Page 6 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

I squat down to take off my shoes. I prefer to ride barefoot. My brother crouches beside me, the better to maintain our deception.

“Are you riding in the race?” An eager little boy is standing behind me. He tugs at my veil, tightly wrapped about my head, hoping for my attention.

“Let go,” I snap, feeling the veil loosen.

He makes a face at me and retreats. I fumble with the veil, trying to tighten it again.

It is difficult to do; it takes several moments each day to wrap it about my head as a turban and then tuck in the last part as a veil around my face.

To adjust it here, in a crowd, is taking too long and I cannot simply remove it and start again.

“Mount,” hisses my brother. “The signal will come at any moment.”

Quickly I mount Thiyya and move her into the starting place, alongside the orders.

A hush falls. Our eyes look for nothing but the signal and when it comes there is a slow pounding, growing faster and faster. The crowd yells and once again the riders’ blue robes float as though we are spirits of the air.

I am lost in the moment, in the rise and fall, the air clear around me as we pass the other riders.

I have missed this. The freedom of the wind rushing past my face, the strength and power of Thiyya.

A raw scream rises from my lungs as we pass the leading camel.

I look back to see the narrowed eyes of its rider, angry at being passed already, well before the halfway mark.

I hear the crack of his whip but there is nothing he can do.

I am flying. Thiyya turns as though she is dancing, twirling, and now I face all my competitors, their heads lowered against the rising sand and the taste of defeat.

I am already looking for the finish line, somewhere ahead of me in the whirling sand.

Now I hear the ground shaking as the other riders head back, still comfortably behind me but drawing closer and I turn for a moment to see them, shimmering blue shapes against the gold of sand and camels.

Looking ahead again I see the crowd trying to draw back as we reach them although there is nowhere for them to draw back to.

Their screams of excitement are mixed with fear, yet no-one would miss this moment.

I raise my arm in triumph when suddenly something blue flutters before my eyes and my whole headwrap falls, falls even as I try to catch it, but Thiyya is still running and my clutching is too late, I hear the gasps before it has even fallen to the ground.

For I might be dressed in a man’s blue robes and have cropped hair.

But I am no man. The winner of the camel race is a young woman!

People jostle forward to take a better look, children ask excited questions of their unhearing parents, and the runners-up begin to hurl insults, made fiercer by their shame at having just been beaten by a woman.

I look desperately this way and that, Thiyya’s head jerking up nervously at all the excitement and at my shaking hands on the reins.

I try to use part of my robes to cover my exposed face and then my head drops as I try to shield it from the gaze of hundreds of people, all staring at me in aghast amazement.

The reins are suddenly pulled from my hands, the leather burning my palms. The crowd falls back around my father as he tugs at Thiyya, who follows meekly as though she feels his anger and fears its redirection towards herself.

People begin to follow as he leads Thiyya back to our tent, but the look he throws at them makes them fall back. They rejoin their friends to gossip and speculate.

“Was it always her then? On that white camel?”

“Must have been.”

“It’s a disgrace. A girl! Racing!”

When they catch sight of my brothers in the crowd, they surround them, asking questions, some outraged, some teasing.

“What kind of man lets his sister ride in the camel races?”

“So – any more beautiful young women under those veils, eh? Perhaps your father has six daughters, not six sons as we were led to believe!”

My five brothers push past in silence, their eyes cast down.

I stand sobbing outside our tent. Thiyya noses me, her moist huffing breath meant as a comfort. All around us is chaos as the slaves hurry about, dismantling our tent, packing up the caravan. They’ve been given no warning and everything is in disorder.

My eldest brother steps towards me, his face concerned. “Sister –” he begins.

I wave him frantically away, still crying.

“Father says I’m not to speak to any of you.

He says I’m a disgrace.” My shoulders shake uncontrollably before I burst out again.

“I didn’t mean to unveil! It got caught and came off, I tied it badly and it was loose from the race!

He is so angry! He says we are going back to the village, right now.

He says I will be left with Aunt Tizemt and never trade again! ”

“Where is he?” My youngest brother’s voice trembles. He hates angry scenes. He holds out a length of cloth so that I can veil my face again.

I shake my head. “In the tent. He won’t let me veil my face again. He said I am a woman, and I’d better get used to dressing like one!”

We stand helplessly around the tent. The slaves lower their eyes and speak between themselves in tiny whispers while they hurry to get the camels loaded up. My brothers try to avoid looking at my face with its cropped hair, my skin sun-darkened around the eyes and pale everywhere else.

Our father strides out of the main tent. Behind him the slaves rush to dismantle it, the last item standing.

My father gestures for our riding camels to be brought forward and then yells: “Kneel!”

The camels can feel anger and each of them sinks without protest to their knees. My brothers and father mount, the slaves behind them just managing to prepare the last camel in time before taking their places.

I stand by Thiyya, tears trickling down my exposed face. I feel like a fool. I have lost my freedom and for what? For a race? I look at my father. His eyes tell me there will be no reprieve, no way back.

“Get on Thiyya at once.” His voice is tight with anger.

“Father –”

“At once!”

I climb onto Thiyya’s back and sit, waiting awkwardly, clasping my waterbag as though it is some magic charm against my current disgrace, not daring to give the command to rise myself.

“Rise!”

More than one hundred camels stand in unison, ready for the long journey home.