by Mandy Hager
At the main gates a group of men prowled the boundary fence and, out beyond, bored guards patrolled the grounds. She had expected this, but now that she was here her plan seemed suddenly ridiculous. Would her nerve—her desperation—hold? She thought about how she'd been stripped bare before the congregation of Star of the Sea when first she'd Crossed. How innocent she'd been. How totally humiliated. But she had survived it, and would survive this too. She had to, if the promise she'd just forced from Lazarus had any worth.
She ran up to the locked gates and started to scream. “Never,” she cried. “It was the source, the end, the morning and the night…” On and on, jumbling her words, making sure they made no sense while fervently hoping this was what a person did when they went mad. As she shrieked she clawed at her clothes and hair so that strands of it tangled in her fingers and came away in her hands. It was oddly exhilarating—releasing all her pent-up grief and shame.
Item by item she stripped off her clothes—her mind fixed on her goal, not daring to focus on her actions—until she writhed virtually naked before the whistling, jeering detainees. The guards were running nervously towards her now. And still she ranted, rolling her eyes and spitting as though possessed.
As the guards scrabbled for the keys to the gate, and the crowd of men beyond the fence grew ever bigger and more vocal, she threw herself onto the ground and thrashed there like a stranded fish. Two minutes more and the guards were upon her, hauling her back to her feet while trying to press her clothing back around her. They grappled her around the neck, forcing her hands behind her back, but still she kept up an attack that only the insane would fight. When, finally, they dragged her through the open gates, she felt a ball of triumph bursting in her heart. The first small step! And she laughed right in their faces as they bundled her, bound and semi-naked, into a truck.
It took all Maryam's determination not to cower as they slapped metal restraints around her wrists and locked her arms behind her back. The pressure on her broken arm was excruciating, and however much she twisted and contorted, she couldn't ease the strain. It was hard to know which was worse—the pain from her arm or the humiliation of sitting naked, apart from underpants, in front of two antagonistic white guards. For a moment she was frozen by fear—but then she glimpsed the disgust in the men's eyes—the trigger she needed to renew her act. She'd not let them see past her madness to the skin beneath.
“Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves…” She so surprised herself with these words she chortled aloud, thinking of Father Joshua and his brainwashed Apostles. Then her mind flitted to another verse: “…and above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” Joseph now sprang to her thoughts and she had to push his memory away. Thinking of him made her feel too vulnerable. She wracked her brain for more quotes, astounded by the aptness of the words her memory threw up. It was as if her mind had split in two: one side maintained this insane ruse while the other had never been so lucid or still. She kept the barrage of words flowing, hurling out the next quotation as if she were the Lord Himself.
“I will deal with them according to their conduct, and by their own standards I will judge them…” Again her rational mind chipped in: If only that were really true.
On and on she raved, allowing spit to gather at the corners of her mouth and fly out to fleck her skin. But there was no response from her captors now. The guards said nothing as the truck bumped down the winding road towards—she hoped—the hospital. She rocked her head backwards and forwards until her hair unravelled and fell across her face to form a camouflaging veil. To her surprise both guards looked pale, as if they were uncomfortable with what she was venting. And so they should be. Again she allowed her maniacal laughter to overflow—and revelled in the sense of power such lack of inhibition brought. She could say anything, do anything, and not be held responsible for it, other than earning the label “mad.” It was a heady feeling, and she milked it for all it was worth.
At last the truck appeared to slow. It turned sharply now before stopping altogether. The guards waited for the driver to unlock the rear doors, then pushed her out ahead of them. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back, so she stumbled, trying to get her balance, and fell awkwardly to the ground. Shockwaves coursed through her broken arm.
As they hauled her roughly to her feet, she saw ahead of her a dilapidated huddle of buildings bleached silver by the sun. They marched her up a flight of steps, in through guarded doors, and past a group of uniformed women who eyed her nakedness with bored contempt. Exhausted by her efforts and smarting from her fall, she didn't speak now, just writhed beneath her captive's grip and rolled her head rhythmically from side to side to maintain her ruse.
The guards led her down the long dingy corridor that linked all the shabby buildings into one. Finally, they stopped before a set of reinforced locked doors and knocked loudly. Two men in grimy white coats peered out through the bars. They were not white-skinned as she'd expected, their faces sun-kissed like her own, yet their eyes appeared disinterested, almost dead.
“Another for the loony bin,” one of her guards muttered. He thrust her forward, and retreated quickly as one of the white-coated men reached for her and dragged her across the threshold, locking the door behind him with a resounding bang.
She felt so foolish, so defeated: it hadn't occurred to her she'd be locked in. How could she find the cure if she wasn't free to search? None of this was going to plan—for immediately the two new guards grabbed an elbow each, hauled her down another corridor towards a row of doors, and flung her into a small room.
They pushed her onto the solitary bed, and came at her. She backed against the wall, trying to shield herself as a blinding white panic consumed her mind. As they threw her face down on the bed, she fought back nausea…but all they did was release the restraints around her wrists.
“What's your name?” one of them shouted, perhaps believing her to be deaf. She merely hung her head and growled, shaky with relief.
“Another Jane Doe, eh?”
“Or Jane Doggy,” the other added, sniggering. “At least this one is easy on the eye.” His hand whipped out and tweaked her breast. Instantly she parried his arm away with her plaster cast, the smack resounding in the room. “Crazy little bitch,” he hissed, and cuffed her ear.
She recoiled, fleeing the bed and backing herself into a corner where she curled into a ball. With her arms wrapped tightly around her calves, she tucked her throbbing head down on her knees, her hair forming a wiry shield. You can do this, she told herself. Focus on the reason you are here.
The trouble was, she hadn't planned it through this far, and was uncertain now if she should sustain the act. Here, inside the hospital, if she was to pretend insanity—even for a short while—she'd have to up her game. Yet if she acted too crazy they'd drug her so she couldn't think. Why, oh why, hadn't she waited just a little longer to think it properly through?
The two men exchanged words in a language she didn't understand, laughing as they locked the door and left. She could hear footsteps in the corridor outside and tensed up every time they passed her door, but it seemed an age before the key again turned in the lock. She prepared herself, ready to revert to her demented role.
A fat middle-aged native woman entered the room and carefully shut the door behind her. She carried a metal bowl in which something clattered, and a pile of folded clothes.
“So, missy,” she said, not without sympathy, “do you know who you are and why you're here?”
Maryam thought it best not to respond. Instead, she kept her face masked by her long swathe of hair, winding her fingers through it to form tangly knots.
“Okay, sweetheart. I'll take it that's a no.” She squatted down next to Maryam, grunting at the discomfort. “Come on, now. Let's get you dressed.”
Maryam allowed the woman to ease her up and lead her back over to the bed, reassured by her kind wor
ds and gentle hands. The woman picked up a folded garment from the pile and shook it out. It was made from thick grey fabric, with overly long sleeves and straps, and she draped it casually across her arm.
“That's it, love. We'll have you right in no time now.” Her tone was soothing and her movements so calm that Maryam decided not to struggle as she gently worked one of the sleeves over the grimy cast.
Maryam couldn't figure out the purpose of the garment—the sleeves hung way down past her fingers and the straps dangled almost to the ground. By now the woman had fastened it at her back, and was taking each sleeve and crossing it over Maryam's chest. Before Maryam could comprehend what was happening, the woman spun her around, tightly tying up the sleeves behind.
No! She saw now what this garment was—some kind of restraining jacket that bound her arms. She started to resist, trying to free her arms, but the woman just pulled tighter and the jacket pinned her arms awkwardly against her body and wouldn't budge. Her plaster cast pressed hard up against her breasts, while the unnatural angle strained all the muscles in her shoulders and upper arms.
“Let me out of this!” she cried as the woman deftly tied the straps in place behind her back.
“It's for your own good,” the woman snapped. Maryam thrashed and kicked out at her. “Calm down or I'll call in the men.” She pressed Maryam down firmly onto the bed. “Sit there and don't move a muscle, or this is going to hurt you more.”
She reached for the metal bowl, and Maryam's eyes widened in panic as she caught sight of the hypodermic needle the woman held in her other hand. Memories of Mother Lilith and her tortuous bloodletting flooded her mind, and her heart raced so fast she feared she'd sick it up.
“Don't steal my blood,” she begged. She leapt up from the bed and threw herself back into the corner.
“No one's going to steal your blood, honey,” the woman laughed. She held up the syringe and pressed its end, causing a tiny stream of clear liquid to spurt from the needle's tip.
In one long stride she stood at Maryam's side, her bulk blocking her only route to escape. Then she jabbed the needle into Maryam's thigh and pushed down the plunger. Maryam felt a burning pain as she watched the liquid disappear into her leg. It was more than she could stand.
“I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I was just pretending to be mad.” She tried to catch the woman's gaze, to convince her she was telling the truth.
Again the woman laughed. “That's what they all say, love.” She pulled the needle out and briskly rubbed the site, then patted Maryam on the cheek. “There, you see. That wasn't so bad now, was it? And soon you'll be in happy land. What's wrong with that?”
“You don't understand—”
“Of course I don't,” the woman responded in a sing-song voice. “I don't understand. You don't understand. No one here understands a jolly thing!” She dropped the syringe back in the bowl with a decisive clang. Then she ran her hands down her white skirt and turned back to Maryam with a beaming smile. “Come, lie down now, honey. Trust me, in another ten minutes you won't be able to feel your feet.”
She began to sing then. “Father of Heaven, Whose love profound, A ransom for our souls hath found…” She walked to the door, unlocked it and left, though for some seconds afterwards Maryam could hear her voice trailing off down the corridor.
Already Maryam felt woozy, much as she had after drinking the anga kerea toddy when she Crossed. Her brain grew foggy, her limbs ever heavier; with some difficulty she got up from the floor and staggered over to the bed. It was impossible to get comfortable with her arms crossed and bound in front of her, and the ties bunched and pressed behind. The site of her broken arm burned as if an ember had been slipped inside the cast, stealing what little capacity she had left to think. But she had to make a plan, figure out something—something about what to do next. An urgent…thing…this thing…what thing?…she had to, had to…had to do.
“To do, todo, to dododo…” she sang, smiling at the sound, lulling her, spinning around inside her head as her eyelids drifted down.
It was dark, and she couldn't move her arms. They were stuck to her somehow, and she didn't have the strength to peel them off. And they hurt. Hurt so badly she felt the pain as a pulsing heat. She couldn't hear the distant sea or ebb and flow of Ruth's calming breath beside her. Where am I? Her head felt heavy, and when she tried to turn it she felt dizzy and sick. What is going on? Somewhere, somebody was calling out in a desperate voice, but she couldn't catch the meaning, just the anguish in the cry. Her mouth was dry and she ran her tongue over her teeth to free them from her lips, shocked to feel her tongue so thick and ridged.
Nothing made sense. It was as if she'd been left for dead, buried alive. Thoughts of worms and the shiny blue beetles that devoured the decomposing birds amidst the leaf litter of the jungle came to her mind and were made real. Lord in Heaven, what is going on? She tried to twist away from the creatures, feeling how they crawled across her naked skin, terrified they were going to eat her whole. She screamed, sure she could smell the fetid stench of death. Her legs were twitching uncontrollably, her heart pounding so hard she felt it bursting out between her ribs. The night creatures were gnawing at her broken arm now, burrowing beneath the cast and tearing all her flesh straight from her bones. Sweat poured off her in cold running streams, yet still those harbingers of decay nipped on and on at her and no one came to heed her calls.
At last they overwhelmed her and she gave in to her fate, moaning only slightly now as she felt the hungry little creatures crawl up towards her mouth and nose and start to feed…
It was light when next she woke. She stared up at the fly-specked ceiling, running her tongue over her lips. They felt dry and cracked and tasted of blood, as if she'd chewed them in the night, and her broken arm was throbbing mercilessly within its restrictive shell.
The terrors of the night came back to her, and she wriggled up against the wall until she could properly see her legs. They were covered with bloody scratch-marks, and her stomach lurched at the terrifying memory of the marauding beetles and the worms. But then she saw the blood that caked her ragged toenails, and it dawned on her she might well have done this damage to herself.
Everything came back to her now: the guards…the truck…the needle in her skin…her stupid plan. What had she been thinking? She was worse off than ever now and of no use to Lazarus whatsoever. Was he even still alive? She tried to push this new fear from her mind. Her predicament was bad enough already without the added possibility that all her terror and humiliation had been for nothing. Footsteps thudded in the hall outside, and she could hear voices and the opening and shutting of doors. She had to think quickly, figure out how to extricate herself from this mess. And most urgent of all, she had to find a way to stay in the hospital without remaining trussed up like a chicken ready for the pot. But now the key scraped in the lock and the same fat woman who had drugged her appeared again.
“Morning, cherub!” she said. “How did you sleep?”
Maryam studied her closely for a moment, sizing her up.
“Much better,” she croaked. Her voice was hoarse from screaming. “Thank you for your help.” She smiled, hoping the woman would see by her demeanour how truly sane she was. “Who are you?”
“Veramina,” the woman replied. She checked the bucket by the door and picked it up. “I'll be back in a minute with a clean one and then we'll fix you up with breakfast. I bet you're hungry, eh?”
Maryam nodded, trying to look enthused. “Yes,” she said, although the aching in her arm blocked all desire for food.
As she waited for Veramina to return, she tried again to think through some conceivable course of action. First she must convince them to release her from this foul restraint—but not appear too well or they would send her straight back to the camp. It was hard to focus when her head felt thick and heavy and the pressure on her broken arm was this intense. If only it would settle so she could plan. Would the cursed thing never heal? Self-pity threatene
d to overwhelm her but she pulled herself back from it. Until she heard for sure that Lazarus was dead, she would not give up.
Veramina finally came back, carrying a faded dress and a bowl of runny scrambled eggs. She placed the food down on the floor next to Maryam's bed and studied her with a practised eye. “If I take off that strait-jacket so you can eat and have a wash, you're not going to do anything silly now, are you, dear?”
“No,” Maryam assured her, trying not to show the breadth of her relief. Step One. Now she had to convince Veramina not to tie her back into that dreadful thing once she had washed.
She stood and waited patiently for Veramina to untie the straps. As the pressure came off, her arm dropped to her side and she moaned in pain at the sudden movement.
“What's wrong?” Veramina asked.
“My broken arm,” she said. “They put it in this cast, but it hurts so much it drives me mad.”
“But child, that doesn't sound right. Usually with a plaster cast—”
With a flash of pure inspiration Maryam interrupted her. “In fact, that's what got me here. It's been unbearable, and yesterday I couldn't stand it any longer—I just snapped.”
“Pain, you say?” A deep frown formed between Veramina's eyes. “Before they set it, did they x-ray it?”
“X-ray?” Maryam shook her head, genuinely confused. “All they did was cover it in this hard plaster. They didn't even set the break.” This was true. She'd seen how Mother Evodia treated breaks, sometimes having to force the bones back into place. She'd dared not question the ship's doctor when he'd merely slopped the white plaster over top of the break and ordered her to hold it still until it set. Besides, what had she cared? Joseph was dead.