Call of the Trumpet (11 page)

“What are you doing, silly girl?” Hagar inquired sharply. “Are you not going to sit here and eat your supper with me?”

Cecile stared at her. “You mean … I can eat this? I don’t have to take it to … to El Faris?”

“Women always eat first in the evening. Their day has been long, and hard. Now the time for the men grows near, when they must guard and protect us through the long darkness. Sit down!”

Cecile did not need to be told twice. She sank to the ground and satisfied her ravenous hunger in short order. Now, she inwardly sighed, if she could only get clean …

“What are you doing?” Hagar demanded sharply.

Cecile ceased her motion. “Trying to scrape some of the sand off. Why?”

“That is not the way. You will only roughen your skin.”

“How am I supposed to get clean?” Cecile moaned. “There isn’t enough water to bathe in!”

“Of course not! Water is not for bathing, stupid girl. It is for drinking. You must rise early in the morning, before the camels. When the she-camel wakes and rises, take a wooden bowl and catch her first urine.
That
is what you bathe in.”

Cecile closed her eyes.

“It is good,” Hagar continued. “You will see. Especially when the fleas begin to plague you. It is strong stuff. It will kill them.”

“I have absolutely no doubt,” Cecile muttered, turning away.

Hagar, however, had more advice. “You must do something with your hair. Soon even a raven would not wish to nest in it.”

“And just what is it you’d like me to do, pray tell?”

“Untangle the knots, of course, stupid girl. Then braid it, Badawin fashion.”

Cecile wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before, and set to work on the unholy mess. When it was reasonably tangle-free, she plaited it, three braids on each side of her face, the remainder loose behind.

“Very nice,” Hagar commented. The crinkle of her eyes betrayed her smile behind the veil.

Cecile felt better, in spite of the dust and dirt. “Should I take … El Faris … his dinner now?”

Hagar grunted rudely. “This is a time for women to rest. Forget the men. They drink their coffee and discuss how mighty they are. Later we will tend to them.”

If she hadn’t been so tired, Cecile would have laughed aloud. She could not suppress the giggle, however, and soon Hagar joined her. Then, before either of them could control it, they were consumed with gales of mirth. Clasping each other’s arms, they rocked back and forth and howled their glee to the darkening sky.

T
HE DESERT MORNING CAME QUICKLY
. N
IGHT
was banished without fanfare, and darkness, in a twinkling, became full light.

Cecile did not need Hagar to rouse her. She was up with the sun, all traces of fatigue vanished. While the old woman still slept, she folded her sleeping quilt and rearranged the drape of her
makruna.
She was ready, feeling wonderful in spite of the misery of the previous day. Like the tethered mares, Cecile raised her head to the stirring breeze and sniffed the desert air.

Home … could it really be? So much had happened, and her heart had seemed frozen in her breast. But now it quickened with new life. She felt more alive in this moment than she had in her entire life. Proudly, Cecile recalled Jali’s words.

Night had fallen; the men had been fed. Women gossiped around cook fires, and the camp’s half-dozen children frolicked in their last moments of wakefulness. Cecile had taken a walk, moving silently through the darkness, enjoying the sounds, smells, and feel of the desert evening and its people. A figure had approached her, hesitantly.

“Halaila
… is it you?”

“Jali!”

He had appeared to relax then, and swiftly closed the distance between them.

“What’s the matter, Jali? Didn’t you recognize me?”

“For a moment, no. I apologize, little one, but there is something … different … about you.”

“Different? Oh, you mean the clothes. And the veil. It makes it difficult to …”

“No.” He shook his head. “It is not that. Clothes do not change what is inside.”

Cecile had stared at him curiously, head cocked to one side. “What do you mean?”

He had been unable to explain. Something in the way she moved, perhaps, as if part of the night, part of the desert, a creature instinctively at home and secure in its environment. He wasn’t certain.

But now she thought she knew. It was a feeling … she
felt
different. Was it because she had truly found where she belonged?

Cecile scarcely dared to hope. There was still so much ahead, so much to learn and experience. She had barely begun the real journey.

The camp came rapidly to life. Under Hagar’s direction, Cecile put away everything they had used for the night. Her tasks were light, she realized, when she watched the other women.

She-camels with young had to be milked, as well as ewes and nanny goats. Children, men, and horses had to be cared for. Seeing it all, Cecile did not mind her own chores. And she loved caring for Al Chah ayah. She fed the mare and saddled her, then left her tethered to await her rider. She had no desire to run into him and risk spoiling the lighthearted mood in which she had awakened.

Soon they were on the move again. Cecile settled back in the
maksar,
glad it seemed less uncomfortable than the day before. Everything, in fact, seemed a little better today. The breeze felt fresher, the air cleaner. She also noticed more than she had previously: dusty green hummocks of
thamman;
the emerald green of
harm,
which grew in saltier patches of desert; tiny, scurrying movements that indicated the presence of animal life, however small. The desert was indeed alive.

Cecile even began to wonder about Hagar. Though it was hard to imagine her as anything but a tough old woman, she had been young once, and had lived her life in the Sahara. Hesitantly, Cecile touched her shoulder.

“Hagar?”

The old woman grunted.

“Hagar … tell me about yourself. Would you?”

She made another rude noise. “What is there to know? I was born. I will die.”

Cecile was not put off. She was becoming accustomed to the old woman. “What about the time in between? Tell me, Hagar. You must have led a wonderful life.”

“It was like any other woman’s,” she replied curtly, but Cecile heard the pleasure in her voice.

“Tell me about it. Please.”

Hagar sighed. “Very well, curious child. But there is not much to tell.” Hagar proceeded to talk for over an hour.

She had married at fourteen, not unusual in a land where life could be brutally short. To ensure all women might have a husband, a protector, and a provider, girls were automatically bound to their first male cousins at birth. Because Hagar’s cousin had not wished to wed her, and there was another man who did, he had released her, and she became free to marry the man she truly loved. They were happy for many years.

“But I was barren,” she continued sadly. “My womb did not quicken. So my husband took a second wife.”

Cecile was unable to hide her dismay, no matter that she knew it was the custom, necessary in a land where children were both happiness and wealth. And the infant mortality rate was high. “Didn’t it hurt you? Weren’t you jealous?”

“Of the second wife? Pah! I was first, therefore head-woman of my husband’s tent. Besides, he loved me still, despite my barren womb. I was a loving and dutiful wife. And when the other had children, I, too, cared for them. My life was blessed and full.”

Cecile remained silent. Of all the desert customs, it was the only one Cecile was simply unable to accept. At least for herself. Perhaps it was the monogamous society in which she had been reared, but the thought of sharing a man …

Shuddering, Cecile banished the vision. The problem would never occur, for she would never become a man’s property. Nor would she need a man, not when wealth and possessions awaited her at the camp of Shaikh Haddal. She would have all she’d ever need to be able to provide for herself. It was bad enough having to act as Blackmoore’s servant for the present, earning food and shelter in exchange for her toil. When she came into her own, however, she would need no one’s support ever again. She would live and work for herself. Nevermore would she have to look to any man.

Men! To drive the unpleasant subject from her mind, Cecile prodded Hagar with more questions. “Finish your story, Hagar. What happened? Where is your husband now?”

“With Allah,” she replied simply. “The second wife was yet young and had four healthy children, four precious gems. She easily found another who would wed her. I, however, was growing old, and had no little jewels. No one wanted me, or needed me in their tent. Life was very hard then. It is difficult when a woman has no one to look to, no one to care for or share her blanket with at night. And my husband had not been a rich man, so I had few possessions. I had to rely on the tribe for support.” Hagar paused a moment, and when she continued, the sadness had gone from her voice. “But Allah is merciful. He had not finished with this old woman. He gave her a new life.”

“What?” Cecile prompted. “What happened?”

“He put me in the path of the great one … El Faris.”

The old woman’s words were not exactly what Cecile had wanted to hear. Yet in spite of herself, she found her curiosity had been piqued. “Why do you call him ‘the great one,’ Hagar?”

The old woman snorted. “You truly are an ignorant girl. But you have only just come to the desert, so I will tell you.” Hagar shifted position slightly so she did not have to turn as far over her shoulder to look at Cecile. “Do you know the meaning of his name?”

Cecile nodded. “The Horseman.”

“Yes. Though his skin is pale, he has chosen to live in our land and is as a brother to the Badawin. He knows the land and its people, and he loves them, respects them. When he is among us, he does us honor by obeying our laws, living by our ways. So the people of the desert honor him in return and call him by the name of the ancient and revered King Solomon.”

“But why?”

“Hush, impatient child. I am telling you.” Hagar gave Cecile a reproving glance. “This the people have heard, that he came to Damascus as a boy to be with his father, who bought and sold our desert horses. He learned his father’s trade and, as he grew older, convinced his father to breed, rather than merely trade, the animals. He began traveling into the desert then, in search of the
Asil,
the pure-blooded animals, the finest of our people. Soon he had a large band of mares, and many friends among the tribes. When his father died, he left his city home in Damascus to be among us, and he was welcomed.”

“Is that all?” Cecile asked, trying to keep her tone light although, in truth, she was struck not only by the tale, but, again, by the similarity of Blackmoore’s life to her father’s. “Is that why they call him El Faris?”

Cecile was rewarded with another scowl. “You obviously do not know much of the honor bestowed upon he who cares enough to keep alive and flowing the pure and noble blood of the
Asil.
Like the Badawin himself, their numbers have diminished over the years. As the cities grow larger and more powerful, the desert grows smaller. El Faris helps us to keep what is ours: our horses, our heritage, our pride.”

Cecile remembered what he had told her of the caliph and his rebellion against him. “Does … does El Faris also … fight with the Badawin?”

“Not just with us, or for us. Many times he leads us. Especially against the caliph, who would rule and oppress us and take away the freedom which is our life’s blood. And though he sells his horses in the cities for great prices, to the Badawin they are always gifts. As I have told you, he helps us to keep what is ours. In many ways.”

Cecile was impressed in spite of herself. “But where does he keep all these horses?”

“He has a home, in Oman.” For the first time, Hagar’s tone registered disapproval. “In this he is not like us. He prefers to stay in one place for awhile. Now he only crosses the desert when he has horses to sell, or to give to the chieftains of the Rwalan tribes.”

“Is that where he’s headed now, back to Oman?”

Hagar nodded. “Yes. Though I will not return with him to that house by the sea. Pah! A tent is the only home for a Badawin. So I will return with the tribes to the desert for the winter.”

“But I thought you were his servant.”

“His servant, yes, not his slave, and only when he travels on the desert. It is my pleasure and privilege to serve such a great man. But he knows I do not like his ugly marble house, so when we get to Oman, I will leave him for the winter. And in the greatness of his heart, he will give me, a lowly woman, two she-camels, a goat, a ewe, and many other things so I will not be a burden to the tribe. I will hold my head up proudly. It is for this I call him ‘the great one.’“

The conversation had come full circle. It gave Cecile quite a bit to think about, and she fell silent.

It did not please her, however, that her thoughts were now centered on Matthew Blackmoore. He did, she was forced to admit, seem to have many redeeming qualities. And his story was so much like her father’s, the man she had admired most in the world.