The Salt Road

by Jane Johnson

  The feasting and music went on and on. The men heated their drums over the campfires to tighten the skins in readiness for the faster dances. Older people took another glass of fortifying tea and a handful of dates to keep themselves going into the small hours and went off to gossip in clusters, leaving the young ones to flirt and tease one another without the embarrassment of having the married ones watching over them.

  The moon was high overhead when some figures appeared on the horizon of boulders to the east of the camp: a large group of riders mounted on camels. It was one of the musicians, taking a walk into the bushes to relieve himself, who raised the alarm. The drummers stopped in mid-beat; the dancers shifted anxiously from foot to foot. Amastan said something quietly to Bazu, who slipped away into the night. Several others followed him.

  ‘Who can they be?’ Mariata asked. In the pale ochre of her face, her kohl-rimmed eyes looked enormous.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Amastan, winding his veil tighter. ‘They may be late guests delayed on their journey. Or they may not. Go to our new tent, Mariata. Outside it you will find a sword stuck in the ground to ward away the spirits. Fetch it for me now, will you?’

  ‘They do not look much like spirits to me,’ she said dubiously, but she went to do his bidding. The antique sword, its hilt and crosspiece bound with copper wire and decorated with bands of coloured leather, had been lent by Azelouane. Mariata grabbed it up and went running back to the festival ground, with Tana’s leather bag bumping against her back and the sword banging against her leg all the way; but Amastan was not where she had left him. Instead, she was alarmed to see him far across the encampment running towards the boulders, his hunting rifle slung across his back. She stood there with the ancient sword in her hands, feeling like a fool; then she ran after him. Other men had fetched guns now and were running too; men she had not seen before, or simply did not recognize in this warlike mode. The riders, undeterred, came closer, until a single shot rang out.

  ‘Who are you?’ It was the amghrar who cried out, his old voice as reedy as a woman’s.

  No answer came back, but perhaps they had not heard him.

  ‘They are djenoun,’ someone said. ‘We should have slaughtered the bull-calf: the spirits are angry and have come to claim the blood they awaited.’

  ‘Announce yourselves or we will shoot!’ Amastan cried more loudly.

  One of the cameleers advanced. ‘My name is Ousman ag Hamid, of the Kel Ahaggar, and my daughter is Mariata ult Yemma. I come with men of the Kel Bazgan and my sons, Azaz and Baye.’

  Mariata gasped. She ran to Amastan’s side. ‘It’s my father, my father and brothers!’ She gazed into the darkness, trying to make out the features of the three men she had not seen for so long. Would they be much changed by their treks beneath the desert sun? Did they come in joy, to celebrate their union, or under the duress of familial duty? Anxiety gave way to the sudden euphoria of knowing that it no longer mattered whether they came in blessing or not: she and Amastan were lawfully wed and no one could separate them now.

  ‘Welcome!’ she cried. ‘Welcome one and all to our wedding feast!’

  Word soon spread: people began to laugh, tension dissipated; the musicians were reassembled. Someone was dispatched to slaughter a goat and rekindle the cook-fire, someone else set pots of tea to brewing: the visitors must have travelled far and hard to arrive so late, and there was no easy way across the Tamesna.

  The riders were almost upon the festival grounds when one of them rode free of the group, into the jumping light of the fires.

  ‘Before you celebrate any more there is a debt to be settled!’ cried a harsh voice.

  Mariata stared. Dread clutched at her with its chilly hand. She knew before the firelight fell upon his face that it was Rhossi ag Bahedi.

  ‘This woman is a thief!’ Rhossi called loudly. ‘She stole two camels from me; but, worse than that, she stole my heart!’

  People looked at one another in confusion. Was this a jest, or a serious complaint?

  Rhossi drew himself up in his high saddle till he towered over them all. ‘Mariata ult Yemma took from me two fine Tibesti camels without prior arrangement; and, as everyone amongst the Bazgan knows, she was betrothed to me. Why she left so precipitously is a mystery now revealed: I see she was stolen away by one of the Kel Teggart. So there is a debt of honour to be paid. I carry the word of the amenokal of the Aïr drum-groups, Moussa ag Iba. He has declared that it is a simple enough matter and does not need to get out of hand. Give me back the camels, and the girl and I will be on my way with no hard feelings.’

  It was Ousman who intervened, swerving his camel in front of the speaker. In a low but urgent voice he said, ‘You never mentioned a word of this “betrothal” to me before we set off for this gathering.’

  ‘If I had, would you have guided me across the Tamesna?’

  The look Mariata’s father gave him was answer enough. Rhossi laughed. ‘Exactly so. Let us say I omitted that detail. But I did discuss it with my uncle, and as you know he is dying. And you know what that means, for you, and your sister, and nephews, and cousins.’

  Ousman gave Rhossi a hard stare until the younger man looked away. Then he said, very quietly but firmly, ‘I have travelled a long way to find my daughter, hoping to arrive in time to dissuade her from this wedding. Had you not fallen from your camel as we crossed into the Doum, we should have been here yesterday; had you not complained constantly of the discomfort and the need for rest stop after stop as you eased your sore arse with useless unguents and more saddle-padding than any woman would use, we would have arrived the day before. Now you tell me of some “betrothal”, of which I knew nothing. As to the camels, that is a matter easily resolved and hardly worth a trip across the Tamesna. You may represent Moussa in making this claim; you may even be the next chief of the Bazgan; but Mariata is my daughter and if you have any care for her at all, you will let me handle this as is fitting.’ He clipped his camel’s poll and it obediently went to its knees; he dismounted and strode to where Amastan and Mariata stood together watching silently, Amastan with his rifle in his hand, Mariata with the ancient sword in hers.

  A few paces away, Ousman inclined his head. ‘Daughter.’

  ‘Father.’

  They did not embrace.

  ‘I thought I had left you safe with your Aunt Dassine, but it seems you have taken matters into your own hands. Word reached the Bazgan only a week ago of your impending wedding, and I must say your aunt is much displeased.’

  Mariata’s jaw jutted. ‘There was no safety to be had amongst the Kel Bazgan, Father. I decided to leave them and come here instead.’

  ‘As to the matter of safety, we will come to that later. It does seem that you stole away from the Bazgan like a thief in the night, leaving no word of where you were going; and I gather two camels went missing at the same time. What have you to say to that?’

  Mariata folded her lips. ‘Now is not the time to talk of such things. I had my reasons, and if you hear them you will be angry, though not with me. Let me say only that you and my brothers and the men you have with you are welcome to join our wedding celebration; but Rhossi ag Bahedi is not welcome here, nor anywhere I am present.’

  At this, Amastan’s head jerked towards her. ‘Rhossi?’ His knuckles whitened on the rifle.

  Mariata put a hand on his arm. ‘Now is not the time.’ She turned back to Ousman. ‘Father, this is Amastan ag Moussa, who is the amenokal’s son and a fine, upstanding man, so I cannot understand why my aunt should be displeased about my choice, apart from the fact that I did not consult her about it. But we did send messengers out across the trade routes to try to make contact with you and my brothers, my nearest kin; no word came back, and so I made my own decision to marry Amastan, as was my right.’

  Ousman nodded slowly. ‘That was always the old way, I know. But things are changing in our world too quickly for the old ways to adapt. Let me speak plainly, Mariata. I have nothing against the man yo
u have chosen, but I wish you would put off your wedding and come with me: our people are in danger, more so here than elsewhere, and that is why I have come to take you away with me to a place where you will be settled and safe.’

  Mariata stared at him. ‘Settled?’

  ‘I have taken a new wife. She lives in a town in the Tafilalt, in the south-east of Morocco. I am giving up the desert roads and settling there with her. Her father and I have established a business together. You and your brothers will come with me and make a new and better life.’

  ‘Morocco?’ Mariata stared at him in horror, but Amastan took a step forward. ‘I understand your concern for your daughter’s welfare, but I can assure you her safety is the dearest thing to my heart, now that we are wed.’

  ‘But this is the first night of your wedding?’ It was Rhossi who interrupted. He spoke smoothly enough, but the whites of his eyes were bloodshot and his gaze sparked fire.

  Amastan acceded that this was indeed the case.

  Rhossi turned to Ousman. ‘So it is not too late, then; for everyone knows it is only on the third night that a decent marriage can be consummated! Place the safety of your daughter in my hands, sir, and I will guard her life with the whole might of the Aïr when I am chief.’

  Ousman shook his head. ‘It is a handsome offer, Rhossi, but I am determined that she shall come with me to the Tafilalt.’

  ‘I am going nowhere, Father, without my husband.’

  Another man joined them now: the amghrar, Rhissa ag Zeyk. He and Ousman exchanged the proper greetings, and then the chief of the Kel Teggart said, ‘These two young people are properly wed, by a marabout and in the eyes of all the tribe. Amastan is a fine man: I have known him for most of his life and can vouch for him.’

  ‘I knew him for twelve years before he came to this rat-hole, and know him as a feeble worm!’ burst out Rhossi.

  ‘And you, you were a bully and a coward, as any child of the Bazgan younger or smaller than you were can testify!’ Amastan cried.

  Rhossi pushed him then, hard in the chest with both hands; Amastan stumbled and almost fell. Mariata jumped between them. ‘Stop this! Shame on you, Rhossi ag Bahedi! This is my wedding, a time for celebration. Anyone who does not wish to share in our joy may leave, right now.’

  The amghrar smiled, his wily old eyes glittering in the light of the fires, and, though he seemed to address her, his attention was all on Rhossi ag Bahedi. ‘We can hardly turn such weary travellers away without offering our hospitality, no matter that we are poorer in material goods than the mighty Kel Bazgan. I think you will find that our encampment is a place of warmth and comfort, especially on this joyful day. Put aside your differences, I beg you. Ousman ag Hamid, your daughter is lawfully married to this man, and of her own free will: be happy for her. Rhossi ag Bahedi, we will talk about your missing camels tomorrow; but I think you will find that we have no fine Tibesti camels in this “rat-hole”. We live on the edge of hardship, and our camels are plain and solid working beasts: we are unable to indulge ourselves with rich men’s playthings.’

  Rhossi drew himself up. ‘My camels were not “playthings”: I bought them as breeding stock, with the finest Tibesti lineage. The income I have lost from the sale of the bull-calves sired by the stolen stock is incalculable.’

  Amastan shrugged. ‘Ah, well, if it is incalculable, there is not much we can do to compensate you for their loss, even if they were stolen, which I very much doubt. Most likely you failed to hobble them properly and they wandered away to find a better home where they would not be kicked in a tantrum.’

  ‘You know full well she stole them!’ Rhossi raged. ‘She may be your wife in name, but she lay with me first!’ And while a horrified silence fell at this outrageous claim, he named a truly extortionate sum for the price of the stolen camels, one he knew could never be paid by any except such as the sultans of the ancient Songhai Empire whose palace walls shone with powdered gold, and everyone who heard it gasped. Rhossi surveyed their appalled faces with satisfaction. ‘And if you cannot pay that, I will take no compensation for them other than the woman, married or not!’

  Mariata could stand it no longer. ‘You are mad! First of all, I never lay with you, as well you know: you tried to force me, and that was one very good reason for leaving the Kel Bazgan as swiftly and secretly as I did. Secondly, when I fought back, I caught you a glancing blow in the face and you cried like a baby. Thirdly, we come to the matter of the camels. It is true that I made use of a pair of animals that I knew to be your own; but I took them in payment for your insult towards my honour, and, by my calculation, for that and the second and worse insult you have just added in public you owe me three camels more! Those I took are no longer here: they were sold at the market at Goulemime. I have the money still: they did not fetch much, by your inflated standards. I think perhaps they were not even male, or had perhaps been gelded, at the very least did not function as an entire bull should function. There are many creatures in the world that look very fine and proud of bearing and boast the finest lineage; but they often turn out to be sadly deficient when it comes to the matter of coupling!’

  By now a crowd had gathered; someone burst out laughing and soon all the men of the Kel Teggart were jeering. It did not take much for them to dislike one of the Kel Bazgan: Rahma’s ill treatment by the Aïr chieftain had been widely regarded as an insult to the whole tribe.

  Infuriated, Rhossi caught Mariata by the arm and twisted viciously. ‘Tell the truth, you little bitch. You spread your legs for me and loved every minute of it! You came back for it night after night!’

  The next moment, Mariata felt her other hand caught in a hard grip, and then the sword was torn from her grasp and there was a wild scuffle and suddenly she was free and Rhossi was on the ground with Amastan astride him, Azelouane’s antique blade pressed hard against his throat.

  What happened next was sheer confusion. A shot rang out, splitting the night. No one knew what to do, how to react. They stopped what they were doing and stared around, bemused. Was it just a rock shattering, or had a gun gone off by mistake? A second shot whistled through the air and a man cried out; and then there came a vast wave of noise, a terrifying, unbreakable wall of sound as automatic gunfire took over from the single rifle shots. As if in a nightmare, Mariata saw Amastan hurled backwards, spinning suddenly away from Rhossi’s chest. The front of his robe – the lovely, costly indigo fabric with its magpie-sheen – now gave back a different quality of glimmer to the moonlight, as a new black patch of wetness spread slowly across it. He lay unmoving on the ground behind Rhossi ag Bahedi, his hands flung back and the useless antique sword relinquished. Against the hard, dark, dusty surface, the palms of his hands were pale and tender-looking, as light and as soft as oleander blossoms.

  A woman screamed his name, over and over and over – Amastan, Amastan, Amastan! – and the word reverberated through Mariata’s head till it sounded like a nonsense word in a child’s rhyme, and only after the longest time did she realize it was her own voice she heard, demented and forlorn.

  Then it was swallowed by a great barrage of noise – shouting and wailing and the whine and beat of rapid gunfire, and people were falling down all around them, clutching at themselves, shrieking in agony and shock as if blown by a great wind, their arms cartwheeling, feet scrabbling for stability.

  Camels bellowed; someone ran past with their clothes on fire; it was Leïla, Mariata saw in horror. And then there was a man – no, many men, scores of them, hundreds it seemed, swarming like ants around the campground, their faces unveiled and bare, open to the night. She propelled herself forward to the space on the ground where Rhossi had been (where was he now? the question whispered at her but she had no answer for it, and did not care) and caught at Amastan’s arm. ‘Get up! Get up! We are being attacked!’ But the arm was limp between her hands. It lay as limp as the lamb she had delivered stillborn from a dying ewe that spring, shockingly limp and loose and clammy, as if it owned no fibre of wor
king will or muscle. Even so, she shook it hysterically. ‘Amastan!’

  He was just unconscious: she knew it. Lying there with his eyes tight shut, asleep in the midst of the mayhem. ‘Amastan! Get up!’ She managed to get an arm beneath his shoulders and tried to heave him upright, but he was so heavy. So heavy! He was a lightly built man, wiry and quick on his feet: how could he be so hard to move? Her wits felt dulled: she could not understand it. ‘Amastan!’ she bellowed at him, filled with a fury that was now tinged with terror.

  Someone caught hold of her and wrenched her away. ‘There is nothing you can do for him!’

  She dug her heels in and tightened her grip on her husband’s sleeve, her fingers as hard as claws, knowing that if she let go now she would never see him again. ‘No!’ she wailed. ‘No!’

  The costly indigo cloth held, rooting the struggling figures in a bizarre tableau; then, with a ripping sound that was audible even amidst the chaos, it suddenly tore apart, leaving only a bloody fragment in her hand. Released at last, Mariata was spun around and bodily lifted, slung over a shoulder and borne away.

  From her strange inverted vantage point she saw Rhossi ag Bahedi drag her brother Azaz from his camel so that the boy fell in a crumpled heap on the hard ground, saw her enemy scramble up into the saddle and kick the beast viciously till it took to its heels and fled. She saw Baye lean down and haul Azaz on to his mount; and all she could think was that she did not care, though she knew she should, about the fates of others, even if they were her brothers. None of it seemed real, especially seen upside-down. All that did seem real to her was the still figure lying on the ground behind her, dwindling further and further with each step until, no matter how she twisted her head and craned her neck, she could see it no longer.

  She saw Tana flung to the ground by one man while another ripped at her robe; saw the amghrar casually cut down by a pair of dark-faced boys. She saw Azelouane stride through the mêlée, a glinting black Kalashnikov grasped in his hands, the fierce grimace of his face lit by the bright flashes of light that issued from its muzzle. She saw kindly Tadla yelling like a demon as a uniformed man tried to slash at the child that hid behind her. Her last sight was of Rahma bravely wielding a flaming branch against the attacker, who turned and almost negligently rested his black, scorpion-like gun upon his hip and calmly shot her in the face with a burst of gunfire that lit up the night air; then, as she spun and fell, another man caught her by her long braids and decapitated her with one exultant stroke of his moon-bright machete.