Hi Jolly! Part 6

Dagger in hand, Ali stood very quietly in the darkness. Though he was looking toward Ben Akbar and the _dalul_ was only a few paces away, the darkness was so intense that he could barely discern the camel's outline. He neither saw nor heard anything else. It was as though Ali and Ben Akbar were the only inhabitants of a world suddenly turned black.

Ali battled the illusion, for the very silence and the feeling that he was alone were sufficient evidence that he faced deadly danger. The Jackal was no amateur who would seek to cow his enemy by hissed threats, mislead him by thrown stones or other ruses, or indulge in any other melodrama. He compared favorably with the tawny-maned lion who lays his ambush at a water hole where gazelles drink. Having decided that killing was in order, The Jackal would kill with a maximum of speed and efficiency, brought about by a lifetime of experience.

Ben Akbar did not even move. He would remain exactly as he was and where he was until Ali himself gave permission to get up or until circ.u.mstances beyond his friend's control forced him to arise. A lump rose in Ali's throat. Ben Akbar was far more than just a magnificent _dalul_. He was Ali's other self, a true brother and to be loved as such. Ali renewed his vow that, so long as Allah saw fit to spare him, just so long would he and Ben Akbar face the same winds, traveling side by side.

Suddenly, seeing his pilgrimage in an entirely new light, it was no longer a disappointment but more than rewarding. Perhaps, in His infinite wisdom, Allah bestowed different gifts upon different pilgrims, according to their true intentions. Ali knew that he was contented now, for, because of his pilgrimage, he had Ben Akbar. He would no longer stand alone against the world.

Presently, Ali became aware of great and immediate danger.

It was no sudden perception accompanied by sudden shock, but a complete and whole revelation, the ripening of each separate incident since The Jackal and Ahmet had appeared. Unless he did something about it, Ali's senses told him, he would be dead very shortly. At the same time, so clear was the light that bathed his mind, he was instantly able to understand exactly how this had come about.

He had underestimated The Jackal. Hearing Ben Akbar grunt, the man had identified him instantly. But he had also identified the tiny sounds made by a camel kneeling and he'd known why Ben Akbar was made to kneel.

The Jackal, had decided, not only that Ali would not await directly beside Ben Akbar, but also exactly where he would be found. It was what The Jackal himself might have done under similar circ.u.mstances. Now, dagger poised, he stood directly behind Ali and needed only one more silent step to carry him into a striking position.

When Ali moved, he did so swiftly, bending at the knees even while he swiveled the upper portion of his body forward to make a smaller target. At the same time, he pivoted on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, so that he made a complete turn and faced his enemy. He thrust with all his strength.

The dagger's point found resistance, but not unyielding resistance. It bit hungrily into something that was both soft and warm. There was a gasp, a strangled grunt, then an almost gentle rustle as The Jackal wilted backwards and his own burnous enfolded him.

A shout cracked the darkness as a hammer blow might crack a pane of gla.s.s. "Now then! Close in!"

b.l.o.o.d.y dagger still in his extended hand, Ali only half heard either the shout or the patter of running feet that immediately followed. Aghast at what he'd done but never intended to do, he remained rooted in his tracks. This was Mecca, The Holy City, and shedding blood within its borders was one of the very few sins for which there was no pardon.

Mohammed himself, when making prisoners of some enemies who sought to hide in Mecca, could carry out his own death sentence only by locking them in a building and letting them starve. No Moslem was wealthy or influential enough to attain forgiveness for shedding blood in Mecca.

So complete was his horror and so shocking, for a short s.p.a.ce Ali was only vaguely aware of rough hands that gripped him. Then someone spoke.

Ali recognized the voice of the fierce officer who had ambushed the Druse.

"It is the camel rider who was made keeper of the _dalul_, and he too has let his charge stray."

A groan sounded in the darkness.

"He has done more than that," someone whom Ali could barely see said in an awed whisper. "He has shed blood in the Holy City."

"Fool!" the officer said to Ali contemptuously. "We knew who they were and were ready to take them! I would not care to wear your burnous at this moment!"

The single reason why he was not already lying beside the wounded man, Ali told himself, could be ascribed to the fact that the fierce officer dared not shed blood in Mecca. Certainly his execution would not be delayed when they no longer stood on Holy Ground.

Then the fog that had dulled Ali's brain when he stabbed The Jackal faded away. He thought of words voiced by the officer, 'the camel rider who was made keeper of the _dalul_, and he too has let his charge stray.' Obviously, the soldiers were unaware of Ben Akbar's nearness.

Ali saw his one hope of escape.

"Ho!" he called loudly and clearly. "Ben Akbar! Come to me! Run!"

There was a rattling of pebbles as Ben Akbar hastened to obey.

Astonished soldiers, who hadn't even suspected this and needed a moment to decide what it might be, dodged out of the _dalul's_ path or were knocked out of it.

Side by side, Ali and Ben Akbar ran on until the friendly mantle of night hid both.

6. The Strange Ship

The first light of day was followed almost at once by the first blast of heat. Then the sun rose, a burning red ball that seemed to roll across the eastern horizon with steadily increasing speed, as though to gain momentum for leaping into the sky.

The rein hung slack and Ali dozed in the saddle as Ben Akbar paced steadily onward. When the bright sun flashed in his eyes, Ali awakened and halted his mount with, "Ho, my brother! Let us stop."

Ben Akbar halted, knelt when commanded to do so, and Ali dismounted.

As the sun climbed higher and grew hotter, Ali pondered his present situation, the immediate past and the probable future. In his mind's eye, he drew a map of the general area and of his approximate position.

At a rough estimate, Mecca was halfway down the east sh.o.r.e of the Red Sea, a great sweep of water whose most northerly waves break on the Sinai Peninsula and whose southern extremity mingles with the Gulf of Aden, a thousand or more miles away. Directly to the east was the land of the Arabs. Ali's native Syria was northeast, and beyond Syria lay Turkey.

Since it was manifestly impossible to cross the Red Sea without a suitable ship, Ali's choice of directions were north, south and east. It was a difficult choice, for, wherever he went, he would still be in a land of Moslems. Even if he might somehow contrive to cross the Red Sea, he must necessarily disembark in Moslem Egypt.

Because he had shed blood in Holy Mecca, he was and forever must be outcast by all true Moslems. Moreover, with thousands of home-going pilgrims and each one an indignant bearer of the tale of desecration, very shortly Ali would be a marked man throughout the Moslem world. Any Moslem who killed him would be honored, not prosecuted.

Now all that belonged to the dead past. This was the living present, and Ali wondered curiously why he was unable to regard that present in the grave light cast by facts as they were. He'd gained in Mecca the coveted right to call himself Hadji Ali, and, considering the turn of circ.u.mstances that now meant nothing whatever. It made not the slightest difference what name he carried. But, far from surrendering to despair or even giving way to anxiety, Ali felt that the _Hadj_ had brought him a whole new future and that it had never been so hopeful.

He stroked the _dalul's_ neck with affectionately understanding hands.

Ben Akbar made happy little noises with his mouth and the rein trailed in the desert sand. Ali stooped to pick it up. The rein was not necessary because he could still guide Ben Akbar by voiced commands, but, since he was setting out on what would most certainly be a long journey, he had felt that it was desirable to have proper trappings for his mount.

As soon as Ali began to plan ahead after his flight from Mecca, he decided that he must reach the camp of Al Misri, the most accessible source of camel harness, before the soldiers were able to bring their news there. He accomplished that by making Ben Akbar kneel when both had run a safe distance, then mounting and riding at full speed until he was within a discreet distance of the camp. There--even if he has completed the _Hadj_, a camel's groom must not be caught riding a _dalul_ reserved exclusively for the Pasha of Damascus--Ali dismounted and walked the rest of the way.

Familiar figures about the camp, the pair attracted only indifferent glances from the sentries. As though he were acting under orders, Ali went directly to the supply tent to choose a proper saddle and bridle.

The bridle presented no problem, but Ali was able to find a saddle only after rejecting a dozen of the biggest ones and finally hitting upon the largest of all. In superb condition, Ben Akbar's sleek hump seemed ready to burst. None but the biggest saddle would fit.

However, foreseeing probable hardship, and the consequent shrinking of the _dalul's_ hump, Ali gathered up a sufficient supply of saddle pads.

Finally, he chose a goatskin water bag and, as payment for all, left the single coin that had remained to him after paying for his _ihram_. It was not enough, and he knew it, but it was all he had.

Leading Ben Akbar, Ali filled his water bag at the oasis and went on.

The sentries who watched all this but failed to act were lulled partly by the fact that Ali was a familiar part of the camp and, as far as the sentries knew, above suspicion. They were further disarmed by the very audacity of the scheme. n.o.body, certainly not a camel's groom, would walk brazenly into a camp commanded by Al Misri and steal trappings to equip the Pasha's prized _dalul_, which he also intended to steal!

A safe distance from camp, Ali mounted and rode. He struck inland, veering away from the route that would be selected by most of the home-going pilgrims, letting Ben Akbar choose his own moderate pace all night long. n.o.body could follow him in the darkness, anyhow, and it was wise to spare his mount.

Now, as he stood beside the reclining _dalul_ and the burning sun pursued its torrid course, Ali considered that which was as inevitable as the eventual setting of the sun.

It was a foregone conclusion that some tracker had taken the trail as soon as he was able to see it, and the pursuers would waste no time. Nor would they ever give up. Who stole a _dalul_ from the Pasha of Damascus might escape only if he sought and found asylum with one of the Pasha's powerful enemies. But who desecrated Holy Mecca would never find safety in any Moslem land. In addition, Ali thought, the officer and all the men who'd been with him would now make a heretic's punishment a point of honor, a blood quest from which only death would free them.

Ali still saw hope that could not have been without Ben Akbar. As individuals, either was a.s.sailable. Together, they were invincible.

Counting from the time they'd left Al Misri's camp to the first light of day, Ali gave meticulous consideration to the pace set by Ben Akbar and the type of terrain they'd traveled. When finished, he knew within a few rods either way just how far they had come and within a few minutes, plus or minus, when pursuers could be expected. Ali turned to Ben Akbar.

"Rest," he crooned, as he removed saddle and bridle. "Rest and forage, oh Prince among _dalul_. Come to me then, and you shall teach the Pasha's soldiers the true speed of a _dalul_."

Ben Akbar wandered forth to crop the coa.r.s.e desert vegetation. Choosing the doubtful shade offered by a copse of scrub, Ali lay down and drew his burnous about him. He slept peacefully and soundly, as though he'd somehow managed to purge his mind of certain grim prospects for the immediate future and rest alone mattered. A bit more than three hours later, as Ali had planned when he chose his bed, the blazing sun shone directly upon him and its glare broke his slumber.

He did not, as had been his habit, lie quietly and without moving until he determined exactly what lay about him and what, if anything, he should do about it. Ben Akbar, who always knew long before his master when anything approached--and always let Ali know--made such precautions unnecessary. The great _dalul_ was grazing quietly and only a few feet away.