Voyage of Slaves

2

TWO DAYS LATER. TOKRA, A SETTLEMENT OFF THE COAST OF LIBYA, NOT FAR FROM BENGHAZI.

BEN GAGGED AND CHOKED AS HE TRIED to gulp down water from the gourd that Nassar was holding to his mouth. The man judged that his captive had drunk enough. He struck at the boy’s hands with a cane, loosening them from the gourd. Without a word, he shouldered the water carrier and hurried out of the mean hovel, securing the door from outside. It was a stable, or a pen for animals of some kind. Ben was shackled by his left ankle to an iron ring in the wall. He crawled as far as the short chain would allow, not quite reaching the door, but able to see through a rift between the wooden slats.

Outside was a fat woman clad in dark robes, cooking fish over a fire. Ben’s stomach grumbled as he sniffed the odour of food. Nassar set the gourd down and sat beside the woman as Mahmud came to join them. Mahmud stirred a pot of maize meal porridge which was resting close to the flames, enquiring of Nassar, “Did you give the infidel something to eat?”

His companion snorted. “I gave him enough water to keep life in him. Let Bomba feed him once he is off our hands.”

The woman turned the sizzling fish on its spit, nodding. “Aye, there is barely enough for us to eat.”

Nassar kicked her half-heartedly. “Keep your mouth out of this and attend to our meal!” Taking a shallow earthen bowl, he slopped maize meal into it. “Here, take this to him, Mahmud. He must live. Bomba is not permitted to buy dead flesh.

Ben shuffled back from the door as Mahmud entered. He placed the bowl alongside the boy, uttering a single word. “Eat!”

Ben dipped his fingers in, scooping the mush into his mouth. He looked up at Mahmud. “You are going to sell me. To whom?”

Mahmud brushed a fly from his eyebrow. “Where did you learn to speak our tongue?”

The towheaded boy shrugged. “I don’t remember. You have no right to sell another human being.”

Mahmud walked away, turning in the doorway. “One more word from you, spawn of a chattering parrot, and I will cast you back into the sea as I did your dog!”

Mention of Ned cast Ben back into unhappy despair. Hungry though he was, he kicked the food aside and sat there with tears welling in his eyes. All the mental messages he had sent out to his dog since regaining consciousness were to no avail. Ned had not answered.

Ben began to call upon the only other being he knew, the angel who had guided all his and his faithful hound’s wanderings. He strove in thought to reach his guardian. “Please hear me, O Messenger of the Lord, Ned is my only friend in this world. Let me know, where is he, does my dog still live?” The boy lay back amid the straw-strewn sand and fell into a weary slumber.

Gradually a soft, golden light filtered through his mind, followed by a gentle voice from afar. “Do not shed tears for the creature who lives, ye will meet again. Save thy tears for the fall of the Dark Angel!”

The dream faded, and Ben slept on, not knowing or caring who the Dark Angel could be. Without Ned at his side, the boy felt a huge, leaden weight of loneliness within him. Ned was everything to Ben, friend, confidant, comforter and constant companion. No mere human being could take the place of his faithful Labrador. They had been together through many years, and countless adventures, across oceans, seas and continents. Surviving perils and enduring hard times, sharing the happiness and laughter of good and peaceful days, twin hearts, bonded by mutual respect and affection.

The hot dawn light of another dusty day seeped through the door slats. Ben was wakened by the braying of mules and the creak of cart wheels. Mahmud and Nassar unbarred the door. Unlocking the boy’s leg shackle, they hustled him out into the sunlight. Not far from the woman’s cooking fire stood a big wagon, with four mules harnessed to it. The conveyance was like a solid wooden shack on wheels.

From a door at the rear of the wagon a man emerged. He was a tall, well-built fellow, but running to fat; a broad, leather belt supported his loose, baggy pantaloons. He also wore a short, sleeveless bolero jacket, and a close-fitting skullcap. In one hand he carried a supple quirt, made of cane and bound with plaited strips of leather. Nassar and Mahmud approached him respectfully. He stared at Ben, addressing the pair without looking at them.

“So, is this little bag of bones all you have for me?”

Mahmud was the spokesman of the two. He clasped his hands and bowed his head slightly. “The boy is a blue-eyed infidel, valuable merchandise, Bomba, my friend. He would bring a good price on the block at Tripoli!”

Bomba’s substantial stomach quivered as he gave a snort. “Hah! This worthless camel’s offal, have you no others to show me but him, you sons of the misbegotten?”

However, Mahmud could see that Bomba was interested in the boy, otherwise he would not be scrutinising him so keenly. He replied in an offended manner.

“Bomba my friend, why do you insult us thus? Here, look!” Still holding the chain and leg manacle, he swung it at Ben’s ankles. The boy jumped smartly, avoiding the chain. Mahmud spread his arms, as though justified.

“See, my friend, he is swift and healthy. Take a look at him for yourself!”

Bomba seized Ben’s arm in a powerful grip, pushing the captive’s chin upward with his quirt. “Let me see your teeth, infidel brat!”

Ben tried to pull away from the slave trader, but the big man growled warningly, “Be still, little sand flea, or I will snap your arm like a twig. Show your teeth!”

Drawing back his lips, Ben snarled out, unafraid, “You have no right to take a free man into slavery!”

Bomba exerted more force on his victim’s arm, laughing. “He speaks our language, boldly, too? Listen to Bomba, O mouse of misfortune. The life of an obedient slave can be good, but the life of an insolent one is always painful and short. Mahmud, I will take this one!” Bomba took a purse from his belt and shook out a number of thin gold coins into Mahmud’s outstretched palm.

The Arab looked witheringly at the woefully small pile. “You insult me, my friend. I have thrown more than this into the bowl of a beggar who sits in Benghazi marketplace!”

Bomba scoffed. “Then be a little more careful with thy charity to beggars. That is my price, take it or leave it!”

Nassar piped up indignantly. “But the infidel boy will fetch ten, nay, twenty times that amount on the block in Tripoli!”

Bomba tapped the Arab’s chest with his quirt. “But this one is not going to the block. Al Misurata is taking him, and others, as cargo aboard the Sea Djinn.”

Mahmud made a signed gesture with his index and little finger, to ward off evil. His voice was hushed with awe. “Al Misurata!”

Bomba nodded. “Aye, the very same. If you have any complaints about the price I paid you, then ye are free to take the matter up with him.”

Mahmud backed off, bowing as he went. “We have no complaints. It is always a pleasure doing business with thee, my friend.”

The big man narrowed his eyes contemptuously. “Snake of the dunes, ye are no friend of mine!”

Lifting Ben by one arm, he flung him inside the wagon and locked the door. Climbing up onto the driving seat, he nodded at the old man holding the reins. “Get me away from this fleabound doorway to Eblis!”²

As the wagon trundled off, the woman tending the fire remarked, almost to herself, “So, it was Al Misurata’s coin that bought the boy.”

Mahmud kicked her away from the fire. “Silence, O brainless one, forget ye ever heard that name!”