Voyage of Slaves

Otto stepped forward. “I found him on the tideline one morning, he was almost dead. Serafina and myself nursed him back to life. Bundi is a good dog, very sensible.”

Al Misurata signalled the two guards. “Let the dog loose, now we will see who it goes to. You may call him.”

Serafina crouched, clapping her hands gently and calling, “Bundi, here boy, good dog, come on, Bundi!”

Ned trotted over to her, wagged his tail and licked her hand.

Ben shot him a concerned thought. “What do you think you’re doing, mate?”

The Labrador returned his query. “Merely saying thank you to those who saved my life. She’s much prettier than you, Ben, have you noticed?”

Otto patted the dog’s head fondly. “Good boy, Bundi!”

Ned looked at Ben and flinched. “Poor Otto, he means well, but I’m almost flattened whenever he pats me. He’s got hands like mallets!”

Ben smiled inwardly. Ned had not lost his sense of humour. “When you’re finished thanking those good people, perhaps you might come over here and prove you’re mine. If it’s not too much trouble, of course?”

Ned gave Serafina’s hand a final lick. “Coming, O impatient one. How about calling me by my real name? I wasn’t very fond of being called Bundi. Silly name, made me feel like some sort of stuffed toy!”

Al Misurata looked quizzically at Ben. “See, the dog has gone to the girl, but you say he belongs to you. Why do you not call him?”

For answer, Ben uttered the dog’s name quietly. “Ned.”

The black Labrador padded over dutifully, commenting, “Huh, your dog, their dog, his dog, her dog. Nobody’s consulted me in all this—who was it that said every creature belongs to itself alone? Must’ve been me, I suppose.”

Ben chuckled as he patted Ned’s sleek side. “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, I’m just trying to prove that we belong together. Now I’m going to ask you to do a few things to establish the fact.”

Ned replied huffily, “Oh, I’m back to being the performing Bundi again, is that it?”

Ben reflected, “Well, you seemed to be enjoying it a moment ago. Actually, you look rather cute in your little hat and neck ruffle. How about returning them to those nice folk?” He commanded Ned aloud, “Give the hat and collar back to the pretty girl, please.”

Ned managed to remove the little conical hat by rubbing his head against the ground. Scratching with his back paw, he relieved himself of the ruffled collar.

Carrying them over to Serafina, he laid them at her feet, then returned to Ben’s side. She glanced at Ben, her slow, beautiful smile melting his heart.

“He is not our Bundi, my friend, he is your Ned.”

The way in which the young black girl called Ben her friend, and the charmingly husky tone of her voice, tied the boy’s tongue in a knot. He barely managed to stammer out, “Thank you for taking care of Ned, you’re very kind.” He was aware of Ned’s doggy chuckle.

“Hoho, told you Serafina was prettier than you, mate!”

Ben savoured the name. Serafina, it was so . . . so . . .

He cut off his thoughts when he became aware of Ned; the dog was actually smirking at him.

Al Misurata interrupted any further reveries. “So, the dog really is yours, boy!” He raised his eyebrows as the dog placed his paw in Ben’s hand, as if to confirm his statement. “Remarkable, I’d swear the thing understands what I’m saying.”

Ben hastened to deny any such thing. “Oh no, sir, Ned is just glad to be back with me.”

The pirate addressed Signore Rizzoli. “A talented animal, he would be an asset to your show. How would you like to have him, as a gift from me?”

The showman protested, “No, no, Commendatore, I could not bear to take the dog from this young fellow now they are reunited. Thank you, but it would be too sad to see them parted.”

Al Misurata never said or did anything needlessly. He was famed among his peers as a devious, and dangerous, man. He smiled disarmingly at the showman, choosing his words carefully. “Well said, my friend. I can plainly see you are a man of true character. Tell me, to whence do you travel from here?”

Signore Rizzoli shrugged expressively. “Wherever the winds of chance steer us—markets, villages, town squares. Anywhere that we may gain a few coins, some food or a night’s lodging. Entertainment is our business.”

The pirate nodded understandingly, pausing to sip his wine. “I see you are Italian, signore, where in Italy are you from?”

Mamma Rizzoli answered for her husband. “We are from Vicenza, a lovely little place in the fields and meadows below the mountains. My Augusto and I were childhood sweethearts there many years ago.”

Al Misurata signalled a servant to furnish the troupe with drinks. He seemed sympathetic and attentive to them. “Those places of early years stay in our memories forever. Would you not like to visit your home in Vicenza again?”

Signore Rizzoli smiled regretfully. “Alas, it is a wonderful dream, but impossible. We have a little money, far too little, I’m afraid. Also we have no means of crossing the wide seas.”