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pails fastened one behind the other on an iron chain reached the top,

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  tipped over and emptied its contents into a channel which led to the

  cisterns, then collapsed and dived below again.

  I stopped and watched. In the narrow shade of the clay wall an

  overseer stood with a braided leather whip in his hand. Three other

  slaves crouched on the floor near him and were allowed to rest until it

  was their turn on the wheel. They looked me over with dull glances,

  but no one spoke. Only the creaking of the wooden wheel, the

  gasping of the climbing men and the splashing and falling of the

  water were to be heard. Suddenly the silence of the courtyard was

  interrupted by the brief cry of a woman which came from one of the

  upper windows of the palace. A second louder cry was followed by a

  third and a fourth, becoming a swelling rhythmic series of cries.

  Breathless cries and at the same time deep throaty groans. Then

  something strange occurred which was incomprehensible to me. One

  of the slaves who was brooding dully in the shadows had stood up, a

  muscular stooped man with dark hair and an unshaved face, had

  clenched both his hands into fists and held up his arms as though he

  were carrying a burden and jerked his hips back and forth in rhythm

  with the cries. With his eyes closed and biting his lower lip, he

  emitted a deep short grunt with each jerk while his loin cloth

  bulged. The whip came down with a slap on his naked shoulders,

  but it was a negligent, almost good-natured, blow and the man didn’t

  seem to feel it at all. At that moment the cries broke off with a sharp

  high note and the slave stopped his movements as though he had

  been paralysed. His face had an expression I could not interpret,

  pained and yet happy.

  The overseer bared gap teeth under his moustache and laughed and

  the two slaves crouching in the shadows joined unwillingly in his

  laughter. However, the others on the wheel kept climbing in dull

  preoccupied haste like a pack of confused apes in flight.

  I smiled uncomfortably at the overseer for I could not guess the

  reason for his amusement. I quickly turned away and went further

  into the palace garden, past the pond and the splashing fountains

  emerging from the nostrils of the mighty stone hippopotamus which,

  half concealed by water lilies, raised its head above the water and

  stared at me with its blind little stone eyes.

  I saw the deaf and dumb youth sitting on a stone bench under a

  pomegranate tree. For a moment I didn’t know what to do. Was it a

  dream I had had in the night? Had the moonlight played a trick on me?

  Or did he really walk like a ghost through the corridors of the palace at night in order to give his mute inner world expression by dancing?

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  I sat down on the bench and laid the palm of my hand on the cool

  stone. The youth moved his mouth as if he wanted to say something

  to me, but he was only able to grunt. He raised his hands and grasped

  at his mouth as if to pluck the words he couldn’t express forcibly from

  his lips. In his agony of wanting to say something, he rolled his eyes

  back so that only the whites could be seen. I was still sure he was

  trying to say something to me. However, it became clear that he was

  having a fit. He bent backwards and thrust his bald head backwards

  and forwards as if he wanted to break through some barrier. Then he

  lay thrashing about inclined over the bench, while in the corner of his

  crying wordless mouth foam gathered. I held him tight in fear of his

  falling off the bench. I fought with him finally covering his delicate

  body with mine. It had suddenly developed unbelievable power. I

  looked around desperately for help as I could no longer control him. I

  wanted to call the men at the well to get their help in my desperate

  struggle with the dark power that had taken over his body in broad

  daylight and was throwing it back and forth like a rag doll until I was

  completely out of breath.

  Suddenly, I heard footsteps on the gravel path. I saw two small

  white hands cradling the head of the youth, stroking his temples and

  ears. It was as if they had worked a magic spell. The dark power left his body immediately, wiping away the stiffness of his limbs. Then to my

  complete bewilderment I realized that the body I was holding was that

  of a young girl. Directly before me, I saw the spotty bald head of the

  singer, the dreadful watery wound. I had to grit my teeth to keep from

  groaning but as I turned my head to release myself from the horror, I

  was looking into the still more fearful eye of a peacock—a great

  ringlike grey-rayed pool of protein behind which there was nothing.

  An attentive, absolutely expressionless peephole into a small stupid

  world governed by reflexes. Then, with a jerk of its head, the bird

  moved away and let me see the senseless magnificence of its plumage.

  Slowly, ashamed, I removed my hands from the body of the girl and

  sat up. The singer—he seemed surprisingly tall as he stood before

  me—smiled at me apologetically.

  ‘I thank you. She could have hurt herself’, he said while helping

  her up. ‘It overcomes her sometimes. I have told her time and again

  that she must not go into the sun.’

  ‘But she was sitting in the shade!’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That is our heritage’, he said. ‘The

  heritage of the great civilization. Thus perishes mankind too by his

  own hand, himself Eternity to deny.’ He smiled.

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  The girl looked at me enigmatically with her bright eyes. I would

  have given anything to be able to make myself understood. If only I

  could have asked her something and if only she could have answered.

  But it was like talking to a star. It gives no answer but light.

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘Simone.’

  ‘A strange name.’

  ‘So?’ He took her in his arms. ‘She cannot betray me. She can’t

  even hear the cock crow.’

  I didn’t understand what he meant. When we left the palace

  garden, the overseer and his slaves had disappeared. The worn

  treads of the wooden wheel glittered in the sun. Water ran from

  the overflow of the filled cisterns and dripped onto the stone

  pavement. The black leather pails hung on the chain, full-bellied on

  the one side, loose and collapsed on the other.

  A woman stood at one of the upper windows and looked down. I

  saw her mouth for a moment before she closed her veil. She

  smiled.

  Extracts from the Journal of Master Jack

  May 25th, 2036

  We have been living in the palace of the king for two weeks now. He has asked to see me many times and I have had the opportunity of talking in detail with him. I would say he’s in his mid-forties with a rare mixture of charisma, intelligence and foolhardiness. The condottieri are said to have been that way.

  He says he is descended from the caliphs and as far back as the prophets.

  However, it would not surprise me if the caliphs were called Stravros, Kostas, Spiros or something similar and if the p
rophet was called Pythagoras and

  owned bars in Beirut and Alexandria. He is the born adventurer and knows

  how to get along with the right people.

  He also owns the most important scrap metal collection in the world. Both tanks before the gate of the palace are supposed to have been driven by

  Qadhafi himself when he took over Chad. He organized expeditions into the bombed and radioactively contaminated former oil wells in Libya. He says he brought back rich plunder from the dead cities of the Mediterranean, but they are mostly useless technical things that can never ever be put to use again: such as telephone installations and a complete air traffic control tower.

  However, he has the most important timepiece collection in the world. He is absolutely mad about time-measuring devices. He has all conceivable shapes and constructions—a collection spanning five centuries.

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  Wolfgang Jeschke

  I told him about my expedition and our belief that somewhere in the Near

  East space activities were taking place which we could not identify. He thinks it is possible that creatures from outer space have landed on earth. ‘It would be a wonder if we hadn’t aroused any interest after the fireworks we set off here on earth!’, he said. He insists on giving us a troop of soldiers to

  accompany us on our journey to the ‘edge of the world’ as he also calls it.

  In return for this favour, we should bring him one of the ‘flying ships’ home if we can find one.

  He gave me the journal of his architect to read as a present. The one who built the palace. His name was Henri Fleurel. He died two years ago. It is written in French. I shall read it on our way through Kordofan.

  3

  The Edge of the World

  In the morning, we visited Hazaz. His arm has been cut off. The

  emptiness under the sheet was horrible. I had so often admired that

  strong arm when he used the awl, saddled the camels, or, with the

  same strong hand, forced them to kneel—simply gone. I couldn’t look

  and yet, as if paralysed, I stared at the empty space where his arm

  ought to have been. The doctor said that gangrene had set in too deep.

  The bone had been damaged and had splintered. There was a funny

  sound in my ears and I felt as if I were going to lose consciousness. I

  ran out of the door and stood at a window on the other side of the

  corridor breathing heavily. Hazaz is sleeping, he knows nothing of his

  misfortune. Why was I not able to slay those jackasses that morning?

  I pray that Hazaz shall live. It is said that Allah’s grace is boundless.

  All I ask of him is just a small corner, just enough to cover what is left of Hazaz.

  Master Jack took me aside today and said that in a short time he

  must leave in order to reach the Nile at high water. It is for me to

  decide whether I shall continue with him. The journey will now be

  dangerous as we will be entering the last regions of the inhabitable

  world and now, more than ever, we shall meet up with contaminated

  animals and beasts with bodies of men.

  ‘All pilgrims take on this danger’, I replied. ‘They do it for God!’

  ‘But that is the difference’, he said. ‘They are religious fanatics.

  They are looking for danger in order to prove that God is with them.

  They are possessed.’

  ‘And what do you want to prove, Master Jack?’, I asked him.

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  He hesitated. Then he laughed and said, ‘You’re a smart boy,

  Beschir. Yes, I am possessed. I want to find out what is stationed in

  the northeast, who has set up a space centre there and why they are

  stubbornly ignoring the signals of our orbital tracking system, two

  stations of which are still working.’

  ‘What is an orbal tracking system?’

  ‘Orbital. The paths of the stars around the world can be controlled

  by it. We are a sort of caravan guide of the heavens.’

  ‘All the stars?’

  ‘What. . .? No, naturally only the artificial ones. The satellites of the earth. There are a lot of them up there and many are going to be

  giving out data for centuries, data that no one is capable of evaluating

  any more.’

  ‘And what about Hazaz?’, I asked after a while.

  ‘I would have liked you to have stayed here with him to be at his

  side when he gets better. You could have joined a caravan on its way

  west and returned home. But Hazaz’s condition is still very critical.’

  He stroked his hand over his sunburnt face and through his long dark

  hair. He didn’t like the thought of leaving Hazaz behind. ‘On the

  other hand. . .’, he looked at me pleadingly with his bright-coloured

  eyes as if asking me to forgive him. My shyness made me avoid his

  glance. ‘Should the worst happen, you would then be alone here. The

  loose morals being what they are in this palace, I would fear for your

  life. Lecherous bastards are always on the lookout for stray young

  boys to train as male concubines for themselves or to sell as eunuchs

  into slavery.’

  I remembered with horror my encounter on the staircase, that

  encounter about which I had never uttered a word. ‘I’ve decided. I’m

  riding with you, Master Jack!’, I replied with resolution.

  Everything had been packed. The Ghararas, light bags made of

  strong camel-hair yarn that the king had just given us as a present,

  were ready to be loaded. Just before leaving, we visited Hazaz. He was

  in good health and waved to us with the stump of his arm.

  ‘Wait two or three days’, he pleaded. ‘And then I’ll be able to ride

  with you.’ But the doctor made it clear that Hazaz had a good chance

  of surviving only if his wound did not become gangrenous. There

  were hardly any medical supplies left and, if any were found, they

  had usually been spoiled by the heat.

  We wished Hazaz luck and Allah’s protection.

  ‘I shall look for work and wait for you’, he said. ‘Until next spring if

  necessary!’

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  Wolfgang Jeschke

  The doctor charged us three camels. I went to get them and brought

  them to him. I have not seen Simone, the young girl of the singer,

  again, although I have looked for her everywhere.

  Extracts from the Journal of Master Jack

  June 5th, 2036

  It was with great regret that we left Hazaz behind at the palace. We are now on our way east at last. We could have joined a caravan, also on its way to El Obeid, with more than 200 camels, but it’s moving too slowly for my liking.

  Even if we cut down our rests to a bare minimum, we have a stretch of 40 to 45 days journey before us. It’s almost 1000 miles to Omdurman. Should it be necessary to penetrate even further north and make our way down the Nile, it will only be possible to get over the rapids during high water, especially over the first and second rapids near Wadi Halfa and Aswan as nothing is known about the state of things there since the dam disappeared.

  We are making good progress on our way to the east. Our four escorts are

  adept hunters. We eat meat almost every day. They are unruly but apparently reliable boys. It would be nice if I could convince them to escort us further than Omdurman, but they have their orders.

  The king’s four escorts have set a pace that puts a great strain on our

  animals, but Master Jack seems to be pleased. He is so restless.

  Yesterday, Alkuttabu, the best hunter of our escorts, shot a gazel
le

  at a distance of 250 feet with his rifle. Today, we found a dead desert

  fox. Its hide was rotten.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’, Alkuttabu warned me. He heaped dry wood over

  the body of the dead fox and lit it. The smell was horrible. We rode on.

  ‘Half a century ago’, Alkuttabu said, ‘there were more than a

  thousand lions here in Kordofan. I know, as this was my homeland.’

  He has the jet black skin of the Nuba and he is even taller than Hazaz.

  ‘You’ll hardly find one today. They prey on the weaklings of the herd

  and they are usually ill. That kills them, you know?’ He likes to

  repeat, ‘You know’. Each time he juts his massive black chin in my

  direction.

  ‘Are you afraid of lions?’, I want to know. He smiles. He has large

  white buck teeth with gaps between them.

  ‘Yes, but only dead ones’, he says laughing a high giggling laugh

  that one wouldn’t expect from a man of his size and clicks his tongue

  delightedly.

  He often looks to the southeast in the direction of the Nuba

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  mountains, his homeland. If the wind comes from the south, the

  Samun as they call it, the one with the touch of poison, then he and

  his companions tighten their mouth scarves and a look of great

  discomfort comes over them.

  To the south we occasionally saw the white haze of the swamp area

  of Bahr El Arab on the horizon. Now, a fire has been raging there for

  the past few days and the air is thick with flying ashes and the smell of burning wood.

  ‘The shepherds have set fire to the bulrushes in order to smoke out

  the breeding places of the birds’, Alkuttabu explains. ‘But every

  winter migratory birds bring the plague into the country and

  thousands of cattle die.’

  The farther we get to the east, the more particular our hunters

  become with their quarry. First the animal is checked for any outer

  deformations, then it is torn apart and the inner organs are carefully

  examined for any inflammation or tumours. Sometimes a look at

  the mouth and eyes is enough and the slain animal is then covered

  with stones or burned. The hunters won’t let any vultures nearer

  than 50 feet, for now we meet with dying and bedraggled birds at

  every step. At the moment, there is enough healthy quarry, but the