Secret of the Sands (31 page)

She is safe, somewhere,
he tells himself.

By dawn Kasim is delirious. Jessop swabs him with sea water to try to cool the skin. As they sail slowly south, the two remaining
Bedu
who have dodged the infection continue to pray more times a day than even Allah requires. They lay out their carpets on the deck and the sound of their voices provides a background mumble from the moment the sun rises until it sets. The doctor directs them to swab the deck while he tends Kasim. Wellsted positions the sails to catch the best of the wind.

‘Well, we’ve done what we can and we can do no more.’ Jessop washes his hands in a bucket of sea water as the sun sets. Wellsted settles down to eat salted meat and the last of the oranges with him.

‘If we haven’t got sick we won’t get it now and if we’re lucky neither will they,’ Jessop nods at the remaining men, still making their abeisances on the deck in the dark.

This is particularly good news as the ship will be the devil’s own job to sail if there are only the two white men left alive. The servants alternately sing their prayers and mumble them, jerking like Sufi mystics, who in the normal course of events they would despise on principle. The doctor takes a mouthful of meat and chews appreciatively while he gives his prognosis.

‘We’ll know tonight about Kasim. None of them have lasted the delirium any longer. Any idea how far we are off Muscat?’

Wellsted shrugs. In the confusion he has lost his bearings, but he knows he can navigate easily – he must simply follow the coastline and head south. The skies are clear and it is easy to place themselves by the stars. The
dhangi
’s not a bad craft for its tonnage. For a naval officer, sailing her is a simple enough job. It would be pleasant were it not for the dead.

‘Three days?’ he guesses in Bedouin fashion, gesturing to make it clear that he is postulating.

‘A good journey,’ Jessop gestures back, his hand on his heart, for that is what the
Bedu
would do. ‘But you better fetch the instruments from your saddlebags,’ he says. ‘We should check the usual way. Haines would insist.’

Chapter Forty-Five

The small island of Rafeen is known as the Rose because its sandy petals of land radiate into the water in the shape of that flower. The island is connected to the mainland to the east of Manama by three causeways. This makes it easy to defend in what is often a very troubled region and the Al Khalifa family are wise to choose it as their capital and the base for all their trading operations. It has been their stronghold for twenty-five years, and as a result, the family’s hold over the region will last another hundred years and more – a long time in an area of hotly contested boundaries and complex tribal allegiances.

As on any island, most men own a boat. Access to the causeways can be erratic at different times of year and impossible if ever there is a storm so although the Rose blooms close to the mainland, the islanders are all fisher men, for why would you travel by boat and not cast a net on your way? At this time of year there are no storms. The sea is a dreamy, deep blue fringed by pale shallows radiating out from the bright sand-coloured dunes that lead up to the settlement in the centre. The low, white buildings run all the way up the slight incline, bordered by palm trees. It looks, quite simply, like paradise.

The island is some way to the south of where Zena started her journey, and she reaches it after three weeks of hopping one fishing boat to another, working her way towards Muscat in an erratic zigzag that takes her out to sea and back again, southwards down the coast. An extra pair of hands is always welcome, and the boats are only too happy to take her as far as they go and then pass her on to another crew, based closer to her destination. If Zena really was a slave boy in search of her master, she would be enjoying herself. She has received almost nothing but kindness the whole trip south, and the sailing itself is fascin ating. Calculating the best angle for the canvas to catch the wind is immensely satisfying and her time on the boats has introduced her to a kind of teamwork with which she was previously unacquainted. The resulting feeling of the vessel harnessing its power is as close to flying, dancing and making love as Zena has ever known. But the danger of exposure is ever present and she checks herself constantly all day, and at night sleeps in snatches, perpetually on her guard.

There have been some close calls. Round the fire, the night after her first fishing expedition, a young boy, perhaps fourteen, flings his arms affectionately around her. He clearly does not recognise that the body he pulls towards him spontaneously is very different from his own. Zena strikes out violently, punching him squarely.

‘I wish you no harm, Malik,’ the boy explains, a drop of blood dripping from his nose and his brown, puppy eyes uncomprehending. Men on the Peninsula are tactile – young men more so. Zena, her heart pounding, is unsure what to say, only whispers an apology and passes him a scrap of cloth to staunch the wound. The story has followed her and now she has a reputation for being difficult, though a hard worker.

Keeping dry is her biggest problem. The fishermen tumble in and out of the water and splash each other for sport. On each boat they ask if she can dive and she declines. One man offers to teach her and she has some trouble convincing him that it is not worth the trouble. Remaining distant from the horseplay is easy enough, but hauling the nets it is impossible not to suffer a splash or two. Once she loses her balance and slips across the bow and feet first into the deep water up to her thighs, saving herself only by catching onto a carved rope hook with her fingertips. Frantically, she pulls herself up. The thin
dishdash
is sodden, her legs clearly visible. The cotton dries quickly in the sun, but shame and terror prick her long after. She dreads to think what would happen if she fell into the water all the way and her torso was exposed.

Worse, she worries constantly in case she starts her monthly bleeding, though the sheer knife edge of terror on which she is precariously balanced has held it off so far. One slip is all it would take. A mere error in grammar that exposes her as a woman, a fall that raises her
dishdash
to expose the truth, a splash of sea water misplaced and the journey will become impossible. In one village a man tries to pickpocket her. He is adept and most people would never have noticed his skilful fingers rifling their clothes but Zena is on her guard. She draws her
khandjar
and he flees.

The further she comes, the more she believes that she will make it to her destination.
I’ve made it as far as Rafeen,
she tells herself.
I’ll see Muscat if my luck holds.

Now, at the end of the day she eats with the other fisher men down by the dock. The stew is concocted from cheap offcuts that cannot be sold because they are too small or damaged. It is delicious nonetheless, and Zena scoops the sauce into an indent of bread and smacks her lips, relishing the taste of the tender white flesh. The months of camel’s milk and coffee are still with her and each fresh meal from the ocean seems delicate and delicious. While travelling on the sands, she was only permitted to eat after everyone else because she was a slave. Most nights, by the time she made it to the feast, what remained in the pot consisted mostly of fat, bone and gristle. Here, things are more egalitarian. The fishermen eat together and she has as much chance at the prime cuts as everyone else.

Zena watches the man next to her as he sucks the backbone of a snapper till it is dry. Everyone is exhausted for they start work early, before the sun is even up. Hauling the nets is not easy. Zena has noticed her arms have become very strong over the last three or four weeks. Now she has muscles from trimming the sails, casting the nets and carrying baskets of finned and scaled creatures of one kind or another from the fishing boats to their point of sale. It has helped her appear more masculine.

As her companions finish eating, Zena watches the dock disappear into the flat expanse of sparkling water. It will not be long until sunset. She sips the last of her mint tea and rises, walking barefoot across the pebbled walkway to stare at the horizon. The man who sucked the fish bone follows her.

‘Malik, you want to go in the direction of Muscat?’ he asks.

She has been here for four days, and enquires at every opportunity if there might be a passage to the capital. Zena nods. She cannot remember this man’s name, for they all call each other ‘my brother’ and ‘my friend’. When she is only in one place a day or two it seems foolish even to ask. After a day on the water it seems rude not to somehow know their names already. The man smiles, revealing gaps in the run of his teeth.

‘I might be able to help you,’ he says. ‘My cousin is going there. He leaves in two days. You can fish with us till then.’

The trip down the coastline has been peppered with such kindnesses from unnamed brethren. It seems all she needs to supply in return is her labour, a prayer at the relevant moment and the ability to brew mint tea.

‘Thanks, my friend. Can I meet your cousin? What is his business in Muscat?’

The man moves his shoulders in a noncommittal fashion. ‘I will take you to his house,’ he says. ‘Come.’

At the bottom of the hill there are stalls and small shops where trade takes place under a ramshackle array of what were once different-coloured canopies, now faded to a uniform dun by the burning sun. A sprinkling of single-storey houses take advantage of the shade under the trees. Goats are tethered by the side gates. A solitary camel sits and ruminates next to a mule with a patchy hide. Zena and her companion stroll easily into the half-darkness. As they go higher, the buildings become larger, at first two storeys and then near the top there are houses built around a series of courtyards.

‘My cousin works here,’ the fisherman says proudly. ‘He works for Al Khalifa himself.’

They enter a courtyard through a gate with chickens scattering in their wake. Then he leads her through a back door that is wide open and into a small kitchen where a
sidi
slave stirs a pot that sends steam up to the ceiling in thick clouds. The rooms seem darker than the twilight and the air smells of chilli.

‘My cousin will go to Muscat for his master,’ the man confides. ‘You can fish and fold a sail so he will take you, I am sure of it.’ He nods at the cook and then moves on. ‘Come. Come,’ he beckons.

Zena follows him along a passageway and they stop before a thick, wooden door. The man pauses and then knocks before he is bid to enter. Inside, a fat man who bears no resemblance to his fit fisherman cousin, sits surrounded by closed-topped pottery jars, piles of scrolls and a mess of feather quills, ink-stones, bent brass ornaments and thick piles of cloth. Three lamps burn, placed at intervals around the walls and the room smells of stale coffee.

‘Ah, my cousin,’ the fat man jumps to his feet with unexpected agility and launches himself at the fisherman, kissing him enthusiastically three times on alternate cheeks. The men clap each other heartily on the back.

‘This is Malik,’ the man says proudly. ‘He’s a good hand. He has been working with us for the last few days as he makes his way down the coast. He seeks to go to Muscat.’

‘Ah. Good,’ the cousin plops himself down again on his leather seat and eyes Zena. The man is amazingly clean. It has been a while since Zena has met anyone other than fishermen who, on account of their profession are wiry, but often dishevelled, and even cleaned in the sea water, still smell faintly of their catch. This man is a different class. His
jubbah
is crisp and his nails are carefully manicured. His hair is combed and set in little curls that are pomaded with sweet-smelling oil that wafts towards her over the top of the desk.

‘Can you sail?’ he asks.

‘Yes, sir. A little.’

‘And you are from . . .?’

‘My master has family in Muscat,’ she says. ‘I am from his house.’

‘Are you a good Muslim?’

‘Yes, sir.’

She has prayed with the other fishermen every day since she got here.

‘Good,’ he smiles. ‘We leave in two days at break of dawn on
yom al-ahad
.’

Sunday. Zena’s face cracks in a grin.

‘Your business in Muscat?’ he enquires.

‘I am seeking my master. We were separated in the desert – lost to each other.’

Little by little, Zena has amended her story. She did not want to keep looking for her
Bedu
renegade master, as working her way down the coast there was every chance she might find him. Now what she says is no longer a lie. She tells them that he is in Muscat and she got separated from him on the sands. She wants to touch Wellsted again, and to kiss him too. She is not a runaway slave, she is a slave running towards her master, very definitely. In the few, quiet moments of each day, she imagines what it will be like to find him. She thinks that she will somehow feel safe again despite the proximity of the slavers. She’ll risk it. She has, she thinks, nowhere else to go. And without his fellow officer to think of, Wellsted will protect her. She knows it. Zena likes Muscat – she is a city girl by nature – and sometimes it is better to hide in a crowded place, she reasons, rather than in the open.

The man behind the desk knows nothing of all this. He accepts what she has told him. ‘Such devotion to a master is commendable. Come to the ship before dawn on Sunday. My cousin here will show you where it is anchored. We can use an extra pair of hands and you seem strong enough for your age.’

Zena bows low, falling onto her knees. She thanks the man profusely.

With business concluded, Zena and the fisherman walk back down the hill towards the harbour. There are flames clearly visible along the bay as householders light their lamps and one or two of the crews set up braziers as much as a place to congregate as to provide warmth. There is a pleasant breeze off the ocean, and the settlement is bustling as the business of the evening gets underway – the visiting of friends and family and the jostling through the thin street of stalls, which remain open until late. In anticipation of a pleasant night ahead and an early departure to earn her keep, Zena walks with a spring in her step. It will not be long now until she sees the sparkling Strait of Hormuz again and the huge, white palaces of Muscat town. It is tremendous good fortune that the ship is going as far as the capital.

‘See,’ the man says, ‘no problem. And now your eyes are bright. You love your master?’

‘Yes.’ Zena does not shrug off the man’s arm when he lays it across her shoulders. After her experience with the boy she has realised that reacting too strongly is potentially dangerous and she must try to appear normal. In her evenings in sundry harbour villages, she has seen men of all stripes wandering like this in the balmy, evening air together. With women relegated to the shadows and no friendships with members of the opposite sex permitted, the men behave like schoolboys, wrapped around each other with genuine affection until it is time to go home to their sisters, wives and mothers to whom attention can only be paid in private. It makes her nervous, but she controls herself.

The fisherman is all smiles. ‘Good. Your master will be pleased,’ he giggles.

The sound is strange in the twilight and Zena squints to make out the man’s face. There are few lamps lit this far up the hill, or at least few that lend light onto the street.

‘I am sure he has missed you. How long have you been separated?’

‘Many weeks.’

‘Ah, he will certainly be missing you then.’

As he says these words, the man slides his palm very deliberately over the fabric of Zena’s
dishdash
and down her back. Her heart freezes. This kind of touch is not appropriate between friends and brothers. The movement is as salacious as it is intrusive. Her heart almost stops beating and it is as if her blood is running cold. In a rush, she scans her memory to see if there is any chance this might be normal. As if to confirm his intentions, the man strokes the curve of her bottom through the thin cotton and gives it a little pinch.

‘Hey,’ she shrugs him off sharply and steps to one side without breaking her stride. Her instinct is to keep her eyes to the ground, but when she looks up, tentatively, the man’s face betrays nothing. She can see his teeth most clearly of all in the gloom – he continues to grin broadly as he walks alongside her. Then he nods as if she has asked him a question and he is agreeing.