The Bride Price

by Karen Jones Delk

  “Do you really think so?” `Abla asked breathlessly. “Even though I am clumsy and in the way and my clothes are never neat?”

  Bryna laughed aloud. “That sounds exactly like a description of me when I was your age.”

  And were you sometimes lonely, too?” `Abla asked, suddenly serious again.

  From across the main room of the harem, Latifeh, Sharif’s second wife, watched Bryna and `Abla while they talked, their dark heads close. Curious, on the pretext of inspecting the garment upon which Bryna worked, she ambled over to where they sat.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it, Aunt Latifeh?” `Abla asked as the woman examined the elaborate embroidery.

  “It is good,” Latifeh admitted. She addressed the American girl in a pidgin mixture of French and Arabic. “Who taught you this?”

  “No one,” Bryna answered shyly. Though she liked her more than Fatmah, she did not know Latifeh well. She did not yet know that this serious woman would be her instructor in the teachings of the Prophet.

  “You knew how to do this before?”

  No, I admired the border on your thobe, so I thought I would try it.”

  “Mashallah, you have done well.” Summoning her best French, Latifeh asked carefully, “Do you know what is called this pattern?”

  Bryna shook her head.

  “‘The Tent of the Pasha.’“ The woman’s hennaed finger traced the colorful stitches. “Such needlework is difficult.”

  “Did you know, my aunt,” `Abla interjected, eager to share the bond between her new friend and herself, “that Bryna grew up in a huge harem, bigger than ours, perhaps even bigger than the emir’s?”

  “It was not a harem,” Bryna corrected gently. “It was an orphanage.”

  “What is this...orphanage?” Latifeh sat down, her eyes alight at the thought of adding new knowledge to her vast store.

  “It is where children who have no mother or father are kept,” Bryna explained falteringly.

  “They have no amm—no uncle—to protect them?”

  “No one.”

  “I suppose it could happen,” the Arab woman granted dubiously. “But no one in their tribe takes them in?”

  “In America, we—”

  “Latifeh!” A disapproving screech interrupted the conversation and Fatmah descended upon them, her fat body quivering with indignation. “Have you nothing better to do than gossip with kaffir slaves?”

  `Abla darted from harm’s way, out a side door, as the woman rose, shamefaced. Ordinarily the harem authority on etiquette and custom, Latifeh had momentarily forgotten Bryna’s station in life.

  “Ya hú, O worthless one,” Fatmah shouted at the foreign girl in Arabic, and waved her arms threateningly, “fetch me a sherbet from the kitchen and be quick.”

  Fuming with silent anger, Bryna went to do as she was bade. When she returned moments later, Latifeh was deep in discussion with Fatmah.

  “...have never seen her smile before,” Bryna overhead the younger wife say. “When she is with the infidel, it is as if she is a different girl.”

  “I tell you it is not good,” Fatmah argued. “The proverb says, ‘A child’s heart is like a precious jewel without inscription—’”

  “I know,” Latifeh cut in. “‘It is therefore ready to absorb whatever is engraved upon it.’ But I tell you there has been no one to engrave upon `Abla’s heart. Our husband hardly acknowledges her existence, and neither you nor I have taken the time to teach her. What harm can this friendship do?”

  “Much, I fear. Quiet, now,” Fatmah cautioned, seeing that Bryna had returned. “So there you are, daughter of Satan.” She accepted the dish with ill grace. “It took you long enough.”

  Bryna did not reply, but again she understood she was not welcome in the women’s quarters, for many reasons.

  Little attention was paid to her or to Pamela, however, as frantic preparations began for the feast of Eed al Adha. In the bustle of activity, the foreign women were busy from dawn to dusk, dragging wearily to their beds at night. Because they ranked lowest in the harem, they were given the most menial of tasks.

  For Bryna, this meant grinding grain for the innumerable loaves of flat bread that would be consumed during the feast. A huge mortar and pestle were placed under a carob tree near the kitchen, and she was positioned there, facing the house, with huge bags of grain. Her task was mindless work, and at first she felt an impotent anger at her situation as she ground the grain and sifted the husks from the fine meal all day, pausing only for meals and a short kef in the afternoon.

  With so much time to think, memories of other times returned, but Bryna would not allow herself to dwell on them. They were too painful. To keep her mind busy while she worked, she watched the comings and goings of the household, listening to passing conversations while she mentally reviewed the Arabic `Abla was teaching her. In exchange for French lessons, the little girl had undertaken Bryna’s education with glee and surprising ability.

  On the day before the feast, while Bryna labored, Pamela appeared in the kitchen door, seeking a breeze to cool her. At Nassar’s insistence she was kept inside, where the sun would not darken her skin or coarsen her hair. She had been sent to assist in the baking.

  After glancing cautiously over her shoulder into the kitchen, she hurried to where Bryna sat beneath the tree. “Won’t you be glad when this day is over and we can have a bath?” she asked in greeting.

  “Very glad,” Bryna answered, imagining a long soak in warm water to relieve the ache in her shoulders and back from bending over the mortar.

  Pamela leaned against the tree trunk and ran her fingers through her sweat-soaked hair beneath her ghata. “I have never been so hot in my life.”

  “Not even in the desert?” Bryna teased, continuing to work.

  “Not even then,” the English girl confirmed. She stared up the hill at the servants who dug pits in the ground at the side of the house, a distance from the men’s wing. Behind them, Fatmah and Latifeh toiled in the heat to pitch a large tent. “I understand that the pits are for cooking, but what are they doing?”

  “Building a tent large enough to hold all the male guests. That’s their job as the sheik’s wives. It seems everyone has a task,” Bryna added, nodding toward `Abla, who followed the women, beating tent pegs into the hard ground with a small stone hammer.

  “We certainly have our tasks in the kitchen.” Sighing, Pamela stirred and faced back toward the house. When no one seemed to be looking for her, she settled back against the tree again. “We’ve been cooking for days, and I am heartily sick of the smell of goat and sour milk.”

  Bryna nodded sympathetically, but before she could speak the cook appeared in the door to the kitchen and scowled at Pamela.

  “I am coming,” the blond-haired girl called to him in French. “I knew he would come looking for me, she muttered to Bryna. “He is turning into such a tyrant.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “He is a lamb, but if he makes me say La ilaha-illa-llah, wa Muhammad rasuli-ilah one more time, I think I shall scream.”

  “There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah,” Bryna translated. “He wants you to be a good Moslem.”

  “What are we going to do, Bryna?” Pamela asked intensely. “I cannot give up Christianity for Islam, can you?”

  “No,” the American girl admitted soberly. “I know we must face it eventually, for Nassar has made it clear I must become a Moslem or be sold into a bordello.”

  “Then we will become Moslems,” Pamela said insistently. “I do not believe he would sell me, but I could not bear to be separated from you.”

  “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 t
urned 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.