Star of Light (7 page)

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.

“And what if she doesn’t find them?” asked one little boy. “Will she put her out in the street?”

Ayashi looked up quickly. “She will not,” he replied with complete confidence.

“How do you know? Why not? It is not her child!” exclaimed the other children all together.

“Because,” answered Ayashi simply, “she has a clean heart.”

Supper at the Nurse’s Home

T
he rest of the day passed pleasantly. Ayashi, pleased by Hamid’s admiration, took him around the town and up onto the hillside to show him the spring of water welling up from the heart of the mountain. It never failed and kept the city supplied and the fields around it fresh and green.

At midday they hung around the door of the hotel. After a time, a waiter flung them some broken rolls and meat that guests had left on their plates, and the boys fell upon the food like hungry dogs. Then they curled themselves against the trunk of the eucalyptus tree and slept in the shade.

Evening came, and Hamid stuck close to Ayashi. They sat on some steps together with a few friends, watching the country people crowding into the
square. Tomorrow was market day, and those who had come from a distance would spread out their sacks against the wall and sleep beside their wares. As darkness fell, the shopkeepers lit their lamps again, and other little boys sauntered up from their various jobs and collected on the steps.

“Come,” said Ayashi, who seemed to be a sort of leader among them. “She will soon open her door now.”

He beckoned Hamid to follow him, but Hamid hesitated. He felt torn in two. Hunger and his great longing to see whether all was well with his little sister urged him on, but caution held him back. What if he should be forced to speak while Kinza was there? She would certainly recognize his voice and run to him, and then everyone would be suspicious.

“Come on,” called Ayashi impatiently, looking back.

Hamid shook his head. “I’m not coming,” he replied, and sat down again on the steps with his head in his hands, staring gloomily into the market. Then he got up suddenly, for he had had an idea. He would not go in, but he would creep to the door of the house, as he had done the night before, and peep through a crack. Perhaps he would catch a glimpse of Kinza.

Like some guilty little thief, he darted into the quiet back street and sneaked along the wall toward the open door.

He peered around very cautiously, but there was no sign or sound of her—only the murmuring of voices, and then the shrill noise of the little boys
singing. Kinza was apparently nowhere about, and he was standing in a very dangerous position. He shuffled onto the rubbish heap and began to cry quietly because his friends and his little sister were all inside the house where there was shelter and light and food—and he was left outside.

And then something happened. The door opened a little farther, and the nurse stepped out into the street to see if any more boys were coming before she started the lesson. She appeared silently, and Hamid did not see her at first. But she heard a wretched, sniffing sound close by and, looking around, she spotted him on the rubbish heap.

Hamid jumped up, frightened, but she stood between him and freedom and he could not escape, so he rubbed away his tears and crouched, staring up at her. He had never seen anyone like her before.

“Why don’t you come in?” she asked.

Attracted by a sense of welcome, he got up and walked slowly toward her. She waited quite still, afraid of startling him. Then, when he was close to her, she held out her hand. He took it and stepped trustfully through the doorway with her.

They entered the lighted room together, and Hamid took a good look around. It was a long whitewashed room with a rush mat on the floor and mattresses against the wall. At one end the boys sat cross-legged in a semicircle. On the wall opposite the door was the picture of the saint smiling down on them, just as He had smiled down on Kinza.

“Come,” said the nurse, “sit down with the others. I’m going to show you something.”

Ayashi grinned at him delightedly, and Hamid wormed his way into the semicircle and sat beside him. The boys looked younger here somehow, not like men of the world anymore.

The nurse sat down on the mattress in front of them and showed them a little Book. It was quite unlike the Koran, which was the only book Hamid had ever seen inside. None of the boys could read at all, anyway.

The nurse explained how God lived in a place like a bright golden city—heaven—where there were only good things and happiness.

I’d like to go there
, thought Hamid.
It would be even better than our village—no fear, no quarreling, no blindness
.

But while he was thinking about this wonderful place, the nurse told them that because of the bad things people do wrong, God cannot let them into the city. The gate is shut to wrongdoers. Hamid had never worried about doing wrong before—in fact, he had never even thought about what wrong was. Of course he stole if he got the chance, and naturally he told lies if they would save him from a beating—why shouldn’t he?

Then the nurse went on to tell them a strange story. Apparently, God’s Son, whose name was Jesus, had left this wonderful city and come down into the world to live with the people He loved. At the end, He had died on a cross, as a punishment for all the wrong things everybody had ever done. He had done nothing wrong Himself and didn’t deserve to die, but because He loved people so much, He
wanted them to be able to go and live in His home— heaven—with Him. He had died in place of everyone else—even bad, lying, thieving little boys like Hamid and the rest of the gang. All they had to do was say they were sorry and ask Jesus to forgive them.

Then the nurse stopped talking and brought in two great bowls of steaming rice and handed around hunks of bread. The children divided up into two groups and huddled over their supper, scooping up the food at an amazing pace, then polishing the bowls with their dirty little fingers. No one spoke much until the last lick and crumb had vanished because they were racing each other to get the most. When every bit was gone, they sat back on their heels and questioned the nurse about the little girl whom they had found in the passage the night before.

“She is still with me,” she said, smiling a little. “She is, at this moment, asleep in bed.”

Hamid looked at her hard. She did not seem to be annoyed at Kinza still being with her.

“I took her all around the town with me today,” went on the nurse, “but nobody has ever seen her before, or knows who her parents are. She is a little blind girl, so I suppose no one wants her.”

“And what will you do with her?” asked the boys all together.

“Well, I shall have to keep her for the moment; there’s nothing else to be done.” This time she laughed outright, and Hamid nearly laughed, too, with joy and relief. He had a wild, reckless longing to see his little sister asleep in bed, and he was no
longer afraid. He waited until the little boys had bowed and shaken hands with their hostess and skipped off into the dark. Then she turned and found him lingering in the passage. His heart was beating violently, but he spoke steadily and boldly.

“I come from a village,” he said, “and in my village there are two or three blind baby girls whose parents come into the market. Let me see her, and perhaps I can tell you who her mother is.”

The nurse looked down at him, surprised. She had certainly never seen this little boy before, and he might be speaking the truth. She had watched him since he had entered her house and noticed his thin, tired face and his bruised feet—also the ravenous way he had fallen on his food. She guessed he had traveled a long way and was glad to shelter him, so she led him to a room upstairs, where Kinza lay on a mattress, fast asleep.

She looked different because she had had a bath and had come out quite another color. Also her hair had been washed and cut, and instead of her tangles she had soft, dark curls falling over her forehead. Her old dress had been changed for a little white nightdress, spotlessly clean. Hamid gazed at her, fascinated, for a while, and then looked around the room. It was brightly lit and furnished simply, but there were pretty covers on the mattresses, books on the shelves, and pictures on the walls. He longed to stay with her but knew it was not possible.