Desert Hostage

by Diane Dunaway

  But in spite of her protests, and more crying spells that only made her mother nod with a wan smile, she had been sent to the nunnery never dreaming what the future held.

  Being an officer in the army of Queen Victoria, Brandon Phillips was an unlikely visitor to the out-of-the-way French convent. And it was even more unlikely that Anna should have met him, since usually the girls were never allowed to see any of the infrequent callers.

  But it so happened that Sister Cynthia, a senior nun at the convent, had a nephew who had died while serving under Captain Phillips, and he had come to pay his respects on the very day the gatekeeper had taken ill. So when the bell rang, Anna, being nearby, heard it and went to answer.

  Later, Anna often thought of that first instant when she saw him, tall, broad-shouldered, hat in hand, his dark eyes looking into hers with gentleness and pleasant surprise.

  At once Anna felt herself attracted by a subtle yet compelling force. His manners were flawless, his French accent impeccable, and warmth emitted from him that touched her even across the narrow path as silently she unlatched the gate and swung it open.

  Her face was suddenly hot, and she could barely stammer an "Oua"' to his request to see Sister Cynthia. He smiled then, a knowing, admiring smile that sent an unfamiliar sensation rushing down her spine. Then, feeling more self-conscious and acutely female than ever before, Anna turned abruptly and guided the way to the visitor's room.

  Anna knew then, even before leaving him with the sister, that she would somehow meet the dark stranger again. And months later, during the convent's choir concert in Chartres, she spotted him in the second row, gazing up at her with such a wonderful light in his concentrating black eyes that her heart soared and she could barely remember the words to the music.

  "Sinful! Sinful!" a voice inside her kept repeating as, backstage after the performance, Anna struggled with unsteady fingers to tie the bow of her apron so she could join the other girls in serving refreshments to the guests. All males were so thoroughly forbidden.

  From the curious glances of her classmates, she knew they must have noticed something. But when she entered the large room thronging with people, and Brandon Phillips came to her side, she felt like a child that had spun round and round until the world whirled dizzily in circles and nothing else mattered.

  He seemed taller now that he was so close and, unexpectedly, he took her cold hands with firmness that made her shiver as his black eyes searched her face before looking intensely into her blue ones gazing shyly upward.

  "Anna," he said, his strong mouth forming the words as she watched. "Come with me now. Be my wife."

  That very night they were hastily married by an old priest in a chapel under a canopy of elms. It was a brief ceremony though Anna couldn't concentrate on the words. She wondered if she was dreaming as Brandon slipped a ring on her finger-a solitaire ruby ring, heart-shaped in cut. Then, just before kissing her with infinite gentleness, his deep voice whispered in her ear, "Beloved."

  They honeymooned under a rainbow of rapture, and Anna could easily recall the long lazy days and too short nights that took them through the French and, later, the warmer Spanish countryside.

  It was endless, a treasured time of awakening, a time of soft words and caresses when Anna discovered just what it meant to become a woman-to be kissed over every inch of her body, to be filled with ecstasy that grew with every touch, and to feel the world explode in a consuming passion that whirled her heavenward as the prayers at St. Genevieve's never had.

  So the days and nights blended together in a latticework of love and happiness such as Anna never imagined could be. And as they rode, or walked, or nestled together in bed, they shared stories of their past lives and wondered at the miracle of their meeting that first magical day.

  It seemed then as if it would never end. There were moments when Anna's eyes filled with tears from the kind of special joy that comes when one is aware of perfect happiness at the moment of experiencing it-the kind of joy that always, however beautiful, is shadowed by a sense of foreboding.

  Then one morning it seemed to Anna that this impending doom had fulfilled itself when Brandon informed her he had only a short time of "leave" remaining-"Only three weeks," he said. "Then I'll be departing for duty into the Sahara."

  "Three weeks," Anna repeated, realizing she was to be alone again and "tucked away in a Spanish cottage," as Brandon put it, waiting for his return.

  "But I've been ‘tucked away' all my life until now," she protested, reaching to encircle his neck with slender arms and stroking the small diamond-shaped birth mark behind his ear with gentle imploring strokes. "I can't bear it any more. You must take me with you!"

  At first Brandon was firm. "It would be impossible," he said, shaking his head. "Much too risky. We'll be riding through unmapped territory-no place for a woman."

  His tone was final. But Anna's new found love gave her courage to beg. So as the days passed, bringing the time of departure frighteningly close, Anna risked his anger by bringing up the subject again and again, and entreating him with growing desperation.

  "But please, Brandon. Don't shut me away when I have only begun to live." Her fingers clung to the front of his shirt. "I want nothing but to be with you. I'll do anything-carry water, groom your horse anything! I won't be any trouble. I swear! Only please don't leave me!"

  Moved by her outburst, worn down by her pleas and by his own growing love for his child-bride, Brandon looked down at her tear-streaked cheeks, her perfect mouth and her wide entreating eyes. Then with the warmth in his heart extending to his loins, he imagined her beside him during the long desert nights. Would it do any harm to let her go? He asked himself.

  The recent expeditions into that area had met with no more resistance than an occasional horned viper. It was considered a safer than ordinary assignment, though there was always the possibility of trouble. The region was filled with people whose customs were still strange to civilized ways. But he could get permission through connections at headquarters, he told himself. The old man owed him a favor or two. Precautions could be taken, and if he were careful. ...

  So, just when Anna thought she had failed, Brandon miraculously consented, raining kisses on her face when she threw herself into his arms. Then three weeks later, at the head of fifty men and scores of horses and camels and servants, they rode out from Tripoli into the Sahara.

  The journey had been almost dreamlike in its pleasantness until this, Anna thought. And now, propping herself up on one elbow, she tried to remember just what had happened right before the nightmare began.

  Clearly she recalled that night when they had camped beside one of the series of muddy, brackish, and almost empty wells that the natives referred to as mughawwiyat. She remembered eating dinner, and that four of Brandon's officers had sat around the portable camp table with them entertaining her with tales about the desert. Maybe then it was something in the highly spiced lamb prepared by the Arab cook that made her ill, or something in the water, since everything afterward seemed a blur.

  If only Brandon would come and clear up the mystery, she thought glancing down to the heart-shaped ruby ring sparkling fire on her left hand. Then slipping it off, as she had many times, she read again the inscription on the underside of the stone that said simply, Beloved.

  Certainly he should have come to her by now, she told herself sitting up with sudden resolve. Then swinging her legs out of bed she squared her jaw. If Brandon wouldn't come to her, then she would go to him. But today she was going to find out what was going on.

  Chapter 4

  Hurrying along the palace corridors, Omar Zatan glanced down through arched windows to the tangle of El Abadan's streets that twisted like ancient cypress branches among mud-brick walls, date-laden palms, and towering minarets. From the large royal courtyard directly below he could hear the excited voices of the crowd gathering there, and also the moans of the victims rising together like that of a single wounded beast.

 
; But to this Omar gave little attention other than to curse that he was late and the executions were ready to begin. Instead, he was most concerned by the disappearance of the white girl whom he had intended to present to the sheik tonight as the final glory in his day of triumph over his enemy Hussar.

  Where was she? Hadn't he left orders she was to be watched? But only a moment ago he had found her room vacant, and now emitting a groan directly from the bottom of his rounded belly, Omar Zatan rolled his eyes heavenward. By Allah! If she had tried to escape the penalty was sure--a slow painful death by torture would be her fate, and nothing, not even her beauty, could save her.

  Immediately Omar Zatan hurried on, puffing up the palace steps to the top floor, his white robes outlining his squat body as finally he turned the corner into the harem's large common room. Then leaning against a pillar to pant, he felt a sweep of relief as he saw the white girl with the others, curiously following them to the windows where they, too, would view the executions. Allah be praised she was taking an interest at last, the eunuch breathed with a twinkle coming into his yellowish eyes. But what woman could resist the sight of blood?

  In her search for Brandon, feeling for the first time a prisoner, Anna had wandered down a long hallway which terminated in a wide luxurious room. Along one side of it the sun flowed in through arched windows and across the rest were scattered richly patterned carpets, low couches, pillows, and tall brass candleholders. It smelled lightly of incense and tinkled with the sound of the small tiled fountain splashing in its center.

  But none of this seemed nearly as surprising to Anna as the half dozen gold-bespangled girls whose breasts were only hazed beneath colorful dresses. They turned their gazes from the high windows and stared curiously at her.

  Could they be prisoners too? Anna wondered. They didn't seem unhappy, though. They looked rather like a flock of butterflies. Coming forward, Anna asked, "Partezvous frangais?" And when no one responded, "Do you speak English?"

  Consulting each other in whispers, the girls giggled before shaking their heads while one of them with midnight black hair came closer, pointing to herself and saying, "Salsabil."

  In return, Anna pointed to herself and pronounced her own name. But then none of them was looking at her anymore as a strange noise rose from beyond the windows like chanting or moaning and all the girls turned back to see.

  Oh, something was wrong, terribly wrong, Anna told herself pressing her temples with massaging fingers. Everything seemed wrong, yet the heat and this headache made it impossible to think. So she followed the others to the windows, hoping to find a clue of understanding, though she somehow knew what she would see even before she reached the arched opening and looked down in the courtyard below.

  Anna gripped the tiled wall for support. She had never seen an execution before, let alone of two hundred shackled men, ragged and whimpering like animals beside a pit of burning coals and glowing hot instruments. They didn't even look like men anymore-somewhere buried up to their necks in the sand while others lay shackled and filthy under the eyes of pitiless half-naked guards. A throng of white-robed men circled them, triumphantly chanting words she could translate as "Death to Hussar, death to Hussar!"

  And then she could only blanch, moisture beading her forehead and dizziness overcoming her as she recognized the hawk-nosed Arab who stood on a raised platform just beneath her window, his black robes billowing in the gusting winds-the devil himself presiding over the pits of Hell. The sun overhead was a molten ball of white fire, its intensity making even the guards move from one foot to the other as they waited and watched their master for the signal to begin.

  But Sheik Hamid al-Sharif seemed in no hurry, his booted legs standing wide, his arms crossed, his gaze roaming over the vanquished army as grim lines grew deeper around his mouth.

  Normally he thought of mass tortures and executions as tedious but essential spectacles designed to demonstrate his uncompromising mercilessness to his enemies and to inspire his following. But today was an exception. His triumph over his cousin Yassan Rafir Zabol Hussar was the culmination of a bitter rivalry between them, a rivalry which began as boys when Hamid's father had captured Yassan Hussar, heir to the Hussar leader, and taken him hostage.

  It was customary for one tribe to take hostages of another to guarantee peace between the two and to treat hostages with respect befitting their station. So it came to pass that Yassan Hussar and Hamid Sharif, only a year different in age, had grown up like brothers, terrorizing the palaces servants, shooting darts out the palace windows at the merchants below.

  But then, when Yassan reached the age of fifteen, everything changed. Yassan Rafir Zabol Hussar was ransomed by his father and taken back to his desert stronghold, and when next Hamid had seen him, they had become what fate of birth had always decreed they would be, rivals and the deadliest of enemies.

  Earlier in the day, recalling their childhood, the sheik had considered sparing Yassan Hussar in an act of mercy. Yet open treason had been committed and the blood of loyal subjects had been spilled. Mercy now would be considered weakness and the cruelty of the desert had long ago taught the sheik that weakness was a luxury reserved only for women. Now it would surely invite other challenges to his power. Knowing this made him imperceptibly straighten his shoulders as he faced the prostrate form of Yassan Hussar.

  Yassan Hussar quavered. The elders of the Hussar tribe had advised him against challenging Hamid al-Sharif, but he had ignored their warnings. How could Hamid al-Sharif, the son of an Algerian concubine, be capable of outmaneuvering his own clever strategies? He, Yassan Hussar, was the product of a Sudanese princess, a woman from the same noble line that in generations past once controlled El Abadan and the rich trade routes to the south. This fact alone made his claim to the throne a legitimate one that Allah himself would uphold or so he had thought.

  Now Hussar raised bitter eyes to the wide-standing boots of Sharif. Once he had planned his own moment of victory when the warriors of Hamid al-Sharif would suffer under the tortures he would inflict. But it was not to be. Today Sharif triumphed, and he must submit. But the sands of the desert were endlessly changing, were they not? Even now, his own infant son, Abu Hussar, was safe in the Tibesti Mountains. Only a few years and he would be eager for Sharif's blood and the blood of his offspring. He would be avenged.

  Above his head now Hussar heard Sharif's clipped command, "Begin."

  Silently Hussar's lips moved in prayer. "Praise to Allah, Lord of creation, the compassionate, the merciful and king of judgment day. When the sky is rent asunder, when the sun scatter and the oceans roll together, when the graves m hurled about, each soul shall know what it has done and what it has failed to do."

  And thus committing his soul to Allah, Yassan Rafir Zabol Hussar dropped his forehead into the dust.

  Chapter 5

  In the misty predawn light, Anna lay on the rumpled pillows where she had flung herself, tangled hair tumbling in a red-gold mass around her limp shoulders. Hours ago she had expended every tear, and now was too numb to feel the pain of her spamming chest and her burning eyes or to move her lifeless limbs. Fixedly she stared at the high ceiling, not in reflection, but rather in suspension of intelligent thought. Aware only of a deep and black emptiness, fathomless and hopeless, she didn't even protest when she felt herself lifted into the flabby-skinned arms that she recognized instinctively as Omar Zatan's.

  She clung to him then like a child, laying her head against his chest and ignoring the soft heaviness there that suggested breasts. He rocked her gently, silently. But he gave her little solace, his presence only awakening her tortured mind so the stunned voice within her repeated again, "Brandon is dead! Dead!"

  The eunuch's pudgy hands stroked the rumpled red-gold head, comforting this slave girl as he so often had the others during their fits of depression or hysteria concerning those vital matters of the master's favor, pregnancy, birth, death, and miscarriage.

  He spoke now in a low, almost cooing v
oice, "But, Mademoiselle, why are you so sad? Do you not find the master young and strong? Is he not bold? A prince among princes?" Looking down at this fragile girl in his arms, Omar felt her begin to sob again and bury her face in his robes.

  His hand moved to her forehead. "You are not feverish," he said. "Are you still so frightened? Come, come, you will make yourself sick with all this weeping. Eat now, little one, and you will feel better."

  Anna sat up, weakly brushing back the damp hair that stuck to her cheeks. "I won't eat anything," she said in a cold voice.

  Omar's yellowish eyes smiled at her indulgently as a salaaming servant removed her sodden pillow and replaced it with a dry one. "Change is often as difficult as it is inevitable," he said. "There are those who come here grateful for the honor. But there are also those who do not. They always say, `I won't this,' and `I won't that.' But in the end, it is always changed. You will see. In three days time, things will be different."