Mirror image

I stand with blade in hand at the mottled mirror. It's not what you think. I'm not about to do anything drastic.

I give my chin an ample lather with the soft badger hairs of my father's tortoise-shell shaving brush. The white foam is stark against my skin. It strikes me that, even though it's late February, I have something of a tan. I tap the blade in the bowl of warm water and hold it to my jaw. The boy in the mirror gives me a nervous grin. I'm no novice with a straight razor. I've been shaving a full six months ... on land. But at sea ... anything could happen.

I glance at the porthole, but the glass is steamed. I widen my stance and settle into the rhythm of the rise and fall.
Easy does it. Steady now. No need to rush.

I realise I haven't been clear on certain facts. I'm fifteen, you know that. I'm aboard a merchant schooner with my father, bound for Africa. You know that too. But there are things you might not know.

My name is Harry St John. The church is sending my father (and therefore me) to the farthest corner of the world. A vast desert in Bechuanaland, Southern Africa. My father, Charles Spencer St John, calls it the Kalahari. He points it out on the globe almost daily. If a more remote place on the planet exists, then I'd like to know where. Actually, scratch that, right now I couldn't care less.

He says it will be a grand adventure. He's so convinced he's taken me out of school a full year. He thinks I'll learn more than any year at school. I think he's mad. Mother's the real reason. We both know that.

Why Africa? Why not Africa? he likes to ask. We go to those who need us most (not a thought for what I need most).

The schooner, captained by the phlegmatic Henry J. Burroughs, is loaded with cargo and crewed by nine shipmates, one cook and two officers, including the captain and the first officer, Elliot F. Emery, three or four years my senior. There are six passengers aboard too. You are familiar with the flamboyant RH I. Seedat, the enigmatic German, Herr Hanz Oppenheim, and there is, in addition, the captain's wife, who seldom emerges from her cabin, their daughter, Celeste, spoiled rotten and full of airs and graces, and, of course, my father and I.

Why this ship? Well it could have been a luxury liner, but my father, true to form, elected the most economical route.

As though to confirm this fact, the floor gives a sudden lurch and I slam my forehead into the mirror with an almighty crack. The mirror shatters with the blow and it's only when I massage my scalp and frown at my splintered face, that I notice the dark drops that fall from the blade and colour the water crimson.

I press a white towel into the cut at my throat.
What have I done to deserve this?