Barakah had not made many steps outside the house before she was
completely lost. Although for sixteen years her home had been in Cairo,
she had never walked in the streets before. Which was the way? She
could not tell, but went on bravely, hoping for some guide. At last
she met a donkey-driver with a pleasant face. In answer to her timid
hail, he smiled delighted and praised his Maker for the honour of her
patronage. “To the railway station,” she enjoined at mounting, and he
answered “Ready!”
Away they went, arousing echoes in the stony alleys, the driver
shouting as he ran beside the ambling beast. Barakah felt exhilarated
by the change of motion, the little spice of danger when they dashed
round corners, or charged some group of wayfarers with warning cries.
The first stage of her flight would soon be over; and once on board the
train, she thought, escape was sure.
The streets were empty even for that hour. Scavenger dogs slept
undisturbed in every spot of shade. The persons they encountered seemed
to have no business, but stood about in groups conversing glumly. On
the wide, dusty square before the railway station groups were many.
A little crowd beset the station doors. These were all closed, to
Barakah’s amazement. The building looked deserted.
“Ask when the next train starts for the sea-coast,” she ordered her
attendant, who addressed a shout to persons standing near.
“The sea-coast? Allah knows! It may be never!” The reply was shrugged.
“A great fight has taken place. The end has come. The English fell upon
the camp at daybreak--yesterday or this morning, Allah knows! The rebel
army was dispersed like chaff. The leader--the arch-traitor--escaped
hither on an engine, and is in the town now somewhere, herding with his
kind. It is clearly seen how foully he deceived us, seducing us from
our allegiance with the promise of success.”
“Praise be to Allah that his reign is ended,” said another. “If the
English were but true believers, one would bless them.”
“Nay, the tidings are not certain,” cried a third with anguish.
“As certain as the sun is hot upon my reins this minute. I have it from
a man who saw Arâbi. The rascal’s face was yellow as a corpse.”
Barakah’s mind received no more than the initial statement. The way
that she had meant to take was closed against her.
“Whither, my lady?” asked the donkey-boy, with willing smile.
“Far, far away--towards the sea-coast. Anywhere!”
“Ready!” he laughed. “It is for thee to order. By Allah, we will go to
Gebel Câf if thou desire it.”
He smote his donkey, and they jogged along once more, out through
new suburbs to the open fields. The sun was an armed foe, the dust
a persecutor; her habbarah and face-veil made a sheath of fire. The
donkey-boy kept looking at her with compassion, smiling encouragement
whenever he could meet her gaze. He thought her mad, and so indulged
her fancy, assuring her that it would not take long to reach the sea.
But when she murmured of the heat and wished to rest, he showed immense
relief.
“That is the best,” he cried. “Wait till I find some pleasant shade for
thee. See, yonder is a tree. There thou shalt rest till the great heat
is past, and then, at thy command, we can resume the journey.”
Dismounting under leaves, she sank upon the ground and wept
despairingly. The tears, which bitter grief had failed to wring from
her, flowed freely for her impotence. Escape was hopeless. Her project
now appeared the last absurdity. The change of clothes, the change of
manners, now presented difficulties which she felt that she would never
have the strength to overcome. The donkey-boy’s consoling words, his
friendly grin, were teasing. She sent him to fetch water from a village
near at hand. He came back with a pitcher and two slabs of bread; which
so revived her spirit that she once more saw beyond the moment and
conceived a plan.
She would wait till nightfall and then seek the city of the dead, to
die on her son’s grave, if Allah willed it. At least she would spend
all the night in prayer imploring Allah’s mercy for him in the name of
Christ.
She had sat a long while, cross-legged, gazing straight before her,
her hands locked in her lap, when a soft voice disturbed her. The
donkey-boy was plucking at her sleeve.
“The heat is spent,” he told her. “Best be moving! It is back into the
city,--not so?--thy command? Much better than to journey to the sea,
like this, without provision. Say, which way?”
Barakah pointed a direction listlessly. She had no wish to enter Cairo
before dark, so chose a long way round, among the fields.
Soon the sunset reddened all the plain, stretching their shadows far
before them on the dyke. The citadel upon its height was hotly flushed
one minute, the next ash-grey and lifeless like a skull. It lived in
her imagination as a monstrous spider which held her with its web and
drew her in.
The donkey-boy beside her prattled ceaselessly.
“O lady, I will not forsake thee--no, by the Prophet, never, till thy
mind is healed. Do I know the cemetery El Afîfi? Wallahi! I can guide
thee thither. Not a bad idea; for Allah comforts those who visit the
deceased. By the Sayyid Ahmad, thou art as my mother. May God cut
short my life if I desert thee in thy present state.”
The lad’s support was of some comfort to her.
In the first blue of night, when daylight lingers in the memory, they
were following a sandy road towards the city, when a noise as of the
sea arose behind them. The donkey-boy was first to hear it. He stood
still and listened, holding up his hand. It seemed approaching on the
road behind them. He looked puzzled; then suddenly let fall his hands,
and made a bound.
“It is the army! Come, O my lady! We must hide ourselves. Hold fast!”
He made the donkey gallop for a hundred yards, then led it down into
a patch of cane. Peeping out between the stems they saw vague forms
in clouds of dust approaching on the dyke above. The roar became the
jangle of accoutrements, the roll of heavy carriages upon the road and
murmuring voices.
Innumerable ranks of horsemen passed, dust-stained and weary, with
faces resolutely strained towards Cairo. Barakah saw them as the
figures of a dream. Their silhouette against the sky appeared familiar.
The words with which they cheered their tired horses rang on memory.
“It is the English,” whispered her companion hoarsely.
“The English! Allah, help me!” murmured Barakah. Until that moment she
had lost remembrance of the war.