Blood Diamond Chapter 6

Into the silence, the king barked something, and a man hurried forward from the crowd. He had been the leader of the group that had taken Daniel captive. On the long walk, he had been tall and regal - kinglike himself - but now he threw himself to the floor, pressed his forehead to the dirt, and grovelled like a washerwoman.

The king barked another command and the man raised himself and began to speak. It was a long narrative, fluently told, and he turned and gestured toward Daniel at various points. He fell silent and the king considered Daniel thoughtfully. He barked something more, and the white man stepped forward.

The white man cleared his throat and said, in the faltering tones of a man who has not used his native tongue in a long time: “The King will know, where do you come from?”

“I come from the sea,” said Daniel. “I was a sailor aboard the Indiaman Rosanna. I was thrown overboard and came to these shores floating on a barrel.”

The white man looked at him curiously, as though trying to determine the truth of the story, then spoke aloud in the language of the king. The king listened, then replied.

“The King would know, are you an ally of the Kerimba tribe?” The white man paused, then added in a meaningful voice: “Considering that the Kerimba tribe are the sworn enemies of the Annuba people, and considering that you are currently a guest of the Annuba people, and considering that you were taken captive by a war-party sent to destroy a Kerimba war-party, in whose presence you were discovered, you will take my advice and, even if you are affiliated with the Kerimba tribe, you will seize this opportunity to deny it most forcefully.”

Deny it most forcefully Daniel did, and the white translator passed the message onto the King, but the royal eyes remained sharp and flinty. He stared at Daniel for a good many moments, then turned dismissively with a comment.

“I am sorry to say,” said the translator, “that the King has decided he has no use for you.”

“What! How …”

But already his arms had been seized and pulled behind him. He was driven to his knees and a foot between his shoulder blades bent him forward at the waist. A man stepped forward from the crowd, the executioner, bearing his axe.

“Stop!” cried Daniel. “For pity’s sake!” But there was no pity in the murmuring of the crowd. Nor was there excitement or anticipation. From the workaday fashion in which they cleared to permit the axe-man his swing, it was clear casual death was no extraordinary occurrence among the Annuba.

The foot between his shoulders was driving Daniel’s face toward the dirt, but with a final desperation he cast his eyes toward the woman and her green eyes.

“Please! Please! Save me!”

She could not have known the words he was saying, but there could be no doubting the general meaning. Her green eyes flashed. She moved no muscle. Daniel’s face was pressed into the earth now. A shadow fell over him as the axe-man took his position.

“I beg you!” cried Daniel. It was not the gentleman’s death he had always hoped for. He had hoped he would face the end with fortitude and courage and, indeed, that very morning he had been prepared to do so. But along with his strength on that long march, his spirit had sunk, and there was something about being driven to your knees with your face driven into the trodden ground that drained a man’s amour-propre.

Still there was nothing. The axe-man lifted the blade and Daniel ceased his struggles and made his peace with death on that far and foreign soil, and commended his soul unto God.
And it was then that she lifted her hand.

It was not a large movement, and she made no sound, merely bent the slender long wrist and raised her hand and a gasp rippled through the crowd. The axe-man paused, blade uplifted. The woman with the green eyes spoke rapidly to the King, and the King, a frown creasing his noble brow, spoke aloud. Instantly the axe-man stepped away and Daniel was pulled to his feet.

The translator looked at Daniel and his blue eyes crinkled unreadably. “Owing to the intercession of the Princess Royal, the King has decided to spare you. My congratulations. You will instead be welcomed into the tribe as an honoured guest.”

“An … an honoured guest?” Daniel could scarcely credit his ears.

“That is as it is among the Annuba,” said the white translator, and there was something in his voice that savoured of sorrow, or bitterness. “There are no middling grounds. You are dead, or you are a slave, or you are an honoured guest, with the full privileges of the tribe accorded you.”

Even as he spoke, tribe members were coming forward, bearing water-bags made from animal hide and offering them to Daniel. Another came forward bearing a kind of grilled meat, another with a wooden bowl of what appeared to be a thick, white porridge. The mood had lifted, people were smiling and laughing. The King and the Princess vanished back into their dwelling and Daniel and his translator were being pulled along by the crowd toward a cooking fire where an impromptu party seemed suddenly to have sprung up.

“And you?” Daniel called over the surging, happy mob. “How long have you been an honoured guest?”

“Ah,” said the weathered old white man, with a peculiar look in his eye. “I am not so fortunate as you. I was not made a guest.”

“Then …”

“Yes,” said the translator. He bent his head to take a drink from a wooden vessel, straightened his back with difficulty and wiped his lips. He looked at Daniel with those enigmatic, sun-faded eyes. “My name is William Tregoning, and I am the Princess’s slave.”

Copyright Rannulph Moore

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Ranulph Moore describes himself as an explorer, who became a writer to purge himself of the adventures that were crowding his life. He says he has seen it all, in a life spent observing the lives of others.
He will travel anywhere – as long as he can make a decent cup of tea and launder a linen jacket. He describes Africa as one of his great loves. He has spent time in every country on the continent.
If he can’t find a good champagne, he has been known to resort to gin. He has homes in Paris, Jura and Cape Town. At present, he lives in Madagascar, where he is researching his latest book.
Read an interview with Rannulph Moore.