by Mandy Hager
“That's totally ridiculous! He was never going to take your blood. I told you that. I warned you that even if he did, he still would die.”
“That's what you say. I guess we'll never know now if that was true.”
“Why would I do that? He was my only cousin. I loved him too.”
A bleak laugh escaped her lips. “Love? I doubt you even understand the word.”
She could feel his rage fly from his cell towards her like a whirlwind. “What? And you, who teased him with your precious virgin state, showed him love? You played him like a nareau plant that first seduces and then eats the fly.”
Her face burnt at the impact of his words. “No—you would be the expert at that game. How many Sisters did you drug on the toddy and defile? Ten? Twenty? Perhaps more?”
“Bitch,” she heard him mutter, though she was puzzled by his choice of word. Why call her a female dog? Perhaps he thought them lowly, as he did all other female things.
She found herself holding her breath, waiting for his next retort, but as the seconds stretched out she gave in to the urge to breathe. Her accusations had obviously hit the mark, and she was pleased.
Outside, she could hear a man shouting in a foreign tongue, his words unknown but the tone so full of anguish it burrowed deep into her brain. Try as she might, she couldn't erase the nightmare image of those roughly sewn lips. Was there no let-up in the torment of this place? Was everyone here as broken and as full of rage as she?
Just then a guard she hadn't seen before came past and stopped outside her cell. He was juggling a sleeping mat and bucket as well as a large bunch of keys.
“Here,” he said, unlocking her door and depositing his load in the middle of her cell with a tired grunt. He approached her tentatively now, keys still in hand, and unlocked the cuffs to free her hands and feet. “In the future, missy,” he said, “think more carefully before you stir up trouble, eh?”
She didn't answer him, frightened by her own newly discovered capacity for hot-headed rage. She daren't risk another outburst now, unsure just how far they'd go in punishing her again. But she was pleased to be free of the cuffs, which had left painful welts where they'd rubbed at her skin. Inside its cast her arm still throbbed, and she longed for one of Mother Evodia's herbal tonics to ease her misery.
As soon as the guard had left, she dragged the sleeping mat over to the corner furthest from the door. The mat was stained and lumpy, but she dropped down onto it thankfully.
Slowly her pulse began to calm, and the exhaustion she had fought since Joseph's death fell back over her in one sweeping wave. It was as if her bones had weathered into stone, and no amount of effort would move them from the mat. She gave herself over to it, willing herself to sleep now to block out the world. Yet, every time she slipped into a soothing dream, she'd startle and it seemed not even her subconscious would allow her to escape. As the afternoon dragged on, the heat intensified, slicking her hair to cloying fingers that wound around her neck each time she rolled and turned. But at last heat and exhaustion overrode her brain, and pitched her straight into an intense dream.
She was in the atoll's maneaba, kneeling beneath its cool thatched roof before the sculpted image of the Lamb. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the cheerful laughter of the little Sisters as they romped beneath the palms. Above, the Lamb watched down on her with mournful eyes. It was as if He saw right through her to the doubt that filled her heart.
As soon as the awareness of this doubt entered her mind she saw Him stir, the nails that fixed his hands and feet flying out unaided to land before her on the ground. Next, He stepped down from the Cross and stood before her, holding out His hand for her to take. She could not shift her gaze from His, their eyes locked in a timeless duel—neither was willing to be the first to look away.
“Come,” He said, “and I will lead you safely Home.” His voice filled the high reaches of the maneaba, as soft and soothing as the eternal whisperings of the sea.
She looked now to His outstretched hand, transfixed by the gaping wound that rent his palm. She wanted to accept His call, to bury herself in the familiar comfort of His warm embrace, but she could not. All sound had ceased, and all she was aware of was the reverberation of her own ragged breath. He made it seem so easy, as though all she had to do was lift her arm and reach out for His proffered hand. But still her limbs refused to move.
Over His shoulder another deity stood by: that man—the one from the temple on Marawa Island—his calm face breaking into a beatific smile as she caught his gaze. He bowed in greeting, his plump hands pressed neatly before him as he dipped his head. And above him now, squinting from the dark recesses of the maneaba roof, the masks of her ancestors came alive, their eyes flashing red and angry in the filtered light.
“Your heart is mine,” the Lamb proclaimed, and He leaned forward, wrenching her to her feet so suddenly she had no time to argue or resist.
He pressed her to his sculpted wooden chest, locking His arms around her so tightly she had to fight to breathe. He laughed and, in a flash of cold recognition, she knew that laugh and tried to pull away—for it was not the Lamb who pressed her to his rigid body but Holy Father Joshua, his breath leaking the stench of phosphate as he crushed his shark's mouth over hers…
Maryam jerked awake with a cry.
“Are you all right?”
It was Lazarus calling from the next-door cell. He must have heard her cry out as she'd fled the dream.
“I'm fine,” she croaked, her throat so dry it did not want to work. What would he know of nightmares when he'd had so little in his life to fear?
She heard him stir, and then a scraping sound as something scuffed across the floor. “Here,” he called again. “I've pushed a cup of water out into the corridor. See if you can reach.”
Already the little saliva she had left was pooling at the thought, so she crossed to the bars, relieved to see he'd placed the cup within her reach. She squeezed her arm through awkwardly, managing to hook the rim of the cup with her finger to drag it to her side. The water tasted oily, but it helped to soothe the swollen, prickly feeling in her throat.
“Thank you,” she said, once she'd drained the cup. She pushed it back across the void.
“Look…” Lazarus said. “I know you won't believe this, but that time you caught me in the cellar was the first.”
“You're right,” she agreed, picturing the poor server as Lazarus forced the anga kerea toddy down her throat then stripped her bare. “I find it very hard.”
“Just listen to me for a moment, will you?” He was almost pleading now. “Since Joseph died, my head's so full of all this…stuff…I just want you to understand.”
“Why me? Why not confess your sins to the Lord, if that's what you want?”
“That's not what I want,” he snapped. “Look, it's hard for me to admit this…but here's the thing: I want you to forgive me. From the moment I set eyes on you, I knew that you had something special—something that I…lacked.”
This jolted her. In all her dealings with him she'd never heard him admit weakness or inferiority of any kind. “If that's the case, you have an odd way of showing it.”
“Please, just try to understand…When I was young, Uncle Jonah and Aunt Deborah were the only ones who ever showed me love—and Joseph, of course. My own mother and father were totally self-absorbed. I spent my whole childhood trying to do something that would please them—make them notice me and show me love.”
“But you had everything—”
“That's where you're wrong. I was raised to believe my father was a living god—a god who had no time for snivelling little boys.”
“What of all the wonderful things in the Holy City? You can hardly complain about growing up in a place like that while those stuck on Onewēre struggled to survive.”
“It's easy to see that now, but for years it coloured everything I thought and did. So when, three years ago, my father suddenly announced the time had come to train m
e up to take his place, I saw it as my chance to win his love.”
“So?” Maryam challenged him. “Did that give you the right to treat the rest of us like slaves?”
“In an odd kind of way it did. I watched how my father treated you all and I followed his lead—and he'd praise me, tell me I was finally acting like a man.” He laughed bitterly, then grunted, as if he was in pain. “It got to the point where I used to do things just to test him, thinking that surely now he'd chastise me and tell me no. But it turned out that the worse I behaved, the more he drew me to his side.”
“You did these things, even when you knew they were wrong?”
“It got out of control.” His voice was wavering, and he cleared his throat. “I used to wonder why you servers never questioned him or called his bluff—always blindly believing everything he said or did. And then that passiveness started to annoy me—drive me mad.”
“Mad?”
“Angry. Look, it sounds stupid now I say it, but I reached the stage where I truly started to believe you servers got what you were asking for—that your obedience and blind acceptance meant you deserved everything my father could dish out. And the angrier I got, the more I wanted to punish you all for being so gullible and ignorant.” Again he paused, and she thought she heard him sniff. “It's like I said before—it just all got out of control.”
There was an awful kind of logic in his words. Had he not accused her of this passivity the very day he'd trapped her near Joseph's house?
“But when I challenged you about it at the pool that day,” she said, “you mocked me and told me to grow up.” If only she could see his face, see whether he was smirking as he recalled her nakedness.
“I know,” he said. “And do you remember what you said to me?”
“No. I was rightly fearing for my life.”
“Oh hell…I'm sorry.” He sniffed again. Could he really be crying? “Respect. That's what you said. That you would never respect me, no matter what I did. And, though I refused to admit it at the time, that really hurt. And the more I thought about it, the more it got to me.” He sniffed once more, and when he spoke his voice was thick with suppressed tears. “You got to me.”
Charming words, but she was not a fool. “I see…you were so moved you thought you'd put a knife to my best friend's throat and force yourself on us all so we'd be friends?”
“It was cruel and stupid, I know that now—and I'm really, really sorry, all right?” She heard a dull thud, as though he'd punched the wall. “How many times do you want me to say it? But I couldn't stop thinking about you, so then I started following you, and when I discovered what you were up to I realised it might be my only chance to get away and live my own life.”
She felt so confused. Part of her was totally disgusted that he'd tracked her, while a tiny part was flattered, though it made her sick. “It didn't occur to you just to ask Joseph and tell him the truth?”
“It did. But do you think you'd have agreed to take me even if Joseph said I could go?”
In this, at least, Lazarus was right. “Never in a million years!” She stood now and paced the cell, needing the motion to clear her head. She was not so much shocked by his words as by the fact he said them at all. In truth, everything he said made sense in a twisted and deluded way. “And Joseph…do you swear to me you didn't mean him harm?”
“I can't believe you even have to ask.” Now he sounded more like the Lazarus of old.
“Well I do,” she insisted, staring at the wall as if he'd feel her eyes upon him now and have to tell the truth. “I need to know you grieve for him as well.”
“Do you think I was feigning tears back on the boat? Of course I grieve his loss. But if you're asking me to grieve for him, then no.”
His words pierced like a blade straight to her heart. “Why not?”
“Why grieve for him when he was the lucky one? From the moment he was born he knew he was loved.”
“But it isn't fair. He didn't have to die.”
“Fair or not, I still say he was lucky…He had you.”
What on earth? She shook her head, uncertain if she even wanted to know what he was trying to say.
“You understand that I can never trust you?” she said at last. “Too much has happened to ignore.”
“I know,” he said. “And that grieves me.”
This was too much to take in. Everything she'd believed had shifted beneath her feet like wind-blown sand, leaving her unbalanced and unsettled in its midst.
Their conversation was interrupted as the outer door slammed open and the guard wheeled in a trolley carrying fresh cups of water and small bowls of soup. Maryam watched, relieved to have this break to gather up her scattered thoughts, as the guard placed the food and drink within reach of each cell for the prisoners to either take or leave. Maryam retrieved her share and sipped the watery broth, all plans of self-denial swept away. The broth contained nothing identifiable in its stock, yet its warmth was soothing and she gulped it down. Outside she could hear a jumble of voices and guessed that the others were gathering for their evening meal. She could only hope that someone had befriended Ruth so she would not have to sleep inside that awful little room alone.
Now her bladder ached with fullness and she eyed the bucket the kind guard had left. The thought of using it in such a place embarrassed her, but she had no choice. She squatted over it, the sound of her splashing waters loud in her ears. Just as she had finished and moved the bucket as far away as possible, a woman entered the building and Maryam recognised the white woman she'd seen teaching in the courtyard when they'd first arrived. Her face was pocked with scars; her hair greying and very short. But her manner was reassuring, and she smiled as she stationed herself in the corridor so that she could see into the two adjoining cells. She acknowledged Maryam first, and then turned her attention to Lazarus. As she did so, her smile dropped.
“You are Lazarus?” she said. She spoke in the same flat accent as the guards.
“Yes.”
The woman pointed at him. “Those are fresh?”
Again Lazarus merely said yes. Now she turned to Maryam, scrutinising her carefully from head to toe, her gaze coming to rest on the grubby plaster cast.
“And I take it you are Maryam? My name is Jo Sinclair. I wonder if we could talk?”
Maryam nodded, trying to read the woman's status from her clothes. She wore men's trousers made from thick faded blue fabric and a short-sleeved orange shirt. There was nothing to indicate just who or what she might be.
Jo Sinclair retrieved a chair from further along the corridor and placed it so she could be seen by both Maryam and Lazarus. “I belong to a human rights group that tries to help the detainees.”
“Can you get us out of here?” Lazarus asked.
“I don't know. I'd like to hear your stories, though, so I can see.”
Maryam was still trying to decide if it was safe to speak. Her only interactions with white people—apart from Joseph and his mother, Deborah—had been so painful she wasn't sure if it was worth the risk. Lazarus, however, had no such prejudice, and launched into an account of what had happened to them.
“We sailed from Marawa Island a few days ago—I've lost track of time a bit—and then—”
Jo held up her hand to halt him. “Hold on. I've just spoken with your friend Ruth. She said you came from Onewēre?”
“She told you that?” Lazarus broke in, sounding annoyed.
“It's the truth,” Maryam snapped back. “What's wrong with that?”
“I'll tell you later when we can talk alone.”
Jo raised an eyebrow at Maryam and shrugged before directing her attention back to Lazarus. “Okay. I don't think you realise how serious this situation is. Unless you can trust me, there's no way I can even try to help. As it is, my powers are limited, but, believe me, I'm the best—and possibly the only—chance you've got.”
“Why should we trust you?” Lazarus asked.
Why was he being so
pig-headed now, Maryam wondered, when only moments ago he'd seemed so keen to talk?
“Because you have no other choice.”
Something about the frankness of the woman's approach convinced Maryam that she spoke the truth. “This is foolish, Lazarus. She's right, we need her help.”
For a long moment Lazarus did not reply and Jo said nothing, obviously waiting for him to make up his mind without trying to interfere. At last he said, “I want to speak with Maryam first—alone—and, meanwhile, if you can convince them to let us all meet together in the same room then I'll agree. I need to see her face to face. These are my terms.”
Is he mad? He was no longer the Holy Father's son but someone with no power to make such stupid demands. Jo's face remained passive, however, as she rose from the chair. “Rightio, I'll see what I can do.” She turned to Maryam and winked. “Men!” she mouthed, and rolled her eyes. Maryam grinned, despite herself.
The moment Jo was gone, Maryam called to Lazarus, “What on earth are you up to?”
“Look, you can guess what they did to the people of Marawa Island—if they think we're the first of some great exodus, it's possible they'll try the same thing at home. Do you really want Onewēre invaded by this lot?”
“I can't believe you…here's a chance to tell someone what's really going on back there, yet you're perfectly willing to let your father's wrongdoing go unpunished so he can keep it up? Can't you see he's used our isolation as an excuse to trap us all under his rule? I'll have no part in keeping him in power.”
“And I'll have no part in opening our doors to these thugs.”
Why was everything so complicated where Lazarus was concerned? Just when she'd almost let her guard down with him, this new argument saw them back where they had started: totally at odds.
“The Confederated Territories or Apostles…they're all the same.”
“Look, if you'd just see this logically—”
She cut him off. “If you tell me to look just one more time, I swear I'll scream.”