The Salt Road

by Jane Johnson

  ‘Now take clean sand and rub it gently over her hands and forearms, her elbows and feet and knees, working always from left to right.’

  This took some time, and all the while a little voice in the back of my head kept reminding me that I had my hands on a dead woman’s skin, skin of an unfamiliar colour and texture from any other I had touched. I sand-washed the old woman’s legs, feeling the muscles move like dough beneath my palms. Her breasts lay deflated and slack against her ribs. I glanced at Taïb. He looked away. ‘Yes, you must. And the rest of her too.’

  I firmed my jaw and carried out my task without complaint, doing my damnedest to shut down the outraged voice of the woman who rarely touched anyone if she could avoid it, and simply could not understand what was going on. At some point Taïb turned her over and I ‘washed’ her back and buttocks, and at last he pronounced the job well-enough done and we dressed her again and adorned her with her jewels.

  I stood looking down at her. Clothed once more and with her hands folded over her bosom, she looked serene and impressive, and I felt a sudden perverse surge of pride in her, and in myself. Taïb went to the car and came back with a length of white cloth. ‘It’s her shroud. She asked me to bring it with us.’

  ‘You knew, all along, that she …’

  He nodded. ‘She knew, and so did I. But if I had told you this was the likely outcome it would, I think, have been a more difficult day than it has been, no?’

  It was hard to disagree. I helped him wind Lallawa into her shroud until every part of her was covered. Then he turned and walked back to the car and a minute later returned with a spade.

  ‘You’re just going to bury her, here, all alone?’ It was a stupid question: what else did I think was happening? Why else had I carried out the death rites; and why had we wrapped her in her shroud? Maybe some small part of me had thought that after all this we would carry her back to the Touareg and drive back to civilization.

  ‘Of course. It’s what she wanted.’

  ‘But what about the authorities? Don’t you have to report her death? Get a death certificate, all that sort of thing? Won’t there be an inquiry if she just goes missing?’

  He gave me a long and telling look. ‘Isabelle, forget London and remember where you are. Lallawa is of the desert, and the desert has taken her back.’

  ‘But she’s not “of the desert”. She’s from another place entirely. She was stolen from there and brought to the desert,’ I said mulishly. ‘Why would she want to die here? Why would she want to be buried, in the sand, away from everyone she knows? I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything at all …’ I gulped, determined not to break down.

  Hesitantly he touched my shoulder. ‘She knew what she wanted, Isabelle. Why else do you think she decked herself out like a queen? If I have half so peaceful a death when my time comes I’ll count myself a lucky man.’

  Like a queen … The phrase echoed around my head. Like a queen, decked out in jewels and finery, buried in the desert sands. I pushed him away. ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘What? Isabelle, what is it?’

  ‘Something … something weird. I, I don’t know. Ignore me, I’m just a bit upset, that’s all.’

  He touched the back of his hand to my forehead. ‘Touch of sunstroke. I should have thought. Go and sit down in the car, Isabelle, I’ll do what’s necessary.’

  I watched from the front seat of the Touareg as he aligned and dug the grave. By now the sun was dipping. At last I steeled myself, got out of the car and went to help. Together we laid her in the ground and covered her white form with sand. I watched over her as Taïb went in search of stones to top the grave. He brought back seven flat pieces of rock one by one, and reverentially we laid them down on top of her.

  ‘May the earth lie lightly over you, Lallawa,’ he said softly.

  Solemnly, I took off my amulet and weighed it in my hand, then bent to place it on the grave. ‘To keep her safe,’ I began to say, but the words were drowned out by the sound of vehicles rumbling across the desert towards us.

  Taïb shaded his eyes against the falling sun. Then he caught me by the arm and hauled me upright so roughly that I yelped. ‘Go back to the car,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  ‘Why? Who are they?’ The amulet hung from my hand, sunlight flooding the red glass discs.

  ‘Just get back to the car,’ he urged fiercely.

  But before I could do as he said, two big SUVs pulled up in a cloud of dust, and men in dark clothing and tightly wound turbans clambered out, several of them carrying guns.

  ‘Merde,’ said Taïb. ‘I think we’re in trouble.’

  22

  Time passed. The girls practised their dances and their songs. The men went about their business, and no one talked of anything out of the ordinary. Mariata’s courses came and went. Life went on as usual. Word was sent, despite her protests, to the Kel Bazgan of the forthcoming marriage, in case her father and brothers rode through after their journey to Bilma. But that was not the only reason. ‘I, of all people, understand your reluctance,’ Rahma said wearily, ‘but, Mariata, you have aunts and cousins there. It is our duty to let them know of the wedding. If we do not, can you imagine how angry they will be, how they will rail against us and accuse us of scandal, even abduction?’

  ‘What about Rhossi? He will still be furious about the camels.’

  Rahma firmed her jaw. ‘What camels? I know nothing of any camels. Do you see two white meharis amongst the poor beasts of the Kel Teggart?’ She shaded her eyes. ‘I do not.’ She turned to the girl. ‘If you want to do this, Mariata, it must be done correctly. The evil eye will fall upon you otherwise, and Amastan has already suffered more than his fair share of bad luck. They will not come: it is too far, too uncomfortable, and they will know better than to expect rich feasting or fine accommodations here. Can you imagine your Aunt Dassine or Moussa’s new wives putting up with such conditions?’

  It was true: Mariata could not. Even so, she felt nervous about the prospect, and her level of anxiety was not helped when Amastan and a number of the other young men disappeared, ostensibly to the market three days away, to trade goat’s milk and cheese, leatherwork and skins, for rice and spice and honey for the wedding. A week passed and still they had not returned; ten days. No one seemed to notice. They polished their silver with sand, shook out their best robes and mended the embroidery; braided one another’s hair and rubbed butter into their skin. The betrothal henna on Mariata’s hands faded to a pale tracery of brown, as fine as lace, barely visible against the tan of her skin.

  Then some of the men came back with the foodstuffs, and with cones of sugar as gifts for the couple. But Amastan was not with them. Neither, she noticed, was Bazu or Azelouane. Bazu was unmarried and his father was away with the azalay; no one seemed concerned that he had not yet returned.

  ‘He’s probably courting a girl down in Kidal,’ said Tadla, and they all laughed.

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers!’

  ‘But why hasn’t Amastan or Azelouane come back?’

  They fell quiet. Noura looked at Nofa, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. She was Azelouane’s niece. Mariata caught the interchange and felt her heart catch in her chest. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

  Nofa leant over, placed a hand on Mariata’s arm. ‘It’s nothing. Don’t concern yourself. Azelouane is not as young as he once was; they’re probably taking it easy, taking an extra day or two over the journey.’

  Mariata left it at that, but she wasn’t convinced. Azelouane might be elderly now, but he was as tough as an acacia tree, weathered by time and wind and habit to withstand even the worst hardships. No: she suspected that Amastan’s absence had nothing to do with Azelouane at all, but that he had changed his mind about marrying her, that, as her people said, his liver had lost its fire. That, or something terrible had happened to him. She imagined him thrown by his camel in some rocky defile, blood leaking from his ears and nose. Murdered by ban
dits; or, worse, in the arms of a woman in another encampment. She knew these were irrational thoughts, but she could not help herself. They stopped her sleeping, stopped her doing anything but the most simple tasks, and even these she spoilt. She invoked Amastan’s name when peering into buckets of water drawn from the river, but the water did not give up its secrets. She sent her spirit-form out at night to quest for him on the dream-paths, but to no avail. When she could not sleep, she paced the encampment under the silent stars until the goats sensed her presence and bleated for attention in the hope of an early release or an unexpected feed. One night, when the moon hung as thin and curved in the sky as a dagger, she climbed the hills to the west of the camp right up to the Eagle and the Hare, the two oddly shaped peaks on the horizon, defying the djenoun who might be abroad, and looked out over the landscape for a sign of him. She had no real expectation of finding Amastan, but doing something felt better than doing nothing; there was something bold and invigorating about being outside when the rest of the world slept, no matter how many of the Kel Asuf might also be abroad. So when two mounted figures came into view approaching silently up the col, she was shocked almost to the point of panic.

  The riders rode tall and straight, leading a further two camels laden with bundles. They were veiled to the eyes and carried rifles across their backs. She stared and stared. Did the first rider resemble Amastan? At this distance it was impossible to tell. Could one of the others be Bazu or Azelouane? Or were these bandits coming to rob the camp? Whoever they were, they would be upon her position in moments. She should retreat now, run back down the hillside and raise the alarm; but a terrible curiosity had come over her and she knew she could no more turn and leave than fly like an owl. Instead, she slipped into the cold, dark, narrow crevice between two tall boulders and stood there in the chilly darkness with her chest pressed so hard against the rock that she could feel her heart pulsing like a mouse she had trapped there.

  As the riders topped out on to the summit, she recognized the leading camel as one of their own: an ugly, piebald Mauretanian that belonged to Bazu ag Akli. Behind it was a big pale animal she thought might be the camel they called Taorka, which Azelouane owned. Bazu and Azelouane. The disappointment made her eyes sting. Where was Amastan?

  One of the men said something and she knew the voice as that of the wily old caravanner Azelouane. The riders halted, brought their camels to their knees and dismounted. Together, they brought the third and fourth camels down; and it was only then that she realized the dark shapes on the third animal were not bundles after all but a man: either dead or sorely wounded. A whimper escaped her, but the men were talking and did not hear her. The figure moved, raised its head. Even at this distance, even in these circumstances, Mariata knew Amastan. She was on the point of dashing out of her hiding place when she heard him say, quite distinctly, ‘Well, I’m not dead yet,’ and the other two men laughed. He looked around. ‘It’s a fair way from the camp. What if they come –’

  ‘They won’t come.’

  ‘You sound sure.’

  Azelouane shrugged. ‘We can’t keep these in the camp. You can’t trust people. Their sympathies are suspect or divided. They don’t know what they want. It’s not like the old days.’

  ‘No one can know,’ said Bazu. He sounded nervous.

  ‘And what do we say about my arm?’ Amastan just sounded impatient.

  ‘Don’t let anyone see the wound.’

  ‘Even Mariata?’

  ‘Especially Mariata. She is Kel Taitok: Kel Ahaggar. The Hoggar capitulates: it always capitulates. It was auxiliaries from the Hoggar fighting for the French who killed Firhoun when he escaped from the prison in Gao; my father told me this.’

  ‘Azelouane’s father fought alongside Kaocen in the great insurrection,’ Bazu reminded Amastan.

  Mariata shrank back into the shadows. She wanted to leap out and confront them, defend the name of her people against their slurs, but she could not declare herself now: it felt too dangerous. She had a very good idea of what must have happened to Amastan, and what must be in the two large bundles they were taking down from the fourth camel. Puffing with effort, Azelouane and Bazu took down the first bundle and set it on the ground, where it chinked dully. Azelouane straightened up and looked around. At last, he pointed to the crevice where Mariata hid. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Between the Eagle and the Hare.’

  Oh no. Mariata risked a last glance at Amastan, who was now at least standing on his own two feet, then pressed herself far into the back of the crack, where no moonlight penetrated to give her away. Bazu and Azelouane brought the first bundle into the mouth of the crevice and she heard it thud down into the sand. With a great heave, Bazu shoved it as far as it would go, until it was stopped by Mariata’s shins. Whatever was in the bundle was heavy and hard; when he pushed again she almost lost her balance and fell forward across it, but he seemed satisfied that it was well-enough hidden, for he withdrew. Minutes later they were back with the second bundle, which they threw down on the first, pinning her up to her waist against the rock.

  ‘That should do it,’ Azelouane said. ‘Let’s get down to the encampment. With luck we can attend to the camels and sleep for a few hours before sun-up.’

  Their footsteps shuffled in the sand as they retreated. A little while later she heard the camels gurgle with protest and the creak of the wooden saddles as they remounted, and then they were gone and she was alone in the darkness with the contraband.

  She shouldn’t look, she knew. She should just climb up over whatever was in the dark bundles and run back down to the encampment by another route to the one the riders had taken. She shouldn’t look: but she had to. There were numerous tales amongst the People of the Veil about curious women who came to grief for opening up someone else’s panniers, jars or boxes. Women who were swallowed by a djinn, changed into a crow; sucked into a no man’s land in which there was only the endless howl of wind-borne sand. But, like those women, she couldn’t help herself. Stealthily, she scrambled up over the bundles, feeling their hard contents shift under her weight, out into the opening of the crack. There, with the moon shining its thin light over her shoulder, she peeled back the blanket over the lower bundle. Beneath it she found a pile of heavy black canisters, and had no idea what they were. When she picked one up it rattled, small, heavy objects shifting inside the casing. Frowning, she put it back, then replaced the blanket and investigated the second bundle. Inside was a heap of dense wood-and-metal objects that seemed to absorb the moonlight into their strange dark forms. Mariata picked one up, and recoiled. She knew immediately it was a gun, but it was like no gun she had ever seen. It did not resemble the rifles the men used for hunting, still less the elaborately decorated antique weapons used in the ritual fantasie. This was lighter, more complicated and altogether more dangerous-looking. It reminded her of a scorpion. There was writing on the stock, writing that looked a little like Tifinagh, but she could not read it, and that in itself frightened her into putting it down and drawing the blanket over it again.

  Guns. Foreign guns. Stolen foreign guns. And a mountain of ammunition.

  She sat back on her heels. Insurrection. The great insurrection. Her thoughts raced. Rebels; rebellion. The Free People – the Imazighen – free no longer. The words spun around her head, and she knew that the war Amastan had spoken of had begun, that he was no longer a bystander; and so, by association, neither was she.

  23

  ‘Where did you go?’

  They were lying in their secret place, the hollow between the oleanders down by the river. The frogs were silent now; the water was all but gone, dried up by a sun that burned hotter every day as the earth turned slowly. In her homeland, they would have moved up into the hills by now, where water could still be found in the shady gueltas, or into the lowlands, where the pasturage was irrigated by the harratin who worked for them; but the Kel Teggart were too poor to keep harratin, too weak to stop them deserting to the towns.

  Amastan
reached up and brushed her hair from her face. Her skin was sticky with sweat as she sat astride him in the darkness, and the mystery of the joining of their two bodies was curtained by the rucked-up fabric of their robes. He ran a finger across her forehead, feeling the ridge of her frown, and considered how they tempted fate every time they did this, making themselves prey to so many evil influences by being out here in the night, without shelter or protection. ‘To the market,’ he said lightly, pressing the frown away. ‘You saw the things we brought back. Think how pretty you will look in the headscarf I bought for you. The shells on it are called cowries: they come from the islands off the coast of the Indian continent, far away to the east. It is said that traders first brought them here in the time of the great pharaohs: imagine that, before the time of Tin Hinan! Who knows, some of these very shells may be even older than your ancestor, older than the Mother of Us All. They’ve been circulating as currency all these years, from the Maldives to Egypt and through the Great Desert into the hands of the most beautiful girl ever born. What a glorious sight they will be, adorning my bride on our wedding day! They are as white as your teeth, as white as the whites of the eyes that are glaring down at me like stars in the night. How they will gleam!’

  Mariata bit her lip. She loved it when he spoke like this, spinning words about an exotic world she would never see, but she would not be distracted. She said again, ‘Where did you go? Apart from the market?’ And when he did not immediately answer, she squeezed her thighs so that he winced. ‘Painful, is it, your arm? How did you do it again? Remind me.’

  Amastan narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You shouldn’t question your husband so. It demeans my honour.’

  ‘You are not my husband yet, Amastan ag Moussa. And I do not believe for one moment that you fell from your camel, you who are such an expert rider.’ Pinning his hand beneath her knee, she started to push up the sleeve of his robe, exposing a bandage beneath. He lay there and let her unwrap it, fold by stiff fold, until the crusted dark wound was exposed, the blood rendered black by the starlight. ‘And that looks nothing like a wound caused by falling off a camel.’