The Sand Fish by Maha Gargash Read Free Book Online Page B

mildness out of the old woman. “So, we decided to find Zobaida and see what she can do to help him.”
    Moza inhaled deeply. It was clear she had not heard every little detail. She was about to ask something when Noora tugged her thumb. The old woman shut her eyes again and exhaled her relief.
    How much of their talk had she missed? Noora stared back out into the sunlight, thankful for the dimness of the hut, for if the boys (and the man) could see her, she would have looked ridiculous, with her spine curved like an old woman’s, her neck twisted like that.
    They were whispering now, their turbaned heads drawn close together. Noora fought the wind, which threw their voicesthe other way, but could pick up only the droppings of their conversation: “…private troubles…tried and tried…”
    “Zobaida, you say?” Moza’s voice sounded like it was coming out of a hollow well.
    “Yes, khalti , yes,” Noora said, and pressed her palm harder.
    “…desperate…wish-wash cure…between the legs…”
    Mohammad and Saif began giggling.
    “After a good rain, the bees get busy,” Moza said.
    Noora nodded her away just as the boys broke into a ripple of laughter—all of them, except Sager (just like him, not to enjoy a joke).
    “Honey, that’s what you should be looking for, sweet girl,” said Moza.
    Noora sat straight. “What?”
    “I said honey. That’s the only way you’ll be able to sweeten Zobaida’s tongue.”

8
    W ho was the man they were talking about? What were his problems? Sager and his friends had whispered an intriguing tale. Their faces had been stamped with shock and disbelief. The burn of curiosity sat at the tip of her tongue. But she had to wait for the right time, when she was alone with her brother, before she could ask.
    With the next dawn, Sager and Noora set off, following the trail to Nassayem. Halfway into the journey, they veered north, pulling the donkey into a broad valley in which rose an abundance of trees. This was Wadi Sidr, and here they could find the best wood.
    Acacia and sidr trees rose in groups of five or six in the middle of the wadi; others stood alone at the sides, where the mountains slanted vertically from the valley floor. It was when they paused to drink some water that Noora put on her most casual voice and asked, “So who is he, that man you were talking about?”
    Sager’s answer was as abrupt as a slamming door. “It’s man talk, not for you to hear.”
    Noora pushed on. “Just tell me what his problem is. Anyway, I heard most of it.”
    “Well, you shouldn’t have,” Sager said and, picking up his yirz , strode to a handsome acacia. Its solid trunk sprouted out of the ground and split into an explosion of sturdy branches.
    So that’s how it was going to be. She watched him clutch a branch and begin chopping. Ten hacks later, he pulled it off. “Well, aren’t you going to help?” he said, looking over his shoulder at her.
    Noora stretched her arms above her head and, mid-yawn, said, “I don’t know. If you don’t want to tell me your man talk, then maybe I shouldn’t be doing your man work.” She shot him a smug look, but he only shook his head and turned back to the tree.
    Chop, chop, chop! Noora sank to the ground and, easing back onto her elbows, smiled at the one thing Sager had failed to notice. Every hack was a wasted effort. Every bough he broke off the tree was useless. Let him tire himself, the clever-big-man. He was chopping wet wood, wood that he wouldn’t be able to sell.
    Noora yawned again and stared up at the mountains, a disheveled carpet of gleaming old rocks and bright, young shoots. She took it all in: unruly scrubs with tips bursting into tiny, red flowers; fluffy, white dots on stout bushes; bizarre purple clusters that crowned stunted cacti. No matter how long or short the burst of rain, the speed of the bloom was quick and urgent. And so was the wilt that would soon follow.
    Chop, chop, chop! Sager was tackling the next