The Exile Kiss (7 page)

We marched westward for a long time before either of us spoke. "Will they follow us when they find we're miss-ing?" I asked.
Papa frowned. "I can't say, my nephew. Perhaps they'll just let us go. They're sure we'll die in the desert anyway."
There wasn't much I could say to that. From then on, we just concentrated on putting as much distance be-tween us and them as we could, heading off at a right angle to the direction we'd traveled with them during the day, I prayed that if we crossed a desert track in the night we'd see it. It was our only hope of finding a well.
We had the stars as guides, and we trudged westward for two hours, until Papa announced that he had to stop and rest. We'd been traveling against the dunes, which ran from west to east, due to the prevailing winds. The westward slope of each dune was smooth and gradual, but the east side, which we'd have to climb, was usually high and steep. Consequently, we were making long detours as we tried to cross each hill at one of its low shoulders. It was slow, tiring, zigzag progress, and we couldn't have covered more than a mile or two as the sand grouse flies. We sat panting beside each other at the base of yet another monstrous cliff of sand. I opened my canteen and gulped down a mouthful before I realized how brackish and alkaline it was. "Praise Allah," I groaned, "well be lucky if this water doesn't kill us before the sun does."
Papa had drunk his fill, too. "It is not sweet water, my nephew," he said, "but there is very little sweet water in the desert. This is the water the Bedu drink almost every day of their lives."
I'd known that the nomads lived harsh, desperate lives, but I was beginning to learn that I'd undervalued their skill at forcing a living from this most inclement environment. "Why don't they just go somewhere else?" I asked, capping my canteen again.
Papa smiled. "They are proud people. They get satis-faction in their ability to exist here, in a place that means death for any outsider. They scorn the softness and luxury of villages and towns."
"Yeah, you right. Luxuries like fresh water and actual food."
We stood up and started walking again. It was now about midnight. The path across the dunes didn't get any easier, and in a little while I could hear Papa's heavy breathing. I worried about the old man's condition. My own body was beginning to protest this unaccustomed ex-ercise.
The stars turned slowly overhead, and when I looked at my watch again, it was half past one. Maybe we'd come" another mile.
Papa estimated that the Rub al-Khali was about seven hundred and fifty miles west to east, and three hundred miles north to south. I figured it was likely that the mili-tary chopper had dropped us smack in the middle, so figuring a generous mile per hour, walking eight hours a night, we could get out of the Empty Quarter in, oh, just under forty-seven days. If we could also have a gigantic caravan of support equipment and supplies trailing along behind us.
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We rested again, drank some more of the bitter water, and headed off on the last leg of the night's journey. We were both too tired to talk. I lowered my head against the wind, which was constantly flinging sand into our faces. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other. I told myself that if Friedlander Bey had the resolve to keep i moving, so did I.
We reached our limit about four o'clock, and col-lapsed in utter exhaustion. The sun wouldn't rise for an-other hour or so, but the idea of going any farther that night was out of the question. We stopped beneath the ; vertical face of a gigantic dune, which would give us some protection from the wind. There we drank as much water as we could hold, and then prepared to sleep. I removed my beautiful royal blue robe and covered Papa with it. Then I huddled in a fetal position within my
gallebeya
and fell into cold, restless sleep. I kept waking and falling back to sleep, and I was troubled by confused, anxious dreams. I was aware after a while that the sun had risen, and I knew the best thing would be to stay asleep as long as possible during the hot day. I pulled the
gallebeya
up over my head, to protect my face and scalp from burning. Then I pretended that everything was just fine, and closed my eyes. It was about ten o'clock when I realized that I wasn't going to be able to sleep any later. The sun was beating down on me, and I could feel the exposed areas of skin burning. Friedlander Bey woke up then, too, and he didn't look as if he'd rested any better than I had.
"Now we must pray," he said. His voice sounded peculiar and hoarse. He struck the sand in front of him with his palms, and rubbed the sand on his face and hands. I did the same. Together we prayed, thanking Allah for giving us His protection, and asking that if it was His will, we might survive this ordeal. Each time I joined in worship with Papa, I was filled with peace and hope. Somehow, being lost in this wilder-ness had made the meaning of our religion clear to me. I wish it hadn't taken such a drastic demonstration to make me understand my relationship to Allah.
When we'd finished, we drank as much water as ve could hold. There wasn't much left in our canteens, but we didn't see any reason to discuss that fact. "My nephew," the old man said, "I think it would be wise to bury ourselves in the sand until evening."
That sounded crazy to me. "Why?" I asked. "Won't we bake ourselves like a lamb pie?"
"The deeper sand will be cooler than the surface," he said. "It will keep our skin from burning any further, and it will help reduce our loss of water through perspiration."
Once again, I shut up and learned something. We dug shallow pits and covered ourselves over with the sand. At one point, I noted to myself how very like graves they were. I was surprised to find that my body seemed to enjoy the experience. The warm sand soothed my aching muscles, and I was able to relax for the first time since we'd been snatched at the amir's celebration. In fact, after a while, listening to the murmurous buzzing of insects, I dozed off into a light sleep. The day passed slowly. I had my
gallebeya
pulled up over my head again, so I couldn't see anything. There was nothing to do but lie there in the sand and think and plan and indulge in fantasies. After a few hours, I was startled to hear a low vibrat-ing hum. I couldn't imagine what it could be, and at first I thought it was only a ringing noise in my ears. It didn't go away, however, and if anything it got louder. "Do you hear that, O Shaykh?" I called.
"Yes, my nephew. It is nothing."
By now I was convinced that it was the warning whine of an approaching aircraft. I didn't know if that was good news or bad. The sound grew louder, until it was almost a shriek. I couldn't stand not being able to see, so I pushed my hands up out of the sand and pulled down the neck ofmy
gallebeya.
There was nothing there. The buzzing had increased in volume until the aircraft should have been visible above our heads, but the sky was empty and blue. Then sud-denly, as the wind shifted direction, everything fell silent again. The loud noise did not fade away but disappeared abruptly. "What was that?" I asked, bewildered.
"That, O Clever One, was the famous 'singing sands.' It is a very rare privilege to hear it."
"The sand made that sound? It was like the roaring of an engine!"
"They say it is made by one layer of sand slipping over another, nothing more."
Now I felt dumb for getting so upset over a little hum-ming noise created by a sand dune. Papa, however, was not one to laugh or mock me, and I was grateful for that. I covered myself in the sand again and told myself not to be such a fool.
About five o'clock, we emerged from our sandy beds and prepared for the night's exertions. We prayed and drank the brackish water, and then headed off toward the west again. After we'd walked for half an hour, I had a brilliant idea. I took out my rack of neuralware and chipped in the special daddy that blocked thirst. Immedi-ately, I felt refreshed. This was a dangerous illusion, be-cause although I didn't feel thirsty—and wouldn't again, as long as I had that daddy chipped in—my body was still dehydrating at the same rate. Still, I felt that I could go on without water longer now, and so I gave my canteen to Papa. "I can't take this from you, my nephew," he said.
"Sure you can, O Shaykh," I said. "This add-on will keep me from suffering for as long as our canteens do the same for you. Look, if we don't find more water soon, we'll both die anyway."
"That's true, my darling, but—"
"Let's walk, my grandfather," I said.
The sun began to set and the air began to get cooler. We took a rest stop some time later, and we prayed. Papa finished all the water in one of the canteens. Then we pushed on.
I was beginning to feel very hungry, and I realized that except for the crummy dates of the Bayt Tahiti, the last meal I'd eaten had been almost forty-eight hours ago, at the amir's palace. I was lucky, because I had a daddy that blocked hunger, too. I chipped it in, and the hollow pangs in my belly disappeared. I knew that Papa must be ravenous, but there was nothing I could do about that. I put everything out of my mind except making tracks across the remainder of the Empty Quarter.
Once, when we'd topped the crest of a high dune, I turned to look back. I saw what I thought was a smudge of dust rising in the pale moonlight from behind a distant dune. I prayed to Allah that it wasn't the Bayt Tabiti com-ing after us. When I tried to point it out to Friedlander Bey, I couldn't find the dust cloud again.-Maybe I'd imag-ined it. The vast desert was good for that kind of halluci-nation.
After the second hour, we had to rest. Papa's face was drawn and haggard. He opened his other canteen and drained it dry. All our water was now gone. We looked at each other wordlessly for a moment. "I testify that there is no god but God," said Papa in a quiet voice.
"I testify that Muhammad is the Prophet of God," I added. We got up and continued our march.
After a while, Papa fell to his knees and began retch-ing. He had nothing in his belly to vomit, but his spasms were long and violent. I hoped he wasn't losing much water. I knew that nausea was one of the first signs of severe dehydration. After a few minutes, he waved a hand weakly to let me know he wanted to keep going. From then on, I was more frightened than ever. I had no more illusions that we'd be able to save ourselves without a miracle.
I began to experience severe muscle cramps, and for the third time I turned to my moddy rack. I chipped in the pain-blocking daddy, knowing that I was going to be in pretty terrible shape if I ever lived to pop it out again. As my friend Chiriga likes to say, "Paybacks are a bitch."
About midnight, after another rest period, I noticed that Papa had begun to stagger. I went up to him and touched his shoulder. He faced me, but his eyes seemed unfocused. "What is it, my son?" he said. His voice was thick and his words indistinct.
"How are you feeling, O Shaykh?"
"I feel . . . strange. I'm not hungry anymore, which is a blessing, but I have a terrible headache. There are many little bright spots in front of my eyes; I can barely see in front of me. And there is the most annoying tin-gling in my arms and legs. Unfortunate symptoms."
"Yes, O Shaykh."
He looked up at me. For the first time in all the time I'd known him, he had genuine sadness in his eyes. "I do not wish to walk anymore."
"Yes, O Shaykh," I said. "Then I will carry you."
He protested, but he didn't do a very good job of it. I begged his forgiveness, then picked him up and slung him over my shoulder. I wouldn't have been able to haul him fifty yards without the daddies, which were damping out every last unpleasant signal my body was sending to my brain. I went on with a blithe, completely false sense of well-being. I wasn't hungry, I wasn't thirsty, I wasn't tired, and I didn't even ache. I even had another daddy I could use if I started to feel afraid. In a little while, I realized that Papa was muttering deliriously. It was up to jne to get us both out of this mess. I just gritted my teeth and went on. My amped brain was ridiculously confident that I'd emerge victorious against the most murderous desert in the world.
The night passed. I plodded my way through the swirling sand like a robot. All the while, my body was suffering the same debilitating effects of dehydration that had struck down Papa, and fatigue poisons were building up in my muscles.
The sun came up behind me, and I felt the heat grow on the back of my head and neck. I trudged on through the morning. Papa was no longer making any sounds at all. Once, about 8 a.m., my arms and legs just gave out. I dropped Papa heavily to the ground and fell down beside him. I let myself rest there for a little while. I knew I'd been abusing my body. I thought perhaps lying there mo-tionless for a few minutes would be helpful. I suppose I was unconscious, because the next time I checked my watch, two hours had passed. I got to my feet and picked up Papa and put him across my other shoul-der. Then I walked some more. I kept going until I collapsed again. This became a pattern, and soon I lost all track of time. The sun rose in the sky, the sun went away. The sun rose, the sun went away. I have no idea how far I managed to get. I have a vague memory of sitting on the side of a large dune, pat-ting Friedlander Bey's hand and weeping. I sat there for a long time, and then I thought I heard a voice calling my name. I picked up Papa and stumbled on, in the direction
of the voice. This time, I didn't get far. I crossed two, maybe three great dunes, and then my muscles quit on me again. I could only lie on the ground, my face half-pressed into the hot, red sand. I could see Papa's leg from the corner of my eye. I was pretty sure that I was never going to get up again. "I take refuge . . ."I murmured. I didn't have enough saliva to finish. "I take refuge with the Lord of the Worlds," I said in my mind. I passed out again. The next thing I knew, it was night. I was probably still alive. A man with a stern, lean face dominated by a huge hooked nose was bending over me. I didn't know who he was, or even if he was really there. He said something to me, but I couldn't understand his words. He wet my lips with water, and I tried to grab the goatskin bag out of his hands, but I couldn't seem to work my arms. He said something more to me. Then he reached forward and touched my implants.
With horror, I realized what he was trying to do. "No!" I cried in my cracked voice. "Please, for the love of Allah, no!"
He pulled his hand back and studied me for another few seconds. Then he opened a leather bag, removed an old-fashioned disposable syringe and a vial of some fluid, and gave me an injection. - What I really wanted was about a quart of clean, fresh water. But the shot of Sonneine was okay, too.