The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  “Help! Stop! We need help!” Sara screamed.

  Eventually, the pain in Sibylla’s abdomen subsided, allowing her to reach for the reins and stop the animal.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Sara asked, profoundly alarmed.

  Sibylla shook her head. Her face was white. “I just had a horrible pain in my belly and back. It’s much better now.”

  “Your child! It’s coming!” Sara gasped, crossing herself. “Here, in the middle of nowhere!”

  “Nonsense!” Sibylla replied. “I still have four weeks to go.”

  “You had better dismount in any case,” said a French-accented voice behind her.

  Sara and Sibylla turned and stared at Monsieur Rouston. He leapt off his brown mare, walked over to Sibylla’s mule, and took the reins.

  “Madame Hopkins, n’est-ce pas? My name is André Rouston.” His voice was soft and reassuring, and yet she blushed.

  “Alors, madame, don’t be afraid. I’ll help you.” He extended his hand to Sibylla. She tried to stand in the stirrups, but was overcome by a new wave of pain.

  “Stay calm, madame,” she heard Rouston say. “Give me your hand. I have you.”

  As the contraction subsided, Sibylla took the hand offered to her. Rouston’s hand was warm, tanned, and callused on the inside.

  The nervous mule suddenly stamped its hooves and she fell against Rouston with a cry. Quickly, he caught her in his arms.

  “I am going to carry you into the shade now, Madame Hopkins. Can you see the palm tree with the three trunks over there by the dry riverbed?”

  She nodded silently and clenched her teeth in pain.

  He noticed this and continued. “You were so concerned about the well-being of the blacks, you must have forgotten all about your own.”

  “Fortunately, you, Monsieur Rouston, seem always to be in the right place at the right time, whether to help maltreated slaves or a woman in distress,” she replied. She noticed how flippant the words sounded and was annoyed with herself. She wanted to convey to him how very grateful she was.

  “Stubborn girl was determined to undertake this trip even though I warned her against it!” Sara had gotten down from her mule and was trailing behind the Frenchman and Sibylla, looking anxious.

  Sibylla shook her head. “I’m fine. The pains will go away. I’ve had them all along.”

  Sara placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “What? Since when?”

  “Since we left Marrakesh,” Sibylla replied softly. “And a little bit before, but not so severely.”

  “And you said nothing? At least in Marrakesh we would have had doctors and midwives!”

  “The child is due in four weeks? Did I hear that correctly?” Rouston asked.

  He was carrying Sibylla as gently as a porcelain doll. She felt safe and sheltered in his arms, and the pain no longer frightened her so. When they reached the palm tree, Rouston knelt down and delicately placed her on the ground, careful to ensure she was entirely in the shade of the sprawling tree. Sibylla heaved a sigh of relief. Even the afternoon heat was more tolerable here. The Frenchman looked at her pensively.

  “Perhaps the journey has been too stressful. Your child may indeed come sooner than expected.”

  Alarmed, the women looked at each other.

  “No! Not here!” Sibylla implored. What a nightmare, to be delivered of a child along this caravan route without any help! She turned her head and looked over to the chained slaves, the heavily laden camels, to the slave drivers and the riders on their donkeys, mules, and horses, who marched by in a long line without taking much notice of her. And to think she was to blame for her own misery! Tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, if only I were at home!”

  Rouston went to his mare and fetched his rolled-up blanket from behind the animal’s saddle. He returned to Sibylla and pushed the blanket under her head.

  “You must not get upset, Madame Hopkins. I am afraid that, by the time you arrive home, you will have a baby in your arms. We cannot help that, but we are going to get you safely to the caravanserai, at least. You cannot ride, so I am going to build a stretcher for you. Toledano will have to lend me four of his strongest men, and they shall carry you for the next few hours. Can you hold on that long?” He scrutinized her face.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Build a stretcher? But how?” inquired Sara Willshire.

  “I learned it as a soldier. A few strong branches and a blanket is all I need. It’s best if I start looking at once. Finding good trees is the hardest part.” He looked at the almost treeless plain, which was covered in sand and stones. “There are some young jujube trees on that knoll over there. Perhaps I can use them.” He jumped on his horse and galloped off.

  Sara sighed. Then she took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, found the water bottle hanging on her mule’s saddle, poured lukewarm liquid over the cloth, and sat down next to her friend. “How are you feeling?” She gently dabbed Sibylla’s forehead, face, and neck.

  “Better right now, thank you.” Sibylla’s eyes followed the small dust cloud making its way up the hill. “Monsieur Rouston is a gentleman, isn’t he? I mean a true gentleman, not one who just pretends to be polite to a woman but in fact thinks very little of her.”

  They watched as Rouston reached the top of the hill, took his scimitar from his saddle, and began hacking away at the trees.

  “Watching him attack those trees just to be of service to you, my dear, one might almost feel pity for the poor plants,” said Sara.

  “What do you mean?” giggled Sibylla.

  They could hear rapid hoofbeats approaching. Benjamin jumped off his mule and threw the reins to Nadira, who had followed on her donkey.

  “Sibylla!” His face was pale with worry. “What’s happened? Are you all right? You didn’t fall from your mule, did you?” He squatted down next to her.

  “No, but she has pains in her belly. It’s possible that the child is trying to be born,” Sara informed him.

  “But not here, not now!” Benjamin stammered just as Sibylla had done.

  “I’m afraid that that is for the child to decide. I just pray it will be patient until we reach the caravanserai.” Sibylla smiled weakly.

  “You can’t possibly ride that far,” Benjamin replied incredulously.

  “Monsieur Rouston is building a stretcher,” Sara said. “Fortunately, he was nearby and able to assist your wife.”

  Benjamin’s expression darkened. “I told you not to travel to Marrakesh, but you knew better, of course!”

  “And you were right, of course.” She placed her hand on his arm. “I should have listened to you.”

  Benjamin looked almost mollified. “Do you remember when we fell into the harbor basin in London? I was there then and helped you. And today I am going to help you reach the inn safe and sound.”

  Blue velvet darkness was swiftly falling when the contours of the caravanserai appeared before them. Sibylla was at the end of her tether despite the stretcher that Rouston had fashioned. The pain in her abdomen had hardly let up. It came in inconsistent intervals and was so severe that it took her breath away.

  “These contractions are preparation for the birth. They are stretching your body for your child’s head to pass,” Nadira explained. She had not left her mistress’s side.

  “Are you a midwife?” Sara Willshire, also riding at Sibylla’s side, was astonished.

  Nadira shook her head. “I am not an expert, but I have assisted with many births. My mistress need not be afraid.”

  “If nothing happens to her or the child, I’ll give you an extra month’s salary,” said Benjamin. He felt uncomfortable not only because he had no idea how to console his wife, but also because he himself was terrified for her and for his unborn child. Not knowing what else to do, he repeatedly admonished the stretcher bearers to be careful and alerted them to every stone on the path.

  Rouston had not stayed with them. No sooner had Sibylla been safely placed on the stretcher than he gal
loped off to the caravanserai to make arrangements for the birth. Nadira had told him they would require a quiet room, boiled water, clean towels, and thread, plus torches and candles for light.

  When the exhausted bearers came staggering through the arched gate four hours later, Rouston ran to greet them. “I have readied a room in a remote corner. Madame Hopkins can be taken there immediately.”

  Benjamin lifted Sibylla from the stretcher. Her eyes were closed and her forehead covered in sweat.

  “How are you?”

  “Afraid,” she whispered without opening her eyes.

  So am I, he thought. But he tried his best to sound confident. “Women have children every day. My mother had five!”

  She smiled faintly. “I hope not to have to endure this pain five times.”

  “I can hear the heartbeat,” Nadira said. “It’s strong and regular.”

  Sibylla was lying in a tiny room on a thin mattress. The thick, windowless mud walls kept out the heat of the day. Nadira had lit two torches and placed them in sconces on the wall. Then she had squatted next to Sibylla, lifted her kaftan, and placed one ear just above the navel on the bulging belly. Now she lifted her head.

  “Your child is strong, my lady. If you permit, I am going to feel its position.”

  Sibylla nodded. She had neither doctor nor midwife to assist her, but Nadira seemed more experienced than she’d let on. Sara Willshire’s presence consoled her as well. The consul’s wife was kneeling next to her and tirelessly shooing away mosquitoes. Ten minutes before, when a rush of bloody water had come from between her legs, Sibylla had been convinced there was something wrong with the child.

  But Sara had soothed her. “That’s only your bag of waters breaking. That always happens before the child is pushed out of the mother’s body.”

  But for the time being, there was no sign of that. In fact, the contractions had stopped. But even that was normal, Sara had assured her. She urged Sibylla to use this respite to gather her strength.

  Nadira’s hands were palpating her mistress’s belly inch by inch. Finally, she explained, “The child is lying the wrong way around, my lady. His head is up top and his backside at the bottom. But don’t worry,” she added quickly, seeing Sibylla’s frightened expression. “For the mother, it is almost the same.” She hesitated. “Though it might take a little longer and hurt more.”

  Sibylla nodded bravely. “So long as you are here to help me. They all come out eventually, don’t they?”

  “Is your mistress in danger?” Sara asked.

  Nadira shook her head. She did not tell the ladies that a breech birth was more likely to endanger the life of the child. If the umbilical cord were to be compressed and the child deprived of the mother’s blood supply, it might die. But Nadira was going to do everything to prevent that from happening.

  “Ahhh!” Sibylla groaned and jolted upright.

  Sara took a firm hold of her friend’s hand.

  Benjamin anxiously paced the courtyard of the caravanserai. He kept looking up at the closed door behind which his wife had disappeared several hours earlier. The eastern sky announced the night’s end. The refreshing cool air would soon be simmering in the first rays of sunshine. The doves on the roof of the inn greeted the morning with soft coos. The travelers too were slowly awakening. Several Arabs had rolled out small prayer rugs in one corner of the courtyard and said their morning prayers in the direction of Mecca.

  The camel drivers were seeing to the needs of their animals. Small flames were flickering in several hearths. The scent of mint and freshly baked bread wafted over to Benjamin. He had not eaten since noon the day before, but he did not feel hungry.

  “Still no news?” Rouston appeared next to him.

  Benjamin shook his head. “I can’t imagine why it should take this long.”

  “Yes, well, we men expect quite a lot from women, don’t we?” Rouston remarked. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a flat silver flask, and handed it to Benjamin. “You look like you could use some.”

  Benjamin looked at him with some uncertainty at first, but then accepted the flask and took a long draft. “Oh yes. That is good.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Even if I do prefer whisky to cognac.” He was about to return the flask to the Frenchman when Rouston said, “Finish it, Hopkins.”

  Benjamin was more than happy to comply. “Do you have a family, Rouston?”

  The Frenchman shook his head and grinned. “Not that I know of.”

  “A bachelor, I see. Well, I have done well for myself by giving up bachelorhood. All sorts of opportunities have become available to me since I married a shipping company, so to speak.” Benjamin giggled, the alcohol and anxiety loosening his tongue.

  As muffled screams reached the courtyard, his demeanor changed. “Though I must confess I am quite concerned,” he muttered. “Because, you know, the child is very early. I told my wife not to undertake this journey, but she can be stubborn.”

  Rouston nodded silently. He liked independent women. They had a certain pride and confidence that he found attractive. He thought of Idri, the Chiadma woman with whom he had shared his life for two years. They had met during a moussem, a festival in the mountains, during which the whole tribe was gathered. There was much celebration, music, and dancing. Idri was a pretty widow with coal black eyes, breasts like ripe apples, and swaying hips. According to Berber custom, widows and divorced women determined for themselves who their next husbands would be, and how long they would be permitted to stay, for divorces were as simple as marriages. André and Idri had sealed their union before the qaid of their tribe as well as five male and five female witnesses. Afterward, André had paraded his wife on a donkey across the festival square.

  He jumped at the earsplitting scream above him. The men looked at each other, wide-eyed. Then they heard the soft bawling of a newborn.

  “My child,” Benjamin whispered. “It’s here!”

  The door to Sibylla’s room was flung open and Sara Willshire appeared.

  “Mr. Hopkins, come and welcome your son!”

  Chapter Nine

  Mogador, December 1839

  “Tom! Give it! Mummy!”

  Sibylla sighed, laid the letter she had just opened on the table, and went to the gallery to find out what was happening. “What’s the matter now? Tom, are you teasing your little brother again?”

  Three-year-old Thomas looked innocently at his mother. His two-year-old brother, John, stood beside him, wailing miserably.

  “I want!” He pointed accusingly at Tom, who was holding the morsel out of his little brother’s reach.

  Sibylla had to suppress a smile. The two looked so adorable in their little kaftans over their long pants, especially Johnny, who had not yet lost his baby fat. Everything about him was chubby and soft, and his tearstained eyes looked so pitiful. Like his brother, he had light blond curls and deep blue eyes. Tom was taller and slimmer, with delicate features that made him appear older than his three years.

  John was only fifteen months younger than his brother. Sibylla had told Benjamin she wanted another child, and was delighted when, shortly after Thomas’s birth, she found herself pregnant again. The baby had turned out to be a boy and, when she held the rosy little creature in her arms for the first time, she completely forgot that she had wished for a girl.

  “Tom, did you take your brother’s pastry?” Sibylla asked.

  “No, Mummy!” Tom shook his head vehemently. “It’s mine. He dropped his in the water and Daddy’s carps ate it!”

  “Is that right, Johnny?” Sibylla looked into the pond in which the fat gold-colored carp, Benjamin’s pride and joy, were lazily swimming their rounds.

  The little boy nodded through his tears. Eating was one of his favorite activities, and the sweet gazelle’s horns filled with almond paste, which Nadira had given the children, were one of his favorites.

  “How many times have I told you to sit and eat your food in peace, John?
If you do that, you won’t drop anything,” Sibylla admonished her younger son.

  “Hungry,” Johnny replied plaintively.

  “You’ll have to wait until lunchtime, darling. Run along and play now!”

  The little boy made a face as though he was about to start crying again.

  “Here.” Tom broke the remainder of his horn in two and gave a piece to his brother, who immediately stuffed it into his mouth.

  Sibylla was touched. “That was a wonderful thing to do, my love.”

  Tom’s affectionate concern was not only for his little brother. He was always anxious about everyone’s well-being: his mother and father, Firyal, Nadira, and all the servants. He even asked his mother whether the beggars in the alleyways had food to eat and a bed to sleep in like he did.

  Sibylla was grateful that her firstborn was growing up so healthy and kind. After his birth, she had been unable to nurse him, and Thomas had been raised on donkey milk fed to him drop by drop. Rouston had purchased a female donkey while Sibylla was still recovering in the caravanserai. He had also transported her and the newborn safely back to Mogador. Benjamin, expecting some ships from London, had been unable to stay with her. She herself had urged him to go, although she had been quietly disappointed that he had actually left her behind in the caravanserai. But if he hadn’t, she would never have discovered what a diverting travel companion André Rouston was. While she was lying on the stretcher—this time with her baby—being carried by four slaves, he rode next to her and chatted. So she learned that, after the Algerian War, he had traveled all over the Maghreb. His descriptions of his encounters with belligerent Berber tribes, sage Arab scholars, and Oriental princes living in unimaginable splendor were so lively that Sibylla felt like she’d been there herself. She particularly liked the story of how he had visited Moulay Idriss, Morocco’s holiest city in the northern part of the Atlas Mountains on the pilgrims’ route to Mecca, disguised as a Muslim.