by Ella Hansing
worry and fear. Despair rejoined me like a flock of black crows, circling over an open field of produce. Normally I was safe beside the pool; it had the uncanny ability to keep my humiliation at bay, to drive my anxiety back and scatter my anguish across the desert. But today the water afforded me no peace. As I looked out over the murky surface – glinting in the sun, it seemed almost to throb, as if it contained a life of its own – something to be feared now in its own right. It had a pull – a draw on me from the center of my chest, strong enough that I shuddered before moving away.
There was nowhere I could hide and lick my wounds now. Neither my mother’s house nor the edge of the pool would afford me any solace. In the muddle my thoughts became as I picked my way back toward the eastern gate, I tried to decide whether everything in life had been taken from me, or whether I’d simply ruined it all myself. Either way, I could at least establish that I had nothing left. What else was there that could possibly be ripped from my weakened hands to taint or destroy, to steal or to taunt me with? There was nothing. Glancing skyward, I scowled in the direction I imagined the gods to be watching me from, wondering if next they would want the very scarf around my head perhaps. Fearful after a moment of losing even this, I quickly lowered my eyes and pushed onward. Even resentment seemed pointless.
Glancing up I watched the eastern gate rise slowly in my sight, my chest deflating with each step I drew nearer, almost until it were caving in on me. Close enough to see the field workers, I paused to watch them depart through the broad city gates, venturing in small, friendly clusters out down the road toward far-off fields, carrying various farming tools, prodding stubborn ox along the path. A modest distance behind them trailed an assorted group of women – large reed baskets strapped across their backs. I waited a few moments longer before rising onto the road, eyes tracing after their steps as they passed. My mother had once referred to these women as beggars, though I knew they asked for nothing – working long hours from sun up till sun down. As the paid field hands threshed the wheat, they trailed behind collecting any leftover remnants – anything overlooked or discarded. Grain could still be collected from any loose stalks fallen to the ground. The stems could be bundled and sold in the city to feed goats or line stalls. The profits from such work were meager, but could be survived on if one were committed enough. Since the land owners didn’t mind, as these silent gatherers left the fields tidied after the harvests were collected, the wheat and such came free to those willing to bend and collect it.
I could see my mother baulk at the idea of going into the fields, hardly able to picture her stoop under the weight of a large reed basket – her pale skin perspiring under the hot sun. I couldn’t imagine her working such long hours – at least I couldn’t imagine her working quickly or quietly. Stepping onto the road, I turned in reluctance toward Arrapha. It was easier for me to picture myself in the fields, since I was a quick worker and already accustomed to carrying heavy loads – having had much practice hoisting water and transporting it far distances. Though lean, my arms were strong – my skin already an unseemly tan shade, so that it would be no loss for me to toil out under the sun.
With a final, fleeting glance back in the direction of the workers, I pulled my scarf tight beneath my chin and turned to pass through the open city gates. I knew my going into the field without my mother would be useless. I knew without trying that working alone I would never be able to gather enough grain for both of us, let alone any extra to sell, and if I left her all day there would be no one to paint her face or braid her hair. She would find it too difficult to manage alone. She would first have to first release me from my tasks and then agree to accompany me if there was to be enough to survive on. She would have to commit fully. It could be done, if we worked together. Separate I knew we would be at a loss.
I was surprised to find myself walking much faster, my pace increasing as my newly forged plans began to take recognizable shape. Perhaps another piece of jewelry could be sold in exchange for a pair of reed baskets, such as the ones the other women had carried. Surely my mother wouldn’t object to relinquishing one small piece more. But we would need different clothes also, and sturdier sandals. Again I tried to picture my mother on the road, headed out to the fields with the others. It was a stretch, but if I focused I could envision her there, walking at my side – our shoulders cast back and gazes high as we journeyed down the middle of the open road. Only in picturing her turn and crack a smile did I cease my daydream, shaking my head to reengage with my surroundings. She would have to be convinced to work before any further plans could be made, or any dreams be dreamt. The challenge would be unique, as the idea of us going into the fields hadn’t yet occurred to me before. Out of caution I began to quiet my thoughts, sensing my heartbeat quicken as my optimism once more was kindled. I came to my senses in just enough time to dodge a rowdy crowd of early drinkers blocking the street. Having forgotten about the upcoming festival, I now saw it was fully upon me – the roads unusually congested for so early in the day. Despite the heat, the energy in Arrapha had continued to swell – like rice left soaking overnight, until it reached every corner of the city.
As my walk continued I saw lengthy strips of colorful fabric and ribbons had been stretched above the main roads. Flower garlands of sunflowers and papyruses had been hung over all the doors facing the central temple, filling the air with their stifling, thick, sweet scent. Young children pushed around me in giddy enthusiasm, having already been changed into white garments symbolizing the prosperity and purity of Arrapha.
Pulling to one side I steered clear of a gaggle of women dressed in costly linen. Donning their most elegant jewels for the occasion, with their hair bound intricately high above their heads and heavy perfume confounding my senses, I felt small as I slipped past them. Though officially it was a night dedicated to the worship of Ashur, it was also an opportunity for many to glean approval from others – the festival drawing the likes of every city inhabitant, poor and wealthy, young and old, holy and depraved. Tonight everything and everyone would be on display – paraded through the streets of Arrapha in the light of a hundred bonfires. Each had an agenda of their own, whether a beggar on the street corner or the highest priest on the temple steps. The young virgin girls would be dancing until their feet bruised – dancing to find a husband. The wives would be strutting through the chaos and clamor with noses turned upward and eyes searching in jealous comparison among one other. The wealthy merchants and politicians would cut through the crowds, a head above the rest, seen by all. The lowly field workers would drag their offerings – their finest calves and richest grains, to the steps of the temple – desperate to a point of frenzy to appease the ever silent Ashur. To the rear of the procession, peeping out from crooked alleyways, the beggars would watch, competing at a loss with a handful of prostitutes brazen enough to attend the ceremony – hands outstretched for sympathy from straying festivalgoers.
Having no purpose myself in attending such an event, I knew it would be pointless to show my face – pointless even to watch it unfold from afar. Since I wouldn’t fetch a husband if I danced or be envied for my finery, or elected politically after being seen out and about, or considered any holier for making a sacrifice, and since Ashur wouldn’t favor me any more or less than he already did, there was nothing to be gained by it like there might be for the others.
In silence I wondered what Hesba and Phaena might be doing at that time. I guessed Hesba might be preparing some type of sacrifice for Ashur on behalf of the family, while Phaena probably readied herself to dance – braiding her hair, donning her costume. How happy I knew Hesba must be, thrilled in anticipation of seeing her daughter dance that night. I slowed my pace as I drew near their house, standing so tall at the corner of the road like a watchtower. I lowered my head in passing, afraid of meeting one of their gazes through an open window by chance. With each step past their house I took, my body felt as if it were shrinking. Only after turning a corner did I allow my mind to wonder what Ae
ros might be doing – or thinking. My heart sank at the recollection of my words to him the other day. Try as I might, I couldn’t erase the image of him standing on our doorstep from my mind – the handmade necklace with the bird outstretched to me, his face open – not closed off as it later became when I sent him away in such fury. In biting my tongue I managed to halt my memories, grimly reassuring myself that I’d done the right thing – for both of us.
Tending the needs of my mother and self was all that could be managed for the time being, if even this much. There was no one else who could dig us out of the hole we were in, with few even knowing we were down there – hidden away, with little light of fresh air. It was right that I should have sent Aeros away. Phaena knew it also, though she’d shown only anger as she’d towed her brother to safety. My mother had been right in implying I’d abandoned her that night, along with all my sense – what good had come of my straying from our house? I’d been humiliated, attacked by prostitutes, and likewise shamed Aeros, Phaena and
