 
ISHTAH

THE PROSTITUTE'S

DAUGHTER

Ella Hansing

Copyright © 2015 Ella Hansing

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All characters included in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead is coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-300-58414-8

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1, Most Mothers

Chapter 2, Constant Companion

Chapter 3, Black Lips and Gnarled Teeth

Chapter 4, Baila's Daughter

Chapter 5, Mystery of the Veil

Chapter 6, Visitors

Chapter 7, Two Necklaces

About the Author
636 B.C.

1. Most Mothers

Gradually my sandals began to slide in the mud, my nose cringing at the odor rising from the stagnant water below. A hot breeze from the east swept gently into me, catching loose strands of hair and drawing them across my face. Blinking, I tucked them safely behind my ears, allowing my shoulders to drop and my lungs to exhale.

There were other pits such as this, some ranging as wide as thirty meters in diameter. Meant to hold the foundations of a larger wall, they had been dug long ago, when the city had anticipated expansion. Then the plague struck. As the population declined construction ceased, and all that remained were giant holes in the ground, left unfilled by the workmen.

Sensing the dryness of my throat I forced myself to swallow, realizing I had been outdoors too long again. It was that time of day best spent hiding under cover, in the shade – those useless hours each summer when no man or beast stirred, as the heat rendered any attempts at work futile. I knew I should be inside, like the others my age – at a loom, bent over an oven, or else occupied with some other normal house busywork. Instead I stood lethargic, transfixed and alone, exposed to the harsh elements – eyes hovering just above the murky surface, unable to turn away.

It was odd to see such a sizable pool of water, considering the scorched terrain and unending drought the gods plagued us with. Over time this was the only cavity that had filled with rain, or perhaps drainage from the city, never drying out entirely. Seeming misplaced, it had always beguiled me, regularly drawing me out from the city to stand or sit at its edge. From certain angles it almost looked like a large eye staring up from the sunbaked earth, undaunted by the expanse of the sky.

When we were younger, the other children and I would stand on top of the city wall above and drop stones into it. The water was too murky for us to see the bottom of the pool, and in our minds we conjured up the notion that its depths knew no bounds. Perhaps an evil god lived beneath the rippling surface? We were afraid to go too close, telling one another that if anyone were to touch the water they would be dragged down into a fate of nothingness – ceasing to exist. I moistened my cracked lips with my tongue, eyes narrowing as I stared. Eventually, our imaginations would prove not so far-fetched.

Four summers ago the herdsman Batheel's finest cow wandered away from the herd traveling up the road leading to the city gates, finding the pool and wading into it to escape the sweltering heat. The animal never reemerged from its bath, and nor did its carcass rise to the surface, though a group of herdsmen threw hooked ropes into the pool time and time again in search of it.

Fanning the water gnats away from my face I shifted weight, lips sealing tight as I gazed. Perhaps the childish notions had some truth to them – perhaps if I fell in I would vanish. Perhaps whatever god or spirit lurked somewhere just beneath the surface would carry me deep under, far away and forever – out of cruelty or pity I couldn't decide.

Nowadays there were very few who ventured out to the pool beside myself. Anywhere outside the city was considered too barren, hot and exposed for anyone to tolerate other than herdsmen or field workers – as was most of Assyria. Yet to me it was a place of refuge, despite the wind, heat, and odor of the water – wide enough so that I could breathe and quiet enough so that I could rest. A sense of finality called to me from somewhere beneath the surface of the pool, sparkling like a gem – something I longed for. If only I were brave enough to reach in, I could clutch it.

A grotesque image of the cow, lost somewhere in the pool, danced across my mind, breaking me abruptly from my trance. I caught myself just before my sandals, still sliding in the mud, touched the water – walking back up the bank a ways to look from a distance. The gem I so often thought I saw turned once more into the blazing reflection of the sun, now directly overhead. Heat engulfed my body head to toe in a suffocating wave.

"Ishtah," called a voice from above.

Startled, I glanced back behind me at the city wall, eyes traveling arduously upward. It towered unsurmountable before me, tall and unfriendly – with rough stones protruding sloppily from the base to fend off foreign intruders. Adjusting my gaze in the sunlight, I soon spied the hooded figure of a woman looking down at me dizzily from the top of the wall. Without checking twice I knew it was Hesba, her face moist from exertion and eyes soft with familiar concern.

"Your mother wants you," she called down, quieter when adding, "She wants you to braid her hair."

Though she turned away too abruptly for me to catch her expression, it was easy to detect the note of uneasiness in her voice. Disheartened, my gaze dropped quickly to the ground. I preferred her not to find me alone, knowing it would only increase her concern for me. Grinding my teeth, I shook my head faintly – as if to rally my own spirits.

It would take me a long time to hike all the way back to the eastern gate from the pool of water. There were only four entrances to Arrapha, with all manner of uneven terrain stretching between them for miles along the crooked city walls, which made traveling slow and even dangerous for someone inexperienced. It never failed to surprise me how Hesba always managed to find me – despite how easy it was to get lost, both inside the city and out. She had always seemed to know where I was – ever since I was a little girl. Back then I used to think she had spiritual powers – like the soothsayers, possessing the ability to visit the future and past. How else had she been able to find me stuck behind our district well as a child when my own mother hadn't even noticed my absence? As I grew older, though, I realized she was simply intuitive, as most women became after giving birth to their children – though not all. Also, I at last realized she could see nearly everything from the window on the second floor of her house near the east gate, which I came and went from most often. She could easily spot me, slipping through the street traffic below headed to my familiar spot, as she sat weaving or embroidering inside.

Hesba was like a mother to me, gray haired and stooped, with knowing eyes that easily read my simple, closed off expressions. I didn't ask this of her. She gave her love freely, though she mothered a daughter and a son of her own already and owed my natural mother nothing.

Reaching behind my shoulders I pulled my scarf up over my head to protect my scalp from the sun – and my face from the prying gazes of the watchmen at the gate, who liked to stare and make calls at anyone passing in a skirt. The further I walked from the pool the dryer the ground became, immense cracks running in zigzags beneath my steps. My toenails were split and rough from all the times I had stubbed them on uneven terrain.

Glancing back I saw Hesba had descended from the wall on the other side. It undoubtedly had interrupted her day to come and find me, since it was now past noon, when all the women should be preparing an evening meal for their families. I assumed my mother had called out to her from our window as she passed in the street and sent her to find me – or else she had seen me leaving a long while ago herself and set out on her own. Again forcing myself to swallow, I could feel my jaw tighten. Hurrying my pace, I sunk my nails into my palms, reminding myself that they would know at the gates if I'd been crying; my face was not pretty when I cried, like my mother's, which even when sad fetched adoration from onlookers. Knowing I would appear swollen and red, I bit my tongue to refrain. Pain always distracted me from my sadness. It was my common practice to bite my tongue, sometimes until it bled, or burrow my fingernails into varying limbs to deter myself if need be.

In reaching the eastern gate, I was relieved to note the emptiness of the road. It was to my advantage that there was seldom any traffic during the hottest part of the day – when the herdsmen took their flocks out to hide in the shade of rockier terrain, and all the merchants drove their carts away to rest. The last to leave were always the housewives – collecting their food and wares to retreat indoors and tend their houses before their field-laboring husbands would return. Only the watchmen were left behind, leaning against the stone walls, withdrawn in the shaded part of the entryway at either side of the gate, watching in only partial interest as I made my way swiftly into the city. If I passed in the morning, when they were more wakeful, often they would call out to me or click their tongues, as if luring a small dog. I wasn't afraid of them, though. They knew who I was well enough and wouldn't bother or approach me – at least not during the bright hours of day.

Sometimes I entertained the illusion that I was a stranger – that I had no family therein Arrapha or business with anyone in the city. I was a nameless traveler passing through. Imagining this often comforted me when traveling through busy city crossings, or wide streets. If this failed, I would then try to convince myself I wasn't nearly as noticeable as I felt. I reached inside my head covering to smooth back my dark hair. Already I felt my skin begin to itch.

Beyond the gates, most of the city pathways soon became narrow and crooked – some laid with stone, though most plain dirt – worn and trodden by countless feet and hooves. With all the house windows shuttered to block out heat, the inner streets easily became like a labyrinth. The district I lived in was perhaps the most crowded and stifling of all. We were as far from the central temple, where the wealthier resided, as you could get without setting up camp outside city walls. Buildings were more spread out in the higher districts, majestic and towering – up to three stories even. There were trees and running fountains, even in the drought. There were no plants in our district – only stone and mortar and powdery brown dirt that stained the hems of my skirts – which never fit properly since they were my mother's old ones, adjusted only to fit my thin waist but not my height.

Instinctively my hand stretched out as I passed Hesba's house, my fingers gliding faintly along the smooth western wall, eyes surveying the servants' entry down a side alley – wishful. It was the modest, unassuming door I had always used when visiting the family. It had been a while since I'd last crossed over that threshold. I wanted to feel the life within those walls, seep up the aura of that inner space. Just from touching it I could picture the calm inside the home – envision Hesba, setting out floor mats, pulling the bread from over the fire, instructing the servants to take their break, see Phaena finish at her loom before taking her place around the dinner spread. Even from outside, the peace presiding over the house steadied the erratic flutter of my heart.

Onward my feet dragged me, my fingers having reached the end of the wall – onward toward the narrowing of the streets and steady decent of the houses, growing closer and closer together until they looked like mere heaps of stone, with random holes dug out for windows. Our house stood at a fork in the road – convenient, so that my mother could position herself in the shade of the doorway, while still seeing down multiple avenues – her stares having a lengthy reach. Slowly my hand set itself on the latch, my arm pushing the wooden door forward, lungs pausing a moment before inhaling the expensive aroma within of spices and myrrh. The scent of perfume hung heavily in the air, causing my toes to curl. There was surely no home on our street that smelled such as this. Moving into the dim-lit space, I weaved my way cautiously to my mother's cushioned floor mat in the corner of our front room. Eyes tracing reluctantly up her pale, uncovered ankles to her round thighs, I skipping the tangled assortment of scarves she adorned her body with, rising above her towering neck, her angled chin and opening lips, to meet her dark eyes fully.

"Ishtah – my only daughter, my only treasure," she cooed, extending one of her arms in greeting.

Though it was strange for her to welcome me thus, I took her hand lightly in mine – soon noticing her fingernails, which already painted had been meticulously set with tiny sand crystals from the desert. I quickly realized she had worked all day on them and perhaps sought a compliment. My own hand, in contrast to hers, was much darker – tanned by countless hours in the sun – almost the color of the dirt in the streets outside, which I'd been assured men found unattractive. I dropped her hand and went back to the open door, standing in it for a moment at seeing the sun begin to set. Across the street I could see into another home where a meal was being placed. I closed our door and barred it, turning to face my mother.

"Your hands are so lovely," I breathed out, "Do you want your face to go unnoticed?"

Satisfied, she pretended not to hear.

"Where have you been today?" she began, her voice becoming small – like a child's. "I can't braid my own hair, you know this, and we neither of us have eaten. Do you expect me to be festive and welcoming to my guest on an empty stomach? Now that you're here come and begin my braids. When you've finished you can stack up the oven. We'll warm some bread and set the wine here on the mats – I've already laid them out, since you've been out hiding again."

Removing my sandals I turned slowly to face her. I had been waiting for her to speak of bread – waiting to give her a look I'd been planning all day.

"We've only one loaf left," I stated hollowly, the muscles in my face holding perfectly still.

Having risen while she spoke, she approached me swiftly – taking my face in both her hands and drawing it close to hers.

I did not try to hide my discomfort. There had never been any point in disguise with her; she couldn't tell when I considered something unpleasant, and seldom caught my derisiveness either.

"Ishtah," she said lowly, "Feed it to me tonight. I must have strength for both of us. Our guest will have the wine and not miss it, and you, my daughter, shall have your fill tomorrow when he has gone – as we both shall for weeks and weeks after."

Confident in her own words, she smiled and looked away, releasing my face.

Sensing it hopeless, I forced myself to stop searching her eyes – closing my own. My voice seemed to drown within my throat, the sparks igniting in my soul sputtering helplessly out in the density of perfume lingering between us in the air. Taking a seat behind her on her mat, my hands reached blindly to take up her long, tangled hair.

Braiding her thick tresses was a task similar to the production of a delicate tapestry. Smooth, long, and as black as the temple steps, her hair was the utmost jewel in a range of physical trappings she possessed. When let loose it fell almost to her thighs; she could draw it in folds across part of her face like a veil or tie it on top of her head like a towering crown. After it was braided or twisted there were an assortment of items to be woven in – ribbons, colored thread, small charms carved from wood or perhaps a piece of jewelry gifted her from a lover. Then there were the oils to make the hair shine and glint in the firelight. She could seldom afford to visit the bathhouses, but perfume kept her hair smelling renewed nightly – the most costly investment we made. I thought her hair most beautiful when left plain, but she was least happy in this state. Indecisive over which design to begin, I pulled it into a bunch at the back of her neck and went to prepare the bread before beginning.

In annoyance I found the oven had run cold since the morning, when I'd prepared our breakfast. She hadn't bothered to feed it through the day. I surmised none of the chores had been finished either, let alone even begun. It took me a while to clean out the ashes, to strike up a flame and slowly feed it the remainder of dried refuse I had stowed behind our house. By the time I finished, my stomach was growling audibly. Knowing the order of events I must follow well, I ignored it. At any rate, I was accustomed to immense hunger followed by eventual feasting, and later again hunger. My body knew no degree of consistency. Ours was a life of overindulgence, followed often by sudden scarcity.

The bread had finished warming before I was done with my mother's hair. Distracted, I had built the fire too hot and it had become hard. She grumbled as she ate it, but hurried nonetheless because it would be rude to eat in front of a guest and offer him nothing. When she was done she had eaten it all – even the hard pieces. Through the cracks in the wooden shutters of our lonesome front window I could see that darkness had fallen. As soon as I had completed her hair to her satisfaction and tidied the room I turned to leave, as was my custom.

"Will you come down later?" she asked, distracted, hands moving to check my workmanship as she spoke. "Wear your veil – it's so pretty. It makes your eyes shine and the men . . . they like what they can't see – always what they can't see." Laughing a little, she leaned back on the cushioned mat her body occupied.

I examined her sideways in quiet scrutiny. She was not a slender woman to behold. She ate plenty when we had it, and didn't toil in the fields or slave in the kitchen as most Assyrian women did, so she had grown round – her thighs thick, like the smooth tree posts supporting the roof over our heads, the skin on her upper arms pliable and soft to the touch. I could easily be smothered by her embrace if she were zealous enough. Lately she seemed larger than ever – her face appearing almost swollen in the flickering light cast from the burning bowl of oil set in the corner. I dusted my knees and stepped back a ways, neatly drawing my skirt back around my ankles. It was not attractive to be as thin as I was. I had known this since I was little. My mother had often told me I should eat more – a hint of displeasure in her tone as she surveyed my thin arms. As if we had much to eat to begin with. She used to try and dress me in her ways – though my body had always seemed in opposition to her tastes. At long she had given up any attempts at transforming me into a desert blossom – as she referred to herself from time to time when complaining about the heat and filth of her surroundings.

"No," I murmured, careful to appear dispassionate. "I'll stay out of the way."

Her random offers of inclusion never ceased to perplex me. She knew I was useless entertainment. I couldn't act or imitate gaiety, I hadn't learned the art of flattery, and since she had never asked me to stay the night with any of her visitors alone, I couldn't guess what she stood to gain by holding me hostage at her side. Swaying, I struggled to keep my face motionless. What then? I ran her house; I aided her in every way possible with the only two hands the gods had given me. What more was left for me to give her? Though she didn't rise I could see her body tense – her long neck straining so her eyes could look better at me in the weak light.

"Hesba is walking with her daughter to the temple," I finally began to explain. "I thought I would join them tonight – to pray for you, since lately you haven't been feeling well." I moved quickly to busy myself, searching for a bowl on the shelves to pour incense out into.

Widening, her eyes searched my partially turned away face. I knew she was looking for disdain – or contempt. I was determined not to let her find it – at least not that night. Hungry and tired, I only wanted to be gone – not to argue.

"I don't know what that woman wants," murmured my mother at last, lips curling faintly, and hands rising helpless. "Doesn't she have a daughter of her own to consort with, and a husband and son as well to comfort and care for her? Why must she steal away my only daughter for her amusement?"

I could feel a flush begin to rise up my neck and spread across my cheeks.

"What does she mean by leading my daughter to the temple steps, as if she were some high priestess amassing Assyria? I don't want you to be near that woman, Ishtah. She holds no interest in your future and cannot say what is best for you as your mother can. I shan't ask her to go and find you for me anymore if she feels she can steal you away as pleases her."

Unable to think what to say, I fought to swallow. She opened her painted lips to speak again – instead there came a loud knock at the door. Though unafraid, the sound caused my body to quiver. Outside, night had fully descended – the streets palpitating with a different sort of life than that of the day. My mother's lips closed – though her eyes warned me she would not be satisfied until she spoke with me later.

"Your guest," I said, to assure her now was not the time.

Again there came a knock at the door.

Pointing a long finger in my direction, her eyes narrowed as she instructed, "Stay upstairs until I have need of you. The temple will be open tomorrow – same as it always is." Casting back her newly braided hair, she rose with great effort from her cushions, pulling her thin veil across the lower half of her face as she treaded toward the door.

For myself I closed the door of the kitchen and retreated behind the oven, which was still warm. A ladder descended from a square hole in our roof. Gripping the middle rung, I climbed to the top of it – inhaling deeply of the night air. Grateful for a gentle breeze to cool my heated face, I fought to reorient my wild thinking – my eyes searching near and far for something to hold my gaze. Looking up the street, I wondered fleetingly if Hesba had finished feeding her family yet.

Down below, laughter broke the silence of our small house. Resting both my hands on the roof, I pulled myself up out of the kitchen – as quick as if a snake were coiled at the foot of the ladder. It was my mother's laughter, followed by her loose chatter and routine flattery of her guest. Her voice was everywhere, unavoidable – like sap running down a trunk – trapping unsuspecting insects. It filled the entirety of our home and went out into the streets, into other homes – laughing.

The deeper tones of her guest intertwined with the chime of her voice in a lyrical dance, lulling my mind into hushed submission. I had enough strength only to stretch my thin body out flat on the roof, my gaze journeying far and away across the black sky. Since there were no lights on our street there was nothing to obstruct my view as the gods intended it. The stars alone joined me for companionship, beaming in shades of innocent white down on my rooftop hideaway.

How I wished I could have drank some of the remaining wine my mother had set aside for her caller – knowing how it was always able to soothe my mind, welcoming sleep much easier. Now I would lay exposed, waiting for my thoughts to prey on me. I knew her caller wouldn't stay long, for sure taking leave before daylight broke – when all of Arrapha would awake and see things for what they really were. He would leave just as the sun rose, and it would be as if he had never arrived to our door. If he saw my mother out in the city, near the market or the temple square, he would look the other way. I exhaled slowly – breath leaking in short bursts from between my lips. For now he would stay, though. He would unfold gifts before her and swear his devotions aloud, and for now, she would be drunk with delight – the happiest prostitute in Arrapha.

I reached to pull my head scarf down over my body like a blanket, turning over to my side to try and be comfortable. The nights could become abruptly cold – oddly if one considered the intense heat of the day. I imagined in many ways, the extremity of the weather reflected the temperament the gods held toward Arrapha. One minute we were the favored jewel of Assyria, with all manner of prosperity and wealth, the next we were subject to famine, drought, or war. We threw festivals annually to appease the gods, we sacrificed and prayed year around for their favor. Prone to unusual skepticism for one so young, I was inclined inwardly to question these efforts, checking the skies in doubt as to whether or not someone were even looking down, and if so, favorably? I found it difficult to pray – difficult to approach even the more modest city temples. Not only did I question the sincerity and intentions of the gods, but I cared too much what others thought. It was no place for me to draw near. My mother never went to the temples – though it wasn't because she felt she didn't belong. She had little motive to leave her door when everything came to her – crawling from each end of the city. Besides this, she kept a small shrine of her own at the front of the house, disassembling it whenever the space was needed. Again my stomach growled, interrupting my drifting thoughts. I turned to my other side in hopes of silencing it, curling my legs up toward my chest to keep warm.

Falling asleep was the most challenging part of my day. My mind seemed always alert, even when there was no need of it. I had been that way even when I was a small child. I had many images and memories stored away from times when it was thought I was asleep, when I should have been resting – the coming and going of strangers, both men and women, the periods of laughter and silence, skin on skin, an array of different scents, flowing hair, thick beards, ever changing sandals lining the inside of our doorway. My clearest memories were of when the night finally ended, when the last of the oil finally evaporated, the gray morning light stealing past the cracks in the closed wooden shutters at the front of the house. I remembered asking myself as a small child how it was even possible for sunlight to appear dirty, standing in the emptiness – the wreckage of the night strewn around me. Somewhere in the room I would manage to find my breakfast – the remains of a spilt tray perhaps, and somewhere else I would find my mother, lifeless amid her sleep, which came always easy to her.

I closed my eyes as another faint breeze swept the rooftop, stirring the fine hairs lining my brow. At last my mind began to stray from structured thought, surrendering to my body's plea for rest – my ears already shutting out the sounds of the city, our house, and even myself.

Often my dreams would begin with memories, so much so that I sometimes woke in confusion – questioning for a moment where my memory had ended and my dream began. Tonight as I drifted off, I saw myself much younger – at age seven or so, my face small and hair hanging wild and unveiled below my shoulders. I had a sort of hopefulness as a child – it made me cringe to think of it now, now that I was older and more acquainted with disappointment. In my vision I stood on the sidelines, watching a procession of children clothed in their best attire, waving stocks of wheat and throwing grain up in the air. I knew this part for sure to be my memory – it was a celebration of one of Arrapha's more prosperous seasons. I hadn't been forbidden from joining the parade, rather I felt myself holding back instinctively in my dream. They were making their way to the central temple, where a burnt offering would be made in thanks for the city's prosperity. It was custom for children to walk the streets, in symbol of the wealth of Arrapha. As I watched I could sense my body tugging me away. Even at so young an age I was able to discern differences between myself and others. I could see the mothers and fathers waving to the children as they marched – see them beaming, hear them clapping along with the rhythm of the tambourines. I was the smallest person in the crowd lining the street. I had been sent out to go and fetch water – our heavy jar pressed between my hands. I hadn't been told there would be a festival. Since the hours of day seldom concerned our sort I rarely knew when anything in the city was occurring. Only when nightfall crept over Arrapha did our house link arms with the pulse of the streets outside.

Swallowing, I could taste my seclusion at the back of my throat. I felt like murky water being poured into a bowl of expensive oil – unable to mix. Though disconnected, I knew many things about many households not my own. Perhaps that was why as a child I was looked on with distrust and uncertainty by women much older. As I grew, I realized they were afraid, not only of what I unknowingly brought with me, but of what my presence in their midst might already indicate. It wouldn't take me long to learn that, though alone, the shadow of my mother hovered behind my walk wherever I went, visible to anyone looking my way.

Tonight the colors my mind replayed were vibrant enough to blind – the sensation of a child brushing into me as they passed, the sprinkle of grain falling on my head, running down my cheeks, so tangible that it caused me to stir in my sleep. With the procession already nearing its end, the crowd began to thin as it made its way on the heels of the parade toward the central temple. Standing immovable, I watched darkness increase as the torches moved away, imagining the small glow lit inside my chest dimming along with the light.

Before I could turn fully to walk away, I felt someone pull my jar from my hands. Looking back I saw it was a young boy, just my height, carrying a few stocks of wheat in one hand and yanking the jar from me impatiently with the other. It was the brother of a young girl I was friends with. He looked silly, being so far behind the procession, perhaps coming in late from the fields. Wordless I released the jar, at which he replaced it with the wheat stocks in his hand, leading me up the road by the wrist at a sprint.

Frightened by where we were headed, my heart began to beat fast. Seeing the parade just ahead, I closed my eyes and held my breath – as if diving headlong into the sea. When I dared look again he had released me. We were walking at a normal pace at the end of the procession, surrounded by the others. In surprise I heard my voice singing along with the children, I felt my feet marching in rhythm – a smile cracking across my stiff face. With only a little encouragement I had managed to join with the rest of the city in its' sacred thanks to the gods. In a crowd of so many I felt confident no one could possibly be staring at me – singling me out. A moment longer and I could feel myself lift the wheat stocks above my head, waving them like a banner in the breeze. Overhead the stars guided us to our finish in the arena of the central temple, where there the priests would make the offerings. At the applause of the spectators we took clustered turns in laying our wheat stocks at the foot of the temple.

At the end of the event I grew afraid once more, lost in the crowd – jostled out of the way. The glow began to fade – the faces around me began to haze over. It must have been too long ago for me to remember the entire event, as I was unable to dream up an ending even. Afterward my thoughts drifted to and fro, my body turning this way and that. I still felt slight happiness, though – my mind basking in the afterglow of the procession long after I had departed.
2. Constant Companion

Later on as I slept I began to feel empty, like a loaf of bread hollowed out on the inside. Eventually I became so light that I noticed myself begin to lift from the roof, rising toward the night sky with eyes still closed, gliding gently over the city – my loose hair streaming far below, much longer than usual, as it grazed the tops of the roofs I traveled over.

The serenity I felt must have lasted only a few moments before my eyes opened abruptly, and I realizing I was actually falling. Body tensing, my left hand flew to reach the opposite side of the open roof hatch. I was in just enough time to keep myself from plummeting downward into the kitchen. Heart racing, I watched my hair dangle eerily below – left arm straining to hold me in place. In my weariness and distraction last night, I had dozed off too close to the ladder opening again.

Waking on the rooftop was seldom a pleasant experience, today being no different. The Assyrian sun always sprung from hiding so vigorous and abrupt – anxious to scorch the earth and all its inhabitants. Often it would burn my skin long before I had a chance to wake – melting my eyelids shut like wax and numbing my mind with its heat. At least the air was fresher up high, out in the open, rather than down in the crowded dark and incense of our home. Quivering with the tension of my pose, I blinked to bring my gaze into focus on the dirt ground below.

Pushing myself safely upright with one giant heave, I took my first look for the day out across the lower city. On the roof next door our elderly neighbor was already stringing her wash out across a line. Wordless she eyed me, her face too wrinkled for me to discern her expression before she turned quickly to move down her ladder out of sight. Raising both my hands I combed back my hair from my face with my fingers. Though she had never spoken to me, I had never sensed malice or revulsion in her quiet looks; she was perhaps the only neighbor I didn't mind.

Stretching my stiff legs, I reached for my head scarf, tucking my hair neatly from sight – sensing how frightening I probably looked, sun-burned, hungry, and sore. Already I could feel anxiety set upon me as I tried to estimate the time, knowing I would need to go and fetch us water soon. It was much later in the day to set out for the district well than I preferred. A sick feeling rested in the pit of my stomach as I took hold of the ladder and carefully lowered myself into the kitchen, resting my feet lightly on our dirt floor. Deciding it best not to prolong my outing, I reached straight for one of our tall water jars stashed beside the oven – the one that wasn't cracked yet, and made my way to the front of the house as silent as I could manage.

The front of the house was in its custom disarray, with the mats tossed in a heap and our finer belongings – the animal fleeces and cushions, thrown out across the floor. The wine had been finished – the jar and cups knocked to the side, and the rest of the oil burnt up. Gravely I made my way forward, careful not to trip and wake my mother, who I knew would be sound asleep behind her screen in the corner of the room.

The sound of someone moving near the front door brought me my second fright of the morning. Rigid in alarm, I spied an unusually tall man lurking in the entryway – his feet sliding listless into a pair of leather sandals as his hand reached for the latch on the door. As he turned to survey me I froze, his thick, lengthy beard grazing his broad shoulder as he looked my way.

I was embarrassed at once at seeing him – for his sake. It wasn't a place many would enjoy being found – though in looking, I realized his face didn't seem as flustered as was typical of my mother's guests when caught standing in her door. Instead, he lifted his finger to his lips and motioned me to be silent, nodding toward the screen behind which my mother slept. Without hurry, he finished adjusting his sandals, opened the door, and in a moment was gone.

I dared breathe only after the door had been closed, my shoulders dropping and limbs loosening. He must have thought I was a servant. Shaking myself gently I followed his steps to the door and set my hand on the latch, pausing to be sure he had journeyed a good distance from our house before heading outside. I was aggravated to have been seen. Since I was young I had learned that being noticed never resulted in good things for me. Now there was one more person out there in the city that had seen my face – one more person that might recognize me later on in the labyrinth of gossip, ridicule, and heat that Arrapha was. I wanted nothing but to be ground into dirt – to blend in so well that I could be walked over.

With one hand I managed to tug my head covering more appropriately into place, musing for a moment how much handsomer this suitor had seemed in comparison to my mother's usual trappings – with an angular build, an enticing aroma, a beard as black as charcoal, and assertive eyes. He was wealthy also. I could tell by his robe and sandals. A wealthy caller always made me hopeful concerning our profits. I wondered if he might be the man who'd been visiting her off and on for a while now – the one who always made her smile while I was trying to paint her face, the one who lifted her spirits and brightened her mood so well for me throughout the entire day before his arrival. For his arrival at our door I had at least one reason to give thanks to the gods. In dismal reserve I pushed my way out into the blinding sunlight.

Limited by this point in the day, time became increasingly important to me. It was always safest to be done with my errands earlier rather than later. Though often sleeping late, like my mother, the other prostitutes in our district would wake up before too long – needing water and food. My best chance at missing them was to finish ahead of them. All the errands outside the house were my responsibility. I was the only one to go to the market to buy meat, to venture to the well to fetch our daily water, to throw our waste out just beyond the city walls, to go to the temple to make our sacrifices. I was even sent occasionally to carry my mother's personal messages, which I disliked the most, as it involved coming face to face with others. In truth, I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen my mother set foot beyond our front steps. She had many excuses for keeping herself dormant; her favorite was that she needed to shelter her pale skin from the merciless Assyrian sun, or that moving too much would make her too thin – which was thought unsightly by Assyrians. Other times she told me it was so that I could get the fresh air – since I was the younger one. Part of me suspected she was simply afraid, remembering the time so long ago on a street corner in our lowly market, when she had quarreled with two other prostitutes who were angry with her.

At the time of the incident I was very young – a small girl standing shyly behind her mother's skirts, watching in horror as they pulled her long braids, trying to cut them with a knife. In the end she managed to save her hair, the source of her wealth and beauty, as she so often assured me, but only by taking flight. I was left behind – pushed to the side, hiding between two giant baskets of figs, choking back tears. I didn't understand why anyone would hate her.

Hoisting our water jar upward I rested it on my hip evenly, hastening up the dirt road until it turned to pavement, where there I stopped to check my surroundings before proceeding into open market.

'You're so much quicker than me, and less noticeable,' my mother had once assured me, woefully adding, 'It's my curse to be the way I am.'

'So it is my gift that I am unnoticeable?' I had questioned inwardly at seeing her pout.

Though aggravated at the time, I knew she was right; it was easier if I went out alone, because in contrast to her I really was invisible. My memories of accompanying her out into the streets, though few and far between, were each etched in my mind with the discomfort and permanency of a blade. Her arrival fetched attention from men and women alike, no matter the size of the crowd or volume of noise. Though covered, her bosom was large, though tied back, her hair was thick and long. Her walk was distinctive – towering and assertive, dividing a crowd with the authority of an arrow let loose from a bow. Her makeup rivaled the expensive plaster paintings on the temple walls in color and animation. She could be spotted from across the length of the entire market. Her jewelry – gifts from ardent worshipers, had a way of gleaming in the sunlight – like a signal calling out, drawing in. Her scent, the aroma of her perfume, enticed even the blind beggars on the outskirts of the market to follow her steps.

Accompanying her made my skin crawl – the thought of so many eyes upon us. I had often tried, to no avail, to reassure myself that no one took any notice of me – the young, skinny girl with cautious eyes walking in her shadow.

In turning a corner I halted briefly. To my disappointment I saw the market had already begun to grow crowded – women and servants picking through huge baskets of fruit, haggling over pieces of fabric with the merchants, yelling at loose children running through the open road. The smell of the market filled my nostrils – of spices from the vendors, of sweat from the workers, of blood from the butchers – the skinned animal carcasses swaying from metal hooks just ahead of me. Pulling my head covering even lower over my brow, until it nearly covered my vision, I swallowed drying and pushed myself forward.

Not only was the market swollen but so was the line for the well – what I feared most. A long line would mean standing out in the hot sun, in the open, for more time than I felt comfortable with. It would mean rubbing shoulders with other women – women who I perhaps least wanted to become familiar with, or to be familiar with me. According to my mother, most all women were hateful by nature – forever at odds with one another, they could never be trusted. Of course, there were really none that she interacted with ever, outside those counted among her lovers, and those types, she assured me, thought more like men than women. In her opinion, the housewives were the most abhorrent of all; she often referred to them as idle cows, conspiring from sun up till sundown. Perhaps her aversion to them was because she knew she was hated most by these – the ones with husbands and children to guard. With reluctance I slid into formation at the very back of the line, behind an older woman, careful to avoid making eye contact with anyone by focusing on my toes, peeking out dustily from the worn straps of my sandals.

Ever since the start of the drought, the task of fetching water had become increasingly trying – the lines growing to twice their usual size. It was as if every woman in the city were trying to gage the volume of the well – up to three times a day – drawing water just to be sure it was still there. More than once I questioned whether or not they were secretly stocking it up behind closed doors, and whether or not I was the only one ignorantly enough to refrain. Arrapha had a total of four districts, ours being the lowest – both in wealth and elevation. Our district used to have two wells, but despite being in the lowest point of the city where water should naturally drain, one of them had recently dried out – now boarded over and left vacant. I knew this, most likely, to be the cause of the doubled lines. Swallowing impatiently, I gathered just enough courage to lean out from my place to check how far I had till the end. Aggravated, I watched a pair of modest young girls at the front of the line, most likely sisters, struggle to hoist the taut ropes. In addition to the long wait, under the hot sun, when it finally became your turn, it took tremendous effort to hoist the water from so far below. If you were too young or too old it could be almost impossible to manage.

A good ways ahead in the line, a woman motioning caught my attention. Reluctant, I stepped out of place a little further to see Hesba smiling broadly and waving her hand at me, motioning for me to come and join her. Lips sealing stiffly I clasped my water jar tight, wishing she would stop waving. With both palms beginning to sweat, I swiftly passed the eight or so persons in front of me and slid wordless into formation beside her – hot glares of annoyance searing my thinly clothed back. Arching my shoulders, I tried my best to dispel the burning sensation.

Though she wasn't alone, I kept my gaze centered safely on Hesba's warm eyes. Standing close at her side, her daughter Phaena, also holding a water jar, regarded me in familiarity with a brief nod. At seeing her, I instinctively straightened my posture, making the immense effort to lift my chin from my chest, where it seemed stuck. Though we were the same age, Phaena had somehow managed to become taller than I – or perhaps I merely slouched too much when I was around her. Over time, her beauty had undeniably grown, surpassing many. Her arms were so much lighter in color than mine, her hands less coarse and clothes less worn. Her hair had grown so long since we were young; she always fastened it in such elegant, simple ways – unlike the gaudy style I was used to seeing on my mother. Phaena possessed a sort of guiltless beauty that had always fascinated me; it shared no part in the heavy jewelry, thick oils, the colorful scarves and paints that I had grown up around. Shifting weight, I moved my jar from one hip to the other in attempts to make myself comfortable – careful not to stare at her, since I knew she didn't like it. She did have one thing in common with my mother. Similar to my mother, Phaena drank regularly from the cup of vanity – her own particular brew. I could see it easily as she glanced sideways at me, her nose facing safely ahead toward the next person in line. It was that small glint in the recess of her eyes – a low glint – the awareness of one's beauty, one's control over the feelings, the attraction or attention of others.

Phaena and I had played together often as children – hiding in the market from Hesba after stealing olives from her kitchen. In those days we always longed to be together, to stay the night side by side – always finding ways to meet and play in the market. They were some of my happiest times. When we played in her home it was as if I were her sister, even staying to eat meals with the family when it became dark outside. A warm glow had always filled my chest, sitting cross-legged beside Phaena and her mother, filling my stomach until it was satisfied amid my childhood inhibition. Afterward Phaena and I would lie out on the roof. We would laugh and whisper about the men we wanted to marry someday. We took no notice of the city surrounding us, no consideration for time, status, or circumstance. I felt none of the pressure I would later feel – my consciousness and unease standing in the midst of their quiet home. And Phaena hadn't become vain yet.

I knew she was uncomfortable being so close to me outdoors, now that we were older. I could sense her check now and then to see who might be looking at us – checking to see if anyone recognized me, or if anyone was looking questioningly at her. She was tolerant of my presence perhaps only for her mother's sake. Perhaps wishfully, I had hoped that some small part of her silence was for the sake of our childhood friendship, but over the past few months I knew this couldn't be the case. With womanhood nearly upon us, I doubted she took the past into consideration much at all.

In Arrapha, the ceremony of the god Ashur was fast approaching. The rituals of the priests were vastly anticipated, preceded by city-wide celebrations, and a festival that would last until dawn the next day. It was an important time for young girls, of every district; the ones who were of age were expected to dance in the central market. Many viewed it as the ideal opportunity to attract the attention of a good husband – someone with a decent family and wealth, perhaps from a better district than their own. Since Phaena and I were now old enough to dance, she had become obsessed with the event – too preoccupied and impatient to be bothered by everyday tasks, such as waiting in line for water. Sensing she was more agitated than usual, and easily bothered, I knew it was best for me to keep my distance from her.

"Did you already eat with your mother?" questioned Hesba. Not waiting for an answer she waved her hand in quick dismissal, "Never mind. We had more than our fill this morning and here is the remainder." She pulled a wheat cake from her robe pocket and pushed it into my free hand – stepping back abruptly so I couldn't refuse.

Immediately I could feel my face flush. Unable to look any particular direction, I plunged the cake into my own pocket. I knew in times like these, such a morsel could hardly be considered a remainder – it was a generous gift. Water had dried up not only in the city, but in the fields as well – lessening Arrapha's crop yield. Since Hesba's husband was a field worker, the wheat she ground and baked was whatever was left over from his worksite – which of late I knew couldn't be much. Silently I prayed my stomach wouldn't growl too load at the sight of the bread – further humiliating me.

"Where were you last night?" continued Hesba, seeming indifferent to my embarrassment. "We had to go to the temple without you when you didn't turn up."

Face rising bravely to meet her intuitive gaze, I swallowed.

"I wanted to go," I assured her. "Sadly I was behind on my chores because I'd been out all day – as you know. I'm not as diligent as Phaena and you with housework." Here I dropped my gaze abruptly, not wanting her to guess that my mother had kept me from going – or that she disapproved of me accompanying them in general.

"Are you excited about the festival?" inquired Hesba, her face wrinkling along with her smile. "I'll be giving thanks and celebrating the end of the harvest even though the drought has upset so man and the yields are so low. I wonder if the sacrifices the temple offers will be less. You must tell your mother to send me her offerings if she doesn't plan to attend. I'll gladly deliver them to the temple in her stead; we must all pray for rain this coming season and do whatever it takes to appease the gods."

Wordless I nodded my head. I hadn't given the ceremony any thought at all yet.

"I think I'll carry her offering myself," I murmured, indecisive even as I spoke.

"Oh, yes?" smiled Hesba, encouragingly. "Do you intend to dance as well?"

I could sense Phaena listening closely.

"Phaena won't stop practicing her steps or talking about the fabric she'll wear," continued Hesba, nudging her daughter.

Exasperated, Phaena came abruptly to life.

"I don't and I'm sure Ishtah doesn't either," she snapped, eyes flashing.

I smiled at her sensitivity, tilting my head to the side.

"Actually, I think I might dance," I commented leisurely – voice sincere, though I knew I had no intention of parading myself through the city in front of so many. "I've been practicing my dance steps each day," I added, smiling slightly at Hesba.

Here Phaena's eyes grew wide with concern.

"Well I've been practicing, too," she added, turning to face us fully. "My steps are coming more natural to me day by day. It helps that my tunic is cut from a very light fabric – a simple shade of blue – not too dark as I think the others will be – elegant against the color of my hair I think."

Here I grew quiet, knowing I had nothing more to tease her about. I had no actual intention of going to the festival, and certainly no intention of dancing. Even if I wanted to I didn't have anything appropriate to wear. Since I often borrowed from my mother's wardrobe, it was difficult enough just to find something appropriate to wear down the street, like what other women wore – something modest that fit my small frame and wasn't too brightly colored. Many of her old skirts I had adjusted to fit me. There was certainly nothing new or clean or white in our house – nothing light and airy such as Phaena describe. Squinting, I turned away – pretending to be distracted.

Surmising the conflicting emotions of my face, Hesba rested her free hand on my arm – face softening as she murmured, "Come to my house tomorrow night, Ishtah. You missed last night, but there are many opportunities to accompany Phaena and me to the temple for prayer. It's not safe for a young girl to walk alone in the evenings, and we all must pray at some time or other." She smiled a little, adding meaningfully, "And Aeros will join with us afterward. He wants to know why he hasn't seen you in so long, so you must answer for your absence. I'm too old to make excuses for anyone and I was never good at it besides."

Again I could feel a flush creep up my neck at her words. Flustered, I moved quickly to take her heavy water jar from her with my free hand as the line shuffled forward. Lately it seemed Hesba enjoyed nothing so much as to tease me about her son, Aeros. I wasn't sure why or when it all started, but I had quickly learned getting her to stop was impossible. There was nothing I could do other than to pretend not to hear; showing any sign of humiliation only encourage her. I liked to banter and kid with Hesba, and even Phaena – if she were willing. But this new type of jest left me nervous and immobilized – embarrassment almost to a point beyond movement. It upset me in a way her teasing seldom could, and I was afraid to ask myself why.

Again I centered my focus on the ground, stuck, now permanent, between my sandaled feet – toes as dusty as the road. I hadn't considered anyone other than Hesba would take note of my absences. Perhaps, now that she mentioned it, I had been avoiding Aeros. Only a few years our senior, it hadn't been infrequent that Aeros joined Phaena and I in our games, when were young. We had grown alongside one another, nearly as close as brother and sister. I regarded him much in the same way I did Phaena – as fortunate and blessed, envious of him perhaps to a similar degree, despite him being a boy. Being the only son Hesba had, he was her prized delight, and she loved him more perhaps, I had occasionally speculated, than Phaena, who was likewise the only daughter. Again the line moved forward, my eyes rising enough only to check where I should stand.

I supposed deep within me I knew things between Aeros and I had begun to change – much like they had with Phaena, but in a different sort of way. I saw him much less now. It wasn't acceptable for him to join Phaena and me as it was when we were children. These days he joined his father in the fields – now that he was strong enough to carry heavy loads and lead the oxen. I saw him briefly now and then, trekking inside behind his father to wash after work, or carrying sacks of grain or produce from the market for Hesba. I could hear his laughter at the street corner early in the morning as he stood with other field hands before heading out the eastern gate. I could picture his tan face easily – see his smile crack broadly at whatever amused him.

I preferred it when he couldn't see me, which was often how it was, since I was small and discreet. Whenever he knew I was there I felt immediately off-balanced, standing hushed between Hesba and Phaena, eyes plastered to the ground, as if I were a tragic statue. The floor spun out of order when he would look my way – when he would come eagerly to join us or greet me directly, his young face brightening at seeing me. It was increasingly difficult to look up or engage with him while I was so aware of my surroundings – of Phaena stiffening her posture, of Hesba beaming at me, of the sideways glances of passers and the time of day – which for me was always running out.

Irritated, an elderly woman behind me nudged the backside of my ribs. The line ahead of us had dissolved and we'd reached the edge of the well. Annoyed with myself for my own, distracted thinking, I was relieved to finally take action, setting the clay jars I carried on the ledge and tightly gripping the frayed well ropes.

Working together, Phaena and I filled our jars much faster than we could have on our own, including Hesba's. For a moment I actually enjoyed myself, heaving the heavy loads alongside Phaena; it was good to have her help – our young arms straining as Hesba watched approvingly. It was almost as if we were children again – playing a game, racing each other to see who could pull the fastest. When water splashed across Phaena's sandals I thought she would become cross, but she surprised me by cracking a smile, tipping one of our vessels so that water spilt on my feet the same. Then we were both laughing, my hands moving quickly to lift one of the filled jars at her warningly.

It was here that Hesba stepped in, shaking her head. The line behind us had grown in length as much as impatience. It was time for us to be on our way – there were plenty more chores to tend that day besides. We parted just outside the market with Hesba making me promise to meet them tomorrow at sunset outside their house – Phaena now combing her long hair with her fingers, distracted already, and me anxious once more to be out of sight.

Nodding in wordless agreement, I moved in the opposite direction of them – struggling not to spill my heavy jar. When clearing the market and reaching a smaller road, I at once turned down a shaded alley and slid to the ground against an uneven wall. Planting my water jar carefully beside me, my right hand dove into my pocket to withdraw the wheat cake Hesba had offered me. I barely chewed. Swallowing the morsel in two bites, I licked my fingers like an animal and felt around my pocket to be sure none was left. Normally I might share such a morsel with my mother, but I knew she had eaten the last of the bread the night before and drank the rest of the wine and would be able to last longer without eating than myself. Besides, in rising I grimly realized I was nowhere near satisfied by such a small scrap of food. In anguish I listened to my stomach growl – riled like an angry beast stirring from its slumber. I should have known better than to provoke it with only a few bites.

Dusting my knees and straightening my skirt, my gaze dropped bitterly to the ground. Hunger knew no wisdom. No matter how much experience I had with hunger, in the end I would always yield to its raw, gnawing pain. Bending to retrieve the water jar, I set it uncomfortably on my hip – wincing under the now awkward weight. Face dark with resentment, I made my way back out onto the street. It was getting late in the afternoon; the other prostitutes were due at any time now to show at their doorsteps or hang out their windows with welcoming arms.

Just ahead, a rowdy cluster of young boys blocked me from entering our street. They were following a group of men carrying long wooden rods – slowly making their way to the higher districts. The rods would be used to stretch lengthy strips of fabric across the roads leading up to the central temple – decorations for the festival of Ashur, which was fast approaching. In a week's time the city would drape itself in its richest fabrics, don its heaviest jewels, and paint on its most seductive perfumes. The streets would be swept clean of their filth – the beggars pushed to the far outskirts. This one night all Arrapha would converge to bask in the light of the central temple – flaunt itself to celebrate the year passed and usher in blessing for the upcoming season from the highest of gods. Though water began to dwindle and the blood of livestock was costly, both would be poured out in excess across the altars. Soon the young, eligible girls of districts both high and low would crowd the streets, and dance their hearts out to entice a husband. In the face of drought, poverty, war – or all three, Arrapha would indulge itself regardless, and without shame.

The mad scurry of the boys – jostling each other in their excitement, drew my gaze after them. Preparations for an event so large had a way of turning Arrapha into an immense hive of comings and goings – the buzzing of which could be heard whether inside the city or out for miles. Anticipation had a way of lodging itself deep in one's mind, reverberating in one's chest. With so little willpower left, I allowed myself to trail aimlessly after their steps a ways, up the road in the opposite direction of our house. I wanted to see the lengthy rods lifted into place – watch the fabric drape lavishly over them. It would be like seeing a stage come together before a great act. I wanted to join the crowd of children, so excited; they had a youthful sort of hope that had escaped me long ago. I could scarce remember it; for a moment I half imagined I could somehow regain it – if only I joined them, running, shouting, and laughing.

As we ventured in the direction of the market, calls from street merchants filled my ears – like hooks cast out in a sea of swarming fish. Despite giving them all a wide birth, a persistent seller with a thick oily beard made the effort to step out from his booth and unroll his linen before my path.

"Reel yourself in a rich husband and likewise a handful of suitors at the ceremony in a color like this," he insisted, flapping the fabric like a fisherman's net. "You'll make Ashur himself jealous by the attention you'll steal."

Subtly I looked over his product, cautious not to encourage him. It was undeniably beautiful material, almost shimmering in the sunlight as it caught the breeze – light and airy, a deep shade of blue like the night sky. The thought of me, dancing in the festival, wearing such piece with all eyes on me, glimmered in my mind like a gold coin at the bottom of a fountain. The men shouting up ahead as they lifted the rods upright and sank them into place drew me from my daze. Shaking my head lowly I pushed passed him, knowing I should turn and go home. The merchant wouldn't have pursued my business if he knew who my mother was. There was no pride at stake for our family at the festival, no need for rich fabrics or jewels as we wouldn't be attending such an event, such a place.

In turning I bumped into a boy headed after his friends. Seeing it was our neighbor's son, I gripped my head covering tight and moved to make way for him, but he had already recognized my face and seen me eyeing the fabric. Grinning, he pointed to the material the merchant still held out.

"Ishtah, if I buy you the fabric will you dance for me at the festival?" he begged me mockingly. "Or do you prefer shekels to gifts in exchange for your work?" he added, face twisting with derision.

Instinctive, I dipped my hand into my jar and splashed his face with water – my veil coming loose in the breeze of such a wide street. I had known this boy since he was young, or at least seen him often as he came and went from his family's house. His words surprised me more than they upset me – he was too young to already be rude in the manner of a grown man. Clutching my loose head covering I tucked it back into place over my hair and hurried away, the merchant looking after me in confusion and young boy waving his hand at my backside in arrogant dismissal.

My mother's reputation was my constant companion. I never felt I walked alone. It was impossible for me to dance at the festival because she would be there with me. When she was present, she was all anyone could see, and when she was absent, she was all anyone could see when they looked at me. Sometime, shortly after my birth from her tight, enclosed womb, I had been swallowed whole once more; I had been encased in a suffocating, if possible smaller place, where it seemed there would be no birth from.
3. Black Lips and Gnarled Teeth

By the time I finally reached our door I could feel tears of frustration welling in the corners of my eyes, hunger and exhaustion building my emotions into an unmanageable blaze. With each step, my strength evaporated like perspiration from the back of my neck in hot sunlight. There was something about keeping company with Hesba, something about the warmth of her presence – her awareness of me – that always settled a heavy weight on my shoulders the minute I returned home. Her kindness never failed to set me at odds with my mother, and I sensed today would be no different. In stretching my arm out toward our door I saw I was sunburnt – a result of sleeping on the roof and waking too late. My skin throbbed as I moved – my body growing increasingly stiff after lying on hard surfaces for so long. Fearful of releasing tears down my cheeks I blinked rapidly – stomach growling as I placed my hand heavily on our latch and swung the door open.

At entering I was surprised to see my mother standing, rather than lounging on her cushions in the corner or at most squatting over her jewelry. Incredulous, I halted to watch her pull a loaf of bread from the oven through the kitchen doorway – astonished she even remembered how to kindle a fire in the first place. As she bent to place the food on a reed mat spread across the floor, I could hear her voice singing contentedly – her dark skirt bunching around her feet as she stooped to arrange the items she laid out.

Entering the space at first slowly, I set the water jar on the ground just beyond the kitchen door – nostrils inhaling deeply of the small feast she'd prepared. From a closer vantage point I saw that there wasn't only bread but also olives, figs, and even a baked fish. Quickly I glanced round the house, wondering for a moment if there wasn't someone else there. In seeing no one, I again surveyed her red, beaming face – shiny and moist from the heat of the fire. It was unusual to see her hair tide back in such a manner – with no makeup around her eyes or mouth, the rings missing from her fingers and ears. I had to force myself not to stare, as she was scarce recognizable.

In noticing me at last, she rose from the reed mat and dipped her hand into the pocket at her hip. "Look," she murmured, proudly producing a handful of coins – coins such as we hadn't seen in some time.

My eyes widened as I tried to count their number in my mind. I could tell there was more than enough for several additional meals such as the one she prepared. Unable to find any words to speak, I sunk to my knees on the mat. My heart felt as raw as a piece of meat – swinging in the market from a hook. My emotions contradicted one another in a wild clash, adding to my fatigue. I couldn't stop staring at her – mesmerized as she turned to rake the ashes over the coals in the oven. Swallowing, I lowered my gaze as she knelt across from me to begin eating, ashamed now of my seemingly misplaced anger at entering our home. Wordless I watched her meticulously painted nails work like tiny knives to peel fish from bone, pausing only now and then to place the tender meat between her lips.

With at first great reserve, I broke off a piece of bread for myself – later some fish, then quickly became ravenous. As I began to chew, I marveled at her having ventured out to the market on her own to collect such a spread. Normally I might have sat and stared a while longer, or else demanded to know what her act of random boldness could be attributed to, but in tasting the warm bread my hunger took control over me. I joined her fully in eating as much as my mouth and throat could contain. Glimpsing up now and then from the corner of my eye, I realized she was equally as famished as I – if not more. In silence we drowned out our thoughts with food – satisfying the seeming insatiable burn of emptiness in our stomachs.

Between bites she thrust out her arm and shook her wrist in my direction for me to take note of a bronze bracelet – one I hadn't seen before. Though of poorer metal, with no gold or fine stones, I knew it was still an expensive piece because of the detailed work – ornate blossoms etched all the way around it, and what looked like the sun, shining down.

"Very nice," I assured her, reaching to pour us both water from the jar I'd brought.

I could only assume it was a gift from the handsome suitor I'd seen leaving that morning. Surely she must now be one of his favorite conquests, for him to lavish her so generously. Quietly I wondered how long he'd been visiting her for. Since I wasn't always present during the comings and goings of her guests, being often up on the roof or else intentionally out of the house, I had no way of accurately guessing. I considered I might have seen him several months ago – but then again, there were many faces I could have mixed his with. I thought it odd for a guest to go absent for so long and then suddenly reappear. The usual progression of her relationships entailed frequent visits followed by eventual decline, and then finally total absence – in the inevitability the lover would find some other, alternative, newer source of pleasure. There were of course the regular patrons, with their insatiable needs – but these were few and far between.

Tearing off a final piece of bread I sank my teeth into its warmth and sat back to watch her eat. As the food began to expand within my stomach, my anxiety began to trail away – my ever worrisome mind at last beginning to ease. Perhaps this suitor would become one of her regulars? Right then I decided it would be welcomed by me. Even if his gifts weren't as costly as some she received, perhaps they would grow nicer with time. Besides, she seemed happier than I could remember her being in a long time – more pleasant for me to deal with. In a few short hours she had managed to transform into everything I imagined a mother should be. I enjoyed our time together like this, when it was just the two of us – when she was awake and so lively. It was seldom she became tangible – often being far beyond my reach, hidden behind her mask of paints and wall of perfume. Now, in the dimness of our small kitchen, with the air so warm and our bellies full, my very bones began to soften toward her.

When we finally both finished we'd eaten all the fish, all the fruits, and left little of the bread. At last I was full – my emotions equally as subdued as my stomach. I watched her stretch both her round, bare legs out from under her skirt – rearranging herself cumbersomely as she cast back her thick, black hair. I could see sweat glisten on her face in the light from the hatch overhead, head tilting forward enough so she could almost rest her chin on her chest. She had gained enough weight recently to create rolls of skin around her neck whenever she looked down. It was odd to watch.

"Are you going to dance?" she asked, abruptly breaking the silence between us.

My eyes rose slowly back to her round face.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, for the men – or boys . . . at the festival."

Though she was smiling I stared at her hard, unsure whether or not she was teasing me. At her expectant silence I could feel myself begin to smile as well. It was unlike her to inquire after my own interests. With frightening speed I felt an immediate sense of pleasure surge through me. In my eagerness to seize the moment, words spilled awkwardly from my lips.

"No –" I stammered, tone conveying my confusion. "I couldn't possibly dance – I have no rhythm, like you. I don't know the steps and I would trip myself, or else the others." I stopped short before adding I had nothing appropriate to wear to such a stylish event, my voice trailing off along with my gaze. I had always taken pains to mind her feelings – though she seldom seemed aware of my own.

Here she laughed out loud her melodious, entrapping laughter – like a bird perched high on the city walls, boisterous and confident. Lifting uncomfortably to her feet she motioned me to rise and join her.

Agonized, I rose and went to her – thinking she would try to teach me to dance. I knew it would be useless – same as whenever she tried to paint my face and dress me in her likeness. Her splendor was a thing not easily matched or replicated by myself or any other – any attempts succeeding only in making me feel worse than I did to begin with. To my surprise, though, she stood still in place – draping both her soft, heavy arms around my thin frame, pulling me close enough to her chest so that I could hear her heart. Since she was taller than me, her hair covered my eyes as it fell across her shoulder – almost like a veil. In an instant I became hushed, in awe of her awareness of me. I was afraid to move, worried she'd let go.

The moment was short-lived, though, regardless of how still I held myself. After what seemed like a second she had pulled away – face turning sour, as if she felt unwell – her hand lifting to her brow to wipe away the increasing perspiration. She was clumsy in backing up –knocking over the jar I'd brought and spilling the remainder of the water out across the dirt. Turning away from the kitchen, as if I and it nauseated her, she made her way back to the front of the house toward her bed in the corner of the room.

"Clean up for me, Ishtah," she murmured. "I feel unwell now and must rest. I must be awake later tonight. I'll need you to fix my hair and paint my face when you are finished tidying the house – I look like a wild animal – like one of those caged animals they sacrifice at the temple, and Ninharrissi is less forgiving than a man, you know. A woman is always more selective about her mate than a man and never fails to know what she likes best. For her my presentation must forever be flawless. She cannot smell more radiant than I. Her nails cannot be more ornate than mine. Her hair cannot be more elaborately braided than mine." Seeming exhausted, she chuckled faintly before stretching out on her mat – resting her head on one of our cushions, as if it were too heavy to hold – her voice trailing off into oblivion as she surrendered to rest.

Still warm from her embrace, I exhaled deeply; I wouldn't have wished for it to end so soon, as odd as it was for her to hold me. Such gestures came seldom – catching me off-guard and leaving me breathless. Numbly I moved to clean up our meal, bending first to collect the spilt jar. The idea of having to go and fetch water twice in one day thwarted me greatly. After such a great feast all I wanted was to lie out on the roof alone – to digest both the meal and the unusual warmth and pleasance of my mother.

A single remaining olive I placed between my lips as I stooped to collect our bowls, turning to stash them in their place behind the oven. Since she would have a visitor later that night I would need to reheat the oven to warm the leftover bread. I knew we were out of wine but I was unsure whether or not she wanted me to go and fetch more from the market, as she hadn't requested any the day before when we finally ran out.

At moving our heavy grain urn aside to stack the dishware, my hands halted – eyes spying a small, unfamiliar garland of some sort of herb. Since I hadn't seen it there when preparing dinner the day before, I assumed my mother had picked it up that morning along with her other purchases. Lifting the tiny, dry bouquet I smelled it curiously. It certainly wasn't something I'd cooked with before. On closer inspection I realized it was the plant silphium – my nose cringing at once and arm extending out as far as it could reach to hold it away from me. Clumsily I put the garland back in its hiding place at the foot of the oven and moved the urn back in front of it, eyes glancing furtively to the front of the house when I'd finished. I could feel my heart begin to race as I shuffled away, pulsing as if it were galloping up my throat, trying to escape my chest through way of my mouth.

Though I kept myself mostly distant from my mother's ways, I knew I had seen a medicinal plant such as that before. It was sold in the market and used commonly enough by other women of her trade – considered a salvation from the gods by many of them. If enough of the tiny plant were ingested, and soon enough, it would successfully initiate the miscarriage of an unborn child. My eyes wandered around the small, dim kitchen, uncertain what I should clean next. Amid the thick silence my mother had left me with, my heartbeat sounded louder than was safe. I could only assume she'd already taken care of the matter, or else would soon enough. She seldom involved me in such intimate affairs of her trade, perhaps having always sensed resistance in me. There was only so much I could do to help her with, besides. I glanced down at my dusty feet, spreading my toes widely in the powdery dirt that was our floor.

At once my mind became a battleground. I fought valiantly to convince myself I didn't want to know, that I didn't want to think about it – knowing full well my thoughts had already been set in motion. Once more that fearsome beast slumbering in the deepest part of my being was provoked – the one I had tiptoed around since I could remember. It could wake in an instant, at random and without warning, raising its jagged horns within me, eyes flashing, black lips and gnarled teeth parting as it asked me that one small question – why?

Unconsciously my teeth began to grind, like a millstone crushing grain, now faced once more with the reality that I had no idea why or even how I was here. How had I come into existence when so many others had not? How had I managed to come to full term and been birthed into such a place as this? What was special about me to my mother, if anything? I had never asked why – why a prostitute would deliver one child out of perhaps many. Dryly I swallowed, leaning back against the cool wall opposite the oven.

I could only assume I'd never asked my mother out of fear – fear that whatever explanation she would conjure up would fail to convince me. Now I realized I'd never asked her perhaps because I knew her too well – perhaps because in watching her over the years I had already found the answer I sought. My existence was merely the result of a lie. The same lie she would believe time and time again, that whatever man she gave herself to was that one special one who wouldn't forsake her. As she lay in his arms she would tell herself he was different from the others. Surely with passion such as this he would stay by her side – make her one of his wives even. The child she now carried, hopefully a son, he would claim proudly as his own – the birth would seal their love for a lifetime and elevate her from her lowly status.

Preemptive, my hand rose to muffle the sharpness of my breathing. Like spirits rising from an opened tomb, tears began to crowd my eyes – blurring my vision. It was easy to picture my mother on the day of my birth, seventeen years ago – a younger version of herself, screaming and writhing as she produced her child – determined in her pursuit of change. She was gambling with fate, with her beauty – her body and limited resources.

I had no way of remembering what followed my birth in those early years. Her lover couldn't have stayed long – even his name perhaps now forgotten in the unending stream of lovers throughout the years. I knew he must have stayed long enough for me to have grown to a good size – too late perhaps for my mother to turn back events or find the strength to undo them. Gambling in life had seldom yielded us our desired rewards. Ever persistent, that same monster who asked why I was even born would ask me why my mother kept me through infancy – through the sting of both abandonment and poverty.

With difficulty I managed to pull myself from the wall, my body dragging itself as heavy as an anchor along the bottom of the sea toward the front room. Wordless my eyes traced the curves of my mother's body, watched her chest rise and sink as she breathed. For a moment she looked much younger than her years, curled on her side as she was, dark hair spilling peacefully over parts of her face and neck. In gazing, the wild beast within my mind became subdued. My shoulders dropped in submission to weariness. Once again, I resolved not to involve myself in his futile questions. There was no point in looking back so far. Whatever her reasons, in the end my mother had chosen to give me life, and I had no choice but to believe the things she would tell me – no choice but to believe her when she assured me everything she did was for both of us, a sacrifice.

"I want to go to the central temple tomorrow night," I spoke aloud to her motionless form. "I want to pray for more good fortune such as we've had, and for your health – since you've not been feeling well of late." I was hopeful that if I told her about the trip early enough she wouldn't be able to protest so easily the next night – cautious not to mention Hesba at all, since I knew she was becoming perhaps jealous of her.

"You can go," she murmured, eyes remaining shut. "Provided my face is first painted and my hair bound."

With lips tightly sealed I turned to let her sleep, my footsteps carrying me softly away.

҉

When nightfall finally arrived, I was prepared in advance. The day had crept by torturously slow ever since we'd finished our meal – with long lapses of nothingness between my chores. Bit by bit I had pieced the house back together, staging it carefully for the arrival of her late-night caller. Just as the skies outside began to grow dim, I lit the incense at the front of the house and set out a small saucer of oil for my mother to see by.

With the cushions laid out and the oven kindled to warm the leftovers from our meal, I waited patiently for my mother to disrobe and slip into her favorite piece of fabric – a vibrant green cloth she had been given months ago. Silky and cool to the touch, it glided easily whenever she moved – like a sail in the ocean breeze. The color was entrancing against her skin, bringing out the more subtle shades of green in her eyes. In silence I noted how tight it fit her, though, since she had gained so much weight. I watched in delayed response as she stretched the material snugly across her waist and backside, then fought to pin it with a clasp at her hip. When at last she had finished and was satisfied, I moved to adorn her in the matching jewelry she had set aside for the evening – first the rings, pushed tightly onto each round finger, then the earrings, long enough to graze her shoulders, and last the beads around her neck, streaming fetchingly down the center of her chest.

Moistening my lips, I sat cross-legged in front of her, patting her face dry of perspiration before beginning to paint. The eyes were the center of attraction on the stage her face would become. These I carefully traced once, twice, three times with wetted black ore from my palette – drawing singular lines outward from the corners as she fought not to blink. We were running out of green shade; it was a costly color. I had just enough for both lids by spreading it thinner than usual. Lastly I lightly wetted the red ochre on the palette by dipping my fingertip in water and letting it drip over the clay. I mixed it gently and brought color to each of her cheeks with the same finger by smearing it across her skin in circular motions. Sitting back I studied my work, checking the symmetry of the eye makeup. Now she looked lifeless – like a painting on a plaster wall in the house of some wealthy family. It was almost unsettling when she finally moved – smiling back at me to question whether she looked any good or not.

"Done," I said, rising to dust my knees. "I must go and fetch water now. There are only a few sips left in the jar since you spilt it, and since there is no wine left I must find something, in case your guest becomes thirsty at some point." Though it hadn't taken long for me to quickly become parched myself that afternoon, I'd opted to wait for darkness before venturing out – knowing it provided the ideal concealment for journeying through the market.

Reluctant, my mother nodded at last in consent. I could sense a dark cloud move in over her head as I prepared to depart – her eyes trailing dismally toward the front door in expectation of her guest's arrival. The abrupt transition of her emotions gave me momentary pause for concern – curious by her apparent disinterest. Ninharrissi was one of her favorite guests to entertain. A powerful, beautiful woman from the wealthiest district in Arrapha, her husband was a lenient politician who delighted in humoring his wife's every whim – including her inclinations toward varied promiscuous relationships, such as the longstanding one she held with my mother. Much like a man she came always during the late hours of night, enticed by beauty unopposed – seeking warmth, companionship, and indulgence.

Reaching for my head scarf on the wall, I wrapped is snuggly over my hair. My mother was the torchlight in the dead of night, drawing all manner of flying insects from every corner of Arrapha. It was unusual to see her depressed by these prospects, though. She was the sort to extract power and life from her conquests – from their dependency on her, from the affirmation of her desirability. Inwardly I knew if she showed any signs of reluctance or distaste it could be the result of only one thing – she had become infatuated with someone.

"I'll be back soon," I spoke aloud, attempting to draw her from her daze. Stooping noisily to collect the water jar, I then hurried out the back door. Delving into the darkness of the alley, my feet tripped over one another as I jogged up the path to the front street. Normally I would take my time returning home once I'd escaped our smothering house, but in seeing my mother withdraw into selfish gloom, I became filled with instant unease. Swinging the water jar up onto my hip, I turned hastily toward the market, anxious to return. In the past I had watched her attractiveness to other guests wane amid her chance obsession with one person in particular. Though more perceptive then most, I wasn't the only one able to sense her absence of mind and spirit. It could easily become apparent to the other visitors – our livelihood. It was best if she loved no one – it was too much of a distraction. It was safe only when her feelings passed.

I was shocked to find the well standing forlorn in the darkness of the market outskirts. For a second I thought the gods were perhaps teasing me, as things seldom went so smoothly my way. Alas I didn't have time to question their involvement, or even motives for doing whatever they did. Seizing the opportunity I darted from shadowy cover, hoisting up water and filling my jar quicker than I thought possible, my gratitude short-lived under the weight of my anxiety as I enveloped myself into darkness once more – water dousing my chest as I scurried down a small alley. My hope was that if I hurried back I might be able to cheer my mother some before her guest arrived – though I knew her moods could be hard to break. Running in the dark I only managed to stub my toe, though – biting my tongue sharply to keep from shrieking. I felt suffocated by my conflicting emotions, driving me constantly in different directions – seemingly at the same time. I loathed my mother's guests. I loathed her costumes – her perfume and laughter. But I also loathed hunger. I loathed desperation – which I never seemed fully able to escape.

When at last I crept inside our home through the backdoor, both hopeless and deflated, I saw I'd split my toe. Already blood leaked slowly into the sole of my worn sandal, leaving a slippery, throbbing mess. Hobbling to set the water jar beside the oven, I froze at hearing the murmur of voices from the now screened front of the house. Realizing Ninharrissi had already arrived, I winced – now able to smell the aroma of her perfume mixed with my mother's heavy fragrance. The sound of their laughter momentarily lessened my worries.

Leaning on the kitchen wall for support in my injury, I moved stealthily closer to the curtain separating me from the front of the house, raising a finger to part the fabric slightly. Already they were wrapped familiarly in each other's arms. With eyes unblinking I ascertained the entanglement of limbs and loose fabric, porcelain skin and hair draped in dark coils like snakes. The curl of incense rising dirtied the air, diming what little light was afforded them from a sputtering bowl of oil.

Swallowing, I moved away just as the sound of their rhapsody filled my ears – toe stinging as I applied too much pressure on it. Their love affair, though intermittent, spanned many years. Perhaps in this instance, for once, I had been worried too much. My concerns, for now, at an end, I placed both hands on the ladder rungs, hoisting myself up toward fresh air. I could just barely see the silver gleam of the stars shining out against the black backdrop of the sky. Wordless I rose to join them, chest becoming lighter with each step I climbed.

Once standing on the roof my shoulders began to cave – arms folding gently and lungs filling deeply. Allowing my gaze to drift, it landed unconsciously, as so often it did, in the direction of Hesba's house – where her family lay most likely asleep after an honest day's work. Though only a short distance up the road, it felt as if miles spanned between our homes. In focusing my gaze hard enough, I almost sensed the gap widen. Shaking, I took a seat a safe distance from the hatch, reassuring myself that it was only the height of the roof that distorted my thinking. Our homes were the same distance apart they had always been. Closing my eyes, I lay on my side and raised my knees to my chest in the usual manner I liked to sleep, hopeful I could silence my thoughts in doing so. Sealing my lips, I assured myself inwardly that nothing other than a god could physically separate our two homes further than they already were. Nothing could separate them . . . or bring them closer together, I concluded darkly.
4. Baila's Daughter

The sun woke me in its usual manner – quietly cooking me before I had time to come fully to my senses. Unconscious, I lay like a small calf skewered over a low flame, skin curling on top and dripping on the underside. I roused quickly once I became conscious – afraid of falling, though there was no need since I'd had the sense before dozing off to lie as far from the hatch as was possible. Sitting upright, I squinted blindly out over the tops of the surrounding roofs – a gust of hot air sloppily arranged my uncovered hair.

Unlike the rest of Arrapha, my mother and I tended to sleep late. Though Assyrian women generally rose early, we we had no reason to – not when keeping such different agendas than the rest. Stooping so as to stay concealed, I rose and ventured awkwardly to take hold of the ladder, reflecting for a moment how detached from the city I often felt when waking so late. Whenever I slept in it took me that much longer start my day – always far behind everyone else. Waking in the heat, I would at once go through the motions of tending my chores, as best I could – though my mind often lagged behind for hours. Only during those chance times when I rose early, long before my mother, did clarity surround me – the first to greet me in the dim gray dawn.

Feet shifting unevenly in the dirt at the base of the ladder, my hands slowly released the middle rung as I turned to survey the kitchen. It startled me to see my mother awake – squatting as she tried to strike a flame above a small bowl of oil. Dressed only halfway, with her top hanging around her waist and hair falling in matted tangles down her back, she looked frightening – black eyeliner smeared around both her alert eyes. Her delayed movements suggested she hadn't slept much during the night, or else had had restless dreams. I was perplexed, since she'd seemed so settled with her lover when I'd spied them together. Now she looked like a beggar at the edge of the market – her makeup caked and dry and clothes disheveled – or worse one of the haggard prophetesses, hunched over a fire to draw readings of the future. Swallowing, I bent to help her strike up a spark.

It took only two strikes for me to draw a spark and light the oil, at which she sat back – appearing overwhelmed. Curious, I went to the veiled doorway leading to the front of the house and drew back the screen. Unsurprised to see the room in its customary disarray, I was grateful at least that her lover had taken off so early. With the incense having burnt out many hours ago, only the damp smell of dirt and mortar from the floor and walls was left. Moving forward to open the shuttered window, I soon spied a leather pouch on the ground, left by her guest, once I'd flooded the room in light. Stooping to collect it I tossed one of my mother's cushions back on her mat in the same motion. The purse felt weighty in my small hand, indicating a good amount of coins. No jewelry, though – not with the guest being also a woman, who would keep any jewelry she had for herself. At least I would be able to buy food directly without having to barter or trade. Whenever a guest left jewelry as payment, I was sometimes concerned my mother wouldn't let me trade it – whereas coins she let me manage freely.

Moving to the back of the house to kindle the oven, I realized I would need to go and purchase grain at the market for us to have bread by that afternoon. Since it would take me a while to prep and bake, perhaps I could bring back some small fruits – then we could have something to eat in the meantime. Seeing my mother still motionless, I slipped the leather purse into my pocket and crouched beside her.

"What's wrong? I'm going to go to the market to bring us something to eat."

She seemed startled by my voice.

"Can you comb and braid my hair first," she asked – eyes becoming oddly wide. "I want my face freshly painted as well, so I'll need water to clean myself. I drank nearly half of it before you woke." Rising, she brushed me aside – strength seeming strangely renewed as she dropped her garment to the floor and stood bare.

"It's not even noon, though," I began to protest, pointing to the sky through the open hatch. "Are you expecting someone?"

Seeming annoyed by my question, she turned toward the front of the house dismissively.

"I want to wear turquoise, like a goddess raised up from a stream . . . the only stream in this desert land. Beasts of the field and birds of the air come from far and wide to drink from my waters." Wordless I watched her venture to the front of the house. With both hands she drew a folded stretch of light green fabric from her stash, just below the window, pressing it to her naked skin in the morning light.

I moved after her in hushed confusion. It was hours before dusk – when her guests usually arrived. I was unsure what her sense of urgency was for. Was she thinking of someone in particular – concerned he might show up at any odd hour? The incense from her previous night's conquest had only just burnt out, and already she was preoccupied with thoughts of another – some lover who perhaps had no notion of the adulation he'd sparked within her. Sensing my mouth grow dry, I struggled to swallow.

With a single commanding wave she beckoned me to join her, at which point I knew there would be no dissuading her. Hungry as I might become – as we both might become, I knew she wouldn't be satisfied until she was costumed fully, head to toe. Starting from scratch on her hair, face, nails and jewelry would take hours, and set back my other tasks greatly. I felt as if I'd just finished readying her last night – and now to start again so soon, my head began to ache.

"I need to get water first, then," I spoke – teeth clenching at the end of my words.

"Hurry please," was all she murmured in response, arching her back in order to fasten the selected fabric around her waist.

Her demands had a way of penetrating my thin frame, like nails bedding into wood – pounding on the outside, disruptive on the inside, impossible to ignore. Unresponsive, I reached to collect my scarf. Draping it loosely over my head, I stooped to collect our nearly empty jar in the kitchen – first drinking its remains before stepping out into the back alley.

Scurrying up the street in the direction of the market, I opted to duck down smaller trails whenever possible; though longer, they would help me to avoid unnecessary attention in the brightness of day. With my scarf covering most of my face, I felt like some sort of thief – weaving my way in and out, my eyes barely visible as they checked each direction once and then twice before I crossed an open road.

Though annoyed, I wasn't surprised in the least to find the line for the well stretching long, since it was so late in the day. Stepping into place at the back, I at once leaned impatiently out to stare down the row of women – one of my feet unconsciously beginning to tap the hardened dirt as I waited. Already I was nervous my mother's strange mood would somehow become an obstacle to me going to the temple with Hesba and Phaena later on. I could never be sure what direction the day would take – not when it started out so oddly. It was clear my mother was becoming hopeful of something – though I couldn't be sure exactly what. Whenever her emotions became compromised, it felt as if the ground were slowly rising and sinking beneath my feet; making plans for any certain course of action became impossible. She could become obsessive in either her melancholy or her pleasure. I had seen it before and could foretell there would be consequences, perhaps for both of us.

I was thankful when the line dissipated rather quickly – grateful to have water sloshing down my chest once more as I hurried from the cobbled market back to the dirt road leading down to our home. I was anxious to begin work on my mother only so that I could monitor and guide her mood; though in actuality I knew finishing her preparations so early would only make the day seem unbearably long – for both of us. Often I liked to imagine I held some type of sway over her temperament; though if I considered this notion long enough I would always eventually accepted it as inaccurate. I had little to no control over her rationale. I could only ever watch her decisions unfold, as if standing at a distance – a sea spread between us, my feet on another shore than hers.

On reentered our home my stomach growled. I knew my mother was hungry just the same – though she showed no outward signs; I had often seen before that she had difficulty distinguishing the needs of her own body. Setting the water in the front room beside her, I went to gather the supplies for painting her face, settling as comfortably as I could just in front of her.

Painting her had always strained my neck and lower back. It took immense focus to trace her eyes correctly, often leaving me sore for hours after I'd finished; and she had her own complaints to contribute as well of course – both during and after the process was complete.

"I want blue for the eyes," she insisted – lips barely opening, as if I were painting them already. "Blue like the deep river I am."

I didn't bother to conceal my frustration with her – my brow furrowing deeply. In annoyance I pushed her chin abruptly toward the window with two fingers – the clear light of day exposing the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Blue was her favorite color – made from crushed azurite, which of course was costly to come by. Like all the other paints, we were running extremely low on it. She became cautious with her breathing as I came close to trace her eyes – first with black, which was the trickiest step in her transformation.

No sooner had I touched the charcoal to her skin then a loud knock came at our door. With nerves already on edge, my fingers slipped easily under tension – tracing a dark, jagged line down across her cheek from her eye.

Dismayed, her mouth fell open and she pulled away – scrambling to take refuge in the corner behind her bed screen. "See! Now he's arrived and look what you've done to me," she hissed from the other end of the room.

Still posed with the charcoal pencil, I shrugged helplessly.

"Go answer his knock . . . no! Stay quiet and he'll think no one is home."

With sudden dread, both our eyes turned in the same instant toward the open window. A second longer and a face appeared in the frame – staring curiously in at us as we sat motionless. Helpless, I watched a young boy look in on – his dark eyes incredulous as he surveyed the inner space, head turning slightly to check the street was empty either way before speaking to us.

Glancing briefly at my mother, I was grateful to see she seemed unfamiliar with the youth.

"My master will be here tonight – if it's agreeable to you," he spoke – in my direction since he was unsure of whom to address.

Disdain was easily detectable in his low voice – or seen plainly in his young eyes as he again checked the street outside. At my mother's sigh of relief I glanced questioningly in her direction; at her eager nod I replied, "It's agreeable."

He was gone before I could look again.

Immediately my shoulders slouched at the release of tension – breathe seeping from my nostrils slowly as I motioned my mother to rejoin me. Giddy with delight now, anticipation shined in her eyes as she crawled from hiding, like a lion from brush – lips curling into a satisfied smile. Looking down as she took her place before me once again, my fist clenched the black charcoal.

"Don't look so sad, Ishtah," she murmured as I at last moved to wipe her cheek. "Now you can go to the temple – like you've been obsessing about."

I paused as she closed her lids for me to trace them, surprised she remembered I wanted to go – startled even. Silent, I watched her tilt her head slightly to the right, lips smiling though her eyes remained closed.

"Tonight you will go to the temple to worship, while I become a temple to house worship in," she shook her head in amusement with herself, adding, "Mothers and daughters are more alike than you might wish."

My throat began to itch, my fingers scarce able to hold steady as I began to color her lids a vibrant shade of blue. I wasn't sure what she meant by this, nor whether or not I wanted to know. Regardless, it was evident she was more aware things than I gave her credit for – evidently knowing how bad I wanted to escape. A moment longer and a sense of culpability began to rise within me. Recently my typical yearnings for escape had become thwarted by varying degrees of guilt. At first I hadn't understood this, but in realizing now that she might suspect it was herself I fled from, and not merely the claustrophobia of our small home, I began to understand her cynicism and resistance to my departures.

Nearly finished coloring her cheeks, I pressed my lips together – careful to avoid eye contact. I did my best to appear only mildly pleased at my prospects of freedom that night – hoping she wouldn't sense my heart beating faster in anticipation. The idea of walking alone out into the quiet, dark streets – of leaving our dingy, enclosed house, of leaving her and her needy demands, undeniably behind rallied my spirit.

Though I disliked the increasing obsession she evidently had for this particular guest, knowing she would be so well entertained that evening lessened my guilt somewhat. Besides, I was far too excited at the thought of my freedom to be burdened by concern any longer. Perhaps I would say a prayer for her at the temple that night – a prayer that her obsession would pass quickly and leave us unscathed. Rising awkwardly to my feet, I dusted my skirt before stooping to collect the brushes and paints.

Reaching out my mother took one of her perfume bottles from the shelf, dabbing a generous amount onto two of her fingers and rubbing them down either side of her neck – her brightly painted eyes staring distractedly at the wall ahead of her, thoughts now fully absorbed by her coming suitor.

Wordless I moved away, feet carrying me softly to the back of our home. There were still many hours left before nightfall descended – bringing a different sort of life to the streets outside. Since my mother had insisted on being dressed and painted so early, I was left with plenty of time to tend the chores, or my own needs. Grateful in the end for the possibility of solitude, I rested both hands on the ladder and lifted myself all the way to the roof.

By now the sun had become hotter than I could nearly stand. Squinting, I surveyed the surrounding area – lungs filling reluctantly with blistering air. From my spot I could see a group of women carrying heavy baskets down the street to the market – younger girls, near my age, trailing behind working in pairs to carry single baskets. It seemed appropriate that I should be looking at them from afar; we led such dissimilar lives. My days and nights were filled differently than the others my age. Dropping slowly to my knees, I pulled my scarf up over my head for shade. The young girls were probably getting excited about the festival of Ashur about now – worried about what they would wear, or who would be watching them dance. Would they find a husband to walk proudly by their side for all to see? Would they soon be leaving their father and mother to begin a new life?

Head bowing, I rested my eyes on my folded hands. My nails were rough and uneven from using the grinding stone. Though I had often had the time to mend them I hadn't bothered – seldom making more than a minimal effort in grooming myself. My energy had always seemed better spent readying my mother. I'd never aspired to appease others with my looks; my aim had always been the opposite – to go unnoticed – wearing dull colors, or else hiding behind my scarf, walking in roundabout ways so that I would speak with no one, eyes focused ever on the ground. Unlike others who might, I didn't want to include myself in my mother's method of beautification. Our sort of costuming was done with a different intent. I supposed when other young women groomed or painted their faces, they envisioned their possibilities widening – whereas for me, partaking of my mother's practices wouldn't increase possibility; instead it would carry me down a single, narrow road – one I had resisted so long. Doors would close to me that wouldn't again open – they would be nailed shut. I curled my fingers under my palms so I couldn't see my nails.

Perhaps I resisted to no purpose. For what actual reason had I kept myself at such a hostile distance from my mother's ways? Was I waiting for a husband? Surely not – holding such expectations for myself would make me as foolish as my mother – pining after lovers that in the end would never stay. In the silence surrounding me high above the streets, crouched hidden on the roof, it was easy to answer my own questions. I knew I resisted painting and grooming myself in her ways, not out of hope for my future, but out of knowing there would be no return to where I formerly was. Though I could hardly say things were good as they were, I had always had a strong sense they could worsen. I was merely attempting to preserve my sense of self. I survived only from one day to the next, with scarce better expectations. Forever destined to observe others from afar – like Phaena, who molded and fashioned her appearance in pursuit of an achievable goal – I would save what little paints we had left for my mother. Rising, I reached for the ladder – dizzy in moving too abruptly.

When it came time for the festival of Ashur, I had already decided it was best for me to hide away. The festival would last a full day and night before ending – loud enough to hear even through the thick walls of our house. The event was no place for me to be seen – or my mother. We had no sacrifices to make to the gods – such rituals were expensive – and I surely wouldn't be dancing in the streets like the others my age. Turning cautiously I began to climb down the ladder, my body instantly beginning to cool as the shade below engulfed me. Standing silent at the base I glanced up through the hatch, back at the sky. It felt like I was at the bottom of a well, with no way up. I could almost see someone throwing a bucket down at me from above, trying to pull up water.

"Are you going to make us something to eat before tonight?" interrupted my mother's voice from behind. I turned to see her standing radiant in the doorway – the smell of her oiled skin filling my nostrils. Now fully painted and dressed, she looked like a temple statue – her hair, combed repeatedly until it shone, falling in waves over her shoulder.

Feet treading softly to join me, her soft arms reached out and she took me in her embrace. "It helps a woman's mood to have a full belly," she insisted. Again her mood had started to alter. With her costume complete she now felt empowered, ready to receive her company at any time – tone dripping already in flirtatious intimacy, even toward me.

Still numb from my thoughts, I nodded and pulled loose from her suffocating grasp. Moving to collect kindling for the oven, I paused, remembering we had nothing to bake – since she had stopped me going to the market, insisting I paint her first. Considering everything I had to accomplish before dusk I quickly became aggravated. Now I would have to journey back to the market in broad day again somehow discreetly, carry fruits as well as a heavy sack of grain alone, crush, mix, and bake it, which would take hours, all before her guest arrived and before I was free to go. I could only hope the baking would be finished in time for her to eat before her lover arrived so she wouldn't have to share with him. The work before me now rose like one of the distant mountains. We stood opposite each other in the small dim space of the kitchen, our moods vastly opposing one another – her face turned distant and dreamlike, and mine now dark and clouded.

After stocking and lighting the oven, once more I found myself marching out into the heat – with only my scarf to protect me from the sun, now directly overhead as it was already the hottest point in the day. In some ways heat such as this worked to my advantage, as the market would be significantly less crowded, but then again, there were many who persisted to stare nosily through shuttered windows during the afternoon lull, unlike during the morning when everyone minded their own business. I did my best to resist checking the windows I passed on my way, knowing it would be of no use to see who might be watching my steps.

Regrettably, going so late to the market would also mean the fruits and vegetables would be picked over. Arriving to the stand closest to our street, I was grateful to find a few good fruits still left – though I hated to purchase anything from that particular seller, who had visited my mother infrequently over the past year; being too expensive for most in our district to afford, he had visited her only sparingly. He handed me my purchases with lingering delay, as if to ask who the fruit was for, or who my mother entertained that night. Determined not to look him in the eye or encourage him to speak with me, I dropped the coins in his dirty hand and carried myself swiftly away to find someone still selling grain. I knew of one seller close to the center of the market who kept very large bins that stayed fairly full, even into the late hours of day. Hoping he might have some I hurried to round a bend in the street, halting abruptly before moving into the clearing ahead. At seeing who stood in front of the seller my breathe caught sharply within me.

Though he faced the other way I saw easily that it was Hesba's son, Aeros. It wasn't difficult for me to recognize his thick, dark hair, his tan shoulders and lean frame. Perspiring from a long day of work, he stood glistening in the sun – his tunic pulled down and tied around his waist to keep himself cool. At once my throat felt scratchy as I tried to swallow – tried to calm my nerves and move slowly away, feet falling uniformly into my previous steps. Allowing myself to fall to the wayside of the street, I made room for several passers – positioning myself nimbly in the shade of a stone wall, eyes still able to watch him from a distance.

I would have to wait until he'd gone, knowing if he saw me he would stop and try to speak with me. My lips twisted as I watched him – tentatively hushed. We had seen each other so little over the past few months. He was away in the fields with his father most days now that he was older, so he had become much easier to avoid when I went to see Hesba and Phaena, or even the few times I spied him in the streets or at the market. Being as watchful and alert as I was, it had never been difficult to spy him before he spied me.

At having to wait my gaze eventually dropped. Things seemed so much easier if he didn't see me – if we didn't speak or make eye contact. From such a short distance I could hear his laughter – hear the hum of his voice as he conversed with the seller and collected a large sack of grain before turning to go. It seemed early for him to have returned from the fields, which were a good ways outside Arrapha. Perhaps Hesba had needed his help at home. I wondered if he intended to go to the temple that night. I could feel a small bead of sweat travel down the backside of my neck as I continued in stillness to wait. A few moment's more and he had disappeared down another street. Without further delay I darted across the street to the seller, who started in fright at my sudden appearance.

"Do you have grain?" I asked, wiping the perspiration from my neck with the hem of my scarf.

"I just sold the last of it," the seller replied, moving to cover his empty bins. "Young man bought nearly too much to carry a moment ago. Try coming back tomorrow – only earlier in the day," his eyebrow arched as he looked over me, adding meaningfully, "Like other women."

Face reddened with fury, I bit my tongue sharply to keep from speaking. With flashing eyes I moved away, my body feeling stiff and immobile – as if it were turning to stone with each step. Amid my anger I decided hotly to never buy grain from him again – no matter what the cost elsewhere. Ducking down an alley, I could only hope the few fruits I'd bought would be enough to satisfy my mother before the evening. I was annoyed to think I had lit the oven before leaving and now wasted the rest of our kindling, since I wouldn't be baking now.

My walk became slow as I ventured in the direction of our home, the streets descending ever gradually at each turn as we lived in the lowest district. Though we needed rain badly, I disliked whenever it came – the few times it did, only because whenever a storm strayed over the city it washed all the filth and waste from the upper districts down into the lower ones, draining into our district – collecting for days, like a cesspit. Often I had wondered what it was like to live at the highest point in Arrapha, where you could look down over the rest of the city – be the first to taste the sweet rain. Stepping into the alley behind our house, I reached out to steady myself against a crumbling wall. If you lived in a higher district you would be closer to the gods, too, I supposed – which couldn't hurt. Maybe the gods heard the prayers of the wealthy better because they were closer to the sky? Maybe the gods could smell their sacrifices better?

I made up my mind in advance not to be mad at my mother when entering our home. I was too grateful to be leaving that evening anyway to really be bothered about the grain, and besides this, I didn't want to offset her happiness – which might jeopardize my forthcoming freedom. Nearly reaching our steps, I stopped short in spying a small, tightly tied sack stashed snuggly against the backdoor. With eyes wide and heart beating fast I approached. It couldn't have been there long as I'd left through the backdoor and would have seen it on my way out. Heavy as I lifted it, I knew it contained grain without checking.

Like a burglar caught stealing, my heart began to sink – varying degrees of shame and guilt waging war with one another over space in my crowded mind. Had Aeros left it? I couldn't think who else would have done such a thing – in fact I knew there was no one else. The elderly woman next door would sometimes act gracious toward me, but she was poor, like us, and I could hardly see her being able to afford offering such a gift. Had Hesba instructed Aeros to do this, or had he thought to leave us grain on his own? My brow creased with mounting consternation.

It seemed I imagined our plight in life to be better disguised from others than it was. I could now see how delusional my thinking had become. Of course Aeros had thought to deliver it himself – it was in his nature to be generous, like his mother. Unlike myself, he was uninhibited by the thoughts of others. Alone, swaying in the sunlight beating down on my face, I squeezed the grain sack tight enough so that my knuckles became white – as if doing so would alleviate the surge of humiliation shaking my thin frame.

With all hopes of peacefully entering our home dissolved, my foot reached out and I kicked the door open. I could see my mother's face all the way at the front of the house where she sat quietly filing her nails, grimace at the noise I made. It was her custom to sit motionless after her wardrobe and face were complete; she didn't want anything to go awry before her guest had the opportunity to appreciate her beauty. During this time she expected me to move for both of us – to cook and clean and even rearrange her skirt around her as she sat waiting. Dropping the fruits and vegetables and sack of grain, my hands rested momentarily on my hips as I fought to remain calm. She must have sensed my frustration all the way in the front of the house, as she was quick to reference my evening trip to the temple at the end of her demand – as if to temper my anger.

"Thank all the gods alike you've finally returned and brought supplies. I'm beginning to hear my stomach growl. I hope you've left yourself enough time to bake before you go off to the temple for your nighttime fun and games."

I paused before speaking only to be sure I didn't start yelling beyond any control. I wanted more than anything to shout at her that there had been no grain left at the market because she had been selfish and made me wait too long to go – I wanted to yell that we would now be eating grain left mercifully on our doorstep like beggars receiving coins at the end of the street. There were many hateful things I wished to spew at her – though none came from my mouth. Clamping my teeth, I forced my hands to drop – knowing it was best to wait and vent alone – like so many times past – after the sun had set, and in the privacy of the night outside. Only the sky above was broad enough to swallow the fury churning shallow in my stomach. Kneeling to the ground in hushed warmth I pulled our grinding stone forward – my fingers working like tiny shears to tear open the grain sack and pour out a few handfuls.

In the end it was good for me to grind for a short while, as it was distracting and strenuous work. When I finished crushing the grain I swept it into a neat pile, sprinkled it with yeast and salt, and poured in some of the water left in our jar. By the time I placed the dough in the oven, which had lessened in heat since I'd set out for the market, I sensed I'd become more calm. With my thoughts now quieter I realized how hungry I was; it was easy for me to overlook my hunger whenever I was angry. After wiping the fruits, I cut them with a knife and arranged them in a small bowl – taking it to the front room to share with my mother. Though still agitated, I was at least able to appreciate the thought of her getting another payment from another lover that night. The hope of being able to purchase additional food was one thing at least to be grateful for. In setting down the bowl I was surprised to see how quickly she ate – though she disliked most fruits – and vegetables of any nature, instead preferring bread and meats. By the time I sat cross-legged in front of her there was scarce anything left.

Satisfied for the moment, she smiled back at me. "After tonight, we should be able to buy wine," she murmured between licking her fingers.

As I seldom drank wine, I shrugged – uncaring.

"It might be more expensive to come by, with the upcoming festival."

She nodded her head in consideration.

"Oh yes, I keep forgetting about the festival. I haven't anything to sacrifice." She pulled a loose scarf over her bare shoulders and stiffly cast back her hair. "Why don't the gods bless me more generously and then I can contribute more lavishly to their demands?" she lamented, almost knocking over the bowl I'd set out as she stretched her round legs.

Rolling my eyes I looked away, quietly considering how thick she'd become. Her face and neck were noticeably swollen – her thighs and arms rounder than usual, more supple. My eyes strayed back toward the kitchen, remembering the small garland of dry silphium I'd found. Since I hadn't seen it again I considered she must have taken it while I was out. Perhaps it would take a while for her body to regain its more youthful silhouette. Who could say when I had such little desire to know her ways?

"Are you going alone tonight?" she asked abruptly.

Unsure of what the best answer to give her was, I moved quickly to collect the now empty bowl – remembering how she could occasionally become jealous of Hesba. "I should hope I am not the only one going to worship at the temple tonight. What would that say about Arrapha – only one lone girl visiting the central temple to offer prayers of thanks – no priests even? If that is the case, we shouldn't expect many blessings from the gods next year." Rising, I swept both knees with my free hand and turned toward the kitchen – trying to look indifferent under the scrutiny of her narrow eyes.

After a pause she called after me, "I'm still hungry you know."

Hidden from sight I moved anxiously to check the oven.

"Bread's done," I responded quickly, again wiping sweat from the back of my neck.

҉

Wishing to be gone well before my mother's lover arrived, I was grateful in the end to have finished her hair and makeup so early. Amid her excitement to entertain this guest in particular, she had been unusually productive as well, having chosen her own garments, dressed herself, and picked out her own jewelry – hanging the pieces around her neck and from her ears as if she were a display case in the market. When she was finally both finished and fed, I could almost hear my mind sighing.

Because she would often check my expression to see if she looked the way she wanted, I had become practiced in appearing delighted – both with either my handiwork or hers. After checking my brief smile of enchantment, she bent clumsily to move her heavy floor cushion closer to the front door, where there she carefully lowered herself to sit unmoving – like a small dog waiting for its master. When fully settled, she at last nodded her head for me to go – insisting that I should also get us more water while I was out.

Further relieved, I moved quickly to open one of the window shutters and place a bowl of lit oil in it – so her caller could see she was at home.

"Don't forget to take it down when he's come," I warned her.

She rolled her eyes and waved me away as if my speaking to her would cause her makeup to smear or her hair to fall out of place. Once, when I'd gone out during one of her guest's visits, she had left the oil lit in the window. In seeing the light another of her callers had decided to drop in on her. Infuriated by what he saw, he never returned to our door again. My mother dismissed the incident with one part laughter and two parts annoyance, referencing how hopelessly proud men were – especially when it came to her. Still, I knew it was a mistake neither of us wished to repeat.

With a single warning I dropped the subject and moved in another direction. At last I could slip on my dusty sandals by the backdoor, cover my head with my scarf, and escape. Though I wasn't thrilled to see my mother so besotted by her caller – leaving me faintly reluctant to leave – as usual, my need for fresh air overcame my apprehensions. I was determined to feel only joy over my short-lived freedom, refusing to take any part of my mother out into the darkness with me – determined to leave any thoughts of her behind in our small, enclosed home – where she belonged.

Outside the blackness welcomed me with open arms – my shoulders dropping as if a heavy weight slid from them. I was most at ease when no one could see me – or at least when I imagined no one could see me. Without a second glance back I moved forward, my feet finding their way easily down our narrow, twisted alley. Blindness was seldom an obstacle for me as I knew the intricate streets of the lower district without falter – whether by day or by night. The lower district was the darkest place in the city as there were no street torches, like there were in the wealthier sectors of Arrapha. In the end this worked in my favor. While others feared the night and what it perhaps hid – all the wives and workmen so afraid of the unknown, I had already seen all the different things darkness could hide.

A moment longer and I soon realized I'd forgotten our water jar, which by now was nearly empty. I knew my mother would be bothered to not have water to wash her face in the morning. Though late already, I used every ounce of energy I felt I had to force myself to stop and turn back the way I'd come. Hoping to avoid my mother delaying me further, I reentered our home as quietly as I could. Collecting our jar I then burst outside once more – now worried Hesba and Phaena might have departed without me, having been forced to wait too long. I knew without a doubt that rising up those numerous steps and entering the sacred temple would be too difficult for me to manage alone. If I'd missed Hesba and Phaena I would have to wait and go another time with them.

Only once had I approached the central temple, in its stateliness and cold splendor, all alone. I had been a child – maybe nine or ten. I couldn't remember what brought me so far from our street, and at such a young age – only the feeling that had drawn me that direction. I remembered wanting to see something different – I wanted to see what purity looked like, to experience sacredness and rest my eyes in a setting unlike what I was accustomed to. I knew the central temple only from the outside, with its immense stone walls and towering columns – illuminated each evening by the setting sun, as if on fire. When I finally made my way up the steps and past the open doors, I saw the inside was equally as radiant. The air was much cooler, the stonework much darker, and the ceiling four stories above my child's head.

No one had been there to look at me disapprovingly. The temple had been empty because of the time of day. At the far end of the sanctuary there was only an elderly priest lying face down at the foot of a shrine – curls of smoke rising from two bowls of incense at either side of him. Only in resting my eyes on the black, stone face of Ashur was I filled with an abrupt, palpable sense of my trespass. I was standing in his house – uninvited. Though I knew of Ashur well, I felt at once he was unfamiliar with me. I was a stranger in that place. Who did I even know that he was acquainted with? – No one. The profile of his face appeared at once unwelcoming to me – his arm extended fully with palm facing upright in exacting command, leaving no room for leniency, even in the furthest, most dimly lit corners of his temple. Even at such a young age, I felt I should only enter his abode with an invitation – and even then, I should keep my thoughts and prayers modest. I left the temple as quickly as I'd come – almost tripping down the steps outside in my haste, the sunlight blinding me as I searched for a small alley to hide in. This was just around the time I started becoming more conscientious of my surroundings – checking who might have seen me, or who might be nearby. With each passing day I became increasingly aware of myself, and how I should relate to others.

That was the last time I'd ever gone to the central temple on my own. Instead, I went appreciatively whenever Hesba invited me to join her – walking neatly behind her as we entered, as if she were some sort of parchment invite needed to gain admittance. Any prayers I murmured in the temple were always short and hesitant, my preference quickly becoming to pray instead outside in the open – alone, my requests lifted up to a starry black sky without a face.

In turning onto a wider street a gentle breeze momentarily cooled my face, lessening my anxieties somewhat. Before long I fell into a jog – next a sprint, careful not to drop our heavy clay jar, or slap the pavement too loudly with my sandals. By running I was able to make it to Hesba's house all the way near the east gate fairly quick. Thankful there were few people out after sunset, I felt confident in running like a madwoman up the streets – laughing almost like a child at thinking what I must look like. When standing in front of their house at last, I took pause briefly to catch my breath and straighten my scarf, tucking my hair neatly behind my ears – though I knew no matter what I did I would still look disheveled.

Since their home faced the open street too broadly for my liking, I had never entered it by way of the front – instead always opting to enter through a small entrance at the side of the house meant for the workers. This is where I found Hesba and Phaena waiting for me, just outside the servants' entry – quietly conversing. My walk gave me away almost at once, at which Hesba started in fright.

"Ishtah, you scare me like that!" she scolded, with Phaena snickering. In an instant her arms were around me – my eyes closing and body caving into the folds of her tunic so that I nearly dropped my water jar.

"Well you certainly kept us waiting long enough," continued Hesba, releasing me so that I could breathe. "A few moments longer and we would have left without you. Even Ashur must get his sleep at some point or other, so we shouldn't keep him waiting. Let's head out the short way to the temple and take the route through the market on the way back so we can all collect water." Here she smiled at me a little – adding, "Aeros will meet us when he's finished eating his supper. He heard you would be accompanying us to the temple and insisted on helping carry the water."

Stooping, I lifted her water jar to my hip – grateful for a reason to lower my head as I sensed my face begin to redden. I wasn't surprised to hear Aeros would be making an appearance later that night – though my body reacted otherwise – with shock, against my wishes. I never knew what to say to Aeros anymore. We spoke relatively little in comparison to Phaena and I, and I wasn't sure what to make of Hesba's smiles and hints whenever she spoke to me of him. I supposed I knew she was only teasing, but I wished she wouldn't. If I really thought about what she was suggesting, I didn't find it humorous or entertaining. It was a foolish thing, especially when I considered Hesba to be so wise.

Much to my relief, we moved off without further delay – headed toward higher streets. I was always thankful to be walking with the two of them, even though Phaena had already returned to being distant and cold – pacing her steps just ahead of mine as we entered the central market. Though less crowded after dusk, the marketplace was far from dead. Now was the time for the field-laborers and herdsmen to come out after the evening meal in search of drink and entertainment, the time for housewives fallen behind with their chores to venture out in the safety of twos to fill their water jars, or else sit and gossip with one another on their doorsteps.

More faithful during the day in her chores than most – and plenty more religious, Hesba often spent her evenings venturing to the central temple, which though a ways away from where either of us lived was well worth the trip, as it was the most extravagant of all temples in Arrapha. Sometimes, if she had extra money to do so, she would even purchase a small dove in the market on our way as an offering to Ashur – which the priests always welcomed.

Tonight there would be no sacrifice, though. It had been a while since I'd last seen her bring anything to the temple. In silence I wondered whether or not her family might be more burdened by the drought than she let on. If they were I knew Hesba would never say as much to me. I had never known her to look distressed. She was calm at all times, gracious and composed in every action and word. Lowering my head, I pulled my scarf tight beneath my chin – remembering the wheat cake she had stuffed in my hand the other day as we'd stood in line for the well. Guilt crowded my mind in realizing it might have been more of a sacrifice for her than I at first imagined. Chest swelling with regret, I gripped both water jars tight as if to alleviate the discomfort.

When we at last reached the large square in front of the central temple, I suddenly became aware of my surrounding again – remembering to be leery of anyone standing around who might be watching the comings and goings of the temple. It was never ideal for me to cross wide open spaces. Though Hesba and Phaena had no need to be wary, I had been taught since young to always watch for other prostitutes; there were many who rivaled my mother. I did know of a corner near the central temple where several of them liked to stand – though not too close for fear of angering the high priests, who wouldn't hesitate to penalize their proximity by way of the temple guards. Despite the risks, there was too great a degree of wealth frequenting the steps of the central temple for these women to relinquish; it was a good place to both see and be seen, to cast a line in the waters and see what could be caught.

"Can you imagine what this place will look like when set ablaze for the festival?" chimed Phaena, her eyes lighting as we walked into the open square. "It will be so crowded we won't even be able to walk through. Think of all the flower garlands and dancing. I wonder if the priests will make the sacrifices out in front of the temple this year, since there will be so many more attending with the drought and all. There won't be near enough room inside to perform the rituals."

Distracted, I hastened my walk – stepping on the tail of Hesba's skirt and almost causing her to trip.

"Steady, Ishtah," she spoke, pointing to the lowest temple step. "You two set the jars here and we can collect them on our way out. There's no sense in coming burdened into the temple."

Bending to place both mine and Hesba's jar beside Phaena's, I moved anxiously into Hesba's shadow – eyes glancing to either side of the temple and back over my shoulder to check all the various roads branching out from the temple. In seeing no familiar faces, or any eyes glowering darkly back in my direction, I breathed a quick sigh of relief and rushed up the remaining steps to the atrium, where there my shoulders began to relax as we moved inside.

Following Hesba's lead, Phaena and I removed our dusty sandals just outside the door before entering the inner space. Immediately the aroma of incense and burning animal fat filled my nostrils. Though I was accustomed to strong scents, like the heavy perfume my mother soaked herself in nightly, I could see from the corner of my eye that Phaena was easily overwhelmed – scrunching her nose in distaste at the various strong odors. Smiling sideways, I distanced myself from both of them now that we were safely indoors. With a mere nod of his head one of the temple priests acknowledged our presence, pausing only briefly from his work sweeping up the ashes of a recent burnt offering.

Simultaneously we each found a spot a short ways away from one other and from the few other worshipers there that night – bending to the floor to whisper our individual thanks and prayers. The stone pavement felt cold as I dropped to my knees. Hesitating to look at the profile of Ashur, ever motionless in his deity, I closed my eyes instead and focused my thoughts. Often when I began to pray, my mother came to mind first – perhaps out of some sort of obedient mindfulness of her, though I seldom knew what to ask for on her behalf. Asking for the usual sort of thinks such as money and health became too monotonous for me, and if I thought too long on her, I eventually became ashamed to even murmur her name in such a place. Closing my eyes tight I bowed my head as if changing my position would give me an idea of what I was supposed to ask for. As my thoughts drifted aimlessly, I began to question whether or not I was worthy enough to even occupy the temple myself, let alone pray for my mother. Did the others temple guests not think it as well? If it hadn't been for Hesba's reassuring warmth which nourished me daily, I should not have visited the temple past the age of ten. I would have kept to the lower districts – instead frequenting the small street shrines along the roads to make my measly offerings and halfhearted prayers.

Sensing it useless, I opened my eyes – slowly tracing one of the interior columns with my gaze from its base all the way up to the plaster ceiling. There was nothing left for me to do. The silence of the chamber had succeeded in suffocating my thoughts. Turning slightly, I rested my eyes on Phaena's petite figure, respectfully bowed a short ways away from me. She was a perfect match for such a space, graceful in look and dignified in manner. I knew I was out of place without being able to see myself – mostly because of the way I felt. Though no one stared at me, questioning whether or not I should be there, my eyes would always itch to check – to search the room for those disdainful expressions, like the ones marring so many of my earliest memories. I almost felt as if my mother were kneeling beside me, muttering her prayers loud enough so that others could hear. I could sense their eyes scorch my back, I could smell my flesh singe – the scent curling up in the air in smoky wafts. I was scarce better off than one of the animals lying helpless on the temple alter, waiting to be sacrificed.

Sensing my heartbeat growing rapid, I fought to quiet my thoughts – reminding myself my mother wasn't actually there. She was far away – behind closed doors. No one could see her – see what she wore, how she lay or whom with. I sensed my body beginning to sway, my hands reaching down to the floor to steady myself – knowing the truth that I should be out of sight as well. I should have stayed behind closed doors – at the back of the kitchen behind our warm stove. What was I doing, kneeling before the cold face of Ashur – having slipped into his house like a thief, as if I would go unnoticed?

Ahead I watched Hesba rise from the floor, turning either way as she looked for us. She had probably been praying for her husband. Spying Phaena, she motioned for her to do the same. Rising silently, I moved to join them. We had been there quite some while, yet I had spent my time once more absorbed in self-pity instead of worship and prayer – plagued by constant anxiety. Lips sealed like stone, I trailed behind them out of the temple and into the warm night air, slipping wordless into my sandals before exiting the atrium. It felt good to be outside, my chest at once beginning to loosen – filling easier as we made our way down the steps.

"What a good son to come and find his mother," exclaimed Hesba.

Startled, my eyes rose. Too distracted for me to watch where my next step would be, my feet tripped just as I tried to reach the lowest temple step. I ended up grasping Phaena to keep from falling, who pulled away in annoyance at my messing up her tunic.

Waiting at the foot of the steps stood Aeros, holding both mine and Hesba's water jars in his arms. At seeing us his face came alive, his eyes glancing first to his mother, but then, much to my embarrassment, moving quickly to meet mine. By the time I regained my balance Hesba had already joined him, rising on her toes to kiss her son's brow before turning happily to wave at Phaena and me to hurry.

"I told you to meet us at the well, Aeros. You needn't have come all the way to the temple – not when you worked as hard as you did for me today."

"It's no trouble," he dismissed, shrugging his shoulders, "The air is much cooler outside than in the house, and you know I enjoy walking."

Smiling, Hesba released him.

From the direction his eyes strayed I could tell he was intent on speaking with me. With difficultly he shifted the weight of both jars, waiting patiently for me to descend fully before approaching.

"Well. You could have offered to take your sister's as well," interjected Phaena, abruptly referencing her own jar in annoyance.

"Why would I help you when a lady needs assistance?" quipped Aeros through the side of his mouth.

"Both his arms are full, Phaena, leave him alone," interrupted Hesba.

"Well, you might have gone straight to get the water and take it back then," continued Phaena, unremitting, "If you were really trying to be useful, that is." Casting her lengthy hair behind her shoulder, she resituated her head covering and moved ahead.

"Didn't know you knew the meaning of the word," sparred Aeros.

"You should be grateful he's come at all and can hoist the water up from the well for us, Phaena – you know this is your task. He's done more than his share of work for the day," spoke Hesba, annoyed by both her children now.

I was grateful for the rivalry between brother and sister as it lessened my uneasiness somewhat – enabling me to smile a little even as I moved after Phaena into the square. Hearing Phaena and Aeros bicker reminded me of our childhood – back when Aeros was younger and much less chivalrous, picking on us as we played games, or arguing with Phaena over childish absurdities.

"How are you, Ishtah?" he asked, once Hesba and Phaena had moved ahead of us a ways. "I see you so little." His voice lowered in adding, "I would hate to think you're avoiding me – though I don't believe you would. How is your –" he shook his head slightly and cleared his throat. "How have you been getting on without me? We both know Phaena is a complete bore these days."

Trying to decide what to do with my now unoccupied hands, I swallowed and looked away, pained somewhat by his attempts to skirt inquiring after my mother. It was custom to ask after someone's family when greeting them, though Aeros knew me too well to risk asking about my mother. Although it was only out of consideration for me that he avoided the subject, I as usual resented the precautions he took.

"I'm doing well," I replied, trying to sound natural – though I felt far from it. "And you – how is the harvest coming? Did you pull the ox today or push the plow? Phaena told me you sprained your wrist." I had to remind myself to slow down my normally fast pace in order to match his lingering steps. It was difficult to resist taking flight after standing so long in the open.

Seeming pleased I took interest, he laughed aloud.

"I wasn't hurt too bad," he assured. "The ox will obey me by and by."

We paused as a group of farmers moved out from our path before proceeding. While waiting I noted subtly, and without surprise, how far Hesba had managed to distance Phaena and herself from us.

"I don't see you anymore," continued Aeros. "Once I saw you leaving the eastern gate when I was going out to the fields. You were headed off the road like you always do. I waved and called to you, but I don't think you saw me. Not paying attention to anyone else, as usual," he teased.

"Are you sure it wasn't Phaena, then?" I heard myself joke. Though warm and engulfing, his laughter startled me.

"I suppose that does sound more like Phaena than you," he conceded, grinning.

My lips twisted oddly as I fought to control my expression. I could feel the rigidity in my neck soften at the sound of his voice – my arms beginning to slightly swing to and fro as we walked side by side, the muscles in my face loosening so that I began to faintly smile. In surprise I found I'd lost track of where we were – or where we were even headed. Before I could open my mouth to ask he halted abruptly in his tracks, heaving both jars upward to better grip them. In vain my eyes tried not to notice his muscular, lean arms. Not nearly so scrawny as they used to be, long hours of work in the fields had shaped him more in the likeness of a man now than a boy.

"She won't stop talking about the festival of Ashur," spoke Aeros, nodding in Phaena's direction. "My only prayer is that it will come and go soon. I think I've had all I can take." He flashed his bright grin, adding, "Let's just say she isn't the only one praying for a husband to come and take her away." Glancing down at the pavement beneath us, his expression seemed stuck for a moment.

"Can you reach inside my pocket for me?" he asked.

Embarrassed, I glanced to either side of us.

"Both my arms are full and I've brought something for you," he explained quickly.

Too confused to object, my hand reached obediently for the pocket at his hip, fingers sinking blindly inside. Fearful of what anyone watching might think, I seized the first object I came to – grateful to withdraw. Pulling it from concealment by one end until it dangled between us, I saw it was a leather cord. If I hadn't been so dazed, I would have caught the nervousness in his voice as he shifted weight and explained.

"I carved it for you last week, during my midday meals." He shrugged his broad shoulders, hesitant to look me in the eye.

At closer inspection I saw a tiny bird had been fastened near the end of the cord, carved with great detail from a small piece of wood.

"It's a necklace," he concluded – voice gaining momentum.

I swayed before him – unable to think what to say. No one had ever taken so much consideration of me. Now that I thought of it, no one had ever given me a gift before. My lips moved as if to form words, though nothing came out. By this point I wasn't entirely sure whether or not I was dreaming.

"You know it's almost time for the festival of Ashur," continued Aeros. "There is that part before the ceremony when all the girls celebrate with dancing. I don't know – you know, before the sacrifices." Here his words began to run together amid his eagerness. With chin tucked safely down he inhaled briefly before looking up. "Wear it for me at the festival," he asked. The lines on his face softened, his eyes holding mine just long enough for me to know his meaning. "That way I'll –" his words trailed off at my undiscernible expression.

Had I been less stunned I would have taken greater pains to alter my response. I would have adjusted my face – relaxing it so that I didn't appear so unforgiving. Instead, I could feel my vision narrow. I could feel myself pull away. The few steps between us now stretched like miles of Assyrian desert. The innocence and naivety of his request somehow isolated me – sending me back to the lowest district where I'd come from, back down the winding dark trail leading to my mother's house, curling me up near the oven, waiting for her lover to depart. In the face of his generous offering, I felt more detached from him – from the others, than ever before.

Aeros had never understood, and never would. It was easy for him to be kind when he had a mother so gracious and a family so respected. Why couldn't he see like Phaena that even their mere association with someone like me could be considered charitable at best? In truth I was far beneath them – an infiltrator broken into a house not his own. I pretended, for a brief moment in time, to belong – yearning. Why did he dangle the impossible in my face, as if I were one of the oxen in the field, led by a treat forever out of reach while I pulled my heavy load? I looked blankly back on his openness, questioning whether or not he was even sound of mind to ask such a thing of me.

Already I could feel my neck become rigid once more – my lips sealing shut as so often they did. I wanted to ask him why he was trying to make fools out of both of us. I wanted to hand him the bracelet and see him stuff it back into hiding, so no one would know of this. Unsure what to say, I blinked – trying to slow the fiery rhythm of my heart. Perhaps he found this all amusing – perhaps he found me humorous, or found my life entertaining. Considering for a moment whether or not he merely pitied me, I tried not to shudder visibly. With every passing second he stood waiting, my anger swelled. The immense effort of cracking my lips felt as if I were breaking the mold from a plaster statue – the pieces crashing to the ground to unveil a hidden splendor.

Though I succeeded in opening my mouth, I was scarce afforded the time to speak a single word. From my right side someone gripped my extended wrist and yanked me from Aeros. With mouth ajar I dropped the necklace I held, face turning upward to meet with my aggressor – eyes rising to look back on the colorfully painted face of a tall, dark woman. Towering, with long black tresses that fell below her waist, she leered down over me like a cat with a mouse pressed between its claws. Like chains, the bracelets she wore stacked up both her arms clanked as she secured her hold on my arm. Gripping my wrist with one hand, she pulled my face close to hers with the other – the warmth of her breath pouring down my neck as I squirmed.

"Baila's daughter," she pronounced over me – as if I didn't know who I was.

I cowed in her presence, startled beyond struggling any further. Distracted by Aeros, I hadn't noticed her approach us from the side. Now more alert than ever, I soon saw she wasn't alone. Standing idly behind her, another, slightly older prostitute smiled at us with yellow teeth. To my further dismay, I realized the street we were walking on had become busier than was usual for that time of night – several passers stopping to watch what took place; enough so that a small gathering formed around us. Scarce able to believe what was happening, my limbs at once became petrified with humiliation – any strength I possessed now seeping from me like my breath into the night sky. With face twisted toward hers, I couldn't see Aeros – and nor did I want to. I wanted more than anything to melt into the pavement cracks below.

"Are you about her business now or have you found a handsome young conquest of your own?" she jeered, releasing my wrist only to take my small face in both her hands. Choking back her evident fury, she leaned close to my ear to whisper, "Ask that gluttonous spider of a mother you have how long she thinks she can keep Rab Seen pinned between her legs. If she is lonely for company and there is not enough for her in her own district, then perhaps I can send someone else to pay her a visit – though not to bed with her."

Laughter from her female companion filled my ears. I was familiar with both of them, though only from a distance. They worked the streets near the central temple where wealthier patrons could be found – though neither of them was as successful as my mother. Even from so far away – crouched in the lowest district of Arrapha, my mother's reach was long enough to agitate the entire city. Beginning to feel the edges of her decorated nails bite my skin, I cleared my throat.

"I'm sure she would welcome it," I responded – voice even and low, "Just as she welcomes another of your bored lovers tonight."

Eyes widening, her nails cut into my cheek with sudden vigor.

The sound of smashing clay unlocked our gazes, drawing them toward Aeros. Without success he had tried to set the load of jars he held down, in the end throwing them to the stone pavement beneath him. In an instant his hands were on the woman's shoulders – brow furrowed and neck straining. It took him only one shove to send the woman flying into the arms of her companion, who after catching her friend began to shriek unending profanity at us – only drawing more attention to the spectacle we'd become.

In silence I lifted my hand to my cheek, fingers probing the throbbing wetness of blood drawn from the lengthy scratch left across my skin. Refusing to meet the concerned stare of Aeros, I turned away. From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Hesba, weeding her way through the gatherers – with Phaena holding off in the distance. I didn't bother to check their expressions – or whether they'd seen what transpired, instead moving in the opposite direction, pushing, much like Aeros had with the prostitute, to free myself of the scene.

I was too fast for any of them to catch. Traveling better in the dark than most, I sunk familiarly into it with comfort and ease – my feet carrying me from a hasty walk into an outright run as soon as I was out of sight. When far enough from the main road, I stopped to lean against a house and check my heart – wondering at the faintness of its beat. It felt as if it were flickering out inside me, like our oven at home, when we had barely enough fuel. Running my hands down the wall behind me for support, tears of humiliation began to stream down my burning cheeks. A moment longer and I began to sob aloud – at first low, beginning in my gut, but then bursting uncontrolled from my lips in the same manner mourners wailed at funeral processions.

Afraid of being found, I forced myself to continue walking – like a drunkard at night, barely able to see where I went, and with only a vague notion of where I was headed. By the time I reached the eastern city gates, my sobbing had thankfully lessened – reduced now to raspy, short breaths, my walk becoming increasingly more resolute with each step I took. In passing the lonesome entryway pillars of Arrapha I was able to conceal most of my face with my scarf, the single guard stationed in the dark taking little interest in a small, disheveled figure such as mine exiting the city alone.

Though I struck my already stubbed toe the minute I broke from the main road – cutting out across rocky terrain, this slowed me little. I found my body, along with my mind, had gone completely numb – as I was scarce able to feel pain of any degree. Overhead there were no stars to guide me on my crooked path, closely tracing the base of the city wall, headed now to my familiar pool of water; I could smell its warm stench long before reaching it. Stretching out my arm I felt for the rigid wall of Arrapha to my right. A few more yards and I could see the reflection of the water – my lungs expelling air deeply as I gazed.

Transfixed, my scrambled mind wondered what Aeros had done after I'd left – wondered what he'd thought, now that the incident was finished. Surely he felt equally humiliated, judging by the size of the crowd that had gathered around us. I knew he had involved himself in the matter only out of instinct – nothing more. Face distorted in agony, I pulled away from the support of the wall. I didn't have to guess what Phaena might be thinking or feeling, knowing already that she would be embarrassed beyond words; and Hesba, sweet Hesba who came running with nothing but concern – she would be wondering only if I was alright. Finding a spot against the base of the city wall, I curled myself up – wrapping my thin arms around my bended legs in hopes my stomach would stop churning.

Recognizing the pattern my thoughts began to follow, I knew I would need to find a way of silencing my mind. Tormenting myself into the late hours of night would come of no avail. There was nothing in this life that could be undone, and the gods were seldom kind even afterward – often leaving me for hours to fester inwardly in ashamed madness. Many were the times I suffered alone, since my mother knew little of humility. Perhaps this was what the gods wanted? If I even had money to afford a sacrifice would Ashur even listen? Perhaps it was Ashur himself who found me entertaining, and not Aeros. How he must have laughed when I came crawling into his temple that night, thinking I went unnoticed. Shuddering, I turned to look out across the pool. At least I felt safe for now – being far outside the city, crouched near the water in this strange place that somehow choked out chaos. Closing my eyes I let my shoulders drop, surrendering readily to the full weight of my sadness.
5. Mystery of the Veil

Though temperatures in Assyria often soared to staggering heights during the day, they often became abruptly cold after sunset, leaving many caught off-guard by the sudden changes – myself being no exception. Considering how much time I spent outdoors, it never failed to surprise me how ill-prepared I always seemed. As the warmth of my adrenaline began to subside, I found myself growing colder and colder in the darkness outside, with nothing more than my scarf to cover my limbs. Utterly alone, nothing but the wind broke the silence surrounding me – howling as it cut across the top of the city wall above, little by little tapering the frenzied thinking of my mind.

Cold and sore as I might become the idea of returning home that night was out of the question. I knew my mother would already be busy entertaining her guest, and besides my possibly being in the way I feared I wouldn't be able to return amicably – not in my present state at least. I could easily still sense a wild impulse within me to either yell or cry – though it had lessened somewhat as my physical strength began to dissolve.

As the temperature continued to drop I straightened out my legs from beneath me, feeling them begin to stiffen already. Since it wasn't the first time I'd slept by the pool, I knew it would be a rough night – though worth it in the end for the small comfort it would afford my mind. After several attempts to situate myself, I at last settled with lying on my right side – hip throbbing mildly as it rested it on solid rock, eyes focused unwavering on the surface of the water. With a stone just high enough for my head and my scarf tucked tightly over my shoulders, I finally felt ready for sleep – too exhausted even to shiver, the acceleration of my thinking slowing enough so that my mind began to drift aimless.

In closing my eyes I was surprised to sense them open again almost at once. Squinting upward I saw the sky above the city began to glow brightly orange. Confused, I sat up in place, strength seeming renewed just as my ears filled with the distant sound of music – of tambourines and singing. Wordless I rose from beside the pool, the blazing light from the city drawing me back the way I'd come – back to the main road leading up to the eastern gate.

Though I traveled at a rapid pace, I noticed I didn't grow tired or stumble – my feet remaining steady over uneven terrain, seeming almost to glide instead of climb. In seeing the eastern gate rise before me I was at once reluctant to enter, recalling all of what had just transpired for me therein. My hesitancy was of no avail, though, as I drifted through the empty gateway regardless, unperturbed and without protest in the absence of any bystanders or guards, drawn on by the lights and sounds. As I drew nearer the source of the commotion, I found myself standing in the arena of the central temple, where twenty bonfires had been lit – sputtering oil and ash in every direction, setting the sky ablaze in defiance of the dark night. The smell of the fumes filled my nostrils and lungs deeply, almost choking me.

Stepping back a ways, I glanced to either side and I saw the arena was mostly empty; everyone had gone someplace again and not told me where. With music still throbbing in my ears I journeyed on, walking plainly down the middle of the road since there was no one to hide from. As the music grew louder I began to slow my walk, halting entirely as I reached the end of the street – pausing out of instinctive caution before proceeding out from darkness. The entire city it seemed had converged in one area, packing along the edges of the main street leading up to the central temple – so tightly that I could scarce see what everyone was looking at. Assorted men and women stood, like a wall with their backs to me. I was able to weave and duck my way through them only with great determination – bursting out onto the open road ahead of them more forceful than I planned. Dazed, my feet shuffled through a carpet of red petals several inches thick. Thousands upon thousands of petals had been littered across the pavement until it was nearly invisible – trailing all the way down the road from the steps of the high temple, like a river of blood. The sight took my breath away. With the celebration now engulfing me, I knew this must be the festival of Ashur. Any hesitation I once felt now completely dissolved amid the wild fervor of the crowds, my feet carried me onward.

With the passing of a few mere moments, hundreds had gathered in the temple square to witness the ceremonial proceedings. From my place in the open street I could see a giant bull had already been slaughtered, lying in pieces at the foot of the towering temple pillars. Just inside, the high priest began to disrobe in preparation for Arrapha to burst into song and dance – the young women my age eagerly aligning along the base of the temple steps – stepping cautiously to avoid the pooled blood of the sacrifices, their colorful garments billowing in the warm breeze. In an instant I became overtaken – the spectators along the street sidelines beginning to crowd around me. Lifting my hands I pushed my way to the front, fighting to stay ahead of the chaos until I made it all the way to the outskirt of the brightly lit temple arena – feet skidding uneasily across the open pavement.

Though for some reason unable to see myself, I sensed my clothes had now somehow changed – that I now wore an exquisite dress, unlike anything I owned or had ever worn before. A veil, shimmering like gold as it hung from the back of my head, mixed with my long, smooth hair as I gently swayed. Bewildered, I looked to check the faces of the crowd behind me to see if they noticed. As they were too hazy to distinguish from one another, they afforded me no answers. Once more unsure of myself, I ventured forward only two steps more. Then the tambourines began to rattle loudly – the flutes striking up and drums beginning to pound in deafening rhythm. Without warning, the other girls came forward and took hands with me – drawing me into line with them. Mesmerized by the swish of so much fabric and glitter of so much jewelry, I found myself beginning to dance. As my hips began to sway, my feet mimicked the pattern they followed with surprising ease. Soon I was almost running to keep up with the others, face stretching into a rare smile as I moved – even casting my head back and laughing. I could feel the hem of my veil graze the pavement beneath me as I danced.

Approaching near the end of our performance we began to spin in circles, raising our hands just above our heads – enough that I became dizzy and had to slow myself, breaking slightly from the group. Pausing to catch my breath, I glanced back at the young group of girls, so colorful and bright, scarce able to believe I was actually dancing in the festival with them. Through the fiery torchlight and blur of the crowd, I was just barely able to spy Hesba, nodding her head and clapping her hands – eyes happy as she watched the performance. Glancing to my left I found the backside of Phaena, dancing at the other end of the arena – her light blue skirt swirling widely as she spun round and round, her face somehow turned just so I couldn't see it.

When the music began to fade I was surprised, sad even as the lights abruptly started to dim. Then the others stopped dancing in place and released each other's hands. Glancing round to see what followed next, my eyes searched the crowd – both expectant and now fearful. Feeling my pulse start to race, my expression grew immediately flat – inwardly hopeful it was only in my imagination that the entire city were turning noiselessly to look on me.

Before any course of action or flight could be taken on my part, a tall woman wearing a lengthy veil broke through the crowds skirting the temple. The moment I saw her, my joints locked with terror, and I began to utter a prayer that she wouldn't come for me. With eyes traced heavily in dark paint so that she looked more dead than alive, she searched the faces of the long line of dancers – taking only a moment before arriving to me. As if she could hear my very thoughts, she turned at once in my direction – cutting abruptly through a pair of girls just ahead of me. Wordless she took me by the wrist, yanking me out of place.

With every step we took, the familiar squeeze of humiliation began to suffocate my lungs – my feet dragging heavily across the pavement as all of Arrapha stared. Plunging us into the crowd, she pushed her way easily through – being taller than anyone else in sight. As soon as we'd exited the arena our pace increased rapidly – a wide birth forming around our steps, wider and wider the further we ventured.

For the briefest moment I frantically believed I might somehow be able to detach myself from her. In resisting her pull for only an instant, though, I relinquished my struggle. She held me fast with the strength of a man. In despair I stumbled after her authoritative walk. Was there nowhere I could hide from these sadistic women? Inwardly I knew it was time I accepted that I would always be found, no matter where I was or who I was with. If Arrapha were my prison, then these surely were my keepers – my capture and humiliation as inevitable as the eventual death of every living thing. Perhaps it was madder in the end, to run rather than stay? Watching the faces of those we passed, vacant and blurred, I came closer to acceptance of this reality than ever before – feet giving suddenly in, instead of dragging painfully behind.

As if my humiliation could reach no end, I was shocked to see Aeros standing a short ways ahead of us. The only one to step out from the sidelines, he ground himself firmly in our path – both arms lifting, as if to halt the woman leading me. Disheartened, I watched us glide straight though him – as if he weren't there at all – his young face turning in wonder to watch us engulf ourselves in shadow. Helpless, I heard myself shout back at him. I couldn't understand what I said – only my intent, which I knew was to send him away. There would be no salvation for me that night. What could he possibly do but make things worse for himself? Though I had no strength to resist or fight for myself, I could at least find the courage to convince him to leave. With every shred of hostility my voice could muster, I shrieked back at him from over my shoulder – casting him into the crowd that stared after us, setting the trail ablaze behind me so that none would dare follow. If I was going to die, either from my own slow, agonizing humiliation, or else at the hands of my captor, I would at least do so without an audience.

I had seen an actual madwoman once before when I was younger, at the outskirts of the city as I was trying to venture to the pool of water – as usual. I could remember her tangled hair, ripped clothes and wild eyes vividly. She would yell at anyone who came near her, frightening everyone away. I wondered now whether or not I would share in her fate. Why not, when already I was shrieking like a madwoman – purposefully casting back others before my downward spiral began. Perhaps such a manner of existence was the only way to truly isolate myself?

Unable to resist, I looked across my shoulder one last time. Far from the temple now, there was no way of telling how Aeros had reacted to my words. We were too quick in our departure for me to see much of anything. Behind us everything turned into a brilliant haze – melting together undiscernibly, like wax beneath a flame.

By the time we reached our final destination, night had oddly turned to day. For some reason or other, I wasn't surprised to see we stood at the lonesome pool of water outside the city – our sandals a few mere feet from the edge. Glancing up at the majesty of the full Assyrian sun, now scorching my scalp where my hair was parted, I squinted uncomfortably. The stench was much greater than usual, the hum of insects drawn to the water now filling my ears. Normally my place of refuge – my place of stillness and quiet, the entire area instead now throbbed – as if giant veins were pulsing just beneath the ground. With the buzz of insects increasing, I wanted to scratch my arms and legs – I wanted to run into the rugged terrain beyond and never come back. Instead, I found I could barely move – a magnetism keeping me stationed closer to the water than I liked.

Without warning, the prostitute tightened her grip around my wrist, managing easily to drag me the remainder of the distance between us and the pool. There was no sound as we splashed straight into the murky water – flies scattering as we broke the surface. In terror I fought to pull myself back onto dry ground, never suspecting her intention was to take us in – such a notion unthinkable to me. Though I'd gazed for countless hours over the years at the water, I'd never once made contact with it – never able to guess with any degree of confidence how deep it really was. Perhaps I still believed, like a child, that there was no bottom – that if one ventured out too far one would sink into nothingness.

The prostitute didn't stop until we reached the center of the pool, despite my flailing and splashing – my clothes so heavily soaked that they began to weigh me down. In a moment of stillness, fighting to catch my breath, I was astonished to find us standing only knee-deep. This revelation did manage to quiet my panic for moment – the mystery of the pool seemingly ended as my feet slid relatively grounded into place at what surely was the deepest point of the water. Then she released my wrist – the indentions of her nails left vividly on my skin. For a second I stood alone, our eyes met unblinking as we faced one another – then I began to sink. Making no movement to help, she watched, withdrawn, as my struggle began.

Unable to swim, I grasped her waist in immediate desperation – my terror fully reinstated. Footing dropping abruptly out from beneath me, water flooded me – gathering above my shoulders like sand and closing round my neck. Reaching out my arm, I was just able to reach the end of her veil – imagining for an instant I could use it like a rope and pull myself to safety. Instead, my yanking the fabric merely pulled it loose from her face. In silence my eyes rose to look on the painted face of my mother – her expression lifeless as she looked down on me, her colored lips sealed shut. Sand poured into my gaping mouth, clogging my throat as I searched her vacant features. My voice was drowned out before it could even begin, my vision blackening as the sound of coughing filled my ears, my mind pulsing with sudden life. Eyelids resistant to opening, my body rolled blindly over – striking my head against something sharp.

When at last I woke there were flies on my face. It had become the next day – with the sun sitting directly overhead. I immediately felt broke from head to toe in trying to lift myself, batting my eyes blankly at the sky. In managing to slowly lift myself, nothing but rocky terrain stretching for miles from the foot of Arrapha met my gaze – an acute sense of vacancy filling me as I straightening my back. From the north a hot, solitary breeze peeled loose hair away from my cheek. Looking momentarily toward the sun, I quickly bowed my head in submission to its brilliance. In a flood, my memories of last night rushed to greet my consciousness – like a faithful dog, eagerly joining its master outside his door. As if walking across a bed of thistles, I recoiled – face distorting as the barbed hooks pierced the soles of my feet.

Though my dreams often disturbed me, in that moment I surmised they might better than facing the severity my wakefulness. Already the scuffle of last night flashed across my mind in fragmented pieces – me praying on bended knees in the temple, Aeros waiting at the steps, the breath of the prostitute on my skin, her nails scratching my cheek, the smashing of the jars, the spectators gathered round. So agonizing were these memories that I considered for a moment simply rising and walking out into the oblivion of Assyria – out into the hot, desolate terrain to never return. I supposed that if I walked all day and night for two days I could make it to the capital, Assur. Or perhaps not – perhaps I would die within a few hours.

In standing I became dizzy, reaching for a nearby boulder to steady myself. In bitterness I conceded I wouldn't make it out in the desert without water for more than a day – not when I was parched already and had had nothing to eat since yesterday. Lowering my gaze I sunk my teeth into my lower lip, questioning how I could possibly return to Arrapha. How could I walk down those streets again after what happened? Surely this was Ashur punishing me – I had no business in his temple last night, no business walking in the open alongside reputable people as if it would go unnoticed. There was no one to blame but myself, and no one else standing with me besides. I was alone – as always. Stooping, I reached to collect a small stone – my dry fingers curling securely around it. With what little strength I could muster, I cast it at the pool – relishing the momentary discord I was able to cause the surface.

I wasn't sure how I managed to turn and face the direction of the eastern gate exactly, only that I was able to prod myself forward by alternating my breath with taking each step, one by one as I weaved my way slowly in and out of the rocky crevices that snaked back to the main road. Overhead, the sun became like a whip on my back – driving me forward in my search of shade, increasing ever so slightly in heat moment by moment. I was grateful not to have lost my scarf the other night during my brawl with the prostitutes – my scalp equally as relieved to be shaded by it as my mind was to have a covering for my face when reaching the city. Since it wasn't yet at the hottest part of the day, I knew there would still be a good amount of traffic coming and going through the eastern gate – enough for sure to attract unwanted stares.

In passing through the yawning gates, my heart felt heavy – as if I were being lowered into a grave – despite my being able to duck inside fairly smoothly, since there was enough going on around the entryway for me to go unnoticed even by the sentries. The thought of passing Hesba's house left me agonized, as I knew there was no other way to access the lower district – a place I now irrevocably knew I belonged. Her home stood steadfast and tall on the corner of the road descending to my district, her front windows looking out on all that passed – both good and evil. There was no hiding from Hesba; she always had an eye out for me. Turning down a small alley to avoid a group of women headed to market, I considered for the first time the idea that she might not be watching for me that day. Perhaps last night had proven too much for her to stomach – and if not too much for her, then surely too much for her children's sakes.

Remorse over my thoughtless behavior bore deep into my bones, causing my entire body to ache. There was a strong chance now that I'd lost the only good thing in my life, having pushed my way too forcefully in. Knowing Hesba always watched out for me often filled me with a sense of embarrassment – at times even bothering me, but the idea she might finally have washed her hands of me caused me to shudder – despite the intensifying heat. In the absence of her singular awareness of me, the emptiness of the alleys, of the broad streets and city would suffocate me. If this were the case, I would reap neither the benefits of fully living – to have fellowship among others, or the benefits of being dead – to be left fully alone and in rest. Swallowing, I fought to calm my wild thinking – unable to remember a time I last became this deeply sad.

A few steps more and I reached the start of the road leading past Hesba's house. I had to grind my teeth to spur myself forward, my feet becoming heavier the closer I drew. I dared not look at her house – at the windows to see if the shutters were pulled back, to see if anyone's face looked out from inside – out into the dusty, hot road to watch me to pass. I walked with head held low and eyes turned away, slow enough not to draw attention to myself, but quick enough to escape in the shortest time possible. Only when I'd fully passed and rounded the bend of a corner did I breathe once more.

In pushing ahead, I considered that perhaps their shutters had been closed, like the front door – or that perhaps I made too much of it. I would never know because I had refused to look, and either way regardless, I knew now I would have to leave behind any cares I had concerning the matter – concerning them. I would have to station new boundaries in place – draw a line in the sand, since I evidently lacked self-control. I wouldn't wait and check if a line had already been drawn for me. I knew finding out it had would be too much for me stomach.

I was surprised to find our street quieter than usual – no children running or dogs barking as I made my way past the low-built houses. A new sort of heaviness set in on me as I drew nearer our humble abode – my pulse beginning to quicken, my breath becoming shorter and less substantial, my walk starting to drag. Shaking gently to reorient my mind, I placed my hand on the latch of our door, pausing only to check the street before pushing it open. It swung with quiet ease – the dark interior within beckoning me coolly forward. Unable to move, my arms hung loosely at either side of me as I gazed ahead. I realized I didn't pause for my own sake, but rather hoped some form of delay would occur, thus altering my attitude before my entrance into the home – for my mother's sake. Standing in our door, after the manner in which the night had ended, I couldn't be certain how I would act – what I would say, or do. I was unsure whether the madwoman I had become in my dreams last night was present with me now, unsure of whether or not my behavior could be trusted. Breathing deeply in with resolution, I moved inside – quick to close the door behind me.

I was grateful to reach shade at last, my skin cooling instantly as I gravitated inside the room – allowing my scarf to fall loose around my neck to better see my surroundings. Blinking rapidly, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. With the solemnity of a temple priestess, I surmised the state of the house – the disorderly floor mats and cushions, a spilt platter of half eaten fruit and bread crusts, even a broke jar – the last one we had. I could feel the surging blood in my veins begin to slow as I shifted weight, my limbs becoming numb with lack of oxygen. Wordless I watched the curl of incense waft up into the air beneath the shuttered window.

Barely visible in the corner of the room, with skirt twisted revealingly in knots around her waist, lay my mother – sprawled out where she'd no doubt been left. Makeup smeared and dry and black hair tangled on either side of her face, she looked more like a witch than temptress. Moving quickly to open the window, I loudly cast back the wooden shutters – exposing the small room fully to the brilliance of day. Stooping, I at once began to tidy the room, nostrils flaring as I clattered dishware together – making no effort keep quiet.

Frightened, my mother stirred at once at the commotion I made, her painted lids opening wide to reveal her red, weepy eyes. At seeing me she lifted her hand feebly, beckoning me to come to her side.

"Tell me you brought water, Ishtah?" she whispered – voice raspy and weak. "I pray a thousand prayers to all the gods alike, you have water with you?"

I turned readily at hearing her speak.

"I have no water," I spat in her direction – quivering. "There won't be any water either, since I can't carry it from the well. You and your clumsy guest broke our only jar. What do you want me to do, carrying it in my cupped hands – drizzle it in your open mouth and run back for more?"

Her dazed expression only angered me further.

"You can barrow one, surely –" her voice trailed off in melancholy.

"Run your own errands!" I snapped, choking back a sudden impulse to cry. With vigor I pointed at my cheek, feet carrying me swiftly to her side so she could see the scratches the prostitute had branded me with. "See what your fellow whores have done to your daughter? You can fend for yourself from now on – I'll have nothing to do with you." Shaking with emotion I moved away, knowing full well I spoke merely out of enraged stupidity and hopelessness.

Lips parting as I drew away, her eyes became instantly as crazed as mine – if not more. "He left me!" she shrieked – in a manner that halted my walk.

In an instant her sobs filled my ringing ears. Unwilling to return, I glanced only sideways back to face her. Rolling over to her side, I watched her body begin to heave as she wailed – tears already streaming from her eyes. The sound of her cries filled our home, occupying every nook and cranny – even the air I breathed. My lungs were filled with the heaviness of her sobs as I stood swaying in deliberation – angered, but also curious as to what she meant. Did it matter whether I stayed or went? It didn't. Regardless, I knew there would be no escape. There would be no moving further away from her than I already was. If I went out into the streets, the sound of her crying would follow me down the road – throbbing in my chest. As if by force my eyes looked back on her, my spine rigid at the sound of her guttural moans. I was incapable of looking away. With my spirit shattered in the dimness of our home, my feet carried me softly back, one step at a time, until I found myself kneeling beside her quaking form.

"All this – is done for you, Ishtah," she babbled between sobs, adding bitterly, "And you think – I'm selfish."

Feeling myself deny this with a shake of my head, I watched as both my arms extended to calm her – my anger crumbling as I felt her desperate shudders, her eyes sealed tragically and mouth gasping, like a small girl that had tripped and fallen. I'd never heard her sob so loud; it was scarce I'd even seen her cry before.

"He left me last night," she murmured into my shoulder once her crying had slowed, referring, I presumed, to her favored lover.

"He won't come back," she added darkly.

"Did you quarrel with him?" I asked, perplexed.

"What difference does it make," she answered woefully. "All men are like animals. They belong in the fields. Let them inside and they will rip up all you possess." She took pause to wipe her face, flinching as her makeup smeared into her eye. "And you were nowhere to be found – of course," she added, resentment building in her tone. "Abandoning me to spend your time with a mother not your own – walking the open streets as if you don't know the one who gave you birth."

Slowly I sat back, observing her at a distance. Like an infection following a wound, guilt swelled in the pit of my stomach. I'd hoped she was unaware I'd met with Hesba and Phaena on my journey to the temple last night – I hadn't wanted to anger her, or jeopardizing my interacting with them in the future. I hadn't considered concealing my relationship with Hesba to spare her feelings, though. Now, as she sat weeping before me, having somehow guessed what I'd been up to, it seemed almost too obvious for me to have missed; she was wounded by my actions. As my face began to soften she turned away; flustered and sweaty, clothes disheveled and hair tangled, she gazed bitterly in another direction.

Perhaps she was right, I thought. Perhaps I had left her side the other night out of arrogance, when I should have stayed on the roof to wait and assist her with whatever she might need. Having already accepted going to the central temple and walking with Hesba and Phaena down the open road had been a foolish thing to do, I now questioned what my initial motives had even been. Arrogance and disloyalty seemed forefront in the implications. Releasing her shoulders my hands fell neatly into my lap, eyes lowering quietly as I was filled with remorse. Perhaps it was true, that everything she involved herself with was done for my sake. After all, what other mother did I know who'd given herself in such a way, both body and soul, for her meager earnings? Biting my lip I bravely lifted my gaze, knowing I would need to change both my ways and my thoughts in regards to her if we were going to survive; I would have to find a way to cast off my disdain and forgo my selfish abandonment of her, of our home. With heaviness of heart I patted her mat, motioning for her to lie back down.

"Why don't I gather the leftovers from last night; you can nibble on them while I find something to carry water from the well with. Stay calm and rest a while." Rising, I moved once more to collect the dishware – quieter this time, adding, "When I've finished I'll get you a cloth to wash your face, in the meantime tie back your hair. I'll braid it after we've eaten."

Comforted somewhat by my directions she lay slowly back, reaching to pull her blankets up over her scantily clad body. I moved away in silent resolve. Collecting the food remnants of the other night, I rearranged them anew on a platter and left it by her side. Once alone at the back of the house, I could easily sense just how tired, thirsty, and dirty I was. I wanted nothing more than to eat, drink, wash my feet and face and curl up beside the oven in the dark – to hide away for days until the humiliation of last night was lost in the oblivion of time.

Seeing my mother cry suppressed my impulses, though – hushing my thoughts so that I could scarce tell what I wanted, let alone needed. Unable to wash as we had no water, I settled for briefly straightening my hair. It took only a few moments to press it behind my ears, tying it in a small knot at the back of my neck. Though most of my needs could be postponed, from experience I knew hunger wasn't one of them. By now near ravenous, I became worried I would start to unravel if I didn't eat – worried that if I waited much longer I wouldn't be able to keep myself together for either my own sake or my mother's.

Entering the front room once more I began to search for my mother's coin purse, which she often stashed beneath varying pillows. Noting she'd already fallen asleep, I was cautious to move things quietly – relieved to see her at rest as opposed to crying in despair, which only worsened our circumstances. The sight of her asleep – for once so peaceful, filled me momentarily with a sense of calm, enabling me to focus my thoughts as I searched her belongings.

Finding the coin purse in the disarray of the room was no easy task. When at last I drew it from hiding I was further disillusioned by how light it now felt. Emptying its contents into my palm, I quickly surmised there was enough only for one more meal. Confused, I dropped the coins one by one back inside the purse, stashing it inside my pocket. I knew we had some grain left over from the sack Aeros had left us, but after that what? Had she received no payment from the guest who'd visited her last night? Had he come merely to say they were finished, or did he stay the night with her and leave her without pay? Though dramatic, my mother's outburst had conveyed very little detail.

Silent, I stooped to collect a piece of stale crust from the platter beside her, barely chewing once before swallowing. Snatching my scarf from its peg on the wall, I exited through the front – sunlight blinding me as I stepped outside. I had only a vague notion of what could be done about fetching water, with little strength to second-guess myself. Making my way over to our neighbor's house, I lifted my clenched fist to knock on their wooden door – dreading someone might answer, yet unable to turn and leave.

I was glad to see the old woman answer – the grandmother I believed. Explaining how both our jars were broke, I begged her to lend me one of theirs, pausing to breathe only when I'd finished – face cringing slightly to brace for her refusal. I knew she disliked my mother – I could tell by the way she always grimaced in her direction when she sat on our steps or hung out our window. Still, she had always behaved kindly toward me whenever I passed in the street.

Watching me in silence, she hesitated for a moment before moving away. Breathless, I waited – unwilling to budge. A few seconds later she returned, pushing the door open enough so that she could pass a heavy clay jar into my open hands. Weary beyond entertaining shame, I received it from her without hesitancy. Moving back down her steps to return to our house, I forwent checking the street to see who might be watching. Though thirsty, I decided to wait till sunset to go for the water. Since my mother was asleep she wouldn't know the difference, and besides this, I knew I was in greatest need of having time alone – to hide myself away. Legs scarce able to carry me back inside our home, the empty jar in my hands felt almost heavier than I could manage.

҉

Eyelids cracking slowly, I released the grip I held around my bended legs. Seeing it had grown dark since I'd first taken refuge beside the oven, I quickly realized how long I'd slept – a few stars visible overhead through the open roof hatch. Stiffly unfolding myself limb by limb, I questioned whether it was my thirst or my anxiety that woke me first. Rising dizzily I shuffled to the front of the house. Rolled over on her backside, I found my mother still fast asleep – sprawled out in the corner of the room. With no way of guessing how much or how little she'd slept the night before, or what exactly had taken place between she and her lover, I was hesitant to wake her. Judging by her fit of tears earlier, I assumed she'd be happier asleep rather than awake. Bearing this much in mind I made every effort to depart without rousing her.

If it weren't for my being so parched, I would have waited longer to go to the well – waited until the early hours of dawn even before venturing out, just to be safe. Following my encounter with the prostitutes the other night, my apprehension over setting foot outside now soared to formerly unimaginable heights. I found some small peace of mind, however, in knowing I was better rested now – better able to run if need be, though I would have no strength to fight on an empty stomach.

Outside, my eyes were happy to be greeted by darkness – my skin relieved as well, refreshed by the cool night air. In setting down my jar and wrapping my scarf in place, I sensed how bunt my arms were once more from too much sun. I could tell my neck and face were burnt as well as I turned to check the back alley. Closing the door gently behind me, I resolved to start being less careless with myself, from that night forward. My mother would never sleep out under the sun, let alone as often as I did – being hesitant even to sit on the front steps too long or lean out the window too far in fear of losing her chalk-like complexion. I was sure she considered me a lost cause by now, with my face and limbs so tan. She seldom scolded me anymore to stay out of the sun; her beauty regime was enough effort to maintain alone without looking after me. Stooping to collect our barrowed jar, I stepped off into the alley, soon choosing a roundabout course in hopes of avoiding meeting anyone – a lone cat hissing at me as I weaved through a narrow passage. Licking my cracked lips, I realize how thirsty I'd become. Remorse filled me at having subjected my body to such extremes as I had, day after day, such as food deprivation and sleeping in the open – unshielded from wind, sun, and insects.

I paused in rounding a last bend in the road, filled with immediate gratitude at seeing the well nearly forsaken. At such a late hour, a single elderly woman stood at the edge – nearly finished filling her jar. Like a cat waiting by the mouth of a rat hole, I held myself back, patience wearing thin as she ambled off into shadow. Throwing caution to the wind, I rushed forward once she'd gone from sight, casting the wooden bucket nosily down the well and moving eagerly to take the heavy rope. Though dehydrated, my mouth began to drool in anticipation of quenching my thirst – the sound of the pail splashing far below causing my heart to flutter. Mustering what little strength I had in my weakened limbs, I heaved my prize to the surface. After what seemed ages, I had the bucket in my clasp. Raising it to my mouth, I drank deeply – water spilling sloppily down my chin and neck, soaking my tunic.

Relief, I found, did not come instant. I drank for what seemed an eternity – afterward breathing heavily, as if I'd ran a mile to get there. Had I not stood in an open square, I would have lifted the bucket over my head and doused myself. I wanted to feel clean. It had been too long since I'd taken the time to thoroughly wash myself. My life had become a blurred sequence of readying my mother, of escaping only now and then to steal a few moments for myself, like a thief. I felt far away from myself – distanced somehow from knowing even what I wanted, drinking the water as I did, like some sort of deranged animal from the desert. Vanquished, I set the bucket down on the ledge.

Memories of fetching water for my mother, of watching her wash herself, of wringing out her wash cloths and pouring the dirty water in the alley danced across my mind. Since we didn't have a tub like wealthier families, and couldn't afford the bathhouses, she washed by dipping her hair and most of her head in a large bowl of water. Her arms, legs, neck and back we scrubbed with rags. Bathing was a grueling task – one I was often left to tackle alone when it became my turn. I didn't mind though, as I was more methodical and productive on my own anyway. I'd never expected my mother's help and wouldn't know what to do with it besides. I had always been available to assist her, but over the years I'd become religious about tending my own needs my own way – as if this somehow created barrier between us, signifying a lack of our similarity.

I knew I hadn't always been this way toward her. In searching my memory I could recall a time when I used to cling to her, back when I was very young. In those hazy memories she became more tangible, more affectionate – reachable. Though often pushed out of the way, or tucked behind closed curtains, I'd never felt she was far away then. In my young mind, I had imagined we were practically one person.

It wasn't until I reached around the age of nine that I realized how alone I truly was – how she could be lying only a few feet away, sprawled out with one of her lovers, but be somewhere else entirely. She would always rejoin me, when her business was finished, seeming livelier and more warm than before. Eventually I began to understand, that for that short period of time, she'd been someplace far away – inaccessible to me. Even if I had reached out to touch her, it would not have been my mother I felt.

I gazed for a moment down into the half empty bucket between my hands, just barely able glimpse my reflection in the water. My face appeared hollow and emotionless, the area where my eyes should be completely shadowed out. Tilting my head slightly, I could see the scratches from the prostitute on my cheek. I was surprised to have forgotten them, having pointed them out with such fury and reprisal to my mother. Though distracted quickly from my rage, the wounds still occupied my face for anyone to see – anyone but me. None of my tragedies had ever withstood my mother – my voice drowning easily amid the downpour and rolling thunder of her struggles and delights. Lifting my hand, my fingers gently grazed the surface of my cool cheek, running lightly over the scabbed markings. The image of skin pressed on skin flashed across my mind – of limbs entwined and loose falling hair, the smell of incense and sweat, the sounds of ecstasies untold, and me – quiet as the grave, barefoot, pressed into the corner beside the oven, eyes closed as I waited.

The voices of several women approaching brought me to attention, jumping as I cast the bucket back down the well. Such was the life I should expect – one of hurrying and hiding, one of shadows and solitude. If I didn't choose to prostitute myself in the streets, and I didn't belong among decent women – the wives and mothers, then I would cease to exist at all. Like a spirit I would drift between two worlds, suitable for neither. Joining me from behind to wait their turn, the women offered friendly greetings to me. Having quickly filled my jar, I moved away without response – my back turned safely to them as I plunged into darkness, trying not to spill my water amid my haste.

I knew of only one merchant at the far end of the market who would still have his stall open at such a late hour. Though a good start to piecing ourselves back together, water alone would not be enough for my mother and me – my stomach beginning to rumble as I passed through the mostly vacant streets. When reaching the market outskirts, I was gladdened to see the lone merchant still sitting in the recesses of his stall, idly smoking. Setting my water jar carefully on one of his bins I handed him the last of our coins, taking little time to select a dry fish and two bruised looking pieces of fruit. Stashing the items beneath my arm, I collected our water jar and wordless turned to depart.

My mother was right. I was a fool to have wasted my time elsewhere than in our home. If only I'd gone to the market instead of going to the temple with Hesba and Phaena, we would have had a better selection of food. I could have been home sooner and overheard what had happened between my mother and her lover – perhaps even done something to prevent their quarrel. Like nails biting into wood, the weight of my foolishness sunk into me. Upon reaching our door a sense of relief filled me in knowing I had at last yielded – relinquishing my burdensome opposition to my mother.

Entering, I found her now awake. Though sitting mostly stupefied on her mat, she had at least made the effort of lighting a small bowl of oil, setting it on the ground beside her folded legs. Exhaling shortly, I closed the door behind me and carried the water to the back of the house, placing it safely against the wall. Arranging the food items I'd purchased on a platter, I rejoined her eagerly.

Though she seemed happy at seeing I'd brought fish, eventually she began to brood again when she'd finished eating – eyes scarce making any contact with mine. Moving to the kitchen space, I washed my hands in preparation to brush her hair; it ended up taking a great deal of focus to detangle the twisted mass it had become since yesterday evening. She winced often in frustration at my attempts to bring order to her appearance. When I'd finally finished, I moved to pour water in a bowl, submerging a cloth for her to wash with.

"Why don't you start to clean yourself and then get some more rest," I instructed.

Having yet to eat my share of the food, my stomach growled wildly. Knowing instinctively that I wouldn't want company as I ate, I yearned to be alone. Retreating once more to the kitchen, I stooped to collect my half of the dry fish and single piece of fruit from the platter. In pursuit of privacy, I stuffed them into my pocket and turned swiftly to grip the ladder – lifting myself up into the starry black expanse above.

Once settled near the edge of the roof I began to impatiently peel meat from bone – pausing only to take frantic bites. I was grateful in tasting the sweetness of the fruit, despite it being bruised on the outside, and when I'd finally tossed the bones of the fish off the roof and finished licking my fingers, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself full. I hadn't expected any pleasure to come of that day. For the briefest moment, though, I found contentment.

Cautious to remain a safe distance from the hatch, I lowered myself gently and turned to my side. Amid my fleeting optimism, and the muddle my thoughts became, I briefly considered saying a short prayer to Ashur before I slept. With my last trace of clarity I resisted the notion, though, asking in defiance, what would be the point.

҉

In the pale morning light, my mother looked like a young girl – curled up as mild as a lamb, her face now washed and clean and hair braided neatly. Shuffling quietly past her, I moved to crack the shutters of the front window open. I hadn't slept very well through the night, having also woken early – against my will. With each passing hour my mind had become increasingly restless, until at last I'd given up and climbed down the ladder. Knowing we were almost out of food, it occurred to me it was best I rose early anyway; it would take me all morning to grind the rest of the grain Aeros had left on our doorstep. If I baked the rest of it, the bread would last us for at least a few days – providing we rationed it correctly. Turning, I moved to the back of the house to kindle the oven, feet treading softly as I passed my mother. As I entered the dimly lit kitchen, my stress increased – my neck beginning to strain under the familiar weight of the worries and questions that haunted our home. Would there be any food for us to eat after a few days had passed? Would another guest visit my mother, or had she neglected the others in her obsession with the one?

Stooping, I moved to pull the rolled up sack of grain out from hiding behind the oven. Aeros's face flashed before my eyes as I unraveled the top of it, pouring the entirety of the sack out onto stone. Closing my eyes tight I tried to rid myself of his image, reminding myself I could no longer afford to be concerned with anyone else. I had to look after myself and my mother now – with every fiber of my being if we were going to survive. We would have to remain united if we were going to recover from the chaos of the past few days.

Picking up my heavy rolling stone, I moved it out over the grain, back and forth – mindful not to press my fingers beneath it. In silence I again wondered what had become of my mother's lover the other night. Knowing her tendency to become hopelessly dramatic whenever she imagined herself in love, I had good reason to question whether or not they were really finished, or whether or not he might abruptly return with coins in hand. It was difficult to establish the severity of our plight with any degree of certainty. Perhaps he had indeed decided it wise to steer clear of us. This wouldn't surprise me either. It wasn't always in a man's best interest to maintain relations with my mother – not in a city that feasted night and day on gossip so much as Arrapha did, and though young, I knew there were always more elements at play than my mother herself might be aware of, especially when there was little way for her to stay abreast of anything from behind our closed door. Though she took pride in imagining she had no need to venture out – not when all Arrapha came crawling to her steps in the night, her comfortable arrangement of sending me out on all our errands often left her oblivious, and at times drastically ill-informed. Her delusion only increased my sense of obligation toward her – my self-imposed sense of responsibility to guide us from trial and error.

Dusting my palms, I pulled the yeast out from behind the oven and sprinkled it lightly across the crushed grain. In truth I knew I was as helpless as she – disadvantaged by the lowly status supplied me at birth. There was seldom anything I could do to alter our situation, and my being able to see things from my lookout perch on the roof above or hear things now and then in the market succeeded only in doubling my worries.

Adding a little salt and two cups of water from the jar I'd brought, I plunged my hands into the mixture. When the kneading was finished I was pleased to find a sizable amount of dough, the oven now hot enough for me to slide it directly in. Though it would make enough bread to last us a little while, watching it slowly rise failed to lessen my anxiety. As the heat increased I lifted myself from my knees and ventured to pour a little water for myself. I knew it wouldn't be right to keep the neighbor's jar for more than a few days, yet I hadn't come up with any ideas of how we'd manage without it. I wasn't sure of anything in our lives beyond a few days. Finishing my water grimly, I filled my cup once more and moved to take it to my mother at the front of the house.

"Here's water and there's bread rising in the oven," I murmured, setting the cup at her side. Stirring only for a moment, she rolled over on her other side to face away from me, eyes remaining shut. Straightening stiffly I began to rub my neck – trying to consider what might be done for us.

From the corner of the room, the shimmer of my mother's jewelry in the morning light caught my gaze. Silent, I moved over to the shelf where her belongings were stored – all her makeup, headpieces and perfumes. I was comforted somewhat to think we had a few things left we could sell – if need be and if things got bad enough, though I knew my mother would be grieved to part with any of it. Though some of the jewelry she'd bought for herself, most of it had been given to her from various lovers, in the height of their frenzied lust – purchased when their passion was still green. Many she no longer wore, favoring ever only the newest pieces.

Noiseless, I drew up a lengthy necklace from her stash – on impulse draping the polished, black beads around my neck, so that they nestled fetchingly above my small bosom. Eyeing one of her vibrant colored scarves folded on the shelf, I slowly took it up. Without pause I fastened it to the top of my head with a clip – in the same fashion entertainers of her sort did, so that it hung down my back over my hair. Next I began to slip my fingers into her rings – one for every finger, lastly pinning one of her thin veils across my face. Curiosity overcoming me, I went to where my mother slept and bent to collect the bowl of water I'd left her. Trying not to spill its contents or rustle my skirts too loud, I carried it back to the windowsill. I'd often watched my mother use this method to catch her reflection in the light, since we had no mirror. Unsure at first what I looked for, I bent my head precariously over the bowl – mouth becoming dry as I glimpsed my image.

The reflection was undeniably alluring look on – the mystery of the veil, revealing only the quiet draw of my eyes, the shimmer of the jewelry, encircling my neck and dangling down the center of my forehead from the clip. I could feel my chest swell the further I gazed on my image, the frantic worries of my young mind somehow dissipating as my eyes transfixed on the water's surface. I was most surprised by seeing my faint resemblance to my mother. I was bewildered by this, having accepted long ago that I came nowhere near possessing the beauty she retained. Only in considering how her makeup might complete the transformation did I turn briefly away – my mind then abruptly awakening as my eyes were freed of my image. Hands reaching shakily to unclip the scarf from my head, I quickly dismantled my costume and cast the items back in their perspective places – moving a safe distance across the room before turning to look back.

I knew I had only put her costume on out of fear – nothing more. The familiar dread of starvation, ever hanging over us like webs, had driven me to do many things in the past – things for which I usually had a sufficient allowance of forgiveness. Returning to the kitchen I cast my back against the wall and sealed my eyelids shut. Still, it was how easily my mother's trappings became likable that frightened me most, rendering me helpless to a newfound dread.
6. Visitors

No matter what the time of day, the inside of our home always appeared shoddy and gray. If both the front window and the kitchen hatch were closed, I sometimes made-believed I lived in a cave, like the ones I'd heard about in the eastern mountains, isolated and dark. With only reed mats to cover the dirt floor and thick, colorless walls on every side it wasn't difficult to imagine.

Over the next two days I left the confines of our home only to fetch water or else sneak up to the rooftop for fresh air. I was grateful to hide away from the rest of Arrapha for a time, being still ashamed by my recent encounters out in the city, and increasingly anxious about our future. I allowed myself access to the open roof only because I felt sure no one could see me – providing I stayed low. Soon becoming my morning routine, I would climb the ladder early in the day and stretch myself across the tiles, spreading myself out in the privacy and warmth above – early enough so it wasn't yet hot.

Below me a dismal silence, which I was happy at any change to avoid, now filled the entirety of our home – ever since my mother had fallen into hysterics over her absent lover. Amid the nothingness now encompassing us, time eventually began to tangle – the hours of day linking together into uneventful webs, impossible to distinguish from one another, until I could scarce tell what time of day it was, or how I should keep myself occupied as there was nothing to work or plan for. Making matters worse, as usual, my mother refused to see anyone, insisting I keep the front window, which normally she'd drape herself out of in colorful exhibition, tightly shuttered. Eventually one of her lovers came knocking at our door one night – I recognized the sound of his winsome voice at once as one of her wealthier patrons. To my surprise she lifted her finger to her lips at the sound of his call and glared at me, motioning me to be still and make no noise, until at last he gave up and departed. Though curious at once as to the reasoning behind her behavior, my inclinations toward fear and my dread of hunger soon overcame any patience I felt – my mind quick to consider our dwindling ration of bread.

Shortly after this incident, I was further surprised to watch her voluntarily offer me one of her pieces of jewelry to sell in the market to a dealer whom she had connections with. Since we hadn't yet arrived to the point where I needed to request something from her to trade – or else pry something out of her hands, I was left speechless. Ordinarily the task of her handing over jewelry had become an excruciating ordeal, yet here I found she dropped a piece in my hand without pause, or even a second glance. Examining the item she offered for sacrifice, I saw it was one of her more costly pieces – enough to buy us food for at least a week and a half, as well as other supplies we now needed.

Running to the market as soon as it grew dark, the first purchase I made after trading in the jewelry was a new clay water jar – anxious to return the one we'd borrowed to the neighbors. When answering the door the old woman seemed surprised to see me, as if she hadn't expected to get the jar back. In passing it into her open hands I was at once filled with a sense of gratification, celebrating my small victory with brief, noble bow of my head before turning to go, shoulders cast back as I walked. Having set at least one thing in my life back in order lightened my mood considerably for the next few hours, even causing me to look more fondly toward my mother – increasingly appreciative of her relinquishment of one of her treasures.

Though I wasted little time collecting the things we needed in the market the next night, while there was actually money to pay for them, there were however a few items I delayed purchasing simply because I was still uncertain of what came next for us. Though my mother's supplies had begun to run low, I bought no additional makeup or incense – and nor did she request them. Other than eating the food and drinking the wine I delivered, she sat idly on her bed cushion, napping or else braiding and unbraiding her hair – her face remaining free of paint, and more colorful garments left untouched.

One evening however, I did come down from the roof to find she'd erected a small shrine in the corner at the front of the house, near her bed. With two bowls of burning oil stationed at either side, she had carefully set a small platter of grain before the wooden head of Ashur – which we normally kept stashed at the back of the kitchen. In seeing her I at once halted to listen, hopeful I might hear her prayers – since lately I never seemed to know what she might be thinking or planning. Much to my frustration, her were words were too muddled for me to discern, her eyes closed tight in concealment of her thoughts.

Leaning against the wall, I waited in silence. Though her words were undistinguishable, it was easy to tell whatever she asked for she asked for out of desperation – both her palms pressed to the floor as she bowed forward, forehead almost touching the ground. I was perplexed by her behavior – hesitant to admit I'd become hopeful even, over the past few days, of her intentions. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her prostrate before Ashur. With her needs met routinely by man – not spirit, she had little cause to grovel on bended knees before the deities like the rest did. In the past, whenever I called on the gods myself, I'd often felt alone and unaided in my efforts. Now I saw my voice wouldn't be alone. I yearned to know what she asked for. Amid my ambiguity I allowed myself to wonder whether or not she might be finished with her former ways, whether or not she might be seeking an end to her trade for good – perhaps having already determined to never take another lover again.

I moved away just as she finished her prayers, turning to prepare our evening supper. Bending to stoke the kitchen fire, I refused to smite the small spark of hope so quickly ignited within me. Whom else but the gods could know whether or not change was in the wind for us? It was in their hands to defy my high expectations as much as my low ones. Was it my place to doubt more than believe? Wordless, I moved to collect the dishware for our meal.

All throughout supper I scrutinized her, watching her closely from the corner of my eye – though hungry, distracted even from eating. I waited – hopeful of a reaction from her, looking for a response to something, anything. Perhaps as she ate she would break her silence – maybe speak a profound idea or share a recent revelation she'd had with me? As the last few hours of daylight eventually trailed away she continued in oblivion to avoid my questioning stare, offering no hints as to what the future might hold for us.

After the meal had been cleared, again I became dismal – soon retreating to my rooftop hideaway in a state of emotional defeat. Left without a definitive course for action, unsure even of what the next day might bring, my nerves steadily worsened. I knew we had plenty eat for now – but this wasn't enough for me anymore. Once alone I realized how desperately I wanted my mother to reassure me, fully aware this was scarce something she was capable, let alone aware of. Knowing how our food would eventually run out again – as well as the jewelry, and in seeing how little my mother seemed inclined to work, I was left alone to wonder what else we could do to survive. Glancing in the direction of the high temple – so far from where I perched on the roof, I fleetingly deliberated making out my own prayer to the gods. In closing my eyes, I found I could scarce move my lips – my tongue uttering no sound as I racked my mind for the right words. In the still quiet of the night, I abandoned my efforts. Just as sudden as it ignited, the small flame of hope within me sputtered out – leaving me hollow and cold. I saw no point in praying to the gods. Though we had been through the motions time and again, in truth, I couldn't imagine them listening to either myself or my mother now – and doubted they ever had.

The next day the sun rose in mocking optimism, burning me once again long before I could wake and take refuge down below. In rising, I moved much slower than usual – fumbling as I reached for the ladder and began my slow descent. At last despair had taken me fully captive – finding me late in the night, hiding up in my rooftop haven, sinking its black claws into my arms and legs; just as the city outside prepared joyously for the long awaited ceremony of Ashur, so I prepared grimly for certain hardship and tribulation oncoming.

Already Arrapha had begun to drink in anticipation of the festival, with riotous crowds staying out late during the night and less and less workers leaving the city during the day. For the past few nights the crowds could be heard celebrating from our rooftop – laughing, yelling, and singing. During the day I'd done my best to avoid the chaos outside, staying mostly indoors or else taking roundabout routes to the market that wouldn't permit me to see any festival preparations – though even inside our house I could hear the hammering all the way from the central temple as they built a giant alter. With foreboding resolution I eluded anything that would remind me of the ceremony; since I would be taking no part in it, and nor would my mother, it had nothing to do with us. I wished only for the event to be at an end, reassuring myself frequently throughout the day that the sooner it came the sooner it would leave.

In numbly joining my mother downstairs, I was annoyed to find she'd randomly decided to open the front window. Leaning out, she listened with slight interest as a group of passers chatted loudly about the upcoming event, her languid eyes gazing up the road in the direction the sounds of construction came from. In hopes of distracting her and closing the window, I moved quickly to set out our morning meal – disappointed at seeing her decline with a mere shake of her head, having seemingly lost her appetite since yesterday – uncharacteristically.

Frustrated, I eyed her from behind – noting in silence how swollen and clammy her face appeared in the light from the window. Struggling to regain allegiance to her, I altered the angle of my gaze to try and view her differently. Already I could sense the sympathy I'd originally felt toward her during her tearful fit of despair the other day begin to wane – exchanging itself with something much darker. In a place I'd thought we might meet – our struggle to find a new beginning, I instead found the distance between us greater than ever. Breathless I watched her turn away from the food I'd set out, gazing listlessly back through the window.

Stooping hotly, I seized a small fruit from the platter I'd made her, irritated beyond making any further attempt. The moment I sank my teeth into the fruit, however, she let out a short gasp – landing one of her feet directly on the tray of food as she stepped abruptly back.

Retreating to her bed in the corner, she waved angrily at me.

"Close the shutters!" she ordered, flapping both her hands like wings.

Furious over the spilt food, I moved in angered bewilderment to the window, dropping the fruit I held in coming face to face with Ninharrissi – one of my mother's longstanding lovers. Though radiant as ever, her eyes appeared wild and bloodshot as they gazed closely through the small window back at me – her hair fashioned in a way so that she towered overhead, the sweat on her forehead glistening as bright as the jewels around her neck in the morning sunlight.

"Baila – Baila?" she called to my mother.

Gripping the shutters on instinct, I slammed them shut and dropped the crossbar – scarce able to avoid striking her nose as she leaned to look further inside. Startled and confused, I turned to watch my mother cower in the corner of the room. Everything had happened so fast, I hadn't had time consider my actions. Having shut out the wealthiest client my mother had, I now became filled with trepidation.

"Why can't I let her in?" I whispered fiercely. "What sort of game of hide and seek are you forcing me to play? Answer her!" I pointed angrily to the door, trying to think how such behavior could be explained to Ninharrissi.

"No," my mother retorted lowly – tone as equally hostile as mine. "I don't think she saw me – I think I withdrew in enough time. Tell her I'm not at home."

Hands dropping helplessly to either side of me, I searched her face. Though I wasn't hungry, the familiar dread of starvation drew instantly close, circling overhead like a vulture – fear surging through my tiny veins. Again I pointed to the door.

"Are you going to let her walk away – into the arms of another?" I demanded.

"She's drunk – she won't remember anything," stalled my mother, her words so low I could scarce make them out. Looking away she continued to wave dismissively in my direction, pleading, "Get rid of her. I don't want her out in front of my door – he might think –"

Here her voice trailed off, her eyes becoming wide just as the shouting outside began.

"Baila, what is this for?" called the woman outside. "You would shun me in the broad light of day? I never knew you to be coy," she continued, shouting through the closed window.

Sweat began to collect in beads across my forehead as I gravitated to watch the shutters. Her voice shattered the silence of the street outside like a hammer smashing clay – her abrupt laughter ringing aloud as she made her way from the window to the door, like the crow of a rooster at dawn.

With every joint in my body locking in dread, I was relieved to see the door already barred.

"Baila, come out in the street!" continued Ninharrissi. "Join me! – I'll find wine enough for two so we can celebrate and begin our thanks to Ashur early. What do you think – should we dance with the young virgins at the ceremony together?" Unexpected, her fists began to pound our door – shaking it so that my stomach became nauseous. After a brief moment of silence she leaned close to the door, calling in a softer, slurred tone, "If I could choose a bride from among them all I'd choose you – would you choose me, Baila?" After another pause I listened to her set her back against the door, sliding roughly downward to sit on our front step.

Likewise sinking to her knees, my mother raised both her hands, covering her ears like a child as she hissed, "Get rid of her – get rid of her, Ishtah! What would he think – such a time as this for every worm in Arrapha to come crawling to my door – are the gods laughing?"

"What do you mean – who is coming?" I demanded, my confusion now giving way to anger. I knew my mother's behavior had always been selfish, to point even illogical, but she'd never acted rash when it came to her guests before, being too mercenary to knowingly hinder her relationships with any of them. From where I stood there could be no reasonable explanation for her decision-making. It would have been far less humiliating to have let Ninharrissi quietly inside – as there would have been far less for the neighbors or any passers to watch. Besides, it was hardly the first time a guest had arrived drunk to her door, and she had yet to turn one away; if anything she often further indulged their drinking once they were inside, providing we had the means to do so. Now her behavior had gone too far. It was too reckless to cut out her richest client and not only that but leave her drunk on the front step. Without further delay I moved to lift the bar from the door.

With the agility of someone much younger than her years, and eyes flashing, my mother rose to cut between me and the door. Too stunned to react, I watched her push me to the side and slam the cross-bar firmly back in place.

"I won't have her in here," she spoke, finishing the matter.

Dazed, I inched further away, mouth cracked loosely open as I sank to the floor.

By no means did Ninharrissi leave soon. Instead, she stayed camped at the foot of our door for the greater part of the next hour – despite the severity of the sun, now raised directly overhead. Rambling noisily, she called my mother's name aloud – more frequent than I preferred, speaking at first fondly but soon ended with cursing, adamant at last that she'd seen my mother inside and knew she was being tricked. At one point she even began to beat the window shutters, to the dismay of both my mother and myself. If she hadn't become tired so soon and quit, no doubt dehydrated from so much drinking the other night, I felt sure she would have broken them open.

As the minutes stretched by like hours, the only thing I could think to be grateful for was my inability to see outside – to look and see who might be watching the spectacle our house had surely become. Finally, just when I'd given up hope of her ever leaving, silence descended. After one, last vengeful blow to our door – now hoarse and tired, Ninharrissi conceded her post – staggering, no doubt, back up the road toward the market.

Shoulders sinking under the weight of my fatigue, I allowed my face to drop into my cupped hands. I could only hope Ninharrissi wouldn't remember what had happened, as I knew she'd been drinking heavily. I prayed inwardly she would find company and entertainment not too further down the road, since there was much drinking going on elsewhere in the city with the festival being the day after tomorrow. If she found herself a good time elsewhere perhaps she wouldn't think too ill of my mother's discourteous behavior. In the silence she left us with, I wondered who might replace her – or if anyone else would visit my mother soon. What other options for money were left us now?

Slowly my face lifted – eyes venturing painstakingly to gaze on my mother, still crouched against the door. I didn't desire this life. I didn't desire this sort of existence – the yelling in the streets, the moments spent waiting in the dark, darting around corners and constant hiding from others. Grimly my eyes met hers, lips sealing tight. I didn't desire this sort of existence – but nor did I wish to starve. I knew we had food now but what about later? What was going on in her head?

"What are you thinking?" I spoke at last, voice sharper than expected.

Combing loose strands of hair back from her face with her long fingernails, she broke free of my hot glare, rising dismissively from where she leaned against the door – having successfully barricaded the entryway with her weight.

"I wasn't in the mood," she responded shortly. "She knows I don't receive callers during the day." She shrugged, almost as if to reassure herself rather than me, murmuring, "She'll be back when the festival is done – when she wakes from her drunken stupor, about ten days from now."

I rose equally as quick, my thin right arm reaching to bar her path to the back of the house – though I knew any attempt to block her was absurd, as she was twice my width and at least a foot taller than me.

"You are expecting someone else?" I questioned, even and low so she wouldn't underestimate my anger.

Her lips twisted oddly, her eyes avoiding mine as she moved to step around me.

"No one, Ishtah – in the name of Ashur, I'm expecting no one." Pushing past me into the kitchen she went to the space beside the oven to search for something to eat, hungry at last. "Am I allowed even to hope?" she demanded sourly, "Or is that against your beliefs, or too much to your disliking?"

I refrained from pursuing her into the small space, instead watching her as she hunted unsuccessfully for food. How tired and haggard she looked, stooped beside the oven in such an odd way so as to see through the clutter.

"You're hoping that man will return," I commented, my voice hollow.

Having found one of the loaves I'd recently baked, she tore off a large piece and began to ravenously chew – neglecting to answer me.

Leaning lightly against the doorframe, I studied the back of her head, my ribcage sinking into me as my lungs deflated. Slowly the past few days began to make sense to me – her melancholy and indecisiveness. She hadn't really given up on this man who'd forsaken her – her most prized guest. She was in love with him – or else something very similar to love. It was obvious now, now that I realized it. She was waiting for him to come back around the corner, to burst through the door, to save her – to carry her off in his arms. Though I couldn't be sure what her exact vision was, it was plain to see now that she'd had a particular idea of the way she wanted things to go for some time.

"What happened – when he left you? What did he say?" I asked, trying my best to sound sympathetic.

Looking back at last, her eyes widened with emotion.

"He didn't want to leave me, Ishtah . . . what man would?" she explained – mouth full of bread as she spoke. "He only thinks it must be this way. He isn't as strong as I am. I know he pines for me. All he wants is to stay in my arms. We could face anything, if we were together."

"Why did he go?" I asked again, frustrated by the challenge of drawing information from her.

Face darkening slightly, her eyes returned to the ground.

"Recently he married a new wife," she spoke at last. "The daughter of one of Arrapha's high councilmen. He says he only wants to please her father for a time, but I know it is because she's a terribly jealous woman. He tells me frightful things about her – that she flies into fitful rages every day and frightens all her servants." Having finished the bread she moved slowly to join me, placing both her hands heavily on my shoulders. "How many wives must each man take – and each of them such a burden? Men come here one after the other to unload the trouble these devilish women place on their shoulders. They should know when to quit and learn what they really want – learn what will bring them the truest delight this life has to offer." Hands sliding off my shoulders she looked away forlorn. "I will be fasting tomorrow, Ishtah," she murmured beneath her breath. "I want you to fast with me and pray that the gods deliver him from this witch. He doesn't want it this way – I know he thinks of lying by my side alone."

Sensing it uselessness to respond, I allowed her to slide past me – inwardly wanting nothing more than to protest, or at the very least tell her how foolish she sounded. I wanted to speak more on Ninharrissi – angry and worried over the incident, though my lips remained closed. Judging by the look in her eyes, I knew there would be no reasoning with her that night. Trailing away in a state of melancholy, she curled up on her floor mat in the corner of the front room, draping a thin blanket across her body. I wasn't sure whether she expected me to follow her or not – whether she expected me to kneel at her side and offer her what comforts I could. Either way I left her on her own, turning back into the kitchen to sink beside the oven.

Despair waited for me in the darkest corners of each room – watching for when I became most vulnerable, waiting for the right moment to slip from hiding, to gnaw at my bones. I felt shattered – crouched at the back of our house as if I were at the bottom of a giant void, hidden far from the sun. Fully defeated, I was ready now to accept that the winds wouldn't be changing for me as I'd imagined they might. It seemed they would always blow the same way – full against me. My mother was as unchanging as was our shared predicament. We were alone. It was just the two of us – if even that, since she was now somewhere else far away, where she couldn't be reached.

And what of this suitor she was obsessed with? I had seen him only once – scarce able to recall even his face, as he had been walking out our door when I laid eyes on him. The encounter had been too fleeting for me to distinguish with any certainty what his intentions were or what his level of interest in my mother might actually be. Likewise, there was no way of telling how farfetched my mother's desires or expectations really were. From what I'd seen, he hadn't seemed the type to be unsure of himself – neither ashamed nor apologetic at being spotted standing in our doorway. Perhaps indeed my mother deceived herself once more. Perhaps he had no actual desire to return, having spun a handful of stories for her in order to more smoothly escape her clutches. Was it possible for him to have grown disinterested? Though I knew each of her relationships ebbed and flowed at different paces, I knew of none that had dissolved for reasons of abrupt dissatisfaction.

All these things hopelessly unanswerable, I rallied enough strength only to lift myself from the floor, shuffling waywardly to the front of the house. With my questions and fears quickly becoming more than I could combat, I hoped to find distraction, at least momentarily, in gazing on my mother at rest – motionless but for the rise and heavy fall of her chest. In arriving a short distance from her bed, I once more was surprised to see how swollen she appeared. Perhaps it was only the angle which I stood at – had she always been that way? Eyes closing tight, I rested tiredly against the wall to my right, knowing it wasn't just my imagination. Lately she'd become undeniably fatter, seeming less and less inclined to move. Even her neck had thickened, seemingly overnight – her ankles more round as well as her fingers, which had remained ring-less for the past week, if not longer. Running my nails across the top of my scalp, I did my best to alleviate the mounting pressure in my head. Beauty never lasted; though seldom acknowledged by my mother, it was a truth I had always stored quietly at the back of my mind.

If this man, this lover she so adored, had indeed forsaken her out of disinterest, it would be the first I'd seen of it. Drawing my heavy lids open, my gaze settled on her quiet face. Though she sincerely believed him to be merely confused, amid my hopelessness I resisted trusting anything she had faith in, and besides this, he hadn't impressed me as someone who might cow to the demands of others so easily. He had seemed like the sort to take exactly what he pleased, whenever he wished and without any sort of apology. Forcing myself to look away, I struggled to end my thinking – knowing I was much too depressed to reach any sort of rational conclusion in that hour. Indulging in sadness had a way of fueling only further melancholy.

Since I hadn't been there, I would perhaps never know the reason her lover had forsaken her – or whether or not it was due to the decline of her beauty. All I could be sure of for the time being was that she had yet to entertain any guests, for over a week, and that we would be out of coins in half that time. Ninharrissi had been sent away as if a stranger – as if her contributions over the past years hadn't at more desperate times kept us alive. Witnessing my mother's reckless degree of waste that day over a romantic whim had once more struck fear in my heart – the knowledge of hunger now lingering closely overhead, laughing at each breath I took.

Curling up at the opposite end of the room from my mother, I wrapped my thin arms around my bended knees, knowing we would have to sit and wait, perhaps for many hours, before making any sort of move. There was no way I could open our door, either the front or the back, before darkness fell – not after such an exhibition on the steps of our house, after one of her lovers – a woman no less, drunk out of her mind, had beat her fists on our door and shouted my mother's name aloud for all to hear. I didn't care if we ran out of food or water. There was nothing I'd risk seeing any of the disdainful gazes outside for – the contempt of our neighbors or any passers in the street that had seen and heard the commotion – not so soon, at least. I needed time to become calm, for my mind to become rational.

It had always been difficult to watch my mother fall asleep so easy, whereas I often stayed awake late into the night, tossing and turning as I searched for comfort. She slept as if entranced – as if nothing could wake her, both her mind and eyes alike closing the moment her head rested on its cushion. I realized now in watching her that though I found this ability bewildering, I wasn't necessarily envious of it. More than ever now I worried that her apparent ease in falling asleep could be attributed merely to her oblivion – a type of carefreeness derived only from delusional thinking. Though it must surely be nice – sleeping as sound as she did, it could also be dangerous if you were unable to hear a predator approach, and wake in enough time. In the grainy light of our small home, I now felt surer than ever that she teetered unknowingly near her demise – likewise threatening to pull me down with her.

As the hours of day inched by, at last beginning to yield to the prospects of encroaching dusk, I made no move to light any oil. I welcomed the darkness – breathing easier as the shadows crept across the empty front room, reaching out with long arms to hold me. I could hear the ringing of laugher and voices beyond our walls as others began to set aside their work and venture outside – off to the central market in search of food, drink and entertainment. No one stopped at our door; no one knocked or called out to us as I waited. Before much longer the light cutting through the cracks in our wooden shutters faded altogether – leaving the space inside our home as dark as a tomb. Throughout all this – through the passing of time and commotion in the streets outside, my mother refused to wake, only rolling over once so that she faced away from me, her breathing loud enough for me to hear from across the room.

It wasn't like her to sleep at dusk – a time when usually she became playful and awake, normally fully painted and dressed by such a time as this. I knew there was no way of telling what she might do next, no way of predicting her behavior now that she had confessed her obsession with this man. I found myself alone once more, surprised only by the feelings of disappointment hovering over me – alluding to how foolish I'd allowed myself to become, imagining that my mother had sought an end to something old and a start to something new, that she'd wanted something different for herself – or even me. Such notions seemed laughable now, especially in light of the spectacle we'd been made that day.

Running my hands up the sides of my legs to warm myself, I lifted my gaze to look once more at her. At least now I had a clearer idea of where we both were, despite the darkness – clearer perhaps than in a long time.

Muscles stiff at having remained motionless for so long, I struggled to lift myself from the ground. Pausing to watch her pull her blanket up over her bare shoulders, I ventured in silence to the shelves beneath the window, both hands extended to feel my way. Though scarce able to see, I knew well enough where to find what I looked for – my fingers gliding familiarly over her assorted earrings, perfumes and makeup bottles.

Noiseless, I lifted a small bronze broach from the back of her jewelry stash. Rudimentary in design, with a single, dull stone in the center, it was without question one of her simplest pieces – one she'd seldom wore. Confident she would scarce remember owning it, I slipped it into my pocket and moved seamlessly back – turning to enter the kitchen where there I stooped to collect our new water jar. Exiting through the back of the house, I sealed the door softly shut behind me, feet carrying me up and out of the alley onto the street in just enough time to glimpse the last of the sun – the moon having already risen at the tail end of my gaze.

Unlike other times where I would become instantly elated at escaping our home, my departure that night managed only to fill me with a sense of further gloom – my mind feeling as equally burdened as before. In drawing nearer the market, I pulled my scarf over my head – my chin dropping instinctively so that my face became less distinguishable. Loud voices up ahead drew my attention, the sound of so many people out enjoying themselves pulling me forward, like a harness pulls an ox with a heavy load. By no means was it an ideal time to be out and about. There was too much going on in Arrapha for me to expect an easy passage. Still, I knew if I stayed in our home any longer, if I had waited there in the dark, knowing we had no money left, my anxiety would crush me completely. Ducking out from under the path of a group of drinkers, I flattened myself against a stack of crates – waiting until they'd passed before moving.

Stepping out when the moment became right, I made my way bravely to the far end of the swollen market, weaving my way through clustered groups and tiny booths, the pavement beneath my walk now littered with the refuse of a day's worth of sales and festivities. With one arm wrapped securely around our water jar, I plunged my free hand into my pocket to clasp my mother's pendant. I was hesitant to take it to the dealer my mother had connections with, since the last time I'd sold him one of her necklaces I suspected he began to sense my increased desperation. I knew before too long he would begin to take advantage of my anxiety. Visiting him more than once a week would be unwise, and anything I brought him would fetch a price that much lower. Sadly I knew I didn't have much else choice that night for selling the item; with such large crowds filling the market it was risky to go exploring. Why delay the inevitable, besides? It was only a matter of time before we had to start whittling away at the other few possessions we had – fetching unspeakably low prices no matter what with my lack of ability to barter. Arriving a short distance from the dealer's booth, I halted – seeing a group of stooped women already fingering through his collection.

Grateful the dealer was open at such a late hour, I contented myself to wait patiently behind an empty cart – momentarily resting my dizzy head against the stone wall at my back. At last the elderly women began to clear the booth. Readying to step out from hiding, I straightened – only to halt once more abruptly.

As the gathering dispersed, I spotted a pair of young girls near my age, rifling through the dealer's goods. At seeing one of them was Phaena, my breath caught uncomfortably in my throat. It was surprising to see her out so late – and with Hesba nowhere in sight. Yet there she stood, laughing agreeably with her friend – a rather fat young girl I had met once before, daughter of a wealthy merchant; they hadn't been friends long. At once my face dropped, fingers rushing to pull my scarf down toward the lower half of my face, my cheeks growing red as I stared. It was difficult for me to see Phaena, as the last time we'd interacted had been the night I'd gone to the temple with Hesba and she – the night I'd been attacked by the prostitutes. I hadn't been able to see her expression after the incident, unable to assess her reaction to the very public assault. Now I found myself bending my neck, straining my eyes in the flickering torchlight of the market in hopes of seeing her, undetected – of learning from a safe distance what she might possibly think of me. Since she faced another way, my attempts were unsuccessful. Looking down at my worn sandals, I sunk further into the shadow cast behind the empty cart.

Either way I could tell she was happy – enjoying being out and about on her own with only a friend. I marveled fleetingly how she already looked like a young wife, ambling through the sales booths at her own leisure, with her husband's money comfortably in her pocket. In actuality I knew she was most likely looking for something to wear to the festival, which was the day after tomorrow. I leaned back as I waited – face lowering still further as I contemplated how happy she probably was to be rid of my presence. Exhaling, I watched my chest sink. It took seeing her to realize that I didn't really want to know what she thought of the incident with the prostitute, with her brother having stood so close when it happened. I clung to my water jar tight as memories of that night descended like a plague.

The two of them took an ample amount of time rummaging – dangling various earrings from their unpierced ears, draping assorted necklaces around their throats, nodding or shaking their young heads in approval or disapproval. Somewhat amused, I could see the dealer grow annoyed with the pair of them – doing his best to offer alternative pieces, anything that might excite their interest. For myself I waited quietly, neither bothered nor annoyed now at the delay – though my feet grew sore by and by. I would wait for any measure of eternity to pass if it meant escaping further ridicule or disdain.

Indecisive as ever, Phaena at last settled on a single item – her plump friend purchasing a handful of pieces for herself before the pair finally moved off into the market, whispering and laughing as they went. I waited a few moments longer before proceeding out into the open – wanting to be sure they were well away, so that by the time I stepped up to the booth the dealer was already rolling up his displays.

Wordless I held the broach out to him so he could see it in the torchlight.

"Well hello to you also," he grunted in reproach, moving to take the piece between his coarse fingers. "Not very intricate workmanship . . . cheap, costume jewelry – it won't get you much." Lifting from the pendant, his eyes squinted as they studied my expressionless face. At last shrugging, he shifted weight and added, "An odd time to sell. Don't you want to keep it till after the festival? A young girl like you could fetch attention from one end of Arrapha to the other wearing a couple of the pieces such as you've dropped in my hands of late." A moment longer and he extended it back to me. "Bring it after the ceremony – and anything else you don't want. You'll get a reasonable price."

"I won't be dancing," I responded flatly.

"You're a girl, just like the others – right?" he insisted.

"See that sheep over in that pen?" I interrupted, pointing to a small stockyard nearby. "It's a girl. Do you expect it to dance at the festival as well?"

At my tone his eyes dropped quickly to reconsider the piece, muttering, "I wouldn't think your house in want of anything, what with the festival upon us and so many visitors to the city – plenty of fresh meat to be had for your sort, but have it your own way."

"Just tell me what you can offer," I spoke sharply, angered by his previous attempt to sound considerate. With reluctance he dropped a small handful of coins into my outstretched hand. Though I was no dealer, it seemed a fair amount for the size piece. I moved away without thanking him, knowing his eyes would be watching me until I passed from sight. Reaching the next street over, I dropped the coins hurriedly into my pocket and swallowed. It was good to hear them jangle together as I walked – lessening my fears somewhat; they would buy not only food but also several nights' worth of better sleep for me, as well as more time to figure out our predicament. With only my trip to the well remaining, I became much calmer in passing back through the drifting market crowds. Filling our new jar all the way to the brim when it finally became my turn, I was careful not to trip on my way through the dark, winding alleyways – cautious not to lose a single drop, as I knew we were headed for a dry spell back in our home.

҉

During the early hours of the next day, shortly after we'd finished our morning meal and after I'd washed the dishes, I finally set about gathering the soiled clothes from every corner of the house. For myself I had only two skirts to my name, which I rotated weekly according to whichever was cleanest. Much to my annoyance, though, I soon discovered my mother had accumulated an immense pile stashed behind her bed screen at the front of the house containing nearly every garment she owned. It had been sitting there, dirty and growing, ever since she had quit entertaining company. In dragging the entirety of the mass out from hiding, I soon surmised the task of doing the washing alone would take the rest of the day – as well as the rest of our water. A chore which I usually tended weekly, I had delayed only out of having lost both our jars – having had nothing to carry water from the well with. In checking, I saw that we had just enough water in our new jar to plunge each item individually before stringing them out across the roof – with perhaps only a little extra that could be set to the side to wash myself with, before we ran out.

Holding in my stomach I squeezed myself behind the oven, stretching my arm as far as it could reach so as to grip our ribbed washboard – next bending sideways to collect our small vessel of scented ash that we used for soap, which, like our other household ingredients, was beginning to run low. Scooting out from behind the oven I made an internal note to buy more when I went back to the market later that week. After brief consideration I decided to move my wash assembly line to the roof, deciding it would be easier to hang the clothes straight after scrubbing them rather than carry them up the ladder soaking wet – though I knew carrying the heavy water jar up the ladder without spilling it would be an initial challenge.

Knowing it was past time I washed myself, as well as the laundry, I first took up an additional, small bowl so as to set aside some of the water before it became dirty. With so much having happened over the past few days, I knew I'd increasingly neglected my own needs. Hoping now was as good a time as any to undertake cleaning myself, I was quick to climb back down into the kitchen and lift the heavy water jar. Before too long I'd succeeded in lying out nearly every item of clothing my mother possessed, as well as my two skirts, in a wide circle around me on the roof.

Though by nature shy, I felt no reluctance in stripping bare so high up – since I knew well enough how to stay hidden from sight. As long as I kept myself low, there were none that could see me – other than the sun of course, which was too busy enveloping me in warmth and light to bother ridiculing my thinly frame, my naked skin tingling under its full radiance. With eyes closed tight, I pretended I was stashed away inside a womb – hidden in a natural element, vulnerable yet safe. I had to shake my head to keep from dozing off, to keep from quitting lazily and lying down – reminding myself that before long the sun would rise higher, intensifying its glare and burning me from my perch. There was only a limited amount of time I could spend sprawled out beneath its glory without having to pay. Already I could feel beads of sweat cluster across my brow, banding together in small droplets that traced down the sides of my face and down my neck.

The washing was no easy task, with most of my mother's garments being made of thick, lengthy stretches of colorful fabric – each with intricate details, difficult to scrub without damaging. Whenever I washed her clothes, it was easy for me to become overwhelmed by the scent of my mother – by the smell of her lingering perfumes, even sweat – the stains of her makeup printed around each of the necklines where she pulled the material over her face time and time again. I always began the washing with her items first, knowingly saving mine for last, as she didn't want any grime or stench from the market that might have rubbed off on my skirts to end up in any of her costumes. Ever seeking to make herself the perfect sacrifice for her guests, she strived to smell of iris, cinnamon, or henna – insisting it was her odor alone that could entice men from every far corner of Arrapha.

It never took long for my fingers to become wrinkled – being submerging in water mixed with alkaline salts and lavender scented natron. A small sore on my left index finger I'd gotten from hoisting the well ropes burned each time I plunged my hands into the already murky water. I was perturbed at seeing the liquid turned a reddish brown already – mostly from the color of the dirt both inside and outside our home. As I was only halfway through my mother's wardrobe I became concerned I wouldn't be able to finish without returning to the well. From the street below, voices drew my attention from my work – though I dared not move to the edge for fear of being seen.

There was still much going on in Arrapha in preparation for the ceremony at the central temple, and later the festival. I still wished it was over and done with – wished everyone would go back inside, back to work in the fields or the market, or wherever. I didn't want to hear about it anymore. Lowering my gaze, I dropped my wrinkled hands idly into my lap, knowing my contempt for the festival was sprung only out of my misery – misery which I seemed forever destined to be alone in. The chaos of Arrapha, now swollen with anticipation of a night of ceremonial rites and shameless decadence unmatched, only frustrated my attempts to think – to sort out my own problems. I was surrounded. I was engulfed in a mad celebration, while at the same time completely cut off from it.

Scooting further away from the roof edge, I paused from my scrub work to hang out the already finished items along a cord stretched taut across the middle of our roof. The tiles underfoot felt hot against my bare flesh as I relocated nearer the clothesline, lifting the heavy wet pieces one by one. Alone with my thoughts, I wondered what my mother had planned for herself for tomorrow night, having seemed mildly interested in the goings on outside our house but having made no mention of the festival. In the past she had always been occupied with one lover or another on the night of the ceremony; business was easy to come by with so many different faces drawn to the city for the event – so many tradesmen and field laborers ready to indulge themselves and spend a little of their earnings, or all of them if they were coming to my mother's door, since she fetched a higher price than most.

To my right, the reflection of the sunlight flashing like gold in the clear bowl of water I'd set aside for bathing with caught my gaze – drawing my attention back to my tasks at hand. With reluctance I heaped the remainder of my mother's unwashed clothes in a pile by the line, knowing I would have to get more water that night before I could complete my work, perhaps in the morning, as the remaining water in the jar was too dirty to continue.

Finished with my chores for the time being, I squatted eagerly in front of the bowl I'd set aside for myself. Before beginning to wash with it, I lifted the bowl to my lips and drank – my thirst having abruptly increased at eyeing the glistening water. In setting the bowl down, I was disappointed at seeing how little was left. At first unsure what could really be done with such an amount, I then gripped it and raised it over my head – tilting the bowl enough so that the water began to trickle down onto my head, soon running down my hair and face, my neck and chest. There was enough only for one brief shower – enough only to cool myself for a moment. Washing unaided had never been easy for me; in most houses it was typically a group practice for the women. Since very few had tubs it took the hands of several to soak and wring out the washcloths, to scrub all the unreachable parts. When it came time for me to scrub my mother, she always sat perfectly still – the only effort she made to assist being to lift her arms now and then. When it became my turn to be washed, though, my mother was far from inclined to contribute, as it would cause her hands to wrinkle, or become coarse, when they needed to stay smooth at all times – and then there was her manicure, which might fade or chip. Over time I had learned to make do on my own, in the end knowing no other way than to wash myself alone. It was difficult now for me to even picture my mother washing me – though at some point in time I knew she must have, when I was an infant perhaps. As my wrists began to strain I set the heavy bowl aside. Taking up in hand a clean rag I'd brought to the roof, I began to scrub my skin before it dried.

At least the water, though not enough to cleanse me thoroughly, had succeeded in lowering my temperature – a hot breeze feeling almost cool for a moment against my wet skin. When I'd finished scrubbing myself from top to bottom – except for a small portion of my back I couldn't reach, I saw there was just enough left in the bowl to douse my face. Closing my eyes I cupped my hands and scooped the remains, holding my breath as I splashed them onto me – water pooling beneath me on the roof after trickling down my body.

For an instant my limbs glistened in the light, like scales on a fish in a river stream. I sat perfectly still as the water began to dry, except for my fingers, which worked to peel wet strands of hair back from my eyes so I could see. Washing oneself, or at least halfway washing oneself, always managed to bring fresh perspectives to mind. Now, as I looked out across the lower district of Arrapha, dripping like a dog caught in the rain, the city didn't look as much like a labyrinth as usual – didn't seem quite as smothering or dry. Amid my typical torrent of ever changing emotions, I found myself entering a moment of stillness – of gratitude for the simple things, like the privacy of my rooftop hideaway, my clean smelling skin, the small comfort afforded me by knowing I had a few coins stashed away downstairs – enough to carry us at least one week more. Just as my eyes began to close in mediation on these things, my mother's voice interrupted my thoughts.

Having remained mostly quiet throughout our morning meal, and having brooded at the front of the house or else gazed out the window as I collected the clothes for washing, she hadn't spoken to me all day. Hearing her call out to me now left me startled – dazed as I reached for something to put on.

"There's someone at the door," she spoke, barely visible from the bottom of the ladder – her voice oddly flat and eyes dull with disinterested.

Quickly running my fingers through my hair, I searched with my other hand for something wear. "I haven't made any noise," I replied in a hushed tone – assuming one of her lovers had arrived and she was trying to evade him. "I'm sure they'll go away in a moment – there are plenty of distractions elsewhere in Arrapha to lead them away."

"They're here for you," she responded, moving away so that I could no longer see her.

Sitting back worriedly, my eyes ventured toward the edge of the roof at the front of the house. Normally I might try and steal a peek to see who'd come, but being still naked I felt it far too risky. Staying cautiously low, I scrambled to reach something to cover myself with, settling on one of my mother's faded tunics – much too long for my short height though less gaudy than the other pieces. I knew she wouldn't mind me borrowing it, since she'd shown no interest in dressing herself for days.

Anxiety increasing, I climbed down the ladder rungs until I stood on solid ground – dress sticking wetly to my skin and bunching in a tangled web around my ankles as I turned. The thought of someone looking specifically for me filled me immediately with fear. I couldn't remember the last time someone had come looking for me; considering I spent so much of my time trying to blend in or remain nameless, it left me with a strikingly uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Was it the old woman from next door who I'd barrowed the jar from, or perhaps the dealer from the market, dissatisfied with the piece I'd sold him? Was my mother about to find out I'd taken one of her belongings without her permission? Hesitant to meet her gaze, I hobbled past her into the front room. In reaching the front door I became almost immovably reluctant to open it, first glancing over my shoulder to see if my mother watched.

Turning only partially away, she leaned against the wall at the back of the house, observing me sideways and from a distance. Moistening my lips with my tongue, I turned back to the door, placing my hand shakily on the latch. Unsure what I looked like – with my wet, tangled hair and misfit outfit, I suddenly felt sticky – as if the beads of water still tracing down the back of my neck and chest were now turned to sweat.

When at last I managed to crack the door, I opened it enough only so that I could fit half my body outside, keeping my other half safely hidden – allowing for an easier escape should matters fair worse. As my eyes adjusted to the brightness I found myself no more than a foot from Aeros, standing brazenly on the second step to our door – his shoulders cast back for all to see.

The sight caused my head to swim, my mouth beginning to gape in flustered disbelief as my eyes met his. It had been days since our shameful encounter with the prostitutes. Since then, I had taken every caution to avoid seeing Phaena and him – even sweet Hesba. Like a common market thief I had changed all my routes, stepping out only after dusk. Looking at him now reminded me how long it had been since I'd seen Hesba. Though it grieved me daily, I'd decided it was for the best – they were all better off this way, I knew it was the truth. Yet now Aeros occupied my very doorstep. What could he be thinking – standing there in the open light of day, for anyone to see? I could feel my neck twitch as I resisted turning to check and see who might be watching us from open windows.

Face lighting considerably at seeing me, Aeros immediately flashed his familiar, broad smile, stepping even closer to the house. Seeing he held a clay jar wrapped in his left arm, my gaze fell immediately to the ground. It was odd seeing him on my mother's well-worn doorstep – to my recollection he'd never been there before; I didn't think he even knew where I lived, let alone in which house. An uncomfortable feeling embedded itself in my chest, moving easily throughout the rest of my body – muffling my hearing even. Embarrassed by my wet hair and bunched clothing, I avoided his eyes – instead focusing with all my strength on not stuttering as I asked, "What are you – doing here?"

"My mother's been worried about you," he spoke, much too happy to sound cross. "She wants to know why you've been hiding from her." Suddenly nervous, he quickly offered me the jar he held – adding, "I'm sorry for breaking yours the other night – my mother hasn't let me hear the end of it. This is one of our extras."

I was far too dazed to react naturally to anything he said, my hands remaining stiffly at either side of me as I leaned to check the road in both directions – incapable of receiving his offering or voicing any sort of timely response. It was then that I saw Phaena. Leaning in the shade against a house across the street, she silently observed us from a distance.

In an instant my cheeks grew flushed. Of course Aeros must be accompanied to my mother's door, else suspicion and gossip be spread about such a modest young man and his journey to the lioness's den. Struggling to swallow, I sealed my lips tightly shut – eyes narrowing as I tried to perceive her expression from all the way across the road.

Before I could distinguish the intentions behind her presence, the glint of metal hanging proudly at the center of her chest distracted me. It was surprising to see Phaena don jewelry so early in the day – but even more surprising to see the particular piece she wore. The necklace around her neck was at once familiar to me, as it was the same one I'd sold earlier that week to our dealer in the market. Being one my mother had grown tired of some while ago, she had handed it to me readily to sell for us.

I glanced twice at seeing the piece draped across Phaena's fair skin – for a brief moment sensing my heart stop beating. I realized she must have bought it the other night when I spied her and her friend looking over jewelry for sale. Now here she leaned, in the broad light of day, with it proudly on display – for all to see. Straightening, I opened the door wider – my eyes transfixed on her now blurry figure. Anyone from our street, or perhaps even anyone from the lower district, would recognize the necklace as one of my mother's former pieces. A more honest dealer would perhaps have steered a young lady such as Phaena into making a different purchase – fully knowing the sources of all his merchandise. The irony of seeing Phaena with it was almost comical. Amid the confusion of the moment, I was unsure whether I should call out to her in warning, or simply laugh.

Instead, the oddity of all my surroundings left me feeling trapped – stuck in a quiet stupor. I was overwhelmed by them being there, where they didn't belong – with Phaena apparently strutting through the streets in my mother's old jewelry, surely unbeknownst to Hesba. Reaching backwards, I gripped the door to find balance. All I knew was that I needed to get them out of there – needed to send them away, as quickly as possible. We needed a cloud of smoke to fill the streets – the distraction of a giant blaze, the cover of chaos to shield their departure.

Mouth still cracked ajar, I forced my head to turn back toward Aeros. I'd forgotten he stood offering me a jar. At seeing me speechless, he held it further out to me – eyes insistent. With jaw clamping shut I took it from him – glancing down in surprise at the heaviness of it, noting in confusion grains of wheat spilling from the rim.

Aeros shrugged his broad shoulders, quick to explain, "Extra from the field where I work. It's enough for several weeks, I suppose – though I don't know much about baking." Grinning boyishly he leaned to one side, happy to be free of his gift.

Shuddering, my eyes closed once, tightly, before opening to meet his.

"Thank you, but we have enough," I spoke – even and cold. "Besides, my mother cannot be filled on bread alone, as you know." Without further explanation, I set the jar on the outside step between us, turning quickly to draw inside the house.

Perceptive, Aeros reached his hand out in just enough time to stop me, eyes now pleading.

Seeing my mother still lurk a short ways back inside the house, and being unable to shake him from my arm, I conceded to step fully outside to speak with him – first closing the door shut behind me and anxiously sweeping the road with my eyes.

With one hand still on my arm, he plunged his other into his pocket and withdrew the leather cord with the wooden bird at the end – the same he'd tried to give me the other night outside the temple.

"You forgot this also," he spoke.

My throat at once felt as dry and cracked as the deserts beyond the city walls. Shifting weight, I raced to collect my thoughts, my head already beginning to shake in objection as I stammered, "Aeros –"

"Is this about the other night outside the temple?" he asked, voice rising steadily. "I should have acted sooner – those two should have been flogged by the temple guards for acting in such a manner in front of the house of Ashur." The grip he still held on my arm tightened with frustration.

I flinched at his reference to the incident – the mere memory of it sending a jolt, like lightening, down my spine. Recollection of that night meant only agony for me, yet here Aeros stood, blatantly pointing to it. As I looked just beyond him, it was easy for me to imagine what little pride I had left, writhing out in the middle of the street, like a worm uncovered from soil; it would die before long – its soft flesh exposed to the harsh elements of day for all to observe.

Silent now, he extended the necklace, his stance unwavering.

With brow furrowed I pulled away.

"Daughter of Arrapha's most illustrious prostitute?" I demanded, voice dripping with vehemence. Though my words sounded almost as if I spat, I could no longer contain myself, realizing now he was too foolish for his own good – that he would ruin himself and make a mockery of both of us if he didn't walk away. I could tell by his hold on my arm, I would have to break him – I would have to break his spirit. I would have to grind him down – just as I was, to get him to come to his senses. Everyone could see it but him. I did and so did Phaena – glowering at us from a distance. Didn't he know that I wanted to go to the festival, that I wanted to dance out in the open, shameless and free, and that I wanted to accept his gift – to accept all he offered? Surely it was cruelty and nothing else for him to stand so naively on our doorstep. It was too heartless to be unintentional – or at the very least some twisted plot the gods had arranged for me.

"You would have me showcase your work – for all to see?" I continued, ridicule lacing my tone. Already I could see the light in his youthful eyes fade, his expression altering – much in the way a blossom closes under the full force of the sun. Finally it was out in the open – the words I least wanted to speak, the things I least wanted to draw attention to, so often skirted mercifully around, now exposed. Once I began I could no longer stop. His undeserved adoration sent me spiraling.

"Would you set your mother against me?" I demanded. "Would you have all of Arrapha talk of you and shake their heads?"

Silent now, Aeros dropped his hand, allowing the bracelet he held to hang loose at his side – his other hand releasing my arm so that we stood almost in opposition of one another, our shoulders leaned back but feet stationary, the sunlight boring down hard on our set faces.

"What don't you understand?" I heard myself yell – scarce able to make him out as my eyes began to crowd with tears. "They'll talk of you, but they'll claw at me," I continued, fighting to control my expression. Having lost control of my volume – as well as the usual sense of caution I practiced when outside, I found for the first time that I no longer cared. I didn't care who might be watching us through open windows or from behind cracked doors. I knew this must be finished today – that delaying the inevitable would only lead to further humiliation. I knew Phaena and he would recover, but only if they would leave.

Raising my hand I pointed to the scratch marks on my face – faded, though still visible. With my other hand I reached out to push him from our door, hard enough so that he stepped backwards onto the road – dazed. I would disturb their house no further nor engage with Hesba any longer – I knew this now for sure. Though I could feel myself begin to stiffen – almost beyond movement, I managed to raise my gaze high enough to look at him one last time. I was more to blame in this business than any other, so it was right I should be the one to end it. Stunned, his young eyes searched mine back and forth. I knew he wouldn't leave unless every board in the bridge between us was broken. Rallying what little strength I had left, I yanked myself away, resting my hand on the door latch.

Before anything further could be spoken, Phaena swooped in on us like a hawk from the sky – dark eyes glistening with fury, claws outstretched to snag its prey. Grasping her brother's arm she jerked him from our house equally as sudden as I'd withdrawn from him, nostrils flaring. In that moment, Phaena became the reflection I'd so desperately avoided for so long, confirming all of what I now insisted – that I was unlovable – the mistaken target of Aeros' affection, of Hesba or anyone else's affection. Towing Aeros away in a flurry of skirts, her young face scowled back in unforgiving exasperation at me – his own expression now closed and unreadable.

Blindly I pushed my way inside, slamming the door shut behind me – turning to lean against it. In vain I tried to quiet my swelling thoughts, closing my eyes and forcing myself to breathe slower – though nothing could relieve my unhinged mind now. I felt like a wild horse newly roped, with animated, frenzied and unpredictable movements. One mistake on the trainer's part and I would kick everyone to pieces – snap the ropes thrown round my neck and break down the barriers built up around me.

In opening my eyes, the first thing they were met with was my mother's gaze. She stood languidly in the door to the kitchen, arms folded across her chest as she studied me. Though her face seemed calm, I could see the glint of animosity sparking in the quiet depths of her stare. Like a tree tapping into a stream by way of its deep roots, she had a way of gleaning energy from her resentment, like she did from the worship of her lovers. Any challenge to her will while in such a state only swelled her appetite for supremacy. Her dark eyebrows rose along with her hand as it moved to comb back her hair from her forehead.

"Let me guess," she murmured, angling her gaze, "Hesba is after you again?" She shrugged her broad shoulders, laughing faintly. "Maybe if she grew her nails out like mine her reach could stretch farther?" She paused, her face twisting before asking, "What does she mean – sending for you by way of her children? You were right to send them away, Ishtah. She is trying to make a fool out of me through you. Doesn't she think I can care for my own daughter? She has a lot of nerve to come hunt you out when you've no need of her." Casting out her long skirt around her feet, she tilted her head back so that she looked like a black crow, cocking its head. "Women jealous of my appeal always seek to teach me a lesson one way or another. But I am like a tower. I see everything for miles on end. The howl of the wind against my walls has never bothered me."

Helpless, I could only stare back at the absurdity of her words. Fumbling, my hand reached to grasp my scarf hanging on the wall beside the front door. I felt as if I were being swallowed whole by hatred – not for her, to my surprise, but for myself. I could feel my body lifting, as if caught in a wave, as if I were losing grip on my surroundings – my feet rising from the ground as a mad torrent carried me. The image of Aeros, standing before me for a second time, gift in hand, drew tears at last from my eyes. Snatching my scarf I pushed past my mother to the back of the house, vision blurring as I unleashed myself into the alley – her confused voice calling after me, following me up the path a long ways before dying out amid the ringing in my ears.

I now knew, with my feet tripping over one another as I raced up the alley in search of escape, that it was possible to break my own heart. I'd always thought the breaking of one's heart was something another person subjected one to, but now I understood it was possible to be wholly responsible for it on one's own. From the way my mother had always pined after various lovers moved on, or laughed behind the backs of less appealing, more devoted ones, I'd always been inclined to believe my happiness would rest in the hands of someone else. Now I saw, with happiness having been just in my reach, laid gently in my hands even, that I'd cast it to the ground on my own – with help from no one, shattering it.

In alarm I checked the walls on either side of me, for a moment imagining they began to move closer in on me. Now, more than ever I felt certain the city was trying to suffocate me – trying to bury me alive in bricks and mortar, in merchants and workers, in women whispering stories to one another, in prostitutes flashing bare legs and breasts, in staring passers and yelling children. I knew my paranoia would only begin to increase as my exhaustion overcame me – head swimming as I tried to straighten my walk. With my sole desire now being to find sanctuary, I dropped my head low and cut blindly through the eastern gate, making my way quickly off the main road and out into the open, barren scape beyond – my scarf fluttering madly in the wind as I picked my way to lower ground.

Once alone, I again became careless with my walk, soon gashing my toe and then later my heel as I ventured across rocky terrain, headed toward my destination of solace – my pool of water waiting for me in motionless pause. When I reached it at last, I knelt – crawling to my familiar spot to wrap my arms around my legs. Pulling my scarf overhead, I arranged it so that my eyes could see only the blinding surface of the water.

As time melted, the sun engulfed me in its warmth, quieting the throb of my heart and numbing the agony of my mind. At long I wondered if any of the gods were looking down at me – wondered whether or not they were laughing. Closing my eyes I pled with no one for the sun to set, giving me a chance to drift off into the nothingness of sleep. From experience I knew that as long as it was day, my thoughts would continue to torment me – replaying visions and wild exchanges unendingly. Fretful, I lay my head on the side of a smooth rock – skin tingling at the sensation of its heat. Even if I could somehow rest, I knew I should be trying to figure out what my mother and I could do for ourselves instead. I knew it fell on me alone to conjure up how we might somehow change our interwoven fates. It was possible for me to say it aloud now – with a vulnerability I'd formerly denied myself, since young, that I wanted to find an end to my mother's prostitution. I wanted a way out – more than I feared hunger or humiliation even. With one slow breath, my body at last succumbed to exhaustion – my fragile mind conceding it had reached its limit for the time being. There would be no sound thinking or clever ideas that day – my only option left being to somehow rest.

In closing my eyes, I was filled strangely with a sense of hope – hope that a solution to our predicament might present itself somewhere in my dreams, hope that I would wake from sleep with the answer in hand – like a scepter, returning home the next day to at once watch our lives unfold anew. If only I would fall asleep the answer would come to me, then the next time I saw Aeros in the streets it would be on very different terms. Instead of looking ever to the right or left, my eyes would meet his – we would stand on equal footing. If only I would fall asleep.
7. Two Necklaces

Considering I slept on a bed of rocks, with scarce any covering other than my scarf, I woke much later than could be expected – the sun fully raised overhead by the time I my eyelids cracked open. Overnight my body had become rigid enough from the cold air and from lying on uneven ground that when I stirred I could hardly feel my limbs. I was so numb I hadn't even noticed a steady trail of ants marching across my legs. Flustered, I sat up at once to sweep the tiny insects off me, scooting higher until I sat upright on the rock I'd used as a headrest – mind dizzy from rising so sudden.

Now more alert, I could sense the sun branding itself into my uncovered brow – melting my face like wax. Retrieving my scarf from the ground I wrapped it loosely around my head, grimly taking into account how tan I must have grown, since the sun had come up nearly three hours ago by my estimation. It was unlike me to sleep so late and so deep. It was as if my body had known its inability to cope with the severity of being awake. Gaze venturing out beyond the pool, I now saw the day had fully sprung around me – loose cattle already roaming the rocky terrain, the distant call of herdsmen filling my ears, the air growing increasingly hot.

Sorrow embedded itself deep in my chest as I rose, realizing I'd come up with no solution to our impoverished predicament in my sleep – being unable to recall even what I'd dreamt of. Instead, my mind picked up in the same place it had left off the other day – with worry and fear. Despair rejoined me like a flock of black crows, circling over an open field of produce. Normally I was safe beside the pool; it had the uncanny ability to keep my humiliation at bay, to drive my anxiety back and scatter my anguish across the desert. But today the water afforded me no peace. As I looked out over the murky surface – glinting in the sun, it seemed almost to throb, as if it contained a life of its own – something to be feared now in its own right. It had a pull – a draw on me from the center of my chest, strong enough that I shuddered before moving away.

There was nowhere I could hide and lick my wounds now. Neither my mother's house nor the edge of the pool would afford me any solace. In the muddle my thoughts became as I picked my way back toward the eastern gate, I tried to decide whether everything in life had been taken from me, or whether I'd simply ruined it all myself. Either way, I could at least establish that I had nothing left. What else was there that could possibly be ripped from my weakened hands to taint or destroy, to steal or to taunt me with? There was nothing. Glancing skyward, I scowled in the direction I imagined the gods to be watching me from, wondering if next they would want the very scarf around my head perhaps. Fearful after a moment of losing even this, I quickly lowered my eyes and pushed onward. Even resentment seemed pointless.

Glancing up I watched the eastern gate rise slowly in my sight, my chest deflating with each step I drew nearer, almost until it were caving in on me. Close enough to see the field workers, I paused to watch them depart through the broad city gates, venturing in small, friendly clusters out down the road toward far-off fields, carrying various farming tools, prodding stubborn ox along the path. A modest distance behind them trailed an assorted group of women – large reed baskets strapped across their backs. I waited a few moments longer before rising onto the road, eyes tracing after their steps as they passed. My mother had once referred to these women as beggars, though I knew they asked for nothing – working long hours from sun up till sun down. As the paid field hands threshed the wheat, they trailed behind collecting any leftover remnants – anything overlooked or discarded. Grain could still be collected from any loose stalks fallen to the ground. The stems could be bundled and sold in the city to feed goats or line stalls. The profits from such work were meager, but could be survived on if one were committed enough. Since the land owners didn't mind, as these silent gatherers left the fields tidied after the harvests were collected, the wheat and such came free to those willing to bend and collect it.

I could see my mother baulk at the idea of going into the fields, hardly able to picture her stoop under the weight of a large reed basket – her pale skin perspiring under the hot sun. I couldn't imagine her working such long hours – at least I couldn't imagine her working quickly or quietly. Stepping onto the road, I turned in reluctance toward Arrapha. It was easier for me to picture myself in the fields, since I was a quick worker and already accustomed to carrying heavy loads – having had much practice hoisting water and transporting it far distances. Though lean, my arms were strong – my skin already an unseemly tan shade, so that it would be no loss for me to toil out under the sun.

With a final, fleeting glance back in the direction of the workers, I pulled my scarf tight beneath my chin and turned to pass through the open city gates. I knew my going into the field without my mother would be useless. I knew without trying that working alone I would never be able to gather enough grain for both of us, let alone any extra to sell, and if I left her all day there would be no one to paint her face or braid her hair. She would find it too difficult to manage alone. She would first have to first release me from my tasks and then agree to accompany me if there was to be enough to survive on. She would have to commit fully. It could be done, if we worked together. Separate I knew we would be at a loss.

I was surprised to find myself walking much faster, my pace increasing as my newly forged plans began to take recognizable shape. Perhaps another piece of jewelry could be sold in exchange for a pair of reed baskets, such as the ones the other women had carried. Surely my mother wouldn't object to relinquishing one small piece more. But we would need different clothes also, and sturdier sandals. Again I tried to picture my mother on the road, headed out to the fields with the others. It was a stretch, but if I focused I could envision her there, walking at my side – our shoulders cast back and gazes high as we journeyed down the middle of the open road. Only in picturing her turn and crack a smile did I cease my daydream, shaking my head to reengage with my surroundings. She would have to be convinced to work before any further plans could be made, or any dreams be dreamt. The challenge would be unique, as the idea of us going into the fields hadn't yet occurred to me before. Out of caution I began to quiet my thoughts, sensing my heartbeat quicken as my optimism once more was kindled. I came to my senses in just enough time to dodge a rowdy crowd of early drinkers blocking the street. Having forgotten about the upcoming festival, I now saw it was fully upon me – the roads unusually congested for so early in the day. Despite the heat, the energy in Arrapha had continued to swell – like rice left soaking overnight, until it reached every corner of the city.

As my walk continued I saw lengthy strips of colorful fabric and ribbons had been stretched above the main roads. Flower garlands of sunflowers and papyruses had been hung over all the doors facing the central temple, filling the air with their stifling, thick, sweet scent. Young children pushed around me in giddy enthusiasm, having already been changed into white garments symbolizing the prosperity and purity of Arrapha.

Pulling to one side I steered clear of a gaggle of women dressed in costly linen. Donning their most elegant jewels for the occasion, with their hair bound intricately high above their heads and heavy perfume confounding my senses, I felt small as I slipped past them. Though officially it was a night dedicated to the worship of Ashur, it was also an opportunity for many to glean approval from others – the festival drawing the likes of every city inhabitant, poor and wealthy, young and old, holy and depraved. Tonight everything and everyone would be on display – paraded through the streets of Arrapha in the light of a hundred bonfires. Each had an agenda of their own, whether a beggar on the street corner or the highest priest on the temple steps. The young virgin girls would be dancing until their feet bruised – dancing to find a husband. The wives would be strutting through the chaos and clamor with noses turned upward and eyes searching in jealous comparison among one other. The wealthy merchants and politicians would cut through the crowds, a head above the rest, seen by all. The lowly field workers would drag their offerings – their finest calves and richest grains, to the steps of the temple – desperate to a point of frenzy to appease the ever silent Ashur. To the rear of the procession, peeping out from crooked alleyways, the beggars would watch, competing at a loss with a handful of prostitutes brazen enough to attend the ceremony – hands outstretched for sympathy from straying festivalgoers.

Having no purpose myself in attending such an event, I knew it would be pointless to show my face – pointless even to watch it unfold from afar. Since I wouldn't fetch a husband if I danced or be envied for my finery, or elected politically after being seen out and about, or considered any holier for making a sacrifice, and since Ashur wouldn't favor me any more or less than he already did, there was nothing to be gained by it like there might be for the others.

In silence I wondered what Hesba and Phaena might be doing at that time. I guessed Hesba might be preparing some type of sacrifice for Ashur on behalf of the family, while Phaena probably readied herself to dance – braiding her hair, donning her costume. How happy I knew Hesba must be, thrilled in anticipation of seeing her daughter dance that night. I slowed my pace as I drew near their house, standing so tall at the corner of the road like a watchtower. I lowered my head in passing, afraid of meeting one of their gazes through an open window by chance. With each step past their house I took, my body felt as if it were shrinking. Only after turning a corner did I allow my mind to wonder what Aeros might be doing – or thinking. My heart sank at the recollection of my words to him the other day. Try as I might, I couldn't erase the image of him standing on our doorstep from my mind – the handmade necklace with the bird outstretched to me, his face open – not closed off as it later became when I sent him away in such fury. In biting my tongue I managed to halt my memories, grimly reassuring myself that I'd done the right thing – for both of us.

Tending the needs of my mother and self was all that could be managed for the time being, if even this much. There was no one else who could dig us out of the hole we were in, with few even knowing we were down there – hidden away, with little light of fresh air. It was right that I should have sent Aeros away. Phaena knew it also, though she'd shown only anger as she'd towed her brother to safety. My mother had been right in implying I'd abandoned her that night, along with all my sense – what good had come of my straying from our house? I'd been humiliated, attacked by prostitutes, and likewise shamed Aeros, Phaena and Hesba, while at home my mother's lover had forsaken her. A familiar sense of burden settled onto my shoulders as I rounded the last bend in the road before reaching our door – my walk becoming rigid.

At last I had come to my senses, though. I would have to partner together with my mother in ways unlike the past – if we were ever going to dig ourselves out. All else could be worried about later, else forgotten entirely. My sole purpose was to find how I might motivate or convince her to accept my idea for our future. I knew I would have to choose my words carefully, if I were to sway her thinking. Much in the manner she would entice her guests with costumes and aromas, I would have to lure her in and trap her – only with thoughtful words and sound reasoning.

Guessing what to speak in her presence had never been easy. Her moods had always varied greatly – being impossible to predict of late. To make matters worse, we'd spoken less and less ever since her favored lover had abandoned her, to a point where I had no gauge whatsoever on where her emotions might be. Drawing her out of infatuation with her lost lover would be no easy task. I would have to claw whatever it is she was holding onto out of her hands. There was much to be gained – if only I could make her see it. What would it be like to walk down the street, in the open daylight, to draw water from the well herself – unafraid and without scathing looks from others? How much would she enjoy ridding herself of the callers she detested most – the ones she was loathed to greet in the late hours of the night? What sort of power could she glean from providing for herself with her own two hands? Once more my walk hastened, my mind, though nervous, excited as well now. Armed even with the simplest of strategies for broaching the subject of work with her, I could feel my spirits renew – even as I entered the dismal aura encompassing our home, my face hardening instinctively as I reached for our door.

Since she'd had more energy of late as she no longer entertained at night, I expected to find my mother awake – keeping moodily to herself or perhaps scrounging for something to eat at the back of the kitchen. Instead, I was surprised to find our home dark – the only light inside coming from the door as I opened it. Eyes straining, I moved cautiously forward, feet shuffling to ensure I didn't stumble. A few steps further and I could tell incents had been burning all night, judging by the thick smell lingering in the air. Fighting my impulse to cough, I turned to survey the front of the house, first spying the remains of a stale meal spread across the floor. Amid curling smoke my heel struck a platter of figs, sending them flying – the plate clattering loudly into our new water jar sitting beside it. In an instant my body became parched – like a grape left out in the sun, shriveled and dark. I found myself unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to swallow. At the commotion I caused, my mother began to stir from somewhere behind the thin screen of her bed. In the gray light I could just make out one of her pale naked legs stretch from under covering as she turned listlessly over.

Suspicion crowding the yawning passages of my mind, I moved quickly to the window, unlatching the shutters and casting them vigorously back. In dread I looked back across the brightened room, eyes surmising the familiar wreckage with throbbing disillusion. She hadn't spent the night alone.

As I stood transfixed, something lying on the ground near the corner of the room caught my eye, flashing in the light cast from the open window – a necklace. Moving stiffly closer I bent to examine it, reaching wordless to graze its inset stones with my fingertips. Of all the gifts bestowed my mother, I'd never seen anything so expensive. Lips sealing, I straightened to check the rest of the room. At closer inspection I saw this was not the only gift she'd received – a basket of expensive fruit sitting in another corner, as well as a new jar of perfume and several yards of fabric. At once my head began to spin – my vision narrowing to a point where I could scarce see.

"Ishtah," hummed my mother.

Startled I glanced in her direction.

Wiping drool from her cheek she sat slowly upright, blinking uncomfortably in the harsh light from the window. "Look what he gave me," she beamed at long, nodding toward the necklace over on the ground. "I'll see no one else this month – I swear. See there," she pointed, directing my gaze toward the bottle beside the fruit. "Perfume from the far east. It smells like a thousand blossoms – rub some on your neck if you like."

As she smiled I saw the paint from her lips had smeared overnight, drying around her mouth and in the crevices of her teeth, like blood. I found myself unable to meet her gaze, instead staring downward at my dusty feet.

At my lack of response she turned away, shrugging indifferently. "Go see if there is any bread to eat. I've had my fill of fruits and sweet things."

"So you had company last night," I stated, unmoving.

Facing me fully, her lips twisted sideways as she responded, simple and short, "He made a mistake." Her smile brought an acidic closure to the subject.

Moving blindly to the back of the house, my hands lifted shakily to hold my face once I was hidden from sight. For a brief instant I imagined the walls of the house were groaning, wobbling even – as if they were going to topple over. I felt sure the roof would cave in at any second, burying me alive in mortar, broken wood and dust. Pushing forcibly off the wall where I leaned, I propelled myself in the direction of the back door, bursting out into the alley as if rising from underwater.

Exhaling deeply I sank to my knees, numbly reaching to collect a few broken branches stashed along the back of our house for kindling. In hopelessness I questioned how I could even come close to competing with such exotic gifts and expensive jewelry as my mother now possessed. I knew she'd never agree to go work in the fields now, not with such temptation and satisfaction at her fingertips. Convincing her to go would be impossible. Still stunned her lover had actually returned I broke my bundled sticks in half with one angry motion.

Once more my mother had vanquished me with seemingly no effort – her will suffocating mine at every turn. I'd been defeated on the front steps, perhaps even at the city gates – before even beginning, before even entering Arrapha. Knowing there was nothing I could do – nothing I could say, I returned inside and knelt before the oven, stacking it full with what little refuse we had left. Sweat dripped from my nose as I worked to strike up a blaze, trying valiantly to regroup my thoughts – to bring order to the chaos raging inside me, though my attempts were half-hearted by now. I paused only to wipe sweat from my brow, darkly considering the possibility that this lover of hers might not stick around long this time either. Perhaps another spat would break out between them, or perhaps a different love interest would develop for him. I knew these things could happen at random.

Eyes closing in hopelessness, I pulled out our grinding stone and set to work crushing the last of our grain, questioning how my mother could be pacified so easily – how she could live so contentedly at the beck and call of fleeting love. Hadn't the past few days of lovesick disillusion been enough for her – and what of the other times? At any rate, it had been enough for me. Pouring water gently over the powdery grain I dug my fingers into the mixture, conceding quietly to wait. I would have to wait for the right moment, for her heart to break all over again – watching like a spider in the corner of a web. My reasoning would mean nothing now – not when she sat amid such exultations, reassured of her beauty and sense of allure. She feared nothing with a man pinned between her legs, unable to hear wisdom of any nature.

After kneading my ingredients together, I set the dough on our wooden plat and slid it over the hot oven embers, sitting back to rest when I'd finished. Though I fought back with resilience, I could feel tears rise in my eyes. Blinking, I rose from the ground and dusted both knees, assuring myself that I was only tired, thirsty and hungry. I would only make myself ill if I continued to fret, and then we would really be lost. I had to keep well since I was alone. If I didn't care for myself I'd be unable to think – unable to navigate us in the right way we should go. I'd been absent only one night and already she'd taken us back down in a direction we should no longer take. She was far away from me once more, and there was no telling when she'd be back.

Rejoining her in the front room, I mutely set two cups of water down by the floor mats. Oblivious to my upset, she fought to rake her disheveled hair into place – pausing only to inspect her nails as I moved about her setting the room in order piece by piece. In silence I contemplated how she must have painted her face herself and dressed alone before her guest arrived, as I'd been out by the pool. I assumed a messenger had sent word that her lover would be visiting, allowing her time to ready herself. Though smeared and dry now, I could tell she'd made every effort to paint her face the same way I did – with black lines beneath each eye, extending abruptly up at the corners, and vibrant rouge blended across the tops of both cheekbones.

"There is plenty of work to do," she spoke at last, having finished with her hair. "I need you to help wash me after our meal, so you'll need to run and fetch more water. No more games with your silly friends or hiding out in the city from your chores. I slept much later than I should have so there won't be much time."

"He's not coming back tonight is he?" I asked – voice hollow and flat. "Don't you think he'll be busy with the ceremony of Ashur being tonight? Won't he have sacrifices of his own to make?" Though waving my hand as if dismissive, contempt began to leak through the corners of my mouth unchecked as I added, "I'm sure he'll return to you at some point after the festival is finished . . . unless of course he finds something that entertains him more." This last part I hadn't fully intended to say aloud – face twisting afterward in anticipation of her fury.

At last she detected the quiet malice in my tone – despite her self-absorption, hands folding unrushed between her bended legs and eyes rising slowly to meet mine. With head cocked to the side in amusement, she smiled shallowly back at my small frame, leaning forward as she responded, "I was anxious for you to return this morning, Ishtah – to share with you such exciting news." Eyes glinting darkly, she lowered her voice in a manner which caused my skin to crawl, "Don't think I don't know how badly you want to go to the festival. What sort of mother would I be if I didn't know it is the wish of every girl in Arrapha to attend?" Pausing, she looked over me from head to toe, nodding in theatrical approval before pronouncing, "I believe you are just the right age to walk out in the festival."

My eyes searched hers in quiet stun.

"Now everything will be made right, and for once during the festival of Ashur," she sang aloud, face shining brightly. "The gods are smiling on me at last, Ishtah, and I won't be the only one to know it either. Tonight the others will see it – as clear as if it were broad day. He is not only returning tonight, but has agreed to take me out into the streets with him – to walk alongside him in the festival procession to the high temple."

"What – what do you mean?" I stammered.

"I knew if I waited he would return," she continued – laughter ringing in her voice. "I can read a man as easy as a priest reads scripture. I'll keep my door closed tight to anyone's knock but his. This one eats from my hands, Ishtah."

The thought of her walking in the festival painted and costumed alongside her paying lover, for all Arrapha to see, caused my head to swim. Never had something so brazen been done – neither of us having even attended the festival before, let alone watched it from afar. Though it was common enough for one or more prostitutes to skirt the edges of the event, to my knowledge none had dared participate in it – my mother least likely of all as she had always had company of her own.

Smiling emptily back at me – much in the way a cat taunts a dog, her eyes devoured my every emotion. Swaying, my hand reached for the nearby wall to steady myself, unable to think what to say. Using every ounce of strength I felt I had left, I lifted my chin so as to meet her gaze. I wanted to understand what part of what she said was merely her wishful delusion speaking, her obsession with something that could never be? What part of it was her awareness of my contempt, her penalizing me for my disdain? Or did she even know that I hated everything about this? Her intentions seemed too scrambled for me to know which point I should begin to challenge her on.

"He won't know you beyond this month, so save yourself the care," I spat blindly.

Pouting, she drew her robe across her legs.

"Go see if the bread is done," she directed.

"Fine," I snapped, "You want to parade yourself in front of all Arrapha? I won't stop you – or comfort you when he deserts you in a week's time."

"Ishtah, you don't understand love," she insisted. "You're too immature to even know what it is." Waving her hand as if to dismiss me, she nodded in the direction of her new necklace – still lying on the floor in the corner of the room. "The jewelry he gave me will last an eternity, just as his love for me will – he swore so just last night, and tonight he comes again so you must be present. I imagine he will bring even you something if you would stop your childish brooding and be pleasant for once in your life."

Her words sent me over the edge of an abyss – hurling me down so fast that I could scarce utter a response. "Play pretend with him all you want – all you can stomach," I managed at last. "I won't interfere."

With difficulty she drew herself up onto her knees – eyes closing briefly to overcome her dizziness, skin glistening with perspiration and breathing heavy. "I'm not as selfish as that, Ishtah," she spoke through clenched teeth, hands now closing into fists at either side of her. "You will make us supper tonight and then accompany us to the festival. He swore he would walk with me there and you will see for yourself, he is unashamed." Her eyes bore coldly into me before adding, "Though I cannot say as much of my only daughter."

At her words my throat became as dry as the streets outside.

Lifting to her feet she cast the hem of her robe down around her ankles, sweeping past me into the kitchen, close enough so that she brushed with my shoulder. Moving to the oven she stooped to inspect the progress of the bread for herself. In her absence I found I was unable to move – unable to follow her steps or shape words of any nature. The light bleeding in from the open window fluttered as passers in the street made their way toward the market – toward the central temple where soon the religious proceedings and later riotous festivities would begin.

With both ears ringing I was incapable of hearing my mother call me to come and join her, scarce able even to turn my head and watch her pull the bread from the oven, sliding it skillfully onto a reed mat. Unlike my agonizing memories of the past few days – of my confrontation with the prostitutes outside the temple, or of my breaking Aeros into pieces outside our door – these new visions now dancing rampant before my eyes, of things yet to come, ruptured anguish in my gut so sharply that I half imagined I'd see blood when glancing down to check myself.

In the dim shabbiness of our home I could now see plainly that my humiliation would meet no sudden end, as I'd comically planned for only a short while ago. Considering my prospects for the night, it was laughable to think of now. Already I could feel the looks of disdain burn my flesh – picture the scathing glances, hear the whispers of ridicule over the throng of celebration, of singing and dancing. We would be a spectacle unrivaled. Alone, drawing a degree of attention dangerously envied by anyone left in her wake, my mother would attain nothing less than the eyes of all surrounding her. Her breasts, her jewels, her scent, her tall neck and lofty walk would steal the thunder out from under even the virginal dancers crowding the temple arena in heroic though futile attempts to outshine all else. Their efforts would be at a loss as there were none that could match the radiance of my mother in all her splendor.

I wondered what Hesba might think at seeing me paraded alongside my mother in all her glory, like a small animal held captive on a leash. Would Phaena feel gratified watching me among the true company I belonged with? Would I even be able to look and see what Aeros might think? Eyes closing tight, I lowered my face. Maybe only in seeing me in such a way would he finally understand the mistake he could have made.

"Look now you've burnt the bread because you're moving too slowly," growled my mother, tapping the loaf with her finger. "Lucky for you your little friends left their jar of grain by the front door yesterday, so you can bake that for our dinner tonight before my guest arrives."

Picking up the hardened loaf with her skirt she moved it to the front room where I stood, dropping it on the mat before taking seat – flinging her hair behind her shoulder in exasperation as she settled into place. Without waiting she tore a piece from the loaf, grimacing as she placed it between her teeth.

I had forgotten entirely about the jar of grain Aeros had tried to offer me. Watching my mother eat, I resolved in silence that I would rather die than bake it for her and her lover. Before I could open my lips to speak, she interrupted my thoughts.

"I expect you to refrain from sulking tonight, Ishtah," she spoke through open mouthfuls. "Be happy. Why don't you smile once in a while?" Leaning forward she reached to pour the last of the water from our jar into her cup, dribbling it down her chin as she quenched her thirst. In sitting back her eyes settled disapprovingly on my motionless form. "Hurry and eat your share and then run go fetch water. I need to wash myself before I'm painted, and since you went out so late again last night this room still needs to be tidied as well. The sun will start setting before too long. I haven't even decided what I should wear."

"I'm not hungry," I snapped, eyes blazing. Without further discussion I swept the empty water jar from before her and stormed to the back of the house.

"Don't go near that old hag, Ishtah," her voice chased after me – referring I assumed to Hesba. "Time isn't yours to waste – only the gods live forever. Your loyalty is with me tonight, where it belonged in the first place. Don't forget it."

I left without response, slamming the backdoor shut behind me. Thoughts shattered and heart racing, I accepted readily that there was nothing else that could be said – nothing else that could be done. Nothing could compete with the gifts bestowed her – nothing could vanquish her thirst for fleeting passion. She was the tidal wave and I the driftwood. Though I couldn't conceive how it was possible that she should walk the streets in the festival alongside the one she loved, while I could not, it was nevertheless so. I wanted to turn my head skyward and scream – on a day the entire city sang praises to Ashur I wanted to throw rocks at him; I wanted to curse him – provoke him to answer me. Wasn't it enough that my life was destitute? Wasn't it enough that I had denied love? Not enough it seemed, as the gods appeared delighted only by my ongoing degradation – the slow unfolding of my burning humiliation.

Though ever wary of large gatherings and crowded streets, in the end the chaos of the city made it easier for me to travel unnoticed – ducking and weaving my way in the direction of the well with plenty of options for hiding, should need arise.

Though the wait for water was somewhat long, I found myself stationed in relative ease, knowing I was so tightly concealed from all angles by so many. In departing though, with water sloshing over the rim of my jar, I was unable to move as quickly as I'd prefer – not because of the crowdedness so much as the toll of my emotions at last beginning to catch up with me, weakening my limbs and scattering my thinking so that I could scarce decide which route to take. I was grateful to finally cut down a small, crooked alley – grateful for a moment of stillness. It was enough for my young mind to try and fathom all that had unfolded in the past hour without having to check my surroundings for danger. I still couldn't bring myself to believe any of this was really happening. Was my mother's lover really returning that night to take her out into the festival? What could he possibly stand to gain by such a course of action?

Though it hardly made sense, I was much too petrified at the idea of having to join them myself to stand any chance of figuring it out. I knew I'd spoken disrespectfully to my mother. I knew that she was angry with me and now aware of my contempt, but perhaps by the time it grew dark she would change her mind about making me accompany her. Perhaps she would show mercy and leave me behind – alone, at the back of the house in the dark, safely hidden until it had all ended.

It was this meager hope alone that enabled me to reenter our home – closing the back door behind me more quietly than when I'd left. Already the smell of burning incents filled my nostrils, sending a shudder up my spine as I stooped to set the water beside the oven. From somewhere at the front of the house I could hear my mother humming softly. Closing my eyes tight before joining her, I became momentarily hopeful that if she were excited enough for the night and in pleasant enough spirits, she might be more likely to relinquish my accompaniment to the festival. Perhaps if I fashioned her hair especially well, painted her eyes a more vibrant shade than ever and draped her in her most ostentatious piece, she would become distracted enough by her own beauty that I could fall to the wayside unobserved – sneak up to my rooftop haven or perhaps flee Arrapha altogether, venture out to the quiet pool of water. It wasn't entirely impossible. Exhaling softly, I opened my eyes and moved forward with roused spirits.

My entrance startled my mother, as I'd closed the back door quiet enough so that she'd missed my return. Nevertheless she smiled broadly at seeing my face, having already begun to pull every garment of clothing she owned, both old and new, out onto the floor mats in confounding disarray.

"I wish you wouldn't leave my wardrobe up on the roof so long, Ishtah – the fabric will start to fade in the sun if you continue to be careless. I swear – if only you weren't so dramatic, storming off all the time. All this will have to be put away before he comes. It's almost sunset so we're short of time." Holding up a skirt, she shook it out before me – eyes checking to see what I thought. A plunging shade of purple, it was one of her older garments – perhaps too small for her now since she'd grown so much.

"What do you think?" she asked, eyes widening. "It's made of finer linen than any other woman in the district will have. Think of the envy such a piece could fetch tonight, in the light of the bonfires."

Pretending to take careful consideration of it, I folded my arms across my chest and bent my head to one side. I wanted her to believe me a willing participant in her preparations alone for the evening. "Too small," I asserted, quick to avoid her gaze as I bent to select an alternative option. "You want your fabric to trail after your steps – like the feathers of a peacock. That way a space will form behind you just as it will in front of you." Selecting a skirt more suited to her girth, a vibrant shade of blue and with a longer train, I held it out for her to look at.

Eyes sparking with amusement, she flashed her teeth back at me. "No, Ishtah," she corrected. Moving into my space, close enough so that I could feel the warmth of her breath, she pinned the garment she held up against my waist – murmuring, "I mean for you. I think this will fit your frame perfect."

҉

Reaching unannounced across the rugged land, dusk crept over the city walls at last – setting Arrapha aglow in a declining, golden haze. Anticipation of nightfall, which would indicate the commencement of the ceremonial proceedings at the temple, had reached a point near frenzy by the time the sun began to set. Outside, the impatience of the city became palpable, even through our tightly closed door. For my own self, dusk came too soon – my eyes watching in anguish as the light shining through the cracks in our now shuttered window began to fade. To me the encroaching darkness outside, the lighting of the fire pits and increasingly riotous music in the streets all converged to signal the start of my end.

I found myself now sitting fully dressed in a costume similar to the ones my mother donned for her guests, scarce able to move after my transformation was complete. My wearing such clothes was unprecedented, as I kept well away from my mother's things – other than helping her dress herself of course. Though she'd offered me various pieces over the years – a veil or pair of earrings now and then, never before had she persevered in staging me to such a degree in her full likeness – even trying her hand at lining my eyes and rouging my cheeks once I'd been dressed, rubbing my thin forearms with her expensive oils before finally sitting back to view her workmanship.

The process had taken the better part of an hour, over which time I'd become increasingly withdrawn – my will crumbling inward with every paint stroke across my skin. When at last she'd finished, I imagined the way I felt might be similar to the way an old woman did, lying on her deathbed – air rasping in and out of my lungs as I waited, perhaps gratefully, to be taken away by the spirits. There was no sense in struggling – only those accepting of their fate would be rewarded a peaceful passage to the other side. Besides all this, it had never been a fair match to begin with. There was no racing the gods to orchestrate ones' own life – the will of Ashur was supreme. I understood this now. At least it was easier to relinquish if you knew you'd given your all, and I felt I had – even as I sat with painted face and folded hands, transfixed by what was yet to come.

When finally my mother rose and dusted her hands on her thighs, I made no motion to turn and watch her go – feeling unable to move any which way. In the absence of a mirror I tried to picture what I might look like to others, for a fleeting moment considering I might not even be recognizable, since ordinarily I kept myself so plainly in attempts to go unnoticed. I soon realized however that this would be unlikely, as my mother was eternally easy to spot outside our door, and likewise in accompanying her I would be the same. Without turning my head, my eyes shifted to watch her – my face remaining expressionless as I traced her steps back and forth across the small room.

Her painstaking efforts in transforming me left me surprised in more ways than one, as she had never left her own preparation till the final hour before her guest arrived – preferring instead to always ready herself far in advance and sit idle for long periods after. Yet tonight she walked before me to and fro only halfway dressed, hair unbound and face unpainted, just now beginning to wash herself – first peeling the top of her dress down so as to scrub her face and neck before beginning to paint. What I found most odd perhaps was how she had yet to request my assistance, instead putting everything in its place herself as she worked – unaided and without grumbling. Since I knew the process of readying her took immense effort, I might normally have found watching her attempts to do so alone entertaining, but with the prospects of my evening looming so close at hand, I instead found myself engrossed – looking on only a few feet from her, stupefied with dread.

With the sun almost fully set, I knew the entire city would be congregated around the central temple – the ceremonies most likely having already started a few moments ago, the slaughtering of animals, the burning of the meat and the gift-giving from the poor and wealthy alike. Inwardly I wondered when my mother's lover would arrive. I knew she hadn't any intentions of attending the ceremonial rites at the temple, choosing instead to make an entrance afterward at the festival, but his arrival by now would make us late even for this, as the crowds were sure to make passage through the streets difficult once the ceremony was ended. From the corner of my eye I studied my mother's face, watching for any signs of doubt – any fracture in her exhilarated expectancy. Did she really still believe he would come for her – that he would parade us through the festival at his side? Neck straining from exhaustion, I closed my eyes – head beginning to throb unbearably. None of it made any sense – like my being painted and dressed as I was, but nor was it my business any longer. It didn't matter what I thought or why. It didn't matter whether she was in actuality suddenly blessed beyond measure, or instead wholly insane. Either way I would shortly be led out to slaughter, like one of the poor animals now lining the steps to the temple alter, awaiting their gruesome fates – the priests officiating in bloodstained robes.

Like the striking of a temple gong, my mother's voice called out to me – reverberating in my ears, "Light incents and a second bowl of oil. I can barely see to paint my face."

I was surprised to find her so calm. I would have thought she'd be more panicked, more agitated by the lateness of the hour – what with her still being so unready. Instead, she seemed empowered, standing half-dressed and dripping, towering like a statue above my cross-legged position on the dirt floor as I waited for something – for anything, to happen.

Turning away she moved to the window, bending with difficulty to check the shelves beneath it – her makeup supplies still strewn across the floor from her having painted me. Lips sealing in resolve, she located her oil jar and hurriedly began to smear its contents across her face in preparation for makeup. Having scarce ever seen her paint herself, my instincts were at first to pause and watch, wanting to see how she would manage alone – still in awe that her nails hadn't been done or her hair even braided. In checking, I noted she hadn't set out what she would wear either. I knew this would be problematic as it had grown increasingly time consuming to dress her – since recently she'd gained so much weight. At the annoyed click of her tongue, I mustered enough strength to lift myself from the floor, shuffling in my thick skirt to the back of the house – the long veil she'd pinned to my head swishing unfamiliarly behind my shoulders as I went.

Knowing without checking that she'd burnt up the rest of the incents the other night, I ventured instead to light a second bowl of oil – hopeful for a moment that the added light might somehow wake me from my stupor. It was difficult with my cumbersome new outfit to squeeze myself behind the thick, cool stones of the oven where we stored most of our supplies. The space was normally just manageable enough for me to fit into, as I was so thin. I liked to stack loose items behind the oven to keep the kitchen looking organized, though sometimes things became mixed or lost –impossible to locate in the dimness of our home. Eyes straining, I could just make out where our sealed jar of oil sat, barely in arms reach on top of our basket of spices. A soft crunch underfoot brought my gaze down – my head scraping the wall of the oven as I fought to bend and see what I'd trampled on. Probing blindly beneath my foot with my hand, I was able to collect the item without seeing it, then scooting curiously backwards out of the space for better lighting – the lengthy veil draping down the back of my head snagging easily on all it touched.

In the faint light cast from the open roof hatch I was able to see the item I'd stepped on – recognizing at once the familiar looking garland as the one I'd previously found. It was the silphium, meant for terminating a pregnancy – the dry plant garland evidently untouched, as the string still bound the small stalks tightly and the leaves were still intact. Perplexed, I held it at a distance from my body – as if its mere touch were somehow poisonous. Amid my scrambled thoughts I questioned what it was doing there – swept behind the stove as if carelessly dropped and forgotten. Had it been lost or was it purposefully discarded? Holding it still extended, I moved away from the stove – rolling the twig-like stalks between my fingertips as I ventured to the front of the house.

After hours of motionless existence – having succumbed to acceptance of the misery of my fate, it was odd to feel blood now pulse abruptly through my veins – my heartbeat reverberating in my chest as I turned to look on my mother, nose cringing as my eyes dissected her form. Though young and often naïve of all that she quietly planned inside her head, at the very least I knew what it meant if she hadn't ingested the plant by last week at the latest – or any of it at all ever. In my brief absence I saw she'd managed to select a skirt for her lower half – her loose hanging hair the only thing concealing her chest as she squatted before her paints and perfumes – one eye closed as she struggled to trace it with charcoal. On the mat beside her she'd laid out the jewelry she would wear – a ring for each finger, a veil the color of wine – with a gold clasp to pin it to the top of her head, a pair of earrings that draped all the way to her shoulders, and the new necklace she'd been given – which even in the dimness of the room somehow captured and emulated what little light there was. In such an ensemble there would be none to rival her magnetism. She would fetch adoration from one end of Arrapha to the other.

Pivoting, I surmised her figure – eyes narrowing as I scrutinized her from head to toe. Though her looks could always be transformed – exaggerated or disguised by paint and costume, her gimmicks, her carefully constructed designs, shimmering paints and overlapping fabrics, would never altered the way I saw her. My head was the only thing to move as I stood fixated on her – tilting slightly so as to alter my view of her. She was difficult to assess from the way she squatted.

Sensing me stare she turned questioningly to look up at me – only one of her eyes finished, with the other unpainted. Turning back to her work in annoyance, she paused before glancing back at realizing what I held out from me. Mouth opening mutely, she stared first at the garland of silphium I clutched and then at my face. Releasing her charcoal pencil, she rose wordless from the ground. Being not fully fastened, her skirt came loose from her hips as she stood – slipping airily to the floor beneath her.

I gazed on her, disoriented – heart sinking at the sight of her rounded stomach. Crushing the small garland in my fist, my hand dropped to my side.

"Pregnant," I whispered.

Angrily she clutched her fallen skirt back to her waist – pulling the edges of the fabric into a knot around her hips before meeting my incredulous gaze. In an instant, sparks struck up in the cruxes of her eyes, glinting like melting steal in a smith's fire.

"Go light the oil, Ishtah," she spoke.

Ignoring her, I instead pointed to her waist, asking, "Is it his – or do you even know. You didn't take the silphium. Perhaps you want me to run and fetch a fresh garland for you to take, since the other was lost behind the oven for so long."

Her eyes omitted nothing as she stared back at me, face twisting oddly.

"Oh. I see," I spoke, holding her gaze locked uncomfortably in mine. "I understand your ways better than you think," I menaced. "You think it is his and that he will perhaps want it – that it will seal his love for you and bind you together for all of time?" Uncontrolled I began to smile – at first small, but then wide. "Yes," I laughed, "That is exactly what this elusive lover of yours wants. How considerate of you to keep his child stashed in your womb – ready to spring out when the moment is right into his open arms." Choking on my words, I found I could scarce look in her direction. "You're madder than I thought. Do you want me to tell you your future – give you a reading like the soothsayers in the market? Let me untangle your prospects at no charge. You will continue to swell – until repulsive, with the weight of that baby, and just when the last of your guests have forsaken you, he will desert you as well for the arms of another. No I am no oracle. I can tell you these things because I've seen them all before – because it's the story I live. If that baby comes to term it will grow to hate you just like me and there will be no one left to share your bed or comfort you. You think it will but that child won't save you anymore than I did." Thoughts now uncaged, the truth of my existence bubbled to the surface of my mouth like pockets of air escaping boiling tar. "You are selfish," I continued evenly, "And I am nothing more than the refuse of your foolish desires."

For an instant it was as if her forehead split open before me and I could see inside her – watch her mind spin round and round at my words, eyes becoming wild, in disbelief or consideration of my words I couldn't tell. I'd never spoke so contemptuous before – never with such animosity or truth. Swallowing, I studied her as she fought to control her expression – her neck straining visibly amid the surge of her fury.

"Ishtah," she spoke – forceful and low so as to command my attention. "You are perhaps only tired and hungry as I am." She shook her head back and forth as if it would somehow hypnotize me, her voice in an instant becoming soft and moldable – like clay. "You've grown weary of struggle – I can see that now. You're like an animal too long in the wilderness, no longer able to detect when water is close at hand. You would bite even a helping hand."

Instantly I could feel myself pull away at her words, feet stepping back and head turning aside as if her face were too repulsive to look on. At last I was done with her – finished both in mind and spirit. I knew it was ended by the way my thoughts had run out. I had spoken all that was in me and there was nothing left in its place but a painless weight, sinking low into the pit of my stomach. Without response I turned my back on her, ready to break free of her presence – heartbeat dropping as my eyes looked another way.

"An ending is in sight," spoke my mother, voice rising now thunderous and potent. "I told you this one will eat from my hand." She paused slightly before adding in definitive tones, "He will make me one of his wives. I am sure of it."

At this I halted – feet becoming unbendable, like iron, so that I could move neither backward nor forward. I sensed my pulse quicken, the flesh on my face starting to burn as if the sun shone fully on me.

"He shan't make you a wife," I responded, quietly.

Arms folding like metal plates across her chest, she leaned to one side. "You think you are right – that you are smarter than anyone else. Yes you are so wise for your age – so devout in your ways compared with others. Don't you want to know why you must accompany me out into the streets tonight, Ishtah?" As she spoke I could sense her eyes bore into the backside of my skull. "You will be my public captive tonight because tonight I will grind your arrogance and disloyalty into dust. You leave me little choice. You'll believe when you see it for yourself. You will know by and by when your pride is broke that I am the one who gives to you. Now go light the oil as I instructed. I wouldn't want you to miss anything in the dark."

Turning on the axis of my heels I faced her once more – hands clenched in tight fists at either side of me. "He will not make you one of his wives," I repeated, louder. "He will not know you beyond this month." My words fell between us with the weight of a heavy tombstone turning over, a volley of dust filling the air after.

"Get the oil," she ordered, thrusting her finger toward the back of the house.

"He will not make you a wife! He will not make you a wife!" I sang aloud, feet beginning to move almost as if I danced. My response stunned us both. At last I could see my words begin to cut away at her delusion – her mouth cracking open and eyes fixed in disbelief on my unyielding face. Without pause I made my move – adrenaline now surging through my veins. I didn't wait for her to speak, for her to summon all her powers of persuasion before pushing past her to the corner of the room. Stooping to where she'd laid out her jewelry, my hand snaked around the assorted pieces to rake in the necklace her lover had given her. Gripping it tight, I rose. Storming to the front door, I escaped through it in just enough time to lessen the sound of her violent shriek – the radiance of the setting sun just visible over the city walls blinding me as I marched up the open road.

I walked with clouded vision, at first unsure of where I was headed or what my intentions were. The excitement of the crowded streets and swollen disorder arisen by the start of the festival deepened the chaos within me. Face stricken with a gravity starkly contrasting those I passed, I weaved my way up our road until it joined with a larger one – my walk, though hasty, refrained from becoming a run.

Eyes searching frantically for somewhere to hide – somewhere quiet and dark, somewhere safe – I ducked unresponsively from the path of a group of disorderly drinkers calling lazily after me. Everywhere I looked was full, the city air congested and stifling. The buzz of so many voices, the distant ring of tambourines and thud of the temple drums scrambled my thoughts. Every street and alley, every nook and cranny I might normally stash myself away in was filled with the aroma of sacrifice, of burning meat and fat trailing out in every direction from the central temple – enveloping all of Arrapha. I felt lost – as if I'd never been there before, unsure of which path to take. Around me the houses seemed to grow taller, stretching up until they bent out over the road under their own weight. The shapes of those I passed began to twist and blur together until unrecognizable.

Amid my anger I considered running to the house of my mother's lover. I could picture myself casting the necklace at his door – picture it breaking into pieces before falling to the dirt ground. As I'd scarce seen the man once, let alone where he lived, my teeth dug sharply into my lower lip. He would escape my fury unscathed – ever the fate of the wealthy. I had no choice but to seek retribution elsewhere – to find my ending someplace else to something I surely hadn't started. Even with it now being dusk, my skin perspired. Blinking, I slowed my walk as a large drop of sweat ran into my eye – at last realizing where my feet were taking me and what I wanted to do. Hastening, I headed in the direction of the eastern gates, gliding skillfully around an arriving group of travelers as I neared the entry.

In passing through the gates I forwent attempting to cover my face, knowing it pointless as the costume my mother had put me in and paints she'd colored my face with would stand out nonetheless. I was right in assuming at least one of the guards if not more would try and delay me. Out from the shadows they came lumbering at seeing me approach from afar – one of them with uplifted hands to halt my walk, at once beginning to question me playfully. At last I broke into a run, encumbered only slightly by the thickness of my skirt and length of my veil. Successful in evading them, I slipped with relative ease beyond the gates – immediately forsaking the main road and plunging myself into the rocky, uneven terrain encompassing the city.

Only once the gates were out of sight did I slow my pace, having managed to cover a far distance in surprising little time. Judging by the warmth of the earth beneath my thin sandals and the heat of the boulders my fingers touched as I picked my way numbly forward – undeterred, I could tell how hot the day must have been. Rounding the eastern bend of the city wall, I faced myself west in just enough time to behold the last of the sun – now hidden partially behind distant mountain peaks. The sight of it left me breathless, red and orange light engulfing me like flames. It was the first time since waking that day that I'd felt peace – pausing to watch the radiance fade.

My sense of quiet was short-lived. As the light began to dwindle, fear crept in on the corners of my mind. Instead of nulling my anguish or hushing my frenzied thinking, the silence outside Arrapha rang loudly in my ears much in the same manner the city had, if not more. Something unnatural pulled at me – drawing me on in the direction of my destination, the lonesome pool of water. As I continued on my crooked path I was quickly overcome by a sense of panic – feeling my journey there might somehow be forced, as if I were walking a course designed by the gods – by Ashur himself, and since he had yet to prove himself friendly toward me, his will could neither be guessed nor trusted.

I was afforded no time to exercise resistance, though, as the sound of rolling gravel brought my gaze back over my shoulder. In alarm I spied my mother, stumbling a short ways behind me on uneven terrain. Amid my fury I hadn't considered the possibility she might follow me out into the streets, let alone out past the city gates – being scarce able to remember the last time I'd seen her venture past our door. Indeed, it had been ages since I'd last seen her out in the purifying light of the sun, yet here she now stood in my very sanctuary – uninvited, like a dead thing drawn up from burial, blind above the earth's crust.

Seeing her spurred me on the few remaining yards between myself and the pool – waiting in quiet solitude for me. I glanced back to check her proximity to me just as my sandals reached the safety of the water's edge. Forcing my parched throat to swallow, I stretched out my arm to dangle her necklace above the stagnant surface of the pool – swinging the jewelry enough so as to warn her of impending loss should she venture any closer.

Stopping short a few yards back, her legs gave way beneath her as she crumpled to the ground – skirt twisting around her ankles like a coiled rope. With only one eye traced in black, hair unbound and a blanket covering her – which she clasped with relaxing grip between her breasts – she was scarce recognizable. In the orange light of the receding sun, she appeared sweaty and fat – breathing heavily, as if she couldn't fill her lungs fast enough. Gone were any remnants of sympathy in her shifting eyes as she groped, resting her hand on a sharp stone that had come away from the city wall. Placing it snuggly against her belly, her eyes rose – flashing dark, like the shade of fabric she'd tied around her waist.

"Ishtah," she panted, face masked once more in some manner of softness. "Do I disgust you, daughter?" She lowered her gaze, murmuring, "You call me selfish, yet all this I have done to myself for you – to provide for us. Yet you cringe now to look at me."

Incapable of speech, I shook my head.

"But I have, Ishtah," she insisted. "You deny it only because it is too painful for you to accept. I've sacrificed my life daily so that you can have one – so that you can turn your nose up at me or bury your head in the sand." As the light shifted lower, the softness began to wash from her face.

"Nothing you do is for me – or for anyone other than yourself," I corrected, struggling to hold my voice steady. "You do what you please because it pleases you, or else suits your senseless designs – like that child you carry." Grip loosening, I dangled her necklace lower – the stones glinting fetchingly in the last of the sun.

"Ishtah –" she breathed, words running over one another amid her haste. "That necklace is not so much a gift as it is his promise –"

"Not a promise," I interrupted, "An early apology for leaving you soon."

In an instant her face became clouded.

"You think you are better than me – you cannot hide this from your mother, but you are no better than the bird that feasts on the lion's kill."

No longer sympathetic, I allowed the necklace to slip lower.

"Did I ever once ask you to stay the night with a guest? Did I ever dip your hands in perfume or braid your hair? Never – though money enough could have been made. All I asked was that you would not scorn me, but even this has proved too much for you my thankless daughter." Rising shakily she released the blanket she clutched and let it fall to the ground – leaving the expanse of her belly exposed in the diminishing sun.

For a brief moment my head stopped spinning. She was much larger than I at first imagined her to be – her belly bulging outward, like a ripe melon in a field, a small being developing rapidly inside her. I could feel my stomach begin turn as I stared, unable to look away.

"You think you are the one who has carried me, but I'm the one who has carried both of us." Still clutching the rock in hand, she began to nod her head in assurance. "For every virtuous drop you've sweat I've bled the same. For you – daughter I conceived, I've done everything – would do anything and will. Even this –"

I had no way of guessing her intent with the rock. Assuming she planned on keeping the baby in hopes of trapping her lover, I was stunned to see how far my words had unraveled this part of her delusion at least. If silphium failed to terminate a pregnancy, a blunt object would more than suffice. Extending the rock, her face became dead – her gaze holding mine steady as she struck, without warning, the bulge in her abdomen.

At once my skin began to crawl, as if a thousand ants marched up my legs – my head swimming as if I'd just plunged headlong into the water. In disbelief I saw no pain on her face – though blood began to drip generously across the dirt, drawn instantly to the surface of her wound. She showed no sign of having felt the blow, instead walking toward me seeming revived. I could feel my resolve crumble as she entered my space, realizing it was not herself that she'd struck – rather the detached thing living on her body.

I had little time left to decide what should be done, my strength further dissolving with each breath I took. Instead of blocking her from me, I reached to hold back the stone she held. Without reason I wanted the child to live, my nails biting deep into her wrist. Seeing she felt this neither, I watched her move like a snake among reeds to grasp the necklace. Only in clutching it did her face come alive once more – color shooting up her neck and into her swollen cheeks.

"Let go," she ordered, hot breath pouring down my face.

Yanking the jewelry, I refused.

Twisting the stone free she extended it, once more striking her stomach – with greater venom this time – her eyes becoming level with mine as she stooped in faintness.

"Give me the necklace –" she repeated. Her words seemed dripped from the corners of her mouth – much like the blood running down her waist, down her thick, pale legs – choking in and out as if she were drowning on the inside.

"Stop –" I wept, my resolve now wholly crumbled. I began to shake now, for she leaned forward on me for support – pushing me down the bank into the water. Though I had stared at the pool over the years for countless hours, never once had I entered it before – still scared perhaps since childhood, like the others, that there truly was an evil spirit beneath the surface. I fought to regain footing on dry ground as the hem of my skirt grazed the stagnant water – her weight fast becoming unmanageable, her eyes rolling back in her head further than was natural and mouth gaping oddly open, as if she slept.

A second longer – a time which I felt lasted the span of an entire life – and she released the necklace back into my possession – her fingers opening rigidly and body dipping abruptly forward, leaving me barely enough time to duck from under her fall. The splash her body made shattered the slowness of time – the slowness of our struggle on the bank. Water doused my face, running down my neck and chest, awakening my senses fully. Without pause I threw myself onto dry ground, scooting blindly higher until my back was against the stone wall of Arrapha, fingers burrowing wildly into the soil beneath me in attempts to stop my surroundings from spinning. Fearful of what I would see, I covered my eyes tight with both hands, fighting to get air through shuddering sobs.

At last the mad ringing in my ears stopped, leaving nothing behind in its place. With even the wind dying low, the silence beyond the city engulfed my quaking form, soon magnifying itself over my sobs. At last the terrain worked to pacify me, in the same manner as when I was young – spreading thickly, muffling my cries until at long I began to breathe evenly. Cracking my eyelids first, the golden light of dusk leaking between my fingers gradually drew me further out. Stationing my gaze safely afar, I dropped both hands simultaneously – the rugged peeks and hills in the distance at once taking familiar shape. Only in beholding the quiet dark landscape I'd come to know so well over the years, did I know I was ready to face the pool – my neck the only thing able to turn as my body had grown stiff with exhaustion. Allowing my eyes to drift lower, I surmised the scene below.

She had landed face down in the water – her arms and legs spread wide, her thick black hair and skirt, now soaked, nearly dragging her beneath the surface with weight. I knew without checking that her life was ended. In that moment I felt nothing – other than to wish her body to be gone, like the cow never reemerged from its bath so long ago. She remained suspended on the surface, though, drifting lifeless to the bank for me to transfix on.

"Ishtah!"

With throbbing pain I bent my head backward at the sound of my name, glancing sideways up the city wall. Though it had grown rapidly dark, I could just make out the shape of someone looking down at me from overhead – a faint spattering of stars now appearing across the sky, casting a pale light over the terrain. At first thinking it might be Hesba, I swallowed fearfully to call up and reassure her. Most likely she had seen me heading toward the east gate from her window, though I thought it odd she should be home during the festival. Turning more fully I was able to focus my gaze, quickly seeing that it wasn't her. It was Aeros – his face seeming disturbed as he leaned out from the wall – or was he concerned? I could barely make him out.

"Will you wait – I'm coming down!" he called.

In an instant familiar shame crowded my mind. Looking to where my mother drifted, I fought valiantly to withhold from crying. Realizing I would need to try and stall him, I glanced bravely up and cleared my throat to answer. It was then, in the hollow light from the sky, that my eyes spied what was tied round his wrist – the thin leather cord and wooden bird he'd fashioned for me. He hadn't cast it off in anger like I would have thought. Instead, he wore it tied safely to him. Eyes beginning to tear anew, I dropped my head – scarce able to speak.

"Yes," I managed to call at last.

As he turned to come down the other side of the wall, I moved to lift myself from the ground. Drawing back my mother's necklace, still held tightly in my clasp, I mustered what strength I had left to cast it to the center of the pool – where there I watched it sink.

҉

Aeros said nothing in joining me outside the city – neither questioning nor commenting on what he saw, so that I had no way of telling how much he'd witnessed from his perch before calling down to me. Gone were any traces of polite hesitancy in his movement or manner, though, indicating that something had changed. Taking my hand decisively in his – his touch warm and immediately enveloping, he turned to lead me back by the way he'd come, pausing only to help me over or around any boulders in our path.

Once inside Arrapha, the wild singing and riotous shouting of the festival became at once deafening – the blinding torchlight, now painting the streets like gold, casting long shadows behind our walk. The sights, sounds, and smells of celebration were brief in passing, though, as Aeros led me straight to his house – standing empty and quiet at the corner of the road since the family had gone out to join the festivities. Wordless, Aeros ventured to the front doors – pushing them open wide with his free hand, standing to the side to usher me in.

I'd never entered his home through the front before, having always taken the servants' entrance through the side alley. Sensing my hesitation, he glanced worriedly after my gaze. Turning, my eyes drifted in the direction of my mother's house – a ways down a narrower, now vacant path that led crookedly to our door. Breathing slowly out, I allowed my shoulders to drop – turning back with softened face, I stepped past Aeros across the threshold – yielding at last to what I knew must surely be happiness.

I never ended up knowing whether or not my mother's lover arrived that night to take her to the festival – to walk her out beside him for all Arrapha to see. If he did visit our door, he would have found it unlocked – the house vacant and dark, as would anyone else find it in passing idly in the street. For myself I never returned. From that day on I never walked down our small, winding road. Nor did I visit the lonesome pool of water beyond the eastern gates again.
About the Author

Ella Hansing is a young writer who lives with her husband in Austin, Texas. Before graduating home-school she wrote and published a novel with an upstart E-book company with a two-year contract, also submitting an essay "among the top 3% of 5,000 submissions" published by Elder & Leemaur Publishers in 2007. Since then Hansing has received a creative writing degree and eagerly anticipates more writing projects in her future. ISHTAH - THE PROSTITUTE'S DAUGHTER first began as short story written in high-school and is now Hansing's first literary novel. Paperback copies of all her work can be found at Lulu.com. Visit her website ellahansing.weebly.com for current projects and information.

