Sahara Crosswind

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Listen to your woman,” Patrique urged, the effort of seeking to convince his brother bringing a clammy sweat to his forehead. “Twice already she has saved my life. Three times, if you count her part in the nightmare of Telouet. She knows, Pierre. I cannot go much farther.”

  “But to split up,” Pierre protested, weakening.

  “Someone must carry on,” Patrique said. “This news must be passed on to those who can stop the madness. Think, my brother, I beg you. We owe this to all who have fought and died to make France free once again. We cannot stand aside and allow her to become imprisoned by other dark forces.”

  Jake sat and watched as the internal struggle was mirrored on Pierre’s mobile features. But before he could speak, the normal rhythm of the tribe faltered. There was nothing marked, nothing to which Jake could point and say, here, this is what I noticed. Yet the time in the desert had sharpened his awareness, and he knew without understanding exactly why that danger had entered into their midst.

  The others noticed it too. Patrique dropped the dark head-scarf over his features. Pierre rose smoothly to his feet, the mitraillette suddenly appearing in his hand. Jake paused long enough to veil his gaze with the bloody bandage, then stood and turned toward the entranceway, his hand on the knife at his waist.

  There were three of them. The central figure was sleek and self-assured and wore fine robes woven with threads of silver. The other two were obviously men of the desert, but the difference between them and the Al-Masoud could not have been greater. In place of strength and quiet pride, their faces held only cynical cruelty.

  Jasmyn slipped up close behind him and Pierre and whispered, “The central one is a trader.”

  Pierre whispered back, “The others?”

  Jasmyn replied with the single word, “Tuareg.”

  Omar approached and salaamed formal greetings. The trader bowed low, his left hand sweeping up the folds of his robe while the right touched heart and lips and forehead. The Tuareg stood and glared and said nothing. Taking no notice of the pair, Omar led the trader over and motioned for him to be seated on a carpet rolled out ceremoniously by the central fire. The Tuareg followed with an insolent swagger, their dark eyes sweeping the camp.

  When the trader had settled, Omar remained standing, and for the first time he looked directly at the taller of the Tuareg. There was no change to his features, but the challenge was clear. Omar extended a hand, half in invitation, half as an order, for the Tuareg to take seats by the trader. Clearly this was not what the Tuareg wished.

  As the pair locked eyes and wills, Jake looked from one to the other and glimpsed the two paths taken by these men and the tribes they represented. Upon Omar’s features were stamped the strength and power and determined focus of one who lived by honor and traditions. The Tuareg’s features were little different from Omar’s, with the same hawk nose and fierce dark desert eyes, yet the Tuareg’s face was shaped by unbridled cruelty.

  The tension mounted until the entire square was held in the grip of the silent standoff. Then the Tuareg snorted his derision, and settled down upon the carpet. Only when the second man had also seated himself did Omar take his place by the trader and motion for tea to be brought.

  The trader spoke with rolling tones and florid gestures. Jake did not need to understand the words to know this was one who lied with the ease that others draw breath. As he watched the discussion proceed with formal precision, Jake could feel the danger heighten his perceptions.

  He looked from Omar to the trader to the Tuareg and back again. Here, he sensed, was an important truth. Something essential about the desert life was displayed here before him. This was why the tribe clung so determinedly to their traditions and their lore. The desert’s harshness was always there, ever ready to steal away the moral fiber that bound them together. As Jake stood and watched and listened to words he could not understand, he knew a pride for Omar and these people, an affection so strong that the flame burned his chest.

  Omar turned and gestured to one of the men standing behind him. A moment passed before several of the tribe stepped forward and unrolled richly colored carpets. Jake had watched the old women weaving these, working as they traveled upon the camels’ backs and sitting by the fireside in the evenings, chattering and laughing among themselves, their hands never ceasing their nimble dance. In the sunset’s burnished glow, the carpets’ rich red and orange hues shone as though lit by a fire of their own.

  The trader glanced casually down at the offered rugs and then swiftly turned away, continuing with his elaborate talk. Others stepped forward and set upon the carpets more of the tribe’s handiwork—hair and hides of desert goats fashioned into waterskins and tent coverings, and lamb’s wool spun into soft blankets and vests for the cold desert nights. Again the trader paid them scant mind, seemingly lost in his conversation.

  With formal correctness, Omar hefted a belted vest, the stitches worked with brilliant thread and patterned after the flowing Arabic script. He ran his hand over the rich wool and spoke in a voice that did not require volume to demand a response. Reluctantly the trader cut off his flow of words and accepted the vest. He picked at the wool, frowned with theatrical concern, then spoke a few words.

  With a speed that surprised them all, Omar was on his feet, lifting the trader by one arm and gesturing for the wares to be taken back and stored away. The trader yelped in protest, clearly having been prepared for hours of bargaining. But Omar was having none of it. Polite yet determined, he signaled that the discussion was at an end.

  Recognizing that this was not a ploy, and seeing the wares vanish from view, the trader yelped a second time. Omar replied by silently waiting and watching as the two Tuareg rose to their feet. The trader plucked at his sleeve, smiling nervously, reaching out into the gathering night toward where the wares had vanished.

  Suddenly the Tuareg were less interested in the argument than they were in examining the camp’s periphery. Jake felt their gazes rake across him, pass on, then return for a second inspection. He forced himself to stand still and unflinching. But only when the gaze moved onward was he able to draw breath again.

  The taller mercenary stepped away from the fire as though wishing to enter deeper into the camp. Instantly a phalanx of tribesmen were there to bar his way. The Tuareg snarled a curse. The trader moved forward and spoke with eyes closed to cunning slits, his eyes now on the animals paddocked at the square’s far end. Caught in a quandary, Omar hesitated only a moment before waving for the tribesmen to let them pass.

  A passage opened, barely wide enough to permit one visitor to pass at a time. The trader stepped forward, a nervous giggle escaping under the pressure of the tribesmen’s stares. The Tuareg swaggered after him, hands on knives, their eyes sweeping back and forth through the camp as they walked.

  At the paddock, the trader went through an elaborate charade of inspecting several animals before speaking a question. Omar responded with a single snort of humor and jerked his head upward in the desert signal of negation.

  The trader spoke again, his voice rising. Omar replied by steering the man about and directing him toward the square’s entranceway. The tribesmen closed in about them, forcing the Tuareg to follow. Seeing that his protests were to no avail, the trader gathered himself, flung his robes up and about his left arm, gave Omar a single cold nod, and stomped off.

  Only when they had left the square did Jasmyn venture to speak. “Omar refused to deal with him.”

  “I understood that much,” Jake said, and discovered that his voice was as shaky as his legs from the aftershock of passing danger.

  “Omar accused him of offering prices meant for those who had returned from unsuccessful trading at Raggah. But since we are headed there, we shall simply wait and trade in the souq ourselves.”

  “Raggah,” Jake said. “Isn’t that the city where the Tuareg live?”

  Before she could reply, Omar walked over and spoke. Jasmyn translated, “Danger has passed for the night.”
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  “That trader was a piece of work,” Jake said.

  “Indeed, a man so oily he could escape the tightest shackles,” Omar agreed. “He also talks too much. In the desert way, we say that here is one who scolds the trees. When the trees do not answer, he scolds the stars. But we say there remains hope, so long as he scolds only the made things, rather than the Maker. Before, I thought there was hope for this one. Now that I see him in the company of vultures, I am no longer certain. It is doubtful that we shall trade with him again.”

  Jake asked, “Is it true we are headed for Raggah?”

  “It is the natural destination of all on our course,” Omar explained. “To the west are mountains without passes. To the east, desert without water. All who go north must stop at the oasis of Raggah.”

  “Will we be safe?”

  “The danger will be no greater there than elsewhere. There is a small French garrison, or there was the last time I passed. The war drained it to a symbolic force of three or four, but still the French soldiers held the Tuareg from doing their worst.”

  Jake glanced Pierre’s way and said, “Better and better.”

  Pierre stepped forward and said, “Ask him if there is any chance that we might find medicines in this village.”

  “Doubtful,” Omar replied. “The nearest healer is in Raggah. But I am going now to the village tea house to sit and listen and see what I can learn. I shall see if the merchants have anything. This is for your brother?”

  “He is growing worse,” Pierre said, concern creasing his features.

  “This is not good. The way to Melilla is long yet. And the healer of Raggah will not be one to trust overmuch.”

  Pierre turned to gaze thoughtfully at Jake, then reached some internal decision and gave a single nod. “Please tell Omar we are sorry to have brought peril upon him and his people.”

  “The Al-Masoud are men of honor,” Omar replied. “We would not pass a cur into the clutches of the Tuareg.”

  “Even so,” Pierre went on, “we are indebted to you and your people. Our duty shall continue long after the money has been paid.”

  Omar gravely accepted the translation, inspected Pierre for a long moment, then said, “It is good to know that one such as yourself is to wed one of our own. Long after you have departed, we shall remember that our daughter’s husband is a man close to our hearts.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jake awoke the next morning to the comfortable sound of coffee being pounded in the tribe’s brass mortar. The young girl timed her strokes to the song she sang, a warbling melody that pealed like bells in the still air.

  Breakfast was the same as every morning—treacly thick coffee, dates, unleavened bread, milk curds, and honey. Jake took his portion over to the side wall, drew out his Bible, and read as he ate. The sounds of the camp awakening were a reassuring chorus, familiar enough now not to draw his attention. The children laughed and scampered in scarce moments of playtime before the chores of breaking camp were begun; camels bellowed and complained as they were made to kneel and the saddle blankets were set in place; a group of men knelt toward Mecca and murmured their morning prayers; several of the older women sat and spun silky goat’s hair with blinding speed, their mouths open and gossiping and laughing in the morning sun.

  The village kunta, a nomadic spiritual leader, arrived and passed from person to person. He made talismans, said the special healing prayers, taught a few new verses from the Koran, and offered the traditional blessings for good grazing and much water. His final blessing was the special one, offered for a safe and healthy passage through the desert reaches. Each person in turn held out their right hand, which was first touched by the kunta’s cane, then spat upon. The nomads then wiped the spit over their faces and down the front of their robes.

  Omar gave the call to break camp. Jake rose, tucked away his Bible, and joined the others. Again he had the sense of gathering lessons, storing up information and knowledge and newfound wisdom but being unable to digest what he was learning. Even so, he felt a sense of rightness to it all, a knowing on some deeper level that this need to sit and reflect would be granted him at the proper time.

  When they had left the village and its confines well behind, Omar sent word for Jake and Jasmyn to join him. As the two of them walked toward the head of the caravan, Jasmyn said, “Pierre agrees with your plan.”

  Jake nodded, too full of sudden doubt to be very pleased. “How is Patrique?”

  “There were no medicines in the village. Did you see him try to mount the camel?”

  “Yes.” It had taken three tries and the aid of both Pierre and Jasmyn to get him into the saddle-tent.

  “Pierre walks with him now, writing whenever he has strength to speak.” Jasmyn shook her head. “I hope your plan works, Jake.”

  “So do I.”

  “Even Pierre feels it is our only hope to save him now.”

  As they approached, Omar said to Jake, “Several mornings now I have seen you separate yourself and read from a book you carry.”

  “It is a Bible, the holy Book,” Jake said, answering the implied question.

  “It is good for man to be bound by the custom of his religion,” Omar said.

  “It is more than that,” Jake said, seeking a way to explain that would invite and not offend. “This is the story of Christ, the Son of God. His is a story of salvation for all who choose to believe. And His lessons are those of love.”

  Omar walked ahead in silence for a time, then said through Jasmyn, “Yesterday I sought to teach you of our ways. Today I would ask a question of you, a man of the world who speaks with wisdom of his own and who does honor to our desert ways.”

  “I would be honored to help,” Jake said, “if I can.”

  “I have heard of this Christian god,” Omar said. “There is a school now in Colomb-Bechar, five days march from Raggah. It is run by families who claim to serve this god of yours.”

  “We call them missionaries,” Jake offered.

  “I have two of the tribe’s children, a boy and a girl, who beg to go and learn. Day and night they are after me. Even when they do not speak, still I can hear their little hearts crying through their eyes.” He looked at Jake. “Sending a child to school means losing a herder. I must also pay for a family to keep them. While they are gone, their own mother’s heart remains empty. A young boy’s bed goes cold with his absence. A father misses the songs that his lovely daughter sang to the waking day.”

  “They might return and enrich the tribe with what they have learned,” Jake ventured.

  “Yes? You think this school will make them better people? That their lives will be better? Yes? Then tell me. What will they know, my children, that has enough value to wrench them from the heart of my tribe?”

  “They will know languages. History. Math.”

  “Already they know their father’s tongue. They learn the history of their father’s father and their fathers before them. They can count their sheep and their goats. What more will they know?”

  “They will know the world.”

  “No!” Omar pounced upon Jake’s words. “They will know your world, not mine. They will know your knowledge. And then whose child will they be, yours or mine?”

  “Everything you say is true,” Jake agreed, marveling anew at the man who strode along beside him. “There is a risk that they will choose not to return. But what right do you have to refuse them their heart’s desire?”

  Omar subsided. “You speak a truth that has echoed through my nights since learning of this school. This is a question for which I have yet to find the answer. Tell me, man of the world who honors our desert ways. What would you do if you were faced with such a dilemma?”

  “Pray,” Jake said simply. “Pray and wait for guidance.”

  They walked for a time in companionable silence until Omar said, “I want my children to know the value of wisdom, but I also want them to know the wealth of the desert. I want them to have the city and the wider wo
rld to call upon when there is drought, but I want them to return to the desert in the rainy season. Is that so much to ask?”

  “No,” Jake replied, liking him immensely.

  “Our world has changed,” Omar declared through Jasmyn. “For many past seasons we stood upon our desert hills and watched the thunder of war from distant lands coming ever closer. No matter how far into the desert we went, still guns split the heavens and called to all the world that a new time was upon us. It does not matter what I like or what I wish. The seasons change, and only a fool refuses to accept what is.”

  He drew himself up to his full height. “But I am still leader of the tribe. And as leader it is my duty to see that the desert’s wealth and wisdom is not lost. We shall change, yes. But we shall take with us what is ours. What others do not see, do not know, and cannot understand. What makes us who we are.”

  “It is a worthy aim,” Jake said, and meant it with all his heart.

  “I am a man of the desert,” Omar said. “The desert is all I know.”

  “But you know that well.”

  “I know the wind,” Omar went on. “I know the great emptiness that is as close to death as a living man can ever know. I know the feel of rock and the smell of water. I know the dry mountains. I know the dusty graves of ancient rivers. I know . . .”

  “You know,” Jake murmured, thinking of all he had learned.

  “Aiwa. I know. And yet this, this is a new thing. A thing of wars and machines and cities. This new thing I do not know. And I do not know what is to be done. Not for today, not for tomorrow, not for all the days yet to be granted my people.”

  “Perhaps,” Jake ventured, “perhaps you could find this answer also in prayer.”

  “Yes? You think this Christian god might turn to help a man of the desert?”

  “He has promised to be there for all who seek Him,” Jake replied. “All men, all nations, all times. A God who seeks only to give peace and love and salvation. To all.”

  * * *

  That day they entered the area known as Zagora. Most of the desert through which they had passed was rock and shale and hard and flat, bordered by mountains and great, billowing desert hills. But Zagora was a region of sand. Oceans of drifting, golden sand. Gradually the Atlas foothills turned and moved away, leaving them enclosed by endless sand. Ever-changing, always the same. Hills and valleys and great, ghostly shapes that lasted only until the next great wind.