Call of the Trumpet

by Helen A. Rosburg’s

  The minutes swiftly passed, and Cecile eventually eased herself from the narrow bunk. In a little while she would meet Jali on deck, as she did at the start of each new day, then breakfast with the captain and the only other passengers on the ship, Mr. and Mrs. Hannibal Browning, who had come all the way from England. Cecile smiled as she slipped into her black muslin dress, especially made for this voyage to warmer climes.

  The Brownings had not adapted to life aboard a sailing ship quite as easily as Cecile had. Mrs. Browning, fiftyish and plump, had taken to her bed for the first few days, prostrate with seasickness. Mr. Browning, thin, gray, and nervous, had spent most of the voyage worrying about their cargo, the entire contents of his former home outside of London. Each time the ship heeled over in a stiff wind, or encountered a series of great ocean swells, he was sure all would be damaged or destroyed. Cecile could not help but wonder how such a person was going to adjust to the harsh realities of life in a foreign country.

  Finished with her toilette, Cecile pinned her heavy mane into a chignon at the nape of her neck, left her cabin, and made her way forward. As she emerged from the narrow companionway onto the deck, the wind immediately rioted in her bangs and the muslin skirt whipped against her legs. The creak of the rigging came to her ears, and a light misting of salt spray tickled her nose and cheeks. Spotting Jali, she hurried to greet him.

  “It is good to see the color in your cheeks again, halaila,” the small man said brightly. “Your heart heals. Your father would be glad.”

  “Yes, Jali,” Cecile concurred. “He would be glad. You’re right.” She leaned against the rail. “The sea air has helped, too, and the voyage itself. But only three more days, the captain said last night. Somehow it doesn’t seem the trip was quite long enough.”

  Cecile’s memory briefly returned her to the exotic lands they had passed: Corsica, Sardinia, through the Straits of Sicily, past the Ionian Sea and Crete, Cyprus. And now, soon, Bayrut. “To travel so far, in so short a time …” Cecile mused.

  Jali joined his mistress at the rail. “Too short a time?” he asked. “Could it be your future arrives too quickly?”

  “You know me too well, Jali,” Cecile’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “Yes. Perhaps it does. I am taking a very big step, you know. What if it’s the wrong one?”

  “Are you uncertain, little one? Are you asking my approval for your decision? You did not need it when you made it. I do not think you need it now.”

  Cecile smiled slowly. “No, Jali. I’m not unsure of my decision, not really. I have to do this. Deep in my heart I think I’ve always known I would have to return one day to the desert. I know, also, deep down in his heart, it’s what Father wanted me to do. He … he knew how alone I’d be when he was gone. It’s why, I suppose, he spoke of the desert, and Mother, so often. Why he taught me so much.

  “No, it’s not that. I’m just … just a little uncertain about what I’ll find when I get there.” Cecile turned at last to look Jali in the eye. There was the faintest of tremors in her voice when she spoke. “What if I don’t belong among my mother’s people, either, Jali? I certainly don’t belong among the French. What if I discover I belong nowhere, neither here nor there, and become lost somewhere in the middle?”

  “You will do what must be done,” the small man replied. “You will get along. Just remember this, halaila. Belonging begins in the heart, not in a place.”

  Cecile felt an uncomfortable lump rise in her throat. Jali’s words, as usual, were full of wisdom. Once again he was there for her when she needed him. She loved him.

  “Thank you, Jali,” she said simply. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, you know. As long as you’re with me, I know everything will be all right.”

  Moments later Cecile heard the steward’s call to breakfast, and with a small wave in Jali’s direction, headed back to the ship’s interior.

  The final dinner aboard the Sophia was made into a small celebration by Captain Winterthorpe. Two bottles of a fine French Muscadet accompanied the fresh fish, and Cecile found that even Mrs. Browning, usually reserved and unsmiling, found her tongue loosened.

  “So you and your servant are traveling to North Africa,” Mrs. Browning, who sat across from her, began. “How interesting. But also quite adventurous for one so young. You must be visiting family,” the older woman probed.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” Cecile replied easily. She didn’t mind the woman’s questions, especially since it was their last night together. She had hoped they would get to know one another a bit better.

  “How unusual. To have relatives in North Africa, I mean.” Mrs. Browning tittered. “Mr. Browning and I are settling in Bayrut ourselves. He’ll be exporting Oriental carpets, you know. We’d certainly love to see you again, such a polite, cultured young lady. There are not, I’m certain, many of those in the savage country we’re going to. Oh, but I haven’t asked you yet if you’re staying on in Bayrut, have I? Where are you headed, my dear?”

  “I’ll be traveling on to Damascus. From there …” Cecile shrugged. “Somewhere in the Sahara.”

  The clink of silverware against china abruptly stopped, and Mrs. Browning’s jaw dropped a notch. Captain Winterthorpe stepped into the awkward silence.

  “Quite an undertaking,” he said smoothly. “Whatever your reasons for the journey, it takes quite a bit of courage. I admire your spirit.”

  Before Cecile could acknowledge the captain’s courteous response, Mrs. Browning’s curiosity, and the wine, got the better of her. “But what are your reasons?” She leaned forward slightly, ample bosom touching the edge of her dinner plate. “What possible reason could a young woman of your obvious class have for going into the desert, of all places?”

  “To find my mother’s people.”

  Even Captain Winterthorpe found himself temporarily at a loss for words. Mrs. Browning’s jaw had unhinged almost entirely, and Mr. Browning’s eyes were twin brown saucers. This time Cecile herself filled the silence.

  “My mother was a Rwalan Badawin,” she said with quiet dignity, realizing it was the very first time she had ever truly voiced this fact aloud, and she felt something swell inside her with pride, then harden into rock-solid determination. All doubts, all fears about her decision, were suddenly swept away. This was, she knew absolutely, the reason her father had made Haddal her foster father that fateful night. It was what her father had always wanted her to do, to return. And, more importantly, what her mother would have wanted her to do. Cecile lifted her small chin defiantly and smiled coolly at the dumbstruck Mrs. Browning.

  “My father,” Cecile continued, “who was French, recently passed away, you see. My mother, too, is dead. She died following my birth. So I have left my father’s estate in the able hands of a caretaker while I go in search of my foster father. His name is Raga eben Haddal, and he is shaikh of all the Rwalan tribes.”

  Another awkward silence ensued. Captain Winterthorpe cleared his throat. “I, uh … I assume you have some help in this … adventure,” he said in a desperate attempt to cover the uncomfortable moment. “Someone to outfit you, supply you with a guide?”

  “Yes, I do,” Cecile replied quickly, with a grateful smile for the gray-haired captain. “At least, I think I do. I’ve written to someone in Damascus, someone my father once told me about. He’s an Englishman but has lived a great deal of his life in North Africa and is considered somewhat of an authority on the Badawin tribes. I wrote to him, and although he didn’t have time to reply, I’m sure I’ll be able to find him and enlist his aid when I reach Damascus.”

  “A … a shaikh, a tribesman, a … a native?” Mrs. Browning squeaked suddenly, as if oblivious to the intervening conversation. “And … and you’re a native, too?”

  “Emmaline …” Mr. Browning began. But the situation was beyond rescue.

  Mrs. Browning pushed abruptly to her feet, toppling her chair. “I’ve been sitting at the supper table every night with a Badawin native?”

>   “Excuse us, please,” Mr. Browning muttered, and directed his wife out of the salon.

  “A native! A native!”

  The words echoed along the narrow corridor and were eventually punctuated by the slam of a door. With a halfhearted smile of relief, Captain Winterthorpe raised his glass.

  “I won’t even attempt to apologize for that woman’s rudeness,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I should be able to, in any event. I will, however, drink to the success of your adventure. Bonne chance, my dear young lady. To your very good luck. You will, I think, be in need of it.”

  Chapter

  3

  THE SUN HAD ALMOST COMPLETED ITS ARC ACROSS the sky. It hung low in the west, laying sheets of gold atop the calm waters of the bay. The eerie cry of a muzzein, calling the Faithful to prayer, echoed hauntingly, followed by the bray of an outraged donkey. Carts rumbled over the uneven streets, and vendors shrilly hawked the last of their day’s wares. The tall, dark-haired Englishman, dressed in an immaculate white linen suit, turned from the window back to his host.

  “Bayrut is a beautiful city. And your home adorns it like a jewel, Adeeb,” the Englishman said smoothly. He set his empty coffee cup on a low table. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

  “My home is yours, Matthew Blackmoore, whenever you are in my city. It is the least I can offer to the man who so ably breeds our horses, and keeps the spirit of the desert alive in them.”

  Matthew acknowledged the elaborate compliment with a smile. “You are too generous, friend. Just care well for the mares I have brought you, and I will be satisfied.”

  “They shall receive the very best of care. And not just because of the great price I have paid for them.”

  Matthew chuckled dutifully at Adeeb’s little joke, knowing only too well that it was not made entirely in jest. The man was notoriously stingy and had, indeed, paid well for the mares. Matthew smiled to himself.

  As usual, he had derived a great deal of pleasure from the dealing itself, always tricky, if not the person with whom he dealt. He loved the intricate twists and turns of the Arab intellect, and had spent long years learning and mastering it. He admired the people greatly. It was the reason he had stayed on in the country, if not the reason for his coming.

  Adeeb was rattling on about prices in general in the city, but Matthew barely heard him. His thoughts were long ago and far away, recalling the fateful events that had led to the greatest adventure of a boy’s life.

  Both of Matthew’s parents had come from wealthy, upper-echelon British stock. That is where the similarities between the two both began and ended. While Matthew’s mother was always the aristocrat and disdained all things common, people in particular, Matthew’s father was exactly the opposite. Should Amanda Blackmoore upbraid a servant, Andrew Blackmoore later could be found comforting the unfortunate employee. A situation that caused Amanda to turn up her nose generally made Andrew smile with kindly humor and compassion. Amanda was a wholly practical woman, while Andrew was a dreamer.

  For the first nine years of his life, Matthew had watched his parents, loved them, but, as he grew older, begun to wonder how in the world two such different personalities successfully coexisted. For his sake he was glad they did, but he was not completely surprised when his father came to his bedroom late one night, sat on the corner of his mattress, and said: “I am very sorry to have to tell you this, Matthew, my boy, but I am leaving, going away. But for you, I would have done so long ago. You’re older now, however. And, I hope, able to understand.”

  “But … but where are you going?”

  Andrew Blackmoore’s eyes had unfocused, and Matthew knew his gaze was somewhere very far away. “To North Africa, my boy. To the land of dunes and camels. And the noble Arabian horse.”

  It was the first Matthew had ever heard of the breed. His father, it seemed, had gone to a livestock exhibition in France and had seen some of the first of those horses imported to the country. He had fallen in love with them, the idea of them, and the romance of the land where they had originated.

  The romance in his marriage was dead.

  So Andrew Blackmoore had left his family, to Amanda’s humiliation yet ultimate relief. For a year they did not hear from him, and then came a long letter from Damascus. To Amanda’s surprise and Matthew’s delight, the senior Blackmoore had become somewhat of a success in the trading and selling of Arab horses to foreign markets. His timing had been excellent, as the Ottoman Empire had gradually been losing its economic independence and relied more and more on foreign capital and business. He was doing well and wished for his son to visit. Amanda absolutely forbade her son to go.

  One year after that, as she stood at the top of the stairs shaking her finger and railing at an unfortunate servant, she lost her balance and tumbled all the way to the first floor. She died instantly. Within the week, Matthew was aboard a ship bound for Bayrut. He never looked back. And once he had arrived on African soil, saw the desert horses, their people, and their land, he never again wondered why his father had traveled so far to find them.

  Abruptly aware that the day was fading, and that during his reverie Adeeb had finally ceased speaking, Matthew pulled the gold watch from his pocket and glanced at it pointedly. “I fear I must take my leave, Adeeb. I have business yet in your city and it grows late.”

  Farewells were made with much ceremony, and Matthew finally escaped Adeeb’s imposing home and lubricious tongue with a sigh of relief. As he stepped into the narrow, busy street, he was joined at once by a muscular, black-skinned giant. He nodded at Ahmed and smiled.

  “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it, selling my horses. Especially when I have to deal with buyers such as Adeeb.”

  Ahmed returned his master’s smile with a grin. “The gold is always worth it. Its value lasts, while the memory of such annoyances as this man’s greed will fade.”

  Matthew laughed. “What would I do without you, Ahmed?”

  “Very little, I am assured.”

  The two walked in companionable silence for awhile, threading their way through the jostling crowd. Soon the familiar smell of the harbor came to Matthew’s nostrils; salt, fish, tar, and decay. Moments later he walked out onto a still busy dock, shaded his eyes from the setting sun, and gazed out into the harbor.

  “Here she comes, Ahmed. Right on time.”

  Following his master’s gaze, Ahmed watched the graceful ship, sails huffing, slowly enter the harbor. “This is the one we have come to meet? You are sure?”

  “The Sophia is the only ship due in for the next three or four days. And this is the arrival date the young lady specified in her letter.”

  “She will be surprised, I think, that you have come to meet her.”

  “Perhaps.” Matthew pulled thoughtfully at his chin. “It’s lucky I had some horses to sell in Bayrut.” Though he probably would have come anyway, Matthew thought. The country was treacherous enough for a man traveling alone, much less a woman. Though he admired her spunk, her common sense left a great deal to be desired. More generously, he wondered if she was simply ignorant of the ways of the world. According to her letter, she had lived in her father’s home outside Paris since being brought there as an infant. Her father had been a wealthy man, and the girl had no doubt been sheltered. And spoiled. For the second time that day, Matthew had occasion to sigh.

  What, after all, had he gotten himself into? A spoiled and naïve rich girl from Paris, come in search of her mother’s people and her foster father. Matthew shook his head.

  But he could not deny her. In the first place, she had not given him time. By the time her letter had reached him, she was already on her way. Secondly, she was the daughter of his father’s great friend, Francois Villier. Matthew recalled the many times his father had spoken of Villier. It was Villier, in fact, who had inspired Andrew Blackmoore, for it was Villier’s horses his father had seen at the Paris exhibition. Villier who had planted the desert dreams in Andrew’s head. And if the elder Blackmoor
e’s tales of his exploits were true, Matthew mused further, Villier had been as much a man of the desert as his father himself. He had even wed a Rwalan, and it was their daughter who now awaited him aboard the Sophia. Matthew hoped she would not be too disappointed to learn that his father, to whom she had actually written the letter, had passed away some years before, and that his son now stood in his stead. Well, she had no choice. Neither did he.

  At least, however, Badawin blood ran in her veins. Spoiled and wealthy she might be, but she was still a true child of the desert. Furthermore, he had to admit it took a great deal of courage, if not sense, to go from a château in France to a goat-hair tent in the desert. At the very least, this meeting might prove to be most interesting.

  The Sophia had come to rest at last and lowered her massive anchor. Matthew turned to his servant. “It’ll be awhile before the captain organizes a boat to bring his passengers ashore. There’s no sense standing here and waiting when the best coffee in Bayrut is right around the corner.”

  As they left the harbor behind, Matthew glanced over his shoulder at the gently rocking ship. Yes, the next few days were going to prove very interesting, indeed.

  Cecile leaned against the rail and gazed out over the harbor. Small, single-sailed boats dotted the water. Ashore, the cluttered, sand-colored city climbed haphazardly into the foothills, building crowded upon building. The cry of a muzzein came faintly to her ears, and a shudder of excitement gripped her.

  Bayrut. The end of one journey, the beginning of another. She was impatient to go ashore and continue on her way to Damascus. She uttered a quick, silent prayer that Andrew Blackmoore had received her letter and awaited her. Then would the true adventure begin.