by Chris Aslan
“Imaginative, authentic, and evocative. A powerful narrative beautifully told.”
Gerard Kelly, author of
The Boy Who Loved Rain
Chris Aslan has spent many years living in Central Asia. Chris wrote a part memoir, part travelogue called, A Carpet Ride to Khiva: Seven years on the Silk Road, about life in Uzbekistan and is currently lecturing on textiles, tour-guiding around Central Asia and studying in Oxford for Anglican ordination. Chris’s website is www.chrisaslan.info.
Text copyright © 2016 Chris Aslan
This edition copyright © 2016 Lion Hudson
The right of Chris Aslan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Lion Fiction
an imprint of
Lion Hudson plc
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road
Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com/fiction
ISBN 978 1 78264 228 2
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 229 9
First edition 2016
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover illustration © Sarah J. Coleman
For my own sisters, Helen and Sheona, and for Aksana, Gulnora Opa, and my other sisters in Central Asia.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
I still hear the voice of my mother telling me what all women in our village tell their daughters: “Mariam, a woman’s honour is as fragile and as beautiful as a butterfly’s wings. What is a butterfly without wings, except a worm? Remember this. Guard your reputation, for it is more precious even than a husband or sons.”
It’s probably a good thing that my mother didn’t live to see me now.
Chapter One
I’m floating on a sea of sand, buffeted and thrown by sand waves, and now I’ve got sand in my mouth and I’m choking, trying not to drown. I wake up coughing as dust and debris rain down from above.
The ground is heaving and juddering beneath us, and I can hear the roof beams creaking overhead and the walls and packed-earth floor splitting and cracking. My mother-in-law and sister-in-law scream. Dried mud and debris from the ceiling cover us and then one of the screams is cut short and turns into a spasm of choking. Someone must have mud in their lungs.
Something sharp strikes my temple and I cry out. If I hadn’t realized before, now I know that this isn’t a dream; it’s real. I try to burrow under the bedding to shield myself. As I do, my husband, Ishmael, lunges from his place on the mat beside me, crying out to his mother. From her sudden sob of relief I know she now clings to him and that he shields her from the falling debris, a hand probably stretching out for his choking sister. I’m left alone on the mat. Blood, warm and slick, dribbles like wax down my temple.
The ground stops shaking. Soon there is only the sound of sobbing and panting and the muffled panic of the livestock in their stable which shares a wall with our inner room. We all yelp as the ground jerks again, as if it’s playing with us and just wanted to lull us into a false sense of security. Then the earth is still once more. Gradually, our heartbeats steady and our breaths become more regular.
“Mariam, don’t just sit there; light a lamp!” my mother-in-law snaps. I feel for the wall at the head of my mat and fumble along it until my fingers reach the alcove and curl around a squat clay oil lamp. Keeping my hand to the wall, I edge along, stifling a cry as my bare feet step on something sharp. I feel my way to the door that leads outside to our kitchen area. I have to yank at the door, which has got stuck, and when it comes loose it hangs at a funny angle.
Outside, the stars shine brightly, giving just enough light to see. The moon has already set, so it must be the last watch of the night and close to dawn. The embers from last night’s fire have died out. It takes me longer to find the flint and kindle a flame. I toss on a few extra sticks while I fill the lamp with olive oil and twist a new wick which I lay in its spout before lighting it. “Mariam!” I hear my mother-in-law cry out sharply, and hurry back inside. The family are huddled together in a nest of blankets. Shoshanna rocks her daughter, Rivka, as if she were a baby, although she is thirteen and only two years younger than me.
“Is everyone alright?” Ishmael asks. His concerned gaze does not include me. I brush at some hair that has got caught in the clotting blood from my temple. They nod, wide-eyed. Then Shoshanna rouses herself. “We must check the livestock. Mariam?” I make for the lower room where we keep the animals. “No! Light another lamp first. Don’t leave us in the dark.” I bring the lamp over to her. Its light makes her plump features seem unusually hollow. “And wash your face,” she adds, a little more gently. “You’re bleeding.” The lamplight throws the new cracks on the walls into relief. Ishmael only plastered the walls last summer and now he’ll have to do it all over again.
I go back to the kitchen porch and add another few sticks to the fire, before lighting another lamp and checking on the stable. I’m greeted with expectant bleats, although I haven’t brought any fodder. The sheep and goats seem fine. Any debris that fell from the ceiling has disappeared into the straw, and you can’t even tell that the earthquake happened.
Not so outside. I hear panicked voices and the occasional shriek from further down the street, and a stab of fear pierces my heart.
I hurry back inside. “Auntie,” I say, keeping my head bowed and using the respectful form of address. “With your permission, may I visit my sister to make sure she is unharmed?”
“And leave us to clean up all this mess?” Rivka pouts.
“It will be easier for me to clean in daylight,” I add, cursing Rivka silently.
Shoshanna cocks her head and hears all the noise outside. It won’t be improper for a woman to be walking alone at night, given the circumstances. She gives me a curt nod, and then Ishmael gives me that look, and we both know that I will be back before sunrise or I will pay for it.
“Cover yourself,” Shoshanna adds, never one to let an earthquake stand in the way of decorum. I cover my head, grab my cloak, pull on my sandals and slip out of our walled compound. The village is dotted with lamp-glow as if it were a feast day. My sister lives on the other side of our village, which isn’t large. As I make my way along the street, carefully avoiding a tethered donkey bucking against its rope, I make a mental inventory of loss based on the sounds that drift from each compound. I hear the keening cry of mourning coming from Yakob’s household, and I’m guessing someone was fatally hit by debris. I’ll come and wail myself tomorrow, but not until I know if Marta is alright. Most families are dragging their bedding out into their walled compounds or up onto their flat roofs, in case there are more tremors to come. There are plenty of people on the streets, and shouts of relief as relatives and neighbours discover each other alive.
I keep my head down and no one greets me – not that anyone would. The spring rains have come and the paths are muddy. I try to keep near the walls where it’s drier and get a fright when I almost step on a roosting chicken. She squawks. I hurry on past the
well, which is the centre of our village, squared by shops and date palms. As I pass my former friend Imma’s house, I’m tempted to stop and enquire about their safety, even if she hates me. Then I hear her father, Halfai, break into a holy song of thanks in his quavering, tuneless voice, and I know their family has survived unscathed.
I’m breathless as I’m heading uphill. Our house is on the uppermost edge of the village and I can already smell the apricot blossom from our tree. I reach the rise towards the olive hills and clamber up the rocks where Eleazar once slipped and fell while we were playing and lay unconscious as I ran home shrieking that I’d committed murder. A little further and I’ve reached home. Above are the stretching branches of the apricot tree that dominates our small, walled compound. There’s no time to breathe in their delicate, heady scent. I need to know that my sister is alive.
The outside door is bolted and there is no light coming from inside. Fear roils in the pit of my stomach and I can taste bile at the back of my throat. I don’t even bother banging on the door, but hitch up my cloak and tunic, take a run at the wall and grab one of the overhanging boughs dimly visible. I haul myself up. I can feel the bruises on my ribs from my last beating, but ignore them and scrabble my legs up and then over.
Undignified, I drop into our compound and almost trip over the warp threads of Marta’s latest carpet, staked out beneath the shade of the apricot blossom. I barely have time to wonder why she’s started on a carpet this early in the year when it’s too damp to be hunched over a loom.
“Marta?” I call, and duck into the outdoor covered kitchen area, wishing I’d brought a lamp with me. There are still some glowing embers in the hearth, which means Marta must have worked late and eaten even later. I light a lamp and hurry inside, slipping off my sandals at the threshold. She’s huddled against the wall underneath the alcove of two shelves beside our mother’s dowry chest with her feet drawn up, clutching a treasure to her bosom. I breathe out a slow sigh of relief.
Marta looks up, deep circles beneath her eyes. Her gaze falls upon my bare feet. “You shouldn’t have bothered taking off your sandals,” she says, dully. “Look at the place. It’ll take me all morning just to sweep it clean.”
“Marta!” I run over to her, placing the lamp in the alcove. She says nothing for a moment; her chest is heaving. I lean against the wall. Relief that she’s unharmed floods through me and I sink down beside her and kiss her cheek.
“It’s safe,” she says, and lifts the object that she cradles between her breasts, as if to show me a newborn. It is the head of an exquisite jar made from alabaster. It is our most precious possession and also our curse.
“Why did you take out the jar?” I ask. “Did something fall onto the dowry chest during the earthquake?”
“It wasn’t in the chest during the earthquake,” she says. Her voice is flat.
She slaps her face hard with one hand, the other keeping a careful grasp of the jar.
“Marta!” I say. She hits her face again, this time with a fist, and is about to hit herself a third time before I grab her wrist. “What has possessed you?” I ask. There’s enough hitting in my life already. She says nothing and we sit silently for a while.
“I took it out two nights ago,” she eventually explains. “I just held it in my hands, and oiled it a bit to burnish the alabaster.” She tails off for a moment. “Each night I put it up on that shelf and put a lamp beside it and just watched it until I fell asleep. I probably sound like some kind of idolatrous unbeliever, but I just wanted to remind myself to hope.”
“Of course,” I say, holding her tight and trying to sound as if I understand and don’t think she’s going crazy. “But what were you thinking, displaying it so openly? What if someone had seen it?”
“I know,” she says sharply. “I know,” softer this time. “When the quaking started, I jumped up straightaway. I knew exactly what was happening and wondered if this was the punishment of God for putting my trust in the jar. I leapt for the shelf. The jar had already fallen on its side. A moment later and it would have rolled and crashed into pieces at my feet. Can you imagine?” She is wide-eyed and grips my shoulder tightly.
“Is it damaged?”
She gently passes the jar over to me. I take it in my hands. Its heft, its weight and its beauty are so familiar to me. The alabaster has been warmed by her body. I gaze at the mottled, translucent surface. How many times have I done this? I used to imagine I saw meaning or even glimpses of the future in the swirls and shapes of this stone, more polished even than marble. Of course, it means nothing.
“Pass me the lamp,” I say, and Marta, understanding my intent, raises it a little to cast more light as I trace my fingers over the curved cylinder of the jar, probing for cracks or fissures. It feels smooth to the touch, except for the bands of etched patterns around the top of the jar, which are all as they should be.
The alabaster is translucent and it’s only when I lift the jar and hold it against the lamplight that I see a crack has worked itself along one side. The surface is still completely smooth and I realize that the crack must be inside, where the perfume is.
“No one will notice it in daylight,” I say, laughing a little with relief. “It’s still just as valuable.” She says nothing. I continue to study the surface of the jar, spitting on one section and rubbing it with the hem of my tunic. No one in my village has ever seen anything like it and none of them know that we have it. It’s our secret. The jar is full of almost one pint of pure spikenard and it’s worth a fortune. I don’t even know what spikenard smells like, although that’s never stopped my imagination. This recipient of all our hopes and dreams almost shattered. I hug the jar to me, and it’s as if Marta can read my thoughts.
“How could I have been so stupid, so careless?” she says. She looks up at me. Her skin looks gaunt and sallow; her beautiful curls are lank and uncared-for. “Miri, I don’t think I can carry on like this for much longer,” she says. I’m holding my breath. I’ve never heard her speak like this before. “I keep asking myself if this is all there is, or if it will get better.”
“Of course things will get better,” I say, trying to sound hopeful. “You could start training some weaving apprentices. We could even sell the jar. That would give you enough coinage to open a whole workshop!” I’m pleased with this idea, but Marta looks stung and hurt.
“You think I would part with the jar for a workshop?” she asks. “You mean that I should give up all hope of marriage?”
“That’s not what –”
“A withered old raisin someone forgot to harvest – who could possibly want her? Eh? I should let the whole village know about the jar and then we’ll see about suitors.”
I match her short, bitter laugh with one of my own. “Trust me, that is not what you want.”
“Are they treating you badly?” Marta asks, rousing herself and stroking my cheek. And just like that, she is transformed back into her usual role of older sister; the comforter, not the comforted.
“I’m fine,” I lie. I don’t want her to worry. Anyway, what could she do? “I’m glad he doesn’t know about this,” I say. “It’s one thing he will never get his hands on.”
“Here, let me put it back in the chest out of harm’s way.” She opens the chest and holds the jar tenderly for a moment before burying it at the bottom of the robes, headscarves, tunics, and other remnants of our mother’s dowry.
“Do you ever think about how Father got it?” Marta asks.
“Not any more,” I lie again. “Does it really matter now?”
It’s a secret I carry alone and one she’ll never know. I think about it all the time; sometimes I’m left merely heartbroken and other times I have a raging desire to smash the cursed jar and to scratch out the eyes of God with its shards.
It was two years after Mother died and Father had just begun to learn to smile again. I had nothing to smile about: Marta had asked me to help her sift through a whole sack of dry lentils, taking a bowlful at a
time and spreading them out on white cloth to spot and remove little stones. “They could easily end up costing you a tooth,” she’d warned. It was a job I neither enjoyed nor excelled in, but Marta had decided I needed training in the wifely skills of homemaking. Eleazar sat in the shade of the apricot tree working on his letters, not doing very well. Happy for the excuse to help him, I went over to read with him, but ended up being impatient and then laughing.
“What help would I need from you?” he spat. He always reminded me of a hissing kitten when he got cross, and I just laughed again. “What does a girl know of reading? Might as well teach a donkey the alphabet.” This was no longer funny. I grabbed at him but he wriggled away and was up the tree and over the wall in a moment.
“Father, did you hear that?” I asked as he emerged from the unclean place in one corner of our compound.
Father sighed. “Could you pour water for me?” He soaped his hands, squatting beside the fragrant herbs Marta had planted next to the unclean place to mask its smell, while I poured water over his hands from a jug. It was still early in the day but already the heat was palpable.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to separate you two. You come with me to water the saplings, and Eleazar can stay here with Marta.”
“You mean, we should work while Eleazar goes off swimming all day?”
Father said nothing, but managed to sigh, smile ruefully and look up at me with his large brown eyes, and I was mollified. I knew Father was worried that the heat would bring on one of the summer fevers which had killed Mother and still sometimes affected my brother. Marta just looked up, shook her head at me in absent-minded despair and lost herself in her lentils again.
