A Kiss of Adventure (17 page)

As evening fell, the sweltering air grew strangely chill, and she smelled rain in the far distance. She squeezed the amulet as though she could somehow press out the answers. What was the significance of Mungo Park’s cryptic message? Did those strange rambling words really mean anything? She tried to recall everything Graeme had told her about the man. Bits and pieces. None of it locked together into a complete picture in her mind.

She thought of the amulet itself, recalling the rows of ancient silver charms pinned to the
amenoukal
’s chest. He certainly believed her amulet was charmed. In fact, the whole quest for the treasure must be some kind of mystical religious experience for him. The silver necklace was charmed, its message was magical, and she was the honored tree-planting woman.

But so what? She still didn’t know where the treasure was!

As the sun dropped behind a craggy stone, her stomach pulled with hunger from the meager ration of food she had eaten that day. Every rib felt bruised; every vertebra seemed slipped from its niche; every muscle was knotted and sore. Her hair was full of sand, and her eyes burned from scanning the sun-blasted dunes all day.

When the shadows were long, the caravan made its way toward the river’s edge. Following the narrow track, it wound like a snake until the
amenoukal
raised his hand to halt the line. With a sigh of relief, Tillie clung to her camel as it knelt to the ground, and she slid off.

The Tuareg bustled to work assembling their tents and lighting fires in the secluded area. Tillie took the opportunity to look around. Maybe this was her chance to run. The
amenoukal
stood in the middle of a throng of arguing men. Khatty sauntered over to her guest, favoring the men with a doe-eyed glance along the way.

“Talk, talk, talk,” she said with a chuckle. “It is all they do.”

“What are they discussing?” Tillie asked.

“
Ahal
, of course. They want to put tents in perfect place, but no one can agree. It is this way each time we have
ahal
. Men are so eager to please women during
ahal
.” She shimmied her hands down her hips. “I go now to prepare myself. You come?”

“In a minute. I need to stretch.”

As Khatty sashayed off, Tillie turned her thoughts back to escape. She had to get away—and it had to be done before dark. This was her last chance before Timbuktu, and there was no way she would submit to the disgrace of the
ahal
unless she was forced. Tree-planting woman or not, she was not about to become the
amenoukal
’s lover.

Hoping anyone who spotted her would think she was taking a bathroom break, she strolled toward the river. It flowed deep on the side of the encampment. A thick grove of trees and brush grew up around the bank. The road was narrow but clear, and she knew the
amenoukal
’s dromedary would have no trouble following her there. It would have to be a dash into the brush then.

She would try to slip away unnoticed and hide until they gave up searching. Then she would work her way downriver toward the lights of Mopti. Once in the city, she was certain to find someone who could help her.

Trying her best to look casual, Tillie sauntered through the collection of rising tents. Tired but elated, the children played games of tag around the dromedaries. Women bustled to build fires and finish setting up the tents. Men conferred, pacing this way and that, occasionally raising their voices in argument. No one seemed to see her.

She tugged her veil over her face and slipped toward the trees. The grass grew thicker here. She passed a low bush, and another. A tree. She crept around it.

Heart thudding, she licked her dry lips. Another tree. Past it. A trickle of sweat slid down her back. Two more trees and she would be into the thicket. She lifted the skirt of her gown. One more tree.

A hand clamped down on her arm.

“Tree-Planting Woman!” the voice was all too familiar.

“Let me go,” she hissed.

“You stay.”

Swinging around, Tillie looked up into the
amenoukal
’s dark, bloodshot eyes. Fear clutched her throat. She wanted to fly at him and tear away that turban and arrogant leer. But she was trapped. Again.

“I said, let go,” she repeated through clenched teeth. With a fierce shrug, she freed her arm.

“You mine.” He pointed at his chest. “Mine. You find treasure.”

“That’s what you think.”

“You find treasure.”

“Listen, buster, you’ve got the whole thing wrong.”

His chest swelled. “Ahodu Ag Amastane—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know who you are. And I’d like you a lot better if you’d just leave me alone.” She turned quickly and strode back into the encampment, anger born of fear coursing through her veins like lava. “Khatty!” she yelled. “Where are you?”

“Ma imous?”
Eyes wide, the young woman hurried out of the tent. “What is wrong, Tree-Planting Woman?
Io!
Come inside!” Khatty took Tillie’s hand and pulled her into the tent. “No anger, please. This is night of celebration. You enjoy Tuareg feasting. You become part of us. You are honored woman.”

“Honored woman? All right then. By the power of my position as honored Tree-Planting Woman—by the power of this amulet—I want a bath! And I want it now!”

Khatty fell to the floor of the tent and covered her eyes with her hands. “Yes, yes! Please, do not be angry! I send for water at once.” She turned and yelled at her cowering maid. “Give me water!
Ekfid aman! Ekfid aman!
”

A little astonished at the effect of her own words, Tillie watched Khatty scramble to her feet and run out of the tent. She continued shouting at her servants, who raced shrieking toward the river.

“Good grief,” Tillie whispered. Graeme had been right. There was power in the amulet. Power from the fact that these people were superstitiously afraid of its force. Could she use their fears to her advantage? Why not? They were using her.

Before she had time to figure out a plan, a flock of anxious servants sidled into the tent carrying pot after pot of water. Time to put Drama 101 to use. Playing her role to the hilt, she strode around the chamber, inspecting the water, examining the servants, quibbling over this and that as she’d seen Khatty do.

When fifteen clay pots had been set on the floor, she clapped her hands. “That will do. Enough.”

Khatty peered between the flaps of curtain as the servants scurried out. Tillie beckoned her. “
Io!
Come on in; I won’t bite.” Seeing the young woman’s blanched expression, she relented. “Look, I’m not angry, Khatty. I’m just glad to have the water. You could do with a bath yourself.”

“Ai! Ai!”

“Oh, never mind. I wouldn’t force that on you.”

“Please, Tree-Planting Woman, do not be displeased with me. Ahodu Ag Amastane, great
amenoukal
of Tuareg people, commands me to stay with you. He fears you escape and give treasure to your friends.”

She let out a breath. “But I don’t even know—” She caught herself and shook her head. “Never mind.”

Kneeling, Tillie dipped her hands into the cool water and rinsed the grit and dirt from her face. Then she disrobed and washed her arms, legs, body, and finally, her hair. Khatty was more than solicitous about the event taking place in her tent. She was downright curious. After drying off with a linen cloth and wrapping it around herself, Tillie followed the Targui to the pile of bagged garments lying in one corner.

“Will you wear another blue burnous?” Khatty asked. “We wear finest clothing to
ahal
. Perhaps white is better? Or golden one will look lovely with your hair.”

“I’m not going to the
ahal
, Khatty. I’m very tired tonight.”

“Oh, Tree-Planting Woman,
amenoukal
commands you go to
ahal
. You sit with me for singing and stories.”

Tillie squared her shoulders. “I am the tree-planting woman. And by the power of the amulet, I will not—”

“You go to
ahal.

”

The voice behind her made Tillie swing around in fear. She grabbed a wad of clothing and held it up to her chin.

The
amenoukal
stepped closer. “You go to
ahal
, Tree-Planting Woman.”

Tillie swallowed as he slid his lamplit broadsword from its scabbard. Directing a flood of invective at Khatty, the
amenoukal
never took his eyes from Tillie’s face. Then, with a final thrust of his sword into the air, he turned on his heel and strode from the chamber.

“Allah save us!” Khatty fell to her knees.

“What? What did he tell you?”

“Oh, Tree-Planting Woman, you must go to
ahal! Amenoukal
commands it. You must go, or he will . . . he will . . .” The young woman’s voice choked with sobs. “You do not know this man. He is very powerful. . . . He will . . .”

“Okay, okay. Calm down, Khatty.” Tillie let out a sigh and lifted the young woman to her feet. “I’ll go to the
ahal
. But you’d better understand right now, I’m not going to be his lover.”

“Ai!”

“Don’t start yipping again.” Tillie stood and met the woman’s eyes. “In my religion it’s forbidden to sleep with a man unless you are married. I won’t go against the law of God.”

Khatty blinked. “You are Christian?”

“Yes, I am. You know about my faith?”

“But of course.” She smiled proudly. “I go to mission school at Mopti, remember? I tell you that already. I know about Jesus Christ, born of virgin, die on cross, come to life again. I know it!”

Tillie let out a laugh that mingled amazement and relief. “I guess you do.”

“Islam teaches Jesus was great prophet like Mohammed. A wise teacher sent by God. But Christians say he is God’s son.”

“Who do you say he is, Khatty?”

“Mmm. Very difficult for me to say.” She pulled a deep purple burnous and a navy gown from her bags of clothing and shook them to smooth their wrinkles. The candle in its brass lantern wavered but did not go out. “Who do you say he is, Tree-Planting Woman?”

“I believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God.”

“Easy for you. Here I must live Muslim ways. I am fifth wife of my husband. No choice. Islam is in every part of my life. Holidays, prayers, laws, marriages, births, even food and drink. Very hard not to live Muslim ways in Tuareg caravan.”

Tillie stood for a moment watching the whirling shadows. Feeling more than ever as if she were lost in some fantastic nightmare, she slipped off the linen towel and put on the clean garments. “I’m sure it would be hard for you. Sometimes it’s hard for me to be a Christian. It’s hard for me to have faith.”

“No.”

“Yes, it is. When your husband captured me, I felt afraid. It’s been hard for me to trust that God is with me. And even when my faith is strong, sometimes I want to break God’s laws.” She smoothed down the fabric with her hands as the image of Graeme’s face formed in the lamplight. “If I love a man, I may be tempted to sleep with him, Khatty. But I’ve made a promise to my Lord not to do that, not to break his command. That’s why I will not spend the night with your husband.”

“You are strong.”

Tillie glanced out at the starlit sky. She didn’t feel strong. She felt weak and frightened. In spite of her bold words, she feared that her trust in God was tenuous. Christ would always be faithful to her . . . but could she be faithful to him?

Khatty gathered up her combs and began to work on the snarls and knots in Tillie’s hair. “I believe Jesus Christ is son of God,” she said softly. “But I cannot be Christian. Impossible for me in Tuareg caravan.”

Tillie turned and laid a hand on the young woman’s arm. “It’s not impossible.”

Khatty shrugged. “No? We see about that. Now you live in Tuareg caravan. Tonight you go to
ahal
, and my husband try to make love to you. I watch you, Tree-Planting Woman. I watch you be Christian tonight in Tuareg caravan.”

Tillie closed her eyes as the Targui braided her hair into a score of tiny plaits and wound them through with ribbons and silver chains.
As if it weren’t hard enough just to survive, Lord,
she mused.
Tonight I’ll have one Targui trying to force me to break your commandment and another watching to see how I live out my faith.

Her frustrated words to Hannah echoed in her mind.
“I’ve been here almost a year, and I’m sure I haven’t touched a single life.”
Was it only a few days ago that she’d been with Hannah in the Bamako marketplace? At that time the ache in her heart had been palpable. She had wanted to share Christ with the people of Mali. Wanted to help, to make a difference. She had envisioned doing so by handing out pamphlets or starting a little Sunday school.

But not this! God apparently expected her to live out her faith when she was pushed to the extreme . . . stretched to her limits . . . afraid for her life. It was too hard. Too much.

“Beautiful,” Khatty murmured. “Now I paint you.”

“This is enough. The hair is great. Really.”

“No, no. Paint is very beautiful.
Amenoukal
like paint on his women.”

“Terrific.”

As the serving maids bustled around the room setting up pots of paints, Khatty propped a large mirror in front of Tillie. Murmuring admiration, she began to paint her guest’s face in dramatic shades of red, yellow, and white.

“Now!” Khatty’s face was lit with a fiery glow of triumph as she sat back and surveyed her handiwork. “Now you are ready for
ahal
. Now you are ready for Tuareg feast of love.”

TEN

The two women walked out of the tent into the darkness. Khatty had dressed herself in a heavily embroidered indigo burnous. Decked with silver rings, earrings, necklaces, amulets, and armbands, she had painted her face, too, but not in the bold shades of Tillie’s. Instead, she had deepened the alluring lines of kohl around her eyes and had stained her lips a dark claret.

Stopping in front of another tent, Tillie and Khatty joined other women of the Tuareg drum group who sat before an older woman. In her arms the woman bore a one-stringed musical instrument. Its bowl and neck were carved and painted, and the old woman stroked it with a curved bow.

“Assou plays
imzad
,” Khatty whispered. “Music of Tuareg people is made with
imzad
.”

As Khatty finished speaking, Assou began a high-pitched song. Tillie twisted her beaded ring and looked around her. The men were nowhere to be seen, and again she wondered if she could use this chance to get away. But when she rose to her knees, she saw them approaching in groups of two and three.

Like a cluster of debutantes, the Tuareg men had dressed in their finest clothing. Turbans adorned with sweeping bows and silver pins wound around their heads in fantastic shapes, covering all but their eyes. They sported burnouses embroidered in gold, silver, red, and white threads. Ornate charms and amulets hung around their necks as they swept into the group of women and took their places.

Tillie sensed the
amenoukal
beside her as he lowered himself to the ground, sinking into his burnous like the Wicked Witch of the West. She wished she could dump a bucket of water on him and make him evaporate completely. His eyes, blacker than lumps of coal, stared at her. Unwilling to kowtow to him, she stared back.

He wore a dark indigo turban knotted at his neck and pinned with a gold and amethyst brooch. His black burnous had been sewn with golden threads that took the shape of monitor lizards—the beloved waran of the Tuareg. His black veil was fringed in gold, and his long fingers sported golden rings set with fiery jewels. His slippers, made of dusky blue embroidered silk, bore golden tassels on each toe.

Tillie tried to pray, but no words would come. She swallowed hard and tore her attention from the man who now clutched her mind as if he possessed that, too. She slid closer to Khatty, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Women began to wail their love songs. Men replied in deeper tones. Hours slipped by. Khatty tried to explain the meanings of the songs, but Tillie could hardly listen. Instead, she watched the younger woman. It was clear by the way she murmured and flirted with her husband that Khatty was in love with the man. But the way the
amenoukal
looked at Tillie left her no doubt that he had set his sights on the tree-planting woman. Her heart broke for Khatty . . . and quaked for herself.

When the moon was high and the feasters had sated themselves on songs, camels’ milk, and date wine, Khatty leaned over and whispered in Tillie’s ear. “It is time. Now you go away to a place near trees. Men who wish to admire you follow.”

Her blood hammering, Tillie shook her head. “No, Khatty, I—”

“Yes! It is custom. If not,
amenoukal
will—”

“What happens under the tree?”

“You tell men a story or make poems. All men who wish to be your love-partner will make sign in your hand. They draw circle with finger, then touch center of circle. After that, you make sign to each man. If you do not choose man, you draw line from wrist to fingers. But if you choose man, you draw line from wrist to fingers, then follow it back. Men will all leave; then man you have chosen returns. You go to my tent with him for courting.”

Khatty finished speaking and sat in silence for a moment, her dark eyes searching Tillie’s face. Then she heaved a heavy sigh. “
Amenoukal
of the Tuareg goes with you, I am certain,” she whispered. “You must choose him.”

“No.”

“
Enkar!
Get up! Go, Tree-Planting Woman!”

Khatty shoved an elbow into Tillie’s ribs and prodded her to her feet. Stumbling out into the darkness, Tillie watched the other small groups of men and women making their way into the cover of night. She grasped the edges of her burnous to her chest and glanced behind her. Already three men followed. Their leader was the
amenoukal
.

Help me, Father. Please help.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she tried to think as she made her way through the cluster of tents out into the low shrubs. She could hear the plaintive wailing of the old woman and her
imzad
as she spotted a tall palm tree. Sinking to her knees at its base, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Tree-Planting Woman,” the
amenoukal
’s voice was low. “Tell story.”

Tillie glanced at the row of five veiled and turbaned men seated around her. The
amenoukal
had placed himself in front of her and was waiting, his eyes hidden in shadow.

Clearing her throat, Tillie looked up at the stars. “Tell story,” she repeated, trying to think of the longest possible tale she knew.
War and Peace
? Too Russian.
Moby Dick
? Too wet. Maybe if she ran together every single one of Grimm’s fairy tales, it would be sunrise before she finished.

“Okay, let’s see. Once upon a time, there was a poor but beautiful girl named Cinderella. She had three wicked stepsisters and an evil stepmother, who always wore a blue turban and liked to go around slashing people’s heads off.”

The
amenoukal
gazed at her in fascination. Tillie launched into the story Hannah had told her and her sisters a hundred times. Aware that the men would hardly understand a word she said, she embellished the tale with every tidbit that came into her mind. She couldn’t bring herself to look into the men’s faces, so she stared out at the moonlit river and the gleaming dunes beyond it.

“And so the handsome prince fell in love with the beautiful Cinderella in her silk gown and glass slippers,” she went on. “They danced and danced all the night long until the clock began to strike twelve. Of course, you fellows probably don’t know what a clock is. Suffice it to say, it was way past Cindy’s bedtime.”

She drew out the story as long as she could, unconsciously knotting and unknotting her fingers as she spoke. “And, of course, the glass slipper fit, and the prince knew right away that this poor little housemaid was his beautiful Cinderella. He asked her to marry him then and there. She said yes, of course, so he put her on the back of his white stallion, and they rode off to the castle to live happily ever after. And that’s the end of that one. Now, um . . . Snow White. Let’s see . . .”

In the moment she was silent, the
amenoukal
reached out and clamped his hand over Tillie’s. “Enough story, Tree-Planting Woman.”

He forced open her palm, drew a wide circle, and pressed its center with his forefinger. She jerked her hand away, but it was grabbed by a second man who made the same motion on her palm. When the third man repeated the gesture, Tillie yanked her hand from his grasp and pushed it deep into the folds of her burnous.

“That’s enough.” Shaking, she turned away from the men and looked at the swaying grass. “I’m not doing it, and I don’t—”

“Tree-Planting Woman.” A man at the far end of the row snatched her wrist.

“No,” Tillie snapped. “Leave me alone. I get the idea, okay?”

The man opened Tillie’s palm and took the third finger of her left hand. Grasping the beaded ring, he pulled hard and twisted so that she yelped in pain.

“Ouch! Listen, buster—!” Tillie drew back to clobber him when her focus crystallized on the man’s face. She narrowed her eyes and looked under the indigo turban that swooped over the man’s forehead and mouth and wound into a wide knot at his neck. She could see a few strands of black hair, a pair of dark eyebrows, a long nose. A broken nose. And then his right eye—a deep blue-green eye—winked.

She stifled a cry, turned to the other men, and took their palms one by one. As Khatty had instructed, she drew a line from wrist to fingers, signifying her refusal of each man’s attentions.

When she held the
amenoukal
’s hand, she felt the heat of his desire against her own cold fingers. She traced a hard line from his wrist to his fingers, then folded his hand and shoved it away. He sat bolt upright, rage darkening his features as she traced and retraced the palm of the man who sat at the end of the row.

Grunting in acknowledgment, all the men rose and ambled away. But the
amenoukal
turned back to Tillie and looked at her with hatred in his eyes. She picked up the amulet and held it out in front of her like a shield.

“Ssst,”
she hissed. “Don’t take another step. The Tree-Planting Woman has chosen. Go away.”

The chieftain glared at her for a moment longer, then whirled on his heel and stomped off. Alone, she rose to her knees and searched the clearing. Could she have imagined it? No, there he was now. The man in the indigo turban slipped out of the shadows and ran to her through the tall grass. She jerked off her veil and held out her arms.

“Graeme!” she whispered as he caught her up and swung her around and around. “Is it you?”

“You scared me half out of my mind with that stunt back in the canal, Tillie-girl. It feels good to hold you again.”

She slipped her arms around him and laid her cheek on his dark burnous. “Graeme, your life’s in danger here. The
amenoukal
will kill you if he finds out who you are.”

He tilted her chin and brushed her lips with a quick kiss. “Let’s get out of here. It’s a short hop to Mopti, and I’ve got an old truck waiting for us in town. Come on.”

He nestled her against his side and led her across the clearing toward a copse of tall banyan trees. But when they reached the first tree, someone moved out of the shadows.

“Tree-Planting Woman!” It was a woman’s voice, filled with whispered terror. She beckoned across the clearing.

“It’s Khatty,” Tillie told Graeme. “She’s seen us.”

“It’s okay; she knows about me. She’s the one who rigged me up in this outfit.”

“Tree-Planting Woman, come to my tent!” Khatty took Tillie’s hand. “Bring black-haired man. Ahodu Ag Amastane is there. He waits for you. He cannot believe you choose another. You must show him you do not escape, or he comes after you now. Already he thinks you trick him. Come, come quickly!”

“We can’t afford to let him catch on yet,” Graeme’s voice was low. “If he’s after us, we’ll never make it to Mopti. Come on, we’d better do what she says.”

“No, Graeme! You don’t know the man like I do. I can’t go back.”

Khatty stood wringing her hands. “Tree-Planting Woman, Khatty protect you. You see. Come! Come!”

Graeme gave Tillie’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and prodded her forward through the brush. Khatty breathed a huge sigh of relief and faded into the night.

Approaching the lighted tent, Tillie could see the
amenoukal
standing before the open flap, his fists planted on his hips. His black burnous fluttered and whipped behind him, its golden waran lizard flashing in the firelight. She tried to breathe normally as she led Graeme up to the fire, knowing the
amenoukal
was now close enough to unleash a death swing with his broadsword.

As they took the final steps toward the awning, Khatty materialized beside the
amenoukal
and grasped his arm. Pulling him to her side, she began singing a high-pitched love song and stroking his hand. Tillie avoided the man’s gaze and slipped into the tent.

Graeme followed her through the dusky room and into Khatty’s chambers behind it. “Come here, Tillie,” he whispered, pulling her close. “Scared?”

“Not anymore.”

Holding her tight, he stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She rested her head on his chest and listened to Khatty’s song. Tillie watched the
amenoukal
’s shadow as he paced back and forth. He muttered angrily, resisting his wife’s advances.

“Tillie.” Graeme’s whisper sent chills down her back. “Have you seen any weapons in this room? knives or anything?”

She shook her head. “They’re all in there. With him.”

“Then we’d better lay low until he settles down. Come on, let’s get a couple of those pillows.”

Still numb with disbelief that Graeme had found the caravan, wooed Khatty into giving him a disguise, and then rescued her from the
ahal
, Tillie watched him drag a heavy pillow to the center of the room. He sank onto it and propped his elbows on his knees.

She looked down into the face of the man she had thought she might never see again and couldn’t hold back a smile. Graeme looked completely out of place in the sweeping turban and jeweled burnous. She could see his jacket discarded on the carpeted floor. Out of one skin and into another. He was a man who fit wherever he found himself. Thank God.

Thank you, God!

Reaching up, he took her hand and pulled her down onto his lap. They sat in silence, listening to Khatty make up soothing poems to placate her angry husband. Her practiced charms soon began to take effect, and the man at last stood still to let his wife work her loving ministrations upon him.