A Kiss of Adventure (16 page)

“You are hungry,” Khatty stated. “You will eat now.”

She clapped her hands, and a timid girl hurried into the room through a hidden entrance. The
amenoukal
’s wife fired off a round of instructions and then snapped a curt dismissal that sent the child scurrying away.

“She is
amrid
—servant class,” Khatty explained. “
Amrid
are as slaves to us.
Kel ulli
are people of goats. They tend our flocks. And
ineden
are our blacksmiths. Outcasts, of course.”

“Of course.”

Tillie watched in fascination as the woman peeled away her heavy burnous and stood preening before her mirror. She wore a long white gown heavily embroidered in a bold red design. Gold loop earrings hung to her shoulders, and a band of red ribbon ran through her elaborately braided hair.

“So . . . what are you going to do with me?” Tillie asked in a low voice. “You’ve worked pretty hard to catch me. What happens now?”

“You go with us to Timbuktu, of course. There you find treasure. Then you return to man with black hair. Do you love him?”

The unexpected question hovered in the air. Tillie looked away, as though the answer were hidden somewhere in Khatty’s collection of pillows.

“You love him, yes?” the woman repeated.

“I do care about him. He’s very . . . Graeme is . . .” She wanted to explain, but how could she detail everything that had happened between herself and Graeme?

“Tuareg are great lovers,” Khatty was saying. “Very skilled. You learn about love from us—how to love your man from example of our people.”

Tillie swallowed. “I can’t stay here, Khatty. You must understand. I need to go back to Bamako.”

“You stay until you find treasure of amulet. Treasure belongs to
amenoukal
. He is displeased with you now, Tree-Planting Woman. He is angry you try to escape him.”

“My name is Tillie. I’m not the tree-planting woman in the amulet.”

Khatty’s dark brows arched in scorn. “You are that woman, of course.”

“You are mistaken.”

“You are woman of great honor to us, people of veil. You come to break curse—to bring us great treasure. Once we were kings of desert! Tuareg people pillaged salt caravans that went across sands. Pillage was our work. But now caravans are no more. We wait for Tree-Planting Woman to bring us treasure. And you come.
Maktoub
, as God wills it.”

Tillie bit her lower lip and looked down at the beaded ring on her hand. How could she explain that she was just a scientist who wanted to help people like the Tuareg hold the desert sands away? She was just a plain and simple woman with no special powers to break curses or find treasures. But how to convince this majestic creature of something so mundane?

“Now, our dinner!” Khatty dragged two heavy pillows to the center of the room as the serving maid edged into the tent and placed a loaded tray on the floor between the pillows. Seating herself with much ado, Khatty patted the accompanying pillow as a sign for her guest to join her.
“Io,”
she said. “It means ‘come.’”

Though she hadn’t eaten for hours, Tillie felt reluctant to be absorbed so easily into the woman’s command. She needed time to think, to sort out a plan of action, some way to escape.

“I’m very tired,” she began.

“Eat first. Sleep later. Sit, Tree-Planting Woman.”

“Okay, okay.” Tillie sank onto the pillow before the Tuareg woman. The silver tray between them held two bowls of milk, a small flat cake, a plate of dried dates arranged around a white cheese, and a bowl of steaming rice.

“This you drink,” Khatty announced, lifting the bowl of milk to Tillie’s lips.

“What is it?”

“Drink.”

She took a sip of the pungent liquid and tried not to grimace at its musky flavor. “Milk?”

“Camel’s milk, of course,” Khatty said with a laugh. “Now a wheat cake. Eat it. You like?”

Tillie nodded, relieved to have the camel’s milk behind her. But Khatty was pressing her on. “This is
tikomarin
, our cheese. Made of goat’s milk. Here, dates. Rice. Beautiful?”

“Beautiful. Khatty, where did you learn to speak such good English? I’m impressed.”

“Hmph!” Khatty sniffed as she picked at her cheese. “We Tuareg women are well educated. We read and write, just as you. But I am more educated than most.
Amenoukal
sent me to mission school in Mopti before we married. He wanted me to learn foreign tongues. I speak English, French, some Arabic. You?”

“Very little.”

“I thought as much. Americans are proud people, thinking no other tongue as fine as theirs. They are wrong.”

Tillie’s head began to clear as the food warmed her stomach. “When will we get to Timbuktu?”

“Two days or more. A dromedary can walk one hundred miles in a day, but now we have to watch for police and government. We do not like.
Amenoukal
, my husband, has made decree before Tuareg people. We sleep tomorrow near Mopti. After that we go to Timbuktu. Then you find treasure.” Khatty stretched out her long legs, leaned back on her arms, and returned to her favorite subject. “
Amenoukal
says I am most beautiful of all his wives.”

“I’m sure you are. How many wives does he have?”

“Five. And many children. I am newest wife. No children yet. Soon I bear him many sons.”

So that was her weak link, Tillie thought. Khatty was a new wife with no children. And she seemed to care deeply about her husband. All of those things made her vulnerable. It was imperative to win this woman’s trust. Tillie needed an ally if she was going to survive the coming days.

“You must love your husband very much,” she said softly.

“Oh, very much. I make poems of love for him each night when he comes to my arms. You make poems to your lover with black hair?”

“I don’t make poems very well.”

“No? Come then, we make English poem for your man.” Khatty threw back her head and closed her eyes. She began singing in a high-pitched voice. “Come, oh desert lion, son of waran, man of strength and great wisdom. Your hair blows like ropes of sand in black night. Song of
djenoun
blows your sand-dune locks. Oh, man of black hair, man who sees heart of Tree-Planting Woman, come. Take her heart, tie it to your spear, fight to win her love. Oh, son of waran, son of waran, come with your love spear and pierce heart of Tree-Planting Woman.”

When Khatty finished her song, she slowly opened her dark liquid eyes and looked at her guest with a sly smile. “Beautiful?”

“Beautiful,” Tillie affirmed. The haunting melody and lilting words had moved her almost to tears. “You do know about love, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you call Graeme the son of waran?”

“Waran is giant lizard of desert. We call waran grandfather of Tuareg people.”

“Lizard? You mean like a monitor lizard?”

“Yes, Egyptian monitor. Very big. As long as a man.” Khatty closed her eyes and took in a breath. “Waran is very powerful. Like your black-haired man who tries to protect you.”

“And you think I’ll see this man again?”

“You find treasure for
amenoukal
, and you will be highly honored woman of Tuareg. Then you have your lover and any other man you need.”

“The treasure.” Tillie shook her head. “Can you tell me why the treasure is so important to you and your people?”

“Not to me!” Khatty snorted. “To me, treasure means nothing. But to
amenoukal
, it is everything. To me it is no more than a tale, like tales of long ago we women tell in darkness. But to
amenoukal
treasure is hope. We have lost our caravans. Our camels die with drought. And government tells us to become farmers!” She spat on the ground. “Farmers!”

Tillie took another bite of her wheat cake. This clearly wasn’t the time to tell Khatty her own dreams of helping hungry people like the Tuareg learn to plant crops and farm the desert.

“I’m tired and dirty,” she said to her hostess. “Is there a place I can get some water to wash myself?”

Khatty frowned. “Water to wash? Water is made for cooking and drinking only, Tree-Planting Woman. Water does not agree with skin. You will surely fall ill if you wash!”

“I will surely not fall ill. I wash myself every day, and I would like to do so now.”

“I cannot allow Tree-Planting Woman to become sick. You are in my charge.
Amenoukal
would never forgive. No water for washing.” She reached out and patted Tillie’s hand. “You want good sleep and clean burnous. Here, look what Khatty has for you!”

The tall woman rose and swept over to her bags of clothing. After sorting through piles of silk and wool garments, she pulled out a heavy blue burnous and an eggshell blue gown. She carried them to Tillie and laid them in her arms.

“For Tree-Planting Woman.”

“Thank you, Khatty, but I really must bathe first. I’ve been in the river water today. The canal. Please let me have a bath before I put on your beautiful clothes.”

“No bath. You put on burnous. I tell servant to prepare your bed.”

Tillie stared after her in exasperation. She wanted to be furious with the pompous princess, but she couldn’t bring herself to dislike Khatty. For all her arrogance, the woman seemed to have a good heart. More important, Tillie realized she could make the most of their relationship if she kept it amiable. Khatty was her only chance.

She slipped out of the stiff white dress. Could it have been just this morning that she showered on the steamer? Could it have been just last night that she and Graeme had shared their dinner and their laughter? Where was he now?

She tugged on the clean gown and wrapped her arms around herself. She had to believe Graeme was trying to find her. He had made it clear how much she meant to him. She had to trust that.

Why?
a voice from within whispered contrarily.
Why should you trust him at all? You’re basing your confidence in him on the passions of your heart, not the rationale in your head.

She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. Even after all this time with him, she knew very little about Graeme McLeod. What about his relationship with the Djenne police? How had he known that policeman, Mohammed? And why hadn’t she ever seen a notebook, pencils, or research? Surely a real writer would jot something down once in a while! Nothing about Graeme seemed to substantiate his claims about who and what he was.

What if Graeme had found Arthur? Her stomach turned over at the thought. There was no telling what Graeme would tell Arthur about her. And Arthur. She pictured him firing that pistol, his eyes a translucent blue. If those two men ran into each other . . .

“You are nearly as beautiful as I.” Khatty’s voice carried softly across the tented room.

Tillie lifted her gaze and watched the woman glide to her side. “That’s quite a compliment.”

“Of course. Now you come with me, Tree-Planting Woman.” She took Tillie’s arm and led her out of the tent into the starlit sky. The low wooden bed piled with blankets had been taken outside and set up in front of the tent. “You sleep here. All Tuareg sleep outside. It is our custom.”

Grateful for the promise of rest, Tillie sat down on the edge of the bed. Other members of the clan were lugging their beds to the front of their tents and climbing beneath the layers of bedding. In a moment, Khatty’s bed was carried out by her servants and placed a few feet from her guest’s.

Tillie adjusted the folds of her gown and slipped beneath the covers. “Where’s your husband? Is he going to sleep outside, too?”

“Of course. But now he talks with other men of our drum group. They make plans for treasure of Timbuktu.”

NINE

Tillie slept, but only after she had counted every star in the desert sky, listened to the grunts of the camels, and made a hundred plans of escape—none of which would work.

She was awakened at first light by a rough shake on her shoulder.

“Tree-Planting Woman,
io
. Come.”

Opening her eyes wide, she looked up into the veiled face of the
amenoukal
. She struggled onto her elbows, blinking back sleep and the nightmares that had seemed so real. “What do you want from me?”

“We will put you on your camel, of course.” Khatty’s voice behind the
amenoukal
was light with suppressed laughter. She said a few words to the tall man, and he chuckled deeply.

“Ah, Tree-Planting Woman.” The
amenoukal
reached out and touched Tillie’s cheek with a gentle stroke.

Recoiling, she looked up in time to see a flash of jealousy cross Khatty’s face. Unaware of his wife’s reaction, the
amenoukal
spoke to her briefly before striding away, his sandals kicking up puffs of dust.

“He says you are beautiful when you sleep,” Khatty reported. Her lips were tight. “
Io, enkar.
Come, get up, get up. Your dromedary is waiting.”

Tillie took a deep breath and slid out of bed. She had no desire to provoke ill will in the Tuareg woman, but there wasn’t time to reassure her. After allowing Tillie a moment to relieve herself, Khatty led her to the line of kneeling camels and questioned one of the men in attendance.

“This one is for you,” Khatty explained. “You ride dromedary before this day?”

“Never.”

“Of course not.
Maktoub
, then. God’s will be done.”

Tillie stared after her as Khatty sauntered away, her hips swaying like a belly dancer’s in the pink sunrise. She turned to her camel, which sat in the sand chewing contentedly, surveying the landscape beneath two-inch-long eyelashes and looking like it hadn’t the least intention of getting up.

Her dromedary was scrawny, its yellow hide patchy and its knees nothing but wrinkled black leather, but the century-old saddle trappings were impressive. Several layers of heavily embroidered blankets, some tasseled and fringed, formed the base for a huge leather saddle. Its seat and backrest were worked in mystic designs meant to protect the rider. The three-pronged saddle horn, which had been tipped in silver, took on a fiery sheen as the sun rose.

Most members of the Tuareg clan had mounted their dromedaries already and were watching her with undisguised interest. As their white-skinned hostage started to climb on, the
amenoukal
appeared at her side. He slipped his long fingers around her waist, boosted her into the air, and gestured for her to pull herself onto the saddle. She flung one leg over the camel and struggled to sort out the gown and burnous that had tangled between her legs. Just when she thought she had herself balanced and arranged, the
amenoukal
pulled a whip from his belt and tapped the camel, which lifted onto its knees in one jerky motion.

“Whoa! Hold on a second now!” Tillie threw her arms around the saddle horn as the camel slowly straightened its hind legs.

Its rear rose like the light end of a teeter-totter, and the ground dipped crazily in front of Tillie. She slid forward, certain she was about to tumble onto the animal’s neck. Then the camel pushed up on its forelegs. Flung backward, she grabbed the saddle horn again just in time to keep herself from sliding down its back to the ground.

Laughter rippled across the spectators, men chuckling behind their blue veils, women tittering openly. One little boy rolled on the ground, convulsed in giggles. Trying to maintain a shred of dignity, Tillie pulled her burnous over her shoulders, continued to hug the saddle horn, and dug in her knees for dear life.

A moment later, the
amenoukal
grandly mounted his white dromedary and called for the caravan to set off. On the ground—which seemed far below to Tillie—the encampment of tents had been dismantled and loaded on camels and donkeys. Not a sign remained that the Tuareg caravan had slept there. Every campfire had been buried, every trace of their passing erased.

Her camel plodded forward with a deep swaying motion, and Tillie clutched the saddle horn and prayed for safety. For all her experience on horses, nothing had prepared her for this stomach-sloshing journey. The Tuareg looked more at home on their dromedaries than they did on the ground; she felt like a kid on a carnival ride.

As the sun rose in a periwinkle sky, she worked at matching her body to the wavelike rhythm of the camel’s gait. The day grew blistering hot, and Tillie thanked the Lord for the burnous, in spite of its heavy weight. Though she sweltered inside it, she knew she would suffer a good deal more without its protection from the sun’s burning rays. Before long her throat felt parched and scratchy, but the caravan riders drank almost nothing during the day—just a little camel’s milk and a few dates to sustain them.

Khatty’s jealousy faded in the glow of her fascination with the tree-planting woman. She rode her dromedary beside Tillie’s for the greater part of the day and peppered the American with questions. Tillie did her best to answer everything. In the process, she learned as much about the Tuareg as she could.

“Tonight we’ll sleep near Mopti?” she asked.

Khatty sucked on a date. “Yes, near Mopti. Big market is there, of course. Beautiful things to buy. But we do not go into city.
Amenoukal
does not trust men who want to take treasure from him. Your black-haired lover. And that man of the British government who shot two of our people. A very bad man.”

“But Graeme and Arthur don’t want the treasure. They’re following the caravan because they’re afraid the
amenoukal
will kill me.”

“Kill you? Why? You will give him treasure. You are Tree-Planting Woman.”

Tillie twisted the beaded ring on her finger. Dare she tell Khatty she had no idea where the treasure was—or even what it was?

“Why does the
amenoukal
think I’m the tree-planting woman?” she asked.

Khatty gave her a look of scorn. “Necklace you wear, of course. Paper inside speaks of you. You read it? It is powerful charm.Words say Tree-Planting Woman will find treasure.”

“How do you know about the amulet?”

“It is with Tuareg people many years. Two hundred years.”

“Do you know where the paper inside came from? Do you know who wrote the charm?”

“White man. We have legend of long ago. Legend says white man came to river with great treasure. He wrote many words. A book.”

A chill skittered down Tillie’s spine like cold marbles. The journal. The Tuareg knew about the journal. “Where is this book?” Tillie asked.

Khatty shrugged. “We look for treasure, not book. White man died and left treasure hidden until Tree-Planting Woman comes. Now you come and you find treasure for
amenoukal
.”

So there was a journal. Or had been at one time. Tillie wished she could see Graeme. Just a glimpse of him might give her the courage to go on. Knowing he hadn’t abandoned her would give her strength.

She fanned her face with the end of the veil Khatty had given her earlier that morning. If only she could get away . . . but she knew there was no way of escape. She had thought of every possibility. All day she had been surrounded by armed men. Even if she eluded them, she had no idea how to convince this stubborn camel to take her to safety. She could barely make the beast go at all. It spat, growled, and twisted its head, more ornery than any mule she’d ever encountered. At night she would be encircled by the same armed men. Escape was out of the question.

She felt alone. Abandoned by everyone.

God never abandons us.

The words she had spoken to Graeme with such confidence slapped her in the face.
God never abandons us,
they mocked.
Na-na na-na na-naah. Silly Tillie. Silly Tillie.

Graeme believed God had set up the natural laws and then abandoned the universe to function on its own. She certainly felt on her own now. Maybe Graeme was right. Maybe God wasn’t the least bit interested in some anonymous little bundle of molecules and DNA wandering the edge of the Sahara on a camel.

Or worse. Maybe God was toying with her—playing this gigantic trick as some kind of a test to see how long she would last. Hadn’t he done that very thing to Job?

She felt abandoned. Alone. Afraid. And angry.

“Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

The words Christ had spoken welled up inside her, as familiar as her own name. For the first time in her life, she sneered at them.
Sure,
she thought.
Always. Unless you feel like tossing me out here to a pack of hungry Tuareg.

“I will be with you; I will not fail you or forsake you.”

In the middle of the desert?

“Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

Tillie closed her eyes and gave herself to the swaying rhythm of her camel. Throughout her life the Lord had spoken to her through his Scriptures. She had memorized verses by the hundreds at Hannah’s feet. Were they true? Could she trust the promises of God’s faithfulness even when she was heading farther and farther into the valley of the shadow of death?

The Lord is the one who goes ahead of you; he will be with you. He will not fail you or forsake you. Do not fear, or be dismayed.

She drew a deep breath.
Do not fear, Tillie. God is with you. Even here. Even now.
She brushed a finger over her damp cheek.
Okay, Father. I’m trusting you for now. For this minute. For this hour.

“Tonight you wear different gown,” Khatty was saying. “I paint your face yellow, white, and red of unmarried woman, and—”

“Wait a minute. You want to paint my face?”

“You do not listen to me, Tree-Planting Woman? That is bad. Be careful to listen to what I say, or
djenoun
will take your heart.”

“Djenoun?”

“People of empty places . . . people of night. Spirits. Sometimes we call them
effri
, wicked spirits. You hear them wailing when moon is high and full. Tonight we camp near Mopti.
Amenoukal
, my beloved husband, has declared night of celebration.
Ahal
.”

“Ahal?”
Tillie’s heart began to sink. “What’s an
ahal
?”

“Feast of love. Singing and poem-making. And when night is late, men gather around one woman they wish to love that night. She tells them stories and listens to their courting. Then she makes a sign to man she chooses for her lovemaking.”

As Tillie watched Khatty arrange her skirts on the dromedary’s back, fingers of apprehension traveled up her spine. She didn’t like the sound of this feast at all. “I imagine I’ll be tired after all this riding,” she said. “I guess I’ll skip the
ahal
.”

“You are Tree-Planting Woman,” Khatty said softly. “Honored one. Many men will gather to seek your sign.” She sighed in resignation. “Ahodu Ag Amastane, my husband, already declares he will sit before you tonight. Of course, you must choose him, great
amenoukal
of Tuareg people, to become your lover.”

As Tillie stared out at the sandy Sahel landscape, she knew she had never been in such a terrible predicament. She lifted the amulet in her hands and ran her fingers over the surface of the locket, feeling the twists of spun silver and the cool lump of golden amber. Graeme had told her this locket contained the hope for her safety, but she had no idea how to use it.

Graeme. Was he somewhere near? Even if he had followed her, what could he do? Tillie’s fingers tightened on the amulet.

Maybe Mungo Park
had
possessed a treasure. Maybe he had buried it somewhere near Timbuktu two hundred years ago. Could she find it? Maybe a historian somewhere would know something. But who? Where?