Hammond Innes - The Doomed Oasis

We sat cross-legged on the cushions and there was nothing in the Sheikh’s manner to indicate that we were anything but honoured guests. Polite conversation was made, partly in the Arab language, partly in English. Slaves came with a silver jug and a silver ewer. We washed our hands and then they brought in a simple dish of rice and mutton. ‘You eat with your right hand,’ Entwhistle whispered to me, and I tried to copy his practised movements.

I was hungry enough not to care that the meat was stringy and over-fat. We ate almost in silence and when we had finished, the hand-washing was repeated and then coffee was served in little handleless cups, poured by a slave from a silver pot of intricate native design. And with the coffee came the questions. Sheikh Makhmud’s voice was no longer gentle. It had a harsh, imperious quality, and Entwhistle was soon in difficulties with the language, lapsing periodically into English as he tried to explain his presence on the Saraifa-Hadd border. In the end he passed Sheikh Makhmud the note Gorde had written.

Entwhistle had just launched into an account of the attack that had been made on us when a young man entered. He was short, well-built, and beneath his brown cloak he wore an old tweed jacket. But it was the features that caught the eye; they were delicate, almost classic features, the nose straight, the eyes set wide apart, with high cheek-bones and the full lips framed by a neatly trimmed moustache that flowed round the corners and down into a little pointed beard. He looked as though he had just come in from the desert and I knew instinctively that this was Khalid, the Sheikh’s son; he had an air about him that showed he was born to command.

He greeted his father and his uncle, waved us to remain seated and folded himself up on a cushion against the wall. The brass of cartridge belt, the silver of khanjar knife gleamed beneath the jacket. He sat in silence, listening intently, his body so still that I was given the impression of great muscular control — a hard-sinewed body below the Arab robes.

There was a long silence when Entwhistle had finished. And then Sheikh Makhmud made what sounded like a pronouncement, and Entwhistle exclaimed: ‘Good God! I’m not going to do that.’ He turned to me. ‘He wants us to go to the Emir and explain that we were on the border without authority.’

‘You go freely,’ Sheikh Makhmud said in English. ‘Or you go with escort. Which you prefer?’

Entwhistle didn’t say anything. His face was set and pale.

‘Is very difficult this situation,’ the Sheikh said almost apologetically. ‘Very dangerous also. You must make the Emir understand please.’

‘Very dangerous for us, too,’ Entwhistle muttered angrily.

‘I don’t want any trouble.’

‘You want oil, don’t you?’

‘Colonel Whitaker is already drilling for oil.’

‘Then what was his son doing on the Hadd border?’ Entwhistle demanded. ‘He ran a survey there. He wrote a report. And then he vanished.’ There was no answer. ‘Khalid. You were his friend. What happened to him?’

But Khalid was staring out into the courtyard.

In the silence I heard myself say, ‘He got a letter through to me just before he disappeared. He knew he was going to die.’ I felt them stiffen, the silence suddenly intense. I looked at Khalid. ‘Did he die a natural death?’ His eyes met mine for a moment then fell away. ‘Somebody here must know how he died — and why.’

Nobody answered and the stillness of those three Arabs scared me. It was the stillness of unease. ‘Where’s Colonel Whitaker?’ I asked.

The Sheikh stirred uncomfortably. ‘You are full of questions. Who are you?’

Briefly I explained. I was still explaining when there was a sudden uproar in the passage outside and a man burst into the room, followed closely by the Sheikh’s secretary. A staccato burst of Arabic and they were all suddenly on their feet. I heard the word falaj run from mouth to mouth, saw Khalid rush out, quick as a cat on his feet. His father followed more slowly, the others crowding behind him.

‘What is it?’ I asked Entwhistle. ‘What’s happened?’

‘One of the falajes, I don’t know exactly but for some reason the water has stopped.’

We were alone now. Everybody had forgotten about us. It was as though that word had some sort of magic in it. ‘What exactly is a falaj?’ He didn’t seem to hear me and I repeated the question.

‘Falaj?’ He seemed to drag his mind back. ‘Oh, it’s the water system on which the date gardens depend. The water comes from the mountains of the Jebel anything up to thirty miles away and it’s piped into Saraifa by underground channels.’

‘And the underground channels are the falajes ?’

‘Yes, that’s it. They’re centuries old — a Persian irrigation system. In fact, they’re the same as the Persian quantas.’ He went to the passage and stood listening. ‘Bit of luck,’ he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘If we can get hold of the Land-Rover-’ He grabbed hold of my arm. ‘Come on.’

I followed him down the dimly lit mud corridors and out into the courtyard. The cooking fires still smoked. The camels still crouched in a shapeless, belching huddle under the walls. But in the whole courtyard there wasn’t a single Arab to be seen. ‘Look! Even the guard on the gate has gone.’

‘But why?’ I asked. ‘Why should that word-?’

‘Water. Don’t you understand?’ He sounded impatient. ‘Water is life here in the desert.’

‘But they can’t depend on one channel. There must be many to irrigate a place like this.’

‘Five or six, that’s all.’ He was searching the courtyard. ‘There used to be more than a hundred once. But tribal wars-’ He gripped my arm. There’s the Land-Rover. Over by the wall there.’ He pointed. ‘Come on! There’s just a chance-’

‘What’s the idea?’ I asked.

‘Get out whilst the going’s good. Hurry, man!’ His voice was high-pitched, urgent. ‘I’m not risking my neck on a mission of explanation to that bloody Emir.’ He had seized hold of my arm again. ‘Quick!’

I started to follow him, but then I stopped. ‘I’m staying,’ I said.

‘Christ, man! Do you want to get killed?’

‘No, but I want to find out why that boy was killed.’

He stared at me. ‘You think it was like that — that he was murdered?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. I didn’t know anything for certain. ‘But I’m not leaving here until I’ve seen Colonel Whitaker.’

He hesitated. But then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Okay. It’s your funeral, as you might say. But watch your step,’ he added. ‘He’s a tricky bastard by all accounts. And if what you’re suggesting is true and David was murdered, then your life wouldn’t be worth much, would it?’

‘I’ll be all right,’ I said.

‘Aye, I hope so. But just remember you’re right on the edge of Saudi Arabia here and the British Raj is worn a bit thin in these parts.’ He hesitated, looking at me, and then he started towards the Land Rover.

I stood and watched him, certain I was being a fool, but equally certain that I wasn’t leaving. I saw him jump into the driving seat, heard the whine of the starter, the roar of the engine. And then the Land-Rover was moving and he swung it round and came tearing towards me. ‘Jump in, Grant,’ he shouted, as he pulled up beside me. ‘Hurry, man! Hurry!’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not leaving.’ My voice was like the voice of a stranger to me. ‘You get out whilst you can. I’ll be all right.’ And I added, ‘I’ll make your excuses to the Sheikh for you.’ I meant it to be a jocular, carefree remark, but my voice sounded hollow. He was still hesitating and I said quickly, ‘Good luck to you!’