AD 866, A Small Town in the Maghreb
Elena gasped when a line of fire stitched itself across her finger. She narrowed her eyes at the needle as if it were at fault. The new ones were supposed to more finely made than ever, but she just stabbed herself more. Shaking her hand, she looked up at the figure in the doorway to the courtyard when she heard her name a second time. She looked around at the others but they were kept their heads down sewing--at least, that’s how it seemed. She knew they were all listening intently, every last one of them.
“I am Elena the seamstress, Mudarris Alfonso,” she answered feeling nervous for she had recognized the badge on his tunic, the Grammatico. Not that she’d ever met him but she had heard of him of course, his arrival a few years ago had caused a stir for he had not been married. He was an older man so that furor died down quickly as he settled down and began to teach, first the government officials and then those with the time and inclination for words and writing.
“Here is no good. If you would come with me, I have already spoken with your employer.”
Elena was confused all over again, but he’d answered her most important concern and she rose and carefully put away her sewing. He beckoned her with a hand and she felt her stomach begin to flutter, gripping some loose tresses of hair peaking out from under her scarf. Instead of talking to her outside the shop he led her a little ways away from it down the street and beyond the outskirts of the town before stopping. She could see the irrigated farms spread out beneath her to the north, their divisions marked by the stone lined canals that crossed the lowlands and the thatched covers over the larger ones to reduce evaporation.
“Mudarris,” she spat out at last, “Why did you want to speak with me?”
“Now Elena,” he said kindly, “I’m just a Maestro, nothing so grand as that.” The gentle correction went right over her head as she waited. He sighed and someone more at ease than Elena would probably have realized that he looked amused for an instant before his face became unreadable.
“I received a letter for you,” he said pulling a folded paper from a pouch at his side. There was a blob of wax on one face, and on the other was something else, dark squiggles. “At least I believe so.” He pointed the side with the squiggles at her. Writing she supposed, though it took her a moment to remember the unfamiliar term.
“A…. letter?” she asked confused. “Is it from my Diego?” It looked like there were two different colors of wax on the paper. She waited, but he did nothing. Was she doing something wrong?
“Ah of course,” he said. Sliding the seal off the letter he unfolded it carefully and began to speak: “This was sent to me in my official capacity and it was addressed to you. It says: For Elena the Seamstress, wife to Protegero Diego, Second Andalucia Company. Your husband in service to the Crown participated in the reclamation of Oviedo from the unlawful usurper. We regret to inform you that shortly there after he was struck by an arrow. On his death you will receive his payment in arrears until the time of his death. His service was an honor. Commandante Garza, Third Banner, First Battle. “
Emptiness. Elena became aware there was someone else beside her because she was looking at his feet. The blackness around her receded a little and she wilted in on herself when he placed a supporting hand on her arm. “He was killed?” she couldn‘t believe it. If he was alive why would they have sent the letter? She put her hands over her face, embarrassed and ashamed for him to see her like that. She turned away from him but felt shame in not facing him too. “My h-h-husband…”
“I am sorry it came to me to tell you. I received it this morning, I thought it best to tell you as soon as I read it. Many women would never know, but your husband was an officer. I would hope you do not think of ill of me.”
Ill of you!? How could I have known without you, how could I have even made sense of it? She hated him at that moment for giving her the knowledge and it was only when her hand burned that she remembered the needle. Elena tried to steady herself but the Grammatico was going on.
“I do not claim to know your situation but surely you have a father, family.”
She did of course, her name was much longer than what he’d called her. But she did not think more could have fit on the letter. Odd thoughts to have now. She noticed a windmill in the distance turning. She felt disconnected and squeezed her hand again using pain to bring her back.
“My father is in Paradise. My brothers…. ,” she was still staring at the ground. But she knew, she would get up and wash her face in the fountain, and ignore the questions of the others. It was late, it wouldn’t be much longer before it was too dark to work. “We were married only weeks before he was called away,” she sounded lost even to herself. She was lost.
To that of course, he had no answer.
______________________________________
*Alfonso has been qualified to instruct in literature and grammar (Arabic and Spanian).
Elena gasped when a line of fire stitched itself across her finger. She narrowed her eyes at the needle as if it were at fault. The new ones were supposed to more finely made than ever, but she just stabbed herself more. Shaking her hand, she looked up at the figure in the doorway to the courtyard when she heard her name a second time. She looked around at the others but they were kept their heads down sewing--at least, that’s how it seemed. She knew they were all listening intently, every last one of them.
“I am Elena the seamstress, Mudarris Alfonso,” she answered feeling nervous for she had recognized the badge on his tunic, the Grammatico. Not that she’d ever met him but she had heard of him of course, his arrival a few years ago had caused a stir for he had not been married. He was an older man so that furor died down quickly as he settled down and began to teach, first the government officials and then those with the time and inclination for words and writing.
“Here is no good. If you would come with me, I have already spoken with your employer.”
Elena was confused all over again, but he’d answered her most important concern and she rose and carefully put away her sewing. He beckoned her with a hand and she felt her stomach begin to flutter, gripping some loose tresses of hair peaking out from under her scarf. Instead of talking to her outside the shop he led her a little ways away from it down the street and beyond the outskirts of the town before stopping. She could see the irrigated farms spread out beneath her to the north, their divisions marked by the stone lined canals that crossed the lowlands and the thatched covers over the larger ones to reduce evaporation.
“Mudarris,” she spat out at last, “Why did you want to speak with me?”
“Now Elena,” he said kindly, “I’m just a Maestro, nothing so grand as that.” The gentle correction went right over her head as she waited. He sighed and someone more at ease than Elena would probably have realized that he looked amused for an instant before his face became unreadable.
“I received a letter for you,” he said pulling a folded paper from a pouch at his side. There was a blob of wax on one face, and on the other was something else, dark squiggles. “At least I believe so.” He pointed the side with the squiggles at her. Writing she supposed, though it took her a moment to remember the unfamiliar term.
“A…. letter?” she asked confused. “Is it from my Diego?” It looked like there were two different colors of wax on the paper. She waited, but he did nothing. Was she doing something wrong?
“Ah of course,” he said. Sliding the seal off the letter he unfolded it carefully and began to speak: “This was sent to me in my official capacity and it was addressed to you. It says: For Elena the Seamstress, wife to Protegero Diego, Second Andalucia Company. Your husband in service to the Crown participated in the reclamation of Oviedo from the unlawful usurper. We regret to inform you that shortly there after he was struck by an arrow. On his death you will receive his payment in arrears until the time of his death. His service was an honor. Commandante Garza, Third Banner, First Battle. “
Emptiness. Elena became aware there was someone else beside her because she was looking at his feet. The blackness around her receded a little and she wilted in on herself when he placed a supporting hand on her arm. “He was killed?” she couldn‘t believe it. If he was alive why would they have sent the letter? She put her hands over her face, embarrassed and ashamed for him to see her like that. She turned away from him but felt shame in not facing him too. “My h-h-husband…”
“I am sorry it came to me to tell you. I received it this morning, I thought it best to tell you as soon as I read it. Many women would never know, but your husband was an officer. I would hope you do not think of ill of me.”
Ill of you!? How could I have known without you, how could I have even made sense of it? She hated him at that moment for giving her the knowledge and it was only when her hand burned that she remembered the needle. Elena tried to steady herself but the Grammatico was going on.
“I do not claim to know your situation but surely you have a father, family.”
She did of course, her name was much longer than what he’d called her. But she did not think more could have fit on the letter. Odd thoughts to have now. She noticed a windmill in the distance turning. She felt disconnected and squeezed her hand again using pain to bring her back.
“My father is in Paradise. My brothers…. ,” she was still staring at the ground. But she knew, she would get up and wash her face in the fountain, and ignore the questions of the others. It was late, it wouldn’t be much longer before it was too dark to work. “We were married only weeks before he was called away,” she sounded lost even to herself. She was lost.
To that of course, he had no answer.
______________________________________
*Alfonso has been qualified to instruct in literature and grammar (Arabic and Spanian).