CECILE AWOKE STILL FLUSHED FROM THE EFFECTS of a lingering dream. She had been back beside the water, El Faris at her side. Their hands touched, and the electricity thrilled through her yet again …
She shook her head, angry with herself for the longing she had felt, angry with him for having caused it. Anger was a much safer emotion, and Cecile fanned it back to life.
Men! They had to reduce everything to their own narrow terms. Love and devotion, indeed! What Matthew had really meant in the telling of his tale, what all men wanted, was obedience, absolute and unquestioning, from their women, as well as their horses. If they could, they would probably purchase all their women and keep them as absolute slaves. Yes, far better to be angry than to give in to an emotion that could enslave you. Cecile rolled from her sleeping quilt and quickly dressed.
Hagar stirred. “Mmmm,” she mumbled. “You are up early. Be a good girl and start the cooking fire.”
“From now on I tend to my own needs first!” Cecile flashed, and marched from the tent.
Hagar struggled to a sitting position and shook her grizzled head. The girl was trouble, she had known it from the first. El Faris was a wise man, but not in all things. And this woman was one of them. True, she had Badawin blood. She was courageous, tough, and resilient. But she had been raised a European, and the Europeans had some strange ideas. She did not understand them, any more than the girl obviously did not understand the more subtle ways of the Badawin.
Yet for all their sakes, Hagar decided wearily, she should try and get through to her. For the peace of the camp, if nothing else.
The fire had been started by the time Cecile returned. Her temper had cooled, and she found it hard to look Hagar in the eye. Well, it would all blow over, she thought, and sat down to help with the breakfast preparations.
Hagar, however, ceased what she was doing and glared at Cecile sternly. “Look at me,” she ordered. “I have something I must say to you.”
Cecile felt a knot form in the pit of her stomach. She glanced up slowly.
“You say you wish to live in the desert. Is that not so?” the old woman asked.
Puzzled, Cecile nodded.
“Then there is much you must learn beside how to cook and weave and tend the animals. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Cecile wasn’t sure, but she nodded anyway.
“You are proud and that is good, for it is a quality that has helped the Badawin to survive. But you are, perhaps, too proud, and it is, I think, the way Europeans must be, looking first to their own importance. Yet that is not the way to exist on the desert. Individuals do not survive here, only those who stand together, work together, aid one another.”
Cecile opened her mouth, but Hagar wasn’t finished.
“El Faris is a good example, I think. He leads us, protects us, provides the food that we cook for him … and ourselves,” Hagar added pointedly. “Yet you seem to resent him and the things we do for him. You act as if he is not deserving of the small duties we perform for him, when he does so much for us in return. Why is this? Do you not realize how important it is for us all to fulfill our assigned roles in order to exist?”
“Roles!” Cecile spat, temper overriding caution. “Is it our ‘role’ to simply bow down to any man who comes along? Are we expected to toil and sweat and waste our lives simply because they demand it?”
Hagar bit back the reply on her tongue. “No,” she said at last, with a sigh. “Though I understand how it might seem that way to you. No, like anything, anyone else, a man must earn what he receives. But I will tell you this.”
Hagar gazed for a long moment into Cecile’s eyes, then said, “There is much pain, much fear in you. I see it. You know what your life was like in your country, how your people treated you. But remember this, El Faris is not the author of your mistreatment. Nor is he the one who captured or sold you into slavery. Do not confuse him with others, little one. He is not deserving of your condemnation.”
Temporarily, but firmly, silenced, Cecile sat back on her heels. Hagar heaved to her feet and stalked with measured steps from their tent.
A wave of excitement preceded the hunters’ departure into the desert. It looked as if the whole camp had turned out to wish them good hunting.
Cecile stood with the rest of the women, but there was no smile behind her veil, no joyful wish in her heart. Despite Hagar’s words, despite her desire to conform and belong to the desert and its ways, she could not help but wish she was on one of the horses, while one of the men had to stay behind to make the leben.
At last they departed, leaving the women in their dust. “Come,” Hagar said when the riders had disappeared behind the gently rolling dunes. “You have much to learn today.”
The first lesson, Cecile feared, would be how to milk a ewe, but she found, to her relief, that care of the sheep was another woman’s responsibility. Kut, a widow, and her young son tended all the animals belonging to the camp. In exchange, the woman received a fair share of their by-products.
When a good supply of milk had been obtained, Cecile and Hagar trudged back to their tent. “Now pour the milk into the goatskin makhmar,” Hagar instructed. “Cover it with a rug.”
Cecile complied, shooing away the files. “What now?”
“We wait. In four hours we will have rauba. From the rauba we will make leben.”
Cecile had a rough idea what that would entail, and glanced warily at the mirjahah, a tripod that Hagar had set up in a corner of the tent. Producing leben was much like making butter. It had to be churned for hours, and Cecile had no illusions about who would do the churning. She sighed. “What do we do in the meantime, Hagar?”
“Many things,” Hagar replied cheerfully. “We must grind wheat for bread, fill the water skins, gather more wood and camel dung, air the sleeping quilts. Oh, yes, and there is the weaving. You will be good at this, I think, with such nimble fingers.”
Cecile smiled thinly. “Then we had better get started, hadn’t we?”
Hagar nodded enthusiastically and settled herself comfortably on the carpet. “Yes, we must begin, I think. Now go on.” She indicated her supply box. “Get the mortar and pestle, the wooden trough, too. We will begin crushing the wheat.” Comfortably settled against a pillow, Hagar closed her eyes.
Once in the desert the riders slowed, leaving the work to the coursing hounds. The thin, long-legged saluqis ran ahead, darting back and forth. Matthew watched Turfa, his sleek, brown-and-white bitch, with pride. She was as well trained and loyal as Al Chah ayah. He stroked the mare’s gracefully arched neck.
“All you need now is a good woman, ya ammi, and your riches will be beyond counting.”
Matthew glanced up at Ahmed who, like many of the men, preferred to hunt from a camel’s back. “Good women are hard to find,” he said, grinning. “Your Hajaja is a rare jewel.”
Ahmed grinned back, handsome black skin shiny with sweat. “And she will have a son,” he declared. “She tells me she is certain.”
“Then I would believe her.” Matthew laughed.
They rode in silence for a time. In spite of himself, Matthew found his thoughts turning to Ahmed’s unsubtle suggestion. He had, as a matter of fact, been thinking along these same lines for awhile. Badawin women were sacred, their virginity highly prized and untouchable outside the marriage bed. There were other kinds of women, of course, which he occasionally visited in Muscat. But the experience was far from satisfying. And he spent many long months at a time in the desert. A wife would certainly be the solution to an irritating problem. Furthermore, he had seen what wonderful companionship existed within some marriages, Ahmed and Hajaja’s for example. He had often, of late, found himself longing for just such a relationship. He was not, by nature, a solitary man, and a wife, the right woman, would be a companion and helpmate in the truest sense of the word.
The only trouble, Matthew mused, was finding a suitable woman, one with whom he could fall in love. Not that he didn’t admire Badawin women, but they were quiet and shy for the most part, difficult to get to know. It was probably the Englishman in him, but although Badawin women were tough and strong, as desert-dwellers must be, he found their subservience vaguely disturbing.
Matthew shook his head, remembering a pair of flashing dark eyes. No subservience there! She had spirit, that one. Perhaps too much. And her moods were inexplicable. What, for instance, had gotten into her last night?
There was no telling. A good horse, or a dog, he could understand. But women? They were far too complicated. The best thing would be to forget all about them.
It was difficult, however, when the image of the honey-skinned enchantress kept appearing before his eyes. Dagger-tongued or not, by Allah, she was magnificent! She had, furthermore, quite a bit in common with him. Both of them had chosen to be desert-dwellers, yet came from an alien country. Their heritage would always set them apart from the Badawins in some ways, no matter how hard they tried, or wished it, to be otherwise. His home in Oman was an example.
Although he had made the desert an essential part of his life, and lived by its laws, he was still not truly Badawin. He lacked the Badawin’s elemental spirit, which was constant, endless wanderlust, the true nomadic urge. And he sensed the same intrinsic difference in Cecile. She would no doubt learn to live by Badawin custom, but he didn’t think she would ever be able to bow to it. Just as his need for a home, for roots, was alien to them, so did Cecile have an innate rebelliousness that was foreign to the Badawin mind. It would always subtly set her apart from the people, no matter how much she longed to be one of them. He understood that completely.
A whine and a low growl distracted Matthew’s attention from what were becoming most agreeable thoughts. Al Chah ayah snorted and tossed her head.
“Look, ya ammi … there!”
Matthew followed Ahmed’s outstretched arm. Something lean and gray disappeared out of sight beyond the rise of a distant dune. “It is Al Dhib!” he shouted. “The wolf!”
And it was a bad sign, Matthew thought, just what he had feared. The previous winter had been hard. Game would be scarce and the wolves in keen competition with the hunters.
“A bad sign,” Ahmed said, repeating Matthew’s thoughts aloud. “Gazelle, even the hare will be hard to find, I fear.”
“That is not all there is to fear.”
Ahmed looked sharply at his master. “Is Al Dhib so hungry, do you think, that he will bother our herds and flocks?”
“I hope not, Ahmed. But I would put an extra guard on tonight.”
“Very well, ya ammi. It is done.”
They rode on for two more hours without finding any sign of game. At noon they stopped for midday prayers, the sun hot and the sand glaring.
Matthew pulled the end of his khaffiya over his mouth and nose. A brisk wind had risen, and the dust was thick and clinging. “We must head back,” he told the others. “Having seen Al Dhib, I do not wish to leave the camp unprotected for long. We can always go out again tomorrow.”
It was agreed, although no one liked the thought of returning empty-handed. “Hajaja will laugh,” Ahmed grumbled.
“No doubt because you swore by Allah you would return with the fattest gazelle,” Matthew chuckled. “Come on. We still may find one yet.”
He was right. Turfa was first to spot the herd. The lean saluqi sprang into a run, Al Chah ayah right behind at the head of the other mounts.
The strategy was efficient and neatly executed. Turfa had separated one of the gazelles from the rest of the herd. With a short, intense burst of speed, she turned toward the oncoming riders.
There would be one chance only to catch the fleet-footed dhabi. All the riders were prepared. Al Chah ayah, however, was swiftest.
The teamwork and timing were perfect. The frightened gazelle made a last effort to escape, but the dog was on one side, the rider the other, and both nearly on top of her. She leapt forward with a renewed burst of speed … too late.
Matthew launched himself from the saddle. His weight threw the gazelle off balance, and she tumbled to the ground. Before she could struggle to her feet, he grabbed her head and twisted it, immobilizing her.
The khusa glittered in his hand. “Bism Illah al Rahman, al Rahim!“ he cried. “In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate.” Then with a single clean stroke, he slit the animal’s throat.
“Well done, ya ammi … El Faris!”
The cry was repeated in many throats. The horses danced, and a camel bellowed. Matthew climbed slowly to his feet and returned with quiet dignity to his mare. He stroked his dog, then patted his mount’s lathered neck. “Well done, Al Chah ayah,” he murmured, and swung into the saddle.
The day waned as rapidly as both her energy and patience. Cecile glanced at Hagar, who sat propped against the qash snoring, then at the neat stacks of freshly baked bread. There were several skins of leben and a half-dozen containers full of igt, chalky lumps of milk cake. It had been made from boiled rauba, cooled and pounded into round, flat cakes, and now would be stored. During the summer, when the animals gave no milk, the igt would be added to water to make a passable form of leben. But that was not all she had done.
With justifiable pride, Cecile studied the beginnings of a rug stretched on Hagar’s loom. The old woman had a store of goat hair, dyed in many colors, and almost all of them would be used in the design Cecile had in mind. The rug would make a fine gift when it was completed. For Jali, maybe, or the old woman. As cantankerous as she was, there was a heart of gold hidden in the thin and shriveled bosom. Cecile smiled, then rose quietly and left the tent.
Until dinnertime her tasks were done. But it was too early to bathe. Cecile glanced at the sky, measuring the fall of dusk. It would be dark soon, and under cover of night the women were permitted to bathe and wash clothes, as Hagar had grudgingly admitted. When there was ample water it might be used for such a purpose although, she had asserted, she still preferred camel urine for herself.
Cecile shuddered. There were some customs, she feared, she would never get used to. A woman’s daily role in life could be dreary enough without adding camel urine to it.
Although, she thought, as she gazed longingly into the cool, green water of the oasis, her day had really not been dreary at all. She had learned much, and had taken pride in her accomplishments. What she had done was good, she decided, and rewarding in its way.
The wind rustled through the palms, and ripples broke the still, shining surface of the water. Restless, Cecile wandered toward the opposite side of the camp.
Socializing was both a woman’s prerogative and joy. Though it was not exactly Cecile’s cup of tea, she did want to be accepted by the other women. A good deal of the Badawin’s strength sprang from their unity as a clan, and she was a part of that clan, however temporarily.
Kut, the woman who had given them the milk, seemed a nice person, and her small son was adorable. It was dusk and the herds would be coming in for the night, so she might have a moment to gossip.
The camel herd had not yet returned from the desert, where it had spent the day grazing on what scrub brush was to be found, but the sheep were in and settling for the night. Lambs had been loosed to nurse the ewes, and Cecile heard the contented sucking sounds as she approached.
“Hafath kum Allah,” she called to Kut, who stood watching her young son round up the stragglers.
“God guard you also,” she returned with a shy smile. “Have you come for more milk?”
“Oh, no,” Cecile laughed. “This time I came merely to visit.”
“I am glad,” Kut said. “And proud that you can see my son at work. He is a good boy, is he not?”
“Indeed, he is. He will make a fine man.”
The two women stood in companionable silence for a time, watching the youngster as he scurried back and forth. The camp’s flock was relatively large, but the little boy appeared to have the situation under control. Cecile gazed into the distance, at the herds of the neighboring camps also being rounded in, and remembered what Hagar had said about a wedding.
“Kut, what is this about a …” She stopped, abruptly. Kut’s eyes had gone wide with fright. Cecile followed her gaze.
She wasn’t sure what she saw at first. A dog, perhaps, moving among the nervously milling sheep. But what was a dog doing … ?
Cecile froze. She heard Kut’s sharply indrawn breath, then a sound like a sob. The woman lurched forward.
“Wait!” Cecile hissed, grabbing her arm. “Don’t move!”
The child had not seen the wolf yet. He was intent upon gathering the suddenly skittish animals. “Stay where you are,” Cecile ordered. Silently, she glided forward.
The wolf himself was intent upon a lamb. The large, lean animal paid no heed to the boy. But he saw Cecile. His lips curled into a snarl.
Allah give me strength, she prayed, and continued slowly onward. If she could just reach the boy before …
The wolf made his decision. Hunger had given him courage. Taking his eyes from the woman, he sprang at the lamb.
The child saw him. With a cry, unthinking, he ran toward the wolf, waving his thin arms in the air.
There was no more time for caution. Cecile knew the wolf would protect what was his. She also knew wolves hunted in pairs. The she-wolf, Al Dhiba, would not be far away.
Even as she broke into a run, Cecile saw Al Dhiba. She approached from the opposite side of the flock, hackles bristling along her back. Her yellow eyes were fixed on the boy who threatened her mate and his kill. Her gaze flickered only briefly as Cecile ran into her field of vision.
The child, running, was aware of nothing but his lamb, locked in the wolf’s slavering jaws. He gave a startled cry as Cecile scooped him into her arms, then clung to her as she tripped, lost her balance, and sent them both sprawling in the dust.
It was Jali who greeted the returning hunters, but not with gladness. His wizened face was stricken with shock and horror. “El Faris! El Faris!” he shouted. “Come quickly! There are wolves among the sheep. The boy …”
He waited to hear no more. Gesturing the other riders back, Matthew unsheathed his khusa and urged his horse into a gallop. When he rounded the edge of the oasis and saw what was happening, he reined to a sliding halt.
The flock had scattered. A few bleating sheep milled around Kut, who had fallen to her knees, hands raised to her face. She keened under her breath, agonizing for her son and the woman who had gone to his aid.
Matthew saw them, and his heart stopped. She was kneeling also, the child clutched to her breast. But there was no fear in the dark, fierce gaze she held upon Al Dhiba.
The two were locked in silent, motionless combat, each protecting her own. Behind the she-wolf, Al Dhib snarled over his prey. In Cecile’s arms, the child whimpered.
With the pressure of his legs, Matthew calmed Al Chah ayah, who had smelled her ancient enemy. He would have to move swiftly, he knew, before the wolves became aware of his presence and reacted. He touched the mare’s neck, lightly, then slipped the dagger between his teeth.
Cecile dared not even blink. She scarcely breathed. The smallest movement, she knew, might force the she-wolf to respond. She could only hold Al Dhiba’s gaze and pray her will was the stronger. She did not hear the sudden pounding of hooves upon the ground.
It happened so quickly she barely had time to react. From the corner of her eye she saw the onrushing rider. The she-wolf cringed and backed away. The rider was upon them. She lifted the child as Matthew sped past, and the boy was pulled from her arm to safety.
Al Chah ayah spun, and Matthew lowered the child to his mother’s waiting arms, already pressing his heels to the mare’s quivering flanks. The sheep were running wildly, and amid the confusion the she-wolf, maddened with hunger and fear, sprang to attack.
Cecile felt a great weight against her chest, knocking the breath from her lungs as she was hurled over backward. She waited to feel the hard impact of the ground, but it never came. Instead she felt herself caught in a familiar dream. She was lifted into the air. The ground sped past below her with dizzying speed, and a firm, muscular arm gripped her tightly. She closed her eyes.
Her legs felt shaky. She was barely able to stand when he lowered her to the ground. Her veil, she realized with sudden panic, had become lost, but there was no help for it. She was powerless to move, to respond in any way. Just as she had been caught in the she-wolf’s merciless gaze, so was she now caught in another.
Matthew climbed down from his mare, never releasing Cecile’s eyes. His expression was inscrutable. The crowd that had gathered around them fell silent. The air was charged with hushed expectancy.
He stood squarely before her, motionless. Only the hem of his robe fluttered gently with the sigh of the night wind. Then his lips parted slowly. His white, even teeth flashed brightly against his dark skin.
“Al Dhiba,” he said quietly, “who protects her own with the courage of a pure and noble heart. Al Dhiba bint Sada.”
“Al Dhiba,” the clan echoed. The low ripple of sound whispered through their ranks. “Al Dhiba bint Sada.”
Cecile did not move. The wind blew more fiercely, whipping the drape of her makruna, flapping the torn edges of her dress across her breast. She felt something warm and sticky there, but it did not matter.
“The daughter of Sada thanks you,” she said, the words coming as if from nowhere, “for returning her life now … twice.”
He nodded almost imperceptibly. His expression did not alter, but his clear blue eyes flickered slightly. Then he turned, shattering the fragile moment. He mounted his horse and, without a backward glance, rode away.