Angeline (14 page)

“I thought you might like to start working again.” Zahra pulled the low table over to the bed where Angeline lay. The book Angeline had been copying before the accident lay on it, with paper and ink waiting beside it.

Angeline drew herself up. It had been several days since her fall, but her leg still sent shafts of fire through her whenever she moved. She looked at the book. Her first thought was to refuse and lie back down. What was the use?

“It is only your leg that is broken, binty,” Zahra said quietly. “There is nothing wrong with your hands—or your mind. Work will make the time pass more quickly.”

Reluctantly, Angeline picked up the quill. The effort of writing exhausted her. She was too drained even to remain angry at Zahra. In spite of everything, however, she became immersed in the work. The book she was copying was a journal written by an “Arab-Syrian Gentleman.” It told about his experiences during the time of the first crusades, almost a hundred years ago. She could not understand all of it, but what she could read was interesting enough to keep her mind off her own troubles. It certainly gave a different view of the crusades than what the priests at home had given. Not holy wars in this gentleman’s opinion, just out and out invasions. It made her think.

The time did pass more quickly and she was surprised to hear the noon call to prayer. Aza came in to share their meal with them and hopped up onto Angeline’s bed. Angeline suppressed a grimace as she was jolted, but managed to shift to make room for the child.

“Are you better yet?” Aza asked.

“Not yet,” Angeline answered, but the question brought her back to herself and she had to stifle sudden tears.

“Soon she will be,” Zahra said, comingquickly to her side. “Now you must go with Samah and let Angeline rest.”

Zahra was by Angeline’s side nearly every moment of the day. She brought her food and waited on her as if she, not Angeline, were the servant. Angeline was grateful, but it only made her more desolate. She must be badly injured indeed for Zahra to take such care of her. And what about the Emir? Would he still want her as a concubine if she were crippled? She dared not ask.

One afternoon, while she was resting, Zahra woke her with a soft hand on her shoulder.

“Heba and the others are here. They ask if you will see them.”

Anger surged through her. She never wanted to see any of them again as long as she lived.

“No,” she replied.

“They have come to apologize,” Zahra said. “They are truly sorry. They did not mean to cause such harm to you.”

“I will not see them,” Angeline repeated. She turned her face to the wall. This time she made no effort to staunch the tears that poured down her cheeks.

A few days later, on a morning when Zahra returned to the room after spending the night with the Emir, she went over to sit beside Angeline.

“Abd’al Haseeb has spoken to me about you,” she said. Her face was solemn. “He is very distressed about your accident. He has told me to tell you that you are not to worry. Our faith commands us to care for those who are sick or ailing in any way. You will be taken care of no matter how badly you are injured. You may continue your work and take my place as copyist when I leave, but …” she stopped.

“But?” Angeline asked.

“But he has taken Heba as his new concubine.”

“He does not want me anymore?”

“No. I am so sorry, binty.”

Relief flooded through Angeline. She could continue to work, but she need not go again to the Emir! It was the first small bit of comfort she had been given. And surely now Heba would desist from tormenting her. Surely she had done enough.

“It means you will still be treated as a slave,” Zahra said, “but you will be able to go to your priest as before.”

“Will I be able to continue working for my freedom?” Angeline asked.

“Of course.”

“And I will not be Heba’s slave?”

“No. The Emir has promised me that. And, now that he has Heba as his new concubine and you will take my place as a copyist, he has told me that I am free to leave.”

Angeline looked at her, surprised. So soon? Her heart sank. She was not ready for this. What would her life be like without Zahra to protect her? Despite Zahra’s words of reassurance, Angeline felt a stab of fear and then, to her astonishment, regret. Suddenly, she realized how much she would miss the concubine and her little daughter.

Zahra must have seen the concern in her eyes.

“The Emir has given me my freedom, binty, but he has also given me permission to stay with you until you are recovered.”

“To stay?” Angeline echoed stupidly. She knew how anxious Zahra was to leave, how keenly she looked forward to starting her new life. She could not believe Zahra would postpone that freedom just for her.

But Zahra nodded. “Yes,” she answered.

“Why?” Angeline asked, incredulous. “Why would you do this for me?”

Zahra smiled. “Because I have grown fond of you, binty. You have my spirit.”

Angeline let out a sigh. Perhaps there was a way, after all, that she could face the days ahead. “Shukran, Setti,” she said. Truly, she had misjudged Zahra. She pulled the table over to her and began to work.

Even so, the days dragged. It would be weeks before the plaster came off her leg, the doctor said. Her work kept Angeline’s mind busy during the days, but at night she lay sleepless for hours at a time. She longed to see Stephen again, but she was afraid. What if he did not want to see her? He must know that she had lain with the Emir as his concubine. What did he think of her now?

Then, one morning, Zahra had an announcement.

“Your priest has asked to see you and permission has been granted,” she told her. “He will come this afternoon.”

Angeline’s first thought was that finally she would have news of Stephen. But was Father Martin coming to condemn her?

When he was ushered in, however, he came quickly to her bedside and knelt beside her. In his face there was nothing but concern.

“How fare you, Angeline?” he asked. “We have worried so about you.”

“I am not in so much pain now, Father. But—oh, Father, I have sinned. It was not of my own doing, I had no choice, but I have sinned. And now I do not know if I will walk again! The doctor will not be able to tell how well my leg has healed until they take this great plaster off me.” Again, the tears overflowed.

How weak I have grown, Angeline thought. She swiped at her wet cheeks angrily and willed the weeping to stop.

“We will pray together, my child,” Father Martin said. “You will make your confession. God will hear you.”

The priest’s low voice, praying in words that were old and familiar to her, went far to soothe her spirit. When he had finished she was able to look at him more closely and think, for the first time that day, of him.

“You look better,” she said. “Last I saw you, you were so ill.”

He flushed. “I allowed the Emir’s doctor to treat me,” he said shamefacedly. “Stephen would not cease pestering me until I agreed. A slight stomach ailment it was, no more. His medications have helped.”

“How fares Stephen?” Angeline dared to ask then.

“As worried about you as I,” Father Martin answered. “Perhaps even more so. But he is better, too. In spirit. He has made a friend.”

Angeline looked at Father Martin sharply. He flushed an even brighter shade of red.

“A Copt,” he said. “Named Ibrahim. Stephen said that you had introduced them.” He tried to look disapproving, but did not quite manage it. “You did not tell me you were visiting a Coptic Christian church,” he said.

“I thought you would not approve,” Angeline said.

“Nor would I have. But I have done some thinking these past weeks. When Stephen told me of this friend I went with him to see for myself what this church was like.” He stopped and looked down at the rosary he clasped in his hands. “I must confess I had a longing to be in a church again,” he said quietly. “Even a Coptic church.”

“And …?” Angeline prompted him.

“And I found that our differences are not so great as I had imagined. I talked with Ibrahim’s priest, and I have visited him often since. Perhaps I would be censured by others of my religion back in France for doing so, but I am not back in France, nor will I ever be. I am here now and will stay here until I die. I will find comfort where I can. I cannot believe that my God would blame me for that.” He paused and looked at Angeline. “Nor can I believe that Hewould condemn you, Angeline, for what you were forced to do.”

Now it was Angeline’s turn to flush. She looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

What about Stephen? Would Stephen feel the same way?

Finally, the doctor decreed that it was time to remove the plaster. He came with sharp knives and cut it open. Zahra stood beside Angeline and held her hand. They both watched, hardly daring to breathe, as the cast fell off in pieces.

Angeline looked at her leg with horror. Could this withered, dead white thing possibly belong to her?

“Bend it,” the doctor ordered.

Angeline looked to Zahra, too frightened to try.

“Go ahead, binty,” Zahra said.

Angeline willed the knee to bend and was surprised to see it obey. She still could not believe this leg was part of her body.

The doctor smiled. “My work has been good,” he said. “Now it is up to you. You must walk for a short time each day and strengthen it.”

“Can
I walk?” Angeline asked dubiously.

“There is no reason why not,” he answered. “But,” he added briskly, “you may limp. There is nothing to be done about that. Use a stick to support yourself.” Then, smiling still, he left.

“Samah, fetch a good stout stick,” Zahra ordered. Samah disappeared, then reappeared with a sturdy rod.

“I stole it from that old rascal, Kareem,” she said with a grin.

“Now, binty,” Zahra said, “you must get up.”

“Not yet,” Angeline protested. “It’s too soon. Perhaps later?”

“Now,” Zahra insisted. “We must begin sometime and now is as good as any other.” She reached down and held Angeline as she sat up cautiously and lowered her legs to the floor.

“Lean on me and stand,” Zahra ordered. “Use Samah’s good stick to balance yourself.”

“I can’t …”

“You can.”

Zahra put her arm around Angeline’s shoulder. Angeline took a deep breath and put her weight onto her legs. Her injured leg buckled and she would have fallen had Zahra not been supporting her.

“I cannot do this,” Angeline cried. To her shame, tears sprang to her eyes yet again. What a wretched mess she was!

“You can,” Zahra insisted. “Try once more and then you can rest.”

Angeline held Zahra’s hand tightly, took another breath, and attempted once more to stand. Her injured leg shook, but it did not buckle.

“There!” Zahra exclaimed triumphantly. “You see? You
can
do it!”

She allowed Angeline to rest then, but each day she encouraged her to do more. Finally, with the help of Samah’s stick, Angeline was able to walk about the room. But the doctor’s fears were realized. She walked with a limping, hobbling gait.

Like an old beggar woman, Angeline thought bitterly.

“Have you told Stephen that I am crippled?” she asked Father Martin the next time he was allowed to visit her.

“I have told him that you are up and walking and he is much relieved,” the priest answered. “He is anxious to see you. When you can walk farther, Zeid has told us that you may resume your prayers and lessons with us.”

“I cannot!” Angeline cried. Then she added quickly, “I will not be able to manage the stairs.” But she knew that was not the truth. The real reason was that she could not face Stephen. Could not bear for him to see her crippled. Did not dare see contempt in his eyes for what she had done.

In the days that followed, she felt as if she were being torn in half. She wanted desperately to see Stephen, but she could not summon up the courage to do so, despite Father Martin’s urgings. She steadfastly refused to begin their lessons again. Nor could she even contemplate a time when she might go back to visit Ibrahim, even if she could walk that far. She would not let herself think of him. Of Mariam. Of the family that had grown so dear to her. They would not want a concubine in their house.

“Are you saying that you never want to see Stephen again?” Father Martin demanded finally, exasperated. “That you no longer wish to learn to read and write?”

She would not answer him.

The Feast of Epiphany came and passed. The sounds of music and celebrations drifted in through Angeline’s window and swirled around her, filling her mind with memories. This time last year she had gone with Zahra to take part in the festivities. She and Zahra had eaten togetheralmost as equals. And when she had seen Zahra’s delight at being outside the harem, she had pitied her. Never would
I
want to be a concubine, she had thought. If she had only known … She had been full of plans to introduce Stephen to Ibrahim. She had been full of hope. When she thought back on it now, she was surprised to find that she had even been happy.

Then came the day when she was forced to acknowledge a fear that she had been denying for weeks. At first she had tried to convince herself that it was because of her fall, but now she could delude herself no longer. She had not had her monthly flow for over three months.

She was with child.

Angeline lay awake all that night. She heard the muezzin’s call to prayer at midnight and again at sunrise. She watched the blackness outside the window gradually lighten. She heard Zahra rise to pray, but she kept her eyes tightly closed and pretended to sleep. What would happen to her now? How could she care for a babe here? And without Zahra to help her—to protect her? Thoughts beat around in her mind like a wild bird trapped in a cage.

That day she performed her duties as if walking in her sleep. She dropped dishes and tripped over carpets. Still not entirely used to walking with her stick, she was clumsier than ever. Several times she didn’t hear Zahra when she was called.

“What is the matter, binty?” Zahra finally demanded.

“Nothing!” Angeline answered.

“But there is. There must be. Never have I seen you so distracted. You must tell me what is wrong, binty.”

“Nothing …” Angeline began again, but Zahra’s concern and the worry in her face broke her resolve.

“I am with child!” she cried. She sank down onto a cushion and buried her face in her hands.

Zahra looked at her. “Are you certain, binty?” she asked.

“Yes,” Angeline answered.

“But that is wonderful!”

Angeline looked up at Zahra, astounded.

“It is wonderful!” Zahra repeated. She sat down beside Angeline and took her hands in her own. “This means that when I leave you will not be so alone,” she said. “I have worried about that, but now you will have a child to care for and love, as I have Aza. The Emir will provide for the child as he does for Aza, you need have no fear in that respect. The Emir cares for all hischildren. It is his duty, but it is also his pleasure to do so.”

Her joy only deepened Angeline’s despair. When Father Martin came the next morning, Angeline would not see him. How could she tell him that she was going to bring a child into the world? How could she tell Stephen? No possible hope, now, for Stephen’s forgiveness.

During the next few days she tried to work, but could not. She blotched page after page until finally Zahra’s patience was exhausted.

“The Emir is asking me why he is not seeing any work from you. He is growing dissatisfied,” she said.

“I cannot work!” Angeline cried. “How can I work when I am in such torment?”

Zahra frowned at her. “You are in a torment of your own making, binty,” she said. “There is no reason for it. And if you cannot work at the copying then you must go back to being a slave.”

“But I
am
a slave,” Angeline replied. She did not even try to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“You will have to go back to doing a slave’s duties instead of training to be a copyist. There will be no further talk of you working to obtain your freedom.”

Angeline looked up, startled.

Zahra’s face softened. “I only wish that whichwill be best for you,” she said, more gently. “You cannot change what has happened.”

No, thought Angeline. I cannot change what has happened, but I would give my life to do so. It would have been better if I had died …

At that moment she felt the babe move within her for the first time. Amazed, she put a hand to her belly. She felt the faintest of flutters. Then—a kick. The tiniest of kicks, but definitely a kick! She felt it! And another. She looked at Zahra, her eyes wide.

Zahra laughed. “Is the babe kicking? Is it not amazing?”

And then it was as if all of her bitterness melted away. Her resolve, all of her courage, returned to her in one fierce, flooding, defensive wave. This was her child! And she knew without a doubt that she would do whatever was necessary to protect it.

She would heed Zahra’s words. A slave’s child, even if born free, had naught but a life of servitude to look forward to. Only if she worked for her own freedom would her child have any kind of chance here.

“You are right, Setti,” she said. “And you are kind. More kind than I deserve, probably.” She would tell Father Martin of the babe. She would face Stephen and tell him, too. Whatever happened, whatever they thought of her, she had aduty now to her child. It was of the babe that she must think.

She sat herself down at her table and drew a book toward her. With one hand still cradling her belly, she began to work. Her Arab-Syrian Gentleman had been about to go lion hunting when she had left off. She would see what happened to him next.

When Father Martin returned she greeted him with a calm smile.

“I’m ready to resume my lessons with you and Stephen, Father,” she said. “May I begin again?”

“You may,” he replied, “and I’m delighted to hear it. But it will just be you and me. Stephen is not here now.”

“Not here?” Angeline repeated stupidly. She had never considered Stephen leaving. “What do you mean, Father? Where is he?” She suddenly felt sick. What if Stephen had been sent away? How could she have been so senseless, so stubborn, as not to have gone to him before?” Her carefully prepared composure deserted her entirely, but Father Martin’s next words reassured her somewhat.

“He has gone with the Emir and Habib to Alexandria. The Emir has business there.”

“How long will he be gone?”

“A few weeks. Perhaps a month,” Father Martin replied.

Four weeks later, just as she was finishing up her lessons with Father Martin, there was a commotion at the door. She looked up to see Stephen whip back the tapestry that covered the opening and burst into the room. To Angeline’s amazement, he was smiling broadly. His whole bearing had changed. He strode in confidently, eyes blazing. Here, again, was the boy whom she had seen inspire hundreds with his enthusiasm. She stared at him, speechless.

“Angeline!” Stephen cried. “How I have longed to see you! I have so much to tell you.” He rushed forward, grasped her by the hand, and pulled her to her feet. Then, as he took in her swelling belly, his smile disappeared.

Angeline flushed. She waited for him to say something, but he stood, staring at her, dumbfounded. One long, ever-lasting moment she waited, then she thrust her chin into the air and, head held as high as she possibly could, she reached for her stick and pushed her way past him.

The following week she sent word to Father Martin that she would not be continuing her lessons with him. When Samah returned with a message from him urging her to reconsider,

Angeline ignored it. Then Samah came with a message from Stephen. He begged Angeline to meet him. Angeline ignored this message as well, and the next two that he sent. Finally Zahra intervened.

“You look dreadful, binty,” she said. “You have not slept—I hear you tossing all night, and your work is sloppy. I have had to throw away the last three pages that you wrote. Go. See your friend Stephen and be done with it. You cannot go on in this manner.”

There was no arguing with her. Angeline sent word that she would go back to Father Martin the following week. Zahra was right. She must be done with it. One last interview with Stephen and then she would not see him again. She would concentrate on her copying work for the Emir. Concentrate on working for her freedom, however long it took. This would be her life now. Her life with Stephen was over. Father Martin she would see. He had been kind and understanding about the child, although saddened that the babe would be born out of Christian wedlock. But even so was I born out of wedlock, Angeline thought. It is not such a dreadful thing. And I will be as good a mother to this child as my mother was to me. This child will know love from the moment it is born.

But, in spite of her resolve, when the timecame she approached the classroom with dread. She had to force herself to take one limping step after another. She leaned heavily on Samah’s stick. And then, as she entered the room, the dread was replaced with anger. How dare Stephen judge her! She welcomed the anger, fed it. It would help her to be strong enough to do what had to be done. Say what had to be said.

Stephen was waiting for her. He rose as she entered and took a step toward her but she stood where she was, defiant.

“Angeline,” Stephen said. “Forgive me. I did not know about the child! Father Martin had not time to tell me.”

“It matters not,” Angeline replied stiffly. “I am well. I can take care of myself. And my babe.”

“It took me by surprise,” Stephen protested. “I was so full of my own news … Come, sit with me.”

Only then did Angeline realize that the priest was not in the room.

“Where is Father Martin?” she asked.

“I asked leave of him to let me speak to you alone,” Stephen answered. “I have much to tell you.”

“I think not,” Angeline said. “You see what has happened to me. I am crippled and I will bear a child. We must go our separate ways now.”

“But that is exactly what we must
not
do!” Stephen said. “You
must
hear what I have to say.”

Angeline set her mouth firmly and armed herself against him. Pity would be all that he could offer and she could not, would not, accept it. She allowed him to guide her to the couch, however, and sank down onto it thankfully. She would not have him see how her knees were trembling, how weak she was.

“First of all,” Stephen said, “I am a slave no longer. The Emir has given me my freedom.”

“You are free!” Angeline exclaimed, startled out of her anger. “But how …?”

“It is a long story. Listen, now.” Stephen faced her and took her hand. Angeline sat, too stunned to object.

“When we went to Alexandria, Habib was given permission to explore the city as long as I was with him. On that first day we went to the suq but then, at the far end of it, we could see a pillar of stone rising tall into the sky. Habib immediately wanted to go and see it more closely. The pillar was set high on a hill, the ground around it rocky and uneven, full of trenches and great holes. There were the remains of some great building scattered around as well. Habib, as usual, was clambering over them and taking no care whatsoever. I was concerned about him, but there was no stopping hisenthusiasm. An enthusiasm that was only encouraged when we came upon one smaller version of the strange figure that we saw by the great pyramids, and then another. Do you remember it, Angeline?”

Angeline nodded.

“Habib ran ahead of me, across a wide expanse of sand and bushes toward the ruins of what looked like old walls. I followed more slowly. Truth to tell, I was not paying much attention to him. I was lost in my own thoughts, wondering who had built these marvellous things—what people had lived here in ancient times. I was determined to ask Zeid. He knows an amazing amount about all sorts of unlikely things. Then I heard Habib cry out. I looked up and saw the ground open up beneath his feet. The sand poured down into the hole and before I could do anything, Habib disappeared through it as well.

“You can imagine, Angeline, how I felt! I ran to the gaping hole and stared down into it. A foul stink rose from it and I choked. I called Habib’s name, but he did not answer. Then I panicked. I stretched full length on the ground and put my head into the opening. I could just see him. He was lying twisted and unmoving just below me. I began to lower myself carefully down to him, then the sand shifted again and I plunged intothe darkness. I almost landed on Habib. I was stunned, but not knocked senseless. I knelt beside Habib and began to feel over his body for injuries. A shower of sand came down upon me. With it came stones. I caught Habib up and dragged him away from the opening just in time. A rain of small stones and then larger ones cascaded down onto the spot where he had lain. I covered him with my body and protected my head with my arms. When the deluge stopped, I raised my head and looked for the opening. It was no longer there, Angeline. Darkness surrounded us.”

Stephen dropped Angeline’s hand and leaped to his feet. He began to pace as he continued his story. Angeline stared up at him, too appalled to speak.

“We were trapped. For a moment I was frozen with fear. I could not think. I could see nothing, I dared not move a step. And the smell! It was the smell of death and it sickened me with every breath I took. Then I thought I detected a glimmer of light. I sat still, hardly daring to breathe, as if the slightest movement on my part would cause it to disappear. The light drew closer. It grew brighter. Finally I could make out the flame of a torch.

“I cried out. There was no answer but, dimly, I could see the figure of a man holding the brand.

He gestured to me to follow him. I picked Habib up and carried him.

“The light from the torch was barely enough to see where I was walking. We were in a narrow passageway. On either side of me I could see walls lined with alcoves. Each alcove was just the size of a man’s coffin. In an instant I knew then what they were. They were tombs and the smell that was sickening me was, indeed, the smell of death. Some of the alcoves were sealed, but some were broken open and I could see bones within them.”

A shudder of horror passed through Angeline.

“There was worse to come, Angeline,” Stephen said. “I followed the man into a small chamber and here his torch illumined yet more work of nightmares on the walls surrounding me. Figures of men with the heads of beasts, one with a serpent’s tail. In the light of the flame they seemed to move as we passed by. Even in the torchlight I could see that they were as brightly hued as if freshly painted. Blues, greens, scarlets the colour of blood. Habib was heavy in my arms. I could only pray that he would not waken in this terrible place.

“The man led me up a flight of steps. At the top there was a round chamber with a circular opening in the centre that might have been a well. I could almost believe I could hear waterrunning through it far below. The man strode on ahead of me. We passed a room with a table of stone in the middle of it. Benches of stone sat around it and on it were broken bowls and cups. There were wine jars strewn over the floor.

“And then, at the top of yet another flight of stairs, a door with a bar across it. The man leaned his torch against the wall and put his shoulder to the bar. Groaning, as if it had not been moved for centuries, it gave way. He opened the door and gestured me through.