Her skin began to itch. She wanted desperately to scratch, to dry herself, to stretch and rest.
She resisted her urges. As she always did.
Disciplined, Ashallah held her position as the kafan sheets stirred. The cloths flapped as the breeze caressed Ashallah’s skin. Although warm, she was grateful for the relief the air provided her, as it dried the sweat that had coalesced on her nose, her arms and the area just above her navel. That is enough, she told herself. Now switch.
Ashallah lowered her right arm to shift the weight from her left. Focused, she made sure the palm of her hand was firm and flat before lifting her left arm to her side. The rest of her body was a horizontal plank, with no other part of her touching the sky courtyard.
Ashallah closed her eyes. She breathed.
There she remained. A plank of flesh and muscle, suspended in the air on her right arm, as the late morning sun beat down to further bronze her skin. Her trousers and short vest were nearly soaked through with sweat, despite being of linen that was thin and porous. Moisture ringed the knife sheath strapped to her right leg. Then there was her veil . . .
Her niqab hung vertically, perpendicular to Ashallah’s face, revealing her nose, cheeks, and lips. Like the nearby sheets, it fluttered with the breeze, careless and unperturbed that it was not serving its purpose. Ashallah, for her part, ignored her veil just as she ignored the sun and her sweat. While she knew the chances of anyone visiting the sky courtyard at that time of day were scant, she kept her veil attached to her hijab. Not out of respect for tradition, nor out of fear of being caught exposed, but because in all her exercises she wanted to mirror the real world – with all its difficulties and restrictions – as much as possible.
Beneath her, Ashallah watched as the dry dust of the roof absorbed her sweat. Each drop fell onto the grains below, becoming lost nearly at once. Ashallah counted each drop, committing every sudden disappearance to memory.
“One hundred and thirty-eight,” Ashallah counted. “One hundred and thirty-nine.”
That is more than yesterday, she noted. I am holding my position longer than before. Good. Good.
Slowly, Ashallah lowered herself to the ground.
Cool air met Ashallah’s radiance as her sight adjusted to the low light. Although the sun had been up for hours, the flat had yet to warm, for the taller building next door had shadowed theirs for much of the morning.
Leftovers from breakfast laid on the table: candied dates, mint hummus, and pita. The last was soon gone as Ashallah wolfed down the bread.
The echo of footsteps in the hallway outside gave Ashallah pause. The pattern was recognizable at once. One quick step on her good leg and a slightly slower one on the other. Ashallah considered slipping into one of the rooms and out of a window but thought better of it. This conversation needs to end, she told herself as she settled into one of the chairs at the table. Besides who is my ommah compared to the real enemies I have faced?
Ashallah slumped into the chair before the table to resume feasting. She shot a cursory glance when her ommah entered, before turning her attention back to the food.
“Manners, Asha, manners,” Niyusha said, her scowl subtle but disapproving nonetheless. She set her makeup kit down on the table across from Ashallah, its contents within thumping.
“There is no one here to impress,” Ashallah replied as she slouched further.
Niyusha slid away the candied dates. “Why do you test me, Asha?”
“I’m not testing anyone. I’m tired. And hungry.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“My work kept me occupied. There was little time for eating and sleeping.”
“Oh, Ashallah . . .”
“Don’t.” Ashallah raised her hand, not caring if the gesture would stop her mother’s ranting or spur her to respond with anger. Although the two had been down the road before, Ashallah knew that her mother’s response was as predictable as the wind. At times, her ommah would well up with emotion and curse the heavens for giving her such an insolent daughter. Then there were moments when she would soften and let Ashallah have the final word, an act of submission Ashallah never quite understood.
For a second, it seemed as though Niyusha would lean toward the latter tendency. Ashallah, satisfied at having won, undid the small purse strapped to her hip. She tossed the pouch, the coins inside clanking against the table.
“That is why I was gone. For you. And Orzala.”
At that, Niyusha upturned the dish of dates before swiping the coin purse off the table. “What in the Five Doors of Hell do you think of me?! That I am one of your concubines? A whore you can just buy off with your blood money? Is that it? Is it?”
Ashallah straightened in her chair. “Blood money?” She stood, her fists clenched. “So there it is. Your truth. You think so little of my work, don’t you?”
“Your work? Ha! What you do . . .”
“Protects this city! It protects Yasem! The Grand Sultan sends our regular army on patrol nine months out of the year. You think it’s by chance that without protection our people survive? Yasem would be sacked and burned if not for warrior sisters like me.”
“And what of your real sister, huh? Is it because of your work that you discount her as your blood?”
“Orzala is fine.”
“Is she? She is not . . . You. But she has her secrets. Especially as of late.”
Ashallah rose from her chair. “How so?”
“She steals away more and more. She sneaks off, with no mention of what she does when she returns.”
“Maybe she has a suitor,” Ashallah said with disdain, as the very thought of her sister with a man made her stomach turn.
“No. I tried following her once. I lost her, but not before I saw her exchanging words with two Shadya.”
“Shadya?”
The lock turned and the door creaked open. Niyusha and Ashallah looked to the gathering room to find Orzala entering, a prayer rug under each arm. Their stares gave Orzala pause once she was inside.
“What’s the matter?” Orzala asked.
Ashallah looked at her then her ommah. She did not know whether to continue her argument with her mother or to interrogate her sister on her recent outings. “Nothing,” Ashallah finally said, choosing neither option. The day has grown long and I have duties to attend to, she told herself. I will deal with each separately.
“Ohhhhh . . .”
The sound reverberated through the kitchen and gathering room. The imam’s voice vibrated the table, and with it, Ashallah’s hand. The common chant, a fixture in Ashallah’s life since the time she could remember, still made her shudder.
Oblivious to the feelings of their kin, Niyusha and Orzala moved to the gathering room. Orzala handed one prayer rug to her mother so that together they unfurled them on the open floor. As soon as the rugs flattened, they fell to their knees to bend down in prayer. Ashallah watched as their heads bobbed, their eyes closed, their lips moving yet their voices silent.
With that, Ashallah retreated to the hall. She had little stomach for seeing her mother and sister – or any women for that matter – subjugate themselves like sheep, especially to a voice calling out in the distance. As the chant continued, Ashallah went into her room where she proceeded to change into fresh clothes. Although she had ample time to prepare before meeting her commander, she hurried nonetheless, not wanting to speak any further to her family. She was nearly done and out the door, the last verses of the chant ending, when she stopped in the doorway.
“Almost forgot,” she said to herself, her hand resting on the knife sheath on her leg.
She went back to her room to reach under her bed. Her hand found the loose tile and deftly moved it aside. From within, she pulled out her dagger holster.201Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHBPz8qbpY7
