Call of the Trumpet (14 page)

They rode on for two more hours without finding any sign of game. At noon they stopped for midday prayers, the sun hot and the sand glaring.

Matthew pulled the end of his
khaffiya
over his mouth and nose. A brisk wind had risen, and the dust was thick and clinging. “We must head back,” he told the others. “Having seen Al Dhib, I do not wish to leave the camp unprotected for long. We can always go out again tomorrow.”

It was agreed, although no one liked the thought of returning empty-handed. “Hajaja will laugh,” Ahmed grumbled.

“No doubt because you swore by Allah you would return with the fattest gazelle,” Matthew chuckled. “Come on. We still may find one yet.”

He was right. Turfa was first to spot the herd. The lean
saluqi
sprang into a run, Al Chah ayah right behind at the head of the other mounts.

The strategy was efficient and neatly executed. Turfa had separated one of the gazelles from the rest of the herd. With a short, intense burst of speed, she turned toward the oncoming riders.

There would be one chance only to catch the fleet-footed
dhabi.
All the riders were prepared. Al Chah ayah, however, was swiftest.

The teamwork and timing were perfect. The frightened gazelle made a last effort to escape, but the dog was on one side, the rider the other, and both nearly on top of her. She leapt forward with a renewed burst of speed … too late.

Matthew launched himself from the saddle. His weight threw the gazelle off balance, and she tumbled to the ground. Before she could struggle to her feet, he grabbed her head and twisted it, immobilizing her.

The
khusa
glittered in his hand. “
Bism Illah al Rahman, al Rahim!
“ he cried. “In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate.” Then with a single clean stroke, he slit the animal’s throat.

“Well done,
ya ammi
… El Faris!”

The cry was repeated in many throats. The horses danced, and a camel bellowed. Matthew climbed slowly to his feet and returned with quiet dignity to his mare. He stroked his dog, then patted his mount’s lathered neck. “Well done, Al Chah ayah,” he murmured, and swung into the saddle.

The day waned as rapidly as both her energy and patience. Cecile glanced at Hagar, who sat propped against the
qash
snoring, then at the neat stacks of freshly baked bread. There were several skins of
leben
and a half-dozen containers full of
igt,
chalky lumps of milk cake. It had been made from boiled
rauba,
cooled and pounded into round, flat cakes, and now would be stored. During the summer, when the animals gave no milk, the
igt
would be added to water to make a passable form of
leben.
But that was not all she had done.

With justifiable pride, Cecile studied the beginnings of a rug stretched on Hagar’s loom. The old woman had a store of goat hair, dyed in many colors, and almost all of them would be used in the design Cecile had in mind. The rug would make a fine gift when it was completed. For Jali, maybe, or the old woman. As cantankerous as she was, there was a heart of gold hidden in the thin and shriveled bosom. Cecile smiled, then rose quietly and left the tent.

Until dinnertime her tasks were done. But it was too early to bathe. Cecile glanced at the sky, measuring the fall of dusk. It would be dark soon, and under cover of night the women were permitted to bathe and wash clothes, as Hagar had grudgingly admitted. When there was ample water it might be used for such a purpose although, she had asserted, she still preferred camel urine for herself.

Cecile shuddered. There were some customs, she feared, she would never get used to. A woman’s daily role in life could be dreary enough without adding camel urine to it.

Although, she thought, as she gazed longingly into the cool, green water of the oasis, her day had really not been dreary at all. She had learned much, and had taken pride in her accomplishments. What she had done was good, she decided, and rewarding in its way.

The wind rustled through the palms, and ripples broke the still, shining surface of the water. Restless, Cecile wandered toward the opposite side of the camp.

Socializing was both a woman’s prerogative and joy. Though it was not exactly Cecile’s cup of tea, she did want to be accepted by the other women. A good deal of the Badawin’s strength sprang from their unity as a clan, and she was a part of that clan, however temporarily.

Kut, the woman who had given them the milk, seemed a nice person, and her small son was adorable. It was dusk and the herds would be coming in for the night, so she might have a moment to gossip.

The camel herd had not yet returned from the desert, where it had spent the day grazing on what scrub brush was to be found, but the sheep were in and settling for the night. Lambs had been loosed to nurse the ewes, and Cecile heard the contented sucking sounds as she approached.

“Hafath kum Allah,”
she called to Kut, who stood watching her young son round up the stragglers.

“God guard you also,” she returned with a shy smile. “Have you come for more milk?”

“Oh, no,” Cecile laughed. “This time I came merely to visit.”

“I am glad,” Kut said. “And proud that you can see my son at work. He is a good boy, is he not?”

“Indeed, he is. He will make a fine man.”

The two women stood in companionable silence for a time, watching the youngster as he scurried back and forth. The camp’s flock was relatively large, but the little boy appeared to have the situation under control. Cecile gazed into the distance, at the herds of the neighboring camps also being rounded in, and remembered what Hagar had said about a wedding.

“Kut, what is this about a …” She stopped, abruptly. Kut’s eyes had gone wide with fright. Cecile followed her gaze.

She wasn’t sure what she saw at first. A dog, perhaps, moving among the nervously milling sheep. But what was a dog doing … ?

Cecile froze. She heard Kut’s sharply indrawn breath, then a sound like a sob. The woman lurched forward.

“Wait!” Cecile hissed, grabbing her arm. “Don’t move!”

The child had not seen the wolf yet. He was intent upon gathering the suddenly skittish animals. “Stay where you are,” Cecile ordered. Silently, she glided forward.

The wolf himself was intent upon a lamb. The large, lean animal paid no heed to the boy. But he saw Cecile. His lips curled into a snarl.

Allah give me strength,
she prayed, and continued slowly onward. If she could just reach the boy before …

The wolf made his decision. Hunger had given him courage. Taking his eyes from the woman, he sprang at the lamb.

The child saw him. With a cry, unthinking, he ran toward the wolf, waving his thin arms in the air.

There was no more time for caution. Cecile knew the wolf would protect what was his. She also knew wolves hunted in pairs. The she-wolf, Al Dhiba, would not be far away.

Even as she broke into a run, Cecile saw Al Dhiba. She approached from the opposite side of the flock, hackles bristling along her back. Her yellow eyes were fixed on the boy who threatened her mate and his kill. Her gaze flickered only briefly as Cecile ran into her field of vision.

The child, running, was aware of nothing but his lamb, locked in the wolf’s slavering jaws. He gave a startled cry as Cecile scooped him into her arms, then clung to her as she tripped, lost her balance, and sent them both sprawling in the dust.

It was Jali who greeted the returning hunters, but not with gladness. His wizened face was stricken with shock and horror. “El Faris! El Faris!” he shouted. “Come quickly! There are wolves among the sheep. The boy …”

He waited to hear no more. Gesturing the other riders back, Matthew unsheathed his
khusa
and urged his horse into a gallop. When he rounded the edge of the oasis and saw what was happening, he reined to a sliding halt.

The flock had scattered. A few bleating sheep milled around Kut, who had fallen to her knees, hands raised to her face. She keened under her breath, agonizing for her son and the woman who had gone to his aid.

Matthew saw them, and his heart stopped. She was kneeling also, the child clutched to her breast. But there was no fear in the dark, fierce gaze she held upon Al Dhiba.

The two were locked in silent, motionless combat, each protecting her own. Behind the she-wolf, Al Dhib snarled over his prey. In Cecile’s arms, the child whimpered.

With the pressure of his legs, Matthew calmed Al Chah ayah, who had smelled her ancient enemy. He would have to move swiftly, he knew, before the wolves became aware of his presence and reacted. He touched the mare’s neck, lightly, then slipped the dagger between his teeth.

Cecile dared not even blink. She scarcely breathed. The smallest movement, she knew, might force the she-wolf to respond. She could only hold Al Dhiba’s gaze and pray her will was the stronger. She did not hear the sudden pounding of hooves upon the ground.

It happened so quickly she barely had time to react. From the corner of her eye she saw the onrushing rider. The she-wolf cringed and backed away. The rider was upon them. She lifted the child as Matthew sped past, and the boy was pulled from her arm to safety.

Al Chah ayah spun, and Matthew lowered the child to his mother’s waiting arms, already pressing his heels to the mare’s quivering flanks. The sheep were running wildly, and amid the confusion the she-wolf, maddened with hunger and fear, sprang to attack.

Cecile felt a great weight against her chest, knocking the breath from her lungs as she was hurled over backward. She waited to feel the hard impact of the ground, but it never came. Instead she felt herself caught in a familiar dream. She was lifted into the air. The ground sped past below her with dizzying speed, and a firm, muscular arm gripped her tightly. She closed her eyes.

Her legs felt shaky. She was barely able to stand when he lowered her to the ground. Her veil, she realized with sudden panic, had become lost, but there was no help for it. She was powerless to move, to respond in any way. Just as she had been caught in the she-wolf’s merciless gaze, so was she now caught in another.

Matthew climbed down from his mare, never releasing Cecile’s eyes. His expression was inscrutable. The crowd that had gathered around them fell silent. The air was charged with hushed expectancy.

He stood squarely before her, motionless. Only the hem of his robe fluttered gently with the sigh of the night wind. Then his lips parted slowly. His white, even teeth flashed brightly against his dark skin.

“Al Dhiba,” he said quietly, “who protects her own with the courage of a pure and noble heart. Al Dhiba bint Sada.”

“Al Dhiba,” the clan echoed. The low ripple of sound whispered through their ranks. “Al Dhiba bint Sada.”

Cecile did not move. The wind blew more fiercely, whipping the drape of her
makruna,
flapping the torn edges of her dress across her breast. She felt something warm and sticky there, but it did not matter.

“The daughter of Sada thanks you,” she said, the words coming as if from nowhere, “for returning her life now … twice.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. His expression did not alter, but his clear blue eyes flickered slightly. Then he turned, shattering the fragile moment. He mounted his horse and, without a backward glance, rode away.