The Crossing (8 page)

“I don't know where it's kept. I don't—” Rebekah's voice trailed off.

“Rebekah, listen to me.” Maryam ran her eyes around the doorframe, desperate for an idea. The door hinges were cut neatly into the frame and, unless the door was open, could not be reached. Come on, come on, there
had
to be something. Then her gaze returned to the lock. Maybe some kind of tool—a bone hairpin, a knife, a fork…“Do you have anything long and thin inside your room? A hairpin or a knife perhaps?”

“Knife?” Rebekah giggled. “No.”

Maryam wanted to shriek at her. Wake up! Instead she bit back her frustration and kept her voice low. “Anything else?”

“Um…um…” Rebekah seemed to be muttering to herself.

“What did you say?”

“Mother Michal will be angry if I let you out.” Her voice sounded slurred and strange. “I cannot help you, Maryam; go back to bed.”

“You don't understand, I—”

Rebekah cut back in, her disinterest slicing through the void. “Take some more of the toddy, Maryam, so you can sleep. I left some by your bedside when I collected mine.” With that, she returned to her own bedroom and closed the door.

So that was it—the toddy kept them tame and dosed up to the point of helplessness. Maryam felt a rage building inside her. She hauled herself upward, grabbing for the offending door handle. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply against the dizziness. She had to do this; had to find something to free the lock. But what? There was nothing in this room except the few mementos she had brought. Her clothes, the stone from Ruth, the albatross feather…that was it! She stumbled over to the bedside table and opened the drawer.

The central spine of the feather was thick and strong, and she flexed it in her fingers to assess its worth. Maybe it would work…it
had
to work. She returned to the door and inserted the shaft into the lock. Jiggled it. Spun it around. But it merely passed through to the other side, not catching on the mechanism that could set her free. It needed to be hooked and curved. She drew it back toward her, angling the feather so the shaft bent in toward the lock. Pushed it hard, feeling the shaft resist
as it twisted into the narrow opening. Now, again, she jiggled it, and could feel the resistance as it slid around within the space. Metal shifted inside the workings of the lock but nothing seemed to make it work.

Just as she was about to give up, the lock clicked. She breathed out her relief and tentatively opened the door. She crept out of the room, listening for a hint of noise, but nothing stirred. Rebekah, obviously, had fallen straight back into her drugged sleep.

The effort of unlocking the door had sapped Maryam's strength, and she had to force herself along the corridor, where the snores of others combined to form a rumbling harmony. She worked her way back to the dreaded hospital wing, relying on the handrails for support.

The atrium stairwell in sight, she heard laughter from an upper floor. She slunk back into the shadows, head thudding. The great atrium dome rippled and swam in the reflections off the water, refracted through the banks of windows from the distant sea below. It might have been beautiful at other times, but now it just reminded Maryam of how far away she was from land. She doubted she could walk the length of the causeway, even if it were not guarded as she suspected. The vapid moon now lit her way and she mustered up her energy for a dash to the stairs.

The effort nearly finished her, and she sagged down inside the stairwell to regain some semblance of strength, gasping like a fish beached in the sun. Perhaps it was too late already to seek Hushai's help?

Precious minutes fled, then she struggled on. Somewhere above her, late-night conversation trickled through the warm
still air, but she could neither decipher the words nor identify who spoke. She wove down to the lower deck, clinging to the shadows as she edged along the narrow corridor. Which number had he said? Five-five-what? It would not come to her and the proximity of the blood-letting room pushed all logic from her mind. Would Joseph still be in there? Had his life been saved? It mattered badly to her now—he shared her blood. But would he even know of this? From what she could recall of the Mothers' conversation, she reckoned not.

She could not resist the room. So slowly that no one could have detected it, she cracked open the door. The trolley that he'd lain upon remained inside, and no one was in the room besides an unmoving figure upon the bed. She crept in, drawn to it despite her fear, and there he lay. Even in the scrap of light from the high window she could see that the whorls upon Joseph's neck seemed somewhat faded and his brow was now smooth. But he lay there so silent, she could not tell if he breathed. Gently, like a night moth resting on a leaf, she laid her hand upon his chest. Yes, it rose and fell. For this she felt ridiculously pleased. To have forfeited her blood to him, then have him die, would have been terrible.

She was impelled to draw his fine blond hair away from his eyes, and her fingers brushed his pale skin. His eyes shot open.

“Holy—” Maryam bit back her shock, terrified she might alert someone to her presence. His eyes remained fixed on her.

“You!” he mouthed, his voice constricted in his throat. His blue eyes bound her there. He tried to shift upon the bed but could not move. “Will you release the straps?” he begged in a whisper that, to Maryam, seemed to boom out like a conch shell call.

“Straps?” Tentatively she raised the sheet, mortified to see that all he wore was a ragged pair of shorts. But she tried to put this from her mind as she noticed how his arms and legs were strapped in place. He, too, was trapped.

Embarrassment burning her face, she fumbled with the restraints, trying to avoid any further contact with his skin. As the final strap fell away he tried to rise. She knew, by the way his eyes were unfocused, that he, too, was dizzy and disoriented. She offered him her hand, carefully helping him up. As she did so, the sleeve of her plain nightgown rolled back to reveal the bandage on her arm.

Joseph's eyes locked on this. “What did they do to you?” he gasped, and the mystification in his voice confirmed that he had no idea what had really taken place.

Somewhere close by a door slammed shut and Maryam jumped. “I have to go,” she whispered urgently. “If I am caught…” She let the consequences go unspoken, unsure where his loyalties lay.

“But, Sister Maryam—” He reached out for her but she was too fast for him, even in her weakened state.

She plunged back into the dark corridor, desperately trying to dredge Hushai's room number up from her mind. Five-five-zero? Five-five-one? Five-five-two? Five-five-three? It was no use: she would have to try a door.

With her heart beating so hard its sound must surely penetrate the sleeping night, she drew a breath and took a chance, carefully opening the one door whose number seemed to ring some tiny bell inside her head.

It was so quiet, at first she thought the room was empty. But as she leaned against the door, her heart still knocking wildly against her ribs, her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she saw that someone lay upon the bed. It was impossible to tell if it was Hushai, unless she risked a closer look. But what if she had chosen the wrong room and now accidentally roused someone else? What would they do?

She stilled herself, listening past her own jagged breathing to catch the pattern of the other's breath. It was so shallow, so weak, she had to strain to hear it at all. Despite her fear, she edged nearer, willing her eyes to pick up clues. Long tangled hair straggled out across the pillow: the sleeper here was Sister Sarah.

Sarah's eyelids fluttered, as though she see-sawed between wakefulness and sleep. Her forehead was slicked with sweat and her face, despite her naturally brown skin, was hauntingly pale. As Maryam watched, it contorted in a spasm and Sarah moaned.

Maryam could not resist the urge to reach out for her hand to comfort her. “It's all right, Sarah. I am here.”

The other girl's eyes slowly blinked open. “Maryam?” Her voice was little more than a painful wheeze.

“Shall I fetch you something?”

“No! Please, do not call the Mothers in.” She shuddered, trying and failing to wriggle up the bed a little. Maryam reached behind to support Sarah's bony spine as she propped her up against the pillows. Mother Michal was right. Death
perched on Sarah's shoulder like a greedy frigate bird waiting to steal another's catch.

Sarah watched Maryam as if drinking her in, her gaze dropping to the bandage on Maryam's arm. “Oh no,” she groaned. “They have bled you, too.”

Despite Sarah's obvious exhaustion, Maryam was desperate to discover more. “You must tell me what you know.”

Sarah closed her eyes. When, finally, she spoke, her words came out in a rush. “We're nothing more than slaves to them—they suck our blood to preserve their lives.”

“But why should the Apostles need our blood? They have shelter, food, water to drink. And are we not told the Lord has blessed them with freedom from the plague—”

“It isn't true,” Sarah cut in, struggling for breath. “They've lied to us, Maryam. They are no more resistant to Te Matee Iai then you or me. It's
our
blood that sustains them.”

“I don't understand. Why, then, would the Lord let them do this to us? It is wrong.”

Sarah's thin laugh reduced to a retching cough. She closed her eyes, as though willing up the strength to continue. When she did, anger forced the words from her. “We're merely stupid animals in their eyes. Most they pluck at puberty and force to lie with male servers to increase their stock of useful blood. Others, like you and me, they just bleed dry.”

So Maryam's fears were confirmed, though the lessons of her childhood were hard to set aside: “But we are the Chosen—the Blessed Sisters…” Even though Sarah's words backed up all her private fears, to hear them said aloud made it all the more impossible to comprehend.

“Think back to the Judgements, Maryam. What was Father
Joshua testing us for? Choosing us for? Our special blood. We have some magic that makes it safe to share our blood.” Her hand, no more substantial than bleached fingers of sea fan coral, reached out and raked down Maryam's arm. “That is why they bring us here. The men to serve, to run the ship and breed more bloodstock, while the women merely breed or bleed.”

Like the words Lazarus used.
Are you a breeder or a bleeder?
Now she understood. And her luck, it seemed, was against her—deemed too small and possibly deformed to birth a child, she was doomed to bleed.

“I am going to die soon, Maryam,” Sarah said, her head sinking back on the pillow.

“No!” her friend whispered urgently.

Sarah's cold fingers wrapped around Maryam's hand. “It is too late for me. I want to go.” She sighed. “But you, Maryam, should flee. Don't let them do this to you too.”

Maryam swept this impossibility aside and asked, instead, the burning question. “How is it that our blood protects them? I have seen our own Sisters die—we're not immune.”

Sarah bit her lip, trying to slow her ragged breathing. “Not immune. No. But the plague robs them of something important in their blood. They use ours to replace theirs.”

There was a gasp from the doorway. Maryam jumped to her feet, to fight or flee if necessary. But the sudden movement churned her brain, and she staggered, her eyes locked on Joseph's face.

“That's what they did? Gave me your blood?”

“Get out,” Maryam hissed. “Your presence puts us both at risk.”

She tried to push him from the room but he raised his
hands, holding his ground. “I never knew,” he whispered. “You have to believe me.”

Behind them Sarah coughed and great spasms wracked her whole body. Maryam turned back to the bed. “What can I do to help you, Sarah?”

Her friend struggled to breathe. Sweat now poured from her, drenching the pillow and trickling down her brows like tears. “Please,” she begged. “Just help me get up to the deck, to open air.”

Maryam hesitated. What would the Apostles do, if they were found wandering the ship?

“I will take you,” Joseph's voice broke through her indecision. He stepped closer, steadier now upon his feet.

Sarah made to rise, but clearly both Maryam and Joseph would be needed. “I will help,” Maryam said.

One either side of Sarah, they supported her as she tentatively tried to stand. Up close she smelt stale and sickeningly sweet, as though her body had already begun its final journey back to earth. Although she was as light as a small child, they laboured to hold her upright, and Maryam felt the drain upon her own strength as she helped Sarah shuffle toward the door.

At the door Joseph stepped forward to check that their way was clear. The corridor was still in darkness, and nothing stirred. “This will be hard,” he murmured to Maryam. “The stairs will be our biggest challenge if we want to get her to the forward deck.”

“Are you sure that's safe?” Maryam asked. This was crazy, all three escaping from their personal prisons with no guarantee of remaining free. But she could understand Sarah's need, having lived beneath these low ceilings—with no sky, no stars, no breeze to whisper of the sea's vast wealth.

“No,” Joseph snapped. “Do you have a better plan?” Between them, Sarah's breaths transformed to straining grunts and Maryam sensed that they had little time to reach the air.

“No need to bite,” she batted back at him. “I'm just not sure she'll make it up.”

Their eyes met across Sarah's pale face and Maryam, though flinching from his glare, raised her chin defiantly.

“What in the name of the Lamb is going on? Who is there?” The voice behind them jolted Maryam and Joseph so they nearly lost their grip on Sarah.

As Joseph battled to raise her again, Maryam swung around, ready to take the consequences. There in the gloom of the corridor stood Hushai, and Maryam was so relieved she nearly wept.

“Hushai! It's Maryam. I have Sister Sarah here…”

“And I am Joseph, Jonah's boy.”

The old man walked toward them, still ruffled from sleep. “What are you doing, child?” His hands spread before him and reached out for Sarah's drooping head. One hand lit upon her forehead, before sliding gently down her neck to rest at the place where her pulse beat swift and shallow, like the fast-winged fluttering of a small witata honeyeater as it fed. Whatever he discovered there did not please him, his wrinkled face folding into a frown. “This girl needs to be in bed. Are you both mad?”

“Please, Hushai, it is Sarah's wish to breathe fresh air.”
Last wish
, Maryam tried to project to him. She feared they would not reach their goal before Sarah's fragile life snuffed out.

For long seconds Hushai's fogged eyes just stared at them, his head tipped to one side as though he listened for some secret message. Then he sighed, his whole body sagging. “You will
never reach the upper deck without detection. Follow me; I'll guide you to a safe place closer to here.” He quickly turned, not waiting for their response.

Maryam met Joseph's eye, and he nodded. Together, they supported Sarah down the increasingly dark corridor. Hushai, in the lead, had the advantage here, somehow able to negotiate the twists and turns of the ship's maze-like layout without the need for working eyes. Maryam and Joseph struggled to keep up.

Sarah's legs dragged like anchor stones, weighing her down toward the depths. Only willpower and the fear of discovery enabled Maryam to continue buttressing her. Maryam's jaw ached from gritting her teeth and her muscles cramped from need of rest. All the while a hard knot of knowledge formed deep inside her—one day soon the dying Sister might be her.

Finally Hushai stopped before a metal door. He spun the rusted wheel that held it shut and then heaved it open, the rush of fresh air coming as welcome relief. They lifted Sarah across the raised threshold, out onto a long open deck. Maryam recognised the space, a wide slot that ran below the window line halfway up the ship's great hull.

“Once the lifeboats were housed here,” Hushai explained. “After the Tribulation many of the passengers took the boats and tried to return home. It is thought that all were lost in the wild storms that spat from the sky—only the shattered debris of the boats ever returned.” He removed the fraying jacket he wore and spread it on the deck beside the wall. “Lay Sister Sarah down over here.”

They lowered her as gently as they could, but Sarah still cried out as she sank toward the cold hard deck. Maryam huddled down beside her, so Sarah could lean against her to
view the sea. A crescent moon hung above the highest peak of Onewēre, its soft light painting silver highlights on the rippled sea. Although not cold, the breeze brought the crisp salty freshness of the sea air in to them, to overlay the dank tang of rotting steel. It nipped around them, tingling skin grown stale from the confines of the ship. But Sarah shivered now, unable to control the spasms as her limbs began their slow dance with death.

Hushai bent down and again checked her vital signs, shaking his head at what he found. “I must go and check the other patients—it is time. But then I will return and you two must go before the morning comes.”

“There are others?” Maryam felt compelled to ask. How many more were shut in claustrophobic rooms, waiting for the end to come?

“Many, child. Some fight Te Matee Iai—the fallout of the Tribulation—while others succumb to the usual illnesses and injuries of any group. And then there are the Blessed, who suffer from the Lord's secret plan.”

“What do you mean?” Joseph's voice was taut.

Hushai held out a hand to halt more questions. “There is much to learn if you seek it, Brother Joseph. But now is not the best of times. I will return as quickly as I can.” He left, carefully sealing the door behind him.

Sarah groaned, driving all other problems from Maryam's mind. If there was nothing she could do to save Sarah or ease her pain, then at least she could make her last moments less frightening and alone. She wrapped her arms around Sarah's frail shoulders, trying to transfer some of her own body heat to her.

Sarah's eyes were fixed on the stars that looked down from the endless sky. “What do you think will happen to me when
I die?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a prolonged sigh.

“The Lord will welcome you to Heaven,” Maryam replied, trying to keep her voice free of doubt.

Sarah turned her tired eyes to Maryam. “There is no God.”

Maryam's mouth dropped open in surprise. Never had she heard such sacrilegious words. What really shocked her was the tiny voice inside her head that chortled in dangerous revolt. And the realisation that if the Lord indeed did live through the Apostles, then He was complicit in their acts.

But she must block these thoughts: He would know, would hear her doubt and condemn her to the fires of Hell.

She glanced at Joseph, now settled on Sarah's other side. How would the privileged son of an Apostle react to this?

“Whatever befalls you, Sister Sarah,” he softly said, “it will be better and kinder than what you have experienced here.”

Maryam met the sadness in his eyes and nodded her thanks.

Joseph gently took Sarah's hand in his. Looking up at the stars he said, “My father once told me of your ancestors' creation myth, before the first missionaries arrived here with the word of the Lord. He told me Nareau the Creator ordered Na Atibu, who was stone, to lie with Nei Teakea, the Emptiness, and bear a son—Nareau the Wise. Together, then, they worked to give light to the newly separated world. But it was not an easy task for Nareau the Wise—he had to slay his father, who was filled with light. Then he plucked out his father's right eye and threw it up toward the east, to form the sun. The left eye he cast up into the western sky to make the moon, in order to reflect the sun's great light. And, finally, the ribs he scattered in the sky, where they splintered into minute particles to form the stars.”