The Sand Fish (9 page)

N
oora clutched the scissors and held the tips at a cashew. Just one snip—that’s all it would take to send the threads twirling loose. When hurt and fury bite at your insides together, you want to do all sorts of destructive things.

Rashid Bin-Ghanem! Of course. His name, his family name—held back from her, concealed in the shadows of the cave. What did it mean? What were his intentions as he embraced the warmth of her chest, wooed her heart, kept her all to himself? Was she to be the second wife?

She felt the handle of the scissors bore into her thumb. There was the gleam sitting on the blades. A heat spread into her fingers and she nicked a cashew. Still, she remained giddy with confusion. She wanted him, but oh, the trust, it was blunted.

The blades were parting once more. There was a creak of rusty metal. Another cashew destroyed.

He had disappeared without a word. She knew he was not at the cave because she had gone there, walked along its length only to find it empty. Was he on his way to see Sager? Rashid had broken his promise to marry Aisha, but did she want him at the expense of another?

That gentle feminine side of her that had surfaced in the cave seemed far away. Here, she was another creature, bent on destruction. More threads sprung loose and when the cashews resembled a garden of weeds, she reached out for the red bridal
thoub
. She fluffed it open, letting the front of the gown settle on her crossed knees. Tremors played around her mouth, and she sliced the fragile twirls of silver thread, de-rooting those same stems, leaves, and petals that she had meticulously embroidered.

Hope and deception. It was a dizzying mix, and Noora could not separate the two. The madness that whirled in her head tormented her. With eyes as hard as stones, she stared at the silver stars sprinkled on the full length of the
thoub
. It was her idea, her design, of a fiery night sky. And now, it had to be thrown into chaos, too. She snipped and scooped out every single one, until she was satisfied that this most special of gowns was transformed into a furious crimson nightmare.

The moon looks the same at the beginning of the month and at its end: a smiling crescent that tilts to one side, keeping you guessing whether it’s finishing the old or beginning the new.

It was such a night when Rashid reappeared.

“Who’s that?” Noora whispered, even though she recognized the familiar breath outside Moza’s hut.

“Me,” said Rashid.

“You’re back.” She crept to the wall, pulled the stone out, and asked, “Where were you this past week? What happened?” Her eyes were open so wide they burned. She wished that crescent could expand, throw some light on his face. But it remained as it was, curved in a warped smile, hiding the struggle on Rashid’s face, the struggle she heard in his breath.

He sighed and whispered, “It’s not possible.”

“What? Why? Did Sager say no?”

“I didn’t go.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s no point. It’s just not possible.”

“Why is it not possible? What about us? We were to marry.”

He threw his excuses at her: “Duty…the proper thing to do…can’t break my mother’s wishes.”

Noora protested with all the strength she could muster. So stunned was she by his hasty submission that she forgot to scold him for having disappeared on her, for having lied to her. The emotions in her rumbled so violently that they clogged her throat.

She swallowed and heard him repeat what she did not want to hear: “Duty…the proper thing to do…can’t break my mother’s wishes.”

What ridiculous words! She wanted to break them, destroy their meaning. She wanted to grab his shoulders and shake the passion back into him. But her limbs went numb, and the tears snuck out of the corners of her eyes. “What about me?” she managed to whisper. “How can you leave me like this?”

That’s when she caught the rustle of his dishdasha as he stepped away into the dark. And then she stared at the nothing in front of her. For that was what she was left with: nothing.

S
he had to get away. Only then would the ache that throbbed in her dissolve.

With the next dawn, Noora peered out through Moza’s doorway. She extended her arm, but all she could see were her fingertips, floating in the milky opaqueness of fog. When had this curtain drawn? She shook her head with disbelief. Of all the days, it had to be this one.

With all those sudden drops along the way, the mist would make her journey treacherous. The landmarks she relied on would be impossible to use—all those bizarre-shaped boulders, deep ridges, and shaggy trees would be concealed under the thick fog. She would have to rein in all her directional talent and intuition.

“You’ll just lose your way,” she heard Moza’s sleepy mumble. “Why don’t you wait a little, till the sun comes up?” The old woman remained burrowed under her blanket.

“I can’t,
khalti
Moza. I’ve stayed so long already,” said Noora, gathering her few belongings into a bundle. “I know they need me back home, and the sooner I go, the faster my mind will settle.”

“But alone, my dear?”

“I’ve walked everywhere alone, all my life.” There was nothing else she could do. She had to leave immediately.

“At least take the lantern with you,” said Moza, shuffling onto her elbows as she prepared to rise.

Noora struck a match, lit the hurricane lamp, and was kneeling next to Moza just as the old woman staggered to sit up.
Move on!
It was the only thought that filled Noora’s head as she bade Moza farewell with a warm hug. “If
khalti
Hessa asks, it’s over there,” she mumbled. There was no contempt, no satisfaction in what she had done, only a cheerless numbness at the thought of all those beautiful fabrics that she had destroyed.

“What did you say?”

“The bridal gifts,” she said. “They are wrapped and ready. I put them in the corner.” Shame washed over her, but Noora did not dwell on it. She had to hurry away.

Once she set off, she let the slopes and dips, twists and turns, of the mountains take up all her attention. It was a slow trek. Even so, she slipped on the crumbly surface a few times and bumped her elbow on the jutting arm of a rock. More than once, she wondered whether she had walked too far. How many hills had she crossed? Still, she continued. Was she going the right way? She questioned her keen sense of direction. At one point, she wasn’t sure of anything except that her eyes were bulging out so much she would have to rub them hard to ease them back into place.

It was only when she found herself in the middle of a broad
wadi
that the mist eased. Noora paused to get her bearings. A
damp breeze nipped her ears, and as she pulled the
shayla
tight around her head, she looked up, finally spotting the moon. It sat on a slumbering peak: a struggling, silver scar in the clotted sky. It sent its last glimmer before a veil of fog swallowed it whole. And then the mist rushed into a roll and whiffed its blanketing form in fast-moving patches, which appeared and disappeared.

A smack of pride jolted a quiver of a smile to her face. She wasn’t lost after all. She recognized this
wadi
, strewn with so many
ghaff
trees. It was halfway to her home. It would be an easy walk now. Everything would be all right.

With a flash of confidence, Noora sat on a rock to slacken the strain out of her limbs, to rub her eyeballs back in place. And that’s when the ache of Rashid’s rejection washed over her once more. How to deal with it? This hurt was like nothing she had ever felt. It began with a sting, poking and jabbing, sharp as a needle thrust deep into her skin. And then it dulled, turning into a maddening hole of nothingness that was impossible to fill.

“Move on, move on,” Noora mumbled into her chest as she felt her head slump. She jumped up and hastened along the valley, swinging her lantern, kicking the curling mist off the
wadi
bed.

Just keep moving and all that hurt will disappear!
That’s what she kept thinking. After all, wasn’t that the way of things? Wasn’t her life (just like everyone else’s in the Hararees) so full of uncertainty and deprivation that she could overcome anything just by moving on?

The moon had vanished, the mist had lifted, and the first rays of light punctured the last weary threads of fog clinging to the peaks. There were the huts, looking so familiar, like
some long-lost friends. She yearned for the predictability of her routine at home. Only then would she feel fine again. Only then would she find peace of mind.

But none of that happened. There was no normalcy, and certainly no peace. After a quick and nervous greeting, her brothers let her know the bad news. Their father had gone missing soon after she and Sager had left to see Zobaida. Just like Moza’s husband, he had wandered off into the mountains and hadn’t come back. Although her brothers had searched and searched, eventually they had given up.

All that shame and pain that she had chased away on her walk came crashing down on her. Rashid and her father: both gone! It was just too much. She wanted to snuggle up in the corner of her hut and sleep, sleep, sleep. And that’s what she did—for the next three days.

She hardly ate the food her brothers prepared. How kind they were, rooted in a circle of worry around her, with tender pleas for her to take a bite of the bread they had baked, sip some of the broth they had cooked. How could she explain that all she felt was the numbness of loss? By the fourth day, she unfurled from the corner of her hut, driven by guilt at not helping out with the chores. Still, she remained listless as a wispy cloud as she roamed from one task to the next.

It was only a day later that the anger snapped into her with the sharpness of a brittle twig—and all because of Sager.

He called her in the late afternoon and softened her with tender words of reassurance. “It will pass; time will make it pass.” They sat by the store and the afternoon sun cast an amber glow that fell on his shoulders.

How encouraging he was. She felt the green of her eyes lighten with the affection he was showing her. How kind he
was. It was only when he showered her with his gifts that the claws of suspicion gripped her insides.

“A new
shayla
?”

“Well,” he said. “The other one is so old it’s not black anymore. Look at it. It’s the same color as gunpowder.”

She slipped on the leather slippers (her first pair), a little short on her feet. “Where did you get all these things?”

“From a passing merchant at Nassayem.”

She slid the three thin rings (designed to be worn together), a little loose, on her middle finger. “But this is gold.”

“Well, you know, you are my sister, and if I can’t spoil you, who can I spoil?” he said with a smile.

She opened the tiny bottle of amber essence and sniffed. “Well, that’s nice, but where did you get the money?”

“Well, let’s just say that when you do the right thing, better things come your way. We saved Zobaida’s son, and so, she helped us in return.”

“Ah, that greedy fake,” said Noora.

He frowned. “I think you are too harsh on her, too suspicious of her.”

“Next, you’ll be telling me that she gave you the money.” She mocked him, but Sager would not smile. She watched his brows knot and stiffen into an expression of genuine hurt. And Noora began to feel a dread settle in her stomach the way mud stuck to the bottom of the ponds that formed after the rains. Fish could slither in it and toads could kick it up, but in the end it just sank back, firm and sticky.

“Well, in a way, she is the reason I was able to afford all this,” he said. “You see, there’s a man, a rich pearl merchant who’s come to see her. And Zobaida’s hidden sources told her what she had to do.”

“Invisible sources? You must stop believing her rubbish talk. The jinn said this, the jinn said that!” She raised her arms and made claws out her fingers. “Whooo!”

“They do communicate with her, you know. The jinn told her to arrange a match for the pearl merchant. Of course, being so rich, he would have to pay a handsome bride-wealth.

“And naturally, she would take some of that—for her services and arrangements?”

“Of course.”

Triumph lit Noora’s eyes. “You see? That act: the rolling eyeballs, the shaking. In the end, all she wants is money. So what did she do, give you some of that money for saving her son?”

“No, no,” said Sager. “You see, it was the first time anyone had helped her son. Zobaida was so happy that she gave me…well, gave us…another gift.” He paused. “She gave us the gift of a better life—for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. I have been thinking. This is no life for you, stuck with us men in the middle of nowhere. You deserve better.”

What was he talking about? She wanted to stay where she was. She wanted to fetch the water, milk the goats, cook the food, collect the wood. She wanted everything to return to normal—especially now.

“Finally, you can have your own home with your own family. And the man is rich. So rich you don’t need to struggle anymore.”

“What man? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, the match is you.”

He might as well have thrown sand in her face or punched her in the belly, because all she managed was to spit and gasp.
When she tried to speak, her tongue would not move. It sat in her mouth, dry as a thick piece of leather.

“Zobaida thinks you are worthy of such a special match. I think that’s something, don’t you?” He nodded and his ringlets bounced along from under his
ghitra
with his enthusiasm. “I mean, she’s sending her matchmakers to approve you and turn you into a praiseworthy bride.” He paused. “And she’s even paying them from her fee.”

When did it happen? When had Sager and Zobaida conspired against her? Was it just after she had stormed out of Zobaida’s hut or later? Had Sager stayed longer at Nassayem and met the witch again and again?

“His name is Jassem Saeed Bin-Mattar, and he lives in a big house. He has got two other wives, but don’t worry, it will be good because they’ll be like caring sisters to you. They’ll guide you in all those womanly things you were deprived of living here in this nowhere place with us, your ugly brothers.” He managed a nervous titter. “Then, when your blessed children arrive, they would turn into additional mothers. First sisters, then mothers.”

There he was acting like a thoughtful brother, pretending he worried about her. Finally, Noora found her voice. “Since when do you care about me? I disappeared and you didn’t even bother to find me.”

“I knew where you were,” he said. “You’d gone to
khalti
Moza’s. Where else would you have gone? And I didn’t come to get you because I thought it would be good for you to be with other women for a bit. You know, learn their ways and all.”

“How could you go and plan my life behind my back?” she yelled, punching her anger into the air with her fists. “You are
so easy to fool. That witch played with your head, and you let her. All she wants is money. Don’t you see?”

But Sager did not see, would not see. “The witch, as you call her, also said that you would need to curb that spiky tongue of yours. No man wants a wife like that.”

Noora took a deep breath and mustered all her strength to control her rage. “Well, you can speak and plan all you want, but don’t expect me to be that bride you’re talking about.”