Moussa’s heart was pounding, his throat dry. In the distance he heard a shout. He couldn’t tell who it was, but he knew help was near. All of the birds turned with the big male except for one of the other males; it had spotted the opening and was determined to blow right past him. On and on it came, bounding closer with each step. Its mouth opened and it hissed at him. Abruptly it stopped, as if deciding what to do. For just an instant it hesitated, and then started forward again. Impulsively, Moussa jumped and reached out and caught hold of it by the base of the neck. He didn’t have any idea what he was doing, and neither did the bird, which madly flapped its wings. Powerful legs swept him off his feet, and he half-rode, half-dragged alongside, trying to keep his balance, trying to pull himself up, to get on top, too startled to do the smart thing and just let go. The ride was punishing, the bird panicky, Moussa’s head bouncing up and down with each step. One of the bird’s feet caught on his robe, and bird and boy went down. Moussa hung on for dear life, not wanting it to get back up again.
Behind him he heard howls of laughter coming from the other Tuareg, who had drawn up on their meharis behind his brush barrier and were watching his hunting technique with delight and disbelief. With a mighty effort the bird struggled to stand up again. It was too strong for Moussa to hold down, and it dragged him up with it. Moussa was on his knees when the bird broke free, and he fell flat on his face as the ostrich dashed madly away.
Three of the Tuareg on their meharis moved quickly into position in front of the brush, while the others dashed past Moussa toward the birds at the other end of the defile. Moussa recognized Taher, and behind him Zatab, their clubs at the ready. Even with veils, the Tuareg were easily distinguishable by the way they rode their meharis, by the way they walked, by the way they wore their robes and their arms, by their mannerisms, by the way they wound their veils, by a thousand different things. One didn’t need to see a face to know someone.
“These are my birds, Taher!” Moussa cried. “My catch!” He didn’t want the others to steal his victory.
Taher drew his mount alongside Moussa. His eyes were alive with merriment. “Eoualla, Moussa, of course the catch is yours. As Ahl-et-Trab is my witness I would not rob you of your prize. But they haven’t exactly been caught yet. I mean, they don’t look caught, anyway, not to me. Do you wish help finishing the job, or do you intend to ride each of them that way until they drop dead?”
Zatab laughed. “No, he was trying to scare them to death with his shouting.”
“Shouting? Was that shouting? I thought it was French poetry,” Taher replied. Taher was renowned as a master poet of the Hoggar Tuareg. “And that perhaps Moussa was going to lull them to sleep with it. Excellent idea, but more likely they’d die from it.”
“You are right, Taher, his words are better than poison. Strong poison. Such a blessing to die quickly and not have to suffer more French poetry.”
“Tell us your poem again, Moussa,” Taher pleaded. “Please. The one where your arms flap like palms and your mouth runs like loose bowels.” He imitated Moussa’s whoops, waving his arms up and down, and laughed so hard he nearly fell off his camel.
Moussa took their jokes in good spirit, ashamed that he had doubted them. Had Mahdi been with them the outcome might have been different, but Mahdi must have joined up with the other group of hunters after he left. “Eoualla, Taher. I thank you for your help. So much so that I will keep the rest of my poems to myself until we get back to camp.”
At that the meharis were off, and within three hours there were piles of skins and meat and precious feathers ready to be transported back to camp. It was a rich haul, and Moussa was feeling much better now about his failure with the camel. He had redeemed himself.
There was one escapee, a baby that Moussa cornered and couldn’t bring himself to kill. He was ready to club it when he let himself look into its big liquid velvet eyes. It looked so forlorn and innocent that he lowered his club without swinging, and after much posturing and strutting and chasing and cajoling managed to get a rope around the little bird’s neck. After that it was a matter of fending off the new jokes as the others teased him. The amadan, they called him, the animal keeper; and they all knew it was his great weakness. The Tuareg loved their dogs, but Moussa’s love for animals went far beyond that. He was even known to love his goats, when he was young enough to be assigned to tend them. No one knew anyone but Moussa who loved goats, because goats were not lovable. “He must love them in every way to love them at all,” one of them had joked, but Moussa didn’t understand the laughter and didn’t care.
And so that day as the caravan left the little glen and began its way back to the Tuareg camp, there were eight weary men; seventeen camels laden with skins and feathers and meat; and in the rear, one prancing baby ostrich led by a rope tied round its neck.
* * *
Hot and tired after the hunt, Moussa broke off from the others on the way back to camp to visit his guelta. It was his favorite place in the Hoggar, a deep pool nestled in a secret spot among the rocks. Taher promised not to let any harm come to the little ostrich, and took the lead rope from him. Moussa led his borrowed mehari up through the rugged terrain until it could go no farther. He hobbled it and then climbed the rest of the way on foot, following a path that was invisible to anyone who didn’t know it was there. Suddenly he was upon it, a deep sheet of blue shimmering in the sun. Winter or summer, the guelta never went away, even in a drought. It was fed by an underground spring that sent a constant lazy stream of bubbles to the surface. Clumps of grass clung to the rocks around the pool, out of the reach of the animals. Massive rocks rose above the pool on two sides. One of them formed a natural cave over the water, while on the other side a ledge ran down to the water at a steep angle. The rest of the pool was surrounded by a sandy bank that often bore the footprints of animals that came to drink at dawn or dusk, the wild Barbary sheep or the small herds of goats with their shepherds. A lone oleander tree grew in a pocket of rich volcanic soil, its fiery rose-colored blossoms as sweet smelling as they were poisonous. There were deep shadows around the guelta where Moussa could escape the oppressive heat, or rock ledges where he could sit on cold winter mornings and bask in the warmth of the sun. The guelta was completely sheltered from the wind by the rocks, and the silence that could be found there was as perfect as the deep blue sky.
No one else ever came to swim with him. They were superstitious about spirits that lived in the water, but Moussa believed they were afraid of drowning. They watched in fear and awe when he swam, certain when he disappeared under the water that he’d never surface again, or that if he did it would be with a djenoum riding on his back.
He climbed to the top of the rock overhang and stripped off his clothes, hesitating for a moment when it came to his veil. He hadn’t been swimming since the ceremony, and hadn’t taken the veil off at all, not even to sleep or eat. A Targui wore it everywhere, at all times. But he couldn’t swim with it on, and besides, there was no one to see him. He dropped it in a heap with his robe and pants. He dove into the pool, the icy water shocking his system. The pool was deep and crystal clear. He stayed under until his lungs were near bursting. He took a deep breath and then went under again, exhilarating in the cold, his arms pulling against the water, muscles rippling as he stroked back and forth beneath the surface, sweeping gracefully from one side to the other. Then he took more air and went straight down. He didn’t know how deep the pool was. He had never found the bottom. He played a game with himself when he came here, going deeper and deeper each time until his ears screamed and his lungs ached and he had to turn back. Someday he would touch it.
When he tired he floated on his back, closing his eyes and letting the sun warm his front while his backside stayed cold. The water grew calm, and he floated free with his arms outstretched, savoring every moment.
After a time he grew cold and decided to get out. Just then he was shocked by a splash, a deep kerplunk at the far end of the pool. Abruptly he opene
d his eyes and dropped his feet, treading water. Gentle waves rippled the pool. Someone had jumped in and was still below. A long minute passed. Afraid whoever it was had fallen in and might be drowning, Moussa went under to look. At first there was nothing, but then he saw a blur. He came closer until he could make out another swimmer, exploring the rocks. Moussa tugged on the person’s clothing. The swimmer turned to face him, and with a shock he realized who it was.
Daia!
She smiled, and said something that came out as a burst of bubbles. She pointed down at something in the rocks, but Moussa was too startled and embarrassed to see what it was. All he could think of was his nakedness. He turned and retreated quickly to the other side of the pool, where he came up gasping. An instant later she broke the surface just next to him. She shook her head, the water spraying off her hair, which she wore in long braids. She smiled, her teeth perfect and white, her eyes gleaming. She seemed totally at ease in the water.
Daia was fifteen or sixteen, he didn’t know for sure. She was of the noble Kel Rela clan like Moussa, but lived with a different drum group than he, so he saw her only rarely. She had been orphaned when just a child, her father the victim of a Shamba raid, her mother taken by fever. She was wild and full of life and energy. She could ride a camel better than a man and run faster than a boy. Other than that he knew little about her.
“Moussa!” she said, laughing. “Why did you swim away? There are fish there! I saw them!” She didn’t seem to notice his embarrassment. Moussa sank as deeply as he could into the water, and turned his face away from her, showing as little of himself as he could.
“Of course there are fish,” he snapped. “The pool is full of them. But you should go away. I am not dressed properly.”
“Properly?” she laughed. “You are not dressed at all!” Then she disappeared under the water again. Moussa looked up at the rock overhang, wondering how quickly he could get to his clothes. Fool! Why couldn’t I have gone swimming with at least my pants on? he thought, but he never had. He couldn’t get out, and he couldn’t swim with her. He paddled water and tried to stay at one end, turned away from her. A chill ran through him when he realized he’d been floating on his back, exposed to the world. He wondered if she’d been watching him before she jumped in. Of course she had, but for how long?
She swam about for nearly half an hour, by which time Moussa was so cold he could barely move. He swam to stay warm, but it made little difference. He said nothing to give away his discomfort, determined not to show any sign of weakness, convinced that he could stand the cold longer than she could. In the meantime he tried to keep his distance. She was completely carefree and at ease, moving all over the pool, laughing in delight as she explored. Several times she disappeared underwater, and he saw the ripples on the surface as she moved in his direction. Once she brushed against his legs as she passed underwater. He felt an odd thrill from her touch. She was all the way back on the other side before she surfaced. She must do this often, he thought. I’m surprised I haven’t seen her here before. With a start he realized he was staring at her, and that she was staring back. He disappeared beneath the surface.
Finally, when it seemed he could stand the cold no longer, she got out. He sighed in relief; she’d be going at last. But to his consternation she lay down on a rock by the water where the sun was hot and she could warm herself. As she got out he noticed her body beneath the thin cotton shift she was wearing. She had a very slight build. The wet material clung to her. He saw the line of her small breasts, and the outline of her nipples, and he felt an odd stirring in his loins, a tingling that was confusing but felt warm and wonderful and quivered all the way up to the hair on his neck and into his head, a warm feeling mixed with the cold, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her, yet it made him all the more ashamed of his situation. He didn’t know what to do. He was shivering, the skin on his hands shriveled. She closed her eyes. Moussa treaded water, waiting.
When he could stand the cold no longer and her eyes had been closed for a long while he quietly slipped out of the water. He started up the rocks toward his clothes. He heard a giggle. Her head was still resting on the rock, but her eyes were wide open and she was watching him, a smile on her face. Anyone else would have looked away, to give him his privacy, but Daia was full of mischief and just stared. Moussa looked down at himself. The cold had made his penis shrivel almost as thoroughly as his pride. It had shrunk as if trying to climb back inside his body. What remained of it looked about the size of a pea pod. The only blessing was that from where she was he guessed it would be just about invisible.
“Turn around!” His voice squeaked from the cold. Another little humiliation. He hoped his voice would change soon. He knew it didn’t sound much like thunder.
She said nothing, and made no move to turn her head. The smile stayed. She was enjoying herself, he realized angrily. And besides that she was warm.
He was paralyzed with indecision. He needed to use his hands to get up the ledge. He couldn’t do that without completely exposing himself to her, unless he went backward, and he couldn’t go backward up the ledge without looking like a complete idiot. He certainly wasn’t getting back in the water. He didn’t know what to cover, what to do. One hand went automatically to his groin, while the other went to his face. He stood for a moment that way and she giggled again. After another moment of agonized indecision he gave up trying. He dropped his hands and scampered up the rocks. As he disappeared from her view he drew up sharply, horrified. His sword was there, right where he’d left it. His dagger and sandals were there. His guerba still hung from the branch of a bush.
But his clothes were gone.
He groaned.
“Daia!” he called over the rocks. “What have you done with my things?”
He heard her laugh. He waited for her to say something, but there was only silence.
“Daia!” he shouted again. His voice echoed sharply over the rocks.
“The djenoum must have taken them!” she called back. “You have made them angry, swimming naked in their pool!”
“Stop it! Stop playing games! Where are my clothes?”
Silence.
He stomped around, looking in crevices and between rocks, hoping to spot the pile. He stubbed his toe and cried out in pain. He sat down to rub it. The gravity of his situation began to dawn on him. Would he have to walk all the way back to camp naked, like one of the children? It was too appalling, too horrible to consider. He’d kill himself before he’d do that. No, he would take his sword and wait until a caravan appeared, and then at night—
W’allahi! By God!
“Daia! This isn’t funny!”
He suffered more silence. He crawled to the edge and peered down and saw her still lying there. She didn’t move. He watched her. He could see her breathing. Again he noticed her figure beneath her shift, this time the curve of her legs, the way her hips were beginning to fill out. He wondered if he’d go to hell for looking. The goat girl was becoming a woman. She was very pretty. He felt the stirring again. He forced himself to turn away and sat cross-legged on the rocks, wondering what to do. The sun was warm, blessedly warm, but he was still cold to his core and his teeth were chattering.
A few moments later he sensed rather than heard something behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Daia had crept silently up the rocks and was standing behind him. She was smiling broadly. In her outstretched hands she held his clothing. “I found them below,” she said innocently. “The djenoum must have dropped them when they saw me coming.”
“Very funny,” Moussa snapped. He kept his back to her and drew his knees up to his chest to cover himself better, and looked away. “Just put them there and leave me alone.”
“You must come get them,” she teased.
“Never!”
“All right,” she said lightly, shrugging. “I’ll just take them with me back to your camp. I’ll tell them I found them—”
“No!” In a flash Moussa was up, reachin
g for them, his modesty forgotten.
She pulled her hand back so that the clothes were behind her, and he had to stop short. She looked him up and down, her eyes wide with fascination. He felt her eyes, looking into his face, and then down – there! Mortified, he realized he was getting the feeling again. As much as he willed it not to happen, his little penis was shaking off the cold, and stirring to life. He dropped his hands to cover himself, but not before she’d noticed.
“You should be ashamed,” Moussa told her sharply.
“For what? I kept my clothes on!” Her eyes lit with a wicked smile. Then without a word she dropped his clothes and turned and ran back down the rocks. He was struggling into his pants as he listened to the sound of her fading footsteps. By the time he had the robe over his head and was working on his veil, she was long gone.
* * *
If Moussa was mildly upset about his clothes, his return to camp crushed him. His swim had cost him more than his modesty. In his absence he had missed a djemaa.
Empires of Sand Page 39