She does not know how to understand the answer to her question, Ashallah realized. She is so chaste when it comes to the outside world. Yes, she pleases me, and other women. Even men. She has had her share of promiscuity and desire. Her suitors may talk and tell her things as they have their way with her. That alone does not make her an adult. Look at her. Such a child. With the face of lamb. She does not know... Nor could she imagine... The blood that has crusted on my hands. Or the hold of a blade. Or the screams of warriors... As the life drains from them.
Mina poked her breasts. “Tell me,” she urged Ashallah.
Ashallah stroked strands of hair from Mina’s forehead, half-tempted to give her the answer she asked for, when a cry from outside draws their attention. Mina rose to her knees to pull the sheet up to her chin.
“That cry!” she exclaimed. “How horrible!”
Ashallah sat up on her elbow. She cocked her head to the open window to listen.
“Do not worry,” Ashallah replied as one cry turned to a few more.
“But...”
“They are not sounds of danger. They are wailing.”
“Are you sure?”
“If you listen closely, you can hear muffled voices and weeping.”
Curious, Mina rose to stroll to the window. She dropped her sheet as she left the bed, allowing Ashallah the view of her young, soft backside. Ashallah’s valley started to moisten again as she watched Mina stand naked before the open window.
“You’re right,” Mina stated. “I can hear the crying now. It sounds like an old woman.”
“And many others.”
Mina reached for the shutters.
“Don’t,” Ashallah protested. She laid back on the bed and stretched. “I love the cool breeze.”
“But the cries...”
“... are going away. The mourners are being escorted. Probably to wash the body and wrap it in kafan sheets.”
Mina’s hands lingered on the shutters as she continued to hang her head and listen.
“What’s the matter?” Ashallah asked, only half-wanting to know the answer.
“It’s just so sad.”
Ashallah rested her head on her pillow and frowned. I did not come to this house of pleasure to listen to her feelings, she thought. She is a concubine. To please me. Yet she still talks.
Wanting to continue her evening, Ashallah asked the question she dreaded the answer to, the one she knew would lead to pitiable conversation. “Why?”
“The death. The mourning. All of it.”
Ashallah glanced at her own hands, wondering how many she had taken. “Death happens.”
“I’m not the child you think I am.”
Ashallah perked up. She leaned on her elbow to face Mina. Her harlot stood before the open window, her hands on her hips, suddenly looking perturbed.
“I know that people die, especially in these brothel quarters,” Mina continued. “But lately, it has been happening more often.”
Ashallah, growing more curious, rose from the bed to saunter over to Mina. “Go on.”
“My daytime suitors, the men, they have been talking. More women seek to defy them. Their shops are going unattended. Their meals unprepared. Their laundry unwashed.”
Ashallah tilted her head back and laughed. “A few marital problems amongst spoiled men. That is hardly new.”
“No, it is their workers - their female help - that are doing such things. And it is not just that. Some are withholding their offering from the sanctuary. Others refuse the call to prayer.”
Ashallah found the last statement most surprising, for any citizen of Yasem or Greater Dyli caught in the open not observing the call to prayer stood to face stern discipline. Punishment for such a crime ranged from banishment to public flogging – or in some cases – even death.
“These men who say such things...” Ashallah probed. “Do you believe them?”
“I know a few to exaggerate. But the rest, yes, I trust their words.”
“And your other suitors. The ones you serve at night. What do they have to say?”
Mina turned away from Ashallah. “I should not say.”
Although the night air was not yet chilled, Ashallah saw that she shivered. Ashallah placed her hands on Mina’s shoulders to find them smooth and comforting to touch. “You can tell me,” Ashallah said as she came up behind her. “You know you can.” She wrapped her arms around Mina in a supportive embrace, all the while kissing her neck.
Mina leaned back to allow Ashallah to cradle her. “All right.”
“The women. What do they say?”
“They talk much. Of how they will band together. First at night. In small groups. Wherever they can find others who lean towards their cause. Then they intend to grow, to gather themselves under the guidance of the Shadya...”
“The Shadya?”
Mina straightened and swung around to face Ashallah. “What?” Mina asked.
“The Shadya? Are you sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“It’s just, well...”
“Yes?”
“Well, I don’t know... I mean...”
Ashallah felt the overwhelming need to dress and leave. She wanted to search the streets. The alleys. The bazaar. The rooftops and flats. What is the matter with me? she asked herself. Orzala is fine. She must be. So why should I be concerned? This is not me. I do not worry. I do not become anxious. I do not.
Suddenly, Mina’s lips met her own. For once, Mina was forceful, her usual submission replaced by aggression. Her tongue found Ashallah’s as her hand swept around to the small of her back. Ashallah, not one for surprises, gave in to her desires. She closed her eyes as Mina pulled her closer.
When she withdrew her lips, Ashallah opened her eyes to meet the emeralds of Mina.
“What was that for?” Ashallah asked, astonished.
“You worry far too much,” Mina replied. “About your travels. Your work. Now, the Shadya.”
“I do?”
“Not aloud. Not when you are awake. But at night, during the past few months that you have visited, you have drifted off to sleep. That is when you murmur and speak. About your dreams.”
Ashallah stepped back and looked aside, avoiding Mina’s gaze. She could scarcely believe Mina’s words. Never had she considered herself the kind of woman to be unsettled, disturbed. Especially at night. She had no memory of the things Mina was telling her. Nevertheless, Mina was so certain, Ashallah told herself. Could it be true?
She knew she must have looked deep in thought, for Mina took her head in her hands.
“It’s fine,” Mina assured her. “Here, come back to bed.”
“I mustn’t.”
“Oh, but you should.” Mina, with Ashallah’s hands in her own, guided her back onto the sheets. Ashallah leaned her head back on the pillow as Mina laid next to her and ran her fingers down the length of her torso.
“There, there,” Mina cooed. “Rest, my sweet. Let me take care of you.”
Mina’s fingers caressed the dip of her navel before making their way down to her valley. Ashallah gasped as the skin of her wet crease parted. One fingertip led the way, followed by another. Unlike Ashallah, Mina made sure that her entrance was smooth and gentle.
Then Ashallah felt Mina’s fingers withdraw. She scarcely had time to lift her head and find the top of Mina’s when she felt her wetness meet her lover’s. Ashallah fell back into the pillow as she extended her hands down to guide Mina’s head between her legs. She felt Mina inside her once again, her tongue seemingly making its way through every wall and crevice of her valley. Ashallah gripped the sheets, her hands squeezing tighter with every moan she emitted. She finally cried out as she thrust her hips forward and her wetness flooded out, resulting in an ecstasy unmatched by any battle she had been in, any foe she had faced.
Chapter 4
Ashallah’s skin tingled as she left the house of pleasure. The night air had cooled considerably since she had entered. That, along with th
e heat that still radiated from her body, made her feel awakened, alive. Every sense of hers was heightened, yet Ashallah remained at ease.
The harlots Ashallah passed tried their best to beckon her. Although they could see the smirk of satisfaction on her face, a look shared by others who were leaving the pleasure quarters for the night, they continued to promise experiences of still greater gratification.
Although half-tempted, Ashallah strode onward. It was not for lack of stamina or desire that she did not indulge. I can take any one of these concubines and ravish them all night, Ashallah told herself. I can ruin them, leaving them spent for days and days, making their madams wish that I had never entered their houses.
However, Ashallah’s tryst with Mina was so sweet and satisfying that she felt no need to ruin her night with what could be a mediocre experience with a harlot of lesser skill. Therefore, she went on with her casual stroll, thankful for the company she had chosen earlier.
The midnight bazaar appeared to have reached its zenith as well, for as Ashallah neared the main street, she heard fewer vendors than before. What replaced them was chatter and sobbing, the likes of which lured Ashallah from her state of calm.
“It’s horrible. Just horrible.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Did you see what happened?”
Such were the comments from the women she passed on the street. As Ashallah pressed on, the words became more frantic and louder, as did the sobbing. Then came the shouts.
They were unintelligible. Yet forceful even at a distance. Guided by her ears, Ashallah followed the rancor through the alleyways and side streets, backtracking through the corridors that crossed the pleasure quarters. The hostile shouting drifted, until it came to rest at the edge of Yasem.
These are the dwellings of the Shadya, Ashallah knew, as she passed by shutters and doors painted black and indigo, the colors of midnight that the Shadya took as their own. Hijab scarf and niqab veils were heavily discouraged, especially at night. In some cases, young Shadya would go so far as to pull them off their fellow sisters of Yasem.
Despite their liberal views on clothing, Ashallah always found their choice of tones rather drab. Reflecting their preference for the colors of the night, the Shadya that Ashallah passed wore skirts and shirts of dark blue, violet and black. Every one of them eyed the bright hues of Ashallah’s kameez and snake duster with a mix of admiration for her bold choices and suspicion, as she was not one of their own.
Ashallah’s stride was undeterred. Even in such tenses situations, she kept the appearance of being unfazed. The only difference a passerby would notice was how she pulled her snake duster shawl close as her hands tightened around the center of her kameez. An unsuspecting motion to any observer, to be sure. But that was the ruse. For the shawl kept hidden Ashallah’s nimble fingers that pulled one of two thin, short blades from the stiff V-shaped collar of her kameez. So small it was at less than three inches. Still, in the hands of a midnight warrior like Ashallah, its size served as an advantage, drawing no attention until it struck at close quarters.
A series of loud voices, one over another, drew Ashallah deeper into the labyrinth of indigo and blackness. It was not until she turned the last corner, to face an alley that dead-ended at the city wall, that Ashallah saw the torchlight spilling out onto the dirt. She approached, as always, with caution. With each step, the clamor grew. As did the sight of women, unveiled, shaking their fists and wringing their hands. Some stood out into the street. Ashallah closed in on the source of light, an enclosed storefront lined with amphora jars.
Ashallah craned her neck to see over the restless crowd. Thankfully, as she was taller than most of the women, she could take in the scope of the scene. From within, women shouted over one another. Females of all ages, from all sects within the city, were there. A handful wore the rose-colored jilbabs - an outfit of headscarf and long dress - of the chaste Rosil. A few more wore the white of the Aliya, the midwives, and nurses of Yasem and other Dylian provinces. There were others dressed in varying pastels and tones, all of whom stood outnumbered by those wearing black and indigo, the ones who shouted the most.
“Look at what they did. Look at what they did!”
“How could they?”
“And were they caught? No!”
“Did anyone see them?”
“What does it matter? They were men, weren’t they?”
The yelling grew. A few of the women even elbowed and shoved their way to the center of the store, to look down. At what, Ashallah could not have said.
From the back of the store, the crowd began to part. Those near the center, where moments earlier the uproar was worst, tempered off to a near-silence save a few whispers.
Ashallah, looking over the heads of all the others, saw her: a woman clothed in blue.
Her hijab covering and abaya dress were pastel blue, and like the sea, her clothing seemed to cascade with each step she took. For all the beauty of what she wore, her face showed a different tone. One of sadness. Of loss. Of a heartache Ashallah had seen before, from the families of her fellow midnight warriors, when they would learn one of their own had been lost in battle.
The woman in blue trudged through the crowd, not seeming to care for their stares of sympathy. Nonetheless, the crowd continued to shuffle away, to allow more space between them and the one who grieved. Only when they had stepped several feet back did Ashallah then see the body on the ground the grieving woman approached.
The corpse, of a woman, laid with her arms at her sides. She still wore the clothes of the living, except for the white kafan sheet that stretched over her from her valley to her face. Only her hands were exposed. Even from afar, Ashallah knew the hands to be those of a young woman, perhaps one no older than twenty seasons.
The grieving woman kneeled. She breathed deeply, to compose herself until the creases in her leathery face abated and her tears slowed to a trickle. She pulled back the kafan sheet.
The face of a young woman, her eyes forever closed, met her. Her face pale. Smooth and white, as if of polished marble.
“Her only daughter...” some in the audience whispered, although the mother paid her no attention.
The grieving one pulled up her deceased, enveloping her arms around her. She held her tight as she sobbed into the kafan sheet still at her daughter’s neck. The few minutes of her embrace seemed like hours. Looking on, not a woman in the audience moved.
Soft, gentle hands reached out to the mother’s shoulders from those onlookers in the crowd. They did not try to pull her away. They only rested on her.
The mother laid her daughter on the ground, her hands cradling her daughter’s head as though she was still alive. Once on the ground again, the mother clung to the sheet still. Slowly, she pulled it away.
“No,” said the woman nearest to her. “You don’t want to see it.”
“I must,” replied the mother. “I have to know.”
Some in the crowd looked at each other. All remained quiet as the mother drew the sheet away from her beloved. Underneath rested the simple gray and brown wool garments of a peasant girl. The sight was unremarkable. The mother kept pulling the sheet away. Only when the kafan was past her navel did Ashallah see what the mother had anticipated yet dreaded.
Blood, by then crusted and brown, had soaked through the garments just above her valley.
The mother wailed.
She wailed as she tore at her abaya dress, and then the kafan before her. Her cries shattered the silence as she threw off her hijab and pulled at her strands of black and gray hair. Her voice was present long after others had guided her away, her pleas to Jaha piercing the back walls of the store. Through her echoes, the crowd remained silent until one of the women in indigo rose.
“How many more of our sisters must die?” the Shadya woman asked. “How many? Five. Ten. Fifty. Look at her. Look at her! Butchered like a lamb at slaughter. All because she fought back, for defending her maidenhood.”
A
shallah saw that many in the audience nodded in approval. Not only the Shadya but women adorned in all colors. The audience takes her words as though they are silver and gold, Ashallah thought, as she stared at the woman in indigo. Her irises were as black as her pupils, as was her hair. Her eyes, her face, her hands were lively and energetic. Almost hypnotic. She truly is a dangerous one. Ashallah pulled her snake duster shawl over her hands, her small blade further concealed.
Others dressed in blue and indigo shouldered their way to the corpse, to encircle it and show their unity. The black-eyed woman in indigo beckoned them around the body.
“No more,” she said in a soft tone at first. “No more.”
“No more,” the other Shadya chanted.
“No more,” replied the other women in the audience.
The angry chorus grew louder. Ashallah backed away a few steps, as other women from the street joined the audience. Where did they all come from? Ashallah asked herself as she wedged through the mass to the back of the crowd. As she looked upon the newcomers, she saw their faces illuminated slightly more than before, and not from the torches inside. Ashallah looked up to find the stars had faded since she had left the house of pleasure, with the sky a violet hue.
Midnight has passed, Ashallah knew. The light is approaching. With it comes the rising men of the city. Moreover, danger.
Ashallah turned back to the crowd, which was in danger of becoming a mob. The chants had become shouts. The faces of the mourning now had eyes afire with rage where tears had once flowed. With each second of the rising of the sun, they remained barefaced. Unveiled.
If this continues in daylight, men will come with their soldiers to break up the mob. If that fails...
Ashallah shook the impossible from her mind. No, they would not, she told herself. But if they did...
Ashallah knew then what she needed to do.
She retreated down the alleyway, away from the gathering. No one paid her any attention. She continued until she reached the nearest stairwell. After a quick peek inside, and a quick look down both directions of the alley, Ashallah bounded up the stairs. She reached the top to find a hallway lined with doors of palm wood.
Midnight Page 5
