Whoever Fears the Sea by Justin Fox (english novels to improve english txt) 📕

of battle how superior was the Christian faith to that of Mahomet. Once the rulers of North Africa had been bent to his will, our king sought a passage around the continent to bring Christianity to the East. Upon hearing our story, the sultan agreed to help us with all that we required and promised to replenish our vessels.’

‘What is your position on the ship, if I may ask?’

‘I am scribe and chronicler. I keep the log too. I have an education. My commander trusts me and I have his ear.’

‘Where are you going next?’ asked Paul.

‘Our king has charged us with finding a sea passage to the East, to bring back spices, gold, riches.’ Then, in a whisper, ‘You’re not working for the English king, are you?’

‘No, no, I’m just a simple traveller.’

‘Nor the Dutch dogs neither?’

‘No, I assure you, I work for no one.’ (Except Africa Moon Films, Paul thought, but he didn’t consider it relevant.)

‘Ah,’ said the young man, eyeing Paul warily. ‘My captain is looking for a pilot to guide us to India. Towards the cradle of the sun. We have heard of a great trading city. Its name is, I think, Qualecut. That is where our destiny lies.’

‘Calicut, yes. It’s a city in India, many days’ sail away.’

‘Praise be! I have no doubt Captain da Gama will bring us to that enchanted shore. And you, good sir, where are you bound?’

‘North, up the coast. To the islands of Lamu, perhaps beyond.’

‘Do you not think it foolhardy? To the north is all pirates. Mahometan pirates. Which is why our ships turn east from here. A Christian like you, all alone on the coast … this is surely not a wise thing.’

Paul looked out to sea, uneasy. When he glanced back, the man had disappeared. Below him the black waves pummelled the coral. To the north is all pirates…

What was he letting himself in for?

Paul woke to a crackling sound. He opened his eyes and saw the grey shades of dawn through the slats of his shutters. What on earth was that noise? The Tannoy crackled again, squeaked; then the call to Mecca broke into his slumber like a wave. He cursed the wailing voice and pulled a pillow over his head in frustration, trying to force himself back to sleep.

The words, without meaning, washed over him. After a while, Paul found himself listening for the incantation of ‘Allahu Akbar’, God is Most Great, even mouthing the words as a pantheistic prayer for himself. Indian Ocean matins. ‘Hayya ’ala ’l-falah, Allahu Akbar!’

He reached the beach just before the sun. Already the air was warm and a gentle breeze ruffled the sea. After a few minutes he was joined by Husni and four shipmates, who were perfunctorily introduced to Paul.

‘This is Omar, Kijoka, Swaleh and Shekh, all of them Malindi fishermen, all good sailors,’ said Husni.

They were a motley bunch in torn shorts and faded T-shirts. The bearded Omar was second mate. The rest were muscular deck hands who barely acknowledged Paul.

‘You ready to go?’ asked Husni.

‘Yes, I guess so.’

‘Okay, we go.’ Husni picked up Paul’s backpack with one hand and strode down the beach. The men followed. As the sun’s first rays stole across the water, inflaming a line of palm trees, the crew dragged a flat-bottomed mwuo dinghy into the surf. Paul scrambled aboard and his luggage was piled in the bows. Shekh started paddling fiercely as a small wave loomed ahead of them. It sucked hollow. The mwuo had minimal freeboard and did not rise up to meet the wave, but rather cleaved through the middle, wrapping a wall of green water around them. They emerged on the other side as wet as if they’d swum. Only the sunglasses perched on top of Paul’s head were dry. Shekh wore a wide grin. Paul’s bags were soaked. Thank goodness his camera was wrapped in plastic.

They drew alongside Fayswal and climbed aboard. She was a well-maintained mashua dhow, a little under thirty feet in length – certainly not the jahazi Paul had hoped for, but attractive nonetheless. The paintwork sported recently touched-up detailing in checks and triangles, and the sail was new-white. His bags were dumped in the fish drums amidships, where they were to acquire a nasty aroma.

The lanky Swaleh attached a rudder to the stern while the crew prepared the rigging. Paul found a seat beside Husni at the tiller. Shekh pulled up the anchor, coiling the rope in the bows. At the cry of ‘Chukua!’ the yard was hoisted and the lateen sail unfurled to a loud whoop from first-mate Omar. Husni bore away and a light offshore breeze filled the sail as Fayswal threaded between anchored dhows that danced on their mooring lines in the short swell. A puff of wind caught them, and the acceleration took Paul by surprise. Mangrove and mahogany creaked, the sail billowed. Fayswal bowed to the gust, picking up speed.

Paul looked astern and caught sight of the padrão on the headland. With a shiver he remembered his conversation with the gentleman from the night before. It was in Malindi, he knew from his reading, that Da Gama had found his pilot. When the Arab navigator, Ibn Mãjid, showed the Portuguese a route across the sea to Calicut, he inadvertently initiated half a millennium of European domination of the Indian Ocean.

Paul cast an eye over the crew. Who were these African sailors and what did they make of him? For now, they seemed to be ignoring their passenger. Swaleh and Shekh were coiling rope, Rafiki sat in the bows sharpening two long knives against each other. Paul tried to catch Husni’s eye to pass a remark about the wind, make some sort of contact, but the man was staring fixedly at the horizon.

Da Gama had found his navigator in Malindi; for better