Secret of the Sands by Sara Sheridan Read Free Book Online Page A

flutters as she tries to stay upright. Her stomach turns. She has a sudden burst of energy and tries to pull away, but he is shaking her whole body, forcing her to the ground.
    ‘Wake up! Stupid female!’ the voice says.
    Her limbs twitch as she opens her eyes, the lids heavy and her vision bleary with sleep. She bats her hand in front of her as if to move a fly and it is struck sharply.
    ‘Get up!’ the voice orders as she rubs the stinging flesh on her fingers.
    The darkness of the warehouse is a shock and at first she can’t make out where she is. In her dream she was running in the sunshine. Still groggy despite the blow, for it was a much-needed and wonderfully deep sleep, Zena struggles to her feet, feeling confused. The man before her is small and his rounded belly shapes his jubbah . He has a purple and green embroidered cap on his balding head and he inspects the girl with the sharp eye of a cold-hearted appraiser.
    ‘Yes, this one will do well, I think. Kasim said she was a worthwhile piece. All in all this has been a very good consignment.’
    Zena wonders how long she slept. About half of the people who were stowed in the hut are now gone, and in the doorway there are two old men, black sidi slaves, carrying a vat of something that smells rancid. Her appetite sharpened, she feels a rush of hope that she might be able to eat it.
    The plump auctioneer moves on, separating twelve of the Abyssinian slaves from the others. Then he takes each in turn, ordering them to circle around, show him the soles of their feet and display the insides of their mouths. When he is satisfied, he waves the sidis into action and they move around each person, their dry, old hands smoothing the gloopy oil onto the slaves’ parched skin and rubbing it into their hair to make it glisten. They are trying to make it look as if the people who survived the journey from Africa were well cared for during the trip. One or two cannot help licking at the fat on their forearms. They wince at its bitter taste and are slapped for removing the shine from their skin. Then, with a rough brush with wire bristles, the sidis comb the hair of the boys, leaving the women be. Most have hair that is still dressed with plaits and beads from their village days, when it was styled by their mothers and sisters. Zena realises that these ordinary hairstyles look enticing, exotic and strange to the eyes of Muscat. Arabic women cover their hair with a veil.
    It crosses her mind that for some odd reason she would like to look her best now. She wants them to see that she is no ordinary Abyssinian slave girl like the others. She has been well brought up and loved, adored even. At her grandmother’s house she had slaves of her own. Now, her heart sinks as she looks down sadly at her dirty, tattered dress. It is a thin piece of material, originally a green colour, now brown from the dirt of her long journey. She must look pitiful.
    She takes a deep breath and runs her hands over the glistening skin of her arms to give at least a little comfort. I am alone. I am going to be sold, she thinks incredulously.
    The doors of the shed open and let in the light. It is afternoon now – the sun has moved across the sky. Beyond the barrels piled up near the doorway, a crowd is gathered and Zena catches a glimpse of a podium surrounded by a jostle of people, all craning to get a better view of the proceedings. The auctioneer leads the way with the sidis ushering the dozen slaves into a line behind him. The marketplace is crowded to capacity and there is no hope of getting away; her dream of running will remain just that. Besides, in the light, clearing the path, are the handlers who ushered the slaves from the ship to the hut that morning. The men tower over the heads of the crowd as they ensure the short auctioneer can make his way unhindered. Zena smiles at the sight. The top of the man’s head comes only as high as their bellies. These men must eat whole chickens to have grown