An Exciting Night

The next day dawned bright and clear, and the rescue party set off early in the afternoon. Jenny, desperately disappointed that she wasn’t going, too, but determined to make the best of it, stood and waved them off. Hamid, all his fears forgotten in the thrill of being inside the beautiful car, sat in the backseat like a prince and nodded proudly to the crowd of openmouthed, admiring urchins running behind. Far down the road they followed, shouting and hooting, rags fluttering. Hamid stuck his head far out of the window and yelled with triumph, and Rosemary pulled him in again by the seat of his trousers.

It was a beautiful drive. Hamid remembered the hot, dusty evening when he had toiled up the same hill with Kinza on his back. He had been too tired then to look about him and admire the view, but now he wanted to see everything, and he leapt from side to side of the car like a monkey in a cage.

Later he slept, curled up on the backseat, and when he woke he found the car had stopped in an area surrounded by mountains, and the Englishman and the nurse were drinking tea and eating sandwiches. Hamid was given a sugar bun, and he thought he was in heaven.

Only one thought spoiled his pleasure. As the sun sank toward the western mountains, the grey car was traveling toward his village and his stepfather. The big Englishman and the nurse had promised that he would be kept safe, so he was not really very afraid. He laid his head on his arms on the window ledge, thinking. He was coming near to his mother, too, and his heart cried out for her. It would be hard to be so close and yet be unable to see her or speak to her. Two big tears brimmed up in his eyes and trickled over onto the shiny leather car seats.

After a while, the car turned off the main road onto a stony mountain road, traveling more slowly between scrubby hills where the villages of the mountain people nestled. Children were bringing their goats home, and several times the car had to stop while a small figure and his flock crossed the road.

Then the sun set behind the hills, and Hamid could see the shape of his home mountain in the distance with two bright stars twinkling above it. His heart began to beat very fast and his mouth felt rather dry.

It was quite dark when they reached the familiar marketplace. They drove beyond the few shops to where the rough road dwindled into a track, and there Mr. Swift stopped the car.

Hamid tumbled out and ran behind an olive tree while the nurse spoke to a boy standing in the doorway of a house and asked him to mind the car. Hamid knew this boy and did not wish to be recognized by anyone, so he waited until the boy’s back was turned, and then came skulking out from his hiding place and without a word set off quickly along the familiar path, with Mr. Swift and the nurse hurrying along behind him. This was the very track up which he had toiled on hot summer evenings carrying Kinza home from market; here was the fountain where he and Rahma had filled buckets at sunrise; to his left was the burying ground, with the three little graves where the marigolds grew; and there in front of him, at the top of the hill, gleamed the lights in the cottages on the outskirts of the village. Just another fifty yards’ climb and he could see his own lamplit doorway and the rosy glow of the charcoal fire. He stopped short and beckoned his followers to his side.

“There,” he breathed, pointing toward it. “It is the third house beyond the fig tree. You just push the gate open—there is no latch. Don’t be afraid of the dog—he’s chained. And remember, you have promised not to tell my stepfather.”

“Yes, Hamid,” said the nurse quietly, “I’ve promised. And if he comes with us to the car you must hide until he goes away. We will not leave without you. Otherwise, we’ll meet you here.”

They went cautiously on up the rocky path, and Hamid went off to hide himself safely behind the bushes at the bottom of the burying ground. Crouching there, hugging his knees, he remembered his first escape, when he had crept down the hill at midnight and felt so afraid of evil spirits in the dark. Suddenly he realized he was not afraid anymore, and then remembered why. Death was no longer a place of shadows and lost spirits—it was simply a door into the light and sunshine of God’s home, and the nurse had said that little children who had no knowledge of good and evil were welcome there, so his little brothers and sister were safe and happy after all. Hamid suddenly wished he could go there, too, instead of crouching like an outcast within sight of his own home. He longed for the warm fireside, for the nuzzling goats, for Rahma and, above all, for his mother. His heart strained toward her. Surely she would hear and come.

Mr. Swift and Rosemary made their way by flashlight, in single file, along the mud track that led to Hamid’s home.

Nobody saw them passing, and when they reached the gate, it was as he had said. It opened with a gentle push, and they stepped out of the shadows and stood hesitating in the light that streamed through the open doorway.

There was the rattle of a chain and the big black dog leaped up and strained on its lead. The bearded man sitting just inside glanced out, saw them, and rose instantly and crossed the hut. There seemed to be a sort of scuffle inside, a quick murmur of low voices, and then the master of the house appeared, smiling and bowing and full of polite greetings. He invited his guests to enter and tell their business inside and to share their meal, even though the food was poor. Stooping, they passed through the low doorway and stood in the tiny dim room, looking around.

There was a young woman with a sad, patient face squatting by the fire and a shy, little dark-eyed girl nestling against her. In a shadowed corner, leaning against a bundled-up blanket, sat an older woman. She did not come forward to greet them; she remained in her corner, silent and watchful. The master spread a sheepskin on the floor and asked his guests to sit down with their backs to her.

There was no sign of Kinza at all, and the nurse’s heart sank—perhaps they had all come on a wild-goose chase.

Expressing polite surprise at the late hour of their visit, the black-bearded man told the young woman to serve them with sweet mint tea, and as they sipped he asked why they had come.

“I have come to find out about your little blind girl, Kinza,” replied the nurse, speaking very firmly. “She was left in my charge by her brother about seven months ago. I have grown very fond of the child and would very much like to have her back. She is your child, and it must be as you wish, but I am willing to pay a price for her—and of course her mother can come see her from time to time.”

There was an instant’s silence while Si Mohamed, completely taken by surprise by the assurance in her voice, hesitated. She had mentioned paying a price, and he would do almost anything for money; she would pay more than the beggar. On the other hand, he might get into trouble for having taken her, and there was the question of her fine clothes. Kinza had arrived home after dark, wrapped in a potato sack, and had been kept out of sight ever since. He had sold her clothes to some Spaniards that very morning. It was too much to risk. He pretended to look surprised and spread out his hands, palm upward.

“But I don’t know where she is,” he assured her in an injured voice. “True, her brother stole her away about seven months ago, but since then I have neither seen her nor received news of her. If the boy has told you that this is her home, he is speaking the truth, but the child is not here. If I hear news of her, I will gladly bring her to you.”

There was a long pause. Rosemary’s eyes met the eyes of the young woman sitting at the other side of the fire. They were fixed on her very steadily and—was it imagination, or did she really give a very faint nod in the direction of the old woman?

Rosemary turned on her sheepskin and looked all around the room. There was only one possible place for Kinza to be hidden, and that was under the blanket behind the old woman. No longer caring anything about manners, she got up suddenly and stepped across the room and called out Kinza’s name at the top of her voice three times over.

The man stood on his feet, pale with fright; the old woman clutched at the blanket, but she was too late. At the sound of the well-known, well-loved voice, Kinza sprang up with a loud answering cry and frantically struggled out from under the blanket. Rosemary almost lifted the old woman out of the way, and the next moment Kinza was in her arms, clinging to her as though she would never let go.

Kinza’s joy was indescribable; all the terror was over and she was safe again in the arms of her protector. The last two-and-a-half days had been a nightmare of jolting and cold, as she had lain all night wrapped in a sack on the boards of a truck trailer, of smacks when she cried, of hunger and fear and bewilderment, and of rough hands that had snatched her from her mother’s arms. But that was all over now. Her strained body relaxed and she lay at peace. Rosemary turned to face the stepfather.

He had risen threateningly, his face pale with anger and fear, and Mr. Swift had risen, too, and stood ready to act if necessary. He was a big man, and Si Mohamed realized in a moment that his only hope now was to give in graciously and strike a good bargain.

“There,” he said rather nervously, “you have found her, and now she will be your daughter. You are very welcome to her, and with you I know she will be safe and happy. Now tell me what are you willing to pay for her?”

Rosemary mentioned a sum much higher than Hamid had told her the beggar had offered. Si Mohamed, terrified that her clothes were going to be mentioned and only anxious to get rid of his unwelcome guests, accepted the offer at once.

He came forward to receive the money, with expressions of delight that Kinza should be so honored, and Kinza screamed when she heard the dreaded voice approaching.

Rosemary handed over the money and bent over the frightened child. “It’s all right, Kinza,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid. He can’t touch you. You’re my little girl now.”

Reassured and trustful, Kinza stuck two fingers in her mouth and lay still, content and unafraid in the arms of her friend. She was soon fast asleep. She did not know that a long journey had been taken for her sake and that a high price had been paid to buy her back again, but the voice that had never yet told her a lie had said, “Don’t be afraid; you’re my little girl now.”

There was nothing left to do but get away as quickly as possible before any further trouble arose. Rosemary said a brief good-bye to the old woman and the stepfather and turned to speak to the mother, but her seat by the charcoal pot was empty. Only the little girl sat watching, solemn and big-eyed. The mother had slipped out unnoticed while the payment was being arranged, and, caring nothing for her husband’s anger, she was hurrying down the steep path that led from the village, calling softly and breathlessly to her son.

She guessed he must be near, for how else could they have found their way to the house? But even so, she was startled when a little figure ran out from the shadows of the olive trees on the outskirts of the burying ground and kissed her hand. She pulled him fearfully back into the dark safety of the trees and looked into his upturned face. “Little Son, Little Son,” she whispered, for she knew their time was short, “how are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he whispered back. “I work in the town and all is well. But Kinza—have they got her?”

His mother nodded. “The Englishwoman paid a price for her and will take her as her daughter. I have no more fear for Kinza. All will be well for her, and she will never suffer or be beaten or beg. But you, little son … come back to me. I miss you so.”

He shook his head slowly. “I dare not,” he breathed. “Si Mohamed would kill me with a beating. I have work and can live, and the English nurse feeds us at night. Besides, she has a Book about Jesus, the man she told you about who took children in His arms, and in that book is written the way of God, which leads to heaven. What she tells us from her Book makes my heart happy, and I must know more.”

He was speaking very earnestly, and she drew him close against her. He had grown taller, but he was so thin, and to her he still seemed such a little boy. Yet all on his own he had found happiness. She could see his face brighten in the moonlight as he spoke. If only she could follow him. She had no happiness.

“Then you must come and tell me, Little Son,” she urged. “I want to be happy too. Your stepfather won’t beat you. He has to pay a boy to look after his goats, and he often grumbles because you are not here to work for him. He would be glad to see you back.”

He rested his head against her shoulder and sat very still, thinking hard. He was tired of traveling and wandering and fending for himself, tired of trying to be a man before his time. All he wanted was to be a little boy again and lean unashamed against his mother in the dark for a while and then to go home.

But if he did that, he would never learn to read from the nurse’s Book and perhaps he would forget the way to heaven. Besides, he was still very afraid of his stepfather. Slowly, and after a long silence, he made up his mind.

“I will go back now,” he whispered, “and I’ll learn to read from the Book that tells the way to heaven. Then when the harvest is ripe, I’ll come and tell you all about it. Only ask Si Mohamed not to beat me.”

Steps sounded on the path and the light of the flashlight was flashed onto them. They rose quickly and came out into the open moonlight. The mother stooped and kissed her sleeping baby quickly, whispered a blessing on the nurse, and gave her hand to her son. Then without another word she turned up the hill and went back to the punishment that awaited her, content and unafraid. Kinza was safe forever, and she had seen her little boy. All was well with him and he had promised to come home. Nothing else mattered.

The little party hurried toward the valley. Mr. Swift carried Kinza, and Rosemary held the flashlight; Hamid bounded ahead, knowing every inch of the way. They had almost reached the car when they heard quick steps behind them and angry shouting. It was Si Mohamed, coming after his runaway boy. His wife’s disappearance had roused his suspicions. The quiet joy in her face on her return had confirmed them.

“My stepfather!” gasped Hamid, and he made for the car like a hunted rabbit. Finding the door locked, he stood jumping up and down, squeaking with fear. The nurse was only a few seconds behind him, and the big Englishman tossed Kinza into her arms as though she were a bundle of washing, jammed the key in the lock, dived into the front, started the car, and opened the back doors. The nurse, Kinza, and Hamid all seemed to fall in at once as the car moved off with a triumphant roar. It shot past the empty marketplace, bumping horribly, leaving Si Mohamed standing alone under the eucalyptus trees, very angry and out of breath, while his stepson flung himself back against the shiny cushions and started to laugh.

Five minutes later, they had all settled themselves comfortably and were over their fright. Kinza slept deeply and peacefully, worn out by the terror and uncertainty of the past three days. Hamid rested his brown arms on the window, and his gaze wandered to the twin peaks above his home. He knew that he would come back, alone and on foot, one summer evening when the fields were ripe for harvest. And he would not feel afraid, for Jesus had said, “He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.”*

* John 8:12