The Shadows of Ghadames by Joelle Stolz

Author:Joelle Stolz
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780307490780
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 1999-01-20T22:00:00+00:00

We come out on the threshing floor, which is always located in full sunlight and exposed to the most favorable winds. When it is time to winnow the grains, the wind does half the work. Barley matures earlier than wheat. The swathes have been lying in a dry spot for days, protected from the birds by palm tree branches and mats of esparto grass.

I see many people this morning around the threshing floor: women servants; slaves tending the gardens; slave masters accompanied by their children who are bubbling with excitement on this eventful day. Even my uncle is here and, next to him, Jasim, looking his conceited self in his sky blue gandourah carefully chosen to show his dark skin to advantage. Of course, on seeing me, all he can do is stick out his tongue! I would gladly stick mine out in response, except Bilkisu pushes me in the direction of the women before I have time.

Facing east, toward Islam's holy places, the laborers have started threshing the sheaves that are arranged in a circle. Each one is holding a kerna, the wide, hard base of a palm tree branch, and is beating the stalks to separate the grain. Their clothes are soon covered with straw debris, sweat runs down their temples, and their backs are soaked. Every once in a while, they drink from the jug that one of us hands them. Their work is sacred to everyone here. We reserve wheat semolina for pastries and holiday dishes, but we eat bazina, the thick porridge of barley flour, every day. It's perfect for filling hungry stomachs.

Finally, the great moment has arrived. The grains are gathered into a round heap and covered again with a mat. An elderly man traces Solomon's seal in the dust with his finger so as to protect the precious harvest from evil spirits.

“Youyouyouyououou!”

The sound of ululation arises from the women's throats, a singsong wail that makes men shiver when they hear it. I would like to join in but my voice isn't strong enough yet and I am afraid of making a fool of myself in front of my brother. In the midst of the wailing, two women carry in a kind of doll they have made with bound palm twigs. This is Earth's husband, the Arous, and he will watch over the grain, wearing a fine red cloth turban.

The women's wailing grows louder for they must attract the baraka on him, the benediction from heaven. Their call courses through me, from head to foot, and now I start wailing too, eyes shut, my throat vibrating almost painfully, as if my voice had to chart a new pathway through my body. I feel as though I am suddenly exposing myself fully.

Bilkisu takes me by the shoulders and kisses me. “Bravo, you have the voice of a grown woman. It will soon be time to fill the bride's pitcher for you, from which you'll drink after your wedding night.”

But the thought of a groom makes me dreadfully embarrassed and I bury my face in the folds of her veil.

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