How did that half-pint kid carry this?
He decided that it was because Abrau’s legs were shorter than his, and so could fit beneath the bundle more gracefully, and only had a short distance to be lifted before fitting on Abrau’s back. Despite all of this, it was too much to accept that he couldn’t lift a bundle that Abrau had carried. He summoned the last of his will and strength, and with two pulls, lifted himself with the bundle on his back. The weight made his knees tremble, and his legs could not steady him. He involuntarily made a half-circle in place, but before becoming dizzy, he managed to stop. He stood straight in his place. A sensation deriving from arrogance made the weight easier to bear. If it had been otherwise, if he’d not been able to lift the bundle of wood, he would have been ashamed of himself. He wanted to set the bundle back down on the ground. But something prevented him. He shifted the bundle on his back, set out to the alley, and was lost in the night.
Abbas sensed the sound of Mergan’s way of walking. Then he could make out the outline of her body. Abbas’ sister, Hajer, was walking beside their mother. Abbas leaned the bundle against a wall and remained stooped over under the weight of the load.
“Where the hell have you two been?”
Mergan, who was swallowing a sensation of rage, instantly said, “At your daddy’s grave!”
She was about to pass by her son when she slowed her step and asked, “Are you coming or going?”
Abbas raised the bundle back off wall. He set out with his back to his mother, saying, “I’m heading to the bread seller.”
Mergan ground her teeth and continued on.
Mergan and Hajer were lost in the house, and Abbas in the darkness.
Abrau continued his moaning. “My bundle. My bundle. My wood. Bring it here. Right here. Next to me. They’re taking them.”
Mergan was drawn to her son. She paid no mind to what he was saying. Abrau’s moaning made clear that he was unwell. Fever. Mergan lightened what was piled above him. Abrau’s eyelashes and eyebrows were awash in sweat. She dried his forehead and his eyelids with the edge of her scarf and sat beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. His hair was dripping wet.
Hajer was left there standing. She was still considered too insignificant to be able to have a role in such matters, much more than to become saddened by her brother’s plight. Hajer stood, waiting for an order or instruction, for someone to want something, to demand something. She’d not yet found enough of her own place to be able to go, of her own volition, to take a jug to get water. She was able to carry the jug on her shoulders. But she only did so when her mother asked her to. The little girl, the baby of the house. All this made Hajer seem insignificant. Her small face continually shifted between doubt and anticipation. Between weakness and irresolution. In this face, there was not yet a sign of her as herself — it was like a pool of water. Sometimes it sparkled, as if the sun was shining on it. Other times it was dark, as if a sandstorm was brewing. Sometimes it was frozen over, as if winter had set in. Sometimes it was gray, as if clouds were accumulating. If on this night she seemed dark and sullen, it was because the house was dark and sullen. Hajer reflected her surroundings.
“Girl, go put the kettle on.”
Following her mother’s instructions, Hajer went to light the stove.
Disturbed and upset by her son’s moaning, steadfast and unbending in the face of what had been happening, anger coursing through her, Mergan was in turmoil, yet struggling to control herself. She had to do something. The only release was to take a step forward. She took a lantern from the cupboard and went to the pantry, rummaging in the corners of the house that only a mother would know of. She returned with two or three dried herbs, which she crumbled up into the kettle to boil and to give to Abrau. She replaced the lantern and unconsciously walked around herself in a circle, returning to kneel beside Abrau.
For Mergan, illness was nothing new, nothing that could be cleansed from life and forgotten. She had grown up with it, and she believed she would grow old with it as well, stepping into her grave hand-in-hand with it. She had already seen untold numbers of young and old who at one time or another had entered death’s embrace. She had also seen many who had returned from the edge of the grave and had once again rejoined the living, who walked step-by-step with the march of the days. Mergan’s memories, seen and heard — her mind was filled with these memories. But who can calmly set aside her motherly instincts when her own child is burning with a fever, even a simple fever?
Mergan appeared calm, but was in turmoil inside. Abrau’s sleeptalking hallucinations elicited such waves of sorrow in her that pain rose from her heart like smoke, burning the lining of her nostrils. The extent of what she must do in this situation was simply to give him boiled herbs, which she was already in the process of doing. What else? She consoled herself by the fact that he was sweating, which was a good sign. Now she only needed to keep watch over him so that the cold would not do him in. She had to keep watch so that after improving he wouldn’t relapse. But this was all she could do.
“Has it started boiling?”
Hajer didn’t say no. She said, “Almost.”
Mergan, speaking to herself as well as Hajer, said, “When was the oven lit today?”
Hajer had spent all day with her mother, so the question wasn’t one she could answer. But by giving voice to this, Mergan was seeking a degree of healing. Just to say this warmed her heart. Somehow, it was meant to convince both her and the children that she was looking to the issue of heating that night. With a few words, she was showing her children that her duty every night — to find a bit of kindling from other ovens — was still on her mind. Somehow she would bring a little hope to Abrau’s hallucinations, Hajer’s worried eyes, and her own troubled heart.
Hajer brought the kettle and cups and then returned to the side of the oven, sitting at the edge of the wall. Mergan filled a cup with the boiled herbs and told Abrau to sit up straight. Abrau struggled to lift himself, using his arms like pillars, sitting up like a cat. Mergan had heard that heavy nausea brings on a fever. She had also heard that these herbs, when boiled, relieve nausea. So she let the boiled herbs cool a little, then poured some in Abrau’s mouth. She did just what she knew to do. No less, no more. With her heart and soul, and hopes for his better health, she poured a mix of boiled herbs, with violets and cassia herbs, into her son’s mouth, when her arm brushed against his injured ear, causing him to cry out in pain. Mergan had only just noticed that someone had bitten his ear.
“Who? What son of a bitch? Who? Well? Now I see why my son has a fever! Tell me. Who was it? What bastard? Tell me. Whoever it was, I don’t care. I’ll make him pay. Tell me. I’ll beat him with a stick. The sons of bitches have found an orphan to attack? Hasn’t God done enough to this poor child, that now you also do this to him, you heartless bastards?”
Mergan was no longer asking her son who had given him the beating. She wasn’t speaking to him at all. She was speaking to everything. To the air. To the walls and the doors. For ears that could hear and those that couldn’t. She placed Abrau back in the blankets and rose. She tied her robe to her waist and was walking in circles around the room, around herself. Hajer remained frozen in her corner against the wall, and Abrau had set his dizzy and confused head back down. Mergan would walk, then stop, stop and then begin walking, all the while speaking to herself. She spoke out loud. To herself. To the house. To the night. To what is and is not. What she was speaking of wasn’t simple speech. It was more like poetic recitation. She would speak, and then go silent. She would be silent, and then suddenly it would boil over, her voice rising and calling out.