Call of the Trumpet Read Free Page B

numbness was gone, cleansed away as the earth is washed by the rain. She wiped her eyes and pushed back the long tendrils of hair that had fallen over her shoulders, then patted her patient, faithful mare and urged her back into a lope. The early night surrounded them.

    Long years Jali had known Sada’s daughter. All of her life. And he knew her well, better, perhaps, than anyone. He could tell by the set of her shoulders or the tilt of her chin what kind of mood she was in. Through her eyes he could read her soul. So he knew, when he saw her lead her horse in through the wide double doors of the stable, that she teetered on the brink of a momentous decision. He could see she had cried, and the tears had cleansed her soul. She was ready now, ready to hear and to know, and to decide what she inevitably must. Jali leaned his pitchfork against the wall.
    “
Al guwa, ya halaila
,” he greeted her.
    “Allah i gauchi
, Jali,” Cecile replied automatically. “Allah give you strength in return.” She lowered her eyes, avoiding Jali’s intense gaze.
    Jali overturned a bucket and lowered himself gingerly into a sitting position. He watched Cecile unsaddle her horse, give her a brisk rub, and return her to her stall. He waited while she gathered her thoughts. At long last she looked up at him from beneath the thick, dark fringe of her bangs.
    “Tell me about my mother, Jali,” she said. “Tell me about how she and Papa met.”
    “This I have told you many times,” he replied, a smile in his voice.
    “Tell me again, Jali. Once more. Please.”
    “Very well.” Jali shifted until he was a bit more comfortable. He let the soft and fragrant silence of the stable descend upon them, and looked deeply into his mistress’s eyes. This telling of the tale, he knew, would be the last.
    “I met your father when he came to the
suk
in Damascus,” Jali began at last. “He had lately come from Egypt, where he had met, and been befriended by, the great Ali Pasha Sherif. All knew of the Frenchman who had bought the finest of the shaikh’s horses. All knew he looked for a guide, someone to take him into the desert in his search for more of our proud and noble steeds. So I went to him, and I was young and strong then, and we became friends and into the desert we rode together.”
    He continued the tale and watched as Cecile listened to, and drank in, the familiar words. How her father and Jali had gone from tribe to tribe, until they came at last to the camp of Mustafa, one of the strongest shaikhs among the desert peoples. How the camp was raided by enemies and many camels and horses were stolen. How her father could not refuse when Mustafa asked him to ride at his side when they went out to reclaim their animals and take revenge upon their foes.
    “He was fearless, your father,” Jali continued. “He rode Al Hamrah, and at the shaikh’s side waited outside Mustafa’s tent for his eldest daughter to appear.”
    For it was Rwalan custom that the chief’s eldest daughter lead her father’s men into battle. Heavily veiled, mounted on an elaborately decorated
maksar,
a camel saddle, she was to lead the mounted men against their enemies.
    “And this she did, as dawn broke upon the sands, for Sada was brave, even among her kind. She was one of the greatest of Rwalan women, revered by all who knew her. She rode at the head of the party until they reached the camp of the raiders. Then she stripped away her veil and tore open the bodice of her garment, revealing her breasts, and giving a great cry, led her father’s men into battle.
    “It was then your father loved her, when first he looked upon her lovely face, and saw her courage. And later, when they returned victorious, she looked upon your father and love was in her eyes, also. This I saw. Allah had written on their page long before. It was meant to be.
    “So, in time, your father asked Shaikh Mustafa to give his daughter in marriage, and so great was your father’s fame, and