The Bride Price

by Karen Jones Delk

  CHAPTER 15

  “Daoud, Sâlih, look to the west and tell me what you see,” Sharif called to the two young men one day as the smala marched.

  “It is raining!” Daoud answered with a jubilant whoop.

  “Look, rain on the horizon!” Sâlih shouted to the others, gesticulating wildly.

  A shout rose up from behind them as all eyes turned to look at the gray-streaked sky.

  “We are near an oasis,” the sheik mused, “but rainwater is always welcome.”

  “Alhamdillah!” shouted the others.

  “Tell me,” Sharif addressed the young men with a smile, “you have the fleetest horses in camp. Do you think you could reach the rain before it stops?”

  “Insh’allah,” the young men answered. But they leapt gladly from their camels to their horses. With exhilarated shouts they galloped away, balancing jars in front of them, the hooves of their horses flinging sand onto the cheering onlookers.

  The smala watched until the men and their horses were small dots in the distance, then Sharif gave the order to move on to the oasis. The caravan had been traveling for several days. Progress was slow, but the travelers’ mood was light as they neared their destination.

  For the past few days Sharif had lessened his vigilance, for Nassar spent every free moment with Pamela now. Free of the sheik’s constant glower, Bryna also relaxed. She walked, sometimes with Taman, sometimes alone, enjoying the relative freedom of the desert. Occasionally she nodded her encouragement to Kedar, the new slave Sharif had bought in Kasr Al Haroun.

  Wearing a thobe that was much too short for him, the big man balanced precariously at first on the back of a swaying pack camel, looking nearly panic-stricken. But as he became more comfortable, he rode along in silence, returning the smile when Bryna looked in his direction. They had never even spoken, but the girl felt as if she had found a friend.

  But Bryna was not completely carefree today. She worried about Pamela and her unborn child. The English girl was ailing again. She had seemed so much improved when they had visited the town four days ago. And three nights ago at dinner, she had had her usual ravenous appetite. Bryna had watched, amazed, as the petite blonde ate an entire loaf of bread, then asked for dessert.

  “Eating for two, you know,” she joked for the first time in months.

  But yesterday and the day before, Pamela had lost everything she had eaten. It hardly seemed right, now that they no longer had to worry about near starvation, that she was ill.

  Bryna was not the only one who fretted on this fine day. Swinging in her litter, Fatmah brooded. This morning the Inglayzi had scarcely been able to rise from her bed. All day she had swayed on her camel, looking as if she wished she could die. What if she did die? It would be Fatmah’s fault. The bitter potion she had administered secretly in Pamela’s tea was not meant to kill her, only to rid her of the child. The woman reviewed her actions of the past three days, regretting that she had doubled the dosage to make up for the days when there had not been enough water for tea.

  During the afternoon, Daoud and Sâlih returned to the smala. Their clothes were dry after their ride across the desert, but the jars they carried were filled with rainwater. They were greeted with exuberant cries as they rejoined the caravan, headed toward the oasis that loomed before them.

  Bryna stared at the park like refuge with wondering eyes. It was the most beautiful oasis she had ever seen. A luxuriant carpet of tribulus covered the desert floor nearby. Succulents bloomed among them in multicolored profusion, their perfume filling the air. A sandy clearing offered a perfect campsite in the shade of a veritable forest of acacias and fig trees. Three small pools of clear water that adjoined each other were screened from view by a border of huge safs, or palmettos. Jutting from the lush green vegetation were tall, swaying date palms, silhouetted against the cloudless sky.

  As the herdsmen watered the camels at the pool nearest the campsite, Bryna searched for Pamela. She found her, still perched on the back of her couched camel. Her face was pale and there was a vacant look in her shadowed eyes.

  “What is it, Pamela?” Bryna asked worriedly.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t feel well today.” The answer seemed to take all the girl’s strength.

  “Let me help you.” The American girl extended a hand in assistance. Pamela leaned toward her as if she would take it, then suddenly she pitched from her saddle, landing face down in the sand. A dark stain of blood covered the back of her thobe from her waist nearly to the hem.

  “Pamela!” Bryna cried, kneeling by her side as the women hurried to see what was wrong.

  “So sorry,” the English girl whispered. “Just a bit dizzy.” Then her eyes closed and her head lolled to one side.

  “Is the Inglayzi dead?” Fatmah breathed in horror.

  “She has fainted.”

  “Stay with her, Bryna,” Taman urged, unexpectedly sympathetic. “`Abla and I will set up Nassar’s tent as soon as we have built our own.” She looked in silent askance at Sharif’s elder wife, receiving a nod of assent.

  Pamela lay near death for two days as her body cramped and strained to rid itself of the child she carried. Bryna never left her side, feeding her, bathing her with cool water, until at last Fatmah’s potion completed its deadly work and Pamela miscarried what would have been Nassar’s first son.

  The young Arab lurked outside the women’s quarters, terrified that his houri might die. When Pamela began to show slow signs of improvement, he was still so fearful for her health that he petitioned Sharif to stay at their latest campsite long enough for Inglayzi to recover.

  Sharif needed no persuasion. There was time before the rainy season started, and he wished to rest the camels for the last arduous leg of their long trek. Besides, he did not want to see the foreign woman die.

  He was still in no hurry to move when Pamela recovered enough to rise shakily from her bed. The Selims continued to camp at the oasis.

  The weakened girl insisted she be allowed to work immediately. She knew what her friend had done for her before, but she had been too sick to care. Now, she declared pluckily, she would pull her own weight in Nassar’s household.

  When no argument would change her mind, Bryna sent her to gather figs from a tree where the women and children congregated. It was easy work, and the convalescing girl could sit in the shade for a while without fear of recrimination, for all the women took their time at the pleasant task. Bryna set about the monotonous work of preparing leben. Weary and drained from nursing Pamela, she swung the skin back and forth, glad to think of nothing in particular.

  As sounds of the camp swirled around her, Bryna nearly missed the one sound that stood out in sharp contrast with the others. From somewhere nearby, a voice was speaking French. She raced around the tent to discover Sharif, standing with his back to her as he inspected a rifle, hefting it appraisingly in his hand. Kedar, the hulking silent slave, could be seen departing.

  Was it the new slave who spoke French? Or could it have been the sheik? She had only heard him speak Arabic. He seemed so completely Arab, she had not even considered that he would speak another language. She hesitated uncertainly, overwhelmed by the possibility.

  “What do you want?” Sharif asked when he turned to find the girl standing behind him. Her blue eyes, wide above her veil, were fixed on him almost beseechingly. As much as he might wish to hear what she had to say, he could not be seen alone with her behind the tents. “Speak, woman, and be about your work,” he ordered.

  Drawing a steadying breath, she responded in French. “I seek the man I heard speaking French.” Her face was alight with hope.

  “I-I thought Americans spoke English,” he stammered.

  “In Louisiana, where I come from, we speak French as much as English.”

  Sharif digested that information with a look of wonder. Stepping nearer, he gazed down at her as if he had found an unexpected treasure. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “I did not know you spo
ke French. Why did you not tell me?” she asked, her voice vibrant with joy. Her eyes sparkled as she tilted her head to look up at him.

  Sharif’s smiling demeanor sobered as he remembered himself. “This is not fitting, Bryna bint Blaine. We cannot linger behind the tent. Go back to your work. We will speak another time.”

  “But—” she protested, bewildered by his sudden change in attitude.

  “Rûhh, go,” he ordered harshly. “Your sheik commands you.”

  Disappointed and angry, Bryna obeyed. Settling in front of the tripod, she told herself fiercely that she did not care if the mighty sheik did not want to talk to a lowly slave. Dieu, how she detested the arrogance of all Arab men, especially Sharif. In her mind she summoned his every scowling expression, but those memories were crowded out by recollections of a smile that was almost boyish. Even her memories of Sharif Al Selim kept her off balance, she thought wrathfully. With a vigor born of frustration, she gave the goatskin a mighty push.

  Bryna’s tempest of unwanted emotion was mild compared with Sharif’s vexation. He was delighted at the thought of talking with the girl. Returning to his tent, he reviewed their brief conversation. It had revealed that she was educated and well-spoken, and he longed to know more about her, to hear her story from her own lips.

  But he must not. For her good as well as his, he must not seek out this woman, he reminded himself savagely. But as the day wore on, he found he could not get her out of his mind.

  “You sent for me, ya amm,” Nassar said, answering Sharif’s summons the next day.

  “Sit, nephew, and hear my idea.” After sending for coffee, the sheik asked, “You have visited the town that lies to the north?”

  “A few times.” In no mood for a lecture, the young Arab regarded his uncle warily.

  “I have been thinking that after many months in the desert, there is news a man can receive only in the coffeehouses, and our women would like to visit the souk and sell their handiwork.”

  “You are taking the smala into town?”

  “No, after our visit to Kasr Al Haroun, the smell of civilization still hangs upon my robes. We will be in Riyadh soon enough and I will miss the desert. I thought perhaps you would like to take them in the morning and lead them home after sunset prayers,” Sharif suggested. “It would be good experience for you to have such a responsibility. What do you think?”

  “You would let me lead them, and not Sa’id?” the young man asked excitedly.

  Sharif nodded. “But there is one stipulation if the people are to go.”

  “What is that?” Nassar asked suspiciously. He had known it was too good to be true.

  “The common slaves must stay behind and someone must stay with each tent. Those who have servants enough to dismiss from the herds may leave a servant. Those who do not must leave a family member.” The plan made good sense, but Sharif felt duplicitous because he knew Nassar could not dismiss Ali from the herds. Since he must leave someone with the tent, he had no doubt Nassar would take Pamela and leave Bryna.

  The party departed merrily the next morning and Bryna was indeed left behind, but she did not seem to mind. Sharif was constantly aware of her as she hurried to finish her tasks so she might have a rare afternoon of leisure. He watched wistfully as she disappeared toward the pools with a bundle of laundry, but he did not follow. He must not be alone with her, for he feared what might happen. Instead he waited. There would be time to talk to her later.

  After midday prayers, Sharif found her seated under a tree in the middle of the camp. As she leaned over her embroidery, her hair fell in damp, heavy strands under her ghata. She had washed more than the clothes this morning, he thought with a smile.

  Positioning himself on the opposite side of the tree, he leaned against the trunk and began to mend his saddle. He worked silently for a time, his mind distracted from his task for each breeze carried on it the clean, sweet fragrance of her hair. In the middle of the deserted camp, while the others slept through the heat of the day, the couple began to talk quietly.

  Bryna’s heart pounded in anticipation. The opportunity she’d awaited had arrived. She would soon appeal to the sheik for her freedom. But time spent among the Arabs had taught her well: business must be broached slowly, once the courtesies and proprieties had been observed. Only after a leisurely conversation would it be proper for her to present her petition. As they talked, Sharif was pleased to discover that although the American girl seemed nervous with him at first, she was as intelligent as he had thought and quick-witted, too. To his amazement, Sharif found himself telling her things he had long ago forgotten—childish adventures, the story of his life.

  So enthralled was Bryna with his tale that she forgot for a moment the urgency of her request.

  The sheik was the son of Musallim, a Selim chieftain and Zeineb, an Ottoman princess, the old man’s third wife. The marriage had been arranged as a political alliance, but the aged sheik doted upon his young bride. She was fond of him as well and bore him a son, Sharif.

  Then, in quick succession, two daughters were stillborn and another son died in infancy. Always delicate, the princess went into a decline. Frantic to please her, the sheik promised that she could visit her homeland when she recovered. This gave her renewed purpose, and within six months Zeineb had recovered sufficiently to return to her father’s court for a visit. She departed, accompanied by Abu Ahmad, one of the sheik’s most trusted retainers, and Sharif, now aged four.

  At home in the Ottoman court, the princess was reasonably happy, although she missed her husband. Unexpectedly word came that Musallim was dead and had been replaced by his brother, Malek. The new sheik had married off Musallim’s widows and offered now to marry the princess himself when she returned to Arabia. Although she had been fortunate in her first marriage, she could not bear the thought of marrying another man, not even her brother-in-law. Diplomatically she declined. She tried to send Abu Ahmad back to Arabia with the message, but he stubbornly refused. His duty was to protect the princess and her son, and he would do so in Arabia or in Ottoman Turkey.

  Zeineb settled into a small palace and dedicated herself to the rearing of her son, teaching him music, poetry, and literature. But when he was eight years old, the frail woman died. The young Sharif had no clear memories of his homeland, but it beckoned him. His grandfather, the sultan, forbade him to go, making him a virtual prisoner in his palace. The old potentate did not want the boy to return to Arabia. After all, he had only half brothers and sisters there; in Turkey he had his grandfather and a chance of succession to the throne.

  Once again Abu Ahmad was dismissed to return home, and once again he refused. The sultan was only mildly annoyed. The lad could use a man to teach him manly arts, he thought, while he taught Sharif politics and power. Over the next four years the boy learned not only of diplomacy and government, but of corruption and court intrigues. He learned of the empire within the empire, built and overseen by powerful eunuchs.

  When at last the sultan sickened, Sharif made plans for flight. He feared that when the old man died, even though he was low in the line of succession, he might be murdered by fearful uncles or cousins. As the deathwatch progressed, the faithful Abu Ahmad gathered provisions and purchased fast camels. The moment the death keening began, they fled. By the time the covert poisonings and overt manipulations began, the boy was well on his way to Arabia.

  Abu Ahmad had trained his young charge in many athletic feats and had taught him to fight in the Arabian style, but nomadic life was difficult for a soft boy brought up in the courts of the Sultan. Yet Sharif found his inner strength in the vast emptiness of the desert. Daily he grew taller and tougher and more agile.

  The awkward, introverted stripling arrived at Malek’s home in Riyadh and was welcomed. At first it was Alima, his aunt, who made his life bearable, but slowly he adapted to life in Arabia. Sharif was schooled with his cousins, the sheik’s sons. Another cousin, Sa’id, became his best friend. They fenced, rode, and flew thei
r falcons together. They studied the Koran, arguing late into the night. And they were friends to this day.

  At fourteen Sharif was sent to a Bedouin tribe in the desert. At sixteen he returned to Riyadh a man. Soon he was heard in the majlis and earned the trust of Malek, whom he served for nine years.

  When Malek died suddenly, Sharif did not know what was said privately among the tribal elders. He did not know they admired his reputation as a fearless warrior, his even temper, and his well-thought-out opinions. He knew only that when the council met, he found himself, to his amazement, sheik of his tribe at the age of twenty-five.

  For nearly twelve years now he had led the Selims, good people who flourished despite the zealots, the Wahabis, who’d settled in their territory. They had enjoyed peace and prosperity, Sharif said with a smile. They were truly blessed by Allah.

  When it became necessary for him to take a wife, the young sheik selected a daughter of a powerful chieftain in Medina. Once again an arranged marriage blossomed into love, and Noorah became the light of his life. Sadly they had been married only a year when she died giving birth to `Abla. The hakim did all he could, but Noorah died and `Abla lived. Poor little `Abla.

  Sharif could not tell Bryna about the numb emptiness he had felt all these years. He’d performed his duties automatically, living for the welfare and honor of his tribe and his family. When his half-brothers died, he had married their widows, as was right. He did what he must, feeling nothing but sadness—until now.

  All these thoughts of honor... Suddenly the sheik hated himself for what he was doing. He despised himself for arranging this meeting in his nephew’s absence. And he had been the one who had sent him away. Filled with self-loathing, Sharif jumped to his feet and stalked off, leaving Bryna alone under the tree, hurt by his sudden shift of mood and despondent over the opportunity she’d missed.

  In the days that followed, Sharif struggled with his growing obsession with Bryna. Wrestling with his feelings, he hunted, sending his saluki coursing after gazelle day after day as he galloped behind. He stayed active, as if exertion would keep him from giving in to his weakness.