Star of Light Page 3

  “I hung back. ‘I have no money,’ I said.

  “‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied the woman. ‘She is a holy woman and heals without money because she loves her saint. He is a good saint and has mercy on the poor.’

  “‘But,’ I objected, ‘the English are rich and live in grand houses. She will not receive me.’

  “‘But she lives in one of our houses,’ answered the woman, ‘and those who go to her for healing are mostly poor. None are ever turned away—I tell you, she receives them in the name of her saint.’

  “So I followed, feeling afraid, but eager for medicine that would cure my baby’s eyes. She led me down a narrow back street to a house with an open door. There were people coming out of that door— poor people like me, with babies tied on their backs. Some of them carried bottles of medicine and none of them looked afraid.

  “We were only just in time, for the room was nearly empty. The nurse was tall and fair. I had never seen anyone like her before. She spoke kindly to everyone, and I saw her take little children up in her arms as though she loved them. As I watched her, my fear went away, and when everyone else had gone I went up to her and held out Absalom. She took him in her lap and examined his eyes. Her hands were very gentle. He didn’t even cry.

  “She asked me many questions about him, and then she gave me medicine for his fever and ointment for his eyes. While she fetched them I looked at a picture on the wall. It was the picture of a man with a kind face, holding a little child in His arms, and lots of other little children were clinging to His robe, looking up at Him.

  “I asked her who that man was, and she said He was called Jesus, and He was sent from God to show us the way to heaven. She told me a lot about Him, how He healed the sick, and made blind people see, and loved everyone, whether they were rich or poor, grown-ups or children. I know she loved the man in the picture and wanted to be like Him—and that was why she gave me medicine and was kind to Absalom.”

  Zohra paused, and then went on speaking very slowly. “I think, for the sake of the man in the picture, she would shelter Kinza, and so you must carry Kinza to her. You must start tonight when the moon is full, and you must walk all night and hide by day, for Si Mohamed will certainly search for you.

  “But he need not know you are gone till tomorrow night. I will send Rahma out early with the goats before he’s awake and tell him you’ve taken them. He never bothers to look at Kinza in any case, and I’ll put a pillow in her cradle in case Fatima glances in. By the time he comes home from work, it will be dusk, and he cannot send out a search by night, nor will I tell him where you’ve gone. By the next day, you will be nearly there.”

  Hamid’s eyes were bright with fear and excitement, but he only said, “How shall I know the way?”

  “I’ve thought of that,” replied his mother. “There is only one road you can take. You must follow the river to the top of the valley and then you must climb the mountain. It is very high, but you must reach the top. Below you will see another river in a valley, and if you follow the road along the bank, you will at last reach a big main road with traffic. If you start walking up this road, it may be that a truck driver will give you a ride, for the town lies about fifty kilometers along it up in the mountains. If you cannot get a ride you must walk it, and may God help you.”

  “And when I get there?” breathed the little boy.

  “When you get there,” said his mother, “you must find the house of the English nurse. Do not ask, but just watch. She lives in a street behind the market and opposite the doorway of the inn. Her house is the last one on the street. Go to her, tell her all our story, and give her Kinza. She will know what to do next.”

  Hamid looked doubtful. “But what if she doesn’t want Kinza?” he asked.

  His mother shook her head. “She won’t turn her away,” she replied confidently. “She told me her saint in the picture never turned anyone away. For the sake of her saint, I know she will receive Kinsa and be good to her. Now, you must go back to your goats and I must finish the grinding, or Fatima will be angry. Think about what I have told you. I’ll bake extra loaves of bread for you to carry on your journey.”

  Hamid got up to go back to his goats, feeling like someone in a dream. The world was really just the same as it had been yesterday, but to the eyes of the little boy it seemed different. Yet in spite of his fear about the journey, he never thought of refusing to go.

  He whistled softly, and a few young goats grazing nearby came up and pushed their noses into his lap. He suddenly knew he loved them and would be sorry to leave them. He wondered when he would see them again, and for the first time he began to think about his own future, as well as Kinza’s. He certainly could not come back for a long time. His stepfather would be much too angry.

  He led them home early that evening and sat quietly down beside his mother and Rahma, who were busy spinning wool. Both were working hard because Fatima was sitting by watching, and neither spoke when Hamid joined them.

  Hamid’s young heart ached. Except when his mother had gone on the five days’ pilgrimage to the tomb, he had never spent a night in his life away from her. Now he must leave her for a long time. Her silent love flowed out to him, comforting and strengthening him.

  The evening dragged on and the light faded. Tonight everything felt different. For the first time in his life, Hamid was not hungry when the family gathered around the supper bowl, but he forced himself to eat in case Si Mohamed should notice. Then without a word he went out and lay down by the door and waited, battling with his fears and thoughts until his stepfather had lain down and the moon had risen.

  He watched his stepfather fall asleep at last, and listened until his breathing became heavy and regular. Yes, he was sleeping deeply, snoring in his dreams. Only a little longer now. Hamid crept to the edge of the mattress and waited, with his eyes fixed on the mountain. On silent feet he stepped through the doorway and slipped behind the granary.

  The old dog cocked its ear and rattled its chain, and Hamid held his breath. If the dog should bark, the whole plan would be ruined. He flung himself down beside it, burying his face in its mangy coat, fondling its ears, and wordlessly begging it to be silent. It turned its large head and licked the child’s face, puzzled but loyal.

  So he crouched waiting, with his arms around the dog’s neck, listening for his mother. He jumped when she appeared with Kinza in her arms.

  In complete silence she tied Kinza to his back. The baby wondered what was happening, but, trusting them completely, she laid her head down on her brother’s shoulder and fell fast asleep again. Then Zohra tied two loaves of bread on his other shoulder, took both his hands in hers and kissed them. He in turn pressed her fingers to his lips and clung to her for a moment. Then she gently sent him on his way and stood watching as he passed through the gate. Not a word had passed between them. Then, content with what she had done, she went back to her hut— to the empty cradle and the anger of her husband. And Hamid, like a small boat cut loose from its moorings and swept out into unknown seas, set off along the moonlit path.

  Adventures on the Way

  Uphill, downhill, along the river path, Hamid trudged on, becoming more and more exhausted. Kinza seemed to weigh heavier and heavier on his back. He remembered all he had left behind—his mother, Rahma, the thatched hut and charcoal fire, the goats, and the dog with the torn ear. He felt afraid of the unknown he was walking toward, but he knew he must keep going.

  At last, exhausted, he reached a cornfield and, hiding himself and Kinza among the tall stalks, they fell asleep. Kinza woke before Hamid and, crawling out from the prickly cornstalks, she started to explore. She heard the sound of a grindstone and, with a cry of delight, she toddled toward it. Grindstones meant mother—and food and shelter and comfort.

  A woman sitting at the door of her hut heard the cry and looked up. She could hardly believe her eyes! Coming toward her was the strangest little figure she had ever seen—a tiny child in a cotton gown, her outs
tretched hands groping, her face lifted to the light. Her black, tangled curls had straw sticking out all over them like a halo.

  Kinza realized she was in a strange place and hesitated for a moment. Then she held her arms out and cried, “Mummy!”

  The woman sitting at the grindstone was a young woman whose only child had died six months ago. Now, this baby staggered toward her crying the very word she had been longing to hear. She lifted Kinza into her lap and began kissing and soothing her.

  Kinza knew this was not her mother and started to struggle free, but although these were the wrong arms, they felt safe and strong, and the woman’s hands were gentle as they stroked her curls. At last she relaxed and asked for a drink. The woman fetched her a bowl of buttermilk. She drank every last drop, then curled up like a kitten in the woman’s lap and went to sleep.

  It was evening when Hamid woke up, feeling rested and comfortable. He suddenly realized where he was and jumped up with a little cry of alarm. Where was Kinza? He saw her tracks in the trampled cornfield and crept to the edge of the patch. What he saw gave him a real surprise.

  Less than fifty yards away, he saw Kinza eating cherries in front of a hut, while a young woman laughed and tried to untangle her curls. Around them sat the whole village, who had come out to stare at this strange child who had somehow arrived among them.

  Hamid felt ashamed. He had fallen asleep, they had lost a whole precious day’s traveling, and, worst of all, Kinza had escaped and could well be in an enemy camp. He must rescue her quickly, for these people would certainly soon come to hear of the child missing from Thursday Village, the name of Hamid’s village.

  So, once again, when the sun went down and moonlight flooded the village, Hamid left the shelter of the cornfield and crept over to the doorway of the hut. Kinza had been put on a little mat and covered with a goatskin. Hamid scooped her up in his arms, whispering her name. She gave a little sigh and half woke but, knowing she was safely back with her brother, she clung to him tightly and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. She knew she was back in the right place.

  Five minutes later they were bumping up the hillside, Hamid’s heart thumping with fear. But no one had heard them—the rescue had been perfect.

  Hamid paused and looked up to the mountain towering above him, and back to the valley and the river that led home. He knew which path he had to take and headed toward the mountaintop, which he reached just before dawn. Hamid felt he was standing alone on top of the world, gazing at range upon range of rocky peaks.

  He knew he had to avoid Tuesday Market, a Spanish settlement where there were many soldiers who might be on the lookout for them. His stepfather could well have alerted the police by now. Hamid knew he must make his way straight down the mountain to the river in the valley two thousand feet below them.

  He tied Kinza on his back again and set out, almost colliding with two men on horseback, whom he recognized as coming from his own village.

  Dazzled by the sun, the men stared at him for a moment, then one leaped lightly from his horse and made a grab for Hamid.

  “It’s Si Mohamed’s boy!” he cried. “The one who was missing from Thursday Village the day before yesterday.”

  Hamid ducked and bolted down the mountainside. His sudden movement startled the horse, which reared in the air. The man gave an angry shout and the horse plunged forward. By the time the animal was properly under control, Hamid was far away, leaping through the scrub, with Kinza bumping behind him. Not even noticing the thorns and roots and his cut, bleeding feet, he went crashing on, not daring to look behind, always expecting a heavy hand to land on his shoulder and pull Kinza away from him.

  The merchant, still clinging to the bridle, stood watching him. He had done his best, but he was not going to chase someone else’s brat all over the scrub bushes and spoil his new shoes. It was none of his business, and he wanted to be in good time for market. He shrugged his shoulders, mounted his horse, and rode on. He would tell the police at Tuesday Market. It was their job, not his, to hunt runaway boys.

  But poor Hamid dared not stop running, and Kinza, with her body nearly shaken to bits, gave jerky wails and hiccups on his back. There seemed to be nowhere to hide. Once, he caught his foot in a root and fell headlong. Bruised and dirty, he was up in a second. He had noticed a rock jutting out ahead of him. He made for it blindly, rounded it, and found himself close to a thatched hut, and beside the hut was a mud goat shed.

  Hamid was quite certain that his enemy would appear at any minute around the rock, and this was his very last hope of escape.

  He sprang into the close, dark shelter of the goat shed and found a sick goat and her kid lying on some straw. There was a pile of hay stacked against the wall, and Hamid burrowed into it. Then, like a hunted rabbit, he lay panting and shivering for half an hour.

  When his heart was beating more normally, he wriggled himself around in the straw and began to think about his situation. He felt very ill; he was burning hot, and his head ached dreadfully. His limbs were heavy and stiff, and the straw pricked and rubbed his bleeding feet.

  They had had nothing to drink that morning, and his mouth was parched from fear and running. Kinza, too, was miserable and wanted a drink. She had started to cry, sounding like a starved kitten, and he could not silence her. If anyone came to the shed, they would certainly hear her.

  He looked around desperately, and then for the first time he began to consider the sick goat, which had broken its front leg. He cheered up at once, for here was the answer to his problems. Hamid understood goats, and a mother with a kid would have plenty of milk.

  He wormed his way out of the hay and, creeping to the doorway, grabbed hold of a piece of broken clay pot that had been thrown away. Then, with one eye on the house, he made friends with the goat and the kid, fondling their ears and letting them lick his hands. Then, once she trusted him, he lay down on the floor beside the mother and milked it into the piece of pot. He carried the sweet, warm, frothing milk to Kinza, who drank it all up and mewed for more. They drank as much as they could and soaked hard pieces of bread into it, for they were parched and starving.

  The excitement of milking, the pain in his feet, the stuffy heat of the straw pile, and the fever in his body had kept Hamid awake all morning. He was terrified of going to sleep, too, in case Kinza wandered off again. He looked around for a piece of rope to tie her to him, but there was nothing suitable, and he dared not go out until it was dark. At last, exhausted, he clasped her tightly to him and fell into a deep sleep.

  But Kinza, realizing he was asleep and wanting to do just as she pleased, crawled out of the pile of hay. She took a few uncertain steps and bumped straight into the goat.

  Kinza loved goats and felt perfectly at home with them, so having found what she wanted—friendly company and a place to lie that did not scratch—she crawled under the goat’s chin and curled up to sleep. The little kid, no doubt feeling jealous, butted its way in, so they lay together with the goat’s front legs around them, both quite content—the newborn kid and the lost baby.

  Hamid, turning feverishly in his sleep, soon tossed away the straw and lay with his arms and face exposed. Toward sunset, the mother of the household came in with a bucket to milk the lame goat. For a moment she thought it had had another kid— then she looked more closely and found it was a little girl curled up in a ball.

  “May God have mercy on me!” exclaimed the woman. “It’s a baby!”

  She looked around, puzzled, and caught sight of Hamid’s top half sticking out of the straw.

  “May God have mercy on my parents!” she cried out. “There’s a boy as well!”

  She marched quickly over to him and prodded him with her leathery foot. She was a big woman with a loud voice, and she wanted an explanation quickly.

  Hamid woke with a start and struggled into a sitting position. He was fuzzy with sleep but realized at once that wherever he was he was cornered and caught like a rat in a trap. His head still ached terribly, and he
lost all control of himself. He stuffed his knuckles into his eyes and began to cry.

  “Stop it!” said the woman, slapping him on the back. “You are not from our village. Who are you? And where have you come from?”

  Hamid gulped back his sobs and looked at her. He thought it might be best to tell the truth, and the woman listened to his story, frowning and nodding in turn.

  When he had finished she looked at him kindly. It was a good story and seemed true enough. She had been married twice, and her first husband had been very cruel to her and her child. He had divorced her when she was only fifteen years old. She too had known what it was to see her baby illtreated, and she felt sorry for this unknown woman who was willing to risk so much for her blind child.

  Besides all this, the woman had a motherly heart, and the bright-eyed boy who coughed as he spoke was obviously ill. She knew nothing yet about the filthy little bundle cuddling her goat, but at least she could give her a better spot to sleep in. So she milked her goat, and then, with the bucket in her right hand and Kinza under her left arm, she strode to her house, with Hamid limping behind her.

  The house was a round mud hut, rather dark inside, with a stack of winter bedding for the goats heaped against the wall. A clay pot bubbled on a fire, and three little girls sat around it expectantly. As they entered, the husband came down the mountainside with the flock, and they all gathered around to eat. Hamid, who had eaten nothing but bread and milk for two days, thought he had never tasted anything so good—a lentil stew, flavored with garlic, oil, and red peppers with hunks of hot, soft bread to dip in it; a bowl of buttermilk from which they all drank in turn; and finally a dish of bruised apricots—the unbruised ones the father would carry to the Wednesday Market at dawn the next day.

  Hamid felt his strength come back to him. For one night at least he would be safe and sheltered, and this made him feel peaceful, and his head stopped aching. The big countrywoman sat licking her fingers, and he gazed up at her as though she were an angel from heaven.