“No, no, the drugs used in poultices must be kept separate from those taken internally,” she had instructed. “I always store them on a separate shelf, else an assistant I send in the night might fetch the wrong item. If nothing worse, precious time may be lost.”
No mention of Allah in that, though I wanted to say “God forbid” against the mere idea of such an accident. The Quince went about her business with the perfect assurance that if she put her jars in their proper places, nothing could possibly go wrong.
I gave up trying to help and only watched, fascinated by the confidence she displayed towards these powerful simples. She greeted each with tender strokes and embraces as she unpacked it, sniffed their aromas as a mother breathes in the fragrance of her newborn’s hair. She understood where each wanted to sit and how it might best serve and show its peculiar attributes. Few people know their most intimate acquaintance better.
When I exclaimed over the quantity of drugs we were to host, the Quince waved her hand in dismissal. “These are only things I may need here. When I agreed to come and stay with your household, khadim, I did not mean to give up my practice with the main harem at the serai, those who are not packing to go with Nur Banu to Kutahiya, or with Mihrimah Sultan, our master’s daughter, to Edirne, or just to the Princes’ Islands to escape summer’s heat. I have my herbs to tend in the garden, see that they get plenty of water through the hot months and are picked when their virtues are at the peak. I must engraft the new girls against the smallpox, help the faithful old servants with the aches and pains of their years of service, the khuddam with the ills their particular station is subject to.”
“You cannot—you cannot restore one who’s been cut such as I—
By God, I hated myself when I sounded so pathetic.
I was almost glad when she brushed this question aside as well and scoffed, “No, I can’t. And don’t you, khadim, ever fall prey to those who, when your position makes you rich and powerful, will tell you they can help you. I’ve treated too many khuddam who’ve believed charlatans. I’ve treated them for burns—trying to burn back what was lost, can you imagine? I’ve treated poisonings—Aconite, just think! Aconite is called ‘love poison.’ People hear the ‘love’ part and go deaf for the rest. All I’ve ever seen aconite do is kill the gullible, the desperate, with horrible delirium on the way.
“There’s maid’s ruin, savory, pepper internal and external, dragon bones...” She gestured her list on and on. “Not to mention that five-leafed plant the Chinese like to kill each other over, which they say glows in the night and rises above the ground—I’ve cuttings in my garden and I’ve never seen such a thing.
“Charlatans will tell you any or all of these are beneficial, and I can tell you, you’ll be lucky if you only waste your wealth and not your health. If you’re not belly-cut, yes, there can sometimes—rarely—be a remedy. If the cutters left you something to work with, I could prescribe. But what usually happens is the desperate urge without the ability. No, don’t waste your life looking for the cure. There is none.”
By heaven, I was almost relieved to hear it, her sentence of lifeless life. A sort of desperate panic that had been eating at my heart—most would have called it hope—took love’s poison and died.
She continued: “The same as there is no escape from death. I make those Allah has marked comfortable with pain-numbing draughts, but I never give false promises. I cannot raise the dead. I cannot grow your parts again. No one can. And if the pain of that terminal knowledge is too great for you, I can recommend opium. You won’t be the first khadim I’ve ordered it for. All I can say is, it’s too bad to ruin a life so young as yours with a poppy haze. I’ve seen it happen, but it’s a shame when the only lack in your life is a bit of flesh between your legs. I might as well take to the pipe myself, for being female. There are those who do, but it’s a great waste.
“Oh, by the bye “the Quince continued, having come across our scissors and our knife during her straightening and handing them to me. “I think these are yours.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Thank you.” I swung away on my heel to return the implements to their places, but then came back to her, holding the knife foremost. “So it’s a boy?”
“How should I know?” The midwife now found her herb pots better company than myself.
“But you said, if my lady sat on the knife side of her cushion, it was a boy. And she did.”
“Old wives’ tales. Hocus-pocus.”
“But you do it.”
“I do it because it’s expected. Safiye in particular wanted to know.” I tried to read more out of her face on this theme, but she wouldn’t give it. Heedless, she continued: “Knives and scissors behind a cushion, salt in the hair—these things, these charlatans’ ploys, they’re harmless. Not like what the quacks might do to you.”
They’d already done their worst to me, I thought, then said: “Such hocus-pocus might make a woman hope for what is not to be.”
For the first time, the Quince looked studiously away from me, almost as if she couldn’t meet my eye. “Well, usually the readings of such idle tricks are ambiguous. Or one trick contradicts the other. I guess you could say I always try to read ‘eunuch.’ “
She laughed at her joke at my expense and went on. “Your lady’s readings are, in fact, the first time I’ve ever had two unequivocal readings both say ‘boy.’ And part of that was Safiye, pushing me for a definite
