First Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 12 December 1899

Even as I write these words, I can scarcely believe how matters have
transpired. I received the message by return of post this morning. Sir
John Shadwell has agreed to allow me to work alongside him on his
autobiography. One of the foremost industrialists of our age, a man
patronised by no less than the Prince of Wales, destined without
question for the House of Lords should Lord Salisbury lose the next
election, as he surely will, and I am to write his life story.
All those years of purposeless writing at the Sketch, all of the letters that
were politely but firmly refused, or worse still, ignored, all of it has finally
paid off. I cannot imagine what it is he sees in me to allow me to do this.
Possibly it is my persistence; more likely he believes me to be young
and credulous, and easy to manipulate when conveying the facts as he
would have others see them. I cannot tell, although I would obviously
rather it were the former. I am not going to question it too greatly, lest
the whole thing turn out to be an illusion, or a horrid practical joke.
I told Harper at the Sketch, but his only reply was Does this mean
youre looking for a raise? He took a long time to try to persuade me
not to take it on, but after finally accepting matters, he at least agreed to
hold my job until such time as this task is done. He complains and he
gripes, but hes a decent fellow really.
I have sent a telegram to mother, in the hope that she might finally
realise that a career in journalism does not represent the end of all hope
for her only son. We shall see if she replies, but I do not hold out hope. I
commence work tomorrow, and will be going to his house in Kensington
to make the initial enquiries.
I must set down my pen, for it is late and I need to be alert and awake to
commence my work. Such is my excitement that I find it unlikely that I
shall sleep tonight, but at least I might try to rest my weary body.

Second Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 13 December 1899

An odd day, perhaps not quite what I was expecting. I will attempt to
transcribe matters as well as my memory can manage, although I
confess, so much information has been put my way today that I am at a
loss to organise my thoughts.

I slept better than I had hoped, and woke at seven to begin my new
work. Having fortified myself with bacon, eggs and a little kedgeree, I
set out at eight sharp, taking the underground train to Kensington.
Sir John Shadwells house is considerably more modest than one might
expect from such a successful man. A Georgian brick terrace, neatly
sandwiched in a small cul de sac away from the noise and bustle of the
ordinary London streets, I approached it with some degree of
nervousness. Why, I am not sure. I had met Sir John on no less than
three previous occasions, and when doing so, it was not with the
certainty of his trust that I now held.
At the door I was greeted by a butler, who looked down on me with a
superior air for which I did not particularly care. He ushered me into a
well-appointed reception room, luxurious whilst remaining tasteful,
where a maid presented me with a cup of tea whilst he retired to fetch
his master. I freely confess that this style of life, alien to one raised
solely by a widowed mother, and whose meals now are taken in the
parlour of his landlady with three other tenants, could suit me very well.
Whatever my thoughts of Mr Brooks the Butler and his supercilious
tone, I must take advantage of what perks I can during my time in Sir
Johns home.
I had seated myself by the fire, but I was not kept waiting long. Within
five minutes, the door at the far end of the room opened, and Sir John
entered. As I leapt to my feet he greeted me warmly, with an almost
familiar air that I was fairly sure I did not warrant, and then gestured me
back to my seat.
I am writing this diary for posterity, and so, despite the fact that the
name of Sir John Shadwell will hardly be unknown to anyone with half
an education in this day, I feel that I should make some small notes
here as to his character and appearance. Sir John is a man of sixty-two
years, a widower, with one son, about whom very little is known. He
was born in Carlisle to middle-class parents, and is what the popular
press like to call a self-made man, having taken a small inheritance
and ploughed it into munitions, amassing a fortune that is conservatively
estimated at several millions, although the actual numbers are a closely
guarded secret. He presented himself to me that day in a fine light grey
suit, of the style recently advertised in the more fashionable
gentlemans periodicals. It was well tailored to his large form, and with
his still-youthful features that belied his age, and his dark grey hair
neatly parted and swept back, he presented an imposing figure. I had
worn my best suit that day, the suit I wear for my all-too-few visits to
church, and yet in his presence I felt little more than an unkempt
scarecrow. Such was the warmth of his greeting however, that it was

difficult for any such discomfort to linger for long, and soon I found
myself relaxing and discussing our plans for the weeks ahead.
It was as he talked that I realised that, to some extent, my musings of
yesterday were correct. I had some idea of accessing his rumouredly
vast archives of personal papers, and piecing together the salient facts
of his life thus, but he saw matters very differently. He preferred to
dictate his life to me, and I would transcribe and collate his thoughts as
they came to him. I cannot but admit a small disappointment in this. It
hurt my journalistic pride to be regarded as little more than a glorified
personal secretary, and by this point I was relaxed enough to say so.
He simply laughed, although not unpleasantly, and stood, walking to the
fireplace, where he retrieved a small box from the mantelpiece.
Not in the slightest, Bracknell, he said, Your first duty is as a writer.
True, I may dictate matters, if not directly to you then in the form of wax
cylinders on my phonograph, but it will be your task to take those basic
meanderings and weave them into the story of my life.
I nodded. Very well, sir, I accept that. But I do feel that looking at your
papers would be a valuable tool in my work. It is hardly my intention to
pry into anything that you would not wish me to see. But surely, if I only
see your view of matters as they occurred, then I will not be telling the
full story.
Some might say that an autobiography is precisely that; one mans
account of matters, with all the prejudices and uncertainties of biased
opinion. He opened the box, and offered me a cigarette. Turkish, he
told me, I acquired a taste for them after reading the Sherlock Holmes
stories. I accepted one, and the proffered match. The cigarette, whilst a
touch too perfumed for my own tastes, was luxuriant and relaxing, and a
sign once again of the mans taste. He threw the match into the fire and
then sat down again. I think it is possible that you may have a point.
Very well. I will dictate to begin with, then we will, in time, access the
papers. On the proviso that I have certain discretion to censor what I do
not believe to be in the interests of either myself or my business.
I nodded. That would be more than reasonable, Sir John. I do not care
for the notion of censorship, but I felt that agreement to this was the
only way to get what I wanted.
Excellent, he replied, Then let us finish these fine cigarettes and then
retire to my study to begin.
I did as he had asked, and we sat in what might be called
companionable silence, smoking and watching the grey clouds through

the window. Finally, after throwing the remains of the cigarette into the
fire, he stood, and bade me follow him. We went to the door through
which he had come, which opened onto a large, similarly opulent study.
A huge oak desk, the size of a banqueting table, dominated the centre
of the room. It was strewn with papers, including in its centre what
appeared to be a large relief map of northern Africa. There was no time
to look at these things closely, however, as he led me to a small
recessed area, where stood two comfortable armchairs. As he gestured
me to sit, I did so and took my notebook and pencils from my pocket.
He settled himself opposite me again, and began to speak. It was only
after a couple of sentences that I realised that he had started dictation,
and I scribbled furiously, trying to catch up, and then keep up, with his
assorted observations.
What shall I record here? The details will of course be a matter of public
record when the book finally reaches publication, so I need not detain
myself with anything too precise at this point. Suffice it to say, he spoke
of his childhood, solidly and without deviation, for over four hours. I look
at my notes, in hastily scrawled shorthand, and am at a lost to decipher
a great amount of it. The most unfortunate issue might be the fact that
what is important to oneself is not necessarily of interest to a reading
public. Sir Johns childhood had been an uneventful one. His father was
a doctor, neither very rich nor very poor, and his mother was the
daughter of his fathers senior partner. They had a happy marriage,
remaining together to the time of his fathers death in 1882, and their
offspring, Sir John and his older sister, Emily, had been happy children,
with attentive parents and as good an education as their reasonable
income could afford. All very pleasant, and as one who lost his father
aged three, I envy him it, but not exactly the most compelling of starts to
a life. Still, if dictation is what he wants for now, then I shall endeavour
to comply.
After those four hours, he called a temporary halt, and we lunched on
an excellent game pie, washed down with red wine. Not being a man of
what they now call rarefied culture, I was unfamiliar with the name of
the wine, but to my unlearned palate it tasted superb.
In the afternoon, I made out that I was eager to continue with our work,
but he decided against it, declaring that enough time had been taken up
with reminiscences for one day. He took me on a small tour of the
house, including a superb library, with books concerning more topics
than I could conceive or count. He then talked to me for a long time
about his passion for the north of Africa. As far as I can tell, he has
never actually ventured there, but he seems fascinated by the place.
His library teems with books about the countries, and the colonial
exploits of British and European adventurers, traders and soldiers. It

was never clear what the source of this passion was; but I gained a
gradual sense that it is a passion that he is keen to consummate. I
wonder if that map I saw might be the first plan for a venture into that
still largely unknown continent, in search of its secrets.
Such speculation is not profitable at the moment. I must close my diary,
and turn my attention to my pages of notes, in perhaps vain hope of
making sense of them and turning them into a narrative of at least
marginal interest to the reading public.

Third Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 23 December 1899

I have not written anything in my diary for six days. The truth is, I have
been hard at work at Sir Johns book, and moreover, there has been
little of interest to record. Days have settled into a rather repetitive,
albeit comfortable, pattern. I arrive at Sir Johns house at eight, and we
work for four hours, largely consisting of his speaking and my writing,
then we dine, usually extremely well. In the afternoon he leads me off to
his library, or to a local library, or even on one occasion to the British
library itself, where we read and research about a dizzying variety of
topics and issues. Today it was Belgian colonialism, the last few days it
was the properties of certain unknown metals, before that it was
legends of the Maghrebis.
The writing continues well enough. We moved through his childhood to
early adulthood, and his work in the munitions business. All solid
enough material, although still hardly enthralling. We have also finally
been down to the archive of papers that he keeps in his cellar. It is an
astonishing collection, papers piled high from floor to ceiling, all
carefully arranged and indexed. Thus far, however, all I have been
given access to is the papers relating to his business affairs, matters
such as balance sheets, letters between companies, factory invoices
and the like. There has been nothing relating to his personal life.
In point of fact, there is little enough of anything regarding his personal
life. Up to attaining his majority, this did not seem to be an issue, and he
talked very freely of his parents, his sister and his home and schooling.
On becoming an adult, this aspect of his life seems to have ceased
entirely or rather, it seems to be something he does not care to
discuss. I am left to speculate why. Given the apparently idyllic nature of
his upbringing, one would assume that family life is something he
values. I know that he was married, and that his wife died of

consumption a good many years ago. That is a matter of public record,

as is the fact that he had a son, Thomas. His son left for Australia many
years ago, and disappeared whilst prospecting for gold. Father and son
did not have a harmonious relationship, although the police of both
England and the colonies were unanimous in refusing to assign any
suspicion for the disappearance to Sir John.
Possibly the pain of these events is simply too strong for him to speak
of them. Such would be understandable. As one whose own family
background is far from happy, I do see why he might not wish to share
some things with the world. Nevertheless, I hope at some point to make
him aware that a little personal colour will make the book a great deal
more palatable to the general audience. Now is not the time for such an
approach, however.
With Christmas now looming, I have been given four days off, ostensibly
to see my family. I have heard nothing from mother since I sent my
telegram, and it is clear that she is not going to invite me home. I refuse
to beg for her charity, so it seems I shall be spending Christmas in my
lodgings. Mrs Wilkins has promised a goose and her excellent plum
duff. Pennyfather, who occupies the small second floor back room, will
also be staying here, and he is an amiable enough fellow, so I believe
we can pass Christmas well enough.
Just before I left for home, I was presented with a small present by Sir
John. It is a tie pin with a fine inset stone, which seems to glow with
some inner light. I have never seen the like of it before, and he tells me
that the stone originates from northern Africa, so I believe that this is a
rare gift. I will wear it on Christmas Day.

Telegram, War Office to Sir John Shadwell, 23 December 1899

Confirm your actions with regards to package STOP Will authorise
official mission to point five STOP Military support will be provided at
highest level STOP Captain Fairfax to be contacted STOP

Fourth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 27 December 1899

An astonishing day, even by the standards of the last few months.
Christmas has been cut short by a day, but the opportunity that has now

come my way exceeds my wildest expectations. I am scared and happy

at the same time, and I hardly know where to start.
I was up at seven as per usual, and had an excellent breakfast. I was
just washing it down with a second cup of tea when there was a knock
at the door, and Mrs Wilkins entered to tell me that there was a man to
see me. I went to the door, to find that it was Bates, a coachman in Sir
Johns employ.
Begging your pardon, Mr Bracknell, but Sir John requests your
presence, he said to me.
This mystified me. The mans tone suggested that he knew nothing
more than he had been sent to say, so I decided not to question him,
and quickly departed for Sir Johns house.
When we got there, I was shown to the study, where I found Sir John
studying another of those large maps, spread across the desk. As I
approached him, I could see that it was once again of Northern Africa,
more specifically the regions of Fezzan and Cyrenaica.
As he turned to greet me, his smile was friendly, and he grasped my
hand in the manner of someone greeting an old acquaintance whom he
had not seen in twenty years. As he gestured me to my usual chair, he
stood, walking up and down and regarding me with an odd expression.
Youre not married, are you, Bracknell?
No, Sir John. Ive not met anyone whom I might aspire to marry.
No sweethearts, young ladies?
Not recently.
No interest in the ladies at all, eh? For a brief moment, I thought he
might be making some sort of improper advance, and I nearly jumped
up in protest, but his next words, seemingly unrelated, at least seemed
to prove that my initial opinion had been mistaken.
So just you and your mother, then.
I nodded, by now totally lost. If I am to be frank, we do not get on.
Since my father died

He cut me off, waving his hand. Excellent. It seemed a singularly

inappropriate choice of word. So no real family to speak of, no real ties
to hold you back.
I suppose not. Sir John, I appreciate all that you have done for me over
the last few weeks, but I hope you will not consider it to be taking a
liberty if I ask what it is that you want.
I had phrased it as formally and carefully as I could, as I had no desire
to lose this post with an ill-chosen word or request. He smiled, and
indicated that I should join him at the desk. I stood up, and walked over.
He had the map pulled fully open, and was staring at it intently.
What do you know about this part of the world? he asked me.
Aside from what you have recently taught me, very little. I looked at
the map. It showed that part of North Africa which is known as the
Maghreb region, west of Egypt, and on the south coast of the
Mediterranean. We had spoken of Africa a lot of late, but his
conversation had frequently been somewhat obscure, talking of myth,
legends and prehistory. Of modern times I knew little more than the
Turkish influence over the region, and its resultant instability.
Sir John was nodding. We have discussed matters of some small
interest, perhaps, but that is but a start to my intentions. I looked at
him, half interested, half concerned, as he went on. This part of the
world has long interested me. It is ancient, its civilisations stretch back
centuries, possibly even millennia. The Greeks, the Romans and the
Turks have all sought to control its people and its resources. And now,
the great colonial powers are taking an interest. It is rumoured that the
Italians have their eyes on it.
Why? It seemed a reasonable question, and he seemed to agree.
Metals, my boy. Rich resources, possibly even untapped ores that
could advance our industries beyond our wildest dreams. He looked
me straight in the eye. My businesses have advanced as far as they
are currently able. If they are toevolve, then they need an external
stimulus, a new frontier to conquer.
He reached out and pressed his finger hard against one spot on the
map. To my eye, it appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, deep
within the great desert of the Sahara. The nearest city was Al Kufrah, a
long way to the north.

This is the region of southwest Cyrenaica. It is virtually unknown

territory, bar a few references in antiquity, and a good deal of legend
and rumour. It is also a source of some very unusual minerals with
curious properties. The tiepin that I gave you for Christmas contained a
tiny fragment of a mineral that it is rumoured came from that region. I
bought the sample a few months ago from a Belgian who claimed to
have purchased it about fifty years ago in Marrakesh from a native of
the region. I have been waiting for an analysis from my people. I now
know that it is completely alien to our science. Nothing like it has ever
been seen before. If we could tap that resource His eyes were
suddenly ablaze, almost fanatical with fascination as they seemed to
burn into the map. I took an involuntary step backwards, causing him to
look up sharply. The light in his eyes faded, to be replaced by his usual
assumed joviality.
A small exploratory expedition is shortly to make its way to that place
on behalf of the British government and the Shadwell Munitions
Company. I intend to lead that expedition. And I want I need you to
come with me.
I truly believed that the last few weeks had led me to come to terms with
all of Sir Johns eccentricities, but this left me utterly stunned. I literally
did not know what to say, and for at least half a minute I just stood
there, mouth half open as if to speak, but coherent words unable to
form.
Wh - why? was all that I was eventually able to manage. He clapped
me on the shoulder with a large hand.
You are my biographer. I intend this to be the crowning achievement of
my career. A bequest to the nation and the Empire that will change the
face of the world. I need my Boswell to be with me as I do so.
My mind was still reeling with the sudden change in prospects that had
been presented. The furthest afield I have ever been was a childhood
holiday to Budleigh Salterton. I struggled to find a question that would
be equal to the situation. What will this expedition consist of?
Very little. I intend it to consist of just me, you, an engineer and a small
group of soldiers allotted by the government.
Soldiers?
This region is far from stable. The native Berbers and Nubians have
long been at loggerheads with the Ottoman Empire in their quest for

independence. The presence of the British may well be seen as a

colonial intervention.
Is it not? I said nothing of the fact that the most obvious sign of
colonial intervention, as he put it, was armed men.
He shook his head. Not as far as I am concerned. I am not interested in
ruling the region. Far more trouble than its worth. I simply need to
convince the place of the value of trading with me, and me exclusively.
It is a question of getting access to the resource and controlling its
export, not owning it outright.
And would that be it? I still found myself confined to small questions
and few words.
More or less. Just one more, an academic fellow who with a gift for
languages. I can only manage a rather poor passing impersonation of
French, and I assume your language skills are equally limited.
Worse. Despite everything, I smiled at the admission. Thinking about
it, this was the first point at which I started to come around to the idea.
How long would I have to decide?
A few days. I plan to leave at the end of January. New century, new
opportunities and all, eh? He laughed and slapped me hard on the
back. I merely nodded rather weakly.
Writing now, I find that the initial shock had faded has been replaced by
a sense of opportunity. To chronicle the life of this extraordinary man
as I have up to this point, learning about him and reading his
documents, that is one matter. To stand by his side and write of events
as I witness them, and to be part of his history as it happens, that is
something else. Surely I cannot refuse him? I am not afraid to admit my
fear. Sir John made perfectly clear that coming back is by no means
guaranteed. But there is nothing much here for me. Mother would
scarcely notice I was gone. I honestly believe Mrs Wilkins might miss
me for a while, but there is always another tenant coming along to take
the place of one departed. What is stopping me?
I shall lay down my pen on that question. I need sleep.

First Letter, Doctor Isaac Warner to Marjorie Warner, 2 January 1900

My dearest Marjorie,
Success has greeted my efforts, and I may consider myself part of the
Shadwell Expedition. A new century dawns, at least that is what I am
told, although I have made more efforts than is seemly to tell people
that in fact we do not reach the twentieth century until next year, and I
find myself on the brink of greatness. I will finally be able to go back to
the fools at St Martins College and demand that they appoint me to the
Emeritus Chair of Philology. Your little brother who has toiled so long in
obscurity will finally be Professor Warner. I cannot express the
happiness that this brings to me, and I hope, dear sister, to you.
But I race ahead of myself. What is the Shadwell Expedition? I hear you
cry. Well, alas I cannot give too much detail, but suffice it to say, it will
involve a journey to a far-off land, and an opportunity to change the
whole world. Moreover, I am informed that it is my researches into the
Berber languages and their origins that has brought me to the attention
of the right people. I told that fool Rumford that the Nordic languages
were a dead end, and I have once again been proved correct. Not that
he will ever admit that, of course.
I am told by others that it is possible that I may not return. I pay these
warnings no heed. I am a man of learning. It is for me to risk my life in
service of the facts, and should I be required to lay it down to reveal
some deeper truth, then I would of course do so willingly. Although I
fear this may cause you such pain, Marjorie, I hope that should I not
return, you will understand.
I cannot write a great deal more, as there is much to do. I am told that
the expedition will depart at the end of the month. Some much to pack,
so many things to consider, I find myself dizzy with anticipation.
I shall leave you for now, but shall write again soon.
Your dear brother,
Isaac

Fifth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 27 December 1899

The expedition departs tomorrow morning. I meet Sir John at St
Pancras Station, at eight oclock sharp. I have packed light, based on

his advice. A small kit bag, clothing that seems perilously thin for
January in London, but I am told will be essential for the Sahara desert,
some basics such as tobacco and books, writing implements and
several loose-leaf jotters to make observations and keep my diary as
often as I can.
I am nervous. There is no use denying it. The tales that I have read of
the African-Arab tribes of the region do not bear repeating. They are
ancient in civilisation, capable of art and beauty, and also at times little
more than the basest of savages. Mrs Wilkins remains terribly upset,
and constantly begs me to think again about leaving London, telling of
all the orrible things those Berbers does to each other. But she knows
that I am resolved, so she has promised to keep my room for my return.
Strange that she would do so, when all that she warns me of suggests
that I shall not return. Still, the gesture is kind, and almost makes up for
the fact that mother continues in her silent treatment, refusing to reply to
my most basic of telegrams.
I shall not let it trouble me. Tomorrow, I shall leave the country for the
first time, and enter an entirely new chapter of my life. I shall try to
sleep, although I doubt that I will.

First Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)
We departed England on the 28 January 1900, taking a commercial
boat from Southampton Docks under the cover of a civilian academic
party. This necessitated the leaving behind of our weapons. I confess, I
felt naked without the reassuring presence of my Webley strapped to
my waist, and my men were equally bereft, but we accepted the loss as
a necessary part of our subterfuge.
With me, I had five men. It seemed a paltry force for the expedition that
we were attempting, but I was told time and again by Sir John that he
did not want large quantities of men being dragged across the African
plain, vulnerable to attack and liable to be noticed, and as special
military envoy to Her Majesty, I was bound to obey my orders. My men
were hand-picked save one. Pargeter, a brilliant young engineer and
geologist, assigned from the Royal Engineers, was brought along for
the key duties of analysing the rock samples that were the target of our
mission. Otherwise, I chose the best of my elite unit, and that was no
easy task. I knew that Williamson and the medic Evans had seen duty
in North Africa, and to them I added a new fellow, McCredie, fresh from

the Black Watch and a ferocious fighter. Of course, I could not possibly
have proceeded without Sgt Major Campion, who stood by me as ever,
loyal, strong and alert.
The ostensible leader of our party was Sir John Shadwell, a man whose
mysterious fate has of course made him infamous. I did not know what
to make of him, barring the fact that I had been clearly ordered to follow
his lead, and to trust his decisions. Even as a captain, I had long been
used to taking my own initiative on missions of import and secrecy
where I was the only authority, so I can admit now that this was no easy
task. Sir John had an easy, friendly attitude, that extended from the
captain down to the ranks, and he treated all equally. To an extent this
relaxed my men, allowing us to feel he could be trusted. But at the
same time, I was uneasy at this relaxation, fearing that even in an elite
and disciplined unit such as mine, to override the natural order of the
ranks was not necessarily a good idea.
Two other men joined us, both civilians. Isaac Warner was an academic
from one of the lesser known seats of learning, who apparently
possessed a great knowledge of the languages of the region to which
we were heading. He was middle-aged, drier than the desert that was
our destination, not actually unfriendly, but largely unwilling to socialise
with us any more than was required. He spent much of his time
confined to his cabin, pouring over the ridiculously large collection of
books that he had insisted he needed to bring with us. Finally, there
was Bracknell, a writer, apparently Sir Johns biographer, there by the
assistance of Sir John to chronicle our venture. He seemed a decent
fellow, although as we set off I doubted his resolve in a fight, and he
would have mixed with us more had he not spent most of his time
during the voyage with his head over the side of the ship. I gathered
that he was not a seasoned traveller, and this he confirmed, astonishing
me with the news that he had never left the confines of Great Britain. I
was forced to consider the wisdom of Sir John in bringing him along, but
I chose not to discuss the matter with him openly. My men seemed to
take to Bracknells game attempts to keep up with them, and they took
him under their wing, happily welcoming him and looking out for him on
the long voyage.
For myself, I was delighted to be out on the sea again. I always felt that
if I had not joined the army, a life at sea might well have suited me. I
took my morning exercise on deck whatever the weather, and breathed
deeply of the salt air, letting its glorious tang fill my nostrils. We
proceeded though rough seas from the English Channel into the North
Atlantic, hugging the French and then Portuguese coasts as we headed
for to the gap of Gibraltar. After entering the Mediterranean, we found
the going calmed quite considerably, and even Bracknell found himself

more able to take part in the daily regimen of exercise. He was quite
concerned to try to keep pace with us, for fear of being a burden when
our true journey began, and although he was hardly up to the high
standards of my men, they appreciated his efforts, laughing with him
when something went wrong, and encouraging him to exceed his rather
low expectations of himself.
Our commercial vessel would not take us across the Mediterranean, as
there was at that time a great fear of Moroccan pirates operating off the
North African coast, so we berthed at Venice overnight before
chartering a small private transport, its captain more susceptible by way
of large sums of banknotes to the occasional personal risk, to take us
across to Alexandria. There, we hoped to make our rendezvous with the
local governors office, and collect the supplies and weapons that we
would need for the trip.
The journey to Alexandria was quite uneventful, and scarcely worth
reporting. This was my fourth visit to that great and ancient city, and I
was delighted to be back in its glorious exotic streets. Here I had met
women of all nationalities, and had adventures of the sort that I will for
the sake of discretion and decency not make public. I had sampled
tobaccos and other substances of intoxicating beauty, and sampled
cuisines known nowhere else in the world. Alas, we were not to remain
here long, for after a brief meeting with the governor, we were soon
trekking down towards the Nile and Cairo. We travelled by camel
caravan, with my men on horseback beside us, and the civilians in the
wagons. through this entire process, Doctor Warner barely spoke a
word. I sensed not that he was an uncivil man, simply that the things he
saw around him were of all-consuming interest to the point of excluding
all human contact. I gathered that although he was an expert in the
Arabic languages, with an amateur sideline in thee archaeology of the
region, this was his first time visiting the country, and he was making
the most of his time here. He had been persuaded to leave most of his
books in storage with the governor, and now confined himself to a
collection of notebooks, which he filled with assorted esoteric jottings in
a thin, peculiar handwriting. I am not afraid to admit that I found him a
very difficult man to understand. Sir John, with his bluff exterior and
personal agendas, I understood, even if I did not entirely trust him.
Bracknell, a decent individual, too concerned with his amazement at this
new world, was far too guileless to hide himself beneath an assumed
persona. The doctor, I just did not know.
When we reached Cairo, we transferred almost immediately to a private
charter river boat, following the Nile down towards Luxor. Life
immediately became a lot easier, although the heat, stifling for
February, laid us low, unable to do much more than sit on the deck and

find what meagre shade we could. McCredie, something of an amateur

ornithologist in his Highland youth, amused himself in spotting new and
exotic breeds of bird, whilst Evans decided that the best course of
action was to spend his time terrifying Bracknell with tales of river
crocodile, nearly causing the young man an attack of the vapours when
he actually pointed one out, lurking by the far shore. He had been
rewarded with a few hard words from Campion, and so that pleasure
thankfully soon seemed to pall.
Thus passed a week in lazy languor, to the point where we had to
remind ourselves that we were on a mission of vital importance to the
Crown and not the African leg of a Grand Tour. But if we were in danger
of complacency, that was stripped from us very quickly indeed when we
reached Luxor. We were to remain in the town for two days whilst we
awaited the arrival of a man we had been promised could guide us to
our destination. Doctor Warner was delighted at the prospect, as the
time could be given over to an examination of the recently uncovered
ancient ruins, and he spent the days in exploring the incredible new
discoveries of the lost land of the Pharaohs. Sir John had confined
himself to his room with a collection of maps and geological studies,
and so, partially against my better judgement, I gave the men leave to
explore the city. I knew fine well that their first stops would be the less
salubrious bars, and then the bordellos, but I believed that it would be
counter-productive to attempt to prevent them. I myself retired to the
hotel bar to relax with a glass of iced tea, having long since foresworn
alcohol after one too many escapades in my days as a young subaltern.
It was as I was reaching for a cigar and lounging in a large chair that I
was interrupted by a flushed and breathless Sgt Major Campion.

Sixth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 26 February 1900

I have had an extraordinary evening. I am simultaneously excited and
terrified by the events that have taken place, events that I could never
have dreamed of when I wrote that first letter to Sir John Shadwell. It
seems to be a task of monumental proportions to attempt to order my
thoughts, but for the sake of posterity I shall try to convey the events of
the last few hours in as coherent a form as possible.
Luxor is an astounding place, more amazing to me even than Venice,
Alexandria or Cairo. The sense of wonder that has been my lot for the
last few weeks has simply continued apace. I am told by Doctor Warner
who has become almost feverish in his excitement at the place that
Luxor stands where once was the ancient city of Thebes, the great

capital of Egypt, and the ruins of that old metropolis are to be seen all
over the place. it is a veritable Mecca for archaeologists, and I suspect
that one of the reasons that Doctor Warner came on this mission was
the promise of two days here with his notebook and pencil. He has filled
the book with drawings, scrawled notes and large transcriptions of the
ancient picture writing that adorns so many of the ruined buildings.
What he intends to do with it all, I really cannot imagine. He is a curios
fellow, if I am to be honest.
I spent the day with Doctor Warner at the site of a great temple on the
banks of the Nile. Truthfully, I did not understand a great deal of what
he was saying, and I felt somewhat vexed and tired by the time we
returned to our hotel. I was in need of a change of scene, so, not
without a little nervousness, I accepted an offer from Corporals
McCredie and Evans to take a trip to the citys market quarter, where
they promised a trip to the local taverns. I am not by habit a drinker of
any real note, so the notion was both enticing and terrifying, but their
gentle persuasions had their effect, and soon we were seated in a
calche, as they call their four wheeled horse-drawn carriages, heading
for the south of the city.
The market quarter was a maze, like something from a popular novel,
made up of shouting traders and overexcited visitors of more nations
than I could identify. The noise was unbelievable, a cacophony of
languages, all overlaid in a pattern so random and deafening that one
could hardly hear oneself think. My military escort was however clearly
used to this sort of thing, and they made their way confidently through
the thronged mass of life. it became very clear to me that they knew
where they were going, and I was forced to contemplate the fact that
this was their way of life. They thrive in this exotic, utterly alien place,
and I feel in that, utterly lost. It was clear to them that I felt very much
out of my depth, and to their credit, they did not take advantage of my
naivety, although I am sure that privately it has caused them great
amusement.
Our destination was a small caf down a long and winding alleyway,
entered by means of a bead curtain and a heavily barred metal door.
When the door was answered by a surly looking fellow in a grubby
djellaba, Evans unleashed a string of rhetoric in some Arabic dialect
that I could have sworn sounded like abuse. It seemed to serve the man
well enough, however, and soon we were inside and being ushered to a
small corner table. We were served with some mysterious Egyptian
liquor, one small sip of which was enough to burn my mouth raw, and
McCredie acquired a large hookah pipe, from which was expelled a
strange, sweet-smelling smoke. I quietly declined further offers of the
liquor or the pipe, as my head was spinning more than enough already,

and sat back in my chair to observe the room. it was ill-lit, the oil lamps
doing little more than gutter and offer scant illumination to the darker
corners, and cast bizarre shadows on the walls. Booths, cut deep into
the walls, hid clientele whop sat, faces hidden, lost in private
negotiations with each other. Women, scantily clad, and deliriously
beautiful faces hidden behind veils, gyrated gently, moving from table to
table. As one approached us, a dark-haired woman of impossibly
perfect proportions and looks, McCredie was fast to his feet. Taken by
the hand, he was led off to a door in the far end of the room. I was left in
little doubt as to their intentions or the womans vocation. I wondered
briefly what Mrs Wilkins or Lord forbid, mother would have made of
such an occurrence, and I admit, the thought gave me brief cause to
smile. As another of the women came near, she bent to Evans and
whispered a few words in his ears. he offered me a look, as if hesitating
to leave me on my own in this place, but at my small nod, he needed
little further persuasion, and was up and off in the same direction as
McCredie in a matter of seconds. I was left alone, to continue watching
the activity of this fascinating place, and contemplate whether they had
any drinks that one might sample without destroying the lining of ones
throat. I noticed that none of the women seemed to want to approach
me. Was I relieved or disappointed at this? I do not know but it soon
became clear to me that they were actively avoiding the place where I
sat, and this gave me pause. Who had told them to do that? Or was it
simply that they took pity on an innocent abroad? To judge the place, I
did not believe that for a second I was not that nave but it did not
explain why I had not taken their attention.
Music started to play from somewhere I could not see, a slow, wailing
pipe, accompanied by some stringed instrument and a light but steady
drum beat. The pace of the music was strangely relaxing, and with the
headiness of the smoke that pervaded the place, and the comfortable
warmth, I found myself almost on the verge of sleep. my eyelids
drooped, and despite my finest exertions, my chin began to rest more
and more upon my chest.
May I join you?
I opened my eyes with a start. The voice was a male one, in clear but
accented English. He sounded European, and as I looked up, I saw that
it was indeed a white man, dressed in a light linen suit. Writing now, it is
curious what details remain in the mind, and I can still very clearly
discern the fact that his clothes were pristine and unstained. He was
clean shaven, perhaps forty, and smiled with genial expectation.
I had to blink a couple of times. I beg your pardon?

My apologies. He gave an odd little bow from the shoulders. I saw a

white face, which is a rarity in these places, and so I thought to
introduce myself. I am curious about what attracts a young Englishman
to such a place. He spoke with clear, excellent pronunciation, although
the accent persisted, French, or perhaps Belgian.
It is only now that I realise that his knowledge of my nationality should
have put me on my guard. I had only spoken four words, and yet he
knew my origins immediately. I should perhaps have been more
cautious with him, but in such an alien place, the sound of the English
language was welcome, so I proffered the nearest chair, and he sat. He
took a swig from the glass that he held, the places brutal liquor
appearing to cause him no discernible discomfort.
My name is Blanc, he told me, proffering a hand, which I took.
Forgive a pardonable curiosity, but I am left to wonder why you should
come here alone.
Im not, I told him. I have two friends. Perhaps my suspicions were
already aroused, for I did not tell him the vocation of McCredie and
Evans. I suspect however that he was already aware. I indicated the
door at the back with my thumb. It was enough for him to understand.
Ah, les femmes de nuit, he said with a smile. You are not tempted? I
shook my head ruefully. Very wise. The ladies of this region are most
intoxicating, but prone to the He seemed to stumble over his words
here. The diseases of Venus. I hope your friends are cautious.
I was about to tell him that I left such matters to the privacy of their own
lives, shocked at the rather brazened way in which he had spoken, but
he raised his hands, correcting himself.
Forgive me, I know that the British do not speak of such matters
openly. I shall leave that to their discretion. But youthey have left you
alone whilst they indulge their vices? I think that is most unfair of them.
I can look after myself. It was an abject lie, and we both knew that.
Of course. But you do seem an awfully long way from home. What
brings a young fellow like yourself all the way out here?
I am, as I have already confessed, somewhat nave, but I am not so
great a fool as to be open about our mission. I had signed more
documents than I could remember regarding guarding the secrets of the
expedition prior to our departure, and I was not about to break those

pledges in the face of this questionably smooth continental gentleman. I

resorted therefore to the activities of earlier in the day.
Archaeology, I told him, I am here with a colleague to examine the
ruins of the ancient city of Thebes.
He nodded. Of course, the great Doctor Warner.
You know him?
His reputation goes before him. A curious fellow. Much unloved in
English academic circles. Yet trusted by some at the very highest
levels.
I did not like the direction that this conversation was taking, and I
decided to be open. Just what is it that you want, monsieur? I asked.
His smile never ceased. He took another sip of his drink and then
leaned back, regarding me in somewhat predatory manner. You are a
long way from home, Mr. Bracknell. This is a dangerous city. It does not
do to be sostraightforward with a potential ally.
Ally?
He nodded. I have it in my power to make youwell, if not rich beyond
your wildest dreams, at least comfortable. Maybe you might even
impress your mother with your resources. I was alarmed at the mention
of mother, and would have stood, had he not pressed a hand to my
arm. The grip was firmer than it should be. Your friends are military, I
know that. Do not trouble to lie, it is a waste of both our time, he went
on as I opened my mouth in useless protest. I know that there is a
small group of you in the city, military and civilian. I also know that you
are here incognito, and that tomorrow you move to your next
destination. What I do not know is where or why. It is my job to find
these matters out, and so I have come to you to do so.
I knew what he meant by that. He regarded me as a weak link in our
party. I was nearly shaking with fear, but determined not to give this
man what he wanted. Such was the sense of unreality, this seemed like
a scene from a penny dreadful, or something from the new London
stage. This dislocation from reality gave me the courage to open my
mouth and deny knowledge of what he was asking.
He seemed more disappointed than angry. I have it on authority that
you are not a stupid man, Mr Bracknell. I can offer you a decent sum of
money for merely the slightest amount of information. Or, if you prefer, I

can make your life very unpleasant indeed before ending it abruptly. He
made a small motion with his hand, and I noticed that there was a small
knife now clasped in it, aimed very clearly at my chest. He made a
motion across the room to the booth opposite, where figures sat
concealed in shadow. My friends over there have had a gun on you this
whole time. it would be but the act of a second for them to shoot you in
the heart. Or the head, or perhaps one of several less vital, but no less
painful targets. The people here see this sort of thing every day. They
will not be bothered to see an idiot foreigner getting in over his head. It
was on these last few words that his tone hardened appreciably. Then
his voice softened again. But this really is not necessary, ne cest pas?
I am proud to say, writing this, that it never once occurred to me to tell
him anything. In the rational light of now, I do not know what I was
thinking. Would it have been better to talk had I thought about it?
Perhaps. But I had lost the capacity for rationality. What was I to do? If I
could get the attention of my friends, then I might walk away from this.
But they were otherwise engaged, and I knew that only one thing might
draw them away from the sweet embraces of the local women. I was
going to have to put myself at risk and chance the consequences.
Whilst I am hardly a huge man, such as Sir John or the Sgt Major, I am
not so slight of build as to be wholly ineffective, and I have played many
a game of rugby football for the Ilford Third XI. I therefore took a brief
moment to size up this Monsieur Blanc, and then moved. I flung myself
across and down, loosening his grip on my arm, flinging myself to the
outside of his other arm so that his blade was held away from my body,
and brought us both to the ground in a heavy heap. With my free hand, I
had seized the glass of liquor, and flung it desperately in his direction.
Most of it ended up on his clean cream suit, but a little made its way
across his face and into his eyes. His throat may have been able to take
the filthy stuff, but his eyes were a good deal more vulnerable, and he
cried out suddenly in pain. At the same time, I heard the crack of a rifle
shot, then another. I have never heard a gun discharge before. The
sound is considerably louder than one might expect, and my ears were
left ringing. The shots flew over my head and hit the wall behind me.
And at the same time, I learned that he had been bluffing about the
denizens of the place. At the sound of the first shot, there were screams
and shouts of concern. At the second, there was pandemonium. Chairs
flew back, tables overtoppled, and men and women made for the door
in blind panic. The small group of Monsieur Blancs friends had
emerged from their alcove, but were unable to advance any closer due
to the sudden, undulating crowd of people.
Monsieur Blanc and I were now rolling across the floor, grappling
hopelessly with each other. His strength was ferocious, and he was

angry, and I knew that I inevitably muse lose this uneven contest. But
just as he was trying to fix his hands about my throat, I caught sight
from the corner of my eye of the back door opening, and McCredie
entered. He was pulling his braces over his shirt, and he had a look of
distinct irritation on his face. Behind him was Evans, similarly semidressed, and equally annoyed. They took but a second to sum up the
room, and then they waded into the chaos.
Up until now, I had not been privy to the fighting skills of our military
friends. Now, however, I was left amazed at the efficient way in which
they dealt with the opposition. Quickly identifying the danger to us, they
moved in fast and hard. They were unarmed, and the French for that
is who I believe they were had guns and knives, but this made no
difference, as they jabbed, kicked and punched with terrifying force.
Other folk in the bar, perhaps spoiling for a fight, or possibly paid by our
enemies to engage us in this eventuality, tried their hand, but were
repelled effectively and quickly.
I had wriggled free of Blanc, and was desperately trying to make my
way towards the door when a hand seized upon my collar. I swung in
the hard grasp, my fists raised uselessly, but found myself looking
straight into the eyes of an extremely unamused Sgt Major Campion.
What the bloody hell is going on, Mr Bracknell? was all that he
managed before we were both sent careering into the wall by a body
propelled fast towards us by Corporal Evans. Campion gave his best
parade ground yell, and the two solders quickly drew up alongside us,
all the while repelling any attack with a sharp left hook or side punch.
Within seconds, we were out of the bar, and into the street, and moving
swiftly back up the alleyway towards a waiting calche, and back to our
hotel. Not a word was said until we were back in the hotel, where I was
politely, but very firmly escorted to Captain Fairfaxs rooms, where both
he and Sir John were waiting for us.
I will not go into too much detail regarding the long and frankly
confusing conversation that followed. McCredie and Evans received a
very stern ticking off from the captain, although he then commended
them on their actions in defending me. After we had established that
their actions had been confined to their physical exertions, and they had
not been privy to the earlier conversations, they were sent away, and
the captain sat me down and spoke to me for a long time. I was pressed
for every detail of my conversation with Monsieur Blanc, and every
single moment was reiterated over and over again, until my throat grew
tired with speaking. The captain seemed to believe my assertion that no
confidences had been betrayed, and he commended me on my bravery,

something that gave me no little pride. Finally, exhausted, I was let go

and I positively crawled back to my room.
All that I really want to do is sleep, for it has been made very clear that
tomorrow will be the commencement of a long hard slog across
uncivilised climes, but I have had to write all of this down whilst it is still
fresh in my mind. What do I make of it? Whilst the captain pushed me
hard, and a lot of information went his way, I was not slow to notice that
this was not reciprocated. Fairfax and Sir John have played their cards
extremely close, and I can only speculate.
This Monsieur Blanc seems to be known to the captain and Sir John,
and his name and appearance were of great concern to them. Who
could he be? One can only speculate. But Sir John told me that other
nations may be interested in the place to which we are headed and its
secrets. Could this man be a spy for the French? I have no answer at
present.

Official Communiqu, Captain Fairfax to War Office, 26 February 1900

Have to inform you that contact has been received from Dimanche,
currently working under pseudonym Blanc. No information passed, but
have to assume that French are taking an interest in matters relating to
target. After tonight, will not be able to communicate, therefore request
that matters taken up independently. Please check all current French
military manoeuvres in Egypt and take action accordingly.

Second Letter, Doctor Isaac Warner to Marjorie Warner, 26 February

1900
Dear Marjorie,
I am not certain if this letter will reach you. Alas, it seems all of my
communications must be passed through the young captain who heads
our expedition, whereupon they are scrutinised and material carefully
edited, or it would seem excised completely. I regret the need for such
action, but I am told that it is all to do with National Security, or some
such nonsense. I have tried to explain to them that the bounds of
academia do not trouble themselves with such trivialities, but they seem
unwilling to accede to my very reasonable points. I understand that

young Bracknell and two of their loutish soldiers got themselves into
some form of altercation in a local hostelry tonight, and as a result they
seem to have become over-cautious. I fail to understand why the rest of
us should be discommoded because one or two cannot control their
peccadilloes. I will make an effort to get this letter to you anyway, for I
fear that I will now be out of contact for rather a few months.
We set out for our final destination tomorrow. I am told that it will be a
long journey, more than six hundred miles, heading roughly west and
then south. I examined a map with Sir John tonight, and there is
precious little in the way of civilisation in that direction. Worse, I have
been told that we will once again be venturing forth in caravans, and
that I may be forced to ride some sort of camel for a duration of the
journey. I am resolved to prevail upon Sir John that I may be allowed to
make the trip in one of the accompanying wagons. I have too much
work to do to be distracted by the wavering gait and foul stench of these
idiotic animals.
I shall miss Luxor, for it has been the source of a great deal of
information for me, but I accept that this was not the purpose for which I
came on this expedition. I have transcribed a vast amount of ancient
writings from the walls of the ancient city, and I believe that a great deal
of it holds the secrets to the founding of the ancient world. So many
mysteries, so little time. I can scarcely contain my excitement at the
possibilities that these writings contain. I truly feel that I shall return from
this venture not only as a philological victor, but also a pioneer in the
field of ancient history. Perhaps a professorship need not be the limits
of my ambition. Perhaps, Sir Isaac Warner may not be too far away.
But I am getting ahead of myself. The hour is late, and I have resolved
to slip from the hotel and endeavour to send this missive out away from
the captains prying eye. I regret that you shall not hear from me for
many months, but be assured that I ever value our kinship, and venture
forth in your name, and those of our dear parents.
Your loving brother,
Isaac

Second Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)

We set out from Luxor on in a caravan of two wagons loaded with more
food and water than one would have thought possible, all of us bar
Doctor Warner mounted on camels. He travelled in the wagon, Sir John
having been persuaded that the manner and number of his complaints
was not worth the argument over carrying him in this manner. Sir John
was largely silent on the early part of the journey. I sensed from him an
almost palpable feeling of contained energy and excitement. I supposed
at the time that this was understandable, not knowing what I do know
about the true nature of his mission out here. Bracknell rode his camel
without complaint, although it was very clear that it was not a
comfortable journey, and my admiration for him increased daily. This
was a man far from his comfortable element, and yet he constantly
strove not to make trouble or inconvenience any of us. I had already
been impressed by his actions with regards to Monsieur Dimanche,
even though the implications of that encounter had troubled me greatly.
Nowadays, we are of course well aware of the exploits and behaviour of
that disreputable agent of the French government, but in those days he
was a shadowy figure, dancing at the side of great events. one thing
was clear; where he went, the military invariably followed, and I had
briefed all of my men of the dangers of continental intervention. I had
also intervened with Sir John to bear a greater number of weapons with
our caravan, and he had agreed, fearful of any other being the first to
lay claim to what he hoped to discover.
Even in February, the temperature in the desert rarely dropped below
very warm during the day, and the nights were appallingly cold. We
knew we had a journey of at least a month and a half ahead of us, so
we had stocked on dried and preserved food, and our water supplies
were prodigious, but still we would have to locate the oases that were
spotted about the otherwise featureless terrain in order to survive. I had
been provided with a very detailed map, and we set off in a straight line
for the first oasis, about a weeks travel. The days passed very slowly, a
steady and unending line of sandy rock on the distant horizon drawing
near and passing beneath us in constant repetition. By night, we would
close off our wagons and sleep inside them, the need to protect
ourselves against the cold overriding the desire for personal space and
privacy. As a soldier, I had learned to bivouac myself in the most bizarre
and dangerous of places, but this was new to me. At least two of our
number, McCredie and Evans, however, had seen time in North Africa,
and they were soon proving that they did have more extensive skills
than just starting brawls in native taverns.
It behoves me at this point to introduce to my narrative a new
companion who had joined us on our expedition. Sir John had, in the
course of our time in Luxor, engaged a local man to act as guide on the
journey to Cyrenaica. He went by the name of Vadma. It was not a local

name, and yet he looked as Egyptian a fellow as I had ever seen. He

was a small, scurrying chap, brightly intelligent, who spoke English
better than a good many Englishmen, in clear, virtually unaccented
tones. His age was extremely indeterminate, for he was unwrinkled and
his eyes sparkled brightly, and yet his beard and hair were more grey
than black. Despite my reservations at bringing in somebody from
outside of our party at this late stage, I was soon won over by his
knowledge of the region and his clear, straightforward attitude to our
survival out here. He quickly endeared himself to our entire party, and in
particular, we were all surprised by how well he got on with Doctor
Warner. In point of fact, he was the only person with whom the good
doctor seemed to want to communicate, and they spent many days of
our journey sequestered in the wagon, pouring over notes and
discussing esoteric and peculiar incidents of local history.
Prior to our departure, I had been concerned about how we might
convey a large, heavily laden pair of wagons through the desert sands.
Now, it seemed a straightforward affair. The sands, contrary to popular
image, were more firmly packed than I had expected, and the wheels,
broad and slightly flattened at the turn of the circle, traversed the drifts
with ease. There were times when we did encounter difficulties, and on
the fourth day out we found ourselves slightly marooned when a dune
half collapsed, nearly burying the wheels in a deluge of sand, and this
necessitated nearly an entire afternoons careful digging to extricate
ourselves. But we had been ably provided for in Pargeter, a careful,
well-studied engineer, who had read extensively on the issues facing us
prior to our departure, and had devised a clever little system involving
rope pulleys and duck boards that could be used to relieve the wagons
of most difficulties when they arose.
In the week that it took us to get to that first oasis, we saw not a single
trace of another human being. We were apparently alone and adrift on
this ocean of land, and despite the warnings of Vadma that anything
might be found out here, from bandits to groups of religious fanatics,
nobody appeared to disturb us in our solitude. As the sun continued to
beat down upon us, and nothing changed, a dull silence would
sometimes descend upon us all, broken only by the creak of the
wagons wheels and the slow, rhythmic plod of the camels feet, one in
front of the other. The patterns of sound acquired a strange music to
them, and at times it became an effort to stay awake, as one was lulled
by the gentle sway of riding camelback and the quiet of the land around
us. More than once, I was forced to prod Bracknell, who struggled
manfully with riding a camel rather than succumbing to the temptation of
the wagon, into wakefulness, lest his slumber cause him to fall
completely from his mount. After a life in the urban bustle of London,

and indeed all around the world, not to mention the seething human
mass that had been Luxor, this was a strange new land indeed.
Thus we reached the first oasis after about a weeks hard travel. To the
eye, there was little to see. The ground dipped very suddenly, breaking
up the monotony of the flat plains about us, and at the bottom of that dip
was, according to the map, the oasis. I was, to be frank, perplexed and
not a little concerned to see little more than the sands that surrounded
us on all sides. However, Vadma strongly encouraged us not to be
disheartened, saying that although the oasis itself had long since
disappeared, the water source should still be reachable. We took
shovels, and a complex drilling machine that Pargeter had insisted we
bring along, and dug down into the sand. That sand soon gave way to a
firmer, but still pliable light-brown earth, and then a few feet deeper than
that, we struck water. It was a little brackish, understandable given its
source, but it was clean and cool, a far cry from the stagnant warm
liquid that had been lingering in our large coterie of canteens, and we all
drank and washed gratefully. It was Vadmas suggestion that we spend
at least a day here before striking out for the next point on the map, the
town of Al-Khrijah, a little way to the north, and none of us was inclined
to disagree. We therefore arranged our wagons as easily as we might,
and built ourselves a fire, grateful for the dry wood that we had carried
with us all the way from Luxor.
We huddled close around the fire that night, watching the clear skies
above us blazing with more stars that I knew existed. The lights of
European cities, with the new electrical bulbs that are becoming ever
more common, seem to blot out so much of the sky. I wonder what
things may be like in fifty, or even a hundred years, whether we will be
able to appreciate the pure beauty of the heavens when the light from
our little planet may outshine even the sun. As I followed the course of a
small shooting star, disappearing behind a distant sand dune, my sense
of isolation out here became almost unbearable. I have never truly
regretted committing my life to the service of the crown, and foregoing
the chance of a family, but there have been single moments in my life
when my rather solitary existence has borne down upon me rather
heavily, and this was one of them.
Rather to break the silence than because I had anything much to say, I
spoke a few words about our plans for the next few days. There were a
few mumbles from the men, and Pargeter expressed an interest in
acquiring one or two implements of engineering from Al-Khrijah, the
town that was our next destination, but there was little real response.
Bracknell was scribbling furiously in one of his notebooks, and Sir John,
who had been quiet and uncommunicative for the last few days, was
sitting and staring rather intently at a piece of stone that he had cupped,

almost reverently, in his hands. I was about to stand up and take a short
walk, when to my surprise, Dr Warner began to speak.
It took us quite a while to work out what he was saying. In conjunction
with Vadma, he had been working on translating the material he had
transcribed from Luxor, and a lot of it seemed to relate to the area
towards which we were travelling. The previously dry academic seemed
to come to life, as if finding water in the desert had been reflected in the
flowering of the doctors academic interests.
Its all very interesting, he said, his voice more alive than I had ever
heard it. The hieroglyphics appear to tell the story of mass migration.
There is talk of the movement, and then a large number of very
obscure references to the peoples of the West. It all suggests that in
ancient times Egypt was perhaps not a heavily occupied area, and that
a group of people from the west, perhaps from the very place towards
which we venture, came here for reasons unknown.
How long ago are we talking? This was Sir John, virtually the first
words he had spoken all evening.
Well, the hieroglyphics are at least a millennia and a half old. But the
story they tell well, theres a new theory becoming fashionable in
academic circles called race memory. It propounds the idea that the
subconscious recalls things that we have not ourselves experienced,
but that have somehow been collectively passed on in the very stuff of
our body and brains. The story of this migration appears to be one such
memory. It could well be prehistoric.
Whats subconscious? asked McCredie, the word mangled in his
strong Scots brogue.
That commenced an explanation from Dr Warner about recent
advances in the field of mental health and some fellow in Vienna. None
of us felt entirely equal to the intellectual pressure of the argument, and
eventually I felt the need to drag the discussion back to the matter in
hand.
So what might cause such a mass movement of people? I asked.
It was Vadma who answered. Disaster, he said in a low voice.
Something so terrible that they could not stay.
An earthquake?

Vadma shrugged. The Sahara was not always as it is

verdant and green, long before the dawn of
civilization.There were rivers, grassy plateaus and a
Giraffes, elephants, crocodiles, other creatures that
know or remember today.

now. It was once

what we call
host of animals.
we do not even

I was intrigued by his suggestions, and I wanted to know more, but he

seemed reluctant to speak. It was his first show of nervousness. He
added only one more thing. The wandering tribes speak of the Desert
Rose. The phrase had a strange beauty to it, but his next words
stripped away any pretensions I might have had towards romanticism.
Its bloom brings death.
Sorry, are we talking about a flower then? asked Evans. Or is it one
of them whatye call it He stumbled over the last word.
A metaphor. Vadma supplied the word, and then gave the slightest of
shrugs. I do not know. Possibly it is just primitive talk. Superstition that
fades in the light of modern science and the world of reason.
I sincerely hoped that this was so. A light, freezing breeze drifted over
the camp, but the cold air was not the only reason that I shivered.
Bracknell had lowered his notebook and was staring intently at Vadma.
The other men were clearly paying attention. Even the camels seemed
unhappy. The suggestion that the beauty of the rose could be linked to
death and destruction seemed to be a direct challenge to the arranged
order of things. I am not a man given to superstition, but at that moment
I might have believed in anything. Only Sir John, still intent on the object
in his hands, seemed untroubled by Vadmas words, but I was inclined
to believe that might simply be because he had not heard them.
The little man shrugged again, then stood and walked away from the
fire without another word.
What the ecks e on about, sir? Evans said, his voice shaking.
Wog nonsense, McCredie said, almost trying to convince himself,
Bloody wog nonsense.
Thatll do, lad, Campion murmured, his tone firm and calming. A
reassured smile crossed my lips. Campion believed in the next meal,
the ale at his local, and his wife and son. Nothing ever seemed to
bother him.
Warner snorted suddenly, breaking the moment. Well, gentlemen, I am
glad to have brought a little enlightenment to your evening, even if it

seems to have engendered something of an unnecessarily fearful

atmosphere. Now, if you will excuse me, I have my evening ablutions to
perform, and then, I think, an early night.
He stood sharply, and strolled away, looking for all the world as if he
was on a field trip to Skipton castle rather than in the middle of the
desert.
I set sentries that night, Williamson and Campion. They were the most
level-headed of us, and in a way I regret that I appeared to be punishing
them for being the least susceptible to needless fancies. But I was
troubled by the effect that a few words had had upon Evans and
McCredie, both of them solid army men of many years experience, and
I needed men I could trust. I would try to calm everyones nerves
tomorrow, and then we could move on in a calmer atmosphere.
But I slept that night with my hand on my Webley.

Third Letter, Doctor Isaac Warner to Marjorie Warner, first extract, dated
6 March 1900
Dearest Sister,
I know that this letter will not be read by you until after I have returned to
England, but I write it as I need to express myself in a constructive,
written way. It is clear from recent events that attempting to have an
intelligent conversation with my fellow travelers is little short of a waste
of time. Captain Fairfax has a glimmering of intelligence, and that fellow
Pargeter appears to know what he is talking about, even if his field is
the somewhat intellectually limiting one of engineering, but the rest of
them are woefully short in anything other than the most basic of
understanding. They are good fellows, all of them, and I freely admit
that I would sooner see them in the heat of battle rather than myself, but
when it comes to academic discussion, I find that I rather miss debating
matters of Nordic linguistic tenses with Rumford, and you know how
little that appeals to me.
We have replenished our water supplies and are back again on the
route to the town of Al-Khrijah, a somewhat marginal settlement to the
north-west, which I am told is founded around a great oasis. It will be
our last significant stop before we set off for the border with Cyrenaica.
Our inestimable guide Vadma tells me that there is another town, Al
Masarah, beyond that, but he has warned us against it in the strongest

possible terms, as it is an abode of bandits, and a white face there

would be the worst possible provocation. Vadma has said that he can
guide us to other oases south of the town, and I gather that Sir John
and the captain have decided to trust to him once again, a decision with
which I wholeheartedly agree.
Vadma is a fascinating man, steeped in the knowledge of the area. I am
not sure how much of his knowledge would stand up to rigorous
academic scrutiny in the halls of St Martins, but out here, his learning is
second to none. He has worked with me on translating the complex
early-era hieroglyphics, and has helped fill in the curious gaps that I
have uncovered in their linguistics. In doing so, we have now translated
roughly half of the material that I transcribed. Of course, to translate the
precise words is one thing, but to understand them in context is quite
another. The language of the Egyptian people of more than four
thousand years hence is a poetic thing, and they rarely seem to express
themselves in straightforward manner. I have no doubt that should I
bring my writings to the attention of the faculty of English, then they
would be able to ascribe meaning to them, but alas they are not
present, and I must make do with my own poor scribblings.
The most interesting thing today is the recurrence of a phrase that I
heard Vadma utter last night. There is a significant amount of material
devoted to something called The Desert Rose. Roughly translated, the
words are:
The Desert Rose
Rises in the west
It blooms
Its petals touch us with death
Flee its fragrance for it will wither you
What this could mean, I really do not know. There is of course a
metaphor happening here, and when one considers the evidence of a
mass prehistoric migration across to the eastern part of the continent, it
is not wholly impossible to conjecture some sort of monstrous natural
disaster, perhaps responsible for reducing verdant grassland to an
appalling desert wasteland. What could have such I power, I really
cannot conceive. To do such a thing, one might have to be a god, but I
do not trouble myself to believe in such nonsense. I am sorry if that
offends your Sunday school leanings, dear Marjorie, but I am a man of
truth, and I cannot hide either of us from such truths.
One thing of which I am certain, despite the witless utterances of
Corporal Evans last night, I am fairly certain that we are not dealing with
an actual flower. I passed on my information to Sir John, who remains

taciturn, and Captain Fairfax, since I judge him capable of processing

such information without hysteria. I could tell that he was troubled at the
idea, but he kept his thoughts to himself. What he is imagining, I do not
know, but I am certain that I have done the right thing.
I cannot sign off my letter as I might wish, but for now, I shall put down
my pen. I shall continue when I feel I have something further to say.

Seventh Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 7 March 1900

A slow but steady days travel across the sands on the route to AlKhrijah. I have learned to balance myself on my constantly moving
transport, and can write and ride at the same time. I am finally getting
used to the heat, but I confess an occasional idle thought as to what
Pennyfather and Mrs Wilkins must be living with in London. It will be
early March now, and hopefully that cold snap that so afflicted the city in
the week before my departure will have passed.
We ride in a strung out line, with the Captain, Sgt Major Campion and
Pargeter at the front, then Evans, myself, Sir John, and finally
Williamson and McCredie on camels that are tethered to the wagon.
McCredie and Evans have been deliberately put apart, as their talk to
each other seems to feed their worse habits. Williamson is a stolid,
professional individual, who rarely has anything to say that is not
relevant, and I think they are hoping that his attitude will influence
McCredie.
Vadma has taken a camel himself now and leaves Dr Warner in the
wagon to continue his work. He rides off for an hour at a time,
apparently scouting the surrounding area, and riding back to report to
the captain or Sir John. He has become more uncommunicative than I
have ever known him, the effusive man that I knew in London seemingly
transformed. He has not asked me to write anything more about him,
and I do not ask. In fact, I do not talk to him at all. Only the captain, and
occasionally Vadma, seems able to communicate with him, and that is
only to decide which way to go, or our next move.
About two hours ago, we had a brief moment of excitement. We were
plodding along, quite as happy as could be, and I could even hear
Pargeter start to whistle. It was a tune I recognized, from the
Gondoliers, and I had started to join in when a sudden shout from
Campion silenced us.

Vadma had been away for a matter of maybe forty minutes it is

sometime difficult to tell in this featureless terrain but he appeared of a
sudden, riding his camel with certain haste. As he approached, he
indicated to the captain that we should slow our movement, and he
gave the order for us to stop. As we all drew to a halt, we pulled
ourselves into a closer order, waiting as the captain and Sir John spoke
to him. Then, at the captains orders, we pulled ourselves to the edge of
a large, sharply rising sand dune, and waited as the captain and Vadma
climbed to the top. This area consisted of a lot of these dunes, making
the going a little slow at times, particularly for the wagon, but I was to
learn that on this occasion, it was to have been rather useful. We all
waited, breathless, and watched as Captain Fairfax and Vadma
crouched low, watching some unseen point through field glasses. As I
cast my eyes around our small group, I could sense the tension. All of
the soldiers had their hands on their rifles, and Sgt Major Campion had
his bayonet in his other hand, ready to be fixed. Even Dr Warner, who
had poked his head from the wagon in order to berate us for stopping,
had fallen silent as he had seen the looks on the other mens faces.
After ten of the tensest imaginable minutes, the town men descended
the dune.
Berbers, Vadma told us in explanation, A small party, moving in the
other direction. Probably no danger, but I have had route with them on
occasion.
Fairfax nodded. I think well hold here for a while. Let them get far
enough away before we move on.
Part of me rather objected to this. This was the first sign of human life
outside of our small party for over a week, and the thought of that
contact made me almost wistful. Burt then I remembered Mrs Wilkins
and her warning about Berbers. Even if her experience of such matters
was limited to the reading of poor popular fiction, perhaps her words
should be heeded anyway. Vadmas instincts had not led us astray so
far, and I was happy to trust him. Nobody else argued, and so we
stayed for the best part of an hour, unhappily huddled beneath the
dune, until such time as our guide deemed it safe to continue. We have
seen nothing since, and the captain is hopeful that we will now reach AlKhrijah without further incident. We are due to arrive tomorrow, and I
anticipate it keenly. Vadma tells me that we will be the first white faces
the town has seen in centuries; whether that will cause a problem, we
will discover on our arrival.

Eighth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 8 March 1900

An uneventful journey has brought us to Al-Khrijah, and it is something
of a relief to lie on a comfortable bed in a cool, shaded room, and write
these words.
We reached the town in the early afternoon. I am not sure what I was
expecting, but it was not the relatively large area that I found. Centered
around an oasis, Al-Khrijah is a relatively verdant Eden, an island of
life in the ocean of the dead sand. There is agriculture here, with olives,
wheat, grapes and some sort of clover that Vadma told us is called
berseem. There is nascent industry, mainly in building works, and there
is talk of mining the rock sources in the nearby plateaus, and even of
extending a railway line from Cairo to the town.
My suppositions about the presence of white men in the town were
proven to be correct. Colonial rule has not extended here, and the
peoples last contact with Europeans was during the time of the Roman
Empire. We were soon surrounded by an absolute sea of faces, all
regarding us curiously, but not, I was please to see, with any degree of
unpleasantness. The people were friendly and welcoming, and we were
guided to the house of a local chief, which I believe is the nearest thing
the town has to a hotel
The streets are seemingly carved into a sharp rocky outcropping that
overlooks the western face of the oasis. Small tributaries run from the
oasis and disappear underground, forming miniature rivers which run
outside our windows. The place is an oasis in every sense of the word,
a world of civilization that I had almost forgotten existed over the last
two weeks. I try not to think about the fact that we will be here a scant
few days before we set off again, and that this time, there will be
nowhere further to find along the way.
Sir John, Captain Fairfax and Vadma are currently in a meeting with
some of the local leaders, discussing their future plans. I understand
that the locals are unhappy about the route that Sir John proposes to
take us, and believe that it can only lead to disaster for us. I know that
Sir John will not listen to them. Sgt Major Campion and most of the
other soldiers are gathered in a small common room, and I gather they
are playing cards. I was offered the chance to join them, but my
aversion to such things was made total when Pennyfather told me once
about the amount of money he had lost in a friendly bout of chemin de
fer. As Dr Warner has once again shut himself away with his books and
his writing, I have spent the afternoon in the town with Pargeter, who, by

way of his vocation, stands somewhat apart from his fellow military
men. He has largely kept himself to himself so far, not brooding like Sir
John, private like Williamson or simply rude and disinterested like Dr
Warner, but professional and quiet. When one talks to him, he is
actually a knowledgeable and convivial companion, and the two of us
found a shared interest in some of the more obscure English literature
of the last few years. He had determined to venture out into the town in
search of local engineering tools, more out of professional interest than
with any intent to put then to practical use, and I gladly accepted his
invitation to join him.
As we strode into the bustling market area, I was aware that all eyes
were upon us, and in the chatter of unknown languages, I was certain
that the two white men in their midst were a regular topic of
conversation. However, nobody seemed to take objection to us, and
despite our languages being a world apart, we found ourselves able to
barter with the locals for some dates and fruits, using local currencies
that we had acquired in Luxor.
Pargeter had soon found what he was looking for, a small stall that
seemed to hold an astonishing variety of instruments and devices,
mainly it would seem for use in house construction. As he stood arguing
and bartering with the stall holder over the price of some trowels and a
large shovel, the holder jabbering away in his fast, sharp language,
Pargeter replying in that age old way of speaking English slowly and
loudly, I had cause to glance around, taking in the rest of the stalls. It
was at this point that something rather curious caught my eye.
We were being watched. That was not in itself a problem, indeed I
would have been surprised if people had not been looking at us. But the
eyes that watched us glinted not with the usual curiosity, but with
something else, something that I cannot at present satisfactorily
articulate. It was not hostility so much as anger, and even I might say
fear. Fear of us? At what we represented? Perhaps. Pargeter and I
represent two of the least threatening members of our party, but I
suppose it is natural that if one were to be afraid of us as a group, one
would not distinguish. I suppose even Dr Warner might appear
fearsome to ignorant eyes.
But it was not so much the eyes or their look that caught my attention,
but the face in which they were to be found. It was dark in colour, far
darker than any face I had seen in all of my time in Egypt. The people of
this region tend to Arabic features, their skin caught between dark olive
and brown, rather than to the truly black skin that Captain Fairfax tells
me one might find in Southern Africa. This was the blackest skin I had

ever seen, and it was so far out of place that it gave me cause to
wonder.
The man sat alone, in a shaded doorway about twenty feet from me. He
had nobody near him, indeed his very presence seemed to create an
open space all about him, and his face, ageless and enigmatic, was
absolutely fixed on mine. We locked eyes, and he did not look away. If I
had caught him in his spying, he was not abashed, and he continued to
fix me with that probing look.
Something was not right about this man. I turned to Pargeter, who had
abandoned his bartering with good humour, and made to tell him about
the man, but in the time it took me to do this, the man had gone.
Pargeter did not doubt my word, but he was uncertain as to the portent
that this man suggested. Nevertheless, we agreed to tell our expedition
leaders about the occurrence.
Later
It has gone ten oclock and the night is drawing in. I have told Captain
Fairfax about the man in the market, and he has communicated that
information to Sir John and also to Vadma. It is upon the last of these
men that the information has had the most profound effect. He seems
unwilling to say why this concerns him so, but he nevertheless has
advised greater watchfulness, and for sentries once again to be set for
the night. The captain has agreed, and Evans has been ordered to take
the first watch, followed by McCredie, and then Williamson. Vadmas
fears worry me. If a man so used to the desert and its peoples can be
made afraid by what seems a relatively trivial incident, I am forced to
wonder whether triviality needs to be taken more seriously.
I must try to calm my mind. I am tired from our long weeks of riding, and
I need to sleep.

Ninth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 9 March 1900

Woken at six oclock this morning to appalling news. Williamson, who
took lookout duty late in the night, has vanished without a trace.

Third Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)
The disappearance of Williamson cast its shadow over all of us, and
came very close to ending the expedition there and then. Nobody had
seen the man since McCredie had handed over duty to him at three
oclock in the morning. At that time, they had simply exchanged a few
desultory words, and McCredie had gone off to sleep, leaving
Williamson to his lonely duty.
I had served with Williamson for a good many years, and he was about
as solidly reliable a soldier as I had ever known. This was not a man
given to wandering off or simply deserting his post on a whim. I knew
that the only reason he would not be where he was supposed to be was
if he had been taken by force.
I called Sir John and Vadma into immediate conference, for I was fast
coming to the realisation that we were crowded by enemies upon all
sides. I had already raised concerns regarding a potential French
incursion upon our expedition. Could this be their next move? To
calculate the likelihood of such a move required more knowledge of
their current numbers and perhaps of whom they counted in their ranks,
and of both I was not certain. However, Bracknell had given me a
second clue the previous day, and Vadma was convinced of its
importance.
It is very simple, he told me, If your French enemies had been
involved, I would know. I have been from one end of the town to the
other since we arrived, and I have seen not a trace of them. Not one
white face, not one hint of strangers, nothing.
Perhaps you simply missed something.
I highly doubt it. This was not the man showing his arrogance, it was
simply a statement of fact. And sadly, I had to believe him.
So what would you suggest? I asked, deeply frustrated.
Your friend Mr Bracknell, he says that he saw a face in the market
yesterday. A face blacker than the darkest pitch.
I nodded. I had little reason to doubt Bracknells tale of the day before,
and I had noticed how it had perturbed Vadma at the time.
The people of the region to which we travel, that is the face that they
present. They are not as others in this area.

Sir John, who for days had seemed almost disinterested in anything
other than his maps and his stone, sat up in interest at this. Are you
saying that they have been seen here? Vadma shrugged. Why didnt
you say so yesterday, man?
Sir Johns tone was angry, hinting at accusation, but Vadma did not
seem to allow it to trouble him. One cannot always be sure of things. I
feared to panic you with unnecessary fears. He stroked his chin,
rubbing his beard as if it were a talisman for good luck. The People of
the Wadi do not normally venture beyond their plateau. If they have
been here, then they must have had a reason.
The People of the Wadi? Sir John stood, eyes bright and eager with
interest at Vadmas words. What do you know of them?
Another shrug from Vadma. Little enough. They are the people of the
Southern Plateau. They are dark and strange, and they tend to keep
their own domain and counsel. They have little enough to do with the
rest of the world. And there is no need to obscure the matter, Sir John, I
know well enough that they are the target of this entire expedition.
This was news to me. I looked at Sir John, whose expression was for
the first time less than comfortable. He looked for all the world like a
child caught in a foolish lie, hanging his head and not meeting either of
us in the eye.
Perhaps, he muttered to himself. I could see that he continued to turn
the stone over and over in his hands, his fingers obscuring the details
from casual view.
All of this is very well, I told both men, But what do we do now? Let us
assume that yourWadi People took Williamson. Would they kill him?
His shake of the head gave me hope. They are not a violent people.
They do not even carry weapons, as a rule. They are said to have a
saying. The desert is death enough.
He pronounced the words in a low, dark tone, and they chilled me. So
what would they want with him?
Curiosity. If they saw your other men in the market, and they wished to
see what manner of people they were dealing with, they might see fit to
take the most vulnerable and isolated of you. I think they will just speak
to him, find out what it is you want.

Which implies they know we are coming. Sir John did not sound happy
at this.
Vadma nodded. They have been the source of invasion many times
before. The Phoenicians, the Greeks and the Romans all sent soldiers
here. It is also said that your Napoleon sent an expeditionary force. It
was lost, he added, almost redundantly.
Not our Napoleon, I replied defensively. I had received more
information concerning our objectives in the last few minutes than I had
previously learned in a month. I was used to being sent on missions
whose aims were at best uncertain. That was part of the duty of being a
special military agent to the crown. This however, felt wholly new and
dangerous. Sir John had been less than specific about the people of the
region, allowing me to postulate a number of theories. I had planned for
all sorts, from Kanuri to Nubians, or wandering bands of Tuaregs who
would have to be appeased by the force of bullets. But to venture in
search of something wholly new and alien to us all the prospect both
exhilarated and terrified in equal measure.
I locked eyes with Sir John and repeated my question.. What do we do
now?
He gave the slightest of smiles. We go on after him. Or we go home
with our tails between our legs.
He knew he had us all at that moment and I damned him for it. Had I
know for sure that Williamson was dead, I would have done that very
thing without the slightest doubt. I would have ordered us all home and
blast Sir John and his expedition, and if he didnt like it he could stay
here and grub about in the sand and rocks forever for all I cared. But as
long as a man under my command might be alive, I would not leave him
to whatever fate the desert decreed. I would pursue the men who had
taken him and would reclaim him from that fate.
Vadma knew that the decision had been made. It is decided. We head
for the plateau, and beyond that, who can tell.
Sir Johns smile broadened. He spread his map out across the table
that stood between us all, and pointed to the huge spreading plateau to
which Vadma had referred.
This is it, gentlemen. The plateau has no name. It rises more than a
thousand feet from the floor of the desert. He indicated one end of the
mass of rock. Here, one might gain access to the plateau, as there are
steep but passable slopes. Vadma looked at him curiously at that, but

made no comment. When we are up there, we ride dead south, headed

for a canyon that should be here. He indicated another spot, about a
hundred miles south of the plateaus northernmost borders.
It will be difficult, Vadma said, We will need horses. Camels will not
do.
Sir John agreed We will have to carry everything on our mounts or our
backs. Therell be no place for wagons.
Dr Warner wont like that, I said.
Sir Johns face was set He rides or he stays.
Vadma nodded. I will secure horses from the market. Good Tuareg
beasts that have been bred out here. They will serve.
Then we are in accord, gentlemen. We will start as soon as we may.
Sir John made as if to roll up the map, but I leaned forward, resting my
hands on it and preventing him. I had one question he still had not
answered.
How do you know all of this? I asked.
For a moment, he did not answer. Then, he raised his other hand and
placed something on the map. It was the stone that had held such
fascination for him for the last few days.
I could see now that it was not a stone at all. Rather, it was a piece of
glass. But this was not an ordinary piece of glass. It was a perfect
sphere, its surface cloudy and slightly greenish-yellow in colour, as if
with age. On its surface were engraved markings. The construction not
look natural. And yet at the same time, I knew that this shape had not
been formed by human hands.
Pick it up, Sir John told me. I did as I was asked, and examined the
sphere in greater detail.
What is it? I asked him.
Libyan glass, he replied, as if that told me all I needed to know. It was
found on that plateau. The place teems with it.
Libyan? I turned to item over in my hands. It seemed to me that the
pattern was no mere ornamentation. There was logic and organisation
to it, as if it meant something.

It was the ancient Greek name for this part of Africa, Vadma said. He
sounded tired and worried, as if this sudden sense of action on the part
of our sponsor had taken matters out of his control.
Where did you get it?
From a contact in Marrakesh. Where he acquired it, I do not know but
I am certain of its origin. This is the sand of this desert fused by some
power that none of us understands.
And the markings?
A map. I am now convinced that this is how that people record things
perhaps they do not have the skills or resources to construct paper. In
such a case, the recording of information would be either the walls of
their dwellings or something like this. A few small pointers allowed my
people to identify the location. And from it, they constructed this. He
indicated the map on the table again. My people have taken almost six
months to put this together. There is no map like it. No white man has
ever been to these places and returned. Nobody has ever charted them.
I had my people extrapolate all of the details from this one piece of
glass and this is the result. This map will guide us as no others have
been, and we will find the people of the Wadi. And Williamson, he
added. I disliked the way it seemed to sound like an afterthought.
I returned the sphere to Sir John with a frown. When one is a soldier,
one learns to obey orders and frequently serve causes to which one
does not necessarily immediately subscribe. I have killed for crown and
country on so many occasions that I have lost track of the reasons. My
duty has always been clear. But the manner in which we were being
manipulated by this man left me deeply uneasy for perhaps the first time
in my career.
I know there is more going on here than you have told us, Sir John, I
said to him, feeling bold enough to be plain. I fear that is your privilege.
But if any more of my men fall victim to your vainglory, then we will
leave. Are we understood?
Sir Johns only reply was a curt nod. I could see that he was on the
verge of anger at my blunt words, but I was not going to let his attitude
trouble me. I was more concerned about Vadmas silence. He seemed
on the verge of something I had not seen before. He seemed afraid.

Third Letter, Doctor Isaac Warner to Marjorie Warner, second extract,

dated 13 March 1900
I am continuing my writing to you, dear sister, as it seems the only way I
have to convey my frustration at the ridiculous turn that events have
now taken.
Captain Fairfax has mislaid one of his soldiers, and we find ourselves
riding to a plateau in the far south east. When I say riding, please
understand that I am no longer talking about the pleasurable comforts of
my small wagon, and convivial conversation with Vadma. No, we are
now mounted on horseback all of us, mark you and forced to ride at
an unholy pace. By night, I now longer have my comfortable bed in the
wagon, and am forced to assemble some sort of bivouac, and camp
with Vadma and the young engineer Pargeter a fellow who I have no
doubt is an expert in his field, but who as a conversationalist on the
subjects of archaeology and linguistics leaves very much to be desired.
You may imagine the sight that I present balanced atop a desert
stallion. I have never ridden in my life we both remember the farcical
situation that ensued with the donkeys on Brighton beach all those
years ago and I find myself aching all over when a days riding is
done. Four days of this nonsense have numbed me slightly to the pain,
but I long for a comfortable bed and just one day to recover. But
apparently this is not to be borne, for the captain drives us as if the devil
were at our heels. Now, of course there are many wandering tribes
about the region who might massacre us at their whim, but I doubt that
we might outrun them anyway should we encounter them.
Now, I did not expect the soldiers to support me in my complaint, but I
had at least hoped that young Bracknell might at least show a trace of
good sense. But I find that the young idiot seems increasingly to regard
matters as some sort of adventure. I believe that he might have read too
much over-imaginative fiction when he was a boy.
A large amount of the valuable equipment that we brought with us has
been left behind, as we are told it is of no practical use. As if that were
the only reason for bringing such things! I have lost most of my books,
and was only allowed to bring my notebooks on sufferance. Now most
of the soldiers carried their ammunition slung across their shoulders,
and water and food hangs from every possible spare strap or space on
our mounts. I am almost inclined to feel sorry for the unfortunately
beasts due to the extra burden that they are forced to carry. Our rations
consist almost entirely of dried food now, for Vadma tells us that we
cannot waste any of our water on the couscous. I had little enough liking

for that vile substance, but by contrast to the dried fruit and biscuits that
are now my lot it seemed a positive feast. All of this, as you may
imagine, plays terrible tricks upon my digestion. I am more than ever
convinced that the internal workings of a man of academia are not
ordered to the same pattern as those of a military man, who has
evolved a stomach lining of lead. I fear that my taste for food may be
permanently ruined by the horrors of this trip.
But, all in all, we proceed on. I try to continue my work as I may when
we stop for the night, but Vadma has been less able to help of late, as
he becomes more and more concerned the closer we approach to this
plateau. It is, I will admit, an impressive sight, its seeming sheer walls
rising sharply from the desert floor as some sort of sand-red monument.
I only hope that it will not be a memorial to our folly, and that our
headlong flight towards it might be rewarded by more than the scraps of
knowledge that I have thus far collected.

Tenth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 15 March 1900

We have been confined to our tents for near enough two days now. The
wind that cuts across them, moaning and howling like every banshee
that ever gave me a nightmare, never seems to end. Vadma tells us
that it is called a ghibli, a wind storm that lurks around the desert in the
early spring, making its way up from the south towards the
Mediterranean, where it will blow itself our in a fury near to a hurricane.
Although it does not bring the terror that a sandstorm which is what I
first thought we were witnessing might bring, Vadma nevertheless
warned us that it can cause all manner of trouble, be it losing ourselves
in the blinding sea of grit and sand, or being injured by flying stones. We
therefore have pulled ourselves under canvas for the days and that
could be as many as five that it takes to pass us by.
I have been seized by uncertainty, and it is only now that I have been
able to find the determination to write down what has been happening. It
is deeply frustrating. Our progress to the plateau, despite Dr Warners
constant litany of complaining, has been good, and we are now within
about a days ride of the lower slopes that might allow us to ascend.
Now, we are reduced to sitting here, with precious little to do. The storm
blocks out a good deal of the light, even in day, and seems to create a
stifling atmosphere within the tent. I cannot breathe, and my mouth is
dry, yet I dare not drink more than I should, for we still must conserve
our water for as long as we can. Vadma is hopeful that once on the
plateau, supplies might be found, and Pargeter, who has read a great

deal of local tracts upon the area, supports this view, but both admit that
they cannot be certain as to this.
Captain Fairfax and Sgt Major Campion are quartered in our largest tent
with the horses, whilst Dr Warner is with Sir John, Vadma and Pargeter.
I am not sure for whom I feel the greater sorrow. I am in the small tent
with Evans and McCredie. Evans has spent most of his time asleep, but
McCredies nerves are tightly wound, and he sits alert, clutching his rife,
head raised and constantly listening. He is uncommunicative, a far cry
from the excitable, almost wild fellow who saved me from the French in
Luxor. I fear for him should the wind not die down.
I fear for us all. Our supplies begin to dwindle. We only have enough to
get us up and onto the plateau. If there is nothing to be found up there,
then we do not have the resources either to go on or return to AlKhrijah. Then what we will do, I cannot tell.

Fourth Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)
It was with enormous relief that on the third night, we heard the noise of
the wind begin to ease, and the constant buffeting of the sand and
stones against our tents start to calm. The smell of the horses,
constantly nervous at the noise despite their desert upbringing, had
become nigh-on unbearable by now, and even the fortitude of my
Sergeant Major was being put to the test. By morning, we were certain
that matters had arighted themselves, and we emerged from our tents
to find the others doing the same. Bracknell looked tired, and Dr Warner
more annoyed than ever, but we were all quietly determined to press
on, committed as we now were to the plateau, as our only hope of
finding the necessary resources to survive. We were now within a days
ride, and its red sandstone crags loomed ever closer, as our horses
beat against the ground with their fast rhythmic hoof-fall.
Of course, reaching the plateau was one matter, but ascending its
heights was entirely another, despite the reassurances of Sir John,
whose words I was increasingly disinclined to believe.
By early evening, we had reached the lowest slopes of the plateau, and
in the cool but not yet cold air, I decided we might be best, tired as we
all were, to press on. I set up temporary camp, ready to move out at
short notice, and put Evans out as picket guard, patrolling the area on

horseback. Campion and Pargeter were sent into the small ravine at the
base of the plateau to scout out the route that Sir John insisted was to
be found.
They had been gone about an hour, and the evening dark was just
beginning to set in, when I heard a call from Evans. As the sun brushed
the top of the vast rock shelf, I turned to see his spurring his horse back
towards us, rifle in hand and an alarmed look on his face.
Sorry, sir, but we ave some visitors. He indicated behind him and
back the way we had come. I squinted against the fading light, and
could make out what appeared to be a group of horsemen, riding fast,
and coming our way.
Vadma was by my side in an instant. His face was more set and
serious. Tuaregs. They have been tracking us for the last day or so.
I looked at him, annoyed. And you didnt feel the need to tell us?
I had hoped not to provoke a confrontation. And I thought that they
might have lost us in the ghibli.
They were little more than two hundred feet away now, and there was
little hope of evading them, save to ride after Campion and Pargeter into
the ravine. I had my Webley in my hand, and the others had their rifles
unslung. After momentary hesitation, I extracted another relived from
my pack and threw it to Bracknell. He juggled it unhappily, but nodded
to me. I dont believe he had ever fired a gun before in his life, but he
seemed determined not to let me down.
I hoped that it would not come to that. I quickly ordered Vadma, Dr
Warner and Bracknell down into the canyon, in the hope that they might
find the others. Evans and McCredie now had their rifles levelled, and
we spread ourselves out as far as we dared, intending to provide as
wide a field of fire as we could in order to defend our fellows.
The horsemen were now very close, and the first shots rang out,
echoing against the rocks behind us. We returned their fire, and it did
not take me long to empty my revolver. As I reloaded, my men kept up a
regular, disciplined field of fire, demonstrating why I had brought them
with me. In the dim semi-darkness, it was not possible to aim with any
degree of certainty, and I suspect most of our shots went high or wide,
but fortunately, the same appeared to apply for the Tuaregs. Our
fusillade did little however to slow down their advance, and finally I
heard Vadma shout to us.

Guns are of no use! Ride as fast as you can!

I fired off my last shot, then turned my horse, indicating to Evans and
McCredie to do the same. We rode as fast as we could after the others,
the light growing ever worse as we moved into the shadow of the
plateau. Suddenly, the horses ahead of us seemed to stop, allowing us
to catch up. They had run into Campion and Pargeter, who had ridden
back down from where they had found a course upwards. The sergeant
major quickly saluted and reported.
Narrow, sir, and pretty damned dangerous. He indicated the way we
had come, from whence we could hear more shots and inarticulate
shouting in an unknown language. But if youll forgive me, I dont
believe theres a great deal of choice.
Vadma had already gone off in the direction Campion had indicated,
and I nodded to the others to follow. We rode about twenty feet until the
apparent path took a sharp right turn and started to ascend rapidly and
steeply.
The path was indeed very narrow, barely wide enough for a reasonable
sized man, let alone a horse, to traverse. It wound up, seeming at times
to fold back upon itself to allow the path to curve up and around. We
took it slowly but unceasingly, allowing the horses to find their footing
and familiarise themselves with the ascent. More than one, a hoof
would go astray, and one would find oneself teetering on the edge of
the ever-increasing drop, but the horses repaid out faith in them, and
every time found their footing again, steadying themselves and moving
on. All about us, we could hear the
I was bringing up the rear when I heard the horse behind me, and the
angry shouts. I took a single breath, and then dismounted, drawing my
gun, and urging the others on.
The Tuareg was on foot, looming suddenly out of the darkness with his
long curved blade in his hand. The range was point blank. I raised my
revolver and pulled the trigger. Nothing. In my haste, I had not had the
time to reload. I held up the now-useless gun as a shield, just in time to
catch the fall of the blade on its barrel. The impact shook me hard, and
he brought his foot up to catch me hard on my left leg, dropping me
onto my back. As he looked down on me with a joyless smile, he raised
the sword to deliver the killing blow.
It never came. From behind me, a huge shadow fell, and then Campion
was reaching over me, his enormous hands seizing the Tuareg and
lifting him bodily off the ground. With a single motion, the sergeant

major had turned and hurled the man over the edge. His trailing scream
of descent was cut off by the sharp impact of his body on the desert
floor.
In the circumstances, thanks barely seemed adequate. I have lost track
of the number of times that excellent fellow has saved my life. I am
proud to say that I was on occasions able to reciprocate. His funeral last
year was well-attended by more men from more regiments than I can
remember. He was perhaps the best man I ever served with. Now, he
simply held out his hand, and helped me up without a word. The two of
us quickly set off back up the slope. Driven by fear that overcame
caution, we had soon caught up with our colleagues, and remounted
our horses.
About one hundred feet from the top, the sound of shots ceased. The
silence, broken only by the laboured snorting of the horses, and the
sound of their hooves against the ground,
was sudden and
disorientating. I slowed slightly, exchanging a look with Campion. He
nodded forward.
Gift horse, sir, he said, I suggest we take advantage.
There was no arguing with that. We continued up the path, until it
tapered out at the plateaus summit. The others were gathered in a
group about forty feet away from the edge, suitably out of range of any
bullets. I turned my horse to look back across the plains below, and
saw, quite distinct in the remaining light of the sun, a black-clad group of
horsemen riding away from where we were situated.
Vadma moved up to join us. He waved his arm across the plateau,
revealing a stark looking landscape of rocks and dust, rising slowly
towards mountainous peaks that were lost in the darkness of the far
distance. Southwards, he said shortly, That way.
Campion looked uncertain. He indicated the fast retreating Tuaregs with
his thumb. Wont they come back?
He shook his head They will not follow us any farther. They fear this
place like no other. I have never known anyone ascend it. Not even
me, he added, a touch of that very fear in his tone.
The sergeant major was still not convinced. Then why try to stop us
coming up here?
Vadma looked back at him with a solemn expression. Because, my
dear Sergeant Major, they also fear what we may unleash now that we

are here. But they will simply regard their failure as fate. And they will
accept the results of our folly.
He would not say another word. He merely turned his horse and rode
south.

Tenth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 17 March 1900

Some hard riding has brought us to an oasis. Vadma tells us that there
are many such oases situated on these rocky plateaus, as we traverse
what he calls an aquifer, and the construction of the porous sandstone
allows the water to rise to the surface, often far away from its source. It
seems that even up here, in what seems a land of dust and sun and
craggy rises, there is water to be found if you know where to look.
The closer we get to our destination, the more it seems to galvanise Sir
John. Today, he spoke of creating a whole new chapter of his life. He
has sat with me tonight, and dictated a great deal of notes about his
adult life, taking in his business deals, and the beginning of his
munitions empire. He has not spoken to me like this since we left
England, and I had begun to doubt that I would ever write anything
more. What has changed his mind, I am not certain, but he made
guarded references to running out of time. Since I now know that we
are headed for the domain of a specific group of people who live on this
plateau, I am left to wonder what he is leading us towards.
We lost a great deal of our supplies in the retreat from the Tuaregs, but
the waters of the oasis are plentiful, and today Vadma went off hunting
with a rifle, returning with three specimens of a curious looking
antelope-like creature that he called an addax. The flesh when roasted
has a curious taste, but it is the first meat any of us has eaten in a
week, and it was gratefully accepted. Vadma tells us there is a great
deal more life up here than down on the desert floor, including foxes,
antelopes, and something he calls a desert viper that he has
recommended we avoid, and so we are hopeful of a more varied diet in
the days to come. Sir Johns map indicates that we have two or three
more days ride before we reach out destination. I do not know whether
to anticipate or fear, and I think the others feel the same.

Third Letter, Doctor Isaac Warner to Marjorie Warner, third extract,

dated 18 March 1900
My discoveries continue apace, Marjorie, as our course south has
intersected with a most curious finding. The plateau as it exists is not a
single piece of rock, but rather a series of interconnected islands. It is
crisscrossed by what Vadma calls wadis, which are dried up river
beds. But these are not small mud banks such as you or I might find
running off the Serpentine. No, they are vast chasms cut deep into the
plateau by the power of water, often leading all the way up from the
floor of the desert. It seems that the Sahara was once a place of great
rivers and prodigious valleys, long thousands of years ago. There are
canyons to take the breath away and caves that one might explore for a
century and still have more to find. You can imagine my desire to
explore these places, and still more my frustration and impatience when
Sir John attempted to veto my efforts. I of course kicked up an
enormous fuss after all, was I not brought here for exactly this
purpose? I do not understand the reason for his haste, but he seems
bent upon travelling across this vast expanse of rock as fast as we are
able. It seems wasteful in the extreme to waste this glorious opportunity
for exploration.
Upon seeing my resolve, he relented a little. Thus, he graciously
allowed us the luxury of the afternoon in exploring the nearest of the
wadis to which we were currently situated. The captain set up camp on
its borders, allowing his men to sit about and waste their time in idle
pursuits. I was mildly disappointed that they did not wish to come and
share in my explorations I suppose that is ever the curse of the lesser
gifted but Pargeter seemed interested from a geological viewpoint at
least, and so was prevailed upon to accompany me.
Our descent dropped us about fifty feet down a gentle slope into a small
canyon of sandstone. The walls loomed up around us, and small
shallow cave entrances were cut into the walls. I ventured into one or
two of these, but found little of interest. Pargeter was more concerned
with what he called the sedimentation layers, and he identified an
unnatural layer of rock for which he could not account. I left him to his
speculations as human endeavour, not the ageing of the natural world,
is what concerns me.
Further down the canyon were larger caverns, about fifteen to twenty
feet high. I regretted deeply the fact that I had been forced to leave my
photographic equipment in Al-Khrijah. Entering the broadest and
deepest of these, I attempted to sketch the cave in my notebook, but we
are both aware of the limitations of my skills as an artist, and I fear that

the result is but a meaningless blob of pencil markings. Then, I ventured

deeper into the cave, examining the walls with a careful eye.
The cave was still not very deep, and the light reached all the way to the
back, where the walls were smoother. That smoothness did not appear
to my eyes to be natural, and as I drew nearer, I saw that I was correct
in the supposition. It is not possible in mere written words to express the
excitement that I felt when my eyes alighted upon certain markings on
the wall.
I believe that the correct term is petroglyphs. The walls were positively
alive with drawings, crude but strikingly dramatic prehistoric pictures
that must have been there for millennia, and were an astonishing record
of the history of the civilisation that once must have thrived when the
river beds actually ran with rivers rather than dust. There were enough
of these images to last a lifetime, and notebooks now runneth over with
the best copies that I could make of them. There were depictions of
animals, of cattle with huge curving horns that met in the centre, of
crocodiles, and giraffes and even some sort of rhinoceros. There were
images of people, drawn in the day to day tasks of farming and trading
and cooking. There were stranger images, figures with arms and legs
outstretched in aspects that to my mind were redolent of swimming.
Most curious of all were the numbers of pictures of hands. Single
pictures of an outstretched palm, fingers and thumb, carefully rendered
over and over again. Most of these were in the same colour, a very dark
brown near to black, as were the figures. However, one hand was
rendered in lighter colours, a medium blue-shade, surrounded by what
one might take to be a lighter blue glow, as if of electricity. The hand
surmounted the image of a flash, again suggesting some sort of
discharge of power, at least as far as I understand such matters. The
image was for all the world like the negatives one creates when one
develops a photograph, or the image behind the eye when one stares at
the sun for too long. I appreciate in those last words, sister, that I am
being artistic in my expression rather than rigorously analytical, but it is
the only manner in which I can describe that glyph.
I had lost track of how long I had stood in that cave, transcribing and
examining everything in the minutest possible detail, but the sun's light
had begun to move away from the mouth of the cave, casting deeper
shadows and making my work more difficult. I was distracted suddenly
by a cry from outside the cave. Thinking that Pargeter had perhaps
stubbed his toe on an inconvenient rock, I had determined to pay that
sound no heed, when a second cry came, this time calling my name. I
was left in little doubt as to the urgency of this second call, and so, most

reluctantly, I closed my notebook and proceeded out of the cave and

back to Pargeter.
It was indeed he who had called out. He was standing some way further
up the slope, pointing to a high point in the canyon. Upon my attempt to
elucidate the truth, he claimed that he had seen someone climbing on
the rocks above us.
Had this been one of the soldiers, or perhaps young Bracknell, then I
perhaps might have put this down to some hallucination, or the fancies
of their untrained minds in the heat. But I have observed that Pargeter is
a man of some small intelligence, and he is not a man given to such
loose thinking. I joined him therefore in staring up at the walls of the
canyon, trying to pick out the figure he had seen.
It did not take my eyes long to see what had taken his attention. A dark
figure appeared from what seemed to be a cave, halfway up the rock
walls. With a terrifying speed and agility, it had descended the wall
before we were even able to draw a breath, and I found it standing,
slightly crouched, next to me.
I stared into the eyes of that man, and I swear to you, Marjorie, that I
have never seen anything soalien, is that the word? It will serve for
now. Bracknell had of course described seeing a man such as this in
the marketplace at Al-Khrijah, but I had given little credit to his
hysterical tale. Now, perhaps I was regretting that. His eyes shone
bright and alert in a face that was so black it did not seem real. His skin
tone was so far removed from what I have seen of the locals that one
would not believe that they lived on the same continent, let alone as
near-neighbours, if Sir Johns beliefs are to be accepted. He was
dressed in a long costuming of animal skins. If that gives over the
impression of a savage, then let me add that the costume was wellconstructed, finely cut and almost tailored to his shape. And I can attest,
vague although this may be, that there was intelligence in his gaze. I
would hope that I am learned enough not to dismiss the ancient peoples
of this region as primitive and lost to the accoutrements of civilisation,
but even if I were, the look that he gave me would have been enough to
disabuse me of the notion that this was a savage. This was a civilised
man, and I was now in a position to communicate with him.
Before I could do so, however, he was away, running off up the canyon
at a prodigious speed. Pargeter made to follow him, but he had the
foolishness of the young, and I was well aware that I had little hope of
keeping pace with one so fleet of foot. We proceeded therefore with a
more civilised pace, moving up the slope, until we finally came upon the
camp. The others were, somewhat disappointingly, unaware of the

fellow, and I can only assume that he had made his egress by scaling
the walls of the canyon once again and disappearing into one of the
countless caves and depressions.
The news of contact with another excited Sir John greatly, and he
seemed keen to press on, for he felt that we were now very clear to this
objective of his. However, our captain was more cautious, deciding over
both Sir John's and I might say my own protests that an evening of rest
would be called for. We therefore are now waiting for the dawn in order
to ride on. I have been scarcely able to sleep all night, for I have gone
over and over my notes and drawings, attempting to organise and
interpret the myriad images. My attempt to return to the canyon was
vetoed by Captain Fairfax. For a soldier, the man has an infernal sense
of over-cautiousness. I decided not on this occasion to argue; one must
occasionally humour the stunted. Besides, if we progress on tomorrow, I
hope that we might find the descendants of the civilisation who gifted us
the petroglyphs, and I might even find the opportunity to speak with my
able-footed gentleman.
I am left to wonder by the events of the last few weeks if I have missed
my vocation in life. I have spent my time in the study of languages, and
until now I have had no regrets. The scorn of the universities board at
some of my work was a bitter blow, as you no doubt recall, but I have
contented myself with the knowledge that the derision of that moribund
organisation is merely a consequence of my work being too radical for
them to comprehend. Now, however, I find my thoughts increasingly
turning to the parallel field of archaeology. It has always been one of my
passions, ever since father took us on that tour of the Cornish fogous
when I was eleven and you were thirteen, but now, I wonder if the
things that I am discovering here suggest that it should become the
chief focus of my work. Perhaps one might do both together after all,
the connection between the disciplines is a strong one.
Or perhaps I am tired and need to try to sleep. Vadmas snoring is
terrible, but I must at least make some effort. I need my wits about me
tomorrow, for I can hardly rely upon the limited insights of the rest of my
party. Thus I bid you goodnight, dear sister, and I put aside my pen for
the night.

Fifth Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)

Following the incident with Pargeter and Dr Warner, I set guards on the
camp for the night, this time working in pairs in order to prevent any
repeat of the fate of poor Williamson. I myself sat shift with Pargeter, the
two of us scanning the cool night for the slightest signs of anything.
Barring a brief incident with a viper that Pargeter despatched with a
shovel, the night passed without any incursions, and come morning, we
were soon on our way on what we hoped was the final part of the
journey.
At around midday, Vadma remarked that we were no longer in Egypt
and had crossed the border into Cyrenaica. How he could determine
this, I really do not know, and the truth is that on a rocky plain, one
province of Africa is very much like another. However, this galvanised
Sir John into a new burst of action, and he rode ahead as far and as
fast as he was able, pushing his horse into a spurt of speed and virtually
disappearing from sight in the dust cloud that they created. We kept the
pace more leisurely, keeping our horses fresher and calmer, refusing to
tax them too greatly in the dry heat of the place. Finally, we saw the
horse-mounted figure coming back into focus ahead of us, and we
realised that we were catching him up.
As we drew near to him, we could see that Sir John had stopped his
horse on the edge of a great ravine, perhaps another of the wadis that
so dominate the plateau. It was clear however as we gazed over the
edge, that this was not an ordinary canyon.
The ground dropped away, slightly at first, then increasing in steepness,
for about two hundred feet. Then, at the bottom of that first drop, there
was a huge ridge of stone, the lip of the further canyon that plunged
away within the first one. That further drop was even greater, maybe
approaching five hundred feet. Even from this distance, the effect was
dizzying and awe-inspiring. All of us just stared down at it, lost in our
own thoughts. As I looked down, I fancied that I could see the slightest
hint of greenery, and even perhaps the glint of the sunlight on moving
water. And I was certain that I could see figures, moving with
determined purpose and all the certainty of civilisation.
I met Sir Johns gaze, and was surprised to see the tears that marked
his dust-coated features. He smiled at me.
The People of the Wadi, was all that he said.
We mustered the horses and ushered them gently down the slope to
the first ridge. As we did so, we gradually became aware that we were
not alone. Eyes were on us from all directions, and soon, figures were
appearing on the road, standing and watching us as we passed. There

were men, women and children, of all ages, observing us curiously, but
offering no hostility or resistance.
It was not until I looked upon these people that I understood what it was
I had been told about them. Pargeter, Bracknell and Doctor Warner had
not been exaggerating when they had described their skin as black. I
had been in Southern Africa during the Zulu campaign, and had seen
the dark skin of those tribal peoples, far darker than that of the Berber
peoples of the North, but even they were not coloured like this. Their
eyes and teeth shone out in stark contrast to the deep tint of their skin,
and the fast babble of an unknown language reached our ears, tinged, it
seemed to me, with the same tone of friendly curiosity.
Do you recognise the language? I shouted across at Dr Warner. He
shook his head.
Not like this, captain, but be good enough to bear in mind that trying to
discern a language from this confusion is hardly an easy task, even for
me.
There was a familiar and patronising note of mild reproach to his voice,
and I decided not to pursue the point for now. Such was the press of
people that further progress was slowed to a near-halt. I dismounted my
horse, and indicated for the others to do the same. I noticed that Evans
and McCredies training was kicking in, and they both had their hands
held at their belts and on their bayonets. I quickly shot Campion a look,
and he whispered gently but very firmly to the pair. They appeared to
relax, but I was reassured to note that their eyes stayed watchful and
alert.
We now stood on the lower ridge, looking down into the next valley
below. I could see now that my initial estimate had been rather
ungenerous, and the descent was a further five hundred metres, steep
in some places, very gentle in others. The valleys must have extended
pretty much to the base of the plateau. At the bottom was what
appeared to be a long lake, or possibly even a river. As Vadma stood
beside me and looked, he noted the body of clear, clean-looking water
with interest.
A lost oasis, he commented, Probably supplied from the same
aquifers as the rest of the plateau.
The oasis was surrounded on our side of the valley by a large number
of trees, mostly the usual palms we had seen at other oases, but there
were some others that I did not recognise. Further up, where the slope
was still gentle, there were fields, some of grass, where buffalo-like

creatures were being herded, others apparently cultivated with crops.

The valley extended at this point for roughly half a mile across, and all
of it was these fields. Based on the numbers I had seen so far, they
would be more than enough to sustain a small population.
Above the fields, the ground became solid rock, rising suddenly at a
perpendicular into sheer cliff faces. I stretched out to look over that cliff
face, to see that it was pitted with carved, human-extracted holes. Each
man-made cave mouth was roughly man-sized , and had a small ridge
at its lip. I realised, faintly absurdly, that these lips were this peoples
equivalent of a front door step.
Vadma grunted to himself Nowhere to scrape your boots, he said, and
I looked at him, surprised at his recognition of such an odd British
concept as a boot scraper.
By now, Dr Warner had also dismounted, and had joined us, kneeling to
lean precariously over the edge, eyes aflame with interest as he beheld
the sight below.
Most fascinating, he said, It appears that they have dug their habitats
into the very face of the rock. A form of developed cave dweller, where
the cave is the result of human endeavour rather than the need to take
advantage of nature as provider.
The caves were surrounded by a vast network of ropes and ladders,
allowing the people to move from place to place and up and down the
cliff as required. Figures could be seen moving nimbly and quickly over
the network, seemingly unaware of the, at times, terrifying drop beneath
them. I began to understand why the man that Pargeter and Dr Warner
had seen had been so easily able to escape from them. This fleetfootedness, after all, was simply the way that they existed.
One of the men, a large fellow with a smiling face and a muscled, rangy
form had indicated to us that we should descend one of the ladders. I
swapped glances with Vadma and Sir John. The former nodded, but Sir
John barely acknowledged me, so intently was he staring about his
surroundings. I indicated to all of our party that they should dismount
and follow, and we all moved to the edge of the cliff. I suffered a brief
moment of fear, as I got to my knees and swung myself over the edge
and onto the ladder, but it soon passed. I had been in worse situations
than this in the past, and would so again in the future. The ladders were
strong and well-constructed, and I descended the cliff quickly,
marvelling at the complex way in which ropes travelled up and along
and across each other in a web that was in its way as carefully worked
out as the road or railway networks of my own country. Ahead of me,

the man who appeared to have appointed himself as our guide

disappeared from sight, swinging himself into one of the caves. I looked
to Campion, who was the next man up, and indicated to him that we
should all follow. I then completed my own descent, and stood on the
step of the cave entrance.
Soon we were all assembled at the cave entrance, and we entered. I
was a little taken aback when I found that I did not need to squint
against the dark. The passage that moved away from the entrance was
long, wide and neatly cut from the rock in a clearly artificial, squared-off
pattern. Open flaming torches ran the entire length of the passage, and
a faintly sweet, not unpleasant, odour touched the air.
Vadma sniffed and nodded. Palm oil. Probably what they use to keep
the torches burning.
Our new friend had long since vanished down the passage, and I could
hear him, calling to us in that unknown language. The words were not
clear, but the tone of encouragement was very obvious.
Evans was clearly unhappy. Begging your pardon, sir, but shouldnt we
be asking them where Williamson is?
We will, corporal, I told him, my voice echoing slightly against the
walls, But well take our time.
Dont see why sir, Evans answered, Were the one with the guns.
I shook my head. Not without orders, corporal. My voice held a little
more steel than before. Theres no indication they are in any way
hostile.
Yet, sir.
Thatll do, Evans, Campion said. I may have been the officer, but it
was his tone that silenced the man. I nodded, and led the way.
Despite the large number of torches, he air in the passageway was
cool, a good deal more comfortable than the brutally dry air of the
plateau above, and I luxuriated in feeling comfortable for what seemed
like the first time since leaving Southampton. The walls of the passage
were smooth, looked as if they had been sanded down, and one them
were a good number of small pictures, figures of men and animals and
other, more uncertain shapes. These excited the attention of Dr Warner,
and he was most unhappy when Campion, in a tone that was the
epitome of politeness but equally brooked no argument, moved him on.

We walked for about a quarter of a mile under the earth, until the
passageway opened up onto a large, circular hall. We were ushered to
a large table and chairs, constructed from the wood of palm trees, and
the man indicated that we should sit. We did so, he jabbered at us
unintelligibly, and then retreated to another doorway at the far end of
the hall.
A small group of men shared the room with us, watching us, but they
sat at the other end, so distance away so I was unable to determine if
they were guards or just interested onlookers. Certainly none seemed to
carry weapons. We sat for a while, none of us speaking as we digested
the implications of what we had seen so far.
Primitive, but not uncivilised, Vadma finally said, sitting close to me
and speaking quietly. I nodded in reply.
Indeed, Dr Warner said. A society that has not yet progressed to the
stage of European medievalism, to use one example, but clearly
beyond the hunter-gatherer stage. Take their clothes, for example.
Clothes? I asked.
The doctor smiled, clearly delighted to be able to lecture us. They wear
animal skins, which clearly indicates that they have not yet professed to
woven cloth, and yet look at the workmanship, the sense of design. The
clothing is well-formed, practical to wear, aesthetically pleasing. They
are capable of what we would call tailoring. And the women do not bare
their breasts. An indication that some concept of propriety has begun to
infiltrate their society. Of course, we in Europe are subject to such
matters due to the influence of Judeo-Christian religious nonsense, but
here, who knows what the source could be. All very interesting, he
added, now talking more to himself. His voice trailed off, and he
scratched in thought at the black-grey beard that increasingly covered
his chin.
Sir John remained silent again. He was the only one of us, even the
non-comms after some encouragement, who had not seated himself.
He paced back and forth, all the time staring back at the doorway
through which our guide had left us.
They seem friendly enough, sir, McCredie said.
Which makes me wonder why the Tuaregs are afraid of them,
Bracknell replied.

It was a good point. I did not have an answer, so I looked to Vadma.

Could thy be hiding something? I asked
He shrugged. Everyone hides something. He was looking at Sir John,
and the import of his gaze was not lost on me. Then he dropped his
eyes. It has always been so. Local legend and the fear of the deep
desert, perhaps. He did not sound convinced.
After a few minutes, the man returned, and gestured to us once again to
follow him. We did as he asked, and went along another passageway,
very similar to the first save for the large number of passages that
seemed to run off from this one, disappearing into darkness. I became
very aware that it would be a matter of ease to become very lost in this
place, and began, I admit without a great deal of success, to attempt to
memorise a rough map of the way back to the open air.
Finally, we opened up on an even greater hall than before, the roof
stretching up a good two hundred feet above our heads and
disappearing into the shadows. I heard at least one of the party,
Pargeter I believe, gasp in awe at the sight, and my own breath caught
in my throat as I beheld the place. One could have fit a decent-sized
cathedral in here, and still had room left over. And once again, to judge
by the smooth sloping walls, this was no natural cave but a man-made
space. Clearly, Dr Warner was correct. We were dealing with a
civilisation that was far more complex than had initially appeared.
There were a good few people in this great hall, all sitting, talking,
watching as we progressed to one end, where waited a small group of
men. At their centre was a man seated, whilst the others gathered
around them. He was older than I could tell, his dark face wizened, and
what remained of his sparse hair shaded grey near to white. As we
approached, he stood, and offered a smile and a nod. We all stood,
lined up, feeling faintly conspicuous. I wondered briefly whether I should
bow, but my instinct as a soldier of the British Empire prevented me,
and I restricted myself to
The man sat, and began to speak, once again in that unknown
language. It became clear to him that none of us understood, and he
repeated himself. Then, his face showing a faint trace of frustration, he
tried a third time.
Dr Warner was frowning faintly, his head turned to listen.
Do you know what hes saying? I asked.

I am not sure. It is a most obscure dialect, but He started to return

the mans speech in a very similar tone. The man smiled, clearly
recognising some of what was said, and replied. For a moment, both
men spoke, each a little haltingly, as if not quite following the other, then
they exchanged a nod.
I believe its an ancient variant of Tda Toubou, he said.
Vadma nodded. Tedaga. I recognise the inflection, if not the precise
words.
Very interesting indeed, the doctor said for the hundredth time that
day, Its a fascinating derivation. Tedaga is a local language in these
parts. This versionwell, I can certainly speak enough of it to
communicate.
What is he saying? Sir John interrupted his voice strained and
impatient.
Doctor Warner blinked at him in surprise. Just basic greetings. This
gentlemans name is Nahiri. He is what they call the Regent, and he
welcomes us to the Place of the People of the Wadi.
Is that it? I asked. Warner nodded, and I went on, Doesnt he want to
know why we are here?
Warner spoke again to Nahiri. He replied slowly and carefully.
He is simply happy to see us. Warner frowned at that. He assumes
we will talk in time. Until then, we are welcome to stay in the Wadi.
I looked to Sir John to pursue the conversation, but he seemed little
inclined. I decided to press on with the only matter that concerned me.
What about my man that was taken?
After a few more exchanges of words, Warner said, He is safe. They
merely wished to talk to someone when they realised we were coming.
That hardly seemed adequate, and I said so. More to the point, it meant
that they had known we were coming for them, and I asked how.
Warner engaged them in more talk, but could come up with little more
than vague hints and poetic nonsense. I decided to pursue my original
point.
Can we see him? I asked.

Tomorrow, came the answer, For now, we are invited to rest.

I could sense the others with us stirring unhappily at this reply, and I
took a step forward. A felt a hand on my arm, and turned to look into
Vadmas eyes. He shook his head very slightly, and I could see he
wanted to say more.
I relaxed slightly, and nodded. Sir John looked as if he wanted to say
something else, but again, and with a keen sense of frustration, I saw
him hold back.
I took a deep breath, and then nodded. Nobody else reacted and we
were soon being led off down yet a third passageway, to another large
room, although considerably smaller than its predecessor, where we
were offered food, largely couscous and some vegetables that I could
not identity. There were low pallets scattered around the room, with thin
but comfortable enough mattresses, and I indicated that we should try
to rest as had been requested.
Sadly, I was unable to follow my own orders, for my mind was a tumult
as I sat down on one of the beds. I looked around the room, trying to
gauge everyones reactions to what was happening.
Sgt Major Campion, as solid and reliable as ever, was simply sitting and
eating. Bracknell and Dr Warner were scribbling furiously in their
respective notebooks, recording all they had seen and their own
reactions to it. Pargeter was seated on one of the low pallets, and was
reading over one his set of notes. Vadma had leaned himself against
one of the walls, and was standing, eyes closed, apparently lost in
thought. Sir John continued his forcibly enigmatic pacing up and down.
And Evans and McCredie were seated next to each other, muttering
under their breath. Much as I was deeply unhappy with Sir John, my
greatest fears were reserved for them. My elite soldiers were fast
breaking down with the strain of this new world. I knew they were as
unhappy as I was about Williamson, but I feared that they might yet take
matters into their own hands. I had to remain vigilant.
I became aware that Vadma had moved to stand beside me. The little
Egyptians expression was unreadable.
What do you think? I asked him, Arte we in danger?
He shook his head, but when he spoke, I could hear the nervous tone in
his voice. They could kill us at any time they wish. I do not think that

they mean us harm. They want to know what we want, but they will not
ask us directly.
Why not?
A small shrug. I am not sure. Tribal prejudices? He smiled a little.
Perhaps they think it rude.
I gave the faintest of nods to Sir John. What about him?
We have known for some time that he had a different mission than the
one he indicated. I fear friend Pargeter might have had a wasted
journey. He tapped his finger to his chin. I wonder what they meant by
regent.
What do you mean?
Well, in your society, a regent is one who rules in the place of another,
because they are too young, orwhat is the word? Incapacitated? I
nodded. So is it merely a case of titles, or is Nahiri really in charge
around here?
There seemed no easy answer to that, but the implications of it were
another layer of worry. Vadma fell silent as we saw Evans and
McCredie approaching, both looking deeply troubled.
Sir, we gotta ask you, Evans said, Why aint we forcing them to hand
over Williamson?
I paused, unable to formulate an answer to him. Vadma supplied it.
How are you intending to do that, corporal? There are a lot more of
them than there are of you.
So what? McCredie looked at Vadma with pure poison in his eyes.
Weve got guns. And theyre just a bunch of niggers.
I saw Campion raise his head behind them, but I motioned him to stay
put. Why I choose to do or not do something is up to me, corporal, I
said. Why you do is because you are a soldier and I have ordered you
to do so. Now both of you sit down and wait for those orders.
There was momentary defiance in McCredies eyes, but it was just that
momentary. Then, without formal acknowledgement, both men
stepped back and sat down. I kept my eyes on them the whole time
before exhaling the breath I had not even noticed I was holding.

If Vadma had any reaction to the obviously directed insult, he wasnt

showing it. I know you have your doubts, captain, he murmured to me,
But we must be patient.
I nodded faintly, then went and sat down on one of the pallets, falling
into a brown study. Too many matters were crowding in on me in one
go Williamson, a near-mutiny in the ranks, the mystery of these
people, and the even greater mystery of Sir John and his secrets. I ran
a tired hand over my brow, then laid myself down and tried to sleep. I
feared it was going to be a long night.

Extract from Report made by French Intelligence Agent codenamed

Blanc (other known alias Dimanche), 19 March1900 (translation)
I have to report that our interception of intelligence has proved
successful, and we have been able to trace the British expeditionary
force. They appear to have made their move towards a large plateau of
rock based in the far south corner of the Egyptian province. The reason
for this move is unknown, although it may have been related to an
attack by Tuareg riders. We have intercepted these riders and
Commandant Albert was ordered to kill them. I also must report that
Albert was initially reluctant to follow these orders, and I was forced to
officially reprimand him and give the order myself. Superior numbers
have ensured our victory, and given the size and makeup of the British
forces, I do not anticipate any problems should we be required to take
action against them. I have given further orders that we proceed to the
plateau and pursue British forces with all speed.

Eleventh Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 20 March 1900

What a truly astonishing place this is. I am still unable to rid myself of
the feeling that we have fallen into the pages of a storybook, sitting as I
currently am on the edge of a grassy ridge and watching the folk of this
valley of Eden pass by. The locals and I regard each other with a
pleasant sense of mutual curiously, and I have had several small
children come and ask me questions that I was unable to answer. I
bought their contentment by performing a small magic trick, the only
one I know, with some Egyptian coins.

The night passed without incident, although I could sense a great deal
of understandable unease. I cannot fathom why it is they tell us that
Corporal Williamson is safe, but they will not let us speak to him. They
do not appear hostile or dangerous in any way, and nobody has come
near to threatening us, and yet this strange defiance when it comes to
our military colleague continues. The captain and his men remain very
unhappy at the situation, and he and Vadma have gone to talk to Nahiri
once again to try to break the situation to them. Dr Warner protested
that he wished to spend the day in archaeological study, but since he is
the only one of us with a passing knowledge of their language, he was
almost physically dragged with them to translate, on the promise of an
uninterrupted afternoon of exploration.
We breakfasted on some unknown fruit and some dates, and then it
appears that McCredie and Evans have temporarily been bought off
with the company of the local ladies. They have the same dark skin and
are indeed most handsome women, wearing their hair in strange, tied
patterns on their heads, and with their unusually beautiful features, they
are something new and enticingly exotic. I blush to add that the same
offer was made to all of us, including me, but I allowed my shyness and
sense of propriety to get the better of me. As for the others, they are
either too busy, or in the case of Campion, far too loyal to the bond of
marriage with his Emma to be interested.
Sir John has sat with me for a couple of hours this morning and dictated
some more of his memoirs. He concentrates very much on the minutiae
of his business affairs, and I now have page after page of frankly tepid
and tedious notes regarding movement of capital, employment of labour
and the standards of gunpowder production since the fifteenth century.
How he can think to do this when we are on the doorstep of this
incredible place is beyond me. It was his idea, no, his dream to come
here, and yet now we are here he seems to be doing everything in his
power to avoid actually exploiting the place and learning it secrets. I
know that the captain and Vadma have their suspicions as to his
motives, but until we know something for sure, there is not a great deal
we can do.
Following our work, he declared that he wished to rest, and so I was let
go. I navigated my way to the cliff face, having to work hard not to lose
myself in the labyrinth of passageways, and then negotiated my way
down the rope ladders to the ground. The network of ropes is truly
ingenious, but as I reached the bottom I was happy to feel my feet back
on solid ground. I then wandered about the upper reaches of the fields,
observing the herding of cattle and the planting of some unknown crops,
whilst children played about my feet, daring each other to approach me.
I also saw that Sgt Major Campion standing looking at the fields,

watching the huge horned bison, like the primitive pictures that Dr
Warner had sketched in the caves. He had an almost wistful look about
him that was rather odd on the face of the bluff old soldier. He comes
from Herefordshire, so I suppose farming must be in his blood. He does
not say much, but I know that he misses his family when his is on
assignment. He really is the best of us. Captain Fairfax seems to trust
him a great deal, and his discipline over the men is strong. He has
already saved the captain once; I hope he will not have to again, but
should the worst come to the worst, I suspect he would be a
tremendous ally in adversity.
And that is actually the problem at the moment. I do not know what is to
come. At the moment, we seem lost in some sort of limbo between
action and inaction. Until we can work out who is actually in charge
here, until we can find Williamson, band until Sir John finally decides to
show his hand, we are caught in a moment of indecision. And so we
wait.

Third Letter, Doctor Isaac Warner to Marjorie Warner, fourth extract,

dated 20 March 1900
I have finally been allowed to escape from the cloying attentions of
Captain Fairfax and the decent but misguided Vadma. I appreciate that
my unique linguistic skills are one of the reasons that I was brought on
this expedition, but there are only so many ways one can translate the
same meaningless conversation, and I had hoped that Vadma at least,
and hopefully one or more of the British party, might have got some
grasp over the language by now. We have been here a day; just how
long does it take to pick up some elementary grammar and vocabulary?
But they continue to disappoint me, and dragged me into a long and
protracted conversation with the Regent, once gain largely related to the
fate of their missing soldier. They seem to set a great store on his
wellbeing; I really cannot imagine why, as his ill-attention and
incompetence as sentry was what resulted in his capture in the first
place. Sir John was not present; clearly he recognises that the fate of
one man is unimportant compared to the greater truths that we might
discover here.
We spoke for an awfully long time, with the finest academic mind in
England reduced to passing messages back and forth about when they
might see their missing man, and the answers, all strange and poetic
and clearly beyond the impatient wit of the captain. Eventually, the
captains temper stretched as far as it could, and he walked out on us

angrily. I suppose I should be grateful that he did not attack anyone. I

believe he might be capable of appalling violence if pushed too far.
But such irrelevant observations are unworthy of your time, sister, and
so I will not dwell on them. I am here to describe what I have learned of
the history and culture of a once-great people, not to concern myself
with the fate of one man. I shall therefore turn to the observations that I
was able to make once I extricated myself from that purposeless
debate.
I have explored the passageways of this underground village from one
end to the other. I have even engaged in a little physical exercise,
moving from level to level on the rope ladders, and knowing me as you
do, you might imagine the level of enthusiasm that this place engenders
that could encourage me to do such a thing. I have wandered until I was
utterly lost, and then wandered back for what seemed like forever until I
was found again. I have filled notebook after notebook with jottings and
writings and transcribed pictures, enough to last the largest
archaeological departments for a century. I am attempting a small
prcis here for your own enjoyment.
Theirs is a truly fascinating culture. They have an essentially
paternalistic structure, with tribal and family leaders all male. For all
that, they do not engage in the suppression of the female, and women
appear to share equally in the process of democracy, as we might call
it. Their language is clearly related to those that we have seen
elsewhere. They have no religion that I can see, and the vicissitudes of
Christianity, Judaism or Islam appear to have passed them by. Their
economic situation might be called subsistence, but that appears to be
a matter of choice. Situated as they are, they get enough of the sun,
and enough water to sustain a healthy crop, but they seem to have no
concept of economics or trade. They simply produce to feed and supply
themselves, and seem happy with it. Although our previous experiences
might suggest that they do not cut themselves off totally from the rest of
the world, they have little interest in it, and do not seek contact.
Captain Fairfax remains suspicious of them, as he is still unhappy with
the idea that they anticipated, for reasons unknown, our arrival, but I
truly believe that they have no concept of violence. They are isolated to
the point where they need fear no predators, human or animal, and they
are so limited in number that to turn upon each other would be an act of
suicidal extinction. I have seen no weapons save those that our military
colleagues carry since my arrival. My fear is that the potential for
violence that Captain Fairfax and his ilk bring could blight their idyllic
lifestyle.

Do I say idyllic? Perhaps it is so. But my own idyll is still fractured due to
unanswered questions. You will remember that I said these people were
not religious. That would appear to be the case, certainly in the sense
that you or I might understand the idea. There are no hellfire preachers
here, shouting suffering and damnation for all eternity. But there are
what one might deem oddities in the picture records. These are a
people who do not aspire to literacy. Essentially, they do not seem to
need it, for they have a strong tradition of oral history, and the place is
festooned with a virtual library of petroglyphs, all telling stories and
conveying ideas about their culture. Those petroglyphs occasionally
throw up disquieting images. The one of the hand, rendered against
what I can only see as an expression of power, that I saw in the cave
but days ago, that appears over and over again. What is it they are
expressing, and why is it so persistent? Is it a warning, a defence
against some unknown terror, or something beyond these? I find it
impossible to conceive that its interpretation will be beyond my wit
forever, built at present, I am at a loss to understand it.
This uncertainty is tied to another image, which I am sure is related.
Again, it appears many times, and again, it is enigmatic to the point of
incomprehensibility. A large figure, rendered in black, stands at the top
of the image, featureless but shrouded in a yellow haze. What appears
to be a liquid, perhaps his or her blood, drips from his body, and each of
those drops forms itself into a smaller, similarly black human figure.
Those figures spread out en masses, shaped like a diamond, ballooning
out to a wide point before thinning out in numbers, until, at the base of
the diamond, they work themselves back to a single point, one small
human figure.
What does it mean? There are any number of interpretations, none of
which are certain. I have tried asking many of the people the meaning of
these symbols, but they merely shake their heads and utter one word to
me alulim. It is a word I have never heard before, and nobody will tell
me what it means. It seems to me that they are afraid, as if this puzzle
from their long history might still be a threat. When I link this to the
words that Vadma said about the Tuareg and their fears of this plateau,
then I wonder if there is yet one deep dark secret to be found here.
And yet I hear you say, dear Marjorie, without I might observe recourse
to irony given your own Church of England beliefs, all of this may be the
superstitious of the primitive. But I have told you more than once, these
are not a primitive people. They are an emergent civilisation, a people
who by virtue of their place in the world have not needed to develop any
more than they have to this point. But the question remains, from what
are they emerging? There is something about their past some point that

I do not yet see but dimly. Were I able to interpret that point, then I
might understand it all.
My frustration is affecting my penmanship, and my writing is in danger
of becoming illegible. I have no wish for you to have to struggle with my
handwriting as well as the concepts I am propounding, and therefore, I
shall cease for now, and try to think of all I have seen, and by doing so
reason my way to an answer to my perplexities.

Extract from prologue to Official Geological Report with regards to

mineral exploration of region known locally as Place of the People of
the Wadi, South-western Cyrenaica. Compiled by Lt Francis Pargeter
I will attempt to break down the basic mineralogical analysis of what I
have found in this wadi gulf, and add any relevant observations as I
might find them. Please note that this report is by necessity incomplete;
I have through misfortune and on orders been forced to disregard a
large amount of my analytical tools, and so I have had to improvise from
the relatively unsophisticated materials to be found here. Nevertheless,
I believe that my report will eventually be detailed enough to create
recommendations, even though at present my conclusions are
incomplete.
The initial analysis seems to confirm that the basic constituent rock of
the plateau and the valley is ordinary sandstone. There has been
extensive tunnelling over a matter of centuries into the face of the cliff,
and this has in places exposed a good deal of sedimentary layers,
allowing for a closer analysis. Most of the exposed layers do not appear
to yield anything of interest. However, I have discovered one oddity,
which was also seen in the caves explored elsewhere on this plateau,
which appears to be a local phenomenon. One layer of rock is
blackened and different to the others. Were I able to do a full chemical
analysis of this rock, I could confirm the next conclusion formally, but in
the absence of such, I am prepared to speculate that this is in fact also
sandstone, albeit sandstone that has been exposed to some source of
energy. This is in itself a problematical conclusion, for the level of
energy required to crate such an effect is quite simply beyond our
current ability. The layer appears to be locatable to somewhere
between ten and fifteen thousand years ago, which would discount a
man-made phenomenon. Could we be dealing with a release of solar
energy, which I am aware is a matter of some scientific speculation
these days, or have I uncovered evidence of a new natural scientific
process as yet unknown?

All of this is however at present not relevant to the matter at hand. What
is relevant is the fact that I have not been able to discover any trace of
the so-called Libyan glass that we were assured was the reason for our
mission and my presence. I have attempted to engage Sir John in
conversation regarding this matter, but he is uncooperative, and will not
speak to me. I am uncertain as to why he brought me along on this
expedition, if my expertise is not to be sought when it might be of value.
A full assessment of the mineralogical survey results will be found in the
main body of this report. There is however one other features of interest
that I wish to document. The civilisation to which we have come is
located on the wall of one side of the canyon, and thus far my
explorations have been solely based upon samples taken on this side.
However, the walls of the other side of the canyon are sheer, and
unoccupied, possibly due to their inaccessibility. However, high up on
that wall of rock there is located one single opening into the cliff face,
which appears to have been constructed by the same processes as the
village on this side. That single opening is inaccessible from above or
below, but I have noted that from the opposite point on this side, there is
a bridge which I believe would span the canyon and allow a certain
degree of access. That bridge is not permanent, but is held up by a
complicated series of ropes, and constructed in such a manner as to be
lowerable into place when access to the opposite side is required.
I am uncertain as to whether this detail is relevant, but it would seem
that there is something on the opposite side of the canyon which is of
importance to our hosts, but to which they wish to restrict immediate
access. I have attempted to communicate my interest in this with the
people of the canyon, but given the obvious language barrier that exists
between us, and given that Dr Warner is not available or willing to assist
me, I have been unable to obtain their agreement to allow me to venture
to that place. I do not know whether this was due to poor
communications or if they are simply unwilling, for reasons of legality or
tribal taboo, to allow me to enter there. But I am determined to explore
what lies beyond that mysterious doorway, and will consult with the rest
of the expedition as to the best way to proceed.
All of this is of-course non-scientific speculation, and so I will now return
to a more carefully considered analysis of my rock samples.

Sixth Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)

By the end of a deeply long and utterly frustrating day, I found myself
little further forward than I had at its commencement. I had spent a good
deal of my time sitting in Nahiris chamber, locked in apparently fruitless
conversation, either with Vadma or with Nahiri himself, trying to gain
access to Williamson, and constantly meeting with passive but absolute
resistance. Communication was proving near-impossible, even when Dr
Warner was present, and given his eventual refusal to help us, and his
ability to lose himself in the warren of passageways that wound their
way under the surface of the rock, we found ourselves at an eventual
impasse. It was only by the exercise of extreme patience, and the
guiding hand of Vadma constantly pressed to my shoulder, that I was
prevented from drawing my revolver and using it to extract the truth
from Nahiri by more direct methods. I knew that Vadmas avocation of
calm was the rational response, but as his commanding officer, I found
my loyalty to Williamson constantly threatening to overwhelm my
rational side. Eventually, tired beyond measure, I simply walked from
the chamber in fury.
It took a long time for my anger to subside. Not wishing to speak to
anyone, I proceeded to wander deep into the canyon side, trying to lose
myself as Dr Warner had done.
I tired of my isolation after a while, and gradually picked my way back
towards the open air. On the way, I stopped to study many of the walls
pictures that adorned so much of the place. Dr Warner had tried on
several occasions to interest us in them, and I admit, amidst my other
concerns, they seemed small and unimportant, and so I had had
ignored him. But now, I found myself staring at the walls, and in the
flicker of torchlight, looking more closely.
Many of the images were abstract and strange, and I could not make
head nor tail of them. One however, was most arresting. It was a cloud,
apparently rising from the ground, blackened and choking. I could not
tell what it reminded me of. It conveyed an explosion, that was certain,
but the scale of it seemed more than anything our mere gunpowder
could create. This had the impression of a vast bloom, rising in
destructive power. The idea seemed to spark a familiar impression in
my mind, and I struggled to place the phrase. Before I could do so,
however, I was interrupted by a few of the locals. They were friendly
enough, but it was clear from their talk and mine that to communicate
what each of us wanted was not going to be possible. I therefore
decided to move on and make my way back to our habitat.
The evening was spent quietly, my having allowed the members of our
party a certain free reign in their wanderings. Pargeter, Bracknell and Dr

Warner spent much of their time writing in their journals. Of Evans and
McCredie, there was no sign, and I decided that on balance it was best
to let them despoil themselves with the local women rather than let
them sit and stew in undisciplined frustration. With some relief, I had
learned that the People of the Wadi had not discovered the secret of
alcohol, so I could at least be assured that they would not be enflaming
their senses any more than they needed to. Sir John and Vadma were
also not present, and I was barely surprised at this. Campion sat and
talked to me for a while, mainly nostalgic musings about home. This
place, unusual and beautiful as it was, meant very little to him, and loyal
as he was, and always would be, he missed his life in the Gloucester
barracks with his family beside him.
Although we had made a good deal of contact with the native people
during our short time in that place, the barriers to communication had
rendered most of it fairly meaningless, and we had acted more as
objects of fascination rather than being able to discourse in any real
way. However, we had somehow been befriended by the man who had
been our guide upon our arrival. His name, we had eventually
determined, was Wyidai, and he now appeared at our quarters, and
Campion and I found ourselves being invited, as we gradually were able
to discern, to his home. Feeling no sense of danger or suspicion, we
agreed, and soon were swinging our way along the walls on the ropes
to the further end of the canyon where he kept his abode. This proved
to be a compact but charming, and in its own alien way, very homely
series of rooms cut into the canyon wall. There were bedrooms, a
central communal area, and even a form of crude but effective indoor
lavatory, that might well have been the envoy of many of the less welloff in England. We met a handsome woman in her thirties whom I
presumed to be Wyidais wife, and several strapping children, male and
female, who once again crowded around us, laughing and playing,
revelling in the novelty that we must represent. We dined with them on a
plain but nutritious vegetable stew with couscous, and drank a strange
black tea that was unusual but not unpleasant, and then sat with them
on the edge of the canyon and stared up at the sky, stained a sharp
crimson by the setting sun. All the while, I was left to wonder about
these people, friendly and yet evasive when it came to my missing man,
existing in a way that suggested primitive savagery and yet calm and
sophisticated, removed from the world and yet somehow existing quite
happily in their own little pocket of civilisation. This was an experience I
had never known before.
After a while, Campion and I returned to our own dwellings, to find most
of the party, save the almost inexhaustibly curious Dr Warner, asleep on
their pallets. McCredie, Evans and Vadma had returned from wherever
they had been, but I could see no sign of Sir John. I made as if to look

for him, but Campion, as politely as a non-commissioned officer could

be to a captain, but also as firmly as someone who knew he was right
could be, advised me against it. Reluctantly, but wearily, I agreed, and
tried to settle myself down to sleep. Campion, despite my unwillingness
to set a guard, sat up, hand on rifle, watching intently, and the image of
his silent sentry watch was the last thing I remembered as my tiredness
finally got the better of my caution, and I closed my eyes.
I am not sure how long I slept, but it was deep and dreamless.
Eventually, a gentle shaking of my shoulder wakened me. I forced my
eyes open, and tried to mumble a little in protest, but found myself
looking directly into the firm gaze of Campion, finger to lips and a
warning look in his eyes. As I got to my feet, he indicated that I should
follow him out of the room and along the passage towards the outside
canyon wall.
We uttered not a word as we proceeded, and heard very little sounds
save the crackling of the ever-burning torches and the gentle flow of air.
Finally, we reached the open air, and I looked across the moonlit
canyon. There was eerie silence, save the slow trickling of water below
us, and a slight breeze across our faces. I saw not one person about,
heard not one animal, for all one could see the Sergeant Major and I
might have been the only people alive in the world.
Campion cupped his hands together and brought them to my ear,
moving forward to whisper, Went on patrol, sir, and saw something I
thought you should see.
His left hand straightened to point directly up, and then back behind
him. I looked over his shoulder, my eyes finally seeing what he was
indicating. A bridge of rope and wood, some fifty feet above our heads,
that connected our side of the canyon to the single opening in the
opposite wall of rock. I had seen this bridge the previous day, secured
to this side of the wall and not lowered, and it had been my intention to
query this the following day. Now, it seemed providence had provided
me with an opportunity to investigate more closely.
I hesitated only for a moment, then I took hold of the ropes in my hand,
and ascended quickly up the canyon wall, Campion fast at my heels,
until we reached the bridge, and swung ourselves onto it. Although
crude and old-fashioned, it seemed strong and stable. I did not even
think as to who might have brought it down across the gulf, I simply
capered across, keeping myself down as far as I could, and trying not to
look down. The waters of the oasis seemed a terribly long way down,
and I made the crossing as fast as I was able.

As the two of us made it across, we saw no sign of anyone about, and

had to presume that our progress had gone unobserved. We quickly
slipped into the opening in the wall, and moved down a corridor that
was in essence identical to those we had already witnessed, lit by
torches and covered in those strange pictures. These were a little
different to previous images. Over and over again was the image of a
large, humanlike figure, in a strange pure white, whilst other, smaller
figures, of a darker colour, appeared to move about at its feet as if in
worship. In every way, it gave out the sense of worship of a god. In my
short time here, I had not seen any trace of religion, either the
Christianity from which my long time in the services had parted me, or
even the local Islamic faith. Now, here was something that suggested a
far older, more primal system of beliefs. Ws this place their temple?
Was that why it was cut off from the rest of the settlement? Were
Campion and I committing the most base act of sacrilege and trespass
by coming here?
I momentarily shivered, but then felt the presence of Campion behind
me, and knew what the bluff veteran would say; that it was too late now.
I nodded to myself, and moved on. This time, the passage was a single
route, with no deviations or cross-passageways to divert oneself. It
headed along in a straight line for what seemed like half a mile, but may
have been longer. Finally, it opened up onto a small room, maybe no
bigger than a back parlour in a London terrace. The torches cast
shadows over the room, and illuminated three things. The first was an
exit opposite us that seemed to lead even deeper into the rock. The
second was a figure that lay on a small, low pallet bed, turned away
from us so that he or she could not be seen clearly, apparently asleep.
The third was Sir John Shadwell, who stood in the far corner of the
room, watching the figure with a look on his face of purest, desolate
sadness. As he saw us, a smile seemed to flicker across his lips, and
he spoke without being prompted.
I found what I came for. He pointed a single finger at the slumbering
figure. But now I am afraid.
I walked over to him, not understanding. What are you talking about?
This time he did not answer. The two of us watched as Campion knelt
beside the bed and gently moved the shoulder of the figure. It rolled
over, lying on its back, and then sat up, apparently waking.
The clothes, worn but well-maintained, were those of a European. The
hair was blonde, overlong and ruffled out of shape. His skin was tanned
but unmistakably Caucasian. And his eyes, blue and sharp, even in
their tiredness, were the mirror of the man who was staring at him.

Hello father, he said.

Third Letter, Doctor Isaac Warner to Marjorie Warner, fifth extract, dated
21st March 1900
A disastrous turn of affairs, prompted, I have little reason to doubt, by
the over-aggression of young Fairfax and his military buffoonery. I will
continue to write this in the hope that it may reach you as an addendum
to my existing letter, although I hope that you will understand if my usual
elegiac style is a little stunted given the circumstances of my writing.
Being unable to sleep due to the somewhat interruptive nature of the
young soldiers and their snoring, I found myself awake and alert late
into the night, and thus decided it would be an opportune moment to
avail myself of further study of the petroglyphs that adorn this abode. I
therefore went back to the deepest point to which I had yet penetrated,
and began to transcribe some more of the figures, adorning them with
some of my speculations and conclusions.
It is not always easy to keep track of time when one is involved with
such pursuits, and so deeply was I immersed in the ancient world of
these people, that I confess, several hours may have passed before I
became aware of anything outside of my immediate surroundings. The
first clue that something was wrong was the sound of a gunshot, clear
and distinct, the noise echoing along at me from further down the
passageway. I appreciate that such a concept will be terrifying to a
delicate on such as yourself, but I have now had much experience with
these matters. Nevertheless, I was shocked into alertness, and
wondered if Captain Fairfax had finally let his foolish instincts get the
better of them. The sound of the shot was followed by the noise of no
little fracas and a good deal of shouting in a variety of languages, none
of which I could clearly discern. As I backed a few steps away, imagine
my shock as a dry, toughened hand closed on my mouth.
You know well that I am not a man of action, but my struggles were as
those of the tier as I fought against the grip. As I twisted about, imagine
my surprise to see the face of Vadma, and my slight embarrassment to
realise that he had not acted to assault me, but simply to preserve my
silence in the face of a new danger. I quickly followed him as he moved
away, down the passageway and away from the sound of the shot.

He led me far away from the scene of the trouble, seeming to know
where he was going, losing us deeper within the maze of tunnels than I
thought was possible. Several times I looked back fearfully, but was
unable to see anything coming after us. Finally, the passageway
opened up into a wider room, and I could see a rope that hung down
from a hole in the ceiling some fifteen feet above us. Nimbly, our guide
ascended the rope, and indicated to me that I should do the same.
Rather less energetically, I pulled myself laboriously up the rope, feeling
deeply incongruous and rather foolish, but concerned enough about
what might be happening elsewhere in order to give my actions suitable
alacrity.
I found myself in a small chamber, lit by a single torch. Vadma quickly
pulled the rope up, preventing anyone from following us. He pulled a
small candle from somewhere in his clothing, and then proceeded to
light it from the torch, before extinguishing the larger light and plunging
us into near total darkness. The candle lent a little illumination, and
some vague light shone up from the chamber below, but I could see
little save the Egyptians concerned face.
Is it necessary for me to ask the purpose of this subterfuge? I asked
Vadma, my patience even with this inestimable little man becoming
stretched to its limits.
Trouble, he said to me after a while, somewhat unhelpfully, I might
add.
Fairfax and his idiots caused a ruckus, did they? I was unsurprised at
this turn of events. Clearly however, I had spoken too loudly, for Vadma
put finger to lips, and spoke in a more muted tone.
I do not believe so. Someone else has entered. It is neither the locals
nor the expeditionary party.
Could it be the Tuaregs? Now I spoke so quietly that I had to repeat
myself twice to be heard.
Possibly. But unlikely. Their terror is a more effective defence than any
bullets.
He fell silent, thinking. I did not dare to interrupt. I am not a man for a
crisis, I am not ashamed to admit. Higher brains cannot be expected to
think and reason under that sort of pressure. Refined minds require
refined times, not the urgencies of conflict. I took out my notebook, and
decided to continue writing to you as he thought. After a while, he
indicated to me that he was descending back to the ground, and he

disappeared back down the hole. I pulled the rope back, and remained
here, continuing to write and think by the vague candlelight.
And thus I wait. He has been more than an hour now, and I fear he may
have been captured? Do I take action? Am I even capable of it? I
somehow doubt it, and yet I cannot wait here forever. I am still not
entirely convinced that the blame for whatever has happened does not
lie with our military escort; but if so, there is little enough I can do. All I
shall do for now, sister, is continue to wait and hope that some obvious
answer presents itself.

Seventh Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)
Father? I was incredulous. There was no revelation that could have
been made that could have surprised me more than this. But Sir John
seemed unsurprised. He simply smiled at the young man, maybe
twenty-five years, who claimed to be his son.
David. His voice sounded weak, broken with emotion. He moved
forward a step or two, then hesitated as the other man seemed to draw
back a little. David stood up fully, then looked hard into his fathers
eyes.
It has been a long time, hasnt it? He said the words without hint of
either reproach or affection. The emotion that bonded father and son did
not seem to be present, at least in the younger man. In Sir John,
however, I could at least see the traces of feeling that had brought us
deep into the desert to find the man.
Deep into the desert. I felt a flash of emotion at that thought. This had
been could well still be a mission of life and death, and for what?
We had been told we were hunting for a treasure, for something that
could bring a new glory to the Empire and the British people. Now, I was
wondering, was any of that true? Sir Johns complete lack of surprise at
what we had discovered, at this white face where none should be found,
seemed to imply one thing to me.
He knew he was here. This is why here is here. Why we are here.
I exchanged a glance with Campion. The old campaigner was fast
coming to the same conclusion as I, and I could see that he was equally

disenchanted with the idea. I knew that he would say nothing given his
position and loyalty, so it was up to me to deal with this.
Your son is in Australia, I said, with an almost fatalistic stupidity.
Sir John smiled openly at that. That is what I thought. What we all
thought. I sent you to Australia.
To go gold prospecting, I know. David now sounded in open contempt
of his father. Your wishes, not mine. Well, dear father, I chose not to
carry out your wishes. I suppose you already know I jumped ship.
At Lisbon. Sir John nodded. I always thought you might come here.
You always were like your mother. Overly romantic.
If you mean I had no interest in the mechanics of your business, then
yes, you are right. And if being like mother means I wasnt like you, then
all well and good. How she loved you all those years He cut the
sentence off, seeing the pain he had caused already, and smiled. He
looked across at me. I dont know what tale he spun to get you all to
come out here. Some sort of prospecting expedition? Search for new
metals? Power sources? He could see in my expression that he was
correct. Good old father. Never stops the stories.
So why are you here? I asked him.
He shrugged, as if he did not really know the answer. No particular
reason. Why not?
Campion spoke for the first time. Thats hardly an answer, lad.
Maybe. But I am not a man of destiny like my father. I go places simply
for the sake of it, not for what I can get out of them. Do you know, this is
probably the first time hes come somewhere for any reason other than
his business. He laughed. I feel flattered, father.
Sir John was not answering. His head was down, and his body slumped
in misery.
How did you find me? David walked to his father and looked at him.
His tone was softer now, but whether this was simply to elicit an
answer, I did not know.
Sir John removed from his jacket the sphere of Libyan Glass, and held it
up. The map. You sent it to me.

David shook his head. Impossible.

Fate, his father insisted.
Blind chance, he countered. I no more want you here than anywhere
else in my life. That thing is nothing to do with me. How you acquired it

You are coming home with me, his father interrupted him with a tone
that was suddenly granite.
No, father.
It is not a matter of argument. I have the means to enforce this.
I hoped that he did not mean me and my men. We had come here on a
mission for the Empire, not to intervene in a family squabble. But before
I could say anything, David shook his head again and spoke.
It is not a matter for debate. This world and its people are not for you.
They tolerate me, but any more of us, and any more of your arrogance
and aggression, and this will go wrong very fast. You do not understand
this place.
And you do, I said. It was less of a question than a statement.
He nodded. Ive been here nearly two years. I am just beginning to.
Then tell us, David. Please. Sir John implored his son.
He shook his head, and this time I detected a true sense of regret. You
wouldnt understand. It all comes down to her.
Her? all three of us said simultaneously.
In the midst of this strange power struggle between father and son, we
had all neglected out attention to the rest of the room. It was only at the
moment we spoke that we realised that David Shadwell was referring to
somebody who was with us. We turned as one, to see the figure of a
young woman standing in the inner doorway.
The woman was young, in her early twenties, and dressed in the same
well-made costume of animal skins that I had seen in the settlement.
She had the same strong features as the people here, but her skin
colour was considerably lighter, not the light tones of the Berber
peoples of North Africa, but not the rich, almost red darkness of the

People of the Wadi. Her black hair, finer in texture than that of the other
women here, was pulled into countless tight braids. The three of us all
stared at her, not sure what to say. Then she smiled, a radiantly
beautiful expression, and moved to stand beside David. As he placed a
protective arm across her shoulder, it was very clear that tender feelings
were involved here.
You should not be here. She said it less as an accusation than as an
expression of concern for us. Her voice carried a strong accent, but the
pronunciation was flawless.
Madam, I said, my voice halting, That is becoming very clear. May I
ask who you are.
Her smile seemed to fade a little. I am the Daughter of Alulim. My face
must have reflected my lack of understanding. That is what they call
me.
She doesnt have a name, David said, She is the figurehead of the
people here. Nahiri is her regent. And she is my wife.
I could see that Sir John was pole-axed by the revelation. Privately, I
was wondering what the British press would make of such a union. I
had been abroad long enough to know that colour and race mattered
not a jot when it came to matters of love. But if the son of one of the
countrys greatest industrialists were to come home with a wife from a
lost African tribe. Privately, I smiled at the thought. It would amuse the
gossip columnists, anyway.
All of which did not matter at the moment. Sir John seemed singularly
unwilling or unable to pursue matters, so it fell to me. Are you one
of the People of the Wadi? She nodded. Youll beg my pardon, but you
do look rather different.
We always have, she told me. The children of Alulim never share the
colour of the rest of the People.
And who is Alulim? I asked. She shook her head at me. She seemed
unable to answer, as if some greater imperative held her back. I did not
pursue the point. Instead, I looked at David.
Her English is excellent. Your work?
He nodded. You can learn a lot in two years. And my darling is an
excellent study. Has something of a facility for these things. He smiled,
one of genuine happiness. I never thought I would find myself being a

teacher. He looked directly at me. My reputation for wildness precedes

me. I know back home they consider me the black sheep, the great
disappointment of the Shadwell family. But thats not really how it is. I
simply didnt want to follow my father in his line of work. No interest, you
see. This is where I belong and what I do. He waved his arms about
the small room.
And what do you do? said Sir John, in a small, quiet voice.
I look after her. He sounded like a child, proud of a tiny achievement.
Who is she that she needs looking after? Sir John said. There was an
edge to his tone that I did not like. He was staring at the young woman
without a name in a way that was not friendly. You called her the
figurehead. What does that mean?
I am guardian of this places secrets. My family have always been here.
Since time began.
Im really not getting this, sir, Campion admitted. He wasnt the only
one.
David took up her words. This place has a lot of secrets. Something
happened here, long ago, and the scars can still be seen.
What happened?
I dont know. Nobody knows, to be honest. They simply call it the
Desert Rose.
That phrase produced the same tremor of fear that it had provoked
when Dr Warner had said it. I was just beginning to understand why the
Tuaregs were so afraid of the people here. Harmless though they may
seem, there was something buried deep in their history that was
dangerous beyond measuring.
I turned to Sir John. We should never have come here. We are going to
leave now.
He shook his head. We leave when I say, captain. And I am not ready.
I had my hand on my gun now. With respect, Sir John, I said through
firmly gritted teeth, This mad venture of yours is going to get us all
killed. I serve the crown, not you and your ridiculous family. I made for
the doorway to leave, but a few words stopped me.

Dont you want to see your man?

I looked at the woman in surprise, and not a little shame. Amidst
everything, my concerns for Williamson had been forgotten.
You know where he is? asked Campion.
Of course.
Then get on with it, I told her.
She led the way down yet another long passageway, moving us deeper
and deeper into the rock. There was an oppressiveness to this place, as
the heat and the lack of clear air made it stuffy and intrusive, and I
found myself battling to breathe. I had never taken my hand from my
gun, and the atmosphere was doing little to ease the growing sense of
tension that had been engendered by the bizarre revelations of this
place. As we walked on, I caught glimpses of doorways into other
rooms, catching only momentary impressions of temple-like caverns
and small would-be drawing rooms, passages that snaked away, unlit,
into impenetrable darkness. Only the single passage ahead of us
remained lit, and it seemed to me that we were traversing it forever.
Finally, it opened up a little, revealing a larger room akin to the one in
which we had been quartered, with several opening running off from it.
The young woman took us to one of the nearer doorways and then
ushered us into a smaller room.
Williamson was lying on another of the low pallet beds in the corner of
the room. As he saw us, he tried to rise, but it was very clear that he
was not going to be able to do so. In fact, it seemed unlikely that he was
ever going to leave the room alive.
Within seconds, Campion and I were kneeling by his side. Williamson
was stropped to the waist, and his body, bathed with sweat, was
marked as if burned. His torso and arms were reddened beyond
imagining, in places even black with dried blood, and huge suppurating
sores swelled to bursting point across his stomach. The same marks,
smaller but no less appalling, were smeared across his cheeks and
forehead. He was feverish, but awake, and when he opened his eyes
I was on my feet again, my gun out and pointing directly at the womans
head. It was the first and only time in my life that I had drawn against a
woman, but I hope that the reader will forgive me and understand the
anger that had built in me at seeing the pitiable state of a man who had
been under my care. I burned with rage at the lies that had been told,

and I needed to exercise revenge or justice, as I saw it for his

apparently inevitable fate.
What the hell have you done to him? I shouted at her.
She faced me calmly, not blinking at the gun barrel between her eyes. I
could only see utter sadness in those eyes . This was not my doing.
This was an accident.
I wavered. My gun hand dropped suddenly. Everything was whirling
about in my head, and I found myself unable to focus on one single
moment of the last few weeks. What had we come to here? Were we
nearing the thing that everyone feared? If something like this could
happen to Williamson, were we looking at something that could do the
same to more people?
Plague? Disease? I asked desperately.
David shook his head, and spoke for his wife. The people here dont
know what to make of us. Until I came along, they had never seen a
white face. Its so rare that they venture out from the Wadi, they never
see anything other than the occasional Tuareg. They came out to find
your people, and they took this fellow because they were curious. When
they found him, I think they saw something in him that connected to
their ancient legends. Theres a place near here. They call it the
Cave of Death. Despite everything, his face twisted into an ironic smile.
Theyre a very literal people. They put him there to see what would
happen. And this was the result.
How?
We do not know, she said. The stones in the cave have a power.
David says it is unlike anything, even in your world. It is not natural.
A power? Sir John said. In those words, I could see his mind suddenly
working. A new
David shook his head. Its not for you, father.
Why not? Sir John was smiling slyly. Maybe this is why I was drawn
here. Destiny His voice, not sounding entirely sane, trailed off, and
he smiled at his son. Is this why you brought me here?
I didnt bring you here. I wondered if you might follow me. Everything
else is coincidence, and bad luck. I told you, I dont want you here. Sir

John did not reply. His mind was clearly elsewhere, and he stared
through his son, not noticing his words.
I looked at David. A new thought was crossing my mind. How did they
know we were coming? His face twisted unhappily. Did you tell them?
Isuggested it was possible. But I never thought it would come to
this. He began to pace the room, face a picture of exasperation. You
must understand, these people are not like anything we have ever
encountered before. Their culture, their history, its all completely
unique. When I came, they nearly did the same to me as they did to
your man. It was only her intervention that saved me. And when they
took him, we were too late to stop them a second time. He stopped
moving, and held his hands out to me imploringly.
So why havent they done this to us? Campion asked. He was
standing behind me now, shaking his head in bewilderment.
They probably will, David replied. Theyve been trying to see what
they can make of you, but sooner or later, they will do the same thing.
You must realise by now, theres no malice in them. But they dont
function in the same way as other people. I honestly dont believe they
think of you as human beings.
That hardly helps, I said.
His wife smiled sadly. I stand between David and the People of the
Wadi. I understand both sides of this. I know that they cannot mean you
harm. But they will kill you if you stay.
Just leave, David added. They wont be aggressive with you unless
they are directly threatened. Then He shrugged, leaving the thought
unfinished. I suspected that there was more than he was saying, but I
did not push the point.
I holstered the Webley. We cannot stay here.
No. Sir John uttered the single syllable starkly.
This is not a debate, I told him, but he shook his head, once again
looking like a child, but this time a child that was stubbornly holding to
its side in an argument.
We cant move Williamson, sir, Campion told me, rather more
reasonably. We need Evans to look at him, at least.

There was no time to be wasted. I looked directly at my Sergeant Major

and nodded. Well both go. We need to round everyone up as fast as
we can. I looked across at Sir John. He had relapsed into another bout
of unresponsive trance. All that he had come for, and it was falling down
about his ears. But I was well past feeling sorry for him. By now, I was
decided. If he would not come, then I would leave him behind, cave and
all. As for his son, I would offer him the same chance to leave, but I
knew he would not come with us. He had too much to lose if he left. A
felt the smallest pang of jealousy. A wife and a peaceful life. It was
something to aspire to at any time.
Peaceful until we came here, I told myself. So lets get away from him
as fast as possible.
We will look after your man. The woman smiled gently, tenderness on
her face as she sat beside Williamson and took his hand. You may
trust us.
I knew that she spoke the truth, and so I nodded, and then followed
Campion out of the room and back into the seemingly endless tunnel.
Despite the heat and discomfort, we set a strong pace along the tunnel,
following its turns until we finally saw the early morning light at the far
distance beyond us. Had we been in there that long? I had utterly lost
track. As we approached the light, however, we stopped. I could see the
same sudden uncertainty writ large on Campions features as I knew he
could hear on mine. We had both heard a single shot.

Twelfth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 21st March 1900

We have been held for some time. Events have raced away from us at
such a pace that the charming, quiet day that I spent in the canyon
seems but a dream. A distant memory that has long been lost. Since
our deaths now seem a certainty, I write merely for the sake of lost
posterity, in the vain hope that should this record survive and one day
be found, that people will know why we disappeared deep in this lost
corner of the Sahara, and that my words will act as warning of the
dangers that hide in our world.
I was wakened with a sharp nudge to my shoulder, and when I opened
my eyes, I found myself looking down the barrel of a bayoneted rifle. My
eyes travelled up the barrel to see the face of a young man in a dusty
military uniform that I did not recognise. He regarded me with a tired
hostility.

Reveillez, he told me, maintenant! The words were unmistakeably

French. I understood them, and obeyed, too stunned to do anything
else. As I stood up, I saw Pargeter, Evans and McCredie were also
being dragged to their feet. All were protesting, and McCredie in
particular, was struggling hard, but it was clear that we were
overmanned. There was a group of more than thirty soldiers around us,
all training their riles on our small group. I could see no sign of the
others. I know now that this was because they had not been present
when the French arrived, but at the time I had to presume that they too
were prisoners, or worse. My heart sank ever deeper at the thought.
At the far end of the room, a small group of maybe ten locals were
being guarded by some more French troops, whilst apart from everyone
else stood a trio of me. One was clearly their commander, wearing an
ornamentally braided uniform that must have been torture in the depths
of the desert, and with pistol and sword belted at his waist. Another
was, I believe, his secondary, either a junior officer or a sergeant, as he
ran to muster the men as the other called out orders to him. The third
man had a face that I knew. He was the man from the bar in Luxor, and
he was looking directly at me and smiling. I stood still, not resisting the
grip of the soldier who held my hands behind me. The man who called
himself Blanc approached me, never losing that smile. Then, his hand
flashed out and caught me hard in the solar plexus. I can remember
Pargeter crying out as I fell, and McCredie was swearing heavily, but
neither of them could drown out my scream of pain. I had never known
anything like it. I simply closed my eyes and begged it to stop, and as I
did so, I felt rather than heard the man raise a foot beside my head.
Arrt.
I believe it was the commanding officer who spoke, and through the
haze of my pain, I could tell that his words had worked. I forced my eyes
open and looked to see the foot being lowered. Then, groaning, I was
lifted to my feet, and hug in my captors arms. Blanc put his face close
to mine and smiled again.
A temporary reprieve, monsieur, he whispered to me, There will be
more.
I was dragged into the corner, and the four of us were flung together,
hands tied. Evans was trying to examine me, but was roughly stopped
by the French troops. I just lay there, willing myself to ignore the pain,
but unable to concentrate on anything other than the terrible feeling
across my abdomen.

I became aware that the French commander was crouched down

beside us, and looking directly at me. I looked up at him, and was
surprised to see a look of genuine concern and regret on his face.
I regret my colleagues actions, monsieur. His English was accented
but clear, and he tone earnest. He is not a military man, and does not
bind himself to the rules of combat.
The bastards a spy. Evans spat the word out.
An agent of the Republic, the captain corrected, And I am required to
work with him.
With him or for him? Pargeter asked.
The captain did not answer directly. He stood up and nodded his head.
I am Commandant Henri Albert, he told us, Of the Troupes Coloniales
de France. This was meaningless to me, although he said the words
with great pride. I regret what has happened thus far, but I am leading
a mission of vital importance to the Republic. Now, I must formally ask
you, where are the others of your party?
What others? McCredie said automatically. Albert frowned at him and
spread his arms wide.
I had expected you would say something like that. Please do not make
this a matter of compulsion. I am a soldier, and do not relish such
things, but I will do what is necessary if it is necessary. He looked as if
he was telling the truth, on both counts. He held something up in his
hand, a number of pieces of paper.
Whats that then, McCredie asked.
A letter, the Commandant replied. It told me roughly where you were
going, and who was with you. The very thing that my associate tried
to find out from you. His waved the papers in my direction. I was finally
becoming able to focus, and as I looked, I experienced a flash of
recognition
Thats Warners writing.
McCredie swore harshly. Creepy little bugger betrayed us.
Blanc was shaking his head, almost laughing. Non, monsieur, we
would not trust our intelligence efforts to so mundane a man. Your
Doctor Warner is a blind fool, but he is no traitor. He wrote a letter and

tried to send it back to hisMarjorie we intercepted it. We know of

your party, every single one of you, and there are five of you who are
not here. His voice was suddenly hard and threatening. Where are
they?
Evans said two words in a tone that was hard and terse, and I saw
Blanc draw his hand back to strike him. But he was stopped by Albert,
who barked a stream of French at him that I could not follow. Blanc
looked back, and then reached forward to stroke Evans cheek. Evans
recoiled from him, as much mystified as repelled.
I decided that the truth could not hurt anyone. We dont know where
they are. Weve been asleep. They went before you came here to wake
us up. I would have thought even a stupid Frog bastard like you could
work that one out.
I have never sworn in my life, and I pray that mother never reads those
words, but for that moment, it was truly satisfying to see the look that
flashed in Blancs eyes. Then the spy was on his feet, shouting out
orders to the troops.
Whats he saying, whispered Evans, You know any of this Froggie
bollocks, Mr Bracknell?
I opened my mouth to answer, but Pargeter got there first. Hes
ordering them to search for he rest of us. And to find the leaders here
and bring them to him.
To him? McCredie muttered. Whos supposed to be in charge there?
It was a good question, as I would soon realise. I watched Albert as his
troops were galvanised into action by the other, apparently non-military
man, and wondered just what he must be thinking.
A constant cacophony of French orders was thrown about the chamber
for the next hour or so, with groups of the locals being herded about,
and troops being sent off in all directions. I saw no sign of the rest of our
party. The one glimmer of light that I had been given was the fact that
they were not captives, as I originally feared, but were wandering loose
somewhere, hopefully in the company of Vadma. Whilst some of us
were free, there was something to hope for. I was and remain dreadfully
afraid. I am not a man cut out for the military life, and the threat of
violence and pain terrified me. Although I said nothing to my colleagues,
anxious not to break ranks with their resolve, I was praying almost
constantly in my head for some form of salvation.

Blanc came up to us, and ordered us to our feet. A few of the troops
around us helped us to obey by grabbing our bound hands and pulling
us up. As we cried out in protest, I looked over at the commandant, who
was standing back and watching.
No luck? McCredie said to him. His voice was mocking, as he retained
enough of the Highland spirit to defy our captors.
Blanc was looking angry now. As I glanced at Albert, I seemed to detect
almost a hinted smile at his colleagues frustrations. I know where
some of them are. I need to draw them out.
Albert shook his head. He started talking again in French, and once
again I could not follow, as he spoke urgently and angrily at the little
man. Blanc agued back with equal fervour, and finally the soldier stood
back, seeming to cede authority. Blanc quickly gave orders to the other
soldiers, and they began herding us towards the door that would lead us
outside.
We were quickly pushed along the passageways, past frightened locals
who cowered away from us and our captors. As we approached the
opening that led to the open air, Blanc snapped another order, and
Evans was pushed to the front, all the way to the edge of the cliff.
McCredie and Pargeter, seeing what was going to happen, began to
struggle harder than ever, and I also tried to fight against my bonds and
their grip upon me, but it was hopeless. The numbers were simply too
great. As Blanc watched us, he reached out and took a small revolver
from the second officer. Then he stood behind Evans and raised the
gun. I flinched for a moment but was surprised when he pointed the
revolver outwards and fired a shot into the air.

Eighth Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)
The shot echoed down the passage, and forced the pair of us to
increase our pace towards the opening and the bridge. At the threshold,
however, we both paused. Campion steeled himself, and then peered
out over the edge, looking about. I heard him swear mightily, then he
ducked back inside.
Dimanche, sir, he said to me, And hes got Evans.

Which probably meant that he had the rest of them as well, I told
myself, and swore equally strongly. Much of that French spys exploits
have been classified over the years, or indeed strongly denied by his
government, but anyone who tangled with him over the years knew that
he was never a man for trifling with. A devious, ruthless mind, and a
loyalty to his country that went beyond duty into fanaticism, and an
appearance that suggested chubby amiability but hid a steel bear trap
of a mind, I had suspected that it was him that Bracknell had defied in
Luxor. He had been going by the name Blanc which was a common
pseudonym. I had admired Bracknell for his defiance, but the presence
of the man had concerned me, and I had hoped that we had evaded
him when we ventured out into the desert. It seemed, however, that I
had committed the sin that so many others had, and underestimated his
resources and cunning.
It may seem odd, writing as I do now, when our countries engage in an
apparent cooperation born of mutual suffering in war, to remark upon
the deep suspicion that the British and the French held for each other
around the turn of the century. I had been well aware that the French
would have taken notice of an expedition led by so eminent a
gentleman as Sir John Shadwell, and it did provoke a small smile when
I wondered if they would have been quite so interested had they known
the real reason for his coming out here. But that did not answer the
problem at hand. I ventured out onto the ledge and looked down. At the
opening of the rock where our quarters were situated I could see Evans
standing, with his hands behind his back. Just to his side, with a pistol
clapped to his temple, was the familiar fat-jowelled face of the
Frenchman, clad in his usual white linen suit. He was scanning the cliffs
with beady eyes, and as they alighted upon me, he made a small sound
of satisfaction that echoed around the rocks.
Captain Fairfax, he called out, I am not going to play any games with
you. It is necessary that you and your others surrender now. Otherwise I
will kill first your men, and then every other person that lives here.
Please do not be deceived into believing that I place value on anybodys
lives over the future of the Republic.
Reckon I can get a shot off at the bastard, sir, Campion said. I
hesitated. The spy was standing in the shadow of the rocks, and there
was just as much chance of hitting Evans as there was of taking him.
As a gesture of my faith, I shall give you a demonstration, I heard
Dimanche say. I looked out again, just in time to see him pull the trigger,
and a bullet pass through the brain of Corporal Patrick Evans. As the
body of my soldier slumped, Dimanche took his feet out from under him

with a vicious kick, and he fell into the canyon. He was dead already,
and I was glad he was spared the long, terrible fall.
For a bare five seconds, I stood completely paralysed. Even a cursory
glance at these memoirs will attest to just how many good men I have
lost in my career, and in Williamson I stood to lose at least another
before the day was done, but few were killed in this straightforwardly
brutal manner. As an officer and a leader of men, I have never been so
suddenly struck before or since. Thankfully, Campion took the initiative
away from me in decisive manner, loosing a volley of rifle shots at the
opposite cliff. Our shots were returned in full by the French troops who
were now massing on the cliffs below, and we fell back into the
doorway, just out of sight.
Sorry, captain, but I figured we were wasting our time talking to the
bloody devil, Campion said. He reached out again, sending a few more
bullets blindly down at the French. I followed suit with my revolver, and
then we fell back again. At the second glance, I had seen a few of the
French starting to scale the ropes up to the bridge. I knew then what we
had to do.
Campion was nodding even before I said a word. Its got to go, sir.
Even if we cut ourselves off. Not to mention stranding them over there.
Not much we can do for them if were captured. Or dead, sir.
I agreed, and made to stand, but Campion stopped me.
Begging your pardon, sir, but this is not the work for a captain. Briefly,
I was going to take issue with such words to his commanding officer,
but the look on his face would brook no argument. He handed me his
rifle. If you wouldnt mind, sir.
He had a second gun, a smaller version of my Webley, tucked into his
belt, and he drew it now with his left hand. Not strictly standard issue,
but then we were not strictly standard soldiers. With his right hand, he
unscrewed the bayonet from the end of his rifle, and then he stood,
adjusted his belt across his chest, and strode boldly out onto the bridge.
I laid myself as flat as I could on the rocky parapet, and sent shot after
shot into the opposite canyon wall, trying both to keep French heads
down, and also to pick off those ascending towards the bridge. More
than once I was successful, and soldiers were sent screaming into the
several hundred foot drop after Evans. I tried to look for Dimanche, in

the hope of sending a bullet through his black heart, but he was
nowhere to be seen.
Holding low and moving fast, Campion was now out onto the bridge,
about a third of the way across. He lifted the bayonet, and began to saw
laboriously at the first of the ropes that held the structure in place. His
sheer strength soon parted the first strands, and under his weight and
force the rope gave way, rocking the bridge over to one side. He
steadied himself, and turned to the other rope, hacking at it this time
with desperation.
The magazine in the rifle was exhausted, and I threw it uselessly into
the canyon. I drew my revolver and continued to fire at the French,
although less accurately and less often than before. Four of them had
now reached the bridge and they swung themselves onto it. Campions
revolver barked out, bringing one of them down, but the others began to
advance, their own rifles raised. As they did so, the second rope gave
way, and the whole bridge lurched alarmingly, although it did not fall
completely. One of the soldiers, unprepared, was sent flying into the air,
and disappeared from view. The others tried to steady themselves,
trying to aim their rifles at Campions large, unmissable bulk.
The bridge was now only held in place by a large wooden strut than
extended from beneath and braced itself against the far canyon wall.
Seeing this, Campion had thrust the revolver into his belt and taken
something from the pouch on his crossbelt. Grasping onto the bridge
ropes with a single huge hand, he swung his entire body under the
bridge. I could see that he was holding was a sapper charge, mounted
on a spike, and he quickly hammered it into the wooden strut. As he
hung there, clinging to the rope that supported him with the same single
hand, I saw him draw his revolver again.
I knew what he was going to do, and I wanted to shout at him and order
him not to do it, but there was no time. He thumbed back the hammer of
the revolver, and fired at the charge. At the same time as the charge
went off, I threw myself back into the doorway, hands over my head. I
heard the explosion, reverberating painfully around the stone chamber,
heard the cries of those on the bridge, heard the whole thing giving way,
and then the crash of wood and rope as it descended into the canyon. I
looked up at last, to see the gulf that separated one side of the canyon
from the other, open and wide and now impassable and no sign of Sgt
Major Campion.
So many losses and revelations in so short a time had left me numb. I
had no way forward now, so I did the only thing I could. I turned back
down the passageway, and ran.

It was about halfway down that I ran into David Shadwell, who had
clearly been heading upwards to see me. I had no time for words, I
simply seized him by the shoulder to turn him around, and pulled him
along after me. We did not stop until we reached the room where I had
left them all.
I tried to catch my breath and speak at the same time. Campions
dead, I said heavily, And Evans.
And Mr Williamson, the woman said quietly. She had her hand over
the mans eyes as he lay, unmoving. I am sorry.
Sir John was sitting in the corner now, not looking at anything. The
great captain of British industry had been reduced to a wreck by his
sons defiance. I walked over to him, and dragged him to his feet.
Listen to me, I told him, all pretence of respect now lost, The French
have followed us on your damned fool crusade for your little boy. They
are here and they are taking over. Ive just lost at least three men,
possibly more. One of them was the best bloody soldier I ever served
with. If we get back to London I will make sure that you pay for all of
their lives one way or another. But for now, I need you. I need you to
listen to me and to help. Do you understand me?
I virtually spat the last words into his face. He stared back at me, hating
me in that moment. I honestly believe that he was going to strike me,
and had he done so, I may well have killed him there and then. But
thankfully, a wiser head than either of us prevailed.
This is not going to get us anywhere, David said quietly. I looked at
him, and his calm demeanour seemed to cool my own fury. I stepped
away from his father, and nodded, angry but accepting.
Sooner or later, my people will do something, the Daughter said. It
was a bald statement of fact.
What do you mean? I asked her.
She frowned, uncertain of what to say. It is what is the word? I do
not know an imperative, she said eventually, The People of the
Wadi are not violent. We have not had to be for a very long time. But
deep within there is something that can be brought to life if threatened.
And if your enemies provoke us too far, then they will regret it.
What about my men? I asked.

I do not know. She seemed utterly broken. I looked at Sir John, and
then down at my feet. Was this what we had brought upon her? Upon
these people? Did even Sir John now think it had been worth it?
David clapped his hands suddenly, startling me out of my reverie. No
time to waste.
The French will find their way across eventually, I said. Either theyll
scale the canyon or find a way to build a new bridge.
David looked to his wife. There is one way out.
She looked uncertain at his words, and then nodded. Follow me. She
turned away, and walked to one of the exits, leading us ever deeper into
the canyon. I stood back for David and eventually, slowly, Sir John, to
follow her, and then started off after them.
The passage through which we exited sloped steeply down, and was
rougher hewn from the rock. Torches were spaced more occasionally,
and there was no sign of the primitive art that adorned so much of the
place. All of this lent the place the impression that it was little used. The
Daughter of Alulim set a fast pace, and soon we were all struggling to
breathe in the heavy, dark atmosphere.
She stopped suddenly, causing us all to run into each other. The
passage had splintered into a number of choices. Four passages now
ran darkly away from us, and she took her time in choosing.
Whats the delay? Sir John said, his tone impatient with his new
daughter-in-law.
She did not turn to look at him. There is only one correct way. The
others lead to death.
Just let her be, I told him quietly. He turned to favour me with a baleful
stare, but he did not say anything further. The Daughter finally seemed
to choose with a small nod. She took the passage on the far left, and
soon we were off again, barrelling ever deeper. Finally we reached a
point where she took up one of the torches from the wall, and as we
continued, I noticed that the illumination ceased completely, and the
only light came from the acquired torch.
How long were we down there? I had totally lost track. There seemed to
be only the four of us in the whole world He heard nothing, we could
see nothing save the flickering light that she held. The journey seemed

endless, with no destination in sight, and I began to wonder if she was

taking us to some dark, lonely spot where she could abandon us to our
certain deaths, lost in this endless black labyrinth far away from the rest
of the world.
Eventually, she did stop, as the passage became a small, empty
chamber. I had wondered if she ever would. As she hunkered down,
torch lowered, she looked up at all of us.
We will rest for a moment, she said.
David moved to her side, and pressed an arm across her shoulders. Sir
John leaned back against a wall, breathing heavily. I simply sat down,
closing my eyes and trying to catch my breath in the dry atmosphere.
Where are we going? Sir John asked her plainly. Can we get out of
here?
She nodded. It will be difficult, but it is possible. I am taking you toa
special place. She hesitated over her words.
Special? Religious? I asked her. I wasnt sure how that would help.
The place where all things began, she told me. That certainly didnt
help. I shook my head, too shattered by our efforts and the days
occurrences to say anything further. Sir John, however, was less
reluctant. He was seeing, perhaps, the first glimmerings of an
opportunity
What do you mean? he asked. Is there something ofvalue there?
Always the opportunist, father, David said. But thats not what she
means.
Sir John frowned at him. Then what does she mean? he asked
harshly.
The history of my people is one of disaster. Much of what we knew is
lost. But this place, she indicated the passageway and the way we
were going, it is the key. It is where the truth lies.
I was growing somewhat impatient at her riddles. I sensed, however,
that these were not acts of deliberate obfuscation, but rather the only
way she knew to express an impossible idea. For the first time, I found
myself wishing for the presence of Dr Warner by my side, as he might

have been able to unravel the tangle of half-truths and myths. But
Warner was far away, if he was even still alive.
Sir John was silent again, still thinking, and fixing the Daughter with a
strange look, a mixture of hatred and avarice. I began to wonder if he
was on the verge of losing his sanity. To get his son back, then lose him
again to this mysterious woman, and then to discover that he was on
the edge of some great mystery, that the ostensible reason for our
expedition might actually come true, all of it seemed to be crowding in
on him, driving him further and further away from the road of sanity. I
had long realised that the great man would never be the same again.
Now I wondered if he might be an active danger to us.
I had placed my hand on my revolver as these thoughts passed through
my head. Now, I caught the gaze of the Daughter as she looked across
at me. She smiled very slightly, and shook her head. I relaxed, dropping
my hand away from the gun. Clearly Sir John might not be the only one
at risk here.
After those few scant minutes of rest, we were back on our feet and
moving on again, deeper and deeper. Finally, countless time later, I
became aware that there was light at the end of the passageway, the
bright, clear light of the sun. At the same time, I was becoming aware of
fresh air, drifting down towards us, warm and dry as ever but as
blissfully welcome as a cool drink of water. As the opening drew nearer,
we increased our pace, anxious to be out of this hell of passageways,
until finally, the world opened up again around us.
We stopped abruptly, our eyes and minds barely able to take in the
enormity of the sight that greeted them.
Above us, the sky stretched away, blue and stark. And below and
around us was a vast, round bowl of rock, at least a mile across and
half as much deep. We stood at a point about half way down the bowl,
the slope stretching down from us in a gentle incline, the rock face
above us pitted, sheer and dangerous. The surface of the bowl was
blackened, dead, if such a word could be applied to rock, and strewn
with what appeared to be glass. As I moved a few paces out onto the
surface, and knelt to pick up a piece of the glass, I could see it shimmer
with the same green-yellow tint as the sphere that Sir John had shown
me, far away in Al-Khrijah.
Libyan Glass, I said quietly. Sir John was standing behind me and
nodding.
The key to the future, he said enigmatically.

I stood up and looked around the area again. In shape it resembled

nothing less than a crater, such as a misdirected artillery shell might
make when it impacts and explodes on the ground. But a crater of this
size, what on earth could make such an impact, create such an
explosion? Nothing on earth, I thought. Of course, writing many years
later, we are all well aware of mans creation of weapons that could
create such an effect or worse. But in 1900, I had no conception of such
things. Irrational thoughts about the wrath of God crossed my mind, and
even the idea of lightning strikes from heaven. Considering my famously
irreligious frame of mind, you might understand the effect that the sheer
vastness of the place had, how its utter alienness to my experience
bore down upon me.
The Daughter was by my side. This is where the world began, as we
know it, she told me. And it is your way to escape. She pointed up, to
the outside world. If Sir John and I could scale the walls and that was
by no means certain, we would be free, out on the surface of the
plateau and away from them all, from the French and their damned
spymaster, and the People of the Wadi and the hidden threat to which
she had guardedly referred.
I set my jaw. Not without my men.
You do not know if they are even alive.
Doesnt matter. I was aware that my words were irrational and
pigheaded, but I was beyond caring. There were still five men back
there who may or may not be alive, but until such time as it could be
proved otherwise, I was going to assume it was the former, and I was
not going to abandon my duty of care to them.
What could have caused this? Sir John asked. Clearly his mind was
processing what it had seen in the same way as my own. The power to
do this must have beenapocalyptic.
The choice of word worried me. Weapons that could do this would
change warfare forever. What would be the place of the ordinary soldier
in such a world? For the first and only time in my long career, I was truly
questioning the mission on which I had been sent, for I had taken a step
into a world I did not understand, and which terrified me more than a
thousand charging spearmen or facing down the barrel of a gun.
They dont know, father, and I wouldnt advise you to try finding out,
David said angrily. Sir John ignored him, and went to stand alongside
the Daughter.

You said that the other ways led to death. What did you mean by that?
Your cave of death?
She stood for a long time before replying. Yes. The cave means death
for men like you.
Like me? He seemed offended by the idea.
Men of your skin.
White men, David said.
Mythological nonsense, Sir John scoffed, but then added, And how
would you know anyway? We are the first white men to come here.
She smiled. Why is it that people like you always assume that you are
the first, the best, the only ones? Others have come.
When was this? he demanded
Long ago. Before living memory. They came like you, arrogant and
unwilling to believe that they could be challenged. They died. The
words were a warning, although she said them quietly and sadly.
They were killed?
She shook her head. Not deliberately. The stones of the cave killed
them.
Sir John stood thinking for a long time, his mind clearly turning over the
information. I wondered at what sort of power could do what she said.
And I wondered about what they might do to us if they turned against
us. Vadmas warnings of caution seemed more apposite than ever. Was
this what they had been building to, biding their time until our guard was
down? Were we simply some sort of sacrifice to their curiosity and fear?
We have to leave, I said decisively. She nodded. Then I added, But
not without the others.
A flash of irritated frustration crossed her face. I do not know how to
rescue them.
This time, my hand came to my revolver with purpose and
determination. Well think of something.

Thirteenth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 21st March 1900

The shot rang out, and we saw Evans collapse and fall. At this,
McCredie seemed to be taken by a madness. He strained at his bonds,
screaming oaths at the French soldiers, and lashing out at them with his
head and feet. A rifle butt was slammed into the side of his head,
knocking him, half-stunned, to the floor. I found myself backed into
Pargeter, and the two of us were bound together at the wrists, further
limiting our ability to move, before being forced down onto out knees
beside the recumbent form of McCredie.
As we had been pinioned thus, there came the noise of a huge hail of
bullets from outside, and I guessed that Captain Fairfax and the Sgt
Major were making a fight of it. The raucous sound was cut off abruptly
by a huge explosion, which echoed around the stone hall and nearly
deafened us all. As the sound rolled away, the silence, momentary and
shocking, seemed to ring in our ears, and I took some time to focus on
what was happening.
I could see the French commandant shouting at Monsieur Blanc, and
the little man answering him calmly and quietly. Both spoke in their
native language, in which I have no great faculty, and it was difficult to
make out more than a few words at a time, but it was clear that the
solider was berating the spy for his actions. Every few seconds, a
gesture would be made in our direction, and Commandant Albert would
shake his head and shout at the other man. I prayed that he was
advocating our value as hostages and the rules of combat. For his part,
Blanc was quite unabashed, and it was very clear that he placed no
value on our lives, or for that matter, on those of his own soldiers,
unless we could be of use to him.
Eventually, Blanc shouted out several words of French to the
commandant, and the taller man fell silent, moving away, hand on the
pommel of his sword. I knew that we had witnessed some sort of power
struggle between the two men, and for now, Blanc had won. I tried to
turn my head to talk to Pargeter, but he hissed for silence as we saw
Blanc approaching. He had his gun in his hand, and I am not ashamed
to admit that I was more scared in the moment when I saw the look on
his face than I had ever been in my life.
Before he could reach us, we heard a commotion in a nearby
passageway, and a group of French soldiers came in, a small number
of the locals with them. I saw among their number Wyidai, our guide,

and Nahiri, the regent. The rest appeared to be the members of the
council that had joined Nahiri during the fruitless talks between him and
our captain. The expressions on their dark features were peculiar. They
now lacked the wide smiles and beatific calm that had been so clear
when we had spoken to them. Instead, there was a strange blankness,
as if they wren no longer capable of emotions. Their hands were bound
behind them, and a soldier stood to each man, forcing them down to the
ground in a line, with Nahiri at their centre.
Blanc started to pace up and down the line, speaking first in French,
then in English, constantly questioning at them, at first calmly, then his
voice gradually rising in more and more frustrated tones, until finally he
was shouting at them, the revolver in his hand wavering dangerously
from man to man. He asked about their history, about the secrets of the
place, about our expedition and what they had shown us. None of them
answered a single one of his questions. They did not even react, raise
their heads, or look him in the eye. They just sat there with the same,
blank, unchanging look.
He turned to look at us, his features twisted with a furious anger, and
then stalked over, the gun still raised.
Why do they not answer? he shouted at me.
I was frozen with fear, and no words would come. Perhaps because he
was turned slightly away, Pargeter had no such problems.
For a clever man, you are awfully stupid, old chap. Perhaps if you
spoke their language, you might be able to get through to them.
He scowled at the insult. Then his eyes narrowed. Your Warner. He is
a clever man. Maybe he could speak to them.
I expect so, Pargeter said calmly.
Then where is he?
I could hear the mocking smile in Pargeters voice. I really have no
idea. Maybe you should ask them.
He sent a shot ringing over our heads, deafening me. I reflected that it
was all very well for Pargeter to make fun of him, but he wasnt likely to
be the first person that Blanc would shoot. I briefly thought that it was
the end for all three of us, but then Blanc had turned away and returned
to Nahiri and the others, and was shouting at them again in French. The
words had no effect, nor did his raising of the gun and placing it to

Nahiris forehead. I saw with grim inevitability the only possible way that
this could end. I wanted to cry out to the commandant to stop matters
from escalating beyond everyones control, but it was too late.
He pulled the trigger three times in fast succession, and Nahiri, plus two
of his council lay dead before I could even react. Commandant Albert
was the first to move, dashing forward and seizing the other man bodily.
His greater height giving him the advantage, he dashed the gun from
his hand, and hurled him to the ground. But I had sensed correctly that
Blanc was a man used to thus sort of fighting, and he lashed out with
his legs, bringing down the officer, and soon the pair of them were
roiling on the floor, fighting as if in a street brawl. About them, their men
were staring at them, completely unsure of what to do as their
commanders beat at each other like animals.
Perhaps the people had been waiting for the moment when they had
been at their most vulnerable, or perhaps it had been the killing of their
regent that awakened something inside them. In truth, even now I do
not know. But it was that moment that seemed to change them. In that
moment, I saw the looks on their faces, to a man and a woman, change
from that of blank, innocent incomprehension, to a savage and furious
certainty.
It began slowly. Wyidai stood looking at his captors, then, very slowly,
he moved forward, and rammed his head into the face of one of the
French troops. He fell with a scream.
The scene that followed was horrific in its precision. The People of the
Wadi simply went mad. The ones who were not bound moved in on the
French troops and began methodically attacking, taking any weapon to
hand, be it ornaments, tables, the troops own weapons, they hacked
and beat at the startled soldiers until many lay either dead or
unconscious. McCredie was still lying semi-conscious on the ground,
and Pargeter and I, unable to do anything other than watch, pulled
ourselves as far out of the way of the madness as we could, cowering
against the farthest wall.
Words can do no justice to the short, brutal battle that followed. Two or
three of the people fell, brought down by the few soldiers who had the
presence of mind to bring their weapons to bear, but the rest simply
overwhelmed their captors. The men who were bound were freed, and
they joined with their fellows in the attack. And this was not primitive
barbarism. This was precise and measured, almost as if the people
were a machine, and their violence had been activated by the turn of a
handle. No action was wasted, the violence was not sadistic, and they

made no sound as they killed and maimed. I am not even sure if they
were aware of what they were doing.
As abruptly as the violence had begun, it had ended. Blanc and the
commandant, brawling almost unseen in the corner of the room, were
seized and separated, tied up and thrown into against the wall beside
us. Those of the French soldiers who were still alive, maybe ten in
number, were treated in the same way. As I raised my eyes and stared
into the face of Wyidai, I could see that something had changed. He did
not regard me with violence or hatred, but the smile that had been so
much part of him since we had met was gone. He now seemed to look
upon me as one might regard a total stranger, unhappy and suspicious.
At the time, I was simply relieved not to be a victim of the violence that
had been unleashed. Now, I am not so sure. Perhaps it might have
been better to die suddenly and quickly than to suffer the fate that
apparently awaits us all.
We were waiting there for a long time, unable to know what our
eventual fate would be. There was a lot of activity, and people moving
from one place to another in unknown tasks, and we were left virtually
ignored. More than once Pargeter and I tried our bonds, but the knots
were hard and tight around our wrists, and we were unable to stand or
move any more than shuffling about on our knees. McCredie had begun
to recover, but was still too disorientated to do much more than stare
about him. The French troops, demoralised by the suddenness of their
defeat, lay in groups of two or three, unresponsive to our attempts to
talk to them. Their commanders sat apart, each not looking at the other.
Blanc in particular, would shout out at our captors every few minutes, a
torrent of angry abuse that I am rather glad my limited French would not
allow me to comprehend. The words had no effect.
Perhaps little over an hour had passed before Wyidai returned. He
stood at the head of a large group of men. Their faces were as
unsmiling as before. He raised his hand and pointed, and the other men
moved forward. Each one of us, French or British, was dragged to his
feet, Pargeter and I complain gin all the way as our cramped muscles
and uncomfortable postures protested in pain at their treatment. Then
we were bundled out of the room and conveyed towards the cliff edge.
A quiet dread crept over me, and I conceived an idea that we were to be
hurled over the edge and to our deaths, but I soon realised that this was
not so when we reached that edge and were lined up and tied to ropes
that hung from above. I was baffled as to what was happening, until with
a shock, I realised that I was being hoisted off my feet and lifted up the
rock face. Further up the cliff I remembered that there had been a
bridge, a clever construction of wood and rope whose purpose had
been to span the abyss to a single entrance in the far wall. Now, that

bridge was gone, and I wondered if that had been as a result of the
explosion I had heard. In its place was a cruder, but apparently effective
construction built of felled trees and more rope, and as we reached it
and were unhooked from our ropes, we were ushered across. Pargeter
moved first, leaving me in the position of having to back across, unable
to see where we are going.
Dont panic, old boy, the engineer told me, From a professional point
of view, this is a very solid bit of work.
I tried to follow his advice, but it was not easy. The gulf beneath us
seemed impossibly deep, and the way across, being unable to measure
it, impossibly far. I concentrated on edging my way over, foot by foot,
until I felt the hard rock once again beneath my feet. On the other side,
we were met by more men, who ushered us into that opening, and
along yet more of the passageways that seemed to honeycomb the
plateau. They pushed us along, calm but unyielding, until we were
finally thrust into a room, a small round, bare chamber with a low ceiling
and a grim atmosphere. As we were finally allowed to fall, awkwardly, I
tried to take in more of the room. As I did so, my last hope deserted me.
There were three other men in the room. Captain Fairfax, Sir John
Shadwell and a third, younger man whom I did not know. It became
clear very quickly that they were not there of their own free will.

Ninth Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)
My plan to extract the rest of my party barely had time to develop. I had
begun to assess the best way of ascending the sharply rising rock
above me, when I heard a noise from the passageway.
I moved to the entrance, revolver in hand, to see Sir John held fast in
the grip of two of the People of the Wadi. The looks on their faces were
odd. They were unfriendly but not openly hostile. I had some cause to
wonder what had triggered this change in their behaviour, and I feared
that had they been caught in some crossfire between our men and the
French, then they might have due cause to turn against all of us.
Sir John was struggling strongly against their grip, but getting nowhere.
Behind them, more men surged forward at me, and I found the revolver
wrenched from my grasp, and my own arms secured behind me in a
grip that was absolute steel. To my left, I could see that even David,
who had lived here for nigh on two years, was also being taken

prisoner, whilst his wife shouted her protests in both English and their
own language, all without avail. Whatever the status of this woman in
her own land, it was clear that she did not hold any real authority, and
whatever had happened to provoke our former hosts, her words were
not going to sway their judgement.
We were practically carried along, Sir John shouting and protesting all
the way, along the long passageways all the way to the place where the
four passages branched off. When we arrived, our former hosts, now it
would appear captors, pushed us down the second passageway, a dark
tunnel that led steeply down. I resisted this time, remembering the
words of the Daughter of Alulim, but all to no good purpose. They were
silent and unresponsive, and their constant hard pushing simply herded
us on. I dreaded the end of that passageway, wondering what
appurtenance their mysterious Cave of Death would take. It was with
some surprise therefore that we finally arrived at an anonymous looking
chamber, an empty room with little obvious function other than to
imprison us. We were unceremoniously thrown in, and a number of men
took up positions around us, clearly a guard.
I sat myself up, looking across at my fellow prisoners.
What are they going to do to us, do you think?
I have a fair idea, David muttered darkly. A matter of sentence
delayed for me, to be honest.
The cave?
He nodded, and then inclined his head to regard his father. A chance
for you to see the power at first hand, father.
Sir John snorted without mirth. He had relapsed into sulky silence,
which by now I had realised was his standard reaction when he wasnt
getting his own way.
What about your wife? I asked.
David shrugged. She holds no real power here. She has always been a
figurehead. He smiled at me without any real humour. Why do you
think they keep her over here, isolated away from the rest of them?
Theyre afraid of her.

He nodded. Of what she represents. She is a warning of the disasters

of the past. Theyre not even sure what those disasters were, only that
they meant death.
In the absence of anything much else to do other than to sit and think,
he told me something of his life, of how he had, in his late teens, fallen
in with the Bohemian set at Maynarde College, Cambridge, and how his
father, refusing to accept that his son did not want to be part of the
industry that had become the consuming factor of his entire existence,
had tried to send him off to the colonies to seek his fortune. Nowadays,
this is not a fashionable way of life, but it was most common in those
glory days of the Empire. Escaping from that life, he had wandered
through much of North Africa, begging or trading on his few skills as a
singer and musician to make his way, until somehow he had wandered
south. Lost and close to death, he had somehow made his way here,
where he had been within a hairs breadth of being taken to their cave
of death, before she had intervened. A nursing back to health and the
act of falling in love had followed.
It had the sound of a bad piece of romantic fiction for the tawdry end of
the publishing market, and I told him so. He shrugged at me.
Truth is what it is. But if we are the stuff of fiction, I fear were about to
reach the tragic ending. Good thing, too. Always sells better.
It was at this point that our guards parted to allow someone to enter the
room. I was unsurprised, but still saddened to see Bracknell, Pargeter,
McCredie, and a party of maybe ten French uniformed men being
brought in. They clearly shared our status as prisoners, and as they
were pushed onto the floor, I could see that their hands were tied.
One thing became very clear to me; that our lives now depended upon
Vadma and Dr Warner. Put that way, our survival seemed to hang by
the slimmest of threads.

Letter, Commandant Henri Albert to Officer Commanding French

Colonial Forces in North Africa, 26th April 1900 (translation)
Sir,
It is with the deepest of regret that I write these words. I hereby formally
resign my commission as an officer of the army of the Republic. The
events of the last few months, and the actions of one man, an

ostensible servant of France but in fact an egoist of the most profoundly

destructive order, have left me with little choice. In spite of my attempts
to prevent it, the destruction wrought by my Intelligence Liaison,
Monsieur Dimanche, have made it impossible for me to continue to act
in accordance with the dictates of my duty.
I will not reiterate the details of the events in Cyrenaica which have
been clearly set out in my report. Suffice it to say, a brief perusal of that
report will make clear my reasons for this course of action. I can no
longer be part of an army that subordinates the actions of its officers to
the personal agendas of civilians, and in so doing causes the deaths of
good men, loyal to the Republic, who deserve better than to be
slaughtered in sacrifice to their whims and fancies.
The official record will note that I received a reprimand from Monsieur
Dimanche over my reluctance to deal with a group of wandering
Tuaregs in the Southern Sahara desert in a manner that was to his
satisfaction. If I am to accept that reprimand as my last act as an officer,
then I do so with the greatest of pride. It is not the task of a soldier to
engage in needless slaughter, although I fear that Monsieur Dimanche
did not see matters that way. His tactics of fear and suppression are
neither honourable nor in the long term effective.
The mission to the southern plateau was entirely on the whim of
Monsieur Dimanche, and has served no purpose nor advanced one iota
the strength of the Republic. Since the fate of Monsieur Dimanche
remains unknown, he cannot answer for his actions, nevertheless I
refuse all responsibility for the matter, since he used his Articles of
Intelligence to override my command over my men and gave direct
orders that I believe were neither practical in intelligence terms nor
morally permissible. I was forced to intervene to prevent his torture of
British prisoners, and it remains inexcusable that I was required to make
physical altercation on the commencement of his murder of civilians.
That two senior members of a military party should end up fighting in
the dirt as their men are killed around them is beyond any shame that
can be borne. I have no doubt that the expected Court Martial will clear
me of any culpability in the loss of my men, but I cannot in good
conscience continue in my commission with those deaths recorded
against me. I consider it necessary that the service now consider the
role of the civilian intelligence officer in Republic service, and their
utterly abhorrent ability to render the commanding officer of a battalion
impotent in the face of their authority.
I remain, sir, your loyal servant, even if I may not be said to be so any
further as a member of your army. My loyalty to France is unshakeable.

My faith in the ability of the Colonial Forces to serve the Republic has
been shattered beyond repair.
M. Henri Albert

Fourteenth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 21st March 1900

When I saw the captain and Sir John, and the young man whom I now
know to be his son, sitting as prisoners in that room, I knew at last that
all hope was lost. My final resistance to the People of the Wadi was
broken, and I slumped down onto the floor. Even as Pargeter and I were
untied, and allowed to move again, neither of us offered any fight
against our captors. I am a journalist, a recorder of words, not a man of
action, and if those charged to protect us had been taken or killed, I had
little to offer in the way of greater efforts.
It was as a journalist that I retrieved from my jacket paper and pencil,
and thus I have continued to keep a written record of the fate that has
overtaken us. A short while after we had been brought together, a group
of the Wadi came and took McCredie and two of the French soldiers.
The captain attempted to intervene, but he was roughly thrust back, and
the corporal was dragged away struggling.
We sat, waiting, for at least an hour, possibly a good deal longer, before
they returned. The two soldiers were thrown back into the room. Neither
seemed able to stand, and as they staggered, we rushed to both of
them, issues of national rivalry forgotten in the face of basic human
concern.
McCredies face was burned beyond recognition, and as he spoke, thick
viscous phlegm escaped his lips. His shirt was torn open at the throat,
and virtually every part of his skin was covered in vast red and black
wheals, bleeding profusely or oozing with a sticky yellow fluid. His body
shook uncontrollably, as if he were suffering an extreme fever, and what
words he was able to utter were slurred and incoherent to the point of
incomprehensibility.
The captain was by his side in an instant, cradling his head and
attempting to make him comfortable. It was abundantly clear that he did
not have long to live. As I stepped back to give the captain more room,
my eyes moved to the French soldier, who was in a similar piteous
state. The French troops crowded around their man, and their
commandant knelt much in the way that Captain Fairfax did, attempting

to bring succour to a dying man. Only Monsieur Blanc stood apart,

refusing even to look at his countryman in his death throes.
It did not take either man long to die. Captain Fairfax had managed to
lull McCredie into a state of calm, and the big Scotsman was mercifully
unconsciousness when the end finally took him. As the last breath
rattled out of him, the captain stood away and walked over to where Sir
John was regarding them with an enigmatic stare.
What happened to him? I was finally able to ask.
The Captain looked from Sir John, to the small group of French troops,
and finally to David Shadwell, who was seated on the ground, legs
pulled up with his head resting on his knees.
The cave of death? he asked David, who nodded.
The what? I asked, thinking that it sounded like something from a bad
melodrama.
The captain did not answer me at first. Then he said simply, Theres a
place here that does this to people. They got Williamson this way. He
looked back to Sir John. You want them to do this to all of us?
It was a while before the other man answered. Are you sure they will?
His tone was almost pathetic, as if he could not believe in such a fate.
For myself, I could not believe that I was looking at the same confident
man who had taken me on in a blaze of confidence and glory a few
scant months ago. What little I had learned of what was going on had
already damaged my faith in the man possibly beyond repair. To see
this cautious, almost pleading figure did not make anything any better.
In a moment of unreal self-wonder, I speculated about whether Harper
had been true to his word and kept open my job at the Sketch. I could
not now imagine returning to a life working for this man.
Captain Fairfax nodded. Unless we take matters into our own hands.
Fight back?
David raised his head and shook it emphatically. Remember what my
darling said. If you try to raise a hand against them, they will defend
themselves, and they will kill you.
Vadma warned us, Fairfax agreed. Although I havent the devil of an
idea how he knew.

The French Commandant had walked over to us, and spoke quietly. I
hope that your friend will convey the fact that none of this was of my
doing. Fairfax said nothing but looked to me. Reluctantly, for I was
unwilling to offer too much of a concession to the man, I nodded. Bien.
Then please understand me, messieurs, when I say that all I wish is to
leave here with as many men of mine as can be saved. I will cooperate
with anything that can get us away from here.
I pointed at Blanc. He caused it. I sounded like a surly schoolboy, but I
knew I had to lay the blame where it belonged. He started killing them,
and thats when they went mad.
Mad? Fairfax said.
Violent, out of control. They started attacking the French soldiers. It
was I struggled for any word other than the one I had used. Crazy.
Insane. They just killed them. Because of him.
They all turned to look at Blanc. He gazed back at us with steady
defiance.
I am a servant of the Republic. I did my duty, was all that he said.
There was a tone in his voice, unwavering and certain, that scared me.
The Commandant shook his head. The man is mad. He should never
have been placed in charge of us. And I should have asserted my
authority sooner. For that, I am deeply regretful. I shall do my best to
make amends.
We were about to speak further, when the Wadi returned. Three of the
remaining six French troops were indicated, and dragged away,
protesting all the way. Commandant Albert made as if to intervene, but
Sir John stopped him.
Theres nothing you can do for them. Concentrate on yourself.
Albert shot him a look of fury. You clearly have never been a
commander of men, monsieur, he told him.
We need to take them on in small groups. One or two at a time,
Captain Fairfax said.
Thats not happening, sir, Pargeter pointed out. He had remained quiet
to this point, but his practical engineers mind was now working to see a
way out of our dilemma. Theres too many of them and not enough of
us.

And decreasing all the time, Sir John added.

Fairfax threw up his hands in despair. So what do we do then,
gentlemen? Sit here and wait for them to take us? Id rather die on my
feet than be burned to death in their mythical cave.
The words struck me with terror, but in my heart I knew he was correct.
Before any of us could go on, we became aware that the Wadi had
once again returned. Three French soldiers were brought through the
doorway, all of them in the same terrible condition as before. They fell,
unmoving, the faintest of moans escaping them as they slowly died.
The Wadi moved forward, and another of the French, a young corporal
was taken, and then Monsieur Blanc, who screamed and wrestled
against their grip. The commandant stepped forward to protest on
behalf of the soldier, but they were not to be interfered with a second
time, and he was sent stumbling back as Captain Fairfax had been
before. Nobody raised a voice in support of the spy. We were simply
relieved that he had been taken instead of one of us.
But my relief was short lived. They moved for me next, and with a
terrible dread, I felt their grip on my arm. As I was moved forcibly
towards the doorway, I lost the ability to think. I was unable to do
anything save be led dumbly on.
No.
They stopped. It was Captain Fairfax who had spoken, calmly and
quietly but with unignorable force. Even if they did not understand the
word, they knew the tone, and they turned to look at him. He reached
out, and carefully unfolded the grip that they had on my arm. Then he
knocked against his own chest with his hand.
Me, he said simply.
I fell back against the wall, unable to react. It seemed that they were not
going to distinguish between us, for they took the captain by the arm as
he had requested, and moved to the door.
I knew that I had to make some sort of protest, to prevent his sacrifice.
But all I could do was raise my arm feebly, and call out, No captain.
They need you!

As he reached the door, he looked back and smiled, giving the smallest
of looks to Pargeter and myself. I knew he was asking us to trust him.
But I was so paralysed by fear that I could not even think properly.
Then he was gone. Pargeter stood watching the doorway. Our guards
were impassive and unmoving. And we were now down to just seven.
We have to trust him. Pargeter knew that he was clutching at a fools
hope even as he said it.
The commandant nodded, and went over to his remaining two men,
reeling off a series of orders in their native language that I could not
follow. I slumped down in the corner of the room with my notebook and
continued to write.
Which is where I am now. The captain has not returned. I think, but I am
not sure, that it has been longer than the last time. This gives Pargeter
hope, but I refuse to entertain these hopes. He paces constantly, his
faith in his commanding officer being put to the ultimate test. The
French seem to think that the next time they return we should attempt to
rush them, and chance the consequences. I believe that when the time
comes, Pargeter will join the French in their desperate venture. Sir John
seems lost to all but his own internal thoughts. I wonder if he regrets
what he has brought us to. And his son has not reacted to anything.
Perhaps he believes that this wife of whom he has spoken will save
him. In truth, I do not know of what significance she is. I do not ask. I no
longer have the energy or the will to care. I simply write of what has
happened in the hope that one day my words will be found and serve as
a warning to those who would follow. But other than that, I sit and wait
my turn to die.

Third Letter, Doctor Isaac Warner to Marjorie Warner, sixth extract,

dated 21st March 1900
After a good deal of sitting about waiting, Vadma has finally come back,
and gone again. I attempted to remain vigilant during his absence, but I
am ashamed to admit that I fell beneath the fickle spell of Morpheus,
and was in slumber when returned. With the rope drawn up into our
hiding place, it took him a few efforts to rouse me and lower the rope.
It appears that my judgement of Captain Fairfax was a little premature
and undeserved. I therefore withdraw my earlier comment, although I

hope that you will understand my reasoning in making such an

assessment.
Vadma tells me that we have been invaded. There are French troops
marauding through the tunnels of the Wadi, and the People of the Wadi
are fighting back with terrible force. I had not observed to this time that
they were a people capable of violence, but to judge by Vadmas
reaction, we have done well to stay out of the way of all of them.
The issue that now presents us is what to do next. I have little reason to
believe that our small expedition, caught between the continental
invaders and the locals reversion to their primitive instincts, are still
alive. The academically curious part of my brain refuses to leave this
place, knowing full well that it still holds a copious treasure trove for the
intellectually developed such as myself. My rational mind tells me that I
should leave, although I know full well that my chances of survival in the
desert and reaching a settlement alive and sane are limited in the
extreme. It is this latter factor that has for the moment determined my
resolve to remain. Vadma believes that we should fight back, although
whether against the French or the Wadi he has not seen fit to tell me.
He has skulked out into the open, somehow unseen by natives or
invaders, and has brought back a small bag. I had hoped that it was
some provisions, for you know my temper is always limited when I miss
my breakfast, but when he opened it, I recoiled in horror, for I saw it to
be filled with a good number of specimens of scorpion. These creatures
are a constant hazard in the desert, and yet Vadma brought them into
our hiding place, where they could sting with impunity.
Deathstalker scorpions, he told me, quite oblivious as extracted the
first one from the bag by the tail. The venom is very dangerous.
Then kindly keep them away from me. He had placed the bag on the
floor barely a foot away, and it wriggled disturbingly.
Not fatal, however, to the healthy adult, he told me. I found little
comfort in his words.
He took a small bowl from inside his djellaba, and as I understand it,
started to milk the scorpion of its venom, distilling it into the bowl. I
confess, to a mind that does not deal in pure science, it was a
fascinating process. As he worked, he spoke.
It is legendary that to take direct action against these people is
invariably fatal. I believe that our French friends are currently finding this
out. If the good captain and Sir John abide by my advice not to be

violent, then I am hopeful that they may survive the onslaught that I fear
has been unleashed. To that end, we need to conceive of a way to
release them and escape. We will no longer be welcome here.
So what do you propose we do? I asked him.
He held up the bowl, as he dropped the scorpion trough the hole that
led to our shelter. This venom is our weapon. Applied properly, it will be
enough tohow would you put it? Lay out the People of the Wadi. We
will not fight them. We will quietly send them to sleep, and try to find our
friends. Then we must leave.
I rebelled against the thought. I cannot leave, I told him, in what I
hoped was a suitably firm tone, There is far too much for me to learn
here.
Your learning will be of little use when they have beaten you to death
or you have been made a French prisoner, Vadma pointed out to me. I
knew that he was correct, but his lack of understanding of the bounds of
academia irritated me. What could a man of the desert know of the
great seats of learning, of the boundless achievements they can
bestow, and of the boundless jealousies that their world imbues in
otherwise sane men? I stood now on the edge of this greatness, and
yet he wanted to snatch it away from me. I felt on the verge of tears, but
I kept my mouth shut as I watched him drain the next few scorpions of
their venom, and finally produce a series of small sticks from his robes,
which he sharpened with a small knife.
What would you wish me to do? I am not a well man, and action is
hardly my milieu, but I felt that I should at least offer a modicum of
assistance. To my boundless relief, he shook his head and smiled.
Wait here, he told me.
His work with the scorpions was done. He took a small bottle from his
robes I swear to you, the man seems to keep the contents of an entire
apothecary on his person and tipped the contents of the bowl into it.
Then he took up his small collection of sticks, and wedged them into the
large, broad belt that circled his middle. Then he gave me a tip of an
imaginary hat, and he was gone, disappearing down into the
passageway once more.
He has been gone at least an hour, and I have no way of knowing when
or indeed, if he shall see fit to return. I am afraid, Marjorie, for the
first time in my life. I am aware that I am not built for physical pursuits,
but I still feel that I should have accompanied him in his dauntless

venture. But if I were to fall to a stray French bullet, or perhaps the

sharply delivered fist of a Wadi tribesman, what then would become of
my great legacy? It is deeply burdensome to be a victim of ones own
brilliance, and thus feel the heavy responsibility for learning that is
handed to one by a generation who have yet even to be born. It robs
me of the opportunity to help ones fellow man by less refined but no
less vital measures.
No matter, I must do what falls to my sphere of achievement. I shall
continue to write, if not this letter for now, for there is little else to report,
then at least the academic jottings that I hope will one day see my name
alongside that of Balfour or Barnes, and confine that charlatan
Schliemann to the academic hinterlands where he belongs.

Tenth Extract from the Memoirs of Brigadier Sir Anthony Fairfax, VC,
DSO (unpublished)
I do not know what it was that made me take Bracknells place. Maybe it
was simply the fact that I felt sorry for him. He was clearly terrified, but
trying his very best to hide it. I had faced down Zulu impis and Belgian
cannon fire in the same week, so I tried to tell myself that this, grim
though it may be, was no worse than life could throw at me. Maybe, too,
I had the vaguest of hopes that we might prevail in our small numbers,
and all I needed to do was buy time for the others. One thing was
uppermost in my mind, however; that I needed to be away from the
room, before its confined walls and the stench of death broke my will for
good. I had felt it being eroded death by death, watching my own men,
and the young volunteers of the French Colonial Forces, burning away
inside from that unknown terror that consumed them.
The struggling, squirming Dimanche, and the young corporal, who
seemed glazed and lost to his fate, were pulled along ahead of me. I
had learned a few tricks over the years as a special military agent, and
as the grip was taken on my arms, I had forcibly flexed my muscles,
holding them hard against that grip. The pain of keeping them flexed
against their fingers was deep and intense, but I concentrated hard,
refusing to give way as I was ushered along.
We walked until we reached that intersection once again. The others
had already disappeared down one of the other passageways.
Dimanches screaming echoed horribly down towards me. Even for a
man like him, this was not a fate I would wish. I tried to block it out of my
mind, and braced myself for one sharp action, as I knew that once they
started down that passageway, my fate would be sealed.

That moment of action never happened. At the moment when I drew

breath to make my move, a dark shadow loomed from the fourth exit,
the way that led to the vast crater. The shape moved fast, and seized
upon both of the Wadi who held me. Placing a massive hand on each
head, the figure banged those heads together with a heavy noise. The
men fell bonelessly, each unconscious, taken carte of before their socalled imperative to defend themselves could even take hold.
There was nobody else about. Quickly, the shadowy figure fell back into
the passageway whence it came. I followed, to see that it had stopped
barely ten feet down the tunnel. The torchlight was clearer here,
allowing me to see a face that was utterly impossible.
Sgt Major Campion pressed a finger to his lips for silence. He was badly
bruised, a livid black mark down the left side of his face, and myriad tiny
cuts adorned his features, but he was alive and smiling ruefully.
Sorry about the delay, sir, he whispered to me, One or two problems I
had to deal with first.
I restrained the impulse to embrace the man, but so delighted was I that
I had no idea what to say. In the end, I resorted to the obvious.
I thought you were dead.
He shook his head. Nothing a good grip on a rope and a lucky landing
in a tree couldnt sort out, sir. Now, if you dont mind, we need to work
out how to get the rest of them out, sir.
I gave him a brief explanation of what had happened since the time we
had been separated. He nodded, and then explained how he had
crossed the oasis, scaled the cliff to this entrance, and finally skulked
around the passageways, staying out of sight. Understanding that a
direct attack would be suicidal for us all, he had waited until he could
take people by surprise. All of this he reeled off in a quick chatter, taking
for granted the near-superhuman scale of his survival and
achievements since.
They got McCredie, sir, he told me grimly. I nodded my knowledge of
this. Some of the Frogs too. I only saw them when they were bringing
them back. Im sorry, sir.
I placed a hand briefly on his shoulder. He had to know that I did not
hold him responsible. We have to move fast. Sooner or later theyre

going to miss me. Then theyll be after us, and going back for more of
them in there. Pargeters the only soldier left.
With respect, sir, he is just an engineer. I doubt hed be much cop in a
fight. He said the words with honesty rather than malice. I shrugged.
Pargeter would have to do. And the French. I knew I could not rely on
the Shadwells, and I just wasnt sure of Bracknell. At his heart, I knew
that he desperately wanted to do the right thing, but this situation
appeared to be sapping him of any will to resist his fate.
We can free them, I told him, But theres no purpose in blindly
wandering until they catch us.
Your pardon, captain, but thats taken into account. We have a way
out.
We?
The lady and me, sir. You didnt think she was going to abandon young
Mr David, did you?
Campion had indeed been busy in my absence. The best man in the
army, I told myself for the thousandth time since I had met him.
Do we have any weapons?
For the first time, he disappointed me by shaking his head. Folk took
the lot of them, Im afraid, sir. Cant get near them without giving
ourselves away.
I nodded, accepting the point. Weapons might not have been much use
anyway, if the aggression that had previously provoked were repeated.
We set off back along the passageway, picking our way along, and
keeping our eyes open for any sign of others.
As we reached the intersection again, we stopped as two men
appeared before us. We knew there was only one thing for it, and were
squaring up to take them on when suddenly both of them stiffened in
their poses, and pitched forward to the ground. We exchanged a look of
surprise, and saw Vadma standing in the passageway behind them. He
held a rather innocuous-looking stick in his hand.
The people of China speak of the sting of the scorpion, he said to us,
waving the stick so that we could see a small amount of dark liquid still
adhering to the sharpened tip. I though that I might try my own
variation.

Campion nodded in admiration. How much of that stuff have you got?
Not enough to fight all of them, he said warningly. He indicated the
passageway that led to the place of incarceration, and we headed along
it carefully. When we reached the sharp turn that indicated my former
prison, we stopped. I took the gentlest and most careful of looks around
that turn. Four hugely muscled men stood impassively guarding the
entrance. I pulled my head back and silently indicated to the others,
who gave their acknowledgement of understanding in similar wordless
fashion.

We moved into the space in one rush, trying to take as many of them as
possible with surprise. Campions huge fist caught one under the chin,
stunning him instantly. Two of them were victim to the Vadmas
scorpion venom, as the stick scratched across their skin, and they fell,
writhing in pain before subsiding into unconsciousness. The final one
took all of us, with even Campion struggling to subdue him. By now,
those in the cell were aware of what was happening, and they rushed
out, all of them, British and French, piling onto the man until he was
finally recumbent.
As we rolled the unconscious bodies into the room to lie beside those
that their strange experiment had killed, I gathered everyone together.
This is not going to be easy. We do have a way out, but its going to be
tough to get to without being discovered. We all need to work together.
I looked at the Commandant in particular. All of us.
We are at your disposal, monsieur.
Good. Then we break into two small groups and try to get out of here.
Campion, you take Bracknell, and Sir John and David. Vadma, you and
the Frenchies are with me.
Vadma shook his head. You must go on. I will go back for Dr Warner.
I was ashamed to say that I had utterly forgotten the older academic in
the hustle and terror of the days events. Very well. But as fast as you
can. Given your company, I said to myself. I was looking at Sir John and
his son. I didnt like the expressions on either of their faces. David, I
knew, was thinking of his wife. Well, I would do what I could to get her
to come with me. But as for Sir John, his thoughts were closed to me. A
thousand conflicting motives seemed to be guiding him, and I had no
idea which one would come to the fore next.

He said nothing, however, and followed Campion and the others away
down the passage. Vadma gave them two minutes, then with a nod,
headed off himself. Another two minutes, and were also on our way.
That last desperate run remains one of the most terrifying, and yet also
exhilarating memories of my entire life. The dark shadows of the tunnel
loomed up at us, making every second tenser than the last, as we
constantly flinched from imagined enemies and spectral attackers. I
kept the pace fast, refusing to slow, and at one point dragging one of
the French soldiers along when he appeared to be flagging. Behind us,
noises gradually began to be heard. A constant drumming on the floor
indicated the sound of feet, pounding along the passageways. I was
now certain that our actions had been discovered, and we were being
pursued. Above that noise, there was a strange, high screaming, a
constant wail that echoed down the passageway like a banshee in the
most indescribable pain. I thought I recognised the voice. I prayed that I
was incorrect. I also prayed that those who followed were not between
us and Vadma and Dr Warner.
Gradually, we saw the light appearing in front of us, and redoubled our
pace, the four of us urging each other on. My new comrades babbled at
me in French, and I understood less than half of what they said, but the
urgency of their tone kept me going, and soon we found our way back
to the surface and breathed the clean, dry air.
The light that we had seen was fading fast. Almost the entire day had
taken its course during our time in the passageways, and now the sun
was nearly dipped below the edge of the crater above us. Beside me,
the French commandant and his men gaped at the sight of the crater,
but we had no time to waste. Above our heads, over the sheer drop that
led to the top of the plateau, there dangled three long ropes, secured to
the top of the cliff. Campion was leading Bracknell and Pargeter in a
breakneck climb of one of the ropes. I quickly urged the commandant
and his men to take the next one. They obeyed without hesitation. I then
walked over to where David stood, on the edge of the ledge, his arms
cradling the slight form of the Daughter of Alulim.
You cannot stay here, I told them. You can come with us.
She shook her head. I must not leave them. They need me.
I did not understand, and I tried to protest, but she was adamant. I
cannot journey through the desert and I cannot come to your
civilisations. We will stay here. Once things are calmer, once you are
gone, David will be welcome once more.

You cannot be serious, I told him, but he merely smiled at me, and
rested his hand on his wifes stomach. I have other reasons to stay.
A grandchild? Sir John said suddenly. He stood by my left shoulder. I
hadnt even noticed his presence.
David nodded. Your lifes dream.
Then I will stay.
He shook his head. No, father. You belong in another world. This place
will never accept you, and it will never be right whilst you remain. You
must go.
He rested his hand on his fathers arm for a moment. I realised that this
was the nearest either would ever come to an emotional moment. Sir
Johns face told one story, but he acquiesced, then turned away and
began to ascend the rope.
The noise from the tunnels was growing louder, and I quickly urged the
couple away. They nodded, and began to descend into the crater,
seeking the shelter of alcoves that were dug into its surface. Now,
Vadma appeared in the opening, a bundle of papers clutched in his
hand, and a flustered expression on his face.
Wheres Warner? I asked him frantically.
He would not come.
What? I was incredulous. This place held only one future for a man
like Dr Warner.
Vadma held up the papers. He told me to give these to his sister. He
says that they will explain.
The screaming from the passageway had stopped, but the noise of feet
grew ever louder, a steady and relentless beat. I quickly urged Vadma
to start his ascent, and then gripped the rope myself.
A searing pain across my back caused me to let go. Someone had hit
me with a heavy object. As I fell, I rolled onto my back, and looked up
into the eyes of Dimanche. They were bloodshot and crazed. He stood
over me, covered in festering burns and sores, his light suit soaked in
pus and blood, his face black with death. In his hands he gripped a long

wooden pole that was surmounted with the golden image of an eagle,
and the letters SPQR.
A standard of the Emperor Bonaparte himself, he shouted at me, his
voice gurgling unnaturally in his throat. They came here, long ago.
Imperial destiny. Republic destiny. Vive la republique!
All sanity was gone from the man, as he came at me, waving the relic of
a century-lost army like a huge mediaeval mace. As I fell back, I was
suddenly aware of two figures falling from above, and wrestling the
madman to the ground. As they rolled over the edge, the three of them
tumbled down the slight incline of the slope, thrashing at each other at
random. One of the figures was in French uniform, the other was
Pargeter.
My engineers action had given me my opportunity to escape. But still I
could not go, not whilst Pargeter remained in danger. My hesitation was
broken by the sight of the People of the Wadi, who now emerged from
the passageways with grim determination. I curse myself to this day, but
I had no choice. I positively leapt for the rope, and began as fast an
ascent as I could. The rope tore at my hands, burning with pain and
bleeding from several tiny cuts, but I pushed myself on. Above me, I
could see the others reach the top, and the other two ropes being
released, to flutter down into the crater. Below me, I risked a glance,
and saw a host of the Wadi swarming onto Pargeter, Dimanche and the
French trooper whose name I had never learned. Others had now
begun to climb the rope after me, and were following with a terrifying
speed.
Dont look down again, I chided myself, and concentrated on the climb.
Foot after foot of the cliff disappeared, until finally I felt my hand connect
with that of Campion, who pulled me up onto the top of the plateau.
Vadma was by his side, knife in hand, and he quickly sawed at the final
rope, the weight of those on it making it easier for the final strands to
part.
I did not watch as the Wadi were sent plunging to their deaths.
Nobodys death has ever held any pleasure for me, least of all these
innocents whose world had been turned upside down in the matter of a
few days. All I wanted now was to get away. As I caught my breath and
sat up, I looked at the remains of our party. Myself, Sir John, Campion,
Bracknell, Vadma, Commandant Albert and a single remaining French
soldier, one Corporal Niege. A poor show for the number who had
entered the Wadi. And at the moment, first on my mind was Pargeter.
Why did he do it? I breathed.

Campion shook his head in bewilderment. Probably because he

realised that if he didnt, I would have done, sir. He was a good man.
I could only nod. Rationality had been in short supply of late, from that
to Warners decision to stay and finally the madness of Sir John
Shadwell who had led us here.
I stood up. The small knot of men were gathered with a group of horses,
fully saddled and apparently waiting for us. I frowned in puzzlement.
Where did they come from? I asked.
A present courtesy of the Froggies, sir, Campion said. They left them
at the top of the plateau and came down on foot, so it seemed a shame
to waste them. I let a few of them loose, kept the rest. Had them waiting
here. He patted the nearest horse and smiled broadly. Good beasts,
sir. They knew what to do.
I couldnt draw up the strength to comment any further. I simply allowed
Campion to help me up onto one of the horses, and waited for the
others to take their own mounts. Then, gently, I urged the horse into
movement.
As we rode slowly across the broad rocky plain of the plateau, Vadma
drew up alongside me, and handed me a sheaf of papers.
Dr Warners, he told me, And some of Pargeters material. I think he
knew what was going to happen.
I nodded, and folded the papers into my coat pockets.
Will they follow us? I asked.
The Wadi? He shook his head. I doubt it. They should have little
interest in us if we are riding away. And there is one other thing.
What?
The desert is death enough, he said, echoing his words of weeks ago.
We have little water and less food, we dont have any maps, and we
are many days away from safety. Assuming we even know where that
is. Why do Gods work for him?
It was not a comforting thought. But I was not going to give in just yet. I
mustered my courage, and rode on.

Third Letter, Doctor Isaac Warner to Marjorie Warner, seventh extract,

dated 21st March 1900
I have come to a decision. It is not one that I expect anybody to
understand, but I have to do this, despite everything. I am well aware of
the pain that this will cause to many, and not least to you, dear Marjorie,
but please understand that had I any other choice, I would not hesitate
to make it.
The others are leaving this place. I understand that they have made it
impossible to stay here. I do not know who is to blame. Vadma would
have it that it is the French, but I would place equal blame on Captain
Fairfax and his military associates. They are a collectively violent group,
and I always feared that something of this sort might occur. However, I
can have little fear that I would not be welcome here. The purity of my
intentions should be very plain to the meanest dunce, and the People of
the Wadi, for all their bearing of the trappings of primitivism, are by no
means stupid. Give them a suitable education, and I believe many
would be fit to converse in the corridors of the most eminent of British
academic institutions. Thus, with my understanding of their language, I
am confident that I can see my way to remaining here in peace.
And so I must remain. I must stay here and finish my work to
understand this people and their history, even if it takes me the rest of
my life. It pains me that I may never see England again, that I may
never see our home again, and that you must walk the path of our
family alone for the present. Maybe you will chide me for my
selfishness, but you must understand that there are greater callings
even than those of family, and here I have heard mine.
Once Fairfax and his colleagues have departed, I will be able to get on
with my work again. I am sure that I can negotiate my way back into the
good favours of the People, and this is a decent place to exist. Food
and water are available in abundance, and the sustenance for the mind
is nearly endless.
Vadma will no doubt argue with me, but I am determined. I have
resolved to explain when he returns, and short of his putting me down
with his scorpion venom and dragging me along, he will be able to do
little to prevent me from remaining. Should he try, I will do everything in
my power to prevent him, even should it cause him danger. I should
deeply regret that, for I have no wish for harm to come to such an

estimable fellow, but such is my resolve. Vadma is a highly intelligent

man, so I am sure that the power of rational argument will prevail.
I shall hand all of my papers, and the letter that I have written, to
Vadma. He will see that they are all delivered, and I shall at least be
content to know that my last letter will have reached you. I have little
doubt that Vadmas skills and knowledge will eventually bring them
through the desert to safety.
Once again, please know that my decision has not been made without
the greatest of regret. That I might not see you again is not a pleasant
thought, but you know me, and you know that I must follow the dictates
of the world to which I have dedicated myself. So, please, do not regret
my absence, and know me to be,
Your ever loving brother,
Isaac

Fifteenth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 30th March 1900

I am sitting in a small watering hole in Al-Khrijah, a place that a few
days ago I never expected to see again. I am tired, sick, thirsty and I
feel that I shall never be clean again, so infested am I with dirt and grit,
but I am alive.
We have wandered for a good many days, as close to the end as
makes no difference. Vadma led us due north, on the basis that the
edge of the plateau where we first ascended was northernmost. He was
able to find the small oases that kept us supplied with water for long
enough to get down from the plateau, but beyond that, we found
ourselves in real danger, as water supplies grew low, and food was
non-existent. Add to that the fact that we had lost our maps in the
canyon, and d we were left in the most perilous position. Somehow,
Vadma kept our spirits alive, and led us on, day after day, but our
horses began to flag and our strength gradually gave out in the face of
the ever-increasing heat. Finally, we had to accept the fact that we were
lost. Even the expert guidance of Vadma could not find us a way to AlKhrijah, and we faced the likelihood of fulfilling the People of the
Wadis terrible prophecy about the desert.
That night, six days after escaping the plains and venturing back into
the Sahara, we pitched camp with the expectation that this would be our

last night. None of us could either stay awake nor sleep, and we all
spent the night in a strange netherland, a purgatory between the two
states, unable to rest our shattered bodies and spirits.
I was awakened from this restless half-sleep by the feel of water on my
face. I had initially believed it to be a bad dream, enticing me with
foolish wishes and worthless promises, but as I forced my eyes, caked
with dust, open, I found myself looking into a sun-darkened face, and a
half-smile that seemed to mock me.
We had been found in the darkness by the one group of people that we
had hoped, in the earlier part of our journey, to evade. A party of Tuareg
scouts, maybe fifteen in all, mounted and supplied for long riding in the
Sahara, had come across our camp. Given Vadmas warnings we were
all on our guard, but the fact was, in our current state, defenceless and
weak from our adventures, and having all been found in semi-conscious
repose, they could have slaughtered us with ease had they so wished.
That they had not was mainly down to their curiosity. Certainly, finding
us, apparently wandering at random through trackless dry wastes, was
not something that they had expected. As we spoke via Vadma, who
had some faculty with the language, we were able to negotiate with
them to take us to Al-Khrijah, and soon, refreshed with water and food,
we set out on a clearer northerly path with a new degree of certainty.
It struck me as deeply ironic that those who had previously chased us
should now be our saviors. Of course, I had little reason to believe that
this was the same band of Tuaregs who had pursued us to the plateau.
Nevertheless, they were curious about where we had been, and when
they learned the truth, for we no longer had the energy or inclination to
dissemble, they were slightly dismayed, not to say amazed that we had
walked among the dark People of the Wadi and emerged alive. This
gave us something of the status of legends among them, and they
asked us many questions in a hushed tone. Knowing the people in the
short time that we had been with them, conceiving of the vast number of
unanswered questions that our experiences had raised in our minds, I
was inclined to understand their fears. There are few things more
frightening than the unknown, although as I sit here, the thankfully
unrevealed horrors of the Cave of Death would, I suspect, have come
close.
The final, dark twist to my tale comes one day later. We woke from a
long, restful sleep in the Tuareg tents, to discover that Sir John
Shadwell had, as far as anyone could tell, wandered off in the middle of
the night. He had taken one horse and some of the food and water, and
simply rode away, due south. The Tuareg sentry that had been set was

found unconscious, having been given apparently taken by surprise and

rendered a heavy blow with a piece of wood. Nobody could be certain
how long ago or how far he might have got in the time since he left.
Personally, I viewed the loss with sadness but no great surprise. Sir
John had, since we arrived in the Canyon of the Wadi, been gradually
sinking into a pit of loss and despair. The man who had, by the captains
account, taken us all deep into the desert simply to find his son, had
become a shadow of the figure who had greeted me, hail end hearty,
taken me through an account of his life, and even drawn me into this
mad personal crusade. I had feared that one last act of desperate
madness had lain ahead of him. The captain, who has threatened him
with exposure and even criminal proceedings for the loss of his men,
believed that he had fled in order to evade the consequences of his
foolish and selfish actions. Vadma did not agree, as he believed that he
had taken into his head to go back to the canyon and find his son, and
even the daughter-in-law and future grandchild that he never knew he
had, and somehow either make a life with them, or persuade them to
return with him. Either way, I fear that he would not achieve his aim.
The one thing that I have learned from my recent travails is that the
desert, far from the romantic landscape of the cheap novel, is brutal and
unforgiving, and to a lone man on a tired horse, it would be utterly
merciless.
Such was the situation. What divided us was what we should do about
it. Captain Fairfax believed that we should simply leave him to his fate.
This harsh brand of justice was a shock from a man who had so cared
for the members of his party. I think he had lost too many other men to
risk the rest of us in a worthless search for the man whom he blamed
for that loss. To my surprise, it was the French Commandant Albert who
advocated looking for Sir John. He had shown that, contrary to the initial
actions of his troops, he was a humane and decent man, and once
again he demonstrated this by volunteering simply to ride out alone
rather than take the rest of us. The Tuaregs did not care either way. I
myself was deeply conflicted on the issue. In the end, it was Vadma
who offered to go himself, offering to use what skills he had to find our
former leader. Captain Fairfax was inclined to argue, but in the end,
once Vadma had pointed out that he had no actual authority over him,
he resigned himself. Thus supplied with map and compass, plus what
supplies could be spared, we watched our excellent guide, who had
brought us through this terrible world, riding off on his lonely mission.
We have not seen either of them since. I do not know to what fate either
has come, but must assume that the desert has taken them. For
ourselves, we rode on, communication between our parties now down
to a minimum with our translator, until finally we reached, with the relief

and joy that a pilgrim might feel when he reaches a Holy City, the dusty
oasis of Al-Khrijah. Nights in a reasonably well-constructed bed, food
served on a table and eaten with a fork, a cool drink of water from a
glass, these were all things that I once took for granted but now
regarded as one might a stay at the Savoy Hotel.
I finally feel that we are returning to what we in Europe might regard as
civilisation, although if our experience is to be judged, we have learned
at least that the term civilisation is a relative one. On the journey back,
I have read all of Dr Warners notes, and have learned of the secrets of
the Place of the People of the Wadi, and of the secrets that have yet to
be revealed. I know that we have seen and learned of an ancient world
that nobody truly knows. I also know that something inconceivable
happened there a long time ago, a happening that has shaped the
surrounding world since. It is perhaps a privilege, as Dr Warner seems
to have believed, to know of the existence of such matters. If so, then it
has been an expensive one. Of two expeditions, British and French, that
set out from this place, five men have returned. Those who are not
known to be dead have been lost forever. I have come to feel fear like I
have never experienced before. Whatever the wonders I have seen, I
know that were I offered the chance to go back and change things, and
prevent my ever having even heard of Sir John Shadwell, I would take
that chance without hesitation.
Maybe I am simply a coward. I fear that it is so. But at least I have never
pretended to be anything more than I am. An ordinary, mundane man,
who writes wrote, unless Harker keeps his word for an ordinary
mundane London journal. Others would condemn me for saying that
there are worlds where we are not to tread, but those people have not
seen those worlds. The Tuaregs were right. We could have released
something very dangerous indeed. I thank God that we were stopped by
the foolishness of French intervention, and the strange impulse within
the People of the Wadi that was unleashed upon us.
I do not believe that I will write my diary again after today. To attempt to
go back to the quiet drabness of London society, and write about such
matters after the words that have been committed during the last few
months would simply be impossible. It is not that I do not wish to go
home. I ache for the slow drizzle of a wet Thursday morning, Mrs
Wilkins steak and kidney puddings, Harkers foolish practical jokes in
the office, the daily complaints of Pennyfather and the gentle smile of
the girl in the tobacconist on the corner of Regent Street. I even miss
mother, and her constant berating of my choices in life. But there are
things that one writes about, and there are things that one takes for
granted and simply lets be. I hope that I now know the difference.

We do not intend to remain long in Al-Khrijah. In the next few days, we

will set out, this time in properly supplied caravan, for Luxor, and thence
for home. Our new French friends will travel with us. For me, the
journey cannot come soon enough.

Sixteenth Diary Entry by Alexander Bracknell, 12th April 1900

I have taken up my pen to write one last addendum to my diary. It has
been requested by Captain Fairfax for the sake of completeness. The
fact that nobody, save possibly some junior official of the War Office,
should ever read this, is neither here nor there. Perhaps we need to
finish off the tale, to allow us all to call a final halt and move on to a new
one, and if this is how that is to be done, then so be it.
Barring one small occurrence, the journey back to Luxor was utterly
uneventful. We saw few people, we journeyed in reasonable comfort,
and in good companionship, all of us knowing what had happened and
how it bound us together in understanding. The night before we were
due to arrive in Luxor, however, Commandant Albert and the last of his
loyal men left us, slipping away in secret during the night. I have no
doubt they simply wished to evade the inevitable problems that would
ensue when we reached Luxor and were accosted by British colonial
officials. When he discovered what had happened, the captain simply
decided to let them go. There was no purpose in doing anything else.
Thus our tiny, final party of three tired men rolled into Luxor, where we
were greeted not with pomp or splendour, not that any of us sought or
expected it, but by a phalanx of minor officials and military interrogators.
We were separated, and subjected to a long, exhaustive, and to be
honest, boring series of questions. Again and again I was asked the
same questions about my part in the expedition and what I had
witnessed, and again and again I gave the same, absolutely honest
answers. Every moment, every small detail was queried and counterqueried. I felt as if was suspected of some abominable crime, and that I
might grow old and grey languishing in a jail cell, answering questions
until I ended my days. Finally, only when they had wrung from me the
very last drop of information and had analysed it to the edge of my own
madness, did they allow me to go.
Even then, however, our work with this collection of bureaucrats is not
done. A gentleman named Smith, a likely pseudonym for a decidedly
questionable and unpleasant man, came to me today and has
demanded all of the papers that we have collected in our time with the

Shadwell expedition. He made very clear that the penalties for refusing
to comply could be severe indeed, and so I will hand them all over when
I am done writing this. My own diaries, leading all the way back to that
first meeting with Sir John, the writings and letters of Dr Warner,
Pargeters reports, even a few random jottings and thoughts that I
allowed Evans to scrawl illegibly in the back of my diary, they shall have
the lot, to make of what they will. I do not care enough to object.
I have been given fair warning that I am to say nothing about what has
transpired over the last few months. They have presented me with a
long document that they call a cover story. It tells of a lot of messing
about along the Nile and in Luxor, which is not that far from the truth,
and how we wandered the desert without success, and Sir John was
killed during a Tuareg attack, which is of course not true in the slightest.
I am not going to dispute it. My silence has been bought with threats,
and, I am ashamed to admit, bribery. My job at the Sketch has indeed
been saved, at a somewhat increased salary, and I am also told that an
amount of money has been paid into my account in London to
compensate my loss of earnings over the last few months. It is not
enough to declare myself a rich man for life, but it is certainly generous,
and will allow me to live more than comfortably for a long time. And so,
if this tale with which they have presented me is the truth they want the
world to know, then I shall betray the instincts and duty of all good
journalists, and present their truth. I fear that the alternative would not
be pleasant.
All the same, I wonder what it is that they fear to reveal. I of course
know of Sir Johns true reasons for venturing into the desert, but there is
also the ostensible reason, by which he seduced the British government
into sponsoring him, and allowing a small cadre of elite soldiers to
accompany him. Could they be trying to cover their embarrassment that
they were so duped? Could they be trying to hide the fact that the great
pillar of industrial society was in the end a liar, who finally seems to
have descended into madness? Or are they afraid of the things that
may lie deep in that desert, and of what might occur if others were to
find them? In all probability, it is all three.
I have seen Captain Fairfax and Sgt Major Campion just the once. It
was then that the captain advised me to write this epilogue, if only for
the sake of completeness. I understand that they have been silenced by
means of the military chain of command. It is fair enough. They are
soldiers, and they obey orders. They are to be sent to San Francisco,
where they are to work with a gentleman from the Pinkertons detective
agency on uncovering the roots of a Fenian espionage plot. I suspect
that this is simply as far away as their military masters can send them
until this matter can be buried. I shall miss them.

Tomorrow, I shall board a boat, and take up my first class cabin for the
journey back to Cairo, and then to Alexandria. As I came to Africa, so I
shall leave, on commercial transports, this time travelling in the greatest
of luxury. One final act of bribery, I suppose.
I look forward to a career of gossip columns, political tittle-tattle and the
mundane trivia of life in the London suburbs. But as for my diary, and
this time I know that I speak the absolute truth, I shall not write another
word after these last sentences. And thus I lay down my pen.