The Wild Rose (50 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

“Here they come,” Willa said, stiffening in her saddle.

“Remember please that you are mute,” Hussein said.

“I’ll remember. And you remember that if you pull this off . . . if they let us through . . . that the pistol is yours,” Willa said.

The boy Hussein grinned. His eyes sparkled. He was only fifteen or so. This was an adventure to him, a game. If he played it well, he would win a prize. For Willa, it was life or death.

Hussein spurred his camel on. Willa followed close behind on Attayeh, who had been fed and watered and was tractable once more. Which was a good thing, for Willa had to keep him closely reined in to make sure he didn’t step on or kick one of the two hundred goats walking ahead of them. Attayeh, it turned out, didn’t care much for goats.

Willa had arrived in Hussein’s village early that morning. It was situated near a small oasis and had provided plenty of water for herself and her camel. Luckily it had not been home to raiders, or a Turkish outpost, and she was able to trade Max’s money for food and water for Attayeh and a bottle of some horrible bitter liquid that was supposed to help with stomach ailments. She still could keep nothing inside her. The illness, whatever it was, was taking a toll on her.

The village was inhabited by goatherds mainly, many of whom pastured their animals at a nearby spring. Willa planned to stay there for a day, resting and recovering her strength. She and Attayeh had napped a bit under the shade of some date trees in the center of the village. Afterward, she’d asked a village elder if he knew where the sheik Lawrence camped. The man had shaken his head no, smiling regretfully.

“The other visitors wish to know the same thing,” he told her.

The hairs on Willa’s neck prickled. “What other visitors?” she asked, warily.

“The soldiers who come through. Most every day now. The Turks.”

Willa had jumped to her feet. “Which way do they ride?” she asked the man.

“All ways,” the man told her, making a back-and-forth motion with his hand. “They are looking for Lawrence. They stop here for water.”

Willa panicked. An entire Turkish patrol could be here any minute. And from any direction. She quickly gathered her things, refilled her skin with water, and saddled Attayeh. She was looking all about as she did, nervously scanning the horizon for rising dust. As she rode out of the village, she saw two boys saddling up their camels—one about her height, one smaller. A herd of goats was milling about them.

Looking at them, she got an idea. She rode up to them and quickly told them that she needed to get past the Turkish patrol.

“Trade clothes with me,” she said to the taller boy, “and stay here in your house while I pretend to be you and ride out with your brother. If I get past the patrol, there will a reward for you both. If I do not, I will say I kidnapped your younger brother while you were still in your house and forced him to ride out with me.”

“The soldiers will know you are not one of us the minute you speak,” the boy said.

“Then your brother must tell them I cannot speak. He will tell them I am deaf, too. And not right in my mind.”

“You must not show your eyes. They are green, not brown like ours.”

“I will look at the ground.”

The older boy snorted. “You are a fool. It will never work. You must go with me instead,” he said matter-of-factly. “You must wear a veil. I will say you are my sister and a mute and that I am bringing you to marry a man in the village south of the spring and that fifty of the goats are your dowry.”

Willa blinked at him. “That’s a brilliant plan,” she said. “Simply brilliant!”

“Yes, it is. But I have not yet said I will do it. What is the reward?” he asked.

“One of these,” Willa said, showing him one of the jeweled pistols she had stolen. His eyes widened. Willa knew the pistol was worth more money than he would make in a lifetime.

The boys talked among themselves, then the older one, Hussein, sent his younger brother home for women’s robes. When the boy came back, Willa was pleased to see that the robes included a full head covering, with only a small cloth mesh for her eyes. Hussein was a genius. If she ever found Lawrence, she would tell him about the young man. He would be an asset to anyone’s army. Willa quickly put the robes on. She hated the head covering, hated how it impeded her vision and her mobility, but she was glad of it also. Under it, she was a village woman, and as such, invisible to all but her family.

She and Hussein set off. They had ridden for half an hour before they saw a patrol on the horizon.

“Stay behind me,” Hussein said now. “Bow your head. Like a village girl would.”

Willa did as she was told. The Turkish soldiers stopped them and spoke rudely to Hussein.

“You there!” their captain shouted. “Where do you come from and where are you going?”

He told them, adding that he was taking his sister to her new husband’s village.

“What is your name, girl?” the captain shouted at Willa.

“She cannot answer you, she is mute,” Hussein said. “That is why I have so many goats. Because she is mute, my father must give fifty goats instead of twenty-five to marry her off.”

“Is that so? And you are paying the husband extra? For a wife who cannot speak? That is a rare and wonderful thing. I wish my wife could not speak,” the captain said, laughing. “My boy, the man should pay
you
extra!”

The captain circled around Hussein and Willa, fording his way through the bleating goats, never taking his eyes off Willa. She could see him through the mesh of her head covering. Her heart was pounding. Why did he not let them pass? Hussein’s story was perfectly credible.

A split second later, Willa found out. The captain raised his riding crop and brought it down hard on her leg. Willa, expecting such a rotten trick, was ready for him. She doubled over in her saddle, noiselessly cowering, and grabbed her leg, rocking back and forth as if it hurt her terribly, when actually it didn’t hurt a bit, as the captain had lashed her false leg.

Satisfied, the captain said, “Forgive me, my boy. I had to make sure of your story. There is another woman at large in the desert, and she is not mute. She is an Englishwoman, one of Lawrence’s, and very dangerous. If you should see such a woman, please report her to me, or to any member of the Turkish Army, immediately.”

“I will, sir,” Hussein said. He told Willa to stop sniveling and follow him, then whipped his camel into a trot. Willa did the same with Attayeh. Half an hour later, when they were well out of sight of the patrol, she shouted at Hussein to stop. She tore her robes off and tossed them to him. Then she dug in her saddlebag for the pistol she’d promised him and tossed that to him, too.

“Thank you, Hussein. I owe you my life, and many others’ besides,” she said, wrapping a scarf around her head.

Hussein smiled, told her to go with God, then spurred his camel west. Willa turned Attayeh south. She would reach Salkhad soon, where Max thought Lawrence was. It was about a day’s ride. If he was not there, she would press on, riding farther south. She was weary and ill and in pain; the horizon swam sickeningly before her eyes, but she did not stop, she did not even falter.

“One more day, Attayeh, old boy,” she said aloud, trying to ignore the pain in her gut. “All we have to do is keep going for one more day.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

“Where is it?” Willa mumbled, through cracked, blistered lips. “Where the hell is it?”

She turned in her saddle, looking all around, but could see no camp.

“Where is it?” she shouted hoarsely. Her voice, floating over the dunes that surrounded her, echoed back at her mockingly.

She had looked for Lawrence’s camp at Salkhad, questioned some local boys, but had heard nothing of Lawrence, and had found nothing of him. Then she’d continued south, to where the camel trader had said he was—north of Azraq and east of Minifer. And again, she’d found nothing. Perhaps both Max and the trader were wrong. Or perhaps she’d simply missed the encampment, or missed signs like tracks or camel scat, that could have led her to it. It was hard to hold her head up now, to even see straight. It was hard to think. It hurt to even try. She had so little strength left.

Attayeh stumbled suddenly, and Willa lurched dangerously in her saddle. “Keep your seat, old girl,” she told herself, her voice little more than a croak now. Her throat was as dry as dust. She’d drunk the last of her water yesterday. She couldn’t remember exactly when. She had not stopped for the last forty-eight hours, but had driven Attayeh mercilessly. She had no choice. She was dying, she knew she was, and she had to get to Lawrence before the sickness in her gut finished her off.

It was certainly cholera. People sometimes recovered from it. If they had the proper medicines, and rest. She had neither. She desperately wanted to climb down. To stop. To rest. But she knew that if she did that, she would not get up again. She would die where she lay, for she would not have the strength to pull herself back up into the saddle.

Attayeh, exhausted and confused, stumbled again and wept. Willa knew that camels cried tears when they became dehydrated, and Attayeh had been ridden too hard and too long without rest, food, or water. Willa wanted to speak to the animal, to comfort him and encourage him, but she no longer had the strength to do so. She hoped she might be near a village, or a Bedouin camp, and that Attayeh, sensing the nearness of other camels, and water, might be able to get there on his own. She hoped so. She had to, for hope, fragile and fading, was all she had left.

Willa rode on for another half hour, her head lolling as Attayeh plodded along. The camel bellowed suddenly. He stopped short, then started walking again, at a brisker pace. Willa picked her head up; she squinted into the distance, hoping that by some miracle the camel had spotted an oasis, a small settlement, something. Instead, she saw dust on the horizon. She wondered for a moment if she was seeing things. She knew that people who were suffering from dehydration started to hallucinate. She squinted again. There
was
dust on the horizon, she was sure of it. She shaded her eyes and saw riders—three of them. One was in the lead, streaking ahead of the others, though they were all coming on fast.

Please, she prayed, don’t let them be Turkish soldiers. Or raiders. Please. I’ve brought the maps this far, let these be good men. Willa knew she would never see Lawrence again, but she hoped these riders, whoever they were, would take the maps the rest of the way.

After what seemed like an eternity, the lead rider drew up to her. Willa saw that he was wearing plain white robes, dirtied by dust and sweat. He unwound his head scarf, and Willa knew then that her death was very close.

He was a real man, she was quite sure of that, because he was shouting at her, but his face . . . his face was a hallucination, a vision. For one last time, her fevered mind was showing her the one she most wanted to see—Seamie Finnegan.

“Willa, my God,” he said. “It’s all right. You’ll be all right now, Willa. We’re here. We’ll get you back to camp.” There was fear in his voice as he spoke, and in his eyes.

His voice . . . it even sounds like Seamie’s, she thought. And he knows my name. He must be one of Lawrence’s. Oh, thank God!

Willa tried to speak to him, she tried to answer him, but she couldn’t. Her throat worked, but no sound came out. Her voice was gone. She motioned for water. The man gave her some. She drank, then gasped as her gut was gripped hard by a fresh wave of cramps.

When the pain subsided, when she could breathe again, Willa rasped out her final words. She was swaying in her saddle now. There was nothing left inside her, no strength, no will. She was played out, but it was all right. She could let go now. This man would help her.

“Please . . . I have maps . . . documents . . . give them to Lawrence . . . tell him Jabal ad Duruz is a trap . . . tell my mother I’m sorry . . . tell Seamus Finnegan I love him . . .”