A Question of Fathers

Seafood stew. Mustard greens sautéed in onion and garlic. Wheat berries tossed in lemon juice with almonds, grapes, and raisins. Artichoke hearts floating in olive oil. Lamb carved from the spit. Pastries stuffed with walnuts and oozing with honey. On and on it went, more food than Tyre had ever seen, and everyone chewing, talking, laughing as the melon juice dripped up their arms and the honey dripped down their beards. Nobody took a shekel, but every cook wanted her special secret recipe to be praised and remembered.

            The acrobats and jugglers swarmed the dais. Vohu Manah revealed his latest sleight-of-hand trick, making a bracelet or necklace or whatever he could coax out of his audience disappear in a false-bottomed box and re-appear seconds later. Hannu played like a demon on his double pipes. The sound of the occasional shekel landing at his feet inspired him even more. Relieved of her musical worries, Amaal sat back and observed the lively celebration. Her eyes fell upon the newlyweds seated at the central banquet table. The older gentleman with whom she had had the uncomfortable encounter was there, his mantle draped casually over his shoulder. Before Amaal had the chance to look away, his eyes met hers, and, much to her surprise, he waved her over as though they were old friends. Reluctantly, she made her way through the crowd. When she reached the banquet table, he put a half shekel in her hand.

            “I counted eighteen times that you played that Hymn to Ashtart,” he said, plucking a rose petal from his shoulder and examining it briefly before letting it flutter to the ground. “Surely, the goddess had heard it by then!”

            Amaal wasn’t sure whether he meant it as a compliment or not. To be safe, she smiled politely and gave a little bow.

            “May I see the instrument?”

            Amaal set the case on the table and opened it. The gentleman took out the various parts of the flute, turning each in his hand. Without looking up at her, he said, “Tell me, who is your father?”

            Amaal replied with the same answer that had, so far, been accepted. “I don’t know my father. I came into the city with the caravan.”

            “I see,” he said, examining the inner lining of flute case. “And do you know who I am?”

            “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

            “My name is Barca. I am the King’s General.”

            Amaal felt her throat tighten. “I’m Amaal,” she squeaked.

            “Oh, I know who you are.” He fit the flute parts back into the case.

            Amaal wondered how it was that the King’s General knew her name. Perhaps one of the temple maidens, or even the Princess had told him. Come to think of it, she realized, there were more than a few people in the city who by now knew her name. But that didn’t explain why they would be talking about her.

            General Barca directed Amaal’s attention to the newlyweds. “Isn’t the Princess lovely on her wedding day?”

            Amaal looked at the smiling, elegant Elishat sitting at the banquet table. “Yes, she looks like…a goddess.”

            “Notice how, although she is slight in stature, she sits tall with poise and grace.”

            Amaal straightened her spine.

            “Her gaze always remains on the horizon or above, never below, and see how she tilts her head attentively when listening to her guests or her new husband.”

            Amaal allowed her head to tilt ever so slightly.

            “They say she walks on air, and….but, oh, listen to me! I have kept you from your duties.” He handed the flute case back to Amaal. “Please, you must return to your group. Another song has already begun!”

            Amaal thanked him for the half-shekel, picked up her flute, and walked away, posture perfect, her gaze just above the horizon.

            The party lasted all day and well into the night when the crowd in the market square thinned to a rowdy few, and small fires burned in the streets to light the way. Amaal, Hannu, and Uru walked home and joined Manu and Sappir sitting in the courtyard. Everyone agreed it had been a great day. Hannu complained that his cheeks were sore from playing his pipes. Amaal’s flute solo went well, thanks to Sappir’s detective work about which no one asked further, and Uru’s stunning violet blue fabrics were the pride of the family. Grateful that their worst fears had not come to pass, the mothers said the evening blessing and sent everyone inside for the night.

            Hannu sat on his nest of a bed, clearly agitated. “You know how the Hyena stood up and waved his lance over the crowd? He’s a fool! If I had an army, I’d run him out of the city and give the throne to Elishat.”

            “Well, then, it’s good you don’t have an army,” Uru said.

            “He acts as though he owns the place!”

            “Well, he is King,” she said.

            “Speaking of armies, what did General Barca want, Amaal? I saw him talking to you.”

            “Ugh. The same annoying question everybody asks—‘Who’s your father?’”

            Hannu chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry about that. They just want to know who your people are, whether you’re rich or important, that kind of thing.”

            The sound of soft breathing told them that Uru had fallen asleep.

            “So,” Hannu said, “who is your father?”

            “I don’t know—and I don’t know why I don’t know. I don’t remember any father—or mother. Maybe I’m just an orphan.”

            “Could be.”

            Who’s your father?” she shot back.

            Hannu touched the gold ring that hung around his neck. “My father’s dead.”

            “Oh…I’m sorry, Hannu. I didn’t know.”

            “Pumayyaton killed him.”

            “Pumayya…what?

            “Well, not directly, but he might as well have.”

            “How?”

            “It happened a long time ago. When he was a little kid, Pumayyaton got into a big, nasty fight. He was choking this other boy and wouldn’t let go, and my father stepped in and broke up the fight.”

            “So?”

            “The Hyena accused my father of interfering with the royal house of Tyre. He went out of his mind and wouldn’t stop his tirade until finally King Mattan agreed to ban my father from the city. A few weeks later, my father was killed by bandits out on the road.”

            “Oh, Hannu, that’s horrible!”

            “I was born a few months later, so I never knew him, but the Hyena still had it in for my family.”

            “Is that why you and your mother left Tyre?”

            “That’s one reason.”

            “No wonder you despise him. But…isn’t it dangerous for you to be here?”

            “I don’t think he even knows we’re here. That was, what, fifteen years ago? Anyway,” he said, yawning, “I try not to think about it.”

            “But, Hannu, what if he finds out…”

            A soft whistle told her that Hannu, too, was asleep. Amaal lay awake, trying to remember her family and wondering if some ungodly fate had befallen her mother and father, too. She imagined parents of many different descriptions, but none of them sparked a memory. The more she thought about it, the less she knew, and the less she knew, the more she had to accept the fact that whoever she had come from, for now, at least, she was on her own. And so, unaware of the disaster about to unfold across town, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

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