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piosenniel · 07-21-2003, 02:45 PM

Jamílah, Qirfah, Qamar- the day after the meeting of the tribes

‘Come, Mother,’ called Qamar, as she opened the flaps of two large, woven panniers. ‘I have the children’s and my bags packed. The tent is taken down and rolled, and Qirfah is almost done, too.’ She began to take Jamílah’s clothes from the woven chest at the foot of her mat and stuff them in the satchels for the horse. ‘I’ll help you pack, just roll up your mat and get down what other things you want to ta . . .’

Her words were cut off by three short words. ‘I’m not leaving.’

Qamar’s hand stopped, a shawl of her mother’s clasped in her hand, and looked up at her as if she had just spoken in another language. Qirfah, just entering the tent, stood still, holding her breath at her mother’s words. ‘What do you mean, you’re not leaving?’ Her words strung out across the silence in the tent.

‘Come, sit down,’ said Jamílah gently, going to Qirfah, and bringing her to where Qamar crouched, the shawl now lying in a heap on the floor beside her.

Qirfah sat close to her sister, taking her hand in hers. Jamílah crossed the tent to take down two old baskets from the shelves there, and returned to sit opposite her grave faced daughters. She pushed the familiar baskets toward them. They knew what was in the gifts she gave them: her herbs and medicines, the worn pieces of bone she cast to see what the day held in store; the knotted cords that told the orders of the rituals, all those old familiar things they had fingered in play as children and now would take up in solemn duty for the well-being of the clan and tribe.

And they drew back, not wanting to touch them, hoping that in their refusal it would make her relent. But she simply leaned forward, pushing the worn containers until their tattered sides touched her daughters' knees.

‘Daughter, these are yours now. I give them to you freely, knowing I have taught you all I can.’ The opening words to the ritual of passage fell between the women. Qamar stifled a gasp as she heard them and clasped Qirfah’s hand tighter. Do not go on! she thought to herself. I cannot bear it.

It was Qirfah, leaning across the space between them to touch the older woman’s cheek with tenderness, who understood her mother’s need to complete the circle with them as her mother had done with her. She patted Qamar’s hand, placing both of their hands on the gifts. ‘Mother, we accept,’ she said in a clear, quiet voice, ‘and in turn, will hand these down to our daughters.’ Jamílah placed her hands over her daughters’. ‘So it is done.’

Tears that had threatened at the edges of Qamar’s lashes now spilled down her cheeks, and she fell sobbing into her sister’s arms. Qirfah held her close, her chin resting on the top of Qamar’s head, her own tears wetting the dark curls that lay against her.

[ July 22, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

07-21-2003, 02:45 PM	#107
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Jamílah, Qirfah, Qamar- the day after the meeting of the tribes ‘Come, Mother,’ called Qamar, as she opened the flaps of two large, woven panniers. ‘I have the children’s and my bags packed. The tent is taken down and rolled, and Qirfah is almost done, too.’ She began to take Jamílah’s clothes from the woven chest at the foot of her mat and stuff them in the satchels for the horse. ‘I’ll help you pack, just roll up your mat and get down what other things you want to ta . . .’ Her words were cut off by three short words. ‘I’m not leaving.’ Qamar’s hand stopped, a shawl of her mother’s clasped in her hand, and looked up at her as if she had just spoken in another language. Qirfah, just entering the tent, stood still, holding her breath at her mother’s words. ‘What do you mean, you’re not leaving?’ Her words strung out across the silence in the tent. ‘Come, sit down,’ said Jamílah gently, going to Qirfah, and bringing her to where Qamar crouched, the shawl now lying in a heap on the floor beside her. Qirfah sat close to her sister, taking her hand in hers. Jamílah crossed the tent to take down two old baskets from the shelves there, and returned to sit opposite her grave faced daughters. She pushed the familiar baskets toward them. They knew what was in the gifts she gave them: her herbs and medicines, the worn pieces of bone she cast to see what the day held in store; the knotted cords that told the orders of the rituals, all those old familiar things they had fingered in play as children and now would take up in solemn duty for the well-being of the clan and tribe. And they drew back, not wanting to touch them, hoping that in their refusal it would make her relent. But she simply leaned forward, pushing the worn containers until their tattered sides touched her daughters' knees. ‘Daughter, these are yours now. I give them to you freely, knowing I have taught you all I can.’ The opening words to the ritual of passage fell between the women. Qamar stifled a gasp as she heard them and clasped Qirfah’s hand tighter. Do not go on! she thought to herself. I cannot bear it. It was Qirfah, leaning across the space between them to touch the older woman’s cheek with tenderness, who understood her mother’s need to complete the circle with them as her mother had done with her. She patted Qamar’s hand, placing both of their hands on the gifts. ‘Mother, we accept,’ she said in a clear, quiet voice, ‘and in turn, will hand these down to our daughters.’ Jamílah placed her hands over her daughters’. ‘So it is done.’ Tears that had threatened at the edges of Qamar’s lashes now spilled down her cheeks, and she fell sobbing into her sister’s arms. Qirfah held her close, her chin resting on the top of Qamar’s head, her own tears wetting the dark curls that lay against her. [ July 22, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ] __________________ Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.