RASCAL CREPT TOWARDS TIPASA UNDER A MOONLESS SKY AS AJA AND Fallon got dressed in Fallon’s cabin. The sea chest which had been salvaged after the corsair attack had yielded caftans and headwear and a pair of sandals. The carpenter had been able to replicate a second pair of sandals from tanned leather he’d purchased in Gibraltar and sew the caftans to fit. When they were finished dressing, Fallon and Aja came on deck to be gawked at and admired, for the transformation was really quite complete.
An hour before dawn Rascal’s gig was lowered over the side as the ship lay hove-to some thirty-five miles past Tipasa in a small, shallow cove. Fallon had said goodbye to Caleb Visser below decks and Visser’s eyes had been full of gratitude. The American promised to pray every night for Fallon’s safe return, for he knew without knowing how dangerous the coming days would be.
On deck, Beauty pulled Fallon aside for a last word.
“You know, Nico,” she said, “you are the only family I have and I love you like my brother. You be sure to be here when I come back or these Muslim fuckers are going to get the full wrath of the McFarland clan.” And then she opened his hand and put her necklace with the rawhide string in his palm, the wooden sea dog that Fallon had carved for her. “Wear this for good luck, Nico. Sea Dog brought us back together once before. Bring this back to me and put it in my hand just like I am putting it in yours. Then I’ll know you’re safe.”
“Thank you, Beauty,” said Fallon gratefully as he tied the necklace around his neck. “I’ll need all the luck I can get.”
With that, Fallon and Aja climbed down into the gig and were rowed away to the shore of the Barbary coast. The gig beached easily and master and slave stepped ashore, the slave carrying a canvas bag with food and water on his back. They set off towards the east, towards Algiers and an unknown world.
Once they moved more inland the sand became packed and they stumbled upon an ancient track that headed eastward, no doubt travelled by Arabs for hundreds of years or perhaps thousands. Fallon and Aja said little, both acutely aware they were strangers in a strange land and they had better get used to not speaking English. The first travelers they saw were headed west towards Tipasa and, as they approached, both Aja and Fallon held their breath. This was the first test, and Fallon kept his head down while Aja held his high. But the travelers paid them no mind and continued on their way. The first test was passed and they began to breathe normally again.
That night they camped some little ways from the trail, gathering dead twigs to build a small fire. They ate their dinner and lay down next to each other for warmth, for the spring night was chilly.
“How are you doing captain, sir?” asked Aja in barely above a whisper. “Is the load very heavy?”
“I’m fine, Aja,” said Fallon, also in a whisper, though he thought it probably not necessary. “I think we might reach the city by tomorrow evening. And then the real test begins.”
They drifted off to sleep under a starry sky full of old friends, the planets and stars of a hundred passages on distant waters. They had perhaps slept for several hours when suddenly there was a sound, a padded kind of thump, then another, and as they raised up they saw a camel walking towards them. Riding the camel was a large man dressed more or less as they were, except most of his face was covered by a scarf, and leading the camel was another, smaller man dressed and covered similarly. Fallon suspected they were Bedouins, desert dwellers who were said to be the original Arabs and who travelled by camel across Africa in a nomadic existence.
O’Brien’s diary had described Bedouins as clannish, keeping to themselves and the desert and only occasionally visiting cities like Algiers to trade camels or goats. Fallon remembered O’Brien’s description of their fractious loyalties. One Bedouin aphorism captured the complexity: I am against my brother, my brother and I are against my cousin, my cousin and I are against the stranger.
The Bedouins were approaching two strangers.
As the larger Bedouin on the camel dismounted Aja stood up. Fallon thought it best to remain seated in subservience, but he slid his hand into the slit of his caftan and found his pistol. He noticed that both men carried small, curved swords in sashes around their waists.
Aja took the initiative to speak first, in his native African dialect, and opened his arms in welcoming friendship. Fallon could see it surprised and confused the Bedouins, who likely did not understand, and they stepped closer to the fire.
The larger Bedouin spoke to Aja in what Fallon supposed was Arabic. Aja looked at Fallon quizzically, wondering what to do. It was clear that no one understood anyone so far.
And then the other, smaller Bedouin stepped closer and looked at Fallon carefully; it was obvious Fallon was not Arabic and was probably Christian.
“We are curious if we are among friends or enemies,” the smaller Bedouin asked in lingua franca. “Do you understand me? Who are you and where are you going?”
Fallon froze at a question he had not anticipated, but he understood it at least.
“I am Armand,” Fallon said, thinking quickly. “My master is from Senegal, to the south, and we are traveling to Algiers.” He hoped that would explain Aja’s language. The larger Bedouin remained stoic, unmoved, never taking his eyes off Aja. Fallon remained on high alert, sensing a dangerous moment.
“Why do you go to Algiers?” asked the Bedouin facing Aja.
“I am to be sold there,” answered Fallon, as if the question had been directed to him.
The Bedouins were unmoved. They studied Aja’s face, and then Fallon’s face carefully, as if trying to make up their minds about what to believe, or do.
“Do you know Bisha’a?” said the small man to Fallon with a sneer that Fallon didn’t like.
Fallon shook his head no.
“Bisha’a is how we know if you are lying,” said the Bedouin, lowering his scarf to reveal a smile. And then as if on cue both men pulled their small swords from their waistbands and the big man pushed Aja down beside Fallon.
Fallon’s hand was still on the butt of his pistol under his caftan. He had no idea what the Bedouins intended to do, or what the test they called Bisha’a was, but he had no doubt they would fail it.
The larger Bedouin retrieved a knife from a satchel on the camel, which had lain down and was watching contentedly. Then he thrust the knife into the hot coals and waited patiently by the fire, his sword back in his waistband, his hands hanging at his sides.
“Bisha’a is a test of deception,” said the smaller Bedouin, waving his own sword in Fallon’s face. “A truthful man has nothing to fear.” He looked at Aja, who was looking hard at the knife in the fire. “Your master will lick the blade of the knife three times. If his tongue does not burn it will mean you are telling the truth.”
“What if it does burn his tongue?” asked Fallon, as casually as he could.
“Then we kill you,” said the Bedouin matter-of-factly. “A simple test. Speak to your master.”
Fallon’s head snapped back involuntarily, but he leaned over to Aja and whispered: “They want you to lick the knife to see if we are telling the truth. Use the big man’s sword when the time comes to act.”
Aja nodded, cool and unblinking, trying to project a confidence he did not feel. Once again Fallon appreciated his presence of mind under pressure.
Slowly, the knife’s blade began to glow a bright red. A few moments more, and the larger man withdrew it from the ashes and beckoned Aja to stand. The knife was brought up to Aja’s face and the Bedouin said Bisha’a softly, his eyes widening in anticipation of the coming pain.
Aja bravely moved closer to the knife, as if he had nothing to fear, but he glanced to the big man’s belly and the sword in his waistband. The smaller Bedouin watched raptly as Aja slowly opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. It was then that Fallon saw his chance and lunged forward to grab the smaller Bedouin’s arm that held the sword and pull him down. The big man’s attention went quickly to the fight and Aja reached for the man’s sword and quickly withdrew it. The Bedouin still held the hot knife in front of him but Aja sliced downwards with all his might and almost severed the man’s arm. An upward thrust to his belly, a gurgling scream, and the Bedouin staggered and fell backwards on top of the fire.
Now a shot, muffled. Aja turned as Fallon rolled the smaller Bedouin to the side and stood up, the man’s caftan turning red around a small hole near his neck.
“Good job, Aja,” said Fallon. “But I guess we’re not as convincing as we hoped. Let’s get this one out of the fire and get their clothes and scarves and weapons off of them. Then we’ll get them buried.”
Without another word they laid the two Bedouins next to each other wearing only their wounds. The camel had not risen but merely watched the scene with a certain insouciance common to the breed.
They had no choice but to dig shallow graves by hand and sword and this took the better part of the night, for they continually stopped to listen for anyone approaching. The sand was softer off the path but not so soft that the work was fast or easy. When at last they had two graves dug they rolled the dead Bedouins into them and covered the bodies with sand. By morning some brush had been found to lay loosely on top to help provide cover. They rousted the camel to stand and Fallon boosted Aja up on it. He looked down at Fallon and smiled, then they both laughed, for it was a totally incongruous situation they’d gotten themselves into.
And there was still a whole day to go.