The Treasure of Akram el-Amin Read online

The Treasure of Akram el-Amin

  By Chris Adams

  Written by Chris Adams

  Copyright 2016

  All Rights Reserved

  Contents

  Preface

  Iskandar

  The Tents of Akram el-Amin

  A Strange Discovery

  A Treasure Beyond Belief

  Bid for Freedom

  Beni Sujiz

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  List of Works

  The Back of the Book

  Preface

  I cannot recall precisely – perhaps I was in my late teens – when I read a volume of the translations by Richard Francis Burton of the Arabian Nights, the tales spun by the now legendary Scheherazade of A Thousand Nights and a Night. There is no way of knowing, of course, but it could easily be assumed that there exists possibly only a handful of individuals on the planet who have not, in some form or another, heard of the famous oriental tales that date back centuries.

  Although this story is not directly derived from those tales, it is due to the lingering impression of those stories, and the later discovery of a delightful novel by F. Marion Crawford entitled Khaled, a must-read for sure, that yours truly decided to try his own hand at an Arabian tale.

  Being a fan of pulp era writing I wished to fashion a tale that might have been submitted to Oriental Stories or Magic Carpet Magazine back in the early-mid 1930s. I wished the story to be of a simple, straight forward concept while the primary character had to be wise and cunning for his years. The tale must be filled with all of the enchanting stuff that others who appreciate that golden era of writing have come to expect, including plenty of derring-do, a beautiful maiden, clashing scimitars and timeless, magical settings.

  Oh, and speaking of magic, there had to be some of that thrown in as well.

  This is the third tale I have published in what I collectively refer to as my Tales of Unsuspected Bizarrie.

  I hope you enjoy it.

  Chris.

  Iskandar

  Iskandar, youngest child and only son of Sheikh Ilyas ibn Saleh of the douar Beni Sujiz, loosened his curved scimitar in its well-used camel-leather sheath as he stood just within a small grove of palms upon a hill overlooking the campfires and black tents of Sheikh Akram el-Amin – his father’s enemy.

  The hour was late and the moon no longer rode the skies over the desert, so it was only the scintillating light of the stars in the heavens that watched Iskandar in the palms. The temperature had plummeted far below what it attained during the scorching heat of midday, when the mirage-like heat waves would shimmer off the desert sands, luring the uninitiate to their dooms in the wastelands that were the Nubian Desert.

  Iskandar’s breath was visible as light puffs of vapor as he eyed el-Amin’s douar below. In his vibrant green eyes was the fire of youth and the zest of life, these qualities mingling at the moment with the zeal of a zealot to accomplish his father’s wishes – which is what brought him here this night, far from the comforts and warmth of Beni Sujiz, his father’s douar.

  He thought of the wonderful aroma’s that would even now be filling the tents of his home – his sisters’ cooking, the heavy scent of strong coffee, the sweet smell of the smoke drifting from his father’s and his uncle’s huqqas – their water pipes. Outside would be the small campfires before the peoples’ tents, beside which they would sit and smoke and drink their spiced coffees while the herds bleated and the horses stamped and neighed to the coughing grunt of the hunting lion.

  Thinking of lions caused Iskandar to glance about - not fearfully - but cautiously, as would any shrewd warrior who wished to maintain awareness of his surroundings. It would not do to be caught unawares should el adrea - the Lord of the broad head and the black mane - come to the douar of el-Amin to take his meal from amongst the great stores of livestock of the great Sheikh.

  Ah, but el-Amin was rich! To his point far above the tents that lay below him drifted the sounds of the Sheikh’s goats and sheep and cattle. And his horses! They were the best bred in all Arabia, his father would often say. But, being sworn enemies, his father would naturally never purchase a horse from Akram el-Amin.

  Ah! But could one be purloined…

  Ha! Great would be the rage of the Sheikh!

  Studying the palisade surrounding the douar, Iskandar’s quick eye selected a corner far from the fires of the tribe. He would scale the low wall there - but he must be quick! His plan was to ransack the tents of the Sheikh for the treasure before everyone returned to their tents for the night. And then in leaving he planned to avail himself even further of the great Sheikh’s hospitality in the selection of a prime stallion from the corral that he might in style return to the tents of his father. Sheikh Ilyas ibn Saleh would be proud of his son’s exploits this night, by Allah!

  His father the Sheikh had commanded Iskandar to come by stealth to the tents of el-Amin, and there take from him his most valuable possession out of all his horde of treasures. It was rumored about that the Sheikh’s largess consisted of clay jars filled with jewels and gold, and of rare and costly weapons of steel, besides the herds of livestock - amongst which it was generally accepted his horse flesh was believed to be the finest anywhere.

  “But baba, how will I know which treasure he values the most?” Iskandar had asked of his father.

  “Ah, my son, thou wilt know it! It shall be that which the old villain guards the most zealously! This thing you must find and bring to your baba, that our tribe might see your strength, your courage and your cunning! For one day, Iskandar, it is thou who shalt lead the tribe, and when you do, the people will say: There is Iskandar, who took from el-Amin the cream of his largess! But it shall require strength and stealth, Iskandar! And courage, lad!” quoth Ilyas ibn Saleh to his young son.

  Now the handsome sixteen year old Iskandar started down the steep, pitch-black side of the hillock, leaving the palm grove with naught but the reflections from stardust to guide his feet, and made his way towards the darkest side of el-Amin’s palisade. His dark gray jellabiya caused his slight form to blend into harmonious indistinction in the dark shadows while a hood cloaked his face in obscurity.

  Afar to the north he heard the coughing grunt of a hunting lion and knew that el adrea now roamed. But the lad was not protecting his father’s flocks this night, and so he put the tawny beast from his mind and sought the fire-hardened and sharpened tips of the fence that surrounded the douar of el-Amin…

  The Tents of Akram el-Amin

  Now, although but a lad, young Iskandar was a member of a primitive tribe that lived close to the earth.

  He had already – even at his tender age – survived battles with both men and beasts. Since becoming old enough to ride he had ranged far afield with the older men, and had tended the herds of sheep and goats alone while el adrea moaned and roamed, seeking what or whom he might find by way of repast in these arid lands.

  So it was that, while many a lad of European nations might go off on such an adventure as this with only a sack for their loot and not a thought beforehand of anything else, youthful Iskandar paused at the bottom of the dark boma surrounding the tents of his enemies. Taking out a short rope with a loop already tied at each end of it he tossed the larger loop with a single cast over one of the sharpened stakes that comprised the palisade wall – the other loop he put up over his arm so that while he climbed he would bring the bottom of his rope along with him.

  Now he unbuckled El Azra'eil - his scimitar - and re-slung him cross-wise over his back so that the sword might not bang against the wood of the posts. Next he took a camel pelt from a pack that hung a
t his waist and draped it across one shoulder and then scampered up the rope to the top of the palisade as nimble footed as a little qerd – the small monkeys one saw further south.

  When he arrived at the top of the wall he quickly draped the thick camel pelt over the sharpened stakes, rolled across the top of the wall and allowed the loop upon his arm to fall away down the opposite side of the wall. He then tossed any remaining rope after it, and quickly rappelled to the ground. As soon as his feet touched the earth he ducked low and sought the deeper shadows of the nearest tent – and then waited and listened for any outcry.

  His rope he left hanging where it was to afford him a quick escape route his enemy would know nothing of in case Allah was not with him this night. The rope had been soaked in a mixture of water and ash, dyeing the hand-woven fibers a charcoal gray, rendering it invisible against the dark wall. But Iskandar, before he left this spot, memorized each salient feature that he could discern so that he might quickly find the rope again if men were hot on his heels and the open desert beckoned.

  Upon one hip, knotted into his belt, was his jambiya, a dagger given him by his grandfather when he was five. The dirk had been taken from a French soldier fifty or sixty years before when his father was yet only a moonbeam in his grandfather’s eye. The blade showed the evidence of hard use and many sharpenings. One of the European grips of the handle had been replaced long ago with a piece of sayal – or acacia, as