Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Salaam aleikhum,’ he says.

  She does not recognise him. She is sure his face was not part of the jeering crowd watching her dance. The other men do not dismount and she squints slightly as her eyes flick between their faces and she sees that she does not recognise any of them. The men do not seem angry – quite the reverse.

  ‘Aleikhum salaam,’ she replies uncertainly.

  ‘My family saw you from the dunes. You are alone. Do you need help, friend? Can we offer you hospitality?’

  Zena’s limbs relax. This party has not come from the emir’s encampment at all. They have seen only what they expect – a man in a pale blue dishdash on a camel, travelling alone. They do not know who she is or what she has done and they have no idea about Kasim or Ibn Mohammed and the deal they made to barter her. This is a chance meeting on the sands like a hundred others. She has seen faces like these before, in practically every camel train, all the way from Muscat. These men want news and in return there may be kindness and, for that matter, coffee. She thanks her stars she stole the clothes and shifts her gait slightly to feel more masculine – more solid on the sand. Her decision is made in a flicker – no more than that. This is not dangerous. These men are doing what Bedu do all across the Rubh Al Khali and with their help surely she has a better chance at survival than if she travels alone.

  ‘I am searching for my master,’ she smiles and bows with a slight flourish as she lowers the timbre of her voice. ‘I am his boy. There was an argument and he left his family. My poor master. I cannot let him go to the coast alone. He will dive for pearls he says, but who will look after him? I have been travelling for a long time. Am I headed for the sea?’

  The Bedu’s eyes are alight. There is not a tribesman alive who could resist such a potent suggestion of family scandal, the need for instruction and a slave so devoted to duty and his master that he will risk death.

  ‘Yes,’ the man says, ‘the sea.’ He waves further in the direction upon which Zena is headed. ‘But, please, eat with us and join our party. Like you, we are heading for the coast and it will be far better to travel in a group. It is the way of our tribe. What is your master’s name?’

  Zena hesitates, as if unwilling to embarrass the noble family to whom she belongs. The Bedu waves his hand in the air to dismiss his question. Every tribesman on the sands knows to which family she refers – the pearl-fishing teenage renegade has been the gossip of the caravans the whole way north.

  She ladles it on with vigour. ‘My master saved my life when the simoom came. I owe him everything. I cannot let him down.’

  ‘Of course. Of course,’ the man says, in an understanding tone. ‘Come. Are you hungry? We are stopped for coffee and dates. Please, it is not far . . .’

  Again she hesitates, just long enough. ‘Thank you,’ she says graciously. ‘My name is Malik.’

  She mounts fluidly, her stomach rumbling at the very idea of solid food, for she has become used to it again. She pats her camel and follows the Bedu to their stopping place. This is the best possible outcome. These men have supplies and they know the way. Her pursuers will be looking for a lone traveller – a woman – not a slave in a party of Bedu and she knows that one way or another, she will be followed. I must play this part, she thinks, holding herself with less grace and more solidity, like a man. She only wishes she had bound her chest. She will do so in the evening while the men are sleeping, and in the meantime she is careful to slouch. Perhaps, she ponders, almost incredulous that it is possible, I will survive now.

  As the little camp comes into sight, she smiles. There are ten men of mixed ages in the group. She dismounts and greets them all, sipping the coffee proffered in her direction and sucking on a sweet, juicy date. They are driving camels to market.

  ‘Shukhran,’ she whispers and squats down on her haunches, ready to play the part she has cast for herself. ‘Is it far to the sea?’

  The Bedu shrug. ‘Not far. Three days. A good journey. We will enjoy it.’

  Better and better. Three days is surely not so long that the news of her real identity need overtake them even if they are (as the Bedu tend to be) optimistic in their estimates. For three days or so she will be fed, at least, and if they come for her, they will have to get close before they uncover her identity.

  ‘Tell us your story,’ one of the men asks.

  Zena takes her eyes from the horizon, and accepts that for the moment, she is safe. ‘With pleasure, my friend,’ she says, squatting to join him. ‘Of course. I will tell you my whole tale.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The first to see what has happened is the Tuereg slave. He has risen to stoke the fire only ten minutes before the rest of the men get up to pray. He stands stock-still and staring, as if the scene before him is not possible. Behind his blank gaze there is a panicked expression as he looks this way and that. He feels a rising terror – as if a deadly snake has been spotted in the camp and it is his job to find and capture it. He counts the sleeping visitors again and confirms that there are far too few of them and that the distinctive outline of the slavers is not among the prone bodies scattered around the fire. He knows that the man who brings this news to the emir’s attention may, at the very least, be beaten, but with a sinking heart he wonders how the duty cannot fall to him. He will be beaten anyway if he does not stoke the fire before the men rise and make their obeisances to the east. As if to check the extent of the disaster, he trots quietly to the tent where the Nazarene are held and pulls back the flap. Jones’ corpse lies jackknifed on the ground, and at the sight of it the slave feels his heart turn a somersault, for he does not know that Jones died the day before. Besides that, the other infidel, the one with hair the colour of mud, is definitely missing. The slave’s duty is invidious, but, cursing, he knows what he has to do.

  As he turns, afraid, back towards the camp, he runs straight into one of the emir’s free men, who has risen early and come to bring water to the Nazarene and clean them before, one dead and one alive, they will be handed over to the slavers. The man is glad to be rid of the white men, for looking after them, if you could call it that, has been an odious duty for the past months, and he walks jauntily, happy that today will be the last time he will be troubled by it.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he grabs the Tuereg by the ear.

  The slave’s legs give way under him. ‘The visitors are gone. Some of them. And one of the Nazarene. Gone.’

  The free man turns to the camp – he had not looked closely at the figures on the ground for his eyes were still heavy with sleep and he was set on what he had to do. Now he focusses. Then he shouts a curse and runs for the emir’s tent, hollering as he goes to call his brothers to arms.

  At once, from all quarters, men emerge into the blue shadow of dawn, every one of them holding a drawn blade. The slaves who have been abandoned by Ibn Mohammed and Kasim spring into action too. Their first thought is that their missing companions have been stolen and slaughtered. They draw their knives and, surrounded, fall into a defensive formation – a rough circle spiked with sharp protuberances on every side. Everything happens very quickly and the shouts are such a babble that it is hard for one side to tell what the other is saying. One of the emir’s men kills a slave, flat, and for a moment it looks as if there will be carnage, but the emir’s voice rings out and his natural authority is such that everyone freezes. In the tent flaps, women hold their children close.

  The emir surveys the scene. It does not take a fakir to know what has happened. He roars with anger and then motions at the remaining members of Ibn Mohammed’s party.

  ‘Bring them forward!’ the emir orders.

  The slaves are herded together.

  The emir makes a movement with his hand, and the men are willingly disarmed. They are, after all, slaves not soldiers.

  ‘Where are your masters?’ he demands.

  The men are silent. They look at the ground. The emir jabs at one of them so quickly that it is difficult to see how he co
uld have drawn his blade. Doomed by his proximity, the fellow makes a gurgling noise and falls in a sliding sheet of blood.

  ‘Where are your masters?’ the emir turns to the others.

  One musters the courage to speak. ‘We do not know. They were gone when we awoke.’

  Then they all fall to their knees and one or two of them whimper, for now they are at the emir’s mercy. Their masters are gone.

  ‘The Nazarene?’ the emir enquires.

  The man who raised the alarm tells him the news.

  ‘And the habshi?’

  ‘She is not here.’

  ‘Go,’ the emir orders, with a flick of his chin. ‘You must check the camels.’

  In less than a minute two men return with the casket of talers. The emir throws open the lid and kicks the side of the box in temper, sending a shimmer of coins cascading onto the ground. They have left the corpse. It seems to him that it is likely they found out late at night that one of the men was dead. This box contains far more than the thousand Marie Theresa dollars agreed upon. Ibn Mohammed and Kasim have simply changed the deal with the changing circumstances. The emir eyes the slaves before him, counting their value as he enquires how many camels were left behind. It is a good enough showing for one half-dead Nazarene, though he wishes they had left the girl. However, to his surprise, he finds he is not as angry as he might have been. It passes across his mind that perhaps he is getting old. Or perhaps he can understand why this has happened. It will be easy to find them, if he decides to. They will have gone east, of course, and, he considers a moment, that is not the direction of Nizwa.

  Ever mercurial, the emir has been considering his plans overnight. He wants to go home. He wonders how this story will play with the elders in his family’s town and decides that if he portrays the events correctly, he can be a hero. The slavers, great men though they are, were so afraid of his wrath that they have run like cowards into the night. In time, he may dine with the soultan himself and convey an air of superiority in the matter, for the pride of Muscat have not dispatched their duty with honour. The thought pleases him. The soultan is one of the richest men on the Peninsula, but the emir surely has this over his reputation. Still, he’d like to be sure what happened.

  ‘Look for signs in the sand,’ he says to his eldest son.

  ‘Let me track them, Father,’ the boy pleads.

  This is the chance for which the child has been waiting. If he can track down the thiefs-in-the-night and avenge the slight, his name will be made. The emir, however, looks nonchalant. The boy’s need to establish a reputation is not of interest to him – he is not dead yet.

  ‘Come back to tell me,’ he says. ‘I will decide when we know their direction.’ At that, his son disappears.

  The emir takes a deep breath. This is not how he intended to start his day.

  ‘You,’ he snaps, picking one of the slaves from the line-up – one who so far has managed not to piss himself. The man raises his eyes and it is clear that he is expecting to be killed. He steps forwards slowly with as much dignity as he can muster.

  ‘Make coffee,’ the emir orders, and with those few words the relief of the entire camp is palpable. The women dis appear back into their tents and the men lower their weapons.

  ‘And, Sharif – you must count this,’ the emir tells his closest henchman.

  Even without knowing their number, the generous chest of talers is enough bounty to boast of and, the emir considers carefully as he pictures his homecoming to Nizwa, no one ever need know what they agreed about the girl.

  Chapter Forty

  For a long while, Wellsted is unsure whether the doctor will survive the journey. They have driven the camels hard, with only the briefest respite, for five days and nights. No one has had more than three or four hours’ sleep at a time. Jessop manages to digest his milk, however, and he seems to be getting stronger, despite the travelling and the un relenting heat. The only shelter they can afford him is a ragged hauza draped across his forehead. He dozes, tied into his saddle with a rough string made of plaited rushes, and yesterday he pointed his thin finger with an eagerness that he had previously not been able to muster and asked for a piece of khubz from the fire. He ate it to no ill effect along with two dates and he has taken bread with his milk ever since. There is a slight flush today on his thin cheeks though, of course, that may simply be the searing temperature. Much of the time he sleeps or, more accurately, passes out. It is, Wellsted reassures himself, all part of the doctor’s recovery.

  As they crest the final hilltop they look down on what is a very welcome view: they are a couple of miles from the coast, and the party can see the bright gem of the ocean. Ibn Mohammed is, as ever, vigilant. He has sworn he will kill the girl when he finds her and he intends to make good on his promise. There is, however, still no sign of her as they take in the vista before them. Wellsted nudges the doctor and points at the expanse of water. Making it to Bombay now is surely a real possibility; the doctor beams.

  ‘James,’ he whispers. ‘I want to wash properly and to shave. Whenever we can.’

  Wellsted nods. He is glad Jessop is feeling strong enough to be troubled by his appearance. However hard he tries, though, he cannot stop thinking about what has happened to the girl. Given Ibn Mohammed’s fury, her complete disappearance is perhaps fortuitous.Wellsted only hopes she turned in the right direction. Zena is no fool, he tells himself. When he showed her the maps he had made, she could read them.

  At night he feels a strange bond with her, as if he should somehow be able to tell where she is by mere thought alone. His imaginings spiral into crazy plans of taking her to London, though he knows it would be impossible to introduce Zena into society either as his slave or as his lover. A black servant is just about acceptable, but he does not want to oblige Zena to be in service to him and the disapproval at a hint of anything more than that would make a happy life in England impossible. Wellsted lets his mind wander and toys with the most forbidden word of all: wife. The girl has touched him deeply. There is something in the connection between them that he cannot explain and that, alongside the fact he feels he has disgraced her, makes him dream of a legal union, something binding, something that can offer her real protection. It fires him and, almost for the first time, he finds he wants something for himself – something private, that does not pertain to his family, his father, his grandfather, society or the needs of the Bombay Marine. He wants Zena to marry him and be his alone.

  Wellsted knows no white person married to a black and is well aware that such a scandalous undertaking would sully his reputation for life – he has not even heard tell of a docker who has attempted it, never mind one of His Majesty’s naval officers. As an up-and-coming gentleman, such an action would be unthinkable, particularly for a man in his position with little social standing or rank. He must conform and the truth is that in London he has no stomach for taking on such a challenge. To admit to sleeping with her would be considered bad enough. However, he is coming to an accommodation in his daydreaming, for in Arabia their union would be not only accepted, but considered quite normal. What seems strange, in fact, is that at home they believe this land less civilised than England when here a slave can marry a master, a brown man can marry a white women and Zena can be his wife.

  He lingers over the memory of Zena’s pitch skin covered by his milky body and he feels a frisson of excitement, though the girl’s spirit is as intoxicating as her beauty. He will install her either here or in Bombay and hopes that by Arabic law she can become his wife, though in polite society, or rather, amongst Europeans, they will never be able to admit it. Arabia is far more accepting in that regard than Wellsted’s home can ever be. That does not matter now, however. He simply wants to cosset her. If only she has got away safely and he can make it possible. If only she will accept him for, his conscience twinges, he has let her down. He has not only presumed on the girl but then forced her on her own resources which, luckily, have proved formidable so far.


  As they make for the lower ground, he affirms for the umpteenth time, I would certainly feel it if she came to any harm. He has, of course, no grounds for this and ignores the shame he feels at his unscientific ponderance. People are lost on the sands with regularity and he knows from the Bedu that in general they do not come back safely. Even though it’s only a glimmer, the thought fills him with dread and he pushes it away. She is tough. She has water, food, a good camel and ample money. She knows how to travel.

  ‘What are you daydreaming about?’ Jessop teases him.

  The doctor cannot help but notice that the lieutenant is more often than not a million miles away and several times each hour the man turns and stares at the expanse of land behind the caravan, as if he is expecting to hail a hackney. It is most disconcerting. They have stopped now and dismounted halfway to the village but Wellsted continues to check behind. The lieutenant says nothing about Zena. A man’s business is his own in these matters.

  ‘I am thinking of my duty,’ he teases the doctor back, his voice serious.

  It is, after all, his duty to keep his word. He made his promises willingly and so far he has failed in keeping them. He has little choice in what he can do now. He knows he cannot send Jessop back to Muscat alone, for the doctor is still far too weak, and even if he turns back to find Zena, most likely Ibn Mohammed will insist on accompanying him. No, Jessop’s life is in the balance and one duty rubs uneasily against the other with the certainty of the doctor’s survival and the ingrained loyalty to his family and country winning out, at least for the time being. Still, when they do return to Muscat and his charge is in safe hands, Wellsted is resolved to turn back immediately towards the desert and retrace his steps to find her.