The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

And it was of the frustrated horse-thief and his unfulfilled threat that he was thinking as he drew Suliman to a standstill on the crest of a hill, a few miles outside the town, to watch the glory of the sunrise that was to him a never-failing pleasure.

Abdul had so far made no attempt to put his murderous intention into practise and, still sceptical himself as to the real truth of the warnings he had received, Carew would never have given him a second thought but for the behaviour of his attendants whose continual and obvious watchfulness was a constant reminder of the menace hanging over him. Hosein was still anxious—there had been difficulty in persuading him to remain behind at the camp this morning so loath was he to let his master ride alone—and Saba was still unhappy, a pathetic little figure of misery who clung to his protector refusing to be comforted. And daily the revolver that Carew wore naturally thrust in the waistcloth of his Arab dress sagged uncomfortably in the pocket of his serge jacket until he laughed at himself for carrying it. Clad in the native robes he preferred for the last two days he had forgotten it, but as he glanced now around the little hillock on which he stood he pushed it further into the silken folds of his embroidered shawl with a slight smile of amusement. The locality was reminiscent. It was here, after leaving Lady Geradine on the outskirts of Algiers, that he had chanced across Abdul and forced him to reveal the whereabouts of the stolen horse. But the smile passed quickly and his face clouded as his thoughts swung from the recovered stallion to the girl who had ridden him. Since the night of the opera he had not seen her but the memory of her was present with him always. The intolerant anger she had once roused in him was gone and he was at a loss to actually define the feeling he now felt towards her. It was not interest, he told himself almost angrily, he had no interest in her, no wish to think of her, and he fought against the perpetual remembrance that never left him. Unable to combat what seemed to him a veritable obsession he resented the deep impression she had made, resented the humiliating breakdown of the will he had trained to obey him. More than ever was he determined to get out of Algiers at the first possible opportunity. He had come to hate the town and the disturbing associations that would always be connected with it. The call of the desert, the lure of the legendary City of Stones was urging him powerfully as he sat with slackened reins looking dreamily at the golden sunrise, cursing the half promise he had made to General Sanois. But he had promised, or as good as promised, and facing his decision squarely for the first time he knew that the City of Stones must wait. With a little sigh of regret he searched for a cigarette in the folds of his waistcloth as he watched the glowing disc of the sun rise higher in the crimson flecked sky until the full light came with a sudden rush and the distinct city stood out before him clear and distinct in every detail. He scowled at it with sudden irritation and tightening his grip on the bridle, turned Suliman in the direction of the little village of Birmandreis. It was still very early. But for an occasional goatherd stalking gravely at the head of his flock, he had seen no sign of human life since he left the cross-country track he had taken from the camp and joined the plane-bordered highway that led to the village. Too early to return to the villa, he decided as he rode slowly along the well laid road listening to the sharp clip clop of his horse’s hoofs and breathing in the fragrance of the fresh morning air that was blowing against his face. There was no need to hurry. Time enough this afternoon to see Sanois and give him his long delayed answer. Until then he could forget it.

Birmandreis was awake and stirring as he cantered through its miniature square and headed in the direction of El Biar. A short distance beyond the village he left the main road and turned down a narrow pathway in search of a tiny Arab café that was known to him. The picturesque little building, almost hidden by a wide spreading fig tree, was at this early hour of the morning silent and apparently deserted, but the clatter of hoofs and Carew’s shout produced a sleepy and yawning proprietor who awoke into sudden and obsequious activity at the sight of this visitor. Slipping Suliman’s bridle through a ring in the wall Carew sat on a bench in the shadow of the fig tree while he waited for the Arab coffee for which the place was famous. It was brought at length by the half-caste aubergist who hovered about his early guest with eager loquaciousness. He had heard that his excellency had returned from the desert, he had hoped before this to have seen him at the Café Meduse. He trusted that the protracted journey had been propitious. Monsieur was pleased to return to civilization? Monsieur was not pleased! Hélas! and yet Algiers was gay this season—fuller than it had been for many years. Trade was good. For himself he had nothing to complain of, the café prospered and the visitors, the English visitors in particular, paid well—to Allah the praise!

Undeterred by Carew’s monosyllabic replies he rambled on half in French half in Arabic discussing the district and the crops and the government taxes with fine impartiality, but with due regard to his listener’s well-known intimacy with the administrators of the country. But under his seemingly careless manner there was a suggestion of uneasiness that was very apparent. He moved restlessly as he talked, from time to time glancing almost furtively about him, and once or twice it seemed as if he were on the point of imparting some confidence that nearly reached utterance but which died away in mumbled ambiguity before it was spoken.

But when Carew had paid his modest score and was once more in the saddle the man appeared to come to a sudden decision. Pressing close up to the restless horse he stooped down under pretence of tightening a loosened girth, his fingers fumbling nervously at the scarlet leather straps. “There is venom in the jackal’s bite, O Sidi,” he muttered in the vernacular, pure Arab in his agitation, and drew back hastily as if already repenting the words he had nerved himself to say. And Carew, glancing down at his twitching face, knew that to question him would be useless, so he made no sign of understanding but with a careless nod and a perfunctory, “Go with God,” reined his horse back into the little lane and held him, sidling and catching at his bit, to a walk until a bend in the road hid them from the prying eyes that were doubtless watching from behind the dense foliage of the fig tree. Then he gave Suliman his head wondering, as the spirited creature broke into a headlong gallop, how near to attempted assassination he had been during the last half hour. That Abdul el Dhib, biding his time with oriental pertinacity, was somewhere in the vicinity, seemed beyond all question. But why he risked his rascally neck so near to Algiers or what were his relations with the half-caste owner of the café Carew was at a loss to conjecture. Sufficient that once again he had been warned and that the warning had been given reluctantly and under stress of great personal fear. It spoke volumes that the fellow had found courage to say what he had said.

With a muttered word of impatience Carew bent forward and ran his fingers soothingly over Suliman’s glossy neck. Abdul was becoming a nuisance, and he found himself almost wishing that the difference between them could have been settled definitely once and for all at the Café Meduse that morning. Half tempted to retrace his steps and force the affair to an immediate conclusion he pulled up suddenly, turning in the saddle to scan the road behind him. But what was the good! Abdul had had his chance and for reasons of his own had neglected it. There was nothing to be gained and probably a good deal to be risked by putting temptation in his way a second time. After all, the quarrel was Abdul’s, not his. Let Abdul then make the first move—if, indeed, he intended to move at all. To Carew it seemed almost that his enemy had talked too much to be really dangerous. Babblers were seldom doers, he reflected, and dismissing the outlaw from his mind he rode on, leaving the road for a rough mule track by which he could skirt El Biar and reach Bouzaréa from where he meant to return to Mustapha.

Already the fresh morning wind had dropped and the day began to give promise of great heat unusual for the time of year. But to Carew, accustomed to the fierce sun of the desert, the warmth was welcome and, more at peace within himself than he had been for weeks, he turned his whole attention to the district through which he was riding, a district known to him from boyhood but which he had not lately visited. The intervening years seemed to drop away as he noted and recognised each succeeding landmark. There was little change to be seen in the fruit groves and vineyards he was passing and gradually he fell into a reverie, leaving Suliman to choose his own way along the stony track.

Influenced by his surroundings he let himself dwell on early memories; memories of the handsome brilliantly clever father who had given up a public career of great promise to devote himself to the delicate wife who was his idol; and memories of the beautiful fragile mother whose influence, had she lived, might have made so great a difference in his own life. With all the strength of his boyish heart he had adored her and the memory of her had made him very tender with the wife who had repaid his devotion with coldness and deceit. But with the tragic ending of his own short married life he had closed his heart to the softening influences of memory and in the drawing room of the villa, a room he never entered, the portrait of his mother was veiled by heavy curtains that for the last twelve years had never been drawn. Twelve years! Twelve years of self-banishment and loneliness. At first it had been little short of hell, there had been times when the temptation to end it all had been almost overpowering, when only his strong will had kept him from self-destruction. But now he could think of it calmly—except for the one aching memory that never left him. Despite himself his thoughts turned to the child he had lost, the little son in whom so many hopes had been centered, and a passion of longing and regret filled him. If only the boy had been left to him! A look of intense pain swept across his face and his firm lips quivered as he tried to visualise the boy as he might have been now, a lad of fourteen, on the threshold of manhood. His son! God, how he wanted him still! And from the child of his body who was lost to him his thoughts veered with sudden compassion to the child of his adoption, the little Arab waif he had saved from death to assuage his own loneliness, who was in his blindness and helplessness so utterly dependent on him. Poor little dreamer of dreams, besieging Allah hourly with prayers for the safety of the beloved protector who was all his world, he too was longing for the desert, for the freer, wilder life to which he had been born.

Carew’s mind leaped forward to the coming interview with General Sanois. His promise given today, he would move heaven and earth to expedite matters and get away from Algiers as soon as possible. A speedy departure should be a sine qua non of his acceptance.

With a little laugh he bent forward to ease his weight off Suliman as the horse started to climb a steep ascent that led to the woods behind Bouzaréa. The mule track was little used, rough and boulder strewn and in places almost overgrown with cactus among which the stallion picked his steps with careful precision born of experience. Carew let him take his own way and sat with slackened rein as the big bay, straining and heaving, breasted the last hundred yards of sharp incline, his powerful muscles rippling against his rider’s knees. With a final effort, the loose stones flying from under his heels, he reached the summit and stood breathing deeply and whinnying in response to the caressing hand laid on his sweat drenched neck. Then he moved slowly forward with pricked ears and nervous gait along the track that had dwindled to a narrow hardly perceptible path. Desert bred, to Suliman the dense silent wood was a place of lurking unknown terror to which he had never become accustomed and, snorting and starting, he evidenced now his disapproval of a route that was highly distasteful to him. But wrapped in his own thoughts and used to his horse’s moods Carew did not heed his uneasiness. Like the district through which he had just passed the wood was alive with memories, a favourite haunt of childhood where he had roamed for hours at a time with Hosein as companion and playmate. Then the wood had been a region of mystery and enchantment, peopled with the malevolent djinns and horrible afreets that loomed so large in the Arab’s creed and of whom he discoursed with all the fluency and imagination of his race—tales to which the English boy, already deeply imbued with the spirit of the country, listened half credulous, half unbelieving but always interested, wriggling for sheer joy even when his hair crisped on his head and he peered involuntarily into the depths of the thick undergrowth for the monstrous shapes and fiery eyes that Hosein’s eloquence made so real. Carew looked about him with an eagerness that brought a smile to his lips. Near here there had been a tiny clearing, always connected in his mind with a tale of especial weirdness that had been Hosein’s masterpiece—a tale of necromancers and demons, of beauty in distress, and the extravagant adventures of a sultan’s son whose heroic exploits had transcended all human possibility. How he had revelled in it, listening wide eyed and absorbed to Hosein’s sing-song intonations. Here, so went the story, the sorrowful princess, escaping from the enchanter who held her captive, had met the wandering knight whom fate had sent to rescue her; here, more beautiful than all the houris of paradise, sitting patiently upon the ground and veiled in her night black hair she had waited for her lover.