Night had fallen; the men had been fed. Women gossiped around cook fires, and the camp’s half-dozen children frolicked in their last moments of wakefulness. Cecile had taken a walk, moving silently through the darkness, enjoying the sounds, smells, and feel of the desert evening and its people. A figure had approached her, hesitantly.
“Halaila … is it you?”
“Jali!”
He had appeared to relax then, and swiftly closed the distance between them.
“What’s the matter, Jali? Didn’t you recognize me?”
“For a moment, no. I apologize, little one, but there is something … different … about you.”
“Different? Oh, you mean the clothes. And the veil. It makes it difficult to …”
“No.” He shook his head. “It is not that. Clothes do not change what is inside.”
Cecile had stared at him curiously, head cocked to one side. “What do you mean?”
He had been unable to explain. Something in the way she moved, perhaps, as if part of the night, part of the desert, a creature instinctively at home and secure in its environment. He wasn’t certain.
But now she thought she knew. It was a feeling … she felt different. Was it because she had truly found where she belonged?
Cecile scarcely dared to hope. There was still so much ahead, so much to learn and experience. She had barely begun the real journey.
The camp came rapidly to life. Under Hagar’s direction, Cecile put away everything they had used for the night. Her tasks were light, she realized, when she watched the other women.
She-camels with young had to be milked, as well as ewes and nanny goats. Children, men, and horses had to be cared for. Seeing it all, Cecile did not mind her own chores. And she loved caring for Al Chah ayah. She fed the mare and saddled her, then left her tethered to await her rider. She had no desire to run into him and risk spoiling the lighthearted mood in which she had awakened.
Soon they were on the move again. Cecile settled back in the maksar, glad it seemed less uncomfortable than the day before. Everything, in fact, seemed a little better today. The breeze felt fresher, the air cleaner. She also noticed more than she had previously: dusty green hummocks of thamman; the emerald green of harm, which grew in saltier patches of desert; tiny, scurrying movements that indicated the presence of animal life, however small. The desert was indeed alive.
Cecile even began to wonder about Hagar. Though it was hard to imagine her as anything but a tough old woman, she had been young once, and had lived her life in the Sahara. Hesitantly, Cecile touched her shoulder.
“Hagar?”
The old woman grunted.
“Hagar … tell me about yourself. Would you?”
She made another rude noise. “What is there to know? I was born. I will die.”
Cecile was not put off. She was becoming accustomed to the old woman. “What about the time in between? Tell me, Hagar. You must have led a wonderful life.”
“It was like any other woman’s,” she replied curtly, but Cecile heard the pleasure in her voice.
“Tell me about it. Please.”
Hagar sighed. “Very well, curious child. But there is not much to tell.” Hagar proceeded to talk for over an hour.
She had married at fourteen, not unusual in a land where life could be brutally short. To ensure all women might have a husband, a protector, and a provider, girls were automatically bound to their first male cousins at birth. Because Hagar’s cousin had not wished to wed her, and there was another man who did, he had released her, and she became free to marry the man she truly loved. They were happy for many years.
“But I was barren,” she continued sadly. “My womb did not quicken. So my husband took a second wife.”
Cecile was unable to hide her dismay, no matter that she knew it was the custom, necessary in a land where children were both happiness and wealth. And the infant mortality rate was high. “Didn’t it hurt you? Weren’t you jealous?”
“Of the second wife? Pah! I was first, therefore head-woman of my husband’s tent. Besides, he loved me still, despite my barren womb. I was a loving and dutiful wife. And when the other had children, I, too, cared for them. My life was blessed and full.”
Cecile remained silent. Of all the desert customs, it was the only one Cecile was simply unable to accept. At least for herself. Perhaps it was the monogamous society in which she had been reared, but the thought of sharing a man …
Shuddering, Cecile banished the vision. The problem would never occur, for she would never become a man’s property. Nor would she need a man, not when wealth and possessions awaited her at the camp of Shaikh Haddal. She would have all she’d ever need to be able to provide for herself. It was bad enough having to act as Blackmoore’s servant for the present, earning food and shelter in exchange for her toil. When she came into her own, however, she would need no one’s support ever again. She would live and work for herself. Nevermore would she have to look to any man.
Men! To drive the unpleasant subject from her mind, Cecile prodded Hagar with more questions. “Finish your story, Hagar. What happened? Where is your husband now?”
“With Allah,” she replied simply. “The second wife was yet young and had four healthy children, four precious gems. She easily found another who would wed her. I, however, was growing old, and had no little jewels. No one wanted me, or needed me in their tent. Life was very hard then. It is difficult when a woman has no one to look to, no one to care for or share her blanket with at night. And my husband had not been a rich man, so I had few possessions. I had to rely on the tribe for support.” Hagar paused a moment, and when she continued, the sadness had gone from her voice. “But Allah is merciful. He had not finished with this old woman. He gave her a new life.”
“What?” Cecile prompted. “What happened?”
“He put me in the path of the great one … El Faris.”
The old woman’s words were not exactly what Cecile had wanted to hear. Yet in spite of herself, she found her curiosity had been piqued. “Why do you call him ‘the great one,’ Hagar?”
The old woman snorted. “You truly are an ignorant girl. But you have only just come to the desert, so I will tell you.” Hagar shifted position slightly so she did not have to turn as far over her shoulder to look at Cecile. “Do you know the meaning of his name?”
Cecile nodded. “The Horseman.”
“Yes. Though his skin is pale, he has chosen to live in our land and is as a brother to the Badawin. He knows the land and its people, and he loves them, respects them. When he is among us, he does us honor by obeying our laws, living by our ways. So the people of the desert honor him in return and call him by the name of the ancient and revered King Solomon.”
“But why?”
“Hush, impatient child. I am telling you.” Hagar gave Cecile a reproving glance. “This the people have heard, that he came to Damascus as a boy to be with his father, who bought and sold our desert horses. He learned his father’s trade and, as he grew older, convinced his father to breed, rather than merely trade, the animals. He began traveling into the desert then, in search of the Asil, the pure-blooded animals, the finest of our people. Soon he had a large band of mares, and many friends among the tribes. When his father died, he left his city home in Damascus to be among us, and he was welcomed.”
“Is that all?” Cecile asked, trying to keep her tone light although, in truth, she was struck not only by the tale, but, again, by the similarity of Blackmoore’s life to her father’s. “Is that why they call him El Faris?”
Cecile was rewarded with another scowl. “You obviously do not know much of the honor bestowed upon he who cares enough to keep alive and flowing the pure and noble blood of the Asil. Like the Badawin himself, their numbers have diminished over the years. As the cities grow larger and more powerful, the desert grows smaller. El Faris helps us to keep what is ours: our horses, our heritage, our pride.”
Cecile remembered what he had told her of the caliph and his re
bellion against him. “Does … does El Faris also … fight with the Badawin?”
“Not just with us, or for us. Many times he leads us. Especially against the caliph, who would rule and oppress us and take away the freedom which is our life’s blood. And though he sells his horses in the cities for great prices, to the Badawin they are always gifts. As I have told you, he helps us to keep what is ours. In many ways.”
Cecile was impressed in spite of herself. “But where does he keep all these horses?”
“He has a home, in Oman.” For the first time, Hagar’s tone registered disapproval. “In this he is not like us. He prefers to stay in one place for awhile. Now he only crosses the desert when he has horses to sell, or to give to the chieftains of the Rwalan tribes.”
“Is that where he’s headed now, back to Oman?”
Hagar nodded. “Yes. Though I will not return with him to that house by the sea. Pah! A tent is the only home for a Badawin. So I will return with the tribes to the desert for the winter.”
“But I thought you were his servant.”
“His servant, yes, not his slave, and only when he travels on the desert. It is my pleasure and privilege to serve such a great man. But he knows I do not like his ugly marble house, so when we get to Oman, I will leave him for the winter. And in the greatness of his heart, he will give me, a lowly woman, two she-camels, a goat, a ewe, and many other things so I will not be a burden to the tribe. I will hold my head up proudly. It is for this I call him ‘the great one.’“
The conversation had come full circle. It gave Cecile quite a bit to think about, and she fell silent.
It did not please her, however, that her thoughts were now centered on Matthew Blackmoore. He did, she was forced to admit, seem to have many redeeming qualities. And his story was so much like her father’s, the man she had admired most in the world.
But he was still a man and never, never, would she trust another. True, Blackmoore had rescued her. But did he do so because he was honor-bound, or merely to cheat his enemy, the caliph?
Cecile smiled grimly beneath her veil, thinking of Blackmoore, remembering Shaban, the sailors, the way their eyes and hands had touched her. Let Hagar and others rave about how wonderful he was, this El Faris. She knew better. He was a man and, underneath, just like all the rest.
The band halted at midday long enough only to turn toward the east and say their prayers. “For we reach a well today and must make camp before the sun sets,” Hagar informed Cecile. “Tonight we must pitch our tents, as well as tend to our other chores. El Faris is thoughtful, you see. He knows a good leader must keep the women happy, so he ensures we arrive in plenty of time to complete our work before darkness.”
Still in a sour frame of mind, Cecile folded her arms across her breast and sank back against the maksar. Oh, yes, she thought. Allah forbid a woman not have time enough to finish her cooking, weaving, milking, dung gathering, and tent pitching before time to crawl into the lord and master’s bed. She could hardly wait to arrive at the well and begin such inspiring and life-fulfilling tasks. Thank heaven she was not required to warm the master’s blankets, as well, after a day like that. She should consider herself lucky.
As satisfying as her ill-tempered ruminations were, Cecile forgot them as soon as the “well” came into sight. She leaned over Hagar’s shoulder, scarcely able to believe what she saw.
She had heard about oases before, of course, but she was not quite prepared for the reality. Miles and miles of nothing but rock and scrub brush and sand, and then, suddenly, paradise. She could almost smell the water hidden within the thick, lush stand of palms. And that was not all there was to see.
Two other large camps had already arrived. There were many tents and grazing herds of camels, sheep, and goats. The smoke of cook fires spiraled lazily upward on the still air, dogs barked, and hordes of children laughed and played.
They made their own camp at the southern end of the large oasis, nearly a half mile from their nearest neighbors. All the women hurried to choose the best spots for their tents, Cecile among them. When she had found the ground she wanted, she waved Hagar to bring the pack camel.
Fortunately, Cecile learned, Blackmoore’s tent would be pitched by the wives of his other servants. Hagar and Cecile’s only duties were to cook and weave for him. But it was enough. The time she had spent in Hagar’s tent when she first arrived had been so brief she had forgotten there were so many supplies and implements for two such supposedly simple tasks. It seemed to take forever to unload it all.
Cecile laid the carpets on the floor, sleeping quilts to one side. Against the back wall she stacked sacks of wheat, dates, butter, salt, sugar, coffee, and rice. On the wall opposite the sleeping area, she placed the loom and spindle, Hagar’s qash, and a box containing the cooking utensils, water bags, and hide buckets. Finally, she made the fireplace.
Hagar, meanwhile, had been collecting both firewood and gossip. She returned with a few sticks and a great deal of news.
“There is to be a wedding the night after tomorrow,” she announced. “In the camp of the Anizah, next to us. We are all invited to attend. There will be a great feast. And in honor of the occasion, the men will ride out on a hunt tomorrow. If Allah is with them, we will have hubara, arnab, maybe even dhabi.”
Hubara, Cecile recalled, was a large, turkeylike bird. Arnab was the wild desert hare, and dhabi, gazelle. Her mouth watered.
“Now go, lazy girl,” Hagar commanded. “Tend to the mare while I fix our dinner.”
Blackmoore was nowhere in sight and Cecile’s irritation mounted. It had been a long day, and it was not over yet. There were many chores yet to be done. Furthermore, she was ravenously hungry, her back ached, and she felt impossibly grubby. She gazed at the water longingly, the tall reeds lining its shores just visible through the clustered palms. The temptation proved more than she could resist.
Near the other end of the long deep pool, camels were being watered and a few women washed clothes. But there was no one close. Cecile made her way to the water’s edge.
Its surface was smooth, clear, and unmuddied as yet by the hooves of animals. Cecile knelt and leaned forward.
The reflection shocked her. Could it be? Cecile Villier, lately of Château Villier, Paris, France?
Six thin braids swung forward, partially hidden on the right by the hanging end of the head drape. Her bangs hung low over her eyes, causing them to appear larger and darker than ever above the veil. This was, Cecile thought, the face of a woman of the desert.
Pride swelled Cecile’s heart. She had survived, unscathed, an unspeakable journey into slavery. She had ridden with El Faris into the desert. She had even survived the rocking and swaying camel ride and was learning, successfully, to become a true desert-dweller. She was justly earning the right to be called bint Sada … daughter of Sada.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Cecile whirled. “You!”
“Yes, I think so,” he replied genially. “I was looking for you.”
“Well, you did not have to sneak up behind me like that,” Cecile retorted. “You … you startled me.”
“I’m sorry. But could you lower your voice? You’re upsetting my horse.”
“You could have called to me, couldn’t you?” Cecile persisted, rattled by Blackmoore’s sudden presence yet not knowing why. “I have a name, don’t I?”
“Do you?”
“What do you mean? Of course, I have a name.”
“A French name, yes. But it hardly seems appropriate on the desert. Especially for one who looks so … authentic.”
Cecile was not altogether sure he had given her a compliment. He had also, again, come disconcertingly close to her own train of thought. “Do you … disapprove?” she asked at length. “With the way I look, I mean?”
Matthew let a smile touch his mouth. So, he thought, it was as he had suspected. Beneath that obsidian exterior, there really was a woman. He chose his next words carefully. “It is
not for me to either approve or disapprove. You are your own person,” he said. “But I will tell you this. Your appearance brings me pleasure.”
Thank God, she thought, feeling the hot blush rise to her cheeks, that only her eyes were visible above the veil. Ducking her head, Cecile turned away. “I will see to your horse now.”
“Wait.” Matthew made no effort to hand over the reins. Despite the spark within her that often fanned into flames, he found her company delightful. “I thought we were going to decide on a more fitting name for you.”
Cecile dared to raise her eyes. Did he tease her again? “You know I am the daughter of Sada,” she said cautiously. “Therefore I may be called bint Sada.”
Matthew nodded, blue eyes sparkling. “Yes, that properly denotes lineage. But what about you yourself? You must have a first name, one which conveys something of what, or who, you are as a person.”
Cecile was unable to control her curiosity. “Like … like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, something fitting, like …” Matthew stroked his chin, suppressing a chuckle. “Like … Drahmbul …”
“Badger?”
Ignoring her, Matthew gazed upward innocently. “Or, oh, yes, I know. How about … Nis?”
“Porcupine! Oh, you … you … how dare you?”
The chuckle rumbled upward and escaped. “Because there are beautiful golden lights in your eyes when you are angry,” Matthew replied, surprising both himself and Cecile. He had never said anything like that to a woman in his life.
Cecile didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or slap his face. To solve the dilemma, she took a long, deep breath and said calmly, “If you don’t mind, I should tend to your mare. It grows late, and I have many things to do.”
“Then perhaps you will allow me to help you.”
Had she heard correctly? It was not unknown for Badawin men to assist their women, of course, but usually only if they were bonded in some way. Or intended to be …
Cecile glanced up into the clear and shining eyes, so blue against the dark skin. He was not courting her, so what was he up to? Was this another of his little jokes? “Thank you, but I can handle it myself.”
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