Into the Wilderness: Blood of the Lamb (Book Two) (19 page)

The guard laughed. “Oh yeah? You and whose army, sweetheart?” He raised his gun towards her. “Now get the hell out of here before I lock you up with that poncy little traitor you arrived with.”

Everything she'd endured since she'd first Crossed seemed to boil up inside her. How dare this man think he could treat them like this! A surge of energy flowed through her, as if Joseph's spirit somehow buoyed her up and urged her to act.

She wrapped her fingers into the netting of the fence and shook it, yelling loudly: “Let us out! You have no right to hold us here.”

Ruth put her hand on Maryam's shoulder. “Don't. You'll end up locked away as well.”

“I don't care,” Maryam said. “I'll not sit back quietly and let them steal away our lives.”

The guard, on high alert, took a step towards her, and others ran over to his side. But she found she was no longer alone, for several of the men joined with her in beating at the fence. Ruth, however, backed away, a look of terror on her face as the guards dragged over a long flexible pipe and aimed it straight at Maryam. A furious jet of water shot from its end, hitting her square in her stomach and knocking her off her feet. One by one, the others were sent sprawling by the blast of stinging rain.

Maryam scrambled up, launching herself back at the fence as her anger and pain at Joseph's death recharged her words. “Let me out!” Again she was struck down by the water, and again she rose. But now the guards were swarming in through the gate. They swooped on her, and she screamed as they seized her broken arm and jerked it roughly behind her back. Then they took her other arm, then her legs, and swept her off the ground in a writhing ball of fury. She twisted, trying to locate Ruth, and glimpsed her panicked face through a frame of other arms and legs. But she couldn't hear what Ruth was shouting, her heart pummelling so hard its pulse filled up her ears.

The guards had trussed her like a sacrificial goat; now they snapped restrictive metal cuffs around her ankles and her wrists—right over the plaster cast. She struggled, powerless to do anything but submit as they hauled her, squirming and kicking and biting, to a stone building and dragged her to a tiny cell. There they left her, bound and panting and sodden. Locked her in.

For several minutes more the storm raged on within her. When it finally abated she cried, howling like a baby as the last of her bottled-up emotions were purged, until nothing more was left inside.

In the aftermath, she couldn't believe what she had done. Had she been possessed? But she didn't regret it, despite the terrible burning in her injured arm. On the contrary, she felt as if she'd rid herself of something festering and poisonous that could have done her harm. Besides, at least in here, alone, that nightmare world was held at bay.

Then she recalled Ruth's words as they'd stepped off the ship:
Please don't let them split us up.
Too late. Less than a day, and already Ruth's worst fears had been realised. What had got into her? All she could hope was that Aanjay would befriend Ruth now and keep her safe until Maryam was released.
If
she was released.
Oh Lord, what if they just leave me here to die?

She twisted her neck around until she could see up to the ceiling of the cell. Cobwebs draped between the rough timber rafters, their fine-spun silk accentuated by thin layers of white phosphate dust. She could hear birds clattering across the roof and, closer still, in the cells beyond her own, the unnerving sound of a man sobbing and an incessant mumbling from someone else.

She snaked over to the metal grille that separated her from the corridor beyond and tried to peer into the next-door cell, but she could not. The mumbling continued, disconnected, from a cell much further down. It didn't sound like Lazarus—though she had no real idea of whether he was held here as well.

Now the outside door burst open again and one of the hunger strikers was escorted past her cell, two burly guards
forcing his shackled arms unnaturally high behind his back. His eyes met hers and she nodded, acknowledging their bond as he was led away. Their footsteps echoed off the hard stone walls, and she heard the scrape of lock and key.

As they passed on their way out, one of the guards noticed Maryam's vigil by the bars and lashed out, his boot stamping only inches from her face. “Crazy black bitch,” he spat at her. “They should've left you in the sea to die.”

“I wish they had,” she shot back, turning her face from him and holding her breath until she heard the outer door slam shut.

“Maryam! Is that you?”

“Lazarus?” She pressed her ear up to the bars to see if she could track his voice.

“I think I'm in the cell right next to you.” There was a banging on the bars to her left and she swivelled around in time to spy his fingers reach out into the corridor and wave.

“Yes, I see your hand.”

“What happened? Why are you here?”

She laughed, surprising herself by the cheerful nature of the sound. “I don't think they like to be reminded of their evil ways.”

“You challenged them?”

“It seems I did.” Despite her antagonism towards him, it was a relief to hear his voice. She felt small and vulnerable, and very scared.

“Did they hurt you too?” His question sounded strangely charged.

“Nothing I couldn't bear.” She rolled her wrist within the cuff, trying to slide her right hand from the metal ring. No luck. “Are you bound as well?”

“Bound? No. Are you?”

One rule for brown, another for white.
Her heart hardened towards him again. “Forget it.”

“But I heard crying. Was that you?”

What pleasure it would give him to think this so.
“It was an act to shame them.” She was determined not to feed his prejudices, knowing he already thought her foolish and weak.

Lazarus did not reply, and she sensed that he didn't believe the lie. The floor was hard beneath her hips now, so she wriggled over to the side of the cell and pushed herself up until her back was propped against the wall. This eased her hips but put more pressure on her throbbing arm, still pinned behind her back. Again she shifted, leaning sideways against the wall, which eased her arm but did little to aid her overall comfort while her clothes still dripped and her hair hung lank and tickly around her face.

Even though she didn't want to talk to him, Lazarus's silence now unsettled her.
What was he thinking?
Was he sitting there judging her as harshly as she judged him? In the unnatural lull, she heard a dog barking and the nagging, plaintive cry of a child in pain. She closed her eyes, thrown back into a childhood memory of a time when she'd been ill and forced to stay in bed: how she'd so resented being stuck inside, forced to play eavesdropper to the happy voices of her playmates as they'd romped free, without her, in the sun. But Mother Elizabeth had come to comfort her, retelling stories from the Holy Book. She'd felt so special, tucked up next to her. How long ago that seemed. How distant and unreal.

A cough broke through her thoughts, and Lazarus cleared his throat. “I know you may not want to hear this but I have something I really need to say…”

Maryam could not reply. Her heart beat double time as she worked through every possibility. Perhaps he was going to admit the truth: that he had planned Joseph's elimination and his own rise to power from the start…or that now he planned to dump them here and travel on to The Confederated Territories alone? Whatever it was, she knew it was momentous by the nervous catch he hadn't quite managed to disguise.

She nibbled at a flake of dry skin on her bottom lip and steeled herself for what was coming next. “All right. What?”

Again he cleared his throat, as if he had to force the words to come. “I've had a lot of time to think,” he said. “Way too much time.” He paused. “I want you to know that I'm—that I'm…sorry. I've behaved…badly.”

Was this another of her hallucinations, like the disconnected voices she'd heard on the boat? A huge churning stirred in her chest as she remembered the humiliation and terror that she—and poor dear Ruth—had suffered at his hands. The churning cemented into a cold fist of fury that dropped into her gut.
Did he think he could make everything right by a few trite words?
He had tormented her, terrorised and tried to force himself on her; treated everyone around him with disdain. Did she have it in her to forgive him? She wasn't sure. Not sure at all.

“Right,” she murmured, knowing he was waiting for some
kind of response but truly not able to give him more. The hurt—the hate—she felt was still too raw, and she dared not soften her stance to him, lest he still do her more harm.

“Look, I know you probably find this hard to believe—”

She snorted, unable to hold back her bitterness.

“Okay, I guess you can't.” He sounded less guarded now, and she knew by his tone that her response had rankled him.
What did he expect?
“When Joseph died—”

“You mean when you
killed
him,” she spat.

Even through the stone wall of the cell she heard him gasp. “What in all Hell is
that
supposed to mean?”

Maryam leaned over, hissing out her accusation through the bars. “It means you planned to see him dead. I had the equipment there to save him—keep him alive until we found him help—but
you
poisoned his mind to this. You let him die.”

“That's totally ridiculous! He was never going to take your blood. I told you that. I warned you that even if he did, he still would die.”

“That's what
you
say. I guess we'll never know now if that was true.”

“Why would I do that? He was my only cousin. I loved him too.”

A bleak laugh escaped her lips. “Love? I doubt you even understand the word.”

She could feel his rage fly from his cell towards her like a whirlwind. “What? And you, who teased him with your precious virgin state, showed him love? You played him like a nareau plant that first seduces and then eats the fly.”

Her face burnt at the impact of his words. “No—you would
be the expert at
that
game. How many Sisters did you drug on the toddy and defile? Ten? Twenty? Perhaps more?”

“Bitch,” she heard him mutter, though she was puzzled by his choice of word. Why call her a female dog? Perhaps he thought them lowly, as he did all other female things.

She found herself holding her breath, waiting for his next retort, but as the seconds stretched out she gave in to the urge to breathe. Her accusations had obviously hit the mark, and she was pleased.

Outside, she could hear a man shouting in a foreign tongue, his words unknown but the tone so full of anguish it burrowed deep into her brain. Try as she might, she couldn't erase the nightmare image of those roughly sewn lips. Was there no let-up in the torment of this place? Was everyone here as broken and as full of rage as she?

Just then a guard she hadn't seen before came past and stopped outside her cell. He was juggling a sleeping mat and bucket as well as a large bunch of keys.

“Here,” he said, unlocking her door and depositing his load in the middle of her cell with a tired grunt. He approached her tentatively now, keys still in hand, and unlocked the cuffs to free her hands and feet. “In the future, missy,” he said, “think more carefully before you stir up trouble, eh?”

She didn't answer him, frightened by her own newly discovered capacity for hot-headed rage. She daren't risk another outburst now, unsure just how far they'd go in punishing her again. But she was pleased to be free of the cuffs, which had left painful welts where they'd rubbed at her skin. Inside its cast her arm still throbbed, and she longed for one of Mother Evodia's herbal tonics to ease her misery.

As soon as the guard had left, she dragged the sleeping mat over to the corner furthest from the door. The mat was stained and lumpy, but she dropped down onto it thankfully.

Slowly her pulse began to calm, and the exhaustion she had fought since Joseph's death fell back over her in one sweeping wave. It was as if her bones had weathered into stone, and no amount of effort would move them from the mat. She gave herself over to it, willing herself to sleep now to block out the world. Yet, every time she slipped into a soothing dream, she'd startle and it seemed not even her subconscious would allow her to escape. As the afternoon dragged on, the heat intensified, slicking her hair to cloying fingers that wound around her neck each time she rolled and turned. But at last heat and exhaustion overrode her brain, and pitched her straight into an intense dream.

She was in the atoll's maneaba, kneeling beneath its cool thatched roof before the sculpted image of the Lamb. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the cheerful laughter of the little Sisters as they romped beneath the palms. Above, the Lamb watched down on her with mournful eyes. It was as if He saw right through her to the doubt that filled her heart.

As soon as the awareness of this doubt entered her mind she saw Him stir, the nails that fixed his hands and feet flying out unaided to land before her on the ground. Next, He stepped down from the Cross and stood before her, holding out His hand for her to take. She could not shift her gaze from His, their eyes locked in a timeless duel—neither was willing to be the first to look away.

“Come,” He said, “and I will lead you safely Home.” His voice filled the high reaches of the maneaba, as soft and soothing as the eternal whisperings of the sea.

She looked now to His outstretched hand, transfixed by the gaping wound that rent his palm. She wanted to accept His call, to bury herself in the familiar comfort of His warm embrace, but she could not. All sound had ceased, and all she was aware of was the reverberation of her own ragged breath. He made it seem so easy, as though all she had to do was lift her arm and reach out for His proffered hand. But still her limbs refused to move.

Over His shoulder another deity stood by: that man—the one from the temple on Marawa Island—his calm face breaking into a beatific smile as she caught his gaze. He bowed in greeting, his plump hands pressed neatly before him as he dipped his head. And above him now, squinting from the dark recesses of the maneaba roof, the masks of her ancestors came alive, their eyes flashing red and angry in the filtered light.

“Your heart is mine,” the Lamb proclaimed, and He leaned forward, wrenching her to her feet so suddenly she had no time to argue or resist.

He pressed her to his sculpted wooden chest, locking His arms around her so tightly she had to fight to breathe. He laughed and, in a flash of cold recognition, she knew that laugh and tried to pull away—for it was not the Lamb who pressed her to his rigid body but Holy Father Joshua, his breath leaking the stench of phosphate as he crushed his shark's mouth over hers…

Maryam jerked awake with a cry.

“Are you all right?”

It was Lazarus calling from the next-door cell. He must have heard her cry out as she'd fled the dream.

“I'm fine,” she croaked, her throat so dry it did not want to
work.
What would he know of nightmares when he'd had so little in his life to fear?

She heard him stir, and then a scraping sound as something scuffed across the floor. “Here,” he called again. “I've pushed a cup of water out into the corridor. See if you can reach.”

Already the little saliva she had left was pooling at the thought, so she crossed to the bars, relieved to see he'd placed the cup within her reach. She squeezed her arm through awkwardly, managing to hook the rim of the cup with her finger to drag it to her side. The water tasted oily, but it helped to soothe the swollen, prickly feeling in her throat.

“Thank you,” she said, once she'd drained the cup. She pushed it back across the void.

“Look…” Lazarus said. “I know you won't believe this, but that time you caught me in the cellar was the first.”

“You're right,” she agreed, picturing the poor server as Lazarus forced the anga kerea toddy down her throat then stripped her bare. “I find it very hard.”

“Just listen to me for a moment, will you?” He was almost pleading now. “Since Joseph died, my head's so full of all this…stuff…I just want you to understand.”

“Why me? Why not confess your sins to the Lord, if that's what you want?”

“That's not what I want,” he snapped. “Look, it's hard for me to admit this…but here's the thing: I want
you
to forgive me. From the moment I set eyes on you, I knew that you had something special—something that I…lacked.”

This jolted her. In all her dealings with him she'd never heard him admit weakness or inferiority of any kind. “If that's the case, you have an odd way of showing it.”

“Please, just try to understand…When I was young, Uncle Jonah and Aunt Deborah were the only ones who ever showed me love—and Joseph, of course. My own mother and father were totally self-absorbed. I spent my whole childhood trying to do something that would please them—make them notice me and show me love.”

“But you had everything—”

“That's where you're wrong. I was raised to believe my father was a living god—a god who had no time for snivelling little boys.”

“What of all the wonderful things in the Holy City? You can hardly complain about growing up in a place like that while those stuck on Onewēre struggled to survive.”

“It's easy to see that now, but for years it coloured everything I thought and did. So when, three years ago, my father suddenly announced the time had come to train me up to take his place, I saw it as my chance to win his love.”

“So?” Maryam challenged him. “Did that give you the right to treat the rest of us like slaves?”

“In an odd kind of way it did. I watched how my father treated you all and I followed his lead—and he'd praise me, tell me I was finally acting like a man.” He laughed bitterly, then grunted, as if he was in pain. “It got to the point where I used to do things just to test him, thinking that surely
now
he'd chastise me and tell me no. But it turned out that the worse I behaved, the more he drew me to his side.”

“You did these things, even when you knew they were wrong?”

“It got out of control.” His voice was wavering, and he cleared his throat. “I used to wonder why you servers never
questioned him or called his bluff—always blindly believing everything he said or did. And then that passiveness started to annoy me—drive me mad.”

“Mad?”

“Angry. Look, it sounds stupid now I say it, but I reached the stage where I truly started to believe you servers got what you were asking for—that your obedience and blind acceptance meant you deserved everything my father could dish out. And the angrier I got, the more I wanted to punish you all for being so gullible and ignorant.” Again he paused, and she thought she heard him sniff. “It's like I said before—it just all got out of control.”

There was an awful kind of logic in his words. Had he not accused her of this passivity the very day he'd trapped her near Joseph's house?

“But when I challenged you about it at the pool that day,” she said, “you mocked me and told me to grow up.” If only she could see his face, see whether he was smirking as he recalled her nakedness.

“I know,” he said. “And do you remember what you said to me?”

“No. I was rightly fearing for my life.”

“Oh hell…I'm sorry.” He sniffed again.
Could he really be crying?
“Respect. That's what you said. That you would never respect me, no matter what I did. And, though I refused to admit it at the time, that really hurt. And the more I thought about it, the more it got to me.” He sniffed once more, and when he spoke his voice was thick with suppressed tears. “
You
got to me.”

Charming words, but she was not a fool. “I see…you were
so moved you thought you'd put a knife to my best friend's throat and force yourself on us all so we'd be friends?”