Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) (4 page)

But Maryam rejected such thoughts as soon as she'd given them air. She knew, yet the possibility of pregnancy had not
sprung naturally into her mind. Of course Ruth would not make such connections. It was not naivety or plain stupidity or even stubborn faith-based denial, just that her mind was so steeped in the Holy Book and The Rules she'd never leap to such conclusions, right or wrong. And Father Joshua preyed on this, justifying his outrageous offence by telling Ruth she was the Lord's bride even as he so brutally defiled her. That it was the Lord who impregnated the other Sisters. The Lord who wrote The Rules that sanctioned breeding the Sisters so they could sacrifice their offspring's blood.

She should have known what the likely outcome would be, and somehow prepared Ruth for the shock.

“And the vomiting?” Maryam asked, trying to find footing again on this shifting sand. “Will it cause Ruth or the…baby…harm?” A baby. Child of the Holy Father Joshua. Brother to Lazarus. It was so obscene it surely could not be true.

“Not at all, so long as she can keep down enough food and water.” Veramina turned back to Ruth. “It's still fairly early days, honey, and given the conditions here there's always a chance that you'll miscarry—that it won't survive. Just keep an eye on things, and if you need my help let Charlie know.”

Ruth did not respond, merely sat immersed in her private thoughts as Veramina rose and made to leave. Even after Maryam had thanked her, and left a pause for Ruth to do the same, Ruth could not be reached.

As soon as Veramina had gone, Maryam returned to Ruth's side and shook her gently. She has to face this, like it or not. “Ruthie, you have to talk! Tell me what you're thinking.”

Ruth's gaze settled on Maryam. She looked way younger than her fourteen years, no more than a baby herself. “I didn't
think—” She shuddered, swallowed and started again. “I can't believe—”

“I'll help you,” Maryam insisted. “And I'll get us out of here. One way or the other your baby will be born free.” Her thoughts went to all the children in the camp who'd never known any other life than this. Never lain on the ocean's broad rocking back. Never smelt the deep rich scent of the forest after rain. Ruth's baby deserved free rein of Onewēre, and Maryam vowed she'd make it so. Meanwhile, she had to help her friend over this shock. She leaned across and pulled Ruth's dress away from her belly, whispering into the hollow of her belly button: “Hello baby! It's Auntie Maryam here!” And, before Ruth could react, she blew a big wet raspberry onto Ruth's soft brown skin.

“Get out!” Ruth pushed her away, laughing as she mopped up the spray of saliva with her dress. But then, almost reverently, she laid both her hands onto the small mound of her stomach, staring down at them as if they possessed magical charms. With a smile playing around her lips she looked back up and met Maryam's eye. “I'm going to have a baby!”

There was such awe in her voice now, no hint of fear, and Maryam responded with all the joy she could muster. “And you will make the most wonderful mother the world has ever seen!” The forced enthusiasm exhausted her, and the deep grinding pain in her arm reminded her how little time had passed since the operation. She longed to sleep, to close her eyes and block all these complications from her mind. But she knew she needed to give Ruth priority right now. She pulled Ruth to her feet. “Come on! If I am to get us out of here I'd better start my planning right away.”

Maryam led the way out of the hut and along the camp's
many interlinking paths. She needed to find Aanjay, the unofficial—undisputed—leader of the women's section of the camp. It was time to find out what, if anything, she knew of Lazarus's desertion, and to start the crucial search for knowledge of the mahkota bunga tree and its life-saving powers against Te Matee Iai. Maryam hadn't seen Aanjay since her return from the hospital. Usually the little woman did daily rounds; perhaps she'd been busy counselling the families who'd just been deported. In her own quiet way Aanjay was a warrior, never ceasing in her self-made mission to bring others aid.

As they approached the hut where Aanjay and her ancient mother lived it was clear something unusual was happening. The hut was crammed with kneeling men, women and children—so many they spilled out onto the walkway, solemnly chanting some kind of prayer.

Maryam and Ruth froze at the sight.

“You don't think Aanjay has died, do you?” Ruth whispered.

No! To lose Aanjay now as well would be too much. Maryam shook her head, banishing the thought, and took Ruth's hand as she edged toward the doorway for a closer look.

The scent of burning candles hung in the air, their smoke forming dark swirls around the battered wooden image of the Buddha that dominated the makeshift shrine inside the hut. It was clear at once what was going on: Aanjay knelt next to the lifeless body of her mother, a tiny wizened woman transformed in death to little more than a skeleton draped in cloth. The flesh that once had plumped her cheeks and eye sockets was now so wasted that the bones which formed her brow, cheekbones and chin jutted like the razor-sharp pillars of barren rock that flanked the camp's remote back fence.

Maryam and Ruth hovered at the back of the gathering. Maryam noticed how each of the arriving mourners made their way into the hut to bless the corpse by trickling water over her claw-like hand before offering Aanjay comfort in her time of grief. She edged herself into the slow-moving line, and was surprised to feel Ruth slide in behind her. Perhaps teaching had broadened Ruthie's mind and she was coming to accept that these people really weren't so dissimilar or dangerous after all.

When at last she was kneeling alongside Aanjay, Maryam took hold of her beautiful fine-fingered hand. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Ah, Maryam. It is good to see you, but you mustn't grieve for me. My mother welcomed death as the doorway to her next incarnation. I believe her soul is ready now to experience Nirvana. We should rejoice.”

“You truly believe that we are all reborn?”

Aanjay laughed, the sound as light and buoyant as a butterfly. “I do. It is part of the natural cycle—birth then death, death then birth, on and on until the mind learns to break free of the self. My mother understood the journey of her soul.”

Talking to Aanjay always calmed Maryam, as if her gentle nature somehow rubbed off on those around her. Maryam longed to tell her about Lazarus's desertion, but now was not the appropriate time. Ruth, it seemed, had no such scruples. She pushed past Maryam and whispered to Aanjay, “I'm going to have a baby!” She said it with such self-importance—almost pride—as if the news would somehow raise her status in Aanjay's eyes.

“You are?” If Aanjay was shocked, she masked it with a generous smile. “What luck for a returning soul to have a mother such as you!” She drew Ruth to her and kissed her on each cheek
in turn. “Your news has added yet another reason to rejoice this day.” She turned back to Maryam and winked. “There, you see? The cycle starts again!”

Maryam forced a smile in return, amazed at how calmly Aanjay could assimilate this astounding news. But she felt embarrassed now, stealing time away from Aanjay's grief. Embarrassed and annoyed. She grasped Ruth's hand and dragged her from the hut, awkwardly shuffling through the other mourners as her mind rejected what Aanjay had said.

She could not rejoice in Ruth's news. Was horrified that Ruth must bear the child of such a brutal man. She couldn't understand Ruth's attitude either, and wondered if it was some kind of strange reaction to the shock. Surely she could not be pleased? To see her now, almost skipping down the walkway, beggared belief.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, catching up with Ruth despite the clinging exhaustion.

“You really want to know?” Ruth asked.

“Of course I do. You know I'll always be here if you need my help.”

Ruth's lip curled slightly before she spoke again. “Thank you, but I think the Lord has answered all my prayers. I prayed the sickness I was suffering wouldn't kill me, and now I find instead that it promises new life!” Her face radiated a strange illuminated joy.

“You're happy, then?” Maryam couldn't quite keep the scepticism from her voice.

Ruth halted so suddenly that Maryam almost tripped over her. She folded her arms across her chest and met Maryam's surprised eyes with a steely glare. “What would you have me be?”

“I…I…” Maryam stuttered, not quite sure what she meant.

“The Rules, Maryam. Think of the wording of Rule Number Eight. Like the Lamb who went so willingly to slaughter, we too must sacrifice up our lives in readiness and joy.”

“But we're not in Onewēre now. We don't have to abide by The Rules at all.”

Ruth stamped her foot. “Willingness and joy, stupid. Use your head. Would you rather be born to a mother who hated you, or one who welcomed you with willingness and joy?” She poked Maryam in the chest. “Sometimes you're so caught up in hating what's going on, you forget that we still have some choice.”

Maryam was so surprised to hear Ruth sounding like a grown-up and not a frightened child, she didn't know what to say. But Ruth seemed quite content to abandon the conversation rather than score another point. She simply left Maryam to ponder this extraordinary lesson in humility and faith all on her own.

Maryam thought it strange how much she was rattled by Ruth's pleasure at her pregnancy. Of course she was pleased beyond measure that Ruth's symptoms didn't point to anything serious or fatal, but it was hard to accept that Ruth could welcome bearing Father Joshua's child. However much Maryam resolved over the next few weeks to meet Ruth's bubbling joy with a smile, she completely failed to push such negative thoughts from her mind. Ruth's pregnancy was causing her a host of extra snags and stress.

She still couldn't figure out how she and Ruth could escape the camp, let alone the island, and the added complication of Ruth's delicate state just narrowed the options even more. At first she'd thought perhaps they could ask Charlie to spirit them out of the camp, then help them find a boat so they could sail back to Onewēre on their own. Yet even if Charlie was prepared to take this risk, Maryam was reluctant to subject Ruth to the kinds of hardships they'd endured before the Territorials had plucked them from the sea. But an alternative plan remained elusive.

The only two things that kept her spirits buoyed were the rapid healing of her arm and the schooling she began to undertake with Aanjay's old friend Filza, who was almost blind. The first day Aanjay introduced them, Maryam felt as if she already knew her, recognising the way she cocked her head as she moved with such cautious precision through her blurry world. Then Maryam realised why: Filza reminded her of Hushai, her
dear old friend from the Holy City who was completely blind yet saw more than most fully sighted people ever would. He had a way of reading feelings, good or bad, and it was Hushai who'd first told her she must stand up for what was right. That she must be strong.

At their first meeting Filza focused her failing eyes so close to Maryam's face she could smell the previous evening's fish stock on the old woman's breath. Meanwhile, Filza ran her dry nut-brown fingers from the crown of Maryam's head down to the tip of her chin. Her mouth was slightly ajar, and her tongue rolled in and out between her teeth, reminding Maryam of the dry club-shaped tongue of Owmar, the talkative lorikeet she and the other Sisters had hand-reared from a chick when they were young.

“Sawatdee,” Filza said at last, only now bowing in greeting. “You want know herbal obat to cure sumber kemusnahan, yes?”

“I do,” Maryam replied, recognising this other name for Te Matee Iai. “Aanjay tells me you know how to make the cure?”

“Yes, yes.” Filza uncoiled from her seat so slowly Maryam stepped forward and took her arm to help her rise. “Come. First I show you tree.”

For a moment Maryam thought she had misheard. “You mean the tree is here, inside the camp?”

Filza snorted. “Not in camp, girl,” she scoffed. “If found in camp, we use.” And with that she hobbled off, so stooped her head hung down toward the ground. Yet despite her stance she moved at quite a pace, and Maryam had to rouse herself from her confusion to catch Filza up.

“Where then?” she asked.

“In book of Baadal Jaitly.” Filza paused for a moment,
grasping a wooden veranda post to steady herself as she caught her breath.

Frustration threatened to overflow as Maryam digested this new fact. When Aanjay had assured her that Filza could help, she never mentioned that the tree was only able to be studied in a book. She'd made it sound as if Filza could actually show her how to make the cure. She should've known nothing was ever quite so simple. All she would gain from this outing was a better picture of the thing she could not have.

After a short rest the old woman pitched herself forward again, somehow able to navigate the constant twists and turns of the walkway without the need to see ahead. When they finally reached the gateway that marked the junction between the women's and the men's domains, Filza craned her neck into a painful-looking crook so she could peer in through the open gates. Just what she could see with her failing eyesight was questionable, but this did not seem to dissuade her as she squinted through the opening to a busy courtyard beyond.

“Baadal Jaitly!” Her bird-like shriek cut through the air. “Find Baadal Jaitly now.”

Maryam suppressed a smile, wondering if Aanjay's revelations about rebirth included bird lives as well? Surely old Filza had been a lorikeet in some former life. But, whatever the cause of her extraordinary skill for making such an obnoxious noise, it did the trick. Only a few moments later an elderly man emerged from one of the nearby huts and greeted Filza with a bow of great respect. They exchanged a few words in their native language before the man, whom Maryam could only assume was Baadal Jaitly, shuffled back inside.

“Wait now,” Filza said. “You sit.” The old woman collapsed
with such a frightening lurch that Maryam scrabbled to help her. It wasn't needed. Filza was firmly in control and already sitting quite comfortably before Maryam had achieved a thing.

Bemused, she squatted down next to Filza to wait. “Baadal Jaitly has the book?” she asked.

“You wait.” Filza broke wind loudly then, grinning like a wicked child as she fanned the foul fumes in Maryam's direction. “Buddha says not speak, unless it improves on silence.”

Maryam felt a blush incinerating her cheeks, but kept her peace. She had to stay onside with this crazy old bird-woman if she wanted to learn the secrets of the cure.

It was a relief when Baadal trotted back toward them, clutching a large tattered book. He presented it to Filza, then backed right off, waiting at a respectful distance as she flicked through the pages, her face pressed so close she blocked the images from Maryam's view. After several minutes poring over the book, Filza drew back and tapped a picture on the open page.

“Mahkota bunga tree!” she announced. “You take good look.” She pressed the book into Maryam's hands, leaning back against the fence now to pick at her decaying teeth.

Maryam stared down at the picture in wonder. She'd never seen anything like this before—the only book she'd ever been allowed to touch, other than the book of stars gifted to her by Joseph's mother, was the Holy Book. But this was as if the Lord had somehow frozen the image of a living organism onto the yellowing paper with one blink of His miraculous eye. Far too precise to be a drawing, the plant was shown in detail as though it grew before Maryam in real life: the lush mossy-green oval leaves, with their distinct white veins, which sat neatly
opposite each other on the sturdy stem; the purple-tinged white flowers, each a perfect five-pointed star with a small, elegant crown at its centre supported by tiny capsules coated with fine hair. The picture was so real Maryam could almost smell the flowers’ sweet fiery scent. The headiness of it tugged her eyelids down as she breathed in the memory of the unique aroma…Wait! Her eyes sprang back open. How was it she knew the scent?

“You're sure this plant is the cure?”

Filza merely nodded, redirecting Maryam back to the book. “Look more.”

She studied the picture again, turning the page to discover a group of beautifully crafted drawings depicting the same plant. There was the flower, broken down to all its discrete parts and, there, a detailed sketch of its seed pod, open to expose its tiny brown seeds amidst a cushioning of what looked like silken silvery-white hair.

Then it struck her: this was not a tree at all! Surely it was miriki-tarai, a weedy shrub that thrived on Onewēre's southern shores? Its fermented bark, when doused with salt, was used to strip the hair from goat skin so it could be cured. Had Filza somehow mistaken Maryam's request? She felt sick, suspecting this was yet another meaningless dead end.

Filza, however, who'd progressed from picking her teeth to cleaning out the rich plunder from beneath her scaly fingernails, nudged Maryam in the ribs. “You know mahkota bunga?” Her eyes, though filmy, seemed to stare into Maryam's very soul.

Maryam nodded. “I think I know it as miriki-tarai. When you snap the stem, does the sap look like milk?”

“Yes, yes! And what smell?”

“Sweet,” Maryam replied, trying to define the scent in words. “A bit like honeysuckle. But kind of sharp and peppery. Very strong.”

“You got it, girlie!” Filza grinned. “Different name but tree the same.” She wrestled the book from Maryam and held it out for Baadal. “You! Take!”

Baadal reclaimed it as if it were a holy relic and quickly retreated to his hut. Now Filza held her arm out to Maryam, seeking her aid to stand. Maryam hauled the old woman to her feet, wincing as she heard Filza's twisted bones creaking in their sockets as she rose.

“Follow!” Filza shuffled off again, not waiting to check if Maryam obeyed, just plodding back the way they had come.

Maryam had no choice but to follow her, although her head was whirling with questions and she feared the whole endeavour was now in vain. It seemed so unlikely that the two plants were the same—and that all the time the people of Onewēre had had the cure for Te Matee Iai right before their eyes. Besides, surely something that could strip the wiry hair off goat skin couldn't be safe for dying human beings to swallow?

She waited until Filza had settled in her hut before she dared voice her doubts. But Filza seemed unfazed.

“You tell all,” she ordered, “about your tree. I hear and judge.” She crossed her arms across her bony chest and peered at Maryam with a most disconcerting lack of focus.

At first Maryam's mind went completely blank as she tried to summon up her scant knowledge of miriki-tarai. She'd seen Mother Evodia mix the salty potion of bark that could strip and cure a hide, but had taken little notice of the plant itself—other than noting its sharp seductive scent. She closed her eyes and
cast her mind back to the times she'd seen it on her travels to the south, but couldn't tell if what she now described to Filza was a real memory or one that melded with the life-like image in the book.

At the end of Maryam's description Filza clapped her hands. “Same same.” She yawned, her jaw clicking as it extended as far as it would go, revealing a significant lack of teeth at the back. “You come another day. I teach you herbal obat then.”

For a moment Maryam's spirits lifted. “You mean the plant is here?” Hadn't Filza already told her it wasn't?

“You not hear?” Filza cleared mucous from the back of her throat and spat it with great precision out the door. “My home, yes. But no tree here. Nothing grow here.”

“But how—”

The old woman silenced Maryam with a sweep of her hand. “No more. I tell you when to come.” With that she closed her eyes and began stretching herself out on her stained sleeping mat to rest. Maryam realised she had no option but to leave.

Later that afternoon, as she lay on her own sleeping mat, restless as she waited for Ruth to return from the showers, she worried over this unexpected turn. Her plan had been to find the mahkota bunga tree, learn to brew the life-saving potion and then somehow attempt to transport cuttings or seeds from the tree back to her home. The trouble was, if Filza was right and the plant did not grow on this island and was, in fact, merely miriki-tarai by another name, she'd have to rely solely on the old woman's word. She'd be unable to test the potion before she risked it all and fled back to Onewēre with the promise of a cure. And promise she must, for she needed it to help convince her people that the Apostles had lied. And that in turn made
the cure quite possibly her only means of rallying support to protect her from Father Joshua's vengeance.

Ruth rushed in, her wet hair flying as she dived onto the mat. “Did you hear Aanjay yelling at Sergeant Littlejohn just now?”

“No.” Maryam sat up. Aanjay raise her voice? “Did you?”

“I sure did! She really had a go at him. It was clear as anything over by the showers.”

“What on earth was she yelling about?”

“Apparently when her mother died he promised her he'd organise for the body to be burnt, but she's just learnt that it was buried—and with two other corpses as well! Two men. The women at the showers say no one's ever heard her lose her temper like this before.” Ruth's eyes met Maryam's. “You're not going to believe this, but word is that he's thrown her in the cells.”

“What?” He'd lock Aanjay in? “That's ridiculous. The whole camp will go crazy.”

“I know. There's already talk of protests. The women at the showers say they'll refuse to co-operate with any of the Territorials until she's freed.”

Maryam leapt up from her mat. “That's it—I'm going to look for Charlie now. He's going to have to sort this out.”

Ruth scowled. “Maybe you should keep away…”

But Maryam was already heading out the door.

She ran along the walkway, outrage swilling around her like a choppy sea. A group of infuriated women had gathered by the stone building that housed the cells. As Maryam approached, she saw the door was defended by two armed guards, rather than the usual one. They stroked the triggers of their guns as if
their fingers itched to shoot, their faces a study of impassive disregard for those among the crowd who pleaded for the release of Aanjay before the situation flared out of control. Usually this peacekeeping role was Aanjay's domain—it seemed incomprehensible that this time she was at the heart of such brewing discontent.