The Sleeping Sands

by Nat Edwards

  ‘Rumours began to be whispered about the source of her fortune. It was said that she possessed a talisman of great power that had made her rich. These rumours came to the ears of a Bashi Bozuk arrived in the city. The Bashi Bozuk was an ambitious man, with an interest in ancient artefacts. He determined to buy Mrs Walmington’s talisman. He paid a visit to her, offering forth a bag full of gold coins in return for the object that he had heard she possessed. The mad Mrs Walmington took one look at the bag of gold and chased the Bashi Bozuk from the house, babbling away that she would only take coins made by angels and whales and all the usual concerns. Undaunted, the Bashi Bozuk returned the next day to call on Mrs Walmington. This time, he made no offer to purchase the tablet, but rather asked simply to see it, as a fellow antiquarian. Mrs Walmington obliged and left the Bashi Bozuk to examine the tablet while she arranged tea. When they had drunk the tea, the Bashi Bozuk made to depart. At the door, he turned to look at a fine basket of lemons and oranges picked from Mrs Walmington’s garden. He declared that it would be a great honour if he could buy the fruit, and generously offered one of his gold coins for it. Mrs Walmington assented, impressed by the flamboyant Bashi Bozuk’s chivalrous offer and the transaction was duly made.

  ‘That night, Mrs Walmington searched for the tablet but it was nowhere to be found. She slept a restful, dreamless sleep and awoke to the realisation that the tablet had gone. She suspected that somehow the Bashi Bozuk had stolen away the tablet but could not understand how. She sought me out in the bazaar and explained what had happened and together we set out to find the Bashi Bozuk and discover the answer to the riddle.

  ‘It proved easy enough to track down the soldier. He had left sufficient gambling debts and unpaid bills around the city to form a trail leading to his lodgings in a cheap rooming house. When we arrived, the house was in uproar. The servants were weeping and crying and all of the building’s contents were smashed and strewn about in chaos. A foul bitter smell hung on the air and the walls of the rooms were blackened with soot. We found the old woman who cooked for the guests wailing in the kitchen. After supplying her with words of comfort and a liberal dose of arak, I was able to calm her enough that she could relate her story.

  ‘Late in the previous night, she had been disturbed by a terrible noise. She had come into the kitchen to find the Bashi Bozuk, drunk and raving about a demon that was hunting him. He had declaimed that he was a terrible man who had done terrible things and now Allah was punishing him for his crimes. Desperate for atonement, he had grabbed the old lady and begun to stupidly rant some strange tale. He had spoken of finding a rock in the desert that had fallen from the stars and of breaking it apart to discover a deposit of yellow fool’s gold. He told her how he had struck coins from this metal and used it to trick his fellow gamblers. Then, he had added to his sins by tricking an old woman, hiding a valuable item in her fruit basket and purchasing the basket for a counterfeit coin. Now, in payment for his sins, Allah had sent a terrible demon to haunt his dreams and the demon would soon appear to spirit him away. In the middle of his tale he had cried out suddenly that the demon was coming and ran in a panic to his rooms, calling for his guns. A few moments later, there came a terrible roaring, as if of a great wind, followed by scream and a crashing explosion from the rooms. The old lady and the other servants ran to the rooms to find nothing but scorch marks and black ash. In his drunken madness, affirmed the old woman, the Bashi Bozuk had blown himself completely to bits so that not one part of him was left.

  ‘We left the servants cleaning the lodging house and walked in silence to the bazaar, where we took our leave of each other, making a silent agreement to talk no more of the matter. Of the stone tablet, nothing more was seen.’

  The Compassionate Soldier

  ‘The main difference between my story and the tales my brothers have told you,’ said the oldest of the dervishes, ‘is that it is true. It happened many hundreds of years ago, which means that, as my memory is not what it used to be, it is also considerably shorter.

  ‘We can join the story at the point when a young man, eager for adventure, joins the army of the Caliphate. One day, he and his troop are camped at a village, when he sees his fellow soldiers beating a young dervish; the dervishes not being in favour with the Caliph at that time. Spurred by compassion, the young man pulls his comrades from the dervish and rescues him from the beating. He hands him water and a cloth to clean his wounds. In gratitude, the dervish hands the young man a silver token of great antiquity, which he says will guarantee protection from harm to the young man as long as he holds it.

  ‘Impressed, the young man asks the origin of the token. The dervish replies that he found it at the tomb of an ancient Jewish prophet, set deep in the hills. He says that the token is very old and powerful and beyond value. The young man thanks the dervish and asks where this tomb might be found. The dervish is at first reluctant to reveal the whereabouts of the tomb but the young man assures him that he wishes only to ensure his troop do not discover it as they would surely desecrate it as the tomb of an infidel. He seeks to protect the tomb as a means of repaying the dervish for his gift. Reassured by the compassionate young man’s generosity of spirit, the dervish whispers the secret location of the tomb to the boy.

  ‘The next day, the boy tells his troop that he has discovered the source of a great treasure and they all ride out to the tomb. The dervish has been betrayed. All he can do is mutter an impotent curse and pray that forces more powerful than he will repay the young man’s treachery.

  ‘The soldiers reach the tomb and break down its walls, looking for treasure. They find an inner wall, sealed by a great symbol and Hebrew words that they cannot read. In a rage, they smash the infidel writing, breaking down the inner door. There is a great howling of wind and a crash of thunder and from the tomb emerges a terrible beast. It has the head and body of a great angry snake, the forelegs of a lion and the hind legs of an eagle. Roaring and spitting poison, the creature pursues the frightened soldiers, who flee for the safety of the mountains.

  ‘Night falls and, in the middle of the night, the creature strikes. It falls upon the troop and drags away the first of its victims. It takes one of the young man’s comrades off to a cave and proceeds to tear him to pieces. The young man has the terrible sensation of seeing the grisly dismemberment from within the eyes of his unfortunate comrade and of experiencing every rending tear and crushing of bones and sinew. He is wracked with terror and agony for every moment of the night. Exhausted by morning, he leads the troop deeper into the hills, searching for a position they can defend against the monster.

  ‘It is to no avail. That night, the beast strikes again and drags away a second victim. Once more the young man experiences every moment of his comrade’s death and even experiences the sensation of being slowly devoured by the creature. In the morning, he can barely speak but once more leads them to a new place of refuge. On the third night, when the creature comes, the young man throws himself at its feet, desperate that it might take him and save him from reliving the pain of his companions. But the creature ignores him, for he is protected by the silver token. Instead it steps over his prone body to claim the third of its victims.

  ‘At last, after fourteen nights, the attacks cease. None of the young man’s troop survives. He awakes in the morning, alone with nothing save his terrible memories and the silver token. Yet, while an end has come to each of his companions, for the young man, there is no end – no respite. When darkness falls that night, he feels each individual piercing fang; every single tearing claw; just as it had been felt by each and every one of his companions as they died. The compassion for which he had been rewarded is now his curse as night after night he lives and relives the torturous and bloody fates of his fellows.

  ‘His compassion is terrible and relentless. In just a few nights, the young man has experienced more death, fear and agony than any human mind could bear. He is possessed completely. His ears are filled with the echoes of screams and
awful bestial noises; his mouth with the taste of blood. He cannot speak. He can hear nothing above the incessant shrieks and howls. He has become quite mad and wanders from the hills down onto a neighbouring plain, where he staggers from village to village, drooling and moaning – even sometimes screaming – relying for his survival purely on the compassion of the villagers.’

  * * *

  The oldest dervish sat in reflection for long moments. Layard watched the lamplight cast flickering shadows across his creased brown face. At last, after a long silence, the dervish scratched himself absently and spat a lump of brown spittle onto the rug before him.

  ‘There,’ he said, ‘those are our tales. Make of them what you will. Now, brother Foreigner, it is your turn.’

  CHAPTER 12

  THROUGHOUT HIS STAY IN ISFAHAN, Layard could not escape the sense that he was being watched. It was not simply that everywhere he went in the city, passers by would stop and stare at the foreigner. He had soon become used to the unabashed curiosity his presence aroused among the city’s population. He had even learned to ignore the muttered threats and imprecations thrown after him by ragged mullahs and fanatical mountain men who would follow him around the narrow streets whenever he ventured out. His sense of being watched was not born of the casual hostility of the populace but from something more insidious and intangible. In the moments of clarity that seemed to come fewer and fewer, between his mornings drinking with the khan and his evenings of entertainment at the house of the Sufi, Layard could not escape the sense of some invisible and malevolent intelligence observing his every private moment. He tried to dismiss the feeling as a residue of his recent illness but, as his body gradually strengthened, he felt his spirit was weakening with every hour spent in Isfahan. Despite having made every effort to avoid the vicinity of the Matamet’s palace, it seemed as if each night the smooth, passionless face of the Governor would gaze down upon him from a dark recess of his dreams.

  In the evenings, when he was walking home to Boré’s house in the fragrant suburb of Julfa, he would stop at the faintest sound of the breeze rustling in the litter of the street and turn, seeing patches of darkness congealing into the forms of the Matamet’s ferrashes or one of the dervishes’ tomb guardians before dissolving once more into shadow. He felt as if his nerves were slowly being picked apart by the city; as if his very identity was becoming divided. It seemed to him that the city was distilling him into two Layards. One was the fearless, confident adventurer who revelled in exploring new experiences and acquaintances. The other was an anxious and suspicious Layard whose plans were being foiled at every turn. Even friendly faces seemed to take on a hidden menace to this Layard. He began to detect a supercilious contempt in the constant attentive ministrations of Boré and his household. The Sufi began to appear to him as an impish obstacle, diverting him from his journey with a succession of dancing girls and sweetmeats. When the bold young Layard had told his story to the dervishes at the Sufi’s house, the other Layard had watched anxiously, convinced that the three travellers knew far more of his business than they had any right to. Each day, he became more desperate to leave the city and its malignant influences and be once more on the road to the mountains.

  At last, after five weeks of waiting, the khan welcomed Layard one morning with the news that his mullah had consulted the Koran and decreed that the day was a propitious one for his departure to Tehran. It also coincided, by happy fortune, with the day when the money possessed by the khan and his followers had finally run out. The khan and a select group serving as his bodyguard were to travel onward to Tehran, while the rest of his men were to return, along with the khan’s women to Kala Tul, in the care of his brother’s vizier, Shefi’a Khan. The khan also informed Layard that he had received word from the Matamet that a Persian official was to accompany them, who would arrive soon with a firman from the Matamet to his brother that would guarantee Layard’s protection.

  ‘Not that my brother needs such tokens,’ growled Ali Naghi Khan. ‘I suspect that the Matamet has other reasons for sending his official. You should be honoured, Frank, that such an illustrious personage takes an interest in your welfare.’

  He chuckled dryly and inhaled on his pipe, before continuing.

  ‘We await the Matamet’s official in the orange groves on the outskirts of the town. As soon as he arrives, we shall take our leave of each other. I hope that you find what you are looking for in Kala Tul,’ the khan glanced away from Layard, a look of sadness in his eyes. ‘I am jealous of you, Frank. It will be long before I look upon the high peaks of my home again.’

  Layard took his leave of Boré later that day. The Frenchman gave him a thick, wadded quilt and a belt stuffed with coins.

  ‘Remember, Monsieur Layard,’ he warned, helping the Englishman to fasten the money-belt under his tunic, ‘the Bakhtiari will take it as a mortal insult if you try to pay for anything during your time among them. Like all of the nomadic people of this region, they consider it a sacred duty to show hospitality to strangers and they are perhaps the fiercest among all the tribes when it comes to observing this duty. Having said that, if they see you with any money, they will lose no time at all in relieving you of it.

  ‘We Europeans are at constant pains,’ he continued, ‘to understand the peoples and culture of this region. Alas, I suspect it will be a long time before our masters back home truly understand the minds of people such as the Bakhtiari. We have too much of our own historical baggage, n’est ce pas? How can we hope to understand a man who, without a second thought, will lay down his life for you on the strength of having shared a bowl of sour milk yet who will no more hesitate to cut your throat to take possession of your watch?’

  Layard made a point of tucking his watch and compass deep into a fold in his money belt. He thanked Boré for his hospitality and set out to meet with his Bakhtiari guides, leaving behind letters to be posted home to Aunt Sara, a report that was to be passed to his uncle through the offices of a mutual acquaintance and, as far as he could tell, his last point of contact with the Society. From this point on, his fate was entirely in his own hands and those of the unknowable and unpredictable Bakhtiari.

  The Matamet’s official, a fat, petulant man of superior airs and coarse manners, arrived with the Bakhtiari party the following morning, many hours after the arranged time. As a result, Layard and the rest of the party had spent an uncomfortable, hungry night among the orange trees and tempers were far from their best as the two caravans set out. On the road to Tehran rode the khan and six of his strongest warriors on finely caparisoned horses. On the other, a mixed bunch of Bakhtiari horsemen and matchlock-men on foot, along with muleteers, servants, the khan’s women and household, Layard and the Matamet’s official made far slower progress. Trudging up the long, rocky mountain trails towards the Bakhtiari country, the party were forced to beg for food along the way; the khan’s money having been exhausted. The Matamet’s official would demand mutton and rice from the headmen of the villages they passed through, while the rest of the party settled for whatever boiled wheat and scraps they could muster. Layard, mindful of Boré’s warning, opted to eat with the tribesmen rather than attempt to buy any provisions of his own.

  The road to Kala Tul was long and far from secure. Their path led through a number of disputed territories and some that were openly hostile to Mehemet Taki Khan. As a result, fleeting exchanges of musket fire with shadowy figures were common on the journey and a strict rotation of watches was kept at night. Nerves were tense among the travellers and few had any time for the gaunt foreigner with haunted eyes whose rough tongue struggled with the characteristic Persian dialect spoken by the Bakhtiari. The only member of the party to show any real interest in Layard was a young daughter of the khan, called Lady Moon.

  Lady Moon was about eight years old, with the stare and courage of a mountain lion. Clearly feeling that the caravan’s guards needed both supervision and reinforcement the child had taken to patrolling up and down the length of the pa
rty whenever it came to a halt. Early in the journey, she had discovered Layard and had developed a fascination with the strange foreigner. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, she would insist on riding before him in the saddle, from which vantage point she would accompany the dull rhythms of the journey with a bright melody of questions and laughter. As the days passed, she seemed not to tire of her interrogation of Layard, who in turn found the child’s company a welcome balm for his troubled soul and a source of useful practice in the Bakhtiari dialect.

  ‘Mr Foreigner?’ Lady Moon began as they set out one morning.

  ‘Now, you must call me Henry,’ said Layard, ‘because we are good friends.’

  ‘Henry, then,’ continued Lady Moon, ‘do the girls in England have to make carpets all the time when they want to be playing and learning how to shoot?’

  ‘Perhaps not carpets,’ replied Layard, ‘but they have to learn how to sew and help their mothers and sometimes they may even have to go to school for a year or two.’

  ‘School?’ asked the child, ‘what is that?’

  ‘School is a place where you go to learn a great many different things,’ answered Layard.

  ‘That sounds like a wonderful place,’ said Lady Moon. ‘Do you learn how to ride a horse and shoot a musket?’

  ‘Nothing quite as useful as that,’ laughed Layard, ‘it’s all mostly numbers and books and ancient languages that nobody speaks any more.’

  ‘Is that why you can’t speak very well, Henry?’ Lady Moon looked seriously at the Englishman. ‘Sometimes you speak worse than my little baby brother.’