Lost Riders

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘Wow! You found Shari!’ Iqbal was staring at Bilal, impressed. ‘Yasser, he’s been on about Shari all the time. We kept asking everyone about him, didn’t we, Yasser? No one knew where he was.’

  Salman was biting his lip, anxious and uncertain.

  ‘No permission from Haji. Very angry if you come late back.’

  Bilal cleared his throat as if he was about to make another speech.

  ‘But we won’t be late, Salman. I promise. I promise,’ Rashid said quickly. ‘Let me go. Please. Please.’

  ‘You’ve got to let him, Salman,’ Iqbal urged. ‘We’ll never hear the end of it.’

  Even Amal was nodding. Puppo, seeing him, began nodding violently too.

  ‘We meet you here then after mosque,’ Salman said at last. ‘After one hour. You have watch, Mr Bilal?’

  ‘Of course.’ Bilal grandly shot out his arm to show it. ‘An hour is fine. Come on, Rashid. We’ve wasted enough time already.’

  He strode off, heading along the road in the opposite direction, away from the village, with Rashid at his heels.

  ‘Say hi to Shari for us!’ Iqbal called after them.

  In all his months at the uzba, Rashid had only ever gone in one of two directions outside: either towards the race track during the exercise hours, or to the mosque in the village for Friday prayers. It was the first time he had turned off the smaller track on to the main tarmac road, which was raised above the surrounding desert. From there he could look out over miles of flat desert and the sprawl of uzbas, each within their palm-frond fences.

  For the first time he realized how many there were. Ten, fifteen, twenty even. He was cross with himself. Why hadn’t he slipped away and explored along here before? He might have found Shari ages ago, all by himself.

  But the idea of wandering about on his own made him shiver, in spite of the noonday heat. Iqbal had run out of the uzba once, clutching a few coins he had found in the sand outside the guest house, determined to get to the shop in the village and buy something to eat. But by bad luck Abu Nazir had been bumping down towards the uzba in his Land Cruiser, and he’d spotted Iqbal before he’d had time to hide. Haji Faroukh had flown into one of his unpredictable rages, and had beaten Iqbal so severely with the piece of plastic hose that Iqbal had limped for days afterwards, and had pulled away to some place inside himself where Rashid couldn’t follow. Even though Haji Faroukh had seemed sorry afterwards, and had been nice to Iqbal to make up for it, the thought of bringing down such fury on his head made Rashid feel sick. He took hold of Bilal’s hand and held it tightly.

  ‘It’s not far is it, Uncle Bilal? Only I mustn’t be back late. Haji will kill me if he finds out.’

  ‘No. It’s over there.’

  Bilal was pointing to the last uzba that stood alone, a little apart from the others, across a small stretch of rubble-strewn desert. Even from this distance, the place looked poor and run down, the palm-frond fence dry and brittle with age.

  Now that he could see where Shari was, Rashid was burning with impatience. He tugged at Bilal’s hand to make him go faster.

  ‘Listen, Rashid,’ Bilal began hesitantly. ‘Don’t be -I mean, I only saw Shari for a few minutes, but he . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He doesn’t look - just don’t be surprised, that’s all.’

  Rashid tried to summon up an image of his little brother, but found that he could hardly remember his face. The anxiety in Bilal’s voice was catching. He freed his hand and began to run.

  ‘Be careful!’ Bilal called after him. ‘You can’t just go in there.’ Rashid stopped, and Bilal hurried to catch up with him. ‘Shari’s masoul, he’s not reasonable like yours. He wouldn’t let me talk to Shari. He - he shouted at me. Told me not to come back. We’ll have to go round by the side. One of the older boys was nice. He said there’s a gap in the fence at the back. He said we might be able to see Shari from there.’

  They were already almost in front of the run-down uzba.

  ‘What gap? Where is it?’ Rashid said, filled with dread.

  Bilal led him away from the entrance, along a tyre-rutted track. Anyone catching sight of them would think they were making for a broken-down shack a little way away. Once out of sight of the uzba’s entrance, though, he turned sharp right, and a few minutes later Rashid was following him along the side fence, their feet making no sound in the soft sand.

  ‘There. This must be it. Look through here,’ Bilal said quietly.

  The brittle palm fronds were bent and broken here. Rashid parted them easily and looked through.

  It was odd seeing another uzba, so similar and yet so different from his own. This part of it seemed to be an old camel pen, though there were no camels in it now. The fodder racks tilted drunkenly and sand drifts had blown up against them. Beyond the pen he could see a white-painted brick building, like Syed Ali’s guest house, and behind it a tent. Through its open flaps he could make out a tangle of bedding.

  ‘Move over, Rashid,’ Bilal said, pushing him aside and putting his own face to the gap, then he puckered his mouth and whistled three rising notes between his teeth.

  In spite of the tension churning inside him, Rashid couldn’t help smiling. Whistling like a bird was one of Uncle Bilal’s tricks. He’d often done it at home.

  A moment later, Bilal stepped back.

  ‘He heard me. He’s coming. Look, Rashid, but be careful. Don’t let anyone else see you.’

  Rashid was back at the gap now, staring at the little boy who was walking fearfully towards him, looking over his shoulder as he came.

  That can’t be Shari, he thought.

  The child was limp and listless and was trailing a cloth behind him in the sand. It was impossible to recognize, in this thin, pathetic creature, the brother who had endlessly maddened and provoked him, whom he had played with and quarrelled with and loved and loathed ever since he could remember.

  Behind Rashid, Bilal was whistling again to guide Shari to the right place. He was inches away now.

  ‘Shari,’ hissed Rashid. ‘It’s me. Rashid.’

  Shari turned huge, startled eyes towards the fence. Rashid pulled the fronds further apart. He could see more clearly now how changed Shari was, how thin and scared, with blank eyes and a body drooping with exhaustion.

  ‘Shari! Don’t you know me? I’m Rashid!’

  He’d expected Shari to brighten and turn at once into his old self, to raise his voice in his high, gleeful laugh. Instead, he saw the corners of Shari’s mouth turn down, and his chin tremble, and tears well up out of his eyes.

  ‘Don’t start, Shari! You know me. It’s Rashid. Can’t you even say hello?’

  Rashid dared to push his hand through the fence and catch hold of Shari’s shoulder. His fingers felt nothing but bird-light bones. His touch seemed to upset Shari even more, who opened his mouth and let out a long despairing cry, rocking his head from side to side.

  ‘Shut up, Shari!’ Bilal said. ‘They’ll hear you. Tell him to be quiet, Rashid.’

  It was too late. A man was hurrying across the sand towards them, his big belly covered by a dirty white vest. Bilal pushed Rashid aside.

  ‘Say you saw a scorpion, Shari. Say it made you cry. Don’t tell him we were here.’

  The man was upon Shari already. Rashid had let the fronds fall back into place, but not before he had seen the man’s hand lift and come down in a vicious smack on Shari’s head.

  ‘Sc— scor—’ Shari was trying to say.

  The man grabbed him by the upper arm and was half dragging, half carrying him away. As they went, Rashid saw a dark patch of wetness spreading down the legs of Shari’s trousers.

  Bilal and Rashid walked silently back to the road. Rashid was biting his lip so hard that it hurt.

  ‘Shari’s going to be all right though, isn’t he, Uncle Bilal?’ he said anxiously.

  Bilal hunched his shoulders helplessly, and let them fall again.

  ‘I don’t know! You saw him. Yes, of cou
rse he’s going to be all right. Anyway, it’s not my fault, OK? I told you. I didn’t know what it was going to be like.’

  Rashid was following his own line of thought.

  ‘That man, is he Shari’s masoul?’

  ‘How should I know? I suppose so.’

  ‘He looks horrible.’

  ‘Yes, and you know what, Rashid? I think you’re lucky. Your haji, he’s not that bad. And that boy, Salman, he’s been reasonable. They even let you go to Friday prayers.’

  Rashid said nothing. How could he tell Uncle Bilal what it was really like? He had no words to describe the desolation of the night-time, and the weariness of the day, the hunger and fear, and the pain at being cast off from home. But Uncle Bilal was right, he knew. He was lucky. As he had peered through the fence into Shari’s uzba, he had sensed a horror far worse than anything in his own. He didn’t want to think about it.

  Shari’ll be all right. He’ll be all right, he chanted to himself.

  They walked on in silence.

  ‘I’d better give you my mobile number,’ said Bilal.

  Rashid looked up at him. Worry had gouged a deep groove between his uncle’s brows. The sight of it made Rashid even more anxious.

  ‘What for, Uncle Bilal? I can’t call you. Nobody’s got a mobile here, and anyway I don’t know how to use one.’

  ‘Just in case.’

  Bilal recited the string of numbers and made Rashid repeat them until he was sure they were fixed in his head.

  Rashid liked learning the numbers. It was like knowing a secret. Something magic. Something powerful.

  Salman and the others met them at the place where they had first parted. Salman beamed with relief at the sight of them.

  ‘Did you find him? Did you see Shari?’ asked Iqbal.

  ‘Yes.’

  Iqbal waited, but Rashid didn’t go on.

  ‘Where is he? Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s right over there.’ Rashid pointed with his chin. ‘It’s the last uzba, the old one. There’s only desert on the other side.’

  Salman sucked his breath in through his teeth.

  ‘I know that one. Very bad masoul. Name is Boota. Very strict. Punish boy with electric shock. Two camel jockey dead last year in Boota uzba.’

  Rashid turned on him.

  ‘Shut up! Shut up! Don’t talk about it! I don’t want to talk about it!’

  He felt his face go red with anger. He wanted to hit Salman. He wanted to hit out at everyone, to punch and kick the whole world.

  10

  Although he never had enough to eat, Rashid was growing. He noticed this when his sandals became too tight, and one day he threw them aside, unable to force them on to his feet. In any case, he didn’t need them so much now. The soles of his feet were hardening and they could bear the heat more easily.

  Weeks had passed since Bilal had taken him to see Shari. For nights afterwards Rashid had had confused, frightening dreams, waking to the sound of his own crying, but as the days went by he settled back into the routine of the uzba and forgot the terrible sight of Shari’s despairing eyes and the sound of his agonized wailing. He didn’t, however, forget Bilal’s mobile number. He hugged it to himself, repeating it under his breath, and when he needed comfort he chanted its magic rhythm like a prayer.

  There was more activity at the uzba as the race season approached. Syed Ali and Abu Nazir came almost every day. They spent long hours examining each camel, with Haji Faroukh and Salman in respectful attendance. The camels were groomed and washed constantly. Salve was rubbed into every little cut or bruise, and they were covered at night with sheets and blankets. Experts and vets came and went.

  ‘Goat’s milk mixed with honey for this one,’ Rashid heard one of them say, as he peeled back Khamri’s leathery upper lip to inspect her long yellow teeth. ‘Increase the vitamin supplements. Dates, I think also, mixed in with her barley.’

  ‘What’s vitamins?’ Rashid asked Iqbal, who was listening too.

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Iqbal, ‘but I wish I was a camel. I wish I could have milk with honey. And dates.’

  The night-exercise time was changing too. As the weather cooled, they set off later, only an hour before dawn. Abu Nazir came with the sun, his Land Cruiser sparkling white in the morning light. There was no quiet plodding round the race track once he arrived. The boys had to make the camels run.

  Rashid had become so used to walking the camels that he had felt no fear for a long time as he mounted and set off into the dark each night, but it was a different matter when the running began. Amal, Iqbal and even Puppo had all been through at least one racing season. Even so, they were tense as they saddled up for the first morning’s running training.

  ‘Don’t fall off, Yasser, that’s all,’ Iqbal said earnestly, seeing how nervous Rashid was, fumbling with his camel’s girth. ‘And if you do, roll off the track as quick as you can so you don’t get trodden on.’

  ‘Get on with it! Stop chattering!’ Abu Nazir barked at them, handing out long black whips to each boy.

  Puppo was already perched on the smallest, youngest camel. He was sitting on his heels, rocking back and forth unhappily. Amal, mounted on an older, darker one, had sucked in his cheeks and was fiddling with his whip. Rashid saw that he was blinking nervously.

  Rashid was to ride Hamlul. He mounted, and Hamlul rose protestingly to his feet. Rashid looked at Iqbal, trying to see how to hold the whip, but before he was properly settled, he saw Abu Nazir flick a switch on the prod he was holding, and touch the rump of Iqbal’s camel. Galvanized by the electric shock, the camel let out a shrill whistle of protest and bounded forward. Amal’s mount took off after it, and then Puppo’s.

  ‘Use your whip! Keep up with the others!’ Abu Nazir called up to Rashid, and brandished the electric prod again. Rashid’s breath was knocked out of him as Hamlul shot forward. He slipped back on the saddle and had to lean over to clutch at the front edge of it.

  His stomach boiling with fright, his eyes wide, every hair on his body standing on end, he clung on, his feet tensed beneath him, willing himself not to fall.

  He was aware suddenly of the rumble of a car engine beside him and out of the corner of his eye saw that Abu Nazir’s white Land Cruiser was driving alongside the race track. Abu Nazir was leaning out of the driver’s window, yelling at him.

  ‘Whip! Whip him, you little fool!’

  Rashid forced himself to relax his right hand’s grip on the saddle and tried to raise the whip, but the action made him lose his precarious balance and he swayed, almost falling. The whip slid out of his hand, and he clutched at the saddle’s edge again with desperate fingers.

  ‘What are you doing? Stupid idiot!’ yelled Abu Nazir, then he pulled his head back in and accelerated on towards the other running camels, who were already far ahead.

  To Rashid’s intense relief, Hamlul began to slow down, dropping from a fast run to his usual leisurely walk. Rashid looked over his shoulder. Where was his whip? Should he try to go back for it? What if Hamlul ran off while he had dismounted?

  ‘Yasser! Not to worry! Whip is here!’

  Salman was running up behind him, the whip in his hand. He passed it up to Rashid, then laid a friendly hand on his knee.

  ‘First time running on camel very difficult. You do good already, Yasser. Easy to fall off.’

  Rashid barely heard him. He was twisting the whip anxiously between his fingers.

  ‘Abu Nazir’s really angry. He’s going to beat me, I know he is.’

  Salman clicked his tongue.

  ‘You no think about Abu Nazir. Learn to ride camel when he go fast, Abu Nazir very happy with you. Listen. I tell you what to do.’ His one good eye was blinking earnestly. He shook Rashid’s knee gently, forcing him to look down.

  ‘You just sit easy, all right, Yasser? No all tighten up like that. Think like camel. Think how he run, how he use his leg. Go with him. Whole body. Now start again. Ready? I give Hamlul smack, make him go, then you
use whip.’

  Rashid took a deep breath. His insides were churning again, but he would do it. He must do it. He would show Abu Nazir that he wasn’t an idiot, and that he was as good as the others. He would make Hamlul run and run. He’d stay on and whip as hard as he could, and catch the others up.

  He felt a little sprout of confidence.

  ‘All right, Salman,’ he said. ‘I’m ready.’

  He was prepared for it this time when Hamlul bolted off and he didn’t panic.

  Think like the camel, Salman had said.

  He hadn’t understood what Salman had meant, but he found that he did now. He could tell what Hamlul was going to do. He could make his own body go with him, in the same rhythm. It wasn’t so different from walking, after all.

  I can do this! he told himself.

  Hamlul’s speed was slackening now. Rashid bit his lip. He had to use the whip.

  He was scared again. It had been all right as long as he could concentrate on simply riding, on not falling off, but raising his whip arm and bringing it down with force on the camel’s rump threatened to unbalance him again. He tried once, rocking dangerously in the saddle as he did so. Hamlul was ignoring him, slowing almost contemptuously to a walk. Rashid, feeling more confident at this sedate pace, managed to lift the whip and whacked it down as hard as he could.

  The effect was immediate. Hamlul, with a grunt of surprise, raced off, gusts of sand spinning out from beneath his feet. Rashid raised the whip higher this time. It was easier than he’d thought. He brought it down with another satisfying crack.

  Hamlul seemed to be flying now, his neck stretched out, his rhythm steady. Rashid was concentrating so hard that he didn’t notice the SUV, driving alongside him.

  ‘Make him go faster! Catch the others up! Are you deaf, or what?’

  Abu Nazir’s voice was rough with anger. It startled Rashid. He lost the rhythm of Hamlul’s stride and began to jolt about awkwardly in the saddle. He wanted to fling the whip away again, and clutch with both hands at the saddle’s edge.

  Then he heard Salman’s voice inside his head.

  Go with the camel. Think how he runs.

  He steadied down. His knees, which had tensed to the point of cramp, began to relax a little. His back was moving better than ever with Hamlul’s long stride. He was all right now. He lifted the whip and at the feel of it Hamlul’s pace quickened.