by Jane Johnson
‘Aleikum as salaam,’ the old woman responded. On you be peace. Her voice was as harsh as a crow’s.
A claw-like hand clutched at Mariata’s robe, found her shoulder and began to haul. Mariata helped the old woman to sit upright. Her head-covering had fallen off, revealing a twist of dark braids that had been intricately plaited and knotted with scraps of coloured leather, beads and shells. Here and there were bright threads of silver: these were no ornament but hairs coloured by age. The eyes that searched Mariata’s face were a bright, deep brown, without the cloud of cataract: and though they were buried in a wealth of deep sun-lines, it seemed the visitor was not such a crone after all.
‘Are you all right?’ Mariata asked her.
‘Thanks be, I am well.’ But the woman winced as she moved her arm, and blood was beginning to soak through her robe where the rock had struck her.
‘You are bleeding. Let me look.’
But as Mariata reached to examine the wound, the woman caught her by the chin and stared intently into her face. ‘You aren’t a local girl.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘I come from the Hoggar.’
The woman nodded to herself and made a gesture of respect: it was an old-fashioned gesture, not one often made nowadays, when people were beginning to forget the old ways, the old hierarchies. ‘My name is Rahma ult Jouma, and you must be the daughter of Yemma ult Tofenat.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘I have walked for eight days to find you.’
Mariata was appalled. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’
‘I had the honour to know your grandmother. She was a woman with extraordinary powers.’
Her grandmother had died years ago. Flashes of memory offered a tall figure, very grand, decked with silver and rather frightening, with fierce eyes and a nose as curved and sharp as an eagle’s beak.
‘What powers?’
‘Your grandmother communed with the spirits.’
Mariata’s eyes became round. ‘She did?’
‘She had great skill with words and she drove out demons; and I need someone who can do that. My son is dying. Someone has placed the evil eye upon him: he has been possessed by spirits. Every medicine woman and herbalist in the Adagh has visited him, every marabout and expert in Qur’anic texts, every bokaye; even a travelling magician from Tin Buktu. But no one has been able to help him. The Kel Asuf have him in their grip, and they care nothing for the Qur’an or for plants. It requires a specialist, and that is why I have walked so far to find you.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any magic in me,’ Mariata said. Secretly she was flattered. She liked to be considered different from the women of the Bazgan. ‘I can’t help you – I’m not a healer. I’m a poet.’
Rahma ult Jouma made a face. ‘Well, I can’t help that. All I know is that when I cast the bones they gave me your grandmother’s name.’
‘I am not my grandmother.’
‘You are the last of her line. The power of the Founder has been passed down through the women of your family.’
Mariata was beginning to think the stranger was herself mad, a poor, sun-touched vagrant, a baggara. The desert took its toll on many who lived within and around its fiery borders. She stood up and took a step away. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I don’t have any magical powers.’
Rahma caught her by the arm. ‘I have come a long way to find you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She pulled away, but the older woman was not letting go. ‘I can’t imagine how you knew I was here, anyway.’
‘A travelling smith passed through our village and he told us a woman of the Iboglan was living amongst the Bazgan, a very imperious girl; fine-boned and asfar; and that she had asked that a pair of earrings bearing the symbol of the hare be made especially for her. Only a woman of Tamerwelt’s line would ask for such an icon.’
The smiths carried news and gossip far and wide. So that explained it. Mariata’s hand went to her face. It was true that her skin tone was lighter than that of women from the more southerly tribes; and the hare was the animal with which she and the women of her family had a special bond.
‘The smith said she had been left with the Bazgan by her father, that her mother was dead. He also said the nephew of the chieftain was paying her a lot of attention, but that she didn’t encourage his advances.’ And here, the old woman spat into the dirt. Her spittle was red with blood: in the fall she must have bitten her tongue.
Mariata looked away, uncomfortable. ‘And how did you know I was up here, so far from the camp?’
‘I passed a tall girl herding goats down in the valley. She told me where you were.’
That would be Naïma. Mariata had shared her bread with her on her way up the mountain, and the goatherd had given her some wild figs. Fate seemed to be conspiring against her. ‘She was the only one who knew I was here.’
‘Apart from the man who threw the rock at me.’
Mariata nodded, embarrassed.
‘Perhaps the son of Bahedi, the brother of Moussa.’
‘Rhossi, yes. How could you know that?’ You could tell a man of one tribe from the man of another by the way he wore his veil – an extra twist, a higher peak, a longer tail – but to be able to distinguish an individual from another tribe at such a distance? Surely that was impossible.
‘His actions marked him out to me. He is a coward. In that respect he resembles the other men of his family.’
Any man speaking of the amenokal’s kin like that would be forced to defend his words with his sword. It was as well they were alone, although Mariata had heard that sometimes the wind carried insults to the insulted, and so it was that feuds were continued.
‘You know his family, then?’
Rahma’s expression became guarded. ‘You could say that. Come, there isn’t any time to waste. It’s a long walk back to my village.’
Mariata laughed. ‘I’m not going with you! Besides, you’re in no fit state to make such a journey. You don’t look as if you’ve eaten or drunk in days. And now you’re hurt too; and look, your feet are bleeding.’
Rahma looked down. It was true: there was blood oozing between her toes, staining the worn and dusty leather of her sandals.
‘Come with me to the encampment. I’ll make sure you’re given food and water and a bed for the night, and maybe one of the men will take you back to your village tomorrow.’
The woman spat on the ground. ‘I shall never set foot amongst the Kel Bazgan ever again; it was with great misgiving that I have come this far.’
Mariata sighed. What a dilemma. She could hardly abandon a woman who had come so far to find her, and who had been injured in the process. ‘Come with me to the harratin: they will take care of you.’
Rahma ult Jouma smiled. ‘Such diplomacy. How like your grandmother you are.’ She patted Mariata’s hand.
Down in the valley the harratin, who worked the garden-farms for the tribal chieftains, had erected a village of little round huts made from river-reeds, mud and stones. They lived here all year, while the tribespeople led their traditionally nomadic life, travelling out along the ancient Saharan routes from one oasis to another, returning in the harvest season to take the crops they had financed, leaving the harratin the fifth they were due for their labour. Although they were used to Moussa ag Iba’s overseers visiting to check on the progress of the winter foodstuffs, the sight of two desert tribeswomen walking unaccompanied into their midst made even the children stop playing and stare. A group of old harratin women stood around in a circle, pounding grain in a mortar, their black skin greyed by the flying powder, the slack flesh on their arms shuddering with every impact. They stopped in mid-strike at the sight of Mariata and Rahma. Two younger women, weaving a rug on a tall upright loom, gazed through the grille of threads at the newcomers, their solemn, dark faces sliced by the bright wool. Even the old men paused in their basket-weaving. No one said anything.
At last one of the men got slowly to his feet and came forward, head high, eyes wary. H
e wore a patched and tattered robe; he did not look much like a headman, despite his air of authority. He made the customary greeting, then stared at the visitors, waiting.
Mariata explained that Rahma needed attention from a healer, and something to eat and drink. ‘I have nothing to give you in return now, but I’ll come back later with something for you, some silver –’
The elder laughed. ‘What use is silver to us? Plead for some respite for my people with the amenokal: that would be the best reward you could give us.’
‘I don’t think the amenokal knows the meaning of the word “respite”,’ Rahma said.
The elder looked surprised but said no more.
‘I’m not in a position to intervene with the amenokal for you,’ Mariata said gently. ‘But I will bring you tea and rice.’
The man put his hand to his chest and bowed. ‘Thank you, that would be most acceptable.’
Mariata turned to Rahma. ‘I’ll come back to see you tomorrow.’
‘Make sure you do: we must make haste.’
‘I won’t be going with you.’
‘Oh, I think you will. Look around. Can you condone what is happening here?’
Mariata was bemused. ‘What do you mean?’ It was just a normal harratin village, shabby and poorly put together.
‘Look: really look. Can’t you see they are starving?’
Mariata looked around, focusing on the details of the harratin life for the first time. The children were huge-eyed, their bellies bulging, their arms and legs like sticks. The adults looked exhausted, as if they had worked themselves half to death, the bright patterns of their robes mocking the dullness of their eyes, sunken cheeks and desperate expressions.
Rahma gestured to the rug the women were weaving. ‘Even that will be taken by Moussa’s people. They will have been given the wool and the design: the Kel Bazgan will sell it for profit and the harratin will get practically nothing for it.’ She walked over to the old women and said something to them in their own language, and they jabbered back. She gestured for Mariata to join her. ‘You see that? They have only the spoiled grain from which to make their flour, the ears they have garnered from amongst the chaff – not even the fifth part of the crop their contract stipulates. And see the children playing over there –’
Between the huts two lighter-skinned toddlers squatted in the mud, while a pair of older children, leaning against the wall of a hut, watched them wearily.
Mariata nodded. Rahma clicked her tongue. ‘Do the little ones look like true harratin children? I think not, with skin so fair. I think young Rhossi has been sowing his seed far and wide. The first child was made by force, they tell me; the second girl learnt enough from the first to make a bargain.’
On the way back to the encampment, Mariata once more passed Naïma with the tribe’s goats and for the first time noticed how very many of them there were – black and brown, piebald and skewbald, white and gingery orange – all milling around amongst the valley trees, stripping whatever foliage they could find. On the outskirts of the camp she passed the flock of sheep, the ewes hobbled, the youngsters left to run free, since they never wandered far from their dams. They looked plump and lively, and there were so many that she could not count them. Now the tents came into view, and beside them were the precious camels – the sturdy Maghrabis and the long-haired Berabish camels, the short grey Adrars and the mehari, the prized white camels from the Tibesti uplands of Chad. The mehari were a great luxury, expensive playthings for rich young men, who rarely used them for what they had been bred for: to travel at speed through the deep desert to raid other tribes or caravans. Instead they just raced them, placing wagers on the outcome. She knew that two of the great white camels, with their haughty heads and skittish ways, belonged to Rhossi.
The Kel Bazgan’s low-lying hide tents looked to be plain and simple dwellings from the outside, but inside the women kept their treasures: bright rugs, soft sheepskins, carved chairs and beds, boxes of silver jewellery, woollen robes, slippers and sandals decorated with studs of brass, gorgeously coloured and fringed leather bags. On the east side of the women’s tents their husbands stored their most precious belongings: swords that had been forged from Toledo steel three centuries before and passed down the generations; tcherots and gris-gris; thick silver armlets and richly adorned saddles. There were boxes of rice, sacks of millet, bags of flour; jars of oil and olives, pots of spices brought from northern markets. The women were plump; the children fat. Even the dogs were well fed. Only the poor were thin. The Bazgan tribe might not enjoy the legendary standing of the Kel Taitok, but it was a wealthy clan nevertheless. As Mariata looked around, it was as if she were seeing it all for the first time; and for the first time she felt ashamed. She had never once given a thought to the polarity between the lives of her people and those of the harratin on whom they depended, having always considered their relative estates the natural order of things. They were the aristocrats and the harratin were their retainers, paid to provide their services. That they were not paid well, or possibly even fairly, had never occurred to her before.
As she sat around the campfire that night with the other women eating spicy mutton with the fragrant flatbread the slaves had made that afternoon, the thought suddenly occurred to her that she had seen no livestock at all in the harratin village. She was quite certain none of them would be eating meat that night, or indeed that month, and the realization made the lamb stick in her throat until she coughed and coughed.
‘Are you unwell, Mariata?’ her Aunt Dassine asked. She was a sharp-eyed woman, sharp-tongued too.
‘I have lost my appetite,’ Mariata replied a little stiffly.
Seated at Dassine’s side, Yallawa stared coldly at Mariata, then turned to her neighbour. ‘The Kel Taitok eat only the most tender of gazelles: clearly our poor sheep are not sufficiently palatable for our regal kinswoman.’
Mariata pushed the rest of her meal away from her. ‘I am not hungry, though I passed many today who were.’
Curious eyes turned to her. ‘Beggars, maybe?’ Dassine asked.
‘Your own harratin,’ Mariata replied shortly. ‘Their children’s bellies are swollen with hunger. Even the adults are thin as sticks.’
People began to murmur. Mariata could catch only a word here or there, but the glances the women gave her were hostile. At last Yallawa said, ‘This is not a subject suitable for discussion by ignorant young women.’ She fixed Mariata with her cold regard. ‘And it is especially unsuitable for a young woman who is dependent on the charity of others for her well-being to voice such foolish and unwanted opinions.’
‘It is not my fault that my mother is dead and that my father treads the salt road. I would hardly have chosen to come here, but I wasn’t given the choice.’
Dassine thrust her face at Mariata. ‘When my brother took your mother to wife, the Kel Taitok treated those of us who travelled all the way to the wedding as if we were vassals bringing them tribute. The women laughed behind their hands at our darker skin and made fun of our best clothes, our jewellery and the way our men wear their veils. You may give yourself airs and boast of your elevated ancestry; but your bloodline does not impress me. You are lucky to be pretty enough to have attracted the eye of Awa’s fine son: at least such a match will temper your arrogance.’
Mariata pushed herself to her feet and without a word walked away, not trusting herself to respond in a civil manner.
She gave the men’s campfire as wide a berth as possible as she made her way to the tents; but even so she saw out of the corner of her eye how Rhossi ag Bahedi detached himself from the group. She increased her pace, but he soon caught her up and stood in front of her, his dark eyes blazing.
‘Walk with me.’
‘I will go nowhere willingly with you.’
‘You should do what I say, if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Since when did any man have the right to tell a woman what to do?’
‘You will regret it if yo
u don’t.’
‘I am sure I would regret it if I did.’
He caught her by the arm. ‘I hope you haven’t said anything to anyone you should not have said.’
‘I can’t imagine what you mean.’
He gave her a little shake. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’
‘Oh, like telling everyone how you so bravely threw rocks at a defenceless old woman?’
‘Is she dead?’ he asked, a little too avidly.
Mariata regarded him curiously. ‘Why should the high chieftain’s heir care so much about the fate of a poor wandering baggara?’
Rhossi glared at her. ‘A baggara, yes, that’s all she is. But did she live? Tell me at once.’
‘I am happy to report that her death does not lie on your conscience.’
Rhossi let her go and drew back. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He did not sound sincere. ‘Where is she now?’
Mariata hesitated. ‘She went on her way,’ she said at last, and watched as relief flooded his face. ‘And now I shall be on mine.’ She yawned hugely. ‘Today events have tired me out.’
‘I will see you to your aunt’s tent.’
Mariata laughed. ‘I hardly need a companion to see me safely home over such a short distance.’
‘Even so.’ He took her elbow and walked her away from the campfires. ‘Do not ever mention that woman to anyone, do you hear me?’
‘Who is she, that you’re so concerned that no one knows who she is?’
His jaw tightened. ‘No one special.’
At the entrance to Dassine’s tent, Mariata stopped. ‘Good night, Rhossi.’ Detaching herself from his grasp, she ducked inside. She bent, lit the candle-lantern and knelt to arrange her bed. She had brought the embroidered bedcovering that lay on top of the frame with her: it had come from the south of Morocco and she loved it. Rows of embroidered red camels, unrecognizable to any who did not understand the geometric abstraction, marched across a background of gold; around the edges stylized flowers made star-shapes like the mosaic tilework she had once seen in Tamanrassett. This item, more than any other, reminded her of home. They had left in such haste. ‘Bring only those things you can carry,’ her father had told her brusquely. ‘Your Aunt Dassine will have everything you need and I don’t want the caravan to be held up by having to cart your possessions all over the desert.’