Call of the Trumpet (10 page)

Cecile’s temper ripened into full bloom. She strode up to him and planted her hands on her hips. “Who do you think you are? And what do you think you’re doing?”

The dark-skinned woman looked horrified. Blackmoore looked amused. “Why, I’m waiting for Hajaja to pack my tent, of course. What are you doing? Besides upsetting and distracting her, I mean. Ahmed, her husband, will be most upset with you.”

“With me? What about you? A woman in her condition shouldn’t be doing such heavy work. I suppose you’re going to make her strike and pack your tent, too?”

He shrugged. “Why not? It’s a woman’s work. I only wonder why you are not doing your own,” he added pointedly.

His crooked grin made her so angry it took a moment for her to remember why she had come. “I’ve done my work, if you must know,” Cecile retorted. “I merely came to tell you I prefer to ride a horse, not a camel. In fact, I refuse to ride a camel.”

“I see,” he replied calmly. “Well, you may do as you wish. The walk will probably do you good.”

“Walk!”

“As a matter of fact, Hajaja would probably enjoy it if you walked with her.”

“Hajaja!”

“Yes. Her time grows near, you know. She would undoubtedly enjoy your company, until the time she must fall behind and give birth to her child among the dunes.”

He was baiting her, she knew, but only with the truth. She was familiar with Badawin birth practices. Women with child walked, and they continued to work as before because only the strong survived on the desert. And they stopped and gave birth alone because water was life and the camp must stay on the move to reach it or all would die. Furthermore, she knew women almost always rode camels, never horses. But El Faris, Blackmoore, was an Englishman, not a Badawin. Did he mock her? Or did he truly live by Badawin law?

The blue eyes that silently laughed at her abruptly grew somber. “This is the desert, bint Sada, you must never forget,” he said at last, disconcertingly close to the tenor of Cecile’s thoughts. “Its customs may seem harsh, but so is the land. And custom evolved to survive this land.”

With that Matthew turned and mounted his horse, leaving her to consider his words. She was not here as a guest or an observer, and she must, therefore, learn to live by the rules of the land and the people if she had the slightest possibility of succeeding. She watched as Matthew hesitated for a moment, then put his heels to his horse and galloped away.

Cecile fumed as El Faris’s parting dust swirled about her. To make matters worse, Hajaja stared at her as if she was nothing more attractive than a diseased dog. Suddenly ashamed, a furious blush rising to her checks, Cecile spun on her heel and strode from the scene of her humiliation.

In the end, of course, Cecile rode the camel, and the experience was just as miserable as she had known it would be. The canopied
maksar
was crowded with Hagar squeezed in front of her, and the camel’s rolling gait made her sicker than she had ever felt aboard the ship. Worst of all, however, was the dust … from the men who rode ahead on their mares,
saluqi
hunting hounds frolicking at their heels. She had seen Jali and several other men on camels, but most rode horses. Including Ahmed, whose pregnant wife trekked along somewhere behind them in the dusty vanguard.

Fury mounting, Cecile disregarded entirely the fact that all was, as she very well knew, according to custom, and the custom had been established for very good reason. Irritable and unreasonable, she placed blame for all her present woes solely on the man she considered responsible for them.

The memory of how he had tricked her, strung her along, still burned. He might have told her in the very beginning who he was and saved her a great deal of anguish. But, no. He had had to wring every last shred of amusement from the situation. Cecile had accepted neither his apology nor his explanation of why he had concealed the truth from her for so long. To hear the unvarnished truth and learn whether she was made of “sturdy stuff” … to learn whether she had what it took to survive the desert and its ways … Indeed!

On the other side of the coin, Cecile was forced to admit that it had been honorable and courageous of him to rescue her. Further deflating, Cecile recalled Matthew’s words when she had asked if they really might find Haddal.

“Most likely,” he had replied. “He will go deep into the desert, to the well of Ath Thumama, too, though we will continue on to the east.” He had chuckled at that. “We need to be as far away as possible from the caliph’s … ‘justice.’ I snatched you right from under his nose, you know. Not a very polite thing to do. And I wasn’t exactly his favorite person to begin with.”

Cecile had learned then that Blackmoore and the caliph were old enemies. “For the caliph is a petty tyrant who grows strong as the sultan, Murad, grows weaker, falling day by day deeper into degeneracy and madness. Unjustly, the caliph extends his rule, tightens his grip, inflates the taxes. We in the desert, of course, like to make life as difficult as possible for him. Assert our independence, if you will. And I, uh, I’ve been known to be in the forefront of … certain activities from time to time.”

Although he had not gone into detail, Cecile had a good imagination. Despite his English heritage, his spirit seemed to her quite Badawin. And the Badawin had three primary loves in life: horses, making war, and making …

Cecile shuddered, thankful, in this land, for the sanctity of an unmarried woman. The thought of his tanned, long-fingered hands upon her …

“What are you doing?” Hagar asked sharply. “Stop fidgeting and sit still!”

With a scowl, Cecile folded her arms and slumped against the
maksar,
wondering if the interminable journey would ever end.

At noon, with the sun directly overhead and the heat intense, Blackmoore halted his band. For as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but irregular patches of sand and black lava debris.

At least, however, they had stopped, and Cecile would be able to lie down and rest, and pray her stomach returned to normal before the journey resumed. When the camel knelt at last, it was all Cecile could do to keep from falling from the
maksar.
When she had finally made it to the ground, she sank to the sand, back pressed to the patient animal.

“What are you doing, lazy girl?” Hagar cried. “Unload the traveling supplies! Fetch some camel dung and start a fire!”

Cecile looked up wearily. Was it possible? Were the women really expected to do all this after having packed and loaded the entire camp and spent four brutal hours on camelback … or on foot?

Apparently. Everywhere she looked, the women were busy. The men, not surprisingly, sat in the shade of their mounts to gossip and smoke. Cecile clenched her teeth, then spat out the grit that ground between them. Damn!

The fire was eventually started. Hagar arranged a cooking pot over the flames and proceeded with the simple preparations. When the rice was ready, Hagar also poured
leben
into a wooden bowl and handed it all to Cecile. “Now take this and give it to El Faris.”

Cecile nearly choked. “What … what about his servants? Don’t they cook for him?”

“The women who belong to El Faris cook for their men.” Hagar looked disgusted. “And men do not cook. Now off with you!”

It was all Cecile could do to keep from throwing the food on the ground. Grinding her still gritty teeth, she marched to where Blackmoore lolled in the sparse patch of shade beneath his mare. “Here,” she said tightly, and thrust the bowls at him.

“Inna ‘l harim atyab ma’indana hast,”
he replied evenly, and took the proffered food.

Had she heard correctly? “Women are the best of all we possess”? Cecile almost smiled. She looked into his eyes, so incredibly, clearly blue … and saw the twinkle in them. Then she heard the laughter of the other men around her.

He teased her! How could she have missed the sarcasm in his tone? Hands balled into fists, Cecile turned sharply on her heel and walked stiffly back to the cooking fire.

The afternoon proceeded much the same as the morning. Only the scenery changed. There was less lava debris and more sand. Once they crossed a dry salt lake, and Cecile managed to rouse briefly from her torpor. But there wasn’t much to see, and she sank back again, eyes closing without effort or will.

Was this, she wondered, what she had dreamed of and longed for? Was this all there was to be, day after weary day? Nothing but dusty, debilitating, ceaseless journeying?

The thought was so traitorous it brought Cecile abruptly awake. No, by Allah, she would not give in to such weak, defeatist thinking. She had known the desert life was harsh. After all she had been through, she should be thankful she was here at all. At least she was free and leading the life she had chosen.

After what seemed an eternity, the sun began its rapid descent below the far horizon. The sand glare was so great in that last, brilliant light that Cecile was forced to shield her eyes. Then the soft dusk fell about them, and they halted for the night.

Wordlessly resolute and determined, Cecile dug a fire pit, then went to fetch dried camel dung from their supply.

“No!” Hagar’s voice stopped her. “What are you doing, ignorant girl? Do not waste dung when there is ample firewood!”

Firewood? Cecile glanced about her. There were a few dull green bushes with pale golden blooms, now that she looked. Farther back she had noticed some pathetically dry and scraggly
gaghraf
bushes. Is that what Hagar meant by firewood?

“Go,” the old woman ordered, and gestured at the desert. “Go on, lazy girl. I must tend the mare.”

Cecile hesitated, then turned her most imploring gaze on the irascible old woman. “Please, I love horses, and I’m good with them. Tonight, just this once, let me care for the mare.”

Hagar looked more amenable to the suggestion than Cecile had hoped. “Very well,” she said at length. “I will gather the wood and you tend to Al Chah ayah. But be sure you do it properly!”

Cecile had watched the other women and thought she knew what to do. She found a feedbag and feed, and a
jillal,
the night blanket, and then set out to find the mare.

Blackmoore stood stroking the animal’s damp neck. He turned when he saw Cecile but said not a word. He smiled, however, crookedly, one corner of his hard, handsome mouth turned up. Something unfamiliar and, she thought, unpleasant, happened in the pit of her stomach. Quickly and silently, without word or backward glance, she took the mare’s reins and led her back to the kneeling pack camel.

Al Chah ayah, “long-striding one.” The mare was aptly named. Cecile remembered the way she had sprung forward into the night, pounding ahead despite the double burden she had borne. She remembered, too, tales of her father’s beloved Al Hamrah, “red one.” And she could not help but note the many comparisons between her father and this man who had also adopted the desert, its ways, and its peoples … El Faris.

A chill ran down her spine, but Cecile banished it. There was work to be done.

Cecile traded a softly woven halter for a saddle and bridle, watered the mare, and, when the animal had drunk her fill, slipped the feedbag into place. As the mare munched contentedly, Cecile cupped her hands and stroked the animal’s sides, removing excess sand and sweat. Last, she threw the
jillal
onto the mare’s back and fastened it. The mare was tethered and settled for the night by the time Hagar returned with the firewood, and while the old woman tended the fire, Cecile unpacked, fed, and tethered the camels. Beside their warm, musky-smelling bodies, she laid a rug and placed their sleeping quilts over it. When the evening portion of rice and dates had been dished out, Cecile picked it up and made to carry it away.