Into the Wilderness: Blood of the Lamb (Book Two) (22 page)

“Tell me,” she said. “What do
you
think happens when we die?”

He laughed quietly, yet there was no hint of derision in his tone. “Do you mean do I believe in Heaven and Hell?”

“Maybe. That's what we've been taught.”

“Do you?” She could hear the smile in his voice and caught the faint glow of his teeth through the gloom.

“That's not fair! I asked you first!”

“I think Hell is a great way for people like my father to frighten others into doing what he wants.” He yawned. “And as for Heaven, I think it's much the same. It's like saying to someone: “Do what I tell you, and you'll be rewarded. Not in this life, though. In this life you have to keep on suffering because it reminds you who's in charge.” Whichever way you look at it, my father wins.”

Maryam was well past being shocked by anything that Lazarus said, but she would never have imagined she'd hear the Holy Father's son voice the same kind of doubts that swilled inside her own head. “So you don't believe the Holy Book?” she asked.

“Now
that's
a different question.” He was quiet for a while. “You know,” he finally said, “I haven't really decided yet. I think
that once I would have said yes and never doubted it, but after spending the last three years so close to my father, I'm just not sure. All I know is that I despise the way it's used.” He cleared his throat. “What about you?”

“It doesn't make sense to me,” Maryam answered, feeling all her doubts and disillusionment swell up inside her again. “I mean, if the Lord is really up there watching us all, how can He be letting all these terrible things happen to his flock? Did Joseph sin? No! Or Ruth, who loves Him and would never sin? Does
she
deserve what's happened to her? Or think about the people in this camp: did that man tonight deserve to die for standing up for what was right?”

Ruth's sleepy voice broke in. “You forget that he's a heathen—that he didn't love the Lord.”

Maryam startled. “Ruthie! You gave me such a fright! Did we wake you?”

“It's all right.” Ruth yawned. “I was only dozing anyway.” She rolled over to face them, her voice still thick with sleep. “He clearly tells us it's a sin to worship anyone but Him.”

“But what about the children here? Do they deserve to be punished because their parents do not love the same Lord as us? And what of the Territorials? The guards? They love the Lamb and yet they're just as cruel as the Apostles back at home.”

“Maryam's right,” Lazarus said. “Do you really think—” But he was overcome by a fit of coughing so sudden and intense he doubled over as the spasms rocked through his body.

Ruth reached out for Maryam and jabbed at her, her meaning clear. The final stage of the sickness had already begun. Maryam jumped up from her mat. “I'll fetch you some water,” she said as Lazarus gasped between the spasms.

She ran for the taps, aware of the tension in the air as enraged voices ebbed and flowed on the cool night breeze. She filled a cup and ran back to their hut to find Lazarus quiet again on his mat. When she passed the water he rose up on one elbow and to drink it down in one loud gulp.

“Thanks,” he rasped. “I don't know what brought that on. All this dust, I guess.” He winced as he lowered himself back down. “My ribs don't like that coughing one little bit.”

“Try to sleep now,” Maryam murmured, guilt at withholding the truth from him stealing her breath. “By the sound of things outside, tomorrow could be another long unsettled day.”

She lay down herself now, listening to his breathing until it finally slowed into a more relaxed rhythm. As sleep drew her towards its depths, something Joseph had said to her about Lazarus came back and lingered in the shadowy place before her conscious mind let go.
Give him a chance.
It was as if Joseph was reaching out to her, sending her a message from his watery grave.

She rolled over, staring out the open doorway at the crack of sky visible beyond the walkway's roof. Stars twinkled down from their bed in the heavens, a thousand tiny eyes that seemed to urge her to take up Joseph's plea and act. “All right, all right,” she whispered, so tired now she wished for nothing more than the abyss of sleep. Tomorrow she would act on Joseph's words, and seek out Aanjay's help.

The camp was well astir before Maryam and Ruth were ready to venture outside. The toilet block already reeked with the
morning's ablutions and they had to queue for even the briefest of cold showers.

As they waited, Ruth chatted with a young girl next in line, gesturing and laughing as each did their best to understand the other's words. It seemed the girl and her family had been detained over three years—half this little one's entire life. What must that do to someone? Maryam wondered. To grow up here, thrust together with others, so displaced that memories of your former life ceased to exist, except in some strange half-dream that slid away as soon as it was nearly grasped? Was this now to be her fate as well? Locked up here and left to watch as, one by one, through plague, infection or other illness—or through some brutal action of the guards—they all would die?

By the time she and Ruth returned to the hut and made ready for the day, the atmosphere in the camp had grown as tense again as the previous night. From what Maryam could gather through broken exchanges with the women in the next-door hut, the guards had now decided to punish everyone for the unrest, and were denying all so-called privileges until they were brought back into line. No hot water, no hot food. No mixing of the men with their families. In other words, no freedom and no aid at all. As a consequence, Lazarus was now trapped inside their hut, unable to show his face for fear of anger from the guards or backlash from the women who might turn him in. The bruises on his face had deepened to indigo, fringed by a rainbow of dirty yellow, puce and red, and he seemed lethargic—not his usual acerbic self. He was content to lie on his mat and rely on news from Maryam or Ruth whenever they ventured out. But if he worried that his health was failing for any reason other than the beating, he did not acknowledge it, instead putting
his increasing breathing difficulties down to the dust and his bruised ribs. Meanwhile, Maryam and Ruth kept up a surreptitious watch on the marks of Te Matee Iai. Already his neck was nearly ringed by the ugly purple marks.

Finally, after an unsatisfying snack of cold, day-old rice, Maryam slipped away to find Aanjay and seek her help. It was not as easy as she'd hoped: the little woman so busy trying to calm the situation, Maryam had to wait in line. Distressed mothers fought to control agitated children, and the mood of discontent was all-pervasive.

At last, when the noontime sun was at its most searing, she got her chance to speak with Aanjay, who looked so harassed Maryam felt guilty for taking up her time. She carefully outlined her own understanding of the plague and told Aanjay about Joseph's death. She was amazed at how calmly she spoke of it. It was as if there was a glass wall between her grief and the outside world, making the telling somehow distant and removed.

“Already he's started coughing, and the marks are spreading and deepening—just like they did before Joseph died.”

“These marks, do they look as though the blood is leaking and then hardening in dark clots beneath the skin?”

“Yes. And he is growing feverish and lethargic, and I think, though he won't admit it, he's in much pain.” She looked into Aanjay's tired eyes. “Does this sound at all familiar? Is it something you know?”

Aanjay nodded her head slowly. “Yes. Here we call it Sumber Kemusnahan.”

Maryam's heart missed a beat. “You do? And is there any way to stop people dying from it?”

“Indeed.” Aanjay swatted a fly away from her face. “In fact, the cure turned out to be relatively straightforward: they discovered a tonic made from the mahkota bunga tree and the Territorials dispense it in tablets they have called Imatinibiate.”

“You've seen it work? Save people's lives?”

“Yes, of course. There are many ills the Territorials can cure if they have the will.”

It was unbelievable! A tonic made from leaves? Maryam felt herself teeter between joy and grief. To think that if they'd reached these shores just days before, Joseph might still be alive! The unfairness of it hit her like another of the storm's rogue waves, sucking the air from her, driving stinging tears into her eyes. But the possibility of respite for Lazarus was breathtaking news, too. Was it truly possible there was relief in sight? She skipped from foot to foot, astonished that, for once, the Lord had seen fit to undo some bad with good. What one cousin had not lived to use, the other would now receive. Joseph would be so happy if he knew.

“Can we get Lazarus some?” she asked, her pulse trying to leap right from her throat as she waited for Aanjay to reply.

But now Aanjay shook her head, her mouth drawing down in an unhappy frown. “I wish I could say yes, child. I know the trees grow wild on many of the islands, and that there is plenty of Imatinibiate stored at the hospital in town. But I've never seen it used to save a life in here.”

“You mean that even though they have it, they'd not save Lazarus's life?”

“I wish I could give you hope…but it is better that you realise now that there is none.” She rested her small brown hand on Maryam's cheek for a moment, and the sadness in her eyes leaked out and formed a band of pain around Maryam's heart.

Already others were pressing in and demanding Aanjay's time, pushing Maryam aside as she digested this bitter news. To know that somewhere close by there was a cure for Te Matee Iai yet she did not have the power to access it was almost worse than finding it did not exist at all. How would she and Ruth be able to stomach it, watching Lazarus succumb to the plague when the possibility to ease him was so close at hand?

The rage that had so often fuelled her actions in the past once again began to build. She could not accept this—
would
not accept this—while she still had breath in her to fight. There had to be some way,
someone
, who could help.

Then it came to her, the glimmer of hope that she so desperately sought: the person most likely to help her—the white woman Jo.

It was not as easy as Maryam had hoped to find Jo amidst the turmoil of the camp. The gates between the men's and women's section remained locked and the guards had retreated behind the outer fence as well. They stood warily to attention, guns in hand, refusing to be drawn by the angry accusations of the detainees who lined the fence.

Beyond, their captors seemed in turmoil too: noisy trucks were coming and going up the dusty road and men in uniforms were milling in doorways as Sergeant Littlejohn prowled the grounds, barking orders as he went. Maryam had no doubt he could direct her to Jo, but she dared not draw his attention for fear of provoking him. Instead she scanned along the line of guards, trying to identify the one lone man—the one Jo had called Charlie—who'd seemed more sympathetic to her plight.

At last she saw him emerge from behind the main administration building and begin to direct the transfer of the delayed midday meal while the rest of the guards held the restless, agitated crowd at bay. He was about her father's age, she thought, his hair thinning to a peak above his sunburnt forehead and his washed-out eyes sunken and hooded in their sockets. Maryam pushed through the press of people until she finally arrived at his side.

He was arguing with an imposing detainee who spat on the ground and shouted angrily before stalking away. “Bloody impossible,” Charlie muttered, before noticing Maryam waiting patiently at his elbow. “You, girlie, should get back to your hut. This's no place for a lass like you.”

“Please,” she said. “I must speak to the kind woman, Jo. It's a matter of life or death.” She held his gaze, trying to transmit her urgent need.

“Isn't everything here?” His eyes were bloodshot and framed by sun-etched lines. “Anyway, I'm not sure if she's in today. This lock-down's screwed everything over and all our routines have gone down the chute.”

It took Maryam a moment to understand what he was saying. “Please,” she urged again. “My friend will die unless I speak with Jo—” For a moment the words caught in her throat, though she wasn't sure if it was Lazarus's sickness that choked her or the fact that she had instinctively called him “friend.” But she could see that Charlie thought she was about to cry, and decided to play it up lest she lose her one chance of keeping his attention. She thought of Joseph, of how his life had slipped away in her arms, and the tears that were only ever a heartbeat away welled in her eyes. “She's our only hope and time is short.”

He briefly patted her shoulder. “Okay. I'll see what I can do. But promise me for now you'll stay clear of this palaver here.”

She nodded, though she was uncertain quite what he meant. “I promise. Thank you, Brother Charlie. You are a good man.”

A smile flicked across his face, then he was once again caught up by the jostle of the complaining crowd. When at last she found her way back to the hut, her arrival prompted Ruth and Lazarus to cut short their conversation. She looked from one to the other, trying to read from their expressions what they'd been talking about, but it was as if a door had slammed on her.

“Where have you been?” Lazarus asked. He was propped against the wall, cradling his ribs, and the skin not already bruised by his attack was pale and slicked with sweat.

“Just checking what's going on. The gates are still locked between the two sides of the camp, and they've just delivered more cold rice.”

“Did you bring some back?” Ruth asked. “I'm starving.”

“Sorry. There was such a crush I thought I'd wait.” She was hurt that Ruth would speak to Lazarus of something secret behind her back, and her tone was terse.

“I'll help,” Ruth said, standing up suddenly and taking hold of Maryam's hand. “Let's go get some now.” She did not wait for Maryam to answer, just towed her from the hut, turning to call back to Lazarus as they disappeared: “We won't be long.”

As soon as they were clear of the hut, Ruth could contain herself no longer. “He told me he was sorry for what he'd done—that he never would have hurt me when he grabbed me with the knife! Can you believe that?”

Could she?
All the usual arguments for not trusting him rose up in Maryam's mind, but somehow they had lost their bite. She thought about what he'd said when he had poured his heart out to her in the cells.

“You know, Ruthie, I think I do.” She laughed, not quite sure how this transformation in her feelings for him had come about. But, somehow—between the urgency of his tone, his obvious and genuine love for Joseph, and the fact that he'd apologised to her and Ruth—the bitterness she'd felt towards him had dissolved. It was the act of apology that mattered most: she knew him well enough by now to realise that the word “sorry” came to him hard. The things he'd done in the past were cruel and wrong, but it seemed he now genuinely wanted to atone. The power he'd once held over her—the fear—was gone.

“But that's not all,” Ruth burbled on, and she nudged Maryam in the ribs. “I think he likes you!”

“That's ridiculous!”

“He goes on and on about how brave you are. How different you are from any other girl.”

“How can you even joke about it?” She didn't want to know this now;
this
she did not need—or believe. “What about Joseph? Am I supposed to forget him just like that?” She snapped her fingers, all her fury channelled into the sound.

“I know it's awful,” Ruth said. “And I miss him too. But you've only known him since you Crossed.” She shrugged. “It's not like you were married…”

Maryam could only stare at her friend open-mouthed. She would never,
ever
, forget Joseph. Just the thought of his memory fading from her mind made her feel panicky and short of breath. He had loved her, protected her from those who meant to do her harm. He'd thought her beautiful. And brave. Had offered up his life for hers. But before she had time to think how to reply she was rescued by the welcome sight of Jo, who was making her way towards them from the direction of the gates.

“You go get us some food and I'll speak to Jo,” Maryam snapped at Ruth. She couldn't even look at her.

“Charlie said you wanted me?” Jo said as she approached. “Come on, I've got a minute, so why don't we sit over there in the shade and you can tell me all about it.”

Immediately Maryam launched into her tale of Lazarus and Te Matee Iai.

“He doesn't know?” Jo asked.

“Not yet. But already I can see the symptoms worsening. We have little time.”

“Well, I can continue to put a case for him to resettle on the mainland—”

“How long would that take?”

“Too long, I fear. I've had no luck for months, and with all the fighting to the north now, the government is even more reluctant to resettle anyone from outside our borders. They see terrorists in every shadow.”

“Terrorists?”

“It's a handy label. What they fail to understand is that most of their so-called terrorists—” Jo held up her hands as if to stop herself. “Whoa! Tangent alert!” She laughed. “That's my little hobby horse, sorry. But it doesn't help you or your friend.”

Hobby horse?
How strange the words these people used. “There's no other way? Can't you just get the medicine he needs—the Imatib—no, Imatinibiate—from the hospital and bring it here?”

Jo didn't speak for several minutes, but sat picking the grime from her fingernails. Finally, she returned her gaze to Maryam. “If they'd let me into the hospital it would be easy enough to find the drug and slip some out, but conditions are so bad at the moment there's no way they'd let me see what's going on. They already view me as a troublemaker…Besides, even if I
could
get in, if Littlejohn found out I'd gone against his rules, I'd jeopardise the other work I'm doing here.” She paused again, looking off into the distance as though trying to pluck another solution from the air.

It took several minutes for Maryam to process what Jo had said.
So many strangely accented words.
“What if I was to go?” she urged. She waved her grubby plaster cast. “Couldn't I convince them to send me there for my arm?”

Jo shook her head sadly. “No chance. I've seen women dying in childbirth who've been refused. Even those with the same illness as your friend are left untreated in this camp. The hospital is purely for guards and islanders alone.” Two bright red slaps of fury painted her cheeks. “The only way a detainee gets access to the hospital is if they've lost the plot. It's too disruptive to the others—too likely to aggravate their discontent. Only then they'll take them to the hospital and dose them full of pills to shut them down, then bring them back.”

“Lost the plot? What does this mean?”

“Mental breakdown. It's common here. People have already experienced much trauma in the countries they've fled, and then they find themselves locked up here with little hope of ever getting out. It messes with their brains. Deeply depresses them.” She tapped her forehead. “Sends them insane.”

Maryam tried to piece together what Jo had said. “You mean there's absolutely no way we can get what Lazarus needs?”

“No. I'm sorry, but the consequences would be too disruptive.” She stood up and stretched. “Look, I'll do some asking around, see what I can come up with, but I'm going back to the mainland early tomorrow morning. My father's very ill.”

“I'm sorry,” Maryam said automatically, any hope she'd had of Jo being able to help them slipping away. “I hope he will recover soon.”

“He's a tough old bird,” Jo said, brushing off Maryam's sympathy. Then, suddenly, her whole aspect changed. “Oh my god, I can't believe I've been so dense! I've been so caught up in what happened last night and worrying about my father I'm not thinking straight! Of course I can help! I'm sure I can get access to the Imatinibiate you need from the mainland! I'll try
to bring some back with me. Why didn't I think of that right away?”

“You can? When will you be back?”

“I'm not sure exactly, but it shouldn't be too long. I'll send a message via Charlie once I know.”

“Thank you,” Maryam cried, giving Jo a grateful hug. “I knew you'd help!”

“I must go,” Jo said. “I'm acting as a mediator between the hunger strikers and the guards. Things are still very tense. I'll see you as soon as I get back. Take care now.”

Lazarus and Ruth were already eating their rice when she returned to the hut, and she fell upon her portion hungrily, trying to ignore the cold gritty blandness of the food. How she longed for the fresh fruit and fish of home. She studied Lazarus furtively. He was merely toying with the rice, shifting it around the small chipped bowl, but barely eating any at all. His breathing was more strained now and the purple marks were tracking down across his chest. Before long he'd discover their existence for himself and the awful truth would be revealed. Would he thank them for keeping the knowledge from him when he did? She wasn't sure. But to tell him, when he'd spoken so openly of ending his life, was a risk Maryam wasn't ready to take.

She could feel Ruth's anxious gaze on her and nodded slightly to reassure her all was well. It was a strange juggling act, this trying to keep everyone appeased and safe, and she ached for Joseph by her side. What she'd give for just one more
hour with him to talk this through. He'd know what to do, she was sure of it.

The stifling afternoon was drawing to its close and light rain had begun to fall when Maryam next ventured outside. They'd spent the long dreary hours talking of the old days, she and Ruth competing to name every Sister on the atoll to fill in the time. Ruth had won, crowing over her victory with the same exaggerated glee as when she'd trounced the Sisters in their running races back at home. Lazarus appeared content to listen, drifting in and out of restless sleep. Some of his lethargy Maryam put down to Te Matee Iai, but it seemed more than this—as if all the fight had gone out of him and the beating had left him shaken to his core.

Now she left the hut to seek the latest news from Aanjay. The drizzle had dispersed the family groups that usually met together in the courtyards, driving everyone under the cover of the walkways or back into their huts. But even with the stench that rose up from the toilets, the air outside was better than the stale confines of their tiny room.