Page 14 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

I find myself almost angry. “Why did I bother to learn all those cooking skills you said were so important?” I hiss to Aunt Tizemt, as we sit side by side, eating the good food, which tastes like dust to me after a day of endless cooking. I feel strangely awake and feverish.

She frowns. “What are you talking about? Look how much everyone is enjoying the food we have prepared. Look at your brothers – I believe they have become camels after living with them so long – it doesn’t seem possible that a mere man could eat so much in one sitting.

” She chuckles and reaches out for another cake.

My aunt loves the little spiced honey-soaked cakes and considers no feast complete without them.

“Well, he has barely touched the food.”

She raises her eyebrows. “ He ?”

“The second-in command.”

“What, you don’t know his name yet?”

“Yusuf bin Tashfin.” It comes out too quickly because I have whispered it to myself all day.

Aunt Tizemt grins as she takes another bite and speaks with her mouth full. “Oh, so you are offended because Yusuf does not cram his belly like your brothers?”

I shrug, embarrassed. “Perhaps there is something wrong with the food.”

“I do not think so – look at everyone else here, eating until they groan. He is known for being a very disciplined man. He follows a very strict diet, so they say.”

“What else do they say?”

My aunt smiles. “There is not much to say. He does not care for filling his belly with rich foods and drink. He drinks water and eats but little. He prays to God. He plans for a country united and obedient to the will of God. This is his mission, his dream.”

As the night draws on there is dancing and singing, much discussion of the visitors’ plans as well as general gossip. The children begin to sit by their parents rather than chase around.

The old storyteller Aghbalu makes his way slowly to the main fire where the meat was roasted.

By now the flames are dying down a little but the children, seeing him make his way there, revive and dash about to gather up more firewood.

They like the flames to be high when he tells his stories, for then his gnarled old body and his sun-faded robes take on movement and make his stories come alive as his arms wave and his feet take on some old-remembered nimbleness as he plays every part – handsome young men, terrible djinns, beautiful maidens and their fearsome mothers.

Now the flames rise higher, and the children shelter by their parents, who lie back on their elbows or squat comfortably to hear the story. Suggestions are shouted out.

“The moon lady!”

“No, no, the terrible djinn of the desert!”

“Aghbalu! The courting of the camel-girl!”

Aghbalu smiles and claps his hands loudly. There is silence. “Some of us are too old to need to be reminded of our origins.” He points at my father and nods at the roars of laughter as my father good-humouredly bends his strong lithe body and imitates the shuffling of an old man.

“Some are too young.” He points at a baby, asleep in the golden firelight and the women coo.

“But these ones,” says Aghbalu, and he points at the young men of our tribe who have chosen to join Abu Bakr’s Almoravids. “These ones must be told once again a great and wondrous story so that they will not forget where they have journeyed from, however far they travel on their mission.”

The crowd waits. Aghbalu smiles. He knows how to build up the tension. He claps his hands again. “Tonight, I tell the story of Tin Hinan and the goatherd.”

There is a murmur of approval, and the crowd makes itself comfortable.

Aghbalu waits a moment and then gradually sinks to his knees on the sand. He stretches out his arms and looks into the distance of the night.

“What do I, a poor goatherd boy, see? What is this sight that comes towards me? It seems to me that I see two camels approaching but this surely cannot be, for there is no-one who lives nearby but my own poor family and none of us has such fine camels. One is very pale, indeed as it comes closer, I believe it is white.”

There are nods. A white camel like my own Thiyya is a sought-after rarity.

Aghbalu peers far away. “The camels are coming ever closer. And what do I see on these two camels? Two women. All alone in this great desert, far away from anywhere. Their long robes move in the breeze. One is a small woman, strong and wiry. She is a fierce one, a fighter for sure, loyal and kind. She wears robes of black with much embroidery. Her camel is a fine beast, sturdy like her. They could go a long way without succour.”

More nods. But everyone is waiting for the description of the other woman.

“Closer they come to me and still closer. My goats are restless and curious. Some scatter but I do not chase after them. I am too curious about this mirage. Is it a many-headed desert djinn, come to claim me for its own? Should I run? But I cannot bring myself to run for I have never seen such a woman as this one who leads. Her camel is white, and it has blue eyes. Such a rare camel! Such a camel would be fit for a princess. I look slowly further up, and I see long red robes of great fineness, and then…”

In the firelight he slowly stands and in doing so transforms into a tall and wondrously beautiful woman, graceful and queenly in her bearing, her robes shifting shades of red in the flames.

Her face is handsome, framed with long dark hair and high cheekbones.

Aghbalu’s voice grows higher and stronger as he bends his head graciously towards a small boy sitting by his father.

“Who are you, child?”

Under the gaze of the entire camp only one answer can come from the boy. “I – I am a poor goatherd, lady.”

The lady-Aghbalu nods slowly. “And where do I find myself, goatherd?”

The answer is on every person’s lips. “You are near the Oasis of Abalessa, lady.”

“Is it far?”

“No, lady, but one more day’s journey. My family gathers dates from the palms that grow there and our flocks drink from the waters. But there is no one who lives there.”

“Then it will do very well. And you and your family may always come and gather dates from the oasis and bring your flocks to water. Thank you, child.”

The lady bends her head again and turns away. But the goatherd cannot resist asking a question.

“Lady?”

Her profile comes back into view before she continues her journey.

“What is your name, lady?”

The camp waits for the great name to be spoken.

“My name is Tin Hinan.”

The camp settles back, satisfied. The boy hugs his father in delight at having been part of history.

Aghbalu allows him a majestic smile before he gently squats back to the ground, somehow losing the woman’s shape as he does so and taking back his own form.

“Yes, she was Tin Hinan. A tall woman, of great beauty and strength. She was a noble woman. She set out from the Oasis of Tafilet and went across the desert with her faithful servant, Takama. The country they travelled across was empty but when they came to the Oasis of Abalessa Tin Hinan established herself there. She had a daughter, Kella,” he nods in my direction, acknowledging the importance of the name I was given at birth, “from whom came the noble tribe of Kel Rela. Takama had two daughters – from one descended the tribe of Ihadanaren, from the other the tribes of Dag Rali and Ait Loaien. Tin Hinan gave the oases of Silet and Ennedid to the two daughters of Takama, and their descendants have them still today.” Aghbalu pauses.

“She died a great queen, and when she was buried, she was placed on a bed of leather and adorned with her finest robes. On her right arm she wore seven bracelets of silver. On her left, she wore seven bracelets of gold. Beside her were laid fine drinking vessels. Many songs were sung for her and many stories are told of our great Queen Tin Hinan, the mother of all our tribes. This story is but one: the day when Tin Hinan heard tell of the Oasis of Abalessa from a poor goatherd boy.”

Whistles and applause break out, along with shouts of praise, before the camp begins to disperse, bellies and minds replete.

The younger children are taken to the tents, a few adults still linger, talking amongst themselves.

Here and there some of the young women are still dancing but they are growing tired.

I see Yusuf turn away from the sight of them, devout even in this.

He is sat near my father and now they begin to talk together.

I edge closer to them, walking softly and slowly, hoping not to be noticed.

“Kella.”

“Amalu,” I say, one eye still on my father and Yusuf.

“I came to your tent but could not find you,” he begins.

“I am very tired,” I say, moving back a little.

“I wanted to give you something,” he says.

The men nod between themselves. I wonder what they are speaking of, if I can find out more about Yusuf’s plans for the Maghreb.

“Kella?”

I drag my attention back to Amalu. “What is it?” I ask, impatient.

“Nothing,” he says and walks away.

I feel bad for a moment but now my chance has come.

I manage to step closer to where my father sits and sink to the ground behind him.

My heart beats so fast and loud inside me that I think everyone nearby must hear it, but the men are oblivious to me and continue to talk amongst themselves.

I must steady my breathing to stop the pounding in my ears when Yusuf speaks, his voice clear and slow.

“Your help has been invaluable. The information you have given us will make our journey smoother and our chances of success greater. We have trespassed too long on your hospitality and our mission must begin. We will leave tomorrow.”

My father nods. “Yusuf, Abu Bakr, I thank you for your faith and trust in me. I am but a humble man and if I have helped your mission, then I am glad. It is my duty before God to help you in your mission . I will ask Allah to bless you in my prayers.”

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