Free Call of the Trumpet by Helen A. Rosburg’s Page B

face split into an enormous grin. “Oh, my,” he repeated.
“Allah karim
… God is merciful.”
    Though she wished to, she could not hug him. Instead Cecile took his hands and squeezed them tightly. “You’ll never know how glad I am to see you, Jali!”
    “Less glad than I, I think. For all along you knew where you were. I did not.”
    “Oh, Jali, I thought you’d been …” Cecile bit off the words, unwilling to speak them aloud. “How did you get here?”
    “The same as you.”
    “You mean … ?”
    He nodded. “Yes, El Faris.” Jali quickly related his tale, beginning with his rescue by the fisherman and ending with his ride to the camp to await Cecile’s rescue. He added, “El Faris is a good man, a great man.”
    Cecile bit her tongue. In spite of events, she had her own opinions. “I must hurry, Jali, and help Hagar. But will I see you again tonight?”
    “Most certainly. I have many jobs to do for El Faris in return for food and the protection of his camp. I will be here.”

    The tent lay in a gently fluttering heap by the time Cecile returned. She helped Hagar fold and pack it and then the tent goods. The whole was loaded on the back of a patiently kneeling camel.
    “I am but a poor old woman,” Hagar said, “but I serve El Faris, and in his generosity he has given me my own riding camel.” The crinkles around her eyes deepened with pride and pleasure. “He has also given me a
maksar
so we may ride in comfort. I will go and fetch the
dahlul.”
    Before Cecile was able to protest, Hagar had disappeared within the general confusion.
A camel?
she repeated to herself.
Ride a camel?
    She was in the desert now, yes. She would learn the ways of the people, certainly, for she wished to be a part of their world. But she had, after all, been raised a European, and Blackmoore was an Englishman, not a real Badawin. Furthermore, she had been raised on a horse but had never so much as seen a camel before her arrival in North Africa. Surely Blackmoore would allow her to ride one of his horses!
    Without giving the matter the thought she should have, Cecile turned and marched toward the center of the camp.
    She spotted him outside his tent. He was dressed in a simple white
towb
that reached to his ankles, with wide sleeves and an open collar. Over it he wore a
zebun,
a light, buttonless coat lined in red. The end of this
khaffiya
fluttered in the breeze as he nonchalantly fondled the muzzle of his white mare. He was, she was forced to admit, a striking figure of a man, particularly in his desert robes. And, in spite of herself, she remembered how he had swooped her onto his horse, the steel of his arms, the strong, muscular back to which she had clung.
    Cecile also recalled, however, the way he had strung her along, concealing his identity while he probed her with questions. Adding further fuel to her anger, she spotted, behind the man casually fondling his horse, an extremely pregnant black woman bustling about packing his tent goods.
    Cecile’s temper ripened into full bloom. She strode up to him and planted her hands on her hips. “Who do you think you are? And what do you think you’re doing?”
    The dark-skinned woman looked horrified. Blackmoore looked amused. “Why, I’m waiting for Hajaja to pack my tent, of course. What are you doing? Besides upsetting and distracting her, I mean. Ahmed, her husband, will be most upset with you.”
    “With me? What about you? A woman in her condition shouldn’t be doing such heavy work. I suppose you’re going to make her strike and pack your tent, too?”
    He shrugged. “Why not? It’s a woman’s work. I only wonder why you are not doing your own,” he added pointedly.
    His crooked grin made her so angry it took a moment for her to remember why she had come. “I’ve done my work, if you must know,” Cecile retorted. “I merely came to tell you I prefer to ride a horse, not a camel. In fact, I refuse to ride a camel.”
    “I see,” he replied calmly.