by Nina Clare
The boy lifted the linen cloth and passed the object to Toufik who turned back to Shula-Jane to present her with a little bundle of white fur. A wriggling, quivering little bundle of white fur. Shula-Jane stared at the squirming object she was being offered, not quite certain that it was what she thought it might be until the ball gave a little yelp. It was what she thought it was – it was a tiny, fluffy, white pup.
She accepted the little dog, which was small enough to fit in her hands.
“I was told that you particularly desired such a gift,” Toufik said as he handed it to her. He held onto the puppy longer than he needed to so that Shula-Jane’s hands had to touch his in the transaction. She would not look him in the eye though. She refused to give him that satisfaction.
“I thank you most sincerely for your magnanimous gift,” she said, saying the traditional words of acceptance in a wooden tone, “and I pray that you may receive ten-fold in return.”
Emmi Rashida hurried forward and whisked the fluffy bundle from Shula-Jane’s lap. “You cannot have this at the table,” she said, her voice a little more shrill than usual.
“You cannot put it outside on its own,” Shula-Jane protested. “It is too young.”
“I will have a servant look after it,” said her Emmi. “Go and take your place at the feast.”
It was not until all the guests had left many hours later, when the lantern lights had expired, the singers had sung themselves near hoarse, the abundance of food and drink had been consumed, and Shula-Jane was about to wearily remove her silk robes and lie down in the bed that that had been prepared for her, that she remembered Toufik’s gift. She padded barefoot out to the kitchens where bleary-eyed servant girls were still clearing away the dishes.
“Have you seen a little white dog?” she asked them.
They had all dropped their eyes to the ground at her entrance and stood like statues in her presence. One girl turned her head in the direction of the door to the kitchen terrace and gave a little nod.
Shula-Jane stepped out onto the terrace to find a serving boy curled up on the ground, overcome with sleep. Nestled in his arms, also curled up and asleep was the little white ball. She decided she would leave it there for the night. She gave an order to the servants in the kitchens that the little dog was to be given water and meat scraps when it awoke in the morning, and must not be left alone.
Shula-Jane could not help herself. She was disappointed in the little dog. And it was not because it had been given to her by Toufik. She examined her heart, and she was certain that it was not because it had been given her by Toufik. It was that it did not seem very dog-like. When she had desired and envisioned having a dog, she desired and envisioned a real dog. A dog that one would not be tripping over, a dog that one could rely on as a protector, not a helpless ball of white wool that yipped and yapped at everything and everyone and wanted to be carried around like a baby. She could not even bring herself to name it. It was Emmi Rashida who settled on the name of Lulu, and even though Toufik later told her that it was a male dog, Lulu he remained.
Shula-Jane was walking home from the markets, her manservant a few steps behind; her father would not permit his daughter to walk publicly without his best weaponry-trained manservant following. She had purchased Emmi’s skeins of dyed thread, and she had chosen the fresh fruit Emmi wanted. Emmi Rashida said repeatedly that the daughter of Abu Sabri had no place buying everyday wares in the markets like a commoner, but Shula-Jane loved the colour and noise and bustle of the markets, and so she insisted on going.
Her manservant carried her purchases, looking somewhat incongruous with one hand on the handle of his long-bladed dagger and the other bearing a basket of pomegranates. She turned to leave behind the busy market streets, moving among the crowds, her manservant yelling warnings at the street urchins who tried to swarm round her, wanting to beg a coin or a shell from the rich, beautiful young lady in the silk robes.
Something caught her eye as she walked; a tan coloured creature tied to a palm was lying panting on the ground. The palm could not shade it sufficiently from the hot sun, and she went closer to look. It was a young dog. Not a pretty dog like Lulu, but a dog with an oversized bull-like head and a broad chest. His ribs showed through his tan fur, and he was clearly suffering from the heat and a need for water.
“Ibram!” she called over her shoulder. “Cut this animal loose.” Ibram hesitated a moment, the dog belonged to someone, or he would not have been tied up. “Cut him loose!” Shula-Jane demanded. Ibram obeyed.
“Oy! What are you doing? Leave that animal alone!” A thin man with a face creased into a perpetual scowl shouted at them from the edge of the market place.
Shula-Jane pulled herself up tall, Ibram kept his dagger drawn. “This animal is dying,” Shula-Jane called back.
“What is that to you?”
“What do you want for it?” she asked.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You want to buy it?”
“That is what I said.”
He narrowed his eyes further, looking her up and down, noting her silk robes. “Twenty cowrie!”
“That is the price of a horse, not a half-dead dog!”
“You want it– that’s the price.”
“I’ll give you two and no more.” And she took the cowrie out of her silk purse and gave them to Ibram to give to the man.
“The price is twenty.”
“Is that your market stall?” Shula-Jane asked, nodding at the scanty items laid out on a rug of palm leaves.
“It is.”
“Do you have your trader’s licence?”
The man flinched. “I don’t have to show my license to any bit of a girl who asks,” he snapped.
Ibram stepped forward in warning at the man’s disrespectful tone.
“My father is milki-sikritir to the king. You do have to show your license to his daughter if she requests it.”
The man’s face fell. He stepped back. “Beg your pardon, lady, take the beast, a gift, take it,” and he hurriedly backed away.
“Go and throw these on his stall,” Shula-Jane said to Ibram, giving him the two cowries.
She bent down and lifted the puppy in her arms. “Poor little wretch,” she murmured to him. “You shall be well now.”
The Slave Market
“Shula, where are you?”
Shula-Jane groaned. She had only been back from the market long enough to wash the dust from her feet and Emmi was calling for her already.
“There you are, child, I knew you were home, for I saw Ibram coming in with the pomegranates. You will come into the kitchens and watch the pomegranate syrup being made, for when you are married you will like to make Toufik’s syrup by your own hand, and not leave it to the servants. Come, Shula. What is that!”
The tan coloured puppy had stirred by the side of Shula-Jane, who was sitting on her terrace floor, waiting for her washed feet to dry in the sun.
“It is a puppy.”
“It is hideous! Get it away from my house at once!”
“It is not hideous, it is a puppy. It is staying with me, and this is not your house.”
She regretted her words as soon as they flew from her, as she always did. She looked up and saw the hurt in her Emmi’s eyes.
“I am sorry,” she said in a softened voice. She reached a hand up and took hold of her Emmi’s fingers. “I am sorry, Emmi, but I am keeping the puppy. The poor little thing is half dead from neglect, but I am going to take care of him.”
There was a yipping noise from Shula-Jane’s bedroom and a little white ball of fur appeared in the archway to the terrace.
“Lulu!” cried Emmi Rashida. “What are you doing here?” She scooped the yipping white ball up. Lulu sniffed the air and then wriggled to get down again so that Emmi Rashida almost dropped him. “You little fiend!” she cried.
Lulu skittered over to Shula-Jane, taking no notice of her at all, but jumping onto her lap so he could tentatively sniff at the nose of the prost
rate, tan-coloured creature that lay at her side. Lulu made a fibrillating sound that could only be a growl. He gingerly sniffed the tan muzzle again, and as there was no response other than a lazy lifting of one eyelid from the strange-smelling creature, Lulu took courage and sniffed some more. He yipped as though demanding a response, but the exhausted puppy had not the energy to stir, and Lulu ran back to Emmi Rashida, putting his paws up at her leg to be picked up.
“Lulu likes him,” said Shula-Jane. “Let me make him comfortable, and then I will come and make syrup with you,” she said by way of conciliation.
Emmi Rashida sniffed and said in a higher, tight voice, “Very well. Hurry up.”
The tan-coloured, sorry bundle with the oversized head grew at an astonishing rate once he had recovered from his sad beginning. Four months after Shula-Jane had brought him home he was the size of a cheetah, while looking half lion and half bull. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his muzzle short and wide, his teeth like lion fangs. He shadowed Shula-Jane throughout the day, and when she went to market she tied a flaxen braid around his thickset neck, which was purely decorative, for even if she had had a rope as thick as could be found, it would not have been sufficient to restrain Keita should he decide to break free.
She liked the way that disrespectful men and pilfering children kept their distance from her when she had Keita walking at her side, padding along in his half-leonine, loping way. She liked the feel of solidity to him when she sat beside him, she could lean her whole body against him and he did not move. She also liked very much that Keita did not like Toufik, and Toufik did not like Keita. Shula-Jane would know that Toufik was coming before she could see him by the low rumble of warning that Keita emitted.
But though Toufik could not so easily approach Shula-Jane each day and gloat over their coming union, yet she still had to hear the daily accounts of how the plans were coming along for the new rooms, for Emmi Rashida was diligent in her reports.
Shula-Jane knew all about how Toufik had ordered the stone pillars from the quarry at Jeno; had commissioned the fabrics for the drapes and coverings from the weavers in the city quarter of Sozo; had chosen the tiles for the flooring that would be made at Korioume; had selected the momosia wood for the dining table and chests from the timber merchant at Kabara.
“Toufik is choosing only the very best of everything,” Emmi Rashida boasted as she and Shula-Jane were sitting in the shade of the palm trees at midday rest. “Only the very best for Toufik and his new wife. How is it that you do not want to share in his plans?” she asked, her palm fan pausing for a moment as she looked at her niece.
“Oh, I do not care,” Shula-Jane said languidly, her eyes closed. Then she realised how rude she sounded. “That is to say, I do not care to interfere. Let Toufik carry out his plans. He seems to have a decided view on how he wants everything to be.”
“Toufik has very decided views,” agreed Emmi Rashida proudly, resuming her fanning. “A man should know exactly what he wants. A procrastinating man is a weak-willed man.”
“But what about the gardens?” Shula-Jane said, swatting a fly away with her hand.
“What about the gardens?”
“I did not see any plans for the new gardens that will lead from the rooms.”
“Toufik does not care for gardens,” said Emmi Rashida, who did not care for them either.
“I care very much about the gardens. And I will not consider the work completed until they are done also,” she added with a touch of petulance. She did care very much about the gardens, but it also occurred to her that if extensive work had to be completed outside as well as inside, then that would give her a little more time to evade that unwelcome wedding day.
Emmi Rashida put her fan down and looked disconcerted. She wanted to rebuke Shula-Jane’s remarks, but she knew that if the question were put to her father, he would agree with her. He always gave the child whatever she wanted. She would have to speak to Toufik about the gardens.
“I will design the gardens,” said Shula-Jane.
“A young woman cannot take on such work,” said Emmi Rashida dismissively.
“Why can’t I?” Shula-Jane opened her eyes and scowled at her. “Toufik cares nothing for gardens, he cannot do it. So I will design them. I will speak to Papa about it.”
Emmi Rashida tutted and shook her head and fanned herself more vigorously. Such a girl. Such a troublesome, headstrong child.
Papa had agreed to Shula-Jane’s plans, as she and Emmi Rashida knew he would. Why should his clever daughter not design her own gardens? He did not share his sister’s belief in women’s inabilities. Was not the Queen of Saba the greatest ruler in all their kingdom’s history? Did not the Empress of Ujonda single-handedly defeat the kings of the West? Did not his own mother raise him in the highest morals and ensure he had the highest education he could receive, though she was a widow of few means? He did not doubt the strength of a good woman. And no woman had more goodness in his eyes than the daughter of his unexpected love.
If Shula-Jane desired to design a garden, then it would be a magnificent garden to rival the king’s, though on a far smaller scale. But she would need an extra hand to undertake her work. Ibram and the servants under him were busy preparing the foundations for the new marriage wing. They must visit the market and acquire a servant or two to work under Shula-Jane. It would be good for her to learn to command her own servants.
When Abu Sabri walked through the dusty streets to the markets every head bowed to him in respect for the seal he wore about his neck, the seal that glinted in the sunlight over his fine-woven gown of blue. Only the senior servants of the king and their immediate families were permitted to wear blue, and only the senior servants of the king wore the king’s seal about their necks – a great disc of hammered gold with the king’s emblem inscribed upon it – a rampant lion and a leopard.
Shula-Jane felt pride at the honour shown her father; she considered he was worthy of it. She walked beside him, one hand upon his arm, the other holding Keita by his leash. Ibram and two serving boys walked behind them, the boys holding palm leaf shades over their heads.
Shula-Jane had always hated seeing the slave market. She usually averted her eyes when she had to pass by. But today they must find new servants to begin the work on her plans for the gardens. There were not many slaves that day. Only two-dozen or so, most of them too young or too old for their purposes.
She scanned the line of bodies being offered for sale. Dusty, scabbed, half-naked, some fully naked, thin wretches with chains on their legs. Her eyes rested on a small figure, a little girl, impossible to say how old, perhaps of eight or nine years. She sat with her head bowed wearing just a scrap of fabric about her waist. She was holding fast the hand of another child, a very young child, perhaps four or five years. The younger child was curled up in a ball. The way she lay on the dusty ground reminded Shula-Jane of the day she had first seen Keita tied to a palm tree.
“What do you think of that one?” her father was asking her. She pulled her gaze away from the two girls and looked at the person Papa was pointing out. It was a young man who stood next in the line. He looked about Shula-Jane’s age. He was pale-skinned, not Ifrikan, but from overseas.
“He is the only one who looks capable of hard work,” said her father.
Shula-Jane was stood some distance from the slaves. But as she looked at the young man her father had pointed out, she was close enough to see him take something out of the sleeve of his dirty, torn tunic. He held out whatever it was to the little girl who sat near to him, joined together by the chains on their ankles. The little girl did not move, so he put the small object on the ground near to her. The older girl reached over and picked it up, she looked at it, it was something small. She gave it to the younger child, whose limp hand closed over it.
“I agree, Papa. He looks to be the only one who has the strength for work.”
“But if he speaks no local dialects he will be of no use,” said her father.
“You must be able to communicate orders to him. I will enquire. You stay here, daughter, it is too a miserable place for you to move any closer.”
Shula-Jane watched her father approach the slavers. The predictable wrangling began. Papa should have sent Ibram to make the purchase, Shula-Jane thought. The slavers would look at Papa and know that he was a wealthy man. They would charge the highest prices possible. Keita seemed restless beside her; he was pacing to and fro on his leash as though he were in some distress.
“What is wrong, Keita?” she said, scratching his massive square head. Keita gave a little moan. “It is not a good place to be,” Shula-Jane acknowledged. “But we will go home soon.”
Though she would rather not look at the slaves in their misery she could not help looking back at the two little girls. She felt great pity for them. They were so young and frightened looking. She saw Moji Masu, their nearest neighbour, approach the slave pen. She looked away from him. Moji Masu was not a good man. But he was a rich man. She could hear her father’s voice, though she was not near enough to hear his words. She heard him greet his neighbour in the long, usual greeting. She heard both of them talking to the slavers, bartering, haggling, protesting. Keita whined and was as restless as a worried horse.
She looked back at the slave pen to see if her father had reached the end of his bartering. She saw that Moji Masu was pointing at the eldest of the little girls. She saw one of the slavers yank the girl up to her feet and push her forward, saw him slap her hand so she was forced to let go of the hand of the younger girl. Keita growled. A long, slow growl that grew and grew.
She saw the slaver grabbing the girl by her black, frizzy hair, thrusting her head back, saw him force open her jaw so that Moji Masu could look inside her mouth and examine her teeth to gauge her health. She saw the little girl on the ground raising her hands piteously as though she anticipated her friend, perhaps her sister, for they looked very alike, being separated from her. She saw Moji Masu prodding and poking at the thin little body of the slave girl, and she felt anger and disgust rising up in her, for she knew what kind of man Moji Masu was. Everyone did. Keita’s growls grew deeper and louder and he jerked forward suddenly, so that his leash was wrenched from Shula-Jane’s hand.