But this particular curse did not halt on the frontiers of exile. The victim’s kinsmen had arrived from Aïr and then fanned out across the desert, each demanding Ukhayyad’s head. Initially, they were men who claimed to be his kin so as to inherit some of the wealth Dudu had left behind. The man’s unavenged blood now stood between them and their fortune, for it was custom in the desert to insist that a murdered man be avenged before his inheritance was divided. Thus, they began to seek Ukhayyad in earnest, not out of any love for Dudu, but in order to carve up the spoils as quickly as possible. To this end, they had employed tricks borrowed from elsewhere — tricks the northern wastes had never known before: they began bribing herders and those nomads who knew every detail of the northern deserts. It is a well-known fact that gold blinds all and corrupts even the best of people. It was that accursed gold that led them to Ukhayyad. And it was gold — not really these men — that chased after him in hot pursuit. Is there any curse in this world that does not have its roots in that metal?
At first, they combed the mountain range, searching through the summits stone by stone. Then, they were led to his hideout by camel dung — the piebald’s droppings. They set up camp beneath the mountain, and then stopped climbing through the mountain stones for several days. Perhaps they were awaiting a messenger or a command from the group in the oasis? There were three groups of them: one here, another tending the flocks of camels in Danbaba, and a third quartered in Adrar oasis. The battle was led from the oasis — at least, that is what a herdsman heading west had told him.
Ukhayyad thought about the trap closing in around him. Time was now working against him. If he remained holed up in the nooks of these parts, they would find him within a day, or a few days at most. His water supply would run out in two days, and the green grasses — that gift of the merciful rainclouds — had already begun to wither and grow sparse. The summer sun had begun its labors.
He waited for twilight to fall, then stole between the rocks until he arrived at the ravine where the piebald was grazing. He saddled the camel and placed the waterskin on him, along with all the provisions he could carry. He then set out toward the mountains. The camel galloped the whole day until they approached the eastern end of the range. Ukhayyad climbed up to the highest peak, where he hid his supplies. He walked back to the Mahri and then flung himself on the animal’s neck. He gazed into the camel’s deep, merciful eyes. “Now we will separate,” he said in a plaintive voice. “We must part. They’ll kill us if we stay together. Go into the Hamada desert, as far away from here as you can. Don’t be afraid about me. No one can touch me while I’m here on these peaks. They don’t know these paths and ravines and caves like I do. They are not from here — they’re foreigners. The important thing is for you to disappear. You’ll be safe when you get to the Hamada. When this trouble passes, we’ll find each other again. After that, you and I will never be apart again, ever. Agreed?”
The camel rose to his feet. He rubbed his muzzle against Ukhayyad’s arm. He licked Ukhayyad’s cheeks behind the dark veil that covered them.
Ukhayyad delivered his last will and testament to the animal with their mantra, “Patience. Just be patient. Don’t forget the power of these magic words. Patience is life.”
The Mahri stared at the horizon where the barren waste stretched forever. Then he headed off on the long journey.
The despondence in the camel’s eyes was something Ukhayyad had never seen before.
29
Ukhayyad retreated into the most rugged part of the region. There he took refuge in an unusual cave. It was actually more a cleft that crept all the way up the wall of stone to the mountain’s summit. He avoided the lower caves, since they would be the first place the mercenary herders would look. The desert of the Hamada was now surrounded — from the north, the Italians sought to rush in, and from south, the tribes of Aïr sought to violate its pristine wastes. He was trapped. Even God’s vast wilderness could be transformed into a prison — one more impenetrable than the Ottoman jail whose ruins he had seen in Adrar. Ukhayyad felt suffocated. He was completely stranded — and nothing good comes to a person once he is cut off from everyone and everything.
The bastards pursuing him knew this: not even his own tribe would rush to his defense. Their timing was perfect. First, he had fallen out with his father, then he had been expelled from his tribe, and then, with the gold dust outrage, there had been a final break. When his tribe heard the story of his shame, they would wash their hands of him forever. The conditions for pursuing him were ideal and his pursuers would hunt him down, not to extract revenge for their murdered kinsman, but solely to remove the block that stood between them and the division of Dudu’s wealth. When rich men are murdered, it is the brutes and monsters who race fastest to extract revenge. A sense of love or the desire to avenge spilt blood are merely the excuses they invent in order to lay their hands on the spoils.
Dudu had suffered and fought the devils of the Bambara. He had put his body in the path of their poison arrows in order to seize their gold. And yet, when the man died, all his riches would fall into the hands of these cowards. That is the way of this world. It is the cowards who always remain to sweep up the spoils, and it was Ukhayyad’s bad fortune to have placed himself in their way. They would not sleep a single night until they had torn him limb from limb, until they had blotted him out for good. Flecks of gold dust were all they desired. That vile gold dust. It was the cause of everything that had happened. It was gold dust that had murdered Dudu, not Ukhayyad. But was there anyone sane enough to understand this? The reasonable people had stayed at home in Aïr. Would sane people travel for months on end to chase after gold and to hunt a single man across the heights of Jebel Hasawna?
Before settling himself in the crevice, he gazed across the magnificent mountain. From the west, its body stretched out, bowing toward Mecca in the east. The living glow of the desert dawn wrapped a blue turban around the mountain’s lofty peak. It was sunrise, and the mountain held its tongue. Rather than disclosing the mysteries it had learned by heart during the night from the mouth of God, it chose to write them down for posterity. The mountain’s sublimity was the gift of such secrets. Is there anything more exposed or more concealed than the desert?
There are some things you can feel and never touch. Such are these mysteries, these strange ideas floating across the void, and these vague sensations now folded themselves into shadow and silence. Ukhayyad now prostated himself before them in worship. That evening, he had said farewell to the piebald and watched the animal as he shimmered over a silvery mirage before sinking below the horizon. At that moment, he asked these mysteries to deliver him from the envy and spite that now sought him. He prayed that he would meet the piebald again soon. In this silent prayer, he kept his innermost wish to himself: that their reunion should take place under happy circumstances.
But he forgot to seal his plea with the Throne Verse, or any sura of the Qur’an for that matter. He did not seek refuge from the malice of Satan during his prayers. Thus, when the mysterious powers of the desert convened in hasty consultation with one another, the Devil knew how to interfere, agreeing to speed their reunion, though under circumstances of his own making. Without hearing an answer to his prayers, Ukhayyad secured himself within the impregnable rock. He blocked up the mouth of the crevice with rocks, and squeezed his body into his new jail. He entered it in the evening and slept sitting — knees bent to chest.