The Salt Road (46 page)

Filled with a surge of energy, Mariata girded her robe and started to walk quickly towards it, keeping always out of the animal’s line of sight. She was no more than a hundred yards away when she saw that there was a second figure with the camel: a man; no, a boy. Her skin shivered, despite the heat. Then she marched determinedly towards them. ‘Hey, you!’

The boy was thin, his eyes large in his head. He looked appalled to see her. She could see the whites of them all around the pupil. His skin was as dark as the rocks.

‘That’s my camel you have there!’

Quicker than a rat up a rock, the boy scuttled up the camel’s neck, settled himself amongst the provisions and urged the beast away.

‘No!’ Mariata started to go after him, but her speed of movement was hampered by her pregnancy, and the scattered rocks bruised the soles of her feet and turned her ankles. ‘Come back!’

But the camel took off as if pursued by afrits, its great feet flailing, its neck swinging from side to side.

Mariata shrieked till her throat was raw but to no effect. Soon the camel and the boy were no more than a speck in the distance, though a miasma of dust hung in the air and marked their passage. Mariata sighed with frustration. She felt like an elephant, slow and lumbering, and now they had got away. Furious at herself as much as at the thief, Mariata marched on in their wake. They would have to stop somewhere: there must be a camp. The boy had a look of the harratin, or of an iklan child, avoiding its chores. If the camp was not too far away she would be magnanimous, would not demand restitution for the theft and the inconvenience of walking the extra mile or two. After all, she could afford to be generous, for hospitality surely awaited her: tea, and a good meal. When they knew whose camel it was, when they heard of her prestigious bloodline, they would probably slaughter a goat, or even a sheep, to honour her. In better spirits now, Mariata walked with her head high and a good long stride. Each time a crest of rock scored the horizon she climbed it with the expectation of finding an encampment on the other side, an oasis and fresh water, smiling women and respectful, veiled men. Perhaps they would even be heading south as far as the Hoggar and she could join their entourage.

Hours passed with these pleasant thoughts rolling through her mind and still there was no sign of the boy and the camel, except for tracts of churned-up ground where stones had been displaced, the sand between them imprinted with the split-toed impression of the beast’s feet. The terrain no longer seemed so hostile: she managed to find a certain bleak beauty in the cratered, rock-strewn landscape and to marvel at the changes the sun falling lower in the sky wrought upon the scene, transforming the ground from a pale and powdery dun to the ochre of a gazelle’s hide and finally to the rich purple-red of blood. By the time the setting sun cast long fingers of shadow between the rocks, she was parched and exhausted – so when she topped out on a rise and saw below her three tents of black hide pegged low to the ground, she almost cried out for joy. She began to run down the slope, letting gravity guide her steps, before realizing that three tents were all there were. Where was the rest of the tribe? Screwing her eyes up against the falling darkness, she made out only a handful of goats rather than the herds that would be necessary to support a proper encampment. A handful of goats, and a solitary camel. Were these people outriders, or outcasts? She slowed, unsure.

Then dogs began to bark. There were half a dozen of them, rangy mutts whose ribs showed through their coats. Years of miscegenation and poor diet had not improved their tempers, or their welcome to visitors. Mariata drew back, nervous. Her own tribe had hunting dogs: sleek, elegant animals that ran obediently at their masters’ heels; and the Kel Teggart could barely support themselves, let alone a pack of wild dogs. The dogs advanced, running low to the ground. Mariata stood rooted to the spot. Then she bent, picked up a stone and threw it at the nearest dog. It caught the animal on the shoulder and the dog fell back with a yelp. Mariata gathered more missiles and sent another spinning down amongst them. The dogs danced, outraged. Their barking redoubled in noise, but they did not advance.

At last a man came out of one of the tents. He was tall and thin and as black as night.
Iklan
, was Mariata’s first, relieved, thought. ‘Call your dogs off!’ she cried imperiously. Where there were slaves there were always masters.

The man stared at her suspiciously. He called out and the dogs circled back towards him, turning warily as they went, as if expecting her to throw more stones. The noise of the dogs had brought the rest of the tent-dwellers out. No masters here: they were a motley collection, none veiled. These were baggara, wandering beggars: ragged nomads who scraped a living outside society. It did not look as if they were making much of a success of it. Amongst them she recognized the boy she had seen with the pack camel. The man who had brought the dogs to order ducked back into the tent and a few moments later another man came out, followed by a woman cradling a small child. They all looked towards where Mariata stood silhouetted on the rocks. For a moment Mariata’s eyes locked with those of the woman and she experienced a jolt of pure sympathy, almost tangible, as if her soul was a bead running down a string stretched taut between them.

Then the woman began to shriek, ‘It is a spirit! It is the spirit that took my boy!’ She came rushing out of the enclosure, her face a mask of fury and pain. Mariata saw that the child’s limbs flopped limply with the impact of the woman’s steps and it came to her in a sudden unwelcome rush of understanding that the child was dead and that, appearing out of the wilderness in the fey twilight – just when the Kel Asuf began to walk abroad – the woman had taken her for a djinn.

The men caught up with the grieving mother before she came close to Mariata. One of them pulled the body of the child from her and stalked back towards the tents and, as if she could not bear to be separated from it, she followed, arms outstretched. The second man stood still, watching Mariata.

‘I am not a djinn!’ she called out; but her throat was parched and the words came out in an unearthly rasping whisper that had him reaching for his amulets. She swallowed and licked her lips with a dry tongue and tried again. ‘I am not a djinn,’ she repeated, walking towards him. ‘I am a flesh and blood woman, a woman of the Kel Taitok. Do not be frightened. My camel ran away last night. I have been following it all day. That boy there’ – she pointed beyond him – ‘he took it. Maybe he thought it was a stray, or that its owner was dead; maybe he took it to care for it. Whatever his reason I have come to claim my camel and the pack-goods that were on it, and I would be grateful if you would let me have some water and shelter for the night. Then I will take my camel and be on my way.’

The man said nothing; then he went down on his haunches. It was an odd gesture and she did not know what to make of it until she saw him stand up again and let fly the first stone. It whizzed harmlessly past her shoulder, clattering against the rocks behind her. The second caught her a glancing blow on the arm, the shock of it rather than the pain making her cry out.

‘What are you doing? I have done nothing to you!’

The man hefted another stone. ‘The camel is ours now: go away.’

‘You are thieves!’

‘Go away or we will kill you.’

‘Have you no honour? Do you have no respect for the code of the desert?’

‘The only code in this desert is death.’

‘May the spirits curse you if you drive me away!’ Mariata waved the amulet at them. ‘I will call down the evil eye upon you: you will all die.’

The man’s eyes were dull. ‘We are dying anyway. Go away.’

The third stone he threw lost its force in the folds of her robe; but he was already gathering more and the dogs were barking, bouncing stiff-legged with pent-up aggression. Mariata turned her back on them and walked away.

She lay in the lee of some boulders for long hours pondering what to do. The idea of her camel so close at hand and yet so unattainable gnawed at her. She could not simply leave it with the baggara family, but she did not know how she might steal it back. All through the night she thought about it, anger boiling away inside her, concocting and dismissing dozens of foolish schemes. She could have been using the cool darkness to walk on to better fortune, but the knowledge that her pack-goods, water and supplies were just a few hundred yards away held her prisoner. Something in her knew that if she allowed the opportunity to regain the camel to slip away she would die, and deservedly so. The People of the Veil valued cunning, resourcefulness and stealth as highly as their honour; to be so feeble as to allow such low vagrants to get the better of her would be an admission of defeat, a shameful act. Had the Mother of All ever suffered such indignity? She found it hard to believe. What would her esteemed ancestress have done? ‘Tin Hinan,’ she said softly into the darkness, ‘guide me now with your wisdom and strength.’ She pressed the amulet to her forehead and felt its metal cold against her skin.

How long she stayed in this attitude she did not know, but after a time she became aware of a small sound in the rocks to her left. She stilled her breathing, suddenly terrified. Had they tracked her down: would they carry out their threat to kill her? Silently, she reached into the fringed leather bag and drew out the little knife and waited.

The noise was soft, barely audible, like something brushed against the rocks; a tap, a scuffle. It came closer. Mariata readied herself, teeth clenched. She would not go without drawing blood; they would not take her easily.

When the hare appeared she stared at it, bemused. It stared back at her, frozen in surprise, its ears held rigid, every muscle poised for sudden flight. She caught it before she knew consciously what she was doing, felt its strong back legs kicking out at her as she buried her hands in its fur. It felt so warm and determined, so shockingly vital and alive, that she almost relented and let it go, but some more primal instinct prevailed. A few moments later she looked down to find it lying limp, its blood black against her hands.

It was a large animal, sturdily built and well muscled. Examining its body by the pale moonlight, Mariata found herself blinking back tears at its beauty: the cool silk of its coat, the long limbs and huge ears. Then she mastered herself and did what she had to do.

*

Mariata watched the sun come up from the back of the camel many miles from the nomad camp. The beast was sweating, despite the chill of the dawn, and so was she. But elation banished exhaustion. She had risked everything and she had triumphed. She shuddered, remembering how the dogs had torn into the pieces of the dismembered hare that she had flung far and wide, how their jaws had crunched down on its fragile bones; how a fight had broken out between them for the last and best morsel, the head, and how the men had had to come out of the tents and beat them with sticks to make them stop their noise. In the midst of all this she had slipped into the enclosure and been surprised to find the camel clumsily hobbled and the pack-goods stacked haphazardly to one side, along with the saddle and the blanket. Only the sack of flour and the old bread were missing, she saw, amazed at her own good fortune. The rice sack stood to one side, a little of its contents spilling out into the sand, the tiny white grains rendered pearly and luminescent by the moon’s light. Mariata stoppered the hole in the sack with some of the fodder straw, checked that the waterskins were full and slung them over her back.

The camel regarded her sulkily and, when she came near, threw its head up and rolled its eyes. I have walked far enough, those eyes told her, quite clearly: do not think to make me walk more. Mariata knew camels to be obdurate beasts; but she also knew a firm hand and a determined attitude would usually prevail. She marched up to it and, remembering how Rahma had bound the muzzle of the camels they had ridden across the Tamesna when the soldiers had come to the oasis, used her veil to gag it before it had a chance to bellow its dismay. This took the beast so much by surprise that Mariata was able to sling her pack-goods aboard, and then haul herself up with them. The camel swung its head to regard her with an aggrieved look and Mariata glared back at it grimly, then wrenched it to its feet by sheer force of will and urged it into a lumbering gallop.

Now she laughed aloud and patted her belly. ‘You are the son of Tuaregs, and do not ever forget it! What an adventurer you will be, inheriting the best of your mother and your father. No ragged baggara shall trick you or steal from you, for between the goodwill of the spirits and the power of your own resources you shall always triumph!’

She tapped the camel peremptorily upon its poll. Grumbling, it folded its knees and let her down and in the rosy light of the desert dawn she undid the knotted veil and carefully hobbled the animal so that it could not escape again; and then they feasted and refreshed themselves before seeking a well-earned rest in the shade of the spreading branches of a solitary acacia.

30

Mariata’s fierce optimism did not last. For days, her instinct had been urging her to move eastwards, but she ignored it because not to keep moving south seemed plainly wrong; and so it was that when she passed between the oases at Ougarta and Aguedal she did not even realize it, for by seeking the shadow of the Jebel el-Kabla she took a col that led only into yet another long arm of the bone-dry Hamada du Guir by mistake. The terrain through which she travelled alternated between crumbling towers of red rock and areas in which a strange dark patina lay plastered against the ground, a brittle glaze that shone dully in the sun and cracked beneath the pressure of the camel’s wide pads. Not a plant grew here, not even the hardiest cactus or euphorbia, and the camel bellowed his displeasure whenever they stopped, twisting his head tortuously to try to steal the ever-diminishing bundle of fodder strapped to his back. He was starving, she knew: the usually solid hump was collapsed and soft, its fat reserves almost gone.