Secret of the Sands (17 page)

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.

‘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.

Wellsted wakes before the camp rises at dawn. He lies enjoying the relative coolness of the air and checks to see if the girl is in position as usual, wakened and tending the fire, ready for the coffee to be heated. Sleepily, he registers that she is not in place. As he rolls over he catches sight of her figure – a vague shadow in the half-light, a little way off, beside the shallow well. He freezes. Zena is washing herself. She has removed the
burquah
and is pouring a thin trickle of water down her skin. That is a plucky decision, he thinks. With water so scarce and modesty so vital it might even be an act of rebellion. The lieutenant is mesmerised. With the sky still dark, Zena looks like the silhouette of a water nymph – some kind of magical creature from another world. The lieutenant has never seen anything so beautiful. He swallows, transfixed as, naked, she stretches lazily, brushes the water off with her palm, and then carefully coils her hair into place before pulling her
burquah
over her head. His breathing seems too loud – he is terrified that she will notice him and yet he cannot look away.
No wonder they stole you,
he thinks. No wonder some man paid two hundred dollars to possess such beauty. Wellsted will remember this moment for his whole life – it is the first time he desires something for himself that is not dedicated to his own advancement. It is the moment he falls in love. The girl drinks a long draught of water and turns back towards the fire. As she approaches, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as if he has been asleep all along. Zena prods the fire and sets a pot of water to boil. It is almost sunrise. He could swear he hears her sigh and within five minutes the spell is broken, slavers stir and the aroma of coffee scents the air.

The men pray again, the
Bedu
murmuring something about prayer being better than sleep as if they miss the
muezzin
and his haunting music – the first call of the day. After a breakfast of coffee and more camel’s milk during which Wellsted manages to rip his gaze from Zena by pure force of will, they saddle up and lead their animals along the stony path to the higher ground. This is where they must quit the safety of the
wadi
and continue into the mountain range. The
jabel
is a rough wall of rock between the valley and the desert, in many places only navigable by foot, if at all.

‘This is the slowest part of the journey, my friend,’ Ibn Mohammed tells Wellsted as if he is speaking to a fool. The slavers are only tolerating their travelling companion, that much is clear, but the lieutenant takes it in good part. He shows no sign that he minds being the idiot pupil, the man who has no idea.

‘And so we will not ride here?’

‘If the men mount the camels there surely will be losses, so we lead them.’

It is a long, hot day and hard going. This is, after all, the hottest part of the year. The men banter as they make their way slowly up the rocky path. Kasim tutors the infidel in pronunciation and teaches him vocabulary.

‘And so, the word for “sun”?’ Wellsted enquires, the shingle splaying from his camel’s hooves as the sun shines down relentlessly.

A sliver of a sly smile plays around Kasim’s full lips. It amuses him how little the white man knows. ‘In the
Quran
the word is
shams
. But it is also referred to as
siraaj
, which means a torch or as
wahhaaj
which means a blazing lamp.’

‘Thank you. In my language we have only one word for it,’ Wellsted admits.

What he does not add is that England is a good deal less sunny than anywhere he has been in Arabia and in London there are many more words for rain than an Arab need ever employ. He is keen to learn, not to prove how clever he is and he submits to the role of pupil willingly.

‘
Siraaj,’
he practises. ‘
Wahhaaj.’

By nightfall, they have reached safer ground. With the food finished and the final prayers said, Zena, thoroughly exhausted, decides to make her bed outside the circle of saddles. She hopes that she will feel able to sleep soundly if only she is away from the men. As she settles, Kasim shouts to attract her attention. Then, when she does not jump at his command, he abandons his position by the fire and stands over her.

‘Move,’ he orders, pointing her back towards the group, herding the girl like a mule or an errant sheep that must be bullied. ‘Over there.’

Chastened and afraid of his hectoring tone, Zena sits up and pulls the rug towards her body, gazing towards Wellsted for confirmation of what action she should take. He is her master, after all, and it is his orders she will follow. Such insubordination takes guts for in the normal run of things everyone jumps at the slaver’s command. Kasim laughs.

‘Order your
habshi
inwards,’ he insists. ‘If you want her to last the night, that is.’

Wellsted flicks his hand to indicate Zena should do as she is told. ‘Here,’ he says, ‘next to me.’

Ibn Mohammed snorts lewdly, Kasim returns to his pos ition by the fire and the group settles quickly.

‘Goodnight,’ Wellsted whispers and turns respectfully away from his charge. His instinct is that he must not take advantage of the girl in any way. She is so vulnerable and he wants to protect her. The truth is that he is in awe. He falls asleep thinking of her washing in the half-light of the early morning, a smile on his face.

Even though she is tired and her belly is full, Zena still finds it difficult to drift off. She can feel the white man lying beside her, and the other men too, all around. She occupies herself considering Wellsted’s country. By sheer logic, given the questions the man has asked, it must be a place where there are no rocky mountains and men do not own each other. When she tries to comprehend it, she sees an eerie crowd of white-skinned
djinn
s in her mind’s eye, peering at her, reaching out long, spindly fingers at the end of elongated, bone-white arms. She hopes Wellsted will not take her to his homeland almost as much as she hopes he will not fulfil his promise and set her free, for so far from her Abyssinian home, whatever will she do without a household in which to live? Zena does not relish the thought of making her own way in the world now she has seen more of what the world is like – she wants to be free, but does not see how that can be possible. She wishes her grandmother had seen her married and that the old lady had been able to let her go. Heavens, even marriage to a cowherd would be better than this. Her nerves are on edge.

Just before midnight, she senses a movement in the blackness beyond the circle and her body stiffens. During daylight hours, she is aware that the slaves constantly eye her, as if under the dark
burquah
her body is a secret prize. God knows who else is out here, on the high mountain path, watching and waiting. Her ears burn as the movement beyond the fire repeats itself. The noise is coming nearer. Zena freezes, scarcely able to breathe. Her eyes are wide open, searching the ebony pitch. Someone is there. Something. She can hear it edging towards her, closer and closer, from behind.

She gulps a mouthful of air and automatically her hand closes around a large stone. When she can bear the tension no longer, she jumps up, ready to kill if she has to, ready to fight for her life.

‘Help,’ she gasps, but her mouth is dry and the word comes in a whisper.

As she peers towards the sound, the darkness is unaccountably empty. She looks closer but no one is there. Turning sharply, she checks her travelling companions to see if any of them are missing but the figures slumped around the dying fire are in place and no one has stirred. For a moment, Zena wonders if there is a phantom, if out on the
jabel
ghosts lie in wait for human flesh and the
djinn
s she should fear are here in the mountains rather than in some far-off, alien place peopled by white men. A cold terror creeps across her skin and in temper she throws the rock away. Whatever it hits, moves. The sound is further off this time and she makes out a long, dark snake – a python perhaps or a horned viper, a cobra, or a puff adder – it is too dark to tell. Whatever it is, it is sliding away into the stony hinterland, like a venomous spirit, low into the night. In fright she lets out a sharp, high-pitched squeal and recoils, tripping backwards over her master, scrabbling to find another stone.