I pointed at the bed.
“Sleep.” He laughed and lay down. “Dream. What?”
He did not understand me at first. Then he raised his eyebrows.
“Can I choose?”
I nodded.
“Flying!” He explained something very quickly, and I gestured to him to speak slowly. He stretched out his arms and explained more clearly. I understood that his favourite dreams were the ones in which he flew. High above everybody else. I had been so frightened that he would ask for something I did not know or that I could not weave. But a flying dream was the first thing I saw when my powers arose. And I had already entered one of his flying dreams during my time on the ship. I knew what they were usually like. At once I became calm. I could do this.
The guard sat down on a stool by the door. He was staring at me. I was clearly such a great threat that I could not be left alone with the man. I blew out all the candles and lamps, but the guard prevented me from blowing out the last. He had to be able to see what the dangerous little girl was doing. I smiled to myself and knelt by the pillow.
I waited. The guard waited. The ship around us was creaking and cracking. I heard distant voices and calls. The candle flame flickered. The taste of wine lingered in my mouth.
The man in the bed was asleep.
It had been a long time since I had woven a dream. It did not matter. I leant forward and began to weave.
I made him take off from the roof of the palace where he lived. I had often seen it in his dreams. Men and women, whose faces I had learnt to recognize, were running around below him. I made them stretch out their hands towards him, grappling in the air and calling. Begging him to come down. But he soared triumphantly, higher and higher, over the palace, above them all. He was free. He glided over a garden, swooped down to a hill. At the foot of the hill construction was taking place, and men were everywhere with timber and tools and blocks of stone. In the middle of the building works there glittered a spring, dark and enticing. It was enclosed by a high wall. I let him dive down to the spring, to see that all was as it should be. Then he flew upward again, higher and higher until everything and everyone was below him and he alone reigned over all the eye could see.
It was not a difficult dream. I only used images I had already seen from him. But I knew that it was good. It was full of precisely the sensations this man was hungry for. When it was finished I leant back on my heels and let him carry on sleeping. He would remember it when he awoke. And he would let me live.
I could have killed him right there. I could have let him plunge to the ground and break his neck. But I had not yet understood the extent of his wickedness. I did not know everything he was capable of—or what my life would be like in his hands.
I was afraid. But not for the right reasons.
Had I harmed him they would have killed me, immediately. And I wanted to live, then.
Now I wish I had chosen death. His, and mine.
The guard was snoring in his corner. I waited.
Dawn came.
I was given water and oils to wash myself with. A strange garment of saffron-yellow silk was laid out for me, along with shoes of soft leather. Undoubtedly they had been bought, or stolen, during their travels. Maybe to give to the women who were waiting back home, or to sell. At home I had never worn anything other than barkcloth against my skin. He put three rows of shining pearls around my neck with his own hands.
My seed necklace was hidden under my clothes. It was the only thing I had left from Terasu. It was the last thing I had that could help me distinguish madness from reality.
I was worth something now. I was something he could use. Use for something other than to satisfy his immediate appetites. As soon as he awoke his manner towards me was completely changed. I could see him evaluating, weighing up. Determining how he could best use me, make the most of my abilities. He tried to question me, but I did not have enough words and could not understand his questions. He looked impatient, but then nodded to himself. Seemed to decide on something. Adjusted my hair, took a step backward. Looked displeased. Searched through a coffer at the foot of the bed, found a comb of gold-shining metal that he stuck in my hair. He smiled. Now I was satisfactory. Now I looked expensive enough.
I was given a cup of wine to drink and the best food a ship at the end of a long voyage could provide. Then I was left alone in his cabin while the ship sailed past the last islands. From the round window I could see a port glide into view. Many ships, big and small, crowded at docks and piers. The port town was a myriad of flat houses, a little like those on the islands outside Goveli. Fields extended beyond the town, sloping up to hills farther north. Here and there the fields were broken up by small groves of trees. None of the trees were like the ones at home.
I had travelled very far. I felt no fear, nor anything else. My insides were hollow of feelings, or at least of my own. All the feelings, images and nightmares of the dreamers flickered past in a whirlwind of impressions. There were people sleeping in the port town as well, and their dreams sought me out like mosquitoes to flesh. My hand felt for the necklace of seeds, and I stroked them with my thumb, one by one. Over and over again. In Goveli it had only been occasional dreams that had seeped into me. I do not know why it was different in this foreign land, perhaps because the dream landscape was so foreign to me. Perhaps because all of my protective walls lay in ruins after what he had done to me. Perhaps because I was no longer sure who I was, and what I had become in his hands.
I no longer feared death, nor anything that might befall my body. All I felt was oncoming madness. Not even that frightened me. It was as if I had no feelings, and yet I fought to stay strong. Mostly out of curiosity for how long I could endure.
We came to shore just shy of the docks and small boats began to transfer men and goods to land. My thumb followed the sharp edges of the seeds. The gentle scratch, the pain, held me fast to the present and to my body, while feelings of agitation, hunger, fear and impotence glided past. I saw a woman at a party where the guests had no faces. I saw a man chasing a laughing young woman through dark, gleaming lanes. A man grappling with a fish, bigger than himself, its scales glittering, moss-green and hibiscus-red. The fish’s big, cold eyes stared right into my own.
My thumb followed the contours of the seeds.
The door to the cabin opened and he entered. He bowed quickly and gestured to me to follow him. I picked up the saffron-yellow garment and walked slowly out into the sunshine. Wordlessly he helped me down a rope ladder and into a boat, where some sailors received me. Without speaking they rowed me to land. I sat on a chest, with bags and bundles by my feet. One package among others.
I was helped up at the quay by more strong hands. I stood there while the boat was unloaded. Some men oversaw the unpacking of the cargo while the boat returned to the ship to fetch more. A curious crowd had gathered at the end of the quay; they were pointing in wonder. Their skin was a different colour from mine, and their hair was dark and straight. They were also all at least a head shorter than me. “The palace,” I heard them whisper. “Ohaddin.”
I avoided eye contact. I stood tall and looked out to sea. There, somewhere beyond the waves, was my home. But they had cast me out. I was no longer welcome.
My thumb followed the contours of the seeds.
Garai
OR A LONG TIME THE NEW GARAI HAS KEPT me safe and kept my master satisfied. He has been growing ever darker inside, and ever harder to please. Sometimes he uses violence. This is new. Yet the physical violence is easier to bear in silence than when he digs his way into my innermost being, penetrating my very soul. It is difficult to defend myself from this. Years have passed, and I—the real Garai—have been lying in wait. I visit the spring as often as I can, to kneel outside the locked door and listen to its life force flow. Sometimes I come across Kabira there. She looks away and ignores me. She ignores her own heartache, too.
Her sons are growing. Korin is approaching the threshold to manhood. The b
oys are cold towards their mother, and I know this causes her untold torture and heartache. She hides behind a mask of indifference.
Yet something has happened. Something for which I have been waiting several years. As ever, we were not informed beforehand. I was sitting in the great hall recently one morning, busy drawing a flower. Kabira was copying verse out onto a decorative scroll. Winter has come and the hall was cold, despite several fire pots burning. Orseola was with us that morning after spending a sleepless night weaving dreams for the Sovereign. She was sitting with some strange handicraft in her lap—a round circle she had woven with the bulrush I saw her picking from the lakeside the previous day. Now and then she pulled a strand of hair from her dark head and wove it into the work. I still cannot get used to her presence. For so many years it was the wife and I alone; when Orseola arrived she upset the balance. My master does not even lie with her, and the Sovereign showers her with expensive gifts in thanks for the dreams she gives him. She learnt our tongue quickly, but does not pronounce the words quite like we do. She rarely speaks. I saw her in a tree in the garden, in the very highest branches. I continued walking and pretended not to notice. But it reminded me of how young she is. Younger than I was when I came here. A child, on the brink of womanhood. I have tried to be more pleasant towards her since then, though it is not easy. She says that she sees our dreams, and laughs as though it were a joke. I do not believe it is.
What does she see in my dreams? Does she see me flying over the Meirem Desert? Does she see me dancing with my sisters under the light of the moon? Does she see me running with bleeding feet on my eternally fruitless hunt through a desert of sharp stones?
The doors to the dairahesi were unlocked with a clatter. All three of us looked up from our tasks. Two guards entered, followed by servants carrying a chest and several parcels. Finally a woman entered: a young, black-haired beauty. I imagine Kabira would have resembled her fifteen years ago. She was dressed in a yellow jacket with pink embroidery—not exceptionally masterfully done, but of sound quality. She wore many trinkets around her arms and feet. Almost like a bride. But not quite. She came to a halt on one of the bloodsnail-red carpets and looked on, arms loose at her side, while the servants, under the guards’ supervision, rushed into one of the empty rooms where they put down the chest and began to unpack the parcels. Estegi was among them. Somebody fetched bolsters, cushions and lamps for her room.
The guards did not speak to us. Kabira put down her brush pen and clasped her hands across her belly. Her face gave nothing away. I turned my back to them and continued to draw. I knew what this meant, but I did not know how to feel about it. Joy—I was free! Fear—now I had no excuse to put off my destiny.
I continued my illustration. Behind me the scurrying steps of sandal-clad feet padded to and fro across the stone floor. The guards’ orders were brief. Then the doors to the dairahesi were closed and locked once more. The flower on the paper before me looked completely deformed and not in the least like the model in the vase on the table. I would have to do it again.
Kabira got up slowly. I peeked over my shoulder into the room. The black-haired woman was still standing there, with Estegi awaiting instruction by the door. Orseola had gone back to her work. She looked as though she were listening to music, to a melody only she could hear. Kabira circled the newcomer.
“She appears in good health. That is good. How old are you, girl?”
“Nineteen,” she answered in a whisper.
Kabira took hold of her chin. “Open your mouth.”
The girl did as she was told, but the look she gave Kabira did not go unnoticed by any of us.
“All teeth remaining. It is a good age.”
She let go of her chin and wiped her hands on her gown, as though distracted. As though it were incidental.
“Did he buy you?”
The black-haired girl shook her head and lifted her chin, very slightly.
“I am a gift from my father. He wanted to curry favour with the Vizier.”
“Then you must do your father proud. Estegi! Fetch two ornamental combs from my jewellery box.”
Estegi bowed and hurried away to Kabira’s quarters. I slowly rolled up my drawing. Two combs are more than one. Anything was better than being slave-sold.
The girl seemed to want to go to her own room, but without a word and barely even a movement Kabira prevented her from doing so. Estegi returned with the combs. Kabira quickly and expertly set the girl’s hair up with two copper combs, just as she had done to mine.
“Wear these.”
Then my master’s wife swept out of the hall without another word. The girl remained motionless a moment, confused, and looked at me and Orseola. When nobody said anything she pursed her lips and puffed out her chest.
“My name is Meriba,” she announced to no one in particular. Then she went into her room, anklets and bracelets jingling, and shut the door behind her.
I have mainly kept to my room since. There is no reason for me to go out. My master no longer sends for me. He sends for Meriba instead. I catalogue my plants, but it is difficult to complete the work because my master no longer gives me paper or ink. I am writing this on the back of a discarded drawing. It is the last paper I have.
The food they bring me is very simple. Only now do I understand the privileges my master afforded me because I was his favourite. Now he has a new favourite. I do not care that the food is simple; I push aside all meat and fish and eat only vegetables, rice and lentils. Nothing else appeals. The only thing I truly miss is paper.
I do not open the window shutters. I am feeling sensitive to the sharp light, and keep my lamps lit night and day instead. Kabira knocks on my door sometimes. She thinks I am unhappy. Estegi comes with fried weja, candied almonds and sweet rice cakes. Everything I once ate so insatiably. The food comes from Kabira’s personal table. As wife she still enjoys a heightened status and respect. But I do not touch the food. Kabira is mistaken. I need no solace.
I am not unhappy. There is no space inside me for unhappiness. I am shedding my skin. Beneath this old skin is one even older. It is thick and hardy. It shall endure. It has scars along the wrists—one for each offering. I have whittled myself a staff and I have dried herbs. There are some I could give my master to induce a heavy slumber. Then I could take the keys. Go out to the spring one night. Unlock the doors, one by one. Under the full moon, so shall it be. With the power of this place flowing through me, with an offering to the veins of the earth—blood for blood—there are no walls that can stop the old Garai from emerging.
But my master no longer comes to me. And everywhere there are guards.
Garai shall not be hindered. One day she shall find a way. I have buried the new Garai. I no longer need her. Finally I am only myself.
Praise the earth and the life force that I could still find my true self! I was not lost for ever. It is a wonder, after all these years.
Garai, desert’s daughter
Garai of the blood
Garai of the life force
Garai of the song
Garai the vengeful
Meriba is her master’s darling. Her quarters are filled with flowers, vases, paintings, golden lamps and candlesticks. Her bed is overflowing with cushions, animal hides and silk-embroidered sheets. I always accepted Iskan’s gifts with an expression of gratitude, because that was what he expected. But I never understood the point of all of these things; just objects with no purpose. Meriba loves the objects. She lives for them. She arranges flowers, changes her jewellery several times a day, rotates the colours of her clothes according to the season, blackens her eyes with charcoal and paints her little mouth red. In her master’s eyes she is irresistibly beautiful.
She does no work. She sits on the largest and most beautiful bloodsnail-red cushion with her hands idle in her lap, watching what we are doing through half-closed eyelids. She is constantly surrounded by a flock of servants, rearranging cushions and lamps, fetching food and drink—which M
eriba then barely touches—furs when she is cold, and incense according to her whims. Estegi is not among these servants. Meriba said at once that she did not want to have to look at her ugly face. Meriba must have only pretty young girls to whisper and giggle with.
We were sitting together in this way recently one evening. I have started leaving my room now. My skin has shed—I am ready. It is still winter and cold winds blow, so we rarely go out to the garden. The cold does not bother me, but the same rules apply to everyone in the dairahesi. Meriba does not want to go out, so we all sit inside. She was in a bad mood, which must mean that she had quarrelled with her master, or that he had denied her something she wanted. She had her girls light several fire pots but was soon displeased with their fumes.
“This one is too close!” she screamed to one of her servants. “I have sensitive skin; it cannot stand being scorched so!” She gave the girl a smack with her sandal. “Don’t just stand there, move it!”
The girls rushed around, their eyes wide with fear. Orseola, who was dozing on several large cushions, opened one eye. She had been weaving for the Sovereign for several nights in succession. He suffers from nightmares otherwise—dark and unrelenting, they drag him down into an abject and nameless terror, or so Estegi told me. She gossips with the servants in the royal palace and can often tell us a thing or two. Orseola pulled her silk shawl over her face and turned her back to us. She never seems to be able to sleep properly. Meriba ignores her for the most part, seeing as she cannot fathom Orseola’s place in the hierarchy. Seeing Orseola move from the corner of her eye, she snapped at her irritatedly.
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