The Crossing (3 page)

A crowd of villagers met the longboat at the beach, obviously expecting her. While some sang an old native song of welcome, others merely stood and gaped as Brother James led her from the longboat to the small wooden chapel in the clearing, on the far side of the village huts.

Maryam searched each woman's features, as she always did when she stepped foot on Onewēre, for the one face she might recognise and call her own. But her memory deceived her—each woman here had something of her birth mother, yet nothing she could pick for sure. The faces spoke of work-worn lives, of hard losses, and even those about her age seemed lacking in light. She tried to read each set of eyes, always alert for fleeting recognition or some sense of ownership, but none shone back.

As always, the village struck Maryam as chaotic and noisy compared to her own small atoll home, where people and animals numbered no more than thirty combined. Here, hordes of dusty pigs and thin dogs with mangy hides and weeping sores snuffled through the clutter, while scruffy chickens ran amok amidst the eighty or so villagers who lived in this beach settlement. At last year's Judgement, when the Apostles gathered every person on the island to attend, they'd counted over five hundred souls. But few would survive into old age, Maryam knew: sickness and the unrelenting toil of raising crops on barren land took their toll, and many babies died at birth. Still, the Apostles tended to them all, praying over the sick and preparing them to meet with the Lord should their bodies grow too weak to serve.

Inside the chapel Brother James joined three other white-clad
Apostles who stood waiting there, lit the candles, and motioned for Maryam to kneel as the villagers filed in behind and took their seats. He began the ceremony with a recitation of the Divine Lesson.

“The Lord is the creator of Heaven and Earth and all living things,” he intoned, projecting his voice to carry right to the back row, “and His son, the Lamb, shed His Blood to save us from our mortal sins. When Lucifer, the evil one, tempted us into wrongdoing, the Lord sent forth the Tribulation to purge us all.” He smiled now, the gracious bearer of good news. “But we can still be saved, my children, if we look to the Lord and the Lamb and their Apostles, and obey their Rules.”

Now he placed his hand on Maryam's bowed head. A spark like flint on rock ran through her and she dipped her head even lower to disguise her blush. Unaware, he began to grill her on her understanding of the Apostles' Rules and, although she never faltered in her answers, her mind itself fled far away. This closeness to a man, it frightened her—despite the fact he'd officiated for the Blessed Sisters for the last six months. Somehow his presence today, and that of the three unknown Apostles at his side, stole all her calm. She could feel her head trembling as she bared her tongue to take the sickly sweet te rara berry from him—the symbolic gift of the Blood of the Lamb.

When the last of the villagers had also filed up to accept the gift of Blood and returned to their seats, he turned his attention directly back to her. “Will you, Sister Maryam, who are meek and lowly in heart, be gentle and unresisting as our sweet Lamb, all the time surrendering your will to the Holy Fathers who have blessed us with their presence and worked with the Lord to save us from the Tribulation's wrath?”

Maryam nodded. “I will.” Shakily, she took the hand Brother James now offered her and kissed the holy symbol inscribed upon the ring of bone he wore, her lips accidentally brushing the soft pale hairs on his knuckles as she did so. Again the spark seared through her and a kind of panicked buzzing filled her ears. She dared not look around her, focusing instead on the chapel's sculpture of the Lamb, whose mournful gaze seemed to judge her ignorant and weak.

But then, thankfully, the ordeal was over and she was escorted outside by all four Apostles, as the villagers threw blood-red bougainvillea blossoms at her feet. Now she stood before the man-made causeway that led out across the water to the Holy City far beyond. The village chief, a strong-armed man adorned with a shark's teeth collar and flax skirt, dragged forth a struggling goat from amidst the bystanders and, before Maryam had time to turn away from the animal's terrified rolling eyes, he slit its throat. Brother James bent down beside the poor creature and held an ornamental gourd up to the gaping wound to catch its blood.

Maryam swallowed down rising vomit as the goat's glazed eyes accused her of its sudden death. Shakily she lowered her hand, which had shot up to her mouth, and tried to slow her breathing down to clear her head. Why hadn't Mother Elizabeth warned her of this? Then, at least, she could have prepared herself and closed her eyes.

The coppery smell clung to her nostrils as Brother James dipped his finger into the still-warm blood and smeared it out across her cheeks. She tried not to shudder when he dipped again, running his finger down her chin and staining her white gown as his finger glided earthward. Once more he dipped and
smeared until, upon her chest, a crimson cross was outlined. Then he took the gourd and poured the remaining blood across the entrance to the causeway, so she would have to step through it to reach her goal. “Go now, Sister Maryam,” Brother James intoned. “Go now, as our Lamb once did, to serve your Lord.”

At this, he pressed her pitifully small bundle of belongings back into her arms and when she did not move he pushed her forward, propelling her bare feet through the sticky blood and up onto the bamboo slats that formed the causeway out to sea. The villagers began to sing, their voices rising and filling the sky as she took her first tentative steps. “
I taku nako im, Tei rake, ao tabeka am kainiweve ao nako n am auti…
”

The causeway rocked beneath her feet, and she realised that it floated on the surface of the water like an anchored boat. Ahead, the great hulk of the
Star of the Sea
beckoned her, rust streaks as starkly outlined on its vast steel body as the reeking cross of blood she wore. And now, behind, a trail of bloody footprints linked her future to her past, her only known world.

A sea breeze had risen since her journey to the island and it rocked her now, tugging at her gown and hair. She looked ahead, watching the causeway undulate like a sea snake, and tried to focus her mind on staying steady in the centre of its swaying tail. Of course, if she fell in she could always swim. But caked in blood like this she'd draw the interest of te bakoas, the sharks that prowled around the reef. They were always hungry, these heartless beasts, and had plucked the life from many an unfortunate who crossed their path. Besides, none whose Bloods were on them would dare risk a swim.

She wondered at the people who had built this causeway, desperate for help in the dark days after the Tribulation when
the sky had erupted with great bursts of poisoned fire, while monster storms raged around the planet, blew up all the power sources and the other trappings of that godless age, and churned the sea. All the Sisters had been taught how flying machines fell from the sky, buildings toppled and boats were sunk, the whole world in a toxic fiery meltdown as the Lord sent forth His wrath.

Here, too, the islanders were struck down by the fires, the storms and pestilence, many blinded, most destroyed. And those few who remained were powerless against the Tribulation as they watched their crops and fish stocks die—both sea and soil blighted—and their children born with monstrous defects that passed down through generations and were present still.

Meanwhile, in the midst of this, the great
Star of the Sea
floundered in the massive waves until they hurled her, by the Lord's sweet grace, onto Onewēre's brutal reef. Nothing they could do would move her, as her bowels hemorrhaged deadly black pools of oil toward the land. But the ship refused to sink. And her surviving crew, kept alive to aid the villagers by a now forgiving Lord, shared their wealth and soothed the sick—even as their own kind died. And, when it seemed the world had ended and all hope was gone, the great and caring Captain Saul received the Word of the Lord and formed the Apostles of the Lamb, making this great city rising from the reef their holy home.

It was a wonderful story. That they, the simple people of Onewēre, would be chosen to survive and serve these great Apostles, these living mouthpieces for the Lord…it had always overwhelmed Maryam. And now she was to enter this great towering structure by herself.

As she approached, she could see a group of dark-skinned
figures moving above. Were her old playmates waiting there to greet her as she stepped aboard? From an opening a third of the way up a platform was lowered by massive ropes, landing at her feet just as she reached the end of the long causeway. She peered up then, way up, straight into the watchful face of a young native server. He waved and roared down at her, “Climb aboard.”

And she did as she was told, clasping the side ropes as they hauled her higher and higher up the chipped and salt-encrusted sides, toward this new and wondrous home.

The moving platform neared the opening—momentous as the opening of the door to Heaven in the Holy Book—and Maryam turned back toward her island home. The tiny atoll, so lush and green compared to Onewēre, seemed no more than a mossy pebble inside a shallow moat of palest blue. And Onewēre itself, reaching up to the thickening dark clouds at its mountainous centre, struck her as small and vulnerable against the backdrop of unending sea.

But now the platform drew level with the opening and she could feel her pulse quicken as four strong servers secured the ropes and motioned her to step aboard. She looked around, searching for a familiar face, but none stared back. The server, a man in his middle years, offered his hand to steady her as she crossed the threshold, her bare feet registering the cold hard steel of the dirty scuffed deck.

“Welcome, Sister,” the man greeted her, and led her through a steel hatch into a long narrow passageway. “I am Mark.”

“Thank you,” Maryam murmured, unsure of how she was to answer him. She had never felt so enclosed before, the ceiling pressing down on her as they walked through the empty corridors, their footsteps deadened by the strange worn fabric matting on the floor. The air smelt damp and musty, not unlike the bath-house after winter rains and, mixing with the cloying scent of goat's blood, it caught in her throat.

“Mother Michal sends her greetings and apologies,” Brother Mark told her. “Sadly, we have had a death and she helps prepare
the body for its final journey back to the Lord.” He opened a door and motioned her through. “Just wait in here, and I'm sure she will be with you soon.”

Maryam stepped out into an enormous space, as big as the whole compound she'd just left. Nothing could have prepared her for this glorious sight. She tiptoed over the smooth stone floor, amazed by the vein-like seams that ran through the perfectly cut squares, and at the range of patterns and shades embedded there. But it was the vast ceiling—higher by many, many times than the tallest point of the maneaba—that stole her breath. Great circles of gold, inlaid with iridescent flower shapes, shimmered like the finest mother-of-pearl. And the colours! Soft glowing golds, pale cloudy creams, blues brighter than clear skies on a sunny day, the yellow of soft sunsets, the hazy pinks and lavenders of sweetest dawn. The only other place she'd ever seen anything remotely like this was the one small coloured window in the chapel by the bay. This, indeed, was made by the Lord. It had to be.

A wide sweeping stairway, bordered by solid ropes the silver of fish scales and framed by two tall palm trees, led to a circular raised platform from which other steps and walkways bloomed. High above, Maryam could see people moving in and out of doorways, yet this expansive floor where she stood right now was empty, save for her. The desire to climb that magical stairway grew too strong to resist, and she slipped up the cool stone steps until she stood at the very heart of the circular platform and looked up. High above, amidst the patterns and swirl of the domed ceiling, she saw herself reflected back in countless fractured copies. Her face, still streaked with blood, looked unfamiliar, nervous and very small. Perhaps this was how the Lamb saw her as He looked down?

A woman's voice shocked her back down to earth. “Ah, Sister Maryam. I'm sorry I was so delayed.”

The speaker stood beside a tower of glass, its surface etched with intricate designs worked through in gold. Tall and imposing, in clothes both oddly shaped and bright, the woman had long pale hair that Maryam marvelled at—the colour of beach sand, straight and fine. Everything about her was as different from Maryam as night from day. The Apostles of the Lamb were white-skinned, like the Lamb; those from Onewēre, like Maryam, were brown.

The woman walked toward her now, her smile stopping at her strange blue eyes, the colour not unlike Ruth's pebble, which Maryam still clutched tightly in her sweaty palm. The dress this woman wore was patterned with bright splashes of colour, and hugged the full curves of her body in a shameless way. Up closer, Maryam saw too that she had coloured her pale skin with some substance to make her cheeks and lips blush red. Now she gestured to the ceiling. “Is it not a wondrous sight?”

Maryam nodded, her gaze once again sweeping the vaulted dome. “I was told the Lord's place was beautiful, but I never could have imagined this.” She swept her arm around to encompass it.

The woman was less intimidating now she stood close. Her eyes looked tired, with dark shadows deepening her eye sockets. “I'm Mother Michal. Welcome.” She bent forward and kissed Maryam on the forehead, her lips brushing the very place Brother James had first anointed with blood. She smelled of flowers, fresh and clean. “We call this place the atrium. Come, and I will show you around.”

She led Maryam back down the steps, through the empty
stone foyer to a door on the far side of the enormous room. “This,” she said, opening the door, “is where we all take our meals.”

She stood aside to let Maryam pass, and they entered another cavernous room. The ceiling low, this room was meagrely lit by two walls of windows that once must have looked out to sea but now were crazed and caked with spray. The floor was covered with the same strange matting as the corridors, tinted blue with swirling green foliage and exotic orange flowers woven into a pattern that repeated all around the room. Maryam bent down, running her hand across the surface to try to see how it was made. The fabric felt like the pelt of some unknown creature—smooth and soft. Around the other internal walls dark wood paneling, cracked and peeling, framed enormous paintings from a foreign world. She was drawn, through the maze of matching chairs and tables, to one mural that depicted a grand building made of rough-hewn stone. At the building's entrance—an enormous arch-shaped wooden door—a group of white-skinned men, clad in richly coloured garments, sat astride magnificent four-legged beasts. “Where is this?” she asked.

“This once was ancient England. Now it's gone.” Mother Michal pointed to another of the murals. A great city of stone sat amidst murky water, where curved-bowed boats were pushed along with poles held fast by laughing men. “This place was destroyed as well.” Another showed a busy street, more like the villages Maryam knew, where black-skinned women, barely dressed, displayed their wares. “And this.”

“So this is what the world looked like before the Tribulation?”

“Long ago.” Mother Michal's eyes met Maryam's. “Just thank the Lord we live here now. All that world has been destroyed.”

There was so much, Maryam realised, she didn't know. Of course she had been taught about the evils of the world before the Tribulation—how Lucifer got his grip upon the minds of those who lived back in those far-off times. But of the world itself, its shape, its size, the makeup of the people who once lived there, she knew little more than whispered scraps.

“Come and see where we prepare and cook the meals,” Mother Michal now said. They crossed the dining room and entered through a swinging door. This room, again vast, could not have been more different from the last. Its surfaces were forged from metal, dull silver as smooth as water on a windless day. Here, at last, many men and women worked together, preparing food.

Despite a desperate desire to see someone she knew, Maryam shrank back behind Mother Michal, suddenly very conscious of her bloodied face and gown. She felt strangely sullied, even though she knew the mark of her Crossing should make her proud. But no one else here dressed as she. The Apostles of the Lamb, she knew, all wore pure white, while the garments the male servers wore she'd seen before each Judgement time—black trousers and white shirts beneath black sleeveless fitted vests. And the women in this room wore similar outfits: mid-length black skirts with clean white shirts. She wondered if these were the clothes she, too, would wear from this day on: she longed to fit in again, to feel part of a community. But now she focused back on what she saw, trying to imprint each new sensation and discovery on her mind.

Along one wall, steaming vessels sat atop what Maryam guessed were fireless cookers. She had seen two or three of these on Onewēre in the past, old discarded remnants from far-distant
times, but had never seen one work before. What gave them heat?

Mother Michal noticed her puzzled frown. “We generate the energy we need to run the stoves and lights partly from windmills,” she explained. “The first of our great Apostles knew the workings of such things and harnessed the Lord's endless breath to keep the Holy City running after all the old systems collapsed.”

“Windmills?” Maryam questioned. “What are they?”

Mother Michal laughed, as did the three servers close enough to hear. “I'll show you presently,” she promised, lifting the lid of a large cooking pot to sniff the steam.

“Chicken soup,” a girl explained, her back to Maryam. She took a ladle and turned, shyly passing it over for Maryam to taste.

Maryam blew onto the hot soup and sipped the rich broth hungrily. “Thank you,” she responded once the broth was gone. “It's delicious.”

The girl retrieved the empty ladle, watching Maryam intently. “Welcome, Sister Maryam,” she murmured. “Do you remember me?”

It was the girl's smile that chimed in Maryam's memory. “Rebekah!” She reached forward, eagerly embracing her old playmate. But, even as joy rose in her heart at finding a Sister she knew here, shock dampened it. This was not the stocky laughing Rebekah of her childhood, but one much more serious and painfully thin despite what Maryam realised was the swelling of pregnancy. Their eyes met, Rebekah's unexpectedly welling up with tears.

“You will be seeing more of Rebekah later on,” Mother Michal cut in now. “She sleeps across the hall from you.” She smiled at Rebekah and dismissed her. “Off you go.”

Rebekah turned away again as if slapped, and moved down the long kitchen where basket-loads of mangoes were now being chopped. Although brown-skinned, to Maryam's eyes she looked quite pale and her bones protruded sharply underneath her skin. There were food shortages enough on land, that much Maryam knew. But, with all the villages contributing food for the Apostles, and such a miraculous way to cook it in the Holy City, how were such signs of hunger possible here?

She quickly checked the faces of the other dozen or so female servers in the room. Four looked familiar, though quite old—probably in their late twenties—and two of these were large with child. Another, closer in age to Maryam and Rebekah, moved sluggishly as she scrubbed the mud off taro at a distant bench. Her hair hung lank, and she did not raise her eyes like all the others in the room. Maryam stared. Could that be Sarah?

She had no time to find out more. Three young men, each tattooed around the neck like the people from Aneaba, on Onewēre's southern coast, stepped into her line of sight and stared at her unashamedly as they piled more muddy taro on the bench. Their tattoos, winding around each sinewy neck like a black-skinned mangrove eel, held her gaze. Something about them niggled at her, familiar yet unplaceable, like the tune of a song that echoed in her memory but refused to deliver up the words. She reluctantly turned her eyes away, unsettled by the curious smiles that tugged their lips. No matter, Maryam comforted herself: she would seek out Sarah and Rebekah again the first chance she could.

“Before I take you to your room, first come and see above deck.” Mother Michal directed her back and they climbed three flights of stairs, up to a glasslined walkway that ran right around the edges of the atrium.

Several other doorways led off this, and Mother Michal pointed to a double set of doors signposted “Theatre.” “This is where we hold our services—you're to return here for this afternoon's funeral, then we'll celebrate your Crossing while we're in one group.”

Maryam longed to peek inside this sacred space, but Mother Michal proceeded to a large metal door that bore the sign “Deck 4 and Pool.” They stepped out into fresh sea air, colder now as the storm promised by the dark clouds swept the bay. Here, three perfectly circular gardens were protected by an open-sided roof, held aloft by metal beams. Wave forms decorated the low protective walls and Maryam ran her hand across them, fascinated to know how they were produced.

“Tiles,” Mother Michal explained. “You'll see them on many of the surfaces—they have withstood the passing of time well.”

“How are they made?” Maryam asked. The tiles felt smooth under her fingers and she marvelled at the time it must have taken to place each one.

“Wet earth called clay is formed into these shapes then baked until dry. Their colours are created by painting on a coat of glaze that's made from minerals before they're fired.” Mother Michal pointed to another wall, where a creature, half woman with a fish's tale, was displayed. “They call these smaller tiles mosaics—the art goes back to ancient times.”

“Those early people must have had some good in them,” Maryam mused, “to have created such intricate works.”