by Ella Hansing
nor did she request them. Other than eating the food and drinking the wine I delivered, she sat idly on her bed cushion, napping or else braiding and unbraiding her hair – her face remaining free of paint, and more colorful garments left untouched.
One evening however, I did come down from the roof to find she’d erected a small shrine in the corner at the front of the house, near her bed. With two bowls of burning oil stationed at either side, she had carefully set a small platter of grain before the wooden head of Ashur – which we normally kept stashed at the back of the kitchen. In seeing her I at once halted to listen, hopeful I might hear her prayers – since lately I never seemed to know what she might be thinking or planning. Much to my frustration, her were words were too muddled for me to discern, her eyes closed tight in concealment of her thoughts.
Leaning against the wall, I waited in silence. Though her words were undistinguishable, it was easy to tell whatever she asked for she asked for out of desperation – both her palms pressed to the floor as she bowed forward, forehead almost touching the ground. I was perplexed by her behavior – hesitant to admit I’d become hopeful even, over the past few days, of her intentions. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her prostrate before Ashur. With her needs met routinely by man – not spirit, she had little cause to grovel on bended knees before the deities like the rest did. In the past, whenever I called on the gods myself, I’d often felt alone and unaided in my efforts. Now I saw my voice wouldn’t be alone. I yearned to know what she asked for. Amid my ambiguity I allowed myself to wonder whether or not she might be finished with her former ways, whether or not she might be seeking an end to her trade for good – perhaps having already determined to never take another lover again.
I moved away just as she finished her prayers, turning to prepare our evening supper. Bending to stoke the kitchen fire, I refused to smite the small spark of hope so quickly ignited within me. Whom else but the gods could know whether or not change was in the wind for us? It was in their hands to defy my high expectations as much as my low ones. Was it my place to doubt more than believe? Wordless, I moved to collect the dishware for our meal.
All throughout supper I scrutinized her, watching her closely from the corner of my eye – though hungry, distracted even from eating. I waited – hopeful of a reaction from her, looking for a response to something, anything. Perhaps as she ate she would break her silence – maybe speak a profound idea or share a recent revelation she’d had with me? As the last few hours of daylight eventually trailed away she continued in oblivion to avoid my questioning stare, offering no hints as to what the future might hold for us.
After the meal had been cleared, again I became dismal – soon retreating to my rooftop hideaway in a state of emotional defeat. Left without a definitive course for action, unsure even of what the next day might bring, my nerves steadily worsened. I knew we had plenty eat for now – but this wasn’t enough for me anymore. Once alone I realized how desperately I wanted my mother to reassure me, fully aware this was scarce something she was capable, let alone aware of. Knowing how our food would eventually run out again – as well as the jewelry, and in seeing how little my mother seemed inclined to work, I was left alone to wonder what else we could do to survive. Glancing in the direction of the high temple – so far from where I perched on the roof, I fleetingly deliberated making out my own prayer to the gods. In closing my eyes, I found I could scarce move my lips – my tongue uttering no sound as I racked my mind for the right words. In the still quiet of the night, I abandoned my efforts. Just as sudden as it ignited, the small flame of hope within me sputtered out – leaving me hollow and cold. I saw no point in praying to the gods. Though we had been through the motions time and again, in truth, I couldn’t imagine them listening to either myself or my mother now – and doubted they ever had.
The next day the sun rose in mocking optimism, burning me once again long before I could wake and take refuge down below. In rising, I moved much slower than usual – fumbling as I reached for the ladder and began my slow descent. At last despair had taken me fully captive – finding me late in the night, hiding up in my rooftop haven, sinking its black claws into my arms and legs; just as the city outside prepared joyously for the long awaited ceremony of Ashur, so I prepared grimly for certain hardship and tribulation oncoming.
Already Arrapha had begun to drink in anticipation of the festival, with riotous crowds staying out late during the night and less and less workers leaving the city during the day. For the past few nights the crowds could be heard celebrating from our rooftop – laughing, yelling, and singing. During the day I’d done my best to avoid the chaos outside, staying mostly indoors or else taking roundabout routes to the market that wouldn’t permit me to see any festival preparations – though even inside our house I could hear the hammering all the way from the central temple as they built a giant alter. With foreboding resolution I eluded anything that would remind me of the ceremony; since I would be taking no part in it, and nor would my mother, it had nothing to do with us. I wished only for the event to be at an end, reassuring myself frequently throughout the day that the sooner it came the sooner it would leave.
In numbly joining my mother downstairs, I was annoyed to find she’d randomly decided to open the front window. Leaning out, she listened with slight interest as a group of passers chatted loudly about the upcoming event, her languid eyes gazing up the road in the direction the sounds of construction came from. In hopes of distracting her and closing the window, I moved quickly to set out our morning meal – disappointed at seeing her decline with a mere shake of her head, having seemingly lost her appetite since yesterday – uncharacteristically.
Frustrated, I eyed her from behind – noting in silence how swollen and clammy her face appeared in the light from the window. Struggling to regain allegiance to her, I altered the angle of my gaze to try and view her differently. Already I could sense the sympathy I’d originally felt toward her during her tearful fit of despair the other day begin to wane – exchanging itself with something much darker. In a place I’d thought we might meet – our struggle to find a new beginning, I instead found the distance between us greater than ever. Breathless I watched her turn away from the food I’d set out, gazing listlessly back through the window.
Stooping hotly, I seized a small fruit from the platter I’d made her, irritated beyond making any further attempt. The moment I sank my teeth into the fruit, however, she let out a short gasp – landing one of her feet directly on the tray of food as she stepped abruptly back.
Retreating to her bed in the corner, she waved angrily at me.
“Close the shutters!” she ordered, flapping both her hands like wings.
Furious over the spilt food, I moved in angered bewilderment to the window, dropping the fruit I held in coming face to face with Ninharrissi – one of my mother’s longstanding lovers. Though radiant as ever, her eyes appeared wild and bloodshot as they gazed closely through the small window back at me – her hair fashioned in a way so that she towered overhead, the sweat on her forehead glistening as bright as the jewels around her neck in the morning sunlight.
“Baila – Baila?” she called to my mother.
Gripping the shutters on instinct, I slammed them shut and dropped the crossbar – scarce able to avoid striking her nose as she leaned to look further inside. Startled and confused, I turned to watch my mother cower in the corner of the room. Everything had happened so fast, I hadn’t had time consider my actions. Having shut out the wealthiest client my mother had, I now became filled with trepidation.
“Why can’t I let her in?” I whispered fiercely. “What sort of game of hide and seek are you forcing me to play? Answer her!” I pointed angrily to the door, trying to think how such behavior could be explained to Ninharrissi.
“No,” my mother retorted lowly – tone as equally hostile as mine. “I don’t think she saw me – I think I withdrew in enough time. Tell her I’m not at home.”
Hand
s dropping helplessly to either side of me, I searched her face. Though I wasn’t hungry, the familiar dread of starvation drew instantly close, circling overhead like a vulture – fear surging through my tiny veins. Again I pointed to the door.
“Are you going to let her walk away – into the arms of another?” I demanded.
“She’s drunk – she won’t remember anything,” stalled my mother, her words so low I could scarce make them out. Looking away she continued to wave dismissively in my direction, pleading, “Get rid of her. I don’t want her out in front of my door – he might think –”
Here her voice trailed off, her eyes becoming wide just as the shouting outside began.
“Baila, what is this for?” called the woman outside. “You would shun me in the broad light of day? I never knew you to be coy,” she continued, shouting through the closed window.
Sweat began to collect in beads across my forehead as I gravitated to watch the shutters. Her voice shattered the silence of the street outside like a hammer smashing clay – her abrupt laughter ringing aloud as she made her way from the window to the door, like the crow of a rooster at dawn.
With every
