— 4 —
Margaret stared at the ground. She wanted to cry and missed her home and family. In the past seventy-two hours, she’d jumped from a boat, hitched her way to a foreign hotel, been abducted, and ultimately sold into slavery. She remembered the look on her mother’s face in the hotel room, and the sound of her brother’s voice. How she missed them.
“Do not worry. You will be back with your family,” Tariq said.
“I know. I just miss them,” she answered.
Aseem looked at Tariq.
“We are starting to climb a little. I can make out hillsides outside and mountains in the distance. We are now going east a little.”
“How far do you think we have traveled?” Margaret asked.
“Conservatively, I think maybe fifty miles.”
At that point, the wagon stopped. Zahir appeared at the back and opened up the tarp.
“Slaves, we are going into bandit territory. We may need to stop and hide. If any of you try to escape, we will kill all the remaining slaves. Do you understand?”
All four nodded their head in agreement.
“Okay. Do exactly as I say when I say it. If we run into trouble, we will have to act quickly.”
With that, he closed the tarp and the wagon started up again.
“What does that mean? Bandit territory?” little Fez asked.
“Morocco is a poor country. In the mountains, the tribes rule the countryside. Usually, they pay off someone for safe passage. That was the custom with my tribe,” Aseem said.
“You heard what he said. If any of us try to escape then he will kill the rest,” Margaret reminded them.
“He could be bluffing. Otherwise, it just means we will have to escape together,” Tariq reassured her.
“I’m scared of escaping,” Fez said.
“We stand a much better chance of survival on our own than as captives with these people. Don’t worry Fez, we will find a way out.”
“I already know how to escape,” Fez said.
“What?”
“Picking these locks is easy. Have you not noticed we are the last wagon train in line? We could easily slip out the back and escape into the countryside. The timing was not right in the desert. There would have been no place to hide, and water and food would have been scarce. This is perfect territory to hide in. We could easily disappear into the hills and valleys.”
They all looked at Fez in amazement. The entire ride he hadn’t said a word, and now his hands were unshackled and he had already formulated an escape plan?
“How did you pick that lock?” Aseem asked.
“It was easy. I had a bicycle back home and often had to adjust the chain. The connectors weren’t much bigger than this lock hole. I learned how to disable and take apart the chain in seconds using a small nail. I always keep it on me.”
“So, we have a mechanical genius in our midst. Fez, you may come in very handy,” Tariq said and smiled.
“Can you undo all of our locks?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, no problem, but…” Fez hesitated.
“What is it?” Aseem asked.
“We only have one chance at this. If Zahir finds out I can pick the locks, he may do something very, very drastic. He might kill me, or all of us.”
“I agree,” said Tariq. “We must be absolutely sure that we can escape. One chance is all we have.”
“Okay then, tonight it is,” said Aseem. “We don’t know how much farther we have to go before we reach our destination. Tonight may be our only opportunity.”
Everyone nodded in agreement. The escape had to happen tonight.
After dark, it was colder than usual. The wagons were circled around a giant fire in the middle. The caravan had stopped in a long valley that stretched for miles. It had been a treacherous journey. At one point, one of the wagons almost slid down an embankment, which surely would have destroyed it, along with everyone and everything inside.
As expected, the four prisoners were kept chained to the outside wagon apart from the others. No one could sleep in anticipation of the escape plan, so they silently waited for a few hours until they were sure the rest of the camp was fast asleep. During that time, Fez silently and quickly unlocked everyone’s shackles. They had managed to hide a little food from dinner, as they didn’t know what to expect in the mountains or how easy it would be to find food. No matter the consequences, they all knew an escape would be better than remaining in slavery.
“Are you all ready?” Tariq whispered.
“Yes,” everyone replied.
Slowly Tariq made his way out of the wagon. He crawled on his belly and stayed in the shadows. The others followed directly behind him. All of the camels and mules were fast asleep in the center of the camp. One camel stirred a bit, but nothing too unusual happened as they passed by. They crawled about twenty feet to a nearby rock and hid behind it.
“So far, so good,” Margaret whispered.
They were about to crawl away when Aseem noticed something in the distance.
“Hold on,” he told the others.
Aseem looked in the direction where he had seen movement and waited. Sure enough, after a few seconds, he saw the unmistakable outline of a person moving through the brush, about sixty feet away. The glint of a dagger reflected in the moonlight.
“We have a problem,” he whispered.
“What?” Tariq asked.
“We are being attacked. I see shadows moving in the darkness.”
“Bandits?” Margaret asked.
“Yes,” Aseem said.
Aseem thought before answering.
“If I’m not mistaken, this is Tajakant territory. Their tribe is very wary of any outsiders. If you are not Tajakant, then you are considered an enemy. They will not hesitate to kill us if we are captured.”
“Is there another way?” Tariq asked.
“No. The only way for us to escape is to pass through this valley for a few hundred yards. They are coming directly towards us. We cannot escape this way or we will be caught.”
“What should we do?” Fez asked.
“We go back to the wagon and alert the others.”
“What?” Margaret exclaimed.
“This will not be our only opportunity for escape. We will live another day.”
“Are you sure?” Tariq asked.
“Yes. We must move quickly back to the wagon and alert the others.”
“Okay, then. I trust you,” Tariq said.
Reluctantly, they moved silently and slowly back to the wagon under the cover of shadows and darkness. They didn’t seem to be spotted by the intruders. Once inside, all of them shackled themselves in.
“What now?” Margaret asked.
“Now, we yell and wake up everyone,” Aseem said.
At once, the four started yelling and screaming.
“Bandits!” they yelled.
“Help us! We are being attacked!”
“Intruders!”
Quickly, the camp filled with life. There was much shouting and hollering as the camp prepared for battle. They heard yelling from outside the camp and then the sound of gunfire.
“Can you see what is happening?” Aseem asked.
“Just barely; Zahir has a rifle and a pistol, and is hiding behind a rock with another man. They are firing into the night. I don’t see much else,” Margaret said.
They heard more gunshots, and the sound of a man groaning. Just then, a man burst into the back of the wagon. His head and face were covered by a turban and mask. He was dressed completely in black and had a large, foot-long dagger in his hand. He was looking for blood.
“Aaaargghhh!” Fez screamed.
The man lifted his dagger and was about to stab Aseem when he suddenly fell forward and slumped in the wagon. Blood poured out of his head—a bullet had struck him in the back of the skull. Zahir appeared just behind him with a pistol. Quickly, he jumped in the wagon and peeked out from behind the tarp.
“We are being attacked,” he said, stating the obvious.
“We know, we’re the ones that alerted everyone,” Tariq said.
“What?” he asked, looking at them, before focusing his attention outside once more. “We killed three of them. Hopefully they won’t return. I am going back outside,” he said, jumping out of the wagon.
The dead bandit lay in the middle of the wagon, blood pouring from his head. Margaret stared at the dead man’s eyes. She had never seen a corpse before, not even at a funeral. Life drained from the man’s face and his skin took on a ghostly white color. His eyes remained open.
“I wish someone would remove him.”
Tariq moved up and searched the dead man’s pockets. He found a small flint and tin for making fires but nothing else. He thought about taking the man’s dagger but stopped.
“Zahir will notice if his dagger is missing,” he said aloud.
Then, he thought of checking the man’s ankles. Sure enough, the dead man had a small knife sheathed and hidden on his right ankle. Tariq hid the knife and tin in a loose floorboard in the wagon.
“Nice work!” Aseem said. Tariq winked at him.
After ten minutes, the battle seemed to be over. Just moments before, they’d heard intermittent gunfire and shouting. Now, it was completely quiet and still. Zahir opened up the tarp and dragged the corpse out the back of the wagon. As Tariq had suspected he would, Zahir picked up and sheathed the man’s dagger before looking at the captives.
“We are going to break camp and travel by night. The group that attacked us was small, but they may come back with reinforcements. All of you stand up,” he ordered.
Dutifully, the four stood up, and Zahir searched their clothes for weapons. Fez took the nail he’d used to pick the locks from his pocket and dropped it on the floor as Zahir was searching Aseem—a sly move that went unnoticed by Zahir.
“Just making sure you didn’t swipe anything from this bandit. I wouldn’t put it past thieves like you. How did you know we were being attacked?”
The four looked at each other before Margaret spoke up.
“I couldn’t sleep and was looking at the stars outside. I saw movements in the mountains. That’s all.”
He looked at her closely and studied her eyes and voice. Satisfied with her answer, he ensured all the shackles were tight.
“Okay, then. Let’s move.”
The caravan moved slowly through the night. Two workers led the way, lighting the path by torch. Although it was only one mile to the end of the valley, the journey took the rest of the night. The four captives sat in the back of the wagon, unable to sleep. They worried about further bandit attacks or the wagon falling off a ledge, sending them to perish on the rocks below. Eventually, by the early hours of the morning, all four settled into a fitful sleep.
By nine o’clock the next morning, the desert was hot and the sun mercilessly beat down on the wagon train.
“I didn’t know the desert could get this hot,” Tariq said.
“Neither did I. It must be one hundred and twenty degrees,” Aseem agreed.
“How do those camels manage in this heat with all that fur?” Margaret asked.
“I don’t know. I would die if I had a fur coat on right now,” Fez answered. They all laughed at the idea of little Fez with a fur coat.
“Aseem, do you think you can track our trail?” Margaret asked.
“I have been. From studying the distance we’ve traveled, our changes in direction, and the stars at night, I have made a map in my head.”
“How did you learn to do all that?”
“I was taught by my brother.”
“I can’t believe you don’t hate your father for selling you off,” Tariq stated.
“Do you want to know my dream?” asked Aseem.
“What is it?”
“To one day return to my village a successful man. To look my father in the eye and show him that I am more of a man than he is,” he said softly.
“You will do it, Aseem. We’ll help you.”
“Thank you. I think most of us have a home to return to.”
“I don’t,” Tariq answered. “I never knew my father or mother. For years, my only home was anywhere I could put my head at night. Sometimes an orphanage, or a stairway, or maybe some grass in a park.”
“How did you survive all those years by yourself?” Margaret asked.
“I’m a street rat. My friends are my family. We look out for one another. We feed one another. We learn how to survive. I had never known a good adult until three years ago, when a woman rescued me. Her name is Zijuan. She is my mother. She taught me to read and write. But she also taught me the difference between right and wrong, and made me believe that although I am an orphan, I still have a purpose in this world and I am capable of making it a better place.”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” Margaret said.
“She is. I hope to see her again someday.”
“You will.”
“What about you, Margaret?” Aseem asked.
“In the past three days, I have realized how wonderful my family is and how good my life was. Hearing your stories, I know have nothing to complain about. I just want to go home. I hope that someday all of you could meet my family. I think you would like them.”
“I would like that. You’re the first white girl I’ve ever known. You’re not so bad,” Tariq said.
“You’re not so bad either, Tariq.”
The caravan rumbled along in the heat of the day. The desert can reach one hundred and thirty degrees in afternoon. At that temperature, a man can die of heat exhaustion in just one hour under the sun. It is considered the harshest environment on the earth.
“My goodness, I am thirsty. I thought we were supposed to get water every couple of hours. We haven’t received any since morning,” Margaret said.
“I know. They seem to have forgotten about us,” Fez agreed.
“Perhaps we are being punished,” Aseem said.
“For what?” Tariq asked.
Aseem shrugged his shoulders and continued to stare at the wagon floor. All of them were quite hungry, but it was the thirst that tortured them the most. Their throats itched and felt scratchy and swollen. Their eyes were dry, and their energy was depleted. After a while, they lacked the energy to speak and could barely sit up.
Finally, the caravan stopped. Zahir appeared at the back of the wagon with a bucket and ladle.
“Everyone gets two ladles and no more,” he said and lifted a full ladle to Fez’s mouth. He gulped it down and another. He went to Aseem and then Margaret and finally to Tariq.
“Sir, it must be a hundred and twenty degrees outside,” Fez said. “How are we expected to survive riding in a hot wagon, through the desert, with only two gulps of water per day?”
“The bandits shot two of our barrels of water. So, we are rationing. Slaves are the last to drink. If you die, then you die. It is in Allah’s hands now,” he said, closing the tarp behind him as he left.
They just looked at each other…
The next day, impossibly, was hotter than the previous one. The four of them lay sweltering in the wagon, as flies buzzed around their sweaty bodies. Each of them suffered from various stages of heat exhaustion. Little Fez’s head throbbed with migraine headaches. Margaret could barely swallow, her throat was so swollen. Aseem had started to hallucinate from dehydration. Tariq, perhaps the strongest, merely slept in fitful sleeps. The wagon crept along slowly, as if its destination could never be attained.
At the end of the day, they finally stopped. Zahir appeared as usual with the bucket of water. Margaret could barely place the ladle to her chapped lips; the water, although warmer than room temperature, was the sweetest nectar she had ever tasted. Each took their turn, not wasting any energy on talking.
“One more day, perhaps two, and we will make our destination,” Zahir said as he closed the tarp.
“I can’t make another day. I’ll die,” Margaret said.
“Just try to sleep, and don’t move. Conserve your energy. You will make it,” Tariq reassured her.
That night the four slept a deep sleep, their pangs of hunger and thirst finally giving way to complete exhaustion. Each dreamt vividly and wildly, their subconscious minds living out their most fearful nightmares or vivid daydreams. Deep in the night, the wind kicked up a wicked screech, awakening all of them. The flaps on the wagons blew and shook and finally one of them came loose and blew into the wagon, allowing sand and wind to swirl inside.
“Try to get it back up!” Aseem yelled with urgency.
Tariq took the cloth and tried to replace it, but the wind was just too strong. With what little strength he had, he made one last attempt to replace the missing piece of the tarp. Finally, he gave up in exhaustion.
The four huddled together in the wagon, exposed to the howling wind and blinding sand. They sheltered their faces and hid under the cover. The wind continued to kick up even stronger, and they felt the wagon rocking and shaking until it finally tipped over on one side. The four ended up on top of one another, covered in sand.
The captives leaned against the inside of the overturned wagon. They were now actually more protected than they were before, as the wagon provided a barrier to the wind. No one spoke. They simply tried to protect themselves, their eyes itching and blinded by the sandstorm.
Tariq lowered his chin into his chest, shielded his eyes from the sand, and looked out across the other wagons. Three others had also toppled over. People ran everywhere, blinded by the sand. Clothes and rags and curtains flew about. There was no order, only chaos.
Just then, Tariq spied the food wagon. It had toppled over. He saw what he was sure was a jug of water and a pile of spilled fruit, and nobody seemed to have noticed.
“Fez, undo my leg shackles,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because, I am going to get us water.”
Fez slowly lifted his nail from its hiding place, and in a matter of minutes had freed his friend. Once released from the shackles, Tariq checked to make sure nobody was watching him, and then quickly made his way across the camp to the overturned food wagon. Sand flew everywhere, so much so that it was impossible for Tariq to see beyond three feet in front of his face. He didn’t worry too much about being recognized. If anyone saw him, he would have looked like anyone else in the caravan trying to find shelter.
When he reached the food cart, he fell to his knees, gathered the water jug and quickly grabbed some figs and nuts, stuffing them in his pockets. He made his way back to his friends, throwing his body down behind the wagon, exhausted from the experience.
Tariq took a long, long drink of water, then passed the jug to Fez, who took an equally long drink. The four of them passed the jug back and forth five times until it was completely empty. Tariq then threw the jug as far as he could, away from them to avoid suspicion. Next, he shared his take of food. They each managed to stuff their mouths with food—slowly chewing, they enjoyed the sweet tastes, and felt their bellies receive temporary relief.
Their recovery felt instantaneous. Finally nourished, their body temperatures returned to normal. Their headaches subsided, and their bellies felt warm. Although the sandstorm continued through the night, they had been fed and their thirst had been quenched. Sand, compared to starvation and dehydration, was a mere nuisance.
By the rise of the sun, the sandstorm had subsided and the sun slid slowly up over the horizon. There was nothing to see except miles of rolling dunes and sand. The camp slowly came to life, as people shook the sand from their clothes, hair and bodies. Zahir walked from wagon to wagon, assessing the damage and yelling orders to each camp member.
Finally, he came to the slave wagon. He unlocked everyone’s leg shackles.
“You will help right the wagons, clean the sand, and collect anything thrown about from the storm,” he ordered them.
Dutifully, they went to each wagon and assisted in turning it over. The wagons were mostly just rickety carts with some wires strung over the top, used for draping cloth for shade. All the wagons were two-wheeled and each looked as if it could fall completely apart at any moment. The wood was rotten with worm holes and splintered from the sun.
The young slaves went through each wagon, brushing out the sand, which sometimes required a shovel, it was so deep. They fixed the overhead wires and assisted in hooking them up to the mules. Although it was a nasty sandstorm, the mules were unaffected, as they had been kept huddled in a tent for safety. In the desert, a mule was a lifeline, and it was critical they be protected.
Old Shatam, who fed everyone every day, had joined in cleaning the wagons. He reached out and gave a piece of lamb to Tariq.
“Hide this and share it with your friends,” he said.
“Thank you,” Tariq said and without so much as flicker, the meat was hidden in his clothes.
“Zahir is the most evil man I know. Do not upset him. You do not want to find out what he is capable of,” Old Shatam warned Tariq.
“How long have you been with him?”
“With him? Not long. He is new and wants everyone to fear him. I have been with Caid Ali Tamzali for over thirty years, since I was a boy your age.”
Tariq looked at him and calculated the man’s age in his head. Although he would be only about forty-three, he looked closer to sixty. His skin was weathered and brown. He had scars up and down his back from repeated whippings. Tariq looked at him and became very sad. Was this his fate, to be a slave for the rest of his life? Would he surrender after time and just relent to being a servant? Would he grovel at Zahir’s feet and beg for scrap pieces of meat?
“We should arrive at the kasbah tomorrow. At the slaves’ quarters, do not trust anyone. Do not tell anyone of your secrets or plans. Zahir has spies everywhere and gives privileges in exchange for information. A girl was planning an escape two weeks ago and Zahir discovered her plan. As an example to the rest, she was dragged through town on a horse until her naked skin was rubbed raw with sores and bruises. After that, he had the other slaves stone her to death.”
“My God!”
“Pray to your God, but I do not think He hears our prayers,” Old Shatam said.
“Thank you,” Tariq said, and walked away.
In two hours, the caravan had made repairs and was back on the trail. They moved faster now, as they were out of the valleys and in the open desert. Obviously, Zahir wanted to return to the kasbah without any further delays.
In the wagon, the four looked and felt considerably better than the previous day.
“I talked with Old Shatam. He gave me some lamb to share,” Tariq said, and divvied up the lamb into four quarters, handing one to each of his friends.
They all chewed and savored the delicious kabob, allowing the juices and spices to linger on their tongues.
“Shatam also said to trust no one at the kasbah. We must not speak of our plans to anyone.”
“We must only rely on ourselves,” Aseem said. “We must make a pact—that no matter what, we will always look out for each other. Together, we can survive.”
“Tariq already saved me once. I wouldn’t have made it without that water last night,” Margaret agreed.
“It was nothing. You would have done the same for me,” Tariq replied and smiled at her.
“I agree. If we trust and rely on each other, we can find a way to escape.”
“We must make a blood oath. Fez, please hand me your nail,” Tariq requested.
Fez did as he was told. Tariq took the nail and punctured the skin on his right palm; blood dripped down onto his wrist. He handed the nail to Fez, Aseem, and Margaret, and in turn they each did the same. When every palm had been bloodied, they swore a blood oath, smearing each other’s blood together on their palms.
“We are blood now, inseparable by life or death,” Aseem said and smiled.
“I’ve never taken a blood oath before. Girls normally don’t do that sort of thing,” Margaret replied, with almost a giggle.
“What do girls do?” Aseem asked.
“Hmmm. Mostly, we might steal each other’s clothes.”
They all laughed and, for once, they felt good.
Unfortunately, it was a fleeting feeling. Later that morning, the caravan stopped and Zahir appeared at their wagon as usual.
“In a few hours, we will enter the kasbah. Do not look the Caid in the eyes. Do as you are told—always. Any disobedience and you will be whipped. Displease me more than once and you will be stoned to death. Do you understand?”
Each of them nodded their heads.
“Good. Now, you—I want the others to see something,” he said as he unshackled Tariq’s legs. Tariq followed Zahir out of the wagon, unsure about what he had done.
“Stand against the wagon, facing your friends,” Zahir ordered.
Tariq did as he was told and leaned against the wagon; he looked directly at the other three.
Zahir took out his whip and slowly paced around behind Tariq.
“So, you think you can steal water from me, and I would not notice? You think you can steal just because of a sandstorm?” he screamed.
“No…I…” Tariq stammered.
The whip came down hard and fast on Tariq’s exposed back; he cringed and screamed in agony.
“How did you get free?” Zahir asked.
“I don’t know, the wagon turned over and I just saw the water.”
The whip came down again, Tariq screamed even louder. He felt blood slowly trickle down his back.
“Why did you shackle yourself again once you were free?” Zahir inquired.
“I didn’t want to escape, I just wanted to get a little water. We were dying. What good are the slaves you purchased if we are dead?” he asked.
Zahir stopped and stared at Tariq. He had made a good point, and this confused Zahir. Normally, slaves didn’t show much independent thought. Tariq’s response made sense. It would displease the Caid if he showed up with four dead slaves. The Caid might even take the losses out of his wages.
“Never let me see you steal again. And, if I see you out of your shackles without my permission, I will kill you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, let this be a reminder,” Zahir said, took a step back, and threw all of his body weight into the whip.
The leather screamed through the air and snapped on Tariq’s back. Blood splattered everywhere, some even sprayed on Fez, who was a full three feet away. Tariq whined with agony and sank to his knees.
Zahir picked up Tariq, threw him in the wagon and tied his shackles.
Coiling his whip, he stared at all the slaves. He looked to be the personification of evil, with steam rising off his bald head, sweat dripping down his black moustache, and his eyes devoid of any emotion. Finished with his display of dominance, he smirked and walked away.
Tariq passed out in the wagon; the pain from the whipping was too much for him to bear. The caravan started up minutes later. In the distance, the kasbah roof could just barely be seen over the sand dunes.
They would arrive by noon.