The Count of the Sahara

by Wayne Turmel

  Chapuis sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “The smart thing would be to complain a lot but not do anything. He’s trying to keep his people alive. Survival is more important than honor, when it comes down to it.”

  “Is it? I’d think honor is worth fighting for. I know Akhamouk thinks so.”

  Chapuis looked away towards the village at Abalessa. “Then we’re screwed.”

  Morning didn’t so much break as shatter into existence. One minute everything was cloaked in the grey-blue of early morning, the next the sun played a merciless reveille. Pond stretched and groaned himself awake, momentarily missing the cold rain that tormented them earlier.

  The men allowed themselves a leisurely and abundant breakfast. Belaid took over the cooking duties from Martini, which meant the coffee could double as battery acid, but at least there was plenty of it. They also allowed themselves the luxury of a shave. Most did it to avoid the itching of sweaty follicles and vermin. De Prorok wanted to look good if—no, when—Barth arrived with the camera gear. These pictures were his treasure. Let others worry about the bones and stones. The real money lay in movies and pictures.

  With nothing better to do, Pond and the Count puttered around clearing one of the outer chambers. The work wasn’t terribly rewarding. There was nothing of any value compared to the main chamber—to Byron’s mind that was more evidence the body in there was important as it could be—and Pond’s insistence on cataloguing every date seed and dried rat dropping meant it was not only unrewarding, but painfully slow as well.

  It was a blessed relief when they heard Belaid’s voice ring out. “Monsieur, the cars… Three of them… Come see.”

  They emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. To the northeast, they could see three miles out on the desert floor, and three small figures making a black dotted line that moved towards them along the white stone riverbed.

  Lucky Strike, the Beloit banners flying as if it were on its way to a football game across campus, instead of across the Sahara, led the way at exactly twenty miles an hour. The other two cars followed closely behind, laden with crates, kegs and jugs and arriving in a chorus of “aaooogah” horn blasts and hoorays from the men.

  Before Lucky Strike even skidded to a full halt, Maurice Reygasse opened the door and stumbled, out of the vehicle. He wore his digging uniform, still bright white but with fewer jangling medals. He ran up to the Count, grabbed him by the arms and offered a quick kiss on each cheek. “Byron, is it true? You found her?”

  The Count beamed down at the shorter man, still clutching his arms as if he might run away. “Oui, Maurice. And she’s beautiful. Would you like to meet her?” They turned towards the hill, then de Prorok turned back to Henri Barth and shouted, “Barth, get your equipment if you would. High time we captured this properly, don’t you think?”

  The rest of the team hustled to unload the gear, starting with the cameras, while Belaid ran behind them, urging them not to take more than they’d need for one night. “We won’t be here long. We need to get gone as soon as we can. Put that back, we won’t need it…”

  De Prorok, Reygasse, Pond and Brad Tyrrell approached the burial chamber. For a minute, they stood silent, the only sounds the buzzing of flies and the exasperated puffing of Barth lugging his equipment up by himself. The Count took off his helmet, laying it on a rock, and put on the soft beret he used inside the tomb. He gave the Frenchman his most welcoming grin, looking over the shorter man’s shoulder to make sure Barth was ready to capture the moment. “Ready? May I present Tin Hinan, Mother of all Tuaregs.” He bowed low and gestured for Reygasse to enter.

  The scene had been carefully staged for a one-time performance in Reygasse’s honor. Neatly laid out at the end of the platform were the necklace, a tiny gold column about an inch and a half long with no apparent purpose, one earring and the fertility fetish that de Prorok playfully called, “the Venus.” That was it as far as anything one could realistically call treasure.

  Beside the body were a small wooden plate, a glass bowl lined with what might be silver, and a glass cup left behind to nourish the departed soul in the next life. Date pits abounded, as did smaller items that might be grape seeds, or fossilized rodent droppings.

  The skeleton itself rested on a platform of rotted, woven wood that barely held together to supports its burden. Each arm sported metal bracelets, seven on one arm, eight on the other. The metal was dull and heavy, most likely lead instead of something more valuable and glamorous.

  Reygasse stood silent in front of the display for the longest time. Just when de Prorok thought he might explode from anticipation, the Marshall turned to him with tears in his eyes. “We’ve made history, you and I, de Prorok. This changes everything we thought we knew about the Hoggar…” He wiped a tear away with this sleeve, leaving a muddy strip. “Do you realize what we’ve done? The tomb of Queen Tin Hinan. She was… is… real. It’s a treasure, a real treasure.”

  Finally, the Frenchman let out a “Vive le France” and threw his hand in the air, banging his knuckles on the low stone ceiling.

  De Prorok ignored the “we” and joined, because it felt so good to shout. At last, someone else understood exactly what he’d—they’d, he had to remember—accomplished. No nit-picking about procedure or permissions, just the pure joy of discovery.

  He allowed himself the moment of triumph, then cleared his throat. “Maurice, we have to get the pictures and get out of here. There might be… uh… some unhappy locals.”

  Reygasse bit his lip. “Yes, we heard there was trouble. That’s why we left before dawn, in case anyone tried to stop us. Is it as bad as Denny says? You know how Americans are, always looking for Indians to fight.” De Prorok just nodded. Yes, it probably was. Having Maurice as a representative of the Government would certainly be a help, but no guarantee.

  They watched Barth scramble around trying to wedge himself and then his equipment into the little tomb. At last he came out, sweating and filthy. “I’m sorry Monsieur, there’s no way to get any usable film in there…. There’s no room, and it’s hot. It’s like trying to film in hell.”

  De Prorok was in too good a mood to have it spoiled by mere reality. He patted the fat man’s arm good naturedly. “Let’s get the outdoor shots, and we’ll figure something out. Just give me a moment to prepare.”

  The preparations took the form of changing into a clean shirt and replacing his filthy beret with a pith helmet whose cloth covering had been replaced by cloth so white Reygasse could have made another uniform out of it. When he was as movie-star ready as circumstances allowed, he and Barth planned their shoot. First, were several snaps of de Prorok and Reygasse surveying the opening, their faces looking appropriately solemn and academic. These were followed by movie film of the two men emerging from the chamber, positively glowing with the aura of scientific discovery.

  Tyrrell and Pond were included in the shots as well. Brad was his usual good natured self. Pond was considerably less so.

  “This is all a fake. It’s ridiculous.” Pond had taken Brad aside to vent his frustration, but he was overheard anyway.

  “Pond, please.” De Prorok had just about had it with the American’s priggishness and nay-saying. “We know what we found, we’re just trying to document as best circumstances allow. We aren’t faking the discovery, for Lord’s sake, we’re just telling a story people will want to hear. What would you like us to do?”

  “Telling the truth would be a nice start.” Even while grousing, he followed Barth’s orders to smile and shake Reygasse’s hand in simulated congratulations. The little weasel hadn’t been anywhere near the discovery, but you could bet his name would be all over it.

  “Be nice, Lonnie,” Brad hissed. “The Museum will be thrilled. Collie’s practically wetting his pants and he doesn’t even know the final results yet. And think of all the work you’ll have. This’ll make your career too, you know. Enjoy it for God’s sake.”

  “Is that the College representative or the ad man talking? What h
ave we really done here? Jeez, Brad, think about it. Everyone knew this was Tin Hinan’s gravesite. They’ve known it for hundreds of years. We didn’t discover anything, really. And what have we got? This great treasure is a few minor pieces and a body we can’t even prove is who we say it is.”

  The older man swallowed his frustration and put a paternal hand on his shoulder. “That’s something, though, right? I mean the one thing—right or wrong—about history is nothing really happens until someone officially confirms it. So we’ve confirmed it. We’ve done our job. Declare victory and go home.”

  A voice cried out, “Pond, we could use some assistance.” He turned towards the chamber and saw the burial goods carefully lined up with Barth taking close-up shots of each item, then picking them up and grouping them for more snaps.

  “What the hell are you doing? Byron… what…”

  “Evidence, Pond. Can’t very well take pictures in the dark, can we? Now help us with the body.”

  Pond shook with anger. The clown was finally taking things way too far. “You can’t pull a body out of the ground and expose it to the elements, it’ll turn to dust. Damn it, even you know better than that.”

  “Then help us do it right, damn you.”

  Pond couldn’t stand the thought of their discovery turning to dust and blowing away on the desert wind, so he grudgingly supervised the transfer of the body from the tomb. The wood couldn’t survive the move, even if the bones did, so they slipped a blanket under the platform and lifted the whole thing. Being the shortest, and fate having its little joke, Pond and Reygasse were responsible for the hard part: getting her to the opening. From there, de Prorok and Chapuis lifted her through the door in to the sunlight and the Twentieth Century.

  The retrieval was filmed by Barth, who was ecstatic at the way the light played off the bones and shadows fell dramatically across faces. Pond just watched in horror. They shouldn’t move the body at all, and if they did—and it was clear they were going to take her for further study—the bones and artifacts should be coated in gum arabic, or diluted shellac. Candle wax might do the trick, if they had enough. As it turned out they had enough to cover the skull, both arms and the pelvis. The rest was up to the gods, who had not exactly been on their side to this point.

  Once everything was safely stowed, Byron heaved a sigh of relief. The only decision remaining was when to leave and where to go. Originally, they were heading in different directions. Reygasse and his car would go to a paleolithic site west of Tamanrasset. Pond was to go to another, just outside Alouef.

  He, Brad Tyrrell, Hal Denny and Barth were heading home. After all, Tyrrell had been promised he’d be home for Christmas, and God knows the man had been a trooper but he’d clearly had enough. With Tin Hinan found, Byron’s own interest in staying around vanished like a mirage. All he could think about was spending a little time with Alice, the babies, and the public acclaim he’d earned after all this foolishness.

  Chapuis had a different idea. “We’d best leave all together, and as fast as we can,” he stated with calm assurance. “The Tuaregs know we’re here, and they won’t be in a forgiving mood if we take their queen for a joyride.” Belaid agreed with more energy than he’d ever shown about anything, which was enough to convince any doubters.

  They settled on getting to the garrison at In Salah, where the Legion was posted and could provide cover while they made further plans. If luck was with them, and wouldn’t it be nice when that was no longer part of the equation, they’d only have to camp out one night on the way. The renewed thomp-thomp-thomp of drums from the village sealed the deal.

  The caravan was loaded in record time, and the Expedition set out for home. With the path known, and the excitement more or less over, things reverted to their natural order. Sandy, with Escande behind the wheel, took the Count, Denny, Barth and Queen Tin Hinan, took the lead. Hot Dog, chauffeured by a sullen, homesick Chaix had Reygasse, Chapuis and Belaid. Martini was relegated to the rear with Lucky Strike, two Americans, an unfair share of the equipment, and the Beloit College banner and pennant flapping in farewell.

  The caravan shot along the riverbed, then onto the rutted road that ran through Abalessa to In Salah. As they neared the village, they could hear drumming again over the noise of the Renault’s engine.

  As usual, it was Hal Denny’s voice that dragged de Prorok out of his daydreams and back to the real world. “What the Christ is that?”

  All along the village side of the road, a small crowd of Haratins gathered. Most held spears, a few brandishing ancient carbine rifles. A few bright blue Tuareg robes could be seen mixed in the crowd, their owners sitting atop camels. Drums beat and weapons waved in the air, but that all ceased as the line of vehicles drew closer.

  The crowd fell silent, and turned as one to witness the crazy white men coming towards them, rather than wait on the mountain to be slaughtered. One of the leaders stomped angrily to the middle of the road and held his hand up, seeming to demand they stop and fight like men.

  In the lead vehicle, Escande tightened his grip on the wheel and gritted his teeth. De Prorok sat upright, his hand on the dashboard, his teeth gritted to prevent screaming like a little girl. Denny scribbled furiously in his notebook as neatly as the rocking of the car permitted.

  “Easy now, try not to kill someone,” the Count said as calmly as he could.

  “I will if they will,” countered the driver, flooring it.

  “This is amazing stuff. Forget articles, there’s a book here. Assuming we live to write it, of course.” Byron was sure Denny was only half joking.

  The car got much closer to the elder than either party expected before the old man jumped out of the way and Sandy shot past, followed by the other two vehicles and outraged cries and wails from the villagers.

  As Lucky Strike shot past the crowd last, Pond and Tyrrell stuck their heads out the windows and looked back. They could see two camels piloted by rifle-waving Tuaregs half-heartedly chasing them, then shrinking into the distance until they were just angry black dots against the light sand of the road bed.

  Laughing in relief, they slapped Martini on the back and began the Beloit chant: “Ole Oleson, Yonny Yonson, on Beloit. Wisconsin.” Martini joined in the laughter, feeling confident enough to drop back to an appropriate twenty miles an hour and pointed Lucky Strike northeast towards In Salah.

  November 14, 1925

  9. Rue Alfred-Dehodencq, XVI

  Paris. France

  Dearest Byron,

  I hope this letter finds you well and happy, my darling. By now you will, of course, have found your Queen and will be too rich and famous to ever talk to us again. Don’t forget your Countess. Ha ha.

  The papers are just full of your adventures. Did you really find all that treasure? I hope you bring home a little something I can wear around the house. Maybe just a simple tiara I can wear with my housecoat! It sounds so wonderful, and I’m so proud. I wish I was with you. Do you remember how much fun we had in Carthage? None of my friends ever had a honeymoon so swell.

  Your last letter sounded a little sad. Does Daddy miss his girls? They surely miss you. M-T is walking now, well, running around like a wild Indian, actually. Thank goodness for Annie or I don’t know what I’d do. Annie is being terribly grumpy, she hates France and wants to go back to New York. I admit, I get a little homesick, but wait until you hear me parle français.

  Mary is coming over and will come back to New York at Christmastime with us. I know you don’t like my sister, much, but that’s only because she’s such a mother hen to me and our chicks. She really does like you, you know. Please try to get along with her this time.

  Daddy says the funds have been wired and everything is fine. Just contact Mr. Langham as soon as you can. Apparently, it’s quite a lot of money and he’s very concerned about it. You know what you’re doing, of course, but you know how Daddy is.

  I will leave you to all your important work, and I know you’ll be home in two weeks! I can’t wa
it to see you. The girls and I will cover with you kisses and give you breakfast in bed and treat you like a king, because you are the King of the Explorers now that you found the Queen.

  All my love,

  A

  P.S. Try to bring home something for the girls this time. Just a little souvenir. They miss you too.

  Chapter 20

  In Salah, Algeria

  November 24, 1925

  The telegram read:

  To: Maury Chef Cabinet Gouverneur General

  Palais Ete, Algiers

  Comte Prorok has discovered a magnificent prehistoric treasure

  Very rich and unique

  Will donate to the general government

  Respectfully, Reygasse

  De Prorok smiled and nodded. “Wonderful, Maurice, well done. Don’t you think we should send a copy to the Logan Museum as well?” Letting the Americans know the same time as the French was a small bone to throw them. Their money had been—still was, if he was being honest—absolutely crucial to their success. But at least it was official, the world was learning of their triumph.

  The Count, Maurice Reygasse and Hal Denny stood sweating in the telegraph office, swatting at flies the size of bats. The men crowded around a table fine-tuning their cables and trying to keep the papers from blowing around.

  By virtue of rank and ability to speak whatever pidgin French the telegraph operator worked in, Reygasse was the first to tell the world of their success. As he worked with the operator to get the news out, de Prorok and Hal Denny went over the copy one last time.

  Byron barely recognized himself in the stories. He felt nothing at all like the dashing, intrepid, heroic figure in Denny’s accounts. In truth he was haggard, underweight, miserable and, good Christ, he needed a drink in the worst way. Still, the sins Denny committed were of omission, not commission, and both of them could live with that.