Page 17 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)
A unt Tizemt is on the warpath. “What kind of wedding can be adequately prepared for in so short a time? Allah, give this poor humble woman strength to carry out your will!”
Yusuf has insisted to my father that we must be married with all speed for his mission cannot wait, and yet he will not leave me behind. So, there is much to do in a very short time, and Yusuf’s insistence on speed has thrown the camp into turmoil.
Children flee before Aunt Tizemt as she stamps across the camp, each of them knowing that to be caught will mean hours of tedious work as she commandeers everyone who crosses her path to help her prepare for the wedding.
Already the young men have been sent off on the best camels in every direction, to invite kin from neighbouring tribes to attend.
Relatives that no-one has seen for many years will be on their way shortly, much food and drink must be prepared.
The older children are set to gathering thorn bush branches to make temporary enclosures for any animals that the guests might have with them.
The work is difficult and painful, for the bushes must be sought out and then branches cut with sharp axes, while fighting off the vicious thorns that stick out in every direction.
No-one can escape without painful red scratches, which my aunt dismisses airily, and they sting for hours afterwards as a reminder to each child to avoid her in future.
The younger children must build up heaps of dried camel dung, which burns well and is a good substitute for hard-to-find wood in a landscape where trees are a rarity and only bushes and shrubs offer sufficient opportunity for fuel.
The camel dung, at least, has no thorns.
For those children who have successfully escaped my aunt’s eagle eye, Aghbalu the storyteller is a focal point.
He sits in the shade and rehearses his stories for the bridal feast, finding himself surrounded by an eager audience of small, upturned faces, which have the disconcerting habit of disappearing suddenly before his very eyes like a many-bodied djinn whenever Aunt Tizemt’s heavy tread can be heard approaching.
The older women are preparing their stocks of spices and discussing recipes for the wedding feast, counting how many mouths they will have to feed.
The younger women and the craftsmen are set to preparing items for my future.
I will no longer use my aunt’s cooking pots and musical instruments, her waterbags and rugs. I will have my own possessions.
“And you need your own tent, of course,” says my aunt. “I had thought we would have more time before you found a husband. But the time is upon us now and we must prepare everything quickly. Come with me.”
I follow obediently, glad to be let off the weaving of a huge rug that will cover the floor of my tent.
The other girls wink at me behind her back as I walk by, miming exhaustion and other, ruder, signals that, thankfully, my aunt does not catch.
I suppress my giggles and bend to follow her into the cool darkness of the tent.
Inside it is hard to see after the glare of the sun. I narrow my eyes as my aunt searches for something and then sits on the bed.
“Sit.”
I sit by her and watch as a large triangle of thick, rough cloth, embroidered with once bold but now faded red and yellow symbols is unfolded on the bed between us. I look up questioningly at my aunt.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
“It is a piece of your mother’s tent. I cut it out after her death, before you all left the camp to trade when you were still a baby.” She smoothes the fabric with her hands.
“The tent and everything in it belongs to the woman. When she marries, her husband comes to her tent. If he divorces her, he will leave her tent.” She gestures towards the camp outside.
“Everyone is preparing your goods – your bowls and spoons, your rugs, blankets and waterbags, even your musical instruments. Your saddles and your husband’s weapons will also be kept in the tent.
Your brothers and father are preparing you a marriage bed.
But you must have a tent to house all your goods and your family.
It is traditional, when you marry, for your mother to cut a piece from her tent and for that piece to form part of your own tent.
When your mother died and your father decided to take you far away, I cut a piece of the tent to keep against the day when you would be married.
Now that day is coming, and this is the piece of your mother’s tent around which we will make your own tent.
Every slave in the camp will be working on it to make it in time for the ceremony. ”
I reach out a hand and touch the strong yellow cloth that once sheltered my mother, father and brothers, and which will now provide shelter for Yusuf and myself. Tears spring to my eyes as I trace the symbols for protection and fertility. Aunt Tizemt smiles and places her rough warm hand over mine.
“Your mother was a most kind and loving woman. She loved your father and was loved by him. She bore six children, five of them sons. She was blessed by Allah before she left this world. You will also be blessed with sons, I am sure. Your husband-to-be must love you deeply. You drew his eye even while he was set on the path of his holy mission. He loves you enough to stop in his path – even though he has insisted that you must be married quickly so that he can continue along that path. You are a Tuareg woman, a free woman. He seems happy to give you much freedom, a rare thing amongst some men today. I hope your marriage will be most happy. May Allah bless you.”
I throw my arms around my aunt, the closest thing to a mother I have ever known. She responds with a strong warm hug and then becomes brisk and business-like again.
“There are forty slaves who will be working on this tent. The men are finding strong poles. The women are sewing the cloth and skins together to make the coverings. I will be overseeing the embroideries. I would like them to match your mother’s tent.
” She smoothes the triangle of cloth again and stands.
“We have a lot to do in only a few days. Yusuf is an impatient man. Come.”
***
With so many slaves working on it, the tent quickly takes shape. With Aunt Tizemt’s urgings, oaths and threats about what will happen to anyone who slows down its progress, it is finished the day before the wedding.
Now it can be erected. A wide, flat sandy area near to the main camp has been chosen for the festivities, and the children have been charged with clearing the space; removing more of the dreaded thorn bushes, keeping the animals away and removing any particularly sharp rocks.
The relatives, as they arrive, are shown places to set up their tents by the main camp, close to the area set aside for the marriage.
Within this space is now heaped up a mound of sand, packed down firmly until it resembles a large cushion, wide enough for two people to sit side by side.
Over this my new tent is loosely erected, but it is not put up properly, for that will come later when it takes up its permanent location within the camp.
The poles are not firmly planted, so that the cloth and skin folds sag and make a small dark enclosure barely big enough for two instead of a wide airy space made to contain a family.
I try to peek at the tent but am shooed away by Aunt Tizemt and the other women, who hustle me back to the main camp.
“You must be prepared! What will your bridegroom think of you if he sees you in that state?”
I have to laugh. I am dressed in my plainest clothes and am unwashed. My hair has not been combed for days as I have toiled away at all the tasks that my aunt has decreed must be done in a short time. Now, the night before my wedding, I am to be pampered.
***
I am taken to Tanemghurt’s tent. She appears in the doorway and looks me over. I stand before her, suddenly conscious of the rank odour of my sweat and the dirt which seems ingrained in my very skin.
“You should be in your mother’s tent, of course. She would have prepared you for your wedding. But you were born into my hands and so I have taken on her role at this time.”
I step inside. The tent is heavily scented with two perfumes.
One is incense, which Tanemghurt has just lit, and which has now begun to smoke as its flame dies out.
The other is henna powder, which Tanemghurt will later mix with a little hot water to make a paste to decorate my hands, feet and face.
She sets the bowl aside and gestures brusquely.
“Take off your clothes.”
I obey, looking around for somewhere to put them as I remove each item. Tanemghurt holds out her hand and I deposit the old worn clothes with her. She flings them casually but accurately into a corner of the tent, where they make a neat and insignificant pile.
Once I am naked Tanemghurt sits in her wooden seat and looks me over.
I stand silently under her gaze, feeling like a slave at market, fearing to be found lacking in some way.
I have grown in all directions since returning to the camp.
I am a little taller, my hair now reaches down to my waist, while my breasts and hips have grown rounder, first with my aunt’s and now my own good cooking to fatten me up.
My calloused skin has grown smoother now that my aunt has shown me how rubbing butter and oils into the skin makes it glow like the warm sands as the sun falls.
Still, at this moment I am sweaty and dirty from days of working with no time for washing and I feel unfit to be a beautiful bride.