Praying to the lord Amon that his back was not broken, he uncurled his body and stretched full length. He was sore but uninjured. Vastly relieved, he looked as best he could through the swirling sand. What he had thought was the wadi floor below was brighter than the water above. Pushing away the dead, spiny limb of an acacia, he rolled over and fought his way toward the light. He broke the surface, gulped air, and took in some gritty water with it. Coughing, he tried to see over the roiling surface, searching for the nearest land.
The leading edge of the flood had passed on down the wadi, which was filled with swift-moving, turbulent water from wall to wall as far as he could see. Each small wave glistened in the moonlight, a gleaming silver shard that shat tered as fast as it formed. Stones rumbled over the floor of the wadi beneath him, driven by the water, while brush and trees, dead lizards and birds and insects, were swept downstream on or near the surface.
He was about twenty paces from a hill that looked much like the one on which the caravan had found shelter. He was not surprised to find this slope empty of life. At the speed he was moving, he had to have been swept a considerable dis tance downstream.
Twenty paces to dry ground. An easy swim at the best of times. An intimidating expanse with the surface so rough and the current so strong, with so much debris floating around him and so many rocks and boulders tumbling below him, their clatter muted by the water to an ominous growl. With no other choice, he set out, swimming diagonally across the cur rent. He could and he would save himself.
A large water jar bobbed past him, caught in the limbs of a dead bush. It had to be one of the vessels the caravan had brought into the desert. It reminded him of that wretched donkey. And of Amonmose. They had surely been swept away as he had been.
Praying they, too, had survived, thanking the gods for so bright a moon and starlight, he looked around, searching for donkey and man. Fifteen or so paces back and about halfway between him and the shore, he spotted the donkey, its muzzle held above the dirty, choppy swells. The jars and supplies were gone from its back and it was swimming with the cur rent. Would its burden have come loose without the help of a man? Promising himself to wring the creature’s neck if it had brought about the merchant’s demise, he scanned the choppy water around the beast. He thought he saw a human head on the far side, but could not be sure.
Praying he had found Amonmose-or Senna; he had for gotten how close the nomad guide had been to the wadi floor-he swam across the raging waters to intercept the donkey. He fought the pull of the current, the tumbling debris and brush. He could see that the initial force of the flood had lessened, but not enough to ease his journey. Slowly he ap proached the animal. The filthy and sometimes foaming swells marred his view, preventing him from verifying whether or not he had seen a man.
As he drew close, the donkey flung its head and thrashed around, afraid of what must have seemed to it another of many threats to its safety. Bak let the current carry them on a parallel course, giving his tired muscles a rest, and spoke to the creature, trying to reassure it.
“Lieutenant?” Amonmose, peering over the donkey’s back, had to yell to make himself heard. “I thank the gods. I thought never to see you again.”
Bak swam closer to the donkey and clutched its brushlike mane. “When I thought of you and this wretched beast…”
He gave the trader a rueful smile. “I must admit I feared the worst.”
“If I hadn’t been holding onto him when the water struck,
I’d not be here now. I’m not much of a swimmer.”
“I’m surprised you both didn’t drown.”
“He fought me and for a while I feared he’d fling me away.
But I held on tight. I knew I’d never reach safety in these un 158
Lauren Haney tamed waters without help.” The need to speak loudly failed to check Amonmose’s garrulous tongue. “Fortunately, as afraid as I was, I had the good sense to unload him. He was having trouble staying afloat with those big jars on his back.
He must’ve realized I’d helped him. He grew more sedate and let me stay with him, clinging to his neck.”
Bak nudged the donkey toward the nearest hillside, a steep slope of rough and broken rocks. “We may not be able to get ashore right away, but at least we’ll be close if we find a likely place.” Or if we get desperate, he thought.
“Where are we, do you know?” Amonmose asked.
The hill looked no different than any of the others. The moonlight had stolen away the reddish color of the land scape, turning the rocks gray and the intervening spaces black. He had no idea how fast they were moving or how long they had been in the water.
“Not so far, I pray, that the caravan won’t come upon us early tomorrow.” Thinking to lighten the situation, he said with an exaggerated sadness. “I fear our fellow travelers will eat the remaining grouse, Amonmose, leaving none for us.”
The trader flung a very wet but wry smile across the back of the donkey. “One thing we know for a fact: we won’t suf fer from thirst.”
“The donkey’s tiring,” Amonmose called. “If the truth be told, so am I.”
“We can’t give up yet.” Bak, as exhausted as his compan ions, eyed the hill they were sweeping past. He had begun to swim ahead, looking for a place where they could climb out of the wadi.
Thus far, every hillside had been so rough and craggy that it had been virtually impossible to seek safety on its slope.
His greatest fear was not the land they could see, but the rocks that lay below the water’s surface. After the donkey’s valiant struggle to swim along with them, supporting Amon mose to an ever increasing extent, he dreaded the thought that it might break a leg and have to be slain.
Several times, he had swum toward the shore, feeling with his feet the surface below. Each time he had found hidden ob stacles too rugged and sharp-edged to allow the donkey to reach higher ground. And each time he had had to bolster his will to carry on. The speed and force of the water was abat ing, but so was his strength. According to the passage of the moon, they had been caught up in the flood less than half an hour, but it seemed to him forever.
Dreading the thought that they would have to risk the don key’s legs, he beseeched the gods to look upon them with fa vor. No sooner had he uttered the plea than he spotted a steep-sided cut that split apart a ridge to the east. Praying sand had blown up the defile, covering any rocks on its floor, he fought the swift waters sweeping past its mouth and swam into a narrow, calm bay. Within moments he felt sand be neath his feet. Blessed sand. As he waded farther into the cut, the water level dropped from his shoulders to his waist to his knees. A few paces ahead, he saw dry sand.
He could not have found a better refuge.
He heard the sharp bleat of a goat. Looking toward the end of the cut, he saw in the moonlight four adults with their young. They must have sought safety in the defile when the wadi flooded.
He waded back into deeper water and swam quickly to ward the wadi. He had to catch Amonmose and the donkey before the floodwaters swept them past the cut. He, the trader, and the donkey were all too tired to fight the current for long. As he feared, they had drifted on by, but not far. He thought he had the strength to get them back-if they had the strength to help.
“I found a good, safe place to stop,” Bak called, swimming to the donkey’s head. He caught its halter and turned it against the current. It fought him, not wanting to swim counter to the flow, but was too tired to resist for long.
Amonmose saw Bak urging the creature upstream and shook his head. “I can’t fight the water any longer.”
Bak had never seen him look so tired and worn, or sound so dispirited. “Grab the donkey’s mane close to his withers, stroke with one arm, and paddle your feet.” As Amonmose clutched the donkey, Bak felt the animal falter. “Don’t make him carry your weight,” he said sharply. “Swim! It’s not far.”