The Bride Price

by Karen Jones Delk

  “No, I think perhaps it is you who should speak, Sharif,” his aunt urged gently. “What’s wrong? I can see you are disturbed. Did you find that you do not love this woman after all?’’

  For a long moment she wondered if he would answer. Sharif seemed oblivious of her presence. He stared straight ahead, his handsome face solemn as he gathered his thoughts.

  “I find I love her too much, Alima,” he said at last, still refusing to look at her. “And sometimes it makes me afraid.”

  “You afraid?” The woman drew a quick breath at the admission the sheik would make to no one else. “What can you fear? That the American girl does not love you in return? She does. I can see it in her eyes.”

  “Farha loves me now, or she thinks she does, but will she love me when her memory returns?”

  “Ah, yes, her memory.” Alima nodded wisely. “And is it returning?”

  “More and more every day.”

  “Why have you not told her of her past, my lord?”

  Too tense to sit still, Sharif rose to pace the length of the majlis. His robes fluttered softly behind him at every turn while he searched for the words to explain. “In the beginning, it seemed a miracle that Bryna did not remember her old life. You see, I did not want her to remember it or to long to return to it. I wanted her to believe she belonged with me, forever. I knew, with time, she would grow to love me as I loved her.”

  “And hasn’t she?” the old woman interjected.

  “I told you. Farha loves me, but what of Bryna bint Blaine?”

  “I see the problem,” she murmured. “As I recall, Bryna is a woman of great spirit.”

  “Indeed.” Sharif halted before his aunt’s divan and looked down at her with a troubled frown. “What will happen when she remembers all, as she surely will? Perhaps not today or tomorrow. But one day she will remember. And she will realize that I had it in my power to free her or to tell her what I knew of her past all the time. She will hate me.”

  “What would happen if you told her now?” She met his gaze challengingly.

  “It’s too late,” he said sadly. “You once told me that when I loved again, it would be Allah’s greatest blessing, Alima. Instead I am cursed to love her so. I cannot bear her loss, yet I know I will not be able to keep her if she hates me.”

  “Oh, my nephew, what a web you have woven for yourself,” the woman sighed. “But there must be something...”

  “There is nothing I can do about it,” he countered harshly. “Insh’allah.”

  “Do not be a fool, Sharif,” she said sharply. “You can continue to love Farha as you’ve always loved her, from the first moment you saw her. You say you fear—all men, even great men, fear, but they overcome it. You can do something. It will take a great deal of courage, but if you love Bryna, you will fight to keep her. And you will win her.”

  “I hope what you say is true, Aunt,” he replied hoarsely, “for I love her as I have loved no other.”

  “Sharif...”

  “There is nothing more to say.” The proud man wheeled and strode from the majlis, leaving Alima with her own thoughts.

  No, my nephew, we will not say what you already know, she reflected pensively. You have loved this woman more than honor, and you have found what your heart wills, just as the prophecy said. Now let us see if you have the courage to keep her.

  * * *

  Hirfa trudged along the corridor, grumbling to herself. It was near midnight, but she must come when her mistress called. Stopping before the closed door to Alima’s private apartment, the old servant scratched softly and was admitted immediately.

  Clad in a white robe with her silver hair unbound, Alima resembled a ghost in the flickering lamplight. Peering around the room uneasily, Hirfa said, “You wished to see me, my lady?”

  “Yes, I need for you to read the sands, for the lady Farha.”

  “Will she join us?” The maid’s eyes strained to see into the dark corners as if she sought Bryna in the shadows.

  “She will not. She and my nephew are asleep now. They leave early tomorrow for Mecca. Just tell me what you see for her.”

  “If it is the will of Allah,” the old woman muttered, setting her tray on a low table and taking out a tiny bag of sand.

  She knew why I beckoned before I told her, Alima thought uncomfortably as she watched Hirfa sprinkle the sand onto the tray.

  The fortune-teller sat down at the table and hunched over the tray, frowning in deep concentration, mumbling under her breath. At last she sat up, her eyes still on the rippled surface of the sand, and shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry. I cannot tell what the future holds for the sheik’s lady. The sands are unclear. I see much confusion for her.”

  “That is hardly a revelation for a woman who has forgotten her past,” her mistress retorted dryly. “Do you not see anything else?”

  “Turmoil...great turmoil. The lady Farha must make a difficult choice, one that will change her life.”

  Alima’s heart skipped a beat and she leaned across the table to ask breathlessly. “Tell me, what is the choice?”

  “I do not know, but—”

  “But?”

  “But I see that she too will find what her heart wills,” the maid announced with satisfaction.

  Alima rocked back on her cushions and sighed gustily. What kinds of portents were these? Both Sharif and Bryna will find what their hearts will? What if both hearts did not share the same will? She still did not know whether Sharif would be happy.

  “Surely there is more?” the sheik’s aunt asked finally.

  “Nothing.” Hirfa answered with a definite shake of her white head.

  “Then I suppose we must trust that all will be well,” Alima muttered to herself. “Insh’allah... You may go.” She dismissed the maid with a nod. “But Hirfa...”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Say nothing of this to anyone else.”

  When Alima rose to see Sharif and Bryna off the next morning, she was relieved to see that all seemed to be well between them. Her nephew behaved as if nothing were amiss, his tenderness for his young wife apparent in his gray eyes. Despite a haunted sadness in her own eyes, Bryna returned his love with every look, every gesture.

  Sadly the old woman watched them ride away together, hoping they would realize that what their hearts willed, they had already found in each other.

  CHAPTER 23

  Evening had fallen when Blaine and Derek and their guides cautiously entered Mecca. Their robes crusted with dust, the travelers paused for a moment to greet the idlers at the gate and to buy water from a vendor, then urged their tired camels through noisy streets, teeming with pilgrims from throughout the world, past the Beit Allah, or Great Mosque, where the Kaaba, the huge black stone monument that is the heart of Islam, stood.

  Within the walls of the mosque, thousands of supplicants milled around the courtyard, despite the lateness of the hour. Legend maintained the walls would expand to hold as many pilgrims as had come to worship. Tonight many sought not to revere the sanctuary, but to sleep in the relative safety of its confines.

  The foreigners filed past the elegant homes of the nobility and Blaine and Derek gazed longingly at the big stone house of the Selims, knowing that Bryna was probably inside.

  Blaine, Derek, and Ernst waited wearily in the street, lounging against their couched camels while Mustafa found lodgings for them above the shop of an olive merchant near the immense souk. Leading the fatigued animals to a dusty courtyard behind the building, they allowed the beasts to drink from a shabby fountain while they inspected their surroundings, warily noting the unreliable-looking staircase ranging along the back of the house.

  Fearful that the men might get lost in the Moslem stronghold and meet the terrible fate of impostors, Ernst took them around to the front entrance of the apartment so they could identify their lodgings from the street. They halted before a narrow doorway that was almost blocked by barrels of olive oil that had been unloaded in the crowded street
. Peering through the darkness, they discerned cramped stairs that led from the street to a small suite of rooms. Up that staircase came the pungent smell of olives and oil from the merchant’s warehouse below.

  Not even their clever Swiss guide had a clear plan in mind about how to approach the wife of a sheik without losing their lives, so the foreigners spent their first few days in Mecca watching the gate of the house in which Bryna lived. Enclosed litters came and went, accompanied by the armed Selim retinue, but they caught no glimpse of Bryna.

  Blaine and Derek also searched the bazaar each day in hopes they would see the girl. Perhaps they passed her in the crowd, they agonized, but how could they recognize her under the concealing veil the women wore? If Bryna saw them, she behaved as a good Moslem wife should and paid no special note to the Algerian pilgrims.

  In the huge house near the Great Mosque, Bryna did indeed work at being a good Moslem wife. But soon the boredom of her isolation overcame her. At first it had not mattered that she knew no one in Mecca, for Sharif had taken her to tour the city. Even though it was not officially hajj, the time of pilgrimage, he had taken her to see Hagar’s well, Zem-Zem, and drink the curative waters. She had sipped, nearly gagging on the bitter, salty taste, but she drank to please her husband, who watched anxiously. Then they had strolled through the souks, where souvenirs of the holy city were offered for sale, pausing to admire elaborate tespis made of turquoise and coral and mother-of-pearl.

  But now the sheik’s leisure was at an end. It was necessary for him, as a sayyid, to don his green turban and join the ulema, the Islamic court, as custom dictated. Regretfully he left his wife to her own devices. Sharif employed only a few servants during their stay in Mecca, but there was still little for his wife to do in the huge house. She frequently spent her afternoons in the market, escaping her loneliness in the company of Abu Ahmad.

  It was for the old warrior Bryna waited this afternoon. When he finished carrying a message for his master, he would return for her and they would go to the bazaar. As restless as she at the inactivity, he had readily agreed to accompany her, even though the sun was low in the sky.

  Looking for something to occupy her until he arrived, she prowled the big house restlessly. At last, remembering a rip she had noticed in the sleeve of one of Sharif’s thobes, she went upstairs to his room to find the garment.

  Although Sharif spent a great deal of time in the women’s quarters, Bryna had only visited his bedchamber once or twice. But she did not feel like an intruder. Her husband’s personality seemed to be revealed in the simple room. It was a study in contrasts. Colorful tiles decorated the walls, but the furnishings were plain and few. His rifle hung by its cord from a peg on the wall, but below it, on a low table, an ornate copy of the Koran lay open. His heavy saddlebags were stacked in a corner, but the open door to the balcony gave the room an airy, pleasant feel.

  She crossed to the carved wooden chest and lifted the lid. The scent of the incense used to perfume the hair and beard after the coffee ritual wafted up to her. Smiling to herself, she sorted among her husband’s clothing until she found what she sought.

  As Bryna pulled the thobe from the chest, a bright metallic gleam underneath it caught her eye. She picked up a shiny golden oval engraved with flowers. Where had Sharif gotten this? It seemed familiar somehow. She turned it over in her hands, discovering it was hinged. But before she could open it, Abu Ahmad’s voice reached her from the stairs.

  “Al-Kibirah, are you there?”

  “I am here,” she answered, hastily dropping the locket into an embroidered bag she wore on her belt. She wanted to examine the necklace further, but as she secreted it away, she felt guilty, as if she had been caught doing something she should not have done. Picking up Sharif’s thobe, she closed the lid of the chest and hurried out to meet the servant.

  “I was just looking for this...I want to mend it,” she blurted before he could speak.

  “I will summon a maid to take it to your apartment, my lady.” He flashed her a mostly toothless smile in approval. The lady Farha was a good wife for his master. “If we are to go to the souk, we must leave now. It’s getting late.”

  They walked toward the souk at a leisurely pace, skirting the slave market. Bryna could not bear to walk on the long broad street, where men and women sat on banks of benches under a roof of matting, awaiting an uncertain future as servants and concubines.

  As Bryna and Abu Ahmad wandered, she was moody at first, thinking of the locket in her bag, but she soon forgot it. There was too much to see. The streets were clogged with pilgrims, and she was content to be a sightseer. Occupied with listening to the many languages, seeing the costumes of countless nationalities, she could almost ignore the heat and filth and stench of closely packed humanity.

  At the edge of a souk, where foodstuffs were sold, they came across a busy fruit stall.

  “Look at those pomegranates, my lady,” the old man exclaimed, pointing a gnarled finger, “the best I have seen in years.”

  “Perhaps you should buy some before the very best are gone, Abu Ahmad,” Bryna responded with a smile, handing him some coins. The servant hurried to do his mistress’s bidding, leaving her to wait in the shade of a stack of small casks.

  While she waited, Bryna heard voices from nearby. Meccans were notoriously loud and foul-mouthed, but these voices spoke a language she dimly understood. Curiously she cocked an ear to a chink in the wall of barrels.

  “I do not understand why we search the marketplace every day, Colonel. Even if we saw her, how would we know her under a veil? There must be a better way.” Derek and his companion stood on the bottom step of the stairs to their lodgings and watched the throng in discouragement.

  “Do you still insist we should march into the sheik’s courtyard and demand her return?” Blaine asked dryly. “Ernst says this is the best place to start if we do not wish to lose our heads.”

  “I know, I know. If we see her, if we recognize her...If, if, if,” the Englishman suddenly exploded.

  Blaine scowled at him. “We have come a long way on ifs, lad, and don’t forget it.”

  Unnoticed by Abu Ahmad, Bryna wandered to the end of the line of barrels and peeped around them. In the shadowy doorway stood two men. She scrutinized them from behind her cover of barrels. One was young and slender, the other a tall, older man. They looked to be Arab, but what tribe were they? What was their language?

  While she pondered, she was distracted by a boy who ran through the bazaar with a fat merchant at his heels. The boy hugged a melon against his chest. Perched backward on his shoulder was a monkey that chattered and waved its spindly arms at their pursuer as if taunting him.

  Made awkward by his burden, the child lurched against Bryna, then careened into the olive oil barrels behind her. As the monkey fought to maintain its balance, it grabbed at anything that might steady it. Its grasping paw ripped the burqu from Bryna’s face as she staggered against the tottering kegs. The unsteady stack of barrels collapsed with a deafening crash. Small casks rolled through the marketplace, bowling over pedestrians and crashing into stalls, bringing their canvas roofs down on merchants and shoppers alike.

  In the pandemonium Bryna fell, knocked unconscious by a falling cask, nearly at the feet of the two men in the doorway. Blaine and Derek rushed to aid the injured woman. Kneeling beside her, they turned her black-clad figure over, and neither man could believe his eyes.

  “Petite maîtresse,” Blaine breathed in wonder.

  “Bryna!” She was more beautiful than Derek had remembered. Her parted lips were painted red, and her closed eyes were shadowed and lined with kohl, enhancing her exotic appearance, but she was Bryna. How often had he dreamed of her in the past months. But he had known a girl, the girl he had planned to marry in Tangier. This Bryna was a woman.

  “Bryna!” Blaine leaned over her urgently. “Speak to me. Are you all right?”

  A moan was the only response. Derek looked around furtively. No one was watchin
g them in the confusion. He peeped around what remained of the stack of barrels into the thoroughfare. No one paid the slightest attention to him.

  “Hurry,” he instructed the other man briskly. “Get her inside before someone notices. We do not want a repeat of that fiasco in Riyadh—or worse.”

  Blaine wasted no time, scooping his unconscious daughter into his arms and running upstairs.

  Derek lingered on the steps, watching the dying furor in the market. Apparently the young thief had escaped, for the disgruntled merchant walked back to his own stall without his melon. Other vendors righted overturned baskets and repaired their damaged canopies. Derek watched a grizzled old man going anxiously from stall to stall, speaking to every merchant, urgently stopping passersby in the street to question them. But no one approached the Algerian who loitered beside the olive merchant’s shop.

  Upstairs, Blaine carried Bryna’s limp form through the majlis to the bedchamber, where he laid her down and examined her injury with gentle hands. She would be all right, he realized with relief. She had a small lump on the back of her head, but no blood seeped through her hair.

  He removed her aba and ghata against the heat. After the din in the souk, the heavy chain of coins she wore on her forehead clinked loudly in the silence of the room when he removed them. As he loosened her belt, the golden locket slipped from her bag and dropped onto the bed beside her.

  Blaine picked it up, surprised she carried this reminder of her past. Had she remembered? Or was this proof that her memory was gone entirely? Worriedly he bathed her face with a damp cloth, heedlessly smearing her carefully applied cosmetics, but she did not awaken.

  “Ah, chère, what you must have been through,” her father said regretfully. Brushing back her hair, he planted a light kiss on her forehead and sat down to wait for her to awaken in her own time.

  After a few minutes the door opened softly and Derek peered inside. “How is she?” he whispered.