Mary Roberts Rinehart - Nomads Land

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Nomads Land

Mary Roberts Rinehart

BOOK I
NOMADS LAND

CHAPTER I

MY FIRST VIEW OF her was under rather flattering conditions. First, it was moonlight; one of those clear white moons of Egypt which was undoubtedly responsible for the madness of Anthony over Cleopatra, since one has only to see divers reliefs of that well-known lady to realize that it was madness. And in this moonlight certain austerities and angularities of her outline merged softly into the desert sands and were there lost.

Second, there was a good breeze going, and in this breeze a certain rather overpowering easternliness about her was attenuated to a faint and merely suggestive scent, which was dissipated in the general direction of the Pyramids.

And, third, she offered locomotion. Had she not turned up, I might still be, like the Sphinx, a fixture in the desert sands, facing the rising sun and being photographed with tourists grouped about me, and my age a matter of public comment and published in Baedeker.

Briefly, I came out of a tent, and there she was. Dressed in her best, jingling with small bells and various necklaces to keep off the evil eye, prone, acquiescent and mild, there she was. I got on her, the two shadowy figures who had been standing on her doubled-up fore legs stepped off, her rear shot up into the air, her forward portion followed suit, another notch let out behind and another in front, and she was up.

So was I.

Far below me were the sands of the Libyan desert; the tall Bedouins had shrunk to insignificance. And Dahabeah turned her long neck and gave me a glance of concentrated hatred.

Dahabeah was a camel.

The Head of the Family, having watched me up, was mounting also.

How do you like it? I inquired nervously, when he had described the necessary number of arcs in the air.

Fine! he replied in a hollow tone, and turned his head to see if his neck was still working properly.

The nautch girl had twisted up her skirts and mounted a donkey; the musicians were trudging along on foot, pipes and ancient drum under their arms. The camel boys, each with what I hoped was a death grip on the rein, began to move, and so did the camels.

You look great, our host called encouragingly, from the tent. Like a pair of blooming Arabs! How does it go?

Simply wonderful, I returned feebly, and gave my entire and concentrated attention to my mount.

Had any one told me during that first five minutes that I would before long travel a hundred miles on that camel, I would have laughed. Or no, I would not have laughed; one does not laugh during the first few minutes. One is too high for one thing and too busy waiting to see from whence the next jerk is coming. And then there is the strange discovery that neither in front of the saddle nor behind it is there anything whatever. It is like sitting on an Alp.

Added to all this, also, is the circus feeling, and with it a bit of unreality.

Who has not stood on the curbstone and waited for that great moment when, the horsemen and the vans having passed, the cry goes up: The camels are coming ? And seen the great beasts, nostrils dilated and haughty heads thrust forward, padding down the street? A bit of another world, brought to us for our admiration and wonder.

And to be for even a moment a portion of this strange world carries a thrill of its own.

But the emotion, in my case, was entirely onesided. Dahabeah moved off, indeed, at the insistence of a small stick from behind, but neither then nor at any time later did she reveal the smallest interest in me. Later on I was doomed to search in vain for some indication that she so much as knew me; to long to scratch her ears, to rub that sensitive portion of her six-foot neck which seemed forever itchy, and yet forever beyond the reach of her hind foot. But never did I break through her impenetrable reserve.

Indeed, one of my earliest overtures settled an argument between the Head and myself forever. He had said that camels have teeth only in the lower jaw: I had disagreed, largely for controversial purposes. It was then that I approached Dahabeah, and that the dispute was ended.

She snarled, lifted her hare-lip, and revealed both upper and lower sets, in good condition and immediately ready for business.

But that night I was not interested in Dahabeahs teeth. The procession moved off, the nautch girl on her donkey, the musicians afoot, and then ourselves. The Arab gentleman who had been hastily drawing my horoscope in the sand was left behind; the tent flap dropped, and underneath me a sort of localized earthquake was taking place. We were on our way.

You like drive her yourself? asked my camel boy.

Not just yet, I said firmly and with dignity.

But the ice was broken. From that time on the caravan trip into the desert, which Assour had assured us would make me as strong as a lions, was a settled thing.

CHAPTER II

NOW AS LONG AGO as last Christmas the Head and I had had Egypt in mind. And with Egypt, a camel caravan. It was, indeed, from a welter of tissue paper, ribbons and cards that I looked up one day from my wrapping and said:

What does one wear on a camel?

And the Head, who was trying to remember where he had hidden some gift or other, said:

What camel?

Any camel, I said largely. Well have to make up our minds what to take.

Judging by the pictures, a sheet and pillowslip would answer, he said. But anyhow, why worry? We dont have to ride a camel.

But seeing that I felt strongly about it, he suggested a golf suit for himself. And being a consistent person, a golf suit he took and a golf suit later on he wore. But my problem was not so simple.

There is something infuriating to the average woman about the competence of a mans wardrobe. The only anxiety he ever knows is whether it is to be dinner jacket or tail coat. He can pack a suit-case and be prepared to mount a camel or to meet a king. The matter of riding a cross-saddle on a donkey, in a short tight skirt, never sends a blush to his face, nor does he hobble across sandy wastes in low pumps because he hasnt the strength of mind to wear proper shoes.

No. The Head packed his golf suit, thus tacitly acquiescing in the camel idea, and let it go at that. But I!

Personally I had had an idea that while men on camels rode between humps, as it were, women were luxuriously housed in a curtained and boxlike arrangement, from which ever and anon they peered out, or waved a white and surreptitious hand to some passing gallant. And Assour had fathered this delusion.

If we do go, Assour, I said one day, we must be comfortable. Why cant I dress like a Bedouin woman, in something soft and loose? And the doctor the same way?

You like go in native costumes? he said, his eyes brightening. Sure, madams. Very fine, very comfortable. You make fine Bedouin lady.

It is true that so far all the Bedouin ladies we had seen had been wrapped in a black cloth, generally trailing in the dirt behind and covering them from head to foot. But this had not daunted us, and to the bazaars under Assours guidance we went and made our purchases. Then we carried them back to the hotel and put them on!

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