Hammond Innes - The Doomed Oasis

I woke to the cry of ‘ Gahwa’ and a barefoot attendant pouring coffee for me, his gun slung across his back, the brass of his cartridge belt gleaming in the light from the embrasure. It was eight-thirty and the flies crawled over the dates he left for my breakfast.

I ate the dates slowly, for time hung heavy on my hands and I didn’t dare venture out alone after what had happened. My eyes felt tired, my body lethargic. My mind wandered in weary circles as the heat of the desert grew in intensity, invading the room. It was almost eleven when Khalid came for me. A brief salaam, a polite hope that I’d slept well, and then he said, ‘My father holds a majlis. He desires your presence, sir.’ His face looked grave and the eyes, deep-sunk and shadowed, spoke of a sleepless night. The Emir of Hadd has sent one of his sheikhs to make demand for a new border.’ His voice sounded weary, too.

‘What happened last night?’ I asked. ‘There were women crying and a dead body in the square.’

They waited in ambush by the fourteenth well. Mahommed bin Rashid is dead and two of his men also. Three are wounded. Come! My father waits for you.’

I asked him if I could wash first, but he said there was no time. ‘You must explain now please to the Emir’s representative why you and Meester Entwhistle are on the border.’ And then urgently: Tell Sheikh Abdullah there is no oil there.’

‘I’m not a geologist.’

‘He don’t know that. He thinks you work for the Oil Company.’

‘Well, I don’t.’ I spoke sharply, irritable with lack of sleep. ‘I’m a lawyer, and all I’m interested in is what happened to David Whitaker.’

His dark eyes stared at me hard. ‘Is better you don’t talk about David at this meeting,’ he said quietly.

‘Why?’ Angry and tired, I didn’t stop to think what I was saying. ‘Because your father sent some of his bodyguard to arrest him?’

‘You saw Haj Whitaker last night. You know why they were sent. He was on the Hadd border against my father’s orders.’

‘Against Whitaker’s orders, too, I gather.’

‘Yess. If he had been a Muslim instead of a Nasrani -’ He gave a little shrug. ‘The Prophet has taught us that the word of the father is as a law and that the son must obey.’ And he added, ‘My father is wishing to avoid trouble. He does not believe that a few miles of desert sand is worth righting for.’

‘And you do?’

Again the little shrug. ‘My father is an old man and he has known Haj Whitaker many years now. He is guided by him in these matters. And I–I also am not a geologist.’

‘Who did your father send with the soldiers?’ I asked. ‘Was it you?’

‘No. Mahommed bin Rashid.’ He turned abruptly. ‘Come, please. My father is waiting.’ And as I followed him down the turret stairs, he said over his shoulder, ‘Please. You will not speak of David.’ He said it fiercely, with great urgency.

He led me through passages that were cool in semi-darkness and up to a rooftop by another staircase. The majlis, or audience, was being held in an open room with arches that looked out across the rooftops to the oasis. Sheikh Makhmud didn’t rise to greet me. His face looked tired and strained, sullen with anger. He was also, I think, a little frightened. Beside him sat the representative of Hadd, a bearded, sly-eyed, powerfully-built man with an elaborately-embroidered cloak and a headdress that was like a turban of many colours.

Sheikh Makhmud motioned me to sit facing him. I was thus in the position of the accused facing a court, for all the notables were there, seated cross-legged and grave on silken cushions ranged round the inner walls of that airy room. On a carpet in the centre were bowls of camel milk and tinned pears. Nobody touched them except the flies. The atmosphere was tense, almost electric.

The situation was distinctly unpleasant for it was obvious as soon as Sheikh Makhmud began to question me in halting English that he regarded me as responsible for the situation that had developed. Entwhistle’s absence didn’t help and though I answered the questions truthfully, I could see from Sheikh Abdullah’s manner that he didn’t believe me. He listened to the translation with a lack of interest that he didn’t bother to conceal.

In the end I lost my temper with him. I scrambled to my feet and standing over the man, delivered myself of the sort of broadside I occasionally indulged in in the courts. My action might have been dictated by expediency, for attack was undoubtedly the best method of defence. But, in fact, my nerves were on edge. ‘Your men attacked us without warning and without cause,’ I shouted at him. And I described how the soft-nosed bullet had slammed into the bonnet of the Land-Rover, how the fusillade of shots had raised spurts of sand all around us. He looked suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Only a few years ago,’ I said, ‘my country had to send troops here to keep the peace. Now you break it again. Why? What explanation do you wish me to give when I return to Bahrain?’

My words translated, the crafty eyes slid from my face to the assembled men and he licked his lips as though suddenly uncertain of himself. ‘You have no answer,’ I said, and with that I gave Sheikh Makhmud a quick bow and made my exit. I couldn’t go far, for armed retainers barred the staircase leading down from the roof. But I had made my point and felt better for it, even though I was now forced to remain out in the full glare of the sun. I sat myself down on the oven-lid heat of the mud parapet and pretended to be absorbed in watching a camel caravan being loaded at a huddle of barastis close by the date gardens. Behind me I could hear the guttural sound of their talk as they continued to deliberate.

Coffee was served and Khalid came over and joined me. ‘Is no good,’ he said. ‘The Emir listens to Cairo Radio and he believes he has powerful friends. It has made him bold. Also he has many new rifles. They have come up from the Yemen, I think. From the coast also.‘And he added, ‘Only if we have oil here in Saraifa will your people give us their full support. We know that.’

‘Mr Erkhard is seeing Colonel Whitaker today,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘My father will not make a decision until he hears from Haj Whitaker. He is full of hope.’

‘And you?’ I asked, for the way he said it suggested he didn’t share his father’s optimism.

He.shrugged. ‘1 also hope, but Haj Whitaker is old, and he is tired and sick.’

‘Sick?’

‘Sick here.’ And he touched his heart.

I asked him then what exactly Sheikh Abdullah was demanding. ‘A new border,’ he said and drew it for me in the sand of the rooftop floor with the toe of his sandalled foot. It meant that all the area David had surveyed would belong to Hadd.

‘And if your father refuses?’

Again that fatalistic shrug. Then Sheikh Abdullah say they will destroy another falaj , and another and another, until we have no water for the dates, no water for our beasts, none for ourselves even. We die then of thirst and starvation.’ He was staring out across the oasis. ‘I am young yet. I had thought to rebuild the falajes, one by one, until Saraifa is like a garden again and the desert at bay. That is my dream.’

‘And David’s, too.’

‘Yes, it is the dream we share since we first hunt the gazelle together.’ His eyes had a faraway look, his voice sad with the loss of that dream. His father called to him and he finished his coffee and went back to his place. The conference was resumed, and looking at the faces of the men gathered in that room, I knew he was right. They were in no mood to fight and if Whitaker didn’t save them then they would accept it as the will of Allah and agree to the Emir’s demands.