The Case of the Golden Greeks

by Sean McLachlan

  “I don’t see it,” Faisal said. “It isn’t important, is it?”

  “Of course it’s bloody important! I wouldn’t be searching for it otherwise, would I?”

  Faisal slunk away as Mr. Wall continued to search.

  The boy came up to Moustafa. “Why did he shout at me? I was only trying to help.”

  “He’s going to be shouting a lot more tonight, I’m afraid.”

  “Why?”

  “Never mind.”

  Mr. Wall searched until night fell and the desert grew pitch black, but the case was well and truly lost. They had lost a few other things as well—a water skin that was still half full, a length of rope, one of the Bedouin’s spare sandals. Nothing too important. Nothing that could drive a man mad.

  Or a madman madder.

  Moustafa had no clear idea what effect not getting his opium would have on Mr. Wall. He smoked it every night, saying it kept him from having dreams of the war. While that may very well be so, Moustafa heard that the body became dependent on the drug, and that to stop taking it led to sickness and sometimes even death.

  And here they were halfway to nowhere.

  After Mr. Wall gave up searching in the sand, he systematically went through every piece of his luggage. The Bedouin watched with interest, staring at all the strange European items. Expensive items. Moustafa did not think it was a good idea to display all their wealth to these people, but he wasn’t about to try and talk sense to his boss at the moment.

  At last Mr. Wall gave up and slumped by the fire. He ate his dinner and didn’t say a word. As soon as he was done he went into his tent.

  Faisal, for once, kept quiet. Moustafa wondered how much he understood.

  They bedded down. It took a long time for Moustafa to fall asleep. No sound came from the tent, however, and at last his weariness pulled him under.

  A shout woke him up in the dead of night.

  “Gas attack!” a voice screamed in English. “Put on your masks! To your posts!”

  The Bedouin all sprang up, grabbing rifles and knives. Faisal poked his head out from under his blankets.

  “What’s going on?” Faisal asked. “What did he say?”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Wall!” Moustafa called.

  No reply came from the tent.

  They settled down to sleep and for a time all was quiet, until an ear-splitting shriek ripped the night.

  Once again Moustafa called out a reassurance, and once again he got no reply.

  “What’s going on?” Faisal asked.

  “He’s having nightmares about the war,” Moustafa explained.

  “He doesn’t usually shout in the night.”

  “Never mind that. Go back to sleep.”

  They were awakened a third time as Mr. Wall shouted orders to his men, men who were probably all dead and buried.

  After that their rest was undisturbed. They woke late, with the morning heat already beginning to rise.

  Mr. Wall emerged from his tent pale and drawn, with black circles under his eyes. Moustafa guessed that after waking up the third time, he had decided not to try to sleep at all.

  “Are you all right, Englishman?” Faisal asked.

  Mr. Wall grumbled a response and drank three cups of strong tea in rapid succession.

  They set off for another long day, only stopping when the sun had nearly reached its high point, then sheltering in the shade of a tarpaulin of camel’s hair fabric set up with a couple of poles. Mr. Wall kept nodding off and jerking awake.

  Abbas took Moustafa aside.

  “Is he all right?” the Bedouin asked.

  “He is ill. He is a strong man, though, and will recover.”

  “Not soon,” Abbas said, shaking his head. “And he will get worse before he gets better. That was opium he was smoking in his tent. He lost it in the sandstorm, didn’t he? I have seen what that can do to a man. If he doesn’t get any, he will become far more ill than he is now. How are we going to bring him along when he gets like that?”

  Moustafa looked at Mr. Wall grimly. His boss lay listless in the shade, Faisal staring at him from the far end of the shelter.

  “I don’t know. Let’s try to make good time while he can still travel.”

  They broke their midday camp early, setting out in the hot sun, and kept a steady pace until it was almost dark. During the long day Mr. Wall grew worse. Despite the heat he began to shiver, and then he started fanning himself as his face poured with sweat.

  By the time they made camp that evening he was on the verge of collapse. Moustafa had to help him put up the tent and he immediately disappeared inside. One of the Bedouin brought him tea, and dinner once it was ready. He could barely get it down.

  “He is groaning like a man about to meet death,” the Bedouin reported.

  “What do we do?” Faisal asked.

  “We might have to camp here until his … sickness … passes,” Moustafa replied.

  Abbas took Moustafa aside again. By silent agreement the Bedouin had kept the truth of the matter from Faisal. “Your boss will not be able to travel tomorrow, and perhaps not the next day either. After that, if he lives, he will be weak but will probably be able to mount a camel.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  Abbas smiled. “There is much money to be made smuggling such things across the desert. The fools who seek oblivion are willing to pay a very high price.”

  “Know your place!” Moustafa snapped. “Mr. Wall is an educated, respectable gentleman. He takes such things because of the war.”

  Abbas sneered. “In the village of Qasr, in Bahariya Oasis where I was born, there is an old man who was wounded in a fight with a different tribe. A sword cut took off all the fingers of his right hand. Another cut slashed out both eyes. A spear went through his thigh and left him lame. So he sits, unable to see, unable to work, and only able to walk slowly with the aid of a stick. All day he sits in the shade of the palm trees, telling tales to the children who gather to listen. At night when we gather around the fire he sings songs to entertain us. He has family and he has friends. He is useless for work, and yet he is admired and loved. He does not seek oblivion. He accepts what was written for him like a good Muslim and a strong man.”

  Moustafa turned away without replying.

  A short while later a long, pitiful groan came from the tent. Moustafa went to see Mr. Wall. Abbas, much to his irritation, came along.

  Mr. Wall lay inside the narrow tent, his portmanteau empty by his side. All his things lay scattered about the small interior of the tent. He had obviously been ransacking his baggage in search of his opium. Moustafa guessed he had done this many times that day.

  “Is there anything we can do, boss?” Moustafa asked.

  “No. It’s hopeless,” Mr. Wall moaned.

  “It is not hopeless,” Abbas said in a kind voice. “It will feel bad for a time and then the sickness will pass.”

  “What the devil do you know about it?” Mr. Wall snapped.

  “Opium is a—”

  “Opium? Who said anything about opium? I’m ill, no doubt from that miserable tea you brew!”

  Abbas maintained his composure.

  “Englishman, we cannot tarry here for long. As soon as you are better we must—”

  “I’ll be fine in the morning. Away with you!”

  Abbas gave Moustafa a smug, knowing look, and left the tent.

  “Boss, what Abbas says is true. He knows such things. He smelled the opium you smoke at night and knew what it was.”

  “Does Faisal know?” Mr. Wall asked, suddenly worried.

  “No boss,” Moustafa replied with surprise. “We told him it was a special type of tobacco.”

  Mr. Wall groaned, gritting his teeth as his entire body shuddered.

  Moustafa put a hand on his shoulder. “We all understand, boss. Even Faisal in his own ignorant way. No one is judging you. You just rest and—”

  “You understand nothing!” Mr. Wall shrieked, sma
cking away his hand. “Why do you people plague us so? All this ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ and ‘right away sir’, when you want nothing better than to send us all packing! My God, I hate falseness. Isn’t it enough I give you a good job and books to read? Now you want to pretend we’re friends! Get out of my sight. It’s bad enough being stuck here without you gawking at me.”

  Moustafa’s fists clenched. After all he had done for this stupid, selfish man.

  Moustafa had just enough self control to leave the tent without saying or doing anything that would cost him his job. He stalked back to toward the fire the Bedouin were building.

  Faisal met him halfway.

  “Is he all right?”

  “All right? There’s nothing about that man that’s all right!”

  Faisal stood there, confused. “Maybe bring him some water. Did you see how he was sweating? He must be terribly thirsty.”

  “I’m not going to bring him a single drop! Let his foul mouth dry up like the Sahara!”

  Faisal put his fists on his hips and frowned. “How can you say that? He’s our friend!”

  “That man is no one’s friend.”

  “I’ll bring him some water.” Faisal ran to fetch one of the water skins.

  “Bring him the entire Nile if you want to!” Moustafa shouted after him. “He’ll never show an ounce of gratitude!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Thus began the longest two days of Faisal’s life. The Englishman snapped at him when he first entered the tent, but Faisal was used to being snapped at and simply handed him the water skin. The Englishman took a long drink and then turned his back.

  He didn’t keep his back turned for long. After a while he turned on the other side, then lay on his back, then started shivering and covered himself with blankets. A little while later he threw them off and started to sweat.

  Faisal sat in the corner of the tent holding his arms around his legs, his chin resting on his knees, and watched. He had no idea what was wrong with the Englishman. This wasn’t like any sickness he had ever seen. It didn’t just affect his body; it also affected his mind. The Englishman kept shouting in his own language. Faisal didn’t need to know English to know they were curses. You could tell by the way he said them.

  As that first night wore on, he seemed to get worse and worse. He flailed around, shouting, then clutched himself and trembled all over. Once Faisal ducked out of the tent to speak to the men, but Moustafa was sulking and the Bedouin disdainful. Faisal went back to the Englishman. He’d have to handle this himself.

  But what could he do? He was no doctor. All he could do was give the Englishman water when he was able to drink and try to give him a bit of bread. The Englishman drank greedily when he was in the sweating times, but didn’t eat at all.

  Then the truth struck him. The Englishman was possessed by djinn!

  They must have come at him during the sandstorm. Faisal had heard a whole army of them flying around, hissing their strange djinn words. Faisal had always heard the djinn couldn’t attack a European. But maybe that was only city djinn. Maybe the desert djinn were stronger. They must be stronger if they could make a sandstorm like that.

  That made sense. They wanted to get Faisal but he had the charm. The Bedouin had charms too. Moustafa was too strong and foul tempered to possess, so they went after the Englishman. Faisal bet there was a whole bunch of djinn inside him now.

  Well, he had a cure for that!

  He started to pull the charm off from around his neck, then paused. If he took off the charm, would the djinn leave the Englishman and come after him? Or maybe they were too busy attacking the Englishman to notice.

  Faisal gulped. He’d have to take that risk.

  He pulled the charm from around his neck and tried to put it around the Englishman’s neck.

  That wasn’t so easy. The Englishman kept flailing about, not really seeing Faisal but resisting him at the same time. The djinn tossed the Englishman’s head from side to side to keep Faisal from putting on the charm.

  “Getting tricky, are you?” Faisal said, angry. “Well, I can get tricky too!”

  The Englishman had a pocket in his shirt with a button. He unbuttoned it, stuffed the charm inside, and buttoned it up again.

  “Ha! Let’s see you get rid of it now.”

  The djinn sure tried. The Englishman twitched and lashed out, forcing Faisal to back away. His heart leapt as he saw the Englishman sit up and his eyes finally focus. Had the charm worked?

  “What are you doing here?” the Englishman growled in Arabic. He had been speaking English up until now. “Get the hell out! Why does everyone think they can just barge in here? Looking for another handout? Don’t I give enough to you, you ungrateful little beggar? I said get out and leave me in peace!”

  Faisal’s eyes filled, but he blinked the tears away. That was the djinn talking, not the Englishman.

  The Englishman fell back on his blankets with a gasp. He trembled all over. Then he tossed and turned like he was having a bad dream, although his eyes were open. They were open, but not seeing. They looked all glassy and unfocused. He reached out a trembling hand and Faisal gave him the water skin.

  The night wore on, while Faisal, horrified and fascinated, sat in the corner, as far away from the Englishman as the little tent allowed.

  The Englishman tossed and turned all night, getting worse with each hour. Faisal grew worried that the charm wasn’t going to help at all. Khadija umm Mohammed had made it for him, and maybe that meant it only worked for Egyptian boys and not Englishmen. He should have asked her.

  Should he take from the Englishman’s pocket and put it around his own neck? The djinn might get tired of torturing the Englishman and come after him.

  He decided against it. Maybe it took time for the charm to work. These djinn were sure strong, and there were a lot of them. There was the trembling one, and the shivery one, and the sweaty one, and the groaning one, and the angry screaming one. Some spoke in English and some spoke in Arabic. The ones that spoke Arabic got bored after a while and Faisal only heard the Englishman speak in English, and then those djinn got bored and the Englishman didn’t speak at all. The trembling shivery sweaty groaning angry screaming djinn all stayed, taking turns playing with him.

  At mealtimes, Abbas would bring Faisal food and ask how the Englishman was doing. He seemed to know a bit about these djinn and said that it would take time for them to leave. Faisal asked for Moustafa to come visit, but the Nubian never did. That made Faisal mad.

  At times the djinn grew tired and the Englishman fell quiet, allowing Faisal to catch a bit of sleep. But it wasn’t long before they attacked again, and Faisal would be woken up by a groan or the Englishman’s teeth chattering. Then he had to take care of him all over again.

  At times the djinn would get really strong and the Englishman would scream and thrash about. Once he even knocked his mask off. Faisal winced and turned away, grateful that the low light inside the tent made it hard to see that half his face was missing. It looked awful, the cheek all gone, his teeth showing through, and one eye hanging in a bit of bone and gristle. Faisal tried to put the mask back on him, but the Englishman was moving so much he couldn’t. Eventually he gave up and set it to one side.

  Many strange thoughts came to Faisal during those long hours. He thought of life when he was small, just him and his father living in a dirty little room at the end of a clammy alley. His mother had died giving birth to him. She had been a good woman despite what everyone said. They were just jealous because she had been the best mother in the world.

  His father was a different story.

  He was a huge man, with big strong fists and a red face from drinking every day. He worked sometimes as a laborer, but never kept a job very long because he always argued with the bosses. What little he earned he would drink up, and there was very little food at home. Faisal had been living on the streets even when he still had a place to live.

  When enough liquor got inside h
is father, he’d fly into a rage, cursing the bosses who fired him, cursing his mother for not being there to cook and clean and work to make money for his drinking, and most of all cursing Faisal. He blamed Faisal for her death.

  “If it wasn’t for you,” he’d say, breathing his stinky breath over him, “I’d have a woman in the house. She could take in sewing, or clean the homes of rich people. We’d have bread on the table.”

  Even when he was really small, Faisal knew enough not to point out that if his father worked more and drank less, there would be bread on the table and a lot more besides. But that would have earned him slaps and kicks, even more slaps and kicks than he usually got.

  After his rages, his father would fall into a drunken stupor on the bed and moan and thrash about. He’d speak words that made no sense. He’d toss and turn and sweat and groan, just like the Englishman was doing now.

  Faisal stopped himself. How could he compare the Englishman to his father? The Englishman was possessed by djinn, while his father’s madness was his own fault. His father was a brute who hated everybody and drank because he didn’t want to be in this world. The Englishman wasn’t like that. The Englishman was his and Moustafa’s friend, and the Englishman never, ever hit him.

  But even though the thought was unworthy, as Faisal stared at the Englishman suffering in his bed, half his face gone and the other half all twisted in pain, he kept seeing his father lying there, suffering because of his own weakness.

  “The djinn are putting that thought in you,” Faisal said to himself. “They know you’re taking care of him and are trying to set you against him.”

  “It’s not going to work!” He shouted into the air. “I know your tricks!”

  So Faisal stayed by the Englishman’s side, giving him water when he was able to drink, putting the blankets back on him when he threw them aside, and waited for Khadija umm Mohammed’s charm to work its magic.

  Then, after two days, the Englishman fell silent for a long time. Faisal feared he was dying, but his breathing was steady. It wasn’t long before Faisal fell asleep too.