[piosenniel]

Jamílah rubbed the middle of her forehead with her first two fingers. A headache was brewing behind her eyes - it made her face pale, her features look pinched and worn. No tears came from her eyes. They were dry now, all cried out since she first had heard what had been found. She had already cried all she could for the three little ones of her tribe whose bodies had hung from the tree . . . she had cried for their mothers and fathers, for their families . . . and she had cried in frustration for herself, because they could not bring them all to safety.

There were no more tears left in her, and surprisingly, no hatred for the ones who had done this . . . only the resolve that this would not happen again.

Qirfah and Qamar stood to either side of her, leaning against her, their heads on her shoulders, their arms twined about her waist, as if they were still little girls and she, the mother who would somehow bring them comfort.

But comfort was something she had naught to give either.

‘Daughters,’ she said to them, slipping from their embrace. ‘Help the other women bear the little ones away, and help them clean and clothe them. Later we will honor them and say farewell, singing their spirits away from us for now.’

‘And you, Mother. What are you going to be doing?’ asked Qamar, wiping her own eyes with the edge of her shawl. Her eyes flicked to her sister’s teary face, and she held on tight to her hand.

‘The Elders must meet now,’ said Jamílah quietly, drawing them close with her hands, kissing each softly on the cheek. ‘We have some things that must be decided and soon.’ She would say no more, just urged them toward the stricken families as she turned and left the market ground.

____________________________________

Faruq’s tent was where they all agreed to meet. Jamílah, not standing on ceremony, pulled aside the opening flap and ducked her head in, stepping in quickly without waiting to be asked in. No lamps had been lit, and the only light was from the dawning day outside as it shone in mutedly through the thin fabric of the tent. She was surprised, as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, to see many of the clan leaders of the Painted Sand tribe also present.

She had expected just a brief discussion to occur about what was needed to be done, and then some further talk on how they would implement their plan. But there seemed to be a heated exchange already going on between the leaders of the Painted Sand and the Elders of the Baobab. ‘What has happened”’ she whispered to Hafsa of the Civet clan. Hafsa leaned in close to her and spoke low.

‘The Elders proposed the plan we had briefly discussed the day we moved the tribe here to the Painted Sand encampment. The women and children would be gathered together with their belongings, and accompanied by a small troop of warriors, would travel swiftly to a safe place far from here. Many of us would stay here, to hunt out the remainder of the young and eliminate enough of them until they no longer present a danger to us.’ She thrust her chin upward toward the side of the tent where the Painted Sand leaders sat, anger washing openly over their features. ‘They want to combine forces and attack and annihilate all the young who have joined Jasara’s group as soon as possible.’

The debate went back and forth between the two tribes for some time, each representative standing up to promote his tribe’s own feelings on the matter. Jamílah’s headache grew stronger as precious time dragged on and the arguments became more entrenched.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Some time later, as Asim, of the Wild Dog clan spoke, there was a sound of hooves, come clattering up to Faruq’s tent, and a loud, hurried conversation, two voices, just outside the tent’s flap. One of the Wind Scorpion men standing guard at the entry to the meeting, poked his head inside the tent, saying Latif, the goat trader of the Baobab, was outside and had some news he must share right away with the Elders.

Normally a neatly dressed, calm person, the man who presented himself to the Elders was one whose raiment and mind were in a state of disarray, turmoil, and fright. He excused his appearance saying he had ridden quickly, stopping briefly only once for the sake of his mount, from the village he had gone to, the one just two days ride from here to the west.

‘A great dark army . . . they named themselves the Army of the Eye, I think . . . terrible, terrible,’ he said as he described them. He spoke of the sacrifice that had been demanded and done, of the talk of devotion and obedience to the Eye, and of the dark Priestess. It was a grim picture that he drew, made grimmer and more chilling with his last words.

‘We must get away,’ Latif pleaded, searching the faces of the Elders for understanding. ‘The Priestess and her Army are on the move again. And they are heading our way . . .’

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