Call of the Trumpet (9 page)

He sat on the carpeted ground, leaning casually against his saddle. He had loosened the end drape of his
khaffiya,
and Cecile saw the lower half of his face now. She at once had the impression of a man chiseled from granite. His skin was deeply tanned, and there were faint lines etched about his hard, unsmiling mouth. Though his eyes were still concealed within the shadows of this hood, Cecile felt them pierce her.

He gestured to the enormous black-skinned man Cecile had seen at the city gates and who now knelt before El Faris, preparing his coffee, and the servant left at once. They were alone. Cecile took a deep breath to still the tremor of her heart and remained immobile, silently enduring the Badawin’s regard.

“You will sit,” he said at length.

Cecile did not move. Defiantly, she stood her ground.

“You have much to learn about our customs, I see,” he said in a slightly disparaging tone. “Now lower yourself, as you should have done immediately.”

Memory returned in a rush. It was impolite to tower over a seated man, and Cecile did not want to antagonize him at the outset. She sank quickly to the ground.

“Despite the hour, and custom,” El Faris said abruptly, “I have granted you an audience. So speak, woman. What is it you want?”

In spite of her resolve, Cecile’s temper flared. She was simply too exhausted to control it. “I want an explanation,” she demanded. “What do you think?”

“I think you are ill-mannered and ungrateful,” he replied evenly.

Cecile flinched as if stung. Her lips tightened, and her eyes blazed. “And you are the rudest man I have ever met,” she retorted. “You cannot treat me this way. I am the daughter of Sada, a Rwalan, and foster child of Shaikh Raga eben Haddal!” So saying, Cecile opened the pouch, withdrew the will, and thrust it at the man sitting opposite her. “Here, read this. It’s proof of what I say!”

He made no move to take it. “If this is so,” he said at last, “how come you to be on your way to the caliph’s harem?”

Cecile lowered her arm slowly and laid the paper in her lap, wondering how much to tell him. Who was he, anyway, and what right did he have to know more than she had already told him? Then Cecile realized she had very little choice. Not if she wanted him to help her. With a sigh, Cecile began her tale.

He seemed to listen carefully to her abbreviated statement of the facts: her father’s death and the reason for her journey, the abduction, Muhammad, the auction. Tears sprang to her eyes when she voiced her fears about Jali’s fate. She finished by saying, “Then you and your men came. And now I am here. But …”

Cecile paused, trying to sort out the confusion of her thoughts. “But … why?” she continued. “Why did you take me? You don’t even know me.”

“No,” he answered calmly. “Yet I had seen you.”

“But where? I saw almost no one until …” The enormity of the answer hit Cecile with the force of a blow. “The auction!”

“Of course, I saw you and knew you were … the one.”

The trace of a smile curved at the corners of his mouth, and Cecile felt her temper flame anew. Never had another human being had such power to provoke her.

“So, rather than pay for me, you simply stole me … Is that it? Picked me up and carried me off like a sack of grain! And now I am your property—your prisoner—correct? To do with as you wish?”

Cecile was about to add that she would die first, but he gave her no opportunity. Folding his arms, he said, “We are all prisoners of some kind, are we not? However, you are not mine. You are free to leave my camp, if you like. But tell me, where would you go?”

Beneath the veil, Cecile’s jaw dropped. Had she heard correctly? “I … I don’t understand,” she stammered.

“It is quite simple. I asked what you would do if you left my camp.”

Do?
Cecile repeated to herself. Beyond escape, she had hardly considered it. The time, however, miraculously appeared to have arrived. She tried to collect her whirling thoughts. “I … I suppose I would return to Damascus.”

“That hardly seems wise, with the caliph’s men looking everywhere for you.”

“But I … I have a … a contact there. At least I think I do,” Cecile amended. “There is a man my father told me about, Andrew Blackmoore. I told you I had written to him. He’s surely wondering what became of me. And there’s my servant, Jali. If he’s alive, and I could just find him …” She let the sentence trail away, aware of how impossible it all sounded.

“As to the first,” he said, filling the silence, “Andrew Blackmoore passed away some time ago. His son, Matthew, has taken over his father’ affairs, but he is not, at this moment, in Damascus.”

Cecile’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”

“I know many things,” he replied without boast. “I know also that you will not find your servant in Damascus. If he lives. It is a large city, and you are a woman … alone. With the caliph’s men at your heels.”

It felt as if a balloon had deflated inside her. Was this El Faris to be her only hope, then? Straightening her spine, Cecile stared firmly into the shadow that concealed his eyes. “There are many things I do not understand,” she said slowly. “For instance, why you saved me from the caliph’s harem. Or why, having taken me, you would let me go free. I can only presume it is because you are an honorable man. As such, I would bid you grant me a request.”

The ghost of a smile returned. El Faris nodded.

“You know I wish to find Haddal. Will you let me travel with your camp?”

His lips pursed ever so slightly. It was maddening, Cecile thought, not to be able to see his eyes.

“That might be a solution,” he responded finally. “With tomorrow’s dawn we begin our journey into the desert where, with the rest of the tribes, we will spend the summer months. And, hopefully, stay out of the caliph’s very long reach. It is likely we will meet with Haddal’s camp. However …” He paused and stroked his chin. “If I allow you to travel with us, of what use will you be? Resources are precious. We can afford to squander nothing, and everyone must contribute. What can you do?”

Cecile managed to bite her tongue. She could not, however, conceal her suspicions. “Just what is it you suggest? Do you perhaps think to make a trade with my body?”

She was not quite sure how she had expected him to respond. Certainly not with laughter. His teeth were very white against his skin. Humiliated, Cecile endured in stoic silence.

“You are quite amusing,” he said at last, still chuckling. “For that reason alone I might take you with us. But the others, I fear, would not understand. Life is harsh on the desert. Everything, everyone, must have a purpose. No, I think you must be a bit more useful than that. Can you cook? Weave? Milk a camel? Make
leben?”

“I can certainly try,” Cecile snapped. Then, because she still did not trust him completely, she added, “As long as that is
all
you will require of me.”

The features visible beneath the hood appeared to grow serious. “You have suffered much at the hands of men, so perhaps you suspicions are understandable. But I will tell you this: We are Badawins, not men of the city, not men of the caliph’s ilk. A woman’s honor is sacred to us. Only within the bonds of marriage would a man lay a hand on a woman. So, you need have no fear on that account.

“Further, I say to you, you have shown courage and stamina, if not the wisdom to guard your tongue. And from what I hear from Hagar, you speak our language in a manner befitting one who has been born to it … despite your European upbringing. As a matter of fact, I prefer you use our language from now on.”

Cecile clasped her hands to hide their sudden trembling. In the dialect of the desert, rather than French, she said, “You will take me with you, then? You will help me find Shaikh Haddal?”

“You have the word of El Faris.”

He had replied in Arabic, and for the first time Cecile realized the meaning of his name. El Faris … the Horseman. But what was his real name? And how, now that she thought of it, had he come to learn French?

He must have seen the question in her eyes, for, misinterpreting it, he said, “You doubt me still, I see. Well, perhaps I should not blame you. As I said, you have suffered a great deal recently at the hands of others, Arab as well as Frenchman. So …” He paused, then raised his hands to the hood of his robe.

Slowly, he pulled it away from his face. Cecile saw his dark, thick brows first, drawn almost straight across the eye ridge. Then she saw his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat.

They were blue, as clear, bright, and true as the waters of a shallow bay. They crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

“So,” he continued casually, “mayhap you will accept the word of an Englishman. Allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Matthew Blackmoore …”

“W
AKE UP
. W
AKE UP, THE DAY IS WASTING!
”

Cecile came to groggily and opened her eyes to see Hagar bending over her. Dust of the desert swirled through the open tent flap, and beyond she saw a laden camel as it passed. It wasn’t a dream! Cecile sprang from the sleeping quilt, nearly knocking Hagar from her feet.

“Careful, you stupid girl!” the old woman admonished, not unkindly. “Now hurry and get to work. We must strike the tent and load the camels.”

“Just a few moments,” Cecile begged. “Please!”

Before Hagar could protest, Cecile had bolted. She couldn’t wait; she had to find him. There had been no time last night. When El Faris, or Matthew Blackmoore, or whatever he wanted to be called, had finished with his stunning revelations, she had been too exhausted to do more than crawl back into Hagar’s tent and go to sleep. But now …

The camp was a beehive of activity. To her right, a tent fluttered to the ground and was immediately set upon by two women. Others loaded the
makhur,
the pack camels, as still others fed the war mares. There was a great deal of dust and confusion. Cecile wanted to cry aloud but knew it would not be fitting. Frantic, her eyes search for the familiar figure.

She saw him at last, helping a young boy to keep his nervous herd of sheep from scattering. Face alight with happiness, she picked up her hem and ran to him.

“Jali!”

“Oh, my.” The small brown face split into an enormous grin. “Oh, my,” he repeated.
“Allah karim
… God is merciful.”

Though she wished to, she could not hug him. Instead Cecile took his hands and squeezed them tightly. “You’ll never know how glad I am to see you, Jali!”

“Less glad than I, I think. For all along you knew where you were. I did not.”

“Oh, Jali, I thought you’d been …” Cecile bit off the words, unwilling to speak them aloud. “How did you get here?”

“The same as you.”

“You mean … ?”

He nodded. “Yes, El Faris.” Jali quickly related his tale, beginning with his rescue by the fisherman and ending with his ride to the camp to await Cecile’s rescue. He added, “El Faris is a good man, a great man.”

Cecile bit her tongue. In spite of events, she had her own opinions. “I must hurry, Jali, and help Hagar. But will I see you again tonight?”

“Most certainly. I have many jobs to do for El Faris in return for food and the protection of his camp. I will be here.”

The tent lay in a gently fluttering heap by the time Cecile returned. She helped Hagar fold and pack it and then the tent goods. The whole was loaded on the back of a patiently kneeling camel.

“I am but a poor old woman,” Hagar said, “but I serve El Faris, and in his generosity he has given me my own riding camel.” The crinkles around her eyes deepened with pride and pleasure. “He has also given me a
maksar
so we may ride in comfort. I will go and fetch the
dahlul.”

Before Cecile was able to protest, Hagar had disappeared within the general confusion.
A camel?
she repeated to herself.
Ride a camel?

She was in the desert now, yes. She would learn the ways of the people, certainly, for she wished to be a part of their world. But she had, after all, been raised a European, and Blackmoore was an Englishman, not a real Badawin. Furthermore, she had been raised on a horse but had never so much as seen a camel before her arrival in North Africa. Surely Blackmoore would allow her to ride one of his horses!

Without giving the matter the thought she should have, Cecile turned and marched toward the center of the camp.

She spotted him outside his tent. He was dressed in a simple white
towb
that reached to his ankles, with wide sleeves and an open collar. Over it he wore a
zebun,
a light, buttonless coat lined in red. The end of this
khaffiya
fluttered in the breeze as he nonchalantly fondled the muzzle of his white mare. He was, she was forced to admit, a striking figure of a man, particularly in his desert robes. And, in spite of herself, she remembered how he had swooped her onto his horse, the steel of his arms, the strong, muscular back to which she had clung.

Cecile also recalled, however, the way he had strung her along, concealing his identity while he probed her with questions. Adding further fuel to her anger, she spotted, behind the man casually fondling his horse, an extremely pregnant black woman bustling about packing his tent goods.