The Sand Scuttler

Chapter 3

3

The slave boy, Medi, and Jakira were put to work immediately in the kitchen, under the supervision of Jally the cook. The previous two kitchen-slave girls, Jally Cook told them, had grown up and been put to work in Master Rasheed’s chambers.

The kitchen was a strip of sand between the main villa and a line of huts, under cloth, which allowed as much of the stagnant crater air to move through as possible. Two gauzy sheets hung down at either end to prevent dust and fine sand from blowing in. Clay ovens, wooden tables and cooking contraptions were positioned within easy reach of one another and in one corner was a sunken oven pit, where in the scorch season, they cooked the meat buried under the boiling sand.

“Mix that well, Medi!” Jally Cook bellowed, whirling around her kitchen like a dust storm, stirring all kinds of foods in every variety of pots, pans and dishes.

There were two seasons in Drome, hot and hotter, and although the hotter scorch season was not yet upon them, the sweltering heat combined with the ovens made the area like a furnace and the cook and Medi sweated. Jakira didn’t, she had never felt the heat like others.

“I like to tell Master that my food tastes so good because it is made with love, but really, it is seasoned with my own bodily fluids!” The cook chuckled as perspiration dripped off her nose, forehead and the damaged skin of her chin as well as elbows, wrists and palms, into the dishes she prepared.

The smile on her disfigured lips turned to a grimace as she saw Jakira.

“Trust Master to host a sitting the day I get new slaves.”

She walked over to Jakira and smacked her still-bleeding hump. Jakira winced.

“Didn’t you listen, stupid girl? Chop the lime as I showed you.” Jally Cook grabbed the knife from Jakira and demonstrated again.

Listen, thought Jakira, I must listen. And learn. This woman seems kinder than the overseer.

“Better,” Jally Cook said as Jakira chopped the green fruit precisely how she’d been shown. A lime was new to her.

Jally Cook spun away to blow about her other dishes, her sweat settling over everything, like the dust after a storm dies.

“I’m finished, Jally Cook, what shall I tend to now?” Jakira asked timidly, as if she was helping her mother.

“Well, that is a much better attitude, my dear.” The cook’s eyes brightened. “Come here and I’ll show you how to grate nutmeg into the pudding.”

“I’m also done, Jally Cook,” Medi stated. He was eager to please and knew what he was doing.

“Excellent! I do believe the three of us will get along just fine.”

Four slim, nimble male serve-slaves came into the kitchen and Jally Cook directed them, ticking the dishes off on her fingers as they were carefully carried into the villa.

“One platter of dried apricots and dates, two plates of mashed aubergine on flatbread, one roast pork with camel’s cheese and four steaming bowls of rice pudding, one for Master and each guest. A jug each of mint tea, cooled camel’s milk and honeyed lime juice. Right, that’s it.”

Jakira had never seen so much food and her belly grumbled. When the last had gone out, the cook stood looking at the door to the villa, anxiously wringing her hands for what felt like an eternity.

“They like the food,” she said, finally, and turned away from the door.

“How do you know?” Jakira asked.

“Because, by the grace of God, nothing has been sent back. What more could I want than a household with full bellies.” Then she ordered Medi and Jakira to tidy and scrub the kitchen.

When they were finished, Jally Cook gave them a glass of water each and they gulped it down. She stood over them with a look on her face like Jakira’s mother used to have when her daughter had pleased her.

“How are they, Jally Cook?” Big Bulai asked from the villa door.

“Both of them seem to be good buys, Bulai,” the cook replied. “The boy has certainly worked in a kitchen before and the girl shows promise.”

Big Bulai snorted. “If she plays up, I’ll flog her. It is time.”

“Yes.” Jally Cook sighed and looked at her new kitchen-slaves.

“Time for what?” Jakira asked, emboldened by the cook’s praise. It earned her a smack across the head from Big Bulai.

“Only speak when you are spoken to, little b***h. Come with me.”

She swept aside one of the gauze cloths and strode away. Medi and Jakira at her heels.

“Have them back quickly, I need to start dinner prep,” Jally Cook said.

They passed single file down the side of the villa back towards the slave quarters. As they turned a corner, one of the serve-slaves came running towards them.

“Big Bulai, you are needed. Master Makmood calls for you.”

She pointed at the children. The serve-slave stood by them.

“Stay here, stay silent. Any trouble and you’ll lose an ear,” she threatened and ran off.

“You can sit if you like,” the serve-slave said. “I’m going to. I’ve been running about all day, and she’ll be a while.”

He slumped down, exhausted, and Medi sat too, head in hands. Jakira remained standing. She could smell fruity tobacco wafting from the open hole in the villa’s wall above them and hear the bubbling of hookah pipes. And faint male voices. On tiptoe she strained to listen.

“Gelmad paid how much for that polo camel?”

“Four hundred drimars.”

“Fool, totally done over. Everyone knows that breeder is a fraudster.”

“Friends, I need to confide in you quickly, whilst Makmood is out of the room as he’ll no doubt disapprove being such a stickler for rules. I cannot keep it a secret any longer, and it might help you, Abid.”

“Go on, Haibal.”

“Well, we all know the horrific Wakrime custom that takes the first-born son of every Tamadeen family into Our Ruler’s elite guard on their tenth scorch season, under the bluff that it is an honour to serve and protect Drome’s ruler. But, as we are all well aware, our sons are taken hostage and threatened with death if they don’t serve, so the Wakrime clan can keep us in our place. I know how much we all despise this custom, so I devised a plan, which seems to have worked.”

The other voices were silent and after a while the voice known as Haibal, continued.

“When my first wife fell pregnant with my first child, the thought of it being a boy and having to give it up to the Cuttarrs was unbearable. So the day my baby was born, a boy, I sent out my overseer to purchase a slave baby. A new born boy. The slave mother was inspected first to see the size of her hump, and the baby from the woman with the smallest was purchased, with the idea that she would pass this on to the baby.

“The baby was brought home and I had our medic declare to all that my wife had given birth to twin boys. No one was allowed in the room apart from the medic and two female slaves. The slave baby was declared the eldest of the twins, destined to be a cutthroat Cuttarr. We raised him as our child, rather than a slave, and he – and those damn cutthroats – are none the wiser. The slave has been with them for eight scorch seasons now and we still have our firstborn son with us.”

Haibal laughed.

“Haibal Khilad! What an idea!”

“But what about the medic? Would he not tell?”

“Oh, I had him killed of course, along with my overseer and the slaves. Only my wife and I know. And now you two. I only tell you this because Abid is expecting his first baby any day now and your children, Nurrad, are now of marrying age, so it might help your grandchildren. It’s too late for Makmood, he’s already given his firstborn boy.”

“And the cutthroats really don’t suspect anything?”

“Not at all. I haven’t spoken to the slave since he left us. He tries to contact us of course, but I never reply and refuse him entry to the villa, saying he must now dedicate his life to his ruler. Stupid lad thinks he’s done something to upset his father. Ha! The cutthroats believe I’m a staunch supporter of Our Ruler Shaan.”

“And for a girl, if the family has no sons?”

“Well, I do believe the same would work. But I wouldn’t risk it for a girl. But if I were you, I’d pick your most difficult daughter to send to the cutthroats as an exclusive concubine. Tell them she’s your most attractive. It’ll get her out of your hair at least.”

The men guffawed and then a loud voice boomed.

“My overseer has confirmed, it is slave trader Basaq who has the freshest girl slaves. We got one just this morning, who seems promising. Small nose and small hump, most agreeable. Anyway, what have I missed?”

“Ah, Makmood, we were talking about the price of that polo camel Gelmad bought.”

“Fool…”

Big Bulai’s grunt drew Jakira’s attention as the overseer kicked the serve-slave. He scrambled to his feet and darted off. Medi shot up before he too received a kick.