A Land Far Away

*Held

Children of N'asr, and N'asr's child?

Rising heat shimmered the horizon. Sand and rock disappeared as it seemed to reflect the blue of the sky, becoming a taunting vision of water. But the tribe knew better. There was no water to be found here, nor anywhere else nearby for that matter. Two more days would see them at the next shallow watering hole.

If At’ar hadn’t claimed it for herself out of spite, shrinking it with her cruel heat.

There were almost seventy of them, true Bedines each and everyone, strung out in a long train of camels. The men rode a thousand paces out, guarding the baggage camels upon which the children rode, and which the women led. They all were shrouded against the sun in light colored aba, the loose fitting robes of the Bedine.

No one spoke, or laughed, or sung, for it was midday, and to opens one mouth needlessly was to waste water, and every true Bedine knows that to waste water is to invite N’asr to your tent. The only sound was the creak of leather, and the steady drone of camel hoof crunches on crusted sand.

At'ar rose in the sky as she sought to dominate all she could see with her heat. Even by Bedine standards it was a stifling day. The air hung heavy and unmoving, thick as the desert sands over which they hung.

Out of the desert air black shapes became known in the air. N’asr’s children circled distantly marking out death in the desert. The tribe changed its course just slightly so what had happened could be known. Water skins were loosened as they travelled, each woman and child taking three mouthfuls of brackish water, each man taking five. They would drink more when they rested, and the body could hold it better.

As they neared the spot marked by N’sar's children, the great birds slowly circled down to feed. Whatever had been keeping them at bay had perished. No one in the tribe made haste. Haste in the desert was also to invite N’sar to dine at your tent.

The warriors of the tribe arrived first.

N’sar’s children looked up evily from their meals their heads and long sinuous necks covered in blood from where they had plunged into the bodies of their meals. Reluctantly they took to the sky as men dismounted and clicked their tongues at them. They would be back, they had all the patience of N’sar himself.

Camels and the bodies of Bedine lay scattered around. Beyond the damage that had been done to their bodies through the feeding there was no sign of what killed them. The warriors stood guard while they waited for El Yatagan their chief to arrive and provide direction.

Eventually the tribe had gathered and looked at the disturbing scene. No one recognised the fallen tribe. No attempt was made to cover the children’s eyes. Better they know, and appreciate the realities of life, and death.

El Yatagan spoke from his camel.

“Strip the dead”.

The warriors went to work, taking all of value. Children were lifted from the baggage camels and the spoils of the dead were taken in their place. No one spoke, no one asked the question how? because no one wanted to know the answer, which could have been terrifying and awful in of itself. The camels were stripped of their tents, and carpets, and few precious pieces of furniture and cutlery. El Yatagan managed a grim smile when he saw a warrior lift a battered iron cook pot. Such was great wealth in the desert where metal was prized above all.

Warriors were stripped of their rings of gold, and small double edged jambiya as well as larger curved scimitar. Belts and boots were taken as well, and a few precious gems from what looked to be the chieftan.

Eventually all that was left is picking over the bodies of the women. El Yatagan clicked his tongue and gestured forward. The women of the tribe went to work, no less thoroughly stripping the women of anything of value, yet being careful to preserve their modesty, even in death. Suddenly a cry of surprise went up, followed by the eerie wail of a babe.

A woman hastily shifted back down the Aba to preserve the modesty of the dead. From underneath was movement and the wails of the babe.

El Yatagar dismounted and made his way forward, all eyes from the tribe on his scowling face.

“What is it?” he demanded.

The woman in question carefully lifted the fold of the aba to show the boy babe still cradled in the dead womans arms. From the sliver of breast that was visible and the streak of milk and vomit on the babes chin it was clear the babe had been drinking the milk of the dead. There was a collective in-rush of breath at the horror of such a thing.

“Leave it” El Yatagar commanded. The woman reluctantly let the fold of aba fall over the babe who continued to wail. There was no shame in such a thing. This tribe was unknown to them, and they owed them nothing. Clearly the child was cursed, and if not, well, his tribe had been. They began to disperse back to finish stripping the tribe of all of value and use. Eventually only one woman stood looking at the mewling bundle, while the others went about their grim tasks.

She turned and sought out El Yatagar and prostrated herself at his feet. He frowned down at her.

“What is it woman?” he once again demanded in a harsh voice, the scenario making him very uneasy.

She looked up. Though her face was hidden behind her veil he recognised Dajala, the widow of his nephew Kabina who had been died of fever after breaking his leg when thrown from his camel. She had lost his unborn baby but four days ago during her grieving. “I wish the babe as my own” she pleaded.

“No, the child and tribe is cursed by N'sar, i’ll not invite that curse unto us” there was a tone of finality in his decision.

“El Yatagar, I beg of you, I have nothing and no one, i’ll never take another man, that is the honor I give to Kabina, but I do not wish to be alone, please allow me the child”.

El Yatagar looked around at his senior warriors. A few shook their heads. None spoke yes with their eyes. Honouring the shade of his nephew was important, but to take this child into the tribe? It could not be done.

“If you take the boy, he will never be of us, he can never be Mahlaji” El Yatagar said, naming their tribe and fully expecting her to change her mind.

She nodded and he frowned.

“He will never bear a weapon as a warrior”.

She nodded again and his frown deepened.

“He will never have help from any of the tribe, all his needs will be upon you”.

Again the maddening woman nodded, making El Yatagar curse inwards.

“He has eaten of the dead, never shall he own a camel, and never shall he eat meat”.

There was a huge tension in the air as they waited for Dajala to realise what she was doing and come to her senses. No meat? What would the child eat? Regular supplies of tubers and such were hard to come by, and with no camels... he would never be seen as a man, nor could he ever take a wife. What kind of life could that be?

Once more Dajala nodded and bowed her head.

When there was no more demands on the child made she dared to lift her face to look upon her chieftan. He mounted and wheeled his camel with a harsh command. “We leave, now!”.

Dajala’s veil hid her smile as she hurried to fetch the wailing babe. She swaddled him within her own aba, and took a moment to lift the dead womans veil to look at her face. She gasped at what she saw and hurriedly let it fall again. She stood in shock a moment before the braying of camels called her back to her senses. She stumbled back, the boy swaddled under her aba. She mounted and rode, her mind in turmoil, wondering at what she had done. She did not protest when he found her breast and began to suckle.



*Artwork by ArthusokD

Very nice, Rumple.

Forced bond.

El Yatagar commanded them to press on through the night. He spoke in tense and curt words. Clearly he was not happy. No one dared to suggest that he was upset and scared by the vate of the other tribe. They all were. Children were strapped to the top of baggage camels, women took the camels of the men, and men walk silently, their eyes straining under the silvery light of Elah and the starry trails that followed her across the sky.

Dajala rode with the babe in her arms, balancing easily on the back of the camel. Every now and then she would pull back her aba to look upon his perfection. She wiped a little crust from under his nose. He moved his head, almost in annoyance but did not cry out. What a blessed babe he was, and blessed was this day.

It had only been a week since her beloved Kabina had died of his fever in terrible pain and suffering. Then but a few days later when she had lost their child in her grief. This babe surely could not be more than older than that. Could it be that this was her Kabina returned to her? Had he escaped the clutches of N’sar? Had he cut his way out of his tent, and stolen N’asr’s dark camels, riding back to her in the body of this child? Or could this be their unborn child, having hidden himself from N’asr in the body of the child?

Either way she knew she must have had him. Whichever of the two he was.

He would need a name. She could not call him Kabina, not when the tribe thought him cursed. It would invite outrage. She would call him... Asad, Lion. Her special name for Kabina, used only in the privacy of their tent in tender moments between wife and husband.

As the harlot At’ar slowly fled the tent of her lover N’asr and lit up the sky, the tribe reached their destination. Their oasis.

Welcome home, my beautiful Asad.

Dajala stopped the camel with a click of her tongue. What of the woman who carried him... his mother? Dajala shuddered. What could that have meant, those tattoos on her cheeks, how could a woman disfigure herself so?

Dajala put these horrid thoughts out her mind and looked once more down at her perfection. Her son, her Asad, her lion. She worked her finger into his tiny balled fist until his tiny perfect fingers were wrapped around her.

Her finger felt warm despite the chill in the desert morning.



*Image by Marie Mason