Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (22 page)

“I truly can't stand this,” she whispered to Lazarus. “I hear The Rules now and they make me want to scream.”

“Shhh,” he silenced her. He jerked his head toward the chapel door, where the villagers were separating to make way for Father Joshua and his party of white-clad Apostles to join the mass outside.

At the sight of him Maryam's first instinct was to run. She
could feel her pulse speeding, her breath weak and shallow as she fought for air. Beside her, Lazarus slipped his sweaty hand into hers and squeezed it tight. “Wait,” he mouthed, edging slightly forward for a better view.

Father Joshua stood by calmly as his Apostles set up the Judgement table in the centre of the waiting crowd. His uniform, so starkly white it hurt her eyes, gleamed gold and silver from the many polished buttons and braids that adorned his tailored jacket and his white peaked hat. His face was masked by utter stillness, yet Maryam could see past this ruse to the cold hard evil within—an evil betrayed by his restless twirling of the ornate silver crucifix that hung around his neck. She knew that crucifix; knew precisely what harm it could do. Its end was fashioned to a point so sharp that just one nick from it would draw an innocent's blood. She'd seen it used each Judgement time. Had experienced the stabbing pain it could inflict herself.

Now the Apostles raised their arms to draw the crowd's attention and a sudden hush fell as Father Joshua stepped forward to the table and raised up his lethal cross. Only the grizzling of the little ones in their mothers’ arms broke the expectant hush.

“And now,” he intoned in a voice that resonated as if the Lord himself was calling down from Heaven. “Let the Judgement begin.”

Maryam scanned the crowd as the mothers and toddlers stepped forward. Lazarus's mother, Lilith, stood beside Father Joshua, her beautiful face etched with a sadness and longing Maryam had never observed in her before. It was strange to see her again—to recognise so much of Lazarus in this woman she dreaded. And there, behind her, stood the betraying Mother Elizabeth, her pregnant belly so tight beneath her white Judgement gown her navel could be seen pressing at the cloth. She looked tired and haggard, and had one arm linked to Mother Michal, as though at any moment she might fall. The rest of the white-clad Apostles massed around them, flanked by the servers from the Holy City in their uniforms of white and black.

The Blessed Sisters, from both the atoll and
Star of the Sea
, stood in a cluster to the right of the Apostles. They were singing again as a group of faithful women formed a straggly line before the Judgement table, the tiny children at their hips unnaturally silent as the song took flight. “We surrender all, All to Thee, our Holy Father, We surrender all…”

Maryam scanned the Sisters’ faces. How pale and docile they looked, her fellow Sisters from the ship. Just how many others had died from loss of blood since she'd seen them last? A shudder ran through her and she clutched Lazarus's hand even more tightly.

When the hymn had ended, Father Joshua took the raised crucifix and unsheathed it from its silver sleeve. The sunlight glinted off its thin faceted blade, adding a supernatural aura as he
intoned a prayer. “Heavenly Father, great saviour of the Apostles of the Lamb, bring forth Your children that they may serve Your chosen Masters on this earth.” With great pomp he drew the blade across the cross-hatch of scars on his palm, unflinching as he shed his blood into a silver chalice held by Mother Lilith, his cold gaze never pausing in its sweep of the crowd. Maryam ducked behind the villagers in front of her, away from his searing eyes, as he barked out: “Rule Number Five!”

The congregation were quick to heed his call. “At the time of Judgement, the Lord anoints His Chosen and entrusts them to serve under the wise and loving rule of the Apostles of the Lamb.”

Beside her, Lazarus snorted under his breath. “Wise and loving? There's a joke.” His face was pinched with tension, his eyes as restless as his father's as he gauged the crowd.

After Father Joshua had been bled and his wound bound by Mother Lilith, the first of the mothers brought forward her squirming toddler. Beaming with pride, she sat the infant on the Judgement table, bowed her head, and clearly recited Rule Number Nine. “None may question the authority of the Lord's chosen representatives: the sacred Apostles of the Lamb.”

In a movement so quick there was no time to recoil, Father Joshua flicked the blade across the child's heel. A beaded line of red blossomed into flowing blood as the child screamed with pain and threw her arms up to her mother, her little face crumpled in shock and disbelief. The mother calmly held the girl down as Mother Lilith stepped forward to collect the blood into a sacrificial cup, before strapping the foot with bandages. From her vantage point at the back of the crowd, Maryam's foot curled of its own accord, the place that marked the site of her
own injury smarting and itching as though in sympathy with the crying child's pain.

Meanwhile, Mother Lilith took a measure of blood from each of the vessels and mixed them together in a pure white dish. She leaned in close, taking a small eyeglass from her pocket to inspect the blood. After a few long minutes, punctuated only by the cries of the infant before her and the shuffling of feet, she lifted her head. “No,” she said. “This one is not Chosen by the Lord to serve.”

The mother let out her own wail of grief now, and had to be led away by one of the bystanders as the next child was brought forward for the test. One after another the children were sliced by Father Joshua's knife and their blood mixed with his, until the air was fraught with crying. Maryam wanted nothing more than to run away. It dredged up her earliest memory—her mother's distraught face as Maryam was wrestled, kicking and screaming, from her arms.

Eventually nine toddlers were declared Chosen—three boys, six girls—for no reason other than that their blood did not clot with Father Joshua's and somehow was able to keep him and his followers alive. Maryam knew there was no decree from the Lord to justify this act, just cold-hearted thirst to hold on to a life bloated with power. She felt sickened by it, so nauseous she had to drop down to her haunches and take deep gulping breaths to stop her stomach turning inside out. She could feel the warm blade of the concealed knife press against her back, a brutal reminder—as if she needed it—that danger lurked around every corner and that she and Lazarus were so outnumbered the only escape, should she be confronted, might well be to turn the blade upon herself. Better that, she reasoned, than dying at the hands of Father Joshua.

Above her, weaving through the sea of faithful villagers, came the Holy Father's next words. “Chastised a little, they shall be greatly blessed, because the Lord has tried them and found them worthy of Himself. As gold in the furnace, he proved them, and as sacrificial offerings he takes them now to Serve…”

“Obey your earthly masters with deep respect and fear…” the other Apostles around him droned. “Serve them as sincerely as you serve the Lamb…”

Maryam guessed what would be happening now and knew she could not watch. The screaming of the little girls as they were wrenched from their mothers was enough to contend with. The Chosen would be taken by longboat to the atoll and settled there, no longer carefree youngsters but Blessed Sisters, schooled to believe without question, and to obey. And the boys whose blood had mingled safely with the Holy Father's would be marched into the Holy City, weaned off their mothers’ milk with toddy, and raised as servers who might one day—if the Apostles did not get in first—bed a Blessed Sister and breed more sacrificial children with the life-saving blood. How she despised it all.

Once the new batch of Chosen had been whisked away, the Apostles’ job was nearly at its end. Just a few more minutes of Father Joshua's blatant hypocrisy and he'd return with his white-skinned acolytes to
Star of the Sea
, assured of fresh new blood. Again her stomach churned. Soon she would try to put an end to this…it was almost time.

She tugged at Lazarus's hand and whispered urgently into his ear. “Can you see Vanesse and Lesuna?”

“Not yet, but if I hoist myself up a bit…” Lazarus put
down Charlie's bag and rose up to his tiptoes, scanning the crowd as his father began his final prayer.

“Oh Lord, great provider of all, we thank you for—” Suddenly he stopped. “Lazarus?” The name rang out harshly when all around was silence. “Come forth!”

Lazarus dropped down beside Maryam, his face gaunt with shock. “He's seen me,” he hissed, pushing her away from him. “Go! Take the bag and run into the trees.” He reached under the hem of his trousers and withdrew the knife.

“I'm not leaving you alone to—”

“Just go,” he said, his voice hard and tense. “I'll get my father out of here, then you must announce the cure. I'll be all right.” Already the villagers were peeling back around them. Lazarus shoved her again, so hard she nearly lost her balance. “Don't worry, Vanesse is here. I'll meet you back at
Windstalker
tomorrow. Now go, go, go.”

As she scooped up the bag and fled into the bushes Maryam glanced back over her shoulder in time to see Lazarus very slowly and deliberately rise to his feet. He held his knife concealed behind his back. “Father,” he called, betraying none of his inner turmoil. “The Lord has heard your prayers. I've come back from the dead!”

Maryam burst through a prickly thicket of bushes and launched herself up the rope-like roots of an old fig tree, hoisting her ceremonial gown around her waist to free her legs for climbing. She knew how lucky she was not to be wearing the white Judgement gown—the tapa cloth of black and brown merged with the tree's spreading branches. From her vantage point she watched as Lazarus walked forward to greet his mother and father, their faces agog with disbelief. Past the panicked
buzzing in her head she heard the murmuring of the crowd surge like the gusty harbingers of a storm when Father Joshua stepped forward to embrace his son just as Lazarus quickly wedged the knife into the back of his belt, then flicked his shirt out of his pants to mask the hilt of the blade.

“It is a miracle!” Father Joshua proclaimed, releasing Lazarus to hold him at arm's length to search his face.

Then Mother Lilith pushed in, taking her boy in her arms and kissing him chastely on each cheek. “My son,” she said, “I did not think the good Lord had heard my prayers.”

Through all this Lazarus stood stiffly to attention, his back a rod. He turned to the congregation, his voice pitched to reach every ear. “I return to bring you proof of the Lord's great grace.” His gaze flicked around the gathering, as though he sought Maryam out. When he did not see her, his shoulders relaxed a little, and he turned to speak to his parents while still projecting out his words for all to hear. “Let us return at once to the Holy City, and leave your faithful subjects to complete the Judgement on their own.” He swept an arm around each of them, guiding them quickly toward the causeway and leaving the other Apostles to follow, stunned, in their speedy wake.

Maryam was impressed by his cool-headedness, and buoyed by his commitment to the plan, yet she feared for him, knowing that once he was ensconced in
Star of the Sea
all pretence of politeness would soon be swept away. She knew why he had done this, drawing the Apostles away so she could speak, and she was grateful. But she hated having to leave his fortunes to the fates, not knowing what would become of him, while she prepared to expose his parents for what they were.
Joseph, please keep him safe
.

As the Apostles moved in procession along the causeway, the villagers began again to stir. She scanned the gathering, relieved to spy Vanesse and Lesuna pushing through the crowd. They made their way over to where Lazarus had been standing, casting about in search of her. Maryam picked a tiny fig and threw it with surprising accuracy to hit Vanesse's back. She spun around, confused, before raising her eyes to scrutinise the tree. As she spotted Maryam through the maze of branches, her eyes widened in recognition and she nodded slowly, as if to reassure herself, and mouthed out “Wait.”

Beyond, the chief of Kakaonimaki village, bedecked in his flax skirt and shark's-tooth collar, was taking charge, ordering the seven white sacrificial goats to be brought forward for the kill. While the poor doomed creatures were led into the clearing beside the Judgement table, the chief lit up a wad of aro ni mi teuana leaves, passing it among the other village chiefs to smoke and so induce their ritual trance. And now the dancers began their shuffle, flaxen skirts and feathered knee adornments flying out around them as the singers upped the tempo on their goat-skin drums and the dancers started to stamp their feet in time to the beats.

“Auee! Auee! Te aomata a ataeinimm ‘aane to Ekaretia te Atua…” The voices swelled in the air and were picked up by the villagers as the dancers jumped and spun, stamped and clapped, and sang their praises to the Lord. The toddy was flowing freely now, scooped up in cups from two full barrels by the chapel doors.

Meanwhile, the seven spooked goats were finally in position, the whites of their eyes flaring as the chaotic noise added to their fear. Machetes were sharpened and the chalices prepared to receive the spill of blood, the heightened feral excitement
building like a wind-buffed sea, the goats pulling at their ropes and bleating with prophetic urgency when the chief stepped forward to make the kill.

He took position by the first of the goats and raised the machete—and, with the suddenness of a thunderclap, all motion and noise ceased at once. This was the moment Maryam had been waiting for. If she was to speak it must be now, before bloodlust and toddy stole all vestiges of common sense.

“Stop!” she hollered.

Hundreds of faces turned toward her as she slithered down the tree and burst out through the bushes. Her heart was pounding and she knew she had to hurry if she was to hold her nerve, spitting out her words as she walked forward to face the chief.

“I am Sister Maryam.”

Around her there was an audible drawing in of breath and the chief's look of surprise transformed to one of bitter hostility.

“Listen carefully. I will utter things which have been kept from the foundation of the world.” She had no idea why these words sprang to her lips. Where had she heard them? Then it struck her. Of course! They came from the Holy Book.

“Lucifer's child!” someone called out from the crowd, and a restless wave swept through the ranks.

She spun on her heels to face her accuser, heat roaring up her face. Her knees were shaking—her whole body was shaking.
This little light of mine…
She conjured up the light, hoping its purity would shine out through her eyes.

“I have returned from across the seas, where there are others still living.” A gasp swirled around her and she knew that, now, she could not stop. “I have seen the world beyond our shores and I can tell you this: the Apostles of the Lamb have lied.”