She has loved the Giant Blue since she first set wide eyes upon it all those months ago, and in the repetition of the experience, her delight and excitement does not fade. She thinks of the view of the Straits of Hormuz from her Muscat master’s rooms and decides that the sea here is quite as pretty. The deep blue waves are fringed with white foam and their movement is hypnotic while the scope of the horizon stimulates the imagination. Sunset, Zena ponders, is never as pretty as when the orange orb sinks into a distant line of shimmering water. After the arid sands, she feels invigorated at the sight of so much liquid, though in memory of the boy who ran down the beach in Abyssinia, she does not dismount and run towards the surf and instead hides her delight at the ocean’s magic.
The party hikes along a dusty outcrop where the cliffs drop sheer onto pale rocks below. A way off there is a harbour and a scattering of houses. A flock of black-faced sheep with dirty brown coats is driven haphazardly down the slope leading to the village. The pearl divers have settlements like this all along this coast. The region is known for its exotic coral reefs that seamen consider deadly. It is a natural defence for the bounty of the pearls, which are well worth risking your life to acquire by diving through the strange fish and shards of rock and coral. Here, it is sworn, one man found a hoard of pearls – a cache of nature – eight baubles, each as big as a baby’s fist and as pale and white as the cooked flesh of a fish. On such treasure a life’s fortune is made and a whole family can secure its future. Grandfathers tell the tale to their youngest grandchildren; mothers whisper of it over the baby’s basket, hoping their young ones will have healthy lungs to dive deeply; old men with parchment for skin reminisce that they have spent a lifetime in searching for the perfect luminescent orb and sigh with despair on their deathbeds that they never laid hands upon it. It is like a cult here. Though the people are poor, they believe that good fortune is only a dive away. Holy men in these parts compare a man’s spirit to the sheen of a pearl, women string shell necklaces and wish they had somehow garnered the real thing and all words associated with the industry are lengthened into adjectives that mean good.
The cousins laugh as they make their way along the cliff path. As they come to the shoreline towards the settlement, the youngest, a boy of thirteen, jumps onto the sand and kicks in the spray while the others look on, their dark eyes identical. The camels groan, for they know sea water is not good to drink and they cannot imagine why the party is stopping when a few minutes more will have them at a well. The braying sound only makes the cousins laugh and quip about whether the men lead the beasts or vice versa. Amid this banter, three men from the village approach and tentatively ask the party’s direction of travel. They will warn them off if there is any chance of infection. When they are satisfied that all is safe, they greet the cousins warmly and wave them through, breaking into a run in their wake.
At the water’s edge, where the houses start, there are three short jetties where two fishing boats are unloading the day’s catch onto the front. This comprises a motley-looking collection of strange sea creatures, for in this region the fish are varied in appearance. Today there is a small shark and a full basket, almost a shoal, of oval-bodied plaice with peachy skin.
‘We are come to trade camels,’ the Bedu announce. ‘And we bring news. But we need your help too. This dark-skinned brother is called Malik. He seeks his master who headed this way only some weeks ago. Have you seen or heard of Ben Ibn Ahmed?’
Zena can hardly breathe. It has only just occurred to her that she does not know what she will do if the cousins succeed in finding the renegade son who is supposed to own her. Is he here? Will someone have heard of him? She keeps her silence.
The fishermen shake their heads. ‘The pearl boats and the fishermen will return in a while,’ an old man tells them. ‘I have not heard of this son of the Bedu, Ibn Ahmed, but perhaps someone at sea might know him.’
They motion a little way up the hill where there is a flat marketplace with a rough stone well. If they cannot bring news of the man in question, at least they can offer refreshment for the camels and the shade of a palm tree under which coffee can be enjoyed.
Up the hill, Zena waters her camel with the others and takes a cup of mint tea. ‘If my master is not here, I will head for Muscat. He has an uncle there,’ she says casually.
No boats here go to Muscat, she is told. The Omani capital is over five hundred miles to the south, even as the crow flies. The journey is quickest by boat, of course, far more so than the overland route, back into the Empty Quarter and south. Still, the village is too small for regular passage to anywhere bar a couple of the local trading ports, which are visited weekly with the harvest of pearls, or at least they were until the plague broke out. Now, the villagers will hoard their treasures until the infection is declared over and it will be safe once again to travel to the trading posts.
The cousins chat to the fishermen, buying a few strips of qat leaves from a man who has a large supply, and then they settle, squatting in the shade to chew away what is left of the afternoon.
Zena walks barefoot to the end of the jetty. She stares across the rippling water as fish dart below the boards, attracted, she thinks, by the dapple of her shadow moving across the surface of the water. She has no idea how to handle a boat. Even the tiny fishing barks tied up here seem an incomprehensible jumble of complicated, knotted ropes and piles of canvas and nets. Further out, she can see a ship with a sail turning in the wind and zigzagging elegantly towards the harbour. There are string pots on the deck and three or four men working together, hanging over the side, using their weight to balance the vessel so that the sail is positioned correctly and carries them smoothly to their destination.
If I am going to Muscat across the water, she thinks, I will need help.
Her hand falls to the pouch she stole from Wellsted’s belt. It is made of the balls of a sacrificed goat – exactly the right size for a handful of talers. Many of the men carry these pouches. Concealed under her dishdash, she has stuffed it with a strip of cloth so the coins do not make a sound as she moves. Still, offering to pay would be dangerous – no slave has his own money and the story she has constructed involves her abandoning the family and setting out to find her master without any preparation or direction from anyone else. She has no explanation for how she came by the money.
From under the palm trees the sound of hysterical laughter wafts down the hill. The cousins, their dispositions mellowed even further by the qat, cannot contain themselves. Zena does not want to join them. She sits on the boards and dangles her feet into the cool water as she considers what best to do next. She thinks of Wellsted every hour. Travelling with the cousins has been strange, if in nothing else, in the fact that her odd-looking, white-skinned master did not accompany her. If he survives the emir’s wrath, it is to Muscat Wellsted will return and she wants to see him. In truth, she wants to touch him again. This burning feeling of being driven, of belonging with someone body and soul, is entirely new to her and, baffled by it, she does not dwell on the notion. She simply has to head south. Muscat is her only option. Zena knows Ibn Mohammed and Kasim have houses there. She knows that if she encounters the slavers a third time, she will not simply be taken and sold. She has run now and that holds its own punishment, a lifelong sentence hanging over her head. Still, Muscat it must be. Somehow. For finding Wellsted again is her way to freedom and forgiveness. And she is in love.
As the fishing boat sails towards her she can see the catch on the deck. The sailors grin and one waves. Zena shakes her head as if to clear it of the image of Wellsted’s smile in the moonlight and his habit of making promises to comfort her. In his absence, she has noticed she makes the same promises to herself – that it will all be well, that she will be granted freedom and set up securely. Now she jumps up and helps dock the boat while a thin boy, a child still, secures the rope to the jetty with what looks like a complicated knot.
Salaam aleikhum. Aleikhum salaam.
Being m
ale, she thinks, is so easy. There is brotherhood everywhere she goes. A smile, a bow and three kisses on the cheek.
That night, once the fires are dimmed and after a delicious dinner of chargrilled fish and rice, the fishermen offer to take Zena out with them the next day. On the water they often meet boats from further down the coast.
‘Come with us and fish. You look as if you could dive,’ a half-toothless ancient smiles revealing a scattering of what look like mismatched seed pearls protruding from his gums. ‘Tomorrow we will sail out a little way only, but to the south. We will meet others on the fishing fields from villages on your way. Perhaps they will know of your master there.’
‘I cannot swim,’ Zena tells him, though in truth she is thinking that she cannot get wet. The thin material of the dishdash will easily become transparent and she is unsure how much of her true shape will show through. Still, it will be easier than making the journey overland. ‘I can help though,’ she offers. ‘I would like to help.’
The old man nods and explains that by changing vessels bit by bit, she can leapfrog southwards, working for her keep. The boatmen are generally happy for an extra pair of hands. Then, as she makes her way south she can take passage to Muscat from one of the larger settlements – boats leave for the Omani capital with regularity from the ports of Shams or Ras Al Khaimah or Sharjah, or even from the island of Rafeen. As far as everyone knows, the plague has not reached any of those places. Still, it would be better if she could dive.
Zena shakes her head. ‘I am afraid,’ she admits, thinking of a lie that will be plausible. ‘My father drowned and I am afraid.’
The men nod in understanding. She is good at this. The months on the sands have taught her every detail of how slaves express themselves, how to crouch in prayer, how to eat. The grudging mention now and then of long-lost family. The air of sadness.
The cousins are dozing now. They have said they will look after her camel. The family sleeps bunched together – a shamble of sleepy limbs. Zena decides that as she works her way south she will stop telling the story about her fictional master, for she might inadvertently find him. That night she sleeps propped up against the mud wall of a house and for the first time she does not wake before the rest of the group. The fishermen leave early, before the sun has risen.
‘Come, come,’ they say, shaking her by the shoulders.
Her eyes feel heavy, but she drags herself up into the darkness. Hurriedly, she pats the camel to say goodbye, but does not wake any of her travelling companions. As she makes for the shoreline with the others, the moon is still reflected on the choppy water. It is jumbled into uneven stripes of white light against the shifting, black surf.
‘Here,’ the boy who yesterday tied the rope gives her a folded net to carry aboard. ‘Like this,’ he shows her where to lay it and how to sit, squatting on the wooden deck until she is needed.
When they clear the harbour the men share bread, still warm. By the time the sun rises, a shimmering orb of honey light, the village is out of sight and all Zena can see are glittering waves in all directions. Aboard the mashua, the slaves were stowed the whole voyage. Now, she feels marooned by all the water and low set, with only a few strips of what looks like some kind of wooden frame and waxed hide bound by woven rope, she feels perilously close to the blue chasm that, though bright on the surface, is inky beneath it. Last night by the fire there were elaborate tales of sea snakes. The boy laughs at the expression on her face as she remembers this, and then they are both called to help cast the nets and it is easy to forget the grandeur of the vista or the menace of it, for, she discovers, a fisherman mostly looks down into the water no more than a few feet and does not raise his eyes more than a few feet above it.
‘All life beneath the surface here,’ the boy beams. ‘Good fish. Good fish.’ He culls a large one, thrashing about the deck. ‘This one will take too long to die otherwise,’ he explains. ‘You now,’ he offers.
Zena brandishes the cull, taking care not to get splashed too much. This feels like work. It feels good. Once the shoal is passed, the old man changes course.
‘Now we will head along the coast,’ he points, though the coast is out of sight. ‘We will meet other boats. Perhaps one of them will take you.’
Zena coils a rope and lays it in a spiral on the deck. The boy nods in appreciation, for she has done well for a beginner.
‘Never before?’ he checks.
There are no other occupations here, so it is strange to him that there might be someone who was not born to a life that involves an understanding of ropes, knots, nets and culls. It seems to him that even a toddler should know about wind directions and the trim of a sail, for in his village many of the children can swim proficiently before they have fully mastered walking.
She shakes her head. ‘Never. Inland always.’
‘Good,’ he nods as if she has told him a joke. ‘Good.’
Together they sit near the prow to watch the horizon. The movement of the boat is fast compared to travelling across the sands. With nervous fingers Zena reaches into the spray and feels the passing of the water.
‘No,’ one of the older men stops her. ‘Respect,’ he says simply.
Zena apologises. Of course. The water must be treated with deference.
‘Is it bottomless?’ she whispers to the boy.
He giggles and shakes his head. ‘Sand at the bottom. Like desert underneath,’ he whispers back.
Zena decides not to think about it. She raises her eyes and feels the breeze on her skin. I wonder, she ponders, what might come my way next?
Chapter Forty-Two
John Murray is settled in his plush, canary drawing room and is in the humour for a day of amusement. There is little else to do today, Friday or not, as it is November and it is raining too heavily to consider his habitual ride in Hyde Park or even an outing to the club. The park this afternoon will be nothing but a morass of mud, for the weather has been frightful for over a week now. Murray’s desk is scattered with manuscripts though he has spent the last two days reading and discarding a very large pile of what has been sent to him. There seems to be rather a vogue at present for ladies writing poetry about the evils of slavery or worse – novels. Mr Murray, naturally, deplores the institution of slavery and is a hearty proponent of the emancipation, however, in all likelihood he deplores the poetry and novels of ladies who espouse The Cause far more. Even the measured script of their handwriting sets his teeth on edge, for manuscripts written by a man, in his opinion, have more character. After subjecting himself to over two dozen attempts at capturing the spirit of the age this morning alone, he’d be hard pressed to make a choice between banning slavery and banning well-meaning ladies with any pretensions to literary prowess.
The panes of the high sash windows rattle in the wind and Murray swears he can feel lightning in the air. The blanket of grey sky rolls very low over the whole city and Albemarle Street is so dim that people outside are carrying candle lamps in order to go about their business. He walks over to the fire and inserts the poker, stirring up the logs so that new flames lick and crackle in the elegantly fashioned grate. The prospect of clearing out more manuscripts is singularly unappealing. Surely the man will get here soon.
Directly on cue there is a brisk knock on the door and the butler enters.
‘The upholsterer is here, sir,’ he says the words as if they are a question.
Generally it is Mrs Murray who deals with such matters. Mr Murray has little interest in household affairs or even in his own attire. Mrs Murray, tiresome lady though her husband finds her, orders his waistcoats and has his shoes made, ensures that the trimmings of the drawing room cushions are renewed as need be and purchases household essentials from time to time at auction or, failing that, orders linen made, mattresses restuffed and curtains designed to her own specifications in a variety of workshops in the nearby streets.
‘Ah!’ Mr Murray says, clearly delighted. ‘Yes. Good. Send the fellow in.’
Mr Wellsted drips when he enters. He has taken off his sodden greatcoat and his hat but his shoes are soaking and drops of water balance precariously at the base of his ears. His nose is a very bright pink. Murray nods and offers his hand. The man may be wet but he is clearly neither impoverished nor intimidated at being summoned to a grand house on Albemarle Street on short notice. The cane he uses to help him walk is of good quality and plain design. Murray has arranged this meeting to test the lie of the land – to find out as much about James Raymond Wellsted as he can. After all, the chap is out of contact, it would seem, and Murray might as well find out what he can. He intends also to enjoy himself doing so. He sizes up Wellsted Snr in a flash. The man is not an embarrassment. It is a promising start.
‘There is some kind of an emergency, Mr Murray?’ Wellsted enquires as he shakes the publisher’s hand.
The question is the only dry thing about him.
‘Ah. Well. Yes. There is the matter of this chaise,’ Murray indicates the piece he means. It is a dalliance, nothing more. ‘It requires to be recovered. In some material suitable to the room. Yellow, you see.’
James Wellsted Senior casts an eye over the piece. This constitutes, even for a man who takes his business very seriously, not much in the way of an emergency. The chair is not worn at all, not even at the edges.
‘I see,’ he says, his eyes are still and they do not betray his annoyance at being called out for a job worth no more than a shilling or two in profit on a day such as this. ‘I can have some materials sent over for you to choose from and my man can pick up the chaise later today, if that will suit you.’
‘Oh, yes. Materials. Well, no need. I think I can trust your taste. The Marquis of Malvern tells me you have a good eye, sir.’
Wellsted does not blush at the compliment. ‘Certainly. I shall see to it,’ he nods and lingers only a moment before he makes a little bow and turns to take his leave.
Secret of the Sands Page 29
