"I hold you responsible, my uncle," said bin Musaid. "I'd rather see her dead than spoiled by the likes of that infidel from the city."

"What infidel from the city?" asked Nasheeb in confu-sion.

"You know," said Hilal thoughtfully, "for someone as good and land as Noora, there sure are an awful lot of people ready to hurt her."

I nodded. The next morning, I remembered what he said when I discovered Noora's lifeless body.

7.

A he Bani Salim were standing crowded together in the hollow of a horseshoe-shaped dune near their camp, grouped in a semicircle around Noora's corpse. She lay on her back with her right arm up on the hill of sand as if reaching toward Heaven. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the cloudless sky. The girl's throat had been slashed from ear to ear, and the golden sand was darkly stained with her blood. "Like an animal," murmured bin Turld. "She's been butchered like a goat or a camel."

The Bedu had gathered into several groups of people. Friedlander Bey and I stood with Hilal and bin Turki. On one side were Nasheeb and his wife, who were on their knees and shrieking their grief. Nasheeb looked dazed and kept repeating "There is no god but God. There is no god but God." Not far from them stood Ibrahim bin Musaid and Suleiman bin Sharif, who were engaged in a fierce argument. I saw bin Sharif point sharply toward Noora's body, and bin Musaid raised both his hands as if to ward off a blow. Shaykh Hassanein stood aside with a grim expression, nodding as his brother, Abu Ibrahim, spoke to him. Everyone else contributed to the noise and confusion, all loudly speculating, debating, and praying.

There was a lot of scriptural citation going on, too.

" 'He who is wrongfully slain,' " quoted Hilal, " "We have given license to his heir, but let him not revenge himself I in too great a measure. Behold! he will be helped.' "

"All praise be to Allah," said bin Turki, "but what heir did Noora have to settle this blood-debt?" Hilal shook his head. "Only Nasheeb, her father, but I don't think hell do very much. He doesn't have the tem-perament for vengeance."

"Perhaps her uncles," I said.

"If not them, then we will take up this matter," said Friedlander Bey. "This is a needless tragedy. I liked the young woman a great deal. She was very kind to me while I recovered."

I nodded. I felt the flame of rage burning in me, the same hot, frightening feeling I've gotten whenever I've witnessed the scene of a murder. Those other times, how-ever, were back home. In the Budayeen, crime and vio-lent death are daily occurrences; they barely raise an eyebrow among my hardened friends. This was different.

This was a killing among close-knit people, a tribe that depended on each member for the continued well-being of all. I knew that the justice of the desert people was more sure and swift than the justice of the city, and I was glad.

Vengeance would not bring Noora back, but it helped a little to know that her mur-derer's hours were numbered. It wasn't immediately clear who her killer was, how-ever. The two likely candidates, based on their loudly publicized threats the previous evening, were bin Musaid and Umm Rashid. Shaykh Hassanein raised his arms and called for atten-tion. "This girl must be buried by sundown," he said. "And her murderer must be identified and punished."

"And the blood-price paid!" cried the grief-stricken Nasheeb.

"All will be done in accordance with the Book," Has-sanein assured him. "Abu Ibrahim, help me carry our niece back to the camp. Hilal, you and bin Turki must begin digging a grave.""May God have mercy on her!" someone said, as Has-sanein and his brother wrapped Noora in a cloak and lifted her up. We made a slow procession from the horse-shoe dune through a narrow gully to the campsite. The shaykh chose a spot for Noora's final resting place, and Hilal and bin Turki fetched two folding shovels and began digging down through the hard belly of the desert.

Meanwhile, Hassanein disappeared into his tent for a few minutes. When he returned, his keffiya was arranged more carefully on his head. I guessed that he'd also chipped in one of his two moddies, probably the one that loaned him the wisdom of a Sunni Muslim religious leader.

The Bani Salim were still upset and angry, and there were many loud discussions going on, trying to make sense of the killing. The only one who wasn't involved was bin Musaid. He seemed to be holding himself apart. I ooked at him, and he stared back at me across the open -pace. Finally he turned his back on me, slowly and insult-ingly.

"Shaykh Marid," said Hassanein, "I'd like to speak with you."

"Hm? Sure, of course." He led me into his shady tent. He invited me to sit down, and I did.

"Please forgive me," he said, "but I must ask you some questions. If you don't mind, we'll do without the prelimi-nary coffee and conversation. Right now, I'm only inter-ested in learning how Noora died. Tell me all about how you found her this morning."

I felt a lot of anxiety, although Hassanein probably didn't consider me a prime suspect. I was one of those lads who, when the teacher came in and asked who'd written the dirty word on the blackboard, even though I hadn't done it, I'd blush and look guilty. All I had to do now, I told myself, was take a deep breath and tell the shaykh just what had happened.

I took the deep breath. "I must've gotten up a little before dawn," I said. "I had to relieve myself, and I re-member wondering how long it would be before old Hamad bin Mubarak woke us with his Call to Prayer. The moon was low on the horizon, but the sky was so bright I didn't have any trouble following the little alleys among the dunes east of camp. When I finished, I stumbled back toward the fire. I must've taken a different path, because I hadn't seen Noora before. She was stretched out in front of me, just as you saw her. The pale moonlight made her drained face look ghastly. I knew immediately that she was dead. That's when I decided to come straight to your tent. I didn't want to disturb the others until I told you."

Hassanein just regarded me for a few seconds. With the imam moddy in, his behavior and speech were more deliberate. "Did you see signs of anyone else? Were there footprints? The weapon, perhaps?"

"Yes," I said, "there was footprints. I can't read foot-prints in sand as well as footprints in mud, O Shaykh. I imagine they were Noora's footprints and her killer's."

"Did you see long tracks, as if she'd been dragged to the place?"

I thought back to that moonlit scene. "No," I said, "I definitely didn't see tracks. She must've walked there and met the other person. Or maybe she was carried. She was alive when she got there, because there was no trail of blood leading back to camp."

"After you told me about Noora," he said, "did you tell anyone else?"

"Forgive me, O Shaykh, but when I got back to the fire, bin Turki was awake and asked me if I was all right. I told him about Noora. He was very upset, and our talking roused Hilal, and then in a little while everyone had heard the news."

"All is as Allah wills," said Hassanein, holding up his hands with his palms out. "Thank you for your truthful-ness. Would you do me the honor of helping me question some of the others?"

"I'll do whatever I can," I said. I was surprised that he asked for my help. Maybe he thought city Arabs were more accustomed to this sort of thing. Well, at least in my case he was right.

"Then fetch in my brother, Nasheeb.", I went back outside. Hilal and bin Turki were still digging the grave, but were making slow progress. I went to Nasheeb and his wife, who were kneeling on the ground beside the cloak-wrapped body of their daughter. I bent down and touched the old man on his shoulder.

He looked up at me with a vacant expression. I was afraid he was in shock. "Come," I said, "the shaykh wishes to speak to you." Noora's father nodded and got slowly to his feet. He helped his wife get up, too. She was shrieking and beating her chest with her fist. I couldn't even understand what she was crying. I led them into Hassanein's tent.

"The peace of Allah be upon you," said the shaykh.

"Nasheeb, my brother, I'm with you in your grief."

"There is no god but God," muttered Nasheeb.

Who did this?" his wife shouted. "Who took my baby from me?"

I felt like an intruder witnessing their anguish, and it made me uncomfortable that there wasn't anything I could do to help them. I just sat quietly for about ten minutes, while Hassanein murmured soothing things and tried to get the couple into a frame of mind to answer some questions.

'There will come a Day of Resurrection," said Has- sanein, "and on that day Noora's face will be bright, look- ing on her Lord. And the face of her murderer will be full .

of fear." I "Praise be to Allah, the Lord of the Worlds," prayed Umm Noora. "The Compassionate, the Merciful. Owner of the Day of Judgment."

"Nasheeb-" said Hassanein.

"There is no god but God," said the shaykh's brother, hardly aware of where he was."Nasheeb, who do you think killed your daughter?"

Nasheeb blinked once, twice, and then sat up straight. He ran his long fingers through his gray beard. "My daughter?" he whispered. "It was Umm Rashid. That crazy woman said she'd kill her, and now she has. And you must make her pay." He looked straight into his brother's eyes. "You must make her pay, Hassanein, swear it on the grave of our father!"

"No!" cried his wife. "It wasn't her! It was bin Musaid, that jealous, evil-minded murderer! It was him!"

Hassanein shot me a pain-filled glance. I didn't envy him his responsibility. He spent another few minutes calming Noora's parents, and then I led them out of the tent again.

Hassanein next wanted to speak to Suleiman bin Sharif. The young man entered the shaykh's tent and sat down on the sandy floor. I could tell that he was barely keeping himself under control. His eyes darted from one side to the other, and his fists clenched and unclenched in his lap.

"Salaam alaykum, O good one," said Hassanein. His eyes narrowed, and I saw that he was observing bin Sharif carefully.

"Alaykum as-salaam, O Shaykh," said the boy.

Hassanein paused for a long moment before he said anything more. "What do you know of this?" he asked at last Bin Sharif sat up straight, as if he'd been pricked. "What do I know of it?" he cried. "How should I come to know anything of this terrible thing?"

"That is what I must find out. How did you feel to-ward Noora bint Nasheeb?"

Bin Sharif looked from Hassanein to me and back again. "I loved her," he said flatly. "I suppose all the Bani Salim knew that."

'Tes, it was common knowledge. And do you think she returned your affection?"

He didn't hesitate. 'Tes," he said. "I know it."

"But your marriage was impossible. Ibrahim bin Musaid would never allow it."

"God blacken the dog's face!" shouted bin Sharif. "God destroy his house!"

Hassanein held up a hand and waited until the young man calmed down again. "Did you kill her? Did you mur-der Noora bint Nasheeb, rather than see her belong to bin Musaid?"

Bin Sharif tried to answer, but no sound emerged. He took a breath and tried again. "No, O Shaykh, I did not kill her. I swear this upon the life of the Prophet, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace."

Hassanein stood up and put a hand on bin Sharif s shoulder. "I believe you," he said. "I wish I could do something to lessen your grief."

Bin Sharif looked up at him with tormented eyes. "When you discover the murderer," he said in a low voice, "you must let me be the instrument of his destruc-tion."

"I'm sorry, my son. That hard duty must be mine alone." It didn't look like Hassanein was looking forward to that responsibility, either.

Bin Sharif and I went back outside. Now it was Umm Rashid's turn. I went to her, but as I approached, she cowered away from me. "Peace be with you, O lady," I said. "The shaykh wishes to speak with you."

She stared at me in horror, as if I were an afrit. She backed away across the open ground. "Don't come near me!"

she shrieked. "Don't talk to me! You're not of the Bani Salim, and you're nothing to me!"

"Please, O lady. Shaykh Hassanein wishes-"

She fell her to her knees and began praying. "O my Lord! My trials and tribulations are great, and my sorrows and sufferings are deep, and my good deeds are few, and my faults lie heavily upon me. Therefore, my Lord, I im-plore Thee in the name of Thy greatness-"

I tried to raise her up, but she began screaming at me again and pummeling me with her fists. I turned help-lessly to Hassanein, who saw my difficulty and came out of his tent. I stepped back, and Umm Rashid fell to her knees again.

The shaykh stooped and murmured to her. I could see her shake her head vigorously. He spoke to her again, gesturing with one hand. His expression was mild and his voice was pitched too low for me to hear his words. Again the woman shook her head. At last, Hassanein put his hand beneath her elbow and helped her to her feet. She began to weep, and he escorted her to her husband's tent. He returned to his own tent and began gathering his coffee-brewing equipment. "Whom do you wish to speak to next?" I asked.

"Sit down, Shaykh Marld," he said. "I'll make coffee."

"The only other real suspect is Ibrahim bin Musaid."

Hassaneiii acted as if he hadn't heard me. He poured a large handful of coffee beans into a small iron pan with a long handle. This he set on the glowing coals of the cook-ing fire his wife had built that morning. "If we get a good start in the morning," he said, "we should reach Khaba well by evening prayers tomorrow, inshallah."

I looked out at the camp, but I didn't see Friedlander Bey. The two young men were still digging the dead girl's grave. Some of the Bani Salim were standing nearby, ar-guing every aspect of the situation, but the rest had al-ready returned to their tents or were seeing to the animals. Bin Musaid stood all by himself to one side, with his back still turned toward us, as if none of this affected him at all.

When the coffee beans had been roasted to Has-sanein's satisfaction, he let them cool. He stood up and got a small goatskin bag and brought it back to the cook fire. "Here," he said, "my wife makes fresh laban for me every morning, no matter what happens." This was cur-dled camel's milk, sort of like yogurt.

I took the goatskin bag and murmured "BismiHah." then I drank some, thinking how odd it was that everyone from my mother to Shaykh Hassanein tried to push cur-dled camel's milk on me. I really didn't like it very much, but I pretended to enjoy it out of respect for his hospital-iry.I gave him back the bag, and he swallowed a little laban. By then, the coffee beans had cooled, and he put them in a brass mortar and crushed them with a stone pestle. He had two coffeepots; one was bright brass, shiny and polished, and the other was black with soot. He opened the sooty pot, which contained the leftovers of the morning's coffee, and dumped in the freshly ground beans. He added some water from another goatskin bag, and a pinch of powdered cardamom. Then he put the blackened pot in the fire, and carefully stirred the coffee until it boiled.

"Let us give thanks to Allah for coffee!" said Has-sanein. He poured it from the black pot into the shiny pot, back into the black pot, and then into the shiny pot again. This let most of the coffee grounds settle and stay behind. Finally, he jammed a piece of hemp into the spout of the bright coffeepot to act as a filter.

"II hamdu littah!" he said. Praise be to God. He set out three small coffee cups.

I took one of the cups. "May your table last forever, O Shaykh," I said.

He filled my cup, then looked up. "Ibrahim bin Musaid," he called. "Come! There is coffee!"

Bin Musaid turned and regarded us. His expression said that he didn't understand what the shaykh was doing.

He walked slowly toward us. "O Shaykh," he said suspi-ciously, "don't you have more important duties?"

Hassanein shrugged. "There is time for everything. The Bani Salim have plenty of time. Now is the time for coffee.

Be refreshed!" He gave one of the cups to the young man.

We drank a cup of coffee, and then another. Has-sanein chatted idly about his favorite camel, whose feet had grown tender and probably wouldn't be able to carry him across the gravel plains to the south.

It's customary to drink three small cups of coffee, and then signal by waggling the empty cup that you've had enough. After the third cup, Hassanein sat back and looked at bin Musaid. The silence became thick and threatening. Finally, bin Musaid laughed out loud. "This is some trick, O Shaykh. You hope to shame me with your coffee and your hospitality. You think I'll clasp your knees and beg forgiveness of Allah. You think I murdered Noora."

He got to his feet and angrily threw the china coffee cup to the ground, where it shattered into scattered frag-ments. I saw Hassanein wince. "I've mentioned nothing to you about that," he said.

"Look elsewhere for your murderer, O Shaykh," said bin Musaid fiercely. "Look to your guest here, the infidel from the city. Maybe only he and Allah know the truth." He turned and strode off across the camp, disappearing into his own black tent.

I waited for Hassanein to speak. Several minutes passed, and he just sat outside his tent with a sour expres-sion, as if he'd just tasted something rotten. Then, when my patience was about ended, he let out his breath in a heavy sigh. "We've learned nothing," he said sadly. "Nothing at all. We must begin again."

He got slowly to his feet, and I joined him. We crossed to where Hilal and bin Turki were digging in the ground.

"A little deeper yet, O excellent ones," said Has-sanein. "But when you've dug the grave, don't lay the poor girl in it."

"We should bury her soon," said bin Turki, looking up and shading his eyes with his hand. "The noble Qur'an-"

Hassanein nodded. "She'll be laid to rest before sun-set, as the Wise Mention of God prescribes. But do not lower her into the ground until I tell you."

"Yes, O Shaykh," said Hilal. He glanced at bin Turki, who just shrugged. None of us had any idea what Has-sanein had in mind.

"In the Hadhramaut, which is the shaykhdom in the heel of the boot of Arabia," said Hassanein, "a murderer is sometimes made to undergo a trial by fire. Of course, that's all superstition, and the value of such an ordeal is only as great as the belief in its power."

I saw that he was leading me out of the camp, toward the herd of camels. Young boys had scrambled up into the ghaf trees that grew in the narrow valleys between the dunes. They'd cut loose the tops of the trees, and the camels were grazing contentedly on the vegetation.

Hassanein continued with his story of justice in the Hadhramaut. "The ceremony always takes place in the morning, after the dawn prayers. The master of ordeals assembles the accused killer, the witnesses, the victim's family, and anyone else who has an interest in the matter. The master uses a knife blade which has been heated in a fire. When he. decides that the knife is sufficiently hot, he makes the accused man open his mouth and stick out his tongue. The master wraps his own hand in his keffiya, and grasps the accused man's tongue. With his other hand, he takes hold of the fiery knife and strikes the man's tongue, first with one flat side and then the other."

"What's the point of that?" I asked.

Hassanein went to his favorite camel and patted her neck. "If the man is innocent, he'll be able to spit right then and there. The master usually gives him a couple of hours' grace, though. Then the accused man's tongue is examined. If it looks badly burned, then he's judged guilty. He'll be executed immediately, unless the victim's family accepts a reasonable blood-price. If there's no sign of burns, or only minor discoloration, the man is declared innocent and given his freedom."