Page 36 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)
Ali is a scholar in the making. He finds my paper and a pen and spills ink everywhere but manages to form a clumsy letter and I, enchanted, begin to teach him his letters and numbers.
He loves them. He draws the shapes in water in the summer, in sand, in the mud of winter.
He sits himself by my side, like a little scholar and attends to his studies.
Rebecca finds him a little kitten and he is careful and soft with it, a gentle soul.
I think of his mother’s adventurous spirit and Yusuf’s leadership, but I do not see it in him.
I see a scholar and a kind heart, a child who loves lullabies and stories, embraces and soft words.
I think perhaps, as he is Yusuf’s son, that he should be taught the skills of war, that he should have a dagger and a shield and think himself a soldier.
But I cannot bring myself to do this, to harden his little heart against the outside world.
Instead, I read to him the legends of his own world and recite the stories from mine.
I take him to the market square, where we sit in rapturous silence and listen to the storyteller peddle his wares.
Ali likes to imagine that he is a great king, with a queen who tells him such stories as Scheherazade once told her lord, although I cannot imagine him being so unkind as to behead any previous wives.
His eyes grow round with the tales of Sinbad, of the forty thieves, of adventures and heroes, monsters and good-for-nothings populating a city like his own.
He examines large oil jars in case he should find thieves hiding there, waves his hand to command doors to open and reveal their hidden treasure.
I hold him to me when he will keep still long enough to let me and smell his hair, the perfume of innocence and happiness.
The scholar who taught me suggests that I might like to work alongside physicians, in the first hospital that is being built in Marrakech.
But I am afraid of drawing too much attention to myself, as I surely would working alongside physicians, a woman from another country.
Instead, I look about me, at the over-large house Yusuf has given me.
I see Rebecca’s smiling face and listen to Fatima’s cheerful singing as she goes about her chores.
I look at my plants and remedies and make up my mind.
“I wish to care for the sick,” I tell Rebecca. “Here, in this house. We could work to heal the sick, and to help those who have nothing, as Fatima had nothing.”
“Nor did I,” Rebecca reminds me, “I would do anything to repay my debt to you.”
“You did that long ago,” I say. “You saved Ali’s life; he would have died without your milk. There is no debt to repay to me, but we could do much good here, this house is too big, even for the four of us.”
And so, we make changes to our household.
I set aside a room to be an infirmary, and another to be my stillroom.
I find a beggar boy to fetch and carry and find a young girl to join our household as a servant, while Fatima becomes my assistant.
I let it be known that I will use my healing skills for anyone who needs them.
My days grow busy, preparing and using remedies, looking to use my newfound knowledge as well as my existing skills on those who come to us for help.
Since I have already engaged the services of a tutor for Ali, I offer the opportunity to learn to read and write to any who wish to attend, and so there is always a little group of slaves, children and women who cannot attend a formal school but can spare a little time to learn alongside Ali.
“You are privileged,” I tell him, “And so it is meet that you should share that privilege with those whose lives are harder than yours.” He straightens with pride at the thought, offering, even though he is a little child, to help others in their quest for knowledge.
He will show them how to form a letter, tongue between his lips as he shapes them, frowning in concentration.
His little finger traces across the Qu’ran while he speaks its words aloud for the benefit of those still learning.
He is a born scholar, with a scholar’s desire to share what he knows.
Rebecca, meanwhile, is absent for much of several days and when I ask her where she went, she whispers that a Jewish trader invited her to his home, outside of Murakush, to celebrate Passover, knowing her to be of his faith.
“I told him I had been disowned by my family,” she says. “I did not want to lie to him, but he said we are far from Al-Andalus here and there are so few of our faith, we must stick together.”
There is something lighter about her, a brightness in her eyes and I am not surprised when a few months later a man presents himself at our house and asks to speak with me. He is named Daniel and he asks if he may marry Rebecca.
“Gladly, if you will love and protect her,” I tell him. “But she is so much a part of my life. Can she still work with me?”
He is happy with this arrangement and so Rebecca marries back into her faith, a homecoming for her after all these years being cast out.
I see a new confidence grow in her, a sense of belonging rather than the pitiful gratitude of the early years together.
She seems an equal with me now and although she leaves our house each afternoon to travel home with her husband, she spends most of each day with us.
Ali, of course, latches on to Daniel and asks him all manner of questions about the Jewish faith, even attends one or two prayer meetings to observe their rituals.
He is insatiable in his desire for knowledge, with an open-mindedness that continues to amaze and humble me.
I do not often see Yusuf but having work to keep me busy each and every day, having a household that is full of need and noise fills the silence and emptiness within me, lessens a little the longing for what I cannot have.
I think sometimes of Hela, of her gift to me of knowledge, and whether she meant for it so that I might use my healing skills, or whether she thought it might help to lessen my desire for Yusuf, I do not know.
I know nothing of her past. I know only that she saw something in me that needed help and gave it in the only way she knew how.
When I make my daily devotions, I pray for her soul, wherever she may be.