by Amanda Vink
Before Marjorie knew it, the small party took off, leaving her to brood over her questions and worry as they moved through the sand. But she soon discovered that among this scouting party was another Westerner, a middle-aged man who was dressed for the desert. He was heavy-set with thick muttonchops and rosy red cheeks, suggesting that maybe he was a bit too fond of drink. He rode his own horse independently, and he pulled up next to her. He said hello in English with a British accent.
Marjorie glanced at the man on the saddle behind her and the other armed members close by. No one seemed to care if they spoke or not. Their eyes were far away, steadily scanning the high points of the dunes.
The British man continued, saying, “The name is Allen. Matthew Allen.”
Marjorie introduced herself. “Do you have any idea who these people are? Where they’re taking us?”
“Oh, yes,” said Allen. “These are the men of Ibn Amid, and they’re taking us to his encampment.”
He looked at her, as though waiting for some reaction. Upon seeing no recognition on Marjorie’s face, his eyebrows raised. He prepared to tell a story.
“Ibn Amid is one of the tribal kings,” he explained, talking quickly. “In this land, his word is binding.”
“Are you ... a guest?” asked Marjorie.
“Yes.” His face contorted into a cheeky smirk. “And no. But don’t worry, they don’t usually kill captives unless they’ve done something wrong. Made some kind of offense. In fact, the Bedouin tribes are known for their hospitality.”
“What kind of offense?” Her stomach dropped. She had no idea what the customs of the desert were. Suppose she were to offend these people and not even know it?
Allen shrugged.
“That’s comforting,” Marjorie said.
Allen’s face fell, as though he doubted his reassurance. “To be honest, I’m not sure how kindly he looks to Westerners. Apparently his daughter fell in love with an explorer. Ibn Amid did not approve of the match, and so they ran away together. Ibn Amid and the entire war caravan set off after the couple. Anyone who harbored them was an enemy. He left a blood bath, or so they say in Baghdad.”
Marjorie shivered. Great, maybe we’ll survive. Her stomach twisted into a knot of trepidation.
Allen shook himself. When he spoke again, his voice told Marjorie he didn’t feel the danger. “What’s your story, then?”
Marjorie explained she was following her friends. She didn’t want to go into too much detail. If this Ibn Amid somehow worked for Richard, it was probably better if he didn’t know a lot about her.
“Your friends, eh? Anyone who passed this way would’ve run straight into Ibn Amid. It’s likely they’re already at his encampment,” Allen said.
Should I dare to hope? Marjorie wondered. For if they were there, so too would be Richard. She didn’t want to think about that. It was better to face things as they came to her. At least, she considered, Richard would believe her dead. That maybe gave her some sort of advantage.
“And you?” she asked, turning back to the man. “What are you doing out here?”
Allen smiled. “Learning all I can about the Bedouin,” he said. “These tribes have their own rhythms, their own customs and ways of life. Someday, knowing the lay of the land is going to become important.”
After some time, many tents appeared on the horizon. Slowly, Marjorie and the rest of the party moved closer and closer. When they eventually filed in, Marjorie could see that this encampment was built around a small oasis. It was hard to see from far away, but up closer she noticed a well and a few small palm trees hiding behind the largest tent. This tent looked almost like a permanent structure, but Allen explained that in a very short time this tribe of people could be up and moving, and no one would’ve known that they had ever stopped here.
The armed men tightened around Marjorie and Allen. “What happened with the daughter?” Marjorie asked when she was able.
“They were killed in the desert by a rival tribe. When Ibn Amid discovered it, he killed everyone. He stained the desert red. A war is still raging because of this.”
Marjorie gulped. How likely was it that this Ibn Amid would let her live?
Among the tribe were both men and women. It seemed they had settled for the moment. Marjorie could smell food cooking. She looked around and saw a lamb roasting on a spit, fat dripping into the fire. Her stomach rumbled, and all of a sudden she was struck by a wicked hunger. When’s the last time I ate? she wondered.
One of the armed men handed Marjorie her rucksack, and she tore it open. She was relieved to see her camera, unharmed. But Uncle Charlie’s gun wasn’t there. Where could it be?
Knowing she would face Ibn Amid soon, Marjorie knew she had to invent a story about how she ended up traveling in the desert alone. She could say she was on her way to the holy land, and that her party had been killed. In her state, that might work. It might be enough.
Together, Allen and Marjorie were escorted into a large tent. Here, it seemed slightly cooler than out in the hot sun, and for that Marjorie was grateful. In the tent’s center, a handful of men sat on the floor, gathered around one man. They all wore long clothes of simple but well-made cloth, but the man—Ibn Amid, Marjorie assumed—wore slightly finer robes. Deep, deep lines creased his tan face. His beard was trimmed nicely. When he moved, he had a slow grace that Marjorie admired. His eyes seemed to absorb all light as they studied his surroundings. He offered the two travelers a guarded, thin-lipped smile. Then he said something in Arabic that Marjorie couldn’t understand.
First, Allen introduced himself. He could speak Arabic. He indicated that he would translate for Marjorie, and so she introduced herself. She tried to be extremely polite, first saying, “As-salaam ‘alykum.” Peace be with you.
Allen offered a beautiful knife. A man took it from him and presented it to Ibn Amid, who smiled politely but did not seem all that interested.
Marjorie realized she would have to offer something too, only she didn’t have much. Money would mean nothing to these people, and she wasn’t carrying anything of real value. She didn’t even have weapons. It seemed crazy to be wandering the desert with almost no provisions, but that was the reality.
She opened her rucksack. She only really possessed one prized object.
Her camera.
Her heart squeezed in her chest. Her camera had been her companion on many adventures, and she would feel its loss acutely. It was, without doubt, her most valuable possession. Still, in order to save herself, she would gift it to Ibn Amid. She hoped he would sense its value and spare her life.
Her decision settled, she pulled it from the bag along with a few empty rolls of film. The same man took the items from her and presented them to Ibn Amid.
He eyed the camera first, then took it in his hands. Suddenly, he came to life. His eyes lit like a fire and a fine grin spread over his features. He spoke quickly, making Allen scramble to translate.
“He thanks you,” Allen said, “and he hopes that you will show them how to use it. Then he wants you to take a picture of the men of the tribe. Tomorrow morning.”
Marjorie bowed her head, satisfied. “I would like that very much.”
Ibn Amid began to speak again, asking questions through Allen.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m making a kind of religious journey.”
“What kind of journey?”
Marjorie thought about lying, about using the story she came up with outside. But, looking at the man’s intelligent eyes and earnest expression, she found she only wanted to tell him the truth. “I’m trying to help my friends. They were captured by a bad man.”
His eyes narrowed. “What man?”
“Richard Young.”
Marjorie didn’t notice any sign of recognition on Ibn Amid’s features. Instead, his face remained open and clear. “What does this Richard Young seek?”
Marjorie paused. Now or never. In a split second, she decided. “The Tree of Life.
”
When Allen translated, the group fell into conversation. It was loud—a disagreement between parties. Yet Ibn Amid stayed still. He studied her, fixed in his unyielding position. His head rested on his arm, which was supported by the sharp corner of his knee.
Finally, he said something. The entire group silenced. Then he said something else. Marjorie turned to Allen, hoping for some answers, but he remained silent too. He seemed suddenly interested in the tops of his feet. She could see sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
When Ibn Amid spoke, it was in very good English. Marjorie was surprised to hear her native tongue from him. “Seeking the Tree of Life is a fool’s errand.”
“Maybe it is,” Marjorie responded, “but I believe it has to be done.”
The other men looked between themselves and at Ibn Amid. Marjorie couldn’t be sure how much they understood of the conversation, but she realized how close she had come to talking back by disagreeing with his word and his assessment of the situation. A long beat passed where no one said anything. Finally, Ibn Amid spoke again, this time in Arabic.
Allen let out a loud, relieved sigh. “We’re welcome in the camp,” he told Marjorie.
Ibn Amid waved his hand, and two men escorted Marjorie and Allen out of the big tent.
A feast was brought for them, and Marjorie had never been so happy to see food in all her life. Lamb came out on a large platter along with rice. The rice tasted sweet, seasoned with herbs and dates, and the lamb was so finely prepared it fell off the bone. A fresh yogurt sauce accompanied it all. Marjorie tried to maintain a delicate decorum, but the smell of the food made it difficult. She scooped the food into her mouth with her fingers and a piece of flatbread, and closed her eyes in delight.
Afterward, a woman showed her to a tent. Around it milled a flock of goats. The smell of the animals might’ve overwhelmed some, but Marjorie didn’t mind it. Inside the tent, a woman waited with an infant. Her midnight blue veil had been removed from her head—and because of that Marjorie guessed that this was a women’s only tent. She offered Marjorie a smile, but when Marjorie attempted to engage with her—saying the traditional greeting and bowing politely—she was met by silence. The woman rose and indicated a mat heaped with blankets.
Marjorie was too tired to make another effort at conversation. She fell onto the bed and into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
At first light, Marjorie awoke to commotion. She felt better after resting, but her body remained sore. The woman who had been inside the tent before was already gone. Marjorie slipped out of the covers gingerly, careful of her wound. She was still surprised at how cold it could get in the desert, especially when the sky was clear. She shivered and made her way out of the tent. Hopefully I can take that picture and then leave.
She went looking for Ibn Amid, but he was nowhere in sight. Instead, another woman of the tribe came upon her. She had a long, weather-worn face, and Marjorie spied wisps of dark hair at the edges of her head covering. She guessed the woman was about her age, maybe a little older. Like one of the goats that needed to be herded, Marjorie was taken in the direction of a small fire where a pot of water boiled.
The woman—whose name she could not guess—helped Marjorie change her bandages. All the while, the woman spoke quietly and quickly, hardly taking a pause for air. Marjorie couldn’t understand most of the words—only a little of it was in English—but she was grateful for them.
With calloused hands, the woman used a stick to remove cloths from the boiling water. After letting them cool briefly, she laid them on Marjorie’s wound, gently cleansing the area. It stung, but Marjorie was grateful for the care. For the first time, she got a good look at the wound. It was smooth around the edges and had been a perfect circle. But it had been stitched up, and she could see bites of dark thread sticking out. It was just beginning to close.
“Luck,” the woman said. “You have luck.”
“Yes, it missed my vitals,” Marjorie agreed.
“Thank him,” the woman said, pointing over to Allen, who sat lighting a pipe before a fire. Marjorie caught a faint whiff of tobacco coming from his direction. “He save you.”
She finished cleaning the wound and wrapped Marjorie’s waist in fresh bandages. Then she gathered her material. Before leaving, she placed a hand on Marjorie’s arm.
Marjorie took comfort in her touch and in her sturdy presence. “Thanks to you too,” Marjorie told her.
The woman nodded and then broke away. She trotted through the sand, passing through the white smoke from another fire and disappearing into the women’s tent.
Marjorie made her way to where Allen sat. He offered her tobacco, and she shook her head no. But she sat down next to him, warming her feet by the fire. “Thank you for saving my life,” she offered.
He waved his hand. “It was lucky for everyone. Who knew you would charm Ibn Amid? I’d say we’re even.”
“How did you learn to heal?” Marjorie asked.
“Oh, I was stationed here during the war as a doctor. When it was over, I couldn’t bare returning to England. You might say I’ve been wandering about the desert, but it beats returning to settle into some damp and dreary practice.”
“How did you end up here?” Marjorie wondered.
“Can you keep a secret?” His eyes twinkled at her.
“Sure.”
“So can I.” He howled with laughter. But quickly, he winked and added, “A very useful skill when working for British intelligence.”
So that’s what you’re really doing here. Finding out about tribal movements and alliances, I’d wager. But why would the British care to know? She didn’t want to pry into his business, even though she was curious. Instead, she continued, “I’m anxious to search for my friends. When can we leave?”
Allen shrugged. “When Ibn Amid allows it.”
After Marjorie finished a light breakfast of cooked bulgur sweetened with honey, she spotted Ibn Amid coming toward her along with the other Bedouin men. He had his new camera grasped between his fingers. “Now, Marjorie Hart, you will show us how this works.”
Marjorie noted that his demeanor had changed since the day before. Now, he almost seemed like a child on Christmas morning. He stood behind her as she set up the camera. She showed him how to load the film and how to adjust the lens so it would create sharp images.
“You’ll have to send the film to be processed. Maybe there is somewhere you can take it in Baghdad. If I can, I’ll send film to you after I’ve returned home.”
He nodded eagerly, pleased with these arrangements.
Marjorie lined the tribal men in two rows. Ibn Amid stood at the front. Once they were settled, Marjorie snapped a few pictures. Then Ibn Amid crossed to her and gestured for her to stand in his place. Marjorie did, and she enjoyed watching the man eagerly take pictures. He’s going to use all that film! She laughed.
Once they finished, Marjorie tried to ask about leaving, but he was too quick, already returning to his tent to discuss more pressing matters. Seeing his reaction made her spirits fall. She felt Frank and Hamid getting farther and farther away. Surely they must’ve believed she was dead. And if this group hadn’t found her, she knew she would be.
An image of herself lying in the middle of that dark room, cold and lifeless, flashed before her eyes. Her lips were blue and her eyes impossibly open. At the museum, she had seen a mummy’s sarcophagus with eyes painted open for eternity. She imagined herself, preserved in the dry heat of the desert. If anyone ever found her, she likely would still be mostly in one piece. They had found the mummies of everyday people simply buried in pits with all their earthly possessions, with hair still attached to their skulls.
Marjorie shivered.
She felt a presence come up behind her, and when she turned, she saw Ibn Amid again. When he spoke, it was in halting English. “Each day I remember how much I don’t know,” he said. “Thank you for that reminder today, Marjorie Hart.”
Ibn Am
id stood silent for a long moment. She liked his quiet presence. Whatever anyone else said of him, she knew he was not the kind of man to do something without thinking it through, without examining every possible angle.
“I know what it is to try to—” He looked for a word. Finding it, he continued, “—save someone. To tie your fate up with someone else’s, this is a brave thing. This is a journey I respect. But you must give up the end goal—this Tree. For what will it bring you but heartache?” He turned to her, a slow, sad smile forming on his features.
“I knew someone once who was after the Tree of Life,” he told her. “Someone very close to me. In the end, I lost her to it, and I lost myself.”
“I’ve already lost someone to it,” Marjorie said. “I can’t afford to lose anyone else.”
“Treasure is never worth what it promises.” He said it so simply. Marjorie realized he must’ve practiced this phrase. She wondered how he would say it in Arabic, but she did not ask.
For a long moment, he seemed lost in memory. Then, abruptly, he reached into his robes. With a flourish, he pulled out something, and Marjorie’s spirits lifted. She felt lighter than ever looking at Uncle Charlie’s gun. Ibn Amid placed it in her hands, and she felt its smooth metal against her skin. She was so happy to see it again. He said, “This morning you will leave my camp,” he said. “You will have provisions. You will have weapons. You will, I hope, remember what I’ve said.”
He nodded and walked away before Marjorie could utter a thank you. She was shocked at his kindness and very, very grateful.
***
Ibn Amid had done more than he promised—he actually led a party with her. He seemed to know exactly where to go, and Marjorie was grateful for it. Nothing but desert stretched ahead of them, as far as the eye could see—and by herself it would’ve been too easy to have gotten lost. She imagined herself going in circles, up and down sand dunes. If she didn’t make it, no one would’ve even known.
As the sun hit midday, Ibn Amid stopped the group.