On that morning, many of the women in Zubeida’s house went to visit the graves of their relatives in the Arab cemetery. To the younger children, who knew little of sorrow, this was a pleasant enough outing, as indeed it was to many of the women also, for it meant getting away from their hot and stuffy houses, and enjoying a little outside life. Most of them, however, young though they might be, had lost one or more babies, and the mourning over the little graves was only too real.
Fatima had a little brother buried there, and, as they approached the cemetery, her mother stopped to buy a sprig of green to put on his grave. Fatima, too, bought a bunch of yellow jonquils from the same stall, but one flower she drew out from among the rest, and placed it, Arab fashion, behind her ear.
It was a wonderfully lively scene through which they passed on the road leading to the cemetery. Between the rows of eucalyptus trees a stream of women, dressed in freshest white, was passing to and fro, with little red-capped boys darting in and out, and girls in bright trousers, jelabbas (loose tunics), and head-handkerchiefs. By the roadside were groups of street musicians, playing on drums, reed flutes, and the two-stringed snitra; while here and there a wild-looking man was reciting verses in praise of Muhammad.
When they reached her baby’s grave, Zubeida sat down heavily, for the walk had been too much for her. She was almost too tired to move on to the bright-colored rug which Fatima spread for her on the grass. Without speaking, she handed the green branch she had brought to the child, who placed it carefully in the little round hole at the head of the grave. As Fatima looked up, she saw Lalla Dorothy standing beside her.
“Your mother is ill,” Lalla Dorothy said sympathetically, and, sitting down beside her, she put her arm round Zubeida.
“She is tired,” said Fatima; “every day she is tired. But, see, she is already better. This is the grave of my little brother Omar,” Fatima added. “Come, and I will show you the graves of my grandfather and my uncle.”
They walked hand-in-hand, in and out among the rough pathways and white and blue-tiled graves, with here and there a plaster dome topped by a crescent. Lalla Dorothy tried to read the Arabic writing on the tombstones, but it was the Arabic of learned books, and she could only make out a little here and there. The two familiar words she did keep on seeing were, “Allah” and “Muhammad.” But never the sacred name of “Jesus.” And a verse she had read somewhere kept ringing in her head: And I dream of a night in lands afar, Where dawning is scarce begun, And still the crescent, and still the star, But never the risen sun.
(The crescent is the emblem of Islam and the star of the Turkish Empire.)
It was hot, and they sat down for a few minutes in the shade of a group of cypress trees. Lalla Dorothy began to teach Fatima a text from the gospel of John, which she had set to a strain of Arab music, picked up from a flute-player in the street Kool min yamin bee Ma yemoot shee Abadan.
(“Whosoever believeth in Me shall never die.”)
Returning to the baby’s grave, they found Zubeida putting together the rug, water-pot, etc., which they had brought from home, intending to spend some hours in the cemetery.
“I am better,” she said feebly, “but I think I will go home.”
Lalla Dorothy walked with them to the end of their street. “Don’t forget the words we have been singing,” she said to Fatima, as she kissed her good-bye.
Notwithstanding her husband’s resolve, Zubeida never went to the marabout’s again.
As Sidi Abd-er-Rahman was leaving the café late in the afternoon, a messenger came hurriedly towards him, announcing the glad news of “the filling of the house;” in other words, that a new little member had been joined to the family. Adding, to the father’s special joy, “A son, O Sidi!”
Arrived at his home, he found little Fatima seated on a cushion, very solemn and important, nursing her new brother, whom old Baya had just placed in her lap. The rest of the chattering women, hearing a man’s step, had disappeared, like rabbits into their holes. Fortunately, the doings of the feast would keep them out of the way for the remainder of the evening.
Poor little new brother, whom Fatima fondled with such a wondering tenderness! Old Baya shook her head meaningfully, as she held him up for his father’s inspection.
“And Zubeida?” he asked.
Baya shrugged her thin old shoulders. She was by no means in a hopeful state of mind. Little Fatima, whose thoughts till now had been occupied with the baby, was seized with a sudden fear. Going over to where Zubeida lay, she slipped her hands into her mother’s.
Zubeida opened her tired eyes. “Lalla Christabel,” she whispered.
Fatima slipped out of the room, and, forgetting the gathering darkness, ran down the steep streets to the House of the English.
Lalla Christabel, on hearing of the bad opinion of old Baya, at once sent for the French lady doctor, and then, taking Fatima’s hand, she went home with her, without giving a thought to the fact that it was supper-time, and that she was very tired.
Her presence was a great comfort to Zubeida, who had herself no hope of recovery; and, knowing what is expected of Moslems when dying, was afraid that in her weakness she might be induced to say the Muhammadan creed, which some believed to be a sort of passport to paradise.
Lalla Christabel did not leave till the doctor arrived, and Zubeida already seemed better. But in the middle of the night Fatima, who had fallen asleep against her will, was awakened by excited voices. The room was full of women, pressing round Zubeida’s bed, trying to rouse her, taking her by the hand, calling on her to open her eyes, and repeating in tones, angry, coaxing or entreating.
“Say the shahadda! Say the shahadda!”
There was a lull, as they made way for Fatima. Kneeling down at the head of the bed, the child whispered, “Yimma!”
Zubeida opened her eyes, which were full of love and longing as they rested on Fatima. “The baby is gone,” she said peacefully, and I am going, too-to-”
There was a pause. “Say the shahadda!” whispered old Baya.
Zubeida’s lips moved. The women leaned forward, breathless. But the sound came full and clear-”JESUS!” And this was Zubeida’s last word.
Very early the next morning, little Fatima went to the House of the English and asked to see Lalla Christabel. The English maid who opened the door had been told not to let the children in before half-past seven, but, seeing by the distressed little face that something was wrong, she took the child’s request upstairs at once.
Lalla Christabel was having coffee in her own room, and immediately sent for Fatima. She was not surprised at the sad news which the little girl just managed to give her, before breaking down altogether.
Lalla Christabel took her in her arms. All the great motherliness of her heart went out towards the weeping child.
Gradually the sobs ceased. “She never said the shahadda,” said Fatima at last. “They tried to make her, but she would not. She said that she was going to Jesus, and as soon as she said it, He took her.”
“And the baby?” Lalla Christabel asked.
“Dead,” said Fatima, and a great sob overcame her again. “And the women,” she added presently, “the women said it was because mother put away her charm and the writing that the marabout gave her. That is not true, is it?”
“No, that is not true,” said Lalla Christabel. “The only thing that is true is, that our Lord Jesus loves your mother, and your baby brother, and has taken them to be with Himself. All little children are safe with Jesus, and all the big people who put their trust in Him. Do you remember what He said to Martha, ‘He that believeth in Me shall never die’?”
Little Fatima repeated the text softly. These words, and the loving voice and arms of her friend, were a wonderful comfort to her. She clung to Lalla Christabel’s hand all the way down to the street door.
“I will come this evening,” said her friend, “and then I shall hope to see thy father.”
Those who have passed through the same sorrow as our little Fatima will understand what a dreadful day this was to her. Before it was over, the body of the dear mother and her little one had been laid to rest in the Moslem cemetery. Hour after hour, the women were in and out of Fatima’s home, wailing piteously for their dead sister, knowing nothing of the heavenly home that had received her, nor of the sweet welcome of the Lord Jesus.
Mingled with the voice of mourning came many comments on Zubeida’s refusal to say the shahadda, and on her discarding of the Moslem charms. Some bemoaned these, as it seemed to them, fatal mistakes; some abused Lalla Christabel and her teaching; one or two, and amongst them old Baya, held to it that Lalla Christabel was a good woman, and that it was a pity she would not crown her piety by herself saying the shahadda.
Little Fatima, weighed down with grief, yet nursing in her heart a comfort of which they knew nothing, sat very still, hour after hour, on a cushion by the mattress where her mother had lain, not saying a word except when she was spoken to.