The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

It was a problem the chief would have to decide for himself. In the years that Carew had worked in the country he had learned to keep his own counsel. He never interfered or gave gratuitous advice, and was chary even of advising when asked. He had come to have a deep insight into the workings of the native mind and he had long since realised the value of neutrality. His rôle of intermediary was possible only so long as his sympathies remained equally divided between the people of the land and their foreign rulers.

And now he waited long for Said Ibn Zarrarah to speak, so long that more than once he glanced covertly at the watch on his wrist. It was time, and past the time, that the chief should start to overtake the caravan that was now no longer distinguishable, and time that he himself set out on the fifty mile ride back to Biskra. Travelling with no camping impedimenta to hinder him he had reckoned on spending the night at a tiny village that was known to him and which made a convenient halting place. He would have to ride hard if the squalid little collection of mud huts was to be reached before the light gave out. Not that either he or Hosein minded a night spent supperless under the stars, but there were the horses to be considered. There was, too, an odd feeling in the air that he had only just realised. The heat that all day had been intense was now suffocating. And as he raised his hand to brush away the moisture lying thick on his forehead, it dawned on him that he had been doing so frequently during the last hour. Instinctively his eyes swept the horizon. There was nothing to break the uninterrupted view, and seen through the shimmering haze that eddied from its surface, the wide expanse of sand looked like the rolling waves of a vast leaden sea. A sullen angry sea that seemed to heave and writhe as though straining to let loose the tremendous forces lying dormant within its mighty bosom. And far off to the southeast, where sky and sand met, a faint dark line like an inky smudge caught Carew’s attention and sent him to his feet with a sharp exclamation.

“You were better with your people, Sheik.”

At the sound of his voice the chief looked up with a start and sudden anxiety flashed into his eyes as they followed the direction of the other’s pointing finger. Then his gaze turned southward and for a moment he stood peering intently as if striving to visualise the caravan that had long since passed out of sight. Without moving he shouted to his men and almost before the words died on his lips his horse was beside him and he swung into the saddle.

Bending down he caught Carew’s outstretched hand in a grip that conveyed much he did not utter.

“Some day I may ask you to speak for me,” he muttered hurriedly, and was gone in a swirl of dust and sand.

For a minute or two Carew lingered, looking after him, then turned to Hosein who was bringing up the horses. The man jerked his head towards the east. “My lord has seen?” he murmured. Carew nodded. “It may pass,” he said, running his fingers caressingly over Suliman’s neck before gathering up the reins. But Hosein shook his head. “It will come,” he asserted positively, “they know,” he added, pointing to the horses whose nervous fidgeting and sweat-drenched coats evidenced uneasiness.

“Then in God’s name let it come,” replied Carew with a short laugh, “are we children to fear a sandstorm?” And Hosein’s grim features relaxed in an answering grin as he held his master’s stirrup for him to mount.

Riding, the air seemed less stagnant but the heat increased momentarily and the deep silence of the desert was more strangely silent than usual.

The horses were racing, urged by instinct, and splashes of white foam thrown back from Suliman’s champing jaws powdered Carew’s dark burnous like flakes of snow.