“Please don’t take offense, Grandmamma. I don’t see how respecting other people can be an offense to you.”
“Simply because you do not see it, does not mean I am not offended.”
“I am sorry to hear it, I would never wish to hurt you, Grandmamma. Quite the opposite.”
“Then I wish you might end this discussion.”
“I think you are simply avoiding speaking of a subject you don’t wish to discuss in diverting my attention. As for sugar, many people have an adverse reaction to it,” Alita explained. “The substance creates a cycle of dependency, requiring increased quantities to satisfy until finally nothing works. At that point illness sets in. All the organs can fail, there can be loss of eyesight and loss of limbs. If there is a drug, it is sugar.”
“Ridiculous! Ginger cookies a drug. I never heard anything so preposterous in my life. None of my doctors have ever told me of this.”
“It is not yet known.” Alita sighed heavily, putting her hand to her temple. Her head was spinning at the images which were coming to her, impressions of the future more and more frequently and with greater clarity.
Are these visions the result of spending time with Lord Ravensdale? Or am I simply changing?
“I beg your pardon, young lady. What nonsense are you spouting?”
“Grandmamma, I have the sight,” Alita said faintly, her head throbbing. She closed her eyes. “I see things. I know things. I don’t know why. It just happens to be my gift. Everyone has certain talents, and this is mine.”
Oh, no! The words were out before she knew it. Why can’t I stop talking? Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse…
“Needlework is a talent. Witchcraft is the work of the devil.”
“Witchcraft? Certainly not.”
Marvella fell back into her chair, fanning herself and shaking her head, talking to herself. “I knew it was too much to hope for that you could be born of that crazy daughter of mine and that…that…laborer…and still be perfectly normal. I knew there had to be something quacked with you.”
“Grandmamma, I am not quacked. I know things I shouldn’t know.”
“Very true, you shouldn’t. Don’t worry, dear. It’s not your fault. It’s in the blood. We’ll find you a nice husband, and all will be well.” She patted Alita’s hand, muttering under her breath, “A nice husband who is a little quacked himself. There are plenty of those to be had. You’ll deal famously together.”
Alita kissed her grandmother’s forehead.
“This Lord Ravensdale,” Marvella asked hopefully, “He is a little odd, is he not?”
“I love you, Grandmamma. Please take care of yourself.”
Marvella shook her head as if to say, It is you who need help.
Alita lay awake in her bed, her thoughts tormenting her. She was surrounded by people she loved who ignored her gifts, who didn’t believe anything she said, and who were headed down a path of destruction.
While she could see a better plan for them. The view was hazy, but, if they would only listen, maybe the route would come into the sunlight.
Oh, who am I fooling? It was her own life which was an absolute mess. She had destroyed her presentation when she had been given everything in life one needed to succeed. And still she couldn’t make anything happen for herself.
She had done nothing of merit and had no achievements of her own.
No wonder no one takes me seriously or believes a word I say.
Alita blew out the candle she kept on her nightstand and lay her head on a soft feather pillow. She stared out the window at the moon for some hours before sleep found her. When finally she drifted into sleep, she dreamed of golden pyramids, camels in the starlight, secret burial chambers, and an even more elusive military captain.
30
Storyteller
“Damnation!” Val cursed under his breath, feeling as if he would collapse from anguish.
Would this ever get any easier? His hand reached up to the door, preparing to knock.
Silently, his hand dropped to his side. Tears welled up in his eyes as he easily accessed a grief which now permeated the landscape of his life like a grey fog.
Val shook his head in self-reproof. He set the packages down and leaned against the porch. He felt the beam give slightly from his weight.
“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, forgetting to take care to quiet his voice. Must everything I touch disintegrate?
His waking moments were reminders of all that needed to be done and no one to do them.
Abruptly a little face peered through the only window. The small hand-built wooden home was considered luxurious for the area, with two rooms—a bedroom where the entire family slept and a living-kitchen area. And even a window. Most important, there was a garden and room for livestock. Even with Banafrit’s widow making jewelry which she sold to Shepheard’s, the family would have struggled without the garden.
In the cooler months the family congregated around the kitchen stove after dinner and, in the warmer months, on the porch. Although Val’s estate in Norfolk had tenants with better homes, this had been a home filled with more joy than all of the rooms of his estate combined.
Had been.
“Hunter!” the child exclaimed as he threw open the door, the variation on Val’s name being yet another unpleasant reminder.
“Hello, Abdul-Rashid.”
“What did you bring for me?” the child asked in Coptic as he ran through the door, his tan linen tunic flying past his bare legs. On his head was a small white hat, which reminded Val of a Jewish skullcap.
“Nothing. Did you need something?” Val answered quietly as he picked up Rashid and swung him. “I’ve only brought supplies for your mother.”
“Nothing?” The child’s eyes narrowed, his expression suspicious.
“Where is Imani?” Val placed Rashid on the wooden floor.
Rashid began searching through the packages Val had brought, pulling out a large loaf of bread. Val returned the gesture with a harsh glance, and Rashid quickly placed the bread back into the basket. The child had been quick to learn there was generally an opening for mischief where adults were concerned. He clearly meant to be ready to spring into action when that opening revealed itself.
“I asked you a question, Abdul-Rashid,” Val said in perfect Coptic, patting the boy’s cheek.
“You did?” stated Rashid, his mind focused on more important matters, such as gifts and toys. “Oh. Mama is in the garden with Jendayi.”
“Will you lead me to her please?” Not that Val needed a guide, but this was the best way to keep an eye on Rashid.
“Yes, sir,” stated Rashid as he took him by the hand.
“Look, Hunter!” Rashid pointed to the wall, and Val’s eyes followed the boy’s finger to see a bugle and a brass-hilted sword hanging on display. It hadn’t been there on his last visit. “Father was the bugler,” Rashid boasted proudly. “To warn of the enemy.”
Val felt his heart stop in his chest, almost losing his voice. He managed to whisper, “Banafrit’s position bestowed a great honor upon him.”
“I guess he didn’t do a good enough job of warning himself, did he Hunter?” Rashid added somberly, “Or anyone else.”
“Abdul-Rashid, you must never forget what I am about to tell you.” Val got down on his knees and held the boy’s shoulders. “Your father was a fearless warrior. A great man. A hero like that comes along once in a century. He was a loyal Egyptian. He was willing to lay down his life for his country—and his family.” Val’s chest heaved, but he ignored it. “His blood flows in your veins, Abdul-Rashid. Do you understand?”
Rashid nodded.
“Sometimes the wrong side wins, and sometimes life is not fair. All you can do is to live with courage and integrity, Abdul-Rashid. And remember that your father is always with you.” He patted the boy’s heart.
Rashid appeared pensive, and then he smiled. “I’m gonna’ be a bugler, too,” he announced.
Val knew what he would be bringing on his next visit. He studied the boy’s face and saw Banafrit in his eyes. The father who loved this boy as life itself. The father who would not see Rashid grow up into the person he would become.
Rashid greatly needed a father. And not just any father—his father.
And why must so many Egyptians die? So England might have control of the Suez Canal? Was it even true that this acquisition forwarded national security when thousands of homes just like this one were growing to hate the English, a sentiment that would be passed down for generations into the next century?
There has to be a better way.
Funny how thinking of others as barbarians allowed one to behave like one.
Val couldn’t laugh though. While the misery inflicted was obvious to him, almost all of his countrymen were swept up in the glory of war and nationalism.
He reminded himself that both his country and his family held him in disdain for his views. But this wasn’t the time or place to mourn having no family which claimed or loved him.
These children had lost their father, it was his doing, and he had no business reflecting on his own grief. He was a grown man now, after all. Abdul-Rashad and Jendayi had a long road ahead of them.
He followed Rashid out the back door to where Imani was tending to her garden. “Valerius!” she exclaimed, almost smiling. Being African-Egyptian, Imani was dark-skinned with Egyptian features and black eyes.
She had been beautiful when her husband was alive. There was no light in her hollow eyes now, and Val knew who had extinguished it.
Without warning, an image of Alita, so full of life, so sparkling, so beautiful, flew before his eyes. And here Imani stood before him, the life taken out of her. The contrast pained him.
Imani wiped the sweat from her brow, an expression of interest crossing her face for an instant, and Val felt his anguish lighten for a moment. He studied her for any hint of improvement, longing with all his heart to see it.
Her face was unveiled, but she wore a band around her head and a long scarf which completely covered her hair. A resplendent choker of many-colored beads adorned her neck. There was no other jewelry visible. Her full brown cotton skirt reached to the ground, and a tan scarf was draped across her torso. Despite the pleasure in her expression at seeing him, exhaustion and sadness enveloped her eyes.
In the meantime, Rashid’s older sister, Jendayi, almost eleven years old, moved shyly toward Val, just behind her mother. Val smiled down at the little girl staring up at him.
The combination of African and Arabic blood had played out to create a strikingly beautiful child in Jendayi. She had strong Arabic features and long, thick hair. Her eyes were large as were her lips. Her skin was lighter than her mother’s, an exotic dark olive tone. Large hooped silver earrings hung from her ears, and a circular beaded Cleopatra necklace graced her swan-like neck, accenting an ankle-length cotton tunic of many colors.
Jendayi was slim, tall, and long-legged. In the home she was barefoot and wore a band around her left ankle. The girl had a quiet, subdued manner about her, which might have been interpreted as maturity and tranquility if Val had not known it for grief.
Surprisingly, Jendayi was not recovering as well from her father’s death as was Rashid. Jendayi was generally quiet and did not speak of her feelings.
“How good to see you, Valerius,” Imani exclaimed as she moved towards him. Though the children had Arabic names since their father had been of Arabic descent, the household had reverted to speaking Coptic, Imani’s first language, since Banafrit’s death.
If she only knew I am her husband’s killer. Pain gnawed at his gut. For the hundredth time, he reminded himself telling Imani would serve no useful purpose. It would effectively remove him from being able to help the family or, at best, it would make the meeting so terribly awkward and painful for the children that he would not be able to assist to the same degree, if at all.
Revealing the pain in his soul would dissipate his own grief—and create a situation whereby he would no longer have to fulfill his obligations. Of benefit to him but detrimental to Banafrit’s family.
Val shook his head. No, releasing his own heartache was the least of his considerations at the moment.
“How are you, Imani?” Val took her hand.
“I miss him,” she stated in a whisper as a tear formed in her eye. “But I am determined to find the strength to live for his children.”
“You are doing an excellent job, Imani,” he stated quietly.
“It is his own fault for being so political. He should have never fought the powers that be,” she said with a shake to her head, pain flashing across her face.
“Imani, never think that Banafrit did wrong to fight for his people’s freedom.” Val fought the impulse to grab her by the shoulders. “It was a noble cause and he died bravely.”
“Noble?” She sobbed. “He left us behind and achieved nothing.”
“It isn’t only noble if you win,” Val stated with deep feeling, his eyes piercing hers. “The only thing you can do in life is to be true to your path and to live with honor. There is no other course.”
“It was for nothing.” Her lips formed a half smile, as if she were talking to a child who had offered up his small coin for the rent. She rubbed her eyes. “And it won’t bring my son’s father back. Let us not speak of this anymore. It is not your burden to bear.”
Val winced. He wondered that Banafrit did not rise from his grave and strike him dead through the heart. He took a deep breath. “Perhaps it is, Imani. I did fight on the opposite side. I am sorry.”
“You did your duty, and Banafrit did his.”
Val shook his head. “It was very wrong. I wish with all my heart I could undo my part in this.”
Imani’s lips formed a trembling smile, and suddenly her expression lightened. “From the seeds you brought some months ago I have such a bountiful garden I will be able to feed the neighborhood. Come and see.” With these words, her face was almost animated. Rashid bounded behind them as they inspected the garden.
Imani’s garden was indeed abundant. A small amount of fertile ground could grow much food. She had lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes, leeks, beets, peas, grapes, and a pomegranate and fig tree. In her herbal garden she had cumin, coriander, sesame, and dill. Ducks roamed freely, and she had a pen with a goat for milk. Beekeeping was in another corner of the garden, producing the most common sweetener.
“We named the goat Captain Val,” Jendayi exclaimed.
Captain Lord Ravensdale raised his eyebrows in stern disapproval.
“After you,” Jendayi stated, pouring salt into the wound.
“Yes, I comprehend that fact,” stated his lordship tersely. He restrained himself from further remark with much effort. He had not yet sunk so low he would argue with children over the correct naming of a goat.
“I explained the goat is female,” Imani interjected, embarrassed, “so she could not be named after you, but they insisted.”
“Ah, I am doubly blessed. Not only is my twin a goat, but a matron, no less. It warms the heart that such a creature would evoke my image.”
He bestowed a forced smile upon Rashid and Jendayi, who beamed back at him. The goat seemed to smile as well, chewing nonchalantly, saliva drooling down her chin.
“Hmmm, possibly an improvement to the family tree,” Val muttered as he studied his namesake.
“Hunter has brought something for you!” exclaimed Rashid to his mother, eager to show he was even more in-the-know than his sister.
“Just some wine, bread, smoked fish, vinegar, and fabric for the children’s clothes.”
“You shouldn’t have, Valerius.” Imani smiled at him. “Your friendship is all we require.”
“Look! Look!” Rashid exclaimed, going through the packages. “What’s this, Hunter?”
The earl raised his eyebrows.
“It’s a book, silly,” Jendayi announced as she moved closer, the picture on the cover absorbing
her interest.
“A book?” Rashid frowned.
“It is called One Thousand and One Arabian Nights,” Val said.
Jendayi’s expression lost some of its melancholy. “What is it about, Hunter?”
“It’s a remarkable tale about a woman who was such a marvelous storyteller she saved herself from a king who had vowed to kill her. He fell in love with her through her stories and married her instead.”
“Did the king know they were only stories?” Jendayi asked slowly, confusion written across her face as she considered his words. “That they weren’t real?”
“But if the stories saved her life, how could they not be real?” Val asked the little girl.
“Do you have anything better, Hunter?” Rashid tugged at Val’s sleeve.
“Abdul-Rashid!” Imani reprimanded.
“Better than a book? Like what?” Val asked.
“Swords? Games?”
“Could her stories have saved my daddy’s life?” Jendayi whispered, deep in thought as she ignored her brother.
I killed your father. Rage and greed killed your father, he wanted to scream. Your father is dead because he happened to be born in a country with resources a bigger country wanted.
“Valerius?” asked Imani. “Are you well…”
“Yes, Jendayi,” Val replied in a gruff whisper. “If the right story had been told to the right people and enough people had believed the story, yes, it could have saved your father’s life.”
“Why, Hunter?” Jendayi covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes opened wide in amazement. “How?”
“Everything we do in life is based on a story we believe.”
“What was her name?” Jendayi asked, moving closer. “The lady who told the stories?”
“Scheherazade.”
“Who was she?”
“She was an enchantress.” As he uttered the words, in an instant a picture of Alita Stanton entered his mind involuntarily. Why Miss Stanton continually appeared from nowhere, he did not know. She had been encroaching upon his thoughts a great deal lately.
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic (Daughters of the Empire Book 1) Page 26
