The Sand Fish

by Maha Gargash

  With her nod, Rashid warned, “Now, once you get in, keep your head low and follow the wall with a hand. It gets dark, but just walk after my light.”

  “What light?” Noora asked, but he had already stepped into the opening.

  As she followed him, coiling her shoulders through the narrow entrance, she saw the glow: a hurricane lamp, which he lifted to light the way through a tunnel that was barely wider than her hips.

  A few steps in she noticed that the roof dipped lower farther on. Still, she followed him till they were staggering, mostly on bent knees, and soon Noora felt she was sinking into the mountain’s stomach. Her hands clamped brittle walls and, with every step she took, the air cooled and her nerves heated up.

  She was about to turn around and run, back into the light, when she was caught by the soft rhythm of his breath, breaking the rustle of his dishdasha. That magical breath! It roused the memory of his secret visits, the ones that had kept her awake with anticipation night after night.

  She sighed and continued, feeling the crumbly surface of the wall dampen and the scent of moist clay cool her nostrils. The passage was widening and their shadows grew longer and crawled up the expanding roof.

  She was walking straight now, her eyes round with expectation. The tension in her touch lightened and she skimmed the walls with her fingers. Something trickled on the tips. “What’s that?” she gasped.

  Rashid’s laugh echoed in the hollowness. “It’s just water,” he said. “Walk slower and test the earth here. Don’t slip. Some bits are wet.”

  “Wet? What are you talking about? There’s nothing wet in these mountains.”

  Rashid didn’t answer, but she was sure she felt him smile.

  Then she heard them: one, two, three, four. And more. Plops of water on water. The tunnel opened into a spacious cave with a dark pool in the middle. Her mouth fell open. It was a sight like she had never seen. The pool could easily fit ten standing adults!

  Droplets seeped through the roof, piercing the darkness of the pool with subtle sparks of luminous green on its surface. She walked over to the gravelly edge and, sinking to her knees, scooped up a handful to taste. It was slightly bitter but pure and chilled. She spotted trails of tiny bubbles pulsing to the surface. The pool was also being fed from somewhere deep below.

  “What do you think?” Rashid said.

  “I can’t believe it. It’s beautiful.” She sat down and stretched her feet into the water.

  Rashid joined her, resting the lamp between them. He said, “You know that deep, deep green on the top of the water? It’s the same color as your eyes.”

  Noora laughed and wondered why she was nervous to begin with. He was a decent person, and although the fluttering in her stomach continued, she was beginning to feel a little more comfortable with him.

  He smiled and continued in a mumble, “They’re very beautiful eyes, masha’ Allah, and you shouldn’t hide them.”

  “I don’t. I mean, I use them—to see.”

  “No, I mean you look away a lot. You shouldn’t.”

  “I don’t,” she said, but she dropped her gaze to the ground. Such talk tickled her insides.

  “You see? You’re doing it again.”

  Noora pushed her feet into the grainy bottom of the pool. The water wrapped her calves and the pebbles kneaded her soles.

  “You know, a lot of people think I’m not worth much, but it’s not true,” said Rashid, his voice as rich as velvet in the hollow of the cave. “There is more value in this place than in all the gold in India.”

  Noora looked at him and nodded. In the glow of the lamp his eyes shone like wet pebbles. They were fixed firmly on her feet as she pushed them in and out of the water, breaking its stillness, sending green swirls to the deeper middle. The water lapped the ankle bands of her serwal, leaving a wavy line on the hem.

  “All right, we have to go,” he said, losing the smooth resonance that had just embellished his words. “It’s better not to get back late. I don’t want people asking where you were.”

  Noora sighed at his concern and dipped her hands in the water to rinse her face, as if the pond might disappear abruptly. He really cares about me, she thought.

  13

  They met at the cave every day at the same time, returning to the village just before it awoke for the afternoon prayer. It was easy to follow time in Maazoolah, sliced, as it were, into sections defined by the muezzin’s voice as he stood at the edge of the mountain and made the call for prayer. Noora always wondered why he faced the valley and not the homes. Then Moza told her that his voice had to reach all passing travelers as well as the villagers.

  When Moza had asked her where she went during the hot hours when she should be resting, Noora had blinked away the guilt that grazed the green of her eyes and told her that she was used to taking long walks at that time. She did not like to lie to the old woman, but what else could she say?

  Sweet Moza! She had been convinced quickly and had passed that information out to the other women of the village when they came to visit, bringing Maazoolah’s news in neat parcels of information, arranged according to importance. One day, Hessa Bint-Ali came to visit and brought along her niece, Aisha.

  Aisha was a short, chubby girl, slightly younger than Noora. She spoke little but smiled a lot. That’s when her cheeks ballooned and tightened her eyes into slits. Aisha was promised to Hessa’s son.

  “Any day now,” said Hessa, her coal-black eyes beaming through her burka with pride. Her voice was particularly strong, a raspy crowlike call that traveled far. “And what a lucky boy my son is. Masha’ Allah, Aisha is like the rain, full of goodness. She sprinkles her happiness on everyone.”

  They were sitting in a circle in Moza’s hut sometime between breakfast and lunch. Aisha was wedged like a chunky piece of meat between her aunt and her mother, Khadeeja. She peeped through the lines of her eyes, her dimples deep craters under her bloated cheeks, and let her aunt tell her tale.

  Hessa was narrating a detailed account of Aisha’s recent illness. “We were hot and cold every day, and shivers in between. No sleep. Sooo much coughing.” She pinched Aisha’s well-padded ribs and added, “Look how thin we’ve become.”

  “God bless her,” Moza said. “And to get so ill when she should be fattening up for her marriage.”

  “We’ll have to start eating more, won’t we?” said Hessa, rubbing Aisha’s back with affection. Then she sighed and her eyes drifted to the folded serwal Noora had just finished sewing. “That’s new, isn’t it?” she said, pulling it up and flapping it loose, holding it in front of her face to make sure the proportions were right. She tugged at the seams. When the serwal would not come apart, she let her fingers run up and down along the wavy lines of embroidery on the ankle bands. Satisfied, she declared, “This is very good work.”

  “Masha’ Allah, Noora made the whole thing,” said Moza. “Sweet child.”

  “It’s nothing compared to your generosity, khalti,” said Noora, lifting the old woman’s hand and kissing it.

  “Al-Hamdulillah, young one, Allah be praised,” said Moza. “It’s all His doing.”

  By the next day, news of Noora’s sewing expertise had spread to every household. Maazoolah’s women had neither the patience nor the interest in the art of clothes making. They were not shy to use Noora’s talents. Ragged dishdashas, torn dresses, and serwals arrived for repairs in small bundles at Moza’s hut.

  And so Noora settled in to sew for the whole village. She did not expect to be paid for it. After all, what did these people have? Maazoolah was no different in its neediness from all the other mountain villages. In truth, Noora looked forward to the extra work. It justified her need to sit by the doorway of Moza’s hut in full view of whoever, man or woman, passed by. She knew there would be no malicious gossip at such indiscretion because everyone understood that she needed the sun’s light to be able to thread the needle and sew her neat stitches.

  There was another reason Noora chose t
his particular spot. Moza’s hut was slightly raised, so that she had a good view of the plots and, more important, the men working the earth. Rashid was always there. In between stitches, Noora would sneak looks at him, taking in his erect back and strong shoulders in greedy gulps.

  As her needle pricked the fabric, she stifled the deep guilt that came with keeping a secret that was breaking society’s laws. Instead, she drifted into pleasing reveries flooded with Rashid’s words and gestures. Her meetings with Rashid at the cave continued, as did his night visits.

  A few days later, Hessa came alone to talk to Noora. Her black eyes seemed impatient and she hugged a knotted cloth. “You are looking so radiant,” she said. “What are you doing that is making you look as golden as a pot of honey?”

  Noora felt her cheeks color. It was not like Hessa to throw compliments at her.

  “Let’s go in, before the sun makes us black,” Hessa said.

  Noora rose and followed Hessa into the hut.

  “Now,” she said once they were settled, “as you know, my son is marrying Aisha. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll never feel sad once she becomes his wife.”

  “When is the marriage?”

  “Soon, insha’ Allah, soon,” Hessa whispered mysteriously. “We have to prepare everything first.” She proceeded to open the bundle she had brought with her. “I want you to make these pieces for my future daughter-in-law, as part of the bride-wealth. You can sew two dresses, two serwals, and one thoub.”

  Noora fingered the most attractive piece: fine dagh silk of a fiery-red. She lifted it up in front of her face and looked through the translucent fabric. Clothes for a bride, how special they felt. “She’s lucky to be getting such a lovely piece,” said Noora.

  “Nothing is too much for our adorable Aisha,” said Hessa, “even marrying the son of a Bin-Ghanem, which to anyone else would be a real privilege.”

  “Bin-Ghanem?”

  “Yes. Don’t you know? My husband’s ancestors were the original inhabitants of Maazoolah.”

  Noora didn’t know. Nor did she understand why that made the Bin-Ghanems special. As far as she had noticed, all the villagers shared the same poverty. The exception was Moza, whose husband had showered her with gifts in their long union, all stored in that tin chest.

  “The red one you are holding, that is the bridal dress. So you will need to make it look special.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Noora, fluffing it open. “I know exactly what to do: rich embroidery with silver thread on the chest, and little silver stars all over the rest of it, so it will just shine and shine. I’ll put large gores under the arms. Moza has some scraps that would suit—bright blue, I think.” She let the excitement of preparing the bridal dress carry her. “And then, to make it all perfect, I’ll let it trail into a soft tail.” She looked up, about to say more, when she noticed Hessa’s sure manner had melted. A tiny flicker of light bounced off her sharp eyes, trying to penetrate their dead blackness, give them a soul.

  Was it hesitation? Was it pain?

  Hessa opened her mouth, but then clamped it tight again. Its edges quivered with some shadowy emotion.

  “I will have these clothes ready for you very soon,” said Noora.

  “Oh, I know,” said Hessa, and coughed away the croak that lingered at the back of her throat. “It’s not that. It’s something else. I always worry a girl, not of us, will steal my son.”

  Noora mouthed a silent “ah.”

  Hessa recovered the caw of her voice. “For my son to be deprived of Aisha’s goodness would be a tragedy. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Noora nodded.

  “A man must get married to his own people, his kin. If he doesn’t, he would just be asking for trouble.” The flicker that had grazed Hessa’s eyes just moments earlier was gone, and now she was staring at Noora with the cold blackness of night.

  Noora nodded again.

  “And the woman who doesn’t take account of this simple rule is not worthy of respect.”

  That afternoon, as they sat side by side at the edge of the pool, Noora told Rashid about her meeting with Hessa. “It was the strangest thing. She complimented me first, said my skin was like honey, and then she suddenly changed and gave me these nasty looks.”

  “Well, women can’t be expected to be as reasonable as men. Their minds work differently.”

  Noora twiddled her toes in the water and searched for the hidden wisdom in what he had just said.

  “And a mother’s feelings are always different. Special.”

  That she agreed with, but she still wanted to know why Hessa had thrown those accusing looks at her. “It was as if she were blaming me for something. And I didn’t know what it was. Have you heard of any rumors? Do you know this woman?”

  Rashid’s laugh sounded forced. Still, it brought a smile to her face.

  “It’s not funny,” she teased.

  “No, but you’re funny. You probably imagined the whole thing.”

  “No—”

  He cut her off. “Look, I don’t want to talk about who said what and why. I hear that all day. I want to talk about you and me.”

  “What’s there to say?” Noora had told him all the details of her life already.

  “Well, you know how I feel about you.”

  She kept quiet. Talk like that brought out the weakness in her. Dunked under the pebbles, her big toes squished the smaller toes.

  “I think about you all the time. I can’t eat properly or do anything.”

  She did not enjoy the lack of control she experienced when he spoke that way, but there was nothing she could do about it. She fingered the edges of her shayla and twirled complicated shapes into it.

  “I dream about you every night after I leave you. Then, when the sun comes up, I can’t wait to see you again.”

  She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to control the tiny tremors that were spreading from her inside to her outside. She had to speak quickly, change the subject. Fixing her eyes to the middle of the pool in front of her, she said, “Masha’ Allah, you people are so lucky. You don’t need to worry about water.”

  Rashid grunted and flopped on an elbow. “No one knows about this place.”

  “Yes, but if there’s a long drought, you’d share it.”

  He grunted again. “This is my place and I show it to whomever I choose.”

  “This is God’s place and His blessing, and it should be shared.”

  “There is no need. There’s enough water in the village well.”

  “Yes, but with all this water that’s always being filled, you can build a falaj system. Just think, all those carved channels to feed your crops. You’ll never go hungry. And not just that, you can grow so many other things.”

  “No!”

  “You’re just saying that,” she persisted. “You don’t really mean it.”

  “Stop talking about water! It’s here and it’s mine. And that’s it.”

  All the little shakes and quakes that had spread to her limbs dissolved. How could his sweet words turn bitter so quickly?

  Then his gentleness returned just as abruptly. “I don’t want to talk about water,” he said. “I want to talk about you—about us.”

  It was better to stay quiet, just listen.

  “I care about you.”

  Her fingers sat stiff on her thighs. Under the pebbles in the water, her toes felt cold.

  “I care about you,” he repeated. “I want to marry you.”

  For the next few days, Noora was busy preparing Aisha’s bridal dress. Using the silver thread, she embroidered the front with subtle loops of foliage. She streaked the petals and leaves with the full-raised stitch and filled them with the lace-web stitch. She lined the cuffs in silver piping and pierced so many delicate stars into the rest of the thoub that it looked like a fiery night sky.

  Then she began working on the ankle bands of the serwal that was to go under it. Cashews: that’s the motif she’d decided to embroider o
n the sun-yellow fabric. Circling the bands, leaf green cashews in the background set off the brighter lime green cashews in the foreground.

  Noora curled the outline of a cashew and looked down at the terraces. There he was, dwarfing the other men he was working with, looking as princely as can be. Soon she would be receiving her own bridal gifts.

  “I want to marry you.” That’s what he had said. Such small words, but what important words.

  With their newly defined futures, Rashid had grown bolder in their meetings, often holding her hand and stroking her palm. She liked the touch of his rough thumb. It made her feel protected. Did he feel her fingers wilt when he held her hand?

  One time, he had teased a strand of hair that had escaped both plait and shayla. Her daring had surprised her as she had closed her eyes and plumped her lips in little tremors, waiting for that same rough thumb to sneak down and calm the quiver of her mouth’s desire.

  Moza peeped through the doorway. “Masha’ Allah, it’s looking very beautiful—so clean and neat,” she said, patting Noora’s shoulders with approval. “And your face. How it glows. Are you happy staying with me?”

  “I am,” said Noora. She wanted to drop a hint of the real reason for her elation, how it seeped into her face and brought the pink to her cheeks. But Rashid had instructed her not to tell anyone until he spoke to Sager and asked for her hand formally.

  Soon, Noora thought, happily counting the row of cashews she had just finished.

  Noora hopped over the familiar plain under a still, white sky. Rain was coming, but even that could not keep her away from the cave. With Rashid’s proposal, she felt their meetings now held the legitimacy they had lacked. She belonged to him, and it was only a matter of time before she could make it public.

  It wasn’t until they were sitting side by side, holding hands at the edge of the water, that a niggling insecurity surfaced as she remembered Zobaida. What if Sager refused to give his consent?