CHAPTER SEVEN

WHEN DARKNESS finally came, Judah climbed the dune and studied the stars for a long time. During the nights he’d shown me how he read the stars, naming many as if they were his brothers and sisters shining for the benefit of all who knew them as he did. And indeed, I was impressed by how he could line up the exact location of each star and then point to a place on the horizon, saying, “There, three leagues distant, is the oasis at Tayma.” Or “There, in a twenty-three-hour run on Raza, is the rock of Meidal.” But he could be so accurate only at night. The day was Saba’s charge.

“We go,” he said, briskly returning to us. “We push the camels to reach the well at Sidin before the sun rises.”

“It’s too far for one night,” Saba said. “If we run the camels, they will die.”

“We are closer than I first thought.”

“No, we are two days.”

“No. We can make it in one night if we travel fast.”

“It’s too far—”

“Do you read the stars so well?” Judah demanded. “Are your dunes more precise than the heavens?”

Saba studied Judah’s set jaw and finally dipped his head.

“As you say.”

Saba was a wise man, built like a pillar, but Judah when pressed was perhaps the stronger man. If not in body, then in purpose and conviction.

The poor camels groaned as they hauled us step after step over the sands, taking us south, away from Palestine. Once again Judah rode behind me, and his energy returned with the cool air. His stars gave him reason to sing, however softly. And surely in some way he also drew comfort from me, so close to him, warming his sprit, for there was no hiding that Judah was pleased with my company. In the desert a marriage between a man and woman has little to do with sentiment but is meant for the purposes of provision, protection, and the raising of children. And yet I thought I provided Judah with the same warmth of spirit he offered to me.

We did not stop to rest. We did not allow the camels to slow despite their complaints. We did not adjust our course, for Judah had his eyes on the sky all the while.

Judah’s elevated spirit lifted my own, and yet I knew that even if we reached the well of Sidin, we would not find life unless we also found water below the surface.

I had been thirsty many times, but I had never felt such a craving for water. My tongue felt too thick for my mouth and my throat was as dry as the sand. I found it unpleasant to speak through a passage so parched.

The eastern sky began to gray and still we had not reached the well. Except for the small thread of water left in Wabitu’s torn skin, none of us had taken water or milk since the morning before.

“Just there,” Judah said. “Very close now. Just over those dunes.”

“Don’t say it’s just there, when it’s never just there,” I said.

Judah looked wounded by my accusation. “But it is!”

I wanted to say that with him it was never just there unless just meant “very far,” but I didn’t have the energy to explain, so I remained silent.

“It is just there, Maviah. You will see.”

It wasn’t just there and so I did not see.

Saba finally stopped us by a grouping of rocks. These he pulled from the sand to bare their undersides.

“Lick the dew,” he instructed.

“Don’t worry, Maviah,” Judah chimed in. “This dirt can’t harm you.”

Though the dirty moisture we managed to lick off those sandy rocks might have filled only one nutshell, it was enough to stay despair.

We remounted and struck south again.

The sun rose over the horizon, promising to bake the flesh from our bones.

“Close now,” Judah promised, smiling. “There over that one hill awaits our salvation.”

And this time he was right. The moment we crested the dune, we saw the depression below, dug out over many years by men eager for the waters of life.

“The stars do not lie,” Judah said.

Farther north the Nabataeans were known for digging great cisterns and lining them with stone, then keeping these hidden from all but their own people. During the rains the cisterns would fill up, to be used when the less fortunate were dying of thirst. Indeed, these cisterns were rumored to be so large that many Nabataeans took to hiding in them when attacked, leaving the enemy at a loss, for their openings were very small and easily concealed.

But this wasn’t a Nabataean cistern. It was a well that might be dry.

Yet the camels knew, and already they were staggering down the slope, roaring.

“It’s a good sign, Maviah!” Judah cried, bounding behind me. “They smell the water!”

Saba scanned the horizon for any sign of Bedu. Ironically, there is no greater place of death in the desert than about a well, for all men war to control water. But today there were no Bedu nearby.

With water so close at hand, my thirst became intolerable. The moment I slid to the sand, I stumbled after Judah, who had reached the well and was peering down.

A single pole spanned two mounts over the stone lip of the Sidin well. A long rope dipped into the darkness below.

I knelt beside Judah and looked down, nudged impatiently by both camels. The musky scent that filled my nostrils spoke of moisture. Every bit of my shriveled flesh longed for but one sip.

Saba pulled up the rope and tied one of our empty skins to its end, then threw it over the pole and began to lower it. For a long time, the rope snaked downward.

We all listened for the telltale splashing of the skin.

Deeper. Even deeper. Still no one spoke.

And then we heard it.

“Praise be to God!” Judah cried.

“May it be pure,” Saba muttered.

He pulled the rope, hand over hand, hauling his draw to the surface. Then out and onto the ground, pushing aside his she-camel, who was nosing for the water.

Saba dipped his hand into the skin and drew some water into the light. It was the color of red sand, but it was wet, and I wanted to shove my head into that skin.

Bringing his hand to his lips, Saba took one sip, looked at me with his deep-brown eyes, held the water in his mouth for a moment, then spit it out.

“It’s spoiled.”

Unwilling to accept Saba’s conclusion, Judah thrust his hand into the skin and sampled a mouthful.

He too spit the water out.

“Bitter.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “It will keep us alive!”

I reached for the skin, but Judah pushed my hand away. “No, Maviah. This water is poison. You will surely die.”

Saba turned and offered the water to Wabitu, but with one sniff the she-camel withdrew.

“Even the camels will refuse this. What a camel refuses to drink, a man cannot.”

I stared at them, aghast.

“So, then, we have no water. And there are no other wells close enough to reach.”

“Yes. This is true.”

I looked between them.

“Then we die here?”

“No.” Judah looked at Saba’s she-camel. “Now our lives are in Wabitu’s udders. We will force her to drink this water. If it does not kill her, she may produce milk. If God wills it, her milk will save us.”

I wanted to yell at him and demand he tell me the truth. There was no hope left for us, surely he knew this! I no longer wanted his courage, I wanted only water!

But Saba was already heading toward his camel. So I joined them in deed, if not in hope.

I had heard of forcing a camel to drink, but never had I witnessed nor been a party to it. Only my own desperation for life allowed me to help Saba and Judah hobble all four of Wabitu’s legs so that she could not rise. After much pulling and thrashing, they managed to pry her mouth open using sticks, so that I could pour the rancid water down her throat.

In this way we forced Wabitu to drink three skins of water. The other camel stood a long way off, watching and moaning, anticipating similar treatment. But we didn’t need him to drink. We needed milk, which he could not provide.

If Wabitu did not produce milk, we could slaughter the camels for their blood, but this was barbaric and would leave us on foot deep in the desert, which itself was death.

We finally released her.

“How long will we wait?” I asked, watching the she-camel happily run off. She wouldn’t go far because there was nowhere to go.

“Until the sun is high,” Saba said, eyeing her. “By then she will either be sick or begin to make milk.”

“Only half a day, Maviah,” Judah said, smiling. Like a child, he could seize hope in even the most desperate of situations. Perhaps only a man who has survived so many battles and so many improbable journeys may have such hope.

“And how long before she makes enough milk for us?” I asked.

“Another day,” Saba said.

“And yet with milk being made, we will have the courage to survive,” Judah said.

I could only swallow. That swallow mocked me, because my need for fluid cut as deeply as my need to breathe. I would perish beside this bitter well, I thought.

I should have expected no other end than to die in the desert. Was this not the fate of all? If my father had failed to protect his kingdom with all his great power, what right did I, his illegitimate daughter, have to expect anything other than death?

The fear that had relentlessly accused me of failure now laughed in my ears.

“You will see, Maviah,” Judah said kindly. “God will provide a way. He will not allow you to die in the Nafud.”

I turned away.

Wabitu had stopped running and was staring back at us, confused and offended. She awkwardly settled to the ground, stretched out her neck, and moaned in pain as the water, like poison, churned in her stomach.

I glanced at Saba, wondering if he felt as hopeless as I did. But his eyes were not on the camel. Nor Judah. Nor me. They were fixed on the dune behind me, and they were afire with wariness.

I twisted my head in the direction of his gaze. There on the crest, staring down at us, stood a Bedu. An older boy, less than twenty years and yet a man, for all Bedu become men at a young age. He wore a white kaffiyeh with a red agal.

“Thamud,” Saba said. His hand was on his dagger already.

“So.” Judah stared up at the boy. “We have been found.”

The Bedu spun and vanished from sight.