Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘My master’s father has instructed me to offer you gold instead of this worthless girl,’ the Abyssinian says graciously. ‘He will pay the two hundred dollars he bought her for – a greater sum surely than the debt your master is due.’

  The Nubian bows. ‘Thank you,’ he replies. ‘The habshi will suffice for she was the bargain that was made.’

  Zena feels sick as the Nubian takes the rope in his hand. She is trembling. She does not want to leave. ‘But my master,’ she stutters, ‘he will be home when the sun sets and he will be expecting me . . . he cannot want me to go.’

  A flicker of a smile crosses the Nubian’s face. ‘Your master has given you to mine, girl. You will dance for someone new tonight.’

  ‘They offered you gold,’ she says desperately. ‘They offered you gold instead.’

  The Nubian ignores her and turns to go. Zena stares in the direction of the Abyssinian, pleading silently with him to say something more, but he is only bowing. She does not know it but he is wondering how much longer the young master’s disgraceful habits will be tolerated in his father’s household. The boys and the gambling are both illegal and his indulgence in such pursuits shame his honourable father, while losing this girl over a game of shesh besh is simply a waste. Though he thinks the young master should be beaten for his wickedness, the wise old retainer says nothing, of course, and he does not meet the pretty little habshi’s eye. Instead, he bows to the leaving guest.

  Zena’s heart pounds as the slaves rush to open the heavy door and she is taken away. Her mind floods with blind panic. This is not what she had in mind when she made a wish to leave the household. No one helps her. No one comes to stop him from taking her away and she is pulled, though she gives no real resistance, her heart racing harder even than when she was taken from her village. It makes no sense, she thinks. He likes me, I know he does. And I like it here. I feel safe. Why would he send me away? Desperately, she fumbles for an explanation that no one has any interest in supplying. But still she tries to find the words, frantically hoping someone will do something to help. Zena gulps in the hot air as, terrified and panting, with no choices presenting themselves, she steps out into the relentless sunshine of the busy Muscat street and the thick doors of the courtyard close behind her, cutting her off from everything that has become familiar.

  Halfway up the street at the corner, pulling her like a tethered goat, the Nubian loses patience with the girl’s reluctance. She is dawdling, staring around and pulling back heavily. She is acting as if she is stunned and, for the man, it is far too much effort to guide her. He jerks the rope.

  ‘Have you not learnt yet that it is useless to resist?’ he spits.

  Zena’s temper flashes suddenly and she stamps her foot onto the hot stones. The Nubian raises his hand as if to strike her. No one in the street even notices as she pulls back, cowering. The Nubian sighs and then desists, not wanting to mark the girl before his master can inspect his property. He jerks his head to indicate that she is to follow and when he pulls the rope again she is tame once more and they turn the corner past the preparations for Ibn Mohammed’s caravan on which she looked down so loftily only a few minutes before.

  Outside the compound the Nubian greets one or two of the men – retainers in Ibn Mohammed’s household who shake his hand and clap him on the back. All ignore Zena completely as they stop to exchange pleasantries. Zena peers inside the courtyard around the edge of her veil. From his vantage point under the tree, Kasim regards her plainly and she is unsure if he even recognises her. Next to him there is a plump, older man in a light cotton jubbah and a pale-skinned Turk who looks somehow familiar. Her mind is racing too fast to place him. These men are newly arrived, drinking coffee and talking quietly. When the Turk notices her she feels half-naked in her sheer jilbab and see-through veil, realising that many of the women in the doorways are in full burquah. Her stomach lurches at his gaze and suddenly she feels as if everyone is staring at her and whispering. Look, she thinks, look at him eyeing me. She feels furious and ashamed all at once. Still, she cannot help noticing that the Turk’s eyes are a piercing blue. He points her out to his companions while still keeping his eyes upon her and the plainly dressed, grey-haired man walks over.

  ‘Aziz?’ he addresses the Nubian.

  ‘Master,’ the man bows with a serious air.

  ‘This is the girl?’

  He walks around her. ‘Well, Farida will be pleased, no doubt.’ Ibn Mudar, having won this girl in a bet, has no real use for her other than to gift her to his favourite wife. Slowly Zena realises that his eyes are not searching – the old man does not desire her. It is a relief. He seems scholarly and detached. He is, in fact, wondering what poetry his wife will employ to describe this creature. As black as night, he can hear her lilting voice saying. The girl is a veritable dancing shadow. She’s a flicker is she not? Mickey often wonders what his wife might think of things.

  ‘And she dances?’ he checks.

  ‘Yes. He assured me. And her Arabic is excellent. She has been educated.’

  ‘You can read?’ the old man asks Zena.

  Zena nods. ‘Only a little,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Mickey pronounces. ‘That will be fine.’

  The Nubian is about to move off when Kasim and the Turk stroll out of the compound and into the street with their coffee cups still in hand.

  ‘A new wife for your harim?’ Kasim enquires.

  ‘No. A present for my wife,’ Mickey says.

  ‘We will not be trading this trip,’ Kasim comments flatly. ‘There will be no business in it.’

  ‘We will trade in white men’s souls,’ Wellsted chimes in, finding it odd that dressed this way it is so easy to separate himself from being English.

  Kasim shrugs. White men’s souls are nothing to him. ‘A girl like this, in Riyadh,’ he says, ‘is worth a hundred dollars more than in Muscat.’

  ‘Really?’ Wellsted is fascinated.

  However much she’s worth, he finds he cannot take his eyes off her. There is something delicate and yet strong in her demeanour – something almost otherworldly. He wonders if it is simply too long since he has seen a woman or at least one who isn’t shrouded in what amounts to a tent’s worth of thick fabric.

  ‘Why is she worth more in Riyadh?’

  ‘Because she is so dark,’ Kasim explains. ‘The further from Africa you go the more the pretty ones fetch at auction. I recognise her, actually. She came from our last shipment. They have dressed her hair and fed her, but it’s the same girl. She made two hundred Marie Theresa dollars. The rest of the village where we found her were not worth that much all together.’

  Zena’s eyes remain glued to the dusty stones at her feet.

  ‘There is some profit in it, then,’ Wellsted says.

  Mickey smiles. ‘But you do not approve, Lieutenant. I can hear it in your voice.’

  ‘No, sir,’ he admits to the agent. ‘I cannot approve of one man owning another. It does not give the second man a sporting chance.’

  Mickey bursts out laughing. ‘What chance do you think this girl would have? If I free her now what can she possibly do?’

  Wellsted considers. ‘Why she can read – can she not teach? Marry and have a family?’ He looks at Zena. ‘Where are you from?’ he asks, his gaze still steady.

  Her heart is pounding so fast that she thinks she might be sick. Still, she looks composed, like an elegant statue or a scene from a painting. Mickey has drawn back the veil and he notices that her eyes are wide yet still and she stands as if she is held back a little from the scene around her – as if she is not really part of what is going on.

  Zena thinks she is going to vomit sweet, milky slop all over this strange, pale foreigner whose clothes smell unwashed. This is a dangerous conversation and she knows it. If Ibn Mohammed strikes one of his men for packing a chicken incorrectly what will he do if he overhears a conversation such as this? Kasim, who she has seen with her own eyes murder any who re
sist him, has recognised her. They know she is nothing – only a stolen woman.

  ‘Africa. Near Bussaba,’ she manages to say, her mouth suddenly dry. His eyes are extraordinary, she thinks. Blue like the sea.

  ‘You have family there?’

  Zena nods. She thinks she has family, but of course, there is no way to tell what happened after she left.

  ‘You expected to marry before you were brought to Muscat?’

  She nods again, but does not explain she was unwilling.

  ‘There,’ Wellsted beams.

  Mickey strokes his beard. ‘Very well, Lieutenant, very well.’ He considers for a moment or two. ‘I will give you this girl as a parting gift, my effendi. She may prove useful on your trip for barter. But you must do with her what you will.’

  Kasim’s eyes brighten with anticipation at this development. There is little he likes so much as a bluff being called. ‘You will sell her,’ he says, ‘you’ll see. When we get to Riyadh, you will sell her for three hundred Marie Theresa silver dollars and you will pocket the profit and swallow your moral objections.’

  ‘We cannot take her into the desert.’ Wellsted is shocked.

  ‘Why not?’ Kasim is mocking him. ‘If you set her free now she’ll starve without your help and protection.’

  ‘It’s dangerous. She is no use in the desert. Think of the temperatures.’

  ‘You have no use for a beautiful slave girl?’ Kasim bursts out laughing. ‘She is from Africa and you think it will be too hot for her! It does not surprise me, my friend, that your fellows find themselves caught by the Bedu and need to be rescued. It does not surprise me at all.’

  Wellsted draws himself up. If he leaves her here, he reasons, the girl will never be free. If she comes he can see to the matter at the end of the trip.

  ‘All right then,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Ibn Mudar. I accept your gift. We will take her in our caravan, under my protection, and when we have secured Jessop and Jones’ freedom she shall also have hers. I will find a position for her as a free woman when we return. I swear.’

  Shaded again by the sheer veil, a tear slopes down Zena’s cheek but none of them see it.

  ‘Now, for a start,’ Wellsted says, ‘we need to get her some travelling clothes, do we not?’

  Mickey Ibn Mudar smiles. ‘Yes, the responsibility of a master is upon you. And this boudoir outfit is not suitable for anywhere other than the harim. Let me assist. Aziz,’ he addresses the Nubian, ‘fetch a burquah for the lieutenant’s habshi.’

  The brightly dressed Nubian drops the rope im mediately.

  It is then Zena recognises the Turk. It is something about his body, the way he moves as he turns. He is the white man she half-blinded with the master’s mirror. Why, she wonders, is he dressed that way? She has the sudden urge to tell him, ‘I made you laugh. You squinted. That was me. I have seen you before.’ But, of course, she says nothing, only thinks that close up, his pale, long hands are eerie, as if they are the hands of the dead. The blue of his irises looks savage. That this strange creature is her new master both fascinates and revolts her. He is confusing on every level. Unknown and intriguing, a new danger that cannot be second-guessed. Even in her grandmother’s house, where she thought she had seen every kind of man, there was no one who looked so alien. It is eerie. When she was kidnapped from her village, at least Zena understood the direction, the motivation of the men who took her. This man could want anything no matter what he says about giving back her freedom. His Arabic is heavily accented and his vocabulary is strange and off-kilter. Zena knows she is good at sizing people up but she cannot read this strange creature at all. As she walks inside to change into the burquah he has provided, she turns to look at him.

  ‘I don’t want to go to the desert with you,’ she whispers under her breath.

  ‘What?’ Aziz asks, his voice tetchy, as if he is dealing with a difficult child. This slave girl is clearly troublesome and he is glad he is not going to be responsible for her in his master’s house.

  ‘Nothing,’ Zena replies. ‘Nothing.’ And she follows him inside to change.

  It is an hour or two before midday by the time the caravan sets out. Mickey clutches each of the free men to him, kissing them three times as is the custom, and then he waves them off, smiling and nodding at the gates of Ibn Mohammed’s courtyard. Leaving Muscat is a slow business, for the streets are not designed to easily accommodate bulky groups of men and beasts and in this entourage there are over twenty men. Each leads his camel carefully so as not to overturn the tables and the mounds of wares outside Muttrah’s stalls. Some riding camels are followed by a pack beast tethered on a short rope that brings up the rear. Because she has never ridden a camel before (a fact that causes hilarity among the other slaves), Zena is given a single beast to manage.

  ‘This one,’ the head slave thrusts the bridle into her hands. ‘Take it. This one is easy. It’s a stupid camel. It will follow even a woman.’

  Zena does not retort. She watches as the streets become more residential and the houses smaller and wonders how she managed, once more, to come into the care of Kasim and Ibn Mohammed. It is clear after only an hour that the white man is not really in charge. A mixture of hate and fear swills this way and that as Zena considers her options. Leaving the city feels even more like leaving home than the last time they took her. She wonders, momentarily, if she can drop hold of the camel’s bridle and slip unseen down a side street. The caravan is busy and the men might not notice, but before she can decide, the slave next to her suddenly starts up a conversation.

  ‘Leave the girl alone,’ Kasim snaps at the boy. ‘I have my eyes on you.’

  And the moment is lost, for she knows Kasim’s dark gaze is relentless and that if she has caught his attention there is no way she will be able to escape. I should have been quicker, she curses silently, grinding her teeth.

  As they reach the very top of the hill and the houses become less frequent, they mount the camels properly and Wellsted takes one last look at the ship in the sparkling bay. On deck he can just make out two of the midshipmen, back from their excursions, dapper in their uniforms and overseeing some work that is underway at the mast head. They will set sail for Bombay in a day or two. He waves but receives no response from the tiny figures and then he turns onto the wadi. In disguise, they are not able to recognise me, he thinks. Still, they know I am leaving. Perhaps the distance is simply too far to make me out.

  On the wadi, the ground is mostly mixed shingle and it takes concentration to ride across it on the camel’s splayed hooves. This is, Wellsted thinks, the right place for him to be. Conditions aboard ship the past weeks have been intolerable and even though Ibn Mohammed and Kasim clearly despise him, their throwaway comments are not a patch on Captain Haines’ incessant tirade. Besides that personal consideration, he has been given the soultan’s permission to roam freely in his territories – an honour never before bestowed upon a foreigner. If he is to make his name, this will be his best chance, he thinks, never mind that his mission has the more noble purpose of a rescue. The Navy loves its pioneers. The societies in Bombay and London, of interest to all important men, thrive on the accounts of Britain’s soldiers, sailors and empire builders lucky enough to be able to make excursions such as these. Not only might there be rewards but he is discovering the world on behalf of his country – on behalf of his family, it occurs to him. He suddenly feels Old Thomas’ presence and spins around in his saddle, half-expecting the old man’s ghost to be seated to the rear. Instead, behind him, the girl, completely covered in a dark burquah, is riding in tandem with one of Ibn Mohammed’s slaves. All he can see of her is a pair of dark hands clinging onto the camel’s worn, embroidered saddle on either side and a glimpse of her eyes. She seems steady enough with Kasim right behind her.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asks.

  ‘Zena.’ She looks startled.

  ‘Zena,’ Wellsted repeats. ‘Zena.’ It rolls easily off his tongue.

  Ibn Mo
hammed brings his camel alongside at a sharpish trot. The idea of asking a slave for her name amuses him. He does not know the name of his own house slaves and if he wanted to call them something, he would decide on a name on their behalf. The white man clearly has no idea.

  ‘They are as hopeless as these stupid beasts,’ he motions towards Zena. ‘A camel without a master will not last more than a year, you know. They need to be tended. We give them a purpose and when they run away they are lucky if they last even the twelve months. Slaves likewise.’

  Wellsted thinks he sees the whites of Zena’s eyes flash from the thin strip open across her face and he approves. It is a sign that she has spirit.

  ‘Well, sir, we shall see,’ he says. ‘Perhaps my habshi will surprise you.’

  Ibn Mohammed laughs. There is nothing left in the world to surprise him. He has seen it all. ‘Come,’ he motions, ‘we can go faster.’

  He gallops to the rear of the camel train. Then he rounds on the final animal, poking the she-camel’s tail with his long riding crop and making a loud, high shriek in imitation of an excited male. The group laugh as the terrified camel shoots ahead, convinced there is a male in the party, trying to mount her out of season. The slave perched on the high saddle clings on for dear life and in his wake everyone picks up their pace. The slavers seem, Wellsted notes, quite jolly now they have left Muscat. It is as if, in passing beyond the city’s limits, they have been given a purpose.

  ‘Keep up!’ Ibn Mohammed shouts as he passes Wellsted.

  They are hoping to make forty miles this first day, northwards over the wadi, as far as they can towards the rocky hills of the jabel beyond. It is an ambitious undertaking and one for which the Arabs have not procured a map. Still, they seem to know what they are doing and it feels good to be off the ship and out in the open. He clicks his tongue to encourage the camel.

  ‘Gee up. Come on,’ he says. And then catching himself, he changes the exclamation to ‘Seent’ for he is Turkish now – Arabic is his second language and he must speak it at all times. With this exclamation, he lets out a cry that mimics the others around him to egg on his camel even faster and he speeds up thinking that, for all the fuss the Arabs make about the desert, it seems natural to be here. It is easier than one might expect, he decides, in this alien landscape, among these alien people, for a chap to feel completely at home.