"Monseigneur begs that you will excuse him until this evening, but he will return in time for dinner."
I regarded him blankly. "Monseigneur?"
"My master. The sheik."
My temper flared at the hypocritical beast who "begged to be excused!”
Gaston looked slightly hurt when I waved away the dessert that he offered, some kind of baklava crossed with a French pastry. After he removed the remains of the meal, I propped my elbows on the table and rested my aching head on my hands. A headache was among several new experiences that had overwhelmed me since the day before. Suffering in any form was new to me, and my hatred of the man who had made me suffer grew with every breath I drew.
The Frenchman soon returned with coffee and cigarettes, holding a match for me and coaxing the reluctant flame with a patience that denoted long experience with inferior sulphur. "Monseigneur dines at eight. At what hour will madam take her tea?" he asked as he folded up the table.
His quiet and deferential manner, as if there were nothing extraordinary about my presence in his master's camp, was almost harder to bear than flagrant impertinence would have been. I choked back the sarcastic retort that sprang to my lips and gave an indeterminate answer, but when I looked up again, he was gone. I heaved a sigh of relief to be left alone once more.
I could breathe more freely now that he was gone. I was also at liberty for further exploration. My natural curiosity once more struggled with my other emotions. I gave way to it to wander the big room. The night before, I had taken in little more than vague impressions of my surroundings. I'd been far too preoccupied by the man, but even in his absence, I found his personality still dominated.
The living area was appointed in the same luxurious manner as his bedchamber. The Persian rugs and hangings were exquisite. At the far end of the tent was a small doorway and beside it, a little portable writing table. There were one or two Moorish stools heaped with a motley collection of ivories, gold and silver cigarette cases, knick-knacks, and against the partition that separated the two rooms stood a quaintly carved old wooden chest.
The main feature of the room was a big black divan heaped with huge cushions covered with dull black silk. I recalled the black-and-silver waistcloth he had swathed around him. Doubtless, it pleased his conceit to carry out the color scheme of his person even in his domicile. Beside the divan, spread over the Persian rugs, were two unusually large black bearskins, the mounted heads converging. Though the furniture was scanty, the whole room had an air of barbaric splendor.
I looked to the couch where he had reposed the evening before. I would not touch it. Instead, I disdained the seduction of its comfort to examine the contents of the little bookcase instead. Although lurid novels would have seemed more harmonious with the sybaritic atmosphere, there were only a couple works of fiction, and an entire shelf was dedicated to the works of one man, a Vicomte Raoul de Saint Hubert. I thumbed through these, determining from the few scribbled words in the front of each book that they had all been sent by the author himself—one even was dedicated to "My friend, Ahmed Ben Hassan, Sheik of the Sahara."
I returned the books with a puzzled frown. It was another unexpected and disquieting glimpse into the paradoxical personality of my captor. He seemed now infinitely more sinister to me—a savage superficially coated with a veneer of civilization.
The day wore away quickly. The sun dipping toward the horizon told me he would soon return. I did not know how to face him or what to expect. "I must be strong. I must be calm," I whispered in a kind of desperation. My head still throbbed persistently. Clasping it in my hands, I fell back onto the big black divan that I had previously scorned, dropping down amongst the soft cushions. Not long after, I started at the sound of rattling metal—the Frenchman with tea.
"It is madam's own blend. If she will please be good enough to say if it is made to her taste." He placed the tray on a stool beside me, looking as if his whole happiness was contained in the tiny teapot.
I recognized the sincerity of his efforts to please me yet found it annoying nonetheless. I longed to shout for him to go away. Instead, I mimicked his air of civility, taking a small sip and nodding approval. He departed with a satisfied smile.
Once he was gone, I sprang to my feet, abandoning the tea pot to pace the tent. I felt weary, restless, and desolate. Although I was wound up at the thought of seeing the sheik again, almost anything seemed better than confinement alone in his tent.
A noise outside attracted my attention.
I ventured cautiously into the open doorway leading out to the camp. It was covered by a great awning supported on lances. I stepped out from under its shade to look about. All around me was a vast oasis—bigger than any I had ever seen. In front of the tent there was an open space with a thick belt of palm trees beyond. The rest of the camp seemed to lay behind the sheik's tent.
The place was alive with men, and horses were everywhere, some tethered, some wandering loose, some exercising in the hands of grooms. Mounted men on the outskirts of the oasis occasionally crossed my view. Those who passed by salaamed but took no further notice of me. The longing for fresh air and the desire to move about and see the place had only grown stronger. I was animated with excitement for the first time since my arrival.
Having lounged most of the day in nothing but my robe, I hurried to dress. I poured enough water into the basin to sponge myself clean and then raked my fingers through my tousled hair. I threw on my breeches and stomped into my boots, kicking defiantly at the button-less blouse that still lay on the floor, inflamed anew at the man who had bound me to his bed. I wondered with dread what he might have in store for me this night, but immediately banished the thought of him from my mind.
After shrugging into a clean blouse, I ventured back through the living room and outside under the awning where I watched the camp with breathless delight. This was the desert indeed, the desert I had dreamt of, the desert few could ever expect to see.
Before I had come to Africa, the life of an Arab sheik had been nothing but a vague fantasy. The term sheik itself was elastic. I had been shown sheiks in Biskra who were nothing better than second-rate camel traders, who drove hard bargains to hire out mangy camels and sore-covered donkeys for trips into the interior. My own faithless caravan leader, Mustafa Ali, had also called himself "sheik."
But I had heard also of other sheiks who lived far away across the shimmering sand, powerful chiefs with large followings, but of those sheiks, I'd had only the haziest idea. When not engaged in killing their neighbors with gleaming scimitars, I'd envisioned them drowsing away whole days smoking opium from a hookah, lying about in a perpetual state of lethargic self-indulgence. I'd seen pictures of some, mostly fat old men sitting cross-legged in the entrance of their tents, waited on by hordes of retainers while looking languidly out at some miserable slave being beaten to death. I'd never expected the orderly camp of the man whose prisoner I had become. This sheik's life appeared hard, strenuous, highly occupied, and his camp was full of magnificent horses.
I spun at a sudden noise. With teeth bared in fury, a screaming chestnut came past the tent, taking complete charge of the two men who clung to his head. He came to a halt opposite me, quivering all over and refusing to budge, his ears flattened to his finely sculpted head. He snatched continually at his grooms, who seemed unable to manage him. With teeth flashing, he flung himself backward onto his haunches, lifting one of the unwary attendants off his feet. The boy landed on his rump and scrambled away with a howl that provoked a shout of laughter from a knot of men who had gathered to watch.
"He is rightly named Shaitan, madam, for he is assuredly possessed of a devil." Gaston had joined me to watch the chestnut's antics as it plunged violently and then broke away from the second man. The animal then headed, tail held high to the edge of the oasis with a stream of men following after him. The Frenchman laughed. "The mounted men will catch him."
"Is he just amusing himself, or is it really vice?" I asked.
&nbs
p; His expression sobered. "Pure vice, madam. He has killed three men."
"Then he should be shot," I said indignantly.
The man shrugged. "Monseigneur is fond of him."
"He is valued above the lives of these wretched people because Monseigneur is fond of him?" I was stunned. I should not have been. It seemed compatible with the merciless character I had seen—the one I had experienced firsthand. He would come back soon, and with his arrival, my courage would sink just like the red ball still glowing in the heavens.
I turned from my dread-filled thoughts to look upon more of the horses that were being led across the camp. "They are magnificent," I remarked, "but also much bigger than any other Arabians I have seen."
"They are a special breed, madam," replied the Frenchman. "Monseigneur's horses are known through all the Barbary States, and as far as France." A note of pride had crept into his voice. I still couldn't comprehend the admiration and devotion the brute inspired in those around him.
"But how can he keep so many when there is no grass?" I asked in puzzlement.
The Frenchman smiled. "This breed is not like your frail English horses that require lush pasture and grassy meadows, madam. These are a product of the desert for a thousand years, just as the Iteema dates upon which they thrive."
"Dates?" I repeated in astonishment. "These horses survive solely on the fruit of palm trees?"
"Not quite." He chuckled. "Their diet is supplemented with Algerian barley and camel's milk."
"Camel's milk?" My incredulity had only increased.
"Yes." He touched a finger to his lips. "But that is to remain a secret or Monseigneur will have my head. Ah, there he is now." The Frenchman drew my attention to a darkly cloaked horseman, sitting proud and erect as he led a band of mounted men through the belt of trees that fringed the oasis.
He had spoken as if I, also, would be glad of his master's coming. Did this valet imagine for one moment that I was here of my own free will? Nothing could be further from reality.
I watched the troop arrive at the open space before the main tent. Today the sheik's horse was jet-black, a startling contrast against his snowy white robes. He swung to the ground, a picturesque, barbaric figure. His lean profile cut against the early evening sky, arrogant and dominating, in all aspects the master of his domain.
One glance was enough to send a shudder of apprehension down my spine. I waited for him to look my way with the swift racing of my heart an actual physical pain but he didn't even glance in my direction. Instead, he lingered, fondling the great black horse, looking after it as it was led off. It enraged me how fully he occupied my thoughts when I appeared to be the furthest thing from his.
He spoke to a tall, young Arab who had ridden up to meet him. The younger man pointed to a semi-circle of men who were intensely excited, talking, and gesticulating. I leaned against one of the lances that supported the awning and watched with growing interest. The setting was wonderful: the far-off hills dusky in the afternoon light, the clustering palms behind the tents, the crowd of figures in their stark white robes, the horsemen moving up and down, and in the midst of it all, another beautiful, wild creature, kicking and biting at the men holding him.
The sheik held up his hand, and a man detached himself from the chattering crowd and came to him salaaming. After exchanging a few words followed by another salaam and a gleam of white teeth, the man turned back to the group in the center of the ring. I surmised this frantic young stallion was going to be broke to ride.
The horse was already saddled and held by several men, one of whom leaped like a flash onto to his back. At first the colt held perfectly still, as if stunned. Within seconds the horse exploded with wild rage, and the crowd fell away, racing from the reach of the terrible lashing heels. He reared straight up until it seemed he would fall backward and crush the man clinging to his back. When he came down at last, it was almost impossible to follow his spasmodic movements as he strove to rid himself of his rider. The end came quickly, however. With a twisting heave of his whole body, he shot the man over his head to land senseless in the sand.
The colt's ears pricked and nostrils flared in triumph, but before he could fully appreciate his liberty, a throng of men dashed in and secured him. Another group surrounded the fallen man. I feared he was dead when only a moment ago he had been so full of life and vigor.
I glanced at the sheik to find him laughing. Apparently death meant nothing to this savage. He placed his hand on another young man's shoulder and nodded toward the colt. It was an obvious challenge, and I gasped at the realization that he would make the young man risk his neck, just as the first rough-rider had done. Although I had seen his men ride and knew they were all supremely accomplished, this one looked so young and boyish. Yet he evidently welcomed the chance to prove himself. With an answering laugh, he swaggered out into the arena where the men greeted him with shouts. The same procedure followed, with the youth bounding up lightly into the saddle.
This time, instead of rearing, the frightened colt dashed forward in a frantic effort to escape, but the mounted men closed the circle, forcing him back. He next returned to his first tactic with a rapidity that was too much for the handsome lad on his back. In a matter of seconds, he, too, was thrown. The colt then spun on him, open-mouthed, and the youth flung up an arm to protect his face. The men intervened, catching the young stallion while the lad rose and limped to the tents behind.
I looked again to the sheik and ground my teeth. He had lit a cigarette with an air of total disregard. He and his valet walked together toward the colt. The animal was thoroughly enraged and increasingly difficult to control. The next thing I knew, Gaston was sitting firmly in the saddle. The little man rode magnificently, putting up a much longer fight than the others had done, but at last his turn came as well, as he went flying over the colt's head. He landed lightly on his hands and knees, scrambling to his feet in an instant amidst a storm of shouts and laughter.
Laughing, he returned to the sheik with a shrug and outspread hands. They spoke again and then to my amazement, the sheik himself ventured into the middle of the ring. When I realized his intention, my breath seized. I moved without thought from under the awning to join Gaston, who was wrapping his handkerchief around a torn hand.
"Monseigneur will try?" I asked with an apprehension I could not deny.
"Try, madam?" he repeated in a queer voice. "Yes, he will try."
Again the empty saddle was filled, and a curious hush came over the watching crowd. My heart beat wildly as I looked on, filled with conflicting and contradictory emotions. Part of me hoped that the stallion might kill him outright, while the other part of me wanted to see him master the infuriated animal. Having been raised amongst men, the sporting instinct was strong within me. I recognized the challenge the horse presented and could not deny my admiration of the sheik's horsemanship.
He sat like a rock as the colt plunged wildly, making furious blind leaps, dashes backward and forward, and then stopping dead in the hope of dislodging his rider over his head. Unsuccessful, he twirled around so rapid and sudden that it seemed impossible he could keep his feet. I watched with fists clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms as he reared again, straight up with forelegs beating the air, higher and higher, and then down, only to commence again without a moment's breathing space. The colt shot up again, near perpendicular, and seemed suspended there. The sheik stood in his stirrups, his body aligned heavenward as the horse began to teeter on his hind legs. I closed my eyes in the certainty the sheik would be crushed beneath the horse. But the horse's valiant efforts were once more wasted.
"Look, madam!" Gaston exhaled a whistling breath through his teeth.
A scene began that I will never forget. After a swift backward glance, the sheik gave a hard and deliberate jerk of his body to unbalance the horse. With a scream, the young stallion tumbled backward, the sheik leaping off just before the horse crashed to the ground.
I knew the seconds that followe
d would be the ultimate struggle, one that would end in final defeat for either man or horse. Yet they were so well matched that I feared the best outcome would be bloodshed for one and crushed bones for the other. This sheik would never concede to the animal. I had not the slightest doubt he would let himself be killed first. I was almost sick with horror and longed to turn away, yet my gaze clung in transfixed fascination. I had to see this through to the bitter end. Although I expected to witness the ultimate contest of wills—a hideous exhibition of brute strength and merciless cruelty pitting the savagery and determination of the man against the mad determination of the horse—the sheik did the last thing I ever could have imagined. Rather than vaulting back into the saddle and punishing the animal brutally with whip and spur as I had expected, he threw himself on top the dazed creature's neck before it could regain its feet.
"I don't understand this! What is he doing?" I asked incredulously.
Gaston smiled widely and then laughed. "I have not seen this approach before, but it is a most innovative and clever one, madam. The horse cannot get up. He must have full use of his head and neck to rise."
I had sufficient knowledge of horses to know that its helpless position would soon incite panic, and that's precisely what ensued. Wild-eyed and frantic, the animal kicked, flailed, and thrashed its legs until its shiny coat was sweat-drenched and lather-coated, with foam issuing from its mouth. The sheik refused to move or to be moved, yet all while the terrified animal struggled, he stroked, coaxed, and murmured soothing words.
I looked on in wonderment until the horse eventually closed its eyes and went perfectly still. If not for its heaving breaths, I would have believed him dead.
It was only then that the Sheik took notice of me. His intense blue gaze bored into mine, and suddenly I understood. It was not at all as I had thought. His entire manner from his arrival back in camp had suggested he had forgotten my existence, but he had not forgotten me at all. No, he had simply chosen the precise moment that he wished to acknowledge me.
The Sheik Retold Page 7