Though her flesh was desirable only to buzzards at this point, Dawud, her third man and native guide, often gently reminded her to keep her head and face covered. At one time, his kindly meant reproof would have rankled. Now she didn’t mind wearing the head covering. Before they had left the known routes, it saved her questions from passing caravans. It also provided an unspoken barrier. She’d come from a modern world, full of the ideals of equal rights and independence for women. Yet in this culture a woman who demonstrated modesty, who respectfully kept herself covered, sent out a signal that she was deserving of respect.
Didn’t always work, of course, because the world was also full of those who did as they pleased, took what they wanted. But to survive to her final goal she’d utilize any protections the world offered, no matter how flimsy.
She liked young Dawud very much, besides. He hoped to use the funds to bring irrigation and education to his village, and she wanted him to have that. For him specifically, she made it clear to the other two that the bank would not be giving Dawud the jewels directly upon successful completion of their task, but handling the liquidation and management of funds for the village in trust.
Mel and Harry could plan to rob and kill each other as they saw fit after they got their share, but she wasn’t risking an innocent.
In fact, she could have done with just Dawud, except he was a guide and interpreter, not hired muscle. Plus, it would take two strong men to shift the obelisk. Dawud might not be willing to touch it, because of carved warnings on the stone: another way Farida’s lover had protected her body, though he’d been unable to save her life.
The sun was setting now, the stars starting to appear, one by one. She watched them like beads on a rosary, a mantra of hope said over each one. She was so tired. Of course, she didn’t remember what not being tired was, or sick. But it was almost over.
Would Jack, her murdered fiancé, have understood why this had become so important to her? If so, he’d have known her better than she knew herself back then. Until all this had happened, she’d had a laughable understanding of what sacrifice and true determination meant.
The two of them had been given so little time to know each other, but he’d been willing to die for her. When not a split-second instinct, such a premeditated sacrifice was too precious a gift to ever explain, a deep, soul-level treasure that she liked to think foretold what would have grown between them. Why Heaven dangled a precious gem like that and then took it away was anyone’s guess—perhaps Heaven flip-flopped with Hell, like the Sahara, from giver to taker.
Harry was moving about now, helping Mel make their dinner. Jess picked up the bound diary, rubbed her hands over it. Though she knew the men thought her obsession with the book was odd, she needed the comfort of those words to stave off the unease the deepening night always brought. But when the full canopy of stars shone above this evening, she’d be able to locate the obelisk.
Persephone’s constellation would show her the way.
Opening the carefully preserved but well-read pages, she began to read her favorite passages. While she knew them by heart, enough to mumble them as she rocked along on top of her camel during the day, she liked to see the words, pass her fingers over the ink. Connect with Farida, as if that touch between paper and flesh could draw Jessica fully into her world, and out of this one.
Three centuries ago, Prince Haytham came to the aid of Farida’s father against another warring faction. Riding at his side was a man who’d fought and adventured with the prince, a man he referred to as Lord Mason. Her information suggested he was British aristocracy, likely a second or third son who’d become a traveling soldier seeking his fortune, a common enough tale. Though according to Farida’s words, there’d been nothing common about him at all.
If Jess could paint a picture of Heaven, that would be hers. A world where she could be Farida, their merged souls belonging to Lord Mason for all eternity. Closing her eyes, she let her fading mind take her to the one place she still had clarity, a place that existed only in her imagination . . .
v>
If Jess could paint a picture of Heaven, that would be hers. A world where she could be Farida, their merged souls belonging to Lord Mason for all eternity. Closing her eyes, she let her fading mind take her to the one place she still had clarity, a place that existed only in her imagination . . .
2
The Sahara Eighteenth Century