Sahara Crosswind (6 page)

The day was dissected. The animals would be discussed one by one. It was the one time of day when the men spoke with ease, without guarding each word as they did their animals.
Jake stood with the others, listening to words he did not understand, watching the tribe's life unfold and fill even this bleak little square.

The women were beautiful, their features as clearly defined as the desert shadows. Their skin was the color of honey, their eyes dark and fathomless. They wore the traditional black headkerchief, but most kept their faces open to the wind and the sun in the Berber fashion.

The first tent poles were struck with an invocation to Allah the merciful, the compassionate, to shield them in this their home for one night. Curved hoops were set in the earth, then great sand-colored sheets were slung up and over and tied in place. A woman sang a haunting melody as she unfurled the great tent's sheet. Her voice rose and fell in a cadence timed like a camel's steps, her words as lilting as a desert wind at dawn.

While the meal was prepared, the children lined up before one of the aged grandmothers. The children's heads were shaved once a week. The grandmother used a flat razor blade, kept in a special pouch. She entertained them with a story as her hand scraped, scraped, scraped away at their dark locks. If the children began howling when the razor was brought out, their cries were the signal that it was time to barter for another blade.

Jake made hand signals requesting two full glasses of tea, then carried them over to where Pierre sat with Patrique. They were stationed at the opening of the tent farthest from the narrow entranceway. With his dark eyes and his features worn by days in the desert, Pierre could easily have passed for a member of the tribe.

Jake worked to keep a smile from his face as he squatted down and offered the two glasses. “Nice to see you looking so fit, Patrique.”

One hand emerged from dark folds to accept the glass. “I am hot and I am uncomfortable. It is not proper to make jokes at one so trapped.”

“Sorry. You've got to admit, though, the outfit does have a lot going for it.”

Before entering the village, Patrique had reluctantly accepted Omar's orders and donned the garb of an elderly woman—black djellabah draped from head to fingertips to toes. The hunters would be searching for one with scars on ankles and wrists. The only person safe from such inspection would be a woman. It would also be easier to hide Patrique's evident weakness behind the dark head-scarf.

Jake pointed to the pen and paper in Pierre's lap. “I didn't mean you had to do it all the time.”

“I insisted,” Patrique said. “It is good insurance, in case—”

“Stop,” Pierre ordered sharply.

Patrique drew back the head-scarf and sipped from his glass, his hand trembling slightly. “Pierre tells me you have a plan.”

“Maybe.” Jake settled on the ground in front of them and began talking. The three of them were soon so intent on the discussion that they did not notice Jasmyn's approach. But when Jake finished, she was the first to speak. “It is a good plan, Jake. I think it will work.”

“I don't like it,” Pierre declared.

“Which would you prefer, my brother?” Patrique asked, his eyes glittering with feverish intensity. “Either we accept the fact that some action must be taken, or I shall be laid to rest here in this land.”

“Do not speak like that,” Pierre said. “I forbid it.”

“Forbid all you wish,” Patrique replied. “But it will not change the fact that I cannot continue much farther.”

“He is right, my beloved,” Jasmyn agreed.

“Listen to your woman,” Patrique urged, the effort of seeking to convince his brother bringing a clammy sweat to his forehead. “Twice already she has saved my life. Three times, if you count her part in the nightmare of Telouet. She knows, Pierre. I cannot go much farther.”

“But to split up,” Pierre protested, weakening.

“Someone must carry on,” Patrique said. “This news must be passed on to those who can stop the madness. Think, my brother, I beg you. We owe this to all who have fought and died to make France free once again. We cannot stand aside and allow her to become imprisoned by other dark forces.”

Jake sat and watched as the internal struggle was mirrored on Pierre's mobile features. But before he could speak, the normal rhythm of the tribe faltered. There was nothing marked, nothing to which Jake could point and say, here, this is what I noticed. Yet the time in the desert had sharpened his awareness, and he knew without understanding exactly why that danger had entered into their midst.

The others noticed it too. Patrique dropped the dark head-scarf over his features. Pierre rose smoothly to his feet, the mitraillette suddenly appearing in his hand. Jake paused long enough to veil his gaze with the bloody bandage, then stood and turned toward the entranceway, his hand on the knife at his waist.

There were three of them. The central figure was sleek and self-assured and wore fine robes woven with threads of silver. The other two were obviously men of the desert, but the difference between them and the Al-Masoud could not have been greater. In place of strength and quiet pride, their faces held only cynical cruelty.

Jasmyn slipped up close behind him and Pierre and whispered, “The central one is a trader.”

Pierre whispered back, “The others?”

Jasmyn replied with the single word, “Tuareg.”

Omar approached and salaamed formal greetings. The trader bowed low, his left hand sweeping up the folds of his robe while the right touched heart and lips and forehead. The Tuareg stood and glared and said nothing. Taking no notice of the pair, Omar led the trader over and motioned for him to be seated on a carpet rolled out ceremoniously by the central fire. The Tuareg followed with an insolent swagger, their dark eyes sweeping the camp.

When the trader had settled, Omar remained standing, and for the first time he looked directly at the taller of the Tuareg. There was no change to his features, but the challenge was clear. Omar extended a hand, half in invitation, half as an order, for the Tuareg to take seats by the trader. Clearly this was not what the Tuareg wished.

As the pair locked eyes and wills, Jake looked from one to the other and glimpsed the two paths taken by these men and the tribes they represented. Upon Omar's features were stamped the strength and power and determined focus of one who lived by honor and traditions. The Tuareg's features were little different from Omar's, with the same hawk nose and fierce dark desert eyes, yet the Tuareg's face was shaped by unbridled cruelty.

The tension mounted until the entire square was held in the grip of the silent standoff. Then the Tuareg snorted his derision, and settled down upon the carpet. Only when the second man had also seated himself did Omar take his place by the trader and motion for tea to be brought.

The trader spoke with rolling tones and florid gestures. Jake did not need to understand the words to know this was one who lied with the ease that others draw breath. As he watched the discussion proceed with formal precision, Jake could feel the danger heighten his perceptions.

He looked from Omar to the trader to the Tuareg and back again. Here, he sensed, was an important truth. Something essential about the desert life was displayed here before him. This was why the tribe clung so determinedly to their traditions and their lore. The desert's harshness was always there, ever ready to steal away the moral fiber that bound them together. As Jake stood and watched and listened to words he could not understand, he knew a pride for Omar and these people, an affection so strong that the flame burned his chest.

Omar turned and gestured to one of the men standing behind him. A moment passed before several of the tribe stepped forward and unrolled richly colored carpets. Jake
had watched the old women weaving these, working as they traveled upon the camels' backs and sitting by the fireside in the evenings, chattering and laughing among themselves, their hands never ceasing their nimble dance. In the sunset's burnished glow, the carpets' rich red and orange hues shone as though lit by a fire of their own.

The trader glanced casually down at the offered rugs and then swiftly turned away, continuing with his elaborate talk. Others stepped forward and set upon the carpets more of the tribe's handiwork—hair and hides of desert goats fashioned into waterskins and tent coverings, and lamb's wool spun into soft blankets and vests for the cold desert nights. Again the trader paid them scant mind, seemingly lost in his conversation.

With formal correctness, Omar hefted a belted vest, the stitches worked with brilliant thread and patterned after the flowing Arabic script. He ran his hand over the rich wool and spoke in a voice that did not require volume to demand a response. Reluctantly the trader cut off his flow of words and accepted the vest. He picked at the wool, frowned with theatrical concern, then spoke a few words.

With a speed that surprised them all, Omar was on his feet, lifting the trader by one arm and gesturing for the wares to be taken back and stored away. The trader yelped in protest, clearly having been prepared for hours of bargaining. But Omar was having none of it. Polite yet determined, he signaled that the discussion was at an end.

Recognizing that this was not a ploy, and seeing the wares vanish from view, the trader yelped a second time. Omar replied by silently waiting and watching as the two Tuareg rose to their feet. The trader plucked at his sleeve, smiling nervously, reaching out into the gathering night toward where the wares had vanished.

Suddenly the Tuareg were less interested in the argument than they were in examining the camp's periphery. Jake felt their gazes rake across him, pass on, then return for a second
inspection. He forced himself to stand still and unflinching. But only when the gaze moved onward was he able to draw breath again.

The taller mercenary stepped away from the fire as though wishing to enter deeper into the camp. Instantly a phalanx of tribesmen were there to bar his way. The Tuareg snarled a curse. The trader moved forward and spoke with eyes closed to cunning slits, his eyes now on the animals paddocked at the square's far end. Caught in a quandary, Omar hesitated only a moment before waving for the tribesmen to let them pass.

A passage opened, barely wide enough to permit one visitor to pass at a time. The trader stepped forward, a nervous giggle escaping under the pressure of the tribesmen's stares. The Tuareg swaggered after him, hands on knives, their eyes sweeping back and forth through the camp as they walked.

At the paddock, the trader went through an elaborate charade of inspecting several animals before speaking a question. Omar responded with a single snort of humor and jerked his head upward in the desert signal of negation.

The trader spoke again, his voice rising. Omar replied by steering the man about and directing him toward the square's entranceway. The tribesmen closed in about them, forcing the Tuareg to follow. Seeing that his protests were to no avail, the trader gathered himself, flung his robes up and about his left arm, gave Omar a single cold nod, and stomped off.

Only when they had left the square did Jasmyn venture to speak. “Omar refused to deal with him.”

“I understood that much,” Jake said, and discovered that his voice was as shaky as his legs from the aftershock of passing danger.

“Omar accused him of offering prices meant for those who had returned from unsuccessful trading at Raggah. But since we are headed there, we shall simply wait and trade in the souq ourselves.”

“Raggah,” Jake said. “Isn't that the city where the Tuareg live?”

Before she could reply, Omar walked over and spoke. Jasmyn translated, “Danger has passed for the night.”

“That trader was a piece of work,” Jake said.

“Indeed, a man so oily he could escape the tightest shackles,” Omar agreed. “He also talks too much. In the desert way, we say that here is one who scolds the trees. When the trees do not answer, he scolds the stars. But we say there remains hope, so long as he scolds only the made things, rather than the Maker. Before, I thought there was hope for this one. Now that I see him in the company of vultures, I am no longer certain. It is doubtful that we shall trade with him again.”

Jake asked, “Is it true we are headed for Raggah?”

“It is the natural destination of all on our course,” Omar explained. “To the west are mountains without passes. To the east, desert without water. All who go north must stop at the oasis of Raggah.”

“Will we be safe?”

“The danger will be no greater there than elsewhere. There is a small French garrison, or there was the last time I passed. The war drained it to a symbolic force of three or four, but still the French soldiers held the Tuareg from doing their worst.”

Jake glanced Pierre's way and said, “Better and better.”

Pierre stepped forward and said, “Ask him if there is any chance that we might find medicines in this village.”

“Doubtful,” Omar replied. “The nearest healer is in Raggah. But I am going now to the village tea house to sit and listen and see what I can learn. I shall see if the merchants have anything. This is for your brother?”

“He is growing worse,” Pierre said, concern creasing his features.

“This is not good. The way to Melilla is long yet. And the healer of Raggah will not be one to trust overmuch.”

Pierre turned to gaze thoughtfully at Jake, then reached some internal decision and gave a single nod. “Please tell Omar we are sorry to have brought peril upon him and his people.”

“The Al-Masoud are men of honor,” Omar replied. “We would not pass a cur into the clutches of the Tuareg.”

“Even so,” Pierre went on, “we are indebted to you and your people. Our duty shall continue long after the money has been paid.”

Omar gravely accepted the translation, inspected Pierre for a long moment, then said, “It is good to know that one such as yourself is to wed one of our own. Long after you have departed, we shall remember that our daughter's husband is a man close to our hearts.”