Enslaved by the Desert Trader

by Greta Gilbert

  Tahar retrieved a strip of fabric from his saddlebag and tied it around her mouth. Still Kiya continued to yell, but her muffled rantings barely broke the silence of the waning night. She kicked her bound legs, but all she managed to do was rake her inner thighs against the palm’s rough trunk. Tahar was already almost out of view.

  ‘Drink the water that is in that bag and rest,’ he called as he led the horse away. ‘Tomorrow night we begin the most dangerous part of our trek. We shall cross the Big Sandy.’

  Kiya shouted a dozen questions at his retreating figure, followed by as many curses, but the thick cloth over her mouth stifled all the sound.

  ‘Where do you go now?’ she cried. ‘Why do you leave me here alone?’

  ‘Cease!’ he shouted finally. He looked back at her in defeat. ‘I am to a House of Women. To seek my relief.’

  Chapter Twenty

  But there was no relief. Not from the heat, not from the sun. Not from her. Especially not from her. He could not expel her from his mind. She had invaded it utterly. She had sent in her legions and pillaged and plundered and now she hovered there, heedless of the wreckage.

  The Dakhla Oasis was far behind them now, and they were well on their way across the Big Sandy. He had tried to explain to her that he should lead the horse, that her body was not accustomed to treading across dunes. But there was no reasoning with her. He sat powerless atop the horse, watching her wither as she marched furiously beneath the hot sun—bent, it seemed, on her own destruction.

  It was his fault. When he had returned from the House of Women that afternoon she had changed. The curious woman who had stolen glances at his body, who’d eaten and drunk heartily, who had watched the desert with wonder in her eyes, was gone. In her place was a lifeless husk. The water bag had lain at her side, untouched. Her body had been limp. Her gold-flecked eyes had lost their sparkle, and he’d been able to see the stains of the tears that had flowed upon her cheeks. He’d felt his heart pinch as he had observed the strip of cloth that he had tied about her mouth.

  By all creation, what had he been thinking?

  He hadn’t been thinking, in fact.

  After she had repeated her command, Take it, all his abilities for reason and observation had dissolved. There had been no thinking, only reacting, as his whole body had contracted with the pain of rejection. In one moment he had been kissing her with a thirst that he had never known; in the next she had snatched away her love and left him drowning.

  And he deserved it. He had given her no alternative. He planned to sell her—plain and simple. He had become the kind of man he loathed. A man so consumed with the accumulation of wealth that he would sacrifice the life of another for his own gain. In a sense, he was no different from Chief Bandir. And the woman, wily though she was, could not escape him. She’d had nowhere to go, nowhere to run, no choice but to fight back.

  It was the form of her attack that had been so unexpected. Seduction. Soft and sweet. He had never been so completely taken in by a woman. Even now, two days later, he could not concentrate on the journey ahead. Curse his boat and his foolish plans. They had all seemed so meaningless when she had pressed her naked body against his.

  But she had seduced him out of spite, not desire. Though her warm body had opened to his, though he had felt her breath quicken at his touch, she had apparently not wanted him after all. And why should she? He meant to trade her. She was justified in her anger. How had he not seen it before? Every new day that he kept her in captivity he wronged her. She’d had no choice but to strike back. He just had not foreseen that it would sting this badly.

  As if a House of Women could even begin to ease the pain she had inflicted. The working woman who had attended him had donned an elegant Khemetian wig. She had even danced about the tiny room for him, her large breasts bouncing. Tahar had waited for his lust to rise. He had waited for that inevitable moment when he would grab the woman, pull her atop him and take what he had paid her to give. The moment had not come.

  Finally the working woman had taken him in her mouth. He’d felt himself grow large with the sensation. He’d closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. But Hathor had invaded his fantasies, too. Hathor the Beautiful. Hathor the Strong. Hathor the Imposter.

  What was her true name? He yearned to know for certain. But more than that he yearned for her to tell it to him. And he wanted to run his fingers through her short, dark hair. He wanted to touch her petulant lips and look into her enigmatic eyes and tell her how much he wanted her.

  But even in his fantasies she had confronted him. She had glared at him with anger and accusation. How could he do it? How could he sell her into marriage? The Goddess of Love and Abundance was not meant to be sold. She was meant to be revered. Honoured. Loved.

  He had pulled himself from the working woman’s grasp. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘It is not your fault.’

  The woman had stared up at him, confused.

  ‘You see...’ Tahar had fumbled. ‘I have been enchanted by a goddess.’

  The woman had looked at him curiously, but had seemed to understand. ‘Go to her, then,’ she’d said, accepting his bag of grain. ‘Go to her and never look back.’

  But when he returned to the oasis, Hathor had refused to look at him. And when he untied her, she had said nothing. She had simply stood and began to walk toward the Big Sandy. She remained ahead of him now as they trudged across the grim procession of dunes. There was no sanctuary, no safe harbour from the waves of emptiness that filled his vision and buffeted his heart. The afternoon wind pelted his face with sand and the sun bored into his soul.

  ‘Hathor...’ he said, but the utterance was more like a prayer, for he knew that she would not answer to it. She had shut him out of her world.

  Forgive me.

  She led them relentlessly across the dunes, refusing to stop or to drink. Even in the relative cool of the night before she had not taken a moment of rest. She was steady in her purpose, as if some inner fire were fuelling her beyond what any woman could possibly endure.

  Take control, you fool. Take the reins.

  But how could he? He knew her well enough to know she would certainly put up a fight. Even if he managed to get her seated upon the horse she would somehow make him pay. He had wronged her—he understood that now—but she gave him no way to repent.

  Now began the test. To traverse the Big Sandy in the middle of akhet would be no small feat, even for the most experienced desert traveller. There was nowhere to take shelter—no measure of shade upon the endless, undulating dunes. Even with an infinite supply of water, any traveller would eventually become exhausted by the heat. The sun always won. It would always win. The only way to survive the journey across the Big Sandy was to do it quickly.

  They carried only enough water for a three-night journey. Any more water would weigh them down and hinder their progress. Any less and they would grow mad with thirst. By allowing her to lead the horse, he had already made their three-night journey become three nights and half. They would surely run short of water before the next oasis. Then the heat would overtake their minds. They would begin to hallucinate.

  When that happened, they were as good as dead.

  ‘Hathor!’ he yelled.

  She stumbled forward, coughing, and he watched in horror as her strong, beautiful figure collapsed upon the sand.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  He had to keep her alive. If he could not, then he might as well die himself.

  Her strength was gone. The dunes had claimed it. They had claimed her mind, too. She was so dizzy with thirst that she no longer remembered that she needed to drink. She could neither walk nor speak. She lay atop the horse with her head against his grey mane.

  ‘Meemoo,’ she muttered.

  Darkness enveloped them. Soon Tahar was jogging across the moonlit dunes, tryin
g to make up for lost time. Meemoo grew tired, unable to keep pace with Tahar. Tahar begged and cajoled, dragging the beast behind him, stretching his long legs into giant strides. Soon, however, Meemoo stood still. The poor creature was spent.

  Meanwhile the eastern horizon grew ever lighter in anticipation of the new day.

  The deadly new day.

  Tahar poured a ration of water into Meemoo’s bowl and watched the tired animal drink his fill. Then he dribbled a few drops of water upon Hathor’s parched lips.

  ‘Meemoo drinks, dear Hathor, so you must drink, too,’ he told her.

  She muttered some incomprehensible thing, then licked the drops. Tahar’s heart raced with joy. He allowed the dribble to become a trickle, watching closely as she accepted the precious liquid. She drank for several moments and began to cough. Then she ceased drinking and returned to muttering.

  He needed to lighten the horse’s load. It was his only hope to keep the horse alive. He lifted Hathor from the saddle and slung her over his shoulder. Relieved of its burden, the beast obediently followed Tahar onward.

  They walked that way for many hours: Tahar in the lead with Hathor over his shoulder and Meemoo following close behind. Tahar’s powerful legs were an asset now. He trudged up and down the dunes, trying to maintain his pace as the sun grew hotter. When his right shoulder became tired, he placed Hathor over his left shoulder.

  Soon he held her limp body in his arms. The sun was now exactly overhead, he was covered in sweat, and the Big Sandy stretched out before them in every direction. They had two days of travel still ahead, and only enough water for one.

  What had he done? Leaving her like that at camp, alone and exposed. She had been overcome with emotion: that much he had been able to tell as he’d bound her limbs. So why had he left her?

  Because he was a fool. Because he had done the first thing that had come to his mind—as fools did. He had escaped to a House of Women, where he’d thought he might find comfort, though deep in his heart he had known he would never be able to touch another woman. His desire could not be sated with the simplicity of paid-for pleasure. Not any more.

  Nor could it be cured with dreams of a boat. Indeed, whenever he imagined a boat’s full sail and long white curves, the woman’s full hips and long bronze neck took its place. So why, really, had he left her there alone, tied to a tree like a beast?

  Because he himself was a beast. She had begged him to set her free, but he had refused to listen to her. Instead, he had denied her the very thing he valued most about his own life: freedom. If her plan to seduce him had been cruel, his plan to trade her had been barbaric. To sell her into marriage was no different from selling her into slavery. He understood that now. The bonds were the same—only the duties were different.

  It was true that the drought had dashed his dreams and destroyed his spirit, but what kind of monster had grown in its place?

  And why, why had he left her alone?

  Because, ultimately, he was a coward. He refused to face his own feelings towards her, which grew stronger every day. When he had finally embraced her those feelings had overwhelmed him. He had wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone in his life, and when she hadn’t wanted him back he had not been able to bear it.

  Take it, she had said, and the coldness of her words had slayed his heart.

  Still, nothing she could say would match the warmth of that kiss. She had spoken to him with that kiss. She had told him all the things she had been afraid to say, or had not been able to say. Even if her plan had been cold-hearted seduction, her lips had told him otherwise.

  And her eyes. Those, too, had betrayed her. He had read them like scrolls. They had lost their purpose: they’d been full of confusion and regret. The situation had gone beyond her power to control. She had been swept up, as he had, into something bigger than either of them.

  He should have stayed with her and talked to her—not tied her hands with twine. He should have held her close despite her protestations. She had wanted him, but she had not been able to tell him that, for he had condemned her to a life she could not bear.

  He should have told her that as soon as he’d felt her body against his he had never wanted to let her go.

  He should have told her how much he loved her.

  Because he did. He loved her. It felt so good to admit it to himself, finally. He had known it the instant he had embraced her for, despite his unreasonable, almost uncontrollable lust for her, in the end he only wanted to make her happy. Her happiness, he realised, was his. She was his boat, his homeland, his dream come true. Whatever she wanted from him, he would give it. Whatever command she gave, he would obey it. Wherever she went, he would follow. She had his heart, totally and completely, and she would have it for ever.

  ‘Hathor,’ he said. He lifted her limp body and whispered in her ear. ‘Forgive me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At first he believed he was dreaming them. Palm leaves in the distance—ancient and wild. They swayed together in the heat haze like a tribe of wine-drunk men.

  Dizzy. He was so very dizzy. He could not determine if he walked or simply floated down the dune.

  Where is your grandfather’s battle axe? whispered a voice in his ear.

  Turning, Tahar beheld a towering man at his side, not an arm’s length away, yet somehow out of reach.

  I do not know, Father. It is gone. I am sorry.

  Why do you linger in the Red Land, Tahar? Your mother grows old. She needs you.

  I do not know why I stay, Father.

  But you do know, said the ghost, disappearing into the dry air. You do know.

  Tahar stared down at the woman asleep in his arms. Yes, he did know. It was her. It had always been her. She was the reason he remained in this godforsaken place.

  She was feather-light, barely breathing. Her eyes no longer moved beneath their lids. Her lips were cracked; her body was limp and still. Yet she glowed with inner light. He had been seeking this woman all his life, he realised, and if they did not find water soon he would lose her for ever.

  Meemoo followed wearily behind, stumbling. Tahar did not have the heart to turn and observe his condition. The noble old horse had been his father’s final gift to Tahar. He had left the beast as a means for Tahar to return to his homeland, to his mother, who had surely grown more hopeless with each passing year.

  Tahar pictured her staring out at the endless grassy plain, watching for her husband and son, praying they would suddenly appear on the horizon. I will not disappoint you, Father, not again.

  Tahar willed his head up, calling upon all that was left of his strength. There they remained, at the edge of his sight—the palm leaves. They had not disappeared. Nay—they seemed to be growing larger as he treaded down the dune. Was this another mirage?

  They clustered at the far side of a long, overhanging rock that cast a finger of shade upon the rust-coloured ground. The shade, too, seemed to be growing. Or was that just the darkness invading his mind?

  Then he spotted it—a small, stone-encircled well. It was located at the base of the largest of the palms. Someone had piled new palm leaves over the hole, as if it had been recently used. As if it contained water. Tahar slapped his cheeks and closed his eyes. He opened them, and the rocks were still there. So were the leaves.

  When Tahar’s feeble legs reached the flat hardpan his wilted mind would not let him believe it—the possibility of a well at the edge of oblivion.

  As he neared the small opening he began to sob, though he had lost the ability to produce tears. It was real. The well, the shade, the palms. All of it—real.

  He laid the woman down in the shade and scooped a draught of water into her mouth, praying she would remember her thirst for life.

  Suddenly she coughed. She opened her mouth wider and began to drink. Tahar l
ifted another handful to her lips. Her eyes remained closed, as if she, too, believed herself to be dreaming.

  Meemoo dipped his long snout into the cool depths and Tahar saw a lively shiver ripple down his flanks. Tahar splashed the water onto his own face and drank his fill, feeling his thoughts begin to unscramble. He lifted another handful to Hathor’s lips. Finally, she opened her eyes.

  ‘Thank the Gods!’ he cried. He lifted her into his embrace, rocking her and petting her hair.

  ‘I thought you did not believe in gods,’ she whispered into his ear.

  He pulled her closer, squeezing her as tightly as he dared. ‘I do when they bring you back to me.’

  Tahar breathed in the dusty scent of her hair, then opened his eyes. There in the distance was his father’s hulking shape—a leather-clad ghost swaying at the foot of the dune. Tahar thought he could see a smile spreading across the beloved man’s face. Tahar closed his eyes and lay back with Hathor in the shade.

  They passed the remainder of the day in such a fashion, guzzling like drunken sailors and marvelling at their good luck. Meemoo let out a cheerful whinny at sunset, and ate three pots of grain in as many minutes. Tahar cooked their own dinner of porridge over a small fire, and as the stars revealed themselves one by one a profound exhaustion overtook them.

  For the first time they fell asleep side by side.

  * * *

  ‘The Blue Serpent sleeps,’ said a familiar voice.

  It reached into Tahar’s mind, wrenching him from slumber.

  ‘These are strange times indeed.’

  Tahar opened one eye and studied the thin, leather-skinned man hovering above him. The man was watching Tahar with a single eye of his own, the other eye concealed by a familiar patch.

  ‘If you think I was asleep then you have lost your formidable judgement, Chief Bandir,’ Tahar replied.