I hate this.
The sun was up. All of her sisters-in-arms wore veils. Not due to their adoration for tradition, which all of them despised. They did so as an act of caution, for Yasem was close enough that any male commander could come riding up and catch them unawares.
The cloth across her face stank of sweat and salt. It had become damp, from hours spent digging. Followed by words of respect. More digging. Cries and lamentations from the newest midnight warriors. More digging.
The hot air kicked up wildly now and then, giving Ashallah pause as she shielded her eyes. In moments such as those, she straightened and breathed deep, the view from her vantage point reminding her why she was doing all this work.
While the men of Yasem had allowed their women few privileges, they did extend to them the choice of where to bury their dead. Not their wives, mind you, for such with such titles came the sense of ownership, one that extended beyond death. The wives of Greater Dyli were always buried in family plots, whether their husbands were loving and fair or brutish and unloving. For what Jaha had bound in marriage could not be undone, no matter the quality of man tied to the woman.
Those that were unmarried, though, had the option of being buried among other women in a cemetery absent of any man. In Yasem, the women had chosen the highest point within walking distance, a ridge known as Diestar since the founding of Yasem, so named after the first female citizen of Yasem, a nomad who had died giving birth under a starry night. For all the breathtaking views it offered, the imams and other superstitious men of the city had avoided the ridge, considering a woman’s death on it to have cursed the place for eternity. The women of the city, seeing the men’s apprehension as their gain, seized the chance to honor their kind with a site of unsurpassed beauty. Hence, the cemetery reserved for the women of Yasem was founded.
The deceased varied in their status and origins, from a wealthy widow who had died childless to the nomadic daughters of the Kitare to the Displaced. Among them were also the Kafan sisters, the Aliya and Rosil, all outsiders in the eyes of the men of Greater Dyli.
Outnumbering all of them, though, were those women who had sacrificed all in the name of their Grand Sultan. Unlike their male counterparts, no medals or ornamental weapons to signify their valor had been bestowed upon them. Nor was any procession of their remains through the streets allowed. No imams pronounced their deeds before the congregants bowed to Rilah. Indeed, they were the largest caste of outcasts, the ones ignored until help was needed, the ones called upon to do battle when the sun had set and the darkness – with all its threats and horrors – came.
The midnight warriors.
Those who had served at night had simple markers on their graves, various rough stones, one for each of the fallen. Engraved on every stone was the name of the fighter, along with the emblem for the midnight warriors: a sphere with a crescent moon to the left side and a single four-pointed star to its right.
Ashallah craned her back, pausing to stretch, when she spotted a wave of sky blue ascending the ridge. Walking in a column, those in sky blue cloth weaved up the path until they reached the top, where they dispersed to hand dates, bread, and waterskins to her sisters-in-arms.
A noble gesture, Ashallah considered as she resumed her work. Too bad they were not here to claim more.
It was the second time Ashallah had seen them that day, as the Kafan Sisters had come earlier for those wanted by their families. Their initial visit was short, for those families who knew of their daughters’ profession and wanted to honor their memories were few. Five to be exact. Five sets of relatives, those who had not disowned their women for being something other than a mother, a servant or a whore. Five who had told the commanders of Yasem that should their girls fall in battle they wanted them returned. Five who had no shame – or if they did, cared not for it – when it came to their daughters being soldiers of midnight.
Ashallah could not be sure of all who had fallen and been carried away by the Kafan sisters. She could only identify two. One woman who spent time on assignments that never seemed to coincide with Ashallah’s, who had a name she could not remember. She had not been in the service of midnight long, so Ashallah had not even a chance to learn her name.
The other one the Kafan Sisters collected, one actually wanted back by her family, was a recruit with no more than a year of experience, a girl at the tender age of nineteen Ashallah had known well.
Zoha.
Brown eyes like an antelope, she managed to leap and bound like one too. She was a far cry from the hardened women of the streets who often came into the service of the midnight warriors for the promise of a good meal and a little coin. Her family had reluctantly provided consent for her to join the warrior caste, a decision other families made lightly to rid themselves of unruly and shameful girls.
So doubtful were the commanders of Yasem of Zoha’s intentions that they began to wonder if the girl was a spy. They assigned Ashallah the task of finding out.
Ashallah hated her assignment, for it kept her home at times when she longed to go out on missions with the more elite of her sisters. To speed up the discovery process, Ashallah decided to wear down the girl as quickly as possible, in hopes that she may lose her composure and confess. She sent Zoha on grueling marches, in the high mountains around Yasem at night, where temperatures reached freezing, or in the heat of day in the Lowlands of surrounding territories. Following the rigor were demeaning chores to exhaust her spirit further. After days of such labor and finding Zoha undeterred, Ashallah hired a concubine to play the role of friend and coax information on her intentions by any means necessary.
When all those efforts failed, Ashallah took it upon herself to try to seduce the young warrior. Though years of battle had lessened her appeal to the youngest of her ranks, Ashallah nonetheless thought herself up to the task. She spent the day before her nighttime rendezvous with Zoha in a brothel, where she hired a young girl to bathe and dress her. The result was impressive, with Ashallah smelling of jasmine and vanilla, while looking five years younger.
She arranged for Zoha to meet her at a tavern that catered to the young women of Yasem. Teenage flesh lined one end of the establishment to the other, with girls shedding their niqab veils without a care in the world. When Ashallah entered, she thought it impossible to restrain herself from temptation for long. That is until she spotted Zoha.
Zoha stood out amongst the crowd in her orange hijab and mint green kameez and abaya, looking both conservative and inviting. Ashallah sauntered over to her to take a seat. Seeing her veteran sister-in-arms put Zoha at unease, one that prompted Ashallah to laugh.
“You needn’t be nervous,” Ashallah assured her.
“You look beautiful.”
“And you look surprised.”
“I am sorry . . .”
“Don’t be.”
“It’s just that, that I’ve never seen you this way before.”
“When the dust has settled, and I can cleanse the desert from my skin, what remains is a woman few have seen.”
Zoha nodded politely. Ashallah grinned as she crossed her legs, catching Zoha in the act of glancing at the V-neck of her kameez.
This will be easy, Ashallah told herself.
Ashallah treated the two of them to two cups of wine. She decided against a third as she saw Zoha lean back and forth in her seat. I need this one of right mind. Not completely coherent. Just enough to tell me what I need.
The two left the tavern just as the air outside was starting to chill. Even in covered head to toe save her face, Zoha shivered. Ashallah offered her shawl, which she gladly accepted.
For the night, Ashallah had rented a room at a brothel in the northern part of the city. Though not her favorite house of pleasure, she knew the place to be discreet, which she valued if Zoha did turn out to be more than she let on. They walked in silence to the brothel, Ashallah guiding the way and Zoha following obediently, all the way into the room.
“Would you care for more wine?” Ashallah asked as she lifted a wineskin from the nightstand.
Zoha shook her hand and head. “No, thank you.”
“Then come. Sit.”
Zoha pulled the edges of her hijab tightly against the length of her face as she took to the edge of the bed.
Ashallah ran her fingers through her dark brown hair, allowing it to fall in waves upon her shoulders. “You like my hair?” she asked, instantly regretting sounding like a foolish girl.
“It’s pretty,” Zoha replied, politely.
“As are you.”
Zoha smiled. With that gesture, Ashallah put her childish games aside and leaned in for a kiss.
Lips met lips. She felt the heat of her breath. She tasted the pomegranate of the wine on her tongue. All of it she took in, giving herself in return.
Ashallah pulled away. What she saw on Zoha’s face was not a look of pleasure or joy. Rather, it was disheartening, an emotion Ashallah could not quite identify. A feeling somewhere in between confusion and regret.
“You don’t like . . .” Ashallah started.
“No, I just . . .”
“You know our caste is for those who swear off men?”
“I know that. I prefer the sisters of Yasem to its brothers.”
“Then what is it?”
Zoha rose, her veil of ease withdrawn, her discomfort readily apparent. “I want to go.”
Ashallah straightened. She rose to her feet. Zoha’s anxiety was one thing. Her insubordination another.
“You do not command me,” Ashallah replied. “I outrank you. I say when you should leave.”
Zoha bowed her head, realizing her transgression. “I am sorry. May I go?”
Ashallah cocked her head, her interest piqued. “You know the commanders of Yasem think you a spy.”
Zoha’s eyes widened. “A what?”
“You heard me.”
“Why?”
“Because no girl from a respectful family – a family like yours – should be here. You have options that others like me or your sister-in-arms do not. Despite that, here you are. You put up with the worst training and chores we managed to give you, all without expressing any interest in leaving. There must be a reason why.”
Zoha stared at the ground, contemplating how to answer. “So that is it?” she retorted. “Those are our choices as women?”
“How do you mean?”
“We must bear children, cook, clean, serve men. Otherwise, we are whores or warriors.”
“Do not twist your words . . .”
“I twist no words,” replied Zoha, in a tone harsh and abrupt. Ashallah would have rebuked any other. However, with a nod she allowed Zoha to continue.
“We women are told of are limited choices, and then expected to live with them. Most comply. But what of the rest of us? The ones who want to be something. I wanted to be a warrior my whole life. To travel. To run. Even to fight. I didn’t choose it because it was the only option granted to me. I choose it because I wanted it. Why is it, for our kind, that reason is not enough?”
Ashallah stared back at Zoha. She wanted desperately to give her an answer. To hold her. To assure her that it was enough.
Words had never been Ashallah’s strength though. Nor had timing. Instead, she replied curtly, “I’ll show you home.”
Ashallah never spoke to Zoha after that. Even in battle or engagements, whenever Zoha was before Ashallah, she managed to direct the younger one with simple gestures, absent of any words. Zoha always followed through, earning the respect and admiration of her peers.
Now, by her volition, she laid in the sand wrapped in kafan sheets, waiting for the Women of Eternal Mourning to take her away.
Away she went, with a few waves and tears from her sisters-in-arms, save Ashallah. Ashallah trudged on in her labor, digging grave after grave, lowering the dead into the shallow pits one by one with the help of her sisters. By nightfall, under the light of the moon and stars, they managed to bury the last, allowing the rest to return home.
Ashallah remained behind, alone, as she sometimes did, to collect her thoughts and marshal her fortitude. Walking before the graves did that for her, for it reminded her of her skill and acumen as a warrior, as her sisters were in their graves while she was not.
Though she was not among the others, Ashallah’s thoughts returned to Zoha. She recalled the conviction behind her words, the passion inflamed within her eyes that night.
“It was her choice,” Ashallah said aloud. “Her choice.”
To become a midnight warrior. To serve. To protect her sisters in battle. To live the life she wanted. Not because she had convinced herself using another’s words or train of logic. But because it was her choice.
“Yala Hasem, my sisters,” Ashallah said to the graves before her. “Yala Hasem, to all of you. To Zoha. You are all my sisters. You are the reason I fight. You are my midnight.”177Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOFwBsurTkR
