The Bride Price (26 page)

“No,” Bryna cried, sprinting around the
shott
to where the calf now struggled. She could do nothing for the mother. The naga’s roars were weakening as she sank rapidly, with only her hump and her head visible above the shifting sand. But there was still time to save the calf, the girl thought stubbornly.

As
she approached the far side of the
shott,
she slowed her step. Along the edge the ground gave way in inches, crumbling into the quicksand. It seemed for an instant as if she were standing on a shore and the camels were swimming in a pool of loose sand.

“Do not get too close,” Taman shouted across the
shott.
“The sand will give way under you.” She waved her arms to attract the other girl’s attention, but she came no closer.

Bryna retreated for a moment and called across to her friend. “If I can reach it, I can hold its head up.”

Before Taman could argue, she went as close to the edge as she dared and lay down on her stomach. Stretching her arm as far as she could, she reached for the baby camel. But the distance between the animal and her grasping fingers seemed to increase with every panic-stricken move it made.

With a mighty lurch and one last agonized bellow, the naga disappeared completely under the sand, leaving no sign of her fierce fight for life. Now the only sound was the pitiful cry of the struggling calf.

“Go for help,” Bryna shouted to Taman. She strained, her breath rasping from exertion, stretching until every muscle burned and ached, but she could not reach the calf. It continued to sink, its eyes rolling toward the girl in horror.

If she could just reach it... Gingerly she eased forward.

Suddenly a pair of strong hands encircled Bryna’s ankles and she was jerked backward. Her head slammed against the ground and her upper body made a long, deep furrow in the sand as she was dragged from the edge of the
shott.
Spitting sand and kicking blindly, she fought, arching her body to strain toward the camel calf, now sunk in the sand up to its head.

“By the beard of the Prophet! Are you mad, woman?” a voice snarled above her. “It is no use. The calf is gone.”

Pushing herself up on her elbows, Bryna stared bleakly at the smooth surface of the
shott.

Standing astraddle her, Sharif bent and gripped one of her arms painfully, turning her to look at him. His fear had turned to wrath, and the face she saw looming above her was furious.

“Answer me, Bryna,” he ordered, dragging her roughly to her feet. “Have you gone mad? If I had not come, you would have joined the camels in the sinking sands.”

“I...I just wanted to save the calf.” Swaying on her feet, she stared up at the man dazedly.

Despite his wrath, Sharif longed to cradle Bryna in his arms and comfort her. But he did not allow his desire to show in his eyes this time. He had known since that morning at the ruins that Alima had been right. Having this girl at hand, yet unattainable, was not a good thing. It would drive him mad.

Disturbed by the very feel of her and anxious to be away, he released her arm and snapped, “Death comes quickly in the desert, Bryna bint Blaine. This day it nearly found you...again.” Then he pushed her toward Taman who stood weeping nearby.

“Nassar, Sa’id,” Sharif shouted when his men approached, drawn by the excitement. “Send your women back to their camels and see they stay there.”

Before the men could rebuke them, Bryna dusted the sand from her clothing and led Taman toward the riding camels. The numbness she felt was wearing off, and in its place was impotent rage. Irrationally she wanted to wail and shriek at the brutality of the desert and the Bedouin life until her anger was spent. She wanted to fling herself at Sharif, screaming her sorrow, sorrow for tenderness turned to harshness. Instead she walked away with as much dignity as she could muster. She would not cry in front of him.

“I was afraid you would be sucked into the sands.” Taman was sobbing. “Why did you do such a foolish thing?”

“I thought I could pull the calf out of the
shott.
I could not let it die without trying to save it.” Bryna’s voice shook with emotion.

“Lo! we are Allah’s and lo! unto him we are returning,” the Arab girl quoted with a whimper. “Do you think camels are worth dying for? Not even Daoud’s are worth it, not even if he could never meet my bride price.”

For the next few days, the very air around the Selim camp seemed to crackle with tension. Lightning was frequently spotted in the distance, but no sign of rain appeared on the horizon. Sharif’s face was severe as he pressed his
smala
toward their next destination, the family well,
Bir
al Selim.

Although she took great care to avoid him, Bryna too felt the strain. She was absent from the communal campfire until she learned of Nassar’s boast that he had banned her from attending as a punishment for her foolishness at the
shott.

Obstinately she returned the next evening. When her gaze met the sheik’s across the fire, she knew she should have stayed away. How could she have ever thought she saw a flicker of desire in those hostile gray eyes?

Noticing how Sharif’s moody eyes rested on her friend, Taman mused, “I have never seen our sheik so angry for so long.”

“Things have not been the same since the
shott,”
Bryna said despairingly after a moment. She had never discussed Sharif with anyone, not even Taman.

“It is true he was furious when you put yourself into such danger. But, no, something more disturbs him,” the Arab girl insisted.

Bryna did not answer, but she asked herself again: Had she ruined everything by responding to her body’s urging? She had done nothing more than embrace him. Had Sharif found her caress so distasteful? She was miserable at the thought, but she said nothing more to her friend.

“Do not worry. Perhaps in time he will forget his wrath,” Taman counseled wisely, “and all will be well, unless he is displeased that you do the Inglayzi’s work.” Then, veering easily from her favorite complaint before Bryna could protest, she teased, “Or perhaps he hasn’t forgiven you for curing Fatmah’s sore throat.”

Bryna smiled in spite of herself, for even at this distance they could hear the incessant drone of the old woman’s voice.

The Selims crested the hill above their well just before sunset. Even through the dusk, Sharif could tell something was wrong. He urged his camel to a gallop, and his men followed him down to the deserted clearing. It was evident at once from the stench that their well had been fouled. The water, polluted and undrinkable, might not be fit for use for years to come.

Intruders had camped there for several days, and now Sharif’s best trackers knelt where the camels had hobbled. By examining the tracks, they quickly ascertained who had dared despoil their well and how long ago they had left.

The women set up camp in dismal silence while the men discussed
ghazzi.
In Sharif’s
majlis
the elders resolved to raid the intruders’ camp in retribution for this crime against their tribe.

“Let us ride now while they are not expecting us,” Nassar urged heatedly. “We can burn the dogs’ camp to the ground.”

“We must abide by the rules of
ghazzi,”
Sharif enjoined.

“We must avenge our honor,” Nassar argued, becoming bold when he saw nods of agreement from several hot-blooded young men.

“There would be no honor if we attacked after midnight or burned the cooking tent of our enemy,” his uncle said firmly.

“That is true,” Sa’id seconded. “Their women and children must eat. We have no quarrel with them. We fight men.”

“Blood for blood,” Nassar insisted.

“No blood has been shed here,” Sharif answered with weary patience. “We will take their camels as the price for their insult.”

“Many camels,” Abu Hatim interjected unexpectedly. “The signs are propitious.”

“We go tomorrow,” Sharif spoke decisively, “not tonight. But before another day has passed, we will have our revenge. Let the warriors be ready to leave at dawn.”

“Allahu akbar,”
Daoud cried fervently as the men rose. “It is as it should be. I against my brother, I and my brothers against my cousin, but tomorrow it will be I and my cousins against the world.”

“Allahu akbar,”
Nassar echoed with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Tomorrow we will have revenge.”

The entire tribe worked well into the night. There was no coffee or qasidah, only ominous quiet, broken occasionally by industrious sounds coming from the Salubas’ encampment nearby. The craftsmen sharpened swords and knives and spears, while the Selim men checked and tended their harnesses and cleaned their guns for the impending battle. At each tent subdued women and children prepared provisions for their warriors’ rapid desert crossing.

The men slept and Bryna was preparing to retire when Latifeh approached Nassar’s tent. “Have you seen `Abla, Bryna bint Blaine?” the older woman asked. Her muted voice was heavy with weariness and exasperation.

“No, my lady.”

“No one has seen her. I called her three times and she did not answer. I cannot awaken the entire camp,” Latifeh muttered with a frown that did not bode well for the little girl.

“Shall I go and look for her?” Bryna asked worriedly.

“Yes, find her and bring her back,” the Arab woman answered, her sigh revealing concern for her stepdaughter. “But do take care. There are sometimes jackals waiting in the darkness.”

Bryna was relieved to find that the desert, lit by the moon, was nearly as light as day. Still, she remembered Latifeh’s warning and hastened her step, calling `Abla’s name in a low, urgent voice.

“Bryna?” `Abla’s tousled head appeared over the top of a large dune. In an instant she had scaled it and slid down the other side to stand beside her friend. “What are you doing here?”

“A better question might be what are
you
doing here?” Bryna tilted the child’s chin and looked down kindly at her tearstained face. “What’s wrong, `Abla? Why did you run away from camp?”

“I didn’t run away,” she said sniffling. “I just didn’t want
Abu
to see me cry.”

“Why are you crying, little one?”

Sympathy was more than the little girl could bear. Suddenly she clasped her arms around Bryna’s waist and began to cry. The American girl sat down in the sand, drawing `Abla beside her. The child buried her face in Bryna’s lap, her narrow shoulders heaving with sobs. Gently Bryna stroked her head and let her cry.

When `Abla’s weeping had subsided, she suggested gently, “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

`Abla sat up and looked at the other girl through gray eyes that were much too mature for her age. “Tomorrow is the day my mother died,” she explained gravely. “Even though my father can hardly bear to look at me sometimes because of it, he is my father. Now he is going to fight and I am afraid I will have no one.”

Tears sprang to Bryna’s eyes as she remembered so clearly the feeling of being unwanted and alone. “Oh, `Abla, I know exactly how you feel. But you must know that your father loves you.”

“He does?”

“Of course he does,” Bryna assured her. “It just hurts him to remember your mother. My own father had the same problem for many years. But I know now that he loves me.”

“Then why did he sell you?” `Abla asked in bafflement.

“He did not sell me.” Bryna tried to keep the indignation out of her voice. `Abla was young and did not understand any world but her own. “I was kidnapped,” she explained, “taken from my father’s home.”

“Was his camp not guarded?”

“Yes,” Bryna answered, puzzled as to how she might explain.

“Then he rides in
ghazzi
like my father,” the child concluded. Then she asked sadly, “Your
abu
will come for you someday, won’t he, Bryna?”

“Perhaps...if he can find me.” The American girl sighed.

“I hope he cannot, not ever,” `Abla replied with childish candor. “If you went away, I would miss you almost as much as I would miss my father.”

“I am not going anywhere yet, so do not borrow trouble,” Bryna responded crisply, reminding herself suddenly of Sister Françoise. Hotel Ste. Anne seemed a lifetime ago, she thought sadly.

Rising, Bryna held out her hand to `Abla. “Remember this,
chère,
everyone says your father is a great warrior. Nothing is going to happen to him.”

`Abla looped her arm loosely around her friend’s waist, and they walked slowly back to camp.

It was not until Bryna awakened just before dawn that she realized it was `Abla’s birthday. Poor child, she thought as she stirred on her pallet, she thinks of it as the day her mother died. As daylight began to give muted color and form to her surroundings, Bryna’s eyes fell upon the reds and blues of the unfinished
ghata
she was embroidering. The colors were perfect for `Abla. It might not be Bedouin custom, but the little girl was going to have a birthday gift, belated though it might be.

That pleasant thought had to be put away immediately as the last preparations for
ghazzi
were made. After dawn prayers the men rode away, heavily armed and dressed in black robes, the lower halves of their faces veiled. Following them to the edge of camp, the women let down their hair and trilled loudly to ensure victory in battle. Then the women, children, and old men returned to their silent tents.

Household chores filled the morning, but by afternoon the camp had settled into uneasy waiting. Occasionally quarrelsome female voices shattered the hush as the wait became onerous. Nerves were on edge in every tent. When Fatmah, strained from waiting, screeched at Bryna over an imagined transgression, the American girl stalked from the tent, her temper barely under control.

Back in Nassar’s
majlis,
Bryna, nearly unnerved by the oppressive silence, worked mechanically on `Abla’s
ghata.
She wondered if she should go again to look for the little girl who had not been seen since morning. Before she could do so, she heard `Abla’s piping voice.