Into the Wilderness: Blood of the Lamb (Book Two)

by Mandy Hager

  They were ushered into a stuffy room, where a fat balding man in uniform sat working behind an ornately carved desk. Without even glancing up, he barked out something she could not understand. “Nimes, pona deparcher, dytes a berth!”

  Lazarus looked to Maryam and Ruth, and shrugged. It seemed he, too, had no idea what the man said. “I wish to speak to your chief. I am Lazarus, son of Holy Father Joshua, of the Lord's chosen Apostles of the Lamb.”

  How like him, Maryam thought. Pulling rank to get his way. But, to her surprise, the man did not appear the least impressed. He slowly placed a cap on some kind of writing implement and lowered it with such deliberation the hairs on the back of Maryam's neck stiffened and rose.

  “And I'm bloody Ozymandias, sonny. King of Kings.” The guards behind him sniggered, but were cut short by one glance of his cold blue eyes.

  Lazarus straightened, obviously impressed by the man's status, bowing formally before offering his hand. “Then I am honoured to meet you, Bloody Ozymandias, King of Kings.”

  At this, the guards exploded into such snorts of laughter they struggled to rein themselves back under control. The King of Kings, however, was not amused. He rose from his seat, slapping his hands down onto the desktop as he eyeballed Lazarus, ignoring his outstretched hand.

  “So you're a clever little bastard, eh?” He tapped his head. “Think you're much smarter than me? Yes? Well, you're the one in detention, bud, not me.” He looked over at the older guard. “I can't be bothered with this today. Take Little Lord Lambie here and lock him up in solitary for a day or two, until he learns to show respect.”

  Lazarus shook his head, his face confused. “If I've somehow offended you—”

  “Enough. I know your sort. You dip your wick into the ink, boy, you're bound to come out black.” He nodded to the guard, who moved in now and wrenched Lazarus's arm up behind his back. “Take him away. I'm sick of smart-arsed little punks.” He glanced up at something on the wall behind them. “Strewth, it's only seven-bloody-thirty in the morning and already some shithead winds me up.”

  Lazarus turned, trying to catch Maryam's eye as the guard made to march him out. “Tell him, Maryam. You explain.” There was panic in his voice now, and Maryam felt a rush of guilty pleasure as he was wrestled from the room. Let him discover how it feels to be the powerless one for once.

  Lazarus continued to argue his case as the guards hustled him away. Only when the commotion had faded completely did the man retake his seat.

  “My name, girlies, is Sergeant Littlejohn, and I run this camp.” He spoke more slowly now, as if they were dull in the head. “Now, before I lose my patience altogether, tell me this: your names, point of departure, dates of birth and nothing, do you understand me, nothing else.” There was neither compassion nor interest in his face, just contempt.

  Maryam took a tired breath and dropped her gaze to his short white fingers as they tapped the desk. “My name is Maryam. I come from Onewēre. I do not know the exact date of my birth but I believe I turn sixteen in spring.”

  At the mention of Onewēre, the sergeant's fingers stilled.

  “And I am Ruth.” Ruth wrung her hands, her voice quaking with fear. “I came from Onewēre too. I'm fourteen mid-autumn.”

  Sergeant Littlejohn leaned forward, studying them intently now. “Onewēre? I thought you came from Marawa Island?”

  Maryam shook her head. “We sailed from Onewēre to Marawa Island first, then headed west from there.”

  “That's impossible,” Sergeant Littlejohn said. “Everyone knows Onewēre was destroyed at the time of the flares…What are you playing at?”

  Maryam had no idea what he was talking about. But when she looked up at him his eyes gave nothing away. He glowered at them, and waited for her to reply.

  “I swear that what we say is true,” she said.

  Sergeant Littlejohn snatched up the writing implement and uncapped it again, then wrote something on the paper before him. “You'd better not be lying, girl.” He jerked his head towards the door. “Take them away.”

  As the one remaining guard hurriedly escorted them from the room, Maryam tried to make sense of what the sergeant had said. Did no one in the outside world think of Onewēre at all? Was the sergeant saying no one even knew if it existed any more? No wonder they'd been left alone, trapped by the Apostles’ rigid Rules.

  “You'll be in with the other women and children,” the guard explained, leading them over to the second wire fence. “In the next week or so someone will assess your status but, until then, remember you're here under arrest and any breaches of our rules will be dealt with, sharp and swift.” He nodded to the guard at the gate of the enclosed area behind the fence, who unlocked the huge padlock to allow them through into the compound. “I take it you do know how to follow rules?”

  Maryam met Ruth's eye. Rules we know. She nodded, feeling the tightness in her chest increase at the mere mention of the word.

  The scraggly group of children had dispersed, but the cluster of men standing silently beside the fence remained. There must have been a dozen or so dressed in soiled white full-length robes, not unlike the gowns Maryam and the other Chosen wore each Judgement time, and many had their heads wrapped in coiled strips of cloth as well. But this was not what drew her eye or sent her empty stomach churning over in disgust. As she stumbled past, she was appalled to see that each man's mouth was roughly stitched to hold it shut: crusty ulcerating sores wept into their scruffy beards. Was this the kind of punishment to which the guard referred? She reached out for Ruth's hand.

  It was possible to get some measure of how the camp was ordered as they were led down alleyways formed by blocks of the box-like metal structures. Passing the first doorway, Maryam glimpsed inside: five claustrophobic rooms sectioned into each box, each of them housing up to three or four sleeping mats that barely fitted such a confined space.

  The smell of decayed eggs was much worse up here on the plateau, and it mixed with the stench of human waste and rubbish to make breathing almost impossible without the urge to gag. Maryam tucked her nose into the collar of her shirt, preferring the assault of her own stale sweat to the putrid air.

  Chickens ran riot in and out of the so-called rooms, and mangy dogs lay listlessly in doorways, ribs sticking out against their matted, filthy fur. Sprawled out in the few patches of sunlight between the blocks, lay other animals that Maryam did not recognise: small furry creatures with long scrawny tails. These, too, seemed to lack the will to move.

  Everything was covered in a layer of sticky white dust and not a scrap of greenery was visible between the rows. Inside some of the rooms, thin dark-skinned women lay about, barely stirring as the girls walked past. Now they crossed a barren courtyard between the rows of huts. Thick fabric had been slung between the roofs, forming a shade to block the sun. A group of thirty or so women and children sat cross-legged at its centre, listening attentively to a white woman as she showed them how to trace out letters in the dust. They were learning to write, Maryam realised, their thin faces etched with concentration as they formed whole words. It triggered memories of her own childhood on the atoll: her lessons with the Mothers when they learnt to copy out long passages from the Holy Book. Then, she and the other Blessed Sisters had complained about the long hours they were made to spend studying how to read and write; here, the women looked hungry with the desire to learn.

  Finally the guard stopped outside one of the metal huts and gestured that they go inside. The space was barely large enough for the three stained sleeping mats that lay upon the floor. It had no windows, only the open doorway through which they'd come to offer any light or relief from the stifling heat.

  “This is your new home!” the guard announced grandly, as if they should be grateful. “Settle in, and I'll let Aanjay know you're here. She's the unofficial leader of the women at Cee-One—she'll show you round.” He left them standing awkwardly inside the doorway and hurried off.

  Maryam flopped onto one of the
sleeping mats, curling around the gnawing hunger in her gut. Let it hurt. Let it remind her of all the things she had lost.

  She could feel Ruth's gaze upon her, prickling her back, but she did not bother looking around. There were others now—older and wiser and not so filled with grief—who could attend Ruth's needs. She closed her eyes, willing her life to reach its end.

  “What now?” Ruth asked.

  Maryam chose to ignore her, swatting the question away from her consciousness.

  “I can't understand you. How can you just lie there while Lazarus is locked away for trying to speak up for us?”

  Poor brainwashed Ruth, you have it so wrong. All Lazarus cares for is himself.

  She heard Ruth move, her footsteps dull on the hard metal floor. Then she felt Ruth shaking her.

  “Maryam! You have to help!”

  “Do I?” Maryam snapped. She flipped over, breaking free of Ruth's grip. “He got what he deserves. You heard him dismiss us when I was summoned to the healer. We're nothing more than slaves to him.”

  Ruth's usually placid face was awash with fury. “He was trying to protect you! He didn't want to see you go off on your own!”

  “That's ridiculous. When has he ever done anything that isn't purely for his own selfish ends? He's as deceitful and hard-hearted as his father. If he's suffering now, that's fine with me.”

  “He saved you from drowning! When you didn't rise he dived back down and dragged you up.”

  For a moment Maryam's mind flicked back to that desperate moment the sea water started flooding down her throat. To the relief as she was wrenched back to the surface by her hair.

  “And I thanked him, if you remember, at the time. But one moment's humanity in a sea of crimes does not make him good,” she spat. “He threatened to cut your throat when we escaped. Do you not remember that? Or what about on Onewēre, when he tried to force himself on me? And he poisoned Joseph's heart against seeking my help—he willed him dead.”

  “You're talking like you're crazy,” Ruth shouted. “You saw how Joseph's death hurt him.” She took a shuddering breath, trying to calm herself. “I've always looked up to you, Maryam—you've always been so wise and brave—but in this I think you're very wrong. He may have been a bad person back home, but Joseph's passing to Heaven has shaken him. I really do believe he's changed.”

  Maryam jumped to her feet. “Joseph has not passed to Heaven, he is dead.”

  “I'm trying to save your soul—”

  Maryam clasped Ruth by her broad shoulders. “Why can't you just leave me be? I'm not the one who's done you wrong. I've tried my best to keep you safe—and I'm sorry I've failed, Ruthie, I really am—but now, please leave me. I've had enough. I want to die.”

  To her utter amazement, sweet docile Ruth slapped her so hard across the face she reeled back and bumped her head against the wall. “How can you say that? Do you think that's what Joseph would've wanted or expected from you? He loved you because you're special; because you, alone, had the will to fight. That's why we all love you.”

  Ruth's words were affecting Maryam in a way she could not explain. Her whole body was trembling, tears falling freely down her face. “And what of the Lord, Ruthie? Is this how He shows His love?”

  Ruth bit down on her bottom lip. “I don't know. But I do know He tells us that to throw away our life is wrong. And He taught us to forgive, to give us all a second chance. Is it not just possible that Lazarus has seen the light?”

  “You see good where none exists.” Maryam slumped back against the wall and slithered down until she crouched on the floor, her head dropping into her hands. She had such hate for Lazarus and everything he stood for. To forgive him seemed impossible and foolish when he'd proved over and over again he was not worthy of her trust.

  She had no power over the shaking that consumed her; it was as if the turmoil in her heart had set it free. She just couldn't bear the thought of going on without Joseph in her life. Somehow he had made her strong, given her the will to fight. And now that he was gone, that will to fight was gone as well. Every time she looked at Lazarus now, all she could see was the injustice: Lazarus had been chosen to live, while Joseph, who was good and pure, was gone. It was all the wrong way around.

  Ruth wiped her eyes, sniffing loudly as she squatted to wrap her arm around Maryam's shoulders. “Please,” she urged, her voice little more than a whisper, “don't give up now.” She turned a wry, watery smile on Maryam. “Isn't that what you've been telling me, over and over, since we left Onewēre?” She nudged Maryam in the ribs, trying to force a returning smile. “See, even when you thought I wasn't listening, it seems I did!”

  What is the point in fighting? Maryam tried a smile. “I've taught you too well. Now you're just as fierce as me!” She watched relief engulf Ruth's face, and sighed deeply to expel the last of the shakes. “But I still think you're totally wrong about Lazarus,” she added stubbornly.

  “Just speak with him. Please. For me. I think you'll be surprised.”

  “And I think you'll be disappointed.”

  “Maybe I will…but maybe I won't.”

  “Maybe when you see I'm right you'll leave me be.”

  “I'll not leave you be if you go on refusing to eat or drink.”

  Maryam shrugged. “You don't understand…when I think of food, it makes me sick.”

  “Then don't think about it first! Just put it in your mouth and think of something else.”

  “Like what? That Joseph is dead? That I dragged my best friend across the sea only to replace one kind of imprisonment with another?”

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “Or maybe that despite the odds we're still alive?”

  Maryam smiled at Ruth's about-face. “When did you become the strong, optimistic one? That job was mine!”

  “That's right and don't forget it now!” Ruth grinned. “But you still have to find the strength to eat…and, by the way, you need to wash! You truly stink!”

  This Maryam did not expect. She laughed, and felt a little of the pressure inside her ease. “You don't smell so good yourself!”

  Ruth sent her a beatific smile and pushed herself up to her feet. “I can't believe you'd be so rude!” She held out her hand to Maryam. “Come on, then…let's go find a place to wash!”

  Maryam looked at Ruth's outstretched hand, thinking how it symbolised the choice that confronted her: between doggedly fighting on or ending the torment, now, through death. She closed her eyes, picturing this awful camp and what, no doubt, lay in store. But rather than convince her there was no point in persevering, the image chastised her for her selfishness. Now was not the time to leave her one remaining friend unprotected and alone. Even in her pain she knew that this was wrong. So, in the end, despite the emptiness inside her heart, she took Ruth's hand.

  Maryam and Ruth were hovering in the doorway of their meagre room, trying to decide where they might find somewhere to wash, when a small dark-skinned woman approached them with a welcoming smile. She wore a long beige tunic and trousers, and her head was covered in a frayed white scarf that gathered loosely around her neck. Her eyes were large and very dark, bordered by a network of tired lines.

  “My name is Aanjay,” she said in a soft unfamiliar accent. The fact that she spoke English—that all of them spoke English, yet each had their own peculiar way of forming the words—struck Maryam as she smiled in welcome. Why would this be? “You must be Maryam and Ruth.” The woman pressed her hands together as if in prayer and bobbed her head in greeting. “I have come to show you around the camp.”

  Maryam returned the greeting as best she could. “I am Maryam and this is Ruth.” Ruth, too, pressed her hands together and nodded her head.

  “I am so sorry you find yourselves here,” Aanjay said. “This is not a good place to be.” A wave of sadness rippled across her face. “Did you lose many others on the way?”

  How could she have known this? “Yes, our dear friend Joseph died.” She hated how saying the words aloud made his
death seem so much more irreversible and real.

  “Ah, to lose even one is hard,” Aanjay said. She turned then and beckoned them to follow her. “Come and I will show you around.”

  They set off along the narrow pathway between the huts until they came to a large roofed shelter where a group of women dressed much the same as Aanjay were rinsing everything from dishes to babies in a row of rust-specked metal sinks. On the opposite side of the shelter stood a small free-standing building. The stench of human waste that came from it drew a cloud of large black buzzing flies that honed in on the children who dabbled in the dregs of water at their mothers’ feet.

  “These are your closest toilets,” Aanjay explained. Then she pointed to a line of partitioned cubicles beyond the row of sinks. “The water in the showers is salty and cold, but once a day they bring hot water in as well.”

  “Showers?” Maryam asked. “What are they?”

  Aanjay smiled. “Come and I'll show you.” She led them over to a cubicle and reached inside to turn a rusty tap. The two girls jumped backwards as water burst from the showerhead like summer rain. “The hot water arrives just after lunch. The first to use it find it much too hot, and the last too cold, but we make do. Only one tank is delivered to our area each day.”

  Maryam had to concentrate hard to understand the woman's words. Her accent spun the sounds around in complicated ways. “How many are here altogether?” she asked.

  “It changes all the time,” Aanjay replied. “People come and go, and many die.”

  “You mean there's a chance we could get out of here?” Excitement lifted Ruth's voice.

  “We are given a choice: stay imprisoned here or return home. For most of us, to go back home is certain death.”