Spice and the Devil's Cave (9 page)

The girl wheeled around, and for a moment Nicolo had a swift vision of dark, velvety eyes in a face that was delicately, duskily golden. She seemed not even to see him. Her eyes were on the bird that was now darting about, and Nicolo perceived that they were very frightened. She had changed her mind, he guessed instantly-wanted her pet back!

He sprang forward, closed the door behind him, and then the window. Carefully he watched his chance, and when the downy little body dashed itself against a wall, his waiting hands closed gently around it. He held it so, until he felt the frantic wings and the fierce, tiny heart gradually quiet under his fingers-aware all the time that close to him a girl's breath came and went unevenly, that great, dark eyes wide with terror besought his.

He slipped the bird inside the cage and fastened the little door. Then, very gently, he turned to the girl, waited for her to speak, for he had the impression that something behind those terrified, beautiful eyes was waiting to be said. He could see the trembling of her clenched hands, and the pulsing of the soft, bare neck, and it came, curiously, to him that somehow she was the struggling bird that his hands had held and shielded; and suddenly he wanted, above everything he had ever wanted, to so hold and so shield her; to tell her that never again was she to be afraid-not of anything!

“You won't tell?” she whispered at last. “I was so frightened after I'd done it! He's Mother Ruth's pet –”

“Of course I won't tell! Not for worlds.” He had all he could do to keep back a rush of tender assurances, “But why . . . why . . . did you?” He nodded toward the cage.

“Because – because –” her hands clutched at her throat –” I was once like that bird-shut up in a cage. And I couldn't-couldn't-get out!”

“In-a-cage?
You?”

Something seemed to burst within him. This tender body behind bars! . . . This soft, throbbing neck! His nails bit into his palms to keep back that furious, inward tumult. He saw a half-fearful expression come over her face – ah, he mustn't frighten her, not even by his own feeling about her.

“Don't be afraid,” he begged her, “not of anything – ever again!” Was it his fancy that she seemed to waver toward him? He came close to her:
“Who are you?”

She caught her breath. Nicolo noted the quick colour that swept upward from the delicate neck. He waited for her answer, his eyes entreating hers. … A sound outside . . . Steps . . . Ruth crossing the court to come into the house, perhaps into this very room!

They sprang apart-somehow Nicolo reached the workshop, dropped into a chair, and snatched up the
Travels
he had dropped.

He heard Ruth enter the room he had left, listened until her casual tone assured him that she suspected nothing. He stepped into the court, and closed the door behind him with a little bang.

Exactly as he had intended, the sound brought Ruth hurrying to him. “You're not going, already?”

“I'll come again soon” he smiled back at her. “I have some splendid news for Master Abel!”

“He'll be sorry he missed you. Yes, come soon.”

“Come soon” indeed! How was he ever going to keep away? Nicolo asked himself as he went down the long flight. “
was
…
shut up in a cage”
Great heavens! What did she mean? Why had Abel-or Ferdinand»-never mentioned her? Something hotly-sweet surged through him: to hold her-even as his hands had held the bird-safe in the very hollow of his life I

¹
Belem. At the mouth of the Tagus River. The site of the chapel built by Henry the Navigator.

²
Shoals formed by the bar at the mouth of the Tagus.

CHAPTER 8

Scander

T
HE
next evening found Nicolo and the sailor at the workshop. Nicolo had seen Abel down town that morning and had told him about his new acquaintance, and Abel had agreed to get word to the others to come that night.

All day Nicolo thought of that coming visit. Would he see the precious secret that he had discovered, yesterday? Did Abel and Ruth mean to keep her hidden? . . . What did it all mean?

When he finally entered the court with the sailor, and saw Abel waiting for them in the workshop, he realized he'd forgotten to ask the man's name.

“Call me Scander,” said he. “I got that name from hanging around so long in Scanderia – Arabic for Alexandria. I had a Portygee name once,” he explained, “but ‘twould be like the coat I wore when I was a lad-wouldn't fit now!”

“You've actually sailed in Arab vessels-been in the Indies? “Abel eagerly began. He broke off to hail Diaz and Abraham, who just then came in, with Gama a little behind them. “Spice at first hand, gentlemen!”

“Hold fast there, Master Abel!” cried the sailor, “I'm not giving a show performance! I came here only to please Master Conti-said he had some friends who'd like to hear what I know of the spice trade.”

“Exactly what we want,” someone replied. “Can't get enough of that.”

Young Magellan arrived in time to catch the last words. “Can't get enough of what? “he demanded.

“Of spice!” laughed Abel.

“He's seen cloves and nutmegs growing,” Nicolo added. “Fancy that!”

“Lord!” Scander stared, open mouthed, at Ferdinand. “Where'd you get those eyes?” Then, as the boy flushed, “So you've gone crazy over spice, too?” he asked. “Maybe”– a moody note in his voice –“maybe, I can tell ou a thing or two about the stuff that'll calm you down!”

They all drew up to the table and Nicolo noticed that Ruth had conceded enough to the current excitement to bring her chair to the doorway that opened into the next room. The door beyond, which, yesterday, had stood ajar, was now, he saw, fast shut. Was the Girl behind it? … Or where? Why this mystery and secrecy about her?

Old Abraham's voice broke in on him. “Did you say you'd seen the spices growing?” he was eagerly asking Scander.

The sailor nodded. “Seen 'em and traded in 'em, both.”

“In India, I take it?” Gama inquired.

“Well, sometimes. But oftener, the Arab captain I shipped with regular, got his spice first hand from the growers: cinnamon from Ceylon, and pepper where it's plenty, ‘round Penang, and cloves and nutmegs from Am-boyna and the Bandas.”

No one spoke. The very air was charged with profound suspense. Abel and Nicolo exchanged elated glances and Nicolo said, in a low tone, “That checks my Conti letters!”

Ferdinand's eyes, fixed on Scander, seemed more than ever like smouldering fires. “Is the spice trade the big thing in that part of the world, as it is with us? “he asked.

“Yes and no, lad. It's this way: all east of Aden it's about the same, gold, pearls, ivory, silk.” He reeled the list off as casually as one would say flour, eggs, milk. “But
at
Aden there's a change and spice jumps into the lead.”

“Why there?”

“Well, you see it's near enough to the Mediterranean to feel the European premium on spices.”

“Then why couldn't a European,” Nicolo quickly took him up, “who understood both ends of the business, make a good thing of it in Aden?”

“Humph! I was just waiting for someone to say that.” Again that hostile note.

At once everyone was on the defensive: “Why not?” “What's the matter with that?”

“What's there against my Aden scheme?” Nicolo insisted.

“A European wouldn't be what you'd call exactly welcome at Aden. That's what there is against it!” Scander said shortly. He looked deliberately around the table. “You gentlemen thinking of going into spice?”

“Not so much for personal profit,” Abel replied slowly, “as for the nation; for Portugal.”

“Know anything about the other end of the spice trade, the
Arab
end? Well, before you break into it, I can tell you a thing or two that might save you some trouble.”

In the words there was foreboding that riveted every eye on the tanned face.

“It was one time, some years back, when we'd just made Aden from Calicut,” he abruptly began, “that we got wind of some gossip that had come up the African coast, about a Franj ship-their word for European-that had been seen away to the south.”

There was a stir around the table. Everyone's eyes sought Diaz, and those near him saw his hands clench. But Scander, intent on his story, went on:

“It didn't sound sensible to me, but when we started outh to Melmde, for ivory, up popped the story again; kept on popping, too. Seemed as if every place we went, we heard about this Franj ship.”

“Didn't they know you were a European?” Gama asked.

“Funny part of that was that I'd been there so long and got into their ways so, that I didn't think of it myself – at least, not at first.”

“Where did you say that place
Melinde
was?” Abel interrupted, and jotted hasty notes as the sailor directed.

“The next time we were at Aden,” Scander pursued, “talk about the Franj was running high, and in particular about – about –” he nervously wet his lips –” a Franj spice dealer there.”

For a moment he seemed to have forgotten his audience, and his eyes, staring over their heads, had a curious, dazed expression. Someone moved uneasily, and at once he recovered himself.

“Odd, how talking about it brings it all back,” he said, apologetically. “They were telling it around that this Franj had the finest spice concern on the coast, and the story went that he'd married an Arab girl to keep in with the native merchants – who are all Arabs, you understand. I'd seen the place, sorting sheds and warehouse, and his own house, too, a big palace of a place. Well, instead of putting to sea, the way we usually did, we hung around. I noticed several merchants come on board, and they appeared to be having some sort of conference with Captain.
He
had something on his mind, too. The way I noticed it first, he was so in earnest over his prayers; seemed almost like he was having a real talk with Allah!”

“How would you have happened to hear him at his prayers?” Abel inquired.

“That's so!” Scander exclaimed. “I've been among the Arabs so long, I forget you don't know their customs. You see, sir, every good Mohammedan prays three times a day: drops on his knees wherever he is, faces toward Mecca, and starts right in, loud and free. No whispering in dark corners or behind curtains the way you do here-nothing like that.

“Well, I began to suspect something was afoot, and sure enough, one morning, Captain told me that all up and down the African Coast and the Red Sea, across to Malabar and Cochin and Calicut, word had been passed to stand together against the Franj, to do no business with them, and to make way with them when it came handy.”

“I'd like to take my chances with a good stout caravel and a Portuguese crew!” Gama quietly commented.

“All the time he was talking,” the sailor went on, “I could feel something coming. Finally, he said Aden was going to start in by cleaning out the Franj merchant, and – 'Will you help?' says he, looking me in the eye. It went through my head like lightning that he was trying me, which side was I on, for I knew he'd not forgotten I was a Franj. ‘What you going to do, Captain?' said I, playing for time. He didn't mince words: ‘Burn,' said he, ‘burn and-kill. Are you with us?'”

“‘When?' said I, still playing for time, and thinking that, if I couldn't warn this Franji, I'd at least find a way to get out rather than take up against one of my own kind, as you might say. But he was too sharp for me. ‘At once, when evening calls the Faithful to prayer. Are you with us? ‘he asks again. But not a word did he say of
my
Franj blood! ‘Certain, Captain,' I said, I'll go with you.' I reckoned that was the only way to save my skin. Later, I figured, I'd find some way to get back to the Mediterranean.”

“Why folks want to kill each other,” Ruth exploded from the doorway, “for stuff that makes your tongue smart and your eyes water, is more than I can see!”

“Maybe you could, ma'am,” grinned Scander, “if you could sell it for half its weight in gold, as the Arab traders do!”

“But the call to prayer?” Nicolo reminded him.

“Yes . . . yes.” Again there was that nervous wetting of the lips. “Well, just as soon as we heard it, Captain gave the word, and we all started for the Franj outfit. Some carried long, two-handed native swords, and some had knives. The warehouse was right on the water front, and I figured that as soon as we got there I'd make a break for the house and warn the Franj merchant.

“But no sooner had we reached the place, than Captain herded us around to the big sorting shed. Through the cracks we could see the pepper and cloves and cinnamon piled up, and the sweaty, half-naked natives with their brown arms and hands gliding in and out as they sorted. It was half-dark in there and hot-hot as hell's cockpit. And all the time we could see those shiny, brown bodies and their black eyes that sort of slipped around in their heads – instead of their heads turning, as yours and mine would, you understand!”