Star of Light Page 9

  And yet, if he refused to speak, Kinza was lost, and all his efforts were wasted. Kinza had been so happy, so healthy, so safe. Now she would be sold to the beggar—why else should his stepfather want her?—and he would not be there to protect her.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” he said warily after a long pause, but the nurse felt quite sure that he knew a great deal about it—though it might be difficult to worm it out of him. She must proceed very carefully.

  “Let’s go home and have some supper together,” she said soothingly, “and we can talk about it in the house. You must be hungry after being on the mountain all day.”

  Since he had had little to eat since the evening before, having not been to work, he was ravenously hungry. There was a gnawing pain inside him, and unless he accepted the English nurse’s offer, there was very little chance of food that night. It was rather risky to go to her house because, after all, it might be a trick. But he was so hungry!

  Nobody can make me talk, he thought, so he slipped a dirty little hand into the hand of the English nurse, and she clasped it firmly and did not let go until they were safely inside her house with the door locked behind them.

  She led Hamid upstairs to the room where he had once seen Kinza asleep, and he sat down cross-legged on the mat, sniffing the delicious smell of hot rice and vegetables cooking in the pot on the fire. She brought him a steaming bowlful and a great hunk of bread, and then fetched her own. She did not question him while he ate, for he was completely absorbed in his food, but she watched him thoughtfully. He was so like Kinza in looks—the same dark, bright eyes, heart-shaped face, and determined mouth. She waited until the last drop of food was gone, and the bowl wiped clean with a crust of bread, and then she spoke with a certainty that she did not feel.

  “Hamid,” she said very firmly, “do you know who has stolen away your little sister, Kinza? If you know, you must tell me, because I want to get her back again.”

  The English nurse was very tired, very strained, and very afraid that her guess was wrong. Her voice, which had been quite firm, quivered a little as she finished speaking, and that quiver reassured Hamid. This was no trick. It was the honest cry of a loving heart.

  “I think my stepfather got her,” he replied. “I saw him watching her in the market yesterday. He followed her right across the square, but I thought she was safe with you.”

  The nurse was surprised by her success, but she did not show it. She went on speaking very quietly. “Where does your stepfather live?”

  Hamid told her the name of the village.

  “Didn’t he know she was with me?”

  “No.”

  The nurse made another guess. “Why did you put her in my passage that night?”

  “My mother told me to.”

  “Why?”

  “My stepfather did not want Kinza. He was going to sell her to a beggar. Kinza would have been very unhappy, so my mother sent her to you.”

  “And now?”

  “My stepfather will sell her to the beggar. He wants the money.”

  The nurse shuddered. Kinza’s prospects were far worse than she had imagined, and she must save her somehow. She went on quietly questioning. “How far is the village?”

  “Two days’ journey on a horse—but my stepfather probably came by road on a market truck. That only takes about six hours.”

  “And you—how did you come?”

  “Partly on a truck, mostly walking.”

  “And Kinza?”

  “On my back.”

  The nurse marveled at his courage. Surely Hamid, who had dared so much for Kinza’s sake, would help her now!

  “And if I went to your village and offered to pay your father more than the beggar, would he let me buy back Kinza?”

  “I don’t know; he might. But how would you know the house? There are many parts of the village with hills between.”

  “You must come with me and show me.”

  “I can’t. My stepfather would beat me dreadfully if I went home.”

  “You need not go home. You can point out the house from a distance.”

  “But everyone in the village knows me. They will tell my stepfather.”

  “We will arrive after sunset in Mr. and Mrs. Swift’s car. No one will see you in the dark. Surely you will do this to save Kinza.”

  Hamid scratched his head doubtfully, battling with his fears.

  “Hamid,” she pleaded, “if you refuse I won’t be able to find her. The beggar will have her, and she will suffer and be cold and hungry in the streets of a big city, and all her life she’ll live in the dark. If she comes back to me, she will grow up happily, and I will teach her about the Lord Jesus and how He loves her. I’ve told you about Him so often, Hamid. Do you believe in Him yet?”

  He glanced up at her shyly, but his eyes were bright. “I love the Lord Jesus very much,” he replied simply. “He has forgiven me for all I have done wrong and made my heart happy.”

  “Then He can also make your heart brave,” she urged. “Let’s ask Him now, Hamid, to take away your fear and to save Kinza.”

  He shut his eyes obediently, and as the nurse prayed he repeated the words after her. While he was speaking, two thoughts came into his mind. If the Lord Jesus really loved him, He would not let his stepfather beat him, and so there was nothing to be afraid of. He also thought what fun it would be to drive all the way to his village in the Englishman’s big, fast, grey car.

  Even while he prayed, the Spirit of God breathed happy, brave thoughts into his troubled heart, so when they had finished praying he was quite ready to agree to the nurse’s suggestions, and he finally left the house feeling very excited. As he wandered across the marketplace, he imagined himself sitting upright at the car window, waving proudly like a king to his friends. He suddenly laughed with delight and skipped in the air. His stepfather would do anything for money, and the nurse would certainly offer more than the beggar would give.

  As soon as he had left the house, Rosemary set off for the hotel to discuss her plan with Mr. and Mrs. Swift. They had taken Jenny up into the mountains for a picnic, but she had not wanted to go and had been in a bad mood all day.

  She found them sitting in the lounge looking tired and depressed.

  “Has anything happened?” they asked eagerly, jumping up as soon as they saw her.

  “Yes,” said Rosemary, unable to hide her excitement. She dropped into an empty chair, and leaning forward, she poured out the wonderful story.

  “Of course, I’ve gone and fixed it all up with Hamid without consulting you,” she ended, “but I felt quite sure you’d be willing, because you’ve been so concerned about Kinza. We would have to start tomorrow afternoon—it’s about six hours’ drive—in order to arrive after sunset. Then Hamid says it’s a good walk on beyond where the car can go. We would not be back till after midnight, but I didn’t think you’d mind that.”

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Swift assured her, as eager as she was. “John shall take you and Hamid, and I’ll stay with Jenny. I don’t think she ought to go.”

  “There’ll be no end of trouble if she’s left behind,” said her father, and the eagerness vanished from their faces and they both sighed.

  “Is Jenny in bed?” inquired Rosemary. “Could I tell her all about it, or will she be asleep?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Swift glanced at each other, and there was a moment’s silence. Then Mrs. Swift spoke. “Yes, do go and tell her,” she said. “Rosemary, I wish you could somehow talk her into a better mood. She’s so fond of you, and I don’t seem to be able to do anything with her tonight. We’ve had such a miserable day because she didn’t want to go on the picnic. She wanted to stay and help you look for Kinza. Of course, I know she’s been ill and all that, but really she does behave like a spoiled baby when she can’t get her own way.”

  “I sent her to bed when we got in,” added Mr. Swift gloomily. “Her tempers are just getting too much. She’s not used to being punished and took it ve
ry badly, so I don’t know what sort of mood you’ll find her in. She’ll certainly kick up an awful fuss if she’s not allowed to go tomorrow.”

  “Poor Jenny!” said Rosemary. “I’ll go and see if she’s still awake,” and she climbed the stairs rather slowly and knocked at the door. There was no answer. She opened the door and went in.

  “What do you want?” said a sullen voice from under the bedclothes. “I haven’t gone to sleep early like you said, so you needn’t think I have.”

  “It’s me, Jenny,” said Rosemary quietly, and went over and sat down on the bed.

  Jenny came out at once, rather embarrassed, for she always spoke politely in front of Aunt Rosemary, wanting her to think she was a nice child. However, Mummy and Daddy had probably been talking about her, and she must make Aunt Rosemary see her point of view. Surely she would understand and see how ill-treated she was.

  “Oh, Auntie Rosemary,” cried Jenny, bursting into tears, “I’m so glad you’ve come! I’ve been thinking about Kinza all day long.”

  “Oh, no, you haven’t,” replied Rosemary in a very matter-of-fact voice. “You’ve been thinking about yourself all day long, and that’s why you’re so unhappy. Selfish people are always unhappy because they mind so much when they can’t have their own way.”

  “I’m not selfish,” sobbed Jenny angrily. “You don’t understand any more than Mummy and Daddy do. I couldn’t stop wondering where Kinza was, and they took me away where I couldn’t find out or hear if there was any news.”

  “But your hearing the news wouldn’t have helped Kinza at all,” replied Rosemary. “It would just have satisfied your own curiosity. And because you couldn’t be satisfied, you made Mummy and Daddy miserable all day long, and if that’s not selfish I don’t know what is.”

  Jenny could think of nothing to say to that, so she just repeated, “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, Jenny, Jenny, I understand so well,” cried Aunt Rosemary, suddenly kneeling down and drawing the angry, hot little girl toward her. “I understand that because you have always had everything you want, and because Mummy and Daddy have always given you such lovely things and been so good to you, you think nothing matters in the world except your own happiness. Your heart is like a little closed-in circle with yourself in the middle, and every time something happens that hurts or annoys you, you think the world is coming to an end. As you get older, Jenny, you will find that there are more and more things that will annoy and hurt you, and you are going to grow into a very unhappy, unloving person. You see, you haven’t really time or room to love anyone else properly because you’re too busy loving yourself.”

  Jenny was quite silent. No one had ever talked to her like this before. Her mother and father usually ended by saying, “Never mind, darling; we’re sure you didn’t mean it. Let’s forget all about it.”

  But perhaps Auntie Rosemary was partly speaking the truth. She often did feel very, very unhappy, simply because it was not always possible for her to have her own way. She thought of a girl at school who had wanted to learn to ride a horse, and who had wanted a new dress for a party, but she couldn’t have either because her father couldn’t afford it. Yet she had not made a fuss about it and had seemed to really enjoy the party even though she was wearing one of her sister’s old dresses. Jenny could not understand it.

  “I can’t help minding things,” said Jenny at last in a small, hurt voice. “And I do love people. I love Mummy and Daddy and you and Kinza and lots of people.”

  “Only as long as we please you,” replied Rosemary. “As soon as we stop doing what you want, you are quite happy to make us miserable, as you’ve made Mummy and Daddy miserable today.”

  Jenny was silent again. It was no good trying to make Aunt Rosemary understand her, because apparently she knew all about her, but it made her feel peaceful in a strange kind of way. Jenny suddenly felt she could stop pretending.

  “I do want to be good and happy,” she whispered, “and I do want to make Mummy happy. But I can’t. I just seem to mind things so much that I can’t help being cross.”

  “Yes,” agreed Rosemary thoughtfully, “I know. The only way you can change is to ask Jesus into your heart, and He will come into the circle and change you. At first you will still want to have your own way, but the more you love Him, the less you will love yourself first. You will want what He wants, and gradually you will become happier and happier and feel more satisfied. It sounds difficult, but it’s really quite simple.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Jenny rather sleepily. She had stopped crying and was lying very still. Rosemary waited a moment and then said, “I really came to tell you some news of Kinza. We’ve discovered where she’s gone, and tomorrow your father and Hamid and I are going to her home, and we are going to try to persuade her stepfather to let us have her back.”

  “Oh, where? When? How?” cried Jenny, springing up in bed. “Tell me all about it quickly! Can I come too?”

  “No,” said Rosemary, “you can’t. Mummy says we will get back too late, and probably the fewer of us who go the better. You’ve got a chance to make up for today by obeying without being cross and sulky. Now I’ll tell you how I found out and all about it.” As she told her, Jenny lay and listened quietly.

  It was all going to come out right after all, perhaps, and she did not deserve it. Last night she had made a sort of promise—“If Kinza comes back, I’m going to be good forever and ever.”

  “Auntie,” she whispered, her face half-buried in the pillow, “tell Mummy to come. I want to tell her I’m sorry and that I’ll be good tomorrow.”

  An Exciting Night

  The next day dawned bright and clear, and the rescue party set off early in the afternoon. Jenny, desperately disappointed that she wasn’t going, too, but determined to make the best of it, stood and waved them off. Hamid, all his fears forgotten in the thrill of being inside the beautiful car, sat in the backseat like a prince and nodded proudly to the crowd of openmouthed, admiring urchins running behind. Far down the road they followed, shouting and hooting, rags fluttering. Hamid stuck his head far out of the window and yelled with triumph, and Rosemary pulled him in again by the seat of his trousers.

  It was a beautiful drive. Hamid remembered the hot, dusty evening when he had toiled up the same hill with Kinza on his back. He had been too tired then to look about him and admire the view, but now he wanted to see everything, and he leapt from side to side of the car like a monkey in a cage.

  Later he slept, curled up on the backseat, and when he woke he found the car had stopped in an area surrounded by mountains, and the Englishman and the nurse were drinking tea and eating sandwiches. Hamid was given a sugar bun, and he thought he was in heaven.

  Only one thought spoiled his pleasure. As the sun sank toward the western mountains, the grey car was traveling toward his village and his stepfather. The big Englishman and the nurse had promised that he would be kept safe, so he was not really very afraid. He laid his head on his arms on the window ledge, thinking. He was coming near to his mother, too, and his heart cried out for her. It would be hard to be so close and yet be unable to see her or speak to her. Two big tears brimmed up in his eyes and trickled over onto the shiny leather car seats.

  After a while, the car turned off the main road onto a stony mountain road, traveling more slowly between scrubby hills where the villages of the mountain people nestled. Children were bringing their goats home, and several times the car had to stop while a small figure and his flock crossed the road.

  Then the sun set behind the hills, and Hamid could see the shape of his home mountain in the distance with two bright stars twinkling above it. His heart began to beat very fast and his mouth felt rather dry.

  It was quite dark when they reached the familiar marketplace. They drove beyond the few shops to where the rough road dwindled into a track, and there Mr. Swift stopped the car.

  Hamid tumbled out and ran behind an olive tree while the nurse spoke to a boy standing in the door
way of a house and asked him to mind the car. Hamid knew this boy and did not wish to be recognized by anyone, so he waited until the boy’s back was turned, and then came skulking out from his hiding place and without a word set off quickly along the familiar path, with Mr. Swift and the nurse hurrying along behind him. This was the very track up which he had toiled on hot summer evenings carrying Kinza home from market; here was the fountain where he and Rahma had filled buckets at sunrise; to his left was the burying ground, with the three little graves where the marigolds grew; and there in front of him, at the top of the hill, gleamed the lights in the cottages on the outskirts of the village. Just another fifty yards’ climb and he could see his own lamplit doorway and the rosy glow of the charcoal fire. He stopped short and beckoned his followers to his side.

  “There,” he breathed, pointing toward it. “It is the third house beyond the fig tree. You just push the gate open—there is no latch. Don’t be afraid of the dog—he’s chained. And remember, you have promised not to tell my stepfather.”

  “Yes, Hamid,” said the nurse quietly, “I’ve promised. And if he comes with us to the car you must hide until he goes away. We will not leave without you. Otherwise, we’ll meet you here.”

  They went cautiously on up the rocky path, and Hamid went off to hide himself safely behind the bushes at the bottom of the burying ground. Crouching there, hugging his knees, he remembered his first escape, when he had crept down the hill at midnight and felt so afraid of evil spirits in the dark. Suddenly he realized he was not afraid anymore, and then remembered why. Death was no longer a place of shadows and lost spirits—it was simply a door into the light and sunshine of God’s home, and the nurse had said that little children who had no knowledge of good and evil were welcome there, so his little brothers and sister were safe and happy after all. Hamid suddenly wished he could go there, too, instead of crouching like an outcast within sight of his own home. He longed for the warm fireside, for the nuzzling goats, for Rahma and, above all, for his mother. His heart strained toward her. Surely she would hear and come.