Page 38 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

Her words are not only horrifying, but they also sound as though she has repeated them over and over to herself, they sound like a charm, a spell.

“Get out,” I say, trying to sound strong, although inside I feel as though I am about to faint. I feel like a tiny bird, watching in horror as a snake eats its young, unable to protect them.

Zaynab leaves, still twisting her head this way and that. When she has gone, I call out and Adeola comes in, clutching a newly wrapped Ali to her chest.

“Where is Isabella?” I ask.

“Gone,” says Adeola. “She slipped away but it is well, I have your son here.”

I reach out and take back Ali, then hold him to my breast. I look down at him and my tears begin to fall on his head.

“What is wrong?” asks Adeola. “Do not think of Zaynab’s words.”

“She will find a way to bring harm to him,” I say, sobbing now. “You heard her. She will do it.”

Adeola’s face is worried. “Tell Yusuf?” she says.

“He will not believe me, Adeola,” I say. “Yusuf loves Zaynab, she is his right hand. He barely remembers why he once married me.”

Adeola doesn’t answer. There is not much she can say.

“Go and sleep,” I tell her.

“You who should sleep,” she says.

“I will, I will,” I reassure her.

Reluctantly, she leaves the room, making me promise that I will call for her if I need anything.

***

I have lost track of time, but the streets are very dark. I walk quickly, my shoulders hunched around my tiny son, the hooded robe Adeola uses when she goes shopping in the marketplaces covering every part of me and shielding my face.

I know where Isabella lives; a part of town where the foot soldiers and their families live, not a wealthy area. I find the house I had pointed out to me once when I enquired: plain red mud walls with no decorative moulding, a heavy wooden door. I knock softly, not wanting to draw attention.

She is surprised to see me. “Is the baby ill?” she asks. “Do you bleed?”

I shake my head. “May I enter?” I ask.

She steps back, allowing me to pass by her into the courtyard of the house. It is tiny, only a couple of dim lanterns illuminate the space, and I can see a doorway into the house.

The room she ushers me into is extraordinarily plain.

There is no carved plasterwork, no paint.

The walls are white, the floor is plain gray tiles.

There is a table and a chair. Nothing else.

The only decoration in the room is a large wooden cross, hung on the wall.

I stare at it for a moment, already half-regretting my plan.

“Kella?”

My attention is caught by the table. On it is a stack of good paper marked with fine calligraphy, although it is not our own script.

It must be Isabella’s work, for writing implements and inks lie to hand.

Few people can read and write, especially such fine script.

This is the work of a scribe or a religious clerk.

I am confused by this room, it feels as though there are clues as to who Isabella is and I yet do not understand them.

All I know of her is her calmness, her abilities with herbs, that she is a very educated woman and yet also a slave. I turn to face her, frowning.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

I swallow. “I want you to take my son.”

She gazes at me for a long time. “Why?”

“Zaynab… threatened him.”

“You could go to your husband.”

I shake my head.

She does not argue the point and I wonder what she knows of Zaynab.

“Will you take him?” I ask and I can already feel my tears welling at the thought of her agreeing.

I see her make a tiny movement towards me, as though about to take Ali. “For how long?”

“Forever,” I say.

She steps back. “Forever? Where will you be?”

I shake my head. “I do not know,” I say. “I may have to leave this place to ensure Ali is safe. But I cannot visit him, cannot see him again or Zaynab will know I am his mother.”

“She came to your house.”

“She did not see him,” I say. “I will say he is dead.” Even the thought of him dying brings a wave of nausea. I hold him more tightly and he stirs in my arms, lets out a tiny cry but then settles again.

“And his father?”

I swallow again. “He will know him when he is old enough.”

“How?”

I fumble in my robes and pull out the ismana , the string of silver beads marked with my name and Yusuf’s. “His father gave me this for our child. He will recognise it when he sees it. You must keep it safe and give it to Ali when he is old enough to make himself known, when he is a man.”

She stands silently.

“Will you take him?” I ask again.

“I must pray,” she says abruptly. She turns away from me and kneels below her cross.

I watch her. I have never seen a Christian at prayer before.

Her hands are clasped together, her head is bowed.

She stays silent and still for a long time before she opens her eyes and looks up at the cross.

She makes a movement with one hand echoing its shape across her face and shoulders, then rises and turns back to me.

Her face is very calm, but her voice shakes a little when she speaks, at the enormity of what she is about to do.

“I will take him,” she says. “I will keep him safe until he is grown to be a man, and I will bear witness to your husband that he is your child and his.”

She holds out her arms, her hands open to receive Ali.

I try to move, try to hold him out to her but my whole body convulses in sobs.

I rock him in my arms, my face buried against his skin, trying to smell him, feel him, kiss him for the last time.

Isabella watches me with a vast pity in her eyes.

When she sees that I cannot let him go she reaches out and takes him from me very gently, her hands cradling him.

My fingertips stay in contact with him until the last moment and when my arms fall back empty by my sides, I let out a low moan of pain, tears falling so fast down my face that I cannot even see.

Ali begins to cry and at once my hands reach out for him, but Isabella shakes her head.

“You must go now,” she says. “Or you will be found out.”

I look at the back of Ali’s head, at the tiny tuft of black hair, which is all I can see of him.

I back away from Isabella and then turn.

I walk through the darkness of her tiny courtyard and pull the door behind me, its heavy thud echoing inside me over and over again as I run through the dark streets back to my own home.

When I arrive Adeola is waiting. “Where is Ali?” she asks, seeing my empty arms.

I shake my head. “He is dead, Adeola.”

She gasps, stares at me in horror.

I lay one hand on her and look into her face, tears streaming down my own. “You must say he is dead,” I tell her. “You must take a wrapped body and have it buried.”

She nods quickly, hurries away from me while I walk unseeing to my own bed. When I lie down, I weep as though I will weep forever.

***

It is light when Yusuf comes. Behind him is Zaynab. The two of them look down on me where I lie weeping on my bed.

Zaynab’s face takes on a mask of sorrow and she kneels, embraces me, her black robes stifling me, their silk slipping across my mouth and nose like sliding snakes, making my skin tense with disgust and fear.

“My poor sister. Your newborn son was weak and now he has been taken from you. It is the will of Allah. We must not question His decisions.” She looks up at Yusuf.

“Our son will be born soon,” she says, as though to comfort him.

“You will have an heir, to mend your heart.”

Yusuf nods. “You may leave us now,” he says and Zaynab, unwilling but unable to refuse, goes out of the room.

Yusuf kneels by my side. His own eyes fill with tears and gently he strokes my disheveled hair.

For a moment I think of telling him the truth.

He is a good man, a kind man. I will explain how things are between me and Zaynab, beg him to keep Ali and me away from her, to let us live in peace.

But I do not trust Zaynab. I do not trust that there will be no mysterious accidents, no illnesses.

Ali is more precious to me than Yusuf’s feelings.

“I named him Ali,” I say, and then stop, for my sobs are choking me. I close my eyes against the new swelling of pain at speaking his name and when I open them again, I see that Yusuf, too, is weeping.

We sit together, embracing, weeping, for a long time. It is almost nightfall when Yusuf rises, and I am left alone again.

***

In the days that follow, Adeola and Ekon treat me as though I am their own child.

They wash me and comb my hair; they dress me in fresh robes each day.

They hold sweet orange juice to my lips, make me eat rich meat stews and drink broth to give me strength.

They bring fresh fruits, and the little honey cakes Aunt Tizemt loves.

One of them sits by my side day and night, they hear my sobs in silence.

Zaynab is safely delivered of a son. They name him Abu Tahir al-Mu’izz, and the city rejoices that Yusuf has an heir at last. Yusuf holds a great feast. Zaynab is showered with gifts and praise.

Her son is said to be strong and healthy; a fine boy who will one day be a great warrior like his father.

Those around me lower their voices when they see me coming and tiptoe about.

I do not attend the feasts for the boy, only weep at my loss, sleep and weep again.

Amalu comes to me. He kneels before me and his eyes are serious.

“Come away from here, Kella,” he says. “There is nothing good left here for you. Come with me. We will trade together, as you once asked me to. I was a fool to refuse you. I have cursed myself every day since, for we would have been happy together and I would have saved you all this pain.”

I look into his dark eyes, and I almost speak the truth, for I trust Amalu, but I am too deep in my loss to imagine the life he offers.

Instead, I shake my head in silence, and he kisses my hand and leaves.

Later I look down at my hand and imagine what it would be to live a life filled with love and tenderness rather than this unending pain.