Ishtah - The Prostitute's Daughter

by Ella Hansing

watching for any signs of doubt – any fracture in her exhilarated expectancy. Did she really still believe he would come for her – that he would parade us through the festival at his side? Neck straining from exhaustion, I closed my eyes – head beginning to throb unbearably. None of it made any sense – like my being painted and dressed as I was, but nor was it my business any longer. It didn’t matter what I thought or why. It didn’t matter whether she was in actuality suddenly blessed beyond measure, or instead wholly insane. Either way I would shortly be led out to slaughter, like one of the poor animals now lining the steps to the temple alter, awaiting their gruesome fates – the priests officiating in bloodstained robes.

  Like the striking of a temple gong, my mother’s voice called out to me – reverberating in my ears, “Light incents and a second bowl of oil. I can barely see to paint my face.”

  I was surprised to find her so calm. I would have thought she’d be more panicked, more agitated by the lateness of the hour – what with her still being so unready. Instead, she seemed empowered, standing half-dressed and dripping, towering like a statue above my cross-legged position on the dirt floor as I waited for something – for anything, to happen.

  Turning away she moved to the window, bending with difficulty to check the shelves beneath it – her makeup supplies still strewn across the floor from her having painted me. Lips sealing in resolve, she located her oil jar and hurriedly began to smear its contents across her face in preparation for makeup. Having scarce ever seen her paint herself, my instincts were at first to pause and watch, wanting to see how she would manage alone – still in awe that her nails hadn’t been done or her hair even braided. In checking, I noted she hadn’t set out what she would wear either. I knew this would be problematic as it had grown increasingly time consuming to dress her – since recently she’d gained so much weight. At the annoyed click of her tongue, I mustered enough strength to lift myself from the floor, shuffling in my thick skirt to the back of the house – the long veil she’d pinned to my head swishing unfamiliarly behind my shoulders as I went.

  Knowing without checking that she’d burnt up the rest of the incents the other night, I ventured instead to light a second bowl of oil – hopeful for a moment that the added light might somehow wake me from my stupor. It was difficult with my cumbersome new outfit to squeeze myself behind the thick, cool stones of the oven where we stored most of our supplies. The space was normally just manageable enough for me to fit into, as I was so thin. I liked to stack loose items behind the oven to keep the kitchen looking organized, though sometimes things became mixed or lost –impossible to locate in the dimness of our home. Eyes straining, I could just make out where our sealed jar of oil sat, barely in arms reach on top of our basket of spices. A soft crunch underfoot brought my gaze down – my head scraping the wall of the oven as I fought to bend and see what I’d trampled on. Probing blindly beneath my foot with my hand, I was able to collect the item without seeing it, then scooting curiously backwards out of the space for better lighting – the lengthy veil draping down the back of my head snagging easily on all it touched.

  In the faint light cast from the open roof hatch I was able to see the item I’d stepped on – recognizing at once the familiar looking garland as the one I’d previously found. It was the silphium, meant for terminating a pregnancy – the dry plant garland evidently untouched, as the string still bound the small stalks tightly and the leaves were still intact. Perplexed, I held it at a distance from my body – as if its mere touch were somehow poisonous. Amid my scrambled thoughts I questioned what it was doing there – swept behind the stove as if carelessly dropped and forgotten. Had it been lost or was it purposefully discarded? Holding it still extended, I moved away from the stove – rolling the twig-like stalks between my fingertips as I ventured to the front of the house.

  After hours of motionless existence – having succumbed to acceptance of the misery of my fate, it was odd to feel blood now pulse abruptly through my veins – my heartbeat reverberating in my chest as I turned to look on my mother, nose cringing as my eyes dissected her form. Though young and often naïve of all that she quietly planned inside her head, at the very least I knew what it meant if she hadn’t ingested the plant by last week at the latest – or any of it at all ever. In my brief absence I saw she’d managed to select a skirt for her lower half – her loose hanging hair the only thing concealing her chest as she squatted before her paints and perfumes – one eye closed as she struggled to trace it with charcoal. On the mat beside her she’d laid out the jewelry she would wear – a ring for each finger, a veil the color of wine – with a gold clasp to pin it to the top of her head, a pair of earrings that draped all the way to her shoulders, and the new necklace she’d been given – which even in the dimness of the room somehow captured and emulated what little light there was. In such an ensemble there would be none to rival her magnetism. She would fetch adoration from one end of Arrapha to the other.

  Pivoting, I surmised her figure – eyes narrowing as I scrutinized her from head to toe. Though her looks could always be transformed – exaggerated or disguised by paint and costume, her gimmicks, her carefully constructed designs, shimmering paints and overlapping fabrics, would never altered the way I saw her. My head was the only thing to move as I stood fixated on her – tilting slightly so as to alter my view of her. She was difficult to assess from the way she squatted.

  Sensing me stare she turned questioningly to look up at me – only one of her eyes finished, with the other unpainted. Turning back to her work in annoyance, she paused before glancing back at realizing what I held out from me. Mouth opening mutely, she stared first at the garland of silphium I clutched and then at my face. Releasing her charcoal pencil, she rose wordless from the ground. Being not fully fastened, her skirt came loose from her hips as she stood – slipping airily to the floor beneath her.

  I gazed on her, disoriented – heart sinking at the sight of her rounded stomach. Crushing the small garland in my fist, my hand dropped to my side.

  “Pregnant,” I whispered.

  Angrily she clutched her fallen skirt back to her waist – pulling the edges of the fabric into a knot around her hips before meeting my incredulous gaze. In an instant, sparks struck up in the cruxes of her eyes, glinting like melting steal in a smith’s fire.

  “Go light the oil, Ishtah,” she spoke.

  Ignoring her, I instead pointed to her waist, asking, “Is it his – or do you even know. You didn’t take the silphium. Perhaps you want me to run and fetch a fresh garland for you to take, since the other was lost behind the oven for so long.”

  Her eyes omitted nothing as she stared back at me, face twisting oddly.

  “Oh. I see,” I spoke, holding her gaze locked uncomfortably in mine. “I understand your ways better than you think,” I menaced. “You think it is his and that he will perhaps want it – that it will seal his love for you and bind you together for all of time?” Uncontrolled I began to smile – at first small, but then wide. “Yes,” I laughed, “That is exactly what this elusive lover of yours wants. How considerate of you to keep his child stashed in your womb – ready to spring out when the moment is right into his open arms.” Choking on my words, I found I could scarce look in her direction. “You’re madder than I thought. Do you want me to tell you your future – give you a reading like the soothsayers in the market? Let me untangle your prospects at no charge. You will continue to swell – until repulsive, with the weight of that baby, and just when the last of your guests have forsaken you, he will desert you as well for the arms of another. No I am no oracle. I can tell you these things because I’ve seen them all before – because it’s the story I live. If that baby comes to term it will grow to hate you just like me and there will be no one left to share your bed or comfort you. You think it will but that child won’t save you anymore than I did.” Thoughts now uncaged, the truth of my existence bubbled to the surface of my mouth like pockets of air escaping boiling tar. “You are
selfish,” I continued evenly, “And I am nothing more than the refuse of your foolish desires.”

  For an instant it was as if her forehead split open before me and I could see inside her – watch her mind spin round and round at my words, eyes becoming wild, in disbelief or consideration of my words I couldn’t tell. I’d never spoke so contemptuous before – never with such animosity or truth. Swallowing, I studied her as she fought to control her expression – her neck straining visibly amid the surge of her fury.

  “Ishtah,” she spoke – forceful and low so as to command my attention. “You are perhaps only tired and hungry as I am.” She shook her head back and forth as if it would somehow hypnotize me, her voice in an instant becoming soft and moldable – like clay. “You’ve grown weary of struggle – I can see that now. You’re like an animal too long in the wilderness, no longer able to detect when water is close at hand. You would bite even a helping hand.”

  Instantly I could feel myself pull away at her words, feet stepping back and head turning aside as if her face were too repulsive to look on. At last I was done with her –