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clothing and thought of the journey ahead. After a meager dinner of a few dates he packed up his woolen blanket and was on his way.
    As night fell, the full moon rose above the distant peaks. Somehow the spires appeared higher by night than they had by day. Even in the moonlight, bright stars were easy to see. With spring coming, the hunter Orion was fast disappearing from the skies, and the brilliant star Sirius had set. None shone brighter now than Arcturus, which would reign in the heavens until
as-seif
and
al-kez
, the days of summer.
    The night wore on. When the sky suddenly grewdark, Rashid thought that perhaps a cloud had drifted over the moon, but when he looked back, he saw that the moon was partially eclipsed. Was it an omen? A warning? He remembered a song he had heard as a child about the great fish
hawt
who chased the sun and moon through the heavens. He broke into a chant:
    Jâ hawt etlažî

al-kamââââr!
    “O hawt
,
Let the moon go!”
    All through the night he traveled, stealthily making his way toward the freedom of the desert. His long journey home had begun. Between him and the desert lay the heart of the unbroken mountain range. He had come far and there was much farther to go.
    At dawn Rashid neared the pass leading through the mountains. His keen eyes swept the contours of its distant slopes. Cresting a ridge, he spotted two men standing on an outcropping of rocks that overlooked the trail. The men were perched in such a way that no one could approach from beneath without being seen. Rifles were slung over their shoulders.
    By their reddish-brown-stained
kufiyyas
he identified the men as Duru raiders, the Wolves of the Desert, probably working for Abu Ishak. They hadn’t been there on his way into the valley. Their bay mares grazed below on the dry clumps of grass that covered the lower slopes of the pass before the walls turned vertical and shot straight up into the sky.
    Sentries. He should have thought of that. Rashid slid back down behind the ridge and hoped he hadn’t been seen. He had to think. Nervously his fingers felt the hilt of the Omani dagger girded to his waist. If only he had his rifle, he might have a chance. But it was gone. Khaldun’s men probably hadn’t even waited until they left the valley before fighting over who would get it and his horse. That did not bother him so much. How to survive was his only concern now.
    Yet the scout couldn’t help but wonder again how he ever got into this mess. What was he doing in these mountains so far from his beloved camel and the desert?
    He thought back to the day the gold-colored Mercedes-Benz had rolled into the camp of Ibn al Khaldun in a cloud of dust. The young boys had all crowded around to get a closer look. Rashid too had watched as the rich Arab horse buyer from England, Muhammad ben Mansoor, had stepped out wearing those curious, tight-fitting Western clothes. He had seen such an outfit only once before, and that was in a magazine. The stranger wore a high, white turban and shiny boots instead of sandals. He was accompanied by two bodyguards with long fingernails and shifting eyes. After removing their shoes, the visitors were whisked into Khaldun’s tent of black goat’s hair to be made welcome with coffee and dates.
    That evening Rashid helped serve dinner in the tent of Ibn al Khaldun. He got a better look at the strangers as he shuttled back and forth from the cooking fire to the dining area carrying trays full of meat and rice. Mansoor had a long, angular face, a thin mustacheand piercing eyes. He wore a number of gold and diamond rings on his fingers. Every movement he made seemed to be shadowed by his two wiry bodyguards. These two men spoke little, and when they did, it was with the thick accent of marsh Arabs from Persia. Though they were not big boned or muscular, their cold, hard, expressionless faces stood out, even in this room filled with desert-born warriors.
    An elder of the tribe who had been silently