The Crossing, page 8
She cracked open her eyes a fraction, focusing first on the plain white wall opposite. Then she peered down at her aching arm. At the crook of her elbow, the needle-like cannula disappeared into her skin. From its other end a clear tube extended, and through it she could see her own blood flowing from her arm. She carefully tracked the tube, alert to any movement from Mother Michal. There appeared to be some kind of regulator that controlled the direction of the flow, and further down a strange bulb-like attachment and then more tube. Her blood gleamed crimson and it scared her to see this precious substance drawn from her body in such a steady flow.
Then the hairs on the back of her neck sprang up as she saw the boy Joseph lying there as still as death, her blood pouring into his veins through a needle in his arm. And worse, from his other prone arm, his own blood flowed away into a bowl. What were they doing, pumping her precious life blood into him? Surely this was not the gift of healing Father Joshua had consigned her to? How could this be part of the Lord's loving plan?
Mother Michal stirred and Maryam quickly closed her eyes. She heard a door opening and a new voice spoke. “Mother Michal, Mother Lilith asked if you could leave for a moment and come with me. Three more patients have arrived and we're short of hands.”
“Of course,” Mother Michal responded, and the chair scraped as she rose.
Maryam waited for the sound of retreating footsteps before she risked opening her eyes again. Indeed the room was empty now, except for Joseph and her. She leaned out from the raised bed to study his sleeping face. The deep purple bruises of sickness under each eye were stark against his pasty skin. And the first angry whorls of Te Matee Iai mottled the boy's long neck. This realisation staggered her—had not the Lord granted the Apostles reprieve from this? Yet she knew the signs. Had seen others submit to its grasp. Like Joseph's father…perhaps she had seen the fatal signs on Father Jonah after all.
Joseph mumbled in his toddy-induced sleep, lines of worry creasing his brow. He was handsome, Maryam conceded—not in the broad glowing way of native boys, but his nose was thin and straight and his lips, though pale, were full and soft. And, beneath the long pale eyelashes she knew his eyes were striking blue. Such a waste to see his life hang in the balance like this, and yet…surely they would not save him at her expense?
Fear pressed in. It seemed to be true, from the words of the two Mothers, and the proof that pumped her blood away. He was the son of an Apostle, after all. For all she knew he was already old enough to be made one of their leaders. Yet had not the Holy Book said that all would be equal under the Lord's gaze? None of this made any sense. It scared her, tied as she was to the circulation of another, to think that the sacrifice of the Rules was not some vague term for humility and commitment, but real death. One thing she was sure of: she was not yet ready for her life to end.
She turned her attention to the cannula in her arm. What would be the dangers of tearing it out? Would she be able to stem the flow of blood—to heal the wound? And where could she run once it was out? There was nowhere to escape to: the Apostles swarmed the ship and even on land their control stretched from one end of the island to the other. Besides, would her removal of the cannula doom the kind-spirited boy to die? There was so much to think through; so much she still did not understand. But she did not need the Rules or the Holy Book to tell her what was right or wrong. This was wrong. The callousness in Mother Lilith's voice and Mother Michal's blind acceptance of what went on.
She had no further chance to study her situation open-eyed. Footsteps sounded again and Maryam lay back, willing her breath to slow, as Mother Michal approached the beds, a sigh escaping her. “Don't give up, young man,” she cooed to the unconscious Joseph. “With luck we'll have you strong and healthy once again.”
Such concern made Maryam want to scream. Where were these same words for her? She longed to see Mother Elizabeth, sure she could offer comfort and advice. And Ruth, her little Sister, somehow she must save her from this life—and likely death.
The room grew stiflingly quiet, as Mother Michal settled back in with her Holy Book. Maryam fought to focus, to plan. But the more blood was stolen from her, the more she grew light-headed and struggled to think. She felt as though all life, all hope, was draining from her. Her head grew dizzier, her heart-rate stampeding. And it grew cold, so cold, despite the sweat that broke out on her skin. She began to shiver, hearing from a great distance as Mother Michal quickly rose to check on her. But then her world diffused to black.
She was back in her own small room, she realised. Beyond, the ship lay silent, and she guessed it was now late at night.
She tried to stand, dizziness nearly driving her back to the bed. But she supported herself along the wall, making her way through to the bathroom to relieve her burning thirst. The water tasted stale and flat.
Her legs had turned to jellyfish, it seemed, and she slid down the smooth wall tiles, landing with a bump upon the cold stone floor. How was she to escape this nightmare? She had to speak to someone, anyone who could answer the questions and fears that seared her mind. Then old Hushai's words came back to her—come to me and we will talk—and she determined, now, to seek him out. He alone had seemed concerned about what took place there in that terrible room. He would know what to do next.
The light-headedness swept over her as she stood once more. Only by edging her way along the walls, stopping every few steps, did she reach her bedroom door. It was locked: she was an animal trapped inside a cage. She rattled the cursed door handle, willing someone—anyone—to aid her plight. Perhaps if she could wake Rebekah…. She summoned up her strength and called as loudly as she dared. “Sister Rebekah, are you awake?”
Somewhere in the bowels of the great ship something knocked and clanked, but from the door across the corridor no sound emerged.
“Rebekah! Please!” Desperation sharpened her voice and like a fish spear it pierced the wooden door, crossed the empty corridor and somehow found its way to Rebekah's ear.
“What? What?”
Hearing Rebekah's sleepy voice, Maryam risked calling once more. “Help, Rebekah!” Her heart beat wildly inside her chest: others might wake. But she could not stay caged up in here, that much she knew. Sinking down beside the doorframe, she heard Rebekah emerge and try the door handle.
“It's locked!” Rebekah whispered through the keyhole. “What is wrong?”
“I need help,” Maryam whispered back, her apprehension rising at the thought of others being roused. “Please. Get me out.”
“I'll find Mother Michal—”
“No!” Maryam rose to her knees. “Please, it's you I need. Just get the key.”
“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.”
