Collaterals

Wide Watery Eyes

 Khaled had once seen a baby gazelle when he was still an unburdened child, traveling with Father. Its mother had died, and the little thing had been crying. Why was it crying? Khaled had asked. Hunger, Father had replied. Only Khaled had not known that kind of hunger, the kind that would make one weep. But he knew he did not want the Gazelle to feel such cruel hunger, did not want the gazelle to weep. And so he'd begged. He'd begged father to let him feed it, to let him care for it. 

For a month he'd hold her to his chest— wrapped as it was in the white cloth he'd assigned just for her— and placed his cloth wrapped finger to her mouth. So very readily she would suck at the drenched cloth, suck at the goat's milk. It had been two months before he'd tried to transition the Gazelle to food. He'd pick cloves and blades of grass, hold them out  in his palm. But it was no use. The poor thing would cry, again and again and it had those eyes, wide watery eyes that just looked up at him, so helplessly and— and he'd wrap his finger in cloth. Dip it in the goat's milk. Bring it to her mouth. 

You've spoiled her rotten, father had laughed. It was a wonder how Khaled had managed to  get the Gazelle on her feet, released her in the wild. Had she lived, Khaled found he still wondered? Had she known to run when she heard a twig break? Had she even known to listen for the shifting of feet on a leaf covered ground? To smell for dew in the air, or nearby water?

And what an odd thing to think of now, of all times.

Khaled must have called Leila's name out a dozen times or so. Quietly, always quietly these days; the last thing the Young Lord would wish for was to frighten her further into herself. Yet, now, finally, finally, she'd looked up at him. 

Two wide almond eyes, wells of a honeyed brown that glistened in the fading summer's sun.

Khaled's voice was gentler than he knew it could be when he said, "It is time to remove the shrouds."

Of the women. Well, her majesty the Queen. Zarqa was but ash and bones and her burial was more the fulfillment of ceremony than a true burial and if only Khaled had gotten to her a little faster on that wretched night then—

Leila's lips parted, only she mouthed no words. She gulped, looking to the open tomb. It was the strangest thing, what happened next. It was as though a string had wrapped around her, drawn her into the tomb, down its steps till Khaled could not see her, not even the shadow of her figure. He'd not meant to hold his breath. Not meant to count the seconds she'd spent there, down under, where death was closer than life.

And when she emerged out the tomb, two shrouds folded in hand, her head bowed, he'd taken one breath. A large one, that he let out slowly, quietly, so very scared to disturb this sacred ground. But that tightness— that pinch in his chest that made the space his heart had to beat in so very tight—it did not go away, no. Not until she was a step away from him and her head was raised and,

two wide watery eyes. Helpless, hungry,

begging.

And so Khaled put his hands out below hers, let her set the shrouds in his open arms. He folded them to his chest with one arm, and put his other arm out. Her grip was heavy, tight, holding onto him as he guided her out the burial grounds.