Son of Adam

by Margaret Rome

  Dove’s expression froze as he dismounted from his camel and strode towards them. Bibi and Salim ran to greet him, but his response to their chatter was abstracted. She fought back a hot tide of colour when she felt his eyes upon her face, willing her to meet his quizzical, almost worried look which, had she not known better, she might have construed as concern.

  ‘Good morning!’ The grave greeting set her nerves quivering. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘As you might expect me to feel,’ she jerked, made to feel awkward and confused by such an uncharacteristic show of interest. ‘Only ten times worse!’

  He squared his shoulders in the manner of one accepting a burden, then conscious of the children’s curiosity he told her:

  ‘These three children belong to a tribe of Bedou who are camped a couple of miles from here. They are the tribe I’ve been seeking, their loyalty to Rahma is matched only by their eagerness to offer protection to his children.

  As soon as our gear has been packed we will join them.’

  Dove sensed his change of mood as he began packing up the tents; he seemed much more relaxed, and for the first time it struck her how great a strain had been the responsibility of guiding such an important party across terrain where bandits were known to be active and where supporters of Zaid could have been hiding behind any sand dune. Yet he had betrayed none of his worry, had kept them feeling secure and happy, had even joined in their laughter while all the time his keen eyes had been noting the slightest sign of movement, every waving blade of grass, every shifting dune, every camel print in the sand.

  Her tone sounded warmer than she had intended when she enquired, ‘Is it still necessary for me to retain this disguise?’ The look she cast upon her voluminous gown was full of disparagement. Her sweater and slacks—all the clothes she possessed—were rolled up in a saddlebag and, even though their bulk became unbearable in the heat of midday, she felt they were preferable. At least she knew they were clean.

  Gravely, he considered the question before deciding, ‘You can dispense with the dye but, although the Bedou will make allowances for the fact that the children’s nanny is English, they will appreciate a show of maidenly modesty. If I were you, I should stick to the gown—a show of boobs and buttocks might be more than they can take.’

  Outraged colour flooded her cheeks. In a few succinct words this man could reduce her to shame. The softening she had felt towards him fled. Never again would she be idiot enough to endow him with feelings that were alien to his caustic nature. She wanted to stamp her feet, to scream and yell her resentment of his lack of delicacy, but decided to preserve her dignity by ignoring him completely.

  The suspicion, as they jogged the leisurely two miles to the Bedou camp, that he was laughing at her, did not help, but she was able to forget him when before her excited eyes appeared a scattering of leather tents, many tethered camels and goats, and veiled women dressed in simple shifts and shawls going about their chores.

  A shout went up from the camp when they were sighted, so that by the time they dismounted the whole of the tribe had gathered to meet them with a tall, imposing chief at its head.

  ‘Greetings, Hamil!’

  ‘And to you, friend Marc!’ As they embraced warmly Dove’s eyes wandered over the assembled company, fascinated by the shyness with which the women hitched up their veils to hide their faces from the sight of a stranger, and made to feel awkward by men who looked above her head or cast their eyes to the ground rather than stare at her naked face.

  When the chief clapped his hands two women stepped forward to take charge of Bibi and Salim, who were happy to be led away. Dove, although rapidly becoming accustomed to Arab males’ refusal to admit a woman’s existence except when necessity forced them to, could not help but feel deserted when the tribe, having made its welcome plain, drifted away, leaving her isolated.

  It must have been her woebegone expression that caused Marc Blais to smile when, interrupting his conversation with the chief, he introduced her. ‘This, Chief

  Hamil, is Miss Grey. As you no doubt have surmised, she is European—English, in fact. ’

  The chief acknowledged her presence with a polite bow, then ignored her and addressed his remarks to Marc. Previously, their conversation had been carried on in French, but this time, perhaps as a concession to herself, he continued in English.

  ‘We were informed by a messenger from the palace of Miss Grey’s presence and also, friend Marc, of the important part she is to play in your life. As I told you earlier, the Sheikh’s messenger warned us to be on the look-out for yourself and the children. The coup has been squashed and in a couple of days, once the stragglers have been routed, it will be safe for you to return.’

  When Marc nodded as if impatient of hearing what had been said once before, the chief smiled. ‘I am aware of what you are thinking, my friend, you are saying to yourself: Hamil is getting old and forgetful, repeating words that have already been said. But there is one part of the Sheikh’s message which I omitted to mention and which, I hope, will bring to you and your betrothed great joy.’ Dove’s spine prickled with a premonition of danger. ‘Sheikh Rahma has commanded,’ he went on, ‘that your wedding is not to be delayed. It is his wish that the ceremony be carried out here in my camp one week from the day of betrothal, as is customary. It shall be my pleasure to ensure that this command is obeyed.’ As the two men, seemingly oblivious to her expression of outrage, strolled away deep in conversation Dove was left alone to control as best she could her impotent rage. Glaring at their retreating backs, she attempted to relieve a mounting tide of fear with the muttered consolation:

  ‘There’s no way Marc Blais can force you into marriage, you are a European—he is a European, and as such must conform to the rules of civilised society!’ She suppressed a whisper from within reminding her that the arrogant Frenchman was as much a stranger to civilisation as were the men with whom he had chosen to live, and that the rules of desert life had remained unchanged for centuries: women were chattels, slaves to the whims of men. Any protests she might make about a woman’s right to choose her own husband would be met with blank, uncomprehending stares.

  When a young, heavily veiled woman approached her and shyly beckoned, she followed and was led to a tent, one of two that had been erected near to the largest one of all which, she guessed correctly, belonged to the chief. It was fashioned from goatskins, tanned and dyed with dark red clay, then sewn together and stretched over a square wooden frame made of bars across four upright poles. The edges were pegged down on two sides, but the sides facing away from the sun had been left open. As she drew nearer she noted wind-shields made of grass matting and decorated with geometric patterns picked out in coloured leather thongs, wound against the tent pole ready to be unrolled should the wind decide to blow.

  The girl led her inside, pointing so proudly to the large carpet on the floor that Dove immediately surmised that this must be considered a great luxury.

  ‘Thank you,’ she smiled, wondering if the girl understood, and was relieved to hear her reply in hesitant English.

  ‘At night the ground grows very cold. The carpet will prevent you from catching a chill.’

  In one corner of the tent was a brass tea tray, a leather box with six tea glasses, and a blue enamel teapot. In the other, a colourful leather bag hung with strips of matching leather and tassels, enclosed with a square brass padlock. The girl handed her a large brass key.

  ‘The bag is for your belongings,’ she indicated with a shy whisper, then twisted round to show Dove how the end of her shawl, thrown across her shoulder, was anchored by the weight of a similar key that had been tied in one corner.

  Dove nodded. Obviously she was being told that there was a need to keep one’s belongings locked away, and as the key was heavy she would have been at a loss to know how to keep it safe. She could not see the face behind the protective veil, but the girl’s large brown eyes glowed with kindness. She wore her black hair parted in the m
iddle and tightly plaited into several braids that peeped below the fringe of her shawl. Around her neck was a necklace of coloured beads and a white pendant made from diamond-shaped stones. Her slim wrists were laden with bracelets patterned with beads, coloured predominantly blue.

  ‘What is your name?’ Dove enquired with a smile. ‘Naomi.’ Her reply was so low it was barely audible. ‘I am the youngest of the chief’s wives. It is my duty to see to your comfort for as long as you remain with us.’

  ‘That’s good of you.’ A tremor of fear disturbed Dove’s features which the girl’s eyes did not miss. ‘Though I’m grateful for your hospitality, I’m anxious to return to the palace as soon as possible.’

  She did not quite know how to interpret the curious look Naomi cast before quickly looking away. Hurriedly, before

  Dove had time to question, she asked, ‘Shall I make you some tea? You look hot and tired, our climate draws the energy of all who are not used to it. ’

  Dove certainly did feel tired and surprisingly listless. The children, in their ebullient fashion, had suffered far less than she during the journey, but they had been acclimatised from birth to the heat which she found exhausting, rendering her prone to nausea and throbbing headaches.

  ‘A cup of tea would be lovely,’ she gasped her gratitude, dropping down on to one of several large leather cushions while Naomi went to fill the kettle from a goatskin of water that was hanging on a thornbush outside the tent. She tried to relax, feeling a weight of exhaustion pressing upon her lids. The rigours of the journey, combined with lack of sleep the previous night, were catching up on her and it was all she could do to struggle upright when Naomi returned with the blue enamel kettle, steam curling from its spout, to begin in a ritualistic manner to make the tea.

  First, she set out the glasses and teapot on the tray, then dumped a measured amount of tea-leaves into the pot, added the boiling water, then set the pot aside to brew. Then she took a conical sugar loaf from a bag, knocked off a piece, and added it to the pot. When it had brewed to her satisfaction she began pouring the tea into two glasses, delicately poising the pot so that the liquid fell a foot or more in a fragrant arc, splashing a head of froth into each glass. She then poured the tea back into the pot, returned the glasses to the tray, then lifted the pot to fill the glasses once again. This ritual was repeated several times before finally she poured a little of the tea into her own glass, sipped, then, satisfied that the tea was sufficiently sugared and aerated, she poured a glass for each of them. Anxiously she waited while Dove tasted, and did not relax until she received a nod of approval of the heavenly brew.

  As if concerned about a face pale with sadness, Naomi attempted to cheer up Dove. ‘Work on your wedding garment has already begun,’ she offered shyly. ‘As a headdress, you may wear my cashmere shawl, it is very pretty and almost new—worn only once at my own wedding a few months ago.’

  Dove’s hand shook as carefully she set down her glass. ‘I don’t want to marry, Naomi. Please,’ her voice held a desperate, ragged edge, ‘tell me how I can make contact with my own people. Help me to get away!’

  Naomi drew back, rigid with shock. ‘I know that your ways are different from ours,’ she rebuked primly, ‘but even so, I think you should feel more grateful for the honour that is about to be bestowed upon you. Monsieur Blais is a man of great courage, highly respected by the men of my tribe. You do realise,’ she peered over her veil, ‘that he has no other wives? If he did not think so highly of you he could adopt a custom followed by many of our men whose desire for a woman is keen yet passing, by marrying you for a few nights only, then casting you off when his interest wanes. But this, he has told my husband, he does not want to do. The marriage is to be lasting, binding you together for many years, during which time, I hope and pray, you will be blessed with many sons.’ Purposefully, she rose to her feet. ‘And now you must rest. My husband, who has the sight of a hawk and the wisdom of a sage, is displeased by your look of fragility. In order that his friend might not be deprived of the pleasure afforded by a healthy and eager bride, he has ordered that for the next few days you are to do nothing but rest, so that when your wedding day arrives you will go to your husband full of freshness and vigour.’

  Nothing, at that moment, could have revived Dove’s joy of living. Depression and a heavy blanket of weariness were weighing her down. It was as much as she could do to force the whispered question, ‘What about the children?’

  Naomi was untying the wind shields, filling in the open sides of the tent so that Dove would enjoy the sleep she needed in the privacy of a darkened tent. ‘The children will be well taken care of,’ she assured Dove. ‘Concern yourself only with building up your strength in order that you may delight the eyes and heart of your future husband.’

  Dove’s lips parted, but her intended argument dissolved into a yawn so prolonged that by the time it had been mastered Naomi had gone. ‘Ah, well,’ she snuggled down with a resigned sigh, ‘there’s no doubt about it, I do need sleep, for if strength is essential to the art of loving, as Naomi seems to think, then it must be equally essential to the exercising of hatred which, so far as Marc Blais is concerned, is the only emotion I feel!’

  She was awakened many hours later by a movement inside the tent. Through heavy, half-closed lids she saw that a brass lamp had been lit and was jerked into full wakefulness when a shadow, cast intimidatingly tall, fell across the cushions where she lay.

  ‘What time is it?’ When Marc Blais smiled she felt uncomfortable, guessing that he knew of the furore of emotion she was attempting to hide behind the mundane

  question.

  ‘It is late,’ he told her gravely, totally Arabic in his flowing burnous. Dark eyes beneath a chequered headdress swept keenly across Dove’s flushed cheeks, sleepy eyes and mouth that looked vulnerable as a child’s. Then, seemingly satisfied, he hooked forward a cushion with his foot and sat down facing her. Much to her annoyance she began to tremble. He was so close, too close for her ragged nerves to combat the leap of fear engendered by blatant, rampant masculinity. He wanted her. His eyes were transmitting plainly a desire to own her cool beauty while at the same time managing to retain in their depths a hard core of contempt. He mistrusted her, yet was drawn against his will towards the unwilling girl whom he had likened to a snowdrop blooming in the desert.

  His twisted lip curled as he leant forward, betraying in a voice full of soft anger that the frustration of the previous night still lingered. ‘I feel like Tantalus, the son of Zeus, condemned to stand up to my chin in water that recedes whenever I stoop to drink.’

  Made nervous by a savagery she sensed was too dangerous to flout, she edged away. He was poised on a fine edge of resentment which, if aggravated, might erupt as it had twice before, into a display of sadistic revenge.

  However, escape was not allowed. As his hand grasped her chin, turning her face towards him, she glimpsed in his eyes a hint of puzzlement. ‘Which is the real you?’ he murmured, ‘the puritan who shrinks from me, or the seductress whose body melts in my arms whenever we kiss?’

  The reminder of a weakness she had been trying hard to forget set a torch to self-disgust which, when she rounded on him, sounded akin to temper. ‘Your imagination is matched only by your conceit, monsieur! Why don’t you admit that each time you have kissed me it has been against my will and also against your own! You seize upon the excuse, “The woman tempted me”, simply to justify your own weakness. You hate the idea of being attracted to one of a sex you affect to despise; in common with your Arab friends you have become brainwashed by the doctrine of Adam’s fall from innocence, using it as a vindication of the contemptible way in which you treat all women!’

  When his eyes narrowed she tensed, expecting him at any moment to spring, to inflict characteristically cruel chastisement, but as the silence lengthened he remained still. When, eventually, he did speak, his words proved that his dislike of her sex was iron bitten deep into his soul.

  ‘Arabs
, although they regard Eve as the mother of mankind, still consider her to be the instrument through which sin and corruption entered the world. Women are blamed, and rightly so, for without them there would be none of the lusts with which men have to contend. However, life is a struggle between the spirit and the flesh. A man has needs which, if they cannot be contained, must be satisfied, therefore he marries, for it is better to marry than to burn.’

  For a moment the implication of his remarks escaped her, then, as she stared into an implacable face with rock-hard jaw and derisive mouth, realisation dawned.

  ‘You can’t mean that you’re considering marriage— between us?’ she gasped, wide-eyed with horror. ‘I won’t have any part of it!’ she stormed. ‘I shall absolutely refuse even to attend the ceremony, run away, if I have to, far into the desert, rather than submit to further humiliating ceremonies, meaningless though they are!’

  Anger suddenly left him. Showing an infuriating glint of amusement, he assured her, ‘The bride plays no part in the actual marriage ceremony. And as for running away,’ he grinned, ‘such action would be thoroughly approved by the Bedou, for unwittingly you would be carrying out a tradition followed by all Bedou brides who, to prove proper maidenly modesty, run screaming into the desert hotly pursued by the women of the tribe and have to be dragged back by the hair and thrown into the arms of their waiting husbands.’

  Dove stared, believing every word. Nothing was impossible in this barbaric country!

  ‘Now that that argument has been settled,’ he permitted himself a smile, ‘there is just one subject I wish to broach, and that is the very formal manner in which you insist upon addressing me. The mind of the Bedou, like the terrain he inhabits, is free and uncluttered, which makes him a hard man to deceive. You will in future address me as Marc and I shall call you Dove—a ridiculous misnomer, as I have remarked once before.’