Once Upon a Camel

by Kathi Appelt

  But the wind wasn’t having it. A huge gust blasted against the outer walls and roared as it blew by. Not yet, it seemed to say. Not yet.

  Miraculously, and who can even explain why? Maybe the growling wind? Or maybe bickering just eventually gets old. Whatever the reason, the chicks stopped their incessant back-and-forth and scrunched down into her fur. Beulah spoke up. “Auntie?” she asked. “Tell us more about the caravan.”

  Wims chimed in, “I want to hear more about the caravan too.”

  “Me first,” said Beulah. “I want to hear about it first.”

  “No, me first,” said Wims.

  Ahh, thought Zada. Perhaps telling more of the story would buy her some time to recover, enough so that she could get back on her feet.

  “I will tell you at the same time,” said Zada. And because the wind loves a good story as much as anyone, an invisible willy-willy slipped through the opening, curled up at her feet, and settled into the floor of the cave.

  “The caravan,” she said. “Well…”

  33 Indianola, Texas

  1856

  The camels were so happy to get off that boat, they couldn’t help themselves. As soon as they stepped onto the beach, they gamboled. In the annals of camels, there had never been so much bumping and side-kicking and back-kicking and front-kicking. All of that was mixed in with the camel chorus, an assortment of hollers and gurgles and growls and rumbles and huffs and puffs and bbbbuuuuwwwhhhhhaaaaalllls.

  All the horses from the town went on high alert. Those Texas steeds had obviously never seen camels before.

  The combination of hollering and gamboling set the resident equines into a frenzy of bucking and snorting. They reared up onto their hind feet, kicked each other, even cracked a bunch of teeth and jawbones. That was followed by an even bigger round of mane shaking and tail flicking. Always with the manes. Horses. So sensitive.

  Anyways, despite the hullabaloo from the horses, the US Army leased out a property just outside the town that had a large barn and a big paddock. It seemed a perfect place to quarter the camels. However, a strategic mistake was made when it came to fencing.

  Someone decided that the best fencing material for keeping the camels penned up inside the property—as well as for keeping other critters out—would be a high wall of prickly pear cactus. After all, it grew fast and thick. It was extremely prickly. And it worked well for penning in horses, mules, hogs, sheep, and other farm types. It should work for camels, too.

  But what the camels saw when they noticed the fence wasn’t fence. It was dinner! In less time than it takes to say “jumping jackrabbit,” those camels mowed the prickly pear down to tiny nubs. They set a land record for the dispatching of a fence. Which meant that fairly soon there were camels roaming the city streets of Indianola and wreaking all sorts of havoc: eating shrubs, stomping on front porches, taunting the horses.

  Pretty quickly, the townsfolk of Indianola objected. In fact, they objected mightily. So the army packed up and marched their camel herd to a better place. Just a bit northwest of San Antonio, they arrived in a spot known as Camp Verde. It had better fencing than Indianola, and the horses didn’t seem so edgy. All in all, a good move.

  Not a single camel in the herd missed Indianola.

  “Good riddance,” said Zada.

  “So long,” said Asiye.

  What the two did miss, however, was running. They were, after all, among the Pasha’s most elite racing camels. Right up until the moment that she boarded the Supply, Zada had run practically every day of her life. Even gamboling was not the same as stretching her long neck and legs forward and taking off.

  “Faster than a zooming arrow,” said Asiye.

  “Faster than a blaze of lightning,” said Zada.

  “Faster than a spitball,” said Asiye. Which of course, made her start singing, and that set off a camel chorale in the corral. It was a happy moment in the camel lot.

  As the days passed, Zada kept waiting for Teodor to lead them to the track, but that day never came. Instead, one morning he strapped a different kind of saddle on their backs. Not a lightweight racing saddle. Rather, it was a special kind of contraption for carrying supplies. He tightened it and filled it all up with hay, pounds and pounds of hay. To Zada’s utter dismay, it seemed that she and Asiye, along with the rest of the herd, were going to be used as pack animals, the very lowest of the camel ranks.

  Shame. It was an even heavier burden than the supplies that were strapped to her back. Zada was beside herself with humiliation. At once, she folded first her front legs and then her back legs, and lowered herself onto the ground. How could she, one of the Pasha’s fastest camels, find herself in such a terrible position?

  “What is this?” asked Asiye, just as disgruntled as Zada.

  But then Teodor leaned against Zada’s side. He leaned against Asiye’s side. He rubbed their long necks and kissed their cheeks. “Güzel develer,” he said. “Remember, you are representing the Pasha. You are gifts.” Then he told them how happy the Pasha would be to see his royal camels help lay out a new route from the east to the west of the brand-new United States of America.

  It seemed that Zada and Asiye and the rest of the herd would make a long trek from Texas to San Diego, to survey a new route for the railroad.

  “Gurur duymalisiniz,” he told them. “You’ll be making history.”

  Zada didn’t really care about making history, especially as a pack camel. But she did want to make the Pasha proud. Beside her, Asiye said, “Field trip!” And well, when your best friend puts it that way… But first, Zada brought up, from the depths of her stomachs, an enormous belch.

  “That was impressive,” said Asiye. And despite the humiliation of the packs, they both stood up.

  Zada couldn’t help it. She smiled. The bells that Teodor had made for them chimed together in their ears. Kllloookkll. Just like that, the first official trek of the United States Army Camels commenced.

  Unlike the mules and horses, the camels were way less water-consuming. Point them in the direction of a tasty cactus or shrub, and bingo! In fact, some of the caravan camels actually carried barrels of water and bales of hay for the aforementioned mules and horses.

  “They’re so needy,” said Asiye. Of course, she was speaking of the horses. Zada replied, “Yes, they are.” But she had to admit to a certain fondness for the mules. She never spied them shaking their heads or manes—not even once.

  34 Camp Verde, Fort Tejon, and…

  1857–67

  It didn’t take long for the camels to prove their worth. The caravan, with Teodor leading them, successfully traversed the western half of the continent not once, but any number of times. To and fro they went, step by careful step.

  Even though they missed racing, the camels loved being on the trail. There was so much to see:

  Bison in the thousands. And more thousands.

  Scorpions (not friendly).

  Rattlesnakes (also not friendly).

  Pack rats, which Asiye declared as useless, because they were way too small to pack anything, unlike herself and Zada.

  Saguaro cacti, so tall they seemed to touch the sky.

  Armadillos, who looked like four-footed Conquistadors. All that armor.

  Horned toads. They could puff up to twice their size and squirt blood from their eyes. Seriously.

  Longhorn cattle. More to come about them.

  Joshua trees and golden hawks and chuckwallas.

  At almost every stop, they met new people: Cherokees. Lipan Apaches. Tonkawa. Chumash. People whose families had lived there for centuries, whose long-ago ancestors lived beside Zada’s long-ago ancestors, those giant Titanotylopus who migrated over the very top of the world, across the frozen tundra and into Europe and Asia.

  As we’ve said, camels are excellent trekkers. They’ve been doing it since the dawn of time.

  35 Southwestern Territories North America

  1858–63

  From Camp Verde to Fort Tejon an
d back again the caravan went. And each journey took them on a different route.

  Sometimes they marched for twenty miles in a day, or more. Often the caravan traveled in the early morning hours, rested during the heat of the day, and then, just as the sun set, traveled for a while longer.

  When night fell, the soldiers built a bonfire and the camels folded themselves onto the ground and watched the sparks fly into the cold night air. Sometimes, one of the soldiers strummed a guitar or played a fiddle or squeezed a concertina and sang right out loud. It didn’t sound at all like the music of the Pasha’s court, with its tambourines and kanuns, but it wasn’t horrible.

  Truth was, Zada and Asiye preferred the tunes of the distant song dogs, which always seemed to accompany them, regardless of the territory. Even though they only rarely saw one, they knew the dogs were nearby.

  As if the stars agreed, straight over their heads marched the Camel Caravan, led by the Camel Chief. Even on nights when the sky was so full of moonlight it felt like day, Zada could still see his gleaming blue eye.

  36 Somewhere

  1910

  American kestrels might be small, but they are full of grit. And at that particular moment, grit was the operative word. In fact, Perlita was so full of it that she was sure she had doubled in size. All sixteen cubic inches of her were coated in a thick layer of West Texas grit.

  The haboob had first lifted Perlita higher into the sky than she had ever flown, then carried her aloft for what seemed like hours. How far it had swept her from her nest in the cottonwood, she couldn’t tell. When the storm had finally released her from its windy fist, she had dropped like a stone, laden as she was with grit.

  Fortunately, mercy stepped in at the exact right moment. Instead of landing on the hard ground, where Perlita would most definitely have gone poof for the second time in one day, she fell right into a massive tumbleweed, which wrapped her in its branches like a cage. Trapped!

  Then, unfortunately, the tumbleweed did what tumbleweeds do—it tumbled. Across the landscape, through the arroyos, over the ridges, it carried Perlita. Bumpity-bumpity-bumpity. Ouch ouch ouch!

  Up. Down. Sideways. The tumbleweed spun its captive every which way.

  How could she tell whether it was carrying her farther and farther from Wims and Beulah, or closer and closer?

  “Stupid tumbleweed!” she tried to say. Only, thanks to a mouthful of… you know… grit!… it came out more like, “Ttthhhuuppdd thummblllwuud.” Nothing, not one blessed thing, looked familiar to her, not even her own toes, which were above her head, which was not where her toes were meant to be.

  And where, she thought, exactly where was Pard?

  He was supposed to be her constant companion at all times. Wasn’t this a time? Didn’t all times include this time? If she could have crossed her wings and tapped her foot, she would have, but—but—but—TUMBLEWEED!

  How would she ever get back to her babies? Wims. Beulah. Best babies ever in the history of the universe and the solar system and the galaxy.

  Thank goodness for Zada. In her heart of hearts, Perlita knew that Zada would do everything possible to keep the chicks safe.

  But wait! Thinking about Zada, Perlita had a vague memory that popped up. There was something she had forgotten to tell her camel friend. Something important. The best news, but what was it?

  Just then the wind pushed her again. The tumbleweed tumbled. Over and over. Up. Down. Then it bounced-bounced-bounced. Faceup. Facedown. Bump-bump-bump. Ouch ouch ouch!

  Pard! She needed Pard.

  American kestrels are known for their brilliant cries—klee! Killy, killy. Klee.

  But trapped as she was, the only cries that Perlita could make were deep inside, where her tiny heart was beating as fast as it could.

  37 Rio Grande Banks

  1868

  Stories, my birditos, come in all shapes and sizes. Some are long. Some are short. Some make us smile and others make us… well… a little weepy. And then there are stories that leave us with an open-ended question.…

  Zada and Asiye and the rest of the camel caravan transported goods and people to and from central Texas to southern California, in all kinds of weather and during every season.

  But in the midst of all their traversing came a devastating war, the American Civil War. In fact, all wars are devastating. So much destruction. So much despair.

  Fortunately, the camels weren’t part of it. While the battles were raging elsewhere, they were safely ensconced in their home base at Camp Verde. It seems that no one in the United States Army realized that camels had served in militaries for millennia, including the mighty forces of Afghanistan, to the firece fighters of Zanzibar. From A to Z, they had proven their valor, often at terrible risk.

  Lucky for Zada and Asiye and the others, they were largely left to graze and gambol and generally take life easy, with the exception of an occasional field trip to the border areas, or to carry a bundle of mail to an outpost farther west.

  When the war finally ended, the army decided that the camels were no longer needed. One by one, they were auctioned off. Some were sold to zoos or traveling circuses. Others were sold to miners and prospectors. At least a couple were sent to the gold mines in northern California, and some wound up as far north as Vancouver. Yes. That is a fact.

  Soon, the larger herd of thirty-four became a smaller herd, and smaller yet, until there were only the nine left: Asiye. Halime. Naime. Rezan. Tarkan. Kahraman. Elif. Melek. Zada. The Pasha’s elite camels. At least they were still all together. Teodor saw to it.

  But as the weeks and months passed, one after another, Teodor had to find new homes for them. One by one, the camels sang out, “Güle güle!” until only two were left: Zada and Asiye.

  And then…

  Zada remembered that day as if it just happened. They were on their way back from Fort Tejon in California when Teodor, riding a mule named Lucille, announced, “I have something special for my racing camels.”

  Racing! Teodor had said racing. Zada did a little dance. She had not raced in years and years. She looked at Asiye. Asiye looked at her. They could feel the excitement down to their toes. Zada lifted her knees. Asiye began to sway. Sure enough, as she always did when she was happy, Asiye burst into song, so of course, so did Zada. The camelujah chorus commenced; their joyful tune echoed amidst the rocks and rills.

  Teodor led the two of them off the trail. First he relieved them of their packs. Then he and Lucille guided them to a bend in the river, the one called the Rio Grande.

  “I found the perfect place for you to run again,” he said. And he had.

  * * *

  As Zada recounted her story to Wims and Beulah, she remembered how the soft sand along the banks felt cool to her feet. She remembered the way the eagle caught the air currents and flew in circles above their heads. She noticed the purple blossoms on the sagebrush and the darting movements of a chaparral, so much the color of the lechuguilla plants that she was hard to spot until she zigzagged from plant to plant. So much like the jerboa in the nursery barn, Zada thought.

  She also remembered the tenderness in Teodor’s palms as he rubbed their cheeks. She gave him a nudge with her nose. He was her favorite of the People species. Asiye did the same. It was how they said thank you, after all.

  And in return, “Güzel develer,” he told them, in his quietest voice, a voice filled with cracks. “Güzel develer,” he said again.

  Zada wondered why he was so sad, what with the day so clear and the sand so cool? What was there to be sad about? Then he did something surprising. He slipped off their halters, the ones with the bells that he had made especially for them. “I’ll keep these for you,” he said, “just in case.” Which should have sounded funny to Zada, but she was so ready to run, she paid it no mind.

  Then he pointed out the long stretch of sandy banks, so perfect for a long gallop. Ahh, the two camels thought. At last! It had been such a long time. Yes, there had been a trot here and there, but a run,
stretching out and racing, their feet barely touching the ground? The long, sandy beach was perfect.

  Zada looked at Asiye. “Do you remember the rules?” she asked.

  “Of course!” Asiye nudged Zada with her nose. “No bumping. No side-kicks. And above all…”

  “No spitting!” said Zada, which caused an intense round of snorting.

  They were ready.

  “So ready,” said Zada.

  “Beyond ready,” said Asiye.

  Teodor stepped back and gave a whistle. “En parlak yildiz ol,” shouted the two. And just like that, off they went, heads reaching forward, legs stretched out. The two of them flew down the banks of that river. And oh, it felt wonderful, the air crisp and bright, the beach all theirs. They ran and ran and ran, who knows how far, with nobody to rein them in, they just kept going… and going… until finally, exhausted, they had to stop. Their sides heaved, their legs ached. But none of that mattered.

  It was the best race of their lives.

  “I think we flew!” said Zada.

  “We definitely flew,” added Asiye.

  But what Zada and Asiye didn’t see: while they were racing, Teodor and Lucille slipped away, leaving two of the Pasha’s elite racing camels there on the sandy banks of the Rio Grande. Above their heads, the eagle sailed atop the air currents. The sun settled on their backs like a saddle. And nary a trace of their matching bells could be heard.

  38 Rio Grande Banks

  1868

  What Zada and Asiye didn’t know, what they couldn’t know, was that Teodor had, by setting them loose, saved their lives. For a long time after the Civil War, when the camels were being sold and auctioned, Teodor had managed to keep the Pasha’s herd together. He even gave up his small salary to hold on to them. But at last, the US Army lost its patience. He could no longer protect them from the auction block, and he knew that the life in front of them, as beasts of burden—or worse—might not be kind.