Ashallah’s skin tingled as she left the house of pleasure. The night air had cooled considerably since she had entered. That, along with the heat that still radiated from her body, made her feel awakened, alive. Every sense of hers was heightened, yet Ashallah remained at ease. 175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMpqGraFOOP
The harlots Ashallah passed tried their best to beckon her. Although they could see the smirk of satisfaction on her face, a look shared by others who were leaving the pleasure quarters for the night, they continued to promise experiences of still greater gratification. 175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvid56oiUMZ
Although half-tempted, Ashallah strode onward. It was not for lack of stamina or desire that she did not indulge. I can take any one of these concubines and ravish them all night, Ashallah told herself. I can ruin them, leaving them spent for days and days, making their madams wish that I had never entered their houses. 175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZCWTBJNEpB
However, Ashallah’s tryst with Mina was so sweet and satisfying that she felt no need to ruin her night with what could be a mediocre experience with a harlot of lesser skill. Therefore, she went on with her casual stroll, thankful for the company she had chosen earlier. 175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtdapsJX0tO
The midnight bazaar appeared to have reached its zenith as well, for as Ashallah neared the main street, she heard fewer vendors than before. What replaced them was chatter and sobbing, the likes of which lured Ashallah from her state of calm. 175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKw1XLokYMb
“It’s horrible. Just horrible.”175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRxcTrruTiO
“I cannot believe it.”175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8oMKqIX5ji
“Did you see what happened?”175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7Dwh036vce
Such were the comments from the women she passed on the street. As Ashallah pressed on, the words became more frantic and louder, as did the sobbing. Then came the shouts. 175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡShaZTqFx3N
They were unintelligible. Yet forceful even at a distance. Guided by her ears, Ashallah followed the rancor through the alleyways and side streets, backtracking through the corridors that crossed the pleasure quarters. The hostile shouting drifted, until it came to rest at the edge of Yasem. 175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRfG8PedKx3
These are the dwellings of the Shadya, Ashallah knew, as she passed by shutters and doors painted black and indigo, the colors of midnight that the Shadya took as their own. Hijab scarf and niqab veils were heavily discouraged, especially at night. In some cases, young Shadya would go so far as to pull them off their fellow sisters of Yasem. 175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡywzu7Q5kwW
Despite their liberal views on clothing, Ashallah always found their choice of tones rather drab. Reflecting their preference for the colors of the night, the Shadya that Ashallah passed wore skirts and shirts of dark blue, violet and black. Every one of them eyed the bright hues of Ashallah’s kameez and snake duster with a mix of admiration for her bold choices and suspicion, as she was not one of their own.
Ashallah’s stride was undeterred. Even in such tenses situations, she kept the appearance of being unfazed. The only difference a passerby would notice was how she pulled her snake duster shawl close as her hands tightened around the center of her kameez. An unsuspecting motion to any observer, to be sure. But that was the ruse. For the shawl kept hidden Ashallah’s nimble fingers that pulled one of two thin, short blades from the stiff V-shaped collar of her kameez. So small it was at less than three inches. Still, in the hands of a midnight warrior like Ashallah, its size served as an advantage, drawing no attention until it struck at close quarters.
A series of loud voices, one over another, drew Ashallah deeper into the labyrinth of indigo and blackness. It was not until she turned the last corner, to face an alley that dead-ended at the city wall, that Ashallah saw the torchlight spilling out onto the dirt. She approached, as always, with caution. With each step, the clamor grew. As did the sight of women, unveiled, shaking their fists and wringing their hands. Some stood out into the street. Ashallah closed in on the source of light, an enclosed storefront lined with amphora jars.
Ashallah craned her neck to see over the restless crowd. Thankfully, as she was taller than most of the women, she could take in the scope of the scene. From within, women shouted over one another. Females of all ages, from all sects within the city, were there. A handful wore the rose-colored jilbabs - an outfit of headscarf and long dress - of the chaste Rosil. A few more wore the white of the Aliya, the midwives, and nurses of Yasem and other Dylian provinces. There were others dressed in varying pastels and tones, all of whom stood outnumbered by those wearing black and indigo, the ones who shouted the most.
“Look at what they did. Look at what they did!”
“How could they?”
“And were they caught? No!”
“Did anyone see them?”
“What does it matter? They were men, weren’t they?”
The yelling grew. A few of the women even elbowed and shoved their way to the center of the store, to look down. At what, Ashallah could not have said.
From the back of the store, the crowd began to part. Those near the center, where moments earlier the uproar was worst, tempered off to a near-silence save a few whispers.
Ashallah, looking over the heads of all the others, saw her: a woman clothed in blue.
Her hijab covering and abaya dress were pastel blue, and like the sea, her clothing seemed to cascade with each step she took. For all the beauty of what she wore, her face showed a different tone. One of sadness. Of loss. Of a heartache Ashallah had seen before, from the families of her fellow midnight warriors, when they would learn one of their own had been lost in battle.
The woman in blue trudged through the crowd, not seeming to care for their stares of sympathy. Nonetheless, the crowd continued to shuffle away, to allow more space between them and the one who grieved. Only when they had stepped several feet back did Ashallah then see the body on the ground the grieving woman approached.
The corpse, of a woman, laid with her arms at her sides. She still wore the clothes of the living, except for the white kafan sheet that stretched over her from her valley to her face. Only her hands were exposed. Even from afar, Ashallah knew the hands to be those of a young woman, perhaps one no older than twenty seasons.
The grieving woman kneeled. She breathed deeply, to compose herself until the creases in her leathery face abated and her tears slowed to a trickle. She pulled back the kafan sheet.
The face of a young woman, her eyes forever closed, met her. Her face pale. Smooth and white, as if of polished marble.
“Her only daughter . . .” some in the audience whispered, although the mother paid her no attention.
The grieving one pulled up her deceased, enveloping her arms around her. She held her tight as she sobbed into the kafan sheet still at her daughter’s neck. The few minutes of her embrace seemed like hours. Looking on, not a woman in the audience moved.
Soft, gentle hands reached out to the mother’s shoulders from those onlookers in the crowd. They did not try to pull her away. They only rested on her.
The mother laid her daughter on the ground, her hands cradling her daughter’s head as though she was still alive. Once on the ground again, the mother clung to the sheet still. Slowly, she pulled it away.
“No,” said the woman nearest to her. “You don’t want to see it.”
“I must,” replied the mother. “I have to know.”
Some in the crowd looked at each other. All remained quiet as the mother drew the sheet away from her beloved. Underneath rested the simple gray and brown wool garments of a peasant girl. The sight was unremarkable. The mother kept pulling the sheet away. Only when the kafan was past her navel did Ashallah see what the mother had anticipated yet dreaded.
Blood, by then crusted and brown, had soaked through the garments just above her valley.
The mother wailed.
She wailed as she tore at her abaya dress, and then the kafan before her. Her cries shattered the silence as she threw off her hijab and pulled at her strands of black and gray hair. Her voice was present long after others had guided her away, her pleas to Jaha piercing the back walls of the store. Through her echoes, the crowd remained silent until one of the women in indigo rose.
“How many more of our sisters must die?” the Shadya woman asked. “How many? Five. Ten. Fifty. Look at her. Look at her! Butchered like a lamb at slaughter. All because she fought back, for defending her maidenhood.”
Ashallah saw that many in the audience nodded in approval. Not only the Shadya but women adorned in all colors. The audience takes her words as though they are silver and gold, Ashallah thought, as she stared at the woman in indigo. Her irises were as black as her pupils, as was her hair. Her eyes, her face, her hands were lively and energetic. Almost hypnotic. She truly is a dangerous one. Ashallah pulled her snake duster shawl over her hands, her small blade further concealed.
Others dressed in blue and indigo shouldered their way to the corpse, to encircle it and show their unity. The black-eyed woman in indigo beckoned them around the body.
“No more,” she said in a soft tone at first. “No more.”
“No more,” the other Shadya chanted.
“No more,” replied the other women in the audience.
The angry chorus grew louder. Ashallah backed away a few steps, as other women from the street joined the audience. Where did they all come from? Ashallah asked herself as she wedged through the mass to the back of the crowd. As she looked upon the newcomers, she saw their faces illuminated slightly more than before, and not from the torches inside. Ashallah looked up to find the stars had faded since she had left the house of pleasure, with the sky a violet hue.
Midnight has passed, Ashallah knew. The light is approaching. With it comes the rising men of the city. Moreover, danger.
Ashallah turned back to the crowd, which was in danger of becoming a mob. The chants had become shouts. The faces of the mourning now had eyes afire with rage where tears had once flowed. With each second of the rising of the sun, they remained barefaced. Unveiled.
If this continues in daylight, men will come with their soldiers to break up the mob. If that fails . . .
Ashallah shook the impossible from her mind. No, they would not, she told herself. But if they did . . .
Ashallah knew then what she needed to do.
She retreated down the alleyway, away from the gathering. No one paid her any attention. She continued until she reached the nearest stairwell. After a quick peek inside, and a quick look down both directions of the alley, Ashallah bounded up the stairs. She reached the top to find a hallway lined with doors of palm wood.
Ashallah glided over the tile floor down the hall. She craned her neck toward each door she encountered, passing five until she finally stopped.
Snoring, she realized. Two people. Probably elders. Fast asleep.
With her small blade in hand, she picked the heavy iron lock. It creaked for but a moment, after which Ashallah stopped to listen. The snoring behind the door went on. As did she.
Ashallah entered the pitch of the flat. A poor home, Ashallah knew, by the drab look of the curtains that covered the windows in place of shutters. She nearly had a mind to leave and find another flat. However, as she was already inside, Ashallah decided to look around anyway.
Where anyone else would have been blind, Ashallah could see. Others would have met the void of night, whereas a midnight warrior knew darkness as a friend.
Ashallah’s eyes had adjusted instantly, for she moved through the flat with ease. Silhouettes, the dark against the darker, painted a flat of simple tastes. A water basin here. An end table there. Rolled prayer rugs in the corner.
Then she saw it. Copper, perhaps brass. A flint and striker. Ashallah reached for the three.
When the snoring stopped.
Ashallah dove to the ground, her stomach flat against the tile. She waited and listened.
In the next room, feet shuffled. Then halted. Ashallah’s hand rested on the collar of her kameez, ready to pull out her concealed blade.
Ping. A splash, like a steady stream pouring into a dry well, met her ears. Ashallah breathed as the man in the rest room relieved himself in the chamber pot.
She did not have to wait long before the chorus of snoring began again. Only a few breaths into the old man’s sleep and Ashallah was in the hall again, with an oil lamp and flint in hand.
A few quick steps and the stairs were beneath her feet again. Five flights up and four turns later Ashallah found the rooftop, where the cold of night was still present. As was the clamor below. The sound of the outrage seemed to carry more from up high than it did on the street only moments before. Perhaps the mob grew, Ashallah pondered. If that was the case, then she knew she would need to make haste.
The oil lamp, only large enough to fit within her hands, was but half full. With it in her grasp, Ashallah approached the edge of the roof to peer down. Below, the mob crowded under the awning of the store. The awning itself was no more than a large expanse of spun wool fabric, just thick enough to protect the store’s wares from the desert sun.
Ashallah stared at the oil lamp to consider the possibilities. Time is short, she convinced herself. I need to act.
She held the lamp over the edge. Ashallah walked a few steps as she tilted the lamp slightly until the oil inside trickled out. Only a few ounces remained as she pulled it close. She knelt, with striker and flint in hand, striking one against the other. Sparks flew, flashing brightly for a moment until fading. Finally, one landed in the open oil lamp.
A blue tongue of flame rose from the scant fluid. Ashallah picked up the oil lamp to hold it before her face, admiring how sudden the metal in her hand began to heat.
Ashallah held the lamp, a fire in its small basin, over the edge. Her fingers uncoiled from around it so that the flaming lamp fell to the awning.
Shouts and screams followed. Ashallah laid on her back and closed her eyes. More yells and cries cut the air. She remained unmoved by them.
“They should thank me,” she told herself aloud.
Ashallah sat up to lean over the roof’s edge. The fire had caught on the awning. Its flames licked the side of the mud brick building, leaving soot in its wake. Ashallah wondered if the fire on the awning was enough to spread. Not that it mattered, for those below had made up their minds already. They had scattered. Dispersed. Just as Ashallah intended.
Poor scared lambs, she thought as she rose to her feet. She sauntered over to the opposite end of the roof, where she noted that only four feet separated her from the roof next door. Ashallah did not bother to back up and run but simply hopped over as the cries beneath echoed. She pressed on to the staircase, past neighbors who rushed downstairs and outside with blankets and buckets of water. Unperturbed, she glided past the onlookers, those who stayed a safe distance from the heat as the able and the brave battled it together.
Ashallah was nearly through the crowd when one of the frightened towards the back caught her attention. The eyes were unmistakable, as was the porcelain skin. Along with the hair. The straight, silken hair that she had envied her entire life. It flowed, stirred by a breeze, every strand free and visible.
Ashallah closed in on the unsuspecting frightened one, whose gaze remained fixed on the fire. “Orzala?” 175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZIGSchjXrf
