The Bride Price (12 page)

Feeling her way through darkness and tangled undergrowth, she emerged on the other side of the thicket, out of sight of the camp and almost at the water’s edge.

Bryna sprinted along the beach at the waterline so the waves obliterated her footprints. As she raced toward the town, her only thought was to pass through the deserted streets without observation. If she could find a hiding place, she would stay there until she was sure Suleiman had sailed.

An hour later she had concealed herself among some fallen trees in a tiny copse on the opposite side of Suakin from the camp. Her heart still pounding and her breath burning in her chest, she burrowed under prickly brown foliage. She had escaped, but what should she do next? With her slender figure and the turban to hide her hair, she might be able to travel disguised as a boy. But what of her blue eyes? And how would she communicate? She spoke very little Arabic, but, dressed as a Sudanese tribesman in the Sudan, she would be expected to speak the language. She could pretend to be mute, but she must also feign deafness, she mused, for she could see no way to avoid conversation unless she pretended to be a half-wit. The superstitious Arabs would go out of their way to avoid a demented person. Wearily the girl wrestled with the problem until she fell into an uneasy sleep.

It was very hot and flies were buzzing around her face when Bryna awoke. Her stomach rumbled, but she determinedly put hunger from her mind. Instead she drank some tepid water from her water skin, grimacing at its bitter taste. Throughout the sweltering day, she remained in her cramped hiding place. Once she heard voices and peered out through withered palm fronds to observe Suleiman’s guides, searching for her.

The insects that shared her sanctuary crawled all over her body, causing her to itch in a dozen places. Her stomach still complained of hunger and cramps crept up her weary legs, but Bryna lay still and gritted her teeth. When the searchers left, she saw no one else. She supposed Suleiman had given up and sailed, but she stayed in her hiding place the rest of the day.

On the second morning after her escape, Bryna drank the last of her water, nearly gagging on the dregs that had settled at the bottom of the skin. When she heard the faint cry of the muezzin from the mosque in town, she rose stiffly and made her way into Suakin. By the time she arrived, most of the town would be at midday prayers and she could pass through the streets relatively unnoticed. While others rested, she would explore the waterfront to find a vessel upon which she could stowaway. But first she must find food and water.

The girl walked cautiously through empty streets to the well in the middle of the town. She drank greedily and filled her water skin before setting out for the market.

Suakin was an international port. Even during prayers the souks were full of non-Moslems. Bartering and arguing loudly, merchants and shoppers paid no attention to the gangly youth wandering in their midst. She ambled toward the food stalls, drawn by the aroma of cooking food. Her mouth watered, but she had no money and nothing to trade but the locket around her neck. She fingered it speculatively, but she could not bear to part with the last remnant of her past.

Hunger warred with conscience, winning in the end. Bryna inched toward a fruit stand and looked around furtively. The vendor argued loudly with another man in a corner of the stall. Ascertaining that no one was watching, she laid her hand casually on a display of glossy oranges, arranged in a pyramid. When she moved her hand, the pinnacle of the pyramid was gone. Glancing around innocently, she started to pocket it when her eyes met the incensed stare of the merchant. Her heart sank. She had been seen.

He shouted and lunged toward her. Bryna did not understand what he said, but his intent was clear. Immediately she bolted from the fruit stall, the irate man on her heels. Her dismay at dropping the orange lessened when her pursuer stopped long enough to pick up his purloined merchandise. Perhaps he would give up the chase. But his temper had not cooled, and he ran after her, shouting at the top of his lungs.

As she sped through the streets, the panicked girl spied a large building where many men congregated just outside the doors. She darted into the crowd, hoping to lose her pursuer. She had almost worked her way through the sea of humanity when she glanced back and ran headlong into a solid back.

Bryna’s turban was displaced in the collision, and her hair tumbled from beneath it, cascading to her shoulders. The glossy tresses and her delicately chiseled features marked her as undeniably female. The shocked men, coming from the Friday sermon at the mosque, reacted angrily at the sight of an unveiled woman masquerading as a boy.

Rough hands held her, pulling at her clothes, revealing curves beneath the coarse fabric as she fought to free herself. Behind her, Bryna heard the shouts of the vendor coming closer as he shoved his way through the throng. Desperately she clawed and kicked, landing a few well-aimed blows. With an agonized yelp, her captor loosened his hold and she broke free.

As she darted away, someone in the crowd stepped on the heel of her sandal. Its straps broken, the flapping shoe caused Bryna to trip and fall into an open square where the traffic of several streets converged. She rolled to escape more clutching hands, her maneuver taking her to the feet of one of Suleiman’s Sudanese guides. Her blue eyes widened in horror when she recognized him.

Although he had never seen her without her veil, the man knew without a doubt that this was the woman he sought. What a beauty she was under the dirt that smeared her face! No wonder Suleiman had delayed his departure in hopes of finding her.

A grin splitting his thin face, the guard reached for the tumbling girl. His hand grasped the cord that held her water skin in place against her body. Bryna tore from his grip and left him juggling the obscenely wobbling skin. She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared, dodging into the swarm of people entering the square from one of the side streets.

With a curse the man followed, but by the time he had forced his way through the crowd, she was nowhere to be seen. Had he looked closely, he might have recognized her, for immediately after fleeing him, Bryna had ducked into a doorway, kicked off her remaining sandal, and with shaking hands rearranged her turban. Then, putting a half-witted smile on her face, she’d padded out barefoot to join the stream of passersby.

She followed the flow of traffic to the waterfront, where huge sambuks were being loaded by sweating porters. At the outskirts of town, she found a beached dhow at the water’s edge. Shoving with all her might, Bryna set the little boat afloat. Holding on and swimming beside it, she propelled it beyond the breakers, hoisting herself aboard as soon as she was able. She ignored the faint, angry shouts from shore and set sail for open sea.

All the next day, Bryna made little progress toward the coast of Egypt. There was no wind, and the currents carried the dhow steadily eastward. Knowing she had little hope of survival unless she was rescued by another vessel, she watched the horizon for signs of another ship while the blistering sun and the lack of food and water took
its toll on her.

On the second morning, when she sighted a large boat sailing in her direction, she used her last ounce of strength to signal it. As the sambuk drew near, the girl collapsed into an exhausted heap on the bottom of the dhow.

Bryna was not aware when the larger boat drew even with her craft. She did not hear the captain bawling orders to the crew, did not see the passengers lining the rail, did not realize when a brawny seaman was let down with a rope to lift her to the waiting hands of her rescuers.

Outstretched on the
sasek-
wood
deck, Bryna felt a shadow fall across her face, then a cup was put to her lips. Eagerly she gripped it with shaking hands and drank.

“By Allah, Bryna bint Blaine, if you do not wish to make yourself sick,
do not drink so fast.”

It could not be!

Opening her eyes with extreme effort, she saw the imposing silhouette looming over her, blocking out the sun. The features on the shadowy visage became distinct as Suleiman leaned toward her, his round face smug.

“Non,
” she whispered.

“Oui,
Mademoiselle. Praise be to Allah, you have found us when we could not find you.”

The pleasant, reedy voice of the marriage broker was the last sound the distraught girl heard as she surrendered to welcome unconsciousness.

“Did you hear what I said, my love? I want to marry you. I intend to ask your father for your hand.” Bryna stirred fitfully, unwilling to relinquish her dream of Derek. His handsome face had been so earnest when he proposed to her. But she awakened.

Ill and dispirited, Bryna lay in a cramped cabin aboard the sambuk. Her eyes closed tightly, she listened to the confusion and clamor of voices from just outside the door to the cabin. Typical of Red Sea vessels, the boat was packed to bursting. Groups of people clustered on deck, even cooking and sleeping there. For a price, Suleiman had managed to secure two berths in the overcrowded women’s cabin for Bryna and Pamela.

“Haj-al sala,
come to prayer. Devotion is better than sleep,” called the imam. The din died down, and soon Bryna heard male voices as they prayed in unison.

The sound was as constant at sea as it had been in the desert. Heaving a deep sigh, Bryna opened her eyes and saw Pamela leaning over her.

“Good morning,” the English girl greeted her coolly. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,
merci.
Just disappointed.” Bryna sipped thankfully from a cup Pamela offered.

“Well, I was half out of my mind with worry,” Pamela declared reprovingly. “You gave us such a fright, you know. Whatever were you thinking, putting out alone to sea in a tiny boat? When you were rescued, Suleiman said it was a wonder you were not taken by Yanbo pirates. Then who knows what your fate might have been?”

“Who knows now?” the American girl asked flatly. “What kind of punishment does Suleiman have in mind for me? Do you know?”

“He says the experience was punishment enough. He says now that you know there is no escape, you will be a better slave.”

“There must be a way,” Bryna muttered mostly to herself.

“Oh, you will not escape again and leave me behind, will you? Promise me you won’t. I do not want to be alone in this godforsaken part of the world.” Pamela laid her head down on the bunk beside Bryna and began to weep bitterly.

“No, I will not leave you behind the next time.” Filled with remorse, Bryna stroked the other girl’s head. “When we escape, we will go together,” she assured her, knowing she had just given up any hope of flight.

“Thank you.” Lifting her tearstained face, Pamela smiled wanly at Bryna. “I must find you some food. I imagine you are starving. I know I am.”

Speedily she went to speak to Turki, who was posted just outside the cabin door, leaving Bryna to her despair.

A few days later the sambuk moored at Jidda, the main military depot of the Ottoman empire in Arabia. It was difficult to see from the single porthole of their tiny cabin, so the women had only a vague impression of sun-washed walls, rugged fortifications, and batteries, all backed by purple mountains, the Hijaz, in the distance.

They waited for Suleiman as their cabin-mates departed one by one, summoned by their men. At last the slave trader appeared. It was the first time Bryna had seen him since the morning of the rescue. He said nothing of it, but his limpid eyes were reproachful.

“Prepare yourselves to go ashore, my doves.” He gestured extravagantly. “It is a lovely spring day, and we will walk the short distance to our lodgings.”

Resignedly Bryna and Pamela pulled their
burqus
into place and followed him onto deck. Far from a lovely day, the heat of the
Tihama,
the coastal plain, shrouded them like a wet, steaming blanket. Suleiman’s party descended the gangplank into a sea of shouting, sweating humanity. Bryna even forgot her rancor temporarily as her fascinated eyes tried to take in every detail. She had never seen so many people at one time.

As the burial place of Eve, the mother of all, Jidda was considered a holy place. Today the city was flooded with thousands of pilgrims. Suleiman’s party had arrived at the end of the month of
Dhul Qa’da,
when travelers from throughout the world gathered to prepare for hajj, the journey to Mecca and Medina, the holiest cities of Islam. For centuries the chief industry of Jidda had been the landing, moving, and shelter of pilgrims. The expense of hajj was great, and Jidda was a wealthy city.

In the teeming throng at the waterfront, the girl saw for the first time the green turbans of the descendants of the Prophet. Here beggars, left destitute from earlier hajjs, shouted loudly to newcomers for baksheesh. Well-dressed young Arabs loudly boasted of their skill as
delils,
or guides, to the holy cities. Porters, their faces marked with three scars on each cheek, which showed they had been born in Jidda or Mecca, led Egyptians, Moors, and Syrians through the crowd. Desert Bedu wandered by, and swarthy Turkish and Egyptian soldiers shouldered their way arrogantly through the horde, ignoring the scowls of the Arabs they jostled.

Anxious to escape the crush, Suleiman made swift arrangements for his baggage to be taken to his lodging, then he led his entourage single file away from the docks. The huge bazaar ran the length of the city wall, parallel to the waterfront. On the other side of the souk, the group passed into broad streets, wider than most in the Arab world. Jidda was a graceful old city, its affluence obvious to those who passed through it.

Suleiman’s small procession came finally to a residential section, a disorganized jumble of four- and five-story houses lining streets and alleyways. The houses were lovely, white-walled structures with lattice-screened balconies, arched doors, and gates into private gardens. Unlike the ones in most Eastern cities, the homes in Jidda were graced by huge, bowed windows that faced onto the sunny street. The facade of each house was a work of art, its windows and doors framed by exquisitely carved casings.