The wave washed over him as quickly as it had come, and all was calm again. He opened his eyes. The trembling had gone. Drained, he lay quietly, and shut his eyes again. His head felt cool, his world at peace. He floated easily, breathing deeply.
He awoke with a start. The sun was setting over the mountains. It was near dusk. He sat up, angry with himself for drifting off. He finished loading his pistol, stood up, and started for the southeast, jogging slowly. It made him feel better, and he picked up the pace a little – not fast, but steady, the running without the pressure of pursuit a release for him. He passed a succession of massive rocks, their shapes merging with their shadows in the twilight, the sand in the passes beginning to lose their subtle shadows and wind-formed shapes.
He stopped suddenly and listened, cocking his head to one side. He thought he had heard a camel, but there was only silence. Then he heard it again, he was sure of it. Dropping to his knees, he looked through the rocks. Nothing. He crept forward, pulling out his pistol. The animal had sounded distant, but the rocks could play tricks with sound. He had to be sure.
He hid in the shadow of a rock slab, scanning the area. In the dim light he saw them, a hundred meters away. It was a group of Tuareg atop their meharis, moving directly toward him at walking pace. He couldn’t tell how many there were, for their forms were vague and they rode close together. He was sure they hadn’t seen him. They were talking among themselves, laughing. He would have to get clear of their path and work around them. Still crouching, he raced for the next boulder, knowing he was completely exposed as he ran through the open space between. If they looked, they’d certainly see him. At the boulder he stopped again. They were still laughing. He slipped to the next boulder, and the next, darting quickly, each time expecting a cry of alarm, but never hearing it. When he was certain he was out of their sight, he straightened up and started to run. Glancing frequently over his shoulder, he ran easily in the failing light, twenty minutes, then thirty, until finally he knew he was safe. He passed into a large formation of rocks, thinking he would spend the night in their protection.
As he came around a corner, the shock before him brought his heart to his throat.
In the twilight a lone Targui was cutting the throat of his mehari, which had broken its foreleg. He heard Paul coming, picked up his rifle and rose to meet him. Paul’s surprise was complete, but he acted swiftly, automatically, raising his pistol to fire. It had all taken only a split second. With blurring speed the Targui swung the stock of his rifle up and out, clubbing Paul on the side of his head. Paul felt the blow all the way through to his feet and pitched forward, the sound of his pistol roaring in his ears.
As he fell his mind raged against the blackness overtaking it. He realized he was going to die without a fight. He crumpled to his knees and crashed to his stomach, pushing back the blur that was taking him, pushing it away and watching the images of the day playing before him – the hacking, the chopping, the fires and the blood, the smell of the acrid smoke, and Remy, brave Remy, mighty arms swinging until one suddenly separated, going its own way, its blood spilling out as it whirled through the air, splattering blue robes and gray rock and the cold dead belly of the camel at his feet, and Paul was racing down the mountain through the fire and the smoke to pick up the arm and give it back to his friend – it must be hurting him so, and he’d be needing it – and then Paul had it, picking it up by the hand, the hand letting the rifle go and coming along willingly, but Remy wouldn’t take it, dammit, he wouldn’t get up, his eyes stared blankly, stupidly up past the shank of the spear in his chest at Paul, Oh God, Remy, I’m sorry, it must hurt so, here, take it, please take it back, and the Tuareg, all drawn back to watch, saw that Remy didn’t want it anymore and pressed in around him, a ring of crimson steel and blue and slits of fiery eyes, coming to take yet another… .
CHAPTER 25
For what might have been ten minutes or ten hours, Paul felt himself hovering in a gray netherworld between consciousness and the dark. Everything was so vague, so almost something. He couldn’t breathe. There was a great heaviness on his chest, or maybe it was nothing. Noises… shouting, men shouting! – no, just the wind playing games, there’s only silence here. Wait, those were camels he heard… no camels now, but blood, the sweet smell of blood. His? No, it was the smell of desert air, and it was good, always so good. He wished the pounding in his head would stop, a thousand drummers on a thousand drums, pounding slowly, in unison, hurting him so – no, those were waves pounding! There he was with Moussa by the sea, little boys playing relentless surf tag, the water retreating before their advance, then advancing before their retreat, and he loved the sea so, but it wasn’t time now, he only wanted to sleep, but the hawk wouldn’t let him, it was screeching in triumph after his kill, wings flapping, beak ripping at the flesh of the little lizard.
Then buzzing, insistent, blurry buzzing in his ears, and, trying to shut it out, a fleeting instant when he saw it all again so clearly, the swords flashing, hacking, mad blue butchers at work in a human slaughterhouse, the smoke of gunpowder burning his eyes. The arm, oh God the arm, cut off and alone, spinning through the air, then the crippling nausea sweeping over him, doubling him over, and everyone dead, or dying.
And then the blackness took him again, snuffing out the terror.
Much later, the crushing weight on his chest woke him again. He shook his head and opened his eyes. There was light but no detail. He groped for awareness. He flexed his hands. They still moved. With much more effort than he would have believed necessary, he managed to bring one toward his face, and he felt another hand. A cold one, dead.
The realization jolted him awake. He grunted, pushing at the body lying on top of him, and as he did so things focused at last: he was looking into the eyes of a man he had shot. The eyes were open. A pretty blue, he thought, but lifeless, unseeing. He stared at them dully, barely comprehending. He knew he had done it, but for now that was all.
Head racked with pain, stomach heaving and queasy, he made a superhuman effort this time and pushed the body off onto the rocks. Winded, he sat up and looked around. At his feet lay a camel, its leg horribly broken. Next to it was a huge double-edged sword and a bloodstained knife with a leather-wrapped hilt in the shape of a cross.
He shivered. It was either dusk or dawn. He couldn’t tell yet, for the cold and light could belong to either one. The chill had settled deep into his marrow. He wiped his face with his sleeve. His mouth tasted vile. Swallowing didn’t help. His tongue was swollen, mouth dry, and no saliva would come. He looked down at the front of his flannel shirt. It had turned from gray to dark reddish black, dyed in blood. Another man’s blood.
Weakly he stood. He stretched, then wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed for warmth. He had no idea where he was. He could see only sky and dark rocks that towered in the distance. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. He bent over the body to take the Targui’s cloak. The man’s clothing was caked with dried blood. He tried not to look at the ragged, burnt hole in the cloth as he worked. The body was rigid, like a heavy wooden marionette, and removing the cloak was difficult. Paul’s pistol fell out from among the folds and clattered to the ground, startling him. He sat down again, dizzy from the exertion.
Another noise made him look up. From atop a high rock a lone raven, big and sleek, gave him a baleful black stare. Paul was delaying its meal. He picked up a pebble and threw it. The bird took off, cawing angrily.
He closed his eyes and tried to gather himself, to think. It was all still jumbled, but pieces of it were coming back to him. Tadjenout! The massacre, the chase. He shivered again.
The hammering in his head began to subside. He needed water. Picking his way carefully over the corpse and the camel, he made his way to the Targui’s gear. He found a goatskin water bag. Eagerly he pulled the leather stop and took a long drink, too quickly, so that the water spilled down his chin and onto the ground. The water was brackish, but to his drought tasted cold and per
fect. He rinsed his mouth and spat.
There was a soft leather bag, drawn tight at the neck. He opened it and found dates, flour, salt, sugar, tea, and a small brass bowl. Ravenous, he stuffed a handful of dates into his mouth, chewing greedily, spitting out the pits, then had another, and another, washing them down with more water.
He knew he must get moving. He slung the two bags over his shoulder and recovered his pistol. He took the Targui’s sword and dagger as well. He wiped the knife on his pant leg and shoved it in his belt. He started to leave but then stopped suddenly, arrested by a flush of shame. He turned around.
In his life he had never hurt another human being, yet had just finished stealing food, water, and cloak from a man he had shot dead. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel, but imagined it should be different than this: no sorrow, no tears. He had killed and was leaving, finished. It might have been his body lying there now. The Targui would have stripped and mutilated it and left, indifferent. He knew he was no Targui, yet standing there so cold, so unmoved, was wrong. The death at his feet ruined the easy justifications.
Face flushed, he dropped to his knees and leaned forward to draw the man’s veil over the open eyes. He bowed his head and shut his eyes.
Our Father, who art in heaven…
No! He couldn’t do it. The prayer died on his lips as his rage boiled inside.
Not after Tadjenout.
Oh sweet Jesus, what the Tuareg have done!
Remy! The colonel and Masson! Dennery! Dead, all dead! I will not pray for this animal.
He flicked back the veil to expose the face. Let the crows know the face of evil before they dine.
He took the cloak from his shoulders and dropped it. He would not wear the enemy’s clothing.
I am at war.
He collected the food and water, and started out. It was dawn after all. The sun was up into a perfect, clear blue sky, rising over a distant peak, a great jagged monolith visible up and past one of the valleys. Like the other mountains it was a fantasy sculpted from a dream – all the Hoggar peaks were weird and playful, storybook shapes, distant castles and spires and heads in profile, mountains like none other, unearthly and mysterious. A home for dragons and fairies.
A home for death.
He remembered now. The big mountain would be Serkout. They had passed in its shadow that last day, and Floop – his mind seized on the thought desperately. He looked around in a panic. He’d completely forgotten the dog. He’d left him in the bag.
“Floop!” Nothing, nothing but his voice coming back to him from the mountains, alone. “Floop!”
He sat down and the tears came at last, washing over him in great waves of grief. His insides knotted in agony and he cried until it hurt. After a time he shook himself out of his wretched reverie, the streaks on his cheeks where the tears had dried like tight scars, pulling at his face as he squinted into the day.
He embarrassed himself with his tears. He knew he had to get moving, or die like a grieving fool. The sun had climbed higher. The chill he’d felt earlier had disappeared. It would be a hot day. Not blistering, for it was only February – or was it March now? He couldn’t remember.
I will kill them all.
He looked around, starting at the giant Serkout, letting his gaze drift slowly along the horizon, stopping at each peak, each escarpment, each formation, hoping that one of the wild, weird shapes might look familiar. There was nothing, nothing at all. His eyes came to rest again on Serkout.
Is Dianous looking at that mountain? Or is he dead too?
No. He survived. He’s in charge now, with the colonel and the captain dead.
What would he do?
Paul kicked a rock absently.
You know what he’d do. Chase the bastards.
Insanity! Outnumbered two to one.
So what? Got to pay them back.
Don’t worry about revenge yet. Survive now. Revenge later.
Fight now! What else for a soldier?
Run, that’s what. Run north. Run like hell.
Dianous wouldn’t run. Would you?
Hell no. Hell yes. I don’t know. The Tuareg probably attacked in two places. They’re probably all dead now anyway.
Dianous? Not dead! On the way to Wargla. Get moving. Catch up.
Which way is Wargla?
Don’t know. North.
Don’t know much. Never paid attention. None of these mountains looks familiar. Why didn’t you pay attention?
Because there was always a guide to do that for you. No need to pay attention.
How could they make you an officer when you don’t pay attention? Things don’t come to you like they’re supposed to come to officers. Remy knew you were a fraud.
Ah, Remy.
Doesn’t matter anyway. No compass or rifle or camel. You can’t catch them on foot. Officers die just as dead as enlisted men.
He shuddered. The sun was getting warm on his back. There was only infinite emptiness, and silence.
I’m afraid.
Face the fear. It will pass.
I’m going to die.
Stop it! Whining bastard! North! Amguid, then Wargla! North to water. North to life;
What if they’re still nearby, chasing the Tuareg? Go north and you’ll miss them. Die lost somewhere, alone.
Going to die anyway. Always lost.
Better getting lost going north than south. Better getting out of here.
And almost before he had finished playing it out in his mind, almost without realizing it, he was walking, his pace growing readily longer, stronger, propelled by intense purpose and terrible fear.
I am lost. Afraid. I don’t want to die.
He quickened his pace still more, legs pumping fast, ever faster, pursued by the demons in his mind. He shut it all out. No time for theories, no time to mourn Remy, no time for dogs, no time for fear. There was only the north, and Wargla.
I am at war.
The grim realities of his situation left him blind to the beauty of the country he passed through; the mountains and rocks had become only obstacles to pass. When he did look, they refused to yield even a flicker of recognition. So his course was all his own now. He dedicated his thoughts to speed, to progress, eyes wandering over the myriad routes before him, selecting the ones that would slow him the least. It became a game, his mind judging distances, calculating angles, feet sure, steady, carrying him swiftly over the terrain. Hour after hour he went on, his pace unrelenting, his concentration complete, his body melding with his mind, mind melding with the rocks, rocks melding with his shadow, and his shadow moving north, ever north.
Only as the sun dipped toward the horizon did he feel the fatigue and stop to rest. He set down the food and water and fairly sagged to a sitting position. He munched on a handful of dates as he pondered an unfamiliar problem: what he was going to do with the flour. He’d never cooked a meal in his life. It was whole flour, flecked with what appeared to be insect parts, but grainy and rich. All he knew was that one made bread and cakes from it. For that, he’d need heat, and for that, he’d need wood. There’d been lone trees scattered along his route that day, but where he’d stopped there was no vegetation at all. He was sitting on a bed of sand next to a large black rock that still felt warm from the sun. He wondered whether it might be hot enough to make something happen with the flour.
He shook some of the flour into the bowl, sprinkling in water from the goatskin. He added a handful of salt, and then, thinking that was too much, two of sugar. He started mixing with the fingers of one hand. It didn’t go well. One part was sticky, another lumpy, another dry, all of it hard to work, the whole of it refusing to accept its parts. Globs stuck to his fingers, which, no matter how he manipulated them, couldn’t get the flour involved that was still dry and powdered. Finally he gave up on a one-handed effort and plunged in with the other, clasping them together, squeezing, kneading, rubbing.
He realized that he’d used too much water. The paste was getting ever
ywhere. It seemed to creep up his arms as he worked. He tried to get it into the bowl, but much of it stuck to his hands. He forced it down off his palms and the back of his hands, then squeezed it down off each finger, one at a time, shaking them at the end to dislodge the blob at the bottom. When he had gotten all of it off that he could, he stared at his hands. They were still coated. Not daring to waste anything, he started licking, which was difficult because a lot of the flour had already dried hard as a rock, and clung to the hairs on the back of his hands. In disgust he resorted to his pants.
He set the blob on the warm rock, removed his shirt and covered it carefully, and waited for something to happen. After a time he poked at it. It wasn’t doing anything. His finger left a hole. Not much of a cake, he thought. He gave it half an hour, and poked again. He figured it was as ready as it was going to get. He picked it up, noting with satisfaction that at least it didn’t stick to anything. The outside was hard, the inside gooey. He hadn’t gotten it all mixed properly and encountered clumps of sugar, or of salt. Somehow the whole thing had gotten full of sand, which crunched in his teeth. Gamely he devoured it all, noting with satisfaction that it was the best meal he’d ever cooked.
He looked at Serkout through the dusk. It had receded during the day’s march, but not nearly enough. Venus was already bright above the horizon. Above it, a few degrees to the east, there was a crescent moon that would give him enough light to walk a few more hours.
He loaded his food and water and set out. He was glad to be moving again, to shake off the chill that began at the instant of sunset. His progress was much slower in the twilight. Mindful of the fate of the Targui’s camel, he picked his way carefully over the terrain, stepping cautiously, not always certain whether the shapes in front of him were something solid or just deep shadows. He kept Venus behind him, to his left, using it until the night grew darker, when he could more accurately use the stars. As he glanced at the dazzling planet, his eye took in the shapes of the rocks on the horizon, their forms beginning to melt into the deep purple sky.
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