A splash of water arced gracefully in the air and struck the earth at Sareh’s feet.
Children with ladles and small cans of water laughed riotously.
Cognizant of the power they had been given that day.
“Ugh, you kids always lose your minds with that!” Sareh complained.
“We were like them too once, hayati.” Baran said, softly and with a smile on her face.
Hearing such a strong term of endearment, even Sareh could not be gloomy anymore.
So empowered, the children ran throughout the festival grounds, scooping water from their cans using the ladles they had been given, and sending splashes of water hurtling at any adult in the vicinity. Casting these bolts like the arrows loosed by the Mahdi himself in the stories; but also paying respect to the lifegiving water and reminding the festivalgoers of the long lost rain of the surface. For the children this was just a fun game that they played, but it was one of the cornerstones of Tishtar, a festival of water, of survival, of heroes. The great heroes of the Shimii, the companions that bore the Shimii to the sea with the surface in its death throes. They were the reason that Mehmed, Nasser the Elder, and Radu the Marzban and others bore the title of “hero” to their respective followers.
The Rashidun Kingdom, the “rightly guided” era, was ancient history.
The Time of Ignorance, when humanity brushed with extinction, faded entirely.
The fire of the Age of Heroes, when Shimii warred for clashing ideals, had sputtered out.
Now was the time without name when the next era would be forged by their decisions.
It was perhaps the darkest era in history to be a Shimii–
But on Tishtar, the children splashing the water still smiled for the future.
That dire texture of the great weight of their history that could not be said to them, was communicated in the nature of their play. On Tishtar they splashed water, they listened to songs, they ate and played and were led in prayer by the adults around them. Baran and Sareh were once those children running around, carrying on the history of their people. Now it was their turn to watch, to be splashed by water, and to mourn with the adults.
“It’s a bit different looking at it now that I have to supervise.” Sareh said, sighing.
“We don’t have to be so strict today.” Baran said. “Let them have fun. Within reason.”
She reached out and took Sareh’s hands. “In fact, they should not be the only ones.”
“You want to splash water too?” Sareh asked, laughing.
Wearing a conspiratorial smile, Baran whispered.
“Sareh, will you swear a nikah mut’ah with me for today?” She said.
Sareh’s face turned a bit redder, she smiled, and held Baran’s hands tightly.
Tishtar swept through the Mahdist village like wave of light and energy.
Homa stood in the middle of the transformation almost in awe of the changes.
Colored streamers had been stretched on wires across the main thoroughfare of the village, from the old shops to the stage and to the stray light posts, criss-crossing colors hanging overhead. They were wrapped around the water barrels from which children refilled their green and blue pots to let loose projectiles from their little ladles. Amid the streamers and their wires the village no longer looked brown and dull in color but like a whirlwind of brightness that lifted the mood. Wider banners with moons and geometrical patterns accompanied the streamers, denoting the different areas of the village.
Most of the festivities orbited the front of the town. The Tazia monument on the stage had been put back together so well it almost constituted a miracle. Paint and putty had covered up the damage and made the plastic pieces looked as if they were always meant to be that way. In turn the new Tazia was much more colorful than the initial one by necessity. Like a green and blue and purple house set up on the stage for an equally colorful person to step into or out. It almost perfectly matched the colored partial veils the aunties wore.
It was easy to forget it was meant to bring to mind the grave of a beloved religious figure.
Tables had been set up along the thoroughfare with a variety of snacks and drinks as well as the means to prepare more. Each station had been equipped with an auntie whose powerful stare cowed the children from splashing water on the food and drink made ready for the festival. Homa made an immediate beeline for a station from which smoke, aroma and licks of flame arose. One of the aunties prepared long metal sticks covered in meat which glazed in its own fat as it cooked. Homa watched with such a longing stare that a smiling auntie immediately gave her the first morsel of the day without asking her.
“Here you go! First of many, I hope!” the auntie said.
Homa nodded her head quietly and bit into the kebab.
Her ears flapped, her tiny tail fluttered, and she shut her eyes with pleasure.
Delicately spiced and incredibly savory flavor made her cheeks contract.
A splash of water fell just short of her feet– followed by two more, none striking her.
Homa looked up at the children laughing and running away.
They must have been instructed not to strike her directly.
While every child had a pot and ladle for splashing water, there were other peaceful pursuits for those that got tired out or were uninterested in running around. There were children blowing up balloons, and the smaller children hung around the aunties and listened to stories. A few were given small wind instruments which they tried to play– it was annoying but rather cute. Homa certainly preferred it to being splashed with water. She spotted a few other children engaging in handicrafts. They were given disposable sheets of corn plastic or stone paper, which they cut up into stars and moons and other shapes. Some of the more ambitious kids tried to make the Tazia in miniature using cut pieces and glue and coloring it with paints. They compared each other and loudly debated the merits of certain colors– almost all agreeing the Tazia should be more purple than it was now.
Homa wondered whether she had been so boisterous and silly as a little kid.
Her memories of her childhood were incredibly fragmentary.
Perhaps if something so beautiful had actually happened to her– she would remember it.
Most of the adults not directly participating in the festival watched the children play while eating and chatting, exchanging small gifts, and reciting copious dua’s for friends and neighbors. While there were a few activities planned — including at some point whatever event would coincide with Kalika’s big dance — much of the festival was just unstructured time for the villagers to relax, eat good food and meet with their neighbors. As such there was not so much spectacle and whimsy as there was warmth and companionship.
As Homa explored she felt a bit strange about the festival– though not in a bad way.
Homa did not have high expectations for what kind of festival the poor villagers could put on. Even with the intercession of Kamma supplying them with food, that only meant there would be a feast at the end or snacks throughout. In Homa’s imaginary, festivals had games and musical events and toys and they were grand sprawling affairs. However, walking the main thoroughfare of the Mahdist village, she felt that what they lacked in spectacle they made up for with friendliness. Seeing so many close-knit people out on the street sharing the moment, faces that would have been invisible to her in any other place but that she was just barely starting to recognize during her stay in the village– it had a certain magic all its own. She almost felt like she was a part of everything– almost, but not entirely so.
In the back of her mind, she still felt like a stranger observing something from afar.
However, seeing the kids running around splashing people and houses, the older folk sitting down having kebabs and glazed figs, the auntie with the long flute leading a few kids with smaller flutes in an ensemble that almost sounded harmonious, hearing recitation of long song-like prayers and the aroma of flowers and sweets and sizzling meat– Homa felt like she was, if not a part of something, at least in the middle of something. Not entirely apart from it, not an invisible body in a crowd, not a lonely figure amid the living of lives. Yes, she did not let herself believe she was one of the villagers, but she was present.
They could see her; she saw them too. She was not lost in a crowd.
And it brought a smile to her face. She let herself be swept up into the fun.
Back in Kreuzung, Homa would have fled from something like this, from the gazes. She would have felt judged by the people around her, like she had something to live up to that she had failed to achieve. She would have welcomed disappearing in a crowd. But it was different in the Mahdist village. Nobody who looked at her seemed to demand anything from her. Nobody whose gaze she crossed had anything other than a smile for her even if they said nothing at all. They were approachable even when they were not approaching. In that way, she felt included by virtue of a lack of exclusion. Maybe it was all just in her head–
But if it was a change in her, then she was glad for the transformation.
“Homa! Over here! How are you liking the festival so far?”
When Homa wandered closer to the stage, she met with Baran and Sareh.
“I had a really good kebab.” Homa said. “And my feet are getting soaked.”
She tried to smile.
Baran and Sareh had a laugh and patted her on the shoulders.
Both of them were dressed up for the festival. Sareh had worn a coat and pants that looked almost brand new, dark blue and brown, working well with the rich dark shade of her own skin. Her dark, long hair was tied up into a ponytail with slightly messy bangs that made her look rather dashing but still wild and a bit unruly. Baran meanwhile looked radiant, wearing a long, bright blue dress with a dark blue part-veil decorated with gold stars, accentuating the otherwise subdued redness of her hair. She looked like a pleasantly, formally girlish beauty, a lovely counterpart to Sareh’s somewhat casual tomboy handsomeness.
Though she was starting to heal up, Baran retained her cane for the day.
“You know– I thought you two would be really busy today.” Homa said, smiling.
“We’ve already prepared everything we had to and planned all of the rest.” Baran said.
“We worked hard these past few days so we could enjoy the moment now.” Sareh said.
Homa looked fondly at them, and her tail fluttered a bit with embarrassment–
“Well– I’m happy to have some company. I am sad to admit I only really know you two.”
She did not even know the name of the auntie making the kebabs she had eaten.
“It’s okay, Homa. We’re your friends and hosts. We’ll help you have fun!” Baran said.
“I already figured if we left you alone, you would end up moping somewhere.” Sareh said.
“You have that little confidence in me?!” Homa replied, only somewhat offended.
She was mainly playing along and all three of them shared a bit of a chuckle.
“Speaking of what people you know and don’t–” Sareh began, glancing at Baran.
“You are forbidden from seeing Kalika until her big moment.” Baran said mischievously.
“So is she going to miss out on the festival?” Homa asked.
“She’s coming out in a few hours, it’s fine. She’ll get to have plenty of fun.” Sareh said.
“Until we can hand you off to her, we’ll be borrowing you.” Baran said.
“I’m not some toy for you.” Homa said with mock consternation.
Baran and Sareh laughed again and led Homa away by the shoulder.
They walked back the way Homa had come, retracing her steps through the thoroughfare. Taking their time so Baran could keep up with her cane. When she was with Baran and Sareh her festival took on a new character altogether, as everyone loved the two of them and would invite them to try a snack, or hold hands with them, or pray for their health and safety. Children would spray water at their feet and avoid splashing anyone with them perhaps for fear of collateral splashing on the two. They were quite special to the villagers and given how much they worried and worked on the village, Homa thought they deserved it.
Particularly, as Homa walked with them, it became clearer to her that there was nobody in the village that was Baran and Sareh’s age. There were young teenage girls, small girls and boys, and there were the older aunties and elderly folk– but no younger adults other than the two of them. That made them a unique sight among all of the village folk.
“We told them not to splash you. We didn’t know if you’d be bothered by it.” Baran said.
“It would annoy me, to be honest– but I am glad they are having fun.” Homa said.
“As adults, we should let the kids have a little bit of leeway, like how we got.” Sareh said.
“Don’t pretend like you aren’t annoyed with them also.” Baran said, grinning at Sareh.
“I’m trying to set a good example for Homa.” Sareh said, averting her gaze slightly.
“I’m exactly your age, I don’t need your example.” Homa grumbled. Baran laughed.
“I know, I know!” Sareh said, laughing too. “I’m just too used to taking care of kids.”
“You’ve gotten much better at it. You’d make a good parent now Sareh.” Baran said.
Homa looked at the two of them and felt even more of their lovey-dovey energy than usual.
She said nothing about it– despite appearances they probably weren’t out to the village.
Even for Mahdists she had to assume their relationship was something private for them.
While they were walking, Homa recalled the short explanation Sareh had given her for Tishtar. She grew more curious as they went about, seeing the villagers enjoying the day.
“Can you tell me more about the story of Tishtar?” Homa asked.
Her tone of voice lowered to a bashful whisper.
“I know you mentioned that it has to do with Ali Ibn Al-Wahran. I– I grew up in a kinda secular household, so I was never told a lot about the old stories. I picked up some thing from people here and there– random visits to the masjid when my uh– guardian felt like it.” Even calling Leija her mother in passing felt somewhat wrong, so she avoided using the word.
“We understand, you don’t have to be ashamed, Homa.” Baran said.
“Yeah, we’re not about to start judging you now for something like that.” Sareh said. She looked at Baran. “Which of us should speak? And how far back do we go?”
“I can start and we can trade off every so often.” Baran said. “Homa, we Shimii, like everyone else, came from the surface world. On the surface, the stories tell that our people went through horrible times. Our culture was dying, our religion was twisted, our people leaderless. Many of our kin were killed in wars, against others and among ourselves, and the other peoples of the surface finally left us for dead when the calamity started ravaging the land. But then the Mahdi revealed himself, and gathered his companions and united the remaining Shimii. The heroes brought our kin to the sea to survive the catastrophe.”
Baran looked to Sareh expectantly. Sareh’s ears stood on end, as did her tail.
“You really think I would forget? Homa, their names were Ali Ibn Al-Wahran, Shirin Dilaram, Faiyad Ayari, Banu Emiroğlu, and Mu’awiya Ibn al-Assad.” Sareh said, rattling off the names quickly– she did know them by memory. “Out of all of them, of course, Ali is now known as the legendary Mahdi, kind-hearted and strong, and Shirin was his closest companion, who helped sway the people with her words; but all of them together pooled their strengths and journeyed underwater. They led people to a mountain– a lot of people think that Khaybar in the modern day is where that mountain was. In the stories it was a mountain that formed in the ocean when a destructive serpent sunk a chunk of the surface world.”
That was a wild detail– Homa had never heard about the mountain or the serpent.
“Blessed Ali and Shirin were very important, yes– but each companion played a part.” Baran said. She seemed both amused by the way Sareh told the story but also spoke in a tone as if correcting her embellishment. “Ali split the ocean, and Shirin returned the faith to the people so that they believed in him as the Mahdi and followed him, despite their concerns. Mu’awiya carved out a city in the mountain, and Banu separated the salt from the water so the people could drink and use it to grow food. Faiyad gave them air to breathe, and he and Ali together spread warmth through the mountain kingdom that was naturally cold.”
“The Ummah were saved, hooray!” Sareh said, with a bit of a mocking tone to it that Baran did not seem to appreciate but let go with just a sigh. “However, Tishtar is not just the story of the journey into the ocean. Part of is it also mourning what we lost. We put up streamers and colored stuff overhead to remind us of the light and sky of the surface that we lost. We splash water to remember the ancient rain. But also– we build the Tazia to remember and mourn the death of Ali. We place much more importance on the Mahdi than others do.”
“Here is where old stories will differ the most, Homa.” Baran said. “Rashidun believe that all of the companions were divinely inspired and infallible people. They believe the second king of the Shimii, Mua’wiya, had an obvious, legitimate claim over the Shimii kingdom in antiquity. They emphasize the continuing legacy of the companions rather than any particular moment of miracle-making. They don’t celebrate Tishtar or any festival of mourning like we do. They have nothing to mourn. However, Mahdists tell the story of the Shimii founding quite differently– our ancestors did not simply accept the passing of the Mahdi, nor that his successors are Mua’wiya and Faiyad. The Mahdi is uniquely special to us– we celebrate his incredible miracle as the defining moment of our history. Because of that, we believe the Mahdi, Ali, was paramount– and thus we believe that the Rashidun took illegitimate control over the ummah. The story of the betrayal varies with the telling– in our village it is said that Ali, blessed be he, sailed from the mountain to protect the kingdom and was betrayed by Mu’awiya and Faiyad, coveting power over the early ummah.”
Sareh seemed to become more stern and serious as they reached the darker stories.
“Mu’awiya was accepted by the Shimii that became the Rashidun, who valued stability and continuity and got to write the canon. While Mahdists valued the miracle of Ali the Mahdi and thus insisted on his centrality in our faith. Mu’awiya brought the Shimii some stability, but he laid the foundations of the Time of Ignorance where our people killed each other in power struggles again and the Imbrians took over everything.” Sareh said. “Regardless of the details all Mahdists object to the death of Ali, Homa– Mahdists are the descendants of the historical mourners of Ali the Mahdi, who sought answers and retribution for his death. We survived persecution– Banu, the last companion, who represented the waters, spirited us away to save us. So– that is why Tishtar, the festival of water, is important.”
Homa looked at Baran and Sareh, as they walked and talked, with a heavy heart.
She tried to hide how upset hearing that story had made her.
She had wanted to know, and she asked, and she listened– and it was upsetting. Upset– because all of this violence, the blood feuds, all of this hate, was fomented by some ancient stories she did not even know she could believe. For all she knew, none of these characters might have even existed. But their names and stories were now an indelible part of the reason why her people were torn asunder. She did not want to accept that. It was even more painful to her than when the reason for the Mahdist and Rashidun sectarianism was in her mind just a vague difference of “religion.” Knowing the details only made it worse. Ali and Mu’awiya– why fight over this? All of the Rashidun even agreed that Ali was the great Mahdi and respected him– so then, why–? Why did they persecute his staunchest followers?
“Rashidun interpret the companions differently than us. We each have our own accounts and the Rashidun focus away from the descent story and from the miracles. Our folklore is why the Rashidun call us illusionists and idolaters.” Sareh said. “When I came of age, I began to think the Rashidun might actually be afraid of those stories because if the mountain kingdom is actually Khaybar, then the Mahdist Khaybari clan took that land in their blood feud against Nasser the Elder and could lay claim to a Mahdist Caliphate someday.”
Within that dizzying mixture of modern geopolitics and ancient myth, a word stood out–
Nasser.
She suppressed the anger that had immediately begun to stir in her heart.
Even more prudent– that mention of Khaybar piqued her interest.
“I thought Khaybar was just– full of pirates or something.” Homa asked.
She learned that particular detail from Kalika. The Volksarmee had intelligence on this.
However, they did not place the same importance that Sareh did.
“They are only pirates because they have no other means, Homa.” Baran said.
Her tone of voice sounded stern. Homa raised her hands defensively, heart pounding.
“I’m sorry, I completely understand, believe me– I wasn’t judging them.” She said.
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Sareh said, patting Baran’s shoulder. “Sorry all of this got so heavy.”
“I know you’re a good person Homa. I’m– I’m just being oversensitive.” Baran said.
She smiled, but her gaze still looked heavy, as if it had seen years more worth of pain.
There was probably no way to talk about Shimii history that wasn’t sensitive and heavy.
Hated on the surface and left to die; fighting among themselves; under the yoke of the Imbrians; thinking about it all Homa had an intrusive and cruel thought appear in her mind. It was unbidden and she pushed it aside and tried not to acknowledge it. But for an instant, she thought that the Shimii were a hopeless people whom all hated, and none would save.
Not even themselves.
Her heart was already doing some of the mourning associated with Tishtar.
“The real miracle of Tishtar is that the little kids can smile through all this.” Sareh said.
Trying still to pick up Baran’s mood– this comment did finally make her smile more.
She also shed a tear as she did so– and wiped it off.
Around them, the children continued to be rambunctious and throw water on folks.
Everyone stricken by such a bolt, however, simply smiled and laughed about it.
It was as if the children and their running about became part of the lifeblood of the festival.
Homa felt like she wanted to outrun the choking past, like a frolicking child.
However– it was sadly just not her place to do so.
“So– what do we do for fun? Until Kalika’s big moment?” Homa asked, a bit awkwardly.
Baran and Sareh glanced at each other, back at Homa, and smiled.
“We have a few ideas. First– we think you should look special for the occasion.”
Sareh gestured toward Baran’s house, which they had been moving toward.
Homa narrowed her eyes at them.
She was wearing her brown coat and button-down shirt and blue worker’s pants still. She had not been able to change, but she had washed up every day, and she had been careful not to get them too dirty. They represented a weird bit of stability that she still had in her times in the village– so she was a bit hesitant to take them off for no apparent reason.
When they arrived at Baran’s house, she was given a reason not to want them off.
“No way.” Homa said. “You shouldn’t have– because I’m not–”
Smiling, Baran picked up what looked like stray cloth on her living room table.
It was not stray cloth, however. It was a beautiful hand-sewn dress, long and colorful.
“On Tishtar everyone wears their best clothes. We wanted you to have nice clothes too.”
Baran seemingly ignored Homa’s stammering and hesitant attempts to form words.
She waved the dress in front of Homa as if she was urging a child, mischief on her lips.
“C’mon, Homa, no reason to be embarrassed. I am sure you will look fantastic in that.” Sareh said. “You are in a remote village where no one knows you! Nobody can judge you! It’s a chance to try something new! We both saw how you reacted when we talked about Kalika’s dress and all that. Will you really give up a chance to be prettied up for Tishtar?”
“Why don’t you also wear a dress?” Homa said, in a more accusing tone than intended.
Sareh crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “It’s not my style.”
“Homa, I worked really hard on it– but it’s okay. I can make Sareh wear it.” Baran said.
“Hmm?” Sareh glanced at Baran, who stared at her with continued, unbroken mischief.
Grumbling, Homa looked at the dress in Baran’s hands more closely.
Baran was definitely skilled– it was a long-sleeved dress blue up top with a brown center that bore a geometric yellow pattern over it and an intermittently blue and green skirt all the way to the ankles. It might have looked gaudy, but the colors of the fabric were somewhat muted, such that everything worked together in a strangely earthy way. All of the seams and stitches were made with precision and the garment flowed well as one piece with a flattering cut. Homa narrowed her eyes and felt both her resistance begin to fade but her consternation continue to increase. She did not want to appear ungrateful to her hosts, especially not on the big festival day– but she was deeply embarrassed.
It was a beautiful dress– and Homa deeply wanted to be viewed as a girl too–
Recalling how she felt about the prospect of wearing one of Leija’s costumes–
It was embarrassing, it was so embarrassing to even think about–
Despite herself it was indeed an opportunity that she could not pass!
And besides, Sareh was right, nobody in the village knew her enough to laugh at it.
Folding her ears and fluttering her tail Homa sighed deeply and deflated in front of Baran.
“Fine.” She said, her shoulders slouching. “Fine. I’ll wear it. Please get out while I change.”
Nodding rapidly, Baran took Sareh’s hand and with a gleeful skip, pulled her outside.
Homa looked down at the dress she had been left, sighed, and began to undress herself.
A few minutes later, she peeked outside of Baran’s door curtain, her face feeling hot.
Just outside the door, Baran had her hands together and a euphoric look on her face.
Sareh stood beside her with a little grin and her arms crossed.
For a moment, Homa felt that those two were far too gleeful about all of this.
When she stepped out, the two of them cheered and held each other’s hands and laughed.
Their tails entwined, so delighted were they at the predicament they led Homa into.
“Mashallah! You look stunning Homa!” Baran said. “You are a true mother’s daughter!”
What was that supposed to mean?! Was it some Mahdist saying that didn’t parse?!
“You look so good you might miraculously walk out of here with a husband!” Sareh said.
And what was that supposed to mean?! Especially coming from Sareh of all people?!
Both of them stepped forward and patted Homa on the head and shoulders.
Homa, in her long-sleeved, long-skirted, blue and green and brown dress– felt exposed.
Not only did the fabric of the dress feel a bit thin, but it also felt a bit tight in the chest.
Had her breasts grown since she last took notice? Could people see them under the top?
“It works well with the ponytail too.” Baran said. “Or would you like me to do your hair?”
“No, this is quite enough.” Homa said, looking down at the ground. “Thank you.”
“Aww, don’t hide your face!” Sareh said. “We’re not bullying you, you’re really pretty!”
“I can furnish you with a matching partial hijab if you would like.” Baran said cheerfully.
“No, no,” Homa said, sighing and lifting her eyes from the ground. “It’s– it’s fine.”
Baran and Sareh glanced at each other again and smiled together at their handiwork.
“Now you are truly experiencing Tishtar!” Baran said, clapping her hands.
Each of them took one of Homa’s hands and led her back toward the village fore.
Sure enough, nobody said a thing– but the aunties were looking.
While they had been away, on the stage, a small ensemble had formed that was putting on a show for the rest of their neighbors. There was a quite older gentleman with a string instrument, and a middle aged woman who was singing. They were singing in Low Imbrian rather than Fusha, so it was actually possible for Homa to understand it– the song they had walked into when they reached stage was about a woman who while struggling to feed her children in a time of famine, was provided with everything needed by God, and day by day she held onto hope and gave thanks until the tribulations were behind her.
Homa almost wanted to ask if they could play something a bit cheerier.
But when she looked around nobody seemed to be treating it like a sad song.
Baran was even singing a long a bit– and tapping her foot, tenderly, minding her injury.
The woman’s voice was so sweet and the man’s strings so skilled that all the aunties seemed to be clapping and singing along and in good spirits, almost drowning out the stage. It must have been a classic. The next song was about a warrior fighting a hundred men to a standstill and being martyred and the mood did not once dampen. Homa began to get used to letting the content of the lyrics slide off her brain and just tried to enjoy the mood.
“Everyone’s gathering in front of the village, so it’s my time to shine. Come on, Homa!”
Sareh led Homa over to a little table that had set up next to the stage.
Baran followed the two of them with a small smile, occasionally looking back at the stage.
Perhaps wistful about not being able to perform as she originally desired due to her injury.
She seemed to not be letting it get to her– she sat down across from Sareh.
There was an area off to the side of the stage that had been prepared for the festivities.
Aside from their table, there was space for the eventual feast too.
However, Sareh had set up this table with a very specific purpose in mind.
“Are you going to give me one too?” Baran asked.
“Of course, of course.” Sareh said.
She pulled out something from under the table– a series of small sealed basins and containers, and some strange little picks. When Sareh popped the lid off one of the containers, there was a reddish-brown substance. To demonstrate, she drew Homa’s attention to it, dipped the pick in it, and gently took Baran’s outstretched arm with her other hand. She laid a small flower-like pattern starting from Baran’s fingertip to her knuckle– it was a mehndi, a temporary tattoo. Homa had seen newlywed girls wearing it on their hands before. She followed Sareh’s fingertips as she very carefully painted on Baran’s hand.
“See? I run a mehndi table every time we can have a Tishtar.” Sareh said.
“She’s very good at it. And these days the dyes are safe.” Baran said, showing off the mehndi.
Starting from her index finger, Sareh had drawn an intricate web of flowers that fit Baran’s hand like a thin, sheer glove. Spreading down the rest of her fingers, over the knuckle, to the wrist. It took her just a few minutes to get it done. Homa was quite surprised. She had always thought of Sareh as a blunt sort of person and did not conceive of her having the patience for handicrafts. Of course, she would not say such a thing to her.
Instead she smiled with wonderment at the body art.
“I already knew what kind of pattern Baran likes– but what would you like, Homa?”
Sareh held up her pick and seemed to gesture as if over Homa’s arm.
Homa almost brought up her gloved, mechanical hand– which would have been useless.
She had gotten so used to it by now that she forgot sometimes about its deficiencies.
Sareh would not have been able to paint over such a thing– probably.
“Um.” Homa looked down at the table. “One of my arms– it’s– it’s actually a prosthetic.”
Even as she spoke– she felt her voice strain to form the shameful words.
“Is the metal just plain colored? Or is it black or something? I should be able to paint on it– I got a bunch of differently colored engineered dyes we can use for it. If not I can just paint on your other arm, it’s fine. It’s not weird to get only one arm done.” Sareh said reassuringly.
Homa thought she was dropping a grenade– but neither she nor Baran seemed to care.
They did not judge her for having lost an arm or had any sort of reaction to it.
“Let her try, Homa. Trust me, she’s quite crafty when it comes to mehndi.” Baran said.
“You’ll have to take your gloves off obviously.” Sareh said, jabbing the pick in the air.
Homa looked down at her hands.
Using her biological hand she pulled the glove off of her prosthetic hand. She showed Sareh what it was like– its black metal sheen, the visible articulation of the mechanical digits. Her eyes averted from it and from Sareh’s face. She felt a certain shame to be exposing it to others, she felt that it was unsightly and that it might shock people to see it–
Such a thing could not possibly be beautiful– nor be made beautiful–
“Oh, that’s not a problem! I can use a green dye or a redder dye– it’ll be visible.”
Because Homa could not feel with her prosthetic, it took her a moment to see that Sareh had taken hold of her hand. She spread the digits and dipped her pick in a second basin which had green dye– and drew upon one of Homa’s metal digits a green flower pattern that was a little thicker than that which she drew on Baran’s hand and had a tighter weave.
With her pick she gestured for Homa to look at her work.
The green die contrasted the black metal well and was indeed quite visible.
“What do you think? Should I keep going?” Sareh asked, smiling gently.
Looking at the sight of her metallic arm being decorated so kindly made Homa tear up.
“Oh no, I’m sorry.” Sareh said. “I shouldn’t have insisted–”
“No, no,” Homa said, wiping her tears with her free hand, “it’s okay. I’m happy.”
Sareh looked at her for a moment and sighed with relief. “Should I keep going then?”
“Please do.” Homa said.
Baren smiled at the two of them, watching Sareh’s pattern spread across Homa’s prosthetic.
Her pick glided as easily over the metal as it did on Homa’s flesh, weaving beauty.
Soon Homa had matching mehndi on both of her hands, vividly green floral patterns.
Looking at them together– it was the first time she had thought of them as her hands.
Not as a remnant of her body and a mismatched intrusion– just her two hands.
Capable of comfort and beauty and love and warmth– her natural hands.
“It’s really pretty Sareh. I really like this. Thank you so much.” Homa said.
Sareh smiled and nodded, clearly proud of her handiwork.
“Great!” She said. “Homa, just remember you’re part of the festival today. All of you is.”
Baran nodded in acknowledgment. She reached out to touch Homa’s shoulder for comfort.
Homa wanted to cry again from all the unearned kindness she had received–
Instead, however, she smiled a vibrant smile– with a joy a long, long time coming.
After receiving her mehndi and once her emotions cooled, Homa left Sareh and Baran’s side momentarily. She wanted to see more of the snacks that had been arrayed in the kiosks and tables around the front of the village. When the children saw Homa’s mehndi, all of them hurried to Sareh’s table near the stage. They wanted to have one done just like Homa, and ceased to splash water, creating a small island of peace in the middle of Tishtar.
Smiling, Homa brought up her prosthetic hand to her face, to look at it as she walked.
She flexed the metallic skeletal digits adorned with bright green color.
This was the first time since the prosthetic was installed that it was not covered up.
That hand, those digits, held another kebab, and a glass of watery pomegranate juice, and a spoonful of sweet rice pudding, and the aunties serving the food saw it, and they commented on how pretty the mehndi was and knew immediately that Sareh had set up her table. They made no comment about it being a prosthetic. They wanted to get mehndi as well, but they were busy tending to all the snacks. Homa reassured them that surely they would be able to get some done later, the day was young. It was stress-free chit-chat.
At no point did anyone say anything about Homa that was anything less than flattering.
Her dress got more compliments than her prosthetic hand even got any attention.
“A dress from Baran and a mehndi from Sareh! How special indeed!” One auntie said.
“Those two are so talented. They esteem you a lot.” An old woman said, sitting on a porch.
“Homa, did you know?” Another auntie said. “Sareh learned the skill from her older sister– Allah praise her, she smiles down on us. But even as a small child Sareh was fantastic with the dye. If you want to make Sareh smile, Homa, be sure to praise her mehndi skills.”
“And tell Baran you love that dress! She will be so delighted!” A third auntie said.
“I already offered many compliments, don’t you worry! I was very impressed!” Homa said.
It was just a bit overwhelming when there was more than one auntie around.
“Very good. You are such a polite girl. I’m sure you will find your family someday.”
Homa smiled, a bit awkwardly, not wanting to say any more about that particular lie.
“By the way, not to be nosy or anything–”
Both ears folded, one of the aunties put on a strangely conspiratorial expression.
Homa braced for whatever comment might follow–
“–but I’ve seen you eating quite a few snacks. Save room for the feast later!”
“Ah, let her eat! She is so skinny! Homa you can have as many snacks as you want.”
“It is good for our village that a city girl like Homa loves our snacks. Eat more, Homa!”
For a moment the aunties had a spirited chat about the culture of eating at the festival.
Of course nobody mentioned any of the things Homa immediately stressed about.
Despite the warnings, the aunties did give Homa candied figs and sesame crackers.
In the middle of her snack journey, however–
There was a bit of friendly mortification now heading Homa’s way.
Word quickly traveled across the village that a small group of visitors had come for Tishtar.
At first Homa thought it was Rahima and she braced herself to put up with the fascist leader– but the reaction was a bit different. Because it was rare for people from outside the village to come to the festival, everyone got excited about the strangers visiting. Baran left Sareh’s mehndi table in order to welcome the new guests, and a Homa even more high-strung than usual left with her. Knowing who was likely waiting at the village gates, Homa felt her entire body brimming under the skin with tension and future embarrassment.
Sure enough, the small group that collected at the gates was mainly composed of–
“Homa! Look at you! You’re like a cute little doll! How wonderful!”
Khadija al-Shajara– with the tall, gloomy blond Sieglinde Castille at her side–
“Hey! Homa! Looking cute! I’m glad you’re loosening up a bit!”
Sameera al-Shahouh– accompanied by the shorter, gloomier Dominika Rybolovskaya–
“Ah– I’m not anyone you know– I just heard there was a festival. Call me Outis.”
And one stranger, Outis, a tall woman in a coat and pants with long, pale hair and shades.
Judging by the blue scales near her neck and her gray skin, she must have been a Katarran.
Homa stood with her gaze averted, feeling pointedly the presence of the dress once again.
She introduced the people she knew to Baran, with their names and a quick excuse–
“– these folks work on the ship that I rode in on. They’re good people.” Homa said.
Outis stood off to the side smiling. There was no one to vouch for her there.
However, Baran and the villagers seemed delighted to have even more company.
“Marhaba!” Baran said, meeting the group at the gates. “My name is Baran, I represent the villagers. We are holding Tishtar, an important festival. Homa’s friends are always welcome here– and we welcome any strangers who want to celebrate with us too! We made so much food just in case, so don’t be shy. Enjoy the music and hospitality! Just try to be sensitive about the kids running about– they will probably splash you with water.”
Everyone from the Brigand group had dressed up casually.
Due to the infiltration mission into Aachen the Brigand had invested in some common casual outfits to avoid their operatives wearing their uniforms everywhere. Khadija, blond-haired and sandy-skinned, wore a long light blue synthetic dress, while Sieglinde Castille, tall and blond and well-built, wore a long shirt and pants. Sameera had an outfit that was probably too casual for the village, with a tanktop and pants and her shoulders and arms bared, not exactly modest– but Baran seemed not to mind. Dominika, with her reedy red hair adorned with a few ribbons, had on black tights and a knee-length pink dress with a jacket over it. Again, not typically modest enough for a God-loving Shimii woman.
Homa had only briefly spoken to Sameera; and only knew Khadija as one of the terrors of the cafeteria, along with the cook Minardo, who loved to sit up at the front serving counter and endlessly tease and harangue whoever showed up that she deemed cute enough to bother. Despite this they all looked upon her in the dress with such bright wonderment, that she was curious what they thought they even knew about her to begin with.
Nevertheless, she treated them as more familiar friends than they actually were.
It would have been silly to equivocate such things in their situation.
“Please excuse any staring from my kin– they’re not used to city folk!” Baran said, while beckoning the party to cross the gate. “I assure you we welcome all guests.”
Homa felt initially responsible in some way for the visitors from the Pandora’s Box—
She thought that she might have to make herself something of a host to them–
Maybe keep them out of trouble–
However as soon as they went through the gate, Khadija and Sieglinde, and Sameera and Dominika, quickly fanned out away from herself and Baran and rushed to follow their own curiosities. Baran gently signaled to Homa to leave them be– and Homa thus found herself left with madame Outis, who looked upon everything with a distant curiosity.
“Madame, if I might ask, where did you hear about our festival?” Baran asked.
Outis smiled, adjusting her shaded sunglasses. “I had a rare day off and wanted to be far from my employer for a time. Some of the people out in the town implied that as an unsavory-looking character I should make my way to the bacchanalia transpiring here.”
Baran blanched slightly in the face–
“Oh dear, I’m sorry they gave you trouble.” Baran said. “But– also, we’re not–”
“Yes, I figured there was something more to it than that.” Outis winked. “It’s fine. I am easily amused, and I must admit, a bit sheltered also– I simply want to soak up the festive spirit.”
“Homa, perhaps you can show madame Outis around a bit?” Baran said.
“Ah– sure.” Homa hesitated at first before giving in to Baran’s pleading look.
“I have something I need to take care of.” Baran said. She turned to Outis. “There will be a stage act put on in the afternoon, with a folk dance. Then after that there will be a feast, and poetry and prayer. In the meantime, my friend Homa will be as gracious a host as I would be.”
Waving her hands, Baran sped off as quickly as she could while walking with a cane.
Homa wondered whether she was embarrassed by what Outis said, or actually busy.
Regardless, Homa was stuck with hosting duty– which was as fine as anything.
She was starting to run out of novel things to do around the village.
Guiding someone around the same places she had already seen would kill some time.
“Madame–”
“You can just call me Outis.”
The woman smiled, and Homa nodded her head. She gestured toward the village.
“Have you eaten anything recently? Honestly the snacks are the best part of the festival.”
Outis put a finger to her lips. “I had a bar ration a few hours ago– I wouldn’t mind food.”
“A bar ration? You’re living too small madame. Come with me!”
Homa smiled and tried to be affable as she led Outis toward the kiosks.
While Outis marveled at everything around them as if she had never seen so much color.
A pair of children with their ladles and pans full of water ran up to a couple of strangers. On top of the world as ever– Laughing, visibly proud to give new folks the traditional Tishtar welcome, the children dipped their ladles in their pans and prepared to splash– only to meet the eyes of the woman in the blue dress, her ears tall as possible, her tail straight up.
A gaze with such intensity and sternness, perhaps unlike any they had seen.
It paralyzed them, their little mouths agape at the sight.
This was not just any woman; they might have reasoned– this was a mighty auntie.
In the next instant, the children turned and ran pell-mell away from the pair.
Khadija al-Shajara looked almost proud; Sieglinde Castille beheld the children with pity.
“You’re supposed to let them splash you– that lady said it was part of it.” Sieglinde said.
“Absolutely not.” Khadija said. “After all the effort I spent on my hair and makeup? No!”
After word had gotten out of Homa’s little festival adventure, it was reasoned that some of the Shimii crew who had no other pressing business should be allowed to attend as well. This led Khadija al-Shajara to don her wine-colored eyeshadow and lipstick, dolling herself up in her best palettes, and to put on the flattering, long-sleeved, low hemmed, high-waisted dress that she had been given as a civilian “disguise.” Her golden hair and tail fur worked well with the gentle blue, and her long legs were covered with black tights.
She thought she looked ten years younger.
Khadija had a duty to surveil Sieglinde Castille, so she dragged her along, dressed in brown dress pants and a long-sleeved button-down. The tall and broad-shouldered woman got a taste of Khadija’s skills in makeup and hair dressing, though she resisted anything but the lightest dab of concealer and requested her hair be kept in a simple ponytail. Khadija of course gave her an earful for being so boring, but there was nothing to be done.
At least she looked handsome and made a good counterpart to Khadija– if she wasn’t going to stand out, she should at least be a good accessory and she accomplished this.
Arm in arm, the pair of them walked through the village, taking in the ambiance.
To everyone there, they must have looked almost like a touristy husband and wife pair.
One made up of two women, however.
“It looks like there’s nothing for you to drink here.” Sieglinde said, with a bit of a tone.
“Are you trying to be funny with me? Do you want me to kick your shin?” Khadija said.
“I’ve just never seen you enjoy yourself without involving alcohol.” Sieglinde said.
Her voice carried a note of annoyance or perhaps bitterness Khadija did not appreciate.
“You’re still sore about that? I can’t believe you. You had plenty of fun with it.”
Sieglinde sighed. “We should buy some kind of souvenir. We shouldn’t be cheap.”
Changing subject? Khadija would graciously allow it– to move off discussion of alcohol.
“What do you mean not being cheap?” Khadija asked, crossing her arms.
“Well– at the festivals I’ve been to, there’s always local handicrafts and such things.”
“You’re concerned with supporting the local economy?”
“I’m concerned with how we look. It looks bad to show up at a festival to buy nothing.”
Khadija wanted to say her brain was poisoned by capitalism–
But there was a kernel of what she said that rung true.
Not necessarily about buying things but about making use of the local hospitality.
Shimii did not throw festivals for things to go to waste and for people to ignore them.
What was ungracious for a guest was to ignore or reject the goods on offer by the host.
Money was not necessarily a part of it– nothing around them appeared to be for sale.
Khadija agreed silently that in all things, she should look as good as possible.
Not just physically, which was already granted– but also as a personable, a fine lady.
“Then let us be good guests and partake. I’ll show you I can have some dry, chaste fun.”
As much as she preferred wetter fun, Khadija felt nostalgic among the village Shimii.
They had set up different little tables and kiosks with food and handcrafts and little games.
There was a woman giving out bracelets, a young lady drawing mehndi–
“Oh! Could it be? Sieglinde, come here, this way!”
Her voice raised with delight, and she was awash in a wave of nostalgia.
Next to the mehndi lady sat the young woman who had met them at the gates. Smiling, she had tablet in front of her that was instantly recognizable to any Shimii– al-Kitab, the book, the collection of religious knowledge around which a Shimii structured their spiritual and aerthly life. On the other side of the table from the book there was a beautiful green and blue clay basin with water. There were people reading prayers elsewhere in the village, and the most religious people were visible at the masjid in prayer–
but that was clearly not the intention of that girl, Baran.
“Khadija–?”
Sieglinde looked surprised with her sudden enthusiasm.
For Khadija, this took her back to her own girlhood among her people.
Back before the Imbrians forced them to change their names– and then enslaved them.
“Young miss, are you perhaps offering counsel here?” Khadija asked.
“Offering counsel” was the most polite way to say what she meant in Low Imbrian. Rather, what Khadija intended to say by this was the act of Istikhaara. To the Rashidun, Istikhaara was specifically a prayer beseeching God for guidance in their aerthly affairs and it was as simple as that– to the Mahdists, Istikhaara could be used to derive a binary answer called a kheera drawn from the pages of the book of wisdom. Kheera could be either auspicious or terrible and were used to ease one’s doubts about a decision they wanted to make.
Like everything with Shimii, this was a contentious practice.
However, Khadija had always grown up around people who believed that it was not only possible to seek counsel from God in this way but that it was fine to do so for important matters and perhaps even for some trivial issues. God was infinite in his mercy and wisdom, after all. Therefore she was used to people indulging their curiosity in this ritual.
Seeing the young girl behind the table truly brought back memories.
Baran immediately smiled at Khadija. “I always do this on special occassions.”
“Um.” Sieglinde looked between Khadija and Baran helplessly. “What is it that you do?”
“It is a way to ease doubts about the future by seeking God’s counsel.” Khadija said.
“Like fortune telling? I thought Shimii forbade such things.” Sieglinde said.
“There’s some nuance you are missing.” Baran said, more sheepishly than before.
“You’ve probably only ever met Rashidun.” Khadija said. “We Mahdists are different.”
“I apologize for my ignorance.” Sieglinde said. “I would love to have my fortune told.”
Baran winced a bit, still smiling. “Please do not call it fortune telling.” She whispered.
Khadija realized she was using a different, more subservient tone of voice for Sieglinde.
She sighed a bit. Sieglinde was a tall, imperious blond woman, so it made sense.
Around here they had probably grown up feeling they had to show respect to Imbrians.
Even if only pragmatically-
“There’s an important specificity you don’t understand. Shut your ignorant mouth.”
Khadija responded harshly; Baran was a little surprised. She hoped it was demonstrative.
Sieglinde frowned and averted her gaze a bit but still remained by Khadija’s side.
Normally, the person who made a prognostication had to be someone of exceptional piety and respect, religiously pure, or at least viewed as such by others– because it was not worth it to seek a kheera from any random person, only from the most pious and clean. In this village, Baran seemed to be the person closest to that status, so it made sense why she was the one offering. Khadija watched, a deepening sense of nostalgia as Baran offered prayers, first a prayer for counsel, then a blessing on the companions, and finally prayers for ritual cleansing. While reciting this last prayer, she washed her hands in the basin, and then washed some of her face, careful not to smudge the bit of makeup she had worn.
Then, it was time for the kheera to be given.
Baran’s tablet was a small, cheap computer programmed only to render the texts of al-Kitab, more affordable than having a stone paper version of such an enormous book. It was grayscale and thin and flimsy-looking, just larger than someone’s pocket. However, hers had an additional function. Turning it over, she pressed a little button on the side, and the screen scrambled for a moment before displaying a randomly selected page from the book. Baran held her hand over the tablet to prevent anyone seeing the page before her.
She smiled at Khadija and held out her other hand.
“What are you seeking counsel in, madame? Is there something you are contemplating?”
Khadija put on a grin. “Should I pursue a romance?” She asked. Sieglinde averted her gaze.
Baran’s ears wiggled slightly with excitement. She must have liked to give such advice.
She removed her hand from the tablet to view the page that had come up.
“An auspicious result!” Baran said. “It will certainly take work, but you should pursue the relationship you seek. Try to accept the challenges that will follow, for Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala will reward you greatly for your faith if you become a devoted partner.”
“Fantastic.” Khadija said, clapping her hands together, her tail swaying gently.
Sieglinde glanced at the two of them with a bit of a pout. “Can I–?”
“Of course, madame!” Baran said. “God’s knowledge and mercy are infinite.”
Politely, this meant that even for a nonbelieving Imbrian she was willing to read a kheera.
Khadija stepped aside and gestured for Sieglinde to stand in front of Baran.
Sieglinde took her place and put on a bit more cheer than she had previously shown.
Baran pressed the button on the book, covered the tablet with her hand–
“What kind of counsel do you seek madame? Perhaps a financial decision?” Baran asked.
“I am also interested in romance.” Sieglinde said. Khadija narrowed her eyes at her.
Baran looked down at the book with her usual excitement, reading the page–
For a brief moment her eyes drew wide, and her smile became a bit crooked–
She rapidly put the book back down and–
Quite clearly put on an act for Sieglinde! Khadija could tell right away what this was!
“What do you know? It is an auspicious result! Um– your pursuit of courtship will be quite successful. You should make every effort! But um– be sure to live free of sin!”
Baran had an innocent expression, and Sieglinde smiled and seemed to accept the kheera.
However, Khadija was immediately aware that this must have been an awful result.
It was only because she was dealing with an Imbrian that Baran likely lied about the kheera.
She had probably dealt with ignorant Imbrians before who argued with any bad results.
Her reading of Sieglinde was wrong– Sieglinde was taciturn-looking, but a complete wimp.
Khadija was not about to defend or enlighten the woman stuck at her side.
“Hear that? You should confess to whoever it is already, you lunk!” Khadija said, patting Sieglinde’s shoulder with a big grin and trying to distract her from Baran.
Sieglinde laughed and averted her gaze with mild embarrassment.
Baran subtly reset the book a few times while continuing to smile nervously.
“You know, as much as you complain about my company, you look happy.”
Sameera smiled smugly with a glance at her partner.
“Hmph. Other people are just much more annoying. Don’t flatter yourself too much.”
Dominika launched her riposte with minimal grumbling.
When she heard about the festival from Khadija, Sameera also asked for permission to go– and Dominika easily accepted the invitation. Neither of them had been too actively engaged of late and both welcomed something to do. Sameera was more excited to see the Mahdist village than she allowed herself to express in her face and in her mannerisms. She was guarded– she felt a bit silly about her excitement, and conflicted about whether the villagers could tell that she was mixed race, perhaps not a real Shimii. Nevertheless, she trekked down to the Shimii Wohnbezirk alongside Dominika, and entered the Mahdist village.
They looked around, taking in the ambiance and the sounds of the village.
Sounds of gentle drums and strings, and singing from the stage; the chattering of the villagers, particularly all of the aunties and the laughing children; the percussion of the steps people took on the hard ground; the sizzle of cooked snacks and the cracks of gas fires lighting in the old stoves. The spicy, savory aroma of the snacks mixed with the earthy and sweet scent of burning bakhoor incense– particularly around the masjid and the stage.
“Feeling peckish at all?” Sameera asked.
“Hmm.” Dominika met her eyes but seemed reticent to say anything.
“Say no more.” Sameera joked and left her side momentarily.
Approaching one of the kiosks where an older woman was serving food.
She thought that she recognized the snack being made and thought she would get some.
“Two kebabs, please.” Sameera said. “How much will that be?”
The auntie behind the grill smiled, raised her tail and made a dismissive hand gesture.
“I don’t want money, I want you to eat, look at you, you’re too thin.”
Sameera did not quite agree, but she knew there was no arguing with the aunties.
Behind the auntie’s plastic stand, she had a grill with meat already cooking.
With a smile, she handed Sameera two particularly plump snacks.
These were close to the type of kebabs Sameera was used to from the Union’s Shimii– ground meat mixed with spices, that was formed around a stick into a uniform and vaguely cylindrical shape before cooking. In the Union, the “meat” was vegetable or pea proteins glazed with oil, but the texture of the shaped patties of ground-up protein was very similar to the kebab snacks in this village. In the Imbrium, the popularized version of the kebab consisted of discrete bits of meat that were individually skewered on the stick and then cooked. Sameera had not tried them those– because they looked too different.
These, though they were meat, reminded her of home.
She would just have to try them.
Returning to Dominika, she handed her one of the kebabs.
Dominika took it in hand and turned over the stick in her fingers, examining the snack.
“Don’t look it over too much, it’s rude.” Sameera whispered.
“It’s actual meat, isn’t it?” Dominika said.
“When in Roma, do as the Elves do.” Sameera said gently.
She lifted her snack as if a glass to cheer with and took a bite of her kebab.
Unsurprisingly it was quite delicious, with a tender texture and a slightly firm exterior, and incredibly savory. All of the spices lent the simple snack a complex, earthy taste with a mild piquancy that was stronger in flavor than that of the meat itself. Nice and juicy from glazing in its own fluids. She was surprised that the taste was not that far off the ground proteins they served in the Union, perhaps because of the strong flavor of the spice blend.
She smiled at Dominika as if prompting her to eat, and Dominika took a tentative bite.
After that first taste, she clearly paced herself so as not to be seen devouring the snack.
“It’s good.” Dominika said, and no more than that.
“I’m glad.” Sameera said, politely leaving what was unsaid, unacknowledged.
Dominika was looking gorgeous as always on that day.
Her style of dress always surprised Sameera because Dominika was usually so withdrawn and taciturn, but her casual looks were always a bit bolder than she imagined. Everyone had chosen an outfit to requisition when they arrived in Aachen. To avoid drawing too much attention to the Treasure Box uniform while scouting the core station. Dominika had chosen and received a little pink dress with thin straps, knee-length, hugging her thin and largely angular body. She accesorized with a pair of tights and a jacket that was starting to fall off her shoulders. If she cared about its precarity she did not show it.
Her ruddy-colored hair she always wore long and loose, playing host to little reed-like black and red bioluminscent strands interspersed within.
The dim light in the village prompted her photophores to glow just a bit.
Her eyes, too, with their pink irises and blue limbal rings– they glowed gently.
Beautiful– Sameera had to try not to keep staring at her too obviously.
Meanwhile, Sameera felt her own mode of dress was quite casual.
She preferred to wear tanktops and pants as much as Dominika seemed to prefer tiny little dresses rendered modest only with jackets. She particularly liked her shoulders and arms and thought the world deserved to see them. In her own way, she was probably being immodest– but she nevertheless went through the world wearing a handsome, conceited little grin and nobody had yet to wipe it off her face (save Dominika.)
If anyone had an issue with their appearance, nobody made it known.
Everyone seemed equally pleased to have any visitors from outside the village.
Perhaps this was also because they felt kindly disposed toward “Homa’s friends.”
Sameera would have to tease that kitten sometime about how popular she was here.
“Pfennig for your thoughts, Dominika?” Sameera asked.
She had seen Dominika looking off to the side at the small, dispersed throngs of villagers.
Dominika glanced at Sameera briefly and then lowered her gaze.
“Walking around this village reminds me of living in the ice frontier.” She said.
“Cold?” Sameera asked, searching for her gaze.
“Scarce.” Dominika replied, still unable to meet her eyes.
In her own terse way, she expressed everything she felt clearly.
The Union’s southeast abutted the planet’s vast southern ice region. To expand their living space, a dedicated fleet that combined military, engineering and mining ships and gear wound their way through the ice and made way for new stations and uncovered untapped resources. It might have seemed like an insane project compared to building stations in the other territories of the Union, but the ice redoubt was also insurance against the worst case scenario. In case Ferris, Lyser and Solstice fell to the Empire in battle– then just as the Kingdom of Volgia fought the Empire to a standstill at the Northern Ice Wall, Solstice hoped to do the same in the Southern one, preserving communism for the future.
Those who picked through the ice, who lived in the slowly built-up stations and in the glacier mining works and in the subsistence tunnels– people like Dominika lived rough out there. Sameera could imagine that Dominika might have lived in a place just like this for some time. A hole in the rock in which there was oxygen and plastic shelters and dim LED clusters overhead. Where there was soup and hard work and bitter cold and always more ice sheets to cut through. Supplies were tight, local production limited, and rationing harsh.
“But–” Dominika had more to say, after a moment of silence.
She spoke in a low voice, a bit conspiratorial, between themselves and away from the villagers. “In the ice frontier, the years I spent there, I could see things getting a little better, year by year. I saw more stations go up section by section, I saw tunnel redoubts spread out and get better and more machines. Mining works became safer, warmer. There was more food stockpiled and more food served. We got better weapons and tools. More and more people came in seeking the frontier life, coming out of their own accord.”
“It was similar in Lyser.” Sameera said, matching her tone. “People didn’t want to work in the agrispheres at first, it was tough and unsafe and there was a sense that people did it just because it had to get done. But Jayasankar went through huge efforts to make agrisphere life appealing, and now it has the reputation that it has. People love to go to work in the farm communities now– they are aspirational. The government put in the effort.”
“Do you understand what I mean, Sameera?” Dominika asked, meeting her eyes again.
“Yeah– how long has it been since these folks saw their livelihoods improve?”
“Right.” Dominika said. “And– are they here of their own accord?”
Both their troubled gazes met briefly and just as quickly seemed to break apart.
In light of the hardships here, Sameera’s concerns about her mixed race felt petty.
As happy as the people looked to be holding their festival in their little village–
This was a place where they had been cast out to and trapped by others.
And worse– they had no control over it and could do very little to make it better.
Thinking about that, she felt that Homa had been the best of them–
Helping out here while the two of them sat around on the ship wasting time.
Something caught Sameera’s eye, at the edge of her vision– Dominika shook her head.
“Don’t fall into that self-sacrificing streak of yours again.” She said.
“I’ll try not to.” She said. “Do you think these folks see me as a Shimii or a Loup?”
“Ask them.” Dominika said. “But don’t judge yourself or them before you do.”
Sameera grunted a bit. It was not so easy as this hard-headed Katarran thought!
However, she also couldn’t help but laugh a bit at how blunt Dominika was.
Dominika watched her break out into unveiled laughter and grinned a little herself.
They wandered back over to the stage, besides which most of the village and the festival events seemed to be arranged. There was an enormous table being prepared that Sameera presumed was for the feast, and beside it there were tables occupied by seemingly popular figures in the village. There was the girl who met them at the gates, who seemed to be getting the most attention by far, including from Khadija and Sieglinde; and there was another girl on the table beside her who was responsible for the mehndi on the arms of seemingly everyone around them. All of the kids running around had mehndi now.
Sameera had a brief of fancy of getting one, but she hesitated for a moment.
Dominika however had no hesitation and marched up to the table, pulling her jacket off one arm. As the one Katarran in the vicinity she really stuck out among the villagers.
But she clearly acted without any such reservations.
“Can I get some green flowers?” She asked, stretching out her arm to the lady at the table.
Sameera winced a bit, expecting the mehndi girl to be offended– but she laughed instead.
“Hah, I like the enthusiasm! Comin’ right up!”
And set to work immediately, taking out a fresh container of dye with which to work.
“My name is Sareh.” Said the mehndi artist. “What do you do for a living?”
She made some small talk while preparing the dye and throughout her careful work.
“I’m Dominika. I work as a deckhand on a ship.” Dominika said.
“Ah, I see, I see. Rough work but you get to see a lot of places– right?”
“Exactly. I live for the adventure.” Her voice was so painfully emotionless saying this.
“What kind of ship do you work on, if you can say?”
“Transport ship. Moving people and things on the cheap.”
“Do deckhands have to lift heavy stuff? Can you pick up a huge crate with one hand?”
“I might be able to do it because I’m a Katarran– but deckhands just clean and fix stuff.”
“You know Homa, right? I remember Baran saying she was there to introduce you.”
Sameera briefly worried Dominika would not have the cover story straight–
“She is one of our cherished clients. We have a professional relationship.”
–she should not have been worried; Dominika was a no-nonsense kind of gal after all.
It did surprise her how politely the surly Katarran kept up the chat with Sareh.
“There, let me know what you think! You can be as critical as you want!”
Sareh looked delighted with her handiwork, the flowers and vines across Dominika’s arm.
Dominika smiled, a rare, small smile. “It’s pretty. No criticism here.”
After a moment, Sameera approached, and Sareh seemed to immediately take notice.
“You’re with her right? You’ve got a warrior’s look to you! How about I put something cool and tough on your arm huh? I’ve been wanting to try out some new designs!”
Sareh’s ears wiggled a bit, and Sameera’s raised up, briefly stunned at the proposal.
“She’s–” Dominika hesitated for a moment. “Yes, we’re together.”
Sameera was even more surprised by that than by Sareh calling to her.
Given that acknowledgment, she could not afford to be shy now– she gave Sareh her arm.
“I’m with her, yeah. My name is Sameera. Feel free to give me anything.” She said.
Sareh grinned. “You won’t be disappointed.”
For Sameera’s earthy skin, Sareh turned to her lighter dye and began the design. Around the fingers, the design was thick with lines, but became more precise behind the knuckles. Sameera watched, quiet at first. In her heart she felt a bit disquieted, because at first Sareh was not making conversation like she did with Dominika. She focused on her art instead.
Sameera wondered if this reflected on herself at all–
that maybe Sareh did not want to talk to her–
because– she was–
“–sorry I’m so quiet, the start is important. Do you also work on a ship?” Sareh asked.
–what she was, apparently, was still too foolish.
“Yes, I’m a deckhand just like my companion here.” Sameera said, a bit relieved.
“Ah– then I take it you’re also working on ships in pursuit of adventure?”
“Adventure and the paycheck.” Sameera said, trying to sound confident again.
“Tell me something interesting about you! I love keeping little stories from travelers.”
Sameera smiled outwardly but hesitated as to what she would say.
Some petty and bitter part of her spoke first, and spoke her pervasive insecurities–
“I’m actually a Loup–” She fumbled her words and restated, “Half-Loup. Half-Shimii.”
She tried to keep her tail from moving while she spoke– what if it moved like a Loup tail?
Sareh did not even look up from the strokes of her pick. “That’s interesting!” She said.
For a moment, Sameera was a bit disarmed. She had not expected such a response.
“It can be a bit tough. I don’t know anyone else like me.” Sameera said.
“Yeah– I get it.” Sareh said. “Our cultures have all these reasons to separate people out, Mahdist and Rashidun, Shimii or not. But you know, Homa is part Imbrian, but to us, she’s our kin too. I’ve never had any reason to exclude her from anything. She’s one of us too. If you want to be our kin as well, we will never demand your parentage. And I’m sure there are Loup who will feel that way too. It’s just about finding people who aren’t up their own–”
“–language.” Baran interrupted and glanced at Sareh from the next table over.
“–if you’ve been listening, you should give some encouragement.” Sareh grumbled.
“Madame Sameera, there is no Shimii who is too little Shimii to be welcome here.”
Baran and Sareh both gave Sameera the same little smile before continuing their labors.
Sameera, meanwhile, struggled to hold her composure because she wanted to weep a bit.
Her tail did begin to wag just a bit.
“Have you ever used a Diver for anything, madame Sameera?” Sareh asked. “I know on some ships the sailors are certified. It’s a really silly fantasy, but I’ve always wanted to learn to pilot one even for grunt work. They look so cool in the videos and the posters.”
So casually shifting the conversation away– Sameera felt such a strange mix of emotions.
She felt more at home here than she had for a long time in many other places.
Sameera had been running away too much– but here, home somehow caught up to her.
“Ah, no, no Divers. Our company doesn’t own anything fancy.” She said.
“Maybe someday. Anyway–” Sareh said. She lifted her pick and gestured to the arm.
On the edges of her fingers and hand, intricate swirls like flames surrounded a design shaped like an intricate curved sword in a very intricate scabbeard on the back of her hand, extending into her arm. Mehndi usually had either very feminine or very whimsical designs, since they were initially meant to be worn by brides and by girls debuting or coming of age. Sareh’s predilections came through in the design, it was a bit gaudy and a bit silly.
Sameera loved it, however. She showed it off to Dominika, who smiled at her.
“You look undoubtedly like a real Shimii warrior now.” Dominika teased.
“Give me a break.” Sameera said.
But she was smiling so widely that she nearly wept.
“Incredible! It tastes so good! This is almost hedonistic!”
Homa stared at Outis, who was enjoying a kebab so very much.
Chewing loudly, making all manner of moaning sounds, it was almost indecent to behold. She was probably not putting on an act, but the sheer joy she seemed to derive from simply eating a kebab– it made Homa want to ruin her fun by saying it was just beef and spices. There was something a bit irritating about her reaction. However, Homa was entrusted to show her around the village and had to be careful what she said. She had to suppress her own petty and cynical responses lest she misrepresent the villagers.
“Homa, is it permissible to have another? May I indulge?” She clapped her hands together.
“I mean– I don’t see why not–?” Homa was quite confused at the sudden begging.
Outis grabbed two more kebabs from the amused auntie behind the kiosk.
She handed one to Homa and watched expectanctly for a moment as Homa took a bite.
As delicious as when she ate one in the morning–
However, what she was really looking forward to now was the feast being prepared.
And the dance that seemed soon at hand judging from the preparations on the stage.
Rose petals scattered across the wood, and colored banners and streamers went up.
Baran and Sareh had left the tables with their unique diversions– maybe to fetch Kalika.
“Will there be a different type of performance soon? I see they are decorating everything more ornately and I saw people carrying more instruments to the backstage. But I like the minimalist show they have right now. The woman on the stage singing with the musicians just sitting there behind her– it reminds me of the plays that Katarrans put on.”
Outis looked at the stage with a certain fondness in her eyes.
Homa was unsure of how to read her. Her clothes were not shabby, she had a good jacket that was clearly fitted for her, and decent pants, and her shades were a simple style, and did not look expensive, but they were not trash either. Everything about her seemed to slip through the cracks of Homa’s ability to read class. She claimed to have been subsisting on rations, but she was well-dressed, and comely. Her skin was fair, and she had lipstick and perhaps concealer on, maybe even eyeshadow under those shades– her features were sleek, attractive, she was well kept and physically fit, with good shoulders.
Like most Katarrans Homa had ever met, she was probably good for a fight.
But she also just looked like any tourist and sounded like a bit of a weirdo besides.
What she said interested Homa– she felt compelled to make conversation.
“You know– I was unaware Katarrans had such traditions.” Homa said.
Outis looked at her with a sudden amusement.
“Of course we do! How do you think that we entertain each other on long voyages with nothing afforded to us? Minimalist theater. Nothing but an object to stand on, and the power of the voice and imagination. Kōmōidía! Tragōidía! The legends of warlord and mercenary alike, transmitted from crew to crew– one aspires to be spoken of in such a way!”
Flamboyant gestures and flourishes accompanied her speech. She winked at Homa.
Homa wondered whether if Outis had been the teller of any such tales herself.
She had the energy for it, certainly.
However, it made sense– and it also helped Homa to relate to her more easily.
Even with all of the Katarrans she knew, she was still fighting the stereotypes she learned.
Outis wasn’t just “some Katarran”– she was Outis, a woman who seemed to love theater.
She could imagine her huddled up in an awful Katarran ship telling stories to pass the time.
Not too dissimilar to what many villagers likely got out of holding this Tishtar.
No matter where they were or who they were, human beings needed some diversions.
This was one of many things that tied all of them together.
“Maybe someday, I’ll have a chance to see someone tell a story like that.” Homa said.
“If you ever go astray and end up with some Katarrans, certainly!” Outis laughed.
Soon enough, as Outis had realized, the festivities reached their highest stage.
First, the Tazia was lifted off the stage using a kind of palanquin– Sareh returned for the purpose of helping to haul it, and Imam Al-Qoms also assisted, along with some of the bigger aunties. Homa realized then why there were worries about its structural integrity, but it held up to being lifted, and seemed to hold up to being hauled off the stage.
From the stage, the Tazia was to be carried to the masjid.
Along the way, everyone in the village got to touch it, to pray near it, to watch it go.
It moved through the center of a growing throng. Making its way down the street.
Many of the older women were deeply affected by its passing, openly weeping.
There were loud cries in Fusha, perhaps bits of prayer Homa did not understand.
Swept up by the emotions of the adults even the children stilled and cried at its passing.
Homa understood it to be a mausoleum in effigy– so they wept for their beloved hero, Ali.
Such was the outpouring of emotions that even Homa felt like weeping suddenly.
All of the crying rippled in her guts, and the world was suddenly flooded with color. Around everyone, the color was so intense, and they imparted the color upon the Tazia, their green and yellow and red and black cries collecting in the monument– and becoming a soft, gentle white as if cleansed within the structure, which glowed– Homa saw it glow right in front of her eyes– and that maelstrom of all of their emotions was like a song of its own–
But she blinked– and these images seemed to disappear suddenly–
And she found herself holding her necklace as she had become habituated to doing.
Once the Tazia was set down in front of the masjid, Homa heard a sudden glee–
Moving like a wave from the people closest to the stage to the ones farthest.
They gestured with delight in what they saw– they prompted Homa to turn too–
Up on stage, the singer and the musicians had vanished, and there were two figures.
One was Baran, holding a harp, smiling, and gently beseeching the audience to quiet.
Doing everything that she could to stand with grace on her bad leg without flinching.
At her side– was the graceful figure of a woman, taller, leaner, gentle black on yellow eyes brushed with a touch of wine-colored pigment, inviting red lips curled into a proud little grin. Her hair was partially covered by a long, dark blue veil, but much was still visible, a purple ponytail framed by a pair of horns. Wearing blue clothes that matched her veil; long sleeves, a high neck, simple yellow embroidery forming geometric patterns across her chest and flanks. Gaps in the fabric exposed some of the upper back and belly in angled cutouts revealing starkly pink skin; a long and covering skirt from the waist down completely hid her long, graceful legs. All of the patterns and decorations brought emphasis to her limbs.
She wore a single black glove that seemed out of place with the rest.
And for her first act, she removed the glove, to reveal a mechanical prosthetic.
More intricate in its design than Homa’s, less skeletal, delicately buttressed carbon-fiber.
Nevertheless, its articulated digits, decorated with mehndi, seemed to beckon the crowd.
Beckoning Homa, who started to move closer to the stage, paying little heed to Outis as she walked in her trance. She moved through the crowd, and everyone parted to allow the awe-struck girl to move closest to the stage, some encouraging her and others smiling. Through the throng of once-mourners who now looked upon her so warmly, Homa arrived at the foot of the stage, and looked up at the woman in blue who was to begin her dance–
–of course, it was Kalika.
Kalika Loukia up on the stage–
And she was the most beautiful, captivating sight Homa felt she had ever seen.
In the center of that stage on the dim little village, a spotlight seemed to shine suddenly.
Baran retreated further into the shadows while her fingers plucked the strings of the harp.
From behind even her, came a drumming sound, a drumming on goatskin, and metal clicks.
As if carried by the melody, as if the drums were the beating of her heart–
Kalika came to life on the stage, seamlessly breaking into dance.
Building in intensity, her bare feet rose and fell on the stage in soundless piroutte, so precise and practiced her footfalls, while her arms seemed to weave the air in front of her. Her dance proceeded from full-body movements to hypnotic lifting and dropping of the hips and chest, to precise motions made with only her arms, with only her hands and fingers. It was as if the progression of the chords and the beat washed over Kalika from each step, up her torso, to her arms and seemingly carried to each digit in her gestures, off each fingertip.
Her movements captivated Homa completely–
She would spin once with her arms wide and then pull them close, to cover the face, while gracefully separating them, with a confident gaze slowly unveiled. She would cross her wrists, flutter her hands like a bird’s wings while slowly taking a shallow bow, before rising suddenly, spreading them out as if casting something into the air. In her every move, there was that flowing of states, precision and release, tension and freedom, slow deliberation and wild passion. Her body became its own instrument, joining the sound–
Homa had seen this before– she had seen this before in her dreams–
In the middle of that spotlight Kalika danced as if alone but–
Always, Homa had been watching her from right below, her heart soaring.
To her surprise–
Kalika suddenly dipped close to the edge of the stage–
And brushed the cool fingers of her prosthetic across Homa’s cheek.
With the briefest flash of a smile, she seamlessly transitioned to her next dance move.
As if it had always been intended– as if there had been no artifice–
Natural as the string-sound of the harp, natural as the beat-strikes on the drum–
Homa stood speechless and could not help but to smile.
Not just at Kalika and the beauty and skill of her dance, and at the music–
There was also a great and undeniable beauty in the fact that Kalika, a Katarran, was up on that stage perfectly performing a Shimii dance in a Mahdist festival. For the mixed race Homa there was a certain miracle in that. For a moment, so many people were captivated by that woman whom in their own arrangements they would not have had likely cause to ever see, that woman with her odd-color skin and eyes and her horns. Her beauty would have been lost on all of them and would have been lost on Homa also, but in that moment–
They were defying the prejudices that ruled the world around them.
Watching that dance, Homa felt strangely free– free of worry, free of burden–
And free to be herself, Homa Baumann, mixed race with limbs half amputated.
It was different than her dream– it was better than any of her dreams–
Up on that stage was the dream that she would have never let herself dream before.
She was the person who changed Homa’s life.
No accusing light would shine upon her yearning and no blood would spill from her hands.
Amid the spellbinding movements of Kalika’s body up on that humble festival stage–
Homa was no longer someone who viewed herself as defiled by her circumstances.
After the dance, the feast table was unveiled in all of its glories.
“Have as much as you like! There’s enough for everyone!”
A flamboyantly dressed Conny beckoned villagers and visitors alike to feast their eyes and fill their stomachs. She talked up each item on the table. It was a spread like they had never seen, and even Homa hardly ever saw so much food in one place, even in Madame Arabie’s properties. There were plates of hummus speckled with garlic and pickles; piled high with flatbread that still smelled of the oven; slices of grilled meat encrusted with a zesty paste of nuts and oil and vinegar; pots of stewed meat in a bright red tomato gravy with leek and prunes; bright green soup with spinach and leek and barley; and most captivating of all were the desserts. Plates of bright yellow halwa in the shapes of moons, stars, and a centerpiece in the shape of the tazia itself, flavored and decorated and even colored with rehydrated and dried fruits and nuts, with rose water and sugar syrups and chocolate.
Homa stood captivated by the food but only briefly.
While everyone else began to make up plates and to move aside for others–
She sidestepped the table entirely, squeezing through to the back of the stage.
There was someone she now hoped to see more than a plate of meat.
Behind the curtains in the back of the stage there was a platform where the instruments and various other acoutrements were laid out for the folks who would be performing, whether in view of the stage or hidden behind. Sitting on the edge of this platform, hidden from the sight of the villagers, her long legs and bare feet hanging off the raised structure– was Kalika, still in her dancer’s garb, save for the veil which she had taken off.
Homa found her laughing and smiling as she sat, catching her breath still.
“Kalika!” Homa called out, unable to contain her own smiling face.
Kalika glanced over to her, and her lips spread into a bright and joyous beam.
“Homa! You look so pretty! I was so surprised to see you dressed like that.”
“I was just getting into the spirit. You– you were amazing Kalika!”
Homa approached the platform. Kalika extended a hand and helped her climb up.
Then, she hooked her arm around Homa’s shoulder and pulled her cheek to cheek.
Sitting side by side behind the curtain, staring at the distant rock wall, laughing.
“It felt amazing.” Kalika said. “I had not done something like that in such a long time. I was surprising myself with some of those moves!” She made some of the motions with her hand that she did on stage, carefully lifting her hand in time with music that was no longer playing and gesturing over her own face. Carefully demonstrating the technique. “Moving so rapidly and deliberately, in such a rehearsed way– I can still feel it like there is an energy brimming under my skin that wants to get out. It was fun! I hope everyone enjoyed the show.”
“They better have enjoyed it!” Homa said. “It was incredible, Kalika. I was speechless.”
Kalika shut her eyes and smiled at Homa. Was her face perhaps blushing just a bit?
“Have you been having fun today?” Kalika asked.
Homa smiled again, perhaps more easily and casually than ever.
In that moment, she was all smiles.
“I’ve had a great time. I’ve had so many kebabs, and Sareh gave me a mehndi.”
She showed Kalika her arm, and Kalika in turn showed Homa her own in detail.
“Who knew that girl was so artistic?” Kalika asked.
“Right? Shes a bit blunt but she’s actually really creative.” Homa said.
“Everyone here is rather amazing.” Kalika said. “I almost wish I could stay.”
Homa felt like her heart caught in her chest for just a second.
Could she ever stand to lose Kalika–?
“Me too.” She said– not entirely honestly–
“But–” Kalika took Homa’s prosthetic hand with her own, entwining their fingers.
“We’re both going to the same place, aren’t we Homa?”
Implicitly, all of this time– Homa had been acting– she had already decided–
She was a communist now– along with all of the people of the Brigand.
“Yeah. We’re going to the same place.” Homa said, eyes tearing up.
Though she did not entirely understand what that meant, she knew that she had already decided to entwine her fate with that of that mysterious ship and all the strange, kind people that worked aboard it. She knew that had been the case ever since she accepted the doctor’s kindness, and the Captain’s sincerity, and most of all, Kalika’s endless, inexplicable and sometimes vexing support. As much as she pouted and rebelled– as much as she feared for her life– she felt that she both owed them, and had nowhere to go– but also–
–she felt that she wanted to be at their side because they were capable of change.
Homa, herself– she had already changed because of the opportunity they gave her–
Perhaps only a little– perhaps only the tiniest microgram of change.
She had changed enough, however, that leaving that ship was out of the question.
And leaving Kalika behind was an even more frightening prospect.
For a moment the two of them locked eyes. Tenderly– their gazes also changed–
“Homa– on the day that I met you in Kreuzung– this will sound so silly, but–”
Kalika had begun talking, but Homa moved first on her own accord, pressing on her.
Nearing her face, brushing her cheek, and taking her lips into a kiss quickly reciprocated.
In that moment their hearts entwined as tightly as their steel fingers.
Outis stood in front of the feast table, picking out small amounts of food with a smile.
She thought she had what was a normal and reasonable plate of food on her hands.
Along the way, however, another woman in line looked at her plate and got her attention.
“Madame– it’s truly okay to eat your fill here. Please don’t hold back.” She said.
When Outis looked down at the small scoop of veggies, the one piece of meat–
“Ah, thank you. I am just– used to being frugal.”
Unused to having such unrestricted access to food without the Warlord’s say-so, she had unwittingly fallen back into old habits. So with the blessing of the people in the line, she went back through the feast table until her plate was actually full. Once it was, she walked away, picking at it. Everything was delicious, but her mind became just a bit preoccupied.
These people don’t have so much that they can afford to give away.
It was a bit puzzling– when she grew up, it was not uncommon to conspire to kill another numeroi just to have at their rations for a bit. Here, these Shimii who lived in the roughly hewn rock in the outskirts of an actual town, visibly deprived of space and opportunity by the Shimii outside those gates– they still gave everything they had not just to each other but total strangers. This was a far sight from how the Imbrians had always behaved.
Nowadays it was not all bad in Mycenae– the Warlord had cleaned up a lot.
After purging the corrupt Synkletos, and killing all of their families and households–
Those were years when Odyssia– Outis– was able to eat better.
Enough to be able to make friends for less selfish reasons than cheating them out of food.
Perhaps that was why she had opted to be partisan toward Astra Palaiologos.
Where she went, plenty seemed to follow her– her people were treated well.
Would Astra ever be so charitable, however, if she were in these people’s position?
And– would any of them? If another tragedy took everything from them one more time?
If they were rendered powerless?
She grabbed a skewer and tore off a bit of meat from it with her teeth.
It was so savory that it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Well– the Warlord is the best hope we have ever had of creating a future for Katarre.
Perhaps Katarre would never look like this– perhaps they would never smile like these Shimii could even amid their wretchedness. In the wake of a thousand year history of tragedies so cyclical that they felt inescapable, they sang, they danced– and so did the Katarrans– and maybe they got ready for the next worst thing that would transpire. One could suppose that time moved on regardless, so one might as well enjoy today while it lasted–
Outis dipped the meat in sauce for the next bite.
When she stood in place, she still tapped her feet as if impatiently.
“Ah– have I become too familiar with moving on regardless?” Outis mused to herself.
Hers was a path prophecized never to end– she had to keep moving, no matter what.
Or she would become powerless herself, without question.
“It was a truly magnificent Tishtar, wasn’t it?”
“Possibly the best one this village has ever seen. We’ll need to thank everyone properly.”
Stripped bare of both their clothes and their pretensions, in the glow that followed physical affection, Sareh and Baran laid on a futon together, holding hands still slick with their pleasure and staring at the ceiling. A mechanical fan spun its endless circle, gently turning away the sweat on their faces. They shared one thin blanket decorated with the shapes of masjids and moons. It was a bit chilly but their shared warmth kept them comfortable.
“How is your leg doing? Are you in any pain?”
“You asked before we–”
“I know– but we were a bit vigorous–”
“It’s fine, Sareh. You were quite tender with me. And it’s healing up quite well.”
Sareh felt she had gotten a bit carried away– it wasn’t their first time–
–that had been clumsier and faster, directly following the change in their relationship.
Regardless, neither of them were exactly experienced, so she had been a little worried.
For Sareh, it was still difficult to think that she let Baran be injured.
Worse to imagine that she might hurt her with her greedy little lusts.
They two of them and their dalliance represented part of the future of this futureless place.
Both feared they might see its engineered dead-end. Their courtship was always framed in the triumphs and tragedies of the little village in which they had grown up, discovered their true feelings for each other, and tried to live with vast, twisted contradictions behind everything. Both the feast and famine of their material lives and the whispers and shouts of their own affections. It was difficult not to think of the village when they thought of themselves and not to think of each other when they thought about the village. Both its needs and the dangers that threatened to unravel it completely.
Like the village, their courtship might be lost forever if handled carelessly.
Their biggest fears were unsubstantiated but possible– just like with the village.
For the moment, however, they had peace.
“Someday, I’ll treat you right, Baran, like how you should be.”
“At the moment, I am your wife, and I would say you are treating me splendidly.”
“I know– but you know what I mean. I care about you more than anything.”
“I know what you mean. But– don’t put so much stock in tradition, alright?”
As if to show there was no ill feeling, Baran turned and cuddled up closer to Sareh.
Laying in the bed like the husband and wife that they, technically, were for the day.
“We have to hold another Tishtar next year. I want to see you dance.” Sareh said.
“Kalika did fantastic, didn’t she?” Baran replied, her head laid on Sareh’s chest.
“She did– but I want it to be you! Up on the stage. A bigger stage! Brighter!”
Sareh lifted the hand at her side. Her other hand stroked Baran’s hair.
“That would be quite a sight. We will do it– I’ll dance like you’ve never seen.”
“Yeah! I can’t wait. We’ll absolutely top ourselves next time.”
They became quiet, the energy of their optimism always struggling against reality.
This year they had been able to hold Tishtar– a lot of good turns transpired to enable it. Despite some trials, the village, through God’s grace, made some new friends and welcomed a few returning ones, like Conny. Despite her stated intentions, Rahima had been absent from the festivities, but the supplies she had promised them did turn up without her.
They held an incredible feast and there was more than enough for all of their friends and neighbors to fill their bellies twice over. In the evening service at the masjid everyone told of the miracles of God on the surface, and the stories of the companions, and the gardens that awaited the faithful, which were full of the purest waters and most beautiful trees.
Everything had been beautiful, and the village had been injected with life again.
Was it possible to live every day in this fashion? Could this light and life simply remain?
“Sareh, what worries you in this moment? I feel your breathing quickening.”
Baran pulled even closer and laid her head in the center of Sareh’s chest for a moment.
Sareh smiled at the cheekiness of her wife.
“I’m just thinking about how many things happened the past few days.”
“It’s been lively, hasn’t it? I believe it can be that lively again in the future too.”
“You always read me so easily. Baran– I– I’m afraid I just don’t know how to make it happen.”
“It’s not up to us alone.” Baran said, lifting her head and laying closer to Sareh’s face again.
“You’re right.” Sareh said. “I just wish I could save you and everyone, by myself.”
“That’s foolish. You must at least rely on your wife.” Baran said.
Sareh turned in bed as well– the two of them locked eyes together and held hands.
They pulled in closer for a kiss, their tails entwined, chest to chest.
“Whatever happens, the villagers will remember and cherish this Tishtar and that is good enough for me right now.” Baran said. “Sareh– I will also remember and cherish it– as I cherish every moment I spend with you. Whether as villagers, as Mahdists, as lovers– we’ll be together Sareh. I promise you. I will never leave you. That future is certain.”
Though Sareh did not mention it in that moment– she understood Baran made her choice.
And she, too, would follow Baran no matter what happened.
Night arrived over the little village, understood only as time and the dimming of lights.
For many hours still there was the feast, and the evening service, and the kids ran around until their energy was spent. The aunties ate and told stories well into the night and attended prayers that lasted for as long as there were people with piety to spend. There was so much food that everyone in the village had their fill and more and the table only emptied when it was decided to retire plates going hours-cold as leftovers for different families.
Homa and Kalika, hand in hand, joined in the feast, and everyone congratulated Kalika for her dance. She was asked to reprise a few of her moves and gladly put on little impromptu performances for anyone who asked. Homa received heaps of praise and many thanks for her assistance, which she uncharacteristically accepted without equivocating in any way. Some people went as far as to say her appearance was a God-sent omen for the Tishtar.
She was asked to come back next year, and she said that she would try.
Khadija and Sieglinde remained fixed to the feast table and to a gaggle of aunties who vaguely recognized her surname, which she had not disguised. She made conversation among women only slightly older than herself, and faced the strange situation of being treated like a girl when she was used to being the older woman in the room. Sieglinde smiled and nodded along, unable to say anything much but seemingly enjoying the company.
It was easy to catch her fixating on Khadija all throughout the party.
Sameera and Dominika kept to themselves for a while, until Sareh and Baran joined them and made some small talk. When Sareh and Baran retired to their own quarters, they welcomed Homa’s friends to stay the night if they did not feel like traveling back to their ship. All of them took her up on it, briefly calling back to their ship to report.
Tishtar thus concluded. Before retiring, everyone left at the feast table led a cheer.
Tomorrow, they would put away all of the festival items.
But they would always remember their village as it was on Tishtar, full of color.
Color that glinted off of the necklace that Homa wore, unbeknownst to her.
When she retired for the night, she and Kalika held hands and slept close together.
They knew they had become more than friends or comrades, but had not had the chance to talk over what had transpired and what their feelings and desires truly were. Regardless, Homa held Kalika’s prosthetic hand in her own and fell asleep, and as she did so, her other hand lifted to hold her necklace. That dormant sliver of a once-venerated elder–
Color drifted into it and its ancient voice, unheard, whispered affectionaly–
We are so happy for you. We are glad you are well. Homa– we love you, Homa–
In her sleep, Homa smiled and dreamed so sweetly.
In the middle of the living room in a luxury apartment, a small object flew over a couch.
Shaped like a vertical hanging cylinder on four small rotors, with visible camera lenses marked by a slight glare dotting its body. There was a demarcation at the bottom end of the cylinder as if the lower third was a separate rounded-off square module. Sleek, unpainted metal coated in a dulling glaze so as to reduce its reflectivity; the quadrotor made very little sound as it moved. It was quick, and precise, and sturdy enough for its movement.
As a demonstration of its abilities, its lower half detached and hung by a cable.
Once it touched the floor, a pair of wheels emerged from the chassis and rolled the canister around the carpet, stretching the cable. It made a few quick laps between all of the couches, and the onlookers assessed the speed with which it could reach its target, and the length of the cable. It was also demonstrated that the drone could switch to a horizontal mode to fit in smaller spaces, and tuck in the rotors closer or farther from the chassis to maneuver.
Its payload, however, could not be discharged, even for a test– it had to be taken as it is.
“Inside the canister is enough G8 to cover a room. Isn’t it a lovely little gadget?”
Rubbing her hands together and practically salivating, with a tablet in her hands controlling this specific drone. A tall, skinny woman with long, golden-brown hair that fell over her shoulders, separated over her forehead, and soft and round cheeks twisted in a wicked sneer, round glasses perched on her nose. She wore an entirely black uniform, adorned with an armband, red with a white circle containing a black sun-disc, and her lapel had a metal pin resembling a braided square net, turned to resemble a diamond shape, with hooked crosses on its ends. This symbol denoted an engineering officer for the national socialist armed forces, and Henrietta Hermann was one such officer, and quite an example.
Atop her head was a peaked cap adorned with a totenkopf— Volkisch special forces.
“G8 viciously targets the nerves, inducing a complete neurological shut-down in seconds, with little hope of an antidote being administered. Once this transpires, multiple organ failure will be absolutely certain. It is technically possible to save a G8 victim by hooking them up to complete life support– but none of our targets will have this chance.”
“How long will the gas linger around? Is there a possibility for collateral?”
A strong but confident voice, unshaken by the grim subject matter.
“Absolutely not, mein gauleiter! The wonderful thing about G8– it lingers for only a few minutes before decaying into harmless compounds that wither away in the ventilation with no one the wiser. Our target profile will be quite contained, I assure you.”
Henrietta insisted; and Rahima Jašarević smiled approvingly.
“How many drones are ready to go?” Rahima asked.
“Enough to secure your rule, Gauleiter,” answered the blond woman ever at Rahima’s side, Bernadette Sattler, “Enough to carry out the operation even in the unlikely event that we meet any resistance. I explicitly ordered Henrietta to prepare for the worst.”
“Yes, indeed! Furthermore, it is possible to deploy the G8 tactically in combat.”
“I would strongly prefer not to be discovered, or to employ chemical weapons in battle.”
Rahima reached into her coat and produced a small tablet which she handed to Henrietta.
Henrietta picked it up, switched it on, and immediately grasped the contents.
“Quite thorough! Impressive work, milord! It more than suffices!” Henrietta said.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time, Hauptscharführer Hermann.”
A perhaps casual thought that many people had, once or twice in their lives, was whether and how and whom they would kill to get whatever they desired. How many people they hated and how much. In children it was viewed as an antisocial and threatening action to generate a list of enemies, an omen of a darker intellect than prior perceived; as an adult, it might even be used as evidence of a future action if such a list was revealed and if the hand that produced it was viewed as having the means to carry out reprisals. Nevertheless, it was not so uncommon to make enemies, and therefore, to keep their foul tally.
Ever since that fateful day when her governorship was stolen from her–
Ever since her colleagues and the system she upheld betrayed her in every possible way–
Ever since the destruction of all her dreams and beliefs in one overwhelming instant–
Rahima carefully populated her list. Names, addresses, and crimes. Hundreds of them.
There was no need to single out the manner of judgment– only death would expiate.
And now the Kolibri drones represented the sheathes containing her Long Knives.
Rahima watched the drone sway in front of her, its form quietly filled with killing might.
Her head briefly flashed with images that felt as if from a different person entirely–
Arriving at Aachen– all the political work– the hope for a future ever-brightening–
Conny, smiling at her, proud and supportive of what she accomplished–
Those two kids in their little village, holding their festival amid the hatred of everyone–
“You have twelve hours to prepare. We will begin the operation on my command.”
On not one single word did she hesitate and there was no pain in her heart or head.
A smiling Henrietta saluted with glee; and the stoic-faced Bernadette saluted with her.
Both quickly left Rahima to complete their assigned tasks.
There was nothing more that needed to be considered or to be thought or said.
Everything Rahima had ever been and ever seen would be destroyed and then remade.
“It will be ours– It will be us taking it in our hands once and for all.” She told herself.
Rahima knew– ever since she donned the black, there was no escaping from Destiny.
However– she would turn the black on all of those who debased and abused the Shimii.
Who had debased and abused– her self–
“They will suffer disgrace in this world.” Rahima murmured to herself, the beginnings of recitation. “And on the Day of Judgment, we will subject them to the torment of burning.”
And the Shimii would walk into a bloodstained future as they had many times before.
Flickering intermittent lamplight, dim, most of the diodes stricken black with age.
Casting a curtain of half-light between two support girders.
Partially illuminating the slight smile on Tamar Livnat’s face. Arms crossed in front of her, coat over her shoulders and fixed at the waist for warmth. In the deepest, oldest parts of Aachen were so many men had toiled for ores and died here forgotten. There was not even the dust of them left and so nothing to force recognition of this site as a grave. The site was chosen purely because of its advantages, but the irony was not lost on Tamar, how much this abandoned mine and its long gone corpses resembled her conception of Eloim history– the world a mass grave without evidence of what was taken from them.
Save that which she, and perhaps she alone, collected for them.
Tamar Livnat, the gravetender of the glory of Judea– until now.
“Is everything prepared? I would like the ugliness to be over before the day.”
Across the girders, in third-light if Tamar’s was only a half–
There was a jovial, euphoric grin that met Tamar’s query with an unrelenting glee.
At first appearing as if detached from a face, until the owner took a step closer.
“The goyim stand no chance, Manhig. We shall give them quite a show before their defeat.”
From the darkness approached a woman in a white military uniform, pristine despite the surroundings, decorated with a blue armband upon which there was a white star. Such stars, blue and white, adorned her uniform as well in many places, and she had two which served as earrings. Her tidy, black hair fell over her shoulders and down her back, and she had tidy bangs which framed a pretty and fair face– one that was distorted by the sheer vehemence of her sneer, which seemed to seize every facial muscle as she cackled to herself.
Tamar’s lips did not rise nor fall a bit in response.
“You are a good child; you are all good children. I believe in all of you.”
“Your praise elevates me,” replied Menahem Halevi, eyes twinkling with their own stars.
Tamar would not fool herself as to the magnitude of the task ahead.
The Eloim were a dead people who had lost even their true name–
All of them had lost the true comprehension of what their rituals and teachings even meant–
A decaying body with an empty brain.
However– this body was about to receive an injection of life, and a calling, a rallying cry.
“Next year, in Yerushalem— my dear Aluf Menahem.” Tamar said.
Tamar buried the weak part of herself when her sister was mutilated by the fascists.
Now it was time for every Eloim to bury their weakness and unearth their lost nation.
Death begot life– and the deaths of all of those that they hated would revive the Eloim.
It was only a matter of seeing it through to the end, without mercy, without hesitation–
“It will be so– the Dibuqim will finally emerge.” said Menahem, rubbing her fingers.
Only a matter– of hating everything as they themselves had been hated.