Madrid, 1492
The clear morning light shone in through the low window from the Plaza de la Paja. It reflected around the whitewashed walls of the small kitchen before pooling in a golden beam on the painstakingly polished wood of the central table. Slowly, it lit the face of the man who sat at it until he shifted his chair moving his eyes out of range of the piercing light.
Even seated he was a tall man and his rich bronze skin glowed against the lighter layers of his clothes. Unconsciously, born of some old habit, he would raise his fingers to his short black beard, rubbing his chin in the place where a long white scar had once run.
His companion watched him, the gesture familiar to her now as one he used when deep in thought. Rhythmically her hands slapped and kneaded the lump of dough that would become their evening meal. She only paused in this familiar task to wipe a smudge of flour from one alabaster cheek with the semi-clean back of a sticky hand or to push one strand of deep chestnut hair behind her ear until she could tuck it back into the braided mass coiled at the nape of her neck.
“I’m worried, Ysabel,” the man said at last, his soft yet resonant voice filling the tiny room.
“We are all worried, Hamid,” the woman reminded him her hands still pushing the fragrant dough. “But there is nothing to be done. People will come to their senses eventually. We just have to get through until then.”
“I’m not so sure of that anymore,” Hamid confessed, his dark eyes flashing. “The last body from the fall of Granada has barely had time to get cold before they break their most solemn word.” His hand dropped from his chin to slap the table with a ringing thump, his voice darkened with anger. “They lied, Ysabel. Our most noble, and loving sovereigns lied. They have already expelled the Jews; soon they will be coming after me as well. I cannot stay any longer. And you ought not. Our kind will not be safe.”
She was spared from answering as a jumble of children poured down the stairs and into the room.
“Senor Alameda?” the oldest one asked as the other two tumbled into his arms with a joyous shout. “I thought I recognized your dulcet tones.”
“If I had known that you lazybones would still be in bed rather than helping your Madre I would have shouted all the earlier.” Gently he reached over and pretended to swat the side of her head. “Cheeky little bird.”
Smiling genially at the assembled flock he reached into his pocket and produced a small, brightly wrapped package. Holding it above their heads and just out of reach he winked at Ysabel. “I believe someone has a birthday today,” he said as though to no one in particular.
“Me?” Mateo asked hopefully remembering the small yet joyous festivities that had been produced for that happy occasion.
“Not you, you goose,” seven year old Catalina said fully mindful of the three years that separated her in her old age from his childish foolishness. “He means Marina.”
“That I do, little one,” Hamid said to the crestfallen Mateo. “But here is something to ease the sting a little bit.” From the depths of his pockets he suddenly produced an orange, a treat which Mateo hugged between his chubby fingers in evident delight. Catalina quickly schooled the flash of disappointment from her face, fully prepared to show how little she cared for such trifles when a second orange was pressed into her fingers.
“Thank you, Senor Alameda. Oh, thank you,” she squealed, holding the pungent fruit to her nose and glorying in its citrus smell.
“You spoil my children terribly,” Ysabel complained despite the smile lighting her wan face.
“Nonsense,” Hamid replied cheerfully pressing the colorful package into Marina’s hand. “Besides, it’s good for them.” His glance lingered on Mateo’s enraptured face. “Look at how his eyes are shining,” he murmured softly.
Understanding, Ysabel reached out and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Amir would have been his age now.”
He nodded, unable to speak for a moment. “I still look up sometimes and think that he and Fatimah are back, that they have just stepped out for a moment and will return. That I could do something to bring them back.”
“It was typhus, Hamid. There was nothing you could do. And the Healers were simply too drained…” Each gazed out with distant eyes at the ghosts of the past, haunting the room.
“Oh, Senor, it’s beautiful!” Marina exclaimed, delicately lifting a silver chain from the wrapping. A small silver bird dangled from the sparkling length, its wings caught outstretched in flight. “Gracias!”
“A guardian angel for my cheeky little bird,” Hamid said, slowly forcing his natural joviality past the sadness left in his voice.
“A dove,” Ysabel corrected, far more mindful of blasphemy uttered under the shadow of the Inquisition, “the Holy Ghost descending.”
“That too,” he agreed. “The chain is spelled never to break, and neither the chain nor the bird shall tarnish.”
“Gracias,” Marina gushed again as he fastened the chain around her neck. “Senor, you are the nicest person I know.” Quickly she ran to pull a pan from the wall and try to see her refection in its polished bottom.
Smiling indulgently, he turned back to Ysabel. “What I said earlier still stands. I am leaving this place, soon, before the witch hunts get worse.”
There was a loud crash as Marina dropped the pan. “No, you can’t go!” she said aghast.
“Little bird, I must. To our gracious monarchs I am already an infidel, they will continue to expel and harass my people, and we no longer even have the protection of Granada.”
“But what about us?” Catalina cried, uncertain of what was going on but ready to fly at anyone who would harm her friend.
“I do not know,” Hamid said, his gaze darting toward Ysabel’s unreadable face. “I would like you to come with me, far beyond the reaches of the Inquisition. Witchcraft is heresy,” he murmured for her ears alone, “and you would burn for it. All of you.”
“No,” she said firmly, although a shadow of pain flickered quickly across her face. “We will go nowhere until Tomas is back.”
“Ysabel, no one knows when that ship will return if it ever will. The entire journey and that Genoese man are mad. I don’t know why you ever allowed Tomas to go, but now you have to do what is best for you and the children!”
She whirled on him, the fire in her eyes rivaling any auto-de-fete. “He will come back. I know it. He will. And we will go nowhere until he does.” She softened, gazing over the small room filled with anxious faces. “He is my husband, Hamid. I will not leave him.”
Sadly he gazed at her as though memorizing her face forever. “I would not ask you to.”
One by one, he drew each child into his embrace. “Mateo, you look bigger and stronger every day. Don’t forget to listen to your Madre; you are the man in the house now. Catalina, pretty little one, don’t let your tongue grow too sharp or you shall frighten off all the boys. Oh, but they will be flocking to you when they see your sweet face. And Marina, my little bird, this time I am the one flying away. Keep that necklace as a reminder of your old friend from better days. Perhaps it shall bring you good luck.”
There was a moment of silence and then he was at the door. “We shall pray for you,” Ysabel called, her eyes bright with tears.
“And I for you. May Allah keep you all.”
Only after he was gone did Marina realize she had been clutching the necklace so tightly that the imprint of the bird was left, etched into the skin of her palm.