Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  PART TWO

  ‘For this cruel land can cast a spell which no temperate clime can match.’

  Wilfred Thesiger, 1910–2003

  British explorer, soldier, travel writer

  and expert on the desert

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mickey comes back to his office early that afternoon having seen off the party for the hills. It has been a busy couple of days and while he has been seeing to all the Wellsted business two or three ships have arrived at port whose cargo he must oversee. He discusses the papers with Rashid, brusquely leaves orders about a consignment of wool, supposedly finest Kashmir, that is not up to scratch, and arranges to deliver to the palace a bale of golden twine and tassels that has at long last arrived from the specialist workshops at Jaipur. The shipment is on order for the soultan’s bedchamber and has been designed to mirror the intricate fretwork already in place about His Majesty’s walls. For this last there will be no charge and the delivery is dispatched immediately to the royal palace with a flowery letter to commend the gift.

  With these details seen to by the middle of the afternoon, Mickey leaves Rashid in charge of the warehouse and eagerly heads for home where he plans to bathe, feast and relax. Many men of Mickey’s station in life insist on being transported by litter. Some of the more macho, while eschewing bearers, keep a horse in place at all times and pick their way through the city’s streets mounted, carrying a large parasol with ornate fringing. Mickey prefers to walk – it helps him to think. As he winds up the hill, his appetite builds, for in the rush he has eaten little today and the piles of almond fancies for sale on the pavement stalls and the mounds of fresh spices and herbs that are sold by endless country tribesmen in cheap jubbahs smell wonderful. Before the streets lapse into the area of solely residential compounds, Mickey finds himself diverted by the pretty baubles on display and enjoys being greeted, as he is often, for Mickey is a well-known and well-loved figure in the city of Muscat.

  A few minutes later and a pang of regret twinges in his stomach as he steps through the heavy double doors of his compound; he had wanted to give that habshi to Farida and now he has arrived home empty-handed. The girl would have been a wonderful present – she can read, after all, and he is sure that she is bright. However, he decides, perhaps it was best to send her away. A vision passes across Mickey’s brain of the hot-blooded young fool who owned her, shouting he was invincible with the dice, in a coffee house near the palace the afternoon before. Of course, the boy should have been sent back to his father to be disciplined, not taken on at the backgammon table. If Mickey didn’t know better he would say the kid was drunk. Unlike most of his fellows, Ibn Mudar knows all too well how drunk men carry on for he has seen such behaviour often among his employers. However, he now concludes that for the youngster the procuring of a skinful of beer or a flacon of wine was, if not impossible, highly unlikely. After all, how many misdemeanours can a young buck manage in one afternoon? Gambling and alcohol on top of the rumours that circulated about the boy’s sexual preferences? It is too much depravity to be imaginable. In any case, though he beat the boy and won Zena fair and square, he should not have been gambling at all and he remains uncomfortable about his victory (Mickey wonders about the role of Allah in such circumstances). Perhaps it is all for the better that he has given the girl to Wellsted. The lieutenant might need the collateral of a valuable slave later in his journey – and for this purpose a good habshi is better than gold for she becomes more valuable the further the caravan treks northwards. Besides, now he can probably charge the Indian Navy two hundred dollars for supplying her; though slavery has been banned, the British are pragmatic about the need for proper disguises for their men when working in the field.

  Mickey washes his hands in the cool, copper bowl scented with lime flowers that is proffered towards him, as his head serving man, the Nubian in the green jubbah who fetched Zena from her master’s house, claps to announce his arrival. At the signal, half the household’s slaves appear to do their master’s bidding. Mickey, meanwhile, pours himself a cup of coffee from the pot that has appeared at his elbow. He eats half a dozen of his favourite dates, the sweet khadrawy variety that Aziz orders for him from an oasis inland.

  ‘I will bathe,’ he commands, and his personal slaves peel off silently to make everything ready. There is the burnished copper bath to fill and the linen drying cloths to fetch and warm on the brazier. The men (for long ago Mickey decided he did not wish to be served by female slaves in his personal toilet) disperse like a troop of crack marines to undertake their duties. The rest continue to wait wordlessly to see what he will command.

  The courtyard is tiled in a pattern of glossy blue and the loitering masses are colourful in their household livery of green and yellow set off with the occasional splash of red either in the exotic foliage or as a felted hat for the more senior members of staff. Mickey tarries only a moment before he surrenders to his true desire. Putting the glass back on the tray and throwing the pits of the dates to one side, he dismisses them all and strides out wordlessly for Farida’s quarters.

  When he enters it is clear that, unlike the rest of the household, his wife has not been apprised of his arrival home or at least has ignored it. Farida is contorted in her position but perfectly relaxed, arched like a cat on the comfortable, low divan; she is reading a book, which is almost upside down, so that her long hair trails on the floor as she follows its story. She has taken to washing henna into her glossy locks for recently she has found that her mousey curls are greying. The rich red only highlights the milky paleness of her skin, though not much of that is on show today. She is wearing a long, purple robe and her thin feet, which Mickey cannot help but picture stretched in climactic satisfaction, bear an intricate painted design of coffee-coloured swirls and dots. This, he knows, takes some hours to effect and involves a ritual that Farida finds tiresome but to which his other wives occasionally convince her to succumb. The room smells, as always, of burning incense. Farida’s favourite is a costly cinnamon and frankincense blend, and there are vases of elegant flowers – upon which she insists – changed every couple of days and placed at intervals on low, brass side tables between the piles of books. The green boughs curl like dancing snakes through the pillars of bound paper. Between the white jasmine and golden geophyte, Farida looks up.

  ‘Ah there you are,’ she says, as if her husband is somehow at her pleasure rather than the other way around.

  Mickey falls on his knees beside her and flings his arms around her shoulders, planting a long, salacious kiss on her plump lips. Then he leans over to inspect the poetry book she is reading in Arabic. Handwritten, it is so old that the pages are made of stiff parchment and it is bound in dark, embossed leather as thick as his hand.

  May the rain pour in benevolence, when it falls,

  O, the time of our union in Andalusia.

  Your union was but a dream,

  In slumber, or a stealing by sleight of hand.

  ‘Union,’ he murmurs approvingly. ‘Slumber.’

  Farida strokes his face as if she is sinking into a featherbed of pleasure. As they lie together there is, unaccountably, a rapping on the harim door. Mickey sits up and Farida stares. At such an instance she should, of course, run off in shame, rather than let an unknown visitor see her, but instead she looks rather eager at this unprecedented turn of events, and Mickey does not have the heart to banish her.

  ‘Come in,’ he calls. Ta’aal.

  The Nubian enters with his eyes averted. He is carrying a letter with a heavy red, wax seal. The dark writing on the front is in English.

  ‘Rashid received this, master,’ he says, his deep voice as smooth as creamy pudding – Kishk al Fuara served with teaengorged raisins, Farida thinks. Still somehow, despite his timbre, he manages to sound apologetic at this intrusion. ‘Rashid wants to know what to do. He said he could send the letter on to the person to whom it is addressed, if you feel it is important to do so, but to catch them up, the
messenger will have to leave immediately. He asks your bidding?’

  Mickey lifts the faded paper that envelopes the missive. The black ink blazes the legend: Lieutenant James Raymond Wellsted, The Ship Palinurus, Indian Navy, via Bombay. On the reverse, the large wax seal bears the crown, shield and stars that make up the coat of arms of the Murray clan and a return address in Albemarle Street, Piccadilly, London, England.

  ‘Ah,’ Mickey says out loud, ‘he is well connected then, at least.’

  He thinks for a moment, weighing the options.

  ‘No,’ he decides. ‘This can wait. Wellsted will be almost at the jabel by now. What possible good can this news do him in the desert?’

  He waves the Nubian away and places the letter on a side table.

  ‘Now what was that about?’ Farida asks as the door clicks closed. ‘Did I see mention there of a publisher in London?’

  Mickey laughs. She misses nothing, the wonderful woman. ‘Very well, I shall tell you the story, my darling,’ he says, pulling her closer and stroking her hair.

  Farida squirms until she is comfortable and sucks content-edly on one of Mickey’s fingers. Her interest is, of course, piqued by the missive. A lieutenant, it said on the paper – like the man she saw in the souk only the day before. Lieutenant Wellsted. Nothing lights up Farida like a spot of intrigue. Mickey starts the story as if he is telling it to a child.

  ‘There are two white men, naval officers, who have gone missing in the desert. Doctor Jessop and First Lieutenant Jones of the Indian Navy’s ship Palinurus. They were taken by the Bedu while on a mission in the interior. The British are exploring the Peninsula. Anyway, these men have been taken further inland, I think, than any white man has been taken before and they are held captive by the Bedu. Today, another officer, the recipient of this letter, has gone to find them at the instigation of our soultan.’

  ‘What? A white man?’ Farida’s eyes are alight. ‘This lieutenant?’ She motions towards the letter. ‘Wellsted?’

  He had looked determined as he sipped his coffee, but hell, this is a lot for a white man to take on and he seemed so young somehow.

  ‘Yes,’ Mickey laughs. ‘A white man, as white as you, I think, and his black slave girl and two of the most fearsome slave traders you ever did see as his guides. I myself disguised the poor man to give him some protection. I dressed him as a Turk – a trader. But they are an unholy party and the slavers are furious at being sent like lackeys. It is at the soultan’s behest however. His Majesty is adamant so off they go.’

  ‘And will he rescue these men – Jessop and Jones?’

  A shadow of uncertainty crosses her husband’s face.

  ‘Ah, poor souls,’ she says. ‘Touch and go. And this fine man with his publisher friend may never get his letter either, I suppose. He’s blue-eyed, is he? Tall? Very pale, but with a pleasant manner. I can see him now, in me mind’s eye.’

  ‘I’ll keep the letter for him,’ says Mickey, thinking that she is so perceptive it’s quite amazing. ‘Yes, he’s a blue-eyed boy. And you’re right – I liked him. He seemed younger than he must be, to be honest, but he’ll come back, I hope. God willing. In sh’allah.’

  Farida considers a moment. Surely they aren’t done with the matter yet. ‘My dear,’ she says, ‘there must be more to the story than that. If these white men are kidnapped, well now, there’s a whole tale there and I want to hear it. So, my husband,’ Farida sits up and runs the tip of her little, pink tongue down the side of his face, ‘if I were to pleasure you, my darling, would you tell me everything, for I am parched to my bleachers for a decent tale. All this poetry,’ she waves her hand dismissively at the thick and expensive book she has been reading, and then places her palm seductively on her husband’s crotch, which responds very satisfactorily to her caresses, ‘the thing is that it’s boring me arse off and I could do with a decent yarn. Lord, I’d do practically anything for a spot of amusement.’

  As she envelopes him in her flesh, breathing Ibn Al Hajjaj’s words of love, Mickey decides that even if he does not know exactly how Dr Jessop and Lieutenant Jones raised the ire of the emir, he can always make up a suitable explanation for Farida’s pleasure – one worthy of the illustrious Mr Murray himself and surely better than any story Sir Walter Scott has written, if it comes to that. Yes, when they’re done he’ll summon her a fine explanation and perhaps even a decent account of fixing up Wellsted as a Turk, to boot. She’ll like that. But later, he thinks, I’ll do it later, his mind disappearing, as he slips gently inside her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Into Rubh Al Khali: the Empty Quarter, August 1833

  After days hiking up the wadi to take them as far north as possible before having to cross the jabel and enter the desert, the slavers’ party camps just before sunset, where the land begins to rise. They have followed the line of the mountains for days now and tomorrow the intention is to climb upwards and tackle the higher ground. The men, Lieutenant Wellsted included, pray together, the small mats laid carefully in a line, wild hawks wheeling in the distance. No tents are raised though the Bedu busy themselves setting a fire and one man kills the last four of the chickens with a chilling efficiency and pulls the feathers so they can be roasted. Another prepares copious amounts of khubz for it is the custom not to measure supplies too carefully and to feast whenever you have enough to do so, even if it means starving later. All Arabian culture is extreme – gorging or starving is only natural here where there are harsh, burning deserts and violent sandstorms, where the law can lop off your limbs as a penalty and where for medicine, more often than not, the patient’s skin is burnt to a crisp. Death is perpetually too close not simply to enjoy what you have and damn the prospect of tomorrow.

  Zena is given the task of replenishing the goatskins from a shallow well at the base of the mountain path while two of the Bedu water the camels, for there is a good, clean spring here. Later they will have fresh water only intermittently and most of it sorhan, that is water which is opaque and does not travel well. It becomes foul the longer it is held, but they will still have to drink it.

  Wellsted gulps his coffee greedily. He is a man with an avid appetite. The mountain air is clear and from the higher ground the view back over the wadi is breathtaking.

  ‘Where you come from, does it look like this?’ he asks Zena as she pours his coffee.

  She pauses for a moment and then shakes her head. She feels shy speaking to him, especially when everyone is listening. ‘It is greener, more lush.’ She turns away to pour for Kasim and Ibn Mohammed.

  Wellsted does not ask anything further and instead sets down his cup and enthusiastically sets off for a high ledge two hundred yards above. ‘I won’t be long,’ he promises. ‘I want to see the view.’

  Ibn Mohammed sighs. He has promised the soultan he will protect this foreigner, and if the man dies this close to the wadi and less than a week from Muscat, it will be a great disgrace. Wordlessly meeting Kasim’s eyes and agreeing that he will do the duty, Ibn Mohammed follows the white man up the side of the mountain to see from a distance the path they have already trodden.

  ‘Don’t come if you don’t want to,’ Wellsted insists.

  The slaver does not reply for there is no point in arguing – of course he does not want to come. Of course he has to. At the top of the slope, with his surveyor’s training kicking in, Wellsted jots a rough map into his notebook. The sun will disappear in half an hour. Below them the slaves are setting up a cooking pot. Ibn Mohammed peers over Wellsted’s shoulder. He thinks the man a mere tourist, though he has to admit the lieutenant has certainly been paying more attention than he appeared to. The map is very accurate. By the time it is finished, the sky has faded into twilight and they can smell the chicken.

  ‘Hungry?’ Wellsted asks cheerily as they set off down the hill, their descent slower for the lack of visibility.

  But hunger for Ibn Mohammed is only a weakness and he will never admit to that. ‘It is time to eat,’ is as much
as he will concede.

  The saddles are placed in a rough circle for the men to lean against, with felt rugs in a rainbow of dusty colours thrown over them for comfort. Zena hovers at Wellsted’s elbow. Though she has not become accustomed to his appearance, she still cannot rip her gaze from his strange features and his sky-blue eyes. It is his movements that are most intriguing. He is very even as he walks and rides. She finds herself transfixed as he carries his saddle or arranges his jubbah before sitting down. His gestures are elegant – the way he moves his hands or raises his eyebrows when he talks. It moves her and she realises it is fortunate that her interest is shielded by the veil, and she is free to gawp.

  When the food is finally ready, the free men eat first. Kasim, Ibn Mohammed and Wellsted choose what they want, eat their fill and then stand to one side, washing their hands and sipping coffee as the servants and slaves take their turn. The scraps of chicken are picked until the bones are dry and can be eaten with a decisive crack, leaving an eerie kind of skeleton beyond any recognition or edibility. Like locusts, the men consume the bread and gulp from horn cups of camel’s milk.

  With the meal over, no one speaks as the canopy of stars opens above them and the thin moon begins its ascent. When it is time to sleep, all lie stiff-limbed with the saddles forming a loose circle of protection against the open space. Since they set off, Zena has not been able to sleep in company with the men; she feels too self-conscious. The ground is stony and the star-strewn sky is too bright. Tonight, she continues to watch Wellsted’s pale face, luminescent in the moonlight. At peace, asleep, he looks like a corpse. It is his white skin that makes the illusion so convincing, she thinks, for corpses lose their colour, though of course, her grandmother was as black as liquorice and in death her skin only lost its lustre rather than its tone. After a while, the girl gets up silently and pokes the embers of the fire as she has done every night so far. There, she sleeps fitfully on her haunches, dozing but warm, never settling to a proper repose. From time to time she watches her master, like a child fond of a pet and conscious of its every movement.