The Strange Land

by Hammond Innes

  ‘Yes, I know. But for our friends it is still possible to entertain them as I would wish. It is my people who suffer.’ He paused and then said, ‘You were with Monsieur le Capitaine this morning?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Did he say when the food would arrive for my people?’

  I explained about the two trucks that had broken down.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said. ‘But why does he have to go to Agdz? Is he gone to bring the food here?’

  I couldn’t tell him that Legard had gone to Agdz because of us. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘he has gone to bring the food trucks.’

  ‘Good. But he must come soon. The people lose so much of their supplies in the disaster of the souk.’ He said this to himself rather than to us, nodding his head slightly. His age showed then, for he looked suddenly peevish and irritable.

  ‘They’ll be here tomorrow, I expect,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘Insh’ Allah!

  ‘I believe your son is here in Foum Skhira?’ I said.

  ‘My eldest son, you mean? Ali?’ He nodded. ‘Oui. There is dancing in his honour in Ksar Foum-Skhira tonight. You know him perhaps?’ His eyes had clouded.

  ‘Yes, I met him in Tangier.’

  The pale lids closed almost wearily. In those dropped lids I saw suddenly a similarity between the son and his father. He sighed and changed the subject, talking about the rains and how the souk had been destroyed. And then the tea was made and the hot, sweet, mint-smelling glasses were placed in our hands. ‘Alors,’ the Caid said, ‘you say that you are friends of the Capitaine Duprez.’

  I explained that it was Jan who was Duprez’s friend and that he had been with him when he died. The old man nodded and motioned the men, standing like shadows in the doorway, to withdraw. Only the man seated behind the silver-laden tea tray remained. He was small-bodied with a cast in one eye, but he had the old man’s features and he was called Hassan, so that I presumed he was one of the Caid’s sons.

  ‘Now,’ the Caid said. ‘You have come to talk with me about Kasbah Foum, eh?’

  I nodded to Jan to go ahead, and he told him how he had met Duprez, how they had worked together against the Germans in Essen and how Duprez had died there.

  The old Caid shook his head and sighed. ‘It is a sad end for him,’ he said.

  ‘He was serving France,’ Jan pointed out.

  ‘Mais oui. He always served France. He was a Frenchman. But he should have died here. This was his home and my people were his people also. He was a fine man.’ Remembering what Ali had told me, I was surprised at the warmth in the old man’s voice.

  The man behind the tea table rose and replenished our glasses. ‘It is many years ago then that Monsieur le Capitaine died.’ There was a hard shrewdness in the old man’s eyes as he stared at Jan. ‘Why is it only now that you come to tell me how it happened?’

  Jan tried to explain why he had not come before, what his life had been since the war, but it was clear that the Caid didn’t really understand. He was not ignorant of the world beyond Foum-Skhira, but to him it was a French world. The complications of other European powers were largely outside his knowledge. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you have come because the tall, fair man from America with the big machines is arrived to work at Kasbah Foum.’

  ‘No,’ Jan said. ‘I came because I had to. I did not know about the American.’ He produced the battered envelope and another smaller envelope containing the letter from Duprez. The Caid waved it aside. ‘I have been told,’ he said, ‘that you are not the man to whom Capitaine Duprez handed the papers. It has been suggested that you killed the man to whom he gave them. First, before I see the letter Capitaine Duprez wrote, you must give proof that you are in reality the man who was with my friend when he died.’

  ‘How can I do that?’ Jan asked. ‘What can I tell you that will prove it to you?’

  The old man thought for a moment. ‘Tell me exactly how he looked and what he told you of his talks with me.’

  For several minutes Jan talked, telling him about Marcel Duprez quoting long speeches that Duprez had made to him, about the Caid, about Foum-Skhira, about the Berbers and the country of the south. Only occasionally the Caid interrupted him to clarify a word or to ask a question. Jan was still talking when there was a disturbance at the foot of the stairs below the room where we were seated. Several men were talking, quickly, angrily, in Berber, and then there was the light patter of sandals on the earthen stairway.

  The Caid turned his head towards the entrance, his forehead contracted in a frown.

  The footsteps ceased. The figure of a man stood in the doorway. His brown djellaba merged into the black rectangle of the entrance so that he was no more than a vague shape in the darkness. His face was hidden in the hood of his djellaba, but his eyes caught the light of the carbide flames and glinted, as did the curved silver knife at his waist; the eyes and the knife were all that was visible of him. ‘Skun ya? Who is that?’ the Caid demanded.

  ‘Ali.’ And the man stepped forward into the light, his head and body only slightly bowed in respect for his father.

  ‘Why do you disturb me? Can you not see that I have guests?’ The Caid’s voice quavered slightly.

  ‘It is because you have guests that I have come,’ Ali d’Es-Skhira answered. He had moved to his father’s side, towering over the old man who seemed suddenly shrunken and much older.

  ‘Where have you been? What trouble have you been stirring up among the people?’ The old man’s voice sounded frail and peevish. And when Ali did not answer, he said to him, ‘Go. I will talk with you later.’

  But Ali did not move. Tangier and his own rebellious nature seemed to have destroyed all the respect and obedience due from a Berber son to his father. He pointed to us and said, ‘These men come like thieves in the night, O Sidi, to steal from us the wealth of Kasbah Foum.’ He was still speaking in the Arab dialect and his voice throbbed with violence. ‘They are evil men and your people have need of their share of the wealth the foreigner may find in the gorge. Do not be deceived by them. They are thieves.’

  ‘We are not thieves,’ I answered him in his own tongue, and his eyes blazed at me in the flickering light as he realised that I had understood.

  ‘You thought that my friend was the man you had employed to purchase the deeds of Kasbah Foum,’ I continued, still speaking the Arab dialect. ‘But this afternoon, when you came to the gorge, you realised that he was not that man, but the true friend of Capitaine Duprez. That is why you have come here now in haste -because you are afraid that your father will discover the truth and will know that this man is the man Duprez chose to prevent you from using Kasbah Foum for your own selfish purposes and not for the benefit of the people of Foum-Skhira, It is you, Si Ali, who are the liar and the thief.’

  He took a step forward, his sudden in-drawn breath sounding loud in the stillness of the room. ‘It is the talk of a man who is not sure of himself, sidi,’ he said to his father and gave a quick laugh.

  Caid Hassan’s eyes were closed, his body relaxed as though trying to gather energy together inside himself. At length he turned to Jan and opened his eyes. ‘You have told me much that has convinced me,’ he said, speaking in French again. ‘Alors, monsieur, one final thing Did my friend tell you how it happened that I gave him Kasbah Foum?’

  ‘Oui’,’ Jan said.

  ‘Then tell me the whole story, and I shall be convinced.’

  ‘You took tea with him in the middle of the battle,’ Jan said. ‘It was then that you first learned of his interest in Kasbah Foum and the ruined city.’ The old man nodded and Jan continued.

  It had been in the spring of 1934, at the very end of the pacification. The tribes of the district of Foum-Skhira were particularly warlike. Their resistance under Caid Hassan had been stubborn and the fighting had dragged on. Marcel Duprez, then a lieutenant, was among the French forces. He had been an officer of the AI in Algeria and four years before he had come in alone from the desert to p
repare the way for the pacification and persuade the tribes that resistance would be pointless. He knew them all. One afternoon, when both sides had withdrawn after a day of particularly savage fighting, he had calmly walked out into the no man’s land between the two forces, accompanied by two Legionnaires. They were unarmed and all they carried was the paraphernalia for making tea.

  He had set his brazier down midway between the two forces and, after quietly performing the ceremony of the making of the tea, had called upon Hassan and his chiefs to come and drink it with him. And they had come, knowing the officer and admiring his bravery. And over the tea table he had persuaded the Caid and his chiefs that the French must win in the end and that there was no point in continuing the fight. He had then talked about their history and, in particular, the history of the ruined city. As the sun was setting, terms were agreed, but for the sake of his young warriors’ pride Caid Hassan had insisted on continuing the battle for one more day, though it was decided that the fighting should not be pressed by either side. Duprez had then gone back to the Legion’s lines and all next day the two forces fired on each other with a great deal of noise, but little loss of life. And in the evening Hassan had come to capitulate.

  ‘You were taken to the tent of the general commanding the Legionnaires,’ Jan added. ‘But you refused to surrender to him. You said you would only surrender to the officer who had come out and served tea to you. They told you that Marcel Duprez had been wounded in the day’s fighting. When you heard this, you insisted on being taken to the hospital tent where he lay, and there, with the general looking on, you surrendered to Lieutenant Duprez.’ Jan stopped there and stared at the Caid. ‘That is how Marcel told it to me. It was because of his interest in the place and his plans that you gave him Kasbah Foum. Also, he loved your people.’

  The Caid glanced up at his son. ‘Well, Ali, is that correct?’ he asked.

  Ail said nothing. His face was impassive, but his eyes glinted angrily in the flickering light.

  ‘Say whether it is correct or not,’ the Caid said, and there was an edge to his voice.

  ‘It proves nothing,’ Ali answered. ‘Legard or the Commandant at Agdz could have told the story to him.’

  ‘And all the other things he has told me?’ The Caid stared up at his son and I was conscious again of the tension between them. Then he held out his hand to Jan. ‘Give me the letter Capitaine Duprez wrote.’

  Jan handed him the letter. Lights were brought and placed at the Caid’s feet and, whilst he bent forward to read the letter, our glasses were refilled for the third time. The Caid held the letter in such a way that his son. leaning down over his shoulder, could not read it, and when he had finished it, he folded it up and slipped it inside his djellaba. ‘This is not a simple matter,’ he said, speaking slowly in French. ‘There is an old belief that silver was once mined at Kasbah Foum and that belief has been revived because of this American. I had hoped that it would be Capitaine Duprez who developed that place. He would have used it for the benefit of the people here. He had plans for hospitals and schools. I had hoped that perhaps I was giving him the means to make those plans come to life. But now he is dead and you are here in his place. How do I know I can trust you?’

  Jan’s eyes were steady as they met the old man’s gaze. ‘I have come to live here,’ he said quietly. ‘Morocco is my home now. I have no home anywhere else in the world.’ He leaned forward slightly, a note of earnestness in his voice. ‘If there is wealth at Kasbah Foum, it shall be developed for the benefit of the people here. That is what I promised Marcel, and I shall keep my promise.’

  He had spoken seriously and with force. The old man nodded. But he was still uncertain. ‘You are not a Frenchman,’ he said. ‘And you have only recently arrived in Morocco.’ He hesitated and then added, ‘What you say may be the truth at this moment. But a man easily changes his mind when his roots are not deep in the soil of his promise.’

  ‘I have come to live here,’ Jan repeated. ‘Morocco is my country now.’

  The Caid glanced up at his son and then stared at Jan. It was as though he were weighing up the two men in his mind. There was a long silence. Finally he said, ‘Allah be my guide in this. It shall be as Capitaine Duprez wished it. I will give you — ‘

  ‘No.’ All’s hand descended on his father’s shoulder, gripping hold of it, digging his powerful fingers into the old flesh. ‘These men are strangers. They want the silver. Nothing more. They do not love our people.’

  ‘I do not believe it,’ the old man said, trying vainly to pluck his son’s hand from his shoulder.

  ‘Do this thing,’ Ali said, ‘and, as Allah is my witness, there will be trouble among the people.’

  I stared at the scene with a sense of shock, scarcely able to believe that this was a son speaking to his father. In strict Berber etiquette the man should be as a child in the presence of his father, even to the point of making a request through an intermediary. Yet Ali’s manner was openly hostile, even contemptuous. The others in the room had noticed it, too. They were whispering and muttering among themselves whilst the two men -father and son - stared at each other. They were like two adversaries who had battled a long time. Finally the Caid gave a little sigh and his eyes, as they turned away, had the vacancy of the very old; it was as though they looked beyond the flickering walls, back through the dim vistas of the past. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet. Ali made no move to help him. His face was cruel with the look of satisfaction. ‘My father is tired,’ he said in French. ‘I must ask you to leave and permit him to rest.’

  We waited for the Caid to speak. He stood there a long time, staring into vacancy. And all he said in the end was, ‘Yes, I am tired now. We will talk of this some other day.’

  Jan-started to say something, but Ali silenced him with a gesture. He took his father’s arm and led him out. The Caid did not protest. But he paused in the doorway and looked back. His eyes fastened on Jan. And suddenly they weren’t vacant any more. They were intensely alive as though he were examining Jan’s features for a sign by which he could come to a decision. ‘Barak allaho fik!’ he murmured. ‘Allah bless you!’ His voice was gentle, like a monk saying a benediction. And then he was gone.

  They brought lights and escorted us down the narrow stairs, across the open space of the roof top and into the bowels of the kasbah. A hand gripped my arm in the half dark. ‘I don’t like it,’ Jan whispered. ‘Ali is in control here.’

  His words echoed my thoughts. We were in the dark tunnel of the entrance passage now. It was intensely cold and I tried to convince myself that that was why I was trembling. We passed the rectangular gap lit by the red glow of the brazier. Figures were huddled around it, as they had been when we arrived. They did not seem to have moved. It was just a brief glimpse and then the carbide flames were flickering on blank walls again, silhouetting the cowled, shadowy figures round us.

  With a sense of relief I heard the scrape of the securing bar, the creak of the heavy wooden door. There was a rush of fresh air, a murmur of polite farewells, and then we were out in the cold, bright glitter of the star-studded night.

  I turned, surprised that we were, in fact, outside the kasbah. For a moment the carbide flares lit the passageway and the swarthy, aquiline faces of our escorts, framed in the cowls of their djellabas. They were outlined for an instant, motionless like a tableau, and then the door thudded to and we were alone. It was only then, whilst the wooden securing bar was being dropped into place, that I realised we had been shown out without our guide.

  Jan had noticed it, too. ‘Where’s Moha?’ he asked. His voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘Do you think…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but I saw his hand reach into his breast pocket to make sure he still had the deeds there. ‘Do you remember the way back?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I can find it,’ I said. We had started to walk across the courtyard. We reached the archway and there ahead of us was the dark, towering shape of Ksar Foum-Skhira. There was no singing
now. The village seemed as quiet as the grave. We came to the first of the wells and then we were under the shadow of the walls.

  We stopped there as though by mutual consent and stood listening. There was no breath of wind and in the stillness my ears picked up small sounds - the grunt of a camel, the cry of a child; sounds that were innocent and yet, because they were not of our own world, disconcerting. ‘Do we have to go back through the palmerie?’ Jan said. ‘Couldn’t we cut across the Post and get on to the piste?’

  The thought had been in my own mind, too. We both of us felt the need for open country round us. ‘All right,’ I said and we turned back, skirting the walls of Ksar Foum-Skhira, moving slowly, feeling our way in the darkness. Once we stumbled into a caravan of hobbled camels who champed and belched in the darkness, shifting their positions with nervous grunts.

  We were on the south side of the village now and the going was slow, for we were in an area of intense cultivation and all the ground was criss-crossed with small earthworks about a foot high to retain the water when the irrigation ditches were allowed to flood. The palms thinned out and we were suddenly in soft sand. Here the desert had moved in on the palmerie, killing the trees and half burying them in steep dunes. We were a long time getting through the dunes, but at last we came out on to hard, flat desert and there, straight ahead of us, were the walls of the ruined souk.

  After that we had no difficulty in finding the piste. We struck away from it to the right, making straight for Kasbah Foum, taking our bearing from the shape of the mountains hunched against the stars. The going was rough and uneven and we stumbled repeatedly over stones or fought our way through patches of dry, brittle scrub. It seemed a long time before we saw the faint glimmer of light that marked the position of the camp. We made steadily towards it and gradually the light separated into two lights and we could see the shape of the bus and, beyond it, the tents.

  We couldn’t have been more than two or three hundred yards away, when there was a sudden cry - a yell that rose to a scream; high-pitched, sudden and frightening. It was cut off abruptly. I checked at the sound of it and in the same instant the headlights of the bus were switched on. They cut a great swath through the desert night and figures leapt to view, a huddle of Berber men bending over something on the sand of the piste. They straightened up and stood like frozen figures caught in some fearful act that should have remained cloaked by the night.