"Here it is," repeated the Targa.
To the west, straight behind us, the track that we were leaving
unrolled like a pale ribbon. The white plain, the road to Shikh-Salah,
the established halts, the well-known wells.... And, on the other
side, this black wall against the mauve sky, this dark passage.
I looked at Morhange.
"We had better stop here," he said simply. "Eg-Anteouen advises us to
take as much water here as we can carry."
With one accord we decided to spend the night there, before
undertaking the mountain.
There was a spring, in a dark basin, from which fell a little cascade;
there were a few shrubs, a few plants.
Already the camels were browsing at the length of their tethers.
Bou-Djema arranged our camp dinner service of tin cups and plates on a
great flat stone. An opened tin of meat lay beside a plate of lettuce
which he had just gathered from the moist earth around the spring. I
could tell from the distracted manner in which he placed these objects
upon the rock how deep was his anxiety.
As he was bending toward me to hand me a plate, he pointed to the
gloomy black corridor which we were about to enter.
"Blad-el-Khouf!" he murmured.
"What did he say?" asked Morhange, who had seen the gesture.
"Blad-el-Khouf. This is the country of fear. That is what the Arabs
call Ahaggar."
Bou-Djema went a little distance off and sat down, leaving us to our
dinner. Squatting on his heels, he began to eat a few lettuce leaves
that he had kept for his own meal.
Eg-Anteouen was still motionless.
Suddenly the Targa rose. The sun in the west was no larger than a red
brand. We saw Eg-Anteouen approach the fountain, spread his blue
burnous on the ground and kneel upon it.
"I did not suppose that the Tuareg were so observant of Mussulman
tradition," said Morhange.
"Nor I," I replied thoughtfully.
But I had something to do at that moment besides making such
speculations.
"Bou-Djema," I called.
At the same time, I looked at Eg-Anteouen. Absorbed in his prayer,
bowed toward the west, apparently he was paying no attention to me. As
he prostrated himself, I called again.
"Bou-Djema, come with me to my mehari; I want to get something out of
the saddle bags."
Still kneeling, Eg-Anteouen was mumbling his prayer slowly,
composedly.
But Bou-Djema had not budged.
His only response was a deep moan.
Morhange and I leaped to our feet and ran to the guide. Eg-Anteouen
reached him as soon as we did.
With his eyes closed and his limbs already cold, the Chaamba breathed
a death rattle in Morhange's arms. I had seized one of his hands.
Eg-Anteouen took the other. Each, in his own way, was trying to
divine, to understand....