They untied Pamela and stood her in their midst, pushing her from one to the other until she cried and pleaded. At last her abductor dragged the girl behind a nearby dune while the other two waited their turn. Bryna could hear Pamela’s cries and moans of protest and pain. When the first one had finished, he strode cockily back into camp and motioned for the next one to go. The second disappeared behind the dune, and Bryna heard more of the pitiful wailing. The youngest was last. He watched while the first man cleansed his hands with sand after touching the kaffir.
Calmly rolling Latifeh’s body aside with a stick, the man lit the campfire and set about baking bread. The adolescent paced, made more eager by the cries he heard. When he could stand it no longer, he turned to Bryna as if he would drag her from the camp.
She had only one chance, the girl realized. Placing all her hope in the superstitious Bedu nature, she narrowed her blue eyes and summoned an ominous, malicious look. “Know you not what a bewitcher can do?” she muttered in Arabic. “Touch me and I will call upon you every ghul, every monster of the desert.”
The boy recoiled in horror, hurrying to the older man to report her threat.
“What is this you say, woman?” the man demanded. Wiping the flour from his hands onto his aba, he came to stand before her. Smiling craftily, Bryna began to croon a nonsensical Creole song from her childhood.
“What is she saying?” the boy asked fearfully.
“Return my friend to me,” she demanded in Arabic, turning wild eyes on them.
“She is mad.” The raiders retreated rapidly, kicking over the cooking pot in their haste.
Bryna continued to sing, her voice increasing in volume as she rose to her knees.
“Farouk,” they called to their comrade, “bring back the white woman before the witch curses us all.”
There was a muffled curse from behind the sand dune, and Farouk appeared to lay Pamela’s limp, naked body beside the fire.
Crawling on all fours to the unconscious girl, Bryna covered her friend with her aba, then crawled to Latifeh’s side. The dead woman’s eyes seemed to stare at darkening sky. Returning to Pamela, Bryna cushioned her head in her lap and watched as the men withdrew a safe distance to argue among themselves.
At last the raiders lay down to sleep. They were exhausted, and tomorrow was soon enough to decide what to do about the women. Wearily they stretched out, lying on their stomachs to prevent hunger pangs. Bryna kept watch, until at last her own fatigue overcame her.
She awakened at dawn to the prayers of the Moslem men, every muscle in her body aching. Opening her eyes, she saw the vapor of her breath in the still air. She could feel the ebbing heat of the fire. It had dried half of her dew-wet dress, while the other side was cold and clammy against her skin.
The men resumed their argument. What were they to do now? They had had the blond-haired woman, and the other was mad. They could hardly kill one possessed by a spirit, but why haul her all over the Empty Quarter?
They could sell the pale one in Oman, one of them suggested, but his plan was discarded. She would never make it across the Rub al Khali. It would be better to leave the women here, they reasoned, and go to get their share of the camels. They could refill their water skins at a small oasis back a short distance, then they would ride like the wind to join the others.
Unexpectedly the boy objected. “The women will die in the desert.”
“What does it matter?” one of the men asked. “We will not have killed them. Whether they live or die is the will of Allah. Leave them.”
Hearing the soft pads of the camels as the raiders rode away, Bryna sat up. In the morning dimness a red stain could be seen, spreading slowly beneath Pamela’s body. Poor Pamela, never fully recovered from her illness—how was she to survive such ill treatment? Bryna wondered, tears swimming in her eyes.
Tenderly she stroked the English girl’s cheek, finding the skin hot to the touch. One of her eyes was black and swollen, and blood smeared over her cracked lips. Bryna looked around desperately. The men had not left even a small water skin.
Rising shakily to her feet, she smoothed her wadded, bloodstained thobe and assessed the situation. They had no food, no shelter, no water, and no hint of where the nearest well or oasis might be, if indeed they could reach one without camels. The first step was to stay alive.
Pamela moaned and opened her eyes. “Bryna,” she whimpered weakly. “I hurt so badly.”
Bryna made the injured girl as comfortable as possible. Then, going to retrieve Pamela’s dress, she searched for any sign of hidden water beneath the sand. A withered shrub sent up one pitiful gray-green branch.
After dressing her fevered friend, she returned to the spot to dig for hours until she hit a small pocket of murky water. She dipped her headdress in it and took it, dripping, to wet Pamela’s lips. The injured girl’s eyes flickered open. They were glazed with pain.
“Is there more?” she rasped.
“Just what I found in digging. Suck on this and get what water you can out of it.” Bryna put the corner of the headdress into Pamela’s mouth and watched as she drew a little liquid from the damp material.
“Save some for yourself,” the injured girl whispered through parched lips.
Bryna performed the same motions for herself, greedy for the moisture but knowing it was not enough to keep them alive in the blazing heat to come.
She gazed over at the ruins of the campfire. The pot that had held the beginnings of last night’s dinner lay upended in the sand, its unsavory-looking contents swarming with ants.
“Inedible,” she muttered.
“Don’t worry, Bryna,” Pamela said hoarsely, “even I am not hungry yet.”
Bryna smiled in spite of their dire situation, causing her split lip to bleed again.
“Where is Latifeh?”
“She is dead. I will bury her, then we must decide what to do for ourselves.”
“Very well.” The English girl sighed wearily and closed her eyes.
Bryna dug a shallow grave in the sand and dragged the woman’s body to it, carefully positioning it so her battered feet pointed toward Mecca. Generously she wrapped her own aba around Latifeh’s dead face. Then she covered the grave.
In the fine sands of the desert, Bryna found no rocks to place over the grave to keep the animals away. She had done the best she could. Still feeling that she should do something to honor the woman who had been killed defending her, she knelt beside the grave and recited one of Latifeh’s favorite verses from the Koran.
Bryna returned to Pamela. The sun was beginning to beat down on them unmercifully. In a high dune nearby, she hollowed out a space in the shady side and half carried, half dragged Pamela to it.
The injured girl bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. “What are we to do, Bryna?”
“We will wait here for rescue.”
“Do you think there is anyone left to search for us?”
“Of course,” Bryna replied as confidently as she could. She had seen Nassar die and Sharif fall to a blow that must have killed him.
“You should try to go back alone, Bryna. It is your only chance. If you find help, you can send them back for me.”
Bryna considered Pamela’s suggestion for only a moment. Her chances in the open desert were not much better than here. If they stayed in one place, perhaps the tracks they had left would lead searchers to them. But, most of all, she could not leave Pamela to die alone. Her promise, the one she had chafed under, came back to haunt her. She could not leave her friend.
“Let’s stay here until you feel better, then we will both go back,” she suggested gently. “We can follow the direction of the tracks the camels left as we came.”
“But...” Pamela did not have the strength to argue. Easing down to sit beside her, Bryna rested the girl’s head on her shoulder. Then they waited.
For rescue or for death? the girl wondered. How long could they last in the desert? Even if Sharif lived, would he come for them
?
As the sun progressed around the dune, Bryna moved Pamela’s limp body to keep it shaded. The injured girl awakened once to murmur, her tongue thick with thirst, “You have been awfully good to me, Bryna. I want you to know I shall never forget you.”
“Don’t talk. Save your strength,” the American girl encouraged.
She slumped in the sand beside Pamela and tried to pray, but instead the Fatiha droned through her mind. How could they hope to survive? Their throats were parched already, and the heat, now nearly unbearable, would only get worse throughout the afternoon. But tonight would be cold, and there was nothing to use as a shelter, Bryna noticed almost indifferently. At last she, too, fainted, her battered body seeking relief in unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 17
Sharif sat on a low stool in the midst of the ruined camp and allowed Kedar to tend his injuries. The big slave’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he treated the gash on the sheik’s shoulder with gunpowder and stitched it closed.
The sheik scarcely noticed. Raw pain that had nothing to do with his wound showed in his gray eyes. The dogs who had raided his camp must die. His wife Fatmah and his nephew Nassar were among the dead lying in the sand. He had watched as Sa’id fell. And the marauders had taken Bryna and Latifeh and the fair-haired girl.
He must find the raiders and reclaim what was his. No matter what their tribal standing, this time there would be ghazzi. The Selims could not be attacked twice and expected to stand for it. But before a council could be called, the sheik must attend to his people. They must have the essentials for survival.
With a nod of thanks to the big mute, Sharif drew on his robe over the bandages. Summoning the frightened Salubas from their hiding places, he assigned them to a burial detail. The women of his tribe he set to repairing the damaged water skins and refilling them for the journey to Riyadh. The children were dispatched to search the smoldering tents for undamaged foodstuffs. With relief he watched `Abla scramble off with the others. Praise be to Allah, his daughter was safe, he thought gratefully.
Hearing a weak whimper, Sharif found Smemi lying in a pool of blood. Whining with pain, the big dog strained to lift his head a few inches from the ground and look around as if he were searching for something. Or someone, Sharif brooded. But the effort was too much, and Smemi’s head dropped heavily. The dog’s eyes rested on Sharif almost pleadingly as the man knelt in the dust beside him. There was nothing he could do, the sheik realized, except relieve the animal’s suffering. With a bleak look in his eyes, he stood and aimed his pistol at Bryna’s fallen protector.
“Bismallah,” he whispered sadly, and pulled the trigger. The dog’s mighty body jerked once and was still. “Your job is over now. I will find her for you.”
While everyone scurried to their tasks, the men had gathered under the tree in the middle of the camp for majlis. His head still reeled from the blow he had taken during the battle, and Sharif sadly missed the voice of his oldest friend in council, but he forced himself to concentrate on what was said by those who remained. Quickly the decision was reached. The women and children would go on to Riyadh in the company of armed servants and guards. They should reach the city within three days, even afoot.
The men would go to war. They must, they would, have their vengeance. There was no time to dream dreams or to have them interpreted, but the tribesmen cheered when ghazzi was declared.
Personal sorrows were put aside for now. There would be time for mourning when they reached the safety of home. Then they would sacrifice a sheep for each of the dead and lament their loss.
Efficiently the tribesmen assembled the necessary equipment and took stock of the old and infirm camels that were left after the raid. Overtaking the raiders would be difficult on such sorry beasts, but overtake them they would, or the Selims would follow them to their very tents. More cheers were heard and the trilling of the women when Sharif, clad in the unrelieved black of a Bedu warrior, led his men out to follow the tracks of the raiders.
The pursuers slowed at the edge of the Empty Quarter, but they continued determinedly, following the trail. A large raiding party had passed here during the night, they read easily in the tracks. Three of the camels had carried the women as well as their riders.
They continued to ride for several hours before coming to the place where the marauders had split. The tracks told them that most of the raiders had headed off to the west, herding the camels in front of them. The three riders who had abducted the women had put them off the camels there and forced them to walk.
The Selim band set off to follow the camel herd. Sharif went alone to reclaim the women of his household. Some of his men wanted to go with him, stopping just short of mentioning his recent wound, but the proud sheik refused their aid. The missing women were his responsibility, and he would get them back. The raiding party was to retrieve their camels and to capture the enemies’ as well.
As his ancient camel loped across the sands, Sharif gained on the fleeing group as long as the women walked. Trying to ignore the traces of blood on the sand where their feet had been cut, he willed silently that they had continued to walk, slowing the pace. At last the sheik reached a place where the sand showed that the heaviest woman had fallen and been dragged a short distance. Then the smallest had staggered and stumbled. The marauders had stopped there, and the women had been taken back on the camels.
Sharif pressed his own camel as much as he dared. Even though her hump was firm and high, so she was not in need of water or grazing yet, she was old and she tired easily. Finally it became necessary for him to stop for the night to rest her. He would never admit, even to himself, that his own head ached so that it was difficult to see and that the bandage on his shoulder was sticky with fresh blood. Wounds healed quickly in the dry heat of the desert, and Sharif was determined to resume his search in the morning.
No more than an hour after sunrise, he arrived at a point where the footprints became muddled. Tracks obliterated tracks. Some indistinct imprints left by loaded camels led a little ways to the south before they were covered by windblown sand. Newer clearer prints led to the east, but they showed that the women were no longer being carried on the camels’ backs.
Sharif had little choice in the empty desert. Only a face-to-face confrontation with his enemies would reveal what he wanted to know. Where were the women?
Following the tracks, he galloped his camel across the sand toward the rising sun. As he topped a dune, Sharif could see a scrubby oasis below. Dismounting rapidly, he ran for cover, hoping he had not been seen. When no gunfire greeted him, he remained at a distance and led his camel around the oasis to the south, a direction from which the raiders would not expect anyone to appear. Then he hobbled the animal with his aghal, tying her mouth with her nose rope to keep her quiet. Stealthily he crept to a concealed place where he could observe the oasis.
The two men dozed under a tall saf, obviously sated from a meal. The youngest member of the party, a boy, stood guard, leaning against a palm tree. His eyes were turned westward, watching for pursuers. He, too, drowsed in the heat, lifting a lethargic hand occasionally to brush the flies away from his nodding head.
Grimly Sharif drew his sword, breathed a prayer, and leapt into camp with a bloodcurdling shout. He kicked the leg of one of the sleeping Bedu. The groggy man scowled and lurched to his feet. Instantly the scowl turned to a grimace of fear as the man groped at his side for his sword. Before he could utter a cry, Sharif’s sword whistled through the air and caught the man in the neck, nearly severing it. A gurgle was the only sound that broke the stillness. The other man was now awake and on his feet. Drawing his sword with an angry bellow, he charged at Sharif.
Their swords clashed against the sky. Helplessly the adolescent sentinel watched as Sharif efficiently dispatched the man with whom he fought, then whirled on him.
The boy backed up a step as Sharif advanced on him menacingly. The sheik’s sword was poised for a powerful blow and his gray eyes were two dange
rous points of flint when he asked, “What have you done with the women?”
“The old one d-died,” the boy stammered, “but the two younger we left in the desert.”
“To die as well?” Sharif roared. “Was it not enough you broke the rules of ghazzi and raided my camp by night? Now you kill women?”
“We did not kill them, I swear by Allah.”
“Do not defile the name of God with your foul mouth. They are as good as dead, abandoned in the Rub al Khali. Where did you leave them?”
“About two hours’ ride to the south. But it was not my doing. I swear...” His voice trailed off. “Here, I wish to surrender to you.” He offered his sword to Sharif.
Sharif hesitated. What the boy requested was within the rules of ghazzi. But he thought of the still bodies lined up on the sand outside his tent—Fatmah, Nassar, Sa’id, even the dog that had trailed Bryna’s steps.
“It is too late,” he said, and brought the sword down. The boy’s head rolled across the sand and landed, its surprised eyes looking up at him.
“Blood for blood,” the sheik murmured sadly. “A death for a death.”
Unwilling to waste time, Sharif dug a single grave and rolled the bodies into it. After covering it with sand, he washed the taint of the dead from his body, then went to fetch the men’s camels.
The beasts were rested and in good condition. By rights the men’s possessions were now his. He saddled two sturdy-looking beasts for the women. Then he transferred his own saddle to the back of a strong black camel. After readjusting his clothing to ease the ache of his wound, he wrapped his kaffiyeh tightly around his face. Leaving the rest of the dead men’s goods at the oasis, he rode south, leading his camels.
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