Page 19 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)
I am unrecognisable. My hair is brushed and perfumed with rosewater, then draped with many loops of silver circlets, which cover all but every strand.
I wear my tchirot under my new, brightly coloured wraps made of the finest cloths my aunt can find at such short notice, helped by my father’s stores of trading goods.
My celebra and an engagement chachat from Yusuf are round my neck.
I have more new jewellery from Yusuf. He has sent the traditional set of wedding gifts to Tanemghurt’s tent.
I wear a pair of large earrings, multiple pendants, then another necklace with a cross pendant.
The final item is a headpiece, which is added to my already crowded head.
It is a triangular carnelian stone jutting out of a square of silver, which adds height and elegance to my already elaborate hair.
I feel weighted down with silver and stones, but my aunt and Tanemghurt only nod at each other with satisfaction when they look at me.
My hands, face and feet are marked with henna paste.
I had to sit still for a very long time watching as it dried crustily, like scabs on a wound on my newly washed and oiled skin.
But it was worth it, for the patterns are very pleasing to the eye.
The whirlwind of the past few days is settling, and I am about to marry Yusuf.
What at first felt like some strange dream is now becoming real.
I am a bride, and I am about to be married.
***
As darkness falls, there is music, singing and dancing. Somewhere on the other side of the camp Yusuf is in another tent, heavily veiled as I will be when I finally emerge.
At last, the women come to fetch me. It is almost midnight, and they are very merry as they encircle me and we begin to walk slowly to my newly made tent, erected outside the camp over the pile of packed sand that will serve as our seat for a few hours.
We arrive together, the men leading Yusuf, the women leading me, and we are shown into our tiny, misshapen tent.
There is only room for the two of us, each swathed in our layers of robes, mine strewn with jewellery, his plain as ever.
Outside our tent everyone sings and dances, the drums wild and the singing rippling over their persistent pulse.
Even if we had spoken in the darkness, we would not hear one another.
Under our many robes Yusuf reaches for my hand.
It is a strange feeling, to clasp hands with a man I barely know.
I have not yet grown used to it when they come back to return us to our own tents, Yusuf holding a sword and I a knife, for iron is lucky at a wedding.
As we slowly make our way back to our separate tents, behind us my new tent is being pulled down, the mound of sand left in place, to be gradually dispersed across the vast desert by the slow winds of time.
***
It is almost dawn, but I have time to sleep while the men properly erect my tent.
I will not join Yusuf there until later today.
At first, I cannot sleep, my head too full of the songs and rhythms and the touch of Yusuf’s hand.
But Tanemghurt bends over me to hold a cup of sweet warm milk to my lips and soon I am asleep, my body a loose heap of twisted cloth and silver.
***
It is late morning when I open my eyes again, prodded awake by Tanemghurt and my aunt, who stand over me, smiling.
“Yusuf has already gone to your tent,” says Tanemghurt.
Aunt Tizemt chimes in. “They are finishing the camel rides in front of the tent. It will be time for you to join him soon. Come, sit up and sip some tea. Not too much. Remember, once you are in the tent you cannot leave till nightfall, not even to relieve yourself.”
I sit up and drink a little mint tea to freshen my mouth.
The women are gathering again. This time we walk within the camp to my new tent.
It is beautiful now that it is fully erected and bathed by the sun’s rays.
The embroideries shine out and I put up one hand to touch the old worn triangle that belonged to my mother’s tent, before I enter.
All my new possessions have been laid out and the tent is now a real home. Rugs cover the floor and cushions are scattered everywhere, inviting comfort. At the centre is my marriage bed, again spread with blankets woven with bright symbols for fertility and good luck. Seated on the bed is Yusuf.
I pause in the doorway. Here I am alone with a man I barely know, a man I chose to marry in a fit of boldness, challenged by him to accept in front of my whole family and encampment.
I chose him – why? For a moment I feel panic rising in me.
Why did I not spend more time with Amalu, perhaps persuade him to take me trading with him?
Why did I think I could marry this stranger and follow him on a terrifying mission to conquer the Maghreb, a mission which has failed once before?
If he dies and then I am left alone or worse, taken as a captive and…
Yusuf is watching me. “Will you sit by me, Kella?” he asks gently.
I swallow and step forward, then almost trip and land ungracefully by his side.
He laughs as I struggle to regain my composure. “Your eagerness to be near me bodes well for our marriage bed, I think.”
I blush and try to smile, my heart thudding as I think of our ‘marriage bed’.
How easily he says the words! Does he have no doubts?
He is far older than I, does he not think I am a foolish girl who knows nothing and will now be a burden to him?
Does he not have any regrets as to his hastily-made choice of a bride – and indeed to marry at all?
The tent folds at the entrance are still open, for now all the guests will dance and sing in front of our dwelling to wish us well and give us their blessings.
We have many hours yet before we will close the tent door and be alone.
I try to make myself a little more comfortable on the bed.
Yusuf offers me additional cushions, which I accept.
When I have stopped nervously adjusting my position he reaches out and takes my hand in his, then turns his face back towards the guests, now engaged in good-natured jesting.
I sit still, watching the dancers and singers while trying to grow used to the sensation of holding hands with him. I try to think of something to say but I cannot think of anything, and he seems happy in silence, so after a while I stop trying.
***
At last, as dusk falls, the guests begin to leave.
I am certain that all of Allah’s ninety-nine names have been invoked as each of them finds a new way to bless us and wish us well.
Then they say their goodbyes to one another.
The tents are folded down and loaded onto camels before people begin to drift away in every direction from our camp.
By the time it is fully dark the hubbub around our tent has subsided and Tanemghurt comes and shuts all the sides so that we can be alone.
“Do not forget,” she says as she leaves us, “You are to stay in this tent for seven days and seven nights. You may leave only to relieve yourselves, and that only at night. I will bring you food each day.”
We have been given bowls with soft dates and herbed olives, roasted meats, fresh flat breads and dipping sauces to eat with them. There are two large waterbags propped up by the tent.
I clear my throat, as though about to say something and Yusuf looks at me questioningly. I shake my head, feeling myself blush against my will. I have never felt so useless. Surely a new bride should be more comfortable in her new husband’s company?
Yusuf interrupts my train of thought by reaching for something in his robes. It makes a clinking sound as he pulls it out and I look to see what it is. He holds it out to me in the flickering light of the fire.
“My gift to you on our wedding day.”
It is a houmeyni. A leather thong, with a large silver articulated pendant, carved all over with tiny symbols and shapes.
A traditional wedding gift, given by grooms to their brides.
He should have given it to me at the ceremony earlier, but I am glad he has chosen this moment for it seems more intimate and is a more important gift than the many other items of jewellery he had sent to me in Tanemghurt’s tent before the wedding and which I have worn all day.
The houmeyni is associated with courtship, with moonlit encounters, with romance and even those sexual encounters that sometimes take place before a wedding.
I lift off all my other items of jewellery, letting each fall onto the carpet at our feet and allow him to place the necklace round my neck.
When he has done so he sinks to his knees before me and begins to unfasten my clothes.
I stand very still, looking down on him nervously, but he takes his time, his fingers do not stumble over the clasps and ties which hold my many layers of finery together.
As he undoes each item, he places it to one side without looking to see how it falls, never taking his eyes from my gradually exposed body, my outlines slowly becoming clearer in the half-light.
When I am naked, he sits back on his heels but rather than look at my body his eyes come upwards to my face and when they meet my blushing gaze he smiles.
He reaches up to my waist and back, carefully lowering me down to the soft carpets and the furs that have been strewn there, in which he lays me down and covers me.
Then he rises to his feet and begins to undress himself.