*
As the days passed, the terrible aridity of the Zrouft began to take its toll. Gone were the cosy night-time conversations that had marked the first leg of the journey. Instead, while Sterling curled up in his sleeping bag as soon as they had eaten, Churchill would wander off into the darkness, carrying his kitbag, returning perhaps an hour later. Sterling noticed that the camel-men found his absences curious, even comical. They never went far from the camp to relieve themselves, and for privacy merely turned their backs to the group, covering themselves with their long shirts. Sterling wondered if Churchill was suffering from the Mahdi’s Revenge, and was too proud to mention it.
They slept fitfully. Sterling was often woken from his first doze by Churchill’s return, and then frequently by the big man’s polyglot rambling in his sleep. It was mostly gobbledygook, but he once thought he’d caught the word Steppenwolf. He was intrigued. The only Steppenwolf he knew was the 1927 novel by Hermann Hesse, but, though Churchill spoke German, he didn’t seem the type for such esoteric tastes. When he asked his companion about it in the morning, the big man croaked gruffly that he’d never even heard of Hermann Hesse, only Rudolf Hess. Sterling guessed he had misheard.
*
On the seventh day the water ran out. Sterling had been thirsty before, but never like this. This was pain — agony in the kidneys, constriction in the throat, tongue like sun-dried leather, the eyes burning, feeling as if they were sinking into the skull. Hamdu taught them to tie lengths of cloth tightly round their stomachs, which seemed to ease the pain for a while, but they were too weak to walk or talk, unable to do anything but lean groaning over their saddle-horns. Churchill’s bulkiness worked against him here, and Sterling often shot him worried glances. At times he seemed almost catatonic — his lips crusted with white mucus, his face a mask of purple and grey. Frequently, Sterling felt himself succumbing to the seductive tranquillity that beckoned beyond his eyelids, but he dared not yield to it. There was no guide but himself and his compass. He had plotted the next well, Ain Effet, on his survey map, and without the compass they would never make it — just one moment’s inattention, a fraction of a degree off, and they might all be dead. In the borderlands of dream and reality, it was Billy who kept him going. Billy was not dead. He existed in a state of uncertainty, neither dead nor alive.
Finally that afternoon, just as Sterling felt that his eyes were failing, he made out a wall of dunes on the skyline, ghostly and insubstantial as clouds at first, but as the sun dipped and the wind fell, he realized that they were really there. His heart leapt. The well of Ain Effet was at the base of those dunes. As they approached, Sterling realized how high the dunes were — perhaps 700 feet from the sebkha to the crests — and he wondered how they would get the camels over them. His thoughts were interrupted, though, by a cry from Hamdu, riding next to him. ‘See!’ he cried. ‘Ain Effet! The well is over there!’
Sterling strained his already weary eyes, but could make out only an overhanging rock cliff poking out of the dunes, with a long skirt of sand beneath it. ‘I don’t see any well,’ he said.
‘It is under the overhanging rock,’ Hamdu said. ‘Sheikh Mafoudh described it. To get to the water you have to climb down between the rock and the sand.’
Within half an hour they were couching their animals by the overhang, where for the first time in a week they saw animal tracks and droppings, a sure sign that men had been here in the past. ‘But long ago,’ Jafar croaked. ‘No one has been here this year.’
For a moment Churchill sank exhausted into the sand, drawing a white-crusted tongue over chapped lips. He fixed Sterling with eyes so clogged and irritated with dust that they were almost closed. ‘We did it,’ he said breathlessly, as if unable to credit it. ‘But by heaven, I wouldn’t want to do it again.’
Hamdu dismounted painfully and staggered over to the overhang. He looked gaunt and haggard; the buoyant bulk and springy step that Sterling had first noticed about him had gone. His face was greyish now, the tribal tattoos standing out strangely, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken into the skull. ‘Come, look!’ he said groggily. ‘It is as Mafoudh said.’
Sterling and Churchill raised themselves with the ponderousness of submerged divers. A drop of sweat ran down Sterling’s face and he caught it greedily with his mucus-crusted tongue. Hamdu pointed out a narrow crevasse between the rock and the sand, falling almost sheer into darkness. ‘It will not be easy,’ he said. ‘We will have to climb down there on ropes, fill our skins, and drag them up again.’
Churchill groaned. Jafar came to inspect the crevasse, slinging his precious Martini-Henri over his shoulder, brushing grit off his face with his head-cloth. His long hair was so full of dust that it no longer looked black, and the sand had crept into his eyebrows, nostrils and ears. He shook his head balefully at the depth of the crevasse, and tried to lick a bloated lip. ‘We have to go down on ropes,’ he agreed. ‘It’s the only way.’
‘But how?’ Churchill said. ‘That looks about thirty feet or more. We don’t have a rope long enough.’
Jafar sniffed and blew dust from one nostril, covering the other with his thumb. ‘If we take all the camels’ head-ropes,’ he said, ‘and all the packing-ropes and harnesses, we may have enough.’
Hamdu and Faris nodded, and soon Sterling and Churchill were helping to hobble the exhausted camels, unthreading and unknotting all the ropes, while Jafar joined them length-to-length, and Hamdu laid out the empty water-skins. It was painfully slow work; every movement seemed clumsy and uncoordinated. Often, Sterling sank down on his haunches and drifted off into a waking dream, only to be shaken awake roughly by Churchill. At last the rope was assembled. ‘All right,’ Churchill panted. ‘Who’s going down?’
The two ex-slaves were big-framed and heavy, which ruled them out. Churchill was even bigger. Sterling weighed himself up against Jafar and found the other was doing the same. ‘It’s me!’ they both said together.
‘No,’ Sterling insisted. ‘I am certainly the lightest.’
‘No,’ Jafar croaked, almost comically, through bloated white lips. ‘It is I.’
Churchill knitted his heavy brows. ‘God help us!’ he grated. ‘We’re dying of thirst here. What the hell does it matter? Sterling is the lightest, Jafar. Let him go.’
The ex-herdsman stepped back reluctantly. ‘If it is God’s will,’ he said.
Churchill cursed under his breath, and began tying the rope round Sterling. Hamdu handed him one of the water-skins, and Faris gave him a leather satchel containing a torch and a metal bowl. ‘You might find the water covered in sand,’ the black man said. ‘You will have to dig it out with the bowl, then use it to fill the skin.’
Sterling nodded, and walked over to the cavity under the overhang. The rock wall there had been carved with what looked like runic letters, and small matchstick figures of animals, including unmistakable giraffes and elephants. ‘The nomads call it the work of the Bafour,’ Jafar said. ‘The Old People. Myself, I don’t believe there were ever such animals here.’
‘Let’s get on with it,’ Churchill snapped.
Sterling looked down into the dark shaft, while Churchill braced the rope around his own shoulder. ‘I’m going to be anchor,’ he croaked. ‘At least I can manage that.’
‘Gusenkian’s Travelling Circus,’ Sterling grinned. ‘Just like old times for you.’
Churchill grimaced. ‘Tug once on the rope when you want to send the skin up,’ he said.
Sterling began to slither down through the narrow chimney, which was only just wide enough to take a human being and a water vessel. After the first few yards it became dark, and Sterling felt like Alice falling into Wonderland. He scrabbled down through a series of sand-ledges, smelling the dampness. The proximity of water, far from easing the torture in his stomach, made it more acute.
At last he was crouching on a sandy floor. He took out the torch, switched it on and stuck it in the sandy wall. He was in a chamber only just wide enough to stretch o
ut in. He crouched down and felt the sand — it was wonderfully damp to his touch, and he was almost tempted to take a mouthful and suck it.
Clumsily, he began to scrape away the sand, until he had a small hole in which clear water quickly gathered. He filled the bowl with water and brought it to his lips ready to swallow it, but something stopped him. It was nomad custom, he knew, never to take advantage of one’s companions by drinking before they could. A silly rule, maybe, but he guessed the others would be offended. He steeled himself and poured the water into the skin. The hole filled up quickly, and he repeated the action again and again, his head spinning dizzily. It seemed forever before the skin was full. He tied it securely, knotted the rope to the drawstring and tugged. The skin shifted, then began its slow ascent up through the chasm.
‘Pull me up next!’ Sterling shouted, his grating voice sounding like the rasp of metal on stone. Minutes later the rope descended. Sterling grabbed it, looped it round his waist and tugged. At last, he thought, he would be able to drink. There was a lurch as his body was dragged upwards, and he used his feeble limbs for extra purchase on the ledges. He had just reached the light end of the ravine, and could hear his companions’ voices growling above him, when without warning the rope went limp. For a second Sterling scrabbled at the sandy ledges on both sides with his hands, but the loose sand gave. With a scream, he fell tumbling back down the shaft, bumping against the ledges, until his body hit the wet sand at the bottom with a resounding thump. A shower of sand fell after him.
For a moment or two he was dazed and scarcely conscious. Then it occurred to him that the whole shaft might cave in on top of him, and his heart began to beat a tattoo. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he bawled frantically. ‘Pull me up! Pull me up!’
There was a sudden jerk on the rope, and Sterling felt his body being drawn up again. This time, he did not rely only on the rope, but made sure he had good purchase on the ledges as he rose. It was agonizingly difficult, and by the time he reached the top of the crevasse, his ears were buzzing and his vision swimming in and out of focus. He was only aware of arms dragging him and a bowl of water thrust to his lips. He gulped and drank greedily, letting the precious liquid splash down his jacket. He could feel the water moving through him, pulsing into his blood, giving him new life. When he was able to focus again, he saw Churchill sitting in a heap in the sand, and Hamdu standing over him. In the ex-slave’s hand was Churchill’s own pistol. ‘What the hell is going on?’ Sterling said.
‘The captain tried to kill you,’ Hamdu spat. ‘He let go of the rope. Thank God you are still alive.’
Churchill knitted his brows and stared at Sterling appealingly. ‘I fainted, George,’ he said. ‘It was too much strain. It was just like being at the bottom of that human pyramid back in the circus again. I actually thought I was there for a moment. I couldn’t help it, I just blacked out.’
Sterling rose unsteadily. He realized no one else had yet drunk. ‘Give him some water,’ he said. ‘Everybody, drink.’
Faris and Jafar began to argue about who should drink first, each insisting the other should take priority. Sterling lost his patience. ‘What the hell does it matter?’ he said. ‘Drink, both of you, for God’s sake!’
Hamdu let Churchill drink, but he continued to point the pistol at him, even when he took the bowl himself. He swallowed the liquid quickly. ‘Thanks be to God,’ he said.
‘Now,’ Sterling said. ‘What’s this about the captain?’
‘It’s true,’ Faris said. ‘He let go of the rope on purpose. He wanted to kill you. He is no friend of yours.’
Churchill screwed up his face. ‘George,’ he said, his voice smoother now that he had drunk. ‘I just had a blackout. Why on earth would I want to kill you? You employed me to come with you — if you don’t make it I don’t even get paid.’
‘He just let go of the rope,’ Hamdu insisted. ‘I saw him.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Sterling said. ‘You were mistaken.’
‘No,’ Hamdu insisted. ‘This man is no good, by God. Even Sheikh Mafoudh didn’t trust him — that’s why he turned back. And where does he go, walking off every night after eating, huh? He stays too long for just doing his business!’
Churchill groaned. ‘This is paranoia induced by thirst and hunger and fatigue,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen it happen before. Mafoudh turned back because he was chicken-shit scared of the Zrouft, whatever he might have said to you, Hamdu. If he didn’t trust me he could have turned the whole thing down at Tamerdanit, or even before. All right, so I like privacy when I answer the call of nature, and all right so I’ve been a bit queasy. So what? As for the well, I had a blackout, that’s all. Now let’s be sensible.’
He was right and Sterling knew it. ‘I think it was just an accident,’ he said. ‘Give him back his pistol, Hamdu.’
*
The next morning, feeling stronger than they had done for a week, Churchill and Sterling climbed the dunes behind the well. It was hard work, traversing the slopes, using a camel-stick to probe for soft sand. At the crest they threw themselves down panting. For a moment, Sterling closed his eyes, then opened them suddenly. The dune slope fell away beneath them to reveal a vast open plain, but one very different in texture from the dreadful Zrouft. To the north, the dunes grew thicker and more impenetrable, and on two other sides the plain was hemmed in by sharp pinnacles and serried ridges the colour of glazed red earthenware. The valley itself was criss-crossed with patches of low crescent dunes and punctuated with dry washes and little copses of thorn and tamarisk trees. Almost in the centre of the plain, something glittered silver in the early sun. ‘Hey!’ Sterling said, prodding Churchill.
The big man looked up. He brought out a worn pair of army-issue binoculars and scanned the plain below. ‘If that’s not the Rose of Cimarron, I’m a Dutchman,’ he growled. Sterling heaved up into a kneeling position beside Churchill, suddenly reluctant to take a look. It had been too long, he thought. Seven weary years since he’d last seen his son, and the last seven days had been the worst of all. Churchill thrust the binoculars into Sterling’s hands. ‘Look for yourself,’ he said.
Sterling weighed the glasses, hesitating. He had come a long way for this, and now he was afraid of what he might find. He took a deep breath and peered through the lenses. The silver speck evolved into a length of polished fuselage and the unmistakable crosshatch of a tailplane. The rest of the aircraft was hidden under what appeared to be a mound of blown sand. He lingered on the sight for a moment, then handed the binoculars back to Churchill.
‘Come on,’ he said.
6
Just after sunset the four Ulad al-Mizna spotted the flicker of a wood fire and at once halted. Taha, Fahal, and the brothers Quddam and Auwra slipped from their mounts silently and crouched in the darkness, knowing that they had caught up with the enemy at last. It was now five days since the two Znaga scouts had ridden into their camp on camels half dead with fatigue, to announce that they had picked up fresh tracks heading north towards the Ghaydat al-Jahoucha. The Znaga had no doubt that they belonged to Delim raiders, and they were many — even more than last time.
Belhaan had called an immediate meeting of the clan council to consider the situation. Minshaaf had not yet returned from his journey to consult the marabouts and raise the tribe, and already the raiders were back, just as the old man had predicted. The clan agreed that they could not sit by and do nothing — the Delim had already done the unpardonable — yet they themselves were only eleven men in all, and the scouts estimated the Delim party to be at least twenty-five. After a long debate it had been agreed that Fahal would lead a tracking party, with Taha and the brothers Quddam al-Ghazal, Outruns-a-Gazelle and Auwra al-Kilaab, Hunter-with-Dogs, two of the best trackers and rifle-shots of the tribe. They would follow the Delim until a larger party arrived.
The night was dark, with a sliver of moon. From below, the Reguibat couched their camels carefully. They had chosen the clan’s best raiding-animals: male geldings
that could be relied upon not to make a noise — or almost relied upon. Camels were not entirely predictable. They were still essentially wild animals and could be trained only to a point. Some tribes tied their camels’ mouths with cloth during raids, but this practice often caused more trouble than it was worth.
The four youths poised tensely in the darkness. Taha felt the sand under the soles of his bare feet, still warm from the day’s sun. They were in an almost imperceptible depression where a little rain, perhaps two years back, had raised clumps of esparto grass, amid stunted saltbush and Sodom’s apples. The poor vegetation gave them a little cover. Taha could smell the wood smoke now, just as he could smell the Delim camels. Turning his head and cocking his ear, he could even pick up the raiders’ harsh voices on the night air. The enemy were not more than a rifle shot away, and, confident in their numbers, seemed to be taking few precautions.
Fahal gestured to the others. They formed a close group so that they could confer without their voices carrying. ‘We could take those camels,’ he said. ‘All of them. We could creep up and take them before the enemy know what’s happening and disappear into the night.’
Auwra, the youngest of the four, was a spindly youth with a long, narrow face so smooth and hairless that the others sometimes made fun of him over it. Despite his age he had already made a name for himself by training his dogs to run down hares — a feat almost unknown among the nomads, who generally left dog-lore to the hunter-gatherer Nemadi. Auwra made a giggling sound, which he stifled at once. ‘They’d have a long walk back to Delim country,’ he whispered.
Quddam, his elder brother, was similarly built but taller, with long, slim legs that made him the fastest runner in the clan, outclassing even Fahal in sheer speed, though not in staying power. He was more soberly inclined than Auwra. ‘Belhaan did not tell us to steal camels,’ he whispered. ‘God knows, the Delim are twenty-five and we are four.’
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