The Colebridge Covenant

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THE COLBRIDGE COVENANT

P J SEARLE

Spring 1822:

When a man has loved and lost, truly loved unequivocally lost, nothing from that moment can ever satisfy. No taste, fragrance or vista viewed, nor senses heightened by the arts: the painted picture, the sculpture, or the symphony can ever fulfill as before. Subsequently what small joys salvaged from this vestige existence can be but ephemeral, and only by accepting its bitter terms can life resume. But here lay the rub, this flotsam life may prove a living purgatory; one fleeting dream has the power to poison sleep, one wand’ring thought the power to pollute the waking day. Life, however, has the instinct to endure. And if this remnant existence is, by some unsolicited force, placed in jeopardy it will with amazement fight back and so find new spirit, as I, thank the living Gods, [peace and blessings unto them] can testify.

Rupert Mansie

Chapter 1

SPANISH SAHARA – 1815

TheSirocco’thou dread’st ambassador sent from Hell to Heaven’ isan ill wind that breathes its unabated breath from the Sahara Desert into northern Africa and to Italy, and then continues ever onwards, picking up moisture over the Mediterranean Sea, thus becoming unbearably humid, causing a front of low pressure that persists eastwards and on to southern domains. In Egypt they call it the Khamseen, the same word for fifty, as it is said there to blow for fifty days.

But here in the Sahara, the wind’s origin, it was intolerably arid, and the ensuing shimmering air now gave mazy motion to the little caravan of a dozen or so bedraggled camels, ships of the desert, inviting them to dance a phantom jigslowly across the sunbaked dunes. To the unaccustomed eye it could appear a picturesque scene––pasteboard cutouts set against the backdrop of a child’s toy theatre. Alas here the similarity ended; this was stark, brutal reality.

Above the sound of the dry wind came a low menacing growl, barely audible to the human senses. Contrariwise this noise did managed to prick the ears of the lead camel and the ugly beast now sensed danger. Some hellish predator stalking its prey, awaiting the opportunity to satisfy its compulsive bloodlust; a straggling camel, a child, man or woman, it made little difference for the tantalising scent of living flesh hung heavily in the hot air.

Mercifully twilight approached and the sun conceded, and as the crimson disc began its farewell bow into the dunes the impoverished caravan stopped. A cluster of dirt-coloured tents were hurriedly pitched and as many fires started, warmth against the oncoming freezing night, but mainly for security, safety against that which was ever-present in the darkness. Another growl had the camel baying and spitting in fear.

Once settled, the group went about their many tasks. Dry, gnarled hands of a tribeswoman busied beneath a tethered camel, milking the beast into an earthenware jug. These same hands now slipped a sharpened slither of goose quill through the skin of the animal’s leg and into a vein, allowing the rich blood to run freely into the half full jug of milk, layering buoyant, scarlet spirals onto the creamy fluid. The woman swirled the jug vigorously mixing the contents into a pink coagulating paste, at the same time staunching the flow of blood from the punctured vein with a rough pinch of her fingers. The animal now startled as the woman seared the hair and skin around the wound with a burning ember taken from the fire. She drank deeply from the jug showing neither pleasure nor distaste; this was life to her, no more, no less. She wiped her mouth and passed the jug on to a waiting child, who drank and passed it on to the others of the tribe.

After their share of the evening meal the men gathered together to prostrate themselves in prayer, leaving the women to tend their children. The mothers, after finishing their duties, joined the older women around the largest of the fires and began to chant. One of them produced a bundle of rags, and from it caringly unwrapped the tiny corpse of a child, at which the wailing rose and reached crescendo.

Two days previous this dead child, in life, had been playing in the evening twilight. He’d wandered from the group firing arrows from his little bow, and as the sun receded he continued his play in the light of the rising moon. His mother had, that day, attached ribbons to his arrows. The boy found great pleasure in watching spellbound as they flew through the air, the tapes fluttering in the light breeze and catching the silvery moonlight. Suddenly, as he ran to retrieve an arrow, he had been whisked up in a flurry of sand and pounding hoof-beats. When the dust settled the child was gone and in its place, just visible in the moonlight, a horseman now galloped. Moments later, in a swirl of dust, the child’s lifeless body had been dumped pitilessly onto the sand, the raider disappearing into the darkness of the desert.

It was with forlorn hope that the mother had rushed to the child, lifted the tiny body and held it to her. Then, on accepting the child was dead, her eyes filled with tears and she shrieked out a pitiful lament, wailing into the blackness. This she continued through the night and on into the next morning, and long into the coming day. It had been with great difficulty and much persistence that the other women had been able to persuade the mother to let them take the child’s body––in the desert heat the tiny corpse had already begun to corrupt––to which the grieving parent at length succumbed.

Now, in the last rays of the setting sun, the women prepared the child for burial. They wailed and trilled their tongues as they symbolically washed the body with sand in place of precious water. The distraught mother dusted away the blooded sand from the many tiny bites that covered the pathetic body. One massive wound, where it appeared the very heart had been ripped out, stubbornly refused to give up the congealed dried blood, and remained clogged. Finally the chanting, on reaching crescendo once more, abruptly stopped and the child’s body was interred into the sand.

Canterbury, England– 1822: In contrasting tranquility the magnificent country estate overlooking the River Stour stood majestic in the verdant Kent countryside. A colonnade of cedar trees ushered the way to the great marble-pillared portico of Tartarus, the once family home of Lord and Lady Colebridge. Inside this palatial mansion a solitary figure walked the dark, picture-lined corridors. His gait had the slow and deliberate tread of unwelcome duty, a journey of obligation, one that could no longer be postponed. His mind was in turmoil as he entered the great library. Once inside and settled at the reading desk he was immediately lost to the darkness of his thoughts. He sat hunched as if his body lacked the will or strength for support, his lined and haggard face defying his mere thirty years. This man was in torment. His eyes remained fixed, staring at the papers set in front of him. Distant voices and images invaded his unwilling mind demanding attention. Finally, he broke their hold, took up his quill and, though his eyes filled with tears, began to write:

–––I, Rupert Mansie, sole remaining member of Mansie & Mansie, solicitors of London since the year of our Lord 1750, write this epitome by way of preface to a collection of my own notes, which together I will entitle, ‘The Colebridge Covenant.’

At the time my chronicle begins I was junior partner to my late uncle, Leo Mansie, in the afore-mentioned company. My client being Lady Colebridge, my beloved Abigail––

Rupert pausedand looked into the distance, letting the quill idly run through his fingers as he reminisced. He pinched his eyes, hard to the point of pain, his finger and thumb pushing away the tears and with them the troublesome recurring memories. Once more he returned to his writing, speaking out loud the name he wrote: ‘Abigail, dear, beloved Abigail.’ For a moment he allowed his thoughts to transport him back to happier times. In his mind’s eye he was audience to a collage of memories: – Lady Abigail Colebridge walking alone in the magnificent gardens of Tartarus – now hand-in-hand with her four-year-old son, Horace – and now Rupert’s very first sight of Abigail, at a masquerade ball. He pinched his eyes once more, forcing the images away, and after sighing deeply continued writing:

–––Abigail was so beautiful, Horace was beautiful, she, her son, the garden, the house, everything, beautiful. A rare beauty that would… did, I do believe, evoke the very Gods to envy.

She was in her thirtieth year, and I, a mere gangling, clumsy youth. But even then, as I first laid eyes on this divine creature, I knew her image would stay with me until my dying day. My guardian, my uncle Leo, was to introduce me at a classical-themed banquet, of which Lady Abigail was hostess. She sat at the head of the great table, majestic as the goddess Persephone, dressed in a beautiful silken gown and golden mask. Her husband, Lord Travillion Colebridge, ten years her senior, was dressed as Hades. Together the pair depicted the rulers of the underworld, namesake of their magnificent mansion, Tartarus. They and the four other couples, also dressed as ancient deities, conjured a spectacular image for my young, inexperienced eyes––

Now imbuedin reminiscence, Rupert found himself unable to stop the memories flooding back; a chasm of nostalgia opened before him. He was compelled to close his eyes and relive, in full, that first meeting: His first sight of beautiful Abigail, she removing her mask and turning to greet her summoned guests. A servant had ushered in a fat jovial old man, Leo Mansie, who proudly led Rupert, then an embarrassed youth of fourteen. As they were announced the old man forced Rupert forward.

‘The Gods be praised, Lady Abigail,’ said the old man theatrically raising his hands as in adoration, ‘you truly look divine.’ He then thrust Rupert further forward. Abigail returned the smile and waved her hand for him to continue, which the old sage did with great relish. ‘Allow me to introduce my nephew, Rupert. If he fits my shoes, he will fill them when I retire. He is to serve your Ladyship whilst your husband travels.’ Abigail smiled again, this time trying to catch the nervous youth’s eye. ‘That is, of course,’ Leo continued, ‘if your Ladyship finds him agreeable and satisfactory.’

Abigail studied the young man, tipping her head from side to side. She placed a maternal finger under his chin and gazed into his eyes. Lord Travillion removed his mask and leaned towards the youth, purposely obscuring his wife’s view.

‘So you are Rupert,’ he said in affected, stern voice, ‘Such a handsome youth, I wonder if it be prudent I leave at all.’

Abigail shushed her husband’s light-hearted teasing and turned back to the now scarlet-faced youth. ‘Such a fine young man, so solemn, so... pretty, most satisfactory. Speak, Rupert; shall you serve me well whilst my husband philanders away his time in Africa?’ She glanced over her shoulder to her husband, and then turned back to Rupert. But he was too embarrassed to answer. Abigail removed her hand from his chin and gently stroked his cheek. She smiled and continued. ‘I am sure that you will, and I look forward to many years of your company, as indeed does little Horace. Perhaps his Lordship will become jealous and decide not to leave us too long alone together.’ She smiled at her husband, but there was a hint of genuine anxiety in the gesture. Lord Travillion was about to answer but she cut him short, continuing to Rupert. ‘Take some wine, Rupert.’

‘Wine?’exclaimed Lord Travillian, ‘Young men drink beer, not wine. In Zambesi–’

’What are you talking about, we have no ‘beer.’ Beer has not been brewed here for two generations’

’Then it should be. When I return from Africa we must start brewing again. In Zambesi beer is brewed and drunk when just two days old, and, as it begins to spoil in a few days, the brewers are forced to consume the whole amount within that time. Hence, a bout of drinking is almost a necessity among such people. When a rich chieftain – like the hero of Burn’s poem, ‘brew’d a peck o’ maut’ – he issues an invitation to his tribe, the assembled company drink, and dance, but especially drink,and get drunk until the whole is finished. After which they go back to their houses not much, if anything, the worse for their beery debauch.’

‘That may be how it is in Zambesi. Is this what you will be doing on your travels, husband?’

Lord Travillion theatrically pondered for a few moments. ‘Yes, probably,’ he said at length, giving a wry smile, ’It is not politic to decline, the natives are much offended if you refuse their hospitality. One noted bibulous chieftain never went on a journey without a good supply of the native beer to refresh himself on the way, taverns being unknown in Obbo land. Horses were also equally absent. Accordingly, when Katechiba, the magnate in question, travelled from one place to another he rode upon the back of a strong and very loyal subject, precisely as children ride, pick-a-back. Two or three loosemen always accompanied him as, escorts, guides, and as spare ponies. At the same time one of his wives, like a dusky Hebe, ran alongside of her lord bearing a huge jar of beer, to which he ever and anon applied himself, so frequently indeed that, unless the Obbo scandal belied him, towards the end of the journey he had to be carried not by one man but by two men.’

Abigail turned from her husband, back to Rupert. ‘Take no heed, my husband is an anthropologist and travels the world studying the savage native customs, some of their savagery rubs off on him,’ Lord Travillion smiled again, Abigail did not smile back. ‘Take some wine, Rupert, then off to your bed. We must allow Morpheus to preservethose handsome features.’

A guest dressed as the divinity Morpheus, god of sleep, stood dramatically and bowed, addressing Rupert as he handed him a full glass of red wine.

‘Young man,’ he boomed in theatrical voice, ‘your mistress commands you drink, and I, Morpheus, command you sleep. Sleep well and dream well. He, who loveth best, dreameth best. Sleep Rupert, wrapped in the cloak of Morpheus, sleep perchance to dream; dream of your beautiful mistress and of this magnificent house, Tartarus, where the Gods enslave, the unbaptised, the fallen angel, and the hearts of handsome young men.’

Rupert, blushing profusely, took and sipped the wine as ordered, and was then prompted to return the bow, doing so on his uncle’s second nudge. After which he was mercifully led away.

Chapter 2

Abigail, now dressed in mourning black, sat at an ornate writing desk; its gilt-edged green leather top was littered with ledgers and papers. Her forlorn face studied the unruly pile for an age, hardly knowing where to begin. Rupert entered and stood at the doorway. He remained for a few moments watching her, wishing he could go to her, grab her up in his arms and smother her sad face with… he dared not think more, even now his pulse was racing. He composed himself, then went and stood beside her at the desk. She smiled. He bowed, took the papers from the desk and began to arrange them into order.

‘Rupert, dear Rupert, always here to guide me. What will I do when you are gone?’

‘Gone.’ he gasped, ‘You’re sending me away?’ the papers falling through his fingers in shock, ‘I won’t go. I won’t.’

‘No, silly boy, I’m not sending you away. However, you must eventually think of leaving; you seem all but consumed by this place. Tartarus is no place for a handsome young man. You should be among pretty young people of your own age.’

‘Never. I will never leave. Even if death were to part us, still I would not leave. I shall always be here for you, in flesh or spirit.’ She put a finger to his lips to stop him. He turned his head away and snatched up the small bible lying on the desk. Holding it in both hands he continued. ‘You have been tested as Ezekiel was tested. The things you most loved were taken from you, yet you endure where a lesser heart would yield. I take my inspiration from you. You are the pattern for my very being–’

‘Enough,’ she cried out, laughing weakly and putting her hands over her ears, ‘I fear I blush. Your flattery makes me light-headed.’ Her laughter lasted a mere second, and then it faded.

‘But it is true,’ Rupert insisted. ‘Every word is true.’

‘No. No more.’ She took the bible from him and kissed it, then put it down. ‘As you say, I endure – what else is there? Just the hope that he lives and will someday return; that, or I join them both in heaven.’

Rupert gasped and grabbed her hand in horror. ‘Not that.’ he cried out pitifully. ‘Please, not that. God must surely hold some salvation. You will find someone or something to care for: The estate, never was it more beautiful, more prosperous.’

Abigail gently took her hand from his grasp and held it to his cheek. ‘It is my obligation, Rupert, nothing more.’

‘No, it is much more than that. You are beloved by your tenants. As God made Ezekiel the Watchman, so he has done with your Ladyship. You care more for them than the land itself. Surely God will reward your charity. Please, talk no more of death.’

She sighed then forced a bitter smile ‘I will not talk of it again, but now I must rest.’

The sun had given way to evening. Abigail now lay sleeping in her candlelit bedchamber, her breast hardly rising, as if the effort to breathe were hardly worth the trouble. She looked cadaverous white – Abigail was on her deathbed.

After a few moments she opened her eyes, her lips moved and she tried to speak. Rupert, sitting beside her bed, leaned forward to catch her fragile voice:

‘Dear Rupert, please don’t be sad. All that I treasure in life has gone before me; my hopes, my dreams are all in heaven now, waiting for me. I have tried, but I am so weary, surely I have suffered enough. Try to be happy for me.’ He started to answer but she placed a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Shush, now, no more. I shall sleep awhile. Please stay with me.’

He took her hand from his lips and kissed it, and by the time he placed it by her side, she had slipped into a deep sleep. He stood watching for what seemed an age. Through tear-flooded eyes, he could no longer tell if she breathed or not. A hand placed gently onto his shoulder. Rupert rose and stepped away.

The physician, taking Rupert’s place at the bedside, held a small mirror to Abigail’s face. The aged family retainer adjusted his spectacles, sighed deeply as he studied the glass. The desired response had not come; the glass remained clear. He bowed his head in reverence, stepped back and placed the top sheet of the bed gently over her face. Rupert put his hand to his mouth to stop himself from crying out. The old man put away the glass. He stood for a few moments then with a woeful look turned and bowed, picked up his instrument case and left the room. Rupert dropped to his knees and wept.

Night came and passed. Rupert, in the absence of any family, took the funeral arrangements task upon himself, even to laying Abigail’s body into the coffin with his own hands, much at odds with the funeral attendants; he could not allow another hand to touch her.

Huge circular eyes rolled in the massive ebony head. The horse reared up, its partner yoked beside it reared in unison. This magnificent team and equally magnificent hearse waited nervously outside the flint-clad church. Again the driver had to control the unruly team. What could it be, he wondered, that disturbed the animals so? They’d been troublesome the whole journey, from the house to the chapel, only calming when the coffin was removed to the church for the service. It was embarrassing and a blow to his pride. His team was normally most placid. But now they were uneasy again. What seemed to disturb them was the now-approaching coffin, borne from the church by four pallbearers; Rupert at its far corner.

As the casket came nearer the horses reared again, ruffling the black plumes mounted on the top of their heads. The coffin passed by and was gently laid upon the wooden struts across the open grave. Only after this did the animals calm.

Rupert took his place among the mourners. Through his tears he gazed upon the grave’s monument––a grey granite plinth on top of which a magnificent marble angel depicting the beautifully carved features of Abigail. Her arms outstretched in classical pose, and with flowing gown resembling that of the Goddess Persephone, as portrayed that very first time he’d seen her at the Classical banquet so long ago. As he studied the statue’s gothic beauty he faltered and swayed, yet still held the face in his vision. It seemed to him to slip in and out of focus. What was white cold marble, now seemed white cold flesh. And as the focus fluctuated, dulling and sharpening, the statue appeared to open its eyes. Abigail, through the blur of his tears, appeared to descend the granite plinth and float towards him.

She offered her hand as to lead him through the oblivious mourners. No word did she speak, only pleaded with her eyes for him to follow. But as he moved towards her the image faded. He faltered again and fell backward in a faint. A fellow mourner caught him and held him steady.

These memories now proving unbearable, Rupert reluctantly covered his eyes and forced, to the point of pain, the disturbing images from his brain. He gave no heed to the quill that he still held fast in his right hand, which now dribbled ink down his fingers and onto the leather desk in front of him. After a few moments the wet, coldness of the indigo fluid lifted him back to reality. He blotted up the ink from his desk and continued writing:

–––In those days Abigail was the brightest star in my firmament, she alas, now deceased. The death certificate prosaically attributing consumption – phthisis. A more poetic prognosis surely would say ‘broken heart’ – In the midst of life, she was tragically taken.

I was not yet twenty-one, some fifteen years her junior. And I must say immediately – for nothing is to be held back – that I loved her. Let there be no doubt, I do indeed mean love, physical love; I desired her and hoped that one day she might requite that love. Though no word was ever said of it, I do believe she was aware of my feelings. But there was little room left in that fragile being for another love, for she had lost the two joys of her life: Her only son, Horace, drowned some seven years earlier, and now her Lord and husband on whom she doted, also dead.

Together with her son, she had journeyed to that ‘Dark Continent’, Africa, to rendezvous with his Lordship. Lord Travillion, being an anthropologist, was conducting research into the life and journeys of Alexander and of the many tribes and peoples he encountered in Africa. They were to stay at the Colebridge ancestral home in Morocco, where they would celebrate Horace’s fifth birthday, after which she and Horace would return to England and leave his Lordship to his journeying. On that inauspicious day, his Lordship had taken the boy on a river trip excursion. There was a tragic accident and the boy perished. Abigail and her husband were so devastated neither could console the other. To say they endured a piteous existence would be a gross understatement; it was a silent purgatory, his Lordship taking the full blame upon himself––

Rupert placedthe quill down; he could no longer see the paper through his tears. He got up, slowly crossed the room to the window and there stood looking out across the river. It seemed so serene and quiet, so unaffected by the heartbreak and misery, so enduringly beautiful. He remained for a few moments, lost in its consuming splendor. On breathing a pitiful sigh, he wiped his tearful eyes and returned to the desk to resume his task:

––And so Abigail returned to England alone, for Lord Travillion had vowed not to leave until that cursed river gave up its dead. He would reclaim his son’s body or join it on the riverbed. As they could find no consolation in each other’s company, separation seemed expedient. That was seven years ago, since then no word had been heard from his Lordship. Subsequently, three months ago he was declared officially, legally deceased, in absentia, and his entire estate fell to Abigail. This adjudication was the final blow. From that moment on she seemed to lose the will to live, and so succumbed to the ill health that had plagued her since the death of her son.

I say no word was heard of Lord Travillion; this was so until just two weeks after Abigail’s demise – how cruel life is. An explorer, on returning from Africa, published an account of his travels in the Annual Register, telling of meandering tribes of Arabs and Moors that wandered aimlessly through that sad, Godless waste. This gentleman had purchased camels from a group of these nomadic people. They, in the course of their bartering, had spoken of an Englishman who was their lord and master: one Don Travion, or as some had called him, ‘Travion Pasha.’ I later met with this traveller, Lord Palgrave, a large bumptious man to whom I took an instant dislike. Although he himself had not met with this Travion Pasha, he seemed convinced that the man was indeed, Lord Travillion Colebridge. I, myself, could not but doubt, it seeming so ill-timed for he to be discovered. But Palgrave was so adamant I had to take note of the odious man––

An attendant servanthad ushered Rupert into the palatial smoking rooms of The Explorers’ Club, 100 Grey’s Inn Road, London; a magnificent building of Tudor origin. Lord Palgrave stood majestic, with a brandy glass cupped in his hand. Rupert was cordially introduced, after which the servant left. Lord Palgrave, after theatrically clearing his throat, spoke off-hand in condescending superior manner, blankly staring somewhere between Rupert’s head and the ornately painted ceiling.

‘These tribesmen that you wish to hear of, Sir,’ he began, haughtily, ‘held Lord Travillion in such high esteem, such reverence, that this man was as a king to them... Nay, a God. Demi-God at least, what?’ He coughed again, swilled the brandy vapour beneath his nose, and then drank it off in a single mouthful. Without word he gestured to a waiter for another, and then continued. ‘And that, Sir, is what I can tell of it – Will you take some refreshment?’

Rupert shook his head. He was anxious for Lord Palgrave to continue.

‘No, thank you your Lordship. But may I press you further: did these herdsmen describe this Travion Pasha?’

Lord Palgrave was visibly infuriated by Rupert’s boldness. He flushed with anger and was about to hurl his answer when the waiter entered with his brandy. He snatched the drink and without word of thanks quickly dispatched it, again in a single swallow. He turned back to Rupert, his anger refuelled.

’Describe,Sir. Have I not just told you? Were you not listening? He was ‘described’, if you will have it, as a God. Do you think these lowly scavengers were allowed to look upon a God? To mention his very name sent the fear of damnation into them – Do you want more?’

Rupert was about to answer. Lord Palgrave spoke over him.

’Then let me tell you, Sir, of these Bedouin: they are nomad, their main reliance is plunder and pillage, their very name signifies ‘men of the wilderness’ whose hands are against every man, and against whom is every man. Without houses, or cultivated lands, living on plunder or the milk and blood of their camels, and trusting to their horses and dromedaries for safety or the convenience of travel, they can have little desire to accumulate property, which would only mean encumbrance to them.

The Bedouin does not fight for his home – he has none, nor for his country – that is anywhere, nor for honour – he never heard of it, nor for his religion – he owns and cares for none. His only object in war is temporary occupation of some miserable bit of pasture land, or the use of a brackish well, perhaps the desire to get such a one’s horse or camel into his own possession. He is a robber – but not brutal, and removed altogether from the vulgar herd of highway thieves by the fact that it is not through avarice that he steals, nor is he aware that he is doing anything at all worthy of punishment, at all events of moral disapprobation. He will waylay the solitary traveller, or whomsoever he can lay hands on with safety, deprive him of his goods and valuables, and then entertain him hospitably, and with certain degree of courtesy in his rude tent, give him of the best he has. He will clothe him so far as he can afford to part with any of the traveller’s wardrobe, and send him on the morrow on his way.

The unresisting traveller is rarely or never murdered. ‘Why should he murder him?’ the Bedouin asks. He has no enmity to the man. Allah is good, and throws him in his way, and accordingly, he looks upon the desert waif whom he has robbed in much the same light as the old women from the coast of Cornwall used to thank providence for the goodness whenever a homeward-bound tea-laden East Indiaman was wrecked on their shores.’

Lord Palgrave stopped and took a deep breath, glared at Rupert, then continued, hurling his words, ’They would not understand the concept of the word ‘describe.’ Will that do, Sir?’

Rupert was desperate to glean any morsel of additional information. He was so close yet it seemed so far; he dared to press Lord Palgrave still further.

‘I beg pardon, Sir, if I appear inattentive, but I assure you I hang on your every word. I am desperate for information regarding this Travion Pasha, of whom I hope to be my client, Lord Travillion Colebridge. Was there a word concerning his age, stature or the sound of his voice?’

Lord Palgrave’s face was now puce with rage and alcohol. He spat his words at Rupert. ’You have read my report, Sir. Are you suggesting I have been less than literate?’

‘No, no. I beg your lordship’s indulgence,’ pleaded Rupert, ‘I have to find this Travion Pasha – I have to travel to Africa.’

Lord Palgrave gaped in shock at these words. ‘You, Sir. God’s teeth.’ He placed his glass down on the table, theatrically indicating that, in his astonishment, to have held it longer he would have dropped it, ‘Africa is no place for a... a codling the likes of you. Indeed, no Sir.’ With that, he turned and marched abruptly from the room without further word.

Chapter 3

Rupert opened his eyesas if waking from a dream, and stared at the desk in front of him. Again he picked up his quill and stirred it thoughtfully into the inkwell. It was some few moments before his conscious thoughts came back to him and he felt able to return to his writing:

–––If Lord Travillion be truly deceased there was now no heir to inherit. In consequence, the entire Colebridge Estate would revert to the Crown and Mansie and Mansie would lose its largest client. I was instructed by my uncle to venture forth into that Godless continent with the sole purpose to seek out his Lordship, bring him the sad news of his wife’s demise and reunite him with his estate. I must say now, I had no heart in the task and hoped upon hope that I would not succeed, because if Lord Travillion lived I cared nothing for him, as he had cared nothing for Abigail, or he would not have left her to die alone. I told my uncle so, but he would not let the subject lie–––

The good offices of Mansie & Mansiewere dim and functional, nothing was there that did not need to be there. No picture, statue, nor ornament of any kind that might distract from the solemn business of law. Rupert rolled his eyes in tedium as Leo pointed out in detail the necessity of the task to which he had been appointed.

‘You must see the sense of it, Nephew. You are the last of us––without you and the Colebridge estate to run, Mansie and Mansie will cease to be. You must go for the Company’s sake. You simply must.’

‘But WHY?’ Rupert had raised his voice; he had not meant to, and he continued in softer vein, ‘But why? What remains now, now that she is gone? What point to it? Why do you still insist to carry on, you are killing yourself, Uncle, for what?’

Leo smiled, interpreting his nephew’s tone of voice as concession. He drew a square in the air with his fingers, as to imply a nameplate.

‘A name,’ said the old man, ‘Just a name.’

Rupert shrugged. ‘What’s in a name? Mansie & Mansie, what of it?’

The old man took Rupert’s arm and led him to his desk, piled high to overflowing with ledgers and papers.

’You say ‘what of it?’ His hand gently graced the piles of paper, ‘Not much, just that where should be bundles of grandchildren, lay bundles of documents. These papers are, wife, lover, and issue to me.’ Leo looked at his nephew, trying to hold him in a stare. Rupert lowered his eyes. The old man smiled ruefully and continued. ‘But I have little regret, Nephew. And despite your present humour, I know that you love the name as much as I.’

Rupert gently placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘You see more, Uncle, with your tired old eyes than I see myself. I will go, but if I find him I will damn him to his face.’

With these words, Rupert made ready to leave. Leo sighed and walked him to the door. ‘Go, Nephew, go find Lord Travillion, and if it pleases God, may you find yourself.’ Rupert forced a parting smile and slowly walked out. The old man gently closed the door behind him.

Rupert laid the quill on the inkwell rest. From a drawer in the great oak desk he removed an old leather-bound journal. He undid the cord holding its phial of ink and quill, opened it and fanned through it. As the tattered pages fluttered before his eyes a thousand delights and a thousand horrors flashed into his mind. On reaching the end he turned back to the beginning and taking up his pen prepared to copy the faded pages into a pristine ledger.

–––Yes, I would go. I would seek as instructed, seek and return, duty done. Here ends this prologue – So my notes begin:

First entry: 24th day of August 1815–

With God’s grace, I leave on tomorrow’s tide for Africa aboard the brig, The Venture. And, although I expect no conclusion, I intend to keep this personal journal as epitaph to my unrequited affair of the heart with my beloved Abigail, whose memory still causes the blood in my veins to rush–––

Rupert’s restricted viewthrough the grimy glass casement offered just a glimpse of tall masts above the stack of smoking chimneys. He stood at the window of his dingy room in the Greenwich coach-house, looking out over the old dark houses and anchored ships. It was a small room, affording a single chair, a bed and a small writing table, at which Rupert now retired. He sat staring at a small gold-framed silhouette of Abigail. He sighed, placed the picture beside his open notebook, took up his pen and continued his narrative:

–––Tonight I stay at Greenwich, the Spread Eagle Inn. My room is dark and damp and the service disagreeable. The room is also very dusty, so much so I have resolved not to sleep in the filthy bed, but to lay fully clothed on top of it, and so expect to sleep a fitful night–––

He stretched his arms, yawned and put down his pen, blotted the page of his notebook, sighed again then lay upon the top of his bed. No sooner had his head touched the pillow, he fell asleep. His sleeping eyes moved rapidly beneath the lids as he entered troubled dream-sleep. Suddenly his eyes sprang open; there was the sound of a moth flapping against the windowpane.

–––I was awakened by a strange noise. There, in the moonlight, a macabre drama played out before my eyes. A beautiful moth, beating its wings against the window, had disturbed me. Attracted by the light of the full moon, it constantly rammed at the glass as if it would smash it and so escape. But now it had blundered into a great cobweb. The moth flapped and struggled but the web would not yield. Then, from the depths of the shadows, the spider emerged fat and gorged from its compulsive ravenous appetite. It showed no mercy and struck with lightning speed, paralysing its prey with a single bite. It then wound the pitiful creature into a shroud of silken strands and proceeded to leisurely suck the life from it.

After its disgusting meal, the spider discarded the empty husk letting it fall unwanted into my water-jug. This so revolted and enraged me that I stood up, took up my shoe and crushed the spider to the wall. I immediately reproached myself for this cruel intervention, so much so that I was compelled to look and contemplate the disembowelled creature, as to what of the yellowy fluids had been the spider, and what had been the moth. And I further pondered whether life still remained in that viscous slime. My thoughts then drifted to Abigail: such a waste, such a meal for worms to dine on. Then I awoke–––

Rupert startled.He sat up and vigorously rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to force away the horror of the dream. In his other hand still remained the shoe.

–––It seemed it had been but a fantasy, for when I arose and stood by the web, there was the spider, unharmed, huge and bloated. Fascinated I watched as it began to tremble, suspended in the centre of its web. The skin of the creature started to split, and from inside the wretched spider the moth began to emerge. As if in natural metamorphosis the living moth crawled from the spider’s body and flew away out of the open window. The spider now was dead.

In my horror, I cried out into the night. At once my eyes forced open and I was again on my bed, the dream within a dream now truly broken, and when I looked there was neither, spider, moth, nor web, and the window was still closed. In that mongrel hour, neither day nor night claiming dominion, anything, it would seem, is legitimate. Would to holy heaven above Abigail was that beautiful moth, that she could escape her damp decaying tomb and fly to freedom.

God help me, for I fear I am losing my sanity. I will stay awake now, till daybreak–––

Undeterred by the dirty window, the morning sun shone into the little room, mercifully granting a cheerier atmosphere. Rupert, now washed and in clean shirt, sat at his desk staring at the picture of Abigail. With great effort he shook away his melancholy and picked up his quill:

–––Never was I one to believe in the supernatural, nor that the concept of dreams was anything other than ramblings of the mind, neither do I remember as remarkable any that I have ever had. But this excursion into that troubled land of half-truths and make-believe has left such an impression on my mind that it will not fade away. Even now, in the morning sunlight, it remains as fresh in my brain as the moment I dreamed it–––

Chapter 4

Rupert steppedtentatively along the rickety gangplank towards the deck of the brig, The Venture: a tidy trim vessel originally called, Caledonia,veteran of the battle of Lake Erie, now renamed and refitted.Once onboard Rupert stood agog, dumbfounded at the hustle-and-bustle around him. The sound of his chest and luggage being tipped in a tidy pile beside him onto the freshly limed wooden boards woke him from his stupor. He thanked and paid off the porter – the scruffy little man biting each coin, more from habit than frugality. Satisfied, he touched his cap and walked off.

The ship was nothing like Rupert had imagined; although small and compact, everything seemed to have its place. The only thing at odds in this wooden sanctuary was Rupert himself. He didn’t quite know what he was supposed to do or where to go. As he deliberated, a surly mariner in tarred wide-brimmed hat and tidy blues approached him.

‘Mr. Mansie, is it?’ the sailor hissed in Rupert’s direction without the courtesy of eye contact, ’Pr’thee follow. Leave your possessions.’ He turned to an idle deckhand and bellowed at him, ‘Look alive there. Take up this baggage and follow.’

The deckhand, shaken to action, immediately picked up the bags. The surly mariner took Rupert by the arm and roughly ushered him along the deck. He spoke again with unfriendly directness, as if addressing the sky itself.

‘We are unaccustomed to passengers, so you will find us lacking in graces, but we run a clean ship. I’d be obliged, and you would do yourself service, if you keep to your berth until we make way. I am Collins, ship’s purser.’

It was clear by the tone of the seaman’s voice that there was no possibility of intimacy. Rupert answered in equally curt voice.

’I have no time to idle on ‘graces’, as you call it, I have your owner’s ledgers to attend, so I will not disturb the workings of the ship, and I pray the same will not disturb me.’ The two men descended to the cabin deck without further word, but with an understanding of mutual dislike.

Whereas the room at the inn was small, Rupert’s cabin, by comparison, was minuscule – There was scarce room to stand. The meagre furnishings consisted of a bunk, a stool and now Rupert’s sea chest, the top of which, Rupert resolved, would serve as his desk. He sat by the small porthole, and through a rolling mist the chalk cliffs of Dover could now be seen. He turned away and picked up his pen and, in the approaching twilight and the light of a tallow lantern, continued writing his journal:

–––Second entry: 25th day of August 1815

At sea at last, almost. I can see the cliffs of Dover through the fog, rising for all the world like a bottom row of teeth from an old grey beard. It reminds me of our Captain, of whom I have seen, but not yet been afforded the pleasure of courteous introduction, but no doubt shall, by-and-by. I have, however, met Collins, the Purser. I cannot remember encountering a more detestable man. Though he seems, by his Puritanical clothes and overbearing demeanour, to be devoutly religious – I can only imagine some great misfortune of life had so marked him.

I resolve to have naught to do with any of the ship’s personnel and will spend as little a time away from my journal as possible–––

As the sun sankinto the misty horizon, Rupert stood staring out over the sea. The dune-like waves held him spellbound as he fancied he saw the wispy figure of Abigail in the distance, striding slowly across the water, oblivious to the waves. The moment passed and the apparition was lost to the mist. He rubbed his eyes wearily and returned to his cabin. On entering, his heart once again sank – the depressing little room offered no comfort other than oblivion. He turned back the single blanket on his cot and, fully clothed tumbled into it. As his eyelids closed, his mind opened into dream-sleep and Abigail was by his bedside. She was dressed in a beautiful, transparent silken shroud, as she had been by the graveside. She bent over him and kissed him. Then, amid floating hair and rippling shroud, she dissolved away. He imagined her returning to the sea, striding the petrified waves into the distance. Then she was gone:

–––I dreamed last night of my beloved Abigail. She came to my cot, bent over me and kissed me – Yes, kissed me. The ship anchored off Portsmouth, Selsey Bill, to let some bad weather pass. I cannot wait for night to come again, perchance Abigail might return to me.

A most disagreeable episode, of which I fear myself part to blame: As I have written, I had little to do with the crew, but one young fellow, no more than thirteen, seemed interested in me and took the trouble to pass the time of day whenever we passed: ‘Morning t’e, Sire’ – ‘Pleasant evenin’, Sire’ – ’God keep ‘e safe till mornin’, Sire.’

Yesterday this jolly fellow enquired as to what I was writing in my journal: I told him and, he seeming interested, I took the time to read a passage to him. I had barely spoken four lines when Collins happened on the scene. He bellowed at the seaman:

‘May the devil take you, sailor. If you have time to spare ye can take a turn in the nest. Up, UP!’

The seamen call it ‘riding the old grey mare;’ the boy was ordered to climb the mid-mast topsail yard for the reat of the watch. This, seeing as it was nighttime, moonless, and misty, was futile to the point of vindictiveness. The poor fellow looked terrified, for the sea was perilous rough, but he had no choice. As the child climbed the rigging Collins caught me an evil look. If he had uttered a single syllable I swear, whatever the consequence, I would have struck him, but he did not. That poor sailor stayed aloft the whole night. Thank God he came to no harm–––

Third entry, 27th day of August 1815

The brig made good way during the night. Abigail came again in a flowing white gown, as if a bride. I rose up to meet her. It seemed we floated on the mist, neither Earth nor Heaven claiming dominion; the oak decking melting beneath our feet and we walked on air. I kissed her and, as she raised her arms to embrace me, her silken shroud fell open and I saw her nakedness. I touched her body, a thought and deed that before had never crossed my conscious mind – No. The truth, I hold nothing back – In my mind’s eye I had, to my deep shame, wanted her, ached for her, but never would have dared hope to indulge my passion in so intimate a way, stopping short of the act of sexual consummation. Had I power over Morpheus, I would have broken that dream rather than soil my memory of her, but I am a man, that must be my only excuse. Ashamed, I shall not write again until Lisbon, if we make good winds that will be on the twenty-eighth. I am desperate for sleep–––

Rupert put down his pen,and laid back on his cot. As his head touched the bolster he was asleep. Instantly his eyes began to move beneath his closed lids: Abigail now lay before him on her deathbed. In his dream he saw himself standing by her bedside, looking down at the ashen corpse, beautiful, cadaverous pale, waxen. But now those dead eyes slowly opened and she, taking hold of the covers, exposed herself to his gaze, revealing her pale, naked body.

He watched a moment as voyeur. Then she took his hand and led him into her bed. He, for the moment, seemed unable to comprehend, yet was unable to resist her lascivious advances. His resistance broken, he indulged; a willing partner in the impassioned lovemaking. Suddenly, his eyes forced open and he was once again alone in his cabin. The Venture, tossed and battered by the rough sea, had woken him.

Fourth entry, 28th day of August 1815

Tonight we shelter at Porto – rough water ahead. I mustwrite. I am at my wit’s end. I dream constantly of Abigail, constantly. Each time I close my eyes she comes to me. We have done the act, consummated, copulated, indulged in… coitus, if that be the word. God forgive me.

I remained working in my cabin until well into the night and I took my rum, that I saved from my daily ration, with hot water in the hope to fall asleep into a stupor. But still she came to me and we indulge in lovemaking. I have an ardour that I never before possessed. Am I under some influence, for surely this passion cannot come from within me? Daytime, please come.–––

As if in answer to his prayer, the sun shone brightly into the cabin and into Rupert’s eyes. Drowsily he placed his handkerchief over his face––now he would try to sleep. But it was to no use. He woke every minute or so to the noises of the busy ship.

Unable to rest he paced the heaving deck, ducking and weaving between the bustling mariners. He walked as best he could to the stern, swaying to match the pitch and roll of the ship, clinging at last to the rail in the bow. Here he stood lost in thought, without want of drink or the meagre midday meal, for what seemed like an age until the sun slipped away to evening.

On feeling the chill evening air he broke from his musing and returned to his cabin. He sat on his cot, took up a huge pewter tankard, drained its contents and then sank back. His throbbing head, now growing heavy from the strong spirit, forced him to momentarily close his eyes. Abigail was there, lying next to him. She took the tankard from his hand and kissed him. He fantasised a summer’s day amid an idyllic, English country scene: Abigail, slowly walking along the bank of a river, taking hold of his hand and pulling him along to a grassy clearing. And there, in front of numerous seemingly disinterested passers-by, she undressed and bid him take her there on the grassy banks of the Stour, to which the spectre Rupert indulged willingly:

–––Fifth entry: 29th day of August 1815

The expected storm did not come. Made good time to Lisbon. I will not go ashore. I could not bring myself to sleep last night. I sat up with my work, even that made small difference. I have thought much on Abigail and our unholy liaison, and have concluded that no good be present in this adulterous entanglement; for if Lord Travillion lives, that surely is what it is, adultery. If man fornicates in dream, is it not stilla sin?

I feel I am receiving favours as payment in advance for some service I will, at some future date, have to render. I feel used and fear to sleep, but my heart pounds for the thought of Abigail waiting in the mist. Yet still I dread.

I have acquired a flask of laudanum from the ship’s physician. I told him the truth of it––well, part truth––I told him of the nightmares. He mixed the tincture to provide ‘oblivion,’ as he called it. I will sleep from now on only in the daylight hours, and hope that the sun on my face and the numbness of my senses will curb my recalcitrant libido–––

In the lightof the crescent moon, Rupert stood firm, again in the bow of the ship. He welcomed each salty sting of the massive waves. His mind was empty except for the anticipation of the next breaker to strike his offered face. In his all-consuming contemplation of the forces of nature he had not noticed Collins’ approach. Without words the insufferable little man now stepped into Rupert’s vision, boring hisdamning eyes into his face. The two men, for an uncomfortable moment, stared eye-to-eye. Rupert, for no reason other than fatigue, was first to look away and without word or other acknowledgement returned to his cabin.

–––Sixth entry; 30th day of August 1815–

I write by lantern. God have mercy on my soul, for I fear the Devil has drawn a circle around my name – Abigail has spoken to me. Three times I took the draught last night, yet still she came. I fancied I was by a beautiful river, the Stour at Canterbury, and there Abigail came to me. She came, for all the world, a living woman, as if the dream were the true world and these, my waking hours, the fantasy; for I felt more alive in those few moments than I have for the whole of this wretched trip – She has spoken to me. Of course, we made love. I wished it otherwise… but I tell in these notes what truly happened, what point to lie …

’I look for ghosts; but none will force

Their way to me: ’tis falsely said,

That there was ever intercourse

Between the living and the dead;

For surely I should have sight of her

I wait for day and night,

With love and longings infinite…’

… “Find him.” she said – simply that. I did not answer, just took my payment greedily. I disgust myself. ‘Find him.’ she neither pleaded nor demanded. It seemed she wanted to say more, but what she did say was with great difficulty, as if attempting to cry out from the nightmare; to speak more would lose the moment and bridge the gap from dream to reality. – “Find him.”–––

Chapter 5

The weatherworsened and the sea grew angrier. A vicious wind tore the tops off the waves and pounded the Venture. Collins, with contemptuous glee, and the aid of another crewmember, carried a sickly Rupert from the deck to his cot.

–––Seventh entry, 2nd day of September, 1815–

I have not written for three days – I have been seasick. We rounded Cape Vincent; here was the storm. We were to shelter in the Gulf of Cadiz but the tempest would not let us in. We had to sail around it.

The captain is a fiercely stern man and has offered me no more than a half-dozen words the whole trip, but I trust his metal–––

Rupert lay seasickon his cot, near, as it seemed to him, to death. At that moment in time he would have gladly given up the ghost, joined the ranks of heavenly spirits to perchance meet again his beloved. The parable of the man who married his dead brother’s wife came to him, of Jesus answering the accusing Sadducees, saying:

‘Do ye not err, because ye know not the scriptures, neither the power of God? For when they shall rise from the dead, they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels in heaven. Man is resurrected in spirit, not in flesh.’

These words remembered, gave him small comfort, for in his sickness Abigail had come to him, not in spirit, but truly in the flesh. She comforted him and bathed his sweating brow. He did not know how many days he lingered between life and death, but, to his own amazement, it appeared likely he would survive his sickness, and he felt strong enough to rise.

He now sat at his improvised desk and contemplated continuing his journal. He fancied the spectre of Abigail still dallied, standing there behind him, he could feel her presence but did not dare look, nor did he in any other way acknowledge her, for it seemed to him were he to look around, like Lot’s wife, he would be turned to salt, or worse, she would evaporate away into the mist. He was content just to feel her presence:

–––Abigail came to me in my ague and soothed me. The only good of it was we did not copulate, I was far too ill, but now I am on the mend I dare not sleep. The storm has not let up, but at last I have found my sea legs–––

On hearing a rustleRupert looked up expectantly, hopefully, from his journal. Collins stood in the open cabin door, dressed in his Sunday finery. He spoke out in his surly voice at Rupert who, without a word in reply, turned back to his writing:

‘Since you are well enough to scribble in your ledger, Mr. Mansie, you will reside a while in attendance to the Captain’s sermon, lest you be a damned Catholic, and be that the case, you may reside in hell.’

Rupert did not answer or otherwise acknowledge the words, he simply carried on with his work. Collins’ face grew leaden with anger. He waited a few more moments, but could contain his fury no longer.

‘Will you stop your damned scribbling, Sir? Do you not know it be the Sabbath?’

Rupert put down his quill and studied Collins, who now shook with anger. ‘Your Mr. Rawlins, Sir,’ said Rupert grudgingly, ‘has not spoken a single civil word to me since I boarded this vessel. Before I take religious instruction from a man, I would first shake his hand and converse a while in friendship, and in that way ascertain from which direction such instruction, if any, should flow.’

The purser fixed Rupert with a murderous eye. For the moment he was at a loss for words. No man other than the captain himself would have dared to speak to him so. It was all the little man could do to curb his instinctive call for action and strike out at this, he considered, heretic upstart. He bit his lip to the point of drawing blood.

‘Let me instruct you, Sir, in the ways of seamanship,’ he said, spitting blood and words, ‘Rawlins is not a Mister. He, Sir, is your Captain. His word is law. You live by Lubber’s-law at sea at your peril.’ Calming slightly he placed his hands together and continued. ‘Now you will attend and clasp together in prayer these hands that Lucifer finds labour for on this Holy Day, and you will follow me, Sir.’

Rupert gazed at the loathsome little man. He had no intention of going topside – his stomach was in no mood for prayer, and for the one thing amongst all things he would have prayed for, he was certain, God would neither grant nor sanction. ‘Sir,’ he said with a rebuking sneer. ’I will not attend. I am in no mood to socialise. I will say my prayers in the solitude of my cabin as I have done these past five days. And it seems to me your captain would be better employed tending his ship in this weather than giving sermon. And further, let me inform you of our ‘Lubber’s-Law’ as you call it: I represent the underwriter of this little wooden dictatorship, and anything that puts at risk its cargo is itself in peril. No man is an island.’

Collins took a step forward. Rupert stood and faced him, damning him with his eyes. If Collins had struck out, Rupert would certainly have retaliated; he was in that vein. He fancied feeling his fist smashing against Collins bony face, it would have given him great pleasure. But again Collins contained his fury.

’Do not quote Donne to me, Sir. You are not worthy, for even hesaw the error of the Papist evil and joined the true Church.’ With that, he walked to the door, turned and gave a final, damning curse. ‘No good will come of this; you have marked this ship for chastisement. We shall not speak again. God bless all true Christians on board – I do not think, Mr. Mansie, that includes you.’ Then he was gone.

Unmoved, Rupert returned to his writing. After a few moments, he stopped, laid down his pen and took out a small bible, the one that had belonged to Abigail, and proceeded to pray.

In the howling wind, Captain Rawlins stood aloft, perched high on the upper deck, addressing the gathered crew below. The deck was awash as wave after wave battered the wooden hull. The mariners stood transfixed, not daring to miss a word of their captain’s instruction. Rawlins’ face was a mask of fury as his rasping voice boomed out his sermon, barely audible above the sound of the wind and pounding sea:

‘And I saw stretched out before me, Shipmates, a hand holding a scroll o’paper; unrolled, it was written on all o’er with dirges an’ words of woe. Aye, Shipmates, I was bid eat that scroll, words an’ all. And I ate them as bidden––’

As the captain continued, Collins stood just below him with arms folded and looking intently towards the men, damning any head or eye that turned or momentarily distracted from the captain’s words. Rawlins took a breath, studied the terrified faces of his crew and continued: ‘But them words lay on my tongue like the black bile that mariners taste afore they drown. Rancid sweet, like lies that dribble from Lubber’s lips, honeyed, to hide the taste of corruption – like the promises profiteers spit out instead of straight words that men speak at sea. I rolled those words around my mouth.’

He stopped and looked from man to man, each of which hung on his every syllable. Collins also studied the men, hoping to see some infringement to his draconic rules, that he might chastise the idle offender, but all resisted. His eyes now travelled to the stairway. Rupert appeared from below and now joined the crew. Collins gave a hateful, unyielding stare. Rupert returned the gaze for a few uncomfortable moments then turned away to Rawlins, to the words the captain now hurled in his direction:

‘I spat out that sickly venom, like the gob of yellow phlegm that it was,’ emphasizing his words he turned and spat dramatically into the wind, ‘I had no heart nor stomach for such divinations, whose prophets caulk with mud in place of tar, whose visions are false. Who say, “This is the word of the Lord.” when truly the Lord has not spoken.’

Rupert gazed into the gnarled face of the Captain, hardly hearing a word. His mind was elsewhere. His eyes flickered as the voice of Rawlins droned on and on. Now his eyes closed and he fancied he saw Abigail standing amidst the oblivious crew, her naked white skin unseen by their conscious eyes as she wove between them. He opened his eyes and still she was there. Her white hand touched his shoulder and pulled him into a kiss.

It was Collins’ hand that now touched Rupert’s shoulder, shaking him roughly. His eyes opened again with a start – Abigail was gone.

Now fully awake Rupert gave a final, hateful stare; a look of defiance, then he turned and walked towards the stairway. Rawlins watched him go, and then continued with added drama, his voice now full of dread:

’… We shipmates, as men of the deep, are of a

different God than Lubbers, but he is still a jealous God and woe betide the man that snubs him at sea…’

Rupert walked down the stairway and into the darkness of the ship. He could still hear Rawlins voice booming the last of his address as he entered his cabin:

‘… I will fling you on land, dashing you down on the dry earth. I will let all the birds of the air settle on you and all the wild beasts gorge themselves on your flesh – God bless us all aboard, man, boy, mate, and captain alike, for we are all but mortal sinners.’

TheVenturetossed and rocked more violently. Rupert struggled to keep his balance even though he was sitting with knees either side of the sea chest. Yet he managed to write. He stopped for a moment to keep his inkwell from sliding to the floor after a huge swell lifted the ship, what seemed to him, clear out of the water and crashed it down again. A moment between waves he was compelled to look from the porthole to the stormy sky and the turbulent sea; the ship was taking a terrible battering. Terrified, he looked away, back to his notes:

–––Eighth entry: 3rd Sept. 1815

God bless us all on board and keep us safe: the storm has worsened. I look from my porthole and cannot believe the ship capable to stay afloat, yet it battles on. It rides on the mighty crest, and then plummets down into a basin of violent swirling waters, deserted by the sky and, as it seems to me, by God.

I do not fear death but I do fear purgatory, for I am convinced I am a sinner. I sign these notes as I expect them to be my last. Doomed: Rupert Mansie–––

Chapter 6

The magnificentblack tent was, to the unaccustomed eye, undistinguishable from the night sky that was cast deep indigo by the final phase of the crescent moon. The great fabric pavilion showed like jet-stone against it. Inside, by contrast, it was richly furnished with many colourful drapes, magnificent carpets, and many scattered silk cushions. In the centre of all this was an array of rich foods and drink laid out in exquisite perfusion for banquet. Around which, sitting crossed legged on the ground, a group of finely dressed Arab men and a few heavily veiled women. They sat as audience to a recital of exotic music played on ancient instruments, to which two beautiful Abyssinian girls danced in delirium, totally naked, to frenzied singing, clapping and trilling of tongues. Some twenty miles away, beneath the turbulent coastal waters mariners were drowning, struggling desperately to break free from the murky undercurrent; to no avail. The many men were sucked away into the blackness.

Now, in the first rays of morning sunlight, came calmer waters and the violent waves were reduced to turbulent surf. A human body tied to a sea-chest was momentarily flung up and held aloft on an incoming breaker, then hurled, sucked back, and hurled again leaving it in a heap onto the sandy shore. But now these same waves proceeded to draw it back once again, rolling man and chest, over and over in the foam. Two Arab men ran along the beach towards the body, waded waist-high into the sea and hauled out the seemingly lifeless corpse, and laid it onto dry ground.

Rupert opened his eyes to a gimlet point of light, the only thing to penetrate the void of neither day nor night, the black void of non-being. But gradually this point of light grew to a fierce fiery disc that now swallowed up the blackness. Rupert saw it to be the sun, burning in an azure sky:

–––Ninth entry: 5th September 1815

I surprise myself to be writing again. Not for surviving the wreck––we hit a reef and, on the ship taking water, the captain took the only action left to him and ran The Venture onto the rocks––but for why I alone am spared. I cannot say why our Lord in heaven should favour this humble sinner, for I am certain there were Godlier men aboard who perished, surely the captain for one. But as far as I can ascertain I alone am delivered, and that was due to providence. I was plucked from the sea unconscious by a group of Moors:

’The many men, so beautiful.

And they all dead did lie,

And a thousand thousand slimy things


Lived on; and so did I.’

I have tried to communicate with these people but suspect their sole interest in my salvation to be no more than mercenary – I fear I am to be sold as a slave.

I am robbed of all my possessions and almost all my clothes. But thank God they allow me to keep my journal, ink quill and lead pencil; they have no use for such items. I am at my lowest ebb–––

The impoverished caravanwhich the two rescuing Arabs belonged, consisted of a dozen dirt-coloured tents pitched close-at-hand into a rude encampment; a similar amount of camels tethered together into a pound. Rupert, deemed part of the livestock, was tethered among these camels. He sat in the direct sunlight trying to glean some shade from one of the tent’s awning. He was in terrible distress – his clothes in tatters and his skin reddened by the burning sun. Despite his wretched state, Rupert worked feverishly at his journal, pausing only to rearrange a piece of torn material about his head.

If the desert day proved unbearably hot, the night, by contrast, was freezing. And, as the sun’s last rays receded behind the dunes and evening approached, Rupert found himself shivering. He closed his eyes and prayed that his weariness, thirst and hunger would give oblivion – but not so, the minute his eyelids came together there was Abigail, walking across the dunes, in the airy motion of the dream. Again she was dressed as Persephone, and carrying a double-handled urn. She held out the earthenware vessel and in his dream Rupert grabbed it, desperate to quench his ravenous thirst. Abigail stood in silhouette against the moonlit expanse of dunes, watching as he drank in long gulping swallows, coughing and spluttering. Having drunk his fill, he handed urn back to her. She stooped, took it and was gone.

With midday came the solar anvil; the blazing sun had reached its zenith, against which Rupert had found some small shelter. He sat alone in the meagre shade of the largest tent awning, unmolested, reading from his journal. Muffled voices coming from the tent made him startle. It seemed the camp was being struck. Women and children now scurried about collecting and packing. Rupert quickly tied the cord around the quill and ink-phial of his journal hid it beneath him and waited expecting to be abused. Fortunately he was left unmolested and again returned to his journal. After the camels were loaded, an old Arab man studied him for a few moments then slowly ambled towards him. The Arab was named Gulah, a desperate, wizened old villain of about eighty, dressed entirely in black. He now stood in front of Rupert and hurled a few angry words in his direction.

‘Marocksh? Tombuctoo? Wassanah?’

Rupert did not answer. He tensed himself, knowing he was about to be beaten. Gulah repeated his words at the top of his voice, punctuating each one with a blow from his stick across Rupert’s back. ‘Marocksh? Tombuctoo? Wassanah?’ The journal was roughly knocked from Rupert’s hand by one of the blows. Two younger Arabs joined the old man and Rupert was dragged up. As the caravan began to move he managed to momentarily break away, stoop and retrieve his journal. For this act of defiance he was again beaten, shackled to the last camel and forced to walk behind it. The skin of his back was broken, peeling, hanging in shreds and bloody at every crease in his flesh.

–––Tenth entry: 6th September 1815

I am no more than chattel to these blackguards. They treat me abominably and will not engage in any form of dialogue. I’ve tried all languages that I know and suspect my nearest hope is a form of Spanish. The leader of the tribe, a vicious old demon called Gulah, demanded that I tell him news of Marocksh; this I took to mean Morocco. But he would not be pressed to converse, just beat me with his stick when I could not make him understand.

I am forced to sleep in the open, and whereas the day is cruelly hot, by contrast, the night is freezing. One of the old Demon’s men indicated I might sleep under the awning of a tent, but when I lay me down the women found me and forcibly drove me off. I waited an hour then crawled back and fell asleep immediately, into the arms of Abigail lying on the banks of the Stour. I cannot remember a more welcome event in my entire life. In my dream she bathed my parched skin and soothed my weary, sunbaked head. Again she bid me drink from a dish, and what I drank was nectar, the milk of paradise. I drank and gorged until it ran down from the sides of my mouth and I was full; but alas, not satisfied. Yes, we engaged in coitus – I cannot say made love, for I do not believe that is what it was. Man should not take love as payment, nor should woman offer it for advantage.

And all should cry, ‘Beware. Beware.’

Her flashing eyes, her floating hair.

Weave a circle round her thrice,

And close your eyes in holy dread,

For she on honeydew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of paradise.

‘Find him.’ She did not speak the words but they were in her eyes: I fear I took my payment counterfeit, for I am myself lost––

Rupert lay sleepingby one of the tents. An old Arab woman entered and screeched at him, contorting her face in a mask of hate. He woke to a whole group of women, screaming and shrieking, kicking and pushing at him and driving him from beneath the awning.They followed Rupert, out into the rising sun:

–––Suddenly I was awoken with a sharp dig into my ribs. The women had found me and abused me, and again forcibly put me out into the cold morning air: My face and other exposed flesh being sunbaked and skinless I must have appeared a disgusting object, and as quickly as I removed myself from the tent did they follow me, and having satisfied their curiosity, express their contempt by spitting at me–––

The midday sunrose again, high over the dunes and reaching its unbearable pinnacle. Rupert did his best to shield his exposed body. He’d tried to shelter in the shade cast by the camels, but the nervous beast worried and trampled at him so as to make it impossible. He crossed his legs and pulled his arms about his body attempting to cover the most exposed parts.

At length one of the Arab men approached. He stopped in front of Rupert and took hold of something that he carried on a sash around his shoulder. Rupert shrank back, expecting to be beaten again, but the Arab, Adehm; a dark handsome man of about forty offered an earthenware pitcher. Rupert took it and guzzled the contents.

After a moment the pitcher was roughly snatched back, leaving his face dripping with its bloody fluid. Adehm mumbled some unintelligible insult then walked away.

–––I was given a pint of, what I can only guess to be, camel’s milk mixed with camel’s blood. This I believe to be the staple diet of these nomads whilst they travel the desert– An ultimate in economy, since both are the product of the herd and both taken as needed; no pack to carry and nothing to waste nor spoil in this wretched sunbaked hell – Its taste was vile but as, time, thirst, and hunger, would testify I came to crave it–––

Chapter 7

It was freezing night. Rupert sat alone and sheltered as best he could in the shadows just outside the glare, and unfortunately, the main heat of the roaring fire. He was desperate to keep himself from the eyes of the gathered tribespeople, especially the womenfolk. He stayed in the shadows, just out of their direct sight, and hoped to glean some little warmth.

For the first time in what seemed like an age, Rupert felt some small pleasure. In the solitude of the shadows and the warmth from the fire, he closed his eyes and Abigail was there. Immediately his eyes sprang open to a sudden, unearthly shriek, followed by a burst of manic laughter. The loving face of Abigail was now supplanted by that of a grotesque Blackamoor, who had leapt out of the darkness and into his vision; a hideous face lit in sharp contrast by the blazing fire and the pitch-black night.

–––Sixth day of captivity

A Negro slave, the blackest man I have ever beheld – whose name, I found out later, was Marocksh; I believe he got this name from his origin, Morocco. He is my constant tormentor. He goes completely unclothed and engages in a constant buffoonery which, when he has an audience, is directed solely at me. He imitates how he imagines a white man to act, making majestic gestures, taking snuff, aping grandeur and miming wiping his face as if with flowing handkerchief, all to the amusement of his audience of a dozen Arabs, mostly womenand children–––

In the lightof the fire a small group of children scampered around mimicking the Negro, adding to the dejection of the now discovered Rupert. They spat and kicked sand at him, then ran off as if pursued. Marocksh would momentarily break off his tormenting to apishly give chase to the children, and then returned his attention to Rupert.

–––First I hated him; but concluded that he be no more than a poor slave himself, naked, destitute, and far from family and friends, and only trying to gain favour of his masters and mistresses–––

After his danceMarocksh claimed his prize, a pint of blood and milk. He lifted theearthenware jug to his lips and drank. When he lowered it, it was Rupert drinking, his lips wet with milky blood. Rupert lifted the jug again and this time when it lowered it was Morocksh that drank. The great ebony face looked at Rupert and grinned.

–––In this hell on earth it seemed nothing would lift my spirit, but thank God I had not lost my faith in humanity; for my black tormentor, Marocksh, came to me later that night and shared his spoils, a pint of milk and camel’s blood–––

As Rupert finishedthe last of the drink Morocksh danced his crazy jig, this time for Rupert’s amusement. And as he danced and sang, Rupert clapped and laughed until precious tears rolled down his cheeks, then in the mist of this elation he broke down and truly wept. He wept, he imagined, for joy, but in his heart he knew it to be no more than self-pity, for his misfortune and his hellish predicament. Whilst he had been hungry and friendless he had found strength, but now this small gesture of kindness and comradeship had broken his fragile spirit:

–––The drink Marocksh offered smelled bad, for it was just on the turn, but I drank my half gratefully. We spoke only with our eyes, there being no possibility that we could further communicate, yet we were able to share a silent camaraderie. This wretched slave’s kindness and humanity had brought me close to tears.

The milk-and-blood was most welcome, for about this time of night I had been in the habit of relieving my excessive thirst by the most disagreeable expedient, to drink my own water. But this resource now failed me – my urine was thick and dark, and smelled revolting – so I had been forced to drink camel’s urine, which I caught in my hands as it was expelled, as was the practice of the Arab women. Its taste was like wormwood, brackish but not wholly salt––

The previous nightRupert had crouched by the tethered camels, waiting with his hands cupped for the animals to urinate. He’d waited in this position for a whole hour before one of the camels obliged, and caught the amber fluid in handfuls and drank it in huge gulps, so as to avoid its taste.

But now mid-next day, his apatite for the moment satisfied, he sat in the shade of one of the tents on the edge of the encampment, with nothing in his mind other that contemplating each area of pain in turn. A flurry of movement caught his eye, and then he heard a distant, raised voice.

‘Be still... be still.’ the voice repeated.

Rupert stood uneasily and moved towards the sound. He clambered to the top of a dune and half fell, half slid down into the rut between that and the adjacent dune. Here he came face to face with a pathetic-looking man. He was holding an Arab child in one hand and a jagged piece of rock in the other. The child looked bemused, afraid, and on the verge of terror; the game the boy thought he’d been playing suddenly turning to savagery.

Now the boy looked at Rupert for help. The man, scarcely acknowledging Rupert’s presence, continued with his tortured soul-searching.

–––I have had the most horrid experience. I was allowed to sit in the shade of the tents––we had stopped travelling for prayer––when suddenly I heard English spoken, the same words over and over.

I moved towards the man, who’s voice, though undoubtedly my own tongue, had an accent of which I could not place; Portuguese possibly. He stood just a few paces behind the dunes, out of sight of the tribe’s people. He was a white man, so wasted he could barely stand. His eyes rolled in his head and he appeared insane with hunger. I had seen this man the day before, he too was a captive–––

In the glareof the sun the Portuguese slave had sat biting at his arms. He gnawed frantically at own his skin in an attempt to draw enough blood to either quench his thirst or slack his hunger, or in fact, put an end to his own misery. Adehm had come to him, grabbed him up, and then tied him to one of the tent pegs.

–––Hunger had preyed on this wretched soul to such degree as to cause him to bite at his own forearms. The remedy for this was for his master to bind his arms behind him. But now this remnant of a man had somehow escaped from his bondage, caught an Arab child and was, it seemed, deliberating with his conscience whether or no he would dash the boy’s brains out for the purpose of devouring his flesh.

I rescued the child with difficulty, for I too was very weak. The man was so frantic with hunger as to insist upon one last meal of meat, only then he would have been willing to die. He knew that he, as indeed all us slaves, would be massacred as soon as the murder be discovered. The boy’s mother, the one they call Ezimah, retrieved her child, and thanked me as best she could before hurrying to her tent––

Rupert had grabbedat the man’s arm, forcibly taking the rock from his outstretched hand. The man stared at him as if waking from a dream. When Rupert looked back into the man’s staring eyes he initially saw savagery, and then understanding, then realisation of the hideous crime he had been saved from committing. It seemed this was the man’s first awareness of Rupert, still holding him at arm’s length. After allowing Rupert to lead the boy away, the man sank to the sand. The child caught Rupert with a stare, bowed gratefully and ran off. Rupert then comforted the man, communicating in broken Spanish, telling him that all would be well. The man’s eyes filled with tears, totally crushed. The boy’s mother rushed to her son and grabbed him up – she gave Rupert a look that offered a thousand blessings, bowed and then scurried to her tent.

–––It occurred to me that this wretched man would have been better employed trying to steal a young camel, of which, with this caravan, there were three. When the Arabs travel, the young animals are left to run alongside their dams. They are extremely pretty little creatures, not leggy and gawky like the fouls of mares, but exact image of the full-grown animals in miniature. But on second thoughts, I conceded, the young camels seemed more guarded, and indeed more valuable an asset than the children, who seem to be in no way governed by their elders (their betters I can hardly say). These children are without the smallest respect or deference––yet in spite of this there is no real intention of rudeness (even towards me; to them a mere slave), and no desire to annoy, quite the reverse.

Of the Portuguese slave: I assured this poor fellow that I was certain our masters would give us sufficient nourishment to keep us alive until they could sell us, but alas I was wrong. That wretched creature died later that same evening. I fear that I myself, near that same fate–––

The Portuguese slave’s eyesnow gaped dryly, dulled with desert dust, as he lay naked on the sand, his meagre clothing scavenged by the womenfolk. The Negro slave Marocksh, under the watchful eyes of Adehm, dug a shallow grave then tipped the body into it, and covered it over with a thin layer of sand. Rupert watched from a distance and, as the last handful covered the man’s face, he lifted his eyes in despair towards the setting sun. Into this reddening remnant walked Abigail. He watched spellbound as she gracefully approached, appearing to float on the very air as the last of the day’s shimmering heat met the freezing night, her silken gown flowing, and her hair tossed on a phantom breeze.

Rupert now slept. His weariness, lack of food and drink, numbed his feelings to the cold. This sleep was deep and heavy, a virtual coma––the sleep that precedes death.

Chapter 8

As day broke,a group of Arab men assembled outside the tents. They sat cross-legged on the sand in conference. After much deliberation the tall, magnificently dressed Arab named Adehm, rose up and bowed to the villainous Gulah and walked slowly forward, to where Rupert lay barely conscious. With the glare of the morning sun behind him he shook Rupert roughly by the shoulder. He stood looking down, purposely allowing his head to shield the sun from Rupert’s face. He waited a moment, looking into Rupert’s eyes:

–––Seventh day of captivity–

Abigail came to me again last night. It is only for her that I endure this torment. An hour before sunset I had been lost in precious delirium, gazing out over the desert, when chancing to raise my head, something shocked me from my stupor. I thought I perceived a dark strip on the far horizon. What could it be? Now I fancied I saw a stretch of water, and further deluded myself I saw the motions of the waves, palms and other trees bending up and down over them, tossed by a phantom wind. I attracted the attention of an old tribeswoman going about her business and pointed to the object. She was much angered at my boldness but my pointing finger compelled her to look. After which, with a face as if she’d seen a ghost she cried out ‘Mashallah!’ and then hurried away to her tent. I have since discovered that Mashallah means ‘Goblin of the desert,’ an evil spirit which beguiles the wanderer from the safe path, and mocks him with a false show of what his heated brain paints in glowing colours. This then was the mirage. But unlike the mirage to which I was accustomed, this was not tangible; for by-and-by this apparition became fainter, until it melted away, as did the sun, into the desert from whence it came. In its place, in the shimmering evening air, strode Abigail – if mirage, ‘mashallah’ or otherwise, I welcomed her.

There has been a council; it appears I am to be interrogated. I watched and listened as the men sat cross-legged in a circle on the sand––about a dozen of them––understanding only the names they constantly called each other: Gulah, Syed, Adehm, Abdulla and so on, and by the female names: Sarah, Fatima, and Ezimah, from this I know them to be Arab or Moor, and confirmed that I am indeed in West Africa.

One of their number approached me, the one they call, Adehm. He seemed intelligent and spoke a language of which I was not acquainted; yet he explained himself in such a plain and distinct manner, sounding every letter full like the Spaniards. This, with the aid of sign, I was able to understand his meaning. He wanted to know what country I belonged to. I told him I was English and, as it seemed Spanish was, in sound, akin to the dialect he used, I added ‘Englasis’, then ‘Espanio’, then’ Anglesis’, which appeared to appease him. I then ventured to tell him of my quest. ––It came back to me as absurd and trivial as to the cause of my hellish predicament; I had not thought on it for what seemed an age, not just the week or so I had spent in this wilderness–––

Rupert’s armswaved desperately against the flare of the sun as he tried to make Adehm understand. ‘Englander, Englasis?’ he repeated over and over.

Adehm stared blankly, ‘Espanio?’ he eventually insisted.

’No. Englander. English, Anglesis.’

Adehm seemed to understand. He put his hand under his chin and mused thoughtfully. After a few moments he repeated over, ‘Espanio, En,glan,der, En,glis, An,gle,sis,’ sounding every syllable as if his foreign tongue enjoyed exploring each of the new words.

Rupert, encouraged, bowed his head in submission and continued. ‘Investigo... scrutino… search… seek… Don Travillion Colebridge.’

Adehm gasped at this revelation and he took a step backwards as if he had been struck by some invisible hand, and then stood staring at Rupert, aghast. After a few moments he composed himself and turned his eyes towards Gulah. On overhearing the name ‘Don Travillion’, the old man had jumped up to join Adehm. He now stood a few steps behind Adehm, as if shielding himself from Rupert’s gaze. He had a look of mortification on his face, and now turned to Adehm for guidance. Adehm looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and Rupert could see he was visibly shocked.

–––My inquisitor startled at my words, and I must say I feared that I’d committed some faux pas, some breach of etiquette in being so direct. Far from it, Adehm himself now seemed in fear. He and his master, Gulah, immediately returned to the council group. There was much deliberation, of which I understood little except for their constant referring to the name ‘Travion.’ They seemed much alarmed, so much so the women ran wailing into the tents in fear. My inquisitor returned and indicated for me to repeat what I had just told him. Again the old demon that had beat me stood close by, but in spite of this, I continued with raised hopes. I resolved to play on their fears–––

As the groupsettled,the old Arab took his stick and without warning struck out with it, catching the man next to him a fierce blow to the head. The man got up, bowed, offered some form of apology and backed away. Gulah now screamed some order to Adehm, who immediately stood and, with the old man following close behind, walked back to Rupert once more. He made a gesture with his hand, inviting Rupert to speak.

‘I seek out my countryman,’ responded Rupert with newfound confidence, ‘one Lord Travillion Colebridge–– investigo Don Travion, Travion Pasha.’ At these words Gulah shrank back, turned and made wild swiping slashes at the air with his stick as if beating some invisible, offending perpetrator. He then turned on Adehm, raving and striking him over and over with the cane.

–––Eighth day of captivity

With the mention of the name, ‘Travion Pasha’, Gulah gasped aloud. I cannot recall what he cried out but the effect of it was devastating. The women ran from the tents and began to wail and trill their tongues in a most distressed fashion. Adehm and Gulah rejoined the circle and it seemed that everybody spoke at once, stopping only from time to time to look at me. Suddenly, I was the centre of attention; whether it meant my salvation or my slaughter I was not certain, but I felt relieved that I no longer shared status with the lowest camel–––

afterGulah had left for the apparent safety of his tent, Adehm untied Rupert and ordered one of the women to tend him. He was given drink from an earthenware urn, after which he was left alone. He waited for about an hour without moving from the spot where they had left him. Then, concluding that no further actions were to be taken that night, he slipped beneath the awning of one of the tents. The women saw him but none dared to approach, and he was left to sleep in peace.

On shutting his eyes he saw his beloved Abigail, walking in from the desert through shimmering air. She entered the tent, took hold of his head and buried it into her breast, he kissing and caressing her white, waxen body.

–––Ninth day of captivity–

I slept well and am treated, at last, as a human being. Abigail spoke again. She came to me dressed in the black burka of the desert people, walking in from the dunes. Again, in my dream, I considered if she, this phantasm, this female incubus was flesh and blood, or, as I had experienced earlier, a mirage? I dipped my hand into the sand and let it run through my fingers. If ’t were reality the sand would have clogged, for I had but little skin, just dried baked blood-and-scab at every knuckle, and all of which oozed fluid and puss. But now, in my dream, my hands were whole and the sand ran freely through. I indulged my mirage to the full.

After we made… after our union she left me, silently mouthing the words ‘find him’ – I tried to tell her of my news; that I was nearer to fulfilling my task. But I could not utter the words; only a gasping cry that woke me into nightmare reality, for even though my treatment at the hands of my captors was much improved it was still an existence of extreme hardship.

They have spoken no more to me of Lord Travillion, but I am certain that by-and-by they will. One other thing: last night I watched the women make ready for prayer. This was most uncommon; I have only previously seen men pray. These women washed themselves with sand in place of water, then wrapped themselves up in strips of cloth, and, turning their faces to the East, knelt and bowed their heads to the ground twice and then raising themselves up began to chant in unison, ‘ALLAH HOUAKIBAR, HI EL ALLAH SHEDA MOHAMED RAHSOOL ALLAH HI EL ALLAH SHEDA MOHAMED RASOOL ALLAH–’ they repeated over and over, ‘ALLAH HOUAKIBAR ALLAH HOUAKIBAR.’ After this, they went about the business of the camp–––

Chapter 9

Although his facewas still blistered and sunburned Rupert now appeared somewhat improved. He walked freely among the tribe’s people. None spat at him or otherwise abused him, but the women seemed agitated by his presence. They gathered their children up and hurried them away out of his path.

–––Tenth day of captivity

I write ‘tenth’ day, it could easily be eleventh; for I am allowed to sleep until I wake. Something odd, the women and children shun me, and when I walk near them––I am now allowed complete freedom of the encampment––it seems they are desperate to avoid my shadow falling on them. But they no longer make horrid faces at me and seem in every other way agreeable, except, as I say to avoid my shadow.

I saw lights on the horizon last night, Marocksh, the Negro slave, indicated this to be his home, Morocco. We could reach it in a day’s ride, I do believe, but we seem to have stopped travelling completely–––

A mile away,hoof-beats sounded in the night. In the silvery light of the last crescent of the moon, the pile of sand where the Portuguese slave had been buried now lay open to the stars. The corpse feet lay exposed and a rope now entwined an ankle. Suddenly the body was wrenched out of the grave with much force, and seemed, by the accompanying manic laughter, with much amusement. It was hauled over the sand by a horseman who, like playing some degenerate game, proceeded to drag and bump the carcass across the rocks and the dunes until it was covered in cuts, removed of all skin, and reduced to a hulk of mangled, congealed blooded flesh. Now, in the near blackness, the rider dismounted and descended on the flayed remnant like a vulture.

As the last of the moonlight gave way to dawn, Rupert stood looking out into the far distance; he could just make out the lights of the far-off city, shimmering on the rising air. There he remained watching until the sun rose over the dunes. In all that time no one bothered or approached him, even Marocksh remained distant, keeping his buffoonery solely for the children. When the sun had fully risen, Rupert retired to his place under the tent awning and attended his journal.

–––A new horror: I was woken by a commotion. A woman and a small group of men were making a terrible hubbub. As I was now allowed freedom of the camp, I was able to observe the most heinous occurrence: The Portuguese slave, interred no more than four days ago, had been dug up and hung upside-down from a tent pole. His body so emaciated and covered with dried, baked blood that it took me some little time to recognise it, but his black hair tied in a single pigtail left little doubt.

He had been completely drained of all blood and fluid, and hung like a side of beef in a butcher’s larder. I concluded that the mother of the child he had planned to kill, had been so reviled at his intended action that she incited her husband and the other menfolk to exhume the body, and to so degraded and desecrated his remains as some primeval punishment. Then further horror: the group built a fire beneath this wretched fellow’s head and burned the remains. Needless to say, in its parched, arid condition the body flared up and was quickly consumed. Then the group silently moved off. I had little else to do but return to my writing–––

About mid-dayRupert heard voices from one of the tents. After a few moments, Adehm came out carrying an earthenware jug, and slowly advanced towards him. Behind him, like a shadow, Gulah nonchalantly paced. Adehm offered the jug, Rupert took it and drank a swallow then handed it back. Adehm shook his hand as to say ‘No, drink all, finish it.’ He seemed desperate to please and to communicate, which he did with words and signs, to the encouragements of Gulah, who prodded Adehm with his cane as to urge him on.

–––At last I have been asked of Lord Travillion. Adehm brought me a beaker of coconut milk; also in the jug was some of the nut kernel. It tasted heavenly. As I ate, Adehm proceeded to ask questions in a form of Spanish aided along with sign. I understood but could not reply for my gorging on the delicious offering. Gulah stood behind Adehm, looking at his feet as if disinterested, but ready to devour every word.

Adehm wanted to know what relationship I held with Travion Pasha: ‘son’ was his first assumption. He made a gesture by placing his hand upon his head as to measure his height, and then lowered it to a child’s height, and from this he pointed to me. I shook my head assuming this to be universal for no. Gulah jabbed at Adehm and whispered instructions for him to try again. Adehm now pulled out the front of his tunic as to imitate a pregnant woman, then with his hands mimed a child being issued forth, and then another. He smiled, spoke the words, ‘Consanguiei, frater?’ and nodded paternally. From my small understanding of Latin, I took this to mean, brother. I returned his smile and nodded ‘Yes.’ thinking that to explain further would prove insuperable. For further conformation I clasped my hands together indicating some similar form of union; the two gestures together convinced them–––

Adehm raised his handsin triumph and looked to Gulah for approval. The old man returned a worried frown then looked into the direction of the now-receding sun. He stared for a long time, lost in thought, the name, ‘Travion Pasha’ evoking in his mind some terrible, past memory.

–––Gulah looked extremely vexed; his pretence of indifference gone he began striding around, rambling, accusing, and damning some poor soul. In the midst of this he suddenly broke off, stormed up to Adehm and struck him severely with his stick. Adehm cowered and backed away, uttering what I can only imagine to be apologies. Gulah now look directly at me, and for the first time I saw his ebony face construct a sickly, insincere smile. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer, bowed slightly then directed his words to me: ‘Don Travion, Anglesis, O Fransah, O Spanish?’ By this I understood him to mean that this was all the same: English, French and Spanish? What good he meant to come of this I cannot say, for that was the nearest we came to communicating. He smiled again his sickly manufactured smile and removed himself––

The old manhad grinned, shrugged, bowed and made all the pleasing, appeasing hand gestures he could think of, then, seeming reluctant to turn his back on Rupert, backed away the whole way to his tent. At the last backward step, he turned and disappeared under the awning.

On Gullah’s retreat, Adehm returned. He stood hiding himself at the side of the large tent. He looked about cautiously, then after assuring himself Gulah was not about to return, he advanced again towards Rupert. He bowed graciously to which Rupert reciprocated. Now the two men stood together seemingly as equals and attempted to converse. Adehm indicated to the sky then to the setting sun.

–––Adehm pointed to the south, away from the direction of the city, indicating to the now darkening sky. ‘Travion Pasha. Pasha d’Nochea,’ he said in a mixture of language accents. I took, Pasha d’Nochea, to mean Night Lord, or Night watch. His hand then pointed back south, and, as my eye followed I could just make out a group of riders and carriages in the far distance. They seemed to float on the condensing hot and cold air. It was not a mirage; it was a mere refraction of the light. What was seen was still far away and below the horizon, a spectre caravan descending from the heavens.

For some reason Adehm appeared nervous, but I could not but feel elated at this new development. Surely therein would be some news, some contact with the outside world. He again pointed to the group of distant riders and spoke with fear in his voice, ‘Dormirra, O Travion Pasha... Obdormiso, obdormiso.’ He mumbled again, but I did not understand his words. He then indicated with his hands that I should sleep. He pointed to the sun and raised five fingers, five hours. He then walked off towards the tents.

After a few moments, Adehm returned. He had Ezimah with him––the Arab woman whose son I had saved from the Portuguese slave, and as I suspected, Adehm’s son. When I entered my tent Adehm ushered her in after me and then abruptly left. I have since discovered that the Hassaniyeh Arab, of which Adehm was indeed one, have many curious customs: when a Hassaniyeh maiden marries, she does not altogether, as is nominally––or at least the fashion elsewhere––merge her identity into that of her husband. On the contrary, she considers that three-fourths of her life is her husband’s, but the other forth belongs to herself. Accordingly every forth day she is free from her marriage vows, and if she so chooses, can accept the attentions of any man without her lawful husband having the power, or, even if custom allow, the inclination to prevent her. Also it is the practice among Hassaniyeh people, that a stranger is met with such hospitality he receives the loan of a wife during his stay; other than this the women are virtuous and well behaved. Needless to say, I did not gratify myself of the charms that Ezimah so fervently offered, of which she had many: dark olive Arab complexion; regular features, teeth of pearly whiteness, and dark, brilliant eyes. The coarse robe thrown over her shoulder, left free the arms, neck, and breasts, which were exquisitely moulded. Her feet and ankles were slender and as shapely as any European beauty––

Rupert sleptfor the first time in ten days on a cot, and in his own tent, sequestrated from the other women, except for Ezimah, she slept contentedly at the foot. He slept heavily but not peacefully. Abigail, in the freezing mist, walked into the tent. She knelt, placed a mat upon the desert sand, and laid out a sumptuous feast.

–––I was hungry and thirsty, as always in this purgatory, and still, I thirsted in my dream. But with Abigail came the milk of paradise, and there, in my dream, I ate and drank. And I believe that phantom nourishment somehow passed from fantasy to fact, because when I woke I was still full, and actually refused the milk and blood Adehm now offered. He seemed dreadfully offended, or maybe it was fear of some retribution, so I took the draft on the second offering to which my now protector seemed much relieved. As always, before Abigail had left me, we made love there on the desert floor. After I had taken my carnal pay she kissed me farewell. I broke away and raised my head to say, ‘Wait, I have news.’ but as ever in my dreams I was totally mute. I was unable to utter a single syllable. She smiled and kissed me again. But this time the kiss was more intense, a kiss of passion rather than a kiss of farewell, and when I broke away her mouth was glistering red. She had broken the fragile skin of my sunbaked lips, and there in the dream did our bloods mingle. Somehow dream and reality had, for that fleeting moment, fused. Either she or I had dallied too long in fantasyland. When I awoke Ezimah was in my arms where Abigail had been. I fear for my soul, I have accepted the Devil’s shilling––

Half in dream,his lips smeared with blood, Rupert again mouthed the words, ‘Wait, I have news.’ This time the words were uttered, but not understood. Adehmnow stood inside the tent awning, offering the earthenware jug for him to take. After Rupert refused the jug, Adehm looked desperately over his shoulder expecting Gulah to enter any minute, and observe Rupert’s refusal as a perceived rebuff. Ezimah now took the jug from Adehm and offered it to Rupert. This time, he took it and finished it in great gulps leaving the bloody fluid to trickle from the corners of his mouth. Adehm bowed in relief.

–––After Ezimah offered me the jug she had taken from Adehm I realised to refuse would be some grave insult, as would be my refusing to accommodate his wife, so I forced myself to drink. After which Adehm took the jug from me, bowed, gave a quick look to Ezimah. She looked back with an expression of which I can only translate as: mission accomplished. At this Adehm smiled favourably and left. Now Gulah entered my tent, smiling his sickly, manufactured smile, and, clasping his hands together he condescendingly bowed. He then rose to his full height, smiled again and spoke.

‘Travion Pasha... Christas.’

From this acknowledgement of our Lord, I believed him to have meant some form of apology for my abominable treatment, for through that forced smile I could see he was in great fear. And by the way he gestured with his hand, either Travion Pasha was here, or close by.

I quickly rose up, wanting to waste no time to meet with, of whom I presumed would be, Lord Travillion. I moved towards the old demon with such speed that I startled him, so much so he stumbled and only regaining his footing with my helping hand on his bony arm. He bowed and apologised profusely in many different languages, none of which I fully understood. His alarm was, I now realise, understandable––it being uncommon for such speed of movement and exertion in this country where every action is considered whether to be worthy of the energy it uses. This is the foundation, I am certain, for the stigma attached to the nomadic Arab for his perceived laziness. For the first time I intimidated Gulah, and after releasing his arm he moved quickly out of my way. He humbly backed out of the tent and bid me follow. Outside, the camp was utter pell-mell. Some of the women were praying aloud and some bundling up their children as if for journey–––

The campwas a bustle of activity as women ran around making ready to leave. Some of the women had already left and others were in fearful deliberation with their menfolk, demanding they be allowed to quit the caravan. As Rupert stood watching in amazement, Adehm brought two camels.

–––Adehm came again. I felt extremely uncomfortable in his presence now, after he finding me in his wife’s arms, but he made little of it. He took my arm respectfully and led me to the camels and bid me mount one; this being the first time in the whole of my captivity I was allowed to ride. I was pulled up behind the hump of a most disagreeable beast, which, having neither bridle or halter or any other means by which to guide or govern it, I was obliged to cling to it by grasping its long hair with both hands. Adehm majestically mounted his own beast and proceeded to lead; my camel obediently followed.

After we had travelled about an hour through the shimmering heat the sun gave way to evening, and in the distance I saw an encampment. These lights, I presumed, was Lord Travillion’s caravan. I was now convinced he and this Travion Pasha, were one and the same.

We had started out in twilight and now, as we approached the camp, it was total darkness save for the camp-lights and light of the stars.

On arrival, Adehm had dismounted and commanded my camel to kneel as to allow me to dismount, which it did and I was able to slip off. Whereupon we were greeted by the sound of my beloved English, the first time for what seemed an eternity, save for the two words spoken in my dreams, and the ramblings of that wretched Portuguese slave. A huge, magnificently dressed Arab guardsman, named Syed, came from one of the tents to greet us. He sang out in broken English.

‘Welcome, Englises – peace and blessings unto you.’

I was shocked to silence and could do little more than bow graciously. He smiled and continued, ’Welcome, Travion Pasha awaits his brother. If Rroo Pard Pasha will follow.

I was benumbed by his words, ‘Rroo Pard.’ This being, I assumed, the closest pronunciation he could make of my name. Without answer I obediently followed. I conjured up the picture how I last remembered Lord Travillion––it was on the eve of his departure. Then in my minds eye it all came back to me; the night of the classic ball, he, dressed as Hades, tall and handsome with jet-black hair. I pondered as to how time and his great trial and trauma would have altered his countenance, and whetherit would be beyond my recollection–––

Chapter 10

The camp was,in striking contrast to Adehm’s humble camp, prosperous to the to the point of extreme. Syed escorted Rupert like a revered dignitary, through the avenues of magnificent jet-black pavilions. Rupert could see, through the open awnings, the exotic decorations and rich furnishings. There were many immaculately dressed Moorish guardsmen present, armed with huge swords and daggers. They stood alert at every tent, bowing and making flowing hand gestures of greeting as Rupert passed. There were also many women, finely dressed and adorned with splendid jewellery, they also smiled and bowed as Rupert past.

Finally, they came to the largest of magnificent tents. Syed entered first, then he beckoned to Rupert that he should now follow. As Rupert entered into the bright candle-lit area he froze in shock. He was staring into the jet-black, soulless eyes of Lord Travillion Colebridge.

–––Of all the revelations of my trip, my shipwreck, captivity, and tortuous hardships, nothing shocked me more as my first sight of Don Travion (this was the title he preferred). To say he had not changed a hair on his head would not be so much an exaggeration as a gross understatement, he looked exactly the same, if not younger, than I remembered him. I was, to say the least, astounded. For in spite of his seven years in this sunbaked hell, not even was his skin tanned; contrariwise, it had the pallor of a corpse. And, whereas Marockshwas the blackest man I ever beheld, Lord Travillion was now, by contrast, the whitest. Neither did a single grey hair adorn those ebony locks, which flowed down his neck Arab-style. He sat upright on a magnificent throne, as if a King or Magi, ready to receive his court. And as he looked up at me with black, unfeeling eyes I felt certain he would not remember our brief meeting, so long ago.

His countenance thus, I was truly shaken, and it must have shown in my face, and for the fact that I could not utter a word–––

’Young Rupert Mansie,I do believe?’ Lord Travillion’s words hung like leaden weights about Rupert’s shoulders. It was some little while before he could comprehend; all he could do was gape unbelievingly. Lord Travillion smiled sardonically and continued, ‘Abigail was so taken with you that I must admit to pangs of jealousy at the prospect of my going away and leaving her with you, so much so that I could have boxed your ears for your being so young and handsome.’

Rupert stood unsteadily in the entrance of the tent, under Lord Travillion’s gaze. His legs were shaking and he looked weary and pathetic by contrast to the fine gentleman who now so intently studied him.

‘I beg–’ Rupert’s voice faltered, it being so long since he had spoken. He cleared his throat and he started again, ‘I beg pardon, your Lordship, for any distress I may have given on that day. My only excuse must be my youth, and that I had never before, nor since, seen a more beautiful woman than your Lady.’

–––I was shocked and now embarrassed; I could hardly find my voice. When I did speak, my words sounded shrill and so ill-formed I had to clear my throat. Lord Travillion laughed aloud at my feeble reasoning. He clapped his hands for service, and immediately two servants rushed in carrying an urn and glasses. He smiled again at me with those black soulless eyes. Then his look turned to sadness as he gestured for me to sit, which I did gladly for I was unsteady on my feet, especially when standing still. He offered me wine – Wine. I had forgotten such things.

I was handed a cut-glass goblet of deep red claret, and, as I raised it up and smelled it, saliva ran into my mouth with such expectation, the pain of it brought tears into my eyes. I believe Lord Travillion had been deliberating my last statement, for he continued on it.

‘I would give up my fortune,’ he said with great drama, ’to relive that ‘distress’, as you call it. I know the sad news you bring. Though I choose to live incognito I still have my lines of communication.’

He stopped and considered some distant memory, which hung leaden to his thoughts for an uncomfortable spell. Through this passage of time he seemed completely oblivious to me, as if his mind had left his body and was preoccupied on some other, cerebral plane. I stumbled for words and broke the silence awkwardly. ‘At least there is consolation that your Lady be reunited in heaven with your son, Horace.’ As I spoke these words Lord Travillion leaped from his chair and grabbed me roughly by the shoulders.

’You will neverspeak that name,’ he screamed into my face. ‘Do you understand? ––NEVER.’

He made such alarm at my mention of his son’s name that two of his number rushed in and, before I could speak, they threw me to the ground and a dagger was levelled at my throat. Lord Travillion uttered some unintelligible order and I was left prostrate at his feet. The two guards bowed, then stood back. His Lordship stooped and, as he helped me up, spoke with intense compassion.

‘Thousand pardons, Rupert; I am cursed with a violent mouth. I beseech you to forgive a stupid man, cut off too long from the rudiments of civil etiquette.’

The two Moors left and I sat again–––

Lord Travillionlifted Rupert to his feet and set him back on his chair. One of the servants picked up his glass and the other refilled it with wine and placed it in his hand. Lord Travillion dismissed the guards. He composed himself as Rupert drank.

‘I can see, Rupert Mansie,’ he said with a great sigh, ’you have suffered since your shipwreck – Yes, I know about your travels and your wretched treatment. But you must understand this savage continent and its people that live by stealth to survive it. It makes them appear cruel to the outside world, but they are no better nor worse than their survival demands. They sincerely wish to make themselves agreeable to newcomers, to put them at their ease and to do them what good service they can, only they do not know exactly how to set about it. If they violate all laws of decorum or courtesy, it is out of sheer ignorance, not malice prepense.’ Lord Travillion stood and turned his back and continued as if addressing some spectre audience. ’And amid the aimlessness of an utterly uncultivated mind, they show indications of considerable tact and shrewdness; while, through all the fickleness proper to man accustomed to no moral or indeed physical restraint, there appears the groundwork of a manly and generous character, such as a Persian, for instance, seldom offers. Their defects are inherent in their condition; their redeeming qualities are their own, which they have by inheritance from one of the noblest races on the Earth, from the Arabs of inhabited lands and organized governments. Indeed, after having travelled much and made pretty intimate acquaintance with many races, African, Asiatic, and European, I should hardly be inclined to give preference to any over the genuine clans of Central and Eastern Africa. Now these last-mentioned populations are identical in blood and tongue with the myrmidons of the desert, yet how immeasurably inferior. The difference between the barbarous Highlander and the English gentleman in, Rob Roy or Waverly, is hardly less striking.’

Rupert tried to speak but the wine choked in his throat. Lord Travillion smiled again.

’In many other respects, the Arab resembles the prairie Indian of the Americas, similar physical circumstances compelling a recourse to similar mode of life. The prairie Indian is a trailer – so is the Arab. Of the acuteness of his senses as displayed in this the tales are endless. Here is one told to me, if my memory does not deceive me, by an old officer of the then Ruler of Egypt: –Some merchants of Beirut lost a camel in the desert, and whilst searching for it they met an old man whom they interrogated in regard to it. ‘Had he seen the camel?’ ‘No.’ As no information is likely to be got from this individual, they are starting again in pursuit, when the solitary desert wanderer calls them back. ‘Was the camel laden on one side with corn and the other with honey?’ ‘Yes, yes. When did you see it?’ ‘I have never seen it. But was it lame on the right fore-leg?’ ‘Yes; where is it? Do not delay us any longer.’ ‘I have never seen your camel. Was it blind in the right eye?’ ‘Yes, yes, give us our camel.’ ‘I know not where your camel is; but further, was it wanting a tooth in front?’ ‘Yes, it was.’ As he still protested his ignorance of the whereabouts of the camel, he was dragged before this Ruler, and to the same, he told his tale. ‘In the name of Allah I protest I know not where the camel of the merchants is. I know, however, that a camel was ahead of me, for I saw its tracks on the sand. I know it was laden on one side with corn and on the other side with honey, for I saw the one spilt on one side of the path and the other spilt on the other, as it ran masterless along. I know that it was lame on the right fore-leg, for I have all my life known the track of the camel, and I saw by the footprints in the sand that this was lame in the manner I have told unto my lord and unto the merchantmen. I know that it was blind on one side, for it ate the herbage alone at one side of its path, while the other side it was richer still; and lastly, I know that it wanted a tooth, for as it cropped the broad-leaved herbage I could see that it left always in the centre of its bite a strip of leaf, unbit through. That is all I know; the merchants know as much. Let them seek the camel, and let me be gone.’

Rupert widened his eyes in an attempt to stop them closing.

‘I’m sorry,’ continued Lord Travillian, ’ I fear I am being a bore; I have so little intercourse with my equals. I have accrued a knowledge of my fellow man “from going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it,”his habits, his tenderness, and his cruelties. It lies in my head as a burden, and like Bunyan’sPilgrim, orColeridge’s Ancient Mariner: “At an uncertain hour, that agony returns; and till myghastly taleis told, this heart within me burns.” ––Be at ease, Rupert Mansie, for you are rescued. Your term of trial is at an end; providence has thrown us together. Consider had your ship floundered on some other shore.’

–––At last, I found my voice and looked back into his cold black eyes. He seemed amused with me, as a parent might be with a child. I struggled to hold him in my failing vision; on pulling myself together, I spoke out as bold as I could.

‘Will you return with me, Lord Travillion, to London and reclaim your estate?’

‘No.’ he answered abruptly ’I will not– and hear me well, Rupert Mansie, you will neverask again. My past life was but a prelude to this… higher existence. I am like a king, feared and revered. I am life or death to these people. I rule this domain. I am law and order and my word is absolute. I say a thing and it is so, I dislike of it, and it is no more. I have time, something that the western philosophy cannot comprehend. A thing starts, progresses, peaks, declines and ultimately dies – not so with me, I have…’ He stopped to consider, and again seemed lost in thought. I coughed again on my wine and he finished his sentence.

’… As I say, I have time. But…’

He paused, and again left to that abstraction of his thoughts. Only his unblinking, black eyes remained to hold me in unyielding stare. Then suddenly he broke from his trance and continued.

‘… BUT.’

I startled at the sharpness of the word. He’d spoken with such ferocity that I jumped, my nerves not akin to such sophisticated conversation, and I spilled my wine for the second time. Then, alas, I grew weary. I cursed myself for constantly closing my eyes, for of all things I wanted this discourse to continue–––

Rupert’s eyesflickered between consciousness and sleep. Abigail’s waxen hand was there to caress his cheek. She bent to him to kiss him.

‘AWAKE.’ Lord Travillion’s voice ripped into the dream and Abigail was gone.

–––I had fallen asleep in Lord Travillion’s presence; I was mortified. I tried to apologise, but he would have none of it.

‘Do not squander your sweet repose, Rupert Mansie, for tonight you sleep on gossamer.’

Having spoke thus, Lord Travillion clapped his hands, and immediately two of the most beautiful young Abyssinian maids entered, both entirely unclothed. They helped me stand and, though I did protest severely, led me away to a neighbouring tent and there lay with me, down to sleep. And that is what I did… in the arms of these exotic beauties… sleep–––

Rupert had been playfully led, protesting, to another tent where he was bid lie down on a cot of enormous size. It looked luxurious, and soft beyond belief, with silk sheets and fine silk bolsters and pillows. On seeing the cot he knew at once he could not possibly soil the fine cloth with his emaciated, filthy body. But the girls giggled as they pushed, fussed and finally pulled him onto the bed. But once there, on that ethereal softness, he conceded. But as tired as he was he did not sleep. He lay still as he could and pretended sleep. The girls snuggled to him and together kissed and fondled his body.

After their attempts to arouse him failed, the girls left Rupert to his repose and in a short while they both were fast asleep. Rupert lay awake, staring into the blackness. His brain was full of images; Lord Travillion’s face would not leave his minds eye. Then suddenly, as if procured by some unseen agent, Abigail was there. Her white hand once again caressed his face and she smothered him with kisses. There on that great bed they made love, the two girls sleeping oblivious, neither stirring nor seeming even to breathe. When the lovemaking was finished Abigail whispered in his ear. He pulled away and opened his eyes and she was gone; in her place, where a moment ago Abigail had been, was one of the serving girls lying in his arms. The girl looked into his eyes for a moment, smiled dreamily, then lay back on his chest and snuggled to him.

–––Eleventh day of confinement. 17th September 1815

I woke in a most pleasant way; the two nymphs entwined my body. I thought nothing ill of them, for they were no more there, I concluded, of free choice than I was. I indulged only in the warmth of their naked bodies until morning approached. Nothing more did I demand of them, for in my dream I had drunk deeply from the cup of human kindness. Yes, human, of that I am convinced.

She had come to me again; I thought it would be different, I thought that now she would be at peace. The contrary. ‘Find him.’ She had spoken the words as we lay in each other’s arms… not words for my ears, but in my head I heard her plea: ‘Find him.’

Our passion spent, Morpheus released me to one of my nymphs blowing in my ear. These beauties bathed and washed me and dressed me in fine linen and tied a scarf about my head with a golden cord. As morning approached, the Abyssinian serving girls left me to my own devices.

Before the sun had risen, Lord Travillion came to my tent. He enquired how I had spent the night– this is customary etiquette of desert folk. During this conversation, I had chanced to enquire of Lord Travillian as to the history of the two serving slave girls. He was much injured that I referred to them as slaves––

‘These slave girls,’ inquired Rupert, nervously, ‘the two that attended me, your Lordship – if it appears not too presumptuous to inquire – how came you by them?’ As Rupert asked his question Lord Travillian’s face grew dark with anger.

‘Slaves.’ He bellowed, and studied Rupert for a few moments, then calmed. ‘I do not take slaves into my camp; those two girls came to me by way of charity. They are biological twins. If you have lain with them you will know one of them has born a child and one has not, but neither are married. From king to beggar, among the Abyssinian people, there is no distinction between legitimate and illegitimate offspring; there being, in fact, no principle on which the preference could be made to rest, except in the royal family, where the mother of the heir is previously elected and usually crowned. In his order of marriage, the king uses no other ceremony than the following: He sends an emissary to the house where the lady of his fancy lives, who announces to her that it is the king’s pleasure that she should remove instantly to the palace. She then dresses herself in her finest clothes and immediately obeys. Thenceforward the king assigns her an apartment in the royal dwelling, and gives her a house elsewhere in any place she may choose. There is only an approach to a regular marriage when he makes one of his maiden wives pregnant; for this occasion a proclamation is offered to the effect that the king has chosen this handmaiden for his queen: The crown is then applied to her brow, but she is not yet anointed, that comes after the successful birth.’

‘Beg pardon, your Lordship,’ interrupted Rupert, not entirely understanding the relevance of this interlude, and feeling compelled to ask, ‘Prithee what has this to do with these two girls?’

Lord Travillion smiled again and continued. ’This, as you will hear, was the case with the serving girls. The king had chosen one of the twins. It mattered little to him which one, as they were identically beautiful, as you have seen. He arbitrarily took one, and soon she was with child. The birth customs of the Abyssinian are sufficiently interesting to be noted: When a child is about to be born all the men must leave the house. To remain at this interesting period, under the same roof with the mother, would be pollution so great that the offender could not be allowed to associate with others for many, many days.

After the child is born it is taken to the window and held there until the father thrusts through the open window a lance, the point of which is put into the infant’s mouth, in order, it is believed, to make the future warrior brave in battle. The Abyssinian child may therefore be said to be born not with the proverbial silver spoon in its mouth, but with a weapon much more warlike. The women then utter loud cries, twelve times for a boy, three for a girl. The plight of the Abyssinian serving girls had its cause here; for as is the custom, the women then engage in a chase after all the men, who, if caught, have to ransom themselves by making a present, generally of eatables or drinkables. A dinner is prepared, in the course of which oxen are slaughtered at the door in order to furnish brind(raw flesh), which is served up reeking and quivering from the body of the animal.

Deep drinking then commences, in which the women indulge to such a degree, which, to a European seems licentious, incredible. After this, the unattached young ladies––who are for the time being mistresses of the situation––indulge a debauch that is not particularly elegant in character. Here lay the tragedy with the twin girls: One of the men did not buy his ransom from the wife’s sister. He was content to meddle awhile with the twin and was kept in luxury and entertained by bothgirls at the house that the king had given his new wife. Some time later one of the sisters was seen by the king––he assumed his wife––to engage in the most debauched of all their actions: irrumatio, a disgusting practice introduced by the ancient Romans; a practice mentioned in the first line of a Gaius Valerius Catullus, poem: Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo – You do not need to know the translation.

The king was so enraged he resolved to put the girl to death, which was his right. But, as the girls were identical to the eye, and were inseparable and loved each other, the one protected the other. The wife’s sister proffered herself as culprit. As the king could not be certain of the guilty party, he relented. He kept the child and banished both girls. It was my good fortune to be their benefactor; alone and without protection in their own country, they would have been cruelly mistreated.

They make an exotic addition to our little company, is that not so, Rupert Mansie, would you not agree?’ Rupert did not answer. ‘You will meet with me again, tomorrow. I have enjoyed this intercourse; it is a long time since I have had such a willing ear. We will continue our conversation – and if you think the Abyssinian people harsh in their dealings in the affairs of the heart, wait until I tell you of the Aboriginal folk of the Antipodes. Until tomorrow.’ Lord Travillion bowed and took his leave.

–––After his strange tale, Lord Travillian left. I then spent a short time writing in my journal. As the sun rose, Syed, the Arab guard, came to me. He stood at the entrance of my tent, one arm holding the awning. On reflection I do believe he awaited my permission to enter, and since I did not think to offer it, he spoke whilst still standing awkwardly outside.

‘Rroo Pard Pasha will return when the sun is gone, to meet again with his brother Pasha d’Noche. Adehm will come for you at dusk, if that pleases you, effendi?’

I nodded agreement and gave a flowing sweep of my hand––it felt the thing to do, dressed as I was in Arab garb. It had the desired effect. Syed returned the gesture and continued.

‘Rroo Pard Pasha, you are truly blessed to have such a kinsman –Peace and blessings unto him.’

He then backed away and was gone. Adehm came with the camels and without word we returned to the encampment––

Chapter 11

Rupert spentthe whole of the following day writing. Now, as the sun took its leave he stood outside his tent waiting for Adehm. He felt strangely elated. He had woken as on the previous few days, with Ezimah entwined in his arms. Then she had brought him some coconut milk, of which he had refused, and allowed her to take for herself. She was exceedingly grateful and scurried off with it to her tent. After attending his journal Rupert spent an hour or so deliberating, trying to remember and make sense of Lord Travillion’s words.

At midday, Ezimah had brought him a bowl of water and she insisted, through sign, to wash him, his face, his arms and hands, and then his feet. She tried to wash the rest of his body but he prevented this. At length, she put aside the bowl and threw her arms around him and tried to pull him onto the cot. Her flashing eyes told him that she would have him ravish her. He of course refused and she appeared deeply disappointed, but not offended. After he made it obvious no further service was required of her, she took the bowl and left.

The prospect of his mission coming to a close raised Rupert’s spirit to such heights he felt his heart pounding in anticipation. When at last Adehm came with the camels, Rupert expressed his eagerness to get started, so much so he refused the jug Adehm offered and climbed immediately onto his kneeling camel. Adehm passed the jug to one of the children who had gathered to see them off. The child was overwhelmed with the gift, running off to share it with the other children.

–––Adehm brought the camels. This time my beast had, bridle, halter, and saddle, of such fine quality he could hardly keep his eyes from them.

I was elated, my heart pounded at the thought of my journey’s end. But when we arrived at Lord Travillion’s encampment Syed informed me that Don Travion was otherwise engaged. He had ridden out and was not expected back until the morrow. In the meantime I was to have the run of his camp: food, wine, and women, as Syed said ‘to satisfy my every need’– whatever I desired was to be afforded me. I must say now I was bitterly disappointed. I had lost much in life; disappointment was my constant companion. But this, some might say, small setback came near to putting out the very spark of my being. I felt like the Magus, the holy man of whom, at his death, and after a lifetime of self-denial; sacrificial atonement to sequestrate a higher place in heaven, finds heaven no more than how he’d imagined hell to be. Eastern religions believing the martyr’s paradise to be a magnificent garden, and therein, for his use alone, an endless procession of beautiful virgins ‘to satisfy his every need’. One can only conclude that the Eastern man’s perceived paradise consists of all things he had been, in life, denied. Heaven or hell I’ll take either, so long as Abigail resides there–––

To spend a dayidling in luxury was in itself, Rupert resolved, a martyr’s heaven. The only thing that spoilt it was the thought of the poor Portuguese slave who, only days ago had perished for want of what now lay at his feet in abundance, food and drink.

He demanded nothing of the two girls who constantly fussed over him, other than watch them dance and play. He felt, because of his presence, they too had claimed some benefit. For he saw in their faces, in spite of their present pleasures and Lord Travillion’s explanation of their circumstances, that unmistakable demeanor of servility; that of the sequestrated slave.

–––Twelfth day of confinement. 17th September 1815

’Something terrible has happened. On return to our caravan a group of women rushed to me and begged some form of service. Adehm pushed the wretched group away as if to protect me, but they persisted. On their explanation to him, Adehm himself turned on me, and in desperation pleaded with such passion, begging for me to be of assistance. He took hold of my arm and led me away to one of the women’s tents. As I entered the gaping awning I could not believe my eyes. I saw, in the contrasting darkness, the body of a boy. As I stared in disbelief Ezimah pushed past, ran to the tiny corpse and raised it up into a sitting position. Merciful heavens, it was the emaciated body of the child I had saved from the starving Portuguese slave––I can only conclude, as I believe did Adehm, that it was written for the child’s demise.

Even in the poor light, I could see the many tiny teeth marks and bites that covered its naked body. My first suspicion, I am ashamed to say, fell on Marocksh. Had he, as had the other wretched slave, succumbed through hunger to the hellish act of cannibalism? For on close inspection I saw that the marks were small, complete indentations of humanteeth, top, and bottom. But the teeth marks were not those of Marocksh, his Negroid bite being twice, almost three times the breadth of these. Shocked as I was, I could not stop myself concluding that the mother herself, Ezimah, in some hunger induced delirium did inflict this terrible savage act upon her own child. Adehm knelt at my feet and spoke in dreadful voice.

‘Rroo Pard Pasha. O Travion. O Christas.’

I saw in his eyes that this was a personal tragedy; My conclusion was this be his own child that had perished, but I could not begin to understand what they wanted of me; I had given no indication that I might be a medical man or physician, besides which it was obvious that the child was beyond help, for as the mother raised the boy, the covers slid from his body and exposed a huge wound in the chest; I do believe the heart had been devoured. But the woman continued to raise the child, holding its arms and moving them as to imply life might somehow return. Did they believe me to have the power of resurrection? Adehm continued to wail pathetically.

‘Lord O Travion. ... Christas... Christas.’

I turned and ran from this frightful scene, and once outside did I vomit severely into the sand. At the sight of this, I think Adehm, and the others, realised I could be of no help, for I heard a wail rise up from the tent that must be universal in its sadness. Later that day the child was washed in precious water, wrapped in cloth and interred into the sand. Nothing was done to find a culprit. Adehm cannot bear to look me in the eye. I do believe he thinks I have failed him–––

That eveningRupert stood in all his Arab finery. He looked into the distance in the direction of Lord Travillion’s caravan and the setting sun. No more did he feel elated, no more was his heart pounding with expectation, just the vivid memory the of dead child’s body with its heart ripped out.

When Adehm arrived again with the camels, he caught Rupert with a penetrating stare. Rupert answered with his eyes, a look of great sadness. Adehm bowed and handed the reins of one of the two beasts.

–––The sun had almost set when Adehm brought the camels. He offered the finer of the beasts, but I bade him wait a while, I had a task to perform, I had to seek out Morocksh, for I had not seen him for two days.

I found my black comrade at the far end of the camp and cursedmyself for not troubling earlier. He was tied, as the wretched Portuguese had been tied, hands behind his back, forearms bitten and bleeding – Merciful God, he was starving; close to death. When he saw me he bayed like an animal, then cried out to me.

’Morocksh Allah, Rroo Pard Pasha… Clemencia… Alimeeento… Christos…. Rroo Pard Pasha, Hi El Mohameeeed.

I was so appalled at his poor, cruel condition that I ran back to where Adehm waited with the camels. I struck him a savage blow to the side of his head, sending him crashing to the sand. I then grabbed him up, and as he cowered passively I hurled abuse and dragged him by the arm to where Morocksh lay and demanded an explanation. He staggered bowing, desperate to alleviate.

‘Claamenncio, Rroo Pard Pasha, media alimento, Claamenncio.’

He indicated with word and sign... then––oh, shame on shame––Iunderstood. Since my change in status in the encampment, Morocksh’s share of food had come to me. I looked around scarce believing, then realising, to my horror the whole tribe was near starvation. Mothers, children and, when I studied his eyes, Adehm too had that look of impending doom. I had been so taken up with my own plight that it had not occurred to me, the entire tribe had taken short measure to supplement my own, as retribution and Morockshnow being the only slave, he bearing the brunt.

I gave Morocksh what little food and drink that I had brought from Lord Travillion’s encampment, and cursed myself for not bringing more, but in his sorry state, the little I gave him was as a feast... more would have probably made him ill. Oh God in heaven, how I hate this place.–––

Morockshlooked up between Rupert and Adehm– even in his delirium he was amazed that Rupert, a fellow slave, could treat Adehm in such a way. A few days ago this would surely have brought immediate death. Rupert’s anger now turned to shock as he scanned the encampment. A few women, Ezimah among them, and the children stood watching, eyes dark and sunken with dehydration and hunger. Rupert wept. Tears rolled down his face and blew away in the breeze. He knelt in front of Adehm and begged forgiveness. Adehm quickly lifted him up and he now bowed humbly.

Rupert’s words and gestures seemed to placate Adehm, who now gave orders for two women to bathe Morocksh with dampened cloths, and to tend his bitten arms. Adehm then indicated that they should leave. Rupert mounted his camel and Adehm lead off, into the twilight.

–––On arrival at the Colebridge encampment we dismounted and I was escorted immediately to Lord Travillion’s tent, and there commanded to sit. His Lordship sat on his grand throne. Eager to get to the business in hand he spoke before waiting for me to settle.

‘I want to conclude a transaction,’ he said with his black eyes staring into mine, ‘and, if all goes to plan, you, Rupert Mansie, will become a very wealthy man. But first I will further your education on the peoples of our world.’–––

Lord Travilliansmiled and studied Rupert as a tutor might study an underling student.

’Since we were talking of marriages among the rude tribes of the world, let me continue with a few observations of Collins,of New South Wales: ‘For the Aborigine, it is essentially a marriage by force. The following method in which Sydney natives used to obtain wives––the manners of the Australian natives have not so much improved for the better since the time this was written.’ But it is well to remember, Rupert Mansie, that this is exactly how we, the ruling, supposedly superior European, in our own dark, native days did the very same. It was not until the Roman Empire dragged us from the Stone Age that we entered into civilization and Christendom, some eighteen hundred years ago. ––Julius Caesar, in his commentary on the Gallic War gave mentioned of the savage British aboriginal tribepeople, and their apparent remedy for the lack of wives; ten husband-men sharing one woman (poor wretch). These Australian aboriginal have had less than one hundred years of, supposed, civilization.’

Lord Travillion stared at Rupert, seemingly awaiting acknowledgement.

Rupert nodded, ‘Pr’thee continue.’

‘And so to the Aborigine: Some equally poor female wretch is stolen upon in the absence of her protectors. Being first stupefied with blows inflicted with clubs or wooden swords, on the head, back, and shoulders, every one of which is followed by a stream of blood. She is then dragged by one arm through the woods, with a perseverance and violence that, it might be supposed, would displace limb from socket. The lover, or rather the ravisher, is regardless of the stones or broken pieces of trees that might lie in his route, being anxious only to convey his prize to his own party, where a scene ensues too shocking to relate. This outrage is not resented by the female’s relatives, who only retaliate by similar outrage when they find an opportunity. This is so constantly the practice among them, that even the children make it a play-game, or exercise.’

According to Mr. Oldfield––an intelligent writer on these people––that in Australia, to quote, “men are in excess to their opposite sex, and consequently many men of every tribe are unprovided with that especial necessary to their comfort subsistence, a wife. – A wife, who is a slave in the strictest sense of the word, being a beast of burden, provider of food, and a ready object on which to expend those passions the men dare not vent upon each other; Hence, for those desiring such luxury, there arises the necessity of stealing women of some tribe; and in these expeditions to affect so laudable a design, they will cheerfully undergo privations and dangers equal to those they incur when in search of blood revenge. When, on such an errand, they discover an unprotected female, their proceedings are not of the most gentle nature. Stunning her with a blow from the waddy––to make her love him perhaps––they drag her by the hair to the nearest thicket to await her recovery. When she comes to her senses they force her to accompany them. And in the worst circumstance, it is but the exchange of one brutal lord for another. The abductee generally enters into the spirit of the affair, and takes as much pains to escape as though it were a matter of her own free will.” ’

One of the serving girls handed Rupert a goblet of wine. She bowed and smiled wantonly into his face. He took the wine and smiled back. Lord Travillion continued.

’And so, betwixt wife and husbands, little real affection can be expected. The husband avowedly looks upon his wife as a beast of burden, a slave to whom every labour is to be delegated, and who is to be brutally beaten and ill-used on the most trivial provocation. Ex-governor, Eyre – who was for some years one of Australian’s Protectors of Aborigines – declares that “few women will be found upon examination to be free from frightful scars upon the head, or the marks of spear-wounds about the body. I have seen young women, who, from the number of those marks, appeared to have been almost riddled with spear-wounds. If at all good-looking, their position is, if it were possible, even worse than otherwise.” So brutal, indeed, is the way in which these wretched wives of wretched men are treated, that a recent eminent ethnological writer, Sir John Lubbockfeels himself bound in respect to feelings of a certain section of his readers, to translate into Latin the description of how they are treated. Though their customs are barbaric to the extreme a man is, however, prohibited from marrying a woman whose family name is the same as his own, and even one who belongs to the same tribe, though the parties may be in no way connected. As I say, Rupert Mansie, do not judge these savages too harshly, for in their brutality mirrors our own.’

–––Lord Travillianwas quiet now; ‘the burning heart within him’ it seemed, extinguished, and there followed a few moments of mutual silence. At length, I mustered all the courage I had left to me and spoke out. ‘Before we continue I must beg pardon to ask a question–’

Startled at my abruptness he looked, for that moment, as if he would strike me, but then his anger subsided and he waved a gracious hand for me to continue, which I did with reservations.

‘The people of Gulah’s caravan are plagued by an unknown rider, he stalks them like an animal, and comes down on them in the night and takes and kills, women children, and animals of the stock. Who in God’s name is he? And why, if you are master here, can you not apprehend?’

At my words Lord Travillion’s eyes again grew black with anger– I was certain I had exceeded my hospitality and expected some form of rebuff. On the contrary, his mood now seemed to soften, and he answered almost apologetically.

‘That rider is no more. He will never again bother the tribe, nor has he for some long time past.’

‘Not so.’ I replied. ‘Just days ago this rider took a child.’

Lord Travillion’s eyes grew black again. ’You are mistaken, Rupert Mansie. ––There was a sheik…’

His damning look left no avenue; no other recourse but to listen to what, I can only imagine, would be some local fable–––

Rupert calmed,settled, and sat quietly. Lord Travillion continued in the patronising voice of the storyteller.

‘There was a sheik of the Bedouins. He was old and poor, the latter being common to his race. He owned a tent, a Nubian slave, and an exceptional mare, nothing else. From the Nile to the Euphrates the fame of this animal had gone out; sheiks and kings sort in vain to own her. The love of this Bedouin for his horse is not that fabled affection that we read in books. This love is the same affection that the nabob has for gold, or rather that a poor labourer has for his wages.’

Rupert felt compelled to interrupt again. ‘But what is this to do with the devil that plagues these tribespeople? And do you not also know these people are starving?’

Lord Travillion raised a hand as to say ‘just listen’, and continued, almost pleading to be understood. ’They starve and thirst because they travel––it is their choice––they could do otherwise, they could sell their camels and cease their wandering and so give up their freedom. But for the Bedouin, Rupert Mansie, his horse is his life. He can rob, plunder, kill and destroy ad libitum, if he has a fleet steed. If he has none he can do nothing, but is the prey of everyone who has. That or wander out of the range of the horse; for acquisition is a prominent feature of the equestrian Arab character, but accumulation is not found in the brain of a son of Ishmael. The reason is obvious. If he has wealth, he has nowhere to keep it. He would be robbed in the night. He would, indeed, have no desire to keep it; for the Bedouin who murders for a shawl, or a belt, or some gay trapping, will give it away next day.’

Rupert grew weary at Lord Travillion’s words, but yet he feared to speak. And still he was no nearer to an answer, but he dared not press him. His lordship studied Rupert for a moment, like a father studying his adolescent child. His mood seemed to change and he continued in more courteous voice.

’So, the old Bedouin sheik was rich in this one mare, which was acknowledged to be the fleetest horse in Arabia. One, Ibrahim Pasha, wished for the animal. He sent various offers to the sheik, but in vain. At length he sent a deputation with a hundred purses––a purse being five pounds––but the old man laughed at him. ‘Then,’ said Ibrahim Pasha, ’I will takeyour mare.’

‘Try it.’

He sent a regiment into the desert, and the sheik rode around them, and laughed at them, and the regiment came home.

At last the old sheik died from a wound received in a feudal fracas with a neighbouring tribe. Returning to his encampment dying, he gave his Nubian slave all that he had––his priceless mare, his freedom, and the duties of blood revenge. The faithful slave accepted all, and has ever since been the terror of the desert. He comes down like a hawk on the tents of that tribe, and leaves a ball or a lance in a man, woman or child. No amount of blood satisfies his revenge; the mare and its black rider are celebrated here as the wild huntsmen in England’s forests, and are much better known. Hereis your devil stalker.’

–––The saga ended, and his Lordship studied me again. Now I had the opportunity to speak. ‘That tribe was Gullah’s tribe?’ My raised voice had rendered the question redundant. He just stared at me. ‘And Gullah, the murderer be?’ I added, but he continued to stare until I looked away, and thus Iconceded to his explanation.

‘I must beg further pardon to ask one more question, if I may, before we move to conclude your transaction.’ Lord Travillian gave a nod, and I warily continued. ‘Gullah’s encampment holds a Negro slave, Morocksh, a Moroccan I do believe; today I found him, wretched, his hands tied behind his back, forearms bitten and bleeding; Merciful God, he is starving close to death. When he saw me he bayed as an animal. Is there anything you can do?’ ––

Rupert was silent.Lord Travillion contemplated his answer.

‘I cannot, and will not intervene,’ he said at length, ‘to do so would be regarded as an insult, and as weakness. Do not concern yourself, Rupert Mansie, with this fellow.’

‘But he is a man.’ interrupted Rupert, ‘Regardless of his being black, he is still a human being–’

’Do notconcern yourself. Wanton torture of a Negro, so common in our own society, is practically unknown among the Bedouin, black or white it makes no difference to the Arab–’

Rupert again attempted to speak; Lord Travillion raised a censuring hand and continued:

’But, never the less, the black man, according to Sir Samuel Baker, “is a curious anomaly, the good and bad points of human nature bursting forth without any arrangement, like the flowers and thorns of his wilderness”. He is a creature of impulse, the seldom actuated by reflection, the black man astounds by his complete obtuseness, and as suddenly confounds you by his unexpected exhibition of sympathy. But it is an absurdity to condemn the Negro in toto, as it is preposterous to some, to compare his capacity with that of the white man. It is, unfortunately, the fashion for one party to uphold the Negro as a superior being, while the other denies him the common powers of reason. So great a difference of opinion has even existed upon the intrinsic value of the Negro, that the very perplexity of the question is proof that he is altogether a distinct variety. So long as it is generally considered that the Negro and the white man are to be governed by the same laws and guided by the same management, so long will the former remain a thorn in the side of every community to which he may unhappily cohabitate. When the horse and the ass shall be yoked in double harness, the white man and the African will pull together under the same regime. It is the great error of equalising that which is unequal, which has lowered the Negro character and made the black man a reproach.’

‘So… you will disregard him.’

Lord Travillion studied Rupert for some uncomfortable long time. At length, he smiled and continued.

’I forgive you your impudence, Rupert Mansie, for you are not in full receipt of the facts in this matter. A matter, which, in my exile, I have given much thought: In his savage home, what is the African? certainly bad; but not so bad as the white man would be, I believe, under similar circumstances. He is acted upon by the bad passions inherent in human nature, but there is no exaggerated vice, such as is found in civilised countries. The strong takes from the weak; one tribe fights the other––do not perhaps we in Europe? They are legitimate acts of independent tribes, authorised by their chiefs. They mutually enslave each other––how long will it be until even the Americas, as we ourselves, cease to be slaveholders? He is callous and ungrateful––in Europe is there no ingratitude? He is cunning, and a liar by nature––in Europe is all truth and sincerity? Why should the black man not be equal to the white? He is powerful in frame, why should he not be as exalted in mind? In childhood, I believe the Negro to be in advanced in intellectual quickness of the white child of similar age, but the mind is not allowed to expand. The Negro child promises fruit, but is not permitted to ripen; and while the Negro man grows in body; the white man does not allow him to advance in intellect. The puppy of three months is superior in intelligence to the child of the same age; but the mind of the child expands, while that of the dog has arrived at its limit. The chick of the common fowl has sufficient power and instinct to run in search of food the moment it leaves the egg, while the young of the eagle lies helpless in the nest; but the young eagle outstrips the chicken in the course of time.’

Lord Travillion was quiet for a few moments and Rupert chanced another interruption:

‘It would seem you have had much time to contemplate, and I see the subject of slavery is foremost in your mind, but–’

‘Yes, much time–’ Lord Travillion raised his hand again for Rupert’s silence. ’It has been my only passion, not having the passing seasons to wonder at. The Earth presents a wondrous example of variety in all classes of the human race, the animal and vegetable kingdoms. People, beasts, and plants, belong to distinct classes and exhibit special qualities and peculiarities. The existence of many hundred varieties of dogs cannot interfere with the fact that they belong to one genus. The greyhound, pug, bloodhound, pointer, poodle, mastiff, and the toy-terrier, are all as entirely different in their peculiar instincts as are the varieties of the human race. Different fruits and flowers continue the example; the wild grapes of the forest are grapes, but although they belong to the same class, they are distinct from the luscious ‘muscatel.’ And the wild dog-rose of the hedges, although of the same class, is inferior to the moss-rose of the garden. Unfortunately, this is contrary to public opinion in England in regards to the Negro, where the vox populiassumes the right of dictation upon matters and men in which it has had no experience. The English insist upon their own weights and measures as the scales for human excellence. It has been decreed by the multitude, inexperienced in the Negro first-hand, that he has been a badly-treated brother. That he is a worthy member of the human family, placed in an inferior position through the prejudice and ignorance of the white man, with whom he should be upon equality. The Negro has been, and still is, thoroughly misunderstood. However severely we may condemn the horrible system of slavery, the result of emancipation have proved that the Negro does not appreciate the blessings of freedom, nor does he show the slightest feeling of gratitude to the hand that broke the rivets of his fetters, why should he? His narrowed mind will not embrace that feeling of pure philanthropy that first prompted England to declare herself against slavery, and he only regards the anti-slavery movement as a proof of his own importance. In his restricted horizon he is himself the important object, and as a sequence to his self-conceit. He imagines that the whole world is at issue concerning the black man; the Negro, therefore, being the important question, must be the important person, and conducts himself accordingly. He is far too great a man to work. Upon this point, his natural character exhibits itself most determinedly.

In conclusion: In his own country he was a wild savage, and enslaved his brother; he thus became a victim to hissystem, to the institution of slavery that is indigenous to the soil of Africa. This has not been taught to the African by the white man, as is currently reported, but that it has ever been the peculiar characteristic of the African tribes.’

Lord Travillion now sat quietly, his mind lost to some other plane. At length, he roused and took up a bundle of papers. Rupert sat nervously studying him, contemplating what task this man had in store for him. Whatever it was he would accept, his only requisite being repatriation, nothing more.

––When Lord Travillion had gathered himself, he took up the question of the task; the transaction I was to convey for him. The subject of Morocksh and his predicament was now irrecoverable.

‘I have an heir,’ he said, looking up from his papers, ’A child propagated outside holy wedlock. He is to inherit my fortune when he reaches the age of seventeen. Until then, you will be his guardian and run the Colebridge estate in my absence.’

I tried to speak, to tell him I wanted nothing more than return to England, but he ignored my pleas and continued, speaking over me.

’The boy is twelve years old, so you have only five years charge. On his seventeenth birthday you will be gifted all the moneys accrued from the estate in that five years, on receipt of which you will have no more to do; ‘Mansie and Mansie’ will cease to act for the estate.’ Here his voice rose with menace as he continued; ‘You have little choice in the matter, for I alone have the power to return you to your loved ones, and to your own country.’

I tried again to speak but Lord Travillion waved away my words with his hand, then again seemed lost in thought. It had not occurred to me to refuse, and I must say that I was somewhat offended at not being afforded a choice, but I was terrified of this man and dared not antagonise him. He broke from his thoughts and continued as if I had already agreed to act for him in the matter.

‘You will spend tomorrow’s daylight hours reading, rewriting and legitimising the documents that I have prepared. Tomorrow night we will conclude the business, and then you will take my son to Morocco, and from there, make your way to England. After which, you will never hear from me again. And understand me well, Rupert Mansie, you will never again try to find me; if you do you will surely forfeit your life. We will speak no more until tomorrow night. Now dine; you stay until morning…’

As he looked at me I saw in his eyes that he had the heart for murder. It was not necessary for him to utter his last words but he did so, with such venom I shivered in my seat:

‘What I say is so. In my hands, I hold your life and indeed your very soul.’

He stood towering over me and I felt his malevolence; it was tangible, like a blanket of hatred hung upon me. I was literally petrified by this man, who seemed to evoke a darkness of heart that I can only describe as evil. This man seemed truly damned. Without further word he turned and left the tent.

Now my two naked beauties entered and brought food and wine. Such a feast was set before me that, for its duration, I forgot the gravity of my task. I ate my fill then packed what I could into my new saddlebags–––

Chapter 12

After Rupert had finished the feast,two Arab guards entered carrying a huge bronze tub. They laid it down and left. The serving girls fetched and filled it with hot water. Rupert watched in awe. After the bath was full the girls proceeded to undress him, and though he protested and fought desperately to hold on to his clothes, and indeed his dignity, he was successful in neither.

–––The dancing girls came to me again and did insist to bathe me in a sumptuous slipper bath, which took all three of us – such an amount of water, such waste when just five miles away my once captors thirsted to the point of suffering.

After the bath, they led me to my tent where, for my entertainment, one of the girls played upon a dulcimer and the other performed a most beautiful, provocative dance. So intoxicating was the music, and, of course the effect of the bath and the wine, that I felt myself slipping into delirium. Images intertwined: I saw again our doomed ship, The Venture, riding the storm, heaving and dipping down into angry waters that, in my fantasy, now became sand dunes, Morocksh’s face, shrieking and laughing was instantly replaced by the face of the Portuguese slave. His dead, rotted eyes stared at me, only to be substituted again by one of my dancing girls.

I fell onto my cot and would have given way to sleep but for a fleeting glance of the girl playing on the instrument. I saw in her eyes a sadness of spirit, a look of longing for home and loved ones that only sweet music can evoke. I have never truly understood the meaning of evil, but the sequestration of one human being by another, the forced denial of freedom to be among loved ones must be close to it––for in spite of Lord Travillion’s fine words, the plight of these girls was the epitome of slavery.

When I fully regained my senses I was lying on my cot, covered in perspiration, entwined in the arms of my nymphs, but I did not allow them into my bed. Both, after they had conceded, seemed happy enough to curl up and sleep at its foot.

She came again. Abigail walked into my tent, all the world flesh and blood. She walked past the sleeping girls and on into my arms. I wanted so much to tell her my news, that her Lord and husband lived and was at last found, but as always I was mute, and could not utter a single syllable.

We fell to our amorous embrace and indulged in every form of lovemaking. It is from this exotic repertoire that I conclude this to be more than just fantasy; for things were done to me in that netherworld that could not have come from my own imagination, things that so revolted and appalled me that their origins must surely lie outside my comprehension of the acts of human procreation. Abigail performed every connotation of sexual foreplay whilst I tried my upmost to remain torpid, in which I failed. Disgusted and, may God have pity on me, enjoyed; I fear I will never be free.

My passion calmed, I held her as she lay atop of me. ‘Find him.’ she whispered. I desperately tried again to speak. All my being concentrated on just one word ‘Found.’ But I could not part my lips; my teeth ground together and I felt beads of sweat run down my forehead ‘Found.’ God in heaven help me, just one word. Abigail sucked at my neck as she lay heavily on my chest. Now I was hard-pressed to draw breath. She bore down on me like a leaden weight and I could not breathe, still, she sucked to the point of pain. I gasped and with a final effort cried out into the night ‘Found.’ Then my eyes forced open and I perceived a horror that I can scarce hold my pen to write of it–––

Rupert lay sleeping,oblivious of the naked serving girls snuggled in his arms, his eyes moving under the lids. Abigail was all that these closed eyes saw. Her beautiful face so close to his. She pulled him onto a stifling embrace, sucking at his neck. He tried to pull away but still she held him. In his delirium, he imagined her slowly walking through the shimmering haze of the setting sun. Her hair and silken shroud floating on a phantom breeze, but still he felt the sucking at his neck, still he felt her arms around him holding him fast, together in their passion.

But now, suddenly, a different face was sucking at his throat. His eyes forced opened and he was held unblinking, frozen in terror. A monstrous face stared back at him, half human, half animal with soulless black eyes set in blood-red lids, shuddering and jerking like a beast of prey, ready to fight or flee.

–––On my chest was not my loving Abigail nor my dancing girls, but a black-eyed demon. Small and hunched like a monkey, staring directly into my face. Still, I could not breathe; for those grotesque eyes stared directly into mine and it felt as if my breath and my very soul was being sucked away from me, leaving in its place the smell of corrupting flesh. I felt a throbbing in my head that grew to a pounding, like the pounding of horse’s hooves. So severe was it that I started to slip from consciousness. Then, the warmth of naked flesh; I woke again into the arms of my nymphs. One comforting me, and the other mopping my brow–––

Where Abigail had been––where the demon had been–– now lay the two dancing girls, pampering and comforting the distressed Rupert. He could hardly comprehend what he had just experienced. He touched one of the girls to see if she was real. He felt warm, living flesh. She smiled and leaned towards him, putting her beautiful face close to his and attempted to mouth a word that she could not quite pronounce. She mopped his brow and tried again.

‘F,fffooonnda,’ she managed to say, ‘Ffoounda.’

–––‘Found.’ She repeated the word over and over, the word that she must have heard me cry out into the night. I took some comfort in this, as it seemed to prove that I had indeed communicated, that my task was fulfilled, and, though I would regret it, Abigail would leave me now in peace.

But what was that creature? Could that also have come from my imagination, another innovation, a monster from the id? I did not sleep again for fear of its return; I sat at the awning of my tent and waited for the sun to rise.

–––Thirteenth day of confinement

At daybreak, Adehm brought the camels and we returned to our caravan. He did not speak the whole journey; whether it was grief or some other displeasure I did not know, but I was in no mood to press him. We travelled in leaden silence.

After we arrived back at the camp, Adehm took away the camels. I offered around the food that I had carried back with me, but to my utter amazement, all refused to touch it. Even Morocksh, as starving as he was, would not touch a morsel. Bemused, I retreated to my tent and started work on the papers for Lord Travillion. After an hour I felt weary and dozed awhile on my cot–––

The blacknessof Rupert’s tent suddenly exploded in sunlight as the awnings were sharply ripped back. Standing in silhouette against the sun was a black-hooded figure. As it stepped further into the tent Rupert saw the manic eyes of a woman looking at him with murderous ugliness. She was holding a long dagger. The woman then uttered some unintelligible wail and leaped at him. He just managed to grab her wrist and stopped the knife’s blade an inch from his eye. The woman, though small and thin, was extremely strong and in her frenzy her strength was magnified. It was all Rupert could do to keep the knife away. But now he felt himself weakening and the blade getting ever closer. Mercifully Adehm entered and rushed at the woman grabbing her around the waist and pinning her arms to her side. He then lifted her off the ground and removed her from the tent.

–––Alas, more horror. I had spent the whole morning preparing draft copies from Lord Travillion’s documents. At midday, I ate the food the others wouldn’t touch, and would pass my rations of blood-and-milk to the tribe. Suddenly, my tent burst open and the mother of that slaughtered child, Ezima, stood with wide staring, savage eyes; in her hand she held a vicious-looking dagger. She leapt at me and would have struck me down but for the fact that my strength had returned, and I was able to defend myself and restrain the wretched creature until Adehm arrived and was able to pacify her. Then some of the other women led her away.

I indicated to Adehm to tell me what was amiss. He conceded and took my arm roughly and led me outside, some little way from the tents, to where the murdered child had been buried. What I saw caused me to fall to my knees in shock– the child was exhumed. Dug up and left on the sand. That tiny pathetic body was shrivelled up and baked dry, as if every drop of blood and moisture had been sucked from it. And, horror upon horror, there were fresh, human bites of which corresponded exactly to the ones that had caused the child’s horrific death– Part of an arm and a leg had been devoured.

Adehm helped me to my feet and looked into my eyes as if to study my very thoughts; from whatever he saw, I think he no longer holds a grudge towards me.

The body was washed with sand, and after much prayer, burned. I returned to my tent and spent the rest of the day finishing the documents in spite of my fatigue, leaving just the names and dates and other formalities. I was now more anxious than ever to leave this accursed place. I desperately needed rest, but spent the remainder of the day scrutinising the documents for Lord Travillion … I wanted no error, nothing to keep me in this hellish country one more hour than need be. Then I retired to my cot. Ezimahh did not come and I slept alone.

Adehm came and woke me, and he waited in the awning of my tent as I dressed. He suddenly gasped in horror as he looked upon my naked chest, pointing to just below my neck. I craned my head and looked to where he pointed. There, on my skin, were small teeth marks, like the ones on the dead child–––

Chapter 13

–––Fourteenth day of confinement. 17th September 1815

I had not much considered the rest of the covenant, other than to write it up into the document. Whatever I was concocting for myself could be no worse than my present predicament, and I could always relinquish my unwanted bequest; only my repatriation was paramount.

Again we journeyed in silence. Not a word did Adehm utter all the way to Lord Travillion’s encampment – his only action was to painstakingly avoid my shadow falling on him by riding on the sun side. It was still just light when we arrived, the sun had not quite set. Syed greeted us as before, and, as Adehm led the camels away, I was taken to Lord Travillion’s tent and there left to wait.

I sat as I had before and supped the wine that had been left for me. After what seemed an age I grew weary––the wine having gone straight to my head––and slipped into a light slumber. She was there, Abigail, standing in the awning of the tent. ‘Find him,’ she commanded with her eyes. She had flowers in her hair and a garland of lilies about her neck, and, as she walked towards me I could smell the fragrance of fresh flowers and new-mown hay; the smell of England was with her. She wrapped me in her silken shroud and I clung for dear life to her naked body. Then, like a sharpen-knife, a voice cut into my fantasy.

‘Wake.’

It was Lord Travillion. ‘WAKE.’ he cried again. His voice rent through my dream and Abigail was gone and I was awake. Awake, yet in my worst nightmare. Before me stood Lord Travillion and with him was the demon of my dream––a hideous child––I recognised those soulless eyes. He was standing in front of Lord Travillion, who pushed him forward towards me. I froze to my seat, unable to move or utter a word. His Lordship smiled and continued.

‘This is my son, Tristan.’ Lord Travillion looked down at his demon son, whose face, though a child’s seemed aged far beyond its years. He bid me take the hand of this fiend-child, to shake–––

Lord Travillionstood over the child, as if to protect him. The boy was dressed in Western clothes: black velvet tunic and trousers with a fine white lace collar. And with his short, neatly combed hair he looked as any child, ready for a day at school, except for his face, which was hideous. White, leprous skin that amplified the malevolent black eyes, and dark, sunken cheeks that parenthesised his gaping mouth, exposing two rows of tiny canine teeth. Lord Travillion took hold of the child’s hand in his own and held it out for Rupert to shake.

’Come, Tristan, you must meet your guardian. Take his hand and say, ‘how do you do’.’

The demon took another step. Rupert recoiled in horror, and then in a spasm of terror he dashed past them both, stumbling out of the tent through the awning into the bustling encampment.

–––The demon moved towards me and I gasped aloud, ‘No, no, in God’s name, no.’ And without another word or thought I left the tent and made towards the camels.

I fumbled blindly with the tethers, mounted my camel and immediately whipped it into a gallop. And having no idea of direction I headed for the lights of the distant city, Morocco, of which I had no possible hope to reach, but made for it for no other reason than the thought of other souls at the end of it. The moon was crescent and shone bright enough to light my way. The poor bewildered beast bellowed terrified, as if it too felt the horror that pursued us. After what seemed an age (probably no more than minutes) some of these lights now appear to move out of synchronisation with the rest, which, on studying, seemed much closer than I had first imagined.

I looked to my left, and to my right––There were now moving lights in all directions––but I dared not look behind, I feared what I might see; for I knew the fiend-child was close behind. Then my camel faltered and I was thrown to the sand onto my face.

Turning over to a sitting position I found myself to be in a circle of advancing lanterns. I could tell by their dancing motion that these were horseman. Soon these riders were upon me; they stopped some little way away, dismounted and walked with their horses up to where I lay. Six black-hearted villains surrounded me, then... nothing. They did not speak to me, nor did they speak to one-and-other. They just stood looking down at me. I noticed, in spite of their obvious Moorish countenance, they each wore a silver crucifix that shone out in the moonlight.

After what seemed an eternity, I became aware of a plodding tread of a camel. It was Lord Travillion – alone. He walked his camel through the ring of guards, dismounted and shouted an order, which sent the guards scuttling off about some duties, leaving just the two of us; he standing over me, prostrate at his feet. With his face dark with anger he spat his words.

‘You have seen him... Where? Answer.’

I could not move a muscle; I stared back at him absolutely petrified as he continued, ’Damn you to hell, you will say where? – How could you have seen him? How?’

He took my breath away, so much so I could not answer immediately. He then took a pistol from his belt and fired into the sand beside my head, then threw the discharged weapon at me and drew its pair. I felt sure he would shoot me through. I thought if I did not find my voice soon I might never find it. With a gasp, I cried out.

‘In the night. I woke to find him on my chest, sucking at my throat.’

‘Lies.’ he screamed, ‘Lies. They told you to say such a thing. You are in league with that black-hearted villain, Gulah. ––He lies.’

Lord Travillion’s eyes widened with rage as he hurled his words at me and I felt sure he would fire again. In my panic I pulled at my tunic, exposing the teeth marks at my throat.

‘There.’ I cried, ‘Look. He bit at my throat. And he bit a child to death, and after that child was buried did he dig it up and drink its blood. What in God’s name is he?’

At my words Lord Travillion wailed like an Arab, trilling his tongue and making a noise that would thick a man’s blood. He dropped his pistol and then himself into the sand, wailing and weeping as if his heart would burst. He was beside himself with grief–––

The Arab guardscame again. This time, Syed was among them. He set Lord Travillion up in a chair around a huge, metal brazier that the others had brought. After a moment Syed approached Rupert and bid him join his Lordship at the fire.

–––I tried to comfort Lord Travillion as best I could. After we helped him to a sitting position one of the guards brought a brazier and a huge bundle of wood, and set it between us, then left into the darkness. Lord Travillion and I sat in silence for an age. Eventually, he spoke:

’These men are my sentinels, my impenetrable net– were. For years they have guarded us. I had thought that he was free from it. I was wrong.’

I looked into his face and saw a broken man, but felt compelled to ask, ‘Will you tell me who he is?’

He studied me for a moment then fixed me in a stare.

He is my son. ... My first and onlyson.’

But Horace drowned.’ I said.

Aye that he did, that he certainly did. Sit back Rupert Mansie, and I will tell you a tale that will change your very life.’

I feared to hear but was unable to say to cease. He continued with a sigh, as if his heart would break–––

Lord Travillionclosed his eyes and his thoughts travelled back to a happier time: The masquerade banquet, Abigail dressed as Persephone and he as Hades, and the guests dressed as other deities. But now a second picture invaded his mind, a paddleboat on a muddy African river, and there, on the deck, he and his son, golden hair and pale blue eyes. A drifting log ensnared the paddle and the boat capsized.

Lord Travillion opened his eyes, leapt up, and cried out into the night. Rupert startled; he could not imagine what fiendish thoughts procured such action. Lord Travillion calmed and begged pardon for his outburst. Rupert nodded acceptance and Lord Travillion sat again. He remained silent for a short moment then quoted in ushered voice.

‘‘We rest; a dream has the power to poison sleep. We rise; one wandering thought pollutes the day. We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep, embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away; it is the same; for, be it joy or sorrow, the path of its departure still is free. Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow; nothing may endure but mutability.’’

After this, he said nothing and returned to his musing.

–––I felt I had to prompt him before he slipped back to the oblivion of his thoughts. ‘Your son, Lord Travillion,’ I said, ‘what of your son?’

He fixed me with a penetrating stare and for a moment I thought he was about to strike out at me. Then his mood softened.

‘You know part of it,’ he began, ’I was professor of anthropology, and of ancient civilisations. I was in Africa, following the route of Alexander––He was my subject. My ambition was to find his tomb. I lived his life, fact and fable, his Gods were my Gods; I was expert on the ancient world and understood the legends, the ways of old before our minds were restrained and restricted with sterile Christianity.’

There he stopped and again seemed to drift away. I was in fear of this man but I had to know, I had to bring this… thing to conclusion.

‘Your son,’ I cried out. ‘What of your son?’

He looked at me now with defeated eyes. He bowed his head and continued.

’Yes, my son… I digress. We were on excursion, my beloved Horace and I––that is the first time I have mentioned his name since that terrible day so long ago. Just an excursion; a boat upon an idle river... silent... that hit a log... that sank. That cursed river had an undercurrent. One moment he was there in the water, the next he was gone, sucked away and drowned. I searched and searched, but the river would not give him up. Abigail went back to England, I was supposed to follow but I could not; not with my son still on the river bottom.’

He again fixed me in his all-consuming stare, and for the first time, I felt compassion for this man–––

Lord Travillionsaw again the pictures in his mind: The masquerade banquet; the guests, and the gods which now appear to be engaged in some form of ritual, Abigail, spilling out wine from a bowl onto what appeared to be a newborn child. Now, in his mind’s eye, this image mingled with the muddy river, the wine turning to blood as it mixed with the murky ripples. Suddenly, a native diver burst the surface, holding aloft a remnant of clothing.

–––Lord Travillion stood up again, and, as a diversion from his thoughts, stoked up the brazier to a huge blaze. Then he sat and continued.

‘Did you know, Rupert, that the ancients believed the dead could stay in the living world? ––That they could recover their consciousness and the power of speech? ––That the soul, therefore, was not entirely annihilated on death. And further, that the ghost could retain the outer form and sustain itself by drinking the blood of animals? ––It is true.’

I did not answer. He searched my eyes for a glimmer of compassion. I fear I gave none, for I was horrified. He turned away and continued.

’In ancient times they sacrificed animals in order to pass blood to the dead; that they would live on. They poured it into the earth that it might seep into Tartarus, a region of Hades reserved for the banished and the unbaptised. It is true. That is why I needed to find his body. You see Horace had not been christened. That is why I would not give up and join Abigail in England. I searched the whole of that evil river... both sides, even up against the current– And where did I find him…’

He seemed as if to drift again. I could not bear it; these long lapses into thought. I had to know and I cried out again, ’Tell me. For God’s sake... where?’

He composed himself; my outburst checked his rambling and he continued in a much more even temper.

’In my desperation, I enlisted a group of pear-divers and sectioned off the river. The last place I thought to look; the deepest part of the riverbed. In the freezing depths, a mile down-river there was a fresh water stream––a stream within a river. We found him, wedged in a fissure of that icy spring.

I did not raise his body until the sun went down. I waited for the chill night air, to hold off the natural corruption of the flesh. For what I was about, you would say, was unholy. I was in collusion with the ancients; with the forgotten practice of resurrection.’

I could keep silent no longer. I gasped and cried out, ‘In the name of God.’

‘Yes, in the name of God.’ he said with reproach in his voice. ‘Did not Lord Jesus set a precedent? Did he not raise up Lazarus? And was not he himself restored to life by God, by his father? And were we not made in God’s own image? When his son died, did he not grieve as I grieved? If he denied death, then, I as his creation, would follow his example. I too would deny death.’

I could control myself no longer, and hurled my words of protest into his face. ‘Blasphemy,’ I cried, ‘Blasphemy. You place yourself on equal terms with God?’

He rose to his feet and looked down on me.

‘Blasphemy.’ he roared, repeating my words, ‘Does it mean blasphemy to love a son?’ I made to answer but he continued over me. ‘As I say, my son was retrieved from the riverbed when the air was chill. His body was frozen solid... he had ice in his mouth’.

He stopped again and his eyes now viewed some concoction of his mind–––

Four jet-black stallionsscreamed in fear as the smell of corrupting flesh filled their nostrils; they kicked out at the wooden walls of the stable and rolled their eyes in terror; they sensed impending death.

In the dead of night the lifeless body of the boy was lowered into a copper slipper-bath, placed in the centre of the stable floor. The child’s head, hands and feet shining silver-white in the moonlight. Suddenly, the body was doused with hot steaming blood.

–––Lord Travillion shook his head and began again.

‘Yes, ice in his mouth – I had prepared a bath of blood; I slaughtered four of my finest stallions, bled them there and then so as the blood was hot; their life force pumping directly over him. That day I pledged my very soul, calling up ancient deities and performing long-forgotten rites and rituals. I made a bargain with Persephone; I would have my child returned to me, but at a price: I, we would never again set eyes on the sun. Thus I made my bargain, and as I lay him down into that bath of blood, the ice melted in his mouth and he expelled a breath of rank air.’

Lord Travillion stopped and looked at me, holding me in awe at his words–––

The blood hungin the corpse’s hair in long coagulating strands; a vapour rose up from it and the body started to twitch. Then, as the last of the blood drained into the copper bath, the child’s body jerked alive. Its arms rose up and, with a terrible inverted wail, it gulped in a huge breath.

–––At length Lord Travillion turned his eyes from me, sighed a great sigh and continued:

‘Then my son breathed; he rose up out of the bath and was alive again. I did not care for the loss of that cruel burning sun-disc, for I had all the son I needed, I had Horace. And in those long years living by night and sleeping entombed by day in the black tents, I regretted not a single second; for he was my joy.’ With this, heclosed his eyes and wept–––

Through his tears, Lord Travillion saw again his demon son. Hand in hand they walked together through the moonlit desert dunes, conversing, and now sitting in deep thought, happy just to be in his company. The child’s hideous face, his black soulless eyes, stared oblivious to the love of his doting father.

–––After a moment, Lord Travillion opened his eyes and continued in mournful voice:

’We wanted for nothing, just our minds. Can you imagine an existence that wants for nothing? No desire for procreation, for goods and chattel, nor fortune or fame, just time, time to…’

He turned his head away in mid-sentence and again withdrew to his thoughts, then, after a long silence, continued.

‘Time, time to explore and understand. Did you know, Rupert Mansie, that we only use two-fifths of our brain? Therein those three seemingly superfluous fifths lie an ocean of mysteries, a labyrinth to be explored, and with complete detachment one can invade and indeed travel those caverns of philosophies, accrued through the ages, and inherited. There is a lineage; our minds reach back to the primeval. It is all there, stored in every brain, from the highest lord to the lowest peasant, king or slave; for we are all surely descended from Adam.’

Lord Travillion’s eyes now turned away to the desert landscape, in the dead of night just the moonlight picking out the dunes in silvery light. He stood up and walked a couple of steps, stopped and pondered. I could not begin to understand what he had so painstakingly related to me, but for all his talk of higher plains and ancient deities, I concluded that this man still loved and feared our Lord.

After a few moments, he came back and stood by the fire. He looked at me and gave a fleeting smile.

‘We lived a nomadic life, drinking only the blood of our stock. Our lives were idyllic, until... until a year ago, he changed. It was as if his childhood had ended and adolescence took to govern his mind.’

He stopped and again seemed lost, his eyes stared at me but saw nothing–––

Chapter 14

Lord Travillionturned from Rupert and stoked the brazier again. He gave another expectant look out into the night, and then he sat. His ears pricked at the barely audible growl from somewhere out in the darkness. He closed his eyes and saw again: father and son riding over the sand-dunes in the moonlight, through villages and encampments pillaged, the dead and dying bodies strewn on the desert sand. He saw again he and his son dining, eating as the Abyssinians ate, dishes of raw meat, freshly cut from the ox. The animal led to the black tent in the dead of night, the flesh skilfully cut from the living creature and handed first to his son, then himself and then to the assembled guests, who crammed themselves with the reeking flesh, still streaming with blood. Sometimes the two Abyssinian girls performed this office. Forcing the food, properly seasoned, into the gaping, offered mouths of the guests with their hands. These guests, while sometimes reluctant, readily accepting greedily––to do otherwise, to eat lightly, would be accounted a gross breach of etiquette by master and son. Accordingly, these feasts were scenes of the most beastly sensuality, which, to the civilised man it is impossible to imagine. After he, his son and the rest of the guests having satisfied themselves, these good offices of the serving girls were returned, and master and son delighted in cramming theirmouths full of steaming meat, in the same orgy of blood.

–––Lord Travilliononce again returned to his place at the fire and continued.

‘I do believe my son hungered for a mate,’ he said, as if talking of a normal child, ’No more is expected in a young man, the nature of the beast. You know the power of such hunger yourself, Rupert Mansie. I saw it in your eyes the first time you saw my Abigail. But the nature of ourbeast was far from normal. For him there is no mate; he is hybrid, conceived in blood, and blood his only sustenance, the blood of the stock.’ He paused a moment, took a deep breath and sighed as he continued. ‘But now he hungered for human blood.’

He put his head in his hands to block away the light of the fire and seemed to recall some horror from the past. Then he looked up at me and I saw that his melancholy mood had changed, he was now angry again. He caught me with his dreadful stare.

’I too knew that hunger. There was a time when we sank into the abyss and indulged in a frightful depravity. We drank the blood of our fellow man. That story I told you of the sheik was true only to a point. Wewere the black riders, he stalkers of the tribespeople. It seemed we had become deplete, shall we say, of soul, and set about replenishment. But that, thank God, ceased. I was able to overcome my hunger, and, when hishunger returned we fought it off together. I had my riders weave a circle around us. For many years they guarded us, and in these last six months I thought he had, as had I, broken from his human blood lust. When I heard that Abigail had died and that you were to seek me out, I thought, as any father might, to set my son in his rightful place. If he could be set free I would sacrifice myself; I would watch the sun rise one more time and so repay my son’s debt with my own life, as our Lord Jesus had done for mankind. How wrong I was–––

Lord Travillionmomentarily closed his eyes again. In his reminiscence he saw Tristan’s blood-gorged eyes; his blood-covered face and hands as he devoured the Arab child; digging up the corpse and sucking it dry, sitting like a vulture pecking at the tiny husk of a body.

–––Lord Travillion was quiet. What torment he felt, I could only imagine. He looked again into the night, startled by some noise, some presence that was unheard or felt by human ear. He seemed to dread the presence lurking in the blackness, and he gave a moan that sounded as if his heart was breaking. After some moments he composed himself and again fell to silence.

Now I had time to digest what he had so passionately revealed, and an eerie calm fell upon us, only the crackling of the brazier disturbed the silence. Hours had passed without word. His only action had been, from time to time, to replenish the fire with wood. In my contemplation, I grew weary and I must have closed my eyes, for I dreamed a dream more wondrous than I had ever dreamed. Abigail came to me and, as before, set a feast before me, there on the banks of the Stour–––

As Lord Travillionstoked the brazier, he considered each piece of firewood he threw into the flames, contemplating, as if in each new flame held a picture for him to study.

Rupert watched him until his eyes grew weary, and he fell asleep. Through his sleeping eyes, he saw bright sunlight. He was once again in the idyllic scenery of Canterbury, the banks of the picturesque river. Now, through the heat mist over the water, he saw Abigail slowly walking through the rushes. She came to him and laid a feast before him, all the good things of the English countryside: fruits, vegetables, meats, wines, and flowers, laid out as a festive offering. When she had finished she held out her arms to him.

–––I ate my fill and drank again the milk of paradise. Abigail, for the first time, had a quality that all times before was lacking; aloving countenance, but alas, not for me. Into my blessed dream stepped his Lordship, and in his arms he held the demon child. But now those black soulless eyes were alive, blue as ever was my beloved Abigail’s. She took him up in her arms, and it seemed to me that Iwas that child; I in her arms, and those loving eyes looked now on me. She was so beautiful, the sun behind her flaxen hair, aglow with its precious light.

At last, I understood. It was her sonthat she’d bargained for; she’d given the only thing she had, the thing she knew I most desired, that which would sustain me through my trials, herself, that I might find her darling boy; for it was hethat had been truly lost.

She bent her head to kiss me one last time, and as she did she exposed the shining disc of the sun into my eyes, and I awoke. The sun had risen and I found that I was no longer in the position where I had fallen asleep, but some ten yards away from what appeared to be the remains of the brazier. But now the ash pile seemed too large – Dear God in heaven, it was they, Lord Travillion and his son, Horace, fused together. The two, now no more than cinders, as if burnt away from inside, the boy held fast in his father’s arms.

Had the brazier been the incendiary? Or was it the burning disc of the sun on which his Lordship had struck his covenant? I rose up, stood over the embers, and there in the midst of the two consumed bodies lay his second pistol–––

Into Abigail’s outstretched armsstepped Lord Travillion, in his arms he held their son, now the golden-haired child. Abigail lifted the child up and kissed him – the sun flaring the outline of her and the child in a halo of golden light. The sun-disc flared into an overall white: Abigail, her son, and Lord Travillion, melted away into it. All that was left was the smouldering ashes of the brazier and Rupert standing, looking down at the remains of the two consumed bodies.

After a few moments, Syed and two of the Arab guards came to him. Syed put his hand on Rupert’s shoulder and spoke as he led him away. ‘Come, Rroo Pard Pasha, you must leave this place.’ He sighed and kissed the silver crucifix about his neck, then took it off and gave it up to Rupert, ’Come effendi … Quismah; ‘tis kismet. Come.’

Syed was openly weeping. He showed no shame in this. His Lord and master, and indeed his God, was now dead. He took Rupert by the arm and together they walked off towards the tethered horses.

–––How the end had come I will never truly know. I wavered unsure on my feet, and as I faltered I was grasped by two of the Moor guards, who now stood beside me, one of which was Syed; he was weeping. We left the two bodies huddled together, exposed in God’s good, clean sunlight––

Chapter 15

Inside the great tent,Morocksh stood, dressed in the finest of clothes. He could not keep his hands from feeling the rich silken sash that hung about his waist, or from running his fingers through the magnificent robe and headdress. He looked immaculate. On Rupert’s entrance, Morocksh flung himself at his feet.

‘Rise up old friend.’ Rupert said, ‘There are no masters here.’ Morocksh did not understand and continued his homage. Rupert took his arm, raised him up and led him from the tent. Outside he set him on a fine camel and bid him a last farewell. Morocksh, in tears, now understood that he was truly free and had the means to return to his loved ones. He bowed graciously from the saddle then left in the direction of the far city.

Now, as if from the scene of his dream, there was the Stour, majestic, regal in its greenery in autumn sunlight, viewed from the library window. Rupert stepped back to his desk, took up his quill one last time:

–––I did not return to England for a whole year. I stayed with Lord Travillion’s caravan; for the tribe believed, in spite of my constant denials, that I truly was Travion Pasha’s brother and his natural successor. For all their black-hearted looks, these people were staunchly loyal.

So ends my notes. There is not much more to add, just this short epilogue:

Abigail never again appeared to me; whether she had been dream or reality I will not know for sure until I die and, after my stay in purgatory, take my place in heaven; for I no longer think myself damned and beyond redemption.

After the year of living with the tribe I received information that Abigail had in fact left a Will. I, myself, was sole beneficiary and would inherit the entire estate, with one encumbrance: that I append the Colebridge name to my own. I would have done this freely, for was ever a man so well rewarded?

I will do my best to run the estate as they themselves would have done, and hope one day to share my life with someone, and in due course provide an heir. But I will never stop loving Abigail.

Rupert Mansie -Colebridge