Read sample A String of Silver Beads

Tchirot – A Man’s Amulet

My camel Thiyya can feel the growing excitement around us. Foregoing her usual stance of elegant boredom, she shifts back and forth on the spot, even ignoring a tasty clump of foxtail grass nearby. My knees grip the carved wood of my light racing saddle, the red leather trim slick with my sweat. My face is veiled but my bare feet, resting on Thiyya’s long neck, give my nerves away, my toes curling into her short white fur.

“Kella! Not again!” The hissed exclamation below startles me and Thiyya’s head jerks up, but I steady her. Looking down at my eldest brother’s appalled face, I can’t help but laugh.

“Sister –”

His voice is too loud. I lean down towards him. “Shh! You’ll give me away.”

“Tell me why I should not!”

I tighten the veil to make sure my face is well hidden, but he can still hear my laughter when I answer. “Because the rest of our brothers have already wagered on my success.” I look across at my youngest brother who is smirking at my eldest brother’s outrage. “A dagger as the prize, wasn’t it? Very fine. I saw it earlier on that young lout’s belt. It will look most grand on you, I’m sure. When I win.”

My eldest brother sighs and absent-mindedly pats Thiyya when she nuzzles him.

“Don’t sigh like that. Haven’t I won you many fine things with my riding skills over these past few years? Where’s the harm in that?”

“Would you care to ask our father the same question?”

I shrug. My voice comes out sulky. “I don’t see why only men can race.”

He walks alongside the camel as we make our way towards the other riders. He gives me his new lecture, the one he has learnt from our father. He never used to be so priggish but having recently been wed he feels he is a grown man and must give guidance to us, his younger siblings. Especially me. “Because, sister. Just because. It is not seemly. Women ride camels for great occasions. A wedding perhaps. And when they do, they have a woman’s saddle. They do not ride here, there and everywhere for all to gawp at. And they do not race camels.”

“But I am the best rider. Five brothers and not one of you can beat me in a race! You must admit that.”

“I didn’t question your riding ability. I questioned its propriety.”

“Oh, who cares for propriety? I’m dressed like a boy all the time. I ride camels all the time. I might as well enjoy winning the races. Now move away, before the other riders wonder what you’re doing escorting me to the starting line. They’ll think I’m not much of a man if I must be accompanied everywhere!”

“And you are such a great man, I suppose?”

I giggle. “Oh, yes. I make a fine young man!”

He raises his hands in despair and turns away.

I call after him, my voice wavering a little now that I’m to be left alone. “Won’t you wish me luck?”

He turns back. “I thought you were such a great rider you’d have no need of luck!”

I nudge Thiyya closer so that I can reach out and touch his shoulder. “Everyone needs luck.”

My eldest brother is a good-hearted man and cannot stay cross with me for long. He reaches up and puts one broad hand over my smaller one. “May Allah keep the wind from rising and may your camel’s feet fly. May you win a great race, my brother.”

I grin. “Thank you. You may go now.”

My brother waves over his shoulder as he walks back to join the gathering crowds.

A big market draws people from a wide area and impromptu festivals spring up. The people come for the food, the trading, the songs and stories and of course for the races, which inevitably take place when the younger men want to show off their camels and their prowess in riding.

For the last few years, ever since I’ve been tall enough to pass for a young man in my all-encompassing indigo blue robes, I’ve been entering the camel races at these events and winning more and more often. Now, at seventeen, I am an excellent rider. My camel is a beautiful white beast with blue eyes, a great rarity and a prized gift from my over-generous father. I trained her myself, starting when she was only a baby. I would stand beside her issuing commands, while she peered at me in astonishment through long-lashed blue eyes, wondering who this child-master was. It took a few years, for a camel’s training cannot be rushed, but now I have a magnificent beast as my mount, who half-believes she is my sister. I named her Thiyya, ‘beautiful’, and no-one can argue with my choice of name. I am forever being offered two, three, or even, on a memorable occasion, five camels if I will trade Thiyya for plainer and less speedy animals, but I always refuse. My brothers occasionally race her, but she does not try as hard for them as she does for me.

From my high perch I scan the crowds, anxious to avoid my father. My shoulders relax when I fail to spot him. He must be conducting business somewhere. There are traders who buy and sell only one kind of merchandise, such as salt or slaves, skins or jewellery. Their lives are dull to my eyes, always travelling back and forth from the same places, then trading on to the smaller traders such as us. Our family’s camels carry delicate perfumes and small packets of herbs or spices, precious metals and stones; some already transformed into glorious pieces rich with patterns and colours, some left unworked for local jewellers who are glad of new materials. There are skins and furs, as well as fine cloths and rugs that are laid flat and then rolled up tightly to keep them smooth and safe from fading in the sun’s powerful rays. As we journey, we add fresher items to our stock – oranges, dates, nuts – less costly but always desirable. We visit the great trading posts and then go out amongst the little towns, the tiny villages, even to the nomad camps of the desert. We move from dunes to cities and see all manner of people. We are welcomed by all, for we bring news and excitement as well as goods from the greatest city to the most isolated desert tent.

The heat increases and the crowd grows thicker, bodies pressed tightly together. The other camels sidle back and forth, some straining at their bridles, the odd one or two suddenly leaping forward into a run before the race has begun, their owners having to force them back to the start. I wipe the sweat from under my eyes and shift my position to achieve a better balance. There will be no such opportunity once the race has begun. I look about me, waiting for the signal to begin. The men in the crowd are laying last-minute bets, the younger women are giggling over certain names: the riders with the best camels, the best saddles, the best eyes… my eyes fix on the race master, a burly man currently shoving a camel away who has come too close to him, overstepping its mark.

He shouts and for one brief instant the crowd is silent. Then his arm waves and I kick my legs hard into Thiyya’s sides. Her neck has already lengthened and now her usual swaying gait becomes a jolting run and then a smooth gallop.

The crowd roars as we leave them behind us. The older women clap and cheer on their sons and laugh at their husbands’ wild yells, occasionally grabbing at a younger child and warning them to keep out of the way – the camels will be turning back in moments, and they might find themselves trampled by a whirl of long, strong legs. A painful way to end your life, for sure.

I feel as though I am flying, like the desert spirits of the old times. Thiyya’s neck reaches out ahead of her as though yearning for even greater speed. Though the dust rises all around the riders we are too far ahead of the pack for it to reach us, faster than the very wind, faster than the swirls of sand.

“On! On!” I shout at Thiyya, though she does not need my command. I shout again and again, a wordless scream of joy and hunger for the win.

Some of the best camels are gaining on us now, for a few improve in a longer race. I look over my shoulder and Thiyya can feel me tense, for she strains forward with her long neck, wanting to be further ahead. But the halfway point has come, and I pull hard to make her wheel about, her long legs almost caught up in themselves. As soon as we turn the choking sand surrounds us. I can barely see, can barely gasp for air, even though the cloth pulled tight across my mouth protects me from the worst of it. I do not know how Thiyya can still breathe but she thunders on, the shadowy shapes of the slowest camels passing us in the cloud as we head back towards the screaming crowd. I look back once and see only the blue robes of the other riders, floating above the camel-coloured clouds of sand like some strange vision in the heat of the day.

The screams grow louder and louder until they are all about me and I raise my arm and punch the air. I am the winner. My breath comes hard in my throat, and I look down on all the uplifted faces surrounding me, the hands slapping at my legs in praise and feel my face stretched in a hidden grin.

Shouted praises and boasts are all about me. In the crowd, possessions and sometimes even coins trade hands as bets are won and lost. Backs are thumped and hands clasped. The younger boys and older girls gaze adoringly up at me.

I remain on Thiyya, acknowledging comments and praise with a wave before turning her away from the crowd. I cannot let my identity be known and so I never linger once a race is won. Let the glory go to the second and third places, the riders who wish to boast and brag. I want only the wild freedom of the ride, the fierce joy of winning. That, I can best savour alone.

I spot my eldest brother who rolls his eyes at me and comes closer, pulling at my bridle. “Do you have to win every time, Kella?” he mutters. “It draws attention to you.”

I laugh down at him. “To race without winning is not to race at all!” I say, my voice still elated. He shakes his head but lets me go.

I make my way to our camp, set up on the outskirts. Here, among the one hundred or more camels of our caravan, I leap down from Thiyya and put on my sandals. I give her water and caress her, croon to her before I leave her to rest. Then I make my way into the main tent, pulling at my headdress as I do so, loosening its folds, then flinging it to one side.

Inside it is dark and cool. I reach for a cup and dip it into the water jar, greedily gulping down the cold water.

“Daughter.”

I freeze, then carefully replace the wooden cup before I turn round, my face composing itself into an unworried smile. “Father. I thought you were speaking with the salt trader.”

“I was. Then I went to see the camel races.”

“Who won?” I try to keep my voice light as I seat myself on the foot of the low bed and kick off my sandals again, feigning a lack of interest while my heart thuds in my chest.

“I believe you did. On Thiyya. No-one else here has a white camel with blue eyes.”

“One of my brothers –” I try but my father’s eyes tell me not to bother. My shoulders slump.

My father settles himself at the head of the bed and sighs. He looks older than usual. “I know you are a good rider, daughter. And I turn my face away when you race against your brothers. You work hard, after all, and what is a little fun between siblings? In the desert no-one but our family and the slaves will see you. Amongst others you have always passed well enough for a boy.”

I seize on this, my only excuse. “No-one here knows I am a girl. Everyone thinks I am your youngest son. No-one would suspect.”

“You think not? When your hands are still so slender and your voice so light? No. I believe the time is coming very soon when I will have to return you to the main camp, to live with your aunt.”

I feel as though I have received a blow to the stomach. I twist round to face him, appalled. “Aunt Tizemt?”

He laughs. “You need not look so upset. Your aunt is a good woman, and she has the heart of a lion. She will teach you to be a fine woman.”

“It is her voice that is like a lion,” I spit.

“No need to sulk. She is a kind woman beneath her roars. I will not have my daughter dishonoured. You will no longer race.”

“But –”

“No buts. No more racing. You will remain disguised as a boy until I can take you back to your aunt. If you are very, very well behaved I may keep you with me a little longer. You are a good trader, after all, I will be sorry to lose your skills in the markets. I believe you secured us a bargain with the salt trader, he was as meek as a lamb when I saw him just now. We will have a camel’s load of salt to trade at the next market.”

I jump up, my mind racing to find a reason to stay that he will accept. “You cannot send me back to the main camp! I am a trader. I travel with you – with my brothers! What would I do at the camp?”

My father smiles. “Get married?”

“Married?”

He laughs at my horrified face. “Have you never thought of that possibility? Your eldest brother is married, two of your other brothers are already betrothed. Did you not consider it might be your turn soon? What, no young man caught your eye yet? No-one beaten you at camel racing?”

I snatch up the swathes of indigo cloth that make up my headdress and glare at him through the narrow eye slit as I wrap it tightly about my face. “No-one beats me at camel racing. And I am not getting married. I am staying with you, with the caravan. I am a trader. Now I am going to the salt trader. He promised me more than a camel’s load of salt for that price.”

“Your mother would have wanted you happily married,” says my father sadly.

I walk so fast to the salt trader’s encampment that I am breathing heavily by the time I reach it. The great slabs of salt lashed to saddles are piled up around his main tent, then surrounded by the prickly thorn bush branches placed to discourage every camel for miles around from sneaking up to get a free lick of salt. Camels will do anything for salt. The trader comes out to greet me, warily offering tea and a place in the shade to do business when he sees my glare. My only chance to escape being sent back to my aunt is surely to trade and to trade well. My father cannot send me away if I make myself valuable to him as a great trader.

The moon grows full, and wanes twice over and still there is no mention of my Aunt Tizemt. I begin to hope that my good trading efforts have made my father forget his threats. I stay away from the camel races.

We reach an important centre on the caravan routes. A mayhem of a souk. Stretched out over a vast area and yet still crowded.

Its camel souk is beyond compare, and it is here that frantic bids are commonly made for the lovely blue-eyed, white-furred Thiyya, a rarity even here among thousands of camels. She picks her way daintily through the crowds, enjoying the caresses, soft words and sometimes handfuls of fruits that come her way. Seated comfortably on her back, above the crowd, I laugh and joke with all those who make offers for her.

“I’ll trade you three fine camels for her,” says one, gesturing to what look like three ancient crones, wizened dun-brown, spitting this way and that.

I laugh. “I’d need a hundred of those for this one,” I tell him. “One of those will fall over dead before I can even get them to stand up.”

“I’ll trade you my wife,” says one man dourly and there’s a shout of laughter.

“I’m sure my camel’s prettier than your wife,” I tease him.

“She is,” he says mournfully and wanders off into the crowd.

More serious offers are made but I shake my head and with a gentle nudge from my feet Thiyya moves on. Grunts and roars are all around us, from baby camels, untrained camels and wise veteran camels. Almost-black camels rub haunches with the rare pure whites, golden sand camels with date-brown camels. Sweet cajoling, shrugged shoulders and moral outrage make up the bulk of the bartering, which may go on for days and is a sport in itself. On the busiest days, of course, there will be camel races and the traders’ sons boast of their skills in advance, some louder than other, safe in the knowledge that their fathers plan to move on before the next race and their airy boasts will not have to be made flesh.

Everything is traded here. Some merchants are free to roam and do not have to barter, for they are about to go to the dark south. There they will expend all their energies and all their trade goods to return with precious gold for princes and dark-skinned slaves. They will make their fortunes or die alone in the blistering sun, far away from their loved ones and any merciful shade, on the long, long routes where bandits may steal their goods and their lives. Others have already come from those lands and their relief at having come thus far makes them bold and free with their words. They eat and drink more than others and enjoy the company of their friends, while trading good-natured insults with their competitors.

They reserve their sweet words for certain women who make it their business to attend all such gatherings, whose faces are pretty and whose clothes hint at the goods for sale underneath the shining threads and tinkling bangles. As a young child I thought their lives delightful, for they wore pretty clothes and ate sweet foods all day and laughed a great deal. As I’ve grown older, I’ve heard comments, here and there, from my brothers and the traders I frequent, and now I am all too aware of what they trade in. The women toss their long dark hair and call out in many different tongues, for they have learnt that a few words in a man’s own language can tempt him to take a second look as he walks by, especially if his wife is far away and he is homesick. The women sit in comfort in highly decorated open-sided tents on soft cushions and play with their jewellery, gifts from many men. They drink fresh water and suck on oranges in the heat of the day. They offer honeyed drinks, dried fruits and promises of other sweet things to the men who stray a little too close to their warm rugs and the soft lanterns that will be lit when night comes.

“Come, my handsome friend,” they call out as I pass. “Will you not take some – ah – refreshment with me?” and they giggle.

I make a mock bow in their direction and try to keep my voice low. “Ah, ladies, if only I could,” I call back. “But I must trade or go hungry.”

“Surely you are hungry for more than food?” they call.

I laugh and walk on.

The older merchants are known friends by now and often sit with the women during the day, telling lewd jokes, relishing the shrieks of laughter as the younger traders relish the shrieks of feigned delight in closed tents a little way off.

This is my world, and I swagger through it in my man’s robes, my heart light. My relief at being reprieved and able to stay on the trading routes makes me see this life anew. My eyes, the only part of my face visible, dart in all directions, taking in every colour, shape and size. I stop sometimes; a quick rub of my fingers establishing quality without a word. The old traders know me and nod without trying to woo me with sweet words. They know their quality will bring me back later when there is serious bargaining to be done. The newer ones offer teas, dates, sweet cakes dripping with honey, a soft seat in the shade, a cool drink of water, the finest goods in the souk – in the world, even! To these my quickly disappearing soles are an instant dismissal.

Oh, how I love these moments! Surrounded by the world and all it has to offer, my every sense assailed with wonders. Knowing my own skills, the respect I command for my knowledge and my skills in bargaining, knowing that somewhere here are all the marvellous things that will soon be hoisted onto our camels.

My first stop is the slave souk. I need a new slave; a strong man, for one of our slaves has grown old and weak. He carries out the smaller tasks now, but he is no longer fit for the heavier work. I wait at the back of the crowd while the slave trader calls his wares. We are old friends, and he knows that I will spot quality for myself, so he addresses the rest of his audience.

“A little boy here – you may think him small, but I assure you he is strong already and can only grow stronger. My wisest clients know it is worth buying them young!”

The boy can hardly be more than ten, although his scrawny body makes me wonder if he is even younger. He stands still and miserable in the heat, till someone pokes him and nods grudgingly at a price that changes hands.

Spices float through the air from the cooking fires where fat spits, sizzles and drips. I am hungry. The slaves for sale stand, heads down in the sun, hoping to be sold quickly to someone who will find it in their heart to offer them water and some shade. Their teeth are examined, their eyelids pulled down and their arms squeezed. The tall and broad ones go quickly; the thinner or scrawnier ones must wait longer in the heat, along with the ill-favoured women who do not quickly catch someone’s eye. Sometimes one faints, only to be slapped back to their feet by an irate merchant. I am impatient at waiting while the slight men and the unprepossessing women are offered for sale. But I have been promised that there is one worth waiting for. We need a strong male slave, and his time has finally come.

“You will not see a finer man! From the Dark Kingdom, the land of gold! See his height and his shoulders. He can carry as much as a camel and his legs are like those of a fine racing stallion – see their elegance, ladies!” This last is directed towards two women passing by. They take a startled second look and then hurry on, giggling.

I lean against a scrap of a tree, which gives me a little shade, to watch. The slave is very tall; he would tower over me if we were to stand side by side. He is wearing only a loincloth, and I look over his body, assessing it for strength and endurance while shaking my head at the foolishness of putting any man in this sun with no protection, whatever his colour. A few customers prod at him, one even punches him in the stomach to assess either his peaceable nature or the strength of his muscles, but he stays silent and unmoving, head up in the hot sun. He will faint for sure, however big and strong he is. Often the big ones go down first. The trader is a fool to risk damaging his goods like that. A fainting slave can forget being sold for the day; it makes them seem weak and prone to illness, no matter their height and breadth.

The trader has almost finished the bidding. A good price is being offered for the man, but I make a small gesture, and the trader notes it at once.

“Come, come, step forward. That is your new master, and you had better behave for he is one of my best customers. Move!”

The slave slowly steps down from the raised platform and makes his way to me. I nod to him and turn away, expecting him to follow. After a few steps I realise he has not done so and turn back. The slave is standing looking back at the platform, where the trader has brought on a woman.

“This one is fit for a caliph’s harem! A joy, a beauty. See how smooth her skin is, how dark like the precious woods of her land. Her face is very fine – lift your face up, girl! – see! Now, what man would not wish to have such a face by his side in the morning? And such breasts!” He pulls at her simple robe, exposing a breast and tweaks her nipple, while eyeing up his audience to spot interest. If he can make a buyer desire the woman as a companion for his bed, he will get a better price for her than as a mere slave for domestic chores. “You, sir?”

The bidding starts but my eyes are drawn to my new acquisition. He is looking at the slave girl with an expression of abject misery and she is looking back at him instead of at her bidders, as the trader points out sharply, jerking her roughly back to face towards the crowd. Slow, silent tears fall down her face and although she obediently faces the bidders, her eyes slide sideways to catch a last glimpse of the man I have just bought.

I have no need for unnecessary slaves. Women especially are of less use to us than the men, for they cannot carry such heavy loads. I click my fingers at the slave to get his attention and prepare to tell him sharply to come along with me. But there is something about the woman’s silence, about the tears that never stop falling. I hesitate and then reluctantly raise a hand. The trader blinks at me, puzzled.

“The pretty slave is sold to the gentleman, it seems,” he says. There are some protests, but he waves them away and pushes the woman towards me. She stumbles down the steps, almost shaking with relief. She tries a few words of gratitude, although she struggles with our language. I wave her away. It must be the heat, I cannot imagine what else it could be, nor why, in a fit of sunstroke, I have seen fit to buy a female slave only because of a few tears. But it is too late now, the trader will not take her back.

“Follow,” I say. I turn away from them and make my way back to our tent, hardly caring whether they are following me or not. I curse under my breath. What was I thinking, to buy a female slave? It is exactly the sort of foolish decision that will have my father sending me home, camel racing or no camel racing.

Back at the tents of our caravan I wave them towards the water jar and they both drink gratefully and then turn to face me.

I take a seat and drink from a water cup. I look them over and then speak slowly, hoping they will understand. “Names?”

This much at least they know.

“Ekon.” This from the man, who has a soft voice for such a large frame.

I look at the woman. She is nothing special; I hope she will be useful, but she is hardly worth what I paid for her. I have to lean forward as she all but whispers her name.

“Adeola.”

I nod, turning the names over in my mind. Slaves often come from the Dark Kingdom, very far away in the south. Still, the names sit strangely on our tongues.

“You will be part of our caravan. We are traders. We have other slaves. Some of them come from your own country. You can speak together. Join them now.” I point towards two of our older slaves who have been with us for many years and have been watching with great curiosity while their hands keep moving, churning milk to make butter, shaking the goatskin bags back and forth to a smooth rhythm.

Adeola turns obediently to join the others. Ekon stands still and then approaches me. I draw back a little and put my hand to my belt where I keep a sharp dagger. He is very tall, and I have a quick moment of fear. What if he attacks me? Some slaves do. I have heard of such madness, when for one brief moment a slave finds their own dignity again and the anger that comes with it.

But Ekon ignores my gesture and comes still closer. Then in one smooth movement, he kneels before me and touches his face to the ground, first one cheek, then the other. He looks up and I see tears in his eyes. He does not speak but rises slowly to his feet, looking down on me again for a moment. His dark lips still have a few grains of golden sand stuck to them from the floor, but he does not brush them away. He turns slowly and joins the others who have been watching, breathless.

I feel my own breath release, although I hadn’t realised I was holding it.

My trading is good in the days that follow. My father raises his eyes at the slave woman’s presence but cannot fault my other purchases. While I negotiate my way from the first glass of tea to the last honeyed cake, my parcels, packages and heaps of skins grow ever larger, and our caravan prepares for the next journey.

The camels rest, licking salt and enjoying the luxury of sitting slowly chewing the cud rather than the constant walking under heavy loads. They drink water daily and enjoy passing treats given by children, graciously permitting them to play at riding them in return.

The slaves milk goats and churn butter as well as making cheese. They kill the male kids. There is time to roll finely ground grains of barley to make buttery soft couscous, to prepare mouth-watering marinades of goat’s milk and spices that bring tenderness and subtlety to the meats. Time to slice oranges and serve them with cinnamon and rosewater rather than quickly munching them and spitting out the bitter skins between one day’s journey and the next. Cracked wooden spoons and metal pots are replaced. The new carvings and patterns are appraised and give added pleasure to the dishes.

We eat well and invite many guests to our fire, other traders and sometimes their families. Among them is Winitran, an old trader I have known since my brothers and I were little children. He is a kindly man and an excellent jeweller, although his eyes are growing tired, and he no longer does the finer work. Yet we make sure to trade with him whenever we pass by here.

“You’ll be back at the usual time next year?” he asks my father.

“Of course,” says my father. He thinks for a moment. “Although perhaps my youngest will soon join our village rather than continuing to trade. My sister is growing older and so he may be a help to her.” He is careful, always, not to use my name; not to let slip that I am a girl.

I sit bolt upright, seething. I’ve traded well and yet my father is still talking of sending me back to Aunt Tizemt! I scowl but under my veil no-one can see me. I hope that by next year, when we are due back here, he will have forgotten. It’s a long way off. I might still change his mind.

Winitran turns to his attention to me as the others talk of trading. “I have something for you,” he says. “Something to remember me by.” From his robes he pulls out a little leather pouch and shakes out its contents into his hand.

It’s a tchirot, a man’s silver amulet. A simple silver square, intricately engraved, hanging below a small scroll-shaped silver box. Between the two is a hinge, allowing the two parts of the pendant to move back and forth independently.

Winitran holds it out to me. “It contains the sand from the entrance to my house and my blessing for your own journey, that you may always find your way safely home.”

I bow my head, keeping my voice low as I answer. I’m fond of the old man and he’s been good to me over the years. But I wish he didn’t feel the need to say goodbye to me as though he will never see me again. “My thanks for the amulet. And for your blessings.”

Winitran lays his hand gently on my arm. “Blessings, daughter,” he says very softly, so that none of the other guests can hear him.

I pull my arm back quickly. “How did you know? No-one ever guesses.”

Winitran chuckles. “I am an old man and have seen many things. But I should tell you that a tchirot is a man’s jewel, you know, not a woman’s.”

“I know. May I keep it anyway?”

Winitran smiles. “Of course. I think you may be more of a man than many young men who think themselves most manly.” He pats my arm and then turns back to the others, joining in their laughter and talk while I finger the tchirot. I can’t help feeling a little pride in his praise of me.

We prepare to move on. The tent must be taken down and made into bundles that can be quickly and easily pulled from a camel to reassemble into a living space wherever we might be. The slaves curse under their breath when old straps will not come undone but work fast and soon the tent crumples to the ground, sections already being taken away. The camels are loaded up and stand blinking haughtily, shuffling from one leg to the other, pushing out their stomachs as the men tighten their saddles. A quick poke to the belly and they blow out, disgusted at the failure of their cunning plan as the straps are pulled tighter. The lead camel, my father’s, is a very dark brown female of great docility when dealing with her master and utter viciousness when approached in any way by anyone else. She values her place in the lead, however, as it enables her to ever-so-subtly adjust her position when walking and reach out her thick lips for the leaves of passing poplars and willows. My father allows her to get away with it when he is in a good mood. When he is not, he corrects her direction, and she rolls her eyes back at him and glowers at the tidbit passing her by.

Each camel receives its due – a saddle and then a range of burdens are meted out. The lucky ones get a single rider; perhaps an inexperienced slave, easy to fool into allowing it a stop or a nibble of passing food. The less lucky ones get heavier people; the strong male slaves, or piles of trading goods and the party’s cooking pots and provisions. They droop their heads and try to look hard done by, but their efforts are in vain as more goods come their way. At last, they give up all pretence of delicacy and stand, blowing their warm breath into the cold air, bored and sulky by turns.

A new city and its souk. One known for its camel races.

The young men boast and show off their saddles; some new and some old but polished so hard that their colours shine, almost reflecting their owners in the wood and leather. The riders introduce their camels as they might a well-favoured bride, boasting of her beauty, her good breeding and wondrous abilities. Meanwhile they pour scorn on their rivals’ beasts, pointing out bucked, yellowed and missing teeth, straggly coats, an old saddle that will be bound to break under any strain.

“I don’t care for your camel’s knees,” one says, winking at his friends while shaking his head in sadness at his rivals’ grave misfortune. “Too knobbly, as you can see. Not like my camel’s – now she’s a beauty!”

One camel is given particular care, although mostly in secret. Thiyya grunts as I examine her pads and brush her coat. She sighs when the old worn tack is exchanged for new, stiffer reins and a halter that rubs her face a little at first. She groans when the straps of the saddle pull her stomach in a little tighter. But she makes contented sounds when she is offered a little more salt than the others, a few handfuls of dates and even some whey left over from the cheesemaking. I whisper endearments and praise into her soft ears for her long legs, her speed, her strength. Thiyya blinks her spidery white eyelashes and takes all such praise as her due.

It is months since I have raced, and I can bear it no longer. I have avoided all the races in minor souks and trading cities, turned my face away, allowed my brothers to ride Thiyya without a murmur. But this race… this is the one where the champions compete, where the very best stretch their mounts and themselves to the limit; where just last year Thiyya came second by only a muzzle-length, and I know that she could win. If I could just spur her on a little more, just the length of her neck and we would win. I can taste the glory of it. Not the prizes or bets, for I have never cared about them. But the elation, the thunder of feet followed by the fierce joyful moment of triumph. Briefly, I consider riding a different camel, to hide my intentions from my father, but I know in my heart that Thiyya will make me a winner, that none of our other camels can win.

I beg my youngest brother to aid me.

“But if our father –” he begins.

I shake my head. “No, no. You will stand close to me all the time in the crowd. When I mount Thiyya, who will know for sure which of us did so? And when I win –”

“When you win?”

“When I win,” I say firmly. “When I win you must be at my side again, as soon as you are able. Then I will slip down and you can take Thiyya’s reins. Parade around, show her off, make a fuss, strut a little. People will forget which of us exactly they saw. And with any luck father will only see you. I will be back in our tent, well-behaved and irreproachable.”

“Kella…”

“Please,” I beg him. “Please.”

“Very well,” he says. “But if this goes wrong it falls on your head.”

“How can it go wrong?” I ask.

The early evening grows cooler as the crowds gather for the race. Those riding arrive with their camels walking proudly behind them. The spectators fight over good positions, some little boys even attempting to watch from palm trees for a better view; their elders laugh at them as their grip begins to falter before the last of the riders has even arrived.

My father is safely in another part of the city; I saw him set off with my own eyes before I crept out of our tent, my younger brother already well ahead of me, leading Thiyya by the reins to the racetrack. I arrive just before the race begins. Envious looks are cast.

“Azrur’s two youngest sons. They are excellent riders and win often. I would not bet against them if I were you!”

“They’ve been working hard this week though, out every day and half the night trading. Maybe they are a little weary by now. Might be worth a small wager against one of them.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you – I’ve lost a dagger and a belt because of them!”

The crowd jostle, excited as the race grows nearer. Children are hoisted onto shoulders. The women begin their ululation, the shrill trilling echoing out across the dunes, making the younger camels sidestep, ears pricked. The more experienced camels are tense. Soon they will be racing, and they are keen. After days of good feeding and drinking they are rested and full of strength. They want to run, to feel the heat of the other camels all around them, the sand and wind in their ears, their riders’ feet and voice urging them on.

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.

Celebra – A Woman’s Necklace

The water in my goatskin bag is unpleasantly warm and tastes of goat. We have been travelling since dawn today but now the sun’s heat is beginning to seep into us. We should stop and seek shade, but we are very close to the camp now, so we press on.

My eyes are fixed on my father’s silent back, up ahead of me. His camel, the colour of dried dates, is particularly good at mirroring her master’s moods and at this moment she is walking with her head held very high and a majestically haughty look to her slowly swaying hindquarters. Neither of them wants to listen to my repeated pleas to turn back.

I drink again, grimacing.

The camp seems smaller than my memories of it. It’s been a few years since our last visit.

The children playing at the top of the dunes spot us from a distance and run to escort us with whoops of excitement and endless questions. My younger brothers smile at them and lift a few of the smaller ones up to join them on their saddles. These lucky ones cling on tightly and make faces at their lowly comrades. As we approach the camp’s mud walls the men and women come to greet us with wide smiles as soon as they recognise us, exclaiming over how much older we are, pretending mock-horror over my man’s robes.

Aunt Tizemt is waiting, hands on her hips, trying to hide a smile. “I suppose this is one of your brief visits, brother?”

My father grins as he jumps down from his camel. “Sister, you will love me more than ever. My daughter is coming to live with you at long last. I do listen to you, you see?” They embrace. When my father steps aside Aunt Tizemt is engulfed beneath a mass of blue robes as my brothers reach her.

When she emerges, ruffled but smiling, she makes her way to me. I’m still mounted on my camel. I set my jaw. I have been forced to come here; I will not pretend good humour.

Aunt Tizemt looks around as though confused. “My brother said he had a daughter, but I see he is mistaken – he has a sixth son! What do men know, eh?” She smiles and holds up a hand to me. “Take that look off your face, anyone would think you liked being a man!”

I ignore her hand. “I do.”

“And you don’t want to come and live with your Aunt Tizemt? When she is a poor old thing with all her own children married off and her husband dead so many years and no-one left to keep her company?”

“I want to trade. I’m a good trader.” I lift my chin and look upwards to keep my tears from falling.

My aunt lowers her offered hand. Her voice has lost its humour. “You think a woman’s skills are not as important? Not as hard to learn?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No need. Your voice said it.” Aunt Tizemt turns and walks away. No backward glances or coaxing. My aunt is a fearsome woman.

My father comes towards me. I stiffen, waiting for the order to dismount, but instead he stands in front of Thiyya and strokes her nose without looking at me, as though thinking.

Thiyya is impatient. The other camels are free of their burdens, why is she made to stand here in the heat with a slumped, angry rider who keeps pulling sharply at the reins if she stretches out her nose towards the other camels, who are being fed and watered? She drops briskly to her knees, nearly causing me to fall off at the sudden and unexpected movement, thrown fully forwards and then back. Despite my angry urgings, Thiyya sits, uncaring, on the ground and rises again only when I dismount, muttering rude words under my breath and threatening her with a dire fate involving tasty herbs, rock salt and a very hot fire.

My father is trying not to laugh which only makes me angrier. I stand, head down, wanting to walk away but knowing that I am already in enough trouble.

At last, I feel his hand on my arm. “Come and sit with me in the shade,” he says.

I follow him reluctantly to the first tent which the slaves have managed to erect. There is fresh water and I drink it greedily, relishing its clean taste, devoid of goat.

When I look up my father is holding out a small pouch of soft yellow leather. “Open it.”

It’s heavy for its size. I pull open the leather strings that hold it shut and cautiously tip the contents into my hand. It’s a necklace. A simple thread of small black beads, with a pendant almost the size of my palm made up of five silver rectangles, with pointed ends, which between them create a deep V-shape at the base of the pendant. Each silver strip is intricately engraved with tiny symbols.

I look up, confused, to find that my father is slowly unwrapping the veil round his face. He sighs comfortably as the cool air takes away some of the heat in his cheeks, stained blue in places from the indigo dye of his robes. He closes his eyes and leans back on the cushions for a few moments.

When he opens his eyes again, he gives me a weary smile. “There was once a trading caravan in the Tenere desert, between Bilma and Agadez. In the blinding heat and on an unfamiliar trade route, they lost their way.”

I frown. “Father –”

“They wandered in the desert, growing ever more tired and thirsty. They were close to death, even their camels’ knees trembling with the heat, when suddenly before them appeared a young woman of great beauty, wearing a magnificent necklace with many engravings.”

I sit back on the cushions opposite him, unsure where this story is going. This does not seem like an appropriate time and place to be telling old tales.

My father smiles and continues. “The beautiful young woman showed them to a well nearby. The men hurried to drink and then gave water to their camels. When they were sated, they turned to thank the woman, but she had disappeared. When they reached Agadez, the men told their amazing story of how they had been saved from certain death by a beautiful young woman. An old jeweller, hearing their story, set to and made a necklace that matched the men’s description of the young woman’s ornament. Upon it he carved symbols of stars and dunes, trails and tents. He called it ‘celebra’. This necklace carries memories of the trade routes through the desert and night travel guided only by the stars above.”

I sit in silence, a cold certainty in my belly, and wait for what I know is coming.

“The necklace is yours. You are a beautiful girl, and it is a fine piece of jewellery. But I chose it because it speaks of the trade routes – it will be a memory for you of all the days you have spent in the caravan. The trading, the desert, the goods we have bought and sold, the nights following the trails of the stars. You cannot continue on the trade routes with your brothers and me. I have been foolish and kept you too long by my side because I love you dearly.” He pauses. “And for your mother’s memory,” he adds with a sigh. “But now it is time for you to stay here in the main camp. You will live with your Aunt Tizemt for a time. You will learn new skills from her. You will become a woman, as you should, instead of playing at being a man. Your time on the trade routes is ended.”

I look down at the heavy silver pendant and feel the first tears falling, hot and shameful on my cheeks. I try to speak, clutching the celebra tightly in my hand as though about to throw it back at him, but manage only a swallowed sob, an ugly gulping noise that makes my tears fall faster.

My father rises slowly to his feet and silently puts his arms about me. My muffled voice produces more gulped noises, intended as flat refusals. He waits. When my sobs begin to slow, he speaks, and his voice is kind but firm.

“Your Aunt Tizemt is a very kind woman – for all her loud voice and louder opinions. She will teach you many, many new things, and you will come to enjoy them and be proud of all you will have to show your brothers and me when we come to see you. And perhaps you would like to marry soon.” He pauses to allow me to attempt another muffled refusal. “I am sure you will have more choice than you will know what to do with. And I am also sure that you will choose wisely, for having lived for so long with men you know what we are like better than any woman.” I can hear him smile. “So, may I see your face again? If it is not too red and ugly after all that crying?”

My father’s caravan stays only three days, enough time to share stories and gifts, for saddles and tents to be mended and all the goods to be sorted and re-loaded correctly. My father agrees to leave Thiyya with me, but only after I wept at the thought of losing her.

“No racing,” he reminds me. “Thiyya will have to get used to a different life, just as you will.”

Thiyya snorts in disgust when she is used to collect water, but I cannot let her travel far away from me.

The slaves gather round to bid me farewell. Some of them have known me since I was a little girl and they stroke my face and murmur endearments. Adeola weeps and Ekon stands silent, his sad face echoing my own, but he puts out one large hand and pats my shoulder before my father approaches and the slaves move away, ready to mount.

“We will visit, daughter. We will return in a few months, have no fear.”

I stand before him, silent and pale, unable and unwilling to speak.

“Now then.” My father’s voice becomes overly brisk. “Where are all those sons of mine? Come and bid farewell to your sister.”

They are upon me in moments, a swirl of blue robes and five sets of arms hugging me from all directions. Jokes, laughter, my cheeks pinched and my shoulders pulled this way and that before suddenly, they are all on their camels. I stand alone, cold without their surrounding bodies, their smiling faces now far away on the camels high above me. I manage a trembling smile, my cheeks stretching unnaturally, then I wave and wave and wave.

As soon as they are too far for waving, I run in the opposite direction, beyond the camp, where I fall to the ground and beat the sand with my fists, my mouth open in a silent scream of rage and unhappiness, my heart racing and my mind a huge black cloud of disappointment.

“It’s not that bad being a woman, you know. My sisters and mother seem to enjoy their lives.”

I look up, spitting sand out of my mouth and see a young man squatting beside me. His eyes are warm and merry.

“Go away.”

“Not very friendly, are you?”

I spit out more sand in his direction, hoping some of it will land on him. “Who are you?”

“Amalu. I was a baby when your father left the village and began trading.”

“So was I.”

“I know. We are the same age. My mother suckled you when your mother died. She said I was a fat enough baby to be able to share some of my milk.”

I sniff disdainfully. “You look skinny enough to me.”

He pretends to be insulted. “Skinny? Look at my arms! Are they not mighty?”

I shrug but must hide a smile. “I have seen mightier.”

He laughs out loud and makes himself comfortable. “I am sure you have. Tell me.”

Talking seems to help a little. We sit together for more than an hour and I tell him stories of the trading routes. He makes a good audience, widening his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief and begging for more whenever I draw breath. By the time my aunt finds me I am sitting upright and laughing.

Aunt Tizemt is not laughing as we enter her tent, my new home.

“Sitting around while still dressed in a man’s robes, giggling with some boy you have never met! It’s a good thing your father brought you to me. I can see you have never learnt how to behave like a woman. Take off those robes at once. I have poured some water in that bowl. Here is a cloth. Clean yourself and then dress in a more becoming manner.” She throws down a cloth and marches out of the tent, closing the flaps behind her. The sound of her grinding stone outside is fierce.

I am alone. And unused to it. On the trade routes there were always people. Slaves, my brothers, other traders, even my quiet father. Here there is no-one but me in the tent, and the camp outside is small and peaceful, not like the hot swarming cities I have been used to. Slowly I take off my robes and begin to wash. My thick black hair has begun to grow out. Now, for the first time in my life that I can recall, it is past my shoulders. I try to tie it back, catching my hands in it and finally succeeding in making it into a tangled knot at the base of my neck.

Once clean I look around. There are some clothes lying on the bed, but I am unsure of whether they are the right ones. They look gaudy after my plain blue robes. A long red cloth and a smaller orange cloth, all decorated with little silver discs here and there. A couple of brooches, designed to hold the fabrics together in a becoming way when wrapped around the body. A multi-coloured shawl for my shoulders and a wrap for my hair, although my face will remain uncovered now that I am to be dressed as a woman. The wrap is woven in reds, oranges, yellows and covered with symbols and patterns. A pair of simple leather slippers are the only things that look familiar, so I put them on and then stand, uncertain. How to fold the cloth correctly to make my woman’s clothes? Oh, for a simple blue robe, dropped over my head in moments and then tied at the waist!

My aunt must have heard the silence that fell after the slow washing sounds had stopped. She appears inside the tent.

“Why are you not dressed? Do you intend to wear only shoes? You’ll find a husband a lot quicker like that, but I am not sure he’s the sort of husband you’d like to have.”

She looks me over approvingly as I stand naked before her, as though inspecting a goat for sale. Only seventeen, I have a slender body the colour of golden sand, except for my forearms and feet, the skin around my eyes and a small part of my neck, all burnt walnut-brown from the sun. My tangled hair has already fallen out of its badly made knot and although it is not smooth, it is at least thick, dark and glossy. My breasts are small but shapely and I have a wiry strength that can be seen in my thighs, belly and arms as I shift nervously from one leg to the other and attempt to cover myself from her unrelenting gaze with my hands.

“I didn’t know what to wear.”

“What’s wrong with the clothes I’ve laid out for you?”

“They’re very…” I falter.

“Very?”

“Bright.”

“And your blue robes are not? Bright enough, I think. Now put those clothes on.”

I stumble over the clothes until my aunt must step in to pin them correctly. The wrap for my head is worse.

“Let’s start by combing your hair. You look like a wild thing. I can see your hair is new to you – did you keep it cut short before?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it will grow longer, and you had better get used to it. It will be very fine once it has grown to a good length; your mother always had good hair. Come here. The knots in this! It will hurt but you will just have to bear it. It will be a lesson to you to brush it every day.” She drags a wooden comb through the tangled mass, taking no notice of the way my head jerks back with every stroke and disregarding my yelps of pain. By the time she has finished the comb has a broken tooth and my tangles have become soft dark waves.

“Better,” says my aunt. “Now for your headdress.” In a few quick twists she wraps up all my hair, piling up the bright fabric into a high turban. A few folds hang down at the sides and back, but my face, still darker round the eyes than the rest of my face, is fully visible.

“There! You look like a beautiful young woman instead of a skulking boy. And lift your head up. I know you are not accustomed to having your face on display, but you must get used to it. Now then, you are properly dressed, and your hair is brushed. Do you have any jewellery?”

I nod, my scalp still smarting from her attentions. “I have a celebra,” I say, clasping the heavy necklace round my neck. Aunt Tizemt gives an approving nod. “And my tchirot.” I pull out my square silver amulet from the old jeweller Winitran.

My aunt frowns. “A tchirot is a man’s jewel.”

I close a hand over it protectively. “It is mine and I will wear it.”

She shrugs. “As you wish. You do not have a lot of jewellery. That will change when you have a husband. If you are lucky, he will bring you many gifts, as your father did for your mother. He spoilt her. He was a good husband, though,” she adds, grudgingly giving him his due. “You would be lucky to find such a man.”

“I am not sure I want a husband.”

“What, you with all your giggling with strange young men? Huh. I will see you married within one month at that pace.”

“Is that what I am here for? To be married off?”

“Now, now, no need to get angry. You are here to learn some women’s skills, for your father tells me you have not learnt them from anyone.”

“I have plenty of skills.”

“Really? Can you use herbs for healing as well as cooking? Can you spin? Weave? Sew? Do you know where to find the wild grains and how to make a milk porridge? Cheese? Butter? Or did your slaves do all the work? Can you sing? Dance? Play music?”

“No…”

“Can you read and write the tinfinagh alphabet? I would wager that your father and brothers have not taught you. The boys learn it, but they do not pass it on, it falls to us women to do that. No, niece, you must admit to being ignorant of many things. It will be my job to teach you. And if you meet a young man that pleases you before I am finished – well, you will have to learn even quicker, for no man will want a woman who can trade but not cook.” She gives a rare smile at my dejected face. “Come, it is not so bad. We will sit together, and we will talk as we work. I will tell you about your mother and your father when they were children. We can gossip and you will meet girls your own age and find out that it can be fun being a woman. It is not all work.”

“It sounds like it is.”

“Well, for now you are right. I have a bowl of grains out there and they will not grind themselves. You will learn to grind the grain and roll it to make couscous while I make you some more clothes, for you have nothing but your old blue robes and what you have on. A good thing your father left me with a generous quantity of new cloth for you from his stores. Come.”

The women’s skills are every bit as dull as I had feared. What skill is there in the washing of sweaty greasy sheep’s wool in the little water available, hauled one laborious bucket at a time? The dyeing, staining my hands a multitude of colours. My arms ache with the endless carding, using the big wooden combs studded with metal spikes to make the wool soft and ready for spinning. The spinning! Never-ending fruitless attempts to make the spindle twirl without stopping, one hand holding the distaff, the other frantically pulling at the wool, trying to produce a regular, even thread. And after all that work, the tedium of weaving! Back and forth, back and forth and the cloth growing barely at all. Hours of work for no visible reward. What skills are these? Where is the quick banter, the knowledgeable eye cast over goods, seeing the quality at a single glance, sweeping aside the unimaginative engravings, the shoddy dyes, the badly cut stones. Reaching out for the sparkling gemstones, the soft bright leather, the fine clay pots and when the bartering is done, the pride of the war waged and won. And the greater prizes. The shining bars of salt. The gleam of gold. The rippling muscles under black skin. These were my skills and now they are deemed worthless.

The days come and go. My mind feels slow and dull, its once fast-moving spirit searching across the dunes to find the trade routes and the caravan that has left me here. I wonder about my mother. Did she wish to travel as well, or did she stay in the camp willingly? Did she feel her spirit grow heavy with each child that kept her tied to the camp or did she enjoy this life? I cannot find the pleasure in it.

Sometimes when I sit gazing at the dunes, having escaped my aunt’s many chores for a moment, Amalu finds me, and we talk.

“Enough, enough!” he cries, as five children chase him across the dunes to where I am sitting. “I have no breath left!”

They fall on him as he reaches me, climb all over him while he laughs and succumbs to their insistence that he play the camel and allow them to ride on his back.

“I beg you to save me,” he gasps, and I cannot help laughing.

“I am afraid I cannot,” I say. “If you are a camel then you must endure your burden in life. Otherwise, I will have to sell you off for meat.”

“Alas, have pity on a poor exhausted camel,” he says, lying on the ground. The children thump him and yell that he must continue but he will not and at last they leave him be, tempted by rolling down the sand dunes towards the encampment.

“I think you are safe now,” I suggest.

He sits up with exaggerated caution, then re-adjusts his wrap, which has almost revealed most of his smiling face. “I am truly exhausted.”

“They are not even yours,” I tease. “What will you do when you have children of your own to contend with all day?”

“Ah well,” he says, easing himself onto one elbow at my feet. “I will have a wonderful wife who will save me from them.”

“Will you, indeed?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says confidently, his eyes on mine. “Now tell me what you are doing up here all alone.”

I shrug.

“Ah come now, Kella,” he says. “I know you miss the trading life. But are you so unhappy here?”

I smile a little. “Not when you make me laugh. But I do miss it.”

“Tell me about the trading life,” he says. “I would like to be a trader myself one day.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the jewellers, the leatherworkers, the carvers,” he says. He has already learnt that I need little prompting. Just the names of the craftsmen will have me talking for hours.

I gaze across the dunes. “The jewellers have steady hands. They can tell so many stories on a tiny circlet of silver. They spend hours turning over gemstones to find the perfect matches of size and colour for a string of beads or a pair of earrings. You can ask them for magic amulets, and they will whisper prayers over jewels for fertility, for luck, for wealth. Some of them roll up tiny scraps of parchment containing verses of the Qur’an, prayers and blessings that will be kept close to the skin within a tiny box of silver.”

Amalu nods, touching his own silver amulet, dangling from his neck.

I sit up a little straighter, gesture at my yellow leather slippers. “The leatherworkers buy whole dyed hides from the tanneries and sit in the shade of their tents with all manner of colours spread out before them. The pure whites fetch the highest price. The mixtures used to make them can rip the skin off a man’s hands at the tanneries. The yellows are dyed with the stamens of the crocus flower. Aunt Tizemt only needs a tiny pinch of saffron for a meat stew, but a lot more is required for a full hide. They cut out small pieces for shoes and use the bigger pieces for saddles.”

I pause for a moment, thinking of the races in which I used to take part.

Amalu sees my face lose its brightness and interrupts my thoughts. “The carvers – you forget to tell me about them.”

I nod, distracted from my regretful thoughts by his enthusiasm. “The carvers work precious woods but also ivory. They make such wonders – the tiniest shapes, the most delicate markings. One false move and the work would be ruined.”

“No spoons and cups, then?”

I smile. “Those too and in far greater quantity. They are not treated with such care. I used to buy so many replacements just for our own family and everywhere we went we could always sell such goods.”

Amalu’s eyes are bright. “I will go to all the places you have been,” he says. “And see such things for myself.”

I want to say take me with you, but that would be too forward. Already I know there are whispers about us in the camp, but although Amalu looks at me with loving eyes I am unsure of my own feelings. Still, he is a friend to me, and I feel the need for someone who will let me speak of my trading days.

“Kella! Kella!”

I roll my eyes. “Aunt Tizemt is looking for me again.”

“I will hide you behind a bush,” offers Amalu mischievously. “And tell her you have run away.”

I shake my head. “Your life would not be worth living when she found you out,” I tell him and together we make our way back to the camp.

Back and forth, back and forth. Buckets from the well, thread on the loom, this grindstone, crushing the wild grains gathered one by one. I refocus my eyes from the horizon and catch sight of Aunt Tizemt, who has paused in her weaving and is looking over her shoulder at me. She smiles encouragingly. Waving her hand at the bowl of grains by my side that are yet to be ground, she begins a story.

“There were once some children lost in the desert. They were hungry and could find nothing to eat. They were surrounded by vile-tasting beetles, beautiful but poisonous oleander bushes, and sand. Sand everywhere, rocks and sand.”

I break in impatiently, rudely interrupting her story, which I have heard once too often. “Then one small boy caught sight of a column of ants. Back and forth, they scurried, back and forth, each ant carrying but one grain on its back. The children took the grains of the sand from the ants, one by one, and so they were saved from starvation until they were found.” I gesture angrily towards the bowl of grains. “You can tell all the stories you like, Aunt, but there is nothing interesting about the gathering or the grinding of grains. In the great souks I could buy my couscous ready ground and rolled by slaves. Street vendors made great basins of hot milk porridge to be eaten by those who had coins. I traded. I was quick, I knew the gemstones, the quality of skins. I chose the strongest slaves, the finest jewellery, the softest leather shoes. I spent my days seeing all there was to see, bartering for goods from all over the world. I felt the weight of cold gold in my hands and felt its softness against my teeth. I threw coins to the street vendors, and they served me fresh bread and roasted meats, cool drinks and sweets to please the tongue and eye. I did not stoop to collect one grain at a time, nor did my hands chafe with the distaff. My hands were tough because of the reins of my camel, the bundles of goods I lifted to the pack animals. I was better than this.”

Aunt Tizemt is unmoved by my outburst. She keeps weaving, her broad back firm and upright. She speaks without turning round. “You think you have seen everything the world can offer. I think you have not. You think too highly of yourself.”

“What have I not seen? I have seen more than you!”

I cannot goad her. She keeps her back turned and her voice is calm.

“Have you seen a child come slithering out of its mother’s womb, covered in blood and slippery to the touch? Have you heard its first cry and seen the joy in its mother’s eyes and the pride in its father’s? Have you caught a dead child in your hands and seen its shriveled body fall limply without breath to the floor? Have you seen the tears of its mother and the cold hurt of its father? Have you seen the man of your dreams and heard him whisper your name? Have you stood naked before a man and seen his face turn to yours? Have you held a man in your arms and loved him throughout the night? Have you held your dying father and wept your heart away as he leaves you alone and unprotected in this world? Have you held your first child in your arms and prayed that every one of your days would be so happy?” She turns, smiling, to face me. “I think not. I think you have seen a great deal and lived very little. I think you have been so busy seeing everything that you have not experienced the moment when every grain you grind is food for your child and brings warmth to your heart. I think your eyes have been so filled with the wonders made by man that you have not seen the glory of the sunset and sunrise, the rise and fall of the dunes, the tiny ant and the mighty wind. You have seen everything and nothing at all. That will change. But sometimes you must be very, very bored before you can see something wonderful that is right in front of you.” She gets to her feet, hands on the base of her back, stretching out her cramped muscles after many hours at the loom. “Now finish those grains. A child of ten would have finished them by now and I need them for our evening meal. Tomorrow, I will take you to Tanemghurt.”

“Remember to call her Lalla,” says my aunt in a whisper as we make our way to her tent, which is large and well situated, for she is held in great esteem.

Tanemghurt is our camp’s healer and wise woman. There is not a child here who was not born into her hands, as were most of the adults. Tanemghurt has lived longer than anyone can recall.

I roll my eyes. I am hardly in need of lessons on basic manners, of course I would use a term of respect for Tanemghurt. “Why am I going to her at all?” I ask ungraciously.

“She will teach you the uses of herbs,” says Aunt Tizemt.

I bite back my rejoinder: that I have seen more herbs and spices on my travels than Tanemghurt can ever have seen, since she has spent her whole life here, in a tent in the middle of the desert.

The tent flap draws back suddenly and Tanemghurt stands before us. Her face is a wrinkled mass of lines, but she stands erect, taller than I am by a good hand’s breadth.

“Tizemt,” she says to my aunt, nodding her head as though to an equal.

“Lalla,” says my aunt. “This is Kella.”

Tanemghurt turns her dark eyes on me and says nothing.

“Lalla,” I say.

She holds the tent flap aside. “Enter.”

I hesitate, then step inside, the flaps closing behind me on my aunt.

Tanemghurt’s tent is very different from my aunt’s, and I look around it with interest. I have not seen her tent inside, for few people are invited into it unless they have an ailment, and often Tanemghurt will choose to take her herbs and spells to the sick person’s tent. It seems larger than most for it is family-sized, but Tanemghurt has never had either children or a husband, so it is for her alone. The space that would have been set aside for her husband’s possessions is full of her little pouches and her mixing and measuring bowls, stacked by size and sometimes by colour. She has spoons of every size, not just the big ones for stirring and the smaller ones for eating, but tiny ones for measuring small doses of the powerful herbs she uses. Some are stained strange colours and some, I see, are kept apart from others. They hang on small loops of string sewn onto the wall. Below them and facing the wall is a large seat, something like a saddle but made for her to sit on, for Tanemghurt is now very old and she finds it hard to sit or squat low on the ground as the rest of us do. The large seat has a small ledge on it where she can rest her mixing bowls or mortar and pestle when she prepares her medicines. All around this seat are pots, many containing water, some containing strange substances that I cannot identify. The tent smells of herbs and perfumes.

“Do you miss the trading life?”

I turn towards Tanemghurt. No-one has ever asked this except for Amalu, and the question brings a sudden sting to my eyes. She stands, watching me.

I swallow. “I have no choice,” I say.

She lowers herself cautiously onto her seat, one bony arm supporting herself as she does so. “There is always a choice,” she says.

“What is my choice?” I ask, my tone disrespectful enough that Aunt Tizemt would cuff my head for it.

She smiles. “That is not for me to say. It is for you to make.”

“What would you do in my place?” I ask, my voice still too sharp.

“I would be honoured to learn women’s skills from a woman as accomplished as your aunt,” says Tanemghurt, unperturbed.

I stay silent.

“So,” says Tanemghurt. “You wish me to teach you about the uses of herbs?”

I nearly say I want no such thing, but even I know that would be going too far. “Yes, Lalla,” I say.

And so, she teaches me the herbs to drink when I wish to bear a child as well as those to avoid bringing life to the womb. She shows me how to deliver a child, should I ever be called upon to do so. She tests me on my knowledge of the tinfinagh alphabet, which only women pass on. She has me recite large tracts of our legends, our songs, the right ways to live. I stay in her tent for many days, leaving only to relieve myself. At night she shows me the stars and nods with approval when I can name the constellations and know how to navigate by them.

“We are done,” she announces one day.

I look at her.

“You may go,” she says, as though we have only been conversing a few moments.

I stand, awkward. “Thank you,” I manage, unsure of what else to say.

She nods. I turn towards the door of the tent.

“Kella.”

I turn back to her. “Yes, Lalla?”

“Treasure your aunt. She has more to teach than I.”

“I have learnt what she had to teach,” I say, a little confused. “She said I should come to you.”

Tanemghurt looks at me. “Skills are not the only thing to learn,” she says. “Your aunt is both fierce and full of love. She lost her husband and yet still she has a great love within her, no matter what her life brings. Perhaps you still have something to learn.”

I try to think what to say in return, but Tanemghurt has turned away, looking through her herbs. I am dismissed.

I resent her words at first. But as the days come and go and the moon grows and wanes over and over again, I begin to take some small pride in my new life and the skills I am learning. I grow accustomed to my new clothes and even sew myself some new ones, adding decorative panels to the red and orange lengths of cloth I wear, learning to tie my headdresses more elaborately and without help. The blue dye fades from my skin, the rest of my face grows brown, and I begin to lose my former long, swaggering strides and take on a slower walk, my hips gently swaying.

“Keep walking like that and your friend Amalu will be falling off his camel when you go by. Perhaps a crack to the skull will bring his mind back,” jokes Aunt Tizemt. But she is proud of me and my new skills, developed under her tutelage.

I can cook a good meal now, for I have always had a fine palate for spices and herbs. I know the quality of spices from my time trading.

“Well, at least you learnt something useful in all those years,” my aunt teases when she sees how well I judge quality and quantity, allowing the subtle and strong tastes to emerge, scenting and spicing the food I make – the milk porridge sweetened with cinnamon, the kid meat rubbed with cumin. I make fresh-smelling herbal teas, steeped mint for the evenings after a heavy meal, ground almonds for a sweet milk, a dipping sauce of rich argan oil and honey to scoop up with fresh flat breads cooked on a hot stone over the coals of the fire. My aunt has seen how Amalu watches me walk by, follows my newly graceful walk with his eyes, then licks his lips when he smells the good food I make.

“Men love soft hips, but they love good food even more,” she says and laughs.

But still, I miss my freedom. Traders pass by sometimes. I sit with an arm around Thiyya’s neck and watch them with envy when they leave, their camels swaying them onwards to other places, other worlds from here. I wonder whether Amalu, if he does become a trader, would take me with him and my cheeks grow a little flushed at the thought, though I am still unsure whether it is Amalu or the trading that brings colour to them.

He does not wait long to make his move. “Lalla?”

My aunt looks up from her work. “What do you want, Amalu?”

“May your niece accompany me to the ahal?”

Aunt Tizemt stops her work on the stretched-out goatskin. She is rubbing it with a thick butter to soften it. She sits back on her heels and considers the young man. Nearby, I sit very upright, pretending all innocence. My hands keep moving, carding thick matted wool into soft clouds that drift down onto the carpet where I sit. My ears, meanwhile, strain to catch every word that passes between them.

“How many are going?”

“Perhaps a dozen of us.”

“She has never been before. I doubt she would know what to do.”

“There are other girls there, Lalla. They can show her.”

“I’m sure. Show her how to dance and sing and show off in front of you boys.”

“I will take good care of her.”

My aunt laughs. “You will spend all your time making up poems in her honour and insults for all the other boys to make her think better of you and worse of them. I know your reputation as a fine crafter of words.”

He waits, casting quick looks at me from under his dark lashes.

Aunt Tizemt relents. “Oh, very well then. She must have some fun. I admit she has worked hard and learnt a great deal in a short time. Perhaps she had better learn some new skills from young people instead of a grumpy old woman like me.”

“Yes, Lalla.”

“Yes, what? I am a grumpy old woman?”

He shakes his head at having fallen into her trap and makes his escape, winking at me as he flees. Aunt Tizemt laughs to herself and turns her attention back to the skin. After a few moments’ work she speaks to me over her shoulder.

“Tonight, you may go to the ahal. It is in the small oasis half an hour from here. Nothing there but oleanders and palm trees, but I am told the oleander flowers are out now – every colour you can imagine. Don’t drink the water there though, the oleander poison may have tainted the water. Take a waterbag. And you can take my amzad with you if you wish. About time you learnt to play it. I have too many other things to be teaching you. Someone else can be your teacher.”

I want to know more. “I have never been to the ahal. What happens there?”

Tizemt sighs. “You have missed out. I spent all my evenings there when I was a young girl. I was a very fine dancer. I know you think I have thick ankles and wide hips, but my sturdy ankles kept me dancing long after the other girls had tired – and then the boys had only me left to look at.” She chuckles to herself, remembering her youth. “The ahal is a place close to the main camp, chosen for its charm, where young men and young women can meet, talk, joke. The boys will make up all sorts of insults for each other and recite love poems to you girls. You girls will play music, sing, dance. About time you learnt to dance as well. Can you sing? I have never heard you sing at your work.”

I make a disbelieving face. “What is there to sing about?”

She reaches over and slaps at my ankles. “Stubborn girl. Well, you will start learning tonight. That Amalu cannot wait to recite his love poems to you after all your chattering about your travels around half the world. And the girls will show you how to dance and play the amzad.”

I hurry inside the tent and come out holding the single-stringed instrument. “How do you play it?”

She waves me away. “Go, go. Better to learn such things from your friends than your elderly relatives. I could not repeat the bawdy songs without making you blush.” She grins and returns to her goatskin, growing soft under her strong hands.

The oasis is beautiful in the light of the setting sun. The heat of the day gives way to the welcome cool of the evening. The palms are very tall but some of the boys risk the climb to pluck fresh ripe dates, pale gold in colour, crisply juicy within. The oleander flowers range from palest white to dark purples. The light makes the surrounding sands glow and the well’s water is fresh and sweet, with none of the promised taint of oleander poison detectable.

We sit, seven girls and five boys, eating the sweet dates and drinking the fresh water. Amalu begins a soft beat on a small drum and a boisterous girl named Tanamart begins a comedy dance; a small palm tree her solid and dependable, if uninspired, dance partner. We laugh and cheer her on. Tanamart winks and holds out her hands to me. “Come now! The newest member of our ahal! You must learn to dance. Come and dance with me.”

I demur, embarrassed, but am coaxed to my feet and hand in hand with Tanamart I learn my first dance steps, how to move my hands and sway my hips. The sand is warm under my bare feet and the cool air caresses my arms as I move them. I am conscious of Amalu’s smiling face and the beat of his drum that guides my steps.

The rest of the evening is spent teaching me more steps, with much laughter over my very poor attempt at playing my aunt’s instrument and applauding of the boys’ poems, which range from romantic to insulting depending on their intended recipient. Amalu is quieter than usual, his friends teasing him for shyness in front of his lady-love but he only smiles and spends his time improvising rhythms on the drum for the others to dance or recite to.

It grows late and cold. Slowly we begin to depart. Amalu holds down his hand from his seat on his sand-coloured camel. “Will you ride back with me?”

I hesitate but the other girls nudge me forward, giggling. I smile and hold out my hand to be helped up onto the camel. He pulls me up to sit behind him. I try to settle myself. I have not ridden behind anyone since I was a tiny child behind my father. It feels strange not to hold the camel’s reins, not to see where we are going. Instead, I hesitantly put my arms about Amalu’s waist and feel his warm hand cover mine.

The others clap and laugh. “We will accompany you home,” calls out Tanamart.

“You will do no such thing,” retorts Amalu and he spurs on the camel so that we quickly outstrip them. It is a strange feeling to be on the back of a camel galloping without having control over it and I hold Amalu more tightly.

Once we are comfortably ahead of the others, he slackens the reins and allows his camel to walk. We are all alone in the darkness and for a few moments I rest my head against his back and hear his heart beating, feel our bodies slowly rock together with the pace of the camel.

He peers round at me. “Have you nothing to say to me?”

“What would you like me to say?”

He sighs. “I would like you to say that your heart beats faster when you are close to me. That you like to ride together like this. That you would ride with me always.”

My heart beats a little faster. “Would you be a trader?”

“I would.”

“And I would travel with you?”

He laughs. “You would be here, in the camp. With our children.”

I am silent.

“I would come home often,” he assures me. “I would not be able to stay away from you for long. You are too lovely.”

I stay quiet and still.

He speaks again, more cautiously. “Would you not like that? Do you not favour me? I hoped you might look kindly on me.”

When I speak my voice is low. “I loved the trade routes and our life there. But most women must stay at home and weave and bear children.” I stop, for my voice is wavering.

“And you would not be happy to do so?” asks Amalu.

My voice is so low I am not sure he can hear me. “I want to travel the trade routes again.”

“Alone?”

My face is growing warm. “With a husband and my children,” I say. “I would be happy to travel alongside a husband, to trade together.”

Amalu is quiet. “It is not a life for a woman,” he says at last. “Women stay in the camp. Would you not be content, if you were my bride?”

I am silent. I feel the warmth of his back, think of his gentle way of speaking, of his good nature. I try to weigh what I feel for him against the desire to travel again, to trade. To be free. I was a trader once, but I am uncertain about this trade. I am not sure if it is weighted in my favour.

Amalu speaks again, very soft and low, his head tilted back towards me. “Will you be my bride, Kella?”

My heart is full, but I do not answer. I am distracted by the sight of the main camp. The fires should be burning low, families finishing their evening meals and beginning to think about sleep. But as we approach there is the sound of music, of people talking and laughing. The fires are burning brightly and there is a smell of roasting meat. The children are awake and excited. As soon as they catch sight of us, they run shrieking in our direction.

“They’re here! They’re here!”

Amalu looks up, startled. “Who is here?”

“Kella’s father and brothers! And they have such news!”

I let go of Amalu’s waist and slide quickly down from the camel, running towards the camp, leaving him alone.

My father looks up with a warm smile as I run towards him. My five noisy brothers whoop and leap up to hug me, before delivering me to my father’s side by the fire. All the camp is gathered to hear the news and see them after many months’ absence.

My father hugs me tightly and then leans back to get a good look at me. He speaks over my head to my aunt, who is beaming. “Tizemt, I congratulate you. I see a grown woman, not the half-man I brought you! She is most beautiful, and I am sure most accomplished. Can she weave? Sew? Cook?”

“All of that and much more besides.” My aunt is proud.

“I am in your debt, sister.”

I interrupt, tugging at his arm like a child. “They said you have news.”

My father nods. “I have, exciting news. Sit by me and I will tell you everything.”

The camp makes itself comfortable, the older children as keen to hear the whole story as the adults. The smaller children sit in their parent’s laps but doze, the words meaningless to them. My father waits until everyone is ready and then begins.

“Ten years ago, the Almoravid army captured the city of Sijilmasa in the north from the Zanata tribe and then went on to sack the trading city in the oasis of Awdaghast, in the south. In this way they controlled the two ends of one of the great trade roads. But when a few years later they tried to cross the High Atlas to fight the Barghawata tribe and take control of a wider part of the country, their leader Abdallah was killed and the Almoravids were forced to retreat. His general and second-in command, Abu-Bakr bin Umar, took over the leadership. Now Abu Bakr is ready to attempt the crossing of the High Atlas again. His army is far larger and stronger than it was before. They have had a few years to build up their strength and develop their plans. His cousin is Yusuf bin Tashfin, and he is now the second-in-command. A very strong and pious man, so they say – I have spoken more with Abu Bakr but have seen Yusuf also. Together they lead the army. I have met Abu Bakr over the years through my trading, and now they have asked me to help them plan their attack, as I have been to many of the trading cities across the High Atlas. They want to take Taroundannt and then the merchant city of Aghmat, which is very rich. Abu Bakr, Yusuf and some of their men will come here tomorrow, and we will talk. There may be young men from our camp who wish to join their army – many men from local tribes have joined them. My own sons wish to go but they cannot be spared for now – perhaps later they may join Abu Bakr and his men. Also,” he winks at Aunt Tizemt, “I do not believe my sons have the discipline to train and pray so hard whilst eating only meat, water and fruit as the Almoravids do – I think they are too fond of their aunt’s good cooking.”

My aunt laughs. “I will feed up your boys while they are here. They will be able to taste their sister’s fine cooking, too. Tomorrow we will have a feast to honour our visitors when they arrive here. For now, it is very late and time for everyone to get some sleep.”

The camp disperses, although I can hear everyone talking long into the night, excited and curious about the news. The young men are probably dreaming of glory, their mothers hoping to persuade them to stay safely at home.

I wake at dawn, nudged into sleepy consciousness by Aunt Tizemt. We creep out of the tent, past my brothers and father sleeping just outside the tent. Wrapped in thick blankets they are indistinguishable from one another.

The goats are milked and herded away from the main camp for pasturing by the slaves before the men wake. They rub the sleep from their eyes and drink hot tea and eat handfuls of fresh dates with bread from the night before. The boys tease me when they see their breakfast. “What, no fresh breads with honey and butter? No soft porridge? No fine meats and stews cooked to perfection? We were promised fine cooking from our oh-so-grown-up sister!”

I laugh and chase them away. “Go and fill the water bags and pots. We are planning a great feast for tonight. This morning you eat leftovers. It will whet your appetite for later.”

My youngest brother makes a despairing face. “I am still a growing boy! I cannot survive on such meager fare!”

“Still growing?” I poke at him with my wool carders as I tidy the tent, looping up the sides to let the cool air flow through. The sharp metal spikes make him squawk and leap out of my way. “I think you are only growing fatter, brother, not taller! Now go with the others, I need plenty of water! When you return there are goat kids to be slaughtered so that I can begin to marinate the meat.”

When I step outside Amalu is waiting.

“Kella –”

“I cannot talk now, Amalu,” I say. “Aunt Tizemt will have plenty to say if she catches me loitering.”

“I asked you a question,” he says. He is rarely so serious.

“I know,” I say.

“And?”

“And I cannot think on it when I am being pulled every which way by work,” I tell him. “I need to think carefully before I answer you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” I say.

He nods, his eyes a little sad. “Very well,” he says. “When there is a quiet moment, think on what I asked you.”

I nod, serious enough that he seems satisfied.

It is not until the afternoon that one of the children comes running to tell my father that our visitors have been spotted. A party of twenty men, all on horseback, “And such horses! Not like ours but grey stallions, their legs so fine and such fast racers!” They are followed by another sixty men variously mounted on camels and horses.

The men gather to welcome the guests. The children peep from behind tents and the women cluster a little further back as they approach. Abu Bakr, at their head, is a stocky man with a broad smile. He slips quickly down from his horse and steps forward to take my father’s hands and exchange greetings. Next to dismount is his general.

“Yusuf bin Tashfin,” murmurs my aunt, always well informed. “They say he has an even greater vision for the future than Abu Bakr. The whole of the Maghreb united under one rule, a mighty empire.”

I watch. Suddenly the camp feels small and dull. I had thought I had grown somewhat used to my life here, but these visitors, bold on their fine steeds with grand visions for the future, about to travel far away from our little camp, have already made me envious. Something in me I thought had been tamed is tugging to be set free.