The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan

by Cynthia Jefferies

  He could see nothing, and the pain was terrible. He stopped and leant against a heap of rugs, but their owner shouted at him and he lurched away. He stumbled against someone and the man started to berate him, but then muttered something and took his arm. He spoke no English, but it was evident that he wished to help. Christopher allowed himself to be led a little way. Tugging at his arm, the man made him understand that he should sit. Christopher sank gratefully onto a rug. More than anything he wanted to rub his streaming eyes, but the man spoke urgently to him while pushing at Christopher’s wrists to keep his hands away.

  Another man came over and translated for Christopher’s benefactor. ‘He asks if you have been to a spice shop.’

  Christopher nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you doubtless have chilli powder on your hands.’

  There was a rapid conversation and then the translator spoke again.

  ‘They will bring water. They will wash your eyes for you. You must thoroughly wash your hands. Do not touch your face or you will make it worse.’

  It took a while, but eventually Christopher could see again, and the burning sensation lessened. He gratefully accepted a glass of tea and looked for his benefactor to say thank you, but the man had gone. Christopher left a coin for the tea and went back into the crush of people in the market. He wandered aimlessly for a while, not knowing or caring where he went. He ceased to hear the vendors as they shouted their wares and drifted as helplessly as a twig whirling in a swollen river. Eventually, he emerged out of the dim market into the fierce sunlight. It was late afternoon and the heat was seeping out of the buildings. He had no idea where he was and couldn’t bring himself to care.

  It was almost dark when, more by chance than design, he finally reached one of the jetties. He climbed into a boat and sat like a stone. He didn’t seem to understand that he should get out at the other side and had to be chivvied by the boatman. When prompted, he found some coins and put them into the impatient man’s hand. They were enough to pay for the journey ten times over, but Christopher wandered away before any could be returned.

  For the next two days, Christopher stayed in his room, pleading illness when Ethan and Jacob called. He went over and over every moment of his time with the man who had refused to introduce himself. He had said he could not give his son back now. Why now? Was he saying that he could at some time in the future? Or did he mean that he could have done so in the past, but that Abel was now dead? There was no resolution in this. He was no better off now, having travelled all these miles, than when Abel was first lost. What should he do now? Where should he go? There was no reason to stay here. If he had been given his son’s body to weep over, it would be something, but he had nothing, not even the map. If only he knew. If he knew for certain that his son was dead, he could grieve, but he did not know. That man had taken what he wanted and given nothing in return.

  At length, early one morning, having slept very little, he could bear the room no longer. He went out into the street to wander once more. At the jetty, he was approached by a man he hadn’t seen before.

  ‘You are looking for a boat?’

  Christopher felt in his purse for coin. ‘Yes.’

  The man led the way to one of the small boats that plied the channel and Christopher stepped in. He was the only passenger and it soon became obvious they were not making for the usual landing.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Christopher.

  The man looked at him gravely. ‘To fetch your son.’

  It was as if thunder had rolled out of the sky and into the slopping water at his feet. ‘What did you say?’ But the boatman turned away from him to pull on his oars and refused to say any more, no matter how hard Christopher pressed him.

  When they arrived at a jetty he had not landed at before, Christopher spoke to the man again. ‘Please tell me again what you said. I’m not sure I heard you right. I thought you said we were going to fetch my son?’

  The man looked at him, but he might as well have been mute for all the sound he made. He made no attempt to force Christopher as Ahmed had done, but simply began to walk away. Christopher followed him closely, anxious not to lose him. His heart was thudding in his chest as if it might break free and his legs trembled as he walked.

  They headed quickly towards a part of the city Christopher had not visited, eventually stopping in a quiet alley. The man pushed open a small door in the wall and led the way into a courtyard. There was a stone building with a large arched opening, which was barred like a cage. Christopher could see several young boys behind the bars, but the man took his sleeve and led him through a door in the building before he could tell for sure if Abel was there or not. They went down a passage, at the end of which was yet another door, leading out into an untidy garden. It was very quiet.

  In the garden, the man paused. He pointed to a low shed. Suddenly it seemed he could talk again. ‘Do you want to see one being cut?’ He made a chopping motion with his hand at his groin and Christopher stared at him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ As it dawned on him where he was, he felt revolted. This must be where boys were turned into eunuchs. ‘For pity’s sake. No!’

  The man laughed at his horrified face. ‘After they are cut’ – he was leading the way as if giving a guided tour to an interested tourist – ‘they are buried up to their necks in sand.’

  ‘In God’s name, why?’

  The man shrugged and then smiled broadly. ‘It keeps the flies away. There is one in the sand now, but I think he is dying. You want to see?’

  ‘No! I do not want to see.’ But what if that boy were Abel? ‘Yes,’ he said, the word crawling from his throat in a groan. ‘Where is he?’

  The man led him to a spot in a shady part of the garden. Christopher could tell at once that the ruined boy was not Abel. His skin was dark and his hair was in tight curls. Christopher backed away with his hand over his mouth. He felt horrified pity but also overwhelming relief that the suffering boy was not Abel.

  ‘It is indeed regrettable,’ the man agreed conversationally. ‘So many die, it is hard to make a good profit.’ He hesitated. ‘Some Christians pay handsomely to be shown what you refused to see.’ He waited, as if he might have expected Christopher to change his mind or pay him anyway, but Christopher said nothing, and the man shrugged. ‘The boys who live,’ he went on, ‘they can become very influential and rich. Then they bless what we did to them.’

  Christopher could not bring himself to make a reply. All he could do was to pray that Abel had not been brought here. After a moment, the man shrugged again. ‘Well, come back this way.’

  He led the way back, closing the doors carefully behind them.

  Christopher followed him in dread. Why was he being shown all this? Was it some kind of fiendish joke or punishment perpetrated by the owner of the map? It certainly felt so. If Abel were dead he wanted to be allowed to grieve, not to be shown some of the horrors he might have suffered.

  ‘I want to see every boy you have here,’ he said to his guide’s retreating back.

  As soon as they returned to the courtyard, he went up to the arched opening and stood looking through the bars. There were about a dozen young boys, most sitting on the straw that littered their cell. When he approached, some stood up, but others stayed where they were, huddled towards the back of their prison. The guide took a stick that was propped up against the wall and rattled the bars, speaking some words in his own tongue. Instantly, they stood up and arranged themselves so that Christopher could see them all.

  It was a pitiful sight. Some could have been no more than five or six years old – all were still children. Abel was not among them. In spite of himself, for a few seconds Christopher had hoped, and his disappointment was hard to bear. This was the moment when he felt, despite all his efforts to remain optimistic, that Abel was further away from him than ever. His despair was total. The only thing left for him was to go home. He turned away from the caged children, but his guide tugged at his slee
ve.

  ‘You must choose …’

  ‘What do you mean?’ For a few appalling moments he thought he was being asked to choose the next victim to be castrated.

  The man pointed with his stick at the boys and Christopher tried to pull away. ‘No! Not to save my life!’

  The man protested. ‘But it is paid for you to take a son. You must choose.’ He looked alarmed that Christopher might not let him do as he had obviously been bid.

  ‘Choose? But none of them are my son. I don’t want just any boy. No!’

  ‘But you must! Look. Any of them. This one here perhaps.’ He pointed with his stick and Christopher glanced back.

  ‘Sir?’

  It was a small voice, coming from the smallest child: a naked little boy with very pale skin and tumbling, wavy black hair. He looked like a Spaniard but spoke English with an accent that was not Spanish.

  ‘Sir? Are you English, sir?’

  Christopher found his voice. ‘I am.’

  At that, the other boys in their various languages began calling to him like birds, stretching their thin arms through the bars and entreating him piteously. But the little boy who had spoken first stood quietly, asking nothing.

  ‘Ireland, sir,’ he said when Christopher asked him his country.

  The lump in Christopher’s throat made it hard for him to reply.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Turlough, sir.’

  ‘Well, Turlough. Would you like to come with me?’

  Turlough thought for a moment and then looked up at Christopher. ‘Where are we going?’

  Christopher looked at the little boy through blurring eyes. ‘I will take you back to your father, Turlough.’

  For the first time the child’s resolve threatened to desert him. His mouth twisted as he fought not to cry. ‘My da was killed by the pirates.’

  Christopher mastered himself for the boy’s sake. ‘Then I will restore you to the rest of your family, Turlough,’ he said in as sprightly as voice as he could muster.

  ‘This one,’ he said to the guide. He tried hard to avoid seeing all the other children’s faces as they realised they had not been chosen, but it was impossible. He felt sure they would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  ‘I will not take this child naked through the streets,’ he said when Turlough was standing by his side. ‘Find him something to wear.’

  The boy was given a filthy garment that at least covered him to his knees. Once he had put it on, the guide led them to the outer gate, hardly allowing them through before he slammed it shut behind them, remaining himself inside. Christopher found a small hand taking his as they set off through the crowded streets. It took a while before he got back to a part of the city he recognised. By that time, Turlough was stumbling. Christopher picked him up and carried him. At a stall, he bought him some more suitable clothing, some slippers, a piece of fruit and some puffy bread. In the ferry he sat quietly eating, sitting as close to his saviour as he could.

  Christopher was in turmoil. What was he to do with this orphan? He supposed he would have to take him back to England with him. Once the child told him his village, no doubt there would be someone he could return him to, but it would be an expense, and time and trouble that he didn’t have the stomach for. All he wanted was to get home so that if Abel did ever manage to escape again, he would be there to welcome him.

  Back at the ambassador’s residence, he asked for some water and gave Turlough a thorough wash, looking carefully at him for any sign of fleas, lice or ticks.

  ‘Now. Let’s put your shirt and slippers back on.’ Turlough did as he was bid. He was touchingly delighted with his slippers and slid about on the cool marble floor in them. Christopher was pierced by a memory of Abel being equally delighted with his silk dressing gown. It was unbearable, being so reminded.

  It wasn’t long before a message came from the ambassador, summoning Christopher.

  ‘Stay there and be a good boy,’ Christopher told Turlough. ‘I will not be long.’

  It was an uncomfortable interview. John Finch was halfway to working himself up into an apoplectic rage.

  ‘You come here with your dangerous … cargo and the next thing I know you are bringing some wretched catamite into my home. This is a good Christian household and I am the King’s representative. I will not have my good name or his dirtied by your un-Christian practices.’

  Christopher looked at him wearily. He didn’t have the energy for an argument.

  ‘He was a slave, is a Christian child from Ireland and I am returning him to his homeland. All I need to know is when the next ship might be leaving for England. God willing, I shall be on it.’

  Without another word, he went back to his room, where Turlough was waiting patiently. Christopher packed his belongings into his box and closed it.

  ‘Come, Turlough,’ he said. ‘We are going to go and see a friend.’

  Leaving word that his box would be collected later, he and the child went back out into the sunshine. It was a quiet time when many people were resting indoors, out of the heat of the afternoon. Ethan was at his lodgings. He looked very surprised and then overjoyed to see the little boy holding Christopher’s hand. Christopher shook his head and Ethan stopped his congratulations in mid sentence, looking thoroughly mystified.

  ‘This is Turlough,’ said Christopher. ‘It has fallen to me to return him to his family, but our ambassador accuses me of unnatural practices. I cannot stay under the roof of such a man. Can you tell me if there is a room available here?’

  Ethan held the door wide. ‘Come in. I will enquire. If there isn’t, you can both lie with me tonight, though sharing a bed in this heat is likely to make us melt! But what of your son?’

  Christopher looked sorrowfully at his friend. ‘No news. I am persuaded to go home in the hope he may yet return to me.’

  There was no ship leaving for England, but after a week one was bound to Holland. Christopher negotiated passage for himself and the boy. He was quite defeated by John Finch, who continued to show no sign of asking about Abel at the court. Jacob kindly mentioned Christopher and Abel to his own ambassador, but nothing came of it. Even if the threat from the man with the metal hand, whose name Christopher had not learnt, had not been hanging over him, it would still have felt to Christopher as if it were time for him to go home.

  When the day came for them to leave, Ethan walked with them down to the quay, while a porter wheeled Christopher’s box. Ethan carried a parcel and, when they arrived at the quay, he gave it to Christopher.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Call it a trader’s speculation if you like.’

  ‘But what is it?’

  Ethan laughed. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about. Just a few bulbs to plant in your garden. And perhaps you might like to give a few to His Majesty.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought to go back to court, though I suppose I owe the King an account of my travels. Thank you,’ he added belatedly to Ethan.

  ‘I don’t need thanks,’ said Ethan. ‘But if I could write to you with news of any interesting goods I might find? I remember how the King addressed you as a friend. If you could also be a friend to me and lay before him things I might send you from time to time …?’

  Christopher couldn’t help returning his smile. ‘I see your gift is more in the way of a transaction.’

  Ethan started to bluster and then blushed. ‘I don’t mean to use you, Christopher. There may be advantage to some things and not others. I don’t ask you to lay out money in speculation, but just to go to court occasionally if something arrives from me that you think might be liked.’

  ‘I can’t promise,’ said Christopher. ‘I’m not sure I have the stomach for it, but I will try once at least. I will promise you that.’

  Ethan took Christopher’s hand. ‘Thank you. I have money to speculate that you do not; you have the ear of the King, which I do not. It is the basis of a good partnership, but if you want to have no more of it after a wh
ile, just write and let me know. I will understand.’

  ‘And if I could ask you to let me know if you hear anything …?’

  ‘Of course, I will.’

  Once they were aboard and had cast off, Turlough tugged gently on Christopher’s sleeve. Christopher looked down at the small child, who had been like a shadow since he’d been freed.

  ‘Are we leaving this horrible place?’

  Christopher looked at the beautiful light on the water and the delicate minarets reaching up into the sky. The further they slipped away the more beautiful it all appeared. Was everything in the world like this? Was it only possible to see true ugliness at close quarters? He had read of instruments with lenses that showed insects so closely that they could be seen in all their terrible ferocity. What would a page look like if you could inhabit the ink? Would it, too, have its own horror? He glanced down at the child. It was also that beauty and ugliness depended on a person’s experience. He remembered the strange charisma of that man with the metal hand. He had pulled him inexorably towards him with undeniable eroticism. It wasn’t just the mechanical hand, with its peculiar combination of fear and sensuality, it was also the man himself. It wasn’t because Christopher hadn’t lain with a woman for a long time. It was more that the man had about him something of a boy at school who could lead the rest of the class to the height of folly, simply by the strength of his personality. Such boys knew their power and so had he. Thinking about the man even now brought Christopher a rush of guilty desire, although as well as his missing hand he had not been comely, and his voice had an ugly timbre.

  Turlough tugged his sleeve again and Christopher remembered that he had asked a question. Poor child. He must have suffered so much and, even now, feared more to come.

  ‘Yes, Turlough,’ he said kindly. ‘Don’t worry. We are leaving and returning you to your home.’

  The little boy smiled up at him with such trust that Christopher felt a terrible jolt go through him. How could he possibly boast that he would take this child to a place of safety when he had not even been able to keep his own flesh and blood secure? Did such a place even exist?