Light of the Desert Read online

  LIGHT OF THE DESERT

  by

  Lucette Walters

  AuthorHouse™

  1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.authorhouse.com

  Phone: 1-800-839-8640

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  © 2009, 2014 Lucette Walters. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  First published by AuthorHouse 02/25/2014

  ISBN: 978-1-4918-4256-0 (e)

  ISBN: 978-1-4259-7748-1 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4259-7749-8 (hc)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2007903330

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AL-BALLADI, JORDAN

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my dear friend Victoria Dann, NYU Professor, gifted teacher. I am grateful for her valuable advice and inspiration through the challenging years of writing fiction.

  To Crystal for her endless love and support, and for sharing her creative gifts. I am deeply grateful.

  To Alain for his love and support, and to Raya, light of our lives.

  To Ruth and Alvin Moss for their inspiration, kindness and warm friendship and their professional and honest critique. I shall always miss them.

  A heartfelt thank you to Sara Held. Great editor, patient teacher.

  To Katherine and Rod Russell, for their incredible insights and spiritual awareness.

  To my dear Evie and Leonard Prybutok, for their warm friendship and for sharing their wisdom which I will always cherish.

  To Nancy and Natasha Young, for reading my manuscript until dawn, for their loving friendship and support.

  To Evelyn Cook, dear friend, talented writer, many thanks for her honest critique, she inspired me through the tough writing process and taught me to cut, cut, cut!

  To my dear sisters Shelly and Spery for their love.

  To AuthorHouse’s Ron Bowles, for his guidance, and to Joel Pierson for his editing support and sense of humor. To Hilary Kanyi for her kindness and patience.

  To the great Mario Puzo who once gave me a job when I needed one, and who inspired me to keep writing. I will always remember him with blessings and heartfelt gratitude.

  And mostly, to my dear husband, David, in loving memory, forever in my heart…

  I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO

  MY BEAUTIFUL MOTHER,

  SUZANNE

  A WOMAN OF LOVE, A WOMAN OF FAMILY,

  A WOMAN OF COURAGE.

  IN THE SPIRIT WORLD NOW, SHE GUIDES ME

  *****

  TO CRYSTAL VICTORIA-HOPE

  DAUGHTER EXTRAORDINAIRE, YOU MAKE ME PROUD

  And

  In Loving Memory of My Father

  FARID FENDIL

  BELIEVED HE HAD TO SAVE HIS FAMILY NAME

  BEFORE HIS RELIGIOUS PEERS.

  BUT A MAN CANNOT GAMBLE WITH

  THE HAND OF FATE

  OR OPPOSE THE WILL OF ALLAH.

  THIS TRUTH, HE NEGLECTED TO HONOR.

  AND SO BEGINS THE STORY OF HIS DAUGHTER NOORA,

  LIGHT OF THE DESERT.

  AL-BALLADI, JORDAN

  MARCH 21, 1993

  “I denounce you!”

  He grabbed her by the hair, forced her to her knees, and kicked her in the face. He kicked her again. Blood squirted into her eyes, and before she could bring a hand up to protect herself, he kicked her a third time. She heard a cracking sound in her head and her vision blurred.

  It had to be a nightmare. She must wake up now! But the horrific experience persisted. She was suffocating.

  She tried to get away from him, but he caught her and dragged her down the long corridor by her feet. She heard screams and barely recognized them as her own. Blood from her fingers streaked the marble tiles. Men in gray suits stood like steel posts. She saw the man with the mustache.

  The man from London.

  She reached out a hand. Help me! But he stood glaring at her, as her father dragged her down the pool steps and rammed her head beneath the water’s surface.

  The loving hands that once taught her how to swim were drowning her.

  The twenty-one years of her life flashed before her. The same pool sparkled beneath the sun-drenched crystal dome. Her father’s arms were piled with presents. Ten illuminated candles were ready to be blown from her huge pink birthday cake …

  Her sister Zaffeera, eight years old, stood at the edge of the pool in her red bathing suit, fists on her hips. “It’s my turn to swim now, Father,” her voice echoed from the past. “It’s my turn!”

  Please, God, keep her safe, Noora cried in her heart. For a brief moment, she could see the gold letters of her parents’ initials etched in the marble, on the deep end of the pool. The undulating water turned murky with blood.

  Her chest burned as her lungs filled with water. She needed to breathe, she had to breathe now! She had to beg for his mercy, for whatever the cause, she didn’t know.

  He pushed her down and would not let go!

  If she could just reach the surface—and ask, WHY?

  CHAPTER 1

  NOORA

  JULY 22, 1972

  On a desert dawn,

  Little light shines on …

  Yasmina Fendil rose from her bed, pushed her feet into her handmade baboush leather slippers, and stretched out her pregnant stomach. She had at least four more weeks to go, but she was anxious to hold the baby in her arms. Little L
ight—she remembered the dream song. She should tell her mother about it, Yasmina thought, making her way to the adjoining room. Most dreams had a message, but those of a pregnant woman had to have special significance.

  She opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and peeked inside. Beneath a silver satin comforter, Sultana Marietta, a petite woman in her late fifties, was snoring, her wiry gray hair spread wildly around her pillow.

  Yasmina decided to let her mother rest.

  The two women’s bedrooms were connected by a nursery. Yasmina looked up at the blue-domed ceiling with painted white clouds and touched the dimmer switch. Tiny specks of stars brightened gently and changed hues as they sparkled overhead.

  Yasmina’s son, Nageeb-Gabriel, was asleep. They had recently celebrated his third birthday, yet it didn’t seem so long ago that she was pregnant with him. She watched her firstborn and smiled. He probably had the longest, blackest eyelashes in the Middle East. And he was smart. Inshallah, if God willed, someday he would be an architect and a real estate developer, like his father. Carefully she replaced the blue satin down comforter he had kicked onto the floor. She bent to kiss him, but decided not to risk waking him.

  Silently she returned to her bedroom suite and opened the glass doors to her verandah.

  Lowering herself on a chaise longue, she sank into the billowy mounds of cushions. She had experienced mild abdominal discomfort during the night, and her ankles were swollen. She propped her legs up on two thick pillows and marveled at the deep, royal blue blanket of sky, dotted by sparkling stars. She inhaled the cool, fragrant air, sweetened by the rose bushes and plumeria trees in the garden below.

  She knew that the day before, she had stood in the kitchen longer than she should have. But a good molokhieh took hours to prepare, and she could not disappoint her husband. The tasty spinach-like leaves that grew along the Nile were sent weekly from Egypt to Yasmina’s kitchen. She had chopped the dark green leaves very fine and slow-cooked them in chicken broth seasoned with garlic, onions, coriander, cumin, and other spices fresh from her mother’s herb garden. The mouthwatering aroma that wafted out of her kitchen every Friday drew the entire household, like children to candy.

  As the stars faded with the indigo of night, Yasmina tried to remember her dream. She had a strong sense that this baby would not be a boy. The thought of a baby girl made her happy, even though she knew her husband would be disappointed. He wanted Nageeb to have a brother.

  She dozed off. When she opened her eyes, she spotted a shooting star. Its brilliance lingered just as the brightening sky announced the sunrise.

  A warm liquid flowed out of her. No, this could not be … her water bag? Too soon. The contractions, if that’s what they had been earlier, were mild. Certainly there was no need to worry or alarm anyone. But five minutes later, the next contraction became more painful.

  “Ummy, Ummeee,” she called out to her mother. No one answered. She began to breathe methodically, the way her mother taught her during the first pregnancy, but at that moment, she could not recall what else she was to do—except beg Allah for the pain to subside. She tried to relax before attempting to reach her mother’s room, but the next cramp was long and acute, and Yasmina couldn’t help but cry out. “Help me, ya Allah!”

  Still no one heard. She checked her watch, determined she was not going to panic. Babies didn’t just fall out, she reminded herself. It could take hours. But five minutes later, the cramps returned and they were unbearable. She felt great pressure, as if the baby was pushing down.

  She screamed again. The maids were far away, in their living quarters downstairs by the kitchen, on the other side of the mansion, and her mother was still not responding. The only one who would come to her would be her little boy, and she did not want him to see her in such a state. All she could do now was pray.

  “Ummy … Ummy!” Sure enough, Nageeb stood by the open glass door, holding his favorite blanket.

  “Go call Nana. Please … Run, ya ibni; run, my son,” Yasmina begged.

  Nageeb rushed to his mother, placed his little blanket on her stomach, and ran back inside.

  Finally, Sultana emerged on the verandah wearing a long white cotton nightgown, her silver hair matted and in disarray. Her sleepy eyes grew wide when she saw her daughter was about to give birth.

  Less than an hour later, Sultana, who—by the mercy of Allah—was a midwife, cut the umbilical cord. “Hamdallah!” Yasmina’s mother thanked the Almighty.

  At the edge of town, the call to Morning Prayer by the muezzin on the minaret drifted with the desert breeze.

  While the maids were busy tending to Yasmina, Sultana raised the baby to the sky. The sun was now above the horizon and cast a golden aura around the baby’s head.

  “May her life be as easy as her birth. Allah Akk-barr!” she chanted in her raspy voice. “God is great!” She wrapped the baby in a soft, hand-woven receiving blanket and stood fussing and cooing over the bundle.

  “Praise to Allah. Bless you, Mother. Bless all of you,” Yasmina said to the three maids. “Now let me hold my little girl!”

  “She is ugly,” Sultana said, introducing the newborn to her mother.

  Yasmina gazed at her beautiful baby, and looked up at her mother. “Yes … ugly,” Yasmina agreed, uttering the untruth in order to banish ill luck and envy. “She arrived with noor—light… sunlight. If Farid approves, I would like to name her Noora,” Yasmina said.

  The maids put a sturdy blanket beneath Yasmina and swiftly carried her to her bed. The brass bassinet that had belonged to Nageeb when he was born was placed nearby. In no time, the housekeepers had changed all the ribbons and bows on the bassinet from blue to pink—except for the mandatory “blue bead” encased in a large solid gold medallion that dangled from a gold safety pin. The turquoise gemstone was the traditional protection to ward off evil spirits—afreets—and the dreaded “evil eye.”

  Nageeb, who had been kept away until his mother was ready to receive him, bounced excitedly into her room.

  “Nageeb,” Yasmina said, hoping he would not be disappointed, “you now have a baby sister …”

  “I want to hold her!” He climbed on his mother’s bed and sat close to her.

  As he held the baby in his arms, Yasmina said, “Promise me you will always take good care of your little sister, my son, and that you will always watch over her.”

  “I promise!” Nageeb said. “I will take very good care of my little sister.” He never looked prouder.

  When Sultana put the sleeping baby in the bassinet, the infant squirmed and opened her eyes slightly, revealing a flicker of turquoise blue that illuminated between her tiny, fine, dark lashes. Sultana raised the baby’s head a bit more to take a closer look at those eyes. Most newborns had blue eyes, she reminded herself. But her granddaughter’s were pale, more like those of northern Europeans. As far as she knew, everyone in Farid Fendil’s family was Egyptian and had brown eyes. Sultana’s grandmother had said some of their own ancestors who emigrated from Turkey had been beautiful, tall people with eyes shaped like almonds and pale turquoise like the Mediterranean seashores. But Sultana had always believed that the old woman exaggerated when she spoke about their “beautiful ancestors.” Yet here was this baby, with those eyes. She hoped they would darken as she grew, because a child with such light eyes could bring envy or jealousy—even attention to the evil eye.

  Clad in the traditional gallabeya, Farid Fendil shuffled to his wife’s bedside. The housemaids disappeared silently from the room. He glanced at the baby girl, kissed Yasmina on the cheek, and turned to leave. He stopped at the door, returned to his wife’s bedside, and stood gazing at the infant.

  Carefully, he took the baby in his arms. He had just returned from the mosque, and needed to change into a business suit for meetings scheduled back to back in his office until sundown. Yet he did not feel rushed anymore. He took his time admiring the new bundle. He touched her tiny hands.

  “So soft. Like silk,” he whi
spered, his eyes mesmerized.

  His infant daughter gazed right back at him.

  “Arusah, ya arusah anah,” he chanted tenderly to his dear child.

  Closing his eyes in prayer, he thanked Almighty Allah.

  CHAPTER 2

  ZAFFEERA

  NOVEMBER 8, 1974

  Sitting on the cool marble floor near the tall kitchen window, Noora was busy stacking up a tower of copper pans and bowls of all sizes, as high as she could. They eventually tumbled down, making a terrible racket. The toddler frowned in frustration, but persistently kept at it, stacking up each pan, only to watch it all crash again to the floor. Noora’s almond-shaped eyes, shaded by long black lashes, remained a pale turquoise blue. Her thick brown hair already reached down to her shoulders, and every morning, Sultana looked forward to combing her granddaughter’s soft curls. That morning, Sultana did not have the chance to fuss over Noora, because when she checked the calendar, she realized Yasmina was almost a week past her due date. She had to start preparations for the imminent childbirth.