The intensity of the day’s heat was easing with the declining sun. Improving things further, a light breeze off the Mediterranean stirred the flowering roses and oleanders clinging to the whitewashed walls of mud brick. Beyond the arched entrance, the boy sat with his back to the sea, content to munch on a handful of figs. The lad would’ve much preferred to sit with them; but for reasons of his own, Yousef wanted him in view, yet not so near as to overhear any of their conversation.
It was Rashidi who discovered young Nawal roaming about inside the Qaddis, for the boy had apparently sneaked past the front desk and was working his way down the halls. It was actually ironic, for they had spent the entire afternoon devising various plans to contact him without Khaleel knowing, only to discover the boy literally outside their door. He informed them he was obeying the orders of his grandfather, and insisted only Gobeir and David were to accompany him, for his instructions were very precise and allowed for no alterations.
Now, with all the polite formalities finally concluded, they waited to be enlightened by their aged host.
Yousef smiled at his two guests; then asked in a soft voice, “Does it not intrigue you, Professor, to find an old Bedouin such as myself living out the last years of his life by the sea, far from the desert sands of his birth?” In the glowing residue of the sinking sun, his gaunt face appeared genuinely interested. “Am I not what you would call an enigma?”
Except for the sincere cast of the old man’s eyes, David would’ve taken this rather surprising question to be purely rhetorical. Now it struck him that perhaps this was a curiosity even to Yousef, something he’d never quite resolved to his own satisfaction. Not wishing to offend, he phrased his response carefully.
“I won’t presume to speak for another,” he said, “but for myself, I’ve often recognized a certain affinity existing between the ocean and the wide expanse of your western deserts. Perhaps you also perceive it, drawing comfort from their similarity.”
Yousef stroked his beard with his fingers, considering this for a long moment. The answer pleased him. There was some truth in this observation, and perhaps wisdom, as well. Now he came to feel a faint optimism that just perhaps these men might have the intelligence to heed the dire warning be must give them. He could only pray it was so. “I agree with what you say,” he said finally. “Not unlike the great desert I knew as a child, the sea can be ever changeful in color and mood. And similar, too, in its timeless solitude. Both guard their secrets very well, I think—and maybe this is as it should be.”
He now shifted his eyes to Gobeir.
“My grandson told me of your visit to my son’s shop. Is it true you came seeking my brother, Nawal?”
“We did, sir.”
“And this on behalf of the young woman whose grandfather once came here to Matruh?”
“That’s correct. His name was Lionel DeCaylus.”
Yousef sighed, briefly closing his eyes. The name was as he remembered. There was no mistake then—and what last small hope he had fled. So be it! Aloud, he said, “Could you tell me when exactly this woman’s grandfather died?”
Gobeir answered cautiously.
“It was a tragic accident in Alexandria. August 11, 1956 to be exact. We believe it was shortly after he visited here with your brother Nawal. Apparently, Mr. Decaylus tripped and fell down a—”
A firmly raised hand silenced him.
“Please say no more. I believe both you gentleman know, as do I, it was no accident that took the wretched man’s life. Nor was it an accident that claimed my dear brother’s life only two days before.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Yousef told his sad story as the last of the day faded into night. And of necessity, he began with his Bedouin childhood, for this was when the great evil that was to eventually take Nawal’s life first showed its face.
He spoke haltingly of this distant time, telling of how he and Nawal were raised with their many older siblings among the nomadic herdsmen in the semi-barren lands to the south. They lived far from the permanent settlements along the fertile coast, and though few in number, their people were reasonably prosperous, moving their herds of sheep and goats with the changing seasons across the western desert. They were largely self-sufficient, but when some essentials were unavailable within their own narrow world they bartered for these things with either the Berber villagers at Qara and Siwah, or with the Awled Ali on the coast.
“It was only when necessity demanded,” said Yousef, “that our father, Kamal, traded with these settlements, for he always felt the Berber tribesmen in particular to be a sly and untrustworthy people. And since our father was muktar, leader of our handful of families, his feelings in such matters were generally followed.” He paused, a brief smile crossing his lips. “I must tell you, however, Nawal and I never really shared our father’s sentiments, for during our infrequent contacts with Berber children we were always much impressed with their uninhibited ways and many freedoms—even to the point, I am ashamed to admit, we very early on developed a discontent with our restrictive existence. There is wisdom in the old Bedouin saying that the seeds of rebelliousness find fertile soil in the unsuspecting minds of children, for it was from this humble beginning that Nawal and I began to secretly question and ridicule many of our own long-standing Bedouin traditions. It was only a matter of time before this led to trouble.”
And so it happened when Nawal turned twelve and Yousef ten.
Their loose band of families wintered that year in the wet regions west of Quseir el-Awatari, and with the approach of spring they gradually moved their herds southward past Qara Oasis until reaching the government wells outside Ain el-Khashab. There they stayed for several weeks, resting their animals in preparation for the difficult days ahead, for it was Kamal’s decision they would drive their herds due west across the high, barren lands north of Siwah Oasis. This was something their people hadn’t attempted in many years. In distant times, this route was once part of a vast network of caravan trails stretching the entire width of North Africa. Now, however, the route was little used, for it was a journey entailing much hardship and great risk. To cross over this desolate land would take a minimum of six long days before reaching the ancient cisterns north of Deir Kohla, with no water to be found in between.
Kamal’s willingness to chance this difficult journey was shared by the other families, for three full years had passed since last they traded in the markets of Matruh. They knew once the cisterns were reached, they could then safely graze their herds north to the coast, moving well in advance of the dry summer months and availing themselves of the many government wells along the old road of Masrab el-Istabl. Thus they felt his decision to be an acceptable risk. What Kamal couldn’t foresee, however, was the grave problems that would arise due to the adventurous nature of his two youngest sons.
On the third evening into their journey, Kamal’s band pitched their tents north of a high, steep hill crowned with a curious outcropping of jagged rock—and as the surrounding landscape was extremely flat and barren, this was an intriguing oddity to young Nawal and Yousef. Later, while sitting around the cooking fires of the elders, their curiosity was further aroused to learn this particular place was part of a Bedouin legend going back many centuries. According to local lore, this hill and all the sterile wasteland lying immediately south of it was cursed from time immemorial, forbidden to all desert people under pain of swift and terrible punishment. Existing in an arid place seeing few travelers, the hill was known simply as Gabal el-Qasr; and it truly seemed aptly named to the young boys, for against the blood-red sky of nightfall the shadowed rocks on its crest did indeed appear like the serrated ruins of some long-abandoned castle.
As the legend went, Gabal il-Qasr was the abode of a giant and evil jinn known to generations of Bedouin as the Dark One, an ever-vigilant sentinel whose farseeing eyes watched over the bleak lands to the south. Given immortality by the greatest of Old Egypt’s gods, his sole duty was to pass eternity guarding what m
ust never be seen by mortal man. Only swift and violent death awaited those foolish enough to challenge his realm, for it was said his vigilance never wavered, his eyes all-seeing.
For Yousef’s older brother, the temptation was irresistible.
“Nawal was always far more daring than I,” said Yousef. “As fate had it, that night was our turn to watch over the flocks, and he was determined we must somehow investigate this colorful legend. At first I was less eager to undertake this adventure, for being younger I was more impressed than he with the ghostly images conjured up by this strange fable. Yet I allowed myself to be swayed by Nawal’s brave words—and, too, by the simplicity of his plan. Nor could I imagine any danger from which Nawal could not protect me.”
After the encampment was asleep it wasn’t difficult for the two boys to take leave of their responsibilities. Employing a trick known to every Bedouin boy, they carefully heaped their cloaks over two piles of rock, fooling the animals into thinking they were still there. This done, they stole away into the night, using the glow of a rising moon to guide them.
For lack of time, the brothers chose to give Gabal el-Qasr, itself, little more than a cursory examination, for it was the desolate land beyond which most piqued Nawal’s interest. Thus they circled around this strangely shaped hill and plunged straight south across the rock-strewn terrain. Unfortunately, in their growing excitement neither boy noticed the recent shift of the night wind. It was now blowing steadily from the northwest, a thing all desert people feared, for it was often a prelude to misfortune.
“We were no more than an hour into our journey when I came to realize the unusual strength and nature of this wind. The cool night air had turned warm, tiny particles of sand stinging my bare skin. It was at first only a mild irritation, but it gave me pause to consider how far we had distanced ourselves from the safety of the encampment. Gabal el-Qasr was by then well behind us, the pale light of the moon no longer so inviting as before. I grew fearful, but Nawal wasn’t yet prepared to return. In his estimation there remained ample time for further exploration. His goal was to get a better look at a curious ridge ahead of us; like a twisting wall of cut stone, it appeared to be the leading edge of higher terrain beyond. Only a little further, he promised me, then we could start heading back.”
Nawal’s error in judgment was soon obvious, for conditions worsened at a rapid pace. The winds became stronger with each passing minute. Too late, they realized their danger. A full-fledged storm was in the making, and the option of returning no longer theirs. Behind them—to their amazement and shock—they now saw a towering and impenetrable black curtain suddenly descend across the land, blocking out the moon and engulfing Gabal el-Qasr. More terrifying still, this sand-choked phenomenon was rushing straight at them.
“Fearing to be caught in the open,” said Yousef, “my brother and I raced in panic towards the ridge as the billowing sea of dust and sand bore down upon us. To this day I cannot describe the terror I felt as the driving sand tore at our scant clothing, pelting our exposed flesh like shards of glass. It was only by pure luck we even reached the base of the cliffs, for by then we were effectively blind, the dust filled air almost unbreathable. Yet even there we would’ve almost certainly smothered but for Nawal’s single-minded determination to find shelter. It seemed hopeless, but he refused to give up. Pulling me by the hand, he stumbled and inched his way along the face of the ridge in search of any kind of refuge—and all this while the wind howled in our ears like a scream out of hell.”
The miracle was the older boy eventually did find something. Probing ahead in the darkness with his free hand, he discovered a place where the rock turned abruptly inward. Whether a cave, or simply a shallow breach in the cliff face, he neither knew nor cared. It promised salvation from the savage wind. Dragging Yousef deep inside this stone sanctuary, he then crouched down with his brother, covering their heads as best he could beneath his own thin garment. Huddled together thus, they waited out the long night as the fierce storm raged and blew around them.
It was only with the arrival of a new day that the winds finally abated. As quick as it began, it was over. And when the boys stood, brushing loose sand from their hair and limbs, they saw it was no cave which saved them, but instead the entrance to a long, deep wadi, a valley snaking back as far as they could see between steep, limestone cliffs. As fascinating and tempting a sight as this was, not even Nawal retained the appetite for further exploration. Tired, thirsty—and dreading the expected anger of their father—they made their way back to the encampment.
What they found was a shambles.
The severity of the winds had taken its toll. Their people’s herds were widely scattered, many animals lost. And the one who took the greatest losses was Kamal, for when the storm first struck and all his sons were needed, two were nowhere to be found. His initial relief at finding them alive and unhurt didn’t save the boys from a sound beating. Nor did they escape the righteous anger and condemnation of those who also suffered damage to their property, for it was now believed this terrible thing wouldn’t have happened but for the contempt these boys had shown for Bedouin ways. Surely they alone were to blame for this terrible calamity, they reasoned, for it was obvious that the Dark One of Gabal el-Qasr had lashed out at their encampment solely because of the boy’s reckless undertaking.
The scorn and resentment heaped on Nawal and Yousef didn’t lessen over the next three days. It was their deep hope all would be forgotten once they reached the cisterns north of Deir Kohla, but this proved not to be. If anything, the anger and distrust shown them only hardened—and in the ensuing weeks as they made their way northward to Matruh it didn’t escape the attention of Kamal that his two youngest sons were being openly shunned. Not only by other families, but their own older siblings, as well.
“This greatly saddened our father,” said Yousef, “for he knew this situation was unlikely to ever improve. And though he recognized we had certainly brought this upon ourselves, he was by nature a thoughtful and compassion man. Thus it was that he began pondering how best to resolve the problem.”
His surprising solution came later that summer, just days after their arrival outside Matruh. Early one morning, Kamal took both boys deep into the town’s bazaar district. Upon reaching the small shop of an elderly man and his gentile wife, he informed his sons this childless couple had agreed to take them in, teaching them the metalworking trade. Not only was this their new home, he told them, but they would now also attend a British school recently established in Matruh for Arab boys. Bewildered by this sudden turn of events—and by Kamal’s absolute resolve—they could only stare after their father in stunned disbelief as he bid them farewell and retraced his steps up the crowded street. Perhaps sensing his sons’ eyes upon him, he never once looked back.
“We knew the fault was ours alone,” said Yousef, “and so we had no recourse but to make the best of our situation. For myself, I soon discovered I had some talent in the working of metal. Dividing my time between school and my duties to the kindly old couple who took us in, I found a growing contentment over the following years. Unfortunately, this wasn’t so with Nawal. Though we remained as close as before, it was no secret that deep down he was never truly at ease here. Unlike me, he found difficulty adapting to our new condition, and though always quicker of mind, he never really distinguished himself in school. Truth be known, even then I knew it was only a matter of time before he must leave to seek his fortune elsewhere.”
It came in early spring of their sixth year in Matruh. With the recent passing of the old couple, the small business now belonged to the two brothers. Perhaps feeling his obligation to them was over, Nawal informed Yousef of his decision to go in search of more satisfying work. It grieved Yousef to see his older brother depart, but he could not fault him, for he knew better than anyone of Nawal’s restless nature.
“I will not detain you gentlemen longer than necessary with my ramblings of things long past,” Yousef said in a weary voice.
“I saw little of my brother over the next several years. Though half of the shop and this property was rightfully his, he returned home only infrequently, taking regular employment at various excavations along the Nile valley. It was work he enjoyed, and with his facility in English, he established himself as a valued worker. I was truly happy for him.” He paused. “During his longest absence I’d wed a local girl of the Awled Ali, and we were awaiting the birth of our first child when Nawal arrived unexpectedly in the company of another man. My brother’s leg had been badly hurt in a rockslide some weeks before, but he was by then much healed and able to walk without real difficulty.”
Yousef nodded.
“Their stay was brief. Only a matter of hours passed before they drove south on the Masrab il-Istabl towards Siwah. But even then I knew it was not their intention to reach the oasis. Nawal was taking this man to the barren lands south of Gabal el-Qasr, seeking the hidden wadi we discovered as boys.”
“He told you this?”
“Not directly, Professor, but I knew it was so. When they returned to Matruh several days later, I also knew my brother and this man had found something of great importance, for never before did I see such a light burning in Nawal’s eyes. What exactly it was, I never learned. If you gentlemen have knowledge of it—which I believe you do—it is still a secret I’ve no desire to share. Whatever it was, it cost my dear brother his life and is surely cursed.”
The Amun Chamber Page 22
