Sager would not see the humor in her exaggerated act of vulnerability, butshe continued anyway. She fluttered her lashes, slowing the movement till it turned into a demure glance at the ground.
“You see? I can’t even talk to you,” he said. “You look a mess. You don’t even comb your hair in the morning. You’re like a savage that fell in mud.”
Noora felt her ribs shake with the rattle in them. The first light of day was quickly turning into a dawn of confrontation. “Well, what do you want me to do then?”
“Stay at home more,” he said. “Do all the things women are meant to do; leave the hard work for us men.”
“So,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “what are you saying? Are you saying you’d rather carry four water skins filled with heavy water all the way back, instead of two? Are you strong enough?”
“I’m saying you should change your ways. This drifting all over the mountains like a tribesman, it has to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because…because it has to. You’ve got to start carrying yourself properly. You don’t want people seeing you and thinking you’re a crazed woman.”
“What people?” She looked up at the violet tips of the mountains. “Do you see anyone?” Noora knew they were quite alone. The closest community lived a full morning’s walk away, in Maazoolah. As for passing caravans, she would have spotted the flickering stars of their fires on her walk up, and if it were the rare, lone traveler who happened to venture into the uncertainty of her mountains, he would have followed the unwritten laws of peaceful intentions by quickly making his presence clear: arriving when there was light and setting up camp in an exposed part of the mountain. That was the best way of avoiding a surprise attack, which could take place at any time andfrom any one of the many isolated tribes of the Hararees, the name loosely given to the mountains which likened the rugged tips to silent sentinels.
Few persons traversed the hostile peaks they lived in the middle of, preferring to take a more roundabout way on their journeys from desert to coast and back. They dreaded coming face-to-face with the ancient residents of the Hararees. The approach of strangers was discouraged through long howls that reverberated, bouncing off the sides of the sheer cliff faces, to give the desired impression of an aggressive army ready to attack from hidden positions. Little did the traveler realize that the mountain men had only one dread, a dread born through the need to protect their water.
Sager snarled and grabbed the water skins and the bucket. “I’m not going to waste my breath on you,” he said.
“You don’t have a right to tell me anything,” she said. “I am older than you.”
He didn’t answer, only squatted under the umbrella crowns of the acacias to make his way through.
“Only abbah can tell me what to do,” she called after him, the defiance in her rising the farther away he got. “He’s our father, the leader of this family.”
She heard Sager snicker before disappearing into the darkness of the hollowed rock face.
“I’ll carry myself the way I want,” she shouted at him. “I’ll walk the way I please and sit any way I like.” And with that, she slumped to the ground and, supporting her weight on her palms, kicked her legs out in front of her. It wasn’t very feminine, but she didn’t care.
She heard her brother grunt, and she knew he was shoving the large stone that covered the cistern. They always pushedthat stone together, but this time Noora was not going to help him. “Let him do it on his own, the big, strong man,” she muttered.
Why did Sager care so much about the way she looked or carried herself? With the exception of his recent rebukes, no one else bothered. Her home was a paradise of informality with no rules and no society to draw that fine line that separates acceptability from shame.
She heard the thud as the stone shifted, and then the crackle of
“You see? I can’t even talk to you,” he said. “You look a mess. You don’t even comb your hair in the morning. You’re like a savage that fell in mud.”
Noora felt her ribs shake with the rattle in them. The first light of day was quickly turning into a dawn of confrontation. “Well, what do you want me to do then?”
“Stay at home more,” he said. “Do all the things women are meant to do; leave the hard work for us men.”
“So,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “what are you saying? Are you saying you’d rather carry four water skins filled with heavy water all the way back, instead of two? Are you strong enough?”
“I’m saying you should change your ways. This drifting all over the mountains like a tribesman, it has to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because…because it has to. You’ve got to start carrying yourself properly. You don’t want people seeing you and thinking you’re a crazed woman.”
“What people?” She looked up at the violet tips of the mountains. “Do you see anyone?” Noora knew they were quite alone. The closest community lived a full morning’s walk away, in Maazoolah. As for passing caravans, she would have spotted the flickering stars of their fires on her walk up, and if it were the rare, lone traveler who happened to venture into the uncertainty of her mountains, he would have followed the unwritten laws of peaceful intentions by quickly making his presence clear: arriving when there was light and setting up camp in an exposed part of the mountain. That was the best way of avoiding a surprise attack, which could take place at any time andfrom any one of the many isolated tribes of the Hararees, the name loosely given to the mountains which likened the rugged tips to silent sentinels.
Few persons traversed the hostile peaks they lived in the middle of, preferring to take a more roundabout way on their journeys from desert to coast and back. They dreaded coming face-to-face with the ancient residents of the Hararees. The approach of strangers was discouraged through long howls that reverberated, bouncing off the sides of the sheer cliff faces, to give the desired impression of an aggressive army ready to attack from hidden positions. Little did the traveler realize that the mountain men had only one dread, a dread born through the need to protect their water.
Sager snarled and grabbed the water skins and the bucket. “I’m not going to waste my breath on you,” he said.
“You don’t have a right to tell me anything,” she said. “I am older than you.”
He didn’t answer, only squatted under the umbrella crowns of the acacias to make his way through.
“Only abbah can tell me what to do,” she called after him, the defiance in her rising the farther away he got. “He’s our father, the leader of this family.”
She heard Sager snicker before disappearing into the darkness of the hollowed rock face.
“I’ll carry myself the way I want,” she shouted at him. “I’ll walk the way I please and sit any way I like.” And with that, she slumped to the ground and, supporting her weight on her palms, kicked her legs out in front of her. It wasn’t very feminine, but she didn’t care.
She heard her brother grunt, and she knew he was shoving the large stone that covered the cistern. They always pushedthat stone together, but this time Noora was not going to help him. “Let him do it on his own, the big, strong man,” she muttered.
Why did Sager care so much about the way she looked or carried herself? With the exception of his recent rebukes, no one else bothered. Her home was a paradise of informality with no rules and no society to draw that fine line that separates acceptability from shame.
She heard the thud as the stone shifted, and then the crackle of
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