The Sand Fish

by Maha Gargash

  Why did good things always have to end? Suddenly, Noora didn’t want to go home, where her father could turn on her again, where Sager’s scorn would only grow more bitter and ugly. She yearned to stay here, where there were people, people who did things together, who cared for one another. She wanted to watch the children play. She wanted to listen to Moza’s watery voice.

  Her windpipe felt clogged. She took a mammoth gulp, but there was too much bread in her mouth. She choked. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she coughed and coughed.

  “There, there,” said Moza, patting her back. “Why are you eating so quickly?”

  Noora spat the lumps of bread into her palm.

  “Here, drink some water,” said Moza. She had trouble lifting the earthen jug, tilting it over the tin cup she held in her other hand. And when Noora stared at her swollen joints, she said, “Old woman pain. It’s not just the fingers that won’t bend well; it’s the knees, too.”

  “I know that, khalti, don’t you remember how I rubbed them for you? Every day, I rubbed them for you.”

  “When?”

  “Never mind,” Noora said. She pulled Moza’s hand and began kneading the pain out of her joints.

  The old woman shut her eyes tight and moaned. “Will you stay with me a while, give me such relief every day?”

  Noora did not hesitate. “Insha’ Allah, I will, khalti.”

  From outside, one of the boys shrieked. “Ha ha, keep dreaming, my friend.” It was Mohammad, and now he let out a boisterous laugh. “That wicked woman won’t even come to our village.”

  “That’s true. She complains it’s too far.”

  Now this was a new voice. Noora kept rubbing Moza’s hand and leaned back to see who it was. There was another friend who had joined the boys. Although he had his back to her, she could tell he was older. His shoulders were broader and his voice thicker.

  “It’s cruel that God gave her the healing hands,” said Saif.

  “Yes,” said Mohammad, wiping away his tears of mirth, “healing hands that work only for paying hands.”

  “Well, I’ll have to get a lot of wood,” said Sager, smiling. “And if that doesn’t bring enough money, I’ll just have to stay longer and work in a few this-and-that jobs in Nassayem.”

  “It won’t work,” said the new voice. “Zobaida Bint-Sheer does not need your little coins.” A cluster of flies circulated over the food and his arm floated over the mat. In one self-assured swoop, he shooed them away.

  “Why?” asked Sager. “Surely any coin is a good coin.”

  The man (for Noora had decided he was no longer a boy) tilted his head slightly. She could see the side of his jawbone. It had none of the roundness of the other boys’ faces. It was sharp, just like the jagged peaks of their mountains. Clinging to his chin were the dense beginnings of what promised to turn into an attractive goatee. “News says she has been busy with a new client,” he said. “A rich new client.”

  “He has come from a distant coastal village,” continued Mohammad, “nowhere near our mountains. Ten days it took him to get here.”

  “So who is he?” asked Sager.

  Noora wanted to know, too, but just then Moza snapped open her eyes and asked where she and Sager were journeying to. Noora bent forward and quickly told her how her father’s behavior had turned erratic recently. She did not mention the attack; that would have just ruffled the mildness out of the old woman. “So, we decided to find Zobaida and see what she can do to help him.”

  Moza inhaled deeply. It was clear she had not heard every little detail. She was about to ask something when Noora tugged her thumb. The old woman shut her eyes again and exhaled her relief.

  How much of their talk had she missed? Noora stared back out into the sunlight, thankful for the dimness of the hut, for if the boys (and the man) could see her, she would have looked ridiculous, with her spine curved like an old woman’s, her neck twisted like that.

  They were whispering now, their turbaned heads drawn close together. Noora fought the wind, which threw their voices the other way, but could pick up only the droppings of their conversation: “…private troubles…tried and tried…”

  “Zobaida, you say?” Moza’s voice sounded like it was coming out of a hollow well.

  “Yes, khalti, yes,” Noora said, and pressed her palm harder.

  “…desperate…wish-wash cure…between the legs…”

  Mohammad and Saif began giggling.

  “After a good rain, the bees get busy,” Moza said.

  Noora nodded her away just as the boys broke into a ripple of laughter—all of them, except Sager (just like him, not to enjoy a joke).

  “Honey, that’s what you should be looking for, sweet girl,” said Moza.

  Noora sat straight. “What?”

  “I said honey. That’s the only way you’ll be able to sweeten Zobaida’s tongue.”

  8

  Who was the man they were talking about? What were his problems? Sager and his friends had whispered an intriguing tale. Their faces had been stamped with shock and disbelief. The burn of curiosity sat at the tip of her tongue. But she had to wait for the right time, when she was alone with her brother, before she could ask.

  With the next dawn, Sager and Noora set off, following the trail to Nassayem. Halfway into the journey, they veered north, pulling the donkey into a broad valley in which rose an abundance of trees. This was Wadi Sidr, and here they could find the best wood.

  Acacia and sidr trees rose in groups of five or six in the middle of the wadi; others stood alone at the sides, where the mountains slanted vertically from the valley floor. It was when they paused to drink some water that Noora put on her most casual voice and asked, “So who is he, that man you were talking about?”

  Sager’s answer was as abrupt as a slamming door. “It’s man talk, not for you to hear.”

  Noora pushed on. “Just tell me what his problem is. Anyway, I heard most of it.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have,” Sager said and, picking up his yirz, strode to a handsome acacia. Its solid trunk sprouted out of the ground and split into an explosion of sturdy branches.

  So that’s how it was going to be. She watched him clutch a branch and begin chopping. Ten hacks later, he pulled it off. “Well, aren’t you going to help?” he said, looking over his shoulder at her.

  Noora stretched her arms above her head and, mid-yawn, said, “I don’t know. If you don’t want to tell me your man talk, then maybe I shouldn’t be doing your man work.” She shot him a smug look, but he only shook his head and turned back to the tree.

  Chop, chop, chop! Noora sank to the ground and, easing back onto her elbows, smiled at the one thing Sager had failed to notice. Every hack was a wasted effort. Every bough he broke off the tree was useless. Let him tire himself, the clever-big-man. He was chopping wet wood, wood that he wouldn’t be able to sell.

  Noora yawned again and stared up at the mountains, a disheveled carpet of gleaming old rocks and bright, young shoots. She took it all in: unruly scrubs with tips bursting into tiny, red flowers; fluffy, white dots on stout bushes; bizarre purple clusters that crowned stunted cacti. No matter how long or short the burst of rain, the speed of the bloom was quick and urgent. And so was the wilt that would soon follow.

  Chop, chop, chop! Sager was tackling the next tree. A breeze bathed her face and she closed her eyes, losing herself in the noises that followed the rain. In the distance were a bubbling brook and a murmur that came and went. Was it the wind? Nearby, frogs croaked, crickets rasped, and, every now and then, the scampering whoosh of some small animal clattered the pebbles.

  “Well? Are you planning to fall asleep here? Get up and help.”

  Noora opened her eyes with a start. She had drifted off. There was a huge pile of chopped wood, and Sager had just picked a branch and was beginning to scrape the thorns off with his yirz. She got up and marched toward him. “There’s no point,” she said, pulling the branch out of his hand. “This wood is usele
ss, look.” She ran her finger over the pale inner layer. It was moist. “You see? The rain has made the wood all watery inside. You’ve tired yourself for nothing.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, through clenched teeth.

  “It won’t burn well,” Noora said. “It will make smoke, and then they will come looking for you, saying that you cheated them and sold them bad wood. You know all this!” She hit her head with the soft base of her palm. “Why didn’t you think before you started?”

  She smiled at his flustered face, at the tiny dots of perspiration that lined his upper lip, sluggish and clammy, like the sticky sap of some of those plump-leafed mountain bushes. And then her smile seeped out and turned into a huge grin.

  Sager kicked the pile of wood, startling a toad into a mighty leap; it landed with a plop in a puddle nearby. “You let me chop and chop, and you said nothing? Why?”

  “Because you won’t tell me anything. And because you’re always in a bad mood. I watched your friends giggle and laugh, but not you. No, your face dropped as long as an oar. Why are you always such a sour face?”

  Sager glowered. “All right, you really want to know?”

  The whites of his eyes were turning pink. She wasn’t sure she did want to know, but she threw him a defiant bob of the head anyway.

  “I was just thinking, sweet sister, about your dilemma,” he said. “Getting so old now, and not married yet—all because our selfish father wants you near him. And it made me sad. And, I think, that’s why my face grew as long as an oar.” He crossed his arms high on his chest. “Yes, so sad I was, sister, to want good things for you and not be able to give them to you. I thought how nice it would be for you, to have someone who would be able to take care of you, like that rich man we were talking about. Imagine! To live in a real house, with many rooms; to eat well—dates from Basra, mangoes from India, pomegranates from Persia—to be adorned with the finest gold.” He sighed and clicked his tongue. “But now, I see, it was all wasted thought.”

  They had to start over.

  Noora followed her brother deeper into the valley, where the mountains drew closer together, to find dry wood. Soon they were walking through a steep-sided gorge that reminded her of the rift between them that was deepening with every passing moment. And it was all because of her. Why had she let him go on chopping that wet wood, tiring himself like that? He had spoken from his heart—she was sure of it—and she had played with his seriousness.

  The air vibrated in a constant murmur as it funneled through the passage, as if whispering to her to make amends. She tugged at the donkey and called to him, “You know, we don’t really have to find wood.”

  He didn’t answer, only climbed over a heap of rubble in their path. It was a section of the mountain that the rain had dissolved and sent crashing down.

  “We should be looking for nests,” she continued. “Khalti Moza told me that Zobaida loves mountain honey, that she would take it as payment.” No sooner had she clambered over the broken piece of mountain when Sager stopped and tilted his head at an angle. “Well, what do you think about—”

  He raised his arm to hush her. “Listen,” he whispered, and pointed up at the scarred peaks. “There, there.”

  “What?”

  “A bee, there it goes.” His finger danced in the air. “There is a nest up there.”

  She shaded her eyes with her hand and stared at the blue of the sky. “What, I mention honey and suddenly you spot a bee? I can’t see a thing.” She was sure he was getting back at her.

  “There! It lifted east, then dipped south.” He hurried to the donkey. “I saw it, I saw it,” he mumbled, and grabbing the bowl and the yirz, he scrambled up the mountain with an urgency that infected her.

  Whenever he wanted to, Sager could outdo her. His powerful legs catapulted him up the steep climb. His square build lost its rigidity as he twisted, skipped, and leaped, lithe as a mountain cat. There were no trodden paths in this part of the mountain and Noora struggled to keep up. With her shayla clasped tight under her arms, she pulled the donkey into a terrain strewn with jumbles of weathered boulders, folded and crumpled into bizarre shapes. Was he making it up, seeing the bee and all, so that he could tire her? “Maybe you’re wrong,” she called up to him. “This could be a waste of time.”

  When he did not reply, she decided to say no more. Let him take charge and play his game if it made him feel good. Even if there were no nest, she would not make much of the matter. And he would continue to feel fine. Those were the thoughts that filled her head. And yet, she kept scanning the air for a bee or two.

  The dense concentration of rocks opened into a gravelly ascent, speckled with fragile grasses and tiny, yellow flowers. When Sager stopped and cupped his ear, she did the same. Holding her breath, she strained to pick up the telltale buzz of a nest. Instead, the wind blew another sound.

  Was it the cry of a child? Puzzled, she twisted her head toward the sound, but the wind changed direction again. This time, it threw the hum of bees. The surprise was as jolting as a splash of cold water. He was right!

  There was the dance of the bees. They flitted out of a shallow crevice at the top of the mountain, catching the light in chaotic twists and twirls. The nest was impressive: a long triangle, which distorted into a lumpy ball on one side at the bottom. It clung to a broken branch that had somehow wedged into the ground at a slant.

  She wanted to share the danger but held back. Better to let him feel in charge again. Maybe then he would lose that long face. Sager was already crouched next to the nest, his eyes peeking through his ghitra, which he had wrapped around his face. She watched him extend an arm and woo the jumble of striped bodies away from the nest. They parted, but the middle of the hive was dry and empty. The bees had consumed this part of the comb.

  Sager flicked a bee off his arm and tried again. With the fat of his palm, he brushed the bees on the lump at the bottom. This part of the nest glistened with moistness. Sager wasted no time and cut a clean slice with his yirz, letting the lump slip into his bowl.

  The bees objected in a furious buzz. They lifted to the air in a dense cloud of frantic movement around his head. Noora could tell he wanted to run, but they both knew that that would just excite the bees more. She followed his wary steps away from the nest, feeling both the urgency and control a thief must feel in a house with sleeping residents. The bees pursued him, carrying their final protest in spasms of flight. They delivered more stings, but Sager’s elation could not be dampened as he hugged tight their gold.

  It had worked. His mood was transformed. Even though he was holding back his smile, it seeped out of his eyes and made his face glow. He covered the bowl with a muslin cloth and roped it securely to the donkey’s back. Noora was about to compliment him on his bravery when they heard the hollers of children from not too far away. They looked at each other, puzzled.

  “I thought I heard some children’s voices earlier,” she said, nodding west. “It came from the other side of that mountain.”

  Her brother cranked his head this way and that, trying to get his bearings. “I think we are right by Nassayem. You see, it makes sense.” He drew the direction vaguely in the air with his arm. “We continued through the wadi and then took a shortcut when we climbed this mountain.”

  Before he could continue, Noora pointed up. Once again, they’d been spotted by children.

  9

  The boys of Nassayem were pretending to be an army. Their mission was to escort Noora and Sager safely along the slant that led to the edge of the village.

  “Avoid that bush; it’s full of snakes,” ordered the leader, a spindly limbed boy with generous lips, taller than the rest. The group, now following him in single file, walked around it, careful not to touch the unruly tips.

  “That’s Faraj Al-Mugami,” Sager whispered to his sister. “He’s Sheikh Khaled’s youngest son.”

  Noora nodded and tugged the donkey along. “I guess that’s why he’s barking his commands like the
chief of a warring tribe.”

  Faraj gave his next command. “This way, this way, not too close to that big rock. If it tumbles down, we’ll get crushed under it.”

  No sooner had they avoided the ominous curved arm of rock that jutted over them than Faraj stopped. His fleshy lips parted. “Look,” he said, pointing down the valley. “There she is—the witch.” He lifted his arms and the boys took cover, crouching behind what stones they could find. “And what are you two waiting for?” Faraj hissed, signaling to Noora and Sager. “Take cover before she sees you.”

  “Now this is too much,” Sager grumbled, though he let Noora pull him behind an ocher slab of stone. She kept hold of the donkey’s reins so that the animal didn’t wander off. Then they watched.

  Of course, the witch was Zobaida, a black-clad bundle hobbling up a distant hill. Perched on top of the hill was her hut, looking friendless under two dried-up palm trees.

  “When are we going to see her?” Noora asked.

  “As soon as this stupid game is finished,” Sager said.

  Noora yawned and let her gaze drift to the boys’ peering faces. What a mixture of sorts they were. Her father was never impressed with Nassayem’s people. He called them “bastards, untrue to their origins.” They were made up of sailors from distant ports and towns who had stayed behind, dwellers of the nearby hills, and mountain men who preferred to stay close to the opportunities the sea brought. With the years, they married each other, and now the population was a concoction of many races and colors: black, brown, olive, and white faces with straight, wavy, and frizzy crowns. Nassayem accepted them all, but her father would not. He always told her that when tribes mixed, they got mixed up. They lost their goodness and purity.

  “What do you want with her?” Sager called to the boys, as Faraj signaled the boys to rise from their hiding places. “She’s just the same as us.”