Harilek

by Martin Louis Alan Gompertz

There was no one at the house able to give us any idea of what had happened. The old man who had been left in charge was dead. I think Sadiq must have come up with one of the guard to have a look round the place, and then fallen in with the enemy, who thereby discovered the caves. Sadiq’s uncommon clothes and appearance, and perhaps his speech, if they caught him alive, probably made them connect him with us, so they went down to look below, and finding the guard and camels killed the lot off. This seems to be the usual Shaman way of dealing with anything for which they have no immediate use.

So here we are fixed in Sakaeland until we can evolve some scheme of getting across the desert. At the moment I can think of nothing.

The news was pretty staggering, and, like Wrexham, I could think of no scheme whereby we could get back. Even if the two missing camels turned up, they would hardly suffice to carry water enough for the five of us to get back across the sands, even supposing the animals themselves could do the journey without any, which, after the outward march, it seemed pretty clear they could not.

Anyway, for the moment there was nothing to do but put the best face on matters, and content one’s self with the present. Forsyth did not seem to take the news at all hardly, but then at the moment Sakaeland and Ziné, or rather Ziné in Sakaeland, completely filled his attention. Payindah, of course, was in no way perturbed, and merely considered it another good proof that we were meant to stop in the country and annex some of the land. He seemed to have made up his mind quite firmly on that point.

I was making pretence of deciphering an old manuscript of the fifth century which Paulos had lent me, a black-lettered parchment from the pen of the Bishop Basil, one of the little colony of Greeks who had somehow found their way across the desert into Sakaeland, and, converting many of the Sakae, had impressed upon them a considerable amount of the culture and taught them many of the arts of far Byzantium before, from intermarriage with the clans, they had disappeared as a separate people.

The bishop was an observant writer, and much of his work dealt with the social customs of the Sakae of his time, in many ways the same as those of to-day, notably, perhaps, in the matter of the independence of their women—a point which found much praise from the worthy bishop, despite his Greek blood and training. He seemed to have been very enthusiastic over his new flock—savage enough then in many ways, but with the clean, healthy savagery that has appealed through all ages to your real ardent Christian missionary who has learnt the key truth of his Master’s teaching—namely, that Christianity is a living fire, designed not to annihilate the God-given force of our own personality, but to direct its energies into the fitting channels which can remove mountains. The colourless outlook of some modern so-called followers of Christ would have seemed far less Christian to the bishop than the frank, virile savagery of his Sakae pagans. From his account these seem to have taken to him as frankly as they took to us. As he said in his manuscript: “Their errors are, as Saint Paul admonishes us, ‘but human,’ and for such surely God and His Son are wholly merciful.”

Basil must have borne a strong family likeness to Saint Augustine among his Angle and Saxon pirates, savage men with the minds of little children. I conceived a liking for the old Greek, and under other circumstances would have read him with enthralling interest; but at the moment my mind was much too taken up with future prospects. Forsyth, having dressed my leg very early, had ridden to Miletis for the day—to see Ziné, I imagined—so that I was alone.

I was glad, therefore, when the shuffling tread outside informed me of Paulos’s arrival. The shadows of his bearers darkened the doorway as they bore him on a sort of wicker couch with arms and placed him down between me and the fire, settled the rugs over his legs, and left us.

“We are two cripples now, Harilek,” said he, smiling at me. “I suppose you are all impatience to be afoot again, but Forsyth tells me he will not let you off your bed for another ten days, whatever happens.”

“No, Paulos, just now I am not ill content to rest here awhile; to look out upon your garden and read your manuscripts; to think a little from time to time, and, as we say, ‘to make my soul’ a bit. But I am afraid poor Bishop Basil is somewhat neglected. There is much to think about—for instance, this disaster to our camels.”