Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) by Mandy Hager Page A

onto the ground. “Very sorry! Puji bagi Buddha!”
    She beckoned Maryam and Aanjay into her hut and motioned for them to sit opposite her as she collapsed in her haphazard fashion onto a mat. With no further ceremony she began to speak, describing how to make the cure: “You girl. Listen good. Need two whole plants, ready with seeds. Boil all bulu halus—”
    “What's that?”
    Aanjay translated. “It means fluff.”
    “Fluff, yes, from place of seeds.”
    Now Maryam understood what the old woman was describing: the silken fibres that burst from the seed pod of the miriki-tarai shrub at the time the seeds dispersed. “I see,” she said. “Go on.”
    “Boil fluff with milky sap from stems—and peepee. Much peepee. Two big cups.”
    Maryam screwed up her face. “Peepee?” She couldn't possibly mean—
    Filza pointed to her private place. “Make water. Peepee.” She chuckled. “Not old woman peepee—too little, too weak. Use big strong boys.” She shifted on the mat, and Maryam heard the disconcerting grind of bone on bone. “Last thing add all leaves, then boil up fifteen minutes before cool. Now you.” She peered at Maryam expectantly.
    “All right,” Maryam said. “I need the sap of two whole miriki-tarai shrubs and all their leaves, plus the fluff from their seedpods and two full cups of…peepee…then boil for fifteen minutes and cool. What next?”
    Filza tapped her forehead and grinned. “Maybe smart girl after all.” She twisted to one side, freeing her buttock from the mat as she broke more wind. “Ah, better now. Okay. Leave whole night. Sun comes up pour through cloth.”
    “You mean to strain out all the bits?”
    “Yes yes. Strain bits. Sick one drink all up, then do again.” She splayed the fingers of one hand out before her and counted off each finger with her other hand. “Satu…dua…tiga…empat…lima. Lima hari.” She turned to Aanjay. “Miss sehari dan itu tidak akan berhasil.”
    Aanjay nodded. “She says you have to do this five days in a row—and if you miss a day then it won't work.”
    Maryam grinned. “That's a lot of peepee to find!”
    “Lotta peepee! Lotta big big boys!” Filza laughed so hard she snorted mucous from her nose. Without any embarrassment, she wiped it away with the back of her hand then licked it off. “Nose wax good obat too.”
    Maryam dared not meet Aanjay's eye as she struggled tocurb the bubbling urge to laugh. She had to focus; had to get the remedy right in every way if she was to claim she knew the cure. But the old woman was so crazy. Could she really be sure this strange treatment would work?
    She posed this nagging doubt to Aanjay after they'd finally left Filza's hut. “How will I know until I see it cure someone with my own eyes? What if she's wrong? Making it up?” Or just plain forgetful. “She's very old.”
    “Just because her English is not good, do not discount her. Her mind is as sharp as yours or mine.”
    “You're sure?”
    “You have to trust that it is so,” Aanjay replied. “The Buddha said: Have confidence in the Truth, although you may not be able to comprehend it, although you may suppose its sweetness to be bitter, although you may shrink from it at first…Have faith in the Truth and live it.”
    “But are you confident she's telling the truth? The mix of ingredients sounds very strange.”
    Aanjay paused mid-step and turned to Maryam, taking up her hand. “All faith calls for radical trust, Maryam. In the end we cannot rely on others to prove if something is right or wrong, true or false—or even if it exists at all. All we can rely on is the truth that speaks to us through our heart.” She lifted their linked hands and pressed Maryam's to her chest. “What does your heart tell you?”
    Maryam closed her eyes, concentrating on the gentle rhythmic beating of the life-force beneath her palm. She understood what Aanjay was trying to say—that at some point you had to ignore all the swirling in your head