© 1994 by T. Davis Bunn
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
eISBN 978-1-4412-7092-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
This story is entirely a creation of the author’s imagination. No parallel between any persons, living or dead, is intended.
Cover illustration by Joe Nordstrom
This book is dedicated to
Samen Mina
A man wise in the ways
of both desert and city
A friend who hears the music
of the heavens.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Author
Other Books by Author
Chapter One
Sultan Musad al Rasuli’s dungeon passage was foul with odors and centuries of agony. The jailer led the little group down the stairs, wheezing through lungs tainted by years of breathing the imprisoned air.
Behind him puffed the sultan’s assistant, Hareesh Yohari, trying futilely to mask his nervousness by adopting an even more officious manner than usual. He cast a furtive eye back at the two Tuareg. The desert warriors followed close at his heels. Tall and hawk-nosed and cruel of gaze, they had been sent across the mountains from Marrakesh by Ibn Rashid, the undisputed master of Marrakesh’s old city. Their orders were to make a final payment to the sultan, witness the demise of the prisoner called Patrique Servais, and return with the unfortunate’s head.
At the passage’s end the jailer stopped by a stout iron door. He rammed back the great iron bolt, shoved the door upon its complaining hinges, and motioned the other men through.
Hareesh Yohari stopped by the portal and announced, “The honored guests are to follow the sultan’s jailer. I shall await you here.”
“The sultan ordered you to be his official witness,” hissed one of the men.
“Is not necessary, not in the least,” Hareesh Yohari replied, drawing himself up to his full diminutive height. “The jailer will make a perfectly good witness to all that transpires.”
The second man, darker and taller and far crueler looking than his minion, leaned down until his great beak of a nose was within an inch of Yohari’s face. His voice was as quiet and dry and deadly as a desert wind. “The sultan said you.”
Hareesh Yohari swallowed with great difficulty. “Of course, if the honored guests wish for me to accompany them, who am I to refuse?”
Beyond the door stretched a great chamber, its alcoves and arched roof hidden in shadows cast by the smoky torches. The chamber was filled with hanging cages and vats and instruments of torture. This slowed down their progress considerably, as the two Tuareg showed great interest in all the implements, and the jailer responded to their queries with professional pride. Hareesh Yohari hovered just beyond the trio, almost dancing in his nervous desire to get the task over with and be gone from this foul and fetid pit.
Scarcely had they made their way through half the chamber before a great noise boomed, and the solid rock floor beneath their feet shuddered. The jailer started and dropped the red-hot branding iron he had been demonstrating. With a sizzle, it made contact with his sandaled foot. While he shouted and leapt about, the others searched and craned to discover the source of the noise.
A second noise, louder than the first, drowned the jailer’s anguished cries. The Tuareg drew their daggers, the only weapons permitted them in the sultan’s palace, and bounded toward the far wall, from beyond which the noise had come. They pulled futilely at the second great door. Then with an oath the taller of the pair raced back, plucked up the wailing jailer by his leather apron, and dragged him over. Hareesh Yohari scuttled fearfully along behind them.
As the jailer moaned and jangled his keys, a third booming explosion shook the chamber, this one followed by a great crashing and rending. Shouts resounded through the palace overhead.
The Tuareg buffeted the jailer with a pair of great blows before he managed to fit in the proper key and unlock the door. Together the Tuareg lifted the man and carried him down to where a final door stood between them and the sound of chains being plucked from stone and dragged across the floor. The jailer’s hands were trembling so hard it took several further blows about his head before the proper key was found. The door was flung back, and with a great cry the Tuareg bounded in.
The chamber was empty. A ragged-edged hole gaped high overhead where before had been only a narrow, barred slit.
The taller Tuareg lifted the jailer with one mighty hand, placed his curved dagger across the man’s neck, and hissed, “This was the cell of the one called Patrique, the one sought by Ibn Rashid?”
The jailer managed a terror-stricken nod. “I know nothing, masters, please, I—”
“Listen,” hissed the other Tuareg.
In the sudden silence they heard voices speaking foreign words, then a roaring noise, followed by scraping, rending sounds. “A motor car,” said the Tuareg.
“It can’t be!” shouted a wide-eyed Hareesh Yohari.
“And ferengi are driving,” the other said.
“Impossible!” Terror drove Yohari’s voice up a full two octaves.
The taller Tuareg tossed the jailer aside and raced through the cell door. “To the ramparts, swiftly! We must signal to close the outer gates.”
“Yes, of course, of course,” the diminutive official agreed, but for some reason appeared in no hurry to follow them. “You must hurry, of course. And I must alert the guard. And the sultan, of course—he must know all.”
But as the Tuareg raced through the outer dungeon, Yohari stopped, turned, and scampered to a small, hidden side door. He pushed the secret handle, slipped through, and quietly closed the door behind him.
Chapter Two
It was the desert way.
Lieutenant Colonel Jake Burnes had heard that phrase so often from his tribal hosts that it had begun to echo in his mind.
For a week and a day he had walked through reaches so empty they had ached with their burden of void. And yet it was in this arid emptiness that his heart had begun to fill with appreciation for the men and women and children who allowed him to travel in their midst.
The Al-Masoud tribe were a people who defined who they were not by what they owned, not by th
eir houses or jobs or ambitions, but by tradition. Theirs was an extended family of some eighty souls, bound to one another and to the past by centuries of tribal lore.
The desert way.
The phrase wafted through his thoughts as he stood on a rise above the camp, watching a heated discussion between the tribal elders and their leader, Omar. Even at this distance, their voices floated clearly through the desert air. Jake had by then begun to recognize Omar’s style of leadership. Every major decision was first given over to open debate. But once the judgment was set, any further argument was met with savage fury. That, too, was the desert way, and for the moment it seemed more real than all that lay behind him and all that lay before.
So much seemed so distant here in this parched land of sand and scrub and stone. The States, which had birthed him and raised him and then sent him off to fight against Hitler’s forces. Europe, where he had fought a war and fallen in love and forged the friendship with Pierre Servais that had brought him to this vast desert. Even the mountain fastness of Telouet, not so many days behind them, where he and Pierre had breached a sultan’s dungeon and narrowly escaped with the prisoner and their lives. And faraway Gibraltar, the source of their telegraphed orders to cross the desert at all possible speed with their recovered comrade and his important secrets.
All these places and events haunted his memory and directed his plans. Yet somehow they seemed infinitely removed from his present reality.
A strange dark cloud hung low on the horizon, hiding the sinking sun and staining the landscape the color of dried blood. Down in the camp, Jake saw a brown arm extend from a sweeping robe to point toward the cloud, then another gesture toward the pristine blue sky that still arched overhead. More voices. More discussion. Nods of concern and knowledge and understanding. The desert way.
Now he saw Jasmyn Coltrane detach herself from a cluster of women and walk over to where he stood.
Jasmyn. He had first heard that name as part of a bitter tale of treachery—the mysterious half-French, half-Moroccan woman who was said to have betrayed his friend Pierre for a Nazi officer. Then he had learned that her true story was one of love and loyalty and sacrifice.
It had been Jasmyn who helped them find Pierre’s twin brother Patrique in the sultan’s palace, who had arranged with her tribal kinsman to help them escape. And it was for her sake that Omar had taken them in and offered to guide them from the mountains outside Telouet to the Mediterranean port city of Melilla.
“There is a storm,” Jasmyn told him, dark green eyes showing worry under her blue headkerchief. “A khamsin, it is called. A desert wind.”
“So I see.”
“It is tracking parallel to our course, but Omar thinks the night currents will turn it toward us. This is a risk we must prepare ourselves to meet, especially with the new lambs.”
Jake had been up much of the night before, along with many of the others, watching the miracle of birth. Six lambs had appeared in the space of twelve hours. Within minutes of taking their first shuddering breath, the tiny animals had risen upon trembling legs and made for the udder. Their approach was greeted by a deep chuckling sound from their mothers. Little tails fluttered with the thrill of eating. Jake had stood with the others in the cramped paddock, watching and pointing and laughing with unbounded hilarity at their antics. And feeling lonelier than he had felt since beginning his desert journey.
Jasmyn touched his arm. “Jake?”
He looked down at her and confessed, “I was thinking of Sally.”
“You miss her.” It was not a question.
“Very much.” It was a ridiculously inadequate answer. “It seems like everywhere I turn, I discover something new I wish I could share with her. Like the lambs.”
“From everything you have said, I feel I know this woman Sally.” Jasmyn inspected his face. “I have started a letter to her. I would very much like her to know how grateful I am for all you have done. If you give me an address, I shall be mailing it as soon as we pass a village with a postal system.”
“I don’t even know where she is myself,” he replied sadly. “I have to send my letters in care of the U.S. Embassy in Paris. She’s traveling around with some high-powered Allied generals. They forward mail by diplomatic pouch. But thank you.”
“Poor Jake,” she said, and reached over to touch his sleeve. “So much you have done for Pierre and me, and for Patrique. And now, when you need us most, we are so caught up in ourselves we scarcely speak to you.”
“I really don’t mind all that much,” he said truthfully. In the distance, a whirling beacon of dust rose from the cloud’s mass, lifting higher and higher, a fragile tower turned ruby red by the sun’s final rays. “You and Pierre have years of catching up to do, not to mention an invalid to watch over. Besides, there’s a lot to take in here.”
“You like the desert,” she observed.
“It’s a world I never imagined existed,” he said, “not in my wildest dreams.”
“All the tribe are speaking of you,” Jasmyn told him. “How a stranger has come and drinks in their world with his eyes. How he seeks to learn everything he can, do all he can, be as much a part of the tribe as he can.”
She rose to her feet. “Come, Jake. We must break camp and walk by moonlight for the cliffs.”
* * *
The children were whimpering with fatigue when they arrived at the first great outcropping four hours later. By then the tribe had been walking with few stops for a day and much of a night. Omar pushed them as hard as he could, barking his worry at everyone, rushing back and forth, trying to ensure that neither animal nor tribesman was lost in the headlong rush for safety.
Suddenly one of the outriders hallooed from atop his camel and pointed skyward with his great, silver-clad rifle. Jake looked up with the others and watched open-mouthed as a coiling tendril of shadow drifted overhead. One moment all was clarity and a sea of silver stars. The next, a silent menace blotted out half the universe.
Omar’s shouted instructions required no translation. Jake raced with the others toward the cliffs, which jutted out into the sand like giant sharp-edged buttresses. As they approached, Jake realized that the cliff face was pocketed with shallow, bowl-shaped caves. Eons of wind and sand had hollowed the sandstone into a series of natural chambers.
While the children formed a natural paddock for the bleating animals, Jake and all the other adults raced to raise three goat’s-hair tents abutting a trio of neighboring caves. It was hard working by torchlight, men and women snapping in frantic haste and shouting words he could not understand. But by then he had grown accustomed to the task, pulling the heavy ropes taut and hammering down the ironwood stakes as long as his thigh. So he ignored the others as best he could and simply went about his chores, feeling the fitful breeze blow gritty breaths against his face and hands.
A great cry arose from several voices at once, and the entire tribe held its breath. In the distance Jake heard a sound that raised the hairs on the nape of his neck, a basso moaning that died away, then mounted to a force that left the ropes under his hand trembling in fearful anticipation.
At that the tribe doubled its already frenetic haste. Jake joined with the other men to mount a fourth tent, this one as a simple protective flap over a cave farther down the cliffside. The camels had both forelegs and back legs hobbled, then were tied in a long string to a series of stakes hammered deep into the earth just inside this protective awning.
The other three tents were joined side by side, fronting onto a trio of caves set close together in the cliff. The sheep and goats bleated in panic as they were herded into the left-hand tent, the one fronting the largest cave. By the time the double flaps were dropped and tied securely into place, the wind was growling about them.
Jake allowed himself to be herded into the middle tent, which was crowded with milling bodies. Normally they had twice the number of tents, and none used by animals, but there had been neither time nor nearby caves to set up more. Jak
e helped where he could as the others sorted themselves into family groupings. Lamps were lit and hung from supporting ropes. Carpets were unrolled to form a comfortably padded floor. A shallow hole was dug at the tent’s center, rocks found and set in a circle, coals laid, a cooking fire started, a tea canister set in place.
Everyone paused to listen as the first great blast descended upon them, buffeting the tents with sandy fists. All eyes and ears searched the unseen spaces to either side, then gradually relaxed when it was decided that all the tents were holding well.
Within an hour the camp had settled into family groupings. Jake found himself a corner at the back of the cave, eased down on a pile of carpets woven in desert colors, and gave in to exhaustion.
The tribe slept a day and a night and into the next day, taking in sleep and storing it as they did water at the wells. Trips outside were battles against the wind and sand, and nobody went far, or for very long. Jake spent many hours dozing in solitude.
Once a waking routine was resumed, Jake visited occasionally in the third tent with Pierre and Jasmyn. But Pierre’s twin brother Patrique, still weak and sick from his stay in the brutal Telouet dungeon, required much of their attention, and what was left they preferred to lavish upon each other. Their tent contained the old and infirm, the families with the very young or the very sick, as well as the unmarried women, and in quiet desert ways Jake was urged not to linger.
Jake found himself making numerous trips with Omar to check on the animals. The tribe’s children spent most of their waking time there, filling the odoriferous tent with their delighted laughter. The newborn lambs were little bundles of black and white fluff. The animals frisked about, bleating their high-pitched cries, jumping and spinning in midair. Jake watched the children as much as he did the animals, marveling at how contented they were with the simplest of entertainments. They rarely cried or fought or whined, despite a life that was harsh by any measure. And here they were, cooped up in a tent with over a hundred milling animals, not a toy or a book between them, utterly content.
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