His slave, Lufti, had been anxiously waiting for him at the bottom of the wadi that led to the camp. Lufti was ill, his eyes rheumy and red rimmed. He wore his veil low, exposing a broad nose that glistened with beads of sweat from his fever. He was chilled and even in the heat he kept an extra robe drawn around his shoulders. His eyes brightened when he saw Moussa. Even though his news was urgent, the slave was first polite, inquiring after his master’s afternoon.
“Sire, felicitations on the hunt. It is said you captured many ostriches using only poetry!”
“Master Taher said that?”
“Yaya, sire. It is all over the camp. No one has heard the like of it. And your swim, it was enjoyable?”
“It was memorable.”
Lufti took the camel’s lead. “But sire! Where is your camel? Why do you ride Master Taher’s mehari?”
Moussa shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it.
“Master, you must hurry,” Lufti told him, almost as an afterthought. “There was a council. A big one. All the nobles were there. The lord amenokal, he was looking for you! I think you have missed it, sire. The others have been leaving. You should go now, quick-quick!”
“A djemaa? Without notice?”
“There was no time.”
Lufti led the camel away to be hobbled for the night, while Moussa hurried toward the amenokal’s tent. The camp was alive with preparations for the coming night. Young boys were returning from the day’s pastures with their goats, while others carried loads of brush for the fires. Naked children played tag before the great rocks against which the camp was nestled. Dogs barked and slaves tended to milking the goats and the cooking. The red roofs of the tents glowed rich in the fading light.
The amenokal’s tent was larger than the others, pitched on a high spot from which it overlooked the rest of the camp. Its roof was made from the skins of Barbary sheep. There were no sides to the tent, only grass mats, which could be rolled up to control the winds and the sand. A fire blazed to one side, where the carcasses of two goats had been roasted in the coals and then picked clean. Moussa’s heart sank. The feast was over. And so too was the djemaa. It would have been the first council he could have attended as a man. As a boy he had been welcome to listen, but could say nothing and had to make tea for the others. Now that he was a man, it would be Moussa’s privilege to participate if he chose.
And he had missed it for a swimming hole.
He recognized various drum chiefs of the minor tribes, who were now streaming out of camp. It had been an important gathering, with all the major families and tribes of the Hoggar represented. As he entered the amenokal’s tent he saw that only the amenokal and Mahdi remained.
The amenokal was suffering from the same fever that had stricken Lufti. Normally a hardy man, he had been bedridden for days. He was still terribly weak, racked by coughing spells, and was propped against a tent pole for support. “Ah, Moussa, you have returned,” he said.
“You enjoyed your afternoon leisure?” Mahdi asked, delighted to embarrass Moussa in front of the amenokal. “There was nothing urgent here for your attention. Simply a matter of war.”
“What has happened, Lord?” Moussa asked, ignoring his cousin’s barb.
“The Kel Ajjer are up to their old treachery,” the amenokal said. “We have learned they are massing for an attack near Ademer. All the tribes are agreed. We will storm the Ajjer before they can raise their hand against us. All the nobles are departing. Every available vassal of the Kel Ulli will be armed as well.”
The Kel Ajjer Tuareg lived to the east, near the plateau of the Tassili, along one of the great trade routes between Tripolitania and the southlands. The war had started over the defense of the rights of a small tribe of Tuareg, and had raged for three years in a series of skirmishes and all-out battles.
“Will the Turks help them again with troops?” Moussa asked. The previous year the Turkish bey of Murzuk had provided arms and Arab troops to the Ajjer Tuareg in exchange for the establishment of a garrison in the oasis of Ghat. The Turks, seeking to extend their influence in the region, had nearly tipped the balance against the Hoggar Tuareg in a massive battle.
“I think they want no part of this war,” the amenokal replied. “I sent an emissary to the bey. He says he has no wish to invest further in our quarrel. I believe his intention is to weaken the Ajjer now as we ourselves were weakened before. In this way he hopes to keep all the people of the veil too weak to challenge his influence. But his motive does not matter. Our purpose is served.”
“So the Ajjer are abandoned by the Turks to our blades,” Mahdi said.
“Do not discount more treachery,” Moussa said. “I do not trust the Turks. While we tend to the Ajjer in Ademer we should place a reserve force outside Ghat. In case the bey forgets himself.”
The amenokal smiled. The boy had learned much. “It is a pity you missed the djemaa. Your counsel might have added to our deliberations. That order has already been given.”
“Had I known of the djemaa I never would have missed it, Lord.”
“Had you not been consorting with your fish like a foreigner you would have known,” Mahdi said. Moussa flushed crimson, thankful his veil hid it, but the amenokal ignored his son’s taunt.
“You have not told Moussa of his duty here, Lord,” Mahdi said. Moussa stiffened. He could feel the smirk in his cousin’s words.
“The tobol of the Ihaggaren will ride with Ahitagel. He has already departed with a force of nobles, and leads in my name.” The tobol was the war drum, symbol of the amenokal’s authority. Ahitagel, the cousin of Serena and El Hadj Akhmed, was the heir apparent. With the amenokal too ill to lead such a force, he was the logical replacement.
Moussa’s heart leapt. “I will leave immediately and join Ahitagel, Lord,” he said.
The amenokal shook his head. “You are to remain here, Moussa, with ten Kel Ulli.” The Kel Ulli, the people of the goats, were vassals of the Kel Rela. They fought only rarely, carrying weapons with special permission and always under the command of a noble.
Moussa was horrified to be left behind. “But Lord, it is my duty to—” he began.
“It is your duty to do as I wish,” the amenokal rasped curtly. He doubled over in a spasm of coughing. It was a moment before he could continue. “The Kel Ajjer are not the only predators in the desert. I cannot leave the defense of our camps to the women and children and one sick man,” he said, referring to himself. “You will remain here, and mind our backs. You will command the Kel Ulli, of course, after they arrive. This is your duty, Moussa, and it has great importance.”
“Yes, Lord,” Moussa said, bitterly disappointed. Of course, someone had to stay. But it was a humiliation to be the one called. It was not duty as war was duty, to watch over the goats and the children and the vassal camps and slaves. It was second best. He wondered if Abba did it because the amenokal didn’t believe he was ready. For three years he had watched as others carried the fight, blooded in battle and returning as heroes. There were many who did not return, but it seemed not to matter. Poems were written about the warriors, both the living and the dead. Songs were composed. Swords were celebrated and legends grew.
But he would be left out of it, his own legend seeming forever stillborn. Already he could feel the blistering ridicule of Mahdi. “So, the noble ikufar will mind the babies and the camel shit,” he laughed scornfully as they left the tent. Moussa tried to ignore him. That night after the nobles had left for war he checked the camp and then wandered out to brood in the moonlight.
* * *
They swam in slow circles just beneath the surface, passing ever closer to each other with every turn. Her image was blurred, mysterious, and beautiful, the details becoming clearer each time. He could see only that now she wore no clothes, that incredibly, she had come nude into the pool, to join him there. He looked at her, trying to make out the secret places of her body, but the water and the darkness swirled around her, leaving only a graceful mystery
that made his blood rush. She beckoned him to follow. He tried to catch up, but each time as he drew near she pulled away from him, swimming faster than he, looking over her shoulder, waving and smiling. She swam so effortlessly, so free. She seemed never to have to draw a breath. He followed her until he could stand it no more. He came to the surface, gasping for air. The moonlight was bright on his face, bright like the daytime, the water shimmering in silver pearls around him. The sand around the pool was deserted, the rocks barren. He knew they were alone.
With a thrill he realized that she knew it too.
He took a deeper breath this time and disappeared again, blinking as he looked about for the soft light of her passage. This time he felt rather than saw her, as she came from below and behind him and reached up to him. Her touch sent a shock through his body. He turned to her and she drew up from below, her fingers delicate and curious and slow. He felt her on his ankles, then his calves. She caressed the hollow behind his knees, and then his thighs, and he closed his eyes and floated with it all, luxuriating in the sensation of her skin like silk against him, her warmth flowing around him in the gentle current. Every hair, every pore of his body felt wild and fired by her presence. She touched him on his hips and ran her fingers lightly up his sides. She drew level with him. Aroused and hard, he pulled her close, feeling her nakedness against him, their bodies quivering. He had never felt anything so soft and smooth as her skin beneath his touch. He ran his hands down her back, using just the tips of his fingers, softly, slowly, both of them lost to the feeling, floating in the water, entranced, the curves of her hips and her breasts pressing against him until without knowing what to do or what he would find he brought himself to her and they clung to each other, and there was a frenzy between them, a frenzy of bubbles and heat and passion as they joined together, and together they rose for breath and burst through the surface and cried in wonder and she shouted his name and he felt himself letting go, felt the fire leaving his loins…
Confused, excited, Moussa awoke in a sweat. He was breathing heavily, still lost in some delicious place that was like a warm and wonderful bath. Soft night sounds flitted into his consciousness. He heard the wind rippling the roof of his tent. Low voices murmured from near the fire. His mind rose slowly from the mists of the dream.
Vaguely he realized he had an erection, stiff and throbbing and warm. He touched it. His robe there was warm and wet and sticky. The touch made him shudder again, the pleasure shooting all the way through him like a bolt of lightning, making him tense and then relax as the feeling washed over him and he came again. He tingled all over.
His head swam in the wonder of it. This had never happened to him before. He still didn’t know where he was, or where she was. Was it real? Had she been there? He knew she had not, but let himself deny it for long pleasurable moments. He tried to hold it all in his mind, to recover it all: the feeling, the dream, Daia. But try as he might he could not hold it. He closed his eyes and sought her under the water, but could not see her. He drew the folds of his robe close, to touch her once more, but could not feel her. The world intruded on his private place. She slipped slowly from him, disappearing beneath the surface of his mind, until she was gone, and he slept once more.
CHAPTER 17
18 August 1876
Dear Moussa:
Well, I turned sixteen at last. I guess you know that, though. I thought of you when you turned sixteen in July. You always got your birthdays before me. I sat in the old tower at St. Paul’s and looked at the river. It’s where I go when things get too stiff around here. They still haven’t fixed the cathedral from when it burned during the war. Last month some of us had a party up there, and it was after midnight before we got caught. There was serious hell about it. I couldn’t leave the château for a fortnight except to go to school. Then they boarded the cathedral up, but I pried a place open and can still get all the way up to the top.
The party was for Antoine. Did I tell you about him, in another letter? I don’t remember. I guess he’s my best friend now. We took some girls to the party who knew Antoine’s older brother, and we had a bottle of Charente I took from the cellar. My girl was nineteen! I got to feel her poitrine but then I got sick on the brandy before I could get to her good stuff. Antoine said he got all the way with his girl, but I don’t believe him. He couldn’t even tell me what it was like, except to say really vague things that I think he made up. When the heat dies down a little we’re going to find them again and have another party. If I get anywhere I’ll let you know. The real stuff, not made-up things. I know you would do the same for me.
I always thought sixteen would be an important birthday for me, but I feel the same as always. I want to be twenty. I think that’s a better age. The best, maybe. Then I can do what I want, and my mother can only watch. You know her, though. She’ll be on me until I’m a hundred. For my birthday she took me to the races at Chantilly. It was the first thing she’s ever let me do that wasn’t all stuffy and formal. She was with one of her “gentlemen friends,” as she calls them. She has a lot of them. She makes me call them Monsieur This or Monsieur That, but they’re all Monsieur Crap to me. Well, Monsieur Crap gave me a hundred francs and told me what horse to bet on, like a real know-it-all. Before the race I went down and looked at the horses. The one he told me was wheezing like it had consumption. I picked a different one and got seven hundred francs back. Monsieur Crap’s horse finished dead last. He said he lost twenty thousand, and acted like he didn’t care. I think he was just shooting off for my mother. He’s a minister in the government. Today, anyway. We’ve had a lot of governments since you left. They keep them for a week or two and then throw them out, and Mother throws the men out just as fast. I haven’t liked any of them yet. I hope someday she’ll get to one I can stand, but I doubt it. Not before I leave here, anyway. I figure that will be when I’m twenty. Antoine’s big brother went to the military academy at St. Cyr, and after that he got to go to Indochina or someplace. I want to go to Africa. I think my father would like that. He was there, and so are you.
One more year at the École. The Jesuits there make Sister Godrick look pretty soft, but I do my work and they leave me alone. She’s still teaching, by the way, but at another school since they closed St. Paul’s. Some other poor bastards are getting the hard side of her board now. I couldn’t believe it when I saw her. She looks just the same, only I think she’s shorter than she used to be. I wanted to do something in your honor – brain her with a brick or run her down with my horse, but I was with one of the priests from school and had to be polite. As much as I hate the idea, I think she’s the sort of person who’s going to die of old age.
Gascon got sick in March. He got a lump in his belly that was big enough to see, and he just got worse and worse. It happened pretty fast. I went to see him every day at his apartment in Montparnasse. I wished that he was still living with us. When he was so sick it felt like he belonged at home, but he and Mother never got along and she put him out. He didn’t have many visitors, just some old army men and me. As sick as he was, he told me stories, just like he used to. We talked a lot about you. One day a priest came and gave him the last rites, and told me Gascon was going to have to get buried in a pauper’s grave. I guess Gascon didn’t have any money. I couldn’t stand that idea so, of course, I gave the priest enough to take care of things.
Gascon let me have his old guns then, thinking he was finished with the world. And then the strangest thing happened. A day or two later he said he felt better, and he got up out of bed. The lump got smaller and pretty soon it was gone, and Gascon was as good as ever. He didn’t want his guns back, and I never got the money back from the priest, either, which is all right because of how it all turned out. Gascon said not to worry about it, because the way things were if he died later and didn’t get a good grave I could use his guns to shoot the priest. Now Gascon is my only grown-up friend. I can tell him things and he doesn’t laugh. As often as I can I steal money from the butler’s ho
use fund and give it to him. I know it’s your father’s money, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.
I still think of you all the time. I miss you and Uncle Henri and Aunt Serena. The way everyone left me, all at once, well, it was all so quick. First my father, and then all of you, and it’s been pretty lonely since then. My mother says you’re all dead.
I don’t know about my father, whether he died after he walked out on us, but I don’t believe it about you. I wouldn’t write letters to a dead cousin. I wonder why you never write, but I’m sure it’s for a good reason. I’ll keep trying from this end.
Your cousin, Paul
He folded the letter and put it in an envelope. On it he marked, as he always did,
Monsieur Moussa Michel Kella deVries
Avec les Touareg
le desert du Sahara
Afrique
He gave it to the butler to mail. Later, as instructed with such letters, the butler gave it to Paul’s mother.
CHAPTER 18
The Shamba raiders came in the quiet part of the night when the moon was low in the sky and life in the Tuareg camp was at its lowest ebb. One after the other they slipped silently over the rocks, stopping to listen and watch, then moving once again. They could see the dim forms of the tents spread over the gentle slope, the rocks looming protectively behind them, with dark shadows between them indicating where narrow passages led toward the wells and meager pastures beyond. The embers of a cook fire still smoldered in front of one of the tents. The Shamba would have preferred a night that was black as death to one that had any sliver of moon, but they had not chosen this time for the raid. The Ajjer, with their war, had chosen for them.
They came from Wargla, a northern Shamba oasis. Their leader, Abdul ben Henna, was the younger brother of a caravan master who led merchants from In Salah to Ghadames. Abdul had acquired his personal hatred for the Tuareg along that route, in the year when his brother had taken ill and put him in charge of a caravan. A caravan was a collection of independent merchants carrying gold or slaves, ostrich feathers or salt. The merchants banded together under one master who knew the route, who could rent them camels when they needed them, who could find the watering holes and the pasturage along the way, who could help them overcome the dangers of the road, and who could negotiate safe passage with the lords of the route, the Tuareg. Young and full of himself, Abdul had gravely accepted the great responsibility.
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