A Kiss of Adventure

by Catherine Palmer

  His movement stirred her. “Graeme?” She reached up and laid her hand on his face. “Oh, it’s you. Thank goodness.”

  He held her to his chest, buried his face in her hair, tangled his fingers in its waves. “I dreamed you were gone. Tillie, I swear if I’d known there was going to be this much danger . . . I never would have . . .”

  “You didn’t know what was going to happen to us any more than I did.” She brushed the hair from his cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be okay.”

  “We’ve got to figure some way to get the amenoukal off our backs. We’ve got to get this treasure thing out of our lives. I never wanted it to become so threatening.”

  “Shh. It’s okay.”

  It wasn’t okay. Nothing would be okay until she was safe. He pressed her head against his chest. Outside, the sandstorm raged on like a lion trapped in a cage.

  “Do you hear that sound?” Tillie’s voice was low.

  “What sound?”

  “That wailing noise. I wonder if it’s the djenoun.”

  “The what?”

  “The djenoun. Khatty told me the djenoun are the people of the empty places. The people of the night. She said they make that strange droning noise. The Tuareg are afraid of the djenoun.”

  He relaxed a little. “Sounds like your basic bogeyman story to me.”

  “I guess so. Did I tell you Khatty made up a beautiful poem about you? She called you the son of a waran.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a compliment.”

  She laughed. “The waran is the Egyptian monitor lizard. For some reason, the Tuareg honor it. I think Khatty meant it as a term of praise. She says you’re a terribly brave man for going up against the amenoukal on my behalf.”

  “It’s a toss-up as to which of us has rescued the other more often.” As the memory of his dream faded, he felt his muscles unknot. “Khatty’s special to you, isn’t she?”

  “In a strange way. If we’d been born in the same culture, we might have been friends. Maybe even good friends. We understand each other’s minds. In spite of Khatty’s haughtiness, she’s easy to like. She’s intense. She cares. But you should have seen her bossing her servants around. And the food. Ever tasted camel’s milk?”

  “Sure. Right now that sounds almost good. Are you hungry?”

  “Thirsty.”

  “It’s the lack of moisture in the air. My eyes feel like they’re full of sand. Probably are. Come on, let’s see what we can find to eat.”

  Graeme fumbled around in the darkness until he found the matches and lantern. Their cave filled with soft light as the tiny lamp came to life. He filled two small plastic cups with water and handed one to Tillie. The water was cool as it ran down his parched throat and settled in his empty stomach.

  Tillie looked around their makeshift home. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “It’s holding up pretty well.”

  There were growing piles of sand in each corner and along the perimeter of the truck bed. Occasionally more sand would sift down from the ceiling and scatter across the blankets.

  “Maybe it’s good we’re here in the middle of the desert,” she said. “At least we’re safe and we can rest.” She looked into his eyes. “Are we safe, Graeme?”

  “From the amenoukal? He’d never find us in this.”

  “From the storm. Do you think it’s burying us?”

  He reached out and thumped the canvas with his fist. There was a dull thud. “It gives a little. I don’t think we’re in too deep. I’m a little concerned about the roof, though.”

  “If it caves in—” She stopped abruptly. Listened. Sudden silence settled over the truck. “What’s going on?”

  “Storm’s over.”

  “Just like that?”

  The wind had gone all at once, as though a giant hand had covered its source. The truck stopped shuddering, and Graeme realized it was resting at an odd angle in the sand. Muted light filtered through the patchwork of sheets and blankets. A gentle glow settled on the piles of sand along the metal floor.

  “I’m scared to move,” Tillie whispered. “Like if I do, the wind will start up again.”

  Instead, a new sound took the place of the wind. A rushing, splattering noise. Water.

  “It’s raining, Graeme.”

  “Come on, Tillie-girl. Let’s get out of this sandbox.”

  They pulled down the sheets covering the canvas flap, brushed back mounds of sand, and wrenched open the gritty tailgate catch. Graeme gave the gate a shove, and it fell with a clang.

  “Graeme, look!” Tillie’s voice was hushed.

  He straightened beside her. Their world had completely changed. From a dry, barren plain with scrub grass and low bushes, the landscape had become nothing but desert as far as the eye could see. Dunes rolled to the horizon. Rain cascaded like buckets dumped from heaven. And the smell . . . clean, fresh, wet.

  He bounded out of the truck and slogged to the top of the nearest dune. Warm rain washed over him. He shook his head and sand flew out of his hair. His dry, parched skin soaked up the moisture. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and tasted the raindrops.

  “Graeme!” Tillie waved from the top of another dune. Her hair streamed down her shoulders, her shirt and trousers stuck to her skin, her feet sank into the sand. She started to laugh. “I feel like a sponge.”

  “You look like a sponge.”

  In answer, she sprinted toward him and threw her arms around him. “I love this crazy place!” She threw back her head and gave a gurgling chuckle as the rain ran down her throat.

  Graeme lifted her into his arms and swung her around and around until they fell dizzily onto the sand. Rolling down the dune, they tumbled over until they lay gasping with laughter. When he reached for her, she rolled away and sprang to her feet. She raced up another dune and waved her arms like a cheerleader gone mad.

  “Come back here!” he shouted, trotting after her.

  “Catch me!” She shrieked as he lunged, missed, and rolled back down the dune. Holding her stomach with laughter at the sight of him lying spread-eagled on the sand, Tillie turned and ran to the top of another dune. “Hey, lazybones! You can do better than that.”

  Graeme was on his feet and halfway up the hill before she could move. She took off like a gazelle, all arms and legs, dashing down the dune.

  “No, no, no!” she cried.

  It was too late. His arms went around her waist. She struggled, but he held her tight.

  “Yes, yes, yes.” His mouth covered hers. “Always say yes to me, Tillie-girl.”

  For a moment he believed she was his, completely and wholly. But then she drew back and lifted her eyes to the sky. “It’s clearing already.”

  “I’d stay here forever with you. Just like this.”

  She grinned. “We’d be mummies by this afternoon if we did that. The sun is after me already.”

  The moment was over. Her shield of resistance was back in place. She wouldn’t come closer; her heart held her back.

  “Let’s see if we can get that monster of a truck going again.” When he relaxed his arms, she moved away. He watched in fascination as she brushed the sand from her clothes. “You keep that up, and we’ll never get to Timbuktu.”

  She blushed from her neck to the roots of her hair. “I’ll get to Timbuktu with or without you.” Turning, she started back toward the truck. “The secret is in my amulet, and I’m going to figure it out.”

  “Sure you want to?”

  “Positive.”

  Graeme stepped over to the truck and kicked at a tire half-buried in sand.

  “Can we get it out?” she asked.

  “Maybe. The sand is wet enough to give us some traction if we hurry. But that’s not the real problem.” He looked up and scanned the horizon. “The road is gone.”

  She frowned. Here and there a sign of what might be the rutted track emerged from the sand, but it looked impossible to follow. “Any ideas?”

  Graeme shrugged and began
digging the loose sand away from the tires. Tillie slammed the tailgate and helped him dig. When they walked around to the cab, Graeme opened the door to a shower of sand and slid onto the seat. Tillie climbed in beside him.

  “There’s a compass on the dashboard,” he told her. “Robert assured me it works. I know we’re going north, and I expect the storm has wiped out the road only part of the way. If we can get over these dunes, we’ll find it again somewhere ahead. But this truck wasn’t made to go over sand. That’s what dromedaries are for.”

  Tillie reflected for a moment. “Do you suppose the amenoukal is near?”

  “No idea. Let’s go.”

  He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine ground over. He could hear Tillie breathing in prayer, “Come on. Come on, start.”

  As if in answer, the engine coughed to life and began its familiar rattle. She let out her breath and leaned back as he put the truck in gear. It lurched forward as though eager to leave the desert, spun for a moment, then climbed out of its ruts and rolled across the sand.

  “Doing good, babe,” he whispered as the truck crept over the uneven surface.

  Keeping a close eye on the compass, he worked the gears, edging forward, careful not to stall. The truck wailed like a banshee. Over one dune. Down the steep side. Into a ravine. Up a slanted scree. After what seemed like hours, the truck suddenly crested a hill, and they spotted the road a hundred yards to the west. The desert faded, and the landscape returned to typical Sahel terrain.

  Tillie reached over and kneaded Graeme’s taut back. He let out a breath. “It’s getting dark, but I want to keep going.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “She’s all yours.” He pulled the truck to a stop but left the engine running. They traded places, and he watched her take the wheel, throw the engine into gear, and maneuver the truck back onto the road. Amazing woman.

  The night closed in quickly, and Tillie flipped on the headlights. The landscape altered little during mile after mile of bumpy road. Stars winked on one by one in the rain-washed sky. She rubbed her eyes. Yawned.

  Graeme felt tired enough to sleep again. He shut his eyes. Memories of Tillie dancing across the dunes played inside his eyelids. Rain streamed down her hair. She laughed.

  “Graeme!” The truck bounced to a stop.

  He lifted his head. “What’s the matter?”

  “Look at that light.” A faint glow lit the horizon just ahead. “What is it?”

  He took her hand and wrapped it in his. “It’s Timbuktu.”

  THIRTEEN

  The mysterious Queen of the Sands rose out of the desert like an ageless, shimmering jewel. Tillie and Graeme sat in the old truck and gazed at the city that meant the end of their quest. For a long time they could neither move nor speak, each thinking private thoughts of what might occur in Timbuktu and what their future would be once they left her.

  “She’s beautiful,” Tillie whispered.

  Graeme turned his head and studied the woman beside him. “Are you ready for what may happen here?”

  “I can face anything. Do you have a plan?”

  “We’ll go into the town and find the Sankore Mosque. I know a guy who works in the library there. I think he can help us.”

  “You know about that library?” Doubt drifted up inside her like oil on a clear pond. Arthur had told her the hidden library held volumes of great antiquity and value. And someone was stealing them and smuggling them out of Mali. “Who is this man you know? How do you know him?”

  “Mahamane Samouda. He helped me with some of my research on Mungo Park. He speaks English. We corresponded in it. He’s prominent in Timbuktu, and he’s aware of just about everything that goes on. He’ll know if Arthur and Hannah are here. And he’ll have word on the Tuareg if they’re in town.”

  At the mention of Arthur, Tillie’s fears joined her doubts. “Graeme, about Arthur—”

  “He said he’d meet you in Timbuktu, right? I’m sure he’s waiting.”

  Twisting the beaded band on her finger, she searched the darkness. “He was upset the last time we were together. I don’t know how he’ll react when he sees me again.”

  “He didn’t want you traipsing up the Niger?”

  “Not with you.”

  “Ah.”

  “When I told Arthur about the amulet and the treasure, he got very interested in finding it. He said it could give us financial security after we married.”

  Graeme’s brows drew together. “Is that why you decided to look for the treasure? Are you thinking about life with Arthur again?”

  “I’m thinking Arthur may be more interested in the treasure than in me these days.” Her mind reached back for something he had said. “Arthur’s worried about having money. He said we should find the journal. He said it would . . . it would be worth a lot.”

  Graeme leaned forward. “Mungo Park’s journal?”

  “He said it would have immeasurable value of its own.”

  “If he values his life, he’ll forget that idea.”

  “Graeme! How could you say such a thing?”

  He hesitated, weighing his words. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m not looking for the treasure. I want that journal. If Arthur tries to get in my way—”

  She stared at him. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! The journal is just a book, Graeme. And I don’t care if Arthur does find the treasure.”

  “The amenoukal will make sure that never happens. I imagine the Malian government will make sure, too. Look, let’s leave Arthur out of this until we’ve talked with my friend at the mosque. If we can pool the information we already have with anything Mahamane Samouda can tell us, we may be able to head in the right direction. Are you with me?”

  “What does it look like?”

  His smile was mirthless. “Partners.”

  Tillie wished she could shake off her discomfort and return to the easy camaraderie they had shared during the sandstorm. She threw the truck into gear, stepped on the gas, and sent them rattling toward Timbuktu. “All right. Let’s go find Mahamane Samouda.”

  The moon was high, and Tillie’s watch told her it was nearly ten o’clock when she turned onto Timbuktu’s only paved street. It ran between rows of boxlike clay houses, relics of antiquity suffering the indignity of a tarmac road. Beehive ovens perched at the street corners, and minarets rose high over the town.

  Finding the Sankore Mosque wasn’t hard. It was the oldest and largest of the three mosques in Timbuktu. Studded with long wooden spikes, its tall, slope-sided minarets pointed skyward. A wall of stone and clay, buttressed and topped with rounded crenellations like a Muslim version of a medieval castle, surrounded the mosque. Except for strange, thin Arabic melodies floating from latticework windows, a deathlike silence shrouded the town. Tillie parked the truck, and she and Graeme climbed out.

  “I’m not allowed inside, am I?” she whispered as they walked up the steps of the mosque. “I don’t think women are permitted.”

  “We’ll see.” Graeme knocked on the heavy door. A cockeyed old man in a white cap and caftan opened it. Graeme asked him a question in French. One of the man’s wandering eyes looked at Tillie, and the other studied Graeme—then he scowled and started to shut the door.

  “Mahamane Samouda?” Graeme asked.

  The doorkeeper hesitated, then signaled the couple to wait. Fifteen minutes dragged by until finally a middle-aged man appeared at the door. He looked outside. Skin the color of latte, eyes sharp and black, he adjusted a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose.

  “Oui?”

  “Mahamane Samouda?” Graeme repeated.

  “Oui. C’est moi.”

  “I’m Graeme McLeod. I wrote to you from the United States and from Scotland.”

  “Ah, Monsieur McLeod.” The man nodded. “Graeme McLeod from United States. You are here in Timbuktu? Have they sent you—”

  “Yes,” Graeme cut in. “This is Matilda Thornton. She’s with me.”

  Ti
llie held out her hand, unsure of the Muslim man’s reaction to an unveiled white woman. But Mahamane grasped her hand firmly. “Welcome. You like coffee? Something to eat? Come inside.”

  Graeme put his arm around Tillie’s shoulders as they walked through the front door. They slipped out of their shoes as Mahamane indicated and followed him down a long hall away from the inner holy areas.

  “I am in the library tonight preparing a lecture. You are fortunate to find me. Usually I am at my home at this late hour, Monsieur McLeod.”

  He opened a door and led them into a cavernous room. A small brass lamp hanging on a long chain from the ceiling provided the only light, but it was enough to reveal a hint of the splendor the mosque must once have contained. Threadbare carpets in shades of indigo and burgundy had been strewn haphazardly across the floors. Chairs studded with brass nails were clumped in groups, as though scholars had just abandoned them. Like a maze with no defined entrance or exit, row upon row of carved shelves rose to the ceiling. Each shelf was crammed with scrolls and large books with leather bindings. A musty smell permeated the room, the scent of mildew mingled with old leather, incense, and wood smoke.

  Mahamane led Tillie and Graeme to a darkened corner of the room and motioned them to sit beside him on two faded red brocade pillows trimmed in raveled gold fringe.

  “Now, Graeme McLeod,” he said in a library whisper, “what do you need of me?”

  Graeme opened his mouth to speak, but a door opened. The cockeyed doorman entered, carrying a tray with a silver pot of steaming coffee and a plate of dried dates. Mahamane dismissed the man, then filled three tiny cups with thick black Arab coffee. Tillie accepted hers and took a sip.

  “As you know, we’ve come from Bamako to search for Mungo Park’s journal,” Graeme began.

  “There is such a document?”

  “We think so. The Tuareg told Tillie about it.”

  “Ah, the Tuareg.” The man’s expression told Graeme he doubted the Tuareg would tell the truth about anything.