The Passage
Ricardo Alpert was a nothing-man. He was empty. Hollow. Transparent. The heavy iron manacles which chained him to the man in front and bit painfully into the already-raw skin of his wrists, had the magical ability to make him invisible. He knew this, because as he was marched through the bustling hot streets of Santa Cruz de Tenerife, towards the sprawling docks which stretched out along the bay, the eyes of men and women passed right over him. To them, he did not exist. He was no longer a man. He was property, and the free-men and free-women who went about their daily business paid him no more attention than they would a mule or an ox.
He had never been to a city, and he found it a fearful place. So many bodies pressed close together, people calling to each other, men hawking their wares, women gossiping loudly, children shrieking as they ran amok between the temporary stalls and worn stone buildings... the sights and sounds and smells, all vibrant and loud and bitter as sweat, swirled around Ricardo, assaulting his nothing-eyes and his nothing-ears and his nothing-nose from all directions.
Overwhelmed by the sudden onset of claustrophobia despite the open cerulean sky above, he stumbled, and landed painfully on his knees. The crowd which did not see him parted around him, as if some instinct drove them to avoid that empty patch of street. His fall caused the man in front to jerk back, the iron chains rattling angrily. The man turned with a scowl, but then quickly looked back to the front of the procession.
"On your feet!" someone growled from behind in Spanish. Ricardo felt the lash of a whip across his shoulders a heartbeat before he heard the sound of the leather throng snapping through the air. Like a storm, the flash came before the boom.
A second crack and its preceding blossom of pain told Ricardo that his owners were in a hurry to reach the docks. He toyed briefly with the idea of staying on his knees, of pretending to be exhausted and broken. It wasn't far from the truth; it had been three days since he'd had food, almost two since he'd had water. Though his stomach was empty, the foetid smell of rotting fish which was carried by the weak sea-breeze made him want to be sick.
A third lashing of pain caused his body to spasm and his eyes to raise. To his surprise, he found himself looking at someone; someone who looked back. Someone who could see him! It was a child, a little girl, her light brown eyes roaming his face as if trying to memorise it. Perhaps children, then, were immune to the magic and illusions of the iron shackles.
The urge to speak out struck him, but he could not make his parched mouth form the words. Help me, he pleaded with his eyes, but she was only a child, and already her mother was dragging her on, into the throng of shoppers and hawkers. She disappeared from view, and took his hope with her.
Large hands grabbed him roughly from behind, hauling him to his feet. His bruised knees complained at having to support him, and just as he was about to beg for a mouthful of water to quench his thirst, the voice spoke again.
"Keep moving, slave! Captain Hanso is on a tight deadline. If you cause him to be late, the punishment will be severe."
He trudged forward, knowing it was futile to ask for compassion. A pair of shoes would receive no compassion from its owner; Ricardo himself had not shown compassion to the many tools he had used whilst ploughing and hoeing his master's fields. They were just things. Items. Inanimate slaves to humanity, as Ricardo was now a slave to his new masters.
Slave.
The word tasted bitter in his mouth. For seven years he had worked in the fields of his master, planting and tending the sugarcane, harvesting the crop when it was ready, packing it into barrels and sacks for transport back to Spain. Seven years working for a pittance, saving a small fraction of his meagre wage each week, secreting small coins away in private places, saving for the day when he could afford to pay for passage for himself and Isabella to the New World. Seven years he had slaved away in all but name, and now he would get his wish.
He would go to the New World. But he would not go as a free man. He would not step off the ship and breathe in the air of possibilities, with his wife smiling on his arm. For Isabella lay dead and buried, and he had not even been allowed to attend her funeral. Murderers did not deserve compassion, just as property did not deserve compassion. The love of his life had been buried, her service unattended.
The sea air hit him hard as the small procession came at last to the docks. The stench was unwholesome; rotting fish combined with slurry from the ships which pulled in to port. The water had a thick film of green algae covering it, which only faded to a clearer colour further out in the bay, where the tidal currents brought fresh water. To Ricardo, it seemed a place of sickness, quite unlike the open meadows and dense plantations of his master's lands. Though home was only a couple of hours' carriage ride away, it was untouched by the miasma of salty sea air and the terrible stenches it carried. It was all Ricardo could do to keep himself from retching and gagging as the foul air worked its way into his lungs and through his body.
The procession continued, the three slaves led down the hillside towards the wooden structures which reached out from the shore. Seen from above they were spindly spider-legs, each thin and flimsy, but as he neared, Ricardo saw that they weren't as tenuous as they first seemed. Though each dock was long and narrow, and they criss-crossed here and there, the wood which had made them was strong and firm underfoot, capable of withstanding the natural surges of the tide. When he was forced to step on to one of the structures, he heard the hollow echoes his feet made, and wondered how far it was from the dock to the water.
Not that he was foolish enough to consider jumping to his freedom. The only freedom beyond the edge of the pier was death, for even if he hadn't been chained to two other men, his own chains would have carried him down to a watery grave. Prepared as he was to die rather than live his remaining days as another man's property, he was not yet prepared to condemn his own soul to infierno. That was what happened to people who took their own lives; God turned his back on them, and El Diablo claimed their souls.
When at last the hollow thumping of his own footsteps ended, Ricardo found himself standing in shadow, and looked up. Before him sat a wooden behemoth, lolling gently on the water. Only once before had he ever seen a ship, and that from a great distance. It had been sailing along the skyline, fat and lazy, only just visible across the many miles from the coast. Out there, in the endless blue, it had seemed a small thing, no bigger than an ant.
Now he realised he'd had the perspective completely wrong. Ships were not ants; they were bigger than trees. Bigger than houses! These things floated on the water and were moved by the winds... but how could such a thing be so? Nothing this big ought to float. By rights, the ships should sink, or wallow and list at the first squall. Was it an act of God which kept ships afloat, or a trick of the devil?
If it was the devil, he had made his mark on this one. Ricardo spotted words painted on the back of the ship. They were English words, and they said Black Rock. He did not know what that meant, because although both words were familiar to him, in combination they made less sense. Rocks did not float; they sank. Why would somebody write sinking words on a ship? Why would they not write on there something to help keep it afloat, like leaf or feather?
One of the men in front of him began to pray, a litany of Spanish words issuing from his mouth with great fervour. Ricardo wished he could pray, but the sight of the ship had taken away all thoughts but one.
I am going to die.
He knew it, as surely as he knew the sun rose every day and set every night. Though he had never seen the ocean, he knew it was very, very large. As large as Heaven. Maybe even as large as Hell. Perhaps larger! How could such a thing as this boat, which compared to him was the size of some biblical giant, possibly survive on an ocean? As soon as it left the dock it would tip over and everybody aboard would die.
"Keep up," said one of the slave-men at the front of the procession. He rattled the chains, forcing the two before Ricardo to follow, and he had no choice but to be dragged along as well.
Forward they were marched, the deck hollow beneath their feet, until they reached a sort of bridge. It was narrow, and made of two planks of wood placed side by side. As the ship or the dock moved with the motion of the sea, the planks rose and fell. Ricardo wondered about their purpose, until, to his horror, one of the slave-men clambered up onto them and walked along them, passing from the dock to the ship.
As the slaves were forced forward, Ricardo felt his head go light, and he prayed that he would faint. His prayer went unanswered, however. One by one the slaves were made to climb up to these planks. What would happen if one of them fell over? He would surely drag the others with him. Together they would sink and drown. Suddenly, death seemed like a less favourable solution to life spent as property.
When it came his turn, he closed his eyes, and let the slaver behind guide him to the right place to step. Then, all three men shuffled forwards. The plank beneath their feet groaned and creaked, and the prayers of the man in front became louder. Ricardo wished the man would shut up. God did not care. Not anymore. The Almighty had let Isabella die. Beautiful, innocent Isabella. She had done nothing to deserve sickness. Nothing to deserve death. She had been obedient. Devout. Loving. She had never committed a sin, never blasphemed, never had any cause to anger the Lord. So if there was no hope of God helping her, then what hope was there for the rest of them?
A short eternity later, the torture ended. The slaves reached the end of the wooden planks, and landed one by one on the surface of the beast-ship. It, too, was wooden and hollow, but compared to the narrow planks it seemed a great distance away from that terrible rolling sea. Each of the chained men sank to their knees as if the boat was their salvation. But it was to be a salvation short-lived.
"Up. All of you, up."
The whip cracked, and then men forced themselves to their feet. Ricardo decided he couldn't take another step; his feet hurt from walking, not because he was weak, but because his shoes were designed for work in the field, thicker on top than on the soles to protect against accidental strikes by farming implements. Since leaving the jail where he'd been imprisoned for the murder of a rich and influential doctor, he'd been forced to walk many miles to the docks of Santa Cruz de Tenerife. And, once there, the hard cobble-stones had been painful to his feet. The soft wood of the docks had at first been a relief, but now the numbness had worn off, his blisters were starting to hurt.
The men were leg along the deck, to a patch of darkness which turned out to be a hole to the belly of the ship. All Ricardo could see were ladders leading into pure black. Suddenly, hot and thirsty as he was, he had no desire to enter the cooler hold. He felt certain that if he stepped into that patch of darkness, he would never come out of it again.
The other slaves must have felt the same, for each of them balked at the sight of the hole, as if they feared they might be swallowed and digested by that ship, by that Black Rock which would invariably sink and cause them to die. But the men were no longer people; they were property. At sword-point they were forced down into the chill black. Ricardo, desperate for something to cling to, glanced quickly around, but he saw nothing, not even a railing to which he could grasp and save himself.
A single thing caught his eye. In the far distance, El Teide stood tall and proud. Once, that volcano, quiet for nearly a century, had been a welcome sight. Now, it mocked him, speaking silently, telling him, Look at me. Look at how free I am. I am only earth and rock, but no man shall ever make me his property.
It was a cruel parting gesture, but it was something to cling to. So, as the chill shadow of the darkness claimed him, as sunlight and fresh air were taken away from him, he remembered the sight of the volcano, and tried to remember what it meant to be free.