Confessions of a Sheba Queen

by Autumn Bardot

  The yard blurred. Momma walked out of the haze, her eyes hollowed. “I need water.”

  “Where did you take him?” I went into the house and poured her a large cup.

  Momma gulped it down, her eyes brightening. “I couldn’t decide where to leave him. At first I went to a land far north where the cold turns a human to flesh-stone. Then I went south where the ground is so thick with trees and bushes that a snake would devour him whole in moments. Both those deaths were too quick for the likes of him. I finally decided to leave him on a small island where the people eat their own. Seemed fitting.” She ran her fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry, Bilqīs. The teacher came highly recommended.” She filled her cup and drank again.

  “Why didn’t you kill him?”

  “Daughter!” Momma recoiled. “He deserved to die, but if I killed every man who acted like he did, there would be a noticeable shortage of men.” Momma sighed. “No more teachers. Life will teach you the rest.”

  But the next lesson life taught was one neither Momma nor I expected.

  CHAPTER 7

  I was bored. Weaving palm-frond baskets gave me no joy. Six months had passed since the last teacher.

  I missed learning new things, sinking my teeth into a good philosophical argument, chewing over a math problem, or devouring a challenging text. Each day stretched longer than the one before. My life returned to what it had been before my education for Greatness. There was only one difference. Having tasted the sweetness of learning and mastering a new concept, I was no longer content with an idle mind.

  I cast aside my misshapen basket, stood, and stretched my arms. “I’m going to the wadi.”

  Momma nodded. “Take the net.”

  Net in hand, I took off running down the steep path toward the waterway that undulated like a snake through the flatlands. With any luck, I could catch a fish swept into the current from some highland lake overflowing from the recent downpour. I hitched my dress high and waded in, cool water lapping around my ankles.

  Water was a balm to my spirits—a cruel irony, since these stepped hillsides relied on seasonal floods, few wells, and even fewer ghayl, or underwater springs.

  I stared downriver. What dam or dry stone cistern collected its life-giving power? I swiveled my head upstream. Where did this wadi begin?

  A reed drifted by. I watched its leisurely journey until the wadi curved out of sight. I envied that floating reed. It was moving forward. Going somewhere. My life was as stagnant as a puddle.

  A Great Destiny: I believed the prophecy less each day.

  I had no luck with the net but, then again, I did not try very hard. Maybe it was because I wanted the fish to take the journey I could not.

  I trudged back home and tried, really tried to appreciate my insignificant life in an insignificant house nestled at the insignificant entrance of an insignificant ravine.

  I was midway up the steep path when I heard it. The sound of men’s laughter carried down the path. Not happy laughter, but an evil-thick glee that scraped at my spine.

  I scrambled into a copse of juniper trees and hid behind the saltbush. Though my heart knocked in my chest, I moved through the scrub, soundlessly pushing away the leafy branches.

  I crept closer. And closer.

  Five men with unkempt beards and ragged kilts oozed through the doorway of our house like sap from a tree. The first held a large bag in one hand and a blood-soaked sword in the other.

  “That was easy.” His laugh was gull-like, reminding me of the time I watched a hungry flock descend on a huge dead fish that had washed ashore.

  The others joined in, their throaty merriment sounding more like bloodthirsty scavengers. Each man wore four different blades tucked into his belt, and each had a small dagger beneath his armband. Their arms held water skins and baskets of food. One carried a rolled up carpet.

  Our water skins. Our food baskets. Our carpet.

  “What about the girl?” asked one man as he tied Momma’s favorite rug to the camel.

  “She could be anywhere.” Another swept his arm about. “We did our job. Let’s get back to Ma’rib and collect our money.”

  “We only did half the job,” said the third as he strapped Momma’s most beautiful baskets onto his camel.

  “Yeah, the important half.” The man flicked his thumb at the bag. “This is all the proof we need.”

  “Kill the jinni. Rape the girl. Those were our orders,” said the fourth.

  “Then go find her. Go on, I’ll wait.” The man, the leader perhaps, folded his arms.

  The third man, taller than the others, lifted his hand to his brow and scanned the area.

  I was shaking, my fist stuffed into my mouth to stop myself from screaming.

  “Should we burn the place?” asked the fifth.

  “No,” said the leader. “Somebody from the village will come looking.”

  A bird flew from a nearby bush and the tall man’s head swung around. He looked at the bush I trembled behind.

  “There!” he yelled with a hoarse voice, and he took off running.

  I spun on my heels and bolted. Saltbush tore at my skin, thorns caught at my dress, my sandals fell off, and rocks chewed into the soles of my feet. But nothing slowed me down as I raced toward the ravine.

  Thick, thorny bramble scraped my face as I pushed through it and toward the hidden cave in the escarpment. Gasping for air, I squeezed through the fissure into the darkness, my lips moving in silent prayer to Almaqah.

  CHAPTER 8

  I moved slowly, but still I stumbled over a wrapped body. This place was an ancient tomb where six family members rested for eternity. Momma had showed me this place many years ago, and told me I should come here if there was trouble.

  I clamped my hand over my mouth and tried to calm my breathing. Caves amplified every little sound. My heart pounded with such force, I was sure it sounded like a drumbeat those men could hear for miles.

  I listened beyond my hammering heart, heard faraway shouts. Had they passed by? Were all five men searching? Flattening my back against the cool rock wall, I asked the dead to forgive my intrusion.

  After a while, my legs gave out and I slumped to the ground. I stayed until dark, my body uncurling when the last sliver of sunlight disappeared. On hands and knees, I crept from the mountain tomb.

  I waited a long time in the thicket near our house. No sound emerged. No smoke from the cooking fire wafted out the doorway. I don’t know how long I waited. Fear paralyzed me.

  Fear. I didn’t like it. It disabled my mind and limbs.

  Momma. Momma. Momma. I couldn’t think further than that.

  A gust of wind pushed me forward. The gods making me move. It was the spark I needed.

  I went to the doorway and blinked into the darkness. I smelled it first. The putrid odor of blood and death. “Momma?” I whispered.

  I treaded across the room toward the lantern, my hands shaking as I fumbled to light it.

  “No!”

  Momma lay in a drying pool of blood. Her head gone. Each of her strong limbs severed from her body. Flies amassed at each gory amputation. I flung a jug of water over them. Most scattered. I lit the aromatic lavender that keeps away flies, then sat next to her dismembered body and wailed to the heavens. My guts heaved, my limbs shook, my heart was shredded into a thousand pieces.

  How did those men kill Momma? A jinni was stronger than a hundred men and faster than a hawk!

  I soon found the answer.

  A small rock among the broken pottery. A slingshot. They must have caught Momma unawares while she sat weaving baskets inside. One perfectly aimed shot through the doorway would fell a giant. Or a jinni.

  “Momma,” I whispered through the tears flowing down my cheeks.

  The quick hoo-hoo of a hoopoe bird startled me. I leapt up, senses ignited. I had to do something.

  But what? The wind gusted through the doorway and with it revenge, which swirled around my body.

  “I’m done
with fear, Momma.” I waved away the most bloodthirsty flies, moved her severed limbs close to her body, and rolled her up in the carpet. “I promise to get your head back and give you a proper burial.”

  I pulled off my bloodstained dress, exchanging it for a clean one. I tossed a few pieces of bread, figs, dates, a bunch of green leafy fenugreek, an overripe cucumber, and a handful of walnuts into a pack. I slipped a slingshot inside as well.

  I tore away an old frayed rug. In the hole beneath, Momma kept her coins. I took them all, pouring the heaping handful into a small leather satchel I wore under my dress. Revenge costs money. I removed my gold bracelet and dropped that in there too. Jewelry would attract the attention of thieves and charlatans.

  I stood over my makeshift burial wrappings. “I love you, Momma. I’ll make you proud.”

  Outside, the full moon illuminated the valley. Good for traveling by.

  I stood at the roadside. Right or left?

  “Almaqah,” I whispered to the heavens. “Which way did they go?” I looked up and down the road.

  Almaqah focused his moonbeams on a water skin in the middle of the road. Momma’s water skin. One must have dropped off the camel.

  “Thank you, Almaqah.” I scooped it up and walked in that direction.

  They were hours ahead, and yet it seemed like they had left a lifetime ago.

  I continued down the road and said a prayer to Almaqah. “Take pity on me, Almaqah. Momma was murdered and I don’t know why. I beg of you, slow down the murderers so I can take my revenge.”

  Almaqah was silent.

  “One day I will build you a wondrous temple.”

  The moon, Almaqah’s moon, glowed a little brighter.

  I walk-ran for an hour until I spotted a village snugged at the grassy base of a craggy peak. In the middle of the road leading to the village was an upended basket. Momma’s basket! It had fallen off the camel.

  “Praise be to your power, mighty Almaqah.” New energy flowed through my limbs. I hitched up my dress and sprinted up the road.

  The village was peaceful. Supper aromas wafted through palm-frond roofs. A baby cried. A child laughed. A man coughed. The normal sounds of life calmed my flayed and pounding heart.

  I found the inn easily. Five camels loaded with Momma’s possessions couched nearby. Keeping in the shadows, I crept toward the camels. I went through each bag and basket looking for Momma’s head. It was gone. The murderers must have taken the valuable trophy—the proof of their success—inside.

  I waited. Those men would eat, drink, and fuck, maybe take a quick nap, but then they would leave. Traveling at night was best.

  While the torpid moon crawled across the sky, I chewed a few walnuts and ate the overripe cucumber. When the murderers finally emerged, they staggered toward the camels, their words slurred, their drunken laughter perverse to my ears.

  I studied each one in the light of the full moon. The leader had big ears that stuck out from his hair. He held a bag. The second had a squashed, deformed nose, like it had been broken many times. The third walked with a lopsided hitch. The fourth reminded me of a bird, with his beaked nose and flitting movements. The fifth, the tall man who had spotted me hiding in the bushes, had a long pointed nose and thin lips. I burned their faces into my memory.

  The murderers flopped onto their saddles, and after a harsh swat with a stick, the camels plodded out of the village. They never saw me crouched in the darkness.

  I could not follow them. I had no camel.

  Three prostitutes came out of the inn and shook their fists at the empty road.

  “Bastard.” She spat in the dirt.

  “Flea-infested ass.” The other made a vile gesture.

  “Die a thousand deaths,” said the third.

  Since we shared a common enemy, I stepped from the shadows and hurried across the road. “Kind women, may I ask a question?”

  The suspicious-eyed prostitutes looked from one to the other.

  “One of those bastards your husband?” one asked, her voice brittle with bitterness.

  “No, but I need to ask you about them.”

  The second prostitute flapped her hand. “Go away. We’re angry. They cheated us. We have no patience for your stupid questions.”

  I plucked three silver coins from my pouch. “One for each.”

  The prostitutes pinned their distrustful gaze on my hand.

  “Go ahead, ask.” One reached for the coins.

  I curled my fingers around the silver. “Tell me what you know about those men.”

  “Why? What’s your interest in them?” Her eyes narrowed as she folded her arms.

  Tell the truth or lie? My philosophy teacher embraced honesty. To a point. Tell only as much as is necessary for the situation, he had said.

  “Those men killed my mother—chopped off her head and cleaved her arms and legs from her torso.”

  All three gasped, their hands flying to their bosoms.

  “Why?” asked the petite prostitute.

  “I don’t know.” It was a half-truth. They murdered Momma for the reward. Yet someone had ordered Momma’s assassination. Who and why I did not know. Yet.

  “You’re asking for trouble,” said the prettiest prostitute.

  “They’re wicked men,” said the other, rather obviously.

  “Worse than wicked. They’re evil,” I said. “Did they say anything to you? Or to each other?”

  Pretty Prostitute wrapped her arms around herself. “They got good and drunk. And like all drunkards, their lips flapped.”

  Petite Prostitute touched her upper arm. “Got this bruise because his cock was limp. Bastard blamed me.”

  The third prostitute touched her swollen lips. “My mouth is sore from sucking on their lifeless cocks.” She made a face as though she had bit into a rotten lemon. “They said they were going to Ma’rib.”

  “To collect a big reward,” said Petite Prostitute. “They swaggered about—the leader I think, he wouldn’t let go of this foul-smelling bag—said he had killed a demon. But surely that can’t be your mother.”

  “Who was your mother?” asked Pretty Prostitute, her voice slick as a mud bank during a deluge.

  “Momma was not a devil. She was a basket weaver.” Who could fly through the air, fight ten men at a time, and live for many generations.

  “Something about her must have been special,” said Pretty Prostitute.

  “Leave her be,” said Petite Prostitute. “Those cheating bastards killed her mother. For all we know, the woman could have witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to.” She gave me a kind smile. “Was she a good mother?”

  “The best.” I blinked back a tear.

  Petite Prostitute patted my arm. “The gods blessed you then. My momma sold me to this place the moment my breasts sprouted.”

  “My papa dragged me here when he found me kissing a boy.” Pretty Prostitute tapped the back of her head. “I think the hair he ripped out dragging me here still hasn’t fully grown back.”

  “My brother sold me after my parents were struck down by sickness,” said the third prostitute.

  Anger welled inside me. The men who murdered Momma. The religion teacher who tried to rape me. The fathers and brothers who used and abused. Not all men were bad. Many were good. But still, it was wrong for men to have such power over women. They should worship us! We bring life into the world.

  I gave them each a silver coin. “Thank you.”

  “Where are you going?” Pretty Prostitute bit the coin. “It’s real,” she whispered to the others.

  “I’m following them.”

  “They have camels.” Petite Prostitute swiveled her head back and forth. “Where’s yours?”

  “They’ll need to sleep sometime. I’ll catch up.”

  “You’re a brave but foolish girl,” said the third prostitute. “You’ll catch up and then what? Be beaten, raped, and left for dead?”

  “Don’t go,” said Pretty Prostitute. “What could you possibl
y hope to accomplish from following such wicked men?”

  “Revenge.”

  Petite Prostitute’s brows lifted and she blinked at me in wonder. “There’s a fierceness in your eyes I have never seen in a woman.”

  “I felt your inner strength the moment we met,” said Pretty Prostitute.

  “Be safe,” said the third.

  I needed more than fierceness, inner strength, and safety. I needed the gods’ blessings.

  CHAPTER 9

  I found the perfect pace, a slow run I sustained through the night. My boundless energy came from a deep wellspring of purpose I never knew I had. It was as if Momma’s murder had unearthed something inside me, like a newly dug well gushing with water.

  The dark night sky was fading when I spied a flock of camels resting near a dry stone house. No one but a camel dealer would have that many.

  A lanky young man about my age stepped outside. Rubbing his eyes, he made his way over to the herd.

  “Come on,” he said, leading a few to a thicket of saltbushes.

  “Good morning.” I made my voice bright. “I want to buy a camel.”

  The young man startled, his head whipping around. “You have to wait until my father returns.”

  “When is that?” I batted my eyes.

  “I don’t know. He spent the night in the village. If he’s drunk…” he looked away as though embarrassed.

  Undeterred, I pushed out my bottom lip with what I hoped looked like a fetching pout. “I need a camel now.”

  “Father will whip me if I sell one by myself. He doesn’t think I…” he bristled, then shook off whatever brewed deep inside him.

  Empathize. That’s what the rhetoric teacher preached. People like to feel you understand their problems.

  “How annoying for you,” I said. “Your father is probably jealous because you’re better at making deals.”

  My guess hit its mark. The young man’s eyes grew wide. “I’m smarter than he is! I can add sums in my head. And I don’t drink myself into a stupor.”

  “You would be a wealthy camel merchant by now if you were not such a good son.” I held out my hand. “This is all I have,” I lied. “It should be enough for that old cow.” I pointed to the dun-colored camel.