“Do you know where we are now?” He was always asking that of Nour, as if he were afraid of being abandoned there, in the middle of the desert.
“Do you know where we are? Are we still a long way from the place where we’ll be able to stop for good?”
“No,” Nour would say, “we’ll soon reach the lands the sheik promised, the lands of plenty, where it will be like the kingdom of God.”
But he had no idea, and deep down in his heart, he thought perhaps they would never reach that land, even if they did cross the desert, the mountains, and even the sea, all the way out to the place where the sun first appears on the horizon.
Now the blind warrior was starting to speak again, but he wasn’t talking about the war. He was telling, in an almost hushed voice, about his childhood in Chinguetti, the salt road with his father and brothers. He was telling about his schooling in the Chinguetti mosque and then the departure of the huge caravans, through the expanse of the desert, heading for the Adrar, and even farther east, out by the Hank Mountains, around the Abd al-Malek well, where the miraculous tomb stands. He was talking about all of that softly, almost singing, lying on the ground, with the cool darkness of night covering his face and his burned eyes.
Nour lay down beside him, wrapped in his woolen cloak, his head resting upon the bundle, and he went to sleep with his eyes open, looking up at the sky and listening to the voice of the man who was talking to himself.
Desert nights were cold, but Nour’s tongue and lips continued to burn, and it seemed as if red-hot coins were placed on his eyelids. The wind blew over the rocks, making the men shiver with fever in their rags. Somewhere in the midst of the sleeping warriors, the old sheik draped in his white cloak was looking out at the night, not sleeping, as he had done for months. His gaze wandered through the maze of stars bathing the earth in their soft light. Sometimes, he walked a short way among the sleeping men. Then he went back to sit in his place and drink some tea, slowly, listening to the coals crackling in the brazier.
***
Days passed in that way, burning and grueling, while the herds of men and animals made their way northward up the valley. Now they were following the trail to Tindouf, through the arid plateau of the Hamada. The sons of Ma al-Aïnine, along with the most able-bodied men, rode on ahead to scout out the narrow valleys of the Ouarkziz Mountains, but that route was too difficult for the women and children, and the sheik decided to follow the trail to the east.
Nour walked at the end of the caravan with the blind warrior clutching his shoulder. Each day the bundle of provisions grew lighter, and Nour knew there would not be enough to get to the end of the journey.
Now they were walking along the immense plateau of stones, very close to the sky. Sometimes they crossed crevasses, great black wounds in the white rock, slides of knifelike stones. The blind warrior squeezed Nour’s shoulder and arm very tightly to keep from falling.
The men had worn out their goatskin shoes, and many of them had wrapped their feet in strips of their garments to stop the bleeding. The women went barefoot because they were used to it since their childhood, but at times a sharper stone cut into their skin, and they moaned as they walked.
The blind warrior never talked during the day. His dark face was hidden by his blue cloak and the bandage covering his eyes like the hood of a falcon. He walked without complaining, and ever since Nour had become his guide, he was no longer afraid of getting lost. Only when he could feel evening coming on, when Larhdaf and Saadbou’s men, far out ahead in the valleys, called out in their chanting voices the signal to halt, the blind warrior would always ask with the same anxiousness, “Is this the place? Have we arrived? Tell me, have we arrived in the place where we will stop at last?”
Nour looked around and saw nothing but the endless stretch of stone and dust, the changeless earth beneath the sky. He untied his bundle and simply said, “No, this isn’t it yet.”
Then, as he did every evening, the blind warrior would drink a few swallows from the waterskin, eat a few dates and some bread, stretch out on the ground, and continue to talk about things in his land, about the great holy city of Chinguetti, near Lake Chinchan. He talked about the oasis where the water is green, where the palm trees are immense and their fruit is as sweet as honey, where the shady groves are filled with the song of birds and the laughter of young girls on their way to fetch water. He talked about all of that in a sort of singsong voice, softly, as if he were rocking himself to ease the suffering. At times, his companions came to sit with him; they shared bread and dates with Nour, or they made tea from chiba weed. They listened to the blind warrior’s monologue, then they too spoke of their land, of the wells in the South, Atar, Oujeft, Tamchakatt, and of the great city of Oualata. They spoke a strange, gentle language like that of the prayers, and their thin faces were the color of metal. When the sun was nearing the horizon, and the deserted plateau grew bright with light, they knelt down and prayed, foreheads in the dust. Nour helped the blind warrior bow down facing eastward, then he lay down, wrapped in his cloak, and listened to the sound of the men’s voices until sleep crept over him.
That is how they crossed the Ouarkziz Mountains, following the fissures and the dried beds of torrents. The caravan was spread out across the entire plateau, from one end of the horizon to the other. The huge column of red dust rose each day in the blue sky, slanting in the wind. The herd of goats and sheep, the pack camels walked amidst the men, blinding them with dust. Far behind them, old people, sick women, abandoned children, wounded warriors walked in the excruciating light, heads bowed, legs wobbling, leaving drops of blood here and there in their tracks.
The first time Nour saw someone fall by the side of the trail without a sound, he wanted to stop; but the blue warriors and those who were walking with him pushed him onward, not saying anything, because there was nothing else to do. Now Nour no longer stopped. Sometimes there would be the shape of a body in the dust, arms and legs drawn in, as if it were asleep. It was an old man, or woman, that the pain and exhaustion had stopped there, by the side of the trail, struck in the back of the head as if with a hammer, the body already desiccated. The blowing wind would throw handfuls of sand over it, would soon cover it over, without anyone having to dig a grave.
Nour thought of the old woman who had given him some tea back there in the Smara camp. Maybe she too had fallen one day, struck down by the sun, and the desert sand had covered her over. But he didn’t think about her for very long, because each step he took was like someone’s death, wiping his memory clean, as if crossing the desert had to destroy everything, burn everything out of his memory, make him into a diVerent boy. The hand of the blind warrior pushed him onward when Nour’s legs slowed with fatigue, and perhaps, without that hand lying on his shoulder, he too would have fallen by the side of the trail, arms and legs drawn in.
There were always new mountains on the horizon; the plateau of stones and sand seemed endless, like the sea. Each evening, when he heard the signal for the halt being called, the blind warrior would say to Nour, “Is this it? Have we arrived?”
And then he would say, “Tell me what you can see.”
But Nour simply answered, “No, this isn’t it yet. There’s nothing but desert, we have to keep walking.”
Despair was beginning to spread amongst the people. Even the warriors of the desert, Ma al-Aïnine’s invincible blue men, were exhausted, and their eyes looked shamed, like those of men who have lost faith.
They remained seated in small groups, rifles cradled in their arms, without talking. When Nour went to see his mother and father to ask them for water, it was their silence that frightened him the most. It was as if the threat of death had afflicted the people, and they no longer had the strength to love one another.
Most of the people in the caravan, the women, the children, were lying prostrate on the ground, waiting for the sun to die out on the horizon. They no longer even had the strength to say the prayer, despite the call of Ma al-Aïnine’s
religious men echoing over the plateau. Nour stretched himself out on the ground, resting his head upon his nearly empty bundle, and watched the fathomless sky changing color while he listened to the voice of the blind man singing.
Sometimes he felt as if it were all a dream, a terrible interminable dream he was having with his eyes open, a dream that was pulling him along the star routes, over the earth as smooth and hard as polished stone. Then all of the suffering was like thrusting spears, and he moved onward without understanding what was tearing at him. It was as if he had stepped outside of himself, abandoning his body on the burnt earth, his motionless body on the desert of stones and sand, like a stain, a pile of old forgotten rags, and his soul was venturing out into the icy sky, out amongst the stars, covering in the wink of an eye all of the space that his life would never be enough to apprehend. Then he saw, appearing like mirages, the extraordinary cities with palaces of white stone, towers, domes, large gardens streaming with pure water, trees laden with fruit, flower beds, fountains where young girls with tinkling laughter gathered. He saw it all distinctly, he slipped into the cool water, drank at the waterfalls, tasted each fruit, breathed in each smell. But what was most extraordinary was the music he heard when he left his body. He had never heard anything like it. It was the voice of a young woman singing in the Chleuh language, a gentle song that moved through the air and kept repeating the same words, like this:
“One day, oh, one day, the crow will turn white, the sea will go dry, we will find honey in the desert flower, we will make bedding of acacia sprays, oh, one day, the snake will spit no more poison, and rifle bullets will bring no more death, for that will be the day I will leave my love...”
Where was such a clear gentle voice coming from? Nour could feel his consciousness slipping still farther out, beyond this world, beyond this sky, toward the land where there are black clouds filled with rain, wide deep rivers where the water never stops flowing.
“One day, oh, one day, the wind will cease to blow over the earth, the grains of sand will be sweet as sugar, under each white stone on the path, a spring will be awaiting me, one day, oh, one day, the bees will sing for me, for that will be the day I will leave my love...”
Out there, the mysterious sounds of the storm rumble; out there cold and death reign supreme.
“One day, oh, one day, there will be the night sun, and puddles of moon water will gather upon the earth, the gold of the stars will rain from the sky, one day, oh, one day, I’ll see my shadow dancing for me, for that will be the day I will leave my love...”
The new order is coming from there, the order that is driving the blue men from the desert, that is giving rise to fear everywhere.
“One day, oh, one day, the sun will go black, the earth will split open to its very core, the sea will cover the sand, one day, oh, one day, my eyes will see no light, my lips will be unable to say your name, my heart will stop beating, for that will be the day I will leave my love...”
The stranger’s voice faded away in a murmur, and Nour could once again hear the slow sad song of the blind warrior talking to himself, his face turned toward the sky he could not see.
One evening Ma al-Aïnine’s caravan arrived on the rim of the Drâa, on the far side of the mountains. There, as they descended toward the west, they caught sight of the smoke coming from Larhdaf’s and Saadbou’s camps. When they met back up with one another there was a surge of new hope. Nour’s father came to see him and helped him carry his load.
“Where are we? Is this the place?” asked the blind warrior.
Nour explained to him that they had made it across the desert and that they weren’t far from their goal.
That night there was a sort of celebration. For the first time in a very long time the sounds of guitars and drums were heard, and the clear song of flutes.
The night was milder in the valley, and there was grass for the animals. With his mother and father, Nour ate millet bread and dates, and the blind warrior also got his share. He spoke with them about the long road they had traveled from the Saguiet al-Hamra to the tomb of Sidi Mohammed al-Quenti. Afterward, they walked together, guiding the blind warrior through the fields of brush to the dried bed of the Drâa.
There were many people and animals, because the people and animals of the great sheik’s caravan had been joined by the nomads of the Drâa, those of the wells of Tassouf, the people of Messeïed, of Tcart, of al-Gaba, of Sidi Brahim al-Aattami, everyone whom poverty and the threat of the arrival of the French had driven from the coastal regions and who had heard that the great sheik Ma al-Aïnine was en route for a holy war to expel the foreigners from the lands of the Faithful.
So the gaps in the ranks of men and women that death had made could no longer be seen. One no longer saw that most of the men were wounded or ill, or that the little children were slowly dying in their mothers’ arms, burning up with fever and dehydration.
All that could be seen, on all sides of the black bed of the dried river, were human shapes walking slowly along, and herds of goats and sheep, and men riding their camels, their horses, all heading toward something, toward their destiny.
For days they walked up the huge Drâa Valley, over the tract of crackled sand, hard as kiln-baked clay, over the black bed of the river where the sun blazed at its zenith like a flame. On the other side of the valley, Larhdaf and Saadbou’s men rode their horses up a narrow torrent, and the men, women, and herds followed the path they opened. Now it was Ma al-Aïnine’s warriors who were going in last, mounted on their camels, and Nour was walking with them, guiding the blind warrior. Most of Ma al-Aïnine’s soldiers were on foot, using their rifles and spears to help themselves scale the ravines.
That same evening, the caravan reached the deep well, the one that was called Aïn Rhatra, not far from Torkoz, at the foot of the mountains. Just as he did every evening, Nour went to fetch water for the blind warrior, and they performed their ablutions and said their prayer. Then Nour settled in for the night not far from the sheik’s warriors. Ma al-Aïnine didn’t pitch his tent. He slept out of doors, like the men of the desert, simply wrapped in his white cloak, crouching on his saddle blanket. Night fell rapidly, because they were near the high mountains. The chill made the men shiver. Next to Nour, the blind warrior no longer sang. Maybe he didn’t dare, due to the presence of the sheik, or maybe he was too exhausted to say anything.
When Ma al-Aïnine ate his evening meal with his warriors, he had a little food and tea brought over for Nour and his companion. It was the tea especially that made them feel better, and Nour thought he’d never had anything better to drink. The food and the fresh water of the well were like a light in their bodies that restored all of their strength. Nour ate the bread, watching the seated shape of the old man wrapped in the large white cloak.
From time to time, people approached the sheik to ask for his blessing. He welcomed them, had them sit down at his side, and offered them a piece of his bread, talked to them. They went away after having kissed a flap of his cloak. They were nomads from the Drâa, shepherds in rags, or blue women carrying their small children rolled up in their cloaks. They wanted to see the sheik, to glean a little strength, a little hope, to have him soothe the wounds on their bodies.
Later, during the night, Nour woke with a start. He saw the blind warrior leaning over him. The face filled with suffering glowed in the starlight. As Nour shrank back, almost frightened, the man said softly, “Will he restore my sight? Will I be able to see again?”
“I don’t know,” said Nour.
The warrior whimpered and fell back to the ground, head in the dust.
Nour looked around. On the floor of the valley, at the foot of the mountains, there was not a sign of movement, not a sound. Everywhere, people were sleeping, rolled up in their covers to stave off the cold. Alone, sitting on his saddle blanket, as if weariness did not exist for him, Ma al-Aïnine was motionless, eyes fixed on the night landscape.
So then Nour lay down on his side, chee
k resting against his arm, and he watched the old man who was praying for a long time, and once again, it was as if he were slipping away into an interminable dream, a dream much greater than himself, which led him out toward another world.
Each day at sunrise the men were on their feet. They took up their burdens in silence, and the women rolled the young children up on their backs. The animals rose too, pawing the ground and making the first dust rise, for the old man’s order had entered them, spreading through them along with the warmth of the sun and the giddiness of the wind.
They pursued their march northward, through the jagged mountains of the Taïssa, along narrow passes as blistering hot as the sides of a volcano.
Sometimes in the evening, when they arrived at a well, blue men and women, emerging from the desert, ran up to them with offerings of dates, sour milk, millet bread. The great sheik gave them his blessing, for they had brought their small children who had stomach ailments or eye infections. Ma al-Aïnine anointed them with a little dirt mixed with his saliva, he laid his hands on their foreheads; then the women went off, returned to their red desert just as they had come. Men also came at times with their rifles and spears to join the troop. They were peasants with coarse features, with blond or red hair and strange green eyes.
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