Page 8 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

As soon as they are too far for waving, I run in the opposite direction, beyond the camp, where I fall to the ground and beat the sand with my fists, my mouth open in a silent scream of rage and unhappiness, my heart racing and my mind a huge black cloud of disappointment.

“It’s not that bad being a woman, you know. My sisters and mother seem to enjoy their lives.”

I look up, spitting sand out of my mouth and see a young man squatting beside me. His eyes are warm and merry.

“Go away.”

“Not very friendly, are you?”

I spit out more sand in his direction, hoping some of it will land on him. “Who are you?”

“Amalu. I was a baby when your father left the village and began trading.”

“So was I.”

“I know. We are the same age. My mother suckled you when your mother died. She said I was a fat enough baby to be able to share some of my milk.”

I sniff disdainfully. “You look skinny enough to me.”

He pretends to be insulted. “Skinny? Look at my arms! Are they not mighty?”

I shrug but must hide a smile. “I have seen mightier.”

He laughs out loud and makes himself comfortable. “I am sure you have. Tell me.”

Talking seems to help a little. We sit together for more than an hour and I tell him stories of the trading routes. He makes a good audience, widening his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief and begging for more whenever I draw breath. By the time my aunt finds me I am sitting upright and laughing.

***

Aunt Tizemt is not laughing as we enter her tent, my new home.

“Sitting around while still dressed in a man’s robes, giggling with some boy you have never met!

It’s a good thing your father brought you to me.

I can see you have never learnt how to behave like a woman.

Take off those robes at once. I have poured some water in that bowl.

Here is a cloth. Clean yourself and then dress in a more becoming manner.

” She throws down a cloth and marches out of the tent, closing the flaps behind her.

The sound of her grinding stone outside is fierce.

I am alone. And unused to it. On the trade routes there were always people.

Slaves, my brothers, other traders, even my quiet father.

Here there is no-one but me in the tent, and the camp outside is small and peaceful, not like the hot swarming cities I have been used to.

Slowly I take off my robes and begin to wash.

My thick black hair has begun to grow out.

Now, for the first time in my life that I can recall, it is past my shoulders.

I try to tie it back, catching my hands in it and finally succeeding in making it into a tangled knot at the base of my neck.

Once clean I look around. There are some clothes lying on the bed, but I am unsure of whether they are the right ones.

They look gaudy after my plain blue robes.

A long red cloth and a smaller orange cloth, all decorated with little silver discs here and there.

A couple of brooches, designed to hold the fabrics together in a becoming way when wrapped around the body.

A multi-coloured shawl for my shoulders and a wrap for my hair, although my face will remain uncovered now that I am to be dressed as a woman.

The wrap is woven in reds, oranges, yellows and covered with symbols and patterns.

A pair of simple leather slippers are the only things that look familiar, so I put them on and then stand, uncertain.

How to fold the cloth correctly to make my woman’s clothes?

Oh, for a simple blue robe, dropped over my head in moments and then tied at the waist!

My aunt must have heard the silence that fell after the slow washing sounds had stopped. She appears inside the tent.

“Why are you not dressed? Do you intend to wear only shoes? You’ll find a husband a lot quicker like that, but I am not sure he’s the sort of husband you’d like to have.”

She looks me over approvingly as I stand naked before her, as though inspecting a goat for sale.

Only seventeen, I have a slender body the colour of golden sand, except for my forearms and feet, the skin around my eyes and a small part of my neck, all burnt walnut-brown from the sun.

My tangled hair has already fallen out of its badly made knot and although it is not smooth, it is at least thick, dark and glossy.

My breasts are small but shapely and I have a wiry strength that can be seen in my thighs, belly and arms as I shift nervously from one leg to the other and attempt to cover myself from her unrelenting gaze with my hands.

“I didn’t know what to wear.”

“What’s wrong with the clothes I’ve laid out for you?”

“They’re very…” I falter.

“Very?”

“Bright.”

“And your blue robes are not? Bright enough, I think. Now put those clothes on.”

I stumble over the clothes until my aunt must step in to pin them correctly. The wrap for my head is worse.

“Let’s start by combing your hair. You look like a wild thing. I can see your hair is new to you – did you keep it cut short before?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it will grow longer, and you had better get used to it. It will be very fine once it has grown to a good length; your mother always had good hair. Come here. The knots in this! It will hurt but you will just have to bear it. It will be a lesson to you to brush it every day.” She drags a wooden comb through the tangled mass, taking no notice of the way my head jerks back with every stroke and disregarding my yelps of pain.

By the time she has finished the comb has a broken tooth and my tangles have become soft dark waves.

“Better,” says my aunt. “Now for your headdress.” In a few quick twists she wraps up all my hair, piling up the bright fabric into a high turban. A few folds hang down at the sides and back, but my face, still darker round the eyes than the rest of my face, is fully visible.

“There! You look like a beautiful young woman instead of a skulking boy. And lift your head up. I know you are not accustomed to having your face on display, but you must get used to it. Now then, you are properly dressed, and your hair is brushed. Do you have any jewellery?”

I nod, my scalp still smarting from her attentions. “I have a celebra, ” I say, clasping the heavy necklace round my neck. Aunt Tizemt gives an approving nod. “And my tchirot .” I pull out my square silver amulet from the old jeweller Winitran.

My aunt frowns. “A tchirot is a man’s jewel.”

I close a hand over it protectively. “It is mine and I will wear it.”

She shrugs. “As you wish. You do not have a lot of jewellery. That will change when you have a husband. If you are lucky, he will bring you many gifts, as your father did for your mother. He spoilt her. He was a good husband, though,” she adds, grudgingly giving him his due.

“You would be lucky to find such a man.”

“I am not sure I want a husband.”

“What, you with all your giggling with strange young men? Huh. I will see you married within one month at that pace.”

“Is that what I am here for? To be married off?”

“Now, now, no need to get angry. You are here to learn some women’s skills, for your father tells me you have not learnt them from anyone.”

“I have plenty of skills.”

“Really? Can you use herbs for healing as well as cooking? Can you spin? Weave? Sew? Do you know where to find the wild grains and how to make a milk porridge? Cheese? Butter? Or did your slaves do all the work? Can you sing? Dance? Play music?”

“No…”

“Can you read and write the tinfinagh alphabet? I would wager that your father and brothers have not taught you. The boys learn it, but they do not pass it on, it falls to us women to do that. No, niece, you must admit to being ignorant of many things. It will be my job to teach you. And if you meet a young man that pleases you before I am finished – well, you will have to learn even quicker, for no man will want a woman who can trade but not cook.” She gives a rare smile at my dejected face.

“Come, it is not so bad. We will sit together, and we will talk as we work. I will tell you about your mother and your father when they were children. We can gossip and you will meet girls your own age and find out that it can be fun being a woman. It is not all work.”

“It sounds like it is.”

“Well, for now you are right. I have a bowl of grains out there and they will not grind themselves. You will learn to grind the grain and roll it to make couscous while I make you some more clothes, for you have nothing but your old blue robes and what you have on. A good thing your father left me with a generous quantity of new cloth for you from his stores. Come.”

***