Read Online This Stream of Dreams (Mirella, Rashid and Adam Book 2) by Roberta Latow - Free Book Online Page A
Book: This Stream of Dreams (Mirella, Rashid and Adam Book 2) by Roberta Latow
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Roberta Latow
Tags: Mirella, Rashid and Adam
Ads: Link
Slowly, meticulously, he rolled it between his fingers, then lighted it evenly. He was the happiest of men.
Adam thought about the lure of love. The fact that there was no defense against it. He had always loved women, truly loved them, and consequently knew a great deal about them.He enjoyed having women in love with him and therefore knew a great deal about that too. There had been women, so many women in his life, and he had loved them all and loved them well … but none as well as Mirella.
The muffled, mournful sound of a foghorn somewhere out on the ocean drew him back to the present. He stared out into the nothingness, that lonely space of no yesterdays and no tomorrows, and wondered about those women, some of whom were still part of his life. The mistresses of his bed and the mothers of his children, and
the
woman, his wife, who brought with her the half of himself he had lost long, long ago. He thought, too, about the incidental women of his life — the prostitutes he had enjoyed paying for, the casual insignificant women he had had sexual affairs with, the exotic mysterious women, and the dangerous women.
Ah, the dangerous women. Marlo sprang to mind. Where was Marlo, he wondered? It never occurred to him that she might not show up for his wedding. His thoughts flashed back ten years, to northern Nigeria and the Id al-Adha festival, after Ramadan, a high point in the Islamic year.
He first saw Marlo at the ancient city, the religious center of Kano, riding a gray stallion whose saddle cloths of silk, velvet, and brocades were magnificently embroidered in gold and inset with diamonds, and whose bridle was of beaten silver. She was riding under a bright new moon at breakneck speed around the perimeter of the town, where stood the remnants of the once regal fabled high walls. She rode surrounded by huge, black-black Muslim men dressed in their famed scarlet robes and turbans. The turbans draped around their heads with majestic style and in the legendary manner of the desert nomads, draped also around their faces and under their chins, some even covered their heads entirely, except for their eyes. They were the emir’s personal bodyguards.
They whooped and they hollered and fired their rifles at the heavens. The air was acrid with gunpowder, because the multitudes of people who had gathered to see the procession and the slaughter of chosen sacrificial animals, and to hear the drumming and the blowing of horns, fired guns, too reloading them to fire repeatedly. Even the most suspect of muskets, no matter what its age or origin, was pressed into service.
Adam, who had just completed crossing the Sahara from north to south on an archaeological reconnaissance expedition,was, as the emir’s guest of honor, seated behind the mounted musicians, on a fine steed.
He was flanked by the emir and the sultan, resplendent in their Sudan robes of colored cotton and silk, over which the emir wore a heavily embroidered green burnoose, and the sultan, a cape of pure gold. Ivory-and bejeweled-handled scimitars hung from their waists. The rulers were mounted on extremely fine Tawati-bred horses covered for the occasion with cloths of infinite beauty in silver and gold.
The conscious display of wealth and power recalled the splendors of the empire one hundred eighty years before, but it was also a reminder of the power of the Islamic faith in black Africa, of the Fulani nomads, possibly not the most strict of Muslims, part pagan even, whose world is that of the
jihad
, the holy war.
Adam was getting the message loud and clear: the jihad was alive and well and waiting to sweep through Africa when the time was right. The magenta turban fell from Marlo’s head and uncovered her face just as she rode past them. The sultan burst into loud laughter, stood in his saddle and shouted out orders to a dozen of his bodyguards to bring the white woman rider to him, she must be made to ride behind him, not in front of him. Then, smiling at
Adam thought about the lure of love. The fact that there was no defense against it. He had always loved women, truly loved them, and consequently knew a great deal about them.He enjoyed having women in love with him and therefore knew a great deal about that too. There had been women, so many women in his life, and he had loved them all and loved them well … but none as well as Mirella.
The muffled, mournful sound of a foghorn somewhere out on the ocean drew him back to the present. He stared out into the nothingness, that lonely space of no yesterdays and no tomorrows, and wondered about those women, some of whom were still part of his life. The mistresses of his bed and the mothers of his children, and
the
woman, his wife, who brought with her the half of himself he had lost long, long ago. He thought, too, about the incidental women of his life — the prostitutes he had enjoyed paying for, the casual insignificant women he had had sexual affairs with, the exotic mysterious women, and the dangerous women.
Ah, the dangerous women. Marlo sprang to mind. Where was Marlo, he wondered? It never occurred to him that she might not show up for his wedding. His thoughts flashed back ten years, to northern Nigeria and the Id al-Adha festival, after Ramadan, a high point in the Islamic year.
He first saw Marlo at the ancient city, the religious center of Kano, riding a gray stallion whose saddle cloths of silk, velvet, and brocades were magnificently embroidered in gold and inset with diamonds, and whose bridle was of beaten silver. She was riding under a bright new moon at breakneck speed around the perimeter of the town, where stood the remnants of the once regal fabled high walls. She rode surrounded by huge, black-black Muslim men dressed in their famed scarlet robes and turbans. The turbans draped around their heads with majestic style and in the legendary manner of the desert nomads, draped also around their faces and under their chins, some even covered their heads entirely, except for their eyes. They were the emir’s personal bodyguards.
They whooped and they hollered and fired their rifles at the heavens. The air was acrid with gunpowder, because the multitudes of people who had gathered to see the procession and the slaughter of chosen sacrificial animals, and to hear the drumming and the blowing of horns, fired guns, too reloading them to fire repeatedly. Even the most suspect of muskets, no matter what its age or origin, was pressed into service.
Adam, who had just completed crossing the Sahara from north to south on an archaeological reconnaissance expedition,was, as the emir’s guest of honor, seated behind the mounted musicians, on a fine steed.
He was flanked by the emir and the sultan, resplendent in their Sudan robes of colored cotton and silk, over which the emir wore a heavily embroidered green burnoose, and the sultan, a cape of pure gold. Ivory-and bejeweled-handled scimitars hung from their waists. The rulers were mounted on extremely fine Tawati-bred horses covered for the occasion with cloths of infinite beauty in silver and gold.
The conscious display of wealth and power recalled the splendors of the empire one hundred eighty years before, but it was also a reminder of the power of the Islamic faith in black Africa, of the Fulani nomads, possibly not the most strict of Muslims, part pagan even, whose world is that of the
jihad
, the holy war.
Adam was getting the message loud and clear: the jihad was alive and well and waiting to sweep through Africa when the time was right. The magenta turban fell from Marlo’s head and uncovered her face just as she rode past them. The sultan burst into loud laughter, stood in his saddle and shouted out orders to a dozen of his bodyguards to bring the white woman rider to him, she must be made to ride behind him, not in front of him. Then, smiling at
Similar Books
