Into the Wilderness: Blood of the Lamb (Book Two) (14 page)

“Leave me!” she screeched, twisting away from them to scoop Joseph's sagging body up into her one good arm. “I will not let him die.”

She pressed him to her in an awkward, agonising embrace as she howled out her anguish. “Don't die. Don't die. You just can't die…”

Her head was bursting with a buzz of tangled noise; her eyes too full of tears to see. Terror at the thought of losing him took her by the throat and pressed the cruel point home with such dizzying force she could hardly breathe, her lungs filling with an ache she knew could not be purged. It was not fair. For the first time in her life she'd found someone who made her feel loved and treasured, and the Lord, in His wrathful vengeance, chose to punish her by taking him away.

She raised her tearful face to the heavens, wailing out her pain. “I hate you, Lord. I never will forgive you for this act.”
She pressed her lips to Joseph's, as if her own life force could somehow revive him, but it was pointless—death lay upon him like a pall.

A wave of grief overwhelmed her, stealing her breath and, with it, her desire to live, leaving her as cold and flat and lifeless as the body she clutched so urgently against her chest. But now, as Ruth laid a tentative hand on her shoulder, she understood the awful and enduring truth: this kind sweet boy was dead, and nothing—
nothing—
she could do, or say, or give to him, would ever bring him back.

The hours melded into one long numbing nightmare as Lazarus and Ruth tried repeatedly to prise Joseph's lifeless body from Maryam's clasp. But she would not budge. The Lord might have stolen his life away, but she refused to relinquish Joseph's corpse as well.

How the Lord had played with them all: demanding loyalty and love, yet giving none back in return. He had rained His punishment down on her, and left her as bereft as poor Job in the Holy Book.
He leadeth priests away spoiled, and overthroweth the mighty…And taketh away the understanding of the elders…the heart of the chiefs of the people of the earth. And causeth them to wander in a wilderness where there is no way.

Job's words swirled inside Maryam's head, his anguish giving voice now to her own. It was as if Job understood her pain, had seen her struggle with the Apostles and knew the fault lay not with her—despite the Lord's cruel vengeful acts.
Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but there is no judgment. He hath fenced up my way that I cannot pass, And hath set darkness in my paths…he hath broken me down on every side, and I am gone…when I looked for good, then evil came; and when I waited for light, there came darkness…

A hand shook her shoulder, breaking into her thoughts. “Maryam, please,” Ruth beseeched her. “You must put him down and drink some water or you'll perish too.”

Maryam looked into Ruth's face, but it was as if she was trapped inside tree resin: could see out past the lucent wall
but could not move, respond or feel. Her survival counted for nothing now—with the snuffing out of Joseph's life, she found her own will spent as well.

She pulled Joseph even more tightly to her, revelling in the pain it caused her arm.
Let it hurt.
Let it overwhelm her until it blanked this day forever from her mind.

Ruth continued to stare at her helplessly. She plucked at Maryam's sleeve. “We must give Joseph the last rites, Maryam, or else his soul will not go to the Lord.”

The sound of Maryam's laugh was harsh and mirthless as it welled up from her depths. “You think his soul is not already pure enough to meet Him? Then damn the Lord.”

Ruth gasped, her face flushing an angry red. She grabbed Maryam by the shoulders and shook her. “Stop this! Stop it, or you will commit us all to death.”

Ruth's threat washed off her—what did she care? But the shaking she could not ignore, as it juddered her bound arm and drove sharp shards of pain into her brain. She cried out, and Ruth dropped her arms back to her sides as if burnt.

“Leave her,” Lazarus broke in. “We have more pressing problems right now.” He rose from his brooding, taking the compass from his pocket and placing it carefully into the upturned palm of his hand. Maryam watched, dizzy from pain and totally detached, as he studied the arrow and slowly turned in a half circle until it lined up with the marker to indicate north. Now he glanced out to sea, pointing to his left. “It seems we've been blown south. We need to go back that way if we want to find the islands to the west.”

“But how can we do that?” Ruth glanced around the crippled boat. “We haven't even got a sail.”

“I don't know.” Lazarus shrugged. “If only we still had the map.” He wrapped his fingers over the compass, weighing it in his hand. “Let's clean up what we can, and think about our options then.” He glanced over at Maryam, a deep frown forming between his eyes. “I tried to warn her…” He shook his head, then moved away to start picking through the wreckage on the deck.

For more than an hour and a half Lazarus and Ruth worked around Maryam, trying to make sense of the shattered bamboo, stores and thatch, sorting whatever they could salvage into small piles. They failed to shift the fallen mast, so were forced to work around it, sidestepping the chiselled timber each time they crossed the deck. The sea, at least, was calmer, and eventually a little order emerged from the chaos. But it was only when the deck was cleared of its debris that they discovered yet another calamity. Something had punctured one of the boat's hulls, up near the forward mast, and water was slowly seeping in.

“Damn, and damn again,” Lazarus cursed, ignoring Ruth's righteous glare. He rummaged through their meagre possessions and pulled a pair of Joseph's trousers from the sodden pile. He called Ruth over, and together they worked to stuff the fabric tightly into the hole, using a piece of broken wood to tamp down on the folded layers until they were firmly wedged in place.

“Will it be enough?” Ruth asked, her voice drenched with worry.

Lazarus was bailing out the excess water with the help of a broken jar. “You'd better pray so,” he replied. “If it doesn't, we're sunk.” He handed Ruth another scoop and indicated that she should help him empty the storm's residue from both hulls.
Maryam watched them work, so removed from their actions it was as though she saw them through a veil. She didn't care about the hole, would be relieved now just to sink and drown.
Joseph is dead…Joseph is dead.
The words would not stop ringing in her ears and she felt diminished by them, as if her own body dried and congealed around his corpse to form a human shroud. She stroked his hair, his arms, his back. Could feel his body cold and stiff beneath her touch.

She knew, in some small recess of her brain, that she should lay him down now—put him to rest—but every time she made the move to draw her hand away she panicked, terrified she'd never have the chance to hold him in her arms again. It hurt so much. More than the desertion of her mother and, later, the news of her mother's death. More than the rejection of her father. More even than her cruel treatment at Father Joshua's hands. Every cell inside her ached.

The sun had finally broken through the clouds, bearing down and stealing every scrap of moisture from her skin. Her tears were sucked up by the stifling heat before they even left her eyes and her mouth cried out for water, but still she could not move. She could see Ruth and Lazarus finish up their bailing and sensed they were discussing her, but she did not care. Let them think whatever they wanted of her, she would not desert her love.

Ruth came over and squatted down beside her, offering a cup of water. “Here,” she said. “Please drink. You know Joseph would want you to.”

She understood what Ruth was playing at, could see her game. But she found she could not resist what might be Joseph's wish; besides, the urge to drink was now so overpowering it was impossible
to fight. With Ruth's help she took the water sip by sip, hating how her body kept on fighting to survive while his did not.

When the cup was empty, Ruth cleared her throat. “I know you don't want to let him go. I understand. But if we leave him in the sun like this, he'll start to—” It seemed she could not bring herself to say the words, but Maryam's mind filled in the gap.
Bloat and stink.
If they left him in the sun, his body would soon start to smell and decompose.

She shuddered, the terrible reality of it reaching through her veil of grief. She could not do this to him, could not expose him to such humiliation just because she needed him. But when she tried to release him, her hand refused to heed her call.

“I can't,” she whispered miserably. “My hand will not let go.”

Slowly, Ruth reached over and started to prise Maryam's fingers away. As they began to loosen, and his body started sliding from her grip, Maryam panicked, as if she might hurt him if she dropped him now, and so she rallied all her strength and helped Ruth lower him gently to the deck. He would not lie flat, his body set into the mould of her embrace. She tried to move his limbs, to straighten him, but was frightened he would break. The horror on Ruth's face bled into her consciousness, and in the end she reluctantly conceded defeat. Yet despite the ugly markings of Te Mate Iai and the awkward frozen rigor of his body, to Maryam he truly looked as if he slept; as if at any moment he would wake and smile up at her with his luminous blue eyes.

“He told me he loved me,” she murmured.

“Of course.” Ruth nodded as tears tracked down her cheeks. “His love for you was plain to see.”

“Was it?” Maryam almost smiled. She ran a finger around
Joseph's mouth to brush away the dried remnants of the te kabubu paste still on his lips. They felt resistant to her touch, etched in stone.
Joseph is dead, Joseph is dead.
To think that only hours ago he'd kissed her with these lips.

“I must wash him,” she announced, the thought rising unbidden into her mind. “To make him ready for his journey.”

Now that she had decided this, she could not sit still. She sprang into action, wrestling off his grimy shirt—no easy feat with only one useful hand and a corpse that now refused to bend—and leaned down between the hulls to dip the fabric into the sea. She pressed it down onto the deck to wring out a little of the water, then began to bathe his skin, biting down on her lips to fight back tears. The last time she had washed him…no, it hurt too much to think of this. She blocked it out.

When she had finished, she scraped her nails through his sticky, matted hair to smooth it down.
What now?
There was no place to bury him; no raft or pyre to set alight upon the sea. Much as she longed to keep him by her side forever, she knew she did not have the strength of will to watch him bloat and rot. There had to be something, some dignified way of setting his soul free of this body that had failed him so.

For the first time since Joseph's death she really looked around her, scrutinising every corner of the boat with a deliberate eye. They had no choice but to give his body over to the sea, she realised, yet the thought of just pitching him overboard—leaving him to float at the mercy of scavenging seabirds—made her stomach swill. She needed something to lend him weight, to sink him. Then, entombed beneath the vast protective blanket of water, his body would find rest down on the ocean floor.

With this in mind, her eye kept returning to the anchor stone. It was surely heavy enough and, with its carefully chiselled rope-hole and smooth edges crafted by Joseph's father, it seemed a fitting companion for his journey to the depths. Yes, this course was best.

She turned to seek out Lazarus, but for a moment could not place him. Then she spied him, crouched behind the one remaining shelter wall. His back was hunched and heaving, his face hidden in his hands. He was crying, sobs breaking from him in hoarse gusts of pain. It hurt to watch: no matter how much she despised him, she recognised the bond he and his cousin shared. Her own broken heart went out to him, and she felt selfish that she'd blocked him from sharing in Joseph's last minutes on earth.

She drew in a shaky, jagged breath. She had to open up her heart to Lazarus and put her dislike for him aside. It was how Joseph would have wanted it.
This
was the final gift to mark his passing; the way to dignify his kind, warm-hearted life.

Lazarus startled when she squatted down beside him and slipped her one good arm around his shoulders. “I am so sorry for your loss,” Maryam said, struggling to hold herself together. He looked completely devastated, nothing like the cruel, confident oppressor of the past. “He told me he loved you like a brother. That in his heart he knew you were good.”

As soon as the words were out, she wondered if she spoke the truth. But, seeing the fleeting glimmer in his eyes, she knew it didn't matter if the words were not exactly as Joseph had said. They were what Lazarus needed to hear now; what
she
would want if the situation were reversed.

She rubbed his back, feeling the tremor in his muscles as he
fought with his emotions. She was amazed he did not pull away from her embrace. “He
was
my brother,” Lazarus mumbled. “The only member of my family who I truly—” he choked, swallowing hard before he spoke again, “—who I truly loved.”

He broke down once more, sobbing with such fury that Maryam could not contain her own raw tears. And now dear Ruth slipped down to join them, enfolding both their wretched bodies in her strong brown arms. Beneath them all, the boat rocked sideways in the swell as if it, too, was moved to offer comfort. When, finally, their tears were spent, Maryam drew her arm away—wincing as she registered just how much her injured arm still ached.

“I think we should bind him to the anchor stone and send them both down into the sea.”

“Perhaps…” Lazarus sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. He slowly eased himself upright, his eyes locked on Joseph's twisted corpse. “I can't believe he's gone.”

“We must say some words over him,” Ruth insisted. She glanced warily at Maryam. “I don't care what you choose to say, but it would be wrong not to say something to release his soul.”

Maryam acquiesced. Whatever her own broiling grievance with the Lord, Joseph deserved to be sent off as they'd been taught.

“You say whatever you want to, Ruthie, it's fine with me.” She felt exhausted now, all the fight cried out of her. She glanced at Lazarus. “We're all agreed?”