Call of the Trumpet (27 page)

The two men rode in silence for awhile, until Ahmed was no longer able to hold his tongue. He took a deep breath and plunged. “Please do not take offense,
ya ammi,
for I care only for your well-being. But it seems to me there is no joy in you anymore, merely worry, and restlessness. Look at Al Chah ayah.” He gestured at the dancing mare. “Even she senses this within you. I think you must take some time for yourself, master.”

Matthew did not answer. He knew Ahmed was right. His mood had been so foul even Turfa slunk from him now. Maybe, he thought, he should spend some time, some real time, with Aza for a change. The thought of his neglect of her filled him with remorse. She was innocent; she had done nothing but be there when he needed her. She was his wife now, and he cared for her. She was devoted to him, he reminded himself guiltily, and he had virtually ignored her. Except for the nights, of course. But then he only called for her because he had found he could no longer bear to be alone.

Yes, Matthew decided, Ahmed was right. He would invite Aza to be with him this afternoon. She was quiet and loving, dutiful. Her gentle ministrations would soothe and comfort him.

Yet when he envisioned her kneeling at his feet, her eyes demurely downcast, waiting only to hear him speak or to jump to some command, Matthew knew he would not be able to endure it. Her presence seemed to suffocate him. Sometimes he found himself wanting to grab her and tell her to talk, damn it! Say something, anything. Show some fire, some life, like—

Matthew banished the thought before it could fully blossom. He must not think of her. Not anymore. She had not wished to be his wife. Aza had. Gratefully, he caught sight of the rock-bordered wall just ahead and, raising his arm, gave the order to halt.

Her seven days were up, thank Allah. She could keep busy now and fill the restless, lonely hours with mind-numbing activities. When the
rahala
ended at the well site, Cecile hurried to assist Aza with the tent. In little over an hour, however, it had been erected, the household arranged, and a fire started.

“We must hurry to make our husband’s midday meal,” Aza said. But she was quick and efficient, leaving Cecile little to do.

“I’ll … I’ll draw some water,” Cecile offered finally.

“Oh, no,” Aza replied. “You do not have to do that. Ahmed will fill the skins for us.”

Cecile supposed she should be grateful. The heat had become intense, almost unendurable, and drawing water was hard labor under the best of circumstances. But she had to do something!

Moments later, Hagar appeared with the answer. “I thought you might like to have this,” she said, and entered their quarters with the loom.

“Oh, Dhiba, what a lovely design!” Aza exclaimed, kneeling before the half-finished rug. “And what a beautiful
middrah!”

Cecile looked away as the younger girl admired the polished gazelle horn. She could not bear the memories it brought.

Nor, she found when Hagar had left, could she endure to continue her work on the rug. Maybe it was the wind, which blew endlessly now, raising the dust, billowing the tent walls in and out, flapping the unsecured corners. But she was unable to concentrate. Not when her heart raced expectantly at the sound of the slightest footfall. Not with Aza placidly preparing his lunch, which she would bring to him when he came at last, and be the one to sit at his feet and …

“Dhiba.”

Both women looked up, startled. He returned only one gaze.

“Please, come with me, Dhiba. Now.”

He wasn’t sure when he had changed his mind. Even as he said her name, possibly. For he had meant to call to Aza. He had been firm in his resolve.

But he was glad now, glad it was Al Dhiba who strode at his side, matching him step for step. He did not care to know why, didn’t care to ponder past or future, or anything at all, for that matter. There was only the moment, and he felt better than he had in days. He glanced at the woman beside him.

The wind whipped her braids, wrapping them across her breast and around her shoulders. Now and again the fluttering veil revealed her half smile and the firm set of her chin. The
towb
alternately billowed and flattened against her long, shapely legs, outlining them as she walked briskly at this side. Her huge, dark eyes stared straight ahead. She did not ask where they were headed.

Nor did he know himself. Not until they had reached the outskirts of the camp, where the loosely hobbled mares grazed upon some sparse desert growth. It seemed then that he had known all along where he had wanted to take her. He stopped, hands on his hips, feet slightly apart, and said, “These are your mares, Dhiba. Yours to do with as you wish.”

Cecile did not so much as blink. “But women do not ride … O lord of my tent.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “That is true. And the penalty for such a crime is very great.”

“How well I know,” she replied, without bitterness. For a time, at least, the feeling had blown away with the hot, unceasing
Shamal.
There was only the moment. And the curious game they played.

“Yet the laws, and their penalties, apply only to Badawin women,” he continued with sadness, though, also, without bitterness. “You have chosen another path. The people know this, and respect your decision. They respect
you,
Al Dhiba. And they know that I, as well, though I live by their laws as far as possible, am still an Englishman by birth and by nature. Today, now, this moment, we live by our own rules.”

“And the game?” she challenged.

“Merely a ride,” he returned simply. But it was more. And although they would both deny it, they knew it.

Still gazing into her dark eyes, Matthew wrapped his
khaffiya
firmly across his mouth. She repeated the action with the end drape of her
makruna,
after removing her veil. She waited.

Matthew stripped the belt from his waist. He approached the nearest mare, a dark bay, looped the woven cord about her nose, tied it under her chin, and threw the single rein over her neck. He unhobbled her.

Cecile did as Matthew had done, choosing a chestnut mare. When she had loosed the hobbles and tossed them aside, she met his gaze. They stared at one another for a long, shivering moment, the hot wind blowing between them.

Cecile broke the silent exchange. Grabbing a fistful of mane, she swung lightly onto the mare’s back.

Despite the heat, the horses pranced with nervous excitement. The wind stirred and provoked their senses. By mute agreement, the riders held them to a walk as they traversed the flat plain toward the distant, rolling dunes.

“By the way,” Matthew said casually, “the five strains of the
Asil
… the mares of the Prophet … do you happen to know what they are?”

“Certainly,
Kuhailan
and
Ubaiyan,
noted for strength,
Saglawi,
for beauty. And the
Hamdani
and
Hadban,
for speed.”

Matthew nodded, impressed. “They are the most noble of all animals,” he found himself saying. “The ones descended from those five who …”

“Who returned when the Prophet called them?”

“Yes,” he answered, and looked her in the eye.

Cecile did not flinch from his gaze. “As you once explained to me,” she replied at length, slowly, “they were merely … returning the devotion they had been shown.”

They had reached the dunes and crested the first of an endless sea of them, marching away to the horizon. Cecile kneed her horse and dashed away without a backward glance.

The head start he gave her was not intentional. For an instant he was powerless to react, to do anything but watch as she sped away like the wind, with the wind, clinging as lightly and easily as if she was part of the horse itself, part of the very desert. Then a fierce, hot longing rose in him, and he slapped the corded rein across the mare’s sloping withers.

Cecile was aware of him behind her, though she did not look back and heard nothing. The sand was soft and thick, muffling the sound of hoofbeats. There was only the mare’s harsh breathing, and her own, and the whistle of the wind in her ears.

Down the gently sloped dune they raced, across the broad, flat trough and up again, horses puffing and straining to gain a foothold in the sand. Then another crest, and down, the sand slithering sliding before them like an avalanche. Still, they went on.

The mare’s salty sweat stung against her legs, the mane tangled in her fingers, and time lost its meaning. There was no past, no future, no moment but the present. And he gained on her.

She was lighter, and easily as good a rider. But the bay mare was quicker than the chestnut. As they topped yet another dune, they drew nearly even. Close enough. He reached for her.

Cecile saw him from the corner of her eye. With a sharp tug on the reins, she wheeled her chestnut to the right.

They had started the downhill descent. The incline was steep. Together, horse and rider slid to the bottom, sand steaming about them. Cecile lost no time as her mount leapt back to full gallop.

With an exultant cry, Matthew rejoined the chase. Unbelievably, she had pulled ahead of him, but not for long. She was
dhabi,
the gazelle, fleet-footed and sure. But he was the hunter.

They approached a dune from its end this time. The climb was gentler, less steep. They bay mare stretched, giving her all to the close of the chase. She gained on the chestnut, pounding and straining, neck extended, tail arched and streaming. Up to the top of the dune, along its narrow ridge. Faster and faster, until there was no sensation but speed. And the hot, rushing wind.

It was almost over. But she would not give up, not yet. She couldn’t. In a suicidal plunge, calculated this time, Cecile jerked the mare sharply to the left.

They spilled over the side, tumbling. Cecile was thrust from her horse and rolled, over and over, sand cascading around and over her. The breath was knocked from her lungs, and her head throbbed, but physical sensation was naught compared to the pure, sheer animal pleasure coursing through her veins.

Several yards away, the mare regained her feet. She was too far and Matthew too close. Cecile began to run.

He smiled behind the
khaffiya,
riding easily now. Cecile gained the slope of the next dune and scrambled upward. He urged his mare up the slanting incline.

His horse faltered, her rear legs sinking into the sand and her weight falling back on her hindquarters. He vaulted away from her, scrabbled briefly in the deep, loose sand, then also began to run.

At the top of the dune he caught her. She turned, grasping him in return. The sand gave way beneath them. They rolled, clasped in each other’s arms, then separated, tumbling out of control. Matthew thought he heard her laugh. The blood pounded thickly in his ears.

At the bottom of the hill, she was first to regain her feet. Tripping and stumbling, slogging though the deep sand, Cecile began to run again. Now he was sure he heard her laugh. His heart flamed, raging inside him, out of control with emotion. With a mighty surge he threw himself forward.

His weight bore her to the ground. She rolled, but he moved with her. Then she was on her back. His hands pinned her wrists to the sand. The length of his body loomed over her.

Cecile’s breath rasped in her lungs. Her hands tingled, the blood flow restricted by his grip. But the rest of her was on fire. An instinct, unlearned, never experienced, surged through her belly and hips, and only the greatest effort of will kept her from thrusting them upward. Quivering, she lay still, expectant.

Matthew’s arms trembled, as if he no longer had the strength to support his body. Yet power seethed in him. He was the hunter, poised, waiting only for the prey to make its move.

The seconds passed, ticked away on heartbeats. Cecile’s breathing was more regular now, as was Matthew’s. Neither moved. The hot wind fell, barely ruffling their clothes.

Matthew rose abruptly and pulled Cecile to her feet. He dropped her wrists and stepped away. Still, she did not move. He turned.

She let him go. It was not over, merely suspended. She sensed it, though she was unable to define it. Slowly, she walked back to her horse and mounted.