The Serpent's Veil

The Sand Snake

The single main road that ran through the town of Jorash was one of hard packed, dry dirt. It was wide enough for two camel-driven carts to pass by each other without incident, and that was all the people needed.

It was all Al-Khayzuran needed.

She emerged from one of the winding lanes with a water jug at her hip. The market was bustling as usual, with vendors of all kinds laying out their wares on carts, wooden tables, and rough woven mats on the ground. The air was saturated with the smell of saffron, sandalwood, and roasting meat. Khayzuran caught a whiff of it, and her mouth began to water. She hadn't eaten since before dawn. As she walked down the road, eyeing the colourful fabrics hanging from hooks on one seller's cart, and the bangles arranged neatly below, she was careful not to sway so the water wouldn't spill. It had taken her more than an hour to get it.

"Khaya!" A voice called out to her from a ways off, and she turned around to see who it was.

A young girl of about twelve years bounded up to her, dodging a hunched old man and a stray dog. Her short, tangled hair had been pushed out of her face haphazardly, probably by her mother, and she had a playful smile on her pink lips.

"Hi Salsal, where were you?" Khaya's voice came out slightly muffled by her headscarf.

"I was at the well with Ghatrif. You came back so fast today." Salsal was panting, as if she had just run a league.

"Not as fast as you." Khaya chuckled. "Shouldn't Ghatrif be helping mother?" She clicked her tongue.

Her brother was as incapable as ever, choosing to waste time at a dried up well with his illiterate twelve year old sister rather than help their mother with her work. It was hard work harvesting the sap from the acacias without the aid of a strong hand. The least Ghatrif could do was lend it to their mother once in a while. The water sloshed around as Khaya continued walking, now with Salsal by her side. As they walked a number of heads began to turn in their direction, watching intently. By now Khaya was used to it, but not yet immune to it. She was glad she was wearing a veil.

Khaya's hips swayed with a natural, unpractised elegance that was hard to ignore. Though her face was covered, the way she moved, with a delicate, almost fragile grace, made people look. There was no one in Jorash who could not recognize that gait, whether it was the smallest child or the oldest crone. She did not know whether she liked or hated her notoriety as yet.

Their mother's shop was one of the few that had an actual roof over it. It was small and smelled of burnt acacia wood and clean sheets of papyrus. There were soot stains all over the stone walls, but the work surfaces remained clean. Their mother was particular about that. Keeping the water jug firmly in her grasp, Khayzuran stepped around the dividing wall to see her mother sitting on a stool, hunched over a small wooden table.

"Khayzuran, you're here earlier than expected," her mother said, almost in a whisper, as if too loud a sound would change the colour of the ink she was making. Khayzuran peered over her mother's shoulder to watch her hands work. There was a large stone bowl in which her mother was mixing gum arabic and soot. All that remained to be added was the water Khayzuran had brought, and the final product would be an ink as dark as the night. She placed the jug on the table beside the bowl and lifted the lid. The jug was still more than three quarters full despite the pace she had been running at. She heaved a sigh of relief and stepped back, letting her mother fill up a cup and pour it into the bowl.

"Salsal, get me the ink pots," she said, without looking up from the bowl. She used a wooden spoon to mix everything until it turned into a thin, murky liquid.

Khaya loved ink. It was so simple to make and yet so important. Khayzuran had tried explaining it to Ghatrif, but he had simply shaken his head and said, "Sister, you think too much. Ink is ink, nothing more."