Lawrence! His head was suddenly very light and Nordhausen realized that he had been holding his breath the whole time. He had nearly come face to face with a Prime Mover! The image of the man was still fixed in his mind, and the eerie amber glow that enveloped him still left a ghostly impression. Was it real or only something added to the scene by his own imagination? Nordhausen sighed, squinting to try and see where Lawrence had gone. He shuddered, taken by a chill on the morning mist. His hands were shaking.
Time was passing, and he forced himself to move. It was his moment of truth, he thought. As he crawled forward toward the distant bush he tried to steel himself with the awful weight of responsibility that had fallen square upon his shoulders. He was going to save the world, yet he was quaking now like a child approaching some great and mysterious altar of confirmation. He had only to crawl another thirty yards or so and he could grasp the cord of Time in the palm of his hand. It was just ahead: Paul’s little pushpin, or Pushpoint as he always corrected him… Just a little farther… a short creeping crawl on the stony ground of infinity. He was very cold.
24
Minifir - 10, November, 1917 - 7:10 AM
“What is he doing brother?” Hakeem had rolled silently to one side and was leaning close to his brother’s face, his voice frosty on the crisp morning air.
“It is nothing. He waters the desert. Perhaps our coffee is too strong for the English. Go back to sleep.” Hassan shifted on his mat, still trying to avoid the troublesome stone he had overlooked when he prepared the place for sleeping.
“No brother, he is wandering away from the camp.” Hakeem whispered to him with more urgency now, and Hassan reluctantly rolled and craned his neck to see. The strange Englishman was stretching and strolling slowly toward the edge of the shallow depression where they had set their camp. Hakeem was not mistaken. The man’s movements belied a hint of caution to indicate that he was up to something. Each step took him a little farther from the camp site, and he seemed to be making great pains to walk as silently as possible.
“Does he think to sneak away from us? I can hear his army boots grinding the gravel in my sleep,” said Hakeem. “He moves like a wounded camel.”
“Yes, but where is he going?” Hassan rose slowly, propping himself on one elbow. “Let us wait a moment. When he is out of sight we will gather up the camp and see what mischief he plans.”
“He is a thankless guest!” Hakeem expressed his disapproval. “It is not fitting to eat at a man’s fire and then steal away like a thief when he takes his rest.”
“The English are a strange people,” said Hassan. “Look, he has rounded the spur of the hill. Gather up the camp and we will follow him.”
The two men moved quickly, rolling their belongings into the center of the prayer mats and binding both ends with a hemp cord. Hassan took a moment to extinguish all signs of their fire, blending sand and loose soil into the pit and scattering a few rocks about the site. They would leave the place exactly as they found it, making as little impression on the land as possible.
“Shall we pray, brother?” He gestured to the scrawny Hakeem. “The day is upon us.”
“And what of the Englishman?”
“He will not get far, and we will find him easily enough. The English are not difficult to find in the desert. They think the land is set before them for their pleasure, and they abuse it with every step. His trail will be obvious. How can such people be so mighty in the world?”
“They make wonderful things.”
“Mischievous things,” Hassan chided. “A rifle is one thing, but these metal trains and strange machines that take to the air—”
“They are terrible, but wonderful,” said Hakeem.
“They are an abomination. Do you envy them?” His voice scolded. “We will pray first, and then go.”
“But we have already prayed, brother. He will escape us.”
“It was dark before. Now comes the sun. Do not worry about the Englishman. He will not get very far.”
They stooped quietly to the earth, facing south with a low bow to the holy places that slept beyond the far horizon. Hassan began to pray.
“Falaq – The Dawn is come. In the name of God the most gracious, the most merciful. I seek refuge with the Lord of the Dawn.”
“From the mischief of created things,” said Hakeem, knowing why his elder brother had chosen this prayer.
“From the mischief of darkness as it overspreads,” said Hassan, “and from the mischief of those who practice secret arts.”
“And from the mischief of the envious one, as he practices envy.” Hakeem bowed low, as if to seek forgiveness in the bosom of the earth.
“Then let us rise in the protection of Allah, and greet the day.”
They were soon on the trail of their guest, studying the ground where he had crept away and reading his movements with little difficulty. “The mist will hide him, brother, but we must keep our distance nonetheless. When the daylight comes we will see what he is planning.”
“Perhaps he is only impatient,” said Hakeem. “He wishes to find el Aurens again.”
“Yes, but he is likely to find a bullet in the head first. The Serahin are riding with Aurens on this raid. They are a foolish people. They will shoot at anything that moves in the desert, and then run to find holes in the sand. We must be cautious as well.”
“Ha! We are of the Harith! Our heritage reaches back two thousand years in this land. The Serahin are very young. They will not see us. If they do, they will think us spirits moving on the morning mist and pluck out their beards with fear.”
“Well said, brother.”
They moved, like silent phantoms, their footfalls light on the ground and rocks as they threaded a nimble path through the stony terrain. It was not long before they caught sight of the Englishman, and they smiled to see how he lumbered along, trying his best to be stealthy, but failing badly. The man seemed to be making his way around the northernmost hump of Minifir, and he was bent on reaching the furrowed land between the twin hills where the rains had cleared a runoff channel that flowed down to the rail line.
They watched how he crouched behind a large boulder, and then Hakeem looked at his brother with wide eyes. “A machine is coming!”
Hassan listened, his eyes first searching the skies but then drifting to the horizon as he realized a train was hastening down from the north. They saw it a moment later, moving with bothersome noise and unfeeling urgency as it squealed along the metal rails. A column of dark smoke belched from a coal-black stack on the front of the engine. It dragged a short line of closed box-cars behind it, and Hassan gave them a disdainful smirk.
“By God the clatter of such things,” he breathed.
“How fast it goes!” Hakeem’s eyes betrayed a glint of fascination, but the glance from his elder brother squelched his enthusiasm.
“Not so fast as a good stallion from our father’s herd.”
“Oh, no,” Hakeem was quick to agree, though his thoughts harbored a hint of doubt.
“And it stinks as well.” Hassan gave the train a dismissive wave. “Nothing should be about such noise and haste at this hour of the morning. It is unseemly.”
“We are fortunate el Aurens let it pass, brother. Only six cars and not much for plunder.”
“Yes, he will wait for a long train. He is the only Englishman with any sense in his head. Sometimes I think he must have the blood of our people in him.”
“Could this be so?”
“I have heard it spoken.”
“Look, brother, the other Englishman is moving again.”
“He thinks to creep up on the Serahin while they are hiding themselves from that machine,” said Hassan. “Let us follow him as well.”
They moved closer, their gray robes hugging the ground like silent fog. Their quarry was awkward and obviously fatigued. His movements seemed sluggish and strained.
“The man’s boots are too tight for him,” said Hakeem.
�
��Yes, he should have thrown them away. How can he feel the ground? A good pair of sandals would have served him better.”
They crept forward in Nordhausen’s wake, until they had rounded the northern hill and were well into the cloven depression in the center. They paused, watching where the Englishman seemed to crouch in tense anticipation.
“Look how his hand shakes,” Hassan breathed.
“Hush, brother!” Hakeem hissed a sibilant warning. He had spied movement and saw another man, in white Meccan robes, coming up from the rail line. Hakeem squinted at the figure as the two brothers pressed themselves flat on the ground. “It is him!”
“El Aurens?” Hassan’s eyes and ears were not so good as his younger brother.
“Yes! Allah be praised. I know him by his headdress. Look, he makes for that low sage in the middle of the wadi. Should we go to him, brother? Perhaps he will let us join his raiding party.”
“Quiet!” Hassan gave him a warning stare. “We must see what the Englishman is about. Why does he not move? Surely he has labored to meet this man here.”
They waited, expecting their quarry to announce himself and complete the tryst that he had obviously been planning, but the Englishman did not move. It was almost as if he did not want to reveal himself, as if he was afraid to be seen. Hakeem was still gaping in awe as he watched the resplendent figure of Aurens while he worked the earth at the base of the low sage. Then the man stood up, looking over the ground as if he sensed the presence of the three intruders. The two Arab brothers lowered their faces to the earth and joined the quiet stillness of the morning, invisible to all but the most careful eyes.
A white mist seemed to descend from the sky, veiling the ground ahead. When it parted they saw that Aurens was making his way up the side of the hill, probably to join the Serahin raiders who waited there. They caught a brief glimpse of the Englishman, crawling forward with labored effort through the vapors that still shrouded the hillside. He seemed to be making for the same low sage that Aurens had visited.
“Ah!” Hassan breathed a sigh of realization. “This was to be a secret meeting, Hakeem. Look! Perhaps Aurens left something at the roots of that sage yonder.”
“A message?” Hakeem suggested the first thing that came to mind. “Or perhaps gold? Why would he not speak with this man face to face?”
“The English are devious people,” said Hassan with obvious suspicion in his voice. “Some say they come here only for what they think they might keep when the war is finished. Some say they would use us to beat upon the Turks, and then go home when we have won their war for them. I do not like this. There is mischief here.”
“Brother!” Hakeem seemed to be searching the ground ahead, his eyes darting about with alarm. “The Englishman!”
“Will you shout so the Serahin will hear us?” Hassan started to chastise his younger brother again, until he realized the cause of his surprise. He peered into the misted gully, looking this way and that, but seeing nothing.
“He is gone brother,” Hakkem mouthed the words with great surprise. “The Englishman is gone!”
“What is this?” Hassan was not so quick to believe. “He must have scrambled off to meet El Aurens. Are you sure you do not see him? Look closely. He must be there.”
“I see nothing.” Hakeem’s eyes watered over with fear. “I saw him crawling to reach the sage, and then… a moment later…” His hand cupped his chin, covering his mouth as if he feared to say more.
“This cannot be.” Hassan tried to keep his voice low, but his frustration was obvious. The two men looked at one another, each trying to surmise the answer to the riddle in the other’s eyes. The haunting howl of a wild dog pack came to them from afar, breaking the tense stillness of the morning. There was a slight breeze sweeping up the wadi from the open lands beyond, yet the mist ahead seemed impervious, hanging like frosty vapor over the ground.
Hakeem shivered with a sudden chill of fear. “The Beni Hillal,” he rasped. He was speaking of the ancient peoples who had first settled this land. They were long since gone from the earth now, but tales were still told to frighten children from wandering too far from their campfires in the desert. The Beni Hillal had built all the old forts, six haunted towers and many water cairns in this region, in the deeps of time, long ago. They were gone now, but it was said that their dogs still roamed the night, and howled at the first light of the dawn, restlessly seeking their masters.
“Be still brother, you speak nonsense.” Hassan was not one to believe the old myth, though his eyes betrayed a moment of fear as the distant wail of the dogs swelled and then faded to wretched silence. “They are but jackals; hyaenas, nothing more.”
“The Beni Hillal!” Hakeem was not dissuaded. His fear was unseemly, and he hid his face from his brother, ashamed that he should be so unnerved. Yet his eyes had seen a strange thing just now, and it shook his frame with fright. The Englishman was there, not twenty meters ahead on the stony bed of the wadi. He moved, his frame shaken by unseen hands. The white mist descended upon him, and Hakeem thought he could feel the morning air grow colder, as though chilled by the breath of some unnatural thing. When he looked again, the Englishman was gone. He had vanished! By God, by Holy God, he was gone!
He covered his face. “Allah be praised,” he whispered. “Protect us from the mischief of those who practice secret arts…” The words of the morning prayer returned to him, haunting and replete with new meaning. He was very frightened.
Hassan saw his brother’s fear, but he fought to quell the rising sense of unease in his own heart. He must see this thing for himself. The Englishman must be there. How far could he have crawled, or even run? He would go and look for the man. “Wait here, brother. Do not be fearful. Allah, our God, protects us. I will go and see where the Englishman has run. You will see.” He gave his younger brother a reassuring nod and started off, creeping low on the ground as he made his way forward. He would steal up on the low sage and see what mystery it struggled to hide from the gray morning.
When he was half way to the place, he felt a frosty chill on the air. The ground itself seemed icy to his touch and he drew his hands back from the stones, suddenly afraid. He shivered, struggling to master his emotions. He would not be shamed before his brother. He was elder, and he must not give way to the terror in his heart. He prayed to Allah, that he be protected from the darkness that seemed to surround his mind, and he forced himself to creep forward, his hands shaking in spite of every effort.
He made his way to the low sage, but there was no sign of the Englishman, or of Aurens. He stood up, looking this way and that, confused and frightened. Then his foot struck something hard that had been concealed beneath the plant. He looked to see the squat, rusted box of an exploder. He had nearly knocked it on its side with the frantic movements of his search. El Aurens had put it there to fire the charges hidden beneath the rail line. God save him, he must not lay hands upon this thing. He searched about, desperate for some sign of the Englishman, but he was nowhere to be seen. He studied the ground, using all his art and craft for reading the signs of passing feet, but it was clear to him that only one man had come to this place, and he had been very careful to mask his passage. Where would the Englishman go if not here? A great doubt descended on him, like the darkness he sought refuge from in his morning prayer. There was mischief here, strange, unaccountable mischief. He turned and fled, back along the trail he had taken, but he edged away from the cold spot in the earth, unwilling to traverse that ground a second time. When he reached his brother the fear in his eyes was obvious, though he struggled to master it.
“I do not need plunder,” he breathed.
“Nor I.”
“I am weary of following this Englishman. Let him go. He must suffer the fate that Allah has ordained for him.”
Hakeem nodded his approval. All thought of joining Aurens and his raid on the Turkish trains had left him. They were very far from home, and he wanted to get as far from this place as he could. In
truth, he was terrified, and he had seen the same fear in the eyes of his elder brother, though he would never speak of this aloud. It was unseemly. It was unholy.
It was wrong.
MERIDIAN
Part IX
Retraction
“Have you come to the Red Sea place in your life,
Where, in spite of all you can do,
There is no way out, there is no way back,
There is no other way but through?”
Annie Johnson Flint: At the Place of the Sea
“I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die.”
Shakespeare: Richard III, Act V.iv
25
Hejaz Railway, Minifir - 10, November, 1917 - 11:50 AM
Whether by chance or great good fortune, Paul’s quiet presence on the roof of the officer’s coach was not noticed as the train made its way inexorably north. He passed a moment of anxiety when the train went through another small outpost. Several of the buildings at the station there were high enough to spy him from an upper window, but no one seemed to be looking. He remained utterly still, appearing no more than a vagabond stowaway to any who might see him. One soldier did make a passing glance as the train rolled through its last depot before Minifir. The mail bags had been thrown from a box-car while the train was still moving, and the soldier gave Paul a curious look. Apparently he had seen such stowaways before. A lone Arab hardly seemed worth the effort to raise an alarm. It was an insignificant trespass and nothing came of the incident.
Paul clung to his precarious post, cold and wet; still shivering from the night and taking little comfort from the occasional fingers of sunlight that filtered through the dark gray clouds. The train made its way north, and he soon spied a telltale rise in the ground ahead, which resolved into the looming shape of a double hillock. They were approaching Minifir at last! Kilometer 172 lay nestled in the lee of these inconsequential hills, though Paul knew they marked the outermost edge of a twisted Nexus Point of history. The Meridian of Time would pass beneath their unknowing watch, like the rail line, and lead on to events of overwhelming significance.
Meridian - A Novel In Time (The Meridian Series) Page 26
