Secret of the Sands (34 page)
‘Thank you,’ Zena says, slowly.
And the women disappear up the hill towards Ibn Mudar’s compound through the hubbub of the dusty Muscat streets. St Ammonaria, Farida notes to herself, was right after all. All she needs now is a miracle to explain this child away without Mickey finding out about her excursions into the city. But, she assures herself, she will cross that bridge when she comes to it.
Three days later, when the
dhanghi
docks, Jessop and Wellsted see off Kasim on his sober mission. Eschewing all offers of companionship or help, the slaver bids them a stern farewell and thanks each for what they have done.
‘I must do this alone,’ Kasim says.
‘Can we not help?’
‘Come to the
mosque
before sunset.’ Kasim motions up the hill. He cannot bring himself to say any more about Ibn Mohammed’s burial.
The white men watch as he disappears into the throng. Kasim’s desert attire and determined gait stand out for a long time, until the flood of people simply becomes too detailed to be able to identify one from the other, despite the shrouded body that the slaves bear in his wake. He has an invidious duty to perform for Ibn Mohammed’s father is still alive and he must be told.
Mohammed Ibn Mohammed has not left his son’s house in Muscat for several years. He is an elderly gentleman with a long, white beard and lively, dark eyes.
Bedu
in origin, he did not expect to enjoy living inside four walls when his son insisted that he visit and then, eventually, that he stayed. However, such is the enormous fortune generated by Asaf Ibn Mohammed’s industrious endeavours that there are a good many more walls than four in his residence and the place more closely resembles a village than a house. His father, therefore, was surprised to find that he felt quite comfortable in his son’s home. In the Ibn Mohammed household, nobody travels, except Asaf, of course, but the day-to-day concerns of the place are much the same as those of a roving
Bedu
encampment. Mohammed Ibn Mohammed is glad of his son’s success, but he worries for his eldest boy. Mohammed is a well-balanced, unambitious soul who enjoys nothing more than a game of
shesh besh
with his friends and the opportunity to gossip over pastries and coffee. He wishes he could see Asaf similarly content.
It has been over three years since the old man lost the use of his legs and these days he is confined to his room, visited by a dwindling set of mobile elders and his doctor, who has become fond of his wise, white-haired patient. Charmed by his open nature, the young medic generally stays far longer than is professionally required and has become a firm friend. Mohammed Ibn Mohammed is also attended by a stream of beautiful slave girls, gifted to him by his eldest son and overseen by one of the boy’s wives (the old man can no longer tell apart his daughters-in-law or indeed distinguish between one woman and another – all the females he remembers as individuals are long dead and his eyesight is fading). However, he enjoys watching the girls (a sweet smelling conglomeration of sunshine and shade) as they move prettily around his chamber. They remind him, fleetingly, of his own wives, now all gone. It has been some years since the old man has felt inclined to put his serving girls to much use in that line and they simply fetch and carry for him, scent the place and sometimes play music which these days, in truth, he strains to hear.
The old man is, by his own admission, much blessed. When he named his son Asaf, he did so to break the cycle of the generations, for he, his father and his grandfather had all been named after the Prophet and he felt that it was time for a change. Though happy and stunningly competent at desert life, the sons of Mohammed were poor. The fortunes of the entire clan have been in the ascendant ever since the old man made his break with tradition and now his male offspring are all successful in both business and combat and his daughters are long since married off to the hoi polloi of the Peninsula. The old man has something approaching eighty grandchildren, a fact of which he is inordinately proud, even though he has not met most of this youngest generation.
The first Mohammed Ibn Mohammed knows of it is the ululation. His ears are not so sharp of hearing these days, but the cries still sound loud, echoing up from the courtyard and down the hallways. He sits up slightly and sips on his cup of infused mint. The slave girls catch each other’s eyes and one rises from her place to peer between the shutters.
‘Well?’ Ibn Mohammed asks.
‘I do not know, my lord.’
He bangs his wooden walking stick on the floor, not in temper, but merely to make the point in the most effective manner. ‘One of you will have to go and find out,’ he explains.
It is not that the women are stupid but they do require instruction
, he thinks. A flurry of chiffon veils and the clinking of decorative ankle chains fills the room as they ready themselves. They are almost set to foray into the household when there is a sharp rap at the door. Mohammed Ibn Mohammed waves his hand and the entrance is opened.
The shadow in the hallway is not immediately distinguishable. Kasim is swathed in dark fabric and cannot bring himself to catch the old man’s eyes. He walks slowly into the room and it is apparent to all who have known him that the slaver is not well. He is stick thin and walks heavily. His eyes are yellow where you can make them out and if you look closely you can see his hands are shaking. Kasim falls to his knees.
‘Mohammed Ibn Mohammed,’ his voice is steady, ‘I have come . . .’ He trails off.
‘Can’t hear you,’ the old man shouts. ‘Come closer, Kasim. Come closer.’
He bangs his cane and calls for coffee.
Kasim lifts his eyes. He can’t help it. A tear escapes. The old man peers into the gloom.
‘You do not look well,’ he says, motioning the slaver to approach.
Kasim struggles to his feet and comes closer. Very little of his face is visible for he has wrapped his
kaffiya
tightly around it, but where it can be seen the skin is marked badly with pock-shaped scars that are still inflamed. He gives up trying to speak with the
litham
in his way and loosens the mask. Mohammed Ibn Mohammed has many years of experience and the advantage of extreme short-sightedness and he does not show his shock at the full extent of Kasim’s affliction, but one or two of the women step backwards and one makes an audible gasp. The skin is red raw in places, and dotted with blood and pus. The infection is passed but it has scarred him for life. It will be weeks before the inflammation finally settles and Kasim is left merely with pitted skin.
‘My boy,’ the old man says, ‘come and sit by your uncle. Tell me what has happened to you.’
Kasim drops obediently onto a cushion at Ibn Mohammed’s side. ‘Your son was not as lucky as I,’ he says sadly. ‘I would that Allah had chosen me to go ahead.’
The cane drops sharply as the old man understands the words. ‘Who are we to judge Allah’s decision?’ he whispers. It is the right thing to say, but the tone of the old man’s voice betrays his devastation.
‘I have returned with his body so we can bury him properly,’ Kasim manages to get out. ‘We were on the water,’ he explains, ‘there was nowhere.’
Mohammed Ibn Mohammed is so shocked by the understanding that is dawning that he cannot muster his own words so he quotes the Prophet. Silence, after all, under such circumstances would be impolite.
‘The eyes shed tears and the heart is grieved, but we will not say anything except which pleases our Lord,’ he chokes, and then the old man wraps his arms around Kasim and they both succumb to crying together. ‘My son,’ Ibn Mohammed weeps quietly, for even in grief he is a devout and gentle man. ‘My poor boy.’
Kasim heaves an animal sound from deep inside and it seems as if the entire household mourns together – all the wives and children, all the servants and slaves. Doors bang as the news travels from one to another. A scream of shock echoes across the courtyard, the servants fall to their knees and the wives clutch their children close as grief engulfs them all for the tyrant they have lost.
As the waves of mourning spread, Mohammed’s personal servants remove the body from the courtyard where Kasim left it under guard. They reverently wash the corpse, afraid of the dreadful putrefaction but more terrified still of showing their disgust. They embalm the body to dampen the dreadful smell and then the master is bound in a
kufan
and the
imam
is called. By the time the holy man arrives there is, at least, the semblance of order. The tears are as restrained as they can be (for that is what the Prophet himself preached) and Kasim has given a full account of Ibn Mohammed’s death. He cannot help but lie to the old man about what happened, for his son’s last words were not to devote himself to Allah, as any good Muslim father would hope. Far from it. The truth is too private a matter, and Kasim falls back on the customary phrases of a dying man and instead of admitting that he begged Ibn Mohammed not to go, he says that he quoted the
Quran
.
‘Good,’ the old man nods. ‘That is good.’
The
imam
says a prayer and Kasim is glad that after this is over he will never have to speak about what happened again. The words are choking him. He swears silently that the next time he leaves the capital he will not return.
I will see to my business, whatever I have to. Then I will quit this place. There is nothing of value here,
he says to himself.
There is nothing worthwhile in this city at all.
In an hour or two, he will assist Mohammed Ibn Mohammed to leave his room for the first time in three years. He will see to it that the old man is as comforted as it is possible to be when you have lost your eldest and favourite child. Together they will make the short journey to the graveyard. Kasim wishes, truly, that he had not survived.
With the
dhangi
tied up and Kasim gone, the white men turn to each other on the deck, their mission completed. A calm has fallen. There is not a single European ship in the harbour.
‘Where are they?’ Jessop makes a face. ‘Lolly laggers! You’d have thought they’d have sent a clipper at least to welcome us.’
‘No matter. Muscat doesn’t go without a British ship for more than a week. The main thing is that we have made it in time for Christmas,’ Wellsted points out. ‘In fact there is more than a week to go by my reckoning. It’s the 15th, I’d say. I wonder what Mickey will make of us?’
‘Let’s burst in on him,’ the doctor considers it an excellent jape. ‘We’ve hours – Kasim said the funeral won’t be till sundown.’
‘Done,’ Wellsted agrees, and in high spirits, they gather up their meagre possessions and leave to buy pastries from the
souk
and quaff fresh coffee even before they head up the hill, for it has been a while since they have enjoyed properly cooked food or hot drinks. It is good to be back. The afternoon streets are invigorating and the men feel like midshipmen given shore leave for the first time. They proceed joyfully towards Mickey’s office, in anticipation of English clothes, a hot meal and in the case of Dr Jessop, a return to Bombay whenever the next schooner ports. Wellsted still has not confided his true intention of returning in search of the girl.
‘The sun always shines on Muscat,’ the doctor says, smiling.
The fact that the sun shines perpetually on the whole Peninsula is not a matter of concern, for the English wherever they are take a delight in the weather. And besides, they had encountered a small storm two days out that required some considerable skill to navigate so it is pleasant once again to enjoy the sunshine and feel the weather settled. The approach to Muscat had been a challenge. The
dhangi
was unfamiliar to them in those handling conditions and it was only by pooling their resources and scaring the life out of the men that they managed to last it out.
‘It would be a fine turn of events if we survived the desert, the starvation and the pox only to fall foul of the weather at sea. It’s the one thing we’re trained for,’ the doctor had shouted over the wind.
Wellsted agreed. His face showed an unflinching and admir able determination as he whipped the servants into action and ensured all the ropes were properly secured. Kasim, recovered enough from his illness to stand, had a bad bout of seasickness. Even his pox scars seemed pale as he heaved over the side. Sailing the
dhangi
through the squall with only four able men was not easy, but they made it and this, Wellsted thinks, as he smiles in the sunshine, is their reward. He may not have breathed a word about Zena, but he thinks of her all the time, and once he has settled Jessop safely with Ibn Mudar he’ll head northwards again, recovering his tracks until he can find his
habshi.
Muscat is reassuringly familiar. The door of the office is opened by the boy in the yellow robe and the same rose-strewn copper waterbowl is proffered. This time, Wellsted notices it does not seem like a quaint custom. While before the rosewater was provincial, it now makes absolute sense to him. Muscat is no longer London’s poor cousin, in his estimation. It is a grand and impressive city and he appreciates its hospitality. Perhaps, he considers, they should offer rosewater in Pall Mall. The men wash their hands and then the boy leads them upstairs into Mickey’s office. At the top the navy agent is breezy and unfazed by the arrival of the missing men.
‘Gentlemen!’ he rises to greet them with genuine enthusiasm, his hand proffered in welcome. ‘Lieutenant Wellsted. Welcome! And you, sir, must be Doctor Jessop. I am so very glad to make your acquaintance.’
Jessop laughs out loud at the man’s accent and heartily shakes his hand.
‘We are all agog,’ Mickey pronounces carefully, for he has only earlier that week learnt the word, ‘at your arrival.’
‘You do not seem . . .’ Wellsted wonders how to put it, ‘quite as surprised as we expected. Had you news of us?’
‘Ah. Yes. News. We were expecting you, of course. Please sit down.’
Coffee is served, and at Mickey’s insistence the officers first give an account of their adventures. At the story of Ibn Mohammed’s death, the agent intones a prayer.
‘And you brought the body back to Muscat?’
‘Yes. Kasim is taking it to his father.’
Mickey nods and calls his boy over. ‘Send news to the
soultan
,’ he orders, ‘and to the
mosque.
They will bury him late this afternoon, I imagine. We must all attend.’
Wellsted and Jessop agree. ‘Of course,’ they say. ‘Kasim said before sunset.’
‘I will find out,’ Mickey says. ‘Leave it to me.’
‘When I left you didn’t expect to see me again, did you? Now, admit it,’ Wellsted teases the agent as he sits comfortably on his cushions.
Mickey shrugs. ‘Well, no,’ he starts, wondering how to bring up in conversation that in fact he did not expect to see Wellsted again until three days before, when news arrived via the stick-thin dancing girl he had expected him to sell, followed shortly by a delivery of mail and news from a clipper ship dispatched from Bombay and docking only between the tides. ‘I have correspondence, though, gentlemen, orders and the like. Your triumph is the talk of the Indian Navy. By all accounts the celebrations in the mess were legendary. Titanic, even.’
Jessop lifts his coffee cup in the hope of a refill.
‘A hot drop?’ Mickey gestures so the boy will pour. ‘We are expecting two ships today or tomorrow and there may be more news for you aboard them. Well, gentlemen, will you receive your orders?’
The officers agree and Mickey rises and makes for the burr cubbyholes where he pulls down several letters.
‘This,’ he says, ‘is from London, Lieutenant. It came only just after your departure. This one is from Bombay, from Sir Charles Malcolm himself, if I am not mistaken. And another from London – I do not recognise the seal. Doctor, here are your orders and also some correspondence forwarded with them. I expect they were holding them at the mess and thought to send them on when they heard you were heading for Muscat.’
The thick sheaf of paper is from Jessop’s family and there are so many individual missives that the mess sergeant has carefully tied them into two thick bundles with twine, which the doctor easily dispatches with his teeth. Jessop falls on the letters as if he has been ravenous. He smells the pale cream paper he knows comes from his sister’s writing desk. He sorts each missive carefully by date order before breaking a single seal. Meanwhile, Wellsted rips open his first London letter and his face lights at the news from John Murray. Then, Mickey notes, the lieutenant looks bemused by the second letter, which is from Molyneux Street. Short and sweet, it simply tells him that his father is most proud of his devotion to his duty and looking forward to seeing him soon. He shrugs it off. Before he opens the orders, however, he calls Mickey to one side. Jessop, he is sure, will not surface into full consciousness for hours – he is clearly engrossed in his sister’s account of market day in the Northumberland town where he grew up and the news of their mutual friends and acquaintances. He has a wistful look on his face and from time to time he laughs out loud.
‘That man deserves some home leave,’ Wellsted says in passing before he turns to the matter in hand, for if he is to find Zena, he will need Ibn Mudar’s help.
‘Mickey,’ Wellsted starts and then catches himself at his slip of the tongue.
‘Ah, please, Lieutenant, I am well aware what they call me. Please, use whatever moniker you like. I consider it a term of affection.’
‘Thank you. I am not finished my mission, sir. I must return to the north. I am obliged by both honour and duty to go back.’
Mickey’s eyes twinkle. ‘No. Not at all,’ he says.
Wellsted’s intonation becomes insistent. ‘Yes. Immediately. Tomorrow. I thought I would take passage by boat to go as far north as I can. I must make Bahrain at least. I will need enough money for camels and a few men. Will you provision me, sir?’
‘No. No.’ Mickey continues to grin openly. ‘You have no duty to the north and besides your orders countermand that.’
‘The seal is unbroken. I have not read my orders,’ Wellsted raises the letter. His mind is racing frantically. He has to make Mickey understand. The navy agent can save him precious time in organising the expedition and he needs funds, for he has hardly any
talers
left.
‘Well, I can tell you what your orders say if you would like, Lieutenant. There is little that passes me by. But there is no need for this matter to cause difficulty. I can help, I think. It is your slave girl you refer to?’
Wellsted stops dead. ‘Zena? Have you news, man?’
Mickey does not rush. He pauses only a moment. ‘The girl is here, sir. In Muscat.’
Wellsted betrays his shock, but not his delight. ‘Here?’
‘Yes. She is here. My wife . . .’ Mickey is unsure how to explain what has happened with his wife.
He does not fully understand it himself. Prior to this incident he has never found communicating with Farida anything but easy. Her Arabic, after all, is excellent, but in this instance her extensive vocabulary appears to have failed her. He understands that somehow she came across Zena who, she says, was looking for him. What he does not understand, and he suspects that his life might be easier if he never understands it, is where the two women met, exactly, and how the subject of Lieutenant Wellsted came up. He remembers telling his wife the lieutenant’s story, but still, she appears to have rather more of a grasp of the ins and outs than he can with easy conscience, attribute to the tale he told her some months before.
‘She is here?’ Wellsted repeats.
Mickey’s shoulders drop as he realises that Wellsted has no interest in how all this came about. An Arab would smell a rat immediately and want to know the details, while the white man is simply delighted the girl is safe.
‘Yes. She is in my
harim
. She danced last night for my wife. The girl is an excellent dancer.’
‘Yes,’ Wellsted agrees, a smile creeping across his face. ‘That is wonderful,’ he says, incredulous as he clicks open the seal on Sir Charles’ orders and casts a vague glance over the scrawled letter.
He does not take in the details, but he needs something to do with his hands.
She’s here! She’s safe. Really, the girl is quite extraordinary.
Wellsted feels relief pervading his body and excitement too.
‘And she’s dancing, you say? Oh, she can dance all right. Mickey, will you take me to her? Can we go straight away?’
‘A moment.’ Mickey holds up his hand. ‘Gentlemen, you must lodge at my home. I insist upon it. You are quite the celebrities, you know. But first we must attend Ibn Mohammed’s funeral. We must prepare you. We will not have long. The obsequies must, you will agree, take precedence.’
‘Take precedence over what?’ the doctor asks, blearily, raising his eyes from the page before him.
‘We will go soon.’ Mickey meets Wellsted’s eyes in a promise.
He calls for assistance, for this is not the time for a leisurely stroll up the hill. Rashid will be back shortly with news from the
mosque
. Now he orders a palanquin. Mickey deems this the most appropriate mode of transport, for the white men should remain hidden from view. Funerals are events of high emotion and the agent, now he has the Indian Navy’s most celebrated officers in his grasp intends to keep them safe. Besides, he must have them washed and dressed – as it stands they smell like fishermen and are arrayed in
jubbahs
that are, if he is feeling charitable, best described as humble. It is no way for officers of the Indian Navy to present themselves.
‘Find what is taking Rashid so much time,’ he snaps at the boy. ‘And bring some water to wash with and British clothing from the store.’ It is late in the afternoon, there is little time and much to do. ‘Come along,’ he urges the boy, ‘you must send to the dockside. There are ships due any moment and we need to know their onward destinations. Quickly! Quickly!’