by Mandy Hager
The Blessed Sisters, from both the atoll and Star of the Sea, stood in a cluster to the right of the Apostles. They were singing again as a group of faithful women formed a straggly line before the Judgement table, the tiny children at their hips unnaturally silent as the song took flight. “We surrender all, All to Thee, our Holy Father, We surrender all…”
Maryam scanned the Sisters’ faces. How pale and docile they looked, her fellow Sisters from the ship. Just how many others had died from loss of blood since she'd seen them last? A shudder ran through her and she clutched Lazarus's hand even more tightly.
When the hymn had ended, Father Joshua took the raised crucifix and unsheathed it from its silver sleeve. The sunlight glinted off its thin faceted blade, adding a supernatural aura as he intoned a prayer. “Heavenly Father, great saviour of the Apostles of the Lamb, bring forth Your children that they may serve Your chosen Masters on this earth.” With great pomp he drew the blade across the cross-hatch of scars on his palm, unflinching as he shed his blood into a silver chalice held by Mother Lilith, his cold gaze never pausing in its sweep of the crowd. Maryam ducked behind the villagers in front of her, away from his searing eyes, as he barked out: “Rule Number Five!”
The congregation were quick to heed his call. “At the time of Judgement, the Lord anoints His Chosen and entrusts them to serve under the wise and loving rule of the Apostles of the Lamb.”
Beside her, Lazarus snorted under his breath. “Wise and loving? There's a joke.” His face was pinched with tension, his eyes as restless as his father's as he gauged the crowd.
After Father Joshua had been bled and his wound bound by Mother Lilith, the first of the mothers brought forward her squirming toddler. Beaming with pride, she sat the infant on the Judgement table, bowed her head, and clearly recited Rule Number Nine. “None may question the authority of the Lord's chosen representatives: the sacred Apostles of the Lamb.”
In a movement so quick there was no time to recoil, Father Joshua flicked the blade across the child's heel. A beaded line of red blossomed into flowing blood as the child screamed with pain and threw her arms up to her mother, her little face crumpled in shock and disbelief. The mother calmly held the girl down as Mother Lilith stepped forward to collect the blood into a sacrificial cup, before strapping the foot with bandages. From her vantage point at the back of the crowd, Maryam's foot curled of its own accord, the place that marked the site of her own injury smarting and itching as though in sympathy with the crying child's pain.
Meanwhile, Mother Lilith took a measure of blood from each of the vessels and mixed them together in a pure white dish. She leaned in close, taking a small eyeglass from her pocket to inspect the blood. After a few long minutes, punctuated only by the cries of the infant before her and the shuffling of feet, she lifted her head. “No,” she said. “This one is not Chosen by the Lord to serve.”
The mother let out her own wail of grief now, and had to be led away by one of the bystanders as the next child was brought forward for the test. One after another the children were sliced by Father Joshua's knife and their blood mixed with his, until the air was fraught with crying. Maryam wanted nothing more than to run away. It dredged up her earliest memory—her mother's distraught face as Maryam was wrestled, kicking and screaming, from her arms.
Eventually nine toddlers were declared Chosen—three boys, six girls—for no reason other than that their blood did not clot with Father Joshua's and somehow was able to keep him and his followers alive. Maryam knew there was no decree from the Lord to justify this act, just cold-hearted thirst to hold on to a life bloated with power. She felt sickened by it, so nauseous she had to drop down to her haunches and take deep gulping breaths to stop her stomach turning inside out. She could feel the warm blade of the concealed knife press against her back, a brutal reminder—as if she needed it—that danger lurked around every corner and that she and Lazarus were so outnumbered the only escape, should she be confronted, might well be to turn the blade upon herself. Better that, she reasoned, than dying at the hands of Father Joshua.
Above her, weaving through the sea of faithful villagers, came the Holy Father's next words. “Chastised a little, they shall be greatly blessed, because the Lord has tried them and found them worthy of Himself. As gold in the furnace, he proved them, and as sacrificial offerings he takes them now to Serve…”
“Obey your earthly masters with deep respect and fear…” the other Apostles around him droned. “Serve them as sincerely as you serve the Lamb…”
Maryam guessed what would be happening now and knew she could not watch. The screaming of the little girls as they were wrenched from their mothers was enough to contend with. The Chosen would be taken by longboat to the atoll and settled there, no longer carefree youngsters but Blessed Sisters, schooled to believe without question, and to obey. And the boys whose blood had mingled safely with the Holy Father's would be marched into the Holy City, weaned off their mothers’ milk with toddy, and raised as servers who might one day—if the Apostles did not get in first—bed a Blessed Sister and breed more sacrificial children with the life-saving blood. How she despised it all.
Once the new batch of Chosen had been whisked away, the Apostles’ job was nearly at its end. Just a few more minutes of Father Joshua's blatant hypocrisy and he'd return with his white-skinned acolytes to Star of the Sea, assured of fresh new blood. Again her stomach churned. Soon she would try to put an end to this…it was almost time.
She tugged at Lazarus's hand and whispered urgently into his ear. “Can you see Vanesse and Lesuna?”
“Not yet, but if I hoist myself up a bit…” Lazarus put down Charlie's bag and rose up to his tiptoes, scanning the crowd as his father began his final prayer.
“Oh Lord, great provider of all, we thank you for—” Suddenly he stopped. “Lazarus?” The name rang out harshly when all around was silence. “Come forth!”
Lazarus dropped down beside Maryam, his face gaunt with shock. “He's seen me,” he hissed, pushing her away from him. “Go! Take the bag and run into the trees.” He reached under the hem of his trousers and withdrew the knife.
“I'm not leaving you alone to—”
“Just go,” he said, his voice hard and tense. “I'll get my father out of here, then you must announce the cure. I'll be all right.” Already the villagers were peeling back around them. Lazarus shoved her again, so hard she nearly lost her balance. “Don't worry, Vanesse is here. I'll meet you back at Windstalker tomorrow. Now go, go, go.”
As she scooped up the bag and fled into the bushes Maryam glanced back over her shoulder in time to see Lazarus very slowly and deliberately rise to his feet. He held his knife concealed behind his back. “Father,” he called, betraying none of his inner turmoil. “The Lord has heard your prayers. I've come back from the dead!”
Maryam burst through a prickly thicket of bushes and launched herself up the rope-like roots of an old fig tree, hoisting her ceremonial gown around her waist to free her legs for climbing. She knew how lucky she was not to be wearing the white Judgement gown—the tapa cloth of black and brown merged with the tree's spreading branches. From her vantage point she watched as Lazarus walked forward to greet his mother and father, their faces agog with disbelief. Past the panicked buzzing in her head she heard the murmuring of the crowd surge like the gusty harbingers of a storm when Father Joshua stepped forward to embrace his son just as Lazarus quickly wedged the knife into the back of his belt, then flicked his shirt out of his pants to mask the hilt of the blade.
“It is a miracle!” Father Joshua proclaimed, releasing Lazarus to hold him at arm's length to search his face.
Then Mother Lilith pushed in, taking her boy in her arms and kissing him chastely on each cheek. “My son,” she said, “I did not think the good Lord had heard my prayers.”
Through all this Lazarus stood stiffly to attention, his back a rod. He turned to the congregation, his voice pitched to reach every ear. “I return to bring you proo
f of the Lord's great grace.” His gaze flicked around the gathering, as though he sought Maryam out. When he did not see her, his shoulders relaxed a little, and he turned to speak to his parents while still projecting out his words for all to hear. “Let us return at once to the Holy City, and leave your faithful subjects to complete the Judgement on their own.” He swept an arm around each of them, guiding them quickly toward the causeway and leaving the other Apostles to follow, stunned, in their speedy wake.
Maryam was impressed by his cool-headedness, and buoyed by his commitment to the plan, yet she feared for him, knowing that once he was ensconced in Star of the Sea all pretence of politeness would soon be swept away. She knew why he had done this, drawing the Apostles away so she could speak, and she was grateful. But she hated having to leave his fortunes to the fates, not knowing what would become of him, while she prepared to expose his parents for what they were. Joseph, please keep him safe.
As the Apostles moved in procession along the causeway, the villagers began again to stir. She scanned the gathering, relieved to spy Vanesse and Lesuna pushing through the crowd. They made their way over to where Lazarus had been standing, casting about in search of her. Maryam picked a tiny fig and threw it with surprising accuracy to hit Vanesse's back. She spun around, confused, before raising her eyes to scrutinise the tree. As she spotted Maryam through the maze of branches, her eyes widened in recognition and she nodded slowly, as if to reassure herself, and mouthed out “Wait.”
Beyond, the chief of Kakaonimaki village, bedecked in his flax skirt and shark's-tooth collar, was taking charge, ordering the seven white sacrificial goats to be brought forward for the kill. While the poor doomed creatures were led into the clearing beside the Judgement table, the chief lit up a wad of aro ni mi teuana leaves, passing it among the other village chiefs to smoke and so induce their ritual trance. And now the dancers began their shuffle, flaxen skirts and feathered knee adornments flying out around them as the singers upped the tempo on their goat-skin drums and the dancers started to stamp their feet in time to the beats.
“Auee! Auee! Te aomata a ataeinimm ‘aane to Ekaretia te Atua…” The voices swelled in the air and were picked up by the villagers as the dancers jumped and spun, stamped and clapped, and sang their praises to the Lord. The toddy was flowing freely now, scooped up in cups from two full barrels by the chapel doors.
Meanwhile, the seven spooked goats were finally in position, the whites of their eyes flaring as the chaotic noise added to their fear. Machetes were sharpened and the chalices prepared to receive the spill of blood, the heightened feral excitement building like a wind-buffed sea, the goats pulling at their ropes and bleating with prophetic urgency when the chief stepped forward to make the kill.
He took position by the first of the goats and raised the machete—and, with the suddenness of a thunderclap, all motion and noise ceased at once. This was the moment Maryam had been waiting for. If she was to speak it must be now, before bloodlust and toddy stole all vestiges of common sense.
“Stop!” she hollered.
Hundreds of faces turned toward her as she slithered down the tree and burst out through the bushes. Her heart was pounding and she knew she had to hurry if she was to hold her nerve, spitting out her words as she walked forward to face the chief.
“I am Sister Maryam.”
Around her there was an audible drawing in of breath and the chief's look of surprise transformed to one of bitter hostility.
“Listen carefully. I will utter things which have been kept from the foundation of the world.” She had no idea why these words sprang to her lips. Where had she heard them? Then it struck her. Of course! They came from the Holy Book.
“Lucifer's child!” someone called out from the crowd, and a restless wave swept through the ranks.
She spun on her heels to face her accuser, heat roaring up her face. Her knees were shaking—her whole body was shaking. This little light of mine… She conjured up the light, hoping its purity would shine out through her eyes.
“I have returned from across the seas, where there are others still living.” A gasp swirled around her and she knew that, now, she could not stop. “I have seen the world beyond our shores and I can tell you this: the Apostles of the Lamb have lied.”
“Seize her,” the chief cried.
“No, wait!” Vanesse stepped into the clearing, her broad face fraught with nerves as her plea halted several avengers in their tracks. She motioned for Lesuna, who followed tentatively in her wake. “Let her speak. Our Sister knows something I think you'll want to hear.”
“The Apostles use the Sisters to steal our blood,” Maryam said, lifting her voice so every single villager in the vast crowd could hear. “They are no more immune to Te Matee Iai than you or I. Even Father Joshua is blighted with the plague.”
“Lies!” the chief burst out. “The Lord protects his Apostles. Your mouth is filled with filthy lies.”
“The only lies are those told by the Apostles,” Maryam countered, anger rising in her now. How can they not see I tell the truth? “I have experienced their cruelty first hand. But more than this, I can prove their words are lies.” She beckoned Lesuna forward. “Here is your sister Lesuna from Aneaba, who was dying from Te Matee Iai until I returned with knowledge of a cure!”
“It's true,” Lesuna said, her face flushed bougainvillea red, emphasising the last of Te Matee Iai's fading bruises around her neck. “And those from my village will confirm it. Only a few days ago I was dying from the plague, but thanks to Sister Maryam I am cured!”
“And Lazarus, son of the Holy Father himself!” Vanesse added. “He, too, has been saved by Sister Maryam from death's dark door.”
A whirlwind of murmurs stirred the crowd.
“I am here to offer all of you the cure,” Maryam continued. “It's time to stop the murder of your sisters and daughters. It's time to rise and tell the Apostles we have had enough!”
To her amazement, one of the drummers shed his instrument and crossed to Maryam's side. She could see at once he bore the first markings of Te Matee Iai. “If what you say is true, Sister, then cure me too. I have no wish to die.” He knelt down and kissed the hem of her gown, declaring, “If I may touch but His clothes, I shall be whole.”
Maryam stared down at him in horror. This was not what she intended—some hysterical reference to the Holy Book—not what she had planned at all. But villager after villager flooded forward as well. So many sick: some bearing the ugly purple bruises, some blind and maimed, and some so weak they had to be escorted by another to make it to her side. They gathered around her, laying their hands upon her as if the mere act of touching her could cure their ills.
“Why let the girl talk like this?” The chief jumped onto the table to make himself heard above the frantic bleating of the goats and the pandemonium of the crowd. “She is blaspheming! No one can cure the plague but the Lord alone.” He brandished the machete, slicing the air. “Rule Number Ten: Let any who reject the word of the Apostles of the Lamb be cast from the flock and punished in the name of the Lord.”
“The Rules are there to enslave our will!” Maryam yelled above the chaos. “We must reject them if we are ever to be free.” Her head was pulsing, her stomach knotting as the crush around her started to get out of control.
Vanesse was trying to push through to help her, but even with her added weight she couldn't break through the wall of villagers who flocked to be healed. She cupped her hands around her mouth to project her voice.
“Move back! If you want to learn about the cure you'll have to leave her be. Move back!”
But no one took any notice of her words and the people surged forward. Amidst all the pushing and shoving, Maryam started to lose focus. Her hair was being pulled, her gown tugged awry. She had to get out of here. Had to find some air. In total desperation she dropped to her knees and began to crawl out between the legs of the pleading mob. She managed to scramble to the outer edge of the fray as Vanesse reac
hed her, helping haul her back up to her feet. She was crying now, cut and bruised and scraped—and terrified of what would happen next. If only Lazarus was still here to support her as well, though the Lord only knew what terrors he now faced inside the ship.
Meanwhile the chief was still screaming from his vantage point on the table. “She has been hiding, that is all. No one leaves Onewēre and survives. There is nothing beyond our shores but death.”
“Show them the treasures,” Vanesse said, shoving the abandoned bag into Maryam's unsteady hand. “This may well be your only chance.”
For a moment Maryam could do nothing. Her mind had gone blank. Then a picture of Lazarus's meeting with his parents came into her mind, and she knew she had to persevere—he had met his dread head on and so must she. She had to do whatever it took to change the villagers’ minds, so every islander—including Lazarus—was freed from the Apostles’ deadly grip.
She tucked the bag under her arm and ploughed into the crowd again, raked by their grabbing hands as she approached the chief. “You are wrong!” she said, scrambling up onto the table beside him so they confronted each other nose to nose. The sour sweat of him mixed with the stinking urine and droppings from the agitated goats and this, compounded with her own nauseous nerves, made her want to gag. She swallowed compulsively to hold it back.
Maryam reached into the bag and drew out a box of the Territorials’ matches. “Look,” she said, fumbling to strike one of the sticks. “This is just one of the many magical things devised by the people beyond our shores—the people they call the Territorials.” When the match flared the chief took a surprised step backward and lost his footing, fighting to regain his balance by flailing his arms and legs. It might have been funny had it not just enraged him further, and he rose from the urine-soaked ground with murder written in his eyes.