The Monsoon (75 page)

Sometimes the Prince, sitting cross-legged on the silk carpet under his sun tent, would break off a discussion with his courtiers and watch the boy with a little smile on his lips.

As Dorian was still a boy and had not yet felt the circumcision knife, Tahi could go unveiled in his presence.

She was that lowliest creature, a divorced woman. Her husband was one of the Prince’s grooms. Unable to give him a son, Tahi had been discarded. Only alMalik’s beneficence and compassion had saved her from begging in the streets and souks of Lamu.

Tahi was big and plump and round all over, her skin well greased and brown. She loved her food and had a jolly laugh, and an easy-going disposition. Her loyalty and devotion to the Prince were the centre of her existence.

Now, suddenly, Dorian was the son of her master.

Like all the others on board, Tahi was smitten by his beautiful red hair, his strange pale green eyes and milky white skin. When he unleashed the full force of his sunny smile and winning charm upon her she could not resist him. Childless herself, he assuaged all her maternal instincts, and very soon she had lost her heart to him.

When the Prince appointed her Dorian’s official nurse, she wept with gratification. It did not take long for Dorian to discover that her bland, almost bovine features concealed a shrewd intelligence and a sharp political sense.

She understood all the currents of power and influence in the Prince’s court and navigated these with rare skill. She explained to him who were the great and important men in the Prince’s retinue, their strengths and their failings, their foibles and how to treat each of them. She coached him in the etiquette of the court, and in how to comport himself in the presence of the Prince and his followers.

For Dorian the nights were the only bad times. In the dark, memories of Tom and his father crept up on him and overwhelmed him.

One night Tahi woke to hear stifled sobs coming from where Dorian lay on his thin mattress on the far side of the little cabin they shared.

An outcast herself, she understood instinctively the homesickness and loneliness of a small boy torn from his family and all things familiar and dear, cast among strangers of a different racc.

religion and way of life.

She rose quietly and went to him, lying beside him aT1 the mattress and taking him into her warm, soft, motherh embrace.

At first Dorian tried to resist, and pushed her away, but then he let himself relax and lie still in her arm,

She murmured little endearments against the top of his shining head, all the love words she had bottled up inside her for the son her barren womb had denied her. After a while the rigidity went out of Dorian’s body and he moved closer to her, cuddling his head between her great round breasts, and at last he slept. The next night he went to her mattress quite naturally and she opened her fat arms and drew him to her.

“My baby,” she whispered, in wonder at the depth of her emotion.

“My own beautiful baby.”

Dorian could not remember the comfort of his own mother’s arms, but there was a deep need in him. Tahi soon came to fill a great part of that void.

As the dhow drew closer to her home port, Prince Abd Muhammad atMalik sat under his awning not too deeply involved in affairs of state and business to lack time to ponder the prophecy of the saint, and to watch the boy with a veiled but keen appraisal.

“Al-Allama,” he used the family name of his mullah, “what revelations have you received regarding the child?” The mullah hooded his eyes, shielding his thoughts from the penetrating perception of his master.

“He is winsome, and he draws people to him as honey draws bees.”

“That is evident.” The Prince’s voice had an edge to it.

“But it is not what I asked of you.”

“It seems that he has those attributes described by the holy Taimtaim,” the Mullah went on cautiously, “but it will be many years hence before we can be certain of that.”

“In the meantime we must guard him well, and nurture those traits that are necessary to fulfill the prophecy,” alMalik suggested.

“We will do all in our power, great Prince.”

“It will be your duty to lead him in the paths of righteousness, and reveal to him the wisdom of the Prophet so that he will in time come gently to the faith and submit himself to Islam.”

“He is a child still. We cannot hope to place a man’s head on such young shoulders.”

“Every journey begins with the first step,” the Prince contradicted him.

“Already he speaks the sacred language of the Faith better than some of my other children, and he has displayed some knowledge of religious matters. He has been tutored. It will be your sacred duty to foster that knowledge and enlarge upon it until, in time, he submits to Islam. Only in that way can the prophecy be fulfilled in its entirety.”

“As my lord commands.”

Al-Allama made a sign of acquiescence, touching his lips and his heart.

“I will take the first step of the long journey this very day,” he vowed to the Prince, who nodded his appreciation.

“If it please Allah!” After the midday prayers, and when the Prince had retired to his cabin in the stern to be with his concubines, al-Allama sought out the child. He was engrossed in discussion with Fouad. The captain was instructing him in navigation of the islands, pointing out to him the seabirds and clumps of drifting weed that indicated the run of the currents. He called these the rivers of the sea, and was explaining to Dorian how the islands and the shape of the coast affected these mighty rivers, bending and twisting them and subtly altering their shading of blue and green.

Under Ned Tyler’s instruction Dorian had come to enjoy every facet of the art of navigation. Some of his most pleasant memories were of working through a sun-shot with Tom, or taking a bearing on a land feature, then marking the chart and writing up the results in the ship’s log, arguing and laughing with his elder brother as they did

SO.

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 over side

“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 northwest to the southeast.” 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,” alA llama 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 All, and he taught me Arabic.”

“So it was he who made you learn the Xoran, 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, alAmhara?” the mullah insisted.

“Yes, of course,” Dorian said quickly.

“I believe in God eternal, in his Son eternal and the Holy Ghost eternal.” f The litany of the Order that he had listened to Tom S 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-AlIa ma 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.

Tamu 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 alMalik 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 head cloth

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 alMalik 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 alAmhara 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. AlMalik’s mount was a magnificent animal, much different from those he had known at High Weald. It was small 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.

AlMalik 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 in behind him, and recession up to singing and clapping followed his wards the towering walls of the fort.