Meridian - A Novel In Time (The Meridian Series)

by John Schettler

  She saw him moving towards her, as though in slow motion. “Maeve…?”

  18

  The Desert - November, 1917

  “Mokhaiam,” the man flashed a toothless grin at Nordhausen, gesturing towards a small fire where had dug out a shallow pit in the nook of a low depression. “Shurba,” he said, pointing at a pot on the fire. He indicated for Nordhausen to sit, smiling graciously when he did and offering a small bow.

  To the professor’s surprise, his captor, now apparently his host, put two fingers to his lips and made a loud whistle. Nordhausen instinctively craned his neck about, thinking it was some signal that would spell no good for him. Instead he saw another man emerge from the darkness and approach the camp, and it was soon obvious that the two were in league. They began speaking to one another in Arabic, and Nordhausen tried to get some sense of what they were saying by listening to the tone of their voices.

  “Well Hassan, we have caught more than a desert hare! Who is he?”

  “Not Serahin, as we thought. Look at his face. He is an Englishman. Perhaps a friend of El Aurens, yes? He spoke that name to me earlier when I caught him.”

  “But what is he doing here?”

  “Who can say? Perhaps he means to find Aurens in the desert. He is close by, you know.”

  “You have seen him today?”

  “I have heard of his doings. He comes from Abu Sawana tonight. He was looking for a bridge near Tell el Shehab, but nothing happened there. One of the Serahin porters dropped his rifle, or so I have heard. Of course he claimed the strap came unfastened, but no matter. It was enough to alert the Turks at the bridge. The Serahin grew restless when the Turkish guards fired and they threw the gelatine explosives into the ravine! They are useless. Aurens should have come to us for men.”

  “But Tell el Shehab is nearly two days march from here. Is this true?”

  “I have heard it told this way. They gave up their quest for the bridge there and lit up the whole plain as they fled east into the desert. The dogs are still barking at their heels, but Aurens escaped. They reached the rail line at daybreak yesterday, cutting the telegraph wires for spite. They must do something, yes? So now it is said that they wish to blow up a train—perhaps tomorrow!”

  “Then this man is with Aurens party? Another Englishman?”

  “Perhaps so. He may have fallen behind when Aurens fled east. They left a few lame camels at Abayda before they went for the bridge, and sent many men back to Abu Sawana. Perhaps he is sick, this one. He is certainly lost.”

  “Yes, he seems very upset. Did you strike him, brother?”

  “On my honor, I did not! You heard him yourself. He must have seen our campfire. But any man who would bellow like a wild camel on a night like this may very well be sick. Perhaps we should feed him.”

  “Yes, feed him. You may give him my portion of the soup. I can wait until morning. Let us make him a coffee as well.”

  Nordhausen knew nothing of what the men had said, though he heard the name Aurens spoken many times. They can’t believe I’m Lawrence, he thought, somewhat amused with his situation. Lawrence could speak Arabic, and they certainly know that I am ignorant on that count. Now he watched closely as one man set about warming a thin broth in a simple tin cup. The thought that he had been doing that very same thing just a few hours—or fifty million years ago—brought an inward smile to the professor. The other man was rummaging at a threadbare bundle, looking for something. They eyed him with great curiosity, giving him sidelong glances as they worked at the fire. He saw that the second man was trying to make coffee. The aroma of Arabica beans was a sweet solace to him, and he instinctively reached for the bundle of Major Dickason’s blend, patting his robes.

  The men gave him a cautious look, but saw they he meant no harm and continued with their chores at the fire. Now what’s happened to the coffee, he wondered? I suppose I left it back in the Cretaceous! The thought twisted in his mind with a cruel sense of incredulity. He could still scarcely believe they had been there! Maeve was not going to like this, he thought. She’ll wag her finger at us and lecture us both for littering the time line. Well, it can’t be helped now.

  The toothless man that had found him extended the warm cup and Nordhausen took it with a gracious smile. They both watched him very carefully as he tipped the cup and sipped the broth. It had a pungent taste, with a lot of cardamom spice as well. He slurped it down, and the two Arabs smiled at one another, obviously pleased. When he had finished, the second man, shorter and built more slightly than the first, began to pour a small kettle of hot water into a gourd. The aroma of the coffee was soon all that Nordhausen could think of.

  He waited patiently as they served him in a small ceramic cup. When he sipped it he found that it was very strong, and sickly sweet with spice. He was grateful nonetheless, and nodded his approval while the Arabs smiled and took their portion. They sat about the fire for some time, sipping their coffee and listening to the night. The rain had abated, but there was still a low rumble in the distance. Nordhausen wondered if another front was moving in from the west, but the winds were wrong. He realized, at last, that he must be hearing the sound of the guns on the real front, many miles to the west at Gaza. He chanced to speak.

  “Allenby,” he pointed west at the sound, and the Arabs gave him a blank look.

  One man smiled knowingly. “English,” he said. “Boom, boom, boom.” He mimicked the sound of explosions.

  “Yes,” said Nordhausen. “Artillery. English guns, or perhaps Turkish guns.” He smiled at them, but suddenly realized that the sound of the guns could be a clue to the date. He searched his mind, trying to recall the history he had been cramming into his head before they left. The whole point of this raid was that Lawrence was trying to create a distraction and disrupt the Turkish supply route on the rail line heading west from Deraa. The Yarmuk bridge over the gorge near Tell el Shehab was his primary objective, but they were discovered as they were trying to position the gelatine charges and the operation was a failure.

  Allenby surprised the Turks at Beersheba on the last day of October, and the front, static for many months, suddenly came unhinged. It took Allenby a week or so to actually turn the flank at Beersheba, but with that place compromised on their left, the Turks gave up their positions anchored on the coast near Gaza and retreated north.

  Nordhausen listened to the guns, smiling inwardly at the irony of the situation. The fighting in Gaza had started here in 1917, and it would continue on, in one way or another, for the next hundred years. Allenby would be pushing up the coast now, and closing on Junction Station, a key depot along the line to Jerusalem. He looked for the moon again, remembering that it would be half on the 7th and waning to dark on the 14th. It was somewhere between now, a waning crescent. Whatever Kelly did, he was very close to the target date they wanted, assuming they had the right month or year. He might just be listening to the first or second battle for Gaza in the distant west. They had been fought months before in March and April. He strained to see the sky, frustrated by the rifts of dark gray clouds. No, he thought. This is not the spring. It is Autumn. I’m listening to the third battle of Gaza and the advance on Junction Station. I’m sure of it.

  He sipped his coffee, and his mind was clarified by the caffeine. A sudden thought came to him and he threw out a word to his Arab hosts. “Minifir,” he said, looking from one to the other.

  The men reacted at once, staring at one another and then at Nordhausen with clear recognition.

  “Minifir,” the professor said again. “I go there.” He patted his chest, then walked his fingers on the damp ground. “To Minifir. Yes?”

  “He must be with Aurens,” the toothless man spoke to his brother. “Allah be praised. That would be the place they will look for a train tomorrow! This one may be lost.”

  “He wishes to rejoin Aurens at Minifir.” The slight man returned, and he noted how their strange English guest in the robes of a Sherif reacted, his eyes brightening at the
word. “I think we should take him there, Hassan. Perhaps we will be given some reward.” Enthusiasm brought life to his weathered, brown face, and his eyes, always moving this way and that, seemed to reflect the greed in his heart.

  “We may even be allowed to join the raiding party!” The toothless man flashed a wide grin. “There will certainly be plunder when they blow up the train.”

  “Yes, plunder! And if we take this man to Minifir we will certainly have a part in that. It would only be just, yes?”

  “God’s will, my brother. But if we are to go to Minifir we cannot stay here tonight. We must go as soon as possible.”

  “I will stow the camp.” The slight man began to hastily snatch up odds and ends about the campfire and stuff them into a burlap sack. “Minifir!” he smiled, and he seemed very pleased.

  Nordhausen was still holding his small earthenware cup of coffee limply in one hand as he watched. “Yes,” he said, returning the man’s smile. “Minifir.” Then he realized that the men were gathering up their effects and making ready to break camp. “You mean now?” Nordhausen looked from one man to the other.

  “Ana ismee, Hassan,” the toothless man said to him as he stood up. He indicated himself, placing both hands on his chest. Then he pointed at the other man. “Hakeem,” he said. The slight man nodded his head, and the professor followed their example, placing a hand over his heart.

  “Nordhausen,” he exclaimed, getting a broad smile in return.

  The toothless man named Hassan pointed into the darkness of the desert. “Kidha Minifir!”

  They were soon ready to go, and Nordhausen struggled up, immediately feeling the pinch of the boots that were still too tight. He hoped the place was not far. He was very tired, though the soup and coffee had helped to restore him somewhat. His robes and uniform had dried out a bit while he sat by the fire and he gathered them close about him, bracing himself for what might be a long, cold march. Still, he was inwardly elated at the chance that had brought him upon these two men.

  Paul is right, he thought. Great events turn on the insignificant, and the odd chance that pricks your finger as you muddle through the haystack of time. Where was Paul, he wondered? Would he have as much luck in the desert tonight? Nordhausen realized that he could lose all contact with him if he wandered off with these two Arabs now. There was nothing else he could do, however, and he set off, his feet aching with each step he took.

  MERIDIAN

  Part VII

  The Least of Things

  “The main of life is composed of small incidents and petty occurrences; of wishes for objects not remote, and grief for disappointments of no fatal consequence, of insect vexations which sting us and fly away…Of pleasures that pass before us and are dissipated…”

  Samuel Johnson: Boswell’s Life

  “…Seeing straight is only an illusion. We do these things in sheer vapidity of mind, not deliberately, not consciously even. To make out that we were reasoned cool minds, ruling our courses and contemporaries, is vanity. Things happen, and we do our best to keep in the saddle.”

  T.E. Lawrence – In a Letter to Frederick Manning

  5/15/1930

  19

  Hejaz Railway - November, 1917

  When the Colonel’s fingers tightened on Paul’s throat he had visions of Lawrence in Deraa, and a night of scalding torture at the hands of this man. Wasn’t that what he intended? He was going to take me to the Bey, perhaps the very same man Lawrence would meet next year when the Arab campaign came this far north again after Jerusalem fell. He gasped for his breath, desperately thinking what he should do. If I resist, he thought, the Colonel will undoubtedly ratchet up his administrations until the words are torn from me in agony. But if I were to tell him what he wants—to tell him the truth, he would not believe me.

  It was a strange moment of humor, flashing through his mind in the flickering of a few seconds as he imagined the Colonel’s reaction when he burst out that he was come from the far future to look for a man named Masaui. Why? He did not know, though it was certainly a matter of life or death. If Masaui lived, then he must die—if he died, then he must live. He could not say any of that, for it would not ease his pain in the slightest to tell this man the truth. The only course, then, was to lie. But he had to lie convincingly, or the man was likely to keep digging, to keep choking, until the breath of life would be lost to them all.

  What can I say that would be believable and yet not reveal anything that might cause havoc in the time line? His mind reached for any strand that might support him in the history, even as his hands tightened on the leather straps that bound him. He decided to chance something, his eyes signaling his submission more than anything else, as he could not speak with the Colonel’s hand tight on his throat.

  “You wish to speak?” The Colonel’s had moved from his throat to grasp at his chin. “You wish to tell me why you are here now, and what mischief you plan?” He released Paul with a hard jolt, clearly disgusted. “A Turkish soldier would have endured much more. You Americans are weak.”

  Paul choked, trying to clear his throat. “You would have your way in the end,” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper.

  “That is so,” said the Colonel. He could see that Paul could barely speak, and poured a small measure of water into a cup, raising it to Paul’s lips to allow him a drink.

  “Thank you,” Paul managed to get the words out.

  “No, do not thank me. I am not gracious. Believe me, you will get far worse than that if you spin out lies. Now tell me: why are you here?”

  Paul met the man’s eyes briefly, and ventured out onto the thin ice between them. “The bridge,” he said haltingly. Nordhausen had told him something about a bridge. Where was it? Yarmuk! Perhaps he could cover his retreat with a small cloak of truth after all. “They were going for the bridge at Yarmuk.”

  “Yarmuk? The gorge near Tell el Shehab?”

  “Yes,” Paul whispered. “It controls the rail line out of Deraa back of Turkish lines in front of Jerusalem. They were trying to choke your supply lines. I was to find the rail line and create a diversion here, so that Lawrence could pass west unhindered.”

  “Ah…Lawrence! Yes, we have heard of him. He has been causing a great deal of trouble. So now the Americans think to get in on the act, do they?” He gave Paul a cruel look, his eyes searching him to ferret out any hint of deception. Paul only hoped that the information he revealed was not given too early. If Kelly had the shift coordinates right this time, the attempt must be underway now, or else it has already failed, he thought. In any case, the Colonel will have to send a telegraph to give warning of this, or at least try and get confirmation. Lawrence and his men cut the telegraph wires when they reached the rail line after fleeing from the bridge. The message would never get through, but the Colonel would try to send it just the same. It could buy him an interval of peace so he could gather his wits and figure a way out of this dilemma.

  “There is something about you I do not like…” The Colonel let the words hang for a time, threatening. “You are no soldier, and you are no spy, yet you do the work of a spy just the same. You wear Arab robes badly, and British kit beneath—and yet you are neither. You are an American, you say, but I think there is something odd about you. Very odd….”

  Paul averted his eyes, fearing to say more. The Colonel strode back and forth in front of him, then paused, leaning on the table as he stared at him. He picked up his coffee cup and took another long sip, savoring it as he came to some silent conclusion in his mind.

  “I will see about this,” he said in a menacing tone. “It will be simple enough to determine the truth of this.” He was up and moving to the back of the small coach, reaching for a cord that dangled from the ceiling. A hard jerk set a bell clanging, and Paul realized that he must be summoning his guards again. The sound of boots crunching on the gravel of the rail bed came in hasty response.

  The Colonel walked slowly to the door, his eyes on Paul, dark and hostile.
The guards arrived and the Colonel spoke to them in the hard guttural of Turkish. Then he stepped through the entrance and was gone.

  Paul was alone in the coach now, though he knew the Colonel must have posted the guards outside. The door was slightly ajar, and he could hear the men speaking in low voices, though he could not see them. He tried his bonds again, frustrated by the thick leather straps. He pulled hard, knowing it was probably futile, but was suddenly surprised that the strap gave way! The stitching on the loop of leather where the buckle was attached had come undone, and the strap slid open, releasing its tight grip on his hands. One of the guards outside must have heard him move, and the door squeaked open.

  Paul froze, keeping his arms extended overhead and closing his eyes. He squinted and saw the silhouette of a man at the entrance against the early light of a gray morning. The man seemed to chortle to himself, then turned and went back down the steps, convinced that Paul was strung up for the Colonel’s pleasure and represented no threat. Undoubtedly, they had witnessed many such scenes before.

  Paul’s arms ached, and he moved them ever so slowly, careful not to let the buckle clink on the metal bar. He extricated himself, realizing that it was dangerous to move at all. Still, he had to do something. He could not simply wait here until the Colonel returned with more questions. He swallowed hard, his throat still sore where the man had choked him before he was wise enough to speak. The early dawn was casting its dull, sallow light through a window at the far end of the coach. He considered trying to make for it, hoping his boots would not happen upon some loose floorboard and give his movement away.

  At that moment there was a high pitched squeal from the front of the train. A subtle vibration told Paul that the engine was churning up again, making ready to resume the journey. There was a sound of footsteps on the outer landing, and Paul reached for the overhead bar again, extending his arms as before. To his surprise and relief the door was pulled shut, and he heard the sound of a bolt securing it from the outside. The train jolted, then began to move. For a time, at least, he was going to be locked away in the Colonel’s coach. The guards undoubtedly remained outside, riding on the outer porch.