The three looked at each other again.
“Well, my question is still valid. It makes no difference to anyone whether you are who you say you are. The mistake committed in good faith by the Imam of the mosque so many years ago has come back to trouble us. The fact is that we do not have what you seek. The previous claimant also possessed what he said was proof, and what we, as men of God and as teachers, believed was true. He took away a box of documents that Ibn Batuta had indeed left behind here.”
We were utterly shocked.
“How could you do that?” screamed Boughaid Arroub, extremely agitated. “That man was an imposter! You have betrayed the trust of Ibn Batuta!”
“We have done no such thing. We are not worldly men. If a man comes to us with proof of something, we are not equipped with more than simple ways to see if he is telling the truth. Do not reach for your daggers and swords! We are not frightened!”
Al-Kaburi raised his hands, gesturing for calm.
“Brothers. Let us be calm. Let us try to understand each other. A man comes to our mosque and says he is the descendant of Ibn Batuta. He brings us proof that is convincing to us. True, Haji Toumani Kouyate was initially suspicious. However, even he was eventually convinced that the man was telling us the truth. We helped this man, Yakub Beg, find what he wanted. We did not ask him what was inside as it was not our business. We were custodians, no more, no less. Then Yaqub Beg left, saying he was to go to Yaounde and he even invited us to Bukhara.
“Let us say that he was an imposter. Let us say that you, sir,”—he nodded at Koya—“you, are the real descendant of Ibn Batuta. We do not have any means to determine if that is true. The letter you have shown us is as convincing as the one Yaqub Beg showed us. Even if we believe you, the problem is that we cannot help you. Yaqub Beg is gone with the box that you seek. Perhaps it contains matters of great importance. But we cannot take responsibility for it beyond a point.”
The Master was surprisingly calm. “Haji, I understand what you are saying. Let us confirm this—you say that a box was found and it was taken away by this man called Yaqub Beg.”
“Yes.”
“Did he look inside?”
“Yes, briefly. He even showed us a paper that was nothing but some kind of shopping list, clearly in the hand of Ibn Batuta. Then he shut the box again and left.”
“And was he was satisfied by what he saw inside?”
“As I said, there were a number of documents. He just went through a few of them quickly. He did not say anything. I have no idea if there was something specific he was looking for.”
“I see. When did he leave with the box and where did he say he was going?”
“Two days ago. He said he was going to Yaounde to visit a friend and then to take a ship to return to Tangier and then back to Bukhara.”
The Master spoke to us in a low whisper.
“There is no point in getting these men upset. They are simple marabouts. They have been fooled by Yaqub Beg, this so-called Father. The best thing to do is to chase him and find him, don’t you agree?”
We reluctantly agreed that it made sense.
“So let us leave quietly and then make inquiries. Such a large caravan could not have left without being noticed. If we think carefully, we should be able to catch up with them.”
“I agree,” said Boughaid Arroub, looking sullen.
The Master turned to the three Hajis, who looked very serious and grim. He bowed. “We are very sorry for this situation. We sincerely believe Yaqub Beg was an imposter and he has tricked you into parting with some very valuable manuscripts. But you are not at fault, and it was not your responsibility to verify the matter beyond what you did. I am indeed the descendant of Ibn Batuta, but at this moment, nothing will be achieved by explaining the facts and proving it to you. Once we track down and retrieve the box, I shall return and discuss the matter.”
The three men nodded, but without any enthusiasm.
We got up and bowed to the marabouts and walked out of the mosque.
***
We walked silently to the arabadiou, lost in our thoughts. Had hundreds of years converged to this single moment of loss? The matter was very upsetting. But somehow, the calm demeanour of the Master made us feel better.
We spoke to the Negroes at the abaradiou again. They said that some members of the other group had returned to Tangier via Taghaza, and the rest had gone east toward Gao. They had not paid attention to any specific member of the caravan though they did remember a tall, slim Tuareg who was always accompanied by a shorter, stouter Tuareg, who they thought was his slave.
We sat in a circle on our haunches and drew maps on the sand with long twigs.
“I do not think they have returned to Tangier. It was just a simple trick. They must have known we were following. Only very experienced Tuaregs would travel in a very small band across the desert. The Father is not a Tuareg. It would have been too risky for him to travel with a very small group. I am sure he went east with the bigger group.”
“If we chase them, we may never catch up. They are Tuaregs and know the desert. They would also guess we are following.”
“The river bends south after Bourem here.”
“So anyone going east might follow the river going south to Niamey and beyond.”
“But if we cross the river just south of Timbuktu, we could then go east and catch them at Gao, could we not?” asked the Master.
“Yes, that is a good idea.”
“Yes, we can save time. They might not expect that.”
“Of course, there is a small risk. What if they are NOT going to Yaounde?” asked the Master, keenly.
“Then they would be going east, and would follow a path to the south of Lake Chad. But that area is hostile. He might then travel to the Nile.”
“That is possible,” nodded the Master. “I suggest that we cross the Niger and go east. If we catch them at Gao, fine. If not, then we travel east from Gao.”
“We may not be able to do that, Master,” Boughaid Arroub demurred. “The desert there is very harsh. Some say even harsher than what we just experienced. Let us remember that we are not Tuaregs. Only our guides are. They may not travel further east than…say, Tamanrasset. They would need a reason, which we do not have yet.”
“Well, let us start and think of possibilities along the way. It may be better for us to simply follow them as they have the complete map. Let them lead us to the treasure. I am sure that is where they wish to go. The Father is a very shrewd man, according to our Paris advisor. He always has many options for action. Nothing is done without a reason.” The Master had suddenly transformed into a natural leader after reaching Timbuktu, with a tendency toward firm action. We were happy; this was very necessary.
There was no time to waste. Our caravan began immediately. We moved relatively quickly down to Kabara, an access point to the Niger River, with the intention of crossing it and travelling to Gao.
***
Inside Sankore Mosque, there was a tense silence as the three Hajis considered the events of the day and of the past few days.
“Let us discuss this tomorrow, after we have slept over the matter,” mumbled Haji Al-Kaburi in a low voice.
The others did not respond. They got up and left the room. The mint tea had lost its flavour, in any case.
22It could not possibly have been “This man is so constipated.”
From Timbuktu to Tamanrasset
As we moved toward Kidal, I felt a little more at ease. Everything had gone with relative smoothness, and though we had faced tense moments, we had emerged unscathed. We were aware that we were being pursued, but did not feel discomfited. Our Tuareg friends were with us and, in fact, we had added several more at Bourem. The journey to Kidal and beyond to Tamanrasset was through terrain that was firmly theirs and that they knew intimately.
>
But I was quite confused. I could understand the need to mislead our pursuers and be on the move. And yet, this refusal by Holmes to trace a path back to Rome was inexplicable. Why then had he spent so much time in Tangier? Had he not himself agreed to take up the assignment? Was it not, somehow, an ethical violation?
As always, Holmes could feel the presence of Professor Moriarty in the hostile environment of the Sahara. The man had perhaps barely moved from the chair in his study somewhere in an anonymous apartment in Paris. But through his vast network, and despite the nonexistent means of communication, he had ensured that pressure was being relentlessly applied on us. He wanted what Holmes had. And he intended to get it. I felt like an onlooker to a game of chess, played across deserts and countries, with others acting as proxies for Professor Moriarty. I was dissatisfied by my own involvement; but I was consoled by the fact that Holmes reiterated many times that he felt so much more at ease whenever I gave him company.
But where were we going now? Why this abrupt change in direction, from a presumed flight to the south where we would, I had thought, board a ship and return to England to a more salubrious climate with the pleasant advantage of British mores? Instead, we were now moving northeast, and from what I could gather, would thereafter continue to the east across brutal deserts and roving bandits. When I asked him how long it might take, his answer was cryptic: “Months.” What must my wife be thinking? I worried. Holmes read my mind and said, “Give Mrs. Watson credit, my dear fellow. Her intelligence is acute, and she knows you are with me.” His answer reassured me but confused me a little more. Was there a subtle hint in what he had said? I could not put my finger on it.
The deserts of the Sahel do not lend themselves to the beauty of poetry in the first instance. Shakespeare might have been at a loss for words to see endless shifting sands, a hot sun that did not tire of extending itself day after day, and acacia trees of no interest to anyone except our beatific camels who were quite satisfied moving over dune after dune without a break.
The caravan proceeded with new energy. I had become accustomed to the rhythmic movements and the personality of my camel, which, on a whim, I named Freddy, a matter that amused the group. Somehow Freddy always sensed when I was tired and would stop and allow himself to be brought down to the level of the desert. I often fed him acacia, some millets, and anything edible that I had. It was a curious and satisfying bond. It was a small lesson on how all creatures depend on each other for survival in a land that otherwise is merciless and does not yield to prayers.
The men sang beautiful poems they called tisiway. Holmes had a fine baritone and joined them. These interludes broke the monotonous journey. The Tuaregs who had joined us at Bourem were particularly musical. An old man, Amaha Ag Barha, turned out to be a blacksmith with a gift for storytelling. Due to his Inaden caste, he was always at the periphery of the group, but respected at the same time. A couple of men were, in fact, slaves but they seemed to behave quite like the others. These social dynamics were mystifying, but I saw that Holmes took everything in his stride and did not pass any judgment.
“How strange the Tuareg society is, Holmes! Everyone is born into a profession! These castes are mystifying!” I remarked.
“If we were to take our Tuareg friends to England, might they not find our ways absurd, Watson?” asked Holmes, needlessly caustic, I thought. “Kings and queens, altogether absurdly complex protocols involving dukes, earls, and lords. Understatements. Double negatives. Stiff upper lips. Raised eyebrows. Tea and crumpets. Clubs. Cricket. How odd it would seem to the Tuaregs!”
“No doubt for a moment an outsider would be surprised. But I am sure they would grow to appreciate the superior logic and adapt to it.”
The sun was in my eyes and so I was unable to discern the expression on Holmes’ countenance as he turned abruptly in my direction. He did not say anything; perhaps he appreciated the validity of my argument.
I befriended Amaha Ag Barha along the way and we tried to communicate with each other. Other friends translated his tales and I was extremely impressed by his ability to relate a story with such energy and animation.23 He was a master storyteller who used very few words, supplemented with modulated words, music, and mime, to convey the richness of a tale. The Tuareg culture does not encourage verbosity, which I must appreciate. Their own written script, Tifinagh, is noted for its brevity and is learned in a way entirely different from the way we learn the alphabet. That is, children pick it up by imitation and through games in a markedly informal manner, and there is no concept of a classroom. I mention this because I understood its merit while communicating with Amaha Ag Barha. Over the long distance between Bourem and Abalessa, he must have recounted about twenty stories of considerable merit. I have translated them and propose to submit them to a high quality publisher, of which there are so few, to bring attention to the admirable literature of the Tuaregs, a project that received Holmes’ enthusiastic blessings. I have included one such tale in the appendix, ambitiously called Poems in Sand; I hope you find it of interest. I personally found its lyrical quality fascinating.
***
We continued onward to Kidal. The journey was under two hundred miles. We expected to travel at a moderately rapid speed of about thirty to thirty-five miles per day, as we were not loaded and our camels were relatively fresh. At Kidal, we would again load up for the journey to Tamanrasset.
Kidal was known for Tuareg music and art, we discovered. Holmes and I enjoyed the journey to Kidal and spent the entire day there listening to various musicians.
“A significantly advanced conceptualization of the value of rhythm and melody, Watson,” Holmes commented. “I find their imzad to be of particular interest. Observe the parallels to the violin. I shall now make an attempt to learn from them.”
“You should teach them, too, Holmes,” I said, disapproving of his putting this rustic—though admittedly attractive—music on a pedestal.
“To me, at the moment, I must assert that their music is superior, Watson. Say no more,” Holmes snapped.
At Kidal, Holmes and the local imzad maestro Omar Ag Oumbadougou performed an excellent duet for a large crowd of Tuaregs from various clans like the Kel Ahaggar and the Kel Adagh. They laughed and clapped and shouted. On Holmes’ advice, I did the same, though I felt that music should be listened to quietly and respectfully. I must confess it was a delightful auditory and visual sensation, though extremely alien. The men and women swayed and clapped, expressing their appreciation loudly and without inhibition at various points. Others musicians joined with the tende, a percussion instrument and an ajouag, a flute. The ululation of the female singers provided a most unusual musical interjection that was first quite alarming and then suddenly most apt.
Omar Ag Oumbadougou and Holmes exchanged instruments and tried to play them, much to the amusement of the onlookers. Holmes had indeed fully immersed himself into the culture of the Tuaregs, and they in turn were deeply appreciative of his sincere attempts.
The conflicts with the French threatened to disturb the Tuareg culture, Holmes said. It had the unusual effect of stimulating their outstanding musical gifts even further. I made a note of a charming melody that the Tuaregs sang.24
Matadjem yinmixan sarhremt
yaratan
Tojawan alrhalem, taterarawan
War toliham id”koufar war toliham d”araban
Tomanam istiwsaten tidit tindarawan
Wada al assawka iyalah walaiyen dowan adahar
D”Imidinet taflist is wadek atekdar
Why this hate between you that you teach your children
The world looks at you. It is beyond your understanding
You who resemble neither a westerner nor an Arab
Your faith in the tribes blinds you to the truth
Even if God were to send a blessing down for you to sh
are
With a friend, they would only betray you
But it was soon time to leave. The caravan departed from Kidal with hundreds of Tuaregs bidding us good-bye and wishing us well. We were now on our way to the grave of Tin Hanan, whom the Tuaregs called “the Mother of us all.” Of course, we had not forgotten that there was every possibility of the Guardians following us, but we felt safer somehow, deep in Tuareg territory. Hasso Ag Akotey had left instructions with the elders in Kidal town to distract and delay any caravan with Tuareg guides who inquired about us.
Kidal to Tamanrasset was to be a gruelling journey, almost four times the distance between Bourem and Kidal. This time, many families had joined the caravan, so we could not expect to move as fast. The Tuaregs had prepared carefully but I could sense a palpable tension. There were two reasons—one, they expected bandit raids. And, two, more positively, they were looking forward to see the grave of Tin Hanan. It was essentially a dangerous pilgrimage.
Holmes, Hasso Ag Akotey, some other senior Imajaghan Ahaggar Tuaregs, and I sat around a campsite one night.
“We wish to visit Abalessa and the grave of Tin Hanan, to pay our respects,” said Holmes solemnly, in Tamasheq. “We seek your permission.”
The Tuaregs are not talkative. The circumspect man commands greater regard in their society. Only fools are given to excessive talk, is the belief.
Hasso Ag Akotey knew Holmes’ plan in detail of course, but it was important for the rest to understand who these travellers were and what their mission was. He kept his counsel.
“She is our Mother,” said one of the Tuaregs briefly, looking at the sand. It was an important statement, perhaps not original. He was simply emphasizing once again how sacred the place was.
“Yes. I hold her in great regard.”
“Only Tuaregs are allowed,” said another, looking at his feet.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 20
