Free The Sand Fish by Maha Gargash Page B

and a piece of rigid, indigo-stained cotton for making burkas. There was a basket of smaller pieces of fabric to patch rips; a pair of blunt scissors; two bronze hand mirrors; a bottle of jasmine oil and another of amber essence; four wooden combs; and a dagger and two knives, their handles embellished with silver filigree.
    “ Masha’ Allah , this is quite a treasure,” said Noora.
    Moza ran her hand over one of the thicker cotton fabrics, sky-blue with broad, emerald stripes. “Look at this piece. Why does my Sultan waste his money so? Every time he’d bring something, I would tell him I am too old for all this.” Her droopy eyelids turned taut. “I wonder what he will bring back with him this time.”
    Noora grabbed the fabric and fluffed it open. “Why are you storing all these things?”
    Moza swept her head toward Noora and pushed her ear out.
    Noora spoke louder. “You shouldn’t store things. You should use them.”
    “I can’t sew and I don’t like the way the village women…well, their stitching is so crude.”
    “Why don’t you let me sew them into clothes for you? My stitching is clean.”
    “Masha’ Allah.” Moza’s eyes rounded with surprise. “Who taught you?”
    “My mother.”
    Moza’s decision was quicker than her movements. “No longer than here for my dresses.” She pointed to just above her ankle. “Otherwise, I might trip on them. And don’t forget to put gussets along the length on both sides—so pretty that way. And not too much embroidery around the neck—it scratches me, you see.”
    As for the serwals , they were to follow the traditional cut: baggy around the waist and tapering into tight ankle bands that could be fastened with cloth buttons that Noora had to make.
    “As much embroidery as you want on the ankle bands,” Moza instructed. “Use all those colored threads, and choose any pattern you want: lines, squares, triangles, zigzags—whatever you like.” She paused and spread the fabric with emerald stripes on Noora’s chest. “Ah,” she said. “Exactly the same color as your eyes. You must take it.”
    It was a generous gift. Noora tried to refuse—just a bit.
    “No, no, no,” insisted Moza. “In my house, you must have a new dress.”
    Creating the dresses filled Noora with enthusiasm. This new undertaking would fill the monotony of her empty day hours, and she wasted no time in starting. She snipped the fabric to the right size. And then her fingers sped along the seams, piercing the material, tugging the thread in quick, coordinated yanks. Within two days, Moza’s first dress was ready.
     
    With the exception of the early morning hours, when she went to get water from the well, Noora spent her days in and around Moza’s hut, cooking the food, washing the clothes, brushing the layers of dust out of the rooms, and taking care of Moza. The rest of the time she sewed.
    Later, with early evening, came the soft dance of small feet outside the hut. The children of Maazoolah snuck out of their homes to peer at her, the visitor in their midst, through tiny gaps between the stones of Moza’s hut. There they remained until their mothers’ stern voices called them back. For the first time in her life, Noora was living in a community. And yet shestill felt like a stranger. The togetherness she had longed for weeks earlier was just not there.
    As darkness wrapped the village, the wind carried the last noises of the night: a man clearing his throat, a baby sobbing its distress, the bleats of a goat or two from this side or that. Only when the soft crackle of the night crickets embraced the stillness of the village did the thoughts she had been ignoring all day trip over one another in her head.
    Why hadn’t Sager come to get her? How much of that witch talk had he believed? And what about her father? Night after night, Noora lay next to Moza. And night after night, as Moza snored, Noora struggled to sleep.
    A yawn swelled at the back of Noora’s throat. Was