[piosenniel]

When she left Briellah, Jamílah made her way to Ismat and Duha’s tent. ‘Are you there?’ she called, standing outside the entry way. She could hear the sound of mats being placed on the ground, and the sound of people moving about within. In moments, Duha poked her head out of the tent, smiling when she saw it who it was.

‘Oh! We are just getting straightened away in here. But come in, come in! The mats are rolled out and we can sit and have a cup of tea.’ She held the tent flap open wide and motioned Jamílah in. Ismat was not there, but Munir was. He stayed close by his Mother now, since he had come back from the young ones’ camp. He drew back to his little sleeping area, intending to give the two women space to talk to one another, but Jamílah called his name, asking him to come sit with them. She wanted to speak with him as well.

Duha went through the ritual for making tea and serving it, and once that propriety was out of the way, Jamílah, turned to Munir and asked him several questions.

‘Tell me, Munir,’ she began, her eyes on his face, ‘were there others of the younger ones, besides you and the two girls, who also wished to leave Jasara’s group?’ There was a sharp intake of breath as Duha heard the question. She looked quickly at Munir, reaching her hand out to comfort him, though if truth be told it was more for herself than for him that she sought to touch him. ‘I can answer, Mother,’ he told her. ‘It will be alright.’

He leaned in closer to Jamílah and spoke quietly, as if he were still afraid that the others youngsters who had not come back would hear him. There were several others, he said, all of them the very little ones who had followed their brothers or sisters. They were afraid, they missed their mami’s, but they knew better than to try to get away. Punishment was swift and harsh, and so they kept quiet. Even their tears had stopped when the others had chided and threatened them.

‘What are their names, Munir, and do they keep to a certain place when they sleep?’ he listed their names for her, and she repeated them back until she was satisfied she remembered them all. And, ‘yes’, they were herded together, and ringed by older youth who kept an eye on them. Usually to one side or the other of the main group is where they slept, away from the noise of the main group since they tended to go to sleep earlier and where it was more convenient for them to step away with one of the older youth when nature called in the night.

Jamílah thanked him for his answers when he had finished, then rose to go. Duha stepped outside the tent with her, a worried expression on her face. ‘What is it you are planning to do? Will you tell me?’ Jamílah put her hand on Duha’s arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Just keep your family close tonight, Duha. The wind is picking up, there is likely to be a sandstorm.’ ‘I will see you again tomorrow,’ she said as she waved farewell.

During the course of the afternoon, she made the rounds of the Baobab tents, speaking quietly to the women. Many she encouraged to stay safe inside their tents that night. To the rest she spoke other words. And they, in turn, nodded their heads to her and went to make their preparations . . .

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That night . . .

Under cover of darkness, the fourteen women she had gathered met at the outskirts of the camp. Seven horses had been lent them, mounts belonging to the women of the Painted Sands. Dressed in dark breeches and shirts, their jewelry removed, they moved out silently, heading west, along a route north of the small spring and its stream. At their belts they carried a sheathed knife, coated with the sticky dark substance Jamílah had given them, and a short length of thin braided cord, wrapped in a coil. Five of them carried the small bows they used for hunting birds and lizards.

They stopped some distance from the youth encampment, behind a small rise, and Jamílah sent out two of the younger women to scout the perimeter of the camp. The rest waited silently as the two split off from their group, crouched low, moving swiftly in the shadows of the sparse trees and the intervening rocks and sandy hills. One to the north and one to the south.

The wind was picking up when the two returned. ‘There are sentries posted along the northern line of the camp,’ one said. ‘Five by my count, armed with knife and spear; two of them are drowsing. The group of smaller children I did not see. Most of the youth are bedded down, their blankets pulled over their heads to hide from the winds and dust that is rising.’

‘The little ones are on the southern side, in a small group at the western fringes,' reported the other woman. 'There are three older youth who are sleeping among them. And again there are guards along the perimeter on that side, spaced well apart. Six of them, armed. All with their faces hooded in some manner as a barrier to the flying dust. Most of them are seated, their backs turned against the wind.

Under cover of the rising wind and sand, the women moved west along the southern edge of the encampment, leading their mounts, keeping well away from the infrequent watch of the guards. When they reached the position of the little children’s area, two of them stayed back with the horses, while the others crept closer to the camp. The wind had intensified, and the swirling clouds of stinging sand and dirt beat against their exposed skin.

There were three guards nearest the little ones’ group, older youth nearing adulthood. Bellies to the ground, three of the women crawled as close as they could to each one. Cord in hands, they sprang up as they neared and moving swiftly to the rear of their prey, they pulled the cords tight about their throats, cutting off any cries for help. They left them lifeless, huddled on the ground, as if they had lain down to rest for a few moments. The other nine women moved in quickly at the sound of a short sharp call.

B’kweet . . . b’kweet . . . the call of a guinea hen to her little ones, bringing them in.

The three older youth who slept with the little ones were dispatched silently, their cries cut off with an efficient slash to the throat. The little ones whimpered and some cried out, and the women gathered as many as they could to them and shushed them gently. ‘We’ve come to take you home,’ they whispered softly. ‘Leave your belongings, and come quickly with us.’ Knives in hand, they led the little ones to where the three women who had dispatched the guards crouched, bows in hand, arrows nocked. The two women trailing the string of horses rode in swiftly at a sharp whistle.

The nearby guards had been roused by that time, hearing the movement of many feet and the sounds of the children as they cried out before the women hushed them. They rushed they group of children and their rescuers, grabbing away those that they could, and slashing out at the women. Several of the women were injured getting the children away from the guards, and one was killed – speared in the back by another of the older youth who had roused nearby. He was cut down by an arrow to his chest. A superficial wound at the most, and he laughed at it as he pulled it from him and charged after the escaping group. His laughter turned to horror as the burning poison on the arrow’s tip crept through him, and he felt his limbs grow numb, then icy cold, and at the last he could not breathe. His companions now roused ran to him, and some ran after the women and children, who by now had a good lead on them.

When they finally reached the horses and mounted up, drawing their small charges up to them, the stinging curtain of sand had grown thicker. They moved out, the wind at their backs, heading east toward the Painted Sands encampment. Nineteen little ones had been gotten out. Pulled close against the warmth of their rider’s body, the little ones huddled beneath blankets, safe from the storm . . .

The horses moved slowly through the sandstorm. Just before first light, the women reached the outskirts of the camp. A growing ululation rose from the women who had stayed behind, and who had watched for their return. It was answered in kind by the riders as they drew near.

Blankets were thrown back, and the heads of the little ones peeked out at the familiar sound. And many burst into tears of relief as the women swarmed about the riders, familiar hands reaching up to bring the children into the safety of their arms.

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Lyra Greenleaf’s post

“Anyone care to lose a little money?” Sammael called in the middle of the camp. He wanted to forget what he couldn’t prevent; the image of a faceless girl screaming in terror kept appearing in his mind. He waved his cards at a member of Ghurdan’s crew who glanced his way, then again at Zasfal. Both looked uncertain.

“Come on” Sammael called again impatiently. “I’ll play with my eyes shut if it’ll make you feel better!”
“No need for that” answered a tall man, another of the acrobats. He was broad as well as tall, slow moving and slow speaking.

Sammael grinned widely at the thought of easy money. Quickly he lit a torch and put it into the ground, then sat cross legged on the floor and began to deal. Calmly his opponent sat himself down. They played a hand, and Sammael won easily. The man paid, showing no signs of ill-will, then gestured Sammael to deal again.

“Deal for three” Zasfal said from behind Sammael, then sat between the other two men. Sammael grinned wolfishly at him and did as he was bade. This hand was harder fought- the crewman had good cards, and Zasfal was a sneaky player with some talent. Sammael won, but the next went to Zasfal. During the fifth game, Zasfal smiled maliciously.

“I didn’t see you when the Priestess performed the sacrifice” he said with a sideways look.
Sammael ignored him.
“I would have thought that someone as dedicated as you would have been watching keenly” Zasfal added with feigned nonchalance.
Sammael shrugged, but the visions of a girl screaming were back.
“Why don’t you tell him about it Arun?” Zasfal asked the crewman.

The monosyllabic man looked surprisingly eager, and began to recite had happened in great detail- the strike of the knife, the site of the blood as it dripped slowly to the ground, the convulsions of the dying body, the look on the girl’s face from the first realisation what was happening to the pallor of death.

Sickened, Sammael lurched to his feet and vomited. Zasfal snorted, then began to laugh. He was soon joined by the other man. Anger coursed through Sammael.
What kind of a man will watch as a woman is killed? he thought with disgust, eying the two men still seated on the ground. Slowly he drew his belt knife and walked towards the crewman Arun. He jumped to his feet, drawing his own knife, but his shoulders were still shaking from laughter. His glance told Sammael that he expected a weak opponent, one who would not kill- one that would show mercy.

Without warning he lunged and caught the other man off guard. He withdrew, then lunged a second time, knocking the man’s knife from his hand. Finally Sammael looked into the man’s eyes and slowly drew his knife across his throat. With satisfaction he watched the body fall, and life leave the man’s face. He looked around. Zasfal had run, that was not surprising. Maybe one day it would be his turn, but not now. Feeling much better Sammael cleaned his knife on the fallen man’s sleeve and walked away to his tent.

[ July 17, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]