by Ella Hansing
and I the driftwood. Though I couldn’t conceive how it was possible that she should walk the streets in the festival alongside the one she loved, while I could not, it was nevertheless so. I wanted to turn my head skyward and scream – on a day the entire city sang praises to Ashur I wanted to throw rocks at him; I wanted to curse him – provoke him to answer me. Wasn’t it enough that my life was destitute? Wasn’t it enough that I had denied love? Not enough it seemed, as the gods appeared delighted only by my ongoing degradation – the slow unfolding of my burning humiliation.
Though ever wary of large gatherings and crowded streets, in the end the chaos of the city made it easier for me to travel unnoticed – ducking and weaving my way in the direction of the well with plenty of options for hiding, should need arise.
Though the wait for water was somewhat long, I found myself stationed in relative ease, knowing I was so tightly concealed from all angles by so many. In departing though, with water sloshing over the rim of my jar, I was unable to move as quickly as I’d prefer – not because of the crowdedness so much as the toll of my emotions at last beginning to catch up with me, weakening my limbs and scattering my thinking so that I could scarce decide which route to take. I was grateful to finally cut down a small, crooked alley – grateful for a moment of stillness. It was enough for my young mind to try and fathom all that had unfolded in the past hour without having to check my surroundings for danger. I still couldn’t bring myself to believe any of this was really happening. Was my mother’s lover really returning that night to take her out into the festival? What could he possibly stand to gain by such a course of action?
Though it hardly made sense, I was much too petrified at the idea of having to join them myself to stand any chance of figuring it out. I knew I’d spoken disrespectfully to my mother. I knew that she was angry with me and now aware of my contempt, but perhaps by the time it grew dark she would change her mind about making me accompany her. Perhaps she would show mercy and leave me behind – alone, at the back of the house in the dark, safely hidden until it had all ended.
It was this meager hope alone that enabled me to reenter our home – closing the back door behind me more quietly than when I’d left. Already the smell of burning incents filled my nostrils, sending a shudder up my spine as I stooped to set the water beside the oven. From somewhere at the front of the house I could hear my mother humming softly. Closing my eyes tight before joining her, I became momentarily hopeful that if she were excited enough for the night and in pleasant enough spirits, she might be more likely to relinquish my accompaniment to the festival. Perhaps if I fashioned her hair especially well, painted her eyes a more vibrant shade than ever and draped her in her most ostentatious piece, she would become distracted enough by her own beauty that I could fall to the wayside unobserved – sneak up to my rooftop haven or perhaps flee Arrapha altogether, venture out to the quiet pool of water. It wasn’t entirely impossible. Exhaling softly, I opened my eyes and moved forward with roused spirits.
My entrance startled my mother, as I’d closed the back door quiet enough so that she’d missed my return. Nevertheless she smiled broadly at seeing my face, having already begun to pull every garment of clothing she owned, both old and new, out onto the floor mats in confounding disarray.
“I wish you wouldn’t leave my wardrobe up on the roof so long, Ishtah – the fabric will start to fade in the sun if you continue to be careless. I swear – if only you weren’t so dramatic, storming off all the time. All this will have to be put away before he comes. It’s almost sunset so we’re short of time.” Holding up a skirt, she shook it out before me – eyes checking to see what I thought. A plunging shade of purple, it was one of her older garments – perhaps too small for her now since she’d grown so much.
“What do you think?” she asked, eyes widening. “It’s made of finer linen than any other woman in the district will have. Think of the envy such a piece could fetch tonight, in the light of the bonfires.”
Pretending to take careful consideration of it, I folded my arms across my chest and bent my head to one side. I wanted her to believe me a willing participant in her preparations alone for the evening. “Too small,” I asserted, quick to avoid her gaze as I bent to select an alternative option. “You want your fabric to trail after your steps – like the feathers of a peacock. That way a space will form behind you just as it will in front of you.” Selecting a skirt more suited to her girth, a vibrant shade of blue and with a longer train, I held it out for her to look at.
Eyes sparking with amusement, she flashed her teeth back at me. “No, Ishtah,” she corrected. Moving into my space, close enough so that I could feel the warmth of her breath, she pinned the garment she held up against my waist – murmuring, “I mean for you. I think this will fit your frame perfect.”
҉
Reaching unannounced across the rugged land, dusk crept over the city walls at last – setting Arrapha aglow in a declining, golden haze. Anticipation of nightfall, which would indicate the commencement of the ceremonial proceedings at the temple, had reached a point near frenzy by the time the sun began to set. Outside, the impatience of the city became palpable, even through our tightly closed door. For my own self, dusk came too soon – my eyes watching in anguish as the light shining through the cracks in our now shuttered window began to fade. To me the encroaching darkness outside, the lighting of the fire pits and increasingly riotous music in the streets all converged to signal the start of my end.
I found myself now sitting fully dressed in a costume similar to the ones my mother donned for her guests, scarce able to move after my transformation was complete. My wearing such clothes was unprecedented, as I kept well away from my mother’s things – other than helping her dress herself of course. Though she’d offered me various pieces over the years – a veil or pair of earrings now and then, never before had she persevered in staging me to such a degree in her full likeness – even trying her hand at lining my eyes and rouging my cheeks once I’d been dressed, rubbing my thin forearms with her expensive oils before finally sitting back to view her workmanship.
The process had taken the better part of an hour, over which time I’d become increasingly withdrawn – my will crumbling inward with every paint stroke across my skin. When at last she’d finished, I imagined the way I felt might be similar to the way an old woman did, lying on her deathbed – air rasping in and out of my lungs as I waited, perhaps gratefully, to be taken away by the spirits. There was no sense in struggling – only those accepting of their fate would be rewarded a peaceful passage to the other side. Besides all this, it had never been a fair match to begin with. There was no racing the gods to orchestrate ones’ own life – the will of Ashur was supreme. I understood this now. At least it was easier to relinquish if you knew you’d given your all, and I felt I had – even as I sat with painted face and folded hands, transfixed by what was yet to come.
When finally my mother rose and dusted her hands on her thighs, I made no motion to turn and watch her go – feeling unable to move any which way. In the absence of a mirror I tried to picture what I might look like to others, for a fleeting moment considering I might not even be recognizable, since ordinarily I kept myself so plainly in attempts to go unnoticed. I soon realized however that this would be unlikely, as my mother was eternally easy to spot outside our door, and likewise in accompanying her I would be the same. Without turning my head, my eyes shifted to watch her – my face remaining expressionless as I traced her steps back and forth across the small room.
Her painstaking efforts in transforming me left me surprised in more ways than one, as she had never left her own preparation till the final hour before her guest arrived – preferring instead to always ready herself far in advance and sit idle for long periods after. Yet tonight she walked before me to and fro only halfway dressed, hair unbound and face unpainted, just now beginning to wash herself – first peeling the top of her dress down so as to scrub her face and neck before beginning to pai
nt. What I found most odd perhaps was how she had yet to request my assistance, instead putting everything in its place herself as she worked – unaided and without grumbling. Since I knew the process of readying her took immense effort, I might normally have found watching her attempts to do so alone entertaining, but with the prospects of my evening looming so close at hand, I instead found myself engrossed – looking on only a few feet from her, stupefied with dread.
With the sun almost fully set, I knew the entire city would be congregated around the central temple – the ceremonies most likely having already started a few moments ago, the slaughtering of animals, the burning of the meat and the gift-giving from the poor and wealthy alike. Inwardly I wondered when my mother’s lover would arrive. I knew she hadn’t any intentions of attending the ceremonial rites at the temple, choosing instead to make an entrance afterward at the festival, but his arrival by now would make us late even for this, as the crowds were sure to make passage through the streets difficult once the ceremony was ended. From the corner of my eye I studied my mother’s face,
