Into the Wilderness: Blood of the Lamb (Book Two) (17 page)

“This way.” Their two guards pointed at a shabby building and pushed the trio roughly towards it.

“Leave the talking to me,” Lazarus hissed to Maryam and Ruth. “I'm sure once they know the truth they'll set us free.” He drew in a deep breath, as though pumping himself up, and took the lead.

Maryam bit back a sharp retort as she reminded herself that she no longer cared.
What did it matter who spoke for who?
The end result would be the same: Lazarus elevated back to his position of power, while she and Ruth were left to rot.

She couldn't help but glance around her, though. Beyond the building, another layer of netting rose just as high as the first, and beyond that again row upon row of squat, rusty metal structures packed the dusty, arid camp. Thin bedraggled chickens scratched around in the littered dirt and, through the gaps in the netting, a gaggle of dirty, wide-eyed children stood beside a group of men who seemed to be tracking their journey to the wooden building near the truck.

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!”