A hi-jacked plane forced aground in the desert land of Jedrah. Four girls trudging over the sand dunes in a lonely search for something they do not find. This is the beginning of F.E. Campbell’s latest story of a maiden enslaved by the anger of a ruthless man and by her own destiny.
It is a story of vengeance and of power through which the courage of the girl called Stacie carries her through punishment and bondage, the wearing of her slave girl chains, and the scarlet striations of the whip, into the discovery of a world of vivid passion and lustful cruelty from which she emerges virtuous in her mind, but wearing forever the marks of Jedrah upon her flesh and within her heart.
The Chains of Jedrah
By
F.E. Campbell
They were being sorted. Dark eyes gleamed contemptuously as the rifle barrels pointed their directives with a calm and certain precision. The DC-9 sat sadly in the sand like an abandoned house, robbed of the passengers and crew from which it had drawn life, its gun-compelled landing a thing of horror to remember. Even the desert was sad, without majesty or menace it was simply dreary. The welcoming committee was numerous and nondescript and like the land itself. They had come from nowhere to this place in jeeps and trucks and a Volkswagen. There was even a camel. There was not a building in sight.
There were a few guttural words behind the guns. But it was the man in the Saville Row clothes and the kaffiyeh whose English was lucid, direct and frightening.
“You will obey or be shot. Resistance means instant death. We have no time for heroes.”
His eyes roved up and down the ranks. In them, too, was the faint contempt for a race whose day was past. “Cooperation can save your lives and earn you comfort. We do not wish to kill. We are about to dispose of you as suits our convenience. Please obey. Please ask no questions. The men have orders to be brutal.” He turned impatiently away to confer with an aide.
Standing alone where the automatic rifle had shepherded her, Stacie cherished no illusions of heroics. Her fear was but slightly modified when she was joined by a girl from the passengers and a stewardess. The three exchanged bewildered glances and watched.
The elderly and infirm were now being prodded back into the plane, they accounted for half the total. One more young woman was extracted from the ranks and sent to join the trio. Her eyes asked a question they could not answer. The balance of the passengers were marshalled in a line. Among them a woman raised her voice.
“What are you going to do with those four girls?”
The impeccably attired director of activities was curt and brief. “You were told: no questions.” He irritably surveyed the feminine quartet and conferred with a cohort. “We have no interest in them,” he announced brusquely. “They are free to go. There is a village beyond the farthest hill, a couple of miles. It will provide their needs.” He turned and glared at the four young and frightened faces. “Go!” He waved an impatient arm. “Begone, you are lucky.”
Feminine bewilderment deepened. “Walk out in the desert, alone . . . like this!” the stewardess protested.
“Would you prefer to join the hostages?”
The word itself was chilling. The eyes of the four girls roved from one horror to another in a dilemma they were ill equipped to deal with. The leader observed their hesitations with what may have been sympathy, but sounded more like impatience. He turned and shouted: “Salim!”
Stacie judged the gangling youth to be no more than thirteen. He was attired in tattered remnants and seemed composed entirely of large liquid eyes and a wide ingratiating smile. Words flew back and forth.
“The boy will guide you.” The brief words dismissed them.