Jerusalem Commands: Between the Wars Vol. 3

by Michael Moorcock

  I would not be able to hold my beasts back for long. Only an experienced camelman can do that. Soon they would begin to trot forward. I would lose control. I decided therefore that it was best to lead them, rather than follow. Uncle Tom, dignified as always, was proceeding at her usual unhurried walk. When she glanced back over her shoulder to make sure her herd was following, her lovely eyes were full of concern, her lips drawn away from her great prehistoric teeth in an encouraging smile. How proud I was when I remounted her with all the casual grace of a true Bedouin and, my rifle across my knee, began the jog up the slow-rising foothills until I was forced again to dismount and lead my patient animals foot by painful foot over the hard rock of limestone pavements scattered with pebbles. The gulleys between the pavements were full of recent drifts of soft sand and looked dangerous. The pebbles caught in my camels’ toes, threatening to lame them, and I was forever stopping to check their feet, to make sure they were still unharmed. Concentrating on our slow, careful progress into the hills beneath a pulsing blue-grey sky, I did not notice when the loose sand no longer ran between rocky hillocks. Instead, there were man-made divisions - old walls worn to the same gentle golden brown of surrounding rock and sand. I realised I was leading my camels through the ruins of a good-sized city stretching as far as I could see along the eroded terraces of forgotten Zazara. A city of unguessable age, destroyed by the same forces which no doubt claimed Nineveh and Tyre. As with so many North African ruins, they might have been twenty or two thousand years old. Only an archaeologist could tell. They had been thoroughly abandoned for years. There was no vegetation, which could also mean that there was no water at the Zazara Oasis! Or was it hidden and guarded, as the powerful Senussi Bedouin protected some of their wells?

  Renegade Zwayas, driven out of their traditional lands by the ever-expanding Senussi, might even now be disputing control of the oasis. I tethered my camels as they swung restless necks back and forth, tongues curling, nostrils expanding and snuffling for the source of the water. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, I moved forward carefully, keeping to the cover of old walls until I realised I was almost at the highest point of the hill which cut off suddenly and seemed to fall sheer to a valley from where I could hear distant shouts and whistling, voices speaking a dialect I did not recognise. Behind me, my camels began to snort and grumble and, lest they give me away, I ran back to where I had left them, unhobbling them and leading them forward again. I was still careful to keep to cover wherever I found it until the sun began to drop beyond zenith. I stopped close to the brow of the hill and began crawling forward to peer carefully over the edge.

  The cliff did not as I had thought fall sheer to the bottom, but was broken just below me by a great limestone spur jutting out over a shaded pool around which grew a few date palms and reeds: Zazara was not dry! From where I lay it was difficult to make out details, but obviously a camp had been made. I saw some tents and one or two figures walking rapidly to and fro. They were not Bedouin at all, but Goras, relatives of the Sudanese, whom I had already met on the caravan from al-Khufra. Tall, handsome black men, they had only a few firearms and still preferred the spear, the sword and the bow. I was surprised that the Gora could have fired with such promiscuous precision. Then, as I craned to see more, I observed, directly below, something I first took to be water and then a mirage. It actually seemed to be a vast green, white and red Italian flag draped across a wide expanse of rock, the crowned crux blanca flanked by the fasces of Mussolini’s New Rome emblazoned onto two yards of rippling silk! As if the Italians had decided quite literally to put the Libyan Desert under their flag.

  I realised the fabric was attached to ropes and if I risked raising my head and craning my neck a little further I could see that the ropes ran up to a large wicker basket, big enough to hold at least half-a-dozen people, and it was then that I understood that I was staring down upon a huge collapsed balloon. Doubtless some party of aeronauts, perhaps from the Italian garrison at Tripoli, had become stranded. I hoped that it was a military group. With the rifles and ammunition I had, together with my food, we could almost certainly kill off enough primitive Goras until they fled.

  At that moment a burst of fire caused me to duck rapidly but when I looked again I saw that the only shots were coming from the balloon. Repositioning myself behind a rock I made out a narrow track leading down to the spur of limestone where the balloon basket was perched, then continuing on until it reached the water below. The Goras could not be native to this region or they would have known that there was another approach to the position. In the deep afternoon light, with arrows and spears they flung themselves up the steep rocks, only to be driven back by rapid but economical fire from the crashed balloon. Again I marvelled at the precision of the shots and, by shifting a third time, saw that in fact there was only one gun, a large old-fashioned French Gatling, a mitrailleuse, mounted on a brass swivel bracketed to the basket’s rail. At the basket’s centre was what seemed to be a small semi-dormant steam-engine. The bullets went over the heads of the determined Goras. I could see from their expressions that their worst fears were realised. Satan’s agents had descended upon them. It said something for their courage and their religious faith, if not their common sense, that they were attacking rather than fleeing. I decided I could, without much difficulty and with my camels, reach the rocky spur and the stranded balloon. If the Goras could be driven away from the water, we should soon all be able to drink. It seemed the more noise and dust I made in my descent, the more I gave the impression of a large force coming to the aid of the balloonists. With luck this would make them reconsider the wisdom of their present policy. It would be no shame to them to withdraw before a superior enemy.

  I returned to my camels. Using what little Italian I had learned in Otranto, when Esmé and I had come ashore after fleeing from Constantinople, I informed the balloon that help was on its way. When I removed her hobble, Uncle Tom looked at me with grateful loving eyes. I let her lead her little tribe up to the cliff and begin the difficult descent down the twisting sandy path, certain that the Italians’ Gatling would deter any would-be archers. ‘E da servire?’ I called, letting my Lee-Enfield off into the air and badly jarring my shoulder. I was not familiar with the rifle’s legendary kick. Someone once told me that the Lee-Enfield .303 was known as the Hun’s Best Friend in the trenches, yet most Tommies swear by them to this day. The smoking gun in my all-but-disabled hand, I waved friendly greeting to the ballooners. The mitrailleuse did not turn in my direction. This was surely a sign that I was accepted as an ally.

  It was at this point that Uncle Tom went down with a look of startled disgust, legs sprawling at unlikely angles, neck straining, deeply conscious of her ruined dignity. I lost hold of her halter and, in lunging for it, fell to the ground, rolling towards the basket as my rifle went off a second time, bruising my finger and thumb. In confusion, the other camels began to buck and growl, threatening to shed their own loads. I fought to get Uncle Tom to her feet so that we might both re-order our dignity when from the basket ahead, as I settled at last in its shadow, rose a vision of womanhood so lovely that once again I questioned my own sanity. Was this all part of some complicated hallucination? Was I still out in the desert, raving my last?

  She wore a helmet of pale blue silk from which escaped two exquisite red curls on either side of a lovely heart-shaped face. Her gown was fashionably short and matched her cap. Like the cap, it was stitched with scores of pink and blue pearls. I had seen costumes to rival it only in Hollywood. Her fresh complexion, touched lightly by fashion’s demands, her beautiful turquoise eyes, her perfect, boyish figure, were complemented by a self-assured grace as she swung herself over the side crying, in English, ‘How wonderful! Magnificent! My prayers are answered!’ She ran, on low-heeled shoes which matched the rest of her outfit, towards the spot where, with curling mouth, rolling eyes and great melodramatic curses, Uncle Tom was getting to her feet. At last she was steady, to my great relief, but an expression
of acute embarrassment now shadowed her sensitive features. ‘Thank you!’ cried the young woman. Then she turned, as if in apology. ‘I’m terribly grateful. I say, would you mind taking over the Gatling and keeping an eye on the natives? They’ve been a nuisance ever since I crashed, but I don’t want to hurt them.’ She began to lug at the bales of fabric on one of our camels. ‘Oh, I say! Silk! I couldn’t ask for more! Silk! Silk!’

  With some difficulty I clambered up the rigging and got into what was now very clearly the gondola of an ambitious scientific expedition! There were chests and instrument boxes all around the edges, while at the centre was a small spirit-fired steam-engine, capable, I was sure, of generating the heat necessary to keep the balloon inflated. The basket was oval and had a small propeller which I would guess was next to useless for powering or steering such a large balloon. Gingerly I took the handles of the Gatling in my fingers and peered over the basket’s rail. Down on the other side of the water the dark-skinned Goras were standing about near their tents talking to a young man in a white turban, who would be the son of their sheikh. He was pointing back at the narrow fissure in the rock, evidently the other path into the oasis. I was glad they had lost interest in us for the moment. It gave me time to recover from my surprise that the only occupant of the balloon appeared to be a beautiful young woman whose chief problem was which material to choose for a new costume! I wondered, if I had found her out in the desert dying of thirst, she would not have called delicately for a glass of ice-cold Bollinger’s ‘06. I was a little admiring of such sang-froid in so young a woman and I was reminded of Mrs Cornelius (whom she did not otherwise resemble). In a few minutes she returned dragging a bale of cloth, part of our bogus trading goods. ‘It’s just right.’ She still used English. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I’m being frightfully rude.’ She began to speak in a slow, childish Arabic which became charming on her lips. ‘I am grateful to you, sidhi, for your generosity in aiding one who is neither of your tribe, nor of your religion. God has blessed me.’

  Her manners were rather better than her vocabulary. I decided, for the moment, to let her continue to believe me a simple son of the desert, some noble Bedouin Valentino who had arrived to save her in the nick of time. Admittedly, Valentino had saved his young woman from a fate worse than death whereas I, apparently, had merely broken a sartorial impasse. She put her hand to her little breast and introduced herself. ‘I am Lalla von Bek and I am a flyer. I meant no ill in your land. I was shot down by a stray Arab bullet. See.’ And she pointed at a hole now visible just above the bag’s emblazoned crown. ‘I am on official business for the Royal Italian Geological Society.’

  For my own amusement I replied in English. ‘My brother was doubtless aiming at the cross. I see from your instruments that you are making maps. Perhaps you are seeking gold in our land?’

  She was vehement. ‘Oh, no! It’s oil, anyway, everyone’s looking for. This is a purely scientific expedition. I say, your English is wonderful. Were you educated over there? Or America? Do I detect a trace of Yankee?’

  ‘The wanderlust of the Bedouin is legendary, even among the Nazrini,’ I said. ‘But I have never seen a hot-air balloon as elaborate as this.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ she said, ‘it is rather over-elaborate. It’s very hard to keep height, you know, without throwing everything out. I’d never have been shot down if I’d had the ship I asked for. Still, I must admit, the gun did come in useful. I’m sorry if you hurt yourself. I have a little first-aid experience. If you like . . .’

  I refused manfully. It did not suit me at that point to let her see the whiteness of my skin beneath my robes.

  Like Kolya, I had been burned dark by the sun and had a full beard. I flattered myself that I looked every inch a Saharan nobleman.

  ‘Let the silk be my gift to you,’ I said, observing the courtesies of desert meetings. ‘I hope you will look even more beautiful in it.’

  She seemed impressed by my manners but baffled - then she smiled. ‘Oh, the silk! It’s for the balloon. We’ll cut a panel, oil it with what you have in that jar and make it airtight. I’m sure I have the other things I need. Those beggars down there got the best of my kit. It rolled out when we landed. We bounced a bit, as you can see.’ Reminiscently she dusted at her dress.

  ‘Though I am a bit fussy about clothes.’ She became thoughtful. ‘It doesn’t do to lose your standards.’

  ‘A sentiment you share with the Bedouin,’ I said.

  She was flattered by the compliment. ‘This isn’t what I normally wear, but I was beginning to feel a bit down. A change of clothes will often cheer you up. Now you’ve arrived so I was right to look on the bright side. It’s just like a film, isn’t it?’

  I was not happy to be reminded, just then, of the moving-picture industry. She took my silence for dignified disagreement. ‘I’m sorry, I suppose you’re not allowed to watch them.’ She was gracious. ‘I haven’t given you a chance to introduce yourself.’

  ‘I am the Sheikh Mustafa Sakhr-al-Dru’ug,’ I said, borrowing my name from an old script. ‘Like you, madam, I am an explorer. It is a tradition among my people. We are natural travellers.’

  Enthusiastically she endorsed my opinion, betraying, I thought, a dangerous Arabismus which has led more than one European woman astray. Yet it did not suit me to puncture her illusion. Something told me she would have more interest joining forces with a Desert Hawk than with a Steppe Eagle. Bedouin or Cossack, we still had more in common than we had differences and it was natural of me to assume the role of benign protector to a young girl stranded in the deep desert. It was my instinct, a natural chivalry.

  However, when I asked after ‘dear old Eton’, I was astonished to learn that she was not English at all and had lived there only intermittently. ‘My father was Count Richardt von Bek. My mother was Irish, Lady Maeve Lever of the Dublin Levers. I was finished in England, but I am by birth an Albanian. A second cousin, as it happens, to King Zog. I became an Italian national in 1925.’

  ‘Evidently you are an admirer of Signor Mussolini.’

  ‘Rather! My father always said Italy only did well under brilliant individuals. He was a Saxon, of course, and inclined to overstatement. He preferred the free-and-easy atmosphere of Albania. He was employed by the Turks. Engineers could live like princes in those days. We had a simply marvellous childhood. It spoiled us, really. And then, of course, Mother died of consumption, Father was shot as a traitor and that was the end of it. Luckily they’d taught us to stand on our own feet.’

  ‘You have brothers?’

  ‘Only sisters. They’re all married but me now. Really, I’m an engineer, but I can’t tell you how hard it is to convince people that I’m as good as a man. That’s why I’m here, really. A sort of publicity stunt, you’d call it. So people will take me seriously.’

  ‘I am familiar with such stunts,’ I told her. ‘And have an interest in engineering matters myself.’ My blood quickened at this change of luck. In the middle of the Sahara I had met a personable and pretty young woman who also happened to understand engineering. Such girls, who even today are considered odd, were thrown up by the Great War. I have nothing against them. Many have natural aptitudes in that direction, though as yet we have to see a female engineering genius. They will tell you they are above such things, preferring to sew and cook. Perhaps they really do prefer such activities. If so, it rather proves my point. I continued to treat Signorina von Bek with grave courtesy, delighted at last to meet in the desert someone who understood the difference between an internal combustion engine and a magic nut. ‘Not to mention,’ I added for politesse, ‘Albania.’

  From where I had hobbled them, my thirsty camels were complaining - roaring and grumbling loud enough to drown parts of our conversation.

  ‘Sons of the eagle, indeed!’ she said, indicating the collapsed fabric. She referred, I suppose, to the Albanians’ name for themselves, Skayptar. The smaller the country, the bigger its airs. Just as it is with little men. I reme
mber the Lett, Adolf Ved. His country’s self-advertisement was only matched by its vainglory. And all they had in the way of a cultural tradition was a few borrowed folk-songs, a national hero with an unpronounceable name and a Jewish university. Yet I was grace itself, and she brightened. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘it will soon be sundown. I must offer you daifa. I’ll get the primus going. Natives don’t like to attack, you know, at night. What would you say to some turtle soup and rusks? We could start with some pâté de foie gras and there’s still an excellent St Emilion in the locker somewhere. The champagne, I’m afraid, exploded. The heat and the altitude, I suppose.’ She led me towards the centre of the gondola where she had erected two parasols for shade above a camp table set with silverware and napkin for one. From a locker she produced a second folding chair and from a chest a set of cutlery. ‘I prepared for visitors, you see. Not quite knowing where I was going to land.’ She hesitated. ‘Oh, I say, you’re not forbidden to eat anything, are you? Apart from pork, I mean.’

  I assured her I had the usual traveller’s dispensations and could, with her permission, even join her in a glass of claret. She apologised for her ignorance of my people’s customs. At least, I said, she had an interest in correcting her ignorance and had come to see us for herself and not depend upon the Albanian newspapers to characterise us. She was pleased by this. She said she had been told of the legendary good manners of the Bedouin. ‘I share that quality,’ I told her, ‘with your Don and Kuban Cossacks.’