After supper the three little girls curled themselves up on goatskins against the hay, with a cat and her three kittens for company, and went straight to sleep. The father went out to milk, and his wife followed because she wanted to talk to him. Hamid, sitting by the fire with Kinza leaning up against him, could hear their voices. He supposed they were talking about him, and he was quite right, for the woman came back soon with everything fixed up.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said encouragingly. “My husband is quite willing to help you. He is going into Wednesday Market tomorrow to sell apricots. He picks up a truck at the bottom of the hill just before daybreak. He will take you with him and say you are my sister’s children, for my sister lives on the road to Friday Market, where you are trying to get to, and she has a boy about your age and a baby girl. The truck will drop you about twenty-five kilometers from Friday Market, on the main road, and you can probably get a lift—if not, it’s not too far to walk.”
She looked down at his joyful face and suddenly felt sorry because he was so young and helpless. She fetched a basin and a towel and, stooping down, she washed his bruised, cut feet. Then she tore a rag into strips and bathed his wounds with olive oil. Finally, she laid him on one sheepskin with his little sister and covered them warmly with another. He fell asleep at once, grateful and unafraid, and she went and sat very still on her doorstep, her hands folded, looking out into the dusk.
Hamid Completes His Mission
Twenty-four hours later, Hamid found himself gazing up at the walls of the city he had come so far to find, feeling more strange and lost than he had ever felt before in his life.
He had had a very successful day. He had woken at dawn, cool and refreshed. The woman had fed them and blessed them and sent them out with her husband. At the bottom of the hill a truck, jammed tight with market-goers, had picked them up and rattled off down the valley. Hamid had never been in a truck before, and the noise and speed and jolting thrilled him. The main road thrilled him, too, with its roaring traffic, and the two hours’ drive passed all too quickly. The road turned off to Wednesday Market, and he and Kinza were dropped about twenty-five kilometers from their destination.
He had walked all day, patiently plodding along in the heat, often sitting down to rest. At one point, he decided to stop and wash out Kinza’s little dress in the river since he thought that nobody was going to be really pleased to see her unless she was a little bit cleaner. When she was redressed, he decided she looked fit for a palace.
He had climbed a long, long hill, stopping to pick wildflowers along the way for Kinza to present to her new mother. At last he rounded a bend in the road, and just ahead of him was the old city wall and the town inside, in the shadow of the bare, jagged mountains.
Hamid stood in the cool of the shadow of the gate and watched for a while. He did not think he would have to ask the way if he could find the market, for his mother had described the house exactly, and he was afraid to speak to anyone. He thought he would wait until nighttime before making his way along those narrow, crowded, cobbled streets. It would be easier to slip along in the dark. But as dusk deepened he saw the shopkeepers on each side of the streets turn on the lights, and everyone walked past in the full glare of them. Apparently in this terrifying place there was no darkness and no hiding. The sooner he could safely get Kinza settled, the better.
He set off timidly along the cobbles, marveling at the beautiful things displayed in the shops—the bright silks, piles of fruit, and stacks of bread. It seemed to him like fairyland, and he gazed, bright-eyed and fascinated, at all this beauty—a magic town where everything glittered and dazzled. He forgot that he had felt lonely and afraid, and gazed up eagerly into the faces of the shopkeepers and passersby. But no one smiled at him or looked kindly at him, and no one welcomed him to the golden city.
He crept along until he came to a splashing fountain where a little girl was filling buckets. She at least looked like a kind little girl, and very shyly he asked her the way to the inn above the market. She pointed him in the right direction.
It was not far. The old archway leading into the inn courtyard stood back from the street. Weary mules and donkeys were passing in, and travelers stood in groups looking out on the market. Hamid longed to go and rest on the straw with the donkeys, but he had no coin to pay for such shelter, and anyway, he felt his business had better be done that night.
He thought the house of the nurse would not be difficult to find, and he set off confidently. The street curved and he stopped. He could see the end now, and the rubbish tip beyond, and what he saw filled him with surprise.
There was a dim streetlamp outside the last house on the left, and under it he could see a group of little boys, dirty and ragged like himself, standing as if they were waiting for something to happen. As Hamid watched, the door was opened from the inside, and a beam of bright light shone out onto the cobbles. The children surged forward, tumbling over each other, and disappeared through the golden doorway. Then he heard other footsteps behind him, and three more little boys in black tatters rushed past him on swift, bare feet. They too went in. Then, as Hamid stood still in the shadows, he heard the sound of singing, and he thought he had never heard anything so beautiful.
Lured by the music, he crept closer, skulking along the wall, and at last he reached the top of the step and dared to peep in. Then he gasped with joy and excitement, for he was looking across a passageway into another room, and hanging on the wall of that room exactly opposite the doorway was the picture of the man who loved little children, carrying in His arms a curly-haired baby just about Kinza’s age. Boys and girls were crowding around Him, holding out their arms, and He smiled down on them and did not seem to want them to go away. Hamid remembered the hard faces of the shopkeepers—this man was unlike any of them. He would certainly welcome Kinza just as He was welcoming the crowd of happy children in the picture.
But who were all those ragged little boys? And why did they go in? And what were they singing about? He could not see them, for they all gathered at one end of the room, but he could hear a woman’s voice. As he listened, crouching on the step, straining to catch the words, the children began to chant something all together, as though they were learning it by heart, just as they did in the mosque schools when they learned the Koran.
“Jesus said, ‘I am the light of the world. He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.’”*
What could it mean?
Three times they repeated the verse, and Hamid whispered the words with them and tucked them away in his memory to think about afterward. The immediate problem now was, what to do about Kinza?
If all these children belonged to the nurse, she would certainly not want another. No little girls had gone into the house, so perhaps the English, like his own people, on the whole preferred boys. Kinza’s chances seemed very small if he knocked on the door and presented her as a gift. He must think of a better way than that.
Then he thought of a plan that he was certain would work because his mother had said that the saint in the picture had never been known to turn a child away. He would simply leave Kinza in the passage, like a surprise parcel, to explain herself as best she could. If this nurse was really like her saint, she would not throw such a tiny, helpless, homeless creature into the street on a dark night.
He skipped across the orange beam of light and sat down on the rubbish heap. He shook Kinza until she was thoroughly wide awake and then spoke to her very solemnly.
“Kinza, little sister,” he said, “I am going to sit you down by yourself, and you must keep very still and not cry. If you cry, a lady will beat you hard. If you don’t cry, she will soon come and give you a nice sweet.”
Now Kinza understood this perfectly. She knew all about being hit if she did not keep still, and she seldom got what she wanted by crying. Also, she was very hungry. So she let Hamid soothe and pat her and then, placing the withered bunch of flowers in her hand, he crept off th
e rubbish heap. He pushed the door open a little way, lifted Kinza over the step, and sat her down in the dark passage.
Hamid suddenly felt his throat tighten and his eyes fill with tears. Kinza would never be his own again, and he realized how much he loved her. As a sign of his love, he took out his last dry crust from the cloth and thrust it into her hand. Then he left her sitting cross-legged against the wall, very tousled and very crumpled, clasping a bunch of dead poppies and an old crust, for the surprise and delight of the missionary lady.
But through the blur of his tears he had caught sight once again of the face of the man in the picture, and He seemed to be smiling straight at Kinza. Hamid felt comforted. Then, crouching against the wall of a little alley leading off the street, he tried to remember the words he had heard three times over: “Jesus said, ‘I am the light of the world … instead of darkness you can have the light of life.’” It was something like that, and whatever could it mean?
What was the light of the world? He thought of the lamp burning in his hut at home and the flickering shadows on the wall. He remembered the moonlit journey, and the circling stars, and the sunrise on top of the mountain. Moonlight, starlight, sunlight, candlelight, and the orange glare of the city street—they had all faded now. He was sitting alone in a very dark alley, and the moon had not yet risen behind the wall of rock. But Jesus said that instead of darkness you can have the light of life. “I am the light of the world.” He thought of Kinza, always living in darkness—could this light, which he had never seen, ever reach her? What did it all mean? If only it weren’t so dark … if only he wasn’t so hungry … if only he could have kept Kinza … if only he could run home to his mother.
He stopped short in his thoughts and leaned forward eagerly. A crowd of boys came hurrying down the street, and at the corner they turned and waved. They were talking excitedly, all at once, so Hamid could not hear very well what they said, but he caught odd words: “Who is she?”—“Such a little girl!”—“Where is her mother?” Then the boys passed out of sight, and the street was left in silence.
Then, because he was longing to know what had happened, he tiptoed out of his alley and prowled back to the rubbish heap. The door through which he had placed Kinza was fast shut, and no sound came from inside. What had happened? There was a light in an upper window, and Hamid crossed the street and stood with his back pressed against the wall of the house opposite, gazing upward. As he stood there looking, there passed across the lighted window the figure of a woman nestling a little child in her arms, and the child showed no sign of fear. She neither struggled nor cried. She lay at peace with one little hand uplifted to feel the face bowed over her.
Hamid had successfully completed his mission. All was well with Kinza. Not knowing where else to go, he slunk back to the rubbish heap, and covering himself as best he could with his rags, he curled up against the wall to sleep, with his head resting on his arm.
* John 8:12.
Doughnuts and Street Boys
Hamid woke early the next morning, stiff and cold, and blamed himself for wanting to sleep so near the house. Yet somehow it comforted him to know that Kinza was close to him. He wondered whether she had woken yet and what she was doing. He wandered along the street and out into the deserted market, wondering what to do, where to go, and, above all, where his breakfast would come from. He was sure that Kinza was eating well, and he rather regretted having given her that last crust.
It looked like a golden city no longer. The shops were shuttered, and a few homeless beggars lay up against the temple steps, still fast asleep. Now that his mission was completed, Hamid felt horribly flat and tired, and he stood in the middle of the market longing for home.
Then he heard a familiar sound—the harsh rattle of a stork’s cry and the rush of great wings as they swooped over him, just as they used to do when he was with his goats on his own mountain. He looked up quickly and saw it flying up high to its nest in the turret of an old fort. He stared at the massive old walls and found that he was standing opposite an old gate in an archway leading into a garden.
The gate was wide open and there seemed to be no one to stop him. Hamid trotted across the cobbles, climbed the steps, and tiptoed through. He found himself standing in the most beautiful garden he had ever seen in his life. It was square in shape, and in the middle was a fountain surrounded by green lawns and colorful flower beds. But while he was enjoying it all, a keeper came through the archway and ordered him out.
The town was beginning to wake up now, and Hamid found himself standing with his back to a little stall where a man was frying doughnuts in a deep stone trough of oil. He was obviously busy, having to do everything himself, and this had put him in a bad temper, for he was muttering and growling to himself.
Hamid suddenly had an idea. Drawing as near as he could to that delicious smell, and being desperate with hunger, he boldly walked up to the man and asked him if he needed an assistant.
The man looked him up and down. His usual boy had not turned up that morning, and Sillam, the doughnut-maker, was prepared to accept help from the first boy who came along. He opened the wooden barrier and beckoned Hamid inside. Sillam did not recognize the boy and did not know whether or not he was a thief.
“Take the bellows,” he said, “and blow up this fire, and if I find you helping yourself to anything that doesn’t belong to you, the police station is across the street!”
Hamid squatted down and began to blow. He did not feel very well; it was very hot, and the leaping flames scorched his face. Many little boys before him had been unable to stand the heat. At last he heard his master’s voice say, “Enough,” and he staggered to his feet, dizzy and flushed.
“Now stand there and thread the doughnuts onto the blades of grass,” said Sillam. Hamid worked quickly enough, burning his fingers a little, but not minding much because he was too hungry to think about anything else except the pains inside his stomach. But he did notice that quite a crowd of tattered, grimy little boys were watching him closely. He realized that somehow, before long, he would have to say who he was.
He had worked for about two hours when the master suddenly said, “Have you had any breakfast?”
“No,” said Hamid, “and no supper last night, either.”
Sillam handed him a couple of hot, golden doughnuts. With a sigh of relief, Hamid bit into the first one. It was wonderful. But the dark eyes of the little boys watching him suddenly became hostile. They were hungry, too, and this stranger was taking a job they wanted.
Doughnuts were a breakfast food, and the shop shut at midmorning. The master told Hamid he had worked well and could return early the next day. Then he gave him a small coin, and Hamid, feeling like a king, strutted across the market to decide how to spend it. He noticed a pile of sticky green sweets and longed to buy one for Kinza. But Kinza probably no longer needed green sweets. Perhaps she had forgotten all about him already. He suddenly felt sad, and decided to stop thinking about it and turn his attention to the baker’s shop.
A voice at his side suddenly said, “Who are you?” He turned to see a little boy about his own age, with a shaved, spotted head, dressed in a dirty white gown. A strange little figure, but his dark eyes were bright and intelligent, and he looked at Hamid in quite a friendly way.
Hamid faced him shyly. “I’m from the country,” he replied.
“Why have you come to town?”
“To find work.”
“Where are your mother and father?”
“Dead.”
“Where do you live?”
“In the street.”
The little boy, whose name was Ayashi, nodded approvingly. “I too,” he said cheerfully, “have no mother, and my father has gone to the mountains. I too live in the streets. We all do. Now, buy us a loaf of bread with the money the master gave you, and give us each a piece. Then you shall be one of us and we will show you where we go for supper at night.”
His confident voice and cheerful acceptance
of his homelessness fascinated Hamid. “You shall be one of us” were wonderful words. Hamid bought his loaf quickly and spent the change on a handful of black, bitter olives. Then he followed his new friend to the eucalyptus tree in the middle of the square, where the gang squatted in the shade. He handed over the food to be divided up, and they fell upon it eagerly.
Hamid, with his portion, sat a little apart through shyness, but although no one said thank you, the gift had done its work. From that day onward he was truly one of them.
It was a strange gang that he joined that day—they were all dirty, ignorant, and poor, dressed in rags and tatters; children who had never been loved. Tough and hardy they were, crafty and quick through living by their wits. Thieving, lying, and swearing were regular habits, yet they made the most of their pleasures. Hamid, watching silently, felt proud to be sitting among them. He had never met boys like these, and he thought they were wonderful—so tough and manly, easygoing and independent. He longed to become like them, and he wriggled nearer.
He realized that they earned their livings in lots of different ways. Some worked on looms certain days a week, and others, like himself, helped in the doughnut shops. They all begged in between and hung around the hotel on the off chance of carrying a bag for a tourist or washing a car. Some slept with their families at night in hovels they called home, while others crept into the mosques. Life was uncertain and exciting, and there seemed only one sure thing in the day—and that was their supper at the home of the English nurse.
Now they were all discussing the extraordinary things that had happened the night before. None of them had ever seen the strange little girl before, they said. No one knew where she came from. She held up her arms to the English nurse and called for her mother, but she would not say anything else. So the nurse had picked her up and taken her in, and today she was going to look for the baby’s parents.
Patricia St John Series Page 4