The Forebear's Candle: A time travel mystery and love story set against the intrigue of Henry Tudor's England

by Clive S. Johnson

  He ran his hand over it, trying to guard his new joy against the unsettling associations that came with the object. Ones he knew he’d now promised to divulge fully to Kate. And the later ones, of course, the two he’d failed to mention at all, the last of which had certainly made him suspicious of lighting any more joss sticks. But then his mother called up the stairs that lunch was ready, and with it came a short reprieve.

  3 Jusuf’s Present

  Words hadn’t somehow magically appeared on the micro’s screen, although the central heating had long since settled down. Maybe, Colin thought, if I just try remembering how I told it to Kate and simply typed it in that way, and so he played out that first day of her stay in his mind’s eye.

  A school friend of his had phoned after lunch, suggesting a motorbike ride out into the Yorkshire Dales for the afternoon. It had been an opportunity to show Kate some of his favourite places, so it was the evening before they were alone. The house had been theirs, for Colin’s parents had gone out, so Kate had made them supper. Afterwards, in his bedroom and with one of his quieter King Crimson albums playing, she finally said, “So, you were going to tell me about Jusuf al-Haddad.”

  Colin froze at her casual use of the name. Although he’d mentioned it to her before, having it spoken aloud by someone else made it seem all the more real. He went and stood by the open window and stared out at the dark-blue dusk slowly descending over the sultry city in the valley below. For a moment or two he gathered his thoughts, until Kate came and sat beside him on the sill.

  “Standing before the captain and his first mate,” he quietly told her, “wasn’t where it ended, Kate.” Strings of streetlights had begun to weave across the darkening city before he steeled himself to say, “After that I had another…er…phantasm, as you called them. Two more, in fact.”

  “You never said.”

  At last, he turned to look her in the eye. “It was so…unsettling. So much so I didn’t really want to accept it myself. By telling you I thought…well, thought it would make it all too real to ignore,” but her brow only knotted. “Does that make any sense?” to which she slowly nodded.

  He took a deep breath. “The first carried on from where the last one I told you about left off—well, almost.”

  He recounted his experience of having been thrown straight into an overwhelming sense of suspicion, or perhaps more accurately an intense fear of betrayal. Jusuf had clearly not trusted the captain or his mate, maybe trusted no one. Colin could almost smell it on the air they breathed. Whatever the man had unwillingly entrusted to the mate’s locker, its separation from him had clearly preyed heavily on his mind.

  Having witnessed Rodrigo lock the chest, Jusuf had come out from the gloom beneath the quarterdeck and leant against the larboard rail. As the captain had advised, he stared out at the horizon, his queasiness indeed soon lessening.

  Formed of pale greens and sandy browns and yellows, the higher land bordering the coast along the southern horizon steadily dipped away to east and west. Towards its eastern end a far off peak peeped up against the canopy of a cloudless blue sky much further inland.

  As Jusuf’s gaze moved on further eastwards, to where only pale blue sea kissed the sky, he quietly asked himself, “Will I ever get to see you again, Ceuta? Will I once more be able to feast my eyes on the heights of Monte Anyera that guards your back?” He spat into the sea before glancing askance at the dark space beneath the quarterdeck.

  His queasiness returned, so he spun his gaze across the galleon towards the north. There lay only a thin hint of land between sea and sky, and a shiver ran through him.

  “Accursed Christians,” Jusuf whispered to himself, so those few crew nearby wouldn’t hear. “It won’t be long before we take our country back from you…and more; Allah preserve me. But this time as easily as taking a child from its mother’s milk.”

  He stared at the sea-bound horizon to the west, at its mantle of darker clouds. “May the charity of Bab el-Zakat grant me its good fortune. May it take me safely beyond its gate, past Tarifa and out onto the Western Sea. Then, Allah willing, north to strike at the heart of the thieving infidels.”

  This time when he peered at the shaded space beneath the quarterdeck, he narrowed his eyes at the two dark shapes of the Portuguese men on whom it all now hinged. Silently, he prayed their greed would ultimately ensure him a safe escape, if he lived to tell the tale—Allah grant him a long life. He turned back to the sea and spat once more into its lazy swell.

  Kate’s “Tarifa?” startled Colin, and his memory of that stain of spittle slipping steadily astern instantly dissolved. “Isn’t that somewhere in Spain?”

  Colin blinked at her for a moment. “Hang on; I’ve an atlas somewhere.”

  After a bit of a search he found his old, worn, cloth-bound school copy, its index quickly guiding him to the right page.

  “Yep,” he said, before tracing his finger down and along the grid references, finally stabbing it on the southernmost tip of the country. “Here we are, right above the Strait of Gibraltar. Ah, and there’s Ceuta, on the North African coast.”

  “The Moroccan coast.”

  “No, it doesn’t say that here. Says that corner’s Spanish. I never knew Spain had territories in Africa. Like us with Gibraltar, I suppose.”

  “You said they were heading north, which’d take them up the west coast of Portugal. Do you know where they were going after that?”

  Colin didn’t say, for he remembered the captain coming up beside Jusuf and pointing out the darkening clouds to the west, the man then growling about the weather.

  “Unusual time of year for storms,” he went on to say. “We may have to put in at Faro if it turns nasty. If not, and we get ahead of it, then at least we’ll have a fair wind behind us. But for now, all we can do is wait and see.”

  Colin silently stared at his memory of those clouds, the image staying with him even after Kate had asked, “So what happened next?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not in that phantasm.”

  “They seem a bit short,” and Kate sounded disappointed.

  “I wish I could say the same about the last one.”

  “You… You’ve gone a bit ashen, Colin. You all right?”

  At first he only nodded, unsure how to go on. “Want some coffee?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Er, yes, I’d love some. But then…you will tell me what happened next, won’t you?”

  “I’ll go and make the coffee, but then I think I need to skin-up and pop out into the garden before mum and dad get back. You interested?”

  Kate nodded, concern clouding her beautiful face.

  Beneath the kitchen’s stark fluorescent light, Colin’s memories faded a little. As he filled the kettle, Kate asked if he’d any idea when it had all happened.

  “It feels like the here-and-now when I’m there,” he told her as he lit the gas ring under the kettle. “Probably because I’m experiencing it through Jusuf, which I don’t think I was right at the beginning. That’s when I thought the captain had sounded Spanish, not Portuguese. To Jusuf it’s all current, you see, his present, and so mine.”

  Colin opened the back door, a squall of night insects drawn in to the light. “I tell you what: if you finish making the coffee, I’ll get a couple of deckchairs out. It must be cooler in the garden.” He stared at the key for the shed, hanging on its hook by the backdoor, lost in thought until the kettle began to boil.

  “Then I’ll tell you what happened next,” he barely whispered, before taking down the key and going out to the shed.

  4 The Devil’s Own Breath

  The garden proved no cooler than the house. Sitting out in the dark in a deckchair, though, felt distinctly odd to Colin. But enough light came from the living room window to see the impatient expectation in Kate’s eyes. How to start? he wondered.

  “I don’t know how it happened,” he finally said, playing for time, “but for all the hours I spent away, the
joss stick I still held when I came back had hardly burnt down. It was weird.” He distractedly noticed how dusty the lawn smelt, how hard packed it felt beneath his trainers.

  Kate’s unblinking stare, as she passed him the spliff, reminded him of his promise. He took a deep toke and held it, its burn at his throat slowly easing before he blew out a long smoky breath that lingered sweetly about them in the still, late evening air. Kate’s continued close scrutiny of his eyes finally forced him to grasp the nettle, and so at last he slowly and hesitantly unfolded his tale.

  They were on the high stern deck, Jusuf and Rodrigo, the first mate, that large hand of Jusuf’s once more gripping the rail, which could hardly be seen in the noonday’s unnatural gloom. The bitter taste in his mouth said he’d just been sick, and probably not for the first time. Then Colin realised what filled Jusuf’s vision: the heave of a huge wave swelling towards them from the storm’s raven darkness astern. The water’s slate-grey mass ineluctably loomed above them as the deck tipped steadily for’ard, at which Jusuf gripped the rail with both hands this time.

  “We should’ve put in at Faro,” Rodrigo said more to himself than Jusuf. “There’s the Devil in this storm; I can feel it,” and the man crossed himself as the galleon rose up the face of the wave. “Even if we’d made Lisboa, as we’d hoped to, there’d have been no chance we could have put in there, not in this sea. All we can do for now is ride it out and pray it doesn’t drive us ashore.”

  Too awed to beseech Allah, Jusuf only stared at the expanse of mountainous sea briefly revealed from their teetering vantage point atop the crest of the wave. Vainly, he searched for a stomach-settling horizon, but then the galleon lurched and lowered its stern. They descended once more into a deep, dark trough, another great wave looming out of the gloom beyond it.

  As Jusuf heaved over the stern rail, his puke’s untroubled arc made him wonder at the still air. Surely a storm brought with it great wind? he groggily reasoned. In between straining on his seemingly empty stomach, he asked this of the first mate.

  “It will come,” the man said as he looked up at the furled sailcloth above their heads. “Satan’s breath,” he hissed and again crossed himself. “And soon. Before we could safely lower the spars.” He slowly shook his head as he bit at his lip, as though cursing the strength of the imminent storm.

  Jusuf turned to stare for’ard as the deck once more rose beneath them. His gaze swept down its steepening slope, across the hidden main deck and to the galleon’s fo’c’sle. Beyond it swept a dark hill of water, drawing his gaze to its high crest, hugely rolling away ahead. Its black and serrated outline heaved against the overcast sky before them.

  Then the cloth of Jusuf’s head-covering fluttered briefly, where it fell loose about his neck. Tucking it into his tunic, he quickly realised what it meant and whipped around to look astern once more. There he saw whitecaps luminous against the storm’s darkness, a salty spray now speckling his face.

  A sudden gust blew him back, his hands slipping from the rail as the ropes and rigging around him urgently complained, and the timbers of the ship creaked and groaned beneath his feet. He steadied himself, but when large raindrops spattered against his face and chest, Rodrigo took him by the arm, urging him back down to the main deck below.

  When he stepped onto it, he turned and saw that most of the crew were huddled beneath the fo’c’sle deck. The whites of their eyes peppered its shadowed darkness as they resignedly stared out at the overtaking storm. Rodrigo splashed through the seawater currently sluicing from the deck, and led Jusuf beneath the quarterdeck.

  The dim shapes of the captain and helmsman stood stooped at the tiller’s opening, the captain firmly grasping the lashed beam of the tiller itself as he peered out at the chasing waves.

  “Captain,” Rodrigo called to announce their presence, but the man only gave them a brief look. “If you squat here,” Rodrigo told Jusuf as the wind rose to a growl, “you’ll be out of the worst of it, but near enough to puke over the rail.”

  Jusuf settled his bulk in as best he could, leaning his broad back into the crook between the chart desk and the wall. From his sheltered position he stared up past the black shapes of the masts at the northern sky. The receding strip of low grey cloud now appeared framed between the fo’c’sle rail and the press of the storm’s dark mantle. It was the only light to see by until the sodden deck and masts reflected the flash of a bright, cold blue glare. Into the darker gloom of the lightning’s wake rumbled a distant roll of thunder, lifting the hairs on Jusuf’s neck.

  The rain-laden wind had begun to blow in more insistently through the tiller opening. It forced the captain to retreat into the near-darkness swaddling his first mate and their handsomely-paid-for passenger. He said nothing, only stepped forward into what little light remained and stood as tall as the quarterdeck above him allowed, his presence there amongst them his only reassurance to his crew.

  The Nao Providência—the name by which Jusuf knew their carrack—soon became engulfed by the storm proper. Spray and torrential rain quickly drenched the rigging as the sea heaved in through the bulwark scuppers. Water repeatedly raced across the deck as the growing wind whistled through the shrouds and howled past the yards and spars. Within it all, the ever-present groan and creak of the ship’s timbers grew unnervingly louder, complaining at the storm’s rising anger. And all the while, Jusuf braced himself against the elements and his own mortal fear.

  “Allah preserve me,” he mumbled, time and time again, the sound lost in the rising fury being unleashed about him.

  When the wall at his back pushed him forward, he braced his feet against the deck, noticing that the masts had angled themselves against what little could now be seen of the sky. Rodrigo and the helmsman sprang into action in the dark behind Jusuf, unlashing the tiller’s ropes before the two men groaned in their effort against it. Slowly, the masts righted, then Jusuf heard the tiller being secured once more.

  When Rodrigo returned to stand near him, Jusuf asked what had happened. The first mate had to shout above the storm for Jusuf to hear, explaining they’d to keep the Nao Providência astern of the waves, so they’d not be swamped and sunk. The man crossed himself again, his eyes turning heavenward as another surge of seawater raced across the deck behind him. This time it washed up over the step and in below the quarterdeck, chasing Jusuf back into the darkness. He tripped and fell, banging his head.

  For a moment he stared at the stars flashing before his vision, then the sound of the rapidly rising wind almost deafened him. The ship shuddered and sharp reports rang out. Then, somehow, he knew he was alone.

  A flash of lightning lit up the scene out on deck: wide-eyed but determined men splashing through swilling water, lengths of rigging swinging loose about them. On the tail of the lightning’s crack of thunder came another flash, this time revealing a long white crack in the mainmast, splintered wood jaggedly projecting from a point some way above head height.

  Darkness returned, a howling darkness rent by whistles and juddering groans. Then the wind blew yet harder still and another ear-splitting crack seemed to come up through the very planks of the deck. After a succession of snaps and the twanging of ropes an almighty crash rent the air. Then the thud of timber against timber and the agonised screams of men joined the wailing of the wind, and the Nao Providência once more listed astarboard.

  Caught by the fear of being left alone, Jusuf staggered out on deck, immediately swept off his feet. Sent clattering against the bulwark, seawater pressed him there until it drained away enough for him to drag himself to his feet.

  When a series of close flashes came, they revealed a mainmast lying at a shallow angle above the deck, its splintered end matching that of its nearby stump. The fallen mast had struck the starboard bulwark, smashing its way almost through to the planks just a few yards from where Jusuf stood. Beneath it, though, lay Rodrigo’s body, awash with seawater.

  Then all went black once more as the deck listed more steeply, thr
owing Jusuf this time against its rail. The impact bent him backwards, his shoulders perilously close to the grasp of the waves now forcing their way in through the scuppers beneath him. With his back painfully arched, his foot slipped, lifting off the deck as his head grew heavier at his head-covering’s drenching. He rocked for a horrifying moment, one that seemed to last a lifetime, before timber groaned against timber and a man screamed out in agony.

  The rising of the rail at last lifted Jusuf clear of the water, as another flash lit the tempest and he pushed himself back on deck and staggered upright. Yet another flash revealed the mast had slid further overboard, that part still above Rodrigo angled higher as the deck began to level. Again, a flash, and Rodrigo’s prone body and ashen face became plain to see. But also revealed was the once more steadily descending mast, lowering towards his chest as the ship again began to list.

  In the brief moment before darkness rushed in, the two men stared in horror at each other.

  Within short order, though, a yellow light sent shadows lurching across the deck, then a lamp appeared, a seaman holding it aloft above the pinned first mate. More of the crew gathered around as the deck listed further and the mast relentlessly angled down against Rodrigo’s chest.

  The man’s horror-filled eyes flashed before Jusuf. With no further thought, he pushed his way through the huddle of seamen and bent to the mast, wrapping it in his stoutly muscled arms. Bracing his legs against the deck, he summoned all his might and strained to lift the unyielding weight. Others joined in, heaving and groaning and cursing until the bulwark itself moaned its own relief as the mast raised an inch or two from the half-drowned Rodrigo.

  Jusuf’s blood sang in his ears at the effort, but through its pulsating red stain across his vision, he saw Rodrigo’s body dragged from beneath their burden. With a great groan of relief, Jusuf called out “Clear!” before his muscles drained of their last strength, and the mast crashed down heavily onto the deck as the men fell clear.