Selim was now happy; and next to being able to reach his own Zanjian Isle, and revisit the scenes of his childhood, and romp, as of yore, with the playmates of his youth, and enjoy walks through the orange-groves with young Abdullah, he could not have chosen for himself a more tranquil life than that which he now enjoyed with his friend and new brother, Kalulu.
For the bright Liemba River was beautiful, though brown; its crisp little wavelets, where they washed over stone and pebble in the shallower parts, had music for him, though he never forgot that horrible scene near the island, when the smiling face of Abdullah changed into one of horror and sank down into the depths, with his shriek echoing through the woods.
The banks of the Liemba became for him a frequent resort, for Kalulu had made it generally known to all that he was his brother, and no Mtuta under the King Katalambula might molest him. Hence, he wandered where he pleased, finding charms in the wild woods, and in the depths of waving grain, in the peaceful, still life that reigned around, in the music of the birds, and even in the harsh cries of paroquets.
The Selim, the brother of Kalulu, was not the Selim of Zanzibar, but was the product of him, refined and pure from the fiery crucible of the unusual hardships he had endured. It was the same boy, but not the same heart. He, whom we knew at Zanzibar, the gay, light-hearted, sunny youth, playing with the females in the harem and his playmates on the beach, but ever listening in wonder to the great, wise words and sayings of white men, was changed for the dreamy boy with the poet’s heart, who chose solitudes, forests, and the depths of tall corn-stalks to indulge in reverie, which we are too apt to ascribe to melancholy. Perhaps it was melancholy, a tender, soft melancholy, engendered by many reminiscences of a mournful nature, crowding together in the mind of a boy who had suffered much, but who had seen but few years. There was the death of a loving father and loving kinsmen, the tragic fate of Isa and Mussoud, the most narrow escape he had himself from death, and poor Abdullah’s narrow escape from a horrible fate. These were not the best kind of subjects to dwell in the mind of a boy of Selim’s years; but what aided to soften all these, and did much to lighten his burden, was his present position, the tender friendship of Kalulu, the company of the gentle Abdullah, the calm tranquillity of the life he was now enjoying, and the consciousness—which his perfect trust in the goodness of God created—that there was a God above, who was both good and great, and who would bring him in his own good time out of all trouble.
For many days Abdullah suffered from the wounds which the crocodile’s sharp teeth had made in his leg. High fever set in, during which time he was attended by Simba, and Moto, Kalulu, and Selim.
All sport was at an end for Selim and Kalulu while their friend Abdullah was thus suffering. Nothing of enjoyment was thought of, nothing could be thought of but their poor young patient, whose constitution was battling vigorously against the fever which threatened often to terminate his life.
And what a time poor Abdullah had! Instead of the soft, silken counterpane and feathered bolsters, and the fragrance of lime and orange of his own comfortable home at Zanzibar, here were a mud-hut, low roof of straw and mud, a goatskin for his bed, a low door of cane-stalks, through which the white sunlight streamed hot and glaring, voices of a thousand rats for music, and the bad smells caused by the indecent habits of savages, for the perfume of ripe orange and cinnamon. All these aggravated the fever and created hideous dreams at night. For food he had a thin gruel, which Simba made for him to the best of his ability; for drink, the muddy water of the Liemba or some pombe-beer. Despite these, however, his constitution triumphed; the fever left him, and the wounded leg, carefully bathed each morning by Simba, began to heal.
When convalescent, Abdullah would leave his hut at evening, pale and thin as a ghost, leaning on the arm of his true friends, Kalulu and Selim, to enjoy the mild air, and to listen to the songs of the Watuta, and the sonorous music of the drums. The sight of the pale and thin Arab boy touched the heart of many a maternal bosom, and many were the expressions of condolence which he received from them. He often heard these dark-faced women utter expressions which he had never thought at Zanzibar could ever be uttered by black women; and he was rapidly beginning to learn that women are the same all over the world, whether they are white or black, and that human love and kindness belong as much to the black as to the white, and are as often practised. And the outcast, despised negro race were rising daily in his estimation. Neither was Selim indifferent to the tones of sympathy he heard from them; not only did Kalulu win his friendship more and more each day, but the whole negro race was being admitted into his brotherhood.
These were really happy days. Abdullah was improving each day, and Selim was fast becoming as joyous a companion as Kalulu could desire. Inspired by the invigorating sound of the drums, and the lively chorus, he was compelled to leave the side of Abdullah and join in the dance. A favourite song of the Watuta was the boatmen’s song, which seemed interminable; but the chorus was so pretty, and had such a sweet, pathetic melody, that Selim joined with pleasure in it for its pathos.
The first and second verses ran somewhat in this strain:—