Lost Riders Page 4

  ‘You no speak Arabic?’

  Rashid shook his head.

  ‘Punjabi.’

  ‘OK, I tell you,’ Salman said in halting Punjabi. ‘This eye no good. Camel tail go like this.’ He swung his arm forward and up towards his face. ‘Hit eye. Big infection. No see now.’

  He stopped talking and examined Rashid, taking in his straight black hair and pale coffee skin.

  ‘You not Sudanese, like me. Punjab Indian boy? Or Punjab Pakistan?’

  ‘Pakistan.’

  ‘Mujib was Bangladeshi. Never laugh. Always cry, cry, want ma, want go home. Never watch out for trouble. He fall down from camel. Camel kick him head. Now he dead. You be careful, huh?’

  Rashid barely took in what Salman was saying. The other boy had begun walking up the short slope towards the cluster of sheds. Rashid trotted to keep up with him.

  To their left was another palm-frond fence, like the one that surrounded the whole camel farm, and through a gap in it Rashid caught a glimpse of a dozen or more camels. They were kneeling on the sand, chewing.

  Salman was hurrying on. They were in front of the first shed now.

  ‘Food store for camel,’ Salman said, laying his hand flat against the stained plywood wall as if he was its owner. ‘Kitchen,’ he went on, moving to the next one. ‘Masoul and me only in here. You go in kitchen you get beat. Understand?’

  Rashid nodded.

  ‘That one house there.’ Salman was pointing beyond the kitchen to the only concrete building on the uzba. It was single storeyed, painted white and fronted by a shady veranda. Inside it, Rashid could see red rugs covering the floor and cushions for leaning on laid around the walls. ‘Guest room, for bedu.’

  ‘What?’ Rashid didn’t understand.

  ‘Bedu. Arab. Syed Ali, he is bedu. This uzba belong to Syed Ali.’

  ‘What’s uzba?’

  ‘This place. Camel farm. Uzba mean camel farm. You listening, or what? Only bedu and friend go into guest room. You in there, you get—’

  ‘Beat,’ whispered Rashid.

  Salman grinned.

  ‘You clever boy. Not like Mujib.’

  He led the way into a shady shelter, roofed with yet more palm branches that were laid over metal frames. Alongside this was another windowless shed.

  ‘Camel jockey sleep in here,’ said Salman, indicating the door.

  Rashid peered into the dark little room. The light outside was so brilliant that he could barely make out the couple of mattresses laid on a mat, and the tangle of blankets and clothes lying in a corner. He stepped back out into the shelter. He hadn’t yet understood that this dark little room was his new home.

  Outside he heard a car engine approach, then it cut out and doors slammed.

  Uncle Bilal! he thought. He’s come back with Shari!

  He ran back into the open. Syed Ali and the driver had both got out of the car and were walking up to the guest house, but there was no sign of anyone else with them. Rashid ran down towards them.

  ‘No! Come back!’ Salman called after him.

  Rashid darted in front of Syed Ali so that the man had to stop.

  ‘Where are they? Where’s my uncle and Shari?’ he asked desperately.

  Syed Ali frowned and said something in Arabic. Salman had run up. He listened to Syed Ali for a moment, then said to Rashid, ‘He say no be cheeky. You respect. You be a good boy, no have any trouble.’

  ‘Where’s my brother?’ Rashid asked again.

  Salman interpreted unwillingly. Syed Ali’s frown cleared and he nodded, looking kindly.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Salman translated. ‘Your brother near. In a very good uzba. He happy there. You see him on racing day. Your uncle go to Abu Dhabi. Got good job. Make plenty money. Some time soon he come and see you.’

  Syed Ali spoke again.

  ‘He say you a nice boy. He like you. Tomorrow you start train for camel racing. You like it very much.’

  Syed Ali was already moving on, walking up towards the guest house. Haji Faroukh had seen him and was coming forward as fast as his portly figure would allow, an ingratiating smile creasing his cheeks.

  ‘Ya Syed Ali!’ he called out. ‘You have come! Salman, bring tea. Coffee. Hurry.’

  Together, the two men disappeared into the guest house with the driver following at a polite distance. Salman touched Rashid’s arm, and looking up Rashid saw a friendly smile light up the older boy’s one good eye.

  ‘They busy now. I get them coffee, then we play football. You like?’

  Rashid’s heart, which had been heavy with sorrow, as if a stone had been pressing down on it, suddenly felt lighter.

  ‘I think I like it. I never tried much. I never had a ball.’

  Iqbal appeared from behind the guest house.

  ‘No more work today,’ he said joyfully. ‘Haji Faroukh won’t notice us now that Syed Ali’s here. Where’s the ball, Salman?’

  Salman was already hurrying to the kitchen.

  ‘You think I know? It is where you leave it last time.’

  Iqbal disappeared into the dark little sleeping shed and came out a few moments later with a plastic football twirling triumphantly on one finger.

  ‘Come on, Yasser!’

  Iqbal led the way further up the slope. Behind the camel pen was an open stretch of sand, bordered on two sides by the outer perimeter of the uzba. Iqbal put the ball down, posed for a moment with it balanced under his foot, then kicked it towards Rashid, who launched himself forward in an effort to stop it, but missed, and skidded to a fall in the sand.

  ‘Me! I want to play!’

  A little boy, no bigger than Shari, was trotting up towards them. The clothes he wore hung loosely on his skinny body and his eyes were huge in his thin face.

  ‘In a minute, Puppo,’ Iqbal shouted. ‘I’m having a go first with Yasser. Just me and Yasser.’

  Puppo plumped down on the ground, picked up a handful of sand and threw it crossly towards Iqbal.

  ‘Don’t sit there,’ Iqbal said impatiently. ‘You’re in the way.’

  Rashid, seeing Puppo’s chin begin to tremble, thought of Shari. He went over to Puppo and knelt beside him.

  ‘Don’t cry, Puppo,’ he said. ‘I’m going to play with you - a special game - in a minute. All right?’

  Puppo stared up at him for a long moment, as if he was trying to make out if he could trust this new person. At last he smiled.

  ‘I like you,’ he said.

  Rashid gave him a pat, then jumped up and fetched the ball. He swiped at it wildly with his foot, sending it dangerously high so that for a heart-stopping moment he was afraid it would soar over into the camel pen. It arced down just in time and bounced against the fence. Iqbal laughed and sent it spinning expertly back to him.

  He was good. Rashid could tell. He took a deep breath. He’d learn to do clever stuff like that and play as well as Iqbal. He wanted more than anything else, now, to please this wonderful boy, and make him his friend.

  5

  Although it was now late afternoon, the heat was still intense. Rashid was used to the blistering summers of Pakistan, but it was even hotter here. He had kicked off his sandals in order to chase the ball more freely, but the sand burned his feet when he stood still for more than a moment.

  He was glad when Iqbal flopped down at last against the fence of the cattle pen, where a little shade was slowly stretching out across the sand. He put his sandals on again and played with Puppo, kicking the ball lethargically towards him, and letting the little boy do all the running.

  Salman came at last. Iqbal jumped up, eager to play with him, but Salman ignored him. He looked at Rashid and jerked his head towards the cluster of buildings.

  ‘Haji Faroukh call you,’ he said.

  ‘Why? What does he want with him?’ said Iqbal resentfully. ‘It’s more fun when there are more of us playing.’

  Salman frowned, suddenly on his dignity.

  ‘You think I know what masoul want? You go quick
, Yasser. You do like I tell you; hurry up, no bother.’

  Rashid ran towards the buildings. Syed Ali’s car was driving out through the entrance to the uzba and Haji Faroukh was watching it go, bending at the waist as he waved and smiled.

  The smile dropped from his face as he heard Rashid approach.

  ‘Come,’ he said, and strode off towards the camel pen.

  Some of the camels were still kneeling, but several had risen and moved over to the feeding racks that edged the pen. They were lipping over the green fodder laid out for them. Haji Faroukh looked around, as if making a choice, then walked up to one of the kneeling camels. From the far side of the fence came the scuffling sound of the other boys’ feet in the sand, and the hollow thump of the ball being kicked.

  ‘Iqbal!’ shouted Haji Faroukh suddenly, making Rashid jump. ‘Fetch a muzzle!’

  ‘Yes, Haji,’ Iqbal’s voice floated back from the far side of the fence.

  A few moments later he appeared holding a looped rope in one hand, and a heavy cotton bag with dangling strings in the other. Haji Faroukh took them without a word, passed the looped rope over the camel’s head, then fitted the bag over its mouth, tying the strips behind its ears. Rashid looked on apprehensively, wondering what he was supposed to do.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Haji Faroukh said crossly. ‘A saddle!’

  Rashid looked around, trying to see if there was something he ought to be picking up.

  ‘Not you! Iqbal!’

  Iqbal darted off and returned with a pad of bright cloth and some straps. Haji Faroukh jerked on the rope. The camel shook its head irritably, then slowly, grunting as if in protest, it rose to its feet. Haji Faroukh took the pad from Iqbal and threw it up on the camel’s back, settling it into position behind the hump. Iqbal needed no more instructions. Deftly, he helped to tie it in place with the straps, passing them under the camel’s belly, then pulled them tight and fastened the buckles.

  Rashid suddenly realized what was going to happen, and the thought of it was so frightening that he wanted to run away and hide. Iqbal, stepping back from the camel, caught the look on his face and nodded at him, as if he understood. He waggled his head and made a funny face, as if to tell Rashid not to worry. Rashid smiled feebly, clasping his hands together.

  The masoul had bent over to inspect the tightness of the girth, so that his large behind was up in the air.

  Iqbal winked at Rashid, then lifted his foot and kicked out, stopping just in time before it made contact with Haji Faroukh’s bottom.

  Rashid, stunned by his daring, forgot his fear and allowed a giggle to escape him. Then, horrified at the noise he’d made, he bit his lip and waited in agony for Haji Faroukh to turn round.

  He was saved by the camel. Irritated at having its usual routine disturbed, it trampled backwards and lashed out with one hind leg, almost landing a violent blow on the side of Iqbal’s head with its heavy clawed foot. Just in time, Iqbal jumped out of the way, the cheeky grin wiped from his face.

  ‘Get out,’ Haji Faroukh snapped at him, as if sensing that mischief had been going on behind his back.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Iqbal respectfully. He looked pale and shaken as he ran out of the pen, aware that he’d had a narrow escape.

  Before Rashid knew what was happening, he felt himself lifted in the air and a moment later was perched aloft on the pad-like saddle, breathless with fright, gripping the front edge with all his strength. The camel turned its long neck and stared at him resentfully, its throat rippling in its effort to grunt against the constraining muzzle.

  ‘Don’t bend over like that,’ said Haji Faroukh. ‘Sit up straight. Knees forward. Tuck your feet up behind you. Like this.’ He caught hold of one of Rashid’s feet and forced it up and backwards. ‘Don’t hang on like that. You’re not a monkey. Find your balance. It’s easy.’

  Rashid was panting as if he’d run a race. He could feel the camel shift beneath him as it moved from one foot to another. At any moment he expected it to bolt and send him flying. He would crash to the ground, miles below. He would be trampled by those great feet, and torn by the sharp nails. Was that what had happened to Mujib, the boy who had died, the boy whose clothes and blanket would now be his?

  Haji Faroukh was by the camel’s head now, pulling on the rope. The camel lurched and moved forward.

  ‘I’m falling off! I’m going to fall!’ Rashid shouted shrilly, unable to contain his fear any longer.

  ‘Be quiet. You’re not falling. Do you want to scare him?’ the masoul said, leading the camel on.

  ‘I can’t! I don’t like it! I want to get down!’ Rashid cried desperately.

  Haji Faroukh jerked the camel to a halt and came back to stand by Rashid’s knee.

  ‘You give me any more of that, you make a stupid fuss, you pretend you’re scared, and startle the camel, and take a fall, and you’ll get a beating like you’ve never had before in the whole of your life. You hear me?’

  Rashid stared down, terrified, into the man’s hot red eyes. He nodded dumbly. However frightening it was to be balanced on top of this big unpredictable beast, the promise of violent anger in Haji Faroukh’s face was worse. He gave a shuddering sigh, and when Haji Faroukh led the camel off again, he clung on, concentrating furiously, his breathing slowly steadying.

  He found, after a short while, that it was becoming a little easier. The camel’s jolting, swinging gait, so disconcerting at first, had fallen into a rhythm. He could even begin to predict how the animal would move, and let his body move with it. But he was stiff with tension when Haji Faroukh finally brought the camel to a halt and lifted him down. His fingers were cramped so hard round the edge of the saddle pad that he could barely let it go.

  Haji Faroukh seemed pleased with him.

  ‘You see? It’s not difficult. You’re going to like it. No more fuss, eh?’

  Rashid looked down and shuffled his feet.

  Haji Faroukh seemed to hesitate.

  ‘You know how much depends on you kids?’

  ‘No, Haji.’

  ‘Everything! If you ride a camel to victory, Syed Ali will be very happy. I’ll be very happy. You’ll be rewarded. But if you’re lazy and don’t ride well, if you don’t try your best, there’ll be trouble. Do you understand, Yasser?’

  ‘Yes, Haji,’ said Rashid, but Haji Faroukh’s words made little sense to him.

  What does victory mean? he wondered. How can I try my best?

  He squinted up at the masoul, the light from the setting sun in his eyes, trying to read the man’s expression. The important thing from now on, Rashid could tell, was pleasing Haji Faroukh, and keeping the anger away. He would have to learn how to do it.

  Haji Faroukh was unbuckling the saddle straps.

  ‘Take off the muzzle,’ he told Rashid.

  Rashid went round to the front of the camel. Its head was high above him, far out of reach.

  ‘Pull the rope down,’ Haji Faroukh said, releasing the last strap and lifting the saddle clear. ‘Not like that. Jerk it. Pull harder.’

  Rashid tugged at the bridle rope as hard as he could. The camel lowered its head and then, to Rashid’s astonishment, sank to its knees and settled itself to the ground, its expression lofty, as if it was doing Rashid a favour. Its large brown eye, lavishly fringed with thick black lashes, was now level with Rashid’s face.

  ‘The muzzle,’ Haji Faroukh said. ‘Take it off.’

  Nervously, Rashid reached for the loops that held the muzzle in place and pulled them forward over the camel’s ears. They caught on the bridle rope. He tried to unscramble them, and was suddenly cuffed aside by Haji Faroukh. He landed on his back in the sand.

  The camel, irritated by his fumbling, had curled back his upper lip to show its long, strong teeth. It was snapping at Haji Faroukh’s arm. Haji Faroukh controlled it with a curse and another jerk on the bridle rope, and in one quick movement lifted the muzzle clear.

  ‘A lesson for you,’ he said, as Rashid scrambled bac
k up to his feet. ‘See those teeth? They could take your arm off. When a camel bites, he means it. Stay away from his head till you know what to do. And from his back legs as well. A kick from the rear end could kill you. Now take all this stuff back to the store. Salman will show you where to put it.’

  He piled the saddle pad, muzzle and ropes into Rashid’s arms, and, heavily laden, Rashid staggered out of the pen towards the cluster of buildings.

  The other boys had finished their game of football and were in the shady shelter. Puppo was leaning against the wall of the sleeping shed. His thumb was in his mouth and his eyelids were drooping. Iqbal was lying on his tummy, making patterns in the sand with a stick. He sat up when he saw Rashid.

  ‘Did you think you were going to fall off?’ he said. ‘I did, the first time. But if you think that’s bad, wait till you’re in a race.’

  ‘What race?’ asked Rashid.

  ‘Don’t you know? When the racing season starts we’re doing it all the time. We have to make the camels go really fast and whip them. If we don’t win, Haji Faroukh gets very angry and beats us.’

  Puppo had put his hands over his ears and was singing tunelessly.

  ‘He’s scared of racing,’ Iqbal said, shrugging. ‘He cries and screams when they put him on the camel, even though he always gets beaten for it.’

  ‘Are you scared?’ Rashid said.

  ‘Me? Course not!’ said Iqbal, but Rashid saw a flicker in his eyes and knew that he was lying. ‘Amal is, all the time.’

  ‘Who’s Amal?’

  ‘He’s the other camel jockey. He’s not here today. He fell off his camel in the dark when we were exercising. Broke his arm. They took him to hospital. He’s coming back tomorrow.’

  ‘In the dark?’ Rashid was bewildered. ‘Why was he riding in the dark?’

  ‘We have to do it every night. We take the camels out. It’s too hot for them in the day. It’s horrible. You feel really tired and it’s cold. You’ll see.’ He yawned. ‘Where’s Salman? I want my supper.’

  Rashid suddenly realized that he was ravenously hungry. The sandwich Uncle Bilal had given him that morning belonged to another world.

  ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘And I want a drink.’