Trilby's Notes: The (Un)Official Novelization (Chzo Mythos #3)

Chapter 4: The Slave

Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, July 25th, AD 1789

       Mbouta had been a great warrior. In battle, his skill was thought unmatched in all of Africa. He had had respect. A great house, a slew of beautiful women, children to make any father proud. But through just one mistake, it had all been torn away. His mistake was in standing by his beloved king when the invaders from the coastal kingdom arrived. Now his great house was in ruin, his women raped, his children murdered. And for Mbouta, the worst fate of all. Sold to the white man in exchange for weapons. Shackled with his fellows in the hold of a slave ship. Mbouta was strong. Perhaps he could have lived as a slave. But then came the sickness. A simple fever, no doubt gone the next day, but the white men took no chances and threw him overboard. 

       For days, Mbouta drifted, waiting for the black cloud of death to descend. Having lost everything, he now sought only the embrace of the deep, a welcome end to a life betrayed. But the end did not come, then.

       "...oming around, Cap'n."

       Voices, unfamiliar, speaking an unfamiliar language. Mbouta was suddenly terrified that the slavers must have returned, but he was as weak as a newborn, and could not move or speak.

       "Looks like we picked 'im up just in time. Don't know how long he's been driftin' out here, but he can't have lasted much longer."

       "Good lord. Look upon it, men. The greatest evidence of humanity's inherent evil. Never forget that men, sailors such as you or I, did this. Left this poor wretch to die."

       "Slavers aren't sailors like you or me, Cap'n."

       "No. I do not know how those devils can have the audacity to still call themselves human. Today, there is no pride in being an Englishman. Find our new passenger some quarters. Make him comfortable."

       "Passenger, Cap'n?"

       "Every innocent who sets foot on my ship is a free man. Is there something about this policy you find questionable?"

       "Not at all, Cap'n."

       No...these were not the slavers. The ship was different, less crowded with terrified black faces. There was anger in the voices of the white men, but not directed at Mbouta. Still frightened, but somewhat reassured, Mbouta passed out.

       Days passed, and Mbouta's health was restored. To have been rescued by the ship of these good white men had been a fantastic stroke of good fortune. He decided that it had been the will of the gods that he should survive, and that proper thanks would be in order. An idol, that was the answer. If he could just find some suitable wood and a sharp blade, he would carve the finest idol of his life. Mbouta initially wasn't sure where to begin, and awkwardly wandered the deck of the Sea Angel for a few minutes. Although he felt confident that he would not be hurt by these white men, he felt out of place considering he couldn't even communicate with these people. He quickly realized any communication would have to be non-verbal. Milling about the deck, he noticed a crewmate chipping away at a small boat with a chisel. This, Mbouta decided, would be his inquiry. He gently tapped the crewmate's shoulder to get his attention.

       "Alright there, laddie?"

       Mbouta pointed to the chisel he was holding.

       "Oh, I see, you want something to carve with. Here."

       The sailor handed Mbouta a sharp, almost brand-new workman's chisel.

       "Just bring it back when you're finished with it."