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THE IMAGERY OF DEATH TRAPS Aisha in an agonizing silence as she anxiously observes the waters. The burning sun peeks from the clouds to reflect onto the opaque river snaking through the land like a silent cobra. For all its serenity, more danger lurked in its depths than Aisha cared to know. A constant reminder of the brother she lost and will never replace, no matter how many sleepless nights suffered and forlorn mornings endured. Her fears only worsened; and being near water triggered the spells.
The rains brought forth rich harvests to patient farmers. A thicket of olive trees color the land, while the blooming desert flora gave way to oak woodlands.
However, the great flood had also brought clear waters as crocodiles now littered the lagoons. Aisha overheard whispers of people being eaten by the waterborne beasts who were a constant threat to livestock. It was why shepherds frequented rivers during the dry season. Cattle was their livelihood, so they could not chance them being dragged downriver—nothing left of their flesh but skull and bones. Meanwhile, human remains vanished, never to resurface again.
"Zeeb ukhti, can you fetch us more water," Marwa asks, hand washing a pile of linen.
Aisha sits farthest from the banks, accompanied by Marwa and Zeeb, a slave of Persian descent, who was older than Aisha's twenty-three summers. As Zeeb leaves for the creek with a clay pot in hand, Aisha fills a water basin to the brim. She wraps her headscarf securely so that only her eyes are visible, then proceeds soaking fabrics for what seems like ages.
In the distance, Zeeb squats down to scoop out fresh water.
"Ya Aisha?" Marwa prompts, her sheepish grin obvious.
"Yes?"
"Have you apologized to Shams?"
Aisha screws up her nose with a shrug. "Should I have?"
"Why not? Would it kill your pride to do so?"
"No," she smirked, using her hands to stir the liquid until it froths at the head, and some stains fade. "It would obliterate it."
Marwa throws her head back in laughter.
Aisha then places a stone on the linens and rubs mercilessly. Time after time, she scours and scrubs and scrubs until an ache starts in her wrist. Her palms numb under the pressure and the soft skin of her finger tips prune from having soaked in water too long. Still, Aisha sand washes the silken fabrics separately before arranging them into a basket.
