by Mandy Hager
He was lying on the sleeping mat furthest from the door and appeared to be asleep. He lay at an odd angle, protecting his left side, and in the small amount of light that bled in through the doorway the whole of his face shone black and blue.
“Has anyone checked his ribs?” Maryam whispered.
Ruth shook her head. “Aanjay says there's no point; that the healers here just hand out some weak pain potion, even if someone is about to die. She suggests we soak rags in cold water and lay them on his bruises to bring down the swelling and to make sure any cuts are clean.” She raised a hand to her mouth, funnelling her whisper so only Maryam would hear. “I didn't want to do it until you came. The thought of touching him…”
“You have some rags?” Maryam's desire to laugh again was almost overpowering, but she knew that Ruth wouldn't understand. It just seemed so typical of her bad luck that now she'd have to bathe the one person she'd tried to escape. If the Lord was trying to rankle her again, he sure had picked the perfect way.
Ruth pointed to a bucket tucked inside the door. “I've got them ready over there. And there are some candles too.” Now her face brightened. “You should see the miraculous things Aanjay gave me to light them with.” She opened her hand to reveal a tiny box. Inside, miniature pink-tipped fire sticks lay in a neat row. She drew one out, struck it against the side of the box, and a flame flared immediately at the tip of the stick.
“Truly miraculous,” Maryam agreed. She took the tiny burning stick from Ruth and examined it closely, dropping it with a little cry as it burned down and scorched her finger. She sucked the skin to dampen the worst of the pain, then shrugged. “All right, we may as well do this now so we can get some sleep.”
Together Maryam and Ruth wrung the surplus water from the rags, lit two of the candles and knelt down beside the mat where Lazarus lay. Maryam's hand was trembling as she shook Lazarus's shoulder and called his name.
He startled, rearing up before he realised who had called. The shock fell away from his face and he lay back, staring up at Maryam through puffy eyes. “You returned.”
She nodded. “I'm going to put some cool cloths on your bruises and wash out the cut on your cheekbone,” she said, her tone as matter-of-fact as she could manage. “If I hurt you, just tell me and I'll stop.”
“Don't worry about the pain—it's not so bad.” He tried to sound casual but he winced as he straightened out on the mat.
Maryam was thankful for the way the candles’ flickering light masked the shaking of her hands as she clumsily unbuttoned his shirt. It was too uncanny: not so long ago she'd stripped off Joseph's shirt with much the same intent. But she'd wanted so dearly to touch Joseph, to run her hands over his soft pale skin; now the very thought of touching Lazarus brought a lump of fear and disgust up into her throat. To make it worse, he never for a moment shifted his gaze away from her face as she bared his chest and leaned in a little to study his wounds.
There was a swollen, angry bruise shaped suspiciously like the tread of a boot on the left side of his chest where it dipped down towards his stomach. His chest was so thin she could see each rib delineated beneath the skin, except where the swelling had thickened it. Very gently, she placed the tips of her fingers to his side, and ran them along the structure of each bone. As she probed the swollen area, Lazarus bit his bottom lip to hold in a groan, but still his eyes never left her face. It unnerved her, this intense scrutiny, and she decided the only way she could continue was to pretend that it was Joseph, not Lazarus, who needed her help. She dropped her gaze, amazed at how similar the two cousins were in build: the same lean frame, the same soft golden wisps of hair…
No! To think of him as Joseph would not help. She must focus simply on the task at hand.
She could feel the unbroken lines of bone—a sure sign that, although badly bruised, the ribs remained intact.
“They're fine,” she reassured him. “I can't feel anything like a break.”
She placed the cool soaked rags over the worst of the bruising in the hope that they would help to bring the swelling down. A drip ran down his stomach, pooling in the indent of his belly-button, and instinctively she wiped it clear. His muscles tensed beneath her hand, and she cursed herself for her thoughtlessness. Heat blazed up her neck.
She wrung out another rag and placed it over one of his eyes to help to reduce the swelling, repeating the procedure with his other eye to free her at last of his disconcerting gaze. Then she turned her attention to the cut on his cheekbone. She looked to Ruth, who sat at her side with the lighted candles. “I wish I knew what to do now. If only we had some matutu leaves, the sap would draw the skin together and seal it tight,” she said.
“So long as we clean it,” Ruth whispered. “Aanjay says the biggest killer here's infection caused from festered wounds.”
Maryam swallowed back nausea as she started to clean out the wound. The gash was long though not deep, but the skin around it had split and Lazarus flinched as she dabbed the open flesh. “Sorry,” she muttered. Instinctively, she slowed the pace, working more carefully and gently to avoid causing him additional pain.
Once she'd cleaned the wound as best she could, she took the candle from Ruth and passed it up and down his body to check she'd missed nothing that needed care. His collarbones were caked in dried blood from his face wound, and she gave the candle back to Ruth to rinse the blood away. She could see his pulse running quickly at the base of his throat and, though she did not look at it directly, was conscious of the rise and fall of his flat pale belly as he breathed. Despite the relative warmth of the evening, his skin was ridged with goose bumps and his nipples stood out small and pert upon his chest.
As she began to wipe away the last of the blood from his upper body, she sensed that his skin did not look altogether right. There was the shadow in the creases of his collar bones, discolouration at the base of his neck. She retrieved the candle from Ruth again, and leaned in now to take a closer look.
As the soft yellow light spilled over him, she felt as though a hand had crept around her throat and pressed in tight. No! It could not be. This had to be some phantom trick, some tired flashback to Joseph's death.
With shaking hands, she ran her index finger along the purple-stained shadow. The discoloured skin was hot and raised, and she gasped, drawing away so fast she nearly knocked the other candle from Ruth's hand.
“What is it?” Ruth asked.
Maryam was unsure whether she could speak. She pointed to the purple marks and mouthed to Ruth through trembling lips:
“Te Matee Iai.”
For a long moment Maryam and Ruth simply stared at the telltale marks on Lazarus's skin. The air in the hut seemed to condense suddenly, and all Maryam could hear was the thrumming of blood in her ears.
Lazarus stirred. “Well?” he said, “what have you found?”
Maryam glanced up at Ruth, shaking her head to warn her not to reveal what they had seen. “It's nothing.” She faked a laugh. “A big insect that gave us both a fright!”
She returned to rinsing his skin, fumbling as her fingers told their own tale of shock. As quickly as she could now she wiped away the last of the blood and used a fresh cloth to pat him dry.
“I think you should keep the compresses on your eyes a bit longer,” she said. “They'll help to bring the swelling down.” She shifted on her knees to catch Ruth's attention, and jerked her head towards the door. “You rest now,” she told Lazarus. “We'll go away and leave you in peace. Just call us if you need us—we'll be near the door.”
“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice thick with tiredness.
Maryam led Ruth as far from the doorway as possible, while still making sure she was within hearing distance should Lazarus call.
“It could just look like Te Matee Iai,” Ruth said, though her tone suggested she knew better than to believe it.
Maryam shook her head. “I've seen too much of it now ever to mistake it. I can't believe he has it too.”
�
�You don't think the Mothers were wrong when they taught us it couldn't be caught from someone else?” Ruth asked.
The thought made Maryam sick to her gut. And scared. She'd held Joseph close to her for hours on end. “I don't know, Ruthie. But right now we have to figure out what to do. Should we tell him what we've seen?”
“What do you think?” Ruth asked.
Maryam knew that even if they didn't tell Lazarus, it wouldn't be long before the symptoms of the plague grew obvious to him as well. But what purpose would it serve to tell him now? Why prolong the agony of knowing? However much she disliked him, she hated that he might think she'd told him out of spite. “I say for now we tell him nothing and wait to see what happens next. Besides, I suppose we could be wrong.”
“Maybe,” Ruth replied, sounding equally unconvinced. “We could try speaking privately with Aanjay. She might know what's best to do.”
“Good idea!” Maryam had become so accustomed to dealing with problems on her own, the thought of seeking adult help—of even having it available—hadn't occurred to her.
She was about to suggest she seek out Aanjay straight away, leaving Ruth to look after Lazarus, when a sudden series of explosions split the night. There was a moment's dreadful hush, then came the sound of a woman screaming, followed by a storm of wailing that built into a high-pitched ululation of grief and rage.
“You stay with Lazarus,” Maryam said. “I'll go and see what's happening.”
“No!” Ruth grabbed Maryam's arm. “Don't get involved.”
Maryam shook her off. “You forget we're trapped in this camp. What goes on inside here affects us all.” She was already making her way towards the central courtyard near the gates. “Whatever you do, keep Lazarus inside.”
“But how?”
“I don't know,” Maryam shot back. “If you need to, tie him down!”
She knew there was little Ruth could do to stop Lazarus from trying anything, but she had to find out what was going on. Dozens of angry voices had now joined the commotion, and she could hear the distant clattering of metal and wood, and the ferocious barking of dogs. All around her people milled in panic and confusion. As she pushed her way through the crowd she caught sight of Aanjay, who was rocking a sobbing toddler in her arms.
“Go back to your hut, Maryam,” Aanjay called. “It is not safe.”
“But what's happening? Has there been an accident? Have people been hurt?”
“They are moving on the hunger strikers.”
“They're what? What does that mean?”
“It means Zia Kalily has been shot and killed. You should get back to your hut and keep as quiet as possible for now. It will likely take a few days for this to calm—and until that happens, the guards will be on high alert.” The child was grizzling in her arms and Aanjay waved Maryam away. “Please, return to your hut now. I'll come and see you when I get the chance.”
Someone killed? Maryam watched as Aanjay headed back into the crowd and for a moment she was tempted to follow. But then she remembered Ruth, and how she'd worry if she stayed away for long, especially with Lazarus needing their care. Yet before she'd even made it halfway back to the hut, Lazarus himself emerged from the crowd like a nightmare ghoul.
“Come on,” Maryam pre-empted him, seizing him by the elbow to swivel him around. She raised her chin to deflect any argument, acutely aware of how pale and strained he looked beneath his camouflage of black and blue. She knew that look. It wasn't good. “Aanjay says one of the hunger strikers has been killed.”
Lazarus stumbled. “The guards used their guns?”
“I guess.” She was distracted by the strong smell of smoke in the air, and an unsettling mass chanting that carried through the night like the agitated call of a strange flock of birds.
The crowd of women around them peeled away at the sight of Lazarus in their midst, and Maryam hurried him on, knowing if any of them objected to his presence he'd be sent back to the men's camp for the night. There was too much tension in the air already to risk further confrontation.
“Hurry up,” she hissed, towing him back between the buildings to the relative sanctuary of the hut.
But it took a long time to settle. Ruth was anxious and dissatisfied with Maryam's scant account of what had happened, and kept up a barrage of questions, and it was impossible to ignore the continuing clamour from outside. For at least another hour the entire camp seemed to be in chaos, and it was hopeless even to contemplate sleep. Later still, as Maryam lay tossing on the lumpy mat beside the door, the memory of that unearthly chorus came back to her, the sound so ancient and innate she'd felt her ancestors stirring in her bones.
Even when the moon was well past its midway point sleep still eluded her. Outside there was no movement now, except for the fat brown-winged moths that batted up against the lights above the walkway, easy prey for the dusty little lizards that roamed the walkway's roof. Try as she might, she couldn't wipe the images of Lazarus's plague-pocked skin from her mind; she knew full well that her life would have been forfeited for his if they'd remained in the Holy City. There was no doubt her blood could gift him precious time, and she knew that he would think on this when he finally recognised the symptoms for himself. With Joseph it had been easy—she would have done anything, anything, to have saved his life. But Lazarus?
As if her thoughts had brushed with his, he whispered through the gloom, “Maryam? Are you still awake?”
“Yes.”
“Are you thinking of Joseph?”
Again she had an uneasy sense that he had tapped into her brain. “I never stop.”
“He did love you, you know? Every time he looked at you it was written in his eyes.”
His words made her want to cry. How dare it be Lazarus who offered her comfort! Whenever he spoke to her in this way it made her nervous in a manner she couldn't quite explain—she just knew she was always waiting for the trap. But it occurred to her now that perhaps she could prey upon his pensive mood to pick his brain.
“Actually, I've been thinking about Te Matee Iai.” She took a deep breath, trying to make the motivation for her words as obscure as a ruffled sea. “I wondered—do you think that being so close to…someone…when they died of it puts that person at risk as well?” She hated how selfish and uncaring this sounded, knowing he'd assume she was referring to Joseph, but it was the only way she could find out what he knew without giving her real motives away.
She heard him roll over in his bed with a painful grunt, no doubt prompted by his bruised ribs. “No, I'm quite sure that…someone…would be safe.” There was disappointment in his voice, as though he'd exposed her as shallow and undeserving of Joseph's love.
She tried a new tack. “So how does someone get it then?”
“There's definitely some kind of family link, and my mother has this theory that it can sit inside someone from the time they're born, then suddenly emerge if something causes pain or stress.”
Family link? Had not her own mother been taken by the plague? The hairs on the back of her neck prickled at the thought. “So Joseph got it because his father had it too?”
“In part. And Uncle Jonah got it from his father—my grandfather Moses.” He coughed a little, as if his throat were dry. “You know, it was my great-grandfather who figured out about the transfusions and set up the first Judgements to source the blood.”
“How did he even know what to try?” Maryam asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“According to my father, he was the Holy City's physician and he scoured the ship's library until he worked it out—though I gather there were a few disastrous attempts before he got it right.”
Maryam shuddered. He could only mean that many Sisters had been sacrificed in the process. “It seems one way or another your family has a lot to answer for.”
“I know. I know.” Lazarus paused for a moment. “You know my father has it?”
“What?” Maryam sat up. “But he's—”
Lazarus sno
rted. “Don't say it. You think because he's the Holy Father he's exempt? He's been living off the blood of Sisters for a good twelve years or so by now.”
A ball of disgust rose up from Maryam's stomach. She had to swallow hard, pressing her hand over her mouth to hold it in. Was incapable of saying anything.
“Anyway, my theory, based on what Mother thinks, is that after Uncle Jonah argued with my father and left the City, he didn't know about Father having Te Matee Iai until about two years ago, when I said something to him on a visit there. He already knew Mother's theory about it being brought on by stress, and blamed their rift for Father's illness…Maybe he was so grieved about this, he triggered his own.”
She tried to put aside the fact that Lazarus did not know the full story of why his uncle had left the Holy City and focused on the rest of his words. Did Lazarus now somehow feel responsible for his uncle's death as well? She was about to sound him out, when he began to speak again.
“Poor Uncle Jonah,” he murmured. “To think he built that beautiful boat. I reckon that's why the plague hit Joseph too—because he was so distraught when he found out that Uncle Jonah was going to die.”
And that's why it has now hit you? The stress of watching Joseph die was lethal enough for anyone, even without Te Matee Iai. How he must miss Joseph, the only one who ever really noticed him and cared about what he did. Joseph had that unique quality, the ability to make you feel special—a better person than you were.
She peered over at the shadowy outline of Lazarus's bruised and battered body, and saw the awkward way he hunched against the wall. Outside, beyond the fence, stood guards who'd kill them if they tried to leave or even made a fuss. Was this not enough to trigger stress? The plague? The rash she'd seen on Lazarus's skin made tragic sense. Surely he has thought this deadly inheritance through to its end?
“My father said my mother died from it,” she confessed. “Do you think it's in me too?”
