Page 90 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

Tanemghurt’s tent is very different from my aunt’s, and I look around it with interest. I have not seen her tent inside, for few people are invited into it unless they have an ailment, and often Tanemghurt will choose to take her herbs and spells to the sick person’s tent.

It seems larger than most for it is family-sized, but Tanemghurt has never had either children or a husband, so it is for her alone.

The space that would have been set aside for her husband’s possessions is full of her little pouches and her mixing and measuring bowls, stacked by size and sometimes by colour.

She has spoons of every size, not just the big ones for stirring and the smaller ones for eating, but tiny ones for measuring small doses of the powerful herbs she uses.

Some are stained strange colours and some, I see, are kept apart from others.

They hang on small loops of string sewn onto the wall.

Below them and facing the wall is a large seat, something like a saddle but made for her to sit on, for Tanemghurt is now very old and she finds it hard to sit or squat low on the ground as the rest of us do.

The large seat has a small ledge on it where she can rest her mixing bowls or mortar and pestle when she prepares her medicines.

All around this seat are pots, many containing water, some containing strange substances that I cannot identify. The tent smells of herbs and perfumes.

“Do you miss the trading life?”

I turn towards Tanemghurt. No-one has ever asked this except for Amalu, and the question brings a sudden sting to my eyes. She stands, watching me.

I swallow. “I have no choice,” I say.

She lowers herself cautiously onto her seat, one bony arm supporting herself as she does so. “There is always a choice,” she says.

“What is my choice?” I ask, my tone disrespectful enough that Aunt Tizemt would cuff my head for it.

She smiles. “That is not for me to say. It is for you to make.”

“What would you do in my place?” I ask, my voice still too sharp.

“I would be honoured to learn women’s skills from a woman as accomplished as your aunt,” says Tanemghurt, unperturbed.

I stay silent.

“So,” says Tanemghurt. “You wish me to teach you about the uses of herbs?”

I nearly say I want no such thing, but even I know that would be going too far. “Yes, Lalla ,” I say.

And so, she teaches me the herbs to drink when I wish to bear a child as well as those to avoid bringing life to the womb.

She shows me how to deliver a child, should I ever be called upon to do so.

She tests me on my knowledge of the tinfinagh alphabet, which only women pass on.

She has me recite large tracts of our legends, our songs, the right ways to live.

I stay in her tent for many days, leaving only to relieve myself.

At night she shows me the stars and nods with approval when I can name the constellations and know how to navigate by them.

“We are done,” she announces one day.

I look at her.

“You may go,” she says, as though we have only been conversing a few moments.

I stand, awkward. “Thank you,” I manage, unsure of what else to say.

She nods. I turn towards the door of the tent.

“Kella.”

I turn back to her. “Yes, Lalla ?”

“Treasure your aunt. She has more to teach than I.”

“I have learnt what she had to teach,” I say, a little confused. “She said I should come to you.”

Tanemghurt looks at me. “Skills are not the only thing to learn,” she says. “Your aunt is both fierce and full of love. She lost her husband and yet still she has a great love within her, no matter what her life brings. Perhaps you still have something to learn.”

I try to think what to say in return, but Tanemghurt has turned away, looking through her herbs. I am dismissed.

***

I resent her words at first. But as the days come and go and the moon grows and wanes over and over again, I begin to take some small pride in my new life and the skills I am learning.

I grow accustomed to my new clothes and even sew myself some new ones, adding decorative panels to the red and orange lengths of cloth I wear, learning to tie my headdresses more elaborately and without help.

The blue dye fades from my skin, the rest of my face grows brown, and I begin to lose my former long, swaggering strides and take on a slower walk, my hips gently swaying.

“Keep walking like that and your friend Amalu will be falling off his camel when you go by. Perhaps a crack to the skull will bring his mind back,” jokes Aunt Tizemt. But she is proud of me and my new skills, developed under her tutelage.

I can cook a good meal now, for I have always had a fine palate for spices and herbs. I know the quality of spices from my time trading.

“Well, at least you learnt something useful in all those years,” my aunt teases when she sees how well I judge quality and quantity, allowing the subtle and strong tastes to emerge, scenting and spicing the food I make – the milk porridge sweetened with cinnamon, the kid meat rubbed with cumin.

I make fresh-smelling herbal teas, steeped mint for the evenings after a heavy meal, ground almonds for a sweet milk, a dipping sauce of rich argan oil and honey to scoop up with fresh flat breads cooked on a hot stone over the coals of the fire.

My aunt has seen how Amalu watches me walk by, follows my newly graceful walk with his eyes, then licks his lips when he smells the good food I make.

“Men love soft hips, but they love good food even more,” she says and laughs.

But still, I miss my freedom. Traders pass by sometimes.

I sit with an arm around Thiyya’s neck and watch them with envy when they leave, their camels swaying them onwards to other places, other worlds from here.

I wonder whether Amalu, if he does become a trader, would take me with him and my cheeks grow a little flushed at the thought, though I am still unsure whether it is Amalu or the trading that brings colour to them.

***

He does not wait long to make his move. “ Lalla ?”

My aunt looks up from her work. “What do you want, Amalu?”

“May your niece accompany me to the ahal ?”

Aunt Tizemt stops her work on the stretched-out goatskin.

She is rubbing it with a thick butter to soften it.

She sits back on her heels and considers the young man.

Nearby, I sit very upright, pretending all innocence.

My hands keep moving, carding thick matted wool into soft clouds that drift down onto the carpet where I sit.

My ears, meanwhile, strain to catch every word that passes between them.

“How many are going?”

“Perhaps a dozen of us.”

“She has never been before. I doubt she would know what to do.”

“There are other girls there, Lalla . They can show her.”

“I’m sure. Show her how to dance and sing and show off in front of you boys.”

“I will take good care of her.”

My aunt laughs. “You will spend all your time making up poems in her honour and insults for all the other boys to make her think better of you and worse of them. I know your reputation as a fine crafter of words.”

He waits, casting quick looks at me from under his dark lashes.

Aunt Tizemt relents. “Oh, very well then. She must have some fun. I admit she has worked hard and learnt a great deal in a short time. Perhaps she had better learn some new skills from young people instead of a grumpy old woman like me.”

“Yes, Lalla .”

“Yes, what? I am a grumpy old woman?”

He shakes his head at having fallen into her trap and makes his escape, winking at me as he flees. Aunt Tizemt laughs to herself and turns her attention back to the skin. After a few moments’ work she speaks to me over her shoulder.

“Tonight, you may go to the ahal . It is in the small oasis half an hour from here. Nothing there but oleanders and palm trees, but I am told the oleander flowers are out now – every colour you can imagine. Don’t drink the water there though, the oleander poison may have tainted the water.

Take a waterbag. And you can take my amzad with you if you wish.

About time you learnt to play it. I have too many other things to be teaching you. Someone else can be your teacher.”

I want to know more. “I have never been to the ahal . What happens there?”

Tizemt sighs. “You have missed out. I spent all my evenings there when I was a young girl. I was a very fine dancer. I know you think I have thick ankles and wide hips, but my sturdy ankles kept me dancing long after the other girls had tired – and then the boys had only me left to look at.” She chuckles to herself, remembering her youth.

“The ahal is a place close to the main camp, chosen for its charm, where young men and young women can meet, talk, joke. The boys will make up all sorts of insults for each other and recite love poems to you girls. You girls will play music, sing, dance. About time you learnt to dance as well. Can you sing? I have never heard you sing at your work.”

I make a disbelieving face. “What is there to sing about?”

She reaches over and slaps at my ankles. “Stubborn girl. Well, you will start learning tonight. That Amalu cannot wait to recite his love poems to you after all your chattering about your travels around half the world. And the girls will show you how to dance and play the amzad .”

I hurry inside the tent and come out holding the single-stringed instrument. “How do you play it?”

She waves me away. “Go, go. Better to learn such things from your friends than your elderly relatives. I could not repeat the bawdy songs without making you blush.” She grins and returns to her goatskin, growing soft under her strong hands.

***