The Serpent's Daughter (16 page)

“I think you will need more food,” said the priest.

A half hour later, Jade stood at the Bab el Khemis, the gate on the northernmost point of Marrakech. Its small, plainly carved scallops rose over the brick-worked archway and made a tolerable attempt at being ornate without any scroll-work or other pretensions. More interesting to Jade’s eye was the oddly crenellated top, made of zigzagging tiers narrowing at their tops. This
bab,
or gate, did not cater to the rich, but to ordinary travelers in need of mounts.

It was Thursday, and the great market had been going on all day. No aroma of attar of roses here, just the earthy smell of camels, donkeys, mules, and an occasional swaybacked horse. While most business had been conducted in the cooler morning hours, a few men lingered with the remains of their stock. About a dozen other men loitered about, looking at the animals, and their chatter mingled with invitations to buy. Jade frowned. She certainly wouldn’t get the pick of the litter at this time of day. Perhaps she should have hurried over here, but she’d accepted the priest’s offer of water to clean her hair and face. No one would have sold anything to her looking like a wild woman.

“Come see this fine mule,” beckoned one man. “She is a pearl beyond measure, a rare gem. Only three years old.”

Jade opened the animal’s mouth and examined the teeth, at least what remained of them. “She was three years old when Allah sent the great flood,” she said. Someone laughed behind her. Jade turned.

“Ah, the lady knows a nag when she sees one,” said the man who laughed. “Here I have fine animals, strong as the mountains but gentle as kittens. Only one hundred fifty dinar each.”

Jade ran her hands over one animal’s legs, examined the hooves and teeth. All the while she wondered how she was going to pay for any beast, much less provisions. Her mother had her camera bag with the last of their money. The priest had pressed four loaves of bread on them, along with two water skins and a cooked chicken, but that would hardly take them to Bachir’s village. She’d sent Bachir into the souks with one of the silver bracelets given to her by the old woman to buy food and a few cook pots.

The bracelets turned out to be great gifts, each finely crafted with coins dangling from them, part of the old lady’s dowry. Jade hoped one of the other two bracelets, equally beautiful, would be accepted here. The problem was, she had no idea how many dinar they were worth. She hoped by flaunting them, the merchant would give her some idea.

“It is not too bad an animal,” Jade said with little enthusiasm as she began the bargaining game. “But I am a poor woman and I need three mules.” She raised her hand to her forehead to flaunt the bracelet, and sighed as though many troubles beset her. It wasn’t a far stretch, either. The afternoon sun glinted on the silver links and danced off the coins. “I am not sure I could find even thirty dinar.”

The merchant took the bait, his eyes riveted on the glittering bangle. “You are Nazarene,” he said, “and so must be very rich.”

Jade shook her head. “Ah, if you only knew my troubles. Evil men stole my mother. It took all my money to get here. Now she has been taken away again. All I have left is what I wear. Would you leave me bereft of everything?”

“Charity is a virtue,
Alalla
. I will let you have three mules for one of the bracelets.”

Noting how quickly the man suggested the new price, Jade gained some insight to the bracelet’s value. “I can do without a saddle if I must,” she said, as though speaking her thoughts aloud to herself, “but how can I make my aged mother ride without one when I find her again?”

“I will take the loss,
Alalla,
waiting patiently for my reward in heaven. I will let you have three mules and two saddles for the bracelet.”

As willing as the man was, she knew she still had bargaining room, but the deal was fair. She wouldn’t have the man think the worst of a Nazarene. “I accept your offer
if
you let
me
choose the three mules and the two saddles.”

Now it was the merchant’s turn to appear distressed, as though such a bargain would break him, but he agreed. Jade selected her animals, choosing the best but settling for the more worn but still serviceable saddles, leaving the newer and more ornate ones behind. Her own kindness in that matter did not go unnoticed by the merchant.

“Allah go with you on your journey to find your mother,” he said, after the nearby scribe had recorded the sale. Any guilt Jade might have harbored for taking advantage of the man disappeared when she saw the delight with which he took possession of the bracelet.
Probably worth an entire herd of camels
.

Jade thanked him and, after many wishes for blessings were exchanged, led her animals to the gate to wait for Bachir. He found her shortly after, his success evident by the sacks of provisions: onions, sugar, salt, meal for couscous, grain for the mules, a cook pot, a teapot, two cups, a bag of mint, and another of green tea. Jade grimaced when she saw the latter. What she really wanted was a good cup of coffee, but if a person had to endure tea, at least the mint tea was heavily sweetened. He obviously was a better haggler than she was, since he returned the bracelet chain to her with one coin left on it.

Bachir approved of the mules. “We can leave in the morning,
Alalla
.”

“We will leave now. We have at least five good hours of daylight left.” Jade fastened the saddle girth on her mount, a jenny with soft brown eyes and velvety ears. “We will put the supplies on this one,” she said, pointing to a large-boned jack mule.

By the time they left Marrakech, it was just after three o’clock by Jade’s pocket watch. The sun, while hot, didn’t scorch like it would later in the summer. Water for the mounts wouldn’t be a problem since the spring melts brought plenty of water down from the snowcapped Atlas, and the mules could find forage close to the streams. If anything, the spring runoff would make fording some of the rivers interesting.

The route south took them past several deep wells, which Bachir said tapped into the underground clay conduit pipes carrying water from the mountains to Marrakech. Jade thought about the conduit she’d wallowed through. It must have been part of this vast system, but a part that had collapsed on itself, much to her good fortune. Water left to run wild, still cold, raced by in sharp ravines, and a few children splashed along the edge with a herd of black goats, while the children’s parents dug at the wet clay along the edge, making bricks to sell. Jade and Bachir stopped only to water their mules and themselves, pressing on until the increasing dark made it too difficult to see.

Bachir started a fire by an oasis of scraggly olive trees and heated water for tea while Jade tended to the mules. When she sat down by the fire, she broke out the food and handed the chicken to Bachir to take first pick. He tore off a leg quarter, and Jade did the same. She studied her guide out of the corner of her eye, wondering what motivated him to travel all the way to Tangier to hunt for her. After all, he’d never even seen her before. Who was behind this?

“Tell me, Bachir, do you have a family?”

“My father and mother live,” he said, without looking up from his meal.

“Then you are not married? You have no children?”

“No.”

Jade finished the leg quarter, sliced a hunk of breast meat from the chicken, plopped it on a thick slab of bread, and passed it to Bachir. She did the same for herself, letting silence fall naturally into the conversation. Her companion’s reticence seemed almost palpable. Jade could tell he would not appreciate being interrogated, nor did she wish to. She needed his goodwill, but she also needed information. She had no clue what she was walking into up in the mountains.

“May I ask you about your village?”

“What do you want to know?” he asked as he poured hot mint tea into two mugs. He took one for himself and offered Jade the other. She took it. It wouldn’t pay to offend him by doing otherwise.

“How do you grow crops up there? Do you have village festivals?” She purposely chose nonpersonal questions first, to put him at ease. While she waited for his answer, she sipped the sweet tea and felt it scald her throat.

“We make flat steps into the mountain,” he said, using his left hand to illustrate the wide terraces. “Every family has their land and their use of the water. We celebrate when someone marries.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Then there is a big feast and dancing.”

Jade heard the sorrow in his voice and knew with a flash of feminine insight that he mourned a wife. She decided to take a chance and address it as a certainty. “I am sorry, Bachir. I’m sure she was a good wife.” She saw him startle and clutch the talisman he wore under his robe.

“It should not surprise me that you know,
Alalla
. You have the gift.”

“I don’t have any gift, Bachir, except experience. I have known many people who mourned someone. I am one of them myself.” Bachir nodded. “What was she like?”

He stared at his mug of tea without answering for half a minute. “Young. A quiet woman, but you are right. She was a good wife. Allah took her and my infant son when she was in labor last harvest.”

“I’m sorry, Bachir.”

He shrugged as though resigned to his lot in life. “My mother picked my wife.”

Jade didn’t know if her next question would seem impertinent or not, but she asked anyway. “Will you marry again?”

“Yes. It is unholy for a man not to have a wife. But we paid a very high bride price, and I have not yet enough goats and silver to marry again. I do not hurry,” he added. “There is no unmarried girl I want.” He stared into the fire and began singing his tuneless lament.

Jade sensed he did not wish to pursue the discussion, so she let it drop. She understood how he felt, in a way. Everyone she knew was always trying to play matchmaker for her, including her mother. After a while, it made the entire prospect a trifle annoying. It seemed apparent that Bachir would marry again out of spiritual necessity. It also sounded as if he had not been very much in love with his first wife.
Then what was he mourning?
She replayed his words,
There is no
unmarried
girl I want.
Was that it? Was he in love with another man’s wife and dreaded facing the family again? She wondered what he really saw in the fire. Was he imagining a face or perhaps a home full of children?

“Is that why you were chosen to find me?” Jade asked. “Because you do not have children to care for?”

“I volunteered to go for the good of my village.” He filled his mouth with a large bite of bread, a clear signal that he did not wish to talk anymore.

They devoured the entire chicken and a loaf of bread each before curling up in their saddle blankets to sleep. Jade couldn’t sleep right away. She thought about her own parents. They were devoted to each other; that much was evident. But she wondered if their love had diminished over the years. They still rode together, but less frequently and never very far afield. The days when her mother had joined them on camping trips had ended when Jade was still a young girl.
Why?
Her father had told her stories about her mother, how they met at a Gypsy camp in Spain.
Not that Mother would ever admit it now
.

At least her parents loved each other, she thought as she stared up at the stars. Now, David’s parents were another story altogether. She shivered again, thinking of her former beau’s mother, Olivia Lilith Worthy, remembering when she first met her. Jade had gone to London to express her sympathy for the loss of Mrs. Worthy’s son as a pilot in the war. She was in need of sympathy herself. But she received a very cold reception. Mrs. Worthy, a widow, had appeared dressed in proper black, but with a sense of style and wealth that didn’t bespeak of much sincere mourning for either her son or her recently deceased husband.

Then later, Jade learned that the woman had actually orchestrated her husband’s death in Nairobi when Gil Worthy had returned to seek out his illegitimate son. If that weren’t enough, evidence hinted strongly that much of Lilith’s wealth did not stem from her husband’s successes. Instead, she ran several smuggling operations, bringing heroin into Nairobi and rifles into Abyssinia. She’d planned on becoming empress of that country, ruling with the man who ran her guns. Had David known any of this? He’d rarely spoken of his mother. Was that why? What would have happened if Jade had married David?

Thoughts of marriage led Jade to think of the newest man in her life, Sam Featherstone. She’d met him in January while photographing elephant herds on a remote mountain in British East Africa. He’d proven himself to be a trusty ally when slave raiders and gunrunners kidnapped a Kikuyu boy in her care. An American pilot who lost his lower right leg in the war, Sam was smart, funny, good-looking, and clearly interested in her. In their adventures together he’d proven his trustworthiness many times over, and whenever he was near, Jade’s senses became acutely alive. Still, his pursuit of her scared her, and she wasn’t sure why.

Jade wrapped her blanket more tightly around her and remembered Sam’s warmth when they shared a hammock on Marsabit one night. That led to thoughts of a burning kiss, when they were chained together in a lava waste desert. Jade felt warmth spread across her face and down her limbs. She missed him and wished she could talk about this situation with him, or just share the campfire and the sky. What was he doing now? Was he back on Mount Marsabit in East Africa, filming the elephants? Or had he gone home to Indiana to start life anew and try to fly again? It wouldn’t be easy to operate rudder pedals with only one leg. A gaping yawn intruded on her thoughts, and Jade submitted to sleep.

She slept fitfully, dreaming of
jinni,
dank tunnels, and Little Owls popping out of red leather bags with silver charms in their talons. Every time she tried to catch one of the owls, the moon eclipsed the sun and everything went dark. Then she’d find herself back in one of those tunnels again.