Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘Of course.’ Summerfield nodded. ‘I’m not ready to die—I have things to do.’

  ‘We could die out here,’ she offered, emphasising the word. ‘It’s so inhospitable. There’s nothing.’

  ‘I don’t feel that. I feel—strangely comforted by it all.’

  ‘You’re bizarre,’ frowned Jeanne.

  ‘Not like Jim Wilding,’ answered Summerfield, flatly.

  ‘Not like Jim,’ echoed Jeanne. She pointed upwards to the night sky. ‘A shooting star! Did you see it?’ But Summerfield was too late. He had missed it. ‘I have written a letter, Harry. It is meant for Jim if you ever meet up with him.’ Summerfield frowned and a trace of irony appeared on Jeanne’s lips. She gave a brief hum. ‘I suppose I do believe that you’ll survive, Harry. But I have less faith in my own survival. Maybe it has something to do with what I went through… I—I no longer have any confidence, you see.’ She reached across to her bag and carefully pulled out a small folded square of paper—two pages already frayed at the edges. ‘Give this to him if you find him.’

  Summerfield hesitated then took the letter with a nod of his head. ‘I will.’

  He felt the rough grain beneath his thumb and forefinger and his touch lingered a few seconds, enjoying the feeling. Leaning sideways to his knapsack, he opened it and slid it inside. Surprisingly, there was a soft chink of glass and frowning, Summerfield pulled the sack to him and inserted his fingertips further. They pricked against something sharp. Withdrawing his hand, he saw a tiny chip of glass protruding from his fingertip. He plucked it out and peered into his bag.

  ‘Damn! The compass—broken.’ He prised open the sack and pulled out the damaged casing. The needle was missing. ‘What a bloody fool,’ he hissed, reproaching himself. ‘Probably when I got down from WaRed—I should have folded it in something. Damn!’

  ‘Is it that important?’ said Jeanne. In a gesture that surprised Summerfield, she began to move closer to him—one, two movements—and then settled. Summerfield could feel the sudden warmth of her arm and thigh against his own.

  ‘Important? Yes,’ he whispered. ‘If we ever get lost in this place. It’s the basic tool for survival. Look,’ he added, turning his head with some difficulty to face Jeanne’s right ear. ‘Shouldn’t we bed down against WaRed? Moulay—’

  Jeanne let out a sleepy sigh. ‘But it smells,’ she whispered. ‘And Moulay smells.’

  ‘A small price to pay for warmth,’ answered Summerfield, but Jeanne leaned against him, pushing like a cat to find comfort. She unexpectedly placed an arm around his back and sighed. Confused and unable to move, Summerfield let the silence go by. Jeanne grew heavy. Slowly, he inched a mat towards them, hooking it from toe to fingers and carefully covered their two shapes. Her breath became slow and deep, pulsing warmly against his collar bone. She had fallen asleep.

  Another day of travel began. When the sun reached ten o’clock, Summerfield, instructing Jeanne to keep a hold on him while WaRed undulated over the sand, used his freed hands to empty his knapsack, placing the objects one by one in the folds of his shirt. The thought had been in his mind since waking and it nagged him—it was important to retrieve the needle. By placing the needle on the spindle inside the casing, even without the liquid to hold it in place, it should give him a few precious seconds in which to take their bearings. He looked twice, his fingers pushing into every fold and every corner of the leather holder but found nothing. The third time, he lost his temper and, causing both Jeanne and Moulay to raise a cry, jumped down from WaRed and emptied the bag in the sand.

  ‘If there was anything in it, you’ve lost it now,’ commented Jeanne and Summerfield swore.

  Moulay trotted back on his mount.

  ‘What is it, Sidi Summerfield?’ he frowned. ‘The sun, perhaps, on your English skin?’

  ‘It’s no time for jokes, Moulay,’ returned Summerfield, irritably, standing back up. He placed his hands on his hips and swore again towards the expanse of dunes. ‘Fuck it! My compass, Moulay—broken.’

  ‘Oh,’ grunted Moulay. ‘And perhaps we can repair it.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ replied Summerfield. ‘The needle’s pissed off in the sand.’

  ‘What?’ frowned Moulay, unable to understand the English.

  ‘It is lost,’ clarified Summerfield in Arabic.

  ‘It is God’s will, perhaps,’ answered the guide. ‘I am sorry it has happened. But trust me, Sidi Summerfield—are not the best directions in the desert given by Moulay’s undeniable knowledge?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ replied Summerfield, annoyed with himself. ‘But the compass was a safeguard.’

  ‘Do not think I did not see you checking my directions in the mountains, Sidi. I did not say a thing because I hoped you would learn to understand that I know from experience and from the land how to go from here to there.’

  Summerfield shook his head. ‘Moulay—you’ve never strung more than five words together to me. And now—’

  ‘You are distressed, Sidi Summerfield. I see this.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Summerfield again. ‘Yes. All right—I know you can lead us across the desert, Moulay. I did not mean to insult you.’ Moulay cocked his head in acknowledgement. ‘And I thank you for getting us until here. Let’s hope the rest of the journey continues in the same manner.’

  ‘If God wills it,’ replied Moulay and raised his stick. ‘It is this way,’ he said, sourly.

  A mile or so after setting out again, Jeanne asked Summerfield a question.

  ‘Do you know anything about the stars, Harry?’

  ‘Why d’you want to know that?’ frowned Summerfield, still annoyed.

  ‘You wrote me a letter once. About Cassiopeia and things.’

  Summerfield shook his head. ‘Poetic drivel,’ he replied. ‘I know as much about stars as any other dreamer.’

  That day, they rode until midday, Moulay informing them that they were so far from anything that the risk of being seen was less than minimal. When they dismounted, by a scattered scrub of thorn trees, Summerfield felt groggy and was about to ask Jeanne to steady him when she herself leaned against him, swayed heavily then fell. Summerfield knelt and heaved her on her back. Her eyes moved lazily and then rolled back to reveal the white of her orbits. She shuddered, gagged and then vomited.

  ‘No!’ It was Moulay’s voice and he was now beside them. ‘Like this!’ he ordered, pushing her back on her side. ‘She will drown on her bile if not.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Summerfield, scared now. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘The heat illness.’

  ‘Hyperthermia,’ stated Summerfield. ‘The sun—I told her she had to drink more. Is it dangerous?’

  Moulay shrugged his shoulders. ‘She could die,’ he said, matter-of-factly, then noticing Summerfield’s look of panic, added, ‘but only very rarely does this happen.’

  Again, Jeanne retched, bringing up a flurry of liquid and whitish lumps of undigested rice. She began to speak deliriously—something about her skin and stars and darkness.

  ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘The mats—give her shade.’ Summerfield rushed to the camels and unloaded the mats and his rifle. Checking the location of the sun, he plunged the butt of his Lee Enfield into the sand and draped a mat over it to form a shelter. ‘Keep her on her side,’ instructed Moulay. ‘Give her water and pour some—like this—on the back of her neck. She must not move. She must not be touched by the sun.’ Moulay rose.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Summerfield, standing up to face him.

  ‘For help, of course.’

  ‘Help?’ Summerfield shielded his eyes. ‘In this empty desert?’

  ‘There is an oasis I know of—about an hour from here.’

  ‘Why not put her on a camel?’

  ‘She should not be moved—I told you.’ Moulay’s eyes were steady and Summerfield found himself craning to spot any emotion in them. ‘If there is an oasis, there is a well. And if there is a well, there are nomad
s and help.’

  ‘You’re leaving us here?’ said Summerfield, in disbelief. ‘You said there was nobody for miles?’ Summerfield shook his head, his muscles tensed as though his body instinctively knew that something was wrong. ‘Where are we, Moulay? And for Christ’s sake take that bloody scarf off of your face!’

  ‘You are insulting, Sidi Summerfield. You should know that a man of the desert does not reveal his face. And, as I often tell you—we are going east. Towards the mountains they call the Hoggar.’

  ‘Bloody rogues and bandits,’ stammered Summerfield in English and then, giving up, frustration sending his voice into a whine—‘All right. But what if she wakes? What should I do?’

  ‘Follow me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The trace of the stick,’ replied Moulay, cocking his head towards his camel. ‘I shall tie my stick to the camel’s tail. If needed, the trace will lead you to me.’

  Summerfield remained silent, glancing at Jeanne who was now moaning softly. At last, Moulay spoke again.

  ‘It is the only way, Summerfield. I will return—I promise. You must stay and protect her.’

  Summerfield watched the guide ride off at a fast trot, mount a dune and then pass out of view, the thin irregular trace of the stick disappearing with him. He shouted an oath at the dune, slapped his hands helplessly against his sides and turned back to Jeanne.

  Her strange babbling had begun again, cut by fits of crying. The words and noises reminded Summerfield of a spell. ‘To hell with it,’ he mumbled to himself and, choosing to go against Moulay’s advice, decided to move Jeanne to the shade offered by a thorn bush. He took hold of her lapels, smelling the vomit on his hands, and pulled. She was heavier than he thought and in the effort, there was a tear and the collar of her shirt ripped and flapped. At last, he managed to drag her under the loosely woven canopy of branches and went to fetch the mat and his rifle.

  The silence was almost total. A slight breeze butted mutely against the dunes and if it had not been for the slight tremor of the branches, Summerfield would have thought nature had stopped. Then WaRed limped into view, Moulay having strapped its hind leg to stop the beast wandering too far. The beast sniffed at a thorn bush, bit into the branches and with a loud, determined groan began chewing. They had the goatskin a quarter full of water and Summerfield unloaded it while WaRed chewed happily. Regularly, he poured some of it into a cup, bringing it to Jeanne’s lips and then wetting her nape. At one point she struggled to raise herself and he chided her, pushing down until she gave way and lay still.

  ‘I’m sorry, Harry. I said strange things. I didn’t mean to cry.’

  Summerfield stroked her forehead and neck. ‘I felt awful myself,’ he said. ‘Good job you fell first, because it was about to be me.’ She chuckled slightly and in a sweet gesture, her hand moved to his and clasped it.

  Time passed—about thirty minutes, Summerfield guessed. At last, he considered it appropriate for Jeanne to sit up and take a deeper draught of water. She looked better now, the pale, waxy shine to her skin having disappeared and her cheeks now flushed with red. Summerfield rose, walked a few paces then on better thoughts returned to pick up the Lee Enfield.

  ‘I’m just going to take a peep over that dune,’ he said. ‘Try not to move.’

  ‘Harry—’

  ‘I’ll stay in sight, don’t worry.’

  Leaving Jeanne propped under the bush, Summerfield pushed up the sheer wall of a dune, his feet rapidly sinking up to his shins, his hands burning on the searing sand. He grunted with the effort, like in a rugby scrum, sending a wake of sand tumbling behind him. At last, heaving himself to the top, he looked down at Jeanne and gave her a wave. She looked very small. The dune, Summerfield calculated, was some thirty feet in height. She waved back, looking worried.

  Summerfield turned to survey the terrain. Nothing—no sign of an oasis, he thought aloud. Blast—the sun was directly above them, impossible to judge any direction for the moment. To the left, the distant grey crags of the Hoggar rose hazily in the waves of heat. Must be east. After ten minutes of scrutinizing the horizon, Summerfield slid back down and returned to Jeanne’s side. He looked at her, offered a sheepish smile and drank from the cup she held out to him.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, grimacing at her, ‘nice subtle aftertaste of sick in this. Good stuff!’

  ‘Harry!’ cried Jeanne and she blushed, making him laugh. ‘This is a serious situation.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘True. I wonder where Moulay is.’

  ‘Do you think he was the one who broke the compass?’ said Jeanne, distantly, her voice returning, devoid of emotion, to its former self.

  ‘Lord knows,’ said Summerfield. ‘Couldn’t tell if the man is lying anyway—he keeps his face hidden.’ Silence. Summerfield looked lazily about the scrub and sighed. ‘We’ll just have to do what everyone else in these parts does—put our faith in God and let what happens happen.’

  Jeanne made a humming noise and once again they fell silent. A fly buzzed wearily and circled off. Twenty yards or so away, WaRed still munched impassively and then, for some reason, stirred.

  ‘Must be the thorns,’ commented Summerfield.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Hmm? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Do you feel it?’

  ‘What?’ Summerfield frowned.

  ‘The movement. Like a slight tremor.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Concentrate,’ said Jeanne, her voice growing hoarse. ‘You can feel it on your skin.’

  Summerfield held his breath. She was right. Through the seat of his trousers, he could feel the ground moving slightly. He changed position, placing his hands palm down on the sand. Distinct, irregular tremors.

  ‘Christ—do they have earthquakes in these parts?’ he said with a growing sense of worry.

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ said Jeanne.

  ‘What the—!’

  Summerfield rose instinctively, an awful sensation of fear dawning on him, and grabbed the rifle.

  ‘Get behind me,’ he said, pushing Jeanne out of the way.

  His fingers shaking, he adjusted the sights of the Lee Enfield to one hundred yards and slapped back the bolt. A bullet slipped and clicked into the firing chamber. He raised his rifle. The ground trembled now, groaned. Across the clearing, WaRed bucked on three legs and began squealing.

  ‘Fuck! Look out!’ shouted Summerfield, tensing for the first shot.

  Suddenly, in a spray of sand and mad snorting, a group of horsemen broke over the crest of the thirty-foot dune, careering downwards in a chaos of waving arms and high-pitched screams. One horse zigzagged crazily and fell, catapulting its rider. Summerfield stood petrified, the muzzle of the Lee Enfield swaying uncontrollably in his fear. He fired high, the bullet cracking off into the sky.

  ‘Fuck you!’ he shouted, full of frustration and rage.

  A last, horrifying scream and the horses came to halt, stamping and chaffing barely twenty yards from them. There were fifteen or so of them. One shot, maybe two, he calculated. He felt like pissing himself. The bullet—the moment of death—did not bother him. It was the terror the Tuareg warriors communicated. In blue-black, completely covered. On their faces black masks with only two small holes for their eyes. They looked like some satanic sect, demons of the desert. Seconds passed and Summerfield trembled visibly. From somewhere behind him, Jeanne was whimpering. His eyes settled on the leading horse. The satanic rider, the carbine, the sheathed scimitar, the saddle of blackest leather and—dangling jauntily from a rope attached to the pommel, a pair of hacked off hands. On one of them, the index finger wore a large, ivory ring spattered with blood. They were Moulay’s hands.

  ‘Jeanne,’ croaked Summerfield, making a slight gesture towards her. ‘God has let me down. I’m sorry.’

  57

  The warrior leader gave no name and did not uncover himself. Vulnerable, puny, miserable, distrustful, Summerfield and Jeanne stood before the hors
emen as the leader gestured for two of his men to calm WaRed. In the minute or two it took them to control the beast, it slowly dawned on Summerfield that they would not be killed. It troubled him.

  ‘And Moulay?’ said Summerfield, at last, avoiding the severed hands. ‘Why?’

  ‘He was a traitor and a thief,’ returned the masked leader in a growl that sent a shiver through Summerfield. ‘The desert has ears and his cousin is a vain, babbling fool. He was to betray you.’

  It took some seconds for the shock to sink in. Then Summerfield raised his eyes. ‘And you? Don’t you want to kill us?’

  The leader grunted, spoke some rapid words to his men. One of them, with mother-of-pearl stitched into his mask in a diamond shape, dismounted and approached with a bag in his hand, obviously aiming for Jeanne. Summerfield tensed and stood in front of her.

  ‘He is a tribal sorcerer and knows how to heal your woman. Leave him,’ ordered the leader. Summerfield glanced at Jeanne, gave a slight nod of his head and stepped away.

  ‘I asked a question,’ said Summerfield, turning back to the masked chief. ‘Why not us?’

  This time a low, grumbling chuckle came from behind the mask. ‘Because we are taking you to the white soldiers.’

  Summerfield’s hope slumped and he shook his head in defeat. ‘Those Vichy bastards, dogs of the lowest sort.’

  ‘Not,’ said the leader. ‘We are going east. To where the liberators are. They will give us money, freedom for action and arms in exchange.’

  Summerfield’s mouth fell open. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he mumbled. His hands came to rest on his hips and he shuffled slightly like a man who had lost his sense of direction. A bloody miracle! ‘And what will you do with the hands?’ he said, motioning towards the grizzly trophies.

  ‘Nothing—throw them to the animals and insects.’ The leader began to unwind the rope from his pommel.

  ‘The ring?’ frowned Summerfield.

  ‘I would not take a ring that has adorned such a filthy hand,’ growled the leader and then tapped a leather pouch on his belt which gave a muted jingle. Summerfield sensed the man was grinning. ‘But three gold teeth, yes.’ And with that, in a lazy, disrespectful gesture, the masked warrior threw Moulay’s severed hands into the sand where they landed with a muffled thump.