Blue Jasmine
Page 2
The boy grinned as she sauntered towards him, boyish in her breeches and open-necked shirt. 'Salaam aleikum.' She tried out her Arabic as her gaze ran over the sleek chestnut who was snuffing the air and looking wonderfully fresh.
She tucked her biscuits and coffee-flask into the saddlebag and with an eager bound was in the saddle and grasping the reins. The boy gazed up at her, then he burst out in broken French. 'The boss says the lella must not go beyond the oasis, whose trees she will see just beyond the hammada. He says
`I know, Ahmet,' she broke in with a laugh. 'Like everyone else your boss will not hold himself responsible if I lose myself. Please tell him that I don't intend to do anything foolish. I shall visit the oasis, and be back at the Ras Jusuf in time for lunch.'
She gave the chestnut a prod of her heel and the next moment they were cantering beneath the archway that opened on to a quiet road, shaded by palms and leading to the open desert. At one side of the road ran the flower-hung wall of the hotel, at the other side a cool stream wended until it petered out into a sandy wadi.
Lorna urged her mount across the wadi and almost at once the tangy desert air enveloped them. It was still so early that the day and the desert seemed to belong to her alone, and as she rode across the sands, the exhilaration she felt was far more potent than anything she had imagined.
Even the bazaars of the East had not thrilled her to this extent. Rambling and noisy, with dim alcoves in which silks glimmered, where iron was hammered, and perfumes distilled. Pungent and picturesque, even mysterious. Lorna had enjoyed the many aromas, and exploring the sudden flights of stairs, and buying odd mementos of her visit ... but here in the desert she felt much closer to the eternal mystery of the East.
She brought her mount to a halt and gazed around at the long, smooth combers of sand. The sun seemed trapped in the waves of amber and burnt gold, and crystals glittered among the grains like scattered gems. The wind across the open spaces had polished the sandstone boulders and they had a reddish tinge, while overhead the sky was unbelievably blue.
Allah's golden garden, where travellers sought peace of heart, adventure ... or their destiny.
Lorna was unsure what she was seeking. She knew only that she was restless and lonely since losing her father. She hoped this sojourn in the desert might give her some sense of direction . . . she had thought of becoming a nurse, but first she had to get the desert out of her system. She had to touch the dream and then perhaps it might let her go.
Ahead of her lay the sweeping ridge of the hammada, and she let the chestnut break into a gallop and felt the wind in her face as they neared the uplands that hid from view the palm trees of the oasis.
Without pause or effort the horse bounded up the slopes of rock, and Lorna felt quite unafraid as they climbed higher and higher, until the desert sands lay shimmering far beneath them. Now the sun was burning overhead and Lorna felt the heat. There was a water-bottle in the saddlebag and she paused to take a drink. Then she pulled her slouch hat over her eyes and sat firm in the saddle as the chestnut picked his way down the other side of the hammada and with the loping strides of an Arabian horse made for the blessed green tufts that indicated the Oasis of Fadna.
Lorna dismounted beneath the cool shade of the trees and took off her hat, which left her hair clinging damply to her temples and her nape. Mmm, what a relief to be out of the sun ! She heard a cooing of pigeons and went eagerly forward to get a glimpse of the house, upon which the birds must be nesting.
There wasn't another sound except for that cooing. It was as if the oasis held its breath; as if it awaited the pained cry that broke from Lorna as she came in sight of what was left of the house in which her father had lived and painted.
The small, lime washed building was now a crumbling ruin, overrun by some sort of flowering weed that sought to hide the broken walls among the dateless palms of the oasis.
Lorna slumped against a palm tree and gazed in disappointment at what was left of her dream . . . and in that moment the words of the sand diviner were vividly real. He had said that the sands had encroached upon the house and smothered the flowers once planted along its walls, and because her dream of living here awhile had been so alive, it was extra shocking that the house should be so dead.
If Lorna had been a girl who wept easily, she might have wept for the passing of her dream. She knew that another house could be built here, but it wouldn't be the same. Its air and its atmosphere would not be those of the father she had loved and lost.
She turned away from the ruin and plucked a white flower that had clung tenaciously to life and bloomed on the broken wall, and she did not look back as she made her way among the trees to where she had left her horse. Now the oasis seemed shadowed, and she wanted to ride away and let the sands rest lightly on the spirit of her wise and witty father. Only a rose-like flower was left of his presence, and she tucked it into the pocket of her shirt.
She came to the edge of the oasis and glanced about for her mount. His tracks were deep in the sand, but the chestnut himself was nowhere to be seen!
Lorna whistled and went running among the trees in search of him, and as a sense of panic mounted in her, she realized that in her eagerness to look at the
house she had failed to tether the horse. She had forgotten that he was not Gige, her faithful mount back in France who followed her about like a great dog and needed no tether. The chestnut was an Arab horse. Finding himself free he had galloped off and left her to face a long walk back to the hotel, across the sands and the rocky hammada.
The prospect was daunting, and again if she had been the weeping sort she might have wept at her own heedlessness. Her coffee-flask and biscuits were in the saddlebag of the horse, along with the water-bottle. Her only consolation was that a small stream watered the oasis and she would not go thirsty while she waited for the sun to cool down. It would be madness to attempt the long walk while the desert sun was high; only in the cool of the evening would it be wise to set out for the Ras Jusuf.
`You ass, Lorna!' She threw herself down in the shade of a palm tree and tipped her hat over her eyes so she could gaze out across the sands in the forlorn hope that the chestnut would come trotting back.
The pigeons still cooed, but there wasn't a flutter of a leaf. It was noon, when the sun reached its zenith and shone with brutal strength for several hours. When it began to set a chill would creep over the desert and Lorna's trek would be cold and lonely, with queer shadows lurking in the hollows of the sand-dunes.
She dug her booted heels into the sand and settled down for a long wait. As yet she wasn't nervous, only annoyed with herself for being so careless. The chestnut would return to the stables from which she had borrowed him, and everyone at the hotel would have the satisfaction of saying that a girl like herself wasn't to be trusted alone in the desert.
She wrinkled her nose as she thought of the Feathertons, and shrugged a slim shoulder as she remembered Rodney's warning. 'Girls have been carried off and never heard of again !'
She trickled sand through her fingers and was certain that no Arab would find her slender proportions to his taste. Arabs liked their women plump and submissive, and she gave a laugh at the thought of ever being submissive to a man. She was amazed by the girls who couldn't wait to be fettered to one by a wedding ring. She couldn't help but love her own freedom.
Mmmm, a cigarette would be welcome right now, but in her eagerness to rise and ride she had left her cigarette-case and her lighter on the dressing-table of the hotel bedroom.
She rested her head against the trunk of the palm tree and drowsed for a while, until the longing for a cup of coffee became so tormenting that she rose to her feet and made for the stream that wended its way among the trees. She knelt and assuaged her thirst and dabbed the cool water against her temples. Drops of it ran down her neck and made her flimsy apricot shirt cling to her. She eyed the surrounding trees and wished they were date palms, hung with great bunches of glistening amber fruit.
seconds, and then she leapt to her feet and swung round.
Her senses had not misled her . . . a robed figure was standing among the trees staring at her. He was swarthy, bearded, and even as Lorna looked at him with alarm he unwound a scarf from about his throat and began to approach her in a stealthy, intentional way.
`What do you want?' she cried out.
A pair of cunning eyes stared into hers and Lorna realized that he wanted her. She turned to flee, and then cried out in pain and horror as a long arm reached out and dark fingers caught her by the hair. The dirty white scarf was flung over her face, throttling the scream that rose in her throat. Again and yet again the scarf was bound about her mouth and with a sense of nightmare she felt her hands gripped behind her and secured in the long ends of the scarf.
She kicked, struggled, made a brave effort to run and was tripped on her face and then jerked roughly to her feet. Again those mean little eyes held hers, then the Arab jerked her into a walk, past the shell of the house and out under the trees at the other side of the oasis, where a fine black horse stood flicking its long tail at the sand-flies.
The stallion was tethered to a tree and as Lorna was pushed towards him, he shied in a nervous way and she saw the rowel marks where spurs had been used on him. There were spurs on the Arab's boots and his hands were equally cruel as he threw her across the withers of the horse and then leapt into the scarlet saddle.
The horse jibbed, reared up, and gave a shrill neigh as the Arab jerked roughly on the reins, directing the animal away from the hammada towards the open desert.
Lorna's heart was gripped by fear and panic, for now the Arab had thrown his burnous over her and was holding her against him as the stallion bounded forward across the sands. It was a brutal, bruising grip, and the blinding folds of the burnous made it impossible for her to see, or to breathe properly. Her head was spinning, she could hardly think straight .. .
This brute had followed her to the oasis, and it was all too horribly true what Rodney had said about desert kidnappers. She should have listened to him, but wilful and sure of herself she had dismissed his warning as nonsense. She had invited something like this to happen, but hadn't dreamed that it would!
Where was the brute taking her?
She could feel the speed of the stallion, and it struck her as strange that so beautiful an animal should belong to her bearded abductor. In all probability he didn't. Someone who was low enough to kidnap a girl wouldn't hesitate to steal a horse.
On and on raced the stallion, with only a short pause while the Arab took a drink from his water-bottle. He offered none to Lorna, but she heard the gurgle of the water as he drank and took the opportunity to wriggle her head free of the musky burnous.
The desert stretched all around them, a sea of silence and burning sand, which weighed upon her shocked senses and gave her the feeling that she was lost to her only friend at the Ras Jusuf . the young
man who would have been with her at the Oasis of Fadna if she had not rejected him with unkind words. Now she longed for him . . . prayed for someone to come and end this nightmare !
The stallion started forward again, and the Arab's arm securely imprisoned Lorna against the none too clean robes. Now and again he growled to himself as if he were feeling the heat, and perhaps a certain impatience. He spurred the stallion and Lorna felt the quiver that ran over the fine animal. He wasn't used to such treatment !
Lorna was drooping with fatigue and seeing everything through a haze when a band of horsemen appeared suddenly, strung out in a line upon a high, sweeping ridge of sand, like figures in an etching, or a dream. The sun was behind them and they raced darkly against the vivid glow, their cloaks flying out above the hindquarters of their mounts.
As they swooped with precision down the hill of sand, Lorna's abductor checked his mount for a moment and she heard him mutter something in his throat. Then he swung the stallion away from the cloaked riders and put him into a gallop that threw Lorna closer still to the beastly robes. He was afraid of the horsemen, and at once her heart bounded with the hope that they had run into a desert patrol.
She craned her neck to get a look at the horsemen and saw that one of them was riding well ahead of the others. His mount was as black and sleek as her kidnapper's, but there was extra speed in him because he carried only a single burden, a dark-robed figure who crouched over the saddle and held something in his right hand.
Lorna thought it was a gun, and then as the distance shortened between them she saw him draw back his hand and let fly with the object. There was a raw whine and something snaked darkly about the Arab who held her ... he let out a cry, let go of Lorna and went toppling out of the saddle. At the same instant the cloaked rider drew alongside the stallion and Lorna was snatched from his back before she could be thrown.
Stunned, breathless, she heard a deep call of command that sent the stallion spinning high on its back legs, then it came to a panting halt, its flanks heaving, its body streaming with sweat.
The other riders galloped up. Lorna, still very confused, was handed over to one of them like a doll. Their leader then dismounted with a wide flare of his cloak and approached the misused stallion. He gentled him and spoke soothingly in a deep, soft voice. He examined the raked legs, and then he swung round and never in her life had Lorna seen a face so striking, so fierce, so stamped with autocracy. His lips were drawn into a thin line as he strode to the Arab he had unseated with a horsewhip. Deliberately that whip was raised and Lorna was held speechless as her kidnapper was soundly flogged.
Then the tall, cloaked figure turned to Lorna who felt a thrill of fear like no other as she met the man's tawny eyes. Eyes that glittered and commanded and were made extra startling by the black lashes that surrounded them and the black level brows that bridged them.
He flashed those tawny eyes over her from head to foot and in a stride he came to her and unwound the scarf from about her face. She took a deep gulp of air and blinked her sweat-tangled lashes. She couldn't speak for several seconds, for everything had happened so suddenly.
`I'm grateful to you, m'sieu,' she said in French, but her voice shook and her gratitude was unsure. She gestured at the Arab, beaten into a huddled heap on the sands. 'He carried me off—for money I think.'
`Money, eh?' The tawny eyes lingered on the sunlit confusion of her hair. A soft wave flopped forward, framing her deep blue eyes; her neck rose slim and white out of the opening of her shirt. Not content with stealing horses, he steals a petite fille! He has been a busy fellow.'
Lorna knew flawless French when she heard it spoken, but somehow it seemed strange coming from a man who wore a desert cloak, a head cloth bound by a dark cord, and tall boots of polished leather.
`The horse is mine.' The gesture he made towards the tired stallion was very Gallic. 'Mon Dieu, I did not think to get him back with a bonus !'
Suddenly the man smiled, his fine teeth flashing white against the sun-bronzed skin of his lean face. A smile usually had the effect of softening a face, but this man's features remained forceful, striking, and a devilish glint came into his eyes. He looked illimitably sure of himself and far from in need of ransom money . . . Lorna's heart began to pound in the most alarming fashion.
`I am called Kasim ben Hussayn.' He gave her a slight foreign bow. 'May I know the name of the petite Anglaise? Come, tell me!'
She gave a nervous start at the imperious click of his fingers, and there swept over her a feeling of wanting to tell him to mind his own business . . . whatever that might be !
`I am Lorna Morel,' she said in her coolest tones. 'I would be grateful if one of your men could escort me back to the Ras Jusuf Hotel at Yraa, where I am staying. He will be generously paid for his trouble.'
`He will, eh?' A disconcerting glint came into the tawny eyes. 'What in your estima
tion is suitable payment for rescuing a foolish girl from the hands of a horse thief? A handful of francs?'
She was held by the eyes that reflected the colour of the desert and even as she disliked him for mocking her, she thought again that he spoke like a Frenchman and used his hands in a Gallic way. Her father had been friendly with French people during the year they had lived in Paris—the last year of his life—and a couple of the men had tried to overcome her reserve with their Gallic charm. She had been amused by them, but they had got no further than a kiss on her wrist.
`I am tired and thirsty, m'sieu, and not in the mood for riddles.' She brushed the soft wave of hair out of her eyes. 'May I have a guide to take me to the hotel?'
`Are you not going to thank me for coming to your rescue?'
`I did—in the beginning.'
`Because you thought me a French officer in charge of a desert patrol.' He tossed his cloak over his shoulder with an arrogant gesture. 'Do I look a Frenchman,
mademoiselle?'
She thought he looked as arrogant as the devil. 'I should so like a drink of water,' she said huskily.
He said something to one of his men, who leapt at once from his horse and approached the black stallion. He took the reins and climbed into the scarlet saddle. Lorna made an instinctive movement of retreat as the picturesque figure who gave the orders took a step towards her. He caught at the scarf that bound her hands and released them, and the breath seemed to get lost in her throat as he took hold of her and tossed her into the saddle of the vacated horse.
`Drink ! ' He gestured at the water-bottle that hung from the pommel of the horse's saddle. 'We have a long ride ahead of us.'
She gulped gratefully at the water, then closed the leather top and hung the bottle by its strap on the high-peaked saddle. 'I don't need an entire escort, m'sieu.' Her smile was faintly nervous. 'One man will do, just to show me the way to the hotel.'
`The hotel?' He quirked a black eyebrow. 'We are not going to Yraa . . . we are returning to my encampment.'