For what might have been ten minutes or ten hours, Paul felt himself hovering in a gray netherworld between consciousness and the dark. Everything was so vague, so almost something. He couldn’t breathe. There was a great heaviness on his chest, or maybe it was nothing. Noises… shouting, men shouting! – no, just the wind playing games, there’s only silence here. Wait, those were camels he heard… no camels now, but blood, the sweet smell of blood. His? No, it was the smell of desert air, and it was good, always so good. He wished the pounding in his head would stop, a thousand drummers on a thousand drums, pounding slowly, in unison, hurting him so – no, those were waves pounding! There he was with Moussa by the sea, little boys playing relentless surf tag, the water retreating before their advance, then advancing before their retreat, and he loved the sea so, but it wasn’t time now, he only wanted to sleep, but the hawk wouldn’t let him, it was screeching in triumph after his kill, wings flapping, beak ripping at the flesh of the little lizard.
Then buzzing, insistent, blurry buzzing in his ears, and, trying to shut it out, a fleeting instant when he saw it all again so clearly, the swords flashing, hacking, mad blue butchers at work in a human slaughterhouse, the smoke of gunpowder burning his eyes. The arm, oh God the arm, cut off and alone, spinning through the air, then the crippling nausea sweeping over him, doubling him over, and everyone dead, or dying.
And then the blackness took him again, snuffing out the terror.
Much later, the crushing weight on his chest woke him again. He shook his head and opened his eyes. There was light but no detail. He groped for awareness. He flexed his hands. They still moved. With much more effort than he would have believed necessary, he managed to bring one toward his face, and he felt another hand. A cold one, dead.
The realization jolted him awake. He grunted, pushing at the body lying on top of him, and as he did so things focused at last: he was looking into the eyes of a man he had shot. The eyes were open. A pretty blue, he thought, but lifeless, unseeing. He stared at them dully, barely comprehending. He knew he had done it, but for now that was all.
Head racked with pain, stomach heaving and queasy, he made a superhuman effort this time and pushed the body off onto the rocks. Winded, he sat up and looked around. At his feet lay a camel, its leg horribly broken. Next to it was a huge double-edged sword and a bloodstained knife with a leather-wrapped hilt in the shape of a cross.
He shivered. It was either dusk or dawn. He couldn’t tell yet, for the cold and light could belong to either one. The chill had settled deep into his marrow. He wiped his face with his sleeve. His mouth tasted vile. Swallowing didn’t help. His tongue was swollen, mouth dry, and no saliva would come. He looked down at the front of his flannel shirt. It had turned from gray to dark reddish black, dyed in blood. Another man’s blood.
Weakly he stood. He stretched, then wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed for warmth. He had no idea where he was. He could see only sky and dark rocks that towered in the distance. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. He bent over the body to take the Targui’s cloak. The man’s clothing was caked with dried blood. He tried not to look at the ragged, burnt hole in the cloth as he worked. The body was rigid, like a heavy wooden marionette, and removing the cloak was difficult. Paul’s pistol fell out from among the folds and clattered to the ground, startling him. He sat down again, dizzy from the exertion.
Another noise made him look up. From atop a high rock a lone raven, big and sleek, gave him a baleful black stare. Paul was delaying its meal. He picked up a pebble and threw it. The bird took off, cawing angrily.
He closed his eyes and tried to gather himself, to think. It was all still jumbled, but pieces of it were coming back to him. Tadjenout! The massacre, the chase. He shivered again.
The hammering in his head began to subside. He needed water. Picking his way carefully over the corpse and the camel, he made his way to the Targui’s gear. He found a goatskin water bag. Eagerly he pulled the leather stop and took a long drink, too quickly, so that the water spilled down his chin and onto the ground. The water was brackish, but to his drought tasted cold and perfect. He rinsed his mouth and spat.
There was a soft leather bag, drawn tight at the neck. He opened it and found dates, flour, salt, sugar, tea, and a small brass bowl. Ravenous, he stuffed a handful of dates into his mouth, chewing greedily, spitting out the pits, then had another, and another, washing them down with more water.
He knew he must get moving. He slung the two bags over his shoulder and recovered his pistol. He took the Targui’s sword and dagger as well. He wiped the knife on his pant leg and shoved it in his belt. He started to leave but then stopped suddenly, arrested by a flush of shame. He turned around.
In his life he had never hurt another human being, yet had just finished stealing food, water, and cloak from a man he had shot dead. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel, but imagined it should be different than this: no sorrow, no tears. He had killed and was leaving, finished. It might have been his body lying there now. The Targui would have stripped and mutilated it and left, indifferent. He knew he was no Targui, yet standing there so cold, so unmoved, was wrong. The death at his feet ruined the easy justifications.
Face flushed, he dropped to his knees and leaned forward to draw the man’s veil over the open eyes. He bowed his head and shut his eyes.
Our Father, who art in heaven…
No! He couldn’t do it. The prayer died on his lips as his rage boiled inside.
Not after Tadjenout.
Oh sweet Jesus, what the Tuareg have done!
Remy! The colonel and Masson! Dennery! Dead, all dead! I will not pray for this animal.
He flicked back the veil to expose the face. Let the crows know the face of evil before they dine.
He took the cloak from his shoulders and dropped it. He would not wear the enemy’s clothing.
I am at war.
He collected the food and water, and started out. It was dawn after all. The sun was up into a perfect, clear blue sky, rising over a distant peak, a great jagged monolith visible up and past one of the valleys. Like the other mountains it was a fantasy sculpted from a dream – all the Hoggar peaks were weird and playful, storybook shapes, distant castles and spires and heads in profile, mountains like none other, unearthly and mysterious. A home for dragons and fairies.
A home for death.
He remembered now. The big mountain would be Serkout. They had passed in its shadow that last day, and Floop – his mind seized on the thought desperately. He looked around in a panic. He’d completely forgotten the dog. He’d left him in the bag.
“Floop!” Nothing, nothing but his voice coming back to him from the mountains, alone. “Floop!”
He sat down and the tears came at last, washing over him in great waves of grief. His insides knotted in agony and he cried until it hurt. After a time he shook himself out of his wretched reverie, the streaks on his cheeks where the tears had dried like tight scars, pulling at his face as he squinted into the day.
He embarrassed himself with his tears. He knew he had to get moving, or die like a grieving fool. The sun had climbed higher. The chill he’d felt earlier had disappeared. It would be a hot day. Not blistering, for it was only February – or was it March now? He couldn’t remember.
I will kill them all.
He looked around, starting at the giant Serkout, letting his gaze drift slowly along the horizon, stopping at each peak, each escarpment, each formation, hoping that one of the wild, weird shapes might look familiar. There was nothing, nothing at all. His eyes came to rest again on Serkout.
Is Dianous looking at that mountain? Or is he dead too?
No. He survived. He’s in charge now, with the colonel and the captain dead.
What would he do?
Paul kicked a rock absently.
You know what he’d do. Chase the bastards.
Insanity! Outnumbered two to one.
So what? Got to pay them back.
Don’t worry about revenge yet. Survive now. Revenge later.
Fight now! What else for a soldier?
Run, that’s what. Run north. Run like hell.
Dianous wouldn’t run. Would you?
Hell no. Hell yes. I don’t know. The Tuareg probably attacked in two places. They’re probably all dead now anyway.
Dianous? Not dead! On the way to Wargla. Get moving. Catch up.
Which way is Wargla?
Don’t know. North.
Don’t know much. Never paid attention. None of these mountains looks familiar. Why didn’t you pay attention?
Because there was always a guide to do that for you. No need to pay attention.
How could they make you an officer when you don’t pay attention? Things don’t come to you like they’re supposed to come to officers. Remy knew you were a fraud.
Ah, Remy.
Doesn’t matter anyway. No compass or rifle or camel. You can’t catch them on foot. Officers die just as dead as enlisted men.
He shuddered. The sun was getting warm on his back. There was only infinite emptiness, and silence.
I’m afraid.
Face the fear. It will pass.
I’m going to die.
Stop it! Whining bastard! North! Amguid, then Wargla! North to water. North to life;
What if they’re still nearby, chasing the Tuareg? Go north and you’ll miss them. Die lost somewhere, alone.
Going to die anyway. Always lost.
Better getting lost going north than south. Better getting out of here.
And almost before he had finished playing it out in his mind, almost without realizing it, he was walking, his pace growing readily longer, stronger, propelled by intense purpose and terrible fear.
I am lost. Afraid. I don’t want to die.
He quickened his pace still more, legs pumping fast, ever faster, pursued by the demons in his mind. He shut it all out. No time for theories, no time to mourn Remy, no time for dogs, no time for fear. There was only the north, and Wargla.
I am at war.
The grim realities of his situation left him blind to the beauty of the country he passed through; the mountains and rocks had become only obstacles to pass. When he did look, they refused to yield even a flicker of recognition. So his course was all his own now. He dedicated his thoughts to speed, to progress, eyes wandering over the myriad routes before him, selecting the ones that would slow him the least. It became a game, his mind judging distances, calculating angles, feet sure, steady, carrying him swiftly over the terrain. Hour after hour he went on, his pace unrelenting, his concentration complete, his body melding with his mind, mind melding with the rocks, rocks melding with his shadow, and his shadow moving north, ever north.
Only as the sun dipped toward the horizon did he feel the fatigue and stop to rest. He set down the food and water and fairly sagged to a sitting position. He munched on a handful of dates as he pondered an unfamiliar problem: what he was going to do with the flour. He’d never cooked a meal in his life. It was whole flour, flecked with what appeared to be insect parts, but grainy and rich. All he knew was that one made bread and cakes from it. For that, he’d need heat, and for that, he’d need wood. There’d been lone trees scattered along his route that day, but where he’d stopped there was no vegetation at all. He was sitting on a bed of sand next to a large black rock that still felt warm from the sun. He wondered whether it might be hot enough to make something happen with the flour.
He shook some of the flour into the bowl, sprinkling in water from the goatskin. He added a handful of salt, and then, thinking that was too much, two of sugar. He started mixing with the fingers of one hand. It didn’t go well. One part was sticky, another lumpy, another dry, all of it hard to work, the whole of it refusing to accept its parts. Globs stuck to his fingers, which, no matter how he manipulated them, couldn’t get the flour involved that was still dry and powdered. Finally he gave up on a one-handed effort and plunged in with the other, clasping them together, squeezing, kneading, rubbing.
He realized that he’d used too much water. The paste was getting everywhere. It seemed to creep up his arms as he worked. He tried to get it into the bowl, but much of it stuck to his hands. He forced it down off his palms and the back of his hands, then squeezed it down off each finger, one at a time, shaking them at the end to dislodge the blob at the bottom. When he had gotten all of it off that he could, he stared at his hands. They were still coated. Not daring to waste anything, he started licking, which was difficult because a lot of the flour had already dried hard as a rock, and clung to the hairs on the back of his hands. In disgust he resorted to his pants.
He set the blob on the warm rock, removed his shirt and covered it carefully, and waited for something to happen. After a time he poked at it. It wasn’t doing anything. His finger left a hole. Not much of a cake, he thought. He gave it half an hour, and poked again. He figured it was as ready as it was going to get. He picked it up, noting with satisfaction that at least it didn’t stick to anything. The outside was hard, the inside gooey. He hadn’t gotten it all mixed properly and encountered clumps of sugar, or of salt. Somehow the whole thing had gotten full of sand, which crunched in his teeth. Gamely he devoured it all, noting with satisfaction that it was the best meal he’d ever cooked.
He looked at Serkout through the dusk. It had receded during the day’s march, but not nearly enough. Venus was already bright above the horizon. Above it, a few degrees to the east, there was a crescent moon that would give him enough light to walk a few more hours.
He loaded his food and water and set out. He was glad to be moving again, to shake off the chill that began at the instant of sunset. His progress was much slower in the twilight. Mindful of the fate of the Targui’s camel, he picked his way carefully over the terrain, stepping cautiously, not always certain whether the shapes in front of him were something solid or just deep shadows. He kept Venus behind him, to his left, using it until the night grew darker, when he could more accurately use the stars. As he glanced at the dazzling planet, his eye took in the shapes of the rocks on the horizon, their forms beginning to melt into the deep purple sky.
Stopping at the site where Paul had made bread, a Targui dismounted and examined the ground, seeing traces everywhere of the Frenchman’s passage. Satisfied that he was on the right track, he mounted again and prompted his mehari to its feet. The Targui felt no chill, his shesh and robe and the camel beneath him keeping him warm. He was quite comfortable, his feet resting on the camel’s neck. He could go all night if necessary. “Bok bok.” The sound carried little farther than the camel’s ears. The animal turned obediently to the nudge of the rider’s foot, to take them north.
Paul walked on for two hours. The wind began an hour after dark, a strong, unwelcome visitor from the east, noisy and cold. The moon was not yet big enough in its cycle to light the desert. He reckoned he had made five or six kilometers—not bad for a night march in difficult terrain, he thought, but negligible in the vastness he needed to cover. As the moon dipped toward the horizon, he decided to find a place to spend the night, before the moon disappeared altogether and left him in blackness.
He found a large boulder, hollowed out on one side, nestled in a bed of sand and pebbles. He set down his load of food and water and collapsed onto the ground, using the bag for a pillow, his eyes closing in fatigue. Within ten minutes he knew that no sleep would come. The wind was too cold, blowing around the edges of the boulder. He had only the clothes on his back for warmth and no brush for a fire. He would have to make a shelter.
In the waning moonlight he gathered flat rocks, stacking them on top of each other in a semicircle stretching out from the hollow. He knew better than to pick up rocks casually, better than to stick his hands underneath to lift them, without moving them first with his boot. El Madani had warned him to check, always to check. Fatigue and the dark and his hurry for warmth made him careless. He was nearly done, his wind wall knee high. He was putting up the last row, the rocks making a sharp hollow sound as he piled them in their arc, trying to fit them together as tightly as their shapes permitted, so that no wind would get through.
The big scorpion was sluggish, but not immobile in the night air. It reacted instinctively to the intrusion, its tail full of lightning, and striking just as quickly – around, forward, and up, until it found the warm flesh of danger and planted its poison. It withdrew and scurried backward, more slowly than it would have during the day, but still quick, and retreated into the protection of another rock.
Paul felt the fire and knew instantly what it was, the burning searing its way up his hand and wrist and into his arm, the realization of his stupidity flashing to his brain. He jumped back with a loud cry, clutching his hand to his stomach and bending over it, praying that it hadn’t really happened. But it had, the fire paralyzing his hand. He made his way into his shelter and dropped heavily onto the bed of sand, not feeling his head strike the rock; not feeling, for the moment, the cold on its wings of wind, flying through his wall as though it didn’t exist. He felt nothing but the fire.
The poison worked quickly. He huddled on his side in the sand, drawing his knees up to his chest in a fetal position, cradling his hand. The wind howled like another living presence in the little space, intrusive and abrasive and rude, and seemed to intensify his agony. He shivered and moaned. His armpit began to swell. He longed for the dead Doctor Guiard, for his medical supplies and help. He cursed himself for abandoning the Targui’s cloak, an act of foolish anger. He tried to concentrate through his torment, to force his mind into the refuge of warmer, gentler surroundings: anything, anywhere, to get away. But his mind refused. Wild fire and bitter cold slammed the door of his escape.
Lying on his side became unbearable. He tried sitting up and rocking, his legs folded underneath. He concentrated on the motion, finding comfort in its sway, slowly at first until that stopped working, then faster, the break in rhythm a respite, until faster didn’t work either, then slowing once again, lengthening the motions, exaggerating them, until his face touched the rock wall before him. When that stopped working he tried his side once more, writhing slowly in the sand, as if to dig himself a grave and be gone.
He talked to himself, finding comfort in the sound of his voice.
“Damn it’s cold, oh God, God help me. DeVries, you are a fool, a stupid insane fool, try flexing the arm it will help, Oh Jesus, holy Mother Mary that’s worse please make it go away, don’t let me freeze to death Father just stop it and make this night be over, please God, let it be day, make it stop hurting, please make me, Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee… ”
His teeth clenched until he thought they’d break. He rambled through them, his voice a whimper in the shrieking wind.
Fever came with sweat that evaporated in the wind and deepened the chill. It raged inside him, bringing convulsive shivers. He opened his eyes and saw the north sky, watching the Dipper creep in its slow arc to empty itself over the horizon. It had never moved more slowly. He despaired for the night’s end, for the handle seemed to have stopped moving altogether, its contents frozen.
He screamed, a rough and ragged scream that built from the belly and rose through his chest. Everything was swollen, useless, his hand puffed up until the skin stretched red and shiny and he thought it would burst. Just breathing was torture, but the worst of it was the shivering, which seemed to exaggerate itself down his arm into his hand.
I’m going to die. I want to die. Please God let me die.
The screams came and went, tapering off into sobs, angry bitter choked sobs, his throat thick. His back ached from his twisted posture. His legs cramped. He reveled in the sensation because it was a different pain and kept his mind off the other, and he almost laughed with relief. But then the cycle of pain and fever and cold began again, violent eruptions shaking his entire body, beginning deep inside, working outward, traveling down his arm once again, to be amplified in his hand.
Outraged, desperate, sweat dripping from his brow, salt stinging his eyes, he smashed his swollen hand against the rocks, knocking them down, and scourged it in the sand until the sharp pebbles drew blood, and screamed and cried again at the new agony, while the stars still crept too slowly through God’s forsaken night.
At last the cycles lost their sharp edges, and he drifted in and out; the fatigue fought and clawed at his brain to take over. His eyes grew heavy. His screams died to soft whimpers, and the stars faded from his sight, his body rocking, rocking into the night, and at last relief washed over him, great waves of blessed relief, and he slept.
The world came slowly into focus. There was darkness, but he was no longer outside. He started to sit up but fell back again, dizzy. He groaned. His head ached horribly. He opened his eyes and saw a rock ceiling above his head, reflecting the flickering light of a fire. He was warm at last; the cold had gone.
Slowly, it dawned on him. A fire, a cave. He blinked, and shook his head to clear it. Above him he began to make out a figure. I am not alone. The shape wavered, as if he were seeing it through a pool of water. Gradually his vision cleared. White cotton, blue robes. A shock raced through his body.
Tuareg!
His hand flew for his pistol. The Targui caught it and held it easily. Paul struggled fiercely to get up.
“Paul, stop it! It is I, Moussa!”
“The hell you say! Get away!” Paul struggled weakly, half-delirious, his body racked with pain.
“I know you, Paul deVries! I thought it was you, from your hair, and I know it now for sure, from your eyes! And you know me!”
“Take away your mask, Devil!” Paul gasped, still trying for his gun.
“It is not a mask! It is I!”
“No!”
“Yes! We found a skull, beneath St. Paul’s! We named him Fritz. I hit a Prussian with my slingshot. Here, look, I still have it – and even the knife you gave me, the night I—” Moussa fumbled in his robes, but by then Paul knew it was true.
“Moussa! By God, it is you!” Paul was so relieved he wanted to cry. He pulled himself to a sitting position and tried to hug his cousin but gasped in pain when he lifted his arm. Moussa helped him back down. “Careful. You aren’t strong enough to be moving yet.”
Paul didn’t recognize his own hand. It was bruised and purple, swollen to twice its normal size, the fingers all puffed and shiny like some grotesque balloon. It wouldn’t move properly when he willed it. The skin was ragged, scabbed and oozing. Near the wrist there was a cloth bandage stained dark with blood.
“You did more damage to your hand than the scorpion did,” Moussa said. “You must have smashed it on the rocks.”
“I don’t remember.”
“The scorpion was quite poisonous. It might have killed you. I had to open up the wound. I put something on it. You’ll feel miserable for a few days. You need water and rest. You look horrible.” Paul’s hair hung in limp strands over his wet forehead, still flushed with fever. Dark circles set his eyes deeply in his haggard, ashen face. Moussa shook his head. “But you look wonderful just the same. It is good to see you. Good to hear French again. Merde, how often I’ve thought of this moment.”
“And I.”
“I thought you’d have sense enough to outwit a scorpion. They’re more stupid than a chicken, you know. You should be embarrassed.”
Paul laughed weakly. “I wish it had been a chicken. I’d rather have had a meal than what I got.”
“I’m fixing something for you.” Moussa moved to the fire and squatted. Paul could see a teapot steaming, and a lizard on a spit, its skin blackened. It smelled delicious. Paul looked at his cousin in wonder.
“I didn’t know if you were alive! You never wrote!”
“Of course I did. A dozen times I wrote, a dozen times a dozen. I sent the letters off every time a caravan passed by. I never heard back.”
“I never got any of them. I wrote, too.” Paul gathered his strength and pulled himself up to a sitting position. He looked around. They were in a large natural sandstone cavern with a domed ceiling. There were paintings on the walls, ancient drawings of antelope and elephants and crocodiles, eerily illuminated by firelight. Stains from the smoke of old fires had obliterated some of them. There was an arch near the fire, a doorway, and beyond it the blackness of night. Gradually Paul saw more detail. Other paintings, brightly colored ones. Trees, a forest. Birds. People had once lived in the cave. There were shelves carved into the walls, and flat stones that had served as benches.
“What is this place? It is remarkable. It must be ancient.”
“There are others like it all over the plateau. This used to be – never mind just now. Rest easy. There is tea. We can talk.”
Their voices echoed softly off the walls, the words pouring out in torrents to fill the voids. The count’s death, the flight of the balloon, the voyage across the sea and the desert, the victory of the Prussians, the Commune, St. Cyr. There was so much to say, such hurry to say it. A sea of words awash in old memories as questions were answered and mysteries solved, and they hurriedly filled the deep places of wonder they had both had over the years. They laughed and remembered and finished each other’s sentences and felt all the warm rush of friendship they’d missed for so long. They drank their tea, cup after cup, the hot liquid restoring in Paul a measure of strength, and they ate slices of lizard meat, and the night passed outside the cave as the hours and years flew by.
“Your mother is well?”
“She hasn’t changed a bit since you last saw her, except that she thinks of herself as la comtesse deVries now. There’s no one to tell her otherwise. She spends the deVries money like water and still tries to tell me how to dress in the morning. Busy all the time doing absolutely nothing. She was sure you had all died. Oh, I cannot wait to tell her!”
“I guess she is the countess now, at that. My mother will never go back.”
“But what about you? It is yours, you know, the château and the land, and all the money in the world. Still there, waiting for the Count deVries. What my mother hasn’t spent, anyway, and God knows she spends quickly. Lord, she wanted me to be count, thinking you dead. Can you imagine?”
“Better you than I. I have everything I desire right here. I want for nothing.” Moussa shrugged. “Besides, can you see their faces at the Hôtel de Ville if I were to appear like this?” His hand swept over his robes and he laughed. “Do I look like a count? Surely they would call the gendarmes on such an apparition.”
And with that gesture, it was as if a spell broke. Paul fell silent and looked down into his tea, as the world outside the cave overtook the giddy heights of reunion. He was ashamed, laughing so easily after so much blood had been spilled. He had forgotten himself, becoming Paul instead of Lieutenant deVries.
He looked up at his cousin, his smile now uneasy, uncertain.
“I wonder how you have changed, Moussa, and it is impossible to see. I ask you once again to take off that hideous veil. Why do you hide yourself from me?”
Moussa’s hand went absently to the material. “It is almost a part of me now. I wear it always. I don’t think about it anymore.”
“Well, I do. Please don’t wear it in front of me. It makes you – it makes you one of – them.”
“I am not comfortable without it.”
“I am not comfortable with it.” Paul studied his cousin, and wondered to whom he was really talking. “Merde, Moussa. This is wrong, all wrong! We sit here talking as if nothing had happened out there. Gossip and old times, and all of them dead! Slaughtered. It was horrible, like some abattoir. My God, I never saw anything like it. They cut off—” His voice cracked.
“I know, I saw. I got there after it was over. I could do nothing to stop it.”
Paul’s head began to pound. “I need to know something, Moussa. And I need to know it now.”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Are you French or are you Tuareg?”
“I am both. You know that.”
“No, not in this. In this you cannot be both.”
“I cannot help what I am. I am just Moussa.”
“It is not enough! You cannot keep your hands clean of this by hiding between! Either you are a part of it or you aren’t! You must choose.”
Moussa sighed. “It isn’t that simple.”
“And why not? What is complicated in the choice between slaughter and peace? Between honor and dishonor? Or have you become a butcher yourself? Have you come so far from our world? Has this life so destroyed the person I knew?”
“I am not the person you knew, that is true. I have changed. But I am still the son of Henri and Serena. And I am not a butcher. I had nothing to do with Tadjenout. I argued against it.”
“So you knew it was coming.”
“No! They talked about it, but it was one of many choices. I thought—”
“Spare me this! You dodge so well, and serve yourself so smoothly. If you knew it was even a remote possibility and did nothing to stop it then it is the same as if you yourself held a sword!”
“It is so easy for you to say that. You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand! Why didn’t you stop them?”
“The amenokal sent me away, on other business. I was not here. He ordered me to go. And now I tell you this honestly, because it haunts me: I knew he was sending me away because he feared I might create trouble.”
“You knew he was doing that, yet you left? You allowed yourself to be sent away?”
“I didn’t believe they would do this. Never! Ahitagel himself told me as I was leaving that this would not happen!”
“Are you so stupid? Don’t the Tuareg do this to everyone? I have heard what the Arabs and the Shamba say. What caravan ever passed this way without meeting death or disaster? And I thought they were exaggerating!”
“It is not as simple as that. The Shamba have fought with us for centuries. The caravans are quite safe if they pay to pass through our land—”
“There, you see? You say ‘fought with us.’ You say ‘our land.’ You make your choice clear with every word!”
“I am explaining the position of the Tuareg in the desert, Paul. I am not trying to play word games with you. The Hoggar belongs to the Tuareg, as France belongs to the French.”
“Do the French massacre those who wish to travel through their land?”
“My last memories of Paris – before they shot my father, anyway – were of French soldiers shooting at Prussian invaders. Or have you forgotten all that? Where is the difference?”
“We are not Prussians, and we did not come to make war!”
“Why did you come then, if not to put a railroad through land you do not own? By what right did Flatters ignore the amenokal’s letter that told him he was not welcome, to go another way?”
“I don’t believe you. No such letter exists.”
“Of course it does. I was there when it was written, more than a year ago.”
“Then why did the amenokal send us four guides with an offer to lead us through the Hoggar? A man called Attici brought the letter. I heard it read. It was signed by Ahitagel and said we could pass. They led us all right, straight to Tadjenout! Do you expect me to believe the letter was a forgery? Or that this was all a mistake?”
Moussa was caught short at that. He hadn’t known.
Paul sneered at his silence. “I thought so. Treachery is how you deal, all of your kind.”
“I didn’t know, Paul. You have to believe me.”
“I have to believe nothing other than what I see before me. I see a man dressed like a savage, hiding from the truth behind a veil. I see a man who has made his decision.”
“I have decided nothing. I have not been given the chance.”
“I give you that chance now, to make a choice you must make. I want your help. To find the survivors and help them. And then to help me track down those responsible for the butchery, so that they can be repaid in kind.”
Moussa groaned inside. “I cannot help you kill them, Paul. I will help you find your men. I will find you camels. I will lead you out of here, back to Wargla. I will do all that, and you will need my help or you will die. No man can make that journey without camels, and yours have all been taken.”
“It isn’t enough.”
Moussa was heartsick. When he spoke his voice was low. “What was done to the expedition was wrong. But I did not help the Tuareg raise arms against you. I will not help you raise arms against them.”
“Then you have chosen against me, Moussa,” Paul said. “God in heaven. Moussa. Moussa. Did I never hear that name until now? Do you remember what Sister Godrick said about it? A godless name, I think she said. A heathen name. And you always insisted on keeping it! Always chose Moussa over Michel. By God, maybe Sister Godrick did know what she was saying. She knew what was in your veins, only we never – I never – believed her until now.”
Moussa shook his head sadly. “Don’t say this to me, Paul. I have done nothing to earn your hatred.”
Paul closed his eyes and the bloody demons of Tadjenout roared up before him. “You son of a bitch! What do you think you’ve earned?” In a rage he struggled to his feet, drawing the pistol from his belt. He took short unsteady steps toward Moussa, holding the pistol so close to his face that Moussa could smell the oil on the barrel. He flinched, feeling instinctively for the dagger hidden in his sleeve, but stopped short. He would never use it against Paul. He wondered if that was how death would come, at the hand of his cousin.
Paul wavered, his body fevered and weak, his chest heaving as he tried to still the confusion and the pain racing in his brain. Finally he slumped to a sitting position. His hand trembled, the gunbarrel still pointing at his cousin’s head. He didn’t know what to do. He only knew that he could not stay where he was. He lowered his gun.
“I am sorry you have forgotten who you are, that you have somehow lost your soul. You think you have not made a choice. But not to choose is to choose. If you will not help France, then you have joined with those who have declared war on her. If you are with… them… when the time comes for justice, I will not be responsible for what happens, Moussa.”
Paul felt old and heartsick. He pulled himself slowly to his feet. He found his bag and half-walked, half-stumbled to the opening of the cave.
“You shouldn’t go yet,” Moussa said. “You’re still too weak. The sun will act with the poison. You won’t last the day.”
Paul turned. “Go to hell.”
“Take my camel, then. And at least let me give you this,” Moussa said, reaching for a bag. “You’ll need it for—”
“I want nothing from you but what I’ve asked. If you cannot give that, then stay out of it. If you haven’t the spine to choose, then I don’t want to see you again. Don’t test my goodwill, Moussa. Don’t test my blood. It is French, every drop. I am an officer in my country’s army. I have a duty. I will fulfill it, if it means I have to kill you to do it.”
For a long sad moment they held each other’s eyes.
Without another word, Paul turned and disappeared into the dawn.
The sun was high and hot and burned in his skull. He lay still in the heat, without shade, waiting for his mind to clear. It wouldn’t. It seemed lost in fog, as if he were drunk. He sat up and looked at his knees. Bloody. Must have fallen again.
He didn’t feel like eating but drank insatiably from the goatskin, not caring if he ran out. He couldn’t stop. He got to his feet for the tenth time, or perhaps it was the twentieth. He couldn’t be sure. Each motion was long and awkward and drawn out. The light was blinding and made his head hurt worse. He scanned the horizon. He’d never seen anything so vast or desolate. The sky was empty, even of clouds. The rocks were barren, even of wind. No trees, no grasses, no life of any kind. He felt as vulnerable before the emptiness as a leaf before a hurricane. The prickle of fear returned, the same one that touched him on the mountain, but it was dulled by the fever.
He tried to remember where he’d been. He tried to remember where he was going. He tried to remember what course of action he’d decided upon yesterday. Was it yesterday? Go east, to pick up the trail of the caravan? West? It was so hard to think… North? He’d come from the north, he knew that much. But everything looked familiar, and then nothing did. He was tired, so tired. He just wanted to sleep.
He saw a speck in the sky and shaded his eyes with his hand. It was a bird of some kind, a hawk perhaps, soaring high and easily to the north. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it made him remember. North. That was it, north.
He labored to pick up the food and water. He couldn’t carry any weight on his right side, so he put the bags over his left shoulder. Each step hurt, jarring his arm and hand. The glands were swollen in his armpits, neck, and groin. It hurt to swallow, it hurt to walk, and the leather straps cut into his shoulder. He forced himself forward, one foot after the other, yesterday’s speed impossible, the rock games forgotten. He dragged through patches of sand in the wadis and twisted his ankles on the stones. Each time he tripped he gasped in pain. Each time he got up more slowly than the last.
The sun rose higher into a windless, hot day. Sometimes its warmth felt good, helping against the chills of fever, warming his back and neck. But then the chills left him and he became unbearably hot, his feet baking on the bed of black rock. Whenever his shirt touched his back or chest it came away soaking, only to be sucked dry by the desert air. He stopped frequently to rest, gulping at the water that would soon be gone.
In the afternoon he left the mountains of the Hoggar behind him and entered the hilly part of the Amadror. His fever raged through the long hot hours, further dulling his senses. At first he had been able to focus on rocks, on his feet, on the gravel, on rare blades of grass. But there came a time when he couldn’t do that anymore, when he couldn’t think at all; the great shimmering plain through which he walked was as dead as his mind. He kept walking, walking north, one foot before the other, time and again. He went up the long sides of the hills, his cloudy eyes seeing nothing but the next one, and at the top of that, yet another.
Once he thought he saw tracks, lots of them, but his eyes weren’t working right, and they were hard to make out. He got down on his knees and looked, his nose close to the’ground, and reached out with his left hand to touch one. The track was black and shiny and burned his fingers. The track was a pebble. He picked it up and threw it, barely feeling the pain. Disgusted, he got up and walked on.
His sense of time grew hazy edges and disappeared. He wasn’t sure when he ought to stop and drink, so he did it whenever he felt like it, sitting down and wrestling with the stopper and feeling the hot water empty into his scorched body, where it steamed off as quickly as it went in. During one of the stops he lost the water bag. He set it down beside him while he rested, and when he got up to go he simply left it there. He was trying to take the stopper out of the food bag before he realized what it was. The food bag didn’t have a stopper. His hand felt the dates inside and no trace of water. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done with it. He felt his pockets, looked under his feet, and over the top of the hill, and wandered in circles. He tried to whistle for it, as though it might come, tail wagging, only his mouth was so dry the whistle wouldn’t come. Oh well, he shrugged, north, north, he had to move north. Maybe the bag would follow later.
He started walking again but then stopped. Wandering in circles had gotten things all confused. He couldn’t remember which way his shadow was supposed to go. Left to right? Or was it right to left? He struggled with the problem. He stared at the sun, then turned to look at his shadow, trying to make out what time it might be.
And then he knew what to do. He’d go ask Remy. Remy would know. He was the smartest man he’d ever met. Remy knew everything. Wobbly but pleased with himself, Paul started walking toward the sun.