The Illusion of Murder by Carol McCleary

grooms. Its thick mane flows down his side, his tail high in the air.
    The sheikh makes a clicking noise with his tongue and the grooms let go of the stallion.
    The horse advances with long, exaggerated steps, stepping up onto the human plank.
    The big Arabian stallion with the sheikh aboard must weigh close to fourteen hundred pounds.
    And it’s walking on the men!

 
    13
    “The treading,” Von Reich tells us, enjoying his role as scholar, “is a ritual done in memory of a miracle performed by a Muslim saint. The saint rode his horse into Cairo over earthenware jars without breaking them. It’s believed that the sheikh who reenacts this ceremony cannot hurt the prostrate men, just as the saint didn’t break the jars. If any of the men die, it’s due to their sins.”
    Another couple had joined us to hear the man from Vienna’s explanation.
    “That’s horrible.” I see it as an act of arrogant oppression by the mighty against the helpless. I had gaped at the brutal spectacle, unable to move an inch, as the horse’s powerful hooves had come down like sledgehammers, on one man and then the next. “Why doesn’t the sheikh just use jars as the saint did?”
    “And take the chance of cutting the hoofs of his prize stallion? His horses are much more valuable,” Lord Warton says.
    Everyone—except me—gets a good chuckle over the sheikh prizing his horses over his subjects, egging the peer on. “The noblest of men and desert nomads love, admire, and cherish their horses—”
    “Sometimes more than their wives,” Lady Warton interjects.
    “I’m speaking of Arab men, my dear.” Lord Warton grins at the other men. “Wouldn’t you agree that if one has several wives, as many of these Arabs do,” he pronounces it A-rabs, “sometimes they’ll find sweeter dispositions in the stables than in the main house?”
    The men enjoy another chuckle.
    “There’s a line from Sir Walter Scott’s The Talisman ,” Lord Warton says, “which describes the impression of the Crusader knights of King Richard the Lion-Hearted when they first encounter the magnificent Arabian horses in the Holy Land: ‘They spurned the sand from behind them; they seemed to devour the desert before them; miles flew away with minutes—and yet their strength seemed unabated…’”
    “The prophet Muhammad said every man shall love his horse,” Von Reich adds. “Bedouins will go without food before they would let their horses starve.”
    “But what about the men who have to endure the sheikh’s horse?” I ask in vain, knowing these people have no compassion for the underdog.
    “The peasants consider it a privilege to be treaded upon,” Lord Warton says.
    “Really? I wonder how any of us would feel if we had to lay on the ground back home and let royalty walk their horses across our backs.”
    Von Reich gives me a small grin, but I get stony silence from the others. When they start comparing Arabian horses to quarter horses, I wander off, heading for the back of the tent in the direction I had seen Mr. Selous and the magician exit.
    Strange bedfellows, the magician who was performing where a man was killed and the Brit who talked to the dead man. The two are huddled together, walking slowly, talking too low for me to hear. Very discourteous of them, not speaking loud enough for me to eavesdrop.
    The two disappear into the ruins and rather than running to find them and making a perfect fool of myself by getting caught, I veer off to see the ruins by light of flaming torches that have been set up to permit guests to enjoy the antiquities.
    It’s a bit eerie seeing the ancient monuments under the ghostly glow of the full moon and the flickering torchlight, but a few other people are wandering about, too.
    I come around a pillar and find myself abruptly face to the face with the magician. He is not blocking my way, but not moving, either; just standing still, staring at me with the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen. I give a quick look