Mariata walked all night. The moon was kind to her, but sometimes she stumbled; and once she fell down and skinned her knees even through the thick fabric of her robe, the scattered rocks were so sharp. She walked as if in a dream; she walked as if she had no idea in her head except that of walking. In fact, she tried not to think at all and every time a doubt crept up on her, she pushed it away, allowing her body to take over and keep on moving. Despite this, it was not true to say she had no idea where she was or in which direction she was heading, because as the constellations moved overhead a voice inside urged her to take note of the alignment of the Scorpion’s Tail and unconsciously she found herself adjusting her course to follow it as it inexorably lowered its sting towards the south and east.
As she walked she recited silently to herself folk songs from her childhood that her grandmother and aunts had told to her, songs heard around the fires when the caravanners returned from their journeys or the warriors from their raids; little bits of long-buried nonsense that surfaced from the depths of her memory:
Two little birds sitting in a tree
One like you and one like me
Black his wing and bright his eye
Throw a stone and see him fly …
The stones were horribly sharp underfoot. She wished she had not worn the sandals she had brought with her from the Adagh but had invested in the solid red leather boots favoured by the Aït Khabbashi women, boots soled with Goodyear rubber; boots that covered the ankles and were laced tight to the shin. That was the right sort of footwear for hard walking like this, where each step was uneven and the ground crunched and grated underfoot like cinders. Up a rise she toiled, and down the other side, sliding one foot after the other, feeling the gravel and scree pour away beneath her weight.
Oh, my camel, so mighty and strong
With your fine hump so heavy with fat,
Ride along now, my dear one, ride along –
No, that wouldn’t do. She tried not to think about camels, for with that thought came panic and the memory of Atisi being beaten by the soldiers. Who knew what had happened to him down there on the road? Had they beaten him senseless and taken him prisoner? Or had they killed him and removed his body? The sight of Moushi dead by the side of the road, and the pack animal kicking up its heels as it vanished into the darkness, came back to her again and with it the knowledge of the stupidity of being out here alone, with nothing, not even a cup of water, to sustain her. The knowledge pushed at her, insistent. It poked insinuating fingers into the spaces between the songs and rhymes with which she tried to smother it. It whispered you will die into the gaps between words. You will die and no one will mark your grave.
Mariata gritted her teeth. Shut up, she told it. We have only just started and there is a long, long way to go. If you threaten me with death on the very first night, what will you have left to frighten me with in three days, or five, or twelve?
Hours passed and the stars wheeled through the black night and still she walked, a monotonous trudge through an unendingly flat region, studded with the ever-present clinker that battered her sandals and turned her ankles and made her calf muscles ache and protest. The Scorpion scuttled off the edge of the world and disappeared into the void. One by one the stars began to lose their clarity and eventually the moon gave up its dominion over the sky. When the sun finally made an appearance, it was to a grey and weary world. Colourless and pale, the land stretched itself out in front of Mariata, bleak and unfriendly. Things that until now had been formless revealed their grim monotony of shape: mile after mile of stone-scattered plateau, grey turning to dun and then, as the sun rose higher, to a dead and dusty brown. Her heart sank. This must be the Hamada du Guir, the vast barren plain that stretched for hundreds of miles between the great ergs, the seas of sand that lay to east and west. And everywhere she looked it was as dry as week-old bread. There was no sign anywhere of the oases the caravanners spoke of; there was no splash of green at all.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember what she had heard from the traders in the funduq, sifting through the information she had stored away for just such a journey. Words came back to her in little bursts, like underground streams surfacing through the desert of her mind. The rock desert is the one that will kill you. If you miss a waterhole, you are dead. Igli and Mazzer and Tamtert are good places for camels. The sun will come up over your left shoulder. Find the two-horned peak and walk between the horns. They say a man can survive for a week without food or water. But only if the weather is cold and God smiles upon you.
But it was another voice, distant, female, that reminded her: In the Hamada du Guir the dried riverbeds run north-west to south-east: follow their line and at last you will come to the Valley of the Oases.
Mariata opened her eyes, turned her face to the sun and began to walk.
Hours later nothing in the landscape had changed significantly. Even though she ploughed on determinedly, the horizons remained as distant and unchangeable as they had seemed at first light. The oueds she had followed were just indentations in the dusty ground, jagged and crumbling, floored with jumbles of stones smoothed by a river that had flowed and disappeared long ago, leaving only dry boulders in its wake, and even these dead watercourses faded out after a mile or two of hard walking. Once she found an area of spiky green plants and quickened her pace towards it; but the ground surrounding the vegetation was just as dry and dusty as every other part of this grim wilderness, and she cut her fingers when she tried to take some of the leaves. On she went, her back aching, her belly feeling heavier with each step she took, trying not to think of disaster. It was only half a day since she had eaten, she told herself, just half a day since she had drunk liquid. She could survive: she was a daughter of the desert. A man can survive for a week without food or water, she told herself over and over, her mind conveniently slipping past the dread provisos to recall the tales men told around the campfires, amazing feats of survival and perseverance when camels had died under them or been stolen in the night, leaving them with nothing, and she believed with all of her will that she was as determined as any man and that determination would give her hardiness, even though she carried a child. A pregnant lioness is the most dangerous animal of all, she remembered one of the hunters saying. But then she remembered that men said that this was because the female would rather turn on her pursuer and die in the process than save herself and her unborn cub. A few steps later she also recalled that they had laughed when they said this and joked about Ali’s pregnant wife, Hennu, who had become so bad-tempered with him of late that she had beaten him over the head with her shoe when he had come into her tent one night. Disheartened, she eased herself into the shadowy lee of a boulder and drowsed for a while, but her sleep was fitful and her dreams disturbing, so she pushed herself upright and kept on walking, even though the afternoon sun burned like a fire and beat down on her like a hammer.
She did not know what it was that caught her eye – whether it was the distant flicker of movement or a new colour that entered the spectrum of duns and greys – but when she saw the camel it was as if a lightning bolt had pinned her to the spot. She stared and stared, unable to believe her eyes, thinking it a trick of the heat-haze, a deceit of light and shadow. But yes, there it was, a camel-coloured object moving slowly, its head down as if it were searching in vain for something to graze on. And not just camel-coloured, either, for as she drew closer she began to make out other details: the red and blue of a distinctive striped blanket; black waterskins; white sacks of rice and flour; bundles of straw. It was the pack animal belonging to Atisi ag Baye. She almost cried out in shock, for to come all this way across the barren hamada and to find in the midst of nothing the very camel that had escaped you the day before was surely a miracle! She touched her amulet to her lips. Thank you, she whispered, though whom she thanked she was not sure. Whether it was Tin Hinan or the spirits who were responsible, or whether quite unwittingly she had followed the animal’s trail all this way, or whether they had both been channelled unerringly along the same route – none of it mattered. She was a daughter of the desert and the desert had provided.
Filled with a surge of energy, Mariata girded her robe and started to walk quickly towards it, keeping always out of the animal’s line of sight. She was no more than a hundred yards away when she saw that there was a second figure with the camel: a man; no, a boy. Her skin shivered, despite the heat. Then she marched determinedly towards them. ‘Hey, you!’
The boy was thin, his eyes large in his head. He looked appalled to see her. She could see the whites of them all around the pupil. His skin was as dark as the rocks.
‘That’s my camel you have there!’
Quicker than a rat up a rock, the boy scuttled up the camel’s neck, settled himself amongst the provisions and urged the beast away.
‘No!’ Mariata started to go after him, but her speed of movement was hampered by her pregnancy, and the scattered rocks bruised the soles of her feet and turned her ankles. ‘Come back!’
But the camel took off as if pursued by afrits, its great feet flailing, its neck swinging from side to side.
Mariata shrieked till her throat was raw but to no effect. Soon the camel and the boy were no more than a speck in the distance, though a miasma of dust hung in the air and marked their passage. Mariata sighed with frustration. She felt like an elephant, slow and lumbering, and now they had got away. Furious at herself as much as at the thief, Mariata marched on in their wake. They would have to stop somewhere: there must be a camp. The boy had a look of the harratin, or of an iklan child, avoiding its chores. If the camp was not too far away she would be magnanimous, would not demand restitution for the theft and the inconvenience of walking the extra mile or two. After all, she could afford to be generous, for hospitality surely awaited her: tea, and a good meal. When they knew whose camel it was, when they heard of her prestigious bloodline, they would probably slaughter a goat, or even a sheep, to honour her. In better spirits now, Mariata walked with her head high and a good long stride. Each time a crest of rock scored the horizon she climbed it with the expectation of finding an encampment on the other side, an oasis and fresh water, smiling women and respectful, veiled men. Perhaps they would even be heading south as far as the Hoggar and she could join their entourage.
Hours passed with these pleasant thoughts rolling through her mind and still there was no sign of the boy and the camel, except for tracts of churned-up ground where stones had been displaced, the sand between them imprinted with the split-toed impression of the beast’s feet. The terrain no longer seemed so hostile: she managed to find a certain bleak beauty in the cratered, rock-strewn landscape and to marvel at the changes the sun falling lower in the sky wrought upon the scene, transforming the ground from a pale and powdery dun to the ochre of a gazelle’s hide and finally to the rich purple-red of blood. By the time the setting sun cast long fingers of shadow between the rocks, she was parched and exhausted – so when she topped out on a rise and saw below her three tents of black hide pegged low to the ground, she almost cried out for joy. She began to run down the slope, letting gravity guide her steps, before realizing that three tents were all there were. Where was the rest of the tribe? Screwing her eyes up against the falling darkness, she made out only a handful of goats rather than the herds that would be necessary to support a proper encampment. A handful of goats, and a solitary camel. Were these people outriders, or outcasts? She slowed, unsure.
Then dogs began to bark. There were half a dozen of them, rangy mutts whose ribs showed through their coats. Years of miscegenation and poor diet had not improved their tempers, or their welcome to visitors. Mariata drew back, nervous. Her own tribe had hunting dogs: sleek, elegant animals that ran obediently at their masters’ heels; and the Kel Teggart could barely support themselves, let alone a pack of wild dogs. The dogs advanced, running low to the ground. Mariata stood rooted to the spot. Then she bent, picked up a stone and threw it at the nearest dog. It caught the animal on the shoulder and the dog fell back with a yelp. Mariata gathered more missiles and sent another spinning down amongst them. The dogs danced, outraged. Their barking redoubled in noise, but they did not advance.
At last a man came out of one of the tents. He was tall and thin and as black as night. Iklan, was Mariata’s first, relieved, thought. ‘Call your dogs off!’ she cried imperiously. Where there were slaves there were always masters.
The man stared at her suspiciously. He called out and the dogs circled back towards him, turning warily as they went, as if expecting her to throw more stones. The noise of the dogs had brought the rest of the tent-dwellers out. No masters here: they were a motley collection, none veiled. These were baggara, wandering beggars: ragged nomads who scraped a living outside society. It did not look as if they were making much of a success of it. Amongst them she recognized the boy she had seen with the pack camel. The man who had brought the dogs to order ducked back into the tent and a few moments later another man came out, followed by a woman cradling a small child. They all looked towards where Mariata stood silhouetted on the rocks. For a moment Mariata’s eyes locked with those of the woman and she experienced a jolt of pure sympathy, almost tangible, as if her soul was a bead running down a string stretched taut between them.
Then the woman began to shriek, ‘It is a spirit! It is the spirit that took my boy!’ She came rushing out of the enclosure, her face a mask of fury and pain. Mariata saw that the child’s limbs flopped limply with the impact of the woman’s steps and it came to her in a sudden unwelcome rush of understanding that the child was dead and that, appearing out of the wilderness in the fey twilight – just when the Kel Asuf began to walk abroad – the woman had taken her for a djinn.
The men caught up with the grieving mother before she came close to Mariata. One of them pulled the body of the child from her and stalked back towards the tents and, as if she could not bear to be separated from it, she followed, arms outstretched. The second man stood still, watching Mariata.
‘I am not a djinn!’ she called out; but her throat was parched and the words came out in an unearthly rasping whisper that had him reaching for his amulets. She swallowed and licked her lips with a dry tongue and tried again. ‘I am not a djinn,’ she repeated, walking towards him. ‘I am a flesh and blood woman, a woman of the Kel Taitok. Do not be frightened. My camel ran away last night. I have been following it all day. That boy there’ – she pointed beyond him – ‘he took it. Maybe he thought it was a stray, or that its owner was dead; maybe he took it to care for it. Whatever his reason I have come to claim my camel and the pack-goods that were on it, and I would be grateful if you would let me have some water and shelter for the night. Then I will take my camel and be on my way.’
The man said nothing; then he went down on his haunches. It was an odd gesture and she did not know what to make of it until she saw him stand up again and let fly the first stone. It whizzed harmlessly past her shoulder, clattering against the rocks behind her. The second caught her a glancing blow on the arm, the shock of it rather than the pain making her cry out.
‘What are you doing? I have done nothing to you!’
The man hefted another stone. ‘The camel is ours now: go away.’
‘You are thieves!’
‘Go away or we will kill you.’
‘Have you no honour? Do you have no respect for the code of the desert?’
‘The only code in this desert is death.’
‘May the spirits curse you if you drive me away!’ Mariata waved the amulet at them. ‘I will call down the evil eye upon you: you will all die.’
The man’s eyes were dull. ‘We are dying anyway. Go away.’
The third stone he threw lost its force in the folds of her robe; but he was already gathering more and the dogs were barking, bouncing stiff-legged with pent-up aggression. Mariata turned her back on them and walked away.
She lay in the lee of some boulders for long hours pondering what to do. The idea of her camel so close at hand and yet so unattainable gnawed at her. She could not simply leave it with the baggara family, but she did not know how she might steal it back. All through the night she thought about it, anger boiling away inside her, concocting and dismissing dozens of foolish schemes. She could have been using the cool darkness to walk on to better fortune, but the knowledge that her pack-goods, water and supplies were just a few hundred yards away held her prisoner. Something in her knew that if she allowed the opportunity to regain the camel to slip away she would die, and deservedly so. The People of the Veil valued cunning, resourcefulness and stealth as highly as their honour; to be so feeble as to allow such low vagrants to get the better of her would be an admission of defeat, a shameful act. Had the Mother of All ever suffered such indignity? She found it hard to believe. What would her esteemed ancestress have done? ‘Tin Hinan,’ she said softly into the darkness, ‘guide me now with your wisdom and strength.’ She pressed the amulet to her forehead and felt its metal cold against her skin.
How long she stayed in this attitude she did not know, but after a time she became aware of a small sound in the rocks to her left. She stilled her breathing, suddenly terrified. Had they tracked her down: would they carry out their threat to kill her? Silently, she reached into the fringed leather bag and drew out the little knife and waited.
The noise was soft, barely audible, like something brushed against the rocks; a tap, a scuffle. It came closer. Mariata readied herself, teeth clenched. She would not go without drawing blood; they would not take her easily.
When the hare appeared she stared at it, bemused. It stared back at her, frozen in surprise, its ears held rigid, every muscle poised for sudden flight. She caught it before she knew consciously what she was doing, felt its strong back legs kicking out at her as she buried her hands in its fur. It felt so warm and determined, so shockingly vital and alive, that she almost relented and let it go, but some more primal instinct prevailed. A few moments later she looked down to find it lying limp, its blood black against her hands.
It was a large animal, sturdily built and well muscled. Examining its body by the pale moonlight, Mariata found herself blinking back tears at its beauty: the cool silk of its coat, the long limbs and huge ears. Then she mastered herself and did what she had to do.
*
Mariata watched the sun come up from the back of the camel many miles from the nomad camp. The beast was sweating, despite the chill of the dawn, and so was she. But elation banished exhaustion. She had risked everything and she had triumphed. She shuddered, remembering how the dogs had torn into the pieces of the dismembered hare that she had flung far and wide, how their jaws had crunched down on its fragile bones; how a fight had broken out between them for the last and best morsel, the head, and how the men had had to come out of the tents and beat them with sticks to make them stop their noise. In the midst of all this she had slipped into the enclosure and been surprised to find the camel clumsily hobbled and the pack-goods stacked haphazardly to one side, along with the saddle and the blanket. Only the sack of flour and the old bread were missing, she saw, amazed at her own good fortune. The rice sack stood to one side, a little of its contents spilling out into the sand, the tiny white grains rendered pearly and luminescent by the moon’s light. Mariata stoppered the hole in the sack with some of the fodder straw, checked that the waterskins were full and slung them over her back.
The camel regarded her sulkily and, when she came near, threw its head up and rolled its eyes. I have walked far enough, those eyes told her, quite clearly: do not think to make me walk more. Mariata knew camels to be obdurate beasts; but she also knew a firm hand and a determined attitude would usually prevail. She marched up to it and, remembering how Rahma had bound the muzzle of the camels they had ridden across the Tamesna when the soldiers had come to the oasis, used her veil to gag it before it had a chance to bellow its dismay. This took the beast so much by surprise that Mariata was able to sling her pack-goods aboard, and then haul herself up with them. The camel swung its head to regard her with an aggrieved look and Mariata glared back at it grimly, then wrenched it to its feet by sheer force of will and urged it into a lumbering gallop.
Now she laughed aloud and patted her belly. ‘You are the son of Tuaregs, and do not ever forget it! What an adventurer you will be, inheriting the best of your mother and your father. No ragged baggara shall trick you or steal from you, for between the goodwill of the spirits and the power of your own resources you shall always triumph!’
She tapped the camel peremptorily upon its poll. Grumbling, it folded its knees and let her down and in the rosy light of the desert dawn she undid the knotted veil and carefully hobbled the animal so that it could not escape again; and then they feasted and refreshed themselves before seeking a well-earned rest in the shade of the spreading branches of a solitary acacia.