Call of the Trumpet (25 page)

He arrived shortly. Matthew entered and secured the flap behind him. He crossed to the opposite side of the quilt and sat down, cross-legged.

Cecile was not certain how long they remained thus. The minutes ticked away, and the night darkened. Sounds of the camp drifted in to them. The candle flames danced, their light becoming brighter as the night deepened, until they were all that could be seen in the hot, thick gloom. Then Cecile heard a sound behind her. She jumped, startled, and turned to him.

“Don’t worry,” Matthew drawled. “I said I wouldn’t touch you, and I meant it. But do you mind if I lie down?”

“I mind nothing,” Cecile replied truthfully.

“Good.” He stretched out on the quilt, arms folded beneath his head. It was strange, he thought. The situation should be uncomfortable, intolerable even. Yet it was not. Despite her rejection of him, despite his pain and anger, it felt good just to be near her, to know she was safe from Rashid. Matthew felt the beginnings of a smile twitch at his lips as he stared at her rigid, square-shouldered back.

Cecile was not unaware of his regard. She could almost feel his eyes boring into her. But she did not move; she could not. She had become leaden, as dead and numb as she had felt at her father’s graveside. She had lost everything then, too.

At last the night sounds faded, and the camp fell still. Once again Cecile heard a movement behind her and turned slowly.

Matthew had rolled on his side, supported on one elbow, and gazed at her with a lazy smile. Cecile instantly bristled.

Did he find humor in the situation? Could he possibly be so callous? Something flamed to life in Cecile’s breast.

“You do not know how glad I will be to be rid of this barbaric land!”

Matthew’s grin faltered. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I am leaving,” Cecile replied, now without trace of emotion. The brief spark had been extinguished, and her eyes were dull and blank. “As soon as we reach the coast, I am going to find the first ship back to France and leave this accursed place behind me.”

Matthew’s smile disappeared altogether. Leave? She would leave? It was a possibility he had never considered, and the thought of her departure reawakened the pain, the torment, he had felt the night she had rejected him. And it angered him. Why should he care whether or not she left the desert? He shouldn’t.

But he did.

Matthew closed his eyes.

An hour passed, perhaps two. Cecile felt exhaustion overtaking her. When she knew she could no longer hold her eyes open, she lay down at Matthew’s side. Her heart was empty, her mind numb. She, too, closed her eyes.

He listened for a time to the quiet, even breathing beside him. A longing to take Cecile’s hand, to hold her, keep her, know she would not leave him, overcame Matthew so suddenly his fingers had opened, stretching, before he realized the utter futility of such an action. Groaning, he turned on his side, away from her.

He did not hear the soft, heart-catching sob at his back. He did not see the faint glimmer of tears on her cheeks. He was lost in his own dull darkness. Eventually, as the candles guttered and died, Matthew slept.

O
UTWARDLY LITTLE HAD CHANGED
. C
ECILE NOW
sat in front of Hagar in the
maksar,
rather than behind. But the horrible rolling motion was the same. Also the heat, the flies, the endless miles of sandy dunes and occasional jagged rock. There was more dust perhaps, Cecile mused. Her father’s legacy had swelled the herds and flocks and added to the band of mares. Inwardly, however, the change was vast. Now she was not coming, but going. The future was no longer ahead, but behind. Her heart was no longer alive, but dead, dull and empty.

It was good, though, Cecile thought. The wearisome travel seemed so much easier to endure. Her mind did not run in impatient circles, or plague her with wild flights of fancy. The camel’s monotonous plodding occupied her totally. Even Hagar remained silent for a change.

At noon, when the sun was high, Cecile wondered briefly why they did not stop, as usual. But she found she did not care enough to question it, and soon her mind was numb again. An hour passed, and another. She did not notice or care. When the small caravan halted, she was barely aware of it. Then the camel knelt, and she was jarred into reality. “What … why are we stopping, Hagar?”

“To set up camp,” the old woman replied, climbing from the
maksar.

“But why don’t we march until dusk, like before?”

“Because now we are on
rabala,
a daily journey of six hours only so there is plenty of time for camp life.
Before
we reached Ath Thumama,” Hagar added pointedly, “we were on forced march.” She paused to look Cecile in the eye. “Did you not realize that?”

“I … I don’t understand.”

“There is much, I think, you do not understand,” Hagar commented, not unkindly. “So I will tell you.”

Cecile had not yet climbed from the
maksar.
She looked down at the old woman. “Tell me what?”

“On the way to Ath Thumama, we had to move quickly, in case the caliph had sent men into the desert to look for you. El Faris feared we would be followed. Also, he knew how anxious you were to reach the camp of your foster father. You had endured much, and El Faris did not wish to add to your burdens. So we hurried to reach Ath Thumama, as was your wish. All thoughts were for you, Al Dhiba. From a man you say does not care.”

Cecile’s dark eyes glittered. “If he had cared, he wouldn’t have mar—” She snapped her mouth shut, knowing only too well Hagar’s answer to this particular argument. She didn’t want to argue, or think about Matthew, anymore. She wanted to think only about reaching the coast and returning home to France. She must think of nothing else. To aid in that resolve, she would have to keep busy. She crossed to the other side of the kneeling camel and began to help Hagar unload.

“What are you doing?” Hagar cried. “Get away!”

Startled, Cecile stepped back. “What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m helping you, of course.”

“Brides do not work for seven days following their marriage,” Hagar replied crossly.

“But who … who will help you pitch the tent?”

“No one. I did it myself long before you came. I will do it long after you leave,” she added pointedly.

In spite of herself, Cecile flinched. “What … what am I going to do, then?”

“What you are supposed to do,” Hagar said, without looking up from her labor. “You must go and help to supervise the raising of your husband’s tent.”

“I won’t!”

“You will.” Seemingly unconcerned, Hagar spread her own tent upon the sand. “And tonight I will cook for all three of you.”

“What?”

“Do you have dust in your ears? I told you, you will not work for a week. After that you will begin to cook for your husband, and do other chores. Not before.”

“But … but … I’ll be in your tent, won’t I?”

Hagar managed to look horrified.
“My
tent? Has the sun gone to your head? You will be where you belong, of course. With El Faris.”

Cecile did not have to try to look appalled. “Hagar, this … this isn’t a real marriage. I’m not … I mean …”

“You will keep up appearances,” Hagar interrupted. “Both for your own safety and your husband’s—”

“Pride?” Cecile snapped. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Hagar shrugged, making a valiant effort not to grin. It was good to see some fire return to those beautiful eyes. “Think what you like,” she allowed. “Just go now and do your duty.”

Duty, indeed! Furious, Cecile whirled and set off in search of her “husband’s” tent. At least it would get her away from that impossible old woman!

The camp was a welter of activity. They had stopped near a well, and everyone bustled about with water skins. A few tents had already been erected, and the camels and sheep were being driven into the desert in search of its meager grazing. The mares, loosely hobbled, wandered at will amid the controlled confusion. Cecile found herself wondering, with a growing spark of interest, which of the animals were hers. She’d have to find out.

Kut and Hajaja were just carrying the last of the household goods inside when Cecile arrived at Matthew’s tent. No one else appeared to be about. Cautiously, she approached and crept through the tent flap.

It was much as she remembered it. The burgundy-hued Turkish carpet, the saddle, the inlaid box for the coffee utensils, a few pillows and a sleeping quilt in the corner. There was an addition, however. Cecile stared at the hanging partition that now divided the tent roughly in half. One-half for him, and half for …

The sound of giggling came from the other side of the brightly woven blanket. Then the murmur of a soft, pleasant voice and the faint clang of a pot against stone. She couldn’t face it … couldn’t face
her.
Cecile backed out of the tent.

“Ah, there you are.” Beaming behind her veil, infant clutched to her breast with one arm, Hajaja held the blanket aside and beckoned for Cecile to come. “Enter,” she coaxed. “Aza has been waiting for you. Kut and I must leave now.”

Cecile started to shake her head but changed her mind. What would Kut and Hajaja think if she let them see how miserably uncomfortable she was? Squaring her shoulders, she returned Hajaja’s smile and strode boldly forward.

Aza was not merely pretty, she was beautiful, a fact that dismayed Cecile more than she liked to admit. The girl was also younger, and tinier, with exquisitely shaped hands and feet and a waist so small it could be enclosed in a man’s grasp. She wore her hair as Cecile did, three narrow braids on each side of her face. Her eyes were charmingly bright and alive, her voice low and musical. It would be easy to hate her, Cecile thought at first. But it was not. Aza was kind, thoughtful, and generous. In spite of herself, Cecile had been put at ease almost at once.

As soon as they were alone, Aza had bid Cecile sit and proceeded to welcome her as warmly as a sister. “This is your home now,” she had said. “And I greet you with joy in my heart.”

How she could say such a thing, and evidently mean it, Cecile had no idea. Further wonders were to come.

Aza had kissed Cecile on both cheeks. Then, with tears in her eyes, she said, “You don’t know how happy you have made me. Our husband was very troubled until you agreed to wed him. When he returned to our tent, after you had consented, I could see right away how relieved he was, how much more at ease.”

Relieved? Cecile wondered why. She would have thought it would be the other way around, that he would be relieved if she had
not
agreed to marry him. It certainly would have been easier for him. Furthermore, hadn’t he said the marriage was Aza’s idea, not his? Why should he have cared whether or not she agreed to marry him?

Cecile was so engrossed in her thoughts, Aza had to touch her hand to regain her attention. She repeated her question. “Would you like to see your bridal gifts now?”

“Bridal gifts?”

“Of course. Our husband is very generous. As soon as he learned you would wed him, he bade me go to the camp of the merchants to select suitable gifts for you.” Misinterpreting Cecile’s cry of surprise, she hurriedly added, “Oh, I’m so sorry. Please do not be offended. He would have purchased them himself, but he had so many things to do. Yet he told me what you would like. And it is the thought, is it not? Here, look!”

Cecile was dumbfounded. Unable to speak, even to move, she watched as Aza drew a large and beautifully inlaid box from the back wall. When she had pulled it between them, she unlatched the lid and opened it.

Folded neatly on top was a richly quilted sleeping blanket, ruby red in color. Smiling, Aza lifted it from the
qash.
“Feel … isn’t it soft?”

Cecile touched the shiny cotton but felt nothing. Her fingers were numb.

“And look, look at this.” Aza next produced a large, soft rug, woven of goat hair and dyed in red, with narrow black and gray stripes. There were also two new
towbs
and a
mezwi,
a long black cloak.

“But this, I think, is the most lovely thing of all,” Aza said in a tone of awe, and unfolded the
mezawi.
It was a silk caftan, full and flowing, the color of topaz. Aza held it out to Cecile and, reluctantly, she took it.

The rich material slithered from her fingers and pooled in her lap. Seemingly against her will, she raised the gown to her face and pressed its softness to her cheek.

“There is more!” Aza announced excitedly, and reached to the bottom of the box. “Hold out your hand.” The copper rings clattered into Cecile’s palm. There were large ones for her arms, smaller ones for her ears. “Put them on,” Aza urged. “Let me see how you look!”

Cecile had nearly slipped one of the bracelets over her hand before she realized what she was doing. Hastily, she put the jewelry back in the box. “No, I … I can’t,” she stammered. Then, before she could stop herself, she said, “Why, Aza? Why does he give me all these things?”

Aza looked puzzled. “Why, because … because you are his wife, of course. And every wife needs certain things with which to set up her household.”

“But … but clothes! I don’t need all these …”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Aza apologized yet again. “Please do not take offense. I should have explained. He would have given you cooking pots, too, and skins and all those other things. But, you see, I already had them. And since we will live together and share everything, there was no need for him to get those things for you. Do you understand?”

No, she understood nothing, but she nodded for Aza’s benefit.

“I am glad,” the younger girl sighed, “for I would not wish you to be unhappy.”

Cecile could bear it no longer. She had to ask the question. “Aza, why … I mean, how can you stand it? How can you be so nice to me?”

Aza appeared genuinely amazed. “Why should I not be?” she asked. “Our husband had told me you are a brave and noble woman, whom he has named Al Dhiba. This alone earns you respect. Yet you have also given our husband happiness by your mere coming to this tent. He cares, I think, for your safety and well-being very much.” At this Aza dropped her eyes. “I am almost sorry there is not love between you,” she added softly. “For you would be my real sister then. And when we came to Oman you would not leave us.”