The Well of Ishrahan

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.