The Sleeping Sands

by Nat Edwards

  For the tiniest of moments, among the honey-stained columns of Jerash, plague, penury and adversity were completely forgotten and a happy peace was the only sense in anyone’s heart.

  Two hours later, the big soldier was still chuckling softly to himself as he watched the pair disappear from sight into the distant hills. He scratched himself in a lazy, ursine manner and smiled. He stretched and took a small, dirty notebook from his pouch, and excavated a tiny stub of pencil from behind his ear. With a slight protuberance of pink tongue poking from between his full stubbly lips and frowning in concentration, he painstakingly and deliberately began to write a series of numbers, drawn in an almost childishly particular manner. Pausing every now and then to mop some sweat from his brow or to mutter some calculation, at length he filled a page of the notebook with tightly packed ranks of numbers. He tore it carefully from the book and called to a skinny young Arab who had been leaning against a wall in the shade of a nearby temple.

  ‘You are the swiftest runner, I am told?’

  ‘Yes, Effendi, I am.’

  He folded the paper casually and handed it to the boy, along with a gold five piastre coin.

  ‘Take this to Colonel Yusuf Effendi, in Hebron,’ he glowered at the boy. ‘No delay. Get it there quick and you’ll get two more of these.’ He gestured to the coin. ‘Too slow and don’t let me ever find you.’

  ‘Yes, Effendi!’

  The boy scampered back along the road, in the direction of Hebron, red dust flying from his heels. The Bashi Bozuk scratched the back of his enormous, grubby neck and stowed the notebook back into his pouch. He carefully inserted the stub of pencil in a crease behind his ear, sighed and walked slowly towards his horse.

  CHAPTER 5

  AS SOON AS HE HAD SEEN THE BASHI BOZUK’S TOKEN, Haym had welcomed the travellers without question. He was a gentle, cultured man who had come, with many of his people, to find a new home among their ancestral lands. It had not been easy for the settlers. In the earthquake three years previously, some 4,000 members of the local Jewish community had met their deaths.

  ‘It hit the Jews especially hard,’ he explained, in soft, faultless Italian, over a cup of peppermint tea.

  ‘The earthquake struck during one of our festivals,’ the pain of memory darkened his fine features, ‘when most of my people were gathered together in the synagogues at Tiberias and Safed. It was truly terrible. The buildings collapsed within a matter of moments – leaving little time for those within to escape.

  ‘When the survivors returned to what was left of their homes, they soon found themselves to be held up as scapegoats for the disaster. If it had not been for our friend,’ he indicated the token, now sitting on the table before him, ‘I and my family would certainly have been massacred.’

  He picked up the token and ran its well-worn faces between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing it across the table to Layard, ‘I think that you should keep this. It might bring you some luck.’

  ‘It has already brought us the good fortune of meeting you, Signor Haym,’ asserted Layard, gratefully taking back the sefira. ‘Do you really think that you can help us cross the cordon?’

  Haym creased his brow and thought for a minute. Outside, Layard heard the faint rumble of distant thunder. He could taste the faintest sense of electricity on the air. Shivering slightly, he took another sip of the warm, sweet tea.

  ‘You will need to arrange a firman from the Muteselim in Safed,’ Haym said, dropping his voice a little and leaning forward slightly. ‘Alas, I do not know how much currency such a document will have in these difficult times. I fear that you will still need to move quietly and in secret. It is a delicate task.’

  He sat a while longer in silence, scrutinising Layard’s face, as if searching for a sign that he could put his trust in the Englishman. He leant back in his chair and took a little tea, appraising Layard over the rim of his cup.

  I have a countryman in Safed,’ Haym said at length, running his fingernail absently along the edge of a faded silk runner on the table. ‘He does much business between here and Damascus. I have found that he has often been able to lay his hands on goods that are otherwise hard to come by. His name is Shimoth. If anyone can find a way for you across the quarantine, it is he.’

  ‘Can he be trusted to help us?’

  ‘He is a good friend of mine and a brave fellow. He can be trusted. Besides,’ added Haym, pouring more tea, ‘a great many of us are thankful for the peace that our mutual friend negotiated. We travelled a long and hard road to settle among the country of our forefathers and are more than a little happy not to have to flee it once more. Shimoth will help you for the Egyptian’s sake, if nothing else.’

  In Safed, Layard found that Haym had been true to his word. Shimoth proved to be as hospitable and helpful as his countryman. After Layard had spent several frustrating hours arranging a firman from the local official, Shimoth was a welcome and generous host. He insisted on feeding Layard and Antonio with a series of fine, luxuriant meals while they rested in his house, awaiting news of a guide that Shimoth assured them would take them to their destination. Despite the relative ruin of the house which had, like so many, not survived the earthquake unscathed, Shimoth still managed to secure two comfortable divan beds for the weary travellers. Not since leaving Hebron had Layard felt so comfortable nor so welcomed. He mused at finding such a civilized welcome among the remote and earthquake-ravaged towns; at finding settlements of such a familiar European character. Sitting around Shimoth’s fire, engaging in polite conversation with his friends and enjoying the relaxed and un-mannered company of his wife and daughters, Layard felt that he could almost be back in Mrs Austen’s salon. Outside the shattered walls, there may have been plague, upheaval and the menace of war, yet inside there was only the warmth of humanity. Even Antonio, who had been taught all manner of nonsense about Jews by his Italian friars, began to relax his suspicion a little. He would sit in bashful silence on the edge of the company and smile in mute embarrassment when one of Shimoth’s beautiful daughters occasionally asked him a question.

  As the hours wore on and there was still no news of their guide, Layard began to fret about his chances of meeting Mitford in Damascus. Their agreed meeting date had long since passed. He pressed Shimoth for information about the man who was to guide them across the Jordan and through the plague quarantine.

  ‘Ahmed Saleh is a trustworthy man,’ said Shimoth, reassuringly. ‘His mules have trod many hidden paths through the hills for me, on more occasions than I can remember. I have never yet lost a consignment; nor has Saleh ever sold me short. When we had the trouble after the ‘quake, Saleh himself hid my daughters at his home to protect them from the fanatics. He will guide you faithfully.

  ‘I have sent word to his family, in the village of Zeytun. He will come as soon as he can – but you may have to wait a day or two more. There are patrols of irregular cavalry even out here, hunting for deserters and new recruits. What is more, as the Pasha’s men have been dwindling in numbers, the Bedouins have been getting more daring in their raids on travellers and pilgrims. The roads are no longer safe. Discretion, rather than speed is needed to pass through the hills. Saleh is the most discreet man I know. He will be here.’

  ‘I am sorry if I seem impatient,’ apologised Layard. ‘It has been a longer journey than I hoped. Without the kindness of men such as yourself and Signor Haym, I truly despair of having even got this far. I am at your mercy.’

  ‘You have no need to worry about that,’ said Shimoth kindly, ‘it is a sacred duty to care for the foreigner among us – it is one of the oldest creeds of our people.’

  ‘It is a creed that my own people forget too often,’ mused Layard, remembering impassioned discussions with Ralph and Ben Disraeli about the welcome extended to Jews in European states. He called to Antonio to check their packs once more so that there would be no delay on departure. Getting no answer, he turned to see the boy sit
ting and staring in awestruck worship at one of Shimoth’s daughters.

  ‘Antonio,’ he barked, slightly irritated at having to repeat himself, ‘stir yourself, boy. We need to be ready to leave at the shortest notice.’

  The next morning, news at last arrived of Saleh. One of the Arab’s young sons arrived at Shimoth’s house with the message that his father would receive Layard at Zeytun that evening. He assured the impatient European that his father would be happy to take them on their journey at first light on the following day. This was a further delay for Layard but he took solace in the fact that he would soon resume his mission. He spent the rest of the morning carefully reviewing and organising the notes and sketches that he had made on the road from Hebron. Antonio sat in silence, watching his employer shuffle through the papers, muttering to himself and occasionally making some additional note or else peer curiously at one drawing or another. In the way that he would painstakingly read and re-read his notes and pour over each of his sketches, rotating it in his hand to examine it from fresh angles, it seemed to the boy as if the European was searching for some hidden but critical thing that he had somehow missed.

  If he had expected some revelation, it was not forthcoming. The sun rose higher as Layard sat, muttering and scribbling. Antonio began to shift in his seat and to gaze out of the window towards the courtyard, where Shimoth’s household and many business partners and customers were coming and going. Every now and then a shift in his posture or an extra craning of his neck betrayed the brief appearance of one of the Jew’s daughters. At length, Layard completed his paperwork and fastidiously tied the papers into a tight bundle, which he packed into a slim soft leather wallet and tied to his chest, covering it with his now tattered and stained linen shirt. He sat, frowning for several long minutes in silence and then stirred himself, informing Antonio that he planned to spend some more time talking to the Jews in Safed and that he would not need Antonio’s assistance until they departed later that afternoon. With relief, Antonio sprung to his feet, a smile on his face.

  ‘Very well, Effendi,’ he chirped, ‘I will find some chores to do to help Signor Shimoth’s family.’

  If Layard noticed Antonio’s eagerness, he showed no evidence of it. Lost deep in his own thoughts and his anxiety about the delay, he strode off towards the ruins of Safed’s synagogue with his head bowed and a deeply furrowed brow.

  In the courtyard, Antonio was helping Shimoth’s youngest daughter draw water from the well and fill large earthenware jars. He shyly let her interrogate him as he enthusiastically hauled on a rope and pulley that operated a chain of ingenious shallow buckets, each tilting as it left the well to fill the jars. Against the reedy songs of a grasshopper and the creaking of the pulley she happily bombarded him with questions and delighted to see him blush deeply with each tongue-tied attempt to answer.

  ‘Is Signor Layard a good master?’ she asked, leaning forward slightly in a vain attempt to make eye contact with the bashful dragoman.

  ‘Ah, he is, I think,’ stammered Antonio, acutely conscious of the sweat that was running down his face and neck as he hauled on the pulley.

  ‘That is to say, I am sure he is – but I don’t really know any other master apart from the friars who raised me. I,’ his voice dropped to little more than a whisper, ‘I don’t know much of the world.’

  ‘I think he is very handsome,’ she observed casually, ‘don’t you?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t think so – I mean,’ he cast about for the correct answer, ‘I don’t know whether he is handsome.’

  ‘Well, he is,’ she asserted, ‘although I think he is very serious. He seemed to have a very grim face when he passed through the courtyard earlier.’

  ‘Oh, he is not always so serious,’ said Antonio, remembering Layard’s impulsive gaiety in the ruins of Jerash, ‘but he has been through so many trials in the desert that I think his heart is very heavy.’

  ‘Why – has your journey been dangerous?’ she asked, suddenly serious in her concern.

  Her concern and the memory of the past weeks had the effect of opening up an uncharacteristic torrent of words from Antonio.

  ‘Miss, you could not possibly imagine the dangers that we have been through in the desert!’ he affirmed, his eyes saucer-wide with conviction and the recollection of his ordeals.

  ‘We have been set upon by bandits and wild tribes who were all disposed to cut our throats and rob us of every penny. We have travelled through lands where there isn’t a drop of water; where the sun burns us every second of the day and where the night freezes us to the bone. We have been alone in wildernesses full of savage wild beasts as well as djinns and demons and God alone knows what else. We have been shot at, stoned, beset by angry mobs, chased across half the countryside,’ with a slight catch in his throat, Antonio’s voice continued to rise in excitement. ‘We have been lost among graveyards full of serpents and ghosts. We have travelled through a plague-infested, cursed countryside. We have faced killers and cutthroats at every turn and have had to rely for our safety and guidance on the biggest collection of thieves and brigands you have ever met. It has been a long nightmare of terror – and everywhere we have travelled, every single person that we have met has tried to steal my red cap!’

  Antonio snatched his tarbush from his head and stood, wringing it in his hands. Tears welled into his eyes and he looked nervously around the courtyard, as if expecting a renewed attempt upon his cap from some hidden quarter.

  The girl put her hand to her mouth to mask a soft giggle at the comical sight of the dragoman. A little ashamed at laughing at his genuine fear, she touched his hand, still clenched in a tight grip on his cap, and asked him gently, ‘Why do you still travel with Signor Layard, Antonio? The road is bound to be full of yet more perils. My father has a caravan leaving for Jerusalem next week. I am sure that he could find a place for you with it. In the meantime,’ she added coyly, ‘you would be welcome to stay here.’

  Antonio stood, dumbstruck for a moment, looking at the deep brown eyes of the girl. His heart burst with an ache of longing for another week in the company of Shimoth’s lovely daughters; for friendship, safety and the chance to return to Jerusalem and the friary that once had been his whole world, until Layard had dragged him into the insane chaos of the realms beyond its walls. The girl’s casual offer was more than he could have ever dared to wish for. It was salvation. Momentarily forgetting his shyness, he gazed at his angel with intense gratitude.

  Then, he sighed deeply, placed his tarbush squarely on his head and looked back down at his feet.

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ he stammered. ‘Your offer is too kind, but I must stay with Signor Layard. He hired me to be his dragoman and he would be alone without me.’

  He stood a little straighter and explained, with a shy pride, ‘It is my duty.’

  Spots of rain began to fall. A breeze blew up and Antonio shivered involuntarily in the sudden chill. The girl gazed at the boy with a mixture of respect and sadness.

  ‘The weather’s changing,’ she said quietly. ‘Let’s get these jars inside.

  The rain fell for the rest of the day. By evening, Layard and Antonio, with their young guide, found themselves trudging heavily through thick mud as they wound down the hill from Safed towards the little village of Zeytun. Saleh’s son had brought one mule, which carried their packs, but the party was now on foot. The donkeys that had bravely carried the travellers from Kerak had been too tired and starved to make the journey. On the insistence of his youngest daughter, who felt that, if she could not prevent Antonio from the folly and discomfort of the road, she could at least do something for the beasts; Shimoth had offered to take care of the animals until they were strong enough to be returned to Kerak. Layard had expressed the firm opinion that the donkeys would be in better hands if they were to remain with the Jew and his family and thanked Shimoth for his kindness. Despite his impatience, he had departed the warmth and hospitality of Shimoth’s house with a feeling of regret. For Anton
io, that regret was magnified a hundredfold and he dragged his feet as they left the town, turning his head at every few paces until the last house vanished from view in the fading light.

  When they reached the village, two hours after sunset, they found the little place a buzzing hive of excitement. A troop of Egyptian soldiers had arrived a little before them, bearing news of the road ahead and demanding food and quarters. Every house in the village had been given its allocation of men to billet and the narrow streets were a hubbub of gossip, laughter and shouting. The soldiers had brought with them worrying news and unwelcome empty bellies to fill and the mood between the villagers and soldiers was tense. Ignoring the questioning looks of the small groups of soldiers and villagers clustered on street corners, Layard strode through the village until he reached the house that his guide indicated belonged to Ahmed Saleh.

  Inside the house, the situation was little different from outside. In the modest two-room dwelling, he found one room to be full of a group of soldiers who had been quartered with his host. The other contained Saleh, his other children and his wife, who gave the travellers a kindly, unaffected welcome. While Saleh went out to tend to his mules, his wife spread mats for Layard and Antonio and went about making a simple meal. As she worked, Layard watched, struck by her appearance. She was tall and handsome, without any sense of arrogance or haughtiness. She wore a long, flowing shirt of blue silk, over woollen twist leggings of many bright colours. Her features, unobscured by a veil, were warm and open and she had a pair of large black eyes with which she fixed the travellers in a direct and un-self conscious manner. Her thick black hair cascaded in ringlets around her finely proportioned face, on each side of which hung long strands of silver coins. She supervised the preparation of their supper in a soft yet gently firm voice and insisted on serving both travellers personally.