Emily Taylor - Abducted

by Vi Grim

  ‘What does Tsul mean?’ she asked Zula.

  ‘Tsul means lively one.’

  ‘Will you call me Tsul, like your dad does?’

  ‘But that’s Dad’s name for you, to me you are Emily.’

  So much for being Tsul, the Tuareg, it looked like she was going to stay Emily the slave girl, poo picker extraordinaire.

  Returning from town, Zam said, ‘Look at this,’ and showed them his forearm.

  It looked a mess, all red and swollen and wrapped with cling film.

  ‘What have you done to yourself?’ Ijju asked

  ‘It’s my new tattoo,’ he said proudly. ‘She’s called Leila.’

  They crowded around for a better look. She was a belly dancer. Zam flexed his muscles to make her dance then got her to wiggle her bottom. It was amazing, Yuba’s eyes just about popped out of his head!

  ‘I want one too,’ he said.

  ‘Not the same,’ said Zam, ‘She’s mine. You can’t have one anyway, you’re not man enough.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘I say,’ said Zam, pushing Yuba over.

  ‘Let’s all get one,’ said Zula, helping Yuba back to his feet.

  The tattooist arrived in camp the next day. They heard him before they saw him, singing all out of tune, ‘By the rivers of Babylon, where we sat down, Ye-eah we wept, when we remembered Zion. By the rivers.....’

  He was a Rastaman, with a multi-coloured hat and long dreadlocks, like sold newspapers in Sheffield. Emily wondered if he was the same one. He looked the same. She didn’t dare ask.

  He had his music player turned up so loud she could hear it. Sitting in the shade of the jacaranda tree, he smoked sweet smelling cigarettes and looked at them with sleepy eyes as he tapped his feet to the music.

  He pulled a tattered book out of his bag. It was a scrapbook full of pictures of tattoos cut from magazines. Next to each photo he’d made drawings, mostly in pencil but some in ink and coloured in with pencil. They were really cool, like he’d taken the flat boring picture and put life in it. Now Emily could see why Zam’s Leila was so alive; she could almost imagine her winking.

  There were snakes and dragons and griffins with naked women riding them, centaurs and evil looking lions with wings. They were wonderful. Emily wanted them all, all over her body.

  When they reached the page with scorpions, Zula said, ‘Scorpions, let’s all get scorpions!’

  ‘Yeah, lets!’ they said. All except Ijju, that is. She was too beautiful to have a tattoo. It just wouldn’t look right on her. Emily wasn’t allowed to have one. They couldn’t let the tattooist see who she was with her white skin, so she couldn’t get one.

  While he was tattooing Yuba, Emily copied some of the drawings from his book. He wouldn’t mind, she knew he wouldn’t. She got some dragons and a scorpion that she wanted.

  Ijju said she’d do the tattoo for Emily. She had a word with the Rastaman and got ink and needles. She gave him some of her drawings in exchange then watched what he did. He was cool about it.

  Emily wanted a scorpion on her shoulder, where everyone could see it, like Yuba got, but Ijju says she’d only do one that was hidden because one day Emily might not like it anymore. Emily couldn’t imagine that, but Ijju is so sensible, she was probably right. Ijju took the scorpion Emily had copied, redrew it so it looked 3D and coloured it in different colours, then Emily got to choose. She went for a red one with Chinese markings on its body.

  Her bottom, that’s where he was going; hiding some of the cigarette burns and right next to her real scorpion sting scar, like he did it. They did it in their tent. Ijju carefully drew the outline then gave Emily a couple of pain killing pills the Rastaman gave her.

  Ouch, youch, oouch!

  Once she’d finished, Emily borrowed Ijju’s tiny mirror and practiced flexing her bottom to see if she could make him move. She could, just a bit. Even though he was all red and swollen, he looked so real that she hoped he’d come alive and walk all over her body. Her bum was sore as and she had to sit on the other cheek for a few days.

  Ijju and Emily were sitting under a tree waiting for the sun to set over the river when they saw Gamel coming back. He’d filled out and put on weight during his time in Timbuktu. Emily watched him waddling into camp and imagined him wallowing in a mud hole with the other hippos, just his snout sticking out of the water. He headed for Saleem’s tent. The girls got up quietly and snuck around behind the tent so they could hear.

  The setting sun projected the men’s silhouettes against the side of the tent, like a Chinese theatre. ‘Mister Gamel,’ said Saleem sounding very formal, ‘you’re back. Do you wish to continue your journey across the desert?’

  ‘Of course, my dear friend, the money is being transferred into your account today.’

  ‘You must leave the girl alone,’ said Saleem.

  The hippo’s shadow jiggled around on the orange side of the tent. The girls could even see his fat lips moving as he spoke. ‘She must go, he said. ‘She’ll destroy everything we are working for. Everyone is looking for her. You should cash her in while she’s still alive.’

  ‘We are working for?’ shouted Saleem. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to but we don’t need you along, you’d better pack your bags and go.’

  ‘You don’t know who you are dealing with; you do need me along. It’s very simple, if you want your land, I come,’ threatened Gamel. ‘My sponsor pays you well; I’ll let you know what we require when the time comes.’

  Saleem’s shadow moved close to Gamel’s so they were almost touching noses. ‘Very well,’ he said angrily, then lowering his voice to a whisper, hissed, ‘but if anything happens to the girl, you’re dead. I’ll see to it personally.’

  ‘Will you just?’ laughed the hippo and was gone.

  The girls were sneaking away when shouting made them jump.

  They saw another shadow painted on the side of the tent, a skinny one. It was Zula.

  ‘What’s he doing here? You said that’s it, he’s out!’ shouted Zula.

  ‘He’s got us over a barrel, we won’t get our land.’

  ‘Kill him.’

  ‘He’s too cunning. He’d have been dead long ago if he wasn’t.’

  ‘Call yourself a leader. You let him come along because he makes a little threat. Who’s going to be to blame when Emily’s dead?’

  ‘She’s going to die, the fortune teller is always right.’

  Emily gasped.

  ‘So you’ll just let her die because the fortune teller’s lizards ran away? Because of a bit of black magic mumbo-jumbo!’ shouted Zula.

  They saw Saleem’s hand swing and knock Zula who flew against the side of the tent, just about knocking it over.

  Then Zula was up again, swinging his arms madly at his dad, who protected himself and took the blows. Zula got a few punches in before he realised Saleem wasn’t fighting and stomped off in disgust.

  Like Gamel, the camels had filled out during the stay in Timbuktu. Their bellies were full and their humps were round and firm again. They were ready to go. Saleem held a meeting to plan for the trip ahead. It was going to be long and dangerous and they had to be fully provisioned and prepared. Food, weapons and ammunition needed to be bought and the inner tube water bladders filled with sweet water.

  Using a wonky stick, Saleem scratched a map in the sand and the men argued about the best way for the caravan go. As far as possible, they wouldn’t take the normal route, as Saleem wanted as few people as possible to know who they were or where they were going.

 

  21.

  Emily had been counting the days and marking them in her diary. On New Year’s Day the caravan got going. It was the perfect day to head off on a new adventure. For a week they followed the Niger River eastwards then, when it ducked south, they continued straight ahead, out into the desert. The caravan travelled at an easy pace, stopping at midday for a siesta. It was easy on the camels, easy on them.

  Saleem’s new came
ra was a menace. He spent more time looking through it than he did watching where they were going. So much for taking the route along valley floors, not anymore, now the camera ruled, if the light was right and Saleem had a creative moment, he sent the caravan willy-nilly across the sea of golden sand, trying to get the perfect shot.

  One morning, the caravan left while it was still night, to get a picture of the camels traversing a dune at sunrise, their spindly purple shadows stretching into the distance across the orange ripples. Emily took videos of the Scorpions surfing down dunes and, setting up the tripod, showed Saleem how to take long exposures of the campfire at night.

  It was funny to hear the proud Desert Riders call, ‘Awidu tiset.’ Pass me the mirror.

  They brushed their horses and polished the shiny bullets on the belts that crisscrossed their chests then posed like renegade mercenaries. They did look handsome.

  Gamel was camera shy. He was conspicuous by his absence whenever the camera came out and, if being snapped is unavoidable, he wrapped his purple scarf tight around his face. He couldn’t hide his hippo belly so it was hardly rocket science to spot him in the photos.

  ‘How do we take the photos out of the camera?’ asked Saleem.

  Emily laughed, ‘You put them into a computer. Then you can do all sorts of things; edit them, print them and email them.’

  Much to her surprise, Saleem said, ‘I have one. Abdullah, our agent in Khartoum sent us one. He said it might come in handy. No one has any idea of how to use it. Yuba, grab the box. It’s on the black camel.’

  It was a tough military spec computer with a solar charger and a fold out dish for the Internet, just perfect for the desert. The Arabic keyboard took a bit of getting used to but Emily soon had their position beeping up on Google Earth. Their faces lit up by the unearthly glow of the screen, the Tuareg jostled for position to see. Even a camel poked its head over Emily’s shoulder and licked the screen with his long tongue. She showed Saleem how to upload his photos and there was laughter and joking well into the night as he clicked through the images and played back the videos Emily shot of the Scorpions sand surfing.

  The next day they tried using the computer for navigation but ended up in quick sand because they were too busy looking at it and not where they were going.

  ‘How do you usually find the way to go?’ asked Emily.

  ‘The gods guide us,’ said Zula, smiling.

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘How about intuition?’

  ‘No, really,’ Emily insisted, giving him a kick.

  ‘After living your life in the desert you learn all the little clues. We use the stars and sun to get our general bearings, then follow the valleys or traverse along ridges using the ripples from the wind and the lay of the dunes to stay on track. What’s more the camels know which sand is good or bad and find the safest route. And…of course, there is GPS!’

  After the incident with the cell phone, Emily thought that Saleem wouldn’t leave her alone with the computer but he seemed to have no idea of what it could do, and let her click away as much as she liked. Much as she’d love to send some of Saleem’s photos to her mum and dad, she didn’t, it was so tempting but she’d learnt her lesson.

  Forget about surfing down dunes, the Scorpions and Emily now spent their evenings surfing the Internet. Emily looked up the Tuareg people. Zula said the scarves they wore were called Tagelmusts but the Internet said tougoulmousts. What a word. If Emily ever got a puppy, she’d call her Tougoulmoust, Tougs for short. She read about the uranium mining. The Tuareg really had had a hard time of things. There was even an obituary to Saleem. It made him laugh. There was a photo of him in beige camouflage gear with a dashing moustache and an AK47 slung over his shoulder

  ‘When I really die,’ he said, ‘I want them to say, “The man who led the Tuareg into the 21st century,” and to have a picture of an old man, not that handsome young solider!’

  Emily looked up child slavery. She didn’t think she’d end up in a factory in India, working twenty-six hours a day making carpets, more likely she’d be a sex slave. When she clicked on it, nasty things came up. Clicking away quickly, she checked out the weather at home: Grey, two degrees with rain, sleet later. Yes, the desert was the place to be!

  She read up about the plants and animals of the desert, and about the desert winds. The whole caravan crowded around and watched Lawrence of Arabia then the computer went poof, acrid smoke wisping up between its keys.

 

 

  22.

  Yuba was up to something. He used to hang out with the Scorpions, now he wasn’t around so much and they didn’t know where he was. When they asked him where he went, he just shrugged his shoulders. Zam tried to squish the truth out of him, but all he got was a slap around the ear from Emily, Yuba said nothing.

  Emily and Zula decided to follow him. It’s easy in the desert, it’s not like you see on tele where the good guy is trying desperately not to lose track of the baddies as they duck and dodge through crowded streets and market places. In the desert you just need to keep a rough eye on the baddy and which way he goes, then follow his footprints. Not that Yuba was a baddy.

  Easy as it is by day, it was tricky to see Yuba and his footprints in the dark, and he managed to give them the slip the first few evenings. Finally they spotted him sneaking off and found that he was hanging out with the good guys. After finishing his chores and making tea for the men of the caravan, he slipped off to the Desert Riders’ camp. From where they lay on our bellies, on top of a dune, Emily and Zula could just make out their campfire but couldn’t see what was going on. They were wriggling closer when click, click, they heard a gun being cocked behind them.

  It was one of the Riders; they’d been caught!

  ‘Hands up,’ he said briskly then giving them a sharp prod with his gun, marched them back to the Rider’s camp.

  He made them kneel down by their fire, still keeping their hands up. ‘Spies,’ he said. ‘What shall we do with them?’

  ‘You know the penalty for spying,’ said another Rider, gravely. ‘What shall we do, Yuba?’

  Yuba smiled, quietly filled up the kettle and put it on the hot embers.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ he asked.

  The Riders all laughed.

  ‘Welcome to our camp,’ said the leader. ‘Any friend of Yuba is a friend of ours!’

  Yuba threw sticks and dung on the fire and getting down low, blew until it was flaming.

  He didn’t tell them what he was doing at the Desert Riders’ camp, he just busied himself making the tea and cooking up some taguella bread on the fire. As they slurped on their tea, Yuba polished bullets with an oily rag, then got up to try and calm a horse spooked by a distant howl in the night. When the horse pulled him off his feet, one of the Riders firmly grabbed the horse’s halter, calming it with soft words and a little something from his pocket.

  Emily and Zula didn’t want to overstay their welcome so when they’d finished their mint tea they thanked the Riders and Yuba and headed back the way they came.

  Zula was impressed. He couldn’t get over scrawny little Yuba hanging out with the Desert Riders. ‘Like, everyone’s scared to talk to them,’ he said, ‘and there’s Yuba polishing their bullets!’

  The next day Emily heard Zula asking Yuba, ‘How did you do that? How did you get into the Riders’ camp? You’re like their apprentice!’

  ‘I asked them,’ he answered humbly. ‘It’s what I want to do.’

  Emily and Ijju spent most of their spare time writing and drawing in their diaries, sometimes in the blinding white light of the noonday sun but more often by flickering yellow candlelight. They sketched the beautiful places they’d visited, the Tuareg in their bright tagelmusts, the grumpy camels all loaded up, the footprints that crossed their track, and the animals they belonged to. They noted the funny things that happened and wrote poems and private girly thoughts. Emily wrote in joined up English, Ijju in beautiful flowing script, going backwa
rds.

  Seeing a picture that Emily drew of her terrace house amongst all the other houses in Sheffield, Ijju asked what her life was like. Emily told her about their Christmases at Aunty May’s in her house that smelled of kippers; of her first day at school with her hair back in plaits, squeaky black shoes and a stiff new uniform; of Danny and Julie being born and her mum having to sit on a cushion like a doughnut; of her friend Annie with her drunken dad; of throwing up after riding on the roller coasters; of watching Dr. Who on tele and having to curl up with her mum and dad because of the Darliks; of her first goal in little league football against the Gunningham Gunners; and about the bullies and how her dad was sneakily taking her across town to learn boxing and karate so one day she could stand up to them. She told her everything.

  Apart from the bullies, it was fun remembering. It did make Emily miss home, but she didn’t want to go home; she liked the life in the desert. One day she’d go home with a bag full of special things and visit, just for a while. She’d give everyone presents, kick the soccer ball around with her dad and Annie, watch a movie and eat fish and chips in the rain then she’d go away again.

  Being out in the open all the time Emily was getting a feeling for how the world works; the motion of the sun and the moon, the stars and the wandering planets. With no roof over their heads and no clouds, they saw a lot of the stars. They hung like jewels in the clear desert sky and shooting stars and meteorites arced across the heavens leaving luminous trails.

  Emily and Zula watched satellites creeping across the sky. There was a bright one that Zula said was the International Space Station.

  They scratched Greetings from Earth, in big letters in the sand and waved to the astronauts.

  ‘They bet they can’t see us,’ said Emily. ‘Not unless they have one of them special cameras that make the people go all white in the movies. And if they can’t see us then they can’t see what we’re writing, can they? So let’s write lots of rude words.’

  They scratched all the swear words they could think of in big tall letters in the sand. They could just make them out in the starlight. They swore and cussed at each other then fell in the sand laughing.