For two hours Sharif rode into the heart of the Empty Quarter, keeping an anxious eye on the horizon. The sky to the east was ominously yellow, a sign of an impending sandstorm, and static electricity charged the air. As the wind whipped at his robes, he leaned into it, praying he could reach the women before the storm’s full fury howled around them.
At last he spotted them, two distinct spots in the desert sands under the odd yellow glare of the noonday sun. His eyes, anxious in his veiled face, swept the vacant campsite. Bryna and Pamela lay on a dune near a mound of sand that was obviously Latifeh’s grave. When he called out, Bryna sat up sluggishly.
Leaping to the ground before his mount had fully halted, the Arab hurriedly couched the camels in a tight circle, leaving only enough space for the three humans to lie down. Nostrils closed and third eyelids protecting them against the wind-borne sand, the beasts offered the best protection the humans could hope for against the rapidly approaching sandstorm.
Sharif scooped Pamela into his arms and urged Bryna to follow. Dully she obeyed. He laid the women in the middle of the circle of camels, then he lay between their prone bodies and spread his thick cloak over them just as the fury of the sandstorm exploded around them, blocking out the sun.
The wind howled and cutting pieces of sand beat against Sharif’s back. Shielded by the oddly uncomplaining camels, the three people huddled for hours, unable to move. Sharif wished he could give each of the women a drink from the water skin lashed to a saddle nearby, but he could not move against the raging wind. He comforted himself that he had reached them before the storm because surely they would have been killed.
When the wind died, Sharif pushed himself up with effort, displacing the heavy sand that had piled on his back. Beneath him Bryna stirred, blinking sand-crusted eyes. He helped her sit up, bracing her back against the flanks of one of the couched camels. When Pamela did not move, Sharif brushed the sand from her face and examined her. One arm cocked beneath her head and the damaged side of her face buried in the sand, the dead girl looked like a peacefully sleeping child.
Silently Bryna took Pamela’s head in her lap while Sharif retrieved the water skin. Absently her hand went to the dead girl’s hair and stroked it. The movement stopped when Sharif brought water to her. He allowed her to sip, stopping her when she became too greedy. Bryna’s grasping hands followed the bag as he drew it away from her mouth.
He tilted Bryna’s chin so she looked at him. No glimmer of recognition lit her stunned eyes. “You must eat something if you are also to drink,” he told her kindly, handing her some dates.
She accepted them disinterestedly with her free hand, then the stroking motion began again with the other. She ate the dates, staring vacantly, while Sharif dug a grave for the dead girl.
He wrapped Pamela’s small limp body in a blanket and laid it in the grave. To his surprise, Bryna did not protest, even when he began to cover it. She sat motionless, staring off into the distance as if still watching for rescuers to appear on the horizon. Kneeling beside Pamela’s grave, the man quoted the Fatiha.
Then Sharif went to his wife’s grave and knelt for a moment there as well. When he finished, the sheik washed his hands in the sand and returned to Bryna. Looking at her closely, he noticed for the first time the blood that stained her thobe, and his face blanched. He took her hand and drew her up to stand beside him. Murmuring comfortingly, he lifted her thobe to reveal her legs. Blood stained either thigh, but none of it was fresh. Praise Allah, she did not seem to be injured. Swaying on her cut, blood-encrusted feet, she stared with vacant blue eyes at the horizon, unblinking despite the scarlet brilliance of the setting sun.
It was evident the girl could not ride alone on the camel he had saddled for her, but Sharif did not wish to stay in this place of the dead. He would take her to the oasis, where the deaths that had occurred were acts of righteous vengeance, not of evil as in this place. The sheik mounted his camel, lifting Bryna in front of him.
Through her thin dress, her body felt stiff and wooden against his. The girl said nothing, did not cry as they rode through the twilight. Finally she dozed, starting and jerking uneasily against his chest.
When they reached the oasis, Sharif dismounted and hobbled the camels near some sparse grazing. Then he carried the sleeping girl to a spot beside the pool. A wave of cold rage washed over him as he looked down at her, cradled in his strong arms.
Bryna’s head fell back limply, revealing a faint pulse under the ugly bruise on her temple. Her parted lips were cracked and swollen and crusted with dark blood. A purple bruise ran across her cheekbone and merged with gray smudges under her closed eyes. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she breathed, the only sign that she lived.
She was burning with fever, Sharif realized. To immerse her in the pool would bring her fever down immediately, but night, so cold in the desert, was approaching, and she would be chilled in damp clothes. Instead he made a pallet for her and stretched her inert body on it. Then, tenderly, he removed her clothing and bathed her with cooling water.
The first swipes with the cloth removed the crusty layer of sand that had filtered into her clothes during the storm. Bryna lay motionless, unaware of his devoted care. The golden locket at the base of her slender throat glinted in the moonlight. Her smooth alabaster body looked as if it were carved from stone, but her skin, hot to the touch, was also soft. Momentarily Sharif wondered what it would be like to love such a woman, cursing softly as his manhood exhibited a life of its own. He must put those thoughts away if he was to tend her.
Gingerly he sponged her body and covered her with a blanket, then he went to unsaddle the camels. It was the first time in his life he had not tended the animals first.
While he gathered firewood, he heard Bryna cry out in a nightmare, and instantly he was back at her side. Tears seeped from her closed eyes, and her breathing was ragged. He allowed her to cling to him in her delirium until her fright had passed, then he built a small fire, cleansed himself in the pool, and prayed his evening prayers. While he ate, chewing slowly and thoughtfully, he watched her as she slept.
During the night, Bryna’s fever broke and her blankets were drenched with perspiration. Sharif fetched his own rug for a new pallet and placed her on it, covering her with fresh blankets to keep her warm. Going to the belongings of the men he had killed in battle, he found another rug and a skimpy blanket and lay down on the ground next to the girl.
Despite his own exhaustion and pain, Sharif slept lightly, awakening at the first hint of dawn. When he awakened Bryna, she looked at him blankly. She still did not seem to recognize him, but at least she showed no fear. She seemed simply to have no will of her own. She was like a child as he dressed her. She cooperated, allowing him to brush the tangles from her hair.
He gave her a drink of water, then a piece of bread and some dates. At first she held the food in lax hands on her lap. Sharif tore off a piece of the bread and put it into her mouth. Mechanically she began to chew. Soon she raised the hand containing a date and ate, but she seemed oblivious of the fact that she ate at all. When she had finished, she patiently allowed herself to be led to the camels and pulled up in front of Sharif again.
They rode northward all day, stopping frequently so Bryna could rest. Today her body was not rigid. She nestled against Sharif’s chest and slept without fear.
The next day was much like the first, until they reached the edge of the Rub al Khali in the evening and Sharif began to see familiar landmarks.
During the ride to Riyadh, he worried constantly whether Bryna would ever be well again. What had her captors done to her? She did not seem to care whether she lived or died.
The man’s arms tightened around her as they rode. He cared, and because he cared, Bryna would live. She must. Because, Sharif admitted to himself at last, he loved her. He loved her as he had never loved another.
Sharif rode wearily through the fertile irrigated plain that surrounded Riyadh to the monotonous drone of water pu
mps, arriving in the city mere hours after his men returned from their successful raid. The Selims had ridden into the sheik’s huge city compound, singing a victory song and driving their herds, plus a dozen more camels, before them. Then the warriors had awaited their leader’s arrival as anxiously as the women and children. The women trilled and the men cheered when Sharif’s camel trotted through the arched gate.
The sheik was touched by their jubilation, but Bryna, slumped in front of him in the saddle, did not seem aware of the din that went on around her.
Dismounting, Sharif answered the questions with which his people bombarded him.
“Where is Latifeh and the Inglayzi?” a man called to him.
“Dead,” he grunted, striding purposefully toward the women’s quarters with Bryna in his arms. “But do not fear,” he called over his shoulder. “Their deaths have been avenged.”
“Praise Allah, blood for blood,” the fervent shout went up.
“What did those sons of dogs do to this poor girl?” someone else demanded.
“Yes, was she touched by those swine?”
“No,” Sharif shouted, swinging around in the doorway to the harem to face his people. With the girl held protectively in his arms, his bearing was proud, almost challenging. “I reached Bryna bint Blaine before they could harm her. Now she is home where she belongs, and no one will harm her again.”
Then the sheik closed the door on the celebration and took his love upstairs to await the hakim.
CHAPTER 18
Sharif sat beside Bryna’s bed while she slept, peacefully now, although she often thrashed restlessly in the throes of a nightmare.
Alhamdillah! how blessed he was to have found her alive, the man thought gratefully. He did not know what had occurred in the desert, but God grant that her mind should be untouched by the evil she had seen. Faisal, his hakim, seemed to think there was hope.
Somberly the sheik remembered the tense interview with his old friend a few days before. “You told the others this girl was not touched, Sharif,” Faisal had begun hesitantly, “but...”
“But I lied,” Sharif stated flatly. “I did not know whether they had harmed her, but I feared it was so.”
“I cannot tell. She does not seem to have been treated roughly, but she is not a virgin, Do not look so stricken, my friend. It is not unusual among women who have dwelt in the desert. It is a hard life.”
“Will...will she be all right?”
“I believe she will survive,” the doctor assured him. “She is a strong young woman. But, Sharif, she may never be the same again.”
“Was she driven mad?” the sheik asked fearfully.
“I do not believe so. But some things are as bad as madness. She may never have children. Only Allah can say.”
“I do not care,” he said, putting behind him years of training. Moslems were taught to desire children over all things. “You must help her. I love her.”
“That is as I feared,” Faisal said gently. “What will you do, Sharif? Marry her, knowing what you know?”
“Yes, if you do not give me away.”
“I will say nothing to anyone, old friend. I am a civilized man. I understand the heart and its waywardness. These Bedu and their superstitions are sometimes enough to make me long to return to Persia. But are you sure about this?”
A wave of relief washed over Sharif’s angular face. “If you will guard my secret, I will nurse Bryna. Then, when she is well again, I will win her. I want nothing more than her love, Faisal,” he said simply. “She will be my wife.”
“As Allah wills it,” the other man agreed reluctantly. The physician prescribed rest to mend Bryna’s wounded body and mind. Then he gave her a draft to make her sleep, intoning, “Praise be to Allah, the Curer, the Healer,” as he held the cup to her lips.
“She will awaken when her body is ready,” he told the sheik. “But, as for her mind, I do not know.”
Before he departed, the hakim removed the girl’s locket and handed it to the sheik. “Keep this for her. It would be a shame if our patient strangled herself with it in her sleep.”
Pausing awkwardly at the door, the doctor addressed his friend uncertainly, “Sharif, this girl bears more than a passing resemblance to Noorah...”
“You have seen her only when she is sleeping. When she is awake she shows a spirit my gentle Noorah never had. I do not seek another to replace my first wife. I love Bryna for herself.”
“You cannot blame me for my concern,” Faisal said seriously. “This woman must mean a great deal to you indeed, for you to love her so.” Then the hakim left quietly, closing the door behind him.
For me to love her more than honor, Sharif thought grimly, for that was what his old friend had meant. Faisal was right, but how could he explain, even to him, the depth of his love for Bryna?
Following his return to Riyadh, Sharif had gone about his business distractedly. The very night of his arrival, he had ordered two of his favorite camels to be slaughtered in honor of his dead wives and the meat to be given to the poor. He had greeted the friends and relatives who called the next day. He had arranged funerals for his family and visited the father of Farida, Nassar’s intended, to offer his sympathy. He had performed his duties as the sheik, dividing the booty of the raid equitably among his tribe. In general the sheik had acted as he always did, but all the time his mind was on the girl sleeping in the harem.
Every possible moment he spent at Bryna’s bedside, causing more than a few eyebrows to be raised. Mautlauq muttered to others, spreading the rumor that the sheik was going to be called before the emir himself to account for his actions.
If only she would awaken, Sharif thought now, even dissension among his tribesmen would seem worthwhile. Last rays of daylight slanted into the airy room and washed across the man’s outstretched legs while he sat beside her bed, brooding, his chin resting against his chest. Suddenly he sat erect when the girl stirred and blinked her eyes.
She lay very still. Where was she? The room did not seem familiar. How had she gotten here? A perplexed frown furrowed her brow, then she felt another presence in the room. The girl turned a groggy gaze toward a man sitting beside her bed. Under his snowy kaffiyeh, his handsome face was weary but alight with elation.
“Praise Allah,” he said exultantly. “Farha, my joy.” Carefully lifting the girl’s head from the pillow with one hand, he held a water cup to her lips with the other. She placed shaky hands around his and drank eagerly, then turned curious eyes to the man who bent over her.
“Where am I?” she whispered hoarsely.
Slowly he laid her back against the pillows and stared down at her disbelievingly. He had not expected her to ask the question in Arabic.
After a moment he answered deliberately in his own tongue, “You are in my home in Riyadh.”
“Riyadh,” Bryna repeated. Her dull eyes scanned the ceiling as if she hoped to find an answer there. There was a long silence as she digested the information, trying to collect her thoughts. Then, with effort, she asked him, “Please, effendi, who are you?”
“I am Sharif. Don’t you remember me?” he asked, his voice tight with misery.
Her sleepy eyes searched his craggy countenance for a hint of his identity. At last she sighed. “No, I am sorry, I cannot remember. I wish I did. Perhaps it will come back to me later, but for now, would you tell me?”
“I am Sharif Al Selim, the uncle of the man you were to wed. Do you remember that?”
She shook her head.
“Our smala was on its way to Riyadh when we were attacked by raiders and Nassar was killed.”
“Nassar? The man I was to marry?” she queried hopefully.
“Yes,” he responded, feeling a stab of pain. Could it be that she remembered Nassar but had forgotten him?
“He is dead?”
He nodded expressionlessly.
For some unknown reason, she felt no sorrow. Bryna examined the situation as best she could, but she did not understand w
hy she felt nothing, not even a sense of loss.
“Did I love him?”
“I do not know.” The man was unwilling to put thoughts in her head or words in her mouth.
“I do not, either,” she whispered. Her eyelids were growing heavy. “Can you tell me one other thing? You called me Farha—is that my name?”
“You are my farha, my joy,” he murmured, stroking her hand, “as precious and rare as rain in the desert.”
But she did not hear him. She was already asleep.
Sharif sat on the bed beside her, holding her hand until the call to prayer at sunset, agonizing over what he should do. It seemed Bryna had no memory before awakening in his home. She did not remember those horrible days in the Rub al Khali. She had forgotten her earlier life in America. She did not even know she had been a slave.
She must never recall those terrible things, he resolved. She would have a new life. She would be happy in Arabia, he vowed. He would make it so.
Resolutely he opened the cupboard beside her narrow divan and thrust his hand inside. He froze guiltily when she stirred in her sleep but did not awaken. Then he withdrew what he sought, the locket she had worn, her only link with the past.
Opening it, he stared down at the tiny portraits it contained—her parents, no doubt. He could see Bryna’s gentleness in the woman’s serene face and her spirit in the man’s. What a marriage it must have been to produce his beloved, a marriage such as they would have one day.
Secreting the locket in the front of his robe, Sharif went to pray and then to find his daughter.
“She doesn’t remember anything?” `Abla asked worriedly. “Not even being rescued by you?”
“No, but it is just as well.”
The little girl did not agree, for the romance of the situation appealed to her. She put aside her disappointment, however, to ask, “But she was not as she was when you brought her home, was she, as if an evil jinni had stolen her spirit?”
“No, daughter,” the sheik responded with a smile.
“But she does not remember me.” She nearly wept. “I am her friend. Doesn’t she even recall that I taught her to speak our language and she helped me with my French?”
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