Sarai Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Gatekeeper Press

  3971 Hoover Rd. Suite 77

  Columbus, OH 43123-2839

  Copyright © 2015 by Lilya Myers (LilyAnn Myers)

  All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  ISBN (paperback): 9781619849587

  ISBN (hardcover): 9781619849594

  eISBN: 9781619849570

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my mother

  whose unconditional love, encouragement, and

  prayers have blessed my life.

  Her children arise and call her blessed;

  her husband also, and he praises her:

  29 “Many women do noble things,

  but you surpass them all.”

  30 Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;

  but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

  31 Honor her for all that her hands have done,

  and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.

  Prov. 31:28-31

  CONTENTS

  Pronunciation/Meaning of Names

  Foreword

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  PART II

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  PRONUNCIATION/MEANING OF NAMES

  Sarai (Sa-rye) Hebrew for Sarah My Princess

  Hashim (Hash-im) destroying evil

  Aswad (Az-wad) black, dark

  Saib (Si-eeb) forsaken

  Omar (O-mar) eloquent speaker

  Kafele (Ka-fell) would die for

  Hasne (Hass-knee) (Turkish) beautiful woman

  N’iam (En-ime) reward, favor

  FOREWORD

  SOME PEOPLE HAVE have their passion in life figured out right away. They go merrily on their way throughout their working years making a living from what they love to do best. Passion has a face and there’s no mistaking when people are working in or at their passion.

  Then, there are some people – like me – who have always loved to write. I pondered it, I dreamed it but I didn’t pursue it. Having worked in different segments of the Graphic Arts industry was what helped to quell the creative me trying to get out. Writing articles and editing didn’t hold the same appeal for me that writing fiction had. I figured that I’d be living on the streets if I depended upon writing a novel as a viable source of immediate and regular income.

  Sure, there were lots of things I enjoyed doing and I pursued them believing that they were my passion. I made a living and most of the time, I liked what I did. None of it ever quite rose to the level of passion.

  Writing was something one did for school, or business, or for fun. Unless you already enjoyed some form of celebrity status, it might take forever to get anything other than a rejection letter from a publisher. I don’t have name recognition, so who would take me seriously as a writer?

  Incidentally, quite a few people did. When I’d share stories of travel and experiences, I’d hear the same thing “You ought to write a book.” I wondered how or what exactly I’d write about. A travel guide? This is my life? And I’d answer, “I’d like to do that. Someday.” A whole lot of those somedays rolled by.

  Then about a year ago, my biggest fan asked me about the letters she had saved for me. I’d send twenty or more handwritten letters to her almost daily during the year I lived in the Middle East, a little more than thirty years ago. She saved them because “Someday,” my biggest fan said, “you ought to write a book.”

  Perhaps a culmination of life events over the past ten years or so brought me to the point where, one day last year, I decided to commit myself to start on that book everyone’s told me I should write. I didn’t know what I was going to write about or where to start. I didn’t know how I was going to get beyond the first page once I did get started. I didn’t know how or if I would ever finish a chapter once I got past go. And I surely didn’t want to think about publishing. No point in getting carried away with myself when the first chapter was like an egg waiting to get fertilized.

  There were many times throughout this journey that I doubted myself. I would like to think that all writers feel that way at some point or another but maybe I’m alone in believing that.

  I am thankful for all the lives that have become more than acquaintances or have crossed paths with mine over the years. Though not intentionally, I don’t doubt that a character trait, a personality, or something unique about a particular person has become imbedded in my book unconsciously. Many years ago, I had a student who gave me pause to wonder what visible traits are predominant in a serial killer as a child.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  TO MY HUSBAND, I give the highest praise. He championed the effort that set me on the path to follow my passion. I’m sure he almost regretted that many times, as the book began to take shape. I needed space and lots of uninterrupted long and quiet hours in a little cocoon. That hasn’t been the fun part for him. He’s been patient and supportive through the many days, weeks, and months that it has taken to birth this book. I didn’t say he was always a peach but I believe he understood and respected my passion, in spite of the missed time together. Missing a day of writing is like missing a series of heartbeats. He knows about missing heartbeats all too well. I couldn’t be married to a better guy. Without his love and believing in me, this novel would have never come to fruition.

  I’ve had lots of encouragers along the way and I am forever grateful for their support and faith in me. To one of my best friends; a Nook totin’, book-lovin’, coffee drinkin’ trusted ally, I can’t thank you enough for the faith you had in me when I started this project and throughout as I moaned and groaned my way through . To Denise, you were my trusted test pilot on this voyage.

  I have one fan bigger than all the rest because she
’s been in my life since birth and has never given up on me. Not ever. That fan is my mom. Throughout my life, she has been the one person who has forfeited, sacrificed, encouraged, critiqued, promoted, guided, and been my loudest cheerleader. I believe it is her faith and her don’t quit approach that has carried her through her 88 years and deflected the adversities that life has thrown at her. As I reflect on the sixty-one years that I have been blessed to have my mother in my life, I realize that it’s been her “don’t quit” philosophy that has gotten me through some rough waters and dropped me on shore.

  About seventy years ago, while working for a small newspaper, she came across an anonymous poem. Tattered and worn, she still carries it in her wallet to this day. I’ve never forgotten it because she shared it with me numerous times over the years.

  Whenever I wanted to throw in the towel, I thought of this powerful and inspirational poem. It may be just the thing someone reading this right now might need to hear.

  “Don’t Quit.”

  When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,

  When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,

  When the funds are low and the debts are high,

  And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,

  When care is pressing you down a bit,

  Rest, if you must, but don’t you quit.

  Life is queer with its twists and turns,

  As every one of us sometimes learns,

  And many a failure turns about,

  When he might have won had he stuck it out;

  Don’t give up though the pace seems slow–

  You may succeed with another blow.

  Often the goal is nearer than

  It seems to a faint and faltering man,

  Often the struggler has given up,

  When he might have captured the victor’s cup,

  And he learned too late when the night slipped down,

  How close he was to the golden crown.

  Success is failure turned inside out–

  The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,

  And you never can tell how close you are,

  It may be near when it seems so far,

  So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit–

  It’s when things seem worst that you mustn’t quit.

  - Author Unknown.

  PROLOGUE

  Egypt 1974

  THE MAN WITH the dark hair and beard turned to the driver and told him to stop the car in a desolate place along the banks of the Nile. In the distance, the faint outline of the barely visible Pyramids was beginning to disappear under the blanket of dusk. A dark figure sat in the rear with the three young boys. They were half-brothers, all, sons of the bearded man sitting next to the driver. They shared the same father but were conceived with different women. The two older boys were almost the same age. The youngest was only six, although he tried to put his tough on around the older boys. Most of the time.

  The body on the seat next to them, in a dark burka, neither spoke nor looked at them. They weren’t afraid of the completely enshrouded figure. The boys were accustomed to seeing this kind of religious clothing on women. At least they thought there was a woman underneath all that clothing. There was a sliver of opening at the eyes with a dark screen-like material behind it which made it hard for anyone to see in. The hands were gloved. Not a piece of flesh could be seen of the body inside. Still, it was not as black as the darkness that filled the vehicle. The boys warily hid their curiosity. Who was inside the swathed figure next to them? They were too afraid to look and they didn’t dare because of the man in the front seat. The mood hung in deathly silence.

  The car suddenly jerked to the right onto a dirt road and rolled to a stop along some high reeds and grass. The shifting bodies in the back seat jarred a waft of jasmine free inside the vehicle. It was vaguely but undeniably familiar. A man got out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear door on the side where the boys were bunched up next to one another.

  “Emshi!” the man ordered. “Get out! Go!”

  He pointed to a large palm surrounded by scrub bushes and ordered them not to move from that spot. But for how long? They scrambled out of the car and without a word, huddled like a covey of quail, against a nearby palm tree. The shrouded figure stayed fixed in the back seat without looking their way, as though it were made of stone. The doors slammed shut moments before the driver of the car sped off up the dirt road until it could no longer be seen from where the boys stood. All three boys were still, until the oldest stepped out cautiously to the edge of the road just in time to see the rear tail lights of the car become dots in the darkening landscape. As he watched the dots disappear, he thought that the area seemed somewhat familiar.

  The older boy had been to a farm once before that looked a lot like this. It was a remote part of the delta region along the Nile where there was not much else but farming. And crocodiles. There were many abandoned limestone hovels where farming families had once lived before the government nationalized the country and took most of their property.

  The boy snapped back from his thoughts just in time to see the car’s headlights moving back toward him. He dashed back to the palm tree and sat down next to his brothers, expecting that the driver was sent back to pick them up. Instead of stopping, the small black Mercedes, empty except for the driver, sped past them, sending dust and small rocks flying as it turned off the dirt road and back on to the pavement. Then suddenly, the car was gone, disappearing as fast as it had reappeared.

  The youngest child started to sob. He was hungry and afraid. They’d all heard stories about crocodiles who still patrolled some banks along the Nile. The large beasts had never been captured or slain since the Aswan Dam had been built and so, they were left to breed and roam the areas along the vast river. They had to eat, too. There were tales that farm animals and even some farmers and their children who disappeared became their meals. The youngest child whined, lamenting that maybe their father left them there to be eaten by crocodiles. The older two boys tried to ignore him until his crying became unbearable. When one of the older boys threatened to throw him into the Nile, he quieted down.

  The Nile wasn’t a quiet place at night. The squawking egrets and herons that intermittently interrupted an eerie concert of frogs made for an uneasiness that crept up their spines. There was another sound that faintly reached their ears. It was different than the others. Something about it sounded almost human. Like a woman. The shrill warning sounds of the mongoose could almost sound that way.

  The eldest of the boys whispered, “Did you hear that?” No one answered. The younger two sat with their eyes wide.

  The sound seemed to have come from far away but it was difficult to tell. The foliage and crops in the area created somewhat of a barrier – an effective means of blocking or distorting sound. Then, of course, there was the orchestra of birds and frogs adding to it. Their imaginations kept them rooted to their spot for a while. They craned their ears to listen for more, exchanging only looks with one another. At least two of the three boys thought that maybe the crocodile had taken a woman living along the river who was washing her clothes or bathing there.

  The oldest boy didn’t believe in such tales. His intrigue about their circumstances over-rode his fear. He refused to believe that they had been abandoned or left there to die. He wasn’t about to share those thoughts with the other two. The driver of the car was alone when it left, which meant that he must have dropped his father and the mysterious passenger off somewhere not too far away. The driver would come back for his father, no matter what. He settled on the fact that the driver would be sure to come back to pick them up too, so he had little time to waste.

  Using his size and presence to intimidate the younger ones, he instructed them to stay where they were. “I’ll find you something to eat.” His real intention was to find where the driver took his father and the unknown passenger. If the other two boys tagged along they would surely do something to get the
m all into serious trouble. There was no telling what his father would do to them. He could move quickly and quietly alone. For a moment, he really wished that a crocodile would eat them both while he was gone. They were bad blood, the two of them.

  Still, he tried to sound reassuring. “I know there are some fig trees and other vegetables planted around here. I’ll bring something back so you won’t starve. Be very quiet and don’t move until I come back. If you do, the crocodile might come looking for you.”

  The warning was a half-truth depending on whether or not the tales were true. It was enough to be sure that the younger two would be too scared to budge from the false sense of security they found under the big palm. A sliver of moon cast just enough light for them to see their oldest brother move toward the dirt road before the darkness swallowed up his silhouette beyond the tall grasses.

  The crystalline sand, against the black cloak of darkness, provided just enough contrast for him to keep his bearings. He moved quickly until he spotted a faint light ahead of him. Hearing the screaming and pleading of a woman’s voice again, he quickened his pace. The words were indistinguishable but there was no mistaking the sound of pain. He ran until he reached a small brick hovel near the road that glowed in the darkness. There was a cacophony of voices. He could distinguish his father’s voice cursing, above another man screaming for mercy, and the painful cries of a woman. He had little worry that he would be heard over the screaming and yelling as he moved closer to the building. He crouched low, afraid he’d be seen, beneath one of the windows.