Chapter Two: Baby
Kumanne's tent was the same as any other Bedu's, but as I rarely saw the inside of the others tents, there was enough in Kumanne's to keep me occupied for three days. And three days exactly was how long I stayed with the healers before I got thrown out.
Sharifah had ordered me not to move my arm more than I had to, so I sat on the pile of goat-skins that had been given to me for my bed and watched Kumanne mix up salves and sinister looking concoctions. These she carefully poured into small dark bottles and handed to Sharifah, who labeled them in flowing Bedu script, inscribing their names on the papyrus labels stuck on their sides. Whenever we encountered a caravan, Kumanne never failed to replenish her stock of papyrus. I liked the sight of those bottles, standing dark and empty in a respectable line, like a train of camels on their way to an oasis, waiting to be seized by either Kumanne or Sharifah's strong, sun-burned hands and filled with a clear liquid that would soothe a cough, or a golden-brown syrup that would help a baby's colic. Once filled and their purpose completed, the bottles would be set in one of Kumanne's carved medicine chests to lie dormant until called for.
Once, I picked up a filled bottle and gazed at it, still dark, but no longer empty; there was movement behind the smokily dark glass and it splashed up against the insides when I shook it.
"Don't shake it!" Sharifah exclaimed. "You'll upset it!"
"The cork's on," I pointed out.
"Well, you'll get bubbles in it, then. Leave it alone, Rohsair."
I put the bottle down and instead ran my fingers through the long hair on the fleece I was sitting on. It had come from a white goat with rich brown patches, and I traced the brown with my fingers, twisting the two different colours in together so it looked like the weave in a carpet. A twining pattern, running down and across like the curve of a horse's neck. I had seen Haroun-rän's horses; he had two, as befitted his position as camp-leader, and they were both very beautiful, with small heads and long necks, full of stamina and strength. One was a hoshaba, a stallion, and the other a baz, a mare, and they were both a cloudy grey, the colour of clouds before the rains come. One time, though, I had seen a merchant's horse in a passing caravan, and that horse was the most beautiful one I had ever seen. Its coat was golden, bright as a new dinar, and its mane and tail were silver-white, like streams of white flame. Or lightning, I thought. Or a caracal's teeth. Or...
"Rohsair? Rohsair!"
"Uh?" I jerked my head up to meet Kumanne's exasperated gaze.
She tutted. "Head in the clouds again? I said, pass me that bottle. No, not that one, the one next to the brazier. Near the rosewood box. Yes, that one."
I passed her the requisite object, and retreated back to my corner. Sharifah was shaking a bottle; I refrained from telling her she'd get bubbles in it. At that moment, the tent flap opened, and a woman poked her head through. "Ha mim, - oh, are you busy? Should I come back later?"
"Oh no," Kumanne greeted her cheerfully. "Come in, Tabithí. Sit down, sit down."
The woman came in; she had a baby on her back, and she swung it off, asking, "Can I put Valmik on the bed here?"
"Oh yes. Rohsair, move over."
I did so, and Tabithí placed the baby on the fleeces near me before squatting down on her heels beside the other two women. As they talked of this and that - how Selim, Tabithí's husband, had promised her length of silk the next time a caravan came, how Dunyah had started painting her eyes already, didn't Kumanne think she was far too young? - I looked with curiosity at the baby. It lay still with its eyes closed, cocooned in its tight black wrap, looking like the chrysalis of some insect. Cautiously I poked it, and as it only scrunched up its eyes all the more and gave small sigh, I concluded that it must be asleep. It was the first time I had seen such a small baby so close before, and warily, I touched its face, then its soft dark hair. With some amusement, I saw that it was getting a bald patch on the back of its head, and wondered why.
Tabithí looked over once, but carried on talking. I touched the baby's face again. It felt so soft and smooth, and... new. New in a way I had not felt before. The baby was waiting for life to touch it, to leave its mark; its unblemished face reflected that. Its face was perfect, right down to the curve of the eyelashes resting on the rounded cheek. Balanced by the small nub that was its nose. Softened by the flush along its cheekbones. My fingers looked very thin and pale, lying in contrast against the baby's skin.
In spite of the smoothness of the baby's skin, its mind was a tangled dark nest of thoughts. It was scared, helpless, and it wanted... it wanted...
"He wants his mother."
I did not realize I has said the words aloud until I heard Tabithí's sharp, "What?"
Looking closely into the baby's face, I repeated, "He wants his mother. He's scared. He can't find her... he's lost. Lost in the dark." I touched its forehead, and it screwed up its face, as though it had swallowed sour yoghurt. It wrinkled up its nose and opened and shut its mouth, like a beached fish on the hot ground. Then it bunched its fists up, and waving them around, began to cry.
I reached over to show it that it was no longer alone, that its nightmare had ended, but before I could, Tabithí snatched it up and held it close against her.
"He wants... " I began again, but Tabithí cut me off.
"Mar! Mar of darkness and empty souls!" She whirled around to Kumanne and Sharifah, and with the same wailing cry, demanded, "You saw him! He said Valmik would be scared and he was scared! He has bewitched my child, he is an afreet, a mar, and he is evil!"
I goggled at her. "But... I didn't... "
Kumanne and Sharifah exchanged glances, and I knew what they were thinking of. My bones which they had seen to be hollow. My heart. And now, this. Sharifah whispered, "Afreet... "
Suddenly, she grabbed hold of my arm - thankfully not the broken one - and hauled me off the fleeces and out of the tent. I struggled, but she dragged me out beyond the tents and flung me down near the goat pens. I sat up and stared at her. "I didn't do anything, Sharifah! I didn't, honest!"
She did not even seem to have heard. She bent down and pushed her face close into mine; her face was rock-hard, and her voice was low and growling. "Keep away from my tent. Keep away from me, and from Kumanne, and from everyone else in this camp, so you do not spread your evil among us. And you can think yourself fortunate that we do not turn you out, after your torment of that baby."
"Sharifah, I - "
She spat on the sand in front of me and turned on her heel, with the air of a cat walking away from its scat pile. I stared after her as she stalked back among the tents. Then I went and sat by the goat-pens, watching as the animals nibbled on each others backs and scraped their short, curling horns against the fence poles. I whistled softly to them between my teeth, and scratched their short, floppy ears, hearing the bells around their necks clang against each other, the sound ringing out loud and piercing in the still air. Mar of darkness, I brooded. Afreet. I'm not any of those things!
Then what are you, Rohsair? the curious and sensible part of my mind wondered. What are you? Hollow bones, fast heart-beat, and seeing what a baby's dreams are. That doesn't make me an afreet, or a mar. I'm not a mar.
٭ص
That night, I crept back to the heart of the camp, and from the shadows of the surrounding tents, I watched the families sitting around their fires, the women weaving or spinning, the men talking or smoking. The children lay against their parents' feet, tired out by their day; some tussled with the family's dog, or rolled a small ball about. I saw the looks of contentment from the men as they eased their sandals and loosed their turbans; the skilled fingers of the women turning the spindle or handling a needle in the mending and patching of old clothes; the children's bright eyes and eager faces as they laughed in their evening playtime. The smoke from the men's huqas rose into the air and mingled with the smoke of the camp-fires. A woman laid by her work and stroked the hair off a child's hot forehead, chiding it for its excitement so late, when they really ought to be settling down.
One family was singing, chanting the old Bedu songs that had been sung around campfires since the dawn of time. I could hear the words, and quietly hummed along with the tune.
Hov qasas rul prisca,
Hov jayornah rul nenni sarafina.
Hov vizoe rul burah hov qasas
E rul hov jayornah.
Old songs, songs that reflected the lives and ways that had been theirs for generations upon generations. I stayed, listened to the end of the song. Then I slunk away, back to the emptiness of the desert, where the stars were pricking the velvety darkness of the sky with needle points of silver sharpness. I sat down with my back against the goat-pens and listened to the movement of the goats behind me, the occasional half-bleat and scrape of cloven hoof against the fence poles. Behind those sounds, I could hear the family starting up another song.
