The Sleeping Sands

by Nat Edwards

  ‘Sir John, you must do what you can to help him.’

  ‘Mrs Austen,’ pleaded Barrow, ‘you know that I would do anything you asked, but Henry is out of our reach. Relations between Britain and Persia are strained almost to breaking. Any interference by the Admiralty in the area could push our countries to war. There is simply nothing I can do.’

  Sara Austen leaned forward and grasped Barrow’s forearm, tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Sir John, if you bear me any love at all; find a way. I will ask you this but once. Show me that of all Englishmen, at least one retains some shred of character.’

  Sir John Barrow, unable to meet the intensity of her gaze, looked down at the tea set. He seemed to find some resolution in its blue and white pattern.

  ‘Mrs Austen,’ he said, grimly, ‘you have my word. I will do what I can.’

  Sara released his arm and wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She sniffed and smiled sweetly.

  ‘I know you will, Sir John.’

  * * *

  In the high mountains, night fell swiftly. As the last long shadows began to melt together into the dusk, two darker shadows emerged from a clump of scrub and rocks, set in a deep narrow gorge. There was a soft whistle, a faint scrabbling of loose stones and a third shadow flowed down the side of the gorge to join them. In the crepuscular light, the shadows formed an indistinct huddle.

  ‘News?’ hissed the smaller of the first two shadows.

  ‘It is as we were told in Isfahan,’ said the newcomer, ‘the Matamet’s army has marched on Kala Tul.’

  ‘And the way to Khuzistan?’

  ‘It is clear for us. The country is almost empty. Many of the tribes have fled the Matamet. A few, still loyal to the Khan, have gone to defend Kala Tul. More have joined the Matamet.’

  ‘Hmm,’ mused the shadow that had first spoken, ‘the jackals can sense when the lion is about to fall. No doubt the Matamet has promised them the pickings of whatever he leaves behind when he has done with the Khan.

  ‘How long do you think the Khan will hold out against the Matamet?’

  ‘Kala Tul is strong, Effendi,’ replied the newcomer.

  ‘And the weather will soon turn,’ observed the shadow who had not yet spoken, ‘this is not a good time for a war against Mehemet Taki Khan.’

  ‘So why did the Governor march on Kala Tul?’ mused the first speaker, ‘Manuchar Ali Khan is no fool. Why would he choose this time to make his move against the Great Khan?’

  His two companions said nothing. They knew when a question needed an answer and when to remain silent. The evening’s conversation had already become uncharacteristically and uncomfortably discursive. They were more at ease taking orders than offering opinions. Now, they kept their counsel in silence and awaited new instruction.

  The first speaker was as used to answering his own questions as his companions were to holding their tongues.

  ‘It has to be something to do with Layard,’ he concluded. ‘His presence has changed the balance of things. Something has drawn the attention of the Matamet. Perhaps-‘

  He broke off.

  ‘Come,’ he spoke softly but imperatively, ‘we will move into Khuzistan. We travel at night and quietly. On no account can the Society be discovered here.’

  His two Lur companions acknowledged the order by simply turning and moving along the gorge. They walked in single file, leaving a space of several yards between them. With unspoken practice, the Englishman, stepped into the space and the three shadows disappeared into the darkness.

  * * *

  ‘I spoke with Mrs Austen yesterday. She remains very worried about your nephew.’

  ‘My dear sister in law is possessed of a noble spirit. It is to her credit that she has such an interest in the young gentleman’s welfare. I am only thankful that she knows no more about what stakes Mr Layard is playing for.’

  ‘Stakes?’ Benjamin Disraeli turned to William Layard, who was walking beside him along Piccadilly. He stopped, leading the older man to take a couple of steps and then pirouette neatly round to face him.

  ‘Stakes, my boy!’ He laughed and raised his fists in an exaggerated mockery of a pugilist, dancing back and forth lightly on his feet despite his bulk.

  ‘It’s all about Sport, Mr Disraeli,’ he stopped dead, dropping his guard and leaning one huge paw heavily on Disraeli’s shoulder, his face suddenly purple.

  ‘Excuse me a moment, my boy,’ he panted, ‘now what was I saying?’

  ‘You were telling me about sport,’ began Disraeli.

  ‘Ah yes, sport!’ interjected William, his face returning to its normal shade of red as a wide grin spread across it.

  ‘Something you are no doubt fond of, being a practitioner of the Noble Art, eh?’ he dug Disraeli gently in the ribs with a soft round fist the size of a melon.

  Disraeli staggered back a step or two, slipping a little on the icy pavement before regaining his balance.

  ‘I am afraid I don’t follow,’ he said crossly, ‘what has this got to do with Mr Layard?’

  ‘I told you once that there was game in the East, Mr Disraeli,’ explained William Layard, ‘and my nephew has his part to play in it, just as you have.

  ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘one could say, with no significant stretch of the imagination, that there are several games afoot and Henry is playing for an accumulated pot. If he claims it, then we shall all be winners.’

  ‘Mr Layard,’ snapped Disraeli in irritation, ‘you offer nothing new. In place of news all you bring is riddles. Mrs Austen is becoming increasingly distressed with every day that passes without news of her nephew. She has already approached Sir John Barrow for assistance from the Admiralty Office.’

  ‘Oh but my boy, that won’t do – that won’t do at all,’ William Layard’s eyes and mouth became perfect rounds within his moonlike face, ‘you must do everything in your power to prevent such an unwelcome and uninformed interference.’

  ‘Perhaps, Sir, I share Mrs Austen’s concern,’ replied Disraeli, ‘I cannot see what harm it would do to accept any assistance from the Navy in helping to ascertain Mr Layard’s whereabouts and state of health.’

  William Layard looked long and hard at the young man before him. When at last he spoke, it was slowly and seriously, with none of his characteristic circumlocution.

  ‘You have been watched, Mr Disraeli, by gentlemen of my acquaintance for much of your young life. At times we have despaired of you. Your abortive and ill-fated enterprises have at times verged upon the ridiculous.’

  Disraeli opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by a huge finger.

  ‘You have been an incorrigible romantic,’ continued Layard, ‘and have infected many respectable and sober heads with your impetuous schemes. Many have learned far too late that your ambitions have tended to outrace your capabilities.

  ‘Money has been lost – usually belonging to people other than you – and reputations stained,’ he paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle on the younger man.

  At length, he continued, ‘however, my boy, I am the last person to sit in judgement for such minor shortcomings. Hidden away among all the coded letters, striped stockings and unfortunate diseases, my acquaintances have seen in you something special.

  ‘You have a passion, my boy that appears to be indomitable – despite all of your defeats and humiliations. You seem to have a pathological conviction that you are right – no matter what evidence there can be found to the contrary. You are never satisfied with the hand that life has dealt you – no matter how comfortable it appears. In short, you are exactly the sort of man needed for our Project.’

  ‘Project?’ asked Disraeli, his cheeks flushed with a strange mixture of both shame and pride.

  ‘The world is changing around us,’ continued Layard, ‘you know this. You know too that our old ways can do nothing but chain us to the past. We will be left behind. Our ossified society values nobility and social station and neglects any ideas of se
lf-improvement and merit.’

  ‘It is just as I have often said,’ interrupted Disraeli enthusiastically. ‘You are so right! Those foolish old men that run our country have no idea that, unless we encourage a society built on the merits of individuals we shall never adapt to the new world around us.’

  ‘Adapt, my dear boy?’ exclaimed William in mock surprise, ‘Why, it’s not about adapting – nothing quite so short-sighted. Our Project is not to adapt to the new world, dear boy. It’s to run it.’

  He waited, allowing his short speech to have its effect on the younger man.

  ‘It’s time to make your choice, Mr Disraeli. The Future beckons. Are you in?’

  A cold breeze suddenly blew up, catching up a few frosted dead plane leaves from the street and sending them in a ragged procession along Piccadilly with a dry whisper.

  * * *

  In Hebron, the last bastinado of the day was being administered in Colonel Yusuf Effendi’s house. Despite the sun having long set, the room was unbearably hot and stuffy and the Colonel’s men were tired and uncomfortable after a long session with their courbashes. With the uprising spreading, each day seemed to bring more and more poor souls to their door.

  Dimly lit by its glass lamps, the room stank. The Egyptian soldiers cursed silently and wiped the sweat from their brows, making ready to strike the last few blows that would render their victim a crawling wreck. Across the room, the Colonel sat impassively, apparently unmoved by the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

  At that moment, a cool breeze blew into the room, bringing an instant of welcome relief to the soldiers. The breeze blew over their upturned victim, soothing his raw feet.

  ‘Praise be to Allah,’ moaned the man.

  The Colonel shivered momentarily in the unexpected cool air and started, as if from a daydream.

  ‘That is sufficient for today,’ he barked at his men, ‘there are plenty more cases to be heard tomorrow.’

  The flames in the glass lamps flickered as the breeze blew out of the room, sending the soldiers’ shadows dancing across the walls.

  * * *

  In the desert outside Baghdad, four travellers sat deep in conversation around a crackling campfire. Just beyond the edge of the circle of red light cast by their fire, two desert foxes sat, patiently watching the travellers to see if any scraps might be left behind. Had the foxes been interested in the wider affairs of humans, they might have been struck by the curious nature of the four men.

  Three of the men carried coconut shells that marked them out as dervishes. Of these, one was tiny, nut-brown and wizened, dressed in nothing more than motley strips of coloured cloth; another was huge and black-skinned, with gold teeth and a belt of monkey skulls around his fine robes and the third was bald and pink-eyed, with skin as white as ivory. The accent and face of the fourth man marked him as a European, yet his dress was such a bizarre concoction of Arab costume that he made the spectacle of the three dervishes ordinary by comparison.

  The foxes, having little better to do, sat in the dark and listened to the four men’s debate.

  ‘The same thing that drew you here has caused me to leave behind my beautiful wives and wander in the desert once more,’ said the European.

  ‘You foreigners are all mad,’ muttered the ancient dervish.

  ‘Which means that you are most welcome among us, brother,’ laughed the giant.

  ‘But now we have been drawn together, what next?’ asked the albino.

  ‘Do you have any ideas, Frank?’ asked the oldest, poking at the fire with a stick.

  ‘None,’ replied the European, ‘all I know is that for three mornings a great blue jay sat at my window and woke me with his croaking. On the third morning he flew away in this direction and never returned. On scientific reflection, I understood that this was a clear sign that I should travel at once into the desert. I bade my wives farewell and headed out at once after the bird. At length my bearing led me to meet with you. However, I must confess that now I have found you, I am at a loss quite what to do with you.’

  ‘Well, that’s as good a reason as any to go wandering off into the wilderness, I suppose,’ grumbled the ancient.

  He leaned forward and thrust his clawlike hand into the fire, drawing forth a fistful of red embers, which he cast into the air in a shower of sparks. From the darkness of the still desert night a sudden breeze caught the embers and scattered them in a swirling cloud towards the south-east.

  The foxes flicked their tails as they watched the sparks flutter off into the night.

  ‘It’s settled then,’ said the albino, ‘we go that way.’

  CHAPTER 17

  IN HENRY LAYARD’S DREAM, SOMETHING HUGE AND UNSEEN lay in the blackness, breathing great laboured breaths. It was as if Layard had fallen into the dark heart of some great steam engine and all around him invisible giant pistons were grinding back and forth. Yet he knew somehow that this was no mindless thing. He could sense some great and terrible intelligence in the night – a Mind, ancient and filled with loathing. He lay still and silent in terror, lest he should attract that malevolent attention upon himself.

  The breathing sound began to draw slowly nearer. With each breath it became a little louder and Layard imagined the Mind in the darkness to be inching closer and closer towards him. He lay, naked and helpless, an insignificant insect before this great being – something to be squashed or swatted out of existence along with all of the other human insects that had infested the place while the Mind had slept.

  Now, the Mind had awoken and all of its ancient hate was focussed on Layard. His heart raced and he was desperate to fly from that darkness, yet his limbs were frozen with fear and the creeping icy breath of the Mind. Closer and closer came the cold breath so that now Layard could feel it upon his body.

  He awoke with a start, sitting suddenly up in bed and shivering as a cold breeze blew across his sweat-drenched body. He pulled his blankets around his shoulders and rolled onto his side, drawing up his knees into a ball, for warmth and comfort. Just perceptible in his window, the first grey light of dawn was creeping into the castle.

  Try as he might, Layard could not get back to sleep. His pulse was racing and each time he closed his eyes, the great breaths roared in his ears and he would snap them open once more. He was forced to lie, watching the dawn slowly creep in, all the time with a sense of mounting anxiety. Somehow, the day was different. The morning air smelled different. The morning silence was a different silence from usual. He could not shake the feeling that the monotony of the siege was about to end and, with a rising dread, the conviction that it would not end well.

  At last, he could bear it no more. He rose and dressed, armed himself and strode from the enderun to the great hall of the castle. There, he found that he was not the only inhabitant of the castle to have experienced trouble sleeping. The Great Khan was huddled in council with his brother Kerim. He turned to welcome Layard, his face drawn and colourless in the pale morning light.

  ‘You sensed it too?’ he asked.

  ‘It is so quiet,’ replied Layard, ‘it made me uneasy. I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Let me show you the source of your unease,’ said the Khan, gesturing Layard towards the door. He gripped Layard by the upper arm and led him out of the courtyard to a terrace overlooking the plain. Au Kerim marched beside them, cradling a long gun and scowling.

  Below, the plain was full of the detritus of the Matamet’s camp; scattered piles of refuse and waste; torn and discarded linens and canvases and the smouldering remains of countless campfires. Yet of the Matamet’s army and their tents, there was not a sign. The whole force had dissolved into the night.

  Layard stared in disbelief at the empty plain. He turned to question the Khan, but was silenced by a grunt from Kerim and a slight tightening of the Khan’s grip. Kerim gestured to a rapidly approaching cloud of dust that proved to be a Bakhtiari rider.

  Kerim levelled the long gun and took aim at the horseman, keeping a steady bead
on the approaching figure. At last the man drew near enough to recognise. Kerim lowered the rifle.

  ‘One of my men,’ he said, and called to the guards to let the rider pass the gate.

  The Khan released his grip on Layard and hurried after his brother to meet the rider in the courtyard. Layard followed to find the Khan and his brother interrogating the exhausted rider.

  ‘They killed the others,’ panted the man, ‘only I escaped.’

  ‘Where are they headed?’ asked Kerim.

  ‘To Shuster, Au Kerim,’ said the rider, greedily accepting a skin of water from the Khan, ‘they will make their camp there.’

  ‘Go and rest now,’ said the Khan, ‘you have earned it.’

  He turned away from the rider and paced towards the hall, frowning darkly.

  ‘This is very bad my friend,’ he said to Layard, who had followed him alongside Au Kerim. ‘I fear that your stay among us must soon come to an end. I had thought that I might persuade you to join my household.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Khan,’ said Layard, ‘surely it is good that the siege is lifted?’

  ‘I am afraid not, my friend,’ said the Khan, grimly. ‘The Matamet came to Kala Tul to show off the tribes he has won over and to use my foolish brother Ali Naghi Khan to try and persuade me to his terms. He knew he could not win an out and out fight here at this time of year. He used his time here to work his lies on those tribes remaining loyal to me while sending my brother each day with new proposals for peaceful cooperation.

  ‘Why was I so sentimental as to allow my brother’s embassies?’ the Khan slapped a wall in frustration. ‘The Matamet has had months to soften Ali up, with wine and girls; boys – whatever he desired. My brother is a good man but has always had a weakness for life’s pleasures. He believed the Matamet would reward us as allies if we placed Kala Tul under his protection.