.oOo.
On board, the Caïd had the opportunity to mature his plan. The anger in him had turned into a cold determination. He had lost all faith in that King. He had discovered the turpitudes and pettiness of his immense empire. He had been deceived, the honour of his lineage demanded reparation. That was the conviction, the illusion that his pilgrimage had revealed...
Now he knew there had never been any intention to return his son to him. So what was the point of hoping? Of course, his rebellion risked precipitating the death of his child, he would probably be executed in retaliation. But it was better than besetting and begging for someone who was already lost! Khandar and his companions had certainly been incarcerated in a remote prison, impregnable in the heart of Gondor...
Unless the Caïd could manage to deceive the enemy...
He was going to fight them with their own weapons! With the help of his daughter, he would send misleading messages with the governor's seal. He would have enough Gondorian hostages in his hands, before the true news of his revolt reached Osgiliath! Then he would be in a strong position!
At length, Hadhar imagined war ruses, bold alliances, victorious rides.
And the Caïd begged the Goddess to call upon him luck and some power of persuasion.
But the Goddess remained deaf to his calls.
Oh, he knew it, deep down, he was drowning his failure in a murderous headlong rush. His vengeful madness augured many a death. After losing the previous conflict, the people of his village, his wife, his daughter, his mother, his sisters, his nephews, were going to be plunged again into war...
But he repressed his remorse. He was so mortified that everything seemed preferable to a disgraceful resignation. Glory would crown his brilliant deeds, taking away the sacrifices and despicable procrastinations of the past...
.oOo.
Arriving at the Ramlond, Hadhar fled from the cutter he had guided into the Harnen estuary. Then he set out, keeping a low profile, feeding on little and hiding in the scrubland.
He lived on alms, walking along the road in cool hours, and hiding at the height of the heat. When riders appeared at the end of the road, he hid under the bright mangroves near the streams.
As he approached his village, his heart tightened. The old fox could feel the earth talking to him. Something was wrong. The herds had returned to their pastures. Someone had fixed the irrigation. A severe hand had taken over control of men's wealth. The spring wheat had been harvested and the autumn oat darted its vigorous soft green sprouts. Some roads had been filled, that caravans and horsemen roamed as if in conquered country. The Goddess's mutism gave him a glimpse of affliction. Woe hovered ahead of him!
He guessed some nearby tribe had taken control, thus Hadhar hurried, still hiding, to reach his village.
When he finally found the edge of the beloved fields, he had a blow to his heart!
The familiar cabins had been repainted, the fences redone, the fig trees hedges freshly cut. Everywhere you could feel the new owner, the hand of the conqueror, bearing his male mark on each of the once cherished goods.
The Caïd, suspecting a misfortune, approached cautiously.
The whole tribe seemed gathered in the main square, around the fires of a feast. The heady smells of grilled sheep rose sadly in the evening.
But what froze the Caïd's blood was the profusion of men in arms. And the drums that resonated slowly, with the false air of a joyless feast. The riders lined up seemed to parade in front of an inert crowd, to which lacked any reason to rejoice about this new opulence. A rival clan had taken possession of his property in his absence!
The Caïd advanced slowly, hidden like a thief under the lemon trees of his home. Desperately, he was looking for his loved ones.
And suddenly he saw them: his wife veiled as if on a day of mourning, vaulted by grief. And his daughter, glowing in her festive clothes, tall and royal, but sad and silent. He recognized them among a thousand, bravely facing the strutting roughnecks!
But not far from these two women, dearer to his heart than his own life, stood a man, tall and broad, who behaved as a victor. And the guy was directing the horsemen's manoeuvres. And the usurper had the conquerors parading. And the villain was celebrating the rite to the Goddess on the land of the Assadhini! And he ordered the prostrate village as a master!
Hadhar thought of Khayin-Agha. Cursed be his remains, let them be thrown to the jackals! His nephew had surely gathered cousins and allies... The Caïd blushed. It was over! He had failed! He had handed over his wife and daughter, apples of his two eyes, to these felons, to these demons without faith nor law! He had left the widows of his tribe unprotected, now forced into unworthy marriages!
Indeed, that was the true renunciation announced by the Uncle's prophecy!
For a short moment, the Caïd was appalled by the extent of his failure, but he finally stood up. He drew his saber, addressed a short prayer to the Goddess, and coming out from under the trees, he advanced with a resolute air. He was going to punish the arrogant or perish!
But before he could reach the villain, a clamor rose among the villagers. He had been recognized! Everybody would turn to him, would run with praises to the Goddess. His wife and daughter were the first by his side, kissing him, hugging him, overwhelming him with their attentions, lamenting his long absence, his white beard, his tired features, his dirty clothes. The whole village was crowding around him now, as if hiding him from death.
Then the riders, alerted, set foot on the ground and stood behind their leader, who advanced slowly.
A great silence fell. The desert wind moaned with its raucous and burning breath.
Hadhar took a few moments to recognize his men- captivity had changed them so much!
He dropped his saber and a tear rolled down his cheek.
His son was finally back!
And he was still wearing a beard!
.oOo.
Late at night, each of them told his journey.
Hadhar made the whole tribe laugh with his pranks of Gondorian coach, where piled up so endearing caricatures of the human kind.
Jiradia praised the sagacity of the Gondorian master healers, but also proudly reported their immense interest in the herbal and medicinal recipes of the Harnen.
Khandar made them shudder with pride as he recounted how the brave of the tribe, freed by Gondor and then sent to the mountains, had vanquished the last rebels, deprived of their clandestine leader Khayin-Agha.
The Uncle said nothing. He listened to his family, smiling like a blessed man, his veiled eyes turned to the stars...
The wise teach us that when the Goddess blesses the earth by shedding her tears, it is to mourn a righteous person and honor his memory.
That is why it does not rain very often.
But this year, there were mild rains, at the right times, in just proportions.
The soul of the Uncle flew away in the early morning, to join his ancestors in the firmament.
.oOo.
NOTES