South East Africa, 1814

In the late afternoon of the forty-third day, the ship's party reached yet another river. While Goncalves, Sanchez, and Coutinho were searching for a crossing place, Ammamanian took his rifle and tracked a large deer. But it had been disturbed by the activity at the river and had scurried off up-stream. Having learned the basics of hunting, and knowing it wouldn't stray far from the river, he had followed it, moving swiftly in a wide arc down wind, for if the deer sensed his presence it would take fright again.
      It had been some time since they had seen any aggressive natives, and the three hunters had taken to working separately again, for deer had become scarce and when all three tracked together they seldom obtained sufficient for the needs of the party.
      After running up-stream for a mile, the deer's pace slowed. It approached the river again, as Ammamanian had predicted, sniffing the air suspiciously and peering to the right and left into the thick undergrowth. Fifty paces away, above the bank and in deep cover, Ammamanian regained his breath. He tested the breeze by dropping a sprinkling of dust from between forefinger and thumb. The air was still. Nothing disturbed the animal now, and it settled to resume its interrupted evening drink, hooves deep in the river, which swirled gently around a sandy-shored bay.
      He would only have one chance and he knew his alignment would have to be perfect. Having primed his rifle before the chase, all he needed now was a good aim and good luck, for never before had he shot at such a distance. With infinite care he settled into the firing position, then, when he was fully relaxed, he breathed in slowly as Goncalves had taught him. The sight rose above the deer's head and then declined with his outward breath. As it reached the creature's horns, he gently squeezed the trigger; but before he could fire, for no discernible reason, the deer pricked up its ears, turned, and scuttered into the bushes.
      Frustrated, Ammamanian lowered the rifle. He would not get another such opportunity, for this had been the only deer he had seen all day; it was probably half a mile away already, and to track it in the gathering dusk would be impossible. He remained prone in the unlikely event of its return.
      After several minutes he reluctantly decided to rejoin the party, anticipating the looks of disappointment on the faces of his companions when he returned empty handed. The meal would be boiled roots again with perhaps a meagre helping of ship's biscuit.
      But what had caused the animal to take fright?
      As he was rising to leave, he felt a peculiar pricking sensation, as if ants were crawling down his spine. He had a powerful feeling he was being watched. Turning, he surveyed the scrub-covered hillside. His senses, attuned as they were to the sights and sounds of the bush, detected nothing untoward. Nothing moved; nothing seemed amiss; everything was perfectly still and quiet. But something was not quite right; the very silence seemed to him unusual. It took him some time to establish what was wrong - there was no bird song. He scanned the hillside again; still he saw nothing. He found the silence unnerving.
      He continued to lie perfectly still, sensing that to move might render him vulnerable. Then, he heard something … someone … moving towards the river. He watched the bank intently. Shortly, a woman appeared, and behind her trotted a girl of about twelve. They were both naked above the waist and wore what Ammamanian supposed was a traditional native dress of beaded leather aprons and brightly coloured necklaces, the woman's in particular being of an elaborate multi-coloured design that covered the whole of her neck and rested on top of her breasts.
      Used as he was to seeing half-starved, spindle legged, naked black women, the sight of such a healthy specimen enthralled him. He remained silent as she removed her skirt and walked daintily into the river. When knee deep, she stooped to wash herself, splashing water over her body until it glistened in the pale afternoon light, while, on the riverbank, the little girl picked flowers, which she wove into a chain.
      This beautiful, full-breasted native woman fascinated Ammamanian, and his thoughts shuttled between his recent experiences with Elizabeth and the alluring scene playing out beneath him. So affected was he that he quite forgot his earlier foreboding.
      Abruptly the woman straightened and looked pensively across the river, as if alarmed by some movement or sound unperceived by Ammamanian. The sun, which had appeared from behind a cloud on the horizon, dispelled the gathering shade and reflected from the water so dazzlingly she had to put up her hands to shield her eyes.
      A large branch, which had not registered in his mind, had been drifting with the current. As it drew level with the bay the harmless piece of flotsam was transformed into the most feared of all creatures. In a frenzy of movement, its jaws agape, a crocodile lunged viciously at the woman. Attempting to snatch herself away her necklace became entangled in its teeth. The creature instantly dragged her, screaming, towards the open river. For a second Ammamanian froze; then, snatching up his rifle and taking instinctive aim, he squeezed the trigger.
      Whilst watching the woman he had indeed been observed from the hill behind him. A tall, powerful young African armed with a knobkerrie, sensing that this interloper posed danger, had slowly and silently eased his way forward to obtain a better view. With his line of vision obscured by trees, all he would have seen was the man taking aim at the woman. The youth instantly threw his knobkerrie.
      Before Ammamanian could see the result of his shot, the heavy wooden weapon struck him on the side of his head.

He finds himself in a steamy city, inhabited by ghosts. The laughter of children, shouts of traders and their haggling customers, whining beggars, arguing dockers and celebrating seamen, echo eerily in his head. Discordant human sounds, punctuated by the raucous cries of sea birds and the bellowing of cows browsing the garbage in the open drains, drift down the alleyways leading to the sea front.
      With the smell of the city in his nostrils and the afternoon sun on his head, Ammamanian walks with Isabella through the crowded streets, while their fathers - the wealthy Portuguese merchant from Goa, and the Armenian from Surat, partner of Lavji Naserwanji, the greatest shipbuilder in the history of India - negotiate the building of a ship.
      Isabella, mourning the death of her fiancé - a Portuguese nobleman - in a horse riding accident has accompanied her father as a diversion from the stifling society of her home town, and, to Ammamanian's delight, they have been talking of a future life together. Suddenly she stops walking and gazes about, her head tilted, as if to identify a single sound in all that cacophony.
      "What do you hear, Isabella?"
      Her face fades; her body disintegrates. The city becomes a raging ocean; he plunges through a ship's rigging, head over feet, down and down, clutching Isabella to his chest. As he hurtles towards the seething water hundreds of feet below, he sees the dreadful rock rearing out of the waves.
      Now he flounders in the sea, gasping for breath, his ears vibrating from the pressure. Isabella, torn from his grasp, drifts out of reach, her dress and under garments billowing around her. Knowing their weight will drag her down, he grasps his knife and pushes against the rock to catch her. By a supreme effort, he reaches her again; he grips her hair and hacks at her petticoats, but the power of the water forces her from him once more. Her out-stretched hand clutches for his, her huge eyes entreat him, but he is tumbled head over heels and Isabella disappears.
      A man, tantalisingly familiar, smiles at him from across an office desk. Drawings are strewn about a burnished wooden floor. They are enjoying a glass of tea in the warm evening sun, which filters through the rush-matted blinds and falls in a complex pattern of light and shade across the floor. A woman climbs the stairs to the office, chiding them for neglecting her. She calls his name, but as she draws near, her face changes and she becomes the Captain of the Sao Andreas who stands on the bridge welcoming his passengers on board.
      Then, he falls again …

"Mother, is the man awake?"
      "No, my son, he sleeps still."
      The language, superimposed on the Portuguese of the passengers, was strangely familiar. The faces were white, yet the language was black. Ammamanian lay still as painful fingers of consciousness clawed at his head. Deeply puzzled, he kept his eyes tightly closed, concentrating fiercely in an unavailing attempt to establish time and place.
      Have I drowned? Where is Isabella? Is she also dead? Perhaps this babble is in the after life. Some time soon I will have to open my eyes.
      His head throbbed with pain as he grappled with a recently acquired complex of images, but whether these were dream or reality he had no way of knowing.
      No longer able to resist the temptation, he explored his surroundings, cautiously using his hands. He was lying on a hard floor, covered by a straw palliasse, which had a softly textured surface - some form of animal skin? He was naked, but he wasn't cold, even though he could feel a cool breeze. The air carried an unmistakably human smell, perhaps his own. Once again, curiosity prevailed over fear, and he raised himself on one elbow.
      "He wakes, mother."
      Again, that known, unknown language.
      "He is so white, do you think he suffers a great illness?"
      "No, mother, he comes from the sea where all people are white."
      "Where is Isabella?" Whether he spoke in Portuguese or English he had no idea.
      A hand passed over his brow and a drinking vessel was held to his lips. He was thirsty and he slurped the cool liquid around his mouth. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was in a cave: a dazzling light was showing through an aperture but the rest was dark. Two people were leaning over him, although he couldn't distinguish their features. The pain in his head became intense and he closed his eyes again, slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he awoke once more, it was completely dark, but his head was no longer so painful and he felt a little better. He could hear gentle breathing and he sensed someone was with him. Again he slept. When next he opened his eyes, a steely light had filtered in and he realised his cave was really a round hut. Completely bare of furnishings, it had a central supporting pole and its tightly woven wall, which was also its roof, was hung with various domestic items; its floor was a hard and glossy dark green.
      Above his eye level, close to the wall, he was aware of a mysterious snake-like object suspended from the roof. Swaying gently in the breeze it had an almost hypnotic effect on him. After several minutes of puzzlement and concentration, he finally identified it. He had that comforting sensation that familiar things bring to unfamiliar places - the snake was his belt.
      Next to him, sitting on her haunches, her back straight and her head drooping, was a black woman. She wore beads around her neck and her breasts hung heavy over her chest. Her face was handsome, faintly wrinkled around the eyes and mouth, which was open slightly, revealing fine white teeth. Her hair was black, thick and tightly curled. On her lap she held a gourd from which a creamy liquid was dripping.
      Sensing he was awake, she too woke and called to someone outside the hut.
      "Come … he is awake … the white man is awake."
      Ammamanian understood most of the words, yet the language seemed to carry no attendant memories; no recollection of occurrences or conversations that might fix it in his consciousness. He knew, however, it was not his own language. He had the strange feeling he had gone to sleep and woken as someone else. He looked at his arms and legs, then at the rest of his body in an attempt to verify his identity. He pressed his fingernails into his palms to establish he was not dreaming.
      'It is my body, but what is this strange place in which it finds itself? And what is this language I half understand?'
      The woman handed the gourd to him - it was milk - fresh cow's milk. He drank his fill and handed it back to her.
      "Thank you," he said in English.
      The hut darkened and a man entered, bending double, almost crawling, as the doorway seemed very low and he was exceptionally tall. His shadow fell across him and Ammamanian shivered as if he sensed a hidden menace. Yet the tone of his speech was calm and comfortingly domestic.
      The man and woman talked quietly, but rapidly. Ammamanian did not understand fully, yet some of the words meant something to him. They talked of medicine, God, the ocean and a crocodile (why a crocodile?).
      The man laid a rifle and a small satchel on the ground next to him and indicated they were for him. The rifle was a flintlock like those with which the sailors had been armed during the pirate drills run by the captain. No doubt it had been washed ashore from the wreck although it was dry and serviceable.
      Inside the satchel was a shirt and a small bottle of blue liquid. He removed the stopper and sniffed it; the familiar smell reminded him of … what did it remind him of? It was so frustratingly familiar and yet … he shook his head and a rasping pain scythed through it. He closed his eyes again. When the nausea passed, he continued to examine the contents of the satchel. Half a dozen quill pens, a penknife and a small drawstring leather bag of gunpowder and another of lead ball. Ammamanian couldn't imagine to whom such a satchel might belong. There must be someone else from the wreck nearby; perhaps an officer - or even the Captain. What was his name?
      The thought he might not be alone brought with it a shaft of hope. If he could see just one of his companions, he would no longer feel the dreadful isolation that was worming into his mind. He could not contemplate being separated from his own people for long. But who were his own people? The more he thought the more thoroughly confused he became. There must be people he could call his own, Isabella, for instance.
      In spite of his apprehension and the alien surroundings in which he found himself, he sensed a friendliness and concern from his two strange hosts. Not once had he felt fear, yet he presumed he was in a savage's home somewhere in Africa, for that was the land towards which the Sao Andreas had been heading, and these people, as black as anthracite, looked like drawings he had seen … somewhere … sometime … of Africans.
      "Where are my companions?" Again he used English, and was surprised to find how hoarse his voice sounded. "Are they safely ashore?"
      There was no response from his hosts.
      "We must talk to this man; it is important we understand him," the young man said.
      That Ammamanian understood some of these words was a source of wonder … somehow he knew their language; not very well, perhaps, but well enough to follow simple conversation.
      "Thank you for taking care of me," he said in the black language he seemed to know, the words sounding alien in the back of his throat. "Where is my friend, Isabella?"
      The man and woman stiffened in surprise. It was clear they did not expect to be addressed in their own tongue.
      "We do not know of any friend. You are the only one; you were at the river," the woman said slowly. "You killed the crocodile."
      "You saved my mother's life," the young man added.
      Ammamanian understood the words, but they meant nothing to him - he had been in the sea - crocodiles, as far as he knew, were not sea creatures. As for saving the woman's life, since it could not have been he who had done so, there must be another person from the ship nearby. Again he had the comforting feeling that soon he would be re-united with a member of the ship's company. Perhaps if these people knew where the ship had gone down he could begin a search.
      "Where is the … the …" he knew no word to describe ship.
      He drew the shape of a ship on the floor with his finger, but mother and son shook their heads gravely.
      "We have seen no such craft; we are a great distance from the sea," the woman said.
      Ammamanian was alarmed. How did he come to be here? Who had brought him from the sea? Had he walked? Surely not on his own. He simply could not remember. He attempted to stand, as if the answers may lie outside this strange hut. With the support of the woman, he walked towards the doorway and was about to comment on his nakedness, until he realised that, to them, it seemed quite natural, and he decided it was of no importance. Outside, he saw there were many similar huts, grass thatched with a framework of saplings.
      This must be a big village, even a town. The word kraal came into his mind.
      A group of girls, dressed like the woman, but without such elaborate neck adornments, had gathered and were gazing curiously at him, chattering and giggling. The young man waved them away, angrily, and their laughter subsided as they ran quickly to their huts.
      The bright sunlight and fresh air caused Ammamanian to double up with nausea and pain; he was violently sick, coming near to fainting. His hosts supporting him, he returned to his hut where he lay on the animal skin and slept.
      During the next three days Ammamanian suffered a heavy fever. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he was only half-aware of the rotation of girls who, supervised by the woman, attended to his needs.
      One night, after he had emerged from the worst of his fever, he sensed that someone was with him. He asked for water, which was duly provided. As he lay back, he felt the touch of a hand on his body. No words were spoken, but the hand caressed him and he fell asleep again, comforted. With the coming of dawn, he woke to find the young man sitting by him.
      "You have slept well, white man; soon you will be strong again."
      The feeling his own people must be nearby had diminished. Through the days of semi-consciousness, the anticipation of being re-united with other survivors, which at first had given him so much hope, had been replaced by the unpalatable feeling he might never see any of them again. His mind was slowly growing accustomed to the idea of being cut off, yet he fretted increasingly about his inability to remember anything apart from the traumatic storm and the last few hours on board the ship.
      His physical strength improved rapidly and on the fourth day he was well enough to drink some broth, which the woman fetched in a wooden bowl, and a milk curd and grain mixture from a gourd.
      "Nandi." She pointed to herself when he had finished. "My name is Nandi."
      "Amm…" He choked, stumbling on his name as a wave of nausea swept through him.
      "Amm," she repeated, "Amm … my son is named Shaka."