Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb)

by Mandy Hager

  She shuddered, thinking of the piled bones back at Marawa Island, and for the first time truly thought through the risk of drawing the Territorials’ gaze to Onewēre's shores. Was it really safe? When Lazarus had first raised his doubts, she'd thought he did it merely to protect his father and the Apostles, but now, thanks to Ruth's disquiet, Maryam wondered if it was a valid point. If the Territorials thought Onewēre posed any kind of threat, they'd have no qualms about asserting control, deadly or otherwise. No, she couldn't in good conscience risk this—but it threw up as many problems as it solved.

  She'd have to convince Sergeant Littlejohn they'd lied…that they were, in fact, the last survivors from Marawa Island and that it was to Marawa Island she now wished to be returned. But, even if he believed her and sent her back, how on earth was she to reach Onewēre from there? She had no idea.

  Beyond the gates, the guards were changing shifts. As their ugly accents cut through the night, Maryam forced her tired brain to concentrate a little harder. All right, so it had taken Joseph's father several years to build the boat they used to escape Onewēre, and he'd had drawings from a book to guide his way. There was no way she could attempt to construct such a complicated craft, even if she had the plans. But—perhaps—there was some other means of sailing? Some craft she could fashion and operate all on her own? After all, every person in the camp must have fled across the sea to escape their homeland one way or another…perhaps someone here would have a solution she did not?

  She returned to her hut, resolving to tackle the two issues head on. Tomorrow she would seek out Aanjay's help to find a way to cross the sea between the two islands, and then she'd go to Sergeant Littlejohn and ask to be returned to Marawa Island, claiming it as her rightful home.

  “Jal Sutti built a raft,” Aanjay assured her late the next morning as she and Maryam made their way along the maze of walkways to Filza's hut. “It carried him safely on the ocean for three weeks before the Territorials’ navy picked him up.”

  “Three weeks? That's perfect. Do you think he'd tell me how?”

  “Of course. But I must warn you, he is in a very fragile state of mind. His wife and only child died one week into the voyage, and he's never quite regained his mental strength.”

  Maryam's heart faltered. Joseph's death was hard enough. To lose a wife and child…

  But they had arrived at Filza's hut. The old woman was sitting in the doorway, her elbows on her wide-spread knees, and she smoked a pipe crafted from whittled wood. The smell reminded Maryam of Judgement time, when all the village chiefs would band together and smoke aro ni mi teuana leaves to put them in a trance before the dance that preceded the final sacrifice of the seven sacred goats.

  “Ah, mahkota bunga obat girl,” Filza greeted her. She winked at Aanjay. “You bring gift?”

  Maryam blushed, but was surprised to hear Aanjay laugh. “You old rogue, Filza Zimbanto! Stop your teasing.”

  Filza shrugged, blowing a long thin line of smoke from her pleated lips. “No try, no get!” She hauled herself to her feet, breaking wind loudly as she bent back down to knock the smouldering remnants from her pipe onto the ground. “Very sorry! Puji bagi Buddha!”

  She beckoned Maryam and Aanjay into her hut and motioned for them to sit opposite her as she collapsed in her haphazard fashion onto a mat. With no further ceremony she began to speak, describing how to make the cure: “You girl. Listen good. Need two whole plants, ready with seeds. Boil all bulu halus—”

  “What's that?”

  Aanjay translated. “It means fluff.”

  “Fluff, yes, from place of seeds.”

  Now Maryam understood what the old woman was describing: the silken fibres that burst from the seed pod of the miriki-tarai shrub at the time the seeds dispersed. “I see,” she said. “Go on.”

  “Boil fluff with milky sap from stems—and peepee. Much peepee. Two big cups.”

  Maryam screwed up her face. “Peepee?” She couldn't possibly mean—

  Filza pointed to her private place. “Make water. Peepee.” She chuckled. “Not old woman peepee—too little, too weak. Use big strong boys.” She shifted on the mat, and Maryam heard the disconcerting grind of bone on bone. “Last thing add all leaves, then boil up fifteen minutes before cool. Now you.” She peered at Maryam expectantly.

  “All right,” Maryam said. “I need the sap of two whole miriki-tarai shrubs and all their leaves, plus the fluff from their seedpods and two full cups of…peepee…then boil for fifteen minutes and cool. What next?”

  Filza tapped her forehead and grinned. “Maybe smart girl after all.” She twisted to one side, freeing her buttock from the mat as she broke more wind. “Ah, better now. Okay. Leave whole night. Sun comes up pour through cloth.”

  “You mean to strain out all the bits?”

  “Yes yes. Strain bits. Sick one drink all up, then do again.” She splayed the fingers of one hand out before her and counted off each finger with her other hand. “Satu…dua…tiga…empat…lima. Lima hari.” She turned to Aanjay. “Miss sehari dan itu tidak akan berhasil.”

  Aanjay nodded. “She says you have to do this five days in a row—and if you miss a day then it won't work.”

  Maryam grinned. “That's a lot of peepee to find!”

  “Lotta peepee! Lotta big big boys!” Filza laughed so hard she snorted mucous from her nose. Without any embarrassment, she wiped it away with the back of her hand then licked it off. “Nose wax good obat too.”

  Maryam dared not meet Aanjay's eye as she struggled to curb the bubbling urge to laugh. She had to focus; had to get the remedy right in every way if she was to claim she knew the cure. But the old woman was so crazy. Could she really be sure this strange treatment would work?

  She posed this nagging doubt to Aanjay after they'd finally left Filza's hut. “How will I know until I see it cure someone with my own eyes? What if she's wrong? Making it up?” Or just plain forgetful. “She's very old.”

  “Just because her English is not good, do not discount her. Her mind is as sharp as yours or mine.”

  “You're sure?”

  “You have to trust that it is so,” Aanjay replied. “The Buddha said: Have confidence in the Truth, although you may not be able to comprehend it, although you may suppose its sweetness to be bitter, although you may shrink from it at first…Have faith in the Truth and live it.”

  “But are you confident she's telling the truth? The mix of ingredients sounds very strange.”

  Aanjay paused mid-step and turned to Maryam, taking up her hand. “All faith calls for radical trust, Maryam. In the end we cannot rely on others to prove if something is right or wrong, true or false—or even if it exists at all. All we can rely on is the truth that speaks to us through our heart.” She lifted their linked hands and pressed Maryam's to her chest. “What does your heart tell you?”

  Maryam closed her eyes, concentrating on the gentle rhythmic beating of the life-force beneath her palm. She understood what Aanjay was trying to say—that at some point you had to ignore all the swirling in your head and let the whisperings of your heart lead the way. But was it true that faith and trust were one and the same? All Maryam had observed of faith first-hand was truth and trust abused. Come on, now. Focus…Did she trust the old woman's cure to work?

  From somewhere deep within her a sigh burst forth. She realised she didn't really have a choice. If she wanted to go forward with her plan, she had to believe it would work. Had to have faith.

  She had no time to stew over this further, for Aanjay was taking her to meet Jal Sutti, who'd been detained after the interception of his self-built raft. For the next hour he led Maryam through the intricate details of the building process, even sketching her specific features of his plan. Despite the fact that Aanjay had to translate every word, Maryam found his concept more understandable and potentially achievable than she had imagined. It would be time consuming, there was no denying that, but it seemed to her that the two biggest challenges would be the felling
and transport of the timber that would form the raft's platform and mast, and how she'd transfer the craft from dry land to the water once it had been built.

  Jal Sutti seemed quite happy to impart his knowledge of the raft, but when Maryam explained, via Aanjay, the reason for her interest, he shook his head and waved his hands angrily about him as his eyes filled up with tears. Aanjay refused to translate his words and Maryam didn't press her—what could he tell her of the potential risks that she didn't already know?

  Afterward, her head near bursting with information and what she could only assume was Jal Sutti's heart-felt warning, she bade goodbye to Aanjay and made her way to the main gates. There was no point delaying her decision to request deportation, even though it was Charlie's day off. If she didn't do it now, before the thought of leaving Ruth blighted her plan, she'd lose her nerve.

  She approached the wire and called out to the nearest guard. “Excuse me. I'd like to speak with Sergeant Littlejohn.”

  The guard cast a suspicious eye over her, and she recognised him as one of the men who'd seen her feign madness so she could get access to a cure for Lazarus. “Bugger off.”

  She held her ground, standing a little straighter as she tried again. “I wish to speak to the leader of this camp. It is my right.”

  “And it's my right to tell you to shove it, little miss loony-bin. There's no way I'm gonna open the gates for you.” He swaggered a little closer, standing right before her with his legs astride and hips thrust forward like a threat. “Now piss off or I'll lock you in the cells.”

  Maryam took a step backward, considering her options as she scanned the goings-on beyond the fence. The door to the administration block was open wide, as were all its windows—including the window to Sergeant Littlejohn's office. She shrugged, pretending she was cowed by the guard's words, and slowly made her way down the fenceline until she was as close to the open office window as possible.

  Now she cupped her hands around her mouth to pitch her voice. “Sergeant Littlejohn!” she hollered, dredging every scrap of air from her lungs. “I need to see you NOW!”

  She could feel the guards’ attention swing toward her, but didn't falter. “Sergeant Littlejohn! I need to talk to you! Can you please come out?”

  The same belligerent guard jogged over to her, his whole bearing so infused with fury that for a moment the force of it stole away her breath. But she had little time: if she didn't raise the sergeant's interest right here and now, they'd shut her down.

  “Sergeant Littlejohn. Please! I really need your help!”

  From somewhere inside the building she heard a crash, and then for a split second she saw the gleam of the sergeant's bald head as he peered out the window. One flash, but then it was gone.

  “Please! Sergeant Littlejohn. We have to talk!”

  The guard dashed back to the gates and wrestled with the lock, his face murderous as he slipped inside and marched toward her at a menacing trot. “You really are a crazy little slut,” he snapped, lunging forward and grasping her vulnerable arm.

  Maryam froze, terrified he'd force the arm up high behind her back. Although the stitches were out now and the wound had healed, the newly-pinned bone was still far too fragile for any sudden jolts or shocks.

  “I just want to talk to him,” she explained, trying to keep her tone calm and conversational, even as she conceded to herself that she'd lost this round. She'd have to wait until Charlie was back at work.

  The guard shoved her backward, nearly felling her, then raised the barrel of his gun. “Get the hell out of here or else I'll—”

  “Parsons! Bring her here.” Sergeant Littlejohn stood at the door of the administration building.

  Standing to attention now, the guard motioned with his gun toward the gates. “You heard him. Get over there!”

  Maryam tried to ignore the hostility of the guards as they escorted her into the office where Sergeant Littlejohn now waited behind his desk. He looked her up and down with his calculating pale eyes, and the chill in his gaze sent a shiver down her spine. This was not a man to cross, yet now she had to lie to him—and make it so convincing he'd agree to let her go.

  “Well,” he said. “Speak up.”

  Maryam bobbed her head in greeting, wanting to ensure he thought she held him in especially high esteem. If only he knew the truth. She clenched her hands behind her back, digging her fingernails into her palms as she recalled the damning papers in the boxes down the hall. She did not underestimate his power.

  “I have come to seek your forgiveness and that of your great Confederated Territories.”

  “Oh yes.” He didn't sound as interested or as pleased as she had hoped.

  “We…I…have lied to you. I've come to repent and atone.” The weight of what she was about to do pressed in on her, as all the teachings of her childhood screamed that lying was a mortal sin. “I told you we had come from Onewēre, but the truth is we were the last of those who once lived on Marawa Island…The boy Lazarus, who you've now released, was shipwrecked there some years ago. The only other survivors are my sister Ruth and me.” She was amazed how easily the lies fell from her tongue.

  Sergeant Littlejohn's eyes narrowed as he studied her. He scratched his nose. “Why tell me now?”

  “We suspect that Lazarus has already told you the truth.” She swallowed hard, trying to quell the sudden dryness of her throat.

  “Do ya just.” He slowly blinked. His eyes were lash-less, just like a lizard's. “Why lie in the first place?”

  “We were scared. We knew about…what happened. When our mother died last year Lazarus convinced us we should leave with him. We didn't want to end up…punished…like our forefathers, but we were too scared to stay there on our own.”

  Sergeant Littlejohn's nostrils pinched as he inhaled air. “Convinced ya, eh? I knew the little prick was using both of you to dip his wick.” He scratched his bulging belly, revealing clumps of reddish hair where the buttons of his shirt strained to hold back the vast expanse of fat. Now he suddenly leaned forward, slapping his hands down on the desktop. “So what's ya point?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “Oh yeah? To where?”

  “My home…Marawa Island.” She tried to hold his gaze but there was something in his pale staring eyes that made her feel sick. She focused on his mouth instead, appalled yet mesmerised as she watched a drop of sweat form beneath his nose and course down his top lip, only to be licked away with his coated tongue. “I'd rather die alone next to the bones of all my ancestors than remain here.” This, at least, was not a lie.

  Sergeant Littlejohn massaged between his eyes. “Christ, there must be something in the water. You're the second one today.” Aanjay, Maryam guessed. So she, too, dared not wait in case the urge to leave should wane. “What about your sister then?”

  Maryam shrugged. “She is carrying a child and has decided to stay.”

  “Hah! I knew he was a sneaky wee bastard. Gets one of his boongas up the duff then runs. You've almost gotta give him credit…”

  Now he cocked his head to one side and stared at her as if he could see right through her clothes. She forced herself to remain compliant, even though her brain cried out that she should run. But there was a guard at the door behind her. She had no choice but suffer beneath his denuding gaze.

  At last he blinked his lizard eyes and smiled the kind of smile she guessed Lucifer would present to some poor sinner as He stole their soul. From the piles of paperwork on his desk Sergeant Littlejohn drew forth some kind of ledger, flicking through until he jabbed one of his stumpy index fingers onto a page and nodded his head.

  “Right you are. The next shipment out is in two weeks. You wanna go back to that god-forsaken jungle, that's okey-doke with me.” He opened a drawer and removed a sheet of paper, sliding it across the desk. Next he handed her a pen. “Sign this, my dusky little bewdy, and we have ourselves a deal.”

  It was so easy, in the end, to convince Sergeant Littlejohn to shi
p her back to Marawa Island, Maryam left his office in a state of shock. This came, in part, from annoyance at her own stupidity: she'd known about the deportations from the start, yet she'd viewed them as something dire, to be avoided at all costs. Instead, this so-called punishment played perfectly into her hands. True, she wasn't going to be taken all the way to Onewēre—but she was confident that somehow she would cross that last tract of sea when the time was right. Jal Sutti's plans made good sense to her and she was keen to test her skills.

  The second cause for shock was far more complex and intense. What had started as a grand idea only a few weeks earlier had blossomed into something tangible, and Maryam felt as if she was staring down the barrel of one of those awful guns, convinced it could go off at any time. Suddenly she understood Ruth's desire to stay: here, each hardship was known—and so, to some extent, could still be controlled. But by setting the deportation in motion, Maryam was heading off into another dangerous void…no guarantees, no safety nets. No other person to rely on but herself.

  The two weeks she was given to mentally prepare and say her goodbyes had seemed an age when Sergeant Littlejohn first set the date, but as the days rushed past Maryam wished the time would stretch and slow. Every conversation she had with Ruth was tempered by a painful mix of sadness on her part and subtle accusations on Ruth's. She longed to set their relationship back onto its old comfortable footing before she left, but the closer the date for her departure came, the less likely it seemed. Ruth set about distancing herself, spending more and more of her time teaching and befriending the other girls her age, and reading from the Holy Book Charlie had sourced. It was as if she was purposely exorcising Maryam from her mind. Every barbed word was another building block in Ruth's defensive wall.