Parade of Shadows (11 page)

In the early evening Father came looking for me. “Why don't we take a last trip to the ruins?” he suggested. “I don't suppose we'll see them again soon.” The sun was low, so we were trailed by our long shadows. Father paused at one of the temples, a wave of dizziness overtaking him. He reached for my arm to steady himself.

I had been so taken up with the fate of the sheikh's niece that I had not noticed how tired my father looked; or if I had, I'd assumed it was a touch of dysentery, certainly something temporary. Now I realized he had not looked well for several days. “Something is wrong. You've lost weight,” I said.

“I'm afraid I'm at the age when I should be an armchair traveler. A week or two of English rain and fog will have me well again.”

I asked, “If your sheikh is friendly to Britain, do you believe the other Arabs will be friendly as well?”

Father said, “I would be more ready to believe it if Graham were not meddling. He is playing a dangerous game. The sultan hates the Young Turks, and he has his spies everywhere. Graham could end up in a Turkish prison, and believe me, there is not a more devilish place. I should be very sorry for him, but he will have no one to blame but himself.”

Father's words were frightening. “But who would give Graham away?”

“People who live in the desert see everything. In all that emptiness they have nothing to study but their fellow man. Graham has been to a half dozen villages, spreading the Young Turks' revolution. But it is not Graham I care about. It is you. You might be implicated. I will not have my daughter going about with a man who would betray his country. What is even more dangerous is that he cares only about causes and not about people.”

“But how would Graham's actions affect me?”

“It will be said that you and Graham are seen together.
Even if you are not arrested…if you have learned to care for Graham, what will you suffer when he is carried away bound and gagged on the back of a Turkish soldier's saddle?”

“I don't have the power to dissuade him.”

“No, but you can stay away from him.”

But whatever the danger, I didn't mean to stay away from Graham.

I
COULD NOT WAIT
to escape Palmyra and the hateful sight of the sheikh's house with its hideous affair and its counterfeit peacefulness. The rest of the party were as ready to leave as I was. Monsieur Louvois's Bedouin were staying away, their excavations for treasure exhausted. Edith, having explored the flora around Palmyra, wanted to move on, and Graham was anxious to reach Aleppo. Father appeared tired, not only of Palmyra but weary of the whole journey. Hakki only shrugged and said, “Nothing happens unless it is predestined.”

Our departure from Palmyra was ordered for daybreak;

Abdullah's idea was to cover as much distance as possible in the cool of the morning. As the caravan departed, I noticed the villagers begin to leave their houses and tents, ambling in groups of twos and threes toward the temple. I asked Hakki what was happening, but he wouldn't answer, irritated
with me for troubling him with a question whose answer I must guess. I did guess, and I wanted to leave Palmyra as quickly as I could. I urged a surprised Fadda to a canter and then on to something as close to a gallop as the horse, completely inexperienced in haste, could manage. When she resisted, I beat my heels against the horse's side, only to realize in my behavior how cruelty led to more cruelty. I feared that, as we had been so close to evil, a kind of curse had fallen on us and we would soon meet with some misfortune ourselves.

No one hurried after me, and soon I found myself alone in the desert with the others well behind me. My isolation was suddenly frightening. I reined in a relieved Fadda until Edith on her mount appeared on the horizon, first to join me, and then to calm me with an interminable tale of a race between herself and the late Professor Ladamacher to discover a variety of thornbush in the Hadhramaut. It didn't matter in the least to Edith that I was not listening: The tale was only a kindness on Edith's part.

For two days our caravan followed a shadow of low hills, blue in the morning when we set out and by afternoon a rich plum color. The spring rains had coaxed a prickle of green from the barren shingle and rock. Wherever a bit of soil clung to a rock, flowers bloomed in startling colors. Edith
insisted over and over again on dismounting to examine them, and Hakki had to hurry her along.

Graham and I rode side by side. Occasionally Graham would lecture me, sometimes we would exchange tales of our childhood or tease each other; more often we were awed into silence by the vast empty spaces, exchanging looks rather than words. Father watched our growing familiarity with disapproval, but illness had so weakened him that he seemed to have lost the will to keep us apart.

On the third day the country changed. Beyond Forklus there was no green thing to be seen, only the sharpness of thorn and the hardness of rock. By late afternoon, and still miles short of Homs, Abdullah insisted, against Hakki's protests, that the horses were spent and we must stop and set up camp. He had picked a desolate place cradled by low, barren hills and with a doubtful well. In spite of Mastur's efforts to couch the camel beside the well and tempt it by forcing water into its mouth, the camel would have nothing to do with the well.

There was a small cluster of Bedouin tents in the distance, but an hour after our arrival, the tents and their occupants, men in robes and women in pointed straw hats and trousers with aproned skirts, were gone. If I had not had the sketches I had made of them to prove that they had been
there, so quick and so complete was their disappearance, I would have doubted having seen them.

The mukaris fell easily into their old routine: Mohammed readied the tents; Mastur gave the camel its ration of barley, set a fire in the brazier, and began cutting up mutton for dinner; Habib brought a small container of water around, warning everyone, “There is only enough for the faces and hands. We must have water for coffee tonight and in the morning.”

Edith and I were washing away some of the grime from the trip when Graham, with a brief apology, pushed his way through the flap of our tent. My heart always stopped when Graham appeared with no warning, for his image in real life was bolder and more reckless than the image I carried with me. His ginger hair was disheveled, his cheek streaked with soot, his shirt wrinkled and stained with sweat, and one boot was unlaced. Ignoring Edith, he sank down on one of the cots and drew me down beside him, putting his arm around me.

“I have rather worrying news, Julia. Your father tells me he has had some sort of spell. He's sitting up now, but he says he is nauseated and dizzy. I don't think it's his heart, but that's certainly a possibility. If we hadn't all been on the same diet, I would guess it was something he
ate. At any rate, there is no way he can continue on horseback tomorrow to Homs. What's needed is a carriage to take him. Mastur will ride on ahead of us to Homs to requisition a carriage. It should be here by tomorrow, noon, and it will take you and your father to Homs by late evening tomorrow—only a few hours after the rest of us have arrived by horseback.”

I stared at Graham. “Tell me the truth. How ill is Father?”

“I'm sure it's nothing serious. As soon as we get to Homs, we'll make arrangements for him at the Jesuit hospital there. Hakki tells me they have very good doctors. I wanted to wait here with you and your father until the carriage comes, but for some reason your father is very firm in insisting that he doesn't want me—or Louvois or Edith either—to stay. Mohammed will remain behind with the two of you.”

After a quick glance at Edith, Graham kissed my cheek lightly and left me to my misery. I accused myself of worrying about everything and everyone but the person closest to me. It had not occurred to me that Father's illness might be anything serious. I had no confidence in my ability to rise to an emergency and was terrified that something might happen to my father in the middle of nowhere with no one for him to depend on but myself and Mohammed, in whom I
had little confidence. I had a premonition that it would be dangerous for Father and me to be left alone in the desert with no protection. I turned to Edith. “Why doesn't Hakki make everyone stay until the carriage comes?”

Edith patted my shoulder, rather like the comfort one gives a pitiful dog; you could almost hear a “good old boy” accompanying the reassurances. “We are short of water, for one thing,” Edith said, “and for another, if I know your father, he insisted on us going on: He's not a man to want people about, coddling him and playing nursemaid. I'll leave you to get hold of yourself while I have a word with Mastur before he leaves for Homs. He can order some supplies for me. I am out of drying paper.” On that businesslike note, Edith left.

Edith's lack of concern was irritating to me, but also reassuring. In the few moments it took me to reach my father's tent, I had pulled myself together. Father, resting in a camp chair, was prepared for me. Before I could get a word out, he said, “I hope you don't think my illness and my wanting to send the others on their way was some sort of ruse to keep you from Graham. I am sending Graham away because if he stayed, he and I would certainly get into some sort of argument, and I am not up to that.”

Hurriedly I said, “Of course I don't think your illness is
any plot on your part. You haven't been looking well for days, and I should have done something about it.”

Father smiled at this. “You're not to worry. Tomorrow we will ride to Homs quite comfortably in a carriage instead of having to jostle along on horseback with the others.”

I could not help the selfish thought that if my father did have an illness, a heart condition or something of that sort, our trip would be at an end. I would not see Graham again. I had counted on another week with Graham, and now even that prospect was vanishing. I did not see how I could live in a world without him.

Father said, “Don't look so glum; I promise to recover. The trip isn't over—I still have things to accomplish.”

In the morning, when it was time for the caravan to depart, everyone said how sorry they were to leave Father and me behind, but it was Hakki who was the most upset. “This is the last thing I wanted—that some of us should go forward and the others remain behind. This is a terrible thing, but what am I to do? We have little water and Mr. Hamilton orders us to leave. And this is not all I have to put up with. Miss Phillips has taken her horse and gone, leaving this note to tell me she is seeking some flower and will return shortly. That is too bad.”

Edith's gear lay dispersed about the tent. I had been
asleep when she'd left, and I assumed now that she had not wanted to disturb me by shifting her boxes and cases about. Knowing it was nearly time for everyone to leave, I tried to gather her things together for her, reminding myself to tell her that I had discovered among some plant presses a package of drying paper that she must have overlooked. There had been no need to consult with Mastur about getting more. By the time I had all the gear packed, Edith was back, talking enthusiastically about a tulip she had found and leaving it for me to sketch. “It will make the time pass while you are waiting for the carriage,” she said.

While the others were preparing to leave and Father was resting in his tent, Graham sought me out. “Julia, I want to stay with you, but I know it would upset your father and I have no wish to do that.” He took my hand and put it inside his shirt so that I felt the damp warmth of his chest and the beat of his heart. “I'll keep you as close to me as that,” he said, and left me.

Mohammed remained behind with ill grace. His face was sullen as he watched the others ride off. He even made a halfhearted attempt to follow them for a few yards until Graham sent him back with sharp words. I was as unhappy as Mohammed to see the others go. As I watched their figures disappear over the horizon, the desert seemed vaster
than ever. For the second time on our journey I wished myself back in Durham Place, surrounded by houses and shops and streets full of people.

Mohammed squatted outside our tent, carrying on a conversation with his horse that was really meant for us, for the mumbling was in English. “They have left us behind in the desert, where we will remain until our flesh falls off our bones and even the vultures will not be able to make a decent meal of us.” I thought that since the carriage was expected by noon and we would be in Homs by nightfall, there appeared to be something more to his worry than just our short delay, but I had no clue as to what it might be. I decided that with Father ill and Mohammed grumbling, I would have to be the one to assume responsibility. At first I was sure I would not be up to it, but as I thought about it, I decided it was a test. Had I finally traveled far enough in distance and in experience to watch over Father? I thought I had.

I ordered Mohammed to prepare morning tea. He went about it in a surly manner, grumbling that cooking was Mastur's work. He added water and salt to a mound of flour and viciously slapped the thick paste back and forth between his hands. When he had four flat discs, he threw them on the hot coals, managing to burn the two he gave
to Father and me. Accompanying the scorched bread was a bit of goat cheese and a clump of sticky dates. After providing this feast, he took himself off to continue his sulking as though he could not bear our company another moment.

Father hardly touched his food. “I don't seem to have much of an appetite—not that this mess of Mohammed's would tempt a starving man. That fellow is good for nothing but helping Graham make trouble.”

Eventually Mohammed fell asleep in the shade of the tent. Father and I were sitting at the tent's entrance, Father dozing in a camp chair and I cross-legged on a rug beside him, worrying over a sketch of the tulip Edith had left for me. Looking up, I noticed something on the horizon. At first I thought it was merely my nervous imagination, a mirage created by my worrying whether I would know what to do should Father become worse, for I was sure Mohammed would be no help. After a bit of watching, I began to believe in what I was seeing.

I woke my father. “There's something out there moving toward us. It can't be our carriage. It's coming from the direction of Palmyra.”

We watched two figures on horseback materialize. Father said, “Those are the robes of the Metawileh tribe.
What can they want?” Suddenly he called, “Mohammed, come here quickly.
Yallah
!”

Mohammed, aroused by the alarm in Father's voice, appeared in the doorway of the tent. Father said, “Listen to me, Mohammed. We are going to have some visitors.” Mohammed turned around quickly, and seeing the two riders, who were now clearly visible, he looked wildly about as if he meant to run away.

“If you are thinking of taking off, don't be a fool,” Father said. “We know nothing about them. They may simply be passing through and perfectly harmless, but I want you to keep quiet. You are not to say a word. Give no indication that you understand or speak English. Now make a show of collecting our lunch things.
Yallah.
”

The two Metawilehs jumped from their horses and approached our camp at a rapid pace, their robes billowing out behind them. The face of the taller of the two was covered with a light bushy beard, so his round, red mouth had the appearance of a flower growing in a bed of straw. His eyes were blue and watchful. The other man lagged behind, his headdress pulled over much of his face. I hoped they could not hear the sound of Mohammed's heavy breathing, which seemed to fill the entire tent.

The first man said in quite good English, “We are sorry
to be a bother to you, but we have business we must attend to. We are looking for an Arab named Mohammed el Kahdi.” He glanced in the direction of Mohammed.

“There is no one here by that name.” Father said. “Apart from my daughter and me there is only our servant, Habib.” Speaking in English to Mohammed, Father said, “Habib, get these men coffee.” Mohammed was too frightened to move. “He understands almost no English,” Father apologized, “and my Arabic is poor.” Father, with nothing like his usual skill, repeated the command in a sort of pidgin Arabic, and after a pause Mohammed slunk quickly from the tent.