The Crossing by Mandy Hager

as older Sisters from her youth. Pregnant bellies bursting from their uniforms, the young women greeted Maryam kindly, although there was a disconnected vagueness to their speech. Was this the result of the toddy, Maryam wondered? Server after server fitted this description, as she met each of the twenty or so in the room. And yet they appeared quite happy, apart from Sarah, and nattered comfortably together as they worked. She longed to join them, to enter into their cheerful conversations, but one of the Apostles—a large woman in her later years—watched from her vantage point, an armchair placed strategically in the middle of the vast kitchen space.
    â€œWho have we here?” this woman asked, as Rebekah led Maryam forward.
    â€œMother Jael, this is Sister Maryam.”
    Mother Jael looked Maryam over, her head to one side. “Ah, yes. Show her where the dishes are washed and stacked,” she told Rebekah. “She looks as though she's careful. Is that right, girl?”
    Maryam nodded, skimming her eyes over Mother Jael's wide soft face. She had never seen anyone quite so fat before, skin dragged down by the weight of undulating rolls that wobbled, independent of her, as she moved. So much food, to grow this big. The Lord surely must provide richly for His own.
    The work was tedious yet soothing and Maryam found herself relaxing for the first time since her Crossing. To havesomething practical to do, to focus on, helped subdue the anxiety that still swirled inside her head. Meanwhile, all about her, the servers worked in calm harmony, some breaking into song as they performed their tasks.
    When the stack of breakfast dishes was finally cleared, the male server Brother Mark, who Maryam had met when first she Crossed, approached. “Mother Jael suggests you help us with the toddy,” he announced, smiling. “Please come with me.”
    She followed him to the far end of the kitchen, where several other servers ground huge piles of nuts and herbs into fine yellow paste. “This forms the basis of our toddy,” Brother Mark said. “We mix it with the sap of the coconut blossom spike for sweetness and leave it to ferment overnight.” He handed her a large rounded stone. “Use this to grind the paste.”
    He set her up next to the youngest of the servers there, a boy in his early teens who shot her a shy smile. “This is Brother Ethan. He will show you the right mix of herbs.”
    Maryam turned to the boy, whose face flushed red at her attention. His hands, like those of the other servers around him, were stained yellow by the paste. He cleared his throat. “These,” he said finally, showing the same vague sense of disconnection as Miriam and Abigail, “are sida leaves and flowers. We use about twenty of the leaves for each brew and four of the flowers.” He showed her the small serrated leaves—soft to the touch—and the glossy yellow flowers, then picked up a handful of kamani nuts. “The oil from these is very strong—we only use two each time.” Finally he pointed out the kurap fruit, and the leaves of nambugura and te ren shrubs. “Once you've ground each of these separately, mix them together into the final paste.”
    He showed her how to use the stone, placing his palmacross its back and rocking it in a steady motion over the nuts upon the bench. It looked so easy, yet when she tried the nuts shot off across the room, flying into dark corners she had to scrabble to retrieve them from. Around her, the stifled laughter of the servers made her blush. She tried again, more determined, watching how the others placed the whole weight of their bodies above the stone. She stood on tiptoe, trying to press down through her shoulders and arms, not just her hand. Slowly the movement came to her. Soon she was consumed by the tangy scent the paste gave off and her hands, too, were stained with yellow. As she worked, she followed the