Page 42 of Under the Arabian Sky

“Way over there? Yes, I think so.”

“That’s their campfire. You stay here with the Jeep, there’s enough water until I return.”

“I’m not letting you go out there by yourself,” I said firmly. “That campsite is at least an hour’s walk away.”

“Two,” he said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll come back with help.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No offence, Arthur, but you’ll only slow me down. A trek like that will dehydrate you and I’ll end up having to carry you.”

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” I pointed out.

Tariq grinned and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I know you’re not. But this is the desert. It can melt the mightiest of men.” He leaned forward and kissed me, then said, “Please stay. For my sake as well as yours. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Reluctantly I gave him a nod. “If anything happens to you…”

“It won’t. I promise. Now stop worrying and take shelter in the Jeep. The hottest part of the day is upon us.”

Before he left, Tariq divided the water, leaving me with half a bottle while he topped up his canteen. He also took my collapsible tripod and set it up at the crest of the dune, then fetching a spare ghutra from the back of his Jeep, he draped it over the top of the tripod, tying it securely and letting it wave in the breeze like a flag. “So, I can find my way back,” he explained. “I’ll take the theodolite with me. Just keep your eye on the tripod. Don’t let the wind blow it over or I won’t be able to find you amongst all these dunes.”

There was one more thing he took with him: his asthma inhaler. Before setting out he placed it in his mouth and took a deep breath.

“Are you feeling alright?” I asked, growing concerned again.

“I’m just being cautious. I’ll be fine unless that wind really picks up, but I don’t see any trouble on the horizon.”

“By trouble you mean…?”

“A sandstorm. But there was nothing on the forecast and I doubt we’ll get more than a gentle breeze.”

“Are you sure I can’t come with—”

He silenced me with another kiss. “Stop. Worrying.”

Without another word he turned and began his journey across the Sharqiya Sands.

Using the zoom lens on my camera, I stood watching him from beside the tripod at the top of the dune until his figure faded into the ripples of heat that rose up from the earth. When I could no longer see him, I returned to the shade of the Jeep.

There I waited as patiently as I could.

* * *

Tariq was right, this land was truly timeless.

Sitting in the Jeep with the car door open to let in whatever puffs of breeze there were, I began to lose all track of time. All around me there was nothing but light and heat. All sounds had vanished but for the occasional flap of the ghutra atop the tripod as a billow of wind caught it like the sail on a dhow before gently letting it droop once more.

I realised this was the silence that called to Cavendish.

This was the nothingness he heard as he laid down on the sand one last time, tired and alone, and let the desert perform his final disappearing act.

I prayed that Tariq was still on his feet.

Still making progress toward the Bedouin camp.

Still trudging through the sand in search of help.

That was when I heard it— the sound of hooves, followed by a call in Arabic, then the unmistakable sound of Tariq’s voice.

---