The Book of the Seven Delights (20 page)

"The story of Joseph?" he said on a groan.

"It's a pivotal narrative in the Old Testament and the Torah"—hurting, frightened, and miserable, she was in no mood for a critique of her storytelling—"and is revered by two of the world's great religions."

"Neither of which is likely to be appreciated in a Berber chieftain's tent."

"Well, it was
you
who said I should tell a Bible story," she snapped. "I said I wasn't any good at it!"

"How was I supposed to know you were
right
?" he grumbled.

She clamped her mouth shut, refusing to waste energy on a response, and turned her attention to their surroundings. Around them, she could just make out stacks of crates, barrels, and bags of what smelled like grain. Outside she heard furious cries, the sound of horses, and the sharp retorts of guns. The silence that settled after that brief surge of violence weighted the darkness so that it soon became claustrophobic.

"This has to be some kind of record," he said, breaking the oppressive quiet. "A woman nearly beheaded by two separate Berber tribes in one week."

"What do you think they'll do with us?" she asked, feeling a little sick from both the honey-wine and the situation.

"Gut us and drape us over a spit, most likely. Roasted infidel."

"Can't you be serious for one minute?" she demanded, hoping to hide the tremor in her voice. "We're in real trouble here."

"Just like these hotheaded Berbers to stuff us away without gagging us." He groaned. "Now I have to listen to endless hours of 'This-is-all-your-bloody-fault.' Leave it to old Barek to devise a torture worse than being roasted alive."

After the urge to throttle him passed, she realized there had been a peculiar thickness to his voice as he trivialized their predicament, and her indignation began to dissolve. His insolence was purposeful. He was keeping his spirits up. And hers. Legionnaire style. Spitting in the face of danger. Suddenly the situation didn't seem quite so bleak.

Then she felt his fingers groping for hers and latched on to them as if she were drowning and they were a life preserver.

At his suggestion, she laid her head back against the pole and tried to get what rest she could. It was difficult; her thoughts kept roiling.

"What about Haffe? You think he got away?"

"I didn't see him in the melee, and he's not here with us. Maybe he did." After a few minutes, he looked over his shoulder at her. "I don't think they'll do anything to us before Barek has a chance to question us.

Even in these remote reaches, he can't just execute two Westerners on a whim."

"I don't understand. What did I say to make them all so furious?"

"Good God, woman, did you not see the stripes on their turbans? You were telling a story about a rich nomadic lord in the tent of a rich nomadic lord. Barek would naturally assume you were talking about him. Five will get you fifty that he has a lot of sons. And if he has a lot of sons from several competing wives, there's probably a helluva lot of rivalry. And you've seen how possessive and hot-tempered Berbers can be."

She groaned. "We're dead."

"Not yet," he said with a chuckle. "I refuse to die until I get my hands on the book that taught you to kiss like that."

Her heart lurched and quivered before resuming it's usual rhythm.

"What makes you think there's a book involved," she said tartly.

"With you, sweetheart"—she could hear the smile in his voice—"there's
always
a book involved."

Deep into that long night, as they slumped against the pole and dozed fitfully, a heavily cloaked figure slipped under the rear of the tent, paused, and then made his way toward the captives using the stored crates and bags for cover.

Something—a rasp of sand underfoot or a stir of air—caused Abigail to come awake with a start. She held her breath and her heart paused as she scanned the darkness for what had triggered her sense of alarm. The merest whisper of a sound both confirmed her suspicion and started her heart pounding.

Someone was in the tent. Someone who hadn't come through the main opening.

In a heartbeat, a chilling host of possibilities visited her… warring sons… jealous mothers… angry tribesmen… not to mention the vengeful Gaston and his Legionnaires…

An amorphous dark shape materialized from a stack of nearby barrels, moving steadily toward them. In the dimness she caught a dull glint of reflected light… long and smooth… a knife!

She sucked a breath to scream and the intruder lunged for her in the same heartbeat.

"No, no, Merchant ma'am—meee!" A frantic whisper came through her panic just as Smith rolled to his knees and launched himself into the little Berber's side, knocking him to the ground.

"No—it's Haffe!" she cried softly.

"Haffe?" Smith groaned as he rolled closer to the invader to see for himself. "Dammit, man—you better have brought a knife."

Moments later Haffe had cut their ropes and, as they rubbed feeling back into their constricted limbs, led them to the rear of the tent. He fell to his knees and peeked under the tent wall to see if the way was clear, then quickly scrambled outside and held the bottom of the tent for them. They followed one at a time and were soon sliding between the skin and canvas walls of closely packed tents. As they neared the cliffs behind the tent settlement, they had to flatten against a sheer rock face and edge sideways. At the end of that passage was a sheltered opening where three horses and two well-laden mules stood waiting.

As they approached, a diminutive cloaked figure stepped out of the darkness and joined Haffe. Abigail was shocked at first to see it was a woman, then not-so-shocked to realize it was the young woman who had traded gazes with Haffe in the chieftain's tent.

"Joleef." Haffe introduced her. "She help."

The girl produced two pairs of English-style boots from beneath her cloak and smiled.

Soon they were in their own boots again and staring at the sheer cliffs that formed the pass itself and at four armed guards crouched around a campfire in the middle of it. They had little chance of making it past the guards. And even if they managed to get through, the road beyond hugged the mountain in clear sight and easy rifle range for two hundred yards.

What they needed, Smith said grimly, was a diversion. Haffe exchanged whispers and a tentative handclasp with Joleef… who whirled and began to run quietly toward the road leading into the main pass, her cloak billowing. Seconds later, she started to scream and run up the road toward the pass.

The guards bolted up, searching the darkness, and spotted her. Three pulled their rifles from their shoulders and rushed to investigate, leaving the fourth reaching for the gun he had propped against the rocks nearby. Just before the men reached her, Joleef turned sharply toward the center of the camp, screaming and drawing the soldiers after her.

In the brief interval before the camp sprang to life, Smith, Abigail, and Haffe mounted up and dug in their heels to charge the remaining guard.

Startled by onrushing horses, the man jolted back against the rock and lost his grip on his rifle. By the time he recovered, located the gun, and fired at them, they were well along the narrow track around the mountain and his adrenalin-racked aim missed them by a mile.

The path on the east side of the pass fell steeply along the mountainside, but the knowledge that they would soon be pursued drove them to a reckless pace. At the first curve it felt as if they might go plunging over the edge of a cliff, and at the next straight section the path narrowed and the horses slid and stumbled on loose rock.

Haffe went first on his Arabian-Barb and after the first harried curves, the mules' surefootedness began to steady the horses. By the time they reached the second major switchback, both horses and riders were moving with greater assurance.

But not for long.

The sharp retort of rifles sent them barreling down the road, through crevasses of wind-scoured red rock and along narrow drops that made Abigail close her eyes and Smith curse under his breath. Dawn found them lowering into the foothills with Barek's men still in pursuit.

With richer air and surer footing, they began to run for the ribbon of green that would lead them to the oasis village of Ouarzazate. The horses, which had displayed their fearless Barb heritage on the perilous mountain tracks, now proved their Arabian blood by stretching out to cover ground with an air of release. The mules had difficult keeping up at first, but soon were pounding along doggedly after the horses.

The sun was overhead when they paused on the brow of a craggy hill to look back and spotted their pursuers arrayed above them on the rim of a cliff.

"They've stopped!" Abigail panted. "Why?"

"Who cares why," Smith said, shading his eyes. "They
stopped
."

"Lands of brother," Haffe declared with authority. "Barek not welcome."

Just as the relief of that registered and Abigail closed her eyes with a murmur of gratitude, she heard Smith's "What the devil?" and snapped back to the edge of her nerves.

Far above on the cliff, Barek's men remained poised and still, but someone or something was moving at their backs and heading down the winding track. Another minute passed before Smith and Abigail could make out splashes of white over patches of khaki. Uniforms. White hats—kepis—like those worn by Legionnaires.

"Dammit!" Smith swore. "No Legionnaire patrol would give chase at a chieftain's command—if they're coming after us, it's because they were already after us! It's Gaston and his cutthroats."

Without another word, he reined his horse around and dug in his heels. Abigail followed suit and once again they were racing across the rocky hills, headed for the trickle of green visible on the northeastern horizon.

They rode hard through the heat of the day, pushing their horses, knowing that there was no relief to be had except in the river valley that carried life-giving water down from the mountains. There they could find shade, water, and most importantly, cover.

The grueling pace seemed to have paid off that evening, when they stopped at a grove of palms outside a dusty village in the Draa Valley. They hadn't seen their pursuers in hours and had to gamble that Gaston and his men were as exhausted as they were and would have to stop as well. The sun was fully set and the dry air had began to take on a desert chill before they stopped to make a tireless camp. They drew water for the horses, ate food from their supplies, and wrapped up in their burnooses to settle down for the night.

As she tried to make herself comfortable propped against a date palm, Abigail couldn't help thinking about how narrowly they'd escaped… and about the young woman who had helped Haffe and made their freedom possible.

"That young woman… Joleef…" she said to Haffe, "she took a great risk in helping us."

He nodded with a smile that quickly faded. "Barek take to Imilchil." When asked what he meant, he reverted to French and Smith had to translate.

"Imilchil apparently is a marriage fair. Berber clans from all over come to find brides and make family connections. As Barek's niece, the girl is valuable for making ties. Barek intends to take her to the fair and arrange a marriage for her and an alliance for himself."

"Need camels. Soon." Determination filled Haffe's cherubic face as he pointed emphatically to the ground. "Find treasure. Fast."

She stared at him for a moment, her stomach sinking at the thought that he was depending on the riches of her "treasure" to help him win his much-anticipated bride. She turned to Smith with a muted glare.

"See what you've done."

Halfway through the next day they reached the first village and joined a number of other travelers watering their animals… including a small caravan that had stopped to take on water. As Smith and Haffe filled their canteens and water skins, Haffe talked with the camel drivers and learned they were bypassing Ouarzazate to head directly south. Seeing an opportunity, Smith spoke with the leader, a merchant named Abu Denaü. about joining the caravan to travel toward the southern oases and the route to Timbuktu. Denaü was a leathery, hard-eyed trader who quickly named an exorbitant sum for such a service. After spirited negotiation, pointing out that they had their own animals and water and would not slow the others down, Smith and Haffe got him down to a reasonable price.

"We're doing what?" Abigail said, coming wide awake from a doze of exhaustion and batting away gnats that swarmed everything that moved.

"This makes sense, Boston," Smith declared. "If we travel with them, their camels will obliterate our tracks and Gaston will go on to Ouarzazate and search for two days before realizing we never arrived there."

She handed over the money and they left the comforts of the wadi an hour later, setting off to the south in the company of two dozen heavily laden camels.

The terrain changed the instant they crested the edge of the river valley. Beyond lay sections of dry, stony ground that alternated with drifts of sand rippled by the wind. As they settled into a steady pace, the sway of the camels ahead and behind became lulling. The temptation to close her eyes and sleep was almost overwhelming for Abigail, until Smith said they needed to abandon their hats in favor of turbans because they needed to look more like Berber traders.

She spent the better part of the next hour learning to twist and tie a turban, and as irksome and tedious as that was, the reaction of the camel drivers to her attempts was worse. They snickered and guffawed and occasionally called advice to Haffe, who persisted despite their derision. Lacking a mirror, she had to trust him when he said her final attempt was adequate. But the way Smith chewed his lip when he looked at her gave her no confidence in her newly acquired skill.

It was when she put on her burnoose for protection from the sun that the muttering among the men of the caravan went from teasing to the edge of taunting. Her donning of a predominantly male garment marked her too clearly as a foreigner and infidel. Smith told her to ignore it; women in the desert also wore them for protection from the sun. But she began to feel a familiar dread when the men untucked the ends of their turbans and drew them down over their faces… veiling themselves against her eyes.