The Edge of the Desert

by Ianthe M. Dunbar

There had been great excitement for some days past amongst the Arab children in the little oasis town. Mysterious vans had arrived by the train which crept once a day across the wide stretches of desert country, looking in the distance like a caterpillar with gleaming eyes before it drew up in the dusk at the tiny station. The children hung about watching till they were dispersed by an important-looking official.

It had not been so very long ago that the train itself had been a new excitement, bringing a whiff of modern civilisation to this small outpost on the edge of the desert. This was as far as the railway had reached as yet, and the station buildings had a somewhat bewildered air, set down in space with nothing but desert beyond them, and only the frail thread of the line to connect them with the far-off stir of modern life. And now it seemed it was bringing something tangible and wonderful. There were placards in French and in Arabic announcing the arrival of a Grand World Circus, and performances were to be held three nights running in the town.

The small Arabs talked of nothing else. What was a circus? It leaked out that there were wonderful European boys who rode on winged horses with flowing tails; there were men who walked in mid-air on wires as fine as the threads of a spider’s web. There were animals that could talk. There were clowns. What were clowns? Above all, there was a marvellously beautiful princess who also walked in mid-air, light as thistledown and graceful as a houri. A town crier with a drum paraded the only street shouting out the attractions of the circus and distributing handbills printed in Arabic. Grave men studied these solemnly over their tiny cups of black coffee, whilst the children edged nearer and nearer, gleaning crumbs of information. “Lo, the cost of a seat is one franc; it is much money,” said one greybeard to another. But again and again the words of the handbill drew their eyes back. “Hassan hath seen such an exhibition at Tunis, and he saith it is more marvellous even than the paper sets forth.”

Early every morning the children collected in the station square watching for what might happen. One day there were bales of stuff lying on the ground, and men were hard at work driving in poles and tent pegs and little by little a great tent rose in the square itself and a watchman took up his position in front of it to prevent all from entering. Next a party of strangers arrived and excitement grew to fever point. The new comers lodged at a tiny hotel and few caught sight of them. From a smaller tent close by the large one came the sound of horses stamping, and a boy lying full length on the ground and peering under the edge of it, declared his face had been brushed by a long and silky tail that touched the ground. Then it was true about the wonderful horses! Excited small boys chattered hard, and the booking of seats became furious. Along the dusty roads came knots of peasants from outlying mud villages, fingering their cherished coins. The fat Frenchman at the table outside the tent took a stream of money all day long and smiled, well pleased.

Down by the grey-green river where the women beat and pounded linen in the clear running water, there was talk of little else. Their husbands and brothers and sons would see the circus. They themselves, being women, could not go. But that did not prevent their being intensely interested in the coming event.

“It is said they be in league with the Evil One and thus it is they can walk in mid air,” said one woman, busily wringing out a dark blue strip of muslin. “Allah send that our menfolk come to no harm in going to see them.”

“It is truly spoken,” the others answered, and there was a pause for a moment in the unceasing chatter, whilst a passing breeze stirred the palm leaves in the oasis across the stream and set the sandy soil whirling in small eddies.

It was a day in mid-January and already the almond blossom was beginning to show a delicate flush among the palm stems, and the naked grey fig trees were putting forth small emerald leaves. On the wide seashore the waves were coming in gently, pushing a ring of creamy froth ahead of them, and there was a softness in the air and a greater warmth in the sun’s rays. The short African winter was almost over.

As the evening drew on, flaring naphtha lamps made a blaze of light at the entrance of the circus tent, and hours before the entertainment was to begin a crowd began to collect, the more fortunate clutching their tickets, the rest prepared to wait outside through the whole performance on the chance of catching a glimpse of the wonderful sights within.

Darkness came with its usual rush and through the curved leaves of the eucalyptus trees in the hotel garden shone the faint glimmer of stars. As we stepped into the open air the far-off beat of the sea seemed a steady pulse in the night. Our feet fell softly on the sandy road, and ahead of us was the glow of the circus. A packed crowd surrounded it, the light catching on dark faces and flowing draperies. Huddled in their cloaks they were impassive in appearance, but in reality deeply stirred. All eyes were turned to the tent, from the chinks of which came a heartening orange glow that spoke of the hidden glories within, whilst the shaky strains of a band made themselves heard at intervals.