The Eternal Jew’s Tale, #180, Abarbanel 9

In this episode: corsairs!

The Eternal Jew’s Tale
Twenty First Era, Part 2, 1492 C.E., Iberia
The Abarbanel Cycle, 9

Now, it seems we ain’t got no asterlabe, and our third-rate charts don’t serve no use, seein’ there ain’t no land in sight. So we sets course by the sun’s disk crossin’ the horizon dawn and dusk, and by the moon’s rise halfway thru night, hopin’ we don’t stray far from east, aimin’ ourselves for Sicily’s coast.

As the sun rises on our third day, from the crow’s nest a bellowin’ cry,

“At the horizon of the port prow, land! It looks like coastal cliffs.”

Shouts of joy from many of the crew but the captain’s face remains a mask. Settin’ our course on that point of land, it were still mid-mornin’ when I could discern — based on my readin’ of our crude charts — I’m guessin’ it’s the south shore of that island ruled by Aragon, Sardinia. No respite there. But that means Sicily is east-south-east, and probably less than two days out, with Naples another two days beyond.

As Sardinia is fadin’ into our wake late that day, another shout thunders out of the crow’s nest.

“Three mast ships at full sail, more than one. Dead ahead. Too far out to identify.”

Now many a whimper and groan be heard.
Again the call to arms. Again terrors. Who has the will left to fight? All our fight been kicked and choked, torched and plundered and bled from our veins. Now the call,

“Turkish ships. They signal, ‘don’t resist; drop sail.’ They want to board and inspect our ship.”

And like flowers yanked out of the ground, everyone wilts and slumps on deck. And the captain turns to me and sneers,

“Ain’t no good ever come from a Turk.”

They lash themselves to our starboard side, their cannons pointing into our gut, and their corsair troops leap to our deck. Swingin’ on ropes they come flyin’ down like falcons glintin’ their silver beaks; like gryphons grippin’ blades in their teeth; like demons eager to drink our blood. And like hares, frighted, we freeze in fear, pleadin’ in tears, pantin’ prayers, abashed and aghast, tainted in shame.

Then up to the captain’s platform he stride, their pirate master, and he pushes aside our captain, at which a tussle ensues, til three burly heavies and a hammerlock make him subdue his privilege and pride, his fury and hate, his futile disdain. Him, once exempt from any critique now must abide to be hung out and dried.

That corsair, standin’ above us, askance and a-scowl, and lookin’ down from his height* on the prow, takin’ in his captive crowd. There, he sees Noam, a young, tough lad, his eye twitchin’, his hands shake. And there Nakhum, a bookish old man, his teeth a-chatter, his head in his hands. And Nakhman, wide-eyed in wonder. There, a baby wailin’ in Nur’s arms, maybe feelin’ the dark rage that heats her neck to a red flare. And Noga, whose hair is flamin’ red, but her face be gray as sackcloth and ash. Naftali leans up against the mast, white knuckle fists and grindin’ his teeth, like a man tied to a whippin’ post. And Narda, her white hair frizzled in knots, her heart knotted in grizzly thoughts.
* others say, “hate”

In broken Spanish that corsair speaks:

“I looky yous. I looky you fears. I no here for hurter yous. I no here for robber yous. I be sends my Sultan yous. Him says him welcomes yous. ‘You me brozzers’ him is says. Yous be welcomes to his Porte. Yous be honor guests to his. Be no fearee. We be frien. We be guide yous to our land. Be no fearee. Follow us.”

Hisper, whisper, gasp and gulp. Shock and disbelief and hope. Doubt and fear of trickery.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the next episode, Batkol takes control.