Once Upon a Camel

by Kathi Appelt

  19 Smyrna, Turkey

  1850–56

  One of Teodor’s jobs as cameleer was to make and repair the saddles and bridles for both camels and horses. It was a craft he took seriously.

  It wasn’t long before Zada and Asiye outgrew their training halters, and it was time to create bridles worthy of their elite status. Soon they would join the older racers. Their bridles were beautiful to behold. Zada and Asiye needed equally fine bedecking.

  For weeks, Teodor worked through the night, tanning leather until it was soft as cotton. Then he purchased strands of dyed lambswool—long braids of red, yellow, saffron, teal—and wove them between the cords of leather.

  The last step was to adorn the ear straps with something metallic, something that would catch the glimmers from the sun.

  “Gold,” he said. “To make the Pasha proud.”

  And with that, he visited the royal metalsmith, Zafer.

  The Pasha kept Zafer very busy, creating cups and saucers for his kitchens, finely etched lamps for the palace ballrooms, and tambourines for his official musicians. He made arm cuffs of gold for the Pasha’s wives and silver chains for his daughters to wear around their necks. For the Pasha’s sons, the smith created fine rings for their fingers and ears.

  His work was of the highest quality, and the Pasha was full of gratitude. When Teodor visited Zafer and told him that he needed something special to adorn the young camels’ bridles, the smith showed him an array of buttons, tassels, engraved strips, all beautiful, all worthy of the racing camels.

  But Teodor wanted something even more special for his two newest racers.

  Seeing the indecision on Teodor’s face, Zafer knew what to do. Instead of tassels and buttons, the smith handed him a single sheet of gold.

  “But what shall I do with this?” asked Teodor.

  “Make something that brings you joy,” said Zafer. But Teodor was dumbfounded. Joy?

  “Take a walk,” the metalsmith said. “And as you walk, take note of the things you love, and soon you will know what to do.”

  So Teodor took a walk. He noted many things.

  With his eyes, he noticed the patterns that the carpet makers spun into their rugs, the way the warp and weft of the dyed threads dodged in and out and betwixt each other, making triangles and diamonds and stars.

  He noticed the chirring of the pigeons, how they billed and cooed with each other—kllloookkll. He also heard the high-pitched whistle of the hawks that lived in the upper stories of the local temple. Paaaahhh paaahhh!

  He smelled the sweet aroma of dates from the palm trees and apricots and figs from the Pasha’s orchards.

  All these things he loved. All these things brought joy. All at once, he knew.…

  Teodor headed straight to the paddock where Zada and Asiye were taking their midday naps, heads resting on each other’s backs. “Hello, you,” he said to them. He rubbed their soft, soft noses, then gave each of them a scratch beneath their chins. Finally he rubbed their rounded ears. Joy. Right at the tips of his fingers!

  And just like that, the lovely ringing of the temple bells caught a ride on a warm summer breeze and wrapped itself around him. Teodor knew what he would make with the beautiful sheet of gold.

  So, with the help of the metalsmith, he worked the fine metal. First he cut it into two equal pieces. Then he shaped both into small domes the size of thimbles. On the insides, he attached tiny gold clappers.

  Bells!

  Teodor made gold bells. One for Zada and one for Asiye. On the outsides he etched tiny palm trees, with a row of stars just above them, and a row of swirls just below to indicate the wind. With a fine-pointed stylus, he pierced the leather of each bridle, and attached the bells tightly to the straps, one that held fast just below Zada’s left ear and the other next to Asiye’s right ear.

  Perhaps the metal contained a spell, because individually neither bell had much of a ring. But when the two camels stood side by side, it was as if the bells discovered their voices and sang right out loud, in a clear, chiming echo, rather like the kllloookkll of the stable pigeons.

  If you didn’t know it was the bells that made that sound together, you might think it was the pigeons after all. Or perhaps the distant sound of a flute, a piper’s welcome to the evening stars. Above all, it seemed like the sound of their ringing created a circle of happiness in every chiming note.

  When Teodor gave the two friends the bells, he said this: “May these bells bring joy.”

  Where there is one, there is the other.

  20 Somewhere

  1910

  There are other things that go together. Salt and pepper. Thunder and lightning. Twists and turns. Perlita and Pard.

  From their very first meeting, they had rarely left each other’s sides, and even then, only for short forays to gather food for the babies. No more than ten minutes or so at best. And though Pard would be the first to admit that Perlita was prone to fits of drama, he couldn’t imagine being away from her for longer than the previously mentioned ten minutes.

  She was his true love. And he was hers. They were each other’s one and onlys.

  But when the haboob grabbed them, it pushed them in separate directions. Pard was in a panic. His frantic voice filled the roiling air with his loudest klees and killys, hoping they’d break through the horrible roar of the wind. Like the point on an arrow, he aimed his beak and flew directly into the tempest, but no matter how hard he flapped, he could not make any headway. Instead, he just kept getting tossed and tumbled.

  At last, exhausted, he realized that he needed to find some sort of shelter until the wind died down. Somehow, he discovered a sturdy creosote bush, leaning over so far it was practically pressed into the sand, but miraculously still rooted to the desert floor. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. Pard burrowed against its twisty limbs, wrapped himself as tightly as he could with his battered wings, and tucked his head beneath his shoulder. His heart thrummed in his ears.

  As if it wasn’t bad enough that he couldn’t find Perlita, he had no idea where his babies were either. Wims and Beulah. “Dear Zada,” he whispered, his throat raspy from calling for Perlita. “Be safe.” It was a wish he made with all his might.

  21 The Escarpment

  1910

  Zada took a long, deep breath. Luckily, her camel nostrils did an excellent job of filtering out the dust. The storm outside continued its near-constant roar. It showed no signs of stopping. None.

  How long before their luck ran out, she wondered, before Pecos de Leon made what she knew would be his inevitable appearance? As soon as the wind died down, they would have to make a break for the Mission. No question.

  She could hear Wims and Beulah peck-peck-pecking between her ears. For the first time ever, she was grateful for sand fleas.

  There were so many things she couldn’t control—the wind, the stars, the not-knowing of what had happened to Perlita and Pard.

  Ooof! She felt an ache, right in her very center. If only she had awakened earlier. If only she had been quicker to get to her feet. If only she had recognized the storm for what it was, maybe…

  But the hard truth was, she didn’t do any of those, and now… Perlita and Pard had vanished, and all Zada could do about it was wish with all her might: “Be safe.”

  22 Anywhere

  What we can say about the wind is that it is.

  Neither young nor old, it comes, it goes. The same wind that crept around the massive feet of the dinosaurs now swirls around the toes of baby koalas.

  It’s not like trees that grow old, or candles that flame out with time.

  That breeze that looped around Zada once circled the giant Camelops of ancient Texas. It loops around you, it loops around me. It knew our grandmothers and our great-grandmothers and our great-times-a-thousand grandmothers.

  It knew Zada’s ancestors too, even her prehistoric grandmother, poebrotherium, who was smaller than a coyote.

  The wind. It just is.

  23 S
myrna, Turkey

  1853–54

  Zada’s mother had told her all about her ancestors: the warrior camels of the sultanate; the trekking camels in the Sudan; the dairy camels of Tripoli; the famous fleet of racing camels in Arabia.

  There were Zada’s grandmothers and grandfathers, her aunts and uncles, her cousins and second cousins and third cousins and cousins galore. And they were all renowned for feats of endurance, including crossing the Alps with Hannibal and traversing the ice bridges with the woolly mammoths. The camels in Zada’s family were always the first choice for the merchants who traveled the Silk Road on their quests for exotic spices and finely woven fabrics.

  Importantly, the Pasha not only bred his camels for racing, but he also bred camels for the great armies of the world. For centuries camels were used to carry warriors and weapons, the materiel for battle. And no camels were braver than those raised by the Pasha. Commanders from Rome and generals from Crimea and admirals in the Ukraine, all sought the Pasha’s camels for their willingness to fight with courage and heart.

  As for Zada and Asiye, they were bred for the race. Only the most elite of the Pasha’s camels were chosen for the track. It was as if they had the very wind itself in their legs. They were anxious to begin their training.

  As soon as they turned three, they knew… it was time. For their whole young lives, they had dreamed of the track, especially the races at the Pasha’s annual festival, which he held in honor of his birthday.

  There would be merchants selling hand-dyed scarves and spicy peppers, dancers spinning on their toes, magicians casting love spells for forlorn sailors, and finally, the biggest event, the camel races. It was the richest camel race in the world. The Pasha could afford to offer the highest prize because nobody ever beat his camels. So the treasure went right back into his coffers.

  Nevertheless, the prize was a lure, an incentive for the other camel barons. The best racing camels, from the best stables in the world, would compete. There would be racing camels from all across the region, from the hills of Greece, from the shores of Egypt and Spain, from the lowlands of Persia. All of them wanted only one thing: to beat the Pasha’s camels and claim the grand prize.

  * * *

  Zada and Asiye couldn’t wait for their turn to show how fast they were. So on the cusp of their third birthdays, Teodor announced, “It’s time, my beauties.” The two friends held their heads up high as Teodor led them to the practice track. They were nervous, but they were ready.

  “So ready,” said Zada.

  “Very ready,” said Asiye.

  “Extremely ready,” they said together.

  The older camels nodded from the paddock as the two passed by. “Good luck,” they called. It was a day of anticipation and most of all, speed! Everyone lined up to watch the two new racers, the ones they had seen flying around the corral. It was their time to shine.

  Teodor patted their noses. “Güzel develer,” he told the pair. Then he lifted their training saddles atop their backs and strapped them on.

  “Ready,” said Zada.

  “More than ready,” said Asiye.

  “Stupendously ready,” they said together, two ready camels and their cameleer. Teodor led them down the central road, past the markets, past the fez factory, all the way to a long strip of sandy beach, which served as the practice track.

  The identical bells on their harnesses chimed, kllloookkll. Above their heads, a noisy crew of seagulls called, “Are you ready?”

  “Ready,” answered the camels. The day was bright and cool. The sand was warm beneath their toes. Everything was perfect.

  “Time to fly,” they said together, bumping against each other.

  Teodor led them to the farthest end of the beach, which he used as a starting line. “All the way down and back,” he told them. Finally he gave them one last pat and released their leads. But when he gave them the whistle…

  Zada froze.

  She could not take a single step.

  She could not even put a toe over that line.

  There was no get up, no go, nothing.

  Asiye too. She stretched out her long neck and… well…

  Fear wrapped its arms around the two and squeezed.

  “What if…,” asked Zada.

  “… we lost!” exclaimed Asiye.

  “What if we are the very first camels to cause the Pasha to lose his grand prize?” The Pasha was known far and wide for his kindness, but it was easy to be kind when you never, ever lost anything. Would losing his big prize make him less kind?

  “What would happen?” asked Asiye. “What would he do?”

  “Would he s-s-sell us to a traveling circus?” stammered Zada. “Turn us into camel stew?”

  Worst of all… “What if we have to become pack camels?” (Which all camels know are the lowest of the camel ranks. How would they ever get past the shame?)

  For decades, the Pasha’s camels had always come in first place, always won, never ever ever ever lost.

  But…

  What if…

  I mean… it could happen…

  Zada couldn’t budge. Asiye, too, was stuck in her tracks. They were so paralyzed by the bevy of what-ifs that they couldn’t even feel their toes.

  Thank goodness for Teodor. He rubbed their long necks and scratched the soft fur beneath their chins. He told them how proud he was of them. Another cameleer might have swung a heavy cane across their hindquarters. Some other trainer might have pierced their noses and jabbed a pointed wooden stick through them, and then tugged on them, the pain forcing the camels to move. Anyone besides Teodor might have cursed his camels and told them that they were worthless.

  But none of those cameleers were Teodor. He simply stood beside them and waited. And soon all that patience and kindness worked. The fear that held them in its arms let go.

  Asiye leaned over and whispered into Zada’s ear, “En parlak yildiz ol!”

  It was all they needed. Teodor blew his whistle again. The two friends held their heads up, stretched out their long necks, and off they flew along the water’s edge. In that first practice race, they became who they were meant to be: members of the Pasha’s elite racing team. So fast that if you blinked, you might not even see them.

  For the next three years, not a single camel could outrace them. Sometimes Zada won by a nose. Other times Asiye won. But just as often, they tied. And the Pasha’s grand prize was safe.

  24 The Escarpment

  1910

  Despite the rumble of the wind as it passed, for a fleeting moment, a small sliver of happy worked its way into Zada’s mind. Memories have that power. But happy is hard to hold on to when a ruckus erupts between your ears. A cacophony of klees and killys, chirps and peeps. In short, a perturbation.

  Beulah piped up first. “Wims put his toe in my face.”

  “But she poked me with her beak, right on my head,” retorted Wims.

  “Did not,” said Beulah.

  “Did too,” said Wims.

  “Not not not,” said Beulah.

  “Ouch! She pecked my head again!”

  Peeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeeppeep!

  Zada’s nerves began to jangle. It might have been a good time to spit, but how could she spit on her own head?

  “Your toe stinks!” screeched Beulah.

  “No more pecking!” chirped Wims.

  “Ouch! Get your ugly toe away from me!”

  “Quit pecking!”

  Finally Zada’s composure cracked. “ENOUGH ALREADY!”

  It was such a loud holler that she thought she might have blown a hole in the dusty air, because all of a sudden, a stray beam of light crept into the cave. True, it was a tentative beam of light. But as reticent as it was, it seemed to have cracked something open. Something like an eerie silence.

  The threesome held their collective breath. Then…

  “Auntie!” said Wims. “You made the storm stop!” Sure enough, the steady whistle that had engulfed them for the p
ast few hours disappeared. The wind died down, leaving trillions of particles of sand and dust wafting in the air. And wafting is not swirling. Wafting is less storm. And much less noise.

  In fact, the quiet was so loud that it seemed to inspire the babies to give their argument a rest. And thank goodness for that.

  But Zada thank-goodnessed too soon, because the cessation of quarreling immediately turned into a round of chuffs and puffs, followed by no small number of hhmpphs, which were, let’s face it, not at all amusing to Zada.

  “Do we need a lesson in sportsmanlike behavior?” she asked.

  Zada leaned a bit to the left. Her head ached. Her ears ached. But especially, her knees ached. If not for the wily Pecos, she would have lowered herself onto the ground and given them a much-needed rest. But it was too risky. If the lion showed up, she would never be able to get up in time to escape his probable pounce.

  And therein rose another unanswerable question: Would Zada’s knees hold out until she could reach the Mission? It was still a long walk away from the escarpment.

  Then, as if to reassure them, she sent thought beams to her knees. Just a few more miles. Just a few.

  And sensing an opening between all the chicks’ chuffs, puffs, and hhmmphs, because let’s admit it, they couldn’t last forever, Zada asked, “Are we ready to hear about the fairy chimneys?”

  In a burst of enthusiasm, Beulah popped out of the tuft, hopped onto the top of Zada’s right ear, stretched her fluffy body, and flapped her not-ready-for-flight-yet wings. “Ready,” she said. “Me too,” said Wims, flapping his own wings, but still not leaving the tuft. No matter. The wing flapping sounded like an O.O.D. (Official Okie Dokie) if she’d ever heard one. She felt herself relax. Just a little bit.

  Sometimes, it seems, the storyteller needs the story as much as the listeners, and after all, there was so much more to tell.