History
8th Day of Summer, 511 AV The sun hung gravid in the sky as K’shirah watched her brothers ride into the desert on their stallions, Li’an lagging behind the other three. She saw his head turn, Mol, his steed, slowing to a canter as Li’an looked back at her.
Her jaw set stubbornly, K’shirah turned Syani toward the walls of Yahebah, turned her back on her brothers. The sun glared into her eyes, but she kept them open, and blamed the blowing sand for the moisture welling in her eyes.Five days earlier… K’shirah stood outside Myrha’s tent, watching the silhouettes of her sisters bustle around Myrha, her arms crossed tightly over her stomach. She could feel the knots tightening in her sun-browned shoulders, her eyes narrowed against the blowing sand. The tent was bright against the dark dunes, and she watched, entranced with the delicate dance of women preparing Myrha for her wedding. After a few moments, K’shirah shrugged, trying to loosen her muscles, and set her jaw, a determined expression forming in her silvery eyes. She took one step, then two, and strode into the tent.
Her steps faltered less than a foot inside the tent, her eyes widening slightly and softening infinitely when she saw Myrha in her wedding garb, the finely woven veil hanging light as a cloud over her ebony hair.
“You look beautiful, Myr.”
The young women started and turned, her bright green eyes settling on K’shirah, who was standing with her hands locked behind her back, her lower lip between her teeth.
“Do I? I feel like a beetle being encrusted with gems.” Myrha laughed, a low, throaty sound, and rose gracefully to her feet, lifting the veil from her hair and placing it delicately back into the chest that it had been brought in. She took a few steps toward K’shirah, then wrapped her arms around the younger female, who stiffened at the touch.
“What’s wrong, sister?” Myrha leaned back, holding K’shirah by her upper arms. “Are you anxious about your match? Allain is a good man, and far more attractive than that mule-faced wretch Mzryth.”
“No, Myr. I’m just tired. Mother tried to teach me to weave again today.”
Myrha laughed again, this time from her belly, long and hard.
“Oh, no, Shir. She’s been trying for fifteen years, when will she realize that you have a better hand for knots than weave? I thought she was tired of wasting thread on you.”
“She was. Now that I’m to be a… married, she thinks she can finally teach me how to be a proper wi… weaver.” K’shirah tasted blood, she bit her lip so hard, but Myrha had already turned and was opening a black lacquer box.
“See, Shir, I’ve already received my gift. I’m to wear it at the wedding,” Myr said as she turned back to K’shirah, holding an ornate gold cuff with both hands, as if she were cupping something as precious as water.
“It’s very nice, Myr.” K’shirah couldn’t keep her eyes on it for longer than a few minutes.
“Put it on for me?” Myrha held it out, and reluctantly K’shirah took the cuff from her friend, watching as the tan women pulled her sleeve up her slender arm. She slid the gold ring over Myrha’s wrist, her fingertips gliding along the woman’s skin, and fitted it snugly around her upper arm.
“Enchanting,” K’shirah murmured, and turned away, her eyes settling on the canvas wall of the tent, lit gold by the lanterns.
Myrha was looking at herself in a piece of polished glass, admiring the bright piece of metal against her dark skin.
She didn’t notice as K’shirah slipped away, her feet quiet on the throw carpets flooring the tent. Myr turned, a moment later, and saw only the door flap settling into place.
Four days earlier… K’shirah sat cross-legged on a brightly woven pillow between her mother and her father, a steaming and untouched cup of relaxation tea on the low table in front of her. Only her place held sustenance – her mother had only moments ago whispered that she might need something to calm her nerves.
“In light of Myrha’s joining, we thought that you should be pleased to meet your future husband,” said Ohasa, her hands laced neatly together in her lap, her veil hanging in perfect folds over her dark hair. She had her expression of perpetual serenity on, the one that made it seem as though she was ruffled by nothing – and truly, she was… With the exception of K’shirah’s abysmal weaving.
K’shirah’s father remained silent, his own hands flat against his crossed thighs, his shoulders loose. He wore no expression, his crooked nose lifted slightly, as though the scent of bread was wafting through the air.
The tent flap fluttered and the bright sunlight slanted in for a moment before it was blocked by a broad figure.
“Falim, Mak’rinh. Does your water run clear?” Yonu, a son of Rapa, gave a deep belly laugh, the bass of it making the tent stakes shudder slightly. He was a big man, each step he took assured, and stood in the doorway as K’shirah and her parents rose, all three pressing their hands together and nodding slowly at the man.
“Falim, Yonu. It would run clearer if we sold a few of the horses, I think.” Mak’rinh gave the Rapa a slow smile, walking around the table to clap the priest on the shoulder, his other hand making a sweeping gesture toward the pair of pillows across the table from where his wife and daughter were lowering themselves. “Please, I know we have spent many masha at the same fire watching your daughter Malika dance and listening to my dear Shir tell tales of Yahal, now let us take a moment to tell her a tale.” Mak’rinh paused, looking down at his daughter, who had been still and silent as a rock, with the exception of paying respect to the Rapa, since they had first sat down in the tent.
“A tale of the future, rather than the stories of the past. Have you ever seen her so quiet, my friend? She looks like a desert hare that has seen the shadow of the hawk.” Mak’rinh did not laugh, and his smile seemed strained.
K’shirah felt a sharp pain in her thigh, and realized that her mother had pinched her beneath the table. She gritted her teeth, glaring at the older Benshira, and forced an acquiescent smile up at Yonu.
“Javeya! You have your mother’s smile, K’shirah. You must give it to Allain’s daughters, too, my dear.” Yonu beamed down at her, his smile meant to comfort her.
“Did you call me in, father?” The tent flap swept aside once more, and a taller shadow darkened the entrance. Allain entered, his blue eyes illuminated by the deep brown skin around them.
Yonu laughed, and motioned for his son to sit. Both men settled across from K’shirah and her mother, and Mak’rinh took his own seat.
“Allain has never been on time in his life. Always early or late – but, it is Yahal’s will that sends him away from me and brings him back.” Yonu leaned forward, settling his forearms on the table. “Down to business, though, Mak’rinh, Ohasa? Have you told her?”
“Yes. She is honored to accept Allain as her future husband,” Ohasa responded with a delicate smile. “The marriage will be a blessing on both our families. I know that Rinkah is most happy to have Allain as a brother.
“Li’an, of course, is devastated, but K’shirah can’t be out trapping hares and scorpions in the desert until her hair is grey.” Ohasa laughed, a light, delicate sound.
K’shirah’s eyes remained trained on the cup of tea in front of her. Her face was as blank as a dune after a sandstorm.
Allain, however, had eyes only for the young woman in front of him. His head was shaved smooth, his ears set perfectly even. He was a beautiful man, with a generous mouth and strong jaw, his eyes as captivating as a desert oasis.
“I am honored to have her as my wife. She will be more than a stream… she will be a river in my life.”
He bowed his head slightly to K’shirah’s mother, a small smile flickering across his lips.
The teacup clattered over, the delicate clay cracking in two, and tea seeped across the floor. K’shirah’s hand lay flat on the table, the pressure of it turning her fingers the color of bright daytime sand.
“No. I will not. I will not… I will not.”
Her grey eyes blazed, fierce as a monsoon storm. “It would be a lie. Yahal does not abide lies, and I will not live one. A son of Rapa deserves a life of honesty. A son of Rapa deserves a wife. I will not be a wife. I cannot call myself your wife.” On the last syllable, her voice cracked, and she stood, quick as a cat, and strode out of the tent, leaving her mother catching flies and her father staring daggers at her back.
Three days earlier… The campfires grew low as the evening wore on, light-robed figures wandering from circle to circle, an ever-fluctuating weave of low murmurs. Most nights, there was dancing, or laughter – particularly on the eve of a wedding. Tonight, the mood of the camp was somber, and only a few young girls danced around the campfires.
Outside the Rapas’ tent, two figures sat cross-legged beside a dying fire. They spoke in low voices, their heads so close that they almost touched.
“I again offer my deepest apologies, Yonu. I never thought that my beloved daughter would shame me so deeply.” Mak’rinh stared down at his weathered hands, his face deeply creased with what appeared to be worry. “Her actions are inexcusable.”
The older man sat in a calming lotus position, his eyes closed.
“Mak’rinh, my friend, I cannot fault you or Ohasa for the misdeeds of K’shirah. Your three boys are exemplary Benshira. If Rinkah were my blood, he would be a Rapa in these camps, and Riskyah will be one of the finest horse traders in the sands of Eyktol when you take to the oasis.”
Yonu’s greying head bowed, his large form still as a sleeping cobra. “She has not spoken for herself?”
Mak’rinh shook his head slowly, his hands curling slowly into fists, unseen in his lap. “She will not speak. She sits in her tent, and will not take food or water. I believe she is punishing herself.”
The two men sat in silence, Mak’rinh’s tense, Yonu’s face a mask of contemplation.
The stillness was interrupted by a tall, lean Benshira clad in only a pair of loose slacks. His muscles gleamed in the dim firelight, his dark hair shining beneath the slivered moon.
“Father. Rapa.” Li’an put his palms together before his wide chest for a moment, then dropped gracelessly to his knees. “Uncover your thoughts for me, out of respect for our filial bond. It is being said that my sister is to be cast out of the masha, and marked for unchaste actions.”
“Leave us, boy. This is not a matter of your concern.” Mak’rinh stared at his oldest son, his silver eyes cold.
“I will be her kiban. If you intend to punish one who has not sinned, let it be me. Her blood is my blood, and she will not survive in the desert.” Li’an prostrated himself, his long hair dragging in the cool sand.
Mak’rinh was on his feet in a split second, his voice cracking like thunder over the tents.
“I said leave us, boy! You knew of her indiscretion and let her taint the blood of our forefathers! Hik! If your blood is her blood, then you will relinquish your claim to my blood.”
The members of the tents were staring, pale eyes glittering in the darkness.
Li’an jumped to his feet, his chest heaving, and Mak’rinh could see wetness in the boy’s eyes.
“Then I relinquish it! Cast me out, as well, wretch, dung beetle, jackal!”
“No! No!” This time, it was a woman’s shriek clattering over the dunes, and Ohasa ran from the tent she shared with her husband, throwing her arms around her youngest son.
“Mak’rinh, you have already chosen to send one of the seeds of my womb into the withered heart of the desert, you will not cast away another of our family.” She paused, her eyes bright as fire, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You will not do this thing. I cannot save K’shirah, only Yahal may grace her with his forgiveness, but you will leave my boy alone.”
One by one, the faces of their fellow Benshira turned away. Families began trickling toward their tents, leaving Ohasa and Mak’rinh to their business.
The wedded couple stared at one another, each unwilling to back down, for several long moments before Yonu rose, moving between the pair.
“This is a blight in the eyes of Yahal, and a disservice to your good name, my friend, and to your good family, Ohasa. Quiet your rage for a moment and listen, for my word in this matter is final.” Yonu’s eyes were wise and grave, and he waited for both parties to sit, ungracefully, before he walked to the other side of the fire.
The big man looked up and the slice of moon and the expanse of stars above him, and murmured a prayer to his god. Yahal was silent, but then, the gods rarely spoke when asked to.
“K’shirah will be marked. Her refusal of my son and her silence is proof of her indiscretion. If ever we find the man who committed this act of adultery with her, he shall suffer a worse fate than she, for I know that she is pure of heart.” He paused, and his next words were weighted with sadness.
“Despite her virtue, she must be punished. Mak’rinh, Ohasa, she may no longer walk the sands with this family. Your sons may take her to Yahebah, where she may find shelter from the sun and beg forgiveness from Yahal at the temple.” He looked at Mak’rinh, his eyes darkening for a moment. “Though you asked that she be marked for the shame she brought upon your blood, I will only blacken her right hand, Mak’rinh. I answer not to you, but to Yahal, and it is his wisdom that teaching is far more valuable than vengeance.”
Neither Ohasa nor Mak’rinh spoke. The only sound was the labored breathing of Li’an, and the rustle of the sand between his fingers as he grasped the ground in sorrow.
“As Rapa of these tents, this is so. I shall conduct the blackening in private at dusk tomorrow, and unless she confesses to me, she will be sent away when the sun first shines on her mark.”
Yonu turned briskly and walked into his tent, his face grim, leaving three dark figures sitting, broken, around his fire.
