The Ultimate Mission – Part 1

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CONTENTS

THE WORLD OF ENDOR

Introduction

I The Settlers I
II Seventh Account of Endor
III The Settlers II
IV Eighth Account of Endor
V The Settlers III
VI A Compendium of The Superhumans

THE SAGA OF ABRAH-STOOK

I The Last Hope
II Sweet Freedom
III The Hunt for Abrah-Stook
IV Hyborne Gazzer
V Untamed Spirit
VI An Identity Discovered
VII Journey to Theomyria
VIII The Last Great Encounter

UPHOLDERS OF A DREAM

I Unexpected Guests
II Devastation
III Revenge
IV The Speech
V Cela-White

THE FORTHCOMING ODYSSEYS

I Guardians of The Castle
II Preparations
III The Pilgrimage
IV The Time-Traveller
V The Final Destination

THE STRONGEST MAN ALIVE

I First Conflict
II Quest for The Talisman
III Prodigy
IV Division of Destiny
V Captivity
VI The Escape
VII The Final Battle
VIII The Outcome

Epilogue

THE WORLD OF ENDOR

AN INTRODUCTION

It lay somewhere deep in the Mediterranean sea, a place undiscovered. Surrounded by sheer volumes of water it had existed as a mist-covered Island, yet clearly a world unto itself. Long before holy scriptures had been passed down to the rest of the known world, aeons before temples had been erected and sacrifices made to gods, this large unique land mass, believed by some to have originally been part of the African-Eurasia land mass, thrived at the dawn of civilisation. Within the infinity of time it had remained tranquil with riches and virtues, and the years bore witness to the evolution of its mystical inhabitants, humans and beast alike. All seemed well until the great earth-shattering event. Until something from beyond the known heavens violently invaded it. From the darkness and void that first generated life, a diverse number of early inhabitants came to prominence, referring to this cataclysm in diverse primitive languages and pictorial images. Throughout the ages, the most dominant theories depicted this as the wrath of displeased gods, or the arrival of extra-terrestrial beings. Centuries later, the agricultural and steel civilizations produced scholars, most of whom regarded the phenomenon as, “A Comet’s Impact.” Regardless of the name or explanations given, the consequences remained the same. Devastating.
Within the world of Endor, things rapidly began to change, and evolve, while other aspects of nature simply vanished. Thus before long, in the aftermath of the event, the lives of every man, woman and child hung in the balance; threatened by their own family members and friends, whose grim quest to find other missing loved ones would pitch them against one another, plunge them into strange hostile environments and then into ruinous conflict against a myriad of deadly forces, chronicled by their scribes as “a series of fatal mistakes……”

“Though I am not edible,” says the vulture, “yet I nurse my eggs in the branches of a tall tree because man is hard to be trusted.”

Ghanaian proverb

CHAPTER I

THE SETTLERS I

1.

Africa, 1806. A blazing sun burned its intense heat and stunning light on the gigantic continent from clear blue skies, through soft snow-white cumulus clouds which drifted silently by.
Yet beyond the magnificent ambience, between thick rainforests below and concealed by huge mountains, including Kilimanjaro, and along vast stretches of land, emerged the sounds of distant drums. The sounds were now carrying an alien message throughout the regions; something was imminent.
This was the year when the slave army of Egyptian Mamluks fought the Ottoman Turkish forces in several clashes, a year after the population of Cairo had rebelled against their overlords. It was a time of civil war. A time when Albanian mercenaries helped thrust Ali Pasha into power.
Centuries prior to that the Arabs, and then the Portuguese, had discovered and occupied various ports along the east coast of Africa from 640-1650 AD. Once well acquainted with the areas, the Arabs, in particular, soon established regular caravan routes for trading. The most lucrative and extensive form of commerce included ivory, gold and spices. The Europeans had also recognised the advantages from trading with the natural wealth that Africa had to offer, and could see the potential for becoming enormously affluent.
Anxious to get a head start in the competition that was brewing across Europe, several merchants from the West commenced a barter trade. In the light of this, and having already set up their own territory, the Arabs began to oppose the first of the Caucasian settlers. Consequently, and following the introduction of slave trading, several African tribes banded together to oppose the Westerners, as well as their commercial African allies. Trouble was mounting.
Certain messages conveyed the possibility of a huge confrontation in the not too distant future. Possibly war. Hence the drums, beating away in the summer of 1806. And the message was clear; the warning unambiguous. Profound dangers lay ahead, including the full exploitation of the continent’s natural resources, and the consequences thereof. Alas the message was not heeded by all, and in that very same year, an Arabian baby was born into a prestigious and rival feudal Mamluk family within central Africa. He was named Kameh Al Kuntaban.
Twenty six years later, and the growing problems which had beset the once peaceful life in the continent, were about to be eclipsed. A new and powerful force had sprung from the politically chaotic central regions, as Bedouin and tribal warlords massed under the leadership of Chief Kameh. They brutally raided, conquered and sought to possess every trading post erected by the Europeans. In addition they aimed to destroy the power of the Albanian Muhammed Ali Pasha, the Ottoman governor of Egypt, who in March 1811 had previously defeated almost all the Mamluks, forcing some remaining survivors into the Sudan. The ferocity of this new vengeful army, frequently and viciously ploughing through the opposing forces, leaving bloody chaos in their wake ceaselessly razed trading posts to dust. Kameh’s troops wrenched apart anything and anyone who stood against their leader in his greedy quest for wealth, cheap labour and an empire dripping with gold, prestige, blood and the greatest slave army the world had ever seen. In time the name of Kameh would be revered and recognized worldwide. 

2.

Egypt, 1832. Within the relatively calm city of Cairo, a worried middle-aged family man was frantically rushing about inside his grey mud-brick house. Mahmould Al-Hussain looked far older than his two score years, his bearded face etched in wrinkles, his lips thin and dry, his piercing brown eyes a picture of deep anxiety beneath his thinning grey hair.
“Hurry up Ess, pack your bags,” he cried, urgently tossing aside old cooking utensils and furniture from which the family had made a living, “we’re leaving now.” He quickly waved away some clucking hens which had been loitering about. His slim young wife Ester abruptly ceased cooking and turned to him, rattling off a string of words in their native tongue, her sun-burnt face framed by her thick black locks, displaying bewilderment.
“English, Ess. How many times must I tell you? We need to practice,” he replied gruffly.
She flinched. Seldom did Mahmould rebuke her, and his demeanour indicated that something was different this time.
He lifted the black pot off the brick stove and abruptly splashed a bucket of water over the fire. Hissing and smoke suddenly filled the cluttered kitchen, while just outside the door their two black tethered goats were anxiously bleeting. An incredulous Ester pointed at the steaming chicken stew in the pot, but Mahmould didn’t care.
“Never mind about that; just hurry. We can get something to eat on the way. And no, this isn’t another drill, it’s for real. We need to move now. Has Raghei taken her medicine yet?”
“Yes, Mamu, but now is not a good time. What has happened?”
“Just heard from uncle Omar; there’s rising smoke a few miles outside the city; riders have been spotted. The Imams are going to ring the city alarm bells. Some people have started fleeing to the mosques.”
“But Raghei isn’t…The fever has not broken yet. She still needs her rest.”
Mahmould produced a small grey goatskin pouch from within his robes and untied the cotton string.
“What’s that?”
“Omar has given me this from the sheikh; it’s more medicine for Raghei. It’s the best I can do. Just get her ready.”
Ester quickly grabbed hold of Mahmould’s forearm as he turned to pick up a brown chest of coins.
“But Mamu, are you sure? Can’t we….? I mean what if we join the others in the mosque? And anyway, not everyone will leave…”
He shook his head sorrowfully. “No point; some people cannot be reasoned with. Others might be too frightened or frail to leave. And maybe those greedy soldier butchers might respect Islamic Mosques, and maybe not, but they are moving like locusts, and we are not taking the chance, you hear?”
“But Imam Siddiq said….”
“No, Ess! Nobody knows anything for sure, not even him. We’re all in danger, our home, our lives, our city…Allah help us if that monster Kameh reaches us. I know one thing, Ester. From the stories….” He shook his head. “Not good….”
He leaned into her, kissing her gently on her lips, then glancing over his shoulder where an open wooden door revealed his daughter sleeping in her bedroom, his gruff voice lowered to a whisper.
“Our streets will run red with blood….”
Ester visibly shuddered and simply wrapped her arms around him.
“Listen Ess, you two are all I have now. You will both be safe. I promise. Allah will be merciful.”
Ester uttered something quietly in Egyptian, cupping his head within her trembling fingers, pressing it slightly.
“I know, Ess. Me also. Believe me; we will not be here when they arrive….”
Ester paused for thought, biting her lips, and took a deep breath.
“Well…where do we go from here?”
“Anywhere…” He reluctantly pulled away from her and reached for his jingling chest of coins. Packing it in a large black sack, he then knelt down to slip on a pair of brown moccasin sandals, fastening it tightly, and threw an urgent glance up at her. “Get Raghei, and grab your things now. First we go to Alexandria or Port Said.”
“And then?”
“We have enough savings. From there we shall find a trading vessel, hop on it and start a new life elsewhere….anywhere overseas…”
Ester promptly disappeared into Raghei’s room.
Mahmould grimly pulled an old leather travelling bag from under a wooden table, blowing off some dust and brushing off a couple of stubborn ants. He hastily shoved some clothes into it, and was about to tie it up when Ester emerged, cradling Raghei. She was sleeping fitfully, head hanging over Ester’s shoulder, arms simply hanging down, snoring quietly. 
“It’s no good, Mamu, Raghei is badder.”
“You mean worse?”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded. “She needs to see the Sheikh..”
“No. No time for that.” Mahmould was busily dragging the travelling bag to the front door. “We have his medicine; we have money. What we don’t have is time….”
Suddenly Raghei erupted from her sleep in an alarming and violent fit of coughing.”
“My God,” explained Ester walking after Mahmould, her eyes widening with horror. “The sickness is really attacking her!”
“Here….” Mahmould quickly fetched a cup of water, opened the grey ash-like power from the medical pouch and stirred it into the water.
“Come on. Take this, Ghei….”
The short-haired sleepy eight-year old in her fading blue garment, looked up, still coughing a little, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead.
“Papa?” Her voice sounded so soft and vulnerable that tears emerged from Ester’s eyes.
“Oh, my baby…”
“Shusshhh…drink this…take a sip, at least…” Mahmould gently guided the cup to her lips. She silently took a sip.
“A little more, Ghei. There’s a good girl…”
As she sipped, Ester’s gaze moved from her child to her husband and across the room. They had been married and had dwelt in that small house for ten years, and now they were about to start a new life somewhere. Like her family, all she had ever known was this city in Egypt, and they were now heading for a future of uncertainty; without their friends or extended family. Her sister in law suddenly flashed through her mind.
“What about your sister Arifees?”
“She has already gone ahead with her husband, and I have no idea where. She was supposed to contact me before leaving. I hope she’s safe.”
He gazed at Raghei, giving her an encouraging smile.
Suddenly the city bells rang out, the shrill sound sending a jolt through them. They locked eyes. Even Raghei stopped drinking.
“Well, that’s it!” Mahmould reached for his straw hat.
Ester quickly handed over two bags containing her clothes and dried bread to her husband, and took one final look at the only home she had ever known as a wife. She embraced him.
“Allah please watch over us, especially Ghei”, she whispered, her heart sinking…
He nodded solemnly.
With a deep breath, Mahmould swung open the door for the final time and freed the goats.
“Let’s go,” he uttered.
And as far as Ester was concerned, what next ensued was like a complex dream, from which there was no awakening…

CHAPTER II

 SEVENTH ACCOUNT OF ENDOR

 TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

A RECORD OF MY TRAVELS

BY THE PROPHET KUFEE AL SHABAN BANTO

  1.                           

Whereas before the structure and seasons of Endor had merely been touched upon in my previous records, I presently wish to describe the topography in more detail. This is based on the latest findings. In this latest, updated account, I will include comparisons of the terrain hitherto covered. Furthermore, I deem it necessary to state my hypothesis regarding the subject. The general format will remain unchanged.

Features                Geographical Location            Estimated Distance

Mountains             North/northeast                        400 Miles

Highlands             Northeast/West                          300 Miles

Forests                   Across hinterlands                   70-80 Miles

Deserts                  Central/Southwest                     260-350 Miles

Great River          Runs through Endor                  Unknown

Jungles                  Southeast                                      190-250km

Grassland            Southern Regions                       40-90 Miles

Lakes                     North/Southeast                          8-20km

                                           Summary

Guided by zephyr, travelling in the winter season, I first beheld the new territories. Initially I was stunned. Verily does time pass by at a pace matched only by slugs, when one treks alone. Alone in an isolated and unfamiliar place. Initially Endor appeared harsh, if not downright hostile by its immense stretch of barren land, by its queer silence, indeed by the interweaving features and mountains shrouded in mists. I knew when I first studied these features, when I surveyed the coastlines, I knew that Endor was isolated; a world unto itself.

Though the course of time has not been followed with great accuracy, it can be stated with some degree of confidence that a little over one thousand and sixty solar days have elapsed since I set out for a new land, a favourable one whence I was banished yesteryear.

But I digress and any information pertaining to my origins should be directed to my scroll entitled, “Account of My History and Journey.”

Thus I eventually discovered Endor, translated from the ancient tongue of Twiga for The place of discovery.

Endor is a unique world formed by the initial cataclysm of the heavenly body which struck it, disrupting ancient species and spawning new diverse life forms, evolving from the volcanic ashes that rapidly produced barren soil. Of course I am no authority in geography, geology, neither in the features nor the life cycles of the living organisms, but neither am I completely ignorant.  For whilst I stood close to the zenith of sky-scraping mountains, having ventured through regions as yet undiscovered by my people, I knew that Endor had been in existance for countless years. That much was evident from the fossils. Indeed it is my considered opinion that originally barren landscapes and the eternal dark void had, over aeons, succumbed to the inevitable generation of life. The genesis of all that is wonderful, for this world is truly abound with mystical and exotic beasts, not unlike those depicted by legends of time immemorial. I would surmise that this creation was initiated by heavenly bodies radiating intense energies of awesome magnitude. And furthermore, throughout the ages as a consequence, favourable conditions were introduced and might even have been a cradle for the birth of the fauna. Who knows? There might even be evidence of civilisation here, perhaps not unlike the one which produced the majestic realms of my own homeland.
It must be stated that so far, natural characteristics prominent upon this land include the mountainous territories, of which several hills are coupled with gorges and plateaux. There is even an enchanting ring of knolls. From where I stand, I can see other striking features, such as large barren areas which contrast sharply with thick fertile vegetation. These fertile regions certainly appear suitable for farming and in time could give rise to trade, but I am yet to establish the presence of Mankind here.

2. 

If indeed the human race exists here, somewhere amongst these gorges, valleys and forests, then I suspect, they would be an old race indeed. Perhaps even akin to the Neathanderthals of my own history. My task now is to locate them.
For time is short, my provisions are scant, my strength waning. My eyes grow weaker with each passing day and my fingers barely throb for want of warmth. If it is my destiny to remain blessed as a pioneer, then I lift up my heart in prayer to the Great Diety, that I may be further endowed with the strength and courage to see this through to its entirety. I can but hope that my prayers are heeded.

CHAPTER III

THE SETTLERS II

1.

Word had already spread fast of the Al-Hussains’ intention to flee. Scores of people, including the elderly, the infirm and disabled, unable to escape the growing menace, and resigned to their fate, watched them from their wooden doorways, their colourful robes fluttering in the breeze. They kept on trying to cover their faces from the sweeping dust, even as more sand particles started bombarding them from the trail left behind by families escaping in carts.
Dusk was approaching, and a golden sun was settling behind the distant white stone fort that stood as a bulwark against the dust-laden wind, as well as a beacon of safety for scores of panicking families. The large fort also provided a defensive barrier to hostile forces and served as home to the Europeans.
Squire Pilkington stood among a growing number of merchants known for becoming increasingly annoyed by the constant remarks about the revered Kameh, and the reputation which preceded him. What he found especially galling was that this trading rival, whom he had never laid eyes on, seemed to command the respect and fear of a deity. That simply would not do; Kameh was just a man after all. And no matter the size of his forces, he could not dare hope to win against the stock company of the British Empire. By his very attitude and deeds, the six foot burly moustached landowner and captain, displayed his defiance and lack of fear in his haughty demeanour. And he was not alone. Thus far, he and other Western merchants had established a sizable number of trading posts within Cairo’s citadel, and they had every intention of expanding their business. Furthermore, they would continue, regardless of the sweeping tide of news which made clear in no uncertain terms, the impending conflict. A tide reflected by the clamour for refugee status from the arriving caravan of Egyptians. For the desperate travellers the fort provided a refuge and opportunity for safe passage across the sea, and the British – ignoring the rumours of their fort being a target – were struggling to manage the desperate crowd that threatened to turn into a mob. Fear of being caught before entering the fort had gripped them. Overdressed administrators, clad in white helmet and red tunics, found themselves struggling to manage the queues and process the paperwork while people jostled among one another.  Amid the sea of anxious, confused, desperate families, one face came into view, eyes concealed by the shadow of his straw hat.
Squire Pilkington happened to be managing this queue.
“Take off your hat; can’t see your face.” He ordered, his voice stern and gruff
The man slowly removed his hat, and wiped his sweaty brow, squinting as he looked up.
“Name?”
“Mahmould Al-Hussain and family.”
“You have any papers?”
“Identity documents.”
“Any transit details?”
Mahmould shook his head, drawing out his documents from a bag. “We just have these, our possessions, and money for passage.”
“Your reasons for leaving?”
“Really?” Ester looked aghast. Was the Englishman really asking this?
But Pilkington was not impressed.
“I have not addressed you, Ma’am. Kindly keep your comments to yourself until you are spoken to. And drop the attitude.”
Ester rolled her eyes, pressing her lips firmly in annoyance.
“Ess, please…” Mahmould turned to Pilkington. “No offence meant, sir. But understand that Kameh and his army are heading this way fast.”
Ester mumbled something in Arabic.
“Yes, I know that – and so does he…”
“Know what?” Barked Pilkington. “And I’ll thank you to speak English.”
“I was telling my wife that you know about the danger coming this way….”
“Danger? Please. Do not patronise me; that Mamluk represents no threat whatsoever.”
Ester again whispered a few words under her breath.
“No, it’s not their fault, Ester. Everyone can trade – Kameh is wrong. Please, say no more.”
“Honestly, you must control your wife. I have full authority here. May I remind you that your country is acquiring significant profits, as well as modern implements and techniques through our business ventures. Moreover I fail to see how you people can be so fearful of him. We have a binding agreement with your government, and Muhammed Ali Pasha is doing a splendid job with all the modernization.”
“Sir, our child is ill, and we need to get passage at once, we need to leave.”
“Steady on…your child is not the only one sick….”
Pilkington calmly examined the documents given.
“Assuming I grant you permission to leave, do you have any ideas where you’ll be heading?”
“No, but we are going abroad. Our government cannot protect us.”
“Bravo. You have an ill child, a wife, very little possessions, and you are acting irrationally. I accept that your government lacks certain defensive capabilities, but you will be safe within this fort. Why leave your country and risk peril at sea? You don’t even know where you intend to go.”
Mahmould said nothing, so Pilkington continued.
“If you really must leave the country, why not head for Libya or Sudan? No doubt, like many others here, you’ve sacrificed a lot, and left much behind. Why throw it all away on account of some Arab bully?”
“Kameh is not just some bully.”
“Frankly, if it’s strife you wish to avoid then I’d say that your efforts are doomed. After all there’s no single place that is without it’s own troubles. Mark my words, dear chap, this foolhardy venture of yours will come to no good. Do not forsake your fellow countrymen. If and when the time comes, we’ll deal with this outrageous Kameh fellow. Personally, I would expect little more than a trading dispute anyway.”
“A dispute?”
“Yes, an argument. A quarrel.”
“I see….” Mahmould frowned. “All these people here – and you expect no conflict, no war?”
“None whatsoever. Look, dear chap, there are over two hundred European merchants amongst the various trading posts and twice, perhaps thrice that number of your own traders. We also have the finest King’s regiment, and I understand that for this fort alone your Ottoman governor has something like, what, two hundred and fifty odd soldiers?”
“Yes, maybe, but please….” Mahmould was losing patience. “We need to get inside. I don’t know about your trading politics, and don’t care. My family just needs to – ”
Suddenly an agitated cry rang out. Everyone looked up. One of the sentries in the nearby tower was frantically pointing ahead. A second later, he started loading his musket. His fellow sentry rang the bells hard. All eyes turned back to where the sentry had been pointing.
Not too far in the distance a dust cloud was rising. And emerging from it like ghosts from hell were the raiders, the air choking with dust and war cries and musket fire. And the flapping symbolic black skull-like images of Kameh’s war flags. Panic set in. The mob surged forward, forcing families like the Al-Hussain’s right past Pilkington and other regimented officials. Startled, the English began to adopt defensive manoeuvres.
“Man the forts, man the forts!” Pilkington cried, arms waving about. “Get them all in quickly, hurry. Hurry! Let’s get those gates shut, and for God’s sake, man those guns!!”
At another entrance gate to the citadel of Cairo, positioned south of the city, three rifle-armed guards could be seen desperately clambering over the attached white-washed stone walls. Their attempt to escape into the refuge of the city buildings proved to be fleeting. They never made it alive.
Shots were instantly fired from both sides of the stone walls, as the mohican leader  – his grim face coated in war paint – advanced menacingly, flanked by his troops. While the Egyptian army reinforced its defences with more men, Western traders – abandoning their positions – fled from sight in sheer terror, leaving nothing to chance.
Confusion spread like wildfire. Pleading cries and helpless screams erupted everywhere. More shots rang out.
“Fire at will….fire at will!” Pilkington scurried into the ranks of his soldiers, who had been caught off guard.
A canon went off, and the booming sound like thunder cracked in the distance sending horses and riders into the air in a cloud of smoke.
“Mamu, let’s go!” shouted Ester, gripping Raghei tightly and helping her husband surge forward in the melee. Raghei, fully awake, her big brown eyes a picture of fear, started crying. Ester tried to comfort her amid the jostling and yelling.
Having stormed through the city, the raiders crashed through the gates of the fort, instantly reduced to rubble in a cloud of debris. Another canon fire scattered more troops in a blistering wave of heat and smoke. Bodies flew everywhere, blood splattered in all directions, limbs went flying.
“Reinforce! Reinforce!” bellowed Pilkington. He raised his rifle, took aim, squeezed the trigger. Another crazed fighter went screaming off his horse, his eye missing.
“Over here, this way!” Trembling yet resolute in the chaos, Mahmould guided his family towards panicking horses tethered to a pole outside a military office. scurrying all around them amid a hail of bullets and debris, screaming adults crashed and ran over fleeing children, stepping over fallen women, trampling on the disabled, crushing fingers.
Around an old stone well, petrified camels constantly bumped into one another, some collapsing under the impact of cannon fire and bullets, while screeching livestock ran and fluttered everywhere. Elsewhere blood-covered cattle and frantic horses knocked down injured herdsmen and petrified Europeans.
Chunks of the fort wall suddenly crashed around the sentries. Debris rained down on everyone. A large number of guardsmen peeled away from the regiment in the melee, and fled along with the civilians, some even dropping their rifles in sheer terror, and a few brushed passed the shocked Al-Hussains.
Quickly ignoring the shock of seeing regimental troops flee from the impeding onslaught, Mahmould hastily freed a stallion and grimly managed to get his family onto it. The horse whinnied loudly. Once content that his wife and daughter were securely fastened on, he quickly mounted it, grabbing the reins securely.
Another boom from another canon shot. A bloodied head went flying by.
Ester let out a shriek, covering Raghei’s eyes. She cried even louder, tears streaming down her dusty cheeks.
“Hold the line, hold the line!”
In the distance, a frantic Squire was desperately trying to maintain discipline, and keep the formation intact. His efforts proved futile. He kept on shouting orders, while valiantly warding off dagger-wielding attackers, until a bullet in his chest sent him reeling through a table. Pilkington collapsed fast, clutching his chest, blood spurting through his fingers. Kameh’s horde instantly piled on top of him, smothering him, thrusting their blades viciously, relentlessly.
“Allah preserve us!” emerged from Mahmould’s dry lips. He tugged at the reins with all his strength. The stallion reared upwards, nearly casting the whole family off its back and into the pile of corpses filling up the ground. Whining pierced the air, forelegs battled against the dust-laden wind, hooves came crashing down. And then they were off, their initial trot breaking into a fast and fearsome gallop amid the carnage. Inhabitants and traders fled everywhere, animals went berserk, dogs barking in all directions, donkeys braying, camels colliding into stalls, while terrified calves scattered in all directions.
Mahmould quickly picked up more speed, furiously escaping the barrage, crashing through abandoned stalls, knocking aside pots and baskets, breaking through clothes-lines and totally ripping away some tents which had stood in their path, leaving behind a dusty trail and the diminishing cries of innocent victims. And the family soon vanished beyond a cloud of smoke and dust, before disappearing into the ensuing darkness that also shrouded a now ruined city…..

2.

The port of Alexandria, Tuesday 6th July. A magnificent full-rigged sailing ship, boasting three masts with square sails, resplendent in blue and white colours and docked beside a few smaller schooners, played host to a hive of activity. Numerous merchant seamen scurried about, some along its gigantic prow, polishing the impressive nautical figurehead of “Neptune’s Wooden Angel”. Other sailors frantically clambered up each of the towering masts to complete some urgent repairs, racing against time amidst a rapidly darkening sky and whistling gales.
“Maybe we should take another one; better yet wait until tomorrow”, suggested Ester.
“What are you talking about? It’s an impressive ship.”
“But Mamu, look –  the skies. I don’t like it. Why don’t we wait? Take another ship tomorrow. We’re safe here – Kameh’s only interested in the city…”
“Sure…until he decides to get here and start a blockade. Maybe he might want to protect this harbour from Ottoman reinforcements. That’s how those devils always think; conquer one place, and then seize more space to protect the place they’ve just conquered.”
“It’s been at least a couple of hours, perhaps three. We’ve got the English here, look at the huge guns on their ships. We’ll be safe till tomorrow.”
“No we won’t. Let’s go….”
They had arrived and dismounted. Weary, sweaty and sand-covered, their stallion exhausted, half their provisions lost in the frantic getaway they moved gingerly towards the dock.  Among hundreds of other travellers, artisans, traders and Europeans, they carefully edged passed the hubbub and beneath gigantic golden minarets. Little Raghei, grasping onto Ester’s arm, was wide awake, her brown eyes taking in the sights.
“Mama!” She pointed excitedly at the gleaming silver mosque in the distance, still shimmering with the fading light.
Ester glanced at it, patting her gently on the shoulders. “Yes, Ghei. Very nice.”
All around them, the air rang out with the cries of men loading and unloading cargo, racing up the gangplank, women in outdoor stalls advertising their wares, dogs barking, young lads selling water and fruits from baskets and the evening call to prayer. Ester took note of this.
“You know, we really ought to attend prayers…”
“Allah is merciful. He understands…Come on, we’re almost there….”
As they approached the large vessel, Mahmould caught sight of the bold inscription carved into the wooden hull.
“Seafarer’s Dream”, he uttered, before turning to Ester. “What kind of name is that for a ship?”
She shrugged. “The whole ship’s very large, isn’t it?”
“Eighty metres, to be precise! The best clipper ship you’ll see in these parts..”
They turned in response to the posh voice, and saw striding up to them a short clean shaven slightly rotund man, clad in a grey jacket and blue tunic fastened by golden buttons. Beneath that he wore white breeches and low-heeled black shoes. His blue eyes shone from beneath his large black bicorn hat, as he clutched a small compass fastened by chain to his tunic.
“She’s rather a beaut, isn’t she? Mind you, though, with all the armament on board, she might as well be a frigate, what! You wouldn’t think so necessarily from the manifest, but she is a simply a commercial trading vessel by rights.”
“Armament?” Mahmould frowned in confusion.
“Weapons, my good man. Rifles, guns, canon, all up to date, all popular. We started out trading in iron ore, foodstuffs and sugar, but I guess war brings out a new kind of customer, so we updated our inventory. More profitable too, I might add…”
“Sorry, good sir. Pardon my English but who are you?”
The man gave a broad grin and extended his chubby hand.
“Captain John Rearke, sir. Pleased to meet you. Forgive my manners.”
Mahmould shook his hand.
“I am Mahmould Al-Hussain. This is my wife Ester, my daughter Raghei.”
Captain Rearke extended his hand to Ester, and then bending slightly offered it to Raghei.
“And how are you, my little one?”
Raghei blushed, turned her face away and buried it into her mum’s ribs.
“Now you’re shy?” remarked Ester. The face remained buried.
“Sorry about that,” uttered Ester, but the jovial captain waved away the apology. It was not necessary.
Smiling, he addressed Mahmould. “You’ll all be wanting a passage, I take it?”
The Egyptian nodded gratefully.
“You have papers?”
Mahmould produced his papers again, which Rearke glanced over.
“We have money too. Should be enough.”
“Should it?” A grin broke out on the captain’s face, exposing a gold tooth. “My good man, that depends on where you’re headed. What is your destination?”
“Anywhere abroad; near, far – we don’t care. But near is better. As long as we can leave as soon as possible.”
“Well you’re certainly not dressed for Alaska!” The captain broke into laughter.
Ester looked aghast. “Alaska? I’ve never heard of it. Is that where the ship is going?”
The captain, still amused, shook his head. “Lucky for you that’s not our destination. But you’ve come to the right ship. We’re bound for Portugal then England. How much money do you have?”
With a rattling sound, Mahmould pulled out his black sack and clicked open his brown chest of coins.  The captain’s huge grin showed his obvious delight.
“Splendid. Splendid…”
“What will it cost us?”
“1500 silver pieces. Clearly you have enough, and you have a choice too. What country appeals to you?”
“What do you think, Ess? Portugal or England?”
Ester caught Raghei’s upward gaze, her little face confused. Then she briefly locked eyes with her husband. Finally she shrugged and shook her head. Mahmould paused, biting his lips before blurting out, “Portugal.”
“Fine. It’s actually our first destination. You can pay me later. Follow me, this way.”
The skipper rapidly lead them through the throng. Raghei, holding hands with her mum, was half walking and half running to keep up, watching her fascinated parents take in all the strange sights and sounds at the dock.
At the gangplank Rearke abruptly stopped, turned to face them and flamboyantly waved his arm by way of a formal introduction to his vessel.
“She’s my home from home. My maiden of the high seas. My dream. Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you,” responded Mahmould quietly.
The excited skipper beckoned them up the gangplank, as rushing sailors paused briefly to regard the guests before resuming their activities. Rearke gently grabbed a young seafarer by the arm as he was dashing by.
“Talk to me, Jenson.”
The young sailor in blue overalls, sporting a red handkerchief around his neck, looked to be in his early twenties. “Deck all scrubbed up, skipper. Masts ‘ave just been fixed, holding crates repaired, weapons checked, all cabins cleaned and navigation systems all good to go. Inventory has also been carried out.”
“And the crew?”
“First mate Morgan has just checked the paddle wheels, and says they’ll be awaiting your last orders for the day in five minutes.”
“Splendid. As you can see, we have guests. Make the necessary preparations, and attend to their horse and possessions..”
“Aye, captain.”
“And Jenson?”
The young lad paused, his big brown eyes eagerly anticipating the next question or order.
Rearke patted him proudly on the shoulder. The lad smiled.
“Well done. Very well done. And remind everyone, we set sail tomorrow.”
“Aye, aye, captain sir.” He angled off.
“We’re not leaving now?” Mahmould was frowning.
“Not in this weather, good man. First thing light of day. Frankly you won’t find any vessel sailing out this evening, not in these waves, and those gusts are dreadful. But fear not; we are in no danger here.”
Their eyes locked momentarily in silence.
Rearke assured him. “I do know about Kameh. I also know that the citadel was taken. We are quite safe here, you’ll see. HEY JENSON!”
Jenson had almost disappeared below deck, and suddenly froze. He looked up at the skipper.
“Sir?”
“GET WALTER TO SHOW OUR GUESTS TO THEIR QUARTERS!”
“Aye, sir!” And with that the lad promptly vanished below.

3.

Walter was not amused. He clenched his teeth, swinging a lantern ahead of him, his shadow almost dancing in the light. The guests tentatively following him down the noisy wooden stairs below deck kept on muttering in Egyptian. Worse than that he could hear sniggering. He wasn’t keen on foreigners whispering in some strange language. He was sure they were talking about him.
“*But seriously, all that hair!? You can’t tell me he doesn’t look like an ape!*”
Raghei was chuckling.
“*So he’s hairy. Come on, Ess. It’s not the first time you’ve seen a hairy white man*.”
“*I think it is, Mamu. Just look at him. You sure there’s a man under there? And that chest…..*”
“*What’s wrong with it?*”
“*Really? You’re asking me that? Look at that thing. That’s no chest, that’s a jungle. Even Raghei could get lost in that!*”
Raghei was cracking up, chuckling uncontrollably.
“*Come now Ess, let’s not be rude…*”
“*Even the way he walks, the long arms, and those eyes….wow…*”
“*Really now, be kind.*” Mahmould was struggling to maintain his composure, but he found her remarks funny. “*Remember Ess, Allah made him too…*”
“*Are you sure?*”
“Everything all right?” bellowed the irate sailor, strongly suspecting that they were making fun of his bow legs. “Ya wouldn’t be talking about me, would you? Peoples always taking about me, ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper, not fair.”
“No, no…,” denied Mahmould, discreetly pinching himself to prevent laughing.
“You were a grasshopper!?” Ester looked astounded. She knew her English wasn’t great, but seriously?
Raghei burst out laughing. “Grasshopper man…”
“No, I wasn’t a grasshopper. It’s an expression. Ya never heard of  – ? Ah, never mind. I was a kid, is what I meant to say. Don’t like peoples talking about me, is all..”
“No, not talking about you”, lied Mahmould. “Very bad. Forgive us, our English is not great…”
Raghei mumbled, “Not great English for grasshopper man.”
“What’s that, ya say?”
“Sorry.” Ester did her best to appear sincere. “Our daughter is learning English too.”
Walter flashed them an unpleasant look and grunted. “This way.”
He lead them passed crates neatly stacked within the bowels of the ship. They came across a variety of merchandise, including ivory tusks, grain, cowries, beads, salt, dried fruit, iron tools and steel weapons.
Finally they arrived at their cabin. Walter inserted a key into the arched wood-grain door. A few clicks later, the door squeaked open to reveal a fairly adequate cabin, lined with wooden panels. A table, two chairs and a bunk-bed occupied most of the room in the centre. Mahmould caught a faint whiff of a musty odour and noticed that their possessions had been carefully stashed in the corner. Walters’ weary eyes did not fail to spot this, instantly sensing Mahmould’s thoughts.
“It’s all there,” he muttered gruffly.
Ester smiled, then suddenly looked thoughtful. Walter was quick to spot this too.
“Don’t fret. Ya stallion be safe with the skipper’s horses. I’ll bring up a jug of whiskey or rum for ya in a jiffy, and some water for ya little one. Captain be with ya soon, make sure things okay.”
“Thank you, Walter, but we don’t drink alcohol. Got anything else?”
“Apart from water, we gots some coconut and grapefruit juices. Good enuf?”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
He half nodded, grunted and ambled away into the dark corners of the lower deck. She suddenly winced, thinking that somehow he may have guessed her remarks about him, and momentarily felt awkward.
“Don’t worry”, assured Mahmould, stepping inside, leading her by the arm, as the floor boards creaked.. “Let’s get settled. Time for Raghei’s medication before she sleeps..”
By the time Rearke arrived, knocking on their door, they had all fallen into a deep slumber.

4.

The mild, transient breeze that ushered the new day ruffled Rearke’s forelock. He savoured the air, then sighed. He pulled out his silver pocket watch, and frowned. It was a bright and relatively calm morning. He checked his compass and swung around from the quarterdeck where he stood, and solemnly regarded his crew. Waves lashed noisily against the hull, while hungry seagulls shrieked overhead.
“Hurry it up over there!” He bellowed.
Some sailors, making eye contact, nodded in response and quickened their pace.
“Ay, aye capt’n”, replied a tall muscular man with an air of authority, clad in a grey shirt and black breeches. He saluted the captain and abruptly faced his men, some of whom were polishing the bulwark.
“Morgan!”
“Aye, capt’n?” The tall man swung his gaze back to the captain. Some of the crew paused to furtively see what was happening.
Rearke held out his pocket watch. “It’s now eight-thirty! And we have starboard tack.”
“Gotcha, right capt’n!”
Morgan dashed over to the men. “Well? What are you lot gawping at?” He growled. “Get stuck into it! You ‘eard the capt’n. Wind’s upon us. Get a move on, we’re running late! Gotta make leeway!”
“Aye, skipper,” came the responses.
With almost military precision, the men stoically set about their duties, their skills and experience blending perfectly with the tasks assigned to them. Their clothes, hats and hankerchiefs flapping in the cold morning breeze, the sailors went into motion almost in unison, while Rearke peered into his bronze sextant.
The crew finalized repairs on the hatches, tested the jib, scrubbed the jackstaff, checked the sail ropes, and raised the Union Jack. Overhead a sailor quietly scrambled up to the crow’s nest, while below a seaman cast off a stern line, even as his mate pulled in their fenders. Elsewhere several men removed the gangplank at the same moment that two stout grizzled mariners vigorously hoisted the anchor line, one of whom shot a confirmatory glance in the direction of the helmsman. He nodded his acknowledgment, promptly took hold of the wheel with both hands and began to steer rapidly. Released from its moorings, the swaying Seafarer’s Dream gradually swerved away from the dock, and drifted out to sea, witnessed by a bevy of perspiring dock workers and local vendors.
“Outward bound!” yelled the helmsman. “Course heading, skipper?”
“Set the course for Portugal, 2459 nautical miles”, replied Rearke. “Coordinates 38 degrees 44′ 13.0056″ North bearing 9 degrees 8′ 33.6660″ West”.
“Aye, sir! And we’re underway!”
“Right-io!”
Rearke closed his eyes, threw back his head and drew in a deep breath. Seconds went by. He opened his eyes. Overhead seagulls continued to squawk, interrupting the sunbeams which bathed his forehead, before a dark blurry object temporary cut out the sun altogether. Blinking, his eyes quickly adjusted. The blur vanished, revealing a straw hat.
“Good morning, Captain sir!”
The skipper grinned. “Good morning Manuld.”
“It’s Mahmould.”
“My apologies, good man. Mahmould. Did I pronounce it right?”
“Yes. Not bad for a foreigner.”
Rearke chuckled. “And I thought you were the foreigner. How goes it?”
Mahmould removed the hat, fanned himself briefly and wiped away the sweat trickling down his forehead. “Not sure, to be honest…”
“What ails you? Feeling under the weather?”
Mahmould frowned. “”Under the weather?” Don’t understand the – “”
“Strange, I mean. You feeling strange? Unusual?”
The Egyptian trader nodded, his eyes red and sleepy, his right hand anxiously rubbing his stomach and chest.
“Feel very different. But not good, not good at all, really.”
“Too much whisky or rum, last night?”
“Didn’t have any.”
“Didn’t have any?”
“No.”
The Englishman thought for a moment, scratching his chin, then nodded solemnly, knowing full well the reasons behind Mahmould’s condition.
“Well, that’ll be the sea-air then, land lubber.”
“Eh?”
“My good man;  you have what we call a case of sea-sickness…”
“Sea-sickness?”
“Uh-huh. And we’ve barely begun…”
Mahmould looked incredulous. “The sea makes you sick?”
“You, dear chap. Not me. Nor my crew. We’ve long since gotten used to it. And some of us have always been immune…”
Silence. The sea-trader regarded his new passenger with curiosity. “Don’t look so downcast, Mahmould”.
“Downcast?”
“Ah, you’ve much to learn. But your English is excellent, I assure you. I’m impressed. Where did you learn to speak it so well?”
“I was taught by missionaries, and in private did read much of your Bible. It is similar in ways to the Koran. Nothing about the word “downcast”, though. What does it mean?”
“Sad. It means you look sad, hopeless….But don’t fear, the uncomfortable feeling will pass.”
“So there’s a cure?”
“Sort of.”
“What is the cure?”
“Time and….”
“Yes…?”
“Well I found that if you have a really good old vomit; that usually does the trick. At least for the first few times…I daresay you could be retching…I mean, doing that all morning. Vomiting, vomiting, vomiting…”
“Allah help us….” Mahmould exclaimed, rolling his eyes to the skies.
“Nah…” Rearke was shaking his head. “I don’t think so. It is my experience that gods don’t usually get involved in this stuff. Just let nature take its course and throw up. Good and proper. But not here. God, no. Not on deck. Overboard or go below; use the “head”, I mean, the bathroom.”
“I understand…”
Mahmould turned to go below deck, but the skipper called after him.
“Your family, are they sick too? That why they still in their cabin?”
“Well captain, sir…”
“Call me Rearke, please.”
“Well Rearke, my wife is – as you say – “under the weather””.
“And your darling little girl, she sick too?”
“She has been sick for a while now, but is actually recovering. Feeling a little better this morning. Must the medicine she’s started taking. Fever is going away now, we think.”
“Good…good….”
Rearke checked his pocket watch.
“No chance of breakfast then?”
Mahmould shook his head, then shrugged his shoulders. “My family, maybe..”
“No problem. We have much to discuss, but I surely need my breakfast and rum. Meet you at the galley in half an hour. If nothing else, have some rum….would be honoured. And if she is up to it, bring your good wife too. Ester, right?”
“Right. But regretfully we don’t drink alcohol. Our religion does not permit it, you see…”
“Not allowed? Some religion! No worries, I’ll have Walter call on you, and escort you there. We’ll find something else for you to drink. For now I must attend to my crew.”
“Thank you very much. ”
“Don’t mention. Keep a stiff upper lip, eh…just be strong…”
“I will.”
“Jolly good.” The skipper surveyed the deck, casting an eye on the crew members, and resting it on a lad whose back was facing him. “JENSON!”

5.

“So this is the galley?”
Mahmould took it all in. The kitchen appeared smaller than their cabin, housing little more than a table and several wooden chairs. An array of iron pots and pans hung from nails in the wall. Sunlight from a small round window exposed the fire hearth, beneath which lay a coating of sand with bricks, and above which hung a funnel that went up through the ceiling to the weather deck. Against the hearth stood large round pots, and the iron galley stove contained a hot water tank, an oven with cast iron doors, as well as heating surfaces for pans and kettles. Completing the picture stood an enormous black sack of charcoal.
A large bald man whose grey apron barely concealed a larger stomach had just set their table, furnishing it with some ale, rum, juices, water, eggs, salted meat, rice and peas. He promptly disappeared.
Raghei, seated next to Ester was playfully picking at the peas, looking considerably well in her bright red dress, even while her mum discreetly regarded the meat with suspicion.
Rearke, his mouth full, was thoroughly enjoying his breakfast, almost oblivious to Mahmould nursing his small cup of grapefruit juice.
“Yeah, and umm…mmm..by the time I….excuse….mmm…by the time I reached your cabin….the lot of you were sleeping like ummm….like newly borns…”
“Newly borns…..” repeated Raghei, chuckling, half playing with her cutlery.
“Yes,” agreed Ester. “We were very tired…..”
Rearke swallowed some meat, paused and flashed a curious look in Mahmould’s direction.
“My good fellow, you mentioned something?”
“I was just saying,” began Mahmould. “This is the galley – your kitchen?”
“Indeed…quite proud of it too. The stove is relatively new….”
“Excuse me, captain Rearke?”
“Please. Call me Rearke.”
“Okay, excuse me, Rearke.”
“Yes, my dear? Everything to your liking?”
“The meat….is it Halal meat?”
A confused look came over the captain’s face. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means…”
“Well…,” interjected Mahmould, “it’s specially prepared meat –  in line with our Islamic tradition.”
Rearke paused momentarily, a frown appearing. “Oh, I doubt that. Clearly as you know, we are Christians. Why? Is that an issue?”
Both Ester and Mahmould nodded. Watching them, Raghei nodded too.
“An issue. Mama what is an issue?”
Smiling, Ester patted her on the shoulder and brought her gaze back to the captain. He was slightly taken aback.
“I see. Of course, I pride myself on being a great host, but er…..”
Wearing a thoughtful expression, Rearke laid down his cutlery and wiped his mouth. “Tell you what, I’ll summon Bishop, ask him about it.”
“Bishop?” Mahmould leant forward.
“Oh, that’s the ship’s cook. The chap who just served your family the meal. He’ll know about that. I believe it was probably purchased from the nearby market at the harbour. But that’s specifically for us Europeans, you see…”
“I see…”
“Don’t look so glum, Mahmould. It could be your Halal. Morgan would definitely know; he’s in charge of purchasing….”
Ester smiled. “Thank you, that would be great.”
“Don’t mention it.” The skipper rang a bell, and Bishop noisily appeared from behind the door, attempting to be hospitable, and trying to crack a smile through his scarred, granite face.
“Aye, sir?”
“Bishop, check with Morgan. See if the meat is Halal, okay?”
“Aye sir.”
“And Bishop?”
“Aye, skipper?”
“What are you doing?”
“What?”
“That thing – with your face…”
“Tryin’ to smile, sir. For our guests…”
“Please, stop that. You’re scaring them, especially the little one…”
“Sorry sir.”
“I should hope so too. Stick to what you’re good at. Cooking. Okay?”
“Aye sir.”
And as he shuffled away, the captain turned to them.
“Sorry about that.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” smiled Ester.
“He’s a great guy, an even greater cook, but the poor fellow has had problems, and doesn’t do smiling…” He paused. “In the meantime, help yourself to whatever you like. We have bread too, lots of it, should you wish it. Sure you don’t want something to eat, Mahmould?”
Shaking his head, Mahmould allowed himself a faint smile. “That’s very kind of you, but no…”
A moment later he tilted his head in the direction of the stove and charcoal.
“Can I ask you about them?”
Rearke glanced at the items of interest.
“Ah-hah. Yes. What would you like to know?”
“You use steam for cooking, and to power this vessel?”
Rearke nodded, pride in his eyes.
“So why do you also have those huge sails?”
“Oh that’s easy. We cover vast distances, you see. Speed is of the essence. Sails are normally used, and of course comes in handy for when we run out of charcoal. This is a unique experimental vessel. With our brand new paddles fitted, we can – when required –  engage solely in paddle-steam operation. At this stage, that’s only for emergencies, though. Primarily, this is a clipper, a sailing vessel.”
“I see, and-er…”
“Yes?”
“How well armed is this ship?”
“Fully. You’ve seen some of the guns….why? You thinking about Kameh?”
Mahmould nodded.
“Listen, good man. We’ve left the shore, all’s well and we’re armed to the teeth. You have absolutely nothing to fret about.”
“I have heard that Kameh’s got a fleet nearby…”
A huge grin spread over Rearke’s face. He leaned closer to Mahmould, lowering his voice in a cheeky manner.
“What else you got stashed away to get Kameh to chase you overseas, a treasure map? You got some gold hidden away in some chest somewhere, is that it? Is that why you think he’ll still come after you?”
“Of course not…”
“Then you have absolutely nothing to worry about. We have modern equipment, and he’s no match for us..”
Ester let out a snort.
Mahmould drew in a deep breath. “Excuse me, Rearke, but we’ve heard this before. The last Englishman who assured us that we were safe, well….”
“Well what?”
“Well, ” replied Ester. ” He died. We might still be in the fort, if his men didn’t run like rats fleeing a sinking ship. When the battle began and the walls came down, they scattered faster than our chickens!”
“Faster than our chickens….” repeated Raghei chuckling.
“Surely not! It is not honourable. The King’s regiment never flees a battle. It’s not in our rules of engagement…”
“Perhaps they didn’t see those rules,” remarked Mahmould. “I mean it was horrible, the noise, the guns….There was lots of blood, screaming….People were dying everywhere…and your King’s regiment did lots of running, believe me.”
“Incredible. I just can’t see that. Truly unbelievable. But honestly, I assure you, we are fully protected here. The “Seafarer’s Dream” is a tough ship. She’s one of the fastest ever built. What’s more, her crew are highly trained.”
“Kameh’s army broke through the walls of the fort!” Ester looked exasperated.
“But my dear, Ester. Unlike that barbarian, we have modern canons, and are at sea.”
“That doesn’t help us. Over there we could ride away,” she explained. “We get attacked here, we can’t even swim!”
Rearke sighed heavily. “Really, you both must calm down. Honestly. Worse case scenario, we have lifeboats. But that scenario is highly unlikely to occur. I’m sorry about your previous experiences, truly. I can see it’s been rough for you. Your description of events at the fort, I still find hard to swallow. But you must trust me; we are experts at this.  You are safe, and baring any ill-fortune such as bad weather, you’ll get to Portugal without incident. I give you my word.”
Mahmould and Ester fell silent.
Just then came a knocking on the door.
“Enter!”
Bishop arrived, carrying a tray full of eggs, rice, wine and more rum.
“What news?”
“Sorry, skipper. Spoke to Morgan. Meat’s not Halal. But got more grub for yous and yer guests.”
“Okay, no problem, thanks for that.”
“Aye sir, I’ll be off now.”
“Jolly good.”
And as they proceeded to share the extra food, Raghei munched a spoonful of rice and glanced up, her big brown eyes shining and full of curiosity.
“Mama, what does ill-fortune mean?”
The adults simply looked at one another.

6.

Beneath the fluttering Union Jack and billowing sails, the crew continued their assignment with clockwork precision and efficiency. While the Seafarer’s Dream rapidly sliced through powerful waves, accompanied by the occasional shoal of fish, below deck, within the largest cabin, Rearke was getting fully acquainted with his passengers….

“I’m curious”, began the captain, pouring himself a glass of wine before leaning back in his mahogany chair, “you say you were brought up by missionaries, yet you remain Moslem? Quite a contradiction, what?”
“No you misunderstood me”, Mahmould took off his hat, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “What I said before was that I learned to speak English from missionaries, and reading your Bible. I did attend their school for a while, and of course they tried to convert me, but….” He slowly shook his head. “To me, there is only Allah, and we believe that Mohammed was the last and greatest of the prophets, more so than your Jesus.”
“Hmmm…” Rearke’s stern face displayed skepticism. “That I very much doubt, I assure you. Despite your account of the battle at the fort, it will not be your Allah or Mohammed who finally saves you from Kameh’s outrageous incursions. Indeed I would suggest that perhaps it is your own Allah who has deserted you…”
“Allah works in mysterious ways…”
The skipper chuckled. “Now we have a saying just like that…”
Mahmould’s relaxed face broke into a deep frown, irritation played in his eyes.
“It sounds perhaps that you are insulting Allah..”
“Not at all. But thanks to us Christians, you are able to speak English. And quite well too, I might add. We can converse, and consequently enable this transaction for you to flee from your Moslem land. Yet you reject Christianity, proclaiming the superiority of your Mohammed, but it will be the generosity of Christians you will seek if you are to survive in Portugal or in England. That will not be from me.” Rearke’s eyes moved to Ester. “I suppose that would be the same for you too, eh? Choosing to learn the greatest language on earth, but scorning everything else. Your Allah is superior, until you need the white man’s help. Oh, we’ll take the 1500 silver pieces you owe us for the passage, but your attitude, I’d say, has gotta change. Or else…”
Ester shot a glance at her husband. “What is he trying to say?”
Rearke continued, sipping more wine. “Oh I’ve run into your kind before. My fellow captains too. We’ve been shipping out dozens of Moslems these past few weeks; all of them proud, all feeling superior in their religion, until they need the help of the “inferior” white Christians. Not so proud then…”
“What are you trying to say?” Demanded Ester, growing agitated. She turned again to her husband. “What’s he trying to say, Mamu?”
“Yeah, what’s he trying to say, Papa?” joined Raghei, watching with intense curiosity, waving the knife and fork in her small hands.
“I’m beginning to wonder myself!” Annoyed, Mahmould suddenly raised a finger in Rearke’s direction. “You asked me about my English, I told you. I didn’t convert, we don’t believe in converting. The missionaries were welcomed, they got their school buildings, they received our generosity, our food… Besides that, we’ll be paying you for the transport like other travellers, and now you dare to insult us, or Allah? I thought you wanted to help us? I thought you liked us! We explained the situation to you, paid you, asked for your help and now we get this – !?”
“Steady on, old boy…” Rearke calmly reached for the wine bottle. “Your anger is highly unbecoming. Flying off the handle never helped anyone. Relax and have a – ”
“Nothing!” interrupted Mahmould. “I’m having nothing! I don’t know who is flying the handle, and I don’t care. We don’t care. I also don’t like what you said. Tell us now, if you won’t help. We’ll pay you some coins for your trouble and get help from elsewhere…”
“No no no. You misunderstand. Of course, we’re helping. You are our guests. Besides it’s too late to turn back. I was simply making the point that many of your people pick and choose the help they want when it suits, while rejecting our culture and beliefs. But our God is the only superior God, or else why come to us for help? Our God has enabled us to achieve vastly superior things, like this magnificent vessel and our discoveries of new lands and goods and scientific achievements, which everyone wants, even those who have other gods..”
“I disagree. In fact long ago, we also used to have an Islamic empire, we invented many things too, but that was long ago. Things changed. Now we have brethren fighting and killing. All is different now, and now I don’t know what plans Allah has for us…”
Ester then spoke up. “Look, our Allah is the same as your God. Only our view on prophets are different. I learned English also from also reading your Bible. Our way of worshipping and how we regard our prophets and certain foods…That’s the only real difference…”
Rearke took another sip and sighed. “Wasn’t really expecting a theological discussion today…”
“So you’ll help us, then?”
“My dear lady, I never said I would not. I simply made the pertinent point that once  you land in Lisbon, it’s up to you. Our help ends when you disembark.”
“So why did you say all those things?”
“Because it’s true. Don’t expect to arrive in another man’s land and proclaim the superiority of your religion, reject their culture, and expect to go far. That is simply the point I was making. Understand?”
“I suppose so…”Mahmould grumbled.
Rearke’s smile returned and he pushed a bottle of coconut juice towards him.
“Here. I don’t like drinking alone.”
With Raghei quietly watching, Mahmould reluctantly accepted it and in silence poured it out into three cups.
Unlike everyone else, Raghei grabbed her cup, instantly gulped it down, burped and uttered, “does this mean we’re all friends again?”
Everyone laughed, breaking up the tension.
“My dear little one. We were always friends. Just a slight misunderstanding. To be expected of course.”
“So what can we expect, when we arrive?” asked Ester.
“It depends what you want to do, once we hit shore”.
Ester shrugged.
“For instance,” began Rearke. “Before all this… what did you do for a living? House-wife?”
“That, and I used to make dresses to sell.”
“A seamstress?”
“More that that. I used to source and buy the material, design it, make it, sell it….”
“By jove, you’re an entrepreneur!”
“What’s that?”
“That’s you. A business woman. Where did you get the money to finance that?”
Ester looked at Mahmould.
“Of course!”, exclaimed skipper, downing more wine. “And you, Mahmould?”
“I was a farmer, then a pottery maker and seller of all ceramics and furniture. In fact that’s how we met; Ess was asked to design a wedding dress for a distant cousin of mine. I happened to be visiting when she brought it in. We met and…well, you know.”
The skipper nodded. Ester beamed at her husband, briefly re-living the memory.
“How splendid. And what about you, my little one?”
Raghei, noisily slurping her second helping of coconut juice, suddenly looked up, sporting a coconut moustache.
“Me?”
“Yes you.”
“I played with my best friend. Everyday.”
“That’s nice.”
“But she’s gone now. All my friends, they’ve all gone travelling far away..”
“Where have they gone?”
“Nobody knows. But Mama says they are in new schools in new faraway places.”
“And is that what you want to do, go to a new school?”
She shrugged. “I just want to play with my best friend again. But she’s really gone far, hasn’t she Mama?”
A sad smile formed on Ester’s nodding face and she promptly gave Raghei a big hug.
“Allah willing Ghei, some day, you’ll meet her again.”
“I see. What’s your best friend’s name?”
“Aabidah.”
“Aabidah?”
Raghei nodded.
“Why, that’s a very pretty name…here, I have something…” Rearke was reaching deep inside his pocket. “We once transported some ladies, toy makers actually, and they left us a few gifts. I’d like you to have one. Meant to give this to you earlier”.
“What is it?” Raghei’s eyes lit up in anticipation.
Rearke proudly produced a straw doll, her arms outstretched, with green buttons for eyes and a red piece of cloth for a skirt.
“Thank you!” exclaimed a delighted Raghei, her parents also echoing their appreciation.
“You’re very welcome.”
The room fell silent for a moment, as they all watched Raghei hugging her new toy. Finally Mahmould broke the silence, directing his attention to Rearke.
“With regard to my daughter’s friends and their families, I’m hopeful they all made it this far and further, just like we have”, he explained, bringing the subject back to his fellow refugees. “Hopefully, not so arrogant, as you say, with the captains of other ships.”
“Hopefully not, my good man. It really is a bad time for your county. Any ideas where they would’ve gone?”
Mahmould shook his head. “Could be anywhere along the European coast. I’m hoping Portugal or England. Most likely England though…”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because of the missionaries”, explained Ester. “Most of them were English.”
“If that’s the case”, ventured Rearke, “why Portugal, why not England? You certainly have enough money.”
“Portugal is your first stop though, right?” Mahmould quickly turned his gaze from Rearke to Ester.
“Indeed…” Rearke took another swig of wine from his glass.
“We just want to stop over at the first land abroad, take stock and decide from there. It could be that later we decide to move on to England, right Ess?”
“That’s right, Mamu.”
“So I take it, you’ll both carry on your chosen professions, once we make landfall and you get settled?”
They both nodded.
“We might get involved with any locals we meet,” added Mahmould, slurping his coconut juice. “Who knows? Maybe also get involved in local politics among our Moslem brothers, to see if there is a way of changing things for the better. We cannot leave our lands to that barbarian murderer; he has ambitions to be the Caliph of all Africa.”
“So you’ll all be returning to Cairo some day?”
“Depends,” remarked Ester.
“On what?”
“On how well we do in Portugal. If we do get involved in our country’s politics. If we succeed…”
“What about England?”
“What about it, Mahmould?”
“Can you tell us about it? About everything to do with England?”
Rearke chuckled. “Much as I might wish to be able to say so, even I don’t know everything about England. But I’ll tell you what I know…”
“Oh good,” exclaimed an excited Raghei, sitting up straight. “Is it story time, Mama?”
“In a way…”
“It certainly is, my little one. Now. How shall I begin? The story of England as I know it, beginning with Portsmouth, where I was born, before I moved to London with my family. Perhaps we’ll need more drinks…JENSON!” 

7.

Captain Rearke spent most of the day conversing with the Al-Hussains below deck, explaining how he became a seaman after first being a newspaper boy, and recounting all the places he had visited, and his experiences, including his rapid ascent through the ranks from cabin boy to skipper. His story was interrupted every so often, by his dutifully surfacing every now and then to attend to the needs and queries of his crew, even while checking on how things were progressing under Morgan’s supervision.
At the helm stood Max, an aged grey-faced navigator, who steered effortlessly and allowed very little leeway on the ship’s general course. The Seafarer’s Dream sailed westward, deep into the Mediterranean. It’s elegant hull sliced through the sea, upon which countless sunlight reflections gleamed and glistened, the rippling waves rolling and splashing foam against the stern bulwark. Beneath blue skies, gulls glided along the bow wave of air, making light work of salmon fleeing from the ship’s disturbance, screeching in excitement at their bounty. On deck, masts swayed, a couple of attached gigs rocked about, jibs fluttered, and the large sails puffed out due to the varying wind direction and pressure. Morgan kept things  ticking away nicely, the crew diligently performing their duties, chanting along at times, and keeping the momentum, as well as their spirits high. Consequently, the clipper made good time in reaching a quarter of the journey’s destination.
As the day wore on, with little need to view the proceedings on deck, Rearke requested and received regular reports on their process. He generously informed his guests, consequently breaking his autobiographical monologue into convenient chapters on his naval achievements, the maritime tradition, the thriving port of London, and the well-to-do family of three he left behind in Greenwich.
Under a crimson sun descending below the horizon, a flock of satisfied birds soared away in the distance. Sea waves continuously rolled and splashed against the bulwark, the last rays of the sun glimmering on the surface. Faint layers of the sky ranging in colour from pink and red to dark blue and purple gradually grew darker in hue, ushering the evening. The day was drawing to a close. Slowly, in response, the decks saw activity diminish, as the crew gradually disappeared and cabin lanterns flickered to life. Before long the last of the seamen had left the decks for their berths. Shortly after that, the lights went off, one by one. The Seafarer’s Dream ventured ever deeper into the Mediterranean, with no land in sight. Only the solitary figure of an aged, bearded helmsman provided any signs of life on the ship, which drifted into the cold darkness…..

8.

Wednesday 7th July, 1832.

Within the privacy of his cabin Rearke checked his pocket watch. 7.30am. Sitting by his desk, a ledger opened on a satchel, pen in hand, he proceeded to tick off the items on the ledger against an inventory printed on several sheets of paper. He marked off each stock item beneath the smiling, frozen gaze of his wife and two sons, looking down on him from a wall portrait.

7.40am.
In a makeshift stable, not much larger than a cabin, where wooden beams arched over a bed of hay and water-filled jugs like a strange pyramid, Jenson approached a black stallion, bucket in hand, full of hay. Nearby stallions and mares whinnied.
“Oh hush up”, rebuked Jenson to the other horses, while feeding the stallion, “be nice. You know it’s your turn next; this one’s from Egypt and has had a horrid time. He’s your new guest, so be friendly and quieten down.”
As the hungry horse gratefully munched away, Jenson found himself wondering  what the Egyptians called him….

7.50am.
During breakfast preparations, Bishop seemed preoccupied by the conversation with his scrawny colleague, Morgan, who bore a scar across his forehead and was elbows deep in washing dirty dishes. Bishop kept on shaking his head and paused  to simply look at Morgan. Morgan was nodding, a knowing smile forming on his face, cocking his head to the right, indicating a table, where a drawn picture of a large pub beside a pond lay bare.

8.00am.
Beneath a couple of hanging lanterns, a small wet rug in hand, Walter carefully polished his rifle with all the care and attention of a soldier who had seen much action, and who felt almost indebted to his rifle.

8.10am.
In a larger cabin, housing the bulk of the crew, a couple of seamen stirred and eventually rose from their slumber with a snort. Their sleep, blissful dreams of new adventures in exotic lands, had been rudely pierced by the intrusive snoring of one large sailor in a hammock.
“Notorious Eddie again”, grumbled one, turning over in his bed, covering his ears.
“Shut your damn snoring!” hissed his mate through gritted teeth.
Another shipmate sleeping directly below Eddie promptly opened his weary eyes, glanced at the two peeved men, looked upwards and grunted. He gazed for a few seconds at the bulky frame hanging right over him, drew a deep breath and swung his boot up and hard into the part that looked like the buttocks. A shriek later, and the snoring stopped.

8.20am.
On deck the stoic frame that was Max stood by the helm like an unswerving rock against the wide expanse of the sea. Faint signs of light were beginning to register between the dark clouds. While steering, he looked up, a grin forming. Soon it would be dawn. Soon his shift would be over. A time to sleep. As he brought his gaze down, he spotted something far out. Something unusual. He squinted, looked about him, and spotted the telescope. He grabbed it, sliding open the sections, and peered through it.

8.30am.
Within their musty quarters, the Al-Hussains lay fast asleep, Mahmould lying flat on his back, snoring on the top of the bunk-bed while below Ester slept on her side, sharing her bed with a whimpering Raghei. Raghei’s left arm was draped over her mum’s slightly curved up body, while her right hand clutched at her straw doll. 

8.40am.
A blond sailor, sporting a red bandana, had just ended a conversation with an agitated Max, whose finger pointed out to the sea. The man nodded at Max, just as it began to rain, and with thudding steps ran below deck.

8.43am.
Jenson was now scrubbing the horses, stroking their manes, and examining them for any signs of illness or injury.

8.46am.
The rifle cleaned, the silver inscription by his father, Walter K P Huffman, gleaming in the candlelight, the bow-legged seaman rose to place it neatly in its wooden case when he heard an urgent knocking on his door. He paused, glanced at the door.

8.49am.
The Galley. The bandana messenger was chatting animatedly with Bishop and Morgan, both wearing expressions of disbelief. Seconds later, breakfast preparations abandoned, they quickly headed towards the deck.

8.53am.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Slouching in his chair Rearke groaned, checked his watch, took another sip of rum, and with an effort pulled himself up. He slowly made his way to the door, rubbing his eyes. He had awoken extra early to complete his inventory and did not appreciate the noise.
“Capt’n?”
“Steady on, I’m coming…”
He crossed the room, reached for the handle, and the door finally swung open with some weight against it. Morgan and Bishop nearly tumbled in, breathless.
“What the – ? Be careful. What gives? Why are you two bothering me at this hour?”
While the captain clicked his door shut, the men instantly started jabbering away, arms waving, fingers pointing, heads shaking and then nodding, much to Rearke’s annoyance.
“WAIT!” A perplexed Rearke raised a hand, his authority absolute, his intention obvious and serious. Morgan and Walter stopped.
“What are you blathering on about? I’ll wager you’ve both your fill of rum. I only need one person to speak. Now make it slow, make it clear…”
Morgan and Bishop looked at one another. Bishop nodded for Morgan to speak, but Morgan took a deep breath, hesitating. How best to convey the news without sounding insane?
And seconds went by…
“Well, spit it out man! A moment ago, you were babbling like a crazed infant!”
Morgan went for it. “Capt’n, we have us a tidal wave.”
The skipper simply looked at him, as though waiting for a punchline. None was forthcoming.
“A tidal wave? Did you say a tidal wave?”
“Uh-huh, aye”.
“In these waters? Impossible. Dammit, man! What you been drinking?” He glared at Bishop, who nodded in agreement.
“You too, eh?”
Morgan tried to explain. “No drinking, capt’n, honest. The both of us, we haven’t touched a drop tonight, god’s honest truth. It’s just that – ”
Rearke’s dismissive wave of the hand abruptly cut him off.
“Please. I’m not listening to any more of this nonsense…”
“But skipper – ”
“Shut it, Bishop!”
The cook flinched. Just then, the door flung open again. Walter burst in, his rifle slung over his shoulder, fear etched on his face.
The captain couldn’t believe it.
“What!? How dare you!!”
“Sorry, sir. I had to. We gots problems. We gots massive problems!”
“Really? Enough to barge in like this?”
“Aye, No choice, capt’n sir.”
Rearke sighed, folding his arms.
“Go on…”
Walter blurted out, “a tsunami, sir. I’m telling you, we gots us a goddamn gigantic tsunami! It’s true. And the bloody thing’s headed our way!”
“Stop right there. Now I don’t know what’s going on tonight, I don’t know whatever it is you lot think you’re seeing, but….”
“Permission to ring the alarm bell, sir?” asked Walter eagerly.
“That’s a negative, Walter. Understand? Until I establish exactly what is out there, you are under no circumstances allowed to – ”
Suddenly the shrill clanging of a bell rang out, stunning everyone. A moment later, an agitated captain reacted first.
“What the – ? Who the devil did that without my permission?! Right, let’s find out!” So with that the captain grabbed his black bicorn hat and instantly set off to investigate and possibly discipline the culprit, with his three crew members in tow.

8.58am.
Rearke, Morgan, Walter and Bishop noisily rushed passed the quarters below deck. They were on the verge of sweeping passed the guests’ cabin, with the bell still ringing away, when the door creaked open and Mahmould stepped out, suddenly in front and suddenly blocking their way. He squinted and rubbed his left eye. All around other crew members began to emerge from their rooms in a state of weary confusion.
“Rearke, what’s happening? Where are you all going? Is something wrong?”
Rearke stopped, pulled Mahmould to one side and gestured for his men to go ahead. “Find out and let me know. Be with you shortly….”
“Well? Who’s ringing?”
“My good chap, let’s go inside – we can’t block the way…”
And once inside the confines of their cabin, Rearke planned to keep his explanation short and sweet. For in the remote, but most unlikely event that something serious was afoot, the last thing he wanted was them wandering the decks, asking for trouble, getting in the way, causing mischief, spreading fear or even being struck by fear. Panic-stricken passengers he did not need. Even if it did turn out to be a crisis.
Rearke directed Mahmould to sit at the table, where an anxious Ester and sleepy-eyed Raghei had already seated.
“Good morning, everyone..”
“Not so far”, retorted Ester. “We’ve just been woken up with all this noise…”
“That’s right”, rasped Mahmould, his voice dry, rubbing his other eye, as he proceeded to open up a bottle of juice that stood on the table. “My throat needs clearing…Now Rearke, what’s going on?”
The captain presented the most calm face possible, but his grin wasn’t convincing.
“Not to worry, my friends. Just a routine drill. We do that when something might be amiss…I’ll be back shortly..”
“Amiss? Care to explain, please?” Ester was not buying his act. And neither were the rest of the family.
“You smile”, began Mahmould, “but we know something’s wrong.”
“Okay”, sighed Rearke, conceding defeat. “There’s a potential problem, and in fact I’m on my way to check it out. It’s totally unconfirmed, I assure you.”
“What is unconfirmed? What is this potential problem? In fact, what does that even mean?” asked Mahmould, taking a sip.
“It means it could be something, maybe nothing. As I said, we have these drills…”
“So what is the potential problem?”
“As I said, I was about to check it out. I don’t even know for sure. Stay seated, I won’t be long..”
“Check what out?”
Rearke paused.
“Please, Rearke, be honest”, pleaded Mahmould. “We must have trust here…”
“Well, the truth is, I don’t know for sure. Just have the reports…”
“What’s the report. What do your men say?”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t worry about it; it’s impossible. Really it is. You’ll be fine…”
“Believe me, Rearke, me and my family don’t like to worry. Not after escaping Kameh. Not after surviving the city. But you know….? We worry more if we do not know…and if we do not trust the captain to tell us what he knows….or what he thinks is the problem…”
“Okay. You wanted to know. Here is it; my crew tell me there’s a wave. A rather large wave, possibly heading our way. Again we don’t know, for sure. I was on my way to find out…”
“And if it’s true?”
“Look, we need to establish if it really is a wave, first of all. If so, gauge the size. Might be nothing. And finally if it is a threat, I need to determine, that is, to find out if we are on its path. In these waters, most likely a near impossibility…”
Mahmould leaned over the desk, fully awake now, his face a picture of absolute seriousness.
“They once said that about Kameh’s chances of invading the city….”
“You stay here nice and safe with your family. I’ll go check it out…”
At that point Raghei spoke up, her voice sounding more fragile than usual. She glanced upwards at Mahmould.
“Papa, are we going to die?”
“No, we’re not. Of course not”. Mahmould jabbed Rearke’s lapel with his finger. “Right? I mean you did assure us!”
“Yes, but – ”
“But nothing. What was that you said, before? She’s one of the fastest ships ever built?”
“Be reasonable, man! If the danger is real, this is an act of God.”
“It’s your God, you sort it out! You’re the big Christian with all the great inventions!”
“Okay…okay..be calm…”
“You can start off with Ghei.”
“What?”
“Tell her, she asked the question.”
Rearke quietly moved towards her side of the table and softly knelt down before her.
“Listen, don’t you worry. Have no fear. It’ll be fine. I’m just going to find out the details. It’s probably a false alarm. In the meantime, stay here with your parents, be good, and strap yourself in”. He turned to Mahmould. “There’s some ropes under the bed. It might get a bit bumpy –  the waters are choppy, but stay together. I’ll be back…”
And with that Rearke left their cabin, slamming the door behind him.
Their door shut, Ester glanced at her husband.
“So, where do we strap in?”
Mahmould paused for a moment, stroking his chin. He took another swig of the juice from the bottle he clasped.
“We don’t. We find the rope, tie it around out waists and hold tight. If there is a problem, we grab tight anything that is nailed down; that way we stick together, whatever happens. But for now…I’m not entirely sure he’s telling the truth. Fetch the rope, stay here with Ghei. I need to know something first…”

9.

A small puddle was already forming on the rim of the black and very wet bicorn hat. Even before he reached the deck, climbing as fast as he could without tumbling on the slippery steps, Rearke’s face was covered in water droplets. The heavy rain forced him to squint and constantly rub his eyes just to maintain a reasonable degree of visibility. A feat not helped by the darkened sky.
He pulled the bicorn further down over his forehead and prodded on. Ahead his crew busily tried to get a handle on the situation, firing off questions, carrying out their tasks, maintaining their composure.
The bell-ringing culprit was not hard to spot; a young, muscular lad clad in soggy grey overalls dashing around like a man possessed, swinging the brass bell as though his life depended on it. He weaved among the workers, effortlessly dodging their feeble efforts to bring him to a halt, all the while shouting incoherently and pointing out to sea.
Amid the torrential downpour the ship’s bow abruptly tilted upwards at 45 degrees. Taken by surprise, Max struggled to control the helm, straining his muscles, a pained expression on his face. Notorious Eddie, half way up the crow’s nest, suddenly lost his grip. Yelling, he plummeted all the way back down to the deck, breaking a leg upon impact. A couple of burly men struggled to reach him before dragging him below deck for treatment. The rest of the crew, cold and drenched, slid and staggered backwards, grasping hold of any support structure. Some could hardly balance themselves, situated precariously close to the edge of the bulwarks, while others succumbing to the force, fell and then opted to remain lying flat on the deck rather than attempting to stand and be hurled around.
A moment later many witnessed the immense tidal wave, and realised the gravity of their predicament. Nature had truly unleashed her full colossal, catastrophic force upon them. The impact was imminent. It was unavoidable. And then all hell broke loose. Panic engulfed the crew; people scurried in all directions, abandoning their posts, cries went out beneath dangerously swaying masts, bearing sails that  stretched to breaking point. Shouting raged across the deck and then Rearke himself, his hat tilting upwards, finally beheld the terrifying spectacle.
“My…..God……”
He’d never seen anything like it. Just then the bow swerved violently, flinging him against a mast that had begun splintering away. He grabbed a loose line nearby, his freezing face radiating utter shock, unaware of Morgan rushing towards him.
“Capt’n!”
Silence gripped him.
“Skipper!”
No response. Dazed eyes stared blankly ahead.
“Skipper, you okay?”
Morgan seized him by the shoulder, then started shaking him.
“Capt’n….capt’n….CAPT’N!”
The silence immediately dissipated.
“Huh? Okay…..I’m okay…..thanks….”
Except he didn’t look okay. No longer dazed, his eyes – wild-looking – stared ahead, transfixed by the sheer enormity of the rushing wall of water, approaching them at breakneck speed, the crest 100 feet high…..

10.
A straw hat emerged from below deck and was suddenly pelted with rain. Mahmould tilted the rim back so he could observe the situation more clearly in the downpour. It was pandemonium; the crew rushing around an unsteady wind-swept deck, masts threatening to topple over, some people lying face down on the deck, others holding onto ropes for dear life, and in the chaos, a cacophony of voices, orders and yelling. His steady gaze took all this in, catching a glimpse of several pointing fingers. All pointing out to sea. His eyes followed the direction. And then he too saw it.
Startled, his jaw dropped. The bottle in his hand fell away from his fingers, hit the deck and shattered into a dozen pieces, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. Some flew passed his sunken face, across his eyes. He discovered then the sheer magnitude of the disaster hurtling towards them. This was a rising mass of water larger in volume and peak than the highest pyramids – and this mass was rushing to engulf them. Death had arrived.
“Allah…be merciful…!”
He suddenly became aware of someone tugging at his arm.
“Please sir, you must go back inside…”
He looked down. It was Jenson. The young lad looked anxious, fearful. Almost as though his job depended on Mahmould being out of sight in this chaos.
“Yes…perhaps you’re right…..” He didn’t need persuading. While he turned back, Jenson bolted across the deck, his nimbleness seemingly impervious to the swaying deck, and in no time reached the captain, who once again had regained his composure, now barking orders to Morgan and Walter.
“Batten down the hatches! Secure the canons! What’s our coordinates?”
“Last I checked, sir, it was 20 degrees, 16′ 26.0024 north bearing 7 degrees 5′ 30.5550 east”, replied Morgan. “Got it from Max, just before we contacted you.”
That revelation caused Rearke to grimace. “Christ, we’re way off course! Can we outrun it?”
“Not likely”.
“How fast we going?”
“Sixteen knots. Sorry, skipper, we’re already on top speed.”
“Yes, with sails only. We need twenty-five. Bring down them sails – engage steam mode, and get the steam crew into action, on the double!”
“Aye, skipper”.
“Also tie down the goods, and anything you can that’s not locked down. Make sure they’re securely fastened, gather all essentials for transport, and for goodness sake, make ready the life rafts. Damned if I’m losing anything to that freak of nature!”
“Skipper?”
“Be quick, Jenson.”
“About the horses, sir.”
“Horses? Can we save them?”
“Dunno, sir.”
“Well try, dammit. Try!”
“But skipper!”
“What?”
“The ways things are going, I dunno if we can even save the whole crew!”
“What!?”
“Aye”, agreed Morgan. “We’ve just lost Eric and Shaw overboard!”
“Blast!”

11.

Back within his cabin, Mahmould moved around frantically, searching for items secured to the wooden floor, while tying the rope around his waist, aware of the concerned look emanating from Ester. As the ship rocked about, the table and chairs slid noisily around them.
“How bad is it?”
“That out there is not a potential problem. We need something that’s weighed down, or bolted down, fast!”
“What did you see? Was it a wave?”
“Yes, papa. Was it a big wave?”
Mahmould paused, forcing a smile before hugging Raghei.
“Papa, what’s wrong? You’re shaking.”
He squeezed her tightly with Ester looking on, trying to maintain a brave face.
“I love you, Ghei. We both do. Papa needs this hug; it’s really cold and wet out there.”
“Is that why you’re shaking?”
“Clever Ghei. Don’t you shake when it’s cold?”
“Uh-huh. What about the big wave, did you see it?”
Mahmould pulled back a little and cupped her sweet innocent face in his hands, realising only then that she was still clutching onto her doll.
“You will never tell go of her, will you?”
Raghei looked at her doll and shook her head.
“Good for you. Want to know what Papa saw?”
She nodded. “The wave?”
“The future, Ghei. Allah is merciful. Papa saw the future….”
“I don’t understand…”
“Papa saw that in the future we will be together; like you and your new friend. That’s great, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh” she was nodding.
“Good girl. Now help us find something tight to hold on to.”
“But Papa?”
“Yes?”
“What about our horse?”
Mahmould paused, briefly locked eyes with Ester, then embraced Raghei again, before whispering, “Sorry, Ghei. We have to let him go. To set him free. Like our goats back home..”
A tear trickled down Ester’s cheek.
“Mama, what’s wrong?”
Without uttering a word, Ester knelt to hug them both. They clung in silence for a while.
“Mama?”
Silence.
“Papa. Is Mama okay?”
“Mama loves you, that’s all…..”

12.

The effect of the impending wave caused the sea in its path to rise much higher, tilting the ship upwards at an even steeper angle. Following the captain’s orders, the sails reefed, a couple of the unique detachable masts had already been successfully taken down, but the crew failed to reach the last one in time. It gave way to the force of the gust, split into two and crashed onto the deck, plunging an immense hole through which water instantly spurted upwards.
All around frantic sailors proceeded to quickly manoeuvre detached life-boats being erratically winched into position over the unsteady hull, one of which contained panicky horses. They were currently strapped and ably held together by Jenson and Walter. Some of the crew had already started to clamber on board other life rafts, a few of which had been loaded with food, rifles and gunpowder.
Elsewhere, at the helm, a grimacing Max kept on steering valiantly, his eyes darting about, mentally accessing the right moment to abandon his post.
Below deck, Rearke and Morgan had arrived at the galley and had began shovelling coal into the crude furnace, the three-man steam engine crew having just left their post on the skipper’s orders. Sweating away, the officers continued, ignoring the rising tide that swirled around them, swelling up every second from the intake of water rushing down the staircase. They could hear the engine hissing and crackling, driving the sputtering and whirling paddle-wheels below. The ship swerved violently again, slamming the officers against the walls, while above a couple more crew members plummeted overboard, their cries drowned out by the crashing waves. Some of the sailors, waist-deep in water, desperately flung two life lines in their direction, but to no avail.
An unholy screech later, the Seafarer’s Dream next took an unexpected plunge into a deep trough, sliding everyone forward, dislodging the creaking loose boom from the deck. The large wooden boom swung up high, hurling three more men into the air and into oblivion, and then came smashing down to tear a deep diagonal line right through half the entire deck.  More water gushed up through the deep depression created.
By the time the boiler started to overheat, and amid water reaching their knees rendering their use of coal ineffective, Rearke had already made up his mind to officially abandon ship. Pulling a weary Morgan away with him, he trudged through the water-logged vessel, cursing and snatching up his satchel floating out of his quarters. There was little else for him to salvage. Together they eventually made their way onto the remnants of the deck, where the party swam to the only remaining boat available. This was already half stuffed with provisions. At this point Jenson was scrambling onto the raft with the horses, obeying orders from Walter, who – still on deck – single-handedly kept up the struggle to winch the remaining life-boat horses into the sea. By now, Max had abandoned his post to assist Jenson in lowering another raft over the bulwarks. Panting, Rearke and Morgan climbed onto the last of the lifeboats, and gazed in despair at their disintegrating ship. Their home was collapsing before them.
Suddenly Rearke noticed something, frowning.
“Where’s the passengers?”
Morgan simply shrugged his shoulders, looking apologetic.
“Gotta find them. Wait here.”
The captain leapt out of the boat, just as the deck beneath exploded with water, simultaneously toppling Jenson off his raft.
Along with a couple of 12 pound canons, severed from their fixed positions on the quarterdeck, and a disturbed horse which had been thrown clear off the vessel, the lad screamed into the freezing waters.
Spotting this and then catching sight of a random halyard floating snake-like in the water, Rearke instantly dived for it, narrowly grasping it. A moment later, up and leaning precariously over the bulwark, as water drained away from him and the bicorn hat, he furiously swung the line out to sea. Amid the tumultuous waves, Jenson, bobbing up and down, arms flaying, was scrambling to reach it.
“C’mon Jenson, lad. Seize it!”
His own job completed, Max bounded over, straining against the current on deck, and addressed Rearke, panting. “The Africans?”
“No sign yet”, uttered the captain. “Was about to search…”
“Go on, skipper. You get them, I’ll get Jenson”.
With a nod of appreciation, Rearke angled off, and made a dash down the damaged hatch, sliding feet first into the watery world that had once been the dry cabin quarters below deck.
After wading through debris, accidentally swallowing some of the foul grey water, shivering cold but determined, Rearke soon came across the open door to the guest cabin.  A chair silently floated out of the room from the open door. He cautiously entered, shunning the dreadful thoughts that played on his mind. Gripping the wet door frame, he slowly turned and drew in a sharp breath, his heart pounding in his chest. It was too quiet. Fearing the worst, he anxiously looked around, the thought of bodies drifting by tormenting him.
“Mahmould, sir! You there?”
Please god, no. Let them be safe, screamed his thoughts.
“MAHMOULD!”
A faint swishing sound from a dark corner gripped his attention. He leaned forward, peering closer, and finally clasped eyes on Mahmould, alive and desperately trying to untangle a knot by his waist. In the chaos the end of the rope had somehow got caught in the partially exposed rudder beneath the floorboards.
An audible sigh of relief escaped Rearke’s lips. No floating bodies.
The whole family kept moving unsteadily in the water, attached by ropes held fast in knots around their waists. Frightened Raghei, doll in hand, was clinging onto her mum’s back, her cold arms wrapped so tight around Ester’s neck, she seemed close to choking her.
“Ghei……not so tight, please….”
“Sorry, Mama…”
Observing, Rearke bit his lip. They were definitely together, which was fine, but they were definitely trapped too.
“Mahmould!”
The Egyptian looked up, shocked to see the skipper, but grateful.
“The rope! Can’t free it!”
“I’m coming…”
Rearke edged forward.
While a frustrated Mahmould tugged at the rope, occasionally digging weary fingers into the knot around his waist, Rearke produced a pocket knife from within his tunic, and feverishly began cutting. Unfortunately the tiny knife proved ineffective against the thick cords, and the violent swaying motion of the ship combined with the splashing, rising water hampered the effort even further.
An idea flashed in Mahmould’s eyes.
“I have a large blade in my bag, can you reach it?”
“Where?”
“Over there, behind you, strapped by the bedpost..”
As the captain proceeded towards the drifting bag a few metres away, loud crackling sounds reverberated throughout the cabin. Everyone paused, terrified, looking up. The entire ceiling was collapsing, then came a thunderous bang, the impact force instantaneously tearing into shreds the encompassing  walls, scattering hundreds of wooden fragments in all directions. Raghei shrieked, burying her face into Ester’s back. Ester gasped, her hand raised to protect her face. Daylight suddenly engulfed them. In seconds the entire cabin had disintegrated, its feeble remnants reduced to minute flotsam sprawled everywhere.
Stunned Mahmould nevertheless managed to grab Rearke by the arm seconds before a raging current almost swept him beyond reach. They found themselves exposed and vulnerable, out in the wind-swept ocean, pelted with rain, floating in the coldness, surrounded  by the dispersed remains of what had been their room, which the crashing waves rapidly devoured piece by piece. He looked on helplessly as his bag drifted away, out of reach, and before long, out of sight. Half the sinking ship now lay submerged, the other half on the verge of rapid descent. And yet the family remained tethered.
Around the Seafarers’ Dream, half a dozen life rafts bobbed up and down precariously amid the crashing waves, sometimes spinning, occasionally threatening to crash into one another. Rearke spotted some men in the distance shouting to Walter; the aging man was struggling to hang onto the sinking deck. They were urging him to let go and jump into the sea; it was the only chance he had. Reluctant to do so, having seen a number of his shipmates plunge to their depths, he grimaced, summoning up the courage. The torrential rain, coupled with the violent waves, the unpredictable movement of the swaying deck, and the mere sight of life rafts that looked as though they were about to capsize at any given moment filled him with dread. He drew a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing, and took a long hard look at the rope thrown in his direction; the rope being furiously lashed about on the high seas. Twenty yards away, moving erratically. Twenty yards to safety. Maybe. He gazed upwards. Ahead, another huge wall of water was heading his way. Just a matter of time. And then he noticed them. To his right, fifty metres away, dangerously close to where most of the ship had been swallowed up, floated the weary figures of Rearke and the Al-Hussains, barely noticeable in the chaos, and struggling to free themselves loose. Poor Raghei, clinging on for life, her petrified tear-filled face just about visible, while the rope around them no longer served as a life-line; it was rapidly pulling them down, attached to the rudder that was sinking deeper and deeper. For them, it was just a matter of seconds. Seconds before they drowned. For Walter, there was no choice.
“Steady on, capt’n. Be wiv ya…” he muttered, letting go with one hand to swing his rifle over his shoulder. He knew they could not hear him, but continued muttering nevertheless. “Just keep steady…..”
Slipping a little and levelling the flintlock rifle, he struggled to steady himself, placing the rifle butt firmly against his shoulder, and took aim.
“Steady…..” He held his breath, finger on the trigger. Then fired. Bang! He recoiled, a whiff of smoke escaping the barrel.
“What the – ?” The bullet that whizzed by startled Rearke.
Raghei screamed. Everyone gazed up and around, and clapped eyes on Walter, rifle in hand, legs dangling in the water, sinking rapidly. The surviving crew members who had been desperately calling on Walter, beckoning him to safety suddenly caught sight of what Walter had noticed; he was not the only one in trouble.
“He’s mad!” exclaimed Ester, “he’s trying to kill us!”
“No…it’s just Walter.”
“Maybe so,” shouted Mahmould. “But he’s pointing that thing at us!”
The captain shook his head and pulled on the rope, drawing so close to Mahmould, he could almost whisper into his ear, knowing he would be definitely be heard above the noise.
“The rope, Mahmould! Hold the rope up!”
So they did. Ester joining in nervously. By the time they did so, holding it as far above their heads as it would allow, Walter had already placed another bullet in the rifle. He was now up to his neck in water, swallowing and spitting out some of the sea water, but somehow managing to keep the gun above the currents.  Breathing heavily, he took aim again.
“Everyone……Try to keep as still as possible” urged Rearke.
Walter grimaced.
“C’mon my sweet, don’t let me down. Capt’n and them folk need this…”
The captain fixed his eyes on Walter, knowing that he couldn’t hear him.
“Last chance, mate…”
Shuddering in the cold, Walter spotted the captain and the visitors holding up the rope for him.
“Thank you, capt’n…..”
Rearke whispered, “Whatever happens….”
“Steady…..steady….” Walter squeezed the trigger.
“…I just want you to know Walter…”
Bang! The bullet zinged by. The rope snapped. And they were suddenly cut free.
“YES!” The captain was ecstatic. Released, they instantly floated up and away from the listing ship.
“Everyone all right?”
Mahmould, Ester and Raghei nodded. Their relieved faces said it all.
The captain threw a grateful glance in Walter’s direction. To his dismay, all he saw was the top of Walter’s head disappear, and visible for a brief moment, his raised hand. A final wave goodbye. And then he was gone. Forever……
“My god, Walter….” was all he heard himself saying, pain etched in his voice, staring blankly at the spot where only seconds before Walter had been. Where he had just locked eyes with the captain. Where he had gallantly saved them. And where only the sea now raged. Walter –  a faithful companion and friend – was gone. The ship had gone too. Only the mast remained, like a final wave from the Seafarer’s Dream. That too was vanishing. Rearke bit his lip, and a deep sorrowful sigh escaped him.
“Captain, over here!”
Rearke’s face turned to the voice.
Two boats were approaching, swirling and bumping against one another, tethered by ropes being held by sailors on one vessel and Jenson, along with Max and some horses on another.
The captain recognized the distinctly gravelly voice from the first boat.
“Morgan!”
“Aye captain!”
A mild relief washed over him.
“Here!”
Morgan tossed a line towards him. Jenson and Max followed suit, hurling their own ropes before Rearke which fell nearer to them. The captain noticed that as well as being gripped tightly, Jenson and Max had fastened the ropes firmly around the horses too.
“Hurry!” Morgan caught everyone’s attention by pointing at the imminent giant wave. Rearke Mahmould, Ester and Raghei hastily grabbed the ropes and looked around petrified as Jenson and Max frantically employed the panicky horses to haul them onto the life boat.
“Quickly!” urged Jim.
“C’mon, c’mon, move it….” shouted the other men.
Somehow – the wave rapidly approaching –  they all managed to clamber aboard, Raghei struggling to get her legs out of the water just in time, as Ester pulled her in with all her remaining energy. Clutching them tightly, Mahmould looked up at the great pyramid of water; his fear matching those of all his men, even as Jim and Max struggled to keep the squealing, snorting, erratic horses in check.
“Allah preserve us…”
And the wave hit them…..

13.

The sky seemed eerily calm. The storm had abated, and the faint rays of sunlight began to emerge. Normality seemed to have returned in the form of seagulls flying by. But there was no screeching, no chirping, no sounds at all from the flock. They soared away in quiet unison, a dozen of them, like silent witnesses to what had transpired. Yet no evidence remained of the turmoil which had engulfed the Mediterranean, no visible signs of the chaos that had existed. Beneath white cumulus clouds and in the distance three small boats drifted alone on quiet waters, remnants of the Seafarer’s Dream. From the vantage point of the gulls these three floating objects were no fishes; their food had been scarce of late, and so with no reason to linger or investigate, they moved on, gliding on air currents, as silent and unassuming as the passing clouds.
In the quietness of the vast ocean, hours trickled along. Clouds floated by, giving way to more clouds, while the sky gradually transformed from blue to a golden hue, and then purple, ushering the onset of dusk with the setting of the sun. Still the life boats drifted, silently and mysteriously.

14.

Dawn arrived, heralding the arrival of more gulls and a promise of a bountiful day.
A school of fishes had congregated to spawn the next generation providing a opportunity for hungry gulls and sea eagles. The tranquillity which had reigned for almost a day was unashamedly broken by the screeching of preying birds. Food was aplenty and a great number of them perched upon the edge of the boats, noisily and excitedly announcing the good news. A few gulls cocked their heads, witness to the initial stirring of horses, which were showing signs of life. Their eyes opened, they staggered from the base of the boat to a standing position, shaking their manes, and whinnying. And with their movement and noise, coupled with the tugging of ropes and the sounds of provisions being shifted, the survivors on all three remaining boats slowly started to regain consciousness. Breathing grew more pronounced, more audible. Faces twitched. Fingers started to move, then hands before eyes opened, then legs. The sailors groaned and yawned themselves into activity, as did Rearke, Jim, Morgan and their guests.
Once aware of his surroundings, Mahmould instinctively looked for his family and reached out to them as their eyes opened, his hands grasping Ester’s and Raghei’s. They exchanged grateful, relieved looks. Some shuffling sounds behind Mahmould caught his attention. He turned to see a familiar but concerned face, crowned by straggly grey hairs where a bicorn hat had once sat.
“Rearke!”
The captain’s face broke into a thin smile. He extended his hand, which Mahmould shook. They sighed, savouring the moment, realising what they had been through together.
“Promised you, didn’t I?”
Mahmould nodded, smiling, before gazing around, watching the weary sailors embracing one another.
“You promise them too?”
It was all Rearke could to do to pat Mahmould on the shoulder.
“Hey Captain…”
Rearke responded to the young voice.
“Jenson!”
The young lad was nursing a shoulder injury, his forehead was bruised.
“You okay?”
“Aye, Captain. I will be.”
“Good lad.”
Rearke quietly looked at each and everyone of his surviving crew, bruised, bloodied and battered. As their eyes locked, each responded in his own way. Some nodded their acknowledgement, others gave a thumbs up signal, a few gave a little salute and a couple raised their fists, both as an act of defiance against the damage nature had inflicted upon them, and as a symbol of their strong will to survive. Finally Rearke’s eyes fell upon the dishevelled Egyptians. By now, Mahmould, Ester and Raghei were locked in a tight embrace.
“Are we okay now, Mama?”
Ester nodded, a tear streaming down her scarred cheek.
Raghei kissed her cheek, then kissed Mahmould’s cheek and then looked about, her eyes suddenly widening after a few seconds. In their arms she wriggled excitedly pointing something out, just beyond her father’s shoulder.
“Look Papa!”
“What is it?”
Mahmould and Ester followed her finger. She was pointing at where Jenson sat, where he was leaning against a black stallion.
“It’s our horse! It didn’t die. We have our horse again!”
She hugged her parents again, as Mahmould’s eyes came across Rearke’s.
“Thank you, Captain. Sorry I doubted you..”
“No need. We’re now brothers, survivors, all of us. A family…”
“Your men, your ship…so sorry……”
Rearke shook his head and waved the comment aside. Apologies were unnecessary.
“So what happens now?”
The captain quietly reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a small compass, clutching  it, before drawing a deep breath.
“Now, my friends…we go home….”

THE END

”

”

 

My film journey – How I create my films – Part 14

Today we shall be looking at the pre-production process and details of the shoot for The Aftermath
The first thing to consider initially was the budget, and what could be done within the obvious limitations. At the time, there was no such thing as crowdfunding. You either were rich, inherited the money, begged, borrowed or had savings. I was lucky. I had some savings. But not enough. Put it this way, a nice trip with a crew to South Africa wasn’t happening.
Given the budget, I knew that we would have an outside scene, one that somehow needed to look like South Africa, and that we had to have an internal/indoor scene. It had to be basic, which informed my writing. It was going to be a documentary style, with a journalist interviewing the principal characters Lord Chelmsford (interior scene) and for the contrast, the captured Zulu chief Cetswayo.
I considered what was required. What I could accomodate, having done my research on the costings, including hiring a studio, the costumes, travel costs to pick them up, hiring props, etc.
This is what I had:
Basic film crew; director of photography with decent camera equipment and sound person/recordist. (You always need decent sound)
(If you can afford it, I thoroughly recommend a lighting person – for this film though, I couldn’t but the sun was my ally)
A few actors drawn from a local theatre in South London, willing to get on board so long as travel expenses were met. The characters they would play would be the journalist, chief Cetswayo, Chelmsford and his bodyguard.
Hiring of the 19th Century red tunic with helmet etc… had to obviously get right measurements from the the actors, as well as a 19th century journalist outfit.
Props – including a stool for the King to be seated for the interview, as well as a musket with bayonet fixed, spears, Zulu shield and a drum. For the internal scene, props included a table, chairs, glasses and a carpet.
The other location – and we got lucky, as it was on a bright summer day, was Epping Forest. And except for the odd tree, it looked like Zulu-land in South Africa.
My expenses also had to take into account editing, and sound/music effects.
This was a two day shoot; one in Epping Forest, and the other in the Studio, and 5 days set aside for editing.
My advice; do the research, find out how much things, and people cost; not forgetting travel expenses, price of editing for a day and of course, the availability of actors. By all means you can write your script prior to that, but be prepared to alter it in light of the realities of not just the expense, but also on the day. A couple of actors in crucial roles did not appear, so a quick script change was required. I ended up not just being the director and producer but also playing one of the leading roles! You must be prepared to be flexible. Haven’t got the right weather on the day? Can the actors come back on another day, as well as the crew? Can you afford to pay for another day’s shoot? No? No problem. Find another way. Shoot in the rain if you have to; incorporate it into the script, or check out the location to shoot under a tree, whatever. And a word about location. Don’t just check out the price; is it suitable for your needs; do the studio owners like the fact that you have X number of people, that you’ll be banging on the drums? Are there strict rules regarding the volume? Or where you can shoot? And always see what you are allowed to do, and –  as was the case for our external location – we scouted it well, like an infantry to find the best places to shoot. Remember, time is money. And don’t forget to budget for the provision of that most important of things….food! And make sure it’s enough!
I was lucky to be able to use two rooms for the internal shots; one for narration directly into the camera, the other for the interview. At Epping Forest we captured some great scenes which worked well.
The result? A half hour political documentary featuring interviews, brief scenes of conflict and tranquility, with a great narrator, and framed in beautiful scenes, music and special effects. Above all we accomplished our task. Not too shabby, for a budget of about 2K.
Most of all it looked fairly decent given the obvious limitations, and we had a great time.
The Aftermath gave a unique insight into the political underpinnings of a war made famous by Michael Caine’s Zulu; but equally important, it was the culmination of years of work, writing, research and dedication. A piece of creature work, I am most proud of, with the talents and fantastic assistance of my team, from the crew to the actors to the background personnel and last but not least, by sisters who provided invaluable support, and had their hands featured in film, banging drums, and my other sister who gazed at the camera in her beautiful narration. You can’t beat the support of your family or friends in an endeavour such as this.
I hope you have found this useful; and remember that nothing worthwhile is accomplished without obstacles, determination and belief.
That was lesson 14.
⦁ Keep going, keep writing, keep networking, keep learning and most of all keep doing. Practice makes perfect!

My film journey – How I create my films – Part 13

 

Today we shall be looking at how I began my first film, entitled, The Aftermath

I have always loved history, and in particular aspects of history rarely touched upon. When I grew fed up of watching nightly reports on every news channel about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict or the troubles in Northern Ireland, knowing that the reporters were never ever going to talk about how it all began, I realised it was time to take the matter into my own hands. For me, there’s nothing more frustrating than hearing the latest round of fighting without explaining, even on occasion, how it all began. And the news just wasn’t doing it for me. Consequently I turned to history, or more specifically, history books.

I was lucky. Around this time, I was working in publishing for a history magazine, and had access to a large number of history books. And I did get the answers I was looking for. Beyond that, and having watched the film Zulu, initially with disbelief, and then with a sense of sad realisation of the truth of it all, I came across a comprehensive book on the Zulu’s and the Zulu empire. And boy was it fascinating! After that I was inspired to do a film based on what I’d read. Of course I also read other books dealing with Shaka and the creation of the Zulu kingdom, and this helped tremendously in my preparation. At what point I thought it should be the project for my first film is uncertain. But here I could and wanted to do a film based on a part of history and a people that most of us knew little about, apart from Michael Caine’s film and the nightly report of South Africa’s Apartheid regime. But I had a problem. For a first film, and a budget next to miniscule, I knew that I wasn’t about to re-create anything even resembling the big budget blockbuster. How was I going to approach this? I decided to take a documentary approach. This was going to focus on the aftermath of that tragic war, mainly from the Zulu perspective. What were the politics behind it? Indeed what led to the war with the British and what happened after Rorke’s Drift and the battle at Isandwana? These were fascination questions with equally fascinating answers. More fascinating than even that was how I was going to do it; commit to celluloid, or videotape – as it was then – momentus events with a shoestring budget. But first the script…. In thinking about the script, and quite uncharacteristically for me, I had to be mindful of my limitation. No charging up the hill of a thousand Zulus with the Kraal in the background, and dozens of cattle dotting the landscape. Not in the UK at any rate, and not without gazillions in my bank account. Oh no. I couldn’t go large. I had to go small. Very small. Documentary style, intimate, powerful and with the key players. I considered my location, my meagre budget, my days to realistically shoot the film and that informed how the script was going to develop. I knew there wouldn’t be too many characters and I knew who the principal characters were going to be; the Zulu King Cetswayo and Lord Chelmsford. I also needed an anchor, someone to connect the two in my documentary style, and for that I opted for a journalist character. Beyond that I was going to have a number of extras, some fire in a flashback shot and at least one lavish setting among the locations.

The script was 30 pages, which equals 30 mins of screen time and I worked out that I had two days to shoot.

The objective was to be practical, adjusting the script to suit the tools at my disposal as the producer, writer and director of the film.

That was lesson 13.

• My lesson 13In part 14 we shall look at how I put the pieces together.
• Understanding the pre-production process, as I fashioned the script in accordance with what I could realistically achieve.

My film journey – How I create my films – Part 12

Hi readers

Today, we will be looking at Dialogue.

One of the most fascinating things I fell in love with when writing my stories was the endless variety of conveying thoughts and ideas through the words of a character. The English language is truly beautiful and we can thank all the different cultures that contributed to it, including the Normans, Saxons and Vikings.

I love words. My characters would come out with lines like “to whom it may concern, rest assured ye gentlemen that in my capacity as warlord within the lands hither, I’d do my utmost in this most grave hour. Beyond the shires, I will indeed invoke the spirits of my ancestors, and thus ensure that before the sun sets, victory shall lie within our grasp!” Say what? Well, this story was based within a mythical, magical, medieval realm. All that “King Arthur” stuff is really groovy. In fact I read a great deal of books with dialogue like that. Then I looked at the dialogue in screenplays. Let’s just say it’s different. Now, don’t get me wrong; there’ll still be historical-based films where you’d get a smattering of that kind of dialogue; perhaps more in the past than you would get today, but even on a contemporary level, a character might come up with, “when I saw you across the room, I felt we were meant to be together”. Now that’s not too bad, but honestly, how many people would utter those words….sober? More to the point, if a guy said that, how many women would believe him?

There are two main differences I learned about dialogue. 1. Brevity.

2. Realism

If we take difference number 1, what could take five or six or more words in a book’s character dialogue, should take less in a script. Remember, the idea is to convey more action or visual aspects of a story and leave dialogue where possible to a minimum.

If we take number 2, we have to make it sound like ordinary, everyday conversation.

So if we pick up the first example of our warrior promising to help win a battle, a modern translation might look and sound like this. “For those interested, know this. As war leader, I will do my best and will also pray for victory today” See how much more realistic that sounds, even with the historical-type context of the story. It is therefore shorter, and more realistic. A more streetwise modern take on it, especially if the leader in question is a gang/drug leader would sound something like, “listen ya’ll. I’m the badass motherf….. round here, and their ass is ours!” Too strong? Maybe. Realistic? Hell yes. We don’t even need to make prayers.

If we pick up on our next example, when the guy falls for a girl, it could come across like this, “as soon as I saw you I knew it!” Those would be his words. Short and sweet, inviting the girl to respond, most likely with, “knew what?” And in the script, the character would simply smile a sweet smile and nod gently, as if to say, “yes you’re the one.” Though he won’t actually say it. See how much more powerful that is? More realistic.

Ultimately, how I learned to write good dialogue was to listen very carefully to what people say everyday, minus the swearing hopefully – unless called for in the context of character and situation – (and I’m assuming we are writing a contemporary story here) and then substitute that for my “writers’ dialogue” which tends to flow and be all flowery. Also when actions can convey dialogue instead, use it.

So here’s another example, just made up. In a story, the character approaches people on the street and says “I’m Captain Kramer of the special police branch, investigating the disappearance of Mrs Wood, a neighbour here.” In the script this becomes, the character simply flashed his badge and said, “Captain Kramer. Have you seen Mrs Wood?” See? Short, sweet and realistic.

Here is one more made up example. In the story, a girl is comforting a well-known street beggar who has lost his beloved dog. As a story the dialogue might be like this. “Listen Joe, I heard from Mac that your dog died. I’m really sorry; I know how much he meant to you. All those years together…and it was so sudden. I just can’t convey my sympathy enough…my thoughts are with you…anything I can do for you?” But in my script, I would simply write, the girl silently strolled towards him, wiping off a single tear and sat beside him. She reached out, held him by the hand, gazing at the photo of the dog. “So sad”. They sat together in silence for a long while, then she gave him a hug, and passed a card to him. “Sorry Joe, gotta go, call me anytime.” See the difference?

The other thing I learned to do was to emphasize the difference in characters by their dialogue. While I had always done this, it was brought sharply home to me while learning to write dialogue for the screen. Take this story-type example.

“Listen Jack, I told you that if you don’t study hard, you’ll end up like me – in a deadend job. I’ve told you dozens and dozens of times. You don’t get many opportunities in life, and this one is superb. Now you have three weeks until the finals, what are you going to do about it? Well? Do you really want to end up doing what I do?” “But Paul, your work is all right. I don’t see anything wrong with it. I’m happy just doing this. We all get along. Your friends are my friends. After all, you managed all right, didn’t you?”

What does this interaction tell you about the characters?

Now try this.

“Listen Jack, I done tell ya, you gonna wind up like me if you don’t grab that bull by the horns. Ain’t no big deal doing this I can tell ya. Ya want something better, ya wanna look better, talk better. Exams coming up soon. Ya gonna go for it or what?” “But Paul, your work is all right. I don’t see anything wrong with it. I’m happy just doing this. We all get along. Your friends are my friends. After all, you managed all right, didn’t you?”

Now what does this interaction tell you about the characters? Different backgrounds, perhaps? Now try this below.

1 “Now I done tell ya, I don’t like this food” 2 “I told you, I don’t like this food”

Who was speaking the first line, Jack or Paul? See the difference dialogue and the type of dialogue does for a character? Here’s another exercise.

1. “I’d like to withdraw some money please, preferably in notes – maybe just a few coins”
2. “I wanna take out some cash now. “
3. “Hey bro, need to get out some dosh”
4. “Listen asshold, I want money”

Tell me, who is the most educated one. Number 1, 2, 3 or 4? Who is the most impatient? And who sounds like a bank robber? Who sounds like a student? Again dialogue can tell us so much about a character, and also their mood.

It is understanding the importance of brevity, realism and reading the hidden characterisations within the words, types of words used and manner in which they are used.

That was lesson 12.

• My lesson 12
• Understanding the key differences between dialogue in book form and dialogue in scripts
• Using dialogue to convey the nature or class of character, their mood, and their differences in terms of speech patterns.In part 13 we shall consider my first film, The Aftermath, continuing the story of my creative film journey. 

My film journey – How I create my films – Part 11

Hi readers

Today, we will be looking at Story versus the Screenplay.

One of the earliest things I learned was how much more visual-orientated a screenplay was compared to a story. I have touched upon how many stories tend to focus inwards on a character, examining internal thoughts and inner conflicts. Very often this is shown when the story is told in the first person singular. Scripts or screenplays, being more visual, tend to show emotions, ideas or intentions in an external way.

A quick example. A man wearing a hat is disgusted with the price of admission to a concert. Perhaps he has been speaking to a staff member in the ticket office. Maybe he has been reading the ticket rates on a board in the foyer. In a story we hear his thoughts; we read the words pouring out of his subconscious, and then the man walks away without paying. Fine. For a story. But how to show that visually for a screenplay? The trick is to do this in the best way, and that means without a single word of dialogue. Whereas stories and books relish lines of dialogue and engulf themselves in words, dialogue and yet more words via the subconscious, the best screenplays do it with few if any words. The clue is VISUAL. What we see, rather than what we hear. That’s the real difference. One answer is to show in a screenplay a close up of the eyes of the man. What does he do when he is annoyed? Do his eyes narrow in disgust. Or widen in rage. Perhaps we see him take a big sigh. He shakes his head, which even with slight movements, is clearly shown by his hat, when viewed from a distance. Or perhaps he simply grimaces and leaves. Or we can show the simplest way, of how he expresses disgust, which works from a wide shot, that’s camera term, for seeing the whole picture from a distance. He angrily chucks his hat to the ground and storms off.

With stories, the pictures form in your head; the head of the reader. In your mind, from the descriptions given, you build up an image of the characters, you imagine how they sound, you read what they truly think about the lovely buxom lady who has just entered their restaurant – their life. The dialogue, internal or spoken by one character to another, can be flowery, “regional”, beautiful, Shakespearean or poetic, not to say angelic.

With screenplays, the purpose is to tell a story as much as possible visually. It is for a larger audience, and forms the blueprint for a collaboration of many film makers, and just as a single still picture or photograph can only hint at the internal emotions of the subject, so too does the result of a screenplay, a film, of many frames (pictures) shot per second, can only hint at the internal emotions of the subject, unless the subject is DOING something. Visual – not internal, that’s the key. The best screenplays, and by extension the best films tell their stories visually, with style and without too much dialogue.

When I wrote “The Strongest Man Alive” I knew instinctively that I was writing in a more visual way than “Away with the Wind”, and this was partly because of the very visual, very action-orientated theme, and partly because of the subject matter, or theme of the story. To be sure, even the best romantic films are based on a screenplay that shows action, and action in this case doesn’t necessarily mean a couple diving into bed like a couple of Olympic swimmers, but “action” as in movement, the kind of subtle movement which shows emotions, as given in the example of the man with the hat above.

Always the thing to consider with a screenplay is how to show this scene (or part of the story) in a visual way, as opposed to doing it by dialogue. The film E.T is a film which is incredibly moving at the end, and it’s done visually. You will recall how earlier in the film when Elliot hurts his finger and says, “ouch”, ET recognised that this meant pain. Elliot did not have to clumsily say, “it hurts”. “Ouch”, the expression on his face tells us all we need to know. Therefore at the end when E.T is about to leave his friend, and his finger moves from his heart to touch Elliot and says, “Ouch” you know instantly what it means. Watch that scene again. Now watch that scene again and replace it with ET saying, “painful for me to leave you” Is that as powerful? See what I mean? Too many words there. And incidentally, ET himself says very little. In that scene, E.T simply says “come”. Elliot simply says, “stay.” That’s it. As little dialogue as possible. If this intelligent alien had learned the entire English language in a day, like the mermaid in Splash (and by the way, I do like Daryl Hannah, and the film too), and chatted like everyone else, do you think the ending would have been as powerful? “Oh please come with me, Elliot, we can’t break this bond, we’d always be together, you’d love my world, all my people would love you like I do, it would be wonderful…..blah…blah….blah…”

Take the example of the plants springing to life when Elliot had thought ET had died. As soon as he saw the plants springing up (a VISUAL clue) he knew that ET was back! No need for boring dialogue like, “Elliot I’m alive!” No sh** Sherlock. I would never have known for sure as dead people speak to me all the time! Good grief!

In First Blood Part II, after John Rambo’s girlfriend dies in Vietnam, when he has finished burying her, having wrapped around his neck her good-luck pendant, his hands in mud, clenching fist, then he picks up his crossbow, rises slowly and looks out, you know this guy is seriously pissed off! His eyes, his facial expression says it all. He doesn’t even need to shout in rage. And visually the rain helps too. It won’t just be raining water either….

In Pyscho, you know there’s trouble brewing. A mysterious house shrouded in darkness not far from Bates motel. When Norman Bates comes running down to see his guest, already something is not quite right. Then it gets worse. The empty motel, the business with selecting the room key..his quirky movements, pauses, hesitation, awkward silences, uncertainty, unable to say, “bathroom”, wanting to have her share his meal with him in the office, then not in the office, then in the room covered with stuffed birds bearing down on the Janet Leigh’s character, as though advertising for Hitchcock’s next Birds film! Indeed the stuffed animals look like they’re about to pounce on her. Would you eat in a room like that? And that’s even before he speaks to say how “a boy’s best friend is his mother…” Yikes! Sometimes a good screenplay can tell you all about a scene with or without character involvement. Look at the landscape, the weather, the animals, the stuffed birds, claustrophobic attitude, rustling leaves, blood trail, haunting mood – and the music helps too. And yes, even the screenplay can include notes on sounds and music, in a way that a story cannot.

Unlike a story, complete unto itself, screenplays are the first stages in the process of making a film. There are many things to consider, and the script just touches upon it. The first thing you notice when you read a screenplay is the somewhat unusual approach to storytelling. Characters are introduced by name and description in bold font, or CAPITAL, and the dialogue stands out from the rest of the description by virtue of being in the centre of the page. Also certain actions are highlighted in CAPITAL. This shows where the emphasis lies, and helps to distinguish for the director and everyone involved in filmmaking, what needs to be shown and how it needs to be shown, and the actors can clearly see what words they need, and how they will express it in the context given. It certainly surprised me when I first laid eyes on it. It was a strange new world for me. So I had to learn.

FADE IN

INT. HOUSE – DAWN

There was ME, Young and ambitious. And I looked at my paper, RAISED it to my FACE.

ME
(very surprised)
How am I going to learn this new form of writing?
How will I learn to write a screenplay?

Then I sat down and STROKED MY CHIN thoughtfully, and set to work…

And so readers, that’s an example of the structure of a screenplay. When the film opens, going from a black image or a series of company logos and opens up, we FADE IN. If you were watching me in a film, then you would see me raise a paper to my face, a (camera) close up of my chin being stroked. Because that’s what the director, or screenwriter wants.

INT. HOUSE – DAWN This simply means Internal, as in the opening scene or beginning of a story based inside the house, and of course it is early morning. EXT. means external, a scene that’s set outside. Yes, there were quite a few things to learn.

But there’s more to it than just the technical structural and visual differences too. Where a novel, for example, can have a myriad of characters, a few dozen or a few hundred, screenplays tend to be condensed and consequently have fewer characters. Very often a character on film can be a composite of many other characters in a story upon which the screenplay was based. The reason is simple. A thousand page novel has lots of time to introduce and build up characters and atmosphere and storylines and gradually bring them to a crescendo in a final outcome. A 120 page screenplay has to do the same job in a fraction of the time. Consequently not only can we not have too many characters in a screenplay, but things have to be trimmed down.

Another example.

A story can take many pages to depict a character who is fed up with the world and the politics of the world; he is a loner and has many past reasons for being so. We can read the thoughts of his mind and get a clear picture of the character. He can even voice his views to many people within the pages of the story. The challenge is how to show this visually and quickly in less than a page of script. Simple. The film or script opens up with a dishevelled man in a lonely apartment, no pictures of loved ones, few items in the house, and we see him disgruntled, a TV in the background. After adverts the TV then shows a politician speaking. The man sums up the energy to stroll over and switches off the TV in disgust. The telephone answer machine pips up, and a voice says “we haven’t seen you in ages? Why don’t you answer the phone?” Then he switches of answer machine and unplugs the phone. That tells you everything. Below is how I would write it as a screenplay.

FADE IN:

EXT. TOWN VILLAGE – DAY

A row of cottages on a quiet street. A speeding car breaks the silence. Passes a brown cottage. We CLOSE IN on a brown thatched cottage set slightly apart from the others.

INT. MESSY COTTAGE LOUNGE – DAY BRIAN COBSON, an unshaven man, unkempt wearily gazes out the window. We HEAR TV ADVERTS in the background. COBSON still gazes out. Then we hear VOICE OF POLITICIAN.                                                 V.O. (means voice over)
We need a new kind of politics, this country cannot
continue to carry on this way. If I’m elected I promise..

COBSON suddenly seems wide awake. He turns away, strolls towards TV. He SIGHS. Switches it off. Then telephone rings. Answer machine BEEPS. Recording starts.

V.O.
Brian darling, where are you? Why don’t you answer
the phone? It’s been ages since we all last saw you.
Please answer….

COBSON SIGHS again and switches off the machine.

And, that is how I’d start the screenplay. In this short time we know that he doesn’t care about his room, his appearance or speaking to anyone. He doesn’t mind gazing out the window, and listening to adverts, but he has no time for politicians. That’s how it’s done. Short and simple, much like the sentences and dialogue in the script. Sentences and descriptions are short, as it depicts camera shots, and angles. Sentences do not deliberately flow as they would in a story.

That was lesson 11.

• My lesson 11
• Understanding and implementing the story in the structure of a screenplay.
• Keeping characters and descriptions simple and above all visual to illustrate the characters, their intentions and storyline.Next week, in part 12 we shall consider Dialogue, continuing the story of my creative film journey.

 

My film journey – How I create my films – Part 10

Hi readers

Today, we will be looking at completing the story.

Having considered my protagonist, his allies, the antagonist, building the narrative with smaller goals to achieve the objective, adding conflict between the characters as well as the major conflict, and having successfully covered Acts 1 and 2, I was in the middle of Act 3, knowing the story was almost complete.

Once I had developed my story ideas and put meat on the bones of the story, The Strongest Man Alive, I realised that its completion had to cover all elements. That the resolution had to address all the problems that had been raised, and this did not simply cover the concept of defeating the protagonist.

To fully complete the story, to ensure that the reader had a fantastic journey, every doubt, dream, ambition or fear had to be laid to rest, or achieved. To be sure, this does not happen in every story. But for me, given that the story ran for a few hundred pages, I needed to be sure that everything was covered. No room for “if’s or but’s or how’s”

While in my opinion no writer can fully satisfy the ideas or thought processes of the readers with regards to characters or plots, or even be sure that the resolutions achieved meet with expectations, certainly the resolutions have to be met.

So what did I consider?

1. Character growth. Our protagonist has been through a series of adventures and had to suffer and watch others suffer the same fate, if not worse. By the end, he would be a changed man.
2. Inner resolution. Any personal demons or qualms or concerns deep within his subconscious would be resolved by the end of Act 3.
3. Each small objective. Each of the obstacles which helped build the narrative would be addressed in one way or another.
4. Friends of our protagonist – their aspirations or fears. Just as with our protagonist, each aspiration or fear had to be met in some way, resolved to some degree if not fully.
5. Conflict between friends. Whatever differences which originally existed between Nevadon and his allies, or whatever problems arose between them, in their course of their mission, would be resolved. If not in its entirety, then at least partially. An understanding at the very least would be achieved.
6. Answering the question. This can be considered to be part of the first question or obstacle. Where are the people in the village? This has to be emphatically answered, as it was the initial catalyst of the whole journey.
7. Defeating the adversary. This is the ultimate goal and must be addressed satisfactorily, at least comprehensively. The readers would have gone through a few hundred pages to get here. While there is no gun for this fantasy, a simple, single swipe of the blade to end him or it, would not do. In completing this resolution, as part of the story, I considered the strength and resources of the villain, and all the obstacles that he/it was able to put in place. Consider the real life character of Napoleon (not to suggest he is necessarily a villain – conquerors, saviours or tyrants are named depending on which side of the fence you’re on); he had practically conquered all western Europe. The Duke of Wellington alone was never ever going to defeat him. Nor would it be in a simple battle. See what I mean?
8. How the experiences had changed the survivors. I did not go into too much detail here, but it was addressed. If you’d been held captive for weeks – and depending on your captor, and the type of environment you were in, and how you were treated – you’d be changed too. Your outlook based on your experiences would have changed.
9. Bringing all these elements together. Whether a sequel is being considered depends greatly on the answers to these questions, how indeed the characters have developed, how they feel within themselves and towards their allies, their villains and fellow man. But at least this would be stated.
10. By answering these questions, I completed the journey of our characters, and this being my personal plot-driven extravaganza, I opted to end this on a positive note.

But that was lesson 10.

• My lesson 10
• In completing the story, be sure to address all questions posed throughout the story and show how this has affected all the major characters as they finally resolved their issues.

• Next week, in part 11 we shall be looking at story versus the screenplay.

My film journey – How I create my films – Part 9

Hi readers

Today, we will be looking at building the interest and objectives in the narrative.

As I was developing my story ideas and putting meat on the bones of the story, The Strongest Man Alive, I realised that it was not enough to simply say this is our hero, this is our antagonist, this is the objective, and our hero has friends to help him with the mission. Why should we care about the hero? Why should the story interest us? Furthermore, how can we build on that interest, and the objectives of the character in the narrative?

Here’s an example; our detective is our hero and has discovered the problem, a murder – which must be solved. He has to follow a trail of clues, interrogate suspects, examine the crime scene and effectively go on a mystery tour. We do not discover who the real culprit is until the final part of the story, where he then apprehends the murderer. Depending on whether you are watching a TV show of the “Murder She Wrote” variety or reading a book or an Independent-type film, the final piece of the jigsaw would see the villain either calmly get taken into custody, make a mad but brief dash for freedom or have some big fight scene.
In general, in these types of story, the typical rule of introducing the crook early on would not only never work, but be pointless. It’s a different kind of story. In other words, yes, a problem is introduced early on, but it is the result of the action of a villain, not the revelation of the villain. And that’s what my hero was going to embark on; a journey of discovery, following the gruesome clues or breadcrumbs, which manifested themselves in abandoned towns and horrible rumours. It was an extension of the seemingly natural disaster of Away With the Wind, but leading onto the main culprit, whose revelation would come only right at the end.

If we have purchased a book containing 500 pages, we are going to invest time in the characters and story. We are going to enjoy a good comprehensive examination of them and their world and follow their journey with them. On the other hand, if we are watching a film on TV, and we are not gripped very quickly by a problem our nice chap is having, well…..we are going to reach for the TV remote. If a film is ponderous, achingly slow to get going, then the critics will lambast it, and nobody would want to head off to the cinema to see it. Like the villains in countless movies, the story itself becomes a character in this one respect; the story must get off its comfortable sofa and grab our attention by the throat. We want drama, we want action, and we want it quickly. And this can equally be applied to even romantic comedies. Things had better happen very quickly on film. In the Strongest Man Alive, needless to say, it didn’t take very long for our hero to discover his problem.

Here’s an example. Take the simplest of stories.Let’s call this story. “The Tea saga”. But it’s really simple. A teacher gets visited by his friend one day; a friend he hasn’t seen in years. The teacher is surprised, welcomes his friend with open arms and says, “take a seat, I’ll make some tea.” Simple right? Not really. Not if I want to make a story out of this. Not if you want to build interest and the objective of making and receiving tea. After all, what’s so special about tea, you might ask. And by the way, I’m making this up as I go along. If the friend sits in the living room, then I can see my task being harder or near enough impossible. And I’ll tell you why. Unless our friend can see what’s happening the conflict that we need won’t really work for what I have in mind. Our friend will sit in the kitchen, and he will watch the teacher make the tea. So far, so good, right? Wrong. If they think alike nothing happens. A pleasant conversation, tea gets made and drunk, he departs. No harm, no foul. What a lovely cupper. The end. Boring. However, although they’re friends; they think differently about things. I can extend this to hygiene, Feng Shui and even the types of portraits hanging on the ceiling. But it’s a simple story, so we’ll limit this to tea. And for extra simplicity, let’s assume both like PG Tips, but our friend has a way he likes his tea to be made. So he keeps complaining and instructing the teacher as the tea is being made. Water is not the right temperature, milk is wrong type of milk, or not enough, the cup is not quite right, the tea bag is not brewed right, it’s even the wrong tea bag, but as you are using the square ones, it must be like so and so. You can imagine how this will begin to irritate the teacher. Yes, they’re good old friends, but either they’ve been apart for so long, and forgotten their differences (perhaps that’s why they’ve not been in touch for so long) or it’s just that when it comes to making tea, they’re simply poles apart. Now whether I decide to turn this into a comedy or horror depends on what characteristics I decide to give them. I could make the friend sigh and do it himself, except that his character trait is that he’s clumsy and virtually breaks or threatens to break every utensil in the kitchen, when not falling over himself, or I could make this a horror. The teacher has been spending the last few months in a rehab for violent behaviour after witnessing the mugging and death of his wife. He’s prone to violence and the trigger for this is any criticism of his pride and joy. And his pride and joy is making tea. Either he’d spent time in India or China, or learning the trade in a café specialising in the art of tea. And by the way he has an Uzi 9mm stashed in one of the kitchen drawers. See? Conflict. It can be large or small, but tells us about characters and keeps things interesting as we seek to solve the major problem in the story.

What makes a story interesting on a fundamental level, for me, is an interesting character. Then it’s closely followed by an interesting plot. An interesting plot without an interesting character ends up being bland, even predicatable. An interesting take on a government conspiracy plot or alien abduction is boring if the hero turns out to be a troubled detective with a skill for shooting. However if the alien abduction is being conducted by the president in secret, because his relatives were conspiracy theorists, his uncle an astronomer, and his mum a secret occult worshipper, who has discovered a rare artefact that may hold the clues to communicating or at least understanding the reasons for abduction…well, I think you can agree that it’s more interesting than a copper contacting S.E.T.I and the FBI and saying, “bring your choppers, radars and bazookas. We’re going to nuke that mother…”

By giving my characters layers, quirks, unique things about them, and their perspective on life and how to accomplish the goals at hand, I was able to bring interest to the story.

The building of objectives is very important. There is a major goal, and to achieve that, our heroes must discover and tackle minor goals in place to reach that. Solving the little puzzles and clues which escalate brings us a step closer, and arms us with enough information, to get the bigger picture and resolve the problem. The objectives build up to the final objective. The clues our detective was gathering and solving was leading to a picture of the means, motive and opportunity  – thereby, painting a portrait of the murderer.

Nevadon, the hero of the story had one simple objective. Find out why this village is abandoned.
But the answer to that grew, as clues and discoveries were made, leading to other objectives; how big is this problem really?
So the first smaller goal was to discover the size of the problem.
How many other places have suffered like this? Another smaller objective to be resolved.
Who is the culprit? Yet another objective.
Where does he live? Goal 4
How can it be stopped? Task 5
What do I need? Task 6
How can I recruit the right people? Task 7
How can I trust them? Task 8
How long will it take? Task 9
How long before the next disaster? Task 10
How can we stop this? Task 11
Do we have what it takes? Task 12

All these questions generating smaller objectives, and indeed how our characters seeks to resolve them builds the narrative and keeps us invested in both him and the story. And that’s how you do it. And the story can be as simple as having an old friend round for tea. What could possibly go wrong?

But that was lesson 9.

• My lesson 9

By understanding the motivations and differences in characters which informs their decisions or decision-making process we become interested in them. Adding conflict helps to keep the story interesting and moving. By adding layers or more tasks, which would enable them to solve the ultimate goal, we ensure a more interesting and ultimately fulfilling story, as each objective is achieved in the build up.

• Next week, in part 10 we shall look at completing the story.

Strange Film Titles

Ah films. I do love them. Back in the 80’s I watched “Karate Kid” and was just a little disappointed.
“Wax on, wax off”. For me it was, “Eyes open, eyes off, mouth opens, mouth yawns..”
You could hardly blame me really, I had just recently watched, “Enter the Dragon”. Didn’t see any waxing there, just good old fashion action. So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I learned that there was going to be a remake starring Jackie Chan, that superstar who blew me away with his stunts, humour and martial arts with the film, “Police Story”. Must rank within my top ten martial arts films of all time. Anyway, I was looking forward to the new “Karate Kid” starring Jaden Smith. “Karate Kid”. Good. Except, it was really Kung Fu Kid. So I sat through the film waiting for the inevitable explanation as to why a kid in China (not Japan) with Jackie Chan – a known practitioner of Kung Fu – would be learning Karate. Surely there must be a reason; even a spurious one, like it was all a dream, as was the case with an entire series of Dallas. He thought he was in China, but woke up to discover he was in Japan, right? Or at least he was learning Karate, right? Er..no. So it got me thinking about other strange, if not misleading, film titles. “Enter the Dragon”. Well, this works once you accept that Bruce Lee was born in the year of the Dragon (Chinese calendar). Obviously, it’s not a fantasy, and it most certainly isn’t about a real “fire-breathing” dragon. If I featured in the film, it would be, Enter the Taurean (Western Star sign), or sticking with the Chinese theme, Enter the Monkey. See how it works?
So let’s move on. Another film, “The Madness of King George” had to stay I guess, because, “The Madness of King George III” would have led some people to believe they had missed the prequels. How about “Bullet Proof Monk”? Well, yes, but in real life the Chinese used bullets and easily overran Tibet. Hmm…Let’s look at another. “The Great Escape”, a good film. But “The Great Escape” really should have been entitled, “The Great Escape attempt”. I mean, really, how many prisoners actually escaped to freedom? Oh, but it gets better with some of these film titles. Check this one out – “The Neverending Story”. Or loosely translated, the story that never ends. We don’t even need lawyers for that one. Had I viewed that in the cinema, I believe I would have been well within my rights to get a refund. Or a partial refund, at least. This was the neverending story after all! We’ve been had! We’ve been hoodwinked! How about “A Clockwork Orange”? Sounds like Terry’s Allsorts, but with an orangey chocolatey, clockwork centre – good for those who haven’t got much time for the chocolatey munchies. If you hadn’t seen the film, and were asked to comment on what you think it would be about, let’s just say that the rehabilitation of a serious offender would not have sprung to mind. I mean, honestly, the marketing department? What drugs were they taking? “And my next film will be about a jewellery heist. Gonna call that, A Needlework Raspberry”. Really? What about the self-explanatory, “Eraserhead” by David Lynch? And no, it’s not about a school kid having trouble with his rubber (or eraser, for our American cousins). Then there’s “Trainspotting”, Danny Boyle’s social film about a bunch of guys in anoraks, sitting by the railway tracks, binoculars in hand, looking to spot fast-moving and unusual trains, right? Sorry, I was going by the title, not the film. But what a great film. Of course, “Drug-heads” doesn’t smoothly roll off the tongue, and well…maybe not the best title in the world. But let’s move onto that wonderful canine film for all you animal lovers out there; the beautifully shot and emotionally satisfying “Reservoir Dogs”. I swear, I will never look at dogs the same way again. Now, moving on, “Apocalypse Now” must be about the future holocaust, after the nuclear war – until you watch it. But what about the films starring animals? You know, Animal Farm? Or that other “farm” film, “Silence of the Lambs”? Did we even see a single lamb in the film? Surely in some bizarre dream sequence, no? A character falls asleep and sees something weird, like in “Blade Runner”? Maybe he dreams of lamb chops with some chianti? As for Blackula, let’s not even go there…jeez what kind of imagination is required for that? If we have a black cop, do we call him, blop? And you wonder why it’s a flop? Dear oh dear oh dear. Brings tears to the eyes, which brings us neatly onto “The Crying game”. Except I didn’t cry. Nearly choked on my nuts though. My peanuts. Funny thing that, it did have something to do with….er, let’s move on. What’s that? Should’ve been called something else? It certainly was… As for “Full Metal Jacket”, why, I was at least expecting one bullet-proof vest. But there you go.
Of course we can dip into that reservoir of really dodgy names and pull out a whole net of remarkable titles; titles I suspect whose weirdness was matched only by the film’s premise, or marketing campaign. Examples include classics like “Phffft” (1954) starring Judy Holliday and Jack Lemon, “SSssss” (1973) and my favourite, “Santa Claus conquers the Martians (1964), and the real selling point? Check out the poster, “It’s in Blazing Color!” Yep.What the blazes…? Santa? Martians? How did the reindeers get up there? Does it snow much on Mars? But what can I say, except “Eegah”! (1962). So in conclusion, it’s all “Too Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar”.

My film journey – How I create my films – Part 8

Hi readers

Today, we will be looking at the three act structure; beginning, middle and the end.

As touched upon in chapter 4,

Act 1 covers the introduction of our characters. Certainly our main characters. We find out who they are, what motivates them or not, and introduce a problem which has to be solved. End of Act 1

Act 2 How they go about solving the problem. A solution is found. End Act 2.

Act 3 This is actually the process by which they solve the problem.

So let’s examine these acts in more detail.

A typical screenplay would have 30 pages to cover Act 1. We are introduced to the hero, finding out about his or her situation, friends, family, work etc.and then the problem which must be resolved – which is usually laid bare almost simultaneously with the appearance of the characters’ nemesis. This does not always have to take human, or even alien form, it can be a crane shot of lava bubbling deep within a volcano, or an approaching hurricane, or even the first tentative signs of an earthquake. Stories, certainly novels, take longer to build this up, and I must confess that while writing my second novel, The Strongest Man Alive, it took a while. And here’s why; the problem – which revealed itself earlier on – was a symptom of the actions of our anti-hero. This meant that our protagonist, Nevadon, was following breadcrumbs on a voyage of discovery, and as there was going to be an element of surprise, it would not do to reveal the antagonist just yet. In the film Alien, the true revelation of the size and sheer hostility of their beast only manifested itself later, well past Act 1. But the problem in Act 1 to be solved other than how they were getting back home was how to deal with the creature which had attached itself to the character played by John Hurt. Personally I prefer this approach; it’s a bit of a guess work as to what foul deeds we will discover before the ultimate revelation of the enemy and showdown. Guess that’s why I love Predator so much. However, a very successful typical Act 1 structure is shown in a fantastic film where we see our hero and villain early on; size them up quickly and then it’s cat and mouse games all the way. For me not many films execute this with the precision and style that produced this visual treat and spawned its obvious sequels. What am I talking about? I’m talking about Die Hard. Once again it depends what kind of story you’re telling. Act 1 also gives us a chance to examine carefully the character traits of our hero – who should be likeable and relatable – and our antagonist, or the type of antagonist we will most likely be dealing with, depending on the crime scene laid out. It shows us their relationships, existing problems, and/or their existing hopes or aspirations before the problem is foisted upon them, unless it is part of their job of course. A typical screenplay would introduce us to a character who has a problem; divorced, drunk, depressed, dangerous, desperate. Of course the adjectives don’t all begin with “d” either. Our hero, who can be a child, might be a bit lonely, like in ET, or is fed up with their job, or society. The point is the hero cannot be a happy, contented, squeaky-clean goody two shoes. Not in film anyway. Apparently we don’t like to watch flawless characters. Not saying that my character didn’t have problems, but he was pretty average and reasonably happy when we are introduced to him. Once again stories tend to take a different path. A book at least some 500 to 1000 pages in length has the luxury of time to build up the character and chart his journey, as well as his friends, in a way in which a film cannot do. A typical film has to drive the story on very quickly. Certainly very quickly compared to a story.

Act 2 – The longest Act.

This is where all the fundamental elements are fused together. Taking what was established in Act 1, we build up the characters, their reactions to the problem, their steps to resolve it – and they may fail first time around – the problems may build or escalate, threatening them, their lives, or love lives or reputation, or even the world. And then when they are about to be captured, or killed or have almost lost all hope, then they have a Eureka moment. Like Jeff Goldblum’s character in Independence Day, they discover a way to solve the problem. In his case, it’s the virus. In the Strongest Man alive, our hero not only discovers a problem, but while trying to solve it, stumbles upon another problem and then another. It’s escalating. These problems, these abandoned villages are all interlinked – they are all connected in some way. They are all part of a bigger problem. It’s not just a question of trying to find out what happened to all the villages of a town, but what happened to all the villages of all the other towns! And as the rumours begin to circulate about the culprit and the mysterious forbidden zone, he realises that he’s going to need help. As much as I enjoy a Superman, a Rambo or Commando storming or flying into a situation and single-handedly (or near enough single-handedly) wiping out the town full of bad guys and heading off into the sunset or sky, appropriate female in hand, I much prefer team work. For every fantastic John McClane or Man With No Name in a Fistful of Dollars, I much prefer The Magnificent Seven or A Team or Mission Impossible. Even the team in Predator. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always gravitated towards realism. Funny that, since I preferred Science Fiction stories to thrillers. But here’s the thing; when you have a team, you have two things. A numerical advantage, as any number greater than one has to be better than a sole warrior, and helps the odds of a mission being more successful, even if that sole warrior is talented. After all what’s he going to do if a virus comes and bites him on the ass? Can’t exactly bazooka the virus in your own body. Also, I love the fact that as individuals – never mind a commando or international rescue team – we all have our own talents and skills. Each person is good at something. And I think way back when, in Ghana, when I was first introduced to the sixties TV show, Mission Impossible. I loved the concept. Perhaps I subconsciously took inspiration from it. The A Team is basically an updated version it, except they are fleeing the government and have a guy who can fly and is nuts. Nevadon, our hero, began recruiting or being introduced to colourful characters, each of whom specialised in a particular set of skills. God, I sound like Liam Leeson in Taken.” I have a particular set of skills…” So our protagonist builds a team around him, and we see how he interacts with each of them and how they react to each other. Egos versus skills, and this brings up another important ingredient in this case that is Act 2; conflict. We have the large, ultimate conflict of our hero achieving his goal of destroying evil in whatever form; but then we have the smaller conflicts too. When I was studying screenplays, one of the first, most important things I learned was that no two characters can think alike. And yet I somehow knew this instinctively, based on the films I’d watched. This creates a dynamic, some tension. We will discuss this in further depth later. Nevadon has to ensure some harmony among his team; he needs them, but must manage them. His team is an alliance of various egos and concerns, but manages them he does in a task fraught with danger, on a journey filled with peril. And he is able to establish clearly the strengths and weakness of his principle team members. In this act he comes face to face with the challenges and final obstacles that must be overcome in order to achieve his goal and emerge victorious.

Act 3 – The Resolution.

At this point, we have the final conflict based upon the analysis of the situation, sizing up the enemy, negotiating the best route to find the lost people, employing the strategic and tactical advantage they have. The outcome is by no means certain. Nevadon’s team come across unexpected opposition, the enemy reveals things they had not anticipated, threatening to dissolve the co-operation between them. Each man in Nevadon’s team finds himself stretched beyond belief, each Amazon finds themselves examining their conscious and self-belief, and all the while chaos rages around them. They get split up. Suddenly they are being influenced by events beyond their control rather than the other way round. Out of nowhere springs up multiple objectives, and each principle protagonist is assigned or finds themselves by fate in charge of one of the major goals. Each one knows that should he or she fail, then the overall mission fails. So interwoven are they. People need to be located and quickly, then rescued. A hostile environment has to be avoided, battles need to be fought, and the culprit vanquished. In this section all the elements come together, the culmination of Acts 1 and 2. The establishing of the characters, their fears, hope and dreams. The discovery of a problem and the journey involved in analysing this, and seeking out friends and solutions to deal with this – all elements leading to this one overall objective, split up into many. It is about the last half hour of a film – this is the final resolution. We know the characters, we know the villain, we know the goals of each, we have the location, we know the tools (or most) of each, and now for the final showdown. In The Strongest Man Alive, this takes place in a mountain in the forbidden zone; an environment which has all the natural advantages for the antagonist and raises the challenges of the protagonist. If there are traps, only the villain knows. Secret passages? The same. Loose dangerous footing among the rocks and ledges? You can be sure that the good guys will find out the hard way, and at a price. But it is here where we find out more about the strength and resolution of our heroes; here we discover what it takes to truly fight for your dreams, your aims, your mission, against all the odds. And the odds are indeed frightening. This becomes the clash of titans, and the winner takes all. And like Tolkien’s Return of the King, this is not a short engagement; every player has a great deal to win – or to lose. This is Act 3.

That was lesson 8.

• My lesson 8
• To make the final clash between the forces of the protagonist and antagonists really powerful, exciting and worthy of the time spent reaching this part of the story. All characters were going to be heavily involved in the drama and action in the final phase of their mission.

• In the final resolution, we would still learn about our heroes, we would still discover things on both sides of the battle; we would be surprised and shocked; frightened and grateful, excited and filled with a sense of foreboding. But that at the end of the journey, at the end of Act 3, we would have a definitive and satisfying answer. There would be surprises, but the epic journey and mission would have been fully upheld by the way the final battles were fought, by the way the characters conducted themselves and the outcome, either way, would be logical and satisfying. Here is where the story finally ends.

• Next week, in part 9 we shall consider in detail how to build the interest and objectives in the narrative.

My film journey – How I create my films – Part 7

Hi readers

Today we are looking at Antagonists. Who are they? Well they are the main characters in opposition to the heroes of the story. You might recognise them by the white cats they tend to stroke on their secret island base, their maniacal laughter which is joined by their henchmen, their ransom demands on the police or threats to innocent people; perhaps they have a tendency to wear black, and might even have a mask and sound asthmatic, or else they might be seen escaping from a bank robbery, or a murder, or chasing innocents while brandishing a cleaver. That’s when the story tends to be “based on earth” of course, and could include dodgy lawyers, sadists, accountants or Gordon Gecko type species of human. They also tend to love guns and all things nuclear, like we love tea and cakes. And when you see them with cases of white powder, trust me, it’s not sugar. As stated previously, my next story was going to be plot-driven. My good characters were going on an adventure and were going to be equipped with some real talent, and for that reason by default the antagonist was going to be a real badass. My next story was going to merge historical fact with fiction. As there was going to be a strong fantasy element, I wanted some grounding in reality. A trading ship deep in the Mediterranean in the 19^th century had run into some vicious weather, which caused great tidal waves. Consequently the ship was cast aside like discarded debris and found itself drifting to a place as yet undiscovered. Some say that Atlantis was real, only it is now submerged, and we know that there are all kinds of theories about the Bermuda triangle. Even the pyramids have their alien-origin fans. Point being that if it is historical, unexplained, or contains an air of mystery or seeds of doubt, who’s to say what exactly happened? And that’s the premise I used to introduce us to a fantastic place. Once again Alice was going down the rabbit hole, this time via water. The working title of my next story was The Strongest Man Alive, and was going to be as much influenced by Greek mythology as much as the fantasy films I had seen. And that meant that my antagonist was someone who could compete with the strongest man. You see, I realised early on, that my hero could only be as good as the villain was bad, and to have a really good story, there had to be real conflict. I mean if your hero, after many months and chapters (in the case of a book) finally catches up to the villain, or antagonist, and we have the final climatic scene or chapter, where there’s going to be this great clash, and the badass whips out his giant meat cleaver, we’re going to say, “Wow. This is gonna be good.” But if by contrast the hero then suddenly whips out a pistol, all loaded and ready to go, finger on the trigger, we might as well say, “oh crap. I’ve spent a week reading this and after 600 pages the hero solves it in a single shot, bang!” What kind of anti-climax is that? The longest foreplay ever, and I wake up the following morning and say, “is that it?””
While working on my second story, I knew that as the characters and the story developed, I was steadily building the climax, and for that reason, my antagonist was going to be really powerful, really mean. And we had to really, really hate him (or her). The villain was going to make our hero suffer, and work incredibly hard just to keep up, much less defeat him. At this point in time, my villain was not fully formed yet, but this much I knew: he – in this case – was going to at least be equal in size and wisdom to our hero. But he would have an edge – his syncophants, his henchmen. And our guy would have to go through serious challenges to outwit him, physically and mentally to overcome his diabolical scheme. And that was going to be my challenge. How does one compete with the strongest man? Well if you’re Marvel Studios, and your guy has powers developed by a special serum; then your bad guy must have something similar if not more powerful. My hero was going to develop superhuman strength like Hercules and Excalibur all rolled into one. Therefore there had to be some sorcery to seriously empower the antagonist. But not only would the villain match and exceed the powers of our hero, but he would have a whole army to boot. And I knew then, that this was going to be a good story. We have a serious villain. “The strongest man alive” was not set in modern times, so there were no guns. And it wouldn’t have made a difference. However if it did, and say our hero had a Kalashnikov, then trust me, his opponent would have an M16, an Uzi and a bazooka. Not only that, but standing behind him would be an army of gun-toting thugs. As a book, this would not end with one sentence. The final conflict was going to be superb. And long too – to justify the patience of the reader, and the trials undertaken by the characters. And by making our villain so formidable, I had just upped the ante, given our hero more to consider in order to outwit his foe and destroy his schemes, and also I had stretched the arc of the story. This would involve more elements, and as I wrote, the Strongest Man alive began to evolve from a single cell small story to a multi-cell novella. And I was barely out of chapter 3!

That was lesson 7.

• My lesson 7
• By making the antagonists really powerful, our hero must therefore rise to the challenge, and have or must develop skills or means by which the evil can be defeated. And this was going to impact heavily on the direction the story was taking, as well as the characters involved.
• Knowing that we have a powerful villain meant that the trials of the hero would be greater and therefore lengthen the time the hero takes to stop the antagonist, and by default increase the adventures we were undertaking. Next week, in part 8 we shall consider The Three Act Structure, continuing the story of my creative film journey.