and then Salah pulled over again.
He got out, rummaged in the back for a moment, then came around to her side. Without a word he
opened the door, lowered the window, tucked a cardboard window protector over the glass and rolled it
back up. It covered the passenger window and a few inches of the windscreen, putting her in welcome
shade.
When they were moving again, she said, “Thank you.”
He nodded, swallowing, as if he could not trust himself to speak.
“You could have done that any time over the past three days, I suppose. But then, you had to sweat the
truth out of me.”
They drove in silence, passing other cars on the road, glimpsing herds of camels and goats at distant
nomad camps in the bleak, bleak desert. After a while Salah turned off the road and headed out over the
sand again.
She wondered how she could ever have imagined such a landscape magnificent. It was nothing but
emptiness.
RU still in desert? RU seducing Salah??? What is happening? Plz call as soon as U get coverage.
Desi read this message from another life dimly, hardly taking it in. Reception was poor, and she shut off
the phone without answering.
Another hour passed, and then they were winding through a curious forest of rocky outcrops and into a
valley between high walls of rock. Green scrub clung to the rock face here and there, and in places the
wheels sank into mud or splashed through a stagnant puddle. In other places a thin trickle gave promise
that this was a river bed.
“In winter there are flash floods here,” Salah said. “It is very dangerous.” It was the first word that had
passed between them for over an hour. “Two years ago all this area flooded for the first time in living
memory. Even in the tribal traditions there was no history of such flooding.”
“Ever the travel guide,” she said.
Just before sunset the rock walls fell away and the vista opened up. The sky in the west was a brilliant
fire of gold, with Mount Shir shining in white majesty over the growing shadows in the desert. In the
distance she saw a collection of tents nestled beneath a stand of rock.
“My father’s camp,” said Salah.
It was as if a nomad encampment had entered a technology warp, and half its tents had been converted
into air-conditioned caravans and trailers. All the modern equipment was nestled into the protective
shadow between two large outcrops of black rock that jutted up from the desert floor. In front of them
was ranged a nest of tents, half modern and half the low-slung nomadic type. And in front of that was
the massive ancient site, where workers in straw hats toiled in rows, as if the nomads had taken to
terrace farming. As they approached, an armed guard sitting on a rock peered at Salah’s face for a
moment and waved the vehicle on.
“I have to find out what arrangements have been made for us,” Salah said, pulling up to park in the
shade of a white trailer. “They are not expecting us yet. You can wait in the mess tent, Desi, or I can
take you to my father.”
It was far too hot to sit in the car, though that was what she would have preferred. Desi squeezed her
eyes shut for a moment, struggling to find focus in her shell-shocked, blank state.
“There will be people in the mess tent?”
Salah nodded.
“Is there anywhere I can go and sit by myself?”
“Not till I find out which trailer they have arranged for you.”
“Your father, then.”
He led her to the long white caravan that served as the site office. Inside it was air-conditioned to a
comparatively refreshing twenty-five degrees, nearly eighty Fahrenheit. Desi was desperately grateful to
get out of the sun.
The archaeologist Dr. Khaled al Khouri was sitting at a desk inside. He was a solid, square-set man with
grizzled grey hair, a face with deep lines furrowing his forehead and carved from his strongly cut nose to
the corners of his mouth. When they entered he was engrossed in examining a dirt-impacted object with
the sunburnt, intent young woman standing beside his chair.
Neither noticed them enter. They watched for a minute as the professor’s strong, competent fingers
prised off the dirt of millennia to fall unheeded on his papers, and revealed a goblet.
With caressing strokes that reminded Desi of Salah’s hands on her body, he dusted down the little cup,
turned it over, then held it still, gazing at the face of the bowl.
“You’re right, Dina,” he said at last. “Congratulations. Well done.”
“Thank you, Dr. al Khouri.”
“Leave it with me. I’ll take it to Hormuz later.”
As the young worker slipped through the door beside them, her eyes fell on Desi and she turned around
to gasp in disbelief before continuing on her way. At the sound, the doctor lifted his head.
“Yes?” he said, and then, “Salah!”
“Desi, meet my Father,” said Salah. “Father, this is Desirée Drummond—Desi.”
“Desi! Hello!” Dr. al Khouri exclaimed, getting to his feet. He put out his hand, giving her the same
focussed attention he had bestowed on the found object. The clasp of his hand was firm, reminding her
of Salah’s. The black eyes were friendly, but uncomfortably piercing.
“I am very happy to meet you at last. We have heard so much about you! It is kind of you to come to
visit us.”
He did not sound in the least like a man who suspected her of conspiring to steal priceless objects, and
Desi flicked a glance at Salah.
“It’s very kind of you to let me come,” she said, and under the warm intensity of his gaze, she managed
to find a smile.
Her hand had collected a certain amount of dirt during the handshake, and she absently dusted it down
on her khaki shorts. Dr. al Khouri frowned, looking at his own hand.
“Too much dirt in this job!” he said, dusting his hands. “I must go out now and make my round before
they down tools for the night. Perhaps you will like to come with me, Desi. You have come a long way,
and I know you will be eager to see the site as soon as possible.”
She nodded agreement. It was long past time to get away from Salah. Salah seemed to agree.
“I will check on the sleeping arrangements,” he said. Their eyes caught for a moment, and she sent him a
cold warning with her eyes. Then she saw that he did not need it: he had no more interest in their
continuing to share a bed than she did. Well, he’d had his closure, of course, she reminded herself
bitterly.
If only she could feel closure. But for Desi it was all still boiling up inside her, rage and heartbreak and a
deep, abiding sense of betrayal.
A moment later she was out in the late sunshine, listening as Dr. al Khouri began to explain the site. He
spoke as if she were the student she was pretending to be, and in spite of everything Desi began to be
intrigued.
“Look at this,” Khaled al Khouri told her, as they paused by a worker who was carefully excavating a
massive slab embedded in the hardened soil, on which she could make out, faintly, an etched image.
“This piece is our pride and joy.”
Desi peered at it. “Is that a woman?”
“Not a woman,” he said, with the air of a man used to correcting students. “All we can say with certainty
at the moment is that this is a female figure. In fact, she is probably
our goddess. We believe this lady
might have been the tutelary deity of the whole civilisation.”
She bent down to see more clearly. The figure showed the hint of a tiara in the intricately curled hair that
fell down over her shoulders above wide-spaced breasts, a curving waist encircled by some kind of
string or thong, broad hips and a prominent nest of pubic hair. One hand was at her side, the other held
up in what might be a gesture of greeting, palm towards the viewer. She was standing on an animal that
Desi could not distinguish.
Excitement bubbled up as she recognized her little goddess.
“Who is she?” she demanded.
“We think, the deity of this temple.” The archaeologist waved his hand at the long shape marked out in
the earth with stakes and string. “We don’t know her name yet.”
“Is she a fertility goddess? A love goddess?”
“We think so.”
“Inanna?”
He lifted an eyebrow at her, in a gesture so like Salah her heart kicked a protest. “Possibly, but if so it’s
an unusual depiction of her that would be specific to this people, and she might have had another name.
What made you think of her?”
Desi laughed. “She’s the only ancient love goddess I know!” she confessed. “I bought a little statue from
some nomads a couple of days ago. I think it’s the same woman…female figure!”
Dr. al Khouri shook his head, sighing. “You bought her from nomads?”
“Yes, for twenty dirhams. She’s in the truck.”
“Then tomorrow you will show her to me. This, we suspect,” he waved his arm to take in the entire site,
“was her particular city. Perhaps the people came here on pilgrimages.”
“The goddess of love was the chief god?” Desi asked, amazed.
“Yes, and such worship left its mark on later generations. In antiquity, Barakat has had many ruling
women, and even after Islam, we often allowed queens to rule us. You have heard of the great Queen
Halimah?”
“Yes.”
“Her path was of course paved by the goddesses and queens of antiquity, who still exist in the psyche of
Barakat.”
“Oh!” Desi said in surprise.
“Your own little goddess probably came from this area, but not this particular site. The flooding brought
many things to the surface all along the valley. We have seen evidence for at least two more large
settlements not far away.
“That is why it is so critical to keep this secret for as long as possible. We can never hope to police every
potential site in the valley, and if we lose too many of them…but we start with the largest, hoping that it
is also the most important.”
“Salah says looters aren’t the worst threat, though,” she remembered. He had said it only a day or two
ago, Desi realized in distant surprise. She seemed to have lived a lifetime since then. Then she had felt
alive, that was why it seemed so long ago.
“That is true.”
The archaeologist guided her over a narrow bridge of land between two square holes, smiling and
nodding at the diggers below, who were starting to call to each other about the happy prospect of
downing tools and cold beer.
“Looters take what they find for their own enrichment. But the others, the fools who cannot bear to
know that once the feminine was worshipped as fervently as the masculine is today, the idiots who must
force the past to match their ideals as well as the present—they are a different kind of danger. They want
to destroy the evidence.
“Whatever we find here, Desi, it is the heritage of the whole world. It is our collective history. These
madmen—they want to forget that all of Mohammad’s line comes through a woman. Fatima. Without
his daughter, there would be no sharifs at all, no descendants of the prophet. But still they want to wipe
the feminine out of the world.”
“And you thought I might be helping these people?” she asked in quiet bitterness.
He stared at her. “Help them? What intelligent person would help such lunatics?”
“Salah said you suspected I wanted to come here because—”
“Oh!” he said, in a different tone. His eyes moved to her face. “My wife said that if we wanted Salah to
be happy, I had to let you visit, in spite of Salah’s objections. And I had to pretend to suspect your
motives, too. I am only an archaeologist, I don’t really understand these things. But you will know—is
my son happy now?”
Her heart was suddenly beating in hard, heavy thuds. “How would I know?” Desi protested. “Isn’t he
going to marry Sami?”
He shrugged. “My wife says not.”
Desi took a deep breath and sighed it out. Promise me you’ll tell Uncle Khaled only if you’re absolutely
certain he’ll be all right with it, Sami had said. And here was Sami’s chance. This at least she could
accomplish. This at least she could pull from the wreckage. No happiness for herself, that wasn’t
possible now, but…
She said, “Dr. al Khouri—”
“But you must call me Khaled!”
“Khaled, I have something to tell you, and something to ask you, from Sami.”
“Ah, yes, my niece is your friend! My wife said. Let us sit here, then.” He guided her to a bench beside a
niece could not say to me herself?”
Desi stared out over the scene, watching long shadows move and dance as the workers moved out of the
field and headed towards the tents.
“It’s about…the marriage.” Her voice grated on the word. “Sami asked me to tell you that she—doesn’t
want to marry Salah. She’s already engaged to a man she loves, but her brothers wanted to choose her
husband. It was they who chose Salah. She’s told them she doesn’t agree, but they…”
“Do you speak of Walid and Arif?” the scientist interrupted in amazement.
Desi nodded. “She asked me to beg you to overrule Walid and send your permission for her to marry the
man she loves. Otherwise she’s afraid Walid will do something…really stupid.”
Khaled al Khouri’s eyebrows went up as he inhaled all this, and when she stopped speaking he sighed
explosively.
“Well, they are fools, these young nephews of mine! If they do not control themselves, they will soon be
among the madmen who come to destroy history for the sake of their convictions. What is his name,
Samiha’s fiancé?”
“Farid Durrani al Muntazer. His family are originally from Bagestan, but he’s Canadian.”
“Madthe?” Khaled threw back his head and laughed a loud, boisterous laugh. “Well, they are worse
than fools. They are ridiculous! This boy is a member of the royal family of Bagestan!”
Desi stared. “What?”
“This is one of the names the al Jawadi took decades ago when they went into exile. Why does he not
tell them so? It is no secret anymore. They are on the throne now, as the world knows.”
The Silk Revolution. Desi, like everyone else she knew, had been thrilled when handsome Sultan Ashraf
had been restored to the throne of Bagestan. And Farid was related to him?
She smiled, and her heart lightened a little with happiness for her friend.
“I don’t think Walid rejected him on his merits. It was the principle of the thing.”
“Well, I will give her my formal permissi
on, it is the only way with such young men as this. But I will
also have something to say to them.”
He stood and lifted a rope barrier for her.
“And now you have done your duty, Desi. Come and look at the Lady’s temple before the sun goes.”
Salah stood in the doorway of the mess tent, a cup of coffee in his hand, watching from a distance. The
grace with which she moved up the long buried slope of that ancient temple where his distant ancestors
had once worshipped love. In the shimmer of heat he seemed to see her through millennia. As if she
belonged there, the high priestess of the religion of love.
Once he had worshipped at that shrine, had drunk from the honeyed chalice. Then with his own hand he
had smashed it to fragments.
All the pieces of his life had come apart a few hours ago, and no new image had yet formed. He seemed
to himself to be still staggering under the blow. All his landmarks were gone, blown down by the
whirlwind of the horror of what he had done.
But the answer was here. He gazed at the lithe beauty of her as she talked earnestly to his father. She
lifted her arm to point into the distance, and a last ray of the setting sun caught her suddenly, haloing her
figure with flames of red gold, imprinting the shape on his heart, where it matched some shape already
there….
The answer would be found here.
“Everyone eats in the food tent,” Salah told her a little later, leading her across the moonshadowed
desert towards the trailer where she would sleep. “Supper will be ready in half an hour. Or someone can
bring you a tray here.”
Desi heaved a breath. Everything was suddenly catching up with her, and she knew she couldn’t sit
through a meal with the bunch of cheerful, enthusiastic volunteers she had seen in her tour of the site,
especially as it seemed all the starstruck girls were going to want her autograph. She would feel stronger
in the morning. Right now she felt she would burst if the least demand were made on her. She
desperately needed to be by herself.
“I’m not hungry. If I can have a glass of water I’ll go to bed now.”
“There’s water in the trailer. Desi, I—”