In the Eye of the Storm

  Faint hope stirred in my despairing mind. Could it be the doctor? He wasn’t scheduled to come, but maybe he had decided that I was well enough to leave, after all.

  Footsteps approached down the corridor outside. Soft footsteps. Feminine. My hope evaporated. So, it wasn’t the doctor after all. It was one of my torturers.

  Grimly, I stared at the gruesomely flowered wallpaper.

  The door creaked open. There was a moment of silence. What were they waiting for? Usually they were on me the moment the door was open.

  ‘Whoever you are,’ I told them, ‘get on with what you’ve come here for and get out. I have no patience for time-wasters.’

  ‘I know, Sir.’

  The voice was soft and feminine, and yet utterly unlike Violet’s. Violet’s was the screech of a hellish harpy. This voice—this voice was a balm, a light at the end of the tunnel, promising rescue from my prison of comfort and care.

  I whipped around, and there she stood: Lillian Linton. She was still wearing the same dress I had forced on her aboard the ship. It was stained now, and ripped in several places, but I didn’t care. She might have worn rags and would have been more beautiful than any queen in golden robes to me! I had never particularly noticed her resemblance to an angel of light before, but right now, it was suddenly self-evident.

  Particularly if she was here to get me out of this hellhole!

  ‘It’s you!’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Silence descended over the room. My eyes bored into hers.

  Why doesn’t she say anything? Why doesn’t she do anything? We have to get out of here, and she’s just standing there, staring at me! Why is she staring at me?

  ‘It’s really you,’ I said again, just in case I had been mistaken. My eyes might be playing tricks on me, and this might, in fact, be another hellish creature, come to torture me in a clever disguise.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  No. This was no hallucination. It was she. Only she could say the word ‘sir’ like that - like a call for rebellion. But why was she just standing there?

  For the first time in my life I found myself in a position where I had to perform one of the most onerous duties imaginable: get a conversation going.

  ‘I thought you were dead.’

  There. That was a good start.

  Strange, though. Why did my words sound that… rough? My throat had long since recuperated from all the saltwater. There was no reason to speak strangely. And there most certainly wasn’t any reason to keep staring at her!

  ‘Well… I’m not, Sir.’

  Whatever my throat problem was, she seemed to suffer the same complaint. Her eyes didn’t leave my face, either. What was going on here? Why weren’t we escaping from this accursed place? Why were we just staring at each other?

  Irritation made my next words cool and brusque. ‘I can see that. What took you so long?’

  The corner of her mouth twitched up. She was smiling? Why in King Midas’s name was she smiling?

  ‘I’m glad to see you, too.’

  What was that supposed to mean?

  Suddenly, she started moving towards me. Before I could move a muscle, she stood at my bedside, looking down at me with a very different expression from the one the harpy had borne. For some reason, it made the lump in my throat grow thicker. Damnation! Was I getting sick again?

  Her hand—so small, so soft in comparison to mine—reached out and gripped my fingers with a fierce demand. Instinctively, I squeezed back gently.

  What the…!

  Since when was applying pressure to a female’s paws something instinctive for me?

  ‘What, pray,’ I enquired, making sure to keep my voice cool and smooth as ice, ‘are you doing?’

  ‘I’m holding your hand,’ she informed me simply. Her tone was unexceptional, but her eyes… Oh, her eyes! There was a light dancing in them. A light that made me want to reach out and—

  Stop! Stop this at once! What are you thinking?

  ‘I realize that,’ I stated coolly. ‘To what purpose have you initiated this superfluous form of physical contact?’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’

  The room was silent for a moment, while my brain ran over the sentence my ears had received, double-checked that I had heard correctly, and slapped a big red label on it saying INSUBORDINATION!

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ My gaze bored into her like an iron drill - she didn’t seem to care. ‘I am your employer! You will address me with respect!’

  ‘Fine. Shut up, Sir!’

  Correction: she definitely didn’t care.

  ‘That is not what I was referring to, and you—’

  ‘Blast you!’ Her eyes flamed, melting the iron in mine along with the ire in a millisecond. ‘I thought you were dead, too!’

  In that gaze of her, worlds of words were contained that didn’t need to be spoken. She did care. Oh yes, she cared very much. Just not for courtesy. The soft hand in mine suddenly felt like a burning brand.

  ‘In that case,’ I managed, ‘you should have ceased searching. No point in chasing something that is already lost. It would be a waste of mon-’

  A tug on my hand cut my words short. Before I could protest, before I could even blink, she had raised my hand to her lips and…

  Something touched my palm.

  Soft.

  Ethereal.

  Like the touch of a butterfly’s wings, or maybe a rose petal. Only - a rose petal I could have easily brushed off. This touch, I knew deep down, I would remember for the rest of my days. It was burned into my skin, and…

  …and since when have you become so mind-numbingly poetic?

  I was going insane! That was it. The two harpies’ madness was rubbing off on me. I had to get out of here now!

  ‘I said,’ she whispered in a low voice that I would have heard through a hurricane, ‘shut up, Sir!’

  Our eyes met, and there was silence again. But it was a different kind of silence. One unlike any I had ever experienced. Silence had always been a tool for me: calm silence to think in, cold silence to let people sweat, dark silence to make them beg for mercy. This one wasn’t cold, or dark, or anything but she and I, together.

  ‘It must really be you.’ Shaking my head, I looked up at her, my eyes unwavering, intent. ‘No figment of my imagination would dare to speak to me like that.’

  I watched as she raised her free hand and, with uncustomary caution, let it join the other one, enclosing my long fingers with her smaller ones as best she could.

  ‘I’m always real for you.’ The words tugged at something in my chest. Probably a muscle I had pulled while being shipwrecked.

  ‘More than just real. You’re always you.’

  ‘Glad to be of service, Sir.’

  Raising my free hand, I crooked one finger, in a gesture she had better not deny. ‘Come here.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘For what? Do you want to initiate a bit more superfluous physical contact?’

  ‘Miss Linton?’

  She raised her eyebrow even higher, as surprised as I was at my sudden use of the female address.

  ‘What, not “Mr Linton”?’ she enquired. ‘I thought I would have to pretend to be a man while I worked for you. I thought it would cause too big a scandal, otherwise.’

  So did I, for that matter. But I suddenly didn’t care anymore. A strange, almost drunken feeling had gripped me in its hold, and from one moment to the next I didn’t care about a lot of things that had seemed important a moment ago. In contrast, I suddenly cared about other things quite a lot more.

  ‘Miss Linton? Close your mouth and come here. Now.’

  What was I doing? Why was I acting so bizarrely? Had the harpies put a gallon full of brandy in my broth?

  ‘Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!’

  She crossed the last little bit of distance between us. A moment later, the springs of the mattress creaked as she sank down on it. Suddenly she was there, right
in front of me, her warm, chocolate-brown eyes lit by an inner light, her impudent little nose seeming to defy me just by existing. So why the hell couldn’t I stop looking at her?

  ‘When I stepped on land, I thought I was safe from drowning,’ she whispered. ‘But when I look into your eyes, I’m not sure anymore.’

  How do you think I feel when I look into yours? Drowning is one thing - burning quite another.

  I tried to shake off the thought that seemed to have invaded my mind without asking my permission. Narrowing my eyes infinitesimally, I stared up at her. ‘Is that supposed to make sense?’

  ‘Not really. It’s supposed to make you feel something.’

  ‘Ah.’ That tug in my chest again. Damnation! How did she do that? ‘You will be pleased to hear, then, that the method seems to be effective.’

  There was silence again. We looked at each other, I at her as if she were the key to the vaults of the Bank of England, and she at me as if… as if…

  Well, I wasn’t really sure what she wanted most in life. But she looked as if it might be lying in this bed.

  It can’t be… No! It can’t possibly be me, can it?

  ‘You’re supposed to say something, too, you know,’ she pointed out, the corners of that devious little mouth of hers twitching.

  I almost frowned, before I remembered it was an unnecessary waste of energy on facial muscles. ‘Something like what?’

  ‘Maybe something about what you feel.’

  Feel? Since when were my feelings of any significance? More to the point, since when was I supposed to have any?

  I opened my mouth to give a cutting reply, but apparently my mouth had other ideas.

  ‘I would have thought that required no words. Is it not obvious?’

  Did that hoarse voice really belong to me?

  Still, there was that devious little smile on her face. No matter how much I tried, I could not wrest my eyes away from her face. ‘Maybe. But I would like you to tell me anyway.’

  ‘A waste of breath and time!’ I snapped.

  ‘Yes. But a wonderful one. Please?’ Cocking her head, she raised my hand to her lips once more. Again, I felt that flutter of butterflies’ wings on me. It sent a torrent of sensation up along my arm, unlike anything I had felt before. ‘Please, Sir?’

  My breath caught.

  ‘What if I don’t have the words?’ My voice sounded distant in my own ears. ‘There are no words for how I feel right now. None that I know.’

  She closed her eyes, and I felt her hand tighten around mine almost painfully. But somehow, I didn’t mind. ‘Those,’ she told me in a whisper, ‘were exactly the right ones.’

  They Still Are!

  The first inkling I got that something was wrong, came when Youssef started shouting orders in Arabic.

  ‘Get off your camels, now! Put up the tents! Rags in front of your faces, all of you. And hurry! We’re camping here!’

  Camping here?

  It wasn’t just the order he gave - it was the fact that he dared to give it without my permission that made me turn and urge my camel back towards him, my eyes hard and flinty. Was there a reason for stopping, or did Youssef have a death wish?

  By the time I reached the main body of men on top of the dune, most had already dismounted. It was the middle of the day, with dozens of miles still before us till dusk, and they were settling down their camels, putting up tents and chattering like old women! Some of them, I noticed, had even taken off their headscarves and started pouring water all over them. Had they lost their wits?

  ‘What is this? What is going on?’ Bringing my camel to an abrupt halt, I slid down from the saddle and shot Youssef a look that, under the circumstances, was quite benign and understanding. It didn’t promise to kill him on the spot, at least. ‘Explain yourself, Youssef.’

  In answer, he simply pointed off into the distance, in the direction where we had been heading. Following his outstretched arm with my gaze, I spotted a sickly-yellow cloud, slowly approaching.

  ‘Yes?’ I demanded. ‘What is it about that thing?’

  ‘It’s a sandstorm, Effendi.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We have to stop, Effendi. To seek shelter until it has passed.’

  ‘Seek shelter?’ I felt my eyes narrow. So that was his excuse for dallying, was it? ‘You do not honestly think that I will let this delay me, do you? That I will let a tiny bit of sand stop me from going on?’

  The Arab looked at me, appearing offended. As if I cared! ‘A tiny bit of sand? Effendi, I…’

  ‘We are going on, Youssef! Not another word.’

  ‘But Effendi…’

  I raised a finger. That was usually all it took, and in this case, too, the method did not disappoint. Youssef fell silent immediately. Taking a deep breath, he bowed his head. ‘Yes, Effendi. As you wish, Effendi.’

  ‘Are you sure that going on is wise?’

  Oh no. I knew that voice. Glancing sideways, I glimpsed her out of the corner of my eye. She was looking back and forth between Youssef and the sandstorm. ‘If he really thinks it’s dangerous, shouldn’t we listen to him?’

  I gave her a look. Usually, that was enough to make people back down. Actually, it was usually enough to make people beg and whimper in fear. Not with her, of course. ‘Do you know the size of an average grain of sand?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted, rather grudgingly, obviously not knowing where I was heading with this.

  ‘It is between 0.0024803 and 0.08 inches. Now, think carefully for a moment.’ Leaning forward, I gazed into her eyes, letting her see all my iron determination. ‘Do you think I am going to let myself be stopped by something smaller than a tenth of an inch?’

  ‘Um… no.’

  ‘Indeed, no.’

  Ha! If I had not been opposed on principle to the activity of laughing, the idea would almost have made me laugh out loud. Stopping for a few tiny bits of sand? Ridiculous! Disdainfully, I glanced down at the approaching cloud of dust in the valley. Granted, it looked somewhat bigger than before and was moving rather fast, but still…

  Shaking off the strange feeling, I gave my camel a whack with my cane, wishing I could do the same with lazy employees. ‘Forwards!’

  We had just reached the bottom of the hill when the rumbling started.

  ‘What’s that?’ I heard her voice from behind. Not talking to me, I surmised. She knew I wasn’t likely to answer. ‘Thunder?’

  Youssef’s reply was lost in the growing rumble.

  Even I began to be curious. What in Mammon’s name was that? Surely, it couldn’t be…

  I glanced at the distant cloud of sand again, feeling a little uneasy for the first time since spotting it. It wasn’t a feeling to which I was accustomed. Gritting my teeth, I shoved it aside and continued on. Around me, the rumbling grew into a continuous roar, like the sound coming from a mob of discontented factory workers. Wind began to slap and batter against my face, and I had to grip my top hat to keep it from flying off. The hot wind bit into my face with glowing fangs, but I ignored the pain, like I had always ignored anything that didn’t suit me, and whacked my camel’s arse with the stick again.

  ‘Move!’

  But although I continued on without letting up, I couldn’t help my eyes straying to the approaching storm now and again.

  ‘It doesn’t seem quite so small anymore, does it?’ Came a sudden, all-too-familiar voice from beside me. I glanced to the side, and who should it be but my dear, lovely and very temporary wife. ‘What did you say again? 0.0024801 inches?’

  ‘0.0024803’ I corrected. ‘Not 0.0024801.’

  ‘Oh, of course, that makes a hell of a lot of difference!’

  I didn’t deign to answer that.

  ‘If you haven’t noticed yet, there seem to be rather a lot of these 0.0024803-inch obstacles which you think are so easy to overcome. Maybe we should stop after all.’

  Gritting my teeth together, I kept silent.

  ‘You are a stubborn son of a
bachelor!’

  Ah, the sweet endearments of married life… It was really quite charming. ‘I thought earlier you told me that I was the son of a donkey?’

  Out of the corner of my field of vision, I saw her eyes flash from between the folds of her burnoose. ‘That was before I ran out of Arabic insults!’

  I turned to look at her. She was looking at me unlike any woman had before. All the other women I had known had either tried to smile at me, or had turned tail and run. She did neither. She met my gaze head-on, as if her harebrained notions were true and the two of us were indeed equals. So I injected an extra dose of steel into my voice when I said: ‘We can do this. No discussion. We’re going on.’

  A bloody insolent gust of hot wind struck me in the face and ripped the top hat from my head. Before it could get farther than a foot or two, my hand shot out and grabbed it. Hm… with this so-called storm approaching, the wind really was getting somewhat stronger.

  ‘Tell me,’ she shouted. ‘Have you ever been in a sandstorm before?’

  I didn’t reply. What was the sense? She would question me no matter what I said or did. It was her favourite pastime.

  ‘Well?’

  I had to admit, she was insistent. I would have admired that trait, if she hadn’t been a woman.

  Glancing up, I watched the storm with narrowed eyes. It had grown somewhat since my last inspection. And the way it looked, it was still growing, at a rate of approximately fifty-one per cent per minute. Too bad it was a storm and not my annual profits.

  ‘Have you?’ demanded a certain persistent female voice from beside me.

  ‘No!’ I told her. ‘But I’ve been in plenty of snowstorms.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that snow makes you freeze. Sand doesn’t. So it can hardly be more dangerous.’

  Even if the storm is now growing at a rate of sixty-four per cent per minute?

  I clamped down on that thought and continued on.

  Soon, we had reached the bottom of the valley. In front of us rose a small hill, and down that hill the storm approached with a velocity that, even though I would never have admitted as much, was beginning to worry me. A blast of sand shot past us, swallowing a withered desert plant. It disappeared from sight, as if it had never been.