The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  She felt him stir in her hand, then saw the two scars that ran on the inside of his thigh and dropped everything, much to his disappointment. She moved lower to inspect it up closer. ‘And what happened here?’ Again, he explained patiently.

  Their bodies were exhausted, but their minds were not, and they started talking as if they had known each other for all of their lives. She lay on her stomach, her head propped up on her elbows while he lay across the bed with his back resting against the wall. It was Tristan’s turn first, she insisted, and he told her everything, from his earliest memory, La Boutique, Finn, the Hungry Ones, the Raven, and everything in between and thereafter. It was like someone had opened up the sluice, then walked away.

  ‘Are they still looking for you?’ she asked about London.

  ‘That I don’t know. The captain had made enquiries without making too much fuss and to avoid any suspicion, but he had never gotten anywhere.’

  Isabella could see the matter troubled him and switched to another topic. ‘Take me with you.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Your hunting trip.’

  ‘Woah! We’re not talking about taking a stroll down to the river here. This is an expedition into the wilderness, for weeks if not months on end. And a girl…I will have to speak to the lads. ‘Tis their enterprise as much as it is mine. And then there’s the matter of your father. I’m sure he wouldn’t want his little girl to accompany a group of men into the unknown.’

  She was not impressed with his hasty protest and with a quick yet accurate pinch, made him realise that her hand was not far from a very vulnerable spot. ‘This little girl is adapt with gun and sword, so I can fend for myself, even against you men. And as for the wilderness, remember I was here long before you’d arrived and know a lot about this place and the dangers it poses, more than you and your friends anyway. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m old enough to make decisions for myself and do what I please with whom I please and when I please. My parents have accepted me for who I am, many years ago. So, the least you could do is to consider my request.’

  ‘Aye, I will.’ Tristan did not refuse outright, partly because she had made a good case and he was no fool to realise the benefits, but mostly because his tender parts were still resting in her firm grasp, and as long as her eyes still had a fiery look about them, he was not going to make the same mistake twice. He quickly steered the conversation in a different direction. ‘Alright, your turn now.’

  Isabella was still slightly fervent and did not grasp at first what he meant. Then it dawned on her, and she started with the pent-up, rambling enthusiasm of someone who had not been asked that question very often. She told him about herself, her Portuguese father, her French mother, Portugal – where she grew up – and lastly, Africa. Tristan listened intently, not interrupting her once, though she did struggle to talk when he started to draw playful patterns on her back and his fingers drifted down towards her dainty buttocks.

  They continued to talk into the night like old friends who had not seen each other for years, each with an insatiable hunger to know the other one better.

  And finally, when everything was said, there was still one burning question that Tristan wanted to ask but did not know how, for there was no tactful way, so he did it the only way he knew – direct. ‘I have to ask. Do you bed a lot of men?’ He blurted it out and was shocked by her reaction. She was neither surprised nor offended?

  ‘Only the ones that I fancy, Tristan.’ She waited to let him dwell on her answer for a little while. She could see the frown on his forehead starting to widen and knew he was dying to know. ‘Come on. Ask me.’ She turned on her side and propped herself up on one elbow.

  ‘Ask you what?’

  ‘What you want to know – do I or have I fancied a lot of men?’

  ’I’ve just realised that ‘tis none of my business.’ He was afraid of where the conversation was heading. And who was he to ask? I’m a sailor, for crying out loud. We’re well known for our whoremongering, he thought.

  ‘The answer is no, Tristan. And your misplaced gratitude should go to my French mother for it was she who taught me to love and love well. It is an integral part of a French girl’s upbringing.’ She looked at him inquisitively. ‘Now your turn, mister. Have you ever been in love?’ The directness of her question caught him off-guard.

  Why not have a bit of fun at her expense? ‘Aye.’

  ‘Really?’ He liked hearing the surprise in her voice. ‘And who would this poor woman be?’

  ‘A lass that goes by the name Darcy Furse, the butcher’s daughter. Prettiest thing you have ever seen. Six years older than me, she was. Broke my heart. I remember it like yesterday. I was only eleven. Behind the brine barrels at the back of the butchery, we used to go fumbling with buttons and laces, she trying to explain what goes where, me keeping lookout. Then there was the pig’s head bobbing up and down in the brine barrel next to me, grinning and trying its utmost to rob me of the most important moment of my life.’ Tristan pretended to sigh. ‘She was the closest I ever had to true love. Then I started working for her da, doing deliveries, and she…well, she got married off to an older man, while I still wear the scars on my heart till this day.’

  Isabella laughed. She could see through all the pretence. ‘Spoken like a true boy, for it sounds more like infatuation than love.’

  ‘And you ma’am? Ever lost your heart to a man?’ Tristan did not care for the answer but was slightly relieved when the simple reply came.

  ‘No. I’ve been waiting for celui – the one.’

  Her answer made them both wonder, but before the silence turned awkward, Tristan pushed her onto her back and lay down on top of her, kissing her passionately and reigniting the fire that was still smouldering.

  It was very early in the morning when they left the tavern through the backdoor, giggling like young children who had just fled successfully from a mischievous escapade. They split up but not before she had glued her lips to his one last time, so hard that he could taste blood. ‘Remember this night!’ she whispered.

  Tired and bruised but with a happy heart, Tristan made his way to the warehouse. A lot had happened in one day, and as he dwelled on events, on her, his usual alertness was just not there.

  From behind the nearby brushes, a pair of beady eyes followed his every move. The man was sure to let his uncle know every single detail that his eyes had witnessed tonight, including the little Portuguese wench and her young lover. Perhaps now the time is right to put our plan in motion. He sneered at the thought of ruining their happiness upon Silveira’s next return. The man brought this unto himself, the half-witted fool. His uncle did not take no for an answer, and he did not complain, for he liked his work.

  Chapter 21

  Tristan was dreaming about the ocean when the cry of seagulls woke him. It was a foreign noise, not so much to his ear but the area. For a while, he thought he was in that amazing place where dream and reality overlapped, but the cawing of seagulls persisted. With a splitting headache, a sore cheek and a parched throat, he started to get up. His chest was sore and his back stiff. The wooden floor and worn-out antelope skin had provided little comfort during the night. Three feet away, Tayler still snored away happily, not a care in the world. Small bubbles of spit protruded from his lips each time he exhaled to let out another sonorous wheeze. Next to him, Hanlon had collapsed in a heap against the wall. The doctor was lying on his back, hands resting on his chest, sleeping like a man who had attained eternal peace. Tristan looked around. There was no sign of Jabari.

  When he got outside, the sun was not up yet, but the west had already started to light up. He ran his fingers over the wounds on his arm and cheek. There was little pain, and they felt cool to the touch. I have to tell the doctor about the magical paste, Tristan thought, as he leaned over the water barrel and splashed some water onto his face. He heard a cough coming from behind the warehouse, where they had built the firepit.

  As he made his way ar
ound, he noticed it immediately. Pier three was empty and the British sloop gone. They must have left at first light. Tristan remembered the doctor’s words. The learned man was never wrong, but he had enough on his mind as it was, and he would deal with them when the time came.

  Down by the river, local fishermen, who had set their nets overnight, were already unloading baskets with fish onto a larger vessel, which he assumed was heading further downstream with the day’s catch. Wailing seagulls swerved overhead and competed vigorously for any scraps that floated away. Tristan did not expect the noisy birds to be so far up the river but enjoyed their company nonetheless. Leaning against the outside wall, he watched the men work for a while. Such a peaceful existence, driven by different needs, and for a brief moment, he envied them for their simple lives. An unmistaken whiff of coffee drifted past, and Tristan let them be. He had his own life to live.

  Jabari was stoking the fire with dead brush that gave off a sweet-smelling smoke. A pot and kettle hung over some coals that were raked to one side.

  He immediately noticed Tristan. ‘You look like a frail old man, my friend. Did the lioness draw blood from the honey badger last night?’ Jabari’s strong white teeth flashed as he smiled.

  A simple aye and nod of the head were enough for the smile to broaden.

  Jabari looked inside the kettle where the water was simmering happily. ‘I always thought you were like a wild horse, my friend – an animal you can befriend, but never really tame. But Malaika has achieved just that in a single day. What powerful magic she must have, turning you into a tame little pony.’ The African laughed while he twiddled his fingers like he was putting a spell on Tristan.

  Tristan ignored him. ‘Where did you get all this?’ he asked instead and pointed to the simmering pots, two bags of grain and a small woven basket that held some sort of bean.

  ‘I know our supply of money isn’t endless, Tresten. Like everyone else, I’m just doing my part. We will all contribute and make sacrifices on this journey. I just thought I'd get an early start.’ Jabari shifted more coals from the fire underneath the pots. ‘Mind you, I did have to trade a few things. Nevertheless, leave it to the black fella to find food in a black man’s country. Remember, we’re walking among my people now, Nyegere,’ said Jabari with a proud face. ‘Or have you forgotten?’ The African smiled as he hinted at the native huts in the distance where morning cooking fires had already been started, and grey smoking trails lifted slowly into the heavy humid air. Tristan walked to where a mixture of meat and millet was happily simmering away in a pot. Next to it, a kettle was steaming, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the sweet smoke from the burning brush. ‘Besides, you defended my honour last night. The least I can do is to cook you breakfast. But we will need to hurry. That is if you still want to go?’

  ‘Of course, I do!’ Amidst all that had happened the night before, the two of them had agreed to scale the mountain above the fort the next day. Tristan stretched and took a deep breath of fresh African morning air. His bruised chest still pained, but as he started to move his muscles, he felt the stiffness slowly leave his body. A mug of coffee was offered to him, and he took a sip of the dark, bitter liquid.

  ‘Jabari.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  After a hearty breakfast, the two men packed their satchels with ammunition and leftover bread that had found its way from the pub. Leather flasks were filled with water with each man carrying two for the long walk. Lastly, they grabbed their muskets and holstered their pistols, ready for whatever might lay ahead.

  Pink sunlight had filled the western skies when the two men started heading for the hills. From the warehouse, they walked up the right-hand side of the town, between the church and the mansion, on a dirt road that was comfortably hard underfoot compared to the sandy one they had taken to the tavern last night. Past the church was the market and on their right, the sprawling gardens of the Morgan mansion. Tristan stopped and stared at the beautifully constructed building. Like the streets, the house looked desolated, blinds closed, not a soul to be seen. Jabari pulled at his shirt, hinting that they should get moving. At the top of the street, they found themselves in front of the Silveira household. Tristan wondered if she was sleeping and for a moment he recalled her sweet scent. Jabari had to spur him on a second time.

  If they turned left, they would head back into town, so the only option was to turn right. Soon after, the road twisted sharply to the left before it split into a narrower path, which headed up towards the mountain along the outside of the village walls, and a smaller footpath, which veered off further to the right between the Morgan estate and the plantations. They took the footpath until they reached the forest, then skirted the outside of the fields as they headed further north. They made good time, past the plantations of tobacco and fields of corn and millet where flocks of green pigeons and weaverbirds were already gathering for an early-morning feed.

  A few pickaninnies roamed the cornfields and banged on calabashes while others bashed together sticks to try and scare them off. They were quick to stop their drumming and admired the newcomers who greeted them with a friendly wave of hands. In the middle of the nearest field, a lonely one-armed scarecrow was fending for itself, but it had lost its battle with nature long ago and was now only a good vantage point for hungry birds.

  On their right, the forest woke from its slumber and an array of noises started to fill the air, none more so than a troop of blue monkeys that were fancying a morning breakfast of sweet corn. A few brave ones crossed the road, and the drummer boys quickly disappeared back into the fields, yelling and drumming as they went. From the far end of the plantation, Tristan looked back towards the town. Only the mansion and the church tower were visible. He wondered if the other three had woken already.

  With the plantations finally behind them, they soon found themselves between a few scattered huts outside the main village walls. These must be the outcasts, the slaves that Cuthbert had talked about, thought Tristan. Here they proceeded under the watchful gazes of African women who were cooking porridge for their families in blackened earthen pots. Some of the women stopped stirring and looked at the odd pair, but their eyes quickly settled on the black mountain of a man and a shy smile appeared on more than one face. Their ogling did not escape Tristan’s keen eyes, and it was not long before the banter between the two friends started.

  He elbowed Jabari in the side. ‘Today, more than one man will taste burnt porridge. They will ask their wives, ‘’Woman, why have you cooked me burnt porridge on such a splendid morning?’’ What do you think the wives will tell their husbands?’

  Jabari shrugged his shoulders, but the faint grin on his face did not go unnoticed.

  Tristan tried again. ‘They must be wondering what you’re hiding underneath that tunic of yours, mighty warrior.’

  ‘This mighty warrior hides a mighty spear, young boy, the likes of which you’ve never seen before.’

  Tristan laughed heartily drawing even more attention from their curious admirers. The usually humble African’s admission was surprisingly cocky, yet undeniably true.

  Soon they reached the foot of the hill. With the African village now below them, the footpath rejoined the narrow dirt road which they had left behind earlier. Both men cursed the unnecessary detour they had taken. The dirt road veered off sharply to the left before it came to an abrupt end at the fort’s entrance. The village and town lay sprawled out beneath them. And in the background, beyond it all, making the most amazing sight, was the mighty black river.

  Tristan reached for his spyglass – a keepsake from the Old Man – and had a look at Cuthbert’s warehouse on the river’s edge. At the back, where the firepit was still smoking, he watched the three figures enjoy the morning sun and a nourishing meal. He had told the doctor of their plans at the tavern and wondered if the man had remembered. They had all been in a fairly inebriated state the night before. Behind the threesome, seated nearby in the sha
de of a tree, were the four natives who had travelled with them from Sonho. Tristan assumed they had mysteriously appeared earlier this morning just as quickly as they had disappeared the night before. He needed to find out exactly what those men could and could not do. Just another item on his growing list. He was not going to allow stragglers on the expedition and thereby risk anybody’s life.

  While he was busy spying on their friends, Jabari vanished into the bushes behind them and returned moments later with a long straight stick, similar to the ones that some of the older pickaninnies had carried with them.

  ‘A stick?’

  ‘When I was a herder, we always carried a walking stick, Nyegere.’

  ‘I don’t see any cattle that need herding.’

  ‘A walking stick can be a fighting stick too.’

  ‘But you have gun…’

  ‘Just let it be, Tresten. ‘Tis my stick and ‘tis a good one.’ Jabari held it up and looked down its length. It was straight and sturdy.

  Tristan let it go but knew the stick was more a token of years gone by, much more than its spoken intent anyway.

  With the large hill too steep for a frontal assault, they searched for and found the narrow footpath that a local from the tavern had mentioned. As they left the last huts behind them, they were quickly swallowed up by the thick green abyss.

  They both had thought the journey through the jungle would be an arduous one, but surprisingly, they made good progress. Following the well-trodden footpath, Tristan started getting used to Africa’s strange voices. He had settled into a nice rhythm, almost in a trancelike state, listening to the chattering monkeys and birds above, the whirr of pheasants in the nearby bushes, and now and then, a new and unfamiliar sound that Jabari needed to explain.

  ‘Nyegere!’

  Tristan froze.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  The urgency in Jabari’s voice had stopped Tristan dead in his tracks. He saw the walking stick come past and disappear into the green shrubbery next to the path, not too far from his left foot. A hiss followed. Then he saw the large viper, carefully disguised in its surroundings, coiled up before its large head angrily struck at the stick with the speed of a bullet. Jabari lifted its head, pointed it away from the path and the two watched on while the snake slithered away slowly, quickly disappearing into the thick undergrowth.