The Crossing (5 page)

“As the Lord has gifted you this glorious new life, we strip away the memories of your past.” Father Joshua hooked both
his hands into the collar of her gown and, before she could react, tore the garment right down her back and flung it off into the crowd. She stood naked, apart from her underwear, and her arms instinctively rose to hide her breasts. “Lower your arms,” Father Joshua hissed, and she fought back sobs as she obeyed.

“Amen! Amen!” The crowd erupted. Maryam hunched before them, ashamed, closing her eyes as their applause built and swelled inside her head. How could Father Joshua treat her so? She longed to run, to flee the hot humiliation that swept over her in dizzy waves.

Just as she thought she could stand the disgrace no longer, someone—a woman, from her gentleness—came and dressed her once again. Maryam steadfastly refused to open her eyes until the strange new clothing, the black and white uniform she had brought, was in place. Then her gaze fell straight on the smirking face of the young man in the front row, the one who had helped Joseph.

“Now, Sister Maryam, recite the Rules,” Father Joshua ordered.

Maryam struggled against the befuddling effects of the drink. The Rules? She knew them back to front, did she not? But the words would not form clearly in her mind. The congregation hushed, and panic gripped her throat. “
Rule One: There is but one thing…
” What thing? What? How could she forget this now?

She cast her gaze about, desperate for Rebekah's help, but still she could not locate her and still her brain refused to yield the sacred words.

“…
in the world
,” someone in the rows below her prompted, and she looked straight into the sapphire eyes of Joseph—“
that can cleanse us of our sins
,” he mouthed.

She had it now, suddenly remembering what came next. “
And that is the power of the Blood of the Lamb
.” She swallowed. “
Rule Two: By the sacred power of His Blood…
”

The words flowed from her now, even as the fog closed in. She fought to reach the end of the recitation, stumbling over easy words she should have known. The urge to sleep—to escape—seeped into every part of her body and, by the final Rule, her lips felt swollen and could barely move.

She struggled to remain upright as Father Joshua led a prayer. Then, it seemed, the trial was over. “We will now proceed to the upper deck,” he said, taking her firmly by the arm, down the stairs, between the rows of the clapping congregation and out through the doors.

Outside, he turned to her. “You are small,” he said. “I hope you can fulfil your task.” He bent down until they met eye to eye. “Wherever you go and whatever you're doing, Sister Maryam, remember that the Lord watches you. And that I, as his chosen vessel, see and know all.”

“Yes Father,” Maryam responded dully, unable to hold his gaze. Waves of sickness rolled through her and she closed her mouth, scared the roiling drink inside would soon erupt.

But now the first of the congregation burst through the doors, and Father Joshua guided her along the walkway to the open deck. Outside the wind had lessened and it smelt so good to be up in the clean sea air.

Against the railing four strong servers quietly stood beside Father Jonah's body, now on a pyre of wood aboard a raft. The deck filled with onlookers, and through them Joseph edged his grieving mother. She bent down and kissed her husband one last time, her mouth lingering upon his shrouded forehead.
Very gently, Joseph drew her away and they held each other in a tight embrace.

Father Joshua prayed once more, nodded his head, and the servers clipped back the railing, maneuvering the raft over to the edge. They lifted it until it hung in mid air, high above the restless sea.

Joseph stepped forward to receive a burning torch from another of the waiting servers, before stumbling toward the raft. Maryam, through her haze, wanted to cry out to him—tell him he did not need to be the one to start the fire—but Mother Deborah began to weep again and this enlivened him, as though he hurried now to ease her pain. He pushed the burning torch into the pyre and it caught immediately—the wind feeding the flames' hunger as they leapt from kindling to wood, wood to flesh. The servers carefully lowered the raft down the side of the great
Star of the Sea
and, when it reached the waves below, released the burning body to the sea.

Again the crowd began to sing, but Maryam could not follow the words. Her head now pounded with a fury that shot tears into her eyes and she struggled to hold them open. The singing and the crush of people amplified around her and she sensed that she was losing grip. She cast about, desperate for someone who might ease her plight. But now she was falling…

Deep red pulsing pain clamped her brain. She had no idea where she was or what had befallen her—and try as she might, she could not move. Even her eyelids refused to break their seal and she lay trapped somewhere, blind and prone. Then, slowly, the funeral and the welcoming ritual came back to her. She groaned, the sound enormous in the void around her.

She heard the scrape of a chair. The rustle of clothes. And sensed someone leaning over her as the light before her eyelids dulled. “It's all right, Sister Maryam, nothing to fear.” The voice was male, breathy as the wind through palm fronds.

She tried to speak, to question him, but her mouth, like her eyelids, ignored the urgent messages shouted in her brain. Where was she, and who was this person? Fear rose in her: she was helpless and alone with a strange man.

A warm hand patted her arm. “I'm Hushai, Sister Maryam. Please do not be afraid.” She heard him move away from her, then the sound of pouring water. He returned, placing a warm cloth over her eyes and gently wiping there. She felt her eyes ease beneath the warmth. Slowly she blinked them open, but the light seared like hot charcoals in her already pounding head. She cried out, an animal sound bereft of words, and an age-wrecked Island face suddenly hovered in her line of sight—unfocused through the stream of her tears.

“Try to sip a little of this water, it will help.” He held a cup to Maryam's lips, gently lifting her head a little so she could swallow.

The water eased the burning in her throat enough for her to whisper, “What happened?”

Hushai patted her arm again. “The sacred anga kerea toddy you drank from the chalice—it has powerful charms.”

So it
was
the drink. Maryam blinked and tried to focus on the man who spoke. He was quite the oldest person she had seen, the lines upon his face as marked and rugged as the bands of weed that tiered the beach after a storm. And his eyes, which seemed to look down on her so kindly, were as milky as those of a long dead fish. Could he even see her?

It was as if he read her mind. “The good Lord long ago removed my sight. But He has not left me blind, oh no—He gifts me with the power to sense what others see.” Again he offered her the cup, and this time the water flowed more freely down her throat.

While her head was tilted up to drink she looked around her. She was in some new place—a small white enclosure with rows of glass-doored cupboards and well stocked shelves.

“This is our hospital,” Hushai said.

“Hos-pi-tal? What is that?”

He chuckled. “Sorry, little Sister. I forgot that there is much you do not know. This is the place for healing, where those who need it are cared for and eased.” He laid her head back down tenderly and wiped a small dribble of water from her chin. Something like a sudden sea squall rippled out across his ancient face. “It is potent stuff you drank. Not good. Refuse it whenever possible—or do not drink the full amount.”

“But Father Joshua…” She bit back the other words. Questioning the great Apostle's reasons for plying the drink was foolishness. Had he not warned her that he, along with the
Lord, knew and saw all? Besides, she did not know this Hushai. The best response, she guessed, was silence.

She sighed, her head so full of questions and confusion that it throbbed all the more. The old man laid the cooled cloth across her forehead. “This should help to dull the pain.”

Again she felt as though he read her thoughts, and she tried to block the dangerous doubts and questions from her mind. He smiled down at her, taking each of her hands into his own. The gesture was so kindly done she did not shy away from his touch.

He leaned in toward her, until he was so close she could hear his breath. “There is something in you, Sister, that shines past the haze that blinds me. Look into my eyes and just relax—show me what is in your heart.”

She stared up, unsure what it was he wanted from her. But she felt compelled, her heart speeding. The old man's eyes looked as though a cloud had crossed the sun; a strange light still seemed to emit some warmth. How terrible, she thought, to lose the gift of sight. To never see the sun set coral pink against a glassy sea, or the bright bursts of colour when the flowers bloomed in the jungle. How achingly sad, never to look upon the faces of those you love.

Hushai squeezed her hands, smiling down. “What a heart,” he murmured. “There is indeed a greatness there. I see a strength: a mind both questioning and true. You have a task that none but you can carry out. This is your destiny, which you must serve.”

She smiled despite her pain. The old man said nothing that she did not know. “Then I have met my destiny, for have I not promised to serve the Lamb's Apostles this very day?”

Outside the door footsteps approached. Hushai quickly ducked down, until his mouth was crushed against her ear.

“That is not of what I speak,” he whispered. “There are other—”

“Ah, I see you have regained yourself.” The voice belonged to a woman.

Hushai rose quickly, turning toward her. “Holy Mother! Sister Maryam has just roused.”

The woman was tall and middle-aged, her dark hair swept back from her face. She was clothed in the white uniform of the Apostles, the starkness of the fabric draining her face of colour while straight dark eyebrows stood out like horizon lines above narrow brown eyes. She crossed to Maryam and looked down upon her with an assessing eye.

“How do you feel, child?”

“As though my head has burst,” Maryam replied.

“Indeed.” The stranger patted Maryam's arm with a cool hand. “You must be very sensitive—you have already slept one full night.”

One full night?
Surely she had just arrived?

Turning to Hushai, the woman said, “Prepare the draught.”

Hushai's blind eyes scanned over Maryam, his mouth set hard as though he fought to hold back words. He bowed his head, shuffling from the room. “As you wish.”

Now the woman's gaze returned to Maryam. “I am Mother Lilith—the physician here. I must check your health to ascertain how best you'll serve.”

Maryam nodded vaguely, unsure what Mother Lilith meant. “I have my Bloods,” she offered, wondering if there was a need to prove her claim.

Mother Lilith crossed to the benches below the cupboards and washed her hands in a bowl of water. “You would not be here if there was any doubt of that, my dear. Now I must check that everything inside you is in place.” She started to lay strange-looking instruments out on the bench.

Hushai returned, bearing a cup. He crossed to Maryam, positioning himself so his body blocked her from Mother Lilith's line of sight. “Drink this all up,” he instructed loudly, supporting her raised head with one hand as he drew the cup toward her lips.

The smell repelled her—the same bitter scent as the drink that had landed her here. She did not want to swallow it, felt the bile rise in her throat just at the thought.

“Take only a little,” Hushai whispered, so softly that she barely heard. She swallowed the first mouthful, gagging as it burned her throat. It tasted stronger, this draught, than the one she had downed from the silver cup. How much more time would she lose once it worked its powerful charm? Another day?

As Hushai guided the cup back toward her lips, he seemed to misjudge his aim, spilling at least half of it down the side of her pillow. Then he offered her the last mouthful, virtually just mouthing the words that tickled at her ear. “This much alone will help ease your pain.” While Mother Lilith's back was still turned, he flipped the pillow over, hiding any evidence of the spilt draught.

Maryam struggled to swallow the last mouthful, feeling every drop as it scorched a path down to her stomach. The effects were almost immediate—the same dizzying desire to sleep; the same sickening creep of fog that slowed her brain.

Hushai patted her arm. “I will attend you later, little
Sister,” he said for the benefit of Mother Lilith. Then he bent down close. “Be strong.”

With that, the old man left Maryam alone in the room with Mother Lilith, who approached her now, carrying a strange metal device. “I must give you an internal examination,” she explained. “You will not recall it when you wake.”

The words came to Maryam through an increasing haze, which dampened down her rising panic as Mother Lilith reached up beneath her skirt and removed her undergarments. She pushed Maryam's legs back, so her knees were bent, and removed the sponge that stemmed her blood. Why was she doing this? It was terrible—humiliating—and Maryam longed to cry out, to rise up from the bed and run. But the draught was hitting her hard now, and she felt the limb-numbing concoction deaden her, as though it was detaching her body from her will to move.

Maryam struggled to keep her eyes open, to see what was happening as Mother Lilith took the glinting metal device and started to push it into her most secret place. The pain! It shot through her and she cried out. How could Mother Lilith do this evil thing? Then the physician pushed the cold hard object again, as though forcing through a barrier, and the pain grew too intense for Maryam to bear. It overcame her, spiralling her down into a place of nothing, as dark as death.

Voices roused her, pressing through the layers of her dulled consciousness like the cries of sea birds carried from far out at sea. She tried to move. A cruel dull ache, starting down
between her legs and radiating up into her abdomen, caught at her breath and brought back scattered memories of what had taken place. She did not want to recall it; could not understand why Mother Lilith would do such a disgusting thing. She felt so ashamed; sure that the Lord would look down on her now and know immediately that she was dirty and defiled.

She tried to block this from her mind, concentrating as hard as possible on the low rumble of voices until she could hear past the pulsing hammer in her head. Mother Lilith was arguing with someone, in frantic whisperings outside the slightly open door.

“…do predict problems and there could be more I cannot see.”

“That's perfect then,” a male voice replied. She knew that voice. Had heard it recently. Hushai? No, too vigorous and strong. “Start her with the boy as soon as we can separate him from Deborah…”

“She's so small, Joshua. There are others who—”

“No matter,” he snapped. Father Joshua? Yes, it had to be his voice. “The best way forward is to use the subject who will least be missed.”

“But the boy is—”

“Our nephew, Lilith. My brother's son. And I will not lose another when we have the means to save him.” His voice calmed a little now, losing its edge. “Besides, we have our status to maintain.”

What were they talking about? If only her head would clear of the draught so she could think. His brother's son? Could that be the kind boy Joseph, who had helped her with the Rules?

“I cannot guarantee she'll have the volume to complete the job.”

Father Joshua's voice dropped to an icy hiss. “Take it all, if you must. Do you really think I care?”

Mother Lilith laughed at this. “No, my dear. I've known you far too long ever to think that of you!”

There was more, but the strain of trying to listen was taking its toll. Whatever was in that awful toddy it had the most peculiar effects. It stole her ability to concentrate, to hold clear thoughts together in her mind. She gave up now, letting the talk blend back into the background as her misery overflowed. Fat hot tears rolled from her eyes and pooled together in her ears and she let them fall, her arms too leaden to move and her will all gone. Was the Lord punishing her? Testing her faith? This was not the Holy City she and all the other Blessed Sisters longed to reach. Had she not prayed hard enough? Had the Lord looked inside her soul and seen the tiny specks of doubt?

She must have dozed off again, for when she next grew conscious all hint of daylight had gone. Hushai, lit by a single candle, sat in an upright chair beside her bed, his old fingers stroking bone-carved beads as he mouthed prayers.