Whoever Fears the Sea, Justin Fox [i love reading .TXT] 📗

He crawled along the inside of the hull like a worshipper, running his hands over the worn stitches of coir rope. Each plank and rib was tightly bound together as though the boat were one enormous Zulu basket.

He guessed the vessel to be nearly twenty metres long. It had rotted badly and the wood was bleached grey. Some of the seams gaped open and many stitches were split. The wreck had obviously been plundered for wood and spare parts, but the shape was unmistakeable. Both bow and stern were raked at steep angles, the long prow carved in the shape of some sort of bird. He could still make out flecks of red, black and white paint.

The deck housing and rigging had been removed, leaving the ribs exposed. It was like being inside the carcass of a whale. He perched on one of the large ribs amidships, sensing that he was inside a maritime fossil. An intact mtepe, resting on her old bones, still dignified in death. He tried to picture her construction, many decades earlier, perhaps on this very beach. This vessel was in all likelihood the last mtepe ever built.

Paul imagined the elaborate ceremonies during the laying of her keel; the sacrifice of a black goat to the mizimu spirits; the haunting recitations of the maulidi by village children. He pictured the stately craft moving down the beach on mangrove rollers, hungry for its first taste of ocean. The whole community is gathered, turned out in their finery; there is dancing and beating of drums, the noise growing to a crescendo. The hull kisses the water and floats free to raucous shouts of ‘Harambee!’ The last mtepe has been launched.

He found a comfortable spot in the shade between two ribs and allowed himself to nod off again.

‘Paul?’

His eyes snapped open. Panicked, he scuttled forward into the cleft of the bows and tucked himself into a ball, covering his head with his fists.

‘Paul, it’s okay! It’s me.’

He tentatively lowered his arms. Husni was peering through a hole in the side of the hull, his face framed by splintered wood.

‘You!’ said Paul.

‘My friend, you have misunderstood. I am not with them.’

‘What are you doing here, then?’

‘Mohamed let me help with the search —’

‘The hunt.’

‘He knows I will not flee. He has my crew and my boat.’

‘And the red pirate?’

‘No, no, Mohamed has dealt with him. He will not harm you again, trust me.’

‘Trust you? You knew what your brother was doing here! You were in Galoh with him before!’

‘Yes, I was here two years ago, but I left. I am a sailor, not a pirate.’

‘You kept the truth from me.’

‘Paul, we sailed into Lamu Channel on a spring tide together. We are brothers.’

Paul stared at the mtepe’s pale, sun-bleached ribs, remembering Fayswal surfing the night wave. Where, exactly, had betrayal occurred?

‘I don’t know, Husni.’

‘I am telling you the truth. Come back to Galoh. We can talk there. My brother thinks you can help him. Everything will be all right.’ Husni reached through the hole and put a hand on his shoulder. Paul’s body shook. He could not speak.

‘So you found your mtepe,’ said Husni eventually.

‘Yes, I found it.’

‘Is it what you hoped for?’

‘Yes, exactly.’

The door to Paul’s room burst opened. ‘You come, now!’ said his guard.

‘Jesus, Farid!’ cried Paul, sitting suddenly upright.

‘You come,’ the man said more gently.

Paul dressed quickly. He’d stayed up late, reading through his notes and writing about the old mtepe, although the documentary seemed a distant prospect now. Outside, the morning was cool and a rind of golden light adorned the horizon. A few stars still glittered above a blue-black sea.

Mohamed paced the courtyard, waiting for Paul. ‘The crew are on the beach, getting ready to leave. Our fishermen have repaired your sail, so there is nothing to keep you. Today you sail back to Kenya.’

‘Mr Mohamed, thank you! You are —’

The man held up a hand to silence Paul. ‘Tell them what you have learnt here. Tell them who we are. Tell them. Now you must go. Safari salama, safe journey.’

‘Asante sana, Mr Mohamed.’

It took Paul only a minute to stuff his belongings into the backpack. A black-and-white ma’awis, a gift from Mohamed, had been left on his bed. He pulled off his shorts and wrapped the ma’awis around his hips. Farid carried his backpack as they walked down the sandy street. Husni and the crew were already on board Jamal, bending the repaired sail to the yard. They looked like ants silhouetted against the rising sun.

‘Goodbye, Farid,’ said Paul, reaching out a hand.

The man stepped forward very formally and gave him a hug. Paul felt the cold metal of the rifle against his arm.

‘Safari njema,’ said Farid. ‘May Allah preserve you, my friend.’

Paul smiled and looked into the older man’s eyes, then turned and walked down the beach towards the waiting skiff. There were so many things he could have said to Farid in their time together. Perhaps it had not been necessary.

The skiff bumped against Jamal’s side and the South African scrambled aboard.

‘Morning, Paul!’ shouted the crew.

‘Salaam, everyone! Latif, how are you?’ he asked. The young man’s arm was in a sling cut from a kikoi and he wore a big smile.

‘The wound is getting better,’ said Latif.

‘No deck work for you, you lazy bastard,’ said Paul.

‘No, mzungu, you can do all my work on the way home.’

‘I’d be happy to.’

‘Okay, Paul, stop slacking!’ called Husni from the quarterdeck. ‘Get on that halyard or I’ll have you flogged.’ Clearly, the skipper couldn’t wait to put sea room between himself and the Somali coast.

‘Aye, captain,’ said Paul, joining the rest of the crew at the mast. They leant their backs into the hauling as Jamal’s