Thieves of the Black Sea. Joe O'Neill

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      The day wore on and the boys went about helping the crew with various chores and learning more about the Osprey. After a couple of hours, Tariq felt light-headed and tired. He carefully returned to his room, closed the door, and felt an odd sense of dread begin to overtake him.

      The awful image of Melbourne Jack dying in his arms flooded his mind. Watching the life drain from Jack’s face, and then having to make the horrible decision to let his friend’s body slip into the sea.

      Slumped on the bed, Tariq placed his face in his hands. He felt as if the strength was leaving his body.

      Then, inexplicably, different images began filling his head. Images of places he had never been and memories he didn’t have.

      A field covered in mud and barbed wire. Two trenches, only a hundred yards apart, and then two armies running at one another. Thousands of men, some in strange masks, charging at one another across the field through a light fog, rifle shot after rifle shot ringing out, and a collision of bayonets and the sick sucking sound of a young soldier’s breath leaving his body, his belly pierced by a bayonet. Blood spurted from the boy’s mouth and dribbled down his chin. Tariq watched the scene unfold in his mind—so clear and so real—until the young soldier collapsed onto the muddy battlefield. A young boy with blond hair, barely older than himself.

      He was so close that Tariq could have touched him.

      The awful images continued until he forced himself to sit up and relax in the stillness and safety of his cabin.

       What were these images?

      Looking at the side table next to the bed, he noticed his brown and green bag, which was made from crocodile skin and resembled a small knapsack.

      Opening it up, he pulled out a diary, its pages made from some kind of thin leather. Sketched on the pages were words in an ancient dialect, alongside many diagrams and calculations.

      This was the diary of Alexander the Great.

      Tariq had guarded it with his life on the ocean and now scolded himself for leaving it unattended in his cabin. From now on, it would never leave his sight.

      He rubbed his hands along its cover.

       Find the panther to begin your journey. Return the diary, Tariq!

      The voice belonged to Melbourne Jack. Tariq heard it so clearly that he almost jumped. During his delirium, he thought he had just dreamt about Melbourne Jack, but now he understood that Jack’s continued presence in his life wasn’t just a dream. And now, Jack seemed to be in the room with him, giving him instructions.

      Breathing heavily and still dazed, Tariq held the diary in his hands. It felt sacred, like it was becoming a part of him.

      “Are you here, Jack?” he whispered.

       Begin your journey, Tariq! Find the panther in Constantinople!

      There was the voice again inside his head. It was unmistakably that of Melbourne Jack.

      Tariq suddenly felt himself tire. A sense of peace came over him, and he leaned back on the bed, holding the diary tightly to his chest, until he fell into a deep and restful sleep.

      Tariq awoke with a start, still clutching the diary. Miraculously, he felt refreshed—the dizziness and weariness had left him. His body was no longer sore. He wasn’t sure how long he had slept, but his energy had returned.

      After placing the diary in the bag, Tariq put his head and arm through the strap and wore it around his neck and shoulder. The crocodile skin felt cool against his chest. Melbourne Jack had ingeniously designed the bag so it would be completely waterproof and impervious to almost any puncture. There was an interior lining made of ox leather, treated so it would be fire resistant and then folded over once more to prevent any kind of water from seeping in. The outer layer, made of thick crocodile skin, was so strong it could almost stop a bullet. It was secured by a leather strap, braided to add strength and then woven into the lining of the bag.

      Putting on a cotton shirt to cover up the bag, Tariq made his way back up on deck. It was almost dusk; the sun would descend in the horizon in another half an hour.

      Fez and Aseem were playing with Panos and throwing scraps of fish to Lako over the side of the boat. The boys laughed as the shark eagerly ate the chunks of tuna and mackerel.

      Standing next to them, Tariq smiled. Panos handed him a piece of fish and Tariq tossed it to the hungry shark.

      “Are you okay? We checked on you a couple of hours ago but you were sound asleep,” Aseem asked Tariq, obviously concerned.

      “Yes, I am fine, thank you,” Tariq replied, appreciative of his friends’ concern.

      “Tonight, Captain Scopas told me he would begin teaching us about celestial navigation. That’s how sailors navigate by the stars. They’ve been doing it for thousands of years,” Fez explained.

      “How far is it from Morocco to Constantinople?” Tariq asked.

      “Just over one thousand six hundred nautical miles. We’re traveling about eight knots an hour and a knot equals one nautical mile. So, we’re travelling approximately one hundred and ninety nautical miles per day!” Fez explained.

      “Why do they call it a knot? Why not just say mile?” Tariq asked.

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