by Mandy Hager
“And the kiss?” Don't blush, she willed herself. Let him be the one to squirm.
He blinked and flushed an even deeper shade of puce. “I refuse to justify that. Make of it what you will.”
She was searching around inside her head for the perfect comeback when she noticed that they had been joined by a straggly line of hostile-looking villagers. As they made their way along its scruffy, chicken-littered paths, more and more people emerged until a great crowd of them stood before the entrance to the causeway, blocking the two forward guards from stepping up onto its bamboo slats.
A painfully thin woman, one of the brave mothers from the day before, stepped forward, thrusting her rescued daughter toward Maryam's face. “Kiss your saviour,” she instructed the child, who shyly leaned in to Maryam and pressed her little snot-smeared mouth to Maryam's lips.
Now the woman was joined by the other five mothers and their girls, each one insisting Maryam receive a kiss of thanks. She was so moved, her nose tingled with the first sign of tears, but they remained dammed in the corners of her eyes. If only she didn't feel so guilty: the freedom she'd hoped to deliver them was all too quickly falling apart. Once Father Joshua had done away with her, these mothers’ hearts would be cruelly wrenched yet again.
The women formed a human blockade, and others stepped forward to bar the way as well. “Promise us no harm will come to our Sister,” one of the newcomers demanded of the guards, while another yelled out from the back of the milling congregation, “Why is Sister Maryam bound?”
The lead guard, a brawny server in his middle years, jostled to the front. “There is no need to worry. Our Holy Father merely wishes to receive her news first-hand.”
Now the young man who had begged for Maryam's healing the day before pushed through to confront the guard. “Untie her then!” Around him others murmured their agreement and moved forward to surround Maryam in a protective scrum.
Lazarus stepped forward now, a smile teasing at his lips. He quickly untied the bindings from Maryam's wrists. “Come!” he announced grandly, “Join us as we walk!”
The guards shook their heads and tried to muscle in on Maryam's rowdy entourage, but Lazarus was taking charge now, hooking his arm through Maryam's and steadfastly stepping with her onto the causeway that linked the island to the ship.
“This is good.” He grinned, jerking his head to indicate the accompanying crowd.
“Good?” she said. “I don't see how. You're still escorting me into a trap.”
“Look,” he said, exasperation clear in his voice. “Don't you see? You can't run from him unless you want to live out your days alone back on Marawa Island. At least with the villagers here as witnesses you still have a chance.”
Marawa Island suddenly seemed an excellent option. Was it not enough that she'd given her people the recipe for the cure? Why go through this farce when Father Joshua would never voluntarily relinquish his control? She was stupid, so stupid, to have believed one word from her would bring him down. The fact that Lazarus was now steadily propelling her toward the ship further rekindled all her doubts.
“They hailed the Lamb before they turned on him and bayed for His blood,” she muttered. She was suddenly weak and weary—and very scared—as the bamboo causeway pitched under the combined weight of so many people, catapulting her forward as though even it was impatient to deposit her at Father Joshua's feet.
As they neared the huge rusting hulk that was Star of the Sea, her heart started thumping so hard it felt as if a flock of birds was trapped inside and trying to break back out through her chest. Her knees lost all their strength and she would have fallen had not Lazarus been there clasping her arm. A sea of faces peered down from the open deck, and the crowd behind her fell silent as the boarding platform was lowered down the ship's side. The guards reasserted their control, ordering the villagers to disperse. With Lazarus still supporting her, Maryam stepped aboard, turning back to face her supporters as the servers above began to haul the ropes back up.
“Whatever happens,” she shouted, desperate for one final word, “question everything you're told. This island is ours—the birthplace of our ancestors since time began. We have the right to serve our own destinies, without the controlling lies of the Apostles of the Lamb.”
Already the villagers were losing focus, their faces a mix of anger, excitement and appalling fear. Do they really understand the price that all of them might pay for standing up to Father Joshua and his kind? Do I? If not her mind, then at least her body understood the gravity of what awaited her: she was trembling uncontrollably now and her mouth was dry. And, no matter how much she swallowed, she couldn't shift the sense that something sharp and immutable had lodged inside her throat.
Lazarus also cleared his throat, as if he suffered from the same choking nerves. “Whatever happens, I promise I'll stay next to you.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as the platform bumped and jolted to the top.
Beyond the villagers, the imposing peaks of Onewēre rose from the sparkling infinity of sea, the lush dark-green hues of the jungle offset by thrusting silver rock formations and the glorious strip of stark coral sand that painted the shallow waters inside the reef an iridescent blue so pale it could have been the sky. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help… The Holy Book's lyrical words drove tears into her eyes again. How much she loved this place, with all its vibrant colours, shapes and smells. How much she loved the people too. They had not asked to be controlled by the Apostles’ Rules…instead, just like the detainees who'd fought to make that stinking camp in the Confederated Territories some kind of home, the people born with Onewēre's native blood inside their veins had merely tried to make the best of what they'd been served up after the Tribulation's darkest days. A single tear rolled down her cheek. If this was to be her last day on this earth, at least she'd tried to show them they had some choice.
Aanjay's fine-boned face flashed into her mind. Where was she now? Was she, too, battling those who had imposed their will—or was she gone, happy at the Buddha's side until she was reborn? Everywhere, it seemed, good honest people suffered at the hands of those who fed on power. It simply wasn't right. Maryam took a deep breath and shrugged away Lazarus's protective arm. If she was to meet her death today, then she would try to face it with the serenity and strength of Aanjay, using this bird's-eye vista of the island as her touchstone to steady her mind.
When the platform drew level with the opening in the great ship's side, Maryam stepped off onto the scuffed metal deck, aware of the unsympathetic stares of the male servers who had hoisted her and Lazarus up. Mother Michal was there as well, her thin pale hair scraped back sternly from her face.
“Come at once,” she said, spinning on her heel to disappear through the metal doorway into the gloomy world beyond.
Nausea swilled in Maryam's stomach as the guards pushed her forward and the thick stench of mildew hit her. Mould bloomed from the threadbare woven flooring of the corridor as copiously as shoots in spring. The grimy walls pressed in around her, as if doing their best to wipe the image of the island from her mind, but she clutched onto it, imagining herself clinging by her fingernails to its lofty peaks.
She could feel Lazarus's hand press on her back, unsure if he applied it for her comfort or to speed her on her way. They entered the atrium, the breathtaking centre of the ship. Its lavish silvers and golds set off the glow of the tiled marble floors, and the high domed ceiling refracted back the rainbow of colours and patterns that clothed the walls. It had lost none of its magic. The first time Maryam set foot in the space after she'd Crossed, she'd thought its magnificence was the outward manifestation of the Lord's glorious domain. Now the sight of such extravagance, while Sisters and servers and villagers suffered so cruelly at the Apostles’ hands, seemed to underline the rot that poisoned the Apostles’ hearts.
Mother Michal gave her no time to linger. She led them straight up the sweeping staircase, beyond the theatre where F
ather Joshua had so publicly abused and humiliated her, and on further to the tattered panelled doors that marked the entrance to his private realm. Mother Michal knocked three times, the sound tolling on like a prophetic warning.
“I won't let them hurt you,” Lazarus whispered from behind her. “Say nothing and let me take control.” He slipped his hand onto her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly, and though Maryam was still fuming at his betrayal she found some comfort in the gesture.
The door creaked open. “The girl is here,” Mother Michal announced, pushing Maryam through the opening so that she lost her balance and tripped, only just managing to stay upright with Lazarus's aid. The strong sweet scent of siale flowers emanated from a spray placed on a small table by the door, overpowering the slight hint of mould and drawing Maryam's gaze up from her clumsy feet.
A panicked survey reassured her that the room was empty, bar furnishings so opulent that for a moment all she could do was stare. Panels of delicately grained wood lined its walls, while thick jungle-green curtains flanked large floor-to-ceiling windows that opened to a balcony designed to offer views of the sea beyond. The flooring was scuffed and thin with age, however, its delicate floral border faded and, near the windows, worn right away. On the wall to her right a large gold-framed mirror hung above a bulky wooden dresser, its top inlaid with glinting strips of abalone shell and mother-of-pearl. The rest of the room was furnished with large upholstered chairs, their covers worn and grubby though still inviting, and beyond an arched opening in the wall Maryam could see a bed so wide three sleeping mats could have been laid side by side on top. It was draped with some kind of animal pelt, the colour and appearance of fluffy clouds, and her fingers itched to run over it to find out if it was as soft and dense as it appeared.
But now she felt a disconcerting prickle track up her spine as she sensed her own observations were being just as thoroughly scrutinised by someone else. She spun around to find Father Joshua leaning against the wall, studying her from behind the open door. Her heart hiccupped, and she had a sudden griping urge in her bladder. Oh Lord.
“Greetings,” he said, slow and deliberate. “I see you have returned.” He rounded on Mother Michal. “Where is that damned woman?”
“Here!” came Mother Lilith's puffing voice from the hallway. Mother Michal took her leave, and Mother Lilith entered. She closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock, then slipped the key into the pocket of her stark white skirt. “Sorry I'm late,” she said. “Damage control.” She brushed past Maryam, not acknowledging her at all, and flopped into one of the chairs.
Father Joshua stepped from his corner and gestured toward the unoccupied chairs. “If you'd be so kind…”
His politeness terrified Maryam more than if he'd struck her. There was such coldness and forced restraint in his tone, he seemed to be holding back a rage so dangerous even he was hesitant to let it loose.
She crossed the room, holding her head high and refusing to appear intimidated, although inside she quivered like a newborn chick. Lazarus rushed forward and drew out a chair for her, pulling over another so he could sit right at her side. She sat bolt upright, ignoring the comfort of the cushioned upholstery, and wove her fingers together before resting her hands on her knee. Breathe, she willed herself. In, out, in, out…
“And so…” Father Joshua shot across the room and perched on the arm of Mother Lilith's chair. He stared at Maryam as though his eyes could strip her bare, one corner of his mouth rising in a poorly disguised sneer. “It seems you've had quite an adventure, my dear.”
She didn't answer, not feeding him anything he could use as bait.
Mother Lilith leaned forward and scooped up a small notebook and writing implement from the circular glass table that stood between the chairs. “Tell me, Sister, the ingredients of your so-called cure.”
“Not so-called, Mother,” Lazarus said. “Lesuna is alive thanks to it, and I am too—the natural mixture contains the same basic ingredients as the pills that saved my life.”
“That's for me to judge,” his mother shot back. She raked him with her eyes, the glance so cold Maryam shivered on Lazarus's behalf. Better a dead mother and a brainwashed father than this bloodless, arrogant pair. Now Mother Lilith turned the same freezing regard back to Maryam. “Well?”
Maryam dug her fingernails into the backs of her linked hands, using the pain to hold her mind in check. The urge to run, to throw open the doors and leap straight off the balcony, was strong indeed. Try as she might, she couldn't look at Mother Lilith as she spoke, instead staring at the embossed silver bowl that graced the table. It was filled with unripe mangoes and glossy purple figs. “Well…first you need…”
Her voice gained strength as she continued, spelling out as clearly as she could the process to transform the miriki-tarai shrubs into the tonic. Twice Mother Lilith interrupted her to clarify a point, but other than that she simply inscribed Maryam's recipe directly into the notebook while a deep frown-line built between her brows. Father Joshua, meanwhile, deserted his perch and crossed to the window, his hands grasped tightly behind his back as he stared out to sea.
When Maryam had finished her recitation, Mother Lilith snapped the notebook shut and rose to her feet. “You'd better pray that this works as you claim, girl.” She stalked to the door and unlocked it, holding it ajar. “Lazarus, you come with me.”
Maryam's stomach twisted as Lazarus shook his head. “No,” he said. “I'll not leave Maryam here alone.”
His father reeled around, looming over Lazarus within the space of one shocked heartbeat. He grabbed him by his shirt collar and jerked him to his feet, the fabric tearing beneath his hand. “You'll do as you are told, boy.”
Lazarus, red-faced and seething, tried to shake away his father's hand, to no avail. “Let me go. You have no right—”
“Rights?” his father roared. “You forfeited all rights when you took up with this whore.” He flung Lazarus out into the corridor so hard he crashed against the opposite wall.
As sudden as a wind gust, Mother Lilith slammed the door then clicked the lock shut, shutting Maryam in alone with Father Joshua. Beyond, Lazarus began yelling and thumping but, just as suddenly, Maryam heard a pained grunt and all commotion stopped. Sharp fingers of fear pressed at her temples. Oh Lord, what had his mother done?
Heat flared through her as the realisation that Lazarus had told the truth unlocked her shame. How could she have doubted him? He was just as much at risk as she. And now Father Joshua was storming over to her chair, laying a hand on each armrest and pressing one of his knees right up between her legs so she was trapped. He leaned close in, until his long sharp nose was only inches from her own and she could smell his bitter breath.
“Well, well, well…here we are, alone at last.” His unflinching blue eyes bored into hers as he reached out, touched the tip of her nose, then ran his index finger down over her lips and chin, down past her neck, until he stopped between her breasts and pressed so hard he pinned her to the chair. “Tell me, Sister Maryam, do you love the Lord?”
Again heat broke through her cold sweat and she guessed he'd see it on her face. Even if she lied, he'd know the truth. She swallowed hard, conscious of the sound. “I love the Lamb's message of forgiveness and kindness.”
He jabbed his finger—one, two, three times—against her breastbone. “You think you're so clever, don't you, missy?”
He shifted his hand away, but her relief was only seconds old when he drew it back and slapped it hard across her cheek. Her head crashed back into the headrest, a burst of bright white light exploding behind her eyes. Oh Lord in Heaven. Through the pain she realised he was fumbling with his clothes. Releasing his belt and trousers. Pushing up her dress.
“Please,” she shrieked, horror at the sight of his worming organ clearing her head. “I have my Bloods.” She thrust herself back, tucking her legs under her for purchase as she flipped backward over the headrest of the chair, her foot unintentionally conn
ecting with his chin as it flew past. The collision knocked him away from the chair, his own disarrayed clothes tripping him further. He crashed to the ground.
Maryam ran to the door and started banging. “Lazarus! Someone! Let me out!” Her pulse was beating out of control, her breath gasping out in short shallow bursts. She checked over her shoulder, in time to see him scramble to his feet. “Help!” she screamed, pummelling the door again with both her fists. “Someone help!”
Then his hand was on her shoulder, spinning her around. He slammed her back against the door, his trousers up but still gaping open, and he clapped his hand over her mouth. She tried to bite him, but he pressed so hard her jaw could not release, and he swivelled his hand now, blocking off her nose as well. She couldn't breathe.
“You stupid interfering little bitch,” he spat, bloody saliva bubbling on his split lip.
She tried to raise her knee, to attack him where it would hurt the most, but her brain was fighting for its own life now, lack of air sending such panicked signals she felt as though her head and lungs would burst, and all her strength now bled away. She was fading, no longer able to put up a fight. All she could do now was hope he'd end it fast.
Then an unseen force flung her forward, breaking Father Joshua's grip. Maryam fell to the floor on her hands and knees, gasping and retching, her head pulsating, full of beating drums.
Mother Lilith stormed into the room. “Can you not control yourself at all?” She passed Maryam, kicking out casually but hard enough to knock Maryam onto her side. She curled into a tight protective ball, shielding her breasts and stomach, still too winded to speak.
Father Joshua grunted and took a white handkerchief from his pocket to press onto his lip.
