Their king was more like Zoan than anyone I knew. Not more than thirty, he had a like grace of movement and an equal beauty of countenance; his body was wonderfully put together, and he did everything, whether only to give me his hand, with the same magnificence. 1 thought that his life, crammed with adventure, was as poetic and thrilling as Zoan's.
To my great joy, he spoke Arabic—many of the Beja did so, and Simba's mother, being a slave trader's daughter, was probably almost pure Arab—greatly augmenting my chances of winning my point. Whatever business I had with him, he wished done at once. He chose for our meeting place the shady side of the house with his followers and the black-veiled Tuareg seated in a semicircle in easy hearing. Benches were provided for him, for Jim and me, and for Takuba. With no trappings of royalty but a black-maned lion skin over his shoulder and a slave with a palm-leaf fan to shoo off flies, he listened impassively to my host's plea in my behalf. Meanwhile I could read nothing in his face, but afterward he turned to me such brilliant eyes that I became at once fascinated and on guard.
"Omar, your face would frighten vultures from their meat," he remarked in a casual voice.
"So does a lion, O Simba!" I responded, my head screwed on well today, as Maine folk used to say.
The response pleased the listeners who could understand Arabic, and it was immediately translated into Tamashek and into Tigre, the language of the Beni Amer, behind many dark hands.
"And to judge from your form, the mutton was lean last year," the king went on.
"It was fat enough, but I fed on addax, which only a hunting leopard can catch—or a very lean lion."
"If you fed on addax, you must know how to ride a horse."
"Yea, Simba Pasha."
"Yet you are all mounted on camels."
"We came a long way across the desert."
"Think you that your best rider might ride with one of the better riders among the Beni Amer?"
"It might be so."
"Then I'll tell you of a custom of the Beni Amer. Sometimes when traders come up the Nile or from Mombasa, we go forth to get ivory. But the elephants ruled the land before the first men set foot here and are kingly still. Thus it isn't right that we should dig pits for them, and slay them by base stratagems, or even kill them at a distance with rifles until we've proved ourselves in a more even match. So the first bull must be slain by two horsemen, armed only with bamboo spears. Sometimes the bull does not fall; instead, one or both of the riders are scattered in pieces over the plain, and others take their place. Now, if one of your band will ride with one of my band to kill the first bull elephant—each helping the other in his need according to our custom—I'll give you leave to hunt in my domains. But if none of you will so prove himself as a rider and elephant fighter, I refuse your plea. That is my word, not to be recalled, and you may give me your answer when the double-tongued repeat it to our followers."
When this had been done, a wave of excitement swept through the throng. The Beni Amer looked exultant, the black-veiled Tuareg drew their veils closer, always a sign of deep feeling, Isabel Gazelle turned pale, and Takuba gazed from me to Simba in perturbation.
"We have no horses or bamboo spears, O Simba. But if you will supply them, one of us will gladly stand the test."
"Will you appoint him now? He may have his choice of all our mounts, which tonight will be well fed and rested for tomorrow's run. But by mercy of your gods, choose well. Meeting Tembu in the tusks—so the ivory buyers call him, teaching the name to all peoples under the sun—is not a game for women and boys."
The answer to this was easy. The black-veiled Tuareg were camel riders without peer, but not one, even Zoan, was a finished horseman. All were masters of the spear, their tribal token, but a little close thinking told me that a bamboo lance was quite another thing from the long iron spears of Africa; it was only a thrusting weapon and no good, from lack of momentum, for throwing. Certainly it was on horsemanship that the elephant fighter's life would hang. As to handling a long bamboo, at least I had clubbed rabbits going full tilt.
All this was open and shut. Still that did not account for my not dreading the encounter. I was a sober man of purpose, not a beau sabreur like Zoan. Perhaps the answer was deeply rooted in superstition. I would not be killed because there was no one else to do a hard, long, dirty job in the Book hereafter. Perhaps I had learned to be reconciled to the inevitable.
"I, Omar, aspire to the honor of hunting with the chosen one of the Beni Amer," I said with ceremony.
"La illaha ill' allah!" This great Arabic watchword was meant to impress his men. "By my mother's milk, I'll not be outdone. So I myself choose myself to be your fellow of spears! And Tembu had best drink deep tonight, for tomorrow we'll give him a hot race for his life or ours."
I grinned at Zoan, to which he made sheepish reply, and I was able to look Isabel in the eyes, for they were ashine with pride in spite of a worried drawing-together of her dark brows. But there was one of our hearers at whom I could hardly bear to gaze, seeing too well in fancy the heavy trouble, surging up from his heart, in his black face.
For tomorrow's race, I chose a horse from Takuba's paddock, a bay with white points, with some rough barb in her. Her sloping shoulder muscles, arched crest, rounded barrel, and clean, hard pasterns made me remember horses of free and easy movement; her quarters were magnificently rounded for great driving power. Equally important in this race, her small, high-held head with small mouth, melting purple-brown eyes, and far-apart pointed ears hinted at Arab wits. Her top gait was not nearly as fast as El Stedoro's, but she could gain it sooner. Indeed, I had never known a horse with a faster start. She could turn around on a prayer rug—a rather impious saying of the Beni Kabir—and when running up to dangerous holes and corners, she kept her head well.
Her name was Mariyah, after the beautiful Coptic concubine of Mohammed, and no doubt given her on some Arab's stud farm.
When the cooking fires had expired, Isabel drew the door curtain of the tent, bringing me a cheroot and a bowl of palm-toddy Takuba had supplied. Lighting a smoke for herself, she took a seat just out of my reach.
"Tonight I sleep against the wall," she told me.
"Why?"
"Tomorrow you must ride hard for your life. Your horse must be well rested, and you the like. The least diminishing of your strength might give Tembu victory."
"Show me a youth of twenty, who's my equal in strength. If you can, I'll show you a young bull elephant of twenty who can match old Tembu, with his scars and blunted tusks, whom Simba and I will fight tomorrow. Can a three-year-old stallion match a six-year-old except in a short race with a jockey-sized rider? Not in hunting or in battle or in getting colts of great heart. By our giving to each other, my strength tomorrow would not be diminished the least jot. Are you afraid that our happiness will anger the bad gods, and tomorrow they'll set gopher holes in my mare's path? Isabel, I know these gods—I've taken their measure—for although they can maim, they can't kill, for King Death retains that power alone. To the devil with them. I defy them."
"Don't talk so, or 1 must run to you and hold you tight and fall. Yes, I schemed to please those very gods, but that was not all. I know of the great strength that's been given you for some task not meant for me to know or share—still I can't believe it until I feel it ever renewed. I wanted you to long for me tomorrow as I once longed for one swallow from a cool well I bad barely tasted the night before. Then you would live to come back to me. Are you and I from the dim alleys of a great city where folk are only half alive, or are we riders of the desert? You saw El Shermoot with Farishti in the wasteland, but have you seen a maned lion and his mate? Takuba has, and told me of the burning. Think you he would spare the hunter who stood between him and his beloved?"