Page 11 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)
“I will take good care of her.”
My aunt laughs. “You will spend all your time making up poems in her honour and insults for all the other boys to make her think better of you and worse of them. I know your reputation as a fine crafter of words.”
He waits, casting quick looks at me from under his dark lashes.
Aunt Tizemt relents. “Oh, very well then. She must have some fun. I admit she has worked hard and learnt a great deal in a short time. Perhaps she had better learn some new skills from young people instead of a grumpy old woman like me.”
“Yes, Lalla .”
“Yes, what? I am a grumpy old woman?”
He shakes his head at having fallen into her trap and makes his escape, winking at me as he flees. Aunt Tizemt laughs to herself and turns her attention back to the skin. After a few moments’ work she speaks to me over her shoulder.
“Tonight, you may go to the ahal . It is in the small oasis half an hour from here. Nothing there but oleanders and palm trees, but I am told the oleander flowers are out now – every colour you can imagine. Don’t drink the water there though, the oleander poison may have tainted the water.
Take a waterbag. And you can take my amzad with you if you wish.
About time you learnt to play it. I have too many other things to be teaching you. Someone else can be your teacher.”
I want to know more. “I have never been to the ahal . What happens there?”
Tizemt sighs. “You have missed out. I spent all my evenings there when I was a young girl. I was a very fine dancer. I know you think I have thick ankles and wide hips, but my sturdy ankles kept me dancing long after the other girls had tired – and then the boys had only me left to look at.” She chuckles to herself, remembering her youth.
“The ahal is a place close to the main camp, chosen for its charm, where young men and young women can meet, talk, joke. The boys will make up all sorts of insults for each other and recite love poems to you girls. You girls will play music, sing, dance. About time you learnt to dance as well. Can you sing? I have never heard you sing at your work.”
I make a disbelieving face. “What is there to sing about?”
She reaches over and slaps at my ankles. “Stubborn girl. Well, you will start learning tonight. That Amalu cannot wait to recite his love poems to you after all your chattering about your travels around half the world. And the girls will show you how to dance and play the amzad .”
I hurry inside the tent and come out holding the single-stringed instrument. “How do you play it?”
She waves me away. “Go, go. Better to learn such things from your friends than your elderly relatives. I could not repeat the bawdy songs without making you blush.” She grins and returns to her goatskin, growing soft under her strong hands.
***
The oasis is beautiful in the light of the setting sun.
The heat of the day gives way to the welcome cool of the evening.
The palms are very tall but some of the boys risk the climb to pluck fresh ripe dates, pale gold in colour, crisply juicy within.
The oleander flowers range from palest white to dark purples.
The light makes the surrounding sands glow and the well’s water is fresh and sweet, with none of the promised taint of oleander poison detectable.
We sit, seven girls and five boys, eating the sweet dates and drinking the fresh water.
Amalu begins a soft beat on a small drum and a boisterous girl named Tanamart begins a comedy dance; a small palm tree her solid and dependable, if uninspired, dance partner.
We laugh and cheer her on. Tanamart winks and holds out her hands to me.
“Come now! The newest member of our ahal ! You must learn to dance. Come and dance with me.”
I demur, embarrassed, but am coaxed to my feet and hand in hand with Tanamart I learn my first dance steps, how to move my hands and sway my hips.
The sand is warm under my bare feet and the cool air caresses my arms as I move them.
I am conscious of Amalu’s smiling face and the beat of his drum that guides my steps.
The rest of the evening is spent teaching me more steps, with much laughter over my very poor attempt at playing my aunt’s instrument and applauding of the boys’ poems, which range from romantic to insulting depending on their intended recipient.
Amalu is quieter than usual, his friends teasing him for shyness in front of his lady-love but he only smiles and spends his time improvising rhythms on the drum for the others to dance or recite to.
It grows late and cold. Slowly we begin to depart. Amalu holds down his hand from his seat on his sand-coloured camel. “Will you ride back with me?”
I hesitate but the other girls nudge me forward, giggling.
I smile and hold out my hand to be helped up onto the camel.
He pulls me up to sit behind him. I try to settle myself.
I have not ridden behind anyone since I was a tiny child behind my father.
It feels strange not to hold the camel’s reins, not to see where we are going.
Instead, I hesitantly put my arms about Amalu’s waist and feel his warm hand cover mine.
The others clap and laugh. “We will accompany you home,” calls out Tanamart.
“You will do no such thing,” retorts Amalu and he spurs on the camel so that we quickly outstrip them. It is a strange feeling to be on the back of a camel galloping without having control over it and I hold Amalu more tightly.
Once we are comfortably ahead of the others, he slackens the reins and allows his camel to walk. We are all alone in the darkness and for a few moments I rest my head against his back and hear his heart beating, feel our bodies slowly rock together with the pace of the camel.
He peers round at me. “Have you nothing to say to me?”
“What would you like me to say?”
He sighs. “I would like you to say that your heart beats faster when you are close to me. That you like to ride together like this. That you would ride with me always.”
My heart beats a little faster. “Would you be a trader?”
“I would.”
“And I would travel with you?”
He laughs. “You would be here, in the camp. With our children.”
I am silent.
“I would come home often,” he assures me. “I would not be able to stay away from you for long. You are too lovely.”
I stay quiet and still.
He speaks again, more cautiously. “Would you not like that? Do you not favour me? I hoped you might look kindly on me.”
When I speak my voice is low. “I loved the trade routes and our life there. But most women must stay at home and weave and bear children.” I stop, for my voice is wavering.
“And you would not be happy to do so?” asks Amalu.
My voice is so low I am not sure he can hear me. “I want to travel the trade routes again.”
“Alone?”
My face is growing warm. “With a husband and my children,” I say. “I would be happy to travel alongside a husband, to trade together.”
Amalu is quiet. “It is not a life for a woman,” he says at last. “Women stay in the camp. Would you not be content, if you were my bride?”
I am silent. I feel the warmth of his back, think of his gentle way of speaking, of his good nature. I try to weigh what I feel for him against the desire to travel again, to trade. To be free. I was a trader once, but I am uncertain about this trade. I am not sure if it is weighted in my favour.
Amalu speaks again, very soft and low, his head tilted back towards me. “Will you be my bride, Kella?”
My heart is full, but I do not answer. I am distracted by the sight of the main camp.
The fires should be burning low, families finishing their evening meals and beginning to think about sleep.
But as we approach there is the sound of music, of people talking and laughing.
The fires are burning brightly and there is a smell of roasting meat.
The children are awake and excited. As soon as they catch sight of us, they run shrieking in our direction.
“They’re here! They’re here!”
Amalu looks up, startled. “Who is here?”
“Kella’s father and brothers! And they have such news!”
I let go of Amalu’s waist and slide quickly down from the camel, running towards the camp, leaving him alone.
My father looks up with a warm smile as I run towards him. My five noisy brothers whoop and leap up to hug me, before delivering me to my father’s side by the fire. All the camp is gathered to hear the news and see them after many months’ absence.
My father hugs me tightly and then leans back to get a good look at me. He speaks over my head to my aunt, who is beaming. “Tizemt, I congratulate you. I see a grown woman, not the half-man I brought you! She is most beautiful, and I am sure most accomplished. Can she weave? Sew? Cook?”
“All of that and much more besides.” My aunt is proud.
“I am in your debt, sister.”
I interrupt, tugging at his arm like a child. “They said you have news.”
My father nods. “I have, exciting news. Sit by me and I will tell you everything.”
The camp makes itself comfortable, the older children as keen to hear the whole story as the adults. The smaller children sit in their parent’s laps but doze, the words meaningless to them. My father waits until everyone is ready and then begins.