daughter's name and taking off in the direction she'd gone. Grabbing a handful of sugar from a sack by the door, Nayir slipped into the stables.
The interior was as dark as the folds of a woman's cloak. He fished out his penlight and switched it on against his palm in case he was standing too close to the animals. He didn't want to startle them. The scent of manure lodged in his throat.
Once his eyes had adjusted, he raised the penlight, approached the first stall, and peered inside. A camel was asleep on its belly. Nayir backed away and an instinct kicked in, telling him to speak softly to the beasts; they weren't awake, but they would hear him anyway and know he was friend, not foe. He whispered as he crept down the aisle. He passed stalls on each side, most of them locked, some stirring with life. Peeking into each one, he saw its prisoner sleeping, and he crept on to the next. He was looking for the camel that wasn't asleep, the camel that was too anxious to rest. He picked his way through the stable, annoyed for once that the Shrawis kept so many camels on a useless island in the middle of the sea.
Finally he found her. The camel was white, her fur yellowed by the penlight. Nayir stood back from the stall door, murmuring a soft lure for the animal inside. It seemed to take a very long time, perhaps a full ten minutes, for the camel to climb to her feet with a rustle and a groan, blowing another whiff of dung in his direction.
He continued to whisper phrases until he heard the beast nudge the stall door. He stopped whispering. The camel nudged again.
With enormous care he unlatched the door and let it drift open. He kept his eyes on the floor and mumbled pleasantries until the camel shook her head with a delicate whinny, indicating that Nayir could approach.
He looked at her then and saw an elegant lady standing knock-kneed on a tuft of straw. Thick lashes accentuated her wide brown eyes, and she seemed to gaze at him with a mixture of bashfulness and curiosity.
"
Salaam aleikum
" he said. She nuzzled his arm. The keeper was right: this was not a traumatized camel, so who had told Othman otherwise? Nayir didn't think he would lie about the camel; it seemed more like the natural exaggeration of rumor.
He opened his palm, revealing sugar tablets in the penumbra of his penlight. She threw back her muzzle and gave another ladylike snort. When he raised the sugar to her nose, she gobbled it down faster than he'd ever seen a camel eat, and when she finished, she let him stroke her shoulders where the nerves and joints merged in a sensitive knot. She was tense—not as tense as he'd expected, but she'd had some exercise lately, more proof that she hadn't been kept in a cage. Finally, standing close enough to inspect her, he went over every centimeter of her fur with his light, looking for signs of injury or abuse. He found nothing. She was as happy and fit as if she'd just won a race, save for a lingering sense of alertness that had been easily quelled by a few soft words.
He patted her, stroking the nape of her neck, the shoulder, and down the left foreleg, where his fingers encountered something odd. It felt as if gelatin had dried in her hair, but a closer look revealed that lack of grooming had not caused the marks. He directed the penlight to the spot, and pushing aside the longer hairs, he found a place where the hair was shorter than the rest. It was a series of lines—five, to be exact, each no longer than his thumb. They looked like burns.
Five lines on the leg of a camel meant what? He thought for a moment, then it came to him. After tucking her in again and saying goodnight, he crept back out to the empty courtyard, baffled by his find.
6
K ATYA HIJAZI SAT in the back seat of the Toyota as her driver, Ahmad, steered through the darkened streets. He stopped fully at every corner, sipped coffee from his favorite white mug, checked the side streets (which were always empty), and eased forward, content to
The interior was as dark as the folds of a woman's cloak. He fished out his penlight and switched it on against his palm in case he was standing too close to the animals. He didn't want to startle them. The scent of manure lodged in his throat.
Once his eyes had adjusted, he raised the penlight, approached the first stall, and peered inside. A camel was asleep on its belly. Nayir backed away and an instinct kicked in, telling him to speak softly to the beasts; they weren't awake, but they would hear him anyway and know he was friend, not foe. He whispered as he crept down the aisle. He passed stalls on each side, most of them locked, some stirring with life. Peeking into each one, he saw its prisoner sleeping, and he crept on to the next. He was looking for the camel that wasn't asleep, the camel that was too anxious to rest. He picked his way through the stable, annoyed for once that the Shrawis kept so many camels on a useless island in the middle of the sea.
Finally he found her. The camel was white, her fur yellowed by the penlight. Nayir stood back from the stall door, murmuring a soft lure for the animal inside. It seemed to take a very long time, perhaps a full ten minutes, for the camel to climb to her feet with a rustle and a groan, blowing another whiff of dung in his direction.
He continued to whisper phrases until he heard the beast nudge the stall door. He stopped whispering. The camel nudged again.
With enormous care he unlatched the door and let it drift open. He kept his eyes on the floor and mumbled pleasantries until the camel shook her head with a delicate whinny, indicating that Nayir could approach.
He looked at her then and saw an elegant lady standing knock-kneed on a tuft of straw. Thick lashes accentuated her wide brown eyes, and she seemed to gaze at him with a mixture of bashfulness and curiosity.
"
Salaam aleikum
" he said. She nuzzled his arm. The keeper was right: this was not a traumatized camel, so who had told Othman otherwise? Nayir didn't think he would lie about the camel; it seemed more like the natural exaggeration of rumor.
He opened his palm, revealing sugar tablets in the penumbra of his penlight. She threw back her muzzle and gave another ladylike snort. When he raised the sugar to her nose, she gobbled it down faster than he'd ever seen a camel eat, and when she finished, she let him stroke her shoulders where the nerves and joints merged in a sensitive knot. She was tense—not as tense as he'd expected, but she'd had some exercise lately, more proof that she hadn't been kept in a cage. Finally, standing close enough to inspect her, he went over every centimeter of her fur with his light, looking for signs of injury or abuse. He found nothing. She was as happy and fit as if she'd just won a race, save for a lingering sense of alertness that had been easily quelled by a few soft words.
He patted her, stroking the nape of her neck, the shoulder, and down the left foreleg, where his fingers encountered something odd. It felt as if gelatin had dried in her hair, but a closer look revealed that lack of grooming had not caused the marks. He directed the penlight to the spot, and pushing aside the longer hairs, he found a place where the hair was shorter than the rest. It was a series of lines—five, to be exact, each no longer than his thumb. They looked like burns.
Five lines on the leg of a camel meant what? He thought for a moment, then it came to him. After tucking her in again and saying goodnight, he crept back out to the empty courtyard, baffled by his find.
6
K ATYA HIJAZI SAT in the back seat of the Toyota as her driver, Ahmad, steered through the darkened streets. He stopped fully at every corner, sipped coffee from his favorite white mug, checked the side streets (which were always empty), and eased forward, content to
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