by Mandy Hager
Maryam didn't know what to do. If she retreated further into the jungle she'd have a better chance of escaping undetected before he landed, but then she wouldn't be able to find out who or what she might be dealing with. But time was short: the man was steadily progressing toward land. Have to think. All right…start with the sailing craft. It was sleek, with no sign of how it was made. No obvious timbers, no thatching…and the sun seemed to glint off the mast as though it was made of metal rather than wood. It had to be from somewhere far more advanced than any of the small islands…
Her decision-making got no further as the man reached water shallow enough to stand. Oh Lord, she'd have to flee now if she was ever to have a chance. She coiled herself, ready to spring out the back of the thicket and run away, when something about his appearance halted her. He was wading into shore now and, although the position of the sun still made it hard to see his features clearly, she had a sudden feeling she knew him. His skin was white; his hair, though wet, was much lighter and straighter than most native hair. Her heart did a backward flip. Joseph? Had he, through some miraculous magic, returned to comfort and support her?
She couldn't help herself, felt her body rising to greet him of its own accord. Buzzing static filled her ears as she broke through the undergrowth, her whole body tingling and on fire in its duel between disbelief and joy. Resurrection, restoration or rebirth…whatever miracle had just taken place was of no consequence—it was enough to know that, somehow, he had heard her desperate plea and now he was here. She walked out of the shadows to greet him, with a smile so wide and rare her face ached from the unexpected strain.
“Joseph!” She raised one hand in greeting, the other fanned over her thundering heart.
He waved in return and her heart faltered. How can this be? Now she ran toward him, all caution discarded as her eyes sufficiently adjusted to the sun to recognise his fine blond hair, his loping walk, his astonishing blue eyes, his…Then the truth struck her. Oh no! How had she got it so, so wrong?
She ground to a halt as Lazarus stepped out of the surf and jogged up the beach.
“Maryam! I can't believe I've found you! I was scared you'd already gone.” He was beaming like an excited child as he dripped his way across the sand to reach her side.
“What are you doing here?” She backed away from him, every cell in her body screaming out disappointment. How stupid to believe Joseph could return. What a pathetic fool.
The smile dropped from his wind-burnt face. “You're not pleased to see me?”
Derisive fury erupted from her depths. “Pleased? Why would I be pleased? Have you come to gloat over your elevated status? To tell me of the treasures on the Territorials’ shores?” She jerked her head toward the sailing craft. “Or did you merely want to crow about your nice new boat?”
Lazarus's face flushed even redder. “I came to help you! As soon as I reached the mainland all I've done is try to find a way to return to the camp to rescue you and Ruth.”
“Why should I believe that?”
Anger ignited in his eyes. “Why wouldn't you? I thought we'd finally become friends.”
“So did I,” Maryam spat. “But then I realised you'd been scheming behind our backs with Jo.”
“I can't believe this!” Lazarus shouted. Behind them, the nesting brown boobies squawked nervously. He slapped his hands down on his thighs, causing white finger marks to flare a moment on his sunburnt skin. “I didn't even want to leave the camp without you both. I had no choice. Littlejohn was so furious, he ordered the guards to shoot me if I put one foot wrong. But since I reached the mainland I've spent every waking hour hustling for a boat, then I sailed to the camp all on my own, only to find you gone and Ruth refusing to leave. So I've spent another whole week at sea, and now you act like this?” He shook his head, his shoulders slumping as though his bones had given way. “Look, just forget it. I'll leave you on your own.”
He spun away from her and stormed back toward the water, leaving Maryam speechless in his wake. Could she believe his claims? Though she hated to admit it, his angry words had the ring of truth. She swallowed hard, choking down her pride.
“Lazarus! Wait!”
He halted in his tracks but refused to turn back to her, so that she was forced to chase after him until she joined him, ankle deep, in the tepid surf. The bony ridges of his back added their own support to his claims. Whatever else had happened to him since he'd left the camp, he certainly had not been living off the fat of the land.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I shouldn't have—” It was hard enough apologising, worse not to see his reaction. She tentatively patted his shoulder. “Please, could you turn around?”
He didn't respond immediately. Then he sniffed and wiped his nose on the fine golden hairs of his forearm, his whole bony ribcage inflating as he drew in a deep breath. Now he turned, crossing his arms high across his chest, and she felt a surge of shame as she saw the watery aftermath of tears in his eyes. But it was clear by the grim set of his face he wasn't going to help her out: if she wanted to breach the gap between them, she'd have to do it on her own.
“When Charlie said that Jo had managed your release, I truly thought you'd planned it all—that your talk of friendship was a ruse.”
She watched how the accusation sent a ripple of annoyance out across his face.
“Great vote of confidence,” he muttered. His chin raised a little as he met her eye. “Jo told me you begged for her to get me help. So, perhaps if anybody can be blamed for my hurried departure it should be you.”
She felt as if he'd struck her. Of course she'd begged for Jo to get him out: it was all she could think to do when she'd discovered he was dying from Te Matee Iai. At the time, she recalled, she thought she'd never gain access to the cure. It truly hadn't occurred to her that Lazarus's removal to the mainland was the result of her own pleas. Once again she'd have to dine on humble pie, a meal she'd always found hard to swallow.
“You're right,” she said, keen just to get her awful humiliation over with. “Please, let's start again. Come into the shade and tell me everything that's happened since I saw you last.” Still he made no attempt to move, so she grabbed him by his elbow and towed him back up the beach. He resisted at first, his whole body stiff and unresponsive, but she didn't falter and he slowly loosened up. When they reached her shelter he examined it with a critical eye.
“You built this?”
“Uh huh.”
“Does it leak?”
“Only when it rains!” She grinned and was relieved to see the corners of his mouth twitch as well. “Come on—” she motioned to the boulders placed around the fire place—“sit down and I'll fetch you something to eat.”
After she'd rustled him up a selection of fresh fruit from her hastily hidden stash, she retrieved the machete from Charlie's bag to scalp a coconut for him to drink from.
“Where'd you get that?” Lazarus asked, pointing to the lethal blade.
“Dear Charlie.” She waited for him to down the drink before speaking again. “Tell me, how is Ruth?”
For a moment his eyes met hers, then slid away. “You know about the child?”
“Of course. Is she keeping well?”
“She has blossomed,” Lazarus said, shaking his head as though he couldn't believe it. “It's like she's found her calling.” He took a small knife from his pocket and weighed it in his hand for several seconds before he prised a sliver of fresh coconut from its shell. “Who'd have thought?”
“What? That you'd one day have a half-brother or sister?” Maryam felt strange saying this to him, but it was the truth and better stated as plain fact. “Chances are you already have quite a few.”
“That,” Lazarus said, “is no doubt true. But what I really meant is, who'd have thought she'd have the guts to stay there on her own and make it work?”
“I did,” Maryam responded. “You don't know her like I do. Although she fears the Lord's wrath more than anyone I know, her intentions a
nd her heart are pure. She was raised to serve, and serve she will.” Maryam laughed, to break the tension. “Not like me!”
“No one is as bad at taking orders as you!”
“Maybe except you.”
They were both smiling now, and she realised how much she'd missed human contact in her time alone. “Are you refreshed enough now to tell me your tale?”
Lazarus raised his arms up high above his head and stretched. “Do you mind if I lie down in the shelter while I do? My back has taken a dislike to hunching over the tiller day and night.”
Maryam watched Lazarus carefully as he stretched himself out on her crushed bed of leaves inside the shelter, then she settled herself cross-legged in the doorway.
“All right. Where do I start?” He tucked his hands in behind his head and wriggled his hips until he was comfortable. “I think I was in a state of shock for the first couple of days after they came for me. The whole boat trip to Newbrizzy is a bit of a blur.”
“Newbrizzy?”
“It's one of the Confederated Territories’ port cities.” He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her. “You wouldn't believe it. There must be a hundred huge ships there, as big as Star of the Sea, most of them deserted and rusting away, and the whole area is one massive container town. You know the huts at the camp? They call them containers, and there are thousands of them stacked on this reclaimed swampland by the port. It's like walking into Hell. So many desperate filthy people, stealing and fighting and living like wild pigs…every morning all the men who live there wait down at the wharf, hoping to get picked for work. Honestly, Maryam, when I first saw the way those poor Territorials lived, it made me wonder why anyone would fight so hard to go.”
“Do they all live like that?”
Lazarus sat up now, seemingly forgetting he'd come in here to rest his back. “I thought they all did, until I finally managed to make contact with Jo and she showed me around. Her father lived further along the river—he died, did you know? He left Jo his house in Confederation Town—and the whole area is completely protected by fences, like the camp, but if you touch them you get an electric shock, and there's these enormous buildings, taller than our highest jungle trees, and the people who live inside these compounds are all part of the group who rule the whole mainland—and, I'll tell you what, Maryam, they have things beyond your wildest dreams, like telephones, where you can speak to someone far away, and vehicles like trucks, only smaller, that they call cars. They have machines that tell stories through magic images and music that can be made as loud as thunder from tiny machines.” He paused to catch his breath.
“You saw all this?”
Lazarus nodded. “Jo let me stay at her father's house, but I had to stay hidden indoors. If his neighbours found out I was from the camp they'd have had me arrested, Jo said. To tell you the truth, it was overwhelming. I've never felt so insignificant or scared. The people down by the wharves may've been rough and desperate, but the people inside Confederation Town would slit your throat then chuck you over the fence for the stray dogs to eat. It's horrible. I couldn't wait to get away. If the Lord walks among those so-called civilised people then I'll be damned.”
“How long did you stay?”
“About five weeks or so. Jo fixed me up a job picking stones out of grain down at the wharves, but those few weeks were all I could bear. Besides, all I wanted to do was find a boat and get back to the camp. I figured once I got there Charlie could help me break you and Ruth out, but when Jo managed to help me get this boat and I finally arrived back at the camp, Charlie told me you'd already gone. He snuck me in to talk to Ruth one day when Littlejohn was busy, but she refused to come. In the end I figured I'd just head for Marawa Island and hope you were still here.”
“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 th
e 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.