It was late afternoon of the day following the raid. Abdul ben Henna squinted at the sun and weighed the odds and decided to abandon his brother and first-born son to their fate.
Stealing the camels had been almost too easy. He and Bashaga and their forty camels had reached the meeting place with surprising speed, and soon after them Kadder had appeared alone with the rest of the camels taken from near the camp. Abdul’s heart soared as he saw the coup had been complete, barely skipping at the news his son brought.
“There were shouts,” he told them. “The alarm was raised. Hammad and Baba were still in the camp, among the goats. I did not wait to see what became of them.”
Abdul pondered the probabilities. Hammad and Baba might be dead, or prisoner, or on foot. The Angel of Death would come for them, or else the hand of God would deliver them. Abdul ben Henna would not interfere.
Malish, mektoub. Never mind, it is written.
He nervously scanned the rocks, searching for the blue death he knew would soon be coming. Already he could feel them watching, waiting, their eyes hidden in the shadows, their knives sharp. His stomach churned nervously.
“We will not wait,” he said, closing his heart. He drew an ancient flintlock, the oldest of the two weapons they carried, from his pack. He gave it to his brother, keeping the better firearm for himself. “Bashaga, you will stay to the rear, to watch our backs and gather strays. Do not fall far behind. Tonight we will stop for only one hour. We must put great distance behind us. If any of the camels falter, do not wait for them, do not goad them. Kill them at once.” Abdul would quickly sacrifice those who even began to stumble, lest he lose them all. And then he would deny the stragglers to his enemy by cutting their throats.
They moved off quickly to the north, along the trails and scree of the Hoggar, the camels roaring and grunting and jostling. For three days and nights they barely stopped to rest. Always the camels looked for pasture, and always the men looked over their shoulders. Abdul whipped his mount viciously, kicking, cursing, lashing the skin of his mehari until it bled, changing mounts frequently. He sweated and prayed and pushed, the dust choking, the days blazing, the nights frigid.
From a distance they were a superb sight, stretched out over the flat, moving in their timeless undulating rhythm, but up close they were beginning to suffer from their pace. The Amadror was a blast furnace that sucked their membranes dry and baked their brains and scorched the soft feet of the camels. On the fourth day they lost their first two, young Tibestis who could not keep up. Kadder cut their throats. Their blood had not stopped flowing before the rest of the column had moved on.
Abdul was heading for the wells of Tan-tan; they would arrive after five days of punishing travel. He would never have tried such a run were it not for the wondrous condition of the camels. Abdul marveled at it. The Tuareg might be dung in the anus of humanity, the abandoned of God, but as Allah was his witness they surely knew how to take care of their meharis! In Wargla he would give them a six-month vacation, where they could fatten on rich grasses and sweet water and recover their strength. They would become the backbone of his new herds; their seed would spawn new generations that would be the pride of the Shamba.
The glorious visions danced before him in the heat shimmering off the flat. He saw himself with four wives and a score of sons and clothes made of silk, and he brought down his scourge on the bloody haunches of his mount to drive it on, to make it all come true.
“The spirits have been fed, sire, I have seen to it. You may rest easy now.”
Lufti had wandered out into the rocks to find the best place, where he carefully set the bowl of porridge alongside a small gourd of water. No matter how tired he might be, it was his nightly ritual, seen to faithfully and without exception. In the morning the food and the water would be gone. It never failed. “The Kel Had, the People of the Night, get most plenty thirsty, sire.”
“I was already resting easy, Lufti,” Moussa said through his exhaustion. His body ached with their efforts of the past days. He tolerated Lufti’s superstitions rather well, finding them amusing. “I think the spirits will leave us alone tonight.”
“Yaya, sire, of course they will. But only because I feed them.” His voice was defensive. “Forgive me, sire, but you should not doubt the effectiveness of my measures. Since becoming my master have you had seizures?”
“Never.”
“Have you been possessed, or taken ill in the head?”
“No.”
“Suffered the bite of a snake?”
“Not yet.”
“The fever of the pox?”
“I am free of it.”
“Well then, have you died?”
“No, of course not.”
Lufti held up his hands in triumph, at the glorious proofs of science. “Yaya, see then? It is because I have taken proper care that such ills have not befallen you.”
Moussa grunted noncommittally. “I thought your amulets took care of all that.” The slave wore an arsenal of amulets. They were pinned to his robes and turbandand hung from his neck. They contained eagle claws and lizard tails, scraps of the Koran, lions’ teeth, and wrinkled papers filled with magic squares. What little of worth that Lufti managed to acquire went to his payments to the marabouts for new and ever improved amulets, amulets that would prevent him from falling into wells, amulets that would stave off disease, amulets that would keep him from losing his virility, or his mind.
“The amulets care for me, sire, not for you. You will not wear them. Oh-oh-oh, how I implore you to wear them. But until you will, I shall feed the spirits for you.”
On a cold morning long ago in a balloon over France Moussa had given up the only amulet he ever wore. So much had happened because of it, so much evil and pain. He knew it was his fault his father was dead. If he hadn’t pleaded with him to take the detour to St. Paul’s to recover the amulet they’d have been gone long before the police arrived at the Gare. Serena scolded him when he said it, but he knew it was true. The worst things that had happened in his life had happened because of that amulet. Sister Godrick used it for torture, and his father died for it. He didn’t need the amulet and he didn’t need God. He had thrown it from the balloon, watching as it fell lazily down until it disappeared in a cloud, carrying with it the weight of his father’s soul. Now the taleb, the holy man, came to camp and brought new amulets, and collected fees for which he dispensed baraka, the blessings and guarantees of healthy livestock and successful caravans. The taleb with his mystical power reminded Moussa of the bishops and priests, all of them with their hands out and their lips moving with empty promises, thundering the righteousness of their Gods, and accepting the grateful offerings of frightened souls. Now Moussa was the only man of the Kel Rela who wore no amulets. Lufti worried greatly for his master’s baraka and so saw to the feeding and care of the spirits on his behalf.
“Very well, Lufti. Just see that you don’t give them the last of our food.”
“Of course not, sire.”
“Master, I have a request of you.”
Lufti had been brewing tea, clearing his throat and fidgeting and shoving the coals around in the little fire on which their teapot bubbled. With growing amusement Moussa had watched him working up to it, and had been tempted to tell him to just come out with it; but it wasn’t right to push. Lufti would get to it in his own time.
Moussa nodded. “Of course.”
“Forgive me for being so blunt, sire, but there is a woman… ” Again he paused. “Well, sire, when we return with the camels I would very much, oh so very much like your consent to …He cleared his throat again. “Sire, if it would be your pleasure to grant me, ah, this—”
“What is it, Lufti?”
“Marry.” Lufti blurted it out. “Marry her, sire, I would like so very much to become her husband.” “What are you talking about? Marry whom?”
“Oh yes, sorry, it is Chaddy, who is of the ehen of Mano Biska.”
“Chaddy!” Moussa knew her vaguely. A pretty woman with a bright smile. “Marry her? Why, of course, Lufti. If it is your wish.”
“It is not my place to do as I wish, sire. It is my place to do as you wish.”
“My wish is your wish, then, in the matter of this woman.”
Lufti bubbled at that. “Sire, you are too kind. May Allah’s blessings be upon you, as always. The bridewealth payment, sire, is four goats.” He thought a moment, then upped the ante. “Five goats.”
It was Moussa’s responsibility to pay for the bride of his slave, and then to provide for them and their family. “Five it shall be,” Moussa said.
“And a sheep, master. Uhmmm, three sheep.”
Moussa smiled. “Anything else?”
“No, sire, nothing more. Five goats and five sheep. That is all, absolutely all. And five lengths of cotton. Nothing else. To pay more would be a crime. Six lengths would be better. She is only a slave like myself, after all, but she will be a most valuable addition to your ehen.” Again Moussa nodded his assent. Lufti fairly danced with delight, spilling their tea into the coals. The liquid hissed and a cloud of steam rose from the fire. “Aiyee, sire, so sorry. It’s only that I was busy thinking—”
“Your thoughts seem costly, Lufti. Something else?”
Lufti’s sacred duty was the protection of Moussa’s property, to see that nothing was wasted or ill-spent. But in the matter of his own bride there was conflict. “It is just that Mastan of the ehen of Zatab Mel intends to ask Chaddy to be his own. I do not wish trouble. I only wish to conclude this matter in my favor. A camel, sire, would be—”
“Too much,” Moussa said firmly.
“Exactly,” Lufti said quickly. “Far too much, just as I was thinking. But a tirik? That would be perfect.”
Moussa sighed. A saddle was not so much, but his new daughter-in-law was getting very expensive. “Very well. But that shall be the end of it.” He felt awkward, as he always did when dealing with Lufti as master to slave. He had never expected to be responsible for another human being, not in this way; and certainly not for a man who was ten years his senior – or was it fifteen, or twenty? – Moussa had never seen his face, and couldn’t tell for sure, but he did know Lufti to be a man who knew far more about the Sahara than he could ever hope to know.
When Moussa was just fourteen, he had traveled to Ideles with the amenokal. Lufti belonged to a nobleman who treated him indifferently. The man kept him in clothes and quarters that were less than he could afford, and far less than Lufti deserved. Lufti had been called upon to serve tea to the distinguished guests. All eyes had been riveted on the amenokal except the slave’s. He raised the teapot high in the air to delicately pour the ritual glasses, and discreetly observed the young Kel Rela who as yet wore no veil. The boy had an obviously gentle manner and his face was kind. Moussa was a curiosity, discussed among slaves and vassals and nobles alike long before he arrived in camp, the son of the French barbarian balloonman and Serena, sister of the amenokal. Lufti looked to see whether the boy had six toes on each foot, as the rumor about barbarians had it, but was relieved to see that his Tuareg blood had prevailed to give him only five. The boy seemed normal in other ways. Lufti made the impulsive decision to cut off the tip of the ear of the young master’s camel, which was hobbled outside the tent. By Tuareg law his action could be compensated in only one way: The slave doing the damage became the property of the injured nobleman.
The injury was discovered, and Moussa had a slave.
“I don’t want him,” he said simply to the amenokal and to the slave’s former owner, when his new property was announced. His objection had nothing to do with Lufti. His life was difficult enough without adding the burden of another human being. From what he had seen slaves were hard work. They were as children, to be cared and provided for. Moussa was too young for children.
“You have no choice in the matter, Moussa,” the amenokal said brusquely. “He is yours. It is the law.”
“Then it is a bad law, Lord,” Moussa said. “I don’t need a slave.”
“You have no veil and cannot write properly in our language and already you feel fit to judge the law.” El Hadj Akhmed sighed. “It is an honor to receive a slave in such a manner. Now he belongs to you. It is finished.”
“Very well,” Moussa nodded. “If he is mine then I set him free. At once.”
“I forbid this foolishness!” the amenokal thundered. “You shall wait until you have at least eighteen years before rewriting the laws of man and the Ihaggaren. Then – but not before – commit whatever madness gives you pleasure. Now hold your tongue. He is your vassal.” With that the boy became liege lord of the slave man.
Lufti was carefree and easygoing, proud of his position as a buzu, an outdoor slave. He had more status than that of common iklan, who tended to menial matters of the household. Lufti viewed himself not as slave so much as Kel Ahaggar, a man of the Hoggar. He wore the veil, and lived in his master’s tent, and traversed the desert on his master’s errands. There was the prospect of manumission one day, when he might become imrad, a vassal who could own livestock – and yes, even own slaves. But there was no hurry. Lufti was content. He had the best master in all the Hoggar, even if his master himself didn’t know it yet. Moussa expected little of him, and even seemed grateful when he did those things that were his place to do.
Tuareg nobles were not born to do work. They were born kings of the desert. Born to lead, to command, to fight. They played games and composed poetry and raced camels and lived off the labors of their vassals. A true nobleman would let a fire go out before stirring himself to its rescue. But to the horror of his peers, Moussa would toss camel dung on a fire as quickly as not to keep it burning. He often brewed his own tea, sometimes even brewing it for Lufti. Moussa treated him like an equal and seemed to find nothing unusual in it. The other slaves shook their heads privately, embarrassed for the dignity of Master Moussa. Lufti fretted over it until he could hold his tongue no longer. It was his duty to help teach his master, after all, for it was not the boy’s fault that his blood was tainted with European defects.
“The head is the head and the tail is the tail,” he had finally told him in exasperation one day. “You should accept the end to which you are born, sire, and leave me to mine.”
They had all misunderstood Moussa, however. His stubbornness had been refined in the schoolyards of France. The more the nobles jeered and the more the slaves chattered the more intractable he became. He put a sharp end to it with Lufti: “I am not so concerned with heads and tails and such things,” he had told him. “But if it suits you, I give you leave to cut the ear off another man’s mehari.” At that Lufti’s blood had chilled. He never said another word about the matter, and came to accept his eccentric master and to bless his good fortune. He kept a sharp eye out for other slaves who might say by day how unseemly was his master’s behavior, but try by night to cut the ear off one of his camels. One could not be too careful, Lufti knew, with unscrupulous slaves.
And every so often, he permitted his master to brew the tea.
They were a good team, the Ihaggaren and the buzu, as they hunted the Shamba: Moussa the reluctant leader, pushing, nervous, alert; Lufti, the desert wizard, the reader of signs who could find food almost anywhere among the rocks, knowing which plants were edible and which would kill them, and knowing where to find the water holes, and how to read the evidence of their quarry’s passage. The master watched and listened.
Moussa pushed hard, driving until well after dark when the night was pitch and the camels began to stumble, then bowing to Lufti’s gentle suggestion that perhaps they had ridden enough and should rest. Once, riding in the predawn hours, Moussa had nodded off, and his mehari had begun to wander off on its own. “Master!” Lufti had called gently, as Moussa jolted awake. “This is the way of the Shamba. And that,” he said, pointing at Moussa’s path, “surely that is the way to hell.” And he clapped and giggled, and Moussa had to thank his good fortune at having such a companion.
When they emerged from the Hoggar onto the plain of the Amadror, Lufti examined dung and pawed at tracks and studied the way the rocks were turned. His eyes noticed everything. “There are three of them, traveling in two groups. Two ride in front. One is behind, a day at least.”
“Only three?” Moussa was surprised. He had expected more.
“Yaya, surely three. Is three not enough, sire?”
“It is enough.”
A day later Lufti announced they were making up time, moving faster than the Shamba and their herd. It was to be expected for two men against a herd. Besides, no men on earth could travel as the Tuareg traveled, with little food or water or rest. Moussa sat comfortably in his light riding saddle. When the horizon had no limit and the heat rode him like a mighty blanket he permitted himself to slip into periods of trancelike dreams, the only sound the wind and the shuff-skuff of his mehari’s hooves. He rocked gently to and fro in the saddle and lost himself in thoughts of her, of Daia; and he felt himself stirring down there again, and he wondered what it would be like to be with a woman, that way.
And then his pleasant reverie was shattered by images of the cut throats of camels slaughtered by the Shamba. He scolded himself for drifting. They killed Sala, he reminded himself sternly. They tried to kill my mother.
“They will make for the wells of Tan-tan,” Lufti predicted, examining the ground. “They can go no farther than that without killing what they have stolen. The wells are not fruitful. They will be delayed at least a night. We will come upon them there.”
Moussa nodded.
“May I ask, sire, your plan of attack? Your plan to slay the Shamba?” Lufti’s eyes were eager through the slit of his veil, his faith in his master complete.
Moussa thought about that. “I don’t have one yet,” he replied honestly.
Lufti did not believe it for a moment, and Moussa felt rather than saw the grin blossoming beneath the slave’s veil. Then Lufti laughed and slapped his knee, as though it were the greatest joke in the world. “It is quite right, sire, not to share it with me. I am certain it is a fine plan. When Allah wills it I know you shall tell me, so that I might assist you.” He prodded his mehari. “Bok bok,” he said to it, humming happily to himself as the camel began to move.
Moussa paused awhile before following. His pulse ran faster and his mind was in turmoil. It caught at his throat and constricted his chest.
The wells of Tan-tan were before them, and he had no plan.
The landscape changed and became more uneven, its windswept face scarred by small wadis carved by ancient rains from the dead flat of the Amadror. Boulders were scattered about, huge chunks of rock oddly out of place, strewn almost casually as if dropped by the gods, and forgotten.
Bashaga watched them coming from his perch atop one of the boulders. He had spotted them almost an hour earlier from atop his own mount, two figures moving quickly along the plain, nearly lost in the shimmering waves of heat, their tall silhouettes wavering ghostlike as they approached.
By God, the devils move quickly! He knew he could not outrun them. He would have to make a stand. Quickly he chose his ground and set about laying his trap, whipping the camels until he had them out of sight. He climbed up on one of the boulders. He primed his flintlock, carefully arranging his spare powder and balls in a pile on a cloth. He would get off one shot, then scoot backward and reload. It was a good defensive position. The Tuareg could never reach him with their blades. He could reload and fire at will until he had them. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and peered down the length of the barrel at the approaching enemy. He was ready, Insh’allah, to spill their loathsome blood.
Moussa was riding in front, Lufti well behind when the gun roared. Moussa heard the ball whiz past his ear and ducked instinctively, nearly falling off his camel. Wildly he looked around for the source of the shot, tugging at his own rifle to free it from its sling on his tirik. He saw a movement atop one of the rocks and slid from his mehari.
Bashaga cursed his luck when he saw he had missed. He got to his knees and scurried back on the rock to reload. His attention was split and he realized in horror that he was too close to the edge, which sloped and then dropped sharply off. He let go of the rifle, which clattered down the side of the rock, and his fingers scrabbled desperately to get a grip. With a yelp he fell over the side. He landed with a heavy thud and screamed out in pain.
Moussa raced forward, rifle in one hand, heavy sword unsheathed in the other. He heard the moaning. Slowly, expecting a trick, he edged around the rock. Bashaga was sprawled on his back, his left leg twisted under him, clearly broken. A jagged shard of bone protruded through the skin. Bashaga looked up in fear and hatred as he saw the veiled monster approaching. With an effort that made him gasp, he grabbed the dagger from his robe and hurled it. Moussa ducked and the knife thudded harmlessly to the ground. Now Bashaga was unarmed. Allah, take me quickly, he prayed to himself. Tears of pain streaked his cheeks. Moussa straightened up as he viewed the broken man before him. He kicked away the flintlock.
Lufti appeared timidly from behind the rock. When the shot was fired he had jumped from his mount and taken its reins and those of Moussa’s mehari and had led them to cover. Now he spied the Shamba on the ground, helpless, and his eyes lit up. “Hamdullilah, master!” he cried, certain Moussa was responsible for the man’s condition. “A fine job!”
Bashaga tried to make out his executioner’s face, but could see nothing of Moussa save the hated eyes behind the veil. Nothing more. He cowered and cried.
“You must finish him, master,” Lufti said.
Moussa had dreamed of this moment since he was a child. He had listened to the tales of the Tuareg warriors and the stories told by Gascon and had seen himself in a thousand scenes of battle: proud, victorious. He had beaten a hundred foes in the hot terror of close combat, their heads obliging his blade by tumbling from their shoulders.
But there was to have been a fight, not just a clumsy fall. Stupid luck had made him master of this man who whimpered like a child and had no weapon. Yet luck was better than skill, even if it didn’t taste as good. Seize every advantage, take any edge. Kill him now with one blow. Blooded at last, his sword would finally begin to build its legend. It was easy.
Prisoners were never taken in the desert. Never.
Moussa handed his rifle to Lufti and took his heavy killing sword in both hands. His brain flooded with endless visions of Shamba cruelty and treachery. This is the scourge of the desert. The dread enemy. A thief, a killer. A man who helped attack my mother. Maybe it is he who killed Sala.
A thousand reasons for a man to die.
Give them no quarter, the amenokal had said. They will give you none.
He raised his sword, the razor-sharp blade glinting in the sun. His muscles trembled under its weight. He judged the angle, to be sure of a clean blow. Lufti watched expectantly, memorizing every detail to repeat to all the buzu. The desert was quiet but for the babbling and crying of the condemned man. Moussa stared at him, at his gray whiskers and chubby cheeks and dirty turban and the bulging eyes of terror. And then he sighed, and lowered his sword.
“We will leave him,” Moussa said at last. “Find his water guerba and his food. Leave them here, next to him. Take his weapons. Gather all the camels, including his. We will take them all.” Bashaga looked at him with fearful eyes, not understanding the gibberish coming from the Tuareg, wondering what terrible fate they might be devising for him. By Allah, was death by the sword not horrible enough to suit the blue devil?
“Forgive me, sire,” Lufti said, shaking his head earnestly, determined to keep his master from this folly. “You must kill him. Quick-quick, for the others still flee. This man is Shamba.” He spat the word. “He will cut off his own leg and crawl upon his stump in order to hunt you, and when he finds you he will cut your throat in the darkness as he has done to Sala.”
“There is nothing left of this man to crawl. He will die here, and it will be his own work, or the work of the desert. We have recovered what he stole. It is enough. Now do as I say.”
When they left Bashaga’s howl haunted them until it was swallowed by the wind.
As he rode through the afternoon Moussa tormented himself with more of the awful uncertainty that seemed to haunt his life. He was bitterly disappointed in himself. He had recovered four camels, but he failed to finish the job like a man. Merde, his own mother would have done it.
Riding behind, Lufti had been silent for hours. At first he was certain an error had been made. But as he thought about it his doubts had turned to pride as he convinced himself how thoroughly Moussa had humbled the Shamba. At length he began to nod excitedly to himself and to cackle at Moussa’s coup. Only a great warrior could afford to show mercy to such vermin. Such a beneficent man, Master Moussa. So young, and already a wise and great soldier. Tales began to blossom in Lufti’s head, where a little flourish here and an embellishment there would transform the day into legend. His thoughts turned to the unfortunate quarry fleeing before them. He hurried to catch up.
“It has been a glorious day, sire,” he said as he drew abreast. Moussa said nothing, so Lufti carried on happily. “Oh-oh, how you had him! Such a look of terror in his eyes! Like a child before a snake. Surely he thought he was doomed! And just as surely the others do not know the strength of the storm that follows them! Yaya, they had best flee with their lives!”
Moussa gave him no acknowledgment. He stared straight ahead and listened to him chatter on. He had clearly heard the earlier tone of disapproval in Lufti’s voice, and now in his misery and uncertainty wondered if the slave was mocking him, as they would all mock him soon. The thought stirred rage into his shame, and the mix began to boil inside. I am the master, he told himself. It is I who am Ihaggaren. What he feels does not matter.
“Shut up!” he hissed. “Do you hear me? Shut up!” Stung, confused, the slave hung his head. He slowed his camel and dropped back once more to ride in silence and shame.
Moussa gritted his teeth. Another mistake. A proper Tuareg did not show anger or speak harshly to another, and certainly not to a slave. There was no dignity in such behavior. Would he never learn?
He felt as desolate as the vast empty Amadror that stretched out before him. His throat was dry and bitter. He ached inside and his head pounded and the hot air baked his eyes.
I am not Ihaggaren. I am a coward, a fool.
Behind his veil he wept.
Abdul ben Henna scooped heaps of sand with his hands from around the wells of Tan-tan, hollowing out a depression from which his camels could drink. Across from him Kadder did the same, father and son working feverishly to provide enough water quickly to the thirsty caravan so that they could get moving once again. As Abdul had feared, it would not be a quick process. Some wells in the desert were deep holes, into which skins attached to ropes were dropped and then lifted out, the precious water then poured into sandy troughs from which the animals could drink. Other wells, like the one at which they labored, relied on seepage. On the surface they appeared dry, but when they were scooped out the water began to appear. They had to wait for water to filter into the depression, and then the camels could drink. The noisy beasts pushed at each other to get at the water and slurped it up greedily. They stomped around in the sand and pissed in it while they drank, until the depression was a fetid wet mess. If Allah was with them they would be done by morning.
Periodically he peered south into the void. “They will not be far behind us,” he kept saying.
“Surely Bashaga will stop them with his gun,” Kadder said hopefully.
Abdul grunted. “My brother is a fool,” he growled. “He will stop nothing but a Tuareg sword.”
The sun grew golden in the sky as it began to set. The colors softened and the shadows of the watering camels lengthened until they stretched out like flat black giants on the plain.
It was from the north, not from the south, that Moussa and Lufti watched them. Once Lufti had been certain that Tan-tan was the destination of the caravan, he had led them on a route that skirted the well, and positioned them in front of it. They had found a shallow wadi that would help conceal their camels, which they double-hobbled and left behind. They had cautiously half-crawled back toward the well and lay on their stomachs as they watched. Lufti carried a short stabbing knife that he had assured Moussa he was ready and willing to use, although Moussa was skeptical.
Moussa’s heart pounded as he surveyed the scene. The two Shamba worked with their backs toward them and were mostly obscured by the milling camels. The land surrounding Tan-tan was perfectly flat. They could go no farther without being seen. “There is nothing to give us cover,” he said in a low voice to Lufti, who was already clutching his knife. “We’ll have to do it after dark.”
“Yaya, sire,” Lufti said. “After dark, certainly.” He paused, thinking. “And what is it, sire, that we will do after dark?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Lufti nodded. “Of course, sire.”
By four o’clock in the morning the Shamba were exhausted and the camels nearly full. Twice during the night Abdul had leapt up, racing to the perimeter of the encampment, certain someone was there. Nervously clutching his rifle, he listened intently, seeing shadows where there were none, imagining the Tuareg flashing before his eyes. He knew the darkness hid death, but could do nothing about things he could not see. They had spent too many precious hours at the well. It was not a good sign that Bashaga had not appeared.
“Kadder,” he snapped, kicking his drowsy son. “Get up. It is time to remove the hobbles of the animals. Get your own mehari ready. We must go.”
Kadder groaned. His hands were blistered and bloody from his labors. Every muscle in his body ached for rest. He turned his back to his father’s boot.
At that instant the whole world around the well went utterly mad. First Lufti let out a call for the stolen camels, a familiar cry recognized by the biggest of the bulls, which struggled to its feet to respond. An instant later, from the opposite side of the camp, Moussa fired his rifle into the air and unleashed a bloodcurdling scream, and the scene turned to bedlam. Shrieking and panicked, a large Tibesti bolted away from the noise, pulling on the tethers that held it to other camels who joined it in flight. Others rose and followed quickly, all of them moving awkwardly, struggling against their hobbles or their ropes, moaning and bellowing as they stumbled toward Abdul and Kadder. Kadder jumped to his feet, a sword in one hand, a knife in the other, and moved straight toward the onrushing mass of camels, threading his way through their legs and bodies toward the Tuareg he knew were on the other side. In a panic Abdul lunged for his rifle and fired it blindly into the dark. He wounded a camel whose shrieks added to the chaos. He cursed loudly, his fingers fumbling to reload.
Out of the corner of his eye Moussa saw Lufti moving toward the younger of the two Shamba, and then lost him in the jumble of legs and bodies. Moussa concentrated on the one with the rifle, carefully raising his weapon and peering through the darkness, waiting until the mass of camels had passed and he had the man in his sights. The Shamba was helpless and exposed as he struggled with his weapon. Moussa knew he had him. This time there was no hesitation.
His finger squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He squeezed again. Nothing. The gun was no use and he flung it aside. He drew his heavy sword from its scabbard and raced through the darkness toward the Shamba. Abdul saw the swirling robes and gleaming steel. He raised his rifle like a club to parry the blow of the sword as it hissed through the air toward his neck. The blade took a chunk out of the stock of the gun. Moussa swung again, and once more Abdul parried, only this time the rifle flew from his hands and fell to the ground. Abdul’s knife was out instantly, its blade lashing out and catching cloth and flesh. Moussa felt it nick his side but kept moving, turning and twisting until he faced Abdul again. They circled each other warily, Moussa’s thoughts on the deadly tip of the Shamba knife. He held his sword in both hands and heard the whispers of Gascon and Abu Bakar guiding his steps. He felt almost light-headed, without fear. Moussa took a mighty swing and Abdul ducked, the sword just missing his shoulder. Again a swing, again a miss, and before Moussa knew it the other man had lunged into him, his knife flashing at his throat. The sword slipped from Moussa’s hands and both men fell hard to the ground. They rolled over. Moussa caught Abdul’s wrist as the blade sought his neck. Twice the blade touched his skin. Twice he forced it back, not knowing whether he had been cut. There was no time to think or to feel, only the strain of muscle against muscle, arms quivering with the effort. Summoning all his strength, Moussa kicked Abdul back, and at once his hand found the stabbing knife he kept beneath his sleeve. Abdul sprang to his feet and Moussa rose to meet him, knife against knife.
Abdul lunged and Moussa dodged, but this time not quickly enough, and the Shamba’s blade found its mark. Moussa gasped as he felt the searing pain shoot through his right shoulder and down his arm, and it was all he could do not to lose hold of his knife. He shifted it into his other hand and kept moving. Abdul gloated at the strike; he could see the devil trying to keep both arms raised, but the right one, the strong one, was down, nearly useless. Then he saw the devil stumble. With all his remaining strength and speed, Abdul went for the kill, his blade first in one hand as he began, then in the other, a feint and a stab, his blade at the devil’s throat. But in a blinding instant he knew he had missed, his weapon caught in the folds of cloth covering the monster’s head and neck. Even before he felt the steel of the enemy’s blade he knew it was over. He had seen nothing of his opponent’s face, save the eyes. It was one of the reasons why he hated them. They killed in mystery.
As Moussa’s stabbing knife pushed up through to his brain, Abdul ben Henna’s last thoughts were of revenge.
Lufti awoke with the dawn, his head pounding. He had been knocked cold by the surge of camels. He struggled to his feet, blinking, and surveyed the scene. Near the smoldering ashes of the fire was the body of Kadder, whose neck had been broken in the same rush.
He saw Moussa sitting near the well, his back propped against a dead camel. Lufti ran to him. Moussa sat dazed. At his feet was the body of the other Shamba. Sometime in the night Moussa had cut a piece of the dead man’s shesh into a bandage and wrapped it around his arm. The material was stained with blood. He shivered slightly.
The slave knelt down. “Sire? Are you all right?” The material of his master’s shesh had slipped, almost obscuring his eyes. His gaze seemed distant, fixed on something only he could see. “Sire?” Lufti shook his shoulder gently.
Moussa looked at him blankly. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
Relieved, Lufti burst into chatter. “That was a wondrous plan, sire. Oh-oh, yaya, wondrous! Hamdullilah! They didn’t know what hit them! Surely they thought the whole of the Ihaggaren were upon them!” Lufti swelled with pride.
Moussa looked at the dead form before him, his mind taking in what had happened. His knife had done its work. His duty had been fulfilled. He had redeemed himself. He was a man. He stared at his hands, stained with the life of another man.
His hands. Noble hands. The hands of an Ihaggaren. And then it overwhelmed him and he bent over and the vomit came, wave after wave of it. Lufti was puzzled. He couldn’t imagine what was wrong, why there was no celebration. Only this odd retching illness. Another defect, perhaps, of the master’s French side – but of course, Lufti would cut the throat of anyone who dared suggest such a thing. The nobleman was a magnificent warrior.
The slave could only turn away, and begin rounding up the stolen camels for the long journey home. He would not look again upon the heaving form of his master, and he would wipe the scene from his memory. His master’s dignity would be preserved.
There was not even the satisfaction of triumph in their return to the Tuareg camp. Moussa knew immediately something was wrong, terribly wrong. The children should have been everywhere, running through the legs of the returning camels, chattering and screaming and laughing. Instead he saw them standing mute. There were not the usual fires or activity in the camp. Small groups of slaves sat talking among themselves.
He saw Serena, waiting for him near her tent. Beautiful, she stood in the sun, her hair lifted gently by the wind. He saw the joy and relief in her eyes as she watched him coming, and her pride at the string of camels he led. But he saw too the sorrow that overshadowed all else.
“Mother, what has happened?” he said as he drew near her.
“The amenokal is dead,” she said simply.
“Abba?” Moussa slipped quickly from his camel. He put his arm around her shoulder and together they found shade in her tent. He listened numbly as she told him.
“Three nights after your departure, the Kel Ajjer came. There were twenty of them, maybe more. They attacked the camp of the Dag Rali. There was only the amenokal to fight them, and three others of the Kel Ulli. Everyone else is still away. I tried to stop him, to make him wait until we could get help. He was too ill to go, but he would have none of it. A shepherd found their bodies this morning.”
Moussa held her and gently stroked her cheek. That night, for a second time, mother and son stood in the wind above a pile of rocks and buried a part of their lives.