Call of the Trumpet

by Helen A. Rosburg’s

  With justifiable pride, Cecile studied the beginnings of a rug stretched on Hagar’s loom. The old woman had a store of goat hair, dyed in many colors, and almost all of them would be used in the design Cecile had in mind. The rug would make a fine gift when it was completed. For Jali, maybe, or the old woman. As cantankerous as she was, there was a heart of gold hidden in the thin and shriveled bosom. Cecile smiled, then rose quietly and left the tent.

  Until dinnertime her tasks were done. But it was too early to bathe. Cecile glanced at the sky, measuring the fall of dusk. It would be dark soon, and under cover of night the women were permitted to bathe and wash clothes, as Hagar had grudgingly admitted. When there was ample water it might be used for such a purpose although, she had asserted, she still preferred camel urine for herself.

  Cecile shuddered. There were some customs, she feared, she would never get used to. A woman’s daily role in life could be dreary enough without adding camel urine to it.

  Although, she thought, as she gazed longingly into the cool, green water of the oasis, her day had really not been dreary at all. She had learned much, and had taken pride in her accomplishments. What she had done was good, she decided, and rewarding in its way.

  The wind rustled through the palms, and ripples broke the still, shining surface of the water. Restless, Cecile wandered toward the opposite side of the camp.

  Socializing was both a woman’s prerogative and joy. Though it was not exactly Cecile’s cup of tea, she did want to be accepted by the other women. A good deal of the Badawin’s strength sprang from their unity as a clan, and she was a part of that clan, however temporarily.

  Kut, the woman who had given them the milk, seemed a nice person, and her small son was adorable. It was dusk and the herds would be coming in for the night, so she might have a moment to gossip.

  The camel herd had not yet returned from the desert, where it had spent the day grazing on what scrub brush was to be found, but the sheep were in and settling for the night. Lambs had been loosed to nurse the ewes, and Cecile heard the contented sucking sounds as she approached.

  “Hafath kum Allah,” she called to Kut, who stood watching her young son round up the stragglers.

  “God guard you also,” she returned with a shy smile. “Have you come for more milk?”

  “Oh, no,” Cecile laughed. “This time I came merely to visit.”

  “I am glad,” Kut said. “And proud that you can see my son at work. He is a good boy, is he not?”

  “Indeed, he is. He will make a fine man.”

  The two women stood in companionable silence for a time, watching the youngster as he scurried back and forth. The camp’s flock was relatively large, but the little boy appeared to have the situation under control. Cecile gazed into the distance, at the herds of the neighboring camps also being rounded in, and remembered what Hagar had said about a wedding.

  “Kut, what is this about a …” She stopped, abruptly. Kut’s eyes had gone wide with fright. Cecile followed her gaze.

  She wasn’t sure what she saw at first. A dog, perhaps, moving among the nervously milling sheep. But what was a dog doing … ?

  Cecile froze. She heard Kut’s sharply indrawn breath, then a sound like a sob. The woman lurched forward.

  “Wait!” Cecile hissed, grabbing her arm. “Don’t move!”

  The child had not seen the wolf yet. He was intent upon gathering the suddenly skittish animals. “Stay where you are,” Cecile ordered. Silently, she glided forward.

  The wolf himself was intent upon a lamb. The large, lean animal paid no heed to the boy. But he saw Cecile. His lips curled into a snarl.

  Allah give me strength, she prayed, and continued slowly onward. If she could just reach the boy before …

  The wolf made his decision. Hunger had given him courage. Taking his eyes from the woman, he sprang at the lamb.

  The child saw him. With a cry, unthinking, he ran toward the wolf, waving his thin arms in the air.

  There was no more time for caution. Cecile knew the wolf would protect what was his. She also knew wolves hunted in pairs. The she-wolf, Al Dhiba, would not be far away.

  Even as she broke into a run, Cecile saw Al Dhiba. She approached from the opposite side of the flock, hackles bristling along her back. Her yellow eyes were fixed on the boy who threatened her mate and his kill. Her gaze flickered only briefly as Cecile ran into her field of vision.

  The child, running, was aware of nothing but his lamb, locked in the wolf’s slavering jaws. He gave a startled cry as Cecile scooped him into her arms, then clung to her as she tripped, lost her balance, and sent them both sprawling in the dust.

  It was Jali who greeted the returning hunters, but not with gladness. His wizened face was stricken with shock and horror. “El Faris! El Faris!” he shouted. “Come quickly! There are wolves among the sheep. The boy …”

  He waited to hear no more. Gesturing the other riders back, Matthew unsheathed his khusa and urged his horse into a gallop. When he rounded the edge of the oasis and saw what was happening, he reined to a sliding halt.

  The flock had scattered. A few bleating sheep milled around Kut, who had fallen to her knees, hands raised to her face. She keened under her breath, agonizing for her son and the woman who had gone to his aid.

  Matthew saw them, and his heart stopped. She was kneeling also, the child clutched to her breast. But there was no fear in the dark, fierce gaze she held upon Al Dhiba.

  The two were locked in silent, motionless combat, each protecting her own. Behind the she-wolf, Al Dhib snarled over his prey. In Cecile’s arms, the child whimpered.

  With the pressure of his legs, Matthew calmed Al Chah ayah, who had smelled her ancient enemy. He would have to move swiftly, he knew, before the wolves became aware of his presence and reacted. He touched the mare’s neck, lightly, then slipped the dagger between his teeth.

  Cecile dared not even blink. She scarcely breathed. The smallest movement, she knew, might force the she-wolf to respond. She could only hold Al Dhiba’s gaze and pray her will was the stronger. She did not hear the sudden pounding of hooves upon the ground.

  It happened so quickly she barely had time to react. From the corner of her eye she saw the onrushing rider. The she-wolf cringed and backed away. The rider was upon them. She lifted the child as Matthew sped past, and the boy was pulled from her arm to safety.

  Al Chah ayah spun, and Matthew lowered the child to his mother’s waiting arms, already pressing his heels to the mare’s quivering flanks. The sheep were running wildly, and amid the confusion the she-wolf, maddened with hunger and fear, sprang to attack.

  Cecile felt a great weight against her chest, knocking the breath from her lungs as she was hurled over backward. She waited to feel the hard impact of the ground, but it never came. Instead she felt herself caught in a familiar dream. She was lifted into the air. The ground sped past below her with dizzying speed, and a firm, muscular arm gripped her tightly. She closed her eyes.

  Her legs felt shaky. She was barely able to stand when he lowered her to the ground. Her veil, she realized with sudden panic, had become lost, but there was no help for it. She was powerless to move, to respond in any way. Just as she had been caught in the she-wolf’s merciless gaze, so was she now caught in another.

  Matthew climbed down from his mare, never releasing Cecile’s eyes. His expression was inscrutable. The crowd that had gathered around them fell silent. The air was charged with hushed expectancy.

  He stood squarely before her, motionless. Only the hem of his robe fluttered gently with the sigh of the night wind. Then his lips parted slowly. His white, even teeth flashed brightly against his dark skin.

  “Al Dhiba,” he said quietly, “who protects her own with the courage of a pure and noble heart. Al Dhiba bint Sada.”

  “Al Dhiba,” the clan echoed. The low ripple of sound whispered through their ranks. “Al Dhiba bint Sada.”

  Cecile did not move. The wind blew more fiercely, whipping th
e drape of her makruna, flapping the torn edges of her dress across her breast. She felt something warm and sticky there, but it did not matter.

  “The daughter of Sada thanks you,” she said, the words coming as if from nowhere, “for returning her life now … twice.”

  He nodded almost imperceptibly. His expression did not alter, but his clear blue eyes flickered slightly. Then he turned, shattering the fragile moment. He mounted his horse and, without a backward glance, rode away.

  Chapter

  10

  BECAUSE SHE KNEW SOMETHING OF BADAWIN “weddings,” Cecile knew what to expect when Hagar led her to the neighboring camp of the Anizah. What she had not expected was the welcome she received.

  It was just past dawn, and the air was warm and sweet and free of dust. A turtledove called from somewhere high in the palms, and a mare whinnied. Despite the painful wound that scored her breast, Cecile had never felt more wonderful in her life. The world had never seemed so fresh, so new and beautiful. Even Hagar seemed changed.

  Cecile glanced at the old woman from the corner of her eye as they made their way around the oasis. No longer did Hagar labor to stride ahead of her. Nor had she ordered Cecile about as usual. When breakfast was completed, she had asked, politely, “Would you care to accompany me to view the preparations for the wedding?” Hagar had also toiled long into the night to mend the rent the wolf’s teeth had made in Cecile’s towb.

  Was it because of what she had done yesterday? It seemed such a small thing, an act of necessity rather than courage. Yet it had apparently changed many things. Including the way Cecile felt about herself.

  For one thing, she noticed, she did not feel her usual shyness when she and Hagar entered the neighboring camp. She walked among the strangers with head held high, not with defiant pride this time, but simply with a solid sense of identity. For the first time in her life, Cecile did not feel others would look upon her with scorn. And she was correct, if not quite prepared for the way they greeted her.

  Women emerged from their tents as she and Hagar passed. A few children ran in her wake, and even the men took notice of her with solemn, courteous nods. Then the chanting began.

  It started as a whisper from someone behind her. “Al Dhiba,” the voice hissed, with something akin to awe. “Al Dhiba bint Sada,” sighed another, and so it was carried on and on as they all made their way to the tent of the groom.

  Unexpected tears pricked at Cecile’s eyes. She blinked them away, ignoring the chant with quiet dignity. But she could not ignore the swelling of her heart. Was this, she wondered, what it felt like to belong, to be accepted?

  They had reached the groom’s tent. The crowd fell silent. Prepared for what was to come, Cecile vowed not to flinch. She was one of them now. She must accept their customs.

  The she-camel was led forward by a servant and made to kneel in front of the tent. She lowered herself cumbersomely, grunting, and folded her long, knobby legs beneath her. The servant tugged on the lead rope, lifting the animal’s head.

  A cousin of the groom stepped from the tent. Shards of sunlight glinted from his freshly sharpened khusa. He stood at the camel’s head, spoke a prayer to Allah, dedicating the bridal gift, then deftly slit the animal’s throat, killing it quickly and mercifully. A low murmur of approval rippled through the watching crowd, and they dispersed.

  “This will be all for now,” Hagar informed Cecile as they headed back to their own camp. “All day the bride will be prepared, but this will be done by her relatives in the privacy of her tent. Then, tonight, she will be led to the hegra, the marriage tent.”

  “Is that all?”

  Hagar shrugged. “What more should there be? Marriage is a simple thing, a natural thing. Like birth and death.”

  It seemed there should be more, Cecile thought. Love was so precious, so wondrous. It should be declared with fanfare, and she said so to Hagar.

  The old woman looked disgusted. “Why must love be ‘declared,’ as you say? Is it not enough that a man wishes to marry a woman and share his life with her? That says it all, I think. It is enough.”

  Cecile did not agree but remained silent. Besides, why should she care? She never wished to be married herself. Turning the subject away from love, she said, “You told me there would be a feast in honor of the wedding, Hagar. If there’s to be no celebration, who will do the feasting?”

  “We will,” the old woman replied cheerfully. “The Badawin love few things more than an excuse to eat and dance and be happy. This is our excuse, so tonight there will be much joy in our camp.”

  It sounded reasonable, Cecile thought, and fun. She found she looked forward to the setting of the sun.

  Jali awaited them outside their tent. He bobbed his head in an energetic greeting, then said, solemnly, “Al guwa, ya Dhiba bint Sada.”

  “Allah I gauchi, ya Jali,” Cecile returned with a smile. “God give you strength also. I’m glad to see you.”

  “No more than I you,” he responded, including Hagar in his wide grin. The old woman grunted and disappeared inside the tent.

  Cecile laughed. “Tell me why you’ve come, Jali.”

  “I am supposed to deliver this,” he explained, and for the first time Cecile noticed the bundle at his feet.

  “What is it?”

  “Gifts, halaila. From El Faris!”

  Cecile looked up sharply, a queer knot in the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean, gifts?”

  “Look … see!” Jali unwrapped the bundle.

  There was a full gazelle haunch, the choicest portion. “Also this.” Proudly, he held up a gazelle horn. It had been cleaned and polished.

  Cecile suppressed the urge to ask what it was for and took it from the smiling Jali. “Would you … would you thank him for me, Jali?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. When he returns from the desert. He hunts again, for the feast tonight.”

  “I see. Well …”

  “Well, I must go now. Allah karim, halaila.”

  He left her with her gifts, and her confusion. Re-wrapping the bundle, Cecile carried it into the tent. “Hagar, Jali said …”

  “Yes, I heard. You have been honored.”

  “Honored?”

  “Of course.” The old woman looked pleased. “El Faris sends his gifts to mark your courage, and to thank you for saving the life of a child.”

  Something twinged in Cecile’s breast. The wound, she thought quickly. Though not deep, it was long and jagged and would leave a scar she would carry to the end of her days. The mark of the she-wolf, Al Dhiba. With another pang, she remembered the way she had felt when Matthew had named her, and the swelling voice of the people echoing his words. At that moment, she knew, they had accepted her. But had they done so simply because of El Faris?

  No! Cecile shook her head in silent denial. She had earned both the name and the acceptance herself. As well as the gratitude and recognition of the tribe’s leader. She had seen it in his gaze. She leaned down and plucked the gazelle horn from the bundle.

  “Hagar, what is this for?”

  “Oh, that is a fine gift. It is used as a middrah, for pushing threads down on a loom.”

  Cleaning the horn had obviously taken a good deal of work … had he done it himself? For her? She envisioned him laboring long into the night. And his eyes, so piercingly blue as he had gazed at her, naming her.

  Had there really been respect in that look, admiration? Yes, perhaps, she had to admit. There had been something more, too. Cecile was not quite sure what it was. She knew only that it made her heart constrict with unfamiliar emotion, and made it impossible to spend another moment in the tent with Hagar. With a half-muffled sob, she rushed outside and away from the camp.

  If Hagar wondered about Cecile’s sudden flight or prolonged absence, she had not mentioned it. Nor had the old woman remarked on, or tried to fill, the silence in which Cecile wrapped herself as she sat at the loom. She was glad. She didn’t think she could cope with Hagar’s probing questions. How coul
d she, when she had no answers? She did not know herself why she had fled. To escape the feelings thoughts of Matthew provoked? If so, she had not been successful.

  Cecile busied herself with her tasks. There were many things to be done before the sun fell beyond the distant dunes. Abandoning the loom, she made a mixture of ground wheat, water, and salt, boiled to a thick paste; also matbuna, dates boiled in butter, and madruse, a thin paste of dates, boiled wheat, and butter. At the last she made hamida, toasted wheat, not for the feast, but to be stored away and used to sustain them during the long marches from well to well.

  Just past midday the hunters returned, though Cecile let Hagar go and greet them and bring back their portion of the kill. To her surprise, the old woman returned with a rabbit, three fat sandgrouse, and the better part of a Bakar al-maha, a small antelope. The hunters had been almost miraculously successful, and what Hagar brought them was only a small part, their fair share, of what El Faris had killed. The rest would be distributed to his other dependents. Cecile picked up a sandgrouse and began to pluck its feathers.

  Hours later the entire camp was filled with a medley of enticing aromas. Savory scents came from every tent, and rapid, happy chatter. A mood of excitement was in the air, growing as the sun completed its arc into the western sky.

  The mood was catching, and Cecile’s heart lightened considerably, especially since her first act of the evening would be to bathe.

  Hagar had forbidden her a bath last night. “It will not be good for the wound,” she had pronounced. “We will use baul instead. It will be good, you will see.”

  The word was unfamiliar. Yet when Hagar produced a bowl of the stuff, the odor was unmistakable. Camel urine! Cecile had protested, but to no avail. The old woman had been adamant. And the horrid stuff really seemed to work, Cecile had to admit. The wound was less painful, and there wasn’t a trace of infection.