A Ceiling Made of Eggshells

by Gail Carson Levine

  Don Solomon said, “You won’t need it. I’ll deliver it to your papá.”

  He was right. We’d be gone. I was loath to trust him, but I had to.

  At a gesture from Don Solomon, a servant opened the tent flap. Hamdun, Belo, and I exited, followed by Don Solomon, who shouted at us, “I don’t pay you to spend my money on wine. Get out of my sight.”

  I hadn’t thought of it, but he was explaining our departure to anyone in earshot: We were tipplers, and Belo was so drunk he couldn’t sit a donkey.

  Thank you, Don Solomon. I still despise you.

  Hamdun hoisted Belo on the donkey’s back and climbed up after him. I mounted my donkey and spurred it. Hamdun spurred his.

  The road out of the camp was cobbled. No one seemed to notice us. The flow of people and carts was mostly against us: nobles on horses; mule-drawn carts bearing provisions; burdened mules and donkeys; clusters of Christians on their way to settle in Granada.

  Belo might be jounced by the donkey’s gait. I prayed he wasn’t in pain. Could he feel pain?

  Did the monarchs know yet? Were they sending for Don Solomon? Would he betray us again? I wished I hadn’t told him we were going to Málaga.

  I almost giggled. The secretaries who’d made us wait endlessly might be delaying the physician from passing along his news. The search for us may not have begun.

  Any bushes and trees that had once lined the road had been razed for the siege. There was nowhere for us to hide.

  Even though the air was cool, the sun shone in the late-afternoon sky. The river Genil, which the road followed, shooshed as it streamed by.

  After half an hour, a fan palm rose along the edge of the road. If no one had been about, we could have concealed ourselves behind it, so long as we kept the donkeys still and they didn’t bray. But we were overtaking a dozen barefoot monks, arguing among themselves about the holiness of ale.

  The monks paid us no heed. The cobbles ended, and the road became pale and dusty dirt. A farmhouse stood on our right. Chickens pecked in the yard. Beyond the house, we passed an olive tree with a wide enough trunk to hide us, but now four noblemen rode by. Ahead, more fan palms and olive trees cropped up, along with oleander bushes. If the road ever cleared, we’d have places to go.

  A cloud drifted in from the west. The road curved. A shepherd came toward us, driving a flock of geese and raising dust. Belo’s head sagged back against Hamdun’s shoulder. Anyone going by would see his face.

  I said, “Please keep his face down.”

  Hamdun palmed the back of Belo’s scalp, as a mother might a baby’s, and lowered his head.

  Merciful One, thank You for Hamdun. Now, how much trouble would it be to hold people back to give us three minutes to hide? Help me save Belo, who loves You. I love You, too.

  The cart and our guards should reach us soon. Had Don Solomon told them not to speak to us if others were near? I turned to look. A party of nobles cantered toward us. I didn’t see our people.

  The nobles passed us. A few more clouds sailed out of the west.

  Hamdun said, “Oh, oh, oh, oh.”

  Belo was sliding sideways, but Hamdun managed to straighten him again.

  About twenty minutes later, God gave us our miracle: the nearest travelers were just dots, and the road was lined with fan palms and olive trees. I turned my donkey, and Hamdun followed.

  Behind our screen of fronds and leaves, I dismounted. Hamdun did the same, while lifting Belo to the ground, where he set him against the trunk of an olive tree. Hamdun held the donkeys’ reins loosely and let them nuzzle him. Then he led them down the riverbank to drink. I crouched to tip Belo’s head back so I could dribble the watery wine from my flask into his mouth. He took the draft and swallowed, which I considered a good sign. His left eye, the alert one, I thought, watched me with what I hoped was recognition.

  He said, loudly, “Lo . . . ,” and trailed off.

  My name, or almost! But too loud. I put my finger over my lips, and he didn’t try again. I patted his cheek, walked to the fan palm, and peeked between the fronds.

  Alas, I could see only a swath in front of me, five yards or so of dirt, and, across the road, an oleander bush next to another olive tree. I’d hear travelers, but I wouldn’t be able to distinguish our guards until I could see them, and then we’d still have to wait to see if anyone else came along. Emerging would be a moment of great danger.

  The day waned, and the fronds took on a dusky glow. My stomach grumbled. Our provisions were in the cart. For a while, no one had crossed my range of road. People were probably setting up camp for the night or finding lodging.

  I thought of the littles at home and the adults, who didn’t yet know what was about to befall them. Would I ever see them again?

  I hoped they were happy at this moment. I imagined them: Jento and Todros playing tag with the other boys in the street outside the synagogue; energetic Jamila, jumping up and down in Ledicia’s house; Clara, petting her cat, Yowl; Beatriz, wondering where I was and worrying.

  Belo was watching me. I didn’t want him to see me weep, so I blinked the tears away. What was he thinking? Did he have thoughts?

  I heard hooves and clinking. The leader of our guards, Señor Menahem, Belo’s favorite, trotted into view on a piebald horse. He was followed by three more guards, the cart, and two donkeys, loaded with provisions.

  The timing was perfect. The road ahead and behind was probably empty. Still, I waited, counting in a measured way to a thousand. I didn’t want our party to get too far from us, because I didn’t know what lay ahead.

  I held my hand up, which by now was dim in the fading light. I pointed to the road, and Hamdun nodded. But as I began to part the fronds, I heard clinking and hooves coming from the direction of Granada. I straightened and gestured in a downward motion to Hamdun.

  A party of ten trotted by. The final rider wore a high, pointed hat that, despite the failing daylight, I could still tell was green. The physician Don Miguel!

  32

  We had to let them go by. I shook my head violently at Hamdun, hoping he’d see. He seemed to, because the shadow he had become didn’t move.

  Had the Christians sensed us?

  People may have been watching Don Solomon’s tent and our tent, and this party may have followed Señor Menahem and the others ever since they left the camp.

  Did Señor Menahem realize what the party clinging to them was? Did he understand we couldn’t show ourselves? What might he do?

  How long would the Christians stay with them?

  When I finally thought we wouldn’t be heard, I whispered, “The doctor who treated Belo rode by with others.”

  What if Hamdun ran out? Would he be rewarded with a fat purse?

  He whispered, “Then we must stay here.”

  We each had a flask of watery wine but no food. Did Belo need food to get better? I was ravenous. I regretted not eating in Don Solomon’s tent.

  Belo began to speak softly—not words, just sounds, but I recognized the cadence of prayer. I said the Shema, hoping it would bring him comfort, and he fell silent.

  I was afraid to continue traveling. We’d be lone wayfarers at night. If Don Miguel and his company turned back, they’d see us and be suspicious. I told Hamdun we’d remain here. “In the morning, more people will be on the road.”

  He helped me lay Belo flat. I wrapped his cloak around him against the night air and folded my cloak to make him a pillow, though I began to shiver. I’d survive.

  The clouds on the horizon were still rosy from the sunset. I settled myself on Belo’s left and thanked God for food, whenever we would get it. I closed my eyes. Belo’s hand found mine. I leaned over him. Half his mouth smiled at me.

  I lay back. He continued to hold my hand. I closed my eyes again, ignored my stomach and the chill, and fell asleep—

  —and woke to a rustling sound, which turned out to be rain on the canopy of olive leaves. If the rain stopped soon, we’d be all right.

&nb
sp; It came down harder.

  God! We’re not Pharaoh. Why are You sending us plagues?

  Drops, cold and stinging, broke through the leaves. I feared a chill would finish Belo off. I could deprive him of his pillow and spread my cloak over him as a blanket, but that would soon be soaked and colder than no cloak. He needed a barrier and warmth, so I lay on top of him, spreading myself as much as I could, my head to the side of his head.

  If only I weren’t so hungry. And cold. And wet.

  He murmured something that, by its tone, didn’t sound like a complaint.

  “We’ll get you to safety. I’ll make sure you stay a Jew.” If I could. I pushed my myriad worries aside and began to count by eighteens, my falling-asleep trick. Remarkably, it worked even here.

  I woke myself by sneezing. Rain still fell. Nearby, Hamdun sneezed in the middle of his Muslim prayers. A donkey sneezed. Under me, Belo sneezed what sounded like an ordinary sneeze. Was he better? I propped myself up to see.

  Maybe a little. Both eyes were open, and his pupils followed me, although the right eyelid drooped, and he still couldn’t say words.

  Morning had come. Somewhere, the sun had risen, but without seeing it I couldn’t guess how early or late the hour was. We were safely hidden, and we could safely die here of starvation.

  Hamdun stood over us and held out a hand to help me up. I took the hand and stood. His fingers were as cold as mine.

  We didn’t have to waste time cooking (ha!), but I crouched to tip the last of my watery wine into Belo’s mouth. If I was thirsty, I could just tilt back my head. Belo drank and then began his nonsense words, which I believed to be an attempt at prayer.

  I hissed, “Softly!”

  He stopped, which made me hope he’d understood. I whispered the morning prayer. He moved his lips.

  When we finished, Hamdun lifted Belo onto a donkey and climbed up behind him; I mounted, too. Belo sat straighter on the donkey today, a promising sign.

  Leaving our hiding spot wasn’t as dangerous as entering it had been. Many travelers would have spent the night on the side of the road, concealed from marauders, and they would have to emerge, too. I doubted the three of us were an appealing target for brigands, who wouldn’t guess that I had a saddlebag full of ducats and fourteen silver reales in the purse at my waist.

  It was lucky that I didn’t know the truth, and, seemingly, neither did Hamdun. Brigands would have seen us as valuable—as slaves. He and I could have been taken and sold, and no one the wiser. Belo probably would have been left to die.

  But the road was deserted. Not even highwaymen were out in this downpour.

  Señor Menahem, please don’t be far ahead. Don Miguel, please have returned to the monarchs’ camp.

  My belly sent me memories of fried stuffed partridges. I could taste the gizzards, eggs, cinnamon, and cilantro in the stuffing.

  We passed a farmhouse on the left: two stories, white stone, tile roof. A mulberry tree stood in the yard. Smoke streamed from the chimney. Its owners would be warm and not starving. For a ducat, they might feed us and let us dry off, but they’d question us. As soon as we left, they’d tell a priest. Maybe they’d earn another ducat.

  Hamdun’s donkey coughed. A few minutes later, mine did. I patted her neck and tried to comfort her. “I know. This is terrible.” The coughs became frequent.

  Belo coughed, too, so hard his shoulders shook. Hamdun and I exchanged worried looks. With his left arm he pulled Belo close while his right hand held the reins. In all our bad luck, God had sent this sweet man to us. I touched Bela’s pendant.

  We plodded on. Between humans and donkeys, we made a quintet of coughs, wheezes, and sneezes. The rain continued. I wondered if we’d gone even ten miles from the camp.

  Imagining the best, I pictured entering Málaga. We’d go straight to the wharf.

  Oh no! I realized the mistake I’d made. Don Solomon would tell Papá that we were going to Lisbon! And that’s where he’d take the family.

  Belo and I had to go to Lisbon, where we had no relatives, if we were to be reunited, if I were to see the littles again.

  I had to see them!

  “Loma, your abuelo feels very hot. I think he has a fever.”

  God forgive me! I was a terrible granddaughter, because the worst thought I’d ever had came to me: If Belo died, I could go home and be with the littles.

  I turned my donkey. We had to beg for shelter at the farmhouse we’d passed if Belo was going to get well.

  In half an hour, we reached it and dismounted in the yard. Hamdun cradled Belo in his arms. I knocked on the door, which creaked open. A bearded young man stood on the threshold. Bearded! A Jew? Couldn’t be.

  The man’s wife, plump like me, wearing trousers and a short jacket, came to the door, too. Moors.

  Hamdun spoke to them in Arabic. He gestured at Belo and me and the donkeys. The couple smiled. The man opened the door wide. The woman took my hands and tugged me in. Her hands were warm. Hamdun carried Belo in behind me. We dripped on a stone slab. I smelled lamb roasting with cilantro and oranges. My mouth filled with saliva.

  A wooden staircase rose in front of us. The man gestured to Hamdun, who carried Belo up. The woman let go of my hands and led me upstairs.

  To our right, a fire blazed in the fireplace. A girl of three or four stood with her fist in her mouth in the middle of a large room. I wanted to go to her, pick her up, and press my cheek against her silky hair.

  The man pulled cushions close to the fire. Hamdun laid Belo down on them.

  “Do you think we can take off his wet clothes?” I said. “Can they spare a blanket?”

  “Certainly,” the woman said in Castilian. Her r was more from her throat than on her tongue, but I understood. “I’ll bring blankets.” She left through an arch across the room from the fireplace.

  The man said something in Arabic to Hamdun, who told me, “We’re going to see to the donkeys.” The two went down the stairs.

  I knelt by Belo. Dots of pink bloomed in his cheeks. His forehead was burning.

  “Please be stubborn, Belo.”

  He blinked his left eye.

  The woman bustled back, her arms filled with blankets and linen cloth. Between us, we stripped him down to his drawers. She didn’t comment on his silks or his jewels. We rubbed him dry and wrapped him in a blanket. He said his nonsense sounds. I touched Bela’s pendant and prayed.

  “You’re wet, too.”

  “I’ll dry.” I was almost warm by now, and I hadn’t sneezed since we came indoors.

  But she insisted. “Come with me. Your abuelo will be fine for a few minutes.”

  He couldn’t go anywhere. “I’ll be right back, Belo.”

  She scooped up her daughter and led me through the archway into a corridor. The child stared at me over her mamá’s shoulder. I smiled and wiggled my fingers at her. She looked dubious. If we were here long enough, I hoped to be able to hold her.

  Her mamá entered a bedroom through another archway. I shivered. At home, we would have kept a coal brazier sizzling.

  She set her daughter down on a long sleeping cushion. The child stood and put her fist back in her mouth. I crouched and waved my finger in a figure eight in front of her. Her whole head followed my finger.

  “Here.”

  I turned.

  The woman knelt over a carved oak chest. “My things should fit you.” She lifted out white trousers that were baggy above the knee, tight below; a shift, like the one I was wearing; a brown shirt that seemed more correct for a man; a short white jacket edged with silver thread; and a red-and-white pleated head scarf over which went a green-and-blue padded band. The folds of the head scarf fell like a curtain with a gap for my face. Everything was linen.

  “Try them on.”

  I undressed and removed my jewelry. Goose bumps stood out on my arms. The woman gave me a length of muslin to dry myself with and helped, rubbing me vigorously until I felt warm. She was beyond kind. I squeezed back tears. Everyo
ne wasn’t our enemy.

  I donned the apparel and put the jewelry back on. “Thank you!”

  “It becomes you.”

  Belo coughed from the other room. When we got to him, he seemed no worse and no better. I stroked his forehead. Still hot.

  “Are you hungry?” the woman asked.

  “I am.” I blushed. “My abuelo hasn’t had any food since he fell ill yesterday.” Like Jews, Muslims didn’t eat pork, though many of their dietary rules were different from ours.

  “When the men return, we’ll eat.”

  I looked up from Belo. “Why are you so kind to us?” We were strangers at a dangerous time, so soon after the war.

  “Your servant says you’re an angel, the way you care for your abuelo. He said you covered him all night with your whole self to keep him dry and didn’t marry for his sake, and you mother your family’s children even though they aren’t your own.”

  That was how Hamdun saw me? I waved away the catalog of my virtues. An angel who had—for a moment—wished her belo dead.

  Hamdun and the husband returned, both soaking wet. They retired to the bedroom to dry off.

  I said, “I’m Loma from Alcalá de Henares. My abuelo is Don Joseph Cantala. We’re Jews. Our servant is called Hamdun.”

  She didn’t recognize Belo’s name. Her husband’s name was Qays, and hers was Yasmina. The child’s name was Kanza. The three of them were the angels.

  33

  On the morning of April 19, a Thursday, we rode our donkeys into Málaga. Belo had survived, but he’d been slow to shed his fever and be well enough to travel. When he was, I had explained about the threat of conversion, since I wasn’t sure if he knew the reason for our flight. At the end, I asked him if he’d understood. He’d nodded and said, “Lo.”

  By the time we left, we’d all, including the donkeys, stopped coughing. Although Belo’s spell hadn’t passed, he’d improved. He could feed himself with his left hand and could stumble along if either Hamdun or I supported his weak right side. On the donkey, he could sit upright. He could also nod or shake his head. He still couldn’t speak sensibly, but he repeated “Lo” often and querulously, until I thought he’d turned into a grumpy parrot.