by Mandy Hager
How dare he lay this at my feet? “You think this is what I want? You think you understand my mind?”
“I'm going to die. You know it and I know it. Why make you suffer through this too?”
“How will you smashing yourself to pieces on those rocks below make me feel better, Lazarus? You selfish pig. Joseph would despise you for running away when things got rough.”
She saw him flinch at her words. They were both shaking violently, chilled to the bone. Lazarus was so pale his face glowed, wraith-like, through the darkness. Maryam realised that if she didn't get him under shelter she may as well leave him to die right where he was. She reached over and took his hand, her own so numb she barely felt his fingers.
“Come on,” she said.
Lazarus was strangely compliant as she hauled him back across the muddy ground. Once at the gardens she made for the hut that housed the tools. It was barely standing, but the timber roof would at least hold out the worst of the rain.
Inside it was drier than Maryam expected. Moonlight seeped in through the holes in the walls, illuminating an old blanket hanging by the door. She took it down and told Lazarus to peel off his muddy shirt. He didn't even try to fight her, just stood there with a blank expression as she wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and began to rub him down.
The friction revived him a little. “N-now you,” he stammered, holding the damp blanket out to her. She took it from him, and he squatted down against the wall, dropping his head into his hands.
She draped the blanket around her, and carefully removed her sodden shirt. Wrung out the fabric then wrestled the shirt back on over her clammy skin. She felt colder than ever, but she didn't want to keep the blanket any longer when Lazarus had greater need of its warmth. She dropped it back over his shoulders and squatted down beside him. “I'm sorry for what I said.”
Lazarus didn't respond, so she tried again.
“I didn't mean any of it. I just wanted you to stop.”
“But what's the point?” he mumbled through his hands.
“Ruth told you. Jo can get you something that will make you well. I spoke with her today.”
Slowly he raised his head. “Why didn't you tell me the marks were there?”
She swallowed hard. This was the question she had dreaded all day. “I didn't know what to do. I went and talked to Aanjay, and that's when she told me there's a cure.” She shook him by the shoulder. “Do you hear me? There is a cure!”
He coughed, struggling to catch his breath. “You think if it's so simple my mother wouldn't know?”
It was a fair question and she took a moment to think it through. “Surely if she'd known she would have used it to cure your father?”
“No one survives Te Matee Iai. That's the truth.”
“How can you say that? There's so much we didn't know about back home. Did you ever think you'd see a boat that moves without the need for sails? A truck? Aanjay says she's seen people cured of the plague.”
He glanced over at her. “Totally cured?”
“So she says. I have no reason to doubt her. Why would she lie?”
The tiny spark of interest she'd ignited in him petered back out. “All people lie,” he said flatly.
“I've never lied to you.” As soon as she said this, she tried to reach back in her mind and reassure herself that it was true. Had she? She wasn't so sure. “But I am sorry I got angry back there—I was scared.” She was so cold now she could hardly speak. Her teeth chattered each time she closed her mouth.
“Here,” he said, and he held the blanket open so she could share its warmth.
She moved in closer to him, too cold to worry about how near he was, and gratefully wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. Heat was radiating off his body, no doubt caused by fever, but it helped to warm her all the same. “Thanks.”
“Look,” Lazarus said, “I'm sorry I scared you and yelled at Ruth, but my anger wasn't really meant for her. It's just—even though I half suspected it—seeing the proof in the mirror took me by surprise.”
“You suspected it?”
He nodded. “To be honest I've felt run down for ages.”
“How long?” To think he'd kept his fears about his own health locked inside while Joseph died.
He sniffed, and she could tell by the way he swallowed so compulsively that he was fighting back a cough.
“I don't remember now for sure, but it was around the time we first learnt Uncle Jonah had it too.” He moved towards her slightly, until his shoulder pressed against her own and she could feel how he shivered still. “I had a big fight with Mother. Couldn't believe she'd refused to help. I told her it was wrong to let my uncle die, even if he had turned down her help before.”
“What did she say?”
“She slapped my face. Told me it was time I grew up; that Father had worked hard to leave his son in a better position than the one he had inherited from his. She said something ridiculous, along the lines that I should be grateful Father had let Uncle Jonah live as long as that, given he'd defied him—”
“It's true.” The words flew from her lips before she had time to stop them.
“What do you mean? What's true?”
“Your father. He threatened your uncle with death if he did not leave the Holy City and stay away.” She could feel the shock rippling off him like heat. “It is true. Joseph told me at Marawa Island.”
Lazarus slammed his fist against his forehead, as though trying to lodge this new revelation in his brain. “Of course. Why did I listen to his lies? That all makes sordid sense.” He shuddered, whether from disgust or cold she couldn't tell. “Lord, I hate him.”
For several minutes he just sat in silence, fuming over what she'd said. Then he snorted, the sound filled with bitter self-contempt. “You know what I couldn't stomach in the end? My mother harping on about how I had the potential to be just like him and how I should be proud of what my father had achieved.”
“I guess she is his wife…”
“She truly thinks he's a living god. She does, honestly. I swear on the Holy Book, she said it to my face. It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd just been saying it for show, but she believed it, Maryam. She bought the lot. When I realised this for sure, I knew I had to get away from them or else I'd end up crazy too…and then I found out you and Joseph had access to a boat.” He rushed the last part of the sentence, anticipating another prolonged fit of coughing.
When the spasm had died down Maryam pressed on, determined that nothing more would stand between them from this time on. “So why did you continue to be so cruel yourself?”
He groaned deep inside his throat. “I told you. I was furious with everyone.” He shrugged, and a damp blast of air slipped in under the blanket. “Besides, I knew the power my father could exert over people who criticised him or crossed his path…” His voice dwindled away to nothing and when he continued it was little more than a whisper. “If what you say is true, then Uncle Jonah wasn't alone in fearing for his life…to be honest, I was scared to death of what would happen if I didn't toe the line.” He sniffed again. “Pathetic, I know, and, honestly, I see now that it's no excuse.”
For the first time Maryam could at least partly excuse him. If Joseph and his family were so intimidated by Father Joshua's threat that Joseph could not reveal it until safely away from Onewēre, then Lazarus was right to fear the man as well. Father or not, he was not someone to challenge. She did not even want to think about what it must have meant to try to please him. He and his cold-hearted wife really were insane.
All of a sudden Lazarus began to cry. He buried his face in his hands as huge shuddering sobs consumed him. She did the only thing she could, wrapping her arm around him to help disperse his pain. But the crying made his coughing worse, and she could feel the bones of his back straining as his lungs worked overtime to dredge in air.
Outside, the storm had done its worst; the rain was easing as the thunder and lightning moved away. Maryam felt stiff
from squatting so awkwardly but for a long time dared not move. He needed to let this out. Only when Lazarus's sobbing had slowed did she drop her arm from his shoulder.
“Come on,” she said. “Let's go back to the hut and get you properly dry. Ruth will be frantic by now.”
She leaned forward to give herself enough momentum to stand, and as she did so he turned and kissed her quickly on the cheek. “You're quite a girl,” he said. “It's no wonder my cousin loved you so.”
She blushed, feeling the rising tide of heat sweep over her neck and face, and tried to make light of it, though she could still feel the place his lips branded her cheek. “He probably wouldn't if he saw me now. I must look a real sight!”
“You and me both.”
Relieved to hear him rallying, Maryam helped him to his feet. Together they trudged back through the water-logged camp, three times forced to stop as Lazarus was wracked by coughs. Finally they reached the hut to find a very agitated Ruth.
“Praise the Lord!” she cried, rushing forward to meet them. “I was worried you'd be struck by lightning.”
“Close,” Maryam muttered, automatically fingering her nose. It was not broken, she was sure of that, but it felt tender and swollen all the same. “Do you think you could find something to help get us dry?”
As Ruth scurried off Maryam sank gratefully onto the doorstep. She glanced over at Lazarus, who crouched in a growing puddle against the wall, able to see him properly now beneath the walkway lights. He looked a wreck: his eyes puffy and red from crying and his rash raised and purple on his neck. Yet, beneath the coating of mud and bruises, he was deathly pale. She thought instantly of Joseph. The fact he'd been drenched by rain after the climb down the mountain at Marawa, and later by the storm at sea, had undoubtedly hastened his end. It would surely be the same for Lazarus, unless Jo came back quickly with the cure.
Ruth returned with two thin moth-eaten blankets and two strips of cloth the women in the camp called sarongs. She had also conjured up another bowl of rice and, as soon as they were dried and changed, Maryam tucked into it ravenously while trying to coax Lazarus to eat as well. But he took only two or three mouthfuls before he sank onto a sleeping mat and wound the damp blanket tightly around himself for extra warmth. Within a matter of minutes he fell into a fitful doze.
Now Maryam was able to tell Ruth what had happened. “You mean he was scared of his own father?” Ruth said at last.
“Wouldn't you be?” The words were out before Maryam had thought through their impact, and she chided herself when she saw the way Ruth's face instantly paled. Of course she'd be scared. Hadn't she already fallen prey to Father Joshua? How could she be so stupid as to say such a thing?
As she watched Ruth's quivering chin, it suddenly struck her that she should stop assuming Ruth was blocking out her trauma through some misguided faithfulness to the Lord. Rather, she should admire Ruth's brave attempts to put what had happened from her mind—especially when Maryam herself struggled to push down her fears and keep self-pity at bay. And Ruth was two years younger. It made her feel ashamed. “I'm sorry, Ruthie, you've always had the courage of King David in the Holy Book. I wish that I was half as brave.”
She saw Ruth's eyes swill with tears, even as her cheeks darkened with a flattered glow. “I try.” She glanced over at Lazarus. “Do you really think we can save him?”
“Just pray that Jo can find the medicine he needs and comes back soon.” She yawned. “I think I should try to get some sleep. It's been quite a day.”
She pulled her mat over next to Ruth's and snuggled down beside her. Closed her eyes and tried to pretend they were still on the atoll in their own pandanus-thatched hut, and everything that had happened since then was a dreadful dream. She fingered the small blue stone Ruth had given her, now her only tactile link to home, drawing comfort from the warmth it seemed to store deep in its dark crystalline core. Somewhere in her mind she could still hear the soft, hypnotic whisper of the sea upon the reef, and matched it to her breathing, willing the sweet relief of sleep to take hold and temporarily set her free.
When a nearby rooster marked the arrival of the dawn, Maryam gave up trying to chase elusive sleep. The night had not been good: Lazarus had tossed and turned and coughed. Sweat pasted his fine hair against his skull, and his wheeze was rattly, his breathing way too shallow and fast.
Now he lay lethargically and made no effort to move or speak. When their neighbour came to the door to tell them that the hot water was to be restored and the cooked meals resumed, he barely reacted. It was like watching Joseph die all over again. If only Jo would send word. Maryam was furious with herself for not having asked how long it took to reach the mainland or when she could expect to hear; she'd been too caught up in the excitement to think ahead. Now these questions loomed large and serious, and there was no one to answer them. By lunchtime, as she and Ruth queued with the others for their food, Maryam was so jittery and anxious she could hardly breathe herself. It was as if Joseph and Lazarus had merged to one inside her mind. Not even the surprisingly tasty chicken soup could distract her, and her hands shook so badly as she helped spoon some into Lazarus's mouth Ruth had to take over the job.
Half an hour later and the effort of feeding him seemed all the more futile when Lazarus coughed so violently he brought the soup back up. The vomit sprayed across his chest, soaking the blanket and leaving him so exhausted he felt like a dead weight as they rolled him to clean up the mess.
Later, as Maryam leaned against the doorway while waiting for Ruth to return from the showers, she noticed the guard, Charlie, rounding the corner. She ran to him, deliberately diverting him away from their hut.
“You've heard from Jo?”
Charlie did not return her smile. “I'm sorry, love, the news is bad.” He paused. “She said to tell you Littlejohn's used her father's illness as an excuse to shut her out. He won't allow her to come back.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It gets worse.”
“Worse?”
“He's sussed that Jo leaked news of the protests and he's spewing. Says she and her kind are putting dangerous ideas into the minds of the detainees.” He kept up the steady pressure on her shoulder. “No aid workers will be allowed back into the camp until he gives further notice. It could be weeks. That bastard's word is law.”
Weeks? This could not be. If she did not get the cure for Lazarus, he would die. A howl broke from her as she shook off Charlie's restraining hand. She'd promised Lazarus a cure, held it up as bait so he wouldn't end his life. And now he'd think she'd lied. This was too much. Too much.
“It's only a few weeks,” Charlie tried to comfort her. “You can bet your butt she'll be fighting his decision with every card she's got.”
“You don't understand.” There was nothing more to say to him. She had to get away from his uncomprehending gaze.
She started to run, pushing past a dawdling group of women as she made for open ground. Her feelings were too enormous to be contained within the confines of the huts—she needed space around her now so she could think. She thundered down the walkways until she reached the very spot where just the previous night she'd fought Lazarus to save his life. But that counted for nothing now. She had failed.
A great ball of grief churned around inside her and she sicked it up, retching painfully until there was nothing left to purge. She leaned against the wire mesh and tried to think. Had to think. Come on, come on. Lazarus was lying in their hut on the brink of death and now it fell to her alone to come up with a plan to save his life. She couldn't bear to let Joseph down—would be haunted by it forever if she failed.
It seemed cruelly unfair that the miraculous cure lay so close at hand. If only she could get into the hospital and find it for herself. There had to be a way. Come on, what was it Jo had said? That only those who lost their minds were taken there…? That you had to be crazy? Then that was it! It wasn't as if she'd even have to feign madness, for surely she would lose her mind if Lazarus died
.
Little by little her breathing slowed as she pieced together a scrappy plan. She'd have to convince them she needed to be drugged, otherwise all she'd achieve was being thrown back into the cells. Just, what, exactly, would she need to do? Something so radical that even those who knew her would doubt she was in her right mind.
She started back, step by step planning what must be done. It was her only hope—Lazarus's only hope. By the time she reached the doorway of the hut she'd come to a place of frightening clarity and calm inside herself. She knelt down beside the feverish Lazarus and gently shook him, sorry to wake him but never more sure of what she was about to say.
He rolled over and opened his eyes, and a welcoming smile lifted his lips. This nearly destroyed her, the way he looked at her with such trust; it took the very last of her strength not to cry as she brushed his sticky hair out of his eyes.
“Listen to me carefully,” she said. “I have to go somewhere for a while, but I will return with what you need. You have to trust me—whatever you might hear. Promise me you won't give up.”
“I—”
“Promise me—on Joseph's memory—you will not give up until I can return.”
He dragged himself onto one elbow, trying to read her face. “What's going on?”
“Promise me.”
“I promise, in the memory of my cousin, I'll do my best. Now tell me what's going on.” The effort to stay upright was too much for him. He dropped back on the sleeping mat with a sickening grunt.
“I'll bring you back the cure. That's all you need to know.” She leaned over and briefly pecked him on the forehead, guilty and saddened by the way his eyes lit up at the touch of her lips. Now she rose. “Wait for me. I will be back.” When she reached the door she turned to find he was still watching her, his face flushed with pink. “Tell Ruth I'm sorry, and to hold on to her faith.” She ran from the hut now, before her resolve withered and failed.
“Maryam!” Lazarus cried out after her, but she dared not stop.
She skirted around the main courtyard, taking just a moment to stop and observe Ruth, surrounded by a laughing group of children and their mothers as she neatly traced out simple words in the stinking white dust at her feet. Such a heart, Maryam thought. She hoped Ruth would not believe what she would hear.
