The Red King by Rosemary O'Malley

change of
light and a gnawing in his stomach. When he reappeared on deck he
was greeted by Malik at the rudder. “You were down there all
afternoon! What were you up to?”
    Andrew held up the dagger. “Learning to
throw, apparently, though I confess to not fully accepting its
usefulness. What adversary will stand still as a stanchion, and let
me throw a tiny knife at him?”
    “The captain knows what will serve, Coinin.
You can trust what he tells you.”
    Andrew smiled at this new soubriquet. “Why
little wolf?”
    “You’re learning the ways of the pack, are
you not? Soon you will be as deft a hunter as the rest of us.”
    “I meant, must I always be little,
Malik?”
    “You are all little from where I sit,” the
mountainous man answered, laughing, and Andrew laughed with
him.
    “I’ve heard many of the others tales, but not
yours. What brought you here?” Andrew asked, curiosity forestalling
his hunger for the moment.
    Malik looked confused. “In truth, I do not
remember. I can recall small things; mostly feelings, sometimes
faces, but all else is lost. When the captain found me, I was
washed ashore outside of Tunis. I was wounded in the head, dying,
and he…” Leaning closer, he said, “This was told to me by Fleming,
who is a spinner of wild tales, but it feels familiar to me. The
captain fetched a mystic, an old Arabic magician, who knew where
Death held me. He opened my head, peered into my very skull, and
took out the parts that were leading my soul the other side. I woke
up a week later, healthy and hungry as a babe, but I have no memory
of my life before that morning.”
    Andrew was spellbound. “Nothing?”
    “Aye, I can recall the language and ancient
stories of my people…our people, Coinin; how to hunt, trap, and
fish, rig and sail this vessel, yet I do not know even my name.
Malik was chosen for me by the mystic. It is supposed to mean
‘angel’, as if heathens and Muslims know of such things.”
    “The man who raised me was educated at fine
schools in many places before he shunned Earthly distractions. His
way was influenced by Augustine and Columba, but he knew too much
of the world to follow their path, blindly and utterly. He taught
me that Muslims pray to the same God of Abraham as Christians and
Jews. Though they be foreign to us, they are far from heathens. I
see your skepticism and will not argue the point except to say that
this mystic saved your life, and the captain knew he would. It must
have meant something or he would not have gone through the trouble.
‘The captain knows what will serve’, a very wise man once said,”
Andrew told him, smiling. “And the mystic was right, Malik. You are
an angel. Who else would return to a burning ship to save a boy
chained to a deck, a boy he didn’t know, but an angel?”
    Malik looked embarrassed. “I am glad I was
able to help you.”
    Andrew left him there with a small, reverent
bow and a very sincere, “Thank you, Malik.” He went in search of
dinner, following a rich, hearty smell to find its source a stew of
lamb and figs. While he ate he contemplated Malik’s story, the
stories of the crew, and the curious meaning they gave his own
tale.
    There was the sense that this was destined,
as though there was a greater plan in this world of pain and death
he found himself. This was not entirely the captain’s design; no,
it was much broader, painted by a fuller brush. It unnerved him,
thinking that there was a reason he was here, and that perhaps was
the reason he found himself wanting to stay. He wondered, then, if
it was part of this design that he accept Rory’s offer.
    At first it had been his fear of the captain
himself that prevented his acceptance. There was so much at stake
and so little by way of return, how could he agree? That fear had
faded and been replaced by a burning, longing curiosity. With a
wider array of options, albeit not enough to Andrew’s liking, he
found that the initial payment did not leave him cold