Chapter One
The hills are steep, dry, and sun-struck, studded with prickly shrubs. Boulders are scattered about like the bones of an ancient leviathan. Petra has been following the caravan for an hour, strategizing how to approach strangers—not just strangers, but people who lived long before she was born, though she has no idea when.
The fabric of her jumpsuit is streaked with dust, and patches of sweat have turned the olive green nearly black at the neck and armpits. Her hair is stuck to her brow, her lips are dry, her throat parched. She needs water, and to figure out where in all of bloody time she has landed. From her vantage point, the valley lies open before her—amber dirt curling into a trail, and on it, the slow-moving snake of the caravan. She has counted at least thirty people, eight wagons and ten pack animals. The sound of hooves and bells drift up to her, softened by heat shimmer. A child cries. It’s a family group, or a group of families, seeing how the male figures aren’t dressed like they’re all from the same class. She’s studied their rhythm—a pulse of motion, then a pause as someone adjusts a strap, looses the load from a donkey, or dismounts to offer a ride to a weary companion. A boy chases a chicken that must have escaped from a wagon.
Petra has been keeping above them, downwind, waiting for an opportunity—and for her nerve to kick in. What are the odds that one of them speaks English? She has a smattering of Arabic, a little French, but is nowhere near fluent in either language.
A change whispers over the caravan, subtle, as the lead riders gesture to the ones behind and a murmur of conversation drifts up to Petra. Then she sees the reason for the shift in energy: a cluster of date palms circling a stone cistern. The trees offer a strip of shade. The caravan fans outward, a flock breaking formation. If she’s not mistaken, there are a few groans of relief from the animals.
Now is her moment. She needs to approach them at the watering hole, when burdens are lifted, tempers cooled and thirst slaked. She wipes her palms on her thighs and moves through the brush. Look thirsty Pet, not dangerous. Hands out, show them you’re unarmed. You’ve seen Lawrence of Arabia three times. No sudden moves. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be proud, and you might get a drink and some information. Make eye contact, but look meek and gentle, and a little desperate… that won’t be hard.
She wishes she had different clothes. Her jumpsuit is a neon sign that screams oddity, stitched by a god with a dry sense of humor. A hair covering would help, and shoes that are not so obviously shiny and white under all the dust. She considers taking off her sneakers and hiding them inside her jumpsuit, but the rocks are sharp, and a suspicious bulge would probably be more dangerous than the shoes. She descends, slowly, sidestepping over the steeper bits. Every few steps she pauses to observe the group. They’re still unaware of her.
A man wrapped in a faded keffiyeh and a dust-colored burnous crouches near the edge of the palm shade, his back against a tree and his rifle across his knees. His skin is dark, sun-scoured; his mouth a hard line. When he sees Petra, he stands quickly, hands gripping his rifle. She’s thankful he keeps the barrel pointed toward the sand. Children squeal next, and a woman by the cistern drops her water jug in surprise.
“Wahad! Shufuha!” one of the children screams.
Arabic then.
“Salaam,” Petra calls, lifting her hands a little, palms out, as she asks for water. “Ana… urged man’ … min fadlikum.”
More adults approach the cistern, putting the children behind them, though small faces peek between legs and around hips. There are bursts of Arabic from the group. A woman in an indigo abaya approaches, square-hipped, short and very sturdy. Her robe is dusty, but her scarf is tight and spotless, wrapped like a crown around her head. She reaches boldly for Petra’s sleeve, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger as though to convince herself that Petra is real, and so is the sturdy fabric she wears. The jumpsuit is stiff, the texture, stitchwork, the strange gleam of synthetic thread—it’s apparent from her expression that the outfit makes no sense to her. The woman’s eyes—dark as dried figs, sharp and observant, and colder than Petra would like, missing nothing—drop to her sneakers and widen a fraction, then whip back to her face, laden with suspicion.
“Ayn zawjuki? Ayn waliyuki?”
Another woman approaches, this one is older, her spine as curved as a question mark, her face seamed with age. Her gaze is kind, pitying. Soft, parchment hands offer a ladle filled with water. Petra reaches for it.
“Shukran,” she whispers.
But as Petra’s fingers brush the handle, the woman in the indigo robe knocks away the ladle. The water splashes onto the older woman and into the dust with a hiss. The older woman tsks in disgust at the indigo lady, and a high-pitched argument ensues. The crowd presses in. Petra’s throat closes as anxiety and discontent move across their faces. She takes a step back, then another.
A command cracks across the small oasis like a whip. “Ruhū ’an tariqihā. Kara!”
The women cease arguing and the crowd parts just enough for a man to push his way through; his brow is furrowed, his sleeves rolled up, and a dark smudge of oil crosses one arm. His voice is stern, his Arabic slower than theirs, as he clearly addresses the woman and the crowd, not Petra. “Hadhi al-mar’a ma’ī. Tatrukūhā.”
Doubt seeps in, voices falter. Some move away to resume their own business. A few watch Petra a little longer as the man approaches her, speaking softly in English.
“You’ve made quite an impression,” he says in a distinctly British accent. “Here.” He hands her a waterskin, which she takes with a grateful sigh.
“Thank you.”
The relief from the warm water she squeezes into her mouth is as precious as diamonds. She feels the man studying her as she drinks, taking in her clothing, her naked hair, her shoes. When she hands back the skin, he fastens it to his belt without taking his eyes from her.
“Walk with me.” He turns away from the well and Petra follows, nearly tripping over a small girl with a dirty face staring up at her in open curiosity.
“Ahlaan,” Petra says gently, greeting the child.
In answer, the little girl lifts her hand and shows a fig she is holding. It is bruised and worse-for-wear, but it’s food. Petra’s mouth waters, but even more impactfully, the girl reminds her of Maria, and for a moment her heart aches. Then the girl shoves the fruit into Petra’s hand and scampers away, giggling.
The man hasn’t slowed down, so Petra jogs to catch up to him, smiling as she takes a bite of the fig. Sweetness explodes across her tongue, and it is amazing what the flavor does to lift her hopes. Maybe, just maybe, she won’t die here in the desert, as dried out as that mummy she unearthed in the Sahara.
The man leads her to a wagon; the nicest one in the caravan, Petra notes. As she swallows the last of the fig and they step into the shade, she studies her savior for the first time. He’s a man made of angles: tall but not imposing, lean and long-limbed, like he never quite finished filling out his frame. His nose, forearms, and the backs of his hands are sunburned. He has pink-toned skin, rather than the olive-tone of the rest of the caravan. Petra suspects that sunburned is his daily state of life. His laugh lines look carved into his skin, the result of years of squinting into the Levantine sun. His face is narrow and sharp, with a blade-straight nose and cheekbones that make him look stern, although his blue-gray eyes are kind. He has a reddish beard, neatly trimmed, and when he takes off his hat to wipe his brow, she sees that his hair is dark blond with a hint of copper, sun-bleached and flattened to his skull.
He opens a trunk sitting at the back of his wagon. Gears and tools are strung from hooks along the inner wall of his wagon, which explains the smells of metal, cedar shavings, and faint traces of oil. A half-dismantled oil lamp sits on a tarp. He rifles through his trunk and pulls out a small wooden box with a metal clasp. Inside it are folded bits of fabric that he rifles through before pulling out a swatch of something thin and gunmetal gray. He hands it to her.
“You’d better cover your hair. They think you’re a jinn.” His lips twitch. “Or worse, a tax collector.”
Petra thanks him—torn between laughter and tears at being pegged as a demon—and loosely swathes her head in the fabric, tossing the end over one shoulder like a forties movie star. She has no idea how to tie it the way the other ladies do.
“You’re a mechanic.” She gestures to the equipment. “What do you fix?”
“Mostly engines, but really, anything and everything. Why do you think I stepped in on your behalf?” He looks at her feet, the zipper on her jumpsuit. “You’re not from here, that’s obvious. You speak English, but you don’t sound British, yet not quite American either.”
He waits a beat for Petra to fill in the details.
She takes a breath, her mind racing, and decides to stick as close to the truth as she reasonably can. “I’m… Canadian.”
She can tell by his expression that he’s heard of it. So… she is post-1867 Dominion formation, that’s one clue. How else can she learn what year it is without alarming him?
“What is your name?”
“You first,” he replies with a half-smile, his gentle gaze probing.
“I’m Annie,” she says softly, making a calculated decision to extend her hand, something that was probably not done in this time—whenever this is—but how he responds will tell her about him. She wishes she could read his mind. She needs an ally, and maybe he could be that for her.
He looks at her outstretched hand for a beat too long. His expression says that he is trying to figure out whether making physical contact with her is foolish or necessary. She likes that he doesn’t glance around to see who is watching; he is a man who doesn’t overly care what others think. That could be helpful. Still, while his eyes are not hostile, neither are they trusting. He seems more curious than anything else. When he takes her hand, she allows a relieved smile to cross her face.
“William Johann Meiers.” He releases her hand quickly after a single pump with dry, calloused fingers. Pulling a crate out of the back of the wagon, he sets it on the ground. “I go by Johann, here. Sit, Annie.”
There’s a buzz of voices at the well, casual talk, relaxed sounding. Petra gets the odd glance, but the caravan is back to the business of everyday life. The canvas door over the rear of Johann’s wagon flaps in a gentle breeze as he pulls out another crate and a lumpy fabric sack. He sits down beside her then opens the sack and offers her the dates that are inside.
He finally asks what surely has been his most burning question: “What are you doing out here in the wilderness?”
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