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were water people。 even today caravans look like a river。 still； today it is water who is the stranger here。 water is the exile； carried back in cans and flasks； the ghost between your hands and your mouth。
when i was lost among them； unsure of where i was； all i needed was the name of a small ridge； a local custom； a cell of this historical animal； and the map of the world would slide into place。
what did most of us know of such parts of africa？ the armies of the nile moved back and forth—a battlefield eight hundred miles deep into the desert。 whippet tanks； blenheim medium…range bombers。 gladiator biplane fighters。 eight thousand men。
but who was the enemy？ who were the allies of this place—the fertile lands of cyrenaica； the salt marshes of el agheila？ all of europe were fighting their wars in north africa； in sidi rezegh； in baguoh。
he travelled on a skid behind the bedouin for five days in darkness； the hood over his body。 he lay within this oil…doused cloth。 then suddenly the temperature fell。 they had reached the valley within the red high canyon walls； joining the rest of the desert’s water tribe that spilled and slid over sand and stones； their blue robes shifting like a spray of milk or a wing。 they lifted the soft cloth off him； off the suck of his body。 he was within the larger womb of the canyon。 the buzzards high above them slipping down a thousand years into this crack of stone where they camped。
in the morning they took him to the far reach of the siq。 they were talking loudly around him now。 the dialect suddenly clarifying。 he was here because of the buried guns。
he was carried towards something； his blindfolded face looking straight ahead； and his hand made to reach out a yard or so。
after days of travel； to move this one yard。 to lean towards and touch something with a purpose； his arm still held； his palm facing down and open。 he touched the sten barrel and the hand let go of him。 a pause among the voices。 he was there to translate the guns。
“twelve…millimetre breda machine gun。 from italy。” he pulled back the bolt； inserted his finger to find no bullet； pushed it back and pulled the trigger。 puht。 “famous gun；” he muttered。 he was moved forward again。
“french seven…point…five…millimetre chattelerault。 light machine gun。 nineteen twenty…four。” “german seven…point…nine…millimetre mg…fifteen air service。
he was brought to each of the guns。 the weapons seemed to be from different time periods and from many countries； a museum in the desert。 he brushed the contours of the stock and magazine or fingered the sight。 he spoke out the gun’s name； then was carried to another gun。 eight weapons formally handed to him。 he called the names out loud； speaking in french and then the tribe’s own language。 but what did that matter to them？ perhaps they needed not the name but to know that he knew what the gun was。
he was held by the wrist again and his hand sunk into a box of cartridges。 in another box to the right were more shells； seven…millimetre shells this time。 then others。
when he was a child he had grown up with an aunt； and on the grass of her lawn she had scattered a deck of cards face down and taught him the game of pelmanism。 each player allowed to turn up two cards and； eventually； through memory pairing them off。 this had been in another landscape； of trout streams； birdcalls that he could recognize from a halting fragment。 a fully named world。 now； with his face blindfolded in a mask of grass fibres； he picked up a shell and moved with his carriers； guiding them towards a gun； inserted the bullet； bolted it； and holding it up in the air fired。 the noise cracking crazily down the canyon walls。 “for echo is the soul of the voice exciting itself in hollow places。” a man thought to be sullen and mad had written that sentence down in an english hospital。 and he； now in this desert； was sane； with clear thought； picking up the cards； bringing them together with ease； his grin flung out to his aunt； and firing each successful bination into the air； and gradually the unseen men around him replied to each rifle shot with a cheer。 he would turn to face one direction； then move back to the breda this time on his strange human palanquin； followed by a man with a knife who carved a parallel code on shell box and gun stock。 he thrived on it—the movement and the cheering after the solitude。 this was payment with his skill for the men who had saved him for such a purpose。
there are villages he will travel into with them where there are no women。 his knowledge is passed like a counter of use…fulness from tribe to tribe。 tribes representing eight thousand individuals。 he enters specific customs and specific music。
mostly blindfolded he hears the water…drawing songs of the mzina tribe with their exultations； dahhiya dances； pipe…flutes which are used for carrying messages in times of emergency； the makruna double pipe （one pipe constantly sounding a drone）。
then into the territory of five…stringed lyres。 a village or oasis of preludes and interludes。 hand…clapping。 antiph…onal dance。
he is given sight only after dusk； when he can witness his captors and saviours。 now he knows where he is。 for some he draws maps that go beyond their own boundaries and for other tribes too he explains the mechanics of guns。 the musicians sit across the fire from him。 the simsimiya lyre notes flung away by a gust of breeze。 or the notes shift towards him over the flames。 there is a boy dancing； who in this light is the most desirable thing he has seen。 his thin shoulders white as papyrus； light from the fire reflecting sweat on his stomach； nakedness glimpsed through openings in the blue linen he wears as a lure from neck to ankle； revealing himself as a line of brown lightning。
the night desert surrounds them； traversed by a loose order of storms and caravans。 there are always secrets and dangers around him； as when blind he moved his hand and cut himself on a double…edged razor in the sand。 at times he doesn’t know if these are dreams； the cut so clean it leaves no pain； and he must wipe the blood on his skull （his face still untouchable） to signal the wound to his captors。 this village of no women he has been brought into in plete silence； or the whole month when he did not see the moon。 was this invented？ dreamed by him while wrapped in oil and felt and darkness
they had passed wells where water was cursed。 in some open spaces there were hidden towns； and he waited while they dug through sand into the buried rooms or waited while they dug into nests of water。 and the pure beauty of an innocent dancing boy； like sound from a boy chorister； which he remembered as the purest of sounds； the clearest river water； the most transparent depth of the sea。 here in the desert； which had been an old sea where nothing was strapped down or permanent； everything drifted—like the shift of linen across the boy as if he were embracing or freeing himself from an ocean or his own blue afterbirth。 a boy arousing himself； his genitals against the colour of fire。
then the fire is sanded over； its smoke withering around them。 the fall of musical instruments like a pulse