by Jane Johnson
Two days later I heard the chieftain’s son, an arrogant man much given to bullying and even to hurting his camels, was carried writhing into the shadows under the palm trees because he was burning up and raving so badly: clearly djinn had got into him and no one wanted them in the camp. He didn’t die, which surprised me; but he crept about after that and his appetites were never the same.
But mainly her work was benign, and this was how she got by after my father died. She was good at what she did. And so was I. As a result of my tasks, I had learned stealth, to listen carefully, to remember exactly. And a great deal about human frailty.
We ate well, we had status within the tribe and life was good. Until one day my mother did not get up with the sun to fetch water and make our morning porridge but lay there rolled in her blanket. When she did not respond to my angry cries, I went out to help myself to porridge from some other woman’s cook pot—as a child you have no understanding of ownership—got beaten for my trouble and wailed as if bereft.
And indeed I was bereft, and not just of breakfast. My mother had died in the night. No one knew why or how. The djinn came for her was the consensus.
But her name, Tudert, meant “life” in our language. It hardly seemed fair.
The aunts took me in. I do not know if they were true aunts, or in any way related to my mother, but that’s how it works among our people. They dressed me in their cast-offs, girls’ robes that tangled around my legs, and shaved my head. All the other children kept a single braid on the crown of their heads, for the angels to catch them by should they fall. But it seemed the aunts didn’t care if I fell or if angels had nothing to catch me by. They didn’t treat me the same way they treated their own children at all, but beat me for looking at them askance, or for being slow, or too quick, or too noisy, for talking too much. And sometimes at the sight of me they signed against the evil eye, especially when the drought arrived and the animals died and the young men did not return from the desert.
Then one day when I was cutting up meat, with the blood all over my hands, I had a strange turn. “The baby inside you will never feed from your teat,” I told one of the aunts. My voice did not sound like my own.
The aunt cried out. “It is Tudert, returned! It’s a curse on what we did to her: she has come to take her revenge!”
The other women told her to shut up. It was just Blessings, being strange.
The aunt stared at me with eyes of flint. “Your mother may have named you Blessings, but you are nothing except bad luck.”
“One more mouth to feed when we don’t have enough to go round,” agreed another woman.
“You turn the milk sour,” said another. She picked up a stone and threw it at me.
“My favourite goat died.”
“The well water tastes bitter.”
The next stone hit me on the arm. It stung. I glared.
More stones came at me.
“Monster!” someone shouted. “We always knew you were a monster!”
The word hit me harder than did the stones. I looked to the aunts, expecting them to intervene then: but my first aunt threw another stone, shouting “Monster!” as she did so, and then all the other women, and the children, joined in. And so I was forced to run away from the only life I had ever known. It was just as well that I had foreseen something like it happen in a dream months prior, and had filched bits and pieces of jewellery and buried them some distance outside the camp in one of my mother’s hidden herb gardens: if I’d had nothing to trade on my journey north into the land of the Moors, I would surely have starved.
“Now we drape this part of the fabric so, and fasten it with this fibula. And wind this scarf around your hips—”
For a moment I felt the urge to plunge the long pin of the fibula into her breast, but I caught myself thinking it, imagining the pain it would cause this awkward child, and was ashamed. It was not her fault. None of it was. I pinned the cloth with exaggerated care, then stepped back to regard my handiwork. It was a rather outlandish costume, but there had not been a great deal to choose from once the maids had been at the baggage.
“Do I look all right?” Big-eyed with doubt, Mariam appeared younger than ever.
“Beautiful,” I lied. “Prince Mohammed will be lost for words when he sees you.”
I arranged a scarf around her head with the tassels hanging down and the amulet pinned upon it. With the rope of heavy amber beads around her neck, some earrings I had put together from pierced silver coins threaded over her ears and a silver Berber wedding crown upon her head, the costume was complete.
By the time I had finished adjusting everything, I realized that under the veil Mariam was crying again. For a second the image of the runt kitten flickered across my mind. She was about to snatch from me the person I loved most in the world. Didn’t she understand the honour this marriage bestowed upon her? I dragged the veil off her again, more roughly than was necessary. Tears had smudged the kohl I had applied: she looked terrified. With effort, I mastered my jealousy. “Don’t cry,” I said, wiping the kohl and tears away with the corner of my scarf. “He is kind and gentle. There’s nothing to fear. And as handsome as the sun. You will be the envy of every woman in Granada.” But most of all, of me.
Her lip trembled, then curved into the sweetest smile I had ever seen.
“How old are you?” I found myself asking.
“Fifteen.”
Two years younger than Momo. A child indeed. Gently raised and sheltered from the world. And about to be parcelled off to a distant city with a group of strangers, made to bed a man she had never met. No wonder she was frightened, poor thing. Fellow feeling overtook me quite against my will, and the angry wall I had built up against her fell away, stone by stone.
With her elderly servant in attendance I led her down the stairs to be married. She was so nervous she tripped and lost a slipper along the way. It skittered end over end and for a moment I felt dizzy, remembering my own fall.
I will never forget the look on Momo’s face when she lifted her veil with her little hennaed hand and gazed up at him. I saw his face soften like a child’s. All that day, and through the celebrations that followed—the almonds and dates, the singing and drums, the dance of the town maidens, the enthronement, the candlelit feast—he ministered to her as if she were a great queen and he her obedient servant.
I felt sick to watch them, and if I had worried that she might recognize me in my male guise that night, there was no need, for she saw no one but Momo. In her gaze of astonishment and adoration I saw my own yearning reflected.
When they made to carry the bride and groom to their chamber, I could bear it no longer and eased outside for some air. There, as the moon slipped behind a cloud, I almost tripped over the Banu Serraj captain drinking from a jar of wine he had come by. We gave each other the conspiratorial look that agreed we were not very good Muslims and for a long time sat companionably together, the night silence broken only by the glug of the wine in the crock and long, slow swallows.
At last he said, “Do you believe in the prophecy?”
“About the prince?”
“That under him the kingdom will fall.”
“What do astrologers know?”
“Aye, that’s what I say.”
“Do people talk of it often?”
I could tell by a subtle shift in the night air that he was eyeing me. “People say all sorts.”
“I have heard,” I said quietly, “that some think the sultan should disinherit him.” Now let us see what sympathy there might be for Zoraya and her cause that I could report back to Qasim.
“What, for the zahira’s sons? They would prefer those brats over our Momo?”
I laughed, glad to have my friend called by this affectionate shortening. “I hear they are tiny monsters, given to screaming tantrums that go on for hours and can be soothed only by their father.”
“I heard that too. But maybe the lady herself put it about.” He winked at me. “I was on du
ty outside her new quarters a few weeks back, and I swear I heard her hit them.” The sultan had moved Zoraya and her children into their own apartments housed inside one of the towers along the Alhambra’s outer wall. Everyone was calling it the Tower of the Captive now.
“Be careful,” I said. “She has spies everywhere, they say.”
“Everyone has spies.” It was a fact of court life, especially in one as fractured as ours.
“Do you really think the sultan would disinherit him?” I could hardly keep the forlorn hope out of my voice.
“Well, he can’t now,” the captain said. “Not with old Ali Attar on his side. There’d be civil war and that’s the last thing anyone needs. But she’s determined, the Morning Star. I wouldn’t put anything past her.”
10
I lay on my pallet among a dozen snoring men and tossed and turned. Momo and Mariam were safely stashed in the bridal chamber now, where I had no doubt she would be wrapping those sturdy legs and arms around him. The image clung to my consciousness, no matter how hard I tried to push it off. It was clear I would get no sleep that night. I retrieved my golden foot and pulled it on over my stump, then laced the boot high to the knee. I would, I thought, slip out into the streets of Loja. Maybe even be at the mosque as the sun rose. That would be a first.
It’s hard to creep with a false leg. I was halfway down the stairs, when someone hissed, “Blessings!”
My head shot up. Momo, his gold-and-white wedding robe wrapped tight around him, his head bare. He beckoned to me and I followed him up the stairs.
“What? What is it?”
“You cannot say anything about this ever, to anyone,” he said as we reached the closed door.
I gazed at him with my heart in my eyes. “You know you can trust me, always. Are you unwell? Is she?”
Momo glanced away from me, his expression indistinct in the leaping light of the corridor lantern. “She can’t…I…She’s so shy, Blessings. I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried all I know, which to be honest isn’t much. And I can’t force her.”
“You may have to,” I said, rather more harshly than I’d meant. “The wedding sheet.”
He looked unutterably miserable. “I know. She knows. She’s terrified that people will think she’s not pure. Her reputation will be destroyed. But that’s just making her even more anxious. She’s in tears now.”
How many tears can she have left in her? I wondered uncharitably. “Leave it with me,” I said. “Go back in and comfort her. I’ll fetch some wine. Maybe that will relax her.”
For a moment he looked appalled. Then he smiled. “Go on, then.”
Down the stairs I went again, thankful for the handrail to steady me, for my knees were shaking. I’d nearly leaned in and kissed him, right there, right then. On his wedding night.
The kitchen was in darkness except for the embers glowing in the hearth. The red light picked out a tray destined for the royal pair’s breakfast: a pot of honey and one of oil, some almonds to rebuild the groom’s strength after his busy night. Some servant would be by soon to bake the morning bread and set a jug of sherbet on the tray. I poked around, not finding what I searched for, until I heard footsteps heading my way. I froze, trying to think of a good excuse for being there at this unearthly hour, but as the servant entered, some inner voice stopped me from calling out, something more alert than the rest of me. The figure placed a jug on the table. I could just make out the white cloth that closed its mouth. A celebratory drink for the newlyweds. Just what I had been searching for. But the movements of the servant seemed more furtive than my own. And something else too…
I crossed the room in three strides, caught the intruder by the arm and turned my captive toward the firelight. She wore a veil, but there was no mistaking La Sabia.
“You!” she spat, staring up at me. “When did you become a man?”
I took some pleasure in twisting her arm up behind her back. “What are you doing here?”
Such a struggle to hold her. The old woman was still strong, even after all these years. I pushed her arm higher till she squealed. Oh, the satisfaction. “What’s in the jug?”
“Sherbet,” she panted. “Sherbet for the happy couple.” The loathing in her voice was plain.
“Sherbet and what else?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ice. Just sherbet and ice.”
“You will drink some, then,” I told her. She struggled harder. I remembered how easily she had had me down on the floor, kicking me in the guts. Things had changed. We were both older, but I had gained muscle and height. Unable to escape my grip, she kicked out at me now, then yelped as her foot connected with the metal and wood of my false foot. Under other circumstances I would have laughed. Instead, I forced her toward the table. “Drink it!” I ordered. “Or I will break your neck.”
She squirmed like an old goat knowing it was going to the Eid slaughter. There was a crash and somehow the jug was on the floor, smashed to pieces. In that moment I must have relaxed my grip, for suddenly she escaped me. I tried to pursue her; but, hampered by my golden foot, by the time I made it out to the corridor she had outpaced me. I patrolled the passages in both directions and failed to find the old woman. The wine was making my head swim and I was exhausted. I was cursing as I went back into the kitchen.
A small reddish cat was crouched on the floor, lapping at the spilled liquid. It did not even look up at me as I edged past it, thinking, thinking. Go beyond the wine: something more direct. A small bit of liver or heart would do. I moved crocks, pots, dishes, jars; looked on shelves, beneath clay lids. Nothing.
All the while I considered the crone and the woman who had sent her here. Was La Sabia on some sort of mission of destruction, or was she merely spying for Zoraya? Whichever it was, I must warn Momo. We should separate her from the other maids, too, I thought, before she could cause more mischief. No wonder they had had poor Mariam in tears with their taunting: no doubt it had been a small terrorizing measure to upset the child. My mind went back to the sherbet. Why would she have brought it so early? asked a small voice in my head. The ice would melt before breakfast—
A small choking noise interrupted my thoughts and I turned to find the cat retching, its neck stretched out, ears flat to its head, as if trying to dislodge a hairball. It was making horrible sounds…Oh. It was no cat. It was a fox: that was a sign of bad luck.
I grabbed it and took it to one of the water crocks, dunked it thoroughly and tried to get as much water as possible down its throat. Assuming I was trying to drown it, the fox fought for its life, and when I did not let go sank its teeth into the meat of my hand, between the forefinger and thumb. The pain was frightful and I yelled. Then it shuddered and released its grip, and died.
Poison. I sniffed the spilled sherbet. Beneath the lemony sweetness there was something acrid. Memory tickled my skull. I had smelled this somewhere before. But try as I might, I could not place it. I pushed the fox’s limp body under a table and washed my wound as well as I could. Then I made my way back up the stairs. By the time I reached the bridal chamber I was sweating profusely and my heart was pounding with the effort. “Give me the sheet,” I said when Momo opened the door. He brought it to me without asking why. With my belt-knife I opened the wound the fox had made and dripped my blood onto the pristine linen.
He shook his head slowly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
I propped myself against the door frame, wishing I hadn’t drunk so much wine.
“Are you all right, Blessings?” He put his hand on my shoulder.
I patted it. “I’ll be fine. Took the stairs…a bit…quick. Don’t worry about…me. Go tell your wife…to stop weeping. And get some sleep. Peace be upon you, friend.”
“My dear, dear friend.”
He squeezed my shoulder, then went back inside and closed the door. I stood there, relishing the memory of his touch, before realizing I had forgotten to tell him about La Sabia. Ah well, my news would keep till morning. Which was only an hour o
r two away. I staggered back down to the sleeping quarters, with the world spinning around me and my good leg weighing as heavily as the gold one.
I am told that I hung between life and death for almost three weeks. I lay sweating and delirious, leaking at both ends, mumbling about a witch. No one could make out what I was on about. Dr. Ibrahim bled me and gave me emetics and enemas, to add indignity to injury. I hallucinated like a madman: mandrake will do that to you. And once I woke and found the covers up around my chin and the doctor regarding me with the strangest expression. I thought they spoke my name, but I could not make out what they were saying. It was as if I had gone to a realm where djinn and demons were tormenting me.
I missed the wedding celebrations altogether, and when Momo queried why I was absent, he was told by the guard captain that I’d drunk myself stupid, which is what he’d thought on finding me in my miserable state. But when I didn’t improve, they realized it was something worse, so I was loaded upon a litter and hauled back to Granada and the care of the palace doctors. That I pulled through suggests La Sabia had remained in Loja, unable to complete the wicked task she had been set. Maybe she lacked another opportunity to poison the bride and groom. Maybe she had no further reserves of poison. And maybe had that little fox not perished and bitten me in its death throes, giving me the idea to cut myself, therefore reopening the wound, I too would have died. So many maybes.
So I missed the rest of Momo’s stay in Loja. I missed the royal progress back to Granada and the entrance of Mariam into the Alhambra, which occurred with little ceremony. The sultan shunned her, instead closing himself away with Zoraya, leaving the girl to the tender mercies of her mother-in-law, Aysha. Poor child, it must have been a hard transition, even coming from such a grim fortress town as Loja to the Alhambra, with its pleasure gardens and graceful fountains, its paradisal pools and heavenly cupolas. But just as a beautiful woman with no heart is uglier than the plainest woman with love in her eyes, so the palace could be a sorrowful place, binding a savagely fractured family within its lovely walls.
