Sahara Crosswind Read online

  It was hard going for all but the camels, whose great wide hooves splayed out flat and kept them from sinking down. For the others, each foot dragged, every step sucked from the blistering sand. By midday, even the nimble-footed goats were complaining.

  They walked nine hours with only two short breaks, yet managed only six miles. Jake knew this only because Omar told him. Distance meant little in this barren world. For a while that afternoon, as they struggled onward, Jake had wondered if perhaps Omar had led them astray. Each crested sand dune revealed nothing in any direction but more sand, more undulating hills, more heat. There was no track whatsoever, no road signs, no directional markers, nothing with which to determine either progress or bearing.

  But then, as the sun began its grudging descent, a paint-daubed thorn tree came into view. All the tribe offered loud cries of relief and pride that Omar the desert chieftain had led them correctly yet again.

  Around the thorn tree spread scattered desert scrub on which the animals could feed. It was the first vegetation they had seen all day. Jake helped form the paddocks with shreds of wood bleached white as old bones, then gathered with the others for the customary evening tea. There was no firewood; by tradition the bits of wood kept at the site were to be used only as paddocks. Their tea and the evening meal would be cooked over portable stoves, a necessity that everyone loathed because it left everything tasting and smelling of kerosene.

  Sunset that evening was transformed by clouds gathering on the horizon, an event so rare that all work was stopped. As the orb slipped behind the cloud, a silent symphony of colors lit up the sky, and drew appreciative murmurs from them all. Jake watched the others as much as the sky itself and wondered at a people who could stop and share in the beauty of something that for himself had so often gone unnoticed.

  When the spectacle finally dimmed, Jake asked through Jasmyn, “Does it ever rain here?”

  “Oh yes,” Omar replied. “I remember it well. It turned the plain we were walking into a river and swept away several of the animals. Then the next day the entire desert bloomed. I will never forget that vision. Good and bad together.”

  “When was that?”

  The entire group entered into a spirited discussion. Jake waited and watched, wondering if perhaps he had broken some desert etiquette. The argument continued on until night veiled the camp and the tribe was called for the evening meal. Jake followed Jasmyn toward the cooking fire and, when they were apart from the others, asked, “Did I say something wrong?”

  She looked at him with genuine surprise. “What could be wrong in asking an honest question?”

  “Never mind. Come on, I want to speak with you and Pierre.”

  Together they walked over to where Pierre sat brooding over the sleeping form of his brother. He lifted his head at Jake’s approach and declared, “We no longer have any choice, my friend.”

  Jake squatted down beside him. “He’s worse?”

  Pierre nodded, his face deeply furrowed. “I am greatly troubled. We must get him to a facility that can offer proper medical care.”

  “Do not trouble yourself so, mon frere,” said a weak voice. All eyes turned toward Patrique. He smiled faintly and went on, “Pierre always did the worrying for both of us.”

  Jake asked, “How do you feel?”

  “That I have more than enough strength for the task at hand,” Patrique replied. “It is a good plan.”

  “I think so too,” Jasmyn agreed.

  “For myself, I am too worried to think,” Pierre said. “So I must trust in the judgment of you three. Though I confess it tears at my heart to do so.”

  Jasmyn reached over and took his hand, her gaze as soft as her touch. “It is only for a short while, my beloved. We have been separated before, and for much longer, and much farther apart in spirit. This shall pass in the blink of an eye.”

  “Even that is far too long,” Pierre replied.

  Jake cleared his throat, the night filled by the love that spilled out from them. “You two need a couple of nights off. I’ll stand watch with our friend Patrique here until we arrive in Raggah.”

  “They were right in what they have told me,” Patrique said. “You are indeed a good friend.”

  Pierre looked torn. “You are sure—”

  “Thank you, Jake,” Jasmyn said, rising to her feet and drawing Pierre up with her.

  But before they could depart, Omar walked over with two of the elders. He spoke briefly to Jasmyn, who turned and said to Jake, “Twenty-four years.”

  “What?”

  “You asked when it had last rained. It was twenty-four years ago. They are sure.”

  Jake struggled to his feet. “They’ve spent all this time trying to figure out when it rained?”

  “Smile and nod your gratitude,” Jasmyn said quietly. When Jake had done so, she went on, “You are an honored guest. You asked a question, and they wished to answer you honestly. It was not a simple matter. You see, Jake, there are no calendars here, no birthdays beyond the one marking a child as an adult. Time is measured by events. They had to tie the rainfall to the events of that period, measuring back by other events. This camel had foaled, that person was born, another died, counting back over the seasons until the date was arrived at. Twenty-four years ago it rained.”

  “Please thank them,” Jake said feebly. His mind rang with the impact of foreignness. The desert way.

  Jasmyn turned and bowed and spoke solemnly. The men responded with beams of real pride. Omar patted Jake on the shoulder, turned, and walked away.

  Chapter Eight

  Although Patrique had a restful night, Jake found himself sleeping with one eye and ear open. So it was that he was up and ready before the guard came within ten paces. He slipped on his boots, grabbed his rifle, stood, and bent over to check on the sick man one last time. Then he heard the whispered words, “Take me with you.”

  He jerked. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I sleep far too much. It comes and goes like the wind. You’re going out on watch, yes? I want to come with you.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Please, my friend. Let me share your sunrise.”

  Jake helped him rise and dress, then with one hand holding his rifle and the other steadying Patrique, they made their way out of camp. Awkwardly they climbed a nearby rise. When Jake had settled Patrique near the peak, he descended to the camp and returned with two glasses and the pot of watch tea. They sat and sipped in silence for a time until Patrique spoke. “I have seen you walk out while the camp was still sleeping and seen you return after the sunrise. Your face changes while you are away.”

  Jake hid his embarrassment behind noisy sips of his tea that cooled the liquid as he swallowed. “You’ve been watching me?”

  “Not intentionally. But I often find it hardest to sleep around dawn.” Patrique paused to sip from his own glass. “Pierre has told me of your faith. I hear in his voice how it has given him strength. But I see it most clearly in your face, when you return from watching the sunrise.”

  Patrique lifted his gaze toward the star-flecked heavens. “There were times of great despair in that dungeon, Jake. I felt as though the darkness would crush my very soul. That day, when I heard a voice call out my name, I thought at first it was death come for me. I thought the tragedy of my imprisonment had given me the power to hear what should always remain hidden.”

  Jake sipped quietly and shivered from more than just the night’s lingering chill.

  “But the voice came from above,” Patrique went on. “From the only place where light entered into my dark hole. And then I knew. I was hearing an angel. An angel with the voice of my brother. Even after I knew it was real, and my nightmare might indeed come to an end, still I knew that the angels had been at work. I knew that it would take the power of heaven to pierce the darkness that enslaved me with chains upon my heart as well as my limbs. So I was not surprised when Pierre began speaking of this new power in his life. I had already seen i
t at work, you see. I had already sensed this power at work.”

  He turned to look at Jake. “So tell me, friend of my brother. What is carried upon the sunrise that leaves you with the power shining from your face?”

  “I couldn’t put it into words,” Jake replied, ashamed by his inadequacy.

  “Then show me,” Patrique quietly implored. “Please.”

  Jake nodded once, closed his eyes in a moment’s prayer, then turned his face toward the awakening east. Patrique followed his example, sitting in utter silence there beside him, his eyes searching in the gradually strengthening light for that which remained unseen.

  Little by little the silence drew into their souls, stilling their mind, opening them to the quietest of sounds. Breaths of dawn wind puffed about them, whispering gentle secrets. Sand shifted and cascaded, an animal bleated, a loose fold on one of the tents flapped open and closed. The light strengthened, and with it the sense of sharing more than that which was seen with the eyes. The veil of night lifted enough to reveal an ocean of softly undulating sand waves stretching into the horizon. All was still and silent and timeless.

  Jake reached into his pocket for his Bible, found his place, and read the next verse from John’s gospel, “Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whosoever committeth sin is the slave of sin. And the slave abideth not in the house for ever: but the Son abideth ever. If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.”

  He stopped, lifted his gaze, and heard Patrique murmur to the horizon, “Free.”

  Jake reached over, clasped Patrique’s shoulder, bowed his head, and spoke the words resounding through his silent mind and heart.

  Chapter Nine

  Two days later they arrived at the oasis of Raggah, a broad lake sheltered by a veritable forest of palms. When he crested the final rise and the lake came into view, Jake stopped and gaped with the others, mesmerized by the sight. In the space of three weeks, he had forgotten how beautiful so much water could be.

  Swaths of green stretched down two neighboring gullies, marking the track of streams that broke through the rock and delivered their precious load overland. Amidst the trees and brush raced a wealth of wildlife—ostriches, hyenas, gazelles, monkeys. Butterflies by the millions scoured the lake’s surface, feeding upon the water flowers and the blooming reeds that lined one bank. After days in the barren sand, Jake had difficulty taking in this sudden wealth of life.

  Across the lake from them rose a city as yellow as the barren earth that surrounded it. The Atlas Mountains rose majestic and ocher in the background. This was the first real town Jake had seen in what felt like a lifetime. Jake was not sure he liked it. He was amazed by how his perspective had changed. When he had first left the city for the desert, he had felt he was leaving all civilization behind. Now, as he left the desert for the city, he felt as though the joys of living were soon to be lost, the beauty of life recaged, and his world filled with meaningless clamor.

  Omar and Jasmyn climbed the rise to stand behind him. “Raggah is a place of great glory,” Omar said, looking out over the city. “And like all such places, a home to much tragedy. It was here that the lords of the western deserts ruled the trade routes of the northern and western Saharas. Gold, ivory, myrrh, frankincense, salt, slaves—all traders paid tribute to the rulers of Raggah.”

  He pointed out over the cloudless distance. “From that citadel they held life-and-death power over the local tribes. The chieftains were all-powerful, ruthless, and often cruel. When the great drought drove the Tuareg into this city, Raggah and the chieftains devoured their souls. Now the French have restricted their evil, but only to a point. Their cruelty is not ended, only held in check, like a vicious dog on the Frenchmen’s chain. Be careful here.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Still Omar stood and gazed out over the city. “To my people I give the wisdom of the desert and the wealth of my camels. People in towns such as these live for money. That is not our way. That is the hunger that never ends, the thirst that is never quenched no matter how deeply they draw from the well. No, money is for those who have chosen to live as the blind.”

  Jake stood and looked out over the city and felt the words settle to the very depths of his soul.

  “We hold the wealth of blood,” Omar said quietly. “By this we mean the good name of our tribe. It means we treat our animals well, we pass on the tribe’s wisdom and lore to our children, we show the desert hospitality to all. It is a wealth that lasts and does not blind one to the power of the day.”

  He turned and faced Jake square on. “I have thought long on your words of our walk together. I have decided that our two who beg to learn will go to the Christian school. They will study the knowledge of which you have spoken. They will return and teach our people the meaning of this Christian love and Christian peace.”

  “You do me a great honor,” Jake said, humbled by the man’s gift of trust. “I will hope and pray that your decision brings new and eternal wealth to your tribe.”

  “This also do I hope. Come,” Omar said. “Let us descend and make camp.”

  Travel-weary caravans from a dozen different locations took rest along the lake’s shoreline. As they walked the long path skirting the oasis, Omar intoned each name in turn. “They are of the Al Moyda’at. And those the M’Barek, a good people and our friends for many generations. And on the other side, the Mahmoudi. They are not to be trusted. Beyond them the Tebbeh from the reaches far to the south, here to trade their gold for salt and wares.”

  Each camp was carefully guarded, showing fierce hostility to most who passed or looked their way. At one camp a man strode forth, bowed and spoke and gestured for the chieftain to join him. Jake walked on with the rest of the tribe, drawing the desert hood down farther to shield his eyes, and watched as Omar respectfully declined the invitation.

  They kept themselves hidden from prying eyes by making camp at the lake’s far side. At dusk a pearly glow settled over the city. From the city’s ancient mosque, the muezzin called the faithful to the day’s final prayer.

  As night gathered, fires glowed the entire length of the lake and glimmered along the distant city’s walls. Their glow and the sunset burnished the lake to a coppery sheen. Fishermen glided gracefully across this brilliant surface, poling themselves in slender boats as long as the surrounding trees were tall. Jake spent the cool hour watching these fisherfolk, two polers working bow and stern, while from amidships three others fanned out nets, tossing and pulling them in with motions older than written history.

  While the evening meal was being prepared, Jake and Pierre brought Omar to the lakeside, and through Jasmyn explained the plan. He heard them out in silence, then stared out over the darkening lake. Finally he said, “For several days it has been clear that your brother is not up to the journey. But I did not feel it my place to speak first.”

  “It’s the only idea we have had,” Jake said, speaking for them all. “But if you have a better one, we would like to hear it.”

  Omar examined him. “How can you be sure that the French are not after him as well?”

  “Even if they are, it will be for Patrique and not for us,” Jake replied, hoping that what he said was true.

  “It is doubtful,” Pierre added, “that the traitor could order a hunt for Patrique through official French channels without revealing his plot.”

  “We are hoping that the people who ordered us to proceed northward will be watching for anything like that,” Jake explained.

  Omar pondered their words long and hard before the call came to gather for the evening meal. Rising to his feet, the chieftain said, “I can see no danger in this plan that another plan would not also contain, and I have no other idea as sound as this one. We shall think on it further this night and see what the dawn brings before deciding.”

  Patrique was feeling fit enough to join them for the evening meal, but his eyes glittered feverishly in the firelight. Watching him, Jake knew at some deep level that tonight mark
ed an ending. Come what may, this portion of his journey and his life was over. Jake looked about the campfire, studying each of the faces he had come to know so well, trying to etch the power of the memory and his feelings upon his very soul.

  He sat and ate as the others did, dipping into the communal pot using only his right hand, the action totally natural now. He accepted a goatskin, drank, passed it on. He listened to words he could not understand, seated in the dust at the very frontier of civilization, surrounded by men and women who could neither read nor write, and felt himself to be the richest man on earth.

  Abruptly Pierre stood, helped Jasmyn to her feet, and motioned for Jake to join them. He raised his hands for silence, then said through her, “I have told this to Omar, but I wish to also speak these words to all the tribe. It is only because of the help you have given that my brother is here and alive today. The tribe of Al-Masoud has placed upon me a debt that can never be repaid.”

  “Hear, hear,” Patrique said hoarsely.

  “Although much of my time and energy has gone to caring for my brother, still I have learned much from my time with you,” Pierre went on. “One such lesson is that questions are rarely asked about what is considered private or personal. Still, I think you may like to hear how we came to be with you.”

  An appreciative murmur rose around the fire. Pierre looked at Jake and asked, “Shall you start, or shall I?”

  “You’re doing fine so far.”

  Pierre began with the cries of the young Lilliana Goss through the wires of the detention camp—in mistaking Pierre for his missing twin Patrique, she had set the whole saga in motion. Pierre carried them through the search for his brother in Marseille, took them along on the hot, dusty train ride to Madrid and Gibraltar, then told how Jake had saved his life both in a smugglers’ cafe and again on a boulevard in Gibraltar.