A Knife In The Sand- my reworking of The Desert Song

Here are the first two pages of my first draft. Anyone have comments on the story? The characterisation?

A Knife In The Sand By Anne Ching

The journal of Anwar Karim, Riff Mountains, Western Desert, Qeshimoor.

Al-Ithnayn Fibrayir 11 (Monday February 11)

I’m tired. My arms and hands are sore from holding onto the reins, wielding a sword and rubbing down my horse, Asra. Everyone else in this tent is asleep now, including Sayyid and Nabila and all my foster siblings including the baby, Zahira.

I don’t think I can sleep tonight. Or forget The Sheik of Araby. That’s why I took this journal and a pencil up onto my mat from under my blanket, which scratches me sometimes. To get “The stars that shine above will light our way to love” out of my head. I can’t stop singing it. There’s no way I’ll get my band to follow some girl’s caravan because I love her. She’s got to have something I want. And I’m a Caïd of our tribe, the Oulad Qamar. Not a shaykh.

During the Maghrib prayer this evening I couldn’t stop thinking about the raid. I was relieved when it ended. We’d succeed, inshallah. I knew Nabila was thinking that too. Her expression was tense when she turned back to the blanket between the men’s and women’s areas, picked up Zahira, put on the baby sling, lifted her into it and went outside to talk to Sid. Wiped water off my face and hands and pulled my burnous over my head. It seemed like hours before I could push the red hood on. The flap was open, so I could see what was going on while I buckled my belt, put my sabre in its sheath and slipped it inside the belt with the shabriya, the traditional Bedawi knife.

They kissed each other. Her red wool cloak and belt, green tunic and black veil glowed in the fire. So did the sling carrying Zahira. Her face in the veil was half-hidden in the darkness. She’s white, like everyone else in our tribe. Except me. My grandmother on my father’s side was a Negro slave called Jeneba. My skin’s darker, like my father’s was. But my siblings are a bit lighter. She said she hoped we succeeded, “God willing.” She sounded worried.

She hugged me when I left the tent. Her hands felt rough on my back from all the herding she’d done and her clothes scratched against my chest. But they were warm. She kissed me on the cheek too. “Anwar, habibi. I love you. Take care of yourself. May God keep you safe, my Caïd, my little red shadow.” She always calls me that because my nickname’s Amalu. It means shadow in Tamazight and I wear a red burnous. The name’s stuck. Then she disappeared into the tent to spend her evening with the other women.

Asra’s saddle was soft under me when I mounted. The name suited her. She’s the fastest horse I’d ridden. She moved into a walk, then a trot and a canter. It was like being on a walking teleportation carpet. I’d seen a teleportation carpet in the bazaar once and another one in the attic of this house near one of our campsites when I was three. We were camped outside Cerros Blancas, the nearest town for thirty miles before Targa. One of the houses had a window open and a breeze was blowing, so I saw it flying across the roof.

I tried not to think about our campfires and goatskin tents on the slope. There I can ignore the cold because of the closed tent flap. It was colder moving across the mountains. I slowed down as soon as we reached the southern peak. Then I glanced behind me to check if they were following. The hoofbeats sounded like drums and the dust trailed off, leaving hoofprints.

We were safe. I knew because the lapis lazuli ring on my right hand was blue. It’s a talisman against the evil eye.

When I was five I asked my father about it one night, after my nursemaid Aminah put me on my mat, wrapped me in the blanket, and kissed me goodnight. He stopped in the middle of the story, looked across the mat at me and said “It’s for protection.” “Is that why it goes black? Like with the goumiere last week?” The week before, some families from our clan, including ours, had gone to the souk as a goum to sell the loot from the supply trains along with some of our mutton and lamb and some beef and other food. I’d been given a package of tin cans to carry. I’d taken them myself and I was happy because I could reach them inside the carriage. They were on a shelf low enough for a five-year old to reach.

We were starting down the path, with me on the back seat of the wagon near the packages and boxes, fidgeting. Aminah cuddled me on her lap. I wriggled out and accidentally kicked her shin. “Ow!” she cried.

“Let go.”

“No, Anwar, you’ll hurt yourself. If you don’t move, little Caïd, I will tell you two stories tonight.”

“Really?” “Only two. You’ll sleep after the last one. Or else I’ll cut it down to one.” I stopped. I loved her stories, especially The Thousand and One Nights. “Prince Camaralzaman and Princess Badoura?”

“And The Ninth Captain’s Tale.”

edited 21st Jul '12 9:50:52 PM by MorwenEdhelwen

Anyone? (And yes, there will be more Thousand and One Nights references.)

edited 21st Jul '12 9:51:37 PM by MorwenEdhelwen