John Schettler - Meridian

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.

“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.”