The Crossing (14 page)

Joseph lifted himself onto one elbow. “Are you mad?”

Maryam laughed at the shock upon his face. “Not mad, just worried that my—friend—is ill.” Her smile died and she grew less sure. “We are friends now, are we not?”

Now Joseph grinned. “So close it's like your blood runs through my veins!”

He reached over and took her hand, pressing it into the hollow of his neck. Beneath her fingers she could feel his pulse, running far too weak and fast. The contact, so intimate, set her own heart racing to catch up with his. She drew her fingers away, turning her face from him so he could not see the blush that heated her face.

“I will give myself up at Motirawa,” she declared, resolved to cause him no more harm. “From now on I'll accept my fate.”

Joseph sat up fully now and shifted so she had to meet his eye. “How can you give up when you've come this far?”

“Because there's nowhere else to run.” She shrugged. “If my family—my father—had been prepared to shelter me, it might have worked. But we live on one small island and there is no real place to hide.”

Joseph reached over and took her hand, weaving his fingers
in through hers. She did not pull away. After everything that had happened in the last few hours, the sense of comfort that this human contact gave her was too great to deny. “Have you ever thought of leaving Onewēre altogether?”

“Now who's mad? There is nothing out there but certain death. The Tribulation destroyed all.” She'd known this fact her whole life, yet what was it that Hushai had said to her?
Where there is one deception there may well be others
. Was this what he referred to, or was he offering her some scrap of hope just to buoy her up?

Joseph stared at their two linked hands, his as pale as coral sand against the nut brown of her skin. Her wrists were marked from where the bindings had chafed, and he turned her hand over, caressing the tender reddened underside of her wrist with his thumb. He was about to speak when, from the direction of the beach, they heard Moreese clear his throat. Maryam tugged her hand away, springing up and backing off as far from Joseph as was possible before the villager approached.

“We should continue on, Brother Joseph,” Moreese called, “or we will miss the tide and be forced to walk further inland.”

“Then let's be off,” Joseph replied. He waited for Moreese to fetch the other two men before whispering urgently to Maryam: “Do not give up. There is something I must show you when we reach my home.”

She had no chance to delve further, as the men arrived and bound her hands again, even more tightly than before. Then they raised the litter from the ground and set off, right into the face of the searing midday sun.

At the river crossing they were met by two of Mother Deborah's men, who relieved the litter bearers: the runner from Aneaba had brought news of Joseph's state. As the group made their way up through the dunes toward his village home, Mother Deborah herself hovered at the edge of the trees.

She ran toward them, eyes only for her son. “My darling boy. What were you thinking?”

The bearers lowered Joseph to the ground and Mother Deborah flung herself upon him, showering him with kisses as his colour bloomed from pink to red. Around him, the men averted their eyes, but their suppressed smiles spoke of indulgence for this woman's obvious signs of love. It gladdened Maryam's heart to see such warmth between the two and yet it pained her.
This
was what she had so longed for with her own mother, and her father, too.

Joseph brushed Mother Deborah off, rising unsteadily to his feet as she turned to those who had borne him there. “Thank you for your efforts,” she said, smiling. “Go with our men. They will find you food and drink, and somewhere cool to rest before you make the return trip.”

Only Moreese now remained. “What of the girl?” he asked Joseph.

“I will guarantee she does not escape the village—untie her now and leave her with me.”

Moreese frowned, but bowed his head. “As you wish.” He released the bindings from her hands then followed the other men, but the defensive rounding of his back told Maryam he did not approve.

She turned from watching him depart to find Mother Deborah's gaze fixed upon her, taking in her soiled clothes and
the bloody bandage on her ear. “You have caused much trouble, Sister,” she declared. “If I find that you have hurt my son—”

“Mother. Please.” Joseph slipped a weary arm around his mother's shoulders and clasped her close. He grinned reassuringly at Maryam. “Sister Maryam, rather than hurting me, has saved my life.”

“Indeed?” she mused. “I guess we'd better get you both inside and hear this tale from start to end.”

She wrapped her arm around Joseph's waist and, together, they made their way over to a large thatched hut, Maryam following close behind. Inside the central room, three walls were strung with brightly coloured tapa hangings and the other was lined with shelves stacked high with ancient books, more than Maryam had seen before all in one place. Other doorways led off this room, and it was through one of these that Mother Deborah now led Joseph and gently lowered him onto a bed. It was lavish by village standards, not the usual thin sleeping mat, but more like the beds back on the ship. He sank onto it gratefully, unable to hold back a groan.

Mother Deborah perched beside him, stroking back his sweat-drenched hair. “Fetch me some water and a washing cloth from the main room,” she ordered Maryam, not even bothering to look around.

Maryam hurriedly did as she was told, returning with the washcloth and bowl of water from the table in the room next door. From the doorway she watched as Mother Deborah prepared to sponge Joseph down, unbuttoning the new shirt Vanesse had found for him and freeing its sticky fabric from his chest. Maryam bit back a gasp when she saw how the ugly purple marks of Te Matee Iai were spreading over his shoulders
and now down his arms. Their rapid advance frightened her and made her more determined to help. It was her blood after all and, as Vanesse had suggested, she could gift it to him if she chose. There was nothing more to live for now. At least her death would have some meaning if she managed to regain his health.

As Mother Deborah wiped the cool cloth down Joseph's sweat-slicked chest and belly Maryam tried to look away. But the pale smoothness of his skin held her eyes, and she wished that she, not Mother Deborah, was beside him there to ease him so. She glanced up to find Joseph watching her. Mother Deborah caught the focus of his stare and spun around.

“You are dismissed for now,” she barked. “Go and bathe yourself down at the beach. My men will keep close watch on you, so do not even
think
to escape.”

Joseph began to speak to his mother in urgent tones as Maryam left the hut. Whatever was said between the two, it was clearly for their ears alone. She strolled out through the village, trying to avoid the curious and disapproving stares, and found herself standing beside the sea.

The village sat at one end of the sweeping bay, tucked into the crook of a rocky tree-clad arm that stretched out into the sea and no doubt sheltered the buildings from the worst of the prevailing winds. Maryam dared not strip off her sweaty clothes; instead she waded right into the tepid surf and stood there as the waves washed up around her and her feet dug down into the sucking sand. It was so refreshing, so deeply satisfying, to rest here in the sea's warm grasp—how she'd missed its smell, its taste, its life that kept rolling on regardless of the wickedness or indifference of human beings.

She knelt, careful to keep the water from her wound, then slowly swam out through the gentle waves and floated on the crystal surface, with the sun shining golden pink through her closed eyelids and her thoughts stilled and silenced by the steady whisper of the sea. If she were to die right in this instant, Heaven could not be more peaceful, more glorious and deeply calm.

Maryam trudged back up the stony beach. Further down the shoreline she could see a group of village women and their children collecting seaweed from the rocks, and four men wading slowly out just past the wave-line to drag in a net.

She wrung the water from her clothes as best she could, rogue tendrils of her hair escaping from the thick knotted plait upon her head to spring into ringlets around her face. The calmness that had seeped into her tired body and relaxed her while in the sea dropped away: she saw the upright figure of Mother Deborah breaking through the palms and making straight for her. Maryam stood her ground, waiting for the woman to approach.

“Sister,” Mother Deborah began, holding out a drying cloth and wrapping it around the younger woman's shoulders in a surprising motherly display. “It seems I may have judged you wrongly.”

Maryam said nothing, drying herself as best she could. Every time she spoke she ended up in more trouble than before and it had struck her, as she floated out there in the bay, that sometimes the best defence was silence.

She studied Mother Deborah from the corner of her eye, noticing the deep lines of sadness that carved through the delicate ivory of her skin, and the sleepless circles under her astonishing blue eyes—eyes that possessed the same beguiling intensity as Joseph's. But she seemed frail, despite her stature and demeanour, as though she fought to hold herself together
beneath a mask of calm. And that was hardly surprising, given how recently she'd watched her husband die and now faced death again with her treasured son.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Maryam said. “From what Joseph has told me Father Jonah was a good, kind man.”

Mother Deborah startled, tears flooding into her eyes. She pressed her lips together tightly, holding back her sadness as she looked out to the horizon line beyond the reef. Finally she sighed and sat down on the springy grass that marked the border between sand and soil. She patted the ground next to her. “Please. Come and sit here.”

Maryam joined her, glad for the sun that so quickly dried her clothes to salty stiffness. The numbing effect of the tabunea moss was wearing off now and the covering over her ear had grown heavy and uncomfortable with her collected sweat. Carefully, she removed the makeshift bandage and offered the wound up to the healing powers of the sun.

Mother Deborah leaned across and studied Maryam's ear. “Whoever treated you did a good job. If you are careful it should heal well.”

In the silence that followed, Maryam's heart beat strangely fast. She felt as though the whole world held its breath and strained toward them, waiting for some sign she was yet to see. How much had Joseph told his mother—and how much, if any, was she likely to believe?

“My son thinks much of you.”

“And I of him.”

Again the silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant tinkle of the children's laughter further down the shimmering beach. The men had dragged their nets in now,
tossing the array of fish on the sand. A small haul, this, but not bad for the time of day. No doubt they'd lure more fish into their nets when the day slipped into night. Somewhere far behind her, Maryam heard a woman's voice fly free in song, a joyous hymn to the Lord. She knew the words, but found she could not even form them in her head, her anger at His betrayal still so wild and raw.

She felt, suddenly, that it was better to know the ugly consequences of her defiance than to sit here passively waiting for the axe to fall. So much for yielding, obeying, and sacrificing her life with willingness and joy. She, who had been raised to comply so completely with the Rules, had somehow managed to question or break every one. Maryam took a deep breath, hoping Joseph had told his mother everything that he now knew.

“I will give him more blood,” she said, turning to face Mother Deborah and gauge her reaction.

The woman's eyes widened, but there was no bewilderment or shock. So, indeed, it seemed she knew. She looked steadily back at Maryam, who was struck by how much the mother was like the son. There was the same unassailable goodness there; the same aura of honesty and truth.

“He will not ask it of you,” Mother Deborah said.

Maryam smiled wryly. “That I know!” She glanced away, trying to still her see-sawing emotions. “But even if I hadn't run away, my fate is sealed.” She met those blue eyes again and shrugged. “It seems pointless that we both should die when I can save him.”

Mother Deborah nodded, clearly too honest to deny the logic of Maryam's words. She leaned forward and scooped up a small pebble from the beach, turning it over and over in
her thin weathered hands. “I owe you an apology. I knew the rumours of blood transfusions, but I was so desperate to get help for Joseph that I never really questioned how it might be done. I feel deeply ashamed.”

A lump welled up in Maryam's throat: to finally hear someone apologise was immense. Mother Deborah looked so unhappy it took the sting out of her confession and warmed Maryam's heart to her. She cleared her throat. “There is no need to be ashamed. If Joseph was my child I'd probably do the same.”

Mother Deborah turned to her and cupped Maryam's face in her free hand, leaning forward and kissing her lightly on the cheek. “I see now why my boy thinks so much of you.” Her hand dropped away, she nodded to herself decisively and tossed the pebble as far away as possible. It scuddered across the beach, coming to rest at the high tide line. Then she rose to her feet, offering Maryam her hand. “Come. Joseph has asked me to show you something.”

She led Maryam along the rim of the beach in silence, toward the rocky outcrop at the crook of the bay. Where the village compound stopped the ground quickly grew rugged and unkempt, apart from one barely trod track that wove between the trees. It took them down to the huge layered rocks which spilled out from the surrounding cliffs into the sea. Here the track dwindled to almost nothing, coming to a halt before two massive pillars of rock that leaned in toward each other, forming a low-slung doorway to the cliffs beyond. In a cleft at the junction of the pillars an ancient wooden mask stood guard, not unlike the ancestral masks in the rafters of the maneaba where Maryam had been raised. But these blank eyes stared down upon them balefully, warning them to stay away.

The small hairs on the back of Maryam's neck and arms bristled and she hung back as Mother Deborah stood framed by the layered limestone. “This is the entrance to one of your ancestors' most secret burial grounds,” she said. “It was once known only to the highest ranking shamans and village chiefs.” She pointed to the threatening mask. “Te Ikawai, the old one, prohibits any but the Lord's chosen few to enter through. It is the place where dead men rise again and stalk the shadows of the night—and it is said that any who dare enter through this gateway uninvited will be cursed, along with all their family throughout time.”

Maryam took a step backward, amazed by Mother Deborah's calm indifference to this threat. “Why, then, are we here?” she asked, her disquiet building as the ancient eyes continued to stare her down.

Mother Deborah smiled. “Where better to hide something precious than in the sacred belly of the Lord?” She dipped down and passed beneath the stones, gesturing for Maryam to follow. “How can I be more cursed than to lose my husband and, shortly, my only son? And you more cursed than to lose all hope of rejoicing in a loving family and a long fulfilling life?”

That the wife of a high-ranking Apostle—Father Joshua's sister by marriage—could share Maryam's own bitter disillusionment was astounding indeed. She felt her chin rise to match Mother Deborah's defiance, and stepped on through this ancient portal toward the place where dead men reigned. If the mother of Joseph was not afraid, neither was she.

Now they had to clamber over jagged rocks between myriad pools that wheezed and whispered with each respiration of the tide. They worked their way around the headland until the
bay was far behind them, hidden from view. Mother Deborah changed her tack now, bearing, it seemed, slightly inland. Then suddenly they left the rubble of rock behind to be confronted instead by a loose barricade of straggly trees, knitted together in tangled defence. Mother Deborah pushed through the web of brittle branches, only now waiting for Maryam to catch her up.

Before them, the gaping mouth of a cave sucked the sea in to its murky depths. The gilded sunlight of the lengthening afternoon fractured on the water, throwing phantom-like reflections up on the ceiling of rough rock inside the cave. Around them, crickets rubbed their wings together, setting up an orchestra of chirps and clicks while, further off, the constant boil of sea on reef seemed to fill all other air with its noise.

Mother Deborah turned to Maryam, smiling at her obvious surprise. “We're too early for the tide today. Are you prepared to swim, my dear?”

Maryam peered into the cave, shuddering despite herself. But she swallowed down her nerves and nodded, touched by the woman's growing warmth. “Of course.”

She followed Mother Deborah down the bank, slipping into the surprisingly deep channel to breaststroke after her from daylight into gloom. Inside, refracted light bounced off the mineral-streaked walls, dancing and skittering around them. The cave's fruit bats, disturbed by the presence of interlopers, flapped and scolded as the two swam by. Further in, stalactites rained down from the ceiling in a petrified storm, some so huge they married with the soft muddy bank at the edges of the seawater to form living columns from roof to earth. The gentle swish of water, as the women swam on, echoed around them as the high tide nursed them in its warm embrace. Then, up ahead, it was as if
a handful of tiny suns beamed down their rays, onto one of the most astonishing sights Maryam had ever seen.

Beneath a series of tiny sinkholes streaming light, some kind of boat sat marooned on a glistening rock-strewn internal beach. Two sturdy hulls, linked together by a shelter on a wooden deck, and two long smooth tree trunks—lying along the length of the hulls, as though they waited to be raised.

Ahead of Maryam, Mother Deborah stood now, wading through the water up onto the rocky ledge that housed the boat. Maryam lowered her feet, feeling her toes sink into the soft cluggy mud as she, too, was drawn toward this miracle. Without a word from Mother Deborah, she circled the craft.

It was longer by three lengths than any village boat she'd seen: its hulls almost as wide as the length of Onewēre's six-seater longboats—the only seagoing vessels allowed by the Apostles for generations past. If what old Hushai had told her was correct, the existence of this craft contravened their will.

“Is it not a thing of beauty?” Mother Deborah ran her hand along the timbers forming the central deck, coming to rest on the bindings that secured the thatched shelter between the hulls. “You can see now why its presence here begs utmost secrecy and stealth.”

“I don't understand,” Maryam answered. “How did it come to be here? And how could you, an Apostle, know of this and hide it still?” Her eyes travelled every inch of the craft, taking in its form and shape. Between its two bows, spiralling waves of wood reached out, bearing the delicately carved image of a warrior crouched low in battle, his lustrous abalone eyes fixed firmly ahead toward some great unknown shore.

Mother Deborah settled on a rocky outcrop, summoning
Maryam to join her there. From their perch, the boat seemed to stretch out like a vision from a dream. “Let me start from the beginning. If you decide to go along with what I am about to propose to you, it's better that you know it all.”

“Propose?”

Mother Deborah laughed. “Wait, Maryam! A story must unfold from the beginning of its journey, in order that its destination satisfy the human heart.” She patted Maryam's knee then leaned back against the slimy rock.

“After the Tribulation, chaos reigned. Man and beast, sea and air, were poisoned by the sun's deadly rays and battered by relentless storms. Later, those who crewed
Star of the Sea
deduced the Tribulation was not sent by the Lord at all, but resulted from something they recorded as huge solar flares—the outcome of the sun gone wild.”

“Not sent by the Lord?” To say this in the belly of Onewēre's ancient god was undoubtedly foolish. Maryam genuflected to ward off ill, in case Te Ikawai could somehow hear. “How do you know?”

“Each ship's captain writes a log, and in this he records everything from weather, position, to the workings of the crew.”

“You've seen this log? It still exists?”

“Indeed I have, and yes it does. But it is not in the Apostles' interest to make such knowledge known to all. They locked it in a hidden place and only those holding the power have access to the key.

“But this is of no consequence,” Mother Deborah went on, raising her hands in a gesture of impatience. “The thing that you must know is this: the Apostles of the Lamb were formed from a desire for power, based on greed. And, because the
Star of
the Sea
had been such an abundant refuge at the time of loss, no one thought to question them—indeed, their presence gave the poor surviving villagers comfort in a world gone mad.”