Night fell in the Sahara, cold and clear and starlit. The men huddled together around fires of dried camel dung and reveled in the small victory of surviving another day in the hostile environment. Shouting in the desert stillness, they told fantastic stories, greatly embellished and as old as time and the desert, which made them forget the rigors of their journey for a while. They spoke of epic acts performed by them and by heroes long dead.
Bryna and Pamela talked, too, slumping wearily in their tent. Their conversation was not of deeds, but of dreams and memories. Pamela told Bryna of her quiet, comfortable childhood in the ancestral home and of the excitement of her first social season. Bryna recounted her trip to Morocco and spoke of Blaine and Derek.
For both girls, past and future seemed far away. There was only the present, scorching heat and white sands. They scratched dry, parched skin and conjured up images of clean, cool water that did not reek of goatskins or taste of sour milk, of pools in which to bathe. Then they sipped gamy-flavored water from their goatskins once more before retiring. Exhausted, they lay on their pallets and tried to ignore the continual thirst and hunger pangs they now knew so well.
In the emptiness of the desert, Bryna thought of survival and not of escape. Suleiman taught the women some Arabic, for they would find little French spoken in Arabia. She found it difficult but loved the poetry of the formal language.
As her vocabulary increased, the girl brightened with hope each time the palms of an oasis appeared on the horizon. From behind her veil she scrutinized each tiny village, those dusty collections of hovels populated by no more than a few families, a midwife, and an imam to lead them in prayers. Nowhere was there succor for two white women being taken to Arabia against their wills, not from the residents of the oases, not from the provincial representatives of the Ottoman empire, not from the tribal sheiks through whose territories they passed.
At Abu Hamed, Suleiman hired Sudanese guards, three of them boys, to see his party safely across the Nubian Desert to the port of Suakin. After nearly two weeks, the caravan climbed from the desert to the heights. A pleasing breeze swept over the travelers, and the Red Sea stretched out below them, sparkling in the afternoon sun.
Their shadows were long in front of them when they descended to camp on the shore of a small cove. From the mountainside a huddle of mud brick buildings could be seen in the distance to the north. Tomorrow Suleiman’s party would sail from Suakin, but tonight they would camp outside the town.
The camel drivers chose an even, sandy patch next to a grove of palm trees and set up the tents. As usual the women were herded into their tent while the men celebrated outside. Even Suleiman’s Nubian guards joined in the lightheartedness, conversing happily with the guides, who were from a village near their home.
Now everyone could relax. The women, safe in their tent, had been no problem on the journey. Food and water were plentiful, and Suakin was nearby if they needed more. One of the pack camels was slaughtered, and the men cast lots for the delicacy of the raw, salted liver. Tonight they would feast.
Bryna watched through the tent flap while the men ate, then smoked after dinner. They were cheerful and noisy, and bursts of laughter could be heard while the women ate dinner in their tent. The men stayed up quite late, talking and telling stories from their inexhaustible supply. Even Suleiman contributed, choosing from the stories of Scheherazade, directing the conversation away from the subject of women and houris, for he was ever mindful of the treasures in the tent behind him.
Even when the slave trader, tired and sated, retired to his bed, Bryna continued her vigil. She watched guides, slaves, and camel drivers roll up in their cloaks and lie down beside the dying campfire. The Nubian assigned to guard the women’s tent snored lightly, leaning against a tree, his musket held loosely between his knees. The only sign of activity in the sleeping camp came when two of the Sudanese boys, free from their elders’ watchful eyes, crept to the beach for a moonlight swim.
When no one in the camp had stirred for a long time, Bryna picked up a small water skin and opened the tent flap. She glanced up at the full moon and wished the night were not so bright.
She slipped out of the tent with no clear plan of action. She had discussed escape with Pamela many times, but the English girl maintained it was too dangerous, that she could never survive such an attempt. At last, Bryna had privately concurred.
She regretted leaving Pamela, but she knew it was the only way to save both of them. The English had only just begun to make their presence felt in Egypt. If Bryna could reach them in Cairo, she could secure asylum for herself and rescue for her friend.
Staying close to the tents, she stole to the edge of the dark camp. She ran silently across a moonlit clearing toward a thicket of palms that stretched almost to the beach. Among the trees she dropped to the sand and listened, her heart pounding, but she heard no sounds of pursuit.
She made her way toward the water, halting in the shadows when she reached the cove. The coastline, washed with gentle waves, stretched north for nearly a mile to another stand of trees that ran down to the waterline. A rocky promontory prescribed its southern boundary.
A short distance from the grove of trees that hid her, the two Sudanese boys, stripped to their loincloths, frolicked in the surf. Their voices carried clearly on the night breeze. She was glad of the warning, but if they were not quiet, they would wake the camp. Then their swim—and her escape—would be ruined.
She spied their clothes where they had left them just a few feet from her hiding place. Rapidly she gauged the older of the two boys as he thrust himself upright in the water. He was about her size, she judged, elated as a plan came to her.
Creeping to the edge of the grove, she used a long stick to drag his clothing to her. Quickly she doffed her djeIlaba, keeping only her sturdy leather sandals, and donned his clothes. His aba was scratchy and smelled of sweat, smoke, and camel dung, but it would serve as a disguise.
Bryna took care to wrap the turban cloth tightly around her head. She had learned that the larger the turban, the more prominent the wearer, and she had no wish to draw attention to herself.
Before she left, she gathered her own clothes. When the boy discovered his were missing, he would set off an alarm. The entire camp would search, and if they found her garments in the sand, they would know at once she was gone. She must give herself as much of a head start as possible.
Wadding her clothes into a compact ball and shoving it under her arm, she slung the water skin over her shoulder and ventured out into the moonlight. She would walk first to the south, she had decided, leaving footprints in the sand to mislead her pursuers. Then she would take to the water and double-back toward the north and town.
Drawing a nervous breath, Bryna strode across the beach at an angle to the swimmers. She was almost past before they saw her and called softly, thinking she was the friend they had left in camp. She was grateful when the moon disappeared for a moment behind a wisp of cloud. In the darkness perhaps the boys would not be able to distinguish the face under the turban.
Conspiratorially she gestured to silence them and shook her head at their invitation, pointing toward the rocky promontory. She hoped she looked like a lad who was out to explore.
Apparently they decided that was just what she was. They did not continue to call but threw curious glances over their shoulders as she sauntered along the beach. In close-knit tribal life, solitude was not a concept easily understood. Bryna could feel their eyes upon her as she stopped here and there unconcernedly to pick up seashells.
Losing interest in her, they continued their water sport. When Bryna reached the promontory, she continued her charade, bending frequently to examine small pools in the rocks. Finding a large crevice, she hid her clothing and continued to ramble. At last she rounded the point and was blocked from the swimmers’ view by a huge boulder.
Instantly she ripped the turban from her head and wrapped the long, lightweight cloth around her waist, securing
the water skin against her body. Bryna had never swum in an ocean before, but she was a strong swimmer. She only hoped she could drift silently past the boys. After diving into the chilly water, she paddled out about a hundred yards, then turned northward with swift sure strokes.
She drew even with the Sudanese boys as they played. They were not aware of her presence as she knifed underwater silently. She surfaced a good distance beyond them, gasping for air, blinking saltwater from her eyes, then resumed the smooth, even strokes that would carry her to the north end of the beach and the grove of trees that slanted out to sea.
She dog-paddled until she found her footing, then waded ashore at the far end of the cove, crouching so no more than her head was visible on the surface. When she was quite close to the shore, she ducked under a wave and let it carry her into the stand of trees. Sand and shells cut her hands when she thrust them out in front of her to cushion the impact as she collided with a tree trunk.
Stunned and waterlogged, she sprawled in the sand and watched the wave that had carried her recede. Then, scrambling to her feet, she plunged into the shadow, where she poised, listening. No alarm had yet been raised. She paused long enough to unwind the long strip of fabric from around her waist and wring it out. Hastily she wrapped the limp, wet turban around her head again.
Feeling her way through darkness and tangled undergrowth, she emerged on the other side of the thicket, out of sight of the camp and almost at the water’s edge.
Bryna sprinted along the beach at the waterline so the waves obliterated her footprints. As she raced toward the town, her only thought was to pass through the deserted streets without observation. If she could find a hiding place, she would stay there until she was sure Suleiman had sailed.
An hour later she had concealed herself among some fallen trees in a tiny copse on the opposite side of Suakin from the camp. Her heart still pounding and her breath burning in her chest, she burrowed under prickly brown foliage. She had escaped, but what should she do next? With her slender figure and the turban to hide her hair, she might be able to travel disguised as a boy. But what of her blue eyes? And how would she communicate? She spoke very little Arabic, but, dressed as a Sudanese tribesman in the Sudan, she would be expected to speak the language. She could pretend to be mute, but she must also feign deafness, she mused, for she could see no way to avoid conversation unless she pretended to be a half-wit. The superstitious Arabs would go out of their way to avoid a demented person. Wearily the girl wrestled with the problem until she fell into an uneasy sleep.
It was very hot and flies were buzzing around her face when Bryna awoke. Her stomach rumbled, but she determinedly put hunger from her mind. Instead she drank some tepid water from her water skin, grimacing at its bitter taste. Throughout the sweltering day, she remained in her cramped hiding place. Once she heard voices and peered out through withered palm fronds to observe Suleiman’s guides, searching for her.
The insects that shared her sanctuary crawled all over her body, causing her to itch in a dozen places. Her stomach still complained of hunger and cramps crept up her weary legs, but Bryna lay still and gritted her teeth. When the searchers left, she saw no one else. She supposed Suleiman had given up and sailed, but she stayed in her hiding place the rest of the day.
On the second morning after her escape, Bryna drank the last of her water, nearly gagging on the dregs that had settled at the bottom of the skin. When she heard the faint cry of the muezzin from the mosque in town, she rose stiffly and made her way into Suakin. By the time she arrived, most of the town would be at midday prayers and she could pass through the streets relatively unnoticed. While others rested, she would explore the waterfront to find a vessel upon which she could stowaway. But first she must find food and water.
The girl walked cautiously through empty streets to the well in the middle of the town. She drank greedily and filled her water skin before setting out for the market.
Suakin was an international port. Even during prayers the souks were full of non-Moslems. Bartering and arguing loudly, merchants and shoppers paid no attention to the gangly youth wandering in their midst. She ambled toward the food stalls, drawn by the aroma of cooking food. Her mouth watered, but she had no money and nothing to trade but the locket around her neck. She fingered it speculatively, but she could not bear to part with the last remnant of her past.
Hunger warred with conscience, winning in the end. Bryna inched toward a fruit stand and looked around furtively. The vendor argued loudly with another man in a corner of the stall. Ascertaining that no one was watching, she laid her hand casually on a display of glossy oranges, arranged in a pyramid. When she moved her hand, the pinnacle of the pyramid was gone. Glancing around innocently, she started to pocket it when her eyes met the incensed stare of the merchant. Her heart sank. She had been seen.
He shouted and lunged toward her. Bryna did not understand what he said, but his intent was clear. Immediately she bolted from the fruit stall, the irate man on her heels. Her dismay at dropping the orange lessened when her pursuer stopped long enough to pick up his purloined merchandise. Perhaps he would give up the chase. But his temper had not cooled, and he ran after her, shouting at the top of his lungs.
As she sped through the streets, the panicked girl spied a large building where many men congregated just outside the doors. She darted into the crowd, hoping to lose her pursuer. She had almost worked her way through the sea of humanity when she glanced back and ran headlong into a solid back.
Bryna’s turban was displaced in the collision, and her hair tumbled from beneath it, cascading to her shoulders. The glossy tresses and her delicately chiseled features marked her as undeniably female. The shocked men, coming from the Friday sermon at the mosque, reacted angrily at the sight of an unveiled woman masquerading as a boy.
Rough hands held her, pulling at her clothes, revealing curves beneath the coarse fabric as she fought to free herself. Behind her, Bryna heard the shouts of the vendor coming closer as he shoved his way through the throng. Desperately she clawed and kicked, landing a few well-aimed blows. With an agonized yelp, her captor loosened his hold and she broke free.
As she darted away, someone in the crowd stepped on the heel of her sandal. Its straps broken, the flapping shoe caused Bryna to trip and fall into an open square where the traffic of several streets converged. She rolled to escape more clutching hands, her maneuver taking her to the feet of one of Suleiman’s Sudanese guides. Her blue eyes widened in horror when she recognized him.
Although he had never seen her without her veil, the man knew without a doubt that this was the woman he sought. What a beauty she was under the dirt that smeared her face! No wonder Suleiman had delayed his departure in hopes of finding her.
A grin splitting his thin face, the guard reached for the tumbling girl. His hand grasped the cord that held her water skin in place against her body. Bryna tore from his grip and left him juggling the obscenely wobbling skin. She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared, dodging into the swarm of people entering the square from one of the side streets.
With a curse the man followed, but by the time he had forced his way through the crowd, she was nowhere to be seen. Had he looked closely, he might have recognized her, for immediately after fleeing him, Bryna had ducked into a doorway, kicked off her remaining sandal, and with shaking hands rearranged her turban. Then, putting a half-witted smile on her face, she’d padded out barefoot to join the stream of passersby.
She followed the flow of traffic to the waterfront, where huge sambuks were being loaded by sweating porters. At the outskirts of town, she found a beached dhow at the water’s edge. Shoving with all her might, Bryna set the little boat afloat. Holding on and swimming beside it, she propelled it beyond the breakers, hoisting herself aboard as soon as she was able. She ignored the faint, angry shouts from shore and set sail for open sea.
All the next day, Bryna made little progress toward the coast of Egypt. There was no wind, and the curr
ents carried the dhow steadily eastward. Knowing she had little hope of survival unless she was rescued by another vessel, she watched the horizon for signs of another ship while the blistering sun and the lack of food and water took its toll on her.
On the second morning, when she sighted a large boat sailing in her direction, she used her last ounce of strength to signal it. As the sambuk drew near, the girl collapsed into an exhausted heap on the bottom of the dhow.
Bryna was not aware when the larger boat drew even with her craft. She did not hear the captain bawling orders to the crew, did not see the passengers lining the rail, did not realize when a brawny seaman was let down with a rope to lift her to the waiting hands of her rescuers.
Outstretched on the sasek-wood deck, Bryna felt a shadow fall across her face, then a cup was put to her lips. Eagerly she gripped it with shaking hands and drank.
“By Allah, Bryna bint Blaine, if you do not wish to make yourself sick, do not drink so fast.”
It could not be!
Opening her eyes with extreme effort, she saw the imposing silhouette looming over her, blocking out the sun. The features on the shadowy visage became distinct as Suleiman leaned toward her, his round face smug.
“Non,” she whispered.
“Oui, Mademoiselle. Praise be to Allah, you have found us when we could not find you.”
The pleasant, reedy voice of the marriage broker was the last sound the distraught girl heard as she surrendered to welcome unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 7
“Did you hear what I said, my love? I want to marry you. I intend to ask your father for your hand.” Bryna stirred fitfully, unwilling to relinquish her dream of Derek. His handsome face had been so earnest when he proposed to her. But she awakened.
The Bride Price Page 9