Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  The Trial of the Wilderness required the pilgrim to pass through the desert to the long-dead city of Eram. The ruins lay some fifteen days to the east. According to the elders, Eram once prospered where the Wadi Dhanah flowed into a great inland sea. In that long-ago time, the wadi ran year-round, fed by frequent rains and mountain run-off.

  The Eramites had thrived on agriculture and fishing and trade with distant lands. When they grew prideful and stopped giving the gods their due, the rains stopped, the wadi dried up, and the sea disappeared beneath the desert. The people fled and the mighty walls crumbled. So complete was the destruction, legend said, that only by the gods’ mercy might a pilgrim find his way to the lost ruins, gather a shell from the dry lake bed, and return once more across the sands.

  I only half-believed the stories. There must be some truth to them, or Yanuf would never have let me pursue this mad quest. I feared, though, that I might survive the journey into the wilderness, might reach the shores of the lost sea only to mistake the wondrous city of the ancients for a jumble of rocks.

  Yanuf’s dagger—its blade buried in the sand of the wadi—stretched its shadow farther toward the east. Shams’s fury would soon ease, and I knew I must make use of the remaining daylight hours rather than risk losing my way in the cold, moonless night.

  I took another breath of the relatively cool air, then retrieved the janbiya and again stepped into the furnace.

  A shadow stretched before me, sprawled across the heat-shimmering earth. The figure seemed more beast than human, cast upon all fours as it scrabbled through the sand. The creature’s mane stood out in tangled locks, its hide gaunt and limp where it hung from a skeletal frame. Each faltering step looked as though it must be its last, yet still the stubborn wretch trudged forward across the rocky ground.

  “Stop,” I pleaded, my voice a ragged hiss that twisted past my parched throat and cracked lips. “Quit.”

  The wraith ignored me and continued its shambling stride. For three days the shadow had been my desert companion. At times lagging behind, sometimes beside me, and other times racing ahead, my dark self mimicked every move in weirdly exaggerated form. Only at night, when all the world’s shadows melded into an earth-blanketing whole—only then did I feel alone. Abandoned.

  Now I craved that abandon. I longed to cut the threads that bound me to the fiend that mercilessly dragged me on when a sane person would long ago have quit. But the shadow persisted in its hold on me, forcing my arms and legs to carry me forward.

  No matter. It would soon be night. The shadow would leave, only to return with dawn’s light to find its host gone.

  The wraith lurched to one side. I felt myself drawn toward the edge of the sand-choked wadi. A pile of stones cast their own shadows far to the east, having basked in Shams’s glory throughout the long day. Properly arranged, they would emit enough heat to warm me—or my corpse, if the gods were merciful—throughout the bitter night.

  I arrived at the stones just as the shadow did, and reached out to move the rocks into better position. The shadow’s hand jerked back even as heat stung my fingers. The stones yet burned from Shams’s touch. I hissed a curse that lingered on the still air. It took a few moments to realize the sound came not from the echo of my curse, but from the rocks themselves.

  Panic flooded my veins, restoring the strength sapped by the sun. I reared onto my haunches as the susurrus from the rocks rose in pitch. I groped among the folds of my veil for Yanuf’s dagger. Even as my fingers wrapped about the ivory hilt, a scaly snout emerged from amid the stones. The viper’s jaws gaped. Quicker than a thought, it sprang from its hiding place. I fell onto my backside and the dagger came free. The blade whistled through the air and caught the viper just behind its head.

  The momentum of the fall carried me onto my back, the snake’s body close behind. The heavy, leathery coils muffled my cries. Scales scratched my face and neck. I dropped the dagger and clawed at the viper with both hands. I flung the serpent away, my screams spiced with the tang of its blood.

  I swallowed, the blood soothing as it crept down my throat. I swept my tongue over my lips, then wiped my hands over my face and licked my fingers clean. Strength flowed into my limbs as the blood reached my stomach.

  The snake had not flown far. I scrambled over the rocky earth to where it lay. Without reasoning, I grasped it by the tail, opened my mouth to its headless neck and ran my free hand along its body. Blood coursed over my teeth and tongue, spilled onto my lips when I closed them to swallow, then cascaded into my mouth again. I milked the blood from the viper until it had no more to give.

  With renewed vigor, I arose—still clutching the snake’s tail—and strode to where the dagger lay. My shadow stretched long and sinewy before me. I picked up the janbiya and wiped it clean with my robe.

  I sheathed the dagger and stooped to retrieve the snake’s head. Careful of the fangs, I set it atop the piled rocks.

  Ears alert for the sound of rustling scales, I knelt before the makeshift altar, stretched the viper’s body before me, and bowed my head to the ground.

  My heart swelled with gratitude for the snake’s demonstration of the gods’ protection. For in the serpent I’d found salvation.

  With Yanuf’s dagger, I butchered the snake, separating skin and meat, fat and entrails. After setting the meat and skin to cure on the warm rocks, I rubbed the fat into my bridal veil until it glistened like oiled canvas.

  I then dug a pit in the bed of the dry wadi, reaching deeper than my elbows before the soil appeared dark with moisture. I urinated into the pit and threw in the viper’s entrails, then set in the center half the husk of a melon I’d taken from Maryaba’s fields. With rocks to secure the veil across the mouth of the pit, I placed a smaller stone in the middle, above the melon.

  Then I waited.

  I waited through the night and the waxing morning, through the heat of Shams’s zenith and into her descent. When the sun eased more than halfway toward the western horizon, I finally crept from my den to see what magic my labors had wrought.

  I removed the stones and lifted the veil from above the pit. The stench of urine and offal bludgeoned my senses, but my heart soared when I saw water droplets on the underside of the veil. Holding my breath, I reached into the hole, took hold of the melon husk, and lifted it from the pit.

  Yanuf’s miracle had worked.

  Throughout the long, scorching day, Shams’s heat had filled the pit, evaporating any moisture within. Unable to pass the fat-coated silk, the vapor collected there until it formed droplets that fell into the husk. The process had created enough water to fill a third of the melon.

  I sniffed at the cup, wary of any rot that may have tainted the water. I smelled only melon, so tentatively brought the makeshift bowl to my mouth. Pure water—warm, but refreshing—tickled my lips and tongue, and slid down my throat. Greedily, I tipped the melon and drank. Not enough to fill my mouth, still the water invigorated me and lifted my spirits.

  Hope swelled in my breast. No, more than hope. Promise.

  I could create water. I had food—perhaps only enough for a few days, but I possessed the tools to find more. With the moon’s waxing, I could see to travel at night, then rest and distill water during the heat of the day.

  If legends were true, Eram lay not twelve days farther along the wadi. An inner voice objected that I might simply be drifting deeper into the land of death, but I quashed the thought.

  I would hope. I would live. And, gods willing, I would fulfill my quest and win control over my destiny.

  30

  Makeda

  Ten more days came and went. Then another day, and another.

  Each morning I made my obeisance to Shams, dug a water pit, and burrowed into whatever shade I could find. Twice more, snakes disputed my resting place and became my food. Each evening I drank my water, surveyed my path by the long shadows cast by the setting sun, and set out once more.

  On the twelfth day, I began watching for stacked rock
s or some other landmark that might have given rise to the legend of Eram. By the fifteenth day, fear edged into the recesses of my heart, displacing the hope and promise that had sustained me. As the sky lightened with the dawning of the eighteenth day, promise fled and hope was all but gone. Not for the first time, I looked toward the west, my footprints faint smudges in the sand of the long-dried wadi, the slenderest of ribbons connecting me to home.

  I summoned Dhamar’s image, and the thought of his gloating over my failure strengthened my resolve. I turned once more to greet the rising sun. “Hail the East,” I intoned after making my first prostration. “Hail the morning.” I bowed and rose again. “Hail the—”

  Sham’s first rays stretched along the wadi, casting the long shadows that had helped me track the dry riverbed’s course. Accustomed to the gentle swells that defined the wadi’s banks, I gaped at the angular shadows cast by the morning light and marveled at a trio of slender black fingers that beckoned me toward the horizon.

  I moved eastward, my tentative pace becoming more deliberate with each stride. The shadows retreated step by step, and I still couldn’t see what cast them. I willed my feet through their motions, but when a long swath of green sprouted from the horizon, I no longer needed to force them. Of their own volition, my feet brought me into a run.

  I ran without trying. I ran without thinking. I ran without breathing until my burning lungs demanded to be quenched. Shams consumed the horizon as she burst into view in all her blinding glory.

  And still I ran.

  My eyes cast on the ground only a few paces ahead, I took an occasional glance toward the sun. Little by little, silhouettes began to mar Shams’s perfect countenance. The lines stretched and deepened until there was more dark than light. By the time Shams cleared the horizon, I found myself within a tangle of shadows.

  I came to a stop, resting my hands on my knees as my lungs labored to keep pace with my pounding heart. Breath by breath, I drew in air, cool and dank. As I looked around, my heart began to race again, not from exertion but in awe of the sight.

  Date palms—taller than I’d ever before seen—stretched toward the sky. Their broad, tattered leaves cast mottled shadows over the grove that spread as far as I could see. In the shade grew vines and shrubs, studded with fruit and flower. More than this natural bounty, the artificial wonders sapped my breath. At regular intervals throughout the grove stood great stone pillars, high as the tallest trees. I reached out to touch one, the stone cool and smooth beneath my hands. Great blocks—nearly as tall as me, and twice the width of my arm span—fit together so tightly I could barely make out the joints.

  I fell to my knees, bowed my face to the ground, and covered my head with my hands.

  “Athtar, forgive me.”

  Surely I’d passed Eram’s ruins and intruded into Athtar’s garden, ringed by boundary markers raised by his own hand, for no mortal could have placed such great stones in perfect harmony.

  A trace of wind stroked my cheek. I lifted my eyes, half-expecting to see the god standing before me. But my bridegroom remained invisible.

  Bridegroom.

  I smiled at the thought. Perhaps Athtar really had chosen me. My scheme had been a simple enough means of keeping myself free of Dhamar’s bed, and I fully intended to keep my vows to the great god. I would take no other husband, bear no children. I would live as a widow, my life dedicated in service to the god and to my people.

  That had been my plan, the fruit of my own heart. But as I knelt beneath the green canopy, before this stone monument, amid this garden hidden half a moon’s journey into the desert, I wondered if Athtar had, indeed, claimed me as his own.

  The breeze cooled my cheeks, Athtar’s breath sweet with the scent of flowers and honey. And something more.

  I breathed deeply, unable to identify the scent. I stood, turned my face into the wind, and followed my nose deeper into the grove.

  My ears were next to inform me with the sounds of gentle lapping from somewhere ahead, where my eyes could not yet penetrate. I increased my pace and followed a trail only my nose and ears could discern.

  Something flashed among the trees ahead of me. The canopy grew brighter, shimmering as though lit from below by great, flickering candles. I now ran, dodging branches and vines and roots until I burst into a clearing. My heart thrummed, my breath faltered. I was only dimly aware of my actions as I kicked off my sandals, and stripped off my robe. I raced forward, stretched my arms over my head and dove through the air.

  With a splash, I landed in the pool of the oasis, its clear waters drawing me into their embrace. I opened my mouth, and the liquid—sweet as honey—washed over my tongue. I swallowed, tried to breathe in the life-giving water, to imbibe it with my whole being, but my burning nose and lungs forced me to stroke for the surface.

  Choking, sputtering, laughing, I paddled and splashed my way to the pool’s edge. I dragged myself onto the sandy bank where I sprawled on my back and closed my eyes. Shifting patterns of light and shadow played across my eyelids as the palm leaves danced and swayed in Shams’s glory. A rather large shadow blotted out the sun completely. When it failed to give way to the light, I cracked one eye open.

  A pair of broad, hairy nostrils loomed less than a hand’s breadth from my face. My mouth fell open, and the nostrils flared and disgorged a thick, fetid cloud of mucus. Gagging, I rolled to my side and scrambled for the safety of the pool. I plunged under the water, rinsing my mouth and scrubbing my face as I went. I broke the surface, squeezed the water from my eyes, and rose only far enough to breathe through my nose while I surveyed the shore.

  A camel calf stood by the water’s edge, its forelegs spread wide and neck stretched low as it slupped at the pool. Its eyes settled on me. The calf raised its head and took a backward step. It pulled back its lips in a hideous grin, thick streams of water dripping from its muzzle.

  “It’s all right,” I said as I rose from the water and edged toward the shore, one hand stretched out.

  The camel brayed, turned, and dashed into the cover of the trees.

  “Wait,” I called after it. I slogged through the shallows, raced up the beach and into the verge.

  Only twice before had I seen camels. Bedou tribesmen drove their herds into Maryaba to trade milk and meat, hides and dung for fruits and vegetables, wheat and beer. Shayma had been quick to buy as much dung as she could, trading five jars of beer and a bolt of silk cloth.

  “Best dung there is,” she’d explained. “Burns cleaner than goat or donkey.”

  I smiled at the memory, thankful for the secret the old woman had taught me about making the best fire. Much as curiosity urged me to follow the young camel, reason told me I would find what I needed near the pool.

  It took only a brief search for me to collect a few lumps of precious, seasoned dung. I then reclaimed my belongings. After washing the worst of the stains from my robe, I hunted for a place to make my camp.

  No more than a dozen paces from the pool, blocks of stone formed part of what seemed a giant staircase. I climbed one high step after another, marveling at what sort of men could have built, let alone used such a stairway. I left my belongings on the third riser, then continued to scale the stones. As I crested the fifteenth and final step, I knew this was no simple set of stairs, not even for a race of giants. Surely, this was the stairway of the gods.

  My tower house was the loftiest dwelling place in all of Saba. Yet here I stood on a platform twice as high as my home. Tall as it was, the top step barely cleared the treetops. In three other places stone pillars thrust above the foliage to an even greater height. Their shadows spread across the canopy of leaves, and I realized they were the three fingers that had beckoned me to Eram’s oasis.

  Amid the shadows I noticed a pattern. Though only these few structures reached above the treetops, between them ran a string of gaps in the foliage. With only a little imagination, I envisioned the walls and towers, temples and homes that once decorated the plain. The walls end
ed abruptly at the edge of the oasis, where the desert sands held back the verdant growth.

  Unlike the desert I’d traversed these many days, the terrain at the eastern end of the oasis was perfectly flat, a dusty white expanse that stretched to the horizon. I realized this was the lake of legend, the great Eramite sea that sank into the sands. If I was to find a shell, the token of my pilgrimage, it would be along that ancient shore.

  I climbed down the great stones and, taking my bearing from the pool, set out to claim my prize.

  Athtar’s hand set my path straight as an arrow’s flight. I pressed through the undergrowth of Eram’s oasis, using Yanuf’s janbiya to clear the way. Shams hadn’t yet climbed to noon when I reached the vast white plain.

  I needed only a short time of searching before I found the object of my pilgrimage. The shell fit neatly in my palm, its smooth inner surface seeming to ripple in pale yellows and pinks as it caught the sunlight. I pressed the shell to my lips, whispered a prayer of thanks to my husband-god, and turned back toward the lost city.

  I was only a few steps past the verge when the ground began to tremble. The crackle of fallen leaves and a rumble like distant thunder were accompanied by something akin to the chortle of demons. I dropped to my knees and crawled to shelter behind a wall of toppled stones. I clutched the shell to my breast and breathed a plea for protection to Ubasti. The goddess must have heard, for the demons transformed into a mere herd of camels.

  The beasts tramped among the palm trees, pausing occasionally to snatch up dates fallen on the ground. I thought I recognized the calf from the pool. Large as it had seemed then, the creature was dwarfed by the camel it followed. The honey-colored cow strode gracefully at the front of the herd, snuffling at the air and keeping a careful watch. I ducked lower as the animal looked in my direction and bellowed something between a bray and a belch. Seeming to sense no threat, the camel moved on into the brush, followed by its herd.