The Salt Road by Jane Johnson

inquiries. ‘Thanks be, I am well.’ She would then ask about their family and news and listen patiently to the answers, although these were always the same: I am well, my wife is well, my sons are well, my daughters are well, thanks be to God. At last, she would turn and indicate Mariata and introduce her as ‘Mariata ult Yemma ult Tofenat, daughter of the Kel Taitok, who has come down out of the Aïr Mountains from the Kel Bazgan with whom she was staying, and has crossed the Tamesna with me in order to see my son and drive out the spirits that have possessed him.’
    Initial respect for Mariata’s noble descent-group and the journey she had taken swiftly gave way to shuttered expressions at the mention of Amastan, she noticed, but everyone was polite and wished her well and that blessings would protect her from any evil spirits that she might encounter.
    Rahma spoke to a small dark-skinned woman wearing a bright red headscarf and the woman ran off and returned moments later with a bowl of rice mixed with milk. ‘To cool his heat,’ she said, and Rahma agreed, taking the bowl from her. Mariata gazed at it longingly and her stomach began to rumble, but, ‘We must try to return him to some sort of equilibrium,’ Rahma was saying to the other woman, and it seemed there was no likelihood of breakfast until they had seen the patient.
    They passed an enclosure where chickens ran and pecked, which surprised Mariata: nomadic peoples did not keep chickens, for the creatures could not walk through the desert or overfly the route, and the camels and donkeys were always fully enough laden without adding chicken coops to their burden. She had also noticed that there were a number of permanent-looking adobe huts dotted about the encampment, and that some boasted well-grown-in vegetation – a fig tree here, tomato plants there.
    ‘Does your tribe no longer travel the salt road?’ she asked curiously.
    ‘Some do. We still have a few caravanners, but we lost an entire caravan to the desert two years back; and disease killed a number of our camels last season. Poverty and unrest have caused many of our harratin and slaves to run away into the towns, and the new government is encouraging them in this: life is hard and getting harder. Our people are going to need young men like Amastan more than we have ever needed our young men at any time in our history. Without him and others like him, we are doomed to scratch a living in the dust.’
    Mariata was aghast. ‘But we are the masters of the desert, not poor peasants!’
    ‘Our proud heritage will stand for nothing if things continue as they are.’
    The last villager they came upon was an odd-looking person with a loosely wound tagelmust that exposed, shockingly, the lower half of the face, skin the colour of charcoal and heavy silver earrings that dragged down both earlobes. This odd personage now caught hold of Mariata’s hands and held them tight. Mariata put this lack of reticence down to the fact that this person was clearly not properly one of the People of the Veil, and forced herself not to pull away. Not that she could even if she had wanted to, for the stranger appeared to have her in a remarkably powerful grip. But when he spoke, it was the voice of a boy whose vocal cords have not yet acquired the deep timbre of a man; and the hand he had in his grip was pressed against what felt suspiciously like a soft female breast, so now Mariata was entirely confused. ‘Ah, the far-travelled daughter of the Hoggar. Welcome, welcome to the Teggart.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Mariata, dipping her head politely. She tried once more to take her hands away, unsuccessfully.
    ‘Lovely girl, the spirits take many forms. Beware the melancholy beauty of the Kel Asuf lest you be seduced. I can see there is a wildness in you; and wildness calls to wildness. I hope you have a complete head.’
    And with these enigmatic words, the strange person let go of Mariata’s hand and went on his