Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb)

by Mandy Hager

  “You have seen him recently?”

  “He tried to make contact with me around the time of your disappearance, but all communication between the villages and the Holy City is now controlled by the Holy Father. I know my brother hinted of deep concerns about what was going on there, but he did not have a chance to tell me before communication stopped. It worries me greatly, as he is very frail.”

  “I will try to bring him to you somehow,” Lazarus said. “It's time he had a chance to rest.”

  The old man shook his head again, as though it was all too much to take in, but then his focus shifted and he studied Lazarus openly, his hooded eyes soaking in his appearance from head to foot. “Whatever happened to you, boy, it seems you've come back to yourself.” Then he addressed Maryam again. “If somehow you have helped him exorcise the angry taimonio that had possessed him, I am glad—and grateful too.” He smiled at Lazarus. “You used to be such a sweet boy.” His face crumpled and tears filmed his eyes. “Already I have grieved for Joseph, but now I feel the pain anew.”

  Maryam couldn't bear to watch the old man collapse into his misery all alone. She squatted next to him and wrapped her arms around him to soothe him as he cried, finding her own tears for Joseph and his mother mingling with his. For Mother Deborah to end her life like that was such a waste, yet Maryam couldn't condemn her—Deborah would have known she'd never see her son again, and the finality of it must have seemed too hard to abide. Besides, knowing now that Father Joshua had evicted his brother Jonah and his family on pain of death, perhaps Mother Deborah felt she had no one left to protect her from his unpredictable wrath.

  When Brother Kokoria had finally recovered himself, Maryam burst out with a new question. “Tell me, what news is there of Natau from Aneaba?” Even saying her father's name aloud was hard. His rejection sat inside her like a festering sore.

  “There is talk of replacing him as village chief since his accident—”

  “Accident? What happened?”

  Brother Kokoria's eyes met hers. “Yes, I see now the resemblance.” He cleared his throat. “He was helping cut flax for weaving when he slipped and his machete slashed his leg. He lost a lot of blood but, worse than that, the wound refuses to heal.”

  “Have they treated him with tabunea moss?” She pictured his limbs, so fine and fragile like her own. There was little flesh there to protect the bone.

  “The old healer, Umatu, has been tending him, but the younger men in the village say his time as chief has passed.”

  Maryam tried to hold herself together. She needed to know who she could rely on now Mother Deborah was gone. “And the woman, Vanesse? Is she still there?” Surely she would help, given Joseph had already told her of the Apostles’ theft of blood. And she'd been so kind, befriending Maryam even as her father cast her out.

  “Vanesse, daughter of Tebaatei?” Brother Kokoria nodded. “Yes, she stays in Aneaba, though her family comes from here. She nurses her cousin Lesuna who, since word of her daughter's death, has been stricken by Te Matee Iai. They say she'll not last more than another week at most.”

  “Oh no!” Maryam's hand shot to her mouth. This was her fault. Hers alone. She never should've told Vanesse that her niece Sarah—Tekeaa to her family—had died at the Apostles’ hands.

  Then realisation surfaced like a joyous dolphin, and she remembered how she could help. She knew the cure!

  Her heart bounding with excitement, she hardly noticed Lazarus and Brother Kokoria go off in search of bedding and food. This would be her first test—a chance to find out if old Filza spoke the truth. She would save Lesuna, and in the process prove to the people of Aneaba that she could cure Te Matee Iai…But she would have to take this first step slowly and secretly, just in case Filza's recipe failed. As for her father, if it was infection that was eating him, perhaps Vanesse could persuade him to take the antibiotics stashed in Charlie's bag. He need never know they came from her.

  Lazarus returned with two sleeping mats and old blankets, plus enough bread and goat's cheese for them to have breakfast as well. They ate hungrily as Maryam told Lazarus all about the flying machine and then revealed her newly hatched plan, pleased that he agreed it was as good a place as any to start.

  “We can stay here as long as we like,” he assured her. “Koko will keep our secret safe.”

  “You really trust him?”

  “Do you trust his brother Hushai?”

  “With my life.”

  Lazarus laughed. “Then you are answered, for the two are one. They were born only ten minutes apart.”

  “They are twins?” No wonder she felt so safe with him. “Did you know Hushai was blinded by the Apostles—your grandfather, I suppose—for trying to escape?”

  He didn't answer for a moment, and Maryam realised how tired he looked, with deep shadows forming under his eyes. “So I've heard, although my father denies it—he says Hushai was struck down by the Lord.”

  Maryam thought back to Brother Kokoria's claim that Lazarus had been possessed by a taimonio—a demon—and it struck her now that in a way he was. His demon of a father, who took the truth and twisted it to his own ends. It comforted her to know that old Brother Kokoria backed up Joseph's assertion that Lazarus had not always been as brutal and difficult as she first thought him to be. But how insidious the poison Father Joshua and his disciples dripped into the mind. It scared her that he had not been content to know she was gone and would cause no more trouble. He had vilified her, blaming her for Lazarus's and Joseph's disappearance and, now, for the monster from the skies as well. Had her father heard these claims? The Sisters on the atoll?

  How, she wondered, would she be able to convince the villagers the cure was safe and real if she and Lucifer—and flying omens—could all be spoken of in the same breath? She turned to Lazarus for his thoughts, but the long day had taken its toll and sleep had hijacked him. Maryam had no choice but to curl up by the embers of the dying fire and try to welcome sleep as well. As it tiptoed toward her, skittish and resistant, words from the Book of Judges swirled inside her head and spoke the sorrow of her heart. Awake, awake, Deborah: Awake, awake, utter a song…

  When Maryam awoke, warm fingers of sunlight reached in through the thatched shutters to caress her cheek. Lazarus lay beside her, tousled but only half asleep.

  He rose up on one elbow and reached across, tucking a tangle of her wiry hair behind her ear as his proximity put her senses onto high alert. “How did you do that?” he asked, indicating to the scar on the tip of her ear.

  “I had a fight with a rock,” she answered, recalling the night she and Joseph had hidden in the cleft behind the waterfall, his body crammed so close to hers she'd felt his every breath.

  “Someone threw a rock at you?” Lazarus sounded outraged.

  “No.” She laughed. “It was my own clumsiness. I have scars all over me!” She sat and drew up her legs, pointing to the many tiny purple marks that pitted her knees. “Look! Here and here…and here…” His eyes tracked her finger, and all at once she realised just how intently he was studying her skin. A wave of heat flooded her and she pulled the blanket back across her legs, shrugging as casually as she could. “See. Just plain old clumsy.”

  Now Lazarus sat up as well. “Once, when I was ten,” he said, “I tried to climb this really tall coconut palm to prove to Joseph I wasn't afraid. I was doing quite well until my aunt spotted me. As soon as she called out, warning me not to fall, I did! Here, look!” He dragged his unkempt hair back from his forehead and leaned forward to show her the crescent-shaped scar. “I was knocked out for about five minutes. Poor Aunt Deborah nearly died of fright—and my mother was so angry she stopped me visiting here on my own.”

  “Did that upset you?”

  “I seem to recall locking myself in my room and refusing to speak to her for at least a week. In the end Father broke the lock and caned me for causing her distress.”

  “He beat you?”

  “All the time. Two strikes were n
ormal—good parental discipline, he called it—I think the most I ever had in one session was six…no, eight. That hurts.”

  For a moment Maryam had a sickening flash of Brother Mark, who was lashed for helping her escape the Holy City and later died from his wounds. How could beating someone to death be condoned by the Lord? She longed to fire this question at Father Joshua—to stand before him and all his disciples and speak the truth. Yet, even as she thought this, she was swept by fear. There was a good chance standing up to him meant she would die, and if Lazarus—

  “Listen, Lazarus,” she said. “If staying with me is going to put you more at risk, then go. I'll manage on my own. I—”

  “Are you crazy? I'm not leaving you to fight this on your own. Besides—” he pointed a finger at her accusingly—“and I don't want you to use this to constantly throw back in my face—I concede that my having jumped boat with you has now put you more at risk. It never occurred to me that Father would blame you.”

  So he could admit he was wrong…“All right,” she giggled, “but you have to let me say it just once: I told you so!”

  Lazarus groaned and fell back on his mat as if struck. He played dead for a few seconds before opening one eye to check she was still smiling. “But seriously…” he said, and now he really did grow grave. “If you think my presence could make it harder for you, then let me know. Just say the word and I'll be gone.” His blue eyes held hers, and she was trapped in the intensity of his stare.

  Did she want him to go? Ever since he'd forced his way onto the boat she'd wished it, yet now the thought of losing his company made her panic in a way that she could not explain. He was the only one who knew what she had been through—seen Marawa Island, survived the camp, mourned with her as they'd tipped Joseph's lifeless body from the boat…She'd saved him from Te Matee Iai and he, for all his arrogant hostility, had pulled her from the sea and saved her life as well.

  “I'm sorry, Brother Lazarus,” she finally replied. “But, after due consideration, I think it's best you stick with me.”

  “All right,” he said, offering her his hand to seal the pact. “Let's get this underway.”

  With no reason to stay any longer at Motirawa, and no desire to be recognised there, Maryam and Lazarus began their trek around the coast to Aneaba, Maryam's place of birth. She had no memory of her first years before she was Chosen at the Judgement—merely a vague picture of her mother's face that came to her in dreams.

  She tried to put aside her fears about their likely reception and simply enjoy the journey—it felt so good to be back on familiar ground. The sun had burnt off its early-morning haze, and everything around them seemed to sparkle with such freshness, it was as if they were the first ever to walk these shores. The sea, so calm it reflected back the faded hibiscus-blue of the sky, barely broke as it lapped the sand. Maryam and Lazarus ambled along in its shallows, drinking in the view.

  “I went to Aneaba with Father once,” Lazarus told her as they walked. “I think I was about five or six. He was there to consecrate the choosing of the chief—”

  “My father? You were there?”

  Lazarus nodded. “I suppose. I don't remember much about the man, just how long and tedious everything felt. I had to sit through hours of prayer and speeches but Father absolutely refused to let me leave his side. Even when I needed to relieve myself I was forbidden to move. I remember the humiliation when I lost control…” He laughed, glancing at her sideways as a flush rose up his throat. “You should've seen my father when he realised I'd wet myself. He nearly wrung my neck.”

  She resisted the urge to tease him, amazed that he would share such an intimate tale. “That's ridiculous. You were a little boy.”

  “That never stopped him,” Lazarus said, all humour dropping from his face. “The thing I remember most, though, was the celebration that went on into the night. Father produced a whole barrel of toddy and everyone was forced to drink it—even me. I have this memory of wild dancing and, later, men and women doing things together that I didn't understand at the time. Then I threw up and someone put me into bed.”

  Maryam stayed silent. She knew what they must have been up to and, though her brain told her it was wrong, her abdomen argued otherwise—pulsing with a dangerous heat. What was the matter with her? Ever since those rare moments of intimacy with Joseph, her body seemed to respond to indecent thoughts against her conscious will. This act between a man and woman terrified her, so why then did it still have the power to claim such a persistent place inside her head?

  “The toddy is a potent weapon of control,” she said now, forcing these unsettling thoughts away. “I've seen the way it stains the servers’ eyes.” She pictured the yellow cast—how it consumed the white and dulled all life inside.

  “In Newbrizzy they have many different drinks that do the same,” said Lazarus. “If you think our toddy burns, then try the poison of the Territorials!” He shuddered. “One night I drank so much I swear I can't remember two whole days.”

  “Why even try it then?” Maryam asked. “You're quick enough to label toddy drinking by the servers as weak.” She couldn't quite keep down her annoyance. She'd seen him use the toddy to stupefy a server, after all. He knew full well its powerful intoxicating force.

  He rounded on her, bristling right back. “Have you never just wanted to wipe everything away?” He scuffed his foot through the tide, sending a spray of water out in front of them.

  “Of course. You think that you—”

  “I don't mean that I have suffered more,” he butted in. “Just that there are times when toddy has the power to take the pain away.” He resumed walking, muttering under his breath: “Maybe you should try it sometime. Give yourself a break.”

  “I heard that!” she snarled back at him. “I've had toddy forced down my throat and I can assure you all it did was make things worse.”

  “Not like that,” Lazarus insisted. “Just a little—enough to calm the mind.”

  “The mind can be calmed by practice and by strength of will. Aanjay taught me that.”

  “Well, good for you. Perhaps I'm just not as righteous.”

  Or self-controlled, Maryam added to herself. But she let the conversation drop. Their tussle had put a dampener on the simple glory of the day. The trouble was, neither she nor Lazarus could let go of their past, even with the best of intentions. It stood between them always, like a restless ghost. He talked of pain, yet not so very long ago he'd had no scruples about causing it in others. This irked her still.

  They trudged on in silence. Just before noon, as they were about to cross another of the small streams that trickled down toward the sea, Lazarus called a halt.

  “Let's have a breather over there and sit out the worst of the heat,” he suggested, pointing to the glade where the stream emerged between a stand of pandanus palms. “Besides, it's probably better we approach your friend Vanesse once it's dark.”

  Maryam nodded, too hot and too disgruntled to speak. How in heaven's name would they survive this crazy endeavour if every time they spoke it turned into a fight? She headed up the beach and chose a cool spot on the bank of the stream, sinking her hot feet into the water as Lazarus dropped the bag down with a grunt and joined her on the bank.

  “Are you ever going to talk to me again?” he asked, peering at her from beneath his straggly fringe of hair.

  She shrugged. Is it really worth the bother? Perhaps now they were safely home it would be better if they split after all.

  “Look,” Lazarus said. “I'm not the enemy, I'm here to help. I understand the intrigues of the Holy City and I know the workings of my father's mind. Could we not just call a truce once and for all?”

  Maryam reached down and drew up a handful of water, drinking it while she considered what he'd said. She knew she was being unreasonable, taking offence where he meant none. It was just that seeing him back in Onewēre, where every place held a memory of his arrogant pursuit of her…and of the death of Joseph, and poor Moth
er Deborah, not to mention Sarah, Brother Mark and the assault on dearest Ruth…so many memories to lay to rest and losses to grieve…Out of nowhere she was ambushed by a storm of tears. It was one thing to have great plans for liberation of her people, but quite another to be confronted by the reality of the dangers ahead.

  She hid her face in her hands, ashamed that he should see her weakness but, no matter how she tried, she could not halt the tears.

  “Maryam, shhhhh.” Lazarus reached over and awkwardly patted her back. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” He sounded almost as distressed as she was. “Please don't cry.”

  Now, with all the determination she could muster, she fought to rein back the tears. She heard Ruth's voice: Fear thou not: for I am with thee; be not dismayed… and though she knew the words were from the Holy Book she felt as if Ruth's spirit reached out to give her strength. She wiped her eyes, sniffing loudly as she slowly regained control.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “I think the news of Mother Deborah's death has shaken me more than I thought.”

  Lazarus dropped his hand from her back. “You and me both.” He sighed. “Are you all right now?”

  “Yes.” She must put her doubts about Lazarus behind her, even if there were times he simply drove her mad. After all, she needed every scrap of help she could get, and he had just as much to lose as her. Father Joshua was hardly going to welcome him back once he heard his son had chosen to leave and now taken her side.

  They decided to pass the hot afternoon beneath the pandanus palms, so Lazarus went off to collect cockles for their lunch. She watched him search for the tell-tale dimples in the sand, then squirm the ball of his foot into its soft surface until he flicked the cockle out of the hole with the tip of his toes. Maryam dozed then, drifting in and out of sleep to ponder how she'd approach Vanesse with her plan once night fell. She could not remember precisely where Vanesse lived, but hoped she'd recognise her hut once they came to the village. If not, perhaps an unattended village child would help—the young ones were unlikely to be as suspicious as the adults. So long as Vanesse's mind had not been poisoned by Father Joshua's claims, all would be well. Lazarus, meantime, had disappeared into the jungle, and he woke Maryam with a start when he returned to dangle two uprooted miriki-tarai shrubs under her nose.