The Bride Price (17 page)

“Do not give up hope,
chère,”
Bryna encouraged. “Perhaps we will find a way to escape before we must make the
shahada.”

“Escape?” Pamela repeated skeptically, then she sighed. “Well, I suppose we must continue to hope, but I fear we must learn to say as the Arabs do
—Insh’allah.
It is the will of God.”

With that, she turned and went back into the house, leaving Bryna to her grinding and her disturbed thoughts.

Finished with her work, `Abla bounded down the hill to join her friend in the shade.
‘‘Alhamdillah,
’’ she said, unconsciously mimicking her aunts as she dropped to sit on the ground, “this feast is going to be such fun.”

Bryna shoved back a lock of dark hair that strayed from beneath her
ghata
and stared wryly at the little girl. Her light veil stuck to her moist face, she could feel the sweat trickling down her spine, and every muscle was sore.

But `Abla looked at her innocently, her face alight with anticipation, and asked, “Do you have
Eed al Adha
in your country?”

“No,” Bryna grunted, pushing down hard with the pestle to break the hulls.

“Then you don’t know yet, do you? About all the things you’ve been missing?”

“No, why don’t you tell me about it while I work?” Bryna suggested. “That way you can practice your French.”

“Très bien.”
`Abla began earnestly, “Tomorrow morning, very early, the sheep will be driven here and my father will select those without blemish for the feast. We’ll cook many sheep because all our relatives will be here. Well, most of them.

“After they’re cooked, my father will give food to the poor, because he is the most important man in our village, in the entire world, I think. Then we will feast. The men will go into the tent, and the women and children will go to the harem. When dinner is over, there will be music and singing and dancing. And we will have stories in the women’s quarters.”

“Is the entertainment your favorite part of the day?” Bryna asked.

“Oh, no, I like the food.”

“You and Pamela.” The American girl chuckled.

“The Inglayzi does eat a lot,” `Abla agreed gravely, “but she is bigger than me. Though she is not as fat as Fatmah,” she added with innocent candor. “Do you think Pamela will get fat, too? I think Nassar would like it. He likes his mother.”

Bryna did not answer, but `Abla did not notice. Her mind now on food, the child suggested, “Can we go in now and find something to eat?”

“All right,” her friend agreed. “I am hungry and I haven’t taken a rest all morning.”

The pair walked toward the house, Bryna’s flour-dusty hand resting on ‘Abla’s shoulder. Naturally, the child’s arm wrapped around her waist. Together they disappeared into the kitchen.

On the hillside behind the house, Sharif reined his mare to an impatient, prancing halt and watched his daughter with Bryna. Even though the woman was veiled, he had no doubt of her identity. He was right to have allowed her to stay, he mused. Already it seemed as if she belonged here. Perhaps more good than he had anticipated could come from the presence of Bryna bint Blaine in his household. Even `Abla seemed happy.

Pondering what he had seen, the man turned his horse slowly down the trail toward the villa.

That evening the women of the harem lounged around a low table in the common room of the women’s quarters. Their preparations for the feast were finished. Tomorrow relatives would arrive. Fatmah and Latifeh talked volubly, reminiscing about Eed al Adha celebrations of the past.

Bryna sat across the table, quietly embroidering. `Abla sprawled on the floor beside her, watching her needle flash with every stitch. Only Pamela was missing. The English girl had disappeared into the walled garden after dinner, welcoming the cool evening after her day in the stifling kitchen.

Suddenly the outer door of the harem opened and Sharif strode imperiously into the women’s quarters. `Abla jumped to her feet with a cry of happiness, and Fatmah and Latifeh immediately flew to greet their husband. Bryna knew no veil was needed before family members beyond the sheer
ghata
she wore on her head, but she was uncertain what she should do. Putting aside her needlework, she rose respectfully.

“As salaam ’alaykum,
my lord,” Sharif’s wives said in unison.

“Wa ’alaykum as salaam.
” The man frowned slightly as `Abla danced in mute elation around him, but he did not correct her. Taking care not to trip over the excited child, he sat down on a pile of cushions in the center of the room. Placing a hand on each knee, he regarded the women benevolently. “Sit, sit, all of you.”

Though somewhat puzzled by his rare visit, his wives sank down obediently on either side of him. Fatmah signaled nervously, summoning a servant to bring coffee. Noiselessly Bryna sat down across the table. Only `Abla continued to stand, lingering indecisively behind her father for a moment before she returned to Bryna’s side.

With a smile for the little girl, Bryna took her work into her lap so `Abla could sit beside her. Sharif’s eyebrows lifted quizzically when his daughter curled up next to her friend, flashing him a smile of pure contentment.

While sipping his coffee, Sharif conversed politely with Fatmah and Latifeh. He seemed to have forgotten anyone else was present as he inquired after his wives’ health and discussed the arrangements for Eed al Adha, heartily approving their plans. Baffled expressions on their lined faces, the Arab women responded carefully to every question.

After a while the conversation lagged and Sharif glanced at Bryna. She sat, with her head bent over her work, her dark hair screening her face from his view as effectively as a veil. He wished he could see her again closely, to see if her resemblance to Noorah was real or imagined.

“What is it you do, Bryna bint Blaine?” he asked in slow, careful Arabic.

“She is embroidering a belt,
Abu,”
`Abla answered enthusiastically for the American girl before she could speak. “It is ‘the Eye of the Camel’ pattern. She just learned how to do it. Would you like to see?”

Glancing at Bryna for permission, the child did not notice the wary look that passed between her aunts. She scrambled to her feet and took the unfinished strip of fabric from Bryna. Oblivious of Fatmah’s forbidding frown, she carried it to her father and stood beside him while he inspected it.

“Is it not beautiful?” `Abla asked softly, her small face as proud as if it were her own handiwork.

Bemused by the usually silent child’s behavior, he nodded.

Whirling, `Abla flashed Bryna a gap-toothed smile and chortled in Arabic, “He likes it! That means you must give it to him.”

Bryna stiffened, feeling the almost tangible dislike in the narrowed eyes Fatmah turned on her. As she hesitated, Latifeh, sitting on Sharif’s other side, nodded her reluctant agreement to what `Abla had said.

Bryna met Sharif’s gray eyes, feeling a disquieting flutter of attraction as she did so. “If it pleases,” she said carefully in Arabic, “it will be yours.”

Sharif accepted graciously. When he returned the strip of fabric to `Abla, he continued to look at Bryna. She did not resemble Noorah exactly, he decided, but still there was something pleasing about her. No, more than pleasing.
Mashallah,
this woman had spirit, and she was beautiful to his eyes. Suddenly conscious of the silence as his wives watched him, he tore his attention from her and returned it to his daughter.

The little girl was unaware of the tension in the room as she squirmed in front of her father, eager for his notice. “I have been teaching Bryna bint Blaine to speak our language, Abu,” she lisped. “She learns quickly. Fatmah wonders if Bryna is
ins
or jinni, but I do not think Allah created her from a smokeless fire like the jinn, do you? I think she is
ins,
a person just like us.”

“Hush, little one,” Sharif said not unkindly, “tonight you make as much noise as
el-Bil,
all the camels of the tribe. Go and sit now.”

When the little girl had returned to Bryna’s side, Sharif clapped his hands. Three maids entered with smiles on their faces as they bore stacks of folded clothing for Fatmah, Latifeh, and `Abla, each female of the sheik’s harem. The surprised cries of delight drew Pamela from the garden. Silently the English girl entered and sat on a cushion beside Bryna.

His gaze drawn by Pamela’s movement, Sharif frowned distractedly toward the women across the table. Turning to his wives, he spoke in rapid Arabic.

“My father asks if Nassar has bought clothing for you and Pamela bint Harold so you will not shame us when our relatives come for
Eed al Adha
,” `Abla whispered. “My aunts say yes. He will bring the garments tonight.”

Nodding briskly at the news, Sharif missed the brief flare of anger in Bryna’s eyes. Shame him indeed, she thought resentfully. It was Nassar who shamed him when he brought Pamela and her here as slaves.

“Then all is in readiness for tomorrow,” the sheik pronounced. With that, he departed as confidently as he had come, leaving Fatmah and Latifeh to stare resentfully at the newcomers.

* * *

Eed al Adha
dawned cool and crisp in the mountains. The sun, while still low in the eastern sky, was a weak portent of relentless heat in which the celebrants would swelter throughout the day.

Shivering in the dim light, Bryna and Pamela donned the clothing Nassar had given them. He had chosen carefully for his women. The colors were becoming, the fabrics rich and opulent, and the veils sheer and daring. The young man wanted to be certain that everyone would talk of his wives-to-be for weeks to come.

Pamela was clad in blue and lavender. Bryna wore a brilliant blue that matched her eyes. Over her
thobe,
she wore an aba woven with blue, black, and red stripes, the stripes shot with gold threads.

The foreign women met in the common room to admire each other’s exotic costumes. They were soon joined by Fatmah and Latifeh. The jingle of the Arab women’s jewelry could be heard long before they appeared. Dozens of golden bracelets clanked on their fleshy arms as they moved, chains of coins were affixed to their veils and draped over their foreheads, and lavish earrings dangled at their ears. Despite their adornment, the older women, swathed in ostentatious dark-colored robes, resembled a pair of plump ravens beside two enchanting nightingales.

Fatmah began at once to issue officious instructions in her pidgin French. As elder wife, the responsibility for this holiday feast was hers, and she would not have it ruined because of a stupid blunder by the infidels. She had suggested locking the foreign women in their rooms, but Nassar would not hear of it. To her surprise, neither would Sharif.
Insh’allah,
she must do what she could to make sure everything progressed smoothly.

Adding to her distraction was `Abla, who pirouetted around the room, clad in the new clothes her father had furnished. The little girl was thrilled with his gift of a red
thobe.
Like Bryna’s, her dress was exquisitely embroidered at the neck and the sleeves. Her hair was clean and glossy, pulled back neatly into two fat braids that bounced against her thin back with every springing step she took. Bryna had spent hours the night before brushing the tangles from `Abla’s unruly mop and this morning, convincing the unwilling little girl to join her and Pamela in the bath.

Many of Fatmah’s objections to the friendship between the tall American and Sharif’s daughter melted away in spite of herself when she saw `Abla dressed for the feast. The child would never be the beauty Noorah was, there was too much of her father in her, but the improvement in her appearance was astounding.

At midmorning the Selim relatives began to arrive at the villa. The men greeted each other loudly and lounged about the tent beside the house while their wives and children were shown to the women’s quarters. Careful of her finery, `Abla joined her cousins playing in the courtyard.

Since most of the servants labored in the kitchen, Bryna and Pamela, observed balefully by Fatmah and Latifeh, served refreshments. The older women had drilled them for days, and now the foreigners proved to be excellent hostesses, making the guests feel comfortable and welcome. The sisters, cousins, aunts, and nieces of the Selim clan also watched the infidels but found no fault with their behavior. Nassar’s new slaves were demure, subservient, and remembered always to serve with the right hand. The dark one even smiled a little and attempted a few clumsy words of Arabic.

At last the Arab women gave up their scrutiny and started a dozen conversations, chatting among themselves, catching up on news of family and friends. They were not unkind to the white women, they simply ignored them, no longer interested in monitoring their every move.

But there was one whose sharp eyes still followed Bryna as the girl moved through the room, listening, trying to understand. Alima realized uneasily that this Bryna bint Blaine was one to be reckoned with. Her manner, while gracious and gentle, still revealed great pride and strength. She was more fit to be the wife of a sheik than of slothful Nassar, the old woman decided. True, she had blue eyes and she was an infidel, but...

Irritably Alima Al Selim put the thought away from her. The foreign woman belonged to Nassar, and it was an old woman’s foolishness to dream of what could not be.

After a while Sharif’s servant, Abu Ahmad, tapped on the door to the harem and told the women that the distribution of meat to the poor was about to begin. Chattering and donning their
burqus,
the women poured from the apartments. Fatmah caught Bryna’s arm before she could follow and handed her a pair of black cloaks and stiff
burqus.

“You must not wear these outside,” she insisted, tugging on the sheer veil the girl held in her hand. “Cover yourself like the rest of us. We are going out to where the men congregate, and some of them will not be family. I will not have anyone say my son is to wed immoral women who do not have the decency to veil properly before strangers.”