The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

Carew was no purist himself, but the unnecessary foulness of the words that assailed his ears roused in him a feeling of disgust and he turned abruptly to the prostrate Arab who seemed in more immediate need of attention. But as he touched him the man rolled from under his hands and stumbling to his feet, shrank away with upraised arm as though to ward off a blow. His eyes were dazed but mingling with the pain in them there was a look of deep hatred, and his bruised and bleeding mouth told their own tale. The individual by the well was evidently a hard hitter as well as a hard swearer. To Carew, the sullen, twitching features were vaguely familiar and it was obvious, when after a few moments the Arab collected himself sufficiently to speak, that he himself was recognised. But he could not place him and the name that was reluctantly vouchsafed conveyed nothing—he knew dozens of Arabs with the same designation. More he could not ask. Whatever were his feelings on the subject he could not interfere between master and servant. But his expression was not pleasant and he was conscious of a rising anger as he swung on his heel to go back to the well. He did not reach it. With slow clenching hands he stood where he had turned staring at the man who was leisurely coming towards him—the man he had been trying to avoid since the night, weeks ago, of the opera. The sodden helmet was pushed back revealing clearly, even in the dim light, the blotched, dissipated looking face that had stirred him to so strange and deadly a hatred. And now, in their close proximity, that strange hatred seemed to increase a thousandfold and it was all Carew could do to preserve semblance of passivity and conceal the boiling rage that filled him. It was like nothing he had ever experienced in his life before. As on that night in Algiers it was sweeping him with a force that was beyond all reason, all explanation. He could not explain it. He could not conquer it. He could only hope to retain the self-command that seemed perilously near to breaking point, for again the same appalling desire to kill was pouring over him. Aghast at the horrible impulse that was almost more than he could resist he thrust his hands behind him to keep them from the weapon that lay hidden in the folds of his waistcloth. And completely oblivious of the storm of passion his presence had evoked, Geradine strode up to him with the swaggering gait and overbearing demeanour that characterised him always, but which was especially notable in his dealings with any native, irrespective of rank. A native to him was a native, an inferior creature little better than the beasts of the field, to be dominated by fear and kept in his place. He stood now, his legs planted widely apart, slapping his boot with his riding whip, surveying Carew through insolent half-closed eyes.

“Look here—” he began, his tone a mixture of truculence and arrogant condescension. “I’m in the devil of a mess. Came out from Biskra for a day or two’s camping—missed my people in this infernal sandstorm—all the fault of that fool there. What’ll you take to get me out of this bally graveyard? My beasts are knocked up—yours look pretty fresh. Name your price, and for heaven’s sake get a move on, I—oh, damn!” he broke off with a petulant shrug of annoyance as Carew continued to stare at him with a purposely blank face that was neither helpful nor encouraging. For a few moments, imagining himself to be not understood, he glared wrathfully at the supposed Arab, favouring him with a string of personal epithets that were neither complimentary nor parliamentary. And with contemptuous indifference Carew let him curse. If Geradine had accepted him as an Arab, an Arab he would remain—but not an Arab to be either browbeaten or bribed. He was not in a mood to make things easier for the blustering bully who was working himself up into a state of childish rage. He could alter his tone if he wanted assistance. Nor at the moment was Carew very certain that his assistance would be forthcoming. Why should he go out of his way to help a man he hated! To be left in the predicament in which he was would be a salutary experience that might have a chastening effect on one who was obviously unused to opposition or discomfort in any shape or form. A few privations would do him no harm. And if he died in the desert, which was not in the least likely, his death would probably be a source of relief rather than grief to his friends and relations. Quite suddenly Carew thought of the wife of the man who was facing him. She certainly, if all reports were true, would have no cause to lament a husband she evidently went in dread of. But what was that to him! A surge of anger went through him as his down-bent eyes swept upward to meet the insolent stare fixed on him. The foul-mouthed brute! God, how he hated him! Almost unconsciously he moved a step forward, and there was something menacing in his expression that checked Geradine’s flow of language.

With a shade more civility in his tongue he began to repeat his demand in halting French that was scarcely comprehensible. And with typical Arab aloofness Carew waited for him to come to the end of his stumbling explanations. But it was not on his account that he listened to him. It was the need of the wretched servant and the two exhausted horses that swayed him and moved him finally to a reluctant decision.

With a cold word of assent, and a curt gesture that sent the quick blood rushing to the other’s face, he turned haughtily as though from an inferior and walked back to the horses, leaving Geradine to stare after him spluttering with rage, twisting and bending the pliable whip between his coarse hands, in two minds whether to follow him or not. Curse the dam’ nigger and his infernal cheek, looking at him as if he were dirt! A bit above himself, that chap. That’s what came of treating natives as the French did—equality, fraternity and the rest of it, by Gad! A rotten country! Who did the supercilious beggar think he was talking to, anyhow? A silly tourist to be impressed by his dam’ airs of superiority? He was hanged if he would stick impudence from any Arab. Coming the free son of the desert over him, was he? The blighter could go to blazes, and his horses too for that matter. He’d not truckle to any eternally condemned son of a—But a freshening gust of wind that, sand laden, whipped against his cheek with unpleasant suggestiveness cut short his muttered imprecations and quashed his half-formed intention of revoking his demand for assistance and relying on himself to get out of an uncomfortable situation he was convinced was due entirely to the muddle-headedness of his servant. Curse the fool—there hadn’t been a job yet that he hadn’t mucked up! Recommended for his capabilities, by jove! A well-trained valet and an efficient dragoman, was he? He’d be a bit more trained and efficient when his present employer was done with him. There was only one way of dealing with cattle of that kind, and Malec wouldn’t be the first nigger he’d licked into shape, not by a long way. But Malec could wait—he could deal with him later.

With a snarl that boded little good for the unfortunate valet Geradine went with no show of haste to join the group of men and horses by the well-head. Carew was already mounted, wrestling with Suliman who was backing and rearing impatiently. He swung him round as the Viscount approached.

“You can ride my servant’s horse,” he said in French, “yours can hardly carry themselves. The men will have to walk.”

With a grunt which was certainly not an expression of courtesy Geradine took the bridle Hosein offered him and climbed stiffly into the saddle. His drenched condition and his resentment at the authoritative tone addressed to him did not tend to improve either his manners or his temper, and with characteristic pettiness he vented his ill-humour on the object nearest at hand. The horse that had been lent to him was plunging in furious protest at the raking spurs that were being used with unnecessary violence and, losing command of himself, he slashed savagely at the little shapely head with his whip. Twice the heavy thong rose and fell, then a hand like steel closed on his wrist and it was wrenched from him. And, turning with an oath, he found himself confronted by a pair of blazing eyes in which he read not only rage but a totally unexpected hatred that sent an odd sensation of cold rippling down his spine. He flinched involuntarily, dragging his horse aside, conscious for the first time in his life of a feeling of fear. But the strange look that had startled him was gone in a flash and Carew’s face was impassive as he reined his own horse back. “Your pardon, monsieur, he is unused to a whip,” he said icily, and sent the offending weapon spinning into the mouth of the empty well where it fell beyond recovery. Speechless with fury Geradine glared at him, and then, his French too limited to adequately express his feelings, let out a string of curses in his own language which would have given him more pleasure had he known them to be understood. But his hands were fully occupied with the enraged mount and Carew had already ridden on. It was blowing again steadily. Carew, sure now of his bearings, was heading more to the east and the swirling sand was driving straight at them. Muffled in his burnous, his face shielded somewhat by the close drawn haick, he felt it less than Geradine did. But he had no sympathy to waste on the huddled figure behind them with the exhausted horses. For them he was glad that the village lay only a bare three miles away. And even three miles, over rough uneven ground and against a strong wind, was a sufficiently tedious tramp for men unused to walking and hampered by two jaded beasts who required constant encouragement to induce them to move at all. Progress was necessarily slow and more than once Geradine, impatient of the snail’s pace at which they were proceeding, let out his fretting horse and dashed on ahead. But ignorant of the way and not relishing the prospect of losing sight of his companions in the growing darkness he was forced each time to curb his impetuosity and wait for the others to come up with him.

For a time he kept silence, but at last his annoyance found utterance. “See here,” he exploded angrily, as Carew for the fifth time ranged alongside without seeming to notice the temporary separation, “this isn’t a bally funeral! For heaven’s sake push on a bit.” And as Carew turned to him with an indifferent “Plâit-il?” he lost his temper completely. “Plus vite, you silly ass,” he bellowed. “Pas un cortège, n’est-ce-pas—confound you!”

For a moment Carew hesitated, his own temper rising dangerously. Then he shrugged and raising his hand pointed behind him. “The men are walking,” he said shortly, and wondered how long it would be before he was goaded into retaliation. To profess ignorance of his mother tongue was easy, to sit quietly under a storm of abuse and personal epithets was rather more difficult. But he had brought it on himself, he had allowed Geradine to think him an Arab and an Arab he would have to remain. To tardily admit his nationality was impossible, it would only make Geradine feel that he had been made a fool of and might probably lead to a quarrel that could easily end disastrously. As it was, his mere presence was almost more than Carew could endure. He had kept a firm hold over himself so far but he knew that a very little more would shatter his self-control. He had voluntarily decided on a certain line of action and he would have to go on with it, if only for the sake of the wretched Arab. Left in the lurch, Geradine would undoubtedly wreck his wrath on the servant who had been already sufficiently manhandled. And again Carew racked his brains to recollect where he had seen the man before. He rarely forgot faces and now, for want of something better to engage his attention, he set himself to discover why the dimly remembered features were familiar. It flashed across him at length. De Granier’s man—taken on with the villa, probably, poor devil. A fairly recent addition to the Frenchman’s household, Malec had made no very definite impression on the guest he had served but once. But having identified him Carew, casting back in his mind, remembered that de Granier had spoken of him as a curious character, responding to kindness, but sullen when corrected and quick to take offence.

The change from the easy-going Frenchman to service with a brute like Geradine must have been great, and Carew wondered suddenly what induced him to remain with a master he obviously hated. High wages—or a more sinister purpose?—He checked himself abruptly. He would be doing murder by proxy, and rather enjoying it, if he let his thoughts race in this fashion. His own incomprehensible hatred was deep enough without allowing himself to dwell on another’s grievances. And for him there was not even the excuse of a grievance. For no reason or cause whatsoever he had hated Geradine at sight. With a shrug of perplexity he drew his cloak closer round him and shook the stinging sand from his bridle hand.