by Martin Dukes
“He’s creepy,” said Kelly, squeezing between Henry and Alex.
“’Could be alright there,” said Henry, cramming his mouth with a handful of fragrant rice that had just turned up in a big bowl on his lap. There were tender lumps of meat in it too, what tasted like lamb. “Whoa! This is more like it.”
“Hmmm,” said Alex appreciatively, plucking at a passing servant’s sleeve. “What is this stuff?”
“Wild goat,” he was told. “Hunted out just yonder.”
Under normal circumstances this might have caused Alex some disquiet, but these circumstances were far from normal and he continued to tuck in with enthusiasm.
“So who was this Omar chap, anyway?” asked Henry of the tall young man sitting at his side.
It appeared that the Sultan of Zanzibar ruled a decent sized territory on the strip of coast that faced his island across the strait that lay between. This part of his domain was called Zanjd. Raiders from inland or from further along the coast were forever descending on the Sultan’s subjects and carrying them off to be sold as slaves. When the Emir of Ganesh, further north, had got a grip on things he pretty much kept a lid on such activity, but the Emir of Ganesh was presently imprisoned by his own nephew and there was civil war going on there. Slavers and other kinds of bad eggs flourished under such conditions.
“Omar bin Omar was the scourge of the coast,” said Henry’s new friend, gesturing with a piece of greasy flatbread. Despite his tender years he had a decent growth of beard, and an impressive set of gold earrings glinted beneath his turban. Any suggestion of effeminacy was vigorously refuted by the long, puckered scar that disfigured his cheek.
“His Highness’s father spent ten years hunting him down. With his dying breath he made his Highness swear to finish the business he had begun. It has become my master’s guiding passion. He has devoted the first year of his reign to fulfilling his vow.”
“Didn’t the Sultan have any elder brothers?” asked Alex, thinking his host rather young to be ruling a kingdom.
The young man looked suddenly wary. He glanced about and opened his mouth to answer, but before he could do so the Sultan himself leant across to offer Alex a jewelled goblet.
“Drink with me, my friends,” he said, raising a similar goblet. “Let us drink to the fulfilment of vows and the destruction of our enemies.”
There was a great cheer, spreading around the encampment as a variety of drinking vessels were raised in celebration. The goblet proved to contain wine, or something very like wine, which was something of a surprise. Alex was unused to drinking wine, or indeed anything much alcoholic, so the next few hours proved to be something in the nature of an experiment. Since their hosts were unlikely to have any squash or Coca Cola on hand, the only alternative was water. Besides, it seemed impolite to refuse.
“I must tell you about my vision,” said the Sultan. “Do you believe in the power of premonition, Alex?”
“Oh, yes,” nodded Alex, thinking this was not the time to go saying that kind of stuff was all a load of rubbish.
“Four nights ago I slept, and I dreamed. I do not habitually dream, you see, and when occasionally I do, nothing remains with me more than a few moments after waking. But on this occasion it was different, quite different.” He stared into the middle distance, as though seeing it again, whilst all around him observed a reverential silence. “I can see it now – three white worms, wriggling on the sand. I had never seen such a thing.” He looked earnestly at Alex, who was starting to feel rather light headed. “And do you know, Alex, I had such a feeling of triumph, of victory that I immediately knew that the two things were connected. I awoke with a start and could not sleep again that night. And what happened next? Do you know what happened next? Hmm? Tell them, Khalil.”
One of the Sultan’s warriors, a chap with a beard the size of a half a skateboard, cleared his throat.
“I came to advise you that Omar bin Omar had raided the outskirts of Canopus, Your Highness – a most audacious raid.”
“And that was his undoing,” said the Sultan with satisfaction. “Without so much as breakfast, I gathered my forces and crossed the strait to Canopus. Never were we so close to our quarry, veritably snapping at his heels. We flanked him just south of the oasis, cut north through the scrub and sprang our trap just here, as you see, just as he must have thought he was away and free into the trackless wastes beyond. Twenty-two we slew, including Omar and his captain. A hundred and thirty-eight of my subjects I have freed. And yourselves.” He beamed broadly and slapped Alex on the shoulder. “And when I clapped eyes on you, writhing there in the dust, I knew at once that my vision had spoken truly – three of you, writhing white worms, and Omar lying dead at my feet. God be praised.”
This was not a description of himself Alex found flattering, but he could see its advantages under the circumstances. The Sultan got on with describing the details of his victory, actually drawing his sword and standing to re-enact some of his niftier moves, whilst the assembled crowd whooped and cheered.
“He’s quite the little show off,” whispered Kelly in his ear, favouring him with a wry smile.
“I’m sure it’s all for your benefit,” said Alex. “Look at him go.”
“I thought Muslims weren’t supposed to drink,” said Henry as they crawled into their tent much later. “These guys were soaking up the sauce like good ole’ boys. I’d be surprised if there isn’t a hog roast tomorrow night.”
“I’m not supposed to drink either,” said Alex, feeling distinctly woozy. “And neither are you for that matter.”
“Hard to say no really,” said Henry, rolling over and kicking off his trainers. “It would have seemed rude. Still, it’s been an interesting day and one that’s ended up okay on the whole. Wow! – black whirlies. So that’s what they mean. OMG!”
Whilst Henry was coming to terms with the whole world whirling vertiginously around him, Alex threw himself upon what had appeared to be a pile of rugs. It proved instead to be the severed head of his erstwhile captor.
“Shut up!” said Henry, clapping a hand over Alex’s mouth to stifle his screams. “You’ll have the whole camp over here.”
“Are you okay in there?” came Kelly’s anxious voice from her tent next door.
“He’s fine,” said Henry. “We just got a bit of a shock, that’s all.”
“Can I help you, master?” asked Tariq, his anxious face appearing suddenly through the flap.
“Yes, Tariq,” said Alex, taking a deep breath. “This head, now… It’s a fine thing in its way but I’m not really comfortable with it just here, if that’s okay with you.”
“Take it away, Tariq,” said Henry in a low voice. “Just get it out of here. It’s creeping us out.”
“Very well, master,” said Tariq, his voice conveying a degree of mystification. There was a pause.
“Come on in and get it, Tariq,” said Alex, trying to keep his own voice steady, leaving unspoken the “because there’s no way I’m touching it again,” bit.
As one whose previous experience of alcohol had been limited to his mum’s trifle and the occasional experimental sip of beer at family gatherings, Alex found that there was a definite downside. He was already aching from the day’s various indignities, and being sick three times pretty much evened out the pain inside and outside of him. Having drunk a fair proportion of his body weight in water he fell into a shallow sleep from which he awoke with a pounding headache. The morning sun was already turning their tent into an oven and he crawled out, blinking and yawning into a scene of purposeful activity. The camp was being struck. Chaps were singing and whistling. Horses were being untethered and having saddles strapped onto them, he noted. Kelly was walking across from the fringes of the wood.
“Hi, Kelly,” he said, clambering painfully to his feet.
“Hi, Alex,” she said. “Wish I’d brought my toothbrush. You look rubbish.” She frowned. “What does betrothed mean, exactly?”
“Huh?” He blinked, looking at he
r blankly.
“Betrothed,” she said, a hard edge to her voice, regarding him sidelong as she ran a hair slide through her hair for want of a comb. “Because last night you told his nibs that we were betrothed.”
“Did I? Did I really? Oops.” Alex blinked, rubbing the sand off his hands onto his jeans.
“So what does it mean then?”
“It means, like, we’re kind of promised to be married,” said Alex warily.
“That’s what I thought it meant. So why would you go saying a thing like that then, Alex? Hmm?” She turned her eyes upon him critically.
“He said it because he’s worried the Sultan’s got you marked down for his harem,” pitched in Henry, emerging from the tent. “I suppose you know what that means.”
“Oh!” Kelly blenched.
“That’s right,” said Alex, with relief. He didn’t actually recall having said the thing in question, but in retrospect it seemed the kind of thing he ought to have said.
“And if you’re promised to Alex, he’ll just have to make do with his other forty-seven concubines or whatever,” added Henry cheerfully. “Unless he bumps Alex off, that is. In which case you’d be good to go.”
“Thanks for that thought,” said Alex. “But you can see where I was coming from, can’t you Kell?”
“Why am I being treated like some kind of object?” demanded Kelly, brows knitted. “Don’t I have any say in it? I just want to get away from here. Can’t we get ourselves on a ship back to England or something? This place gives me the creeps.”
“Ah! Now there’s actually a bit of a problem with that,” said Henry as Tariq came over with a couple of young men and started taking their tents down. The three of them crossed to where some plates of dried fruit had been laid out for their breakfast. “You see, I got talking to a guy called Hakim last night. He’s been a sea captain and a trader in his time as well as a captain in the Sultan’s guard. Really interesting chap to talk to, actually. Anyway, we got talking about England and Europe and that kind of stuff. I mean, I was guessing we ought to be getting ourselves back to Blighty as a starting point, even if the time’s all wrong. And you know what? You’re really not going to like this...”
“What?” said Kelly and Alex in unison.
“Get this – he’s never even heard of England, yeah? Hadn’t the slightest idea what I was goin’ on about. He knew all about Europe and that, but he’d never heard of France or Germany or any of those places. I mentioned the big island off the northwest coast and he said he knew exactly what I was talking about and that it belonged to the Sultan of Swat. What do you think of that?”
Kelly and Alex looked at each other, brows furrowed.
“I think we need Malcolm to come back and get us out of here,” said Kelly quietly.
“It’s not just a time thing,” said Alex at last, thinking hard. “It can’t be. I mean, it looks like nineteenth century but there’s more to it than that.”
“Like what?” asked Henry, his head cocked to one side. “Although I do think I know where you’re going with this.”
Alex sighed. He waved a hand vaguely. “I’m thinking this is an alternative reality, too.”
“I knew you were going to say that,” said Henry, puffing out his cheeks. “I just knew it. That’s right, isn’t it? It isn’t even our own world.”
The three of them sat in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts amidst the bustle of the camp. Kelly’s hand found Alex’s. He squeezed it and looked sidelong at her, finding her eyes rimmed with tears. She wiped one away that threatened to overflow.
“We’re really, really lost now, aren’t we?” she said, forcing a smile.
He nodded, feeling an awkward lump in his own throat.
“I guess. About as lost as you can possibly be,” he conceded.
“Oh, Jeeeeeesus,” said Henry, slumping slowly back onto the low bank behind them. “My mother warned me about you.” He wagged a finger at himself. “I should’a listened.”
“It’s not Alex’s fault, you massive dork,” Kelly told him, eyes narrowed.
It had been made clear to them the previous night that they would be invited to accompany the Sultan and his party back to Zanzibar. Given that the alternative was remaining there and starving to death, no one could see any objection. What hadn’t been made clear was how they were going to get there, although it should have been easy enough to work out. Tariq and a pair of servants brought them horses. Kelly swung herself easily into the saddle of the smallest one.
“Did it on holiday last year,” she said smugly. “Ha!”
The expression on her face left no doubt that she thought her male companions were going to struggle with this.
Alex and Henry looked at each other doubtfully. The horses, whose previous owners had presumably perished in last night’s little fracas, snorted, pawed the ground and generally showed every sign of a dangerous independence of spirit.
“I’m getting bad vibes about this,” said Henry glumly.
The column was already forming up ready to set off, a hundred or so riders, kicking up a great deal of dust as they did so. Adding to this gathering cloud the Sultan’s groom thundered up, hauling on the reins to halt his mount with style, bravado and a conceited glance at Kelly. Kelly made a reasonable pretence of not being impressed. Alex scowled.
“My master desires that you join him at the head of the column,” said the groom, addressing Alex but with his eyes fixed firmly on Kelly.
“Come on,” said Alex grimly to Henry, rubbing his hands together. “We can do this.”
After some difficulty Alex established himself on top of the horse. Staying there was another issue altogether, which he demonstrated by clinging grimly to reins and saddle pommel. He had not actually been hurled to the earth, but by the time Alex had scrambled awkwardly into the saddle the horse was left in no doubt as to who was in charge. It was not Alex. A small group of mounted warriors assembled around them to observe Alex and Henry’s difficulties with barely contained glee.
“Am I to assume you are not a confident horseman?” said Tariq diplomatically, as Alex’s horse capered and fidgeted beneath him. Struggling desperately to retain his balance, Alex gripped the reins tightly, unsure whether to haul back on them or to yank them left or right.
“Uh huh,” said Alex through gritted teeth. “I expect I’ll get used to it in a minute or two.”
It was to take a great deal longer than that. The horse’s sense of being in charge of things was challenged by Tariq’s grabbing hold of its reins and steering it along beside him for a while. Another groom performed the same service for Henry and before long they were off, bouncing and lurching along the track in fine fashion, holding on grimly for balance and dignity. Alex’s horse eventually wearied of trying to jolt him off or turned its thoughts elsewhere, so the two of them established a sort of wary rapport in which Alex avoided sudden movements and the horse refrained from pitching or diving suddenly beneath him.
“What’s he called?” asked Alex as the track wound around the base of a low hill covered with scrub and tumbled rocks.
“She is called Mumtaz,” said Tariq with a sudden grin, revealing a couple of missing teeth. “Now we must press on, because my master has summoned us and he may wonder at the delay.”
“Ah, my fine milkskin friends,” said the young Sultan when the three travellers eventually appeared within hailing distance. He waved dismissively at the warrior called Suja, who had been riding at his side and had perhaps been engaged in conversation with him. “Come closer,” he called with a grin.
Nodding, Alex tugged cautiously at the reins and urged his mount in the direction of the Sultan and his entourage. Mumtaz obliged, although with a snort and a shake of her head that could perhaps be interpreted as scorn. Henry’s, though, took the opportunity to throw him to the ground. A low bush spared his bones, but its thorny branches left him cursing and plucking at his legs as he struggled to his feet.
“It appears th
at they have never ridden a horse before, master,” explained Tariq, his anguished face making it clear that he feared being blamed for this.
“Really?” The Sultan’s smooth features displayed first puzzlement and then amusement. “Then you shall learn. By the moon’s end we shall have you riding like my grizzled veterans here. Mustafa, my father’s old riding master, shall instruct you, as he did me. For now though I urge you to be cautious.” His face was suddenly split by a great white grin. “By nightfall we shall be in Canopus. It would be good to have all your bones intact.”
By nightfall Alex had learned a great deal about Sultan Jalil, his realm, his councillors and his exploits against his enemies. It appeared that he was just seventeen years old. The death of his father had been unexpected and Jalil had found himself thrust suddenly into the spotlight, master of a realm that included the whole of the island of Zanzibar and a stretch of the African coast opposite, which a man might take four days to traverse on horseback. Alex found it a curious conversation and one that, in the beginning at least, he approached with some anxiety. The attitude of Jalil’s captains and councillors suggested that they regarded him with a level of respect that shaded from fear right through to terror. When even the formidable warrior Suja blenched at the Sultan’s summons, it had to be suspected that there was good reason for their fear. This appreciation made Alex somewhat cautious with his own replies to the Sultan’s enquiries. It did not seem a good plan, for example, to stretch his host’s credulity with an account of his recent adventures in Intersticia, or of his encounters with the angelic community.
“Keep things simple,” he told himself. “And if the Sultan thinks we’re heaven-sent, so much the better.”
Kelly kept herself to herself, glancing warily at the dusty, bearded warriors who rode on either side of her. For their part they eyed her with undisguised interest, laughing and chattering amongst themselves as they rode. It was clear that horsemanship was not regarded as a female accomplishment and that her manner of dress was unfamiliar to them.