Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu

by Vasudev Murthy

  After an elaborate send-off at Omdurman, we set out to Sawākin. Though Father Bąkiewicz urged Hasso and the other Tuaregs to return to the Hogger Mountains, they insisted on escorting us till Sawākin. Under the escort of the khalifa’s guards, we travelled to Haya and Sawākin. There was still some trouble with the Italians and even the British, but we finally reached the border of the town in the early hours. We had to continue on our own to the actual port with just a couple of guards as per previous agreement with the administrators of Sawākin town.

  The parting was extremely moving. Even for the reticent Tuaregs, it was an emotionally laden moment. Was Father Bąkiewicz not one of their own? Had I, his assistant, not helped them many times with ailments? It was difficult for us to express our feelings. So many months together had created a bond of love and respect.

  “Good-bye,” said Holmes.

  “Till we meet again,” replied Hasso.

  It was a magnificent sight. The silhouettes of two proud and tough Tuareg men looking steadily at each other with the rising sun in the east as a backdrop. The cries of a few gulls punctuated a salty silence.

  They clasped hands tightly knowing that words were unnecessary. We said good-bye to each of the Tuaregs. Meeting again was unlikely.

  We had dismounted from our camels, which were to return with the Tuaregs. I patted Freddy—he had been a silent and good-natured friend.

  The Tuaregs turned and began the journey west. Who knew what their destination was? Perhaps Abalessa? Perhaps Timbuktu? Perhaps Sijilmasa? Though they did not sing this time, I could hear their songs, speaking of their Tinariwen and the beloved Queen Tin Hanan.

  As they slipped into the desert, Holmes suddenly found the bracelet in his pocket. He removed it and instinctively called out to Hasso. But he was out of earshot.

  “It belongs to them, Watson,” said Holmes, dismayed.

  “No, Holmes. It belongs to you. Who do you think gave it to you?”

  Holmes turned and looked at me, his eyes comprehending.

  “Would anyone believe it?”

  “No. But do you care?” I replied.

  That bracelet is amongst his prized possessions. Perhaps the most.

  The four of us and the khalifa’s escorts went to Sawākin.

  We then boarded a ship to take us to Jeddah.

  And from there, we were to travel to Mecca.

  مكة المكرمة

  33Name changed

  34I am forced to obfuscate for reasons of security.

  35The reader is referred to the appendix.

  Mecca

  Holmes, Koya, Boughaid, and I travelled across the Red Sea from Sawākin to Jeddah. It was only after the ship left Sawākin that the two wretched men in our liberal custody were able to breathe easily. I felt sorry for the young man. His misadventure had been harrowing, to put it mildly. I was acutely aware that the descendant of one the world’s greatest travellers was with us. But he had never bargained for the fact that Ibn Batuta’s missives would cause so much turmoil across so many lands more than five hundred years after his death. Now Thalassery Vatoot Mohammad Koya wished only to return to India. He had no interest in eternal life.

  Koya did not want to lose the opportunity to visit Mecca. And the descendant of Ibn Batuta fulfilled his desire. He was ecstatic that he would be able to complete his religious duty as a Muslim, under the benign protection of Father Bąkiewicz, a man whom he might have killed had he an opportunity. Instead, the Father had saved his life. The matter was perplexing.

  After the rituals at the Kaaba, Koya turned to Boughaid Arroub.

  “We must now part. I shall go home.”

  “Yes, master,” said Boughaid Arroub, looking down at his feet.

  “I am not your master anymore. Are we not all equal in the eyes of Allah? Have we not so proclaimed right now? Go, I release you from any further obligation to the descendants of Ibn Batuta.”

  “How can that be, master? We live for you,” whispered Boughaid Arroub.

  “No longer. Here is a letter in my hand that I have prepared. I insist on it.”

  “How shall we now live, master?”

  “Halt your activities immediately. In this letter, I have declared that the Guardians of the Letter no longer exist. And this letter gives you authority to sell the mansion and divide the proceeds amongst yourselves. Take up a peaceful trade and live on. This is my order.” Koya spoke with commendable firmness.

  Boughaid Arroub took the letters with shaking hands.

  Koya turned to Sherlock Holmes. “And you, sir, I thank you. I am liberated in many ways. You saved my life. And I am grateful for your advice about what steps I needed to take regarding the Guardians. It is absolutely correct.” Koya spoke quietly but with feeling. “I shall return home now and never leave it again. We shall not meet. But I shall always think of you.”

  He clasped Holmes’ hand and then mine. Then he merged with the crowd of pilgrims and was gone forever.

  Boughaid Arroub watched the retreating back of the descendant of Ibn Batuta. Then he bowed to us and slowly walked away in a different direction.

  Epilogue

  The return to London was in disguise, of course. It would not do to travel otherwise.

  After the initial hysterics of Mrs. Hudson were concluded, Holmes and I visited the Foreign Office and met Ian Felton, our contact there, who was to take us to meet the minister.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” the affable young man beamed. “An honour. Mr. Holmes himself! And Dr. Watson! Outstanding work, if I may say so, outstanding!”

  “Thank you,” said I.

  “If you can give me your report, I shall arrange for it to be copied and—”

  “That will not be necessary. Perhaps we could meet the minister now.”

  “Of course, of course,” Felton was flustered. “This way, gentlemen.”

  We were escorted to a meeting room.

  We entered to find the minister standing and in conversation with two other men. One was Lord Dufferin. The other had his back toward us. It was that person who spoke first without turning.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” His voice was deep. “Your services to this nation—I acknowledge them with gratitude.”

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” Holmes bowed.

  After a round of handshakes, we sat down and exchanged pleasantries.

  “Your report then,” inquired the minister tentatively.

  Holmes proffered an envelope to the minister, who gave it to the prime minister, unopened.

  It took some sixty minutes before the report was read by all three men.

  “Commendable,” said the prime minister. “An excellent analysis of the khalifa’s views of the Italians and the French.”

  “Yet, oddly, you make no mention of what he thinks of us and his plans.” Lord Dufferin was puzzled.

  “I am perfectly aware of what they are,” said Holmes calmly.

  “Well?” inquired the minister.

  “I cannot tell you.”

  There was a stunned silence in the room.

  “And why is that?” asked Lord Dufferin, angrily.

  “There are two important reasons. One: that I was not an instrument of the Crown and the intent of this mission was something entirely different. And two: the khalifa trusted me. I cannot break that trust.”

  “You were masquerading as a Polish priest! You speak of trust?” Lord Dufferin was most annoyed.

  “No. The objective of my visit was different. I did not mislead him with a devious intent.”

  “But, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as a subject of the British Empire, surely your loyalty toward the Crown outweighs any feelings you may have had toward a renegade native potentate!” The minister was flustered.

  “I repeat what I said. That was not my mission to begin with. I am
not committing any act of treason by not revealing what the khalifa confided in me. I am simply not acting on the information he gave me. To do the contrary would not be cricket, would it?” Holmes directly addressed the prime minister. “Is the information I gave not valuable? I have explained his perspectives. I have spoken about the way he runs his kingdom and who his confidantes are. And about his views on the French, Germans, and Italians. That should be more than enough for you to formulate your own strategy. I cannot betray the khalifa’s trust. He thought I was not British and confided in me in that spirit.

  “And even more importantly, I have spoken about the situation in Mecca, where I predict the Al-Saud family will unite the tribes and create a confederation. I see the possibility of the Americans getting involved there as well.”

  The prime minister got up from his chair abruptly and went to the window. He stood there for a few minutes.

  “This business of the Vatican and its infiltration by Professor Moriarty. That alarms me,” he said. “Lord Dufferin, perhaps you should pay greater attention there.”

  Lord Dufferin’s face turned crimson. “I…I…yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  “Your report is brilliant, Holmes. I also agree that you are not in our direct pay and have no obligation to reveal the khalifa’s plans to us. It would not be cricket. It is an honourable stand and I applaud it.

  “Now, General Herbert Kitchener is doing a fair job in Cairo, perhaps this will be food for thought.”

  “I know a better man, Mr. Prime Minister,” smiled the minister. “By looking at the report, I expect him to easily infer the khalifa’s plans for us. And he is in our pay.”

  “Whom do you speak of?” inquired the prime minister.

  “Mycroft Holmes.”

  ***

  Sherlock Holmes cradled his violin, puffing at the pipe hanging from his mouth. The scene was most comforting and one that I had been witness to countless times. The man sat with his chin sunk in the chest, blue smoke enveloping him. He strummed absently on his violin with his left hand.

  It was difficult to believe that we had spent so much time in the Sahara, chasing a mirage in a manner of speaking. Morocco, the Vatican, the Tuaregs, the salt mines of Taghaza, the Joliba, Tin Hanan, Darfur, the khalifa, Omar, Marco Polo, the secret valley, the shadow of Ibn Batuta, and of course Timbuktu. Had it happened? For three years, the world’s greatest consulting detective had simply vanished in pursuit of—what?

  “So, Watson, your mind is on our trip, I gather,” said Holmes.

  “Indeed.”

  “The twitches of your face, those vacant eyes, those wrists turning helplessly. Yes, you wonder why. Quite fair. Endless danger. Quite so.”

  “You never did tell me where the complete manuscript was, Holmes.”

  “I erred, Watson,” said Holmes. “Here it is.”

  He handed over his violin to me.

  I was considerably surprised. “What do you mean, Holmes?”

  “It is inside the violin, Watson. Look.”

  I peered through the S-holes into the body of the violin. There was something in the shadows within.

  “May I look at it, Holmes?”

  “Of course, my good man. You will not understand a word, of course.”

  He gently prised out the folded manuscript from the violin with a forceps and laid it out on the table. He smoothened out the sheet. It was a rather small manuscript.

  We stood and gazed at something of immeasurable value. The two halves had been put together very carefully. They had spent hundreds of years apart—one in Venice and the other in Timbuktu.

  “I had left the violin behind when we left Omdurman for the secret valley, Watson. I anticipated trouble. And we did face certain challenges. I was speaking the absolute truth when I told Professor Moriarty that I did not have it.” Holmes puffed at his pipe.

  “What will you do with this now, Holmes?”

  He glanced at the far wall and raised an eyebrow seeking my approval.

  I nodded.

  Holmes set aside his pipe and violin, and took the manuscript to the fireplace.

  As it crackled and burnt, it released a strange blue smoke, which wafted to the ceiling. It then disappeared into the dark night.

  “I went with Marco Polo to that spot, Watson. It was quite intriguing. The area has an inexplicably disturbed magnetic field.”

  Something struck me. “Holmes! Did you…?”

  Sherlock Holmes lifted his violin. He began playing a Tuareg tune.

  Poems in Sand

  Amaha Ag Barha36

  What are we but mere drifting sand in the vast desert of time and space? Who shall tell me why we are born, whom we are to serve and to whom we shall reveal love?

  I have travelled in the deserts of the Sahara, the Tinariwen, and where people have seen emptiness, I have seen the ghosts of children playing with the dreams of those long departed, whose skeletons have become sand. I have seen men walk alone in a silent caravan, with no real destiny except perhaps the silent welcome of a lonely wife, who was now quiet as the winds on which the eagles soar. With them, their camels have walked, contemptuous of existence, their wooden bells ringing out in the dead of night, reminding the ghosts watching from behind dunes, that they are not intruders, but vehicles for the tormented ambitions of weak men.

  Many years ago, I cloaked my face with my tagelmust and began one such journey, unannounced, as was my custom, but only after invoking the blessings of those who seek only to love. Love would surround me as a slowly whirling cloak, and protect me from the cruel hot winds of the Tinariwen. I held the hand of kind wishes and set out from Sijilmasa to Abalessa to visit the grave of Tin Hanan, the mother of us, the Tuaregs, the Kel Tamajaq. I carried dates and incense as a courier for another man, who envied me my deep longing for solitude.

  During the day, I walked. At night, I walked too, for the moon and stars shone in the clear sky and asked me not to rest but to understand eternal beauty and the true benediction of the mother of us all, Tin Hanan.

  Two days from the town of Tindouf, as the sun sank in a pool of red, I came across three men, resting with their camels. We greeted each other solemnly and I inquired if I might rest nearby as well. They insisted that I share their food and we exchanged stories and searched for common acquaintances. We were surprised that the names of people in familiar towns were not familiar to either of us. I inquired about Moctar Ag Souca of Sijilmasa but they knew not of him, though they said their family was from Sijilmasa. They inquired if I knew of Iskaw Ag Intahana from Tamanrasset, but I did not know of him even though I had spent many waking moments there.

  The stars shone in great brilliance that night. I looked at the moon for its blessings. And the camels looked at each other with half-closed eyes. One of the men took out an anzad and played tunes sprinkled from the heaven. The tunes were created then, stroked by starlight, and ravished the nearby sands without touching them. From deep within the sands came the beats of the tende. The night winds calmed down and stopped to listen. The others sang, asking that fellow-men know of love and loneliness, and that music bring rest to the troubled mind. Such was the gentleness in their music. I listened, with my head resting against the side of my camel, and his heart and mine came together, to the beat of the dark night. I wrote poems in the sand, with words I had not heard of before. And I saw the sand embrace them and take them down, down, down, to the hearts of poets who were lost for so many years in the desert. The men sang my poems, and the words now crept over the dunes and slipped away into the night. I slept, dreamlessly. But no, there was light. The light of love from ghosts who had listened to the music and held it in their hands.

  When I awoke, it was the time of the dawn and the men had gone. For the first time, I saw the tracks of camels leading away, and the sand not erasing them. From the far distance, I heard the Anzad and the tende, and I knew that I
was not to go toward the music.

  I walked toward Abalessa, alone, with the bells of my camel, subdued, but caressing, now with the fragrance of love. For soon I would be at the grave of Tin Hanan, the Mother of Us All.

  Hail Ar-y-mni, Ruler of Kush, who rules the three worlds

  Hail Ar-y-mni, Ruler of Kush, to whom the animals bow

  Hail Ar-y-mni, Ruler of Kush, to whom the plants bow

  Hail Ar-y-mni, Ruler of Kush, for whom the winds cease

  Hail Ar-y-mni, Ruler of Kush, for whom the Nile stops

  Hail Ar-y-mni, Ruler of Kush, whom even the God Amun praises

  We, the priests of Amanap, the one who is at Meroe, bow to you

  We pray for your everlasting health and happiness

  Hear us, O Ar-y-mni, Ruler of Kush, hear us, your oracles

  Hear us, in the name of your father and his father

  Here, as you ordered, is the sacred chant

  Only you may chant, or the one you permit

  At dawn, on the twenty second day of the months of Hathour or Bashans

  Invoke first the Gods mkh-lh-li, mkh-lh-li, mkh-lh-li

  A thousand times, ask for their benediction

  And only when you are at the valley where we dare not enter

  Beyond Jebel Barkal of the city of Napata

  And where no man can hear your prayers

  And which we have marked on this copper plate

  So that you may travel alone, guided by Osiris

  And where only you, O Ar-y-mni, or those you choose,

  may speak to Isis.

  There call the Gods, mkh-lh-li, mkh-lh-li, mkh-lh-li

  Then say the following a thousand times

  Wos h ol-te

  Lk ol-ne