Chapter V

He found Esma sitting by the water again, staring into space. She was clutching something tightly in one hand, close to her chest; the other, she placed behind her back, on the sand, to balance herself. He approached her.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” he said.

“Oh, hello Alnilam” she replied, smiling softly.

He sat beside her, and could now see what she was sheltering so dearly close to her – it was a leather-bound book with a dull, metal buckle on its side. She placed it delicately in the sand between them. Still lost in thoughts unknown to him, she placed both hands in the sand, and sighed.

“Property of Lyla…Grosvenor”, he read aloud.

The words were embossed into the leather on the front of the book, but it had taken him a moment to read, because someone had attempted to scratch out the word ‘Grosvenor’, and replaced it, crudely, with the words, ‘just Lyla’.

Similarly, it had also taken Esma a moment for it to occur to her, that what she had so desperately wanted for a large part of her life, was sitting right beside her.

“You can read!” she cried, and her eyes widened.

“Yes… I suppose I can.”

“Alnilam!” she exclaimed, and embraced him in her arms. He felt his soul move an inch. He felt, in the warm place in-between her arms – there was no other description for it – he felt, home. For a brief, fleeting, instant, he had found the place where he belonged in the world.

“You must read to me! You must!” she said excitedly, and pushed the book, with some force, into his arms.

“Alright, alright. Calm down” he retorted.

He took the book in his hands, carefully unbuckled the leather strap on the side, and turned to the first page. It read:

The promise of life’s interruptions is dangerously fantastic

He looked at Esma. Her eyes widened once again with fascination. She repeated the phrase to herself aloud, and then lay down. With all the innocence of a child, she curled herself beside Alnilam, and the hairs of her head caressed his knee.

“Go on”, she pleaded.

He turned the page. This handwriting was different, he noticed. It was definitely produced by the same author, there was no question, but it seemed rushed; the way one rushes when the emotion is too explosive to contain, and the words race urgently to escape from the heart, and onto the page:

Oh I do hate them. I wish somebody would take my name and give it to someone else who could make better use of it. It’s brought me nothing but misery. People spend their whole lives trying to become their names, obligated to something they never even chose. Ever since father died, everyone changed. Aunt Miriam, she’s by far the worst. Four years she locked me in that lifeless home of hers, the place where even flowers don’t dare to grow! Four years! “You will learn to honour your title, and more importantly, our family name. You will learn to obey”, she’d say. Ha! Hypocrites – evil, twisted, little hypocrites, the lot of them. It’s a good thing I managed to get away - a really good thing. It’s nice to be back in Cairo again – lots of wonderful memories here. Oh, I never want to go back there, or even remember that god-awful place and those awful people. They wouldn’t even let me write in there. All I have, to remember those lost years by, are the scars. Perhaps it’s best to forget.

Alnilam stopped reading, and looked at Esma. She raised her head just high enough that he could see the small specks of sadness form in her eyes. The mother’s pain is certainly the most difficult to absorb - perhaps that is why they hide it so well.

“Shall I go on?” he asked, tenderly.

“Please”, she nodded.

He turned the page, and continued reading to her, the story of her mother’s life. Lyla had described how she had divided her time between riding, and exploring her father’s library, and how she particularly loved the stories of adventure in the mysterious place that is the Arabian Peninsula. It went on to detail how she had become determined to see it for herself and how, just before winter, she began to venture to that very cause. Alnilam turned the page.

“I’ve met the most wonderful person - a nomad of the desert”, he read aloud.

Esma shot up and beamed with absolute glee, at the mention of her father.

I’ve met the most wonderful person – a nomad of the desert. He is very strange. A poet, a philosopher – I’m not sure how to describe him. I found him in his tent, in the middle of nowhere; he said he was out looking for a camel. Somehow, we ended up in a philosophical exchange about ‘purpose’.

He’s a big fan of tea. He kept offering me more of it, and I kept accepting. Then, he began reciting poetry, of which he had composed volumes that would have put Byron to shame. Such an intelligent man – looking for a camel, of all things!

He took me to his village the next morning -- such a cute little place. Everyone is so lovely. I wish I could stay to experience this strange place. I wish I could stay, to experience the strange you, nomad.

Perhaps I will.

Esma sighed joyfully, as she had listened closely to the subtle sounds of the birth of love.

“Oh”, said Alnilam.

“Oh?” she repeated, concerned.

“It seems I’ve missed a page”, he said.

It’s been a month and a half into my journey. It’s exhausting, and a great deal more challenging than I had expected – not that I had expected this to be easy. I must admit though, it is rather romantic, sleeping under the stars.

The other night, I had the strangest dream. There was a girl, a little girl, so very beautiful. She was about five years old, I think; with dark auburn hair, and eyes that remind me of the apricot trees at home, in autumn.

If only I could remember her name…

Esma. Yes, that was her name. (If ever I shall have a daughter, I shall name her Esma -- such a lovely name for a girl).

She was looking for something, I recall. She came to me and said, “Have you seen him?” and pointed up at the stars, curiously enough. Towards the central star of Orion’s belt - I shall have to find out what the name of it is.

“He feels very lonely without me”, she said. “He needs help finding his Place. If you see him, please give him this”.

All she gave me was a stone, which somebody had placed six marks on.

I wonder what it all means.