by Ella Hansing
behind my scarf, walking in roundabout ways so that I would speak with no one, eyes focused ever on the ground. Unlike others who might, I didn’t want to include myself in my mother’s method of beautification. Our sort of costuming was done with a different intent. I supposed when other young women groomed or painted their faces, they envisioned their possibilities widening – whereas for me, partaking of my mother’s practices wouldn’t increase possibility; instead it would carry me down a single, narrow road – one I had resisted so long. Doors would close to me that wouldn’t again open – they would be nailed shut. I curled my fingers under my palms so I couldn’t see my nails.
Perhaps I resisted to no purpose. For what actual reason had I kept myself at such a hostile distance from my mother’s ways? Was I waiting for a husband? Surely not – holding such expectations for myself would make me as foolish as my mother – pining after lovers that in the end would never stay. In the silence surrounding me high above the streets, crouched hidden on the roof, it was easy to answer my own questions. I knew I resisted painting and grooming myself in her ways, not out of hope for my future, but out of knowing there would be no return to where I formerly was. Though I could hardly say things were good as they were, I had always had a strong sense they could worsen. I was merely attempting to preserve my sense of self. I survived only from one day to the next, with scarce better expectations. Forever destined to observe others from afar – like Phaena, who molded and fashioned her appearance in pursuit of an achievable goal – I would save what little paints we had left for my mother. Rising, I reached for the ladder – dizzy in moving too abruptly.
When it came time for the festival of Ashur, I had already decided it was best for me to hide away. The festival would last a full day and night before ending – loud enough to hear even through the thick walls of our house. The event was no place for me to be seen – or my mother. We had no sacrifices to make to the gods – such rituals were expensive – and I surely wouldn’t be dancing in the streets like the others my age. Turning cautiously I began to climb down the ladder, my body instantly beginning to cool as the shade below engulfed me. Standing silent at the base I glanced up through the hatch, back at the sky. It felt like I was at the bottom of a well, with no way up. I could almost see someone throwing a bucket down at me from above, trying to pull up water.
“Are you going to make us something to eat before tonight?” interrupted my mother’s voice from behind. I turned to see her standing radiant in the doorway – the smell of her oiled skin filling my nostrils. Now fully painted and dressed, she looked like a temple statue – her hair, combed repeatedly until it shone, falling in waves over her shoulder.
Feet treading softly to join me, her soft arms reached out and she took me in her embrace. “It helps a woman’s mood to have a full belly,” she insisted. Again her mood had started to alter. With her costume complete she now felt empowered, ready to receive her company at any time – tone dripping already in flirtatious intimacy, even toward me.
Still numb from my thoughts, I nodded and pulled loose from her suffocating grasp. Moving to collect kindling for the oven, I paused, remembering we had nothing to bake – since she had stopped me going to the market, insisting I paint her first. Considering everything I had to accomplish before dusk I quickly became aggravated. Now I would have to journey back to the market in broad day again somehow discreetly, carry fruits as well as a heavy sack of grain alone, crush, mix, and bake it, which would take hours, all before her guest arrived and before I was free to go. I could only hope the baking would be finished in time for her to eat before her lover arrived so she wouldn’t have to share with him. The work before me now rose like one of the distant mountains. We stood opposite each other in the small dim space of the kitchen, our moods vastly opposing one another – her face turned distant and dreamlike, and mine now dark and clouded.
After stocking and lighting the oven, once more I found myself marching out into the heat – with only my scarf to protect me from the sun, now directly overhead as it was already the hottest point in the day. In some ways heat such as this worked to my advantage, as the market would be significantly less crowded, but then again, there were many who persisted to stare nosily through shuttered windows during the afternoon lull, unlike during the morning when everyone minded their own business. I did my best to resist checking the windows I passed on my way, knowing it would be of no use to see who might be watching my steps.
Regrettably, going so late to the market would also mean the fruits and vegetables would be picked over. Arriving to the stand closest to our street, I was grateful to find a few good fruits still left – though I hated to purchase anything from that particular seller, who had visited my mother infrequently over the past year; being too expensive for most in our district to afford, he had visited her only sparingly. He handed me my purchases with lingering delay, as if to ask who the fruit was for, or who my mother entertained that night. Determined not to look him in the eye or encourage him to speak with me, I dropped the coins in his dirty hand and carried myself swiftly away to find someone still selling grain. I knew of one seller close to the center of the market who kept very large bins that stayed fairly full, even into the late hours of day. Hoping he might have some I hurried to round a bend in the street, halting abruptly before moving into the clearing ahead. At seeing who stood in front of the seller my breathe caught sharply within me.
Though he faced the other way I saw easily that it was Hesba’s son, Aeros. It wasn’t difficult for me to recognize his thick, dark hair, his tan shoulders and lean frame. Perspiring from a long day of work, he stood glistening in the sun – his tunic pulled down and tied around his waist to keep himself cool. At once my throat felt scratchy as I tried to swallow – tried to calm my nerves and move slowly away, feet falling uniformly into my previous steps. Allowing myself to fall to the wayside of the street, I made room for several passers – positioning myself nimbly in the shade of a stone wall, eyes still able to watch him from a distance.
I would have to wait until he’d gone, knowing if he saw me he would stop and try to speak with me. My lips twisted as I watched him – tentatively hushed. We had seen each other so little over the past few months. He was away in the fields with his father most days now that he was older, so he had become much easier to avoid when I went to see Hesba and Phaena, or even the few times I spied him in the streets or at the market. Being as watchful and alert as I was, it had never been difficult to spy him before he spied me.
At having to wait my gaze eventually dropped. Things seemed so much easier if he didn’t see me – if we didn’t speak or make eye contact. From such a short distance I could hear his laughter – hear the hum of his voice as he conversed with the seller and collected a large sack of grain before turning to go. It seemed early for him to have returned from the fields, which were a good ways outside Arrapha. Perhaps Hesba had needed his help at home. I wondered if he intended to go to the temple that night. I could feel a small bead of sweat travel down the backside of my neck as I continued in stillness to wait. A few moment’s more and he had disappeared down another street. Without further delay I darted across the street to the seller, who started in fright at my sudden appearance.
“Do you have grain?” I asked, wiping the perspiration from my neck with the hem of my scarf.
“I just sold the last of it,” the seller replied, moving to cover his empty bins. “Young man bought nearly too much to carry a moment ago. Try coming back tomorrow – only earlier in the day,” his eyebrow arched as he looked over me, adding meaningfully, “Like other women.”
Face reddened with fury, I bit my tongue sharply to keep from speaking. With flashing eyes I moved away, my body feeling stiff and immobile – as if it were turning to stone with each step. Amid my anger I decided hotly to never buy grain from him again – no matter what the cost elsewhere. Ducking down an alley, I could only hope the few fruits I’d bought would be enough to satisfy my mother before the evening. I was
annoyed to think I had lit the oven before leaving and now wasted the rest of our kindling, since I wouldn’t be baking now.
My walk became slow as I ventured in the direction of our home, the streets descending ever gradually at each turn as we lived in the lowest district. Though we needed rain badly, I disliked whenever it came – the few times it did, only because whenever a storm strayed over the city it washed all the filth and waste from the upper districts down into the lower ones, draining into our district – collecting for days, like a cesspit. Often I had wondered what it was like to live at the highest point in Arrapha, where you could look down over the rest of the city – be the first to taste the sweet rain. Stepping into the alley behind our house, I reached out to steady myself against a crumbling wall. If you lived in a higher district you would be closer to the gods, too, I supposed – which couldn’t hurt. Maybe the gods heard the prayers of the wealthy better because they were closer to the sky? Maybe the gods could smell their sacrifices better?
I made up my mind in advance not to be mad at my mother when
