Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb)

by Mandy Hager

  Maryam woke to find Lazarus laying a tray of fresh food on the bunk below her.

  “Good morning,” he said, as though nothing significant had passed between them the evening before. He looked crumpled and exhausted, however, as if his sleep had given him no peace. “Hushai just dropped this off. I think you'd better eat as much as possible—he reports that there's definitely something afoot.”

  She climbed down from the bunk to join him. “Did he say what?”

  “He doesn't know. But he said the whole ship is rife with rumours that some of the villagers are ignoring Father's edict and still seeking the cure.”

  “See?” she said. “Our little flame is still alive.”

  “Which is more than we may be by the end of the day, if Hushai's intuition is correct.” There was such desolation in his voice, Maryam felt her stomach lurch. The nausea of fear had made a speedy return.

  They ate their meal of bread, goat cheese and fresh fruit in silence, each locked inside their own dread. I should pray, Maryam thought. If there ever was a need the time is now. But this really was no longer a viable option: her faith in the Lord had been tested a step too far, and now she'd opened her heart and mind to the possibility that He did not exist—or at least not in the ways depicted in the Holy Book or espoused by the Apostles—there was no going back. She would have to rely on her own inner strength, just as she'd had to do right from the start. Besides, even the Lamb had been deserted by His Father in his final hours. Ruth was right not to agree to come.

  There was nothing to do but wait now, though the minutes felt like hours and the hours like whole days. At times they talked, trying to devise plans for escape, but it felt so pointless and impossible that, in the end, they tacitly agreed to change the subject, attempting to distract themselves with silly stories from their younger days. Lazarus had a gift for this, was able to make her laugh even at this worst of times, but all the while her fear weighed upon her like thick humid air and she could not seem to take more than the shallowest of breaths.

  At last the door clanged open and the same bulky server who had marched her from Motirawa entered the room. He pointed to Maryam. “You, come with me.” She rose on shaky legs, Lazarus right beside her. “No,” he said to Lazarus, “You stay.”

  “If you think I'm letting her go without me you are—” He got no further. The server swiped him across the face so hard with the back of his hand, Lazarus fell to the floor.

  “You pig!” Maryam cried, stooping down to see if Lazarus was all right.

  But the server grabbed her roughly around the neck and pulled her away. He dragged her, kicking and defiant, from the room, leaving the still reeling Lazarus locked inside.

  “Please. You don't have to do this,” she cried as the man led her past the noisy water purifiers and up a flight of stairs. “Why stay here when you could be free?”

  He refused to answer her. They turned into one of the endless mildewed corridors where the Sisters slept. They passed one numbered door after another, and Maryam felt as if all coordination between her brain and body was lost. She could hardly lift her feet to take each step, let alone work out where she was. Finally, at the end of the corridor, he thrust her through an open door and locked it behind her.

  Not again.

  She spun around, convinced she'd find Father Joshua here ready to accost her.

  “Te bebi!” It was Mother Elizabeth, the woman whom Maryam had once thought of as her adopted mother. She held out her arms to Maryam, beckoning her into an embrace.

  Maryam could see her pregnant belly beneath her tunic, and felt repelled. She backed against the locked door. “Don't touch me. I know you for what you really are.” She had known. She'd consciously nurtured the Sisters until they were ripe for sacrifice—fattened like goats for slaughter—all the time filling up their heads with the Apostles’ lies.

  Mother Elizabeth dropped her arms. “I understand your anger at me. I really do. But you have to believe me when I tell you I am sorry. I'd never really thought through the consequences until you made me see.” She took a tentative step forward, stopping again when Maryam pressed back further into the door.

  “Why should I believe you? Everything else you'd ever said was lies.”

  “Please, Maryam, have some faith in me—”

  “Faith has been my biggest downfall. Tell me. Will you sacrifice your own baby at the altar too?”

  Tears brimmed in Mother Elizabeth's eyes. “Since the day you and dear Ruth left, I've suffered cruelly, knowing what I did was wrong. But what can I do? You know The Rules.”

  “I know them and defy them—I'd rather die than let him sour my soul.”

  Mother Elizabeth crossed to the bed that lay along one wall, collapsing onto it as if her legs had given way beneath her. “I'm not as brave as you. There—that's the truth. I was raised to do my job, to obey without question…This is who I am. I'm sorry. I know you think me weak.”

  “I do.” Maryam's anger and sense of betrayal were undiminished, yet to see her Mother so cowed and hurt was hard to bear. She conceded enough to cross the room and sit beside her, though not so close that Mother Elizabeth could touch her if she tried. “If you really are sorry,” she said now, knowing her words would be in vain but compelled to try, “send someone to free Lazarus and let us go. We'll disappear. You'll never have to see either of us ever again.”

  Mother Elizabeth wrung her hands, tears tracking down her velvety cheeks. “You know I cannot do that, te bebi. I've risked my baby's life twice for you already—I never told the Holy Father that I saw you and Ruth leave, and I warned Lazarus that he meant you harm. Is that not enough?”

  Maryam weighed up the chances of success if she continued pleading, but she knew Mother Elizabeth had spoken the truth: she simply wasn't brave enough to take further risks. She felt her anger at the woman melt away. In a sense Mother Elizabeth was just like Ruth: obedience was so ingrained in her make-up and her faith, she'd never fight the status quo, unless she had no other choice. And, again like Ruth, the compulsion to be loved exclusively by her child, when no other real love was offered, kept her blind to whatever horrors still lay in store.

  “Explain this then, please,” she asked now. “Why have you brought me here to tell me that you cannot help?”

  “For this…” Mother Elizabeth held out her hand, and Maryam took it, and allowed herself to be led to the internal bathroom door. Inside, a steaming hot bath had been prepared, complete with steeping pandanus leaves that caressed the air with their spicy, soothing scent.

  The offer of such luxury was so bizarre, unease crept in. “Why are you doing this?” The scented water was calling to her, teasing her with tendrils of sensuous steam. She hadn't had a hot bath for months.

  Mother Elizabeth met Maryam's eye. “Quite honestly, I'm not allowed to say. But, believe me, you are in for an unprecedented privilege indeed.” She didn't wait for Maryam to comment, but helped her to lift her grimy, sweat-laden clothes over her head. “Meanwhile, why not just enjoy this for the gift it is?”

  Indeed. She'd get no more out of Mother Elizabeth—if she'd been sworn to secrecy there was no way she'd tell. But whatever lay ahead—unprecedented or otherwise—the opportunity to soak away the layers of dirt was too tempting to ignore. She waited for Mother Elizabeth to vacate the room and dealt first with her Bloods, then slipped into the bath. Oh Lordy Lord. She closed her eyes to block out the sight of the black mould that caked the pale green tiles on the walls, while the oil of the pandanus leaves worked its magic on her senses. The water cradled her in its warmth. If only Lazarus was here…The thought dropped into her mind so suddenly her eyes sprang open with the shock. No, not here, of course! But how she hoped that somewhere right now he too was sinking into a bath to ease his aches and pains.

  The trouble was, now she'd thought this, she couldn't get the picture of his naked body from her mind. He was taller than Joseph, and his shoulders broader, but leaner now than when she'd first encountered him, a
nd so browned from the sun that the places where its tanning rays could not reach stood out as starkly as white coral sand. She imagined the two boys standing side by side, comparing them, glad old Hushai was not here with his uncanny capacity to read her thoughts.

  She could clearly see the two silhouettes in her mind's eye, but when she tried to discern the distinct differences between the two she failed. Lazarus she could see so plainly it was as if he stood there in the flesh, yet every time she tried to get a fix on Joseph's face she'd almost catch his likeness then it would slip away. His eyes—so blue they'd seared into her soul—kept transforming to Lazarus's eyes. His lips, always curved into his gentle smile, had now been colonised by Lazarus as well. Even his soft blond hair was indistinguishable from his living cousin's. How could this have happened? Joseph was the one she loved. Yet all the details she thought would be forever etched into her heart had faded, overwritten by those of the boy she'd just rejected when he'd declared his love.

  Unable to comprehend it, and unwilling to delve into why, she plunged her head under the water and untied her hair. She teased it free of its tangled plait and let it stream around her. She took the soft coconut soap from the side of the bath and washed her hair, then scrubbed herself with soap and pumice until her skin was tingling clean. She knew she should get out—the water was growing cold around her—but this one luxurious moment in time had to be treasured, for she'd known all along it likely was her last. When, finally, she felt the chill starting to undo the hot water's initial charms, she rose, her body suddenly heavy and clumsy and reluctant to move.

  Mother Elizabeth must have heard her getting out of the bath, for she re-entered the bathroom and handed Maryam a towel. When she was dry, Mother Elizabeth ran her long fingers through Maryam's hair to unsnag the knots, then led her back out into the tiny cubicle of a bedroom and held out a gown.

  At the sight of it Maryam's heart lurched in terror. Pure white, it was a Judgement gown, like the one she'd worn the day she had Crossed. “Why must I wear this?” she asked, carefully watching for clues on Mother Elizabeth's passive face.

  “I couldn't possibly say.” Neither her expression or voice gave anything away. “All I was told was to prepare you—and that you must wear this as well.” She took a parcel from the table beside the bed, opened it, and removed a small bundle of fabric, which she now shook out. It, too, was white—a large square of sheer filmy cloth. She draped it right over the top of Maryam's head to obscure her face.

  The last of the comfort garnered from the bath shocked right away. “Is this not a marriage veil?”

  Mother Elizabeth, a spectral figure through the suffocating veil, refused to meet her eye. “Come,” she said. “Enough of your questions. Father Joshua awaits.”

  Maryam could get no more from Mother Elizabeth, who was now knocking on the door for their release. She abandoned Maryam to the same po-faced server, who escorted her up through the corridors of the ship. Apostles and servers alike stopped their conversations and stared rudely as she was paraded past.

  At last they entered the corridor that housed Father Joshua's private rooms. Waiting outside the door was Lazarus, dressed all in white, and bound at his hands and feet.

  He looked her up and down. “Holy hell. What on earth is that all about?”

  “Your so-called ally Mother Elizabeth says I'm in for an “unprecedented privilege”.” She whipped off the veil so that she could look at him directly. “I have a really, really bad feeling about this. Mother Elizabeth said—” She was about to tell him more when she was distracted by raised voices emanating from the slightly open door.

  Lazarus jerked his head toward the sound. “They've been arguing like this since I got here.”

  “…is totally unacceptable.” Fury powered Mother Lilith's words. “This is not about securing your position—this is solely an excuse.”

  “Can you think of a better way to dampen down the furore? If we finish with her right now, we'll have a revolution on our hands.”

  “Do you think I'm a fool? I've closed my eyes to your carryings-on for years now, knowing we need more donors, but if the cure is proved to work I warn you your excuse is gone.”

  “Whatever my father is planning,” Lazarus whispered to Maryam, “it's got Mother more steamed up than I've ever heard her.”

  Just then the door flew wide open and Mother Lilith stormed from the room. When she saw Maryam and Lazarus waiting in the corridor, she marched right up to Maryam and pressed her seething face in close. “May the Lord strike you down, you scheming little whore!” With this she sped away, not giving her son even a second glance.

  Now, as Maryam tried to compose herself, the server knocked on the door. “They are ready, Holy Father.”

  “Bring them in,” Father Joshua ordered, his tone as chilly as a winter wind.

  The server shot out his hand and clasped Maryam tightly around the wrist to twist her arm behind her back. She dared not struggle, lest he undo the efforts of the doctors who'd fixed her broken bone, but still it hurt. He pushed her forward, guiding her in through the door before roughly depositing her into one of the chairs. Out of nowhere, it seemed, he produced one of the thick ropes that Maryam had tossed into the crowd as proof of the Territorials’ existence, and used it to bind her to the chair. Next the server fetched Lazarus. He shuffled awkwardly, hampered by his bindings, but the server ignored his discomfort and lashed him into another chair. All the while Father Joshua worked on at an ornately carved desk in the far corner of the room, not glancing up until the server had closed the door behind him with an ominous thud.

  “And, so,” Father Joshua finally said, spreading his fingers onto the desktop to give him traction as he rose. “Our little game begins.”

  “What are you playing at, Father? If you lay a finger on Sister Maryam I'll—”

  Father Joshua lunged at Lazarus, seizing him by his hair and meeting him eye to eye. “You'll what, boy? Slap my hand?” He laughed. “You've done your duty by delivering me my little bride. Now all you have to do is sit back and enjoy the fun.” He slammed Lazarus back into the chair so hard, his head banged against the frame beneath the headrest with a resounding thwack.

  “Your bride?” Bile shot into Maryam's throat, nearly choking her as she struggled to swallow it back down.

  Lazarus threw himself against his bindings, thrashing and jerking in an attempt to break loose. “You total utter bastard! Let me go so we can have this out man to man!”

  “Man? Spare me your drivelling, boy.” Father Joshua cradled his arms across his chest, leaning back against his desk as he watched his son. His eyes radiated menace as his lips drew up in a cynical smile. Only when Lazarus at last gave up his struggle did his father continue. “It's brilliant, if I do say so myself…I tell the villagers the Lord has sent our nubile little Sister here to aid me in his glorious plan to rid us of Te Matee Iai, her outburst merely a ruse to test their faith. And once we've consummated the marriage—” he winked luridly at Maryam—“life can return to normal and my dear new wife will quietly retire to serve me at my will.”

  “I'll never serve you,” Maryam said with all the force she could muster. “I'd rather die.”

  His eyes grew even colder, as though set to stone. He calmly poured some kind of liquid from a jug into a cup that sat upon his desk, then advanced with it toward Maryam as te bakoa stalked its prey. “Be careful what you wish for, you stupid child. One word from me and I can make it so.”

  He pinched her nose between his thumb and fore-finger, pressing her head back so hard into the chair she couldn't shake it loose. Now he raised the cup up to her lips, and the sharp acrid scent rose up to greet her. Anga kerea toddy. She took a deep breath and clamped her lips shut, but it was hopeless: when she was inevitably forced to gasp for air, he tipped the cup, pouring the drink straight down her throat. She gagged on the burning liquid and tried to spit it out, but he mashed the ball of his palm down over her mouth, sealing it shut until she had no choice bu
t swallow the bitter toddy down.

  “There, that's better, isn't it?” Father Joshua ran his finger across Maryam's toddy-slicked lips, his touch sending such a shudder of revulsion through her that her stomach nearly purged. “Drink up now, so you can have a nice wee nap while I prepare for the joining of our lives as one.”

  Twice more he forced her to drink, until her stomach was a churning soup and her eyes blinded with tears. All the while, Lazarus, immobilised, hurled insults at his father, his anger filling the room until his words lost all sense.

  The toddy took effect almost immediately, burrowing down into Maryam's gut to detonate like a falling star pitched down to earth. Heat consumed her; sweat broke out on her forehead as subtle fingers of confusion twisted around the cells inside her brain. The world was swimming in an ocean of distorted shapes and sounds, and the urge to vomit swept over her in restless waves.

  Through the worsening sense of sea-sickness, she realised Father Joshua was attempting to dose Lazarus with the toddy as well. The two of them seemed engaged in a squirming battle as Lazarus resolutely refused to swallow down the drink. At last he spat a mouthful straight into his father's face, and Father Joshua reeled back and stalked to the door.

  He flung it open. “Get in here and hold him down,” he snarled to the server standing guard outside.

  In a flash the man was at Lazarus's back, pinning his head to the chair with one unyielding hand. He blocked Lazarus's nose with the other hand, and Father Joshua poured the toddy down his throat, sealing his mouth shut so Lazarus had no choice but to swallow or suffocate right there. Yet still he fought on. Maryam was barely able to follow their struggle as the toddy hit her with its full effect. It felt as if she watched the world through a full fathom of murky water, everything out of focus and forever shifting even as she tried to pull her thoughts together and work out what to do. Had Father Joshua said he was to marry her? Could he even do that when Mother Lilith was already his wife? He can do whatever he wants, her topsy-turvy thoughts answered her back. Take you and defile you, and then wipe you out.