Chapter IX: Epilogue


Reported location: N16º 25.3' W016º 11.8' Activity level: 9. Ambient: 27.7 DegC. Days since reset:74. Daily VMG: 0.7 km/h. Local movements typical in settled wintering area

They released me beside a tributary of the big river, at a place with scrubby trees along the bank under which some hogs rooted and snuffled. It didn't look very promising. I tried my wings cautiously at first and then, find them to be working well enough, I took off and climbed. Below me the man, the woman and the boy stood by their vehicle and waved with great enthusiasm.

Humans do this waving thing a lot, I've noticed. Perhaps they are trying to fly.

From height, the outlook became rather better: not far away to the north I could see that the terrain was low-lying and partially flooded, a marshy wetland with small islands dotted through it. I angled in that direction and a huge expanse of reedbed came into view with open water beyond that. And there were birds – an astonishing number of different birds...

Even more than four.

There were familiar ones: ducks and cormorants, kestrels and herons, wagtails and storks, and many others that I had (at that time) never seen before, including pink flamingos strutting through the shallows. Perhaps the most prominent birds on the water side were the white pelicans, rafting in groups and throwing water over each other in that feckless irresponsible way they do. I thought the pelicans might be a good sign that there were fish to be taken in that area, and so there were – but in truth they were rather small. And you know what we ospreys always say:-

If you've got to have one, have a big one.

It didn't take me long to discover that the big specimens were down at the southern side where the water was deepest. I tracked one from a reasonable height, the strong sunshine of this new land making for an easy target acquisition. By now I was experienced enough to take care of where my shadow was falling: if the the fish once caught sight of that, it would vanish in an instant. By luck or judgement I timed my dive to perfection, made a clean lift, and looked round for somewhere quiet to enjoy my first meal in many days.

There were very few leafless trees at that season, but I spotted one and perched quite high up. Two or three bites and I was just starting to enjoy the head, (always the best bit – my father often kept it for himself) when there was a fan of wings and two birds pitched onto a branch opposite, making the whole tree shake with the impact of their landing. They were female ospreys – full dominant adults in their breeding plumage of the year. Both were much larger than me, and one thing was immediately obvious...

They were extremely angry about something.

“What are you doing here?” shouted one.

“What do you think you're doing with our fish?” shrieked the other.

“Thank you, Doris, I'm dealing with this,” said the first, “See here, youngster: this is OUR fishing-place. Get away down to the shallow end and take what food the pelicans might have left for you. Juveniles are not allowed up here!”

I swallowed another piece of fish, taking my time over it before replying in the best Scotlandish dialect I could muster:

“Awa' an' bile yer heid, ye daft auld gowk.”

She bridled. “Did you just call me a gowk?”

“What's a gowk?” inquired the one called Doris, who was obviously struggling to keep up.

“He needs a good thrashing to learn him some respect for his elders. Give him a good thrashing, Doris!”

“I thought you were dealing with this.” replied Doris.

Another leisurely morsel went down while I glanced around. Several other adults had gathered on nearby perches to watch the fun. I cleaned my beak carefully on the branch and leaned on one leg:

“Now listen to me... I have come here over mountain and ocean and the empty desert. I have braved shot and sandstorm, deadly scorpion and eagle owl, and I have survived them all. I have stood among the lost ruins of Ishrahan itself and lived to tell the tale – so if you think for one moment that I'm afraid of you two, I suggest you think again.”

A thunderstruck silence fell over the pair. Their beaks opened and closed, but no sound came out. The larger female pulled her head back, looked at her companion, then back at me.

“Well I never heard the like!” she squeaked.

And with that they both flew away.

I really enjoyed the rest of that fish.

___________________________________

I never saw the man and the fair-haired girl again. I did hear of them, one time – but that is a whole other story.

The boy I see every day, in the proper season: he came to live in the village close to the edge of the Reserve, and he goes to the small school that is there. And each day after school he comes down to the wooden watching-platform beside the big water. Sometimes if I am not busy with fishing or other important matters, I fly over and perch on the railing – far enough away, but closer than any other osprey would dare – and he chatters away, perhaps telling me about the things he has done or seen that day. 

I can't understand any of it, of course, but we stay there companionably enough for a while.

Then he walks back up the path to the village, while I return to my favourite branch for a bask in the afternoon sunshine, and look out over the reeds and the blue water, and the dusty trees. All things considered, this place is a good place...

It is not Ishrahan.

But for us it is home.

 

“The Well of Ishrahan” was written and published free.

If you enjoyed it, please return the favour by joining your local Wildlife Trust and help to support nature conservation, both nationally and internationally.

[Click on the logo for website.]

Chapter VIII: Diama Barrage

Chapter VIII: Diama Barrage

Reported location: Not updated. Next scheduled transmission window in 4 hours.

The osprey sat on its haunches, wings slightly apart for balance as it swayed with the motion of the vehicle. It showed no signs of distress at the close proximity of three humans, but its keen brown eyes fixed on any small movement that they made. The 4x4 raced on southwards and a fantail of ochre dust rose in its wake.

“I wonder what the speed limit is on these roads.” commented Mike, his voice raised over the monotonous drone of the engine. [1] 

“Ha! You’d only have a speeding ticket to worry about if we got stopped.” Libby opened another packet of salted peanuts and passed them round. “MY charge sheet already includes abduction of a minor, assault, criminal damage, possession of an unlicensed firearm, proscribed currency dealing - and an unlawful display of public nudity from last night!”

“No-one saw you.”

“I should hope not. In a Moslem country, I'd probably get a longer sentence for that than all the other offences put together.”

Mike munched a handful of peanuts. “Atépa - what do balbuzard eat?”

“Fish.”

“And what else?”

“More fish.”

“Not peanuts, by any chance? How about fruit... potatoes... Waldorf salad... quarter-pounder with cheese...?”

“Sorry, Doctor Mike – it is only fish.”

“Fair enough.” He switched back to English: “Libby, what are we going to do if and when we make it to Senegal?”

“A hot bath, a hot meal, and lots of sex – not necessarily in that order.”

“And what about Atépa here?”

“Oh darling, he's far too young to join in. It wouldn't be right.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Could you just be serious for once? I assume that you had some kind of plan when you got me - and him - into this situation. Now would be a good time to discuss what that plan might be, because I'm going to need a proper doctoring job when I get home and a conviction for kidnapping isn't going to look good on my C.V.”

“The only plan I have is this...” she produced a slip of paper from her bag, “I got involved with some people and they explained to me about a number of things I'd seen and heard, last time I was here in west Africa on the rallies. They said I could use this number in particular circumstances – and I think THIS is definitely a circumstance.”

She picked up the satellite phone handset, and dialled.

“Hallo... my name is Elizabeth Caffrey and I was given this number by a Mr Simon Wymark... No, I am in Mauretania, about an hour's travel north of the frontier... Yes he did, he told me to say half a pound of tuppenny rice... thank you, I'll hold.”

“What people?” Mike asked, “Who are these people?”

“Don't ask me questions I can't answer right now, Mike. Hallo, yes - still here... okay, we have a young male, estimated twelve years of age, possibly from the Diola or Serer ethnic area. Family wiped out by one of the rebel militias during the unrest... no, we don't know when... was trafficked north by stages to where we found him, along with an unknown number of others. Yes, there is substantive evidence at the scene, I will give you the location details later. The boy's name is Atépa, he has been knocked about a bit and is rather undernourished, but otherwise in good health. No, that IS an assessment, there is a doctor from England with me in this transport... no he doesn't know who you are and nor do I... Well, we destroyed the telephone line before leaving but I think we may have outstayed our welcome in Mauretania by now... Yes, I'm listening... Okay we will ask that and see if he agrees, but we could really use some advice and assistance here. Right then, I'll wait to hear from you... goodbye.”

She drummed her fingers on the dashboard for a moment, thinking. Mike waited patiently – he had a dozen questions but suspected that few if any of them could be answered right now. [2] 

“All right, she said, drawing a deep breath, “translate this for me... Atépa, I have spoken to a... a friend who has some other friends who would like to help you, if -”

“Hang on. That isn't even English, heaven knows what it'll sound like in French!”

“Just do your best... They will find some nice people for you to stay with – kind people, with children of your age, and you will have good clothes, and will not have to work, and you can go to school. And all of this will be paid for by my friends – everything from a special fund that they have for doing these things. Would you like that, Atépa?”

“I would like that very much.” came the simple response. “But there is another thing.”

“And what is that?” asked Mike, steering to avoid a wandering bullock cart.

“Could the balbuzard come to see me one time or perhaps two time? I think he is my friend and I would be sad not to see him again.”

“Well, I am not sure about that, Atépa. He is a wild creature and he flies wherever he wants to go.”

“But he does not need to fly,” Atépa replied, with irrefutable logic, “you drive him around everywhere in your car!”

At that moment the phone rang, saving Mike from having to figure out a response to this. Libby answered it, then passed the handset over.

“It's for you. Dennis somebody from something Wildlife something in Scotland, I didn't quite catch what he said.”

“Hi... yes this is Mike Retford. Yes, he is sitting up and taking notice now. The treatment appears to have worked and the tachycardia is no longer present, I have no other concerns. But we don't know what to do next... okay, you're the expert... I don't see that on the map, how are you spelling it? D-J-O-U-D-J … Ah, okay – got it now... We will do our best but it's possible that we might be in prison by then... I can't explain at the moment, it's a very long story... Yes, that's fine, I will let you know. Cheers now...”

Libby put a reassuring hand on his knee: “Darling, we are definitely NOT going to prison.”

“Perhaps you should tell that to those guys coming up behind us.”

“What....?” She leaned over to look in the rear-view door mirror. In the distance, blue and red flashing lights could be seen at the limit of the heat haze.

“Put your foot down, Mike!”

“It IS down. This is as fast as we can go.”

“That's what you think.” Libby twisted a control on the centre console. A red light illuminated and the 4x4 surged forward. “The engine is electronically limited. I just switched the limiter off, which gives us an extra 900 r.p.m. in each gear – for a while.”

“And what happens at the end of the while?”

“Umm., well... the transmission oil cooler will overheat. We'll know this by the white smoke coming out and the horrible grinding noises. But it doesn't matter – look, we're only two klicks from the border crossing. It'll last out that long - probably. I'd better get rid of this...”

She took the Glock from her bag and, holding it sideways, flung it spinning from the window. It bounced once on the verge and disappeared into a muddy irrigation channel. Mike snapped his fingers and pointed at her:

“That visit to the souk in Tunis*... you told me you were shopping for shoes!”

Libby pouted. “Well, I did buy shoes – and some other useful things at the same time. Keep your eyes on the road, for God's sake.”

Ahead, Mike could now see the broad sweep of the river that formed the line of frontier between two countries. Spanning this, a roadway ran straight across the top of a wide barrage dam with multiple sluice gates in its face. There were more people and livestock walking alongside the road and he was forced to slow down, listening at every instant for any hint of horrible grinding noises. The pursuing vehicles had closed the gap, and he thought he could hear the sound of sirens.

The Mauretanian border post came into view. Most of the activity was at the customs station opposite on the northbound entry side, but two uniformed guards could be seen lounging in the shade of some trees with their hands in their pockets. As he braked, one of them sauntered towards the kerb and began to raise a hand.

“Don't stop,” shouted Libby, “drive on through!”

“Are you insane? They have assault rifles.”

“It'll be okay – just do it. They'll think we're part of the rally fleet.”

Mike accelerated at the last moment, taking the soldier by surprise and causing him to fall backwards onto the grassy verge. The 4x4 rocked dangerously as it launched out onto the concrete roadway across the dam. The short hairs on Mike's neck prickled as he waited for the burst of automatic fire that would end their journey there and then.

It never came. They passed over a wide bypass lock that gave upstream access for shipping and ahead was the modern, angular building and observation tower that housed the dam's control centre. The Senegalese border post was a low office building opposite, and this time there was a red-and-white pole barrier blocking the way. They pulled up behind a line of traffic and waited. The vehicles ahead were processed with reasonable despatch but, when their turn came, a uniformed official holding a clipboard waved them in to the side:

“Passports.” These were scrutinised very slowly and deliberately, page by page. “Wait here, and fill in this form. Do not leave your vehicle. No smoking.”

“But I wasn't smoking.” remarked Mike to Libby, obscurely offended.

“I wouldn't mind a quick cough and a drag right now,” she replied, “my nerves have had it.”

Mike studied the form with growing dismay. There were a number of boxes that he was unable to complete and – for once – Libby was no help.

On the far side of the customs area, a large white Mercedes-Benz saloon pulled up, did a u-turn, and parked. A woman dressed in multi-coloured traditional costume got out and walked with quick steps towards them. She was small and slim, of late middle age but with the high cheekbones and ascetic features typical of her race. The small crowd outside the customs office parted to let her past and she walked straight up to the official.

“May I be of some assistance, Captain?"

“No assistance is required, Madame. These people are being detained at the request of the authorities over there.”

“And have the authorities over there supplied the correct document – completed in triplicate and countersigned and stamped with the big stamp? I'll wager they have not, they are far too disorganised.”

“Perhaps so, but there are other irregularities. This boy has no passport.”

“The boy does not need a passport. He is a juvenile and a citizen of the State. I have here his identity papers.”

She handed them over. The captain looked startled and then nonplussed. “But these are brand new!”

“No doubt – but are they not in order? Of course they are in order. Where is the problem?”

“Well, er... see here on their form: the visitors have no temporary domicile address, where it says Name of hotel or camp-site, booking or reservation copy must be provided. It is blank.”

“They will be staying with me at my home outside Gandiol which – as you well know – is large enough and has plenty of room. I will fill in the address on your little form... there, it is done. Tomorrow they will travel on to the capital to meet with the rest of their party.”

The captain sighed. This kind of thing was happening far too often in the modern Senegal, where women owned land and property and some ran successful businesses. In the old days he would simply have ignored the interfering old biddy, but now... He made one last attempt to assert his authority:

“I have decided that they are to remain here, pending further clarification. And that is an end to the matter.”

The woman looked up at him with a twinkle in her eye: “But of course, dear Captain: you must adhere to the correct procedures. And these will include the matter of the bird...”

“Bird? What has the bird got to do with anything?”

“This bird, Pandion haliaetus, is a protected species under our laws of Senegal – and as such it must be released in a suitable habitat within twenty-four hours. And this...” she gestured at the surrounding buildings, “... is not a suitable habitat. The law must be complied with in all circumstances, and who will take the responsibility if it is not? But I must not keep you from your official duties, Captain. Goodbye.”

She walked off. The captain stared after her, open-mouthed, with that dread word responsibility still ringing in his ears. Like many people in similar positions, much of the captain's working day was devoted to making sure that he could never be held responsible for anything. Certainly it was true that none of the documents he had so far received meant that these annoying foreigners could NOT proceed – and therefore there was only one responsible decision... he stepped over to the car window and clicked his heels together smartly:

“M'sieu, M'selle... here are your passports. Bienvenue – welcome to Senegal.”

Diama barrage dam, Senegal River. (Looking south)

* Souk – a traditional market or trading quarter in north African towns.

[1] A good question. The national speed limit in Mauretania is 80 kph (50 mph) though - like most traffic laws there - the enforcement of this depends on who is doing the driving and how much cash they have on them at the time.

[2] A number of NGO's currently work to combat slavery and its consequences in sub-Saharan Africa, including Anti-Slavery International and the C.R.E.E.R. Operating out of the limelight and often in some secrecy, they campaign against human trafficking, forced and indentured labour, and captive prostitution. Funded programmes include provision for repatriation, rehabilitation, and long-term educational support. More information on this uncomfortable topic can be found at the UNICEF website and elsewhere.

Chapter VII: The Ones With Feathers

Reported location: N20º 112.4' W013º 13.5' Activity level: 1. Ambient: 15.1 DegC. Days since reset: 71. Daily VMG: 52.8 km/h. Intermittent doppler signals, consistent with the PTT unit being carried in a moving vehicle.

Michael awoke from a troubling dream wherein Elizabeth, clad only in a short cape of brown feathers and wearing a grotesque bird mask, was repeatedly pecking at his ribcage. He knuckled his eyes and sat up.

“Hey – that really hurt!”

Libby withdrew the elbow that had been poised for another dig. “Well, shouting Wake up Mike at the top of my voice didn't seem to be having much effect. I've been driving all night and now it's your turn.”

“Okay, pull over and I'll do my morning ward round first.”

“And I'd better ring Voss the Boss.”

Dawn had broken with the sudden authority that always applies in low latitudes but it was still decidedly chilly. Ensconced in the passenger seat with a blanket over her knees, Libby lifted the sat-phone handset and hit a program dial key:

“Hi... good morning Dieter, this is Lady Penelope from International Rescue calling... No, there's nothing wrong that a room with a shower and a 'pas deranger' sign on the doorknob wouldn't cure... Yes, our celebrity passenger is still hanging in there, and in much better shape this morning thanks to Mike's bold and innovative treatment strategy. He may not be much of a doctor, but he's one hell of a vet! We should be at your location in about four hours... Say all that again.... well, sure – we could take the direct route southwards but we'd need to find some fuel, which won't be easy... There's the place that Archie stumbled on back in 2008, but you know what THAT could mean... No, I'm not too happy about it either, but the only alternative is to abandon this vehicle here and the sponsors can charter a helicopter to come out and pick us all up.... What?.. no, I didn't mean it seriously. Okay then.... yes, Dieter... no, Dieter.... well, give them  this number and Mike will speak to them. Okay then, talk to you later.”

Mike scrambled into the driving seat and started the engine. Libby looked back at the sleeping osprey and grimaced.

“Poor little guy, still spark out. I see you stopped the IV thingy.”

“Yes, I did do that – for the time being. Can't leave a drip running for extended periods, it over-taxes the kidneys or something. I'm sure I read that somewhere.”

“Bluffer. You're just loving this stuff, aren't you?”

“Ha! Wait until that bird's family get my bill. None of this is on the NHS, y'know... So there's been a change of plan, if I heard right.”

“Yes, we're going south to the Diama crossing. Next waypoint is in the plotter. Keep the speed down and don't use the air conditioning – it increases fuel consumption. I'm going to try and get some sleep.”

“What about the rally?”

“It's over. Stage seven was cancelled last night because some ferry isn't operating, or something. So there's no point in us continuing west, we might as well take a short cut down to the border.”

The way south lay through a desolate plain of low dunes, without the spectacular rock features that had relieved their earlier passage of the Adrar uplands. Mike drove steadily, sticking to the middle of the piste where possible. A dull grey escarpment rose on the left, paralleling the road as far as could be seen. At the marked waypoint he slowed and stopped: set back from the road under the looming cliff was a ramshackle single-story building – not the traditional desert style but constructed of cinder block that had been crudely and carelessly whitewashed. In front of this was a pair of dilapidated fuel pumps, flanking a wooden telegraph pole. Off to one side, he could make out the skeleton of an abandoned flatbed semi-trailer, minus its wheels. Other partly dismantled vehicles lay around it, and the whole place had a degraded, threatening aspect.

“We're here.” He shook Libby, who groaned into wakefulness and peered through the windscreen.

“Jeez, what a dump! Okay, pull over to the pumps and let's see what's available.”

He did so. An urchin wearing a ragged orange smock trudged towards the fuel island, arms dangling at his sides. His eyes were listless and disinterested, and Mike estimated his age at no more than twelve. Libby got out and went round to the rear of the vehicle.

“Rekab mazout!” she called, and made the universal gesture for “Fill it up.” She spent some time rooting about in the luggage compartment before rejoining Mike. The boy wrestled with the heavy nozzle and the pump wheezed and clanked into life. Mike switched off the engine.

“I don't see any signs that they take Visa cards.” he quipped.

Libby appeared not to hear but stared intently at the building, tapping one fingernail against her chin as if struggling with a decision. On her lap lay a narrow plastic wallet folder and an angular object wrapped in rip-stop nylon, tied with a cord.

“No, I don't suppose they do.” She opened the wallet, revealing a row of ten thick silver discs, stamped with an intricate design.

“Pre-colonial coinage,” she explained in answer to Mike's unspoken question. “They're solid silver. Paper currency comes and goes, but you can still buy anything around the rim of the Sahara with these – fuel, water, camels... women...” She selected two coins and pocketed them, hesitated, then took a third. “I'll go and do some exchange negotiation.” [1] 

“Shouldn't I come with you?”

“I can look after myself, thanks. Don't worry.” She picked up the nylon pouch, but its binding slipped and the contents fell onto the centre console.

Mike's eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I dunno what you think it is – but technically it's a Glock model 19 semi-automatic pistol, and this is the seventeen-round magazine that fits into it.”

“But... but...”

“You're burbling, Michael. Burbling does not help, just at the moment.”

“But I mean - isn't it dangerous?”

“No of course not, silly,” She inserted the magazine, cycled the cocking slide, and slipped the weapon into her shoulder bag. “NOW it's dangerous.”

She faced him and took both of his hands in hers. “Darling, listen to me very carefully. You may have noticed that this is not Oxfordshire – nor is it London or Brussels or Munich or Paris. Please do exactly what I say, no matter what happens in the next ten minutes. Do not get out of the car. Don't speak to anyone. Don't look at the boy.”

“Why ever not?”

“He is a slave.”

She strode towards the building's entrance and disappeared inside. Minutes passed, and Mike thought that he could hear raised voices. Swirls of dust moved across the empty compound. The fuel pump cut out with a final rattle, and now the boy had his nose pressed against a side window. He was looking in at the osprey.

There was more shouting and a man, grossly obese, emerged from the doorway with his hands clasped behind his balding pate. He was dressed in a grubby singlet and - incongruously - metallic blue pyjamy trousers. Behind him came Libby, her arms extended with the left hand cupped under the right in the classic shooter's stance. The fat man kept up a steady stream of invective and imprecations as the pair moved towards the fuel island.

“Mike, you speak French, don't you?”

“Yes, a bit.”

“Start the engine. Tell the boy to get in the back. And tell this guy to shut the fuck up because I'm about five seconds away from shooting him in the head.”

The noise ceased. Libby gestured towards a grey box attached to the pole.

“What is this thing? Qu'est-ce que ce?”

“Ligne telephonique.”

Libby whipped the heavy gun muzzle across the box. Plastic and components shattered, wires dangled. She stepped back in front of the man and threw the silver coins, one by one, into the dust at his feet.

“Tell him: these for the fuel. This one for the child. Tell him not to move until we are out of sight.” She slid into her seat and slammed the door.

“Libby, what did you do?”

“Just drive. That way. Drive fast.”

Mike did his best, but he kept glancing over at Libby as she stared fixedly ahead. Her face was drawn and pale, and her lips were compressed in a thin bloodless line. He felt the urge to offer her a hug - but at almost a hundred and twenty kph on a narrow, rutted piste, this seemed less than advisable.

“Would you really have used that gun?” he asked, feeling that this might be the source of the problem. She replied without looking at him.

“I would have. So would you, if you had seen what was in that room back there.”

“Go on.”

“It was kinda dark but there were chains, Mike. Bars on the windows and rows of chains on the walls and at the end of the chains were leg rings. Small rings...” Tears were streaming down the side of her face. “Now that I think about it, really very small...”

“Oh Jesus Christ.” He sought desperately to change the subject. “How are our passengers doing?”

Libby dabbed at her face and swivelled round in the seat. “The osprey looks okay. The boy looks absolutely terrified... which is not surprising, since he's being hauled off in a vehicle by two people who he's never seen before – white people at that – to God knows where. This may not be the first time that something like this has happened in his life. You'd better talk to him - he doesn't understand English, nor my few phrases of pidgin Arabic.”

“I'm kinda occupied right now.” replied Mike, as he swerved to avoid another encroaching sand-drift.

“What – you can't do high-speed driving AND French translation at the same time? It's time to get with the programme here, sweetheart.”

Mike made a gesture of resignation and switched to that language. “What is your name, young man?”

“Sir, my name is called Atépa, if you please.”

“Don't call me Sir. Atépa, my name is Michael and I am a doctor of medicine, and this lady is called Libby.”

“Very pretty lady.”

“You should see her when she isn't holding up gas stations at gunpoint. Now Atépa, we do not mean you any harm. You are not being taken to...” he struggled for a suitable phrase, “... to any kind of a bad place.”

“I understand this.”

“Ask him where he's from.” suggested Libby.

“It must be a long way away. His French is even worse than mine, and I doubt if it's his first language.” The question was answered with a long five-syllable name. Mike looked at Libby, who shook her head.

“We don't know where that is, I'm afraid.” said Mike.

“Senegal. By Casamance river.”

Libby nodded. “That's away south, down by the border with Guinea-Bissau. There was some trouble there a while back, if I remember right. Ask him about his family.”

“Where are your parents, Atépa?”

“Dead in the war.”

“I am really sorry. When was this?”

“I do not clearly remember. Some years, perhaps.”

“This is the last question, Atépa. At that place we just left, were there any others kept there with you? How many other children?" 

“I do not count so well. More than some, I think. Gone now.”

“Where did they go?”

“Some traded – sold. Some die of sick or beating.”

Mike's knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he rendered this into English. He took a deep breath and looked at Libby.

“You should have shot the bastard.”

“I know. Not that it would have done any good – the traffickers are organized criminals and they'd have just put some other dirtbag in the same job.” [2] 

There was nothing else to say. Hour after hour, the tyres drummed on the hard-packed piste and eventually the desert began to give way to a different landscape. Now there were small rectangular fields beginning to appear beside the road – a few at first, and then larger systems with narrow irrigation channels between them. Short, thick-trunked trees could be seen, with groups of thatched huts beyond them. Libby could hear a soft, cadenced sound coming from behind her and looked round.

“What is he doing?”

Mike glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “He's singing. Singing to the osprey.”

Atépa noticed their attention and the singing stopped. “I know this bird.” he announced. 

“Do you?”

“Certainly. I see other like him at river near our village, each year after rains finish. He is a good bird – balbuzard – good fisher, very skill.” He paused. “I think it is time for balbuzard to wake up now.”

“Don't touch the bird please, Atépa” warned Libby. This was said in English and the boy ignored her. His hand made contact with a wing feather, very gently...

Carron opened his eyes.

* Ne pas deranger: (In hotels) Do not disturb. (Fr)

* Mazout: Diesel, or vaporizing fuel oil. (Ar) 

* Balbuzard pecheur: Osprey. (Fr)

[1] Libby's “pre-colonial coins” could be Spanish, French or Turkish but the most commonly-found large silver coin in North Africa is still the Maria Theresa Thaler, from Austria. Known by the Arabs as Abu reesh “the one with feathers” - a reference to the Hapsburg eagle on the reverse - these old trading coins were (and are) prized for their high bullion content, an intrinsic value thought to be more reliable than the often unstable national currencies. Though always dated “1780”, over 300 million MTT's were struck and the issue continued until 2000.

[2] UNICEF have estimated that around 600,000 adults and children are subject to slavery in Mauretania alone – a startling total for such a sparsely populated country, where the practice of human trafficking was not fully prohibited by legislation until 2010. The figure for sub-Saharan Africa as a whole cannot be established, but probably runs into several millions.

Clearly, Libby knew more about this than she revealed to Mike at the time: her estimate of a (juvenile) human life being worth half the price of a tank of diesel fuel is approximately correct.