Sweat streamed off her, dripping into her eyes and slicking the machete handle, making it even harder to grip.

Toward the end of the second dozen, every strike had become a triumph of sheer will. Now she called upon her secret weapon, opening her mind to all the angry, vindictive thoughts locked inside so they would spur her on. Her treatment at the hands of the Apostles and all their evil lies. Lazarus's betrayal.
The Territorials’ slaughter of this island's native people. Father Joshua's abuse of Ruth. Every time she sank the blade into the dense bamboo flesh she visualised a strike at those who'd caused this dreadful litany of sins—and though it didn't rid her of the strain or pain, it cleansed her of a little of their residual poison.

Roughly two hours later she cut the final four shoots—much thicker and longer to form the mast, rudder and booms—and then the job was done. An enormous stack of bamboo lay on the ground beside her, and Maryam used the very last of her strength to stack it so the sap could drain away and the bamboo harden and dry. She plunged her hands into the nearby stream to cool and ease them, then splashed the water over her head to rinse away the sticky layer of sweat.

Before she headed off, she eyed the stack and tried to calculate how many trips she'd have to make to haul the bamboo out to the beach. She figured she could balance one on each shoulder, but her progress through the jungle would be slow unless she cut a better track or found a more direct route to her camp. With this in mind, she decided to follow the stream down to its end, hoping that it might guide her to the coast. If she could carry her load out to a closer beach then she could make the raft right there.

She collected a small load of thin bamboo stakes in case they'd come in handy at the camp, then set off through the jungle once again, cutting a new route as she tracked the stream. Twice she thought she'd lost it, but eventually the scrub gave way to grasses and she broke out through the undergrowth onto an unfamiliar beach.

It was a fraction of the size of the one on which she'd landed—no more than a tiny cove nestled beneath a lush rocky
overhang, almost like a cave. The gritty coral sand was pitted with sandhopper burrows and, beyond the shore, the water was so clear and undisturbed she could see a mass of fish lolling in the shallows. Maryam tugged off her boots, relieved to be free of them, sharpened the point of one bamboo stake, then made her way down to the sea. Very slowly she crept into the water, pausing after every step so as not to scare her prey. To her right she spied a subtle movement on the seabed and the almost invisible outline of a baibai, a flatfish famous for camouflaging itself against almost any backdrop. They made excellent eating but could be hard to catch, so she waited patiently for the unsuspecting fish to come to her. When it was finally within striking distance she plunged the stake into the water, feeling how it baulked before it skewered the baibai right between its hooded eyes. For a moment the fish continued to struggle, but then she felt it still.

Careful not to lose it, she reached down, grabbed the baibai by its tail and hauled it to the surface, thrilled to have sourced dinner so easily again. It was almost as if Marawa Island's ghosts were on her side. She picked her way back around the coastline, and was pleased and surprised to find how close she was to her initial camp. Now, at last, she felt she'd earned a rest.

If she'd thought the two-week wait was going to frustrate her, Maryam quickly discovered how wrong she'd been. Every day she split her time between weaving the impossibly large sail, sourcing enough to eat, and exploring the island to try to piece together more clues about its dead.

The solitary, peaceful life was good for her and she felt the tension and anger inside her slowly waning, leaving her plenty of time for contemplation—though whenever she tried to direct her thoughts to the myriad problems that would surface once she reached Onewēre she found her mind just shied away. It was as if it had decided that, for now at least, she deserved some time simply to appreciate where she was. The butterfly pool became a particular favourite, and she would while away a happy hour or so there nearly every day. Day blurred into day; the sail grew bigger and her body stronger as the fresh food and open air worked their magic. By the time the two weeks were drawing to a close she felt well able to shift the bamboo timbers to the beach, completing the task in little more than a day with hardly any strain at all.

Now she set about the construction of the raft in earnest, lashing the timbers together with woven pandanus rope to form a solid platform, then building another layer with the timbers lashed the opposite way to give it strength. When she was sure the platform was stable enough, she started working on the mast. Jal Sutti had explained how to attach the guy ropes to three different points—the middle of the front and both the sides—to hold the timber upright, but she could not work the problem through. No matter how she tied Charlie's beautiful ropes, they would not hold the upright bamboo secure enough—any tiny bit of pressure caused the mast to fall. Hour after hour, day after infuriating day, she fought this problem, sometimes thinking she had cracked it and moving onto the forming of the booms that would support the sail, only to find that she'd left no room between the guy ropes for the sail to swing around should the wind change its direction and she needed to tack.

It enraged her, undoing any good those peaceful weeks had wrought. She began to dream of ropes—snared ropes, breaking ropes, live ropes—and always ended up entangled by them in the panicked moments before she awoke sweating and filled with jangling fear. And now it seemed the island's dead had grown displeased with her inept stupidity as well, opening up the heavens to allow day upon miserable day of heavy, relentless rain.

For five long days and nights Maryam hunkered in her shelter, furious and resentful and still not able to work out how to rig the sail. Finally, the day dawned clear, as if the near-week of rain had been part of the night's bad dreams. Even the birds sounded relieved, their cries rising through the air as freely as the steam that evaporated off the sodden sand as the sun beat down.

Maryam determined that this would be the day she got things right. Five days’ calculations and hypotheses swirled in her head as she approached the cove where she'd undertaken the bulk of the construction work. But when she rounded the last corner everything changed. The rain had washed away the overhang, spewing tons of muddy rock, uprooted trees and dirt into the cove below. The raft was buried, only one pathetic corner peeping out from the mess. And it was clear as day there was no point at all in trying to dig it out: shifting such a volume of muddy debris by hand would take her weeks.

She dropped down onto the sand, howling like a deserted dog. All that back-breaking work and now it was gone. She wanted Ruth—needed Ruth—to comfort her, to tell her it would be all right, that somehow she could make it right. Someone…anyone…For the first time since she'd landed she was overcome by fear that she'd never escape this blighted island—that she'd die here all alone.

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…
She tried to conjure up the words, to believe them, but could not go on. This line of comfort had been cut and nothing she did now could bring it back.

“Joseph!” She shrieked his name, needing to release the build-up of hopelessness in her heart. “I need you here!” She pounded the sand with her fists, and grains of burnished shell and coral flicked up around her, catching in the sunlight like lustrous sparks. Pounded and pounded again, beating out all her frustration and her pain.