by Holly Rayner
I looked around, feeling horribly exposed now that I couldn’t move. The track where the van had driven was clearly visible from where I was. I started to shiver and clutched the blanket tighter around myself.
He looked down at me. “We can’t stop. It’s too dangerous. Let me carry you.”
I shook my head. “No, no, I—I’ll only slow you down. It’s not good for both of us to risk getting caught. I’ll hide and you go. You can go for help—”
He turned such a fierce gaze on me that I went quiet from shock.
“I would not leave you behind if they were driving up on us right now. Do not ask me again.”
I swallowed and nodded, shocked by his determination.
He scooped me up and wrapped me in the blanket. “Hang on,” he instructed.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and he started running again.
He ran, and ran, and ran, the rhythm of his body against mine unwavering, his breathing a little harsh but steady and slow enough that I wondered if he ran marathons in his spare time. He held me firmly, doing his best not to jostle me, as his chest bumped against my side and his breath blew clouds of steam he then ran through.
The icy night ran its claws across my bare skin, but his laboring body was like a furnace, driving the worst of the cold away. Vincenzo’s breath shuddered with effort, but he never once slowed or stopped.
As we went on, he started veering away from the road, following the setting moon. “We need to get out of view of the road,” he panted as he went. “The sun will be up in not too many hours.”
“I understand,” I said, biting back my worries about losing the path entirely and getting lost in the desert. I wanted to trust him. I needed to trust him. And he had certainly earned it.
It didn’t take long before he turned south again and started running what I hoped was parallel to the road. I hung on, my leg hurting less and less as it recovered from the strain of fleeing.
The whole time, I wondered what had happened back at that ramshackle building where we had been briefly held captive. Had our escape been discovered? Had Iyad succeeded in knocking Atif unconscious and then framing him as being responsible for our escape? I hoped so. Iyad had been a badly needed reasonable person in the middle of absolute madness.
I wanted to ask Vincenzo, but he was busy using his breath for running. The soft thump of his feet against the sand and stones kept a rhythm I would have had trouble keeping up with even if I had been able-bodied.
I didn’t know how far he ran exactly. He had to stop now and again to catch his breath and set me down, but then would quickly scoop me up again and run on with me. The whole time, as he hurried on, I kept looking back, fearing the sight of headlights on the now far-off road. If they caught sight of us in the moonlight, we would soon end up pursued. They might end up bogged down in the sand, but that might just mean they would shoot at us.
We had to have been going for a few hours before we saw the dark hulks of buildings in the distance. Not a single light burned: as we got closer, I saw that it was an abandoned village. It wasn’t very large, perhaps two dozen cottages and a larger structure that might have been a mosque before a rocket had sheared off its top. Everything but the mosque seemed to be in good repair. My guess was, the place had been abandoned thanks to the civil war.
Suddenly I heard Vincenzo curse and felt the wind shift. He sped up, shocking me as he raced toward the nearest cottage.
“What is it?” I asked—and looked behind us, half expecting to see headlights racing our direction across the sand.
Instead, I saw nothing. And that nothingness was terrifying.
Nothing where the stars to the east should be, nothing but a rising wall of blackness that rose faster as the wind intensified. For a few moments, staring at that nightmarish sight, I didn’t know what I was looking at. It was like a blanket of blackness stretching out to swallow the land. Then the wind started to whistle and moan, and bits of sand started to strike my exposed skin, and I knew.
Sandstorm.
He ran as hard as he could while carrying me, as darkness spread across the land behind us. I looked back and saw the wall of sand starting to swallow the moon. It would overtake us soon.
I closed my eyes and prayed.
He dashed into the village limits as the wind started to tear at my hair and blanket. I squinted against the intensifying barrage of sand. Then he turned quickly and dashed through the nearest open doorway into quiet, cool darkness.
He set me down on a mat in the far corner and then ran back to slam the door shut, shutter the windows, and prop a table up to block the one that had no shutters. Seconds later, the storm hit the village hard enough to make the entire building shake.
I yelped in shock, but the door and shutters held. Sand trickled around the edges of the table and the ragged curtains blew, but we were sheltered well enough from the storm. Finished with battening things down, Vincenzo came and crouched down beside me.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Thanks to you, I got here in one piece,” I said breathlessly. If I had stayed out there, exposed in the desert, waiting for him to come back with help, the sandstorm would likely have killed me.
“We are safe here,” he told me. “The insurgents have no choice but to hole up in the building they took over if they’re still there, or in the van if they already left. They won’t be able to travel even half a mile in this.”
I hoped that he was right. The van had been enormous, but also tall—a bad thing in a high wind.
Vincenzo had found a candle on the table, and after some rummaging, retrieved a pack of matches. He lit the candle and started poking around the small cottage, which consisted of only two rooms: one for living and cooking, and the other for sleeping. He got the fire going, forcing the cold to retreat, and then started digging through the cupboards and storage jars.
I sat and watched him as the small space grew warmer and brighter.
“I’ve found some rice!” he announced happily after a minute, peering into one of the jars. “They also have enough spices to season a feast.”
He took a small cooking pot off the table, dippered up some water from a water jar, and started putting together seasoned rice for us. “Since we’re stuck here for a while, we may as well have a proper meal.”
He unwrapped the cloth with the last of the bread and cheese and crumbled the cheese to top the rice. I watched him cook, rubbing my aching leg around the wound.
“How long do you think this will last?” I had not been here during the summer before now, meaning I had never been in the Middle East during sandstorm season. The eerie moaning and howling outside, the puffs of dust and sand leaking in, and the way that gusts sometimes made the cottage roof shake all conspired to drive up my anxiety.
“Normally, a few hours. Sometimes days.” He had the pot boiling on the fire now, and added the rice, then pinches of spices from different small jars. Slowly the simple smell of rice cooking was replaced by something far more savory. “I doubt, however, that it will be the latter. You usually have to go further east to face the truly long and dangerous ones.”
“I see.”
I licked my lips as I gazed at him bent over the fire. He was humming again, that same little tune, and patiently stirring as he added a pinch of salt and more spices, then bits of the cheese.
“Have you been caught in one before?”
He chuckled. “Oh yes. Egypt in 2015, we had one that lasted for five days. I was there helping to set up a clinic, and it stopped all our operations dead for over a week afterward. Just to go to the village well, we had to tie a rope to the door and the other to the well itself just so that we could find it.”
The rice smelled so good that my mouth was watering and my stomach gnawing well before it was actually done. Finally, Vincenzo put a few generous scoops into a clay bowl and brought it to me with a spoon.
“Here you are, dear lady. Get your strength back. I don’t know when we�
�re going to need to move again.”
The first bite scalded my tongue a little bit and still managed to shock me with its rich, complex flavor. I made a small sound of approval as I took another, barely bothering with blowing on it to cool it.
“This is even better than the lentil stew,” I said, impressed. “Were you a chef in your last life?”
His lips curved in a faint smirk. “I’ll have you know that I am a man of many talents.”
I lifted an eyebrow as I munched on another bite. “So, what other gifts do you have up your sleeve?”
Vincenzo looked at me for a few moments, then set his bowl aside on the table to cool. He glanced over the table for a moment, and then picked up a long instrument off the table. After a moment I recognized it as a chalil, a simple wooden flute that the locals often played. He put it to his lips, holding it like a recorder, and began a gentle, soothing tune that almost sounded like a lullaby.
I finished my rice, wiped out my bowl, and then sat on the small mat listening. It was so gentle, almost tender and wistful, and it completely distracted me from our circumstances.
By the time he was done, I was nodding off inside my blanket, calmed enough that my exhaustion had truly caught up with me. He scooped me up and brought me into the sleeping room, where low couches waited. He lay me down, humming the same tune he had been playing, and laid my blanket over me.
“Thank you for the music—” My thanks was cut off as I yawned uncontrollably.
He reached over and touched my cheek tenderly. “Think nothing of it, I enjoyed playing. Get some sleep. We may have to move on soon.”
Chapter 19
Rose
“Rose. Wake up, sweetheart, we need to get ready to go.”
I blinked and squinted, forgetting my dreams as soon as I opened my eyes. For the third day in a row, I had woken up in a strange place.
The storm must have passed, for I could see faint, dawn-blue sunlight beyond the battered shutters. I looked around, getting my bearings—and then saw Vincenzo standing in the curtained doorway. He looked tired, but relieved.
That’s Crown Prince Vincenzo, I realized again in a rush as the last day came back to me. The kidnapping. The threats. The revelation. The unexpected help. The escape. The sandstorm…which was now, finally over. We had survived it.
“The sand is settling and the wind is almost gone. We should move on soon. I have prepared some breakfast and packed things up. How is your leg?” He gazed down at me gently, face half in shadow.
I checked it, my fingers probing the muscle around the wound and then gingerly checking the wound itself. The pain had lessened again, and though I had some bruises and muscle soreness from our crazy day and night, I suspected I could actually walk on the leg again without much problem. I flexed it experimentally; my joints popped.
“I think I’ll be okay.”
“Good. I’ll help you as you need, but we need to get away from here. I guarantee that the abandoned villages around here will be the first place they’ll look after a storm like that.” He came over to help me up.
I took his hand and he lifted me almost effortlessly to my feet. My stomach fluttered; I got my weight under me properly and took a few experimental steps. So far, so good.
“Any plans for which direction?”
“Just keep going parallel to the road for now. By my calculations, it’s another three to four days walking, but fortunately, this area is dotted with villages and outposts. Unfortunately, that also increases the chances we’ll be seen by allies of the insurgents. But I’ll take it.”
I nodded agreement, trying to ignore my nervousness at the prospect of another five days in the desert. I would have killed for a car right at that moment—or even a horse.
“Okay.”
After a light breakfast, Vincenzo laid some coins on the table and left the homeowners a note explaining what had happened. Hopefully, someone would be back here to pick it up eventually. I hated the idea of an entire village being driven from their homes because of men like the ones who had captured us. But at least, when Vincenzo packed up the rice, one of the cooking pots, some of the spices, some water and matches, he left something for them.
Then again…knowing him now as I did, I wouldn’t have expected anything less.
I was a realist. I knew that the trauma we had experienced in the last couple of days could certainly account for the bond I now felt between us. But the warmth and trust I felt toward Vincenzo now weren’t just because I had been terrified around him so much in such a short period. He had earned it—time and time again. Like he was earning it now.
I wondered what would happen when we finally got back. Would things go back to the way they had been? No. The insurgents knew his identity now, which meant…it meant he would have to leave. If not because of them, because the insurgents’ demands would alert his family to where he had gone. My heart sank as this realization hit.
“Okay,” I said quietly after checking myself over, re-braiding my hair and putting my shoes on. “I’m ready.”
And off we went, hand in hand, out into the growing daylight.
By day, the village looked even sadder: I could see the shattered dome of the old, bombed mosque lying in its front yard. The empty homes and dusty street revealed that it had all been abandoned in a hurry: toys and bikes lying in the street, doors open, windows unshuttered. Many of the windows were unglazed or had been shattered, possibly even by last night’s storm.
I shook my head at the sight but turned to follow Vincenzo as he walked through town and headed off north.
As we walked, the stiffness left my leg, and except for a slight pulling pain in my thigh, I felt nothing. My leg worked again.
“Hey, I think I can actually walk by myself today,” I said. “That was fast.”
Vincenzo smiled brightly at the news—but then his smile and tone became teasing. “So, was it my medical skills or my cooking skills that did the trick?”
I could have bristled; he knew that his big ego annoyed me a little. It was less these days, though, and I wasn’t above teasing him back. I grinned. “No, no, it was definitely the flute music.”
He burst out laughing and patted my shoulder. “Your sense of humor’s back, I see. Well, let me know if you start getting sore. Won’t do us any good to have you end up aggravating your leg just so we can gain another half-mile.”
“No, it won’t. I’ll make sure to tell you when I start hurting.” I was just happy to be able to walk around again without having to depend on anyone else.
On we went, walking with the rising sun to our right, as the brightness and heat intensified and the last of the wind died. My leg did not start aching. My wound did not hurt beyond the little twinges that happened when I lifted my leg to take another step.
We talked now and again. Vincenzo had endless tales of his adventures around the world. I had endless tales of the kind of crazy things that happened in the Miami General ER.
Vincenzo glanced back at me. “Leg still solid?”
“No sorer than the other one.” The problem was, we had only been on the road for an hour or two and they were already feeling sore, and my body, heavy.
It was the sun’s fault. With the storm past and the day creeping toward noon, the rising sun grew hotter and hotter. The heat pressed down on me like a smothering blanket. I had sweated out enough salt and minerals that my muscles hurt, and sometimes cramped for a few minutes. My dehydration headache pounded fiercely. And it was only getting worse.
“We should have stayed back at the village until nightfall,” I groaned, wiping sweat out of my eyes.
“Tempting, but we would have been sitting ducks when the insurgents came to check. And they would check. That commander might have four idiots and one undercover cop as his men, but he’s not an idiot himself or he never would have found me. He’ll think to look.”
I sighed through my nose and nodded. “I know. But still…I’m roasting in my own juices here.”
; “Me too. But better that than bullet holes.” He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and unbuttoned his shirt.
I stopped complaining and kept walking, struggling at times to keep up with Vincenzo’s pace. We didn’t talk anymore in the oppressive heat. It started to feel like just too much of an effort. Instead, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again, reminding myself that each one got me a little bit closer back to civilization.
Suddenly, Vincenzo stopped dead and shaded his eyes. I nearly ran into him before I noticed and stepped back. “What is it?”
“I’m not certain. Something ahead and to the west is gleaming.” He strained the limits of his vision, squinting hard—and his eyes widened.
“I think I may have found us a solution,” he said simply, smiling the whole time.
It took a few more minutes of plodding before I saw it for myself: the dark outlines of nearly bare trees, and something just as amazing: the gleam of what looked distinctly like water.
“Is that a mirage?” I asked, barely daring to be hopeful.
“Only one way to find out.” He took my hand again and we picked up the pace despite the strain, headed for a strange sight in the distance.
It took long minutes before we could be sure, in this rippling heat, that the blue water and trees weren’t just a reflection of the sky. My heart picked up, and from somewhere, my dry mouth started to water.
“It looks real.”
“Yes it does,” Vincenzo said and looked at me. “Can you run?”
I grinned. “Beat you there.”
I did, probably because I had been resting most of last night while he carried me, and was simply that desperate to quench my thirst and rinse off. Or maybe he let me win. I didn’t much care at the moment.
I ran with my head pounding and my leg twinging, my muscles burning, too dried out to sweat. I was light-headed and panting by the time that I passed the first scraggly, half-dormant mastic tree. I could hear Vincenzo pounding along behind me, laughing in surprise.