The Sleeping Sands

by Nat Edwards

  ‘Great Khan,’ he cried, ‘you shall see them again. Your son is safe now. Your people are free to ride against the Matamet, with the Ch’ab Arabs at their side. There are many here among the Matamet’s own forces that despise him for his treachery towards you. Between your forces in Fellahiyah and your sympathisers in Shuster, we can muster a strike force to rescue you and bring down punishment on the Matamet for his crimes. Only give me the word and I will call your forces together. You will be free Great Khan. You will see your family again.’

  ‘Alas, you do not understand, Henry,’ whispered the Khan. ‘No matter what forces you muster, I shall never see my family again.’

  The Khan lifted his scarred face to Layard, leaning slightly forward so that the lamplight flickered across it. Where his eyes had been were now two blackened encrusted holes.

  ‘I will never see anyone again.’

  CHAPTER 21

  LAYARD REMEMBERED LITTLE OF HIS LAST FLIGHT FROM SHUSTER. As he rode towards Fellahiyah, his mind was filled with the pitiful sight of the broken Khan; the great lion of a man bent and shackled in his chair, his ravaged face turned towards his friend. When he caught the eyes of passing travellers upon the road, Layard could see nothing but the dark, blood-stained twin void that had confronted him. With every hoof-beat Layard’s imagination wove new images of the Matamet’s men, with their knives and heated irons, working new and grizzly insults on Mehemet Taki Khan’s noble features.

  As the horse’s hoofs drummed on, Layard was filled with a swelling tide of disgust and rage. He no longer paid any attention to the world about him. Goats, farmers and travellers all had to scatter as the frenzied figure of the Englishman bore down the road; racing his own demons in a mad dash for Fellahiyah. He paid no attention to a funeral party on the road; to a group of chanting mullahs; nor to a family of scuttling francolins. He felt neither the changing cool air nor the winds howling down from the mountains. All the while, his shadow rode alongside him. It was a relentless and unforgiving spectre that haunted his every step and taunted him with its constant reminder of the absence of light; of the darkness that snaps at the heels of every man and threatens to engulf him when he can no longer outrun it.

  * * *

  The Khan’s people were no longer in Fellahiyah. When Ali Naghi Khan had returned to hear news of his brother’s capture, he had ordered his people to flee to safety in the mountains, fearing the hospitality of the Ch’ab Arabs would not long outlast the Khan’s authority. To protect the tribe as best he could, he divided the people into three groups and sent each to a different ally of the Khan, hoping that at least some of his erstwhile friends would hold true. Placing Hussein Kuli in command of one group, Au Khan Baba in command of the second and taking command of the third himself, he sent Sefi’a Khan to guide the Khan’s wife, sister in law and the now gravely ill Au Kelb Ali, along with his family retainers to the safety of the chief of the Boheramedi. The Boheramedi was a tribe who owed much to the patronage of Mehemet Taki Khan. Of all the Khan’s allies, their chief, Abd’ullah Khan, could most be counted on for his loyalty.

  In all, some 30,000 of the Khan’s people set forth from Fellahiyah, seeking whatever fate the mountains might hold in store for them.

  Layard arrived to find the marshes empty of the Bakhtiari. He rode to Fellahiyah to seek news of his friends. As he neared the town, a horseman rode out to meet him. It was Saleh the Lur.

  ‘Effendi!’ called Saleh as he drew near, ‘you are alive! Allah is merciful!’

  Layard reined his horse.

  ‘What happened to you, Effendi?’ asked Saleh, struggling to catch his breath.

  ‘I was kidnapped – by my aunt,’ Layard smiled wryly at the Lur’s bemused expression.

  ‘It’s a long story, my friend,’ he said, ‘for which there is no time now. What is the news?’

  ‘I came back for you, Effendi,’ panted the Lur, ‘but only to find you gone and signs of a struggle – many footprints. I tracked them along the river bank but they disappeared. I feared you had been captured by the Persians, so I stole back into Shuster. I could find no word of you there but I soon discovered the Khan had been captured, so I rode at once to Fellahiyah to warn his people. When I arrived, Effendi, they had already departed.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’ asked Layard.

  Saleh told him what he had gathered from the Ch’ab Arabs; of the tribe’s fragmentation and exodus.

  ‘Do you know where the Boharemadi are camped, Saleh?’ asked Layard.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Well, are you ready for a ride, my friend?’

  Pausing at Fellahiyah only to buy fresh horses, the two men set out immediately. Side by side, they galloped off towards the mountains of Khuzistan after the Khan’s family.

  By the time they reached the foothills, the weather had turned for the worse. Bitter winds howled down from the shrouded peaks. Layard could not escape a sense that some terrible misfortune had followed the winds from the mountains and fallen upon the Khan’s family. He rode for mile after mile, without conversation; grim in his determination to reach the fugitives.

  High above a mountain pass, in a ruined hill-fort, they found what was left of the Khan’s household. It was quite by chance. Deserted and torn apart by some unknown force, the little tower was exposed to the worst of the wintry weather. Its roof had tumbled and two of its walls were shattered. Still, it seemed to offer some semblance of shelter and so Layard and Saleh had climbed up to it as the night closed in. There, huddled against the elements, barefoot and wrapped in a meagre assortment of dirty rags was the Khan’s wife and her sister Khanumi.

  Layard let out a cry and rushed over to the two figures. He ordered Saleh to start a fire and grabbed some blankets from his pack. Once the women had wrapped themselves in the blankets he passed over a flask of strong arak.

  ‘I don’t know if this is at all proper,’ smiled Khanumi bravely, shivering almost too much to speak. ‘A Bakhtiari princess should not accept food or drink from unclean hands – and strong liquor at that!’

  ‘Well if you won’t, I will,’ said Khatun-Jan and grabbed the flask, drinking deeply.

  ‘Thank you, Henry,’ she said, wiping her chin, ‘we did not start a fire for fear of giving away our location.’

  Khanumi reached over and took the flask.

  ‘It seems we were discovered anyway,’ she laughed bitterly after drinking. ‘So you haven’t been gobbled up by wild beasts yet. I don’t suppose you have any unclean food that you also want to inflict upon us, Mr Layard?’

  As Saleh prepared a meal, the Khanum and Khanumi related their story. Just a day’s ride from the marshes, Au Kelb Ali had become seriously ill. Fearing that the end was near for him, Shefi’a Khan led the party to a nearby encampment belonging to the Kuhghelu tribe, hoping to find shelter. Although no friends to Mehemet Taki Khan, the Kuhghelu nomads welcomed the Bakhtiari at first, giving them a rude meal and shelter. In the night, Au Kelb Ali’s strength had finally failed. The Khan’s brother was dead by morning. As the Khan’s family made the body ready for burial, without warning the Kuhghelu horsemen fell upon the group, hacking at the funeral party and cutting down both men and women. Only Shefi’a Khan, the Khanum and her sister had managed to draw weapons to defend themselves before the treacherous attack – which Khanumi pointed out vehemently was against all the rules of hospitality and sanctity; emphasising her point with a string of graphic imprecations against the Kuhghelu.

  Fighting back to back, the two women and Shefi’a Khan had managed to fight their way from the worst of the massacre and made a break for their horses. Before they could reach the horses, however, a second group of enemy horsemen appeared from among the tents and bore down upon them, cutting off their escape. In an attempt to buy the women a chance to get to the horses, Shefi’a Khan made a heroic charge against the Kughelu – ‘One Bakhtiari, on foot, charging twenty Kughelu horsemen!’ said Khatun-Jan proudly.

  Shefi’a’s long pistols felled tw
o of the horsemen and the surprise and savagery of his sudden charge accounted for two more as he rushed, slashing left and right with his sword and long knife into the fray. For all his courage, he was still one man against a score of horses. A Kughelu sword bit into his shoulder, the momentum of its mounted wielder knocking the vizier to the ground. In a moment he was trampled under the horses’ thundering hoofs. Trampling across his lifeless body, the Kughelu horsemen surrounded the two surviving women and raised their swords.

  The women stood defiantly together, their own bloodied knives extended. The Khanum had cried out that they were prepared to die like Bakhtiari. She had proclaimed their names and swore that the vengeance of Mehemet Taki Khan would fall upon the Kuhghelu without mercy.

  Whether daunted by the two tigresses that they held at bay or by the mention of the Khan, the Kuhghelu let fall their swords. Rather than kill the women, they dismounted and fell upon them as a man, grabbing their arms and legs and taking their long knives from them. After conferring among themselves, the nomads announced to the Bakhtiari that they were free to go.

  ‘But only after taking our horses, our jewellery and our clothes,’ spat Khanumi.

  ‘Not to mention our shoes and all our food,’ added her sister. ‘All they left us were these dirty old rags.’

  ‘It was not quite all,’ said Khanumi, shyly.

  She fished around in her rags and withdrew a tattered flat bundle of cloth.

  ‘You left this with your equipment when you departed the marshes for Shuster. When we left, I saw to it that your things left with us. I couldn’t stop those filthy thieves from getting your equipment, Mr Layard, but I did manage to hide this.’

  She handed the dirty, sodden bundle to Layard. He took it wordlessly and unwrapped it carefully in the firelight. Inside was a slim leather wallet containing tattered papers and a worn, battle-scarred notebook.

  ‘My journal,’ whispered Layard with a hoarse, choking voice. ‘You kept it; carried it with you for God knows how many miles barefoot across the mountains.’

  ‘I thought it might be important to you,’ Khanumi said simply.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Layard. Unable to manage more, he sat in silence, leafing through his journal.

  Saleh served the meal and the party ate hungrily. At length, Layard sighed deeply. He turned to the Khanum.

  ‘Now, I have to tell you of your husband, My Lady.’

  Khatun-Jan was devastated by Layard’s news. She sat quietly weeping long into the night, Khanumi cradling her like a child. Then, the remarkable Bakhtiari resilience that Layard had observed time after time took its hold and she straightened.

  ‘It was his greatest fear,’ she said, drying her eyes. ‘To be blinded as his own father had been before him. Tell me everything Henry. I beg you not to spare me a single detail’

  Slowly and carefully, Layard related everything that had happened since he had left the marshes. He spoke of the failed rescue attempt, of his return with the dervishes and how the second rescue had succeeded. He recounted how he had been abducted by British soldiers and had escaped them only to find that the Khan had been captured. He described how he had found the Khan; the condition of the Khan and his prison; every word spoken between them.

  The Khanum made him repeat every detail. She wanted to know exactly how her husband had been dressed; how he was being fed; every detail of the room. Layard repeated his account, careful to leave nothing out.

  One detail in particular caught the Khanum’s attention.

  ‘Wai! A mirror!’ she spat. ‘That pox-ridden abomination has given my husband a mirror. His cruelty has not an atom of respite. Every time my Lord reaches for the basin, he will feel its hateful cold glass. I pray to Allah that he finds the strength to smash it and sever the fiend’s fat ugly throat with the shards.’

  Khatun-Jan clutched at her breast in rage. Khanumi embraced her soothingly. Layard offered the Khanum another drink of arak. When she had composed herself, he questioned her.

  ‘Where do you plan to go now, My Lady? We shall escort you wherever you wish.’

  ‘I do not know, Henry,’ said the Khanum sadly. ‘We perhaps should continue to the safety of Abd’ullah Khan or else seek out my brothers in law or my son. I don’t know where to turn nor whom to trust. We are un-homed. The Matamet has turned the mountains against us.’

  ‘That dog is the only one we can trust,’ said Khanumi grimly. ‘We can trust him to offer nothing but lies and treachery.’

  ‘That is why he is the One upon whom the State relies,’ muttered Saleh. ‘If you want Effendi, I shall creep back into Shuster and cut his throat for the Khanum.’

  ‘What did you call him?’ demanded Layard.

  ‘He is the Mu’temedi-Dowla – the One upon whom the State relies, Effendi – it is why the people call him the Matamet.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Layard. ‘I remember.’

  He lapsed back into silence, taking up the bundle of papers and beginning to leaf through them once more.

  Saleh drew his curved knife.

  ‘I mean it, Effendi,’ he hissed. ‘Say the word and I will slaughter him like a goat.’

  ‘You are a good friend,’ said Layard, ‘but I could not ask you to do that. No matter what kind of monster he is, I cannot send you to murder him. Nor do I believe you would be able to get near him. He is surrounded by his ferrashes night and day.’

  ‘I am a Lur, Effendi. We are resourceful.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ replied Layard. ‘Nevertheless, I will not commission murder, however just it might seem.

  ‘No,’ he continued, hugging the wallet of papers to his chest, ‘I believe there may be another way.’

  After a night’s sleep, during which Saleh and Layard took turns to keep watch, the women were feeling stronger. They even laughed at the spectacle of the Englishman attempting to make coffee, while Saleh used his knife to fashion crude sandals for them from sections of saddle and strips of bridle leather.

  After breakfast, they conferred. After a discussion, it was agreed that the women would take Layard’s horse and continue to the Boheramedi, under the protection of Saleh.

  ‘And you, Mr Layard?’ asked Khanumi.

  ‘I think I know now what I have to do,’ said Layard. He held up his bundle of papers.

  ‘These were saved for a reason,’ he said. ‘You saved them for a reason.’

  He looked into Khanumi’s deep brown eyes, which were welling with tears.

  ‘I don’t quite know why,’ he continued, ‘but I have to finish the search I started. It’s tied up with everything that has happened here, in a way I don’t fully understand. All I know is that I have to try to make an end to it.’

  ‘And will you come back to us, when your search is ended?’ whispered Khanumi.

  Layard thought back to Lackland’s words; to the warning of the price that had to be paid for his search.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  * * *

  The countryside to the south-west of the mountains was strangely quiet. From the few, frightened travellers that Layard encountered he learned that a mix of terror of the plague and rumours of raiding bands of Beni Lam Arabs had almost emptied the land. Sometimes the travellers would mutter darkly about some other fell force at work in the land before hurrying on, casting suspicious looks at the tall pale-eyed stranger with his thick foreign accent. It was only with difficulty that Layard succeeded in finding someone to sell him a mount and then the best he could secure was a mule. So it was that, two weeks after a tearful parting with Khatun-Jan Khanum, Khanumi and Saleh, Layard came at length to the settlement of Dizful, some thirty miles west of Shuster.

  The old town of Dizful was the seat of the local governor and still retained some population and commercial life. After enquiring, Layard was told by locals that one of the city’s district chiefs, a Mustafa Kuli Khan was happy to host visits from strangers. Tired and travel-stained, Layard found Mustafa Kuli Khan’s house, after several hours
of searching Dizful’s narrow streets. Upon presenting himself, he was made welcome by the district chief and invited into a large communal area where a number of guests were already present. As he entered the room full of a group of the usual travelling Persian officials, itinerant holy men and merchants that he might expect to find at such a gathering, a voice called out.

  ‘Mr Layard, what a pleasure to see you. I was just about despairing of finding someone with whom I could discuss poetry.’

  ‘Seyyid Kerim,’ said Layard, recognizing his poetry-loving companion from Kala Tul, ‘have you travelled here from Shuster?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I often do,’ replied the seyyid, ‘and I always make a point of enjoying our host’s excellent hospitality. You always meet such interesting people. Why there is a dervish here, one Abd’ul Nebi, who is taking refuge from the Beni Lam Arabs.’

  The seyyid leant close to Layard and whispered in his ear.

  ‘He happened to tell me over a few glasses of Shiraz that he is the custodian of a certain tomb.’

  The seyyid straightened and beamed at Layard, his eyes twinkling in the lamplight.

  ‘Perhaps you would like me to introduce him to you?’

  * * *

  ‘No!’ shouted the dervish angrily, ‘I will not permit it. I refuse to lead an infidel to the holy site.’

  The three men had withdrawn to a quiet corner of the courtyard of Mustafa Kuli Khan’s house, where they were now conducting a heated argument.

  ‘The Frank is no ordinary infidel,’ said Seyyid Kerim, in a placatory manner, ‘he is a very learned man. He wishes solely to verify the authenticity of the tomb for his records.’

  ‘I will not,’ insisted Abd’ul Nebi.

  ‘Why will you not do this?’ asked the seyyid.

  ‘I refuse to tell you any more,’ replied the dervish, ‘now, let me return to the company within.’

  ‘Brother Abd’ul Nebi,’ said Seyyid Kerim, his voice shifting in tone, ‘need I remind you that I am a direct descendant of the Prophet – peace be upon him – and you are bound by duty to answer me. Tell me, why will you not take Mr Layard to inspect the tomb?’