The Doomed Oasis (22 page)

We sat cross-legged on the cushions and there was nothing in the Sheikh's manner to indicate that we were anything but honoured guests. Polite conversation was made, partly in the Arab language, partly in English. Slaves came with a silver jug and a silver ewer. We washed our hands, and then they brought in a simple dish of rice and mutton. “You eat with your right hand,” Entwhistle whispered to me, and I tried to copy his practised movements.

I was hungry enough not to care that the meat was stringy and overfat. We ate almost in silence, and when we had finished, the hand-washing was repeated and then coffee was served in little handleless cups, poured by a slave from a silver pot of intricate native design. And with the coffee came the questions. Sheikh Makhmud's voice was no longer gentle. It had a harsh, imperious quality, and Entwhistle was soon in difficulties with the language, lapsing periodically into English as he tried to explain his presence on the Saraifa-Hadd border. In the end he passed Sheikh Makhmud the note Gorde had written.

Entwhistle had just launched into an account of the attack that had been made on us when a young man entered. He was short, well-built, and beneath his brown cloak he wore an old tweed jacket. But it was the features that caught the eye; they were delicate, almost classic features, the nose straight, the eyes set wide apart, with high cheekbones and the full lips framed by a neatly trimmed moustache that flowed round the corners and down into a little pointed beard. He looked as though he had just come in from the desert, and I knew instinctively that this was Khalid, the Sheikh's son; he had an air about him that showed he was born to command.

He greeted his father and his uncle, waved us to remain seated, and folded himself up on a cushion against the wall. The brass of cartridge belt, the silver of
khanjar
knife gleamed beneath the jacket. He sat in silence, listening intently, his body so still that I was given the impression of great muscular control—a hard-sinewed body below the Arab robes.

There was a long silence when Entwhistle had finished. And then Sheikh Makhmud made what sounded like a pronouncement, and Entwhistle exclaimed: “Good God! I'm not going to do that.” He turned to me. “He wants us to go to the Emir and explain that we were on the border without authority.”

“You go freely,” Sheikh Makhmud said in English. “Or you go with escort. Which you prefer?”

Entwhistle didn't say anything. His face was set and pale.

“Is very difficult, this situation,” the Sheikh said almost apologetically. “Very dangerous also. You must make the Emir understand, please.”

“Very dangerous for us, too,” Entwhistle muttered angrily.

“I don't want any trouble.”

“You want oil, don't you?”

“Colonel Whitaker is already drilling for oil.”

“Then what was his son doing on the Hadd border?” Entwhistle demanded. “He ran a survey there. He wrote a report. And then he vanished.” There was no answer. “Khalid. You were his friend. What happened to him?”

But Khalid was staring out into the courtyard.

In the silence I heard myself say: “He got a letter through to me just before he disappeared. He knew he was going to die.” I felt them stiffen, the silence suddenly intense. I looked at Khalid. “Did he die a natural death?” His eyes met mine for a moment and then fell away. “Somebody here must know how he died—and why.”

Nobody answered, and the stillness of those three Arabs scared me. It was the stillness of unease. “Where's Colonel Whitaker?” I asked.

The Sheikh stirred uncomfortably. “You are full of questions. Who are you?”

Briefly I explained. I was still explaining when there was a sudden uproar in the passage outside and a man burst into the room, followed closely by the Sheikh's secretary. A staccato burst of Arabic and they were all suddenly on their feet. I heard the word
falaj
run from mouth to mouth, saw Khalid rush out, quick as a cat on his feet. His father followed more slowly, the others crowding behind him.

“What is it?” I asked Entwhistle. “What's happened?”

“One of the
falajes
. I don't know exactly, but for some reason the water has stopped.”

We were alone now. Everybody had forgotten about us. It was as though that word had some sort of magic in it. “What exactly is a
falaj?
” He didn't seem to hear me, and I repeated the question.

“
Falaj?
” He seemed to drag his mind back. “Oh, it's the water system on which the date-gardens depend. The water comes from the mountains of the Jebel anything up to thirty miles away and it's piped into Saraifa by underground channels.”

“And the underground channels are the
falajes?
”

“Yes, that's it. They're centuries old—a Persian irrigation system. In fact, they're the same as the Persian
qanats
.” He went to the passage and stood listening. “Bit of luck,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “If we can get hold of the Land Rover …” He grabbed hold of my arm. “Come on.”

I followed him down the dimly lit mud corridors and out into the courtyard. The cooking-fires still smoked. The camels still crouched in a shapeless, belching huddle under the walls. But in the whole courtyard there wasn't a single Arab to be seen.

“Look! Even the guard on the gate has gone.”

“But why?” I asked. “Why should that word—”

“Water. Don't you understand?” He sounded impatient. “Water is life here in the desert.”

“But they can't depend on one channel. There must be many to irrigate a place like this.”

“Five or six, that's all.” He was searching the courtyard. “There used to be more than a hundred once. But tribal wars …” He gripped my arm. “There's the Land Rover. Over by the wall there.” He pointed. “Come on! There's just a chance.…”

“What's the idea?” I asked.

“Get out whilst the going's good. Hurry, man!” His voice was high-pitched, urgent. “I'm not risking my neck on a mission of explanation to that bloody Emir.” He had seized hold of my arm again. “Quick!”

I started to follow him, but then I stopped. “I'm staying,” I said.

“Christ, man! Do you want to get killed?”

“No, but I want to find out why that boy was killed.”

He stared at me. “You think it was like that—that he was murdered?”

“I don't know,” I said. I didn't know anything for certain. “But I'm not leaving here until I've seen Colonel Whitaker.”

He hesitated. But then he shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. It's your funeral, as you might say. But watch your step,” he added. “He's a tricky bastard, by all accounts. And if what you're suggesting is true and David was murdered, then your life wouldn't be worth much, would it?”

“I'll be all right,” I said.

“Aye, I hope so. But just remember you're right on the edge of Saudi Arabia here and the British Raj is worn a bit thin in these parts.” He hesitated, looking at me, and then he started towards the Land Rover.

I stood and watched him, certain I was being a fool, but equally certain that I wasn't leaving. I saw him jump into the driving-seat, heard the whine of the starter, the roar of the engine. And then the Land Rover was moving and he swung it round and came tearing towards me. “Jump in, Grant,” he shouted as he pulled up beside me. “Hurry, man! Hurry!”

“No,” I said. “I'm not leaving.” My voice was like the voice of a stranger to me. “You get out whilst you can. I'll be all right.” And I added: “I'll make your excuses to the Sheikh for you.” I meant it to be a jocular, carefree remark, but my voice sounded hollow. He was still hesitating and I said quickly: “Good luck to you!”

He stared at me hard and then he gave a little nod. “Okay. I expect you'll be all right. I'll notify the authorities, of course.” And he slammed in the gear and went roaring across the courtyard and out through the empty gateway. The cloud of dust he'd raised gradually settled, and I walked to the gate and stood there watching his headlights threading a luminous trail through the date-gardens. And when they finally disappeared in the open desert beyond, I went slowly down the hill, heading for the murmur of voices, the glimmer of lights amongst the palms beyond the village.

I was alone then—more alone than I'd ever been in my life before.

The moon had just risen, and with the stars the village was lit by a soft translucence. The mud buildings were pale and empty, the open square deserted save for the hens nested in the dust and a solitary sad-looking donkey. Beyond the village I followed the crumbling wall of a date-garden until I came out into the open again. All Saraifa seemed gathered there, the men bunched together like a crowd at a cock-fight, the women dark bundles flitting on the edge of the crowd or squatting like hens in the sand. Everybody was talking at once, a thick hubbub of sound that seemed to lose itself instantly in the great solitude of the desert that stretched away to the east, to the dim-seen line of the mountains.

Nobody took any notice of me as I skirted the crowd. It was thickest close by the date-garden. Out towards the desert it thinned, and here I found a raised water channel built of rock and spanning a hollow aqueduct that might have been built by the Romans. It was my first sight of a
falaj
, and it was empty. I leaned over it, touched the inside with my fingers. It was still damp, and in a little puddle of water at the bottom tiny fish flashed silver in the starlight as they gasped for breath. Clearly, the water had only recently ceased to flow, turned off as though by a tap.

Fascinated, I crossed the hollow to the far side. For perhaps twenty yards the
falaj
was open, a neat, vertical-sided trench running a black shadow line across the sand. It was about two feet across and the same deep. I walked along it to the point where it was roofed over. For a hundred yards or so I could trace the outline of it, but after that the sand swallowed it up entirely. From a slight rise I looked towards the mountains. Anything up to thirty miles, Entwhistle had said, and they were the source of the water.

I walked slowly back along the line of the
falaj
to the point where it broke surface, and at the sight of the empty trough with the little fish gasping out their lives I could understand the calamity of it, the sense of disaster that had seized upon the people of this channel-fed oasis. A dry
falaj
meant a ruined date-garden, the beginnings of famine. Only five or six left out of more than a hundred, tribal wars … The place was as vulnerable as an oil refinery fed by a desert pipeline. Cut the
falaj
and Saraifa ceased to exist.

The sound of male voices died away, leaving only the high-pitched chatter of the women; there was a stillness of decision as I approached the crowd gathered about the
falaj
channel where it entered the date-garden. In the centre stood Sheikh Makhmud and his brother Sultan. Khalid was facing them, arguing fiercely. His features had no trace of effeminacy in them now. From the skirts of the crowd I saw Sheikh Makhmud turn impatiently away from his son. He called a man forth by name—Mahommed bin Rashid, a fierce, hawk-faced man with a black beard, the one who had stopped us as we entered Saraifa. He gave him an order, and a long “
A-a-agh
” of satisfaction issued from the throats of the crowd. Instantly all was confusion. Men brandished their weapons, calling on Allah, as a dozen or more of them were singled out and went hurrying back to the palace. Sheikh Makhmud turned and with his brother and his secretary followed them slowly.

It was the signal for the crowd to break up, and as they straggled away from the empty
falaj
Khalid was left standing there alone. A few men only remained, a little, compact group of silent followers ranged behind him. They were different from the rest in that their arms were without any silver trappings; they carried British service-pattern rifles.

He stood for a long time without moving, staring after his father and the crowd that followed him, noisy now with the excitement of action. And when they had disappeared from sight he turned to his men with a gesture of dismissal and they, too, moved away, but still silent, still in a compact group. He was completely alone then, staring down at the empty water channel, lost in his own thoughts. Even when I approached him he didn't stir. I don't think he knew I was there, for when I asked him whether he spoke English, he turned to me with a start of surprise.

“A little English—yess.” His speech was slightly sibilant, his features marred when he opened his mouth by long, widely spaced teeth. “I am at Bombay University, my education.” He was staring up the hill towards the palace, his mind still on what had happened. “They think they are being brave and that I am afraid. They don't understand.” His tone was bitter and angry. “Their guns are very much old, and the men of Hadd will be waiting for them.”

I asked whether it was Hadd who had stopped the water supply, and he said: “Yess. They perpetrate it once before. Then the British help us. Your people send soldiers with automatic guns and mortars. But not now. This time we are alone.” He turned and I saw his dark eyes, sad in the starlight. “The
falajes
, you understand, sir, are very much vulnerable.” He had acquired the Indian penchant for long words. And he added with great determination, speaking slowly as though stating something to himself: “We must fight for them now. But not like this. This way is to die.” He began to walk slowly towards the palace.

There were many things I wanted to ask him, but this didn't seem the moment, and I walked beside him in silence, conscious of his preoccupation. His head was bent and he moved slowly, his sandals dragging in the sand. He was only two years older than David. I learned that later. Yet his manner was that of a man upon whom the whole responsibility for this desert community rested.