Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  The balloon floated just above a ridge that ran along one side of the valley. They could see no one, no animals or sign of any life, but there were trails in the hard sand bed that suggested people occasionally passed this way. Such trails could be misleading, for in the desert they could exist for an eternity, and one could never tell how old they might be.

  They neared the ground and passed over the canyon wall, expecting to settle their craft gently to the floor of the wadi. Suddenly the balloon was caught by a violent updraft that flung them quickly aloft. Before they could react a downdraft hurled them precipitously toward the rocks below.

  “Ballast!” shouted Henri, even as Gascon was cutting the ropes holding the sandbags to the outside of the basket, but it was too late. The wicker basket slammed into a ridge of jagged rocks that ripped out the side. There was pandemonium aboard the craft as bodies and provisions flew about. Henri grabbed for some of the supplies as they disappeared over the side, but just as he reached out he was dashed to the bottom of the basket. The wind tore at them, dragging them along. The rocks caught the basket a second time, and the envelope of the balloon became a windsail that dipped down at an angle, the ropes straining to hold against the terrific force. One of the ropes caught on the sharp rocks and broke, then another, and at last the balloon ripped away free. Having lost most of its buoyancy by tilting at such an extreme angle, it quickly collapsed and fluttered emptily to the ground. As the ropes gave way, the basket plummeted the last few feet to the wadi floor. Both men fell hard and lay dazed and panting.

  During the last moments of the balloon’s flight, seven riders atop their camels had emerged from around a bend in the wadi. Transfixed, they stopped dead still and watched as the balloon appeared over the ridge, its basket hugging the ground, the men inside struggling to maintain control. At first the fabric of the balloon billowed gently against the wind, then rose before them like some mighty celestial apparition, a silent flying ball of magnificent white cloth set against the deep blue sky.

  “Hamdullilah! It is the djenoum!” said one rider in an urgent whisper, referring to the genies known to inhabit the rocks and the dark places in between. He drew his sword, a large double-edged blade, and held it at the ready by his side.

  “Comes Allah!” said another.

  “It is the moon, fallen from the sky!”

  “Flying men of the clouds!”

  Awed but unafraid, the group moved forward, watching as the mysterious craft rose and then fell, bouncing and flopping and finally dumping its cargo of flying men of the clouds unceremoniously onto the ground.

  Momentarily stunned, Henri lay still. He heard the voices and did not recognize the language. Since it was not Arabic, he guessed it must be the language of the Tuareg.

  Henri got to his knees and helped Gascon, who still lay gasping. The riders had drawn forward into a semi-circle around the two men, and Henri had to look nearly straight upward to see them. From his position they looked twelve feet tall astride their camels, their silhouettes forbidding and yet magnificent against the sky. He was as awed by their appearance on the camels as they had been by his in the balloon, and for a moment the French count and the seven riders regarded each other silently, warily. The Tuareg were resplendent atop their mounts, cloaked from head to toe in rich indigo and dazzling white cloth, which covered their heads and bodies completely except for a slit for their eyes, eyes which were shadowed and dark and unrevealing. The cloth of their turbans was drawn numerous times around their heads, heaped high and tight, helmet-like, adding to the sensation of towering height and imposing presence. They were armed with lances. Heavy striking swords in well-tooled red leather scabbards were suspended from cotton bands slung over their shoulders. They carried shields of antelope hide upon which a series of small cuts formed the image of a Latin cross. They sat in high-backed riding saddles whose pommels also formed the likeness of a cross. To Henri they looked like the medieval crusaders whose portraits could be found among those of his ancestors at the Château deVries. They looked like kings.

  The lead rider was an elegant man, tall and aloof, who looked down upon the two aeronauts as though he were the lord of creation, the master of all men. Behind him, Henri was astonished to see that the only one of them whose face was not obscured was a woman. She nudged her camel forward through the group and stopped to regard him silently. Whenever Henri looked at a woman he invariably noticed her eyes first. Before her clothes, before her hair, before her face or figure, before anything else he looked in her eyes, for there, he knew, he would always find the woman. This woman’s eyes captivated him. They were deep brown, shining with humor and intelligence, enchanted pools alight with character and life, and for a long wonderful moment her eyes held his. She wore robes like the others; but, extraordinarily for a North African woman, her head and face were bare. She was beautiful, her features as unfamiliar to Henri as her language. She looked neither Arabic nor African nor European. Her cheeks were high and her skin was light, shining and smooth. Perhaps Berber, he thought. Her neck was slender, and she smiled through perfect, even white teeth. She had long dark brown hair that she wore in tight braids. There was great dignity in her carriage. Like the others she sat tall in her saddle, imperious and erect. She regarded the balloon with delight and Henri with faint amusement as he dusted himself off. He helped Gascon to his feet, but didn’t take his eyes off her. She was an exquisite mystery to him.

  When she spoke he heard authority and certainty in her voice. He listened hard, as though he might be able to understand her words even though the language was unfamiliar.

  “It is called a ballon,” she explained to the others, who were still debating among themselves about what manner of sorcery lay before them. “I have seen one like it in Algiers.”

  “What is a ‘ballon’?” asked one of the veiled men.

  “It is a flying machine,” Serena answered over her shoulder, “only this one does not seem to fly so well.”

  “If they are not djenoum we should kill them now and take their bags,” said another. The crash had strewn luggage everywhere across the sand, including Henri’s sextant and a barometer that gleamed bronze in the light. There were several leather boxes, a valise, fine cloaks, and water flasks. It was clear to the Tuareg that these were men of means who carried vast wealth and mysterious devices, no doubt employing evil spirits to accomplish their ends.

  “We should kill them and burn what they carry,” said another. “They are vile, they are ikufar.” It was the word for “heathen,” used to describe the primitive people of Europe. Several of the others murmured assent.

  Gascon eyed the Tuareg suspiciously. Their language was nothing more than gibberish to his ear, but he knew menace well enough when he heard it. He studied the group as he instinctively calculated his battle strategies, looking for any weaknesses to exploit. There weren’t many. They were armed and mounted well above him, and had tightened the semi-circle they formed around him and the count. His eyes moved among them, noting the lances and swords and the well-worn silver hilts of knives he could see. There would be other weapons that he could not see, blades hidden beneath the folds of cloth. These men were fighters, of that he was certain; and without better weapons he and the count would be no match against their number. Gascon wore only his knife, and knew the count had no weapon at all. He glanced around at the wreckage, wondering where he might find one of the rifles. There had been no reason to keep them at the ready during the flight, and now they were nowhere to be seen.

  The worst of it was that he couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t read their expressions. He knew these were no more than mortal men, that it was nothing but the cloth over their faces that so unsettled him. Yet he felt naked before them.

  “I don’t like the looks of them, sire,” he said in a low voice.

  “The man eating sand doesn’t like the looks of us?” The woman spoke sharply in French, so startling Gascon that he almost jumped. And then she laughed, and it was a warm and g
enuine laugh that echoed delightfully off the sides of the boulders nearby and helped to shatter the tension; and in spite of himself, Henri laughed too. Gascon did not share in their enjoyment of his appearance, but wiped a hand across his face, which was smeared with the grit of the wadi floor. The rest of the Tuareg had not understood the exchange, for among them only Serena spoke French. Henri spoke immediately.

  “Mademoiselle, I am Henri deVries of France. My companion here who eats sand is Gascon.” He gave a slight bow. “I am surprised to find you here and very pleased that you speak French.”

  “That was quite a crash, Henri deVries.”

  “That wasn’t a crash,” he responded, much too quickly and a bit defensively. “It was a hard landing.” She laughed again. “Had you been on a camel and done that, I would call it a crash, and afterward the camel would have bitten you for the ride.”

  “Then it is well I was not riding a camel,” Henri said, grinning. He enjoyed this woman.

  “Serena! What does he say?” Tamrit ag Amellal, the lead rider, was annoyed by her laughter and uncomfortable that he didn’t understand what was being said. He was accustomed to being in charge. She ignored him. “From where have you come with your balloon?” “From Bou Saada.”

  “Bou Saada! That is across the Grand Erg!”

  “Yes. We have been two nights in the air.”

  “And where were you going?”

  Henri shrugged. “Morocco.”

  Serena looked at him in astonishment. “Morocco! Monsieur, you have crashed three weeks’ ride from Morocco!”

  “Yes, I know. The wind was wrong.”

  “How can the wind be wrong?”

  “It did not go where I hoped it would go.”

  “You fly your machine with hope?”

  “No – yes, I suppose so.” The desert woman was tangling him up.

  “Then you would do better with a camel.” She looked at the sky. “Even the camel knows this wind will take you to the Tanezrouft.” She waved to the southwest. “But for your crash, your hope would have taken you there, and there you would have perished. Nothing lives in the Tanezrouft,” she said matter-of-factly. “Nothing at all.”

  “I would have been all right,” Henri insisted.

  “Yes, you would have been all right, and then when your water ran out you would have been dead. It is lucky for you we have passed this way.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Arak,” she said, pointing to the southeast, “at the foot of the Atakor.”

  Serena turned to Tamrit and rapidly explained in Tamashek what she had learned. Excited murmurs of disbelief arose among the Tuareg. Bou Saada! None of them had been there, but each knew of the village that lay on the other side of the great mountains. The great sand Erg was impassable, a field of death. To go around it took weeks of hard riding by camel. They had seen for themselves how the balloon had flown, but the thought of it having come directly over the Erg was inconceivable, preposterous!

  “They lie!” said one. “It is clearly the work of the djenoum! We should kill them now!”

  “Djenoum or not, we must kill them!”

  “Eoualla, I say yes!”

  “It is agreed!”

  “No!” Serena spoke sharply. “We will take them and their flying machine to the amenokal. He will be amused by it. He can decide what is to become of them!”

  “Bah! Their flying machine! It crashes better than it flies! Behold, it lies in ruin among the rocks! No sane man would venture in it!”

  “They did!”

  “They are not sane, they are French!”

  “Where the French go, horror follows. They are thieves and killers. The Arabs of the northern country have suffered at their hands. They must die!”

  “The Arabs of the north deserve the French!”

  As the discussion among them grew more heated, Henri spoke quietly to Gascon. “Do you know where the rifles fell?”

  “I cannot see them, sire. I’ll have to look more closely. There is wreckage everywhere.”

  “Then do it now, quickly, while they argue. If you find them be ready to throw me one, but don’t take it up yet. If you don’t see them I have a pistol in the valise there. Be ready, look sharp. I think they are discussing whether to use swords or lances on us. If anything happens make for those rocks.” He indicated two large boulders sitting close to each other, backed by a sandstone wall. They gave scant sanctuary, but were better than nothing.

  “Oui, mon comte.”

  Gascon moved toward the ruins of the basket. As he did so, Tamrit shouted. “That one! He goes for weapons! They will have rifles! Stop him!” He raised his lance. Others drew swords and produced knives from among the folds of their robes. Gascon’s hand went to the knife at his belt while Henri, unarmed, could do nothing but step back.

  “Hold!” Serena’s voice lashed out. She saw the situation getting out of hand and knew she had to act. She surprised herself with what she did next, with her lie. “Leave them, Tamrit. It is too late. I have already given them my protection. I have granted them the Amán of safe passage.”

  Tamrit exploded at her.

  “By what right have you done this?”

  “I have the right, Tamrit, you know it well. They may pack their flying machine on camels and ride with us to Arak.”

  “No, Serena! I lead!”

  She snorted. “It is done! I have done it!”

  Tamrit was furious. He stamped his lance into the ground. “I will not honor this!”

  “Then you will dishonor us all, and answer to the amenokal!”

  Tamrit swore. This woman was too independent, too strong-headed. He was hopelessly in love with her. He had courted her for two years, brought her gifts of camel meat and fine cloth, written poems to her, done everything a man could do. But she was impossible, and now she bullied him and humiliated him before the others. Cursed woman! She was right, of course. Whether he liked it or not, if she had granted safe passage he had no choice but to honor it. At least, he thought, until the proper opportunity arose.

  Serena saw his hesitation and knew the momentum was hers. She had to finish it. She moved her camel forward to Henri. She spoke quickly, with authority.

  “They thought you looked for weapons. I assured them that was not the case, but if you have weapons and attempt to use them against us you will die quickly, Henri deVries. I will kill you myself. You have the offer of safe passage if you wish it. You may ride with us to Arak, where you will show your flying machine to our leader. From there you may find transport among traders returning to the north.”

  Henri hesitated. He considered his options, which at the moment were limited. He didn’t know whether he could trust the word of this woman. She fascinated him and seemed influential among the others. Clearly her words carried much weight. It was extraordinary, that she seemed to so dominate the men. What African woman – or European woman, for that matter – had he ever seen do that? He had wandered the souks and medinas of the northern towns and villages where the women were timid chattel, veiled nonentities kept under lock and key by fathers and husbands who subjugated them and punished them like mules. This woman was certainly no chattel, and here it was the men who wore the veils. What manner of people were these? Tales of Tuareg treachery abounded in the north, reports of scores of murdered travelers. Yet they had offered safe passage. If the fabric of the balloon was too badly damaged he knew they might not be able to repair it. And if what the woman said about the wind was true, the right wind might never arrive anyway. To walk out alone might be impossible. Even if they attempted it, he and Gascon might then encounter a different party that would kill them on sight.

  Serena heard more murmurs behind her and knew that further delay was dangerous, that she could lose control of the situation at any moment. “You must answer quickly,” she urged him. “Your life depends on it.”

  Henri glanced at Gascon, who had weighed their chances and thought it prudent to accept. Gascon nodded.

>   “Your offer is accepted with thanks,” Henri said. “We are honored to accompany you.”

  “Then it is done,” Serena said.

  Henri and Gascon folded the balloon, gathered up the scrambled remnants of their baggage, and placed everything in a pile. Henri found the rifles, which had gotten jammed into the sand underneath a broken piece of the basket. Cautiously, moving so that everything he did could be seen and not misinterpreted, he wrapped the rifles in a blanket and placed them inside a basket that was to be loaded on one of the pack camels. One of the Tuareg, a man called Buzu who wore all-white robes, waved them away brusquely when it was time to load the camels. He handled the task himself, hissing and cursing and goading the animals to do his bidding without excessive complaint. Buzu was the only one working, while the other Tuareg sat in silence in the shade. If they were not overtly hostile, they seemed withdrawn and unfriendly.

  When at last they were ready to depart, Henri found himself provided with a riding camel of nasty disposition. The camel is an animal of contrasts, able to adopt a demeanor that is either terribly awkward or immensely dignified, depending upon its mood. It further possesses the ability to look altogether natural in either guise. As Henri’s mount rose from its knees to a standing position, a process in which the rider is first thrown violently backward, then forward, then backward again, it jerked viciously, nearly toppling Henri in the process and causing him to slide sideways around the neck, until he was hanging on in a most precarious fashion. It was at that very moment that Serena, already mounted, rode up.

  “Well, monsieur, I believe you looked better in the balloon,” she said brightly, and it took all of her effort to keep a straight face.

  Henri looked at her sheepishly and felt himself flushing. He struggled back to an upright position and settled himself in the leather webbing of the saddle. As he did so he noticed that his pouch had fallen on the ground. For a long moment he just stared at it, wondering how to get it back without the complete loss of his dignity. Gascon was already up, as was everyone else. Then Serena saw it too and quickly appreciated his dilemma. “I’ll get it,” she said. She slid off her mount in an instant, snatched it up, handed it back to him, and remounted her camel without its kneeling again. Her movements were lithe and graceful, and Henri watched her appreciatively.