She saw him at last, helping a young boy to keep his nervous herd of sheep from scattering. Face alight with happiness, she picked up her hem and ran to him.
“Jali!”
“Oh, my.” The small brown face split into an enormous grin. “Oh, my,” he repeated. “Allah karim … God is merciful.”
Though she wished to, she could not hug him. Instead Cecile took his hands and squeezed them tightly. “You’ll never know how glad I am to see you, Jali!”
“Less glad than I, I think. For all along you knew where you were. I did not.”
“Oh, Jali, I thought you’d been …” Cecile bit off the words, unwilling to speak them aloud. “How did you get here?”
“The same as you.”
“You mean … ?”
He nodded. “Yes, El Faris.” Jali quickly related his tale, beginning with his rescue by the fisherman and ending with his ride to the camp to await Cecile’s rescue. He added, “El Faris is a good man, a great man.”
Cecile bit her tongue. In spite of events, she had her own opinions. “I must hurry, Jali, and help Hagar. But will I see you again tonight?”
“Most certainly. I have many jobs to do for El Faris in return for food and the protection of his camp. I will be here.”
The tent lay in a gently fluttering heap by the time Cecile returned. She helped Hagar fold and pack it and then the tent goods. The whole was loaded on the back of a patiently kneeling camel.
“I am but a poor old woman,” Hagar said, “but I serve El Faris, and in his generosity he has given me my own riding camel.” The crinkles around her eyes deepened with pride and pleasure. “He has also given me a maksar so we may ride in comfort. I will go and fetch the dahlul.”
Before Cecile was able to protest, Hagar had disappeared within the general confusion. A camel? she repeated to herself. Ride a camel?
She was in the desert now, yes. She would learn the ways of the people, certainly, for she wished to be a part of their world. But she had, after all, been raised a European, and Blackmoore was an Englishman, not a real Badawin. Furthermore, she had been raised on a horse but had never so much as seen a camel before her arrival in North Africa. Surely Blackmoore would allow her to ride one of his horses!
Without giving the matter the thought she should have, Cecile turned and marched toward the center of the camp.
She spotted him outside his tent. He was dressed in a simple white towb that reached to his ankles, with wide sleeves and an open collar. Over it he wore a zebun, a light, buttonless coat lined in red. The end of this khaffiya fluttered in the breeze as he nonchalantly fondled the muzzle of his white mare. He was, she was forced to admit, a striking figure of a man, particularly in his desert robes. And, in spite of herself, she remembered how he had swooped her onto his horse, the steel of his arms, the strong, muscular back to which she had clung.
Cecile also recalled, however, the way he had strung her along, concealing his identity while he probed her with questions. Adding further fuel to her anger, she spotted, behind the man casually fondling his horse, an extremely pregnant black woman bustling about packing his tent goods.
Cecile’s temper ripened into full bloom. She strode up to him and planted her hands on her hips. “Who do you think you are? And what do you think you’re doing?”
The dark-skinned woman looked horrified. Blackmoore looked amused. “Why, I’m waiting for Hajaja to pack my tent, of course. What are you doing? Besides upsetting and distracting her, I mean. Ahmed, her husband, will be most upset with you.”
“With me? What about you? A woman in her condition shouldn’t be doing such heavy work. I suppose you’re going to make her strike and pack your tent, too?”
He shrugged. “Why not? It’s a woman’s work. I only wonder why you are not doing your own,” he added pointedly.
His crooked grin made her so angry it took a moment for her to remember why she had come. “I’ve done my work, if you must know,” Cecile retorted. “I merely came to tell you I prefer to ride a horse, not a camel. In fact, I refuse to ride a camel.”
“I see,” he replied calmly. “Well, you may do as you wish. The walk will probably do you good.”
“Walk!”
“As a matter of fact, Hajaja would probably enjoy it if you walked with her.”
“Hajaja!”
“Yes. Her time grows near, you know. She would undoubtedly enjoy your company, until the time she must fall behind and give birth to her child among the dunes.”
He was baiting her, she knew, but only with the truth. She was familiar with Badawin birth practices. Women with child walked, and they continued to work as before because only the strong survived on the desert. And they stopped and gave birth alone because water was life and the camp must stay on the move to reach it or all would die. Furthermore, she knew women almost always rode camels, never horses. But El Faris, Blackmoore, was an Englishman, not a Badawin. Did he mock her? Or did he truly live by Badawin law?
The blue eyes that silently laughed at her abruptly grew somber. “This is the desert, bint Sada, you must never forget,” he said at last, disconcertingly close to the tenor of Cecile’s thoughts. “Its customs may seem harsh, but so is the land. And custom evolved to survive this land.”
With that Matthew turned and mounted his horse, leaving her to consider his words. She was not here as a guest or an observer, and she must, therefore, learn to live by the rules of the land and the people if she had the slightest possibility of succeeding. She watched as Matthew hesitated for a moment, then put his heels to his horse and galloped away.
Cecile fumed as El Faris’s parting dust swirled about her. To make matters worse, Hajaja stared at her as if she was nothing more attractive than a diseased dog. Suddenly ashamed, a furious blush rising to her checks, Cecile spun on her heel and strode from the scene of her humiliation.
In the end, of course, Cecile rode the camel, and the experience was just as miserable as she had known it would be. The canopied maksar was crowded with Hagar squeezed in front of her, and the camel’s rolling gait made her sicker than she had ever felt aboard the ship. Worst of all, however, was the dust … from the men who rode ahead on their mares, saluqi hunting hounds frolicking at their heels. She had seen Jali and several other men on camels, but most rode horses. Including Ahmed, whose pregnant wife trekked along somewhere behind them in the dusty vanguard.
Fury mounting, Cecile disregarded entirely the fact that all was, as she very well knew, according to custom, and the custom had been established for very good reason. Irritable and unreasonable, she placed blame for all her present woes solely on the man she considered responsible for them.
The memory of how he had tricked her, strung her along, still burned. He might have told her in the very beginning who he was and saved her a great deal of anguish. But, no. He had had to wring every last shred of amusement from the situation. Cecile had accepted neither his apology nor his explanation of why he had concealed the truth from her for so long. To hear the unvarnished truth and learn whether she was made of “sturdy stuff” … to learn whether she had what it took to survive the desert and its ways … Indeed!
On the other side of the coin, Cecile was forced to admit that it had been honorable and courageous of him to rescue her. Further deflating, Cecile recalled Matthew’s words when she had asked if they really might find Haddal.
“Most likely,” he had replied. “He will go deep into the desert, to the well of Ath Thumama, too, though we will continue on to the east.” He had chuckled at that. “We need to be as far away as possible from the caliph’s … ‘justice.’ I snatched you right from under his nose, you know. Not a very polite thing to do. And I wasn’t exactly his favorite person to begin with.”
Cecile had learned then that Blackmoore and the caliph were old enemies. “For the caliph is a petty tyrant who grows strong as the sultan, Murad, grows weaker, falling day by day deeper into degeneracy and madness. Unjustly, the caliph extends his rule, tightens h
is grip, inflates the taxes. We in the desert, of course, like to make life as difficult as possible for him. Assert our independence, if you will. And I, uh, I’ve been known to be in the forefront of … certain activities from time to time.”
Although he had not gone into detail, Cecile had a good imagination. Despite his English heritage, his spirit seemed to her quite Badawin. And the Badawin had three primary loves in life: horses, making war, and making …
Cecile shuddered, thankful, in this land, for the sanctity of an unmarried woman. The thought of his tanned, long-fingered hands upon her …
“What are you doing?” Hagar asked sharply. “Stop fidgeting and sit still!”
With a scowl, Cecile folded her arms and slumped against the maksar, wondering if the interminable journey would ever end.
At noon, with the sun directly overhead and the heat intense, Blackmoore halted his band. For as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but irregular patches of sand and black lava debris.
At least, however, they had stopped, and Cecile would be able to lie down and rest, and pray her stomach returned to normal before the journey resumed. When the camel knelt at last, it was all Cecile could do to keep from falling from the maksar. When she had finally made it to the ground, she sank to the sand, back pressed to the patient animal.
“What are you doing, lazy girl?” Hagar cried. “Unload the traveling supplies! Fetch some camel dung and start a fire!”
Cecile looked up wearily. Was it possible? Were the women really expected to do all this after having packed and loaded the entire camp and spent four brutal hours on camelback … or on foot?
Apparently. Everywhere she looked, the women were busy. The men, not surprisingly, sat in the shade of their mounts to gossip and smoke. Cecile clenched her teeth, then spat out the grit that ground between them. Damn!
The fire was eventually started. Hagar arranged a cooking pot over the flames and proceeded with the simple preparations. When the rice was ready, Hagar also poured leben into a wooden bowl and handed it all to Cecile. “Now take this and give it to El Faris.”
Cecile nearly choked. “What … what about his servants? Don’t they cook for him?”
“The women who belong to El Faris cook for their men.” Hagar looked disgusted. “And men do not cook. Now off with you!”
It was all Cecile could do to keep from throwing the food on the ground. Grinding her still gritty teeth, she marched to where Blackmoore lolled in the sparse patch of shade beneath his mare. “Here,” she said tightly, and thrust the bowls at him.
“Inna ‘l harim atyab ma’indana hast,” he replied evenly, and took the proffered food.
Had she heard correctly? “Women are the best of all we possess”? Cecile almost smiled. She looked into his eyes, so incredibly, clearly blue … and saw the twinkle in them. Then she heard the laughter of the other men around her.
He teased her! How could she have missed the sarcasm in his tone? Hands balled into fists, Cecile turned sharply on her heel and walked stiffly back to the cooking fire.
The afternoon proceeded much the same as the morning. Only the scenery changed. There was less lava debris and more sand. Once they crossed a dry salt lake, and Cecile managed to rouse briefly from her torpor. But there wasn’t much to see, and she sank back again, eyes closing without effort or will.
Was this, she wondered, what she had dreamed of and longed for? Was this all there was to be, day after weary day? Nothing but dusty, debilitating, ceaseless journeying?
The thought was so traitorous it brought Cecile abruptly awake. No, by Allah, she would not give in to such weak, defeatist thinking. She had known the desert life was harsh. After all she had been through, she should be thankful she was here at all. At least she was free and leading the life she had chosen.
After what seemed an eternity, the sun began its rapid descent below the far horizon. The sand glare was so great in that last, brilliant light that Cecile was forced to shield her eyes. Then the soft dusk fell about them, and they halted for the night.
Wordlessly resolute and determined, Cecile dug a fire pit, then went to fetch dried camel dung from their supply.
“No!” Hagar’s voice stopped her. “What are you doing, ignorant girl? Do not waste dung when there is ample firewood!”
Firewood? Cecile glanced about her. There were a few dull green bushes with pale golden blooms, now that she looked. Farther back she had noticed some pathetically dry and scraggly gaghraf bushes. Is that what Hagar meant by firewood?
“Go,” the old woman ordered, and gestured at the desert. “Go on, lazy girl. I must tend the mare.”
Cecile hesitated, then turned her most imploring gaze on the irascible old woman. “Please, I love horses, and I’m good with them. Tonight, just this once, let me care for the mare.”
Hagar looked more amenable to the suggestion than Cecile had hoped. “Very well,” she said at length. “I will gather the wood and you tend to Al Chah ayah. But be sure you do it properly!”
Cecile had watched the other women and thought she knew what to do. She found a feedbag and feed, and a jillal, the night blanket, and then set out to find the mare.
Blackmoore stood stroking the animal’s damp neck. He turned when he saw Cecile but said not a word. He smiled, however, crookedly, one corner of his hard, handsome mouth turned up. Something unfamiliar and, she thought, unpleasant, happened in the pit of her stomach. Quickly and silently, without word or backward glance, she took the mare’s reins and led her back to the kneeling pack camel.
Al Chah ayah, “long-striding one.” The mare was aptly named. Cecile remembered the way she had sprung forward into the night, pounding ahead despite the double burden she had borne. She remembered, too, tales of her father’s beloved Al Hamrah, “red one.” And she could not help but note the many comparisons between her father and this man who had also adopted the desert, its ways, and its peoples … El Faris.
A chill ran down her spine, but Cecile banished it. There was work to be done.
Cecile traded a softly woven halter for a saddle and bridle, watered the mare, and, when the animal had drunk her fill, slipped the feedbag into place. As the mare munched contentedly, Cecile cupped her hands and stroked the animal’s sides, removing excess sand and sweat. Last, she threw the jillal onto the mare’s back and fastened it. The mare was tethered and settled for the night by the time Hagar returned with the firewood, and while the old woman tended the fire, Cecile unpacked, fed, and tethered the camels. Beside their warm, musky-smelling bodies, she laid a rug and placed their sleeping quilts over it. When the evening portion of rice and dates had been dished out, Cecile picked it up and made to carry it away.
“What are you doing, silly girl?” Hagar inquired sharply. “Are you not going to sit here and eat your supper with me?”
Cecile stared at her. “You mean … I can eat this? I don’t have to take it to … to El Faris?”
“Women always eat first in the evening. Their day has been long, and hard. Now the time for the men grows near, when they must guard and protect us through the long darkness. Sit down!”
Cecile did not need to be told twice. She sank to the ground and satisfied her ravenous hunger in short order. Now, she inwardly sighed, if she could only get clean …
“What are you doing?” Hagar demanded sharply.
Cecile ceased her motion. “Trying to scrape some of the sand off. Why?”
“That is not the way. You will only roughen your skin.”
“How am I supposed to get clean?” Cecile moaned. “There isn’t enough water to bathe in!”
“Of course not! Water is not for bathing, stupid girl. It is for drinking. You must rise early in the morning, before the camels. When the she-camel wakes and rises, take a wooden bowl and catch her first urine. That is what you bathe in.”
Cecile closed her eyes.
“It is good,” Hagar continued. “You will see. Especially when the fleas begin to plague you. It is strong stuff. It
will kill them.”
“I have absolutely no doubt,” Cecile muttered, turning away.
Hagar, however, had more advice. “You must do something with your hair. Soon even a raven would not wish to nest in it.”
“And just what is it you’d like me to do, pray tell?”
“Untangle the knots, of course, stupid girl. Then braid it, Badawin fashion.”
Cecile wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before, and set to work on the unholy mess. When it was reasonably tangle-free, she plaited it, three braids on each side of her face, the remainder loose behind.
“Very nice,” Hagar commented. The crinkle of her eyes betrayed her smile behind the veil.
Cecile felt better, in spite of the dust and dirt. “Should I take … El Faris … his dinner now?”
Hagar grunted rudely. “This is a time for women to rest. Forget the men. They drink their coffee and discuss how mighty they are. Later we will tend to them.”
If she hadn’t been so tired, Cecile would have laughed aloud. She could not suppress the giggle, however, and soon Hagar joined her. Then, before either of them could control it, they were consumed with gales of mirth. Clasping each other’s arms, they rocked back and forth and howled their glee to the darkening sky.
Chapter
8
THE DESERT MORNING CAME QUICKLY. NIGHT was banished without fanfare, and darkness, in a twinkling, became full light.
Cecile did not need Hagar to rouse her. She was up with the sun, all traces of fatigue vanished. While the old woman still slept, she folded her sleeping quilt and rearranged the drape of her makruna. She was ready, feeling wonderful in spite of the misery of the previous day. Like the tethered mares, Cecile raised her head to the stirring breeze and sniffed the desert air.
Home … could it really be? So much had happened, and her heart had seemed frozen in her breast. But now it quickened with new life. She felt more alive in this moment than she had in her entire life. Proudly, Cecile recalled Jali’s words.
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