by Ella Hansing
once my mind became a battleground. I fought valiantly to convince myself I didn’t want to know, that I didn’t want to think about it – knowing full well my thoughts had already been set in motion. Once more that fearsome beast slumbering in the deepest part of my being was provoked – the one I had tiptoed around since I could remember. It could wake in an instant, at random and without warning, raising its jagged horns within me, eyes flashing, black lips and gnarled teeth parting as it asked me that one small question – why?
Unconsciously my teeth began to grind, like a millstone crushing grain, now faced once more with the reality that I had no idea why or even how I was here. How had I come into existence when so many others had not? How had I managed to come to full term and been birthed into such a place as this? What was special about me to my mother, if anything? I had never asked why – why a prostitute would deliver one child out of perhaps many. Dryly I swallowed, leaning back against the cool wall opposite the oven.
I could only assume I’d never asked my mother out of fear – fear that whatever explanation she would conjure up would fail to convince me. Now I realized I’d never asked her perhaps because I knew her too well – perhaps because in watching her over the years I had already found the answer I sought. My existence was merely the result of a lie. The same lie she would believe time and time again, that whatever man she gave herself to was that one special one who wouldn’t forsake her. As she lay in his arms she would tell herself he was different from the others. Surely with passion such as this he would stay by her side – make her one of his wives even. The child she now carried, hopefully a son, he would claim proudly as his own – the birth would seal their love for a lifetime and elevate her from her lowly status.
Preemptive, my hand rose to muffle the sharpness of my breathing. Like spirits rising from an opened tomb, tears began to crowd my eyes – blurring my vision. It was easy to picture my mother on the day of my birth, seventeen years ago – a younger version of herself, screaming and writhing as she produced her child – determined in her pursuit of change. She was gambling with fate, with her beauty – her body and limited resources.
I had no way of remembering what followed my birth in those early years. Her lover couldn’t have stayed long – even his name perhaps now forgotten in the unending stream of lovers throughout the years. I knew he must have stayed long enough for me to have grown to a good size – too late perhaps for my mother to turn back events or find the strength to undo them. Gambling in life had seldom yielded us our desired rewards. Ever persistent, that same monster who asked why I was even born would ask me why my mother kept me through infancy – through the sting of both abandonment and poverty.
With difficulty I managed to pull myself from the wall, my body dragging itself as heavy as an anchor along the bottom of the sea toward the front room. Wordless my eyes traced the curves of my mother’s body, watched her chest rise and sink as she breathed. For a moment she looked much younger than her years, curled on her side as she was, dark hair spilling peacefully over parts of her face and neck. In gazing, the wild beast within my mind became subdued. My shoulders dropped in submission to weariness. Once again, I resolved not to involve myself in his futile questions. There was no point in looking back so far. Whatever her reasons, in the end my mother had chosen to give me life, and I had no choice but to believe the things she would tell me – no choice but to believe her when she assured me everything she did was for both of us, a sacrifice.
“I want to go to the central temple tomorrow night,” I spoke aloud to her motionless form. “I want to pray for more good fortune such as we’ve had, and for your health – since you’ve not been feeling well of late.” I was hopeful that if I told her about the trip early enough she wouldn’t be able to protest so easily the next night – cautious not to mention Hesba at all, since I knew she was becoming perhaps jealous of her.
“You can go,” she murmured, eyes remaining shut. “Provided my face is first painted and my hair bound.”
With lips tightly sealed I turned to let her sleep, my footsteps carrying me softly away.
҉
When nightfall finally arrived, I was prepared in advance. The day had crept by torturously slow ever since we’d finished our meal – with long lapses of nothingness between my chores. Bit by bit I had pieced the house back together, staging it carefully for the arrival of her late-night caller. Just as the skies outside began to grow dim, I lit the incense at the front of the house and set out a small saucer of oil for my mother to see by.
With the cushions laid out and the oven kindled to warm the leftovers from our meal, I waited patiently for my mother to disrobe and slip into her favorite piece of fabric – a vibrant green cloth she had been given months ago. Silky and cool to the touch, it glided easily whenever she moved – like a sail in the ocean breeze. The color was entrancing against her skin, bringing out the more subtle shades of green in her eyes. In silence I noted how tight it fit her, though, since she had gained so much weight. I watched in delayed response as she stretched the material snugly across her waist and backside, then fought to pin it with a clasp at her hip. When at last she had finished and was satisfied, I moved to adorn her in the matching jewelry she had set aside for the evening – first the rings, pushed tightly onto each round finger, then the earrings, long enough to graze her shoulders, and last the beads around her neck, streaming fetchingly down the center of her chest.
Moistening my lips, I sat cross-legged in front of her, patting her face dry of perspiration before beginning to paint. The eyes were the center of attraction on the stage her face would become. These I carefully traced once, twice, three times with wetted black ore from my palette – drawing singular lines outward from the corners as she fought not to blink. We were running out of green shade; it was a costly color. I had just enough for both lids by spreading it thinner than usual. Lastly I lightly wetted the red ochre on the palette by dipping my fingertip in water and letting it drip over the clay. I mixed it gently and brought color to each of her cheeks with the same finger by smearing it across her skin in circular motions. Sitting back I studied my work, checking the symmetry of the eye makeup. Now she looked lifeless – like a painting on a plaster wall in the house of some wealthy family. It was almost unsettling when she finally moved – smiling back at me to question whether she looked any good or not.
“Done,” I said, rising to dust my knees. “I must go and fetch water now. There are only a few sips left in the jar since you spilt it, and since there is no wine left I must find something, in case your guest becomes thirsty at some point.” Though it hadn’t taken long for me to quickly become parched myself that afternoon, I’d opted to wait for darkness before venturing out – knowing it provided the ideal concealment for journeying through the market.
Reluctant, my mother nodded at last in consent. I could sense a dark cloud move in over her head as I prepared to depart – her eyes trailing dismally toward the front door in expectation of her guest’s arrival. The abrupt transition of her emotions gave me momentary pause for concern – curious by her apparent disinterest. Ninharrissi was one of her favorite guests to entertain. A powerful, beautiful woman from the wealthiest district in Arrapha, her husband was a lenient politician who delighted in humoring his wife’s every whim – including her inclinations toward varied promiscuous relationships, such as the longstanding one she held with my mother. Much like a man she came always during the late hours of night, enticed by beauty unopposed – seeking warmth, companionship, and indulgence.
Reaching for my head scarf on the wall, I wrapped is snuggly over my hair. My mother was the torchlight in the dead of night, drawing all manner of flying insects from every corner of Arrapha. It was unusual to see her depressed by these prospects, though. She was the sort to extract power and life from her conquests – from their dependency on her, from the affirmation of her desirability. Inwardly I knew if she showed any signs of reluctance or distaste it could be the result of only one thing
– she had become infatuated with someone.
“I’ll be back soon,” I spoke aloud, attempting to draw her from her daze. Stooping noisily to collect the water jar, I then hurried out the back door. Delving into the darkness of the alley, my feet tripped over one another as I jogged up the path to the front street. Normally I would take my time returning home once I’d escaped our smothering house, but in seeing my mother withdraw into selfish gloom, I became filled with instant unease. Swinging the water jar up onto my hip, I turned hastily toward the market, anxious to return. In the past I had watched her attractiveness to other guests wane amid her chance obsession with one person in particular. Though more perceptive then most, I wasn’t the only one able to sense her absence of mind and spirit. It could easily become apparent to the other visitors – our livelihood. It was best if she loved no one – it was too much of a distraction. It was safe only when her feelings passed.
I was shocked to find the well standing forlorn in the darkness of the market outskirts. For a second I thought the gods were perhaps teasing me, as things seldom
