face.
It is said that when a gazelle is cornered by hunters it will often become paralysed and stand stone-still even though if it chose to spring away it could easily outrun its pursuers. That was how Mariata felt when Amastan looked at her: transfixed, terrified to the core of her being and utterly unable to save herself.
She found herself looking into the most expressive eyes she had ever seen. They were long and almond-shaped, the eyes of a poet, not a warrior or a madman; but in the instant that he pinned her with his gaze she was unable to think of anything except that that gaze was as deep and dark as water glimpsed at the bottom of a well: the last water of the season, before the well runs dry and those who rely on it go thirsty and eventually die.
Mariata’s heart began to beat fast. She felt the muscles in her legs twitch as if they would carry her away, very far, very fast, whether she consciously asked them to or not. But despite this she stayed where she stood, as if she had suddenly taken root.
Then the moment passed. Abruptly, Amastan’s eyes filled with tears, tears that gathered and brimmed and then fell, unchecked. It was shocking to see a man cry. Men were reticent with their emotions: it was part of the code of asshak , the code of pride and proper behaviour. Mariata felt her heart go out to him.
There are some women who cannot resist trying to set to rights something that is broken, women who feel the weight of responsibility for restoring the order of the world – even if it is just in the little things such as washing the dirt out of clothes, the sweeping of a tent or the reweaving of an unravelling basket. Mariata had never considered herself to be one of these women. But before her she saw a man whom life had snapped in two and suddenly she yearned to put the two halves back together.
‘How long has he been like this?’ Mariata asked as she and Rahma walked back towards the village. As the distance increased between her and the possessed man, her heart resumed its normal rhythm; but even so she could feel his presence, as if a cord had been tied to each of them, which became tighter with every step she took.
Rahma said nothing for a time. At last she arrived at a boulder of rock. Here she stopped and sat down, turning her face up to the sun so that Mariata saw the faint trace of tear tracks that had dried on her cheeks. ‘It was his camel brought him back, as if it knew its way home, even though he had not been here for a year or more. He was slumped over it, in a daze. He had no idea where he was: his eyes were open, but he did not even recognize his own mother. There was blood all over him. I thought …’ Her voice faltered. ‘I thought he was dead … or at least mortally wounded. His sword was gone – the Reaper, which had belonged to my brother, his anet ma , and to his anet ma before him. He would never willingly be parted from that sword: it was his pride personified. He had nothing with him: neither food nor water. How he survived I can’t imagine, except that the spirits must have kept him alive for their own purposes.
‘But he did have one thing. It was clasped in his right hand. We tried to prise his fingers open, but he turned on us like a wild animal. He has it still. I am sure that if we can separate him from it we can save him. The Kel Asuf draw their power from it, I am sure of it. We’ve tried everything: medicine women have offered him sleeping herbs, but he would not take them. The enad sang the song of the winds and we played the drums to dance out the spirits, but all to no effect. The marabouts have prayed over him and pinned Qur’anic verses to his robes. I could have told them that wouldn’t work: he tore them off in a rage and ran about naked! The magician from Tin Buktu surrounded his tent with charms and fetishes he had brought out of the south: Amastan ignored them all, and lay down to sleep with his right hand pinned firmly under his body. Anyone who
It is said that when a gazelle is cornered by hunters it will often become paralysed and stand stone-still even though if it chose to spring away it could easily outrun its pursuers. That was how Mariata felt when Amastan looked at her: transfixed, terrified to the core of her being and utterly unable to save herself.
She found herself looking into the most expressive eyes she had ever seen. They were long and almond-shaped, the eyes of a poet, not a warrior or a madman; but in the instant that he pinned her with his gaze she was unable to think of anything except that that gaze was as deep and dark as water glimpsed at the bottom of a well: the last water of the season, before the well runs dry and those who rely on it go thirsty and eventually die.
Mariata’s heart began to beat fast. She felt the muscles in her legs twitch as if they would carry her away, very far, very fast, whether she consciously asked them to or not. But despite this she stayed where she stood, as if she had suddenly taken root.
Then the moment passed. Abruptly, Amastan’s eyes filled with tears, tears that gathered and brimmed and then fell, unchecked. It was shocking to see a man cry. Men were reticent with their emotions: it was part of the code of asshak , the code of pride and proper behaviour. Mariata felt her heart go out to him.
There are some women who cannot resist trying to set to rights something that is broken, women who feel the weight of responsibility for restoring the order of the world – even if it is just in the little things such as washing the dirt out of clothes, the sweeping of a tent or the reweaving of an unravelling basket. Mariata had never considered herself to be one of these women. But before her she saw a man whom life had snapped in two and suddenly she yearned to put the two halves back together.
‘How long has he been like this?’ Mariata asked as she and Rahma walked back towards the village. As the distance increased between her and the possessed man, her heart resumed its normal rhythm; but even so she could feel his presence, as if a cord had been tied to each of them, which became tighter with every step she took.
Rahma said nothing for a time. At last she arrived at a boulder of rock. Here she stopped and sat down, turning her face up to the sun so that Mariata saw the faint trace of tear tracks that had dried on her cheeks. ‘It was his camel brought him back, as if it knew its way home, even though he had not been here for a year or more. He was slumped over it, in a daze. He had no idea where he was: his eyes were open, but he did not even recognize his own mother. There was blood all over him. I thought …’ Her voice faltered. ‘I thought he was dead … or at least mortally wounded. His sword was gone – the Reaper, which had belonged to my brother, his anet ma , and to his anet ma before him. He would never willingly be parted from that sword: it was his pride personified. He had nothing with him: neither food nor water. How he survived I can’t imagine, except that the spirits must have kept him alive for their own purposes.
‘But he did have one thing. It was clasped in his right hand. We tried to prise his fingers open, but he turned on us like a wild animal. He has it still. I am sure that if we can separate him from it we can save him. The Kel Asuf draw their power from it, I am sure of it. We’ve tried everything: medicine women have offered him sleeping herbs, but he would not take them. The enad sang the song of the winds and we played the drums to dance out the spirits, but all to no effect. The marabouts have prayed over him and pinned Qur’anic verses to his robes. I could have told them that wouldn’t work: he tore them off in a rage and ran about naked! The magician from Tin Buktu surrounded his tent with charms and fetishes he had brought out of the south: Amastan ignored them all, and lay down to sleep with his right hand pinned firmly under his body. Anyone who
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