Call of the Trumpet (34 page)

The day wore on as Aza bustled through her tasks. Once she saw Hagar and Jali walking together in the distance. How stooped and old they looked, she thought, their backs bent beneath the burden of their grief. Her heart went out to them, and she started in their direction.

But what could she say? How could she soothe their hearts when she could not comfort her own? Her anxiety, in fact, seemed to be growing rather than diminishing. Aza wondered, frightened, if she, too, had finally begun to lose faith. Shaken, she sat down, picked up her rag, and bent once more to the saddle.

But her heart continued to pound and soon her hands began to shake. Aza took a deep breath, but it did not calm her. Her entire body trembled. With a cry, she dropped the rag and pressed her fists to her thudding breast. What was happening?

Aza knew, even as she tried to tell herself it was not possible. She knew. Allah had answered her prayers. “Ahmed!” she screamed as she leapt to her feet. “Ahmed!”

Heads turned, and children shrank against their mothers’ skirts as Aza ran through the camp, crying Ahmed’s name. A mare shied from her path, but she paid it no heed. She did not stop until she had reached the familiar tent. “Ahmed!”

The enormous man caught Aza gently in his arms as she swayed and gasped for breath. “What is it, little one? What’s wrong?”

“Ahmed, they’re out there, I know it! You must find them!”

Ahmed did not release the grip. “Please, mistress, you—”

“Now, Ahmed! You have to find them at once. Please, please believe me!”

There was something in her eyes that sent a chill through him. Mystifying as it was, he knew that Allah often whispered to the hearts of women, sending them dreams and signs. “All right,” he said before she could importune him further. “All right, mistress, I will go. And I will find them.”

The wind blew in short, sharp gusts, blasting them with its heat, swirling the sand about their ankles. Ripples formed in the dunes, and a lonely
ajraf
bush crackled dryly. Like a death rattle, Matthew thought. Like the cough from a dying man’s throat.

The bitter thoughts failed to have an effect on him and he wondered at that. Had he lost all feeling, all emotion? Had the wind and heat drained more than just the moisture from his body? Where was his fear of death? Death that was almost certain now.

Cecile stumbled, and Matthew tightened his grip on her shoulders. As he did so, an inner heat seared through him, and he knew his heart had not withered at all. “Dhiba,” he whispered, and held her tightly against him as her knees buckled.

“I can’t … I must rest …”

“Yes, Dhiba,” he soothed, stroking her tangled hair. “We will rest.” Matthew lowered her to the sand, her head upon his lap. He had turned his back to the sun so he might shade her face and leaned over her protectively as he uncorked the leather skin. “Drink now, Dhiba. Drink.”

Cecile shook her head weakly. “No,” she protested. “No, you …”

“Do as I say, Dhiba. You need it more than I.” There was only a little left, a few precious drops of what he had managed to distill from the camel’s paunch. It was barely enough to moisten her parched lips. But it would lessen at least a small portion of her misery. When it was gone, Cecile closed her eyes.

Her body was not still, however. As he held her, Matthew felt her twitch and tense, responding to the delirium invading her brain. It happened more often now, and the periods were longer.

An aching sickness gripped Matthew’s heart. He could not let her die. He would not.

Consciousness, and rationality, briefly returned as Cecile felt herself being lifted. Her eyes opened wide, and she tried to push against Matthew’s chest. “No,” she cried, her voice cracking. “No, you must not carry me!”

“Hush, Dhiba,” he said, and straightened slowly.

“No,” she murmured. “No.”

“Hush, Dhiba,” Matthew repeated, and began to walk. “Be still and rest. The camp is not far. Soon we’ll find it.”

But Cecile would not quiet. She continued to stir in Matthew’s arms, and he held her more tightly, his heart bleeding. She murmured incoherently, and the sound of her parched and broken voice stabbed at him.

“Matthew … Matthew, no …” Cecile croaked. “No.”

“Ssshhh, the camp is not far,” he lied. “Soon, Dhiba, soon.”

“No,” she repeated, and tossed her head from side to side with a strength that surprised him. “No … no … Aza …”

Matthew halted and gazed down at the flushed and fevered face. What was she saying? Was it the sun and the sickness talking?

“Matthew,” Cecile sighed, and he saw she looked straight at him, her eyes focused and clear. “Matthew, why? Why … do this? Why not … why not leave me and … and go on?”

Her gaze commanded him. He could not look away. “Because I …” the unfamiliar words choked in his throat. “Because you are mine, Dhiba. You’re mine. I love you.”

But she did not hear. Matthew knew, even as the words fell from his lips, that she had slipped away once more. “Dhiba?” he whispered.

There was no response. Numb, Matthew bent his head and slowly struggled onward. The wind keened, and his tracks whirled away behind him.

Twilight gathered swiftly. One moment the sun’s glare from the sand was enough to blind a man; in the next, shadows filled the wells between the dunes and the light was murky and indistinct. Combined with the blowing, swirling sand, visibility was poor. Ahmed halted his camel and muttered a curse under his breath. Where were they? Why, in Allah’s name, had he not been able to find them?

Ahmed shrank from the answer, but he knew he had to face it. Either Aza had been wrong, or he had missed them. One way or the other it mattered little. Without water, they would die. He knew they must have run out by now. By now they might even be …

No! He would not think it. With an unconsciously brutal slap on his camel’s flank, Ahmed set off once more. He was unaware of the tears dimming his vision, and the painful, knotted ache in his chest. He knew only that he could not stop, could not give up hope. For Al Dhiba and El Faris.

Yet the night wore on. Stars glinted, the wind sighed, and the dunes rolled endlessly. Endless and empty. Ahmed’s head throbbed and his eyes burned. But he scarcely dared to blink.

For he had seen something. Only a shadow, perhaps, cast by the moon. Or a bush, sere and withered, yet clinging to life where nothing else could exist. Yes, that had to be it, a bush. Nevertheless, he did not take his eyes from it, and he assaulted the camel’s flanks once again until the beast bellowed in protest.

The shadows shifted as Ahmed approached. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? He tugged on the camel’s bridle. His heart thudded to a halt.

The still forms lay side by side, Al Dhiba’s head cradled against his master’s shoulder. “El Faris!” Ahmed cried, and flung himself from the saddle.

The night was eerily silent. Not even the barking of a camp dog dared to disturb the mournful quiet. Alone in her tent, Aza was almost able to hear the pounding blood through her veins. It was as if everyone had taken one great, deep breath when Ahmed left, and only upon his return would they release it and come to life again. But to rejoice … or to mourn?

Aza clasped her hand in her lap, bent her head, and whispered another prayer. Then she straightened and returned her gaze to the open tent flap.

Time was running out. She was no longer able to deny it. Where, oh where was Ahmed?

The soft crunch of a footstep came to Aza’s ears and she stiffened. Seconds later she recognized the familiar sound of Hagar’s shuffling gait. Pity welled in her heart. “Please, come in, old woman,” Aza said, “and feel welcome in my husband’s tent.”

Hagar brushed inside and knelt, stiffly. When she had settled her old bones as comfortably as possible, she looked Aza in the eye and came straight to the point. “There is very little hope left,
halaila,”
she said in a firm but gentle voice. “You must know as well as I.”

Aza nodded shortly, eyes downcast.

“Allah’s Will is Mysterious, but it will be done,” Hagar continued. “May He be merciful in your time of grief.”

Choking back her tears, Aza gazed up into the old woman’s sad, dark eyes. “I thank you for your words of comfort,” she murmured. “And I …”

“Comfort!” Hagar gruffly barked. “Mere words will not comfort your heart! But perhaps … perhaps knowledge will.”

Aza held her breath. “Knowledge?”

Hagar’s gaze was unwavering. “Yes,
halaila.
The knowledge that your husband truly loved you.”

A small cry escaped Aza’s lips. She tried to turn away, but Hagar captured her hands. “No, you must listen to me. Listen and know I speak the truth. El Faris loved you. Even though …” Hagar stopped, wondering exactly how much Aza had guessed. When she turned her face and the old woman saw her eyes, there was no longer any doubt.

“I know my husband loved me,” Aza said, her voice barely a whisper. “I have had much time to think on it. Indeed, I have thought of little else. Yes, my husband loved me. Though not in the way he loved Al Dhiba.”

Hagar sighed and bent her head. She felt tired suddenly. The weight of many years, and many sorrows, pressed heavily.

“Please, do not be sad for me,” Aza added hastily, returning the grip of the old woman’s hands. “Allah blessed me, and I have been happy, Hagar. I have had the honor of being wife to El Faris. I have called Al Dhiba sister.” Aza’s eyes brimmed, but she blinked back the tears. “Yes, I have been very happy.”

“I know. I know you have been,” the old woman agreed, but her voice sounded distant and her gaze was upon something far away. “May Allah bless you for it. And may He bless …”

Both women froze. The dog barked again. Then another added his voice, and another. A moment later the yips of warning turned to full-throated joy.

Neither Aza nor Hagar moved. They heard the buzzing now, the low, rapid babble of many voices speaking all at once. It grew, and the sound was like a tidal wave rushing through Aza’s body. Then there was a shout, and a cry was taken up amid the noise of running feet. “El Faris, El Faris, El Faris …!”

With Aza’s hand supporting her arm, Hagar stumbled to her feet. Together they hurried from the tent.

The shouts had died, and the last questioning voices drifted away on the wind. Only the steady plodding of the camel could be heard. Aza stared, her hands tightly clenched and pressed to her mouth, her heart breaking.

He rode the
dahlul,
slumped yet upright, long, unkempt hair falling about the face of the girl in his arms. Her own black mane trailed and fluttered in the night breeze. One slender hand dangled limply.

With a choked cry, arms outstretched, Hagar staggered forward. Aza fell to her knees and began to pray.

A
HMED’S BURNISHED EBONY FLESH GLISTENED
with sweat, and two trickles of moisture coursed downward from his temples. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his robe and mentally cursed both the weather and his lazy, complaining
dahlul.
Every few steps the miserable beast balked, turned its head to fix an accusing stare on its rider, and bellowed hideously. He kicked it and lashed at its flank with his camel stick.