The locked box, the prized possession that Nostradamus had instructed them to move across the desert for an unknown purpose, looked as though it were going to be buried by sand. The men, devout until the end, were digging at the sand with their bare hands, trying to stop the fine brass box from sinking into the sand.
“Leave it!” Nostradamus ordered. “It belongs here — buried in the sand!”
“What about us?” one of the men asked.
“You have done your duty,” Nostradamus replied. “Now, run for your lives. Take cover. Protect yourselves.”
Jacob watched in horror as the makeshift prison, where their slaves were kept overnight was filling with sand. The large slaves pulled helplessly at the bound sticks which formed their night pen. Their eyes were wide with terror; their white teeth clenched in horror and shined against the profound darkness of their faces.
He couldn’t tell if anyone had noticed the slaves’ plight. If they had, he doubted if any cared enough to do something about it. The stars and the bright crescent moon were no longer visible. Jacob lost sight of the rest of the camp, but his eyes remained focused on the slaves as the sand burned at his exposed skin. The sand was rapidly flooding the prison — if he did nothing, the slaves would soon drown. He knew he should do something, but what could he do?
“It’s time,” Nostradamus said, handing him a single, leather water flask. “You must leave, now.”
Jacob stood up and took the flask. It was full. He wanted to know where it had come from, but one look at his master’s face told him not to ask questions when time was your enemy. “Where do I go?”
Nostradamus smiled. It was wild and crazy, like that of a madman. “Any direction you want.”
“How will I live?” Jacob asked. “How will I possibly make it back to France?”
“Who said you were returning to France?” Nostradamus shook his head as though Jacob had asked a stupid question. “No time to tell the future. Just go. Keep walking until you discover it on your own.”
“What about you?” Jacob asked. He wanted to know about the rest of the party who had already scattered into the desert.
Jacob never heard a response. His master simply walked off and disappeared into the violent storm. He looked at the brass box. Only the very top of it remained visible. The rest was now buried forever. He didn’t even know what it carried that was so valuable — or why his master had gone to such lengths to move it to this desolate place, further than any he’d known to exist, only to have it become buried in the sand where it could surely never be found again.
His eyes returned to the black slaves. Not much more than their heads were now visible above the sand. The slaves had begun fighting with each other, competing for space in the middle where their pen was highest and allowed the most breathing room. Jacob watched as their most basic animal instincts stirred — the desire to live.
He knew he must do something. But if he helped them, they would only kill him once freed. Would they really? He knew the answer to this — of course they would. He’d been their master and now he was vulnerable. He was just an eleven year old boy. How could he stop them, once they were released? Jacob thought about what his master had told him — You will survive this, and you will tell the story to your son and his son, for generations to come, until a girl is born.
Jacob grabbed a knife and climbed onto the top of the makeshift prison. He instantly wished he hadn’t. A slave gripped his left ankle and tried to pull him down. Like a wounded animal, the slaves were trying to attack anyone who came near them, even the one person willing to help.
He kicked the slave’s hand, hard. Jacob felt the grip on his leg tighten and so he kicked again. And again, until the hand released pressure and gave way. He then quickly moved to the middle of the prison’s roof. There he stopped. Several hands reached for him, tormenting him. If he didn’t free them soon, they would kill him and then die in the process. Five sticks were bound together by papyrus rope. He sliced at it. The first attempt barely cut through a strand. The second didn’t go much further, but the third sliced all the way through.
The hatchway was pushed open and he was thrown off into the sand. He watched as at least twenty slaves escaped from the sand-filled prison and scattered into the desert storm. All except one of them. It was the largest slave. He was the biggest man Jacob had ever seen. The slave’s blue eyes suddenly fixed on his. The slave’s teeth shined perfectly white, and he howled like a banshee — and then he ran towards him.
Jacob turned to run, but he wasn’t even standing by the time the slave reached him. He felt the slave’s thick, leathery hands reach his shoulder to stop him. The slave quickly threw him to the ground so his back was up against the small wall of sand. It provided protection from the lethal storm, but nothing against the giant of a slave who approached him now.
Jacob quickly began reciting one of the few verses of the Bible he knew by heart — Our father, who art in heaven… He held a small knife out to defend himself. It was stupid and served little purpose. The slave could kill him without any effort.
The slave approached slowly and snatched the knife out of his hand. He tucked it into the side of his loincloth. A moment later, the slave saw the leather water flask in the sand next to him. He snatched away the water flask as quick as he had the knife. The slave took two small sips and returned it. Jacob tried not to meet his eyes, as though he were a monster who could be avoided through ignorance. But the monster sat next to him. Jacob was horrified by the slave’s blue eyes. He’d never seen a black slave with blue eyes before. They were an intense blueish gray, piercing, and stared vacantly at him, as though he were a ghost.
Jacob shivered throughout the night. In the morning the wind was still and the sand had settled into a beautiful day. The sun was rising and soon it would be too hot to travel. The slave was the first to stand. He looked up at the sun for a moment to orient himself, and then walked due south.
Jacob watched as the slave took thirty or more steps into the sea of sand. He’d survived the night as Nostradamus had predicted. The monster had let him live. The slave stopped. Turned to face him and grinned. “Well boy, are you coming with me?”
Jacob looked around at the desolate place in which God had stranded him. He had no idea where he was or where he wanted to get to. He had very little water and no food rations. If he did nothing, he was already dead. Jacob studied the slave’s face. It was hardened by years of violence and hardship. But in the daylight, he no longer saw the slave’s blue eyes as ghoulish — instead they gave him the impression of wisdom.
“Or would you like to die out here?” The slave asked.
Jacob smiled and slowly followed in the slave’s footsteps. “I will follow you.”
“Good.”
“Where are we heading?” Jacob asked, finding a confidence he’d rarely felt.
The slave smiled. “To a kingdom far away — where my people have waited a long time for the return of their king.”
Jacob took a deep breath, wondering what part of history had been changed by the rescue of a king and why Nostradamus had neglected to mention it. He shook the thought from his mind and followed the king in silence. By that afternoon he reached the highest sand dune he’d ever seen. It gave him vantage to see for miles in all directions.
He paused long enough to take a sip of water from his flask. His vision wandered all the way back to where he’d come from. He looked at the sand dunes, searching for some way to remember the place. There were no landmarks he could recognize. None at all. Only sand. It was impossible for him to ever find this place again, even if he wanted to tomorrow. Everything had been buried. And so it would remain — for all eternity.