Alan sat underneath a tree, watching as the Atlantic waves splash and thrash on the beach. The air was thick with moisture; it felt warm on his face, but he had no need of the breeze for relief from the heat. His face burned and was red from the blazing Sun. He was sitting on the ground, his back against the trunk of an ancient palm tree. It was hard but dry, and it offered him some protection from the relentless rays. The sea water glistened like black glass.

There was not much time to rest, as the Spanish overseers were sure to come searching for him soon, but he just needed to sit awhile and gather himself. He would soon have to return to work, in the fields of sugarcane. The sun was very powerful today, perhaps more so than ever before. Brittany certainly never got this kind of sun.

He looked out onto the ocean, listening in closely and waiting for it to speak.

"Come out to me," a voice boomed in his head.

"Why?" Alan asked.

The voice laughed and repeated the same words: "Come out to me."

Alan lifted himself up from the palm and hobbled along onto the beach, towards that black glass sea.

"Do you want me to take my clothes off?" he asked.

The wind picked up, making his long red hair fly about wildly. Alan took it as a sign from the sea that it would have been wiser if he had stripped himself down to his skin. So he did. He began removing his clothing. First his shirt. Next his waistcoat, his breeches, then his boots. Then his socks. And finally, he peeled his tunic off from his body.

The ocean gusted. Alan thought it must have blown up a sudden swell and was making the most of the occasion by trying to break him. He caught hold of the hem of his tunic and pulled, lifting it high over his head and letting it drop into the water. The sea swallowed up the fabric with ease and he stood there naked as the day he was born. Alan held his arms out to catch the gentle breeze that was starting to blow, his nakedness in the breeze cooling him off immensely.

He felt the wind and stared off into the sea as he reminisced on his youth. For indeed he was baptized many moons ago now, and his childhood was becoming more of a distant memory. Alan was once a simple young lad, a fisher boy. Living with his parents in a small hut on the Breton coast. He was simply Alan then, not ar Morlaer or the Scourge of Biscay or El Azote or the Vicomte de Poudouvre… Alan's father Kaourantin was a fisherman just like himself, he preferred to cast his nets from the rocky shore and catch all manner of fish in the tidal pools. Alan would go out with his father, learning to fish and learning to sail. It was on his father's boat that Alan had first heard the ocean call out to him.

"Hear me, boy," the sea had said to him. The young Alan listened intently. "Hear my voice and heed it well, for I give you sound advice."

Alan had heard the voices and told his father, his father reassuring him that this was a gift from God. For the sea was run by one of God's angels, and this angel had decided to speak to Alan. As the boy grew, he developed a closer connection to the sea. He spent almost every day on the coast or on a fishing boat, waiting for the sea to speak to him. His family worried about him, for he would spend hours sitting at the end of the pier, just looking out across the water and listening to the seabirds cry to their mates. Sometimes they were concerned that perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, but were quite sure it was indeed the ocean's angel speaking.

Alan's thinking was cut off by the sound of an angry Castilian, barking at him in his strange tongue. The man had obviously found him. The Spaniard commanded. He did not understand the man's words, but he understood their tone and their intent. And he could tell from the look in the man's eyes that he was clearly unhappy. The Spaniard picked up some of Alan's clothes that were strewn across the sand and pointed at them, clearly ordering Alan to dress himself. Alan had nothing to hide, so he stood up, gathered his clothes, and put them back on. He followed the Spaniard off the beach. The man took him to the edge of the settlement, where the slaves were working in the cane fields.

There was quite a large group of slaves there, and they all turned to stare at Alan. The Spaniard ordered him back to work, handing him a cane knife. The other slaves were mainly Moors and Pagans. They worked in the fields, cutting stalks of sugarcane. It was hard to communicate, as Alan did not share a language with any of the slaves. Alan could understand bits of Castilian solely from his knowledge of French, but certainly not enough. He made do by picking up various gestures and motions. Alan was able to make an acquaintance with a Spanish Moor, a man similarly red with burns as Alan is. The Moor had given his name as Zacarías Davídez. The two had become fairly close since Alan had arrived. While they first communicated with a simplified form of Castilian, to ensure their overseers could not understand, the two had begun teaching each other. Zacarías had taught Alan some of his native Arab tongue, while Alan taught Zacarías some of his Breton. Soon enough they were communicating rather comfortably in a strange mish-mash of Arabic, Breton, and Castilian.

Zacarías noticed Alan returning with the overseer from his rest near the beach and went over to speak to him. Alan heard Zacarías say something under his breath and then heard the man's rough Arabic curse. Zacarías turned to Alan. "The overseer is very displeased with you. I'm sure that's clear to you."

Alan nodded his understanding and returned to working in the fields. The day was hot and humid, as it often was in the Caribbean in the height of the summer. He would sweat profusely, his red hair clumped tightly to his head with wetness. It was a miserable way to spend a day. The sun beat down relentlessly, while the humidity hung in the air like a blanket. The slaves worked tirelessly, their backs bent and arms pulled taut in the effort. Zacarías helped Alan with his work. He had to show him what to cut, how to chop the cane properly and be easy to haul behind. The sun began to set, and the slaves stopped work to return to the huts for rest. In the darkness, the slaves would sit in groups and talk in whispers. Alan joined in and listened as the other slaves spoke of the land and sea spirits. They described to him their gods, the gods that were not Christian. Zacarías leaned over to Alan, whispering to him in the two friends' own language.

"There are many pagans here, they do not know of God and reject Him. They worship their idols blatantly. They will be punished for this in the hereafter."

Alan nodded quietly, understanding the importance of what Zacarías said. Indeed, it was good to have a friend who understood the importance of God, even though he may be a Moor.

—

It was not long before Zacarías introduced Alan to his friends. His friends were also Moors, and Alan was able to speak to them with his bits of Arabic and Castilian. As time went by, the men became his closest companions in the plantation, his only true brothers. Zacarías explained that he and his friends were rebels once, years ago. They had fought against the Spaniards to save their homes and families, but were captured and eventually sold off to slavery here in these islands of the New World.

Alan explained how he ended up here as a slave, and the Moors found it quite amusing that Alan was actually a nobleman, a man with estates and wealth!

"We are both here because we hate the Spaniards." Alan told Zacarías.

The Moor smiled. "Yes, we are. It is always good to find a brother who will understand."

They laughed together. This is when Alan learned about what Zacarías called "Islam", the religion of the Moors. Zacarías and his fellow Moors began to tell Alan of the Prophet Muhammad and of the Quran. Alan began to be fascinated by the stories of the Prophet Mohammed and the tales of battles waged against his enemies, eventually ending in victory.

Eventually, Zacarías told Alan that if he ever decided to convert, he should come to him for help, as Zacarías was a well-read scholar before his capture and life of slavery. Alan continued to listen to his new Moorish friends, learning the traditions and teachings of their faith.

Weeks later, Alan decided to convert in secret, afraid the Spanish overseers would discover it and beat him or kill him. In the darkness of night, he, Zacarías, and many other Moorish slaves had gathered to pray together, to honor their God.

They made their prayers silently. Then they would pray together and wait until the coast was clear to move back to the huts. Alan watched on, waiting for them to finish. When the Moors were done praying, Alan was approached by Zacarías.

"Are you ready?" Zacarías asked him.

Alan blinked, then nodded.

"Raise your finger and repeat after me. La ilalaha illallah Muhammadur rasulullah.''

Alan repeated the words that came out of the old Moor's mouth.

"La ilalaha illallah Muhammadur rasulullah." He said it aloud.

After a moment of silence, his companions nodded to him as well. Alan felt an immense relief. He had converted to Islam without the Spanish overseers knowing it. Zacarías grasped Alan's shoulders and smiled.

"Welcome to the fold of our religion, brother."

Alan bowed his head low, his face flushed with joy and gratitude for having been given a chance at redemption. All his sins were forgiven for becoming a devout follower of God, and his new friends would certainly give him much comfort and protection. Perhaps they would be able to fight the Spaniards together one day. They returned to the slave huts in the cover of darkness and fell asleep with smiles on their faces. Alan would hear the sea groan and moan, before speaking to him once again with words the Sea had told him before. These would bring him a sense of hope.

"West, my love, west. This is your destiny."