In the Eye of the Storm

26. A Little Pebble is a Dangerous Thing

I shivered.

'What's that?' I asked.

Youssef appeared next to me like a djinn out of a lamp. Only he didn't come to grant me three wishes. His face was grim. 'That's the devil's breath, baaša.'

'Does it smell?'

'Worse. It bites, and chokes, and buries you alive. That's a sandstorm, baaša. One of the worst I've ever seen.'

I eyed the sickly cloudbank doubtfully. 'It doesn't look like much.'

One corner of Youssef's mouth twitched in a humourless smile. 'It looks more impressive once you get closer, trust me, baaša.'

Quickly, he turned and barked a few orders in Arabic. Hurrying to the top of the dune, men began to dismount and make their camels sit down. Several removed their headscarves and started pouring water over them, others quickly began erecting tents on top of the dune.

'What is this? What is going on?' Bringing his camel to an abrupt halt out of a gallop, Mr Ambrose slid down from the saddle and shot Youssef a menacing look. 'Explain yourself, Youssef.'

In answer, the other man simply pointed towards the sickly-yellow cloud. I realized that already it was not quite so distant anymore.

'Yes?' Mr Ambrose 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?' Mr Ambrose's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. '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 sucked in a breath. 'A tiny bit of sand? Effendi, I...'

'We are going on, Youssef! Not another word.'

'But Effendi...'

Mr Ambrose raised one, long, extended finger, and Youssef fell silent immediately. Taking another breath, he bowed his head. 'Yes, Effendi. As you wish, Effendi.'

'Are you sure that going on is wise?' I dared to ask when we had started down the other side of the dune. 'If he really thinks it's dangerous, shouldn't we listen to him?'

He gave me a look. One of those looks. 'Do you know the size of an average grain of sand?'

'No,' I had to admit.

'It is between 0.0024803 and 0.08 inches. Now, think carefully for a moment. Do you think I am going to let myself be stopped by something smaller than the tenth of an inch?'

'Um... no.'

'Indeed, no.'

And that was all he deigned to say on the matter. Maybe he was even right. Maybe it was silly to get anxious just over a bit of sand. But whenever I looked down towards the increasingly fast-approaching clouds of dust in the valley below, I couldn't help getting the impression that it was more than just 'a bit of sand'.

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

'What's that?' I called, turning back towards Youssef. 'Thunder?'

'Yes, baaša,' he replied grimly, glaring ahead. 'Out of a thunderstorm that doesn't need lightening to kill.'

The rumbling grew, and soon it evolved into a continuous roar, like the sound coming out of the maul of a dragon too hungry to ever shut its dreaded jaws. Wind began to slap and batter against my thobe, and I had to grip my headscarf to hold it in place. The wind didn't bring any relief from the heat. On the contrary, it was so hot it might make you think the gates of hell had opened.