The Salt Road

by Jane Johnson

  ‘I gave my word I would tell you nothing.’

  ‘Because the Kel Ahaggar are traitors?’

  Shock stirred him into action. He struggled up on to his elbows, dislodging her. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Where did you get the guns, Amastan?’

  ‘I think you must be one of the Kel Asuf. Did you transform yourself into an eagle-owl and glide unseen overhead? Did you send your spirit-self seething up through the rocks in the form of a hyrax? Are you a shape-shifter? Will they open up our tent on the third night of our wedding and find nothing but my chewed-over bones?’ He regarded her with wary respect; or was it fear?

  ‘Never mind all that nonsense,’ she said impatiently. ‘I heard it all; I know what it means. If there is danger coming, as Tana says, I want to be ready for it. The women of the Tuareg have always been as fierce and bold as their menfolk. Teach me to use one of your stolen guns, Amastan, and when the time comes I will prove that the Kel Taitok are neither collaborators nor cowards!’

  Amastan looked at her in amazement. Then he laughed. ‘Kalashnikovs are not weapons for women! I hardly know how to shoot one myself, though when my arm is healed, Azelouane says he will teach me. But when my arm is healed, if you still wish it, I will teach you how to use a rifle.’ He sobered abruptly. ‘But, Mariata, I cannot tell you how it is that we came by the guns: it is too dangerous. If the information fell into the wrong hands it would be disastrous, for all of us. Trust me in this one thing, will you?’

  She held his gaze steadily. ‘I will.’

  Mariata felt the tension building in her like a thunderhead as her wedding day drew near. She wanted to have it over and done with, to make her union with Amastan public and blessed, as if the legitimizing of it would ward off the evil influences she felt circling. Her impatience was palpable: her muscles twitched and she could not keep still, even when they draped gorgeous fabrics over her to choose for her marriage robe. ‘This indigo cloth came from the market at Kano, and this beautiful green too – see how it shimmers!’

  ‘Green is unlucky,’ someone said, and they looked to Mariata for her opinion.

  Her thoughts were spinning: it took a while before she realized they were all gazing at her, waiting for her answer. They are enjoying this far more than I am, she thought. What is wrong with me? Most girls would be immersing themselves in every tiny detail of the preparations, living every second of the picking over of embroidery styles and jewelled slippers, of bracelets and earrings and henna patterns, with the knowledge that they would treasure these moments for the rest of their life, would look back on them when their own daughters were married; their granddaughters too … But she could not shake off the sense of impending gloom that enveloped her, that made her want to run headlong into her wedding there and then wearing whatever robe she had on, without all this fuss and nonsense. But looking around at the expectant faces, at the eyes brimming with benevolence and delight, it occurred to her that weddings might be more for the benefit of the whole tribe than for the couple who were to be married, that it was an event that brought everyone together in joyful purpose, and that she had better play her part.

  ‘Not the green,’ she said at last. ‘The indigo is lovely.’

  ‘And very traditional,’ Rahma added approvingly.

  Mariata caught her eye. Well, why not please her mother-to-be? It was a small and easy gift to give her. ‘The indigo, then.’

  Now it was veils and slippers and bands of shimmering embroidery, and strings of beads and belts and brooches: an endless succession of little, but crucial, decisions to be made. People argued over minute details; Mariata felt as if she were in a sort of dream, hovering over them all like a shadowy presence, her mind largely elsewhere.

  ‘More kohl. You need more kohl.’

  Mariata squinted critically into the mirror. Her eyes were already startling, the whites contrasting brilliantly with the dark irises and the powdered antimony. They looked huge. ‘How can I need more? I’ve never worn so much in my life.’

  Nofa shook her head, tutting. ‘It’s your wedding: everyone will be talking about you. You will be the target for the tehot, the evil eye will be upon you wherever you go, so we must apply as much kohl as possible to turn the malign influences aside.’ She twisted the silver wand inside the little pot, removed it again and carefully blew off the excess. ‘Now close your lids and let me do my job.’

  Mariata did as she was told: there was no point in making a fuss about it. She had already spent five hours the day before having her hair rebraided and being adorned with the henna that would protect her hands and feet, with the other girls squabbling and falling out over the designs to be used. She had long given up trying to have a say in the process: she was too happy, too caught up in the dream of marrying Amastan at last, at last. And the day before that? She almost laughed aloud at the thought of it. Such a strange contrast to all this primping and preening, this world of women. The day before, in the hour after the sun rose, she had been in the hills with him, resting the long barrel of a hunter’s rifle along a shoulder of rock, learning how to control her breathing so as not to send the shot wide; how to apply gentle pressure to the trigger, how to anticipate the heavy recoil of the weapon when it fired. By the end of the day she had managed to hit two pieces of wood and a shard of pottery that Amastan had set as targets for her; but a moving object was another matter entirely. She had marvelled at Amastan’s speed and skill as he brought down a rock pigeon and then a wild boar they had scared out of the bushes. ‘What will you do with it?’ she had said, gazing down at the strange creature with its wiry-haired hide and its cloven feet. ‘Can we carry it back with us?’ She had prodded its haunch with a toe: it felt impressively solid. ‘There’s a lot of meat on it.’

  ‘Little heathen! Half the tribe won’t touch it; more than half. Do you not know that pig is forbidden by Islam?’

  ‘That’s a pig?’ Mariata had never seen one before. She stared wonderingly at its bristly, curled lip, the sharp tusk protruding.

  ‘A fine boar. Don’t worry.’ He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘It’ll get eaten.’

  ‘By jackals!’

  Amastan laughed. ‘You could call them that.’

  In the end he had dragged the carcase into the shelter of the rocks and built a cairn of stones over it to keep the scavengers off. ‘Can’t afford to pass up good meat like that. Don’t worry, it’ll be used.’ And he scraped a series of symbols on to the rock face over the cave wherein the boar lay.

  ‘Amastan welcomes you to feast,’ Mariata read the Tifinagh script, smiling. She thought of it now, and her smile broadened.

  ‘See, she is thinking of the third night already,’ Bicha said, elbowing Nofa, whose jogged hand drew a long, black line of kohl almost down to Mariata’s nose as a result, making all the women laugh and whistle.

  People had been arriving for the celebrations all week, some with gifts; most without. Mariata was surprised: she knew none of them. Amastan, however, seemed to know them all. She watched the way he greeted them: a subtle adjustment of the veil to show his respect, the brushing of palm against palm, a light touch of hand to heart. They were mostly men, dressed not in finery but in plain and dusty robes, and they looked too solemn to be musicians, for all that they carried instruments with them.

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked Rahma, but the older woman shrugged.

  ‘He says they are friends.’

  Her tisaghsar, her bride-gifts, were gathered on a wide blue rug in the centre of the dancing field: a carved wooden box filled with spices from the men of the tribe, a robe and an amber necklace with beads as large as bird-eggs, a bag of rice and another of millet, her own mortar and pestle, a bunch of mountain thyme one of the old women had picked that morning, a whetstone, a bone-handled knife, a newly made waterskin, some pots, a blanket, a reed mat and a pair of chickens; and these joined the bolt of pure white cotton Amastan had brought from the market at Kidal and the intricate silver veil-weight, a
s long as a hand and as heavy as a comb, that she would wear as a wife.

  She came out into the bright midday sun at last in her shimmering blue wedding robe, her face painted with ochre and her lips and eyes blackened with kohl, her hands and feet swirling with bright henna, huge triangular earrings weighing down her earlobes, silver amulets pinned all over her robes for luck, and a dozen bright bangles clinking on her arms, to find the women of the tribe erecting a bridal tent for her a discreet distance from the one she had shared with Rahma. There were at least forty goatskins in it: how they had managed to gather so many hides together and stitch them without her seeing them engaged in this secret work touched her to the core. The Kel Teggart were not a rich tribe and did not have forty goats to spare; and that they would do this for her, an outsider without family, was so startling that she surprised herself by bursting into tears.

  Tadla came bustling over, her usually dour face transformed by an indulgent smile. She wrapped Mariata in a warm embrace, with the experience of decades managing not to displace the amulets or damage, any more than the tears already had, Nofa’s hours of maquillage. ‘There, there, sweet one, do not fret: it is your happy day and we are happy for you. You will bring us all great joy and luck, and strong new blood for our tribe; and you are making my dear friend Rahma a proud and happy woman, is she not, my dear?’

  Mariata looked up and there was Rahma, wiping her hands on her robe, the sweat glistening on her forehead from the strenuous business of getting the tent up, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Now, you know you cannot enter until you are wed: it is the worst luck. Leave it all to us. We will make it beautiful for you: you will want for nothing. We have woven a new rug for your floor: see –’ She waved and called to the other women, and they ran off, returning moments later with a long bundle that was proudly unfurled.

  ‘I chose the colours!’ called Noura. ‘Don’t you love them? The lichen for this wonderful green came from up in the hills: it took ages to gather it, but look, it’s the Prophet’s own colour. And we used indigo for the blue, no expense spared! And the skins of the wolf-onion for this lovely rich red.’

  ‘And I wove the frogs into the border here,’ Leïla said, pointing out the geometric triangles and dots that decorated the edge. She gave Mariata a wink and they all chuckled: frogs were well known for their fertility, and were a good luck symbol too, given that they lived in water.

  ‘Make sure the bed is well positioned on this rug and you will give your husband many fine sons!’

  There was a great noise of whooping and cheering and suddenly everyone was running. Rahma took Mariata by the elbow. ‘It’s the sacrifice: come and watch.’

  A bull-calf had been led into the festival grounds and the young men of the tribe now ringed it, clutching their best ceremonial lances. The bracelets glittered on their forearms; the sun beat down. The calf backed away from one side of the circle, found its way barred and ran madly around, rolling its eyes and snorting with fear, its long legs awkward and ungainly.

  There had been no bull-calf for Kheddou and Leïla’s wedding: the expense was too great. Amastan, by contrast, had travelled and traded for years, amassing a tidy sum. The bride-wealth he had offered for Mariata was handsome too, though there had been no one to whom he could offer it and so the amghrar of the tribe, the widower Rhissa ag Zeyk, had taken it in trust until such time as it could be passed into the hands of Mariata’s family for safekeeping. If anything were to happen to Amastan, or the marriage was dissolved, the money would help towards the raising of their children.

  It was Amastan who stepped out of the circle and into the arena, the indigo of his robe glittering with its metallic sheen, the brim of his tagelmust crowned by a diadem of amulets. The lance he carried was generations old, but its head had been honed to a lethal sharpness. The bull-calf stopped before him, jinked and then spun away across the ground, as if seeing its fate in the shining metal. The circle widened to let it run and it drew to a halt on the opposite side, eyeing the figure that paced towards it balefully.

  ‘Can’t the smith just take the beast away and cut its throat?’ Mariata asked quietly, clutching Rahma’s arm.

  The older woman laughed. ‘I hardly think a year-old bull-calf is likely to do our boy much damage,’ she said; but that had not been Mariata’s thought. She had never felt particularly squeamish before over the killing of an animal, for food or for luck, but she was gripped by a deep presentiment of dread and the enad’s words came back to her forcefully: ‘Blood will be spilt …’ The calf’s blood would be spilt one way or another this day; but suddenly she did not want to see it slaughtered in front of her, no matter how fine the spectacle or traditional the ritual.

  ‘No!’ she cried out, and people turned, amazed. ‘Killing it like this is a bad omen,’ she declared. ‘I feel it here –’ She pressed a palm against her flank, above her liver, that place in the body from which the deepest and most authentic convictions sprang. They stared at her, and for the first time since she had left the Kel Bazgan she felt a wave of hostility envelop her.

  Amastan strode across the festival ground. A few paces away from her he rammed the point of the lance deep into the earth. ‘If you do not wish to see the animal killed, I will honour your choice.’ He turned to address the crowd. ‘As you know, Mariata saved me from the Kel Asuf. She hears the spirits. If she says the slaying of the bull-calf is ill-omened, we should respect her instincts.’

  People started to mutter; many touched their amulets. It was one thing not to sacrifice a calf at a wedding for lack of funds; quite another to gather for the deed and not see it done. ‘No good will come of this,’ one said.

  ‘Women should not interfere in a man’s ritual,’ said another.

  ‘I think we know who will be the master in this marriage,’ said another, which made many laugh.

  Amastan shook his head ruefully. ‘You may tease me all you like, but I value my bride too much to cause her distress on this auspicious day. There’s already a fine sheep roasting for the midday mechoui, plenty for all to eat and no need to shed more blood. I hereby pardon the beast’s life.’ He placed his palm on his heart, bowed his head to Mariata, retrieved the lance and walked away to join his companions, leaving the artisans to deal with catching the bull-calf and returning it to the pens.

  Rahma patted Mariata on the shoulder. ‘I think we’d better get the music started, don’t you?’ She nodded to the head musician, and the band quickly gathered their instruments and launched into a rendition of ‘The Hunter and the Dove’, which soon took people’s minds off the disquieting matter of the failed sacrifice.

  Tana walked across the festival ground and stood before Mariata. ‘Bravely done, little one, though it won’t make any difference in the end.’ She scanned the girl’s robe and accoutrements, her head cocked to one side like an eagle surveying prey. ‘You’ll do,’ she pronounced at last. ‘Though I see you persist in wearing that damnable amulet.’

  Indeed, Amastan’s amulet took pride of place in the middle of Mariata’s chest. Tana reached out and tapped it lightly but with enough force for it to press hard against Mariata’s breastbone; and abruptly the mechanism flipped open. Holding the little hatch open with a finger, the enad pressed a tiny roll of parchment into the revealed compartment, then closed the central boss back over it. ‘For luck,’ she said. ‘For life. It is the charm I should have made for Amastan when once he requested one of me. Perhaps this time it will serve its purpose. But that is not your wedding gift.’

  And then she produced, as if from nowhere, the wonderful fringed leather bag in emerald green, scarlet and blue that Mariata had seen her sewing under the tamarisk. She slid the strap over the girl’s head and under her arm, positioning it so that it sat in the small of her back, where it fitted so neatly and comfortably it might have been a part of her, for all that it was heavy with contained objects. Even so, curiosity overcame Mariata: at once she twisted so that the bag swung around and, marvelling at the gorgeous clarity of the co
lours, at the sunburst motifs and minute stitching, she made to open it.

  ‘It is not to be opened now,’ Tana said sternly, repositioning the bag. You will know when you will need it most. You will have a choice to make; two lives to save. Choose wisely, no matter how hard it may be.’ Then she smiled, the expression in her fierce old eyes softening, and reached out and stroked Mariata’s cheek. ‘Take care, little one.’ And then she walked away, leaving Mariata staring after her, wondering at the strange-sounding finality of this. But there was no time to be lost on pondering Tana’s inscrutable pronouncements, for the marabout had arrived to perform the brief marriage service. Their short vows were exchanged, witnesses spoke for each of them, their hands were placed on the Qur’an, gifts were exchanged and in a surreally short passage of time they were man and wife.

  After the formalities of the marabout’s blessing, the rest of the day was taken up by all the usual delights of a wedding. There was singing and drum-playing, and the sheep that had been turning on its spit since dawn was eaten with much gusto with dates and spice and bread. Camels were raced, sword-dancers showed off their agility and skill; and then the unwed girls danced the beautiful ritual guedra, the blessing dance, wearing their cowrie-shelled headdresses and moving their feet in the economic but precise steps of the dance, until the sun went down and the old folk nodded into a trance, lulled by the gentle repetitiveness of the clapped rhythms, until at last the momentum built to a crescendo, heads rocked and braids snapped wildly like striking snakes. The air was full of baraka – you could feel it all around – a great electric cloud of good luck and benefaction. People were gathering it to themselves, touching each other’s hands, touching their own stomach, heart and head. Amulets were kissed, children too, to spread the baraka. The women ululated joyfully. Amastan pressed Mariata’s hands to his heart: they were married at last.