Rose of the Desert (7 page)

Julie digested this in silence. It was rather a blow to one's ego to be regarded as just a passing acquaintance, especially as she was the only white girl in probably hundreds of miles. But that was Murray. He didn't really see anything beyond the nearest bush, and whether the green on it was leaves or an infestation of locusts. She had rather liked the gangling young man, but was in no particular hurry to see him again.

"I shouldn't worry too much," Clay commented, his mouth still taut. "He drops in at the camp pretty regularly."

They walked for some time in silence.

The last rays of the sun had left the air languorous and warm, and heavy with the faintly soporific mixture of eucalyptus, jasmine, and hot dust. Several bodies still sprawled beneath the diminishing shade of the palm trees, and a frail old Negro amused himself on an instrument resembling the bagpipe. Hearing similar rhythmic jigs and wails in Tripoli, Julie had come to regard this as typical North African music, though very similar to the Scottish sound.

Clay held on lightly to her arm as a string of camels strode disdainfully by, and she could only put down the inner trembling she experienced to the excitement of being here, in Jalna, a North African desert oasis where centuries- old customs and beliefs still prevailed. Why else should her pulses stir, and her heart beat out a fierce tattoo? Not because of the big man at her side, surely? His only concern was to hand her back to the Tripoli offices sound in mind and limb. She looked up at the suave tanned features and faintly arrogant line, annoyed at the girlish flutterings of her heart.

As his hand tightened on her arm she drew jerkily away and would have collided with a group of men but for Clay's sudden outstretched arm. Tall and dignified ancj, veiled in dark blue burnouses, each man raised a stained brown hand in greeting with the words
"La bass"
and Clay, nodding pleasantly, returned the greeting.

After they had disappeared the brown eyes hardened. He held Julie firmly beneath the elbow.

"Don't think you can wander around on your own in a place like this. Whether you like it or not you'd better stay close to me."

The sharp retort died in Julie's throat as she caught sight of the market place. The laden stalls and haphazard shops made her eyes shine.

"Oh, Clay!" she looked up pleadingly, "may we go?"

With a tolerant grin he escorted her towards the piles of merchandise. There were baskets and bangles and murderous-looking daggers, glowing silks and a variety of leather work. The red and yellow leather had been exquisitely embroidered, probably by the women of the oasis, and made up into long boots, slippers and belts.

It was a little disconcerting, too, to see several British products on display. There were bottles of aspirins, in amongst tinned toffee and fish; a well-known make of tea, and another in hair shampoos. Further along Julie stopped to examine a belt polished to a deep blood red. It was such a superb piece of craftsmanship, being minutely carved from end to end, she would have dearly liked to purchase it for her father. Having no money with her she fingered it lovingly and then put it down.

"Do you want it?"

Clay picked up the belt and pushed a hand into his pocket. The owner of the stall produced a piece of fine tissue and wrapping the belt presented it to Julie with a bow and a touch of his forehead. As they walked away Clay took the parcel from her and negligently dropped into her hand a small trinket he had purchased with the belt.

"What is it?" Julie gazed in wonder at what appeared to be the petals of a rose turned to stone.

"It's a form of crystalline limestone," he explained, guiding her back towards the hotel. "The action of the wind erodes the softer stone, leaving petal-like crystals."

"Clay, it's beautiful!" Julie's eyes shone with pleasure. He looked down at her, the brown eyes curiously dark and unreadable. With a peculiar slant to the hard mouth he drawled,

"They call it 'Rose of the desert', which somehow seems fitting."

Julie's mind was too fuzzy to work out that last remark. His dark unfathomable glance had stirred within her a strange bitter sweet ache that sent a pain of longing coursing along her veins. Her pulses fluttered like a caged bird, and she drew a little away from him, afraid he might sense the turmoil going on inside her. She heard herself saying rather stiltedly,

"I'll pay you for my father's belt and this ... souvenir when we get back to Guchani."

Clay began to walk briskly. "Forget it, child. Let them be a reminder of the dark days at Guchani."

Julie found herself matching his steps with some difficulty. Her heart spiralled round and down. He was already tiring of her company. Probably politeness had prompted him to show her something of the oasis; now he seemed impatient to end the tour.

As they approached the hotel El Fondouk she was surprised to see it literally surrounded by vehicles of varying shapes and sizes. The noise from within was reminiscent of an English pub on a Saturday night.

"The last of the tourists, I believe," Clay said. "Sheikh Mafa is their host tonight." He stopped and turned to her, a muscle flexing in his cheek. "We're invited, if you want to go?" Of course he was remembering his promise to try and arrange an invitation from the Sheikh, and here he was confronted with it. Naturally he felt committed.

Julie had no intention of being a nuisance.

"I don't think I want to go," she replied, walking towards the entrance of the hotel.

"If you're afraid of the camels we can walk to the camp. It's not far."

"I'd love to ride a camel, but ..." She searched round in her mind for an excuse that would let him off the hook,

"with all that way to drive back tomorrow, shouldn't you rest?" Looking at the tremendously fit physique and leashed vitality, she knew this suggestion was laughable, but Clay didn't look amused.

"Maybe I can give you a few years, but I'm not senile yet." He led her inside, rasping, "If that charming reticence of yours stems from the idea that I don't quite fill the bill as an escort, I should point out that there will be roughly two dozen in the party. You will be perfectly free to go off with whom you please."

Sheikh Mafa had sent an escort of torch-bearers and white-cloaked riders to direct the party, and the tourists, a mixture of wealthy Americans, Italians, and French, chattered excitedly and gingerly mounted the kneeling camels. Some stared wide-eyed and nervous when the camels regained their true height, and they found themselves suspended in space. Others like the plump little American woman giggled rapturously and hung on for dear life. Wherever possible husbands accompanied wives as pillion.

Julie found herself watching the scene with interest and amusement until a hand tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and a smiling Arab beckoned her to follow him. She was led to a magnificent-looking animal. Bigger than the others and almost white, the camel stared straight ahead in cold aloofness until a sharp command brought him to his knees. He looked at Julie with a bored expression, the jaws grinding lazily, and the feet splayed out as though it was all a colossal waste of time. She advanced as the Arab patiently offered his assistance, but as the coarse hair of the camel brushed her legs, she sensed another pair of hands take her lightly by the waist and hoist her into the saddle.

Before she could catch her breath the animal rose at the rear and she was flung forward towards its neck. The front rose with equal suddenness and she gazed giddily down to the ground miles below. Clay took one look at the slight figure draped precariously sideways over the camel and barked,

"Hold on. I'm coming up. You wouldn't get ten yards." The Arab obligingly lowered his back and with the help of a hand-hold Clay swung up behind her and pulled her firmly against him. With his assistance she curled her fingers around the cross-shaped pommel in front of her. This and the hard strength of Clay's chest as a backrest banished her trepidation. She now felt blissfully secure in spite of the camel's lurching step.

Her confidence was short-lived, however, for she felt his fingers lightly exploring her hair.

"I think we can dispense with the Sister Kenny look," he murmured. "Hair this colour was never meant to be hidden away." A strange thrill coursed through her as one by one he removed the hair-grips and dropped them into his shirt pocket. The flaxen hair cascaded to her shoulders, smooth and straight, and curling slightly upwards at the end. Briefly Clay buried his face in it.

"Smells of lavender ..."

Against her will Julie turned to look at him. Her face brushed against the hardness of his cheek, and lest he should see her sudden suffusing of colour she turned her gaze quickly back to the camel's head. Thankfully it was almost dark now, and the flames of the torches some distance ahead. It was necessary to sit a little rigid after that because her heart knocked so loudly. She forced herself to think of anything but Clay's nearness, and concentrated on the journey.

The smoky grey-black of the sky was sprinkled with diamante stars and occasionally she saw a stark bush silhouetted against the white sand-dunes. The tourists were so far ahead it wasn't even possible to hear the sound of their voices, but she could just about make out the swaying columns between the pinpricks of torchlight.

Their own camel was escorted by four men, two on either side. They were different from the white-cloaked Arab who had led her to the camel. Probably these were the genuine Tuareg from the encampment. Hadn't Clay said the name Tuareg was Arabic for nomad ? She looked down with interest at the swathed figures and veiled faces. Black eyes glittered from deep-set sockets, and on one she caught the glimpse of a fierce black moustache. They strode along, proud and silent.

Perhaps it was the restful rhythm of the camel's motion, now that it had got into its stride, or the fact that keeping one's back as stiff as a ramrod throughout the whole journey was going to prove a little too much. In any case Julie found herself relaxing and relying more and more on Clay's chest as a support. Soon her head was cushioned on his shoulder, and his cheek brushed lightly against her hair. Her heart caused her no embarrassment now, for it merely reverberated against the beat of his own.

All too soon the glow of camp fires could be seen in the distance and as they approached Julie felt a little like an intruder into the Arabian Nights. Tall robed figures and tents were lit by the light of the fires, and the sound of drums rolled along the desert air in an exciting variety of notes. There was a wide circle of women and children, apparently the music-makers, for the women were singing and beating the drums, and the children were acting as chorus leaders. The chatter of the tourists could be heard at the rear.

Reluctantly Julie stirred herself as Clay prepared to dismount. He jumped deftly to the ground, and as the camel knelt he swung Julie down close to him. She couldn't move, for his arms still held her and, puzzled, she looked up into his face. She was shattered to find it so close to her own, but in the moment their eyes met he slipped on a mocking smile and released her with a low laugh.

They were led to the doorway of a solid-looking tent a little apart from the circle but with an excellent view. There sitting on a kind of raised carpet stool was the Sheikh. Amongst the voluminous robes Julie saw a pair of gnarled brown hands, and above the veil a pair of hawklike eyes twinkled at her. He beckoned her to sit at his side and Clay took the other seat. The Sheikh clapped his hands and the show began.

The women accelerated the rhythm of the drums and their voices took on a high-pitched wailing note. As their breath threatened to give out, and the note diminished into little more than a whisper, a fearful-looking figure leapt into the ring accompanied by a simultaneous roar of the drums. The giant figure was clad completely in black, and straps crossed over his breast from a leather belt supporting a scabbard. From this he dragged a cross-hilted sword, and Julie stared wide-eyed as he proceeded to thrust it about with yelps and shouts. With the dainty steps of a ballet dancer he pirouetted around the circle, and as the shouts grew throaty and hoarse he took to swinging his sword viciously a few inches above the heads of the women, as if to encourage louder drum beats and heartier singing. The women readily obliged.

The tourists watched in awe as he leapt amongst them, slashing the sword and glowering darkly, until they were compelled to croak out some sound resembling the women's singing. The snorts and grunts brought a ripple of laughter to Julie's throat, but then she saw the black figure stop and turn her way. In the deafening noise of drums and voices, and with surprising agility for a man of such weight, he was before her, brandishing the sword. A wicked grin gleamed below the curled moustache and the nimble feet criss-crossed in the air.

Remembering the scant space between head and sword as he had swung around the circle, Julie hoped his judgement was still good. The long blade gleamed in the firelight and she swallowed, paled a little and waited. For some reason unknown to her he hesitated. His glance had dropped towards Clay and then back up again. Suddenly he leapt away, tossing a laugh into the air, and splaying his feet out into an almost split-like stride disappeared into the shadows.

One by one the performers took the ring, and when at the end a group of musicians added the peculiar sound of two-stringed violins and strange-looking wind instruments, as a kind of grand finale Sheikh Mafa turned to Julie.

"You come from England ?"

His voice was surprisingly vibrant and he spoke in faultless English. Julie nodded. How far away England seemed here in the desert! It was impossible to drag one's conscious thoughts away from the shrouded figures and veiled faces; from the yellow firelight and ghostly sand-dunes in the distance, and try to imagine a London bus or the bleep of the frantic traffic.

The Sheikh smiled and lifted his hands.

"I went to school in England. I got on well with everybody ... except your English weather!"As they laughed together, Clay stretched and came round to hand Julie a cigarette. The Sheikh watched them and nodded his head gently as though wrapped up in his own thoughts, and then he asked,