[piosenniel]

Qirfah sat in front of her tent carefully stripping thin strands from the long section of baobab bark she had cut from the tree that morning. Her sister, Qamar, sat a little way off at the small fire, stirring the contents of the large iron pot balanced over the coals on rocks. The children, played hunter and hunted in the grasses just beyond the fire, and she could hear the little growls of ‘lions’ as they stalked the ‘unsuspecting hunter’ with his blunt spear.

‘A little more of that ground up beetle shell, Mother.’ Qamar pulled one of the stringy strands of bark from the bubbling concoction in the pot, holding it up for general inspection. ‘Not quite purple enough yet. I think I put in too much of the blue plant.’

Jamílah ground a pinch of the tiny dried shells in the stone mortar and scraped them into the hot liquid. ‘That should do it,’ she said, sluicing out the mortar with a little water and setting it in the sun to dry.

It was a warm morning and the women were glad to be in the shade of a small scrub tree as they worked. Once done with their dyeing of the strands, they would hang them on the low-lying branches to dry and then weave them into the beautiful baskets for which the women of their tribe were famous. At their previous encampment, they had been able to secure a large supply of the dye stuffs they needed for the vibrant colors that they used. And now they were putting them to good use.

Besides the baskets for normal, every day use, each clan had their specialty. Their clan, the Bush Lizard, made elaborately designed large, long carry baskets with woven head bands to secure them along the bearer’s brow and down the back as they traveled from place to place. They were also famous for the beautiful woven baskets meant to cradle babies.

‘We will have plenty of strands for our cradles, Mother.’ Qamar looked thoughtfully at her older sister. ‘Enough I think for plentiful trading. And enough to make you a new one, Qirfah.’ She grinned at her sister. ‘When will you and Husam have another little one, and make me an auntie again?!’

‘Ah, well . . . who can tell?’ Qirfah turned the question deftly aside as she held up the pile of strands she had done. ‘Shall I cut another section of bark, or will this be enough, Mother.’

Jamílah looked critically at the mound of strands and proclaimed it enough. ‘Do the greens and the yellows next, you two. I think we have enough of the reds and blues and purples. Then hang them up to dry and we’ll begin the weaving tomorrow.’ She rose from her mat and went into her tent, coming out a few moments later with the large hinged basket that held her medicinal herbs. ‘Hmmm,’ she murmured to herself, fingering the twists of powders in their parchment papers and the little stacks of dried leaves and roots. ‘I hope she has gotten some of the willow bark powder from the traders in the north, and that little root from the eastern mountains. I will bring her one of my own cradles for her daughter soon to be wed.’

Qirfah listened closely as her mother named off her inventory of healing herbs, a sudden flame of hope flickering within. Her hands, normally steady, shook a little as she divided the pile of strands into two equal groups. She kept quiet, her eyes fixed on the two growing piles as if they were the whole world to her.

Qamar’s eyes narrowed at her sister’s studied indifference to her mother’s mention of trading herbs and an impending wedding. She stirred the pot of brilliant purple strands thoughtfully, thinking about what her husband had mentioned that morning on his return from the spring.

The Painted Sands are near and Mother is going to see Briellah. That means Ahmad is near, too near. She stole a glance at her sister, studying her tense form. She will bear close watching.

Qamar drew a deep breath, exhaling it slowly, and looked to the east.