Blue Warrior

Pearce sat down, glad to finally take a load off of his weary legs. It had been a long day. What began as a short flight across the border to pick up Early had turned into an all-day gunfight. He hadn’t eaten all day and was on the verge of dehydration.

“You look tired, Mr. Pearce,” Mossa said.

“You’re not?”

“Exhausted!” Mossa laughed. “It has been a long day, but a good day. A day of days.” He glanced at Early. “How is your arm?”

Early held up his salt-stained arm sling. “Who wants to arm wrestle?”

Mossa chuckled beneath the folds of his tagelmust. “We should rest. We have much to talk about later.” Mossa clapped Pearce on the knee, then reached up to the end of the indigo cloth and unwrapped his headdress, exposing his face for the first time.

Pearce sensed something in Mossa’s gesture. He had imagined what might be underneath all of that cloth. But that was the point, wasn’t it? The Tuareg’s handsome face was long, with a narrow jaw and medium lips, and his light brown skin was mottled with blue indigo, no doubt sweated off of his garment. His nose was narrow and high-bridged, almost aquiline — maybe Pearce imagined a Roman general somewhere far back in his bloodline. His dark hair was long and straight, but shot through with gray, as was his thick mustache, the only hint of his true age. He had to be at least sixty years old, maybe seventy, Pearce reasoned, if his son was the same age as Cella.

Pearce stole a glance at Early. The big former Army Ranger winked at him. What did the unveiling mean?

Mossa lay down on his side, his head resting on the ten meters of indigo cloth bunched up like a pillow. The boy lay down, too. He wouldn’t get his own tagelmust until he reached adulthood. With the Mali army on its way, Pearce wasn’t sure the boy would get to live that long.

* * *

Pearce dreamed of curry stew. Dreamed he was scooping up giant spoonfuls of it into his mouth, tangy and sweet. The dream was so vivid he could smell it. His eyes fluttered open. Battered aluminum pots steamed on bright orange coals, burn marks etched on their sides. A blue metal teapot, too. Clearly, the fire had been built up while he was asleep. The warmth of it actually felt good here in the cave.

Pearce sat up, groggy. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He rubbed his eyes, yawned.

“Just in time for chow,” Early said. He nodded at the plastic bottle near Pearce’s knee. “Drink up.”

The cave was black now, illuminated by a half-dozen solar-powered lanterns.

Cella and two of the women arrived with small aluminum bowls and spoons. Cella ladled up the contents in the pots into the bowls and the women passed them out. After the men were served, the women got their own food and returned to their corner of the cave to eat.

It was strange for Pearce to see Cella like this, so quiet and unassuming, but yet not subservient. More like an actor playing a role, earnestly. Yes, she was definitely playing a role, he decided, obeying the rules of the clan that had adopted her. But she was also their doctor, and Mossa’s daughter-in-law, which gave her an exalted status. She seemed happy, straddling two worlds.

Pearce took a bite. It was hot. Chicken and curry. Not bad.

“Where did this come from?”

“Turkish rations, courtesy of Colonel Gaddafi,” Mossa said.

“The curry’s good,” Early said with his mouth full.

Pearce checked his watch. It was just past nine. He looked at the boy. He was greedily spooning food into his mouth as fast as he could. Mossa rubbed the boy’s head with his hand and said something. The boy smiled, and curry dripped down his chin. It was good to see the kid finally smile.

Balla and Moctar were slurping their curry and chatting with each other between hot bites.

Early leaned in close. Whispered. “These guys, taking off the veil? That’s a big deal. Means they trust you. It was a month before I ever saw their faces.”

“He’s righteous?” Pearce whispered, nodding at Mossa.

“Yeah. Good leader, out on point. His people love him. So does she.” Early nodded over at Cella, not wanting to mention her name.

“What’s the story there?”

“Have to ask her.”

Cella approached with a tarnished silver tray with small, thick glasses and a box of sugar cubes. She set it down in front of Mossa. She turned to leave.

“Stay, daughter, and drink tea with us.”

She nodded her thanks. The boy scooted over, and Cella kneeled next to Mossa.

Steam flumed out of the blue teapot’s long open spout. Mossa leaned over with a rag and picked it up by the handle.

“Black Chinese tea is first brought to a boil,” Cella explained.

Mossa lifted the teapot and set the spout near the first glass, then raised the pot dramatically into the air. A long stream of steaming tea poured into the small glass, frothing it up from that height. He lowered the pot just as dramatically, perfectly timing the fall with the filling of the glass, tipping the pot up at the last second, not spilling a drop. He repeated the practiced ritual, one glass after another.