The Bride Price (20 page)

Before his eyes could accustom themselves to the darkness, a small form launched itself at him and wrapped spindly arms around his waist.

“
Abu,” `Abla greeted him tearfully.

Sharif disengaged the arms and held his daughter away so he could look at her. “`Abla, what is the meaning of this?” he asked, his voice gruff with surprise.

When the little girl explained what had occurred during his absence, a look of cold fury crossed Sharif’s face. Even if there was a young man—which he doubted—Nassar should have waited to give the order for `Abla’s execution. His nephew was her
ibn
‘amm
but a daughter was a father’s responsibility. The choice of her life or death was in his hands.

With a quick glance at Bryna, Sharif gripped his daughter by the shoulders and delivered his decision. `Abla gazed up at him trustfully as he spoke, calmly, deliberately, and slowly enough that the foreign woman could understand.

“It is not necessary that you die, `Abla. Nassar’s worries about your virtue are groundless at this time. You are still very young for such things”—he paused with a smile—”and before Bryna bint Blaine came, your face was too dirty to judge its beauty.

“Soon you must veil yourself and behave as a lady, but for now I command you to cover yourself when you go to the souk. If you follow the example of the Prophet’s wives, it will please your cousin, will always preserve your honor, and you will be known as a devout young woman.”

When Sharif finished speaking, he clasped `Abla’s small hand in his big one and turned to Bryna. “It seems you have performed another service for me and mine, Bryna bint Blaine,” he said softly. “Thanks between the Arabs is not customary, but I thank you tonight for my daughter’s life.”

Bryna’s breath caught in her throat at the glow in Sharif’s gray eyes. “No thanks are necessary, my lord.” She hesitated, considering the wisdom of making a plea for freedom, but she did not want him to think she had done what she had for reward. For some reason his approval was suddenly important to her.

“Come, then,” Sharif ordered kindly, “let us go home...together.”

Outside, `Abla grasped Bryna’s hand with her free one. Together the three walked back to the house, hand in hand, as the moon set behind the mountains on the other side of the valley.

The next morning Nassar hurried to the harem to see if anyone had heard anything of Bryna and `Abla. Women knew things a man did not. The corpulent young man was drawn up short when he saw the faithful Abu Ahmad guarding the door to the women’s quarters.

“Let me pass,” Nassar ordered importantly.

“I am sorry, bin Hamza,” the old man replied politely, “but I cannot. My master wishes to see you first in his quarters.”

“Sharif has returned?”

“Last night.”

Nassar could see no use in arguing, so he pivoted on his heel and marched directly to his uncle’s quarters.

“There you are, Nassar.” Sharif was so angry that he wasted no time with pleasantries. “I wish to talk to you about `Abla.”

The younger man’s face blanched, but he covered his nervousness by saying, “We have looked everywhere for her,
ya amm,
but she is nowhere to be found. I fear she may have been kidnapped by my wretched slave, Bryna bint Blaine, for she has run away.”

“`Abla was not kidnapped by Bryna bint Blaine or anyone else!” Sharif roared. “Your cousin has been in hiding for fear of her life.”

“What...what are you talking about?” Nassar stammered, stalling for time while his mind worked.

“I am talking about your plan to kill her. If you wish to renounce your claim on `Abla, you may do so,” Sharif informed the young man coldly, “but you have no right to kill her. That is a father’s prerogative.”

“But she would shame the family,” Nassar offered beseechingly. “When I tell you, you will understand why I decided to kill her.”

The sheik cut him off with an impatient gesture. “Show me the young man. Bring him to the
majlis
and let the elders hear him.”

Nassar stared into Sharif’s eyes, dark with fury and hardened to two points of steel, and knew he was defeated. “That is hardly necessary, Uncle, if you, as sheik, have decided your daughter is not to be punished.” The young Arab’s voice was insinuating. He would not surrender graciously.

“I have seen no reason to punish `Abla. I have told her to veil herself in public to spare you further embarrassment.”

“Very well,” Nassar acquiesced grudgingly, preparing to leave. “Is there anything else?”

“No. Yes!” the sheik said vehemently. “Bryna bint Blaine is not to be punished, either.”

“Runaway slaves must be chastised,” Nassar insisted petulantly.

“She has returned to the harem...to her
sidi.”
Sharif spoke the word distastefully, but Nassar did not notice.

“That is my point exactly. I am her master.”

“You have yet to repay me for my camels,” his uncle reminded him dryly.

“But I will. Bryna is mine to do with as I please.”

“Never forget, Nassar, the duty of a sheik is to guard the weak. As your lord and protector of this family, I tell you, have thou a care of this woman as of mine own eye. Though she is a woman and a slave, I will be watching, and if I see you abuse her, I will offer Bryna bint Blaine sanctuary as surely as if she were born Bedu. She is under my protection. Do not harm her or I will demand blood for blood.”

The order chafed, but Nassar obeyed, for he knew Sharif would follow through on his threat.

Although they were incensed by the runaways’ behavior, Fatmah and Latifeh also respected the sheik’s wishes, and gradually life in the harem began to return to normal. Everything was as it had been before, except for Bryna and Pamela’s friendship.

The English girl’s brown eyes were accusing when Bryna returned. For days she refused to speak to her friend, keeping to her room, bathing at a different time. Bryna might have been angry, but it was obvious Pamela was ill. She no longer greeted mealtime with delight, and, uncharacteristically, she often sent food away untasted.

“Please,” Bryna pleaded one evening when she met Pamela in the outer chamber of the harem. “I must talk to you.”

The other girl regarded her with hostility, but then she nodded and allowed herself to be led out into the garden, where they could speak privately. She sat on a bench and gazed up unresponsively at Bryna.

“Pamela, tell me why you are avoiding me. I thought we were friends.”

“I am a better friend than you know,” the English girl snapped, “yet you left me again after you promised you would not.”

“I promised I would not escape without you and I did not. I was gone for a few days, but I came back. When we escape, it will be together.”

“We will not escape. I know that now,” Pamela answered dully. “And there will be no rescue.”

“Do not give up. There is always hope.”

“For you, perhaps—your father or Derek may find you yet—but not for me.”

“I know you are not well,” Bryna pressed gently. “I’ve heard you retching in the morning when I pass your room. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“There is nothing anyone can do for me.” Pamela rose suddenly and drew her aba tightly around herself. “We are lost, Bryna, lost forever in a savage world,” she said. Then she marched back into the house, leaving Bryna with her thoughts.

From his balcony, Sharif watched them. Bryna’s unveiled face was alive with tenderness and compassion, while the Inglayzi seemed pale and sad. When the blonde stood, he saw the reason for her sorrow in her thickening waist.

So Nassar had taken the fair one in spite of his promise. Had he also lain with Bryna bint Blaine?

Sharif’s hands tightened on the rail of his balcony until his knuckles were white. For an instant he experienced feelings utterly foreign to him. The sheik realized he would like nothing more than to thrash his nephew with his bare hands, but in doing so he himself would lose face.

Drawing a deep breath, Sharif forced himself to think as the head of his family. It was not fitting that either of the infidel concubines be made a wife before Nassar’s intended. Sharif would order Nassar to leave Bryna bint Blaine alone and hope that the damage done when his nephew lay with the Inglayzi was not irreparable.

The troublemakers in his tribe already questioned the wisdom of allowing the white women to stay. Sa’id had warned Sharif that the hotheaded Mautlauq muttered against him, though not yet in
majlis.
Whether Mautlauq felt strongly about the infidels was not the question, Sharif realized. The Ottomans sought to sow dissension among the tribes by offering wealth and position to lesser sheiks. For many reasons, the sheik could not allow Nassar’s marriages to become an issue.

As soon as summer’s heat was over, he must take his family back to Riyadh, where Nassar would marry Farida. This year the Selims would not linger in the mountains. Sharif would send a messenger to Farida’s father immediately, asking him to make the necessary arrangements.

But the sheik was not the only one to take note of Pamela’s changing body. Fatmah watched with pursed lips as the girl wandered through the harem like a wraith. It was not right that the white concubine should bear Nassar’s first son, his mother thought resentfully. Farida should be first. The old woman knew what she must do. Summoning a midwife from the town, she obtained an herbal powder that, when administered to the unsuspecting Pamela over time, would eliminate the problem.

In the time of two dogs, the hottest part of summer, assessors came to Taif to collect
zakat,
the holy tax. Sharif’s kinsmen met their obligation with near melancholy, for it meant their stay in the relative cool of the mountains would soon be over.

As the days shortened, the men rose from their beds at three o’clock each morning and went onto the roof to search the skies for Suhail, the star that signaled the end of summer.

When it appeared in the night sky, Sharif ordered his family to prepare to return to Riyadh. Water skins that had been chewed by rats were hauled from the storerooms and repaired. Provisions were assembled and packed. Suitable gifts were selected for the sheiks through whose territory they would travel.

On the morning of their departure, Sharif inspected his
smala,
his caravan of family and retainers, which ranged along the road in front of his villa. His men stood by their riding camels at the head of the line. Behind them, the women, some with small children, waited beside their camels, which were lashed from tail to nose. Following the women was a train of pack animals laden with the household items of the entire tribe. Herds of camels, sheep, and goats, tended by herdsmen and the children who were old enough to walk, followed.

Down the road Salubas, itinerant craftsmen who attached themselves to Bedu tribes, waited, mounted on asses, ready to trail behind the Selims in the dust.

At the head of the procession, the sheik swung gracefully into his beautiful Njed saddle. Attached to his camel by a long lead rope, Târiq pranced, seemingly eager to be off.

As the camels roared and spit in protest, servants assisted Bryna, Pamela, and several other women into their doubled-poled saddles. Fatmah and Latifeh were loaded into litters made of light wood and shaded by cotton canopies that swung between camels.

From his position, Sharif signaled the men who rode before him with the banners of his tribe, and the caravan lurched forward. Fortunately he was too far away to hear the disapproving murmurs among the women when they noticed he wore the sash given to him by the infidel woman.

Bryna heard and flushed with anger at their snide comments, but she did not care as she watched the sheik riding erect and proud, wearing her gift. She did not even care that Fatmah glowered at her from her litter.

The sheik rode through Taif’s narrow streets on the way out of town, looking neither left nor right. When he drew even with Alima’s home, he turned to gesture in farewell. His aunt’s black cloak and veil stirred in the morning breeze as she stood on her balcony. Clasping her
tespi,
sliding the prayer beads in her fingers, the old woman watched sadly until the caravan had disappeared down the dusty road.

As the party traversed the black gravelly plain, its slanting descent to the desert interspersed with boulders, Sharif told himself he would allow his
smala
and its herds to move slowly until they were accustomed to the heat and the rocky terrain. In this way he justified the snail’s pace to himself, but in truth he relished life in the desert. After a long summer amid the elegant surroundings in Taif, he enjoyed the simpler ways of the tent dweller.

They rode for hours, the men perched on their knees in Bedu fashion on the backs of their camels, singing and talking loudly among themselves. The women were mostly silent, fanning themselves and observing the monotonous, colorless vista as they swayed from side to side on the backs of their camels.

Bryna was quiet, too, but her silence masked elation. She was cheered that customs were less restrictive in the desert and she was not forced to wear a stifling
burqu.
She felt the wind stir her
ghata,
lifting her hair from her shoulders, and relished her lightweight clothing and cool square of veil.

At midday the travelers dismounted at one of the many
qibla,
horseshoe configurations of rock made to point the way toward Mecca, and prepared for worship. The men of the tribe washed while water was still plentiful and spread their prayer rugs, while the women withdrew discreetly to one side.

Bryna knew Pamela’s secret now. When the morning sickness did not pass and the English girl grew steadily sicker, Bryna became tender and protective, trying to help her hide her changing body under the voluminous robes. Bryna had known travel would be difficult for her friend, but she was alarmed by her faltering step and the pinched whiteness of her face. Casting a cautious glance toward the worshipers, she steadied Pamela’s arm and whispered, “Are you all right?”

The girl turned dazed eyes toward Bryna. “Oh, fine,” she murmured unconvincingly. “Just a bit hungry, you know.”