Her mind wandered to her past. To the skipped childhood spent following her father on his obsession to locate the book of Nostradamus. Even as a child she was certain the prophecy was nothing more than a foolish dream, thought up by one of her great ancestors who needed to make themselves feel more important than they were.
Zara’s father was an archeologist. Only he cared little about ancient history. He was driven by an unshakeable belief in the prophecy and that together the two of them would locate the final resting place of Nostradamus’s book. Unlike her father, who was close to madness with obsession and almost religious fervor, Zara had never really believed the stories.
His obsession drove her mother, Darius, to death. Darius followed Zara’s father throughout his travels. On the year Zara’s mother died, her strong-willed mother had decided to take Zara to Cairo after deciding it had become a ridiculous notion to have a young girl and wife wandering the desert in search of a fabled prophecy.
On that trip, the winds were particularly strong through the night. Her mother climbed out of their tent to strengthen its lines and keep it from being blown away. At the very same time, an unusually large, yellow Leiurus Quinquestriatus, known colloquially as a Deathstalker scorpion climbed out of its burrow to investigate the strange vibrations coming from the heavy wind.
The scorpion, having recently given birth to its own offspring, was particularly aggressive. It stung Zara’s mother several times. With each sting, the scorpion injected its venom with the dangerous neurotoxins agitoxin and scyllatoxin.
Her mother died within minutes.
Zara’s male guides had decided the best solution was to return her to her father. She often thought her father should have sent her away. Made her study abroad, but instead he took her in and decided it was a sign that the prophecy was fast approaching. She traveled with him throughout the Saharan desert searching for an Erg that matched a description of a story, passed on from father to son for generations. She loved that time she spent with her father, but at the same time hated herself, because she felt she had been responsible for her own mother’s death. In time, she focused this guilt into anger at her father, who had become more and more focused on the prophecy. It was his obsession, and in the end — he died without ever finding the book of Nostradamus.
Zara wandered in and out of consciousness. Her mind focused hard on one fact. The prophecy, the riches, the end of the human race — it was all bullshit! And now she was going to die in the desert because she’d let herself become a part of it. Her mind drifted like the sand which rolled down the dune beside her.
Only it wasn’t bullshit — her father had been right all along. The book of Nostradamus proved the existence of the prophecy. She had been wrong and her father had been right. And now she was going to die of thirst in the middle of the Sahara desert and she didn’t even know who had attacked her camp and killed everyone who had supported her quest for the past two years — two hundred men and women who had followed her faithfully, trusting her to bring them to the glory of Nostradamus’s prophecy.
At the bottom of the steep dune, sand rolled into the still water making the smallest of ripples. The palm trees formed shade and the entire place looked like some sort of utopia out of Eden. The oasis looked so real she wanted to delve into its cold water and immerse herself in its mythical and rejuvenating powers. Zara tried to lick her lips. All she tasted was the dry salt and it burned at her tongue so much it hurt. She could no longer balance and found herself freefalling down the steep sand dune. She lost track of the amount of times she rolled.
At the bottom of the sand dune she entered the cold water with a splash.
This must be it. I’m getting close. I’m starting to hallucinate — I’m really going to die.
I failed the prophecy.
Chapter Sixteen
It took Zara a few minutes to realize where she was. Her core body temperature retreated as she felt the cool water cover her to her neck. She let the cold water enter her mouth. She swished it around until her mouth and lips were soothed and then spat it out. She then carefully swallowed a small amount of water. She’d heard of men dying after stumbling upon an oasis in the middle of a great desert and drinking themselves to death.
She took a second small mouthful of the fresh water, submerged her head and then slowly reappeared. Her giant hazel eyes stared out from just above the waterline, like an alligator — waiting for its prey.
It was the first time she noticed she was not alone.
A camp had been set up at the far side of the waterhole. A small fire lit, and the rich aroma of the nomadic Tuareg people’s tea brewed. Nearby three camels drank, sheltered by the five palm trees surrounding the edge of the small oasis. Her eyes scanned the area for a sign of their riders, but couldn’t find any. She’d passed the edge of the Bilma oasis. Not the main one in which the town was built, but a smaller one on the outer edge of Bilma. That put her a further forty miles east than she expected. That was good, it might give her a little more time to add some distance between herself and her attackers. Her eyes searched for the nomads to whom the camels belonged.
Zara slowly stepped out of the water and quietly climbed the bank of the sand dune to retrieve her pack. She carefully opened the bag, ignoring the wooden case which housed the book of Nostradamus. Instead she unzipped an inside compartment and withdrew a small knife. It was a razor sharp butterfly knife. She slipped it into her trouser pockets and crouched down to carefully approach the camels. Her instincts telling her not to trust strangers in a desert.
“Hello,” she called out. “Anyone here?”
No answer.
“I’m going to steal your camels if someone doesn’t answer me.”
Still no response.
Zara looked for somewhere the owners could be sleeping. There were five trees, approximately fifty square yards of water — and sand. The place was otherwise empty.
She patted the camel closest to her on its neck. “Where are your masters?”
The camel snorted and then continued drinking. The beast looked tired, and worn. Its owner had ridden him hard. There was no way she could entice such an animal to ride again today.
“You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?” she said, kindly. The camels were intimate to the nomadic people of the Sahara, who needed them for everything they did. It was inconceivable someone had been careless enough to lose all three. “I’ve had a pretty shitty day, too,” she confided.
Zara quickly filled up her water canteen and began loading the camel with supplies. “I’m going to need your help,” she said.
The camel backed away.
It was the first sign it had shown of being frightened.
Zara put her hands out. “Hey, it’s okay. I know an even better waterhole nearby.”
The camel knelt down with its front legs stretched out and its hind legs resting buried in the sand. It gave a loud snort and then rested its head on the sand beside the oasis. The beast closed its eyes, and Zara watched its breathing become slow and relaxed. There was no way she was going to be able to coax the beast into carrying her straight away. Her best bet was to give it a few hours rest and then attempt to rouse it into moving.
She patted the camel on its neck. “It’s all right. Have a break. In a few hours I’ll take you to an even nicer place.”