Read Online The Scorpion’s Bite by Aileen G. Baron - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Aileen G. Baron
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smoking, while women hammered tent posts, ground flour, pulled ropes hand over hand to haul buckets of water from an ancient cistern.
Black goat-hair tents clustered around a sheik’s larger tent sheltered by pistachio trees on the edge of the wadi. One side of the sheik’s tent was open to the breeze.
Some of the Bedouin women, green and blue tattoos around their mouths and eyes, approached Lily with laban and eggs to sell. She shook her head, clicked her tongue, repeating, “No, no. Laa, Laa ,” then changed her mind.
“ Laban ,” she said, pointing at the bowl of soured Bedouin milk, and found a piastre in her pocket. She gave it to one of the women who handed her a dollop of laban in a soiled paper cup while chickens strutted and worried around her, pecking at the dirt.
People wearing black robes were coming and going from a tent on the edge of the encampment.
“That’s the mourner’s tent,” Jalil said. “In the mourner’s tent, they wear black. They serve only black, unsweetened coffee.” He gazed at the crying women, raising their arms in despair gathered around the entrance to the tent.
“Black is the color of mourning, and death is bitter,” Jalil told her, while she wondered how she could give the laban to Gideon without being noticed.
Gideon was still pale, still frightened. She picked up a handful of dirt, threw it toward the wadi just beyond the chickens and they scurried noisily after it, squawking, cackling, wings flapping. While the Bedouin women ran after them, she slipped the cup of laban to Gideon.
“What am I supposed to do with this,” he asked.
“Put it in your mouth of course.”
Gideon began to laugh. “When you’re through with me, I’ll have so much saliva, I’ll dribble.”
It was a nervous laugh. He’ll get through it, Lily thought. He has to.
A sour-faced, redheaded woman, awash with freckles, came out of the mourner’s tent. Her forehead seemed incised with a perpetual frown, her thin mouth turned down in a crescent. She wore a black abaya , with a black scarf placed loosely over her hair, spilling down her back. She perched on a low stool with a rush seat in the shade of the sheik’s tent, crossed her arms, and tried to catch Klaus’ eye.
“Your friend Gerta Kuntze,” Lily said to Klaus, indicating the redheaded woman with a lift of her chin.
“I don’t know her.”
Behind Klaus, Hamud shook his head, clicked his tongue, and winked an eye. Klaus was lying.
Hamud leaned forward and whispered in Lily’s ear. “Look at her. She’s a devil. Hair is the color of flames, fly specks all over her skin, and her eyes. Green and cold as stone, like I told you.”
The man with the brown turban whom Lily had seen in the Wadi Rum squatted next to the redheaded woman and they began to talk, sitting so close that the sweeping gestures of their arms and hands almost tangled. Gerta Kuntze seemed to glance toward Klaus, no more than the flick of an eye.
Klaus rose. “I’ve heard of Gerta Kuntze, of course,” he said. “She’s what my grandfather used to call a topf-loefel , a pot stirrer.”
Without even a nod to Lily, he strolled away, out toward the desert.
Lily looked back at Gerta Kuntze. The man with the brown turban was gone.
***
The judges were ready for the bisha’a .
They sat in the shade of the sheik’s tent around an open fire, the mubesha in charge—a Howeitat elder—on one side, with Gideon next to him. Three judges were seated on the far side of the fire, with Khaled ibn Achmad facing them. A long-handled pan was heating on the embers.
The rest of the witnesses sat under the open flap of the tent. Hamud was among them, but Lily didn’t see Klaus anywhere.
The mubesha stirred the pan in the fire while he talked in a low voice to Gideon. The pan was almost red hot.
Lily sat cross-legged on the ground away from the others. She was alone at first. Then the redheaded woman squatted next to her.
The woman held out a hand. “Gerta
Black goat-hair tents clustered around a sheik’s larger tent sheltered by pistachio trees on the edge of the wadi. One side of the sheik’s tent was open to the breeze.
Some of the Bedouin women, green and blue tattoos around their mouths and eyes, approached Lily with laban and eggs to sell. She shook her head, clicked her tongue, repeating, “No, no. Laa, Laa ,” then changed her mind.
“ Laban ,” she said, pointing at the bowl of soured Bedouin milk, and found a piastre in her pocket. She gave it to one of the women who handed her a dollop of laban in a soiled paper cup while chickens strutted and worried around her, pecking at the dirt.
People wearing black robes were coming and going from a tent on the edge of the encampment.
“That’s the mourner’s tent,” Jalil said. “In the mourner’s tent, they wear black. They serve only black, unsweetened coffee.” He gazed at the crying women, raising their arms in despair gathered around the entrance to the tent.
“Black is the color of mourning, and death is bitter,” Jalil told her, while she wondered how she could give the laban to Gideon without being noticed.
Gideon was still pale, still frightened. She picked up a handful of dirt, threw it toward the wadi just beyond the chickens and they scurried noisily after it, squawking, cackling, wings flapping. While the Bedouin women ran after them, she slipped the cup of laban to Gideon.
“What am I supposed to do with this,” he asked.
“Put it in your mouth of course.”
Gideon began to laugh. “When you’re through with me, I’ll have so much saliva, I’ll dribble.”
It was a nervous laugh. He’ll get through it, Lily thought. He has to.
A sour-faced, redheaded woman, awash with freckles, came out of the mourner’s tent. Her forehead seemed incised with a perpetual frown, her thin mouth turned down in a crescent. She wore a black abaya , with a black scarf placed loosely over her hair, spilling down her back. She perched on a low stool with a rush seat in the shade of the sheik’s tent, crossed her arms, and tried to catch Klaus’ eye.
“Your friend Gerta Kuntze,” Lily said to Klaus, indicating the redheaded woman with a lift of her chin.
“I don’t know her.”
Behind Klaus, Hamud shook his head, clicked his tongue, and winked an eye. Klaus was lying.
Hamud leaned forward and whispered in Lily’s ear. “Look at her. She’s a devil. Hair is the color of flames, fly specks all over her skin, and her eyes. Green and cold as stone, like I told you.”
The man with the brown turban whom Lily had seen in the Wadi Rum squatted next to the redheaded woman and they began to talk, sitting so close that the sweeping gestures of their arms and hands almost tangled. Gerta Kuntze seemed to glance toward Klaus, no more than the flick of an eye.
Klaus rose. “I’ve heard of Gerta Kuntze, of course,” he said. “She’s what my grandfather used to call a topf-loefel , a pot stirrer.”
Without even a nod to Lily, he strolled away, out toward the desert.
Lily looked back at Gerta Kuntze. The man with the brown turban was gone.
***
The judges were ready for the bisha’a .
They sat in the shade of the sheik’s tent around an open fire, the mubesha in charge—a Howeitat elder—on one side, with Gideon next to him. Three judges were seated on the far side of the fire, with Khaled ibn Achmad facing them. A long-handled pan was heating on the embers.
The rest of the witnesses sat under the open flap of the tent. Hamud was among them, but Lily didn’t see Klaus anywhere.
The mubesha stirred the pan in the fire while he talked in a low voice to Gideon. The pan was almost red hot.
Lily sat cross-legged on the ground away from the others. She was alone at first. Then the redheaded woman squatted next to her.
The woman held out a hand. “Gerta
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