The Black Stallion Returns (7 page)

“A little over twelve hours,” Mr. Volence replied. He glanced at his watch. “We should arrive in Haribwan a little after eight tonight.”

The heat was intense and Alec covered his face with his handkerchief. Henry and Mr. Volence removed their jackets. Soon the train was on its way, and a dry breeze swept through the car.

“I guess this must be one of the hottest countries in the world,” Alec murmured.

“It is,” Mr. Volence agreed with a smile, “and the driest. But we’d better get used to it.”

Alec looked out the open window at the steppe-like tracts covered with small bushes. To the west he could see the coastal mountains gradually rising as they swept to the north. Occasionally he could see a small farm with cultivated land.

“The west and northern coasts of Arabia are the most fertile,” Mr. Volence explained. “To the east is only the Great Central Desert and the mountains toward which we’re headed. Some Arabs call their country an island, surrounded by water on three sides and sand on the fourth.” He paused a minute, then added, “Geologists say that Arabia once joined the natural continuation of the Sahara, now separated by the rift of the Nile Valley and the great chasm of the Red Sea.”

“Aren’t there any rivers at all?” Alec asked.

“None of any significance,” Mr. Volence told him. “There is a network of wadis, depressions in the surface, which fill with water, but only periodically, during the short rainy season.”

“At that rate, I don’t see how they can grow much. What do they eat?”

“It’s true there’s little tillable land, Alec. But on the coastal areas they have dates, coconut palms, grapes and numerous fruits as well as almonds, sugar cane and watermelons. They also have sheep and goats. Their coffee, too, is the finest in the world. In the desert, I suppose, the chief items on the nomad’s menu are dates and milk.”

Henry, very much interested in the conversation, muttered, “Dates and milk … that’s something to look forward to.”

As the hours passed and the train wound its way to the northeast, the country became less populated and the terrain more grim. Great sandy wastes spread before them. Barely visible now were the mountains to the west. Alec’s gaze swept over the other passengers in the car, most of whom were sleeping. There were a few,
presumably British from their features, dressed in clothes like his own. But the majority were Arabs, wearing long white skirts with a sash and a flowing upper garment, which pictures had made familiar to Alec. Most of them wore a shawl held by a cord over their heads. They were of middle stature, of powerful build, and to Alec their features, characterized by a broad jaw, aquiline nose and flat cheeks, expressed dignity and pride. He could not help but think how little they looked like Ibn al Khaldun with his fat, evil face.

The medallion dangling in Mr. Volence’s hand attracted Alec’s attention. Noticing how closely he was scrutinizing it, he asked, “Any new clues?”

Mr. Volence did not answer for several seconds, then he looked up and met Alec’s intense gaze. “I was just thinking about something one of my friends in Aden mentioned yesterday about this,” he said. “He happens to be quite a student of mythology, and thought that this resembled the fabulous bird of Egypt, the Phoenix. But neither he nor I have ever seen a drawing of the Phoenix such as this one, with its wings outstretched in flight. Still, I can see what he means …”

“The Phoenix? What’s the story?” Alec asked.

“Briefly,” Mr. Volence replied, “the Phoenix was probably the aspect of the sun god and as such was worshiped. According to legend, it lived five hundred years in Arabia. The story goes that when the Phoenix finally felt life ebbing away, it laid an egg in its nest and set fire to it. Thus, it burned to death but out of the ashes a new Phoenix came to life. It represented the resurrection of the dead.”

“Gee, that’s interesting,” Alec said. “But if it is the Phoenix, what do you think it symbolizes to Ibn al Khaldun?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, Alec,” Mr. Volence answered. “Perhaps nothing … maybe just a piece he carries around.”

Henry, who had been listening intently to the conversation, joined in. “It’s a secret order, or somethin’, I’ll bet.” His large hand dropped on Alec’s leg, and he continued. “So far as we know there are two of these things, the one you have and the one around Ibn’s fat neck. Now, if he didn’t try to kill the Black that night, someone else wearing the bird did, which means there’s some sort of an organization or somethin’.”

“Or,” Alec added, “if Ibn al Khaldun did attack the Black he had another medallion.”

“Well,” Mr. Volence said, “it’s something to think about. When we get to Haribwan, maybe Coggins will be able to help.”

It was almost dark when they arrived at Haribwan. As Alec reached up to the rack for his suitcase, he felt a renewed excitement. For Haribwan was really the beginning of their search for the Black. To the north and east was the desert, void of civilization. Haribwan was their last outpost. No longer would they be able to depend upon commercial means of traveling or hotel accommodations, for when they left this small Arabian town they would be on their own.

The other passengers left the train and Henry, Mr. Volence and Alec followed.

Outside, vendors shouted forth their wares to the new arrivals, their voices raised to the highest pitch in competition with the incessant tramp of passers-by and a multitude of donkeys and camels laden with the varied products of the desert and farms. The air was charged with every conceivable odor, and Alec sniffed sensitively.

Mr. Volence spied his friend Coggins. “Bruce!” he shouted. “It’s good to see you.”

A tall man with thinning white hair, wearing large horn-rimmed spectacles, grasped Mr. Volence’s outstretched hand. “Charlie, you old blighter you,” he said enthusiastically, “it’s been a long time.”

Mr. Volence introduced Henry and Alec and then they made their way through the crowd. “Must be over ten years that you’ve lived here, isn’t it, Bruce?” Mr. Volence asked.

“Thirteen or fourteen years, I think it is. You lose track of time here.”

Mr. Volence turned to Henry and Alec. “Coggins, here,” he explained, “was sent by his company to do a temporary job in Haribwan, which was to have lasted a month at the most. He’s been here ever since.”

“I made it a permanent job,” Mr. Coggins explained, smiling. “This place grows on one, you know.”

“It must,” Mr. Volence said. “I recall the letter that you wrote just before you left England on this deal. You weren’t very happy about it. Remember?”

“I most certainly do,” Mr. Coggins said. “But,” and his voice became earnest, “these people, the country … well, it’s difficult to explain how I feel. You’ll find out for yourself, in time. Those who have never been here think of Arabia as a harsh and forbidding land, but it’s really warm and hospitable.”

“It’s warm all right,” Henry muttered, wiping his brow.

Finally they arrived at Mr. Coggins’ car, an early model Ford. “I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you with any better means of traveling. Still, it will get us there.” He patted the hood cherishingly.

“I’m surprised to see you have a car,” Mr. Volence said.

“There are a few of them around. But come, let’s be on our way.”

Mr. Coggins drove the car slowly through the crowded, narrow streets of the town. “Auto traffic is rare here,” he said, “and I always have to be careful. The people really resent motor vehicles, feeling that the donkey, camel and horse are adequate means of transportation. I only use the car on rare occasions such as this.” He was smiling.

Alec kept busy watching the passing scene. He noticed several men in European dress, but the majority were clothed in the white flowing raiment of the desert. “Are there many Europeans here?” he asked.

“No, not many,” Mr. Coggins replied. “The natives call them
Ifranji
, or Frank.”

Alec saw a few women, all veiled, walking along the streets; others peeped through the latticed windows of their homes as the car went by.

Suddenly they came upon a large group of people standing in front of an impressive-looking building of white stone. Mr. Coggins brought the car to a stop. “The evening call to prayer,” he said. “That’s the mosque, the Moslem place of worship. Look up on the tower, the minaret it’s called, and you can see the muezzin, or crier, summoning the Moslems to prayer.”

Alec’s gaze followed Mr. Coggins’ pointed finger. The slender, lofty tower was attached to the mosque and surrounded by a projecting balcony upon which a man in a white robe was standing. Then his voice
descended upon the multitude:
“La ilaha illa-’llah: Muhammadum rasulu-’llah,”
he cried reverently.

“It means ‘No God but Allah: Mohammed is the messenger of Allah,’ ” Mr. Coggins explained. “No sentence is more often repeated in Arabia. These are the first words to strike the ear of the newborn Moslem child, and the last to be uttered at the grave. Five times a day … at dawn, midday, mid-afternoon, sunset, and nightfall … the words are chanted by the muezzin in prayer from the tops of the minarets throughout Arabia.”

The muezzin’s voice prayed on, echoed by the voices of the faithful below. It was an impressive spectacle and the occupants of the car remained silent.

Later, when the prayers had ended, they moved on, and soon arrived at the home of Mr. Coggins. The door to the house opened into a courtyard, and Alec, who had been unimpressed by what he had seen of the house from the street, found himself pleasantly surprised. In the center, among a group of small orange trees, was a large fountain which jetted a veil-like spray of water high in the air. The rooms surrounded the courtyard and above the iron balcony on the second floor was an overhanging cloister which kept the sun’s rays from the rooms.

Mr. Coggins showed them to their rooms and told them dinner would be served as soon as they were ready.

Alec, who had a room all to himself, washed in a large basin. The oil lamp cast eerie flickering shadows on the walls, and his thoughts turned to home. Here he was, almost halfway around the world from his mother
and father. He wondered what they were doing, and how long it would be before he would see them again. True, he was supposed to be back in a few months, but he sensed now more than ever before the hazardous nature of the task that lay ahead. This had all been a dream a few short weeks ago, but now it was very much a reality. Would they be able to get a guide? If so, would they find the home of Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak and the Black?

Alec finished washing and left the room. The sound of voices led him to a large room, in the center of which was a long table laden with an assortment of fruits. Mr. Volence and Henry were talking to their host.

Mr. Coggins smiled at Alec. “Now that we’re all here let’s sit down to dinner. I’m sure you must be very hungry.” He rang a small bell on the table and almost immediately a tall, brown-skinned youth of about Alec’s age entered the room bearing a steaming dish of food. He set the dish down in front of Mr. Coggins and then stepped behind him, his brown, almost liquid eyes burning with curiosity. His gaze swept around the table and finally came to rest on Alec.

“This is Raj, my houseboy,” Mr. Coggins explained, looking up over his shoulder and smiling. “Raj, these are my good friends, Mr. Volence, Mr. Dailey, and Alec Ramsay.”

The Arabian youth bent his erect, big-boned figure from the waist. “How do you do,” he said softly, and each word was pronounced and clipped. “It is indeed very fine to have you with us.” Then he left the room, walking with long and graceful strides.

After Raj had left the room, Mr. Volence said, “He speaks English very well. Has he been with you long, Bruce?”

“Yes, a very long time,” Mr. Coggins replied quietly. “Not long after I arrived here, I was asked by a good friend of mine, a trader, who spent most of his time in the desert, if I would take care of Raj for him while he was away. Raj was about three at the time.… Raj was not his son, although he loved him as one. It seems that on one of his trips across the desert my friend found this baby … alone … on a small oasis. Obviously, he had been left there to die by someone, but fortunately my friend arrived before it was too late. He brought him back to Haribwan.”

“The trader, your friend, does he come back often?” Henry asked.

“No.” Mr. Coggins paused. “He never returned from his last trip … that was at least nine years ago. Part of his caravan returned. They had been attacked by desert raiders, and the few who got back were very fortunate.”

“A very interesting story,” Mr. Volence said. “You have no clues as to the identity of the child?”

“No, nothing. The baby’s clothes were very well woven and of fine quality, indicating that his parents, whoever they might have been, were wealthy.” Mr. Coggins paused while he passed some dried meat to Henry, then continued. “Raj is happy, I’m sure. I’ve tutored him, and he’s been very quick to learn. I’ve told him his story, and knowing there’s no possible way of learning the identity of his parents, he’s content, although
I assume it’s always more or less in the back of his mind.”

Henry, after emptying his glass of fruit juice, asked, “Those desert raiders you spoke about … are they still pretty active?”

“Yes, Henry, and I’m afraid they always will be,” he replied. “Let me tell you a little about them … it’s something you should know.”

Mr. Coggins pushed his plate forward and removed his spectacles. “The original Arabs,” he continued, “were the Bedouins, who refer to themselves as ‘people of the camel.’ Now in the fertile lands to the north, west and south, empires have come and gone, but to the east, in the barren wastes of the Rub‘ al Khali, which you call the Great Central Desert, the Bedouin has remained forever the same. He is no gypsy, roaming aimlessly for the sake of roaming. Wherever he goes, he goes seeking pasture for his sheep- and camel-raising, horse-breeding, hunting … and raiding. Strange as this may sound to you, raiding is one of the few manly occupations accepted by the Bedouins. An early Arabian poet once wrote: ‘Our business is to make raids on the enemy, on our neighbor and on our own brother, in case we find none to raid but a brother!’ ”