‘Please,’ he says, ‘water your animals. Our well, at least, is copiously supplied by Allah.’
The old man casts his eye suspiciously over the doctor’s white skin and quickly appraises Wellsted’s true provenance. His voice is concerned as he asks Kasim, ‘My brother, have these infidels corrupted you?’
Wellsted smiles at the very thought of either he or Jessop having any effect whatsoever on the slavers and listens as Kasim humours the elder, hiding his mirth. ‘We would surely rather die, father.’
‘Come, join me,’ the
imam
offers. ‘Sit by my side.’
Before entering the house, Kasim presents the old man with two boughs of dates – all they have left. Inside, the room is austere, furnished only with thin, goatskin cushions on the mud floor, bare apart from a single, loosely-woven, faded rug. They talk over coffee served in plain, thick, earthenware cups, discussing the villages affected by the sickness. The house smells faintly of fried fish and frank-incense, though there is no incense burner on view. Elsewhere there is the sound of movement – the creeping of women, most likely. The
imam
has three wives who inhabit the upper floor of the house. They own no more than two
burquahs
each and one pair of sandals.
‘This sickness is sent from Allah,’ the
imam
starts.
He believes it is a punishment for those who have strayed. Perhaps, a punishment too for those whose wives wear jewel-lery, or those men who indulge in vanity and tile the floors of their houses or allow themselves the luxury of opulent feasting. The truth is that the villages to the north are the first a traveller will come to off the dunes and are placed in the path of the prevailing tides. As a result, they are busier, more cosmopolitan and the home of merchants who wish to display their wealth rather than holy men who wish to conceal it. The wrath of Allah strikes, the
imam
swears, very quickly – a fever and delirium and then swift death in most cases. For those few who survive, the sickness leaves horrible marks on the skin. One woman who received Allah’s grace and was cured, flung herself from a high wall into the ocean when she saw her beauty so destroyed. This lady was famed for her appearance and thought her husband would not desire her anymore. In another case, two nephews killed themselves at the news of the death of a favourite aunt who had been stranded in the town when they were delayed in accompanying her to the family home, some way to the north.
Ibn Mohammed and Kasim listen with seriousness to these tragic stories.
‘Please, sir,’ Jessop interrupts, ‘where on the body do the pustules grow?’
The
imam
hesitates then motions airily to show that they are all over. He does not want to speak directly to the
Nazarene
.
‘Everywhere?’
He nods again.
‘And they rise with a fever?’
Another nod.
Jessop falls silent but at the next opportunity he mouths, ‘Smallpox,’ to his friend.
‘By Allah’s bounty we are spared here,’ the
imam
finishes. Ibn Mohammed, of course, has no interest in the misery the sickness has brought nor, indeed, in diagnosing what it is. The polite formalities over, he gets down to business. He offers the camels in return for the
imam
’s permission to allay the embargo and allow them to take a boat and set sail for Muscat. Ten thoroughbred camels will feed the town for at least four days, and if the meat is rationed it will last twice that. The
imam
considers this carefully, as if such a small offering might tempt him. His air of humility has proved over the years a most effective trap. Indeed, he is so good at affecting the emotion that he quite believes it himself.
‘It would be most kind, most kind indeed, for you to leave the creatures behind. And you are right, of course – they do not travel well on the water, and in any case you may find it difficult to house eight – or is it nine? – animals on a vessel.’ He underestimates the number deliberately. He wants them to think of him as naïve and trusting – a bumbling
fakir
with a poor grasp of worldly matters.
Ibn Mohammed bows. The old man has him there. What was he intending to do – load the animals up and ship them south on what may be little more than a raft, for all he knows? There is no way to tell what kind of boat may be available.
‘Of course, we are interested also in hiring a boat for which we are happy to pay very generously. In addition.’
The
imam
looks around as if he is surprised. ‘I cannot allow any of my men to sail a boat south,’ he says sadly.
The implication is that it is too dangerous. Who knows what they may carry by way of infection and, in such time of danger, all men want to stay close to their families. It is an indecent suggestion and one that Ibn Mohammed is quick to amend.
‘Then we will buy a boat, if that is permissible?’
The
imam
pauses as if the idea has only just occurred to him. He has, in fact, three vessels at harbour that belong to men who are currently in the north with their families, trapped in the very town where the plague has hit. There has been no news of their welfare. Still, the old man is silently hoping and, indeed, expects that none of them will survive. The plague kills well over half of its victims, so he is likely right. Even if he is not, he can always hand over the money when the men get home – or at least part of it – and still play the honourable retainer who has generously looked after their business while they were away. He knows these Muscat wideboys will pay anything he asks. The
imam
thinks he will sell them an Indian-built
dhangi
that belongs to the youngest of the traders. The old man prefers Arab-built ships in any case and will be glad to have the vessel’s distinctive outline out of his harbour. Anything foreign in origin causes his flesh to creep. The boat is almost a hundred tonnes and well beyond what is needed to transport ten men down the coast to the Omani capital.
However, when he finally speaks he says only, ‘When I make any decision, I have to consider everyone who lives in this town, my brothers.’
The old man settles onto his goatskin cushion to let the slavers wait. This kind of negotiation can take a while; indeed, his experience is that he comes off better the longer he can spin things out. The
imam
sighs heavily, as if weighing up his civic duty is a serious and odious business.
‘I think some mint tea,’ he says casually to the scrawny slave who stands by the door.
He’ll wait for it to brew before he tells them how much the boat will be. They might need something to refresh them, for the shock.
Zena cannot take her eyes off the horizon and sleeps only fitfully. She constantly expects the emir’s men on horseback or the familiar figure of the slavers and their camels to overtake and unmask her. Her disguise is working, but these men do not know her and have no idea there is a runaway
habshi
in the region.
It transpires that she is travelling with a party of cousins. Against the sunlight, the men are so alike that Zena finds it impossible to tell one from the other. They joke constantly and laugh at practically anything. On the first evening, her heart pounds and her fingers become weak as they rag her around the campfire. But she realises quickly that these men are truly pleasant people with no scrap of harm in them – at least in the situation they believe themselves to be in. Still, she is terrified that her true identity might come to light in the scrum of horseplay after sunset and then she knows the situation would change. As a woman, this smiling family would steal her away as quickly as any on the Peninsula. On the first night, when she is pushed good-naturedly, she protects herself so fiercely that the men conclude that the black boy is slightly strange.
‘Slaves can be that way,’ she hears one whisper to another. ‘Malik has lost his master and is travelling alone. Who knows what he has had to endure?’
This, for the
Bedu
, is enough to confirm the itinerant slave boy’s oddity, and Zena is happy enough to let them believe that her lonely trip is the strangest thing about her.
She wishes she could see her reflection. It is a disconcerting feeling not to know what she looks like now she is arrayed in men’s clothes. The first night she sneaks away from the sleeping figures. As quietly as she can, she rips a strip of material from the veil of the
burquah
she has packed away and tightly binds her breasts. She is lithe and long and her curves are not pronounced so can be hidden. Once the binding is in place, the outline of her body could be that of any teenage boy. Safe from that pitfall, she simply sets her mind to avoiding all the other clues to her real identity. She must not make a single slip of the tongue, she must control her expression (not easy always, for she is used to her face being obscured from show), she must pray with the cousins for her duty to Allah must be clear and she must be careful when she relieves herself. The
Bedu
pee crouching, but of necessity they lift the
jubbah
hem. It does not rise all the way, but still, if she is not careful, they might notice that she isn’t what she is pretending to be.
I must be aware every moment, for the smallest thing might betray me,
she thinks. Her nerves are wracked.
During the long six days of the journey (for the
Bedu’s
original estimate was, as ever, optimistic), she is always the last to sleep and the first to wake. She watches constantly for any sign that the men have noticed a detail out of place or for the familiar outline of a search party on the horizon. She ransacks her memory for every tiny movement, every word of the slaves in whose company she has travelled three long months and she emulates them on each count. She even shyly tells the men that she is in love with a servant in her master’s caravan. A girl of thirteen she calls Jaminda, whom she has had to leave behind. For her feelings on this she need only think of Wellsted, and then such an air of sadness comes over her that no man would not believe that poor Malik has left behind his true love in order to fulfil his duty.
The
Bedu
already know about the sickness at the coast. They and their fellows trade with the harbour towns and news of what transpires there reaches them regularly. As a result, they direct their caravan further north than usual to avoid the affected areas. This way it is longer to Muscat, but Zena has no desire to risk infection. The trip is risky enough as it is.
When the sea comes into view, she feels like whooping for joy. ‘I’ve made it here again,’ she breathes very quietly.
She has loved the Giant Blue since she first set wide eyes upon it all those months ago, and in the repetition of the experience, her delight and excitement does not fade. She thinks of the view of the Straits of Hormuz from her Muscat master’s rooms and decides that the sea here is quite as pretty. The deep blue waves are fringed with white foam and their movement is hypnotic while the scope of the horizon stimulates the imagination. Sunset, Zena ponders, is never as pretty as when the orange orb sinks into a distant line of shimmering water. After the arid sands, she feels invigorated at the sight of so much liquid, though in memory of the boy who ran down the beach in Abyssinia, she does not dismount and run towards the surf and instead hides her delight at the ocean’s magic.
The party hikes along a dusty outcrop where the cliffs drop sheer onto pale rocks below. A way off there is a harbour and a scattering of houses. A flock of black-faced sheep with dirty brown coats is driven haphazardly down the slope leading to the village. The pearl divers have settlements like this all along this coast. The region is known for its exotic coral reefs that seamen consider deadly. It is a natural defence for the bounty of the pearls, which are well worth risking your life to acquire by diving through the strange fish and shards of rock and coral. Here, it is sworn, one man found a hoard of pearls – a cache of nature – eight baubles, each as big as a baby’s fist and as pale and white as the cooked flesh of a fish. On such treasure a life’s fortune is made and a whole family can secure its future. Grandfathers tell the tale to their youngest grandchildren; mothers whisper of it over the baby’s basket, hoping their young ones will have healthy lungs to dive deeply; old men with parchment for skin reminisce that they have spent a lifetime in searching for the perfect luminescent orb and sigh with despair on their deathbeds that they never laid hands upon it. It is like a cult here. Though the people are poor, they believe that good fortune is only a dive away. Holy men in these parts compare a man’s spirit to the sheen of a pearl, women string shell necklaces and wish they had somehow garnered the real thing and all words associated with the industry are lengthened into adjectives that mean good.
The cousins laugh as they make their way along the cliff path. As they come to the shoreline towards the settlement, the youngest, a boy of thirteen, jumps onto the sand and kicks in the spray while the others look on, their dark eyes identical. The camels groan, for they know sea water is not good to drink and they cannot imagine why the party is stopping when a few minutes more will have them at a well. The braying sound only makes the cousins laugh and quip about whether the men lead the beasts or vice versa. Amid this banter, three men from the village approach and tentatively ask the party’s direction of travel. They will warn them off if there is any chance of infection. When they are satisfied that all is safe, they greet the cousins warmly and wave them through, breaking into a run in their wake.
At the water’s edge, where the houses start, there are three short jetties where two fishing boats are unloading the day’s catch onto the front. This comprises a motley-looking collection of strange sea creatures, for in this region the fish are varied in appearance. Today there is a small shark and a full basket, almost a shoal, of oval-bodied plaice with peachy skin.
‘We are come to trade camels,’ the
Bedu
announce. ‘And we bring news. But we need your help too. This dark-skinned brother is called Malik. He seeks his master who headed this way only some weeks ago. Have you seen or heard of Ben Ibn Ahmed?’
Zena can hardly breathe. It has only just occurred to her that she does not know what she will do if the cousins succeed in finding the renegade son who is supposed to own her. Is he here? Will someone have heard of him? She keeps her silence.
The fishermen shake their heads. ‘The pearl boats and the fishermen will return in a while,’ an old man tells them. ‘I have not heard of this son of the
Bedu
, Ibn Ahmed, but perhaps someone at sea might know him.’
They motion a little way up the hill where there is a flat marketplace with a rough stone well. If they cannot bring news of the man in question, at least they can offer refreshment for the camels and the shade of a palm tree under which coffee can be enjoyed.
Up the hill, Zena waters her camel with the others and takes a cup of mint tea. ‘If my master is not here, I will head for Muscat. He has an uncle there,’ she says casually.
No boats here go to Muscat, she is told. The Omani capital is over five hundred miles to the south, even as the crow flies. The journey is quickest by boat, of course, far more so than the overland route, back into the Empty Quarter and south. Still, the village is too small for regular passage to anywhere bar a couple of the local trading ports, which are visited weekly with the harvest of pearls, or at least they were until the plague broke out. Now, the villagers will hoard their treasures until the infection is declared over and it will be safe once again to travel to the trading posts.
The cousins chat to the fishermen, buying a few strips of
qat
leaves from a man who has a large supply, and then they settle, squatting in the shade to chew away what is left of the afternoon.
Zena walks barefoot to the end of the jetty. She stares across the rippling water as fish dart below the boards, attracted, she thinks, by the dapple of her shadow moving across the surface of the water. She has no idea how to handle a boat. Even the tiny fishing barks tied up here seem an incomprehensible jumble of complicated, knotted ropes and piles of canvas and nets. Further out, she can see a ship with a sail turning in the wind and zigzagging elegantly towards the harbour. There are string pots on the deck and three or four men working together, hanging over the side, using their weight to balance the vessel so that the sail is positioned correctly and carries them smoothly to their destination.
If I am going to Muscat across the water,
she thinks,
I will need help.
Her hand falls to the pouch she stole from Wellsted’s belt. It is made of the balls of a sacrificed goat – exactly the right size for a handful of
talers
. Many of the men carry these pouches. Concealed under her
dishdash,
she has stuffed it with a strip of cloth so the coins do not make a sound as she moves. Still, offering to pay would be dangerous – no slave has his own money and the story she has constructed involves her abandoning the family and setting out to find her master without any preparation or direction from anyone else. She has no explanation for how she came by the money.
From under the palm trees the sound of hysterical laughter wafts down the hill. The cousins, their dispositions mellowed even further by the
qat,
cannot contain themselves. Zena does not want to join them. She sits on the boards and dangles her feet into the cool water as she considers what best to do next. She thinks of Wellsted every hour. Travelling with the cousins has been strange, if in nothing else, in the fact that her odd-looking, white-skinned master did not accompany her. If he survives the emir’s wrath, it is to Muscat Wellsted will return and she wants to see him. In truth, she wants to touch him again. This burning feeling of being driven, of belonging with someone body and soul, is entirely new to her and, baffled by it, she does not dwell on the notion. She simply has to head south. Muscat is her only option. Zena knows Ibn Mohammed and Kasim have houses there. She knows that if she encounters the slavers a third time, she will not simply be taken and sold. She has run now and that holds its own punishment, a lifelong sentence hanging over her head. Still, Muscat it must be. Somehow. For finding Wellsted again is her way to freedom and forgiveness. And she is in love.
As the fishing boat sails towards her she can see the catch on the deck. The sailors grin and one waves. Zena shakes her head as if to clear it of the image of Wellsted’s smile in the moonlight and his habit of making promises to comfort her. In his absence, she has noticed she makes the same promises to herself – that it will all be well, that she will be granted freedom and set up securely. Now she jumps up and helps dock the boat while a thin boy, a child still, secures the rope to the jetty with what looks like a complicated knot.
Salaam aleikhum. Aleikhum salaam.
Being male, she thinks, is so easy. There is brotherhood everywhere she goes. A smile, a bow and three kisses on the cheek.
That night, once the fires are dimmed and after a delicious dinner of chargrilled fish and rice, the fishermen offer to take Zena out with them the next day. On the water they often meet boats from further down the coast.
‘Come with us and fish. You look as if you could dive,’ a half-toothless ancient smiles revealing a scattering of what look like mismatched seed pearls protruding from his gums. ‘Tomorrow we will sail out a little way only, but to the south. We will meet others on the fishing fields from villages on your way. Perhaps they will know of your master there.’
‘I cannot swim,’ Zena tells him, though in truth she is thinking that she cannot get wet. The thin material of the
dishdash
will easily become transparent and she is unsure how much of her true shape will show through. Still, it will be easier than making the journey overland. ‘I can help though,’ she offers. ‘I would like to help.’
The old man nods and explains that by changing vessels bit by bit, she can leapfrog southwards, working for her keep. The boatmen are generally happy for an extra pair of hands. Then, as she makes her way south she can take passage to Muscat from one of the larger settlements – boats leave for the Omani capital with regularity from the ports of Shams or Ras Al Khaimah or Sharjah, or even from the island of Rafeen. As far as everyone knows, the plague has not reached any of those places. Still, it would be better if she could dive.
Zena shakes her head. ‘I am afraid,’ she admits, thinking of a lie that will be plausible. ‘My father drowned and I am afraid.’
The men nod in understanding. She is good at this. The months on the sands have taught her every detail of how slaves express themselves, how to crouch in prayer, how to eat. The grudging mention now and then of long-lost family. The air of sadness.