The Bride Price (24 page)

But suddenly the eyes narrowed impatiently. The sheik thrust her away from him and set her on the ground with a jolt. “Do not thank me, woman,” he growled. “Thank Allah that today was not your day to die.”

As he rode away, Sharif cursed under his breath at the misery he had seen in Bryna’s blue eyes before it was replaced by dislike for him. He did not know which hurt more.

* * *

Just before dawn, a bronzed, bearded man stood alone on the bow of a sambuk and searched the horizon for the first sight of land. Lost in thought, he was unaware that his brows were knit fiercely over his blue eyes, the wrinkles of his forehead disappearing under his turban. His striped djellaba billowed behind him on the salt-scented breeze as the little ship plowed through choppy waters toward the rocky Arabian coast.

“Good morning, sir,” a voice said quietly behind him, careful not to be overheard by the people who slept on the deck.

“Good morning, Ashburn,” Blaine answered without turning.

“It took a moment to be sure it was you.” The young man chuckled softly, moving to stand beside him on the bow. “You are beginning to look the Algerian you claim to be. It certainly seems to agree with you more than it does with me. Sun and sand and wind, thirst, then sun and sand and more wind. I have never seen such an inhospitable place as the Sinai, nor do I hope to again.”

“‘Twas only the beginning. Ernst said Arabia is mostly desert.”

“Ah, yes, Ernst, the desert expert.” Derek sighed, his frown revealing his annoyance for their guide.

“I didn’t hear you complaining when he talked us past three different sets of Arab tribesmen.” Blaine returned the frown. “Or when he got us through that scrape in Tur and onto this boat.”

“I suppose he has earned his pay so far,” Derek admitted grudgingly, “but he is a bothersome fellow. He and Mustafa are as thick as thieves.”

Ernst was bothersome, perhaps, but indispensable, Blaine thought. And it was a good thing he and Mustafa got on so well. They made an outstanding pair of guides. Ernst’s knowledge of the Arabian peninsula was as useful as Mustafa’s sword arm. Staring out at the predawn sky, the man remembered the past fortnight since they had received Ibn Hussein’s message.

When Blaine and Derek had learned they must go to Arabia, Mustafa had found Ernst Mann, an impoverished Swiss scholar who spoke five languages as well as several Arab dialects, to be their guide. With his surprisingly dark coloring and encyclopedic memory, the slight, middle-aged man passed easily as an Arab.

Having lived for years in North Africa, Ernst had heard of O’Toole Effendi, so he answered their summons with interest. Yes, he had been to Arabia briefly several years ago and lived to tell about it. Now it was his ardent desire to return and perhaps even to visit Mecca and Medina. But to undertake such an expedition required funds, funds he would never amass working as a scribe in the souk at Tripoli.

He readily agreed to guide the men, and he took charge of planning and provisioning for the journey with brisk efficiency. At last he turned his attention to their disguises.

“It would be best,” Ernst mused thoughtfully, “for you to pose as French-speaking Algerians. You do speak French?”

“Oui,”
Blaine said at once.

“Yes...I mean,
oui
...I mean, not very well,” Derek stammered, reddening. “Damn it, man, haven’t you another idea? I was never much on French lessons. I learned enough to get by, and I’ve forgotten it all now.”

“Then you will remember,” Ernst replied, unperturbed. “You have until we reach Tur on the Red Sea. Until then we speak nothing but French. Agreed?”

Taking Blaine’s nod as their mutual assent, he launched into his plan, speaking rapid French. “We will buy camels here for the journey across the desert, if this is agreeable to you, O’Toole Effendi.” Receiving another nod, he continued, “We do not want to be slowed by too much burden, so Mustafa will buy only enough food for the crossing. We should be able to sell the camels easily when we reach Tur. There, too, we can catch a boat for Jidda.”

At first Derek had looked confounded as he tried to follow the conversation, but his expression soon turned to utter loathing. Though he said admirably little through the next few weeks, his expression had not changed on the grueling journey across the desert. Blaine knew every time he looked at him that the Englishman detested speaking French, deplored the heat and the sand, and resented Ernst, but most of all he hated camels.

Blaine felt some sympathy for the young man as they rode for miles each day. The camel was not an easy beast to like. The Irishman also understood, being something of a dreamer himself, that Derek had imagined he was some sort of knight, out to save a damsel in distress. He had not counted on charging to Bryna’s rescue on the swaying back of a camel, and as a result his morale was at low ebb.

In Tur matters had improved for the tiny expedition. Derek showed he could and would pass as an Algerian. They had sold their camels, the young soldier bidding farewell to his with no regret. Blaine had paid dearly, but the four men had gotten the only cabin on this crowded sambuk. Soon they would be in Arabia; they were getting closer to Bryna all the time.

The sun was rising when Derek shifted restlessly behind Blaine. “I know you probably do not wish to go in, Colonel,” he said almost apologetically, “but we must. People already think it odd we prefer to pray in our cabin. We must not be caught on deck by the dawn.”

“When I talked to him last night, Ernst said we’d arrive in Jidda by noon.” Blaine spoke more to himself than to his companion as they walked toward their cabin. “By midafternoon we should be fitted with camels and equipment, then we’ll be off.”

“So soon?” The soldier nearly groaned at the thought of interminable days on the back of a camel.

“Jidda is not as sacred to the Moslems as Mecca or Medina, but it is still a holy city,” the other man explained. “It is dangerous for us to linger there.”

“Très bien,
but let us at least have a cup of coffee to fortify ourselves first,” Derek said heading toward the sound of the coffee grinder.

The cooking fire was little more than embers when Bryna placed a little pot on it to heat.

“Nassar has left and I’m about to go,” Pamela announced from the opening of the tent. “You are coming, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Bryna mumbled as she carefully measured out the contents of a small glass vial. The unsteadiness that had kept her at home last night after her near accident seemed a remote memory.

“I’ve never been around anyone who made medicines before. Is that for Fatmah?” Pamela asked curiously, watching Bryna with interest.

“It is.”

“I am sure she deserves it.” The English girl sniffed, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the pungent odor emanating from the pot. “But whatever is it for?”

“The rattle in her chest. Haven’t you heard it?”

“She never stops talking long enough,” Pamela answered with uncharacteristic sarcasm. “Why do you bother with that old harridan?”

“Because she is sick and needs this medicine,” Bryna answered absently.

Pamela sighed and pulled her burnoose tight around her bulky body. “Well, I really am leaving now. You will join me soon, won’t you?”

“Soon,” came the muttered answer.

Pamela smiled wryly at her preoccupied friend, but she did not linger. In the desert, women were allowed to join the men for coffee if they sat to the back and were quiet. The pregnant girl generally felt better in the evening than she felt during the day, so she was eager now to join the others.

Bryna was hardly aware she had gone. She relished her solitude, humming while she ground cinnamon, cloves, and red peppers for Fatmah’s spice poultice. Putting her face near the steaming pot, she inhaled, then jerked away instantly and fanned herself. Even without spirits it was going to work, she thought with satisfaction, blinking back tears that sprang to her eyes. Just a little longer to simmer. She sat down beside the fire and stirred the thick mixture, her mind going back to the afternoon.

Nassar had been away and Pamela napped in the women’s quarters while Bryna sat in the
majlis
with her embroidery, hoping for a breeze. Unexpectedly Umm Walid, the mother of the boy whose life Bryna had saved the day before, presented herself in front of Nassar’s tent. Although she was accompanied by a small delegation of women and children, they remained a distance from the tent as she approached.

Relieved to find the foreign woman alone, Umm Walid, with a bashful, snaggletoothed smile, accepted Bryna’s invitation to sit down. Then, putting aside the bundle she carried, she politely sipped a cup of
leben.

When she was ready to reveal the purpose of her visit, the Arab woman reached for her bundle and untied it, spilling out its contents before Bryna without fanfare. The awed girl stared at the vials of rare herbs, the skeins of glossy thread, and a gold chain with a tiny pair of tweezers attached to it. Umm Walid explained, speaking slowly so the foreign woman would understand. She was offering these things, she said, in gratitude for her son’s life.

“But...” Feeling the eyes of the waiting women upon her, Bryna swallowed her modest reply and responded in the proper Arab manner.

“Mashallah,
how glad I am to have these spices,” she exclaimed. Picking up a skein of thread, she admired it, holding it so the other women could see. “Just look at the color, as crimson as the sunset.”

“Mashallah,”
the audience murmured appreciatively, stepping closer.

Umm Walid smiled proudly. “See, this is how you wear the chain,” she instructed, turning helpfully so Bryna could see the back of her head. “The tweezers can be used to pull thorns from your feet. And the key to your housewife’s box should be worn there, too. Nassar bin Hamza did give you one, didn’t he?” She seemed skeptical.

“Aywá,
oh, yes,” Bryna assured her. Retrieving the unused wooden case, she displayed it so everyone could see. Then she opened it and placed her treasures inside. When the box was locked, Umm Walid affixed the key to the chain and arranged it on Bryna’s
ghata
so it bumped gently against the nape of her neck.

“Now you are indeed
umm-al’-ayyal,
Bryna bint Blaine,” the Arab woman declared.
“Allah-isalmak,
God give you peace.” Then she strode from the tent, pausing only long enough to retrieve her son from one of the women.

“Allah-isalmak,
” they repeated shyly. Then they followed Umm Walid.

Bryna coughed from the fumes as she stirred the thick liquid. It was done. Taking great care not to spill a drop, she poured it into a small crock and covered it with a square of fabric. She would give the poultice to Fatmah and the instructions to Latifeh.

She should hurry, she realized suddenly, for it was late. Feeling the chill in the air for the first time, she went inside for her burnoose, emerging after a moment to draw a deep, gratifying breath.

The sky was velvet black and lit faintly by a thin crescent moon. The heavens were sprinkled with stars that seemed to glitter in the crisp night air.

“Quick, Bryna, come and see,” `Abla hailed her as she walked to the sheik’s tent.
“Alhamdillah!
You will never guess! Another of Daoud bin Hatim’s nagas had her baby right here!”

“Another?” Bryna allowed `Abla to lead her to where the children clustered near the camels.

“Soon Taman will be a maid no longer,” the child predicted, grinning despite the glint of warning in the other girl’s eyes.

With the children, Bryna watched in wonder. The calf, only hours old, wobbled on feet much too large for its body. Already decked with the blue beads believed by the Bedouins to increase the milk of a nursing mother, the naga also observed as her calf took a few tottering steps. The little animal’s head bobbed up and down as if too heavy to be held by the long spindly neck. It bawled plaintively and stumbled toward the children. Reaching out to steady it, Bryna was surprised to find how downy its fur was. Unable to resist, she crooned softly and petted its fuzzy back.

“Wallahi, take away your hand, woman,” a male voice commanded arrogantly. “And do not touch it again. You will cause the camel’s growth to be stunted, then it will be of little value.”

Bryna searched for the source of the reprimand and saw Abu Hatim, Daoud’s grandfather, as he passed in the darkness on his way to Sharif’s tent. The white-bearded old man halted momentarily to glower at her, his lined brown face a testimony of a lifetime spent in the desert. Small and spare, he carried himself with the dignity and confidence of a tribal elder whose voice was respected in the council. And he obviously expected obedience from her.

Set in his ways, the old Bedu disapproved of Nassar’s foreign women. While still in Taif, he had said so, but after much debate the
majlis
had allowed the infidels to stay. Grudgingly Abu Hatim admitted they had broken no laws or caused any trouble. Still he stayed clear, watching the blue-eyed kaffir distrustfully.

“You children,” he scolded the youngsters, “go now. The hour grows late.”

They scattered at once, leaving Bryna to face Abu Hatim alone.

“I meant no harm,” she apologized in hesitant Arabic.

“I suppose none was done,” he answered gruffly. “But mind what I say. Do not touch the calf again.” With that remonstrance, he set off without even a glance back to see that she obeyed.

It was said, among the Bedouin, that the chief’s tent can always be told by the pile of coffee grounds outside the tent. In that case, Sheik Al Selim must be the most generous leader in Arabia, Bryna thought as she followed Abu Hatim to the campfire that burned in front of Sharif’s tent.

Bryna stood at the fringes for a moment, watching as the people settled in for the
qasidah,
recitations of poetry. Coffee had been served, and the members of the tribe were ranged around the crackling fire in order of their importance.

By the fire’s glow, she could see the elders assembled in the shelter of the tent with their sheik. They sat in a large arc that formed the top of the sprawling circle. Near the tent on either side were the men of lesser importance, with the male servants at the bottom of the circle. Behind them sat the women.