Sahara Adventure Series

The young woman with auburn hair and green eyes rises once more from the hard wooden bench and walks towards the small barred window. The cool night breeze flows through it against her face and caresses her hot cheeks. She looks outside at the twilight, slowly descending over the desert she loves so much and yearns for. First, she stares at the red ribbon the setting sun throws against the purple sky. Then she looks further to the south, where the sky is a deeper blue and the Atlas Mountains are situated. Somewhere a clock strikes eight o’clock. Slowly the clock strikes the hours, and it sounds to her like perdition. She quickly shuts her beautiful eyes and lowers her head against the bars. “One more night!” she mutters, and her hands close spasmodically. “Only one more night!” Her forehead breaks out in cold sweat, and she can feel her hands shaking in disbelief and fear. Now for the umpteenth time, she realizes that this is her last day on earth, her entire last. Maybe she will see the sun in the morning, or maybe not. She turns away from the window hastily and returns to the wooden bench. She sits down and holds her head between her trembling hands. She feels the bouncing of her heart and the blood pulsing like hammer blows in her temples. “The last night, the very last!” she whispers desperately, staring at the deep, grey granite of the cell’s walls around her. If she only had the strength, she would have pushed these walls over with her bare hands to be free once more, to feel the heat of the sun on her hands, to experience once again the cool caress of the desert wind on her burning cheeks, and to feel the rhythmic movement of a massive horse underneath her. She hears the distinct words of the French general again, so clear as if he is uttering them right now in her presence. “The court of war finds you guilty, Madame. You are guilty of the charges of sedition, criminal incitement, and bloodshed. Tomorrow morning at sunrise, you will be executed by firing squad in this fort. Is there anything you would like to say?” Madame.There were so many things she wanted to say and shout out to these French rulers, but strangely enough, even when the crushing words were still ringing in her ears, she was unable to say even one word back at them. She, who had led the warriors of the desert in so many b****y battles in the past, she who had had big men tortured until they had cried out like lost children, she who had done it all, then had nothing to say. For a moment, she thinks about the Atlas Mountains and the big valley where the capital of the Dulacs is situated. She thinks about the big, cool palace where she had lived and remembers the submission of the wild desert dwellers she had commanded. She thinks this only fleetingly, and then her thoughts return to the events of this day. The heat in the small hall of the barracks building, the tall French officers with their impressive uniforms, the questions, the cross-examination, and the accusations. She remembers the endless days she had spent in this cell before they had started with the trial. They had been long, lonely days that had crept past slowly. She jumps up from the bench again and goes to the window. She grabs onto the cool bars with her hands and gazes at the evening light slowly deepening over the earth. There is panting in her throat, and sobbingly, she presses her face against the cold granite. One more night! Just one more night! With the morning’s arrival and the light coming, death will also come for her. She weeps, and the tears roll down her cheeks. This was the first time in years she had cried. The last time she cried was when she found out that the French Foreign Legion had killed her sister, Karima, leader of the Dulacs, out here in the desert. That was the last time. But now she cries because fear has made her a woman again. The warring cloak has been torn from her, and all her cruelty and anger have disappeared. She is now merely a crying woman. Night slowly creeps closer over the desert. Morning is surely being born again over the sea to the east of here. The dawn of her death… * * * “Drink and be merry, brothers, because tomorrow or the day after, we might be killed.” The loud voice climbs up over the drone of the many voices in the Arabian café. It is the voice of Fritz Mundt, the huge, blonde German and the most muscular man in the French Foreign Legion. His massive hand encloses the bottle again, and he fills up the four glasses before him. “Prosit!” Fritz roars and lifts his glass in the air. “Prosit, boere chap!” he shouts once more and slaps Teuns Stegmann so hard between his shoulder blades that the blonde South African gasps for breath. A small rebellion surfaces in Teuns’ blue eyes as he secretly looks up at the German. “Keep your hands to yourself, big guy,” Teuns says. “If I should lose my temper now, I will hit holes in your carcass!” “Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!” Fritz laughs and tilts his big head backward. “Listen, who would like to hit holes in Fritz Mundt! Listen up!” “I had seen it before when Teuns had slammed you into the ground, big guy,” Podolski, the Pole, says. “He only has a big mouth,” Jack Ritchie, the Englishman, adds. “He can merely drink and brag. I swear little Petacci might still give him a hiding one day if he gets angry enough.” “You guys are quite rebellious tonight,” Fritz complains. He puts his glass down and glances warily at the other three men. “Everybody wants to kill me.” “You talk too much, big guy,” says Teuns, sipping the syrupy, tasteless wine. It is so sticky you want to gag from it. “Why may I not speak?” Fritz asks. “Mundt,” Podolski says sharply. “Have you forgotten that a woman will be executed here tomorrow? I do not think we are in the mood tonight for your extravagance.” “Must be a big joke to him,” Jack Ritchie lashes out. Fritz quickly wipes his hand over his big, bald head, and his eyes change. A deep frown furrows his brow. “Could it be because of this woman that you guys are so dead tonight?” He leans far over the table while asking the question. There is a profound shock on his face. “She is not a woman. She is a witch.” “That may be,” Teuns Stegmann admonishes him, “but she is still human, and tomorrow morning she will be shot to death.” “She is a witch!” Fritz shouts and slams his hand hard down on the table. His eyes narrow, and there is tension on his face. He balls his fists. “Have you forgotten what she has done to us? Have you forgotten how many innocent people she had sent to a horrible death? She is a danger in the desert! They should have put her against the wall long ago.” “But, she is also a woman,” Jack Ritchie says, “and you do not shoot and kill women.” “She has conducted herself like a barbarian,” Fritz hisses angrily and quickly drinks his wine. “They could have taken her away from here and locked her up somewhere or even have deported her,” Teuns reckons. “I shudder thinking that a woman must be shot to death.” “Heaven alone knows why they decided to put her on trial and execute her here. Why could they not do it in Algiers?” Podolski complains. “It will start unnecessary fires here in the desert if they execute her in Dini Salam.” “Old chap,” says Fritz, “they can shoot her where ever they please, but the sparks are going to fly. This is exactly the kind of thing that will put the yellow beaks on the war path again, and I think you will be the first man on that path, Teuns Stegmann. You are the one who had led her into the trap so that Captain D’Arlan could capture her. Am I speaking the truth here?” “You make me tremble with fear, big guy,” Teuns answers, and with that statement, he tries to shake off the German’s remark. Yet, it stays in his thoughts, as he had been the man who had so lethally led this woman into the arms of Captain D’Arlan and the French Foreign Legion. He was also the man who, back then, had chased many wild horses into the desert, and they trampled her sister, El Karima, to death. “I do not think you should laugh, Teuns,” says Jack Ritchie. “These Arabs have a grudge against you, my friend, and they will never pass up on the opportunity to cut off your eyelids and leave you in the sun for the vultures.” “Do not get on Teuns’ nerves,” Podolski consoles. “These yellow beaks are not picky and will grill any of us if they can get hold of us.” “Why are you suddenly so quiet, big guy?” Teuns asks. Fritz wipes his face again. “It is funny,” he says. “She is a witch, but I am thinking about her eyes. She has such beautiful green eyes and lovely hair. I do like that type of hair very much.” He is quiet for a while, and then he resumes. “But, I hate her. I will be thankful when I hear the shots from the firing squad in the morning.” “You callous animal,” Jack Ritchie says, swallowing the rest of his wine. “This is a very melancholic evening,” Fritz replies, looking down at his hands. “And what do we have here?” Podolski asks and looks past Fritz in the direction of the door. The others also look in that direction. “It is Abdul Hoessein,” Teuns Stegmann replies. “He is the biggest trader in Dini Salam.” “He looks very friendly,” Jack Ritchie muses. “I am sure he made more money today than he was entitled to.” “He also dresses like a true sheik,” Fritz teases. “I do not trust that piece of rubbish at all,” Teuns states calmly. Everybody looks up sharply when Teuns talks about the big Arab demeaningly. The Arab is huge and imposing in his snow-white garment, purple embroidery, and neat white turban adorned with a single shiny red ruby. “I have always thought that Abdul Hoessein was such a good citizen of colonial France?” Fritz mocks. The big Arab stands silently in the doorway, and he looks slowly through the café’s hall with his dark eyes. It seems as if he is looking for someone specific. He looks around him as if there is a secret in his eyes. Finally, a smile breaks out on his narrow, dark face, and he heads for the men at the table. “His Highness is going to honor us with a couple of words,” Jack Ritchie says sarcastically. “I reckon we all have to jump to attention.” They have no time to talk anymore because, with a couple of long strides, the Arab reaches their table.