The Unfortunate Son

by Constance Leeds

  “That’s the truth,” said Pons, pinching the hem. “Good weight for fishing. Your old shirt was stained and your elbows were sticking out through holes.”

  “That’s a new dress, isn’t it, Beatrice?” asked Luc.

  She nodded. “Mattie made it for me for Easter, but my old dress was soaking wet.”

  “You look nice,” said Luc to Beatrice as he sat down next to her. “But someday I’ll get you that buttercup silk dress.”

  “What would I do with a silk dress?” asked Beatrice, touching his arm.

  “Go dancing with Sir Luc,” said Pons.

  “C’mon, Sir Luc, eat your clams,” said Mattie.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bad Luck

  THE MOON WAS full, and the pale sky was almost day-bright as Luc and Pons headed out to fish. The mistral had finally ceased blowing, and the first days of April were warm and fair. Luc wore his new green shirt, cuffing up the longer sleeve. He whistled as he carried the net along the path that led to the beach. Pons had coiled the baited long lines around his shoulders, and he carried the rolled sail in his arms. His face was spiked with gray stubble, and his hands were worn, scarred by fish hooks and eel bites, his fingers crooked with age.

  Mattie was right about the boy, thought Pons. Just what I needed.

  He patted Luc on the back, and they shoved the boat into the water and climbed aboard. Luc leaned with the roll of the sea, watching the pitch-dark water meet the silver of the moon-bright sky. As dawn approached, he heard the cry of a sole gull and watched as it soared and disappeared toward the shore. On this early morning, there was no wind, and the sea sparkled as the moon slipped toward the horizon; the April morning was chilly, and Luc was glad for his new shirt. Pons rowed until his hands ached, and Luc took the oars. Because the sea was calm, they took the little boat into deeper waters.

  “Pull in the oars; we’ll drift for a while,” Pons said as he lowered the baited long lines. Earlier they had passed a few other fishing boats, but now they were alone, without even a gull in the sky. “It’s just us and the fish,” he added.

  As they bobbed gently, the sea went from black-blue to deep blue, and the sky went from pink to red. When the yellow sun rose, it hung in a blue, cloudless sky. A soft breeze ruffled the water.

  “Guess I was wrong about the fish,” said Pons after a few hours of drifting. “It’s just us. No fish today.” He handed Luc bread, cheese, and a handful of raisins, and they each took swigs of watered wine from a goatskin bag. “No sign of your lucky dolphins this morning, either. I hoped we’d catch your first tunny. That would be a fine way to start the spring. Land a big tunny. Though I’d wager you’d rather be ashore helping Beatrice mend the nets or work the garden.”

  Luc tore away at the bread and chewed big mouthfuls. He squinted and raised an eyebrow, looking at Pons. “Now, why would you think that? I love the sea.”

  “Oh yes, I see that, but I think there is something you’re even more fond of, no?” When Luc just smiled, Pons added, “Though I’d have to say there is nothing in the world that could beat hooking a tunny.”

  Luc laughed and shook his head. “I don’t know how it feels to hook a tunny, and I don’t think I’ll learn that lesson today.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow. Time to head in if we want to be home by midday. Take the oars while I check the lines. Maybe we’ll have better luck on the trip in.”

  Luc settled into the middle seat and began to row. His hands had callused in his months of fishing, and although he was still slender, his shoulders and arms had strengthened. He leaned into each pull. The boat rose in the water and pushed ahead with each stroke. As he rowed, Luc scanned the water for the color changes that might mean a school of fish. Way out on the horizon, he noticed a dark speck.

  “Pons, there’s something out to the south of us,” he said, pointing.

  Pons squinted. At first he saw nothing. Luc continued to row, studying the distant edge of his vision, where the sea and sky met.

  As he watched the speck grow, Luc said to Pons, “It’s a boat. She’s moving fast.”

  Pons looked up and across the water, shielding his eyes with his hand. He took a deep breath.

  “We shouldn’t have come out so far. Put everything you have into those oars, Luc. I’ll take over as soon as I have the lines in. I’ll hoist the sail, too. Pray for more wind. I wish we had a second set of oars.”

  “That vessel has two sails. Three-cornered like ours but red and bigger. She’s heading for us.”

  Pons raised his sail, and it luffed; he pushed the tiller until the canvas puffed out. He slid forward, and controlling the tiller with his bare foot, Pons took over the oars.

  “Let me row. When you’re rested, we’ll each take an oar. We need to get in before they catch up to us.”

  “Who is it, Pons?” asked Luc, rolling and massaging his sore shoulders.

  “I’ll not say what I fear. Not yet.”

  The speck on the horizon grew, and soon Pons could pick out the two masts and the varnished hull of a dhow cutting fast toward the little fishing boat. Luc took one oar, and he and Pons rowed, pulling with every bit of strength. Together they hunched forward, and together they snapped back, the oars rising and dipping, both pulling hard against the sea. The little fishing boat surged ahead with each stroke, but they could not outrun the larger two-masted dhow that was closing in.

  Luc saw the crew: dark-skinned, bare-chested men with shaved heads, leaning over the sides of the dhow. On the prow stood a robed, turbaned figure with his arms folded against his chest. The fishing boat continued to lose ground against the larger vessel, and soon Pons and Luc could hear the voices of their predators.

  Pons turned to the boy; his face was gray, and his lips were pale. “Put down your oar, Luc. We’re lost. Pray to the Lord, for surely this is the worst, and maybe the last, day of our lives.”

  Pons crossed himself and dropped to his knees, but Luc took both oars and put everything into his strokes. The dhow was pulling alongside; one of its sailors heaved a sharp and heavy iron hook. The smaller boat shuddered and rocked steeply as the hook crashed into its bow, tangling the rigging and splintering the mast as it fell. Before Luc could take a breath, strange men were screeching and howling, throwing ropes, and clambering into his boat. Pons was felled with a single punch.

  Luc scrambled to reach Pons, but he was plucked up and tossed over the thick shoulder of a man who shinnied up a rope ladder to the larger boat. In vain, Luc hit, kicked, and squirmed. The sailor tossed him onto the dhow’s deck, and someone bagged him with a rough cloth. Luc struggled, but unseen hands tied a rope around the sack, binding him in a dark, airless roll. He could barely breathe, and he felt himself being lifted and dropped, falling a distance into what felt like a pile of cloth. Gasping for breath, he sucked in sacking and little air. Luc rocked madly to and fro. He coughed and almost choked before the fabric was pulled away from his face. Luc gulped hot air, and then he screamed. A tall man with a scarred face and a neckerchief crouched over him. The sailor kicked Luc in the side, before he turned and disappeared up the narrow stairs. The hatch slammed shut, and Luc was in darkness, trussed and desperate.

  Luc fought against the ropes, but he was bound tightly; he couldn’t free himself. The hold was dark and hot, and he heard only muffled footsteps and occasional shouts from above. His heart pounded, and he couldn’t breathe fast enough. He rolled and struggled, until his chest burned. It was hopeless. Luc was exhausted, more than exhausted: he began to sweat and to shake until he grew cold and heavy. He wet himself, and he didn’t care. He was falling, slipping out of the awfulness of this nightmare and into a dream.

  Luc became half aware that the tall sailor with the kerchief was back beside him, untying the rope binding and unrolling the sacking. The sailor wrinkled his nose and stripped off Luc’s green shirt and his hose. Luc had no idea where he was; his thoughts had ceased to form words. He sat up slowly and blinked in the half-light from the open hatch. When the sail
or tried to hand him a cup of water, Luc just stared at it, and the sailor threw the water in the boy’s face. Luc didn’t move. Then the sailor seized Luc’s legs and clamped a thick iron ring around each ankle; the rings were connected by heavy links. Luc watched. His mind was empty. The sailor fetched another cup of water. With one hand pinching Luc’s chin, he forced open the boy’s jaw and poured in water. Luc sputtered and coughed. The tall sailor laughed and turned to Luc’s discarded clothing. He tucked the knife that Pons had given Luc into his waistband and emptied the pouch that had hung from the boy’s belt. Squatting, the sailor sifted the contents: a scrap of woolen cloth, a strip of leather, a dried white flower. When the tall sailor picked up Mattie’s wooden ear, he turned it over and over. Then he grabbed Luc by his hair and began to comb through it with his fingers. He backed away, scowled at the boy, and vaulted to the deck, taking the steps two at a time.

  Luc was alone again, but not for long. Three men, including the tall sailor and the turbaned, robed man who had been on the prow, descended into the hold. The tall sailor grabbed Luc’s chin and wrenched his head to the left. A short, toothless sailor with a lantern frowned and pointed his thumb downward. The robed man—who, Luc would later learn, was the captain of the boat—squinted at Luc and stroked his beard. The tall sailor handed the captain the wooden ear. The captain turned it over and over in the lantern light. He began to laugh.

  “He’s a scrawny, worthless freak,” the toothless sailor said. “Why waste water and bread on him? One ear? We won’t be able to give him away. Throw him overboard.”

  The captain juggled the wooden ear. “This is a marvelous piece of carving. If the boy made it, he’s worth something. If not, well, look at his hair. Someone will buy him for that.”

  Luc understood nothing that was said, but if he had, he would have learned that the wooden ear had saved his life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Pons Returns

  THROUGHOUT THE AFTERNOON and the night, the little fishing boat drifted shoreward in a calm sea. Finally, slowly, as day broke, Pons sat up and rubbed his head. He closed his eyes and relived the horror of the afternoon. He was alone. Luc was gone, and the old man wept. He had a tender lump on his head, but he was sound. He noted the position of the rising sun and figured that, overnight, he had drifted north and a little east. When he scanned the horizon, Pons saw that he was near enough to shore to see the faint outline of a village. He looked about at his boat. The slavers’ grappling hook had destroyed the rigging, and the sail was useless. The mast was splintered and ruined. Pons detached the torn sail and pulled the stub of the mast from its fitting. Then he tipped the broken pole into the water and watched it roll away from the boat. Now the little boat was lighter, and Pons took the oars and slowly headed in. By afternoon, he had rowed back to Mouette. A returning fisherman and his son ran to help as Pons struggled to drag his boat onto the shore.

  “Mattie’s been worried sick, knocking on doors, asking if any of us saw you yesterday. She feared the worst, Pons, but I hoped you hooked a tunny and fought it through the night,” said the father. He was a tall man with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low on his forehead. “I was a lad when you brought in a tunny that was bigger than your boat.”

  “Father still talks about that fish,” said the son, a lanky youth with dimpled chin and dark eyes.

  “Luc is gone,” murmured Pons.

  “Drowned?” asked the son.

  Pons shook his head and could barely spit out the word: “Saracens.”

  The other two fishermen crossed themselves.

  “Saint Pierre have mercy. Saracens? Here?” asked the father.

  Everyone who lived on the Mediterranean coast knew the old stories of Saracens, heathen invaders from the East who pillaged the coast and kidnapped Christians. Hundreds of years ago, some coastal towns had been abandoned and people moved to new villages, perched on the hillsides, high above the sea, with sturdy walls and watchtowers to warn of the Saracens. But the maritime invasions had stopped long, long ago. The coast had been peaceful for generations beyond memory, and once again villages were built on the shore. But just lately there had been new rumors of fishermen who disappeared at sea and reports of people who were snatched from the land, taken by Saracen ships, and never seen again. These tales of pirate invaders had been like the tales of sorcerers and dragons; the fear was distant and unreal. Until now.

  Pons sat down on the beach and covered his face with his hands. Shoulders hunched, he began to weep. The father removed his hat, looked down at Pons, and waited until the old man was quiet.

  “Come. We’ll take you home,” he said gently.

  His son draped Pons’s arm over his shoulders and helped the old man walk, while the father grabbed what remained of the sail, the net, and the fishing lines. Before they reached the cottage, Cadeau bounded out, tail wagging, licking Pons’s feet and barking. Then he circled and sat, his tail thumping, watching expectantly for his master.

  Mattie charged out of the cottage and threw her arms around her brother. Beatrice followed, and the three of them hugged and cried.

  “Luc?” asked Mattie fearfully.

  Pons shook his head.

  Beatrice crumpled to her knees crying, “No! No!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Voyage

  THE DHOW SAILED wide but usually within sight of the coast. Luc had no sense of day or night in the black of the hold. Most of the time he slept. Now and then the tall sailor jabbed him awake and handed him water or a piece of wormy black bread, a dry bit of salted fish, or a handful of oily olives. At first Luc pushed aside the filthy bread and merely sipped the stale water. But after what he guessed to be no more than a couple of days, Luc began to feel sharp pains in his stomach, cramps that would come on suddenly, disappear, and return. Only food eased the pain. He was starving, and soon he was gobbling down the infested bread and guzzling the sour water. Afterward, he would curl up, still hungry, and sleep. In his dreams, he was fishing with Pons or working in the garden with Mattie and Beatrice. When he awoke he was numb, aware of nothing but the pangs of hunger in his stomach.

  One day, Luc was jolted awake by yelling. Footsteps tramped on the deck above. He was too bewildered to comprehend anything, but when the hatch opened, Luc watched four shivering men, shackled and naked like himself, stumble down the steps, pushed along by two seamen. Blood streamed from one captive’s nose. Two wept. The fourth was silent, trembling and dazed. Luc covered his head with his arms and squeezed himself into the dim back corner of the hold. The words spoken by the captives were no more understandable than those of his captors.

  For weeks, Luc and the four other prisoners—naked, hungry, and chained—ate and drank what little bread and water they were given and shared the stinking hold of the dhow. The air reeked of sweat, vomit, and excrement. As the dhow rose and fell with the sea, its foul bilge water sloshed over the prisoners and sent its rats scurrying. Now and then the boat stopped; more cargo, sponges, barrels, and sacks would drop into the hold. At first, the other captives tried to speak to Luc, but he understood nothing, and they ceased trying. When he listened to the other captives talking among themselves, Luc felt even more lonely.

  Most afternoons Luc and the other captives were led above to the deck. Sometimes the tall sailor doused them with buckets of seawater. When they were forced to walk about or even march, Luc often stumbled. The iron cuffs chafed his narrow ankles, he had sores on his shins, and his skin was flea-bitten.

  For days the dhow sailed with no land in sight, but the sea remained mercifully calm. At times, when he was up on deck, gazing out at the sea, Luc noticed a patch of choppy water that signaled a school of fish. One afternoon he leaned against the railing that edged the boat and watched as the tall sailor with the neckerchief dropped a small fishing line into the water. In daylight Luc could see an old scar that marked the man’s dusky face from the corner of one eye to the corner of his mouth; his thick, muscled arms were ribboned with more scars. Whe
n he grinned, he flashed a mouthful of brown-stained teeth.

  Luc turned to the sea, and thought that if he managed to fall overboard, he would escape but only by dying. He did not want death. He wanted his old life back. He turned from the sea to the deck and found the tall sailor had stopped fishing and was watching him.

  “Hassan,” said the man, pointing to his chest.

  Luc just stared.

  The man frowned and spit out a red kola seed. He pointed again to his chest and, more loudly, he said, “Hassan.”

  Luc wanted to reply but he couldn’t form the words. He looked at Hassan and managed a very small smile. Hassan returned it with his own wide smile, nodding.

  The next day Hassan repeated his name, but Luc still had no words, only the feeble smile. Then on the third day, when Hassan was standing next to Luc at the stern of the dhow looking at the sea, a dolphin leaped from the water, dived, and leaped again, weaving through the sea, its spray glittering in the sunlight. Hassan pointed to the creature and grinned. Again, he said his name. Luc pointed to himself and murmured, “Luc.”

  Hassan smiled broadly and nodded. “Luc. Luc. Luc.” He sucked on the sound, rolling it in his mouth like a kola seed. “Luc!” he bellowed, and patted the boy’s head.

  The remaining days melted and melded; time passed without measure. Often Luc felt nothing but hunger. Beyond his name, Luc knew no words to communicate with his fellow captives or with Hassan, who showed moments of kindness to the solitary boy. He gazed out on the sea, but he saw no more dolphins. One afternoon when Luc was slumped at the rail, he noticed that the horizon was fringed by the ghostly mountains of a distant shoreline. By the next day, aqua and green stripes brightened the cobalt sea, and he saw droves of other dhows with sails of red or yellow or gray. Soon his dhow was threading between large square-rigged ships and small fishing boats. White gulls screamed and swooped, and black-billed terns plunged deep into the water from high in the sky.