by Mandy Hager
Lazarus began scouring beneath the thick undergrowth for drier firewood, while Ruth prepared a stew of salted fish and root vegetables from their stores. Maryam took her infusion of te buka leaves and gently dabbed it over Joseph's scrapes and grazes, murmuring the kind of mindless platitudes she'd used for the young Sisters when they were hurt and needed care back at home.
“This'll get you right in no time,” she said, trying to ignore the nagging voice inside her head. No it won't. The only thing that can save him is your blood. The voice would not let up on her. You have the means to do so, right in the boat.
It was true that buried at the bottom of her small pile of clothes she had the instruments that Mother Lilith used to take her blood—she'd stolen them on the spur of the moment, just before they fled the ship. But would she know how to use them, even if she could convince Joseph to accept her aid? She did not want to think of this, it scared her so. One mistake, one needle misplaced or calculation of volume wrong, and she would end up dead.
As Joseph slipped into a restless sleep she tried to distract herself by helping with the search for wood. The downpour had left everything soaked, and it took a lot of foraging to find anything remotely dry enough to burn. Eventually, she and Lazarus had stacked enough driftwood and brittle dead branches next to the fire to last them until later, when things had dried out. Although the day was hot and humid after the rain, there was something about the crackling, dancing flames that soothed.
Maryam and Lazarus perched on rocks they'd shifted to form makeshift seats around the blaze as Ruth doled out the hot fish stew, yet still no one was moved to speak. They ate hungrily, but it was as if each of them was locked inside their own thoughts, preparing for the moment when they'd have to tackle what to do now all hope of rescue was lost.
As soon as Maryam had finished her meal she carried a steaming bowl of stew across to Joseph, tenderly shaking him awake. “Eat now,” she murmured to him as he roused. “It will help you build some strength.”
He propped himself on one elbow, but his hand shook as he raised each spoonful to his lips. It was painful to watch him struggle so, and Maryam sat beside him biting back the urge to help, guessing he'd refuse her offer if she tried. Already the red welts around his neck were darkening to purple, but as he ate she was relieved to see a little colour creep back into his face. When, finally, he had finished as much as he could, she helped him get up to join the others sitting by the fire.
“We have to talk,” he said, studying each of them in turn.
How like him, Maryam thought. So frail, yet here he is still trying to hold us all together.
He started to cough, but managed to swallow the irritation down again before continuing. “It's clear there's no one left here. We must decide what to do next.”
“We should go back,” Ruth burst out. “Admit the Apostles were right about the Tribulation and leave this awful island.”
“You must be joking! Surely you can't honestly think we'd be better off back there?” Maryam felt sick at the thought.
“What would you have us do?” Ruth replied, two bright spots of colour branding her cheeks. “If we stay here under the eye of these heathen gods, the Lord will punish us as well. And if we sail on it's clear that all we'll find is more proof of the Lord's great wrath. You have to face it, Maryam. Make a choice. The Lord or death.”
“You can't seriously believe that?” Lazarus flung the last juices from his meal into the fire, causing it to spit and hiss. He turned to Maryam. “And you wonder why I hold you servers in such low esteem when the prey now argues to walk back willingly to its trap. How stupid is that?”
“That's not fair,” Maryam retorted, but she found she could not meet his eye. What he said was true enough, but she understood Ruth's fear. For them to turn their backs on the teachings of the Apostles ran contrary to everything they'd been raised to think. To act upon. And to believe. It was just possible that the trials they now faced were punishment for her rejection of the Lord and his Apostles’ Rules. She could not stop thinking about this: whether if she'd repented her sins and resolved once again to love the Lord and trust his chosen spokesmen, Joseph's life might not now be at risk. “I don't know about you others, but right now I think our priority should be healing Joseph.”
“You mean stay here?” Ruth's eyes were wide.
“No…Yes…I don't know.” It was impossible to stay calm while her mind was spinning so. Right now all she cared about was Joseph. “All I do know is that he needs our help.” She reached her hand out to him. “Please, Joseph, you have to let me try.”
“This discussion is so pointless,” he said, refusing to take her hand. “How do you want me to take your blood—drink it perhaps?” His tone was so scathing she felt heat consuming her face.
“Wait!” she cried. “I can answer that!”
She did not pause for his response. She ran over to the boat and scrambled up onto the deck, unearthed the bloodletting instruments and carried them triumphantly back to the fire. “Look,” she said, holding the strange array of objects out to him—the needle cannulas, the tubing, the one-way valve. “We have the means.”
Now real fury engulfed him. With a grunt he raised himself to standing, swaying slightly as he tried to seize the instruments from her. She dodged him and circled around the fire.
“Please, you have to let me help you. I don't want you to die.” Her words were not coming out as she had planned, her throat constricting and her nose and eyes aching with the effort of damming back tears. She stepped towards him, holding out the instruments as if they were holy relics, and whispered, for his ears alone: “If you really loved me, you'd let me help.”
His eyes flashed horror at her words. With a cry like a caged animal he lunged at her, wrenching the tubing from her grasp and flinging it into the fire.
“No! You mustn't do this!” She was devastated, heartbroken, and filled with rage. Somewhere close by Ruth was screaming at them both to stop, but neither Ruth nor Lazarus existed for Maryam in this moment—this was a one-on-one battle between her and Joseph. A fight to the death. His possible death.
Joseph came at her again, all flailing arms and kicking feet as he tried to wrestle the delicate instruments from her. They were breaking, snapping under the force of his assault, and she found herself sobbing—shrieking—as they fought.
Then, suddenly, Lazarus had stepped in between them. He grasped her wrists with such a steely grip she was powerless to stop Joseph from snatching the rest of the precious life-savers away. “That's enough!” Lazarus roared, dragging her now across the sand as Joseph pitched the broken cannulas and valve into the flames before succumbing to another dreadful fit of coughing.
She dug her toes in, trying to stop Lazarus in his tracks, but he was fired by anger and he did not stop until he had marched her, sobbing and wailing, into the bush and then a good distance further along the track. When he finally released her, he slapped her face.
“How dare you?” he shouted, as she nursed her cheek in her hand and tried to get her hysterical sobbing under control. “Do you have any idea what you just asked of him?” He glared at her. “Do you, damn it?”
“I just want to save him,” she cried, sinking to her knees. She was exhausted now. Bereft. “You wouldn't understand this, but I love him.”
“Love?” Lazarus sneered. “You call that love?” He blew out a furious breath, his fingers linked above his head as he looked up at the canopy of trees. Then he inhaled deeply and crouched down beside her, his anger barely held in check. “The only way he can stay alive is if he keeps receiving more blood. Don't you see? You can't cure him, no matter how much you wish you could. He'd have to suck you dry and then, because she's probably stupid enough to offer up her blood like you, your best friend Ruth would die as well. Do you really think my cousin would agree to that?”
“But—”
“There are no buts. First you would die. And then, most likely, Sister Ruth.”
“Bu
t listen,” she tried again, reaching out to touch his arm. Somehow she had to make him see sense. “My blood would keep him going long enough till we find somewhere else to land.”
Lazarus looked down at her hand, so small and brown against his skin. Embarrassed now, she drew it away. When he spoke again, he sounded almost kind. “He will never take it, Maryam. I know him too well. So, you can either fight him on this and waste your last days with him, or you can show him love, and hope that we can find somewhere with the means to make him well.”
She hated him. Hated that she knew he spoke the truth. There was nothing she could do to save Joseph. She was going to lose him and it hurt more than she could bear. Unless, as he said…
“You really think there's somewhere out there that we might find help?”
He shrugged. “I've no idea. But, truthfully, it's Joseph's only real chance.” He stood up again, and offered her his hand. “Are you brave enough to try?”
Was she? Could she set forth again, when all the evidence now pointed to the truth of the Apostles’ claims about the Tribulation's total destructive force? But, then again, how could she not?
She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring his proffered hand. “I am.”
On their return to the beach, Lazarus took himself off to the shelter of the boat and Ruth, who'd collected up the plates and pots from their meal, was down at the water's edge, rinsing them out. A putrid smell hung around the camp as the last of Mother Lilith's instruments melted in the embers and sent forth acrid black smoke.
Joseph lay resting on the sleeping mats, his eyes suspiciously red. He looked so miserable that Maryam, yet again, was wracked with guilt. He was mortally ill and she had only made things worse. She sat down at the end of his makeshift bed and ran her finger along the line of his toes.
“I'm so sorry,” she said to him. His toes were long and bony, the nails chipped and in need of a good trim. “I will not speak of it again.”
“Good,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest. He cleared his throat. “And I'm sorry I fought with you.”
She ran her hand up the long broad bone of his shin. She couldn't keep from touching him. Beneath her fingers his fine blond hairs were caked with tiny salt crystals that made them gritty and slightly sticky to her touch. “We'll find somewhere to get you help, I promise.”
“Maybe,” he said, sounding unconvinced. He reached down and stilled her hand, pulling it towards him until she was stretched right out beside him on the mat. “That's better,” he said, rolling onto his side so he could see her face. He reached over and brushed her wiry tangled hair out of her eyes. “I always feel better when I'm next to you.”
She buried her face into his chest, smelling the briny freshness of the sea on his skin, and fought back tears as the sweetness of his nature knocked away all her defences. How would she live without him if he died? But she knew she had to push the thought away—it was too big, too all-consuming—and right now the best way to help him was to be brave herself. He did not need the added burden of her grief.
“You know last night?” she whispered. “What you said about loving me?”
He nodded.
“Did you really mean it?”
He smiled, twisting a strand of her hair in his fingers. “What do you think?”
She prodded him playfully on the arm. “You say!”
“Oh…all right!” He raised himself up onto one elbow, so he stared directly down into her eyes. “I love you, Maryam.” He kissed her lightly on the nose. “Satisfied?”
For a moment they both just grinned, eyes locked on each other without the need for words. But then the moment was broken as he coughed and sank back down on the mat.
“Rest a while,” she said to him as she sat up. “Right now I need to speak with Ruth.”
He nodded, his eyes still watering from the intensity of the coughing. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, whispering into his ear: “I love you too.”
A smile etched his face, accentuating how tired and drawn he looked, and Maryam felt a deep aching inside her chest. She pushed herself off the mat, reluctant to leave him, but knowing he needed rest and that Ruth was down brooding at the water's edge.
She was crouched in the shallows, scouring the pot with sand. Maryam squatted next to her and collected up the rinsed bowls at Ruth's feet.
“I'm sorry,” she said, noting the tight line of Ruth's mouth and her defensive hunch. “I just can't bear the thought that he's dying.”
Ruth increased the swirling motion of her hand as she worked the sand around the pot, answering only once she'd rinsed it out and checked it was thoroughly clean. “I know that. But you've forgotten there are four of us, not just you and him. And I'm scared of dying too.”
Fear flared in Maryam's mind. “You're not sickening as well?”
“No. But to stay here or travel on into nothingness is certain death. I understand why you wanted to escape—to risk this—but we've proved now there is nothing beyond Onewēre's shores. It's time to go home before we're all dead.”
“But don't you see? If we return home we'll end up dying anyway. One way or another they'll make us pay.”
“Not if we repent,” Ruth said. “The Lord opens his heart to sinners if they ask.”
Maryam scooped up a bowlful of water, trickling it slowly back into the sea. “It's not the Lord I'm scared of, Ruthie. It's Father Joshua.”
Ruth's nostrils flared. “Well, you should be scared of the Lord. We've broken His Rules.”
“They're not His Rules.” How could she so easily put aside Father Joshua's assault on her? Did it not still haunt her? Make her sick? But Maryam knew it would be cruel to dredge the memory up when Ruth herself seemed able to suppress it. She'd need to try another tack. “Please,” she said. “I promise that if we find the next place is as hopeless as this, I'll take you home. Meantime, can't you just give Joseph one more shot at life?”
Ruth stood up, clutching the pot as if it were a lifeline. “How do you think all those people died?” she asked, deflecting Maryam's question.
“I don't know. Perhaps they tried to shelter from the Tribulation. Who knows?”
“The Lord knows,” Ruth answered. “He knows all.”
Ruth started walking back towards the boat, forcing Maryam to tag behind. As they approached the fire, Maryam glanced over at Joseph's sleeping form and halted in her tracks, studying him as he restlessly dozed. Deep shadows of sickness hollowed his eyes; his mouth drooped open in his effort to breathe. Already his face had taken on the bony features of a skull.
“Poor Joseph,” Ruth whispered. She sighed as she reached out for Maryam's hand. “If you really want to make me promises, then promise me this: that you'll truly and sincerely pray to the Lord for forgiveness and for a message about what we should do next. He will come to you, Maryam, if you seek him out.”
Ruth was grasping her hand tightly, urging her to comply. She didn't seem to realise the irony in her request: that she expected the Lord to give Maryam the answer to their predicament if she prayed, while Ruth herself prayed constantly but had not received the message straight from Him.
“I promise,” she said, her pulse throbbing in her temple as she recognised she had no other choice. She did not want to be responsible for forcing Ruth to continue on against her will. Not this time. “If that is what you wish.”
Ruth laughed. “The Lord be praised,” she said. With that she clambered up onto the boat and, ignoring Lazarus—who had laid the map out on the roof of the shelter and was studying it intently—disappeared inside.
Maryam sighed. She reached for the small smooth pebble she always carried in her pocket—the special one Ruth had given her before she'd Crossed—and stared into its luminous blue depths. It reminded her of Onewēre, of the clear cobalt water that surrounded her much-loved home. The little ones would be having their afternoon nap about now, while old Zakariya supervised the older Sisters as they tended to the garden and the other daily chores
. Life was so simple there: no doubts, no fear, just the overwhelming belief that the Apostles’ word was sacred and that the Sisters were destined to serve, in the words of the Rules, with readiness and joy.
She remembered the eve of her Crossing, how she'd stood at the water's edge and stared across the water to Star of the Sea. How, somewhere deep inside, her fears for the future stirred and woke. At the time she'd put it down to natural nerves, but now she wondered if she'd had some kind of premonition of the horrors she was to endure. Yet, if she'd voiced her fears aloud, no one would have listened, just as Ruth even now could not comprehend the total terror that overwhelmed Maryam at the thought of returning home. Ruth might believe the Lord would protect them from Father Joshua's merciless wrath, but she did not. Still, a promise was a promise…she would go and pray.
It was hard to find a place where the constant racket of the birds did not intrude upon her thoughts. In the end she walked to the far end of the beach and stripped down to her underwear to swim. She entered the warm sea and lowered herself into its buoyant embrace, staring up at the wispy clouds as she floated on her back. Her ears were submerged just below the waterline, blocking out the most irritating of the birdcalls and replacing them with the sea's soft whisper and the reverberation of her own steady breaths.
Dear Lord, forgive me for my sins of doubt and pride, and for thinking ill of your Apostles and resisting their will. Even as she thought it, a tiny voice sneered somewhere deep inside her head. She knew she was lying to Him, that she would never forgive the Apostles nor give in again to their harsh rule. She'd have to try harder than this if she was to honour her promise to Ruth. I'm sorry, Lord, I truly am. Please give me some kind of sign…tell me what we should do next. Then, with more conviction, she added the thing that mattered most. And, Lord, please, please don't let Joseph die.
