The Count of the Sahara

by Wayne Turmel

  “Brad, come here. See this?” The American peered down. The edges of the rock were rounded, but not in the perfectly smooth way of river stones. These had been carefully formed. “This is amazing workmanship, and it’s not local. I don’t even think it’s Tuareg. Looks Roman.”

  “Did the Romans ever come this far south?”

  “Not as far as we know.”

  “So if it’s not Roman, what could it be?” De Prorok started to answer but never got the chance. “And don’t tell me Atlantean, because you know it’s not. Jesus.” Tyrrell had less patience than most for the Count’s obsession with the Lost Continent. Byron chafed at the skepticism. At least Pond would have engaged in the debate.

  “Killjoy. Still there’s definitely something here, and it’s very old, and not Haratin nor Tuareg, so someone or something important was up here a long time ago.” What a find if it turned out to be Roman, he thought. He would be as famous as Schliemann, and much richer. The German had been complete bollocks as a speaker and no writer at all.

  That night’s dinner consisted of beans and thin coffee. Martini jealously guarded the supplies, and saw to sleeping arrangements for everyone. Still, the rumbling of stomachs didn’t keep anyone awake, and they were all asleep as soon as the sun went down.

  Day two continued in much the same way. Short, intense periods of moving rocks, followed by breaks for every possible pretense from the heat to the warning cries of Djinn, telling them to leave the mountain’s spirits in peace.

  By day three, the work was slower. Partly this was because they’d found nothing of any value other than worked stone. An unexpected lightning storm, which the locals deemed a harbinger of upcoming death and Djinn vengeance, drove everyone to shelter for a while. More depressingly, the supplies were almost completely gone, and there’d been no sign of relief.

  Martini was reduced to digging in the river bed, getting enough of a trickle for a single cup of coffee, brewing it, and then repeating the process so that everyone at least had coffee for breakfast. They were reduced to one bowl of corn meal and beans a day. The laborers were eating marginally better than the white men, which seemed to the locals—who’d never witnessed such a thing—another sign of madness and an exceptional bad omen.

  By day four, everyone was hungry, tired and out of sorts. The white men took turns looking out for signs of relief or a caravan, as much out of an excuse to rest than any real hope of rescue. Still, they continued to work, uncovering caves and hollows of worked stone. The work kept their minds occupied and not obsessing on their growing hunger and thirst.

  The locals were almost completely useless by then. They spent the day sitting in groups alternately grumbling spitefully and shaking their heads in bewilderment at their crazy employers. Byron had never understood those overseers who beat, starved or physically abused their charges, but he was beginning to come around to their way of thinking. He was about to commence another round of begging for help, when he heard Chapuis’ voice.

  “Monsieur le Comte? I think you want to see this.” Surprised at the unusual formality, Byron turned towards the scout. Pinched between two filthy fingers was a light blue stone. Turquoise. The first rock of any color other than brown they’d seen since their arrival, and might have been the most beautiful thing either of them had ever seen.

  “Brad, Belaid, Martini, come here,” he croaked from his sand-choked throat. Even a few of the workers now craned their necks to see what had caused the excitement but could make no sense of the tall white man’s fuss over one colored rock.

  Now digging and sifting wildly, they found a blue glass bead. It was roughly chipped on all sides to round it off. Then a reddish-brown piece of agate, polished and smooth. Each discovery propelled the hungry, exhausted men to another feverish round of digging, sifting, whisking and picking.

  Finally just as the sun was about done for the day, their shovels clanked against more stone, but this was no ordinary rock. Three tall slabs of rock, one dovetailed into the next, formed a barrier to what was apparently a chamber.

  De Prorok ran his long, thin fingers lovingly over it, probing the seams, looking for carving or any clues as to what lay on the other side. He reached down for a pry bar, but Brad Tyrrell put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Byron, let’s rest for the night. It’s almost too dark to even get down to the camp. We’ll open it in the morning.”

  He was about to object, but a quick look down the steep slope to the campsite and the exhausted faces of his team and he simply gave a heavy sigh and nodded. The men gathered their tools and groped their way down to where Martini had dinner, such as it was, waiting for them.

  Exhausted and hungry as they were, sleep was a rare commodity that night. For some it was hunger, and aching bones. For Byron de Prorok, it was the thought of what might lie beyond the rock portal. Exhilarating as the thought was, there was a far more compelling reason to remain alert. The drums started a couple of hours after midnight.

  For the first time since their arrival, they could hear toboles, large drums for communicating over long distance, from the village at Abalessa. Their steady throm-throm-throm echoed off the mountain behind them.

  Brad Tyrrell finally asked the question they’d all been asking themselves. “What’s that all in aid of?”

  “Nothing good, I’m afraid,” said de Prorok.

  Belaid, never one to soft-sell the truth said simply, “They’re letting everyone know we’re here, and we’re vulnerable.”

  The American squirmed. “We’ve been here four days. Why now?”

  Chapuis chimed in. “They wanted to see what we were up to. Now they’re hedging their bets. They know we have no more food, and we can’t drive away, so they can kill us pretty much any time they want.”

  The American wrinkled his sunburnt forehead. “Why would they do that? We’re not hurting them.”

  “Partly because they can, and partly to score points with the Tuaregs. When we weren’t finding anything, it did no harm to dig here, and if we found what we were looking for, we’d protect them. Now that we’ve actually found something, they’re worried Akhamouk and his people will be angry with them. So they gain face by killing us, or better yet, telling the Tuaregs we’re here. Then it’s out of their hands.” Belaid laid out the scenario without visible emotion. Byron couldn’t tell if it was stoicism or resignation.

  Martini’s soldier instincts buzzed like hornets. He was never big on “I told you so,” but he sorely regretted leaving the machine gun back at Tamanrasset. He shot de Prorok a silent accusatory look, but said nothing. Like all good soldiers, he blamed the commanding officer, and reserved the right to complain bitterly when the time was right. For now he just sat silently.

  The crackling of the fire nearly concealed the sound of a kicked stone from behind them. Chapuis leapt up and ran to the car. He pulled out his rifle, shouldered it and fired into the darkness over de Prorok’s head, seemingly in one motion. Panicked whispers filled the air and the patpatpat of sandals retreating on the sand once again were replaced by the ordinary stillness of the desert night.

  The rest of the night was spent in fitful sleep and continuously changing sentry duty.

  At the first hint of dawn, Martini dug for coffee water. As he crouched in the arid river bed his eyes swung back and forth, searching for signs of trouble, but everything was quiet. Even the flies seemed to hold their breath. By the time the rest of the team rose, there was enough hot coffee-colored liquid for everyone. That would have to suffice for breakfast.

  As daylight bounced off the hills, a handful of the Haratin workers arrived for duty as if nothing were wrong. Today’s work was too important to risk a full-blown confrontation, so Chapuis simply barked orders as usual, demanding they grab pieces of lumber, pry bars, and the tire jack from Lucky Strike and climb to the great stone doors.

  “Are you a praying man, Brad?”

  “When the mood strikes.”

  “How’s it striking you at the moment?” Byron gave a c
rooked grin and nodded to Chapuis and the workers. With a barked command, crowbars, jack handles and boards were pried into every seam and groans of effort filled the morning air and bounced off the rocky surface of the mound.

  The first push gained nothing, but the second effort was rewarded with a loud crack and the left-most stone popped out of place. Belaid and Martini quickly jammed stones and lumber in the opening to prevent it closing and reloaded for another stab at it. This time the slab fell forty-five degrees to the left, leaving a black, yawning gap in the rock.

  Everyone froze in space, the silence broken only by the buzzing of the ever-present black flies. For several seconds, nothing moved and then a large brown-black python slithered harmlessly from within. Seeing the serpent, the remaining workers shouted in terror, threw down their tools, and ran away. Translating as he ran after them, Belaid explained they thought the guardian of the tomb had come to kill them for their impertinence.

  No amount of hollow threats or equally worthless offers of payment could entice them back. The members of the expedition were finally, truly, on their own.

  De Prorok paid no attention to the scurrying workers. His sole focus now was getting inside the cavern. After ensuring that the snake—a harmless but nearly five foot long python by the looks of him—had fled the scene, he took a single deep breath and ducked inside.

  His eyes adjusted quickly as he scanned the room and his initial excitement quickly ebbed. The chamber, and it was obviously crafted for some purpose, was so full of sand, he could barely move. The loose, dusty grit had blown in over the years, further burying whatever lay here.

  Tyrrell stuck his head through the door. “You okay, Byron?” The only response was a nod as the Count continued to look around. He knelt and ran his fingers through the sand, letting it sift through his hand. Something remained behind, and he examined it.

  “What is it?” the American asked breathlessly.

  “A date seed,” he responded, with more excitement than Tyrrell thought a mere piece of fruit should create. “Louis, we have date seeds, lots of them. Brad, get me a sieve, please.”

  Handing it to him, he pled ignorance. “What’s the big deal about some date seeds?”

  “Because,” Byron began as he scooped up a sifter full of sand and slowly shook it back and forth, “In tombs like this, it was common to provide plenty of food for the journey to the afterlife. Since this was sealed, we can assume it wasn’t someone’s house, right? No one lived here.”

  Tyrrell nodded. “Then it makes sense this was a tomb.” He let out a triumphant whoop as he picked two items out of the screen. One was another date seed, picked clean by ants and polished smooth by shifting sand. The other was a small, round piece of turquoise.

  That small blue-green stone momentarily extinguished any exhaustion or hunger. For the next several hours, the men formed a demented bucket brigade; passing handfuls of sand to each other until they were outside the cavern. Then they were carefully sifted, and small treasures put carefully aside. More date seeds, turquoise, and the occasional roughly rounded agate comprised the rapidly growing stash.

  Each took a shift inside the cavern, scooping handfuls of dust and grit, and sifting. Periodically one of them would take a break for a tiny sip of dirty water, or to climb up a few dozen feet and look fruitlessly for any sign of rescue.

  Eventually, the antechamber was cleared, only to reveal a smaller chamber directly underneath. This one too, was under a layer of sand, but one much thinner, and the rewards were more frequent. Beads, semi-precious stones, animal skins and the remains of baskets full of dates saw daylight for the first time in hundreds, maybe thousands of years.

  Louis Chapuis was taking his shift in the chamber when he froze, bent over. His shoulders began to bob up and down and De Prorok could hear a soft but very clear sob. “Louis?”

  “Gold, it’s gold, sir.” He held up a necklace, crude filaments of gold wire keeping small fish-scale sized pieces of gold in place. “Thirty years in the desert, I’ve never found gold before. I didn’t think I ever would.”

  “For God’s sake, let us see,” Tyrrell shouted from outside. The Count and the scout emerged, blinking into the late afternoon sun. Gently, the necklace passed from hand to shaking hand. It was badly tarnished, and had very little precious metal in it, but there was no mistaking what it was.

  “It looks like some of the work we found in Utica, Brad. Carthaginian style. It probably came from the north at some point.” De Prorok lay back against a flat-faced rock. The strength rushed out of him and he was temporarily unable to stand. He just reclined there, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  De Prorok thought he could die happy at this moment, then feared he might, as two large shadows fell over the team. They shadows belonged to two of the biggest Tuareg warriors he’d ever seen.

  How they had arrived unseen was no mystery, but their intentions were. They stood there and said nothing. The exhausted, thirsty men looked back in awe. Both warriors were over six and a half feet, wrapped head to foot in blue. Their faces were veiled, revealing only their dark, kohled eyes. They carried ancient carbines strapped across their shoulders and daggers on their forearms. They both carried a lance with a vicious iron tip.

  The Count weakly raised a hand in greeting. “Hello my friends, what brings you here on such a hot day?” then allowed himself a small exhausted giggle.

  The two tribesmen, looked at each other, then back at the tomb and the exhausted expedition members. One looked like he wanted to say something, but no words were spoken. Both men turned and calmly walked down the hill, climbed aboard their kneeling camels and headed at a slow trot towards the northeast.

  “That’s not good,” Chapuis muttered as he continued to wave farewell.

  “What’s not? They’re leaving aren’t they?” De Prorok didn’t much like his tone. What does he know that I don’t?

  “Abalessa is the other way. They’re heading to Tamanrasset. If they get to Akhamouk before help gets here, it’s all over.”

  Belaid picked up a smooth stone and put it in his mouth to generate a little saliva and ease his thirst. “There’d better be gold in there, otherwise this is an asinine way to die.”

  Chapter 17

  Rockford, Illinois

  February 24, 1926

  The good thing about the afternoon lecture in Rockford was it left us little time to dwell on the morning’s disastrous meeting with Kenny. We packed up, got picked up by a Rotarian from Rockford in a LaSalle, drove mostly in silence, checked into the Chick House—which was actually nicer than it sounds, slightly—and went on to the Rotary do.

  I was shell shocked. It didn’t help that Havlicek was there waiting for us, making no effort to be inconspicuous. In fact, he seemed to take great pleasure in waggling his fingers at me in greeting, although he never approached us or directly interfered. He may as well have. I was all thumbs, missing a couple of cues like some kind of amateur. Not badly enough for the audience to notice, but plain enough that I earned the daggers the Count shot me from the stage.

  De Prorok, on the other hand, never missed a beat. It always seemed that the worse things were, the closer to perfect he was onstage, never fumbling a word or stepping on his own jokes. He was bulletproof. He was completely, flawlessly, dashingly, infuriatingly brilliant. Until he came off stage that is.

  He rushed towards me and I braced myself for the tongue lashing I knew I deserved. “Willy,” he said, which was strange because he always called me Brown, “do me a favor and get all this stuff back to the hotel please. I need to find a Western Union office.” He spun on his heel so fast that a pocket-sized notebook fell to the floor, but he just kept walking.

  A little mystified, I picked it up and put it with the projection gear. Then I saw his pith helmet lying on a stool, and scooped that up as well. The Venus sat on a table next to a half-drunk glass of water. He’d left a trail of relics, props and debris from the projector to the backstage door. I shook my he
ad and gathered them up.

  I looked at the Venus in my hands, taking a really long look at it for the first time. It was just a rounded, rough piece of rock with four scratches where the girl parts should be, but he sure acted like it was important. Until he had better things to think about, then it was left lying where anyone could pick it up. The only other Venus I remembered was in a painting, and she looked pretty hot to trot on that clamshell. This one was built more like Mrs. Kaczmierek, the old Polish woman across the street from us. Of course, the thought of seeing these specific parts of Magda Kaczmierek was mildly horrifying. The statue was short and squat, like her, but at least the old bat had a face, such as it was.

  Why was he so careless with things that mattered so much? And there was no reason to carry it around everywhere. It would be easy enough to copy, especially if people didn’t really know what they were looking at. It was the same with the sword. He could just as easily use a dummy, and keep the original safe. I made a note to get some supplies from the hardware store.

  Back at the hotel, I carefully stacked all the equipment for a quick escape tomorrow. There was a quick “shave and a haircut” knock on the door. I was afraid it was Havlicek, and considered not answering, but a young voice came through the door. “Cable for de Prook.”

  I opened the door to see the desk clerk. Unlike in the nicer hotels, he wasn’t wearing a uniform or a nametag, just a ratty sweater vest like mine, although without all the little wool pills all over it, and a tie. “Are you de Prook?”

  “Prorok… no, I’m his…” Jesus what was I? I could never get my tongue around “projection technician”, “frie…assistant. I’m his assistant. What can I do for you?”

  “Yes sir. Just got this cable for Mr. De Proo..rok. From Paris. France,” he added, just in case I might confuse it with some other Paris. It took the yellow envelope from him, then realized I was on the hook for a tip and made a mental note to start dunning the Count for all the money I’ve spent. Like the man said, a deal was a deal, and this expense wasn’t part of our arrangement. I pulled out a quarter and saw Pete’s eyes crinkle up in a smile. Pocket change went a lot further in Rockford than in Chicago.