An Evil Eye

67

Ibou hoped that she, of all people, would have an answer.

He did not expect the answer she gave. He expected sympathy and advice, not fear.

She shrank back: “Did you touch it?”

“I rolled it into a handkerchief,” he said.

“I meant, did it touch your skin?”

He tried to think. He had not wanted to touch it; instinctively he had taken it up in his handkerchief, wadding the fine lawn cotton around the object so that he would not feel its ridges and bumps.

“I d-don’t think so. No, I am sure.”

She had been holding her breath; now she exhaled slowly. “And words? Did you use words?”

He shook his head. “I did not know what to say.”

She frowned. “Let me look at your eyes.”

She stared into them for a time, then slowly she raised her hands and outlined the form of his head and shoulders in the air.

“It is as I thought. You are cut off from God, Ibou.”

“I pray to God!”

She cupped her chin in her hand, and said musingly, “Yes, you pray. But can he hear you, as you are? Do you have problems, Ibou? Pains, worries, that keep you awake at night?”

He stared at her, frightened a little. “Yes.”

“I guessed it.”

She turned and began to rummage in a little silk bag.

“What are you doing?”

“What I can.” She took something from the bag and laid it beside her on the divan. Then she took his hands in hers. “Someone has put a spell on you, Ibou. That is why when you pray, he cannot hear you.”

The aga’s nostrils flared. “What can you do?”

“We must find you a guide, to take you back.”

“You? C–Can you guide me back?”

She looked at the frightened man levelly. “The choice does not lie with me. I cannot choose to be your guide to the light, Ibou. It is you who must choose.”

“Then-I choose you.”

She shook her head. “How do we know that this is the choice of your heart? You have to draw your guide to you, Ibou. Listen. This is what you must do.”