He had to keep her alive. If he could not, then he might as well die himself.
Her strength was gone. The dunes had claimed it. They had claimed her mind, too. She was so dizzy with thirst that she no longer remembered that she needed to drink. She could neither walk nor speak. She lay atop the horse with her head against his grey mane.
‘Meemoo,’ she muttered.
Darkness enveloped them. Soon Tahar was jogging across the moonlit dunes, trying to make up for lost time. Meemoo grew tired, unable to keep pace with Tahar. Tahar begged and cajoled, dragging the beast behind him, stretching his long legs into giant strides. Soon, however, Meemoo stood still. The poor creature was spent.
Meanwhile the eastern horizon grew ever lighter in anticipation of the new day.
The deadly new day.
Tahar poured a ration of water into Meemoo’s bowl and watched the tired animal drink his fill. Then he dribbled a few drops of water upon Hathor’s parched lips.
‘Meemoo drinks, dear Hathor, so you must drink, too,’ he told her.
She muttered some incomprehensible thing, then licked the drops. Tahar’s heart raced with joy. He allowed the dribble to become a trickle, watching closely as she accepted the precious liquid. She drank for several moments and began to cough. Then she ceased drinking and returned to muttering.
He needed to lighten the horse’s load. It was his only hope to keep the horse alive. He lifted Hathor from the saddle and slung her over his shoulder. Relieved of its burden, the beast obediently followed Tahar onward.
They walked that way for many hours: Tahar in the lead with Hathor over his shoulder and Meemoo following close behind. Tahar’s powerful legs were an asset now. He trudged up and down the dunes, trying to maintain his pace as the sun grew hotter. When his right shoulder became tired, he placed Hathor over his left shoulder.
Soon he held her limp body in his arms. The sun was now exactly overhead, he was covered in sweat, and the Big Sandy stretched out before them in every direction. They had two days of travel still ahead, and only enough water for one.
What had he done? Leaving her like that at camp, alone and exposed. She had been overcome with emotion: that much he had been able to tell as he’d bound her limbs. So why had he left her?
Because he was a fool. Because he had done the first thing that had come to his mind—as fools did. He had escaped to a House of Women, where he’d thought he might find comfort, though deep in his heart he had known he would never be able to touch another woman. His desire could not be sated with the simplicity of paid-for pleasure. Not any more.
Nor could it be cured with dreams of a boat. Indeed, whenever he imagined a boat’s full sail and long white curves, the woman’s full hips and long bronze neck took its place. So why, really, had he left her there alone, tied to a tree like a beast?
Because he himself was a beast. She had begged him to set her free, but he had refused to listen to her. Instead, he had denied her the very thing he valued most about his own life: freedom. If her plan to seduce him had been cruel, his plan to trade her had been barbaric. To sell her into marriage was no different from selling her into slavery. He understood that now. The bonds were the same—only the duties were different.
It was true that the drought had dashed his dreams and destroyed his spirit, but what kind of monster had grown in its place?
And why, why had he left her alone?
Because, ultimately, he was a coward. He refused to face his own feelings towards her, which grew stronger every day. When he had finally embraced her those feelings had overwhelmed him. He had wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone in his life, and when she hadn’t wanted him back he had not been able to bear it.
Take it, she had said, and the coldness of her words had slayed his heart.
Still, nothing she could say would match the warmth of that kiss. She had spoken to him with that kiss. She had told him all the things she had been afraid to say, or had not been able to say. Even if her plan had been cold-hearted seduction, her lips had told him otherwise.
And her eyes. Those, too, had betrayed her. He had read them like scrolls. They had lost their purpose: they’d been full of confusion and regret. The situation had gone beyond her power to control. She had been swept up, as he had, into something bigger than either of them.
He should have stayed with her and talked to her—not tied her hands with twine. He should have held her close despite her protestations. She had wanted him, but she had not been able to tell him that, for he had condemned her to a life she could not bear.
He should have told her that as soon as he’d felt her body against his he had never wanted to let her go.
He should have told her how much he loved her.
Because he did. He loved her. It felt so good to admit it to himself, finally. He had known it the instant he had embraced her for, despite his unreasonable, almost uncontrollable lust for her, in the end he only wanted to make her happy. Her happiness, he realised, was his. She was his boat, his homeland, his dream come true. Whatever she wanted from him, he would give it. Whatever command she gave, he would obey it. Wherever she went, he would follow. She had his heart, totally and completely, and she would have it for ever.
‘Hathor,’ he said. He lifted her limp body and whispered in her ear. ‘Forgive me.’