The Sacred River by Wendy Wallace

herself. Yael quickened her step.
    The wind was cold; she felt chilly. She’d been misled by the brightness of the sunshine, hadn’t thought her ulster necessary. As she walked underneath a branch hanging over the wall of a hidden garden, her eye was drawn by bright vermilion petals. She stopped and stared up at the papery blossoms, which seemed to vibrate with their own brilliance.
    Yael had always believed that England, English flora and fauna, English people and ways, were the summit of His creation. But these flowers were a marvel. She had never witnessed such a hue in nature. Reaching up, she broke off a stem, slipped it into her Gladstone bag. She closed it, snapping the clasp on the flash of vivid scarlet, and lifted her head again, listening. She would press them, later, between the pages of her Bible.
    The sun grew stronger as she walked, stinging the backs of her hands and her face. She wasn’t certain now if she was too warm or too cold. Surely it was impossible to be both. Following the slow peal of the bell, which did not sound as if its source was getting any nearer, scanning the blue horizon for a spire, seeing only flat roofs, interspersed with domes and minarets, she continued on into a poorer-looking, native neighborhood. Hobbled donkeys nosed the ground outside dim doorways; red and orange rugs hung out of open windows above caged white doves. A man had slit open a mattress and was spreading the cotton stuffing in the sun, along the edges of the alley.
    Sunday was not a day of rest for the Mohammedans. They observed Fridays. Yael hurried on, thinking about Fridays, their potential as holy days. There was Good Friday, of course. Fridays were clearly holier than Mondays, except at Easter. Preferable to Wednesdays or Thursdays but not as inevitable and right as Sundays. Not by any means. The Jews observed Saturdays, which she had always considered the most utilitarian of days.
    A little girl appeared in front of Yael, hastening toward her. For a moment, Yael believed it was the same girl they’d seen from the carriage, that the child had recognized her and wished to greet her, but as the small figure came closer, she became aware that it was not the same girl. This one was even younger, not more than three years old, naked except for a scrap of fabric tied around her head. Her curls were matted, her cheeks and chin smeared with dirt. Only her eyes were the same as the other girl’s, oozing a yellow secretion, the lids beginning to turn inward. They commanded attention the way the raised bloom of a birthmark might, or a harelip. It was odd the way the eye was drawn to what was wrong in a face. “Hello, child,” she said, wishing not to frighten her, sounding, to her own ears at least, absurd.
    The girl held out her palm. Yael couldn’t be sure if the child could see, but it was clear that the little mite had heard. Yael had coins with her, intended for the collecting plate at St. Mark’s. She would give them to the girl. As she fumbled for her purse, feeling inside her capacious bag, other children began to gather around. Boys, jeering and elbowing each other in the way of lads anywhere, calling out English phrases, the words oddly conjoined.
    “Goodmorrning.” “Thankew.” “Gowaway.”
    Sweat trickled down from under the hair coiled over Yael’s ears. She was now certain she was too warm, although the air still held a chill, and confined between the windowless mud walls of the houses on each side of the street, she, and all of them—a number of lads had gathered now—were in shadow. Her fingers at last encountered the silver mesh of the purse, the weight of coins. Yael smiled down at the infant as she drew her purse out into the air, held it aloft.
    “Here it is, dear. Now, let me see . . .”
    She hesitated. She wanted to give more than pennies, but the half-crown she’d earmarked for the collection plate was a considerable sum. Standing in the alley, looking at the tattered smocks of