Between Two Ends by David Ward

stones. Each stone was splashed with whitewash and placed on the next.
    As Yeats watched, the veiled women raised their arms to greet an approaching figure. It was a woman wrapped in black with only her eyes exposed. She walked alone, stopping every few feet to allow her tears to splash onto the stone she carried. Her grief was painful to watch. The wailing reached a crescendo when the woman stooped to place her stone on the wall.
    â€œThere must be hundreds of stones,” Yeats murmured. “Perhaps even a thousand!” He sucked in a breath when he realized the terrible truth. Each stone represented a dead girl! He squeezed his eyes to shut out the scene. The noises he had heard the previous night were mothers and fathers weeping for their daughters. Now he had an answer to Shari’s question. Oh, why had she wished to travel into such a tragedy?
    He forced himself to look. The woman had joined the others on the ground, throwing fistfuls of dust into the air to show her grief. The injustice of the scene strengthened his resolve. He scowled fiercely. It was time to find Shaharazad. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he whispered. “I’m coming back.I
will
make it back!” He looked up and angrily brushed a tear away. “And I’m bringing Shari with me! This ends tonight!”
    â€œGet on!” a voice boomed, and someone pressed a basket of fruit against his shoulders.
    Yeats spun around and raised his fist. He stared into the startled eyes of a farmer. The man warily moved around him. Yeats rubbed his temples. “What am I saying? The poor guy has probably lost a daughter. Sorry!” he called too late for the man to hear him.
    The sun broke over the eastern horizon, illuminating the palace domes standing boldly against the morning sky beyond the town. It did not look as far away as his nocturnal journey had suggested. Somewhere in that maze was a girl, the key to his family’s problems.
    His stomach growled. The cabbage was a start but not enough. Working through the crowd, he found a fruit seller’s stand readied for the day’s business.
    The street was not like any market Yeats had seen before. Various-size baskets and sacks layuncovered on the ground and clustered around the merchants. Interspersed with pomegranates, lemons, and melons were nuts and seeds. Yeats gazed uncertainly. The merchant was engaged with a customer who was bargaining for a melon. Beside the largest basket another boy stood idly staring at the street. While the merchant was talking, the boy glanced at Yeats, smiled, and stole a pomegranate. He disappeared into the crowd.
    Yeats picked up a dried fig. The other fruit looked like it might require a knife. The merchant addressed him warily and Yeats fumbled for a coin. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing—he was better at words than at math. But one of the coins felt heavier than the others.
    â€œHow many?” the merchant queried.
    Yeats showed the coin. “Ah … four?”
    â€œWhat else will you have?”
    Yeats stared blankly.
    The merchant’s lip twisted into a cunning smile. He looked Yeats up and down, his gaze lingering on his fair hair and turbanless head. “No need! Take the four figs and go in peace.”
    â€œWait,” Yeats fumbled at his waist. “I’ve got other coins. What about this one?”
    No longer smiling, the merchant pressed forward. “Who are you? I have not seen you before. And where did you get such money? Have you stolen it?” His voice brought scowls in Yeats’s direction.
    â€œNo! Of course not.” He felt a prickle of sweat behind his ear.
    â€œWho are you?” a woman asked.
    â€œI … I’ll just take the figs!” Yeats grabbed his fruit, tossed a coin at the merchant, and then ran toward the gates.
    Shouts erupted. “A thief! A thief!” Several people leapt out of Yeats’s way. He made for the thick of the crowd and disappeared