Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘I have come to see that Zena is her own person,’ Wellsted replies, blushing. ‘In fact, I have an oath to keep, for I swore when Mickey gifted her to me, that I would set her free when we were through the desert. Is there some legal process I need to undertake?’

  Mickey shakes his head. ‘It is a righteous act and you can simply decide upon it, if you wish,’ he says.

  ‘Then I free you,’ Wellsted says. ‘I free you now.’

  Farida raises her goblet. ‘Well, here’s to it,’ she toasts.

  Zena hesitates. ‘But, what will I do?’ she asks nervously. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end in excitement. This is what she has wanted but still. ‘Free or not, I have nothing,’ she says

  Mickey smiles. ‘No. I would not say that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Zena,’ Wellsted reassures her, ‘we will see to things.’

  He is about to embark upon an explanation or an invitation or perhaps a proposal, when he is interrupted by shouting in the courtyard. Someone is making an unholy racket. Mickey looks up, a smudge of pomegranate, red as blood, on his lips. Admirably difficult to rattle, he betrays nothing, as if it is as normal for there to be a rumpus in the evening as ordering dinner or gazing at his wife. However, when the door of the room bursts open and Kasim enters with a drawn blade in his hand, dragging Aziz by the arm, Mickey takes the precaution of rising and interposing himself between Farida and the weapon. It is a long way to cross the room, but it is enough of an insult for Kasim to burst into the presence of another man’s wife, never mind brandishing a blade.

  The slaver’s face sets in a grimace as he takes in the scene. This is too domestic for his taste at the best of times, but that Zena is here while Ibn Mohammed lies freshly buried under the earth is a huge injustice. It is as he suspected. Everyone else knew where the girl had run to. He roars like an injured animal and flings Aziz to the floor.

  ‘It is true then! I claim her! I claim the girl! She is a runaway slave and subject to the laws of Muscat!’ he says, his voice low with menace as he continues his advance.

  Wellsted does not draw his sword but he puts his hand to the scabbard. ‘Kasim,’ he says, ‘I have freed Zena. She is not a slave now.’

  Kasim is not listening. It is no matter to him. The girl must die. He crosses the room in an instant and quickly grabs Zena, forcing her onto her knees and raising his blade to take a shot at her neck. He must pronounce sentence before severing the head from the body, as custom dictates, and in that moment Zena struggles but she cannot break free. She bites the skin of his forearm savagely but this only enrages him more. As he pushes her off, the razor-edge of his blade catches the skin of the girl’s shoulder, a welt opens and blood trickles down her arm, staining the sheer ma terial of the jilbab.

  ‘I am free now,’ she protests, ‘he freed me and you have no right. You never did have the right. You stole me. You are nothing but a thief!’

  Kasim grabs Zena’s hair and pulls her onto her knees. He struggles to keep the girl in place as he lifts his blade, ready to dispense swift justice. ‘In the name of Said Ibn Sultan, I sentence you to beheading.’

  At once Zena kicks hard, landing a blow to Kasim’s crotch. The blade falls but misses its mark, only wounding her again, at the collarbone. She shrieks in pain as Wellsted launches himself at Kasim with the full force of his body. He topples the slaver with a struggle, and the men roll across the floor. Wellsted realises that his European clothes put him at a disadvantage for it is far easier to move in a jubbah. Still, he knows Kasim’s fighting style well. All sense of being brothers is entirely lost. Both men are livid.

  ‘He is dead,’ Kasim cries out. ‘Don’t you understand that he is dead because of her?’

  Wellsted doesn’t hesitate. He lands a punch squarely on the man’s jaw and then furiously tries to wrench the blade from his grasp. He does not want to kill Kasim, but he recognises he may not have a choice but to try.

  ‘My friend,’ he says, ‘we have fought on the same side. Stop this. Please.’

  Kasim lands a blow to Wellsted’s stomach in return and the lieutenant is winded but manages to remain on top.

  ‘You would choose her over your brother?’ the slaver squeals in disbelief. ‘You swore allegiance to Ibn Mohammed, and this girl,’ he can hardly bring himself to spit the words; it is disgusting, unnatural that the white man favours this woman over his duty to a fellow traveller, ‘she is nothing. She is a runaway whether you freed her or not. She is only a whore. A habshi.’

  Wellsted reaches behind him and unsheathes the khandjar he has stowed on his trouser belt. He carries the weapon out of sheer custom, for it has not left his possession in months but there was nowhere else to put it in his western clothes. Now he understands that it is an advantage to be able to draw it unexpectedly from behind. He holds the short, curved blade to Kasim’s throat.

  ‘She is mine,’ he sneers, ‘and I will not let you kill her. He’s dead, Kasim. He’s gone. It’s not Zena’s fault. He was sick. He was too weak. She made it back to Muscat alone and I’ll be damned if I’ll see you harm her now.’

  ‘Weak,’ Kasim chokes. It seems a strange thing to say about Ibn Mohammed. It is certainly not a word that in normal circumstances would spring to mind. He cannot bear it. He kicks to try to free himself. ‘Weak,’ he repeats again in outrage.

  ‘I don’t want to kill you, but I will do it,’ Wellsted threatens.

  Kasim’s eyes flash. He struggles but realises that the lieutenant has pinned him to the floor. In frustration he tries to land a punch. Wellsted puts his hands on the slaver’s throat to restrict the man’s movement. Then he slides the khandjar to the man’s side, ready to stab if he has to. Kasim feels a sob wrench his throat. That he should lose a fight under these circumstances is an horrific loss of face. Now, when Ibn Mohammed needs him to be strong and defend his honour, he is helpless. He is trapped. This is what Kasim expects to do to others and he despises them when they succumb.

  ‘Ibn Mohammed,’ he manages through gritted teeth as he pushes against the lieutenant, but Wellsted has the advantage.

  As he comprehends that he has completely failed, Kasim feels a wave of despair descend. He only wishes he had died too. He has no desire to live with this humiliation. His life is worthless. He has proved it to himself. In desperation, he lifts himself, pushing his own skin against Wellsted’s blade, so that a few tiny specks of blood well up where the knife cuts through. He pushes as hard as he can and does not even feel the pain as the blade of the khandjar slices the fabric of his jubbah and lodges deep in his side. Wellsted pulls away in shock and Kasim falls back on the tiles with a curse, blood spilling from the gash. The pain starts now and it is edifying, distracting at least from the feeling of helplessness and grief he has endured all day.

  ‘With honour,’ he says, satisfied.

  Zena has pulled herself to her feet and is staunching her wounds. She stands over him. ‘With honour,’ she sneers at him. ‘How dare you speak of honour?’

  Mickey motions the girl to keep back. He is so perfectly composed that Wellsted wonders briefly what a chap would have to do to shock him.

  ‘Lieutenant Wellsted,’ he says, ‘will you allow me? Aziz, fetch the doctor, and the imam as well. Kasim is in need of both physical and spiritual assistance this evening. And as for you, my dear,’ he addresses himself to his wife, ‘I think it is best if you ladies both return to the harim. Will you go upstairs, Zena, and the women can tend to your wounds?’

  It takes a moment, but without a word they all do exactly as Mickey directs. The atmosphere is broken. Farida helps Zena out of the room. Mickey peers at Kasim’s wound. Even from here he can see that the slaver has missed all major veins, arteries and organs. The agent lays his hand on Kasim’s shoulder as Wellsted reholsters his knife, his hands shaking. When Jessop enters the room, the doctor glances around blearily but asks no questions. He simply comes forward to examine the patient.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ the slaver sna
rls, dodging the doctor’s hand. ‘I am ready to die.’

  ‘Grief,’ Jessop explains, ‘and illness. Sometimes the fever goes but the erratic behaviours linger. He is shocked. You might have to help me hold him down.’

  Mickey nods, making it clear that he will help, Wellsted is best kept away. He takes charge, bending over the wounded man and speaking low, as if in confidence.

  ‘It is time to be calm, my friend. No one need know of this. The girl is blameless. She ran to her master, not away from him and by all accounts, you gifted her to the emir without the lieutenant’s consent. Ibn Mohammed was an exceptional man – but your duty to your friend is to live. It is always so. You must direct yourself away from this, brother. You must have a long life.’

  Wellsted, brooding, stands like a menacing shadow. He will never forgive Kasim.

  ‘Pass me a cushion, old man,’ Jessop interjects.

  He has bound the wound with some cloth from a side table and is now engaged in making his patient comfortable. Kasim will have none of it. No words in the world can help him. No doctor can ease his pain. He is a desert creature – unforgiving of any weakness.

  Wellsted turns. As he does so Kasim rises like a cobra. He has the lieutenant’s knife in his hand, unsheathed before any of them realise. For an instant it hangs in the air and it is not clear what he intends to do with the blade. Wellsted draws his sword once more, but before he can use it Kasim turns the khandjar on himself and, above the doctor’s carefully bandaged wound, without hesitation, he plunges it deep into his heart.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Farida bathes the cut on Zena’s shoulder with saltwater and orders some yoghurt with honey to be brought from the kitchen.

  ‘It is the most comforting food, don’t you think?’ she says.

  Zena nods silently.

  ‘Well,’ she adds, ‘some of these Arabian fellows, they are straight from the madhouse!’

  Zena sniffs as Farida considers the fate of her friend, Edward, who died so long ago in Bath, fighting a pointless duel entirely of his own volition. She quickly realises it is not only Arabian fellows with hot tempers who resort to swordplay, but simply fellows in general. She does not pass on this information. As the smooth, creamy yoghurt arrives with a drizzle of amber honey on top she takes the spoon in her hand. It has been a long while since Farida has cared for anyone, except Mickey, and after all, he is her husband. Aware of Wellsted’s orders and the fact that, for a while at least, the lieutenant must return to London, she has a proposal for this intriguing girl. She takes a scoop and lifts the spoon to Zena’s lips.

  ‘If you would like to stay here, my dear,’ she says, ‘I am very glad to have you. You can remain in this house as long as you like.’

  ‘Thank you. I do not know what the lieutenant means by giving me my freedom,’ Zena sniffs. ‘There is nothing I can do with it.’ Kasim’s display has demonstrated that amply. She is still trembling.

  ‘Hush. Let’s not think of that now.’

  When the bowl is empty, Farida settles the girl to sleep. The lamps are dimmed and she is made comfortable on the cushions. Then Farida retreats. Mickey will visit the harim later and it has been a troublesome day, all in all. Farida finds that she is very much looking forward to holding her husband in her arms tonight. She wants to feel the warmth of his skin.

  When the news arrives of what has happened downstairs, Farida decides not to wake the girl. By all accounts it has been mayhem, but the child is asleep and the tidings can wait. The guard has been called and the imam is reciting prayers for a lost soul. Servants are sent across the city to bear the news. From her window, Farida can see them, fanning out down the streets, little lamplights, receding in the darkness. One is dispatched to Kasim’s household, which he himself has not yet visited since his return, another to the mosque where the last of Ibn Mohammed’s mourners are no doubt still straggling, still more to the soultan’s men who must always be informed. Kasim, she thinks, stole both Zena and me. He brought us both here. Perhaps we will find some comfort together for a while.

  This news means that Mickey will be late to bed, no doubt, and Farida will have to care for him – rub his shoulders and soothe his mind. In the meantime she sits and stares at the huge moon low over the rooftops and thinks how lucky she has been. She had felt jealous, slightly, of Zena’s adventures, but tonight has brought home to her the danger of the world outside.

  ‘I am more one for the story, I think, than the action,’ she murmurs to herself, and with that in mind she retires for the night.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  In the hour after midnight there is a palpable sense of relief in the corridors. Everyone has gone to bed, the house is all but silent and the lieutenant can hear the slapping of his bare feet against the tiles as he creeps along the hallway in his breeches and shirt, from his quarters in the other wing. The sands, he thinks, are more forgiving to a midnight lover and it is easier to move around unseen. The guard stands to attention as he approaches the door of the women’s rooms.

  ‘Will you fetch her, please?’

  The man shuffles from foot to foot. However unorthodox the goings-on in the compound this evening, he cannot enter his master’s harim, certainly not in the middle of the night.

  ‘Wait,’ he says and disappears down the corridor, returning a moment or two later with a heavy-eyed female slave who has been sleeping in a box room within calling distance.

  ‘Al habshi,’ he orders the girl, who disappears through the hallowed doors. When they heave open again Zena is there. She is no longer in the bloodstained jilbab and is simply arrayed in white cotton. Her feet are bare.

  ‘Salaam,’ she says quietly.

  The relief shows on Wellsted’s face. ‘Come,’ he takes her hand. ‘Follow me.’

  He leads her along the hallway and into the room he has been assigned. It is a large chamber with a seating area and he has opened the windows to allow a view of the hilltop, for this room faces away from the sea. The moon is on the ocean side of the sky, but it casts an eerie light over the trees, gardens and courtyards that stretch up the hillside without showing its face.

  ‘We did not finish talking.’

  Zena drops onto the cushions. It feels to her as if Kasim might be here somewhere, and she is uneasy. ‘Is he gone?’ she asks.

  ‘They did not tell you? He died. He killed himself.’

  Hard-eyed, she takes this in. ‘He stole me,’ she says. ‘He killed my uncle.’

  ‘I did not know that’

  She nods. ‘I never told you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I had thought of killing him,’ Zena admits. ‘It was the first thing I thought when he gave me the khandjar. After today I think I would never have felt safe. I’m glad he’s gone.’

  ‘I’m glad you are safe,’ Wellsted replies. Her bravery is astonishing and however much he has come to admire Kasim and Ibn Mohammed he’d have done what he had to do.

  Wellsted sits next to Zena and runs his hand along her cheek and down her neck. She feels herself relax. Her skin prickles with excitement once more and it is as if she is melting. She bites her lip. When his fingertips come to the scar on her shoulder, he stops abruptly.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  Zena nods.

  ‘I am very sorry. Kasim’s behaviour was . . .’

  ‘Worthy of the madhouse?’ Zena suggests. ‘That is what Farida says.’

  Wellsted laughs. ‘Yes. Yes he was. Mad of grief, I think. He had no right to come like that.’

  ‘You would have killed him?’

  Wellsted pauses a moment. ‘Yes. I love you,’ he says steadily, without taking his eyes off her. ‘I absolutely love you and I would not let him harm you, no matter what it took.’

  Zena smiles. She leans over and kisses his cheek. She smoothes her skin against the stubble and breathes in deeply. In European clothes he smells different, but she likes it.

  ‘Will you wait for me?’ he whispers.

 
‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am recalled to London, Zena. But I will return. Will you wait for me? I have it settled with Mickey – he will look after you here, but I thought when I return, perhaps we could find a place. In Bombay. Naval officers always return to Bombay. I think you will like it there and I will look after you.’

  Zena leans forward. ‘Won’t you take me with you? To London? I would like to see it. The House of Commons and the Great River Thames. The costermongers and the fairgrounds.’

  Wellsted shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says gently. ‘We can’t. The only use of London is that there I must make my fortune for both of us. There are things I have not told you about London. Reasons you cannot go. But I will not be long. I swear it. I will return to you. To this. Zena, will you? Do you care?’

  She regards him plainly. There are no choices here, with her feelings so strong. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else,’ she says. ‘I never felt like this before. Never in my life. If Kasim had hurt you, I’d have killed him too.’

  Wellsted laughs. This woman is extraordinary. Nothing seems to be out of the question for her. He likes that. He leans in and kisses her steadily, his passion mounting as he pushes her onto the cushion and runs his hands under her jilbab. Then he sits up suddenly. Zena wraps her arms around him.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Come with me.’

  Back along the cool corridor he finds the stairs and takes her hand to pull her upwards. Along the upper floors there are storerooms and a large nursery. He passes these and eventually finds the second set of stairs.

  ‘Here,’ he insists, and they climb once more and emerge outside, under the stars.

  ‘The roof! Again!’ Zena laughs.

  ‘I’d choose a roof with you over a room at the finest hotel in Paris!’ He swings her around. ‘Please say you will wait, Zena.’

  There is not a question in her mind. ‘Yes. Yes,’ she promises, kissing him warmly. She has a notion to try out something she has seen in one of Farida’s books. ‘How long do we have?’