Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [6]
We followed our camel driver eagerly. The redheaded Peterson boys raced ahead while their mother shouted warnings about staying away from the camels. Fiona and Flora clutched each others arms like hens and kept repeating that they wanted to share a camel. Jerry Morrison held back with his daughter, looking disdainful.
“Filthy,” he said. “I bet they’ve got fleas.”
“Oh, Daddy,” said the daughter. I was pretty sure her name was Kathy, and I was absolutely sure she was way too old to call her father “Daddy.”
I hoped they were just experiencing some temporary culture shock and weren’t intending to complain or bicker the entire trip. I also hoped Jerry was wrong about the fleas.
I stooped to tighten my shoelaces, willing to be one of the last to board a camel rather than be too close to the Morrisons. Or the ditz duo.
“Hurry up,” said Kyla impatiently, tapping one polished leather shoe in the sand. It was already covered with a light coating of dust, which did not entirely displease me. I rose and joined her.
The camel driver beckoned to us impatiently, and we followed, picking our way gingerly past a few recumbent cud-chewing camels to join him. Our driver was immensely fat, the giant beach ball of his stomach making a tent of his galabia. I imagined dozens of small desert creatures sheltering under the folds and then gave a little shudder. One of his front teeth was gold, the other missing, and his swarthy skin was covered with a light sheen of sweat.
“Here, you two ladies. On this camel, please.” He gestured to a bored creature. I had to admit, up close they did look a little flea-bitten.
“Oh no,” said Kyla. “I want my own camel.”
“No, no. Very strong. No problem for two,” he nodded emphatically.
Kyla shot him a glance that should have made him stagger back. “I want my own camel,” she repeated.
He appealed to me with a look, but I just raised my eyebrows and stared coldly. It worked on seventeen-year-olds and it worked on him. His shoulders slumped a little. “This way.” And he led Kyla to another camel.
The young man who held the lead rein of my camel gave a small private smile, then helped me into the saddle.
“Hold here very hard and lean back very far,” he said and waited for me to obey.
It was good advice. I gripped the saddle horn and leaned back just in time as the camel’s back half rose sharply in the air, throwing me forward. Then the front half rose, throwing me sharply back. I settled back into the saddle some eight feet off the ground, pleased not to have fallen.
Alan Stratton came and stood beside my camel, looking up at me and shading his eyes with his hands against the brilliant morning sun. His eyes were the most remarkable color, a soft green that changed subtly from sage to gray depending on the light. His hair, cut short and therefore clearly not as curly as it could have been, was a soft golden brown that had probably once been blond. It made a very attractive little swirl at the crown of his head.
“Having fun?” he asked. His voice was as attractive as the rest of him, deep and ever so slightly gravelly.
I realized I was staring like an idiot. “I had no idea they were so tall,” I said inanely and immediately wanted to kick myself.
He gave a little grin. “Ever ridden one before?”
“No.”
“Me, either. You look like a natural.”
I was trying to think of something devastatingly witty to say when a different camel herder beckoned to Alan and led him away to one of the larger camels. I watched as the animal lifted its hind end straight up and tossed Alan forward like a rag doll. He held on gamely and then gave me a little wave of triumph. I waved back.
The fat camel driver gave a shout, and we were off. Camels take huge, slow strides, swaying from one side to another. Ahead of me, the rest of the group, singly and in pairs,