Beck: a fairy tale

by Nina Clare

  “Keita!” she exclaimed. But he was gone.

  He loped forward and went straight towards the slave girls. Moji Musa leaped back when he saw the great half lion, half bull creature appear. He was shouting something. The slaver pulled a short sword from the scabbard at his hip and looked about to lunge at Keita. Shula-Jane shrieked out Keita’s name, she knew she should not disgrace her father by acting unseemly, but she could not be still and silent when Keita was about to be attacked. She ran forward, calling Keita’s name. She saw her father take hold of his leash, she saw him gesturing at the slaver, she saw the slaver’s angry face and angry mouthing of a reply, but her hands rested on her beating heart in great relief to see that the slaver had stepped away from Keita, he did not attack, though neither did he return his sword to its sheath.

  Keita was standing in front of the two slave girls. The pale man beside them shrank back from him, but the girls did not seem afraid. Moji Musa was afraid. He would not approach the girl now that Keita sat between them. Shula-Jane was now close enough to hear Keita’s low rumbling growl whenever Moji Musa moved a step closer. She suddenly understood. She knew what Keita was saying.

  Her father was taking his purse from his belt. He gave it to Ibram, who counted out payment for the slaver. He had dropped Keita’s leash, but Keita did not move from his position in front of the girls. Shula-Jane hurried to her father.

  “Take the dog away,” her father ordered, seeing her approach. He looked vexed. She bent and picked up Keita’s leash, she tugged on it, saying, “Come, Keita.” But Keita sat like one of the stone sphinxes she had heard tales of – an immovable stone guardian.

  Her father had paid the slaver, and the slaver was unshackling the pale young man.

  “Papa,” said Shula-Jane, grasping one of his hands to make him look at her.

  “Take the dog away,” her father repeated. But his tone was a little softer; he could never look into his daughter’s eyes and speak harshly.

  “Papa, please purchase the two girls.”

  “What? We have no need for them. Take the dog away, Shula-Jane.”

  “Papa, please. I beg you.”

  “What is this? We have no need of them.”

  The slaver threw the irons to the ground with a heavy clink as the shackles were loosed, then he bound the pale young man’s wrists with hemp rope. Ibram would lead the new servant home by it.

  “I will need my own servants for when I am married,” said Shula-Jane, the idea dropping into her mind. She could hear Moji Musa’s voice calling out to the slaver. He was offering five cowries for the eldest girl. The slaver said it was not enough. And he wanted to sell them both together. He did not want to be lumbered with the small one.

  “I will train them,” urged Shula-Jane. “Emmi says I need to learn to train my own servants.”

  Her father looked at her keen and anxious expression. He leaned towards her so the two girls could not hear him. “The young one is not strong. She will be no use. She is not long for this world.”

  “I will train her to be of good use to me, I promise, Papa. She will be well; she needs rest and food, that is all. Please, Papa!”

  Moji Musa offered a higher bid of eight cowries. The slaver looked as though he was weighing it up. He was chewing on darr grass thoughtfully.

  “Please, Papa.”

  “I will give you twelve for both,” Abu Sabri, said raising a hand to the slaver.

  “Twenty,” he called back, “and take that beast away, he’s ruining trade.”

  “Fifteen!” called out Moji Musa

  “More than fifteen is far too much,” Abu Sabri said to his daughter.

  “Please, Papa. Don’t let that man have them.”

  “It is not our place to interfere, Shula-Jane. You must never buy a slave out of pity.”

  “Please, Papa. I want them.”

  Abu Sabri sighed. Moji Musa went to step forward, considering that as Abu Sabri had not countered his bid he had won, but Keita growled so fiercely that he jumped back in a cloud of curses and profanity. A fierce look of indignation passed over Abu Sabri’s face. He would not have any man speak such language in front of his daughter. He glared at Moji Musa.

  “Eighteen cowries,” he said loudly.

  Moji Musa knew he was beaten. It would not do to offend Abu Sabri. It was said he had the ear of the king. He left the market with an ugly scowl on his loose-jowled face.

  The slaver held out his hand for the money, and Abu Sabri gave his purse to Ibram to complete the transaction. When the slaver had stowed away his profit he undid the shackles from the two girls. He went to tie ropes around their wrists so they could be securely led away; if a slave fled the market before the buyer had taken hold of them, they demanded their money back.

  “No!” called out Shula-Jane, she looked to her father. “They do not need to be bound. The smallest can barely stand.”

  “No ropes,” ordered Abu Sabri. “Ibram, carry the child home.”

  Keita walked behind Ibram all the way.

  Sisters

  Shula-Jane was true to her word to her father. She would undertake the task of training the new servant girls herself. At first the smallest girl was too weak to do anything but rest. She gave Olay, the most senior of the female servants, the responsibility of watching over the child. Bringing her water and food and seeing that she was washed and properly clothed. The child lay on a pallet sleeping or looking out through the archway to the courtyard between the servants’ shelter and the outdoor kitchen

  Shula-Jane found she had lost her companion since the two girls arrived. Keita would not leave the servant courtyard; he lay in the archway, as though guarding the sickly girl. As she grew strong enough to move around a little, Shula-Jane would often find the child curled up beside Keita, her thin arm draped over his broad back.

  She set to her task of training the eldest girl.

  “Come with me,” she said to her, beckoning her from the servants’ room. The girl followed silently.

  “What is your name?” Shula-Jane asked.

  “Zinga.”

  “Is the other girl your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why will she not tell anyone her name?”

  “She does not speak.”

  “Why does she not speak?”

  “She has not spoken since...” Zinga trailed off.

  Shula-Jane waited patiently for her to finish. But she said no more.

  “Since what?”

  “Since Udo left us with The Jidd,” she said in a small voice.

  “And who is Udo?”

  “Our brother.”

  ”And who is The Jidd?”

  “She looks after orphans.”

  “And why did she cease from looking after you?”

  Zinga looked about her as though she were looking for a way out of a conversation she found distressing.

  “Udo said he would come back when he had more money to pay her. But he never came. So she sold us.”

  “Sold you to the slavers?”

  Zinga nodded, her head drooping. “My sister’s name is Bibi,” she added.

  “And she has never said a word since your brother left you?”

  Zinga shook her head.

  “You will be my maidservants.” Shula-Jane wanted to speak gently, but she knew she had to establish some distance between herself and the girl. She would be failing in her promise to Papa to train them if she did not, and Emmi Rashida would be watching her carefully, ready to reprove any failure on her part.

  “I will expect you to always be respectful and obedient,” she said firmly. “When you answer me you must call me “mistress”. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, mistress,” Shula-Jane prompted.

  “Yes, mistress.”

  ”Can you sew?”

  “No, mistress.”

  “Can you cook?”

  “No, mistress.”

  “Can you braid hair?”

  “No,
mistress.”

  Shula-Jane gave a little frown. This training was going to be more difficult than she thought.

  “I can tell stories, mistress.”

  “Stories?”

  “Yes, mistress. I want to be a griot in my village.” Her face brightened momentarily, and then it fell again. “I did want to be a griot in my village.”

  “This is my sleeping room.” Shula-Jane showed Zinga the airy room with the embroidered bed coverings and the silk curtain around the bed. “You will sleep in there,” she said, pointing to a little curtained alcove. Then you will hear me if I need anything in the night or early in the morning.

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Shula-Jane looked Zinga up and down. Her black, frizzy hair was matted and wild; her feet and ankles had angry sores and bruises from the slaver’s chains. The gown Olay had found to cover her near nakedness on arrival was oversized and patched up.

  “My servants must look presentable,” said Shula-Jane. “You must cover your hair till Olay can cut and comb it. You will follow me to the market and I will buy cotton for Olay to make new robes for you. Do your feet hurt to walk?”

  “No, mistress. Only my ankles hurt.”

  The new servant boy was under Ibram’s authority. Ibram would train him in the ways of the house of Master Abu Sabri. But it was most unfortunate that the new boy did not speak any of the dialects of the kingdom. That made Ibram’s work very difficult. But he would be set to work on mistress’s plans for her new gardens. He did not need much training in the use of tools to clear the spiny shrubs that overtook the ground. Some leather to wrap around his hands to protect them from the thorns, and a headscarf to shield his head and pale skin from the sun was all he needed. And so he set him to work. The new boy spoke Anglianese, Master had told him. Mistress would be able to direct his work; she knew the language from her mother. Ibram could do no more. He had the new building work to oversee, as well as overseeing the male servants of the house.

  Shula-Jane could not help feeling some pleasure at seeing the grounds being cleared for her new garden. But her pleasure was countered by concern at how fast the new servant was working. She did not want the work to be finished quickly. She wanted it to last a long time. As long as possible. She had made her plans so detailed, so elaborate, so difficult in design that she could make the work last at least a year. For there would be no work done during the fire-wind season, nor the weeks when the rains came.

  She marked out areas on the newly cleared ground; she had Zinga arrange hemp cord on the earth in the shapes Shula-Jane wanted, and a boy secured the shapes with wooden pegs when they were in the right place.

  Bibi was well enough to walk about now, and she trailed behind her sister, getting distressed whenever Zinga was out of her sight. She made no sound; she uttered not a word. But the look of terror on her little black-skinned face and in her large gazelle eyes conveyed her fears. Where Shula-Jane went, Zinga obediently followed; where Zinga went, Bibi hugged close by; and where Bibi went, the large, muscular, tan coloured form of Keita went.

  Emmi Rashida shook her head to see them. She disapproved of her brother bringing home such a pair of useless girls. Two more mouths to feed that could not earn their bowls of fufu and obi. And Rashida certainly did not approve of that great, ugly dog always loping about. Rashida had long given up trying to keep Lulu out of the house; Lulu had decided that where Emmi Rashida went, Lulu went also.

  Shula-Jane had not yet spoken to the new servant who cleared the ground for her garden day after day. Her father said he spoke Anglianese. She had not spoken in that tongue since her mother’s death eight years ago; she was a little unsure if she could remember how to, after so long a time. She decided that morning she would try and see.

  The new servant did not see her at first, he was bent down, hacking at the stubborn roots of a bush; sweat was running down his light skin, and his thin, cotton tunic was sticking to his body.

  “Ziziphus are very troublesome to dig out,” she commented, standing near to him.

  He was so startled at being spoken to in his native tongue that he let go of the root he was tugging on and fell onto his backside. Shula-Jane heard Zinga’s melodious giggle. The young man remained sprawled on the ground, staring up at Shula-Jane as though mesmerised by her. It was the first time they had fully looked at one another, and she felt a strange sensation at this first meeting of eyes, while in the next moment she recalled that no servant ought ever to look his master or mistress in the eye. For a moment she had forgotten that – his pale skin and foreign looks caused her briefly to forget. She should have ordered him to lower his gaze and remember who it was who addressed him. But in her disconcertment she did not, instead she looked away herself.

  “You are making good progress,” she commented, looking at the pile of bushes that were tied into great bundles to be dragged away by the donkeys. “But I would ask something of you,” she said, still avoiding his eyes, for she felt his were still on her. And yet it did not seem that he was looking out of disrespect, but as though he simply were unable to take his gaze from her.

  “I would ask that you do not work quite so quickly.”

  She glanced at him now. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lady. You wish me to work more slowly?”

  “I do. Continue,” she ordered, and turned away, confused as to why she felt so flustered by his dark eyes in his pale face. A very handsome face. If one liked long lashes and a full mouth. But what was that to her?

  “Shula! Shula, where are you?” came the familiar high-pitched call. Shula-Jane grimaced. What new culinary dish that was favoured by Toufik did Emmi want her to learn to make by her own hand today?

  “What is your name?” Shula-Jane asked, before she left.

  “My name is Felix,” he said. “And it is so good to hear my native language spoken again.”

  He should not have said that. It was very presumptive of him to speak to her in such a manner. But she was not angered. She heard something in his voice, in the way he had just spoken, something deeply sad and moving. She could not be angry. But she ought not to feel moved. It was not appropriate. She gave a little shake of her head as though she were shaking off some unwanted feeling. The sudden appearance and yipping noise of Lulu announced that Emmi had found her. She turned away from his dark, sad eyes.

  The White Boy

  Shula-Jane was glad that the rains came early that year. The work on the new rooms and gardens could not continue until they stopped. She made use of the time that had to be spent indoors on teaching Zinga and Bibi how to sew. A good servant girl should be able to mend and alter her mistress’s robes, and sew beading and shells onto her headscarves and veils.

  Bibi made no attempt to try and sew, and Shula-Jane did not insist. Bibi would sort the shells and beads into patterns on the floor. Shula-Jane noticed that Bibi’s patterns circled around a small stone she always carried with her. Just a common enough stone, but she seemed to regard it as a treasure. Zinga sat cross-legged on her floor cushion telling stories to while away the hours as they worked.

  “Once there was a princess who lived in a white palace made of ivory,” began Zinga’s story that morning.

  “Everything in the palace was made of ivory. The floors, and the columns, the tables and the stools, the beds, and even the grounds of the palace gardens were made of ivory.

  “The princess had ivory necklaces and ivory bracelets, ivory beads on her ankles and ivory combs in her hair. She was the daughter of the King of the Ivory Palace.”

  Bibi looked up from her patterns of shells as her sister paused for effect. She waited with widened eyes, as though she had not heard this story before.

  “The princess was very beautiful, and her father, the King of the Ivory Palace, had promised her in marriage to the Prince of the Monkeys, for his father, the King of the Monkeys was the neighbour of the King of the Ivory Palace, and the king wanted to please his neighbour, so there would always be peace between the
m.

  “But the princess did not love the Prince of the Monkeys. She did not even like the Prince of the Monkeys.

  “One day the Prince of the Monkeys sent the Princess a gift. It was a gift to mark their wedding that was to take place in three days time. The gift that the Prince of the Monkeys sent the princess was a gift of three elephants. One elephant to mark each day that was left until the princess would be married to him.

  “Leading the elephants was a young man. He was a very poor man, but he was very handsome. He loved the elephants, and when he brought them to the ivory palace he cried out in despair to the princess – “O, beautiful Princess, how I would that you would not accept this gift of elephants from the hand of the Prince of the Monkeys.”

  ““Why do you say that?” asked the Princess, very surprised that this poor, but very handsome man should cry out and speak to her so.

  ““Because, O, beautiful princess, these elephants are as family to me, for I have none other, and now that I see that your palace is a palace of ivory I see that my family of elephants will be slain to make more floors and chests and tables of ivory for your palace.”

  ““I am sorry to hear that they are as your family and you have none other,” said the princess, and truly she was sorry. And she was also sorry to think that such noble creatures as the family of elephants with their big black eyes, and their long eyelashes, and their tusks of ivory should be killed to make more chests and tables for the palace.

  ““But what can I do?” said the princess. “My father has promised me to the Prince of the Monkeys in marriage in three days time, and I cannot refuse the gift that the prince has sent to me.”

  ““O, that you would flee away with me, beautiful princess,” said the poor but very handsome young man. “We could ride by elephant to a far away land where the Prince of the Monkeys would never find us, and we could live happily all our days.”