Shabanu by Suzanne Fisher Staples

Author:Suzanne Fisher Staples [Staples, Suzanne Fisher]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-375-98589-8
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2011-01-26T05:00:00+00:00

Ramadan

As the days pass the well water dwindles, and the people of Derawar pray for early rain. We decide to leave for the edge of the desert and fresh sweet water. We will reach Mehrabpur, where we will plan Phulan’s wedding, before Ramadan. This will be my first year to keep the sacred fast, as children aren’t required to do so until they stop growing.

I wonder how I can survive the heat when I can’t eat or drink. Not even a sip of this wretched, gray, salty water! I ask Mama.

“It’s a matter of faith and will,” she says. I am not satisfied, but I say nothing and return to my work.

The morning of our departure we bring the camels to the well when it’s our turn to draw water. They stand in a ring, necks extended, waiting for us to fill the trough.

I uncoil the rope on the stanchion over the well and hook it to Xhush Dil’s wooden saddle. Phulan lays the rope across the pulley and drops the goatskin down, down into the darkness of the well until we hear it splash. She tests the rope to see if the goatskin is full, then sucks in her breath when the rope bites into the soft flesh of her palms.

“You take Xhush Dil,” I say, taking the rope from her. How will she manage as the wife of a hard-working farmer—one who will need her help in the fields? She looks back at me as I test the rope. It digs into my palms, but the pain is useful and therefore good.

I signal her to move Xhush Dil forward, but she stands still, looking uncertain. So I tell the camel to pull. I feel an urge to shake her, to put sense into her lazy, romantic head. Xhush Dil strains forward, and the water-filled bucket rises up inside the well, dripping salt water along the mud walls as it comes.

Phulan lets out a dainty yelp. I raise my eyes from the ascending goatskin in time to see Xhush Dil snatch her chadr from her head and wave it like a banner, his front legs stepping out before him, his neck straining against the weight of the filled bucket. For the first time in weeks, laughter bubbles up into my throat, and I barely manage to holler to him to stop before he pulls the whole stanchion away from the well. I laugh until my belly aches.

Even Auntie smiles. Xhush Dil stands in place, tossing the chadr like a flag, as though he were a carnival clown. I whoop until tears stream from my eyes, and I clutch my stomach. Phulan, too, shrieks with laughter, and it feels so good, as if life will go on after all.

The wind whips our skirts around us and plasters our tunics to our chests as we walk from the camp. The voyage seems like a haze of sand, the sun a pallid disk over the dunes. We pass dozens of animals felled by hunger and thirst on the track to Mehrabpur.

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