But it was clear from the looks on the faces of the men inside the tent that this was not supposed to happen. This was no one in their clan.
One of the men shouted and ran for the door. Pandemonium ensued, as the rest of them followed him outside.
There were more gunshots, more shouting.
One of the women grabbed her by the shoulder and helped her to her feet. She was led to the other side of the tent, through to the women’s side–although no women were there, they were all outside. The heavily veiled woman led her outside, on the side away from all the pandemonium. She had an arm around Yasmin’s shoulders, and seemed determined to get her safely out of the way.
It was then that Yasmin looked up. The woman was not her mother, or her aunt, or anyone she knew.
“Where are we going?” the frightened girl asked.
“Quiet,” was the terse reply. “It’s your only hope to stay alive.”
January 27, 2007, 10:48 a.m.
(18 minutes since end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
As all the men rushed from the tent, a motor gunned to life, and a green truck came pulling around from the other side of the big tent. It raced past the tent, and stopped only long enough to pick up the two men who had been shooting their rifles. Then it took off down the dirt road, heading for the highway.
“Who are they?” shouted one of the Hajj’s men.
“What did they want?”
“Why did they insult us like this?”
As if in answer, a female scream came from inside the big tent. The Hajj himself turned and went back in. And there, sitting in the middle of the floor alone, was the bride’s mother, her dress and veils completely covering her. Even so, the Hajj could tell she was crying.
“Woman, speak,” demanded the Hajj.
“She’s gone. The bride is gone.”
The Hajj’s oldest son, Farook, had come in after him.
Before the Hajj could speak, Farook turned and blustered out of the tent, saying, “The bride is taken! To the trucks!”
There was a mad dash as the men ran to their tents for the weapons and then began loading into the available trucks.
Inside the tent, the Hajj said to the mother, “I will do everything I can to bring her home, with her honor intact.”
Then he went into his private bedroom. He hadn’t consciously been expecting to find something. But there, on one of his pillows, was a note, written with a flourish on a large piece of paper. The Hajj grabbed it up.
All it said was: The box for your bride
He gave a roar, and stalked back out through the tent. He purposely went out the side away from the gathering posse, so that he could plant his feet and cry to heaven. His howl of pain had no words. It was a plea, a confession, a bellow of wrath.
Then he turned and ran to find Farook.
He didn’t notice the young girl with fearful blue eyes watching from the otherwise-empty maharama, women’s section of the tent, who darted out to pick up the paper where he dropped it as he turned to run.
January 27, 2007, 10:54 a.m.
(24 minutes since end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
“Farook, my son,” said the Hajj to his firstborn, “they have taken the bride. You ride in the first wave of trucks; I will follow in the second. It should not be hard to follow the tire tracks if we hurry and go now!”
A roar went up from the rest of the men. They were fired up, and ready to go, do some tracking and some catching and some exacting of revenge. It was a terrible thing that had happened. It was a fine thing that had happened. They knew how to handle this. The taste of blood was in their mouths. It was like the old times.
As Farook held his traditional knife, his shabriya, he turned toward the trucks.
“My son, listen to me. This is not what you are expecting to hear,” the Hajj said under his breath, his hand firmly holding his son back from going just yet.
“The most important thing is the return of my bride, with her honor intact. We will not make this a blood feud, if that can be accomplished. When you catch the men who have her, do not kill them. Say, ‘We will give you the item of great value, in return for our item of great value.’ If the leader agrees, it shall be so.”
Farook was looking at him like he was crazy. “You are letting someone greatly dishonor our tribe, our people? You are asking me not to kill them? To tell them politely we have a trade?”
“Yes. And if you are to be a great leader after me, in this instance you must listen and obey.”
Farook was still staring at him, confused, when the men around him surged forward, and Farook came to and led them, with a shout, to the first truck.
January 27, 2007, 10:56 a.m.
(26 minutes since end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
The Hajj had only one thought: to acquire something of enough worth that he could use it as a ransom for Yasmin.
He had only ever been back to the treasure cave once since that fateful day with Rashid. And that had been only a month ago, when he had gone back, first to see if he could still find it, after all these years–and then to see if it was still as full of treasures as he remembered.
If so, certainly there would be something there of as much worth as the box.
Certainly el-Musaq would be willing to talk, to negotiate? For if the Hajj could find several items of value, perhaps el-Musaq could be talked into keeping one for himself and forgetting the lost box?
The problem that haunted the Hajj was that when he had gone back and had finally found the ravine into which Rashid had fallen, and from which he had escaped, he had looked up and seen the small opening to the cave high above him.
And he had known, given his age, and weight and physical shape, that there was no way he could climb up and reach the entrance to the cave.
Yet there was no one else he could trust with such knowledge.
No one.
But el-Musaq had taken Yasmin, and Omar had to go back. By himself. Now. With no possibility of failure.
As the men of the tribe all ran and jumped into the backs of the vehicles with their weapons, the Hajj disappeared.
He went back through the tent, and followed a path behind the plateau on which they’d been camping. He was heading for the horses.
As old as he was, he had to ride, and he had to ride quickly.
He had to return by the time the men did.
He had to have a suitable ransom.
A bride-price meant for a king.
January 27, 2007, 11:02 a.m.
(32 minutes since end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
By the time Jaime caught up with Op 1–Yani–he was prone, hidden on an outcropping of stone, overlooking the horses. The Hajj was inside the makeshift corral. He had just chosen a stallion as Jaime came and lay down beside Yani.
The young man Suleiman helped the Hajj by bridling his mount while the Hajj found his personal saddle and brought it to the horse. The saddle looked like a beautiful blanket with intricate beading in patterns of blue and yellow flowers. Brown leather had been crafted into a Bedouin version of a saddle horn and also a saddle back. The bridle and girth were handmade, with blue and yellow tassels.
Then the Hajj gave some kind of instructions to Suleiman–perhaps to guard the camp and the women in the absence of the other men–for Suleiman nodded solemnly and started up toward the tents.
Yani waited a moment for Suleiman to disappear, started to get up. It seemed clear Yani intended to follow the Hajj.
Jaime reached out and caught Yani’s sleeve in time to pull him back down.
For as soon as the Hajj and Suleiman were out of sight, young Safia emerged from a different hidd
en vantage point and half-ran, half-slid down to the horse corral. One of the horses, an Arabian, trotted over to her, and nudged her in hopes of a treat.
Instead, she hurried to the gear and selected a bridle, this one with fine silver work, as well as black and white tassels.
Then she walked her horse out of the pen, closed the gate, jumped on, bareback, and headed off into the desert, using the same path that the Hajj had used.
At that point, Jaime and Yani stood simultaneously and headed down for the horses.
“Op 2 is staying here, on site?”
“Yes,” Yani replied.
They each chose a bridle from the equipment stash and hurried back to the pen to catch horses.
“Help me with this one,” Yani said of a large black stallion he had caught but was having trouble bridling.
Jaime came over to calm the horse and hold his neck as Yani then easily slipped the bridle over the stallion’s head. The bridle had intricate patterns hammered into nickel; there was no bit.
Once Yani was set, Jaime turned to find the bridle for one of the other mounts. But as she did, both she and Yani stood up quickly. It sounded like two men were talking as they approached the corral on the camp path above them.
Yani had put the matching blanket/saddle onto the stallion and had mounted.
“Come,” he said, and he held a hand down to her.
She reached a hand up to him and tried to jump, but as he pulled up on her arm, her entire back pulsed with pain, all the scabbing about to rip open.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Open the gate. Then climb the fence. Quickly.”
She opened the gate, and his mount came out, prancing with eagerness. Jaime balanced herself on a taut wire of the pen, and from there was able to swing up behind Yani as he guided the horse her way.
He turned the horse the way the other two had gone, and they headed off into the desert sands.
January 27, 2007, 11:15 a.m.
(45 minutes since end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
The Hajj hadn’t ridden this hard and this long for many years. When he stopped at a hidden spring to water his horse, he was so saddle sore that he could hardly stand. Even if he could scale the cliff to the treasure cave in ordinary circumstances, how could he ever accomplish it in this condition?
He figured the cave was about fifteen miles from where they currently made camp. This was fortunate, because they were at their westernmost campsite–at their eastern site, he would have been nearly forty miles away, with no hope of making it there and back in time, especially on one horse.
The Hajj felt every bone creak. He was too old to be doing this.
But then he thought of Yasmin, of how she was counting on him, and he cooled his horse down with some of the water from the spring, remounted, and continued on his way.
January 27, 2007, 11:24 a.m.
(54 minutes since end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
Jaime understood why Safia’s countenance glowed when she talked about riding horses.
The black stallion beneath Jaime and Yani must be at least seventeen hands. He was all muscle and sinew, and it seemed as though he’d been waiting all his life to run this race.
When they had stopped at the spring used by Omar and Safia, their mount had hardly been winded. He did drink but was eager to be pointed in a direction and given his head once more.
Somehow, though, he knew he wasn’t to overtake the other riders, which he easily could have done. He understood he was tracking them.
There was a square attachment at the back of the saddle, a piece that was meant to hold a second rider. While Jaime loved riding and would have loved to have her own mount, she was content on this magnificent beast behind Yani, her arms wrapped around him, forced to hold him tight. The joyful gallop of the steed, the vast ocean of sand, the winter sun above them, the closeness of Yani. She knew he wasn’t hers, would never be hers, and yet, for these moments, it was as if he were. Jaime held him in her arms, and his strength, his passion, the depth and complexity that made him Sword 23, that made him the stuff of legend–that, at one fleeting moment in time, had made him hers–filled her world.
They were on a mission, of course.
Because of that, the moment this ride ended she would let go.
She would let go.
Yani reined in the stallion and looked at the tracks in the sand in front of them. For the first time, the hoofprints of the two horses diverged. The Hajj, with the larger tracks that went deeper into the sand, had gone to the left; the girl, with the smaller horse and lighter tread, had gone to the right.
“Follow the Hajj?” Yani asked.
“Follow the girl,” replied Jaime.
“Why?” Yani’s tone was interested rather than demanding.
“She took the box. My guess is she’s on her way to get it.”
Yani glanced back at Jaime, gave a small smile, and pointed the horse to the right.
January 27, 2007, 12:10 p.m.
(1 hour, 40 minutes since end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
The Hajj stood in the ravine below the treasure cave, trembling. Partly because of the arduous ride. Mostly because he now stood in the place he had last seen Rashid. Where his body had fallen. Where the scavengers had come to pick him apart.
The Hajj now stood in the place from which his cousin’s hand had finally disappeared.
In his mind, he was no longer the Hajj. He was Omar. No one, nothing, but Omar.
The boy who was nothing special.
He looked up the sheer cliff to the opening of the cave that had once seemed like a palace of riches.
He tried to remember what he had seen inside that cave. If there was anything that would bring Yasmin back to him, unharmed.
Then he looked at the cliff wall. Here and there he could see indentations that were deep enough to be used as handholds. But there were not nearly enough.
He should have brought someone else along. There must have been someone he could trust.
Omar’s sons were ambiguous about him, as people had been all his life. He did not trust them. His sons sensed that he was not a great man; he was no one who would have become Hajj under normal circumstances. He belonged with the other unremarkables in the middle of the pack. If Omar had brought his sons here, they may have pushed him from the cave the same way he pushed Rashid.
Was that true? Or was it that the events of that horrible day had given Omar a specific lens, a shattered lens, through which he had viewed the rest of his life?
Omar stood and looked up to the cave once again.
And this time, he saw Rashid. Rashid was in the cave, leaning over the edge, looking at him.
Has he lived here all this time, laughing at me? Omar wondered nonsensically.
“Rashid!” he called. The sun shone in his eyes as he looked up. By the time he raised his hand to block out the blinding beams, the head had disappeared.
And he found resolve he’d never had before as he walked to the rough rock wall and began to climb.
January 27, 2007, 12:10 p.m.
(1 hour, 40 minutes since end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
She never meant to hurt anyone.
Safia had taken the box for safekeeping, so that the Hajj could not sell it–not to cause trouble. She had no reason to like the Hajj’s new bride, but she certainly did not mean to ruin her life by causing her to be kidnapped. It had never occurred to Safia that something so terrible could happen.
She had to get the box back and pray nothing had happened to Yasmin, and that Yasmin’s honor had not been irrevocably besmirched.
Safia reined in her horse, Pasha, and dis
mounted. She had been to the treasure cave twice before. The first time had been when she’d followed the Hajj out of curiosity. Even then, he had remained helplessly below in the ravine, but Safia had seen the cave opening he was looking at, and had climbed around until she’d found the way in through the hole in the roof.
She had come back once more, bringing the box. She had thought the djinn might continue to favor them if she brought the box back safely to its point of origin.
Safia hobbled Pasha and pushed away the two flat rocks she’d positioned to partially hide the opening in the cave roof. From beneath one she pulled out a rope that was securely tied around the heavy rock, and dropped it down into the hole.
Then, without hesitation, she sat down and jumped onto the rope, shimmying down.
It was all as she’d left it. The warm, glowing colors on the walls: yellow gold, azure blue, emerald green.
There were the old water jars, empty now but beautifully shaped, with graceful, curving necks and intricately painted sides. There were matching plates and round clay cups.
There were shelves, upon which sat several boxes, a dozen tall jars with lids, and other hinged boxes–although none half as beautiful as the jeweled box the Hajj had brought back.
The Hajj’s box was still here on the shelf, exactly where she’d left it. She ran and grabbed it, clutching it tightly to her chest.
Safia had never taken the time to explore the other items. She promised herself that once this was all sorted out, she would bring Tarif back with her and show him the things that were here.
Most of the way here, Safia had been following the Hajj. It seemed he, too, was coming back to the cave. But why? Did he know she’d taken the box? Had he guessed she’d brought it back here? If he had, why didn’t he confront her about it? It made no sense.
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