Star of Light (5 page)

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.

After supper the three little girls curled themselves up on goatskins against the hay, with a cat and her three kittens for company, and went straight to sleep. The father went out to milk, and his wife followed because she wanted to talk to him. Hamid, sitting by the fire with Kinza leaning up against him, could hear their voices. He supposed they were talking about him, and he was quite right, for the woman came back soon with everything fixed up.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said encouragingly. “My husband is quite willing to help you. He is going into Wednesday Market tomorrow to sell apricots. He picks up a truck at the bottom of the hill just before daybreak. He will take you with him and say you are my sister’s children, for my sister lives on the road to Friday Market, where you are trying to get to, and she has a boy about your age and a baby girl. The truck will drop you about twenty-five kilometers from Friday Market, on the main road, and you can probably get a lift—if not, it’s not too far to walk.”

She looked down at his joyful face and suddenly felt sorry because he was so young and helpless. She fetched a basin and a towel and, stooping down, she washed his bruised, cut feet. Then she tore a rag into
strips and bathed his wounds with olive oil. Finally, she laid him on one sheepskin with his little sister and covered them warmly with another. He fell asleep at once, grateful and unafraid, and she went and sat very still on her doorstep, her hands folded, looking out into the dusk.

Hamid Completes His Mission

T
wenty-four hours later, Hamid found himself gazing up at the walls of the city he had come so far to find, feeling more strange and lost than he had ever felt before in his life.

He had had a very successful day. He had woken at dawn, cool and refreshed. The woman had fed them and blessed them and sent them out with her husband. At the bottom of the hill a truck, jammed tight with market-goers, had picked them up and rattled off down the valley. Hamid had never been in a truck before, and the noise and speed and jolting thrilled him. The main road thrilled him, too, with its roaring traffic, and the two hours’ drive passed all too quickly. The road turned off to Wednesday Market, and he and Kinza were dropped about
twenty-five kilometers from their destination.