Voyage of Slaves

1

CIRCA 1703. THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA. SOMEWHERE BETWEEN ALEXANDRIA AND THE ISLAND OF CYPRUS.

FROM CLOUDLESS, AZURE VAULTS, THE great golden eye of the sun shone down on the sea below. Its pitiless glare took in the boat, a small, weather-beaten craft. With no zephyr of breeze to stir it, a tattered gamboge sail hung uselessly over the prone figures of the boy and his dog, lying side by side. The big black Labrador’s tongue lolled out, its flanks rising and falling as it panted against the relentless noontide heat. The boy raised his head, brushing thick, tow-coloured hair from his vision. With an effort, he hauled himself up, his strange blue-grey eyes scanning the horizon. Running a swollen tongue across his cracked lips, he groaned. Nowhere in any direction was there a hint of land, only endless expanses of limpid turquoise-and-aquamarine sea. He lay back down, shielding his eyes as he sought the oblivion of sleep.

Totally becalmed, the little vessel floated in the doldrums, moving neither back nor forth on the shimmering surface. There was no respite from the searing heat; the sun’s blazing orb presided over all in flaming splendour.

As languid day tapered slowly into evening, the sky bled crimson with the sun’s death into the western horizon. Darkness fell over the tired waters, bringing in its wake the realm of nightmare. Both imprisoned by their dreams, Ben and Ned—the boy and his dog—whimpered and shivered uncontrollably, trapped in the memories of blood-chilling times, almost a century ago. They were aboard that heaven-cursed ship, the Flying Dutchman. Ploughing the storm-ravaged oceans at the world’s end, off the coast of Tierra del Fuego, southernmost tip of the vast Americas. Sounds of roaring seas thundering upon rock and reef assailed their minds. Ice hung thick from the shattered masts and torn sails. Dead men danced aloft, their bodies swaying as they dangled amid the tangled rigging. Like a thunderbolt, a fearsome visage confronted them. Vanderdecken, the mad captain of the doomed vessel! Hellfire blazed from his bloodshot eyes, salt crusted his frozen beard and wild locks. Baring frostbitten lips, he exposed yellowed, tombstone-like teeth, bellowing at Ben and Ned.

“Ye will sail with me into eternity! Forever, across the mighty wastes of seas and oceans! Never will ye know rest, peace, or happiness with me and my fated crew! I am Vanderdecken, chased by the Hounds of Hell! Driven endlessly by the Almighty God, whom I cursed in my wrath! Condemned by His angel’s command!”

His heavy hand slapped Ben’s face, again and again. The boy woke to find not an apparition, but a man, striking his cheeks. Ben understood his words, he was shouting in Arabic.

“This one is alive, see! Cast that black beast into the sea, Mahmud. Shaitan¹ himself dwells in such creatures!”

As weak as he was, Ben strove upward, hitting out at the fellow and shouting, “Leave the dog alone, he is mine!”

However, he got no further. Wielding an oar, the one called Mahmud hit Ben from behind, laying him out senseless. Ned was flung, snapping and biting, into the sea. The two men left Ben lying in the small boat. Scrambling back aboard their own larger craft, they tied the little vessel in tow and rowed off into the night, shouting insults at the dog floundering in their wake.

“Drown, ye beast of ill fortune! See, Nassar, that thing almost bit off my thumb!”

Nassar spat in the direction of Ned. “May the sharks feed from its accursed body! Look at my chest, I’m scratched almost to the bone!”

The black Labrador trod water, frantically sending out mental communications to the boy. “Ben! Have they hurt you, are you injured, Ben?”

Unfortunately, Ben was lost in the black pit of unconsciousness, unable to answer his faithful friend.

Both boats were soon lost in the Mediterranean darkness, but Ned swam stubbornly on, still trying to reach his master.

“Ben! Ben! Answer me, are you alright?”