The Monsoon (57 page)

“We’ll have to come back for you.

“Please don’t leave me here, Tom,” Dorian begged.

“The Seraph is waiting just offshore. Father, Aboli and I we are all here. We will be back for you soon.”

“Tom!”

“No, Dorry. Don’t make so much noise. I swear to you we’ll come back for you.”

“Tom, don’t leave me alone! Tom!” His brother was going, he could not bear it. Dorian pulled desperately at his arm, trying to force him to stay.

“Let go, Dorry! You’ll make me fall.” Then there was a shout from the battlements above them, and a voice cried -out in Arabic: “Who is it? Who is down there?”

“The guards, Dorry. Let me go.” Suddenly Dorian felt his brother’s arm torn from his grip and at the same time there came the roar of a musket shot from close above their heads. He knew his brother below.

had been hit, and he heard his body slide down the wall, Please, God, no!” Dorian cried. He tried to then, owhi-thnoyerrible thump, hit the ground far Put his head through the loophole far enough to see if his brother was truly killed, but the chain held him back.

There was a chorus of shouts and a wild fusillade of musket fire from the top of the walls. Quickly, confusion spread through the garrison. Within minutes he heard Arab voices at the foot of the wall below his window.

“There is nobody here,” someone shouted up at the guards on the ramparts above Dorian’s head.

“I know I hit him!” the guard shouted down.

“He must be there.”

“No, there is no one here, but I see the marks where he fell.”

“He must have escaped into the forest.”

“Who was it?”

“A Frank. His face was very white in the moonlight.” Their voices receded into the forest.

Then Dorian heard more shouting and musket fire, and the sound of men blundering about among the trees. Gradually the noises receded into the distance.

Dorian stood by the loophole for the rest of that night, waiting and listening. But slowly the last sparks of hope flickered out, and when the grey dawn at last lit the bay and the ocean beyond, there was no sight of the Seraph.

Only then did he creep back to his sheepskin, and bury his face in the silk pillow to stifle his sobs and to soak up his tears.

They came to fetch him at noon. The two women who had taken care of him were weeping and wailing at the prospect of losing their charge, and when the gaoler unlocked his leg-iron he said gruffly, “Go with God, little monkey. There will be nobody to make us laugh when you are gone.” Ben Abram took him down to where al-Auf waited for him, hands clasped angrily on his hips, beard bristling with rage.

“What Frankish dogs were those that came sniffing around your kennel last night, puppy?” he demanded.

“I know nothing of this.” Although he still felt bereft and fearful, Dorian put on a show of defiance.

“I was sleeping and I heard nothing in the night. Perhaps the devil sent you evil dreams.” He would never betray Tom to them.

“I do not have to accept your impudence any longer.” Al-Auf stepped closer.

“Answer me, you seed of Satan!

Who was at the window of your cell? The guards heard you talking to the intruder.” Dorian stared up at him silently, but he was gathering a ball of spit under his tongue.

“I am waiting!” al-Auf told him menacingly, and lowered his face until their eyes were only inches apart.

“Wait no longer,” Dorian said, and spat his mouthful into al-Auf’s face. The pirate recoiled in astonishment, then a terrible rage distorted his features and he whipped the curved dagger from his belt.

“You will never do that again,” he swore.

“I’ll have your infidel heart for id” As he started his stroke, Ben Abram leaped forward.

For a man of such age he was quick and agile. He locked both hands on al-Auf’s knife wrist. Although he did not have the strength to stop the stroke, he deflected it from Dorian’s chest. The glittering point of the dagger snagged in the sleeve of his white robe and left a clean rent in the material.

Al-Auf staggered back, thrown off-balance by the unexpected attack. Then, almost contemptuously, he threw the old man to the ground.

“You will pay for that, you ancient fool.” He stepped over him.

“Lord, do not harm the child. Think of the prophecy and of the gold,” Ben Abram pleaded, and seized the hem of al-Aufs robe. The corsair hesitated. The warning had touched him.

“A lakh of rupees to lose,” Ben Abram insisted.

“And the curse of St. Tainitaim upon your head if you kill him.” Al-Auf stood uncertainly, but his lips twitched and his knife hand trembled. He stared at Dorian with such hatred that at last the boy’s courage failed and he shrank back against the wall.

“The spittle of an infidel! It is worse than the blood of a swine!”

“He has defiled me!” Al-Auf was whipping up his faltering anger.

He started forward again, then froze as a peremptory voice boomed across the chamber.

“Stop! Put down that knife! What madness is this?” Prince al-Malalik towered in the entrance to the chamber.

Summoned by the shouting and the uproar, he had come through from the sleeping quarters at the back. Al-Auf dropped the dagger and prostrated himself on the stone flags.

“Forgive me, noble Prince,” he blubbered.

“For a moment Shaitan stole my wits.”

“I should send you to visit your own execution field,” alMalik said coldly.

“I am dust in your sight,” al-Auf whimpered.

“The child is no longer your property. He belongs to me,”

“I will atone for my stupidity in any way you wish, only do not turn the face of wrath upon me, great Prince.” AlMalik did not deign to reply, but looked at Ben Abram.

“Take the child down to the lagoon at once and have him placed on board my dhow. The captain is expecting his arrival. I will follow presently. We will sail with the high tide this very night.” Two of the Prince’s men escorted Dorian down to the lagoon, and Ben Abram walked with him, holding his hand. Dorian’s face was pale, his jaws clenched hard in the effort to maintain a brave face. They did not speak until they reached the beach and the skiff from the royal dhow was waiting to take Dorian out to where she lay at anchor.

Then Dorian begged Ben Abram, “Please come with me.”

” “I

cannot do that.” The old man shook his head.

“Just as far as the dhow, then. Please. You are the only friend I have left in the whole world.”

“Very well, but only as far as the dhow.” Ben Abram climbed into the boat beside him, and Dorian moved up close beside him.

“What will happen to me now?” he asked in a whisper.

Ben Abram replied gently, “Whatever is the will of God, my Lion Cub.”

“Will they hurt me? Will they sell me to some other person?”

“The Prince will keep you beside him always,” Ben Abram reassured him.

“How can you be so certain?” Dorian laid his head on Ben Abram’s arm.

“Because of the prophecy of St. Taimtaim. He will never let you go. You are too valuable to him.”

“What is this-prophecy?” Dorian sat up again and looked into his face.

“Everyone speaks of the prophecy, but nobody tells me what it says.”

“It is not the time for you to know.” Ben Abram drew the child’s head down again.

“One day it will all be made clear to you.”

“Can’t you tell me now?”

“It might be dangerous for you to know. You must be patient, little one.” The skiff bumped against the side of the dhow, men were waiting to receive Dorian.

“I don’t want to go.” He clung to Ben Abram.

“It is the will of God.” Gently the old man disentangled Dorian’s fingers. The sailors reached down and lifted him onto the deck.

“Please stay with me a little longer,” Dorian said imploringly, looking down into the small boat.

Ben Abram could not refuse the appeal.

“I will stay with you until you sail,” he agreed, and followed Dorian down to the small cabin that had been set aside for him.

He sat beside him on the mattress and reached into the pouch on his belt.

“Drink this.” He brought out a small green glass vial, and proffered it.

“What is it?”

“It will soften the pain of our parting, and make you sleep.” Dorian drank the contents of the vial and pulled a face.

“It tastes awful.”

“Like rat’s piss?” Ben Abram smiled, and Dorian burst out in laughter that was close to a sob, and hugged him.

“Now lie down.” The old man pushed Dorian back on the mattress, and for a while they talked together quietly.

Then Dorian’s eyelids began to droop. He had not slept at all the night before and his weariness and the drug soon overpowered him.

Ben Abram stroked his head for the last time.

“Go with God, my child,” he said softly, rose from the mattress and went on deck.

he clumping of feet above his head and the movement of the hull through the water as the dhow got under way woke Dorian. He looked around for Ben Abram, but found him gone. Instead a strange woman was squatting on the deck beside his mattress. In her black robe and veil, she looked like a roosting vulture.

Dorian stood up groggily and staggered to the small porthole in the cabin. Outside it was dark, and the stars were dancing on the waters of the lagoon. The sweet night air blowing into his face revived him, and cleared his mind a little. He wanted to go up on deck but when he turned to the doorway the woman stood up and barred his way.

“You must not leave here until the Prince calls for you.” Dorian argued with her for a while but then gave up the futile effort and returned to the porthole. He watched the walls of the fort glide by, glistening white in the moonlight, as the dhow left the lagoon and threaded its way through the channel. Then he felt the deck surge under his feet at the first strong scend of the ocean. As the ship turned towards the west his view of the moonlit island was cut out. He jumped down from the porthole and threw himself on the mattress.

The black-veiled woman went to the porthole and closed the heavy wooden shutter over it. At that moment the lookout on the deck just above Dorian’s head shouted, so suddenly that Dorian jumped, “What boat are you?”

“Fishing boats with the night’s catch,” came the answer.

The reply was faint, almost inaudible with distance and the closed shutter over the porthole, but Dorian’s heart leaped against his ribs, then raced away with excitement.

“Father!” he gasped. Although the voice had spoken in

Arabic, he had recognized it instantly. He flung himself across the cabin, and tried to reach the window, but the woman seized him.

“Mother!” he screamed, as he wrestled with her, but she was heavily built, with big breasts and a full soft belly. And although she was fat, she was powerful. She caught him round the chest and threw him back onto the mattress.

“Let me go!” he screamed at her in English.

“That’s my father.

Let me go to him.” The woman lay on top of him with her full weight, pinning him down.

“You cannot leave the cabin,” she grunted.

“It is the command of the Prince.” Dorian wrestled with her, but then froze as from out there in the night his father hailed the dhow again.

“What boat are you?” His voice was growing fainter. The dhow must be pulling away fast.

“The ship of the Prince Abd Muhammad alMalik,” the lookout called back, his voice strong and clear.

“Go with Allah!” Hal’s voice was so faint and far away that it came as a whisper to Dorian’s ears.

“Father!” he yelled, with all his strength, but the woman’s weight was pressing on his chest, smothering him.

“Don’t go! It’s me! It’s Dorry!” he cried, in despair because he knew that his muffled cry could never carry from the closed cabin across the water to his father’s ear.

With a sudden twist and heave he threw off the big woman and slipped out from under her. Before she could hoist her bulk to her feet he had darted to the cabin door.

As he struggled with the lock, she lumbered at him. He just managed to throw open the door as her fingers hooked into the collar of his robe. He threw himself forward with such force that the cotton ripped and he wriggled free.

Dorian shot up the companionway with the woman hard after him, screeching at the top of her voice, “Stop him! Catch the infidel!” An Arab seaman was waiting for Dorian at the top of the stairs and blocked his way with outstretched arms but Dorian dropped to the deck and, quick as a ferret, wriggled between his legs. He raced down the deck towards the stern.

He could see the dark shape of the longboat from the Seraph moving across the slick waters of the dhow’s wake, pulling away swiftly towards the island, the oars swinging and dripping phosphorescence from their blades. A figure stood tall in the stern. Dorian knew it was his father.

“Don’t leave me!” His voice was small in the night.

He reached the stern rail and jumped onto it, gathering himself to dive overboard into the dark waters, but a strong hand closed on his ankle and dragged him down. Within seconds he was covered by the weight of half a dozen Arab crewmen. They carried him back down the companionway, kicking, biting and scratching, and pushed him into the cabin.

“If you had jumped into the sea, they would have thrown me after you to be eaten by the fish,” the fat old woman complained bitterly.

“How can you be so cruel to me?” She huffed and fussed, and sent to ask the captain to post two men outside the cabin door, then she made certain the shutter over the porthole and the cabin door were both securely barred to prevent another escape attempt. Dorian was so distraught and exhausted that when he fell asleep at last it was as though he were still drugged.

It was almost midday when she woke him.

“The Prince has sent for you,” she told him, “and he will be angry with old Tahi if you are dirty and smelly as a kid goat.” Once again he submitted to being bathed and having his hair combed and dressed with perfumed oil. Then he was led to the pavilion on the foredeck of the dhow.

A roof of canvas shaded the area from the scorching tropical sun almost directly overhead, but the sides of the tentlike structure were raised to let the cool winds of the monsoon blow through. The deck had been covered with silk rugs and the Prince reclined on a slightly raised dai is, on a bed of cushions, while the mullah and four others of his personal retinue sat cross-legged below him. They were in deep discussion when Dorian was brought to them, but alMalik gestured them to silence as Tahi brought the child to stand before him.