Call of the Trumpet (16 page)

Never had anything felt so wonderful. Shivering at the shock of the cool water, Cecile crouched. The cotton drape billowed around her, and she looked about her to make sure no one watched.

A few other women bathed nearby. It was not the women she worried about, however. No matter how often she had been reassured that men were absolutely forbidden to come near where women were disrobed, she still didn’t trust them. She glanced around once more. Seeing no one, she began to relax.

There was no such thing as soap, not when sand was so abundant and effective. The result was amazing, and Cecile felt cleaner than she ever had before, despite the absence of oils and perfumed soaps.

At the last, she rebraided her hair and dressed, wishing she had a mirror. With a feeling of pride and pleasure, she stroked the soft folds of the new
makruna
and
towb
and tugged the embroidery-stiffened edges of the jacket into place. Then she returned to the tent and shyly entered.

The old woman said nothing but looked extremely pleased. Cecile flushed. “Hagar,” she said softly. “I can’t thank you enough. I …”

“Hush, child,” Hagar interrupted brusquely. “And come here. We’re not finished. Now close your eyes.”

It was difficult. Cecile heard Hagar fussing with something but did not know what it was until she felt it fastened around her neck.

“Now here. Take this bit of mirror and look at yourself.”

Speechless, Cecile accepted the broken piece of looking glass and held it up to her face. She gasped, much to Hagar’s evident delight.

“Oh … oh, Hagar … I don’t believe it.” And she didn’t, not really. Could the reflection in the mirror be the same person she had seen only two days before, on the surface of the water? The deep blue of the new clothes enhanced the color of her skin, and the red of the lovely coral necklace, matched to the jacket’s embroidery, made her raven hair seem all the darker.

She had worn much fancier clothes, of course, and had donned diamonds and emeralds, not coral. But never had she felt so beautiful, so intensely feminine. Cecile was unable to blink away the tears that spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Hagar …”

“Oh, stop,” the old woman retorted. “Stop that eye watering. Come and help me with the food. It is time.”

The entire camp had turned out to participate in the festivities. Everyone had something to offer. There was the game, served in every conceivable manner; dishes of rice stewed with onions, raisins, and lamb;
dolma,
rice and meat wrapped in vine leaves;
haris,
a porridge made of corn and meat; and the inevitable dates, bread, and skins of milk and
leben.

There was also an undercurrent of suppressed excitement. People visited and shared their food, gossiping in low voices, building tension as the evening wore on. Cecile felt it, and shared in it. She visited with Hajaja and Kut, who thanked her profusely over and over. Hagar introduced her to some of the other women, not only the servants of El Faris but independent families who traveled with him because they valued his leadership.

At length the women, as one, moved toward the camp of the Anizah, there to watch the groom lead his bride to the marriage tent. She was a pretty thing, from what Cecile was able to see of her above the veil, and very young. Her heart spasmed with inexplicable emotion as the new husband led his wife into the
hegra.

The event seemed to be what everyone had awaited. Back at their own camp, the celebration began in earnest. The men went off to one side, the women to another. Then the poems, stories, and dancing commenced.

The women, uninhibited now, became bawdy in both their tales and their dancing. They ridiculed the men, exalted them, laughed at their foibles, and praised their prowess. They moved their hips suggestively and snapped their fingers, dancing as they sang. Even old Hagar seemed to enjoy herself, and had stories to tell as ribald as the next woman. Nor had Jali, Cecile noticed, been left out of Hagar’s recounting. What, she wondered, had Jali and the old woman been up to?

The festivities continued until the moon was high, and still they went on. The men could be heard now, laughing and joking, carried away with their own storytelling abilities. From what Cecile overhead, most of the tales, on both sides, were of love and lovemaking. Suddenly restless, stiff from the position in which she had been sitting all night, she decided to go for a walk. Hagar never even noticed her leave.

Someone else did, however. He saw the slight, lissome figure as she moved from the circle of light toward the darkness of the oasis. He debated, decided not to follow her, and found he had risen to his feet.

The croaking of the frogs had abated, replaced by the sighing of the night wind. Palms rustled and creaked, and the reeds whispered at the water’s edge, where breeze-stirred wavelets softly lapped.

Cecile closed her eyes and inhaled the enveloping night, its sounds and scents. If only her heart would still, she thought, wondering why it would not.

She sensed rather than heard his approach. One moment she was alone, the next she knew she was not. It was as if she had heard his quiet breathing, or had smelled his clean, masculine scent. Regardless, like an animal, she sensed him and turned, poised to run at the slightest hint of danger.

He wore a simple
towb
beneath his
aba,
a sleeveless coat of gray, black, and red vertical stripes. It made him look even taller than he was. In fact, he seemed to tower over her. Cecile took a small backward step.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked in a peculiarly husky voice.

“Only a moment.”

“Why didn’t you speak?”

“Al
sabr miftah al faraj,”
Matthew replied. “Patience is the key of success.”

She wondered what he meant. Did he mock her yet again? If he did, it didn’t seem to matter tonight. Her temper, usually so short in his presence, was curiously absent.

A fact Matthew did not miss. She seemed softer somehow this night, vulnerable. And more beautiful than he had ever seen her, even when she had stood before him at the end of Muhammad’s leash. Remembering the lush curves of her mouth, he wished he might see beneath the veil.

Though the night was dark away from the fires, she knew he regarded her with intensity. She saw the flicker of his eyes in the moonlight, and lowered her own gaze.

“I … I thank you for the gifts,” Cecile said at last.

“A mere token. To honor you for your bravery. You look very … very lovely,” Matthew continued. Like a desert flower, he added silently, so fresh and fragrant and delicately beautiful the hand longed to pluck it. Yet to touch it meant death to the fragile blossom. He clenched the fingers that had almost reached to caress her, wondering if she would have flinched from him had he done so.

Cecile stared at the ground. Why could she think of nothing to say? What was happening to her? What were these strange feelings churning within her breast? Their heat threatened to overwhelm and burn her, and she hugged herself, suddenly afraid. The urge to flee rose in her and she took a step backward.

“Wait, no … don’t go.” Matthew reached out and imprisoned one slender wrist.

Cecile froze, panic ballooning in her breast, remembering Abdullah. “Let me go … let me go … please! Why won’t you let me go?”

Because he never wanted to release her, Matthew realized with an electrifying jolt. He wanted to hold her until the end of time, caress her silken body and hair, and whisper words of love.

But he said none of it, couldn’t. He had never spoken such words before; he didn’t know how. His mother had been a hard, unloving woman. His father had never brought another one into his life. Matthew knew none of the poetry of courtship. He knew only that he didn’t want the lovely creature before him to leave, and was hurt and baffled by her fear. Unable to speak of his longing, Matthew instead gripped Cecile all the more tightly and, in a hoarse voice, countered, “Why do you want to run away from me? Why? What have I done to you? What have I ever done to frighten you so?”

Everything … nothing!
Cecile wanted to scream. She didn’t know. She was suddenly so confused, she felt dizzy. There was something funny happening in the pit of her stomach, too, and her knees felt weak. What was happening to her?

Desert law forbade a man to touch a woman outside of marriage. He had always abided by Badawin law. But she had changed all that, he suddenly realized, from the very moment he had first seen her, and recognized her. And, yes, wanted her. For they lived as Badawin, yet were not. Their differentness set them apart, and now brought them together. They belonged, in the end, to no one but themselves. And, now, to one another.

Matthew was no longer able to restrain himself. She was too near, too incredibly, fragrantly close. One hand pinned both wrists, the other lifted the veil, tenderly, as if he was afraid to take what was almost his.

Cecile did nothing, was powerless to move, caught in eddies and whorls of emotion she had never before experienced. She tried desperately to revive the anger that had always been her salvation before, but it would not come, and Matthew’s face loomed closer, lips parting, until she felt his breath against her mouth, warm, so warm …

Their lips met, tentatively at first, the touch as fleetingly gentle as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. But it was not enough, not nearly, for either of them. And the meeting of their bodies was anything but tender, or fleeting.

Matthew clutched Cecile to him, felt her arms encircle his neck, pulling him down, closer and closer, as if she might draw him into her very soul. Her lips parted now, and he could taste the sweetness of her breath, the exotic darkness of her mouth. His hands moved down her back, feeling the curve of her spine, the slender tapering of her waist, and the rounded rise of her buttocks.

Cecile moaned, as unaware of the sound as she was of its source. Nothing existed outside of the fierce, hot demands of her body. She had no thought, no consciousness at all save the mindless registering of her senses: the demanding heat of his mouth; the smooth-rough texture of his skin; the hard, tensed muscles beneath her hands. She was lost, drowning, and she did not care … she cared for nothing but that it go on forever and ever …

“El Faris? Are you there? El Faris?” a voice called from out of the darkness.

Matthew whirled toward the sound, but whoever had sought him had moved on. And it was too late now, too late. By the time he turned back, he realized she, too, had gone from him. For a brief moment he saw her eyes, huge and round and terrified, looking for all the world like a frightened mare, an animal who has suffered so greatly it shuns the touch of man.

Matthew did not understand her fear, not at all. He merely watched, helpless, as she disappeared into the night.

A
HMED SCOUTED THE WAY, RIDING AHEAD ON
his
dahlul.
He had been with El Faris for many years and knew not only the land, as any good Badawin must, but the particular route his master liked to travel. Each rocky ridge, each low, rugged hillock was a marker. Even the constantly shifting sands in between meant something to him. It was vital in a land where one false step could lead you wide of a life-giving well.

So he rode on, keen eyes marking each passing feature, deeper into the heart of the desert. They made good time on their way to Ath Thumama and tonight would set up camp near an intermediate well. Ahmed was glad. Hajaja’s time was almost upon her, and he preferred for the child to be born in camp, rather than on the trail.

Ahmed was also worried. For the first time in memory, he had not seen one of the sly little desert foxes cross their trail, and the fox was an omen of luck. Had it deserted them? Did some deep trouble lie in their future?

No, it couldn’t be so, not with El Faris as their leader. He probably just hadn’t noticed the little animal when it had dashed across his path.

The thought was driven from Ahmed’s mind as he spotted what he had been searching for. The sun was not far above the western horizon, and he had to shade his eyes and squint. But yes, there it was. He could tell by the bushes growing close around its rock-bordered opening. He turned his camel and headed back to the marching vanguard.

This time the well was more what Cecile had envisioned before she had entered the desert. It was small, no more than a hole in the ground, dug deep to intersect the underground water source. Rocks were piled around, both to mark and protect it, and a few scrubby bushes clung tenaciously to life near its entrance.

Already the herdsmen drew water for their beasts, lowering hide buckets on long ropes. Soon it would be the women’s turn, when they had pitched their tents and started their fires.

Cecile threw herself into her labor. She unpacked the tent and spread it on the ground. With Hagar’s help it was quickly erected, their household goods moved inside, and the fire pit dug. “I’ll go look for wood, Hagar,” she said, “if you will see to the camels and … and the mare.”

The old woman turned to her tentmate, her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “What is the matter with you?” she asked sharply. “I thought you liked to care for the animals. Yet ever since we left the oasis, you have preferred to gather wood in the evenings. What is this change of heart you have had?”