Ishtah - The Prostitute's Daughter

ISHTAH

  THE PROSTITUTE’S

  DAUGHTER

  Ella Hansing

  Copyright © 2015 Ella Hansing

  All rights reserved ®

  No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior permission from the author, except for brief quotations in reviews.

  All characters included in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead is coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-300-58414-8

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1, Most Mothers

  Chapter 2, Constant Companion

  Chapter 3, Black Lips and Gnarled Teeth

  Chapter 4, Baila’s Daughter

  Chapter 5, Mystery of the Veil

  Chapter 6, Visitors

  Chapter 7, Two Necklaces

  About the Author

  636 B.C.

  1. Most Mothers

  Gradually my sandals began to slide in the mud, my nose cringing at the odor rising from the stagnant water below. A hot breeze from the east swept gently into me, catching loose strands of hair and drawing them across my face. Blinking, I tucked them safely behind my ears, allowing my shoulders to drop and my lungs to exhale.

  There were other pits such as this, some ranging as wide as thirty meters in diameter. Meant to hold the foundations of a larger wall, they had been dug long ago, when the city had anticipated expansion. Then the plague struck. As the population declined construction ceased, and all that remained were giant holes in the ground, left unfilled by the workmen.

  Sensing the dryness of my throat I forced myself to swallow, realizing I had been outdoors too long again. It was that time of day best spent hiding under cover, in the shade­ – those useless hours each summer when no man or beast stirred, as the heat rendered any attempts at work futile. I knew I should be inside, like the others my age – at a loom, bent over an oven, or else occupied with some other normal house busywork. Instead I stood lethargic, transfixed and alone, exposed to the harsh elements – eyes hovering just above the murky surface, unable to turn away.

  It was odd to see such a sizable pool of water, considering the scorched terrain and unending drought the gods plagued us with. Over time this was the only cavity that had filled with rain, or perhaps drainage from the city, never drying out entirely. Seeming misplaced, it had always beguiled me, regularly drawing me out from the city to stand or sit at its edge. From certain angles it almost looked like a large eye staring up from the sunbaked earth, undaunted by the expanse of the sky.

  When we were younger, the other children and I would stand on top of the city wall above and drop stones into it. The water was too murky for us to see the bottom of the pool, and in our minds we conjured up the notion that its depths knew no bounds. Perhaps an evil god lived beneath the rippling surface? We were afraid to go too close, telling one another that if anyone were to touch the water they would be dragged down into a fate of nothingness – ceasing to exist. I moistened my cracked lips with my tongue, eyes narrowing as I stared. Eventually, our imaginations would prove not so far-fetched.

  Four summers ago the herdsman Batheel’s finest cow wandered away from the herd traveling up the road leading to the city gates, finding the pool and wading into it to escape the sweltering heat. The animal never reemerged from its bath, and nor did its carcass rise to the surface, though a group of herdsmen threw hooked ropes into the pool time and time again in search of it.

  Fanning the water gnats away from my face I shifted weight, lips sealing tight as I gazed. Perhaps the childish notions had some truth to them – perhaps if I fell in I would vanish. Perhaps whatever god or spirit lurked somewhere just beneath the surface would carry me deep under, far away and forever – out of cruelty or pity I couldn’t decide.

  Nowadays there were very few who ventured out to the pool beside myself. Anywhere outside the city was considered too barren, hot and exposed for anyone to tolerate other than herdsmen or field workers – as was most of Assyria. Yet to me it was a place of refuge, despite the wind, heat, and odor of the water – wide enough so that I could breathe and quiet enough so that I could rest. A sense of finality called to me from somewhere beneath the surface of the pool, sparkling like a gem – something I longed for. If only I were brave enough to reach in, I could clutch it.

  A grotesque image of the cow, lost somewhere in the pool, danced across my mind, breaking me abruptly from my trance. I caught myself just before my sandals, still sliding in the mud, touched the water – walking back up the bank a ways to look from a distance. The gem I so often thought I saw turned once more into the blazing reflection of the sun, now directly overhead. Heat engulfed my body head to toe in a suffocating wave.

  “Ishtah,” called a voice from above.

  Startled, I glanced back behind me at the city wall, eyes traveling arduously upward. It towered unsurmountable before me, tall and unfriendly – with rough stones protruding sloppily from the base to fend off foreign intruders. Adjusting my gaze in the sunlight, I soon spied the hooded figure of a woman looking down at me dizzily from the top of the wall. Without checking twice I knew it was Hesba, her face moist from exertion and eyes soft with familiar concern.

  “Your mother wants you,” she called down, quieter when adding, “She wants you to braid her hair.”

  Though she turned away too abruptly for me to catch her expression, it was easy to detect the note of uneasiness in her voice. Disheartened, my gaze dropped quickly to the ground. I preferred her not to find me alone, knowing it would only increase her concern for me. Grinding my teeth, I shook my head faintly – as if to rally my own spirits.

  It would take me a long time to hike all the way back to the eastern gate from the pool of water. There were only four entrances to Arrapha, with all manner of uneven terrain stretching between them for miles along the crooked city walls, which made traveling slow and even dangerous for someone inexperienced. It never failed to surprise me how Hesba always managed to find me – despite how easy it was to get lost, both inside the city and out. She had always seemed to know where I was – ever since I was a little girl. Back then I used to think she had spiritual powers – like the soothsayers, possessing the ability to visit the future and past. How else had she been able to find me stuck behind our district well as a child when my own mother hadn’t even noticed my absence? As I grew older, though, I realized she was simply intuitive, as most women became after giving birth to their children – though not all. Also, I at last realized she could see nearly everything from the window on the second floor of her house near the east gate, which I came and went from most often. She could easily spot me, slipping through the street traffic below headed to my familiar spot, as she sat weaving or embroidering inside.

  Hesba was like a mother to me, gray haired and stooped, with knowing eyes that easily read my simple, closed off expressions. I didn’t ask this of her. She gave her love freely, though she mothered a daughter and a son of her own already and owed my natural mother nothing.

  Reaching behind my shoulders I pulled my scarf up over my head to protect my scalp from the sun – and my face from the prying gazes of the watchmen at the gate, who liked to stare and make calls at anyone passing in a skirt. The further I walked from the pool the dryer the ground became, immense cracks running in zigzags beneath my steps. My toenails were split and rough from all the times I had stubbed them on uneven terrain.

  Glancing back I saw Hesba had descended from the wall on the other side. It undoubtedly had interrupted her day to come and find me, since it was now past
noon, when all the women should be preparing an evening meal for their families. I assumed my mother had called out to her from our window as she passed in the street and sent her to find me – or else she had seen me leaving a long while ago herself and set out on her own. Again forcing myself to swallow, I could feel my jaw tighten. Hurrying my pace, I sunk my nails into my palms, reminding myself that they would know at the gates if I’d been crying; my face was not pretty when I cried, like my mother’s, which even when sad fetched adoration from onlookers. Knowing I would appear swollen and red, I bit my tongue to refrain. Pain always distracted me from my sadness. It was my common practice to bite my tongue, sometimes until it bled, or burrow my fingernails into varying limbs to deter myself if need be.

  In reaching the eastern gate, I was relieved to note the emptiness of the road. It was to my advantage that there was seldom any traffic during