by Lauren Haney
A large water jar bobbed past him, caught in the limbs of a dead bush. It had to be one of the vessels the caravan had brought into the desert. It reminded him of that wretched donkey. And of Amonmose. They had surely been swept away as he had been.
Praying they, too, had survived, thanking the gods for so bright a moon and starlight, he looked around, searching for donkey and man. Fifteen or so paces back and about halfway between him and the shore, he spotted the donkey, its muzzle held above the dirty, choppy swells. The jars and supplies were gone from its back and it was swimming with the cur rent. Would its burden have come loose without the help of a man? Promising himself to wring the creature’s neck if it had brought about the merchant’s demise, he scanned the choppy water around the beast. He thought he saw a human head on the far side, but could not be sure.
Praying he had found Amonmose-or Senna; he had for gotten how close the nomad guide had been to the wadi floor-he swam across the raging waters to intercept the donkey. He fought the pull of the current, the tumbling debris and brush. He could see that the initial force of the flood had lessened, but not enough to ease his journey. Slowly he ap proached the animal. The filthy and sometimes foaming swells marred his view, preventing him from verifying whether or not he had seen a man.
As he drew close, the donkey flung its head and thrashed around, afraid of what must have seemed to it another of many threats to its safety. Bak let the current carry them on a parallel course, giving his tired muscles a rest, and spoke to the creature, trying to reassure it.
“Lieutenant?” Amonmose, peering over the donkey’s back, had to yell to make himself heard. “I thank the gods. I thought never to see you again.”
Bak swam closer to the donkey and clutched its brushlike mane. “When I thought of you and this wretched beast…”
He gave the trader a rueful smile. “I must admit I feared the worst.”
“If I hadn’t been holding onto him when the water struck,
I’d not be here now. I’m not much of a swimmer.”
“I’m surprised you both didn’t drown.”
“He fought me and for a while I feared he’d fling me away.
But I held on tight. I knew I’d never reach safety in these un 158
Lauren Haney tamed waters without help.” The need to speak loudly failed to check Amonmose’s garrulous tongue. “Fortunately, as afraid as I was, I had the good sense to unload him. He was having trouble staying afloat with those big jars on his back.
He must’ve realized I’d helped him. He grew more sedate and let me stay with him, clinging to his neck.”
Bak nudged the donkey toward the nearest hillside, a steep slope of rough and broken rocks. “We may not be able to get ashore right away, but at least we’ll be close if we find a likely place.” Or if we get desperate, he thought.
“Where are we, do you know?” Amonmose asked.
The hill looked no different than any of the others. The moonlight had stolen away the reddish color of the land scape, turning the rocks gray and the intervening spaces black. He had no idea how fast they were moving or how long they had been in the water.
“Not so far, I pray, that the caravan won’t come upon us early tomorrow.” Thinking to lighten the situation, he said with an exaggerated sadness. “I fear our fellow travelers will eat the remaining grouse, Amonmose, leaving none for us.”
The trader flung a very wet but wry smile across the back of the donkey. “One thing we know for a fact: we won’t suf fer from thirst.”
“The donkey’s tiring,” Amonmose called. “If the truth be told, so am I.”
“We can’t give up yet.” Bak, as exhausted as his compan ions, eyed the hill they were sweeping past. He had begun to swim ahead, looking for a place where they could climb out of the wadi.
Thus far, every hillside had been so rough and craggy that it had been virtually impossible to seek safety on its slope.
His greatest fear was not the land they could see, but the rocks that lay below the water’s surface. After the donkey’s valiant struggle to swim along with them, supporting Amon mose to an ever increasing extent, he dreaded the thought that it might break a leg and have to be slain.
Several times, he had swum toward the shore, feeling with his feet the surface below. Each time he had found hidden ob stacles too rugged and sharp-edged to allow the donkey to reach higher ground. And each time he had had to bolster his will to carry on. The speed and force of the water was abat ing, but so was his strength. According to the passage of the moon, they had been caught up in the flood less than half an hour, but it seemed to him forever.
Dreading the thought that they would have to risk the don key’s legs, he beseeched the gods to look upon them with fa vor. No sooner had he uttered the plea than he spotted a steep-sided cut that split apart a ridge to the east. Praying sand had blown up the defile, covering any rocks on its floor, he fought the swift waters sweeping past its mouth and swam into a narrow, calm bay. Within moments he felt sand be neath his feet. Blessed sand. As he waded farther into the cut, the water level dropped from his shoulders to his waist to his knees. A few paces ahead, he saw dry sand.
He could not have found a better refuge.
He heard the sharp bleat of a goat. Looking toward the end of the cut, he saw in the moonlight four adults with their young. They must have sought safety in the defile when the wadi flooded.
He waded back into deeper water and swam quickly to ward the wadi. He had to catch Amonmose and the donkey before the floodwaters swept them past the cut. He, the trader, and the donkey were all too tired to fight the current for long. As he feared, they had drifted on by, but not far. He thought he had the strength to get them back-if they had the strength to help.
“I found a good, safe place to stop,” Bak called, swimming to the donkey’s head. He caught its halter and turned it against the current. It fought him, not wanting to swim counter to the flow, but was too tired to resist for long.
Amonmose saw Bak urging the creature upstream and shook his head. “I can’t fight the water any longer.”
Bak had never seen him look so tired and worn, or sound so dispirited. “Grab the donkey’s mane close to his withers, stroke with one arm, and paddle your feet.” As Amonmose clutched the donkey, Bak felt the animal falter. “Don’t make him carry your weight,” he said sharply. “Swim! It’s not far.”
Amonmose summoned a last burst of energy and obeyed.
With Bak urging on man and donkey-and himself, if the truth be told-they fought the current back to the cut and swam into the still water inside.
When Bak stood up to test the water’s depth, it reached to his shoulders. Amonmose stared like a man not sure he could believe in their salvation and also stood erect. Bak waded forward, pulling the exhausted donkey until it stumbled to its feet. There it dug its hooves into the sand and refused to move another step.
“We can’t leave the wretched beast here,” he grumbled. “It needs to dry off, to get warm.”
As if in a daze, Amonmose plodded around behind the an imal and shoved it forward while Bak pulled. When all four hooves were on dry sand, he let go of the halter, dropped to his knees, muttered a few words of thanks to the lord Amon, and rolled onto the warm sand to rest. Beyond the donkey’s trembling legs, he saw Amonmose collapse. His eyes closed and he slept.
Bak heard a sharp, strident word and someone poked his shoulder. He opened his eyes to sunlight, glimpsed a small face above him. Shading his eyes with a hand, he looked at the boy peering at him, then sat up slowly, testing his weary muscles. The child quickly backed away as if afraid. A smile failed to reassure him.
Amonmose lay where he had fallen, but the donkey was gone. And so was the water. Bak stared down the cut. Its sandy floor was exposed all the way to the wadi. That, too, had been drained of much of its water. For long stretches, the sand was a mottled damp and dry. In other places, large shallow pools mirrored the sky above. He glanced at the boy and smiled.
&nbs
p; What the gods gave, they took away, sometimes very fast.
His thoughts turned to his Medjays and the caravan. He re membered the last few men and animals he had seen strug gling up the hillside. He thought they had been high enough to escape the flood. Of them all, Senna was the most likely to have been caught up by the raging waters. Bak prayed such was not the case. The guide’s one act of carelessness might well have cost Bak and therefore Amonmose their lives, but no man should have to face death because he brought about an accident. If losing his footing had indeed been an accident.
User was a rational man who knew the caravan must con tinue to the next well. In the extremely unlikely event that he chose not to press on, Psuro and the other Medjays would surely continue down the wadi to look for the missing men.
The likelihood of another flood was minuscule. The sun had barely risen above the peaks to the east. They must be well on their way.
Both Bak and Amonmose tried to talk to the boy. He could speak no tongue but his own. He sat at a distance, too shy or afraid to come near, and watched them with wide, cu rious eyes.
“When the caravan comes, we must give him some food,”
Amonmose said.
“Also a gift. He didn’t save us, but he cared for the donkey while we slept.”
After a long silence, Amonmose said, “I don’t recall ever being so hungry.” He patted his substantial stomach. “I fear
I’ll waste away to nothing.”
“We’ve plenty of fresh water,” Bak said, smiling.
“I can’t bear the thought of it.” Amonmose eyed a long scratch on his arm, which he had gotten when becoming en tangled in the branch of an acacia. “That Senna. I’d willingly slay him at the slightest provocation.”
“He didn’t mean to push me into the water.”
“With your help, I might’ve been able to get the donkey higher up the hill. The chance was slim, I know, but it was a possibility. Without you, we were both lost to the flood.”
Bak remembered how hard he had hit the water and he doubted a dozen men could have saved any of the three of them. “Senna may’ve been carried off, as we were.”
“He didn’t have to kick you.”
“He was sliding on the rocks, out of control.”
The trader looked unconvinced. “User told me the day he joined our caravan that he was not to be trusted.”
“I agree that he shouldn’t have let Minnakht go off with two strangers, but if Minnakht insisted, what could he do?”
“How can you be sure Senna didn’t slay him? Or that man at the well north of Kaine? How do you know he didn’t slay
Dedu?”
“He was on the trail with my men and me when the man at the well was slain. As for the night Dedu was slain, at least one of us would’ve heard him if he’d left our camp.”
“User told me you didn’t entirely trust him. Now you’re defending him.”
“As you well know, I’m a police officer. I must not make hasty judgments.”
“Grant me this: it’s possible that Senna deliberately pushed you into the flood.”
Bak laid a hand on the trader’s shoulder. “Don’t fret,
Amonmose. I’ll never again turn my back to him.”
Chapter 11
“Are you sure you’re all right, sir?” Psuro, seated on the damp sand at the edge of the wadi with Bak and Amonmose, seemed not to know whether he should laugh with delight at finding them alive and well or worry about their many bruises, scratches, and cuts.
Bak finished eating the grouse and threw away the last of the bones. Cold though it was, it was as delicious as the warm birds he had eaten the previous day. “You’ve no need to worry, Psuro. Considering how fast the water flowed and the many objects it carried with it, we fared very well.”
“I thank the gods you came when you did.” Amonmose glanced toward the goats, waiting patiently for their small shepherd. “I was beginning to look upon those lambs as a tasty meal.”
Bak eyed the child, who stood a few paces away with User and Senna. He was small, dark-skinned, and dressed in rags, a miniature version of Imset. “The boy would never have for given you. Those animals are his responsibility, and he must return them to the family flock.”
The child’s reserve had melted away when User had given him a grouse. He had gobbled the food and eagerly accepted a second bird. After he finished eating, however, when the explorer had summoned Senna and tried to talk to him, his shyness had returned tenfold. He seldom raised his eyes from the wadi floor, did not know what to do with his hands and feet, and seemed to have lost the ability to speak.
User, with the guide translating, was trying to learn where the boy’s family might be found. The child had nodded when asked if he had been caught in the defile while searching for strays, but had shaken his head when asked where his mother was camped with their flock.
“They can’t be far away,” a frustrated User said. “Why won’t he tell us where they are? His mother might wish to trade for medicines or cloth or needles, or any of the other necessities I’ve brought that she’ll never be able to find in this wretched desert.”
“He knows where they are,” Senna said, openly irritated.
“Why he won’t tell, I can’t say.”
“Something has to be troubling him,” Bak murmured to his companions.
“You should try, sir.” Psuro stood up and took the halter of the donkey, prepared to return it to User’s string of animals, gathered at the edge of a puddle spread across the wadi floor.
“He’s seen with his own eyes that you’re a brave man, the way you survived the flood. And he knows you’re an officer, the one we Medjays look to for guidance. For those two rea sons alone, he might speak.”
Bak studied the two men and the boy. The latter had dis played no shyness toward User until he began asking ques tions. Could Senna’s presence have inhibited his speech?
“Summon Kaha, Psuro. I wish to use another translator.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, not bothering to hide his ap proval. He had not witnessed Bak’s fall into the floodwaters, but he had heard the tale from men who had. Like Amon mose, he had aired his mistrust of the nomad guide.
After cleaning his hands on the sand, Bak rose to his feet and joined User, Senna, and the boy. “The caravan must move on, Senna. If you wish to walk at its head, go with Psuro.”
“But, sir…”
“We’ve a long journey to the next well.” Bak’s voice was curt, allowing for no disagreement.
Senna flushed. “Yes, sir.”
The guide, who had managed to cling to the crag, thereby saving himself from being torn away by the flood as Bak and
Amonmose had been, had begged forgiveness. He had since been subdued, self-effacing. Bak had not meant to belittle him, but he wanted no argument from the man who might well have brought about his death.
Amonmose hoisted himself to his feet, threw away the last few bones, and walked to the boy. With a broad smile, he ruffled his hair and bade him goodbye. The child’s smile was shy, wistful almost, as if he thought himself losing a friend.
“Could I have a word with you, User?” Amonmose asked.
The explorer gave him and Bak a speculative look, evi dently realizing he was being steered away. He offered a farewell smile to the child and strode toward the waiting car avan with the trader.
When Kaha hurried up, Bak told him of User’s failure and asked him to question the boy further. “Rather than asking where his family is camped, try this time to discover why he won’t reveal where they are.”
Kaha stumbled through the question. The boy shrugged as if he did not understand. The Medjay tried again, receiving in return another shrug. After several further attempts, Kaha flung a desperate look at Bak and tried a fresh approach. He knelt before the boy and delivered a long, painfully difficult speech, looking often at Bak. After a while, the child began to offer a word when the Medjay failed to find one. His eyes grew wide and he often g
lanced Bak’s way.
“If you make him fear me, Kaha, he’ll never tell you what we wish to know.”
The Medjay chuckled. “I’m telling him how brave and strong you are and how clever you are when you face an en emy, using guile as well as arms to win the battle.”
Smiling at the boy, Bak said, “You’d best tell him that I have no intention of harming his family. Or any other nomad in this barren desert unless we’re forced to protect ourselves.”
Kaha passed on the reassurance. The boy gave Bak a grave look and nodded. He said something to Kaha, a few brief words. The Medjay asked a question. A stubborn look ap peared on the child’s face and he uttered the same words he had spoken before. Kaha stared long and hard as if willing him to say more. When he failed to respond, the Medjay picked up the basket containing the four remaining grouse, spoke a few words, and handed the container to him. The boy flung a quick smile at Bak and ran up the defile to his goats.
“What did he tell you?” Bak asked.
“All he’d say was that we travel with a bad man.”
A bad man. As if Bak needed to be told that. He suspected the boy spoke of Senna, but he could just as well have meant any of the other men in User’s party-or the watching man.
One thing he knew for a fact: the child had had no reserva tions about Amonmose.
So they could reach good shade in which to rest through the heat of the day, the caravan moved on. The sun beat down on the wadi floor, drying its surface. Birds appeared from out of nowhere to drink from puddles and gazelle could be seen in the distance, drinking their fill. Minmose claimed he could see new leaves already popping out on the silla bushes.
Amonmose refused to allow the donkey he swore had saved his life-as it probably had-to be loaded, saying it needed more rest. User adopted a severe demeanor, insisting he’d spoil the beast, and flung Bak a good-natured wink. The abundance of water had lifted the spirits of everyone.
