A Beggar at the Gate by Thalassa Ali Page A

and staring in fascination at the open wound, through which muscle and bone were visible.
    “Stand back,” one of them had told the others as Safiya Sultana and her nervous acolyte approached the stable. “Begum Sahib has come.”
    While the men watched from a careful distance, Akhtar had learned that Safiya Sultana treated open wounds by packing them with boiled neem leaves before wrapping them in cotton rags torn from old clothes. But Akhtar had learned nothing of magic. Safiya Sultana had been brusquer than ever once the wounded man had been taken away and the sweeper sent to clean the blood from the stable floor.
    “You will learn far more from watching me than you will by asking endless questions,” she had rumbled. “I cannot take the time to teach you when our men keep leaving their work half-finished. Look at those doors to the elephant stables. They are half rotted away, and no one has told me.”
    Across the courtyard from where Akhtar worked, the dhobi and his wife appeared, their arms full of sheets and floor cloths for washing. Akhtar stood up, her bundle of wet clothes in her arms, remembering how important she had felt, steadying the cooking pot while Safiya poured tepid neem water into the injured man's wound as he hissed with pain, then holding his arm out straight so that Safiya could tie on the strips of bandage. She raised her chin, recalling Safiya's gruff compliment.
    You have a nice, gentle touch, she had told Akhtar.
    As Akhtar spread the clothes out to dry on the upstairs verandah, a fragile-looking woman appeared at the head of the kitchen stairs and stood uncertainly, one hand on the wall, as if waiting to be addressed.
    “Salaam aleikum, peace be upon you,” Akhtar offered.
    “And upon you,” the woman murmured. She lowered her head so that her veil obscured her face. “Is the lady Safiya Sultana available?”
    Putting down her wet clothes, Akhtar straightened. This woman's manner suggested a need, but was it for something as ordinary as money or clothing? If Akhtar had not been so ill when she came looking for magic to save her, she would have behaved exactly as this woman did. Here, perhaps, was someone else who required magic. Her heart pounding, she ran for the ladies’ sitting room.
    “Send her in.” Safiya Sultana beckoned from her place on the floor.
    While the assembled ladies whispered, the frail woman sat down cross-legged in front of the Shaikh's sister, her head bowed. “I have been married for two years,” she murmured, her chin on her chest, “but still I am not with child.”
    “And your husband has brought you here?”
    When the woman nodded, Safiya Sultana reached out to lay a hand on the woman's knee, then closed her eyes.
    Was she reciting a spell? Akhtar crept along the wall, trying to see if Safiya's lips were moving.
    After several minutes of silence, Safiya sighed and opened her eyes. “Come back in three days,” she ordered. “I will give you something to keep under your pillow at night.”
    The woman, who had not moved, now reached out quickly, seizing Safiya's fingers and holding them to her lips.
    “Do not offer me gratitude,” Safiya rumbled, reclaiming her hand. “Inshallah, God Himself will help you.”
    That night, instead of leading the isha prayers herself, Safiya deputed that duty to a gap-toothed old lady, then retired to her room and closed the door.
    Later Akhtar Jahan lay sleepless on her new string bed in the women's servants’ quarters, wondering what Safiya Sultana had done behind that door. What would the barren woman receive when she returned? Whatever it was, would it work?
    The next morning, engrossed in those questions, she nearly missed Safiya Sultana's words as she spoke instructively to the assembled girls and ladies of the family.
    “That is because every beggar has a secret,” Safiya was saying as she sat on the white-sheeted floor, one elbow resting on a thick bolster. “Each beggar, no matter how ill or ragged he may