by Sarah Monzon
By the night’s end, I had my answer.
Souls undoubtedly did bond with one another.
Chapter 13
Karim
My internal clock ticked time off the predawn minutes, and I blinked the sleep from my eyes. Weight rested on my chest, the left side of my body unusually warm. Hannah stirred besides me, her golden hair fanned out over my bicep as her head nestled more snugly into the section of space below my collar bone. Desire pulled in my gut as I ran a finger along the milky white flesh of her arm.
My wife.
I’d never thought the title would belong to Hannah, but it fit. She fit. More than I ever imagined a woman could.
Protectiveness surged through my limbs, causing my muscles to ripple. Hannah stirred again, this time rolling away from me in her sleep.
I wanted nothing more than to wrap my body around hers, contour for contour. To pull her back to my chest and breathe in the scent of her. Continue to fuse the bonding of our bodies, our lives, our souls.
But intuitively I knew that in minutes the sun would peek over the horizon, and this time of dawn was not my own but consecrated for prayer to Allah. Rising from bed, I faced the east, toward Mecca, and allowed my body to follow the rituals my muscles had conducted five times every day since childhood. Mind free, my prayer came not from rote words formed by my mouth but from deep within my heart, where worship to Allah resided.
The morning has come to me but belongs to you, Allah, Lord of the worlds. I ask of you the good of the day, its success, your aid, blessing, and guidance throughout.
Rustling from the bed drew my attention, and though I knew I shouldn’t, I peeked from under heavy lids. Hannah’s arm rose from under the blankets, her hands rubbing at her eyes. My heart clenched at the sight of her, and I repeated my plea for guidance. She sat up and caught my gaze with a smile. With no thought, my lips hitched upward. It took concerted effort to close my eyes and mind once again to outward distractions.
Allah deserved my undivided attention.
The next words of the Fajr prayer seemed especially important at this time. I bowed my head even further in reverence.
Shelter me from the evil of this day and the evil to come.
Though I’d argued the disease wasting away the livestock was of a natural cause, the air bred a taste of something sinister. I could not concede to a supernatural cause. Did not think the illness and devastation a curse from Allah. But something more than environment was at play. And the thing with evil intent, it did not content itself with benign infliction. Instead it ate and drank and grew and bred until its black fingers had spread to touch any life near.
The air beside me stirred, and though I kept my eyes closed, I was aware of Hannah’s presence. Was she, a Christian, also taking part in sunrise prayers?
Closing the door yet again to outward wanderings, I shepherded my mind to thoughts of worship.
All praise to you who has forgiven me today and not destroyed me due to my wickedness.
My body rocked forward so my forehead touched the ground. With reverence, I ended the prayer and stood.
Hannah knelt by our bed, her hands folded, head bowed, eyes closed, and lips moving. All the years I’d known the Pratts, I’d never heard a Christian prayer. The way she knelt spoke of humility, a posture familiar to me and one I respected. Were the words she spoke simple recitation, the going through of motions?
As quickly as the question entered my mind I dismissed it. No one could commit to their God in the way this family had by a nominal faith. Although they rejected the great prophet Muhammad and his teachings—the ways to practice religion that were familiar to me—their hearts were still open, their worship still pure. Did we not, after all, serve the same God, though I called him Allah and they referred to him as Father? The God of Abraham our father, the father of Ishmael, was who I served. The God of Abraham, the father of Isaac, who my wife and her family served.
“Amen,” Hannah said under her breath, then raised her face to me.
I sat on the edge of our bed and faced her. Her cheek was wrinkled where it had pressed against the pillow. My hand itched to smooth it out. One touch to an ember, however, could produce a flame, and now that the sun had risen, duties beckoned me outside this chamber.
Still, I lingered. “Good morning, wife.”
Her cheeks produced a rosy hue. “Good morning, husband.”
Husband.
As much as I hadn’t predicted ever calling Hannah wife, the punch of hearing her call me husband from her soft voice nearly knocked me over. Hunger for her rolled in my belly and produced a groan that nearly escaped into her hearing. Our friendship had been the seed of our love, our marriage its planting. Time and attention would be the sun and water. With both, germination would occur, roots would form, and the product would be something both delicate and strong, sweet and savory. But restraint was needed as well. If I doused the seed with too much water, it would drown before it ever had a chance to live. Too much sun and it would wither away.
Uncertainty crawled into her expression, and I realized I had let too much silence span. I opened my mouth to speak, reassure her in some way, but the bleating of ewes and the shuffling of feet reached our ears. Beams creaked as the skeleton of tents were disassembled, the skins falling to the ground below.
I leaned forward and kissed Hannah on the forehead. “I have to go,” I said as I stood. There was much to do, and as leader I had to oversee it all. Hannah had been a part of many such preparations. She understood.
* * *
Hannah
I watched Karim’s back as he exited the partition and then the tent itself. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I scolded myself at the emptiness and insecurity his departure caused. Was I a small girl who needed pats on the head and assurances that all was well when there was no evidence to the contrary?
As much as logic told me he was needed elsewhere and that responsibility was what had pulled him from my side, a chasm cracked in my chest. Even with the time we’d spent together the night before, I needed a few more moments. Some time to bolster my confidence in our new relationship. Convince myself the lasting impression of his lips on mine, his touch on my skin, held more meaning for him than the desires of the flesh and the pressing demands to produce an heir.
In the deepest recesses of my heart, I knew Karim cared for me. Loved me, even. As a friend. But it was like wading in a river. I’d only stood in the shallows before. Yesterday I’d plunged all the way in. And right now, the current was so strong, it attempted to drag me under instead of offering me its cool freshness.
I bowed my head again, in need of strength in my unknown from an all-knowing God. When I’d finished pouring my heart out, I rose and dressed for the day. There was much to do, and none of it would get done if I spent all my time closed within this tent or within the confines of my own head. Neither would produce many results.
I packed up the quilt, rugs, and pillows and stored them in a corner of the tent. Only a day had passed since the wedding, but at this point, I was ready to throw time out the window. In a week it would be tradition to return to my parents’ tent with various foods to show I was well taken care of and happy. But where would we be in a week? I knew we were leaving, but so much was happening, Karim hadn’t informed me of our destination.
Ducking under the partition of the women’s section of the tent, I gathered a few of the richer foods and fresh fruits left over from the wedding feast and bundled them together in a thick cloth. At this point, I wasn’t sure where my parents would be, but with Mother’s injuries, she wouldn’t have been able to go far. More than likely my parents’ tent would be one of the last to be taken down.
I kept my gaze to the ground, in adherence to the culture, yes, but also to avoid any knowing looks that might be cast my way. Already I had felt on display, but now, whether true or imagined, the scrutiny of my brothers and sisters dug deeper.
The sides of my parents’ tent had been rolled up to allo
w a breeze to drift through, the roof still providing much-needed shade. I expected Mom to be sitting or reclining, but she stood off to the side, arranging their belongings to travel.
She noticed me and smiled, moving aside what she was working on to shuffle toward me. I met her in the middle with an open arm.
When we separated, I handed her my offering.
“What is this?” she asked as she uncovered the food I’d gathered.
“I’m a few days early.” She’d lived here as long as I had. Knew the culture and customs.
Tears glazed her eyes, but she blinked them back. “Thank you for this.” She set the bundle down, then busied her hands with packing. “Shouldn’t you be busy packing your own household now?”
“I am sure my husband would be pleased that I took a small measure of time to assure my family of his good care of me.” Why did I sound so formal?
“I’m sure your husband would.”
I turned toward the tenor voice I knew so well. “Karim.”
“Wife.” His gaze bore into mine, but his face remained cool. No crinkles around his eyes. No smile upon his lips. Not even a softening. It was the face I’d encountered in the sandstorm. The same one I’d witnessed many times as he strode through the encampment.
Serious.
Withdrawn.
I wanted to do something to crack his veneer. Touch him. Crack a joke. Hip-check him. Something that would shock or shake the shroud he cloaked himself in. Transform him into the man I saw when we were alone.
Mom moved around me with small steps. “Ethan is not here at the moment.”
Of course Mom would think Karim was here for Dad. As much as possible, genders stayed separate.
Karim held himself straight. “No matter. I have already spoken to him. Both of you will travel with Mahabat in the Toyota. With your injuries, it will be the easiest way, although I fear the jostling will still cause you great discomfort. The sickest of the livestock will go with you, and I pray between Allah’s mercy, Mahabat’s experience, and your husband’s medical knowledge, no more sheep will be lost along the way.”
Mom bowed her head. “I thank you for your kind consideration.”
“Yes, thank you, Karim.” I wanted to walk to him, give him a hug of thanks (I guess those years in the South rubbed off on me more than I thought), but his body language said do not approach.
“I wonder”—Mom’s head remained bowed—“will Hannah be traveling with her parents, in relative comfort and safety?”
My lungs froze. I had never heard my mother be so bold with anyone but Dad before. She’d phrased her question so that if Karim answered in the negative, he’d be admitting to not putting my safety first.
I looked at him. Watched his mouth pinch and his eyes narrow. He, however, did not look at me. Not even a glance. Nothing to gauge my response.
In a tight voice he replied, “Hannah stays with me.” Without another word, he turned and stalked away.
“Mother.” The second syllable fell long on my tongue, drawing out the reprimand I felt.
She looked up, no apology in her expression. “It is not wrong to want to keep you safe.”
“Karim will keep me safe. As a friend, he always has. Now that I am his wife, don’t you think he’ll be even more on guard?”
“From scorpions, and sandstorms, and scrapes of your own making, yes, Karim has protected you.”
The silence that followed spoke what she hadn’t. Things had changed. The social climate had shifted. There was no telling where the danger originated.
Which was the whole point of Karim marrying me in the first place. For protection, safety.
“Besides,” Mom said with a smile, “I thought you’d relish the chance at traveling by vehicle instead of trekking the distance by camel.”
My legs, back, and bottom protested the suggestion of camel riding. The long days, endless motion, unbearable heat. Maybe I should try to convince Karim to let me ride with my folks.
But that would mean who knew how long away from him. No matter how strong the current, I wasn’t going to let it sweep me away without a fight. And in this battle, my only weapons were the biblical decree.
Leave and cleave.
Chapter 14
Hannah
In an unprecedented decision, Karim divided us into three separate caravans. My parents and Mahabat traveled in the truck with the animals too sick to journey under their own steam. The majority of the women and a few of their husbands shepherded the remaining flock and prized Arabian horses. Both their routes included cities, known public wells, and ways to receive help along the way should they need it.
The final caravan, the one made up of the clan’s camels, a majority of the men to tend to them, and a handful of women, was headed into the heart of the region with its harsh climate and desolate wildness. Not many creatures were equipped to handle the conditions, but the Bedouins had learned from the survivors, the thrivers, and had spent centuries making a way where no man had succeeded before. We’d all meet up again in a few weeks’ time.
Ewes and rams bleated as they started off toward the east. I shielded my eyes from the morning sun and watched as the herd moved, the shepherdesses hedging the perimeter. Off in the distance, two men stood with their heads bent toward each other. Their keffiyehs hid their profiles, and I couldn’t make out who they were. One man pulled a vial from his sleeve and handed it to the other man.
What were they doing? What was in the vial?
I squinted but couldn’t make out any other details.
They separated, the man now in possession of the vial moving toward the retreating sheep, the other making his way to the front of the camel lineup.
My palms grew sweaty as I adjusted my grip on my camel’s lead rope. Natural curiosity and my heightened sense of carefulness had me making hypotheses. Was there some sort of medication in the vial? But that wouldn’t make sense. Medication would come from my father, not another man. Maybe something for the sheep? A salve of some sort in case one of the animals caught itself on a thorny briar?
There was no way to know, and dwelling on it would drive me crazy.
I waited while last-minute checks were being made, then we’d be off. A few were already mounted upon their camels’ backs, but I preferred to walk as much as I could. There would be a time, I knew, when the sand would become so soft and deep that I’d have no choice but to endure the jostling of my camel’s gait and rely on the surefootedness of her wide cloven hoof.
That day wouldn’t be today, however.
I leaned to the side from my position in the middle of the pack with the rest of the women to get a clearer view of the front. Karim held his back straight and head erect. He turned and surveyed the group of us, jaw firm. Then with a loud “hut, hut,” he twisted his wrist and swatted Jamal on his rump with a switch. The animal plodded forward, and those of us in line followed.
Plodded. A good word, and appropriate as hour after endless hour I put one foot in front of the other, the sun beating down on my head and shoulders. I was thankful for the shield of fabric that protected me from sunburn, but it did nothing to ward off the oppressive heat. Dry beyond warm, it felt like I was being baked in a global oven.
By midday my legs felt both leaden and like Jell-O. Ironically opposites. The earth crunched under my foot with each step, the sand shifting under my weight. My throat was dry, and the only thing I could think about was water. And this was only the first day. The first half of a day, even. How was I going to survive the many weeks it would take before we reached our destination? How had I survived it before? Food and water were rationed for good reason, but already I wanted to drain my canteen, then fill it again and pour it over my head.
And I hated it. Hated the weakness. Not in all my years of desert dwelling had I grown accustomed to the oppressive heat. The time spent in the States only making me that much more ill prepared. The South was hot, for sure, but nothing like this.
I looked back over my shoulder
to the travelers behind me. Surely no one else in the caravan was suffering from a thickened tongue that felt like cotton balls had absorbed all the moisture from their mouth. Surely they did not suffer from a one-track mind that was already driving them to the edge of delirium.
Why couldn’t I be stronger?
I readjusted my grip on the rope and straightened my shoulders.
I would be stronger.
Swallowing, I ignored the sweat that dripped down the center of my spine. Ignored the glare of the sun that cast waves of heat to dance in the air. Ignored the way my thighs quivered as I took another step.
If I couldn’t do this, then the people wouldn’t respect me. If they didn’t respect me, they wouldn’t allow me to teach their children. They wouldn’t listen to me when an opportunity arose to share about the love of Jesus. They’d scorn Karim for his choice of wife.
Five hours into our trek. Hundreds of miles to go. The distance, the journey through it, weighed upon my shoulders. It was more than physical. More than forcing my feet one in front of the other until we reached the oasis and date grove Karim’s friend managed. It was also spiritual, emotional.
My future hinged on this expedition.
Karim broke from the lead and signaled with his hand. We led our camels into a tight circle and gave the command for them to lay down. We formed a circle within their circle, using their bodies as backrests as we sat. Dried fruit and meat were passed around along with a skin of water. When they reached me, I carefully took only my share of both.