Ahead of the procession, the saluki ran now for the sheer joy of exertion. As he zoomed past them, the men paused in their talk to watch. Then they resumed their good-natured argument where they had left off, debating who bred the better camel, the Al Rashid or the Al Murrad.
Only Sharif and Nassar turned in their saddles to watch as the graceful saluki looped back on the desert floor to circle three female figures lagging at the back of the train. Both men recognized Bryna’s tall form at once.
Nassar glowered in her direction, sulky at seeing her afoot. “Wallahi, why do I bother to furnish that one with a camel?” he asked peevishly of no one in particular. “She hardly ever rides with the women. Bryna bint Blaine is to be one of my wives, yet she trails behind us like a serving girl.”
Sharif said nothing, but his gaze rested on her for a long moment. Then, cursing under his breath, he turned to the limitless horizon.
True to Taman’s prediction, the smala reached Bir al Nafud, just before afternoon prayers. It was a barren spot in the desert with only a few stunted bushes to give evidence of the presence of water nearby. The well itself was nothing more than a hole in the ground. The tribe waited while the water was tested. Finding it clean, the sheik signaled for the camels, the Bedouin’s first concern, to be watered.
The clamor was deafening as camels spit and roared and herdsmen shouted. Once the herd was watered, a semblance of order returned and the men turned their attention to their horses. The children drove the flocks of sheep and goats to the troughs, and the women set about building the tents. The moon was high overhead by the time silence settled over the camp.
It was still dark when Bryna awakened. Through the night the temperature had dropped, and now the girl was glad for her blankets of Aleppo wool. Burrowing deeper, she tried to sleep again but found herself listening to the noises of the dormant camp. The Bedu said camels never slept, and from outside she heard the soft rasp of sand as a camel shifted its position. On a pallet beside her, Pamela stirred and whimpered in her sleep. Just on the other side of the cloth wall of the tent, Nassar snored sonorously, and somewhere in the distance, a baby cried.
It must be near dawn, Bryna thought groggily, but no birds sang to herald the new day. In the sleeping desert there was no sound but the wind.
The girl lay still, relishing the comfort of her bed for a few minutes longer. As soon as there was enough light to distinguish a white hair from a black one, the call to prayers would sound and her day would begin.
While the Arabs prayed, the men out in the open, the women in their tents, Bryna enjoyed the only time she had to herself all day. She was grateful that in the desert she and Pamela slept separately from the other women. In those early morning hours she left the English girl to sleep and wrestled with her feelings in privacy, trying not to give in to despair, trying to prepare herself for another day. She forced herself to hope, refusing to consider what would happen if rescue never came.
Bryna had taken naturally to the duties of the umm al’-ayyal, the mother of the family. Now, as prayers ended, she rose and awakened Pamela. While the English girl rekindled the cooking fire, Bryna ground the beans for the morning coffee.
Outside the tent it was relatively calm while the servants called together their flocks and counted the sheep to see how many remained after the night. It was not necessary to count the goats, but the sheep did not cry out when attacked.
During the lull, Bryna made coffee and breakfast for Nassar. Pamela, looking ill at the smell of food, sat with him in his majlis, as he demanded every morning. Bryna joined them while Nassar ate. The flabby young man complained about her cooking, but he always ate.
Once Nassar had loosed his mare to graze unfettered around the camp during the day and gone to his uncle’s majlis, his women ate their own hurried breakfast.
Leaving Pamela to scour the breakfast pots with sand, Bryna picked up a leather bucket and set out for the well. Nassar’s mare nickered softly and followed, nudging the girl’s back insistently with her soft nose. She tarried a moment to feed the horse a dried fig. Stroking its powerful, muscled neck, she whispered in its ear, “Someday I will jump on your back, little mare, and we will ride away and we will never come back.”
But even as she said it, Bryna knew it was not true. She could not leave Pamela. Besides, where could she go? There was no sign of a town anywhere, and in fact they had not even seen another human being outside of their smala for nearly two weeks. How could she hope to survive and to keep the pregnant English girl alive in the desert?
When Bryna returned to Nassar’s tent a short time later, Ali was hanging a heavy goatskin, bulging with camel’s milk, from the tripod. Pamela sat down in the shade to swing it rhythmically until the contents had turned into leben, or yogurt. Although the job was tedious, it was easy work for the pregnant girl.
Bryna and Pamela talked while they worked. This morning the American girl treated the water skins with butter to keep them from sweating. When she finished she dragged the bedding out of the tent to sun. Then she settled in the shade to grind the grain for bread for dinner.
From Sharif’s majlis, the voices of the men reached her as they discussed matters of tribal business. They considered it men’s work, she realized, but she listened, recognizing Sharif’s voice, deep and even and reasonable.
After kef, when the camp began slowly to stir again, Taman appeared to invite Bryna to go herb gathering. Quietly so they would not disturb anyone, the girls prepared to leave camp.
“Bryna, where are you going?” Pamela’s voice came shrilly from the shadowy interior of the tent. Her blond hair tousled from sleep, she rushed out to catch her friend. “Why are you stealing away like this?”
“I am not stealing away, Pamela,” Bryna said patiently. ‘‘I’m going to gather herbs with Taman.”
Although she did not understand the words, Taman frowned at Bryna’s solicitous attitude toward the Inglayzi. She did not understand her tenderness toward Pamela, for they were not even kinswomen.
“I thought you were still asleep,” Bryna was explaining. “Would you like to come? We are not going far.”
“No, I’ll be fine here,” Pamela said with a sigh, her fears allayed. “Nassar is going hunting with his friends this afternoon, so I will have some peace. But you will be back soon, won’t you? Before tea?”
“Of course.”
“I’m glad. I could not bear to go and drink Fatmah’s vile, nasty tea alone.”
Perplexed, Bryna assured the English girl she would return on time. While they were still in Taif, Fatmah had instituted the custom of tea, and now she insisted that she saw no reason to discontinue a civilized practice just because they were in the desert. She insisted Nassar’s slaves present themselves for tea every day. Bryna was not fond of those calls on Fatmah and Latifeh, but Pamela hated them.
Bryna did not waste her time trying to tell the English girl that the tea the Arab woman served was potent and sweet but hardly vile. She did not remind her that no matter how unpleasant Fatmah was, teatime was always the most peaceful time of day. Each day the foreign women trudged to Sharif’s tent to visit his wives. And each day Pamela seemed to sink deeper into dependency and despair.
While Bryna and Taman wandered, picking herbs where they could find them, Bryna brooded, worrying over her friend. Despite Pamela’s thickening waist, her face had become drawn and gaunt. And there were shadows around her dull brown eyes. All this traveling was torturous for the delicate girl, and the strain was beginning to show itself emotionally as well as physically.
“You think of the Inglayzi,” the Arab girl said almost accusingly when the other girl passed a thaluk bush without even seeing it.
“Yes.” Bryna sighed. “I cannot help worrying about her.”
“Why do you worry? Is it not enough you do her work for her?”
“Only the heavy chores, the ones she is not strong enough to do.”
“To live among the people of the tents, one must have st
rength,” Taman said bluntly. “Before I met you, I thought all infidel women were weak and helpless, but you are not. You should have been born a Bedu, Bryna bint Blaine, for here you belong. All things are as Allah wills and cannot be changed. Your life is with us now.”
Bryna did not trust her voice to protest, so she nodded miserably. Perhaps it was true, but in trying to reassure her, Taman had voiced her worst fears. She might never escape.
Dispiritedly the girl returned to camp, to endless chores, to Pamela’s wan face, to Fatmah’s interminable tea. At Sharif’s tent that afternoon, she listened politely to the unceasing dialogue between his wives. Fatmah coughed and wheezed and complained of a chest cold. Nights in the desert were too much for an old woman to endure, she grumbled. It would be good to reach Riyadh.
On the other side of the curtain that divided the majlis from the women’s quarters, Sharif could hear the rise and fall of female voices. Recognizing Bryna’s, he listened attentively. He had often heard the girl talking to the blond infidel in their unintelligible Inglayzi tongue and wished he could understand. But today she was speaking Arabic. Although she occasionally stumbled over the words, she was improving, he thought with satisfaction.
Suddenly a shadow crossed his face and the sheik rose abruptly and strode out of the tent. Târiq appeared at once in response to his beckoning whistle. Sharif threw himself on the mare’s back and rode into the desert, his kaffiyeh streaming behind him.
What was wrong with him? he asked himself fiercely. It was not right for him to have such interest in his nephew’s intended. He did not know this woman, yet she was never far from his thoughts. Had he been bewitched by her blue eyes after all?
Sharif halted his horse at the crest of a dune and looked out over the arid landscape. His back to the sun, he cast a long shadow across the sand. Bryna bint Blaine was beautiful and desirable, but she was not a bewitcher, he admitted to himself. He was attracted to her as a man is sometimes attracted to a woman, nothing more.
But she must never know. He had admitted it to Alima, but no one else must ever know or even suspect, the man realized grimly. Though her behavior had been chaste, Nassar could easily kill her to protect his wejh, his face. Sharif Al Selim was a man of honor. He would stay away from Bryna bint Blaine, he decided, for her own good and for his.
As he returned, Sharif paused on a rise overlooking the camp. Children played in front of the tents, and he could smell dinner cooking on a hundred different fires. The songs of the camel men could be heard as they returned from grazing, leading their herds, summoning strays. Sharif relished the clamorous, comfortable familiarity of his encampment in the desert. It was good and right and Bedouin.
Below, Bryna walked toward the clearing where the goats and sheep crowded together, her milk pail in her hand. Purposefully the sheik averted his eyes and turned Târiq toward his tent.
Unaware of Sharif’s observation, the girl picked her way through the flock until she found Nassar’s goats. All around her other women had already found their animals and squatted beside them to milk. Several women carried babies in slings on their backs. One child, just old enough to walk, tottered, his dark head barely visible over the backs of the sheep and the goats.
Just as Bryna bent to milk, she was nearly knocked off her feet by Sharif’s saluki. He greeted her with a glad bark that caused the goat to prance skittishly to one side. As the dog prepared to launch itself enthusiastically at her again, she interrupted her milking long enough to squirt a warm stream of milk into the dog’s face. She chuckled aloud as the saluki backed away with a surprised yelp.
The girl’s smile faded when the flock shifted restively and the thunder of hooves reached her ears. Rising slowly, Bryna stared at a cloud of dust a short distance away in the desert. The young hunters were returning, racing at breakneck speed toward the camp, their salukis coursing gracefully at their sides. One of the Arab women shouted a warning to the others and began to fight her way among the frightened, milling animals toward the tents.
Surely they will stop, Bryna thought. But they bore down on the flock with reckless glee, close enough now for her to see Sâlih, Taman’s elder brother, in the lead.
As the hoofbeats grew louder, the herd animals sidled nervously, their eyes wild with fear. A goat kicked over Bryna’s milk bucket, spilling the contents into the sand, and a ram butted hard against her hip as the flock split in panic, surging against the sides of the clearing. Over their terrified bleating, Bryna heard the wails of a child.
“Walid!” one of the women shouted. “Where is my son?” Pressed by the herd against a tent, she tried in vain to push her way free, her fearful eyes scanning the panicked flock.
Through the dust, Bryna spied the top of the child’s head in the midst of the flock and struggled toward him. She had to reach him in time, she thought determinedly. If he was not trampled by the sheep and goats, he would surely be run down by the horses in matter of moments. Reaching the boy, she snatched him up just as the horses pounded down upon them. With a desperate cry, she tossed the sobbing child through the air to his mother’s outstretched arms. But, hemmed in by the terrified flock, Bryna could not escape.
Suddenly Smemi appeared from between the tents. Planting himself between Bryna and the racers, the big dog growled and snarled, causing the lead horse to rear. Sharif’s saluki was at his side at once, yipping and snapping at the horse’s legs. With a curse, Sâlih managed to hold on, but he could not control his mount. The mare reared and bucked, her sharp hooves slashing the air, threatening to crush Bryna. As she attempted to retreat, the girl was dimly aware of the angry shouts from the other riders as they were forced to rein in violently.
From behind her, a strong arm coiled around her waist and swept her onto the back of a horse and out of danger.
“First the dog would protect you, then the master,” a familiar voice said in her ear as the white mare picked her way daintily through the chaos.
“Sheik Al Selim,” Bryna whispered shakily. She did not have to turn around to know who held her so firmly against his solid, muscled chest. Acutely aware of his nearness, the girl shifted uneasily, trying to increase the space between them.
“No,” the sheik shouted suddenly over his shoulder. Gripping Bryna tightly, he wheeled his horse. She gasped in alarm as she saw Sâlih, his gun drawn to shoot the black dog, frown up at his chief in angry askance.
“Leave him,” Sharif ordered. “The animal did nothing more than protect the woman.”
Leaving the dust and the frenzied animals behind them, they rode slowly to Nassar’s tent. Halting in front of it, the man seemed lost in thought. He did not dismount or move to release her. Bryna sat bolt upright, stiff and very still, uncertain what to do. If the powerful arm locked around her waist would relax, she thought, she would slide to the ground and run away—from the man and from the emotions she was experiencing. But his grip did not loosen, and she pushed the absurd idea from her thoughts.
“My sheik,” she ventured at last in careful Arabic, “I must thank you.”
“I told you before, one Aribi does not thank another,” he answered tersely.
“But I am not Arab, and I am grateful to you. You saved my life.” Twisting, she turned earnestly to her rescuer for the first time. Her words were forgotten when she found their faces very close, so that her light veil brushed his beard. They stared wordlessly, each mesmerized by the other’s nearness, seemingly captured in time, though only an instant passed. Bryna’s breath caught in her throat at the fleeting look of longing in Sharif’s gray eyes.
But suddenly the eyes narrowed impatiently. The sheik thrust her away from him and set her on the ground with a jolt. “Do not thank me, woman,” he growled. “Thank Allah that today was not your day to die.”
As he rode away, Sharif cursed under his breath at the misery he had seen in Bryna’s blue eyes before it was replaced by dislike for him. He did not know which hurt more.
* * *
Just before dawn, a br
onzed, bearded man stood alone on the bow of a sambuk and searched the horizon for the first sight of land. Lost in thought, he was unaware that his brows were knit fiercely over his blue eyes, the wrinkles of his forehead disappearing under his turban. His striped djellaba billowed behind him on the salt-scented breeze as the little ship plowed through choppy waters toward the rocky Arabian coast.
“Good morning, sir,” a voice said quietly behind him, careful not to be overheard by the people who slept on the deck.
“Good morning, Ashburn,” Blaine answered without turning.
“It took a moment to be sure it was you.” The young man chuckled softly, moving to stand beside him on the bow. “You are beginning to look the Algerian you claim to be. It certainly seems to agree with you more than it does with me. Sun and sand and wind, thirst, then sun and sand and more wind. I have never seen such an inhospitable place as the Sinai, nor do I hope to again.”
“‘Twas only the beginning. Ernst said Arabia is mostly desert.”
“Ah, yes, Ernst, the desert expert.” Derek sighed, his frown revealing his annoyance for their guide.
“I didn’t hear you complaining when he talked us past three different sets of Arab tribesmen.” Blaine returned the frown. “Or when he got us through that scrape in Tur and onto this boat.”
“I suppose he has earned his pay so far,” Derek admitted grudgingly, “but he is a bothersome fellow. He and Mustafa are as thick as thieves.”
Ernst was bothersome, perhaps, but indispensable, Blaine thought. And it was a good thing he and Mustafa got on so well. They made an outstanding pair of guides. Ernst’s knowledge of the Arabian peninsula was as useful as Mustafa’s sword arm. Staring out at the predawn sky, the man remembered the past fortnight since they had received Ibn Hussein’s message.
When Blaine and Derek had learned they must go to Arabia, Mustafa had found Ernst Mann, an impoverished Swiss scholar who spoke five languages as well as several Arab dialects, to be their guide. With his surprisingly dark coloring and encyclopedic memory, the slight, middle-aged man passed easily as an Arab.
The Bride Price Page 18