Page 32 of Under the Arabian Sky

Tariq pulled the bucket up by its rope. “There’s a natural spring down there. That’s why this fort was constructed. It was built by the Portuguese before they were expelled by the Ya’rubid dynasty in the sixteen hundreds.”

“There’s a spring down there?”

“There are many springs throughout the Omani deserts,” he replied, taking the bucket to the camels who both tried to dunk their head into the water first. “I must take you to see my favourite wadi. Most people visit Wadi Shab when they come to Oman, but I know a secret place that’s one of the most beautiful natural wonders you’ll ever visit.”

“What exactly is a wadi?”

“It’s a ravine or gorge with water running through it. Trust me, you’ll love it. It’s on the way out to Sharqiya Sands. I’ll take you there, perhaps tomorrow?”

“I’d love to. But I really should start focusing on my work tomorrow.”

“If you want to study the desert, Sharqiya Sands is the place to do it. We had best remember your camera for that trip.”

Once the camels had had their fill of water, I helped Tariq replace the plate over the well and I expected us to be on our way.

But instead of preparing to leave, he reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a small rolled-up mat. “Arthur, would you please excuse me for a moment.”

With that, he left the courtyard.

I followed him to the archway through which we’d entered, and from the shade I watched him step out onto the sand and unfurl his mat, pointing it due west.

Solemnly he knelt on the mat and bowed his head to the earth.

I stepped back into the courtyard, not wanting to spy on him, not meaning to pry.

In the quiet of the courtyard, the soft, melodic chant of Tariq’s prayers began to fill the air, floating on the desert breeze that drifted through the archway.

The sound… that place… the sight of the sun piercing through the cracked mud walls of the fort and the earthy scent of the hessian saddle blankets and the sound of Tariq’s voice in worship… that moment was so moving, so entrancing, so ethereal, I knew it would be burned on my memory forever.

I closed my eyes and let the song of a prayer I did not understand caress me, calm me, wash me clean.

When Tariq was done, I felt a strange sense of sorrow.

I didn’t want the prayer to end.

But we had a task to complete, and so I tucked that perfect rift in time away inside my heart, trying not to look giddy or gushing when Tariq stepped back into the courtyard.

“Thank you. Are you ready to continue?”

All I could do was nod.

* * *

As we crossed the arid landscape, Tariq’s prayer echoed on and on in my mind.

For some reason, it conjured up thoughts of Cavendish. Part of me couldn’t help but wonder if my colleague was still out here somewhere, stumbling over the dunes in search of water. I wondered if he’d known about the well at the fort. I wondered if we might reach the crest of a dune and see him crawling, dying, begging for help on the other side.

But deep down I knew these were silly ponderings.

I knew by now the sand had consumed him, and if not the sand, then the lizards and the birds of prey would have picked his bones clean.

I knew that Zahra was right when she said the desert could be unforgiving.

The sun had become even more fierce, and I was grateful for the protection that the kandura and ghutra provided. I understood their benefit now, but I was soon to learn that the traditional attire had more than one purpose.

For another hour we rode, then up ahead, through the ripples of heat rising up from the sand, I saw a modest mud-brick dwelling with a small gated area containing a dozen or so goats.

The camels made their slow and steady way toward the small farm.

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