The Tenth Gift

by Jane Johnson

  The raïs regarded her curiously. “Much better, Cat’rin Anne. Now you look like a Berber.”

  “Catherine,” she said.

  He waved his hand. “Too complicated. Be content with Cat’rin. You here because of skill with needle.”

  Cat stared at him. “You’ve brought me here to embroider something?”

  “Embroider?”

  Cat indicated one of the tapestried cushions. “Embroidery.”

  Wordless, he twitched the sheet aside.

  The flesh of his flank was split a hand’s span from breast to waist. The wound gaped wide, offering the obscene sight of muscle and a skim of yellow fat. Blood oozed darkly with the slightest movement.

  “That not all. Move sheet away from leg.”

  Cat knelt to do as she was told. Beneath a thick bandage a ragged hole had been bored through his thigh.

  “Musket wound. Other sword. Both Spanish.” And he spat. “Doctor killed and none of crew can use needle. You sew wounds.”

  “I … I can’t.”

  “You will.” His voice was hard. “If you do not, your mother die.” “My mother?”

  “Jane Tregenna, no? You not alike, but she said she your mother. She go over side if you do not.” He left a few seconds for this to sink in. “And if I die, they put you both in sea.”

  They brought her a sailmaker’s needle, thick and cumbersome, and thread for the same task. She made them sharpen the needle on a whetstone and, while they did it, unraveled some lengths of silk from one of the hangings and boiled them in the water over the brazier.

  “Bring pot,” the raïs told her, indicating a squat glass container topped by a heavy stopper. “And open it.”

  She took it from one of the small tables, opened it, and frowned. “Honey?”

  He nodded. “Put into wound.”

  Despite herself, Cat grinned. “My grandmother used to do that when we hurt ourselves as children. She said it would stop corruption of the flesh.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “She did? My jeddah taught me this. My jaddhi, grandfather, he kept—how you say … zzzzz?” His hand traced the movement of an insect.

  “Bees. My grandfather still does.” A wave of nostalgia overcame her at the thought of the cottage at Veryan, tiny and snug, where her grandfather kept a log fire burning and her grandmother smoked hams and bottled fruits for the winter. She had not seen them since her father died, for her mother wanted nothing further to do with her husband’s family, considering them of low estate and referring to them unkindly as “peasants.” For the first time Cat realized that in this, as in so much, her mother was wrongheaded.

  The honey was a thick, deep brown, more solid than liquid, not at all like the pale golden nectar with which she had first written her name, drizzling it from the honey spoon onto a slice of her grandmother’s freshly baked bread. She sniffed it and recoiled. It smelled extraordinarily strong, powerful and heady.

  “The … bees that make it feed only on wild mountain plants,” the raïs said, watching her face. “It is strong magic.”

  “Magic?” Cat snorted, unable to help herself. “There’s no such thing.”

  “You very sure of that.”

  “I am.”

  “And miracles, and fate?”

  Cat’s jaw set in a long, hard line. “My mother always said that our fate is in our own hands and we must make our way as best we can, for no one else will do it for us, and when I had my fortune told by an old Ægyptian woman, she said I would live to see Heaven and Earth reunited, and that my dreams would come true; but here I am, a prisoner on a pirate ship bound for some horrid place where I am likely only to find hardship and death. So, no, I don’t believe in miracles or fate.”

  “Only Allah holds the keys to our qadar. He know everything, he design everything. Our souls cannot decide where we are born or when we die—only Allah make such decisions. He has plan for all of us, and we must accept what he sends.”

  Cat stared at him, spoon poised over the “magic” honey. “Then it does not matter whether I put this in your wound or not, nor if I sew the flesh with care. If you die, it is God’s will, and so I do not understand why you went to such trouble to have me brought here, nor threatened me and my mother to make me do your will.”

  Al-Andalusi shifted uncomfortably, his eyes closed against the pain. “Is bad when women try to argue like men, and for infidel woman is worse, for you cannot comprehend will of God, is foolish to try. You make me impatient now. Perhaps I put you over side now to save my head from noise of your tongue. Yet it seem Allah sent you to me, so he must have his reasons. Now put honey on wounds and sew them shut and we see in time what his plan reveals for you, and for me.”

  Cat pursed her lips, dug out a spoonful of the honey, and pressed it into the wound on his leg. His muscle twitched as she pressed; she felt the hard flesh jump like an animal under her touch. She snatched a glance at him, but he was staring at the flame of the lantern overhead, his dark eyes inscrutable. She moved up to the wound on his flank. Here the skin was lighter than the skin of his face and arms, and as smooth as any woman’s; smoother, certainly, than Matty’s. It felt like silk beneath her fingers, though the wound itself was horrible to look upon, and so horrible to touch that as the honey went in, she had to look away before she retched.

  “Now sew, with smallest stitches,” the raïs said hoarsely. “This body God’s body and it must be fit to do his will.”

  Cat threaded her needle with the boiled silk and, putting all other thoughts from her mind, applied herself to the loathsome task.

  CHAPTER 15

  So nowe I lye here in the pyrat captaines cabin where I must stay to tend him, writyng this by the lyght of a candel-lantern, in far greater ease than my poore mother, aunte & uncle & others in the hold belowe. What must they thinke that I shuld bee here all these daies alone with the Turkiss rais, even though he bee weeke unto deth & like to die? No goode thyng, I am sure. Many would saie I should not wayte for his wounde to carrye him off, but take my chaunce to kill hym now for the crewelties he has visited upon good Christian folk, but once the captaine is gone we will bee at the mercie of men like Ashab Ibrahim which seemes to mee an even worse fate, so I wille do what I must to keepe him in lyfe & hope the Good Lord wille take pitie on us.

  AL-ANDALUSI WAS A STRONG MAN AND HAD BORNE MANY wounds as a warrior and corsair, but the wound that good Toledo steel had made in his flank looked sure to cut short his life, for the flesh swelled and festered, despite the thyme honey and the skillful way Cat had closed the skin.

  For three days he resisted the fever that threatened him, sweating and shouting in his sleep and taking nothing but water with lemon juice squeezed into it. After this, the fever broke and he was able to eat a thick gruel of chickpeas and garlic. They brought him hard bread dipped in olive oil every morning, but every morning he passed half of it to Cat, and watched as she ate until every crumb was gone. “I protect investment,” he told her when she protested. “Sultan give me a fortune for such prize, and thin women he like not.”

  The air of the cabin stank of his sweat, which the garlic made rank; then the wound began to putrefy, and that rendered the smell a thousand times worse. In his lucid moments he spoke to the men who visited him in rapid Arabic, issuing orders, asking for weather reports and the ship’s position, his eyes unnaturally bright in his increasingly gaunt face. Cat sat silently in the corner of the cabin as she had been told, and watched. Most of the men who came to the cabin ignored her, but some stared at her with undisguised hostility and touched amulets around their necks. Others still undressed her with their eyes, and she began to dread the inevitable day when the raïs lost his battle for life.

  When Al-Andalusi finally lost consciousness and started to rave in his sleep, the second-in-command, a severe-looking bearded man by the name of Rachid, sent the renegade Englishman to sit guard over his captain.

  “He don’t trust ’ee, girlie,” Ibrahim said, leering at her. “Thinks you’re poisoni
ng our raïs.”

  Cat glared at him. “And just how am I supposed to be doing that?”

  “Merely with your infidel presence. Rachid considers it an affront to God that you be here.”

  “Then send me back down to the hold with the rest of my people.”

  The renegade laughed. “Oh, I don’t think the khodja meant only that as a vile Christian you are poisoning the air of our raïs’s personal chamber—though you may be sure he does think that. No, our khodja thinks it an affront that Christians breathe the same air as the rest of us in the world. If he had his way, your head would be on a pike adorning the harbor at Penzance, along with every other infidel he could execute.

  “Besides, what sort of reception do you think you’ll get from the poor, starving bastards below when they see you looking so clean and plump, eh, my bird?” And when she opened her mouth to answer, he stopped it with his hand. “I’ll tell ’ee exactly what they’ll think, my ’andsome: They’ll think you’re the Djinn’s whore. They’ll think he’s been fucking you stupid all this time, and he’s only sent you back down into that hellhole because he’s finally got tired of your little white arse.”

  Tears pricked Cat’s eyes, not merely at the probability of this unjust scenario, but at the stench of the man, who now pressed himself up against her. Beneath the obvious sweat and stale urine on him was a stench of smoke and of a pungent herb that made her head spin.

  “When he’s gone”—the renegade indicated the supine raïs with a tilt of his head—“I’m going to take you for myself, and then I’m going to do to you all the worst things what them folk below imagine is already your lot. Except that when I’m tired of you, I won’t send you back down to the hold. Oh, no. I’ll pass ’ee on to provide a little comfort for the crew, eh?”

  Cat’s head came up fast and caught him hard under the chin, so hard that Ashab Ibrahim bit his tongue. Blood spurted; the renegade swore. He drew back his fist.

  “You little bitch!”

  Something spun through the air—an arc of silver—and Ashab Ibrahim pitched forward, howling. From his right shoulder blade a small, curved knife protruded, its ornamental red tassel swinging wildly.

  “Show respect, you runnagate! Faithless wretch, apostate son of sow, coward who chose Islam to save rotten skin! You treat no woman so, not on my ship, or any other of the Slâ fleet!” The raïs wheezed hoarsely, following this invective with more in his own tongue, and Ibrahim picked himself up in terror and fled the chamber, leaving an alarming trail of blood behind him.

  Al-Andalusi collapsed onto the cushions, gasping. “Cat’rin, go to door, call for Abdal-haqq. Go!”

  Cat scrambled to her feet and did as she was bade. The companionway swallowed her words; she called the unfamiliar name again, louder, until the flames in the lantern sconces shuddered and the sounds echoed out of the wood. At last she heard the sound of voices and running feet. A third time she called for Abdal-haqq, and then she ran back inside the cabin.

  But by the time she got there, the raïs was dead.

  SOME MOMENTS LATER the man called Abdal-haqq slipped through the door. He took in the scene with quick black eyes that belied his gray beard and age-worn face.

  Kneeling by the pirate captain’s unmoving body, blood seeping into the soft white wool of her robe from the wounds of the renegade, Cat looked as guilty as she felt. She sprang aside but the man merely glanced at her and waved her away with a dismissive hand. He shook the raïs by the shoulder, touched his forehead, then his neck. Then he barked something at Cat.

  “What? What? I don’t understand.”

  The bearded man muttered crossly; then he levered himself upright, pushed past her, and disappeared into the back of the cabin, stopping only when he reached the ornate cage in the shadows where the silent songbirds slept. He opened the cage door, reached in, and took something out. “Fire,” he said urgently. “Where is?”

  Amazed to find another pirate on this godforsaken ship who spoke English, Cat blinked. “I’ll get it,” she said, and did. She dragged the brazier out from the screened area and set it down in front of Abdal-haqq, and he blew upon it, making the coals glow cherry red. Then he took up the tongs that lay across the brazier’s bars, transferred the contents of his hands to them, and thrust the tongs into the coals.

  Cat cried out in horror. What she had thought was a songbird was another type of beast entirely, a sort of bizarre reptile, for its skin had tiny scales like a lizard or a snake, though it was like no lizard or snake she had ever seen. The creature coiled and writhed as it hit the embers, and from its strange beak of a mouth there spiraled a long purple tongue. Its extraordinary armored eyes whirled; its scaled skin fizzed and burned. A moment later there was what seemed a small explosion in the brazier.

  Abdal-haqq nodded, satisfied. “Mezian, mezian.” He picked up the beast by one tiny clawed foot, carried it to his captain’s bedside, and passed it two or three times under Al-Andalusi’s nose. Cat understood this was some form of arcane magic. The smell of the burned creature—repulsively pungent—pervaded the cabin, making her eyes water. Quite what effect a burned lizard could have on the warring humors of a man—let alone a dead man—she could not imagine, but abruptly the raïs gave an almighty sneeze and sat bolt upright.

  Cat felt her knees dissolve and abruptly found herself sitting on the floor. She had heard of corpses that made sudden involuntary movements, and even of some that spoke a last word—indeed, it was common knowledge that Mary of Scotland had moved her lips for a good quarter hour following her beheading—but she had never heard of a corpse that sneezed.

  “Labas aalik?”

  The raïs subsided onto his cushions. He grasped the old man’s hand with both his own. “Labas, allhamdullah. Shokran, shokran, Abdal. Barakallofik.”

  The two men conversed quietly. Then the old man turned to Cat. “English renegade put evil eye on our raïs. The al-boua, the chameleon, help for now, but for that the infidel must die. Then the raïs get better.” He patted the curved dagger that hung from his silk bandolier. “It will give me great pleasure.”

  Cat watched him go, feeling more than ever that she was trapped in another world, one in which death visited swift as a hawk, in which the dead sat up and spoke, and in which the normal rules were refracted like light through water; a world in which magic was both tangible and more powerful than logic, custom, or sanity.

  And now Ashab Ibrahim, who had in another life been an ordinary seaman from the West Country, was to be executed. He had thought himself safe in this outlandish place because he had clothed himself in its garb, adopted a foreign name and religion, but since this had all been mere disguise rather than any honest transformation, it had not saved him. She felt no fellow-feeling for the man who had once been called Will Martin, no genuine regret that he should be killed at the whim of the raïs; what preyed upon her terribly was the sense that it had been the renegade’s threat to her that had earned the ire of the raïs. But if that was the case, why had Al-Andalusi lied to the old man? To save her shame, out of some strange form of respect? But if Ibrahim hadn’t cursed the raïs, then how was it that the magic of the burned lizard had revived him? It was all too baffling. Tears began to pour down her face.

  “Why you weep?”

  She turned, surprised to find the raïs watching her, and her thoughts felt naked to his gaze. She looked away, discomfited, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.

  “Do you weep for the renegade?”

  Shocked, she stared at him. “No, of course not.”

  “Then why you weep?”

  She shook her head, furious now. “I don’t know.” “Because you thought me dead?” There was a wicked glint in his eye.

  “No!”

  “Many women would weep if I die.” He paused, watching her reaction. “I have large family.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  His expression hardened and closed. “I have no wife, no children. I have aunts and cousins an
d their children to provide for, in Slă, very many who depend on me, and I work hard for them. Every spring I sail with Slă fleet, I raid, I take Nazarenes as prisoners, and if they resist, I kill them. In summer or autumn I go home with captives, sell them in souqs, divide money between crew, backers, the marabout, my family, my community. Everyone profit a little, spiritually and financially, from holy work of the ghuza—” A violent bout of coughing silenced him.

  Red-eyed, Cat regarded him. “You’re weak and should sleep.”

  “I sleep when I dead, and I not dead yet, despite efforts of bastard Spaniards.” He spat copiously, then declared, “Bring pipe.”

  Cat looked toward the ornamental pipe. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Bring!”

  His peremptory tone galled her. She leapt to her feet, grabbed up the pipe, and shoved it at him. “Oh, take the blasted thing and poison your wounds with its foul-smelling smoke! You are a monster and a zealot, and I would not care a damn if you were to die this very minute!”

  The raïs’s fingers closed around the stem of the pipe, but there was no strength in them. With a crash, the chicha hit the floor and shattered in a shower of glass and water and pungent herbs.