“Oh, Djimlah, let us go out in your grounds and watch the storm. They never let me do that at home, and I do so want to find its roots.”
She did not accept the proposal with alacrity. “It will rain hard in a minute,” she objected, “and we shall get wet. I hate to look like a rat—and all the curl will come out of my hair.”
“I believe you are afraid, like the other women,” I mocked her. “Maybe if you had a European bed in your home you would go and hide under it.”
She rose majestically: “Come, we will go and see whether I am afraid.”
We went out, bent on finding the beginning of the storm. I always thought that a storm must have a beginning; and from the windows of my nursery, where I watched the storms, it looked as if it were just around the corner. In vain, however, on that day did we wander around many corners, on Djimlah’s grounds: we could find no beginning.
The storm grew fiercer and fiercer. The whole sky was dark lead-coloured, and black clouds rushed along as if a tremendous force were pushing them from behind. The lightning, like a vicious snake, was zigzagging over the sky. Then there came a bang! and a crash of thunder. By that time we were far from the house, and on the cliffs. Djimlah put her arm within mine.
“I am possessed with fear,” she gasped; “for Allah is wrathful.”
Her tone was full of awe, and it subdued me. “Let us go back,” I said.
“No, it will overtake us, and crush us,” Djimlah answered. “I don’t want to die—not just yet. We must hide somewhere.”
At this time I was being taught my Bible, and felt that I knew a great deal about religious subjects.