by Ella Hansing
flutter. Mustering what little strength I had in my weakened limbs, I heaved my prize to the surface. After what seemed ages, I had the bucket in my clasp. Raising it to my mouth, I drank deeply – water spilling sloppily down my chin and neck, soaking my tunic.
Relief, I found, did not come instant. I drank for what seemed an eternity – afterward breathing heavily, as if I’d ran a mile to get there. Had I not stood in an open square, I would have lifted the bucket over my head and doused myself. I wanted to feel clean. It had been too long since I’d taken the time to thoroughly wash myself. My life had become a blurred sequence of readying my mother, of escaping only now and then to steal a few moments for myself, like a thief. I felt far away from myself – distanced somehow from knowing even what I wanted, drinking the water as I did, like some sort of deranged animal from the desert. Vanquished, I set the bucket down on the ledge.
Memories of fetching water for my mother, of watching her wash herself, of wringing out her wash cloths and pouring the dirty water in the alley danced across my mind. Since we didn’t have a tub like wealthier families, and couldn’t afford the bathhouses, she washed by dipping her hair and most of her head in a large bowl of water. Her arms, legs, neck and back we scrubbed with rags. Bathing was a grueling task – one I was often left to tackle alone when it became my turn. I didn’t mind though, as I was more methodical and productive on my own anyway. I’d never expected my mother’s help and wouldn’t know what to do with it besides. I had always been available to assist her, but over the years I’d become religious about tending my own needs my own way – as if this somehow created barrier between us, signifying a lack of our similarity.
I knew I hadn’t always been this way toward her. In searching my memory I could recall a time when I used to cling to her, back when I was very young. In those hazy memories she became more tangible, more affectionate – reachable. Though often pushed out of the way, or tucked behind closed curtains, I’d never felt she was far away then. In my young mind, I had imagined we were practically one person.
It wasn’t until I reached around the age of nine that I realized how alone I truly was – how she could be lying only a few feet away, sprawled out with one of her lovers, but be somewhere else entirely. She would always rejoin me, when her business was finished, seeming livelier and more warm than before. Eventually I began to understand, that for that short period of time, she’d been someplace far away – inaccessible to me. Even if I had reached out to touch her, it would not have been my mother I felt.
I gazed for a moment down into the half empty bucket between my hands, just barely able glimpse my reflection in the water. My face appeared hollow and emotionless, the area where my eyes should be completely shadowed out. Tilting my head slightly, I could see the scratches from the prostitute on my cheek. I was surprised to have forgotten them, having pointed them out with such fury and reprisal to my mother. Though distracted quickly from my rage, the wounds still occupied my face for anyone to see – anyone but me. None of my tragedies had ever withstood my mother – my voice drowning easily amid the downpour and rolling thunder of her struggles and delights. Lifting my hand, my fingers gently grazed the surface of my cool cheek, running lightly over the scabbed markings. The image of skin pressed on skin flashed across my mind – of limbs entwined and loose falling hair, the smell of incense and sweat, the sounds of ecstasies untold, and me – quiet as the grave, barefoot, pressed into the corner beside the oven, eyes closed as I waited.
The voices of several women approaching brought me to attention, jumping as I cast the bucket back down the well. Such was the life I should expect – one of hurrying and hiding, one of shadows and solitude. If I didn’t choose to prostitute myself in the streets, and I didn’t belong among decent women – the wives and mothers, then I would cease to exist at all. Like a spirit I would drift between two worlds, suitable for neither. Joining me from behind to wait their turn, the women offered friendly greetings to me. Having quickly filled my jar, I moved away without response – my back turned safely to them as I plunged into darkness, trying not to spill my water amid my haste.
I knew of only one merchant at the far end of the market who would still have his stall open at such a late hour. Though a good start to piecing ourselves back together, water alone would not be enough for my mother and me – my stomach beginning to rumble as I passed through the mostly vacant streets. When reaching the market outskirts, I was gladdened to see the lone merchant still sitting in the recesses of his stall, idly smoking. Setting my water jar carefully on one of his bins I handed him the last of our coins, taking little time to select a dry fish and two bruised looking pieces of fruit. Stashing the items beneath my arm, I collected our water jar and wordless turned to depart.
My mother was right. I was a fool to have wasted my time elsewhere than in our home. If only I’d gone to the market instead of going to the temple with Hesba and Phaena, we would have had a better selection of food. I could have been home sooner and overheard what had happened between my mother and her lover – perhaps even done something to prevent their quarrel. Like nails biting into wood, the weight of my foolishness sunk into me. Upon reaching our door a sense of relief filled me in knowing I had at last yielded – relinquishing my burdensome opposition to my mother.
Entering, I found her now awake. Though sitting mostly stupefied on her mat, she had at least made the effort of lighting a small bowl of oil, setting it on the ground beside her folded legs. Exhaling shortly, I closed the door behind me and carried the water to the back of the house, placing it safely against the wall. Arranging the food items I’d purchased on a platter, I rejoined her eagerly.
Though she seemed happy at seeing I’d brought fish, eventually she began to brood again when she’d finished eating – eyes scarce making any contact with mine. Moving to the kitchen space, I washed my hands in preparation to brush her hair; it ended up taking a great deal of focus to detangle the twisted mass it had become since yesterday evening. She winced often in frustration at my attempts to bring order to her appearance. When I’d finally finished, I moved to pour water in a bowl, submerging a cloth for her to wash with.
“Why don’t you start to clean yourself and then get some more rest,” I instructed.
Having yet to eat my share of the food, my stomach growled wildly. Knowing instinctively that I wouldn’t want company as I ate, I yearned to be alone. Retreating once more to the kitchen, I stooped to collect my half of the dry fish and single piece of fruit from the platter. In pursuit of privacy, I stuffed them into my pocket and turned swiftly to grip the ladder – lifting myself up into the starry black expanse above.
Once settled near the edge of the roof I began to impatiently peel meat from bone – pausing only to take frantic bites. I was grateful in tasting the sweetness of the fruit, despite it being bruised on the outside, and when I’d finally tossed the bones of the fish off the roof and finished licking my fingers, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself full. I hadn’t expected any pleasure to come of that day. For the briefest moment, though, I found contentment.
Cautious to remain a safe distance from the hatch, I lowered myself gently and turned to my side. Amid my fleeting optimism, and the muddle my thoughts became, I briefly considered saying a short prayer to Ashur before I slept. With my last trace of clarity I resisted the notion, though, asking in defiance, what would be the point.
҉
In the pale morning light, my mother looked like a young girl – curled up as mild as a lamb, her face now washed and clean and hair braided neatly. Shuffling quietly past her, I moved to crack the shutters of the front window open. I hadn’t slept very well through the night, having also woken early – against my will. With each passing hour my mind had become increasingly restless, until at last I’d given up and climbed down the ladder. Knowing we were almost out of food, it occurred to me it was best I rose early anyway; it would take me all morning to grind the rest of the grain Aeros had left on our doorstep. If I baked
the rest of it, the bread would last us for at least a few days – providing we rationed it correctly. Turning, I moved to the back of the house to kindle the oven, feet treading softly as I passed my mother. As I entered the dimly lit kitchen, my stress increased – my neck beginning to strain under the familiar weight of the worries and questions that haunted our home. Would there be any food for us to eat after a few days had passed? Would another guest visit my mother, or had she neglected the others in her obsession with the one?
Stooping, I moved to pull the rolled up sack of grain out from hiding behind the oven. Aeros’s face flashed before my eyes as I unraveled the top of it, pouring the entirety of the sack out onto stone. Closing my eyes tight I tried to rid myself of his image, reminding myself I could no longer afford to be concerned with anyone else. I had to look after myself and my mother now – with every fiber of my being if we were going to survive. We would have to remain united if we were going to recover from the chaos of the past few days.
Picking up my heavy rolling stone, I moved it out over the grain, back and forth – mindful not
