Redfalcon, page 15
‘And your business, does it also thrive?’
Their conversation continued in this manner for several minutes while the rest of us sat patiently listening. These lengthy enquiries after health, family and business appeared to be an indispensable prelude to any discussion of more pressing matters. Lasalle had evidently acquired a fluency in such extended small talk and left our host satisfied that all the proper forms of greeting had been duly observed.
Zouvier then turned to me, presumably as I was the oldest of our group and therefore to be most respected. ‘And you, sir, Mr Hannay, your family is well?’
‘I believe they are,’ I answered, without betraying any of the anxiety I actually felt about Peter John. I decided to change the subject rapidly, since any further talk of my family might lead to some mention of Malta and therefore touch upon our confidential mission.
‘My friend Mr Galt here is only recently married,’ I declared, presenting Jaikie as grandly as if he were a foreign prince.
‘Ah, a thousand blessings upon you and your bride, handsome sir,’ Zouvier enthused. ‘And may all your many children grow up healthy and strong.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Jaikie. He showed obvious relief when the Arab shifted his attention to Dougal.
‘And you, my fine friend with the flaming hair, do you too have a bride preparing your home for your return?’
‘No, sir, I’m not married,’ Dougal stated stiffly.
Zouvier assessed him with shrewd, narrowed eyes. ‘That is because you are a warrior born, too busy fighting to entertain thoughts of love.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Dougal demurred, with an uncomfortable sidelong glance at Karrie.
Zouvier followed his eyes to the girl, and regarded her in unabashed delight. ‘You, madam, you are a gazelle!’ he exclaimed.
This apparently was the highest compliment that could be made to a woman. Karrie seemed to understand that and lowered her eyes modestly.
‘You are very kind.’
‘And yet I am troubled.’ Zouvier’s eyebrows plunged into a frown. ‘I see no mark of marriage upon you.’
Karrie shook her head. ‘No, I am not married. My life is dedicated to my work.’
Zouvier reeled back in shock. ‘What? Here you are in the full flower of your womanhood and yet, even at such an age, you are not married? This must not be.’ He considered the matter gravely then raised a magisterial finger. ‘For your honour’s sake I will make you one of my wives. It is the very least I can do.’
‘I am flattered, but no,’ Karrie responded demurely.
I had the impression that this was not the first proposal she had declined, though I imagined it was the most abrupt and unusual.
Zouvier was not so easily rebuffed. ‘I pray you to think again. I have money, I am a handsome man, and I make good children.’
‘When the time comes,’ Dougal interjected gruffly, ‘she’ll marry who she chooses.’
‘Ah, so you make claim to her,’ said Zouvier. ‘Why was this not said before?’
‘No one has any claim on me,’ Karrie clarified in a surprisingly calm and collected manner. ‘Though you would honour me, sir, you must know that I would make you a very bad wife. First because I am a Christian, but also because I am hard-headed and stubborn. I would not wish to bring shame upon your house.’
For all her strong will, and occasional stubbornness, it was evident that in her travels Karrie had developed the ability to conform politely to the customs of another land without in any way compromising her own character.
‘Ah so, the gazelle must run free, eh?’ Zouvier sighed resignedly. ‘But let me say this: it is better to be the wife of Zouvier than to go chasing ghosts in the mountains.’
This warning was given with a doleful glance at Lasalle, who made no response. Fortunately, as Zouvier’s unsuccessful wooing came to an end, the mood was immediately lightened by the arrival of a troop of servants bearing dishes, platters and jugs, a veritable feast to be placed before the honoured guests.
We were each presented with a bowl of stewed lamb with apricots in spicy sauce, poured over a bed of couscous, a local rice made from semolina. This was accompanied by loaves of tannour bread and the inevitable cups of mint tea heavily sweetened with sugar.
Zouvier saluted us with his cup and toasted: ‘B’saha wa raha!’
This, I learned, translated as ‘In health and rest’.
We all joined in the toast and set to our meal with a good appetite. After our meagre breakfast, this was indeed a rich banquet.
While we ate, Lasalle discussed with Zouvier the supplies and equipment we would need for our expedition into the mountains – sturdy clothing, several lengths of rope, small shovels for digging, rations, flasks of water and so on. Zouvier appeared to note all this mentally, without the need to write it down. Clearly he had long experience in providing for travellers and had access to everything that was necessary.
Gradually, however, I saw his brow cloud and his enormous eyebrows droop sadly. ‘It troubles me that you again go searching for tombs,’ he told Lasalle dolefully. ‘The dead have earned their rest, my friend, and you should leave them in peace, lest they come to haunt you to your grief.’
‘Pah!’ Lasalle waved his forebodings aside. ‘I’ve told you before not to vex me with superstitions. Such ideas grow around lost places like ivy and must be cut away.’
Behind his words, however, I sensed a certain apprehension, like a premonition of perils yet to come.
24
THE PILLARS OF HEAVEN
Three days later we were in a different world, one as ancient as Casablanca’s Ville Nouvelle was modern. We had followed a series of rough sheep trails over slopes dressed in thick forests of oak and cedar, with waterfalls tumbling dazzlingly from the heights. Tortoiseshell butterflies flitted among the greenery and small birds darted from tree to tree, piping their lively songs. We passed small villages whose Berber inhabitants waved gleefully and offered us food and refreshment. By contrast, we sometimes had to press our way through herds of unwelcoming goats who butted us when we came too close. Perhaps their owners had trained them not to trust strangers.
Rather than accept any offers of hospitality, we had chosen to shelter for the night in caves or under canvas. In this way we avoided being questioned as to our purpose and destination, knowing we would be forced to respond with silence or a lie, by which we would be dishonouring our hosts.
Zouvier had provided us with stout boots and warm clothing for the cold mountain heights and we were soon grateful for both. In our packs we carried cooking gear, water bottles and tinned rations as well as pup tents and blankets. Without the Frenchman being aware of it, Jaikie had carefully arranged the loads so that Lasalle’s burden would be the lightest.
Though I was an experienced climber, the higher we ascended, the more I began to feel the weight of years that lay upon me. The cold thin air chilled me through whenever I paused to catch a breath. Clapping myself warm with both hands, I forced my body to carry on in spite of an almost overwhelming fatigue. However, I was more concerned about Lasalle.
On occasion he succumbed to an attack of weakness, leaning on his alpenstock, and feeding a capsule between his lips when he fancied no one was watching. As soon as he saw any signs of concern in the faces of his companions, he moved off with a determined briskness of step, refusing any suggestion of rest or help. I marvelled at his miraculous stamina and could only imagine the force of the impulse that drove him on: the urge to discover the fabled tomb of Redfalcon.
Now we were entering a land more stark and unforgiving, picking our way along crumbling paths that took us over rocks of mustard brown and umber, shot through with streaks of yellow. Water cascaded dizzily down the cliffs to splash into isolated patches of greenery far below. Wildlife became scarce and our most constant companions were the birds of prey who rode the wind currents in the lofty sky above.
Ahead, beyond the hard, ruddy landscape, rose the blue, snow-tipped peaks of the mountains which had lent the Atlas range its name. It was easy to see why they had been identified with the mighty Titan of Greek mythology who was tasked with supporting the sky upon his broad and straining back. They seemed to reach up to the very vault of heaven with a grandeur worthy of the gods of Olympus.
Deeper we advanced into the interior of the range, and our surroundings became increasingly austere, taking on an almost primeval magnificence. The mountains soared up in ramparts all about us, like the ancient bones of the earth itself, rearing up in gargantuan defiance against the vivid cerulean blue of the heavens. It was as if we had come face to face with the very roots of creation.
Now, however, in the late afternoon of our fourth day, an icy wind was scouring the bare slope above us and sullen grey clouds were boiling across the sky. A storm was imminent and we were fully exposed to whatever fury it might unleash upon us. There was no sign of shelter on this bare rock face and occasional drifts of shale slipped beneath our feet, threatening to pitch us down into the shadowy depths below.
When the first sheets of rain hit us, it was almost a relief from the tension of awaiting the storm. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by rolls of thunder that echoed in great detonations all around the gaunt cliffs. The rain swelled in its rage, as if egged on by the lashes of lightning, dashing whips of icy sleet into our faces.
‘First a sandstorm and now this,’ Dougal growled. ‘You’d almost think somebody didn’t want us to find this blessed tomb.’
‘I’d pay three months’ rent in advance for a good cave right now,’ said Jaikie through gritted teeth. ‘I wouldn’t even demand running water.’
‘I thought you Scots were made of sterner stuff than that,’ Karrie challenged them. ‘Do you really want to be caught hiding in a cave like Robert the Bruce and his spider?’
‘That spider was no mug,’ Dougal informed her gruffly. ‘It was probably raining outside.’
With such hard-bitten humour to bolster our spirits, we pressed on doggedly, scanning our rain-shrouded surroundings for any sort of overhang that might lend us some semblance of shelter. As the lightning drew closer, flaring across the sky in blazing white sheets, our pace slowed and our footing grew ever wetter and more treacherous.
‘Maybe we should just stop here,’ Jaikie suggested, ‘and huddle together until the storm’s passed.’
I knew that he had the experience of many a hazardous expedition behind him, and I was half-minded to take his advice. I was certainly feeling the pace and even Karrie, whose powers of endurance were quite astonishing, was finally beginning to wilt. Lasalle, however, was having none of it.
‘No, we must press on,’ he insisted hoarsely, stabbing a determined finger directly into the face of the tempest.
He glared at each one of us in turn, daring us to contradict him. I could see a feverish glint in his eye that would brook no denial. Dougal and Jaikie directed their attention to me, as if to say yes, this was the doctor’s expedition, but it was my orders that they would follow.
‘Perhaps just a little further,’ said Karrie, ending the brief stalemate. She took the Frenchman by the arm. ‘For all we know, there might be a refuge of some sort just around the next bend.’
As we trudged on, heads low, backs bent, the storm seemed to redouble its efforts to drive us back. I recalled Dougal’s earlier protestation about someone not wanting us to find the tomb, but quickly dismissed such gloomy fancies. Whatever ancient gods might once have dwelt in these mountains, they had slumbered through too many long ages to bestir themselves over such minor intruders as the five of us.
Our pace by now was little more than a crawl, and we were surely on our last legs. Lasalle was staggering and would have fallen without Karrie’s support. I was about to insist on a halt when a streak of lighting, flashing directly over our heads, illuminated an extraordinary sight.
Ahead and above us, standing tall upon a ledge, was a man wreathed in grey robes, with a long white beard hanging from beneath the shadow of his hood. He leaned upon a gnarled staff and with his other hand beckoned us to follow him.
For a moment we were too startled to obey, but Lasalle, suddenly revived, urged us on.
‘He’s one of the Berber folk,’ he gasped. ‘They know these heights like no one else.’
‘He looks like a wizard to me,’ said Dougal.
‘At this point I’d be ready to follow him if he was just a bus conductor,’ said Jaikie, adjusting his pack and lurching forward.
By the time we had clambered on to the ledge, our unexpected guide was several yards up a twisting path that led around a jagged spur of rock. As we rounded the bend, another sheet of lightning revealed an even more astounding sight. On the cliff face ahead was a series of terraced dwellings, two and three storeys high, built right into the rock. As we drew closer, they looked so much a natural part of the mountain you might have imagined they had grown up organically, rising up from pools of lava in some antediluvian epoch.
Opening the door of one of these dwellings, the bearded man led us inside, threw back his hood and set aside his staff. His long hair was pure white, framing a lean, handsome face the colour of newly burnished leather. The large room before us was lit with oil lanterns and the welcome glow of a fire crackling in the hearth.
‘My friend, my friend, a thousand blessings upon you for guiding us here,’ gasped Lasalle, bowing so low I was afraid he might fall flat on his face.
Karrie caught him by the shoulder and helped him straighten up. The rest of us echoed the Frenchman’s words of thanks, all of which were waved modestly aside by our host.
‘By all that is holy, what were you doing out there in the midst of such a storm?’ Karrie asked.
‘It came to me in a dream that there were strangers lost in the mountains,’ the Berber answered in heavily accented but perfect French, ‘and that the storm would not abate its anger until they found their way to shelter.’
He seemed quite unabashed to lay this mystical explanation before us, and we, at this point, were not minded to argue with the ways of providence.
‘We are very grateful,’ I told him, ‘both for your dream and for your hospitality.’
At this point our host turned to face the interior of the cliff-house and clapped his hands. Immediately, with squeals of delight, a bevy of boisterous children surrounded us under the stern supervision of their diminutive mother. They helped us out of our sodden outer garments and hung them to dry before the fire. Once we were seated on the soft woollen carpet, they brought us cups of hot herbal tea flavoured with a hint of spice.
As we drank, a pleasant warmth filled my chilled body and the menacing thunder seemed to pass away into the distance. Lasalle introduced each member of our party in turn, explaining that we were on an archaeological expedition, but revealing no more than that.
Our host’s name was Yattuy, which in his language – not surprisingly – meant the tall one. He told us that the spirits of the mountains granted certain gifts to those who honoured them, and this was the source of his prophetic dreams. He then issued a soft-voiced command to his tiny wife, who immediately chivvied their chattering brood into the kitchen to help with the preparation of the evening meal.
‘Your people are very brave to dwell among these rocky heights,’ Jaikie complimented the Berber.
‘We are the Amazigh,’ said Yattuy, ‘which in our tongue means the free men. We were here before the Romans came, before the Arab invaders, and long before the men of France and Spain crossed the narrow strait. When all of those have passed away like sand scattered before the wind, we shall yet remain, for this land has been ours from the first dawn of time.’
This prophecy might have sounded grandiose coming from other lips, but Yattuy spoke with such sure authority that his words carried a ringing conviction of truth.
Soon our supper arrived in the form of what we learned was called a tagine. This consisted of goat meat cooked in a spicy sauce, surrounded by layers of carrots, turnips, potatoes and courgettes, forming a sort of volcano shape that was topped with red chilli. Lasalle, who had been entertained in this fashion before, explained to us the etiquette of such a meal.
First we were all required to say ‘Bismillah’ (in the name of God) as a blessing. Our host then divided a loaf between us, with which, pinching the bread between our fingers, we were first to scoop up the juices from the bottom of the tagine before using it like a spoon to help ourselves to the vegetables. The meat was divided evenly between us all by Yattuy and every piece of it consumed.
I must say that it was delicious, and restored our party to what was almost a second life after the trials of our ascent. As we washed down the food with more tea, Yattuy enquired as to our destination. Lasalle took out his notebook and showed him his drawing of the Eagle’s Beak. The Berber gave a knowing nod.
‘You are not far from this place. In the morning I will take you there.’
25
THE WAY TO KEDESH
Yattuy was as good as his word. After a breakfast of barley cakes, fresh figs and honey we set off across the mountainside, where all traces of the storm had vanished like the wispy memories of a bad dream. The sun shone with a hopeful radiance from a sky of purest blue and there was a sweetness in the air wafting from the wild flowers that decked the slopes about us. Even the cries of the hunting birds had lost their harshness and sounded more like a welcome than a warning.
It was as if Yattuy’s generosity in coming to our rescue had assuaged the savagery of the elements and brought us into a kinder world. He strode boldly at our head, deep in conversation with Lasalle, who had gained a renewed vigour in the Berber’s company.
After half a day’s hike we saw looming ahead of us the very landmark we had been seeking, a sharp peak that looked as if it had been bent downward by some colossal hand to form the grey beak of a giant bird. Quickening our pace, we arrived at a shelf of rock directly beneath that pointed overhang, our faces directed to the darkening mountains of the east.
