The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

The wind was gathering in force every minute and the light fading rapidly. If it failed entirely and they missed the little village in the darkness there was no other shelter available and Carew did not welcome the thought of a night spent in the open with his present company. At this slow pace the way seemed more like thirty miles than three. But he could not increase it. Even kept to a walk, the horses had outpaced the men and they were some distance behind. Deaf to Geradine’s snarl of protest, Carew pulled up and waited until Hosein was alongside of him. And as the man’s hand touched his stirrup the storm broke again with redoubled fury and a tearing gust enveloped them in a cloud of blinding sand. For a few moments the horses became almost unmanageable, wheeling backs to the storm and crowding together in a plunging, kicking bunch. They were pulled apart at last and the little party struggled on in the teeth of the wind, choked with the driving particles and straining their eyes through the gloom.

And complete darkness had fallen before they stumbled upon the squalid little collection of mud huts that formed the village. Tenantless, it seemed at first, for no lights shone from the tiny barred windows that were blocked with rags to keep out the drifting sand. But Hosein, despatched in quest of the headman, returned shortly with an elderly Arab who, shrouded in a multitude of filthy coverings, salaamed obsequiously in answer to Carew’s shouted enquiry and led them to a hut a little distance away.

Only a hovel it was, but sheltering an amazingly large family—vague, shadowy figures, sexless in their close drawn draperies, who shrank from the vicinity of the strangers and slipped away stealthily into the night with heads bent low and shoulders hunched against the sweeping wind as the headman routed them out unceremoniously to give place to the unexpected visitors. One room, the further portion screened for the use of the women of the family, and indescribably dirty and comfortless. It was nothing new to Carew, use had accustomed him to even greater squalor than this, but Geradine’s disgust was evident as he stared about him with curling lip, spitting the sand from his mouth and shaking it from his clothing. Wet and angry, and in no mood to be further inconvenienced, the sight of the horses vigorously propelled into the hut through the narrow entrance moved him to noisy expostulation. With frequent and profanatory lapses into English he managed to convey his total disapproval of the shelter provided for him, which he described as unfit even for pigs, and wrathfully announced his disinclination to share the limited accommodation with “those dam’ brutes”—horses and men-servants grouped impartially. His own tired beasts stood shivering and listless but Suliman and Hosein’s horses were nervous of their surroundings and for a short space pandemonium reigned in the hut and his remonstrances passed unheeded. When he could hear himself speak again he reiterated his demands loudly. But Carew, who was stooping to unloosen Suliman’s girths, waved an indifferent hand towards the door and intimated sharply that if he preferred the sandstorm he was at liberty to remove himself, but that as far as he—Carew—was concerned men and horses remained where they were until the weather conditions improved.

Unused to opposition, and too selfish to think of anything but his own comfort, the flat refusal was all that was needed to stir Geradine’s smouldering rage to a white heat of fury. An ugly look swept across his lowering face and he started forward with a threatening gesture. And for a few seconds it seemed as if the open quarrel Carew had feared was now inevitable. Tired and on edge, goaded by the other’s insolence and overbearing manner, driven by his own hatred, nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to respond to the provocation offered him. Every instinct urged him to retaliate. He had done already all that could be humanly expected of him, and for two hours he had borne patiently with insults and abuse. He had done enough, and now his patience had reached its limit. And it was Geradine, not he, who was forcing the quarrel. Then why not give him what he asked for? By every means in his power he had tried to avoid him—and fate had thrust them together. Carew’s heart beat with a fierce exultant throb, and the atmosphere of the little room seemed suddenly to become electric—alive with naked passions—as the two men stared into each other’s eyes. Behind them the Arabs, sensitive of the tension, were watching intently, and Hosein was edging nearer to his master, his hand stealing to the knife in his belt. Then with a tremendous effort Carew thrust from him the temptation to which he had almost succumbed and swinging on his heel without a word turned back to his horse. And checked, despite himself, by a silence he did not understand, Geradine made no further protest, but fell back with an inarticulate growl and crossing the room, dropped down heavily on the cleanest spot he could find, as far removed from the others as possible.

Lighting a cigar with difficulty, for his matches were wet, he smoked sulkily until the horses were unsaddled. Then fumbling in the pocket of his sodden coat he produced a good-sized flask and, gulping down the remaining contents, shouted to the sullen-faced Arab—who was leaning moodily against the wall beside the steaming horses—to bring him more brandy. Apathetically, the man unstrapped the leathern holster from his master’s saddle. And, following him, Carew saw the savage kick aimed at him as Geradine snatched the second flask from his outstretched hand. To the multifarious odours that filled the little room was added the reek of raw spirit for the Viscount, whose hand was shaking, spilled as much as he drank of the undiluted cognac with which he sought to quench an unquenchable thirst. Even so, added to what he had previously taken, the allowance was a generous one. But, beyond deepening the colour in his already congested face and further dissatisfying him with his environment, it seemed to make no difference to him for he cursed as fluently and as intelligibly as before as he shivered closer into the corner where he was sitting in a vain attempt to avoid the sweeping draughts that whistled through innumerable cracks in the broken, mud walls of the hut.

With growing hatred and disgust Carew listened to the uninterrupted flow of filthy language, wishing passionately that Geradine’s hand had been steadier. Dead drunk he would at least have been silent. Half tipsy and vituperative he was intolerable. Was this what the girl listened to day after day and night after night—Carew flung his wet cloak back with an angry jerk, scowling at the sudden thought. It was no business of his, no business of his, he whispered doggedly as he searched for a cigarette. No business of his—but remembrance, stimulated, was easier than forgetfulness and for long he stared sombrely at the wreathing clouds of faint blue smoke that, curling upward in fantastic spirals, seemed to frame the exquisite oval of a pale, pure face. When at last, by sheer strength of will, he forced his mind back to the immediate present, Geradine’s grumbling had ceased and he seemed to be asleep. The men, too, were dozing, though Hosein’s hand moved mechanically each time the restless Suliman stamped. The room was perceptibly darker, and looking for the cause, Carew saw that one of the two little earthenware lamps left by the routed family had burnt out and the other was flickering feebly. He wondered if he also had been asleep. And listening for the gusts of wind that before had shaken the crumbling building he realised that the storm had passed. The atmosphere was stifling, and going to the door he wrenched it open and went out into the night. There the change was almost magical. Swept clean, the heavens were blazing with stars and the desert lay calm and still in the soft, clear light of a rising moon whose slanting beams shone silver on the sand. A peace and silence that was gripping. To Carew, still seething with the hatred that a little while since had almost mastered him, the marvellous beauty of the night was like the touch of a healing hand and, watching it, for a time he forgot even Geradine.

Behind him the tiny collection of huts straggled dark and mysterious in the deep shadow of a great bare rock that, stark and solitary, rose out of the level plain at some distance from the chain of mountains to which it properly belonged. But he did not look at the sleeping village. It was the desert that held him—the desert that with its silent voice was whispering, enticing, as so often it had whispered and enticed before, drawing him with the glamour of its hidden secrets. Caressingly his eyes swept the moonlit plain. He was one with it now, a nomad for all time. More than the stately house in England, more than the miniature palace in Algiers, it was his home. For ten years he had lived in it. For ten years, seeking to cure his own hurt, he had tried to bring relief to others, fighting misery and disease, appalled by the magnitude of his task and seeming to have accomplished so little. But even the little was worth while. By even the little he was repaid. His toil had not been altogether in vain. By God’s grace he had been enabled to do something, and by God’s grace he would do still more. In the deep stillness of the eastern night the sense of the Divine Presence was very near and, in all humbleness, Carew prayed from his heart for strength to continue the work that had become his life.

As he arose from his knees Hosein came to him, uneasy at his absence and the unwilling bearer of a message.

“The English lord is hungry,” he announced briefly, with patent scorn in his voice that Carew affected not to hear. The situation was already sufficiently difficult without having to reprove his servant for a lapse that was due entirely to Geradine’s own behaviour.

With a last glance at the shining stars he went reluctantly back to the hut.