Mystery of the Mediterranean

By Ashley MacGregor

How do you travel from Gibraltar to Tangiers? What if you can’t go by ship or plane? And it’s 1926.
You go the long way. This is the story of a traveller who journeys around the Mediterranean Sea. Like an incarnation of the epic traveller ibn Battuta, he finds the Middle Sea is a major obstacle, but not just because he’s frightened by it – the sea is also central to his troubled mind. Many challenges face our man - amnesia, jinns, a wayward family, war and the Sand Sea as well. But the closer he gets to home, the further he is from understanding his purpose. Will he eventually see it in time?
In 1926 the post world war I party was in fully swing in Europe. But the Arab world was still coming to terms with its new vainglorious masters. Our traveller from Morocco finds himself in Gibraltar without his memory. Forced to travel home around the Mediterranean, he encounters the various countries of Europe like Spain, France and Italy with their unfamiliar culture, the new Turkey of Ataturk, and the despair being born in the Middle East. War in Lybia diverts him onto a surprising route. From his amnesic mind memories return as he discovers his family along the way, each revelation a trauma he must face anew.
Will he make it back to his home in Tangiers? And will he see the ultimate reason for his journey, to unlock the mystery that the Mediterranean has kept from him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley MacGregor
• Release date: Sep 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311785831

Ashley MacGregor

Ashley's stories have an unexpected twist at the end. They might make you chuckle, or pull at your heart strings, but your reaction is also likely to surprise you. The inspiration for many of Ashley's stories comes from historical events or from travel. Recent travels in the South of France has lead to Ashley's latest book, Natural Instinct. He has recently written about a journey around the Mediterranean set in 1926, an adventure of both body and mind.

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Mystery of the Mediterranean

Ashley MacGregor

Copyright 2015 Ashley MacGregor

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any way.

This is a work of fiction. All characters are figments of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any person is coincidental and unintentional. Historic figures are part of the setting and their inclusion is fictitious. Historic figures, places and events are based on public domain knowledge and their inclusions are not an expression of the author’s opinion, but are used with the respect of the historic and cultural sources.

Mystery of the Mediterranean

Book 1

Tangiers 1910

The boy slipped his hand from his mother’s.

"Off you go to kuttab, I’ll pick you up after ladies’ prayers," said Fatima.

The ten year old looked small under the dome of the Grand Mosque. He skipped along, black hair neat under his taqiyah. He sat in the kuttab, joined by other boys, chatting and shoving. Silence fell among them as their ulama, Sheik Abu l’Kasim, entered and sat in his chair before the boys. Upon his lined brown face with grey hair and trim beard, he tried to look stern. But the joy of teaching in the kuttab soon surfaced as he told the boys fascinating stories about Saladin, Omar Mukhtar and the other great warriors and their victories. The boy particularly liked hearing about ibn Battuta, the intrepid traveller. He watched Abu l’Kasim’s eyes like fire as the stories imprinted in his mind. All week he let the journeys and exotic locations guide his thoughts. For him Friday prayers couldn’t come fast enough.

When Fatima came to collect the boy, he ran to her saying, When I’m older, I’m going to be like ibn Battuta and travel to the strange and distant lands. His face beamed.

"If God pleases, my son."

Gibraltar 1926

His mind felt like a closed door. The narrow street in Gibraltar where he found himself was busy with people. They pushed past him, they bumped into him, they looked at him with long faces. The man stopped by a shop, the suits and shirts in the window merged with the reflections of the similarly clad crowd in the street. He saw a man in a crumpled pale blue galabeya; long flowing fabric reached the cobbled street. His dark complexion looked grimy. The Clarke Gable moustache needed trimming and his black hair was unkempt. The man raised his hand and felt through his murky stubble. He was the only one in a galabeya. That man was him, and his name was... - the door in his mind wouldn’t open. Behind it hid his identity, and many other things. He clamoured at the door. His heart raced, sweat covered his palms as his mind emerged into an abyss.

The man wandered further along the narrow streets with cobwebs covering his memory. He knew nothing, except an overwhelming throbbing in his heart that pounded desperation into him. A street that headed down hill led him to the water front, a great harbour with ships, boats and ferries. He felt some apprehension at the sight, yet seemed drawn by the prospect of travel that the vessels offered. Along a quay he noticed a sign, large white letters on a brown background. It said ‘MOROCCO’ and he felt the recollection break through some strands of silk. Beyond the sign was the entrance to the quay. As he approached it, trepidation entered his soul. Giddiness disoriented him, so he found a bench and collapsed onto it.

A lady was nearby and he noticed her glancing at him. She wore a black robe and a head scarf. His subconscious identified her belief and tradition. Something told him she could help, so he looked at her again. She was still looking at him. No sooner had he decided to enlist her help than she came over to him.

You need help, she said

I’m sorry to burden you, but yes, can you help me?

Yes, of course.

I won’t trouble you more than to ask the way to Tangiers. He had no idea where that request came from, except that having expressed it, he suddenly felt an immense desire to go to Tangiers.

Just here. And she pointed to the quay under the sign saying MOROCCO.

Here?

Yes, we go by ferry.

By ferry?

Yes, it’s across the Strait.

The Strait?

The Strait of Gibraltar. But you’ve heard of that, you’re from Morocco. A door opened. Just a crack. He could see the ferry that had brought him from Morocco, the high seas, and the waves. The ferry pitched wildly, water surged in and filled the cabin. He was floating; no, he was sinking. Through the water he watched the ferry slipping down, people sucked along with the whirlpools of sucking sea.

She was looking at him, reading the vision of horror that surely painted his face.

I’m sorry, I can’t go by sea, is there another way? He suspected that he sounded strange.

Um, most people go by sea, it’s not very far.

He responded with a glum look.

You don’t look well at all, she continued.

I’m feeling somewhat disorientated. All I know is I need to get to Tangiers. Is there any way other than by sea? He studied the lady’s face, there was kindness moulded in her clear brown skin and intelligence in her dark eyes.

Well, you could go the long way.

The long way?

Yes, the long way.

Tell me, how can I go that way?

I’m not entirely sure, you’d probably be the first person to take the route around the Middle Sea, that I know of.

Why’s that?

Well, to avoid travel by sea, you’d need to go through, um, let me see, Spain, France, Italy, Croatia, Bosnia, Greece. She paused and breathed in. The Ottoman lands, Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria and then you’re home, Morocco. The word home dominated the long list and something in the way she said it piqued his longing to get there.

You’ve lost your memory, you know. Can you recall how you came to Gibraltar?

No. He lied because the image of the sinking ferry felt surreal.

You need to visit a doctor. He watched her look into his eyes. Let me see if you have a bump on your head, she said, reaching towards him. He reeled back; it wasn’t the manner of a Muslim woman.

I’m a nurse, you know. Perhaps you can feel for yourself? He did this, felt nothing and shrugged. That’s unusual, she said.

Why?

Amnesia without an obvious trauma - look, I know someone you should see for this, I’ll take you there. Now.

Yes, thank you. She led him through the narrow streets, and into an alley with Arabic shops. He caught her up and asked, What’s your name, Madam?

I’m Amira.

And I’m... He knew his name, it just wouldn’t come out. They entered a doorway that led into a cool courtyard. Around each side was an arched cloister, potted trees were dispersed around, and at the centre a fountain trickled with plunky tones. A lady appeared and spoke to Amira, and they both glanced at the man down their noses.

Turning to the man, Amira said, She’ll bring the sheik. He’ll help you.

Is he a doctor?

No, but...

You said I needed a doctor.

Your symptoms are such that the western doctors here wouldn’t recognise the cause, but I can. And only the sheik can help you. Trust him, I do. Amira sat down on a seat on the edge of the courtyard under a tamarisk tree. The man waited by the fountain. Amira’s mouth was downcast, when she saw him looking at her she said, I’ll see you in Tangiers.

Soon a man with wispy grey hair and beard came forward. He wore a multi coloured galabeya and a cap of matching fabric. My son, come let us speak. He smiled showing yellow teeth, with one missing leaving a dark gap. They went into a foyer and the sheik said, My son, would you take off your galabeya and put on this tunic? The man did this and they both entered a large prayer room with a floor covered in thick carpet, a mihrab at one end, and prayer mats piled along the walls. They went over to the mihrab and the sheik invited the man to sit. He spoke to Allah and asked for guidance. Next he made some small talk, but the man found it difficult to participate. The sheik then rose from his cross legged position and felt the man’s head, neck and upper body.

So, you want to get to Tangiers?

Yes.

Why?

I think it’s my home.

How did you come to be in Gibraltar?

I suppose I came by ferry, but it sank.

The sheik drew in a long breath that vibrated his throat. "Oh, you were on