Zoraida: A Romance of the Harem and the Great Sahara

A moment later I dashed headlong into the darkness, followed at full speed by half a dozen enraged and howling janissaries who, waving their scimitars, cried: “Kill the slave! Let him not escape! Kill him! Kill him!”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

On the Pinnacle of Al Arâf

It was a mad dash for liberty. Ignorant of where my footsteps would lead me, I sped swiftly onward across a great open space, which I afterwards learnt was called the Katshíu, past the Mesállaje, or Great Mosque, with its high square minaret, and running beside the walls of several spacious whitewashed buildings, evidently the residences of wealthier merchants, I turned the first corner I came to, and, passing a stagnant pool, found myself in a maze of squalid, narrow, ill-built streets, which, though bearing marks of former grandeur, were unpaved and filthy. The houses, mostly of one storey, were mean, flat-roofed, and half in decay, and as I wound my way through the unlighted, crooked thoroughfares, I could still hear the hurrying footsteps and shrill cries of the palace guards, who, eager for revenge, were determined that I should not escape them.

Panting, well knowing that a halt meant death by torture, I ran forward until I found myself in the Erárar-n-Zákan, or Camel Market, a small square with the usual arched arcade running along one side. Then, the angry shouts of the janissaries sounding on my ears, I resolved upon a desperate expedient, namely, to dash along a street which led back in the direction I had come, and so return towards the Mosque. Even in my desperation I was determined to seek the holy man and deliver Zoraida’s letter which for so many months had reposed in the little leathern charm-case suspended round my neck; but as I rushed headlong across a deserted market-place and emerged into an open space, I noticed a youthful Arab horseman mounted and leading a horse saddled but riderless.

My footsteps attracted him, and, having gazed at me for a moment intently, and apparently taking in the situation, he spurred across to cut off my retreat. As he rode down upon me, his flowing white robe looking ghostly in the darkness, my heart sank, for I was thoroughly exhausted and no longer hoped for freedom.

Judge my amazement, however, when, pulling up suddenly close to me, he exclaimed —

“Peace! Mount yonder steed quickly, and let us away! Dáchchân!”

The word gave me courage. It had been uttered by the mysterious man who at the cost of his own life had accomplished my deliverance! The fierce, brutal guards, accompanied by a number of Arabs who considered it sport to hunt a slave, were still in full cry after me. Already they had gained the Katánga, therefore, without losing a moment, I rushed towards the horse, swung myself into the saddle, and sped away like the wind, my rescuer leading.

Shots sounded in rapid succession, but we remained unharmed, and with loud, angry curses sounding in the distance, we rode speedily forward, to where there was a breach in the city walls, and then away through the fertile oasis. As in silence we pressed onward at a wild, mad gallop, I was filled with admiration at the magnificent manner in which my companion sat his horse. He seemed merely a youth, for he was not tall, and his haick, well drawn over his face, half concealed his features, yet he rode at a pace that was killing, regardless of obstacles or the uneven nature of the ground.

“For me this day hath indeed been one full of events,” I managed to gasp at length, when, in ascending the rising ground, our horses slackened.

“And for me also,” he replied, without glancing towards me. “How sad it is that the daring Hámma, hero of a hundred fights, should have fallen in his valiant attempt to rescue thee!”

“Yes,” I answered. “He fought bravely, indeed. But how didst thou know of his death?”

“I was awaiting thee outside the mosque opposite the Fáda gate, with a horse for Hámma and thyself,” he answered. “I saw him fall, and then I witnessed thy flight. I could not reach thee in time, but by the shouts of the janissaries I knew the direction thou hadst taken, and posted myself in readiness. Praise be unto Allah that thou hast escaped those fiendish brutes!”

“But it is all a mystery,” I said. “Tell me who plotted my deliverance; why should it be attempted by an outlaw?”

“I know nothing,” he replied, “save that it was imperative that thy life should be saved.”

“Why?”

“Because thou art the Amîn, and the Well-Beloved.”

“What dost thou know of me?” I asked, in surprise. “Nothing, beyond the fact that thou, who hast undertaken a secret mission, fell into the hands of the slave-raiders and became a prisoner in the inner court of the Fáda.”

“Then thou art aware of my mission?”

“I am aware that thou art a Roumi from across the sea.”

“Knowest thou Hadj Mohammed ben Ishak, the imam of the Mesállaje?” I asked.

“Yes, I knew him. He was a man pious and full of learning.”

“What! hath the Avenger claimed him?”

“No. He hath gone on a journey.”

“On a journey?” I cried in dismay. “When will he return?”

“I know not.”

We had reached the brow of the hill, and our horses started off again at the same terrific pace as before. Noticing our saddle-bags were packed as if for travel, I inquired where we were going, but the only answer vouchsafed was —

“Trust thyself unto me.”

For another hour we rode onward through a great grove of date palms, until at last we plunged into a dense tropical forest, along what appeared to be a secret, unfrequented path. Presently, however, my guide suggested that we should rest until sunrise, and, dismounting, we unsaddled our horses, and, throwing ourselves down with our heads upon our saddle-bags, slept soundly.

It was bright daylight when, on opening my eyes, I made an amazing discovery. The sex of my companion had changed! My guide to whom I owed my freedom was not a youth, as I had believed, but a young and pretty Arab woman, whose bright-hued silk garments had been concealed by a man’s burnouse, while on her head she had worn the fez and haick instead of the dainty embroidered cap and sequins which she had now resumed.

“Thou art astonished at my transformation,” she laughed roguishly, standing before me with her pretty face unveiled. “Man’s attire doth not suit me in the light of day.”

“Why hast thou practised such deception upon me?” I asked, amazed.

“Because it was necessary. It was arranged that I should merely hold the horses in readiness, but when thou alone escaped, it became imperative that I should act as thy servant and guide.”

“I owe thee a great debt indeed,” I said. “Tell me thy name.”

“My name and tribe are of no consequence,” she answered. “An explanation will be given thee some day; at present I am bound to secrecy.”

“Even though thou art of the sect of the Aïssáwà and of the tribe of the Ennitra – eh?” I asked.

“How didst thou know?” she asked, startled. But I refused to satisfy her curiosity, although, truth to tell, I had noticed neatly tattooed upon her forehead a serpent, the symbol of the more fanatical of the followers of Sidi ben Aïssa, and upon her wrist was a curiously-wrought Kabyle bracelet of white metal, similar in form to one Zoraida had worn. The presence of this woman so far south puzzled me greatly, and I sat silent and thoughtful while she produced from her saddle-bag some dates, with a little skinful of water in which úzak seeds had been dipped, and which I found a cooling and refreshing drink.

When we had eaten, she twisted her haick around her head, leaving just a slit for her eyes, then she sprang lightly into her saddle and we moved on again. Our way lay through a great thicket, where the mimosas and abísga attained such an exuberance as I had never before seen in the Sahara, and being closely interwoven by “gráffeni,” or climbing plants, were almost impenetrable.

As we rode along the secret path, I endeavoured to persuade her to tell me of Zoraida, but her lips were closely sealed. She admitted that she had heard of the Daughter of the Sun, but with artful ingenuousness declared that she had never seen her.

“I have heard that she died in Algiers somewhat mysteriously,” I said, watching her dark eyes narrowly.

“Yes,” she exclaimed, quite calmly. “I have heard a similar report, and it is a curious circumstance that none have seen her since she went to El Djezaïr.”

“She could foretell coming events and divine the thoughts of those with whom she came into contact,” I observed.

“True, O Roumi. Whenever she accompanied our people into battle, they returned with much spoil and many slaves. Her love was a fierce, unbridled passion, and her hatred bitter and lifelong.”

“And the Sheikh, Hadj Absalam, what of him?”

“I know not. I am merely thy servant and thy guide. Ask me not things of which I have no knowledge;” and with this rebuff she commenced chattering and laughing gaily, leading the way through the dense forest in the depths of which it would have been easy enough to lose one’s self and perish. That she had before traversed the secret route was apparent, and her anxiety to push onward showed her impatience to bring our journey to a conclusion. Any little gallantry I offered when she found herself in difficulty owing to her dress catching in the twigs was accepted with dignity and murmured thanks, but regarding our ultimate destination she refused to utter a single word, beyond stating that for three days longer we should be travelling companions, and vaguely hinting that the journey might prove beneficial to my interests.

Riding at slow pace behind her through the tangled tropical vegetation, where flowers grew in wild, luxuriant profusion, and monkeys, alarmed at our appearance, swang from tree to tree, I reflected how utterly fruitless my journey over the Great Desert had proved. The mysterious conspiracy of silence regarding Zoraida into which everyone seemed to have entered appeared directed against myself, for with the exception of what she had told me with her own lips, I knew absolutely nothing of her. The mystic rites practised in the secret chamber, the discovery of the Crescent of Glorious Wonders, and the unknown object of my mission to Agadez, were all enigmas so puzzling as to drive me to the verge of madness. Although a strenuous, desperate effort had been made to release me from the Sultan’s palace, nevertheless every precaution had apparently been taken in order that I should obtain no knowledge of Zoraida’s past, of her present whereabouts, or even whether she still lived.

For a brief rest we halted about noon, ate our scanty meal which my pretty guide prepared, and then, declaring that she was not fatigued, we moved on again, still through the great forest unknown to geographers that seemed appallingly weird and impenetrable. I had no idea that the Oasis of the Ahír comprised such an extensive tract of wooded land. From the sun it appeared as though we were travelling in a north-westerly direction. The path wound and turned in a manner that would have been puzzling and amazing to the stranger, and at times it was lost sight of altogether, as if to prevent those who discovered it accidentally from following it up.

The afternoon passed, and the mellowing rays of sunlight glinting through the trees tinted the long tresses of my fair companion, who, having now removed her haick, laughed and talked gaily, telling me of her exciting adventures as the child of a thieving band. Though she would not utter Zoraida’s name, she told me many curious things. She had, it appeared, been in the camp of the Ennitra when, after the successful attack on the caravan of Ali Ben Hafiz, I had been brought in and sentenced to be tortured with the asp, and she told me how, after I had escaped, Hadj Absalam had sworn vengeance and sent a force after me. This force it was who subsequently attacked the Spahis and was slaughtered by them.

“And why art thou here, so far from thy mountain home?” I asked presently, determined if possible to elucidate some of the tantalising mystery which seemed ever increasing.

“I travelled alone to Agadez to arrange with Hámma to effect thy liberty,” she answered. “Allah, the One Gracious and Merciful, hath preserved thee, while he who dared to enter the Fáda fell under the janissaries’ swords.”

“Allah grant his soul peace!” I said, adding fervently, “I am truly thankful to thee. Thou art indeed brave to risk so much, to accomplish this lonely journey, and to trust thyself upon this lonely path.”

“A woman of the Ennitra knoweth not fear,” she answered proudly. Then, with a calm, serious look, she added, “I am the servant of one who could not travel here in person. Allah directeth whom He pleaseth and casteth the unbeliever into the torments of hell. To-day thou standest upon the pinnacle of Al Arâf, the partition which divideth everlasting joy from eternal sorrow. Already the test hath been applied to thee, and it hath been proved that thou art the Amîn – the Well-Beloved.”

“Thou knowest the ordeal through which I am passing with feet treading the unknown paths of ignorance where the light of truth shineth not. Canst thou not give me one word of hope as to the successful accomplishment of the mission that hath been entrusted to me?” I asked, rather surprised at her enigmatical speech.

“I give thee no empty word of confidence. Thine own courage and stout heart in this strange land wherein thou art wandering will, in itself, prove a test the severity of which will not be forgotten. Peace be upon us, and upon all righteous servants of Allah!”

With this last sentiment I expressed devout concurrence, and under the foliage reddened by the crimson afterglow we wended our way onward until we came to a small rivulet, where we halted, watered our horses, and prepared our food. Then, when it had grown dark, my fair guide, wrapping herself in the burnouse she had worn when I first met her, lay down to rest, arranging herself in a manner which showed her to be a true Bedouin to whom sleeping under the starlit canopy of heaven was no fresh experience.

Next day and the day following went by in a similar manner, with the exception that, having passed through the forest, we found ourselves on the edge of the oasis, and with our horses well pleased at the freedom, we galloped out straight as an arrow into the wild, inhospitable wilderness, which stretched away as far as the eye could discern, a great arid, barren plain. She sat her horse splendidly, as side by side we rode onward hour after hour, stopping now and then to drink from our water-skins, yet not once did she complain of the terrible burning heat or fatigue. On the contrary, there was always in her dark sparkling eyes a roguishness that is the peculiar charm of all Oriental women, and she entertained me with many stories of the valour and chivalry of her tribesmen. That night we encamped in the desert, and at dawn on the third day moved onward again towards our unknown goal.

An hour before sundown she suddenly drew rein, and, shading her eyes with her little sun-tanned hand, cried —

“Behold! They are within sight!”

Straining my aching eyes in the direction indicated, I saw in the far distance a small speck against the horizon, which proved, on our approach, to be a clump of palms, and almost as soon as I had been able to make them out, I noticed that we had been observed, and that a Bedouin horseman in white burnouse was spurring out towards us.

In half an hour we met. As he came nearer, there appeared something about him that seemed to me familiar, and when at last he galloped up, amid the jingling of his horse’s trappings, holding his rifle high above his head, I recognised his dark evil face.

It was the rascally caitiff Labakan, who had followed me so suspiciously from Algiers, and against whom the dispatch-bearer Gajére had forewarned me! The man who gave me greeting was the sinister, villainous-looking outlaw who had stolen the cut-off hand!

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Labakan

Misgivings were aroused within me by the discovery, but, concealing them, I gave him “peace,” as in flowery language and with many references to Allah’s might, he bade me welcome to their shade. Scarcely deigning to notice the brave girl who had secured my liberty and acted as my guide, he wheeled round and rode beside me, expressing hope that I had in no way suffered from my detention within the Fáda of Agadez, and uttering profuse greetings with every breath.

To these I remained somewhat indifferent. I was wondering what fate was about to overtake me, and whether, after all, I had not been ingeniously betrayed into the hands of my enemies. This dark-visaged brigand who had followed me nearly two thousand miles had evidently done so with evil purpose. His words of well-feigned welcome and apparent delight at my arrival at that lonely spot were the reverse of reassuring, and, for aught I knew, I was about to fall into some cunningly-devised trap. The reason of this strange vengeance which he apparently desired to wreak upon me remained a hidden and mystifying enigma. To my knowledge, I had never harmed him, and, indeed, previous to our meeting in the kahoua in Algiers, I had never before set eyes upon him. Yet, with the fire of a terrible hatred burning within his heart, he had tracked me with the pertinacity of a bloodhound over the Great Sahara, through the many vicissitudes that had befallen me, and at last, by his clever machinations, I was now actually being led irresistibly to my fate!

At first the thought flashed across my mind that the woman whom the outlaw addressed as Yamina had brought me there, well knowing the reason this villain desired my release. Why had she observed that I was standing insecurely upon Al Arâf, between paradise and torment? Did not that imply that there was a vile plot against my life? Heedless of the outlaw’s well-turned Arabic sentences, I pondered, half inclined to condemn her. Yet no, I could not. She had, I felt sure, rescued me without dreaming that I should fall a victim under the knife of a secret assassin, and as she rode along in silence, unveiled, and looking a trifle pale and jaded, I was compelled to admit that to secure my release she had placed her own life in serious jeopardy.

At length we galloped into the small palm-grove that surrounded a well where camels and horses were resting, and a sharp turn brought us upon a small encampment. I half expected to fall into an ambush, and my hand instinctively sought the hilt of the dagger that had done me such good service at the Fáda gate, but when the shouts of the assembled men, all of them fierce-looking, well armed, and carrying daggers and powder-horns, gave me hearty welcome, I became reassured, dismounting, and following my enemy to the principal tent, before which a morose old Arab sat smoking his long pipe. He was very old, with a dark face thin and wizened, yet age had not dimmed the pair of keen, searching eyes he fixed upon me.

“Behold! the stranger!” exclaimed Labakan, as we advanced.

“Roumi from afar, thou art welcome to our encampment,” the old man exclaimed solemnly, removing his pipe and waving his brown, bony hand.

“Blessings on thy beard!” I answered, when I had given him peace. “As a stranger in this thy land, I appreciate thine hospitality, even though I know not the name of my host.”

“Thou art weary, thou hast journeyed long through the forest and over the plain, and thou requirest rest,” he went on, motioning me to the mat spread beside him, and ordering a slave to bring me food and water. I was in the camp of my enemies, which accounted for his disinclination to tell me who he was. Besides, I heard conversations being carried on in tamahaq, the dialect of the Touaregs, in order, apparently, that I might not understand. Whatever the object for which I had been conducted to that lonely spot, the chief of the encampment treated me as his honoured guest, and gave me to eat the best fare his people could provide. Such conduct was exceedingly puzzling, and, after I had eaten the kousskouss and chick peas, and accepted the pipe he offered, I suddenly asked —

“What have I done that I should merit this thy friendship?”

“Are we not commanded to succour our friend’s friend?” he answered. “Thou owest me no debt of gratitude, for it was Labakan yonder who arranged thine escape from the Fáda;” and, raising his hand, he indicated the outlaw of the Ennitra who had stolen the severed hand, and who was now smoking a cigarette, and lounging lazily with another man as repulsive-looking as himself at a little distance from us.

I was silent. Was it not at least remarkable that the man who had offered Gajére gold to assist in my murder, should now exert himself so strenuously on my behalf? Expectation fettered me.

“Fidelity towards a friend, magnanimity towards an enemy, are the pride of my people,” the old man continued. Then, turning towards me, he added, “Thy brow beareth traces of a poignant grief. Perhaps we may be able to calm thy sorrow, for we would most willingly help a brother, though he be of different creed.”

His words struck me as ominous. Was he joking grimly, meaning that my sorrow would be “calmed” in death?

Nevertheless I replied to his confidential address: “I feel much relieved by thy words, O friend, for in thine eyes there lurketh no treachery. True, I have passed through many terrible days since last I trod mine own far-distant land; yet I have no sorrow, only the regret of what might have been which is common alike to True Believer and to Roumi.”

“Why dost thou journey in this the land of thine enemies?” asked the strange old man, calmly puffing at his pipe.

“I have a secret object,” I replied, still keeping my eyes upon the hulking lounger who remained in conversation with one of the armed band, now and then casting furtive glances towards me. “I am seeking a phantom fortune.”

“Ah! thou art young. Thou hast the careless indifference that youth giveth, and art no doubt prepared to meet Eblis himself if he promiseth an adventure. Yet, alas! the mark upon thy brow telleth me that the canker-worm of love eateth away thine heart. Fair tresses oft ensnare a man, and cause him to seek Sindbad’s diamond valley, of which the story-teller singeth.”

Evidently he was aware of my mission to that distant region!

“When one is wounded by the keen shafts of a woman’s eyes, there is no peace,” I said, impressed by my venerable companion’s seriousness. “True love createth a mad fascination, a partial insanity that refuseth to be calmed.”

“And so it is in thy case, I wager,” he observed. “From thy mouth fall pearls of wisdom. Yet to-day, how little of genuine love is there among thy people, the Roumis! Have I not witnessed it among the Franks of El Djezaïr! Fascination is a gift of Allah; it hath no limits of age or condition. It is as indescribable as the steam that propelleth thy caravans of iron, or the invisible power that carrieth thy commands along wires of great length; therefore, it is not possible to simulate it. Yet what a tendency there existeth among thy people from over seas to coquette with love! We True Believers when in El Djezaïr, gaze upon the white uncovered faces of thy women in the streets, in the gardens, in the cafés, everywhere, and watch them in amazement. In the people of Al-Islâm, as in the Infidels, the heart is the same; but it seemeth to us that thy women, foolish and vain, know not true affection, and live only to attract men by feigning an imitation of love that is ridiculous. It astoundeth us.”

“Thou speakest of what we term flirts,” I said, surprised that he should have observed so keenly the manners of European society as portrayed at Algiers. “It is true that fashion hath taken a wrong turn. Tragic, romantic, frivolous, and heroic love-affairs will succeed each other, for the heart of a woman beateth alike under the gauzes of Al-Islâm and the tightly-laced corsets of Christianity, and the pulses of the Bedouins of the Desert and the idler of the Franks are alike moved by a pretty face; but, as thou rightly sayest, the fashion of flirtation only leadeth to factious disturbances, misery, and ruin.”

“Thy criticism is just, O Roumi! Truth never loseth its rights, though falsehood may have a long day. Thy women, who affect love in order to be considered fascinating, are the falsehoods of thy society, veritable houris from Hâwiyat. A woman who loveth deeply, passionately, really, though wrongly, may have our pity, compassion, sympathy, but she who simulateth a passion for vanity’s sake hath neither. We of Al-Islâm feel a pity for the heart that breaketh beneath a smile; we honour a hidden sorrow; but for the trifling, idle, gay, and foolish married woman of thy people, who with uncovered face seeketh to fascinate the men who move about her, we entertain no such feelings. She feigneth love for them, entranceth them, and then – may Allah confound her! – she mocketh them. Such is one of the developments of thy so-called Christian civilisation!”