Mirzah’s father was dressed in a black robe and headcloth and carried a long knife in each hand. These blades he pointed threateningly at Alessid, who pushed past him out into the dusk. A dozen other men in dark clothes were there, also armed. After a few moments of turning this way and that, seeking a way out, Alessid capitulated. Mirzah’s eldest brother, another Fadhil, tied his hands before him, and Razhid forced him to walk forward at the points of both knives at his back. A crowd of women assembled quickly—whistling, stamping their feet, and calling out ribald remarks on Alessid’s youth, looks, and probable sexual prowess. He forbade himself to blush.
When they reached a newly made tent, woven of sand-pale wool and decorated with gifts of hazziri, Abb Shagara emerged from it, wearing a robe of embroidered golden silk.
“Who is this man?” he demanded.
Razhid replied, “He is called Alessid, from the tribe al-Ma’aliq. I think he will do for my daughter.”
“For what reason?”
“He is a Believer in Acuyib’s Glory. He is of an age with Mirzah. He is strong. He is rich in horses, though not in sheep or goats.”
“You may think he will do for your daughter,” scoffed Abb Shagara, “but what does her mother think?”
Leyliah came out of the tent, arrayed in all her finery—including a white silk scarf embroidered with snowflakes. She took a torch held out to her by Meryem and made a great show of inspecting the captive. “He seems acceptable,” she said at last, and winked at Alessid.
“Will he please your daughter?”
“If he doesn’t, I will have his head on a brass plate with his skewered balls for garnish,” growled Razhid, expertly flourishing both knives.
The crowd applauded with whistles and more laughter. Abb Shagara held up a hand, and they settled down, anticipating the next act in this little drama.
“Bring your daughter,” he ordered, and Leyliah clapped her hands twice, and Mirzah came forth. “Do you accept this man?”
Alessid, who had gone along with the absurd ritual so far out of respect for the Shagara, forgot his own part entirely when he saw his bride. Mirzah was a small girl, lightly made, with a pure golden skin and her father’s subtle, heavy-lidded eyes. To Alessid, she had never looked older than twelve. But tonight her mother had dressed her in amber-colored silk embroidered in gold, and enough jewels to purchase the finest seaside mansion and all its lands besides. Covering her was a gigantic silver scarf, a transparent silken glimmer that covered her from head to knees, as if she walked within a cloud. Suddenly Alessid was minded of the Lessons of Acuyib about the essential mystery of Woman, veiled to Man until the moment of their joining. And that moment was suddenly too far off for his liking.
Someone in the crowd hooted, and everyone else laughed, and Alessid knew his reaction to her was on his face. Disturbed, bewildered, he told himself this was just Mirzah, familiar and, if not precisely beloved, then at least dear to him for the children they would have. He regained control of his expression and told himself he was a man, and it was only proper that a man look with desire on the wife he would sleep beside all the rest of his nights.
But he could not deny his sudden eagerness for this first night to begin, and not only because a son might come of it.
“Ayia, daughter,” Razhid said, “I’ve brought you a husband. Look him over, and tell me if he is to your taste.”
Advice both practical and indelicate was shouted from all around as Mirzah inspected him from behind the sheer silvery veil. He hoped he had never done anything to offend her—because she could legitimately retaliate now by telling her father she wanted to see Alessid stripped naked. And this was precisely what the women of the tribe were encouraging her to do.
The ceremony of taking a husband was a relic of a long ago time when Shagara fathers raided other tribes, brought the men to their daughters, and asked if they would suit. If a man was rejected, he was sent around to other tents where any unwed girl could claim him if she wished. If there were no takers at all, he was given food, water, and directions back to his own tribe’s camp. Razhid Harirri had been famously wed to Leyliah in this manner—after choosing him, she had arranged for Abb Shagara to take him to every other woman in the tribe before finally coming to her tent, and then she pretended great reluctance in accepting him. He had entered into the teasing with zest, making a great show of pleading with each girl to take him as her husband, “For surely the last unwed girl Abb Shagara offers me to will be the ugliest, stupidest, least desirable of all!” Razhid and his wife shared a sense of humor that to Alessid was utterly incomprehensible. And as he stood there while Mirzah walked slowly around him, he was afraid that their daughter might similarly indulge herself.
There was a completely different ritual when Shagara married Shagara. Fadhil had argued for Alessid’s right to this—an infinitely more dignified process—but Abb Shagara had sulked and complained that they hadn’t had a real abduction marriage all year and he wanted to have some fun.
Mirzah seemed determined to provide him with it. As the women yelled demands to strip Alessid (“Make sure exactly what you’re getting, girl!”), she circled him slowly, drawing out the moment. He stood frozen, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and flinched when a trailing edge of her scarf brushed his hand.
At last she stood in front of him, looking up at him through silver silk, and smiled just a little before turning to Abb Shagara. “I suppose he will do.”
There were groans of disappointment and cheers of approval, and Abb Shagara waited them out before saying, “Then the man Alessid of the tribe al-Ma’aliq is accepted by Mirzah Shagara as husband. He shall live in her tent, and father her children, and become our brother. Do you agree to this, my people?”
None but shouts of approval now, and Alessid felt a soft, stirring warmth inside him. Something deep, and profound, and more exciting even than Mirzah’s tantalizing glance at him from beneath her silvery veil. These people were his people now. They accepted him for his father’s sake, yes, but now, after this year with them, also for his own.
Abb Shagara gestured, and Alessid remembered that now he was supposed to lift his bound hands. As he did so, Abb Shagara said, “Alessid alMa’aliq, you may choose to accept this marriage freely, and take the Shagara as your own tribe. Or you may resist, and be forced to wear hazziri to bind you to her and to us. Whichever you choose, never doubt that you are well and truly married to this girl, and the only means of separation is a divorce of her choosing, not yours. Shall you be free, or bound?”
“Free. I accept the Shagara as my own tribe, and Mirzah as my wife.”
Abb Shagara untied his hands and replaced the ropes with armbands of his own crafting—one gold, one silver, both set with gems and carved with runes. Then he lifted the scarf from Mirzah’s face, and once more Alessid was astonished by his reaction to this familiar girl. She had never been pretty before. She had never looked so happy before. Was it truly because she was marrying him? Women were a mystery, indeed.
Abb Shagara arranged the scarf across her shoulders, leaving her shining black hair uncovered, and fastened about her neck a gold hazzir on a short chain, also made by him. The he stood back, and gestured with both hands.
“Mirzah, here is your husband. Alessid, here is your wife. Acuyib be praised!” As the cheering swelled, he turned to Alessid and complained, “You could have put up a bit more fuss, you know. I was looking forward to some resistance. It’s much more fun that way.”
“Why should I resist what I have wanted this year and more?” Alessid asked, and took Mirzah’s hand. And wanting it more every moment, he thought, and hoped his eyes were telling her so.