I watched Samir running his fingertips through the fine red dusting on the side rail. He was gazing out at the coastline, unchanging, veiled in mist. He turned, smiling. ‘Sahara,’ he said in that tone people have when they speak of home. I touched the St Christopher at my throat. The journey was coming to an end and another was about to begin. Mohammed in his loincloth, eyes closed, was bowing in prayer, his words a chant, rhythmic and familiar, though I had no idea what they meant. When Samir called, Umah leaned out of the wheelhouse and listened like a nervous bird as the sheikh rattled out his orders. I followed Samir back to the cabin. Beside the chest where the whip lay coiled was a trunk with a curved lid that Samir threw open. He tossed out pieces of clothing I had never seen him wear, cotton shirts, pantaloons, robes, a scarlet kaftan, cloth for turbans, decorative belts, a brooch with a spider like the pendant he wore, the golden-limbed creature holding a pearl in its claws.
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