idiosyncrasies of daily life. But once the fire had died and the black camel that carried sleep on its back had crossed the encampment, invisible and silent, everybody would retire to their tents and to their own lives, to breath in deeply and absorb the silence.
Life in the Sahara was peaceful and provided an ideal environment within which to explore the self and the universe. The way of life there lent itself to the slow contemplation of the natural surroundings and the unhurried meditation of the lessons of their sacred scriptures. This kind of peace, of time and space, did not exist in the cities or towns, not even in the tiny Berber villages, which were filled with a general confusion of noise and petty problems. To Gazel, the people in these places who fought and gossiped, seemed strangely more interested in everybody else’s business and behaviour than their own.
‘I don’t know,’ he admittedly, reluctantly. ‘I have never understood why they like to behave in this way, crowded together, all of them so dependent on each other. I don’t know…’ he repeated. ‘I have never met anyone that could answer that question properly either.’
The girl looked at him for some time, perhaps surprised that this man who was her life and from whom she had learned the value of knowledge, was not able to answer one of her questions. From the minute she had been able to reason, Gazel had meant everything to her. First and foremost he had been her master, as a child of the Akli slave race this meant he was, in her eyes, an almost divine being, the absolute master of her life and her contemporaries; master of her parents’ lives, their extended families, their animals and whatever else existed on the face of their universe.
He was also the man that one day, when she had reached puberty and with her first menstruation, had made her into a woman. He had called her into his tent and possessed her, making her cry out in pleasure, like the other slave women before her who she had heard at night when the west wind blew. In the end they became lovers and he had carried her with him, as if on wings, swiftly to paradise and back. He was her master, but more so than ever before, because now not only did he dominate her soul, her thoughts and her desires, but he also owned her most hidden and forgotten instincts.
It took her a while to reply and just as she was about to, she was cut short by the appearance of one her husband’s eldest sons who had come running over from one the sheribas situated at the other end of the encampment.
‘A camel is about to give birth, father,’ he said. ‘And the jackals are prowling around…’
His fears were confirmed when, on the following day at noon, he saw a long plume of smoke rising up from the horizon, hanging there, motionless, suspended in the sky, despite the fact that he had not felt a breath of wind cross the plains that day.
The vehicles, which must have been motorized vehicles due to the speed at which they were travelling, cut a trail of dirty smoke and dust through the clean desert air.
Then came the faint rumbling of their engines, that soon turned into a roar, upsetting the wood pigeons, the fennecs and the snakes, followed by the screech of brakes, loud, impatient voices and harsh orders as they stopped in a cloud of dust and dirt, no more than fifteen meters away from the settlement.
Every living creature stopped and turned to look at them. The Targui and his wife, his children, his slaves and even his animals all had their eyes fixed on the cloud of dust and the dark brown, monstrous machines, then the children and beasts drew back terrified and the slaves scurried off into their tents, well out of sight of the strangers.
He approached them slowly, his face covered with the veil that distinguished him as a noble Imohag and that was part of an ancient tradition. He stopped half way between the new arrivals and the largest of his jaimas as if to indicate, without actually saying so, that they were not to advance any further unless they were given permission to do so as his guests.
The first thing he noticed about them was the dirty grey of their uniforms, covered in sweat and dust and the menacing metallic glint of their rifles and machine guns. The smell of their crude, leather boots and belts filled the air. His gaze fell on to a tall man wearing a blue djellaba and a dishevelled turban. He recognised him as the Imohag, Mubarrak-ben-Sad, who belonged to the spear people and was considered to be one of the most skilful and meticulous trackers in the desert, almost as famous in the region as Gazel “the Hunter” himself.
‘Metulem, metulem,’ he greeted.
‘Aselum aleikum,’ Mubarrak replied. ‘We are looking for two men. Two foreigners.’
‘They are my guests,’ he replied calmly. ‘They are unwell.’
The official who appeared to be in charge of the group moved forward a few steps, his medals shining on the cuff of his sleeve, then tried to walk around the Targui, who moved again to block his path.
‘They are my guests,’ he repeated.
The other man looked at him in surprise, as if he was unable to understand exactly what he had said and Gazel realised straight away that this man was not from the desert and that his mannerisms and the way he looked belonged to other, distant worlds.
He turned to face Mubarrak who had understood and then turned to face the official again.
‘Hospitality is a sacred thing for us,’ he pointed out. ‘A law that is more ancient than the Koran.’
The military man adorned with medals hesitated for a moment, as if unable to believe the absurdity of what he had just heard, then continued forward.
‘I represent the law,’ he said sharply. ‘There is no other.’
He had started to walk past him again, but Gazel grabbed him by the forearm brusquely, forcing the man to look him in the eyes.
‘It is a tradition that is some one thousand years old and you are barely fifty years of age. You will leave my guests in peace!’
Following a signal from of one of the military man, the sound of ten rifle bolts clicking into place suddenly filled the air and the Targui realised that all ten guns were pointing at his chest and that any further resistance would be useless.
The military man pushed the hand that still held him back away roughly and continued on towards the largest tent.
He disappeared inside it and a few seconds later a dry, bitter shot rang through the air. He came out and gestured to the two soldiers that were walking behind him to go back into the tent.
When they reappeared they were holding the old man between them, who was sobbing profusely as if he had been woken up from a long and gentle dream only to be confronted with this harsh reality.
They walked straight past Gazel and got into their vehicles. From the cabin the official stared at him severely and hesitated for an instant. For one moment Gazel feared that the prophecy of Khaltoum had been wrong and that he would be killed there and then in the heart of the desert plains. But the man just nodded to the driver and the lorries drove off in the same direction that they had come from.
Mubarrak, Imohag of the spear people, got into the last vehicle, his eyes fixed on the Targui until he disappeared behind a column of dust. In that brief exchange, however, he had seen enough to know what was going through Gazel’s mind and what he had seen in his eyes had scared him.
It was never advisable to humiliate an inmouchar of the veil people. It was not advisable to humiliate him and leave him alive.
But nor would it have been right to have killed him there and
