by Ella Hansing
long hair with her fingers, distracted already, and me anxious once more to be out of sight.
Nodding in wordless agreement, I moved in the opposite direction of them – struggling not to spill my heavy jar. When clearing the market and reaching a smaller road, I at once turned down a shaded alley and slid to the ground against an uneven wall. Planting my water jar carefully beside me, my right hand dove into my pocket to withdraw the wheat cake Hesba had offered me. I barely chewed. Swallowing the morsel in two bites, I licked my fingers like an animal and felt around my pocket to be sure none was left. Normally I might share such a morsel with my mother, but I knew she had eaten the last of the bread the night before and drank the rest of the wine and would be able to last longer without eating than myself. Besides, in rising I grimly realized I was nowhere near satisfied by such a small scrap of food. In anguish I listened to my stomach growl – riled like an angry beast stirring from its slumber. I should have known better than to provoke it with only a few bites.
Dusting my knees and straightening my skirt, my gaze dropped bitterly to the ground. Hunger knew no wisdom. No matter how much experience I had with hunger, in the end I would always yield to its raw, gnawing pain. Bending to retrieve the water jar, I set it uncomfortably on my hip – wincing under the now awkward weight. Face dark with resentment, I made my way back out onto the street. It was getting late in the afternoon; the other prostitutes were due at any time now to show at their doorsteps or hang out their windows with welcoming arms.
Just ahead, a rowdy cluster of young boys blocked me from entering our street. They were following a group of men carrying long wooden rods – slowly making their way to the higher districts. The rods would be used to stretch lengthy strips of fabric across the roads leading up to the central temple – decorations for the festival of Ashur, which was fast approaching. In a week’s time the city would drape itself in its richest fabrics, don its heaviest jewels, and paint on its most seductive perfumes. The streets would be swept clean of their filth – the beggars pushed to the far outskirts. This one night all Arrapha would converge to bask in the light of the central temple – flaunt itself to celebrate the year passed and usher in blessing for the upcoming season from the highest of gods. Though water began to dwindle and the blood of livestock was costly, both would be poured out in excess across the altars. Soon the young, eligible girls of districts both high and low would crowd the streets, and dance their hearts out to entice a husband. In the face of drought, poverty, war – or all three, Arrapha would indulge itself regardless, and without shame.
The mad scurry of the boys – jostling each other in their excitement, drew my gaze after them. Preparations for an event so large had a way of turning Arrapha into an immense hive of comings and goings – the buzzing of which could be heard whether inside the city or out for miles. Anticipation had a way of lodging itself deep in one’s mind, reverberating in one’s chest. With so little willpower left, I allowed myself to trail aimlessly after their steps a ways, up the road in the opposite direction of our house. I wanted to see the lengthy rods lifted into place – watch the fabric drape lavishly over them. It would be like seeing a stage come together before a great act. I wanted to join the crowd of children, so excited; they had a youthful sort of hope that had escaped me long ago. I could scarce remember it; for a moment I half imagined I could somehow regain it – if only I joined them, running, shouting, and laughing.
As we ventured in the direction of the market, calls from street merchants filled my ears – like hooks cast out in a sea of swarming fish. Despite giving them all a wide birth, a persistent seller with a thick oily beard made the effort to step out from his booth and unroll his linen before my path.
“Reel yourself in a rich husband and likewise a handful of suitors at the ceremony in a color like this,” he insisted, flapping the fabric like a fisherman’s net. “You’ll make Ashur himself jealous by the attention you’ll steal.”
Subtly I looked over his product, cautious not to encourage him. It was undeniably beautiful material, almost shimmering in the sunlight as it caught the breeze – light and airy, a deep shade of blue like the night sky. The thought of me, dancing in the festival, wearing such piece with all eyes on me, glimmered in my mind like a gold coin at the bottom of a fountain. The men shouting up ahead as they lifted the rods upright and sank them into place drew me from my daze. Shaking my head lowly I pushed passed him, knowing I should turn and go home. The merchant wouldn’t have pursued my business if he knew who my mother was. There was no pride at stake for our family at the festival, no need for rich fabrics or jewels as we wouldn’t be attending such an event, such a place.
In turning I bumped into a boy headed after his friends. Seeing it was our neighbor’s son, I gripped my head covering tight and moved to make way for him, but he had already recognized my face and seen me eyeing the fabric. Grinning, he pointed to the material the merchant still held out.
“Ishtah, if I buy you the fabric will you dance for me at the festival?” he begged me mockingly. “Or do you prefer shekels to gifts in exchange for your work?” he added, face twisting with derision.
Instinctive, I dipped my hand into my jar and splashed his face with water – my veil coming loose in the breeze of such a wide street. I had known this boy since he was young, or at least seen him often as he came and went from his family’s house. His words surprised me more than they upset me – he was too young to already be rude in the manner of a grown man. Clutching my loose head covering I tucked it back into place over my hair and hurried away, the merchant looking after me in confusion and young boy waving his hand at my backside in arrogant dismissal.
My mother’s reputation was my constant companion. I never felt I walked alone. It was impossible for me to dance at the festival because she would be there with me. When she was present, she was all anyone could see, and when she was absent, she was all anyone could see when they looked at me. Sometime, shortly after my birth from her tight, enclosed womb, I had been swallowed whole once more; I had been encased in a suffocating, if possible smaller place, where it seemed there would be no birth from.
3. Black Lips and Gnarled Teeth
By the time I finally reached our door I could feel tears of frustration welling in the corners of my eyes, hunger and exhaustion building my emotions into an unmanageable blaze. With each step, my strength evaporated like perspiration from the back of my neck in hot sunlight. There was something about keeping company with Hesba, something about the warmth of her presence – her awareness of me – that always settled a heavy weight on my shoulders the minute I returned home. Her kindness never failed to set me at odds with my mother, and I sensed today would be no different. In stretching my arm out toward our door I saw I was sunburnt – a result of sleeping on the roof and waking too late. My skin throbbed as I moved – my body growing increasingly stiff after lying on hard surfaces for so long. Fearful of releasing tears down my cheeks I blinked rapidly – stomach growling as I placed my hand heavily on our latch and swung the door open.
At entering I was surprised to see my mother standing, rather than lounging on her cushions in the corner or at most squatting over her jewelry. Incredulous, I halted to watch her pull a loaf of bread from the oven through the kitchen doorway – astonished she even remembered how to kindle a fire in the first place. As she bent to place the food on a reed mat spread across the floor, I could hear her voice singing contentedly – her dark skirt bunching around her feet as she stooped to arrange the items she laid out.
Entering the space at first slowly, I set the water jar on the ground just beyond the kitchen door – nostrils inhaling deeply of the small feast she’d prepared. From a closer vantage point I saw that there wasn’t only bread but also olives, figs, and even a baked fish. Quickly I glanced round the house, wondering for a moment if there wasn’t someone else there. In seeing no one, I again surveyed her red, beaming face – shiny and moist from the heat of the fire. It was unusual to see her hair tide bac
k in such a manner – with no makeup around her eyes or mouth, the rings missing from her fingers and ears. I had to force myself not to stare, as she was scarce recognizable.
In noticing me at last, she rose from the reed mat and dipped her hand into the pocket at her hip. “Look,” she murmured, proudly producing a handful of coins – coins such as we hadn’t seen in some time.
My eyes widened as I tried to count their number in my mind. I could tell there was more than enough for several additional meals such as the one she prepared. Unable to find any words to speak, I sunk to my knees on the mat. My heart felt as raw as a piece of meat – swinging in the market from a hook. My emotions contradicted one another in a wild clash, adding to my fatigue. I couldn’t stop staring at her – mesmerized as she turned to rake the ashes over the coals in the oven. Swallowing, I lowered my gaze as she knelt across from me to begin eating, ashamed now of my seemingly misplaced anger at entering our home. Wordless I watched her meticulously painted nails work like tiny knives to peel fish from bone, pausing only now and then to place the tender meat between