No answer was forthcoming. He was hoisted off his feet, rough, strong arms lifting him around the legs and bustling him away. He could see nothing, but after perhaps a hundred steps his abductors placed his feet back on the ground. His hands were lashed behind him, and when he tried to shout a belt or strap was wound around the bag, muffling his sound. He felt something sharp poke into his back, and at once he understood the meaning: walk, don't talk.
He stumbled on, frightened now as he had not been since the terrible night almost two years past. The soil beneath his feet was hard at first, then turned grassy, and then moist. He knew that they had entered the outskirts of the marsh that ran into the lake up north of the village. The acid in his stomach boiled hotter, stealing strength from his legs, making him feel hollow and sick.
He had been told in no uncertain terms never to enter this densely wooded area. There were stories of swamp sidhe and lost lives, of runaway slaves whose bodies had never been found. And he knew by the smell, a kind of warm heavy green miasma, that they were entering this forbidden zone.
He tried to turn and run, but the binding hands clamped more tightly, rendering all efforts fruitless.
At last he stood, and the arms left him. He could sense that he was not alone, that in fact there were eyes watching. For a time, no one spoke. Then with a whispering sound the ropes were cut from his wrists.
He stood, unable to move, uncertain of what was expected. The terror grew within him like a worm that consumed thought and courage to increase its own substance.
Dimly through the mask he saw torchlights in the darkness, then he heard a muffled cry next to him, and recognized his mother's pleading voice. What was this?
"Take the mask from your eyes, boy," said Auntie Moira in good Gaelic. "And forget that A-rab double-tongue in this sacred place." Hands shaking, Aidan removed the bag.
They stood in a vast arching canopy of ancient trees. Hundreds of them: oaks, date palms, gnarled mossy giants he didn't recognize, crowded closely enough to blot out the sky. Two other recent acquisitions, male field hands named Cormac and Olaf, had likewise been bound and brought here, and were also freeing themselves.
With hands as unsteady as his own, Deirdre stripped the bag from her head. "What is this about?" she asked when she had regained sight.
The entire village seemed to be here, every adult and young adult, and they were humming some song that Aidan did not recognize. Despite himself, he found the tune oddly soothing.
"What is this?" she demanded again.
"Our past, lassie," said Moira. "Your future."
Aidan's eyes, blinded by the bag, had adjusted quickly. From the village, the grove had simply seemed a stand of trees bordering a deeper darkness. Many of the trees, he knew, bore fruit. From time to time the dates and oranges and mangoes were harvested and the women of the village made sweets and pastries, which were distributed in ceremonies. Although the desserts were delicious, none of the adults smiled when consuming them, and he never understood why.
Now that he was within the trees their mossy trunks and branches encircled him, hundreds of thick-bodied ancients and thinner youngsters that now felt more protecting than foreboding. The villagers stood in a clearing, and the more he examined the ground beneath his feet the more convinced he became that it was good growing soil. There was no natural reason why trees would not grow there. Nor were there stumps suggesting that it had been cleared by axe or saw. No, this special place had been created by planting a ring of trees around the edge. Now that he looked more closely still, the largest trees stood at four corners, and a line of smaller trees stretched out behind them. So men had planted a square, and then filled in the spaces, but continued to pluck away the saplings that tried to grow in the middle clearing.
That much he could guess, but the why of it continued to elude him. "Where are we?" he asked in the strongest voice he could muster.
"You built this," Moira said, arms indicating the vast arching emerald canopy. "Not in this body, or this life, but the hands and hearts are yours. Like you."
"Like me?"
"And your mother, boy. Slaves, stolen from their land. Taken across the sea." A sober smile split that withered face. "We're the lucky ones. Abu Ali doesn't take our names, or try to take our gods. He's a good man, compared to most."
There was a rustling, and then a line of children approached. Each carried a tiny sapling. One at a time, they offered the trees to the new slaves.
Deirdre took hers in trembling hands. "What do I do with this?" she asked.
"Plant it. Love it," she said. "It's your seed. Pray over it. Here, we worship the Cross, the Lady, the ground and stars . . . anything but Allah." She hawked and spit on the ground. "That's not our way. Here, we're all one. Druid or Christian . . . pray as ye will—God hears, and one day, He will answer."
Much to Aidan's surprise, Brian led him to the tree line, then knelt and scooped a hole in the earth.
"You plant this now," he said. "And pray that your own son will eat its fruit as a free man." Aidan heard the words and realized what they represented. A life in exile here, in a hostile land. His knees sagged, and in the wake of that sudden wave of dizziness he saw things more clearly, and deeply regretted that clarity.
He knew what they were telling him. Give up your dreams, and make your peace, they were saying. This is now your world.
Vision blurred, and his eyes stung. "Maybe you'll be the one to pluck the fruit as a free man, boy," Moira whispered, as if she could read Aidan's mind. "Free."
Aidan looked into Brian's eyes, and then back at Deirdre, who stood with her hands clasped together, tears sparkling in her eyes. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. Aidan took the rough shovel in hand and completed the digging. One at a time, each of the newcomers came to the tree line, dropped to their knees, and dug with hands, knives, or shovels. And when they had holes of sufficient depth, they planted their trees. The onlookers began to sing.
The song swelled in an odd way: the adult males began first, standing in their outer ring. Then in an inner ring the young working-class adolescents, male and female, began to sing. Then finally, in the inmost ring, protected by the men and the youngsters, the women, children, and elderly raised their voices as well.
"Eastern sun, southern sky
Western rain, northern star
Circled within, kith unto kin
We are bound . . ."
The women joined in next.
"Walk we now through this glade,
As our ancestors made.
Here lies revealed, our truths concealed
We are bound . . ."
And now the men of the village joined in as well, and the refrain swelled in the torchlit darkness.
"Sea and Stone
Salt and Loam
Hearth and Home,
In us resounding—"
Aidan didn't want to feel pulled along, but he was, felt something swelling inside him, a pressure in his eyes. They were tears, the tears he had sworn not to cry since first setting foot in this terrible land. His eyes stung and watered, but he was not ashamed.
"Pressed are we to be slaves unto men
Yet we be blessed beyond mortal ken
To be freed and reborn once again
We are bound—
To your tasks, lay your hands
Though we tread foreign lands
Still we may part, heart unto heart, we are bound—"
Haltingly, he took up the refrain, stumbling his way through it but somehow needing to mouth the words, painful though they were.
"Sea and Stone
Salt and Loam
Hearth and Home,
In us resounding—"
He was weeping now, and could barely hear the words that followed.
"Severed still from the land we adored
Of one will, of one law, of the Lord
By the Cup, by the Cross, by the Sword
We are bound—"
Managing just barely to contro
l himself, to find the strength to join in as the song ended, hearing the words and more than the words, the strength, the plea that he join with them in the only weapon they had to stand against their omnipotent foe.
Faith. In the future, in their gods, in each other.
Faith.
On the balcony of his mansion, Wakil Abu Ali stood sipping coffee, gazing to the north toward the densely wooded patch of land bordering the swamps. From time to time he detected the barest flicker of light. When the air was still, and the wind blew just right, he could hear a whisper of song. In the night, distant torches burned like a dim nebula.
Djidade Berhar and the other nobles criticized him for allowing his servants to keep their names, their faiths, as much of their culture as he did. It had even been commented upon on the floor of the Senate, that the second highest official in the largest province of Bilalistan favored such indulgent treatment of a conquered people.
On most holdings, these men and women stolen from their homelands were mixed into bastard villages with a dozen languages and cultures, and given Arabic or African names. Those who worshipped trees or sky or the spirits of their ancestors were forced to renounce their pagan beliefs at the edge of a sword.
This was wrong, he felt in his heart. Slaves deluded enough to believe in an undead Jew were usually left alone, lsu ibn Maryam, the real name of their supposed Messiah, was indeed a great prophet, even if he had never actually died upon that Egyptian cross. Allah Al-Mujib (preserve His holy name) had saved lsu personally, a blessing that should have satisfied any craving for miracles. But no, they had to say the Jew was a god of some kind, venturing further into blasphemy as they insisted upon his multiple aspects. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost indeed!
However disturbing such nonsense might be to one of the true faith, Abu Ali knew that Christians, like Jews, were children of the Kitab, the Great Book. And being so, one day might well find true salvation. He saw no sense in forcing a change upon their bodies that their hearts were not prepared to embrace. To the Wakil, no conversion motivated by anything but purest faith had meaning. False conversion was, in fact, an abomination, a pretense more vile than the worship of a thousand-headed god could ever be.
He would leave them their beliefs, for these and other, more personal reasons. A bit of guilt, perhaps—after all, his father, Rashid, had built Dar Kush on the importation of slaves.
But that was a long time ago, and even if built on the backs of wretched Irish and Germans this was his land, deeded to him by his father and held against all odds for three generations. His land, and he would manage it in his own way.
Abu Ali managed a smile, one that warred with a certain sadness in his heart, and returned to his bedroom, refreshed.
Chapter Eighteen
In the dazzling afternoon sun, imperial niece Lamiya Mesgana and her fiancé, Ali ibn Jallaleddin ibn Rashid, raced across the field southwest of the great house, their white thoroughbred Arabians laboring for victory.
As the women of her house had been for centuries, Lamiya was a master horsewoman, strong and sinewy beneath her royal robes, the strength disguised by her grace and beauty until she gripped the reins. Then the muscles in her shapely forearms leapt into relief, and her jawline jutted sharply.
She was strong, fit, and as she raced felt nothing but the sheer excitement of the moment, the thrill of competition coursing through her veins. Her glances at Ali pleased her: judging by the fierce line of his young mouth, it required every speck of his concentration just to stay even with her.
Curiosity overwhelmed her competitive streak. What if I let him win? She reined her horse back just enough for Ali to draw ahead.
Sensing victory, Ali spurred his mount to an all-out sprint and drew ahead just as they reached the agreed-upon terminus of their race, a stake driven into the ground with a kerchief dangling from its tip.
Ali panted but still crowed, arms held to the sky. "Victory is mine!"
"This time," Lamiya said, noting that Ali and his mount were more fatigued than she.
He wiped his glistening brow and grinned at her. "I claim my prize," he leaned toward her, seeking to steal a kiss. Lamiya smiled sweetly at him and then lashed her whip at his horse's flank, yelling, "Hai!" It nearly jerked the reins from his hands and pulled away, as Lamiya spurred her own mare into flight. Riding with him without a chaperone was bad enough. Kisses were out of the question!
Blood up, cursing under his breath but eyes riveted to the intoxicating form of his intended, Ali wheeled his reluctant mount Qaldanna in a circle and began pursuit. Qaldanna meant "joker" in Abyssinian, and at times like this, the name was especially fitting.
Lamiya maintained her lead all the way into a sheltering thicket. There, lengths ahead of Ali, she managed to lose him in a cocoon of branches and leaves that offered deeper shadow.
Ali entered, but turned the wrong direction. She knew that the subterfuge would not work for long, but meantime, the game was good. She liked Ali: he was strong, and smart, and a true nobleman, with the courage befitting a young warrior. And, of course, according to her royal aunt they were soul mates. When the stars were right they would be wed, and the union would bond her house with the boundless resources of the New World. Since childhood she had known this would be her fate, and if her heart remained sometimes unconvinced of their divine predestination, she was still satisfied that her life partner would be a man as handsome and good as Ali. Perhaps she would even learn to love him. Things could be far, far worse: letters from home said that a cousin had been forced to marry the old, fat sultan of some desert tribe. Soul mates indeed! Still, no one questioned the Empress's word or wish without the direst of consequences.
In fact, for a thousand years, once a feqer nӓfs marriage had been arranged, it could not be undone. From time to time a potential mate died between engagement and wedding. In such a case the feqer nӓfs was expected to return to Abyssinia and a cloistered, spiritual life. A hundred fifty years ago one niece, promised to a Gupta prince who died on a battlefield, had actually immolated herself on his pyre, gaining great honor in the process. It was this loyalty and bond that made the Empress's feqer nӓfs the most prized mates in the civilized world.
Lamiya sometimes felt like a piece on a satranj board, to be moved and placed where the Empress thought best. If this was the price of privilege, mightn't it be better to be born a commoner, or even a slave? At least they married whom they chose.
Lamiya was suddenly startled by a sound beside her, and turned to see Kai mounted on his black mare, Isis. He watched, lips curled in amusement. "Excuse me," he said.
She glared at him. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"
Kai managed to bow in his saddle. In spite of herself, Lamiya felt a giggle working its way through her system. "I'm sorry," he said, with a tone that said he was anything but.
There was nothing she could do save plead for quiet. "Shhh . . ." she said, a slender brown finger pressed to her lips.
Ali was circling around, not two dozen cubits distant, although he had yet to pick up her trail. "Lamiiiiiya," he called. "I'm going to fiiiind you."
Her heart raced, although she couldn't have said why. "Please don't make a sound," she whispered.
Kai cocked his head. "What is it worth?"
She sighed in exasperation. These Bilalians! "Does everything have a price?"
The boy studied her, and for a moment she wondered if he was going to request the same price his brother had. That would be odd, for Kai was like a younger brother to her, with all of the mischief and fondness that relationship implied. Still, there were times when he confused her a bit, and this was one of those times.
"What if I said . . . your smile?"
She felt her lips pull up, felt a warmth within as he surprised her once again. Their eyes met. His eyes were so direct for just a twelve-year-old. He was more than merely a gifted scholar, a lover of poetry and sculpture. For the first time, she realized that Kai's feelings for her were not entirely fraternal, a
nd it flustered her.
On the far side of the thicket, Ali remained aprowl. "Lamiya . . ." His call was like a soothing hand, warm and seductive.
Kai pulled his horse up next to hers, ostensibly to decrease the likelihood that either of them would be seen. In her heart she knew that he also wanted to be close to her. In her stillness, Lamiya heard him sniff her hair.
She knew what he was doing, and her reaction, comprehensible to her at last, was some blend of flattery, indignation, amusement. . . and curiosity.
Her thoughts were catapulted out of that odd and shadowy space as Ali turned and peered through the leaves directly at them. "Hai! I see you!"
He galloped toward them. Without a backward glance to Kai, she wheeled and ran, and once again the chase.
Kai's heart raced as Lamiya's horse pulled her away at reckless speed. He was uncertain how to react to Lamiya's behavior: she hadn't simply swatted him away! Did she like him? Maybe really like him? That possibility made his head swim.
He started after Ali, watching the chase as it neared the barn. He understood the implicit rules: if she made it to the barn, she would jump off the horse and the race would be over, and she would have won. If Ali caught up with her before she could do that, however . . .
Considering that his workday was only half completed, Brian Mac-Cloud was in a fine mood.
The black masters of Dar Kush controlled his time from dawn till dusk, but after that the nights were his. Brian owned his own cottage, and his own vegetable patch to grow the herbs that most pleased his taste. During the days he put his considerable carpentry skills to use around the big house, and on Sundays, the day the blacks called al-ahad, he patched and fixed things around the tuath. Sometimes, the masters gave him leave to spend time fixing things in Ghost Town during workdays, almost as if they really gave a piss. There was no more caring in them than men might have for beasts of burden, or perhaps horses—except that the blacks weren't afraid of their horses. Horses rarely rose up and massacred their masters, and Brian knew that save for the awful cost of a failed uprising, there would be more such events.
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