Sahara Crosswind (7 page)

Chapter Seven

Jake awoke the next morning to the comfortable sound of coffee being pounded in the tribe's brass mortar. The young girl timed her strokes to the song she sang, a warbling melody that pealed like bells in the still air.

Breakfast was the same as every morning—treacly thick coffee, dates, unleavened bread, milk curds, and honey. Jake took his portion over to the side wall, drew out his Bible, and read as he ate. The sounds of the camp awakening were a reassuring chorus, familiar enough now not to draw his attention. The children laughed and scampered in scarce moments of playtime before the chores of breaking camp were begun; camels bellowed and complained as they were made to kneel and the saddle blankets were set in place; a group of men knelt toward Mecca and murmured their morning prayers; several of the older women sat and spun silky goat's hair with blinding speed, their mouths open and gossiping and laughing in the morning sun.

The village
kunta
, a nomadic spiritual leader, arrived and passed from person to person. He made talismans, said the special healing prayers, taught a few new verses from the Koran, and offered the traditional blessings for good grazing and much water. His final blessing was the special one, offered for a safe and healthy passage through the desert reaches. Each person in turn held out their right hand, which was first touched by the kunta's cane, then spat upon. The nomads then wiped the spit over their faces and down the front of their robes.

Omar gave the call to break camp. Jake rose, tucked away his Bible, and joined the others. Again he had the sense of gathering lessons, storing up information and knowledge and newfound wisdom but being unable to digest what he was learning. Even so, he felt a sense of rightness to it all,
a knowing on some deeper level that this need to sit and reflect would be granted him at the proper time.

When they had left the village and its confines well behind, Omar sent word for Jake and Jasmyn to join him. As the two of them walked toward the head of the caravan, Jasmyn said, “Pierre agrees with your plan.”

Jake nodded, too full of sudden doubt to be very pleased. “How is Patrique?”

“There were no medicines in the village. Did you see him try to mount the camel?”

“Yes.” It had taken three tries and the aid of both Pierre and Jasmyn to get him into the saddle-tent.

“Pierre walks with him now, writing whenever he has strength to speak.” Jasmyn shook her head. “I hope your plan works, Jake.”

“So do I.”

“Even Pierre feels it is our only hope to save him now.”

As they approached, Omar said to Jake, “Several mornings now I have seen you separate yourself and read from a book you carry.”

“It is a Bible, the holy Book,” Jake said, answering the implied question.

“It is good for man to be bound by the custom of his religion,” Omar said.

“It is more than that,” Jake said, seeking a way to explain that would invite and not offend. “This is the story of Christ, the Son of God. His is a story of salvation for all who choose to believe. And His lessons are those of love.”

Omar walked ahead in silence for a time, then said through Jasmyn, “Yesterday I sought to teach you of our ways. Today I would ask a question of you, a man of the world who speaks with wisdom of his own and who does honor to our desert ways.”

“I would be honored to help,” Jake said, “if I can.”

“I have heard of this Christian god,” Omar said. “There is a
school now in Colomb-Bechar, five days march from Raggah. It is run by families who claim to serve this god of yours.”

“We call them missionaries,” Jake offered.

“I have two of the tribe's children, a boy and a girl, who beg to go and learn. Day and night they are after me. Even when they do not speak, still I can hear their little hearts crying through their eyes.” He looked at Jake. “Sending a child to school means losing a herder. I must also pay for a family to keep them. While they are gone, their own mother's heart remains empty. A young boy's bed goes cold with his absence. A father misses the songs that his lovely daughter sang to the waking day.”

“They might return and enrich the tribe with what they have learned,” Jake ventured.

“Yes? You think this school will make them better people? That their lives will be better? Yes? Then tell me. What will they know, my children, that has enough value to wrench them from the heart of my tribe?”

“They will know languages. History. Math.”

“Already they know their father's tongue. They learn the history of their father's father and their fathers before them. They can count their sheep and their goats. What more will they know?”

“They will know the world.”

“No!” Omar pounced upon Jake's words. “They will know
your
world, not mine. They will know
your
knowledge. And then whose child will they be, yours or mine?”

“Everything you say is true,” Jake agreed, marveling anew at the man who strode along beside him. “There is a risk that they will choose not to return. But what right do you have to refuse them their heart's desire?”

Omar subsided. “You speak a truth that has echoed through my nights since learning of this school. This is a question for which I have yet to find the answer. Tell me, man of the world who honors our desert ways. What would you do if you were faced with such a dilemma?”

“Pray,” Jake said simply. “Pray and wait for guidance.”

They walked for a time in companionable silence until Omar said, “I want my children to know the value of wisdom, but I also want them to know the wealth of the desert. I want them to have the city and the wider world to call upon when there is drought, but I want them to return to the desert in the rainy season. Is that so much to ask?”

“No,” Jake replied, liking him immensely.

“Our world has changed,” Omar declared through Jasmyn. “For many past seasons we stood upon our desert hills and watched the thunder of war from distant lands coming ever closer. No matter how far into the desert we went, still guns split the heavens and called to all the world that a new time was upon us. It does not matter what I like or what I wish. The seasons change, and only a fool refuses to accept what is.”

He drew himself up to his full height. “But I am still leader of the tribe. And as leader it is my duty to see that the desert's wealth and wisdom is not lost. We shall change, yes. But we shall take with us what is ours. What others do not see, do not know, and cannot understand. What makes us who we are.”

“It is a worthy aim,” Jake said, and meant it with all his heart.

“I am a man of the desert,” Omar said. “The desert is all I know.”

“But you know that well.”

“I know the wind,” Omar went on. “I know the great emptiness that is as close to death as a living man can ever know. I know the feel of rock and the smell of water. I know the dry mountains. I know the dusty graves of ancient rivers. I know . . .”

“You know,” Jake murmured, thinking of all he had learned.

“
Aiwa
. I know. And yet this, this is a new thing. A thing of wars and machines and cities. This new thing I do not know. And I do not know what is to be done. Not for today, not for tomorrow, not for all the days yet to be granted my people.”

“Perhaps,” Jake ventured, “perhaps you could find this answer also in prayer.”

“Yes? You think this Christian god might turn to help a man of the desert?”

“He has promised to be there for all who seek Him,” Jake replied. “All men, all nations, all times. A God who seeks only to give peace and love and salvation. To all.”

That day they entered the area known as Zagora. Most of the desert through which they had passed was rock and shale and hard and flat, bordered by mountains and great, billowing desert hills. But Zagora was a region of sand. Oceans of drifting, golden sand. Gradually the Atlas foothills turned and moved away, leaving them enclosed by endless sand. Ever-changing, always the same. Hills and valleys and great, ghostly shapes that lasted only until the next great wind.

It was hard going for all but the camels, whose great wide hooves splayed out flat and kept them from sinking down. For the others, each foot dragged, every step sucked from the blistering sand. By midday, even the nimble-footed goats were complaining.

They walked nine hours with only two short breaks, yet managed only six miles. Jake knew this only because Omar told him. Distance meant little in this barren world. For a while that afternoon, as they struggled onward, Jake had wondered if perhaps Omar had led them astray. Each crested sand dune revealed nothing in any direction but more sand, more undulating hills, more heat. There was no track whatsoever, no road signs, no directional markers, nothing with which to determine either progress or bearing.

But then, as the sun began its grudging descent, a paint-daubed thorn tree came into view. All the tribe offered loud cries of relief and pride that Omar the desert chieftain had led them correctly yet again.

Around the thorn tree spread scattered desert scrub on which the animals could feed. It was the first vegetation they
had seen all day. Jake helped form the paddocks with shreds of wood bleached white as old bones, then gathered with the others for the customary evening tea. There was no firewood; by tradition the bits of wood kept at the site were to be used only as paddocks. Their tea and the evening meal would be cooked over portable stoves, a necessity that everyone loathed because it left everything tasting and smelling of kerosene.

Sunset that evening was transformed by clouds gathering on the horizon, an event so rare that all work was stopped. As the orb slipped behind the cloud, a silent symphony of colors lit up the sky, and drew appreciative murmurs from them all. Jake watched the others as much as the sky itself and wondered at a people who could stop and share in the beauty of something that for himself had so often gone unnoticed.

When the spectacle finally dimmed, Jake asked through Jasmyn, “Does it ever rain here?”

“Oh yes,” Omar replied. “I remember it well. It turned the plain we were walking into a river and swept away several of the animals. Then the next day the entire desert bloomed. I will never forget that vision. Good and bad together.”

“When was that?”

The entire group entered into a spirited discussion. Jake waited and watched, wondering if perhaps he had broken some desert etiquette. The argument continued on until night veiled the camp and the tribe was called for the evening meal. Jake followed Jasmyn toward the cooking fire and, when they were apart from the others, asked, “Did I say something wrong?”

She looked at him with genuine surprise. “What could be wrong in asking an honest question?”

“Never mind. Come on, I want to speak with you and Pierre.”

Together they walked over to where Pierre sat brooding over the sleeping form of his brother. He lifted his head at Jake's approach and declared, “We no longer have any choice, my friend.”

Jake squatted down beside him. “He's worse?”

Pierre nodded, his face deeply furrowed. “I am greatly troubled. We must get him to a facility that can offer proper medical care.”

“Do not trouble yourself so, mon frere,” said a weak voice. All eyes turned toward Patrique. He smiled faintly and went on, “Pierre always did the worrying for both of us.”

Jake asked, “How do you feel?”

“That I have more than enough strength for the task at hand,” Patrique replied. “It is a good plan.”

“I think so too,” Jasmyn agreed.

“For myself, I am too worried to think,” Pierre said. “So I must trust in the judgment of you three. Though I confess it tears at my heart to do so.”

Jasmyn reached over and took his hand, her gaze as soft as her touch. “It is only for a short while, my beloved. We have been separated before, and for much longer, and much farther apart in spirit. This shall pass in the blink of an eye.”

“Even that is far too long,” Pierre replied.

Jake cleared his throat, the night filled by the love that spilled out from them. “You two need a couple of nights off. I'll stand watch with our friend Patrique here until we arrive in Raggah.”

“They were right in what they have told me,” Patrique said. “You are indeed a good friend.”

Pierre looked torn. “You are sure—”

“Thank you, Jake,” Jasmyn said, rising to her feet and drawing Pierre up with her.

But before they could depart, Omar walked over with two of the elders. He spoke briefly to Jasmyn, who turned and said to Jake, “Twenty-four years.”

“What?”

“You asked when it had last rained. It was twenty-four years ago. They are sure.”

Jake struggled to his feet. “They've spent all this time trying to figure out when it rained?”

“Smile and nod your gratitude,” Jasmyn said quietly. When Jake had done so, she went on, “You are an honored guest. You asked a question, and they wished to answer you honestly. It was not a simple matter. You see, Jake, there are no calendars here, no birthdays beyond the one marking a child as an adult. Time is measured by events. They had to tie the rainfall to the events of that period, measuring back by other events. This camel had foaled, that person was born, another died, counting back over the seasons until the date was arrived at. Twenty-four years ago it rained.”

“Please thank them,” Jake said feebly. His mind rang with the impact of foreignness. The desert way.

Jasmyn turned and bowed and spoke solemnly. The men responded with beams of real pride. Omar patted Jake on the shoulder, turned, and walked away.

Chapter Eight

Although Patrique had a restful night, Jake found himself sleeping with one eye and ear open. So it was that he was up and ready before the guard came within ten paces. He slipped on his boots, grabbed his rifle, stood, and bent over to check on the sick man one last time. Then he heard the whispered words, “Take me with you.”