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Authors: Helen A. Rosburg’s
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into more debris-strewn terrain.
El Faris signaled and the group broke into a slow lope, the mile-eating stride for which the desert horses were renowned. Thus they covered a considerable distance in a short time. But it was too long in the saddle for Cecile. Once again, however, just when she thought she could not endure another minute, the end of their journey came into sight.
It was a modest-sized camp. Cecile saw several tents silhouetted against the night, tethered camels sleeping beside them. There was also a small herd of goats and sheep, who stirred nervously at their approach. Otherwise, the stillness was absolute.
Then there was a shout. The riders broke into a gallop. Half a dozen women and a few men emerged from the tents to greet the band. There was happy confusion as the riders dismounted.
But Cecile felt at a loss. What was she to do? Where was she to go? With El Faris? Her stomach spasmed. Was she his property now?
He seemed to have forgotten her, however. A woman led his horse away and, after greeting several people, he disappeared into his tent. If it hadn’t been completely against her nature, Cecile would have broken down and wept with the sheer frustration of not knowing what was to become of her.
Then an old woman hobbled in her direction. “My name is Hagar,” she announced without preamble. “You are to come with me.”
Cecile debated briefly. If she was going to get away, now was her chance. But where would she go? Where was she now? She had absolutely no idea. And she was almost too tired to care.
Cecile dismounted slowly, stiffly, and a second woman appeared and took her horse. Cecile hurried to catch up with Hagar and followed her into a tent.
A simply woven rug covered the ground. There was a small fire pit, a heap of camel dung fuel beside it, sleeping quilts and various utensils scattered about. In a corner stood a
qash,
the traditional box that contained a woman’s supplies. Hagar opened it and withdrew a bundle of clothing.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the bundle at Cecile. “Put these on.”
Without hesitation, Cecile stripped off the dusty cloak and harem clothes beneath. Clucking with disapproval, Hagar picked them up and carried them from the tent. To burn them, Cecile hoped. She picked up the garments Hagar had left.
Each tribe dressed a little differently. With a start, Cecile realized she had been given what looked to be what her father had described as the traditional garb of a Rwalan tribeswoman. Rwalan! Luck appeared to be on her side for once. She wondered if it would hold. What lay ahead?
Well, she would find out. She didn’t care if it was the middle of the night, or that her body ached and her eyes threatened to close even as she stood on her feet. She dressed quickly.
First Cecile donned the
towb aswab,
a long, broad-sleeved dress of dark blue, and caught it in at the waist with a red-and-black belt of woven goat hair. Last, she picked up the
makruna,
a head drape, and studied it for a moment. The other women she had seen had a particular way of winding it about their heads, and she copied it as closely as she was able, leaving the end to hang down the right side of her face. She secured it in place with a
mindil,
a thinly woven cord, and pulled the black cotton veil over her mouth. Hagar reappeared just as Cecile finished.
The old woman nodded with approval. “Better,” she pronounced. “Much better.” She indicated one of the quilts. “Now sleep. We move camp in the morning.”
Cecile remained motionless, fighting her fatigue and gathering her courage. “I’m sorry,” she said with quiet firmness. “But I must see the man who brought me here. He is your leader, I think.”
“See El Faris?”
So that
was
the name she had heard. “Yes, El Faris.” Cecile watched the old woman closely, expecting an argument, but it was not forthcoming. The old woman seemed to consider.
“Very well,” she replied at length. “I am aware of the
El Faris signaled and the group broke into a slow lope, the mile-eating stride for which the desert horses were renowned. Thus they covered a considerable distance in a short time. But it was too long in the saddle for Cecile. Once again, however, just when she thought she could not endure another minute, the end of their journey came into sight.
It was a modest-sized camp. Cecile saw several tents silhouetted against the night, tethered camels sleeping beside them. There was also a small herd of goats and sheep, who stirred nervously at their approach. Otherwise, the stillness was absolute.
Then there was a shout. The riders broke into a gallop. Half a dozen women and a few men emerged from the tents to greet the band. There was happy confusion as the riders dismounted.
But Cecile felt at a loss. What was she to do? Where was she to go? With El Faris? Her stomach spasmed. Was she his property now?
He seemed to have forgotten her, however. A woman led his horse away and, after greeting several people, he disappeared into his tent. If it hadn’t been completely against her nature, Cecile would have broken down and wept with the sheer frustration of not knowing what was to become of her.
Then an old woman hobbled in her direction. “My name is Hagar,” she announced without preamble. “You are to come with me.”
Cecile debated briefly. If she was going to get away, now was her chance. But where would she go? Where was she now? She had absolutely no idea. And she was almost too tired to care.
Cecile dismounted slowly, stiffly, and a second woman appeared and took her horse. Cecile hurried to catch up with Hagar and followed her into a tent.
A simply woven rug covered the ground. There was a small fire pit, a heap of camel dung fuel beside it, sleeping quilts and various utensils scattered about. In a corner stood a
qash,
the traditional box that contained a woman’s supplies. Hagar opened it and withdrew a bundle of clothing.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the bundle at Cecile. “Put these on.”
Without hesitation, Cecile stripped off the dusty cloak and harem clothes beneath. Clucking with disapproval, Hagar picked them up and carried them from the tent. To burn them, Cecile hoped. She picked up the garments Hagar had left.
Each tribe dressed a little differently. With a start, Cecile realized she had been given what looked to be what her father had described as the traditional garb of a Rwalan tribeswoman. Rwalan! Luck appeared to be on her side for once. She wondered if it would hold. What lay ahead?
Well, she would find out. She didn’t care if it was the middle of the night, or that her body ached and her eyes threatened to close even as she stood on her feet. She dressed quickly.
First Cecile donned the
towb aswab,
a long, broad-sleeved dress of dark blue, and caught it in at the waist with a red-and-black belt of woven goat hair. Last, she picked up the
makruna,
a head drape, and studied it for a moment. The other women she had seen had a particular way of winding it about their heads, and she copied it as closely as she was able, leaving the end to hang down the right side of her face. She secured it in place with a
mindil,
a thinly woven cord, and pulled the black cotton veil over her mouth. Hagar reappeared just as Cecile finished.
The old woman nodded with approval. “Better,” she pronounced. “Much better.” She indicated one of the quilts. “Now sleep. We move camp in the morning.”
Cecile remained motionless, fighting her fatigue and gathering her courage. “I’m sorry,” she said with quiet firmness. “But I must see the man who brought me here. He is your leader, I think.”
“See El Faris?”
So that
was
the name she had heard. “Yes, El Faris.” Cecile watched the old woman closely, expecting an argument, but it was not forthcoming. The old woman seemed to consider.
“Very well,” she replied at length. “I am aware of the
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