And she brings them together, from the Haggar Mountains to Tunisia to Tlemcen to Timbuktu, these boys, these men, who no matter how old, needed a mother to tell them about themselves. And she was that mother.
“Here, O Queen, is the music you said you would give them,” says Takamat, handing Tin Hanan a fistful of sand.
And Tin Hanan throws the sand over the heads of the veiled men, who accept the wonderful gift and come together as one, bound by the wisps of music that come from the heart of the earth. At the center of the music is the walk of the camel, who gives us our very life.
“And these beautiful daughters. What shall you wish of them?”
“They shall show their faces to the sun, and with their beauty to guide them, the men shall travel fearlessly across the Tinariwen, who shall protect them and their children who shall trace stories on the sands. They shall never cover their faces, for beauty veiled is a crime against nature. They shall wear silver and everything the Tinariwen gives on its own.”
“Is this our land, then, O Queen?”
“Yes, it is but not in the way of those who dig the earth and hurt her. We shall stay but only till the earth permits. We are free and we shall go wherever we choose, never forgetting who we are. We do not own the land and must not stay for too long anywhere.”
And so Tin Hanan travels across the Tinariwen, holding close the men and women who make up the Imuhagh, teaching them their language, how they must conduct themselves, how they must sing. Oh, those songs are magnificent! Each song travels unaided over the Tinariwen, finally nestling on a pillow of sand.
If the million stars are the sand in the firmament of the night sky, then the million specks of sand are stars embedded in the Tinariwen. And as long as they caress the skin of the children, we shall live on.
And as the Kel Tamasheq discover themselves, and as Tin Hanan ages, limping graciously toward the void that is the fate of everyone, the ether of a culture like none other spreads like a blanket across the Tinariwen. None can shake these people, none can change them.
So it shall be as long as the Kel Tamasheq respect the memory of Tin Hanan, the Mother of us all, and her grave, at Abalessa in the Hoggar Mountains.
I drifted into a most pleasant state of rest. It was, of course, my hyperactive and creative mind that imagined that the desert had suddenly been suffused with the sweet smell of oleander.
We continued the long journey to Tamanrasset again, and despite our worries, finally reached the ancient town. The caravan was received with great joy, as an advance party had already told the inhabitants about us and related events. Despite our entreaties, Holmes was much feted and a great fuss was made about him.
“We must move on, Watson, my good fellow,” whispered the weak and ill Holmes, as I sat next to him. “The longer we wait anywhere, the greater the chance of the Guardians catching up. Moreover, I am most keen to return to London. I have not entirely forgotten the issue of the manuscript and several other pending cases that await my attention. The Duke of Grafton had asked me to look into the peculiar case of the missing books from his personal library, which were always returned with the last four pages torn out. I have my conjectures, but must verify a few facts.”
He continued, now in a fevered, disconnected rambling.
“The ostrich must be allowed to wander at will in Piccadilly Circus. How did we overlook the casket of wine that was sent by Richard Darwin from Australia? Avast! Avast! It is time for the whaling boats to weigh anchor! Why in the world is that sailor wearing blue boots? I think I must ask Mrs. Hudson to turn down the heat; it is altogether too hot in this room. What has that woman done with my violin? Always meddling, though undoubtedly with the best of intentions. I think there is a cobra in our soup, Watson. Does it wish to listen to me play the violin, perhaps? A fine specimen, indeed! What would Lestrade at Scotland Yard have to say? A reliable man with little imagination more concerned with Santa Claus and chocolates than criminal detection…”
The women in the camp were extremely taken by Holmes and tended to him with a mixture of authority and deep emotional concern. His delirium affected them greatly and I saw many of them praying. The men were kept at a distance; I was the exception.
After a day of rest, when Holmes’ fever broke, we readied ourselves to travel to Abalessa. A party was chosen to accompany us on the relatively safe two-day trip.
We said good-bye to our friends at Tamanrasset and started again. Amaha Ag Barha and I hugged each other, something I am not as a rule comfortable with, but which seemed perfectly appropriate at the time. There was a great feeling of excitement. Holmes was positively impacted and was quite garrulous, asking the Tuareg in front of him all manner of questions about the queen. It had nothing to do with the manuscript that had guided our actions through all these days but there was no possibility of us not taking this important diversion.
In the meanwhile, I had not fully understood why Holmes wished to travel to the lower Nile Valley instead of finding a way to return to London. In fact, an even quicker way might have been to move north to the city of Algiers and find a ship. There was something in the Nile Valley that Holmes needed to address. Yet I wondered how a wounded and weakened Holmes would survive many more weeks of constant travel through the most unimaginably hostile terrain.
We finally reached the Abalessa oasis, northwest to Tamanrasset, after meandering through the Hoggar Mountains.
The sight of the large mound of earth, perhaps a crumbling fortress, had a profound effect on our Tuareg Imazhigen friends, who fell silent, overcome with emotion. Returning to their cultural moorings had allowed them to discard the mask of cold indifference, already enhanced by their tagelmusts. But now, at this place, there was nothing to hide, nothing to be wary of. The men of mystery showed themselves to be wrought of sentiment like men elsewhere. Somehow, their indigo dresses looked breathtakingly beautiful at that moment, standing out against the brownish-yellow sands that rolled away into the distance. There was a great visual harmony—it was just right.
We stopped for a considerable period simply looking on at what was perhaps the defining structure of the Tuareg culture….
Tin Hanan, the Mother of us all.
Yes, this is where she was buried, undisturbed, for so many hundreds of years. Rain, heat, the cold of the nights, time, the mad movements of men rushing about outside searching for transient happiness and power—nothing had disturbed this strange, isolated place. It was a profound moment at a sacred spot that deserved its remoteness and solitude. Perhaps Holmes and I were the first Englishmen ever to visit Abalessa.
We dismounted from our camels and went up the hill. It was a quiet day, and unusually pleasant. The odd lizard watched us from the shrubs. I could practically hear the overwhelming silence, occasionally punctuated by the calls of a few busy birds. The whole experience was most pleasing.
We walked about the old crumbling edifice, which was roughly circular. One could even argue that there was no tangible edifice. There was just rubble, placed there deliberately, in a vain attempt it seemed, to shield the tomb from curious eyes. Its walls were twelve to fifteen feet high and the diameter would have been about seventy-five to eighty feet. There was evidently no way to enter.
“How do you know this is your queen’s tomb?” I asked Hasso.
He shrugged. “Our stories say it is so. I believe it.”
“I wonder why no one has attempted to excavate this place, Holmes,” I remarked.
Holmes was looking upwards at the top of the rubble. “Some things are best kept undisturbed, Watson. The dead must be respected. We would be outraged if Tuareg archaeologists endeavoured to dig up the Royal Burial Ground in Frogmore asserting their desire to add to the world’s knowledge about our kings and queens. In any case, what do you hope to find within? Gold? Jewels? How unimaginably boring that would be.” Holmes appeared tired.
“Who can say, Hol
mes? A few thousand miles away, our archaeologists are unearthing treasures in the Nile Valley. Pyramids! Pharaohs! Quite enchanting! Well, this does not appear to be archaeologically significant to my untrained eyes, but it doubtless has historical merit.”
“Some secrets are best kept, Watson,”27 said Holmes, quietly, his eyes far away.
We spent some more time examining the ruins. There was no way to know what lay inside. Our hosts would have been offended if we had tried to move the stones. Yet, I could not help feeling a pull from within. It was a hair-raising sensation.
We descended and again turned to look at that mass of haphazardly accumulated stones. I felt that magnetic pull again. For a moment, I felt like rushing back and removing the stones.
“So near yet so far from a fantastic discovery, Holmes.”
“You seem unnaturally excited, Watson.” Holmes was leaning against a large rock, smoking his pipe. The Tuaregs were at a distance immersed in a discussion, preparing for the return journey.
“Indeed, Holmes. A wall separates us from the remains of the defining symbols of the Tuaregs, our good friends. Yet, we must defer to the accumulated aura of awe around this edifice and not question this adoration. Ah, well, I find myself at a loss for words, but there is certainly something within that calls out. Perhaps it is the heat…what has happened Holmes?”
Holmes had suddenly stood up and taken his pipe out of his mouth. He was staring, stupefied, at Tin Hanan’s grave.
“What a fool I’ve been, what an absolute, complete fool!” he said in a low, intense voice, trembling with excitement.
“Explain yourself, Holmes! I do not understand.”
“You scintillate, Watson, you absolutely scintillate!” Holmes’ eyes were shining. No one might have guessed that this was a man just recently returned from death’s door.
I was flattered. “Well, thank you, Holmes. But what precisely did I say?”
“It has long been my feeling, Watson, that you always complete the painting with an incisive observation. Two words you used: “not question”—ah! Everything suddenly fell into place! That vague unease that I have felt for so long—it vanished in a moment! We stare at a problem or situation for so long that we fail to notice the most obvious. We think there is something cloaked when it is in plain sight. Thank you, Watson! I must someday compliment Mrs. Watson for agreeing to a state of matrimony with you, Watson, though I had some reservations!”
I felt flattered but something he had said confused me, though I could not put my finger on it. The moment passed.
“The path forward, Watson. I can see it with absolute clarity! We must move on quickly now!”
The Tuaregs had come up to us. It was time to go, they said. I reluctantly turned and looked back at the grave of the Tuareg queen. My hyperactive mind still imagined that someone was calling me from within. I was amused with my sense of the dramatic, but grateful that I had this opportunity to at least visit. Moreover, it appeared that a casual comment I had made had evoked strong positive emotions from Holmes; it was gratifying.
“You did the same thing on at least three occasions, Watson, though you are possibly unaware.” Holmes smiled as we began our journey back to Tamanrasset.
I felt very pleased with myself.
“The forgeries of the Dutch Masters—you had admired the new lacquered frames at the Cambridge exhibition. And then the episode of the alleged kidnapping of the son of the Ambassador of Austria—you had been effusive about the elegant clothes of second secretary’s wife. Both of those casual observations helped me make rapid conclusions.”
“Indeed, Holmes?”
“Yes, Watson. One, that your mind is always somewhere else, far away from the central issue. But this very act of irresponsibility helps bring tremendous contrast to my own line of thinking, which in both cases was overly focused on what I thought were indisputable facts. I allowed discipline to constrain rather than liberate. And that, Watson, is your special gift, the ability to ask the simplest of questions, to make the most inconsequential observations, which suddenly brings me back to the fundamentals.”
“I—”
“No, no, Watson, say no more. In this case too, I suddenly found myself challenging assumptions that I had made. I am annoyed with myself for having made those assumptions in the first place. Tut! But thank you, Watson, thank you, my dear fellow!”
“But what is the discovery, Holmes? I am most curious.”
“At the opportune time, Watson, at the opportune time! Else your future readers will grumble about the story. Let us hold their attention for several more pages.”
“Holmes, you do me an injustice!” I cried. “Do you believe I am here merely to pick up the pieces of a story in order for it to be published? I am here on your express request!”
“Do not be agitated, Watson, my good man! The remark was in jest. I do not care a whit for your mediocre readers!” Holmes chuckled and turned away. I followed him on Freddy, feeling a mixture of outrage, pleasure, and confusion.
At Tamanrasset, Holmes and Hasso discussed the plan, looking at the map. Holmes asked for a post office and dispatched a wire and a letter. I posted a letter to my wife assuring her that we were well.
We were soon off on an indescribably grim journey to the lower Nile Valley in Sudan. Destination: Khartoum.
26As can only be expected, Holmes did write a monograph on the matter and presented it to the Royal Society. Indeed, for dramatic effect, he went dressed as a Tuareg, which disconcerted a number of scholars. To complicate matters, he insisted on playing the imzad, an unprecedented event that led to the formation of an inquiry committee to consider disciplinary action. Thankfully, and most unusually, the members themselves developed an interest in the instrument and took lessons from Holmes. The matter was dropped. Today, the disciplinary committee travels from city to city in the British Empire performing Tuareg music, a most astonishing sight.
27Several years after this event—in the year 1926, to be precise—the archaeologist Byron Khun de Prorok did the unthinkable and inexcusable. He entered the tomb and carried away the skeleton of Tin Hanan. It is presently in a museum in Algiers. Legend has it that the event of the desecration was marked by an unusual storm. The reader is advised to investigate the matter independently.
To Khartoum
A theory has occasionally been advanced that adverse conditions truly test the mettle of a man. A primordial need to survive may overwhelm reason and bring us down to the levels of animals, which thrive on following their instincts (or so we believe). How does a man find the power to detach himself from extreme physical distress and still conduct himself with great dignity and fortitude?
In the numerous situations of a grim nature that Holmes and I had been thrown into together, I always found that Holmes managed to find ways to turn a challenge into an advantage. The extraordinarily harsh journey to Khartoum would have easily felled a lesser man—and I confess that there were times when I simply lost the will to live—but Holmes’ brain never ceased tracing new paths of logic. We might as well have been actors in Dante’s Inferno; it would have been a kindness to have had a sign at the beginning of the stretch after Tamanrasset that said “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate” or “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
We were a group of forty. The original set had been largely dispersed and this new group, with the exception of Hasso Ag Akotey and a few others, was drawn from Tuaregs who were connected in some way with the region, which was obviously desirable as they knew the contours and topography. There was concern expressed by a few about our ability to withstand the rigours of the journey ahead, but Hasso pointed out that we had managed to successfully travel for more than fifty days from Morocco to Timbuktu and must be given credit. After careful planning and loading of the camels, we set forth.
Waves and waves of the most intense sand-peppered hot wind
s blew across the caravan after we descended from the Hoggar Mountains. What can I say about the intense feeling of thirst we experienced? The caravan had planned a journey to the southeast through what is currently called Bornu28 before entering Sudan. While there were assurances of many oases along the way, each mile travelled seemed an accomplishment. Even the Tuaregs claimed to feel a drag; the camels were unhappy and moved with effort and persuasion. Holmes’ condition did not make things easier, though to his credit, he asked for no special treatment. He was visibly weak pretending to be otherwise, smoking a pipe while riding high on his mount.
The journey was considerably slower than at any time before. There were at least two incidents when men were bitten by scorpions. Here were men quite accustomed to the hidden dangers of the desert and yet they too had lowered their guard. Or perhaps their instincts were not as responsive for reasons that puzzled them.
Camels complained of problems with hooves; precious water mysteriously spilled into the sand; food did not cook well. There were occasional bouts of stomach problems. One man suddenly fell off his camel for no apparent cause, something that had never happened. He could not say what had happened; it was bewildering. One moment he was on the camel, the next he was facedown on the sand.
And many insisted that they could hear Tin Hanan calling for them, asking that they return to Abalessa. They whispered about omens. For them, the Tinariwen was alive, it had a soul, it had stories, and it had advice to give.
I did not react, but I was no longer convinced that my allegedly rational mind had clear answers that could dismiss such ramblings. I remembered distinctly that ghostly pull from within the tomb of Tin Hanan at Abalessa. Holmes would have approved of my new liberal thinking, bereft of British cultural calcification, of course, but oddly, this was precisely when his gentle leadership pulled along the caravan.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 22
