Chapter 5.
Marrakech
And so followed a most uncomfortable night for Balderthump and Lord Wrinklebottom. They were offered neither food nor drink, and the tight ropes cut into their arms and chest. Sleep was impossible, and though the men keeping watch slept from time to time, one was always awake and ready to give a kick or a shove if they looked like dozing off. Some hours after the morning sunshine had lit up the inside of the mud hut, the white-robed man returned.
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“I trust you had a pleasant sleep,” he greeted sarcastically.
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“Wonderful, thank you,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom with all the dignity he could muster. “What time is breakfast served?”
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“You are lucky to have lived to see breakfast at all,” sneered the white-robed man. “But it seems Allah has smiled on you today. I have been instructed to release you.”
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“Well, that is very good of you, my man,” responded Lord Wrinklebottom. “How about we start with these ropes? They are getting somewhat uncomfortable.”
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The white-robed man spat on the floor and ignored Lord Wrinklebottom's request. “You would do well to understand that merchandise in Casablanca already belongs to powerful men whom you would do well to avoid upsetting. I have also been instructed to tell you that if it is slaves you want, you should travel to Marrakech and seek the sign of the blue camel. At your leisure of course,” he added sarcastically.
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At this the men in the room burst into a vicious laugh that chilled Balderthump's heart.
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“I say, old man, I think we handled that rather well don't you?” asked Lord Wrinklebottom as he picked himself up from the mud of the alleyway where they had just been thrown.
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“An exceptionally good outcome, m’lord,” agreed Balderthump, straightening Lord Wrinklebottom's top-hat and wiping the mud off it as best he could with a white handkerchief. His own bowler hat lay flattened in the dust at his feet. “I suggest we make our way back to more friendly surroundings.”
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“Indeed, Balderthump, indeed. To the friendliest place you can find serving breakfast. Immediately!”
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Balderthump pulled his horse to a stop on a gentle rise. “Marrakech, m’lord,” he said pointing to a line of palm trees in the distance.
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“Jolly good old man. I'm famished,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom. “About time for a pot of tea, what?”
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“Indeed, m’lord.” Balderthump dismounted to make tea for the fourth time since they had set out that morning. He took a small brass brazier from where it was carefully packed on the side of his horse and very soon had a small teapot sizzling over a fire of sticks and brush.
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“Ah, much better, Balderthump,” sighed Lord Wrinklebottom after taking the first sip of his fourth cup of tea for the morning. “It has been quite a journey.”
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“It has indeed, m’lord, but we should arrive this afternoon.”
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Ten days had passed since their encounter with the men behind the door with the sign of the blue camel. In that time, Lord Wrinklebottom had despatched an update to Sir Bertie in London (dictated to, written up and sent by Balderthump, of course) and done his best to make up for the deprivations suffered during the night spent tied up. The small luxuries and hospitality Augustus Claphoussen was able to offer, refreshed his enthusiasm for the task at hand. It was during one such well-earned rest, following a long lunch, that Lord Wrinklebottom had made the decision.
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“Balderthump! We shall go to Marrakech!”
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“Indeed, m’lord. I shall make the necessary preparations at once.”
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“I hold grave fears for your safety if you poke around too much Wrinklebottom,” admonished Claphoussen as the final preparations were being completed. “But if you feel you must, I understand. I will provide whatever support I can. I have sent word ahead to a trusted friend of your arrival.”
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“Thank you, my good man,” replied Lord Wrinklebottom, “your assistance is highly valued”.
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Claphoussen was up to see them off early the next morning. Four horses stood on the gravel drive. Two were saddled. Balderthump was already on the smaller one.
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“A small token which may make your travels a little more comfortable, Wrinklebottom,” said Claphoussen pressing a small wooden box into Lord Wrinklebottom's hand. “Snorting Dragon Guangxi Osmanthus tea,” he continued, “imported myself at considerable expense.”
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Lord Wrinklebottom opened the delicately constructed wooden box and sniffed the rich aroma of the tea inside. “Wonderful!” he sighed with a smile.
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“Rest assured, your generosity is greatly appreciated, sir,” replied Balderthump on Lord Wrinklebottom’s behalf.
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And so, after more than a week of travel on horseback, through barren and stony hills and across parched mud flats, they found themselves looking towards Marrakech from the top of a small, bare ridge.
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“I say, Balderthump,” asked Lord Wrinklebottom after another sip of his Snorting Dragon Guangxi Osmanthus tea, “I say, are those mountains I can see in the distance?” He pointed towards a distant row of snow-capped peaks just visible above the haze shrouding Marrakech.
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“Indeed, m’lord. They are the Grand Atlas Mountains, and if I'm not mistaken the tallest peak you can see directly behind that minaret is Mount Toubkal, rumoured to be the highest peak in the range.”
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“Ah yes, Balderthump, I seem to recall we spent some time up there on our last trip?”
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“Indeed we did, m’lord. Quite an adventure. I hope things are not quite so fraught this time.”
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“Let's hope not, Balderthump.” Lord Wrinklebottom drained the last of the Snorting Dragon Guangxi Osmanthus tea from his bone china teacup, and handed it back to Balderthump. “Let's get underway then, no time to be lazing around!”
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“Indeed not, m’lord,” replied Balderthump calmly, and began packing up the tea things.
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The day was almost gone as the weary travellers made their way through the date groves and gardens surrounding Marrakech and towards the Bab Doukkala gate. The pink mud-brick walls of the city glowed intensely in the late afternoon sun, the hue changing every few minutes as the sun dropped towards the horizon.
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“We are to ask for Riad Al Mansour, m’lord. I will make some enquiries.”
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Balderthump slipped from his saddle and made his way to a group of street merchants setting up beside the gate. Within a few moments he returned with a small, rather raggedly dressed boy in tow. “This young gentleman will escort us to our lodgings, m’lord.”
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“Hmmph,” snorted Lord Wrinklebottom. “I wouldn't trust the little blighter. Just as likely to sell us off to the highest bidder the minute he gets a chance.”
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