Sahara Crosswind (5 page)

Then the instant of breathless perfection was shattered. The sun rushed over the horizon and blazed with fierce pride upon its harsh desert kingdom. Jake shaded his eyes against the sudden onslaught and saw the first stirrings of life within the camp. He sighed, knowing the moment was gone, yet reluctant to release himself from the thrall of what he had just seen and felt.

He started to reach for his weapon, then stopped. As cautiously as possible, he swiveled about, an inch at a time. Yes. There it was. Some flicker of motion had alerted him, and now he could see clearly. On the cliff behind and overhead and to his right a head was raised, clearly silhouetted against the new dawn sky. And there beside the head a dark line protruded over the edge, far too straight and true to be anything but a gun barrel.

Jake sat in utter stillness, wondering if the intruder realized he had been spotted. Eventually the gun barrel was drawn back, and the head disappeared. Only then did he risk a full breath, rise to his feet, and scramble back down the hillock to the camp.

Chapter Five

Omar listened to Jake's report with the focused alertness of a hunting falcon. When Jasmyn finished translating, Omar called for the three elders to join him and the story was told yet again. Jake watched them digest the news in silence and then waited for the eldest to speak first. Jasmyn translated the old man's question as “How long a gun?”

“Hard to say how much of the barrel I saw, but I'd guess it was man-sized. And he had a ribbon or tassel or something dangling off the end.”

Tension crackled through the group. Omar demanded, “He wore a large blue turban?”

“The color I couldn't tell,” Jake replied. “But the headdress was broad and flat, yes.”

It was enough for the senior elder. “Tuareg,” he declared.

“Tuareg are desert warriors,” Jasmyn explained to Jake. “Mercenaries.”

Omar spoke harshly, and Jasmyn translated, “They were once a tribe like ourselves. Now they are jackals and vultures. No longer do they hold animals nor wells nor pride of their own. They are a scourge, killing the weakest men and beasts when they can. They take anyone's silver and accept any task. Nothing is too low for the Tuareg.”

“It's us they're after,” Jake said, and knew a sinking sense of defeat. He said the words so they would not come from Omar and the elders. “Maybe we should take off on our own. No need to put your tribe at risk.”

But his offer was met with vehement refusal. “No desert hyena will stop us from our task,” Omar replied for them all. “We know now to move with caution.”

“You think they'll attack?”

Omar shook his head decisively. “It is not their way. Even if they were certain of your presence, the Tuareg would not
attack the Al-Masoud. We are too strong. No, they would harry us like the vultures they are. But for now they are armed only with suspicion and greed. First they will seek to learn if we harbor their prey.”

“So what do we do?”

“Prepare,” Omar replied, and strode back into camp.

The mountains that paralleled their course were barren and bleak, shaped by wind and heat so fierce that Jake often heard rocks splitting open at midday. They cracked with lightning force, frightening the animals and causing the men to raise weapons and search the empty peaks. But not for long. Experience had taught them that few bothered to stalk the occasional traveler here so far from water. Greater dangers lay closer to the wells.

Jake walked alongside Omar and Jasmyn, trying to match the chieftain's long strides, falling into the rhythm of Omar's speech and Jasmyn's translation. “Ours is the tribe of Al-Masoud,” he said through Jasmyn. His voice took on a timeless timber, chanting words spoken by countless generations, teaching Jake as he himself had been taught. “We are known as the desert foxes, for those of us who wish can travel great distances at great speed and be seen only by those to whom we grant vision.”

He stretched out his hand. “Ask anyone in the desert. They will speak of us with respect. No one has ever said a bad word of our tribe. We follow the command of hospitality. We give of our best. This is the way of honorable men.”

Today the move was short, less than twenty miles. It was part of a yearly cycle that took Omar and his tribe across eight hundred miles of desert and mountain and sand and rock and scrub. The search for pasture never ended in this, their arid homeland. They walked and rode with all their belongings strapped to their camels' backs, and earned the right to stand with pride by the simple act of surviving.

“We follow the customs,” Omar went on, his voice rising
and falling in practiced cadence. “We respect our tribe and our elders. We love our children and our animals. It is enough. Dawns begin with prayers and the lighting of fires and the milking of animals. Milk and fresh curds are our lifeline. Our animals feed us and clothe us and grant us the products which we can trade in the cities. We show our gratitude by treating them well. Normally we do not trek every day. This we do for you. Normally, when the milk bowls are not filled at dawn, it is our animals' way of telling us that the grazing is poor and it is time to find new pastures.”

Omar's commanding presence made him appear much taller than he truly was. Although he stood an inch below six feet, Jake often had the impression of looking up to him, especially when he was speaking. His features seemed carved from the rough red sandstone of the surrounding cliffs, his body lean and hard and sparse. His bearing was erect, his dark gaze farseeing and direct, his voice solemn and sonorous. Omar was every inch a leader.

They tracked a narrow flatland that was bordered on one side by the sandstone Atlas foothills and on the other by the sand mountains of the Western Sahara. To either side the dry and looming shapes were as mysterious and beckoning as death.

“The sheep need water every three or four days,” Omar went on. “The camels can last up to two weeks, but that is not healthy for them.”

Jake nodded and heard not just the words but the message. Here the options were simple and stark, either water and life or thirst and death. It was a leader's responsibility to know every well, every seasonal creek, every sinkhole within a range of eight hundred miles. And in a world where sand mountains were carved and shifted overnight this was the task of a lifetime.

A young man walked two paces behind them, proudly leading Omar's camel with its high-backed, embroidered leather saddle. This duty was passed to each adolescent of
the tribe, boy and girl alike, granting them an opportunity to walk with their leader and learn from seeing him in action.

“This has been a good year,” Omar continued through Jasmyn. “The sheep and camels have been fruitful. There has been grazing, there has been water. Only two wells were dry, and one choked with the poison of salt. A good year. And your coming shall hopefully make it better.”

“We will hold to our pledge of payment,” Jake promised.

“It is good to speak with one who honors his debts,” Omar replied when Jasmyn had finished translating. “But life teaches us to count the silver pieces only when they ride in the purse at our belts.”

Jake nodded but didn't answer. He could feel himself storing up lessons with every breath, as he had little chance now to ponder them deeply. This life was too new and too hard to allow much contemplation. The land through which they passed was one vast anvil, the sun and the heat dual hammers that pounded constantly upon his body and his spirit and focused his energies toward survival. But still he knew, on some deep visceral level, that much was being taken in and stored for an easier time, when he could sit and reflect and understand.

If the heat and the trekking bothered Omar, he did not show it. With natural motions he swung his body in time to his strides, constantly checking in all directions, inspecting the outriders, the shepherds, the animals, the children, the women, the way ahead. Jake asked, “Where do we stop tonight?”

“Ras-Ghadhan,” Omar replied. “A village of shadows, some of them our own.”

In translating Omar's words, Jasmyn's voice took on a slight tremor. Jake glanced down. “Is something the matter?”

“My mother told me once of this place,” she replied. “I had nightmares for many weeks.”

“While my father's father was still chief and my father was still young,” Omar intoned, his voice a chant as constant
as the wind, “the droughts came and the animals died. We trekked from oasis to well to lake to oasis and found no water. Wells that had known water from the dawn of my tribe's history, a dozen generations and more, gave us nothing but mud and dust and despair. So we went to the village of Ras-Ghadhan. There was water and work and a moneylender who owed my tribe enough silver to feed us until the waters reappeared.

“Aiya,” Omar sighed a painful breath. “The stories we gained from that city. The scars. Those are stories we shall ever wish to forget, stories we shall carry untold to our grave.”

“His father's father,” Jake mused. “It must have been, what, sixty years ago, and he talks like it happened yesterday.”

“Every village and every tribe has a storyteller,” Jasmyn explained. “Their job it is to make the past live again for yet another generation, to remind them of the great, the glorious, the sorrow, the traditions, the heritage. For these people, the past is not a half-forgotten legend. The past is as real and as vital as the present. It gives definition to both their lives and their tomorrows.”

“The Tuareg are a people who were once like us,” Omar continued, and Jake's head jerked upward at the name before Jasmyn had a chance to translate. “The drought came and they went to the city of Raggah, five days north from here. They, too, were scarred. Like us, they had the city's stories branded upon their hearts. But the Tuareg were not strong. It is only at a time like this, when the world strips away all that was, that a man comes to know his secret strength. The Tuareg had no well of strength to draw upon, so in the end they sold their souls to the city. Now they wander the streets. They slave at tasks meant for no man. They stoop in the market and argue for hours over a penny. Their lives are filled with words and money and city smells. The Tuareg, who were once like us, are no more a people of honor. They have been devoured by the city. They are shadows.”

Omar raised his head and said to the empty desert sky,
“The Tuareg are no more. Behold the danger of looking to the city when the drought comes. The Tuareg are no more.”

Chapter Six

The village outskirts were marked by the roadway becoming imprisoned. Walls of clay-daubed stone grew and enclosed them. After his time in the desert, Jake felt as though he were suddenly gasping for air.

Clearly Omar shared his unease. Through Jasmyn he said, “I for one will know comfort only when my back is toward this place.”

“Then why are we stopping here?”

“Because it lies directly in our path,” Omar replied. “If it was indeed Tuareg you saw upon the cliff, they will most likely seek to inspect us here, as this is a village to their liking. To avoid it would draw undue suspicion our way. And if they do appear, we will know with certainty that unwelcome eyes are turned our way.”

The walled path narrowed further until two camels could scarcely walk astride. Through a sudden gap in the wall, Jake caught a final glimpse of the desert; as far as he could see in every direction was nothing but flatness and sand and sun and heat. Then the village swallowed them.

The hamlet was tiny by Western standards, smaller even than the grounds of a large Western estate. His hood drawn down far enough to shield his blue eyes from sight, Jake followed the others down the dusty way, past two small squares where women drew water from stone wells. He had the sudden impression that these walls had been built to protect the village's most precious possession—water.

The caravansary was a dismal affair, a litter-strewn walled plaza utterly barren save for a well and two bedraggled date palms. Their only way in or out was by a narrow passage leading back through the heart of the village. Jake watched Omar bow and salaam to the village elders who hurried over, and knew he would sleep with one eye open that night.

Taking water from another tribe's well meant more than an hour of negotiation. All that while, beasts and children bellowed from thirst, pressing Omar to make a hasty bargain. But he was a man of strength and patience and did not turn away until he was satisfied with the deal.

Jake helped raise the water by harnessing camels to long ropes and drawing up skin after skin, which was then tipped into metal cisterns. As always, the animals drank first, then the people. When it came his turn, Jake bent over the cistern to wash his face, and was startled to find a German air-cross staring back up at him; the cistern had been fashioned from the wing of a downed fighter plane. He carried that thought with him as he helped erect the animal paddocks. Here in the desert, nothing was wasted. Nothing.

Omar walked over holding a bloodstained bandage. Through Jasmyn he explained, “Wear this about your forehead, and if we are approached you must draw the edge down over one eye, and keep the other in the bandage's shadow.”

Gingerly Jake accepted the cloth and inspected the red stain. “Who wore this last?”

Omar granted him a small smile. “Even the sheep make sacrifices to keep you safe.”

His chores finished, Jake joined the other men by the smaller cooking fire. Omar himself saw to the little teakettle and the leather bag of sugar, pouring out thimblefuls of black, highly sweetened tea, making sure each man had his glass before serving himself.

Traditions like this ruled the tribe's daily existence, offering a framework for living in this harsh and desolate land. This time before the evening meal was always a moment of peace and satisfaction. The tribe had been brought safely through another trek, there was food, there was water, there was safety. Now was the time for talk.