The Sleeping Sands

by Nat Edwards

  ‘It is in my blood. That is why you should not fear for me, my friend,’ he leaned forward, ‘I was born to be out there. And besides…’ His voice trailed off as he perceived the wine had almost encouraged him to reveal something of the Society’s discreet request.

  ‘Besides?’ asked Mitford.

  ‘Besides – I have a longing to see Petra, Ammon and Jerash for myself. I couldn’t miss the chance to see them.’

  ‘Even despite the Consul’s warning?’

  ‘The Consul is over-cautious. He’s one of the old guard. The future belongs to men like us, Edward.’

  ‘Men like us nearly died of malaria in Constantinople,’ chuckled Mitford, refilling their wine glasses.

  ‘Exactly!’ Layard thumped the table with his palm. ‘I survived that – so what worse can the desert throw at me?’

  Mitford sat back and looked thoughtfully at his friend’s flushed face for a moment or two.

  ‘Hmm. I will let you tell me that when we meet up in Damascus.’

  * * *

  ‘Sheikh Ahmed – I am at your mercy. I cannot proceed further without your help.’

  In the wilds of the Syrian Desert, begging for assistance from one of the savage tribesmen he had so readily dismissed, Layard wryly remembered his last exchange with Mitford. Still, the young son of the Mujelli presented to Layard the complete opposite to the tribesmen he had encountered in the ruins of Petra. Although he wore little more in the way of clothes, Ahmed’s athletic body was clean and the silver armlets he wore were polished to a brilliant sheen. His long, dark ringlets were well-kept and oiled and the fabric of his clothes was fine. He received Layard with a broad smile. After the usual formalities, Layard presented him with the letter from Colonel Yusuf Effendi. The young chief read the letter carefully and listened with a polite smile as Layard recounted his adventures. This gracious smile turned gradually to indignation as Layard described their most recent encounter, which had occurred at the very edge of the Mujelli’s territory and which was the reason for their audience. When Layard finished his story, Ahmed spoke angrily to the warriors clustered around his tent, pitched among a group of ruined tombs set deep into the mountain. The warriors responded with a chorus of shouts and oaths, speaking too fast and heatedly for Layard to follow. Awad translated: the warriors were outraged that an honoured visitor, under the protection both of the Colonel and Sheik Abu Dhaouk should have received such treatment within the territory of the Mujelli – where he should most have expected a welcome.

  Ahmed sat glowering amid the general hubbub, drinking coffee and scowling as he re-read the letter. He finished his coffee and sprang to his feet, calling for his horse, sword and guns.

  ‘Effendi, we shall settle this now!’

  * * *

  It had started well enough with Sheikh Mahmoud. On the road to Kerak, the travellers were greeted by the site of what at first appeared to be a large bundle of rags, being carried by an otherwise unaccompanied donkey.

  ‘Get a move on, you bag of bones!’ shouted the bundle of rags as it came abreast of the travellers. A short, bony arm holding a horsehair fly-swat emerged from within the bundle and gave the donkey a switch. The donkey continued to plod along at exactly the same pace it had been travelling before.

  ‘Recalcitrant brute, I’ll have you skinned,’ shouted a wizened brown face poking out of the rags. ‘Ah, good day to you!’

  The bundle tumbled from the donkey, which continued plodding, with perhaps a slightly lighter air than before. The bundle, which turned out to be a short, implausibly round little man with a pair of scrawny arms and spindly legs that impossibly supported his extraordinary rotundity, genuflected expansively to the party.

  ‘Salaam Alaikum – ah, if you’ll excuse me.’ The little man scampered after the donkey, which had now made up a fair bit of ground and which proved to differ in opinion from the man on the subject of its being dragged back along the path it had so blissfully just traversed. Sweating and cursing the man dragged the donkey to a halt before them and bowed again.

  ‘Greetings, travellers. May I ask you who you are and what is your business in the lands of the great Mahmoud?’ He fixed Layard with a bright, curious eye.

  ‘I am Henry Layard, travelling under the auspices of Colonel Yusuf Effendi and with the blessing of Ibrahim Pasha. These are my men.’ Layard looked down at the little man, and inclined his head in a polite half-bow.

  ‘And whom do we have the honour of addressing?’

  ‘I am Sheikh Mahmoud.’ The little man stretched to his full height and placed his hands at his waist, pulling back his ragged robe to reveal a short, rusty sword at his belt.

  ‘These are my grazing lands – as far as the eye can see,’ he swept his hand grandiosely about in the general direction of the barren stony desert, coming finally to rest on the donkey, which had begun to chew affectionately on Antonio’s jacket.

  ‘And you, travellers – you must pay me the usual toll for crossing my lands.’

  Awad whispered to Layard, who turned to the little man and said sternly, ‘I am informed that these lands are within the territory of the Mujelli, to whom I take letters of business, in the name of the Pasha. I certainly don’t need to pay you any tolls.’

  Awad leaned forward, propping himself on the butt of his long gun and spat casually into the roadside dirt.

  ‘Ah, well, such important travellers of course have no need to pay any toll,’ said the man hurriedly, ‘which of course, I collect from my lands with the Mujelli’s blessing. However, you will no doubt require a guide through this country – and I know of none better than he who is before you.’ Sheikh Mahmoud grinned widely, revealing a mouthful of stained and broken teeth.

  Layard maintained the severity of his expression and pulled forth his bundle of letters and permits from Yusuf Effendi. He said, imperiously, ‘I am travelling upon the very highest authority, Sheikh, and that authority has already provided me with the most adequate guides. There really is no need for you to trouble yourself with our affairs.’

  He held forth the letters for the sheikh to inspect. The little man looked at the bundle of documents as if it was some kind of unfamiliar and possibly venomous reptile and made a slight hand movement as if to ward it away. Layard pocketed the documents and bowed once more to the sheikh.

  ‘We will be on our way now, sir – and I wish you the best of fortune on your own journey. Unless,’ he paused slightly, his face and tone softening, ‘unless you wish to join us at our breakfast?’

  The sheikh’s countenance brightened.

  ‘You have food? Ah, most welcome travellers – that is an excellent and noble suggestion.’

  Antonio spread out Layard’s fine travelling carpet and the sheikh joined the party in a simple but wholesome breakfast. As they neared the fastness of Kerak and friendly territories, Awad and Musa had relaxed their vigilance a little and had permitted Layard to use his gun in sport. As a result, three fat desert partridges were put to good use by the hungry travellers and the even hungrier Mahmoud.

  ‘Mm –‘ he said, through a mouthful of roast poultry, ‘this is very good indeed. Did you bag these with that fine Frank gun of yours, Effendi?’

  Layard nodded in assent, his own mouth too full to be able to respond with any more decorum.

  ‘Ah you have many marvellous European things, Effendi,’ he said, appraising Layard’s packs, ‘and a fine carpet too. I imagine you must be very rich and powerful in your country.’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ replied Layard. ‘I am just an English gentleman, about his business.’

  ‘Aha – but all you Franks are extraordinary!’ The sheikh chuckled and tore off another partridge leg.

  After breakfast, the party packed and continued on its way, now accompanied by the little sheikh who seemed to have adopted them as new friends. He chattered away to them, pointing out landmarks, recounting them with hunting stories and tales of tribal skirmishes – tales in which he inevitably had played some
sort of critical and heroic role – and generally sang the praises of the marvellous lands through which they were travelling.

  Despite the sheikh’s encomium, Layard felt that he had never yet encountered such a dry, featureless and barren landscape. He looked forward to seeing the hills that surrounded the stronghold of Kerak in order to have some feature to break the monotony of the surrounding countryside. A feature, that was, other than the occasional large rock, of which the sheikh would unfailingly make a point of indicating, explaining its lineage, history and place in his own exploits.

  At length, after innumerable tales about the sheikh’s adventures in the shadow of the Rock of the Eagle; his victory at the Wadi of the Lion and his fine accomplishment in the noble art of falconry, the hills around Kerak came into view as a faint purple undulation in the shimmering desert horizon. Layard was learning rapidly that distances in the mischievous desert sun were far harder to judge than he was used to. Sometimes distant landmarks loomed suddenly into proximity with little warning. Other times, landmarks that appeared to be near took days to approach, as their approach wound through mazes of wadis and gorges. Worse still, in the more open country they would often prove not to be physical features at all but rather mirages inflicted on gullible western eyes. He had no idea how long it would be until they reached Kerak and his newfound companion showed no inclination other than to accompany the party to the very door of the Mujelli. It was with no little relief, then, that Layard noted their approach to a small encampment – which the sheikh indicated belonged to his band of followers.

  The sheikh called out warmly to his men, who gathered around the party in a mixture of rags more tattered and dishevelled than the sheikh’s own. Layard looked at the motley band and felt that he not yet encountered such a shiftless looking band of rogues but the Sheikh convivially urged Layard to dismount and water his animals among them, promising more tales of the marvellous country they were now in.

  With the goodwill of the sheikh and in the shadow of the friendly Mujelli, Layard felt that it would do no harm to rest the animals for a spell before resuming the road to the distant hills. The party dismounted and the sheikh invited them to sit in the shade and join him in a cup of coffee. The pleasing bitter smell of freshly brewing coffee and cardamon wafted from a pot balanced over a campfire and Layard settled onto a rug, pleased to rest his own travel-sore limbs. He stretched out his legs and sighed contentedly.

  Suddenly, an angry, high-pitched voice screamed out, ‘Infidels! Seize them!’ It was Sheikh Mahmoud.

  ‘Seize them!’ The sheikh’s repeated cry was met with a general hubbub of unfriendly voices.

  Layard looked up, startled to find the sheikh, still mounted on his donkey, his little face twisted into a grotesque contortion of rage, leading a general charge of his men upon them. The mob was armed with few weapons save stones and a few rusty swords of similar vintage to Mahmoud’s but they had managed to secure themselves of Awad and Musa’s guns and were now waving these in a hazardous manner at the party.

  Layard’s group sprang to their feet, but found themselves surrounded and cut off from their own animals. A shot rang out and a ball from Awad’s gun flew wildly over their heads. One of the sheikh’s men had fired at them, clearly something that the sheikh had not expected as he tumbled from his donkey in surprise, landing in a ball of rags at Layard’s feet.

  Layard was the only member of the party to have kept his own gun near at hand. While the sheikh was still struggling to extricate himself from the tangle, he took up his gun with his right hand and scooped up the little man with his left. He jammed his gun under the sheikh’s chin and called out.

  ‘Cease this attack at once, or I will shoot!’

  The mob paused, eyeing the travellers angrily.

  The sheikh continued to kick and struggle in Layard’s grasp, calling out, ‘Infidels! Infidels!’ but Layard kept a strong hold and silenced him by firmly pressing the twin barrels of his gun hard against his Adam’s apple. The mob backed away a pace or two and then, almost as one turned on the travellers’ animals and belongings, grabbing everything they could and taking it back into their tents. A small group kept guard over the travellers, waving their swords and new guns menacingly.

  ‘Stop that this minute! I shall have you all hung as thieves,’ cried out Layard as he watched the last of his precious belongings disappear into the encampment.

  His words had a marked effect on the mob – although not the one that Layard had hoped for. They began to pelt the party with stones, a number of which hit their chief who squeaked in outrage, struggling in Layard’s grip. Layard swung the wriggling bundle over his shoulder and levelled his gun at the nomads, who backed a way a few paces, but continued to throw stones.

  ‘This way, Effendi!’ cried Awad, who had spotted an opening in the retreating crowd.

  Layard and the others scrambled for safety, the captive sheikh all the while screaming out ‘Infidels! Infidels!’. They had managed to run some twenty or thirty yards before the mob collected itself and began pursuit. There was a bang and a rifle ball whizzed over their heads – leading to a shrill squawk of alarm from the sheikh, who in his unaccustomedly lofty position across Layard’s shoulder was the nearest to its trajectory. Layard turned and fired a single barrel over the heads of the crowd, which scattered in fear.

  ‘Now, before they have time to regroup!’ shouted Awad and the travellers hurried towards the beckoning refuge of the hills.

  A small group of nomads followed them at a cautious distance for some half a mile or so but decided that the Frank’s gun was not worth the effort of rescuing their sheikh and their pursuit petered out in the heat. With their pursuers gone, Layard roughly dumped his burden on the sand and marched him at gunpoint before them. With the harsh persuasion of his freshly reloaded gun, the now cursing and spitting sheikh guided them back to the road.

  ‘Infidel dog!’ spat the sheikh. ‘You will pay dearly for this indignity to my person.’

  ‘If I do not recover my animals and belongings, Sheikh, it will be you who pays,’ said Layard, punctuating his statement with a hefty prod of his gun in the small of the sheikh’s back.

  ‘We will see what the Mujelli makes of your treatment of his guests, when we reach Kerak.’

  ‘Ha, you will never reach Kerak,’ growled Mahmoud. ‘My men will fall upon you as soon as night comes and cut your throats to avenge my suffering.’

  ‘Why then,’ smiled Layard grimly and cocking his gun, ‘we shall make a good account of ourselves. You will see our throats will cost you a greater price than my few possessions.’

  Mahmoud’s eyes widened momentarily and then he spat and lapsed into a sullen silence, tottering along on his spindly legs with occasional rude encouragement from Layard’s gun-barrel. Out of earshot of their captive, Awad spoke softly to Antonio, who came up to Layard’s side and spoke in Italian.

  ‘Effendi, Awad says that the sheikh may be right. His men are not brave, but they know the desert and if we are still in the open at night they will have the advantage.’

  ‘If that’s the case Antonio, we will just have to prepare ourselves for another fight.’ Layard scanned the horizon. Something dark shimmered in the distance.

  ‘Awad,’ he called, ‘you have good eyes. Are those tents?’

  The tents belonged to a group of the Mujelli’s men. After an hour’s more march, Layard and his weary band arrived in their welcoming shade. Yusuf Effendi’s papers and the presence of Abu Dhaouk’s men were enough to quickly secure water, bread and the use of four camels to take them swiftly to Kerak. Under the grim gaze of the Mujelli’s men, Mahmoud underwent yet another metamorphosis of humour.

  ‘Effendi,’ he addressed Layard in a wheedling, placatory voice. ‘I have guided you across the desert as you required. Perhaps now you might be able to pay me a small price for my services?’

  ‘Pay you?’ Layard snorted, ‘I am going to drag you before the Mujelli for judgement.’ He turned momentarily to adj
ust the harness of his camel.

  ‘Ah, of course’ smiled Mahmoud, ‘I trust the Mujelli will be able to clear up our little misunderstanding. Whatever you deem to be the wisest course of action.’ He bowed deeply, backing away from Layard a couple of steps, then, with an unlikely burst of speed, he turned and sprinted as hard as his bony legs could carry him into the desert.

  ‘Infidels!’ came a final, defiant cry.

  Layard snarled and instinctively levelled his gun at the rapidly retreating figure. He sighted along its barrel and held Mahmoud in his sights for a moment. Then he sighed deeply and lowered his gun.

  ‘An English gentleman does not shoot his enemy in the back,’ he explained to the camel chewing indifferently beside him.

  * * *

  Ahmed’s warriors made an impressive spectacle as they rode down to the tents of Mahmoud, given additional ferocity by their sense of a shared and ignoble wrong. The Mujelli was the tribal chieftain of the local region – to whom Mahmoud owed loyalty. His behaviour was an outrage not simply as a blatant act of disloyalty – which might threaten to bring reprisals from the Colonel’s forces or the powerful Abu Dhaouk – but also as an unforgivable contravention of the ancient code that held together the disparate and warlike groups of nomads who survived in this most inhospitable of lands. There was no doubt among Ahmed and his men. The tribe of Sheikh Mahmoud must make full reparation to Layard – immediately and by force if necessary.