The Ordeal

This morning at summer’s first sunrise, my older brother Nahro married the river. The ordeal was not his own but being such a great swimmer and so infatuated with the clever and beautiful Brula, he stunned us all by volunteering to risk the cruel currents of the Tigris on her behalf. Friends since childhood, he vowed to prove her innocence when Khamis – a brutish, middle-aged, traveling merchant from Nineveh with a swollen belly, foul breath, and the local magistrate under his thumb – had accused the girl of witchery after she had repeatedly refused his advances.

It just seemed too easy. How could a drunkard’s wounded pride spiral into an ordeal for Brula? Thank Assur my life is lived in the palace.

Because my lessons with the rab muraqqiate also begin at sunrise I could not arrive to the river in time to offer my blessings, to anoint my brother with juniper for strength, or to wipe my mother’s fear-filled tears. Instead, my lesson that morning was focused on removing the crushed cedar chips from the vessels in which they had steeped, their essences now transferred to the clarified sesame oil, ready for purification. I usually have a good nose and steady hand but as the minutes passed the tears began to form, and my worries about Nahro increased. I developed a slight tremble while filtering the oil which resulted in the rab scolding me twice for spilling. Worse, the tears tricked my nose and blocked my ability to accurately judge the strength of the cedar. Luckily, the rab didn’t see one of those tears rolling right down my face and into the oil flask.

I only learned of the ordeal’s outcome after my lesson was completed; 3 hours had crept slowly and felt like an entire week. By the time I reached the river, a small crowd had formed around the priest, the physician, my mother, and Nahro’s crushed skull. The god Enbilulu had taken him thereby proving Brula’s guilt. My mother must have squeezed every drop of water from her body through her eyes and onto my brother‘s limp body but her remedy would do him no good. However, it was Brula who would suffer the arguably more painful fate by being forced into servitude for Khamis as final punishment. Why do men always get what they want even if they don’t deserve it while we women are forced to always play their games? Nahro was my only sibling and now I feel as if part of me is gone as well. Was my brother’s spirit transferred to the Tigris in the same way the cedar essence merged with the oil? Would he always be there, his spirit crashing into the boulders along the palace riverbank, or would the river carry him out to sea and beyond? Oh Nahro, where are you now?