Heart of Light (22 page)

OASIS

They walked through the luxuriant oasis growth for a
long time—the soil too soft underneath, the noises of animals in the green canopy above unlike any animal noises Nigel had ever heard in England. Shrieks and hissing and something like deranged laughter, which Nigel imagined was a hyena's cackling, gave him a feeling of being lost in enemy territory.

Feeling his own strength flag, Nigel could only wonder at Peter's strength, as his friend walked ahead with the soldiers, who seemed likewise unflagging.

When they got to the large house, Nigel did not at first realize that they had reached their destination. From far off, he thought they had arrived at some great encampment or bazaar. Huge white tents, some of them lit from within and resembling white lanterns, were set up in no apparent order. All of them were surrounded by milling camels, flocks of goats and greater flocks of brown-skinned children in various states of undress.

Great fires were lit amid it all, and around the fires sat groups of men in long tunics and loincloths, and women scantily clad and carefully veiled so only their dark eyes peered out. And all of this great, unorganized multitude turned to stare at the Europeans who made their way gingerly through the encampment.

It was not till Nigel and his companions had passed the glare of fires and the crowds of people that Nigel saw the house they sought. It was tall and blocky, and built of pale stone. It looked neither English nor French, Spanish nor Arab, nor indeed like any other nationality, though it resembled a bit of all of those. Yet the windows weren't properly squared and the whole thing gave the impression of having been built over a weekend by unskilled laborers.

Peter and the soldiers stopped at the door, and by the time Nigel came up to it, Peter was pounding upon the rickety wooden door so forcefully that it might come down at any moment. The few flakes of red paint remaining on the splintered wood flew in all directions at Peter's pounding.

“Likely he's drunk,” one of the soldiers said. “The gentleman within is a good man, but he drinks.” He reached in his back pocket and withdrew a flask, from which he took a long swig.

At that moment the door opened, to reveal a man, half-submerged in darkness, holding an old, battered oil lantern. By its yellowish light, he looked, like the house, of no particular nationality or breed. Just an older man, fifty or so, with dark hair and a hirsute face. He cast a half-amused, half-despairing glance at the soldiers around the door.

“Ah, no,” he said. “Did the Bedouins, the Berbers or some other native do something to offend Her Majesty the queen again? I heard no rumors of it, and no big party afterwards, so there could be nothing to it. Maybe they pilfered from some caravan, but what does it signify? And now you'll stay in my house and tomorrow they'll all be angry at me, and . . .” His accent sounded like a composite of the whole empire, a snapshot of all the hot spots of India and China, of Africa and Britain itself. It was, Nigel reflected, an accent on which the sun never set.

All the soldiers took off their caps and held them in their hands. They looked uncommonly like schoolboys being chastised by a stern schoolmarm.

“Well, sor,” the one nearest the door said. “We were on our way to Port Said. But the train was attacked, or broke down, or something. Maybe some of the Moran, in their warrior camp, cast a spell to interfere with the train's moving spell. We don't know. But the train almost derailed and it will be days before it can progress. And there are these gentlemen and this lady stranded here.” He gestured toward Peter, Nigel and Emily. “They need a place to lay their heads and a caravan amid which to make their way to Khartoum, Mr. Martin, and if you'd be so kind . . .”

The presumed Mr. Martin lifted his lantern, and revealed even more of a confused ancestry than Nigel had already suspected from the man's nondescript features, his strange accent. The yellowish oil light shone on his sharp nose, which might be French; his pale blue, bulging eyes, which might well be British; his straight, thin lips, possibly German; and his thinning, black curling hair, which might be Italian or Greek. His skin was a light golden brown, too light for Mediterranean and far too dark for Anglo-Saxon.

He stared at Nigel and Emily, then Peter, who looked—Nigel reasoned—surely the most respectable of the three. Emily was red-faced and clearly rumpled, her dress dust-stained, her hair undone by her trials at the train. Nigel was aware of the dust and creases on his clothes and that his pale blond hair looked disheveled and unwashed after three days of travel. But Peter somehow managed to look impeccable, just as if he'd stepped out of his dressing room and the care of his valet a moment before.

Mr. Martin nodded to Peter. “A railway accident, is it? Does this mean we'll have a never-ending stream of injured and confused people needing Mrs. Martin's tending?”

“No,” Peter said. “It wasn't so much an accident. Just a problem with the moving spell. I don't think anyone was actually injured. Oh, some more of them might come seeking shelter here, but they won't need any medical help.”

Mr. Martin harrumphed, but stepped within and held the lantern aloft, illuminating a narrow front hall, the walls as rough stone as the outside. “Well, I have three bedrooms and I can put the three of you up. Anyone who shows up later, we'll put in the downstairs rooms. And you scapegraces—” he cast a skeptical look at the soldiers, “may camp out in the kitchen and harass the cooks, as you're bound to do anyway.”

Nigel opened his mouth, about to say that they did not need three rooms but only two, as he'd be happy to share his room with his wife. But his tiredness betrayed him. He could not speak fast enough, and already Emily had stepped forward, bobbing a curtsy to the host and walking past Nigel into the rough hallway.

He followed. He slipped on the wicker rug on the floor, recovered, rushed to offer Emily his arm. But Emily had already started up the stairs, her hand on the banister that had been hewn roughly from a twisting branch like a writhing snake, affixed to the wall, and provided the only means of support for anyone foolhardy enough to climb a staircase that looked as though it had been built from pebbles, randomly assembled and stuck together with barely dried mud.

Nigel tried to hurry immediately behind her, but the host had taken his place beside Emily and slightly behind her, holding his lantern aloft.

“There are two sets of bedrooms, miss, one at the far end of the house and the other two near my wife's and my room. Those used to be our sons' rooms, but they're now in England, at school. The room at the end of the hall is the most comfortable, and I think it should be yours, miss, if you have no objection, while the gentlemen can have our family's rooms.”

Emily nodded her assent and followed the host to the end of the hallway, where Mr. Martin threw a narrow door open.

Quite unlike what Nigel had expected, the room within was spacious, even opulent by European standards. Though the walls were just subtly out of plumb, and the two windows on the far wall sat ever so slightly crookedly, the huge bed that sat solidly in the middle of the room. The vanity at the far end and the chair next to it were all made of mahogany and heavily wrought. The mirror behind the vanity was huge, too, though it showed one or two dark spots upon its reflective surface. And the plain white ceramic basin was supported by a fancy iron stand.

“Is it to your satisfaction?” Mr. Martin asked, as he stepped back, allowing them into the room.

“Very much so,” Emily said. “I could never expect to be so comfortable after our travel plans were so overturned.”

Behind him, Nigel heard Peter direct the soldiers as to which trunks to place in the room.

“We can't provide a maid,” Mr. Martin said. “It is just me and my wife and a half-dozen natives, only one of them qualified and trained to work as lady's maid, and she too old and deserving our respect too much to be awakened in the middle of the night.”

Emily again assured him that she would be quite all right and nothing lost. She could take care of herself and it put her to no inconvenience, and indeed, she was grateful to find such lodgings in the middle of Africa.

Presently, when Mr. Martin either tired of apologizing and bowing, or could think of nothing else to apologize for, the soldiers deposited Emily's heavy trunks at the foot of the bed, bowed and left. Then Peter, too, took his leave. It seemed to Nigel that Peter kissed Emily's hand too long and smiled at her with a little too much understanding. Yet he fought back his unworthy suspicions of his best friend and his wife. No. They wouldn't do anything so dishonorable.

“I will be back,” Nigel said, speaking softly because Peter and Mr. Martin had retreated a few steps away and were whispering to each other—from the sound of it, talk of tribal troubles and African politics. “I will be back, later, for a . . . few moments with you.”

Emily frowned a little, and seemed to regard him from a long distance off, as though he were an intriguing feature in the landscape that she couldn't quite make out.

“I am very tired,” she said at last, her voice trembling. “And I'll probably be asleep before my head ever touches the pillow.”

“I understand,” Nigel said, though indeed he didn't. How could she claim to be too tired for his visit? “I just want your company for a few moments. And you are my wife.”

Something flickered in Emily's blue eyes, something Nigel couldn't quite understand. She bowed to him, the briefest of bows, and then arched her eyebrows high as she smiled. “Indeed,” she said. “I am your lawfully wedded wife.”

Reassured she understood and consented, Nigel smiled at Emily and bowed over her hand, kissing it briefly but with an intensity he hoped would convey his true feelings. Then Nigel walked out of the room, following Peter and Mr. Martin, sure that he was understood and that Emily waited for him with as much longing, body and soul, as he had to get back to her. To claim her, finally, as his own, forever.

His mind and heart were equally divided between elation, anticipation and a fear that his body would betray him once more. But no. The worst had happened—the Hyena Men and their brand, and the train wreck. And yet they remained alive. Even here, in the middle of the desert, they'd found adequate, civilized shelter. Nigel was starting to believe that a providential spirit hovered over them, easing their way through every trouble. He was starting to believe it would all turn out well after all. And Emily now knew what they were about. And he'd somehow manage to screw his courage to the sticking point and to behave as a man should to her, no matter how much it might shock her. She was his wife, he told himself. Making love to her could not hurt her. And tonight he would let no unworthy fear stand in the way of his passion. Of his love.

In this frame of mind he allowed himself to be shown to a room at the other end of the corridor and across from the room assigned to Peter.

These rooms were smaller than Emily's, and now Nigel understood why Mr. Martin had assigned the farthest one to Emily—it was his gallantry and his way of assuring that the most fragile member of the expedition was allowed the greatest comfort.

The rooms the men got were also homier, with a narrow bed apiece, each bed plain and without ornamentation, looking as though headboard and footboard both were carved of raw wood. Upon each bed was a coverlet in a strange print that might have been local homespun. On the wall of Nigel's room, a native mask grinned down at him.

He could feel the magic from it, a protective charm that seemed to radiate golden warmth.

“It belongs to my son Jonas,” Mr. Martin said. “He was friends with the Masai down in Kenya, where we used to live. He became close to a few of their young men the same age. Still is, for all I know. In early childhood, one of the Masai holy men had this made to protect Jonas from evil influences and were-creatures, they said. He couldn't take it to school in England, of course—he would get an awful ribbing. So he left it behind for when he returns. And he will return. Loves Africa, that one, more than his brother ever will.”

And with that, the proud father cast an approving glance at the grinning mask and turned to leave the room. Peter followed him.

Alone after the door closed, Nigel noticed that his trunks had been brought to this room and placed at the end of the bed, just like Emily's. The one containing the compass stone remained sealed and, from the light shining around the seals, inviolate. Nigel knew he probably should check it, but right then he had more urgent business. He tore into the trunk that contained his clothing, opening its fastening with eager hands. He must change into his dressing gown, and he must make himself presentable for Emily. The stand at the far end of the room contained a plain ceramic basin, which held a bit of clear water, with more water in a porcelain jar beside the stand.

This, with a bit of soap from his luggage, and his razor, Nigel used to make himself as clean and civilized-looking as he could under the circumstances. Though their marriage might be consummated in wild Africa, he still wanted Emily to think of him as that tender, gentle man she had married in England.