Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Just touch him. Noora’s gone. He’s mine.

  “Maybe we should come back another day?” she asked in a gentle voice.

  “No, I’ll be fine.” He sniffled, unable to find a handkerchief. His eyes were red and wet. “I’m sorry. Men aren’t supposed to cry,” he chuckled nervously.

  “The man who allows himself to cry has a good, kind soul. If a man does not cry, it means his heart is cold,” she murmured, looking at the sky, thinking, Get over it!

  She walked on, a few feet ahead, while he searched in his breast pocket.

  Zaffeera faced a rocky hill in the distance. She made imaginary calculations, observed the jagged formation of a rocky hill lining the horizon. The sun shone brilliantly just above the tip of the mountain. She called out to Michel. He immediately ran to her. The scent of his cologne made her dizzy, and her body tingled all over. She had to control her feelings.

  She pointed to the ground. There was an elevation, and the sun shone on it.

  “There must have been much wind last night,” she said in a quivering voice. She stared at the ground, closed her eyes, and cupped her hand to her forehead. She walked away from Michel. A gust of wind picked up. “You see, the sand must have swept away the mound of her grave last night. Like Allah swept away her life that night.”

  She did not run, and she did not sob like they did in the movies. She did not make a scene—or any dramatic motions. Instead, she slowly walked away from Michel, just a few feet, and then she let her knees drop on the sand. Her back to him, she remained motionless.

  Behind her, she caught a quick glance at Michel as he kneeled by the mound that looked like a gravesite and placed the bouquet of roses on top.

  “My sister. She was my sister!” she sobbed. “We played together. We slept together, we laughed together. She taught me every … everything. How can I go on without her …” She wept into her hands, slowly curling herself into a fetal position.

  Finally, she felt him close. He held her in his arms. Together, they cried.

  He cried for Noora.

  She cried for joy.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE BEDOUINS

  Noora lay in agony. Her legs burned as if they were on fire, but she could see no flames. Whenever she tried to stir, pain ripped through her chest and left shoulder.

  She was lying on a bed. Or was it on the floor? She was sure she was not in a hospital. She felt around with her fingers. The mattress was like a large sandbag.

  Dark shadows loomed around her. Someone was chanting nearby. Earlier, she heard a familiar song. Someone was putting cold compresses on her legs.

  A powerful aroma of incense made her drowsy, and the excruciating pain began to ease. She thought she heard a goat. She drifted off to sleep.

  When she awoke, a brilliant shaft of sunlight cut diagonally in front of her. She watched as thousands of minuscule specks of dust danced inside the luminous shaft—like sparkling stars. A dark figure, followed by a long shadow, passed through the light beam. A couple of flies buzzed by Noora’s nose. Someone shooed them away. She managed to turn her achy head to her left and glanced up. A boy with glowing bronze skin wearing a white gallabeya stood above her, staring down with large dark eyes. He smiled.

  Who were these people?

  “My name is Dweezoul,” the boy said, sitting on the floor by her bedside. “It is a pleasure and a privilege.” He spoke with a soft voice, in Arabic, but with a different accent, almost singsong. He crossed his legs and turned his attention to a small black box he was holding. He looked back down at Noora and smiled, as he held the box to his ear. Was that a transistor radio?

  Behind the boy, Noora saw an ancient woman standing with her back to them. Covered in black from head to toe, the woman chanted in a low, soothing voice and seemed busy mixing something.

  “She is my adopted great-great-great-grandmother,” the boy explained. “She possesses many gifts. She will make you well again. ”

  Gifts? Noora wondered.

  “From the Source,” he said. “Naturally.”

  “Why didn’t you let me die?” she whispered. The boy didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure if she spoke loudly enough. She did not have sufficient strength to repeat herself.

  The woman shuffled over to Noora’s side, lifted her head a bit, and helped her drink a lukewarm, fragrant tea, sweetened with something that tasted like clover honey. The boy helped raise Noora so she could drink more easily. She sipped the fruity tea from a thick earthenware cup. It soothed her burning throat.

  She was anxious to get up and walk, but her body felt like lead, and her eyelids were even heavier. She wanted to ask about Nageeb. She was too drowsy to turn her head to the two of them, and she couldn’t lift herself, not even an inch. Her right arm was bandaged. Her left hand was being gently lifted. At least she could move her fingers. The old woman smiled down at her. She had only one tooth.

  She stroked Noora’s wrist. In her singsong voice, she said something to the boy about a line on her wrist that was like a bracelet.

  I’m not wearing a bracelet, Noora thought. Maybe they meant her wristwatch?

  “She is one from the light, all right,” Noora heard the woman whisper. “She must keep her physical body for many more years. That is her contract in this life. It is her destiny.”

  Noora feared she would fall asleep at any moment. She needed to stay awake and hear what they were saying. She opened her eyes again, but everything appeared blurry.

  “Are you listening to me?” the old woman asked the boy. “Or are you still playing with that music box?”

  “I’m listening,” he whispered. “What about this line that looks like a bracelet?”

  “Well. Hmmm. Ah … yes.”

  Noora wished she could pull her hand away.

  “She doesn’t want us to bother her more than necessary.”

  “The tea will sedate her. Let me read this. I see … It is an indication and an explanation why she was given an extra thirty years of life, above the expected lifespan.”

  “You have that bracelet too, Ummy.”

  “This is true, the reason I am still in the physical, talking to you,” the old woman chuckled.

  ”What else do you see, Um Faheema?”

  “Her soul contracted to take on great challenges on this earth, in this life. Says it right here,” she said, tracing Noora’s palm. “It is maktoub. You can see the lines …”

  “But she is suffering.”

  “It is not for us to question.”

  Noora wanted to hear what else they had to say about her, but her eyelids grew heavier …

  When Noora awoke, all was ink-black. Her eyes were wide open, but she couldn’t see a thing. She brought a hand to her chest. She was clothed in a very soft material. Her right arm was still tightly bandaged. The pains she had felt in her chest and left shoulder were more tolerable. She touched the material that covered her. It felt silky and light to the touch, like a comforter.

  Was she still on that sand-filled bed? She could not tell. Her mouth was dry as cotton. She tried to inch her way out of that bed, but as she moved, the pain of her shoulder returned, excruciating now. Wasn’t anyone around? It smelled moist. Like … wet earth? There was complete silence. The old woman was not there chanting or humming a tune. Noora had difficulty breathing. Where was she? In a cave? Or a grave? No, NO! Panic-stricken, she yelled, “HELP!”

  No answer.

  “My God! Oh my God. SOMEBODY HELP ME!” Noora sobbed and began breathing faster and faster. They must have put her in a coffin! She managed to rise a bit and tried to get out of that bed, but her feet were too heavy and her legs were bandaged.

  They thought she had died. They must have buried her.

  “ALLAH, YA ALLAH!” Noora shrieked louder. “HELP! Dear God, forgive me, somebody. AAAAGH.” Soon she would run out of air. Soon she would suffocate.

  There was a tiny speck of light in the distance. Slowly it grew brighter. A shadow loomed above her. Noora screamed
louder yet.

  “Little dear, do not fear us.”

  Noora recognized the old woman’s voice. But she couldn’t stop yelling. “GET ME OUT OF HERE! Please, oh God!”

  A flicker of light followed, growing brighter, and the silhouette of the old woman took shape. She was holding a lantern. Another light behind her glowed, then another. Noora realized she was in the same bed as before, but she could not stop wheezing and screaming. She let herself fall back on the bed, crying from pain—her shoulder, her chest, her entire body.

  At least there was light.

  Brightly lit lanterns were all around her now, held up by women in black, surrounding her bed. They looked eerie. She was relieved when she recognized the boy who ventured closer to her bedside. She had stopped screaming, but her heart was hammering.

  “We are your friends,” the boy said.

  “Forgive me. I thought you … Oh, I … I hurt so much. Thank you. Oh, thank you for coming to my rescue.”

  More women appeared, young and old, murmuring comforting words.

  “Thank you … please … I don’t mean to sound ungrateful … I just … can’t bear all this pain.”

  “Ointment. Compresses! More tea … my tea potion,” the old woman urged. “And bring us more lanterns!”

  Noora was helped up to drink. The tea was soothingly warm, sweet, and tasty.

  *

  I must have fallen asleep, Noora thought after opening her sticky eyes. The pain in her shoulder was bearable now, but she had to try and stay awake, and not fall asleep again. A faint light streamed through one of the little windows nearby.

  She was in the same mud hut with round windows, covered by colorful drapes that appeared to be hand-woven. A few brightly lit lanterns were hung around the perimeter of the hut, even though she could see that soon the sun would brighten a new day.

  Everyone was gone except for the old woman, who was sitting on a mat, her profile to Noora. She was hunched over a low wooden stool, humming a song. Noora watched her as she squeezed juice out of a variety of fruits, while mixing some kind of a potion in a large black kettle over a small fire, where steam was rising. The old woman picked up a carved copper ladle and poured some of the concoction into a small earthenware bowl. With little effort, but not much considering her age, the woman rose to her feet and wobbled over to Noora’s side.

  “I’m so sorry,” Noora said.

  “Why?”

  “For waking you in the middle of the night … for disturbing everyone.”

  “Your presence is our gift,” the woman said. “Take a little sip of tea and tell me if it is sweet enough.”

  Noora tried to lift herself up. “I’m not hurting as much. Thank you.”

  “I know,” the old woman grinned. She brought the cup to Noora’s mouth.

  “It’s very good,” Noora said, after the first sip. “I love apricots.”

  “The Source brought the doves that brought the seeds, and we now grow the tastiest apricots and the juiciest mish-mish,” she said. “We were gifted with many, many trees that bless us with many fruits.” Her voice was old and raspy, yet somehow musical.

  “Very good indeed, thank you … What else is in the tea?”

  “Special healing herbs and honey, with dwarf-tree tangerine peels and lemon juice. Slowly cooked. I added orange blossom and essence of almonds … fermented, of course, and well, a recipe I learned from the Source. Our boy Dweezoul will be here soon.”

  Dweezoul. He had introduced himself. She had tried to remember his name. He had a kind, soft-sounding voice.

  “I see you like his energy.”

  “Yes.”

  “He is making more pillows for you. His pillows feel like resting on clouds, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has many gifts.”

  Gifts? The boy had said the same thing about the old woman. “Why didn’t you let me die with my brother? Is … he still out there?”

  “Ya habibti anah, their true selves returned to the Homeland. And the air police came to find the bodies of your brother and the pilot. They were returned to their earth fathers,” the old woman explained. “And how could we leave you there on the sand? Not after I read what was maktoub in the palm of your hand.”

  “I’m sorry. So sorry,” she cried, with another fit of tears. “I don’t understand … What do you mean … written in the palm of my hand?”

  “The energies around your aura were muddled, so I read your palm,” she said, smiling. “And with the assistance of the Source, I found out who you are.”

  Noora didn’t know who she was anymore—or why she had been put in such a horrible predicament.

  “You are a child of the light who wants to live,” she said, widening her eyes brightly.

  My brother Nageeb wanted to live! Noora wished to say. And the pilot. They did not deserve to die. Instead, she asked, “Who are you?”

  “I am known as a lady of knowledge. Alashan Anah n’efham. Because I understand. Beyond the eyes, where the deep soul lies,” the old woman said. “I earned my name, Um Faheema, Mother of Understanding. But in the beginning, things were different. Many decades ago, the people of other desert villages thought of me as a sorceress. And I was stoned.”

  Stoned? Noora was trying to digest what the old woman was telling her.

  “I was only twelve years old. But old enough to be sentenced to stoning.” She handed Noora a large, soft cotton handkerchief. “When they left my body for dead, someone picked me up and took me away. I don’t know his name to this day. He took me to this village. Far from the place where I was born, where people were filled with anger and fear and had dark auras around them. That was almost eighty-nine years ago. Here, in this village, we are part of the light, at one with the Source of All That Is. It was in this village that I came upon the realization that I was born to heal. When you heal others, you love unconditionally. We all have a direct line. Alas, many choose to turn away. Until something powerful happens.”

  “Powerful?” More like terrible, Noora thought, wiping her tears.

  Dweezoul bounced in. “They are very light,” he grinned proudly. “And really soft.” Holding two huge pillows, and wearing his long white gallabeya, he looked like an angel with a billowy white cloud on each arm.

  “They will feel like you are floating on feathers. Allow me.” He eased one pillow behind Noora’s back and another under her bandaged right arm.

  Indeed, her achy body felt better with the light support of the pillows.

  “I’ll make you another one. Smaller, for the back of your neck.”

  A tear fell from Noora’s eye. Then another, and like a fountain, the tears flowed again and she couldn’t stop. “Please forgive me … It’s just that … you are so good to me … I know you said I shouldn’t say I am sorry, but I feel sorry. Sorry for myself. Sorry for putting you through all this trouble. I’m so sorry for what I have done. ”

  The old woman glanced at the boy and nodded. He sat at the foot of her bed and crossed his legs while Um Faheema held Noora’s hand for comfort.

  “Nageeb, Nageeb … Please, God, I beg of you, forgive me!” she cried into the night while Um Faheema and Dweezoul remained nearby, comforting her, at times holding her hands, gently pulling away wet hair strands from her face, drying her tears. They remained silent, allowing Noora her time to grieve.

  Two days later, Noora woke up as the early morning sun shone through a small window in the mud hut. As she shifted her body for a more comfortable position, she realized she could now lift her arms a little more, and without pain. Um Faheema was again sitting on the floor by a low table, happily humming her familiar tune.

  “Today you are feeling better,” she said, without looking at Noora.

  “Yes. I am. What date is it today?”

  “April 13 on the calendar,” she said. “For us, it is a day of celebration!”

  “What are you celebrating?”

  “You.”

  After a breakfast of mi
xed fruit compote, ae’egga, a fluffly little omelette with herbs and goat cheese, apricot juice, and a little cup of hot tea, Noora fell asleep again, a gentle, restful morning nap. When she opened her eyes, she found a group of older women, their heads wrapped in black veils, some with tattoos on their faces, sitting cross-legged around her bed, rocking themselves, softly humming prayers.

  “Angel with sea-color eyes is awake. She is not used to seeing women like us,” Um Faheema whispered, shooing them away.

  But Noora wasn’t frightened of them anymore. They all seemed gentle and kind.

  “You told me who you are, but who are they? And where are we?”

  “We are all Bedouins of an old tribe named Bayt Nabbi Jebbelia. We are many days away from the next oasis,” Um Faheema explained. “Time is of no essence here, except to remind us when it is time to learn and when it is time to end our journey on this planet. We know time from the movement of the stars … the change of seasons … Even in the desert, we have our seasons, hmm?” she said, smiling.

  CHAPTER 20

  YASMINA FENDIL’S DREAM

  More than a week went by before the helicopter wreckage was found in the desert. The authorities had informed Yasmina’s husband that their son had perished along with the pilot.

  There were no survivors.

  “Don’t cry for me, Mother,” Nageeb’s voice echoed in Yasmina’s dream. He had appeared like a vision—vivid. He was handsome. She could almost touch him. “I am happy. I have accomplished what I came to do. I will always be with you, walk with you … walk with Noora, too.”

  Walk with Noora? What did he mean?

  Why, oh why did this have to happen? Not one of her children but two.

  Yasmina had never seen Noora’s body. They had told her she was in the burial site out in the barren desert, “where Sultana-Marietta was laid to rest.” That sheik and his men who believed they owned the rights of women never knew her mother. Sultana-Marietta could never “rest,” and her body was merely remains. She had heard the voice of her mother time and again. “Don’t go searching in the desert, ya benti, daughter of mine. While my spirit soars, Noora is walking the land.”