Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (11 page)

“At the rate I'm going, you could've taken your time. I'm going nowhere fast.”

After Maryam had questioned him until her incredulous brain could take no more, she proceeded to catch Lazarus up with her own story, starting from the time she saw him last. As she bitterly related the morning's discovery of the destruction of her raft, all her frustration and disappointment welled right back to the surface.

“Thank goodness you weren't working on it when the rocks came down,” Lazarus offered, apparently resisting the urge to gloat. “But it doesn't matter now—the yacht will get us safely home.”

“Yacht?”

“That's what the Territorials call their sailing craft. I'll tell you what, it took me quite a few days to learn how to sail it properly—it's much less stable than Uncle Jonah's boat. But it's fast and much lighter to handle. I think you'll like it too.”

“You'll let me sail it?”

Lazarus yawned so wide she saw right down his throat. “I sure hope you do! On the next leg of this journey, I plan to get some sleep.” He flopped back down onto the leaves. “In fact, if you don't mind, I think I'll take a nap right now.”

“Of course,” Maryam said, rising quickly. “I'll sort out dinner while you sleep.”

“You're not mad at me anymore?” Lazarus asked. His eyes drooped with tiredness, yet he caught her gaze and held it so intensely she couldn't look away.

Am I?

“No.” She turned now, freeing herself of his scrutiny. “Rest well.”

She left him to sleep, pleased to have time alone to process everything he'd said. She took the fishing line along the beach to her favourite spot on the rocks by the point and cast it out, watching the sunlight glisten off the line as it burrowed into the water, dragged down by the sinker's weight.

Just how did she feel about Lazarus's arrival? It was strange how quickly her hurt at his supposed betrayal melted away. For, really, how could she doubt his intentions when he'd come in search of her and Ruth, and then followed her here? She had to stop jumping to conclusions and learn to trust him, especially if they were to return together to Onewēre…

The thought of Onewēre brought back vivid memories. There was so much she loved about the island, yet so much that had the power to fill her with dread. She definitely needed more practice in stilling her mind at will, as Aanjay had tried to teach her, if she was to combat this feeling once she arrived home. Perhaps it was a blessing Ruth had refused to come—now Maryam wouldn't have to argue over scriptures or feel so guilty for her loss of faith. Where Ruth would have tried for forgiveness and reconciliation, Maryam would not. She was not about to go back home and support the status quo…oh no, she'd fight to bring the Apostles down or die in the process, simple as that.

Since Joseph's death, the thought of joining him no longer frightened her at all. What she shrank from now was the cruelty and humiliation the Apostles could inflict on her before release. This dread was the enemy, the only thing that could potentially sway her from her path. Did she have the nerve to override it? She sighed, jiggling the unresponsive line. She simply didn't know. It was the kind of test no one could practise for—the kind of test that needed all-out fearless concentration and a pinch of madness on the day.

A tentative tug on the line flung her out of this pointless introspection as she focused now to bring in a takabe, the reef snapper well out of its usual cruising zone and quite prepared to put up a desperate fight. Although Maryam had come to trust the fragile-looking line, she cursed how it dug into her hands as she struggled to haul the big fish in. By the time she'd landed it, the hook had almost torn away the fish's lower jaw. She put it out of its misery as quickly as she could.

Maryam gutted the fish and then returned to her campsite to slather the flesh with soft ripe mango before wrapping it in banana leaves, ready to bake in the coals of tonight's fire. Dinner prepared, she wandered back to the beach and stripped down to her underwear for her daily swim. The practice had strengthened her arm so much it no longer ached after exertion, and the daily dousing in the sea had soothed the angry red scarring back to a more healthy pink. In time, she thought, it would be no more than a snail's track of silver running down her arm. The strange thing was, now that the peripheral scarring and swelling had eased, the scar was shaped just like a “J”—a subtle but enduring memorial to her love.

The boat—the yacht—swayed gently at its anchor as she
swam around it for a closer look. It was bigger than she'd thought: almost as long as the craft Father Jonah had built but, with only the one narrow hull, about a third its width. There was a word painted on the stern—
Windstalker
. She tapped its side, trying to identify what it was constructed from, but the reverberation confused her, sounding neither wooden nor steel.

She hauled herself up a small metal ladder at the stern and climbed aboard, intrigued by the complicated set-up of the rigging and the smooth low lines of its shelter's roof. She had to stoop to enter, surprised to see a tiny kitchen bench—complete with sink and cooker—plus a table and two long squab seats she presumed doubled up as beds. It smelt musty and stale, with a thick layer of splattered fat on the cooker's metal surface that reeked of oily fish. Dirty pots and dishes were piled in the sink, and the only visible drying cloth was so caked with fat and food she doubted it would ever wash clean.

There was a thud on the deck behind her and the boat lurched as Lazarus climbed aboard. Maryam flung her hands over her bared skin.

“Don't come in!” she shrieked. “Turn your back.”

He did as he was told, whistling tunelessly under his breath as she cast about for something she could hide beneath. A grimy towel lay on the floor by one of the squabs, and she scooped it up, trying to ignore its strong male odour as she tied it beneath her armpit to form an impromptu sarong.

“All right. You can look now.”

“Sorry,” Lazarus said. “I couldn't sleep after all.” He stood in the entranceway, grinning down at her. “So, what do you think?”

Maryam tapped the cabin wall. “What's it made from?”

“Jo called it fibreglass. She said it's really old—that most of the boats made this way have long since crumbled, but that this one was found buried in a shed by her father's friend and he said I could have it so long as I was prepared to take the risk.”

Maryam frowned. “What risk?”

“That it was still seaworthy…and so far old
Windstalker
here has done me proud.” He patted the shelter roof, as if congratulating it.

“It could do with a good clean,” she said. She had a flash of Mother Evodia's face as she inspected the Sisters’ huts to check they were orderly and spotlessly clean. If she saw the state of this, she'd have a fit!

“You try tidying up after yourself when you're sailing on your own,” Lazarus shot back.

Maryam laughed. “Don't be so touchy,” she said. “Nothing is unclean in itself, but it is unclean for anyone who thinks it unclean. Romans fourteen!”

“Ah, then I say to you to eat with unwashed hands does not defile anyone. Matthew fifteen. Take that!”

They grinned at each other, both obviously scrabbling around in their memories for more apt rejoinders from the Holy Book. Then Maryam gave up. It was too hot inside the little shelter to think so hard.

“Truce,” she said. “Come back to land and I'll show you the most amazing place where you can wash the salt out of your hair.” She clutched the towel around herself as she climbed back on deck. “Give me a head start,” she said, “so I can get dressed before you return.”

“Don't you think perhaps we should drop the false modesty?” Lazarus asked. “I've seen you before and you've seen
me…and
Windstalker
's a very small boat…” He scrutinised her face, causing it to heat up as if his eyes propelled an open flame. “I promise you you're safe from me.”

Maryam stared down at her feet, trying to decide. Her toenails were long and in need of trimming, the skin around her ankles flecked with insect bites. So this was to be the test of their fragile friendship—whether she could fully trust his promise and swallow down her suspicions, and whether, in fact, he could truly prove himself worthy of that trust.

Above her, Lazarus squirmed. “Look, if you still don't trust me—”

“No, I think I do.” She glanced up at his face, seeing how he flinched at her emphasis. “All right I do.” She shook an accusing finger at him. “But if you ever—ever—touch me, I swear on the Holy Book I'll—”

Lazarus reached inside to grab her finger and gently folded it back into her palm, his voice remarkably calm and good-natured considering her threat. “Enough. I get your point.” He ducked down into the shelter. “I'll just sort this a bit. I'll meet you back on land.”

He turned his back on her now, leaving her feeling a little foolish as she dropped the towel, baring herself only to an audience of terns reeling high above her as Lazarus pointedly worked inside. Oh dear Father, of course! It is so stupidly obvious. Now he'd seen her in the flesh, and compared her to all the girls at Newbrizzy, the thought of touching her revolted him. What a conceited fool she was.

She launched herself off
Windstalker
's side, swam ashore and dressed. As she trudged down the beach to prise some bwa-oysters off the rocks for lunch, she was still blushing at her vanity.
She only hoped that by the time Lazarus swam back to land he'd be so impressed by the delicious meal he'd wipe their embarrassing discussion from his mind. And, indeed, he did not raise it again nor even let slip with one of his famous smirks. Instead, he began to devour the bwa-oysters with such relish it made her wonder just exactly how much food he'd eaten in the last few weeks. His story of the conditions for people on the mainland had so shocked her, she'd not really appreciated what it must have been like for him.

She paused in her meal to ask the one question that kept pressing at her mind. “How could it be so bad on the mainland, yet still draw so many people to its shores?”

Lazarus licked his fingers. “Good question and one I struggled with for weeks. But the more I came to know the people there, the more I understood.” He slurped another bwa-oyster down before he continued. “For a start, they come because wherever they have come from is even worse.”

“This is also what Aanjay said—that even the camp is better than some of the places they escape. But, surely, once they see this Newbrizzy they don't want to stay?”

“It's not so simple. What they told me is that, if you work hard enough, you can escape the misery—that there are people who arrived with nothing but now, thanks to good luck and hard work, they have more riches than they ever dreamed possible.”

“But they don't use it to help free others from the grind?”

He shrugged. “Not that I could see. It seems that if you fight your way out of there, you can't risk looking back in case someone drags you down again.”

“Why don't they try moving somewhere else? I mean, there are islands like this one and Onewēre scattered all over that
old map we had back on the boat. Wouldn't they be better off coming here?”

“Once they've heard about the incredible riches, it seems to draw them like pollen draws a bee. Besides, there's plenty of talk of plague—it seems Te Matee Iai was not the only sickness that rained down from the solar flares. They talk as if all the small islands are cursed.”

“Perhaps we're lucky they think this so.” Maryam shuddered. The thought of these wild, desperate people flocking to Onewēre was frightening indeed. But where did that leave good people like Aanjay, who merely longed to live in peace? The whole situation was a lot more complicated than simple speculations on right and wrong. She let the matter drop for now, needing further time to think such complications through. Instead she sucked the last shell clean of its slimy goodness and wiped a sticky hand across her chin.

“Come on, let me take you somewhere you can wash in fresh water.”

“You've no idea how much I've dreamt of that!” Lazarus said. He chucked the shells into the fire and stood up stiffly.

Maryam led him through the jungle, its ground still drenched and slippery from the prolonged bout of rain. She said little about their destination, wanting the miraculous sight of the butterfly pool to be as much of a joyous surprise for him as it had been for her. But when at last it came into view, he was not hushed in reverence at all. Instead, he squawked like a strangled rooster and launched himself toward the middle of the pool, his knees tucked tightly to his chest as he took flight. He landed in an explosion of water and sent the butterflies into a fluttering frenzy. Still on the bank, and drenched with spray,
Maryam rolled her eyes. There were some things about male behaviour she'd never understand.

As Lazarus scrubbed himself beneath the stinging waterfall Maryam slid into the water in what she hoped he'd see was a gesture of good faith, even though she remained dressed. She rested her head back to wash her long black hair and to rinse her clothes of their accumulation of salt, sweat and grime. Later, after they had both tired of the water, they lay side by side on the hot shingle bank to dry. She forced herself not to shy away from his gaze, although the water had plastered her clothes to her body and her nipples rose beneath the damp fabric as if trying to elicit his attention of their own accord. Beside her, Lazarus's thin bare chest and belly gleamed in the sunlight, attracting a cloud of butterflies which drifted down and landed on his freshly scrubbed skin. He chuckled, sending shockwaves right down to his belly, where the creatures clung on despite the rocky movement like seabirds riding on the ocean's swell.

“So,” Lazarus said now. “Tell me your plan.”

Maryam shrugged, not wanting to admit that she'd put off thinking about her actual arrival at Onewēre until she'd built the raft. “It's all still a bit blurry, but I know in theory how to make the cure. Get this: it turns out it's already growing there. Miriki-tarai.”

“You're having me on? That weed?”

“It sounds ridiculous, I know. But Aanjay's old friend Filza insists it's the one. There's quite a rigmarole preparing the tonic.” She laughed. “You won't believe what else goes in—trust me, it's better not to know! But the first thing I want to do when I get back is visit Joseph's mother. I'm sure she'll be able to help.”