The Esther Paradigm

by Sarah Monzon

  The water, warm and stale, tasted like only water from an animal skin could. And it was the best thing I’d ever held in my mouth. I followed it with the jerky, my teeth slowly grinding the chewy meat. Dried dates ended our quick lunch with quiet satisfaction. The natural sugars gave me much-needed energy.

  Karim had made the rounds, checking on the people and animals. He approached me and held out the waterskin again.

  I shook my head. “I already had my share, thank you.”

  “Your cheeks are as pink as a desert rose. Another drink would do you good.”

  My eyes slid closed as I tipped the mouth of the skin to my lips. It wasn’t weakness, was it, to accept the kindness of help when needed?

  I handed the skin back to Karim.

  “You should ride.” He continued to regard me in that piercing manner of his.

  My gaze shifted to the lounging animals around us. “I’d rather walk.”

  His lips thinned, but he said nothing more. Another moment of scrutiny, then he turned back to Jamal. One swift motion and he was on the camel’s back, the animal on its feet.

  We hadn’t fed or watered the camels. There was no need, and we hadn’t packed any provisions for them anyway. All they carried upon their backs was for our survival. The fact they could last up to six months without water and we could only survive five days at the most, spoke to how much better prepared they were for the even harsher climate we were about to enter.

  Those who’d ridden earlier now took a turn walking and vice versa. To my observation, I was the only one who did not yet take advantage of the transportation afforded me.

  The rest of the day followed like the first half had.

  Plodding.

  My view consisted of tan sand, tawny camel hair, and the azure sky. Conversation was minimal, and I found myself making up stories to occupy my mind. I couldn’t have it go back to the broken record of water, water, water.

  My imagination and shallow knowledge of history painted another caravan cresting a ridge to my right. The leader, Caucasian like me. European clad in the uniform of a WW I officer. He held himself erect, his bearing proud and commanding. Behind him, a train of two dozen camels. The wind nipped at his blond hair and whipped at the British flag soaring in defiance against the Turks. Had he come from destroying the ongoing construction of the rail line, or was he on his way there?

  The image disintegrated like the figment it was, but I smiled anyway. I might not have known all the history of the famed Lawrence of Arabia, and I wasn’t even sure if he’d made any appearance in this particular area, but he’d serve well as a distraction. I could fill in the blanks of my knowledge with whatever fancied me at the time. Perhaps he too felt most at home among the native people who befriended and followed him. Perhaps he even fell in love with one of their sisters or daughters.

  It didn’t really matter. In my imagination, I could make him do whatever I wished, and I had more than ample time on my hands to create a myriad of adventures for him as we crossed the desert in time to help in the date harvest.

  When the sun neared the horizon, Karim lifted his hand again in signal.

  We’d camp here for the night.

  My body wilted in gratitude at the thought of rest. If allowed, I could lay down right then without a pallet or anything and easily sleep the night away. My damp skin would crack when the sweat dried, and I was sure I would awaken with sand in all sorts of interesting places, but I didn’t care. To not move and simply be, let the exhaustion that had chased me the last hour finally catch up and overcome—it sounded like bliss.

  Karim approached leading Jamal, and held out his hand. “I will take care of your camel for you. Rest.”

  He didn’t have to convince me. Without any decorum, I plunked my behind down on the ground right there. The less-than-ladylike act did nothing to earn the respect I sought in the eyes of my brothers and sisters. Instead of sitting, I should be making myself useful. While in America, I’d silently smiled at my friends’ lack of endurance when it came to the physical. Now I was on the other side of the coin.

  Suppressing a groan, I hefted my body up and pushed past the wobbliness of my legs, moving at a snail’s pace to the small group of women who were preparing the beginnings of an evening meal. A small fire had already been built, although I had no idea how they’d managed it in such a short time. Had I sat in a daze longer than I’d thought?

  The fire had been banked, hot coals pushed to a flat surface. In a bowl, the ingredients for flat bread were being mixed.

  “Here, let me help.” I reached into the bowl and pinched off a good portion of the dough, forming it into a round cake between my palms. Back and forth I tossed it, stretching it rounder and rounder. When it was the right shape and thickness, I gently laid it on top of the heated coals and ash. A long, thin stick lay to the side of the cooking area, and I used it to sweep more coals and ash on top of the flat bread.

  The women chatted around me as they worked, but my tongue was as heavy as my eyelids. I had no energy to force words. Sharing in their meal preparation was as much as my body would allow me to participate. When I knew the bread would be done, I used the stick to push away the coals and ash on top and retrieve the flat loaf. Gray and dirty, I took it to a nearby rock and threw it down on top of the stone. Ash billowed away from the bread, and I repeated the process until it was as clean as food could be when cooked in such a manner.

  A stack of loaves lay under a cloth, and I added mine to the others. The smell of steeped coffee hung bitter in the air, still hot but dropping by degrees as the sun slunk lower in the sky.

  Cooking complete, the fire stoked to leaping flames, we arranged ourselves around its light and ate.

  There was something universal about a campfire, I’d found. Whether huddled around the crackling warmth in a crowded campsite in the Smokey Mountains on Memorial Day or eating bread produced from its heat in the desolate desert of a far-off land, the dancing flames held a mesmerizing, hypnotic quality that loosened muscles and tongues alike.

  Never had a better story been heard or told than around a campfire.

  I smiled and listened as Samlil regaled us about his legendary hunting trip. How he’d tracked a herd of majestic white oryx, the only animal more suited for desert living than the camel. So majestic, in fact, that the legend of the unicorn originated from its horse-like body and long, regal horns. He’d been so overcome upon seeing them that he’d forgotten to raise his rifle and shoot.

  Karim sat directly across from me and caught my attention. He winked. Neither of us quite believed Samlil’s tale, but we’d never say so.

  Stories flowed around the circle, and I hid a yawn behind my hand. Karim stood and walked a crescent shape around the fire until he reached my side. He sat to my right, and I was more than tempted to lean my head on his shoulder and close my eyes.

  “Tell me about your country.” He spoke low, asking for a story that would be more for the two of us than for the whole gathered group.

  “What do you want to know?”

  His gaze held mine. “Everything.”

  At that, I laughed. “Everything is a lot.”

  He smiled in a way that said he knew and he’d asked anyway. “Tell me something I have not learned by watching movies from Hollywood. Describe to me something you have seen with your own eyes, experienced by your own hands.”

  Karim’s understanding of the West consisted of the memories I’d shared growing up—but those had been painted by the perspective of a child—the rare movie he might see in town, and whatever news he heard or read about in a newspaper slanted by political agendas. Deciding what to share was like choosing a single water particle from an entire ocean.

  I stared into the flames, sifting through experiences I’d had the last six years. “Before Samlil started in on his oryx story,” I said quietly, “I was remembering the last time I’d sat around a campfire.”

  He continued to watch me, his silence an invitation to continue. “I
n America, when you go camping and have a fire, there is a rule about what food you must eat.”

  “You must eat a certain food?”

  “Oh yes. It’s called s’mores.”

  “What is this s’more? Are they delicious?”

  I licked my lips at the memory of them. On that trip, I’d eaten six without any shame. “Very. You take a marshmallow—”

  His eyebrows dipped. I’d lost him already. “A marshmallow is a soft, white, sweet, fluffy type of dessert. You spear it on a stick and roast it until it has an outer shell but a gooey inside. Then you place it on a cracker made of ginger and sugar, a square of chocolate on that, and finally another ginger sugar cracker.” I closed my eyes. “When you bite into a s’more, it is warm and sweet and gooey and crunchy all at the same time.”

  I opened my lids to Karim’s fixed stare. Not on my eyes, but a few inches south to my lips. My stomach flipped. I was no longer remembering a late-spring evening in the Smokey Mountains a few years ago when I enjoyed a dessert sandwich, but a night not so distant, last night even, when I enjoyed…my husband.

  In a graceful move he stood, bringing me along with him. Turning to our group, he said, “Tusbah al khair.” May you have a good morning.

  He didn’t wait for a response. The wishing of our morning to be full of light. Instead he placed a hand to the small of my back and led me away from the crowd, away from the fire and the light, and into the darkness, where our warmth would only be found in each other.

  Chapter 15

  Karim

  Regret curdled my stomach like milk gone bad. I deserved the discomfort. Deserved so much more. Hannah’s face as it blanched, her eyes rounding with hurt, whipped against my heart like a lashing.

  I’d take it back, if I could. Reach out and grip my words before they reached her ears and swallow them down. But words couldn’t be unheard, and they couldn’t be unspoken, even if the syllables never should have been formed in the first place.

  The frustration I’d let overtake me in the moment had cooled faster than a fire being doused with water. Nothing justified what I’d said. Our tiny sapling of growing love, trampled under my careless foot.

  My intentions had been good. I’d been watching her, although I doubt she’d noticed. Her face was burned, her lips chapped. Stubbornly she’d led her camel day after day, as of yet not once taking a break and letting the animal carry her upon its back.

  It stung a bit, her refusal to ride. I knew her hesitation, her dislike, even her underlying fear. But didn’t she know me? Didn’t she know that I would have chosen for her the safest, most docile and dependable creature among the herd?

  It wasn’t the lack of trust she showed in my ability to care for her that had caused me to speak this morning, however. No. Her utter exhaustion forced me to my declaration. She’d barely been able to pull herself to her feet, though she’d thought to hide how her muscles quivered, how her limbs seemed to have gained double the weight, how they were so difficult for her to move. I couldn’t let her keep doing this to herself. If she didn’t ride, she’d push herself over the edge, where I’d never be able to bring her back.

  My words had been gentle, I’d thought, as I sat across from her and watched her loop her hijab over her head. “Hannah.”

  She’d looked up at me, and I’d taken a moment to frame my words. Too easy it would be to command her to ride. I was used to instructing others, and even in my previous marriage, it was what I’d have done. Maleka had been meek and obedient, more like a child. Hannah wasn’t like that. She would take offense to my tone, the American independence bred within her rising to the challenge of being told what to do.

  “I think it best if today you ride.” There. Not a command, but she now held awareness of my wishes.

  “I’d rather walk.” She’d stood and turned, shooing me and my concern away like a pesky bug.

  I tempered the quick flash of pride that bolted through me, annoyance following like thunder. On the one hand, I was glad she still felt comfortable being herself around me, that the events of the last weeks and the change in our relationship hadn’t caused her to behave in a way different than before. She still felt comfortable to speak her mind when we were alone. But on the other hand, things had changed. We had both been thrust into new roles—that of husband and wife. And as husband, the responsibility fell to me to take care of her, to make sure she was safe. Even safe from herself if her stubbornness put her in danger and caused her harm.

  And perhaps, as I thought back on it, I didn’t quite enjoy my word being challenged. Not that I had never been challenged before. As a young sheikh, the elders often questioned my decisions, but ultimately, they would see the wisdom of what I spoke and heed my counsel and leadership.

  If Hannah had only submitted to me…

  But she wouldn’t be Hannah then, would she? She wouldn’t be the headstrong girl who’d grown into the beautiful woman I’d married.

  As long as I was listing the “if onlys,” I had quite a number to apply to myself.

  If only I hadn’t been so arrogant.

  If only I had exhibited more patience.

  If only I hadn’t spoken out of frustration.

  But I’d marched around to face her and had lightly pinched her chin to raise her face to mine. “And I’d rather you ride.”

  She’d jerked her chin out of my grasp. It had felt like a slap. “You don’t understand.”

  How could I not? Wasn’t it I who had been by her side when she’d tumbled from the camel the time she’d thought to race with the other children? I the one who’d tended her wound the time a young camel had spooked and bitten her? I the one to soothe her anger when her new clothing had been soiled by the green saliva an ornery camel had spit along her front? And yet she said I did not understand.

  “It is you who do not understand.” My nostrils had flared. “Do not understand the body’s limitations. The way the sun will suck out all the moisture from your bones. The way your heart will race, muscles cramp, and weakness will weigh you down as if you were dragging around another body on top of your own. How your stomach will rebel first, followed by your entire body until you lay unconscious in a heap on the desert floor.”

  Her gaze had hardened. “I’m fine.”

  She may have attempted to convince herself, but I would not be so deceived. The evidence stood in front of me. Already she swayed unsteadily on her feet. “You are not fine.” If she wouldn’t heed my advice, she would obey my command. I stared into her eyes, communicating my unbending decision. I wouldn’t be argued with any longer. “You will ride today, Hannah.”

  Her spine straightened despite the fact she’d already been holding herself erect. “I will not.”

  My frustration had quickly transformed to anger. I beat a fist against my thigh. “Maleka would have listened—”

  That was when I’d stopped the flow of words, but they’d already hit their mark. I’m sure if I’d unsheathed the dagger from my belt and pierced her skin with it, I wouldn’t have caused her as much pain.

  Eyes wide with a telling sheen backdropped by a face pale despite long days in the sun gaped at me. I’d taken a step toward her, hand outstretched, apology on my lips. But she’d turned, literally ran away from me. I had followed at a slower pace, and when I’d come upon the rest of the caravan, had found her upon the cursed camel’s back.

  I’d won, but in the winning had lost so much more.

  * * *

  Hannah

  If the desert decided right then to kick up a storm, I wouldn’t run. Wouldn’t seek shelter. I’d thank it, grateful to be swallowed whole. But the stagnant air around me didn’t so much as stir. The sun continued to beat upon my skin like a branding iron, and the swaying of the camel beneath me poked like a stick at an open wound.

  I tried to block out the pain, ignore the way my heart bled as if a serrated knife had been taken to it.

  I was overreacting. Karim hadn’t done anything truly awful. His words were even tr
ue. If Maleka had been here, she wouldn’t have argued with her husband. No doubt she’d have heeded his words and obeyed like a good little wife should.

  Tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked rapidly to keep them at bay. Crying would only speed up the process of dehydration, doing more harm than good. As if crying really ever did much good.

  I stared off to my right. The landscape was beginning to change from hard rock cliffs to soft sand dunes. I tried to conjure up Lawrence and his entourage again, something to occupy my mind and take it away from reliving the moment this morning.

  How was it whenever I was compared to another person, I never come out on top? Always found wanting. Never quite good enough.

  My parents, bless their hearts, hadn’t meant to compare me, I don’t think. As an only child, I’d never been pitted against a sibling. But we’d been thrust into a culture that wasn’t our own, and we’d wanted to assimilate, to be accepted. So often I’d hear, “Hannah, you must be like the other kids. You can’t lift up your skirts and show your legs when you run.” “Hannah, watch how Anya interacts with her peers. You are older now—you cannot be looking the men in the eye. Show humility and respect.” “Hannah, we have to be like Jesus, to be a living example to these people who do not know Him. You can’t be acting like that. It’s not what Jesus would do.”

  And if not my parents, then the other clanswomen. Compared to their children, compared to all infidel Westerners. Compared and always found lacking.

  It hadn’t stopped when I’d been in America either. Some were less vocal, but still I saw it in their eyes. Their wish that I’d be “normal.” More like them, less like I had been raised in the middle of nowhere among a tribe of nomads.

  My eyes slid shut slowly against the pain I’d tried to mask with a willing spirit and a ready smile. It hurt though, this feeling of never being good enough. Of people wishing I were someone else, someone other than me.

  Karim had never made me feel like that. Until today. And knowing that even he wished I were someone else…