Meridian

22

Paul knew he did not have much time. The train was moving slowly, and gathering speed. If the Colonel was waiting for his car to come up from behind he could be at the doorstep any moment. Paul eyed the window at the back of the coach, and crept that way, keeping low. When he reached it he peered over the lip of the window sill, cautiously taking in the gray morning as it painted the tumbled landscape in sallow strokes of hazy light. The sky was still dark and low, with the threat of rain.

He examined the window latch and saw that it would be easy enough to force it open and slip out. What should he do? If he was caught here like this the Colonel was just the sort to shoot first and ask questions later. If he jumped from the moving train at this point he could be hopeless miles away from the ambush at Kilometer 172. That was the key. He remembered working it all through with Maeve. They decided that the best way to try and spare the second train was to get at the wires somehow. If he was to have any chance of doing that he had to get as close as possible to the ambush. How could he remain on board and yet be undetected?

Nordhausen said it was an old locomotive, overburdened, and prone to many stops along the way. If he could hide himself he might have a chance to slip off as they approached Minifir. But he had to make it seem as though he were gone. He moved on an impulse, unfastening the latch and forcing the window open. The sound of the train blew in with the cold morning air. He breathed deeply, suddenly feeling very much alive. He wanted to stay that way, and the adrenaline in his system began to gear him up for the trial ahead.

He stuck his head out of the train and felt the cold mist on his face. He could not see much, but it looked like he could get up on the roof from here. Thankfully, this window was on the opposite side of the train from where the Colonel had exited. What would he think when he returned to his coach and found his prisoner missing? Would he stop the train and begin a search?

Paul realized that it all depended on when the Colonel returned. If he was planning to reach his coach soon, then Paul had no choice and he had to act now. If the Colonel was riding out this segment on another train car, then it would probably be another twenty kilometers before the train would stop again. I want him to think I’ve jumped, he thought. That way he won’t be likely to mount a serious search.

He padded back to the desk, and found the Colonel’s ink pen next to a half filled dipper. He took a leaf of paper from the man’s brief and dipped the pen to write a note on the back… “Good-Bye, Colonel. I’m off to my desert. I hope you enjoy the coffee!” A moment later he was squeezing up through the window, gathering his robes tight about him and grateful for his long, slim build. He was hoping the Colonel was forward on another car.

He won’t stop the train, Paul thought. He’s a man on a mission. There’s another train coming down from Damascus and he has to clear the rail line by at least reaching Deraa before it gets there. Besides, I could be anywhere in a twenty kilometer area for all he would know. A search would take too much of his precious time. No, he’ll just curse me, punish the guards, and move on.

He passed a precarious moment, his body extended out of the window as he strained to gain a hand hold near the roof. He managed it with one arm, then the other, as he slipped up through the window and struggled to pull himself up with as little noise as possible. His boots thumped on the window sill, but he made it. Wind ruffled his lanky frame as he settled onto the roof and stretched out behind a raised manifold. The guards assigned to his coach were very close, just at the rear of the car on a low porch. Paul squinted into the chill wind, looking ahead to see if there might be a better place where he could conceal himself. If he moved forward he would be farther from these two guards, but he would risk discovery. The noise of the train had masked his movements thus far, but he had been climbing on the roof of an empty car. The cars ahead were probably packed with troops and officers, and someone could easily hear him on the roof if he risked moving.

He decided to let well enough alone, and stay put, lying as low as he could and using the manifold to break the cold wind that washed over his body. There was a wide, shallow groove in the roof, probably a gutter, and he wedged himself into it, trying to conceal as much of his body as possible. It was going to be a miserable ride, he thought, cold and wet when the rains began again. If the guards on the porch saw their Colonel had not returned, would they venture inside the coach to warm themselves? He couldn’t bother himself with all the potential possibilities any longer. He had made his choice, a single cast of the die, and his fate would now have to ride upon it. If I’m discovered, he thought, then I’ll just have to keep my wits about me and hope they don’t shoot me down. Anything I can do to delay, and get myself closer to Kilometer 172, plays in my favor.

Thankfully, circumstances appeared to favor his bold move and he was not immediately discovered. His guess about the Colonel was about to be severely tested. He sensed a gradual slowing of the train, and strained to see ahead, catching the vague shape of a low, squat building complex off to the left. There was a water tower with a wind mill, and a few plain wood buildings.

The line curved a bit as they approached the depot and Paul caught the dark shape of a man emerging from a small wood-framed guard house at the edge of the station. He squeezed himself low, hoping his body would remain concealed in the depression of the gutter on the roof. His heart beat faster as the train came to a gradual stop. The moment of truth was soon upon him when he heard the crunch of heavy boots on the gravel bed of the station. Several men were making their way towards the back of the train.

The engine hissed and vented a billow of gray-white steam. Paul waited, breathless when he heard boots on the porch at the back of his car. Harsh shouts of alarm sounded and he heard someone jostling at the window just below his position. He closed his eyes, as if the darkness behind his eyelids would serve to hide him from the Turks. Another voice sounded, low and threatening, and Paul immediately recognized it as the Colonel. He had come back to his coach and was clearly not pleased to find his captive missing.

Time seemed suspended and Paul gritted his teeth as he waited out what seemed like an interminable interval. Then the shouting began again as the Colonel was obviously chastising the guards who had been posted on the porch. He heard a hard slap, like the leather of a glove being raked across a man’s face. There were harsh words, and Paul’s temples pounded with the tension. This was the moment. What would the Colonel do next?

The train was starting to move again, gliding slowly forward on squeaky wheels. Apparently this was just a brief stop, possibly to deliver a mailbag or some other goods to the depot. The Colonel used the interval to return to his coach, but he was still embroiled in a shouting fest with his guards as the train began to gather momentum. Paul heard the hard scrape of the window being shut below him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. His guess had been right. The Colonel had a schedule to keep and he knew it would be fruitless to launch a search for his missing prisoner. God help the guards, thought Paul. I hope Masaui was not one of those men. He closed his eyes again, imagining what the Colonel must be doing in the coach below.

It would take him some time to compose himself, Paul thought. The poor guards were probably standing there under his withering stare. He would let them wait in the silence of his anger, their faces red and scared with the shame of his punishing blows, their eyes sullen and diverted to the soiled floor of the coach. Then Paul heard a sharp order and the sound of the guards hurrying back through the door to the outer porch.

Paul knew that the Colonel would soon be settling in to his chair at the desk, mulling and brooding over the loss of his prisoner. The hard thump of a fist on the desk top was audible even through the roof and over the growing noise of the train. Paul smiled, knowing that the Colonel must have seen his note.

Well, he thought, the man will certainly think he was right about me after reading that note. He said I was a spy, and I suppose I am—though not nearly so clever as the Colonel might suspect.

“Enjoy the coffee,” Paul whispered to himself with a smile. The coffee and the cigarette lighter were the only consolation the Colonel would take from the incident. Paul hoped that he was not littering the time line by leaving them behind. The Colonel would undoubtedly drink the coffee in the hours ahead. What would he do with the lighter? Would he keep it as a reminder of his days in the desert? Would he pass it on to his son as an heirloom? Might it turn up in some pawn shop years hence?

The cold wind increased, and a drift of rain began to fall as Paul huddled on the roof. The train moved quickly on, but any time it encountered an upward grade, it slowed noticeably. That was his one hope: Minifir was a hill and the train would labor on the grade and slow to a crawl. With any luck Paul hoped he could slip away unnoticed when it was safe to make a jump. It was all he could think of for the moment—that and the Colonel sulking in the train car below him. There was nothing he could do now but wait. The train rumbled on, and they were both still riding the rails of the same Meridian. But time was running out, and a moment of fate awaited them, not far ahead in the gray sallow dawn of November 10^th, 1917.

23

After a dreary night of painful marching, the Arabs led Nordhausen to the tumbled skirts of a low hill. They moved very quietly as they approached the place, and the professor wondered if they had reached Minifir at last. The land seemed empty around them, shrouded in misty rain, but dawn was not far off. Nordhausen was still worried that they would stumble on Lawrence’s men. What should he do in that event? If I let myself be taken, he thought, these two fellows will tell the raiders I’m seeking Lawrence and I’ll find myself on a collision course with a Prime Mover.

His guides seemed tireless, but when they reached the lowlands of the hill, they stopped and indicated that it was time to rest. The toothless Hassan spied out a low overarching spur of rock that promised some break against the weather and began clearing away small stones and gravel beneath it. Hakeem, the thin, scraggly man, was searching about for any sign of wood that might still be dry enough to light a small fire. Nordhausen was only too glad for the rest, and he tugged at his boots, yanking them off to rub his sore feet. Hassan grinned at him, pointing for the amusement of his brother as the professor soothed his weary feet and reluctantly pulled the leather boots on again. The moisture had dampened them and they were slowly re-conforming to the shape of his feet, though still too tight for comfortable use.

They settled into a small camp, and Nordhausen passed some anxiety as they began to light the fire. The damp wood was sure to smoke and draw attention. Then he realized, that if the entry coordinates had been accurate, they would now be on the opposite side of the hill from where Lawrence and his men were hiding. That thought gave him some comfort, and he edged as close to the small fire as he could, braving the gray-brown smoke for the chance of a little warmth. He was hoping the Arabs had something to eat, and was pleased to see that they produced a small tin pot from their haversacks and cooked up a serving of spiced rice.

They ate in silence, but with great relish, taking turns dipping their fingers into the pan for clumps of thick, gummy rice. The simple meal was followed with another blessed serving of sweetened coffee. Nordhausen bowed graciously when they served him, thankful for the civility and simple hospitality of these two men. It’s a pity, he thought, that I shall have to repay this kindness by stealing away in the dark. He decided his planned course of action as they ate. The Arabs gave every indication that they intended to rest here for a time, and they were arranging their sleeping mats, or so Nordhausen thought.

He later realized that these were prayer mats, and the men soon oriented themselves to the south, in the direction of Mecca, kneeling to chant a simple prayer. Nordhausen watched in solemn silence, realizing how appropriate it seemed that these men should prostrate themselves and acknowledge some higher power and authority over their lives. It would be natural for any man to reach for this grace at the end of a hard labor, particularly in a place as barren and empty as this one.

He thought about his own life, littered with books and technology of the 21^st century. When a student once asked him if could pick any time to live in, and any place, he remembered how he had answered, without hesitation—this time, and this place. He opened his arms expansively to his simple study at the edge of Berkeley in 21^st Century America. He thought it a grand existence, full of knowledge, comfort and opportunity. But the student seemed almost surprised to hear such an answer from a professor of history. What about all the nonsense, the television advertisements, the marketing, the noise and pollution? He could still hear the young man’s arguments: It’s a world of cell phones and stock trades, and all the feeling has gone out of it. Better than the plague, Nordhausen had explained, and hordes of barbarians ravaging the countryside. Better than tyrannical dictators, disease, crushing poverty, deprivation and social inequity of the past.

The student scratched his head, still not satisfied. Yes, he had argued, it was a comfortable life, but instead of God we had astronomy, and the voices of poets and philosophers were drowned out by utter triviality like Jerry Springer, the WWF, Madonna and Britney Spears. Nordhausen had offered a knowing smile. There’s nothing Plato did that was any more significant than Jerry Springer, he said, tugging at the young man’s thinking. In the grand scheme of things, the sun did not care one way or another. It would burn in fiery indifference and then go nova to incinerate the whole—or collapse into a black hole and vanish. Nordhausen passed a brief moment recalling his startling foray to the edge of the Cretaceous and the demise of the dinosaurs. The world got on quite well without them, he thought, and it will get on quite well without us as well. From this perspective all things were trivial. The greater part of a man’s life was simply spent moving from one humdrum moment to another. At least his life in America offered him a comfortable chair, a warm bed, and all the food he could eat.

Still, there was something that tugged at him as he watched the two men bend themselves to prayer. The moment of quiet humility seemed to touch him in an unexpected way. Some men turned inward to find their sense of purpose and self, yet others were constantly reaching for meaning outside themselves—a notion or realization that would allow them to affirm that they were something more than animated dust. A quote from Andre Malraux came to mind: ‘The greatest mystery was not that we have been flung at random among the profusion of the earth and the galaxy of the stars, but that in this prison we can fashion images of ourselves sufficiently powerful to deny our nothingness.’

Some men built castles and glittering skyscrapers of wealth that reached up through the neon aurora of glowing cities—other men knocked them down. Osama Bin Laden had been such a man, and after him Ra’id Husan al Din. Such men, scorned by the Western World, came to see themselves as agents of God. Surely the Islamic radicals may have taken this point of view to justify the war of terror they prosecuted against the West in the early years of the new millennium. Nordhausen realized that this was also the month before the Hadj, the holy pilgrimage to Mecca that would be making its way along this very rail line if not for the interference of the war. Back home at this time people would be contemplating the next big sale at the mall to get a start on their Christmas shopping.

That was the difference, he thought. There was something about these people that would always be in opposition to Western ways, and Western domination. Their whole view of the world was radically different. The West preached that a man’s fate was his own; that he was free to speak his mind, claim his stake of land, and answer only to the inner voice of his own personal freedom. The Arabs, however, listened to another voice. Above and beyond the petty ambitions of men, the voice of Allah was the single overarching guide in the affairs of Muslim society. It was Allah who gave and denied, and his will permeated all things. The Muslim world was not driven by its own inner ‘manifest destiny,’ but rather by the sublime will of Allah, something external, beyond the reach of man, but ever beckoning. The West did not hear the voice of Allah and, to many Muslims, it was a Godless, materialistic society driven by greed. It was a land of marvels, of secret arts, of unbelievers and infidels.

He passed a moment of rumination, recalling another quip, this time by Alexander Pope: ‘Tis with our judgment as our watches. None go just alike, yet each believes his own.’ The professor measured time by his own watch, and it had a distinctive Western meter. Its ticking was echoed in the sound of telegraphs thrumming in the wires that were strung across the desert on stark, weathered shards of long dead trees. Its first intrusive sound reverberated in the chugging and grinding of metal wheels on rails of steel, and the choking billow of black smoke and steam from the locomotives they carried. It would continue on, ticking louder and louder in the ears of the men who wore these Arabic robes in earnest, until it threatened to drown out their voices altogether, and the sound of the evening call to prayer was replaced by the yammering yodel of an auctioneer.

I should be the one praying, he thought. What on earth am I doing here? I’ve been bounced from the Fifth Extinction to the First World War on a mission to save the Eastern Seaboard from utter destruction. It will be light soon and I have to slink off and try to find Paul’s little Pushpoint somewhere, to unravel all the long steeped plans hatched by the grandchildren of men like Hassan and Hakeem. I should be quaking in my tight leather boots here, but I feel absolutely fearless—as if nothing I do, or fail to do, will matter in the slightest.

He shook his head, writing off these dark thoughts to his weariness and the general disorientation he must be struggling with after two time shifts. Perhaps it was a kind of post-temporal shift anxiety that was setting in, he mused. Perhaps he was just a nihilist at heart.

The men finished their prayers and settled in under their damp robes to try and get some sleep. Nordhausen stood up to stretch, if only to see what kind of reaction he would get. He wandered off a bit and emptied his bladder, so as to set a template for his planned movements later. He came back and tried to sleep, but as the skies began to lighten to an early dawn he rose quietly and wandered away again, pausing to relieve himself, as before, in case one of the Arabs had taken notice. He hoped they would simply nod off again while he stretched with apparent indifference. Then he slunk away, picking a path that he hoped would bring him to the Hejaz Rail.

The first few minutes were somewhat anxious. Would they discover his ploy and come after him? He tried to move as carefully as he could, avoiding rough ground where his boots might crunch on the flinty rock. On occasion he ventured up onto a flat shelf of stone, moving quietly so as to mask his trail. He doubted if he could really elude experienced Arab trackers in their own back yard for long. If these men wanted to find him again, they probably would. He had only to work his mischief before he was discovered.

That thought plagued him as ever. What was he to do? The dull glint of the morning on a dark streak across the lighter drifts of sand ahead told him he had reached the rail line. He found a large rock to hide behind and studied the ground for a moment. Oddly, the sun was rising behind him, so he had actually come out of the east, and not the west as he first thought. Kelly botched his numbers again—no wonder he couldn’t find Paul! He focused his thoughts on the narrative he had crammed into his head before they started the mission.

Lawrence and his men were here the previous night. He worked himself closer, trying to get a good view of the ground above him. The ridge was a saddle shaped formation, with higher ground forming two distinctive humps. He knew that there would soon be lookouts posted at a water cairn on the south hump, and more men watching from a cluster of ruins on the northern hill. Lawrence was in the center, where a watercourse ran down from the cleavage of the hills towards the rail line. It would dig out a shallow culvert, and his charge would be laid under a wooden tie on the arch of a low rail support.

A distant thrum broke the morning stillness and he looked to see a short train hustling along at full speed to the south. The first train! It was the one that had taken all the Arabs by surprise that morning. They were scrambling to hide themselves, and he now knew exactly where Lawrence was. If his narrative was accurate, he would be huddling under the arch below the rail line. Once the first train gets clear he’ll finish burying the wires and spend a good deal of time going over the ground to hide any traces of the ambush. Then he would work his way up the watercourse, as far as his wire would allow, to a low bush. It was a dangerously exposed position and Nordhausen passed a moment of admiration that Lawrence would risk himself, setting off the detonation not more than fifty yards from the rail line. His Arab raiders were hiding in the hills above, waiting to attack when the train derailed.

This was the time to move, he thought. Lawrence posted lookouts in response to the surprise and disappointment of missing of the first train. They won’t be watching from the high ground yet, and the dismal weather might provide enough cover to mask my approach.

He started forward, running over the narrative again and again in his mind. Lawrence would bury his wires and then they would all huddle under their cloaks for long dull hours while they waited for the second train. It was probably somewhere north of Amman by now, and heading this way. He moved with as much stealth as he could, mind racing and feet aching with every step. He was soon quite winded and light headed, and he paused to catch his breath. A dizzy nausea seemed to wash over him, or perhaps it was only the nagging early morning hunger he was prone to.

After some time he had gained a good position, very close to the watercourse between the two hills. He rested, tired and sweaty in spite of the cold. He was not used to this kind of physical exertion. The elements and the fatigue and stress of these last hours were wearing on him heavily. He squinted at the ground ahead, suddenly elated to see a scraggly bush, just where Lawrence said it would be! He knew that the wires would end there. It was a single known point where this errant thread of history would poke near the surface and be exposed enough for him to find it. Then what would he do? The only thing he could think of was to work back a bit on the line and make a subtle cut in the wire.

Even as he considered this the motion of a man in Arabic robes caught his attention. He was making his way up from the rail line with a quick gait. He was a short fellow, yet his movements were studied and sure. As Nordhausen watched, it seemed to him that he could almost see an amber glow radiating from the man and surrounding him with an aura of purpose. He knew at once who this was. He gaped in awe, all thought of caution abandoning him, as he watched the man go straight to the low bush and fuss about at the base of the plant for a time. Then the figure stood up, surveying the ground around him with an almost regal regard. Nordhausen froze when it seemed that the man was looking right at him, sensing the presence of something out of place in the landscape. Time passed in utter stillness, then a drift of cold, gray mist shrouded the man from his view and, when it cleared, he saw that the stranger was making his way slowly up the side of the hill along the narrowing path of the watercourse.

Lawrence! His head was suddenly very light and Nordhausen realized that he had been holding his breath the whole time. He had nearly come face to face with a Prime Mover! The image of the man was still fixed in his mind, and the eerie amber glow that enveloped him still left a ghostly impression. Was it real or only something added to the scene by his own imagination? Nordhausen sighed, squinting to try and see where Lawrence had gone. He shuddered, taken by a chill on the morning mist. His hands were shaking.

Time was passing, and he forced himself to move. It was his moment of truth, he thought. As he crawled forward toward the distant bush he tried to steel himself with the awful weight of responsibility that had fallen square upon his shoulders. He was going to save the world, yet he was quaking now like a child approaching some great and mysterious altar of confirmation. He had only to crawl another thirty yards or so and he could grasp the cord of Time in the palm of his hand. It was just ahead: Paul’s little pushpin, or Pushpoint as he always corrected him… Just a little farther… a short creeping crawl on the stony ground of infinity. He was very cold.

24

“What is he doing brother?” Hakeem had rolled silently to one side and was leaning close to his brother’s face, his voice frosty on the crisp morning air.

“It is nothing. He waters the desert. Perhaps our coffee is too strong for the English. Go back to sleep.” Hassan shifted on his mat, still trying to avoid the troublesome stone he had overlooked when he prepared the place for sleeping.

“No brother, he is wandering away from the camp.” Hakeem whispered to him with more urgency now, and Hassan reluctantly rolled and craned his neck to see. The strange Englishman was stretching and strolling slowly toward the edge of the shallow depression where they had set their camp. Hakeem was not mistaken. The man’s movements belied a hint of caution to indicate that he was up to something. Each step took him a little farther from the camp site, and he seemed to be making great pains to walk as silently as possible.

“Does he think to sneak away from us? I can hear his army boots grinding the gravel in my sleep,” said Hakeem. “He moves like a wounded camel.”

“Yes, but where is he going?” Hassan rose slowly, propping himself on one elbow. “Let us wait a moment. When he is out of sight we will gather up the camp and see what mischief he plans.”

“He is a thankless guest!” Hakeem expressed his disapproval. “It is not fitting to eat at a man’s fire and then steal away like a thief when he takes his rest.”

“The English are a strange people,” said Hassan. “Look, he has rounded the spur of the hill. Gather up the camp and we will follow him.”

The two men moved quickly, rolling their belongings into the center of the prayer mats and binding both ends with a hemp cord. Hassan took a moment to extinguish all signs of their fire, blending sand and loose soil into the pit and scattering a few rocks about the site. They would leave the place exactly as they found it, making as little impression on the land as possible.

“Shall we pray, brother?” He gestured to the scrawny Hakeem. “The day is upon us.”

“And what of the Englishman?”

“He will not get far, and we will find him easily enough. The English are not difficult to find in the desert. They think the land is set before them for their pleasure, and they abuse it with every step. His trail will be obvious. How can such people be so mighty in the world?”

“They make wonderful things.”

“Mischievous things,” Hassan chided. “A rifle is one thing, but these metal trains and strange machines that take to the air—”

“They are terrible, but wonderful,” said Hakeem.

“They are an abomination. Do you envy them?” His voice scolded. “We will pray first, and then go.”

“But we have already prayed, brother. He will escape us.”

“It was dark before. Now comes the sun. Do not worry about the Englishman. He will not get very far.”

They stooped quietly to the earth, facing south with a low bow to the holy places that slept beyond the far horizon. Hassan began to pray.

“Falaq – The Dawn is come. In the name of God the most gracious, the most merciful. I seek refuge with the Lord of the Dawn.”

“From the mischief of created things,” said Hakeem, knowing why his elder brother had chosen this prayer.

“From the mischief of darkness as it overspreads,” said Hassan, “and from the mischief of those who practice secret arts.”

“And from the mischief of the envious one, as he practices envy.” Hakeem bowed low, as if to seek forgiveness in the bosom of the earth.

“Then let us rise in the protection of Allah, and greet the day.”

They were soon on the trail of their guest, studying the ground where he had crept away and reading his movements with little difficulty. “The mist will hide him, brother, but we must keep our distance nonetheless. When the daylight comes we will see what he is planning.”

“Perhaps he is only impatient,” said Hakeem. “He wishes to find el Aurens again.”

“Yes, but he is likely to find a bullet in the head first. The Serahin are riding with Aurens on this raid. They are a foolish people. They will shoot at anything that moves in the desert, and then run to find holes in the sand. We must be cautious as well.”

“Ha! We are of the Harith! Our heritage reaches back two thousand years in this land. The Serahin are very young. They will not see us. If they do, they will think us spirits moving on the morning mist and pluck out their beards with fear.”

“Well said, brother.”

They moved, like silent phantoms, their footfalls light on the ground and rocks as they threaded a nimble path through the stony terrain. It was not long before they caught sight of the Englishman, and they smiled to see how he lumbered along, trying his best to be stealthy, but failing badly. The man seemed to be making his way around the northernmost hump of Minifir, and he was bent on reaching the furrowed land between the twin hills where the rains had cleared a runoff channel that flowed down to the rail line.

They watched how he crouched behind a large boulder, and then Hakeem looked at his brother with wide eyes. “A machine is coming!”

Hassan listened, his eyes first searching the skies but then drifting to the horizon as he realized a train was hastening down from the north. They saw it a moment later, moving with bothersome noise and unfeeling urgency as it squealed along the metal rails. A column of dark smoke belched from a coal-black stack on the front of the engine. It dragged a short line of closed box-cars behind it, and Hassan gave them a disdainful smirk.

“By God the clatter of such things,” he breathed.

“How fast it goes!” Hakeem’s eyes betrayed a glint of fascination, but the glance from his elder brother squelched his enthusiasm.

“Not so fast as a good stallion from our father’s herd.”

“Oh, no,” Hakeem was quick to agree, though his thoughts harbored a hint of doubt.

“And it stinks as well.” Hassan gave the train a dismissive wave. “Nothing should be about such noise and haste at this hour of the morning. It is unseemly.”

“We are fortunate el Aurens let it pass, brother. Only six cars and not much for plunder.”

“Yes, he will wait for a long train. He is the only Englishman with any sense in his head. Sometimes I think he must have the blood of our people in him.”

“Could this be so?”

“I have heard it spoken.”

“Look, brother, the other Englishman is moving again.”

“He thinks to creep up on the Serahin while they are hiding themselves from that machine,” said Hassan. “Let us follow him as well.”

They moved closer, their gray robes hugging the ground like silent fog. Their quarry was awkward and obviously fatigued. His movements seemed sluggish and strained.

“The man’s boots are too tight for him,” said Hakeem.

“Yes, he should have thrown them away. How can he feel the ground? A good pair of sandals would have served him better.”

They crept forward in Nordhausen’s wake, until they had rounded the northern hill and were well into the cloven depression in the center. They paused, watching where the Englishman seemed to crouch in tense anticipation.

“Look how his hand shakes,” Hassan breathed.

“Hush, brother!” Hakeem hissed a sibilant warning. He had spied movement and saw another man, in white Meccan robes, coming up from the rail line. Hakeem squinted at the figure as the two brothers pressed themselves flat on the ground. “It is him!”

“El Aurens?” Hassan’s eyes and ears were not so good as his younger brother.

“Yes! Allah be praised. I know him by his headdress. Look, he makes for that low sage in the middle of the wadi. Should we go to him, brother? Perhaps he will let us join his raiding party.”

“Quiet!” Hassan gave him a warning stare. “We must see what the Englishman is about. Why does he not move? Surely he has labored to meet this man here.”

They waited, expecting their quarry to announce himself and complete the tryst that he had obviously been planning, but the Englishman did not move. It was almost as if he did not want to reveal himself, as if he was afraid to be seen. Hakeem was still gaping in awe as he watched the resplendent figure of Aurens while he worked the earth at the base of the low sage. Then the man stood up, looking over the ground as if he sensed the presence of the three intruders. The two Arab brothers lowered their faces to the earth and joined the quiet stillness of the morning, invisible to all but the most careful eyes.

A white mist seemed to descend from the sky, veiling the ground ahead. When it parted they saw that Aurens was making his way up the side of the hill, probably to join the Serahin raiders who waited there. They caught a brief glimpse of the Englishman, crawling forward with labored effort through the vapors that still shrouded the hillside. He seemed to be making for the same low sage that Aurens had visited.

“Ah!” Hassan breathed a sigh of realization. “This was to be a secret meeting, Hakeem. Look! Perhaps Aurens left something at the roots of that sage yonder.”

“A message?” Hakeem suggested the first thing that came to mind. “Or perhaps gold? Why would he not speak with this man face to face?”

“The English are devious people,” said Hassan with obvious suspicion in his voice. “Some say they come here only for what they think they might keep when the war is finished. Some say they would use us to beat upon the Turks, and then go home when we have won their war for them. I do not like this. There is mischief here.”

“Brother!” Hakeem seemed to be searching the ground ahead, his eyes darting about with alarm. “The Englishman!”

“Will you shout so the Serahin will hear us?” Hassan started to chastise his younger brother again, until he realized the cause of his surprise. He peered into the misted gully, looking this way and that, but seeing nothing.

“He is gone brother,” Hakkem mouthed the words with great surprise. “The Englishman is gone!”

“What is this?” Hassan was not so quick to believe. “He must have scrambled off to meet El Aurens. Are you sure you do not see him? Look closely. He must be there.”

“I see nothing.” Hakeem’s eyes watered over with fear. “I saw him crawling to reach the sage, and then… a moment later…” His hand cupped his chin, covering his mouth as if he feared to say more.

“This cannot be.” Hassan tried to keep his voice low, but his frustration was obvious. The two men looked at one another, each trying to surmise the answer to the riddle in the other’s eyes. The haunting howl of a wild dog pack came to them from afar, breaking the tense stillness of the morning. There was a slight breeze sweeping up the wadi from the open lands beyond, yet the mist ahead seemed impervious, hanging like frosty vapor over the ground.

Hakeem shivered with a sudden chill of fear. “The Beni Hillal,” he rasped. He was speaking of the ancient peoples who had first settled this land. They were long since gone from the earth now, but tales were still told to frighten children from wandering too far from their campfires in the desert. The Beni Hillal had built all the old forts, six haunted towers and many water cairns in this region, in the deeps of time, long ago. They were gone now, but it was said that their dogs still roamed the night, and howled at the first light of the dawn, restlessly seeking their masters.

“Be still brother, you speak nonsense.” Hassan was not one to believe the old myth, though his eyes betrayed a moment of fear as the distant wail of the dogs swelled and then faded to wretched silence. “They are but jackals; hyaenas, nothing more.”

“The Beni Hillal!” Hakeem was not dissuaded. His fear was unseemly, and he hid his face from his brother, ashamed that he should be so unnerved. Yet his eyes had seen a strange thing just now, and it shook his frame with fright. The Englishman was there, not twenty meters ahead on the stony bed of the wadi. He moved, his frame shaken by unseen hands. The white mist descended upon him, and Hakeem thought he could feel the morning air grow colder, as though chilled by the breath of some unnatural thing. When he looked again, the Englishman was gone. He had vanished! By God, by Holy God, he was gone!

He covered his face. “Allah be praised,” he whispered. “Protect us from the mischief of those who practice secret arts…” The words of the morning prayer returned to him, haunting and replete with new meaning. He was very frightened.

Hassan saw his brother’s fear, but he fought to quell the rising sense of unease in his own heart. He must see this thing for himself. The Englishman must be there. How far could he have crawled, or even run? He would go and look for the man. “Wait here, brother. Do not be fearful. Allah, our God, protects us. I will go and see where the Englishman has run. You will see.” He gave his younger brother a reassuring nod and started off, creeping low on the ground as he made his way forward. He would steal up on the low sage and see what mystery it struggled to hide from the gray morning.

When he was half way to the place, he felt a frosty chill on the air. The ground itself seemed icy to his touch and he drew his hands back from the stones, suddenly afraid. He shivered, struggling to master his emotions. He would not be shamed before his brother. He was elder, and he must not give way to the terror in his heart. He prayed to Allah, that he be protected from the darkness that seemed to surround his mind, and he forced himself to creep forward, his hands shaking in spite of every effort.

He made his way to the low sage, but there was no sign of the Englishman, or of Aurens. He stood up, looking this way and that, confused and frightened. Then his foot struck something hard that had been concealed beneath the plant. He looked to see the squat, rusted box of an exploder. He had nearly knocked it on its side with the frantic movements of his search. El Aurens had put it there to fire the charges hidden beneath the rail line. God save him, he must not lay hands upon this thing. He searched about, desperate for some sign of the Englishman, but he was nowhere to be seen. He studied the ground, using all his art and craft for reading the signs of passing feet, but it was clear to him that only one man had come to this place, and he had been very careful to mask his passage. Where would the Englishman go if not here? A great doubt descended on him, like the darkness he sought refuge from in his morning prayer. There was mischief here, strange, unaccountable mischief. He turned and fled, back along the trail he had taken, but he edged away from the cold spot in the earth, unwilling to traverse that ground a second time. When he reached his brother the fear in his eyes was obvious, though he struggled to master it.

“I do not need plunder,” he breathed.

“Nor I.”

“I am weary of following this Englishman. Let him go. He must suffer the fate that Allah has ordained for him.”

Hakeem nodded his approval. All thought of joining Aurens and his raid on the Turkish trains had left him. They were very far from home, and he wanted to get as far from this place as he could. In truth, he was terrified, and he had seen the same fear in the eyes of his elder brother, though he would never speak of this aloud. It was unseemly. It was unholy.

It was wrong.