by Mandy Hager
With a sigh that seemed to reverberate long after it had been expelled, she followed Ruth along the dusty walkway to the shaded courtyard where Ruth now taught most days, having taken up the mantle of teacher when Jo had left. She met the challenge with the same intensity she'd put into her study of the Holy Book, patiently helping the mothers and their grimy offspring learn to communicate in basic English, and to read and write. Somehow she had the power to make her meaning clear. Already her pupils loved her, gifting her shy smiles whenever she went past, and now, as the two girls approached the courtyard, a murmur of anticipation swept the assembled group.
Ruth made her way up to the front while Maryam planted herself down on the ground at the rear of the students, too tired to move among the women and help them trace their wobbly letters into the thick layer of chalky dust. Today she would just watch and revel in the pride she felt at seeing her friend blossom beneath the students’ expectant gaze. She studied Ruth as if observing her for the first time: this tall, solidly built girl whose broad face shone with goodness as she clasped her hands together and dipped her head in greeting, smiling like the rising sun as she said “Good morning” and the women and their children echoed back the greeting in a sing-song chant.
But there was a worrying difference in her friend that Maryam hadn't consciously discerned before: the healthy bloom in Ruth's cheeks had faded, and where there once were rolls of fat on her powerful body now there were none. Then she remembered the reflection of her own wan face in the mirror at the hospital just the night before, and glanced down at her spindly arms and legs. In a few scant weeks both she and Ruth had come to look like every other miserable captive in this place: emaciated, malnourished and bereft of hope.
Yet looks, she knew, could be deceiving: within the chest of each and every woman in the group there beat a questing heart. Here they were, laughing and cajoling their restless children as they practised greeting each other in the language of their captors. “Good morning,” they chimed, their accents twisting the simple words in new exotic ways. “How are you today?…I am fine…” Their musical chanting put Maryam into a sleepy trance, and it was only their applause at the end of the session that brought her back into the present.
As the class dispersed, Ruth made her way to Maryam's side.
“How is the pain?” she asked.
“Nothing that the paracetamol won't fix,” Maryam assured her. “But how are you? You don't look well.”
A wave of unidentifiable emotion flashed across Ruth's face before she harnessed it back under control. “I'm fine. I just didn't get enough sleep last night.”
“Are you sure? You're very pale.”
Tears welled up in Ruth's eyes. She clapped her hand across her mouth as though to trap a wail, then with a sob she ran off, leaving Maryam shaken in her wake. What on earth was going on? Maryam chased after her, gritting her teeth as the jolt of her feet on the walkway pulsed through her arm. “Ruth! Wait!”
Maryam rounded a corner and nearly crashed into Ruth, who was vomiting against the wall of the adjoining hut. The acidic stench had attracted an immediate flurry of flies. All Maryam could do was pat Ruth's back as she retched on and on until nothing more was left.
Finally Ruth straightened, supporting herself against the wall with a shaky hand. “Sorry,” she murmured, her eyes still glassy from the shock of tears.
Maryam studied the regurgitated rice as if it could reveal the source of Ruth's attack. “Did you eat something bad, Ruthie?”
Ruth shrugged but did not meet Maryam's eye. “Don't worry. It passes just as quickly as it comes.”
“You mean it's not the first time?”
“I didn't want to worry you.”
Ruth turned and set off along the walkway again at a frantic trot, not stopping until she reached the hut and threw herself face-down onto the sleeping mat. Maryam hunkered down beside her, and shifted Ruth's hair away from the beads of perspiration that coated the back of her neck. Joseph's sweating, pale face shot to her mind. And Lazarus, before he took the cure. What if Ruthie has Te Matee Iai?
“What's going on? If you're ill you should say, so I can get you help.”
But Ruth just stared up at her like a dumb-struck child, fear clouding her eyes.
“Ruthie!” Maryam tried again. She grasped Ruth by the shoulder to break through the wall of her defence. “You have to say.”
Ruth groaned, but slowly uncoiled to sit, slouched and uneasy, against the wall. She drew in a reedy breath. “Don't worry,” she said at last. “It's not Te Matee Iai.”
Praise be! Relief flooded through Maryam like cool winter rain. “What is it then?”
“I don't know,” Ruth said. A flush roared up her neck to consume her face. “I think that I have something…wrong…inside.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think the Lord is punishing me for swerving from His path.”
Maryam felt like shaking her again. “For goodness’ sake, Ruthie! You're the most pious person I know! The Lord would no more punish you than…than—” It was such a stupid claim she couldn't even find the words.
“See! You know it's true.”
“It's not true, you silly girl!” She blew out a deep breath, trying to calm herself before she tried again. She had to find out if Ruth was really ill. “Look, whatever the reason, just tell me what's wrong inside. How many times have you been sick like this before?”
Ruth picked at a spot of grime on the sleeping mat as she spoke. “Almost every day for the last two weeks.”
“Every day? Why didn't you say?”
“Because I didn't want to bother you. You had enough to deal with, helping Lazarus and sorting out your arm.”
Maryam cringed. It was true she'd been so focused on Lazarus's recovery and her own fears of amputation that she'd hardly taken any notice of Ruth—bar relief when she'd slipped into the role of teacher to occupy her time. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “Have you noticed anything else?”
The flush on Ruth's face heightened until she glowed with heat. “I fear I have some kind of demon like a taimonio inside. I feel as though it's stealing all my energy…and I have pain here.” She pointed to her breasts. “They look…different, too. And, worst of all, my Bloods have not returned.”
“They've stopped?” Oh Lord. Had Father Joshua's assault caused some terrible kind of damage inside? On issues such as this she was way out of her depth. “We have to get you help. Aanjay perhaps? Or…I know! We can ask Veramina when she comes to check my arm.” Yes, this was by far the best course. “She's a nurse. She'll know just what to do.”
Now Ruth rushed her with a ferocious embrace. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner—I've been so scared. I prayed and prayed, but every day I've just felt worse.”
“No more secrets,” Maryam insisted. “Whatever is going on, we'll find out and we'll get you help.” And just this once keep on praying, she thought. In this place Ruth would need all the divine help she could get.
It was mid-afternoon the following day before Veramina's reassuring shape came into view. She carried a small bag and set it down beside Maryam inside the hut.
“Right, missy. Let's look at that arm.” Without further preamble she began to remove the bandage from Maryam's arm. Her brow knotted as she carefully peeled back the blood-soaked dressing to reveal the wound.
It was the first time Maryam had seen it since the operation, and her stomach contracted as she peered down at the swollen flesh. The ragged gouge created by the excised tissue was drawn together with neat stitches, the jutting break in the bone no longer visible, and Maryam presumed they'd straightened it back into place. Seeing it like this was a stark reminder of how close she'd come to losing her arm: any more infected flesh and there would have been nothing left to buffer or support the fractured bone.
“Not bad,” Veramina said. She opened the bag at her side and produced a small bottle, dabbing its bright purple contents over the wound. “Gentian violet,” she explaine
d. “It'll help to keep any new bacterial infections away.” She looked up sternly. “You are taking the antibiotics with every meal?”
“I am.”
“Make sure you do, right to the end.” Veramina placed the cap back on the bottle and started to re-bandage the arm, her face a picture of concentration as she carefully wrapped the dressing in a neat figure of eight to protect the wound. “Good,” she said when she had finished. “I'll be back early next week to take the stitches out. Just make sure you rest it well and take the pills religiously till then.”
She had gathered up her bag and was about to leave when Maryam placed a steadying hand on her arm. “Please,” she said. “My friend Ruth here is not well.”
Ruth blushed as red as a frigate bird's gular pouch.
“What is it, child?” Veramina asked.
As Ruth described her symptoms in a wavering voice, Veramina began to smile and then to laugh. “Lord love you! Have you been hanky panky-ing with the boys?”
Confused, Ruth looked to Maryam for translation, though Maryam herself was struggling with their meaning. Hanky panky? Boys? Oh Lord. Could Veramina be implying that Ruth was with child? Heat roared up her neck. Why hadn't she thought of this? Poor Ruth was going to die of shame.
She ignored Ruth's puzzled eyes, and answered Veramina on her behalf. “My dear friend Ruth has the purest of hearts…” She tried to stress the words so Veramina would understand Ruth's piety. “She was, however…assaulted…before we escaped.”
Ruth's eyes widened. “Why tell her that?” she hissed, rising to her feet now, ready to flee.
The smile dropped from Veramina's face as she took all this in, perhaps now recognising how naive and innocent Ruth really was. She leaned over and caught Ruth's fingers, tugging her back to the sleeping mat so she could not escape. “Forgive me, angel. I didn't mean to joke.”
She asked Ruth to lie down on her back, then took her pulse and gently prodded her bared stomach in a thorough sweep from her belly button and her pubic bone. Then, to Ruth's great mortification, she insisted on examining Ruth inside. Maryam couldn't bear to watch—the tears that slid down Ruth's cheeks could well have been her own, such was her pain for her friend.
She knew Ruth would be remembering their awful initiation at the hands of the Apostles when they'd Crossed—remembering how Mother Lilith had examined them in much the same humiliating way, yet with none of Veramina's care nor skill. But what pained her most was knowing that it was the cruel face of Father Joshua Ruth would see inside her mind. He had trapped her in the storeroom and brutally attacked her. So-called “hanky panky” played no part.
Finally Veramina patted Ruth's thigh and told her to sit up, then she gave her verdict. “There's no doubt about it, you are going to have a child.”
“What?” Ruth blindly scrabbled for Maryam's hand. “But how?”
Veramina smiled. “There's only one way that I know of, love. Many a child has been created through force, but it doesn't stop its existence being a wondrous gift.”
Horror drained Ruth's face of colour as Veramina's words sank in, and Maryam found herself fighting back tears. How could Ruth not have suspected this? She felt a strange kind of fury at her: naivety was one thing, but they had been told how babies were made…Had Ruth simply decided to wipe the knowledge from her mind?
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 wa
s 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.