The Emperor's Elephant(108)

Chapter Seventeen




AFRICA

*

SAILING TO ZANJ had a marvellous, dream-like quality. Each day seemed to repeat as if time was turning back on itself. Dawn brought a horizon, sharp and clear and infinitely distant, from which the sun rose into a sky where a scattering of puffy white clouds were all moving in the same direction as our ships. Far below, our little company of half a dozen trade vessels ran across a sparkling sea of the deepest blue. A favourable wind, fine and steady from the north-east, filled the huge cotton sails and our crew scarcely needed to touch the ropes. The breeze tempered the heat of the noonday sun so the deck was never too hot to the touch, and the air retained its pleasant warmth long after dusk. Sunsets were dramatic. A tremendous golden-orange glow suffused the entire sky, changing to the colour of pale parchment that diminished and retreated as darkness spread in from the east. Then the moon rose and laid a silver-white path across the black undulating surface of the sea. Wherever one looked upward, the heavens were alive with a multitude of bright stars.

In such idyllic conditions I fell in love with Zaynab.

On the third morning of the voyage, not long after sunrise, I was standing near the mainmast with Walo and waiting for the cook to hand us our breakfast of dates, bread and water. There was a sudden light slap as something struck the sail and fell close to where Zaynab was seated on the foredeck where the anchors were stowed. There was flapping and wriggling on the planks. Walo ran forward and I watched as he picked up what seemed to be some sort of small fish. He turned to Zaynab and must have asked her a question for she pulled back the shawl that covered her head and leaned forward to look at what he was holding. As Zaynab would be unable to understand Walo’s Frankish, I walked across to interpret.

‘Is it a fish or a bird?’ Walo was asking her. I looked down at what he had in his grasp. The creature had a fish’s body, six or seven inches long. There was a fish tail and a fish head, with round startled eyes.

Walo gently took the fin on the side of the fish between his finger and thumb, and pulled. Out swung a wing.

‘Our name for it is “fish that flies”,’ said Zaynab.

Walo pulled open the second wing. The web between the bones was so fine and delicate that the light shone through it.

‘Is it in the book?’ he asked, turning to me.

‘I can check,’ I said uncertainly, my voice sounding odd in my ears. Zaynab’s shawl had slipped down around her shoulders. Her dark hair was long and lustrous, piled above her head and fixed with an ivory comb. She wore tiny diamond studs in her small, shell-like ears, and the curve of her slender neck was so soft and perfect that it made me want to reach out and stroke it.

‘What book is that?’ she asked me, looking up. Her eyes held mine for a moment, and I felt a tingling shock. Never before had I met with an expression of such gentle kindness framed with beauty, yet tinged with melancholy.

‘A Book of Beasts. It’s a list of animals . . . with their pictures,’ I blurted. Suddenly I wanted to keep the full attention of this remarkable young woman with the cinnamon-coloured skin. ‘I’ll show you.’

Light-headed, I hurried aft to collect the bestiary and brought it to her. With Walo looking on, I opened the cover and leafed through the pages. I made a deliberate effort to keep both my hand and voice steady.

‘Here’s a fish with wings!’ I announced, then read out, ‘ “The serra or saw fish. Also known as the flying fish. Named from the sawtooth crest on its back. It swims under a ship and cuts the ship in half . . .’ My voice faltered. The insignificant little fish in Walo’s hand was never likely to damage a ship’s hull. I felt foolish.

Zaynab ignored my confusion. ‘Is there a picture?’ she asked.

I turned the book around and showed her. The artist had drawn a dragon-like animal emerging from the depths of the sea. It was very large, almost the same size as the ship it was menacing. The sailors aboard the vessel looked terrified.

‘It does have two wings,’ said Zaynab gently.

I was grateful that she had not laughed aloud. Her tactfulness only added to her attraction.

‘Maybe the writer was muddled,’ Zaynab murmured. ‘In Zanj I remember being shown a big fish that had a long flat nose with a row of sharp teeth on each side, just like a saw. Maybe that is the fish that cuts up ships.’

I found myself gazing at her hands holding the book. Zaynab’s fingers were slim and graceful, and she had drawn patterns on them in dark blue ink, whorls and curlicues that merged and flowed onto the palms of her hands and to her wrists. By comparison the artwork in the bestiary seemed clumsy and inept.