Star of Light (2 page)

“Where did you go?” asked Rahma.

“To the saint’s tomb,” answered Hamid. “Rahma, our little sister is blind. Her eyes see nothing but darkness—that’s why Mother hides her away. She does not want Fatima and Si Mohamed to know.”

Rahma stood still, horrified. “Blind?” she echoed. “And the saint—couldn’t he make her see?”

Hamid shook his head. “I don’t think that saint is much good,” he said rather boldly. “Mother went there before, when Father coughed, but nothing happened. Father died.”

“It is the will of God,” said Rahma, and shrugged her shoulders. Then, clinging close together because night was falling, they climbed the hill, and the goats’ eyes gleamed like green lanterns in the dark.

“I hate the dark,” whispered Rahma with a little shiver.

Hamid stared up into the deep blue sky. “I love the stars,” he said.

The Secret Revealed

T
hey reached the village ten minutes later and passed by the dark huts. Through open doors, glowing charcoal gleamed cheerfully in clay pots, and families squatted around their evening meal by dim lamplight. But as they came near their own house they could hear the angry voice of Fatima, the older wife, shouting at their mother.

Fatima hated the new wife and her three children and made life as hard as she could for them in every possible way. She was bent and wrinkled by long years of hard work, and Zohra was still young and beautiful. Fatima had longed in vain for a baby, while Zohra had had six. So perhaps it wasn’t surprising that the older woman was so jealous and had been so angry at their coming to live in the house.
She showed her hatred by sitting cross-legged on the mattress like a queen all day and making Zohra and Rahma work like slaves. Zohra had only escaped to the well because Fatima had fallen asleep—but unfortunately she had not slept for long. Furious at finding the young woman not there, she had sent a neighbor’s child to spy out for her. So Zohra, carrying her buckets, had arrived home to find that Fatima knew all about her expedition. “Wicked, deceitful, lazy one!” shouted Fatima. “You can’t deceive me. Give me that child! Let me see for myself why you hide her away, and hold her so secretly, and creep with her to the tomb. Give her to me, I say! I insist on having her.”

She snatched the baby roughly from Zohra’s grasp and carried her to the light, and the mother sighed and let her empty arms fall to her sides. After all, Fatima must know soon. They could not hide it much longer, and she had better find out for herself.

The frightened children squatted in the shadows by the wall, their dark eyes very big. The hut was silent as Fatima passed her hands over the baby’s limbs and stared into Kinza’s still face. Hamid, holding his breath, heard little sounds he had never noticed before—the slow, rhythmical munching of the ox in the stall, the rustle of straw as the kids nuzzled against their mothers, and the soft crooning of roosted hens.

Then the silence was broken by a triumphant cackle of laughter from the old woman, and Kinza, whose ears were very sensitive to loud noises and angry voices, gave a frightened cry. Fatima picked
her up and almost flung her back into her mother’s lap.

“Blind,” she announced, “blind as night! And you knew—you knew all the time! You brought her here to your husband’s house to be a burden on all of us forever—never to work, never to marry. You hid her away in case we found out. Oh, most deceitful of women! Our husband shall know about this tonight. Now—get up and prepare his supper, and you, Rahma, fan the charcoal. When he has eaten his food, we shall hear what he has to say.”

The frightened little girl jumped up and set to work with the bellows till the flames leaped from the glowing coals and flung strange shadows on the walls. Zohra, trembling, laid her baby in the swinging wooden cradle that hung from a beam, and set to work to mash the beans and beat in the oil, for her husband had gone to speak to a neighbor and would be home anytime now.

Supper was just ready when they heard his firm steps coming along the path, and a moment later he appeared in the doorway—a tall man with black eyes and a black beard and a hard, cruel mouth. He wore a long garment made from dark homespun goat’s wool, with a white turban wound around his head. He did not speak to his wives or his stepchildren but sat cross-legged in front of the low, round table and signaled for the food to be set before him. If he noticed Fatima’s triumph, and the white, scared faces of Zohra and the children, he said nothing.

Zohra set the hot dish in the center of the table, and the silent family gathered around. There were no
spoons, but she broke two large pieces of bread for her husband and Fatima and three small pieces for herself, Hamid, and Rahma.

“In the name of God,” they murmured as they scooped their bread in the center dish, for they hoped the words would drive away evil spirits that might be lurking around the table. Sometimes at midday when the sun was shining, Rahma forgot to say them, but she never forgot at night, because the flickering shadows and dark corners made her feel afraid. Evil spirits seemed very real and near after the lamps had been lit. And certainly tonight the little home was full of evil spirits—dark spirits of jealousy and anger and hatred and cruelty and fear. Even little Kinza in her hanging cradle seemed to feel the atmosphere and wailed fretfully.

Si Mohamed frowned. “Stop that noise,” he growled. “Pick her up.”

The mother obeyed and sat down again with her baby held very closely against her.

Fatima waited a moment until her husband had finished eating, then she held out her arms. “Give that child to me,” she said threateningly.

Zohra handed over her baby and burst into tears.

“What is the matter?” said Si Mohamed irritably. His wives might quarrel all they pleased—wives always did quarrel—but he disliked them doing it in front of him. He had been plowing all day and was tired.

“Yes, what is the matter, indeed!” sneered Fatima, and she held out the baby at arm’s length so that the lamplight suddenly shone straight onto her face. But
Kinza neither squinted her eyes nor turned away from it. Si Mohamed stared at her directly.

“Blind!” cried Fatima, as she had shouted before. “Blind, blind, blind! And Zohra knew it—she has deceived us all.”

“I didn’t,” sobbed Zohra, rocking to and fro.

“You did,” shouted the old woman.

“Silence, you women,” said their husband sternly, and the quarrel stopped immediately. Once again, there was silence in the dim hut. Rahma suddenly felt cold with fear and crept closer to the dying charcoal. Her stepfather looked very closely at Kinza’s tiny face, flashed the light in front of it, and jerked his hand toward her face until he was satisfied that the old woman spoke the truth.

“Truly,” he agreed, “she is blind.”

But the dreaded outburst of rage never came. He handed Kinza back to her mother, half-closed his eyes, and lit a long, thin pipe. He sat puffing away in silence for some time, until the hut was filled with sickly fumes, and then he said, “Blind children can be very profitable. Keep that baby carefully. She may bring us much money.”

“How?” asked Zohra nervously, her arms tightening around her baby.

“By begging,” replied her husband. “Of course, we cannot take her begging ourselves, for I am an honorable man. But there are beggars who would be glad to hire her to sit with them in the markets. People feel sorry for blind children and give generously. I believe I know of one who would pay to borrow her when she is a little older.”

Zohra said nothing—she dared not. But Hamid and Rahma gave each other a long, rebellious look across the table. They knew the beggar of whom their stepfather spoke—an old man dressed in filthy old rags who swore horrible oaths. They did not want their precious Kinza to go to that old man. He would certainly mistreat and frighten her.

Their stepfather saw the looks through half-closed eyelids. He clapped his hands sharply. “To bed, you children,” he ordered, “quickly!”

They got up hurriedly, mumbled good night, and scuttled into dark corners of the room.

There were low mattresses laid along the wall. Curling themselves up on these, they pulled strips of blanket over them and fell fast asleep.

Hamid never knew why he woke that night, for he usually slept soundly till sunrise. But at about two in the morning, he suddenly sat up in bed, wide awake. A patch of bright moonlight was shining through the window onto Kinza’s cradle, and she was moaning and stirring in her sleep.

Hamid slipped from his mattress and stood beside her. Suddenly, a great wave of protective tenderness seemed to come sweeping over him. She was so small, so patient, and so defenseless. Well, he would see to it that no harm came to her. All his life he would guide her through her darkness and protect her with his love. His heart swelled for a moment, and then he remembered that he was only a boy himself and completely under his stepfather’s control. They might take Kinza away from him, and then his love would be powerless to reach her.

Was there no stronger love to shelter her, no more certain light to lead her? He did not know.

Si Mohamed Makes a Deal

B
lind Kinza sat in the doorway of her hut and lifted her small face to the sunshine. It was Thursday, and on Thursday Kinza went to work. She was two-and-a-half years old now and quite old enough, in her stepfather’s opinion, to earn her living like the rest of them.

She sat still and patient, her weak legs folded under her, her hands clasped quietly in her lap. It was quite early, and Hamid, who carried her to her job, had taken the cow to pasture and would not be back for a while. In the meantime she was free to enjoy herself, and Kinza enjoyed herself quite a lot in her own way.

As long as the sun shone and the weather was fine, she was, on the whole, a happy little child. Since she
had never seen the light, she could not miss it, and there were many good things to feel. There was the warmth and shelter of her mother’s lap, the clasp of her brother’s strong arms, and the wet noses of the goat kids when they nuzzled her hands. There was the touch of the sun on her body and the wind on her face. Sometimes she was allowed to sit by her mother as she sorted the corn, and one of Kinza’s greatest treats was to pick up handfuls of worn husks and let them slip through her fingers.