Without a word Nick slung the depleted water skin, wrinkled like an old prune, around his neck and began to walk towards the horizon. Youssef scrambled to his feet and followed. The burning sun was directly overhead. They cast no shadows as they walked. The sky was a vast metal plate, blue-white with heat. They had no plan; they were in Allah’s fiery hands. Like the thelul, they would march until they died.

The endless day wore on. As their shadows lengthened far ahead of them, Youssef began to gag, his body wrenched with terrible dry heaves. After each episode, Youssef would smile apologetically at Nick and they would plod on.

At night they shivered uncontrollably under the icy stars, their bodies too dehydrated to maintain their internal temperature against the cold. At dawn, they shared the last of their water. Then Youssef collapsed during the salat. He lay quivering on the hard ground, unable to stand. Desperation in his eyes, he begged Nick to leave him.

Angrily, Nick knelt by Youssef and drew his khanjar. “Here!” he rasped, his eyes dried and inflamed. He looked a hundred years old. “Take my blood and drink it! But don’t shame me. Don’t make me tell my father that I left my brother to die in the sands,” he croaked, the khanjar trembling in his hand.

Youssef nodded weakly, his face a weary mask torn by dry, open sores. With Nick’s help he struggled to his feet and they went on, facing into the rising sun which was destroying them. Arm in arm they staggered through the watery columns of heated air as though wading through boiling water. One way or another, it would be over today, Nick thought.

At first, he sensed another presence in the emptiness. When he finally saw the distant speck he thought it was just another mirage. He decided not to tell Youssef, whom he was half-dragging by now. It would be too cruel a disappointment. Then Youssef nudged him and gestured, his eyes wild and unfocused. They heard a distant “halloo-ing” and waved wildly. Nick tried to shout, but nothing came out of his throat. The rider waved back and spurred his camel with excitement, shouting as he approached. Nick closed his eyes in thanksgiving and sank to the ground.

Braithwaite supported Nick’s head with one hand and held the water skin with the other. Nick sucked greedily at the water. “Like a little n-nipper at the teat,” Braithwaite used to say when he would retell the story.

“Easy, lad, easy,” Braithwaite cautioned.

“How’s Youssef?” Nick asked.

“Fine. Fit as a f-f-fiddle,” Braithwaite laughed. He looked shrewdly at Nick.

“They said you were a westerner,” he said in English. “Imagine that,” he grinned.

“Imagine,” Nick echoed in English.

Braithwaite patted Nick’s head tenderly.

“Time to g-get you home, laddy-buck,” he smiled.

“Home,” Nick said, dazed. “Where’s home?”

Al Aramah

Al Aramah