Skulls & Crossbones

by Andi Marquette

  "Muhammed has his boys searching the rest of the vessel," Mother Jamila was saying to me as she stared out to sea. "The manifest says that there are twenty-two crew members and six passengers."

  "Passengers again."

  "More and more people are figuring out that it's cheaper to find a freighter when they want to travel. But Muhammed says he thinks he has everybody, and will report back soon. He is more patient than the other men." She looked at me, and she seemed older than she should have. It was as if with every line and scar on her face, the more time could find purchase. She was beyond her years, and had been from a very young age. It was no secret that she was strong and authoritative only as a result of her early years, when she suffered unspeakable things. Mother Jamila had spoken to me of some of these things because I am also a woman, and should understand, but she keeps her past a secret from the other pirates.

  "You are getting older," she said to me. This surprised me. It was as though she and I had been thinking the same things about each other. This is one of her talents I admire her for. "Soon you will have blossomed fully and our boys may take more interest. I will not be able to protect you forever. You will have to change."

  You will have to become more like me, was what she was telling me—more of a fighter. More like a man. She had already taught me to starve myself so that my breasts were underdeveloped and my hips flat. She had passed on her technique of wrapping bandages around her chest to keep herself less noticeable. Like an Amazon, she would cut off her breast if it served a practical purpose. I often feared, during the beginnings of my adolescence, that she would resort to breast ironing to protect me from the male crew, in the manner of the mothers of Cameroon.

  "I will change, Mother Jamila," I said. "If you show me how, I will become like you."

  She turned away then, and leaned against the rusting balustrade. Above us, one of the freighter's two massive cranes hung like a hangman's noose against the grey sky.

  "We have had another message from the skiff ," Muhammed called. "Come."

  We had rounded up the crew and passengers. The crew were mostly Chinese, though some claimed to be Mongolian, not that I could tell the difference. There were three from Russia, including the cook, who we had ordered to make enough spaghetti for everybody. We used this practice often to keep the hostages quiet, so they would say they were looked after during their period of imprisonment. The six passengers were all American, and knew each other, or else had become fast friends during the many days they had been aboard the freighter.

  Everybody was gathered on the deck, where it was windy but warm, and the monsoon passed at a comfortable distance. The deck was wet from the water in the air, so most of us stood, but Mother Jamila and I sat on the top of a large metal container, cleaning our rifles, when Muhammed called us over. We listened to the message on the old radio. It was not as sophisticated as the one on our converted fishing boat, and the signal was bad because the freighter contained and carried so much metal.

  Mohammed said, "They say that the warship coming our way is not Indian. It is American."

  "Did they triangulate?" asked Mother Jamila.

  Muhammed shook his head. "They say we could have ten hours." Ten hours. It was not a long time.

  "It could be forty days before we receive our ransom," said Mother Jamila. "They will be here long before then, and they will bring snipers."

  "D'ere is something else." This was Ghedi, his voice rough with anger. Whereas Abdi reminded me of a black python, Ghedi's manner and hunched, hairy shoulders made me think of a hyena. "The captain was talking about a spy."

  "A spy? Bring him here."

  Abdi and Muhammed dragged the Chinaman to the radio. Ghedi said sharply, "Say again what we heard you say before, about the spy." The captain said nothing. Either he was too terrified to speak, or he was stupidly noble. Most likely, he hadn't the English to clearly understand what Ghedi was asking of him.

  "He was saying something about the military," Ghedi yelled. "A general will help d'em, he said! He is called General Average."

  "Who is this general?" asked Mother Jamila. "You will tell us, or you will die."

  I lifted my AKM rifle to back up her point. Abdi was holding his machete, his other hand resting on a round grenade that he kept fastened to his belt. In his camouflage jacket and trousers, he looked like one of the Americans. "Not general," the captain shrieked suddenly, ducking and whimpering. "Tell me again," Ghedi yelled, and slammed his fist on the table.

  I told Ghedi to calm down. I wish I had not. Ghedi was a fisherman and not used to guns. He did not know their power and unreliability. The rifle was Russian, made in the seventies, bought and traded a dozen times, and it had travelled from Russia to Yemen and into deep Africa. Old and worn, the gun should have had its safety catch on. Ghedi forgot this often, and so when I touched his arm, the trigger dipped under his swollen finger and the gun fired.

  The Chinaman caught four semi-automatic rounds in the shoulder, chest and neck, in an upward arc. He fell backward. The other hostages screamed and some shouted in anger. Abdi and some of the others had to push them back, away from where we stood by the radio. Mother Jamila ordered Muhammed to try to stop the blood, but a gunshot wound to the neck will not be stopped. The captain of the freighter was dead in less than a minute. Furious but in control, Mother Jamila turned to me. Ghedi was behind her, screaming at himself for his own stupidity. He was only eighteen. Mother Jamila said to me, "Search the crew and passengers. Search the ship again if you have to. This general could be on board. Find him."

  I had been at sea for eleven years. Whenever we put in at one of the ports on the Horn of Africa, I stayed aboard our current vessel, or whatever vessel we had most recently hijacked. I did not like to step on land, which felt hard and static to me. Wherever there was land, there were people I did not know—in Somalia, people worse than our boys, worse than the gangs at the coffee plantation, more hardened and ruthless than Mother Jamila.

  Occasionally, I would glance at the sky in the same way that I used to glance at the sea when I was young. When I was working for a servant's wage, I used to think that the ocean was a symbol of utter freedom. Now, the sea feels like only a channel, a gulf between yet more land. I am trapped between continents, funnelled to where the land wants the water to go. Only the sky allows true freedom.

  That was what I was thinking when I passed from the open deck into the dark, close quarters of the upper cabin, searching for the general who may or may not be on board. I moved quickly in my bare feet—my rough soles are better on the slippery deck than boots—and kept the safety off my weapon. Clipped to my jacket, which I stole off a chief bosun on an Egyptian cruise vessel years ago, was the two-way radio Mother Jamila and I used to communicate.

  Having been on many freighters like this one, I took guesses as to where other crewmen might be hiding, and sped up my search. I didn't want to waste time, and I hated being away from Mother Jamila too long. Although she is a tough woman—called Pirate Queen by some people—I am not so tough, and feel vulnerable when not in her presence.

  I was feeling nervous because we were port-bound, and I guess because of the warship. There is a shared nightmare that all the Fifth Quarter crew have, about Navy SEAL snipers. There is no defence against a sniper, other than to hide. We were not a crew accustomed to hiding, and it grated on us that the governments of the world had taken to dealing with us so harshly. I finished the search of the vessel in forty minutes, confident that I hadn't missed anywhere important or that hadn't already been checked and then locked tight. There was no sign of any other person aboard, especially not any general. Most likely, this "General Average" did not exist, something that Ghedi had misheard. It was a stupid-sounding name.

  On my return circuit, I heard voices from the wheelhouse. As I approached, one of our Puntland boys, Muhammed, stepped out and pulled the door to. "I would not go in," he said. "Mother Jamila is with Ghedi. He messed up back there."

  I nodded
, but said nothing. Muhammed was our tech guy, paid extra for his proficiency with explosive detonators, ship piloting, and the GPS trackers we use. He was not a weedy man, but a powerful ex-militiaman like Abdi, who used to be hired muscle for one of the warlords that have run Somalia since the civil war. Whenever I spoke to Muhammed, I kept my eyes to the ground—something Mother Jamila has reprimanded me for on many occasions.

  "I am happy you are here, Amina," he said quietly. "I have something to tell you."

  "What?"

  He grabbed my arm, making me jump. Despite myself, I let out a squeak of surprise, but I did not shout for fear of disturbing Mother Jamila in the wheelhouse.

  Muhammed made no other move. He only said in his deep voice, "If you were an older woman you would be pretty to me, Amina. But you are young and too much like Mother Jamila. Allah sees that Abdi has his eye on you." He was not attacking me, but warning me. He let me go. I deliberately didn't rub my throbbing wrist in front of him. Nodding, I told him thanks, and he left, each step a heavy thud.

  Through the crack in the wheelhouse door, I spied on the room's only occupants. Mother Jamila was undressing Ghedi, who had tears flowing down his cheeks. He was whispering quietly. Now that I had opened the door a touch, I could hear them.

  "I did not wish for this. My fadda was a fisherman. I wanted only to fish, like him, an' have my own vessel. But illegal fishing was harming our trade, and when we tried to talk to d'e udda fishermen d'ey damaged my fadda's boat an' we could not afford to fix it. My fadda's brudda was a goat farmer an' he said I could have a job, but d'ere was no point. Pirates were turning up in all d'e ports and partying, spending d'eir money on anyt'ing and everyt'ing. D'ere were no stable exchange rates, no more trade agreements."

  He went on like that, with Mother Jamila taking off the rest of his clothes—his jeans, dropping them in a heap on top of his olive-coloured Tshirt, and his crumpled underwear. She frequently wiped away his tears with her hand, smoothing them into his skin. Beyond them, out the high window, the grey skies turned in on themselves within the boundaries of the storm. "Shh," said Mother Jamila. "I will get you some qaat to chew."

  Ghedi spoke as if he hadn't heard her. She pushed him to his back on top of his clothes and massaged his thighs, then his chest. He said, "I used to hate you pirates. Your partying, your loud music an' smoke, all t'rough d'e night, scaring d'e families an' d'e animals. When d'e lords accepted you an' began to pay for your weapons an' ships, I found a place wi'd you."

  He sat up suddenly. Mother Jamila had her short fingernails beneath the hooks of his hips, her scarred lips kissing his stomach. "I am so grateful, Mudda Jamila. If not for you, d'en I would not be here, my fadda and my son would have died—"

  "Hush," she told him, kindly but without a smile. She closed her eyes, her long lashes tickling his skin, the grey light gleaming along her skull. He lay back with a deep breath. She took him in her mouth, her palms running everywhere they could reach, slowly brushing away his tension and his sins. This is how Mother Jamila controls her crew of violent men. This is how she helps them when they require it, or soothe them when they are angry, or weakens them when they become ultra vires. Through her ultimate patience and control, she can make them do anything. One day, she told me, I will be able to do the same.

  My radio crackled, and I backed away from the door and closed it quietly. In the narrow corridor, I answered. "Yes?"

  "Amina?" It is Abdi, the black python. "Where are you?"

  "With Mother Jamila," I said, only half-lying.

  "Come to the deck now."

  "Why?"

  "The warship—I can see it."

  Ten minutes later I was using the scope on Muhammed's rifle to see it. It was huge and terrifying, like something from a nightmare. Designed to be sonar resistant, it was all angles and flat surfaces, like a faceted tank. The whole thing was painted in camouflage colours, from the tideline right to the uppermost antenna. It cut through the water like an enormous bullet, far taller and wider than even the Chinese freighter. "My God."

  I lowered the scope. Muhammed looked at me, expressionless.

  "What are we going to do?" I asked. "It has . . . It is here much sooner than the skiff said."

  "We were betrayed," said Muhammed. "Somebody in Third Quarter told us deliberately that the ship was farther away then they are. Maybe they have taken gold from one of the other warlords. Or perhaps they just want us out of the way."

  "It is an American vessel. They will have snipers."

  "We should get everybody inside. But there is not enough room—we will have to split them all up again."

  I shook my head. "We can't do that."

  "Where is Mother Jamila?"

  I thought about her, gleaming bleakly in the storm light, her bald head and shoulders, the ripple of her spine, the hairy chin of Ghedi jerking upward as he arched.

  "She will be here soon," I said. "Have you told the others about the ship?"

  He took back his rifle. "I intended to call them—if you approved."

  "Thank you, Muhammed. Call them."

  The hostages seemed happy enough to oblige when our crew began to kettle them into the belly of the freighter. They did not want to become collateral damage when the Americans arrived, and the threat of Muhammed's bulk and my AKM was enough to keep them amicable. I touched the wheel on my radio. "Muhammed, where is Abdi?"

  "I do not know. Nagassi and Lebda are with me. Have you seen Ghedi?" I closed the channel on the radio. Some of the Chinese freighter crew were babbling at me, but I couldn't understand what they were saying to me. I herded the yelling crowd of hostages with my rifle, shouting for them to move forward.

  Soon they were inside the mess, the largest comfortable space within the vessel. They were ordered to sit. The cook was still making the food that Mother Jamila had ordered, and its smell filled the room from the adjoining kitchen, making my stomach rumble. I was the last to approach the mess. I had gotten the final hostage inside when I heard footsteps around the corner to my right.

  My thumb snicked off the safety on my rifle, as automatic to me as breathing. I moved quietly and quickly, following the footsteps. I was irritated by the minute clacking of the buckles on my gun strap against the rifle's sights.

  I lunged around the corner, raising the barrel of the AKM. It was knocked down immediately by an arm from the shadows and pulled on; I was caught off balance, and the strong figure grabbed me, spun me around, held me in a choke hold from behind—the general! I thought in a panic. The American spy that the Chinaman and his crew had such confidence in had caught me! But no. I could smell this man, and he was not American. It was the smell of bad gun oil and unwashed fatigues, pungent sweat. "Abdi?"

  "Quiet!"

  He pulled me backward, deeper into the corridor and around another corner. The sharp edge of the machete was pressed against the back of my neck. When he had dragged me to the nearest room, he threw me inside and followed, closing the door quietly and turning the wheel that bolted the door closed. "Abdi, what do you think you are—"

  "Shut up," he said. The only light came through the small window in the door he had just locked. It shone over his shoulders, throwing his face into black shadow. He took off his jacket and the light bounced off his sinuous arms. He said, "I want to see you."

  "No." I tried to make my voice hard, but this was difficult. "When Mother Jamila hears of this—"

  "I only want to see you, Amina." He raised the machete, gesturing. "The coat and shirt."

  I removed the coat slowly. My shirt I had taken from a port, four years ago when I last set foot on land. It was the year of the great floods, when torrential rains drowned the whole of the Somali region. Shebelle burst her banks and flooded hundreds of homes. Over a hundred people were killed directly by the water. I had found the durable denim shirt on one of the bodies we had been ordered to rob by the Fifth Quarter warlord. I took that off as well. I could not see Abdi's eyes, but I knew that they were fixed on the bandages I
wore to flatten my breasts. I felt the muscles tighten in my stomach, in my groin. I was closing my body to him, fearful of what he might do. Abdi nodded. "You are not a man, but maybe you are not a woman. Like Mother Jamila, I could let you be my captain."

  "You could go and throw yourself into the ocean," I said, snatching up my shirt again.

  He pointed the machete at me. "Do not speak to me that way. I was a militiaman."

  "I know," I said flatly. "And now you are just a thief, like Mother Jamila and me."

  "I have killed fifty men."

  "That is not something to be proud of, Abdi, no matter what your father says." I felt stupid for saying things that would anger him, but Abdi had the cold resolution of a killer and was not easily angered. He did not touch me further, but stood like a leaning tree by the door so that I had to push past him to exit. As I unlocked and opened the door, the light fell upon his smile, and a volcanic rush of anger rose inside me. Bile in my throat, I spun and grabbed the sharp blade of the machete in my hand. Ignoring the pain, I yanked it from his hand. He was surprised enough to let go, and I plunged the machete into his stomach before he even reclenched his fist.

  The machete is made for hacking, not stabbing. His muscular stomach resisted after an inch. I pulled out the tip and swung it with all my strength against the side of his waist. The wound was much deeper this time, and when I worked the blade free blood followed it.

  Abdi shrieked and tried to staunch the bleeding, staring at me in horror. I shook the machete in his face.

  "How many times have I told you about this knife, Abdi? From now on you use the weapons you are given—or else I will use them on you!" He could only look at me with wide, white eyes as I took his knife and left.

  I expected to be shaken by my encounter with Abdi, but was shocked only by my calmness. I rushed through the tight internal channels of the freighter and burst into the brightness of the deck, my fear of throwing up over myself greater than my fear of Navy SEALs. I gripped the balustrade and breathed slowly. I did not feel sick, as I once thought I would after such an encounter. I did not feel dizzy or out of breath. I was not disturbed in any way by the weight of the machete and Abdi's blood on my hand.