Call of the Trumpet (35 page)

Matthew laughed, and Al Chah ayah danced. He controlled her with a gentle hand as Ahmed grinned.

“It is good to see you laugh,
ya ammi
,” Ahmed said, temporarily forgetting his plight.

Matthew nodded in agreement and returned his gaze to the landscape. “I think we’d better find a place to camp,” he chuckled. “Before your
dahlul
lies down and refuses to get up.”

“A fine idea,” Ahmed concurred dryly. “Too bad you and Al Dhiba did not have
this
worthless beast with you in the desert. A cut throat and a severed paunch are just what she deserves.”

Matthew winced, as he always did when mention was made of that perilous trek through the desert. He wanted only to forget it. At least those last few days. But it would be a long while, he knew, before his people began to tire of the tale. For now, he was a hero, Al Dhiba a heroine. Their story rapidly became legend. A legend of courage … and love.

Love. Matthew’s gaze became unfocused, and he saw before him, not the road, but Al Dhiba, naked and glorious, her eyes shining as her arms reached to pull him down upon her. Would he ever see her thus again? Would he ever again experience her strength, the suppleness of her flesh? Would she heal, or had he lost her to the terrible wasting sickness of the sun?

Ahmed’s camel bellowed again, and Matthew welcomed the distraction. He could not bear to think he might lose Al Dhiba.

“There’s a village not far ahead,” he announced curtly. “I’ll ride on and make sure of our welcome at their well.”

The village was small, nestled between two vineyards and a pomegranate orchard. A tiny stream meandered along its border, merging with the irrigation system that watered the cultivated land. Cecile gazed wonderingly as the caravan wound its way past village and vineyards toward a shady and secluded stand of palms.

Eight days ago they had still been in the desert, camped beside a less than lush oasis. Four days later, when she had recovered enough to travel, they had set out once more across the timeless, endless sands, and for three days had seen little other than dunes and an occasional struggling bush. Then, yesterday, two hours of journeying had brought them to the edge of Eden.

Cecile sighed. As long as she lived, she would never forget that first sight of what seemed a paradise … the first glimpse of tall, elegant palms on the horizon … a tiny village … the appearance of a road, dry and dusty yet still a road … then real, live green trees. And water. Water in wells, troughs, streams. Water turning the land alive and verdant, feeding fields and groves, sustaining fat herds of camels, bleating flocks of sheep. And people.

It was odd, Cecile mused. Those people had seemed the strangest sight of all upon emerging from the desert. They lived in houses, not tents. They walked, rather than rode. They lived in one place and worked on the land. They had been an amazement.

Cecile leaned into the cushions that lined her
maksar
and briefly closed her eyes. Three months. A scant three months on the desert, and it felt as if she had lived there forever. It had become increasingly difficult even to recall what Paris had been like, a city throbbing and teeming with life. Only the desert existed. And now this new land, this garden at the end of the world.

The camel knelt, and Cecile pulled herself from her reverie. They had reached the shade of the palm grove. She looked up at the towering, whispering trees and smiled.

Shade. Glorious, marvelous shade. Not the occasional meager shadows that lined the rare oasis, but whole groves of trees: walnut, peach, and pomegranate, as well as palm. They were a luxury she would treasure for the rest of her life.

“Dhiba? Dhiba, come, I will help you down.”

Startled, Cecile looked up to see Hagar, arms outstretched. “It’s … it’s all right,” she said. “I can make it myself.” But she couldn’t, and was glad of the old woman’s supporting arms.

Hagar’s heart contracted as her hand slipped around Cecile’s all too thin and fragile waist. There was nothing to her any more. The child had wasted away alarmingly. “Sit, Dhiba,” she ordered gently. “Rest while I unpack the camel.”

Cecile did not protest; she lacked the energy. Besides, Jali would come to help the old woman. He spent almost every afternoon and evening with them now. Cecile smiled again and leaned against the camel. It was nice, she thought, so nice. Almost like a family … The smile remained as her eyes closed and her thoughts drifted away into sleep.

The night was sultry, the wind still. A trailing bit of cloud wisped across the moon, blown on a high wind from the sea. Cecile stepped outside the tent and gazed upward.

Daily now, as time marched along and they neared the coast, more and more clouds would fill the sky, massing. Then, one day when Canopus appeared in the sky, the heavens would open, and Allah would give His gift. The land would steam, then cool. Winter would come.

But it was still a long way away, and still more difficult to imagine with her
towb
clinging to her sticky skin and the smell of dust fresh in her nostrils. Nor did she particularly want to think about the future. It contained too many questions she did not wish to answer. Suddenly tired again, Cecile reentered the tent and lay down.

Hagar watched her with dismay, her lips compressed to a thin white line. The girl languished; it was not good. Though its progress was slow, her health recovered. But her spirit had not. Hagar sighed.

From the very beginning, the girl’s emotions and, therefore, most of her actions, had been a mystery to Hagar. She would probably never understand Al Dhiba entirely. But she had begun to comprehend a little. Taking another deep breath, Hagar pondered the recent turn of events of which she had just learned, then said, “Dhiba, don’t go to sleep again. We must talk.”

Cecile cocked an eyebrow, but otherwise did not move.

“It is time,” Hagar continued,
“past
time, that you returned to your husband’s tent.”

The old woman was gratified to see her charge struggle to a sitting position. When Cecile shook her head, Hagar brushed the motion aside with a wave of her hand. “Protest all you want, it will do no good. It is time you returned to El Faris’s tent, and so you will go.”

“No, Hagar, I won’t. I can’t. You don’t understand, I … I can’t bear to …”

“To share him?” the old woman finished, her eyes narrowed shrewdly. Cecile’s anguished expression confirmed her suspicions, and she smiled to herself. So, it was as she had guessed. “It will be hard to share this man,” Hagar continued, “when his only other wife now keeps her own tent.”

Cecile felt her pulse quicken. “What? What did you say?”

“You heard what I said. Aza has been given her own tent. There is no dishonor in it.” Hagar returned her attention to the pot of rice. “El Faris treats her with deference and respect, as she deserves. She is a
loyal
and faithful wife. Despite the fact that it is not she her husband wants at his side, in his tent.”

Cecile turned away from the old woman’s hard and forthright gaze. Warmth she had not felt in a long time returned to suffuse her breast. The numbness seemed to be fading.

He had not divorced Aza, and she had pinned such great hope upon it. For she knew she would never again be able to bear the girl’s adoring presence, her position as wife, the constant, ever-present threat that Matthew might one day turn to her. Cecile felt sick with guilt; Aza was so sweet, so kind and generous. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t. She wanted to be the only one. She had to be. She had counted on it. After their time together on the desert, their shared passion, she had been convinced it would be so.

Yet day after day had passed since their return from the desert ordeal, and Aza remained his wife. Cecile’s body had recovered, slowly, painfully. But her spirit had numbed. Day after day.

Until now. A tiny spark of life, a flicker of hope.

She dared not fan it to fire. The strange lethargy overcame her once again, and she slipped away into sleep. But it was a deep, healing sleep. And her dreams were sweet.

The land became increasingly lush. Vineyards gave way to more and more orchards of varied description, exotic mango, as well as date, peach, and walnut. Streams were more plentiful, grassy banks lined with women who beat their clothes against the rocks while they laughed and gossiped and shyly turned their eyes from the passing caravan. Brightly feathered birds darted, screeched, and warbled, a pleasantly cooling breeze rustling through the palms. The air was heavy with perfume.

Cecile inhaled deeply. “What is that, Hagar?” she asked sleepily. “What do I smell?”

The old woman raised her brows. Had the girl actually spoken? “Frankincense trees,” she answered. “They grow wild in the gravel beds. Their resin is what you smell. Are you comfortable?”

Cecile smiled and nodded, barely moving her head against the supporting cushion. It was crowded and a bit too warm with Hagar in the
maksar,
but she was glad of the old woman’s presence, glad of her company as more and more of her strange lethargy seeped away and her waking hours increased.

They camped that night in a small grove of tamarisk trees. Cecile had roused from her torpor as they passed among the gnarled trunks and groping, twisting branches. The twining solid canopy over their head, and the still, fragrant air had entranced her.

Now, as evening approached, Cecile found the mood deepening. The forest was eerily beautiful. There was even a small stream winding through the dusty gloom, and the very sound of it seemed to refresh her. The nearly constant drowsiness had abated surprisingly, and as darkness fell, she felt more awake and alive than she had since her illness.

“Where are you going?” Hagar asked with sharp concern.

Cecile paused at the tent flap. “Nowhere. I’m just looking.” She smiled at Hagar, who went back to her dinner preparations.

Their tent lay at the edge of the camp. Cecile was glad she could see nothing but the trees, the grotesquely lovely shadows, and the sparkle of the stream. A few of the women who had gone to bathe now returned. She heard their voices off in the distance. Still unsure of herself, Cecile started slowly toward the water.

It was cool, cooler than she had expected. She let her fingers trail for a moment and thought about a bath. How long had it been since she had had a proper bath? Weeks?

She no longer remembered. She could not even recall when she had last cared.

But something had stirred to life within her. She could actually imagine herself back in his arms again, lying at his side through the long hours of the night. She could not have done it with Aza on the other side of a mere blanket partition. But Aza was gone now, if not forgotten. It was a beginning, another new beginning. In time, perhaps …

Cecile shook her head and gave her attention back to the water. She could almost feel its cool silkiness against her flesh, feel the tingling in her limbs. Yes, a bath was just what she wanted.

Hagar looked up in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find a clean
towb.”

“Here it is.” Hagar reached into her box. “I washed and mended it for you.”