[piosenniel]

It was a contrast in moods. The day was bright and clear, no clouds to hide the sun. The fragrance of the newly bloomed maryamiya bushes filling the air with their bittersweet odor. In the branches of the taller bushes small flocks of sunbirds, called out merrily to one another. Twitterings and chirps relayed a constant stream of information: I am here! Look! Fat insects on this limb! Move over, this place is mine! It was an altogether bright prospect of a day.

Not so to the group that moved east from the Baobab tree. Five warriors, armed and armored. Their dark, quick eyes alert for trouble as they scanned the way before and behind. In their midst walked Faruq and Jamílah, silent also as they thought on the events of the past night and the barely passed dawn.

Jamílah’s eyes were troubled as she looked out on her surroundings. For all its light and promise, the world about her seemed to have shifted, gone askew. And the shadows of things beneath the sun seemed darker and sharper, as if they welled up out of some deeper darkness and poured into the objects they touched.

She shivered in the warmth of the sun, drawing her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and quickened her pace.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The tents of The Painted Sands camp were a welcome sight. Guards there had seen them approach in the distance, and now a small welcoming party came out to meet them.

Briellah was among them, and Jamílah’s spirit brightened at the sight of her old friend. ‘The warriors,’ asked Briellah, sensing the tension in the small group, ‘why have they come with you? There was a never a need before.’ Her face was filled with concern as she asked her question, her eyes taking in the troubled expression on the other woman’s face.

Jamílah took in a deep breath, wondering where to begin, but was cut off as Ishak bade them come into camp to share the hospitality of his tent. Briellah took the carry basket of herbs and medicines from Jamílah in one hand, and hooked her free arm through her friend’s. ‘Let us go to my little tent,’ she said, putting her head against Jamílah’s and speaking low. ‘My daughters can serve as hostess to the men, who will most likely shoo them away like sand-flies anyway. The men have some unpleasant things to discuss, I think. They will not want other ears about.’

She paused for a moment, and looked appraisingly at her friend. ‘And you, Jamílah - I think you have not just come to trade herbs and make small talk, either.’ She walked on drawing Jamílah along with her.

‘Come, we will have some sweetened qawah (coffee) from the far southern lands - thick and dark just as you like it. It will warm you. And then we will talk . . .’