The Crossing (4 page)

Mother Michal shook her head sadly. “So much talent, and yet they allowed Lucifer to control their souls and waste their creative gifts on trivial and sinful ways.”

She pointed now to the vegetable patches, where several more male servers watered healthy green plants and rooted out
any errant weeds. “These gardens were once artificial pools filled with fresh water, for the passengers to swim.”

Maryam laughed, her arm sweeping toward the sea. “They swam in tiny rock pools when they could have had the oceans? How bizarre!”

The older woman looked at her sharply. “You're a clever one, Sister Maryam. I see your mind grasps such ironies fast.” She gestured, then, to four large columns towering above the deck. Atop each column whirling arms spun in the chilly wind like the seed pods from the kikonang tree Maryam had played with when she was small. “These, my dear, are the windmills that provide our power for heat and light.”

“
These
make the lights that we see shining from the shore at night?” Maryam had always presumed their source miraculous, like the walled city in the Holy Book, sent down from Heaven with no need for light from sun or moon.

“Indeed they do,” Mother Michal laughed. “But please don't ask me exactly how—these things are better explained by others far more skilled than me!”

Maryam stared up at the four great columns with the circling arms. That they could provide both light and means to cook without an open fire was astonishing indeed. “They look simple enough, so why haven't the villagers on Onewēre built windmills too?”

The smile dropped from Mother Michal's face. “The Lord saves His gifts for those who are the most deserving.”

She turned on her heel and disappeared back through the doorway, leaving a puzzled Maryam to run behind. What had she said that had angered Mother Michal so? Would the villagers not praise the Lord for such a gift?

Mother Michal did not relent in her pace: Maryam was marched down stairways and winding corridors with such speed she doubted she would remember how to find her way once on her own. She wondered where everyone was—surely Mother Elizabeth had told her that at least four hundred lived aboard?

Eventually she found herself escorted back down the dark low-ceilinged corridors, each lined with identical numbered doors. At Room 312 Mother Michal paused. She took a jangling chain from her pocket and slid a key into the lock.

The door took some opening, but then it gave. Inside, Maryam found a bed unlike her sleeping mat—it stood off the ground, covered in a shiny fabric mildewed with age. One bed; one room for her alone. This surprised and unsettled her. Always she had shared her sleeping hut with someone else—for many years this had been Ruth. The thought of Ruth, so unreachable now, pricked her eyes with sudden tears. But she blinked them back, determined she would not be seen crying. Besides, had Mother Michal not said that Rebekah would be sleeping nearby?

There were two cupboards in the room, all her own. And on the bed a neatly folded pile of clothes—all black and white, just like the clothes of other women servers she had seen. As well, a folded towel and face cloth lay upon a small cabinet beside the bed.

“Do not change your clothes or wash as yet,” Mother Michal instructed. “We must still formally welcome you—things are just a little out of kilter with this sudden death.” She handed Maryam the towel and cloth. “But I'll show you where to toilet while you wait.”

As she made for one of the cupboard doors Maryam thought she must have been mistaken, but the door opened into another
small room. Completely tiled, it contained several fixtures and fittings she did not recognise, besides a bath. A large bucket with a lid sat on the smooth floor, as did another filled with water.

“The bathrooms do not work as once they did,” her guide explained. “The power that we generate is not enough to service these.” She pointed to the water bucket. “Each morning you can collect warm water to wash with from the service room on Level Two. Rebekah will show you where. We have a way of taking out the salt from sea water so there is never any shortage, and your body wastes are emptied once a day into the tanks down there—Father Ahazaih has worked miracles and can convert this into the fuel that runs the desalination units and heats our water.” She pointed to the bathtub, which was stained with green. “Your waste water will still flow away, however, so bathe in there.”

Maryam nodded, too scared now to voice her racing thoughts. The ability to turn sea water to fresh was just as great a miracle as water to wine. And waste to fuel? If only they knew of this on Onewēre, where the winter nights grew cold and often stole the lives of sick and old in their sleep. “Thank you, Mother Michal,” she said instead. “What am I to do next?”

“Just wait,” Mother Michal replied. “I will send Rebekah down with some food before the time is reached.” She made for the door, turning at the last moment to meet Maryam's eye. “An enquiring mind is good, Sister Maryam, but you will find your life here much more pleasant if you silently accept your role. The Rules will guide you—just heed their words.” With this she left.

Maryam sat down on the bed, impressed by its softness, and closed her eyes—thinking about Rebekah's pregnant belly, and the other pregnant women she had seen. Mother Evodia had
told all the Blessed Sisters, once they reached a certain age, how babies were made—but Maryam had never considered it for herself before. She had never realised that Blessed Sisters might lie with men…yet somehow Mother Elizabeth had. And now Rebekah…and many more again, it seemed.

Opening her eyes again, she stared down at Ruth's parting gift, glowing blue in the hazy light that sneaked in through the grimy window. What would Ruth be doing now? Playing with the little ones inside the maneaba until the storm had passed? She longed to be back there, in that place where everything felt safe and known. Here, nothing did.

Her stomach rumbled, and she realised she was really hungry for the first time since her Bloods had come. And the pains had receded, thanks to Mother Evodia's herbal brew. She returned to the bathroom, took a cup and dipped it into the container of water. It tasted flat, not like the sweet stream water of her home. There was so much that was new to her; so much she had yet to learn.

She lay down on the bed, trying to ignore the rumbling of her stomach and the dull ache in her chest that promised tears. The next thing she knew, someone was knocking at her door. She must have dozed.

Rebekah entered, offering a steaming bowl of soup and still-warm bread. “I'm sorry, but you'll have to eat this quickly,” she said, passing Maryam the food. “I must take you to the meeting place very soon.”

Gratefully Maryam began to eat. She motioned for Rebekah to sit beside her on the bed and they smiled at each other shyly. “So,” she started, through a mouthful of bread, “how is it here?”

“There are many things I did not understand at first,”
Rebekah said, “but the Lord has helped me see the light.” Her lips clamped together and her hand rested on her stomach as if guarding it.

All the things Maryam longed to ask died in her throat. She felt as though a wall had somehow slipped between them. “A baby,” she said at last, not sure what else she could say.

“Yes.” Rebekah patted the bulge. “I still have four more months to go.”

“You have a husband, then?”

Rebekah flushed and her gaze dropped down to her hands, which now twisted a loose thread from her skirt. “I am a bride of the Lamb.” Her chin lifted at this and, again, she met Maryam's eyes. “Once you've been here for a while you'll understand.”

There was a smugness in her voice that rankled. She was two years Maryam's junior, yet she made Maryam feel so young and ignorant. Maybe she was embarrassed, or just shy?

Maryam took Rebekah's hand and squeezed it. “I'm very glad to have you here.” Her other hand hovered near Rebekah's belly and she felt a great urge to touch the skin that housed the tiny life. “May I?” she asked and, at Rebekah's nod, gently lowered her hand. She was surprised by the hardness of the bulge, like goat skin stretched over a drum. Then, to her amazement, the baby kicked. “I felt that!” she laughed and the wall between them just as quickly disappeared. “Do you want a girl or a boy?”

The smile that had sprung to Rebekah's lips dropped again. “Just healthy,” she mumbled. “My first baby did not grow more than three months inside. The second died just two days old.”

Rebekah's pain was obvious and Maryam's heart went out to her. But the calculation in her head burst out into words before
she could dam it back down. “This is your third?” Surely she was still only fourteen?

Rebekah sighed, drawing herself back off the bed. “There is still much for you to learn. But, for now, we'd better move.” She picked out a set of server's clothes from the pile of clothing on the bed and handed it to Maryam. “Bring these. You'll need them soon.”

Maryam rose and followed her toward the door. At its entrance, Rebekah spun around and embraced Maryam urgently. “Welcome, dear Sister Maryam. I'm glad you're here.”

As Maryam followed Rebekah along the claustrophobic corridors a conch shell sounded, several times. It was as though the ship erupted, people now streaming from doorways at every turn. Many wore the black and white of servers, yet a number of the white-skinned group wore a strange mix of clothing—a wild blend of patterns, colours, shapes, and styles. They jostled the two girls, some glancing curiously at Maryam as they hastened past.

“We must hurry,” Rebekah urged her. “The funeral is to begin.”

“Who has died?” Maryam asked.

“Father Jonah.” Rebekah now hooked her arm through Maryam's and led her up the atrium stairs. “He was birth brother to Father Joshua—once one of the inner circle and a well-liked man.”

“How did he die?” Her question drew piercing stares from those around. Lips thinned to disapproval. Eyebrows rose.

Rebekah pulled Maryam to the side of the rising tide of people, leaning in close to her ear. “We do not question the Lord's methods or actions. It was his time.” Then the great surge swept them along the glass walkway and in through a wide set of doors, Rebekah clutching Maryam's hand and tugging her through the masses as if she was blind.

Maryam struggled to take in their surroundings: row upon row of seating rippling up and out from the central space, a large raised platform fringed by richly textured blood-red drapes. At
its heart a candle-lit altar stood beneath a huge figure of the Lamb—one even more lifelike and awe-inspiring than the burnished wooden sculpture in the maneaba at Maryam's old home.

To each side of the altar hung an enormous painting. One showed the wretched people of Onewēre fleeing from great fireballs flung straight from Heaven, the sea boiling and the forests seething, many people struck down or blinded, huts incinerating as tormented souls were trapped inside. It was a terrifying vision, at odds with the serene depiction on the other side. There, a smiling white-skinned Lord bent down to bless the place on the platform where a single chair—elaborately carved and glittering with gold and jewels—stood beneath His holy hand.

But it was the body lying on a flower-strewn mat at the foot of the altar that most captured Maryam's attention. A white-skinned man in his middle years, clad head to foot in white with golden trim, his cheeks and eyes had sunk into deep dark hollows formed by the surrounding bones. She wondered again what had killed him, since the Apostles were protected from the plague that stole so many of her own kind. Whatever the reason, there was no denying his breath had fled—it was as if the Lord had reached inside this man and blown out the fragile flicker of life. He was a vessel, empty now and grown cold.

Even as Rebekah hauled Maryam down the aisle toward the central platform, the seats around them began to fill. As many people as the entire population of Onewēre, it seemed to Maryam, all of them cramming into this great space—the air alive with their muted whispers and the tread of feet. The white-clad Apostles and their families filled the seats down at the front and, apart from their strange array of clothing, Maryam found them hard to tell apart. Their features all seemed
so washed out—as bone might look bleached by the sun. Then, in the seats toward the back, the servers took their places, men and women separated on either side.

Rebekah led Maryam up onto the stage, pushing her firmly toward the mass of curtains at the side. “Wait behind these until you are called upon,” she whispered. “You can watch the service from back here.” She squeezed her friend's hand one last time. “Do not be shamed by what is to befall you—it is the custom, and all of us have passed through this.” With this she fled back up the rows of seats and took her place with the other women servers on the right.

Do not be shamed? What on earth could Rebekah mean? Maryam had no further chance to ponder this, however, as an older male server entered from the opposite side of the stage and sat at a strange polished object made from wood. It stood upon four legs, the main body almost leaf shaped, and some kind of lid stood open to reveal a mass of long ropes, or strings. He raised his hands and the huge congregation hushed. Then, in what could only be a miracle, he lowered his hands to the black and white teeth of this instrument and music began to pour from it as his fingers moved. Wonderful music, like nothing Maryam had ever heard before. And now the crowd started singing, their voices filling the space and reverberating with a richness that consumed her with the glory of the Lord.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now am found
,

was blind, but now I see…

As the song continued, twelve Apostles approached the stage. They stood on each side of the stepped walkway, framing it, as Father Joshua emerged from the crowd and made his way toward the altar. His uniform was almost glowing, such was its whiteness, and the gold that decorated his shoulders, cuffs and chest glinted under the flicker of the candles as he moved. He bowed to the great image of the Lamb and bent to kiss the forehead of the deceased man. Then he crossed to the bejewelled chair—an inexplicable golden light raining down upon him as he took his seat. The light radiated around his head as if from the loving hand of the Lord.

Maryam's heart pounded in her chest and all her formless fears and worries swept away as Father Joshua began to lead the cycle of prayers. Gathered around him now, the Apostles lit additional candles and te ribano incense, spreading the familiar pungent scent out into the praying crowd.

There was no denying it: the songs, scriptures, and ritual seemed a fitting way to send a soul back to the Lord's care. Father Joshua's voice filled every corner of the enormous room, almost echoing as he spoke with warmth of his lost brother and the contributions he had made. Maryam studied the faces of those who sat below the stage—the families of the white-skinned Apostles whose ancestors had created this sanctuary from the stricken world. She'd expected men and women, but it never had occurred to her that younger people would be part of the inner circle, too. She counted nearly thirty, from infants to a handful of young men near her own age.

“Let us hear from Jonah's widow, Mother Deborah,” Father Joshua now declared. A young man helped a crying woman up the steps and comforted her as she struggled to compose herself.
He was perhaps a little older than Maryam, she decided, and had the frail look of one who fought Te Matee Iai. Would he be protected from its consequences, as the older Apostles were? She hoped so. No one deserved to die in such an awful way.

“Jonah was a good man,” the woman began. “He loved the Lord with all his heart and believed that each of us had a duty to uphold His laws. He respected everyone and everything—convinced that the Lord made us all equally worthy of His love.”

Mother Deborah then broke into sobs and the young man wrapped his arm around her, murmuring something in her ear. She drew herself together, directing her next words to Father Joshua. “All of us, dearest Joshua. Bar none.”

A buzz rippled through the congregation. Father Joshua, drawing his lips into a tight line, sliced Mother Deborah with his gaze. It was over so quickly Maryam questioned whether she had really felt it, this sudden chill.

But the atmosphere had changed, the Apostles seeming to straighten and grow more rigid with Mother Deborah's every word. “Jonah welcomed his journey back to the Lord, bowing to His will with grace. While we who loved him begged him to defer it—” Again she faltered, “—he chose his path. I pray that the Lord will celebrate his sacrifice and spare, now, Joseph, our only son.” No longer able to speak, she threw herself across her husband's body and wept. Joseph—the young man was so like her, he must be her son—fought back tears.

Leaning forward, Maryam tried to understand what she was seeing. Mother Deborah's tears washed lines down the dead man's strangely shiny skin, and Maryam realised his face was coated with some kind of substance that her tears disturbed. Beneath the sheen, was that the ghost of the blotches that Te
Matee Iai stamped on the faces of all who knocked at death's dark door? She had seen it again and again, as beloved Sisters succumbed to the Lord's call. But the Lord protected the Apostles from this fate: what she thought she saw could not be true.

She had no further chance to study him, as one of the Apostles now stepped forward and placed a shroud across the dead man's face. At this, Mother Deborah let out a great cry, her agony driving straight into Maryam's heart—such pain echoing the gnawing ache she still carried from the loss of her birth mother long ago.

From her sheltered vantage point, she studied Joseph's face as he squatted to coax his mother back toward her empty seat. His eyes were the most brilliant blue—the colour of Ruth's pebble—but ringed with dark bruises of sleeplessness and pain, standing starkly out against his golden hair and ghostly pallor.

The two were descending the steps when Joseph swayed and seemed about to keel over. Another young man in the front row sped forward and supported him, virtually dragging both mother and son back to their seats. This boy, taller than Joseph and slightly darker, bore an uncanny resemblance to Father Joshua. Maryam saw his jaw twitch and clench, as though he bit back words he longed to say. There was a coldness in his eyes, a coldness that she did not like, despite his obvious concern for Joseph.

Father Joshua rose from his throne and crossed to kneel before his brother. The twelve Apostles led the congregation: “
To everything there is a season…
”

As the beautiful recitation finished, Father Joshua swept the air with incense and began the final rites. Although Maryam had never seen such an elaborate funeral before, she recognised the words he now spoke. “
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…
”

The Apostles circled Father Jonah's shrouded body and each took hold of the mat on which he rested, lifting him so he lay suspended, slung between them.

They slowly made their way down the steps, bearing him past the rows of silent mourners until they disappeared out through the doors.

“We will cremate Father Jonah's body presently,” Father Joshua announced. “But first, we are blessed with a new servant to our flock.” He peered out into the congregation. “I know this is an unusual coupling of ceremonies, but the Lord has told me we should purify her now, since we are already gathered here.” With this, he looked in Maryam's direction.

She hesitated, unsure what was expected of her, still clutching the pile of clothes. Should she lay them down and go to him?

“Come,” he now ordered, and she stumbled from behind the curtains, aware that every eye now tracked her progress as she made her way to Father Joshua's side. “Lay the clothing down,” he said, and she did as she was told.

She felt so vulnerable in her plain linen gown, the bloody cross now dried and dark upon her chest. Father Joshua stepped up behind her, taking her by the shoulders to position her right before the figure of the Lamb. “Kneel,” he said.

Her face heating and her stomach turning over, she knelt.

“Sister Maryam, we welcome you to the Holy City, and call on you to obey the Lord's every whim. Each of us must carry out His plans with humility and grace.” He rested a hand upon her shoulder and she struggled not to tremble beneath his grip. “Will you, Sister Maryam, meek and lowly in heart…”

The words were almost the same as Brother James had spoken
in the chapel that morning: “…be gentle and unresisting as our sweet Lamb, all the time surrendering your will to we Holy Fathers who have blessed you with our presence and worked with the Lord to save you from the Tribulation's wrath?”

She nodded, not daring to raise her focus from the floor. “I will.”

“Amen,” the crowd responded. Behind her, Father Joshua seemed to shift away, and she heard the pouring of liquid. He returned, passed a silver cup to her, and whispered hot breathy words into her ear. “Drink this right down, and don't stop until it's all gone.”

She raised the gleaming silver cup to her lips. The liquid inside smelt bitter and burned her throat as she forced it down. Once swallowed, it smouldered deep inside her gut.

The congregation broke into the familiar song. “
When the Bridegroom cometh will your robes be white?…
” But Maryam's head started to fog, and she found it hard to follow the words. Something was not right. Something…

“Arise,” Father Joshua now said, and she wobbled as she tried to stand. The drink! Whatever it was made from, it muddied her thinking and stole her natural sense of balance. “Are you ready, Sister Maryam, to live out your fate?”

“I am,” she croaked, forcing her assent out through a thick sea fog. She risked glancing upward, trying to pick Rebekah's comforting face out in the crowd. But the faces swam before her and she could not focus as far back as the servers' seats. Instead, she found herself staring straight into the stark blue eyes of Joseph. Quickly, she looked away.