It is Redheredh's birthday, as agreed by Bodkin and I. Have a wonderful year, my friend, and may the muses never leave you! I dare not step into your universe, but I hope you enjoy this.

Chapter 2.  Out in the desert.

Last day of December, 2006. Somewhere in Al Talila Reserve, Al Badia Desert, Palmyra, Syria, Middle East.

 “…And gazelles have multiplied now from ten to three-hundred. Oryx are taking longer, as it was expected, but all in all it cannot be said that we’ve been unsuccessful, what do you think, Dr. Feldman?” the young biologist almost shouted from the back seat of the old jeep that bumped across the rocky desert trail, not far from the Al Talila reserve boundaries.

The driver tried to mask his snort as a cough, and he avoided Dr. Feldman’s reproachful glance. The scientist sitting beside him looked tired, drained, and how would he not after such an exhausting trip, Asim thought, fixing his gaze on the battered track ahead.

“It is a good job indeed, congratulations. How’s the hunters’ association progressing?” Dr. Feldman barely turned back to answer.

“Oh! I don’t know.” The driver needed not look at the rearview mirror to know that the blond, young researcher was wearing a puzzled expression on his suntanned face. “We do not meddle in politics,” the young man added, and the tone in his voice conveyed what he did not say; “least of all in these god-forsaken lands and among these ignorant people.”

“Three-hundred gazelles are far more than the Reserve can handle… How are you controlling them?”

“Stop harassing Dr. Koster, Cyrus, he’s a biologist, not one of you, -program officers,” the fourth passenger, a tall, dark-haired man in his fifties, grunted in annoyance from his seat behind Dr. Feldman.  “Despite your good intentions all those smart Bedouins and their sedentary friends are turning things for their convenience, while you bureaucrats preach from your comfortable desks in Washington and Geneva…”

Asim tightened his grip on the wheel at that. Cyrus Feldman was not only a renowned scientist, but a good man as well, and the one who had fought for years to see the Reserve of Al Talila established before immoderate foraging caused the total loss of the grazing lands, the seasonal lakes and the traditional ways of living in the famed Hamad, the semi-arid rangelands of Al-Badia in Syria. Only when the Reserve turned out to be a success did researchers from all over the world, as well as a handful of agencies and Non Governmental Organizations, take notice of the endangered area and begin flocking there with resources and projects –and interests- that did not always match the needs of the local inhabitants. Things had changed drastically in the last twenty-five years, Asim thought grimly, but one thing was still sure: Cyrus Feldman remained the person who had done more for the inhabitants of the area –human, animal and vegetal. Far more than that newly minted German researcher and far more than Dr. Martin Green, Asim told himself, scowling mentally at the stern, impatient chief researcher who had just scolded Cyrus.

“It was not my intention to bother you, Dr. Koster, please accept my apologies; I fear my tiredness must be clouding my ability to express myself, as Dr. Green has kindly reminded me…” Dr. Feldman addressed the young biologist mildly.

“It’s ok, Dr. Feldman, no need to apologize…” the younger biologist was now blushing furiously –Asim had the pleasure to see as he cast a brief glance at the car mirror.

“Thank you. I just wanted to know how you are keeping track of their numbers if many of them are undoubtedly wandering off limits, and, most assuredly, being hunted down. I could inquire about the hunters’ association and give you a hand with that, if you find it useful,” he added calmly.

“Sure!” The other seemed excited with the prospect. “It is not only the gazelles, you know, but falcons, eagles, and houbaras as well. A hunters’ association seems the only way for them to coordinate and actually stop decimating the wildlife without control, though I cannot see how it could be achieved….”

“Cyrus has been trying to do that for ten years now, Erik,” Dr. Green put in with undisguised sarcasm, “and all he has managed is to be consistently tricked by these roguish people who only care for the money to buy more trucks and more sheep…”

This time, Cyrus could not help exchanging a quick, exasperated look with the driver.

“Ten years is but a short span for these people, Martin. Besides, it is dangerous to oversimplify.” Dr. Feldman’s voice had a steely tone now, as he addressed his colleague. “You know as well as I do that there are many other reasons, apart from some people’s dishonesty. Bedouins…”

“The Bedu are not the romantic, idealized people you keep defending. They are businessmen, Cyrus; shrewd, heartless and corrupt ones, selling away their lands and their natural resources for quick money…”

“Much as farmers and breeders and foresters are doing around the rest of the world.” It was seldom that Cyrus Feldman lost his composure, and Martin Green was an old friend and colleague. “Yet we try to help them do it in a more harmless way, don’t we?”

“Only to be consistently hindered by chemical and biochemical and pesticide and genetic labs, and do not forget food processing industry, trying to impose…” As former Chief Officer at UN Food Safety Unit and one who knew exactly what he was talking about, Dr. Green did nothing to mask the bitterness in his words.

“Exactly.” Cyrus Feldman’s voice held no hint of mockery or triumph. “The same old tale. And it happens everywhere, Martin, not only with the Bedu…”

A tense silence followed as the old vehicle cruised the parched, desolated area towards the Reserve research station. The sun was already as high as it would get in that season, and the freezing cold of the night seemed now almost impossible to believe, Cyrus thought, watching the light playing tricks with the irregular, angular boulders and the cracked rocks scattered around them. He let escape a deep sigh as he tried fruitlessly to wipe away the tiredness from his face. He had flown in Damascus late last night, but he was already up and waiting at five am, when Asim picked him up at the hotel for the three hour drive to the ancient city of Palmyra, where he had met with local authorities and received their shows of sympathy and their condolences. Later, they had joined Martin Green -and his assistant, Dr. Koster- for a cursory surveillance of the grazing areas around the Reserve, which lay some forty miles from the renowned city and archeological site.

“How are the Bald Ibises progressing?” Cyrus finally broke the silence, trying to find a safe topic.

“Oh…Well, they are fine!” the younger scientist sounded a bit uncertain. “We have set up an international team to watch over them,” he added in a lowered, confidential tone of voice. He moved forth, towards Cyrus, and kept speaking in a whisper. “We watch them constantly, day and night, from breeding to migrating season…And do not talk much about them. Local hunters might be interested in them, you know,” he added confidentially. “They are most valuable, the last individuals in a species long-thought extinct…”

It was obvious that young Dr. Koster simply ignored the well-known fact that Dr. Feldman was the former Director of the Reserve, and as such he had conducted the two-year wildlife inventory project that had led, among other less known results, to the discovery of that now famed and overprotected colony. Asim expressed his displeasure with that state of affairs driving the jeep into several holes, pretending not to take notice of Dr. Feldman’s warning glares and the younger biologist’s grunts as his head hit the car’s ceiling.

“Asim was in the team that found them,” Cyrus said then with a wicked smile. The driver could not hold back a dismayed groan.

“Oh, was he? Why Asim, you never talked about that!” Dr. Koster’s voice held a new tone of respect as he sat back, still rubbing his head. “It must have been a thrilling experience! How I wish I had been here then,” he mused wistfully. “Did people actually know that they were there?”

Asim blushed and murmured something unintelligible mostly directed at his moustache, obviously uncomfortable with this unwanted celebrity, while Dr. Koster continued pestering him with questions.

Cyrus closed his eyes for a while. He remembered those times only too well. Asim and his fellow local researchers had been patiently visiting distant hamlets and interviewing nomadic shepherds during the wildlife inventory process. Scattered in legends and old sayings, in time-withered stone carvings and traditional knowledge whispered from father to son, the hints and clues had slowly but definitely pointed to an almost unbelievable discovery. After a long, detailed search, a dwindling colony of Bald Ibises -the Al-nuq, the secretive hermit birds with their bald, wrinkled heads and necks and the glistening, iridescent sheen on their wings- was discovered in a remote mountain range, nesting in a sheer cliff. 

“Did the Bedu know they were there? I mean, it is strange that they survived for so long if the hunters knew of them…” Dr. Koster continued questioning Asim with more friendliness than he had shown to the driver since they had met earlier that morning.

The whole process had been a strange matter, Cyrus recalled with a wry smile, and a subject for many conjectures, as if someone had been guiding their steps carefully, while at the same time studying them and evaluating their goals. Rumour had it that someone had eventually allowed word of the precise location of the Al-nuq colony reach a team of local research assistants, and Asim had been one of them. Bound by their long-time honoured friendship, Cyrus had accepted Asim’s explanations and had not inquired beyond what was offered to him. And so the questions of who, how and why remained unanswered.

“Not even the Bedouin hunters would disturb the Al-nuq, Erik,” Martin Green explained wearily from his seat. “They are sacred to them, symbols of wisdom, splendour and glory, and revered ushers of transmigrating souls…”

“But surely their decline…”

“Their decline is not due to hunting, but just a biological indicator of the general, inexorable decline in the area… The files are kept in the Station’s archive, Erik; you’d do well in reading them. I believe they are there, Asim,” Dr. Green tapped the driver’s shoulder, pointing at a dismal patch of greenery barely visible under the trampling hooves of a great flock of sheep.

“Hold on,” the driver warned this time, getting out of the track and bumping the old vehicle expertly all the way to the small oasis, while his passengers did their best to avoid hitting their heads.

“What’s that trickster doing here…” 

Guessing that his colleague did not speak of any of the three young researchers clad in their stylish outdoors khaki outfit and bending over some expensive-looking pieces of equipment, Cyrus searched for the cause of Dr. Green’s contempt among the group of scruffy, dust covered Bedouins that stood by a battered truck arguing animatedly between them and with the young scientists, while the sheep grazed freely around them.

“I drove him to the rangelands a week ago. He is staying at the station for the season; all his permits are okay...”

“I know that, Asim. I am the chief researcher, after all,” Dr. Green snapped. “I mean, what is he doing here? There is always conflict around that man…”

That man, Cyrus decided, was the tall stranger leaning quite casually against the trembling flank of an extraordinarily well proportioned bay mare with the markings of pure Hadban breed, and who seemed to watch the quarrelling crowd with faint amusement.

Even before the vehicle came to a full stop, Dr. Green stepped out and strode towards the arguing group, shouting in his hoarse, heavily accented Arabic, Dr. Koster in tow.

“They are doing nothing wrong,” the driver grunted. After a short hesitation and a brief prayer he switched off the coughing engine. All of a sudden, the bleating of the sheep transported them to another age.

“I bet Dr. Green is ear bashing his assistants, Asim. He knows what he’s doing…” Cyrus said merrily, opening the door and breathing deeply the exhilarating and healthy desert air, glad to be able to stretch his long legs for a while. “I know Martin Green has not the sweetest of tempers,” he continued, chuckling at the driver’s scowl. “But he is an honest man; and one of the best professionals I have ever worked with…”

“...And I do not care that the satellite is not transmitting! You are supposed to know the boundaries and regulations by heart!” Irascible Dr. Green was certainly delivering a top grade scolding to his team, it seemed, but Cyrus’ attention was soon caught by the strange man, who now walked towards them, his mount following docilely.  Cyrus had a brief sight of an ironic smile on a pale, serious face and a black, intense and disturbingly deep gaze. The man covered his head with the checked kaffia, holding it in place with the agal, the double camel-hair cord, which was set at a jaunty angle. One corner of the head cloth was thrown back after the manner of the desert Bedouins. He nodded courteously as he walked past them.

“Welcome back, Dr. Feldman. Asim,” he greeted them in a powerful, eerily beautiful voice that stirred a faint memory in Cyrus. He blinked briefly and the man had already jumped gracefully on the tall mare and was riding away.

“Who is he?” Cyrus asked, his puzzlement increased by seeing deep respect in the way Asim had returned the stranger’s greeting.

“Al-nuq,” the driver answered briefly, naming the stranger with the same word the Bedu used for their respected Bald Ibis. A harsh call from Dr. Green prevented Cyrus from making more questions.

“Asim, help them carry their equipment to the jeep. Cyrus, I hope you don’t mind if we give them a lift, although they do not deserve it,” he groaned exasperatedly. The three young researchers -a thin, minute girl and two strong, muscular looking fellows- looked properly downcast and embarrassed, but Cyrus did nothing to reassure them. A lesson in humility was never redundant, so he turned his attention to the shepherds, who looked around nervously. He recognized one of them and soon was engaged in an animated conversation.

“Cyrus, we’re ready!” Picking up the impatient ring in his colleague’s voice, Dr. Feldman exchanged vigorous hand shakes with the men and took his seat beside Asim, while the driver tried repeatedly to get the engine started, encouraging it with soft curses.

“I hope Selim was not very enraged by this incident,” Dr. Green commented. “See, Cyrus, Dr. Surayud, Dr. Matheson and Dr. Howard,” Dr. Green introduced him to the three new passengers that were crammed in the rear compartment among the pieces of equipment. “They are our visiting researchers, so deeply committed with the vast sea of knowledge that surrounds them… For over a month there has been this big notice on the general board at the station announcing that this big Zuara would be taking place… Of course, any announcement that does not reach them via e-mail is not worth their attention….” Dr. Green kept ranting. “Can you tell me then why you thought you had the right to hold these people up and threaten them with sanctions and god knows what else?”

“We thought… we thought they were going to enter the Reserve with their sheep and they did not have the permits,” a voice answered uncertainly from behind.

 “And what did they have to say?”

 “They claimed they had rights and that they were heading to a well outside the reserve anyway, but you know how these people are, Dr. Green, they are always making things up…” The coughing sound of the engine masked Asim’s amused chuckle as hell broke loose over the unsuspecting scientists.

“If you are so sure that they are going to lie to you, then you must have more information than they possess, so you can double check their claims on spot, dear team,” Martin Green said very coldly. “During some special gatherings all Bedu and their cattle are allowed to enter the Reserve, Dr. Howard. And the upcoming Zuara is the greatest of these gatherings, taking place only once every seven years, as the wandering clans meet with their leader, the sheikh Labid,” he pronounced slowly and loudly, as if talking to children. “If you see a notice on the general board and do not know its meaning or importance you are supposed to ask. The management plan clearly records the exceptions on every type of local celebrations, and it is your responsibility to know those regulations,” he added sternly, barely controlling his anger. “You had no right to act as you did, and it was very irresponsible of you three…”

“Dr. Drung told us so,” the girl admitted after another, rather embarrassed pause.

“Dr. Drung?” Cyrus turned to ask, his curiosity piqued.

“Or Daerung or… whatever it is his name,” she informed him with a beautiful smile. “The man with the horse.”

“Al-Nuq,” Asim added helpfully. Dr. Green reacted as if he had been bitten by a viper.

“Stop calling him that, Asim! I do not want to hear him called like that! It only drives unnecessary attention to the birds,” he added, at Cyrus’ questioning glance. “And besides, why does he call himself Bald ibis? He’s an anthropologist, and he even wasn’t around when the birds were found out… Was he, Cyrus?”

“Perhaps he is bald as well?” Cyrus suggested playfully, amused by his colleague’s unexpected outburst.  “No, I had never met him before, although there is something familiar in him,” he continued more seriously. “And somehow I feel that it was not he who chose the name,” he said. Asim’s serious face only confirmed his suspicion.

It was strange, Cyrus thought, that he who had worked tirelessly there for several years and had earned, he knew, the trust and respect of the Bedouins had never met –not even heard of- that tall stranger who was apparently well known to the Bedu –and deeply respected by them to the point of naming him after their sacred bird.

“Look there! White camels!” Dr Koster, who was surely considering a career as a firefighter after that tense morning, pointed to a not too distant cloud of dust that, after careful observation, dissolved into the strangely attractive silhouettes of a herd of camels, the pure whites standing out among their darker haired kin. It was a wondrous sight, and one that heralded good luck and strange portents, the desert people believed. They all watched in awed silence as the herd walked away in their slow, swaying cadence, like an illusion out of a distant time.

“That is the sheikh’s herd, Erik,” Dr. Green’s harsh voice broke the spell. “He is here to preside over the Zuara. You might as well find out that your hunters’ association is quickly established at a click of his fingers, as Dr. Feldman probably expected,” he told his assistant harshly. Cyrus shook his head and chose not to take offence.

“Can any of you tell me the direction the camels are taking?” he asked instead calmly to the three downcast researchers crammed in the rear compartment.

“Southwest?” The answer came after some hesitation and much neck craning.

“Right. And we could see that the sheep were heading the same way. Now, the Reserve lies in the opposite direction, doesn’t it? “

“Well, yes, but without the satellite….”

“Instruments are useful, but will be more so if you learn to look around with your own eyes as well. The sheep were not heading towards the Reserve limits but opposite, and in that direction lies a famed well, which is also an important meeting place, something you could have learned from the big map hanging in every office back at the research station. Didn’t you notice the flocks of white-throated robins all along the way as well?” he asked, pointing at a cloud of white dots that jumped happily on a dwarf shrub, shamelessly unafraid of the coughing and bumping vehicle.

“Why should we?” There was an expectant, interested silence brewing in the rear compartment.

“Because they usually gather around camel stool,” Cyrus explained patiently in his best professorial mode. “While it is still fresh,” he added with a soft chuckle. “And so you would have known that a herd of camel had passed in the same direction not long ago…Now, two herds heading for the same point…What would that mean, in the desert?

“Water.”

“An oasis.”

“Food.”

“Exactly. So, you see, you needed not the Gps to have a good idea that the shepherds were indeed heading to a well, and not into the Reserve. They weren’t within boundaries, in the first place,” he reminded them gently. “The instruments are not your eyes. You should rather use them to improve your sight.” He waited for the acknowledging grunts and continued with a smile. “You must remember that this is their land, and all we are doing here is helping them care for it as they have chosen to do,” he ended firmly, but in a kind way.

They were now reaching the entrance to the Reserve, and Cyrus stopped paying attention to the animated chatter that had followed his practical lesson. He studied the familiar adobe building of the scientific station and the new, ochre-coloured lower structure that flanked it, the new Environmental Education Centre, with its arboretum, its original Bedouin tent and its welcoming flags, with mixed feelings. It had been a long, hopeful fight for such a small place, and he had thought to see it finished under happier circumstances. But despite his personal grief, the Centre held the hopes of the desert population, and it was in itself a beautiful tribute to those who had contributed to it but would never see it, he reminded himself firmly. Cyrus let escape a deep, sad sigh and then shrugged apologetically at the worried look in Asim’s face.

“Will you join us for the New Year’s Eve celebration, Dr. Feldman?” one of the young researchers invited him as they unloaded the equipment and Cyrus’ pack from the jeep. He suddenly felt all the weariness of the past months crushing him.

“I will, if I am in a better shape in a few hours, thank you,” he managed with a tired smile.

“Oh, it will all begin before seven,” the girl warned him, and then, with a friendly wink, “Bangkok time, you know!”

“And then Central and Eastern European time and then West Coast time,” Dr. Koster informed merrily, pointing at his colleagues. “You cannot fail to attend at least one celebration!” he joked, as they entered the station laughing excitedly.

“You knew the sheikh Labid would be here this year, didn’t you?”

Cyrus had just shaken Asim’s hand in goodbye and was picking up his backpack. He looked up to see Martin Green standing before him, his hands on his hips, his face set and his voice tense.

“What do you mean, Martin?”

“That you planned to come here in coincidence with the Zuara so you could talk your friend the sheikh into promoting your cursed hunters’ association, and earning all the recognition for it!” he spat.

It was so strange for Martin Green to be that mean that, had he been in the mental frame to consider it, Cyrus would have not taken his words into account, blaming them on the unbearable pressure of the almost insurmountable task he was facing. But he had his own wounds as well, and the dam was ready to break.

“I planned to come here in coincidence with the Zuara because I had promised my son that he would ride a white camel and would get to see the Bedu in their greatest day, and that he would meet their highest chief,” he said coldly, in a voice that did not tremble. “And because I wanted him to see a place he, too, helped create,” he added more hoarsely. With that, he turned his back on his friend and stomped up the stairs inside the station and towards the spartan room he knew was prepared for him upstairs.

***

Silence was born in the desert- Cyrus groaned as he rolled in his bed, straining in vain to discern the slightest noise that would lull him back to sleep. With an exasperated sigh he admitted that he would not find more rest that day -or night- and so he sat up tiredly, groping in the dark until he found the lamp.

The room was as he remembered it, showing the healthy simplicity of the nomadic desert people, who treasured most the things that could be carried away in their souls. The guests’ chamber contained a big bed, a small window, a chair, a wooden table and washstand and a brightly coloured rug by the bedside. A niche in the adobe walls served as cupboard; another, as a nightstand. A pack of candles and a half consumed stub meant that power remained as reliable as it used to be, Cyrus thought idly. He stood up and stretched his sore muscles, and decided to take a shower, hoping that the hot water would wash away the last threads of his tortured dreams.

But the sad memories were still there as he put on clean trousers and a shirt and sweater and combed his short, silver streaked hair. In his troubled sleep he had traveled back, unwillingly, to the last days he had spent with his wife and son in Rome past summer. He kept reliving their last goodbye at Fiumicino airport where they had last parted, he, heading for Edinburgh, where he was awaited at the World Summit, while Susan and little George were to return to their current home in Kenya in the following day.

He had experienced again in his dreams the unexplained anguish, the desperate, silent cry that had rent him from within and had forced him to abandon a press conference; the sudden emptiness and despair and the searing certainty that had overwhelmed him -even before he heard of a plane crash in East Africa- that they were no more with him.

That was his nightmare, the one he relived again and again, the feeling of standing alone at the edge of a tall cliff looking down on a bottomless abyss, and the certainty that he would be there for the rest of his life. Everything else was a dream. A bad one, admittedly, but he had gone stoically through all the procedures and had received condolences with the same professional distance he dispensed to critiques. And then he had resumed working, back at Headquarters, postponing his return to their empty house until he felt he was strong enough to confront that merciless silence.

He picked up his parka and walked downstairs in search of some food. They had planned that New Year’s Eve up to the slightest detail together. George and his ten year old schoolmates in their small Kenyan hamlet had contributed with their drawings of African wildlife to the exhibition about biodiversity in the recently opened Environmental Education Center at the Reserve. That Center was the last link in the delicately crafted job of arousing environmental awareness in the nomadic shepherds that Cyrus had conducted there for more than ten years, and the child had been eager to see the result of his father’s efforts and his own contribution. It hurt deeply to remember it now that he was actually there, alone, on the appointed day. Cyrus half-choked on a strangled sob as he walked along deserted corridors in the silent and empty station he knew so well.

He crossed the large mess hall and, out of habit, turned out the light that someone had carelessly left on. The remains of the celebration of the New Year, Bangkok time, were still visible on a corner of one of the smaller tables that had apparently replaced the huge wooden plank that used to occupy most of the room when he was Director there. Staff, service people, drivers, scientists and park rangers out of duty joined around it to share meals and conversation in an informal, relaxed atmosphere back then. He went into the ample kitchen and after some searching he helped himself to a serving of already cold Gai Yang.

“Of course, everybody went home for the new year,” he told himself, finally understanding the reason for that deep quietness. “And the rest will be celebrating with the Bedu.” With a tired sigh he put his plate on the pile in the sink and stepped out the back door and into the overwhelming splendor of the desert night.

Fighting the urge to sit there under the blazing stars and drown in a pain that struggled to make itself heard, Cyrus decided to join in the revelry that, he knew, was taking place several miles south at the Sheikh’s camp, where he would be surely entertaining most of the station scientists, as well as his own council of elders. He found the keys of one of the battered trucks in its usual hiding place and drove south, to the distant reflection of the open fires in the Bedu camp. 

The magic struck him as soon as he turned off the engine and descended. The long, flat, hand-woven camel hair tents of the elders stood in a wide circle, and the open fires still blazed happily, although the traditional mensaf surely had been eaten up long ago.

A crowd was gathered around one of the tents, clapping hands and singing animatedly. As the throng parted briefly Cyrus got a glimpse of a man tenderly embracing the wooden, light frame of a rababa and plucking it in a frenzy that was punctuated by the steady beat of the mihbaj, the Bedouin coffee grinder. As the gap became wider to allow a young one a hurried retreat, Cyrus caught sight of the rababa player, who was no other than the stranger Asim had named Al-nuq. Before him, sitting on a coloured rug, the minute Thai scientist knocked and stirred the large, wooden, stand-up coffee grinder, hitting it with the stick and keeping the rhythm with great concentration, encouraged by her two colleagues. The Bedu around them took times at improvising the rhymes, fantastic tales of wine, camels, desert wisdom, battles and women, and the strange man would end up each round with the ancient refrain from a well-known ode: “So I stood and questioned the desert; yet how should we question rocks, whose speech is nothing ever heard by Man?”  

“Dr. Feldman, you are here!” A hand on his arm shook him from the spell of the music.

“Erik,” Cyrus nodded to Dr. Green’s assistant, turning his attention again to the show. Two old men were now competing with increasingly intricate verses about the glories of their respective herds and horses, under the indulgent, satisfied smile of the player.

“The sheikh awaits you….”

Cyrus followed the assistant to the longest of the tents, where the sheikh and his council of elders drank coffee, entertained guests and resolved the lingering feuds that could dampen the upcoming celebrations, when thousands of nomadic Bedu would gather around the Ephka, the third sacred spring in an ancient system around the city of Palmyra, to search for wisdom and honour a force that was even older than their god.

“Welcome, Cyrus, friend of the Bedu, we are brothers in joy and sorrow.”

“Well met, sheikh Labid. I ask for the Bedu’s hospitality for the night,” he returned, bowing to the group of old men sitting around on the coloured rugs and greeting each of them by name. Martin Green was there as well, and they nodded to each other warily.

“Ease your mind, my friend,” the old sheikh urged him, stretching to reach the pot and pouring a shot of the cardamom scented coffee on a small china cup. Cyrus complied gladly with the ritual welcome and accepted three cupfuls:  one for the soul, one for the sword and one because you are a guest and a brother in this tribe.

“May the wisdom of the Ephka pour down on you and your people,” he wished, jiggling the empty cup briefly to indicate that he was done with coffee, and that, given that they were sitting outside the tent, he was ready to get to business talk as well.

“We have good news for you, Cyrus,” one of the elders began, avoiding the traditional questioning about health and family. “The clans have agreed to regulate the hunt of the houbaras. The sheikh has spoken to each and every hunter in the desert for ten years, but your colleague says that is not enough…”

Not paying attention to Martin Green’s tense expression, Cyrus let escape a resigned sigh and embarked again in another round of never-ending negotiations, checking all the issues that had been discussed endless times with these and other leaders of the Bedu.

A teapot had made its appearance, and several cups later he discovered with surprise that all their demands had been met by the cunning, shrewd Bedu, who simply wanted to see if they forgot any of their requirements on that last round.

“A two-kilometre security perimeter around the Reserve for gazelles and Oryx, a ban on houbaras, falcons and eagles, and a hunters’ association to regulate the catches, is that all, Dr. Green?” the old sheikh summed up quite nonchalantly, as it had not taken them almost ten years to reach that agreement. The stern chief researcher nodded nervously, reluctant to express either agreement or otherwise, lest he would somehow offend the sheikh.

“We Bedu understand the need to care for the wilderness,” the sheikh added slowly. “The people of sheikh Labid are true Bedu” he claimed, hitting his chest. “We deal not with sheep or goat and we follow the rains with our camels. But we are not the leaders of all Bedu,” he continued with a wry smile. “We have no power over those who raise sheep and live in houses and drive trucks, and lead their herds into the Reserve and eat out the grass and dry out the springs… We are not sedentary, greedy businessmen. We do respect the rangelands, yet the government would force us to settle down in the cities and pay taxes, we will not allow that!”

Before his colleague pointed out in his curt manner all the damages caused by sheikh’s Labid nomadic people in the past ten years, Cyrus chimed in.

“The sheikh Labid is wise like the desert. We cannot tell the government to leave the Bedu alone, but they will see that the Bedu are good for the rangelands and the reserve.”

“But there is still the problem with the water,” another of the elders pointed out.

Martin Green sighed. “That is the government’s problem,” he lashed out impatiently. “It is not only your sedentary kin who are exhausting the wells and springs…I can see that the sheikh owns a quite comfortable truck as well…”

“Trucks made all men equals, Martin Green,” the sheikh said harshly after a tense silence. “So now the wisdom and cunning of a Bedu, and his ability to survive in the desert mean nothing when a truck can drive sheep faster and farther than camels can walk…”

Dr. Green was about to retort, but the sheikh raised a hand and bid them all listen. Cyrus whistled in appreciation. He knew that great skill was needed to coax such a bewitching sound out of a wood and horse hide instrument with no frets or sound hole and with just one horse-hair string. And yet it was not the enthralling, thick, rich sound of the ancient rababa what sent shivers down his spine, but the haunting, husky, otherworldly voice that now accompanied the old instrument, making the well-known words of the song, the praise of a swift camel, sound fresh and new as they must have sounded when Tarafa, the murdered poet boy, first sang them in a fit of youthful delight during a long, boring desert journey more than a thousand years ago.

It seemed that all the joy of Bedu life, the freedom of the desert, the light of the stars, the strength of camels and the speed of pure breed horses, but also the melancholy of a time long past, were there in the singer's voice. 

Cyrus felt a lump in his throat, a pain in his chest, an ache in his heart, a longing for a beauty that he had not known but that called to mind the forlorn hopes of a life that had come to an untimely end. As the voice faded away, like the echoes of the marching hoofs of the camel, Cyrus could see that he was not the only one moved almost to tears by the eerily powerful voice. Even the sleek, slender saluki dogs stirred in their dreams, surely following falcons and camels in a never ending hunt.

“Who is he?” Cyrus managed in a voice that trembled slightly.

“Al- nuq,” one of the elders pronounced with deep reverence.

“That’s nonsense,” Martin Green burst out angrily. “He is just a ...”

“He sang back the Al-nuq to us,” the wise old man insisted firmly, looking Dr. Green in the eye, challenging him. The scientist lowered his gaze and the old one turned then to Cyrus. “The birds were gone, he only knows where, and when he saw that the true Bedu were ready to welcome them, he sang them back, so the souls of our dead may find their way…”

“But he…”

“He is the Hammad,” the sheikh added in a voice that admitted no opposition. “The transmitter. He has given us the words back, renewed; the songs of our past, which had been lost in trivial, meaningless repetition. To possess the word is to own your fate and he gave us that…” he added thoughtfully.

“Given the state of your people, it cannot be said that he has given you much, though,” Dr. Green answered scathingly, and for once in that long day, Cyrus felt that he had to agree with his short-tempered colleague.

“You judge for what you see, Dr. Green,” the sheikh retorted with a soft, understanding smile. “These are hard times for the world, and something new is fighting its way out, while many things are lost. Well-being is not wealth and comfort. It is knowing who you are and what you are here for. For long the Bedu forgot who they were and where they belonged to. Death is not to be feared, but failure. He gave us our pride back, our own selves, and for that we are grateful.”

“The ways of the Bedu are their own to follow,” Dr. Green said finally, after a moment in which he looked as if willing to contradict the sheikh. “And I am glad that we have reached an agreement.” He proffered his hand and shook the sheikh’s. “The agreement is sealed and the Bedu will profit from it. Substantially, if I may say so. May the poles of your tent keep increasing their numbers until they match the stars in the sky,” he said courteously, taking his leave from his host, and then he stood up swiftly and looked at Cyrus. “You brought the old jeep, didn’t you?” he asked, stretching his hand. “Asim will drive you back when you are finished here.”  Cyrus gave him the keys and accepted another cup of tea, wishing that the strange man would sing them all into oblivion before that long, tiring day was over.

“A good man, Martin Green,” the sheikh said at last, some time after Dr. Green had left. “He truly cares for the lands, but for all his knowledge, he is wholly ignorant of the cycle of things…” he added, and they all laughed knowingly.

“I cannot help but agree with him, Labid,” Cyrus argued tiredly. “You are not much better than the High Sheikh in Damascus…many of your youths are already taking to sedentary life and shepherding more sheep than the rangelands can sustain…because they have no other options left. We are trying to stop the tide with our bare hands,” he said, and then had to laugh at the irrelevant metaphor he had just used. “We are trying to block the sun with our finger,” he corrected himself.

“We are, indeed,” the sheikh assented calmly. And then, at Cyrus’ perplexed look, “come, my friend, you are tired and grieving, but you cannot fail to see that it is a time of change…and much that we now love will be lost before you and I follow the Al-nuq. Water is the friend of the Bedu, but it is also the desert’s enemy. We fight to preserve what we love most, only to see it slip through our fingers in its due time. Only words will be left, and singing beautifully is what we must do, so things are not forgotten and something is preserved, even if only as a dim memory that may one day sprout again into being…”

The stars shone brightly on their path in the cold desert night, making up for a new moon that was shrouded, sharing Cyrus’ mourning, as Asim drove them back to the station.

“So, was that the man who led you to the Al nuq?” Cyrus asked quite abruptly. The driver just nodded. “And where did he come from? Who is he? Why did he know where the birds were? Did they sing him to life or what?” he ranted quite pointlessly

“Some say he’s a Djinni,” Asim shrugged with his provoking half smile. Cyrus sighed and passed a hand over his brow and let escape a short laugh.

“I can well believe that. I think I’m too tired to think,” he added apologetically. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Asim.”

“It was my pleasure, Dr. Feldman,” the driver answered. “I’ll pick you up at noon, to drive you to the Zuara,” he added, trying to show his affection without breaking his usual impassive façade. Cyrus knew him well and just nodded, descending tiredly and patting the car’s roof in goodbye. 

“You are welcome to spend the countdown for the New Year –European time- out here, Dr. Feldman,” a deep voice informed him as soon as Asim had disappeared towards the staff barracks. He turned on his heels to see the musician sitting on the stairs that led to the kitchen’s door. There was light coming from the windows on the side and the front, and Cyrus suspected that the celebrations would go on for some time, making it impossible to slip silently upstairs and find some rest. He nodded silently and walked slowly towards the stranger, eyeing him with curiosity.

“And who would you be?” he asked brusquely, sitting on the steps beside the stranger. “A Djinni, the Hammad, Dr. Something… not the Al-nuq, that is evident,” he added ironically, glancing at the man’s long, glistening black mane that he wore in a loose braid.

“The name is Daeron,” the man smiled amiably, proffering a pale hand with long, calloused fingers and letting escape a laugh that rang deeply, musically in the silent night. “But my friends call me just the Bard. Or the Poet,” he added with a mischievous grin.

“Dr. Feldman. Cyrus Feldman. But you already know me, I’ve heard. It was long since I last heard someone play the rababa with such mastery,” Cyrus complimented him in a friendlier manner. “No wonder the sheikh thinks you the new Hammad…”

A sudden burst of laughter and cheers wafted through an open window and cut the musician’s answer.

“They are having a great time,” Cyrus observed.

“Dr. Green was very happy about the agreement. Congratulations…” Daeron observed merrily. Cyrus cast a wary look at him.

“Perhaps we have to thank you for that as well?” he asked pointedly. The man laughed again and shook his head.

“Me? I am the Bedu’s minstrel, not their sheikh, or environmental advisor,” he retorted lightly. Cyrus smiled despite himself and took the point. 

“That’s good. I do not think Dr. Green would be glad to hear you had anything to do with his great success…”

“Says the man who fought for ten years to convince the Bedu to stop decimating the houbaras at their pleasure. Are you truly relinquishing all merits and honours on this?” The softly mocking tone in the elegantly modulated voice irritated Cyrus Feldman.

“What do you know and why would you care, anyway?” he demanded, quite petulantly.

“I am the man who sang back the Al nuq, do not forget that,” Daeron retorted cheerfully. “I am supposed to know everything that goes around here. Try this,” he added pleasingly, producing a silver flask from a tightly woven bag by his side, “let us celebrate.”

Cyrus drank briefly and studied the intricate carvings on the flask.  “Interesting work. I cannot identify the craftsmanship. Nor the liquor, by the way,” he added, handing it back to its owner with a grateful nod.

“I didn’t expect you to,” Daeron said with a pleasant, enigmatic smile, offering no more information. Cyrus sighed as the other drank.

“I…I tire of useless fights,” he sputtered, breaking a companionable silence. “I fought for ten years to see that hunters’ association established, but whom do I want to fool?” he wondered aloud. “Martin thinks it’s a success because he can tick off another item from his management plan, but he cannot see that this is temporary…  The sheikh was right. Much shall be lost -and soon. Much has been already lost, and even if we manage to save something here, now, it will not survive other things we have no control over…it is a mighty loss of time,” he concluded, grabbing the silver flask and gulping down another long swig of the somehow comforting drink.

“I’d say that you are weighed down by your recent loss,” Daeron observed neutrally, “and not by your fights. For, tell me, what is life in the end but a lost battle? We lose parts of ourselves every day, until there is nothing else to lose…”

“But it hurts more when you lose chunks,” Cyrus retorted, amused despite himself.

“You are right there…”

“I have had enough,” Cyrus sighed. “Enough wandering, enough fighting, enough fooling myself. This is a lost battle and I’ve reached my limit. I have nothing else to lose…nor the will to keep trying.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I had promised my son that we would spend the New Year with the Bedu. He wanted to ride a white camel…”

“I once swore that I would not ever again walk in a forest land,” the other sighed. The wistful tone of his voice piqued Cyrus’ curiosity.

“Why?”

“Because it was long ago in a mighty forest that I met her, and loved her, and lost her,” the musician whispered in a voice that stirred Cyrus’ soul beyond compassion.

“I am sorry…”

“And yet here I am,” the strange man said with a wicked smile, his eyes glinting strangely as he turned to look at Cyrus.

“Not many trees around…”

“You are wrong, my friend,” Daeron smiled, and let escape another of those laughs that seemed to come from unmeasured depths. “Look,” he added, grabbing a handful of soil and placing his open hand before Cyrus. “Limestone. Flint. Sedimentary rock. This once was a marine bed, this stone once was alive, breathed and swam and ate and loved..and died to rest on the sea floor.  And then a powerful force broke and submerged the forestlands, and pressed the trees and leaves and fishes and mollusks together. Then it elevated the marine depths again, so now the stones resonate with the voices of those creatures that roamed the lands and swam the seas that once were, as they now slowly dissolve into dust. There is no way of escaping loss, Cyrus, for it is all around us…it is the matter of life.”

“Why fight it, then,” Cyrus argued obstinately, charmed by the point yet reluctant to give in, as a child who sought reassurance when faced with an impossible task.

“Because in fighting and losing we learn to understand…and understanding is the first step to loving what we are bound to protect. We are Stewards, much as Dr. Green and the Bedu... The world began without Men in it, Cyrus; all things already had their own voices before the Men came and silenced them…but they are still there, fighting to be heard and heeded… ”

“I am yet to hear the music of the atoms,” Cyrus said with mild irony. “And I doubt it would make any difference, if I ever got to hear it, “ he added quickly. He seemed to have regained his footing, stepping solidly on his pown, private quagmire of frustration and pain. “But you are an anthropologist, then…”

“Entropologist, I prefer to call myself,” the other laughed, completely undisturbed by Cyrus’ apparent sarcasm. “But above all I am a song-chaser,” he continued flippantly, “because music is the true fabric of the world, the language in which all was written and brought to life and death…Can’t you hear?” he urged then them both to silence.

The desert night was cold and silent. Those celebrating inside had closed windows and doors, so no sound came from the otherwise quite sober celebration.

And still…

“You heard it?”

Cyrus cursed. “Martin was right, you are a jester…”

“No, you heard it, you know what I mean…”

Dim, soft but ominous, from time to time they could hear the faint sound of a boulder or rock cracking under the pressure of frozen drops of the day’s moisture trapped on its pores and breaking it to crumbles.

“Water is the desert’s enemy” Cyrus reminded the sheikh’s words and shook his head. “But this…”

“This is the desert’s death song. The geological clock, if you want. The voice of the stones. The endless, unstoppable cycle. What once was a forest, then became an ocean, then rose to the surface and hosted camels and caravans for a while, until water again turns it into sand and after that… who knows?”

“Water, irrigation, soil regeneration…” Cyrus muttered thoughtfully. “What are you trying to tell me?” he confronted the mysterious man with a frown.

“That you are still needed, Dr. Feldman, more than ever, and that you are the only one who is ready to hear the song of the earth in all its grieving voices…and find some comfort for its ailments…”

“I am a scientist…”

“And you can learn to be a more integral one, an Earth scientist, one that sees and hears what others are too busy or blind or deaf to perceive…”

“This is magic, superstition. New-ageish blather you are spreading around…”

The man smiled knowingly and closed his eyes briefly, then began humming to himself. His voice rose softly, like smoke, like mist over a frozen lake, sweet like a cherry tree in blossom but also strong, and powerful like a high sea storm. Or was it a winter gale across a naked forest? And then Cyrus gaped. He blinked twice but it was still there, all around him, a densely canopied forest and a starlit glade, and a wind that swirled around fallen leaves and children that ran and played and laughed merrily, while Daeron’s voice brought to life a strong forest scent, and a warm feeling, and a deep joy.

“What... what the hell was that!”

Daeron blinked and shrugged. “New-ageish blather,” he joked softly with a kind smile, as the last threads of the fvision vanished in the thin air.

“But I… saw the forest…I smelled it!” Cyrus looked at the other man through narrowed eyes. “What did you do?”

“I sang,” the man said simply, mildly. “And you saw.”

“I did not understand the words… I could not recognize the language!”

“I did not expect you to,” Daeron repeated with a wink, offering him the silvery flask again. Cyrus smelled it distrustfully and then shrugged and drank down.

“Now you will make me believe that you are actually the Al nuq, ushering the souls of the dead towards reincarnation…Am I dead or what?-,” he joked with nervous uncertainty.

“I don’t think so,” Daeron answered with a shrug. “And if I were indeed the Al nuq I would have certainly followed her long ago, wherever she dwells now,” he added in an immensely sad voice, and all of a sudden all magic disappeared. That was a lonesome, bereft man like himself, Cyrus thought, deeply sympathizing with the Daeron’s pain. He returned the flask with a knowing glance.

“Was she beautiful?”

“The most beautiful girl that ever sang upon the face of the lands of Hither,” Daeron assented, in a whisper that seemed to come from a long distance. “The flowers blossomed as she walked, and the birds learnt their songs from her lips…” Cyrus nodded in understanding.

“What happened?”

“She met another. Then she died.”

“I am sorry. Did you have any children?”

The man lifted a troubled, extraordinarily beautiful face to the stars and sighed.

“She did. Not mine.”

Four simple words that conveyed the weight of a heartbreaking tale, Cyrus knew. The evening star shone briefly in the man’s bottomless eyes as he looked up in hope and pain, as if expecting that mercy and forgiveness could come from above. 

“But that was long ago,” he added then in a voice that was again free of anguish. “Since then, I walk in dead forests, listening to faint echoes of joys long past...Grieve in peace, Dr. Feldman, but then stand up again and keep walking,” he said, standing up and shaking Cyrus’ hand. “There is much still to do.”

And with that he walked into the night, leaving Cyrus there, blinking in amazement and staring at the pieces of rock and sand on his hand, the parting gift of that talented trickster.

He slept deeply that night, and no dreams troubled his rest. Right before waking, he thought he heard a bird sing, and a soft rush of wind brought him the scent a northern forest. He blinked in surprise and opened his eyes carefully; half-hoping that he would wake up in the same glade he had glimpsed the night before. The sober white walls met his gaze and he shook his head amusedly, chiding himself. 

And yet he could still feel the fresh fragrance of beech and oak leaves around him, and a sense of hope and renewal that he had thought forever lost filled his heart as he got up and made ready for the day. 

A/N

Disclaimer: Daeron belongs to Tolkien. The rest are fictional characters in almost fictional places and events...

Houbara: A bird of the family of bustards, much appreciated -and brought to the brink of extinction- by Arabic hunters.

Rababa: in short, the father of all fiddles.

Bedouin Literature: Around the eight century (BC), a talented scholar with a prodigious memory compiled the works of many bedouin poets in what are known as the Golden odes. This man, known as "The Hammad" or transmitter, was the first to fix some of the traditional and ancient verses of these nomadic people. Tarafa, the murdered boy was one of those poets. Most of the Bedu compositions are on free verse, revolving around the subjects of the desert, camels, wine, women, horses, the hunt, the passing of life, and so on.

Djinni: spirits of the earth, in pre islamic desert mythologies.