Call of the Trumpet

by Helen A. Rosburg’s

  Ahmed shrank from the answer, but he knew he had to face it. Either Aza had been wrong, or he had missed them. One way or the other it mattered little. Without water, they would die. He knew they must have run out by now. By now they might even be …

  No! He would not think it. With an unconsciously brutal slap on his camel’s flank, Ahmed set off once more. He was unaware of the tears dimming his vision, and the painful, knotted ache in his chest. He knew only that he could not stop, could not give up hope. For Al Dhiba and El Faris.

  Yet the night wore on. Stars glinted, the wind sighed, and the dunes rolled endlessly. Endless and empty. Ahmed’s head throbbed and his eyes burned. But he scarcely dared to blink.

  For he had seen something. Only a shadow, perhaps, cast by the moon. Or a bush, sere and withered, yet clinging to life where nothing else could exist. Yes, that had to be it, a bush. Nevertheless, he did not take his eyes from it, and he assaulted the camel’s flanks once again until the beast bellowed in protest.

  The shadows shifted as Ahmed approached. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? He tugged on the camel’s bridle. His heart thudded to a halt.

  The still forms lay side by side, Al Dhiba’s head cradled against his master’s shoulder. “El Faris!” Ahmed cried, and flung himself from the saddle.

  The night was eerily silent. Not even the barking of a camp dog dared to disturb the mournful quiet. Alone in her tent, Aza was almost able to hear the pounding blood through her veins. It was as if everyone had taken one great, deep breath when Ahmed left, and only upon his return would they release it and come to life again. But to rejoice … or to mourn?

  Aza clasped her hand in her lap, bent her head, and whispered another prayer. Then she straightened and returned her gaze to the open tent flap.

  Time was running out. She was no longer able to deny it. Where, oh where was Ahmed?

  The soft crunch of a footstep came to Aza’s ears and she stiffened. Seconds later she recognized the familiar sound of Hagar’s shuffling gait. Pity welled in her heart. “Please, come in, old woman,” Aza said, “and feel welcome in my husband’s tent.”

  Hagar brushed inside and knelt, stiffly. When she had settled her old bones as comfortably as possible, she looked Aza in the eye and came straight to the point. “There is very little hope left, halaila,” she said in a firm but gentle voice. “You must know as well as I.”

  Aza nodded shortly, eyes downcast.

  “Allah’s Will is Mysterious, but it will be done,” Hagar continued. “May He be merciful in your time of grief.”

  Choking back her tears, Aza gazed up into the old woman’s sad, dark eyes. “I thank you for your words of comfort,” she murmured. “And I …”

  “Comfort!” Hagar gruffly barked. “Mere words will not comfort your heart! But perhaps … perhaps knowledge will.”

  Aza held her breath. “Knowledge?”

  Hagar’s gaze was unwavering. “Yes, halaila. The knowledge that your husband truly loved you.”

  A small cry escaped Aza’s lips. She tried to turn away, but Hagar captured her hands. “No, you must listen to me. Listen and know I speak the truth. El Faris loved you. Even though …” Hagar stopped, wondering exactly how much Aza had guessed. When she turned her face and the old woman saw her eyes, there was no longer any doubt.

  “I know my husband loved me,” Aza said, her voice barely a whisper. “I have had much time to think on it. Indeed, I have thought of little else. Yes, my husband loved me. Though not in the way he loved Al Dhiba.”

  Hagar sighed and bent her head. She felt tired suddenly. The weight of many years, and many sorrows, pressed heavily.

  “Please, do not be sad for me,” Aza added hastily, returning the grip of the old woman’s hands. “Allah blessed me, and I have been happy, Hagar. I have had the honor of being wife to El Faris. I have called Al Dhiba sister.” Aza’s eyes brimmed, but she blinked back the tears. “Yes, I have been very happy.”

  “I know. I know you have been,” the old woman agreed, but her voice sounded distant and her gaze was upon something far away. “May Allah bless you for it. And may He bless …”

  Both women froze. The dog barked again. Then another added his voice, and another. A moment later the yips of warning turned to full-throated joy.

  Neither Aza nor Hagar moved. They heard the buzzing now, the low, rapid babble of many voices speaking all at once. It grew, and the sound was like a tidal wave rushing through Aza’s body. Then there was a shout, and a cry was taken up amid the noise of running feet. “El Faris, El Faris, El Faris …!”

  With Aza’s hand supporting her arm, Hagar stumbled to her feet. Together they hurried from the tent.

  The shouts had died, and the last questioning voices drifted away on the wind. Only the steady plodding of the camel could be heard. Aza stared, her hands tightly clenched and pressed to her mouth, her heart breaking.

  He rode the dahlul, slumped yet upright, long, unkempt hair falling about the face of the girl in his arms. Her own black mane trailed and fluttered in the night breeze. One slender hand dangled limply.

  With a choked cry, arms outstretched, Hagar staggered forward. Aza fell to her knees and began to pray.

  Chapter

  23

  AHMED’S BURNISHED EBONY FLESH GLISTENED with sweat, and two trickles of moisture coursed downward from his temples. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his robe and mentally cursed both the weather and his lazy, complaining dahlul. Every few steps the miserable beast balked, turned its head to fix an accusing stare on its rider, and bellowed hideously. He kicked it and lashed at its flank with his camel stick.

  Matthew laughed, and Al Chah ayah danced. He controlled her with a gentle hand as Ahmed grinned.

  “It is good to see you laugh, ya ammi,” Ahmed said, temporarily forgetting his plight.

  Matthew nodded in agreement and returned his gaze to the landscape. “I think we’d better find a place to camp,” he chuckled. “Before your dahlul lies down and refuses to get up.”

  “A fine idea,” Ahmed concurred dryly. “Too bad you and Al Dhiba did not have this worthless beast with you in the desert. A cut throat and a severed paunch are just what she deserves.”

  Matthew winced, as he always did when mention was made of that perilous trek through the desert. He wanted only to forget it. At least those last few days. But it would be a long while, he knew, before his people began to tire of the tale. For now, he was a hero, Al Dhiba a heroine. Their story rapidly became legend. A legend of courage … and love.

  Love. Matthew’s gaze became unfocused, and he saw before him, not the road, but Al Dhiba, naked and glorious, her eyes shining as her arms reached to pull him down upon her. Would he ever see her thus again? Would he ever again experience her strength, the suppleness of her flesh? Would she heal, or had he lost her to the terrible wasting sickness of the sun?

  Ahmed’s camel bellowed again, and Matthew welcomed the distraction. He could not bear to think he might lose Al Dhiba.

  “There’s a village not far ahead,” he announced curtly. “I’ll ride on and make sure of our welcome at their well.”

  The village was small, nestled between two vineyards and a pomegranate orchard. A tiny stream meandered along its border, merging with the irrigation system that watered the cultivated land. Cecile gazed wonderingly as the caravan wound its way past village and vineyards toward a shady and secluded stand of palms.

  Eight days ago they had still been in the desert, camped beside a less than lush oasis. Four days later, when she had recovered enough to travel, they had set out once more across the timeless, endless sands, and for three days had seen little other than dunes and an occasional struggling bush. Then, yesterday, two hours of journeying had brought them to the edge of Eden.

  Cecile sighed. As long as she lived, she would never forget that first sight of what seemed a paradise … the first glimpse of tall, elegant palms on the horizon … a tiny village … the appearance of a road, dry and dusty
yet still a road … then real, live green trees. And water. Water in wells, troughs, streams. Water turning the land alive and verdant, feeding fields and groves, sustaining fat herds of camels, bleating flocks of sheep. And people.

  It was odd, Cecile mused. Those people had seemed the strangest sight of all upon emerging from the desert. They lived in houses, not tents. They walked, rather than rode. They lived in one place and worked on the land. They had been an amazement.

  Cecile leaned into the cushions that lined her maksar and briefly closed her eyes. Three months. A scant three months on the desert, and it felt as if she had lived there forever. It had become increasingly difficult even to recall what Paris had been like, a city throbbing and teeming with life. Only the desert existed. And now this new land, this garden at the end of the world.

  The camel knelt, and Cecile pulled herself from her reverie. They had reached the shade of the palm grove. She looked up at the towering, whispering trees and smiled.

  Shade. Glorious, marvelous shade. Not the occasional meager shadows that lined the rare oasis, but whole groves of trees: walnut, peach, and pomegranate, as well as palm. They were a luxury she would treasure for the rest of her life.

  “Dhiba? Dhiba, come, I will help you down.”

  Startled, Cecile looked up to see Hagar, arms outstretched. “It’s … it’s all right,” she said. “I can make it myself.” But she couldn’t, and was glad of the old woman’s supporting arms.

  Hagar’s heart contracted as her hand slipped around Cecile’s all too thin and fragile waist. There was nothing to her any more. The child had wasted away alarmingly. “Sit, Dhiba,” she ordered gently. “Rest while I unpack the camel.”

  Cecile did not protest; she lacked the energy. Besides, Jali would come to help the old woman. He spent almost every afternoon and evening with them now. Cecile smiled again and leaned against the camel. It was nice, she thought, so nice. Almost like a family … The smile remained as her eyes closed and her thoughts drifted away into sleep.

  The night was sultry, the wind still. A trailing bit of cloud wisped across the moon, blown on a high wind from the sea. Cecile stepped outside the tent and gazed upward.

  Daily now, as time marched along and they neared the coast, more and more clouds would fill the sky, massing. Then, one day when Canopus appeared in the sky, the heavens would open, and Allah would give His gift. The land would steam, then cool. Winter would come.

  But it was still a long way away, and still more difficult to imagine with her towb clinging to her sticky skin and the smell of dust fresh in her nostrils. Nor did she particularly want to think about the future. It contained too many questions she did not wish to answer. Suddenly tired again, Cecile reentered the tent and lay down.

  Hagar watched her with dismay, her lips compressed to a thin white line. The girl languished; it was not good. Though its progress was slow, her health recovered. But her spirit had not. Hagar sighed.

  From the very beginning, the girl’s emotions and, therefore, most of her actions, had been a mystery to Hagar. She would probably never understand Al Dhiba entirely. But she had begun to comprehend a little. Taking another deep breath, Hagar pondered the recent turn of events of which she had just learned, then said, “Dhiba, don’t go to sleep again. We must talk.”

  Cecile cocked an eyebrow, but otherwise did not move.

  “It is time,” Hagar continued, “past time, that you returned to your husband’s tent.”

  The old woman was gratified to see her charge struggle to a sitting position. When Cecile shook her head, Hagar brushed the motion aside with a wave of her hand. “Protest all you want, it will do no good. It is time you returned to El Faris’s tent, and so you will go.”

  “No, Hagar, I won’t. I can’t. You don’t understand, I … I can’t bear to …”

  “To share him?” the old woman finished, her eyes narrowed shrewdly. Cecile’s anguished expression confirmed her suspicions, and she smiled to herself. So, it was as she had guessed. “It will be hard to share this man,” Hagar continued, “when his only other wife now keeps her own tent.”

  Cecile felt her pulse quicken. “What? What did you say?”

  “You heard what I said. Aza has been given her own tent. There is no dishonor in it.” Hagar returned her attention to the pot of rice. “El Faris treats her with deference and respect, as she deserves. She is a loyal and faithful wife. Despite the fact that it is not she her husband wants at his side, in his tent.”

  Cecile turned away from the old woman’s hard and forthright gaze. Warmth she had not felt in a long time returned to suffuse her breast. The numbness seemed to be fading.

  He had not divorced Aza, and she had pinned such great hope upon it. For she knew she would never again be able to bear the girl’s adoring presence, her position as wife, the constant, ever-present threat that Matthew might one day turn to her. Cecile felt sick with guilt; Aza was so sweet, so kind and generous. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t. She wanted to be the only one. She had to be. She had counted on it. After their time together on the desert, their shared passion, she had been convinced it would be so.

  Yet day after day had passed since their return from the desert ordeal, and Aza remained his wife. Cecile’s body had recovered, slowly, painfully. But her spirit had numbed. Day after day.

  Until now. A tiny spark of life, a flicker of hope.

  She dared not fan it to fire. The strange lethargy overcame her once again, and she slipped away into sleep. But it was a deep, healing sleep. And her dreams were sweet.

  The land became increasingly lush. Vineyards gave way to more and more orchards of varied description, exotic mango, as well as date, peach, and walnut. Streams were more plentiful, grassy banks lined with women who beat their clothes against the rocks while they laughed and gossiped and shyly turned their eyes from the passing caravan. Brightly feathered birds darted, screeched, and warbled, a pleasantly cooling breeze rustling through the palms. The air was heavy with perfume.

  Cecile inhaled deeply. “What is that, Hagar?” she asked sleepily. “What do I smell?”

  The old woman raised her brows. Had the girl actually spoken? “Frankincense trees,” she answered. “They grow wild in the gravel beds. Their resin is what you smell. Are you comfortable?”

  Cecile smiled and nodded, barely moving her head against the supporting cushion. It was crowded and a bit too warm with Hagar in the maksar, but she was glad of the old woman’s presence, glad of her company as more and more of her strange lethargy seeped away and her waking hours increased.

  They camped that night in a small grove of tamarisk trees. Cecile had roused from her torpor as they passed among the gnarled trunks and groping, twisting branches. The twining solid canopy over their head, and the still, fragrant air had entranced her.

  Now, as evening approached, Cecile found the mood deepening. The forest was eerily beautiful. There was even a small stream winding through the dusty gloom, and the very sound of it seemed to refresh her. The nearly constant drowsiness had abated surprisingly, and as darkness fell, she felt more awake and alive than she had since her illness.

  “Where are you going?” Hagar asked with sharp concern.

  Cecile paused at the tent flap. “Nowhere. I’m just looking.” She smiled at Hagar, who went back to her dinner preparations.

  Their tent lay at the edge of the camp. Cecile was glad she could see nothing but the trees, the grotesquely lovely shadows, and the sparkle of the stream. A few of the women who had gone to bathe now returned. She heard their voices off in the distance. Still unsure of herself, Cecile started slowly toward the water.

  It was cool, cooler than she had expected. She let her fingers trail for a moment and thought about a bath. How long had it been since she had had a proper bath? Weeks?

  She no longer remembered. She could not even recall when she had last cared.

  But something had stirred to life within her. She could actually imagine herself back in his arms aga
in, lying at his side through the long hours of the night. She could not have done it with Aza on the other side of a mere blanket partition. But Aza was gone now, if not forgotten. It was a beginning, another new beginning. In time, perhaps …

  Cecile shook her head and gave her attention back to the water. She could almost feel its cool silkiness against her flesh, feel the tingling in her limbs. Yes, a bath was just what she wanted.

  Hagar looked up in surprise. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to find a clean towb.”

  “Here it is.” Hagar reached into her box. “I washed and mended it for you.”

  Cecile hesitated, hand in midair. It was the dress she had worn in the desert.

  Her mind closed quickly, sealing off the memory. “Thank you, Hagar. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “Where are you going?” Hagar demanded, but Cecile left without replying.

  The stream was not deep, but it was cool. Cecile stretched out, full length, gasping as the water rushed over her body. Her arms and legs tingled. Her heart beat faster, and the blood pumped strongly through her veins. She felt as if she had awakened from a long, deep sleep. The life force within her stirred, and along with it, a rising turmoil of emotion.

  Cecile leaned back and listened for a moment to the rushing of the water and the wind sighing softly through the twisted, spreading trees. When the thudding in her veins had quieted, she ducked her head into the stream, rinsed her hair, and finished her bath. Then she crawled to the bank and dressed.

  Matthew strode as quickly as he dared through the deepening shadows of the tamarisks. Knowing how easily Dhiba startled, he did not want to frighten her. Yet he was impatient to find her.

  “Give her a little while,” Hagar had said. “She has gone to bathe.” So he had waited as long as he was able, wondering if the old woman was indeed correct. “There was a light in her eyes. I think her spirit may be returning. Go now, go to her, Faris.”