Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Later in the evening, the women gathered outside and sat around an open fire while knitting intricately designed sweaters, scarves, and tala’eyahs, beanie-like hats. Made of fine sheep’s wool, the garments kept them cool in the summer and warm in the cold desert winter. Patiently, the women had taught Noora how to knit. She found it soothing to sit in the late evenings, knitting while listening to their captivating tales and myths, many of extraterrestrials who had come to Earth eons before and helped build the wonders of the Earth, the huge statues and temples; some of those stories were filled with enchanting characters. The smaller children listened attentively until they could no longer keep their eyes open, and fell asleep all curled up, close to their mothers. The older ones sat out with the men and listened, wide-eyed, transported by the beautiful tales and poems of legends and lore passed on by their ancestors. Dweezoul had told Noora he loved all the stories told by his elders and none of them ever grew tired of hearing them.

  After everyone retired back to their huts, the eldest of the tribe—who believed they were nearing the final destination of their life’s journey—sat out alone and meditated. Others marveled at the celestial show of stars in the dark desert nights, while contentedly puffing on their water pipes.

  On the first day of September, Dweezoul left on a caravan ride to another oasis across the desert with two other men he called his uncles.

  “We’re going to the souq and bring back cane sugar and molasses, wood planks, oil, grains,” Dweezoul had told Noora. “Guess what else I will bring back! Batteries! Batteries for my radio!”

  Noora worried and wondered how he and the two men who traveled with him could survive crossing the treacherous desert for many days and nights.

  “They’re used to it,” Um Faheema said.

  But they were still human, Noora thought. And she had heard about mountain lions and desert bandits who carried huge daggers and killed without mercy to steal their victims’ camels and goods. But it was best to trust as the villagers did. No one knew exactly when they would return. And Um Faheema would only tell her to trust they would show up when it was the right time.

  But Noora missed Dweezoul terribly and prayed daily for his safe return. The village was not the same without him—especially at night, when everyone was asleep, Dweezoul would venture away from the village, out to the high sand dunes. Noora accompanied him almost every time he went out there. They sat on his large hand-woven blanket at the top of a dune, and imagined they were gliding on what he called his “magic mat.”

  It was then that he turned his radio to its highest volume and rocked to the rhythm of “The Oldies-But-Goodies.” The voice of Casey Kasem trailed in, all the way from the United States, broadcasting straight into Cairo and other cities in the North African region. Never mind that Dweezoul did not always understand the words the American DJ was saying. After two or three years of listening in, he began to get the gist of what was being said. Thanks to that little radio, Dweezoul was tuned in to the modern world of news, sports, international weather changes and current events.

  But the people of Bayt Nabbi Jebbelia did not rely on the radio. They followed the moon, stars, and the direction of the wind, especially when it came to the weather in their region. Aside from their lagoon, where the sweet water oozed up from the bowels of the earth, the village was blessed with two wells that never ran dry.

  Once or twice a year, Dweezoul told Noora, the village endured powerful sandstorms. Um Faheema could always tell the day and exact time a Khamseen would come sweeping through. “She is the only one in the village who knows before it comes, and we all prepare for shelter. The storms never come at the same time, but she can see them coming in her mind’s eyes—and she is never wrong.”

  One month to the day after Dweezoul had left the village, shadows of a caravan were spotted on the horizon.

  Noora was under a tent with the other women, preparing the children’s evening meal, when one of the elders rose and pointed west. Slowly approaching from the distance, in front of the huge orange ball of sun that had dipped halfway down the horizon, the caravan came into view. Everyone in the village jumped at the sight.

  Um Faheema wobbled down the path, holding a large silver carafe of cool apricot juice and strings of plumeria necklaces hanging down her arms, ready to receive the traveling trio who were returning with their camels and provisions.

  “They’re back! They’re finally back!” Noora cried.

  “Of course they are back,” the old woman said with a happy grin.

  There was so much rejoicing in the village, Noora realized indeed how much Dweezol and his two older companions had been missed by everyone.

  “We didn’t sell as many goods as I had hoped, so I could not buy as many batteries as I wanted for my radio, but certainly more than I had before!” Dweezoul said when Noora ran to the boy, lifted him up, and hugged him.

  One night, after the storytelling, Dweezoul came bouncing into Um Faheema’s hut. “Time to go dancing,” he said, inviting Noora to another night of music and fun.

  Noora joined Dweezoul on his “magic mat” and there, while listening to an American station, they lay on their backs and gazed at the brilliant show of stars.

  “Some of the stars sparkle to the rhythm of the music, you notice that?” Dweezoul said. “Like a heartbeat. It’s their way of communicating with us, telling us they are alive and well, and that they know we are in harmony with them.”

  On the radio, the Bee Gees began their song “Night Fever.” Dweezoul slid down from the high sand dune and rocked to the upbeat rhythm.

  When the song ended, he climbed back up to the top of the dune and fell breathless on his mat. “I like the Bee Gees, but I still prefer tearjerkers,” he said. He stretched out his arms and watched the sky. “Life’s good.”

  Noora found Dweezoul more entertaining than the show of stars, though they were indeed an incredible sight, especially when she spotted so many shooting stars. And to her surprise and delight, some of the brightest stars did pulsate to the rhythm of the music from the transistor radio.

  “Dweezoul? What do you mean by tearjerkers?”

  “That’s what they used to call them in America. They were supposed to make you cry. For a few decades, music was good in the United States. I especially enjoy the 1950s songs,” he said, turning on his side and facing Noora. “Now they have that rap music. It’s all right … but not as good in the musical sense, because who can dance to that? Unless you have many nervous tics,” he laughed. “They think it’s got rhythm but I think it lacks soul.”

  “How do you know so much?” she asked, pulling a warm blanket over herself.

  “We have lived before. Some things our deep mind remembers. The earth is filled with treasures, as is the night sky. A feast for the eyes. Nourishment for the soul. It all began out there …” Dweezoul said, seeming to lose himself in his own thoughts. “We come from there; we are made from those stars. If you watch them for a long time, they become part of you again. Part of your heart. And you are never alone.”

  After Dweezoul turned off his radio, he removed his batteries and secured them in his pocket—his nightly routine. “Good night,” he said, and fell asleep almost immediately.

  During the past several months, Noora had grown accustomed to sleeping under the stars. She wasn’t sure about becoming a part of the stars, but she knew she had become a part of the Bedouins.

  What about Uncle Khayat? How could she forget the promise she made to Nageeb? She must find a way to contact him. She could not believe time had gone by so quickly.

  She snuggled close to Dweezoul and curled up under his large blanket. Usually Saloush leaned right next to her, keeping her warm; but that night, the goat stayed in the village with the children. Noora dozed off and on.

  The air became too chilly for comfort. She decided to head back to the village. She knew Dweezoul would not mind. Um Faheema’s warm hut, with its cozy fireplace and her own bed with the soft blanket the Bedouin
women had woven for her seemed inviting.

  She dropped her feet deep into the soft sand dune. Still warm from the day’s heat, the sand massaged her legs. The stroll back to the village was illuminated by a brilliant half-moon. She watched the sparkling sky and thought of what Dweezoul said about the stars. Her mind drifted back to Uncle Khayat and his lovely villa by the sea. Alexandria was so far. She would have to cross the desert for many days.

  She heard a hoarse cry and looked up. A black horse, with a tall dark rider, was galloping straight at her. The horse and rider stirred enormous clouds of sand, like a gusting sandstorm, stinging Noora’s eyes. She could barely see.

  She tried to run. Somehow, she couldn’t. The ground seemed to hold her feet like heavy weights. The sand in her eyes burned horribly. Forcing herself to open her eyes, she saw the dark figure in a black cloak that flew behind him like huge wings of a devil. He raised his curved sword; the blade glinted in the moonlight. She was sure he was going to cut her in half with that terrible weapon. As she tried to run, the sand gave way beneath her feet and she sank with every step she attempted to take. And yet the horse was able to gallop with great ease, even grace. She yelled for Dweezoul. The village was close—why did it seem so far?

  The black shadow on the horse had grabbed Noora, lifting her up like a rag doll. As he was about to take her away, Dweezoul was suddenly there, vaulting up on top of the man’s saddle. The boy grabbed the assailant’s throat and would not let go. The dark shadow was forced to drop Noora, and she fell to the sand. The devil on horseback threw Dweezoul, who went flying after her. The boy bounced up and ran to Noora. By that time, the Bedouin villagers were running to the rescue, holding torchlights and daggers.

  With his black cloak billowing behind him, the assailant galloped into the night and disappeared in the darkness. His sword lay on the sand, glowing like a mirror, reflecting the moon’s light.

  Noora finally reached the village. Her heart raced so fast that the pain in her chest became unbearable, and she fainted.

  She found herself in Um Faheema’s hut, on the sand-filled bed. The Bedouin men had gathered inside. What was the cause for this assault? they all asked.

  “He’ll be back,” someone announced.

  “Desert raiders pass through all the villages,” an old man said. “They come through here once a year but they never stop.”

  “They do not disturb us because they are afraid of our spiritual powers,” Um Faheema said.

  “Why did that stranger ride alone? They usually travel in pairs,” another man said.

  In the dim light of a candle, one of the wise elders analyzed the sharp blade of the aggressor. “He will return … He will return to claim his weapon,” he said, studying the sword’s ornate hilt made of solid silver with brilliant jewels. It had intricate designs, and Arabic writing etched elaborately into it. “It has a message,” the old Bedouin said. But he could not read it because most of the words had been worn away by time.

  “He will return because he saw the girl … He’ll be back for Noora!”

  Noora screamed.

  “Noora!” Dweezoul called.

  She opened her eyes and saw she was on Dweezoul’s mat on top of the dune, trembling and drenched in perspiration.

  “Wake up!”

  Noora realized she had just experienced a nightmare. But it had felt so real. Relieved, she grabbed Dweezoul and crushed him in a hug.

  The next morning, in Um Faheema’s mud hut and in her cozy bed, Noora woke to find the wise old woman and Dweezoul standing by her bedside. Holding an earthenware cup of aromatic tea, Um Faheema smiled. Dweezoul held a plate of aagwas.

  “I am sorry,” she said, rising painfully from a stiff sleep. “I have brought you enough trouble.”

  “On the contrary, my child.” Um Faheema smiled. “You have brought light to our village.”

  “Light. That’s what my name was supposed to mean.”

  Um Faheema nodded.

  “Looks to me like I have brought darkness. Every path I’ve crossed …”

  “No, ya benti,” Um Faheema said. She began to hum a lullaby while handing Noora the earthenware cup of hot tea. The familiar melody soothed Noora, bringing her calm, as the tea did when she began to savor it.

  So very old, Um Faheema’s dark bronze face was marked by lines of a century. To a stranger, she might seem ugly, perhaps even frightening, there in the shadows of her hut—yet, to Noora, Um Faheema was beautiful, with eyes filled with splendor.

  “Ya habibti,” she said, “through the voice of your soul, you told us your story.”

  “What did I say? Forgive me, I must have been delirious.”

  “No, you revealed only what your heart wished us to know.”

  “All I know is my brother died because of me. How could I ever forgive myself?”

  “Your brother left his body because he was done on this planet.”

  “What do you mean? He was going to be a doctor. Probably the best. He wanted to heal the sick and save lives!”

  “He was pledged to save your life. This is why he never sought a young lady’s hand in marriage.”

  What was Um Faheema telling her? Noora thought for a while. Indeed, Nageeb never had a girlfriend. At least none she was aware of. “But … it’s because he was always so busy.”

  Um Faheema sat watching Noora. She turned to Dweezoul. “Go outside and listen to your music box, ya ibni anah,” she said.

  “You don’t like it when I listen to my radio. And I am well-informed about adult matters,” he said, helping himself to one of the last cookies on a tray.

  She picked up a large earthenware water jug. “We could use some water.”

  “You have plenty of water,” Dweezoul said, his mouth full. “Look, I just brought you a jugful.”

  She picked up a large platter. “Go and ask Aunt Zeinab to give us more aagwas. Soon we won’t have any left.”

  “Now that is more like it!” the boy said, grinning. He ran out with the platter and his radio.

  Um Faheema sat at the foot of Noora’s bed. Bringing the cloth of her long black dress around her legs, she said, “When you are in the flesh, there is always time for love. Nageeb was not different. But if he had made any contact, the young woman would have fallen in love with him. That was the energy your brother gave. He did not want to grieve another person when it came time for his passing into the higher dimension. His subconscious was aware of that, and that is why …” She stopped and watched a moth dance around the flame of her candle.

  In her mind’s eye, a vision appeared. Someone in Noora’s life had mourned the loss of Nageeb, but only too briefly. It was clear to her now that the disappearance of Noora had brought rejoicing. There was even an evil spirit pursuing Noora. She was surprised that she had never before felt this dangerous energy around Noora. There was something hidden and mysterious hovering around the girl. Even now, after Um Faheema had made Boukhour, the powerful incense to ward off evil spirits, there was still something she could not quite understand. She shuddered.

  “What is it?” Noora asked. “Are you feeling cold?”

  The old woman quickly dug under the collar of her garb. “No, wait. This … you must wear it. It will protect you,” she said, displaying a blue bead strung on a copper chain. She brought Noora’s head closer to her and whispered a silent prayer and put the copper chain around Noora’s neck.

  Um Faheema knew that Noora was not mentally prepared to accept, or even understand, evil deeds caused by someone as close to her as her own flesh and blood. It was up to Noora to make this complicated discovery, and only when she would be ready. She closed her eyes in thought and prayer for the safety of Noora.

  “There is much learning and healing to be done first,” Um Faheema murmured. She opened her eyes and looked straight into Noora’s.

  “When it will be time for you to wear a Western dress, where the necklace will show, then put another piece of jewelry that will be more suitable for the dress. But you mu
st always keep this close to you, maybe under your pillow, and at night, try to remember to put it back around your neck when you sleep. It will help ward off evil spirits. Be’eed min hinnah, may they always remain away from us. But this piece I am giving you is also to remind you of courage. With courage, you can conquer all. Do you understand?”

  Courage? Conquer all? “Thank you very much,” Noora said, staring at the blue bead. “I will always cherish it.”

  Dweezoul returned with a large platter full of aagwas.

  “Did I give you enough time for girl talk?” he said with a wink.

  “Afreet, enta!” Um Faheema said, picking herself up, not without a degree of effort. She wobbled her way to Dweezoul and tousled his hair. “Little devil, you are!”

  Noora did not believe a blue stone could chase away evil spirits. She never really believed in good-luck charms. She thought the whole idea was silly superstition. A talisman was something similar to the feather in the Disney movie Dumbo that made the young elephant believe he could fly. She was glad Um Faheema did not give her something that had once been alive, like a rabbit’s foot. How could killing an innocent creature and keeping a part of its body bring luck? If anything, it should bring misfortune. She thought of Zaffeera, who always carried a rabbit’s foot on her keychain.

  That night, in the hut, after supper and story time, Noora picked up her blanket, ready to join Dweezoul where the high sand dunes undulated and formed gentle peaks. She could clearly hear Casey Kasem from Dweezoul’s radio.

  Um Faheema was brewing yet another fragrant concoction. But this time, she was not humming a tune, she was seriously mumbling.

  “Is something the matter, Um Faheema?”

  The old woman turned. She motioned for Noora to sit on the rug next to her. She cleared her throat.

  “Your phantom of the night came on a horse in your dream?”

  “Yes,” Noora said, bringing her blanket and sitting close to the woman.

  “Horses don’t come through this part of the desert. We’re too far from other villages. And their hooves would sink too deep. Sand’s too hot. Travelers never come through here except on camels, unless you’re watching a movie, hmm?”