The Monsoon (41 page)

It was only when the captain had pulled the Monmouth cap from his head and Dorian’s long hair had streamed out in the wind that he had lifted the blade from the boy’s throat. In the terror of those moments, Dorian had taken no heed of the jabbering and loud arguments of his captors as they hustled him below deck and chained him in the slave hold, but he remembered that every man in the dhow had taken a chance to touch or stroke his head. Now he recalled snatches of their excited talk.

Many had mentioned a’prophecy’and some had called out a name, which was obviously revered by them all for the others had chorused, “May Allah show him mercy after anyone mentioned it. To Dorian the name had sounded like “Taimtaim’. Afraid, and so alone, he crouched on the rough stool in the dark, stinking hold and thought of Tom and his father, pined for them with a longing that threatened to crush his heart in his chest. Sometimes he dozed for a few minutes, but each time he was jerked awake by the plunging hull as the dhow was struck by a larger wave, and he slipped off his precarious perch. He was able to keep a check on the procession of day and night when the hatch above his head was opened and food and drink was passed down to him, or when the captain came down to gloat over him, and it was on the twelfth day after his capture that the iron fetters were knocked off his ankles.

He was dragged out through the hatch onto the deck were the sunlight was so strong after the gloom below that he had to shield his eyes against it. It took him many minutes to adjust to its brilliance, and then, still blinking painfully, he looked about him. He found that half the crew were gathered around him in a fascinated circle. This time he took note of what they were saying.

“This is verily part of the prophecy, God be praised.”

“It cannot be so for alAmhara does not speak the tongue of the Prophet.” Dorian understood that by al Amhara, which translated as the Red One, they meant him.

“Beware that you speak no blasphemy, O Ishmael. It is not for you to judge whether he be the child of the prophecy or not.”

“God’s ways are marvelous and cannot be fathomed,” said another, and they all chorused, “Praise be to God!” Dorian looked beyond the circle of dark, bearded faces and out over the bows. The waves ahead were wind-driven and curled silver-headed in the sunlight, but on the horizon lay a dark, unnatural cloud. He stared at it so hard that his eyes watered in the wind. It seemed to be smoke that swirled and eddied, but then, with his sharp young eyes, he icked out the tiny shapes of palm trees beneath it, and realized that he was seeing a great flock of birds.

Even as he watched, smaller flocks of ten or twenty sea birds flew past the dhow, hurrying to join that vast agglomeration. He wanted to see more of what lay ahead, and at the same time to test the mood of his captors, to see how much latitude they would allow him. He walked forward, and the circle of Arabs gave way before him: they stepped respectfully out of his path as if afraid or reluctant to check him.

One touched his head as he passed but Dorian ignored him.

“Watch him well,” the captain of the dhow shouted from the tiller.

“He must not escape.”

“Ah! So, Yusuf,” one answered him, “is al-An-thoro then so blessed that he can fly like the angel Gibrael?”

They all laughed but none made any effort to restrain Dorian. He went forward and leaned against the single stubby mast.

Gradually the fringe of palm trees below the cloud of sea birds hardened, and then he could make out the shape of a promontory to the north end of what was clearly a small island. Closer still, and the walls of a square building, made of white blocks, glinted in the sunlight. Then he saw cannon on the walls and a flotilla of ships moored in the bay beneath the fort.

“The Minotaur!” he exclaimed suddenly, as he recognized the tall masts and shape of the ship that the Seraph had fought only days previously. With her superior speed she must have arrived well ahead of the tiny dhow. She was anchored in the middle of the bay under bare yards, and as they sailed closer Dorian could make out clearly the damage that the Seraph’s guns had inflicted upon her.

Closer still he could just read the new name that had been painted in Arabic script on the transom, replacing her English name: Breath of Allah.

She was not the only square-rigged ship in the bay: there were four others, one larger and three smaller than the Minotaur. Dorian reasoned that these must also have been captured by the corsair from the convoys of the European fleets trading in the Orient. Five great ships loaded with precious cargo was an enormous booty. No wonder the name of al-Auf was so feared across the length and breadth of this ocean.

His thoughts were interrupted by a cry of “Ready aboutV from Yusuf, the captain at the tiller, and the rush of bare feet along the deck as the crew leaped to tack the dhow. The long yard was run back then forward on to the opposite side of the mast. The single sail filled on the starboard tack and the captain steered into the narrow passage through the reef that guarded the entrance to the bay.

“Take alAmhara into the forward cabin. Hide him from the eyes of the watchers on the walls of the fort,” Yusuf shouted, and two of the men took Dorian’s arms, led him gently to the small cabin on the foredeck and pushed him into it. Though the door was barred, there were port, holes on both sides of the cabin. Dorian peered out: he had a good view of the bay as the dhow ran in.

The channel took a dog-leg turn through the coral, then passed close under the walls of the fort. Dorian looked up at the cannon that poked through the embrasures and saw the brown faces of the gunners behind them. The faint blue smoke from their slow-match drifted along the top of the stone wall, and the faint welcoming cries of the garrison were answered eagerly by the crew of the dhow.

The captain dropped anchor close to the stern of the f Breath of Allah and called across the calm, clear waters to one of the skiffs drawn up on the beach below the fort.

Three men paddled it out and tied up alongside the dhow.

There was a long, heated argument among the crew, which Dorian could follow through the thin wooden partition of the cabin, as to who would accompany the captain and al, Amhara ashore. Finally Yusuf settled it by picking out three men and ordering them down into the skiff to act as an escort. Then he came into the cabin, and displayed his yellow teeth in that dreadful false smile.

“We are going ashore to meet al-Auf.” Dorian stared at him dumbly, still giving no indication of having understood, so Yusuf signed and gestured his intention.

“We must cover your beautiful hair. I wish it to astound al-Auf.” He took down a grubby grey robe from a wooden peg beside the door, and signed for Dorian to don it. Though it stank of stale sweat and rotten fish, Dorian obeyed. Yusuf arranged the hood of the robe to cover his head and shield his face, then took Dorian’s arm and hustled him down into the waiting skiff.

They were rowed to the beach, where they climbed out onto crunching white coral sand. The three Arabs closed in around Dorian, and Yusuf led them up into the palm grove and along the path towards the walls of the fort. They passed through a small cemetery in the midst of the grove. Some of the tombs it contained were ancient, the coral plaster cracked and peeling from their walls in chunks. The Christian crosses at the head were broken and fallen. At the far end there were newer graves, without headstones, the mounds of freshly turned soil marked only by white flags on short poles, covered with prayers and quotations in Arabic script. The grave flags fluttered in the streaming winds of the monsoon.

They left the cemetery and the path was winding through the grove towards the fort when abruptly they stepped into another clearing.

Dorian stopped in his tracks with shock and fear: naked human bodies were hanging on tripods of rough timber along both sides of the track.

This was clearly an execution ground.

Some of the victims on the tripods were still alive, They were breathing, making small painful movements.

One stiffened his whole body and groaned loudly before slumping back against his bonds. Many of the others were dead, and some had been so for several days, their features frozen in the rictus of their last agony, their bellies bloated with gas, and their skins scorched pink and raw by the sun.

All of them, both living and dead, had been cruelly tortured.

Dorian stared in horror at one who had charred and blackened stumps instead of hands or feet. Others had empty sockets in their faces where their eyes had been put out with heated irons. Tongues had been hacked from mouths and flies swarmed in a blue cloud down gaping throats. Some of those still living called hoarsely for water, and still others called for God. One watched Dorian with huge dark eyes as he passed, repeating, in a monotonous whisper, “God is great, God is great.” His tongue was so blackened and swollen with thirst that the words were barely audible.

One of Dorian’s guards laughed and stepped off the path. He looked up at the dying man, and told him, “On your lips the name of Allah is blasphemy!” He drew his curved dagger and, with the other hand, reached out and grasped the shrivelled bunch of the dying man’s genitals.

With a single stroke of the blade he severed them, and thrust them into the victim’s open mouth.

“That will keep you quiet!” He chuckled.

The tormented man showed no sign of pain, his anguish was already past bearing.

“You were always the buffoon, Ishmael,” Yusuf reprimanded him prissily.

“Come, now, you are wasting time with your clowning.”

Dorian’s guards dragged him on until they reached the doorway in the rear wall of the fort. It stood wide open M@ and a few robed guards squatted in the shade of the arch, their jezails stacked against the wall.

Tom had always impressed upon Dorian the need to notice and remember every detail of any new surroundings.

His hood hid Dorian’s face but did not cover his eyes, and he saw that the main doors of the fort were ancient and rotted, the hinges almost eaten away by rust, but that the walls were very thick. They would be proof even against the heaviest bombardment.

The guards were well acquainted with the dhow captain: they did not bother to rise to their feet but exchanged the customary florid greetings with him, then waved the party through. They entered the courtyard of the fort, and again Dorian looked around him keenly. He saw that the original buildings must be very old. The coral stone blocks were weathered and, in some places, had tumbled down.

However, recent repairs had been made and even now a gang of masons was-working on the staircase that led up to the battlements.

The old roofs had been replaced with a thatch of palm leaves that were still only half dried. He estimated that close to two hundred men were loitering in the shade along the base of the walls. Some had spread their prayer-mats and were stretched out upon them. Others were gathered in small groups, playing dice or sharing tall hookahs, chatting together as they cleaned their muskets or whetted the edges of their scimitars. Some called the traditional greeting: “Salaam aliekum!” which Dorian’s captors returned, “Aliekum ya salaam.” Under a thatched lean-to with open sides, which stood in the centre of the expansive courtyard, was a line of cooking-fires. Veiled women were working over them, baking bread on the iron griddles or stirring the contents of the black, three-legged pots that stood over the coals.

They looked up as Dorian and his guards passed but their eyes were inscrutable behind their veils and they offered no greeting.

There were rooms built into the outer walls of the fort, their doors opening out into the courtyard. Some were being Vsed as storerooms or powder magazines, for there were guards at each. Yusuf spoke to his men: “Wait for me here. Perhaps you can beg food from the women to fill your ever empty bellies.” He took Dorian firmly by the arm and dragged him -towards the doorway in the centre of the fortifications.

Two guards barred their way.

“What is your business, Yusuf?” one demanded.

“What brings you uninvited to the door of Musallim bin-jangiri?” They argued for a while Yusuf protesting his right of access, and the guard exerting his power to deny it to him.

Then, at last, the guard shrugged.

“You have chosen an inappropriate hour. The master has already ordered two men to their deaths this very day. Now he confers with the trars from the mainland. But you have ever been a reckless man Yusuf, one who likes to swim with the tiger shark. Enter at your peril.” He lowered his sword and stood aside with a smirk.

Yusuf took a firmer grip on Dorian’s arm, but his fingers trembled. He drew the boy through the door into the room beyond and hissed in his ear, “Down! Down on your belly!” Dorian feigned ignorance of his meaning, and resisted the man’s efforts to pull him to the floor. They struggled for a while at the threshold, then Yusuf released him and allowed him to remain standing while he crawled across the room towards the group of four men seated at the far end.

Still on his feet, Dorian tried to quell his uneasiness and gazed about him. At a glance he saw that although the walls of the room were of raw, unplastered. coral stone blocks they had been covered with rugs of bright colours and pleasing designs. The other furnishings were sparse.

the rough floor was well swept but bare, except for a single low table and an array of cushions on which the four men sat. They watched with apparent disdain as Yusuf crept towards them, chanting a litany of praises and apologies.

India “Great lord! Beloved of Allah! Sword of Islam! Slayer of the infidel! Peace be upon you!” Dorian recognized the man who sat facing him. He had last seen him upon the quarterdeck of the Minotaur.

He knew that he would never forget that face.

Under a green turban, it seemed carved from teak or some other hard, unyielding material. The skin was drawn tightly over the skull so that the man’s cheekbones seemed too close to the surface. His brow was high and smooth, his nose narrow and bony. The beard that hung to his waist was groomed into a forked shape, and dyed with henna to a bright ginger hue, but streaks of grey showed through the dye. Under the drooping moustache his mouth was a thin, @ tight line.