Call of the Trumpet (15 page)

B
ECAUSE SHE KNEW SOMETHING OF
B
ADAWIN
“weddings,” Cecile knew what to expect when Hagar led her to the neighboring camp of the Anizah. What she had not expected was the welcome she received.

It was just past dawn, and the air was warm and sweet and free of dust. A turtledove called from somewhere high in the palms, and a mare whinnied. Despite the painful wound that scored her breast, Cecile had never felt more wonderful in her life. The world had never seemed so fresh, so new and beautiful. Even Hagar seemed changed.

Cecile glanced at the old woman from the corner of her eye as they made their way around the oasis. No longer did Hagar labor to stride ahead of her. Nor had she ordered Cecile about as usual. When breakfast was completed, she had asked, politely, “Would you care to accompany me to view the preparations for the wedding?” Hagar had also toiled long into the night to mend the rent the wolf’s teeth had made in Cecile’s
towb.

Was it because of what she had done yesterday? It seemed such a small thing, an act of necessity rather than courage. Yet it had apparently changed many things. Including the way Cecile felt about herself.

For one thing, she noticed, she did not feel her usual shyness when she and Hagar entered the neighboring camp. She walked among the strangers with head held high, not with defiant pride this time, but simply with a solid sense of identity. For the first time in her life, Cecile did not feel others would look upon her with scorn. And she was correct, if not quite prepared for the way they greeted her.

Women emerged from their tents as she and Hagar passed. A few children ran in her wake, and even the men took notice of her with solemn, courteous nods. Then the chanting began.

It started as a whisper from someone behind her. “Al Dhiba,” the voice hissed, with something akin to awe. “Al Dhiba bint Sada,” sighed another, and so it was carried on and on as they all made their way to the tent of the groom.

Unexpected tears pricked at Cecile’s eyes. She blinked them away, ignoring the chant with quiet dignity. But she could not ignore the swelling of her heart. Was this, she wondered, what it felt like to belong, to be accepted?

They had reached the groom’s tent. The crowd fell silent. Prepared for what was to come, Cecile vowed not to flinch. She was one of them now. She must accept their customs.

The she-camel was led forward by a servant and made to kneel in front of the tent. She lowered herself cumbersomely, grunting, and folded her long, knobby legs beneath her. The servant tugged on the lead rope, lifting the animal’s head.

A cousin of the groom stepped from the tent. Shards of sunlight glinted from his freshly sharpened
khusa.
He stood at the camel’s head, spoke a prayer to Allah, dedicating the bridal gift, then deftly slit the animal’s throat, killing it quickly and mercifully. A low murmur of approval rippled through the watching crowd, and they dispersed.

“This will be all for now,” Hagar informed Cecile as they headed back to their own camp. “All day the bride will be prepared, but this will be done by her relatives in the privacy of her tent. Then, tonight, she will be led to the
hegra,
the marriage tent.”

“Is that all?”

Hagar shrugged. “What more should there be? Marriage is a simple thing, a natural thing. Like birth and death.”

It seemed there should be more, Cecile thought. Love was so precious, so wondrous. It should be declared with fanfare, and she said so to Hagar.

The old woman looked disgusted. “Why must love be ‘declared,’ as you say? Is it not enough that a man wishes to marry a woman and share his life with her? That says it all, I think. It is enough.”

Cecile did not agree but remained silent. Besides, why should she care? She never wished to be married herself. Turning the subject away from love, she said, “You told me there would be a feast in honor of the wedding, Hagar. If there’s to be no celebration, who will do the feasting?”

“We will,” the old woman replied cheerfully. “The Badawin love few things more than an excuse to eat and dance and be happy. This is our excuse, so tonight there will be much joy in our camp.”

It sounded reasonable, Cecile thought, and fun. She found she looked forward to the setting of the sun.

Jali awaited them outside their tent. He bobbed his head in an energetic greeting, then said, solemnly, “Al
guwa, ya
Dhiba bint Sada.”

“Allah I gauchi, ya
Jali,” Cecile returned with a smile. “God give you strength also. I’m glad to see you.”

“No more than I you,” he responded, including Hagar in his wide grin. The old woman grunted and disappeared inside the tent.

Cecile laughed. “Tell me why you’ve come, Jali.”

“I am supposed to deliver this,” he explained, and for the first time Cecile noticed the bundle at his feet.

“What is it?”

“Gifts,
halaila.
From El Faris!”

Cecile looked up sharply, a queer knot in the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean, gifts?”

“Look … see!” Jali unwrapped the bundle.

There was a full gazelle haunch, the choicest portion. “Also this.” Proudly, he held up a gazelle horn. It had been cleaned and polished.

Cecile suppressed the urge to ask what it was for and took it from the smiling Jali. “Would you … would you thank him for me, Jali?”

“Oh, yes, yes. When he returns from the desert. He hunts again, for the feast tonight.”

“I see. Well …”

“Well, I must go now. Allah karim, halaila.”

He left her with her gifts, and her confusion. Re-wrapping the bundle, Cecile carried it into the tent. “Hagar, Jali said …”

“Yes, I heard. You have been honored.”

“Honored?”

“Of course.” The old woman looked pleased. “El Faris sends his gifts to mark your courage, and to thank you for saving the life of a child.”

Something twinged in Cecile’s breast. The wound, she thought quickly. Though not deep, it was long and jagged and would leave a scar she would carry to the end of her days. The mark of the she-wolf, Al Dhiba. With another pang, she remembered the way she had felt when Matthew had named her, and the swelling voice of the people echoing his words. At that moment, she knew, they had accepted her. But had they done so simply because of El Faris?

No! Cecile shook her head in silent denial. She had earned both the name and the acceptance herself. As well as the gratitude and recognition of the tribe’s leader. She had seen it in his gaze. She leaned down and plucked the gazelle horn from the bundle.

“Hagar, what is this for?”

“Oh, that is a fine gift. It is used as a
middrah,
for pushing threads down on a loom.”

Cleaning the horn had obviously taken a good deal of work … had he done it himself? For her? She envisioned him laboring long into the night. And his eyes, so piercingly blue as he had gazed at her, naming her.

Had there really been respect in that look, admiration? Yes, perhaps, she had to admit. There had been something more, too. Cecile was not quite sure what it was. She knew only that it made her heart constrict with unfamiliar emotion, and made it impossible to spend another moment in the tent with Hagar. With a half-muffled sob, she rushed outside and away from the camp.

If Hagar wondered about Cecile’s sudden flight or prolonged absence, she had not mentioned it. Nor had the old woman remarked on, or tried to fill, the silence in which Cecile wrapped herself as she sat at the loom. She was glad. She didn’t think she could cope with Hagar’s probing questions. How could she, when she had no answers? She did not know herself why she had fled. To escape the feelings thoughts of Matthew provoked? If so, she had not been successful.

Cecile busied herself with her tasks. There were many things to be done before the sun fell beyond the distant dunes. Abandoning the loom, she made a mixture of ground wheat, water, and salt, boiled to a thick paste; also
matbuna,
dates boiled in butter, and
madruse,
a thin paste of dates, boiled wheat, and butter. At the last she made
hamida,
toasted wheat, not for the feast, but to be stored away and used to sustain them during the long marches from well to well.

Just past midday the hunters returned, though Cecile let Hagar go and greet them and bring back their portion of the kill. To her surprise, the old woman returned with a rabbit, three fat sandgrouse, and the better part of a
Bakar al-maha,
a small antelope. The hunters had been almost miraculously successful, and what Hagar brought them was only a small part, their fair share, of what El Faris had killed. The rest would be distributed to his other dependents. Cecile picked up a sandgrouse and began to pluck its feathers.

Hours later the entire camp was filled with a medley of enticing aromas. Savory scents came from every tent, and rapid, happy chatter. A mood of excitement was in the air, growing as the sun completed its arc into the western sky.

The mood was catching, and Cecile’s heart lightened considerably, especially since her first act of the evening would be to bathe.

Hagar had forbidden her a bath last night. “It will not be good for the wound,” she had pronounced. “We will use
baul
instead. It will be good, you will see.”

The word was unfamiliar. Yet when Hagar produced a bowl of the stuff, the odor was unmistakable. Camel urine! Cecile had protested, but to no avail. The old woman had been adamant. And the horrid stuff really seemed to work, Cecile had to admit. The wound was less painful, and there wasn’t a trace of infection.

The sun finally vanished, leaving only a westering glow. Stars winked faintly and the breeze dropped. Frogs croaked from among the reeds. “Is it dark enough yet?” Cecile asked.

“If you mean to bathe, yes,” Hagar replied in a disgusted tone. “Though I wish you would wait until full night is upon us. I do not wish to have to see you do this thing.”

“Then don’t watch,” Cecile laughed. She picked up the cotton drape that would protect her modesty in the water.

“Wait!” Hagar called. “You have forgotten something.”

Puzzled, Cecile waited, though she couldn’t guess what she might have forgotten. She had nothing besides the clothes on her back.

Hagar had opened her
qash.
She rummaged inside, then brought forth several items. The first was a new
towb
of a deep, rich cobalt blue. There was also a newly woven belt, all in red and cleverly plaited, and a
gibbe,
a short, wide-sleeved jacket of the same blue as the
towb,
embroidered in red, and a new
makruna,
also blue. “Here,” the old woman said curtly. “These are for you.”

“Oh, Hagar, I …”

“Go on!” She shook the bundle at Cecile. “Take them. I am an old woman and have no use for them.”

It was ungracious to refuse a gift, and Cecile took the clothes, her heart brimming.

“Hurry back,” Hagar commanded. “We must go and join the others for the feasting. Go on now, off with you!”