The Crossing (15 page)

“But what about the countries in the paintings on the ship?” asked Maryam. “The far-off places where the first holy passengers were born? Did they not return to seek their loved ones once the dangers of the Tribulation had passed?”

“From my reading of the log, it seems all countries in the world were struck as we were here. Everywhere human life was plunged back as though to ancient times—small roving tribes that fought over the little food and water not destroyed by the solar storms. Their old technology, which they in their arrogance thought could outstrip the natural processes of the world, blew up or failed, and spewed their poisons out into the newly devastated lands—and without access to technology they were lost; had forgotten how to live more simply within nature's laws.”

Maryam shook her head, trying to make sense of what she heard. “But why, if this technology once made them great, did the Apostles ban all sailing craft? Surely there was someone who'd have come to help?”

Mother Deborah sighed. “By then the lies were set in place and the first Apostles—my forefathers—were already in control. The Rules. Server and master. And news back from the outside told of dangerous shifts within the power structures—of a world where man was reduced to desperate beast. Those first leaders of the Apostles, begun by great-great grandfather Saul, decided that the best way to maintain control was to remain cut off, ensuring that the villagers would never know the possibility of other ways.”

“But why didn't the villagers ask more questions, refuse to be enslaved like this?” Maryam demanded to know. If she could see the evil in the Apostles' actions, why did others look away or remain blind?

“Why indeed?” Mother Deborah shrugged her shoulders. “Hunger. Hardship. Illness and death. But, mostly, fear. Fear of punishment, fear of retribution from a judging Lord.” A wave of antipathy splashed across her face and she shuddered. “Think of all the fear-provoking stories in the Holy Book, where those who did not faithfully obey the Lord's many commandments were killed or maimed. You must know yourself the power such stories hold. All of us are raised to love the Lord, to place Him at the centre of our every thought. And we want to love Him, and to believe He loves us back. When the world is at its most threatening and bleak, He's the one person we feel really cares for us and heeds our prayers. He fills the void in people's hearts.”

“Is that so wrong?” Maryam asked. Her own heart was filled now with nothing but a desolate loneliness and constant pain.

“No, child…not wrong. But understand that faith and religion are two entirely different things. The Apostles of the Lamb created a new kind of religion to seize control—as with many in the past, their declared love of the Lord was just a means of holding power and keeping those who revered them in ignorance of bigger truths.”

Maryam stared at Mother Deborah, shocked that she would say such things so plainly, right out loud. Surely this was sacrilege? Blasphemy? Evil lies? And yet…deep down, hadn't she come to this very conclusion all on her own?

There was a subtle shift in the water lapping at the cave's secret beach, and Maryam realised that the tide had turned. The
sleeping bats, hanging from the ceiling like pods from some strange creeping plant, shifted and stirred. They were attuned to the ebb and flow of nature within these walls.

She took a deep breath, shoring herself up against any possible anger arising from her next question. “If this is true, then why did you and Father Jonah remain Apostles?” She felt heat flame up her face, burning and pulsing the wound on her ear.

Mother Deborah smiled, her face creasing in tired lines. “Ah. Here we reach the crux of it.” She stood up, pacing the short distance to the boat and once more caressing its smooth carved sides. When she spoke again, the measured storyteller was gone, replaced now by a feverish fighter. “You know yourself how you were raised—never questioning the rights or wrongs of what you were taught. We were the same. But there came a point, about the time I first fell for my sweet Jonah, when I looked around at what was happening and it made me sick. Jonah felt the same way. But, believe me, there's no room for dissenters in our world—neither server nor Apostle is safe to voice disquiet—and once Jonah's brother took over as High Father things grew much worse.”

She rubbed her hand across her face, and the hand shook when she lowered it to support herself against the boat. “They fought, but Jonah had no power to win against the circle of bullies Joshua had built around himself—and we did not want to risk Joseph's future, so we left. Oh, it was covered up all right; the villagers were told we'd come to live among them to spread the Lord's word. But we knew we'd angered Joshua beyond repair, and that if we tried to undermine him, we risked losing Joseph or being killed.”

Maryam gasped. “You'd be killed? But Apostles are Chosen—”

“Stop!” Mother Deborah threw up her hands in anger. “If you are to survive this, girl, you need to toss away such brainwashing and think for yourself! Power is maintained by control—and control by fear and threat. It has always been so. Those in power always win out.” She paced the beach, the scrunching of stones beneath her feet amplified within the cave. Then she drew in a deep steadying breath. “Here's the point. The ship contained a library—a place where many books are stored—and Jonah made good use of this. He found books of maps—charts of all the islands in the sea—and more. Pictures of sailing craft like this. Stories of those who used the stars to guide their way.”

“You mean to say that Father Jonah built this craft?” Maryam asked.

“Indeed he did.” A longing came into the older woman's eyes and she stared up toward the roof of the cave, as though silently communing with his soul. Finally, she sighed again and carried on. “He worked on it for many years: his plan was for the three of us to sail away.” Then, surprisingly, she laughed. “I suppose we took advantage of our Apostle status even then, first secretly building a smaller craft to learn to sail. When distant glimpses of the boat led to rumours, we said it was a warning sign sent straight from the Lord—that evil lay beyond our shores and only by complying with the Apostles' commandments were we all safe from harm.”

Her smile twisted into a grimace. “In this, we helped to feed the fear and trample any glimmers of hope.” She slowly shook her head. “I see now this was wrong. But we were desperate to keep the secret safe—not even Joseph knew until just before dear Jonah died. We did not want to place him at risk,
until we were completely ready to take our leave.” She turned to Maryam now, her eyes ablaze. “Now, finally, to my proposal. We want you to take this sailing craft and to escape. Joseph is not strong enough, and I will not leave him behind. All that I have loved is here.”

“Me?”

“Why not?” She returned to Maryam's side, taking up her hands between her own and squeezing them tight. “You are the first I've seen who has shown the necessary will to fight. And, besides, if you stay here there is no doubt they will see you dead….”

Now it was Maryam who could not remain motionless. Her head started shaking “no” before she even formed the reasons in her head. She shook off Mother Deborah's hands and stumbled to the far edge of the stony ledge, peering up at the sinkholes as the filtered sun bathed her with light. Take this boat, and set forth into an unknown sea? Was Mother Deborah totally mad?

She spun around, angered at having been offered something so seemingly lifesaving, yet impossible to have. “I cannot sail this craft. I cannot read the stars. I do not know the first thing about heading away from land.” She kicked a stone across the space, listening as the sound reverberated down the cave to stir the bats. “I am a girl. Fifteen years old. A brown-skinned server whose only use, it now appears, is as a temporary vessel for my blood.”

Mother Deborah charged at her, gripping her roughly by the shoulders. “How dare you throw this chance away? I would draw a machete across my throat right now if it somehow gave me the power to offer this same chance to my son, but he has grown too weak. This is not even about you—your whole race has been devoured by us, abused and manipulated and intimidated
into losing hope. You have the chance to seek out help. Somewhere out there in the world, there must be others who will fight to set your people free again…. Others who might have a cure to save my son.”

The force of her anger served to move Maryam from her state of shock. How could it be that the freedom of her people fell to her, she wondered, peering into the shifting water in the channel. She was nothing, no one, a beast for sacrifice, a womb to fill. But then she thought of Sarah and how, even in dying, her fury lit a flame of resistance that refused to dim.
We'
re nothing more than slaves to them…but you, Maryam, should flee
. At the time she could truthfully have answered that fleeing was pointless and impossible, the stuff of dreams. Yet now…it was being offered up to her and she was too scared to heed the call. How disappointed Sarah would be if she knew.

The tide was dropping quickly now, revealing a narrow walking track that must have been etched into the rock to follow the channel out to sea. Suddenly Maryam was overwhelmed by the need to be free of this suffocating place, where the walls and ceiling closed in around her like the ugly corridors in
Star of the Sea
. She craved the warmth of sunlight and expanse of sky.

“Can I have time to think on this?” She spun back to Mother Deborah, anxious to see her response.

The older woman nodded, sadness clinging to her like a mist. “Of course. It is right that we return now. Joseph will be desperate to know your choice.”

Maryam crouched in the fresh water of the women's private bathing pool, scrubbing away the sticky layer of salt still clinging to her after the swim. Checking she was unobserved, she slipped out of her clothes and frothed them up with coconut soap to try to remove the stubborn stains. Once she'd rinsed them out as best she could and wrung them free of water, she spread them out to dry on the surrounding rocks, which were still hot despite the afternoon nearing its end. She uncoiled her hair to wash it, too, careful to protect her ear, and rested her head back so the long black tresses floated up around her like lush strings of kelp. In the dappled late afternoon sun her silky skin so closely matched the golden undertones of rock and earth it seemed as if she and the water were one. It was strange how quickly the sensation of being gently held by water calmed her mind when the very thought of setting forth on the ocean in a boat appalled her right down to her bones.

She'd felt so ungrateful, so terribly feeble, when she and Mother Deborah had returned to Joseph and he'd scoured her face for her reaction to this crazy scheme. And she had disappointed him; she had seen hope die in his eyes. It hurt, that disappointment: it dug down deep. If only there was some way she could take him with her. Seek, as his mother dreamed, some way to save his fragile life—and that of Ruth, and poor terrified Rebekah. And dear old Hushai and Brother Mark. What if she took them all with her, in search of some new peaceful land?

Holy Heaven—that was it! She dug her feet into the smooth
pebbles lining the bottom of the pool and pushed herself upright in one determined movement, water spilling off her as her hair plastered her naked breasts and back. There was no reason to go alone!…she could take them all! Could give Joseph another gift of blood so he was strong enough to make the journey and then—

“Strike me down, but you're a fine-looking little upstart.”

She scrabbled for her clothes, clutching them to her as Lazarus leered at her from the bank. He looked travel-worn and weary, blooming circles of sweat beneath each arm. As she stood there too embarrassed and stunned to move, he slowly began to unbutton his shirt, first revealing his chest and then, holding her eye with his arrogant gaze, unbuckling his belt and brazenly slipping off his pants. “When they sent me to arrest you…” he started, slowly making his way down to the water, the belt still trailing in his hand, “I didn't think I'd have the pleasure of washing away your sins as well.”

He waded within arm's length of her, and finally she felt the power to move again. She splashed through the water, desperate to get away, but he caught her tightly around the wrist.

“No need to rush. It's time we were acquainted properly, just you and me.” He tugged her toward him, twisting her arm further and further up her back until she could endure the pain no longer and ceased her struggle. Then he grabbed her other arm, dragging it, too, behind her. Her clothes fell in the pool.

“Leave me alone!” Maryam tried to fend him off with her glare alone but Lazarus merely chuckled, looking instead to her nipples which, to her shame and great dismay, tensed and hardened into rosy buds.

He whistled admiringly between his teeth and bent down, brushing his tongue ever so delicately across one bud. Despite
herself, fire shot down to her abdomen and detonated deep inside. He lifted his face to her again, a lazy smile rippling his lips. “There. That wasn't so bad, now was it?”

There was such smugness in his voice, full with the knowledge he could violate her and no one would dare raise a hand against him. It was just as Mother Deborah had said:
Those in power always win out
. And now they'd sent this beast to humiliate her and drag her back. What chance did she have of resisting him? What chance at all?

He drew her even closer, until her betraying nipples brushed against his skin. So quickly she did not see it coming, he wound his belt around her wrists, binding them together to free up his hands. He ran his fingers down her back, cupping her buttocks in his palms.

“There, you see?” he whispered up against her ear, breathing his hot moist lust right into her. “Humility, little Sister. You're not so special after all.”

She could hear the distant mew of hungry children and the sounds of those preparing food, but she knew if she cried out for help no one would dare disturb his game. Power and control. Yet what else had Mother Deborah said? That she, alone, had shown the necessary will to fight. And Hushai, too:
You have a task that none but you can carry out….
She gritted her teeth, her hands clenching behind her back. Mother Deborah was absolutely right. If she did not fight this wickedness head on, no one else would step in to take up the cause.

He was nuzzling her neck now, pressing the live evil part of himself against her stomach in an odorous gyrating dance. Enough! She jerked her knee upward, driving it into the centre of that threatening manhood with all the strength she had left.

He grunted pain, releasing her as he doubled over to clutch the site of her attack. “No one owns me,” she shouted, her voice shaking with fury and fear. Lord in Heaven, of all the risks she'd run to date, this was the most dangerous by far. She stumbled toward the bank of the pool, frantically trying to work her hands free from the belt. But the bank was slimy and without her hands to balance her, she slipped and splashed back down again, muddy ledges crumbling under her and spewing a dirty cloud out into the water. By now Lazarus was recovering; he threw himself toward her as she tried, again, to scale the bank. This time she dug her toes in hard and made it up, finally freeing her hands as she ran, naked and terrified, along the path that led back to the village huts.

Memories of her humiliation at Aneaba flooded back, and it struck her that her naked arrival in this village might cause further disruption and outrage. She could not bear the thought of this and veered off the track, crashing through the undergrowth in desperate hope that somehow there would be, ahead, a place to hide. But she heard Lazarus close behind her, and realised now the dreadful error in her logic. Panicked, she spied a fallen tree branch on the ground ahead and scooped it up, rounding on him and holding it as threateningly as possible above her head.

“If you come any closer I
will
attack.” She braced herself, knowing in her heart this act was futile but determined to go down fighting.

He stopped, throwing up his arms to ward her off. “Whoa there, wild woman,” he jeered. “I think I'll just rest here a while to enjoy the view.”

Embarrassment radiated from her cheeks and neck but she
dared not lower the branch to cover herself and hide her shame. Then the strangest change came over her, as if some lost spirit had seen her there and slipped itself into her skin. She straightened, feeling the power of her presence—her glistening skin, her streaming hair, the fire she knew was in her eyes—and found herself weighing the branch in her hands as if she were a warrior woman from days long past. And she could see this strange possession affect him, too: he crossed his hands defensively across his own nakedness and something indefinable about his manner seemed to change.

“Look all you like,” she challenged him, finding in her mind a place of searing clarity she hadn't known existed. “If you take me by force then all you will have proved is that you're bigger and faster. I'll still know that the thing you most covet—my awe and respect—you'll never have.”

Her words struck true, his face flushing a blazing pink, and she drove the message home ruthlessly, curling her top lip a little as she looked down at his fast reducing manhood with a mocking smile. And he was disconcerted, right enough, one of his hands unconsciously sweeping back his dishevelled fringe while the other still struggled to cover himself from her scornful gaze.

But his fluster did not last long; she had to give him that. He laughed, more naturally now, and very purposefully folded his arms across his chest, standing with his legs apart so she could see him in all his naked glory, and it took her all her willpower not to blush again or look away.

“What would you know of respect?” he said. “Have you not sacrificed yourself—your very soul—to the Lord? To us?” He shifted, taking half a step closer, his eyes locked in a war with
hers. “Why should I respect your kind? You let us steal away your lives.”

She felt his accusation as a blistering slap, for what he said was all too true. She had to try to reason with him, in the few precarious minutes before he grew bored with this game and struck again. “Does our powerlessness give you the right to treat us like animals?”

“Yes,” he shrugged, “why not?” He shifted a little, one hand straying to his hip as he watched her recoil at his words. “I know we've all been raised to worship a judicious Lord and Father—someone who is kind and fair. But where's the evidence, dear Sister? Show me where?” Something close to sadness swept his face before he transformed it to a sneer. “One day I looked around and saw my father and his cohorts do exactly as they please, while all you ignorant servers continue to slug back toddy like it's sacred water and kiss the ground beneath their feet. And they're not struck down by the Lord, my little lovely—oh, no. The Apostles are rewarded for their sins. Revered.”

His cynicism sickened her. “You call it sin yet still condone it?”

“Again, why not? You'd rather I shunned my birthright? I'm not about to join the ranks of drugged-up weaklings such as you. Grow up.”

All that Mother Deborah had spoken of inside the cave came sharply into focus now in Maryam's mind. “Do not mistake submission for weakness, Brother Lazarus, when its underlying cause is fear.”

“Bravo!” Mother Deborah stepped out from behind a tree and clapped her hands, their discarded clothes now lying dripping across her arm. She looked to Lazarus, one eyebrow raised. “
It seems, nephew, if we put aside her astounding disobedience, you may finally have met your match!”

Lazarus blushed scarlet as his aunt surveyed his naked form. She plucked his trousers from the pile of sopping clothes and handed them to him, winking at Maryam as they watched him struggle into the wet clothing as fast as he could. For the first time since Maryam had seen him, he appeared more boy than man, hopping unbalanced from foot to foot as the fabric tangled and clung to itself, refusing to cooperate.

With Lazarus distracted, Mother Deborah placed herself as a barrier between him and Maryam, who struggled back into her own wet clothes.

“Thank you,” she whispered gratefully. Her whole body began to shake, only now revealing the extent of her terror and shame.

“Come.” Mother Deborah took Maryam briskly by the elbow and escorted her back to the track. “Oh, nephew,” she called over her shoulder, “when you have pulled yourself together, kindly join me in my hut. Joseph is there.”

They left him struggling in the undergrowth, while they hurried back along the pathway to the village. “It's lucky that I came in search of you. Lazarus has yet to learn much self-control.”

Maryam shuddered, thinking how close she'd come to discovering this first hand. “Of all the people they could have sent to take me back, I truly wish it wasn't him.” She swallowed hard. “He frightens me. And he said I'm under arrest. What does that mean?”

They reached the entrance to Mother Deborah's hut and paused outside. “I'm really not sure, my dear. But I understand my brother-in-law well enough to know he will use this as a lesson to subdue any further unrest.”

As Mother Deborah made to go inside, Maryam held her
back. “I have reconsidered,” she admitted, and excitement dawned in the older woman's eyes.

“But we need to talk. I think I may have figured out a way to work your crazy plan.”

From her lowly position at the rear of the room, Maryam watched Joseph, his mother, and Lazarus complete their meal. Joseph hardly ate a thing; indeed, he seemed to grow more pale and weak with every passing hour now. A harsh dry cough wracked his thin frame, and the ugly purple marks of Te Matee Iai continued to creep across his skin with the same voraciousness as the kona roroana vine showed in suffocating tall trees.