Chapter 14
My old navigator aboard, we departed Mogadishu and followed the Somali coast north for ten days, traversing a distance we
likely could have completed in four had we been going in reverse as the winds, common sense, and the accumulated maritime
wisdom of centuries advised. And that was before we turned east-northeast into the open ocean. We had charted a path intended to avoid the busier routes in the straits between
Ras Asir and Socotra’s westernmost outer isles, but it was a course that would traverse riskier water, and while I’m an experienced
sailor, watching the coast completely vanish on such a route is as unnerving as it is thrilling. The open sea is a dangerous
place during favorable conditions, let alone when sailing against the prevailing season. One miscalculation, one storm, and
you could be blown completely off course, never to see land again. Indeed, many nawakhidha never risk leaving the coast, and
there is little shame in such reluctance—a decent living can be made tramping from port to port, always keeping the shore
in sight.
For this reason, among many, I was glad Majed had rejoined us.
Not only did it feel as though the last hole in a tattered sail had been patched, but it was also reassuring to have a man aboard who had crossed the deep sea even more times than I.
Tinbu was an excellent sailor, but he preferred to stick to the coast. Majed preferred to pick a star and thrust himself into the unknown.
The years had lessened his orneriness and I took genuine pleasure in sitting with him to discuss the Quran and his time in Mecca.
My crew was mostly Muslim, and many of them appreciated Majed’s recitation.
More likely welcomed his surety with the Marawati .
It lightens the heart of a mariner to see another who has grown old doing it, for many do not. When two nights of foul weather
clouded the sky, obscuring the stars, I relied on his guidance. When we hit a patch of rogue waves, it was a mercy to have
another set of hands to bail out water.
And yet the difficult crossing I had anticipated—the out of season route so dangerous that few nawakhidha would risk it—not
only failed to materialize, it turned completely on its head. Ten days at sea, the clouds pulled away from the sun as though
yanked, the ocean abruptly gentled, and I was blessed with the most perfect sailing conditions I had ever encountered. There
was a steady wind as though an unseen hand tipped us in the direction of Socotra, and though both Majed and Tinbu joined me
in checking and rechecking the clear map of stars in the flawless night skies and adjusting the rudders, I suspected they
were doing it out of the same routine I was. There were no more rogue waves, no errant currents, no patches of doldrums. We
passed through schools of fish so thick they were all but leaping into our firebox, and though there was no rain, the dew
gathered so heavily on our catchment cloths that we were able to refill our canteens and water tanks every morning. The oars
went untouched, and the heat stayed manageable.
It drove me absolutely mad.
“Amina, stop glaring at the horizon like it has offended you by not brewing up a storm,” Tinbu chided as he passed by carrying
a bucket of mixed pitch and whale oil—we were taking advantage of the weather to do some routine maintenance. “You are going
to bring misfortune upon us.”
“It is unnatural,” I grumbled while around us the crew sang gaily of dark-eyed beauties; I was the only one bothered by the
accommodating sun-dappled sea and wind-filled sails. “We are sailors. The first law of seafaring is that if something can
go wrong, it will.”
Tinbu rolled his eyes. “You are too much a pessimist. What is wrong with a bit of good luck?”
Because it is not just a bit, and the last time I had luck like this, it cost me a comrade . But I did not say that, of course.
He is dead , I told myself instead. Dead and buried on the other side of the Indian Ocean. This is not him.
It can’t be.
On dawn of the sixteenth day out of Mogadishu, my lookout gave the cry for land. We had spotted the birds the previous evening.
Always seven, one of Socotra’s many superstitions. Alone in the sea, a lush island of craggy mountains, fish-crowded rivers,
haunted caves, and bizarre plants, Socotra has always attracted such myths. Even from a distance, the island looked magical,
jutting out from a corona of brilliant teal water, the sheer top of its rocky plateau swathed in misty clouds.
I took no chances as we neared Socotra, ready to call the order to flee if we were spotted. We were approaching from the most
disused side of the island, but I had little doubt Socotra’s notorious pirates occasionally patrolled even this desolate stretch
of beach. I had archers and oarsmen at the ready; the sharpest-eyed members of my crew in the Marawati ’s crow’s nest and at the bow and stern, calling out when they spotted reefs and coral so we could steer clear. Even so, we
anchored a safe distance out.
“I do not like this plan,” Majed said for the third time that morning as the dunij was lowered into the water, and Tinbu,
Dalila, and I finished packing our bags. “If the Frank is here with armed men, the three of you are hardly a force to be reckoned
with.”
“That is the point,” I reminded him. “Two women and a single man trekking across the hills might be mistaken for locals. A
band of armed sailors are more likely to be viewed as a threat. Besides, right now, we are merely scouting.” I slung my bag
over my shoulder, adjusting my weapons before climbing over the Marawati ’s side.
“Then I should go with you,” he insisted, also for the third time. “I have the best sense of direction. And I am not this frail old man you obviously all believe me to be. Why, back home, I still swim the entire length of—”
“I have no doubt you can outswim everyone on the crew, and I know your sense of direction is superior. But I need you on the
ship.” I began climbing down the rope to the dunij. “One week, brother. That is more than enough time for us to cross the
island, seek out the cave, and return. If we do not meet you back here in a week—”
“We will come looking for you.”
I gave him an exasperated look. “I was going to say you should return to Mogadishu instead of risking your life.”
“Make sure you are here to meet me, and you will not have to worry about such a thing.” There was no room for argument in
Majed’s tone. “I will keep the Marawati near enough to see a signal fire from the beach.”
Tinbu joined us, his bow freshly polished and the quiver filled with new arrows. Dalila was just behind with her own bags.
We had packed as lightly as possible, with a bare number of provisions. This part of the island was mostly scrub. There would
be few places to hide, and I suspected the hills would be no pleasure to climb.
We took the dunij to shore, the island looming loftier as we drew close. The tide was out, revealing greenish-blue anemones
that covered the enormous black rocks jutting out of the shallows like embroidery upon a hem. We splashed into water as clear
as glass, tiny waves chasing and nipping each other across the white sand. The beach was narrow, dwarfed by the towering flat
plain that made up the island’s heart. Sheer cliffs of limestone rose higher than a multistoried building. Here and there,
powdery dunes of pale sand piled against them like failed waves of intruders upon a city’s walls.
We bid farewell to the sailors who had rowed us out, then set off, hugging the cliff’s shade.
Our feet crunched loudly on the sand, seabirds shrieking overhead.
The sun’s glare upon the water was blinding, and I fought disorientation as I struggled to regain my footing and sense of space after so many days at sea.
Back in al-Mukalla, I’d picked up one of the broad straw hats used by field hands for Dalila to wear over her ribbon cap of poisons, thinking it might help her see better.
As the beach curved north, putting us even more at the mercy of the sun, I regretted not getting one for myself.
“Aye.” Tinbu whistled. “I suppose not everyone had our luck on the journey.”
“What do you... oh .” I shaded my eyes as I realized the dark lumpy shape ahead was not one of the black rocks sticking out of the surf: it was
a ship. Well, half of a ship. Whatever fate had befallen the vessel had snapped it across the middle and deposited it stern side up, beached
among the breaking waves. “No, I fear there were likely few survivors off that.”
We approached the shipwreck with caution. The only other visitors were a pair of gulls perched upon the vessel’s shattered
stern ornament and tiny fish swimming in a tide pool among the broken hull pieces. Judging by its size, the ship had been
at least three times bigger than the Marawati . The kind of ship with two masts and vast sails; a deep-water vessel meant for carrying horses, royal treasures, and heavy
luxury goods.
“I wonder what happened to it?” Dalila pondered aloud as I walked around the wreck. The water lapping at my ankles was cool,
shaded by the doomed boat. The wind whistled through the shattered wooden planks, an eerie cry as the broken cords that had
once bound the sewn hull shivered in the breeze. There was a strange buzz to the air, like the approach of lightning.
I came around the other side of the hull. My throat caught. “I may have found the cause.”
The mystery ship had not sunk because it had hit coral or rocks.
It had sunk because it had been bitten in half .
A semicircle of jagged edges had been torn out of the hull with such violence that two serrated teeth had been left behind in the wood.
They were curved like fangs and the color of rust.
Tinbu joined me. “Where did those come from?”
I pried one of the teeth loose. It was easily the length of my forearm. “No idea.”