Qasr el Bahia looked forbidding in the evening light. No torches burned in either of the two donjons or in the iron brackets framing the gate. Everything seemed eerily still, almost uninhabited.
Frédéric jumped off his horse and pounded on the gate with both fists. “It’s me! Open up! I’ve brought help! Can you hear me? Open up!”
Sibylla’s heart was racing. What would they find inside? Had Emily really not been hurt? And what about André? She could not bear to think about the possibility that she had come too late and he had died of his wounds.
Creaking and scraping sounds came from the other side. A bolt was moved aside, a chain was loosened, and finally, the gate was opened just enough to allow one rider at a time to pass through. Once the last of the riders had entered, the slender adolescent bolted and barricaded the gate again.
“Frédéric! I’m so glad you’re back!” The boy scrutinized the newcomers cautiously.
Frédéric embraced him. “Christian! Did you take good care of everyone? How are Baba and Imma?”
“Not well.” Christian shook his head despondently.
“Where are the injured?” Thomas inquired. Sabri had already begun to unload the mule. Some farmhands came to take care of the horses.
Sibylla slid out of her saddle and looked around. Low tents were ringed around a flickering fire in the middle of the courtyard. Men were sitting together in small groups and talking quietly while smoking a water pipe. A servant distributed bowls with food and tea. Women were taking care of the younger children. Sibylla looked around for Emily, but could not find her anywhere. People came to greet the new arrivals. Some were limping, some had their arms in a sling, some using branches as crutches. An old man with a dirty bandage wrapped around his head said to Sibylla in despair, “How could our own flesh and blood abuse us in this way?”
“Mummy!” Emily came running out of the house and threw herself into her mother’s arms. “Finally, Mummy! I’ve been waiting for you!”
Tears streamed down Sibylla’s face. Emily had been a little girl the last time she had called her that.
“Promise me that we will never again let a whole year pass without speaking!” Sibylla implored her and stroked her daughter’s hair.
“Never again, Mummy!” Emily promised.
“Little sister, I’m so glad that you’re all right!” Thomas also embraced Emily.
Then came Sabri.
“I thank God that nothing has happened to you,” he said quietly and squeezed her hand.
“I’ve been told there are two dead. Is that right?” Thomas asked.
Emily nodded. “One of the attackers. Frédéric and Christian saw Father strike him with a shovel after he shot at Aynur. And Aynur’s servant, Tamra. The bullet that grazed Aynur struck Tamra in the heart.”
“Where were you during the raid, Miss Emily?” Sabri asked.
“I hid in the house with Malika and my youngest brother.”
“Good,” Sabri replied. Their eyes locked for several seconds.
Then Sibylla asked, “How is André?”
“Father is still unconscious. I’m very worried.”
Sabri took charge. “Thomas, I suggest you go inside and treat Monsieur Rouston and his wife. I’ll take care of the injured out here.”
“Good idea. Afterward, I’ll come and join you,” Thomas agreed. “Emily, can you take me to them?”
“I’ll come with you!” Sibylla hastened after them. “To help.”
Christian, Emily, and Malika had carried their father into a small room normally used to accommodate passing travelers. He lay motionless on the bed draped in a woolen blanket. The right side of his face was bluish red and severely swollen. He had a gaping wound on his temple, two fingers wide and one finger long. The margins were black with dried blood.
“My God,” Sibylla muttered. She leaned forward and placed her hand on the uninjured side of André’s forehead. His skin felt cold and waxy.
“If I am to examine him, you’ll have to make room, Mother.” Thomas sat down on the bed. He palpated André’s face while Sibylla watched intently.
“The skull is not broken,” Thomas finally determined. He took the oil lamp from the nightstand and held it over André’s face. “The wound looks bad, but it’s already begun to heal and the bone is intact. I’m going to clean and bandage it. We can treat the swelling with cold compresses. And the rest we shall have to leave to time.”
“The rest?” Sibylla probed. “Do you mean if he’s going to wake up?”
Thomas gently opened André’s eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and examined the pupils under the light. “The loss of consciousness is profound. I’ll be able to tell whether he’s suffered any brain damage only once he has awakened. I hope that that will happen within the next two days.”
“And if not, Hakim?” a quiet voice asked. “Does that mean Baba will die?”
A dainty young woman dressed in traditional Berber attire was standing in the doorway. Emily introduced her. Thomas hesitated. Malika was certainly entitled to know her father’s likelihood of survival, but at the moment, Thomas himself was uncertain.
Finally, he explained, “The sooner your father regains consciousness, the better his chances of a full recovery. But even if it takes longer, we shan’t give up hope!” he added upon seeing Malika’s horrified expression. “Your father is a strong man. His chances are good. Would you please take me to your mother now, Mademoiselle Rouston?”
Malika nodded. “She’s in the bedroom she shares with Baba.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Sibylla asked.
Thomas picked up his doctor’s bag from the floor. “Get some hot and some cold water, soap, and clean towels, and bring everything here. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve taken a look at his wife.”
“I’ll show you where everything is, Mother,” Emily spoke up. “And then I’ll see if Sabri needs help.”
The bedroom was empty when Thomas and Malika entered. The rumpled bedclothes indicated that Aynur had lain here, but she had vanished.
“I told her not to get up!” Malika became very agitated. “She has a fever and she’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Do you have any idea where your mother might be?”
“No doubt she’s keeping vigil over Tamra, her servant. Tamra’s death has devastated her. Christian and I had to drag her away from the body so that we could tend to her wounds.” Malika rushed to lead the way to the adjacent chamber, a small room with a narrow bed against a brown mud wall, a woven rug, and a chest under the small window. A single candle stood on the ledge and its flickering light allowed him to make out the body of a very old woman on the bed and Aynur sitting on a stool next to her. Her back was turned and all Thomas could see was the long dark-blue veil that covered her hair.
“Imma,” Malika began, “the hakim is here. He wants to treat your wound.”
Thomas took a step forward. “Madame Rouston? I’m Dr. John Hopkins from Mogador. I’m told you were shot during the raid. With your permission, I would like to examine your wound.”
Aynur turned partway around. “I’ve been waiting for two days to bury Tamra next to my little daughters. As long as she lies here, waiting for her immortal soul to rise to God, I am not going to leave her side, Hakim.”
“The cemetery lies outside the walls,” Malika quietly explained. “And we’re afraid that the attackers are still out there.” She turned toward her mother. “I have good news, Imma. Qaid Samir has sent soldiers to protect us. We will bury Tamra first thing in the morning. So, please, allow the hakim to examine your wound.”
Aynur thought for a moment. Then she rose. “Very well then, Hakim. Examine me.”
She led Thomas and Malika to her bedchamber and sat down on the edge of the bed. When Thomas examined the wound, he discovered that she had, indeed, only been grazed. Using a pair of tweezers, he debrided the necrotic wound margins and crusted blood, washed the wound with lukewarm water, and dabbed it with a solution of silver sa
lts. Then he took out a small linen sack containing dressing made of small, soft balls of cotton threads, which he placed on the wound and gently pressed down. “This dressing will cushion the injured arm and absorb pus and moisture. As soon as you feel any pain, please let me know, and I’ll give you some laudanum,” he said to Aynur while he bandaged the arm with a clean linen cloth.
“God helps me to tolerate my wounds,” she replied proudly.
Thomas could not help but admire her. In London, he had treated strong workers, seasoned men who toiled on the docks or operated dangerous machinery in factories, but none of them had tolerated pain with the same pride and determination as this small, delicate woman.
“I’ve got the water, soap, and towels ready for you,” Sibylla said from the doorway. In a matter of seconds, she had taken in the furniture, mirrors, and candlesticks, and finally the bed, covered with silk and brocaded pillows. Yet her face did not betray her feelings about being in the very room where the man she loved had spent countless hours with the other woman in his life.
She greeted Aynur calmly and politely. “Good evening, Madame Rouston. I do hope my son is taking good care of you.”
“He is an irreproachable hakim,” Aynur replied with like equanimity.
The two women scrutinized each other for a few seconds. Then Sibylla turned to go. “I wish you a restful night, madame.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Hakim, please, you must to help! My son, he very hurt!” The Ait Zelten man tugged on the young doctor’s sleeve. His Arabic was broken, his voice hoarse with worry.
Sabri looked up from the deep laceration on a woman’s calf that he had just sutured with catgut thread and adjusted his glasses. Night had long ago fallen on Qasr el Bahia and it had become noticeably chilly in the courtyard. But Sabri was as unaware of that as he was of his own exhaustion. He worked untiringly, even after Thomas had come outside to assist him. Emily did not leave Sabri’s side. She handed him the instruments he needed, fetched fresh water and clean towels, and acted as interpreter for the Ait Zelten.
Many people had sustained their injuries—luckily only minor—in their attempts to flee from the attackers. There were mainly contusions, bumps, cuts, and dislocated joints. People had stood for hours by the large fire Frédéric and Christian had lit in the center of the courtyard, warming themselves by the flames and patiently waiting until they could be seen by either the Arab or the foreign hakim.
“What kind of injury does your son have?” Sabri asked while he bandaged the woman’s leg, but the man only pointed to the tents and urged repeatedly, “Please come, Hakim! There!”
“Would you accompany me, Miss Emily, despite the late hour? I fear I’ll be needing your interpreting services.”
“Of course.”
He picked up his doctor’s bag and they followed the man to one of the low tents.
Emily crawled inside behind the man and Sabri. It was warm here; it smelled of people and smoke. A boy aged no more than eight or maybe ten lay next to a small fire. Emily had often seen him in the saffron fields and knew him to be a happy, cheeky rascal. Together with André Jr., he liked teasing the little girls. But at this moment, he was lying under a blanket, his face tearstained, his right arm stretched away from him, whimpering with pain. His mother hovered next to him, stroking his hair. As soon as she saw Sabri, she began a tirade, sounding alternately concerned and angry.
“The boy fell when he was fleeing from the intruders,” Emily translated, omitting the countless curses the woman uttered against the attackers. “Since then he hasn’t been able to move his hand and his arm is getting more and more swollen.”
Sabri smiled at the little boy and kneeled down next to him. But as soon as he tried to touch the arm ever so gently, the boy howled with pain.
“It does seem as though his arm is broken,” Sabri said. “It would be good, therefore, if I could really examine him.”
I would fight back too, thought Emily, if there were so many grown-ups around and I were in terrible pain. “Is there nothing you can give him to calm him down?”
Sabri thought hard. “I have neither ether nor chloroform with me and I don’t really have much experience in the dosing of anesthetics.” Suddenly, his face lit up. “But what I could do is give the little one some greatly diluted laudanum to help him sleep through the treatment.”
However, when Sabri approached the boy with the beaker, he pressed his lips together and turned his head to the side.
“Would you let me try?” Emily took the beaker and squatted next to the child on the floor. “Why won’t you let the hakim help you?” she asked in Tachelhit. “He can make your pain magically disappear with the drink he has mixed for you.”
“So the hakim is an asahhar?” the boy wanted to know, half wary, half interested.
“That’s it.” Emily nodded. “He’s a magician.” She slowly extended her hand with the beaker. “All your friends will admire you for being so brave.”
“You were fantastic!” Sabri exclaimed when the boy fell asleep. Emily blushed with happiness and was glad for the dim light.
He turned his attention to the boy and carefully palpated his arm. “It’s a simple fracture of the radius. Quite common in falls like this. I have to set the bone and apply a firm bandage to immobilize it. Would you assist me, please, Miss Emily?”
“What do I need to do?” she replied warily.
“What we have here is two parts of the bone positioned next to each other. Our job is to place them on top of each other so that the pieces of the bone can heal and grow back together at the site of the fracture. To achieve this, I’m going to pull the lower part of the arm. You have to hold on tightly to the upper part. It’s very important that you hold it with all your might in order for the two pieces to fit into each other. Don’t be afraid of hurting the boy. He’s not going to feel a thing.”
“All right,” Emily replied, although she was feeling a bit queasy. But she did exactly as Sabri said and, with a few calm and confident movements, he had the bone set in no time.
“Next I’m going to apply a compression bandage to make sure the bone grows together correctly. Could you go get me some sheets of card paper, as well as a chaff pillow? I’m going to mix the paste in the meantime.”
When Emily returned, Sabri had already prepared the sticky mass. Next to him lay several tin cans and linen bandages.
Emily peered into the bowl. “It looks like icing.”
“Gum arabic with dextrin, a starch mixture. Please stir it until it’s nice and thick while I apply the first bandage.” Sabri handed her the wooden spoon.
As she was diligently stirring, she watched as Sabri pushed the chaff pillow under the boy’s broken arm. He opened a can containing talcum and spread a thin layer.
“This keeps the skin healthy and prevents itching. While I’m bandaging the arm, you’re going to tear the card paper into strips and wet them, but not too much,” he instructed. He applied the bandage with a few deft movements, brushed it with the paste, and splinted the arm with the card paper.
All along, the parents had been watching with anxious expressions. The mother unceasingly stroked her sleeping child’s tousled black hair.
“Finished,” announced Sabri after applying another layer of bandage and card paper. “The whole thing has to dry for one to two days. During this time, the little one must keep his arm still,” he explained to the parents while Emily translated. “This way, the bone can heal under its protective armor and, in six weeks, your son’s arm is going to be fine again.”
“Rabbi akkisellem! Thank you very much, Doctor!” The father embraced Sabri joyfully.
“That was the last patient,” Sabri said as he and Emily walked in the direction of the house. The Ait Zelten’s camp was quiet, the people fast asleep in their tents.
Emily stopped by the smoldering fire in the center of the courtyard. “You are a wonderful doctor, Dr. bin Abdul. People trust you. I would willingly entrust myself to you
r care if I were ever sick.”
She shivered in the cool wind. Sabri put down his bag, took off his jacket, and placed it around her. “Would you also entrust yourself to me if you were not sick?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Sabri caringly smoothed down the jacket over Emily’s shoulders. “You were a marvelous assistant, Miss Emily. But now you should lie down and rest.” He hesitated, then stroked her cheek.
She leaned against the warm, soft palm. He was right, she was tired. But it was so wonderful to be standing here by the fire with Sabri, so close she could feel his breath on her neck. She could have spent the entire night watching the last little flames dance in his dark eyes.
“Emily,” he sighed softly. “How perfectly your name suits you.”
They were startled when Malika came running out of the house as though all the mountain demons were after her.
Emily froze in fear. Father, she thought.
“Emily!” Malika pressed her sister’s hand. “Dr. Hopkins says that Baba is waking up! Dr. bin Abdul, thank goodness you’re here. You must come as well.”
Three days after the raid on Qasr el Bahia, in the cold, gray light of dawn, Tamra was laid to rest under the broad treetop of the old holly oak in the garden behind the estate. The old woman’s body, draped in a linen cloth and borne on a bier by four Berber men, seemed tiny and light as a feather.
It is as though she would rather fly to heaven than be buried in the ground, thought André. He clutched the knob of the walking stick Frédéric had carved for him from the trunk of a young cedar tree. The strong scent of the wood made him feel nauseated despite the ginger-root tea Malika had brewed. In addition, he was afflicted by vertigo and a dreadful headache.
The Lioness of Morocco Page 32