Patricia St John Series Read online

  “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

  Blind 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.

  There were lovely things to hear, too, and she knew now that Hamid was coming toward her, from the particular sound of his bare feet on the dry mud. She held up her arms and gave a delighted squeak. Hamid picked her up and tied her firmly on his back.

  “Market day, Little Sister,” he announced. “Have you had some breakfast?”

  Kinza nodded. Half an hour ago she had drunk a bowlful of sweet black coffee and eaten a hunk of brown bread. It was the best breakfast she knew, and she had really enjoyed it.

  “Come, then,” said Hamid, and they set off together, keeping under the olive trees to begin with, because, by nine o’clock in the summer, the sun was blazing hot. But very soon they left the trees behind them, and the path to market ran between wheat fields ripe for harvest, where the air smelled of poppies. The sound of the wind rustling through the corn made her sleepy, and Kinza laid her head on her brother’s shoulder and shut her eyes.

  There were many people on the path that morning, and as they reached the marketplace the crowds became thicker. It was an area of burnt yellow grass, shaded by eucalyptus trees, and the sellers sat cross-legged on the ground with their goods piled up in front of them while the buyers tramped around them. Kinza hated it. She hated the jostling and the jolting and the noise, the dust that made her sneeze, the flies that crawled over her face, and the fleas that bit her legs. Most of all, she hated the moment when Hamid left her in the care of the old beggar.

  But Hamid, to make it easier for her, had worked out a plan. During the week, he tried to beg, borrow, or steal a small coin. He would exchange it in the market on Thursday morning for a lump of sticky green candy, covered with nuts. Licking that candy was the biggest treat Kinza knew.

  Hamid knew the marketplace very well and made his way to the patch of sand where Kinza and the beggar sat side by side. He made sure he got there before the beggar to give him time to settle Kinza and let her eat the green candy. Hamid took a few secret licks himself first, and then handed it over, warm and wet, to his sister. She clasped it in her right hand, loving its sweet stickiness, and began to lick it all over, going around and around it with the tip of her little pink tongue. In her left hand she held tightly to the hem of Hamid’s tunic, in case the roaring crowd should pull him away from her.

  They had not been there long before the old beggar came shuffling toward them with a colored drum in his hand. He was amazingly dirty and old, and his patched coat was falling to pieces. Hamid kissed his hand politely and received the coin that was paid to his stepfather each week for the loan of Kinza. But instead of dismissing him crossly as he usually did, the old beggar spoke to him.

  “When your father comes down to buy,” he growled, “tell him I have business with him.”

  Hamid nodded, freed himself gently from Kinza’s grasp, and ran off. Kinza, finding herself left alone, started to cry, until the old beggar noticed and slapped her for it.

  Her work was not very difficult during the early part of the day. All she had to do was sit with her small face lifted to the light so that everyone could see she was blind, and hold out her hand. The old beggar sat beside her, thumping his drum to make people look at her, and chanting and swaying. Many people felt sorry for the tiny white-faced child and gave her coins, which she handed to her master. So they sat until noon, and the sun rose higher, and the dust and the flies grew thicker. The crowds wandered around them and the stray dogs sniffed them. Sometimes people tripped right over her.

  At noon, Kinza’s master gave her a piece of dark rye bread and a cup of water, and because she had collected quite a lot of money during the morning he gave her a squashed plum. It was delicious. She sucked all her ten fingers in turn so that she didn’t lose one drop of juice.

  The afternoon was harder than the morning, for by two o’clock Kinza began to grow sleepy. Her dark head, tied up in its cotton cloth, began to nod heavily, and her eyes just would not stay open. She longed for her mother’s lap, but all she could do was lean against the old man’s rags to rest her weary head.

  But only for a few minutes. He saw what had happened and angrily jerked her upright. Feeling dazed, she rubbed her knuckles in her eyes, stretched herself, and tumbled forward. Once again he jerked her back, slapped her, and propped her up against him. So, with her outstretched hand supported by the other, she sat begging, half-asleep, until the beggar suddenly got up and she fell over sideways.

  He sat her up with an impatient bump. “Bad child!” he growled. “Sit and beg til
l I come back.”

  He had got up because, on the outskirts of the crowd, he had seen the tall figure of Kinza’s stepfather looking about for him. The farmer would not wish to speak to the beggar in the open market, so they met behind a huge eucalyptus tree and stood talking.

  “You wanted me?” asked the farmer.

  “Yes,” said the old beggar. “I’m leaving the village. The country people are growing greedy and are giving less to honorable beggars, so I’m going to the big town on the coast, with my wife. The great feast will soon be here, and they say beggars grow rich in the streets of the town. Now this is what I want to say. Give me that blind child of yours. You are not a beggar, and you can never make use of her, but she makes a lot of money for me. My wife will look after her, and I will pay you a good sum for her.”

  Kinza’s stepfather hesitated. He knew that he was plotting a very wicked thing, but he needed money badly. His cow had strayed into a neighbor’s cornfield and had been put in the cows’ prison. He had to pay a lot of money to get it back again. His harvest was poor this year, and Kinza, while she earned a little, was and always would be an extra mouth to feed.

  Si Mohamed refused to listen to his conscience. After all, Kinza was not his child. Hamid was eleven, almost a man, and could soon be left to earn his own living, and Rahma could be married off in three or four years. But this might be the first and last chance he would ever have of getting rid of Kinza.

  “How much will you give me?” he said at last.

  The beggar mentioned a small sum. The farmer said that was not nearly enough. The beggar shouted back, and they bargained angrily for some time. Nobody took much notice, for that is the way prices are fixed in that country. They finally agreed on a price that was exactly halfway between what both had asked in the first place.

  “Right,” said the beggar at last. “I’ll be leaving the village at dawn on the first day of the week. When you hand over the child I will hand over the money, and it shall be done in the presence of witnesses.”

  Though neither showed it, both were pleased. The old beggar fought his way back to Kinza, hoping she had managed to collect some coins while he had been away. But she had done nothing of the sort. She had crept into a patch of shade and lay fast asleep, curled up in a ball like a tired kitten.

  Zohra Makes a Plan

  Hamid stood on the outskirts of the market, his thin brown face turned upward, his bright dark eyes fixed on the top of the mosque, waiting for the priest to appear and shout the four o’clock prayer call. This was the time Kinza was released and he could carry her off, safe for another week.

  The crowd was thinning now, and Hamid could spot his sister sitting in a sad little heap beside her master. She was in disgrace because she had fallen asleep, and Hamid was impatient to rescue her.

  The mosque was the village temple—a building with a square tower dazzling white against the blue sky. A golden crescent gleamed from the top.

  At last the old bearded priest appeared and sent his chanted call ringing out across the marketplace. “There is one God,” he cried, “and Mohammed is his prophet.”

  Faithful Muslims flocked to the temple or took off their shoes and prayed where they stood, facing east, bowing low, and sometimes kneeling with their foreheads on the ground.

  The moment Hamid caught sight of the priest, he raced across the market, kissed the old beggar’s hand in greeting, and snatched up his little sister.

  He had brought her a doughnut. She clutched it eagerly and took a mouthful. In the joy of feeling his arms safe about her once more, she forgot all about the hunger and thirst and weariness of that long day and nestled her head into his neck, crooning with delight. Her tired little body relaxed and she fell fast asleep, as she had been longing to do for the past three hours. Hamid, a little bent from the dead weight of her, wandered home along the river path in the sweltering heat.

  He rested for a while under a fig tree, watching the river where the women were washing their clothes and the cows cooled their feet. He wondered where the river went. One day he would find out for himself.

  Once again, as night fell, the family gathered around the clay bowl and ate their supper by firelight and candlelight. Kinza, refreshed from her sleep, sat on her mother’s lap, flushed and bright-eyed, opening her mouth for food like a hungry baby bird. Hamid watched her, loving her and remembering the pressure of her weary little body against his back. Always, always, he would protect her and make her happy.

  The cows munched in the shed, and an old dog with a torn ear wandered in and lay down with his head on Rahma’s lap. Moths and bats flitted in and out, and the cat crept up and stuck her head into the clay pot to have supper with the family.

  Hamid, tired from his climb, lay down to sleep. He dreamed that the terrifying old beggar stood between him and Kinza. Suddenly he woke to find that the moon had risen and the grown-ups were still sitting talking around the dead charcoal.

  In the silver beams he could see their faces clearly—his stepfather grim and determined, Fatima cruelly pleased, and his mother pale and pleading.

  “It is the only offer we shall ever get for her,” said Si Mohamed fiercely. “She will be looked after for life.”

  “Life!” cried his mother bitterly. “There will be no life! She will die—she is so little and so weak.”

  “A blind child is better dead!” remarked Fatima.

  Zohra turned angrily on the old woman, but the man silenced them both by raising his hand.

  “Silence, you foolish women!” he ordered. “Let there be no more talk about this. The child must come with me three days from now at dawn.”

  He rose grandly, like a king, and Fatima rose too. But Zohra stayed crouched by the dead fire, rocking herself to and fro in the moonlight.

  “Little daughter! Little daughter!” she murmured brokenly to herself, and Hamid lay quite still and watched her. He dared not speak or go to her for fear of waking his stepfather. But his hot little heart beat very fast, and his mind was completely made up.

  It shall not be! he said to himself over and over again. I will not let her go. It shall not be!

  He watched his mother creep away at last and lie down sorrowfully to sleep. He watched the pale patch of moonlight move across the doorway and rest on the cradle where Kinza lay dreaming. He saw the pale summer dawn begin to break and heard the first rooster crow—and all the time he lay thinking, thinking, thinking. But his thinking got him nowhere, and just before daybreak he fell into a deep sleep. Two hours later he was woken by his stepfather prodding him with his foot.

  “Wake up, you lazy creature!” growled Si Mohamed. “It’s time you had the goats out.”

  Hamid rolled off his mattress, washed his face and hands in a bucket of water, and started to eat his breakfast. Gobbling his bread and sipping his bowl of coffee, he glanced at his mother. Her face was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but she did not look as unhappy as he had expected. There was a very determined expression on her face, as though she had made up her mind about something. Once Hamid found her staring hard at him, and he stared firmly back. She raised her eyebrows a little and he gave a slight nod. A secret understanding flashed between them. As soon as they could, they would talk together.

  They did not have to wait very long. Hamid took the goats on to the hillside. With a crust of bread saved from his breakfast, he bribed a friend to watch them for him, then he crept back and watched through a gap in the hedge. Soon he saw his mother go across to where the grindstone stood, and after a few minutes he slipped in and joined her.

  Kinza was sitting as usual with her face turned toward the eastern mountain, waiting for the sun to rise. Zohra sat cross-legged, turning the heavy wheel that crushed the corn.

  Hamid crouched down beside her and touched her arm. “Mother,” he whispered, “I heard last night. Is it the old beggar who is to have Kinza?”

  His mother turned toward him, and her calm, steady gaze rested on him for a moment, as if
she were making a decision. He was a thin little boy, small for his age, but very tough—and his love for Kinza was very strong.

  “So my husband thinks,” she replied, “but I say that it shall not be. I will not have Kinza starved in those cruel streets. No, Hamid, you must take her somewhere else. You can save her if you wish.”

  “Me!” echoed Hamid, amazed. But the look he gave his mother was reassuring—full of bravery and willing courage.

  Hamid Agrees to Help

  Listen,” said Zohra, and Hamid’s eyes never left her face as she spoke. All his life he would remember what she said to him that day.

  “Four years ago,” she said, “your father took me to the tomb across the mountains. We left you children with your grandmother, but I carried your little brother Absalom on my back, because he was only a baby. After we had visited the tomb, your father wanted to go on to the town farther on. All day long we walked, from sunrise to sunset, in the burning heat. By the time we reached the town, my feet were cut and blistered and Absalom was crying and feverish. His eyelids were swollen and stuck together, and he could not look at the light.

  “Next morning, your father went off to the market to trade, but I sat holding my baby, shading his eyes from the light and brushing the flies off him. As I sat there, a woman from the town came up and began chatting to me, and she noticed the child.

  “‘Your baby is sick?’ she asked.

  “‘Yes,’ I replied, and turned his face so that she could see.

  “She got up quickly. ‘Come quick,’ she said. ‘There’s an English nurse—she’ll give you good medicine and heal your baby. She healed my little boy when he rubbed prickly-pear thorns into his eyes.’