Sahara Crosswind (3 page)

Even though the lead camel still knelt in patient watchfulness, Jake had to use both hands to lift his leg up and over the animal's broad back. He too groaned as aching muscles fitted themselves back into the uncomfortable position. He tapped his camel's side, hupped a sharp command, then hung on and groaned again as the camel rose, its pitching motions reeling him back and forth.

But then he was up, high off the desert surface, with seven great animals groaning and stamping and waiting his command. He tapped his camel's side, hupped as loud as he could, and watched as the animal lumbered forward. He felt the line tug taut and begin moving behind him. Jake pulled his dry, cracked lips into a grin and raised the stave over his head with the sheer joy of getting it right.

By the time the sun began its rapid descent from late afternoon into night, the thrill had long since faded. Jake's entire body was one great thirsty ache. He had stopped trying to peer through the dimming light at the cliffs. Despite hour after hour of jouncing pain, they did not appear to have come any closer. Jake kept his head down, piloting his string of animals by their lengthening shadows.

Even with his eyes focused downward, they were almost through the patch of meager green before Jake's mind lifted from its fog of fatigue and thirst. He pulled on the bridle rope with what strength he had left and managed a single tched croak from a throat almost swollen shut. Thankfully, the camels appeared as ready to stop as Jake. At his tap the lead camel swung down in a motion so abrupt that Jake almost tumbled over. Once down, he found himself without the strength to lift his leg free. Jake gripped the camel's hide with both hands and slithered groaning to the cool desert floor.

Only the fear of the string pulling free and leaving him lost and alone in the desert vastness kept him from giving in to his fatigue. Jake scrambled to his feet, found himself unable to straighten up. Gripping the stave and hobbling forward like an old man, he walked to each camel in turn and touched them behind the knees. Three welcomed the invitation to kneel, three growled and snapped in his direction with their great yellow teeth. Jake was too tired to jump away. He responded with a raised stave and a hoarse growl of his own. The camels grumbled and turned away. Jake was more than willing to call it a draw and leave them standing.

The sandy earth revealed nothing large nor solid enough with which to pound in the staves. Jake was not sure it mattered, as he doubted he had strength left to drive them home. In desperation he noosed a second line around the lead camel's neck, then tied both ropes to his ankles. In the last light of a dying day, Jake checked the knots, then groaned his way down to the sandy earth and gave in to his exhaustion.

It would go down as the worst night in living memory.

In what seemed like only seconds after he had closed his eyes, Jake was jerked awake by the lead camel lumbering to its feet, grumbling its great guttural roar, then swinging about and trotting away. Dragging Jake along as though he was not even there. The rest of the string following as though a midnight stroll was the most natural thing on earth. Jake scrambled upright only to be tossed back with a thud. He gripped one of the ankle ropes, shouted hoarsely for the camel to stop, endured having his backside scraped across plants and rocks and sand and twigs, growing angrier by the second.

As abruptly as it had started, the camel stopped, dropped its great head, and began cropping on a bit of wild scrub. Jake scrambled upright, his chest heaving. He raised the stave, decided crowning an animal five times his size was not in his own best interests, dropped it, looked around, and wondered what was so doggone special about that particular scrub. The
other camels were contentedly cropping away, paying him no mind whatsoever. Jake gave a single dry chuckle of defeat, lowered himself back to the desert floor.

And realized he was freezing.

With the sun's descent the temperature had plummeted. The flickers of night breeze drifted through his clothes like iced daggers. Jake drew his legs up, wrapped his arms around himself, and wished for fire. And thick desert tea. And blankets. And day.

The night was endless. Every time he drifted off he was jerked awake by the camel moving to another shrub. Jake slipped further and further into a dull half-awake state, suspended in a freezing netherworld of sand and fitful dreams and fatigue and aches.

When dawn finally arrived, Jake peered at the lightening horizon through grit-encrusted eyelids, scarcely able to accept that the night had finally come to an end. He used both hands to push himself to his feet, then shuffled over and tapped the lead camel behind its knee. The camel was as displeased with the night as Jake, for it rounded on him with a roar of complaint. Jake stood unmoving and watched the great teeth open in his face, too far beyond caring to be afraid. Clearly the camel realized this, for it retreated, grumbled, and sank obediently to its knees. The camel then endured a full ten minutes of Jake slithering and sliding and groaning until he managed to right himself on its back.

Hours into the day, the heat and his thirst and the unrelenting jouncing ride began to play tricks with his mind. Jake had an image of himself standing at attention before General Clarke's desk, pointing at a map and trying to explain just exactly where he was. Which was impossible, because the entire stretch of area through which he passed was blank. Across the empty yellow expanse was printed, “Demarcation Uncertain, Reliable Data Unavailable.”

Next to the map stood a glass of sparkling ice water. Jake could not take his eyes off the glass, with the cold condensation
rolling down the sides in tantalizing slow motion. Every once in a while the general would raise the glass and sip. But he never offered any to Jake, even though he could see Jake's mouth and throat were so dry he could not even swallow. Jake knew if he could just pinpoint his location, the General would reward him with a sip. But he could not find any way of telling where he was on that blank map. And the heat beating down on his head made it harder and harder to think.

The sun had passed overhead and was drawing a second set of afternoon shadows when the cliffs finally rose high above them. Jake bounced up and down, each step agony, and prayed with all the might his exhausted mind had left that he would not be forced to spend another night out in the open. Each breath rasped noisily through a throat almost closed by dust and dryness. His eyes were squinted down to sandy slits against the reflected glare. His legs and back burned as if branded. His arms were too tired to hold upright. His fingers were coiled loosely to the guide ropes. It was all he could do to keep from sliding from the beast's back and plunging in defeat to the desert floor.

A distant rifleshot crackled like lightning across the empty reaches. Jake jerked upright, then reached forward to pat the camel's neck as it snorted and faltered. Not another panic. Not now. He did not have the strength left to hold on. He searched the distance and saw five figures moving through the wavering heat lines, seeming almost to float toward him.

Another rifle crackled. This time the camel remained steady under Jake's hand. An instant of clarity granted Jake the chance to see that the figures were in fact sitting astride galloping camels and headed his way, rifles held up high over their heads. Another few moments, and he could hear their shouting and excited laughter. A sudden flood of relief washed through him. Tiredly he waved his own stave overhead.

He was safe.

Chapter Four

The tribe rewarded his return with great shouts of joy. Jake was pulled from the camel by a dozen eager hands, his back pummeled so hard his legs gave way. A bladder of water was thrust into his hands. After five days of resting in the distended animal skin, the water smelled foul and tasted brackish. Jake squirted a flood of warm liquid into his parched mouth, and thought he was feasting on nectar.

They ignored his protests and herded him up into one of the dark tents fashioned upon a larger camel's back, where the infirm and elderly normally rode. Omar came to see that he was settled in well and explained through Jasmyn that they must make all haste for the next oasis, as the waterskins were almost dry and the animals were growing too parched. Another day of walking in the heat would doom the weaker beasts. Omar knew exactly where they were, he said; the oasis was a five-hour march due north. They could follow the cliffs and the stars and would arrive near dawn.

The tribal chieftain then looked up at Jake's resting-place and said, “The tribe is most grateful for your acts of courage. For myself, I will hold my thanks until later.”

Jake dozed much of the journey. The ocean beast rocked as gently as a ship riding over great rollers, and Jake's berth was made soft by layers of carpet. Overhead, the tent's cloth sides flapped with each swaying step, like sails set to snare the stars and power them through the dark reaches. The desert floor was transformed by moonlight into a frozen silver sea. The loudest sound he heard as he drifted in and out of sleep was the bleating of the animals.

The sky had not yet gathered enough light to banish the stars when they arrived at the oasis. Long before the camp came into view, however, the sheep and camels smelled the water. Their cries and increasing pace awoke Jake from his
deepest slumber of the night. He pushed aside the tent flaps to breathe the crisp night air and watch as silhouettes of palms appeared on the horizon.

The sun was well over the horizon by the time the animals had drunk their fill and the paddocks and tents had been erected. Once the chores were finished and most of the tribe vanished into the shade for much-needed sleep, Jake reveled in a long bath. The oasis lake was shallow and sandy-bottomed and lukewarm. Yet the waters were clearly replenished by an underground spring, because now and then he would pass through unseen ribbons so cold they raised gooseflesh. Jake swam the few strokes from one bank to the other, feeling his parched skin drink in the liquid. He floated for a long time, his only company the ravens that populated the oasis.

Eventually he stepped from the water, let the sun dry him off, dressed, and walked over to where the two tribesmen watching the animals were having great difficulty keeping their eyes open. With sign language Jake showed how he had slept on the camel and then offered to take their watch so they could sleep. The astonished tribesmen bolted for their tents before Jake could change his mind.

That evening, Jake sat with his back resting against a date palm and watched as night descended. The easy day had done much to restore both his body and his spirits. He looked out beyond the scrub and palms to the great golden emptiness, a land ruled by heat and dust and hardship. It made their tiny island of green and water a jewel of incredible value, something to be treasured, a place of restoration and peace.

The tribe was preparing for a feast. Gradually all the tribe approached to sit or sprawl in a great circle. In the center, an entire sheep turned upon a great spit. One of the women prepared semolina in the time-honored manner, drying the ingredients in wooden bowls, mixing them by hand and stirring, stirring constantly. Her arms flashed a blurring motion, her tribal tattoos of vines and fishes denoting one who had
been married into the Al-Masoud from some place closer to the sea.

The sea. Jake leaned back comfortably, tried to take his mind from the fragrances that crowded the night, and wondered what it would be like to see the sea again.

Jake observed the gathering tribe. He had come to see the desert folk as a closed lot, suspicious of all outsiders, even those who were granted entry by custom. Hospitality was offered only within the tight barriers of formality. The more he came to know the world in which they lived, the less he found himself minding their ways. The desert was a harsh teacher, yet he found himself valuing the few lessons he had already learned.

Tonight, though, there was a difference. Tribesmen stopped to offer him faint greetings before dropping to their places. Some even granted small smiles. Jake found himself treasuring them, knowing they were neither common nor lightly given.

Pierre and Jasmyn pushed their way into the circle, supporting Patrique between them. Like Jake, the French officer wore the tribal clothing of voluminous white desert trousers, embroidered white-on-white shirt, and light blue cloak. Jasmyn wore the royal blue djellabah of the desert women with elegant ease. With Pierre's dark, expressive features and her exotic, black-haired beauty, they made a striking couple. Their good looks accented the fragile condition of Patrique, whose sunken eyes and hollow cheeks made him a shadowy copy of his twin. It was hard to think of this emaciated, dozing man as the former bold member of the French Resistance in Marseille.

They eased Patrique down on a cushion, then took up places to either side. “The tribe is calling you a hero,” Jasmyn said, settling down beside Jake.

“If I had taken the time to think,” Jake replied, “I would have never grabbed for that camel. Not in a thousand years.”

“I have often thought that is what separates the coward
from the hero,” Pierre mused. “Just one split second of hesitation.”

To change the subject, Jake looked over to offer greetings to Patrique, only to discover that Pierre's brother had already fallen asleep. Not a good sign. Jake asked quietly, “How is he doing?”

“The stop forced on us by the storm has not been altogether a bad thing,” Pierre replied worriedly. “He is not improving as I would hope. His ankles and his feet are hurting him.”

“And he has a fever,” Jasmyn said softly. “I suspected it before, but today I am sure.”

Jake examined Patrique more closely, saw a pallor that not even the fire's ruddy glow could erase, and felt the chill of one who had seen war wounds fester and turn gangrenous. “This is not good news.”

“I fear he will not make the trip without better medical treatment than Jasmyn and I can give him,” Pierre agreed.

Jake mulled this over as the meal was served and eaten. At Jasmyn's urging, Patrique woke up and ate, but as soon as his meager appetite was sated, he forced himself to his feet. Jasmyn was instantly there beside him, even before Pierre could rise. Patrique motioned for Pierre to remain seated, bid Jake a quiet good-night, and with Jasmyn's help stumbled back toward his tent. Pierre watched him go, an enormous frown creasing his expressive face.