The air outside has taken a dusty hue as the demons of the desert throw handfuls of sand from one end to another. I sit impatiently by the flap of my camel-skinned tent. My sister has departed from me, gone forever; leaving nothing but beautiful memories and tears in her wake. Her new family’s caravan left in the wee hours of dawn and only the Lord of the Skies knows how well she fares in this shower of sand.
Battles leave nothing but broken bones, blood, and wails in their trail. Shrieks and shattered dreams echo across the sand dunes for several suns. Caravans in the Seven Sands follow a certain code of ethics. We are either to defeat the opponent completely, bone, body, and soul; with the few weaklings left in the midst of war walking to the winning side or we try and sketch an alliance to further brotherhood amidst the brothers of sand.
But what do you do when caravans of equal ferocity strike together as two lit torchlights mating together producing a greater fire. In our case, the crustiest leaves and driest bolt were teeming to spark fires of unrest, but the caravans’ Chief by Blood decided to contain the spark. Because a fight would have only burned acres of sand and caused death and destruction the likes of which would have gotten history singing hymns about. It all condensed down to alliances then. And so, it came down to us, sisters by blood and soul, by heartbeats and bones.
Our bond is as strong as the night proudly wearing the dark fabric of the sky or the dusk flaunting glittering golds. We were hardly seen without each other, one’s presence meant the other’s. Without one another, we are invisible. And now, with this sick twist of fate, my sister, the girl with a lock of colorful beats, has been sacrificed in the name of alliance. Married off as the third wife of the other caravan’s Chief of Blood.
Plucky and dauntless by nature, my brave wildcat of a sister was trained to take the position of the chief by my side in our caravan that favors sister chieftainship. Now, she has been wedded into a caravan where Chiefs of Blood enjoy tamed women, skilled in the art of carpet weaving. How can a wild rose survive amidst wild cactuses? The alliance is torture, a dagger of memories to my soul and a bitter vile of servitude for the next chieftain of our caravan. Maybe battle was a better outcome. How unfair it is to sacrifice one soul for an entire band of beating bodies.
-Masooma Memon
