Chapter 26
Still uncertain whether the Moulay Training Program is right for your son? Consider these testimonials from our young men and their parents:
“I sincerely couldn't be more thankful for the level of support and quality of training I've received from the Upper-Level Cadets.
I'm very appreciative to have worked with men of such faith and integrity, and I honestly cannot recall a time when I obtained this kind of one-on-one personalized attention from an instructor at any institution I've attended. I honestly couldn't be more thankful.”
—Majd, a recent graduate
“Our son was lacking direction in life. We didn't know where to turn.
A friend recommended the Moulay Training Program.
After he completed his two-solar-cycle term, we were amazed at his transformation mentally, physically, and spiritually.
His potential has skyrocketed, and the skills he's gained will open many new doors of possibility in his future!”
—parents of Khalid
THE ARM OF GOD HAS MIRACLES IN ITS FIST!
—advertisement run in the quarterly tribunes of all four regions
Shay carries a tray upstairs, heaped with crisp toast and an array of fresh fruit cut into bite-sized pieces. She hesitates at the door with a murmured blessing.
For days Shay has found Hind either convulsing with chills or delirious with fever. She has been met with sweat-soaked sheets in need of endless washing and bout after bout of vomiting or diarrhea or worse—both. But Hind is finally awake and sitting up.
Shay approaches her with a tender smile.
She takes one look at the tray and blanches, her lip curling in disgust. “I can't eat anything.”
“The tea will help you feel better,” Shay insists gently. She foraged the herbs herself: sour terraparam for lowering temperature and golden hyssop for pain relief. She sets the tray on a wooden stand and cracks the window to air the room. “You must try to eat something. For the baby.”
“Keep that shut. It's freezing in here.” Hind rubs her thin arms roughly and rolls her eyes with disdain. “And don't start on me about the baby. You know what? If you care so much, cut the thing out of me and leave me to die.”
Shay flinches. She sighs and closes the window, despite the room being uncomfortably warm and so stale that the walls are beginning to peel. Her voice is soft when she speaks: “You don't mean that.”
“I would rather die than feel this way.” Hind moans, flopping back against her pillows. She flails from side to side. “It hurts. Everywhere. Everything. My skin is on fire. My bones are melting. My organs are shriveled. I need one sip. Please. Just to take the edge off.”
“That's not an option.” Shay creeps closer.
Hind has torn a hole in one of the socks Shay tied over her hands the last time she clipped her nails.
A new batch of thin red ribbons have joined the older scratches on her arms. “Look what you've done to yourself. At least let me put some nigella nettle on your wounds.”
Hind grunts, which Shay takes as compliance. She retrieves a bottle from a nearby drawer. Sitting on a leather starmia next to the pallet, she uses a clover bean leaf to dab the juice generously over Hind's skin. “Is that better?”
“It is nice and cool,” Hind says reluctantly. She rubs her nose and snuffles.
“Mezyan.” Shay smiles as brightly as she can, imagining Hind as a cat gone feral whom she's been tasked to tame.
She readily remembers the resting season she spent in this same room, hiding under layers of blankets, sinking through levels of despair.
Then Khawla came. Hind is going through a hard thing, but she doesn't have to go through it alone. “How about just a sip of tea?”
Hind nods and props herself up on one arm. Shay pours a glass, filling it only halfway. Given her recent fits of shaking, Hind is liable to burn herself. On second thought, Shay brings the glass to her mouth, to be safe.
The moment the liquid meets her dry, cracked lips, Hind shoves Shay's hand away.
Tea splatters in an arc, spraying Shay's skin in a hot flare.
The glass sails from her fingers and shatters against the wall.
Long wet streaks trickle down in trails and run together, making it look like the cottage is weeping.
Muted light hits the glass lying scattered on the floor, the way the sun must glitter off ocean waves even when someone is drowning.
“Are you trying to poison me?” Hind scowls. “What did you put in that concoction?”
“Nothing bad.” Shay's voice trembles. She fetches a clover bean leaf and wipes her arm, her skin puffing in pink splotches when she lifts the leaf. “Ghita taught me well about herbal remedies. The tea is perfectly safe, and beneficial.”
Hind blinks. Her face softens, looking almost contrite, which makes her next words all the more shocking. “The midwife? Have you spoken to her lately?”
A lump of emotion lodges in Shay's throat and prevents her from speaking.
She rises and takes a moment to gather herself, drying the wall and sweeping the glass.
Her hands shake. She clenches them. Splays them open.
Tries to shake the feeling that she's standing high on the edge of a cliff, water rushing so far beneath her, it sounds less like a roar and more like a purr.
Finally, she sits back down and says the words she still finds hard to believe. “She's gone.”
Not missing a beat, Hind smiles cruelly. “Traveling?”
“No.” Shay searches Hind's face, trying to glean where these questions are coming from. Her stomach twines around a pit of unease. “Mukhtar Jawad raided her dwelling, and—”
“Oh,” Hind says with fake sympathy. “Someone must have turned her in for stealing that baby. But who would do such a thing?”
Horror seeps over Shay, the unapologetic look on Hind's face saying everything she isn't. Then Hind has the gall to laugh.
“Why? Do you understand that they killed her?”
Hind lowers her head. She shrugs one bony shoulder. “Sometimes the best way to get yourself out of trouble is to get someone else in it.”
“Do you have any idea how heartless you sound?” Shay wishes Hind could only see herself, that she had some kind of magic mirror that shows people the magnitude of their own cruelty.
“Don't judge me.” Hind jerks her head up, eyes wild. “I could have killed you before you were born. Your precious midwife would have given me the right herbs, had I asked. Would have saved us both some grief, don't you think?”
Shay leans back so far, her balance tips.
She finds herself on the floor, gasping for a breath that doesn't come.
She understands now, why Ghita wanted to send her to Kiddah.
She must have known that had Shay stayed, she and her mother would have connected, sometime, somehow, and that Shay would only suffer as a result.
“Look how weak you are,” Hind goads. “How can you even be my daughter?”
Shay snaps.
She springs to her feet and paces the length of the room. “All I ever wanted was for you to love me. I've seen countless children born and watched women from all manner of backgrounds and circumstances bond with their babies. It's a love that comes naturally to any woman.
“Except you,” she spits. “You failed to do that one, most basic thing. And then you take away the only woman who has ever come close to loving me the way you should have.” Shay comes to a stop, her fists vibrating.
“I swear by the One, I don't know why I keep choosing you.
You're never, ever going to choose me back, are you?”
“If I'm so horrible, leave me to my suffering,” Hind says, her voice brittle. She leans back on her pillows with one arm thrown across her face, hiding any expression she may wear. “I'm too tired to deal with you.”
“You're too tired?” Shay sputters. “I haven't slept in days because I've been so worried about you. I lost my dearest friend helping you escape!”
“Did I ask you to rescue me?” the touched one whispers, barely audible.
“So what?” Shay stomps her foot. “You're going to confess this terrible thing and then roll over and go to sleep?”
“Shhh,” Hind murmurs groggily. “Emotional strain is bad for the baby. Or didn't Ghita teach you that?”
How dare she utter the midwife's name? Even the truth of her words isn't enough to stop Shay from screaming in frustration. Feet pound up the stairs. Deebi bursts in. “Lallati, are you well?”
Shay shakes her head, trying not to cry. Trying not to scream again. Trying not to bang her head repeatedly against the wall.
Deebi approaches her slowly, scanning for any sign of injury. “Just take a deep breath, and tell me what's wrong.”
All Shay can do is point a finger toward her mother, curled on the pallet and already—unbelievably—snoring.
Deebi nods as if that's a perfectly comprehensive explanation. “Whatever she did, whatever she said, she doesn't mean it. She's overwhelmed by the pain of the cravings, that's all.”
“It's no excuse.” Shay sighs. She'd rather conclude Snow altered her mother's decision-making ability than that she's just devoid of morals. But Hind isn't making it easy to be so generous, not when her hands are dripping with Ghita's blood.
“You haven't stopped working all day,” he says. “Go relax for a while. I'll watch over her.”
Shay hugs herself, exhaustion humming through her body. “Are you sure?”
“I've got this.”
Shay smooths her hands down her kaftan and over her hair. “I guess I could start lunch.”
“No need,” Deebi reassures her. “Dasri is cooking today. He loves your couscous so much, he watched you make it and memorized the ingredients and steps. It should be ready soon.”
“What about you?”
“Put some aside for me.” He places a gnarled hand on her shoulder before she speaks. “Yes, lallati. I'm sure.”