The sand has long turned cold beneath my feet when the caravan finally slows to a stop at the outskirts of the Sahara.
At the order shouted down the line, the camels flanking Ampah and me fold their legs and lie down, letting out a low bleat as they do. My own legs tremble from walking through Lisa’s rise and set and I collapse willingly onto the sand, finding a peculiar comfort in its grainy caress. I’m aware of a sensation between my shoulder blades, and I know it to be pain, but it feels far away. Ampah thumps down in front of me and curls into a ball. The slavers hop off their camels and start to make their own camp, setting up tents and lighting fires that carve yellow orbs of light into the night.
Warmth radiates from the camel behind me. I lean on him, releasing my own heavy sigh. Camels can be snappy, but this one is too tired to protest my closeness.
It won’t be long until Lisa rises again. I remember how we slept in shifts when we crossed the desert with Papa: resting only a few hours at night, then resting again during the hottest part of the day. We traveled at dawn and dusk, when we had enough light to see danger coming from far away but Lisa wasn’t hot enough to slow our movement. Maybe that’s also how the slavers do it. If so, we won’t get much sleep tonight.
I look over at Ampah. Silhouetted by the light of the campfires, the outline of her torso shivers and convulses, racked with quiet sobs.
A stiff, cold feeling settles in my chest, and soon my cheeks are damp with tears too. I lick them off my face as they fall, hoping they will slake my aching thirst. Or at least wash the taste of ash off my tongue.
The sounds of celebration from the slavers’ camp mingle in the air with the soft cries of their captives. It strikes me that these ropes have connected me to the villagers for the first time, in more ways than one. They’ve never thought of me as one of their own, but to the slavers, we are all the same.
The stiffness in my chest pulses, but I force myself to stop crying. The tingle in my throat has built to a painful dry cough, and I know I need to conserve the water in my body.
While I’ve crossed the Sahara twice before with my family, we would never dream of making the journey on foot. We traveled with all the comforts that a famous blacksmith of Wagadu could buy. But even then, water was precious, and we drank sparingly. I remember sucking on a pebble to keep my mouth wet.
I sift through those memories for any clues to where the slavers could be taking us. Most likely, they will take us to Sijilmasa, the northern trade city that rivals Koumbi Saleh. We went there once with Papa, and once to Anfa. But they could also take us to Fes or Nekor, or Tahert. Any of those cities would have a profitable slave market.
My blood turns to ice as I remember another possibility: Idjil. They could be taking us there, to work in the dreaded salt mines. Based on the hair-raising stories I’ve heard, Ampah wouldn’t last a day in the mines. Maybe I wouldn’t either.
I push the thought away. No matter where we’re headed, we must first survive the desert. Even the shortest route to the closest city will take over a month by foot.
I’ll have to track our position relative to Lisa’s rise and set to get my bearings. After a week or two, I should be able to figure out which route we’re traveling.
And then…what? What will I do then? Come up with a plan to escape with Ampah? Or better yet, kill all the slavers and free my people? Both thoughts are so absurd, I might laugh if my throat weren’t so raw.
Instead I heave myself onto all fours and crawl over to Ampah, laying a hesitant palm on her shoulder. She flinches at my touch.
“It’s just me, Ampah.” I hold my hands out to show that I have no weapons. Her eyes are wild and unrecognizing, her beautiful face slick with sweat despite the chilly night air.
Fever from the wound, I realize. Another pang of dread rocks through me.
“Let me see,” I say softly, pointing to the gash running across her rib cage. I try to lift her kaftan to get a better look, but she bolts upright and grabs my wrist—the cloth has dried onto the wound, her blood blending into the red dye. “It’s okay.” I take my hands away. It’s better that the cloth is covering it anyway, to protect it from the sand. I certainly don’t have anything better to dress it with.
“It’s very warm when you lie here,” I add, patting the camel’s belly. After a few moments, she scoots closer and curls up against the camel, facing away from me. I decide to take it as a good sign.
I lie on my back and gaze up at the sky. It’s cloudless, flecked with stars and the sliver of Mawu ruling over them, beautiful despite all the anguish beneath it.
Night owl. That’s Ampah’s nickname for me, because I wake so often before the end of Mawu’s reign. I can’t help it; I’ve always felt so much freer at night than during the day. Like the coolness of Mawu is balancing me, focusing me. Mama would say it’s because I’m all fire, like my father.
Mama.
The thought of her slices through the numbness and clogs my throat, blurs my vision. My hand flies to the green wolf at my neck as Mawu’s face begins to shimmer.
Does Mawu see us here now? Does she—he, they—see our suffering?
Do they care?
With both Ampah and the camel radiating heat, exhaustion quickly overtakes me. Still clutching the wolf, I drift into darkness.