The North Shore

Amaal sat on the hill overlooking the southern plain. The mud brick operation below spread out like a gigantic tan-colored rug: the mixing pit, the rows of wooden forms, the drying field, and the stacks of finished mud brick that, thanks to the constant demand, never grew very high. Somewhere down in the boatyard, Hannu was toiling away, making plans to start building his ship. Uru was probably at the beach with her tribe of snail hunters. She’d been testing a new technique for collecting the sea snails. Something about baiting wicker baskets with fish and waiting for the snails to creep onto the sides in pursuit of the bait. Her helpers were eager to prepare the baskets and find out if the trap would work.

Amaal spotted Ta’am down at the forge. The young smith was taking a long-handled pot from a bed of red-hot embers. He poured the shimmering liquid copper into a mold and left it to cool. From a vat of water, he fished out a finished piece, rubbed it with oil, and examined it. Even from afar, Amaal could see that he had found his joy.

To her, there was something unsettling about all this settlement. She had, as Elishat had suggested, helped in many ways—planting saplings, rocking babies, hauling water, cleaning wool—and still she had the feeling she was waiting for a turn that would never come. Hannu and Uru had no time to talk with her anymore, and Ta’am had traded in his writing kit for a hammer and tongs. Now the papyrus was sitting somewhere serving no purpose whatsoever, and the Queen had no scribe.

Uru came tramping along with her posse of snail hunters. She asked Amaal to come with her to explore the north shore beach where they might find more sea snails. She wanted help steering the younger kids. Amaal was not interested in hunting snails or herding children, but she hadn’t yet been to the north shore, and Uru had asked for help, so she agreed to go. They set out on the hour-long hike following the narrow goat trails that crossed the shrub-dotted hills. When they arrived at the low bluff overlooking the shore, Uru and the snail seekers scrambled down and headed across the long stretch of beach to the water’s edge. Amaal sat on a flat boulder and watched the children wade into the water with their heads bowed in pursuit of their underwater prey. The gulls skimmed the surface of the sea, a lizard basked in the sun on a nearby rock, and the palms swayed against a clear blue sky. The horizon drew a perfectly straight line all the way up the coast to the cliffs that stood overlooking the waves. The bluff felt familiar, welcoming. Away from the constant noise and bustle of the hill, there was no need to do anything or be anyone other than herself. She imagined herself a blank sheet of papyrus, waiting for a story to be told.

All at once, a thought struck her. It was an idea so ridiculous that she chuckled softly when it came to mind, and so perfect that she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. The idea seemed to have a life of its own. What surprised her most was the realization that it must have been there all along, undetected, quietly taking shape like a tadpole that lives as a tadpole until from one pivotal moment to the next, it begins a whole new life as a frog.

Uru and her tribe marched up from the shore saying the tide had changed; they would come back tomorrow. On the walk back, Amaal’s idea played in her mind, bouncing, hovering, zooming, deflecting all doubt. It was a joyful idea, bursting with confidence and energy, and by the time Amaal reached town, so was she. She had a plan. The first step was clear. She left the snail hunters and went directly to the forge.

“Ta’am!” she called out. “Ta’am!”

He looked up from his work, the lingering expression of concentration remaining on his face until he saw who it was and broke into a grin.

“Amaal!”

She smiled at the new Ta’am streaked in black, tongs in hand, gleaming with sweat. “How’s it going?” she said.

“My sore muscles are squeezing the life out of me!” He held up an arm to show off his new, firmly-rounded bicep. “Otherwise, everything is fine!”

“I’m here to ask a favor.”

“Anything for you!” He plunged his tongs into the cooling bath and pulled out a metal doorknob.

Amaal hesitated, afraid Ta’am might burst her bubble. He rubbed oil into the knob, gave it a nod of approval, and set it aside.

“What is it, then?” he said. “Come on, out with it.”

Amaal let the words gush out. “I want you to teach me everything you know.”

He gave a little laugh. “Everything I know about…?”

“…about being a scribe.”

Ta’am tilted his head in contemplation then looked at his thickly calloused hands as though he wondered if they could still hold a stylus. He nodded and said, “Sure, why not?”

Amaal could barely contain herself. “When? Where?”

“After I clean up, I’ll come find you.” Amaal walked halfway up the hill, floated, really, and stopped to listen to the city’s steady din. She noticed every sound—building stones sliding into place, wet clay slapping a skin on a new oven, a hammer tapping a bent nail straight. The human sounds, too—a grunt, a shout, a pleasant word between neighbors—everything begged to be described in its own unique way. Everything from the ringing chisel to the plunging shovel sang to her, and for the first time, Amaal heard music.

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