Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu

by Vasudev Murthy

  “Do you seek anyone in particular?”

  “Haji, I feel you know what I am looking for. My knowledge is very poor. I can always go back and continue my life as a spice trader.” I was surprised by my confidence.

  “Have you heard of the Guardians of the Letter?” Abdelaziz asked keenly.

  “Yes. But I have no idea who they are and what their purpose is.”

  “How do you know about them?”

  “I have seen a letter suggesting I travel to Tangier and meet them. I do not know anything further.”

  “Do you have the letter?” asked Abdelaziz.

  “Yes.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Would you show it?” I looked at Abdelaziz steadily, with a confidence I did not feel within.

  “Hmm. Your point is reasonable. I do not belong to the Guardians of the Letter. They are very dangerous people. But I can take you to them immediately, if you like.”

  I agreed. In half an hour, we were ready to go.

  “We must travel to the outskirts of Tangier to the house of one of the Guardians of the Letter. You are safe with me. Haji Bouabid cannot come as they do not know him.”

  Haji Bouabid again blessed me and waved as we set out on horseback, which I was not used to and found uncomfortable. Abdelaziz was silent but his presence was strong. After Haji Bouabid’s reassurance, I felt better. But it was a strange feeling, to be on a horse for the first time in my life, trotting gently on the cobblestoned paths in little by-lanes in Tangier.

  We travelled for at least an hour and a half and had left the city limits of Tangier. The countryside was quite beautiful, with no one on the pathway that Abdelaziz seemed to know well. I was becoming uncomfortable.

  We turned a corner beyond a large thicket of palm trees and came to the entrance of a small farm. Abdelaziz stopped and help me dismount. We walked down a narrow path and reached a modest house. Two children were playing outside. They rushed into the house shouting when they saw us approaching. A tall, strongly built and stern man stepped out, studying us as we walked toward him.

  Abdelaziz greeted him and the man nodded.

  As we approached, I saw that he was almost twice my size, in both height and girth. He looked down at me with cold eyes.

  “As-Salaam-Alaikum,” I said.

  “Wa aleikum salam,” he replied, without enthusiasm.

  “Koya, this is Boughaid Arroub. I will tell you about him inside.”

  We walked inside. Boughaid Arroub shooed away the children. An attendant brought in the ubiquitous coffee, dates, and pistachios.

  “Koya is from India. His family is from the Maldives.”

  Boughaid Arroub halted for the briefest of moments. He looked at me.

  “What do you want, Koya?”

  “Koya has come here on my suggestion,” interjected Abdelaziz. “He may be the one, the one you seek. But you have to decide.”

  “He? Why do you think so?”

  “Koya, show him the coin.”

  I did so. Boughaid Arroub stirred with some more interest. I handed it over to him to examine. He did so, studying it from all angles. “This coin is genuine. It is at least five hundred years old. It may have belonged to someone in Morocco.” He handed the coin back to me. There was a new respect in his voice.

  “Koya is searching for someone,” said Abdelaziz, looking meaningfully at Boughaid Arroub.

  “I am searching for the Guardians of the Letter,” I said, without skipping a beat.

  Boughaid Arroub continued sipping his coffee.

  “Step outside, Abdelaziz,” he snapped. Abdelaziz went outside quickly.

  “When did you arrive in Tangier?” Boughaid Arroub asked me at length, his tone quite normal.

  “Two days ago.”

  “What do you know about the Guardians of the Letter? But first, where did you hear about them?”

  “In India. I read about them in my father’s papers after he died. I have been asked to meet the Guardians to complete a certain desire of Ibn Batuta.”

  Boughaid Arroub rose abruptly and walked across to the opposite wall where there were a number of swords hanging. He removed one from its sheath and returned.

  “In case I feel you are lying about anything, I will kill you,” he said, in a cold and even voice. His eyes flashed, quite in contrast.

  “There is no reason why I should come all the way to a foreign land where I know no one if I am possessed by a lie,” I said with a calmness that was different from the terror I felt within. “I have a letter, you can read it,” I added. “If the letter is a lie, do what you choose.” I took out from within my dress the letter which Ibn Batuta had written to his son and delivered to him through the hands of Ibn Juzayy.

  Boughaid Arroub took the letter from my hand and opened it carefully.

  The transformation was remarkable.

  His eyes opened wide and the stern and grim jaw loosened. His hands shook and his face turned pale.

  “It is he! It is he who we have waited for! For so long! Yes, it is he, it is he!” he broke out into a babble, his hands shaking. “The time has come!” He fell on his knees, throwing the sword away and kissed my hands repeatedly, tears in his eyes.

  “Forgive me, O Master, forgive me! I had no idea! We have waited for more than five hundred years for this moment! We have lived only for this moment! My father, my grandfather, and all those before them from the time of the great Ibn Batuta—we have waited and waited! For you, the great son of the greatest of all of Morocco’s sons, Ibn Batuta! Welcome to my humble home!” The man wept, completely overcome.

  I could not say anything. I, Thalassery Vatoot Mohammad Koya, a cinnamon merchant from a small town on the Malabar coast, was suddenly being celebrated as the venerated descendant of Ibn Batuta.

  “Boughaid! Please! I am here for your friendship and for your help. I am not your master! Please!”

  “You do not know what you say, Master! I and my family have been waiting for hundreds of years for this very moment! Everything will become clear very soon! Please wait.”

  Boughaid Arroub collected his emotions and sat down again, opposite me, gaping, his face tear-stained and very mobile. He shouted out and attendants came in, in a great rush, replacing the coffee and dates with more coffee and dates and a variety of dry fruits. The cups were of Chinese porcelain, it now seemed, and the hospitality had climbed to the highest level. I was extremely embarrassed. My poor Arabic did not allow me to express my gratitude adequately.

  Abdelaziz whispered in my ear: “Koya, try to understand this: the Guardians of the Letter were specially appointed by Ibn Batuta. They have a letter for you which they have kept carefully for all these years. Each generation has been sworn to secrecy and their only task has been to wait and wait, to fulfil the promise their forefathers made to Ibn Batuta. It is a very big moment for them. Boughaid needs to think about what to do next.”

  In a few minutes, Boughaid’s breathing became calmer.

  “O Master, did you not know about Ibn Batuta before? Did you not know you were the descendant of one of the greatest men who ever walked this earth?” he asked me, his voice still quavering.

  “No. My forefathers were not literate and we knew little. My father died last month and I discovered these papers. I decided to come here to find out more. I met Haji Bouabid and he introduced me to Abdelaziz and now I am here.”

  “Remarkable, remarkable! God is great! We have been waiting for so long for you. And you had no idea!”

  “I do not know what the letter contains.”

  “Neither do we, O Master. But it does not matter. It was a promise that Ibn Batuta took from our forefathers and we have been sworn to uphold the promise forever. It is the reason we live. And die. About one hundred years ago, someone tried to get the letter from us by pretending to be Ibn Batuta’s descenda
nt. But we found he was lying. He was killed. We tore him apart limb from limb, my grandfather said.”

  “I see,” I said. I was shaking inside. “What should we do now?” I asked, presently.

  “You must come with me to Casablanca. That is where the other members—the Guardians—are. And that is where the letter is. We must hand it over to you. Then you must command us to do as you wish after you read and understand the letter. The role of Abdelaziz is over. He is not a Guardian. He is not to know anything further after this. If he reveals the incidents of today, he and his entire family will be slaughtered. He knows this quite well.”

  Abdelaziz was brought in and reminded, very sternly, about what was expected of him.

  “My job is to simply help you. I know nothing further. I do not wish to know anything further.”

  “When should we go to Casablanca?” I asked Boughaid.

  “Right away, Master. Give me an hour. I will assemble the camels and provisions and we can leave.

  “We shall be there in two or three days. It is a long journey. I know there is a caravan leaving soon from Tangier. We shall join them.”

  And so, I, Thalassery Vatoot Mohammad Koya, shortly found myself on a camel, travelling in a caravan, protected by Boughaid Arroub, who called me his Master and who himself was one of the Guardians of the Letter. I bid good-bye to Abdelaziz and never saw him again.

  The journey was long and arduous for me. But for the rest, in a caravan of some forty camels and a few hardy horses, it was quite normal. I got opportunities to improve my Arabic but I avoided speaking about why I was travelling to Casablanca. Boughaid Arroub was always hovering about me and he made it clear in many ways that I was an important dignitary who should be given the utmost respect and regard. The caravan was managed by a number of veiled men with blue turbans who I learned were Tuaregs, very prominent nomads of the desert.

  The heat of the sun was unlike what I had experienced before in the Malabar. And the pleasant warmth of Tangier soon disappeared, replaced with an oppressive heat that left me gasping. My eyes clouded over and I found it difficult to even think. Boughaid Arroub kept a close watch on me and made sure we stopped after every hour so that I could rest. This delayed the caravan, obviously.

  The Tuaregs found my distress slightly amusing and occasionally laughed as I gasped in the shade created by a camel.

  I asked Boughaid Arroub why they were laughing.

  “They are saying that the poor man – you, O Master – thinks this is hot. Let him travel from Sijilmasa to Timbuktu and he will know what heat is.”

  “Where are these places, Boughaid?”

  “Sijilmasa is not far from Tangier. It is the gateway to the Sahara desert, O Master. From there, one travels down on old caravan routes in the desert to Mali, which is a famous country. The journey is extremely dangerous. But your illustrious predecessor, Haji Ibn Batuta travelled to Mali and back in the most oppressive conditions. Timbuktu is a famous city in Mali, noted for its mosques and centres for learning.”

  “We may have to travel to Timbuktu, Boughaid. Do you recall it was mentioned briefly in the letter I showed you?”

  “Yes, O Master. You are right. Perhaps the letter you are going to receive from the Guardians will tell us more.”

  “Yes,” I said, getting up, dusting off the sand from my clothes and climbing back on the saddle of my camel. The caravan resumed.

  And by and by, we reached Casablanca. It was a very pretty town, in some ways similar to Tangier. But it was sunnier. The wind from the ocean kept things comfortable, and I was relieved that the journey had ended.

  Boughaid and I reached the house of someone who he said had the letter in his safekeeping. It was a sprawling mansion, with a very large garden. There was a large tent in the middle, which, as I guessed correctly, was where the refreshments were kept.

  Boughaid had already sent word to them and some others, and so, by the time we reached the house, there were a good ten or fifteen men waiting to greet us. All had very fierce countenances and all were armed. We assembled in the open area but very close to an open French window where an old man was sitting at a desk and watching.

  Boughaid greeted them and introduced me. He spoke a dialect I could not follow, but I observed all of them listening very carefully and nodding, and looking at me again and again. He then showed the group – starting with the old man - the gold coin and then the letter. It was enough. The entire group became hysterical and went on their knees, hailing me as their master, with tears in their eyes. The old man was bent at his desk, sobbing.

  Fawning over me, they escorted me first to the tent to ply me with drinks and refreshments of every variety. Then they took me to a guest room where they had a steaming bath ready, with all kinds of oils and soaps. After I was done, I was presented a set of brand new clothes, which seemed to be of very fine cotton. They competed to show their devotion to me, a man who was completely ignorant of their reason for existing barely a month ago! I did not know what to say or do, so I smiled and said thank you many times.

  “O Master, you see how important this occasion is. They never thought that their mission would be accomplished in their lifetime! All our forefathers prayed that they should have the honour of fulfilling the mission of the Guardians, but their prayers went unanswered. And now, without warning, we are the chosen ones! It is a very emotional moment for all of us!

  “And now let me introduce you formally to the keeper of the letter. His name is Khalid Ibn Ziyad. He has been sitting at the window listening to all this. He is old and has problems walking. But he has understood everything and looks forward to meeting you.”

  I went in my new cotton dress to meet Ibn Ziyad. He must have been in his late eighties. He was very frail. When I entered with Boughaid, he made feverish attempts to stand up, speaking continuously. Then he tried to kneel down and kiss my hand. I insisted that he sit down. It was very awkward for me.

  Only the three of us were in the room, with the other Guardians outside.

  Ibn Ziyad spoke in his dialect to Boughaid who translated. “O Master, he wishes to know if your journey from India was comfortable.”

  “Yes, by the will of Allah, it was. Thank you.”

  They looked very pleased with my response.

  “He is very happy. He wishes you to know that his life’s mission has ended today, now that he has met you, the descendant of Ibn Batuta.”

  “Please tell him I am very fortunate to have met him.”

  “He wishes to know if you have a son.”

  They looked at me eagerly.

  “No, my wife is expecting a baby soon. But I do not know if it will be a boy or a girl.”

  “He prays that the first child will be a boy and that you will have many more.” The old man’s eyes were sparkling with new energy.

  “Thank you.”

  “He asks if you would like to see the letter, O Master.”

  “Yes, if it is not difficult for him.”

  “No, it is with him.”

  Ibn Zayid produced a stylish box from his desk. He then unclasped a necklace from around his neck and removed a key from it. Then he turned the key in the box after which he opened the top. In the chamber was a parchment - the secret letter - which we looked at silently and in awe.

  “He has worn that key on his neck since he was fifteen years old, O Master. His father placed it there just before he died,” said Boughaid. “That box has never been opened since the commissioning of the task to the Guardians of the Letter. That means it has now been opened after about 523 years. The lock worked! It is a miracle.”

  Ibn Zayid held up the box and presented it to me in an elaborate way, looking down at the floor, his body heaving and trembling with emotion.

  “O Master, I, Khalid Ibn Zayid, the head of the Guardians of the Letter, now fulfil the task given to me by my forefather, who receiv
ed orders from the great Haji Ibn Batuta,” he said, his voice faltering and cracking. I accepted the box and put it on the table.

  They expected me to open the letter and read it and give them further instructions. I opened the parchment and read the contents quietly first, as best as I could. The letter spoke of Marco Polo, China, the half-letter handed to Ibn Batuta that was now at Sankore Mosque in Timbuktu, the other half in Venice and so on.

  I then read out the letter to Khalid Ibn Zayid and Boughaid.

  They sat and listened in stunned silence. They asked me to repeat a few points once again and further discussed the nuances of whatever they had heard.

  “O Master. While a very important task is now over for us, a far greater task must start immediately. We believe that we have to do the following.

  “Retrieve the half parchment from Venice. It belongs to you. Retrieve the other half that Ibn Batuta left behind in the Sankore Mosque when he left Timbuktu in a hurry. Once we assemble the parchment, we must act on it. Perhaps the answer is in the parchment. Who can say?”

  “I agree. But how do we begin? And where?”

  Ibn Zayid spoke in a high querulous voice suddenly and Boughaid pacified him with many smiles.

  “He says you must rest. You must leave the planning to us because that is the duty of the Guardians.

  By tomorrow morning, we shall be ready with the plan. But you must rest, O Master. You have come from such a distance!”

  And with those words, our meeting came to an end. I was taken to a lavish room where I slept on a large bed with elaborate silks and plush pillows. I slept for many hours, dreaming of accompanying Ibn Batuta on his adventures.

  The next day, I entered the room of Ibn Zayid with Bughaid. Ibn Zayid again made an attempt to kneel and kiss my hand, but I respectfully declined.

  “O Master, we seek your permission to set forth on the plan.”

  “Please go ahead. What do you propose to do?”