Princess Sultana's Daughters

curiosity.
    While packing Maha’s clothing, I came across
disturbing books and documents hidden among her underwear. There
were numerous writings on astrology, black magic, and witchcraft.
Maha had underlined many passages detailing revelations and
prophecies. Most alarming to my mind were malevolent items that
were supposed to wreak dire evils upon people who had offended her,
or induce love at a glance, or cause death by a spell.
    My breath caught in my throat when I saw an
item of Abdullah’s clothing wrapped around a black stone with some
bits of loose, gray-colored substance I could not identify. I
stood, hand to forehead, thinking. Could it be true? Had Maha
plotted to harm her only brother? If this was the case, I was a
failure as a mother.
    I moved about in turmoil, collecting damning
evidence of my child’s barbaric interests. Confused, I traced in my
mind Maha’s activities from the days of her childhood. From what
source had my daughter learned of such matters, accumulating a
treasure house of dark paraphernalia?
    I remembered Huda, my father’s long-deceased
slave, and her obvious abilities at predicting the future. But Huda
had died before my daughter’s birth. As far as I knew, there were
no other freed slaves or servants from Africa in our homes who
possessed Huda’s power of sorcery.
    I recoiled, as if hit by a blow, as I thought
of my mother-in- law, Noorah. It had to be Noorah! Noorah had
disliked me from the first moment we met. When I wed her son, I was
a young and foolish girl, whose bold, rebellious character made a
bad first impression on my mother-in-law. Disappointed that her son
had neither divorced me nor taken a second wife, Noorah had never
ceased to hate me, although she was careful to hide her dislike
under a thin veneer of false affections.
    From Kareem’s revelations to his mother,
Noorah had detected with her eagle eyes that Maha was my weakest
point. From a young age, Maha’s mental life had been one of
conflict and pain, and Noorah had seized on that pain and in it
found a vulnerability.
    It was plain to see that Noorah had always
favored Maha over her other granddaughters, and her attention had
been gratefully received by the confused child. Maha had spent long
hours alone with her grandmother. Noorah, an avid believer in the
occult, had clearly lost no time in teaching my daughter her own
ominous beliefs. How could I be so stupid as to believe that Noorah
had my best interests in mind?
    I had been a fool, for my heart had been
softened by Noorah’s obvious delight in Maha, and I had often
expressed my profound appreciation for her generous attentions
toward my most troubled child. Noorah, because of her dislike for
me, had chosen to lead my emotionally fragile daughter deeper into
the abyss.
    I knew that I must confide my findings to
Kareem. My words would have to be delicate, for Kareem would have
great difficulty in believing that his mother was capable of such a
shameful deed. The truth could become twisted, and I, Sultana,
might bear the brunt of his anger, while Noorah would sit
contentedly in her palace gloating at her most hated
daughter-in-law’s failure as a mother and wife.
     

 
London
    Not forever can one enjoy stillness and
peace. But misfortune and obstruction are not final. When the grass
has been burnt by the fire of the steppe, it will grow anew in
summer.
    —WISDOM FROM THE MONGOLIAN STEPPE
    Under the influence of strong medication,
Maha lay as one dead while her father and I attempted to make some
sense of the precarious situation in which we found ourselves.
During the airplane trip to London, Kareem sat like a stone,
pale-faced as he handled the distasteful objects I had brought in a
small bag from Maha’s room. He was as appalled as I at our
daughter’s fascination with the supernatural.
    After a few silent moments, Kareem posed the
question I had been dreading. “Sultana, where did Maha come across
such madness?” His brow furrowed, and he wondered aloud, “Do you
believe it was that foolish girl Aisha?”
    I squirmed in my seat, not knowing how to
answer my husband. Recalling a wise Arab proverb spoken often by my
gentle mother, “A fly will never be able to enter a mouth which
knows when to stay shut,” I felt that this was not the time to
implicate Noorah, my husband’s mother. Kareem had already endured
too many shocks for one day.
    Biting my lip and shaking my head, I answered
him, “I do not know. We will tell the doctor what we