Chapter 2: Fugitive

The picketed camels, that never saw any reason to give way to excitement just because humans did, shuffled their feet, grunted and went on munching fodder. His warning voiced, the young dalul remained silent. He would waste no more breath on threats or further warnings; just let any man who came near enough look to his own safety! His very silence had all the lethal promise of a poised, unsheathed dagger!

Ali said, “I hear, oh lord of all dalul, and I understand. But behold, I free you!”

He spoke calmly, and there was no fear to be detected by the young camel because there was none in Ali. This young camel driver, who had seen the shadow of death, or heard death whisper, as frequently as did all those who ventured forth on the lonely caravan routes, now assured himself that he was not necessarily looking upon a forbidding being in this tortured camel. But, be that as it may, he must take the chance. The incurably ill, the weary old, the oppressed, the mistreated, knew no friend more kind than Ali.

However, though he talked slowly and softly, he moved swiftly as a leaping panther while he cut the first rope and went at once to the second. The Druse camp was silent, and had been since that first shouted alarm, but it was alert and the Druse were no fools. Certainly they would know better than to come yelling and leaping, brandishing weapons and mouthing threats.

Far more probable, Ali wouldn’t even know an enemy was within striking distance until he saw—or felt—the pointed dagger that was seeking his heart or heard the swish of a descending sword. Then, if Allah so decreed, one less camel driver would return to the caravan routes.

As he cut the remaining ropes, Ali continued to speak soothingly to the young dalul. Far from nervous, or even slightly excited, the young rescuer was almost serenely calm. Death would certainly be his portion if the Druse had their way, and, of course, there was also a good chance that he would die if he liberated the young dalul. But some deaths are much sweeter than others.

It would be far easier, and more honorable, to die under the trampling feet of a good Moslem dalul than under the sword or dagger of a heathen Druse. Besides, even though the dalul first killed Ali, there remained the satisfactory probability that he would then turn upon and kill one or more of the villains.

Ali cut the final rope, the one about the dalul’s neck, and waited calmly. He lowered the hand holding the dagger. He’d have sheathed the weapon, except that one or more of the Druse might be upon him at any moment and a dagger would be a convenient article to have in hand. But Ali had no intention of fighting the dalul, or even of resisting should it attack him.

He said calmly, “You are free, brother.”

Not accustomed to freedom after standing so long bound by cramping ropes, the dalul shook his head and stamped his forefoot. Then he gave two prodigious sidewise leaps toward the picketed baggage camels and roared.

The baggage camels crowded very close together, as though for the comfort each found in the others, when the dalul leaped. His roar robbed them of common sense, so that they began a wild plunging. Even better than Ali, the baggage camels knew the dalul’s quality. They’d have broken their tethers and stampeded had not some of the Druse taken note of the situation and rushed in to quiet the terrified beasts.

For the first time, Ali had a few fleeting moments to wonder why he still lived. It had seemed inevitable that, if the Druse did not kill him, the dalul most certainly would. Perhaps, during the tortured hours it had stood as captive, it had marked its enemies and knew Ali was not among them. More probable, Ali’s gift, his ability to understand and be understood by all camels, had proved itself once again.

Ali shrugged. He didn’t know, and probably never would know, just why the dalul had not killed him the instant it was free. But Allah knew, and it was not for Ali to question or even wonder about His judgments.

Ali’s business was camels. He decided that it was high time he took his business in hand and called the dalul.

It responded, but before coming all the way to Ali, it stopped twice to bestow a long, lingering and disappointed look upon the camp of the Druse. Raging, but bound and helpless, the dalul had promised his captors a battle as soon as he was free. The challenge still stood, and, even though the Druse were not accepting, the situation rebounded to Ali’s benefit. While the dalul roamed the camp, the enemy dared not move freely, and Ali’s peril was correspondingly less.

After his second inspection of the enemy camp, the dalul did not stop again or even look about him but continued straight to Ali. He halted a few steps away and grunted a little camel song. Then he extended his long neck and lightly laid his head on his rescuer’s shoulder. Ali embraced the great head with both arms and pressed his cheek close to the dalul’s neck.

“Mighty one!” he crooned. “Peerless one! Where is a name worthy of such as you?”