by Dana Marton
He slept an hour or so and woke to the sound of drums and the smell of roasting meat. Saliva gathered in his mouth, his stomach churning with hunger. He stepped outside and drank in the sight of the camp preparing for a feast under the starlit sky. His gaze settled on Abigail next to one of the cooking fires.
She was taller than the Bedouin women, exotic in a purple abayah that had a line of golden patterns running down the arms and sides, a burqa covering her face below her eyes. She looked like a nomad princess. The drums heated his blood, and he had a sudden vision of throwing her onto the back of a fine Arabian horse and carrying her off. Which made no sense at all. What could he possibly offer her?
His one-bedroom bachelor apartment in D.C. seemed pitiful all of a sudden. And even if she was willing to go, to give up the work she was so obviously passionate about, how long would it be before his next assignment left her to wonder when and if he was coming back? He couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t ask that of any woman.
He walked to the men who sat around a carpet on the sand. As soon as he took his place among them, an older woman came over with a large platter of food and placed it in the middle. Each man ate from the common platter, scooping up food from the side of the plattern closest to him, some using a piece of flatbread, others their fingers. Careful to use his right hand, he did the same. But as hungry as he was, he barely tasted the food, his eyes returning over and over to Abigail. The women did not eat with the men.
“You have not been married long?” Abdullah asked. He turned his attention to the man, embarrassed that he’d gotten caught. “A week or so.”
“She is the wife of your heart.” The clan leader nodded with a knowing smile.
He didn’t know what to say to that.
Then someone asked him to retell his story, which had apparently circulated around camp while he slept and had aroused much amazement and speculation. He did so, saying as much as he could, rewriting the parts he could not talk about.
“It is good in the eyes of Allah to take care of the orphans and widows.” Abdullah nodded in approval when he told him of Abigail’s work in Tukatar. “It is different for people in the towns. They’ve forgotten the old ways. None here would ever go hungry as long as any of us had food. My people live or die together.” A fierce pride filled his voice, pride for his people and his culture.
Other men shared their tales, too, when he was done—tales of encounters with bandits and robbers. The stories went on late into the night, some true accounts, some no more than folktales. Spike leaned back on one elbow as the old Bedouin next to him took his turn.
“I heard tell of a wealthy merchant once,” he said, his eyes sparkling in the light of the fire. “He had a virtuous and comely son for his eldest, but his stepmother, wanting more power for her own sons, tried to poison him.”
A couple of the men nodded, no doubt having heard the story many times before, while the young boys watched the speaker, mesmerized. Spike took a sip of his drink, as his gaze sought out Abigail once again,
“He had, however, a most magical talking horse who cautioned him. The young man ran away from home dressed as a common beggar, his horse disguised as a donkey, and they joined the sultan’s service. Now, the sultan had a daughter of exceeding beauty and the young man fell deeply in love with her. But on one fateful day, raiders attacked the palace.”
The boys leaned forward, drinking in the old man’s words.
“The merchant’s son fought like a lion against them and overcame the enemy. His true identity was then soon revealed, and in gratitude the sultan gave his daughter to him for a wife. They returned to the house of his father and had many children—”
Spike jumped up as he caught the sound that had interrupted the speaker. A few other men around the fire came to their feet, too. The rumbling of engines grew louder. Trucks. Two or three of them.
“You better stay out of sight.” Abdullah nodded toward his tent and pulled his rifle closer.
The rest ofthe men did the same, while the women and children disappeared out of sight Spike glanced around the tents, wondering which one Abigail had gone into. There was no time to look for her. He ran into Abdullah’s. He waited inside the thick leather flap that covered the opening and listened to the voices that filtered through it.
“Assalamuh alaikwn. We’re looking for two Americans. A man and a woman. They’re thieves and murderers.”
He recognized Suhaib’s voice.
“Walaikum assalam. We’ve seen no strangers since we set up camp here,” Abdullah responded.
“I see you are having a feast.”
“My youngest daughter gave birth to a son today. Come feast with us. Ahlan wa sahlan.”
“Thank you, but we must find the ones we seek. The foreigners are dangerous.”
ABIGAIL LOOKED AROUND the women’s section of the tent, at Sara, her unwed daughters and three young sons. Sara was Abdullah’s first wife, and the head wife among the four, each of whom had her own tent. She had seventeen children—twelve of them still living, she’d told Abigail proudly earlier, making her realize what an achievement that was, how much sacrifice and constant vigilance it took to keep that many children alive under the harsh conditions in which they lived.
She hated the thought that she had brought danger to them.
Indistinct voices filtered in from outside. The men were talking and not fighting-a good sign. Still, she wished Spike was there with her. She felt safer when she was with him. Then, after some time, came the sound of motors starting, the noise slowly fading away into the chatter of the women around her.
Abdullah called through the carpet that was serving as a divider, and Sara responded. She couldn’t understand either of them, their Bedouin dialect beyond her Arab language skills. When Sara motioned to her to follow, she did so.
They didn’t go far. She was shown to another “room,” to Spike. “There you are,” he said, resting among a jumble of pillows, like some harem lord.
She pulled off the burqa that covered part of her face. “What happened?”
“I told Abdullah you were my sister and he asked for you for one of his sons. He’s giving me a camel and enough food and water to get to Tihrin as your bride price.”
For a moment she couldn’t think.
“It wasn’t an easy trade considering your age. Would have helped if you were thirteen or so. I had to swear on all my ancestors that you were still a virgin.”
“You’ve got to be—” Then she saw a grin hovering over his lips, and threw a pillow at him, hard. “It’s not funny. This is no time to joke.”
“Relax.’ He reached for her hand and pulled her down next to him. “They’re gone. We’ll head out first thing in the morning. If we left now, it would look too suspicious.”
“You have a sick sense of humor,” she said, her mind still stuck on being left behind. But then she couldn’t help smiling, the tension seeping from her body.
He nuzzled her cheek.
She drew back. “What are you doing?’
“They think we’re newlyweds. We should probably make some kissy-kissy noises,” he whispered. “My manly pride is at stake here. I don’t want them to think American men neglect their wives.”
“You’re crazy.”
“If I am, you made me so.” he said and claimed her lips.
His kiss was incredibly gentle, his arms around her reassuring. He nibbled her lips playfully, licking the corner of her mouth, tasting her, testing her. He pulled back a little to rest on one elbow, and in the light of the single oil lamp next to them, she could see him smiling at her.
She was shocked by the strength of her suddenly awakened needs to have the warmth of his body cover her again, his lips back on hers. And she could tell the exact moment he read the flare of passion in her eyes. His face grew serious, his blue eyes darkened. He lowered himself and gathered her tightly against him, his lips brushing her cheeks, then her eyelids, the tip of her nose, then finally fi
nding her mouth. She shouldn’t be doing this, she thought, and kissed him back.
The world melted away as she floated in the warm sea of his caresses, weightless, careless, at peace and at the same time mindlessly aroused. It lasted forever, not nearly long enough. When he reluctantly pulled back, he took her breath with him, and her lungs, or maybe something else in her chest, leaving her aching and empty.
He lay on his pillow and gathered her close. “Sleep.”
If only she could. Unfortunately, the memory of the kiss was enough to keep her up for the rest of her life. Her gaze fell on two small jars by the tent’s wall. So that’s where they went.
She sat up. “Hang on, I’ve got something for you.” He crooked an eyebrow.
“Not that.”
“Okay.” He grinned. “Because I’m trying to be a gentleman here and not push you, but if you’re offering, don’t expect me to turn anything down.”
She swallowed. Good thing they were clear on that.
She retrieved the jars and opened the shorter one. “Abdullah’s wife made this earlier for my wrists.” She dipped in a finger and looked at him.
He took a deep breath and lay back on his pillow. “Treat away.”
She smeared the smooth substance over his bruised face and watched as it was quickly absorbed, leaving nothing behind but a faint minty scent in the air. “Thank you.” He came up on his elbow. “My turn?”
“You don’t have to. I can—”
“I want to.”
He took the jar from her and spread the ointment on her wrists in gentle caresses. It felt nice, cool and tingly.
“I could kill them for doing this to you.” She looked away.
“You did.”
“They went too easy. I couldn’t afford to make any noise. For this, I would have liked to see them suffer.” He closed the jar. “What’s in the other one?”
“Something for your ribs. Sara said it’s good for people kicked by the camel. I think.”
He opened it, sniffed the contents and made a face.
“You sure she didn’t say she made it from something dropped by a camel?”
She caught a whiff of it then, too. Looked as if they wouldn’t be sleeping snuggled together after all. Still, if it helped, it was worth the stench.
“Sit up.” she said, and when he did so, she unraveled his bandages and applied the sticky substance carefully. “Does it hurt?”
“Nothing hurts as long as you’re touching me.”
“Stop fooling around. I’m serious.”
“Me, too,” he said, his gaze intent on her face.
She picked up the long strips she’d ripped from her abayah and tied them back one by one, her arms around him as she looped the material around his back, her face inches from his chest. She tightened the last strip and moved away.
His hand closed around her arm.
She could find no air in the tent; if there was any, it was too thick with passion to be breathed. She swayed toward him… if you’re offering, don’t expect me to turn anything down. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t start anything she wasn’t sure she could stop.
She pulled away from him and settled into the pillows with her back turned. “You stink.”
“Now that hurts,” he said, but she could hear the smile in his voice.
ABDULLAH WOKE HIM before dawn. “Sabah alkhair.” Spike managed to untangle his arms from around Abigail without waking her, then got up and stepped outside their portion of the tent to where the man was waiting.
“Sabah alkhair” Good morning.
He followed him outside to the coffee fire, where a copper pot let forth the most fragrant steam, tantalizing his senses. They sat and he gratefully accepted the cup of spiced coffee Abdullah handed him, along with a small plate of cold meats.
“Forgive me, friend, but I cannot keep you safe, Abdullah said after a while. “Our camp is surrounded.”
“I wish to bring no trouble to you or yours. We will leave at once.”
The man nodded, probably relieved. His customs would not have allowed him to ask the guests to go, no matter how worried he was about his own family. “You can leave with the camel herd,” he said.
“Will they let the herd go?”
“They will.” He nodded, somber.
And then he understood. Suhaib’s men were preparing to attack the camp. If a handful of camel herders left, that meant fewer men for them to fight. “I do not want your family to come to harm.”
“Insha’allah. What Allah wills will happen. Don’t worry. When they come, they’ll find this lion is not yet without his teeth.” Abdullah sipped his coffee.
“Shuknan.” He thanked him for all he’d done and all he was about to do, putting his own family in jeopardy to save the lives of strangers.
Abdullah nodded to one of the men milling about, and he brought a set of worn clothing, a loose robe and kaffiyeh.
Spike accepted it with more thanks. “May I have some grease, if there’s any left from the feast yesterday?” They’d roasted a ewe.
Abdullah called out to one of the young girls, maybe six or seven, and she ran off behind the tent to appear within a few minutes with a shallow dish.
Perfect… He scooped some with his fingertips and rubbed it into his beard. As the girl watched him with rounded eyes, he gathered some cold ashes from the edges of the fire and rubbed that on top of the grease.
Abdullah nodded with approval. “My friend is most wise,” he said. “You will go away from the city. Less suspicious. Then you can circle back. My sons will show you the direction before they leave you.”
“Shukran,” he said again, the simple thank-you seeming far too insufficient. He stepped inside the tent, picked up two of his rifles and brought them out, laid them at the man’s feet then pulled a knife from his pocket and set it on top.
“It is not necessary, my friend.” The old man lifted his arm in protest.
“A humble gift. A symbol of our gratitude. We could never fully repay you for all you’ve done for us.” And that was the truth. The man was putting his own family at risk for them.
“You must prepare.” Abdullah pointed to a large leather bag at the opening of the tent. “For her. Women don’t go out with the camels. “
He stood, picked up the bag and took it inside to Abigail, listening to the voices of women and children on the other side of the divider. She was dressed and ready to go, burqa in place. Every inch of her skin was hidden and, still, just her eyes took his breath away and brought back every memory of their kiss the night before.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to travel in this.” He set the bag next to an empty plate on the carpet. The women had brought her breakfast.
She nodded instead of protesting. He admired that about her, the way she always did whatever needed to be done, without thought to her own comfort, without complaint.
“Nice beard. You look good in gray.”
“Very distinguished-looking, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” She ran her gaze over him, squinting her eyes.
“What?”
“Your, um, physique. It’s not exactly grandfatherly.”
She was right. He was taller and a lot more muscular than any of the men in the camp. He picked up a pillow. He could do nothing about his height, but he could correct his proportions. He stuffed the pillow under his robe and made sure it was held in place by his belt. “What do you think?”
“Pregnant grandmother with excessive facial hair?”
He could see she was grinning from the way her eyes crinkled.
“I was going more for the well-fed wise old man look, you know—the tribe elders and all.”
“You’ll do fine.” She stepped into the bag and sat first, then lay down and curled on her side.
He closed the top, careful to leave plenty of opening for air, and then lifted the bag.
“Are you sure this is going to w
ork?” Her voice was muffled.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to let anything happen to my precious cargo.”
Two camels were waiting for him in front of the tent by the time he stepped outside the opening flap. One of the animals had a matching bag already hanging from his other side.
“Food, water and a small tent.” Abdullah gestured to the bag.
They hung the bag with Abigail in it to balance the first, but when he moved to get on the camel, Abdullah pointed him to the other one.
He was giving them both camels? With the food, tent and clothes, they were receiving a considerable gift. The clan was not a rich one.
“Shukran,” he said, humbled by the man’s generosity once again. “I wish I had something to repay you.”
“It is pleasing to Allah when his children share his blessings” was Abdullah’s only response. He patted the camel’s neck and it stood.
To her credit, Abigail stayed quiet and still.
He climbed on the back of the other animal and once it got on its feet, he headed toward the rest of the herd, leading Abigail’s camel on a rope.
“Ma’assalama,” Abdullah called after them. Go in peace.
“Alla Isalmak.”
The men moved the herd out at once. They had barely left the camp when the army Jeep pulled up alongside them, the man in the passenger seat yelling to Abdullah’s sons and asking them about strangers. They denied having seen any. The Jeep moved forward.
Spike pretended to be busy untangling the reins when they came in line with him. He kept his gaze on the task, not sure if they could see the color of his eyes in the semidarkness. But it seemed his person did not draw their attention; the bags did.
One of the men yelled at him to stop. He kept the camel going. The man stood in the back of the moving Jeep and lifted his rifle. Spike shifted in the saddle getting ready to grab for his own gun.
The man turned his weapon and smashed its butt into the bag. The tent inside shifted, a comer peeking through the bag’s mouth, which the strike busted open. The Jeep pulled forward, leaving them literally in the dust.
“They’re gone,” he said to his saddle, careful not to turn toward the bag that held Abigail, and watched as the Jeep circled back toward Abdullah’s camp.
