Monsoon

by Wilbur Smith

  Now Fouad was teaching him the lore of these regions of the ocean, the names and habits of the seabirds and creatures, and the drifting weed. There were small birds with snowy plumage that dived and fluttered over the ship’s wake. ‘You will not find them further than ten leagues from land. Watch the direction of their flight, and they will lead you to it,’ Fouad told him.

  At another time he beckoned him to the ship’s rail and pointed overside. ‘Look, little monkey! One of the monsters of the sea but gentle as an unweaned lamb.’ They were passing so close to it that Dorian jumped onto the gunwale and looked down on its dappled back. He could see that it was not one of the whales they had encountered by the hundred in the southern reaches of the Atlantic. It seemed to be a species of shark, but it was almost as long as the dhow. Unlike the tiger or the hammerhead, which he knew, this beast moved lazily and unafraid though the clear waters. Dorian could see the shoal of little pilot fish that swam just ahead of its cavernous mouth. ‘Are they not afraid they will be eaten?’ he cried.

  ‘The monster eats only the tiniest creatures of all. Slime and crawling things that float in the sea, smaller than rice grains.’ Fouad was enjoying the enthusiasm of his pupil. ‘When you see one of these gentle monsters it means that the monsoon is ready to change from the kaskazi to the kusi, from the north-west to the south-east.’

  Al-Allama interrupted the pair, and led Dorian away to where they could talk in private. Dorian looked disappointed and followed him only reluctantly.

  ‘Once, you spoke thus in reply to my question,’ al-Allama reminded him. ‘“I am but a man like yourselves, but the inspiration has come to me that your God is one God. Whoever expects to meet his Lord, let him work righteousness.” ’

  ‘Yes, holy one.’ Dorian was not particularly interested in this new topic. He would have much preferred to continue his animated discussion with Fouad.

  However, Tahi had warned him of how powerful the mullah was, and how he could protect or punish a small boy in his power. ‘He is the servant of God and a voice of the Prophet. Treat him with great respect. For all our sakes,’ Tahi had said, so Dorian was attentive.

  ‘Who taught you these things?’ al-Allama demanded.

  ‘I had a teacher,’ Dorian looked suddenly as though he was on the point of tears, ‘when I was with my father. His name was Alf, and he taught me Arabic.’

  ‘So it was he who made you learn the Koran, the Sacred Book of the Prophet?’

  ‘Only some verses to write and discuss. That verse from Sura eighteen was one of them.’

  ‘Do you believe in God, al-Amhara?’ the mullah insisted.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Dorian said quickly. ‘I believe in God eternal, in his Son eternal and the Holy Ghost eternal.’ The litany of the Order that he had listened to Tom reciting by heart came readily to his tongue.

  Al-Allama tried not to let his alarm and repugnance show in the face of such blasphemy. ‘There is but one God,’ he said solemnly, ‘and Muhammad is his last true prophet.’

  Dorian had no interest in this assertion, but he enjoyed arguing, especially with anyone in authority. ‘How do you know that?’ he challenged. ‘How do you know I am wrong, and you are right?’ Al-Allama rose to the challenge, and Dorian leaned back, let the torrent of religious rhetoric wash over him, while he dreamed of other things.

  Dorian wished there was a place for him at the masthead, as there had been on the Seraph, a place high above the sea where he could be alone. However, the lateen-rigged dhow did not afford this possibility, and he had to watch from the deck with the rest of the crew as the African mainland came up over the horizon, a dark, mysterious landmass. He wrinkled his nose as he smelt its animal odour on the air. It was the smell of dust and spice and mangrove swamp. The alien aroma was a mild shock to the senses, but it was alluring and enticing after the salt-seared airs of the ocean, which had cleared his nose and heightened his sense of smell.

  Standing beside Fouad at the helm as they closed the land, Dorian had his first view of the island of Lamu. Fouad pointed out its main features and gave him a brief history of this jewel in the territories of the Caliphate of the Omani. ‘My people have traded here since the time of the Prophet, and before when we were also infidels and strangers to the Great Truth,’ he explained proudly. ‘This was an important port when Zanzibar was still a crocodile-infested swamp.’

  Laboriously the dhow tacked up the channel between the island and the mainland, and Fouad pointed out the dark green hills above the white beaches. ‘The Prince has a palace on the mainland where he lives in the dry season, but in the wet he moves to the island.’ He pointed out the white buildings that, from this distance, looked like surf breaking on a coral reef.

  ‘Lamu is richer than Zanzibar. Her buildings are more beautiful and magnificent. The Sultan of Zanzibar is a vassal of our Prince and pays tribute to him.’

  There was a gathering of craft in the anchorage, and dozens of other vessels were coming in or setting out to sea. Some were fishing boats and others were large, heavily laden traders or lighter, faster slavers, proof of the prosperity and importance of this thriving port.

  Those ships they passed recognized the Prince’s dhow by the green pennants she flew at her masthead, and by the impressive figure of Abd Muhammad al-Malik sitting under the awning on the foredeck, surrounded by his court. They dipped their colours in respect, and shouted their loyal greetings and blessings across the water. ‘May the love of Allah and the smile of his Prophet follow you all your days.’

  The dhows at anchor in the bay fired their guns and beat their war drums. The boom of cannon shot carried to the shore, and as the Prince and his retinue sailed into the harbour they saw a vast crowd gathering on the beach and wharf to greet him.

  In their tiny cabin Tahi dressed Dorian in a fresh white robe and covered his shining hair with a headcloth. She placed leather sandals on his feet, then took his hand and led him up on deck.

  Fouad took the dhow in to the beach. The tide was running out swiftly, for here the tidal range at full springs was twenty feet. The ship took the ground and heeled as the tide ran out from under her. A gang of slaves waded out to the stranded vessel to carry the Prince and other notables to the beach. A huge black man clad only in a loincloth took the Prince on his back, and the waiting crowds fell to their knees and shouted their greetings. A band of musicians played a high-pitched wailing tune, which offended Dorian’s ear. The pipes and fifes sobbed and the drums banged and boomed without rhythm.

  Tahi would have carried Dorian to the beach, but he avoided her embrace and splashed joyfully through the surf, wetting himself to the armpits. There was a brief ceremony of welcome for the Prince on the beach, then al-Malik mounted a black stallion. From horseback he looked about quickly and caught Tahi’s eye. She stood in the crowd, holding Dorian’s hand. She rushed forward with Dorian and the Prince spoke to her imperiously. ‘Take al-Amhara to the zenana. Kush will provide quarters for both of you.’ Dorian was too interested in the Prince’s horse to take much notice of the words that decided his fate. He loved horses almost as much as he did boats and the sea. Tom had taught him to ride as soon as he could walk. Al-Malik’s mount was a magnificent animal, much different from those he had known at High Weald. It was smaller and more graceful, with large, limpid eyes and flared nostrils, a long back and strong delicate legs. He reached up and stroked its muzzle. The stallion snuffled his fingers, and then tossed its head.

  ‘He’s beautiful.’ Dorian laughed.

  The Prince looked down on him with a faint smile that softened his fierce hawk-handsome features. A boy who was a seaman born and who also loved horses had all his approval. ‘Take good care of him. See to it that he does not try to run away,’ he ordered Tahi and the eunuch, Kush, who had come forward to answer the Prince’s charge. Al-Malik lifted the stallion’s head with a touch on the reins, and rode away down the street of the port, which was carpeted with palm fronds in his honour. The musicians and the crowds closed i
n behind him, and singing and clapping followed his procession up towards the towering walls of the fort.

  Kush gathered up the women from the Prince’s household as they came ashore from the dhow. There were two of the youngest concubines, heavily veiled, but slim and graceful under the layers of black robes. Their hands and feet were beautifully formed, dyed with henna, and decorated with precious rings of sapphire and emerald on fingers and toes. They giggled a great deal, which annoyed Dorian, and their maidservants were even worse, noisy as a flock of starlings. He was pleased when they were shepherded by Kush into the first bullock cart.

  Tahi led Dorian into the second. The bullocks were pure white, with a huge spread of horns and massive humps on their shoulders, like the drawings of camels Dorian had seen in the books of travel in the library at High Weald. He wanted to run beside the cart, but Kush restrained him with a podgy hand on his shoulder. There were gold rings on each of the eunuch’s fingers, and the jewels set in them caught the bright tropical sunlight and sparked the eye. ‘Ride beside me, little one,’ he said, in a high, feminine voice, and when Dorian would have demurred Tahi pinched his arm so hard it hurt. He interpreted this as a warning that Kush was a man – or, rather, a thing – of power and must be placated.

  The procession of carts left the seashore, passed through the outskirts of the port and into the countryside. They trundled down the narrow, dusty road into the interior of the verdant island. They rolled through groves of swaying coconut palms, and forests of wild fig trees. Flocks of brightly coloured parrots and wild green pigeons swarmed in the branches, greedily devouring the ripening fruits. Dorian had never seen birds like these before. He followed their jewelled flight with exclamations of wonder.

  Kush studied him carefully through bright black eyes almost buried in rolls of fat. ‘Who taught you, a Frank, to speak the language of the Prophet?’ he asked suddenly, and with a sigh Dorian gave him the response that had become worn and weary with repetition.

  ‘Are you of Islam? Or is it true that you are an infidel.’

  ‘I am a Christian,’ Dorian said proudly.

  Kush screwed up his fat face as though he had tasted a green persimmon. ‘Then how is it that your hair is the same colour as that of the Prophet?’ he demanded. ‘Or is this a lie? What colour is your hair? Why do you hide it?’

  Dorian adjusted the drape of his headcloth. He was irked by the constant harping on this one subject. There was so much else of interest all around him. He wished the fat one would leave him alone to enjoy it all.

  ‘Show me your hair,’ Kush insisted, and reached for the headcloth. Dorian started to pull away, but Tahi spoke sharply and he allowed Kush to lift the cloth from his head. Kush gazed in amazement as Dorian’s thick, curling locks tumbled down to his shoulders and flared in the sunlight like a fire in tall grass. The other passengers riding in the back of the cart exclaimed and called on Allah to witness the wonder of it, and even the bullock drivers turned back and walked beside the high wheel to stare up at him. Hastily Dorian covered his head.

  After a mile the track wound out of the forest and ahead rose the high, blank wall of the zenana. It was built of coral blocks and painted with burnt limewash to a dazzling white. There were no windows, and the only opening was a gate, carved from teak and decorated with complicated designs of vines and foliage, obeying the Islamic stricture that forbids depictions of human forms or those of other living creatures.

  The gates swung open as the little caravan of carts approached, and they proceeded through into the closed, forbidden world of the zenana. This was the home of women, and their offspring, and of the eunuchs who guarded them. Other than the Prince, no grown man might enter here at the peril of his very life.

  The women and children had gathered just inside the gates to greet the procession of bullock carts. Many had not left these cloistered precincts since childhood. Any distraction delighted them. They chattered and shrieked with excitement and came close around the carts to inspect the occupants and to find any strange face among them.

  ‘There he is!’

  ‘It is true. He is a Frank!’

  ‘Is his hair really red? Surely it cannot be.’

  Here, in the seclusion of the harem, the females could go unveiled. The Prince had the choice of any girl in his realm, and most were young and comely. Their skin colours ranged from purple black through all shades of brown, gold and amber to soft buttery yellow. Their children danced around them, caught up in the excitement. The babes in the nurses’ arms wailed in the uproar.

  The women crowded forward to have a closer look at Dorian as he jumped down from the cart, then followed as Kush led them through a maze of courtyards and enclosed gardens. These were richly decorated with mosaic floors and elaborate archways. Sea shells had been inlaid in the plaster to form intricate designs. There were pools, filled with reeds and lotus plants. Gemlike fish glided beneath the water and dragonflies and bright kingfishers hovered over the surface.

  Some of the elder children danced around Dorian, chanting and teasing him.

  ‘Little white infidel!’

  ‘Green devil-eyes.’

  Kush pretended to swipe at them with the long staff he carried but he was grinning, and made no real attempt to drive them away. Swiftly they passed from the splendid and beautiful area of the zenana into the more dilapidated part, in the back regions of the main complex of buildings. It was clear that this was the least desirable section. The gardens were unkempt and the walls stained and unpainted. They passed several abandoned ruins, overgrown with tropical growth, and reached a dilapidated block. Kush took them to a small but sturdy door and ordered them to enter. They found themselves in a large living room, dark and not too clean. The walls were soot-stained, the floors dusty and covered with the droppings of gecko lizards and rats.

  Kush closed the doors firmly behind them, and turned a massive key in the lock. Tahi shouted at him through the tiny grille in the door. ‘Why are you locking us away? We are not prisoners. We are not criminals.’

  ‘The mighty Prince Abd Muhammad al-Malik has ordered that the child be prevented from escaping.’

  ‘He cannot escape. There is no place for him to run to.’

  Kush ignored her protests and strode away, taking most of the others with him. For a while some of the royal children mocked them through the grille, but they soon tired of this and drifted away.

  When all was quiet Dorian and Tahi began to explore their quarters. Apart from the living room, there were sleeping chambers, and a little kitchen with an open hearth. Next to it was the washroom with a tiled floor sloped to an open drain. Beyond was the latrine with covered buckets.

  The furnishings were sparse: sleeping mats of plaited reeds and sitting rugs of woven wool. There were cooking-pots and water-jars in the kitchen, and naturally they would eat with their fingers in the Arabic fashion. There was a large ceramic rainwater cistern, which supplied fresh water.

  Dorian looked up at the opening in the kitchen roof that allowed smoke to escape. ‘I could easily climb out of there,’ he boasted.

  ‘If you do, Kush will thrash you with his staff,’ Tahi told him, ‘so do not even think of it. Come and help me clean out this sty.’

  As they worked together, sweeping out the bare rooms with brooms of reeds then polishing the clay floors with half coconut shells, Tahi explained to him the rules of the zenana.

  As a royal nursemaid since her husband had divorced her, Tahi had lived in the confines of the zenana, and she was an expert on the affairs of its restricted society. Over the days that followed she shared this knowledge with Dorian.

  Prince Abd Muhammad al-Malik was in his early thirties. His elder brother, the Caliph, for reasons of his own succession, had prevented him from marrying until he was almost twenty. Thus it was that his eldest son was only little older than Dorian. His name was Zayn al-Din and, like Dorian, he had not yet reached puberty; he still lived with his mother in the zenana.

  ‘Remember hi
s name,’ Tahi instructed. ‘As the eldest son, he is very important.’ Then she went on to list the names of the other male children by the other wives and concubines, but there were so many that Dorian made no effort to memorize them. Tahi did not even bother to mention the girls, because they were of no importance.

  In the weeks that followed it seemed that the Prince had forgotten about his red-headed slave-boy. They heard nothing more from outside the walls of the zenana. Every day, under Kush’s beady eye, slave-women came to bring them their rations of rice, meat and fresh fish, and to carry away the rubbish from the kitchen and the buckets from the latrine. Apart from that, Dorian and Tahi were left to themselves.

  There were grille windows in the main room of their quarters, which overlooked a section of the gardens. To relieve the boredom of their confinement, they spent much of their time watching the comings and goings of the other members of the zenana from this vantage-point.

  Tahi was able to point out Zayn al-Din to Dorian. He was a large, plump child, taller than any of his siblings. He had a sallow caramel complexion, his mouth was pouting and petulant. The skin around his eyes was discoloured, as though it was bruised. ‘Zayn has a taste for sweet things,’ Tahi explained. There were livid patches of prickly heat on the inside of his elbows and knees. He walked splay-legged to prevent his thighs rubbing together and the skin between them chafing.

  Whenever Dorian saw him, Zayn was surrounded by a dozen or so of his siblings. One morning he watched as this pack pursued a smaller boy across the lawns, and trapped him against the outer wall of the zenana. They dragged him to Zayn, who had not exerted himself in the chase, but came waddling up when it was over. Tahi was watching also and she told Dorian that the victim was the son of a lesser concubine of the Prince, and therefore fair game for the eldest son of the first wife.

  Dorian, who knew all about the rights of the first-born from his dealings with brother William, felt his sympathy go out to the little boy as he watched Zayn twisting his ears until he sank to his knees, weeping with fear. ‘As punishment for what you have done, I make you my horse,’ Zayn told him loudly, and forced him down on to all fours. Then he bestrode him and lowered his full weight on to the other child’s back. He had a cane in his hand, made from a palm frond from which the leaves had been stripped.