Call of the Trumpet

by Helen A. Rosburg’s

  Matthew wondered if he had fallen asleep without realizing it. He reached to touch the glowing golden skin … and he knew he was awake.

  She knelt beside him, glorious hair swinging free, arms outstretched. “Dhiba,” he murmured, and pulled her down upon him.

  Matthew roused slowly, pulling himself from the depths of sleep with difficulty. His body was sore, and his muscles ached. He licked his lips, uselessly. His tongue was dry. His eyes felt gritty when he opened them.

  He could still smell her fragrance. It clung to him, returning him for a moment to the hours she had spent in his arms. Yet now it was dusk, and they must travel. It was funny, Matthew mused, willing his eyelids to stay open. It seemed as if it had been only that morning that he had turned to see her kneeling at his side, beguiling him.

  But, no. With effort, Matthew pulled to a sitting position. “Dhiba … Dhiba, wake up.”

  Cecile did not stir. Matthew lightly touched her cheek, wincing when he felt its heat. “Dhiba, you must wake.”

  “Matthew?”

  “Yes, I’m here.” She smiled at him, weakly, and his heart ached.

  “Is it time?”

  Yes, it is time, he thought silently. Time to act, to make the decision he had hoped he would not have to face. Looking at her now, he knew he could put it off no longer. “Almost time,” Matthew amended. “Rest a little longer, Dhiba. There’s something I must do.”

  Cecile did not protest. She knew she had to conserve her strength; she was weakening rapidly. It was amazing, she thought, how efficiently and swiftly the sun was able to leech the moisture from your veins. Only one day without water, and already …

  Or was it a day? Perhaps it had been two. Cecile could no longer remember. As Matthew left the tent, she gratefully closed her eyes.

  Twilight hovered, holding darkness at bay a few minutes longer. Matthew stood before the small tent and stared into the sandy, rolling distance. Soon, within minutes, he must make his decision. He must do it. Or not. The weight of it pressed heavily, for it was the most important decision of his life. He sighed along with the night breeze that stirred the hem of his tattered, dirty robe.

  Time, fate, and the whim of the desert seemed to have conspired against them. Near the end of the second night, they had come to a small well; the devil wind had destroyed it, too. There was evidence of digging, but the underground water had not been reached. More discouraging, he could tell by the tracks that they had missed the camp by only a few hours. They were precious hours, hours that might have now sealed their doom.

  Matthew continued to stare at the horizon, as if any moment the caravan might appear. But his thoughts were far away.

  Ahmed had left a sign scratched in rock, a simple message showing the direction the camp had taken to the next well, an oasis that would not have been obliterated by the winds. He had also left a second skin of water. But it was only a small one, as much as he had been able to spare. And it had meant two things to Matthew.

  One, the camp would be moving more swiftly now, racing against time. With their spare camels and horses, they would be able to travel both day and night to reach the oasis.

  Two, with only one camel, and as far behind as they were, he and Cecile would not reach the oasis in time. The extra skin of water would last two days. The oasis, at their rate of speed, was almost four days distant, he had calculated.

  Stars appeared, twinkling brightly against the night sky. Matthew knew he must act quickly or not at all. But how to decide? Which risk should he take, which path should he follow?

  One more night of travel, and at least half of one day would bring them to the oasis. On his own he might have made it, but …

  Matthew turned slowly toward the tent, his heart constricting within him. Without water, she would not live until noon tomorrow. He had seen it too many times not to be certain. Once it had begun, dehydration was a swift killer. Even if he did manage to get her to the oasis, alive, the damage done to her body might be irreversible.

  He could not let her die, not if he had the power to prevent it. While fate was in his hands, by Allah, she would not desert him through death.

  Decision made, Matthew slipped the khusa from its sheath and strode out into the night.

  The dream had her fully in its grip, its hold so tight Cecile could not distinguish it from reality. It was dawn, dim within the tiny tent, and she knelt at his side. She stretched her arms to him, and he pulled her down.

  She felt her body’s response, his hands upon her flesh. She was ecstatic, forgetful of their danger. Passion mounting, she explored his skin, shuddering where his lips caressed her own flesh. She did not want it to end, ever. Yet something pulled at her, trying to tear her from her happiness. With all her strength, Cecile struggled against it.

  “Dhiba, wake up.” Matthew shook her again gently. “You must wake now.”

  The voice penetrated, and Cecile opened her eyes. But she was groggy, her perception of reality confused. It must be. For he had lifted a cup to her lips, and they had no water.

  “Drink, Dhiba,” Matthew urged. “Please, you must drink this.”

  A dream, only a dream. Nevertheless, she would do as he bid.

  “That’s it, drink it all.”

  Strange, Cecile thought. There really was something in the cup. It was warm, slightly thick, and it did not taste like water. But it was wet. She drank greedily.

  Fighting his desire to give her more, Matthew put the cup aside. They would need the rest later, and she had enough for the present to revive and sustain her. “How do you feel?” he inquired softly.

  Cecile blinked and shook her head. Surely she must be awake. “I … I feel better. But where … what … ?”

  “Allah is merciful,” Matthew replied cryptically. “Now we must take advantage of His bounty and travel as quickly as we can. Do you think you will be able to walk a little?”

  Cecile nodded bravely. So far he had insisted she ride, but she had known the time would come when she would have to walk. Their dahlul had had little food and no water for many days, and despite its ability to conserve its body’s moisture, it had to be weakening by now. They would need it to carry their pack, therefore she must walk. And she would.

  “Of … of course, I can walk. Just let me fold the blanket, and I’ll …”

  “We will not take the blanket. Or the tent. We’ll take only this skin with … with the water.”

  Full reality returned finally. Cecile stared at the skin, horrified, as one of Hagar’s tales came back to her.

  There had been a young Badawin lad lost on the desert. He had only his camel, his khusa, and a skin of water. When the water ran out, and he knew he would die of thirst before he reached his people, he …

  “Come, Dhiba.” Matthew slipped his arms beneath her shoulders and helped Cecile to her feet. “It’s late and we must go.”

  He had not had the strength to take the camel far, so he tried to steer Cecile away from the grisly, mutilated remains. But she saw. He felt her stiffen, then relax. She swayed against him, and he caught her in his arms. Cecile did not protest when Matthew lifted her from her feet. She laid her head against his breast and closed her eyes as he carried her up and over a nearby dune, then said, “Put me down. Please.”

  He did not halt his stride. “You’re weak, Dhiba. I can carry you for awhile.”

  “But you …”

  “Hush. Don’t waste your strength on useless protest.”

  Cecile felt something blaze to life in her breast. A lump formed in her throat.

  While she had slept, Matthew had sacrificed the camel, severed its paunch, and painstakingly removed its precious reserve of moisture. That must have taken a good deal of his own ebbing strength. Yet still he was willing to carry her in his arms, no matter the cost to him. Three times now, he had given her back her life.

  Cecile tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it was firmly and painfully lodged. She wished with all her heart that she was able to give him
something of value in return, some part of her, some gift from her soul. But what? How?

  It came to her as gently and as welcome as the rain that falls upon the parched rose. “Matthew, put me down. I … there’s something I must tell you.”

  “Later, Dhiba. Don’t waste your strength.”

  She shook her head. “No, now. I must tell you now. It’s important.”

  “Dhiba, I …” Matthew halted, seeing the look in her eyes. She was determined, he knew, and he would only waste more of her fragile energy continuing to argue with her. He lowered her gently to her feet and touched her cheek. “Very well, Dhiba,” he said softly. “What is it?”

  The ordeal on the desert had stripped away the last of Cecile’s false pride and pigheaded stubbornness. There was only room left inside her for real emotion. Besides, she reasoned, she might never, in this life, have another chance to tell him. And he deserved the truth. She looked Matthew squarely in the eye.

  “The night … the night you asked me to wed you,” she began, “I needed time to think, to sort my thoughts. I … I did a foolish thing.”

  “Dhiba …”

  “No, wait, please. Let me finish. I took … I took Al Chah ayah. I rode into the desert. And I realized what my answer would be … what it had always been … yes, oh, yes. Yes, I would marry you, with love and joy. But I … I had an accident. I fell from Al Chah ayah and hit my head. I was unable to come to you. By the time I returned, and was able to tell you—”

  “Oh, God …” Matthew groaned. He was unable to listen to more. The immensity of what he had done, the consequences of his actions, the result of his rage and disappointment, all threatened to overwhelm him. He grabbed Cecile and pulled her to him.

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry … so sorry …”

  They stood together thus for many moments, the night wind stirring the hems of their desert robes. If there had been moisture enough in their bodies for tears, they would have shed them, but they did not. Dry-eyed, in anguish, they clung to one another. There was so much to say and, at the same time, nothing.

  It was Cecile who finally broke the long silence. “We’ll walk now, Matthew. We’ll walk together.”

  “All right,” he agreed at last. “Together.” He grasped Cecile’s hand and, side by side, they moved off into the darkness.

  Chapter

  22

  THE OASIS WAS SMALL. ONLY A FEW SCRAGGLY palms clung to life at its muddied edge. It was the most beautiful sight in the world.

  Camels bawled and the mares whinnied. The leading riders broke into a gallop, women and children close at their heels. Within moments, every inch of meager shoreline had been filled.

  Aza filled her water skin along with the others, hurrying so the animals might take their turn and come to drink. She would water Al Chah ayah herself, however. Just as she had done, faithfully, every morning and night since the storm. Since …

  Aza blocked the thought before it could bring more useless tears to her eyes. Besides, she must not abandon hope. El Faris knew the desert as well as any nomad. He would return to them, Al Dhiba safely at his side.

  Once water skins and bellies had been filled, the camp was erected. Aza struggled alone with her husband’s large tent and was glad to see Kut hurrying in her direction. The two women worked until the flaps had been secured. Then

  Aza motioned her friend inside. “May I make you a cup of tea?”

  Kut shook her head, a sad smile showing in her eyes. “There is still much to do. But I thank you, Aza. I only wished to help, and … and make sure you were all right.”

  Aza reached for Kut’s hand and gently squeezed it. “You are so kind,” she whispered. “I know your heart grieves, also. For both of them.”

  Kut nodded. “Al Dhiba was …”

  “I know … I know.” Aza took both her friend’s hands and held them to her fragile bosom. “But you must not despair. Allah guides them. They will return. I know they will.”

  Kut lowered her gaze. “Your faith is great, halaila,” she breathed. “May Allah grant your prayers.”

  For several moments following Kut’s departure, Aza simply stood and stared through the open tent flap. Her lips moved as she repeated her silent prayer. Then she took a deep breath, lifted her head, and hurried from the tent. There was much to do. Al Chah ayah and the camels must be tended. Fresh supplies of food must be made, the blankets aired, pillows fluffed. Perhaps she would even polish her husband’s saddle. It would please him, she knew. When he returned.

  The day wore on as Aza bustled through her tasks. Once she saw Hagar and Jali walking together in the distance. How stooped and old they looked, she thought, their backs bent beneath the burden of their grief. Her heart went out to them, and she started in their direction.

  But what could she say? How could she soothe their hearts when she could not comfort her own? Her anxiety, in fact, seemed to be growing rather than diminishing. Aza wondered, frightened, if she, too, had finally begun to lose faith. Shaken, she sat down, picked up her rag, and bent once more to the saddle.

  But her heart continued to pound and soon her hands began to shake. Aza took a deep breath, but it did not calm her. Her entire body trembled. With a cry, she dropped the rag and pressed her fists to her thudding breast. What was happening?

  Aza knew, even as she tried to tell herself it was not possible. She knew. Allah had answered her prayers. “Ahmed!” she screamed as she leapt to her feet. “Ahmed!”

  Heads turned, and children shrank against their mothers’ skirts as Aza ran through the camp, crying Ahmed’s name. A mare shied from her path, but she paid it no heed. She did not stop until she had reached the familiar tent. “Ahmed!”

  The enormous man caught Aza gently in his arms as she swayed and gasped for breath. “What is it, little one? What’s wrong?”

  “Ahmed, they’re out there, I know it! You must find them!”

  Ahmed did not release the grip. “Please, mistress, you—”

  “Now, Ahmed! You have to find them at once. Please, please believe me!”

  There was something in her eyes that sent a chill through him. Mystifying as it was, he knew that Allah often whispered to the hearts of women, sending them dreams and signs. “All right,” he said before she could importune him further. “All right, mistress, I will go. And I will find them.”

  The wind blew in short, sharp gusts, blasting them with its heat, swirling the sand about their ankles. Ripples formed in the dunes, and a lonely ajraf bush crackled dryly. Like a death rattle, Matthew thought. Like the cough from a dying man’s throat.

  The bitter thoughts failed to have an effect on him and he wondered at that. Had he lost all feeling, all emotion? Had the wind and heat drained more than just the moisture from his body? Where was his fear of death? Death that was almost certain now.

  Cecile stumbled, and Matthew tightened his grip on her shoulders. As he did so, an inner heat seared through him, and he knew his heart had not withered at all. “Dhiba,” he whispered, and held her tightly against him as her knees buckled.

  “I can’t … I must rest …”

  “Yes, Dhiba,” he soothed, stroking her tangled hair. “We will rest.” Matthew lowered her to the sand, her head upon his lap. He had turned his back to the sun so he might shade her face and leaned over her protectively as he uncorked the leather skin. “Drink now, Dhiba. Drink.”

  Cecile shook her head weakly. “No,” she protested. “No, you …”

  “Do as I say, Dhiba. You need it more than I.” There was only a little left, a few precious drops of what he had managed to distill from the camel’s paunch. It was barely enough to moisten her parched lips. But it would lessen at least a small portion of her misery. When it was gone, Cecile closed her eyes.

  Her body was not still, however. As he held her, Matthew felt her twitch and tense, responding to the delirium invading her brain. It happened more often now, and the periods were longer.

  An aching sickness gripped Matthew’s heart.
He could not let her die. He would not.

  Consciousness, and rationality, briefly returned as Cecile felt herself being lifted. Her eyes opened wide, and she tried to push against Matthew’s chest. “No,” she cried, her voice cracking. “No, you must not carry me!”

  “Hush, Dhiba,” he said, and straightened slowly.

  “No,” she murmured. “No.”

  “Hush, Dhiba,” Matthew repeated, and began to walk. “Be still and rest. The camp is not far. Soon we’ll find it.”

  But Cecile would not quiet. She continued to stir in Matthew’s arms, and he held her more tightly, his heart bleeding. She murmured incoherently, and the sound of her parched and broken voice stabbed at him.

  “Matthew … Matthew, no …” Cecile croaked. “No.”

  “Ssshhh, the camp is not far,” he lied. “Soon, Dhiba, soon.”

  “No,” she repeated, and tossed her head from side to side with a strength that surprised him. “No … no … Aza …”

  Matthew halted and gazed down at the flushed and fevered face. What was she saying? Was it the sun and the sickness talking?

  “Matthew,” Cecile sighed, and he saw she looked straight at him, her eyes focused and clear. “Matthew, why? Why … do this? Why not … why not leave me and … and go on?”

  Her gaze commanded him. He could not look away. “Because I …” the unfamiliar words choked in his throat. “Because you are mine, Dhiba. You’re mine. I love you.”

  But she did not hear. Matthew knew, even as the words fell from his lips, that she had slipped away once more. “Dhiba?” he whispered.

  There was no response. Numb, Matthew bent his head and slowly struggled onward. The wind keened, and his tracks whirled away behind him.

  Twilight gathered swiftly. One moment the sun’s glare from the sand was enough to blind a man; in the next, shadows filled the wells between the dunes and the light was murky and indistinct. Combined with the blowing, swirling sand, visibility was poor. Ahmed halted his camel and muttered a curse under his breath. Where were they? Why, in Allah’s name, had he not been able to find them?