boatman may not profit by worry,” says Ole, sitting stick-straight, “but worry’s my qalqa, ada’na.” She’s still not smiling, but there’s something satisfied in her look, in even the grim set of her lips. She watches Nkemi for a moment, and then casts a look at ada’na Ipiwo and ada’xa Ofero across the crackling fire. There’s another movement – a small, deep line – at her brow.
She lingers on the couple. As if reluctantly, her eyes slide back to the prefect, and she inclines her head. He sits with his kofi balanced on one of his bony knees, nibbling at his hot lentil cake.
“Tseqi’dzotúhy Ohihú listens well.” This is all she says.
She gazes intently at Nkemi. When she looks at him, he thinks there’s an echo of the same look she gave ada’na Ipiwo in the narrowing of her eyes. “Thank you, ada’na,” he says with a small frown, inclining his head much like Nkemi did.
Uquwidi’s rough voice comes from somewhere behind. Despite the grim set of Ole’s face, he hears Inis laugh her sharp, ringing laugh. There’s another swirling gust of sand. He breathes a little of it in – not enough to cough, this early, but enough to tickle. The sensation is new to him. Crouched beside him, he watches Nkemi’s hand flicker over her cup, covering the dark kofi. He does the same. There’s a thin dusting of the stuff on the lip of a fold of her headscarf, now, he notices.
Ole rises with fluid ease and strides across to the camels on her long limbs, shirt tugging round her shoulders. The new sunlight glints off her bare dark scalp. There’s more cursing from over there, and a scuffling and a snorting.
He watches ada’na Ipiwo for a moment, catching her eye and smiling. She looks easier at heart, leastways, if still wan. Well, he suspects he can’t throw stones. He wonders what she makes of the breath of sand in the air.
He finds himself wishing he’d crouched like Nkemi, when he comes to stand. The ache again makes his legs want to buckle.
She’s gentle, but firm – she let him sit, but she urges him along now, as if through a meditation. Some of the men by the camels have already tied their scarves round their mouths. Anfe’s scar is just visible above the pale fabric; the human is at some distance, and he doesn’t stare, or look about for Kafo.
Further ahead, ada’na Inis looks back over the camels and the wagons, her as face full of shadows as Ole’s was earlier. She starts it: she spits on the sand, and it goes down the line like a whoosh.
He struggles to gather the spittle in his mouth for it, at first. The prayer to Hulali comes easy enough to his lips, this time. He doesn’t feel unlike he’s hungover, funny enough, with that loose rattling behind-the-eyes ache and the dry mouth. Maybe this is what men call irony. He takes a sip of water then.
There’s an unspoken question. He answers it. They climb onto the kneeling camel as the last of the tents goes down with a snap and a billowing, a ghost where there was once a form. The fire is nothing but a blackened pit, and they’re covering even it. The rugs have been rolled up.
It’s harder and easier both this time to keep his balance as the camel rises. Ahead of them, both Ofero and Ipiwo ride. He’s already wrapped the cloth round and tied it like she showed him, and settled on the goggles.
Back to it. The camp site disappears behind, sand swept over it like it was never there to begin with. The wagon wheels still roll easy, though there’s a motion to the land all around – a subtle shifting in the hills and valleys of sand – that reminds him too much of the sea, that unsettles him. Shivers of it run through his field, though he doesn’t let himself go queasy yellow-shift in Nkemi’s caprise. Mechanically, he sips his water, steadying his stomach with each swallow.
They reach a crest again when the sun spills over the horizon proper. It edges the shifting dunes, stretches long rippling shadows out from the shrubs.
He takes a deep breath under his wrap as they begin to descend.
An hour – hours? – pass. The air stirs, thickens with sand and heat; the wind burns his cheeks, precludes conversation. Once, there’s a powerful gust, a snorting complaint from the camels, and then there’s nothing beyond his goggles; he can’t even see the knotwork at the back of Nkemi’s head. When it subsides, there’s still a faint graininess flickering across. There’s what looks like a distant cloud bank, but he can’t see very well with his tired eyes.
His skin prickles. He leans to look at the back of Ofero’s head, once, reflecting on the thought of being in Dkanat that evening. Instead, he sees Ipiwo, swaying slightly on the camel’s back.
One of the wagon-wheels gets stuck.
It’s Ipiwo’s camel that crouches, first; it’s one of the natt that helps her off, the one he recognizes from earlier. He sees her hand linger in Ofero’s, arm outstretched, fingertips brushing and then parting. The natt’s shape and hers, much smaller, move through the whipping wind and sand toward the wagons.
They’ve already got the wheel free. He feels a prickle at the back of his neck. Nkemi’s caprise is still warm against his; he’s no desire to be parted from it, not now. But –
The muscles of his thighs ache, and he can’t seem to draw enough breath. He raises his hand and the natt from earlier begins to come over. He leans to touch Nkemi’s shoulder, close enough to be heard. “Ep’ama,” he says breathlessly, meeting her eye as the camel begins to crouch. “Ada’na Ipiwo is wise. There’s ised’usa in this,” he adds. Through the thick glass of his goggles, there’s a smile crinkling his eyes.