Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  The weeks of hauling nets have paid dividends and the man falls backwards onto the stony ground. But Zena knows that she has only bought herself a few moments. She is panting and her mind is racing. She checks the tightly stuffed goatskin pouch is still in place, tied around her waist with a rough piece of cord. If only she’d holstered it lower, she thinks, and then laughs darkly at the ridiculousness of the situation. The man groans and turns, coming round slowly, a bruise swelling already on his skin in the dim light. She towers over him and draws her khandjar now she can reach it.

  ‘If you tell them,’ she hisses as he opens his eyes, ‘you’ll have to explain what you were doing groping Malik the fisherman, won’t you?’

  The man won’t meet her gaze. He stares solidly at her feet instead.

  ‘Don’t you like women?’ she asks him.

  It is a question that seems to be coming up a lot over the course of her time on the Peninsula. It is strange to think that only a few months before she had little idea what some men liked to get up to in the night, with companions of either gender.

  ‘Of course I like women,’ he spits back at her. ‘I am no khawal. I have a wife. She lives with my family, on the mainland. But you . . . it is an abomination. You have prayed with us. You have, you have . . .’ he searches for other instances of what Zena has done to breach the law of man and of Allah, but his head is aching and he gives up.

  ‘You seem very like a khawal to me, my friend. And if they find out they will punish you. I must find my master,’ she says, ‘and a woman cannot travel alone. If you keep my secret and let me go with your cousin, I will keep yours, I will not cut you now and I will give you five dollars,’ she promises.

  It is a large sum for a fisherman from a small island though she is acutely aware that if he unmasks and sells her he will make far more. A lot, she realises, depends on the extent of the man’s shame and his fear of being unmasked.

  ‘Don’t forget, I can tell them what you tried to do with me. Everyone will know what you did. Everyone.’

  The man rubs his head. From the tilt of it, she can see that the threat has hit home. For a fisherman from such a small village to lose his reputation is a serious matter and were Zena to make the shameful allegation the mud might stick. She knows that men can be stoned for such behaviour. In some areas, where sharia law prevails, there are those who have been beheaded.

  ‘All right,’ he nods slowly. ‘I want more than five dollars, though,’ he says, shakily rising to his feet.

  Zena relaxes a little and slowly reholsters the knife. ‘That is all I have,’ she says. It is a lie, but five dollars is enough. ‘I will give it to you the morning I leave.’

  But she has hardly finished the sentence and turned away before the man has moved, quick as a hawk, and is pressed up against her once more. First, he takes the knife from her belt and throws it into the blackness. Zena lets out a low shriek of frustration.

  ‘Hit me, would you?’ he mumbles. ‘You say you have five dollars. Well, my fine friend, no woman should own her own money. Where are you keeping it?’

  If he takes the coins Zena knows she is done for. She jerks furiously, kicking out. He contains her a moment or two before she manages to catch him a heavy blow to his crotch with her knee. The man doubles over and Zena jumps to the side. But as she does so she sees that he has the goatskin pouch in his hand. She cannot leave it behind. She falls on him and wrestles the purse from his grasp, then kicks him twice, hard in the head. There is no point in trying to reason with him. There is no deal to be done here. She rains blows with her clenched fist and furiously finds that she can hardly stop herself from continuing, even though the man is now lying still. In the end, her attention is only diverted by the possibility of regaining her weapon.

  She leaves him where he lies, scrambles in the darkness to find the khandjar and slides it back into her belt. Then she thinks a moment. For a mere second she wonders if the man is dead, and her stomach shifts, unsure whether she hopes he is or not. The anger still has a grip of her, but when she leans over him there is the sigh of a deep breath. She pokes him, but he is still out cold. Perhaps it is for the best. A murder would provoke a manhunt. Things had been going so well.

  ‘No!’ she says out loud. ‘Damn it.’

  She searches for an alternative course of action, but all Zena knows is that now she can take no risks and she has very few options. The ship for Muscat doesn’t leave for days and she has to get away from here now.

  Using the sailor’s knots she has learned, she ties the man’s arms and legs together with a strip of cloth so he cannot follow her. She walks smartly back down the road that leads to the harbour without greeting anyone on her way. Back at the dock, she calls one of the men to the side. He is a fisherman like the rest of them and a friend of the man she has left up on the hill. She cannot accuse the man directly of attacking her, but it is entirely possible that those closest to him have some idea of his preferences and might suspect the truth if he left the campfire with a pretty young boy and headed off into the darkness.

  ‘Your friend,’ her voice is croaky, ‘took me to his cousin. I was offered a passage to Muscat but the price was too high,’ she looks the man directly in the eye. ‘I knocked him out and left him by the boulders. Up the hill in that direction. Over there. I am sorry. I should go now. He was raving. He said crazy things. But he is all right. I just had to get away.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The man puts a hand on her shoulder kindly, but after what happened Zena can’t help but pull back.

  ‘Malik . . .’ the man starts as if he is about to apologise, but she waves off his attempts to finish the sentence.

  ‘It is all right,’ she says. ‘Will you fetch him? He is fine, but I tied him up so he could not follow me. I must go.’

  As she turns to leave, the fisherman calls out and runs after her. ‘Here,’ he offers her a calabash of water. ‘Take this.’

  So, she thinks, he knows. She holsters the flask on her belt and walks into the darkness towards the causeway that leads to the mainland. There are other villages and other boats. If she follows the coastline, soon enough there will be a peppering of lamps by the water. This man will look after his friend, and she hopes his shame will see to it that she isn’t followed. Besides, they cannot know which causeway she chose or in which direction she will walk. In Arabia, she has come to realise, if a slight can be forgotten or waved away, it is best for everyone. She casts her eyes to the sky to guess her best direction and then she looks back only once at the island, her first chance at a direct passage to Muscat.

  Oh well, she comforts herself, it could have been far, far worse, and rubbing her arms which suddenly feel very stiff and bruised where the man laid his hands on either side of her, she sets off to the south again to walk through the night, for as long as it takes, with the Pole Star twinkling at her back.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The officers of the Bombay Marine, and Sir Charles himself for that matter, are nursing a collective hangover this morning the like of which has not been seen since the day after the Ball in Support of the Emancipation of Chattel Slavery, organised by Lady Malcolm some eighteen months before. So wholeheartedly enthused was the English community by this event (at the time, the first proper dance in Bombay in almost a year) that erstwhile reserved ladies quaffed large quantities of champagne cocktails in support of The Cause, a duel was fought and the evening resulted in not one, but two engagements, both of which have since been solemnised by the vows of matrimony. Today, however, it is only the officers and some of the men who are finding their duties particularly challenging, and not one single marriage has been announced. Instead, an unaccustomed hush has fallen over the officers’ mess and naval officers and the gentlemen are, according to their prediliction, either particularly short-tempered or completely unresponsive to all around them. All this over the news relayed via His Majesty’s ship Psyche and subsequently picked up by the Nancowry as it returned to the capital, that Wellste
d and Jessop have been spotted on the water and, in charge of an Arab vessel and, resupplied, are heading for safety. The pluck of their endeavours is the subject of much speculation (as well as several well-supported toasts) and proof, were proof required, that the British can do anything. It’s all a matter of pluck.

  Sir Charles views with disdain the cup of weak Chinese tea that has been placed on his desk. In the normal run of things he is a man who has several difficult decisions to take in the course of a working day, but this morning even deciding whether to add sugar or not seems well nigh impossible. Now he searches for the words to communicate his desires.

  ‘Take it away,’ he snaps eventually and motions for the cup to be removed.

  The smell of the aromatic brew is making him feel quite nauseous. Slowly, he pulls a sheet of paper towards him across the desktop, and dips his nib in the silver-bound pot of India ink.

  To be held at Muscat for Lieutenant James Raymond Wellsted, he starts, and then finds himself quite mesmerised by the shape of the double ‘l’.

  Sir, he continues, we were delighted to receive news of Doctor Jessop’s rescue. Many congratulations are due to you, and commiserations also upon the reported loss of Lieutenant Jones, a dutiful officer who will be sadly missed by his comrades and friends. Doctor Jessop must return to Bombay upon the next available passage. Please forward with him your sealed account of what transpired in which I beg you to be frank. Meanwhile, you sir, are charged to take the next ship to London and report for duty there, as soon as possible, to the residence of Admiral Rose, at 43 Edgware Road. The admiral is expecting you, we hope within the next six weeks as time is of the essence. The admiral will brief you upon arrival. Do not delay. I am told they have sold out the first run of your account of Socotra which has been recently published and there is a great appetite for more. Congratulations.

  Charles Malcolm

  The signature trails off the end of the paper and Sir Charles thinks that the effort of writing might make him quite sick. He falls back into his chair from where he has an excellent view of his well-stocked tantalus.

  ‘Fetch,’ he motions to the boy attending him. ‘Brandy.’

  The boy jumps into action. He pours the drink into a crystal balloon and brings it to Malcolm’s desk on a small, silver tray. Malcolm downs it in one.

  ‘That’s better,’ he gasps. ‘Now. Here.’ Sir Charles seals the paper with wax, as if in slow motion. He proffers the missive to the boy. ‘Find my secretary,’ he mouths.

  Whitelock has not appeared for duty this morning. If Malcolm recalls correctly, the lieutenant made a wager with one of the other officers, though he’ll be damned if he can recall the terms of the thing. Lately Sir Charles finds himself bored by the shenanigans of highly spirited young men. Their concerns reside somewhere between balder and dash and many of the youngsters simply cannot hold their liquor. It won’t do, he thinks vaguely as he pushes the boy by the arm, launching him into action.

  ‘Find Whitelock and have him dispatch that to our agent in Muscat straight away,’ he says.

  Sir Charles has a busy day ahead and he already feels entirely exhausted. It crosses his mind that the broad spectrum of young officers may be full of nonsense but they are, to a man, extraordinarily brave. He heaves himself fully upright at the thought and tries to forgive Whitelock’s absence. After all, both Sir Charles himself and his brother, Pultney, were no doubt, high spirited as youngsters. His head begins to thump and he stares longingly at the tantalus, but cannot rouse himself to cross the room. A boy, no doubt, will be along shortly.

  ‘Damn weather,’ he mumbles under his breath, and pulls another sheet of paper from the escritoire. His Majesty’s business is neverending, and Malcolm knows it.

  ‘Still, best get on . . .’ he admonishes himself, and thinks for a moment before he addresses the difficulty of obtaining timber around the Red Sea and how Britain may be able to provide a consistent supply for her own use or, indeed, such a sufficiency that the Company can profit from the needs of the local market. With a little planning it’s not impossible, he ponders, it’s just that the natives don’t think that way.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Zena is limping. The desert by the coast is rocky and in the darkness she tumbled. It has been several days and her ankle has not yet recovered though she has kept it bound. The injury aches with dull intensity and it slows her down. Given this, it takes her longer than she anticipated to reach the town of Al Qir, which it transpires is a busy port well supplied with willing and experienced fishermen – too many for an unknown, injured black boy to take his chance. Besides, when she walks she winces and it is obvious she cannot undertake even half the duties expected of a boy on board.

  In the event, she sees no reason to wait until she gets taken onto one crew or another when there are coins languishing in her purse and (at last) a direct passage, by sea less than a week’s journey. She can tell a new story here. No one knows her. She nervously pulls herself up and decides she will simply offer to pay. This is tricky, of course. No one must know how much she has or where she keeps it. Still, there are no other options. Zena takes a deep breath and thinks that she is, at least, getting closer.

  ‘That ship there,’ she is told when she enquires which vessel is sailing to Muscat on the next tide.

  It is large enough and the captain comes to the plank to see the dark slave boy who is offering coin. The man is surly. He regards her suspiciously and his manner of business is not like the stallholders who serve coffee and flatter, drawing their customers inexorably towards a purchase. He clearly finds Zena’s request strange and is standoffish. Still, she is offering him money.

  ‘You are injured,’ he points out.

  She ignores this opening gambit. She might be injured but she can stand and fight.

  ‘I am on my master’s business,’ she says. ‘He has given me money for my passage to Muscat. How much is it?’

  The captain considers a moment. He stares at the stalls nearby and does not meet her eye. ‘Five dollars,’ he says. ‘You will sleep on the deck and bring your own food.’

  Zena is not so foolish as to accept anyone’s first offer, particularly one so inflated in price. She laughs as if he has made a joke. ‘That is worth only one dollar,’ she states baldly. ‘You will be transporting me like a goat.’

  ‘One dollar!’ the captain rebounds. He feigns shock as if she is crazy. ‘One dollar?’

  In time, they settle on two dollars and then Zena suggests tentatively that if he includes food and lets her sleep in a cabin below the deck, away from the other men she will pay a total of three dollars. She considers the additional coin a good investment. She needs to sleep and wants to rest her ankle. It will not get better till she does.

  The captain agrees with a curt nod, slightly surprised that such a ragged-looking creature can pay. The boy’s master must be wealthy to squander that kind of money on a slave.

  ‘You eat with the crew,’ he says. ‘Fish.’

  Zena expected nothing more and limps aboard with as much grace as she can muster.

  When they set off, the captain remains brusque. Zena is not paying for his company though and she keeps to herself. On deck he makes a little conversation, trying to place her.

  ‘Your master is in Muscat?’ the question comes in a low growl.

  She nods. ‘I bring news for him.’

  The captain eyes her dolefully. He does not believe a word of it. But he has his three dollars. Still, she feels uneasy.

  ‘You bring news? You can read?’

  It is the only reason he can think of to value a slave enough to pay for this kind of journey.

  Zena nods. ‘He is a powerful man,’ she explains.

  The captain stops a moment and then beckons her to one side. Zena looks round nervously. The crew are about their business. No one is paying attention.

  ‘I will not go with you,’ she says.

  He moves from foot to foot in uneasy embarrassment.

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sp; ‘I am not going to hurt you, boy. I swear. By Allah. Please.’

  She hesitates. After the reassuring tone of the man who tried to rape her, she sees no reason to trust anyone. The captain removes his knife. He places it on a bale that is piled on the deck.

  ‘See,’ he insists. ‘I am unarmed and you can keep your knife. Draw it if you want to.’

  With caution, she follows him to the prow. The man seems furtive and she keeps her hand ready to unsheath her weapon. The captain, however, eagerly pulls a box from a small compartment and shows her a document that is folded carefully inside. ‘Can you read this?’ he asks.

  Zena nods. ‘Slowly,’ she admits.

  With difficulty, she sounds out the words. It is a contract with the owner of the vessel. The captain listens and rubs his chin. He has been wondering what it says. He takes notes of a point or two to take up when he returns to Al Qir. When Zena has finished he thanks her. Shukran.

  She bows reverently and senses a change in him. He has no reason now to doubt the purpose of her passage or the question why she is carrying a small purse of talers. It is strange, she thinks, how perceptions change – so much is predicated on a sham, a show. On deck the men, she notices, work round her, treating her with a respect to which she is not accustomed. If any of them knew, there would be an outcry.

  At night, she blockades the door of the little cabin. Once she has done so she enjoys the best sleep since she left her master’s desert caravan and the security of Wellsted by her side. She hopes she will see him soon. The possibility makes her belly flutter and all the hardships seem worthwhile. As the boat heads south she thinks of her pale master all the time and she longs for him to touch her. It seems simultaneously as if it has been a year since he laid his hands on her skin and also as if what occurred on the rooftop in Riyadh was only last night. Zena has ceased to try to make sense of her feelings and instead stands on the prow and luxuriates in her excitement. Muscat is close. He might already be there. On the dockside. Waiting. His skin pale as a lily and his strong touch gentle as silk. She hopes his companions are not by his side and pushes all thought of Kasim and Ibn Mohammed to the back of her mind.