Beyond the Sand Dune

by Asen Djinah

  ‘At present, we don’t feed our horses on the day of the race and that is detrimental to their performance. With my new diet, the horse will get a huge burst of energy from the fat as well as from the sugar in the dried dates,’ he explained.

  ‘Also, one hour before the race, a small drink of lightly salted water should be given to the horse to facilitate the flow of blood during the race. This will improve its breathing,’ the scholar claimed.

  When the scholar first made his recommendation, both Omar and Numan were sceptical. They have never heard of a horse being fed with fat.

  ‘Please let me try out the new diet on a single horse for a start. Then you can judge for yourself,’ the scholar pleaded with them.

  When the performance of the horse on trial improved in training, the two brothers thought that it was merely fortuitous. However, when the experiment was extended to more horses, each and every one showed improvement in mock races. The two brothers were finally convinced that they had a new trick up their sleeves; they had the perfect diet. They made the science scholar and the stablehands take a vow of secrecy.

  Ten weeks before the race, all the three horses to be entered, including Saika who was still at Bilal’s village, had been started on the new diet.

  Chapter 10

  Since midday Numan had been entertaining the guests as well as supervising the registration of entries to the races on his own. He had to be everywhere at the same time and could not wait for Omar to come.

  ‘Caliph Omar has left the palace and is on his way. He should be here shortly,’ a runner soon came to inform him.

  When Omar finally arrived, a relieved Numan rushed to embrace his brother. Aydin was happy to see his uncle who had also brought his son Khalil along. After greeting their respective uncles, the two cousins went off on their own.

  ‘Come, let’s go and see Saika. You must have been dying to see her since she came back,’ Khalil said to Aydin.

  Although Khalil was a year younger than Aydin, the two cousins got along well and spent a lot of time at each other’s home. Since his family had moved to the palace, Aydin missed living in the same house with Khalil. Like their fathers, they too were passionate about horse racing.

  Omar and Numan moved around the tent, meeting the owners and local dignitaries. They stopped at each group and welcome the guests. Numan was happy to linger in the background, leaving Omar to deal with the formalities.

  ‘After all, he is the politician in the family,’ he mused.

  As was customary, Omar inquired about the health of the guests’ families before wishing them well for the race. It took the brothers nearly an hour to go round the tent and meet everyone. Omar made sure not to miss anyone and to spend an equal amount of time with each so as not to inadvertently cause any offence. Despite the rivalry between the horses’ owners, there was a convivial atmosphere in the tent as the guests sipped their cool drinks and chatted. Numan then took Omar on a tour of the stables to check on their horses and inquire about their form with the stablehands and the science scholar.

  ‘All three horses are in excellent condition,’ the scholar reassured them.

  When Omar and Numan finally crossed over the roped track to go into the public area opposite the tent, the crowd cheered.

  ‘Caliph Omar, the honour of Qadday is in your hands; win all three races for us!’

  ‘Habibi, show the others how the horses of Qadday are well trained and are the best in the country.’

  ‘Will you take Alfahil out of retirement and make him race today? He is our best chance.’

  Omar simply smiled and waved while Numan opened the way for him in the crowd, with the guards closing the rear. There was a record attendance this year, with well over five thousand crammed in the public area. Omar spent a good fifteen minutes among the crowd, touching the outstretched hands of those near him and waving to those at the back. As he was about to cross the track to go back to the tent side, Omar passed by a small group of women in traditional black abaya and niqab. He made a mental note to have an area reserved for women and children the following year.

  ‘It seems the sport is getting popular with women too,’ he whispered in Numan’s ear.

  It was nearly time to declare the race open. As he was hot, Omar first had a cool drink and used a wet towel to freshen up. Having been around the entire site and seen that everything was running smoothly, he leant towards Numan.

  ‘Sorry to leave the entire preparation on your shoulders, dear brother. You have done a fantastic job,’ he apologised to Numan.

  ‘It now rests upon the horses to do their part and make it a great day for us and for Qadday,’ Numan replied.

  The two of them climbed onto the podium, which was set in front of the tent facing the racetrack and the public. Numan had placed callers at regular and strategic intervals to relay Omar’s opening speech and race announcements to the crowd. The guests had also come out of the tent and were standing on both sides of the podium, facing the public area.

  ‘Distinguished guests, respectable visitors, the people of Qadday welcome you!’

  Omar paused to allow the callers to relay his speech so that everyone in the massive crowd could catch his words, even those on the far side.

  ‘The people of Qadday extend their warm hospitality to all of you during your stay here.’

  The crowd cheered at these words.

  ‘Allow me to begin with a few words of thanks. First of all, we must thank my brother Numan for his superb organisation, which I am sure, will make this day a huge success. We have a record number in attendance this year, well over five thousand of you to watch this glorious sport.’

  Another loud cheer erupted from the crowd. Omar waited until they were quiet again.

  ‘We thank the stable owners who have taken the time to prepare their horses and come here to entertain you, the people of Qadday. Please give them a huge cheer.’

  The crowd burst into an even bigger applause.

  ‘Like a true politician, he certainly knows how to work the crowd,’ Numan thought.

  ‘Finally, let us say a big thank you to all the visitors from nearby towns and villages and the bedouins who have travelled far across the desert to come here for the enjoyment of this magnificent sport.’

  There was a huge and loud applause from the visitors – especially the bedouins who appreciated the acknowledgement from the caliph.

  ‘Now that the registration for the race entry is complete, I declare the races open. May the competition be fair and may the best horses win.’

  A wave of excitement went through the crowd and the stables owners since the long awaited moment finally arrived. Omar and Numan stepped to one side of the podium and were replaced by the announcer who, with the help of the callers, would describe the category and distance of each race. As the names of the horses were called, they were led onto the track. The two brothers felt tense. No stable had ever won more than one race at any particular venue. The two of them had put a lot of planning and effort in an attempt to be the first in history to win two races. For four years, they have been preparing for this, starting with the purchase of Quzah, the mare. With the speed of Saika, for the first time they were full of hope.

  In addition to the filly, their other favourite was a well-known horse – Azraf. He was a five-year old bay who had started his racing career well, winning his first three races. Then a few years ago, a newcomer, Bourkan, had come on the scene, winning all his races with the displaced Azraf coming second every single time. Overnight Bourkan had become the new undefeated champion. This year Azraf had not been entered in any race so far and this would be his first race of the season. With the new diet, Omar and Numan had noticed an improvement in his time during training and were hoping that it would be enough to finally dethrone Bourkan the champion. He had great stamina and would take part in the first race, which was a three-mile course with the horses running along the one-mile track three times. Each time, at the end of the straight track, the
y had to go round a wooden post fixed in the ground, turning from the right. The first post was in front of the podium and the tent, facing the public area and the other post was at the far end of the track. There were stewards placed all along to watch for any irregularities and report to Numan. Failure to go round the pole or going round the pole from the left instead of the right would lead to automatic disqualification.

  As each horse was announced, there was a cheer from their stablehands and owner. When it was Azraf’s turn to be announced, the locals cheered noisily and began chanting ‘Qadday, Qadday, Qadday.’

  ‘Good luck, brother. Our moment of truth has arrived,’ Numan whispered to Omar.

  The elegant bay horse with its glossy reddish brown coat and black mane, tail and ears walked out proudly onto the track, stamping its front foot and shaking its head in eagerness. He was ridden by the stable’s most experienced rider, Rohab, who had been given specific instructions for each race as he would be riding in all three. When it was Bourkan’s turn to be announced, everyone, including the locals, cheered the undefeated champion. It took a while for all sixteen horses to line up behind the white rope held by two stewards at the outer post in the distance, away from the tent and the crowd.

  ‘We have to win this race and the third race too. We don’t have a chance in the second race,’ Aydin said to Khalil.

  ‘I know. Azraf has to win,’ Khalil replied.

  The starter called the first order and the rope was quickly removed; on the second, the riders got ready and on the third order, the horses surged over the starting line and the crowd began to cheer and jump. As in all his previous races, Azraf made a quick start and was soon leading the pack, with the champion Bourkan settling in two lengths behind. The two leaders fell into their stride effortlessly increasing the gap on the rest of the group. Omar was biting his nails.

  ‘I have seen this race too many times before; Azraf always leading until the final quarter mile, when Bourkan would make his move and Azraf would fade miserably,’ Omar thought in despair.

  He grasped Numan’s arm as the horses went round the first pole for the first time, right in front of them. People were jumping up and down to be able to see the horses above the heads of those standing in front of them. Children sitting on their parents’ shoulders were screaming.

  With Azraf being a lighter horse than Bourkan, Rohab managed to take a sharper turn around the post, gaining another length on the champion. Soon the two leaders were seen galloping off to the far post with Azraf now leading Bourkan by three lengths. The rest of the pack was already out of the race and the order remained unchanged during the second mile. Just before reaching the outer post, Bourkan increased his pace slightly. Even from a distance, Omar could see that Azraf’s lead had been reduced to one length before the final turn. As they came into the final straight, Azraf was leading by two lengths, having once more gained a length on the turn. With half a mile to the finishing line, Bourkan the champion began his usual tactical move and increased his pace. The gap between the two horses began to narrow down gradually until Azraf and Bourkan were neck and neck.

  ‘Come on Rohab, start using the whip,’ Khalil screamed.

  Numan winked at his son and put his hand up to urge him to be patient. The crowd was going frantic with the locals shouting Azraf’s name.

  ‘Come on Azraf, come on,’ they screamed.

  Omar was so edgy that unconsciously his fingers dug deep into Numan’s arm. His brother didn’t even feel anything as he too was completely absorbed by the race. With a quarter of a mile to go and the two horses neck and neck, Omar finally saw Rohab’s arm moving up and down as he set out to use his short whip. Nothing happened at first as both horses increased their pace. With the final hundred yards remaining, instead of fading as he usually did, Azraf began to pull ahead very slowly. Omar the Caliph lost his composure and started to jump up and down, screaming. He felt someone jumping on his back and he turned around to see Aydin, red-faced and screaming too. For once, the serious and reserved boy had lost his composure, carried away by the excitement of the race.

  Azraf fought with his big heart to resist the comeback from Bourkan and managed to hang on to his narrow lead. When Azraf passed the finishing line, winning the race by a head, the crowd went mad and delirious. Omar, with Aydin still clinging to his back, turned to Numan and embraced his brother. Everyone, including the owners of Bourkan, could not believe that the champion had been defeated for the first time. Omar turned to the crowd and punched the air and the ecstatic locals responded likewise amidst the maddening noise.

  ‘Azraf, Azraf, Azraf.’

  Chapter 11

  Alima was livid at Omar. She had not seen him for the last two days and although he was due to pay her a visit this evening, she had expected him at least to come and see her before heading to the races – if only to express regret for not taking her with him. Since she had learnt of Omar’s plan to try and win two races for the first time in history, she had desperately wanted to witness such an event. She had pleaded with Omar to let her accompany him, but to her frustration her husband had categorically refused. She paced up and down her room and knew she would be restless all afternoon. Suddenly she made up her mind and called her servant.

  ‘I need to borrow one of your abaya and niqab,’ she instructed, without explanation.

  Although puzzled by such a strange request, the servant knew better than to question her mistress and went to her room to get the items of clothing. Alima quickly changed into the plain clothes.

  ‘I would like you to accompany me. The whole thing has to remain secret between us. Do you swear in God’s name?’ Alima asked the servant.

  The poor woman had long become used to Alima’s mercurial temperament, having served her since she was a young girl at her father’s house. Over the eight years that she had looked after her, the servant had grown fond of her mistress, knowing that under her volatile and impetuous character, she had a heart of gold. The two of them had a lot of affection for each other. She once again agreed to another of her mistress’ unusual requests.

  ‘We are going to the races,’ Alima informed her.

  ‘I am sure that there will be some women in the public area and we can watch the races in disguise among them,’ she added.

  The guards at the gates were primarily concerned with people coming into the palace rather than those going out and therefore took no notice of the two plainly dressed women casually walking out of the main entrance. Once outside the gates, Alima and her servant quickly walked towards the race venue which was quite some distance away. They did not need to ask for directions and simply followed the long line of spectators also making their way there. After the long walk they finally reached the venue.

  ‘There are already some women in the crowd opposite the podium,’ a steward informed them and directed the two women there. Alima had never felt such excitement in a very long time; it was the first time that she had been out without a male chaperon and at that in disguise. They pushed their way to the front of the group of women from where they could clearly see the podium and the entrance to the tent.

  ‘I wonder what Omar’s reaction would be if he knew that I am here opposite the tent,’ she whispered to the servant, with a giggle.

  As they waited, Alima saw her husband and her brother-in-law crossing over to mingle with the crowd. She could feel the adoration the public had for their caliph and felt proud of her husband. It was the first time she was witnessing the interaction between Omar and his subjects. When Omar passed close to the group of women, she resisted the urge to reach out, to touch him and tell him that she was right here with him at the races – her anger towards her husband had long dissipated. Alima thought Omar looked imposing in his navy blue bisht with golden embroidery as he climbed onto the podium.

  ‘Omar has them eating out of the palm of his hand,’ she said to her servant as she watched the crowd responding to the caliph’s opening speech.

  Her heart swelle
d with pride.

  ‘Just like he has me in the palm of his hand,’ she thought affectionately.

  It had not always been like that. When her father, Abdul-Alim, first informed Alima that Caliph Omar had asked for her hand, the young girl had been furious. Like all girls her age, she had romanticised that she would marry a rich, young handsome boy of the same age or maybe a couple of years older than her eighteen years.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ she yelled at her father before storming off.

  She jammed her door with a rug so that no one could enter and refused to leave her room to eat with the family.

  ‘How dare they even think of marrying me to an old man?’ she fumed.

  Her servant was the only one she would open the door to, whenever she brought over food or when Alima needed her. Abdul-Alim wisely gave her daughter time and space to calm down. When Alima eventually came out of her room a few days later to eat with the family again, her father deliberately did not bring up the subject again or mention anything related to the caliph. Instead he started a monologue about his grandparents who were nomads living in the desert and about his father who had to scrape to feed his family.

  ‘My father and brothers had to scrimp and save to get me an education. There were days when they went without food,’ he recalled.

  He then went on to describe how he climbed to the envied position of grand vizier under the previous caliph. He reflected loudly and in great detail to his wife, making sure that Alima did not miss a word. He finally described how he had built up the family business from scratch.