Читать книгу Secret of the Sands - Sara Sheridan, Sara Sheridan - Страница 17

Chapter Ten

Zena is running. She is running so fast to get away that she doesn’t even feel the ground beneath her feet or the sun on her skin. Her body is almost silent – the way a dyk dyk moves through the trees at speed – the flash of a leaf and the movement of a branch. It’s like being invisible. Zena has hardly ever had occasion to run before – not since she was a child and she played with the others, hiding in the bushes and splashing in the stream. That was many years ago now, and this kind of running is different. It is a sensation that is both desperate and strange. Her breath comes fluidly and the further she goes the more energy she has. She does not look back. She can take any direction she likes. At least that is how it feels at first. After a little while she realises that she is being followed so she picks up the pace, stretching her limbs further.

I’ll never stop, she thinks. Running is all I want to do now. Running until I get shot of these strange men and this strange place.

The thought is no sooner formed than a hand claps down heavily onto her shoulder and pulls her to a stop. Forcefully, the palm pushes her onto her knees. Her heart flutters as she tries to stay upright. Her stomach turns. She has a sudden burst of energy and tries to pull away, but he is shaking her whole body, forcing her to the ground.

‘Wake up! Stupid female!’ the voice says.

Her limbs twitch as she opens her eyes, the lids heavy and her vision bleary with sleep. She bats her hand in front of her as if to move a fly and it is struck sharply.

‘Get up!’ the voice orders as she rubs the stinging flesh on her fingers.

The darkness of the warehouse is a shock and at first she can’t make out where she is. In her dream she was running in the sunshine. Still groggy despite the blow, for it was a much-needed and wonderfully deep sleep, Zena struggles to her feet, feeling confused. The man before her is small and his rounded belly shapes his jubbah. He has a purple and green embroidered cap on his balding head and he inspects the girl with the sharp eye of a cold-hearted appraiser.

‘Yes, this one will do well, I think. Kasim said she was a worthwhile piece. All in all this has been a very good consignment.’

Zena wonders how long she slept. About half of the people who were stowed in the hut are now gone, and in the doorway there are two old men, black sidi slaves, carrying a vat of something that smells rancid. Her appetite sharpened, she feels a rush of hope that she might be able to eat it.

The plump auctioneer moves on, separating twelve of the Abyssinian slaves from the others. Then he takes each in turn, ordering them to circle around, show him the soles of their feet and display the insides of their mouths. When he is satisfied, he waves the sidis into action and they move around each person, their dry, old hands smoothing the gloopy oil onto the slaves’ parched skin and rubbing it into their hair to make it glisten. They are trying to make it look as if the people who survived the journey from Africa were well cared for during the trip. One or two cannot help licking at the fat on their forearms. They wince at its bitter taste and are slapped for removing the shine from their skin. Then, with a rough brush with wire bristles, the sidis comb the hair of the boys, leaving the women be. Most have hair that is still dressed with plaits and beads from their village days, when it was styled by their mothers and sisters. Zena realises that these ordinary hairstyles look enticing, exotic and strange to the eyes of Muscat. Arabic women cover their hair with a veil.

It crosses her mind that for some odd reason she would like to look her best now. She wants them to see that she is no ordinary Abyssinian slave girl like the others. She has been well brought up and loved, adored even. At her grandmother’s house she had slaves of her own. Now, her heart sinks as she looks down sadly at her dirty, tattered dress. It is a thin piece of material, originally a green colour, now brown from the dirt of her long journey. She must look pitiful.

She takes a deep breath and runs her hands over the glistening skin of her arms to give at least a little comfort. I am alone. I am going to be sold, she thinks incredulously.

The doors of the shed open and let in the light. It is afternoon now – the sun has moved across the sky. Beyond the barrels piled up near the doorway, a crowd is gathered and Zena catches a glimpse of a podium surrounded by a jostle of people, all craning to get a better view of the proceedings. The auctioneer leads the way with the sidis ushering the dozen slaves into a line behind him. The marketplace is crowded to capacity and there is no hope of getting away; her dream of running will remain just that. Besides, in the light, clearing the path, are the handlers who ushered the slaves from the ship to the hut that morning. The men tower over the heads of the crowd as they ensure the short auctioneer can make his way unhindered. Zena smiles at the sight. The top of the man’s head comes only as high as their bellies. These men must eat whole chickens to have grown so tall and strong. She pulls her shoulders back and thinks that at least the top of her head will clear the height of their chests and perhaps make it as far as their shoulders.

My name is Zena, she intones to herself and, with a pinch of sadness, she comes to understand that her name is all she has left now as she steps into the heat and the light of the market.

At the auction stand there is a pause so that prospective customers can peruse the goods. Beneath a tatty canopy men peer out of the crowd, strange faces in a strange town with leering, needy expressions, hungry to possess others. Zena lowers her head, but even so she is aware she is arousing interest. A snatch of conversation, a lewd remark. It makes her skin prickle. Under the watchful gaze of the guards, two men prod her in the chest and discuss matters to which her Arabic vocabulary does not extend. She has been protected from all this, she realises. She had no idea of the cruelty and the humiliation that was possible. As the men cackle with laughter she tries not to look at them. She tries not to cry.

‘Are you a virgin?’ one asks. Baakira?

She has heard the word once before when her grandmother refused to allow a neighbouring merchant to take Zena as his wife. Now she pretends not to understand. The man redirects the question to the guard.

‘That one can be whatever you want her to be,’ the man replies. ‘She is beautiful.’ He makes the word sound as if it is an insult.

A boy next to her is ordered to open his mouth and another man, who has emerged from the throng, holds the tongue down with a stick so he can check the child’s teeth. If there was anything in the boy’s stomach he would vomit, but as it is he only makes a dry sound as if he is being strangled. His eyes dart in distress, but no one does anything. As the man moves towards Zena, she keeps her gaze averted. He pulls her head back and stares into her face but he does not use his stick to probe her mouth. He lingers though and she can feel his breath on her skin. Then, slowly, he lets go and walks carefully right around her.

Not him. Zena has never prayed. It was not her grandmother’s custom. However, the phrase runs through her head again and again, as if she is pleading with some greater being. Not him.

A bell is rung though it can hardly be heard over the throng of voices. The man instantly retreats into the crowd. Zena raises her eyes just long enough to see that there are several finely dressed Arabs now turning away, who have looked but not come forward. Perhaps one of those. It occurs to Zena that her grandmother has endowed her with a sense of optimism. Even here and now, she feels optimistic. I will be all right, she tells herself, though she is batting off a cold shadow that is creeping from behind.

‘Gentlemen,’ the auctioneer begins. ‘Today, fresh from Abyssinia, we have a selection of the finest. The absolute finest!’

A scrawny girl is pushed forward into the sun beside the auctioneer’s podium. Her dress is badly torn, exposing the top of her legs. Her shoulders are slumped and one of the guards pokes her to make her stand up straight.

‘And for this little one!’ the auctioneer tries to whip up the crowd. ‘She’ll brush up well enough. A price beyond rubies perhaps?’

Zena heaves in a breath, only glad that all eyes are now on the auctioneer and that momentarily she is not the focus of attention.

‘What am I bid? Twenty, sir? No, surely not? Come now. She is a little thin perhaps but is there not more? I beseech you. Ah, thirty. Thank you …’

And the auction has begun.