by Mandy Hager
On the final night before the two parted forever, they sat in the hut after their meagre meal, the silence between them so dense it seemed to form a solid mass that neither could breach—until footsteps rang out from the walkway, alerting them to the approach of guests. It was Charlie and Veramina. Maryam was surprised to see them: Charlie had been vocal in his opinion that her return to Onewēre was madness.
“Vera was keen to come and say proper goodbyes tonight,” Charlie announced, his voice unusually gruff.
He squatted down in the entranceway while Veramina joined Maryam on her mat. “That's right, honey,” she laughed. “It had nothing whatsoever to do with my grumpy old man!” She drew Maryam's arm toward her. “Let me take one last peep at your arm before you go, eh?”
She unbound the bandage, examining the scar tissue closely before testing the movement of Maryam's elbow, wrist and fingers one by one. “Any pain?”
“Hardly any,” Maryam said. “If I use it too much it starts to ache, but otherwise it's fine.”
Veramina inclined her head toward Charlie. “His Lordship has put together a bag of useful bits and pieces for you to take tomorrow. I've popped in a box of general antibiotics. If you have any sign of infection—here, or anywhere else—take them all.”
Maryam glanced over at Charlie. “You have?”
He squirmed, firing a peevish frown at Veramina. “Just this and that. I'll bring it before you leave tomorrow.”
“Thank you! That's very kind.”
“Don't get your hopes up,” he grumbled. “It's just a few basics.”
Veramina shook her head at him. “He's sulking, sweetheart. Pay him no mind.” She proceeded to re-bandage Maryam's arm. “Keep this bound for as long as possible to help support it, okay? And you'll be careful, won't you, love? Promise me you'll think before you act.”
Ruth snorted. “That would be a first.”
Maryam forced a smile. “I plan to be as sensible and cautious as my dear friend Ruth.”
Veramina raised an eyebrow. “Okay…I see we're all feeling the strain.” She shuffled across the hut on her broad backside until she berthed alongside Ruth. “And how are you feeling, love? I see a little tummy now.”
Ruth stroked her distended belly—a subconscious, insular gesture that had started to make Maryam feel more and more sidelined as the days went by. “The vomiting has slowed. I feel good.”
“Remember you can contact me through Charlie if you need my help.” She patted Ruth's shoulder and lowered her voice to a more intimate murmur. “I know how much you'll miss your friend.”
Ruth shrugged off Veramina's hand, her face as unreadable as a clouded sky at night. “I'll be fine.”
“Of course you will, honey. Of that I have no doubt. But sometimes it's nice to know that someone's there…”
Maryam watched as Veramina's kindness buffeted against the wall of Ruth's resentment. She knew how it felt to be rebuffed. But to see Ruth acting in this way to someone else, without her own feelings smarting in the equation, was revealing. Ruth was hurting just as much as she—and time was running out. She threw a lifeline to Veramina, hoping it would also thaw the mood.
“Have you heard how well Ruth's doing teaching English? Aanjay says she's even better at teaching than Jo.”
“Is that so, sweet pea?” Veramina clapped her hands. “Maybe I should send our lazy boy Lemah to you! He sure could do with the help.”
“If you like.” Ruth still didn't crack a smile, but Maryam knew her well enough to see that she was pleased.
“Crikey, woman!” Charlie groaned. “Give the poor boy a break.” He stood up now, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “Come on, love, we'd better go.”
Veramina leaned over and kissed Ruth on the cheek. “Keep in touch, you hear?” Then she hefted herself to her feet and pulled Maryam up with her, catching her in an all-encompassing embrace. “Take care, child, and God bless you. You have the heart of a prajurit—a warrior—no doubt of that.”
“Thank you so much for everything,” Maryam said. She found she was crying, and pressed her face in Veramina's ample bosom until the uncontrollable urge to howl aloud had lessened enough to let her go.
She leaned in the doorway to watch the couple walk away, struck by how hard it would be to farewell Charlie in the morning—the only white man, bar Joseph, who'd ever shown her kindness and proof of a trustworthy heart. For a while it had looked as though she could add Lazarus to this list, but now she knew better—the taint of the father was forever in the son. How different Lazarus might have been with Charlie as a father…his son Lemah was a lucky boy indeed.
Behind her, Maryam could hear Ruth starting up her prayers and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she was tempted to join in. It wasn't so much that she wanted to make contact with the Lord, it was more for the comfort the familiar words might bring. The thought of what lay ahead suddenly weighed heavy. She reached up to the shelf she'd constructed by the doorway and took down the small iridescent blue stone Ruth had gifted her when she'd first Crossed. Somehow, through all the upheavals, she had it still, the only tactile link she had to home—and to Joseph. Something in its luminous blue depths, so like his eyes, still spoke to her, able to calm her down when all else failed. She rubbed the stone between her fingers now, intent on how it warmed beneath her touch. That Ruth had understood how much this stone would mean to her spoke volumes of their bond—something she needed to acknowledge and be thankful for now, before the chance was gone.
She spun around, not caring that she interrupted Ruth's commune with the Lord, and pressed the stone into her hand. “Here, this is the most precious thing I own. I want you to have it back—to give to your baby when she is old enough, so you can tell her about me. No matter how far apart we'll be, I am her adopted aunty and I love her too.” It was such a relief to drop away the bristling defensiveness of the past two weeks. A ball of unshed tears built in her chest.
Ruth fingered the stone, rolling it over and over in her palm. When finally she spoke her voice shook with emotion. “If it's a boy I'm going to call him Joseph.”
Maryam clapped her hand over her mouth to hold back the torrent of tears she felt damming up behind. Breathe through it now. There's too much still left to be said. Slowly, through stubborn application of her will, the pressure subsided and she withdrew her hand. “I think that would be wonderful. He'd be so proud.”
“And if it's a girl, I'm going to call her Nanona, after you.”
This broke all Maryam's resolve. She rushed forward and hugged Ruth so tightly her sobs rocked Ruth as well. Nanona—the name her birth parents had gifted her when she was born. How foolish they'd been to waste these last two precious weeks on petty snipes.
She fought to collect herself before saying aloud the things that had been swirling around inside her head. “If I succeed in denouncing the Apostles and can somehow help to set our people free, will you come home then?” She stared intently into Ruth's warm amber eyes, willing her to acquiesce.
“How would I know to come?” Ruth didn't look defensive now, merely puzzled by the thought.
“I don't know. But I promise you that, if I can, I'll find a way to fetch you or to let you know.”
As if in slow motion, Ruth nodded her head. “If that happened, I would come.”
“Promise?”
“I do.”
“Swear on the blue stone of Onewēre?”
“Yes.”
“On the memory of Joseph?”
“Yes.”
“And even on the Holy Book?”
Now Ruth laughed. “All right! Yes, even on the Holy Book.” She wriggled down the sleeping mat until she sprawled on her back, then tugged Maryam down beside her so they nestled in each other's arms, just as they'd done when they were two little girls in need of comfort in the night. Above their heads, a translucent yellow lizard zigzagged across the ceiling, making for the door.
“Do you remember the time we put that bright orange l
izard into Mother Elizabeth's bed?”
As Maryam giggled at the memory and trumped it with one of her own, the darkness grew thick and torpid around them. In the small silences between their recollections, she heard the death-throes of the foolish moths that beat against the walkway lights and, still more subtly, the undertone of clustered humanity that never fully stilled. In many ways it felt to Maryam as if they'd been transported back to their small sleeping hut on the atoll, before this whole nightmare began. Just her and Ruth, whispering into the night—providing such solace that neither girl wished this precious time to end. They filled the tipping hour with words. They blearily welcomed the chilling drop in temperature that preceded dawn. Only when the foolish old rooster cleared his throat to herald the first tendrils of light did the two friends finally doze off.
But the reprieve of exhausted slumber did not last long. Maryam surfaced through a sleepy haze to find Aanjay shaking her.
“Maryam! We have only half an hour before we leave!” Her eyes were dark-ringed as if she, too, had spent the night awake.
“Half an hour?”
Maryam was up and out the door immediately, determined to have one last shower before she left. She finished just in time to meet up with Ruth, who hurried down the walkway with a bundle of ragged clothes clutched in her arms.
“Here.” Ruth thrust the clothes at Maryam. “You may as well take these.” Her face was pale and drawn, and she attached herself like a limpet to Maryam's side as they made for the front gates. “Oh Lord, you've not had time for breakfast!”
Maryam shrugged. “No matter. To be honest, I feel a bit sick.” In fact, she felt so terrified her knees could hardly hold her weight. Only the sight of Aanjay, surrounded by a throng of wailing women, stopped her bailing out of the entire plan. All around her women tore at their clothes and hair, while children cried to see their elders so upset. And at their centre Aanjay was almost swamped beneath the tidal wave of heartache. The two friends stood quietly to one side, holding hands while tears slid unabated down Ruth's cheeks. Maryam suddenly felt removed, as if she were an uninvolved observer, the colours around her spilling into each other and transforming the scene into a joyless palate of dusty gun-metal grey and sun-basted wood and stone.
There were others arriving at the gates now. Each had the same stunned appearance that identified them as fellow deportees, and they, too, clutched small parcels of personal belongings. As a truck rumbled into the yard, Charlie materialised beside the girls and placed a bulging leather bag on the ground at Maryam's feet.
“What is this?”
“Bits and bobs. Antibiotics and bandages from Vera. Some decent rope. Matches. Things like that.” He reached into the pocket of his shorts and produced a small paper-wrapped parcel. “Here. Lemah made you up some cheese and bread.”
“Oh Charlie, how will I ever thank you?” She'd been around him long enough to know he hated making scenes, but she threw her arms around him regardless and farewelled him as she would a father, kissing the rough crop of greying bristles on his cheek. As he made to disentangle himself from her embrace, she whispered in his ear. “Please, please, watch over Ruth.”
“Of course.” His voice was brusque with suppressed emotion. “And you take bloody good care of yourself now, young lady. You hear?” He leaned over and quickly pecked her on the top of her head, before turning away to push back through the crowd—but not before Maryam spied him wiping away a tear.
Already the first of the deportees were being herded toward the back of the truck. The crowd pressed in as Aanjay fought her way through them to climb aboard. It was time to go, Maryam knew, but her feet seemed to take root in the ground. She couldn't do it—couldn't leave Ruth, knowing that in all likelihood she'd never see her again. Her distress built like a vacuum around her, the pressure stealing air straight from her lungs. She felt light-headed. Weak. As if she might throw up.
Ruth's face gleamed with the sweat of stress. She looked at Maryam and tried to smile. “May the Lord bless you, Maryam. I will pray for you every morning and night.”
Maryam crouched down, pressing her face into Ruth's belly. “Goodbye, little one,” she whispered, filled with real love for this child now the taint of Father Joshua had miraculously been purged by Ruth's choice of names. She rose again, giddy, and blindly kissed Ruth. “I will never forget you or stop loving you.” These words would have to be enough. She could not go on. She hefted up the bag Charlie had left, surprised by its astounding weight, and staggered over to the truck. Unknown hands reached down to haul her up onto the wooden tray, the jumble of voices building to a thrumming, pulsing cyclone in her head. She was deafened by it—blinded—so that she hardly noticed as the truck jolted into life and started to move. Then, like two flashes of lightning, a pair of stark images breached the chaos. The first was Sergeant Littlejohn, who leaned against the door of the administration building, smirking as he tipped his hat when the truck rolled past. The other—the one Maryam knew would stay to comfort her in the days ahead—the sight of dear, gruff Charlie stepping up behind Ruth, pressing his hand onto her shoulder so she'd know she was not left completely alone. Bless you, Charlie. Bless you, my dear friend—my Ruthie. And, please Lord, if you're out there, bless little unborn Joseph or Nanona too.
As the truck bumped and shuddered its way downhill Maryam worked her way across the deck until she reached Aanjay's side. She was struck by how frail she looked, as though she was staring into the face of death. But it was not death Aanjay feared, Maryam guessed, but the means by which it would be delivered when she was shipped back to her home.
“Where will they take you?” Maryam had to shout above the deafening roar of the truck. “Is it far?”
“Two or three days by ship,” Aanjay replied. “And, as for where I'm going, since my home was caught up in the aftermath of the first Territorial Wars, our island is no longer referred to by its real name. The ruling junta called it after themselves, banning us from speaking the true name aloud. So now my people refer to it as Neraka Di Bumi—which, roughly translated, means Hell on Earth.”
“What is a junta?”
“A group of bad men who seized control when our spiritual leader was deposed. They had little resistance—the solar flares decimated our population and our crops, and we were left leading very simple lives—but there are precious deposits of copper beneath our lands. The junta hungered for those, and now they fight hard to retain the profits and control.”
“It sounds very complicated and dangerous,” Maryam said. “What will it be like when you return? Do you still have family there?”
Aanjay shrugged. “My father fought hard to protect our land, and our family has been harshly punished as a result—my dear mother and I were the only two in our extended family who managed to escape. I suspect when I return I will be jailed for life, if they let me live at all.”
Maryam stared at her, trying to imagine how anyone could see her as a threat. Aanjay did not have a bad cell in her body.
The truck had reached the dock now and, ahead, Maryam recognised the towering ship that had intercepted their sinking boat. How excited she and Ruth and Lazarus had been when they'd first spied it, believing their trials were over and they would be saved. How stupid and naive that hope now seemed. In the stark morning light she could see the rusty metal beneath the grimy layer of black paint that coated the ship's sides, its overwhelming gloominess accentuated by the thick smoke that spewed from its stack. It seemed to bask in the water like a hungry reef shark—a bakoa—waiting to consume her and the rest of the deportees with one ruthless gulp.
They were shunted down from the truck and marched along the dock toward the same rickety staircase Maryam had descended only weeks before. She grasped Charlie's gift tightly as she trailed Aanjay and the others toward the ship. Beneath the throat-catching smoke and the rotten-egg stench of the phosphate, she could just make out the subtle salty crispness of the sea. It worked to calm her, this complex familiar scent, and as she
climbed the stairs to board the ship she was ambushed by an overwhelming sense of relief: thank goodness she'd never have to set foot on that stinking prison island ever again.
The group was herded up onto the forward deck like wayward goats and encircled by crew. A uniformed officer blew a piercing whistle to demand their silence. In the lull, Maryam glanced around her to gauge the full size of the group. Five women, plus her and Aanjay, as well as six men and a gaggle of small children: three babies, four toddlers and two very black-skinned boys who looked at least seven or eight.
“Orright, listen up. You'll be taken below shortly and shown your accommodation.” There was a snicker from the crew, as if he'd said something amusing. “The littl'uns will stay with the women, except for you—” he pointed to one of the two dark boys “—and you—” indicating the other “—you'll stay with the men, who'll be housed elsewhere. We head up north to do those drop-offs first, then east for the rest. Any questions?” He left no time for any response, but eyed his crew directly. “No? Very good. Take them below.”
Maryam grew increasingly uneasy as all the women and younger children were escorted down through the workings of the ship and into its depths. Surely they could not all be expected to fit into the cell-like room she'd shared with Lazarus and Ruth? Yet, incredibly, they were. The crewmen corralled them in and locked the door.
The women hovered in shocked silence. With only three bunk beds, how on earth were fourteen souls expected to survive in such a cramped and airless space?
The ship picked up speed and the dreadful hammering of its engines sent shock waves through the cell's metal walls. The youngsters started to cry in unison, producing a terrible wailing that added a dissonant orchestration to the harsh mechanical din. The noise ripped at Maryam's heartstrings, and she found herself trembling as she backed against the wall to avoid the rain of extra sleeping mats and waste buckets the guards now threw in.