Gibraltar Passage

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Some. Before the war I enjoyed tinkering about.”

  “The sultan has a fleet of Rolls Royces,” said Herr Reich. “Four, to be exact. None of them run.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It is a story that has been told in the lowlands for years,” Father Mikus replied, “as an example of the sort of man who rules the Riff highlands. Once his stables held only horses. Then in the thirties he took delivery of four Rolls Royce automobiles. Thirty men lost their lives widening the highland trails to deliver them, and still they were unable to drive across the steepest slopes—they were pulled by teams of horses and slaves.”

  “Slavery’s been outlawed,” Jake pointed out.

  Reich cast him a sardonic glance, then continued. “Gasoline had to be brought by donkey over the mountains. As long as the cars ran, the sultan could only drive up and down the Riff plains; beyond that the roads were not extended. But when war broke out, the sultan’s mechanic ran away to join up, and now the cars no longer run. I know this for a fact because the Berbers are taking back spare parts, and they joke about it because there is no one to replace them or even to say whether they are the correct pieces.”

  Jake turned to Pierre and demanded, “So what do we do?”

  “Do?” Pierre rose slowly to his feet. “As Herr Reich has said, we go through the motions. We continue the search.”

  “The Berber tribesmen will leave with the sun,” Herr Reich offered, rising with them. “I will arrange for them to come by Father Mikus’ house to fetch you and will pay for your passage. I shall call it a further token of my esteem for the great sultan.”

  “Thank you,” Pierre managed.

  “It is I who offers thanks,” Herr Reich replied. “Even this talk has done my spirit a world of good. And if ever you find Patrique, remember my words to him. All I have is his.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pierre retreated back into himself and refused even to speak with the others for the remainder of the day. That evening he retired to his mattress immediately after dinner and did not respond when Jake spoke his name.

  Jake was awakened before dawn by faint sounds echoing outside the priest’s hovel. “Pierre?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hear horses,” he said, fumbling in the dark for his clothes. “Hurry.”

  As Jake dressed and threw his belongings into his satchel, Father Mikus appeared in the doorway bearing an oil lamp. “Ah, you’re awake. Good. A rider has appeared with your horses. You are expected at the main gates at dawn.” He set down the lantern and turned away. “I will see to your breakfast.”

  Jake asked Pierre, “Can you ride a horse?”

  “As well as I can repair an engine. I would sometimes ride the salt plains with Patrique. And you?”

  “I learned in the Poconos. They’re mountains back home.” Jake grinned as he buckled his bag. “It seems like another lifetime.”

  “Everything that came before the war is from a different life,” Pierre replied.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Bruised, battered, and horribly confused,” Pierre said, not looking Jake’s way.

  “Don’t you think—”

  Pierre raised his hand. “I think too much. Night after night I rack my brains. Day after day I search my mind. All it has done is to lead me in hopeless circles.”

  He snapped the satchel’s catches and straightened. “So I try to do as you say. At night I talk to the stars and in the day I plead with the dust. I try to listen to the infinite. I struggle to see the invisible. And all it has left me is more empty than I have ever been in my life. Empty and lost and without hope.” Pierre turned and left the room.

  Jake sat by his mattress, waiting for guidance. He heard nothing, felt nothing save an aching worry for his friend. Then he sighed his way to his feet, grasped his satchel, and followed Pierre downstairs.

  * * *

  The Beshaw Berbers spoke only Arabic and their local dialect, so Jake and Pierre journeyed in silence once Father Mikus saw them off at the gate. Jake did not mind, nor was he troubled by the dark-eyed stares sent his way. He was among an unknown folk, journeying into lands where legends were born. Not even Pierre’s morose silence could still the humming excitement that coursed through Jake’s veins.

  Farewells with Father Mikus had been awkward. Pierre barely roused from his reverie long enough to offer thanks. Jake had taken it upon himself to pull the priest aside and ask, “Can you tell me anything about what’s up ahead?”

  Father Mikus thought a moment, then replied, “Morocco became a protectorate of France in 1912, but this has had little effect outside the major cities.” He stretched out one hand toward where the mountains rose, pink and glorious in the distance. “In the lands beyond the hills, time is measured by centuries and not by days. The French will come and go and be granted little more than a sentence in the tales of tribal life.”

  Mikus called to where the tribesmen waited patiently. They responded with a few words. “You should arrive late tomorrow,” he told Jake. “They will take you straight into the mountains. You must cross the Tizian-Tischka Pass, then enter the highland plains. This will take you to Telouet.”

  “You know the way?”

  “I have been there. Twice. But one could spend a thousand lifetimes in those hills and not know them.”

  Jake felt the rising thrill of adventure. “If Jasmyn shows up—”

  “Jasmyn?” the priest cried. “She is here?”

  “She may be,” Jake hedged. “She was with us, sort of, as far as Tangiers.”

  “Sort of?”

  Jake glanced toward Pierre. “There are problems.”

  “Ah.” The priest’s jowls shook as he gave a jerky nod. “Now all is made clear. But how will I know her? I have never seen the woman before.”

  “If it’s her, you’ll know,” Jake said definitely. “Tell her where we’ve gone, and why.”

  “Very well.” The priest offered a gnarled hand. “Go with God, Colonel Burnes.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your help. And advice. We both do.”

  “Find Patrique. Tell him his friends await his return.” He gave Pierre a searching look. “And see to the needs of your friend.”

  * * *

  The mountain tribesmen rode gleaming steeds which handled the rocky terrain with sure-footed strength. Their stout saddles rose high in front and back. Saddle blankets bore the markings of the Beshaw tribe, three stripes interwoven with the mark of Allah.

  The hard-faced men all wore white voluminous trousers and high boots as supple as the ammunition belts that crossed their chests. Their turbans were of dark blue, and matching robes hung about their necks—there to be wrapped about in strong winds and morning chills or flung aside in heat.

  Their rifles were ancient to Jake’s eyes, a museum of armaments from other eras. Most were single-fire weapons with stocks layered in filigreed silver and barrels as long as a man was tall. But the men carried them with the ease of those long accustomed to bearing arms, and gave little notice to their great weight.

  They followed the path of a wandering stream out of town and up toward the mountains. Wild scrub fought for place with the towering palms. The air was sweet with the scent of endless spices and blooming flowers.

  Morocco was indeed a land of contrasts. Wherever there was water and arable land, life bloomed in profusion. Where water was absent, rock and shale and sand dominated, and the land was dry and dead as old bones. The distance between these two contrasting lands was often less than a hundred meters.

  The mountains garnered rainfall from clouds grown full in the tropical south, so even the dry reaches of their early journey held many oases, with calm waters surrounded by palms and Berbers and camel herds. Water dictated where life could flourish. The villages they passed bordered either oases or rivers. The houses were made of the region’s red clay.

  By midday the first rise was behind them, and Jake’s legs and seat were rubbed raw. His lower back bu
rned from the unaccustomed motion. But he strove to keep his discomfort from his face, and concentrated upon the wonders about them.

  After they had crested the first rise, the road became rougher, the air dryer. The lowland’s bright, leafy greenness gave way to scrub and stubborn fir trees stunted by trying to grow in meager soil.

  The path was little more than a flattened trail up the rocky scree. The horses, mountain born and bred, found footing with the ease of mountain goats. The higher they climbed, the colder it became.

  They camped for the night just below the snow line. While the tribesmen made camp and prepared their meal, Jake eased bruised muscles and looked out over a sunset-lit vista of gold and russet hues. The great plains of western Morocco stretched all the way to the sea, while to either side of him rose the jagged Atlas peaks in all their glory. The view added spice to an otherwise unappealing meal of dried lamb strips and corn gruel, and made Pierre’s morose silence much more bearable.

  As the camp settled for the night, Jake lay beneath his saddle blanket, watched the stars circle just out of reach, and thought of his silent friend lying there beside him. The wind spoke to him then, and the clarity of the night sky helped him see and understand.

  Pierre had spent the years of war conditioning himself to revile Jasmyn. All that bitterness, all that raging fury had carried him through the dregs of war-torn Europe and kept him alive when many other good men had passed over. Now Pierre’s world, bitter as it might be, was being torn asunder. And his best friend responded by saying that help could come only from a God in whom Pierre did not believe. Jake lay still and felt the cold pinch at his face, and did the only thing he could think of to help his friend. He prayed.

  Frost whitened their blankets when the travelers awoke the next morning. With a minimum of discussion, camp was broken, horses packed and mounted. The trip resumed.

  The pass was recognizable as such only because the ridge they crossed was three thousand feet and more below the surrounding peaks. But there was no path over the saddle of ice and snow, and the wind howled with fierce fury as the men dismounted and walked the horses up and over the steep ridge. Twice during their passage, heavily laden packhorses broke through the permanent ice coating and sank to their chests in the deep snow. Each time the entire tribe jumped into action, shouting and heaving with all their might, struggling to free the animals before they disappeared completely into the ancient snows.

  On the pass’s other side, going was faster but equally dangerous. A misstep meant a slide down icebound slopes with nothing to stop the plummet for a thousand feet. By the time the snows began to give out, Jake’s legs were trembling from the strain and the fear.

  When they were safely beyond the snow line, the horses were hobbled and fitted with feed bags. Tea was brewed and served with chunks of sticky-sweet cakes made from layer after layer of paper-thin pastry, filled with crushed nuts and lathered with honey. Jake felt his tired body soak in the energy from the provisions, and again he found himself able to look at the surrounding vista with interest.

  The road to Telouet descended before them into a wide, flat highland plain. Most of the valley floor was dry and void of life. The road was the same hard-packed scrabble as had borne the feet of Roman legions two thousand years earlier. Through the highland valley’s heart flowed a river, which from Jake’s lofty perspective appeared as a silver ribbon lined on both banks by broad stretches of green. Along the river’s path rose a city as yellow as the barren earth that stretched out beyond the water’s reach.

  Although in the dry highlands air the city seemed close enough to touch, still it took them three long hours to work their way down the steep-sided hill to the point where the path broadened into the ceremonial road of packed shale. As soon as the horses touched the road, the tribesmen raised their rifles and fired a volley into the air. Jake guessed the time-honored custom had two purposes. First, it announced their approach loudly and long in advance. Second, for the single-fire weapons of old, the volley cleared the guns’ chambers.

  The city hid behind the tall, sturdy walls of a medieval fortress. Only the great dome of a palace and the tower of a mosque were high enough to be seen as they approached. The portals of the keep were fifty feet tall, curved and peaked at their summit, and fashioned from thick oaken planks studded with iron crossbars. A score of turbaned men with scimitars and well-oiled rifles guarded the approach.

  When the Berbers were within hailing distance, the chief separated himself, trotted forward, slid from his horse, and greeted the captain of the guard with a bow. Three fingers of his right hand touched heart and lips and forehead. The guard captain responded in kind. They spoke for a long time while Jake tried to match the tribesmen’s silent patience. Pierre seemed oblivious to his surroundings.

  Jake stiffened as attention of the entire guard party swung toward them. The captain examined him with an impenetrable gaze, then turned and barked an order. His subordinate scurried away. There followed a long and careful scrutiny of the cargo. Each packhorse in turn had its leather covering slung aside. Some carried delicacies—small eggs of pastel blue, salted fish wrapped in seaweed, fine fruit, fresh spices. But most carried metal components clearly meant for machinery. Jake looked at one horse bearing a pair of mufflers and three tires, and understood why the animal had broken through the packed ice.

  A pair of guards came hustling through the portals, trying to keep up with a diminutive official. Jake sucked in his cheeks to hide a smile. He knew that kind of man. General staffer, his sort was called in the army, a man who loved giving orders and fled at the first sign of a fight. This particular one was extremely proud of his ill-fitting Western suit and tie and Brylcreamed hair. His manner was officious and bossy and superior.

  Experience had taught Jake that the best way to deal with such a man was by meeting him head on. As the official bustled toward him, Jake slid from his saddle, came to bristling attention, and snapped off a parade-ground salute. “Jake Burnes, formerly of the United States Army, at your service, sir!”

  The action generated the desired response. The little man ground to a halt, faltered, then drew himself up and sniffed, “Is true, you are mechanic for Rolls Royce motor vehicles?”

  “Yessir!” In the corner of his eye Jake caught Pierre swiveling and giving him a questioning gaze. He willed his friend to remain silent. “My assistant and I, we have positively years of experience with motor cars of all shapes and sizes, sir!”

  The power of Jake’s voice drove the official back a step. “I am Hareesh Yohari. Official assistant to great Sultan Musad al Rasuli, ruler of all Riff.” He had to cock his head back to a ridiculous angle in order to sniff down at Jake. “Sultan orders you to fix motor vehicles. How long it take?”

  “Hard to tell until we check them over, Lord Hareesh, sir!”

  Being accorded a title consistent with his over-inflated ego helped puff out the official’s chest and ease his concern over admitting strangers into the palace keep. Hareesh cocked his head back even farther so as to inspect Pierre, who eyed the scene from the safety of his horse. “You, why you not standing and giving proper greetings to sultan’s official assistant?”

  “My assistant has been ill, and the trip has tired him out, sir!” Jake answered for him.

  “Better not illness to slow down repair of motor vehicles,” Hareesh warned. “Sultan not patient man.”

  “Oh no, sir! We’ll be starting on repairs this very day, sir!”

  The official sniffed and turned away in dismissal. He snapped out orders, and the guards waved the company through. The tribesmen watched Jake snap off a second salute, then heave himself back into the saddle. Once they were through the massive portals, several turned toward Jake, gave him ridiculous parodies of salutes, shouted nonsense in Arabic, then howled their mirth. Jake shared a smile. Officials were the same the whole world over.

  He walked his horse alongside Pierre’s and tried hard not to gape. The city was as ancient as time and mysterious
as the desert mountains that enclosed it. Crowds of people stopped and pointed up at them; clearly few had seen a white man before. Jake smiled and touched his forehead in greeting and received gap-toothed grins in return.

  The streets teemed with raucous Arab life. Berbers fresh from the empty reaches strode with confidence down the packed market ways. Their eyes held the far-seeing gaze of those used to desert distances. Princes with eunuchs in cautious attendance stepped casually from stall to stall, the gold and jewels woven into their robes glittering in the harsh sunlight. Snake charmers and water sellers and musicians and acrobats and storytellers vied for attention in the crowded ways.

  Doors to the imposing structures they passed were all tall and domed, meant to be opened fully only for riders mounted upon proud Arabian steeds. Set in their middle were smaller doors for foot traffic. And in the center of these were hand-sized openings with stout iron grillwork, through which guards scowled fiercely at all who sought entry.

  The tribesman nearest Jake noted his excited gaze, smiled with pride at the stranger’s interest in the man’s homeland, and pointed up ahead. Jake heard strange calls and cries, and craned in his saddle. Their way opened into a tightly packed square, and suddenly he was riding through an outdoor aviary. Birds of every size and description stood upon wooden crooks or fluttered inside hand-woven reed cages. Their plumage was a blurred riot of color. Their calls and shrill songs echoed back from the surrounding walls in never-ending symphony. Jake laughed his delight and was rewarded with a clap on the shoulder from the closest tribesman.

  They were stopped a second time at the portals to the inner keep, and held until the little official appeared. When Jake slid from the saddle, the tribesmen were ready and kept straight faces only by tugging fiercely on their beards. The official puffed out his chest and motioned for Jake to move up beside him. Jake handed his reins to a tribesman and stepped to the head of the procession. They walked past scowling guards and entered the palace grounds.