pails fastened one behind the other on an iron chain reached the top,
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tipped over and emptied its contents into a channel which led to the
cisterns, then collapsed and dived below again.
I stopped and watched. In the narrow shade of the clay wall an
overseer stood with a braided leather whip in his hand. Three other
slaves crouched on the floor near him and were allowed to rest until it
was their turn on the wheel. They looked me over with dull glances,
but no one spoke. Only the creaking of the wooden wheel, the
gasping of the climbing men and the splashing and falling of the
water were to be heard. Suddenly the silence of the courtyard was
interrupted by the brief cry of a woman which came from one of the
upper windows of the palace. A second louder cry was followed by a
third and a fourth, becoming a swelling rhythmic series of cries.
Breathless cries and at the same time deep throaty groans. Then
something strange occurred which was incomprehensible to me. One
of the slaves who was brooding dully in the shadows had stood up, a
muscular stooped man with dark hair and an unshaved face, had
clenched both his hands into fists and held up his arms as though he
were carrying a burden and jerked his hips back and forth in rhythm
with the cries. With his eyes closed and biting his lower lip, he
emitted a deep short grunt with each jerk while his loin cloth
bulged. The whip came down with a slap on his naked shoulders,
but it was a negligent, almost good-natured, blow and the man didn’t
seem to feel it at all. At that moment the cries broke off with a sharp
high note and the slave stopped his movements as though he had
been paralysed. His face had an expression I could not interpret,
pained and yet happy.
The overseer bared gap teeth under his moustache and laughed and
the two slaves crouching in the shadows joined unwillingly in his
laughter. However, the others on the wheel kept climbing in dull
preoccupied haste like a pack of confused apes in flight.
I smiled uncomfortably at the overseer for I could not guess the
reason for his amusement. I quickly turned away and went further
into the palace garden, past the pond and the splashing fountains
emerging from the nostrils of the mighty stone hippopotamus which,
half concealed by water lilies, raised its head above the water and
stared at me with its blind little stone eyes.
I saw the deaf and dumb youth sitting on a stone bench under a
pomegranate tree. For a moment I didn’t know what to do. Was it a
dream I had had in the night? Had the moonlight played a trick on me?
Or did he really walk like a ghost through the corridors of the palace at night in order to give his mute inner world expression by dancing?
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I sat down on the bench and laid the palm of my hand on the cool
stone. The youth moved his mouth as if he wanted to say something
to me, but he was only able to grunt. He raised his hands and grasped
at his mouth as if to pluck the words he couldn’t express forcibly from
his lips. In his agony of wanting to say something, he rolled his eyes
back so that only the whites could be seen. I was still sure he was
trying to say something to me. However, it became clear that he was
having a fit. He bent backwards and thrust his bald head backwards
and forwards as if he wanted to break through some barrier. Then he
lay thrashing about inclined over the bench, while in the corner of his
crying wordless mouth foam gathered. I held him tight in fear of his
falling off the bench. I fought with him finally covering his delicate
body with mine. It had suddenly developed unbelievable power. I
looked around desperately for help as I could no longer control him. I
wanted to call the men at the well to get their help in my desperate
struggle with the dark power that had taken over his body in broad
daylight and was throwing it back and forth like a rag doll until I was
completely out of breath.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps on the gravel path. I saw two small
white hands cradling the head of the youth, stroking his temples and
ears. It was as if they had worked a magic spell. The dark power left his body immediately, wiping away the stiffness of his limbs. Then to my
complete bewilderment I realized that the body I was holding was that
of a young girl. Directly before me, I saw the spotty bald head of the
singer, the dreadful watery wound. I had to grit my teeth to keep from
groaning but as I turned my head to release myself from the horror, I
was looking into the still more fearful eye of a peacock—a great
ringlike grey-rayed pool of protein behind which there was nothing.
An attentive, absolutely expressionless peephole into a small stupid
world governed by reflexes. Then, with a jerk of its head, the bird
moved away and let me see the senseless magnificence of its plumage.
Slowly, ashamed, I removed my hands from the body of the girl and
sat up. The singer—he seemed surprisingly tall as he stood before
me—smiled at me apologetically.
‘I thank you. She could have hurt herself’, he said while helping
her up. ‘It overcomes her sometimes. I have told her time and again
that she must not go into the sun.’
‘But she was sitting in the shade!’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That is our heritage’, he said. ‘The
heritage of the great civilization. Thus perishes mankind too by his
own hand, himself Eternity to deny.’ He smiled.
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The girl looked at me enigmatically with her bright eyes. I would
have given anything to be able to make myself understood. If only I
could have asked her something and if only she could have answered.
But it was like talking to a star. It gives no answer but light.
‘What is her name?’
‘Simone.’
‘A strange name.’
‘So?’ He took her in his arms. ‘She cannot betray me. She can’t
even hear the cock crow.’
I didn’t understand what he meant. When we left the palace
garden, the overseer and his slaves had disappeared. The worn
treads of the wooden wheel glittered in the sun. Water ran from
the overflow of the filled cisterns and dripped onto the stone
pavement. The black leather pails hung on the chain, full-bellied on
the one side, loose and collapsed on the other.
A woman stood at one of the upper windows and looked down. I
saw her mouth for a moment before she closed her veil. She
smiled.
Extracts from the Journal of Master Jack
May 25th, 2036
We have been living in the palace of the king for two weeks now. He has asked to see me many times and I have had the opportunity of talking in detail with him. I would say he’s in his mid-forties with a rare mixture of charisma, intelligence and foolhardiness. The condottieri are said to have been that way.
He says he is descended from the caliphs and as far back as the prophets.
However, it would not surprise me if the caliphs were called Stravros, Kostas, Spiros or something similar and if the p
rophet was called Pythagoras and
owned bars in Beirut and Alexandria. He is the born adventurer and knows
how to get along with the right people.
He also owns the most important scrap metal collection in the world. Both tanks before the gate of the palace are supposed to have been driven by
Qadhafi himself when he took over Chad. He organized expeditions into the bombed and radioactively contaminated former oil wells in Libya. He says he brought back rich plunder from the dead cities of the Mediterranean, but they are mostly useless technical things that can never ever be put to use again: such as telephone installations and a complete air traffic control tower.
However, he has the most important timepiece collection in the world. He is absolutely mad about time-measuring devices. He has all conceivable shapes and constructions—a collection spanning five centuries.
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I told him about my expedition and our belief that somewhere in the Near
East space activities were taking place which we could not identify. He thinks it is possible that creatures from outer space have landed on earth. ‘It would be a wonder if we hadn’t aroused any interest after the fireworks we set off here on earth!’, he said. He insists on giving us a troop of soldiers to
accompany us on our journey to the ‘edge of the world’ as he also calls it.
In return for this favour, we should bring him one of the ‘flying ships’ home if we can find one.
He gave me the journal of his architect to read as a present. The one who built the palace. His name was Henri Fleurel. He died two years ago. It is written in French. I shall read it on our way through Kordofan.
The Edge of the World
In the morning, we visited Hazaz. His arm has been cut off. The
emptiness under the sheet was horrible. I had so often admired that
strong arm when he used the awl, saddled the camels, or, with the
same strong hand, forced them to kneel—simply gone. I couldn’t look
and yet, as if paralysed, I stared at the empty space where his arm
ought to have been. The doctor said that gangrene had set in too deep.
The bone had been damaged and had splintered. There was a funny
sound in my ears and I felt as if I were going to lose consciousness. I
ran out of the door and stood at a window on the other side of the
corridor breathing heavily. Hazaz is sleeping, he knows nothing of his
misfortune. Why was I not able to slay those jackasses that morning?
I pray that Hazaz shall live. It is said that Allah’s grace is boundless.
All I ask of him is just a small corner, just enough to cover what is left of Hazaz.
Master Jack took me aside today and said that in a short time he
must leave in order to reach the Nile at high water. It is for me to
decide whether I shall continue with him. The journey will now be
dangerous as we will be entering the last regions of the inhabitable
world and now, more than ever, we shall meet up with contaminated
animals and beasts with bodies of men.
‘All pilgrims take on this danger’, I replied. ‘They do it for God!’
‘But that is the difference’, he said. ‘They are religious fanatics.
They are looking for danger in order to prove that God is with them.
They are possessed.’
‘And what do you want to prove, Master Jack?’, I asked him.
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He hesitated. Then he laughed and said, ‘You’re a smart boy,
Beschir. Yes, I am possessed. I want to find out what is stationed in
the northeast, who has set up a space centre there and why they are
stubbornly ignoring the signals of our orbital tracking system, two
stations of which are still working.’
‘What is an orbal tracking system?’
‘Orbital. The paths of the stars around the world can be controlled
by it. We are a sort of caravan guide of the heavens.’
‘All the stars?’
‘What. . .? No, naturally only the artificial ones. The satellites of the earth. There are a lot of them up there and many are going to be
giving out data for centuries, data that no one is capable of evaluating
any more.’
‘And what about Hazaz?’, I asked after a while.
‘I would have liked you to have stayed here with him to be at his
side when he gets better. You could have joined a caravan on its way
west and returned home. But Hazaz’s condition is still very critical.’
He stroked his hand over his sunburnt face and through his long dark
hair. He didn’t like the thought of leaving Hazaz behind. ‘On the
other hand. . .’, he looked at me pleadingly with his bright-coloured
eyes as if asking me to forgive him. My shyness made me avoid his
glance. ‘Should the worst happen, you would then be alone here. The
loose morals being what they are in this palace, I would fear for your
life. Lecherous bastards are always on the lookout for stray young
boys to train as male concubines for themselves or to sell as eunuchs
into slavery.’
I remembered with horror my encounter on the staircase, that
encounter about which I had never uttered a word. ‘I’ve decided. I’m
riding with you, Master Jack!’, I replied with resolution.
Everything had been packed. The Ghararas, light bags made of
strong camel-hair yarn that the king had just given us as a present,
were ready to be loaded. Just before leaving, we visited Hazaz. He was
in good health and waved to us with the stump of his arm.
‘Wait two or three days’, he pleaded. ‘And then I’ll be able to ride
of surviving only if his wound did not become gangrenous. There
were hardly any medical supplies left and, if any were found, they
had usually been spoiled by the heat.
We wished Hazaz luck and Allah’s protection.
‘I shall look for work and wait for you’, he said. ‘Until next spring if
necessary!’
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The doctor charged us three camels. I went to get them and brought
them to him. I have not seen Simone, the young girl of the singer,
again, although I have looked for her everywhere.
Extracts from the Journal of Master Jack
June 5th, 2036
It was with great regret that we left Hazaz behind at the palace. We are now on our way east at last. We could have joined a caravan, also on its way to El Obeid, with more than 200 camels, but it’s moving too slowly for my liking.
Even if we cut down our rests to a bare minimum, we have a stretch of 40 to 45 days journey before us. It’s almost 1000 miles to Omdurman. Should it be necessary to penetrate even further north and make our way down the Nile, it will only be possible to get over the rapids during high water, especially over the first and second rapids near Wadi Halfa and Aswan as nothing is known about the state of things there since the dam disappeared.
We are making good progress on our way to the east. Our four escorts are
adept hunters. We eat meat almost every day. They are unruly but apparently reliable boys. It would be nice if I could convince them to escort us further than Omdurman, but they have their orders.
The king’s four escorts have set a pace that puts a great strain on our
animals, but Master Jack seems to be pleased. He is so restless.
Yesterday, Alkuttabu, the best hunter of our escorts, shot a gazel
le
at a distance of 250 feet with his rifle. Today, we found a dead desert
fox. Its hide was rotten.
‘Don’t touch it!’, Alkuttabu warned me. He heaped dry wood over
the body of the dead fox and lit it. The smell was horrible. We rode on.
‘Half a century ago’, Alkuttabu said, ‘there were more than a
thousand lions here in Kordofan. I know, as this was my homeland.’
He has the jet black skin of the Nuba and he is even taller than Hazaz.
‘You’ll hardly find one today. They prey on the weaklings of the herd
and they are usually ill. That kills them, you know?’ He likes to
repeat, ‘You know’. Each time he juts his massive black chin in my
direction.
‘Are you afraid of lions?’, I want to know. He smiles. He has large
white buck teeth with gaps between them.
‘Yes, but only dead ones’, he says laughing a high giggling laugh
that one wouldn’t expect from a man of his size and clicks his tongue
delightedly.
He often looks to the southeast in the direction of the Nuba
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mountains, his homeland. If the wind comes from the south, the
Samun as they call it, the one with the touch of poison, then he and
his companions tighten their mouth scarves and a look of great
discomfort comes over them.
To the south we occasionally saw the white haze of the swamp area
of Bahr El Arab on the horizon. Now, a fire has been raging there for
the past few days and the air is thick with flying ashes and the smell of burning wood.
‘The shepherds have set fire to the bulrushes in order to smoke out
the breeding places of the birds’, Alkuttabu explains. ‘But every
winter migratory birds bring the plague into the country and
thousands of cattle die.’
The farther we get to the east, the more particular our hunters
become with their quarry. First the animal is checked for any outer
deformations, then it is torn apart and the inner organs are carefully
examined for any inflammation or tumours. Sometimes a look at
the mouth and eyes is enough and the slain animal is then covered
with stones or burned. The hunters won’t let any vultures nearer
than 50 feet, for now we meet with dying and bedraggled birds at
every step. At the moment, there is enough healthy quarry, but the