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 lit
tle 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
New Beginnings
While Mr. Swift, Rosemary, and Hamid rescued Kinza, Jenny spent a long, long day at the hotel. It was a day in which she had plenty of time to think.
She wished she knew more about the Lord Jesus and had a Bible so she could read about Him. She thought about the picture at the clinic, and it reassured her that He loved children and wanted to come into her heart and change her. Instead of being cross, spoiled, and vain, she could be strong and happy and loving. “Like putting a candle inside an empty lantern, so that the light shines out,” Aunt Rosemary had said.
“Lord Jesus, please come into my life,” Jenny prayed.
That night she had so much to think about that she was sure she would never go to sleep, and yet her eyes closed almost immediately, and the next thing she knew her mother was shaking her gently. Auntie Rosemary was sitting at the foot of the bed, laughing and holding in her arms a bundle wrapped up in the car rug.
“It’s Kinza!” cried Jenny, flinging herself on the bundle and hugging and kissing her. It was two o’clock in the morning, so they had to talk in whispers because of the other guests, but Jenny wanted to know all about the rescue.
Everyone was hungry, so they made some tea. Mrs. Swift spread butter and honey on some bread and passed around biscuits. Never had there been a happier midnight feast, and Jenny knew that she would remember that hour all her life. Kinza had been brought back, and all Jenny’s naughtiness had been forgiven and forgotten. She was going to start again, a new child in a new, happy life. Sitting there in bed with all the people she loved best grouped around her, and her mouth full of bread and honey, she felt so happy she thought she would burst. Her mother said rather weakly four times that they really must all go to bed, but no one took the slightest notice; they just went on eating and whispering. When Mr. Swift told them how they had escaped from Si Mohamed, he fell backward in his excitement. Everyone tried so hard not to laugh out loud, then Kinza woke and sat up, blinking at them solemnly like a baby owl. She didn’t seem to like all this midnight merriment, but after a few moments she cuddled back in the rug and went to sleep again. Then Mrs. Swift said for the fifth time that they really must go to bed, and Mr. Swift said, “All right, but let me have just one more piece of bread because falling off the bed made me hungry again.” And then Rosemary wanted another piece, and so did Jenny, and her mother thought she might as well have one too.
Then Mrs. Swift said for the sixth time that they really must go to bed, and this time they did listen to her. They all kissed Jenny good night and tucked her in bed, and then went off down the passage laughing at Mr. Swift, who was trying to walk quietly in his enormous, squeaky shoes, like an elephant trying to walk on tiptoe. Jenny was left alone with her happiness. God had heard their prayers, and Kinza had come back.
Everyone slept the next morning till the sun was high—except Hamid and Rosemary. They got up at the usual time, Hamid because he had slept well all night on the backseat of Mr. Swift’s car, and Rosemary because she had a busy day ahead of her. It was still quite early when she was disturbed by a loud knocking, and she got up with a little sigh. When she opened the door, she found Hamid, his hands and face pink and shining from washing in the fountain.
His rags were dreadfully torn and dirty, and he had nasty sores on his legs, but the child was as eager and full of life as the spring morning. He kissed the nurse’s hand, chuckled, and hopped uninvited over the threshold. He seemed to have come for a particular reason but didn’t know what to say. “How’s Kinza?” he inquired.
“She’s all right,” said the nurse. “Do you want to see her?”
For an answer, he skipped upstairs ahead of her to where Kinza lay in her old corner on the mat, her dark head pillowed on her arm, fast asleep. Hamid nodded, well-pleased, and then looked around hopefully to see if there was any chance of something to eat. He had timed his visit perfectly, for the English nurse was just in the middle of her breakfast. Hamid sat cross-legged on the floor with bright, hopeful eyes. He had not eaten honey sandwiches in the night, and he was very hungry.
The nurse gave him a bowl of sweet coffee and a big hunk of bread. He sipped it noisily, chuckling with pleasure between mouthfuls. When he had finished and cleaned out the bowl with his finger for fear of wasting any sugar, he came a little closer and said confidently, “Teach me to read.”
The nurse looked at him doubtfully. “Many people want to learn to read and they only keep it up for about two weeks. Then my time is all wasted.”
Hamid shook his head very firmly. “I would go on every day, until harvesttime,” he said, “because then I am going home. My stepfather will be glad to see me at harvest because he’s so busy. Could I learn to read before harvest?”
“I would think so,” replied the nurse, “if you really come every day.” She thought of her busy days and wondered when she would fit him in, but the child seemed so keen and determined.
“Why do you want to learn to read, Hamid?” she asked.
He lifted a serious brown face to hers and told her his simple little story.
“I want to go home,” he said. “But if I go home and can’t read, who will go on teaching me the way to heaven?”
“Then you believe it really is the way to heaven?”
“Yes. I had a dream. I saw the Lord Jesus with His arms stretched out. I think He was on a cross. And behind the cross was a door, wide open, and He told me it was the way to God. And He
told me I was to come to you because it was all written down in your Book.”
“Very well,” said the nurse quietly. “You can come every day just about this time. We’ll start at once.”
She fetched her book of Arabic letters and found him to be a very quick pupil. By the end of half an hour, he had learned quite a number of letters and was really pleased with himself.
“Aa–d–dd–rr–z,” he chanted proudly. “Now I can read!”
He skipped off with his head held high, and the nurse went back with a happy heart to clear the breakfast things.
Aunt Rosemary Explains
It was very nearly the end of the holiday, and on the last Saturday, Mummy, Daddy, Aunt Rosemary, Jenny, and Kinza all started off early in the morning and went for a picnic far up in the mountains with a fat picnic basket.
They drove up and up past thatched villages until the road plunged down into the cool shadow of pine woods, where English primroses grew around the roots of the giant trees.
Jenny and Rosemary started picking bunches of the pale yellow flowers. Jenny wanted to tell her aunt her new secret. She must try to tell her today because there might not be another chance, but she did not know how to begin to say it. She prayed for the right opportunity to talk to her aunt. She was sure something very important had happened to her, and wanted she Aunt Rosemary to tell her what to expect next. The day passed, and she just didn’t seem to find the right moment to ask her.
Patricia St John Series Page 10