Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  But none of the men accept that. The boundaries of the sultan’s territories are long passed. His Highness is a foreign ruler here and, worse, one who is maligned.

  ‘No. No,’ they insist, bitterly, a rush of bad feeling overtaking the coffee ritual, ‘this man is a Turk.’ They spit the word. ‘You should cast him out.’

  They are equally as shocked at the notion of a woman travelling with the party and eye Zena with contempt as she goes quietly about her chores.

  ‘I wonder which one of us they think is worse?’ Wellsted whispers to her.

  Zena only stares. He is a fool if he does not know a woman is the lowest of the low and a female slave lower still.

  That night the Wahabi refuse to sleep in a settlement where there is a Turk and after dinner they take their leave. ‘We will make our camp an hour or two further,’ they say. ‘None of us will sleep with such a man in the party – we might as well make our way.’

  ‘We have travelled for weeks with him and, truth be told, I spar with him. The man could have killed me several times,’ Kasim informs them, just as coldly. It’s true, the men have taken to sparring on the sands before dinner – Kasim tutoring the lieutenant in the use of his khandjar. After the featureless days, if they have no company it at least provides a little sport. The Wahabi shrug. The fact the Turk has not killed his travelling companions makes no matter.

  ‘It is better we leave,’ they say. ‘He is a Turk.’

  The rudeness makes Wellsted blush though the Arabs are unaffected. Amid almost ceremonial politeness in most matters, each man on the sands must make his own decisions and say what he feels.

  ‘I’m glad they’ve gone,’ he says to Kasim when the men have disappeared into the darkness.

  The slaver only shrugs and the camp settles for the evening.

  Much later, past midnight, Kasim is jerked awake in the darkness. He never wakes unless there is good reason and in this case, his instincts are not to be faulted. Ibn Mohammed’s eyes are already open. Someone is approaching the settlement. The slavers have not got where they are without an almost psychic ability to second-guess who their enemies are and what they will do. While Zena blundering into the darkness after a snake does not merit more than a grumble and a short interlude between bouts of deep sleep, the mere movement of a robe out of place and a scimitar or khandjar being drawn carefully from its scabbard, raises them immediately.

  Ibn Mohammed lies prone for all of three seconds. A flicker of regret passes across his face as realisation dawns. He can hear four of them – it can only be the Wahabi who left the camp a few hours before. Experienced raiders, they are all but silent as they cross the sands in the near blackness afforded by the thin moon and sneak towards the oasis, no doubt imagining it defenceless. Who else can it be? He signals Kasim who nods curtly in agreement. No one can be allowed to attack, even if all the men have come for, most likely, is to slit Wellsted’s throat. In all honesty, if the Wahabi knew the truth of his identity, it might well be worse. On the long list of those deserving of contempt, the northern tribes hate the infidel more than they hate the Turks, but that is by the by.

  The slavers can take the four men easily, of course, but Kasim decides to wake the lieutenant. It only seems right. He slips to his feet and lays one strong hand on Wellsted’s wrist and another over his mouth. Kasim’s eyes jerk to the higher ground. ‘Your chance to fight for real, my friend,’ he whispers.

  Ibn Mohammed, a solid black shadow with his dark kaffiya draped over his face, rolls away, draws his weapon and sneaks behind the line of attack so stealthily he is almost invisible. He is born to this. Deftly, like a ghost, he kills two of the intruders before they realise the camp is alert to their plan. Their throats slit, the bodies fall to the ground quicker than the blood can slide down their skin. They do not even reach the first slave, still dozing, dribbling in sleep on the fringes of the sleeping circle. The two raiders who are left reach the prone figures before they comprehend they have been seen and their kinsmen are dead. They do not retreat but push ahead to complete the mission. One looks for the Turk, ready to cut out his heart. The other easily captures Zena, who does not scream as she wakes, only sinks her teeth into the man’s arm as he tries to pull her up the hill.

  It is his voice that cries out into the still, desert night, the first sound that really breaks the silence. In a raid like this the girl is fair game. Moving swiftly, Wellsted easily avoids the other fellow and falls on the kidnapper, ripping Zena free of his grasp. The lieutenant does not even bother to draw the khandjar or the long-bladed khattirah he has been learning to use. Instead, in sheer fury and without thinking, he reaches straight for the kidnapper’s throat and he strangles the raider with his bare hands, such venom in his heart that he can think of nothing else as he squeezes the man’s life away. As the body falls, Kasim, with his blood high, uses his khandjar to slit the man’s gullet just to be sure. The lieutenant, it turns out, is as good in a fight as when they practised. Kasim moves off to trail the last assassin.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Wellsted checks Zena. His heart is pounding at the thought of her being taken. He’s known for a while that he cares about her, but this murderous fury has surprised him. How dare these men?

  Zena nods and then circles, peering into the darkness, terror pulsing through her as she scans the dunes for signs of a further onslaught. God knows who else is out there. She lays a hand on Wellsted’s arm in gratitude and squeezes. When their eyes meet it is like a moment that is stolen from everyone else.

  ‘Shall I run?’ she whispers.

  ‘No. Stay here.’

  Her breath is quick in panic and he can hear her panting. She steps back a little and Wellsted lays his hand on her shoulder as he checks to see where Ibn Mohammed and Kasim are focussing their attention.

  ‘Stay behind me,’ he tells her and she falls gratefully into his wake.

  The slaves are rising now, woken by the sound of violence. The sleeping men jump to their feet, calling to their friends and ready to fight for their lives in the lacquer-black darkness. Ibn Mohammed is furious for the final assassin is lost in the panic.

  ‘Quiet,’ he shouts down the dune, but it is too late to follow the sound of the man’s robes moving away and the Wahabi is gone.

  Kasim makes a sign that shows the attack is over. Of the four, three are dead.

  Zena reaches out. There is a shape on the sand. It is Wellsted’s notebook.

  ‘Here, you dropped this,’ she says. Her hand is shaking as she gives it to him.

  ‘Come,’ Wellsted gestures, as elegantly as if he is a Bedu. ‘Sit near the fire. You are shaken.’

  There is something so fragile about her. When she looks up at him, he has a vague sense of guilt, for there should be no real bond between them, he is sure of it, only courtesies, and yet he has just killed a man for trying to steal her, and the killing was not for courtesy’s sake. He has never felt such hatred in all his life. The passion surprises him and, unlike Zena, he is not too young to misunderstand it. He thinks of the moment after, when their eyes locked and the empty desert, if it is possible, became even more silent.

  ‘If they had taken you, I would have come after you,’ Wellsted assures her evenly.

  The girl is as jumpy as a gazelle but still, she smiles. Wellsted knows the pang he feels is not from the purple bruise that is forming on his shoulder. When she glances at him it is as if she is casting a spell. He cannot say anything. There are too many others nearby and the words are not easy to find.

  For Zena’s part, she feels safe next to her master and this produces a sensation that surprises her. Unlike the thunder and lightning of his touch, for the first time ever in her life she feels an overwhelming gratitude that gives her butterflies in her stomach and a glow that a wiser, older woman would describe as affection, even love. He fetches a blanket and sits next to her, only inches away and if the rest of the caravan were not so busy checking the dunes, moving as close together as possible, looking always out
wards, it would surely be noted that the black girl and the white man have a strange stillness about them, as if the world’s lens is focussing solely on the two of them. As it is, a guard is mounted and the camp settles slowly without noticing what has happened.

  I will never sleep, she thinks. Out here, if she is stolen she knows that most likely she’ll never leave the wide, sandy expanse again. Zena does not want to spend the rest of her life milking camels and pitching tents, traded between dirty, ragged settlements at the whim of one man or another. Strangely, though, calmed by Wellsted’s presence and as all falls to stillness once more, she drifts off as she hears him breathing smoothly beside her, and in the morning, just as dawn is breaking, when they wake, their fingers are entwined.

  ‘Ana mut asif, I’m sorry,’ she says, rather formal in tone, as she pulls her hand back towards her body quickly. It is as if his touch burns her. He cannot see her cheeks colour, but she feels mortified, far beyond the level of the offence. Instead of awkwardness, he smiles openly. He thinks he will apologise but then there is no time, for Ibn Mohammed and Kasim are kicking towards him across the sand, their eyes sharp in the morning light, and Zena withdraws towards the fire to help brew the coffee.

  ‘The attacker left tracks.’ Ibn Mohammed points over to the west.

  ‘Shall we hunt him?’ Kasim asks eagerly.

  Ibn Mohammed shakes his head. ‘We will not turn back where we came from,’ he says, for there is no measure in that.

  The man is lucky in that, at least. Had he blundered off to the north or east he would be dead before midday, they would have seen to it.

  ‘Come, my friend,’ Ibn Mohammed, gestures at Wellsted’s prayer mat, which is poking clear from his saddle. ‘It is better to pray than sleep. And then we shall break our fast.’

  On Ibn Mohammed’s orders, as the men rise sleepily into the dawn and the rite of the prayers are undergone, the bodies of the Wahabi assassins are left where they fell, as carrion for the vultures. Such men do not merit any honour. Their weapons are taken and the bodies searched. They must have left their booty stowed in the saddlebags in their own camp for they are holding not a single dollar anywhere on their persons. Ibn Mohammed spits on the corpses and motions the party onwards.

  The birds are already circling the fresh flesh as the camp is taken down, the fire is extinguished and the last camel leaves the high, golden dune. Zena follows Wellsted so closely that she could be his shadow. It feels to her as if she is tethered to him willingly now. Something has changed. When Wellsted disappears at one stage across the top of the high ground, to Zena it is as if the whole desert is on tiptoes to try to see where he has gone and the sky and sand are all the emptier for his absence.

  In future when they meet the Wahabi, the slavers fall into the pattern of keeping Wellsted to the rear with the servants. The sight of a Turkish free man is clearly too much for the xenophobic ire of the northern tribes. Ten years ago, Kasim says, it would have been different, five years ago perhaps, but in the turbulent times that have come to pass the Wahabi grow wilder eyed and more vengeful by the month.

  ‘We will say you are a huss,’ Ibn Mohammed spits contemptuously, though it is easy to see that it amuses him. ‘And in my employ.’

  It seems a Turkish camel man is acceptable. A business associate is not. So in company now Wellsted tends a camel and eats second in turn, taking orders from Kasim, whose eyes burn brightly with silent laughter as he tells the lieutenant what to do. Though he must admit, the white man plays the part they have given him well.

  As they continue northwards. The news is not good.

  ‘A long time,’ Kasim grits his teeth when they receive news that the camp might have moved beyond Riyadh, perhaps as much as a day.

  Wellsted knows that to complain is simply not on. It is something the British have in common with their Arab counterparts and he understands the notion instinctively. He worries though that the longer it takes, the less chance they have of freeing Jessop and Jones.

  ‘It’s given me a chance to grow my beard,’ he says lightly and passes a hand over his chin. The beard, now fully grown, has completed his disguise. ‘I can’t complain, old man. After all, I have learnt a very great deal about the needs of the camel.’

  ‘Ten days,’ Ibn Mohammed growls, ever short of temper, but Kasim laughs.

  The effendi is turning out to be better sport than he expected. The white man would never survive alone, of course, but for a Nazarene the lieutenant is acquitting himself admirably.

  Chapter Thirty

  Because he only sees the camp on the occasions when the emir decides to have the tents taken down, loaded and transported to a new location, Jessop has become attuned to the noises that surround such an operation. The dismantling itself is all but silent, more distinctive is the hubbub of men and women performing strenuous work in the heat (even though the removals do not take place over the hottest six hours of the day). Jones has not spoken for a long time, the doctor notes. He considers saying something, for the camp is definitely coming down and he knows that they will be fetched and herded like livestock, in fact, alongside the goats, to whichever new location the emir has chosen. He lifts his hand, which moves Jones’ wrist and disturbs him, so that the lieutenant grunts and snores. Ah, the doctor thinks, he is deep asleep. I shall leave him.

  Jessop smiles as it passes across his mind that the details of tribal life in the interior is exactly why the two of them were sent here and there is some irony in that now he is something of an expert. He knows the tasks the women perform and what is the men’s responsibility. He has a good idea of the spiritual considerations that are taken into account when the Bedu make decisions, and he has a par ticularly sharp understanding of the importance of water. Water shapes this culture, water drives it. There is little for the British to trade here. The country lacks any kind of effective infrastructure and Jessop cannot imagine a demand for either British textiles or even opium. The Arabs are puritan in their tastes and Allah, he is sure, would not approve of the poppy. He imagines a railway built through the desert and then laughs out loud. It is an out -rageous and ridiculous notion. The doctor is no engineer but he is sure it would be impossible, for large stretches of Rubh Al Khali is made up of shifting dunes. However, he allows himself the luxury of considering a few station names. The doctor favours the romantic and picks out Oasis of Stars, painted with white enamel on a burgundy plaque. He im agines purchasing a ticket from the Oasis of Stars all the way to the station at Euston, which he has read is under construction.

  ‘If I start now, I might even get there in time for the Grand Opening,’ he smirks.

  The tent flap is pulled back and a tribesman Jessop hasn’t seen before enters. He is taller than the usual jailer and, surprisingly, he smiles broadly when he catches the doctor’s eye. It is as if he has blundered into the tent in the confusion of the whole camp packing up.

  ‘Salaam aleikhum,’ he bows.

  The doctor is not quite sure how to respond. He’s been treated like an animal for so many weeks now that such courtesy is strange. He smiles cautiously and flicks his wrist several times to wake Jones, who jerks into consciousness with a squeal.

  ‘We’re moving, Jones,’ the doctor apprises his lieuten ant.

  The man leans down and loosens the bonds so the prisoners can use their hands. Then he leaves the tent and returns a few seconds later in a waft of fresh air. He pauses beside the infidels. In one hand he has a goatskin flask and in the other a huge flatbread. Jessop tries not to breathe in the smell in too obvious a fashion, but there is no question that the flatbread is filled with meat and garlic. It is fresh. In fact, if the doctor is not mistaken, it is still hot.

  ‘Here,’ the man lays the flask and the bread on the ground. ‘We have far to walk.’

  Both Jones and Jessop are so stunned by this unexpected generosity that they freeze momentarily. They cannot help wondering if this is some kind of trick. Over the weeks of privation they have worn down to all but
skin and bones and the doctor doubts that the two of them together weigh as much as he did alone when he left the Palinurus. After an initial pause, both men fall on the food with vigour, stuffing in strips of fluffy bread, sucking the meat of its gravy and licking their chins of the grease. The water is quite fresh and the two of them finish the whole goatskin in what seems less than a minute.

  Jones puts a hand on his stomach. He can feel the food and water inside. It is a comforting, pleasant sensation. ‘Now that’s what I call a decent breakfast,’ he grins.

  The man looks shocked at the feeding frenzy. Not all the tribesmen, it would seem, are aware of the way the prisoners have been treated. He shrugs, deciding it is none of his business, and then beckons them to their feet, rebinding their hands and leading the men out of the tent. Outside, the afternoon sun is astonishingly bright and the white men squint towards it. The camp is already loaded onto the camels and the children run around in excitement, charged with ensuring the goats do not wander. Women carry pots on their heads and some even have babies swaddled across their burquahs. The man who fetched them is having a heated exchange with the jailer, who is crossing the sand with a plate of scraps.

  ‘You fed them?’

  ‘Yes. There was bread left.’

  ‘You let them have bread?’

  ‘And some water. We will walk all night.’

  The jailer blusters furiously. ‘I saved this,’ he spits.

  The scraps are rotten. Jessop can smell them from where he stands. But he’d eat them. Of course he would.

  The jailer pours the contents of the dish onto the ground and kicks sand over them. ‘I waste my time!’ he exclaims. ‘The goats have eaten too.’

  ‘But I was trying to help,’ the other man defends himself.

  ‘I think we were rather lucky there, old man,’ Jones points out.

  The doctor nods. He hopes that the jailer doesn’t take it out on them later. Still, for fresh food and a decent drink of almost fresh water, he’d happily endure some abuse. ‘I wonder where we’re heading?’ he ponders.