Moussa groaned inside. “I cannot help you kill them, Paul. I will help you find your men. I will find you camels. I will lead you out of here, back to Wargla. I will do all that, and you will need my help or you will die. No man can make that journey without camels, and yours have all been taken.”
“It isn’t enough.”
Moussa was heartsick. When he spoke his voice was low. “What was done to the expedition was wrong. But I did not help the Tuareg raise arms against you. I will not help you raise arms against them.”
“Then you have chosen against me, Moussa,” Paul said. “God in heaven. Moussa. Moussa. Did I never hear that name until now? Do you remember what Sister Godrick said about it? A godless name, I think she said. A heathen name. And you always insisted on keeping it! Always chose Moussa over Michel. By God, maybe Sister Godrick did know what she was saying. She knew what was in your veins, only we never – I never – believed her until now.”
Moussa shook his head sadly. “Don’t say this to me, Paul. I have done nothing to earn your hatred.”
Paul closed his eyes and the bloody demons of Tadjenout roared up before him. “You son of a bitch! What do you think you’ve earned?” In a rage he struggled to his feet, drawing the pistol from his belt. He took short unsteady steps toward Moussa, holding the pistol so close to his face that Moussa could smell the oil on the barrel. He flinched, feeling instinctively for the dagger hidden in his sleeve, but stopped short. He would never use it against Paul. He wondered if that was how death would come, at the hand of his cousin.
Paul wavered, his body fevered and weak, his chest heaving as he tried to still the confusion and the pain racing in his brain. Finally he slumped to a sitting position. His hand trembled, the gunbarrel still pointing at his cousin’s head. He didn’t know what to do. He only knew that he could not stay where he was. He lowered his gun.
“I am sorry you have forgotten who you are, that you have somehow lost your soul. You think you have not made a choice. But not to choose is to choose. If you will not help France, then you have joined with those who have declared war on her. If you are with… them… when the time comes for justice, I will not be responsible for what happens, Moussa.”
Paul felt old and heartsick. He pulled himself slowly to his feet. He found his bag and half-walked, half-stumbled to the opening of the cave.
“You shouldn’t go yet,” Moussa said. “You’re still too weak. The sun will act with the poison. You won’t last the day.”
Paul turned. “Go to hell.”
“Take my camel, then. And at least let me give you this,” Moussa said, reaching for a bag. “You’ll need it for—”
“I want nothing from you but what I’ve asked. If you cannot give that, then stay out of it. If you haven’t the spine to choose, then I don’t want to see you again. Don’t test my goodwill, Moussa. Don’t test my blood. It is French, every drop. I am an officer in my country’s army. I have a duty. I will fulfill it, if it means I have to kill you to do it.”
For a long sad moment they held each other’s eyes.
Without another word, Paul turned and disappeared into the dawn.
* * *
The sun was high and hot and burned in his skull. He lay still in the heat, without shade, waiting for his mind to clear. It wouldn’t. It seemed lost in fog, as if he were drunk. He sat up and looked at his knees. Bloody. Must have fallen again.
He didn’t feel like eating but drank insatiably from the goatskin, not caring if he ran out. He couldn’t stop. He got to his feet for the tenth time, or perhaps it was the twentieth. He couldn’t be sure. Each motion was long and awkward and drawn out. The light was blinding and made his head hurt worse. He scanned the horizon. He’d never seen anything so vast or desolate. The sky was empty, even of clouds. The rocks were barren, even of wind. No trees, no grasses, no life of any kind. He felt as vulnerable before the emptiness as a leaf before a hurricane. The prickle of fear returned, the same one that touched him on the mountain, but it was dulled by the fever.
He tried to remember where he’d been. He tried to remember where he was going. He tried to remember what course of action he’d decided upon yesterday. Was it yesterday? Go east, to pick up the trail of the caravan? West? It was so hard to think… North? He’d come from the north, he knew that much. But everything looked familiar, and then nothing did. He was tired, so tired. He just wanted to sleep.
He saw a speck in the sky and shaded his eyes with his hand. It was a bird of some kind, a hawk perhaps, soaring high and easily to the north. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it made him remember. North. That was it, north.
He labored to pick up the food and water. He couldn’t carry any weight on his right side, so he put the bags over his left shoulder. Each step hurt, jarring his arm and hand. The glands were swollen in his armpits, neck, and groin. It hurt to swallow, it hurt to walk, and the leather straps cut into his shoulder. He forced himself forward, one foot after the other, yesterday’s speed impossible, the rock games forgotten. He dragged through patches of sand in the wadis and twisted his ankles on the stones. Each time he tripped he gasped in pain. Each time he got up more slowly than the last.
The sun rose higher into a windless, hot day. Sometimes its warmth felt good, helping against the chills of fever, warming his back and neck. But then the chills left him and he became unbearably hot, his feet baking on the bed of black rock. Whenever his shirt touched his back or chest it came away soaking, only to be sucked dry by the desert air. He stopped frequently to rest, gulping at the water that would soon be gone.
In the afternoon he left the mountains of the Hoggar behind him and entered the hilly part of the Amadror. His fever raged through the long hot hours, further dulling his senses. At first he had been able to focus on rocks, on his feet, on the gravel, on rare blades of grass. But there came a time when he couldn’t do that anymore, when he couldn’t think at all; the great shimmering plain through which he walked was as dead as his mind. He kept walking, walking north, one foot before the other, time and again. He went up the long sides of the hills, his cloudy eyes seeing nothing but the next one, and at the top of that, yet another.
Once he thought he saw tracks, lots of them, but his eyes weren’t working right, and they were hard to make out. He got down on his knees and looked, his nose close to the’ground, and reached out with his left hand to touch one. The track was black and shiny and burned his fingers. The track was a pebble. He picked it up and threw it, barely feeling the pain. Disgusted, he got up and walked on.
His sense of time grew hazy edges and disappeared. He wasn’t sure when he ought to stop and drink, so he did it whenever he felt like it, sitting down and wrestling with the stopper and feeling the hot water empty into his scorched body, where it steamed off as quickly as it went in. During one of the stops he lost the water bag. He set it down beside him while he rested, and when he got up to go he simply left it there. He was trying to take the stopper out of the food bag before he realized what it was. The food bag didn’t have a stopper. His hand felt the dates inside and no trace of water. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done with it. He felt his pockets, looked under his feet, and over the top of the hill, and wandered in circles. He tried to whistle for it, as though it might come, tail wagging, only his mouth was so dry the whistle wouldn’t come. Oh well, he shrugged, north, north, he had to move north. Maybe the bag would follow later.
He started walking again but then stopped. Wandering in circles had gotten things all confused. He couldn’t remember which way his shadow was supposed to go. Left to right? Or was it right to left? He struggled with the problem. He stared at the sun, then turned to look at his shadow, trying to make out what time it might be.
And then he knew what to do. He’d go ask Remy. Remy would know. He was the smartest man he’d ever met. Remy knew everything. Wobbly but pleased with himself, Paul started walking toward the sun.
CHAPTER 26
Belkasem Ben Zebla was a butcher by trade
. He was an ugly ball of a man, corpulent and hairy with a round fleshy face that jiggled when he walked. His arms were huge, with biceps as big as most men’s legs. His beard and mustache were as ragged as his manner. His foul temper had been distilled with rum, his face scarred in a thousand brawls.
The sun was nearly down but it was still hellishly hot. Belkasem’s mood was dark. Sheer lunacy, the lieutenant posting him out on the flank when there were plenty of good tirailleurs in the column. It was their business to do this, not his. He’d signed up to help with the cooking and the camels because the pay was nearly double what he could make in the souks of Wargla. Now there was nothing to cook, no camels to tend, and riflemen with nothing to do. Worse, they made him carry the colonel’s ceremonial sword. It wasn’t half the tool his cleaver was. It was too heavy and lacked a proper edge. He’d not even be able to trim camel meat with it, much less use it to take off the head of one of those blue devils. He carried it in his belt, keeping watch for a sharpening stone.
He had his eyes to the ground when he hesitated. Something caught his eye, a dark shape at the base of a hill. Something out of place. His eyesight was poor, it was true, but in this part of the desert dark shapes meant trouble. He wasn’t going to let it get much closer. He took the carbine off his neck where he’d been resting his hands on it like a yoke. He raised it and narrowed his eyes. He waited nervously, wondering if he should shout to the column. Instead he kept his rifle high and walked cautiously forward, squinting harder to see better.
* * *
The men squatted around six small campfires, warming tiny portions of dried meat and rice over the wood they’d collected and carried during the day. Conversation was subdued around the fires, the mood grim. El Madani sat before one of them, absently scratching Floop behind the ears. The dog was lying listlessly on his stomach, head between his paws, barely opening his eyes at movements around the fire. The men chewed the tough meat slowly, trying to draw out the flavor as long as possible. El Madani slipped a piece to Floop. The dog hadn’t been hunting and was surely starving. Floop nosed at it indifferently.
A group of men from another fire, finished with their portions, came over to join those around Madani’s fire. From the darkness one of them spoke.
“Leftovers? Anyone got leftovers?” It was Belkasem the butcher.
“Back at Tadjenout,” someone said. “Take your lard ass back there and bring us all some.” Belkasem glared at him. The group around the fire opened up to let them in. They would talk awhile and then try to sleep for three hours, and march again before dawn.
Suddenly Floop’s head jerked up. El Madani felt it and looked at the dog. Floop whined as if unsure, his head cocked, tail moving slowly. He got up and trotted over to the newcomers, sniffing. Then he barked excitedly, his nose at Belkasem’s feet, poking around under the butcher’s robes. Belkasem kicked savagely at him, but Floop bounded back undeterred, tail cranking wildly, his barking more excited. The butcher kicked again. The mutt was all over him, and the others were laughing. Face flushed, Belkasem reached for a rock.
“Where did you get those boots?” Belkasem dropped his rock and looked up. El Madani towered above him, his wizened old face drawn tight in anger. The chatter around the fire died.
“Answer me.”
Sweating, Belkasem looked at the men around him for support. All eyes were on his boots. Like them, he had never worn anything but sandals. A deadly quiet settled over them. Jowls quaking, Belkasem looked up at El Madani and saw the fire in his eyes.
“They… they’re mine,” he stammered weakly. “I… I’ve had them—”
“Liar!” El Madani roared, his pistol in Belkasem’s face, the cold barrel stabbing at the fleshy cheek.
“I found them!” said the butcher quickly, shrinking back in terror. “As Allah is my witness, I found them today! Someone left them on the trail! It is true, I swear it!”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Lieutenant Dianous stepped quickly through the ring of men and saw the pistol. “Madani, what’s going on?”
“Belkasem’s boots, Lieutenant. He has a new pair. I think they belong to Lieutenant deVries.” Floop was sure of it, sniffing and pawing at them.
Dianous looked at the boots, then at the dog, and finally at Belkasem’s face, now quivering with fear. His voice was deathly quiet. “You have precisely thirty seconds to explain yourself, Belkasem. If what you say isn’t satisfactory, I shall direct El Madani to interview you privately. Away from camp.”
* * *
Racing through the moonlight, nose to the ground and barking loudly, Floop found him first. The others followed more slowly. El Madani led the way. Behind him, a barefoot Belkasem stepped painfully through the sharp rocks, carrying the boots. Hakeem’s face was lit with excitement as he walked alongside Sergeant Pobeguin, a tough veteran from Brittany. Two tirailleurs brought up the rear. They heard the dog’s pitch change. Hakeem, the youngest, broke away from the group, running up and over a hill.
“He’s here!” he cried. “Here, here! The patron is alive!”
El Madani glared at Belkasem with a look of rage and relief. The butcher saw only the rage. He held up his hands, imploring, holding the boots like a shield. “I swear I thought he was dead. I swear it! Praise be to Allah, the lieutenant lives!” Belkasem was near tears, his voice shaking. El Madani hurried ahead.
Paul was lying on his back, head cradled in Hakeem’s lap. The boy was giving him water, mumbling, “Ça va, Patron, ça va, ça va,” and trying to swat Floop away. The dog was beside himself, all tongue, paws, and tail. Next to Paul’s feet lay Belkasem’s sandals. The food bag had spilled, leaving dates and flour everywhere.
El Madani knelt by Paul’s side. Paul coughed weakly. “Hamdullilah,” Madani whispered. The tirailleur touched Paul’s face. “He’s burning with fever.” He stripped off his turban and soaked the cotton with water, then draped it over Paul’s head. He saw Floop licking Paul’s hand. He lifted it and carefully unwound the bandage. “Agrab,” he muttered.
Belkasem arrived, puffing. “Hamdullilah,” he said when he saw Paul. “It is true, he is back from the dead! A miracle!” The others stared at him. He avoided their eyes.
They picked Paul up and set him onto a blanket. Hakeem spread another one over him, and the six of them picked up the makeshift litter by the edges and hurried into the night, Floop barking at their heels.
The men at camp had expected to see a burial detail. When they saw the group returning with Paul in the blanket they raised a jubilant cheer. It was the first good omen they’d had in the four days since the massacre. One of their number had been snatched from Tuareg death, and they all felt the triumph. A lean-to was hastily constructed with blankets and rifles. With the doctor’s supplies and Hakeem’s help El Madani set about attending to Paul. In the next few hours Lieutenant Dianous stopped by frequently, his eyebrows raised in question. After a time El Madani, looking stark naked without his turban, his silver and black hair shining in the moonlight, was able to look at him and smile. “Ça va, Lieutenant,” he said. “II va vivre.”
Paul slept through the night, sometimes dead to the world, other times drifting, wonderfully warm and comfortable, feeling Floop’s body next to him or dimly seeing El Madani, giving him a cup of something. He swallowed its contents gratefully and slept again.
They carried him on the next day’s march, the men taking turns at the blanket, ignoring the heat and shading his head from the sun. Paul slept the entire time, awakening only to eat the broth Hakeem brought, and to drink. Outcast and scowling, Belkasem walked at the end of the column, his old sandals showing under his robes as he walked. He still carried the colonel’s sword, but Lieutenant Dianous had taken his rifle. Had he stolen from a fellow Muslim and not been in the service of the French, his hand would have been forfeit as well. “You will be dealt with in Wargla,” Dianous told him.
They marched after dark until they lost the moon and had to stop. Fires were started with the last of the wood,
and the meals began cooking. Paul got up and joined the officers and El Madani at their fire, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to keep out the cold. He looked worse than he felt.
“The dead man walks,” said Dianous. Paul sat down and took a cup of tea and a small plate of food. The night was cold and clear. A steady breeze blew from the plain, fanning the fire.
“What happened back there, at base camp?” Paul asked. He nodded toward the mountains. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“They won,” El Madani shrugged. “Our effort was for nothing. The camels bolted about the same time you did. They got them all. And then” – there was an edge to his voice, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t – “and then we just… waited at base camp all the rest of that day. Didn’t even try to get them back until that night. By then it was too late.”
Dianous stiffened, but his eyes didn’t leave the fire. “I expected another attack. It never came.”
“When we finally tried we lost twelve more men. It was another slaughter. Of ninety-eight men we have fifty-three left. Fifty-four – you came back from the dead.” El Madani thought of something lighter. “Floop was the only one to escape. He must have found himself in their camp and decided to leave. I imagine he got out with some of their food.” He smiled. “More than that, w’allahi. He coughed up blue thread for a day.”
“We have four or five wounded,” Dianous said. “They can all still walk. We have water, enough until we arrive at Temassint the day after tomorrow.” It was the last well the caravan had stopped at on the way south. “We have food for two or three days, and then it’s done.”
Paul thought of the small helping of rice and dried meat he’d just eaten, and of the mountain of provisions he’d assembled in Wargla. He felt guilty for eating at all. Floop was crunching contentedly on the bones of some small animal he’d found and didn’t notice the shortage.
Empires of Sand Page 56