Author's Note:
Hi all,
Things should be a bit clearer by now - although it will continue to reveal itself in good time! ;-) It's a bit difficult to write at the moment, but I hope I'll be continuing as much as I can!
Just think of this chapter as a character sketch of Ardeth - for those who are big fans of him. It is dedicated to those for whom there is no such thing as enough when it comes to Ardeth.
Chapter 4: A House Divided Shall Not Stand
Your souls are suffering the pangs of hunger,
and yet the fruit of Knowledge is more plentiful than the stones of the valleys.
Your hearts are withering from thirst,
and yet the springs of Life are streaming about your Homes - why do you not drink?
The sea has its ebb and flow, the moon has its fullness and Crescents,
And the Ages have their winter and summer,
and all Things vary like the shadow of an unborn God moving between Earth and sun,
but Truth cannot be changed, nor will it pass away;
Why, then, do you endeavour to disfigure its countenance?
- Khalil Gibran, My Countrymen
The leadership was weary and so was he. But it was only the beginning, and that was why he dreaded it particularly. There was no end in sight, as far as he could see, a pessimistic shortcoming that he recognised as a recurrent fault in him; the black melancholy that surrounded him was ever present which he wore as he did his black robe, and deeply within he lay hidden.
The setting sun snapped the horizon in two, and the lone figure that galloped furiously on his indefatigable horse showed no outward signs of tiring, and briefly, he gave thanks as his soul momentarily lifted praise to Allah, relishing the dry, hot wind that intermittently flung coarse sand upon his cheeks.
Ah, so he was Ardeth Bay, the name that his father had so proudly named him when he was born, yet also the silent slave, a bondman to his tribe who seemed to fight losing battles these days, he thought dismally, the chieftain that would go down the Medjai annals as the one who rained disgrace upon all that was proudly Egypt. His messengers were rarely harbingers of peace, but prophets of ill news; death was a more welcome friend than life had been, and he had learnt that staying as an unwilling ally of it was way more profitable than insisting on becoming its enemy.
It occurred to him then, not without a twinge of guilt, that he had not thought of her as often as he felt he should have, that duties had imposed itself over the luxury of memories and sentimentality, wondering if he would have been the same man had she not died.
It was not many years ago, but time always covered one's mind and eyes with its large hands. It was something that he rarely visited, even if it meant within the confines of his mind, because of the suddenness and the shock that it had dealt him, a memory that was better left untouched, unstirred.
He had held her hand, pale and limp in his trembling ones, so tightly that his knuckles shuddered with the effort, as the last breath was stolen from her, the wondrous woman whom he had sweetly thought he might protect with all his life, the woman whom he thought in the ripeness of their season would share his bed and bear his heir. He thought of her now, not because he longed for her always, but to flood peace within himself, to colliding the mind's despondence with an illusion-rich image of Lena. He thought of her now, unconsciously, holding her up as his heart's shield because he had met Evelyn Carnahan, the faint stirrings within nonetheless too disturbing to douse.
She died with his father, both bountiful treasures of the heart that were snatched in the same day from him. How does one separate then the bonds that refuse to be unbound?
It was unfair to her, may her soul be richly blessed in paradise with Allah, the lovely Lena Shirin Bay, the woman whom the elders smiled upon, the woman who matched his fear and hot-headedness with a stubbornness and strength of her own. The one with whom he thought foolishly that Allah might grant them lives of respite and peace when it was not to be.
Time is too dead for her to return.
He was often lost in his thoughts. His council of leaders found him this way lately, withdrawn, eyes that flashed steel and then subtly, after he looked down and away, helplessness and despair that he knew had to be concealed from all that looked to him.
"Salaam, Ardeth. Keefak?" An elder met him, a warm greeting falling from his lips at the sight of the heir of Ishaq Bay, the gifted leader whose other sons were incomparable to this talented boy who had not disappointed, who had grown into a man of incomparable insight and self-restraint.
"Salaam, Azher," He pressed the elder's palm tight to his chest for a moment, before lifting it briefly to his lips. "Thanks be to Allah, I'm fine." His reply was half-hearted, yet necessary. "Come let us hurry."
They were waiting for him, the group that his father had completely relied on, and now he would honour tradition by doing likewise, taking his rightful place with the council of leaders all dressed in white in contrast to his black garb, faces reflecting an enlightened state that he had thirsted after, resigning himself to the passing of time to bestow that gift upon him.
Their greetings had been reverent and quick, yet solemn, as if the tumultuous days dampened their spirits. They had talked, sometimes arguing, sometimes in soft grieved voices, hashing out the same issues that must have been gone over again and again in the days when his father was still alive.
The flap of his own tent, built away from the rest of the population, lifted and closed as he stepped in afterward. Undressing mechanically, the legs found that it could no longer carry the weight of the entire body and the armour that he brought around with him, collapsing onto the lavish rugs that lined the edges of his pallet, his chest rising and falling as the voices from the council echoed around.
No preliminaries. We have news that there is another development. Watch your back, the council had warned.
Rick O'Connell discovered it, he is truly a great man, worthy of the Medjai, although his birthright is not as such.
No, we are not too sure yet, another had objected.
O'Connell has earned our trust. He is one of us. We will grant him that.
Why are you slow to believe? Ardeth had asked.
He rubbed his hands over his aching eyes. There was a pitcher of water next to his pallet. He took it, and downed its entire contents in large gulps, not caring that it overflowed, running in heavy rivulets down his throat, down his chest, drenching his stomach and the pants. It was a comfortable wetness, a refreshing gift that he gave himself every night.
You must stay low, Ardeth. There is unrest in the city. The enemy lurks deep, and you can trust no one.
He wanted to scream and shout his fury away - for to trust in no one was impossible. Surely we were made for companions too, not just enemies.
You trust Rick O'Connell. He is one of us.
The empty pitcher was placed back where he found it. And in the fading light, he saw two women, their faces so dissimilar, both smiling, inviting him into their warmth, wanting to stretch both arms out, to embrace them both without hesitance until a force pulled him back, whispering that he had neither of them.
Surely you do not want a continuation of violence. That way, none shall survive. A house - the house of the Egyptians that fights within itself shall not stand!
Ishaq Bay had died honourably. He died fighting someone - the English, the foreigners, who were not our own. That is surely deserving of credit, do you not agree?
And he was left weary, wearier than he felt in years, more tired than he had been after skirmishes with the Wafd, longing for all that was joyful, a feeling or sentiment that he was convinced would ripple through him as a foreign element should Allah grant another experience of it.
What my father started must have then been a mistake, he had retorted calmly.
Shocked faces, others were accepting and amused.
Your father's decision is best left at that. He thought it was right then. But he never knew that circumstances would be such. The English were abominable, in his sight. But you have made friends with them, proving that we are not all unapproachable. That was the reason that fuelled him to pledge allegiance to the Wafd.
And look at the death that he died, the bitterness that came from his lips was unprecedented, and the number of people that went down with him.
Ardeth, the past cannot be changed. We can only honour their memory by honouring all that they have started and finishing it through.
Have you forgotten the purpose of the Medjai? To protect the ancients, the heritage of Egypt.
But you must also fight, for a cause. Those who do not betray only themselves - empty vessels that have no inkling whatsoever of why they live.
He had resisted that strongly, only because it struck a resonant chord in him.
Fahroud, he had turned on an elder. Surely you have not forgotten those who have died, your children, your father?
He saw with grim satisfaction, the perceptible hardening of the jaw, and a liquid fire that slowly replaced the glazed look of the eyes.
That much you are right, Ardeth. Your father, my daughter Lena Shirin who was also your wifeand one other, Fahroud had sighed.
One other? Ardeth had asked.
Had you not known? Did Lena not tell you? Fahroud had stuttered with great shock.
He had shaken his head mutely, his words choked at the throat, fearing the worst.
She was carrying the next Medjai heir, your Medjai heir, when her breath was snatched from her, Fahroud had whispered slowly.
It was fearsome, the anger that had washed over him as a tidal wave would have swept and demolished Alexandria, yet he knew, that its display in front of the council rendered him an ineffective warrior, and the dark, swirling fury that churned inside only manifested itself as the tightening of his fists.
Shadows danced outside his tent; it had grown dark, firelight twitched with the movement of people, yet it was very still in his tent. The water that was slowly evaporating off his face streamed down his eyes anew. Every fibre stood on end, refusing to recognise that all might have been different had he -
There was nothing left in the tent that reminded him of her, in the frenzied, insane ritual he had taken upon himself to purge all living memories of her, until Fahroud's revelation restored the past to him, a past that was again new and fresh with wounds, distorted immediately by a luxuriant basket of the painful emotions that all indeed abhorred to have flung upon them. So this was the seizure, he thought, the seizure that divided his life from the past and the present.
He now had an additional, unnamed foetus to mourn for, the bundle of blood in her womb that would magically grow into the form of a small human, his seed.
Why had you not told me, Lena? That I might share your joy? Had you been afraid that I might have dominated your life, and stifled your vibrancy as you had often accused me of?
She had defied him, had borne arms when she knew of her perilous condition, a tranquillity that alternated itself with her spirited nature that disallowed placidity, bordering on the edge of rebellion, a contradiction in her nature that had both maddened and attracted him.
The past had to be buried again, but not before the mourning.
It had not taken him long to demand a consensus from all who sat there.
This meeting will conclude with something concrete, he had announced forcefully, gaining the attention of the increasingly restless council, surprising them, whose differing opinions could not be appeased completely.
I am laying down my cards. Hear what I have to say, before you make your decision. I want a council that is firstly, not divided in itself.
Nearly ten years ago, Ishaq Bay had given the Medjai over to the Wafd, in a bid to gain the independence of Egypt from the English. He was my father - I will not question his insight now, nor his reasons for doing so, and as many of you have pointed out, circumstances were different then. But I now wish to withdraw the Medjai from the Wafd, and there is division within because some do not want to do so, while some agree with me. Will you question my decision now, or is there unanimous support? I expect fully to encounter dissent, hatred and unhappiness. Maybe even betrayals. But it has to be done. Do you pledge your loyalty?
They had thrown in their votes, finally, some willingly, some reluctantly, promising the unflagging loyalty of their tribes, but then again, he was never too sure any more. Sometimes the words of men failed, so loosely given and so easily retracted.
Trust was so precious a commodity, and the urge to construct a hedge of protection around himself was too compelling to ignore, too urgent to deny.