The Serpent's Daughter (2 page)

“You’re so right about the Tangier shopkeepers, Mr. Kennicot, ” said Libby Tremaine, a tiny but pretty young American woman on her honeymoon with her husband, Walter. “One horrid-smelling man tried to overcharge me for a pair of leather slippers yesterday. I refused to buy them and walked away.” Her head bobbed emphatically, sending into motion the numerous assorted flowers on her hat. “He’ll think twice the next time he tries that.” She patted down the few strands of fine hair, the color of pale strawberries and golden dawn, that had broken free.

“I believe you are expected to bargain with the sellers,” said Jade. She sectioned her orange and popped one slice into her mouth.

“Applesauce! Whoever heard of such a thing?” remarked Mrs. Tremaine as she took a second croissant. “May I have the marmalade, please?” She flashed a brilliant smile at Patrido Blanco de Portillo, the Spanish merchant to Jade’s left, even though the jam pot sat closer to Jade’s right.

Inez picked up the bowl of marmalade, but when she reached across to hand it to Libby, her hand bumped both the salt cellar and the pepper pot, spilling a spray of black and white specks across the tablecloth. “Pardon me.” Inez scooped up a portion of the salt and tossed it behind her.

“Allow me to assist you,” said de Portillo. He swept up the remainder of the spilled seasonings, then exploded in a sneeze as he inadvertently flung stray pepper grains into his nostrils.

“God bless you,” said Chloe Kennicot primly. It was the first thing the woman had said during breakfast, deferring always to her husband.

“It is nothing. Only the pepper,” replied de Portillo with a sniff as he brushed the remaining errant grains from his silk cravat and sumptuous gray waistcoat. “But Miss del Cameron is correct. Bargaining is tantamount to a sport for the commoner.”

“Well, that’s a system that’s all balled up,” said Mr. Tremaine. “Sounds like a lot of bushwa to me. How am I to know when I am getting a bargain or am being cheated?” He glanced from one to another, as though seeking agreement, and stroked his baby-smooth chin.

“Being cheated is, unfortunately, the price one must pay, so to speak, when you leave the civilized familiarity of Europe and come to a barbaric city,” said Mr. Kennicot, arching one brow, the other lid drifting down to shade a gray-green eye against the morning sun. He sat stiffly upright with his hands tented, fingertips touching as though he were trying to look like an experienced man of the world about to issue an edict. His flaming red hair did nothing to assist that illusion. Jade thought he resembled a circus clown more than a serious world traveler.

“Barbaric?” exclaimed Jade. “Tangier’s about as barbaric as an egg timer.” She waved her hand to encompass the surrounding area. “We are sitting in a French café, dining on croissants, using the finest bone china and linens. Most of us are staying in either the Spanish or the French hotel, and across the street is another one owned by a Scotsman. The main newspaper is in Spanish, and every other person on the street is a European or an American. It’s no wonder the Moroccans call Tangier the infidel city. One might as well be in your civilized Europe.”

As she finished her speech, she noted her mother’s furrowed brow and tightly pursed lips, as clear a sign of exasperation as a cat’s twitching tail. “Of course, that’s just my opinion,” she added to try to soothe her mother’s irritation. “I understand Fez is very unique.” She finished her orange and prayed for breakfast to end.

“Do not be deceived by these familiar surroundings, Miss del Cameron,” said Mr. de Portillo. “A great deal of barbarism lies directly under the veneer.” He pointed to a small procession in the street below. “Do you see that man in the embroidered
djellaba
and the large turban, the fat one followed by the five young girls and the old woman?” Jade nodded. “And what do you make of them?” Patrido asked.

“Normally I would guess that the older woman is his wife and the girls are his daughters,” said Jade, “but here in Morocco I suppose those are all his wives.”

“And you would be wrong on both counts,” said the Spaniard. “I have seen that man many times in my trips here to purchase leathers. He is a slaver of sorts. Oh, rest assured he will have papers for the authorities that proclaim every one of those beauties as his daughters, but they are not. They are probably from Circassia or the Caucases, possibly Armenia. Their parents are likely poor and sold them off. He will take them into the interior with the old woman, who may in fact be his wife, to watch over them. Then they will be sold at market. Some will be house servants; others might become wives or concubines if they are pretty enough.”

“How horrid,” said Chloe Kennicot.

“See here,” declared Woodard Kennicot. “I happen to know for a fact that the French stopped that practice several years ago.”

Patrido de Portillo bowed once, slowly. “Indeed they did, Mr. Kennicot. But the sales happen nonetheless. They are only less open, less regular than before.” He turned back to Jade. “So you see, Miss del Cameron, the
Maghreb,
the land of the western sun, is still barbaric.”

Libby half closed her eyes and sighed. “I suppose that’s what makes it seem so romantic. Like something out of Arabian Nights.”

“Are you touring some of the local sites in Morocco for your honeymoon, Mrs. Tremaine?” Inez asked.

“Walter is taking me to see the Caves of Hercules later today,” Libby replied.

“And we’ll take a gander at Volubilis, tomorrow,” added Mr. Tremaine, “before we travel to Marrakech. Both the caves and Volubilis are laced with Greek and Roman history. I studied both subjects at Yale, you know.”

Marrakech?
Jade examined the bride with more interest. The young woman’s white gloves, long sleeves, and huge straw hat were designed to protect her alabaster skin and strawberry blond hair from the sun, but they wouldn’t help much in the desert or the mountains.
She’ll cook like an egg on a hot rock.

“I understand that there are some interesting inscriptions on the cave walls,” said Mr. Kennicot. “They are in Greek, a language I read as a lowly student of scripture.” He nodded his head in a gesture meant to show humility. “Legend suggests they were written by Hercules himself.”

Jade chuckled. “Mark Twain has a humorous notation about that very fact in his book
Innocents Abroad
. He wrote that Hercules must not have traveled much or else he wouldn’t have kept a journal.” No one else laughed. In fact, Jade noted, most of them—all except her mother—stared at her with blank expressions. Jade cleared her throat. “Of course if you aren’t familiar with Twain’s writings, I don’t suppose it would mean much.” She picked up her fork and poked the orange rinds on her plate, wondering why she felt like a naughty child waiting for permission to leave the table.

Her mother glared at her until she put her fork down.

“So, you are a biblical scholar, Mr. Kennicot?” asked de Portillo.

Mr. Kennicot bowed. “Yes. My wife, Chloe, and I hope to do good work bringing enlightenment to this country.”

“Ah, you are missionaries,” concluded de Portillo. “Most interesting. I think you might find your task very difficult outside of Tangier. The Arabs are ardent Muslims.”

Missionaries!
thought Jade. That explained the severely tailored lines of Chloe’s tan linen suit and the lack of lace or other frippery. Her interest renewed, she studied Chloe more closely. Jade approved the simple roll with which she’d bound her walnut brown hair. Like her mother’s style, it looked elegant, not austere. Chloe’s sapphire blue eyes took in everything with an interest that bespoke intelligence.

“Woodard and I wish to preach to the Berbers,” said Chloe. “We don’t believe they are ardent, as you put it, in anything.”

“If anything,” added her husband, “they still hold to their ancient pagan ways.”

“How interesting,” said Libby as she clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “And just what sort of pagan rites do they practice?”

Jade took a deep breath and gritted her teeth. The girl acted as though she expected and reveled in hearing about human sacrifices. Something brushed her legs, one of Tangier’s innumerable cats. Jade smeared butter on a roll and dropped it for the cat to lick clean. It landed on de Portillo’s leather boots before plopping to the side. Jade noticed most of the butter stayed on the boot.

“I was under the impression that the Berbers are Muslims, ” said Mr. Tremaine.

“They are whatever they need to be,” said de Portillo. “Some, like St. Augustine, were Christian. I believe some were Jewish, as well. Most have followed Islam, at least superficially, since the Arabs brought it here. Their last holdout was one of their vision-gifted queens.
Kahinas,
I believe these women were called.” The cat settled in for a meal, licking de Portillo’s boot.

“So you agree that they can be converted?” asked Kennicot.

Mr. de Portillo shrugged. “Why should they? It is true that they are not fastidious about praying five times a day, nor do their women veil themselves, but they have at least gained token acceptance among the Arabs. They would lose that if they turned Christian, and possibly gain nothing in the process.”

Chloe Kennicot put a gloved hand to her face and gasped. “Such shocking commentary!” she said. “To think they would gain nothing. Why, they would gain their souls, Mr. de Portillo. ”

Woodard Kennicot patted his wife’s other hand to soothe her. “Do not agitate yourself, my dear. I am certain that Mr. de Portillo only meant they would not gain any political or social standing, and meant no offense.” He looked at de Portillo when he said this. Patrido waved his hand and nodded, as if to agree without having to actually say so, and Mr. Kennicot took this as a chance to continue explaining their mission.

“I subscribe to the idea that the Berber people are the descendents of the Canaanites,” he said, “and they still hold fast to ancient beliefs in spirits and fetishes, making food offerings at springs or to certain trees.”

“There is evidence that they practice traces of an old worship of a heathen goddess, Astarte,” added his wife. “One can see it in the dreadful henna symbols they tattoo on themselves. ”

“Evidence,” said Mr. Kennicot, “that they may actually have intermarried with Phoenicians.”

“More likely they only traded with them,” said de Portillo. “When different people trade in goods, they sometimes trade beliefs, as well.”

“Imagine, Canaanites in the mountains,” said Libby. “How thrilling.”

“They were not always in the mountains,” added de Portillo. “These tribes once extended from Libya all across northern Africa—the
Maghreb,
as they term it. They only retreated there to escape domination by Romans and later the Arabs.”

“Yes,” agreed Inez. She nodded to de Portillo. “We Spaniards know the extent of Arab domination from when the Moors invaded our country.”

De Portillo shook his head and leaned forward. “Ah, forgive me for contradicting you, Doña del Cameron. The Moors that entered our beloved Andalusia were Berbers who had risen to power, not Arabs. And I do not think, Mr. Kennicot, ” he said, as he turned his black eyes on the missionary, “that you will find them any more trusting of a Nazarene, as they term a Christian. You will not easily shake them of their belief in spirits.”

Walter Tremaine’s brown eyes brightened with renewed interest. “Spirits! Now, that is great fun. Don’t they call them genies? Like the genie in the lamp in Arabian Nights?”

“I believe the proper plural is
jnūn
or
jinni,
” said de Portillo. “
Jinn
is one spirit, unless it’s female. Then it is a
jenniya
.” He crossed his right leg over his left, tossing the still-feeding cat aside. The resulting bump against the table, hiss, and scrabbling of claws startled everyone but Jade, who’d been watching from the corner of her eye.

“Sounds like one of them now,” Jade said. Inez closed her eyes and raised her chin, a sure sign to Jade of her mother’s displeasure. Jade resigned herself to the inevitable scolding and lecture on decorum once breakfast was over and they were alone. Not that her mother would go so far as to yell at her, but only because raising one’s voice was as improper as poking fun at the conversation.

Mr. Tremaine acknowledged Jade’s humor with a weak smile and plowed ahead. “Well, from what I understand, they blame spirits for everything. Run of bad luck—it was an evil
jinn
. Commit adultery—blame it on a seductive lady
jenniya
.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Apparently the worst of the lot is some spirit that actually seduced Adam before Eve was created. What was her name?”

“I believe she was known as Lilith,” replied Mr. Kennicot. He took a deep breath and placed his hand on his chest. “A demon, a veritable daughter of that serpent Satan.” Beside him, his wife gasped in horror.

Jade felt a shiver run up her spine, though not from any biblical bedtime story. During the war she had been courted by a young British pilot, David Worthy. He died in a plane crash after entrusting her with the task of finding his missing half brother. The search in East Africa revealed that David’s own mother, Olivia Lilith Worthy, was capable of monstrous crimes to prevent even her own husband from finding this lost youth. No, thought Jade, one didn’t need to look to folklore to find something evil.
Does Lilith know about this mythical she-demon?
Perhaps Mrs. Worthy fancied herself to be a modern version. Jade shook her head as though to clear out the image. Her mother arched one brow and seemed about to ask her if she were all right when Walter Tremaine jumped back into his tales.

“Well, according to those Berbers,” he said, a big grin on his boyish face, “she still wanders the area looking for new victims.” He licked his lips, caught his bride’s wide-eyed, shocked look at such a risqué topic, and quickly added, “Not that
I’d
ever fall prey to her, darling.” He rapped on the table three times.