Page 8 of Under the Arabian Sky

“Arthur.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Sir Arthur.”

“I didn’t mean… never mind… Why is it not possible?”

“Because I was Professor Cavendish’s assistant, not yours. I’ll show you to his office, but after that I’m afraid it’s time for me to start a new chapter in my life.”

Panic suddenly set in. “But you can’t go. I have no idea how to survive in Oman.”

“It’s not the jungle, sir. It’s not something you need to ‘survive’.”

“That’s easy coming from you, you live here. I need help. I need a guide. I don’t even speak the language. How do I even say ‘hello’?”

“How long was your passage here? You didn’t think to learn a little Arabic on the boat?”

He had a point.

I shut my mouth, embarrassed.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it all out,” he said. “Perhaps you can advertise for a new assistant.”

“I don’t need a new one. I need you.”

“As I said before, I’m afraid that’s not possible. I was only ever his. I was always his.”

That’s when I heard it. Over the clatter of the gears and the chug of the motor, I picked up a distinct sadness in Akbar’s voice; a sense of grief that would never fully heal.

I decided to stop begging him to stay.

This was clearly a man who had made up his mind.

A man whose only option was to turn his back and walk away.

Perhaps that’s exactly what Cavendish thought too.

* * *

Bright little particles of dust drifted peacefully on the hot, still air until Akbar turned on the ceiling fan, scattering the dust like frightened fairies. With a tick-tick-tick the fan picked up speed, desperately trying to cool the tiny room that Cavendish had called an office.

The cluttered and bowing shelves were filled with frayed old reference books, some of which looked as though they themselves had been dug up in the desert. There were maps and charts of the region pinned to the walls, while small sample pots of sand and rocks seemed to fill every little gap between the books and maps. Beneath an open window that overlooked the low flat rooftops of Muscat was a wooden desk covered in pens and notes and diagrams and countless photos of sand dunes and rocky desert outcrops. The corners of the papers and pictures lifted in the airflow from the fan above, as though they were trying with all their might to lift off the desk and take flight through the dusty window.

Perhaps they wanted to follow Cavendish.

Perhaps they missed him as much as Akbar did.

“This is where Professor Cavendish called home. It’s the university’s old dormitory. It’s been re-purposed so that these days, people either live here or work here or both. It’s not exactly a luxury residence, but it serves a need.”

With a shake and rattle Akbar opened several drawers on the side bureau. “This is where the Professor kept his latest charts and findings, although if you need anything from his archive you can find most of his research in here.” He opened a cabinet, the top of which was covered in rock specimens, to reveal several stacks of over-stuffed notebooks tied with leather string or thick rubber bands that had begun to deteriorate in the heat.

With a wave of my hand, I shooed a pair of flies that buzzed annoyingly around my face.

“They’re after the moisture on your eyeballs,” Akbar commented. “They’ll drink you dry if you let them.”

“That’s a somewhat disturbing thought. This place is starting to sound more and more like a jungle by the minute.”

“Rest assured, Sir Arthur, Oman is in fact one of the safest and friendliest places you will ever visit.”

“That might be so, but here’s hoping this visit is as short as possible. No offence.”

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