Caravan

by Dorothy Gilman

  So that was how it had been, I thought, and feeling curiously humbled by his words I ceased to be maidenly and admitted the truth to myself. Turning to him I said softly, "You told me you know damn well that we belong together, so you must know damn well that I've no interest in leaving you. Ever."

  "Such language," was all he said; he was looking straight ahead, watching the camels graze, but I saw a corner of his mouth turn up in a pleased smile.

  Gonoa, Bardai .., in Bardai' there were palm trees and I remember we were offered a hut made of reeds for the night, but, "I'll miss the stars," I told Jared and he understood. That was when he said, "The Tuareg have a poem—I forget all but one line that says, 'I sleep where night overtakes me .., my house will not crumble." "

  The words pleased me and I repeated them to myself: "/ sleep where night overtakes me.... You like poetry too, then."

  He nodded. "There's another that might interest you, written by an Arab seven hundred years ago, and with an approach to Islam rather different from the Senussi sect.

  The poet's one of Islam's finest, an Egyptian named Omar ibn-al-Farid; unfortunately I remember only a few verses, but,

  " 'If a pious man prostrates himself before the stone in a

  heathen temple. Then—for him who understands—there is little cause for

  fanaticism.

  For perhaps he apprehends in verity the Almighty Allah Behind the stone he worships.

  From Allah the warnings have reached those for whom they were destined,

  And by the grace of Allah mercy is granted in all religions.'*

  *Nicholson's translation.

  "In all religions," he repeated.

  "It doesn't rhyme but I like it," I said. "Was Omar Khayyam an Arab?"

  "He was Persian and a Sufi, as ibn-al-Farid was, and Sufism is the glory of Islam. Why?"

  "Because I know a little of his poetry, especially about not letting slip a perfect hour which I despaired of ever knowing until I met you. I thank you for that, Jared."

  "You're welcome, Caressa Bowman." His lips were caked with dust but he managed a smile. "I know those words—a little melancholy for my taste but on the other hand—" He leaned over and kissed me and his lips were rough as sandpaper but his hands were gentle; there are other languages than words.

  After Bardai it blurred. Sand and rock, rock and sand, frigid nights and scorching days. 1 learned to shoot and one day shot a gazelle, which broke my heart to do, but we needed meat, and after this Jared gave me the rifle as mine, and I wore it slung across my back like a man. We traveled at night to avoid the heat and spare the camels and slowly I learned more of the stars because Jared could name them: Orion, and the Pleiades, Sinus and the Pole Star the Arabs knew by the name of al-Jadi. 1 remember the kindness of the nomads at Yebbi Souma, but their well had gone dry and we struggled on to Yebbi Bou, where the water was full of sand and foul-tasting. Here Jared bargained for two extra guerbas to carry more of the sour water because ahead of us, we were told, lay seven days of travel across a waterless hammada.

  At each oasis he had gathered information about the route east, it being unfamiliar to him, and from this we learned that if we set our course by the stars and headed east-northeast, there would be a well at Bir Sara. On this crossing we would lose one of the camels, the beautiful cream-colored one; we would drain its stomach of liquid for drink, and eat what meat of it we could swallow, and when we reached the little sun-scorched oasis of Bir Sara at the end of seven days and nights there were five more days of travel beyond it to reach the oasis of 'Uwainat. There was no longer need of a compass, though, for now we could see the Jebel 'Uwainat etched on the horizon, towering thousands of feet above the oasis.

  During the terrible heat of the day with only the hides of the tent above us to give scant shade, I would often entertain Jared with tales of Sharkey Bill, of the Sword Swallower or of Grams, and he would tell of adventures in the bush even though we had to spit out dust to talk and our voices were hoarse with it.

  "A pickpocket?" he said in astonishment. "You?"

  "Yes," I told him.

  He looked skeptical. "Ever get caught?"

  "Once," I told him.

  "What happened?"

  "He married me."

  His roar of laughter sent dust flying and ended in a spasm of coughing, but in such manner did we make war against heat, dust, fleas and thirst.

  When at last we stumbled into 'Uwainat we had traveled over 600 miles, forcing ourselves to push ahead 30 miles every night. I guessed myself to be as gaunt as the camels that we'd seen grow thinner each day, and my skin was as dry as leather. We had felt the savagery of a dust storm, endured mirages of trees and lakes, had lost water from a leaking guerba and seldom slept, we were hungry and flea-bitten, but we'd survived.

  And not far to the north lay the border of Egypt, the Western Desert, "and then Assuan and the blessed Nile," said Jared, "but we'll spend our silver dollars in 'Uwainat now and hire a guide, for we've taxed the gods enough."

  17

  We had no choice but to enter 'Uwainat, but we did so with some anxiety because we no longer knew what country we were in; frontiers were only vaguely defined in the desert, nomads knew no boundaries at all and maps could be treacherous. Soon after leaving Yebbi Bou Jared had begun to suspect, after checking both compass and stars, that we might be traveling through a remote corner of Tripolita-nia's desert and this was confirmed when we halted at Bir Sara for water: we were indeed in Tripolitania. Worse, we learned that a trail out of that oasis led directly north to Kufra, the stronghold of the Senussi, and was only five days by camel from Bir Sara. It seemed that our shortcut to Egypt had been drawing us like moths toward the very flame we'd set out to avoid.

  "Damn," said Jared. "I expected 'Uwainat to be in the Sudan—and perhaps it is—but we'd better not ask, just get out of it as fast as possible."

  Whatever the allegiance of the Muslims in 'Uwainat we had underestimated the hospitality of the desert. If the village chief was a Senussi looking for infidels under every stone he gave no indication of it. Hearing that a caravan of two people and three camels had emerged from the empty plains to the west he presented himself at once, saw to it that we had food and water and promised Jared advice about a guide. We set up our tent at a distance from the other caravans and I remained hidden in the tent and heavily veiled, which proved no hardship for me since I was content to rest, cook our food, sleep and wait. It was assumed that Jared would rouse no suspicions; he was bearded now, dark as a gypsy, and he spoke the colloquial Arabic of Alexandria so that it was quite in character that he inquire about a guide to the Nile, although considering what happened later, who knows? On the following day he succeeded in trading our three exhausted camels for three fresh ones and bought a fourth with Maria Theresa dialers, and on our second evening a guide was produced for us.

  His name was Onkeir and he was a cheerful wizened little man with a white beard and a seamed face like old polished dark leather.

  "Naam, Sidi," he said after the formal greetings had been completed, and he proceeded to tell Jared for how many years he had guided caravans up through Darfur to the Nile and into northern Egypt. He knew a little Italian, he said, a little English and a little Turkish. It was true that he limped from an old camel bite, but if he was old he welcomed the opportunity to be useful again, for his wife had died recently, two of his sons had taken his place as caravan guides and his eldest sold carpets in the Asyut suks while his daughter lived in the oasis of El Hagar, near Bans.

  1 brought him tea heavily laced with sugar and retired again to the shadows while he and Jared bargained amiably over his price until both were satisfied. He was a good man. Once engaged as our guide he insisted on checking every item Jared had accumulated for the next weeks, and "O Prophet! O Apostle!" he exclaimed, pointing out a frayed strap in need of mending. He added another guerba and after sampling one of the dates Jared had bought in a sack he made a face. "O Prophet! O Apostle! and off he went to
the suks to bargain for sweet yellow dates from the Tibesti that he called "Egnechi," and a few red and sugary "Memo" dates.

  Three nights later we left the oasis, not entirely rested but still uneasy lest some careless word or gesture betray us for what we were and not too certain of the outcome should this happen. We set out with Onkeir in the lead and we couldn't help but smile at his jauntiness and obvious pleasure at being on the move. The moon sailed high above us in the west, crisp as a slice of melon; it shadowed the spiked bushes and the air was sweet. Toward dawn I unveiled my face and Onkeir smiled at me and told Jared that I had the eyes of a Gazelle.

  "Yes," Jared said in English, deliberately.

  "Malesh!" exclaimed Onkeir, scrutinizing him closely, but he said nothing more except that after this he would occasionally, without comment, inject a word or two of English in his talk.

  He was a good khabbir, guiding us always east by the stars—I would check this on my compass—toward the well at Bir Misaha, after which he said there was a good well at Bir Dibis and another at El Shab, and the Sidi wished to go to Assaun on the Nile? A matter of fifteen or sixteen days, he said, full of dust and heat but with only a few days' travel between the wells—Inch'Allah, of course.

  But it was now, ironically, after all that we'd gone through, that we met with trouble.

  We had been traveling at a relaxed pace and resting when it pleased us. On this fourth night in the desert Jared and Onkeir were in the lead, walking, while I followed mounted on one of the camels. The stars were like crystals scattered across the sky and the only sounds were the creak of straw in the saddle on which I sat, and the soft swish of our camels' ridiculously large and padding feet. We had not been long on the trail, having stopped for Onkeir to say his evening prayers, and the well of Bir Misaha lay not many hours ahead of us. The only flaw to the perfection of the moment was that Onkeir had begun to glance frequently over his shoulder at what lay behind us. His uneasiness was becoming palpable.

  Jared had noticed, too. "What is it?" he asked at last.

  "Sidi," Onkeir said, "the skin of my back grows cold, and this night is not cold."

  "What is the skin of your back telling you, Onkeir?"

  "It says kliatar—danger—behind us."

  Jared brought his camel to a halt with a softly spoken "Khr.... Who's tracking us, Onkeir, men or jackals?"

  Onkeir only shook his head, studying the moonlit terrain ahead of us. He pointed: at some distance away there rose a scallop of low dunes and stones, the only hope of shelter to be seen, but shelter against what I didn't know, not yet. I dug my feet into the camel I was riding and with Onkeir and Jared leading the others we pushed our way quickly toward this pathetically small rise in the plateau. Hastily we couched the camels and unloaded them, piling saddles and packs on the dune to make a wall, and after hobbling the animals Jared loaded both our rifles and handed mine back to me.

  Onkeir saw them first, his old eyes sharper than ours: four small dark figures in the distance. "Horses!" he whispered. "Bismallah, they ride horses!"

  1 had not seen horses for a long time, and as the distance narrowed 1 could that each horse carried a man; they traveled with no baggage, which was strange.

  "Min da, Onkeir—friend or foe?" asked Jared. "What do you think?"

  "I say they track us, Sidi. See how they stop now to study signs. Soon they will see where we left the trail.... Sidi, I think them bandits."

  "Bismallah," Jared said fervently.

  "Yahudi," murmured Onkeir; he spat into the sand and then drew out a long khanjar, well-sharpened and gleaming in the moonlight.

  Now the four men had noted our departure from the trail, I could see this, for they turned and began riding toward us. All four of them wore black, even their headscarfs were black, drawn across their faces to mask them, and I could see the rifles they cradled in their laps.

  "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse," muttered Jared, and lifted his rifle.

  Some yards away from the dune the men halted to face us, drawing tightly on their reins to discipline the skittish horses. We crouched low but they knew we were here; our camel prints were written in the sand. Once formed in a line, side by side, they whipped their animals and with loud cries rushed us, firing their rifles into the sky to frighten both us and our camels. It was now that I lifted my rifle and learned what it was like to fire at another human being; I took aim and pulled the trigger as they leaped over the dunes so near to our heads that I felt the heat of their horses. Something wet dropped on my arm, black in the moonlight. That's blood, I thought, one of them's been hit. As the fourth horse passed over us I saw Onkeir stand up, lift an arm and slash at its belly with his dagger but the horse only staggered and went on.

  Once behind us the men reined in their animals turned to charge us again, no longer playful or teasing but grim. Rolling over with my back to the dune I took aim and fired and one of the men fell motionless on the earth. Now Jared was firing and one of the bandits clapped a hand to his arm but he remained on his horse and what happened next became a blur, for their leader rode furiously toward us and leaped from his horse to hurl himself at Jared, holding a dagger that shone silver in the moonlight.

  "Jared!" I screamed, but the two other bandits were riding toward us now. Whispering a prayer that my aim be true I shot them both dead. One more bullet was fired, and so near to me that I dreaded turning my head lest I see Jared dead; I looked and saw that it was Onkeir who had saved us: he had seized Jared's rifle and shot the bandit overpowering him, and may Allah bless him for this forever.

  Jared was not dead, no, but the man's dagger had done vile work before Onkeir killed him.

  The last bandit, wounded, was galloping away to the west. I crept to Jared, who gave me a small tight smile and closed his eyes, biting his lips in pain.

  If Allah had sent this to humble and test us he had also, out of his infinite compassion, sent us Onkeir who was already tearing strips of cotton from his gandoura to staunch the bleeding in Jared's shoulder, chest and arm. I raced for the medicine kit, aware as I groped for it that one of the camels had been shot and was dying. I drew out the bottle of brandy and shouted to Onkeir, "Wait!" Taking care to save enough for Jared later I poured copious amounts over each wound that I could see, and then nodded to Onkeir, who applied bandages. As he worked at this he muttered words over and over that I couldn't understand until, leaning closer, I realized he was praying for Jared in the name of Allah, the All Merciful, the All Compassionate. Oh he was a good man, Onkeir. When he had finished binding Jared's wounds he went off to the camels, leaving me to give what comfort I could, although I doubt that Jared was even aware of me. Outside I could see Onkeir slitting the throat of the dying camel so that, as a good Muslim, the meat might be eaten. When he returned he was carrying tent poles and skins and without a word he set up a tent over Jared to shade him when morning came.

  I asked haltingly, "Will Sidi .., tuwafiyya—be called to God?"

  This, he said gravely, was in the hands of Allah but I must not despair.

  I nodded. "There will be"—I touched my forehead, groping for words—"harara .., temperature? Fever?"

  "Noam, " he said, but soon he would build a fire and cauterize the wounds.

  I flinched at such a thought. Sitting beside Jared I sponged his hot face with precious water while Onkeir buried the three dead bandits in the sand and then built a fire. The cauterizing of the wounds with a red-hot iron was terrible to see... . Jared screamed, and the smell of burnt flesh was sickening. Dawn came and while the moon still hung pale in the western sky, the sun rose in the east, huge and round like an orange globe, but with this sunrise Jared's temperature mounted and I knew no human being could endure such fever for long and that I was going to lose him.

  Onkeir saw this, too. We talked in our mixture of Arabic, English and Hausa; I thanked him for not deserting us and for all that he had done, but he shook his head at this. It was Allah's will that he remained, he said; he and the Sidi ha
d made contract together, it was a matter of responsibility.

  "But," he added gravely, "the Sidi is dying."

  I said fiercely, "He mustn't."

  "Rahmut Ullahi Allaheim—the peace of God be upon him," he said sadly.

  I crept closer to Jared as if to shield him bodily from the death that had entered the tent to wait for him, and it was now, looking into his face to memorize it, that I noticed a line of blood, thin as a thread, running from his cheekbone to his jaw. Of all his wounds it was this that held my attention and I was puzzled, wondering why this was so, until I realized that it was very like the thread of a line I'd seen on a clay bowl placed in front of me at a sacred spirit shrine, and I wondered.... Did I dare? It was crazy to think of Shakespeare now but, "Our doubts are traitors," I remembered, "and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt ..."

  I asked Onkeir to leave, saying that I wanted these last moments alone with Jared. He understood, and once he'd left I lowered the flaps of the tent for privacy. Amina had said that when neither incantations nor medicines were enough her people turned to the god they called the Giver of Breath and Life and they prayed.

  I prayed now, silently.

  Kneeling beside Jared I heard the flutter of a sigh from him—he was still alive at least—and I sat down next him with my legs crossed under me. After moments of quieting I thought. Heal, Jared .., heal ... HEAL! But then I realized this was all wrong because I'd used words, and iko had nothing to do with words, I had been impatient; I stopped words and struggled for an endless interval to put aside my doubts and my fears for Jared's life. "Be still," I told my turbulent mind, "let go, let go." Time passed—a long time—before a stillness came to me and Time stopped. My arms began to feel heavy and charged. Slowly, without my willing it, they insisted upon rising out of my lap to begin a curious circling movement: upward to describe an arc and then down and around and up again, all in this strange circular motion as if completely detached from my body. Though I knew no thought there was a sense of recognition—this was ¡ko passing through me—and then slowly, gently, my arms ceased their motion and returned my hands to my lap. It was ended; I drew a deep breath but there was no tiredness: it had happened again—and for the last time, I knew this—and . . , what will be, will be, I thought.