She felt alone. Abandoned by everyone.
God never abandons us.
The words she had spoken to Graeme with such confidence slapped her in the face. God never abandons us, they mocked. Na-na na-na na-naah. Silly Tillie. Silly Tillie.
Graeme believed God had set up the natural laws and then abandoned the universe to function on its own. She certainly felt on her own now. Maybe Graeme was right. Maybe God wasn’t the least bit interested in some anonymous little bundle of molecules and DNA wandering the edge of the Sahara on a camel.
Or worse. Maybe God was toying with her—playing this gigantic trick as some kind of a test to see how long she would last. Hadn’t he done that very thing to Job?
She felt abandoned. Alone. Afraid. And angry.
“Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”
The words Christ had spoken welled up inside her, as familiar as her own name. For the first time in her life, she sneered at them. Sure, she thought. Always. Unless you feel like tossing me out here to a pack of hungry Tuareg.
“I will be with you; I will not fail you or forsake you.”
In the middle of the desert?
“Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”
Tillie closed her eyes and gave herself to the swaying rhythm of her camel. Throughout her life the Lord had spoken to her through his Scriptures. She had memorized verses by the hundreds at Hannah’s feet. Were they true? Could she trust the promises of God’s faithfulness even when she was heading farther and farther into the valley of the shadow of death?
The Lord is the one who goes ahead of you; he will be with you. He will not fail you or forsake you. Do not fear, or be dismayed.
She drew a deep breath. Do not fear, Tillie. God is with you. Even here. Even now. She brushed a finger over her damp cheek. Okay, Father. I’m trusting you for now. For this minute. For this hour.
“Tonight you wear different gown,” Khatty was saying. “I paint your face yellow, white, and red of unmarried woman, and—”
“Wait a minute. You want to paint my face?”
“You do not listen to me, Tree-Planting Woman? That is bad. Be careful to listen to what I say, or djenoun will take your heart.”
“Djenoun?”
“People of empty places . . . people of night. Spirits. Sometimes we call them effri, wicked spirits. You hear them wailing when moon is high and full. Tonight we camp near Mopti. Amenoukal, my beloved husband, has declared night of celebration. Ahal.”
“Ahal?” Tillie’s heart began to sink. “What’s an ahal?”
“Feast of love. Singing and poem-making. And when night is late, men gather around one woman they wish to love that night. She tells them stories and listens to their courting. Then she makes a sign to man she chooses for her lovemaking.”
As Tillie watched Khatty arrange her skirts on the dromedary’s back, fingers of apprehension traveled up her spine. She didn’t like the sound of this feast at all. “I imagine I’ll be tired after all this riding,” she said. “I guess I’ll skip the ahal.”
“You are Tree-Planting Woman,” Khatty said softly. “Honored one. Many men will gather to seek your sign.” She sighed in resignation. “Ahodu Ag Amastane, my husband, already declares he will sit before you tonight. Of course, you must choose him, great amenoukal of Tuareg people, to become your lover.”
As Tillie stared out at the sandy Sahel landscape, she knew she had never been in such a terrible predicament. She lifted the amulet in her hands and ran her fingers over the surface of the locket, feeling the twists of spun silver and the cool lump of golden amber. Graeme had told her this locket contained the hope for her safety, but she had no idea how to use it.
Graeme. Was he somewhere near? Even if he had followed her, what could he do? Tillie’s fingers tightened on the amulet.
Maybe Mungo Park had possessed a treasure. Maybe he had buried it somewhere near Timbuktu two hundred years ago. Could she find it? Maybe a historian somewhere would know something. But who? Where?
As evening fell, the sweltering air grew strangely chill, and she smelled rain in the far distance. She squeezed the amulet as though she could somehow press out the answers. What was the significance of Mungo Park’s cryptic message? Did those strange rambling words really mean anything? She tried to recall everything Graeme had told her about the man. Bits and pieces. None of it locked together into a complete picture in her mind.
She thought of the amulet itself, recalling the rows of ancient silver charms pinned to the amenoukal’s chest. He certainly believed her amulet was charmed. In fact, the whole quest for the treasure must be some kind of mystical religious experience for him. The silver necklace was charmed, its message was magical, and she was the honored tree-planting woman.
But so what? She still didn’t know where the treasure was!
As the sun dropped behind a craggy stone, her stomach pulled with hunger from the meager ration of food she had eaten that day. Every rib felt bruised; every vertebra seemed slipped from its niche; every muscle was knotted and sore. Her hair was full of sand, and her eyes burned from scanning the sun-blasted dunes all day.
When the shadows were long, the caravan made its way toward the river’s edge. Following the narrow track, it wound like a snake until the amenoukal raised his hand to halt the line. With a sigh of relief, Tillie clung to her camel as it knelt to the ground, and she slid off.
The Tuareg bustled to work assembling their tents and lighting fires in the secluded area. Tillie took the opportunity to look around. Maybe this was her chance to run. The amenoukal stood in the middle of a throng of arguing men. Khatty sauntered over to her guest, favoring the men with a doe-eyed glance along the way.
“Talk, talk, talk,” she said with a chuckle. “It is all they do.”
“What are they discussing?” Tillie asked.
“Ahal, of course. They want to put tents in perfect place, but no one can agree. It is this way each time we have ahal. Men are so eager to please women during ahal.” She shimmied her hands down her hips. “I go now to prepare myself. You come?”
“In a minute. I need to stretch.”
As Khatty sashayed off, Tillie turned her thoughts back to escape. She had to get away—and it had to be done before dark. This was her last chance before Timbuktu, and there was no way she would submit to the disgrace of the ahal unless she was forced. Tree-planting woman or not, she was not about to become the amenoukal’s lover.
Hoping anyone who spotted her would think she was taking a bathroom break, she strolled toward the river. It flowed deep on the side of the encampment. A thick grove of trees and brush grew up around the bank. The road was narrow but clear, and she knew the amenoukal’s dromedary would have no trouble following her there. It would have to be a dash into the brush then.
She would try to slip away unnoticed and hide until they gave up searching. Then she would work her way downriver toward the lights of Mopti. Once in the city, she was certain to find someone who could help her.
Trying her best to look casual, Tillie sauntered through the collection of rising tents. Tired but elated, the children played games of tag around the dromedaries. Women bustled to build fires and finish setting up the tents. Men conferred, pacing this way and that, occasionally raising their voices in argument. No one seemed to see her.
She tugged her veil over her face and slipped toward the trees. The grass grew thicker here. She passed a low bush, and another. A tree. She crept around it.
Heart thudding, she licked her dry lips. Another tree. Past it. A trickle of sweat slid down her back. Two more trees and she would be into the thicket. She lifted the skirt of her gown. One more tree.
A hand clamped down on her arm.
“Tree-Planting Woman!” the voice was all too familiar.
“Let me go,” she hissed.
“You stay.”
Swinging around, Tillie looked up into the amenouk
al’s dark, bloodshot eyes. Fear clutched her throat. She wanted to fly at him and tear away that turban and arrogant leer. But she was trapped. Again.
“I said, let go,” she repeated through clenched teeth. With a fierce shrug, she freed her arm.
“You mine.” He pointed at his chest. “Mine. You find treasure.”
“That’s what you think.”
“You find treasure.”
“Listen, buster, you’ve got the whole thing wrong.”
His chest swelled. “Ahodu Ag Amastane—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know who you are. And I’d like you a lot better if you’d just leave me alone.” She turned quickly and strode back into the encampment, anger born of fear coursing through her veins like lava. “Khatty!” she yelled. “Where are you?”
“Ma imous?” Eyes wide, the young woman hurried out of the tent. “What is wrong, Tree-Planting Woman? Io! Come inside!” Khatty took Tillie’s hand and pulled her into the tent. “No anger, please. This is night of celebration. You enjoy Tuareg feasting. You become part of us. You are honored woman.”
“Honored woman? All right then. By the power of my position as honored Tree-Planting Woman—by the power of this amulet—I want a bath! And I want it now!”
Khatty fell to the floor of the tent and covered her eyes with her hands. “Yes, yes! Please, do not be angry! I send for water at once.” She turned and yelled at her cowering maid. “Give me water! Ekfid aman! Ekfid aman!”
A little astonished at the effect of her own words, Tillie watched Khatty scramble to her feet and run out of the tent. She continued shouting at her servants, who raced shrieking toward the river.
“Good grief,” Tillie whispered. Graeme had been right. There was power in the amulet. Power from the fact that these people were superstitiously afraid of its force. Could she use their fears to her advantage? Why not? They were using her.
Before she had time to figure out a plan, a flock of anxious servants sidled into the tent carrying pot after pot of water. Time to put Drama 101 to use. Playing her role to the hilt, she strode around the chamber, inspecting the water, examining the servants, quibbling over this and that as she’d seen Khatty do.
When fifteen clay pots had been set on the floor, she clapped her hands. “That will do. Enough.”
Khatty peered between the flaps of curtain as the servants scurried out. Tillie beckoned her. “Io! Come on in; I won’t bite.” Seeing the young woman’s blanched expression, she relented. “Look, I’m not angry, Khatty. I’m just glad to have the water. You could do with a bath yourself.”
“Ai! Ai!”
“Oh, never mind. I wouldn’t force that on you.”
“Please, Tree-Planting Woman, do not be displeased with me. Ahodu Ag Amastane, great amenoukal of Tuareg people, commands me to stay with you. He fears you escape and give treasure to your friends.”
She let out a breath. “But I don’t even know—” She caught herself and shook her head. “Never mind.”
Kneeling, Tillie dipped her hands into the cool water and rinsed the grit and dirt from her face. Then she disrobed and washed her arms, legs, body, and finally, her hair. Khatty was more than solicitous about the event taking place in her tent. She was downright curious. After drying off with a linen cloth and wrapping it around herself, Tillie followed the Targui to the pile of bagged garments lying in one corner.
“Will you wear another blue burnous?” Khatty asked. “We wear finest clothing to ahal. Perhaps white is better? Or golden one will look lovely with your hair.”
“I’m not going to the ahal, Khatty. I’m very tired tonight.”
“Oh, Tree-Planting Woman, amenoukal commands you go to ahal. You sit with me for singing and stories.”
Tillie squared her shoulders. “I am the tree-planting woman. And by the power of the amulet, I will not—”
“You go to ahal.
”
The voice behind her made Tillie swing around in fear. She grabbed a wad of clothing and held it up to her chin.
The amenoukal stepped closer. “You go to ahal, Tree-Planting Woman.”
Tillie swallowed as he slid his lamplit broadsword from its scabbard. Directing a flood of invective at Khatty, the amenoukal never took his eyes from Tillie’s face. Then, with a final thrust of his sword into the air, he turned on his heel and strode from the chamber.
“Allah save us!” Khatty fell to her knees.
“What? What did he tell you?”
“Oh, Tree-Planting Woman, you must go to ahal! Amenoukal commands it. You must go, or he will . . . he will . . .” The young woman’s voice choked with sobs. “You do not know this man. He is very powerful. . . . He will . . .”
“Okay, okay. Calm down, Khatty.” Tillie let out a sigh and lifted the young woman to her feet. “I’ll go to the ahal. But you’d better understand right now, I’m not going to be his lover.”
“Ai!”
“Don’t start yipping again.” Tillie stood and met the woman’s eyes. “In my religion it’s forbidden to sleep with a man unless you are married. I won’t go against the law of God.”
Khatty blinked. “You are Christian?”
“Yes, I am. You know about my faith?”
“But of course.” She smiled proudly. “I go to mission school at Mopti, remember? I tell you that already. I know about Jesus Christ, born of virgin, die on cross, come to life again. I know it!”
Tillie let out a laugh that mingled amazement and relief. “I guess you do.”
“Islam teaches Jesus was great prophet like Mohammed. A wise teacher sent by God. But Christians say he is God’s son.”
“Who do you say he is, Khatty?”
“Mmm. Very difficult for me to say.” She pulled a deep purple burnous and a navy gown from her bags of clothing and shook them to smooth their wrinkles. The candle in its brass lantern wavered but did not go out. “Who do you say he is, Tree-Planting Woman?”
“I believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God.”
“Easy for you. Here I must live Muslim ways. I am fifth wife of my husband. No choice. Islam is in every part of my life. Holidays, prayers, laws, marriages, births, even food and drink. Very hard not to live Muslim ways in Tuareg caravan.”
Tillie stood for a moment watching the whirling shadows. Feeling more than ever as if she were lost in some fantastic nightmare, she slipped off the linen towel and put on the clean garments. “I’m sure it would be hard for you. Sometimes it’s hard for me to be a Christian. It’s hard for me to have faith.”
“No.”
“Yes, it is. When your husband captured me, I felt afraid. It’s been hard for me to trust that God is with me. And even when my faith is strong, sometimes I want to break God’s laws.” She smoothed down the fabric with her hands as the image of Graeme’s face formed in the lamplight. “If I love a man, I may be tempted to sleep with him, Khatty. But I’ve made a promise to my Lord not to do that, not to break his command. That’s why I will not spend the night with your husband.”
“You are strong.”
Tillie glanced out at the starlit sky. She didn’t feel strong. She felt weak and frightened. In spite of her bold words, she feared that her trust in God was tenuous. Christ would always be faithful to her . . . but could she be faithful to him?
Khatty gathered up her combs and began to work on the snarls and knots in Tillie’s hair. “I believe Jesus Christ is son of God,” she said softly. “But I cannot be Christian. Impossible for me in Tuareg caravan.”
Tillie turned and laid a hand on the young woman’s arm. “It’s not impossible.”
Khatty shrugged. “No? We see about that. Now you live in Tuareg caravan. Tonight you go to ahal, and my husband try to make love to you. I watch you, Tree-Planting Woman. I watch you be Christian tonight in Tuareg caravan.”
Tillie closed her eyes as the Targui braided her hair into a score of tiny plaits and wound them through with ribbons and silver chains. As if it weren’t hard enough just to survive, Lord, she
mused. Tonight I’ll have one Targui trying to force me to break your commandment and another watching to see how I live out my faith.
Her frustrated words to Hannah echoed in her mind. “I’ve been here almost a year, and I’m sure I haven’t touched a single life.” Was it only a few days ago that she’d been with Hannah in the Bamako marketplace? At that time the ache in her heart had been palpable. She had wanted to share Christ with the people of Mali. Wanted to help, to make a difference. She had envisioned doing so by handing out pamphlets or starting a little Sunday school.
But not this! God apparently expected her to live out her faith when she was pushed to the extreme . . . stretched to her limits . . . afraid for her life. It was too hard. Too much.
“Beautiful,” Khatty murmured. “Now I paint you.”
“This is enough. The hair is great. Really.”
“No, no. Paint is very beautiful. Amenoukal like paint on his women.”
“Terrific.”
As the serving maids bustled around the room setting up pots of paints, Khatty propped a large mirror in front of Tillie. Murmuring admiration, she began to paint her guest’s face in dramatic shades of red, yellow, and white.
“Now!” Khatty’s face was lit with a fiery glow of triumph as she sat back and surveyed her handiwork. “Now you are ready for ahal. Now you are ready for Tuareg feast of love.”
TEN
The two women walked out of the tent into the darkness. Khatty had dressed herself in a heavily embroidered indigo burnous. Decked with silver rings, earrings, necklaces, amulets, and armbands, she had painted her face, too, but not in the bold shades of Tillie’s. Instead, she had deepened the alluring lines of kohl around her eyes and had stained her lips a dark claret.
Stopping in front of another tent, Tillie and Khatty joined other women of the Tuareg drum group who sat before an older woman. In her arms the woman bore a one-stringed musical instrument. Its bowl and neck were carved and painted, and the old woman stroked it with a curved bow.
“Assou plays imzad,” Khatty whispered. “Music of Tuareg people is made with imzad.”
As Khatty finished speaking, Assou began a high-pitched song. Tillie twisted her beaded ring and looked around her. The men were nowhere to be seen, and again she wondered if she could use this chance to get away. But when she rose to her knees, she saw them approaching in groups of two and three.
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