“I have seen no reason to punish `Abla. I have told her to veil herself in public to spare you further embarrassment.”
“Very well,” Nassar acquiesced grudgingly, preparing to leave. “Is there anything else?”
“No. Yes!” the sheik said vehemently. “Bryna bint Blaine is not to be punished, either.”
“Runaway slaves must be chastised,” Nassar insisted petulantly.
“She has returned to the harem...to her sidi.” Sharif spoke the word distastefully, but Nassar did not notice.
“That is my point exactly. I am her master.”
“You have yet to repay me for my camels,” his uncle reminded him dryly.
“But I will. Bryna is mine to do with as I please.”
“Never forget, Nassar, the duty of a sheik is to guard the weak. As your lord and protector of this family, I tell you, have thou a care of this woman as of mine own eye. Though she is a woman and a slave, I will be watching, and if I see you abuse her, I will offer Bryna bint Blaine sanctuary as surely as if she were born Bedu. She is under my protection. Do not harm her or I will demand blood for blood.”
The order chafed, but Nassar obeyed, for he knew Sharif would follow through on his threat.
Although they were incensed by the runaways’ behavior, Fatmah and Latifeh also respected the sheik’s wishes, and gradually life in the harem began to return to normal. Everything was as it had been before, except for Bryna and Pamela’s friendship.
The English girl’s brown eyes were accusing when Bryna returned. For days she refused to speak to her friend, keeping to her room, bathing at a different time. Bryna might have been angry, but it was obvious Pamela was ill. She no longer greeted mealtime with delight, and, uncharacteristically, she often sent food away untasted.
“Please,” Bryna pleaded one evening when she met Pamela in the outer chamber of the harem. “I must talk to you.”
The other girl regarded her with hostility, but then she nodded and allowed herself to be led out into the garden, where they could speak privately. She sat on a bench and gazed up unresponsively at Bryna.
“Pamela, tell me why you are avoiding me. I thought we were friends.”
“I am a better friend than you know,” the English girl snapped, “yet you left me again after you promised you would not.”
“I promised I would not escape without you and I did not. I was gone for a few days, but I came back. When we escape, it will be together.”
“We will not escape. I know that now,” Pamela answered dully. “And there will be no rescue.”
“Do not give up. There is always hope.”
“For you, perhaps—your father or Derek may find you yet—but not for me.”
“I know you are not well,” Bryna pressed gently. “I’ve heard you retching in the morning when I pass your room. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“There is nothing anyone can do for me.” Pamela rose suddenly and drew her aba tightly around herself. “We are lost, Bryna, lost forever in a savage world,” she said. Then she marched back into the house, leaving Bryna with her thoughts.
From his balcony, Sharif watched them. Bryna’s unveiled face was alive with tenderness and compassion, while the Inglayzi seemed pale and sad. When the blonde stood, he saw the reason for her sorrow in her thickening waist.
So Nassar had taken the fair one in spite of his promise. Had he also lain with Bryna bint Blaine?
Sharif’s hands tightened on the rail of his balcony until his knuckles were white. For an instant he experienced feelings utterly foreign to him. The sheik realized he would like nothing more than to thrash his nephew with his bare hands, but in doing so he himself would lose face.
Drawing a deep breath, Sharif forced himself to think as the head of his family. It was not fitting that either of the infidel concubines be made a wife before Nassar’s intended. Sharif would order Nassar to leave Bryna bint Blaine alone and hope that the damage done when his nephew lay with the Inglayzi was not irreparable.
The troublemakers in his tribe already questioned the wisdom of allowing the white women to stay. Sa’id had warned Sharif that the hotheaded Mautlauq muttered against him, though not yet in majlis. Whether Mautlauq felt strongly about the infidels was not the question, Sharif realized. The Ottomans sought to sow dissension among the tribes by offering wealth and position to lesser sheiks. For many reasons, the sheik could not allow Nassar’s marriages to become an issue.
As soon as summer’s heat was over, he must take his family back to Riyadh, where Nassar would marry Farida. This year the Selims would not linger in the mountains. Sharif would send a messenger to Farida’s father immediately, asking him to make the necessary arrangements.
But the sheik was not the only one to take note of Pamela’s changing body. Fatmah watched with pursed lips as the girl wandered through the harem like a wraith. It was not right that the white concubine should bear Nassar’s first son, his mother thought resentfully. Farida should be first. The old woman knew what she must do. Summoning a midwife from the town, she obtained an herbal powder that, when administered to the unsuspecting Pamela over time, would eliminate the problem.
CHAPTER 11
In the time of two dogs, the hottest part of summer, assessors came to Taif to collect zakat, the holy tax. Sharif’s kinsmen met their obligation with near melancholy, for it meant their stay in the relative cool of the mountains would soon be over.
As the days shortened, the men rose from their beds at three o’clock each morning and went onto the roof to search the skies for Suhail, the star that signaled the end of summer.
When it appeared in the night sky, Sharif ordered his family to prepare to return to Riyadh. Water skins that had been chewed by rats were hauled from the storerooms and repaired. Provisions were assembled and packed. Suitable gifts were selected for the sheiks through whose territory they would travel.
On the morning of their departure, Sharif inspected his smala, his caravan of family and retainers, which ranged along the road in front of his villa. His men stood by their riding camels at the head of the line. Behind them, the women, some with small children, waited beside their camels, which were lashed from tail to nose. Following the women was a train of pack animals laden with the household items of the entire tribe. Herds of camels, sheep, and goats, tended by herdsmen and the children who were old enough to walk, followed.
Down the road Salubas, itinerant craftsmen who attached themselves to Bedu tribes, waited, mounted on asses, ready to trail behind the Selims in the dust.
At the head of the procession, the sheik swung gracefully into his beautiful Njed saddle. Attached to his camel by a long lead rope, Târiq pranced, seemingly eager to be off.
As the camels roared and spit in protest, servants assisted Bryna, Pamela, and several other women into their doubled-poled saddles. Fatmah and Latifeh were loaded into litters made of light wood and shaded by cotton canopies that swung between camels.
From his position, Sharif signaled the men who rode before him with the banners of his tribe, and the caravan lurched forward. Fortunately he was too far away to hear the disapproving murmurs among the women when they noticed he wore the sash given to him by the infidel woman.
Bryna heard and flushed with anger at their snide comments, but she did not care as she watched the sheik riding erect and proud, wearing her gift. She did not even care that Fatmah glowered at her from her litter.
The sheik rode through Taif’s narrow streets on the way out of town, looking neither left nor right. When he drew even with Alima’s home, he turned to gesture in farewell. His aunt’s black cloak and veil stirred in the morning breeze as she stood on her balcony. Clasping her tespi, sliding the prayer beads in her fingers, the old woman watched sadly until the caravan had disappeared down the dusty road.
As the party traversed the black gravelly plain, its slanting descent to the desert interspersed with boulders, Sharif told himself he would allow his smala and its herds to move s
lowly until they were accustomed to the heat and the rocky terrain. In this way he justified the snail’s pace to himself, but in truth he relished life in the desert. After a long summer amid the elegant surroundings in Taif, he enjoyed the simpler ways of the tent dweller.
They rode for hours, the men perched on their knees in Bedu fashion on the backs of their camels, singing and talking loudly among themselves. The women were mostly silent, fanning themselves and observing the monotonous, colorless vista as they swayed from side to side on the backs of their camels.
Bryna was quiet, too, but her silence masked elation. She was cheered that customs were less restrictive in the desert and she was not forced to wear a stifling burqu. She felt the wind stir her ghata, lifting her hair from her shoulders, and relished her lightweight clothing and cool square of veil.
At midday the travelers dismounted at one of the many qibla, horseshoe configurations of rock made to point the way toward Mecca, and prepared for worship. The men of the tribe washed while water was still plentiful and spread their prayer rugs, while the women withdrew discreetly to one side.
Bryna knew Pamela’s secret now. When the morning sickness did not pass and the English girl grew steadily sicker, Bryna became tender and protective, trying to help her hide her changing body under the voluminous robes. Bryna had known travel would be difficult for her friend, but she was alarmed by her faltering step and the pinched whiteness of her face. Casting a cautious glance toward the worshipers, she steadied Pamela’s arm and whispered, “Are you all right?”
The girl turned dazed eyes toward Bryna. “Oh, fine,” she murmured unconvincingly. “Just a bit hungry, you know.”
Urgently Bryna looked around for Fatmah or Latifeh, but before she could find them, the men began to pray, reciting the Fatiha, the first sura of the Koran. Bryna had heard it so often in her months among the Moslems, she could say it herself.
When prayers were finished and the men gathered under a tree, Bryna left Pamela in the sparse shade of a juniper bush and went in search of Sharif’s wives. She found them sitting in the shadow of a huge boulder, surrounded by chattering women. Taking them aside, she explained Pamela’s weakened condition.
“If the Inglayzi is hungry, has she not enough sense to eat?” Fatmah asked rudely. “She does little but eat and grow fat anyway.” Irritated at having her kef interrupted, she marched toward Pamela’s couched camel, trailed by Bryna and Latifeh. Yanking down a small sack that hung on the saddle frame, she shoved it into Bryna’s hands.
When she opened it, the American girl found bread and a soft sheet of dried apricot paste, called “mare’s skin.” Mixed with water, the paste could be spread on the bread and eaten while on the move.
“See, even you are not so stupid that you cannot open a bag to get what is within,” the Arab woman snapped.
“No one told us...” Bryna tried to explain. Seeing Latifeh shake her head, she stopped, knowing her defense would do no good.
“Thou fool, can you kaffirs do nothing for yourselves? Must I also show you how to drink from a goatskin?” Fatmah raged.
“That won’t be necessary,” Bryna answered in measured tone, restraining her anger with difficulty.
Sharif’s elder wife glared at the American for a long moment. Let this witch defy her again and learn the consequences, she fumed to herself. Fatmah was in no mood for argument after swinging in a litter for hours, sweltering in the heat. But the girl said nothing, biting her tongue until the woman turned to leave.
“My lady,” she ventured then, “I have noticed some of the women leave their camels to walk for a while. May I?”
“Please do,” The old woman smiled nastily and stomped off to rejoin her friends in the shade.
Latifeh stayed behind, her annoyance tempered by practicality. “It would not be good idea to walk, Bryna bint Blaine,” she advised, speaking French as much as possible so there could be no misunderstanding, “There will be much work when we set up camp, and you are not accustomed to it. You should spare yourself at first.”
Suddenly remembering herself, she admonished, “If you are too tired to set up Nassar’s tent, no one else will do it for you. I know I will not. Then my nephew will beat you.”
The Creole girl was glad she had heeded Latifeh’s word when the caravan stopped for the night. Instructing the foreign women to watch, Fatmah, Latifeh, and `Abla pitched Sharif’s huge tent. It was the duty of the women of the family, even though the sheik had many servants. They spread the black-goat hair panels on the ground in the center of the camp and secured the edges with ropes before raising the poles underneath. They worked together smoothly, the entire process taking less than five minutes.
Then Fatmah directed Bryna and Pamela to a sandy spot in the gravelly terrain where Ali, Nassar’s lone herdsman, waited, ready to unload the household goods from the back of a pack camel. Bone-weary and sore, the foreign women were now expected to set up their master’s desert home.
When they set clumsily to work, Ali withdrew a short distance away to unload. Trying to ignore the stares she felt on every side, Bryna spread the tent material on the ground as Fatmah and Latifeh had. When the side wires were in place, she strained to raise the am’dan, or center pole, alone, refusing to allow her sick friend to undertake such heavy work. As Bryna struggled to tighten the flapping fabric over the pole, Pamela wielded a stone hammer awkwardly, pounding the pegs for the waist wires into the soft sand.
The women of the camp were noticeably silent as they loitered over their chores, watching the kaffirs’ efforts with sidelong glances. They sniggered among themselves and laughed aloud when the wind caught the goat-hair panel and pulled the cords from the ground, destroying the foreigners’ handiwork.
As Bryna and Pamela surveyed the wreckage, the Arab women returned to their work with sly smiles. Even Ali hid a smile behind his hand. Only `Abla came to stand beside her friend as Bryna fought back tears of frustration.
“It was not your fault it did not stand,” `Abla said sympathetically, her loyalties torn. Finally, unwilling to speak ill of her father’s wives, she pointed to a spot not ten feet away and recommended brightly, “Try pitching the tent there. Where you built before, the sand is soft and the pegs will never hold.”
With a grateful smile, Bryna followed her suggestion. `Abla helped Pamela with the pegs, ignoring the frowns of her father’s wives, and soon Nassar’s tent was pitched and anchored sturdily.
Open on one side to admit a breeze, the tent consisted of two chambers, a majlis and a women’s quarters. Only Sharif’s tent was larger. As sheik, he must have a majlis large enough to hold all the men of the tribe.
Once Nassar’s majlis had been organized, bags of grain and other supplies were dragged into the curtained women’s quarters to serve as pillows. Pamela lay down “for just a moment” with a grateful sigh. In the cooking area, `Abla hovered helpfully at Bryna’s elbow, explaining the duties of a Bedu housewife. The American girl listened as she picked through the copper cooking utensils that cluttered the space. Together she and `Abla explored the contents of the saddlebags Ali had unloaded.
“What’s this?” Bryna asked curiously, pulling out a wooden box.
The little girl took it and opened the hinged lid. “Oh, it’s empty,” she said disappointedly. “You are supposed to keep things in it like household medicines or anything Nassar gives you to put in it. But come now.” She summoned Bryna as she scampered from the tent. “I must show you how to keep the water skins cool.”
Outside the tent, `Abla showed her a bed of neatly piled brush upon which the skins were laid so air could circulate around them. They were shaded by a small canopy of goat-hair anchored on four short sticks.
“Gathering brush is my job in my father’s household,” the little girl explained. “My father had one of our servants gather yours because Nassar has no servants or children. He ordered them to bring firewood as well. He does not say so, but I think he is grateful to you for helping me,” she added shyly
.
“`Abla.” Latifeh beckoned. “Do you not have chores of your own to do?”
“I must go now,” the child called over her shoulder. “It is time to cook dinner, but don’t forget to build Nassar’s fire.”
Taking an armload of brush to the majlis, Bryna found the young Arab sprawled on the saddlebags that served as his pillows. His mare, tethered to the center pole of the tent, whinnied softly when the girl entered.
“So there you are,” he greeted her arrogantly as he drank from a bowl, burying his nose in white foam. When he looked up, drops of camel’s milk dripped from his lips to speckle his black beard. “Where is Pamela bint Harold?”
“She is lying down.”
“It is not right for her to sleep just before sunset. It is unhealthy,” he said, but his protest seemed halfhearted. He eyed Bryna with new interest. His uncle had forbidden him to use her, but surely there was a way. “Why does she rest?” he asked carelessly.
“She is not feeling well,” Bryna replied, trying to ignore the man’s lecherous gaze on her. Stooping, she dropped the kindling beside the fire pit.
“Then she should rest,” the young Arab conceded magnanimously. “Perhaps you should both rest, for we reach the sands tomorrow. I will tell Ali to bring some halîb, some camel’s milk, to strengthen the golden-haired houri. I think the desert will be hard on my fragile flower, but not so hard on you. You are strong, eh, my tall beauty? You will bear me many sons.” Lazily he reached out and caught her hand.
“Not if I can help it,” Bryna said through gritted teeth as she tried to wrench free.
“You are my slave and do what I command,” Nassar ordered, scowling. “And I command you to sit beside me.”
“I thought it was time to cook dinner,” she argued desperately.
“I said, sit.” Nassar’s grip tightened on Bryna’s hand until she thought her fingers would break. With a mutinous glare at him, she knelt on a cushion as far from Nassar as his grasp would allow.
“Closer,” the young Arab demanded, yanking her toward him. Suddenly changing his tack, he said cajolingly, “You are to be one of my wives, Bryna bint Blaine. We should get to know each other better, I think.”
The Bride Price Page 16