by Mandy Hager
As soon as the craft drew near, a man stood up and threw a rope. Lazarus rushed to catch it, tying it off to the small remaining mast before stepping forward to greet the men as they boarded the stricken boat.
“Stand back!” a man's voice snapped. “Raise your hands.”
Lazarus reeled backwards, flinging his arms into the air again. His face hardened now, jaw clenching and eyes narrowing as the first of the rescuers stepped aboard. As each of them approached, Lazarus seemed to straighten and grow taller, bearing himself like the arrogant Apostle Maryam had first met.
One by one the intimidating group lined up on the listing deck. They stood to attention, legs splayed to balance in the sloppy swell. They were dressed in a uniform of murky green, their heads encased in unearthly mask-like helmets, and each of them clutched tightly to a long, strange-looking metal stick.
“What are they holding?” Maryam whispered to Lazarus.
“My guess is some kind of gun.”
She'd never heard this word before, but had no time to question him further as one of the men stepped forward and addressed Lazarus directly.
“You have entered our sovereign waters illegally. We order you to turn back now.”
Turn back? Could they not see the boat was sinking?
Lazarus cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. “Our boat is damaged and we ask for refuge on your shores.”
The man studied him from head to toe before turning his attention to the girls. Though his eyes were hidden by the strange mask, Maryam sensed his hostility. Her arm throbbed in time with her racing heart as he stepped closer and spoke to her. “You are injured?”
She nodded. “Yes. A broken arm.”
“Anything else?”
She wondered if she should tell him about Joseph. Joseph. It hurt to even think his name. “No.”
He turned back to Lazarus. “Where have you sailed from?”
“We left Marawa Island around two days ago, I think, when we were hit by a storm.” Still holding his arms above his head, Lazarus's hands tightened to fists as he replied.
There was a ripple of movement from the men. One stepped forward and whispered in the interrogator's ear. They had an indecipherable exchange, before the leader addressed Lazarus again.
“All of you?”
“Yes.”
“Were you the only boat to leave those shores?”
“Yes.”
Again there was a brief whispered discussion between the two men, before another broke from the ranks and proceeded to turn the salvaged piles of debris over with his booted foot. The leader, though, approached Ruth and wrenched her copy of the Holy Book from her grasp.
“Where did you get this?”
Ruth shrugged, seemingly too terrified to reply. She shook uncontrollably as she struggled to keep her arms aloft.
The leader stared at Ruth for several long seconds before he shoved the Book back at her and spoke again. “We order you to turn back to the place of your departure. Should you fail to do so, you will be arrested and detained.”
“That's impossible,” Lazarus said. “We've lost the means to sail.”
“Not our problem, boy. We'll tow you out of our waters and then you're on your own.”
“You'd leave us out here to die?” Maryam could not contain her rage.
The man did not even deign to look at her, let alone answer. Instead, he signalled to one of his men, who retrieved a thick rope from the boarding craft and proceeded to tie it around the timbers that supported the figurehead at the bow. Once in place, the men retreated to their boat and made ready to return to the main ship to instigate the tow.
Ruth turned terrified eyes to Maryam. “They're not going to help us?”
“It appears not.” She was so angry and shocked, she struggled to speak. These men could see they were defenceless, injured and about to sink, and yet they would not help.
They watched in disbelieving silence as the men retreated to the ship and scaled its sides. Once aboard they secured the tow rope to an aft bollard, and waited briefly while the engines roared back into life.
The ship turned to the east, its wash nearly swamping the smaller crippled craft that wallowed in its wake. As the rope stretched and grew taut between the two vessels, Maryam, Lazarus and Ruth were jerked off their feet as their craft began to move.
“I can't believe this,” Maryam cried, awkwardly righting herself. “How can they just desert us?”
“Be warned,” Lazarus said. “Guns can kill from a great distance. Don't do anything to rile them or they'll likely shoot us all.”
“Shoot?” Maryam asked. “What do you mean?”
“I've seen one before, and read of them in books. They fire at great speed and can kill a man with just one strike.”
“You've seen one? Where?”
“My father has one hidden in his private rooms. It looks quite different from those but I'm sure they must be just as deadly. Father's belonged to his forefather, the first of the Holy Fathers—Captain Saul.”
“He's used it?”
Lazarus shrugged. “I don't know. But I've seen him take it out and clean it, just in case.”
Ruth remained on her knees, moaning so miserably as she clutched her Book that Maryam automatically moved to comfort her, though her own head whirled with frightening thoughts. Even if they could stop the boat from sinking, they had too little food and water to survive for long. And the towing was already taking its toll on what little remained of their boat, forcing more water in through the widening cracks.
“Back to the bailing!” She dragged Ruth after her as she jumped down into the damaged hull. Their so-called rescuers were not only deserting them. Now they seemed intent on sinking them as well.
Maryam fumed as the three of them worked frantically to drain the hull, though the boat seemed to be leaking as fast as they were bailing out. She had to think of something. If there was only some way to convince those heartless men that it was better to take them in than to let them die at sea. There had to be some way to light a spark of human kindness in their hearts.
Light…Spark…Yes! Of course! Surely they wouldn't desert us if the boat was destroyed right before their eyes?
She stopped bailing and drew Lazarus's attention with a nudge of her arm. She slid her eyes to the smouldering fire and subtly jerked her head.
“What if the fire burnt out of control…?”
She left the rest for him to imagine. What she was proposing was desperate and crazy, and just as likely to commit them to drowning as standing by helplessly as their boat was sunk. But, crazy or not, it just might work…might shame the foreign crew into rescuing them after all.
For a few heart-stopping seconds Lazarus just stared at her, his eyes flared in surprise, and she feared he had not understood. But then he nodded, his face grim as it set in a decisive scowl. “Are you prepared for the possible consequences if it doesn't work?”
She glanced at Ruth, her dearest friend, and nearly couldn't bring herself to follow through. But then her outrage won the battle for control. They had to try.
“Do we really have another choice?”
He downed his bailer and scrabbled back onto the deck, edging up to the fire as he held Maryam's watchful gaze. As unobtrusively as he could, first he moved the driest of the shredded thatch closer to the fire. Then he knocked the earthenware base of the fire off-balance with his toe and allowed the red-hot embers to spill out across the deck. Mission accomplished, he leapt back down to join Maryam and Ruth in the ruined hull.
Within seconds the flames caught on the piles of dry thatch and moved on to the kindling stored alongside. As the fire began to scorch the timbers of the deck, thick white smoke billowed up. Forgive us, Maryam cast out to Joseph's spirit, as she watched his father's precious handiwork succumb to the flames. She felt as if she had betrayed his whole family, destroying the one thing that had brought them hope.
“Fire! Help!” She shrieked as loudly as possible now, t
rying to project her desperation out above the rumbling of the big ship's motors.
Ruth took one look at the way the flames were licking at the timbers of the deck and screamed. As wild as a trapped animal, she fought off Maryam's reassuring hand to scoop up a pot of water to douse the flames.
“Leave it,” Maryam ordered. “I'm sure that they won't let us burn.” She glanced over at the towering ship, just able to make out a rush of silhouettes as the crew crowded the aft deck to watch.
Ruth struggled to push past her. “You're going to kill us all,” she shrieked. But she was blocked now by Lazarus, who wrestled the pot from her hand and flung it over the side into the sea. She beat at him with her fists, wailing with such frustration and fear that Maryam could feel it pressing on her heart.
She lunged for Ruth, not sure how long Lazarus's restraint would hold, and dragged her out of his reach, feeling the heat of the fire as it ate into the boat's structural timbers and really started to take hold.
“Come on,” she urged, the smoke stinging her eyes and making it ever more difficult to see. “If you want to yell at anyone, yell at them.” She pointed through the smoke to the black ship, which had slowed its motors and now idled out of reach.
All three clambered to the very prow of their boat, where the carved warrior glared out at the foreign ship as though to curse it. “Help! Help!” They had no need to feign panic. The fire scorched at their backs and lit up the sea around them. Nor had they bargained on the acrid smoke that filled the sky, catching in their throats to set them coughing and spluttering.
“Why aren't they doing anything?” Maryam cried. She was terrified, trapped between the fire and the fathomless sea.
“We're going to die,” Ruth wailed, before she was overcome by such a bad fit of coughing that she doubled over, wheezing, as she tried to catch her breath.
“We'll have to abandon ship,” Lazarus shouted above the din. His eyes were streaming and bloodshot as he grabbed each girl roughly by one arm. “Whatever you do,” he gasped, struggling to breathe through the stifling clouds of smoke, “just make sure we all go in together and hold on tight.”
He did not give them time to argue, throwing himself off the side and pitching them over with him as he dropped. They splashed down in a struggling heap, wrenched from his grip as they plunged beneath the swell.
The water sucked Maryam under and, though she tried to surface, without the use of both her arms she could not seem to rise. Her chest was burning from the strain of holding her breath, her pulse beating fast and panicked in her ears. She was tumbled around beneath the swell, the unholy glow of the flames lighting the surface of the water like Hell's sunset as she forced her eyes open, trying to locate Lazarus or Ruth. But she could see nothing, her hair splaying out around her, tangling like unruly seaweed as it wound around her face. She could not hold her breath much longer now, her lungs so tight and bursting that she tried releasing the pressure inside one air bubble at a time—feeling the seductive urge to just give up the fight and seek out Joseph in the sea's dark depths.
But then Ruth's frightened face flashed through her mind, and she mustered up the strength for one last desperate bid to free her broken arm from its restrictive binding, to no avail. But the force of pain so ambushed her she automatically opened up her mouth to scream, and water started pouring down her throat.
Before panic could even set in, though, she felt herself being hauled up by her hair, and broke through the surface of the water in a coughing, retching, gasping mess. The swell slapped at her face, threatening to overwhelm her once again, and it was only Lazarus's quick actions that saved her, as he curled his arm around her neck to hold her head aloft.
He paddled with his free arm and legs, supporting Maryam on the surface as she struggled to regain her breath. Water streamed from her eyes and nose, blurring her vision. Then she saw Ruth bobbing next to them, and silently gave thanks that she was safe. Behind them, Joseph's father's boat lolled on the choppy swell like a burning pyre, the warrior's glistening shell eyes accusing her of his impending fate. But there was no going back on their rash decision: the fire was now way too fierce to fight.
Above the rasping of her breath Maryam heard the whining engine of the boarding craft before it emerged through the smoke. It surged towards them, and a man at its prow threw them a life-ring attached to a rope. All three of them lunged for it, holding on gratefully as the boat drew near. One by one they were fished up from the sea and hauled aboard, manhandled across the side of the small craft and flung onto the unforgiving floor. The air was filled with curses and shouts as the boat drifted in towards the burning wreckage, and they were knocked sideways as the pilot spun the boat away and returned, full throttle, to his ship.
There they were ordered to ascend the rope ladder that hung down the ship's rough steel sides. Lazarus took up the challenge first, clambering up unaided, followed by Ruth. But when it came time for Maryam to climb, she baulked, unsure how to tackle the ropes with just one working arm. Immediately a crewman moved in behind her, boosting her up to the first rung of the ladder before climbing up in tandem, using his rigid body to support her up the grimy ropes. His closeness petrified her and she was shaking uncontrollably by the time she finally reached the top.
The three castaways drew into a tight cluster, uneasy and unsure what would happen next. Once the pilot of the rescue craft had climbed aboard and the boat had been winched back up to its home, the crew formed a cordon around them, standing at attention as a white-skinned man emerged from the lit wheelhouse that overlooked the deck. He approached them now, his uniform so like the Apostles’ that Maryam's heart lurched wildly in her chest: he wore virtually the same white jacket and pants, trimmed with gold braid and identical gold buttons. This does not bode well.
He fixed them with a steely stare, then appeared to dismiss the girls and focus in on Lazarus. “What do you think you're playing at?”
Lazarus raised his chin and met the captain's stare. “The motion knocked over our fire. We couldn't put it out.”
The captain snorted. “Do you think I'm stupid, boy?” He didn't wait for Lazarus to respond, merely snapped his fingers at the cordon of guards and pointed to the three. “Take them below.”
They were instantly surrounded by a jostling group of guards, who drove them like animals down into the very bowels of the ship. There they were pushed into a small, windowless room, so close to the engines the noise was deafening, and left alone. They were locked inside.
Ruth threw herself at Maryam, wrapping her in such a tight embrace that Maryam had to bite back a cry as her injured arm bemoaned the pressure. “I thought you'd drowned,” Ruth sobbed.
“I would have, if Lazarus hadn't saved me.” Over Ruth's shoulder, she met his eye. “I owe you thanks.”
Lazarus shrugged and scanned their prison. “Don't thank me yet.” He paced the room, taking in the tiered sleeping platforms that lined one of the metal walls. A lone grey blanket lay folded on each bare bed; the only other object visible in the room was an empty bucket by the door. The whole space reeked of stale sweat and urine.
For a few shocked moments after Lazarus's doleful response, no one spoke. They stood shivering as puddles formed at their feet from their dripping clothes, and listened for any hint of relief from outside the room. But the clamour of the engines over-rode every other noise, vibrating off the metal walls to drive right through Maryam's body with a force that set her teeth on edge, though whether she was shaking from terror or the cold it was hard to tell.
“Before we do anything else, we'd better get out of these wet clothes,” Lazarus said at last, rolling his eyes at Maryam and Ruth's obvious alarm. “Oh, give me strength. I'll turn my back.” He snatched a blanket off the closest bed and turned away, peeling off his sodden shirt as he did so.
Maryam knew he was right: they needed to dry off before the chill took hold. She shook out one of the blankets and held one corner in her teeth while she stretched the other end out
in her good hand to screen Ruth while she stripped, then wrapped herself in another of the blankets. Before Ruth returned the favour, she carefully unbound the rope securing Maryam's arm. The release of pressure was a relief, but the moment was short-lived. As soon as Maryam moved her arm to undress, a stab of pain shot through her. Would it never cease?
She buckled onto the closest bed and ran her hand along the thick curtain of her hair to wring away the excess water. It pooled at her feet, its ebb and flow mesmerising as the ship rocked with the swell. She felt exhausted now and gave in to it, crumpling until she lay flat on her back and stared up at the wooden frame that supported the bed above. The surface of the wood was etched with roughly chiselled marks, telltale signs that others had once been detained in this dungeon too. She closed her eyes, desperate to block the whole world out, and the grief she'd pushed aside in these last few gruelling hours surfaced again. Joseph is dead. The knowledge lay like the anchor stone on her chest, restricting her breathing and pressing heavy on her heart.
A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Two guards with guns stood watch outside, as the captain and one of his officers marched into the room. Maryam, struggling to sit up, gathered the blanket more tightly around herself and pressed back against the wall. Ruth huddled in beside her as Lazarus, naked bar the blanket wrapped around his waist, glowered from the gloomy corner by the pile of his discarded clothes.
“Good,” the captain said. “I see you've had the sense to change.” His attention was solely directed at Lazarus. The girls may as well not have existed. “Now, no more games. Tell me where you're from.”
Lazarus weighed up the man before he answered, allowing his distain to leak out through his eyes. “Originally from Onewēre, but our boat got blown off course by a storm just a few hours out from Marawa Island and was damaged beyond repair.”