Kako nodded his head. “Inde.” The simple agreement carried with it a world of grief and despondency.
June returned from foraging through the remains of the village and nearby gardens for what food and supplies she could find.
Kako was not in sight, but the captain was on his feet near the fire, and the sight filled her with relief. This was good. She nodded her head in satisfaction. The captain would go after Miss RyAnne and rescue her from the terrible slavers.
June’s search for food had turned up only a few potatoes, one corn stalk with two small ears of corn, and a clay pot that had somehow been spared destruction during the sacking of the village. Today she had managed to net one decent-sized fish. But if they moved away from the lake, what would they do for food on the morrow? She sighed. Bad news they had plenty of. So she would try to be thankful to see the captain on his feet and for the fact that many fruits were in season this month.
Giving the captain a nod of greeting, she bent down on her knees near the fire pit and leaned close to the coals to blow on them. They would need the fire built up to cook the few bits of food she’d found today. She fed in a few twigs from the pile nearby and was glad when they easily caught flame. She added a few stouter sticks and then sat back on her ankles.
That was when she noticed the child lying on the captain’s blanket. She gasped, and a thrill of happiness coursed through her, but her relief sapped all her strength. She remained where she was. Besides, exuberance would do no one any good. She darted the captain a questioning look.
He swayed slightly on his feet. “Kako found her and brought her in a few minutes ago.”
Nyimbo was sleeping soundly on the only bedding they had. And the captain looked about done in. He needed to lie back down.
She gestured to the child. “I will move her.” She started to rise.
But the captain swiped away the suggestion with one hand. “No. She needs the rest more than I do.”
June doubted the truth of that. The man’s color was not much better than that of his tattered shirt.
“At least sit, mzee.”
He complied, sinking rather clumsily onto the log Kako had dragged near the fire.
Half keeping an eye on him and half watching the sleeping child, June worked at creating a fish stew with the potatoes and corn and fish.
The water hadn’t even started to boil yet when the captain slumped forward.
“Mzee!” She lurched toward him and grabbed his shoulder just before he slumped all the way forward and fell into the fire. She pulled him backward off the log, away from the flames.
The man trembled all over. He should not have left his bed! She needed to move the girl and get him back onto his blanket. That would at least keep most of the dirt out of his wounds. Dr. Hunter had told her that dirt in wounds was a bad thing.
The captain’s trembling ceased, and his body went completely limp and still.
Let it not be! She placed her hand under his nose to see if he was breathing. At first she felt nothing. Her pulse pounded harder. She tilted her head, kept her hand there, and willed the man to breathe! Finally she felt the faintest puff of air against her hand.
Kako stepped back into the clearing just then.
June scrambled to her feet and kept her eyes trained near Kako’s feet, as was respectful of the man who was their tribe’s new chief. “The captain has collapsed. I think it is best if we move the child and return him to the blanket.”
Kako hoisted a singed piece of canvas into her line of sight. “I found this today. The child can sleep on this. Lay it out, and I will fetch her.”
June dipped her knees and clapped her hands in acknowledgement of his suggestion. Then she took the canvas from him and settled it over the pile of dried bamboo leaves she had slept on the night before.
It was only a moment before Kako brought the child over and laid her down. And then together they worked to lift the captain and half drag, half carry him to his pallet.
Bright new blood seeped into the shoulder of his shirt. And when June lifted the bandage to see if there was something she might do, the stench of infection greeted her. She clucked and fussed over the wound, trying to clean it as Dr. Hunter had shown her a few times in his clinic.
But she knew it was pointless. Never had she seen someone with a wound this infected recover.
Kako waited quietly nearby.
She knew he was waiting to hear her assessment. Her gaze flicked up to his for just a moment before she remembered he was now the chief, and she pulled it into proper obedient subservience. “I fear the captain will not be long with us.”
Kako turned from her, propped his hands on his hips, and tipped his face to the sky. But after only a moment he spun back to face her. “Wake the child. We must pray to the great spirit of the English. He’s the only one who can save him now.”
June bent her knees and clapped her hands. She woke Nyimbo. And the three of them knelt beside the captain, as they’d often seen Dr. Hunter do when he beseeched his god. They folded their hands and bowed their heads. June stared down at the place where a breeze ruffled the captain’s shirt and waited for Kako to begin to speak. Kako shuffled back and forth on his knees for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“June, say the prayer.”
June felt her eyes widen. What if she said the words wrong? She thought back. Had there been any special way Dr. Hunter prayed each time? She didn’t think so. She remembered the talk she and Miss RyAnne had shared on the beach when Miss RyAnne had told her that the English god could be her god too. Miss RyAnne had not said they needed to do anything special. Just believe as the doctor had spoken of in his message.
She cleared her throat. “Great spirit of the English. We know we are not English. But today we are not here for ourselves. We are here for this man who is yours already.”
Kako nudged her.
June debated between offending the spirit she was talking to or offending her chief.
Kako nudged her again.
June decided that offending the chief kneeling by her side was probably more dangerous than offending the spirit she could not see. She glanced over at Kako.
His expression held apology. “Perhaps, like a chief, this spirit will not hear the case of anyone who is not his?”
June shrugged. “How should I know?”
Nyimbo yawned sleepily.
Kako rubbed both hands down his face and then back over his hair to clasp them behind his neck. He glanced down at the captain, whose chest was barely rising and falling. “Great chiefs like to receive great gifts. I think to be safe, we need a gift to offer this spirit.”
June pondered that. “Just before Dr. Hunter died, Miss Hunter did tell me that this god could be ours too. Nyanja seemed to believe it. I was not so sure. But you might be right.”
“So how do we ensure this spirit will listen to us? Chiefs will only hear the cases of people from their own villages. And they expect large bounty before they grant new people admittance into their villages.”
June thought back. “The doctor said in his chapel that last morning that the son of this spirit came down to earth and died—”
Kako made a noise of disgust and started to climb to his feet. “How can a god who let his son die be of any help to us then?”
June captured his arm before he could tromp away. “But then the son came back to life again! And that makes him very powerful, yes?”
Kako sank back to his knees between her and Nyimbo. “If it is true, I suppose it does. So what gift do we offer?”
Nyimbo tugged on Kako’s arm. “A servant is a big gift,” she said. “You can tell this spirit that I will be his servant if he will heal my friend.”
June nodded. “We should all say that. Flattery might help also. So we should tell him that we’ve heard of his great power and that we all want to be his servants.”
“Yes.” Kako nudged her, and a gleam of triumph spread across his face. “And if he wants us to be his servants,
he needs to use some of his power to heal our friend.”
June folded her hands again, as she’d seen the doctor do. “Fine. But if you want to barter with him, then you need to pray to him yourself. Bartering with a spirit does not seem so wise.”
“All great chiefs love a good barter.”
June only offered a skeptical look as response.
Kako threw up his hands. “Fine. Pray to him your way then. But don’t blame me if the captain dies.”
Satisfied, June tried her prayer again. “Great spirit of the English, it has been told to me that you would be our spirit too if we choose you. We have heard of your great power, and we have agreed that we will all be your servants. And Kako wants me to say that if you accept our offer of service, you will please use some of your power to heal our friend, the captain.” She paused. There was some way the doctor had always ended his prayers, but she could not remember the words. So she finished with. “That is all. Thank you.”
They all stood, and Nyimbo rubbed her eyes sleepily. “How does one go about being a servant to a spirit?”
June looked to Kako.
He shrugged.
June nudged Nyimbo into a seat on the log near the fire. “Perhaps the captain can tell us that if he gets better.”
Nyimbo looked sadly toward the captain. “Do you think this spirit knows we are serious? I want the captain to get better.”
June touched the child’s head and then set the fish stew away from the fire. It would need to cool for some time before they could eat it with their fingers. “Spirits know much more than we, Nyimbo. I’m sure this spirit does also.”
For days they marched.
Two weeks ago, after the caravan stopped one evening, Jabir had come by and removed her stitches. He’d studied the cut on her face and then grunted in satisfaction and stalked away. He hadn’t bothered even once to examine Asha, but thankfully the man seemed to be well on his way to recovery.
Today, the sun beat down with such merciless heat that RyAnne could see the shimmer of its fervor cavorting on the horizon, as if to taunt her. Sweat poured from her until everything from her hair to the hem of her skirts felt limp with the dampness of it, and still the march continued.
The manacles around her ankles chaffed persistently, and today a large blister had burst open.
After so many days of walking, she had assumed her body would eventually grow used to the strenuous task required of it. But today when the call had gone out for the evening’s rest, she’d never felt more relieved to be able to collapse to the ground. Moyo did the same and promptly fell asleep.
RyAnne took off her boot and examined the large, oozing blister. Infection would set in if she didn’t care for it. But she knew that asking for medical supplies would only be greeted with a grunt of cynical laughter.
With a sigh, she tore off part of her petticoat, soaked it with a bit of the water from the creek they had settled near tonight, and wrapped it around the wound. Hopefully that would keep it clean and keep her from getting an infection. It felt a little better after the initial sting of the cool water. Even so, she dreaded tomorrow’s long day of walking. It would be compounded by Moyo’s weight because her little legs simply couldn’t keep up with the grueling pace Khalifa had set for them. RyAnne knew she would be carrying the child for much of the trek to the coast.
Asha stepped into the light of the fire he’d made for her and Moyo earlier. It had become quite clear that Khalifa had assigned Asha to keep her and Moyo separate from the other slaves. They were treated with more care than the others—fed more and given bedding to separate them from the cold ground each night. Asha had even packed Moyo on his back for several hours today, but only after RyAnne had fallen when her foot slipped into a rut on the trail.
Each evening when RyAnne curled into her blankets, she heard the rattle of chains as the rest of the captured settled onto the cold ground, and guilt pricked at her. But for Moyo’s sake, she was thankful for the small luxuries they were given. For despite the heat of the days, the nights were quite cool. Cool enough that she often woke with cramped muscles that had tightened against the invasion of the chill. Moyo had taken to curling up against her for the past several nights. That had helped Moyo, at least, to sleep a little better.
For RyAnne’s part, she hadn’t slept well for weeks now, for every time she closed her eyes she saw the face of the captain. She saw the quirk of his brow or pulse of his jaw when he’d been frustrated with her. She saw the exasperated expression of the valiant hero who had come to her rescue more times than she could count. She saw the soft eyes of the man who had consoled and comforted her after Papa’s passing. She saw the gentle crooked smile that had touched his lips just before he kissed her that last day. And always…always…the last thing she saw was the blood blooming on the front of his shirt after Khalifa shot him.
Now, Asha held out two bowls to her and indicated Moyo with a dip of his head. “Wake her. She must eat.”
RyAnne accepted the food and set it on a rock next to her. “I will. If you want, I can look at the cut on your head.”
He brushed her concern aside. “It heals well.”
“And your arm?” She was thankful to see the man still wore the splints as she’d requested.
He lifted it. “The pain is much less now.” His gaze darted across the encampment to where she could see Jabir smoothing a salve on the whip lashings of one of the other slaves. Jabir’s act almost looked compassionate if she hadn’t known it for what it was—simply keeping Khalifa’s “investment” healthy.
She returned her attention to Asha. “Why does the healer never speak?”
Asha gave her a sharp look and then transferred his attention back to the healer. For a long moment he didn’t answer. Then finally he said, “Two years past, Jabir voiced disagreement with Khalifa over the way he was treating the slaves. Khalifa cut out his tongue.”
With a gasp, RyAnne raised one hand to her mouth. She swallowed down the bile at the back of her throat. “Why would he still work for a man who did something like that to him?”
Asha blinked. “You do not know? He is Khalifa’s slave. As am I. We do the bidding of our master.”
RyAnne’s gaze returned to Jabir, but this time she saw the man in a new light. “I’m sorry. I did not know.”
Asha made no response other than to pluck a round blade of grass and roll it between his lips.
RyAnne moved the conversation back to a safer topic with a gesture to Asha’s splinted arm. “I’m glad the pain is less.”
Asha only grunted with a nod of thanks.
Willing away the depressing thoughts about just how deep the scars of slavery ran through the world, she scooted over next to Moyo. She touched the girl’s shoulder. “Moyo, I have food.”
While Moyo ate, RyAnne prepared her pallet, and Moyo had just settled back to sleep when in the far distance a lion roared.
Asha’s brow puckered, and he tilted his head to listen to the sounds more carefully for a moment. With a flick of his tongue, he tucked the stem of grass into the corner of his lips. “It stalks us.”
RyAnne nodded, a tingle of horror creeping across her scalp.
For the past several nights they’d heard the creature. Each night it seemed to grow closer. Bolder.
She didn’t want to dwell on it. “How long until we meet up with the next caravan?”
Asha shrugged as he settled down against the base of the acacia tree, tipped his head against it, and shut his eyes. “Soon.”
RyAnne would have liked to have drifted off to sleep right away. But her mind wouldn’t let go of the thoughts tumbling about. Asha and Jabir, slaves themselves… Surely they understood better than most the horrors of what they were inflicting? And yet they were forced to help their master make slaves of others. Khalifa was a terrible man, yes. But she had no doubt that he was just a garden-variety slave runner. All up and down the eastern coast of Africa, men just like him plundered and spoiled and pillaged.
&n
bsp; Tears slipped from the outer corners of her eyes and ran back into her hair.
Back at the village, she’d had the lofty thought that staying there and helping the villagers might make some sort of impact on slavery. She’d even told June and Nyanja that her grandmother had been a woman from their tribe, thinking to help them see that the color of their skin did not have to hold them back from anything—not a relationship with God, not education, not happiness. What a fool she’d been to think that she could make a difference. In fact, if Khalifa could be trusted, that very admittance was what had caused the village to be plundered in the first place. Her attempts to help had only made things worse.
If she had just stayed out of it…gone back to Zanzibar with the captain when he’d asked her to, none of this would have happened. Trent would still be alive. The village would still be intact. She wouldn’t be bound in chains and headed for an uncertain future.
And yet…hadn’t the upper echelons of society’s propensity to “stay out of it” been the very foundation stone upon which today’s rampant slavery had been built?
She thought again of the question that kept rising from the moment she’d walked the gangway up to The Wasp. And remembered her earlier thought that perhaps this was exactly where God wanted her to be. Yet what could she do here that might make a difference for poor people like those lying in chains all around her?
So many questions. Questions she had no answers for.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, willing the tears to remain at bay. Father, I don’t understand. Please make it clear to me what you are asking of me. I’m tired, so tired, of fighting for my own way.
A thought jolted through her. What was she thinking? She had lost all freedom to make her own decisions. And if she was tired of fighting for her own way, she was certainly in the right place, because nothing was going her way. That would be even more compounded once she was sold as a slave. So who was she to think that God wanted anything from her at all? Perhaps she’d only been fooling herself into thinking He had plans for her.
The Trail of Chains: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 5) Page 4