for very long, because each step he took was like someone’s death, wiping his memory clean, as if crossing the desert had to destroy everything, burn everything out of his memory, make him into a diVerent boy. The hand of the blind warrior pushed him onward when Nour’s legs slowed with fatigue, and perhaps, without that hand lying on his shoulder, he too would have fallen by the side of the trail, arms and legs drawn in.
There were always new mountains on the horizon; the plateau of stones and sand seemed endless, like the sea. Each evening, when he heard the signal for the halt being called, the blind warrior would say to Nour, “Is this it? Have we arrived?”
And then he would say, “Tell me what you can see.”
But Nour simply answered, “No, this isn’t it yet. There’s nothing but desert, we have to keep walking.”
Despair was beginning to spread amongst the people. Even the warriors of the desert, Ma al-Ainine’s invincible blue men, were exhausted, and their eyes looked shamed, like those of men who have lost faith.
They remained seated in small groups, rifles cradled in their arms, without talking. When Nour went to see his mother and father to ask them for water, it was their silence that frightened him the most. It was as if the threat of death had afflicted the people, and they no longer had the strength to love one another.
Most of the people in the caravan, the women, the children, were lying prostrate on the ground, waiting for the sun to die out on the horizon. They no longer even had the strength to say the prayer, despite the call of Ma al-Ainine’s religious men echoing over the plateau. Nour stretched himself out on the ground, resting his head upon his nearly empty bundle, and watched the fathomless sky changing color while he listened to the voice of the blind man singing.
Sometimes he felt as if it were all a dream, a terrible interminable dream he was having with his eyes open, a dream that was pulling him along the star routes, over the earth as smooth and hard as polished stone. Then all of the suffering was like thrusting spears, and he moved onward without understanding what was tearing at him. It was as if he had stepped outside of himself, abandoning his body on the burnt earth, his motionless body on the desert of stones and sand, like a stain, a pile of old forgotten rags, and his soul was venturing out into the icy sky, out amongst the stars, covering in the wink of an eye all of the space that his life would never be enough to apprehend. Then he saw, appearing like mirages, the extraordinary cities with palaces of white stone, towers, domes, large gardens streaming with pure water, trees laden with fruit, flower beds, fountains where young girls with tinkling laughter gathered. He saw it all distinctly, he slipped into the cool water, drank at the waterfalls, tasted each fruit, breathed in each smell. But what was most extraordinary was the music he heard when he left his body. He had never heard anything like it. It was the voice of a young woman singing in the Chleuh language, a gentle song that moved through the air and kept repeating the same words, like this:
“One day, oh, one day, the crow will turn white, the sea will go dry, we will find honey in the desert flower, we will make bedding of acacia sprays, oh, one day, the snake will spit no more poison, and rifle bullets will bring no more death, for that will be the day I will leave my love…”
Where was such a clear gentle voice coming from? Nour could feel his consciousness slipping still farther out, beyond this world, beyond this sky, toward the land where there are black clouds filled with rain, wide deep rivers where the water never stops flowing.
“One day, oh, one day, the wind will cease to blow over the earth, the grains of sand will be sweet as sugar, under each white stone on the path, a spring will be awaiting me, one day, oh, one day, the bees will sing for me, for that will be the day I will leave my love…”
Out there, the mysterious sounds of the storm rumble; out there cold and death reign supreme.
“One day, oh, one day, there will be the night sun, and puddles of moon water will gather upon the earth, the gold of the stars will rain from the sky, one day, oh, one day, I’ll see my shadow dancing for me, for that will be the day I will leave my love…”
The new order is coming from there, the order that is driving the blue men from the desert, that is giving rise to fear everywhere.
“One day, oh, one day, the sun will go black, the earth will split open to its very core, the sea will cover the sand, one day, oh, one day, my eyes will see no light, my lips will be unable to say your name, my heart will stop beating, for that will be the day I will leave my love…”
The stranger’s voice faded away in a murmur, and Nour could once again hear the slow sad song of the blind warrior talking to himself, his face turned toward the sky he could not see.
One evening Ma al-Ainine’s caravan arrived on the rim of the Draa, on the far side of the mountains. There, as they descended toward the west, they caught sight of the smoke coming from Larhdaf’s and Saadbou’s camps. When they met back up with one another there was a surge of new hope. Nour’s father came to see him and helped him carry his load.
“Where are we? Is this the place?” asked the blind warrior.
Nour explained to him that they had made it across the desert and that they weren’t far from their goal.
That night there was a sort of celebration. For the first time in a very long time the sounds of guitars and drums were heard, and the clear song of flutes.
The night was milder in the valley, and there was grass for the animals. With his mother and father, Nour ate millet bread and dates, and the blind warrior also got his share. He spoke with them about the long road they had traveled from the Saguiet al-Hamra to the tomb of Sidi Mohammed al-Quenti. Afterward, they walked together, guiding the blind warrior through the fields of brush to the dried bed of the Draa.
There were many people and animals, because the people and animals of the great sheik’s caravan had been joined by the nomads of the Draa, those of the wells of Tassouf, the people of Messeied, of Tcart, of al-Gaba, of Sidi Brahim al-Aattami, everyone whom poverty and the threat of the arrival of the French had driven from the coastal regions and who had heard that the great sheik Ma al-Ainine was en route for a holy war to expel the foreigners from the lands of the Faithful.
So the gaps in the ranks of men and women that death had made could no longer be seen. One no longer saw that most of the men were wounded or ill, or that the little children were slowly dying in their mothers’ arms, burning up with fever and dehydration.
All that could be seen, on all sides of the black bed of the dried river, were human shapes walking slowly along, and herds of goats and sheep, and men riding their camels, their horses, all heading toward something, toward their destiny.
For days they walked up the huge Draa Valley, over the tract of crackled sand, hard as kiln-baked clay, over the black bed of the river where the sun blazed at its zenith like a flame. On the other side of the valley, Larhdaf and Saadbou’s men rode their horses up a narrow torrent, and the men, women, and herds followed the path they opened. Now it was Ma al-Ainine’s warriors who were going in last, mounted on their camels, and Nour was walking with them, guiding the blind warrior. Most of Ma al-Ainine’s soldiers were on foot, using their rifles and spears to help themselves scale the ravines.
That same evening, the caravan reached the deep well, the one that was called Ain Rhatra, not far from Torkoz, at the foot of the mountains. Just as he did every evening, Nour went to fetch water for the blind warrior, and they performed their ablutions and said their prayer. Then Nour settled in for the night not far from the sheik’s warriors. Ma al-Ainine didn’t pitch his tent. He slept out of doors, like the men of the desert, simply wrapped in his white cloak, crouching on his saddle blanket. Night fell rapidly, because they were near the high mountains. The chill made the men shiver. Next to Nour, the blind warrior no longer sang. Maybe he didn’t dare, due to the presence of the sheik, or maybe he was too exhausted to say anything.
When Ma al-Ainine ate his evening meal with his warriors, he had a little food and tea brought over for Nour and his companion. It was the tea especially that made them feel better, and Nour thought he’d never had anything better to drink. The food and the fresh water of the well were like a light in their bodies that restored all of their strength. Nour ate the bread, watching the seated shape of the old man wrapped in the large white cloak.
From time to time, people approached the sheik to ask for his blessing. He welcomed them, had them sit down at his side, and offered them a piece of his bread, talked to them. They went away after having kissed a flap of his cloak. They were nomads from the Draa, shepherds in rags, or blue women carrying their small children rolled up in their cloaks. They wanted to see the sheik, to glean a little strength, a little hope, to have him soothe the wounds on their bodies.
Later, during the night, Nour woke with a start. He saw the blind warrior leaning over him. The face filled with suffering glowed in the starlight. As Nour shrank back, almost frightened, the man said softly, “Will he restore my sight? Will I be able to see again?”
