Read Online Henna House by Nomi Eve - Free Book Online Page B

intended and examined it for clues. I needed to know: What did he like to eat? The lamb brains? The chickpea stew? Was he a boy with a big appetite? Would I be woman enough to make savory dishes to nourish and feed him?
    *  *  *
    Asaf came to my cave again two weeks after Passover. When he had tethered the horse, we sat in the cool shade of an overhanging red rock. He told me a story about a race he had watched, in which a man fell off his horse and broke his leg. The Muslim boy who won was a member of one of the far northern hilltop tribes. “You know,” Asaf said, his voice tinged with what seemed a combination of apprehension and admiration, “the tribe of the great assassins.”
    â€œNo,” I said, “I don’t know. I know nothing about any assassins.” He reached into Jamiya’s saddlebag and pulled out a bag of salted almonds. We sat on our haunches and shared them as he explained the intrigues of days before we were born. Asaf told me how the boy’s tribe plotted against the Imam’s father, who was the leader of the land when our parents were children. The assassins tried many times before they eventually succeeded in killing the Imam’s father. They tried to poison his soup, to suffocate him in bed, and to break the legs of his horse as he rode at a full gallop. They even tried to kill him with henna. How? A henna dyer was paid to add a bit of coded text to the bridal application of one of his nieces. The groom was the killer. He was to receive the information that told when and where he was to kill the Imam’s father by reading the soles of his bride’s feet on their wedding night. But that plot was foiled too. And both the bride and groom were executed, even though the bride had known nothing about it. The assassins finally succeeded with a gunshot to the head.
    Asaf finished his tale by making his hand into an imaginary gun and pulling on an invisible trigger while making a clicking sound with his tongue. After that, we were both quiet for a while. We were giving this dramatic and sad story the respect it was due. But our silence didn’t last long. Next, Asaf told me about a client his father had, a Moroccan taxidermist who used spices to preserve his animals, and another, a Muslim burial master, who used spices to ward off the smell of death. I listened without asking any questions. We both reached for the last almond. Our fingers brushed together in the bag. I quickly pulled myhand out, for I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch a boy who was not my brother. Especially since he was my intended. He pulled his hand out quickly too. But then he laughed, and said, “When we are married, we will share more than almonds.”
    I blushed, and looked down at my feet. But then I dared to peek up at him again. “Look”—I pointed at Jamiya—“she is being tormented by flies. You should take her home.”
    Asaf nodded, and then he did something very silly. He lay back in the sand and made an angel shape with his arms and legs. When he rose, his hair was full of sand, and his clothes dripped sand like water. He brushed himself off, ran toward Jamiya, mounted, and rode away without looking back. He took a zigzag path, riding at a slow trot. I lay back in the sand on top of his ghost angel. I let my hands fall into the wings and shut my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, I could no longer see him.
    *  *  *
    A few weeks later, the next time Asaf came to my cave, we drew together on the cave wall. I had some chalk stones. I drew a chalk boy and girl. He picked up a piece of chalk and drew a stick horse next to him, and one for me too.
    â€œBut I don’t ride,” I said.
    â€œYou will one day; it’s like flying. We will ride together, race each other.”
    â€œBut girls can’t ride.”
    He shrugged. “Neither can Jews.”
    By the late spring, I was calling him husband , and he