Angeline (5 page)

Angeline was overwhelmed at first and confused, then she began to realize that there was order around her in spite of the noise. Each street was assigned a different trade. They passed through alleys full of fresh fruits and vegetables, then through a passageway lined with leather-makers’ stalls. There were booths offering spices, bolts of cloth, even jewels that blazed and sparkled in the sunlight. A carpet maker had spread some of his fine samples out on the street and urged people to walk on them. Other carpets hung on both sides of his stall and covered the walls within, making a cave of luxurious, riotous colour.

Finally, at the end of the market, just in front of the mosque, they came upon the perfume makers. Here Samah stopped. She made her way purposefully to one particular stall. On display were dozens of delicate glass bottles of every size, shape, and colour, from tiny flasks no taller than Angeline’s little finger to flagons bigenough to hold a cupful of liquid. Myriad scents set Angeline’s head swimming. Samah, however, seemed to know exactly what she wanted. Without hesitation she reached for a small flask filled with a golden liquid. She unstoppered it, raised it to her nose, and sniffed, then nodded with satisfaction. She held it out to Angeline. Angeline took a deep whiff. It was the same heady fragrance that Zahra wore. Samah spoke to the vendor. He answered her. She spoke again, more sharply. He raised his hands to the sky as if imploring mercy and let loose a torrent of words. Samah was a match for him, however, and gave him back just as good a flood. Angeline realized what was going on. Just so had she been bargained for and sold.

Finally, Samah reached into a pouch that hung at her waist and pulled out some coins. The vendor weighed them on his scale and, feigning anguish, accepted them. Immediately the two were fast friends. The vendor showed Samah to a stool and shooed a cat off it. He clapped his hands. A young boy appeared bearing a tray with the crimson juice that by now Angeline had learned was made with the blossoms of a flower, not fruit. He offered it to Samah. She sipped it and babbled a stream of words back to the vendor. Angeline picked out “shukran” amongst them. It was only one word,but at least there was something here she could understand.

When the flask had been wrapped in a brightly coloured cloth and handed to Angeline to carry, they turned and made their way home.

Angeline made ready to call out to Stephen as soon as they entered the house. She cared not what Samah would do to her and she was prepared to fight if the woman tried to drag her away again. But Samah led her back to Zahra’s room by a different way. She had no chance.

One night Zahra did not make ready for bed after the evening prayer. Instead, she beckoned to Angeline to assist her in changing into a soft, clinging gown. Angeline had escorted her to the bath, the “hamman” it was called, earlier in the day. Angeline had grown used to this strange custom of bathing the whole body. The slaves and servants had their own hamman—the smaller bath where she had been scrubbed when she arrived. They were allowed to use it after their duties for the day were done and Angeline had to admit that she actually looked forward to it now. She enjoyed the sensation of being clean, and she certainly enjoyed the absence of fleas.

Zahra had Angeline brush her hair until it stood out in soft waves all around her face. Then she took up a small pot made from translucent, pink stone. It was filled with fine, black powder. Angeline watched, fascinated, as Zahra picked up a short silver stick and moistened it with water in which rose petals soaked. Then she dipped the stick into the powder, and to Angeline’s further astonishment, put the stick in the corner of her eye. She closed her eye over it and drew it straight across. Angeline winced, but it did not seem to hurt Zahra at all. She leaned forward to check her reflection in a silver mirror and was satisfied only when both eyes were nicely black around the roots of her eyelashes. When she looked up her eyes were dark and mysterious. She laughed at the expression that Angeline knew must be on her face.

“Kuhl,” she said, indicating the black powder. Then she went to the door and signalled for Angeline to follow her.

Puzzled, but on the alert as ever for a sight of Stephen, Angeline followed Zahra to a part of the house she had not yet seen. They came to a curtain that blocked the hallway. Zahra pushed it aside and held it back so that Angeline could follow her in. Angeline caught her breath. Oillamps burned in intricately decorated alcoves set into the walls. Bowls of silver and gold reflected their flickering light. Angeline’s feet sank into a thick, brilliantly woven carpet. Where the floor was bare, she trod on tiles glazed in shades of blue, indigo, and green. Tapestries covered the walls. In one corner sat a chest shining with inlaid jewels. A glass lamp hung above it. In another corner of the room a brass dish hung suspended, a slender stick burning within it. The stick gave off a scent with which Angeline was becoming familiar. It was a scent at once sharp and sweet. Sticks such as this burned in most rooms. They perfumed the air and seemed to keep flying insects at bay. Angeline looked around her in awe, then stifled a startled cry as she saw a man clad in a long, flowing robe sprawled on a pile of pillows.

A servant stood beside the man, holding a tray upon which a cup of juice waited. The man smiled and rose to his feet. Zahra went to him and he bent to embrace her. Angeline felt the blood rush to her head and her face flush. This must be Abd’al Haseeb, the Emir himself! He was much younger than Angeline had expected. She had imagined him to be aged, but this man was not much older than Father Martin. Not a gentle-looking man, though, as was Father Martin. His eyes as he looked at Zahra softened,but there was nothing else soft about his face or his expression. His cheekbones were sharp, his skin dark. He had the look of a man who lived much outdoors under the desert sun. The arm with which he encircled Zahra was sinewy and strong. No idle prince—Angeline could believe that this Emir was a fighting man.

They took no notice of her, but disappeared through a curtained doorway. Angeline was left standing in the room unsure of what to do. The servant came over to her and motioned to a carpet lying in front of the doorway, piled with pillows. She realized that he meant for her to settle there. Shock was replaced by anger. She was supposed to sleep outside their room like a dog?

“I will not!” she cried, heedless of the fact that the servant would not understand her words. He would certainly know what she meant. But he just smiled and left.

She ran to the doorway that led back out into the hall, but another servant there firmly escorted her back to her pillows. Furious, but helpless to resist, she threw herself down upon them. She sat there, determined not to sleep, but finally, when the midnight prayer sounded through the rooms, she succumbed in spite of herself.

She was awoken by a servant bearing a tray of food. He greeted her and held the tray out to her. Was she supposed to carry it in to Zahra and the Emir? Another wave of hot shame suffused her. How could she do such a thing? Without waiting for her consent, the servant swept back the curtain and opened the door beyond it, then gently pushed Angeline in. She took a hesitant step, not daring to raise her eyes. Zahra’s voice greeted her. Only then did she look up. Zahra was sitting at a low table, the Emir lay on a couch beside her. They were both wearing long, hooded robes. He was watching Zahra and took no notice of Angeline at all. Zahra indicated the table. Angeline placed the tray of food upon it. She could not look again at the Emir. Zahra chose carefully from amongst the dishes and carried a selection over to Abd’al Haseeb, then she waved Angeline back out of the room. Angeline escaped with relief. She waited outside the door, unwilling to sit again, not knowing what she should do and furious at the indignity.

When Zahra finally came out they returned to her room. Angeline helped her dress and make ready for the day. Zahra kept up a constant chatter, but Angeline attended her in stony silence. She made no effort to understand the concubine. She did not want to understand her. How could Zahra have humiliated her so?

When they settled for their afternoon nap, Angeline was still seething. She hated being a slave. She hated the indignity of waiting on such people. She hated Zahra. She lay on her couch, fuming, listening to Zahra’s deep, even breaths. Aza lay close to her mother, snuffling slightly in her sleep.

And then it occurred to her. Zahra would sleep now for at least an hour. Why not slip out? She had no thought of escape, but she could find her way back to that courtyard. She could at least see Stephen. She half rose, watching Zahra and Aza, ready to quickly lie back down if either one of them showed any sign of awakening. She got to her feet and stood motionless for a moment. She could still use the excuse that she had to use the pot behind the screen to relieve herself if Zahra opened her eyes and saw her.

She took a few cautious steps toward the door, then, growing more bold, she reached for the latch and opened it as quietly as she could. In the next moment she had slid out and carefully pulled the door shut behind her.

The house was silent, drowsy with heat. She could not hear a sound anywhere. Perfect. She took a second to rehearse the way in her mind, then set out. It took only moments for her to reach the balcony. She rushed to the railing andlooked over, then suppressed an exclamation of disappointment. The courtyard was empty.

Of course. How could she have been so witless? No doubt Stephen and the gardener were also granted a rest during this hottest time of day. She stood for a moment longer, unwilling to give up. If only Stephen would come. If only he would somehow or other decide to work anyway. And then, as she watched, she saw a movement in the corner of the garden. Was it Stephen? Hope stirred within her and she leaned far forward, only to meet the eyes of the slave girl, Anka, who was gathering flowers, probably for one of the concubines.

They stared at each other, startled, then Anka ran back into an opening that led off the courtyard. For a moment Angeline stood frozen, too surprised to move, then a pang of fear knifed through her. Had Anka gone to inform on her? She had to get back to Zahra! She turned and ran.

In her haste she went down the wrong corridor. For a moment she panicked, then retraced her steps and found her way again, but she had lost precious time. When she reached Zahra’s room, the door stood ajar. She could hear Samah’s voice, loud and accusing. Anka must have run straight to her. Angeline almost fled, but that would only make matters worse. She tightened her hands into fists to hide theirshaking, held her head as high as she could, and entered.

Samah exploded with anger when she saw her. Zahra’s eyes blazed. Aza crouched on the bed behind her mother, eyes wide with anxiety. Zahra dismissed Samah with one curt word. Samah brushed past Angeline, glaring at her and muttering. Angeline braced herself. Zahra looked furious. She strode past Angeline, shut the door, locked it, then dropped the key onto the table where she kept her perfumes and cosmetics. She pointed to Angeline’s couch and snapped out an order. It was obvious what she meant. Angeline walked over to the couch with as much dignity as she could muster but, as she sank down onto it a hard, cold ball seemed to grow and expand in her chest until she could hardly breathe. She would be given no further chance to leave this room unsupervised, that was certain. What other punishments might be in store for her?

Aza bounced off the bed and began to run toward her. Zahra caught her and pulled her back down onto the pillows. She spoke sharply to her—more sharply than Angeline had ever heard her address her daughter. Chastened, Aza curled back up, finger in her mouth. Zahra lay down beside her and, without another word, drew the child close to her and closed her eyes toresume her sleep. Angeline felt as if she had been slapped. She sat, staring at them. From beneath Zahra’s arms, Aza stared back.

When Samah returned later to fetch Aza she was still glowering. Angeline glowered back. Slave she might be to Zahra, but she was neither slave nor servant to Samah.

The next morning Zahra seemed to have recovered most of her good humour. She sent Angeline to the cooking place as usual, but with words that sounded much like a warning. Angeline took heed. She returned with Zahra’s breakfast, then stood silently by while Zahra ate. She was relieved that there did not seem to be any further consequences coming for her disobedience. At the same time, she still burned with resentment. Why should she be at the mercy of these people?

As soon as she entered the harem she saw Anka and the other three slave girls, Nabeela, Raful, and Heba. They were huddled together in the farthest corner. When they caught sight of her, Anka whispered a few words and they hid their mouths behind their hands and giggled. Anka looked straight at her and smiled a smug, triumphant grin.

One of the other concubines called to the girl. Too occupied with sneering at Angeline, Anka did not hear her. The woman strode over to her and slapped her. Anka gave a small cry of pain. Now it was Angeline’s turn to gloat, and gloat she did.

But that night Angeline lay on her couch listening to the soft night sounds outside their window long after Zahra slept. The wick in the dish of oil beside her bed was almost consumed. It sputtered and died, then flamed again to cast strange dancing shadows on the walls around her.

She had never thought that her mother would die. Their life had been poor and some would have said hard, but it had not seemed so to Angeline. They had their garden for vegetables. Marithe was an accomplished seamstress, and the townsfolk supplied them with meat and other necessities in return for the garments she sewed for them. As far as Angeline knew, her life was full and satisfying. She ran free through the woods and fields around their village. She had believed Marithe would always be there to protect her, to soothe her ills and rub her bumps and injuries away with the calming salves that she made.

Angeline had hated sewing and avoided it as much as possible. Marithe understood, andwhile Angeline was growing to maidenhood, she had let her daughter go her own way. She had delighted in the untidy bunches of wildflowers the child brought home to her, and she welcomed the roots and berries that Angeline discovered to eke out their meagre suppers. They had had a good life. But of course the villagers disapproved of Angeline’s wild ways.

“Just like her mother,” they said, but never to her face.

Her mother had known well what the talk was but Marithe just laughed and let the girl enjoy herself. People were glad to wear the garments Marithe sewed for them; that was enough for her. Only, Angeline had never known who her father was. She asked once, but her mother would not answer her.

“He left,” was all she had said. “He moved on and left me with the most precious gift God could have given me. You.”

Angeline could have asked around the town, but she would not give pleasure to the many sharp-tongued women who would have taken great delight in telling her all the details of her mother’s folly, for folly it surely was. Otherwise, Marithe would have been properly wed as were the rest of them.

As she lay in the shifting darkness, Angeline tried to recall her mother’s face. To her dismay, she realized that she could no longer see her clearly. She pulled a sheet of paper over to her and a quill. By the flickering light of the dying wick she began to sketch but, try as she might, the face she drew never seemed right.

It was too late—she had forgotten too much.

She crumpled up the paper and threw it on the floor. Zahra would be provoked at the waste, but she did not care. As the wick finally guttered out, she gave herself up to her sorrow and collapsed back onto the pillows. She wept then as she had not allowed herself to weep in all the time since Marithe had died.

She was saying farewell. Farewell to her mother, farewell to all of her old life. And farewell to Stephen’s magnificent dream of rescuing Jerusalem.

Did he weep, too, in these long hours?