The Bride Price (42 page)

A sense of dread nearly overcame him when they reached the outskirts of the mountain town in the afternoon. Sharif watched Bryna carefully as they rode past his unoccupied villa, but she did not show even a glimmer of recognition. Relieved that she exhibited none of the distress that memories often brought her, he was strangely saddened that she had not known his home, for it had been the place where they had first met.

Dismounting in front of Alima’s house, Sharif took his wife by the hand and led her into the courtyard, where his aunt waited, distinguished and regal, with her tiny staff. In her own home Alima wore no veil, and her smile was genuine and welcoming.

“Peace be unto you, my sheik,” the old woman greeted her nephew graciously. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“And unto you be peace, Alima.” He kissed her on the cheek.

“I heard of your sad losses, Sharif.” She peered up at him sympathetically. “You have seen too many such losses, and I’m sorry.”

Sharif was touched by her words, but, unwilling to show emotion before the assembled servants, he responded decorously, “It was Allah’s will. May He keep such and all hateful things from you.”

“And you.” Alima’s bright eyes lit on the black-cloaked figure who lingered behind Sharif. Bryna bint Blaine’s blue eyes were unmistakable behind her concealing
burqu.
“Whom have you brought to visit me, nephew?” she asked cordially, hardly prepared for his reply.

“I want you to meet my new wife, Alima...the lady Farha.”

If the old woman faltered, it was not discernible. Without pause she greeted Bryna warmly. “Peace be unto you, niece. Welcome to my home.”

“And unto you be peace, my lady.”

“Call me Alima, please. Now I am your aunt as well as Sharif’s. Come into the house, my children. I am sure you are weary after your travels.”

Her ancient eunuch showed Sharif to his apartment while Alima settled Bryna in the harem, commanding her maids to see to the young woman’s every need. Then she hurried to the
majlis,
where she knew she would find her nephew. She carried with her a tray of coffee, dismissing the servants for the sake of privacy.

Already seated on a divan, Sharif greeted her without surprise, waiting silently while she sat down and poured the coffee.

Once she was satisfied her guest was comfortable, Alima broached the subject. “Well, my nephew, while your wife— What is it you call her, Farha? A suitable name, I think. While Farha is in the baths, let us speak openly.”

“I knew you would waste little time, but I had forgotten how blunt you can be, Alima. Very well, say what you must say.” The man seemed to steel himself for her lecture.

“No, I think perhaps it is you who should speak, Sharif,” his aunt urged gently. “What’s wrong? I can see you are disturbed. Did you find that you do not love this woman after all?’’

For a long moment she wondered if he would answer. Sharif seemed oblivious of her presence. He stared straight ahead, his handsome face solemn as he gathered his thoughts.

“I find I love her too much, Alima,” he said at last, still refusing to look at her. “And sometimes it makes me afraid.”

“You afraid?” The woman drew a quick breath at the admission the sheik would make to no one else. “What can you fear? That the American girl does not love you in return? She does. I can see it in her eyes.”

“Farha loves me now, or she thinks she does, but will she love me when her memory returns?”

“Ah, yes, her memory.” Alima nodded wisely. “And is it returning?”

“More and more every day.”

“Why have you not told her of her past, my lord?”

Too tense to sit still, Sharif rose to pace the length of the
majlis.
His robes fluttered softly behind him at every turn while he searched for the words to explain. “In the beginning, it seemed a miracle that Bryna did not remember her old life. You see, I did not want her to remember it or to long to return to it. I wanted her to believe she belonged with me, forever. I knew, with time, she would grow to love me as I loved her.”

“And hasn’t she?” the old woman interjected.

“I told you. Farha loves me, but what of Bryna bint Blaine?”

“I see the problem,” she murmured. “As I recall, Bryna is a woman of great spirit.”

“Indeed.” Sharif halted before his aunt’s divan and looked down at her with a troubled frown. “What will happen when she remembers all, as she surely will? Perhaps not today or tomorrow. But one day she will remember. And she will realize that I had it in my power to free her or to tell her what I knew of her past all the time. She will hate me.”

“What would happen if you told her now?” She met his gaze challengingly.

“It’s too late,” he said sadly. “You once told me that when I loved again, it would be Allah’s greatest blessing, Alima. Instead I am cursed to love her so. I cannot bear her loss, yet I know I will not be able to keep her if she hates me.”

“Oh, my nephew, what a web you have woven for yourself,” the woman sighed. “But there must be something...”

“There is nothing I can do about it,” he countered harshly.
“Insh’allah.”

“Do not be a fool, Sharif,” she said sharply. “You can continue to love Farha as you’ve always loved her, from the first moment you saw her. You say you fear—all men, even great men, fear, but they overcome it. You can do something. It will take a great deal of courage, but if you love Bryna, you will fight to keep her. And you will win her.”

“I hope what you say is true, Aunt,” he replied hoarsely, “for I love her as I have loved no other.”

“Sharif...”

“There is nothing more to say.” The proud man wheeled and strode from the
majlis,
leaving Alima with her own thoughts.

No, my nephew, we will not say what you already know, she reflected pensively. You have loved this woman more than honor, and you have found what your heart wills, just as the prophecy said. Now let us see if you have the courage to keep her.

* * *

Hirfa trudged along the corridor, grumbling to herself. It was near midnight, but she must come when her mistress called. Stopping before the closed door to Alima’s private apartment, the old servant scratched softly and was admitted immediately.

Clad in a white robe with her silver hair unbound, Alima resembled a ghost in the flickering lamplight. Peering around the room uneasily, Hirfa said, “You wished to see me, my lady?”

“Yes, I need for you to read the sands, for the lady Farha.”

“Will she join us?” The maid’s eyes strained to see into the dark corners as if she sought Bryna in the shadows.

“She will not. She and my nephew are asleep now. They leave early tomorrow for Mecca. Just tell me what you see for her.”

“If it is the will of Allah,” the old woman muttered, setting her tray on a low table and taking out a tiny bag of sand.

She knew why I beckoned before I told her, Alima thought uncomfortably as she watched Hirfa sprinkle the sand onto the tray.

The fortune-teller sat down at the table and hunched over the tray, frowning in deep concentration, mumbling under her breath. At last she sat up, her eyes still on the rippled surface of the sand, and shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry. I cannot tell what the future holds for the sheik’s lady. The sands are unclear. I see much confusion for her.”

“That is hardly a revelation for a woman who has forgotten her past,” her mistress retorted dryly. “Do you not see anything else?”

“Turmoil...great turmoil. The lady Farha must make a difficult choice, one that will change her life.”

Alima’s heart skipped a beat and she leaned across the table to ask breathlessly. “Tell me, what is the choice?”

“I do not know, but—”

“But?”

“But I see that she too will find what her heart wills,” the maid announced with satisfaction.

Alima rocked back on her cushions and sighed gustily. What kinds of portents were these? Both Sharif and Bryna will find what their hearts will? What if both hearts did not share the same will? She still did not know whether Sharif would be happy.

“Surely there is more?” the sheik’s aunt asked finally.

“Nothing.” Hirfa answered with a definite shake of her white head.

“Then I suppose we must trust that all will be well,” Alima muttered to herself.
“Insh’allah.
.. You may go.” She dismissed the maid with a nod. “But Hirfa...”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Say nothing of this to anyone else.”

When Alima rose to see Sharif and Bryna off the next morning, she was relieved to see that all seemed to be well between them. Her nephew behaved as if nothing were amiss, his tenderness for his young wife apparent in his gray eyes. Despite a haunted sadness in her own eyes, Bryna returned his love with every look, every gesture.

Sadly the old woman watched them ride away together, hoping they would realize that what their hearts willed, they had already found in each other.

Evening had fallen when Blaine and Derek and their guides cautiously entered Mecca. Their robes crusted with dust, the travelers paused for a moment to greet the idlers at the gate and to buy water from a vendor, then urged their tired camels through noisy streets, teeming with pilgrims from throughout the world, past the Beit Allah, or Great Mosque, where the Kaaba, the huge black stone monument that is the heart of Islam, stood.

Within the walls of the mosque, thousands of supplicants milled around the courtyard, despite the lateness of the hour. Legend maintained the walls would expand to hold as many pilgrims as had come to worship. Tonight many sought not to revere the sanctuary, but to sleep in the relative safety of its confines.

The foreigners filed past the elegant homes of the nobility and Blaine and Derek gazed longingly at the big stone house of the Selims, knowing that Bryna was probably inside.

Blaine, Derek, and Ernst waited wearily in the street, lounging against their couched camels while Mustafa found lodgings for them above the shop of an olive merchant near the immense souk. Leading the fatigued animals to a dusty courtyard behind the building, they allowed the beasts to drink from a shabby fountain while they inspected their surroundings, warily noting the unreliable-looking staircase ranging along the back of the house.

Fearful that the men might get lost in the Moslem stronghold and meet the terrible fate of impostors, Ernst took them around to the front entrance of the apartment so they could identify their lodgings from the street. They halted before a narrow doorway that was almost blocked by barrels of olive oil that had been unloaded in the crowded street. Peering through the darkness, they discerned cramped stairs that led from the street to a small suite of rooms. Up that staircase came the pungent smell of olives and oil from the merchant’s warehouse below.

Not even their clever Swiss guide had a clear plan in mind about how to approach the wife of a sheik without losing their lives, so the foreigners spent their first few days in Mecca watching the gate of the house in which Bryna lived. Enclosed litters came and went, accompanied by the armed Selim retinue, but they caught no glimpse of Bryna.

Blaine and Derek also searched the bazaar each day in hopes they would see the girl. Perhaps they passed her in the crowd, they agonized, but how could they recognize her under the concealing veil the women wore? If Bryna saw them, she behaved as a good Moslem wife should and paid no special note to the Algerian pilgrims.

In the huge house near the Great Mosque, Bryna did indeed work at being a good Moslem wife. But soon the boredom of her isolation overcame her. At first it had not mattered that she knew no one in Mecca, for Sharif had taken her to tour the city. Even though it was not officially hajj, the time of pilgrimage, he had taken her to see Hagar’s well, Zem-Zem, and drink the curative waters. She had sipped, nearly gagging on the bitter, salty taste, but she drank to please her husband, who watched anxiously. Then they had strolled through the souks, where souvenirs of the holy city were offered for sale, pausing to admire elaborate
tespis
made of turquoise and coral and mother-of-pearl.

But now the sheik’s leisure was at an end. It was necessary for him, as a sayyid, to don his green turban and join the ulema, the Islamic court, as custom dictated. Regretfully he left his wife to her own devices. Sharif employed only a few servants during their stay in Mecca, but there was still little for his wife to do in the huge house. She frequently spent her afternoons in the market, escaping her loneliness in the company of Abu Ahmad.

It was for the old warrior Bryna waited this afternoon. When he finished carrying a message for his master, he would return for her and they would go to the bazaar. As restless as she at the inactivity, he had readily agreed to accompany her, even though the sun was low in the sky.

Looking for something to occupy her until he arrived, she prowled the big house restlessly. At last, remembering a rip she had noticed in the sleeve of one of Sharif’s
thobes,
she went upstairs to his room to find the garment.

Although Sharif spent a great deal of time in the women’s quarters, Bryna had only visited his bedchamber once or twice. But she did not feel like an intruder. Her husband’s personality seemed to be revealed in the simple room. It was a study in contrasts. Colorful tiles decorated the walls, but the furnishings were plain and few. His rifle hung by its cord from a peg on the wall, but below it, on a low table, an ornate copy of the Koran lay open. His heavy saddlebags were stacked in a corner, but the open door to the balcony gave the room an airy, pleasant feel.

She crossed to the carved wooden chest and lifted the lid. The scent of the incense used to perfume the hair and beard after the coffee ritual wafted up to her. Smiling to herself, she sorted among her husband’s clothing until she found what she sought.

As Bryna pulled the
thobe
from the chest, a bright metallic gleam underneath it caught her eye. She picked up a shiny golden oval engraved with flowers. Where had Sharif gotten this? It seemed familiar somehow. She turned it over in her hands, discovering it was hinged. But before she could open it, Abu Ahmad’s voice reached her from the stairs.