The Crossing (13 page)

Maryam released a shaky sigh. The sap had dulled the ache almost instantly, and for the first time since the dawn had come she noticed she was hungry—and thirsty, too. Vanesse must have sensed as much, for she now handed Maryam a bowl of lime-drenched fish. “Eat this, to help regain your strength,” she said. “And tell us why you have come. It seems our wise old one holds you dear.” She nodded toward Umatu, who now gazed at Maryam's face with loving eyes.

Through mouthfuls of succulent fish Maryam started to explain. “I have come from the Holy City to seek the family of Blessed Sister Sarah—known to you as Tekeaa.”

Vanesse gasped. “The Lamb be praised! My cousin Lesuna's daughter Tekeaa was Chosen many years ago.” She was silent for a moment, obviously counting off the number of years inside her head. “By now she'd be nearly fourteen.”

Reality hit Maryam full force. What had she been thinking? These were real people who had loved Sarah and now would grieve. And what was she to tell them? The truth of how Sarah had died? Would they even believe her if she did, or would they accuse her of heresy and pack her back to the Holy City to face punishment there? Suddenly the fish grew rancid in her mouth, and she spat it back into the bowl.

“I'm sorry,” she apologised. “I find myself suddenly full.” She pushed the bowl away, conscious of Vanesse and Umatu's expectant gaze. “Does Lesuna live here still?”

“Indeed she does,” Vanesse answered. She shook her head
sadly. “Her husband fell to Te Matee Iai years ago, and two other of her children as well, but she struggles on and looks to the Lord. That's why I left my own village five years ago, to ease her loneliness and pain. To hear news of Tekeaa will greatly soothe her heart.”

There was no point delaying it. Besides, to forewarn Vanesse might help with the ordeal of telling Lesuna another precious child had died. Maryam slipped her hand into her pocket, rubbing Ruth's touchstone for comfort as she drew a nervous breath. “I'm afraid I come with tragic news.”

She watched the light extinguish from Vanesse's eyes and felt her throat constrict as though it did not want to say the next cruel words. “Sister Sarah—Tekeaa—has died.”

Vanesse's hand flew to her mouth. “This cannot be: she was Blessed by the Lamb!”

Maryam sighed. “I'm sorry, but it's really true. She died yesterday morning, with the dawn.” Was it really only yesterday? Everything had stretched and warped, so much happening in so little time. “She was a true Sister—strong and good. And she died with thoughts of her family uppermost in her loving heart.”

“My cousin…my poor, poor cousin,” Vanesse wailed. “This will be the end of her.” She dropped her head into her hands, huge sobs shuddering through her body. Umatu shuffled over to Vanesse, wailing, too, and rocked her gently in her arms.

To hear such anguish tipped Maryam back into her own outraged grief. It was anger, real anger, which stoked the fire inside her now. There was no need for Sarah to have died this way. The thought cemented in her heart—she was no longer concerned that maybe she'd offend the Lord. He either condoned
these evil acts—in which case He was evil, too, for how else could he kill so many innocents solely to test her fragile faith?—or else He was merely a myth, like the story of Nareau the Wise, for others to corrupt and own.

Even as she thought this, it scared her. Everything she'd believed since she was small was swept away with this sudden understanding, leaving only anger and a gaping void.

But now, above the wailing, other voices filled the air outside the hut, and the two young men who'd been sent for Joseph struggled through the doorway with him strung limply between them.

Maryam rolled off the sleeping mats, scouring Joseph's face for signs of his condition as they laid him down there to rest. Feverish sweat glossed his forehead and upper lip, while the marks of Te Matee Iai stood out like ugly bruises against the pallor of his skin.

His eyes met Maryam's and, despite his obvious discomfort, he sent her a wan smile. “I'm sorry.”

Behind him, Natau eased into the hut and knelt before Joseph, blending humility and pomp. “I have sent a runner to your sacred mother Deborah in Motirawa. Meanwhile we are here to serve you, nephew of Father Joshua, at your will.” He glanced at the two tearful women, before turning to Maryam: “I see they've tended to your wounds.”

She nodded but chose not to reply. The hut was full to bursting now, the air growing hot and stale. She reached over for a clean sea sponge and wiped the sweat from Joseph's upper lip. “How do you feel?”

Another wispy smile lifted his face. “As if I fought that wild boar.” He sipped a little of the water Umatu now offered
him, then sank back with a groan. “I'm sorry,” he whispered to Maryam. “I've let you down.”

Before she had a chance to reply, Umatu lunged between them and tore open Maryam's stained shirt to reveal her breasts. As Maryam fought to cover herself, the old woman grabbed Natau's hand and thrust his finger straight into the dimple that confirmed her birth.

“What are you—” The question died on his lips and he drew his hand away, his gaze travelling from the dimpled skin up to Maryam's face. He reached over and grasped her chin, turning her head first one way and then the other to examine her. “Nanona?”

To hear her birth name spoken like this, with such longing, moved Maryam profoundly. It seemed the world shrank to this moment of connection between her and him. “You know me?”

Natau clasped her face between his hands, tears springing to his eyes. “Know you, child? I am your father.” He pulled her to him, embracing her so tightly she could hardly breathe. “Praise the Lord. Oh, praise the Lord,” he murmured over and over, his sinewy arms refusing to relinquish what he now had found. When, finally, he released her and drew back, he ran a finger down her cheek. “How could I not have known you? You are so like your mother, may she rest in peace.”

The words flew like a spike into her heart. “She is—dead?” Burning tears rolled down her face as Natau took her hand. 

“She did not last a year after you were Chosen, little one. The Lord took you to serve the great Apostles, and then took her to Heaven to serve in His house.”

“Amen,” the other villagers chorused around him. Their response brought Maryam back into the present, as she refocused
on the others in the hut. She glanced from face to face, trying to gauge each person's mood. Nothing but warmth and welcome transmitted back to her, and she felt the horrors of the last few weeks lift off her as a parting cloud.

She turned back to her father—her father! Even thinking the word made her smile—squeezing the hand that still so lovingly held her own. “I have come home, Father. I want to stay.”

Natau blinked, his hand dropping hers. “The Apostles have sent you home?”

She swallowed. “Not exactly…I chose to come.”

There was a murmur in the room, as if a chilling breeze had slipped in through the open door. “Chose to come?” Her father shook his head, confused, the smile slipping from his mouth.

“I couldn't stay there, Father. If I go back they will kill me as they killed my dear friend Sarah….” She swung around in time to catch the stinging impact of her words on Vanesse's shocked face.

Now her father straightened, his back rigid with scorn. “How dare you speak so ill of them? Has Lucifer seized your soul?”

She threw herself before Natau, hoping he would take her back into the comfort of his arms. “Father—please. You do not understand the evil that is taking place within that ship.”

“Enough!” he shouted, shoving her away from him as if she were a poisoned snake. “You turn your back upon the Holy Fathers and you think that I will take you in?” He spat at her, his phlegm hitting her full force between the eyes. “I see you are no child of mine.
If any man come to me, and hate not his children, and brethren, and Sisters…
” he recited, “
he cannot be my disciple
”—the damning words straight from the Holy Book.
He turned: “Moreese, Katane—take her and bind her to a tree where everyone can see her shame.”

As the two young men moved toward her, their expressions teetering between disgust and awe, Joseph rose from his resting place. “You mustn't do this to her,” he said.

Natau hit back. “You, of all people, should not protect this heathen tia tabunea te aine.” He closed his eyes, obviously fighting hard to gain control.

Maryam stared at him open-mouthed. A witch? He thought his daughter was a witch?

When his eyes reopened they were cold as the fierce winter gales that sometimes swept in from the south. He turned to Umatu and Vanesse now. “Tend to our Holy Father's nephew until his people come for him.” He would not look at Maryam, instead gesturing impatiently toward her as he straightened up to his full height. “Now take this faithless whore and cast her out.” He stormed from the hut.

Maryam stared after him, momentarily frozen in anguish. Flanking her, Moreese and Katane hoisted her up, taking an arm apiece. They dragged her outside, kicking and crying.

The crowd stood in silence. Maryam's hands were bound behind her back with harsh flax rope and then secured to a coconut palm outside the entrance to the village maneaba. She searched each face, hoping for an ally as she begged Moreese and Katane for her release, but no one dared to meet her gaze. The children who had followed her in from the beach were herded off, and Natau darted beneath the eaves of the maneaba to oversee her public disgrace.

“We are all true believers here,” he declared, his irises two angry dots inside the toddy-stained whites of his eyes. “You have brought our village shame.”

“I do not mean to shame you,” Maryam sobbed. “But if you send me back to the Holy City, I will die.”

Her father was enraged by this, rushing out at her like a fighting cock and slamming her across the face. The pain exploded in her brain as her head was jolted and her damaged ear connected with the dense palm trunk.

“You know the Rules,” he screamed at her. He pointed now to one strapping youth amid the crowd. “Savaese, find your father and your uncle and tell them to hurry here now. They can escort this sinner back to the Holy Fathers for them to punish as they see fit. Meanwhile, journey to the Holy City yourself to warn them she is coming back.”

The young man nodded and ran off, leaving the villagers shuffling and whispering uncomfortably behind their hands. Natau puffed out his chest. “This piece of nothing, this blot upon my family's name, would slander our great leaders and
bring their wrath down on us all.” He strutted before them, his voice growing ever more menacing and cold. “Remember, brothers and sisters, the words of the Holy Book:
In the land of your origin, I will judge you. I will pour out my indignation upon you…You shall be fuel for the fire, your blood shall flow throughout the land. You shall not be remembered, for I, the Lord, have spoken
.”

There was a swell of restless muttering from the crowd. Natau now marched from villager to villager, eyeballing each to regain silence. “We must work to redeem ourselves in the eyes of the Apostles, or the Lord will send another Tribulation to punish us for this one's sins. We must heed the Lamb's lesson:
If your right eye offends you, pluck it out and cast it from you; for it is better for you that one of your members should perish, and not that your whole body should be cast into Hell
.”

“Enough!” Joseph limped from the healing hut, shadowed by Vanesse. Fury scorched his cheeks as he gathered himself up to counter Natau's wrath. He drew himself to full height, turning his back on Natau to address the villagers. “I am Brother Joseph, son of Father Jonah from Motirawa. My uncle is Joshua, Father to us all.” He swayed a little and Vanesse stepped forward, clasping his elbow to help balance him. “This heathen girl is mine to take. I will escort her back to Motirawa and then on to the Holy City where, I promise you, justice will be done.” He gestured feebly to Katane. “Cut her down.”

Katane looked from Joseph to Natau, confused. Natau, servility just masking his rage, jerked his head toward Maryam to signal Katane to proceed. Raising his machete, the young villager sliced right through the rope of flax that trussed Maryam to the tree. He seized her by her bound hands and held her, waiting for his next command.

Joseph approached Maryam, bearing over her so threateningly she dared not look into his face. “Sister Maryam, pray now for forgiveness from your ancestors. You have forsaken the Lord, and only Father Joshua now has the right to judge your actions and to find a fitting punishment.” He pressed her down on her knees. As she knelt, she heard him whisper softly, “Play along.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She bowed her head, forcing herself to put aside her fear and to recall a prayer convincing enough to pacify her father. The Lord's Prayer didn't seem contrite enough, and if she made her own prayer up she might somehow offend Natau still further and bring down more rage. Then it came to her—one of Mother Elizabeth's favourites, a psalm. “
Have mercy upon me, Oh Lord, according to thy loving kindness…blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin
….” She chanted on, the rhythm and familiarity of the words helping to calm the chaos in her head a little and to slow her pulse.

Beyond Joseph the villagers stirred now, sensing perhaps that the show was over and that if they wanted to escape the toxic fallout of Natau's anger it was best to leave. They peeled away in silent groups, eyes set on the ground. Natau himself paced up and down behind Joseph, glaring at their retreating backs.

As Maryam ended her prayer, she realised that a fragile kind of peace now reigned. She dared not lift her eyes, trying instead to remain small and insignificant as the two men Natau had summoned ran into the clearing between the huts. Once again, Joseph transformed from ally to imposing Apostle. “Plans have changed. Wait here for further instructions.”

Natau approached Joseph and Vanesse, who continued to hover beside Joseph with worry written clear across her face. She
was right to be concerned, for although he now stood without support his colour was still frighteningly pale and deep indigo circles ringed his eyes.

“As head man of the village I will be happy to accompany you to Motirawa,” Natau told Joseph, his voice clipped. “You are in no state to manage this heathen yourself.”

“You are right, Natau, and I thank you for your concern.” Joseph paused and drew in a shaky breath. “The village is indeed lucky to have such a strong and faithful leader as you, and I will be sure to tell my uncle this.” Natau seemed to relax and preen a little at his words. “However, I think it is important for you to remain here and lead your people.”

Joseph glanced over at Maryam and she dared flick her gaze up at him, incredulous that he could play this game so well. It scared her. Was he really still on her side? But in that fraction of a second, she was sure he winked.

There was nothing Natau could do but agree to Joseph's request, with the same air of self-importance he had demonstrated with the crowd. “May I suggest you allow our two men,” he simpered, pointing to the two who waited by the maneaba, “to carry you upon a litter, and a third to supervise the girl?”

“Thank you,” said Joseph. “That would be much appreciated.” He turned directly to Maryam now. “Rise to your feet now girl, and go with Sister Vanesse to prepare for our journey. If you do not obey her every word, you will not be dealt with so leniently a second time.”

Maryam rose stiffly to her feet, her muscles screaming out in memory of their trying trek across the hills, and Vanesse led her back into the healing hut. Once inside, the brutality of her father's rejection sank in, and Maryam started shaking uncontrollably.
Her mother was dead, and now her father hated her. Even Mother Elizabeth, whom she had loved so dearly, had forsaken her. Was there any point continuing to fight for her survival now?

Vanesse gently wrapped her arms around Maryam and rocked her as the storm of grief swept through her. “Hush, child. You are safe for now.” She led Maryam to the pile of sleeping mats and pulled one free, seating herself upon it and pulling Maryam down beside her.

“You are lucky to have such a faithful friend in Brother Joseph. He has told me all.” She offered Maryam a cup of coconut milk and didn't speak again until she was sure Maryam had drunk every drop. “Now you must listen to me.”

Her gaze drifted off toward the doorway. “You must understand that your father's status as village leader gives him power and influence, and he will fight to retain this. The fact that his daughter was Blessed helped him gain this exalted position—he has used this as a means to show his dedication and loyalty to the Apostles. To take a stand against them would destroy everything he has built up.”

“But he didn't even listen—”

“And he never will. Accept this, child. There is a hunger in men's minds that feeds on power, no matter how small in reality that power is. The Apostles dictate all our lives—they can aid us or destroy us and we have no choice.”

“But why? If everyone stood up to them—”

Vanesse placed a finger to her lips and shook her head. “Never even
think
these words again,” she hissed. “What looks peaceful on the surface is a deadly whirlpool underneath.” She closed her eyes for a moment, sighing deeply. “Right now you have more pressing problems to concern you. Your flight has
greatly weakened Brother Joseph and his performance just now has drained him further than he shows. My fear is this: that if he dies, your own life will be sacrificed to atone for the loss of his.”

“What must I do?” Maryam begged Vanesse, some small part of her brain wondering how the villagers could reconcile the evidence of Te Matee Iai with Joseph's status as an Apostle's son. “I cannot let Joseph die.”

For a long moment Vanesse said nothing, instead staring into Maryam's eyes as if weighing up the mind inside. Finally she spoke, her own voice shaking. “I do not understand the blood-letting he spoke of—cannot believe that the Apostles would do such wrong. But if, as you both say, they have used this, this—wickedness—to save their lives from Te Matee Iai, then this is Brother Joseph's only chance. There really is no other cure.” She took Maryam's hand and squeezed it tight.

Maryam's mind spun, scared to dwell on the consequences of Vanesse's words. “You mean I should give him more blood?”

Vanesse shrugged. “You must ask yourself what the Lamb would do, little Sister. More than that I cannot say.” She rose then, patting Maryam's shoulder reassuringly as she made her way toward the door. “I will send Umatu with more food to build your strength before you leave.” She forced a smile, before wiping a hand across her face as though averting some unseen evil. “Right now I must find my poor cousin Lesuna, and tell her our precious Tekeaa has gone to the Lord.”

There was no chance to talk with Joseph for the first hour of their journey to his home at Motirawa, along the coast. He lay,
restlessly dozing, in the litter carried by the two men Natau had chosen. Maryam was escorted by Moreese, who insisted that she trail behind and did not speak. Her predicament churned with such force inside her head it started to ache, but it seemed there was nothing she could do now except walk steadfastly toward her fate. Joseph had tried his hardest to protect her, but by now the young man Savaese would be well on his way to the Holy City. Even if they had not noticed her absence before now, his presence would alert them, and she knew her punishment would be harsh.

The route around the coast was flat, nothing more difficult than the odd crossing of a stream that wound its way toward the sea. The jungle crouched at the edges of the sandy beach, alive with tuneful birdsong that competed loudly with the raucous black noddies and sooty terns swooping around the small procession as it passed.

As the midday heat grew too oppressive and intense, they fled the coastline for the shade, stopping to rest beneath the wide spreading branches of an old fig tree, its roots reaching out across the dry leaf litter like the sinewy tendons of a hand. Moreese laid out a picnic of freshly baked flat bread and soft goat's cheese, along with fresh coconuts he had gathered as they walked. He untied Maryam's hands and she fell upon the food thankfully, first quenching her thirst with coconut milk sipped straight from its machete-split shell.

When the meal was over, Joseph asked the three villagers to step away so he could speak to Maryam alone. They looked uneasy, but dared not defy the order of an Apostle, especially one who carried Father Joshua's blood. “Call us if you need our help,” Moreese urged, eyeing Maryam suspiciously before they left.

Now Joseph turned to Maryam, his smile stretched and tired. “I'm sorry for your father's acts.”

“Why should you be sorry?” Maryam asked. “I brought this down upon myself.” She shuffled closer to where he lay, unconsciously batting away a fly that buzzed around Joseph's fair hair. “It is I who am grateful to you—and sorry for causing you such ill.” She studied the delicate sweeping lines of his lips, self-conscious as she remembered their tender kiss. “I have been thinking…and I want you to accept more blood.”