.
.
They must have loved her, the men in Ruhama’s life. Of men there had never been a shortage; they paraded one after the other in coats of inexhaustible colors and varieties. They must have loved her. Or at least they had seen something in Ruhama that made them soft and heroic like the fairytale men in the stories Arandia liked to tell.
Hassam of the tents of Jeorah, of the sons of Jeroab. Dark and rough like Zulrav’s spit, but tender to Ruhama and to her daughter. Arandia remembered goat hair on everything, and straight white teeth, and the smell of spice on his clothes and the tips of his fingers when they played with string. All this in Yahebah, the worship of Yahal wet on the lips of every passerby under their window.
Nanuk the Jeweler, fair-skinned and beautiful like a woman. Arandia remembered his long hair and his four arms, and the way his back was always straight and proud. In Ahnatep they sang and made merry, every night stumbling in from one feast or another, until the sun and honey of Ahnatep threatened to suffocate Ruhama, and they absconded under Shuuda towards the verdant lands of Cyphrus.
Ioanis Reddawn. The first Arandia saw of him was the crown of his head, as red and fierce as a smear of blood against the green grass. And then his eyes, his sloping brow, a giant of a man with a gentle voice and even gentler hands. Arandia was shaking like a leaf, wet with dew and tears from a sleepless night listening to the strange noises that the Sea of Grass makes in the dark. Damp and hungry like newly hatched starlings, Arandia and Ruhama were escorted to the strange horse city and into the man Ioanis’ protection.
They must have loved her. But who did Ruhama love? Who, in fits of delirium that the fever brought, did Ruhama reach out to and say “my love” to? “My darling, my groom.” Who did she see?
Arandia, cooling Ruhama’s burning face with pieces of wet cloth, listened to her mother’s fever dreams in the suffocating tent. Ioanis was away, riding to Endrykas to fetch a healer from the medicine tents. In the dark Arandia plied her mother with tisanes from Serai, tried feed her to keep her strength up until the healer came, but Ruhama wouldn’t eat or drink. She lay on her back, and in one of her lucid moments reached for Arandia’s hand.
“Tell me a story,” Ruhama said, the vowels and consonants of Shiber, that liquid language, tripping over each other. “My jewel, come lie with me and tell me a story.”
Bedroll and rug rustled underneath Arandia’s legs as she lay down beside her mother and they put their arms around each other’s waists. Ruhama’s arms were warm, like waterskins that had been left to bake out in the hot sun.
“There was a girl,” Arandia began. “A long time ago, when the world was still young. She had a mother, and a brother, and a sister, and a dog, and her life was full of love and laughter. And though they were poor they lived well and happily in a green land, with flowing rivers and lakes. One day the girl went out to the river to catch fish for her supper, when she heard someone call out. ‘Oh, oh!’ the voice cried. ‘My paw, my poor paw!’”
Ruhama coughed. Her narrow body shook. She saw spots of white on the backs of her eyelids.
“The little girl looked around and lo, she saw a lion the size of a horse, black as night with eyes that burned like the summer sun. It was crying out in agony. ‘Oh!’ it cried. ‘My paw, my paw! There’s a thorn stuck in my paw! Little human girl, please help me!’
The little girl was afraid that the lion would eat her, but it cried out so piteously that the girl could do nothing but take mercy on the lion and look at his paw. The thorn was small, so small that the girl could scarcely believe that a big lion like that would make such a fuss about it. But the girl was kind, so she pulled the thorn out. And she pulled, and she pulled, and she pulled. As she pulled the thorn grew wider and longer, until very soon the girl had pulled an entire branch out of the lion’s paw, then the trunk of a tree. Then more and more branches until there was a great tree with many millions of roots. And the girl, she pulled and she pulled until there was nothing left of the lion, but only that tree stood in its place.
On the tops of that tree, there were stars. Below, in the roots, there were the fruits of Semele’s womb. And the girl, entranced by the beauty of the tree, sat at its roots for a hundred days, never becoming hungry or thirsty.”
Arandia let the words come out of her mouth, drunk on darkness and the smoky air of the sick bed. Ruhama’s breath rattled beside her, sounding for Arandia like the sifting sands of the desert.
“For a hundred days,” Ruhama whispered, “never becoming hungry or thirsty.”
“Yes,” Arandia said.
“And then what happened?”.
.
.
.
18 Winter 514
They must have loved her, the men in Ruhama’s life. Of men there had never been a shortage; they paraded one after the other in coats of inexhaustible colors and varieties. They must have loved her. Or at least they had seen something in Ruhama that made them soft and heroic like the fairytale men in the stories Arandia liked to tell.
Hassam of the tents of Jeorah, of the sons of Jeroab. Dark and rough like Zulrav’s spit, but tender to Ruhama and to her daughter. Arandia remembered goat hair on everything, and straight white teeth, and the smell of spice on his clothes and the tips of his fingers when they played with string. All this in Yahebah, the worship of Yahal wet on the lips of every passerby under their window.
Nanuk the Jeweler, fair-skinned and beautiful like a woman. Arandia remembered his long hair and his four arms, and the way his back was always straight and proud. In Ahnatep they sang and made merry, every night stumbling in from one feast or another, until the sun and honey of Ahnatep threatened to suffocate Ruhama, and they absconded under Shuuda towards the verdant lands of Cyphrus.
Ioanis Reddawn. The first Arandia saw of him was the crown of his head, as red and fierce as a smear of blood against the green grass. And then his eyes, his sloping brow, a giant of a man with a gentle voice and even gentler hands. Arandia was shaking like a leaf, wet with dew and tears from a sleepless night listening to the strange noises that the Sea of Grass makes in the dark. Damp and hungry like newly hatched starlings, Arandia and Ruhama were escorted to the strange horse city and into the man Ioanis’ protection.
They must have loved her. But who did Ruhama love? Who, in fits of delirium that the fever brought, did Ruhama reach out to and say “my love” to? “My darling, my groom.” Who did she see?
Arandia, cooling Ruhama’s burning face with pieces of wet cloth, listened to her mother’s fever dreams in the suffocating tent. Ioanis was away, riding to Endrykas to fetch a healer from the medicine tents. In the dark Arandia plied her mother with tisanes from Serai, tried feed her to keep her strength up until the healer came, but Ruhama wouldn’t eat or drink. She lay on her back, and in one of her lucid moments reached for Arandia’s hand.
“Tell me a story,” Ruhama said, the vowels and consonants of Shiber, that liquid language, tripping over each other. “My jewel, come lie with me and tell me a story.”
Bedroll and rug rustled underneath Arandia’s legs as she lay down beside her mother and they put their arms around each other’s waists. Ruhama’s arms were warm, like waterskins that had been left to bake out in the hot sun.
“There was a girl,” Arandia began. “A long time ago, when the world was still young. She had a mother, and a brother, and a sister, and a dog, and her life was full of love and laughter. And though they were poor they lived well and happily in a green land, with flowing rivers and lakes. One day the girl went out to the river to catch fish for her supper, when she heard someone call out. ‘Oh, oh!’ the voice cried. ‘My paw, my poor paw!’”
Ruhama coughed. Her narrow body shook. She saw spots of white on the backs of her eyelids.
“The little girl looked around and lo, she saw a lion the size of a horse, black as night with eyes that burned like the summer sun. It was crying out in agony. ‘Oh!’ it cried. ‘My paw, my paw! There’s a thorn stuck in my paw! Little human girl, please help me!’
The little girl was afraid that the lion would eat her, but it cried out so piteously that the girl could do nothing but take mercy on the lion and look at his paw. The thorn was small, so small that the girl could scarcely believe that a big lion like that would make such a fuss about it. But the girl was kind, so she pulled the thorn out. And she pulled, and she pulled, and she pulled. As she pulled the thorn grew wider and longer, until very soon the girl had pulled an entire branch out of the lion’s paw, then the trunk of a tree. Then more and more branches until there was a great tree with many millions of roots. And the girl, she pulled and she pulled until there was nothing left of the lion, but only that tree stood in its place.
On the tops of that tree, there were stars. Below, in the roots, there were the fruits of Semele’s womb. And the girl, entranced by the beauty of the tree, sat at its roots for a hundred days, never becoming hungry or thirsty.”
Arandia let the words come out of her mouth, drunk on darkness and the smoky air of the sick bed. Ruhama’s breath rattled beside her, sounding for Arandia like the sifting sands of the desert.
“For a hundred days,” Ruhama whispered, “never becoming hungry or thirsty.”
“Yes,” Arandia said.
“And then what happened?”.
.
.
