Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  A man landed nearby. He moved quickly in the darkness. Easily, like a cat.

  “Abdulahi?” His own voice bounced back at him.

  “No.”

  Moussa couldn’t make out who it was by the voice. He smelled garlic. The mystery moved past him and disappeared into a tunnel. He listened until the sound was gone. Another man dropped.

  “Abdulahi?”

  “No. Mahmoud. Fare well today, Tuareg dog.” He too scurried past Moussa and followed the other man into the darkness. Moussa couldn’t imagine how they knew where to go. Like rats, they vanished into the underworld.

  Another body dropped.

  “You are all right, Sidi?”

  “Yes, but I can’t see.”

  “You will learn to see with your fingers, Sidi, and with an eye in your mind you do not yet know you have. Be patient. Worry will not make it light. Keep your head down and follow me.”

  He scurried down one of the tunnels. Moussa started after him and immediately banged his head. He rubbed it and moved as fast as he could but couldn’t keep up. His hands and knees were in the water, which was freezing. His knees were already sore but he moved quickly. He was deathly afraid of being left behind. He would never find his way out again. He thought he should be unrolling his rope to leave as a marker. There wasn’t time, and he didn’t know how far they were going. Damn! Abdulahi had already shoveled a thousand instructions at him. How hard could it be to work in the foggaras? Yet for all he had learned he felt he knew nothing at all.

  He stopped to listen. He heard something. Straight ahead? To the right? The noise was clear, but not the direction. Crawling on one hand, groping the wall with his other, he finally came to an opening. He listened, then turned and headed into a tunnel that departed from the first at a right angle. He wondered how he would turn around. He didn’t want to back all the way out. He crawled for a few moments. The noise seemed closer, and then his face smacked into Abdulahi’s rear end.

  “Not so fast, Sidi. We are here. It is the end of the tunnel.” He spoke in a normal tone yet his voice sounded overloud. Sound played tricks in the tunnels. Moussa wished he could see.

  “This is a finger off the main tunnel,” Abdulahi said. “A short extension, dug to increase the water flow. We will dig another meter or two. We must also lower the floor. I will work here first. You are not used to it. You will work the shaft.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Untie your rope.” Moussa complied as Abdulahi talked. “Tie one end to the handle of the goatskin bag. Here, feel it? Tie the other end to your waist. Crawl back to the shaft where we came down. I will dig until I fill the bag. When I tug on the rope like this, pull the bag out. My own rope will be tied to the other handle. Untie both ropes and attach the full goatskin to the rope hanging from the surface. There is a man standing at the top. Pull on the rope. He will lift it and empty it, and then lower it back to you. While he does that, take your own bag and attach both our ropes to it again. Tug when you are ready. I will pull it back, and the whole process will begin again. You keep changing bags and ropes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Moussa was thinking of having to crawl back and find the shaft alone.

  “As you will discover, it is an amusing way to spend the day, Sidi. And it has its advantages.”

  “Oh?”

  “You never get hot, and there is always plenty to drink.” He laughed.

  “It is time to work, Sidi. There is another thing. You must listen carefully. Always, with all your senses, listen and feel. There may be a cave-in. A ceiling may collapse, or a wall. You may not hear it. You may only feel it. After a time here you will know the feel. And sometimes water builds in hidden caverns and breaks through. It can flood the tunnel for a time. In all of these things I need you to remember your good friend Abdulahi at the far end of the rope, and to move quickly. Use your own mattock, and save him as you would save yourself.”

  “Of course. But what do I do if there is a flood?”

  “Can you swim, Sidi?”

  “Yes.”

  He giggled. “It doesn’t matter here. If the tunnel floods you can’t swim anyway. You will probably drown.” He was delighted at the humor in it. “Turn on your back and try to keep your nose to the top of the tunnel so that you can breathe. Try to brace yourself on the sides of the tunnel with your arms and legs, to keep the flow from carrying you away. You are a large man and should be able to do it easily. If you feel me floating by, stop me. If you can’t, mektoub. Someday even I might not out-think the dragon, or Allah may one day tire of my inattention to prayer.”

  Moussa was feeling overwhelmed. His blood raced at the thought of a raging underground flood.

  “We are darkness dwellers, Sidi. We need each other. We live together. We must not die together.”

  “I understand.”

  Abdulahi clapped him on the shoulder. “Go with God, Sidi, but trust only your senses.” Moussa was surprised that he knew where his shoulder was in the pitch-darkness. He shuddered at the touch. He was not used to being touched on naked skin. He would have to get used to a lot here, it was clear. He felt the terrible burden of responsibility – for Abdulahi, for himself. He clenched his teeth and backed down the tunnel, playing out his rope that was still attached to the bag. When he arrived at the intersection he backed around the corner. He crawled forward, touching the sides, feeling everything, his heart pounding. He was on his own. He was no more than a few meters away from his companion, yet he felt as if he were the only man on earth.

  He panicked as he wondered how to find the shaft. He felt the top of the tunnel with the back of his head as he crawled, knowing that he would run into the shaft somewhere along the way. How would he know if it was the right shaft? How many were there? What if he chose the wrong one, and no one was at the top? Would he stand there for hours, waiting for the imaginary man above ground to answer his tug? Or what if he had gotten mixed up and was crawling the wrong way? There was no sense of direction here. None at all. Memory had to serve, and what if memory failed? How far should he go before he went back to begin again? There was the comfort that Abdulahi was at the other end of the rope. But what if the end of the rope slid away from him and he didn’t notice? What if he tugged and the other end was lying somewhere out of Abdulahi’s reach?

  The top of the tunnel was not getting higher. His head scraped along it, his new turban absorbing the abuse. He didn’t know how far he’d come. He couldn’t tell distances, not at all. On his hands and knees it seemed like a very long way. Then he felt a breeze. It was so gentle he almost missed it. But yes, it was a breeze, whispering at his cheeks.

  Use all your senses, Sidi.

  With a wave of relief he came to the shaft, and felt the dangling rope. Of course, the rope. That would have told him too. There were signs. He must find the signs.

  He stood on shaky legs, giddy to be upright again with his head in the shaft. Immediately he felt a tug on the rope at his side. He knelt down and started to pull. The rope curled at his feet as the bag scooted along the ground. Then he felt it, and fumbled at the knot. He tied it to the rope dangling from the surface and tugged. The bag didn’t move. He tugged again. Nothing. Had the fool on top fallen asleep? While he waited he decided to attach his own bag to Abdulahi’s rope. In the darkness he realized he didn’t know which rope was which. It was all a jumbled mess. His fingers played along it. He worried there would be knots now when it stretched out again, knots that might get caught on corners, knots that might prevent him from pulling if he needed to rescue someone. Or if he needed to be rescued.

  Suddenly the simple task was too much. He was not doing his job! He got to his knees again and crawled back into the tunnel. He got hold of the single rope that led back to Abdulahi, and kept his hands on it as he felt for the end. When he had it he quickly tied it to the bag; and tugged. Immediately it scooted away. He stood again, to see about the other bag. He felt for it. It was still there. He tugged again angrily. Bits of earth struc
k the top of his head.

  And then he knew. He’d tied the bag to the wrong rope. He’d put it on the end of the descent rope, which was thicker and shorter. There had been three of them in the shaft. He could tug till eternity and no one would respond.

  He found the right rope, re-tied it, and yanked. Instantly the bag rose. He kept his eyes closed. He felt humiliated. This wasn’t as easy as it seemed. Then he remembered to sink down again. Abdulahi was counting on him to listen, and he wasn’t. He was fumbling around like an idiot, trying to make bags of dirt go where he wanted them to go, all the while failing to pay attention.

  Floods. Cave-ins.

  He was a darkness dweller. He had to listen.

  * * *

  He worked the ropes. It got easier with practice. He began to interpret sounds. Empty bag, coming down the shaft. Full bag, dragging through the water. Empty bag, dragging through the water. Arm over arm, hand over hand, the motions became smoother, more automatic. He found a way to store the rope so it curled neatly at his feet.

  Once he failed to tie the bag to the rope properly. It moved toward the surface, rubbing along the sides of the shaft. Then he heard it come loose. He raised his arms to protect his head but jammed his elbows on the side of the shaft. Had the bag hit him it would have knocked him out, or worse. But it plunged right past him and crashed at his feet. He could feel where it spilled. With his hands he tried to pack it back in, but the water carried most of it away, washing it down where someone else would have to pick it up.

  After that he paid more attention to his knots.

  Hour after hour, bag after bag, the dirt went out. He thought of the thousand other men in the netherworld of the great foggaras, laboring to keep the pasha’s water flowing. Bile rose in his throat as he thought of his predicament. A prisoner! Such a common fate in the desert, yet he never dreamed it would happen to him. But there was not time now to think of that. There would be time tonight, or tomorrow. Now he must think only of knots and tugs and bags dropping through the blackness, and floods waiting to kill him. Now he wanted only to get through the day.

  Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He felt for the end of his turban where he’d tied the dates. He found the lump and carefully unwrapped it. He ate only two. He wanted to space them out so that they would last the whole day, but realized he had as little conception of time as he did of distance. It might be midmorning, or afternoon, or the middle of the night. Summer or winter. No way to tell for the darkness dwellers.

  He knelt and drank water directly from the bottom of the tunnel. It was sweet but too cold. The cold wouldn’t leave him. He longed to return to the warmth of the surface. After less than a day he could hardly remember what the heat felt like. All he knew was the cold. The air was cold, the water was cold. Coldest of all was the darkness. He rubbed his shoulders and stomped his feet. He shivered and waited and worked.

  He was pulling a bag from Abdulahi when he heard a different noise. Instantly he was attentive, concentrating. He stopped pulling.

  “What are you doing, Sidi? Why do you stop?”

  Abdulahi’s voice was close. He had crawled behind the bag to the shaft. Moussa relaxed and crouched down.

  “I didn’t recognize the new noise. I thought it might be a cave-in.”

  Abdulahi laughed. “You have far to go, Sidi, if you do not know the difference between Abdulahi and a cave-in.”

  Moussa nodded in the darkness. “Yes, far to go. Are we finished for the day?”

  “No. Halfway. In the darkness time plays cruel tricks. It is only time for you to take your turn digging. My arms have had enough. Can you find your way back?”

  “I think so.” Moussa wasn’t at all certain of it. The thought that he had made it through only half a day was depressing.

  “Listen carefully when you dig. If you are working on a piece of rock that hides water the sound of your mattock will change. That should not happen this high in the foggaras, but the dragon is full of surprises.”

  “How will I know when to come back?”

  “Count the strokes of your mattock. When you cannot lift it even one more time, Sidi, then dig twice that many again. That will be the time to stop.”

  “That is too long. Why don’t we just sit without digging?”

  “A wonderful idea, but it won’t work. They send slaves to check on us every week. They are men who have been freed from heavy labor through long service. They no longer have to dig if they do their job well, so you can imagine how well they do it. They know every inch of the dragon. They measure it. They crawl it from one end to the other. They know how many men have worked an area, and how much should have been done. They look to see there are no secret tunnels or rooms.

  “If we have not done well in a week’s time they cut our rations. If we continue to go slowly – well, there was a group of slaves who decided not to dig. There were twelve of them. It was just after I arrived in Timimoun. Jubar Pasha knew what to do. He closed off the ends of the tunnels where they worked that day and pulled up the rope of their shaft. Then he summoned the rest of us. Pulled us out of the foggaras, just to see it. Work came to a halt in the entire oasis. There were men twenty deep standing around the shaft. We could hear the men below howling. It was a terrible sound. And then we were each made to drop a bag of earth into the shaft, until the howling stopped.” He spat. “After that there was no more talk of slow work.”

  Moussa shivered.

  He found his way back easily enough, and knew he would never get used to the tunnels. His skin was soaked and irritated. His hands and knees were raw. Sand and sharp rocks tore at his flesh. The cold continued its relentless assault on his body. He found his way to where he would dig. He rested a moment, then used his hands to feel the surface he was about to work. The tunnel was oval-shaped but flat across the bottom. He had to lie down to work, his belly and legs in the cold water that trickled from the stone.

  Digging was awkward. He couldn’t raise the mattock high enough to get a good swing. All he could manage was to hack away at the surface of the soft stone. At first he did it with his eyes open, but quickly learned to close them to protect them from flying pieces. The mattock took only small bits with each blow. When he’d worked awhile he scraped up the dirt with his hands and fumbled to get it into the bag. It seemed to take forever to fill. When he tugged on the rope the bag slithered away instantly. He rested for a moment, surprised at how quickly he felt the corresponding tug that meant an empty bag was ready for him to pull back. No rest yet, he thought.

  It was awful work. His hands took the worst of it. They were unused to physical labor, and scraping the dirt up was abrasive. They were too cold for him to be certain, but he thought he could feel his skin shredded and bleeding by the time he was working on his fourth bag. At this rate he’d have nothing left but stumps by the end of the day. He turned his mattock around and used the handle to pick up bits of the earth instead of doing it with his hands. It took longer, but it was the only way. In camp he would try to find something to use as a scoop.

  No! He cursed himself for the thought. He was only trying to get through the day, but he must not let that become a habit.

  I must not find ways to make things easy. I must find ways to escape.

  The day dragged forever. The work savaged his body. His muscles ached. Blisters formed and broke and formed again. Bag after bag slithered away. Bag after bag came back. The dragon was always ravenous for more. He worked until he knew he could not fill another bag, when lifting the mattock through the air was more than he could bear. Then he thought of Abdulahi’s words, that he needed to do twice that much. He rested his head on his forearm and willed himself to go on. It occurred to him that like other noblemen of the Ihaggaren, he had never done physical labor. Slaves did it for them. Now he was the slave. It was a startling thought.

  Gritting his teeth, he went back to work.

  He was moving automatically, his mind blanked to all but the steady repetition of his task, when he felt the fi
rst dribble of rock. It fell onto the back of his legs from the ceiling behind him as he swung the mattock. He cried out in terror.

  Cave-in!

  Frantically he backed up, abandoning his mattock and bag. His heart pounded in panic, his throat tight. At the intersection with the main tunnel he stopped to listen.

  There was nothing. Nothing but the sound of his own lungs, rasping in damp fear.

  There had been no cave-in. Only a little loose dirt had fallen, along with his courage. He calmed himself. Every instinct told him to leave then, to slither back to the shaft and get out. He’d done more than a man could reasonably do. But he knew it wasn’t time, and if he left his mattock and bag behind there would be no food tonight. He had to eat. To eat he must work.

  Reluctantly he crawled forward again, into the mouth of the dragon.

  * * *

  He stretched out on his back in the little hut, exhausted. It was a relief to be out of the foggaras, but his body had paid an awful price. Every muscle ached. His hands and knees were flayed, the rest of his skin blistered and torn. He was still shivering from the cold. The dirt on the floor of the hut still held the day’s heat. He wriggled in it, trying to dig down into it, to surround himself with its warmth.

  He couldn’t imagine going through another day of this. Abdulahi had been there four years. Others had been there even longer.