Late Morning, 06 Vortas 2718
A Tenement, The Gripe, Thul Ka
A Tenement, The Gripe, Thul Ka
Faizra crouched in the corner of the flat roof. She hid amidst the clay pots of plants, tenacious bits of green stretching out of dark soil, shaded from the harshness of the sun by old linen stretched over old wooden poles. There, among the sage and mint and thyme, Faizra could close her eyes and pretend that she was on the river, that she was helping her gitgka in one of the little gardens she tended carefully amidst the rafts. If Faizra sat long enough sometimes it almost felt like the smell lingering behind the herbs was the sharp clean water of the Turga and not the miserable reek of Thul Ka.
Faizra reached out and plucked a mint leaf off one of the plants, chewing it, the taste bursting cool and friendly on her tongue. Like tea, like her gitgka’s hands waving through the air as she taught Faizra the words to ask the mona to bless the plants.
But this wasn’t the Turga, and she wasn’t a boch no more. It wasn’t the laughter of her fami that drifted through the dusty air but the sounds of Thul Ka, distant merchants shouting and carriages rattling over streets, the ever present distant rumble of the Pipeworks.
Faizra finished the mint leaf and curled back against the low wall that lined the roof. She stared down at the dusty floor beneath her, brushing her fingers softly over sage leaves.
If she hadn’t been so close to the edge.
If she hadn’t lost track of her thoughts in favor of silence.
If she hadn’t turned her head just then, if Hulali hadn’t tricked the wind into whisking the sounds up from the window below...
“... if Faizra is vreska.”
A pause, a silence. Faizra’s fingers dug at the roof, her body shaking, as if she might be able to find a fingerhold there, something to hold on to.
“She’s young t’ drift and she ent want to talk on it. She might’ve done somethin’, hama.”
Faizra could see Saika pezre Lisha in her mind, picture her standing there at the kitchen window. Maybe with that basin she liked for her sink, wringing out one of the towels she used for cleaning to hang it out the window for drying. She could almost see Hamid pez Farouk behind her, could fill in the space between Saika’s words with his arguments without needing to hear them.
“An’ if ye’re wrong? We’ve kept her for months when ye said it’d be a week.” Silence, another space. “She ent our kint. We got our littles t’ think of, hama. I ent sayin’ I don’ like her. It ent that.”
Faizra rose swiftly. She slipped the borrowed sandals from her feet, leaving them neatly amidst the plants, precious googles piled on top. Nothing but the clothes on her back; worse even than when she had entered Thul Ka. For a moment, she thought of asking for money or else sneaking downstairs, maybe when everyone was asleep and taking their little locked box of coins. Then, sick with shame, she made her way to the edge of the roof.
Not no one’s kint, now, Faizra reminded herself. Pleasant to pretend, these last few months, sleeping inside like a tsat but at least with tekaa, with the touch of glamours soft against her own and friendly familiar Tek as she struggled to wrap her tongue around Mugrobi. Work to do, not like her first weeks when no one would hire her, even for nothing. For a while Faizra had almost let herself believe this home could be hers too.
She didn’t want to argue, didn’t want to defend. Didn’t want to talk on none of it; wouldn’t help. So instead of hooking bare feet over the ladder that would take her down to the back door, Faizra walked nimbly along the board laid to the next roof. She walked past strings of laundry, more plants, little shacks where families sat cooking, staying on the roofs until they gave out. She climbed down a drain pipe then and kept walking, dusting slow and steady.
Vreska.
The word burned a hole in her heart. Course they’d think it. Faizra should’ve known. She walked through the dusty afternoon as long as she could stand, and when she couldn’t anymore she crouched against a dusty wall and curled her face into her forearm, hiding it from the world.
It was a little while later that someone pressed a coin into her hand. Faizra curled her fingers around it, reflexively, and looked up. Whoever it was, they were gone already. Faizra glanced around, seeing other crumpled figures in the shade with her, desperate hands extended to the passer-bys.
Faizra bit at the coin, testing it with her teeth. It was real; she could get a meal with that, if she looked careful. She shifted, tucking her legs beneath herself, preparing to stand, and stopped. Slowly, she settled back down, hiding the precious coin away, and extended one arm out, slow and careful, copying the other beggars with her cupped palm facing up.
Better this way, she told herself. Her heart ached for the little rooftop garden and the laughter of Saika and Hamid’s littles, but mostly it ached for the Turga. No more looking back, Faizra promised herself. No more.
Faizra reached out and plucked a mint leaf off one of the plants, chewing it, the taste bursting cool and friendly on her tongue. Like tea, like her gitgka’s hands waving through the air as she taught Faizra the words to ask the mona to bless the plants.
But this wasn’t the Turga, and she wasn’t a boch no more. It wasn’t the laughter of her fami that drifted through the dusty air but the sounds of Thul Ka, distant merchants shouting and carriages rattling over streets, the ever present distant rumble of the Pipeworks.
Faizra finished the mint leaf and curled back against the low wall that lined the roof. She stared down at the dusty floor beneath her, brushing her fingers softly over sage leaves.
If she hadn’t been so close to the edge.
If she hadn’t lost track of her thoughts in favor of silence.
If she hadn’t turned her head just then, if Hulali hadn’t tricked the wind into whisking the sounds up from the window below...
“... if Faizra is vreska.”
A pause, a silence. Faizra’s fingers dug at the roof, her body shaking, as if she might be able to find a fingerhold there, something to hold on to.
“She’s young t’ drift and she ent want to talk on it. She might’ve done somethin’, hama.”
Faizra could see Saika pezre Lisha in her mind, picture her standing there at the kitchen window. Maybe with that basin she liked for her sink, wringing out one of the towels she used for cleaning to hang it out the window for drying. She could almost see Hamid pez Farouk behind her, could fill in the space between Saika’s words with his arguments without needing to hear them.
“An’ if ye’re wrong? We’ve kept her for months when ye said it’d be a week.” Silence, another space. “She ent our kint. We got our littles t’ think of, hama. I ent sayin’ I don’ like her. It ent that.”
Faizra rose swiftly. She slipped the borrowed sandals from her feet, leaving them neatly amidst the plants, precious googles piled on top. Nothing but the clothes on her back; worse even than when she had entered Thul Ka. For a moment, she thought of asking for money or else sneaking downstairs, maybe when everyone was asleep and taking their little locked box of coins. Then, sick with shame, she made her way to the edge of the roof.
Not no one’s kint, now, Faizra reminded herself. Pleasant to pretend, these last few months, sleeping inside like a tsat but at least with tekaa, with the touch of glamours soft against her own and friendly familiar Tek as she struggled to wrap her tongue around Mugrobi. Work to do, not like her first weeks when no one would hire her, even for nothing. For a while Faizra had almost let herself believe this home could be hers too.
She didn’t want to argue, didn’t want to defend. Didn’t want to talk on none of it; wouldn’t help. So instead of hooking bare feet over the ladder that would take her down to the back door, Faizra walked nimbly along the board laid to the next roof. She walked past strings of laundry, more plants, little shacks where families sat cooking, staying on the roofs until they gave out. She climbed down a drain pipe then and kept walking, dusting slow and steady.
Vreska.
The word burned a hole in her heart. Course they’d think it. Faizra should’ve known. She walked through the dusty afternoon as long as she could stand, and when she couldn’t anymore she crouched against a dusty wall and curled her face into her forearm, hiding it from the world.
It was a little while later that someone pressed a coin into her hand. Faizra curled her fingers around it, reflexively, and looked up. Whoever it was, they were gone already. Faizra glanced around, seeing other crumpled figures in the shade with her, desperate hands extended to the passer-bys.
Faizra bit at the coin, testing it with her teeth. It was real; she could get a meal with that, if she looked careful. She shifted, tucking her legs beneath herself, preparing to stand, and stopped. Slowly, she settled back down, hiding the precious coin away, and extended one arm out, slow and careful, copying the other beggars with her cupped palm facing up.
Better this way, she told herself. Her heart ached for the little rooftop garden and the laughter of Saika and Hamid’s littles, but mostly it ached for the Turga. No more looking back, Faizra promised herself. No more.
