The Serpent's Daughter (20 page)

An orchard of date palms and olive trees flourished on the near bank next to the rocky slope. Silver birch shimmered in between, forming a barrier against icy blasts. Across the water grew more crops, barley and corn among them, right up to the twisted and faulted layers of rock. Narrow irrigation channels cut across the fields at each level, ready to service even the higher terraces. She couldn’t imagine what life was like here in the harshness of winter, but right now, it seemed to be a garden spot.

“Come,” said Zoulikha. She led the way along a dirt path to the village center. They stopped first in a small, sheltered courtyard where a woman sat on the ground next to a long coil of clay. The new pot grew as she added coil upon coil, like a snake winding around on itself. Next to one bare foot sat a fired length of clay, painted to resemble a snake. Jade noticed the snake’s tail was broken. “This lady is Fatma,” said Zoulikha.

Zoulikha greeted Fatma in their native language. The woman immediately got up and hurried inside her house, emerging with a teapot and the ingredients for mint-flavored tea. “The snake,” explained Zoulikha while the potter fetched cups, “keeps watch against evil. It protects her pots so they do not break when they are fired.” She motioned to the ground. “Let us sit.”

Fatma returned and poured hot water into a beautifully crafted pot and added the usual handful of tea leaves, a huge dollop of honey, and several sprigs of mint. She did not look up at any of her guests, even when Zoulikha introduced them and inquired about her pottery making, translating everything for Jade’s benefit. Jade, in turn, translated into English for her mother, and so the conversation progressed slowly.

“I am worried about these pots,” said Fatma. “I think they might break when I fire them. Already the people who fear salt are making mischief. My snake lost his tail last week.”

“It is not his tail that strikes at evil,” replied Zoulikha. “Do not fear.”

They sipped tea for a while, and Jade twice caught the potter’s sidewise looks at her and her mother; curious but afraid to make eye contact.
Afraid I might have the evil eye, I suppose
. Towards the end of the visit, the old
kahina
spoke softly to Fatma and the potter relaxed, then nodded emphatically.

“I have told her you are here to help us,” Zoulikha explained. “I said we will hold a
haïdous
for you tomorrow. It is a creation dance.”

They made their good-byes and walked farther down to another house. Zoulikha announced herself at the door and ushered Jade and Inez inside. Once again, a pot of mint tea, the mark of good manners in any household, came out. This time the conversation dwelt on the spinning and the innumerable knots that showed up in the wool.

They went from house to house, each place with its own concerns. The flat loaves of bread burnt too quickly, or a nanny goat gave less milk than before. Jade drank so much tea, she didn’t think she could face another cup no matter how much honey or loaf sugar was put in it.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered to her mother after her eleventh cup, “if I don’t explode first.”

“You don’t need to drink all of it to be polite,” replied Inez. “Our hostess, Zoulikha, only takes a sip, but I’ve noticed it’s polite to slurp it and make noise. You should have done that.”

Jade groaned and excused herself to find a secluded rock pile outside of the village. Leave it to her mother to catch all the nuances of polite society even in the mountains.

“You will sleep tonight, Jade,” said Zoulikha when Jade returned. “Tomorrow we will show you the springs.”

They returned to Yamna’s home, where she was getting ready to serve a
tajine,
a traditional stew named for the pot it was cooked in. Her husband, Mohan, had returned from the fields and sat outside the door. Jade noticed that most of the village men left much of the village, especially the hearth and the town’s well, as the women’s domain, preferring instead to sit together in a sort of central plaza when their work in the fields was done. She wondered why Mohan didn’t join the men, but assumed he preferred his own threshold and knew his meal would soon be ready.

Zoulikha led Jade and Inez to the well where she drew a bucket of water from its depth, and ladled some over their hands before doing the same to her own. “Come,” she said as she gazed at the setting sun slipping behind the western wall of their valley. “We will eat and talk of unimportant things so as not to disturb our digestion.”

They returned to find another, much older man talking to Mohan. The newcomer wore a white turban that matched his short, snowy beard.

“This is my husband, Izemrasen,” said Zoulikha. “We often join Yamna for our meals. My husband wants to see his granddaughter, Lallah.”

They sat on woven rugs around a central platter of flatbread and a large but shallow clay dish with a tall conical lid. Yamna removed the lid to reveal a delicious-smelling concoction of lamb, onion, apricots, and dates. Once again, the scent of cumin tickled Jade’s nose. Everyone took chunks of flatbread in their right hand and used it to scoop out portions of the stew to eat. Izemrasen offered choice bits to little Lallah, who sat in her grandfather’s lap. The little girl ate very daintily while her large blue eyes took in everything Jade did.

“Your daughter is beautiful,” said Jade to Yamna and Mohan.

Mohan called to the child, who toddled quickly around to her papa, arms outstretched. He sat her on his lap with her back to Jade and fed her. His affection for the little girl was evident, and Jade smiled. For some reason, she’d assumed a girl child would not be as welcome as a boy. This was one time she was glad to be wrong.

As Zoulikha promised, they spoke only of insignificant things: the food, Jade and Inez’s clothing, the weather. No mention was made of Inez’s or Jade’s recent imprisonments, the mysterious leather pouch with gold and drugs, or the
kahina
’s missing amulet. After they finished the
tajine
and several cups of mint tea, Yamna served a platter of sugared almonds and dates. As soon as she set it out, a familiar voice called from without.
Bachir
.

“God’s blessings on this house,” he said in Tashelhit as Yamna translated into Arabic for Jade’s benefit. Izemrasen welcomed Bachir and bade him enter and sit down. “We will speak French again?” Bachir said, this time in French. Jade saw that he wore a fresh, clean
djellaba
under his striped robe, and he smelled of fresh spices and cedarwood. He smiled briefly, almost shyly, at everyone in the room except for Yamna and Mohan. He avoided looking directly at the former and nodded only perfunctorily to the latter.

Lallah giggled and squirmed in her father’s lap. Zoulikha also welcomed Bachir inside and made room for him between herself and her husband, but the old sheik excused himself to return to his own home, motioning to Zoulikha to stay longer. Yamna handed Bachir a cup of mint tea while Mohan scowled.

“Do you speak French every night?” Jade asked in French after Izemrasen had gone.

Yamna took over as spokesperson for the household and answered in Arabic, giving a nod to her mother. “Mother does not often have time to learn. But my husband and I try to learn as often as we can, with Bachir’s help.”

Bachir explained. “I fought in the war with a Moroccan regiment. We fought in the Sus,” he added, using the term for the area south of the Atlas Mountains. He pulled aside his outer robe and revealed a Croix de Guerre pinned underneath on his knee-length, homespun
djellaba
.

“It looks like your medal, Jade,” remarked Inez. While no one understood her English, both Zoulikha and Bachir caught the implications in Inez’s gestures as she pointed first to the medal, then to Jade.

“I, too, served with the French in the War,” said Jade. “I drove an ambulance for the wounded in France.”

Bachir translated for everyone, and Zoulikha smiled. “Ah, this is where death visited you,” she said.

“Bonjour,”
piped Lallah during the ensuing silence. Mohan kissed his daughter and fed her another sugared date as a reward for her cleverness.

“Blessings on this house,” called a woman from outside. “Zoulikha
kahina,
I need your help. My son is sick. There is a
jinn
in his stomach and it has entered my head.”

Zoulikha struggled to her feet, Jade and Yamna assisting her. “Yamna, you stay here and learn,” said her mother. “You already know the cures for this trouble. Jade will come with me.”

The old woman gathered up a bag woven in myriad designs from finely spun wool. Jade recognized the partridge eye, the zigzagging snake, and the handprint, but the central print grabbed her attention. It resembled a stick woman made of a triangle for the body with her arms upraised and a horn or crescent moon on her circular head. Jade had seen it before in a study of ancient history in college. It was a symbol for Astarte, a key goddess of the Phoenicians. Suddenly several similar lessons flashed into her mind. Dido supposedly became a goddess after her death, one closely associated with Astarte. It made sense. A culture that honored this ancient queen would honor even the symbols tied to her. Just who were these Imazighen? Was the speculation that they were the remains of ancient Phoenicians true? Or had they simply lived in close enough contact with the Phoenicians, trading together, that they exchanged cultural ideas as well as goods?

The woman with the sick child glanced sideways at Jade. She remembered not to make direct eye contact until Zoulikha explained her presence. This was not a woman that Jade had met during her afternoon tour. A few “ahs” and nods from the woman told Jade that she’d be tolerated at least, if not openly accepted. She followed the two Berber women through the quiet streets to a home at the far end and down one terrace. The boy lay on a sleeping mat in a corner, moaning and gripping his stomach.

As Zoulikha questioned the mother and then translated both the questions and the responses into Arabic for Jade, Jade managed to pick up a few snippets of Tashelhit, words like “husband,” “son,” and “dates.” Jade surmised that the boy suffered primarily from stuffing himself with too many dates. Zoulikha made a brew of mostly mint leaves and gave it to the boy to drink. Then she turned her attention to the mother’s headache.

From her pouch she took out a small square of cloth and poured a handful of eucalyptus seeds into it. She brought the four corners together and twisted the cloth until she made a tight ball. Next she rubbed the ball of seeds into the woman’s hand, releasing the seeds’ essential oils. Finally, after pouring the seeds back into a jar and returning them to her pouch, she handed the cloth to the woman and instructed her to inhale the fragrance on the cloth and in her hands.

By the time Jade returned with Zoulikha, Bachir had gone. Yamna offered more tea, but Jade declined, feeling she’d float away if she drank more. Zoulikha came to her rescue. “Our guests must sleep now. Tomorrow will be full of many preparations.”

Zoulikha kissed her daughter and granddaughter good-bye and led Jade and Inez through the village to the
kasbah
. While this four-turreted building lacked the size and majesty of a great city’s
kasbah,
which might house an entire village, its stark severity carried its own dignity. They passed through a smaller portal in the closed wooden gate and made the usual set of turns, which made the fortress more defensible.

“The village stores its grain here,” explained Zoulikha.

Once past the twists, they crossed through a narrow alley and another gateway into an open courtyard the size of a moderately large dance hall. An upraised platform ran the length of one inner wall. At the far end of the courtyard, Zoulikha turned right to lead them up a flight of stairs, but Inez stopped her with a respectful touch on the old woman’s arm.

“Jade, please tell our hostess that I can find my way now. I’d hate for her to stay away from her husband any longer on our account.”

Zoulikha smiled, her wrinkles creasing up as Jade translated.
“Shukran,”
she said.

“Do you and your husband live here all alone?” asked Jade. “Why don’t Yamna and Mohan join you? Then your husband could see Lallah more often.”

Zoulikha shook her head. “But then he’d also see Mohan more often.” With that, she wished God’s blessing on them for the night, turned, and went to her own quarters to the left of the courtyard.

Now Inez took over as guide and led Jade up a narrow flight of steps. The stairs went straight, turned a sharp left, and went up three more steps to a short landing and a T junction. From there one could either go down three steps and proceed ahead to a suite of rooms, or turn left again and continue up. Inez went down the steps and ahead into a receiving room off which was a corner closet-sized room and three larger chambers.

“That is the latrine,” Inez said, pointing to the closet.

Jade peeked inside and saw a low shelf around the outer walls with a hole in the middle. “It’s like the ones we saw in some of the old castles in Europe,” remarked Jade. “Very clever.”

Two of the other rooms were bare. The third contained brightly colored floor rugs and two sleeping mats woven in black and brown stripes. In the center of the room, a large coal-filled brazier sent out heat and light.

“Cozy,” said Jade. Her eyes brightened when she saw her camera bag. “Oh, good. It wasn’t lost. I can take pictures in the village tomorrow.” She settled herself on the mat nearest the bag and took off her boots, while her mother stretched out on the other mat.

If this room lacked the hominess that came from regular inhabitants, it did offer privacy and the warm fire, which someone had thoughtfully kept going during the day to warm the room against the night cold. Jade took out her notebook and pencil. She needed a moment to gather her thoughts before discussing their situation with her mother, and her notebook seemed to provide the best distraction. She jotted down a few impressions and sketches, then closed her book and set it on her lap. Finally, alone with her mother and ready to talk, Jade could bring her up to date on all the events in Tangier and Marrakech.