But England was far, far away from us.
The ship had no final destination. No advice on where they would deposit us. But I hadn’t cared. I believed in fate, and would rather die chasing my dreams than sitting at home never brave enough to try.
True to my word, I’d bought us passage on the next departing boat. The seafarers had seen Christophorus Columbus’ triumphs and raced to chase him. When I offered money and my body in exchange for a safe journey, the captain had agreed.
We’d left the very next day. No belongings. Nothing but hope in our hearts.
I’d either condemned us to die at sea, forever lost beneath the waves, or set us free for a better future.
I just wished seasickness hadn’t made my new life such a misery.
Groaning, I grabbed the pail again, retching as another swell rocked the creaking vessel.
Twelve weeks.
Even more of us had died. Storms had come and battered the crew and ship. But still we bobbed and travelled.
Sunshine broke through the clouds, granting nutrition in the form of its heated rays. William lost weight. He looked like a walking skeleton, but I was no better. My ribs had become so sharp, my skin bruised where they stretched my sides. I’d lost teeth due to rotting gums and my vision sputtered with useless blurs.
But hope still blazed.
We were owed happiness. I had no doubt we would be paid.
Fourteen weeks after leaving mother England, my hope was justified.
Land.
Sweet, life-giving land.
The next few days gave new energy to the ship and its remaining inhabitants. Celebration ran rife and excitement levels gave us the final push to reach salvation.
The first steps on terra firma lifted my heart like nothing else could. I’d made it. I’d left hell and found heaven. Here, my grandson would find a better life. I owed him that.
Only, I didn’t know how hard this new world would be.
For three long years, we lived in squalor and hardship. Our newfound existence turned out to be no better than England. Instead of buildings, we lived in huts. Instead of food, we had to hunt and kill. And instead of streets, there were dirt tracks and violence.
However, every day William thrived. He shed the shy baker from England and transformed into a warrior matching the courage of the black-skinned neighbours of our new home. They taught him how to track and trap. They taught him their language, and eventually, adopted us into their tribe.
Once accepted, we made the choice to return with them to their home. We had nothing holding us in the port town and agreed to make the pilgrimage to their village. It took weeks of travelling by foot. My old age slowly caught up with me and eating had become a chore with very few teeth from bad nutrition on the boat over. My body was failing, but I hadn’t achieved what I’d promised.
Not yet.
I had to provide for William. He had to go back and claim the Debt Inheritance before he was too old. My to-do list was still too long to succumb to elderly fatigue.
William was a godsend, helping me every step. He held my hand. He carried me when I collapsed. He helped the shamans break my fever when I was sick. He never stopped believing with me that one of these days we would find what we were owed.
And then one day, five years and four months after leaving England, we finally found it.
My eyesight had deteriorated further but every night at twilight, William would take me for a walk around our adopted village. He’d guide me to the riverbed and guard me from local predators while I washed and relaxed.
However, that night was different. A hyena appeared, laughing and hungry, and William chased it off with his spear. I stood in the middle of the water, not daring to leave but unable to see my brave grandson.
He wouldn’t respond to my calls. No sound gave a hint that he’d won. Tears started to fall at the thought of losing him. If he’d died, I couldn’t keep going anymore. Why should I? My stupid hope and blind belief that something good would happen would no longer be enough to sustain me.
However, my worry was for nothing because he returned. Blood smeared his bare chest as he dragged a hyena carcass behind him. He looked as wild and savage as our ebony-skinned saviours. He dropped the carcass and waded into the water directly to me. My animal hide skirt danced on the surface, lapping around my thighs as he held out something large and glossy and black. Black like a nightmare but an ultimate dream come true.
“What is it?” I whispered, my heart rate climbing. I didn’t know what I held, but it felt right. It felt true. It felt like redemption.
“I don’t know, but the stories they tell us around the fires might be based on truth. Remember they sing of a magical black rock? I think this might be it.” He kissed my cheek, hefting the weight of the suddenly warm stone. “I think this is worth something, Grandmamma. I think this might be the start of something good.”
I’d like to say I lived to see the good arrive, but I’d done all I could for my grandson. A few months later, I fell sick and remained bed-ridden as he found more black stones, digging with spears and hipbones of lions, slowly sifting through soil and rock. Black stones gave way to white stones, clear stones, glittering beautiful stones.
Our tribe gathered and hoarded, filling bushels and burying them safely so other clans didn’t rob us. William gathered a hunting party to return to the bustling port and trade his magical stones.
I remained behind, clinging to life as hard as I could.
My body had done its task, but I didn’t want to leave…not yet.
We’d heard tales of a gold trader who made a fortune in saffron and bullion. That same trader took William aside and whispered in his ear that he might’ve found a rare diamond.