Here is part 4 of the story written by myself and Art at Pouring My Art Out Part 4 was written by me. To read the story in its entirety, you can go to the page I created which has all the parts pieced together for you to make it simpler. THE HEIRLOOM
Siria wandered. She had no destination or path to follow. She wore her blue faience beaded dress and, through the netting, her nude body revealed the tattoo marks of a dancer, an enshrined prostitute. As the blessing of motherhood had not yet endowed her, she had come to feel as though she were a disappointment to Isis.
Siria wandered until she arrived at the square, because sometimes it was best to be alone where people gathered. Yet as a vessel for pleasure, it was difficult to avoid the attentions of men. Men were her trouble, but not all men. By the time she found a space of solitude amongst the cluster of vendors, she had come to the conclusion that the foreigners were her problem.
Seated at the end on the edge of a stair, Siria began to manipulate a palm leaf that she collected on her way, tearing it into thin strips. She observed the people carrying about the practice of their daily existences. Each person was a strand of the palm, she thought, weaved together each in his or her place to create the design through which emerges the functionality of life. There was nothing without purpose. No one without purpose. It was her purpose to bring a new fabric into the world.
The foreign men treated her like a tool to manipulate, food to devour, an object for use at their discretion. They made her feel dirty. Her own men, the Egyptian men, revered her beauty, her divinity, and they enjoyed to listen to her sing. They knew that she and the other women in her group of entertainers were of value to the gods, as sensuality and music were aspects of nature, and sex was a sacred rite that brought forth life. This was why, she was now convinced, she had not yet conceived. Though the money and trinkets were rather nice, she never asked for these gifts, the foreigners just offered them. The Egyptian men knew better.
Siria weaved the palm strands together as she reflected. The sun beat down though she was partially shaded, and she glanced at the gold of Ra cast upon regions of her skin. Then she saw the child. She watched him engraving images in the sand with a stick. As she watched, she fashioned her weaving into a thin, small rope. He went to her when she beckoned him over.
“What is your name?”
“What are you doing over there?”
“I’m going to be a scribe. I’ll be going to school soon.”
“That’s wonderful.” Siria smiled. “I have a gift for you.” And from her finger she removed the ring given to her by Atuatuca, her most recent foreigner whom she now determined to be her last. Tying the palm rope to it, she then wrapped and secured it around Saa’s wrist. As she did so, she told him, “This is to remind you that you have a purpose in life, and that no matter where you are, you are adored.” She kissed her two thumbs then laid them on his eyelids, “so you will never be blind,” and after kissing her next two fingers on one hand, she laid them on his mouth, “so you will be true of voice,” then upon his heart, “so you will be knowledgeable.”
She kissed the top of his head, stood and walked away, knowing one day, soon perhaps, she would be able to proudly return to her family, as she would be pregnant, but not with the child of a foreigner.