Zohra Makes a Plan

Hamid stood on the outskirts of the market, his thin brown face turned upward, his bright dark eyes fixed on the top of the mosque, waiting for the priest to appear and shout the four o’clock prayer call. This was the time Kinza was released and he could carry her off, safe for another week.

The crowd was thinning now, and Hamid could spot his sister sitting in a sad little heap beside her master. She was in disgrace because she had fallen asleep, and Hamid was impatient to rescue her.

The mosque was the village temple—a building with a square tower dazzling white against the blue sky. A golden crescent gleamed from the top.

At last the old bearded priest appeared and sent his chanted call ringing out across the marketplace. “There is one God,” he cried, “and Mohammed is his prophet.”

Faithful Muslims flocked to the temple or took off their shoes and prayed where they stood, facing east, bowing low, and sometimes kneeling with their foreheads on the ground.

The moment Hamid caught sight of the priest, he raced across the market, kissed the old beggar’s hand in greeting, and snatched up his little sister.

He had brought her a doughnut. She clutched it eagerly and took a mouthful. In the joy of feeling his arms safe about her once more, she forgot all about the hunger and thirst and weariness of that long day and nestled her head into his neck, crooning with delight. Her tired little body relaxed and she fell fast asleep, as she had been longing to do for the past three hours. Hamid, a little bent from the dead weight of her, wandered home along the river path in the sweltering heat.

He rested for a while under a fig tree, watching the river where the women were washing their clothes and the cows cooled their feet. He wondered where the river went. One day he would find out for himself.

Once again, as night fell, the family gathered around the clay bowl and ate their supper by firelight and candlelight. Kinza, refreshed from her sleep, sat on her mother’s lap, flushed and bright-eyed, opening her mouth for food like a hungry baby bird. Hamid watched her, loving her and remembering the pressure of her weary little body against his back. Always, always, he would protect her and make her happy.

The cows munched in the shed, and an old dog with a torn ear wandered in and lay down with his head on Rahma’s lap. Moths and bats flitted in and out, and the cat crept up and stuck her head into the clay pot to have supper with the family.

Hamid, tired from his climb, lay down to sleep. He dreamed that the terrifying old beggar stood between him and Kinza. Suddenly he woke to find that the moon had risen and the grown-ups were still sitting talking around the dead charcoal.

In the silver beams he could see their faces clearly—his stepfather grim and determined, Fatima cruelly pleased, and his mother pale and pleading.

“It is the only offer we shall ever get for her,” said Si Mohamed fiercely. “She will be looked after for life.”

“Life!” cried his mother bitterly. “There will be no life! She will die—she is so little and so weak.”

“A blind child is better dead!” remarked Fatima.

Zohra turned angrily on the old woman, but the man silenced them both by raising his hand.

“Silence, you foolish women!” he ordered. “Let there be no more talk about this. The child must come with me three days from now at dawn.”

He rose grandly, like a king, and Fatima rose too. But Zohra stayed crouched by the dead fire, rocking herself to and fro in the moonlight.

“Little daughter! Little daughter!” she murmured brokenly to herself, and Hamid lay quite still and watched her. He dared not speak or go to her for fear of waking his stepfather. But his hot little heart beat very fast, and his mind was completely made up.

It shall not be! he said to himself over and over again. I will not let her go. It shall not be!

He watched his mother creep away at last and lie down sorrowfully to sleep. He watched the pale patch of moonlight move across the doorway and rest on the cradle where Kinza lay dreaming. He saw the pale summer dawn begin to break and heard the first rooster crow—and all the time he lay thinking, thinking, thinking. But his thinking got him nowhere, and just before daybreak he fell into a deep sleep. Two hours later he was woken by his stepfather prodding him with his foot.

“Wake up, you lazy creature!” growled Si Mohamed. “It’s time you had the goats out.”

Hamid rolled off his mattress, washed his face and hands in a bucket of water, and started to eat his breakfast. Gobbling his bread and sipping his bowl of coffee, he glanced at his mother. Her face was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but she did not look as unhappy as he had expected. There was a very determined expression on her face, as though she had made up her mind about something. Once Hamid found her staring hard at him, and he stared firmly back. She raised her eyebrows a little and he gave a slight nod. A secret understanding flashed between them. As soon as they could, they would talk together.

They did not have to wait very long. Hamid took the goats on to the hillside. With a crust of bread saved from his breakfast, he bribed a friend to watch them for him, then he crept back and watched through a gap in the hedge. Soon he saw his mother go across to where the grindstone stood, and after a few minutes he slipped in and joined her.

Kinza was sitting as usual with her face turned toward the eastern mountain, waiting for the sun to rise. Zohra sat cross-legged, turning the heavy wheel that crushed the corn.

Hamid crouched down beside her and touched her arm. “Mother,” he whispered, “I heard last night. Is it the old beggar who is to have Kinza?”

His mother turned toward him, and her calm, steady gaze rested on him for a moment, as if she were making a decision. He was a thin little boy, small for his age, but very tough—and his love for Kinza was very strong.

“So my husband thinks,” she replied, “but I say that it shall not be. I will not have Kinza starved in those cruel streets. No, Hamid, you must take her somewhere else. You can save her if you wish.”

“Me!” echoed Hamid, amazed. But the look he gave his mother was reassuring—full of bravery and willing courage.