The Witch of Old Isaiah
Exhausted from the heat and constant labor of winnowing the grains from the sand and husks, the men bid each other a safe journey home. Amir would see them the next day, as he did every day except the Sabbath. He and his parents spent the day in the mosque listening to Imam Farid chiding his sheep to follow the ancient laws and walk daily with God.
Amir waved at the group as they collected mats and stainless steel lunch pails. “God be with you, brothers.”
“And to you, brother Amir.” Leaving the back-breaking work behind, they walked down the hill to the path that led to the old city.
“Another day, another shekel.” The oldest of the group was always humorous. His playful nature made the work tolerable – almost.
Laughter crept across the scattering men, a sign of their anticipation for the evening prayer that marked the end of the day. It was a moment they all looked forward to, a brief respite from the back-breaking work they endured.
Dusty field workers stopped as the imams sounded the evening prayer in the towers. A High Imam started, and across the old city, the other minarets picked up the Ash-Shu ‘arā,’ songs of the Poets. The melody carried across the city to the fields, warning the faithful of the punishments reserved for the unbelievers. Amir rolled out his prayer rug and, facing the eastern sun low on the horizon, listened to the enchanting prayers echoing across the land.
An hour later, Amir ensured everything was ready for the next day. The shovels and rakes lined up, and the cleaned grain bagged and placed in the collection bin, marking the end of his day. He locked the heavy wood door to the mud and stone building and descended the path. The sun was now blazing a golden carpet across the sky.
When the baker’s son arrived home, he went straight to the courtyard at the back of the bakery and headed to the washroom, where his family cleaned clothes, bodies, and food. The scent of yeast, bread dough, and animal manure welcomed Amir home.
Below an open portal the size of a frying pan, a copper basin sat, turned green with age and filled with fresh water. A fresh towel, washcloth, and homemade lye soap bar were on the bench. Amir’s mother always anticipated his needs and presented him with a solution, showing her love and devotion. He smiled, thinking of how hard his life would be without his beloved parents.
Ladles of water ran over his head, and rivulets flowed down his body. He felt sore but refreshed as he lathered the grime off his skin and out of his long hair. His beard was short and wiry, his face and arms deeply tanned, contrasting with the lightness of his body, always shielded by his clothes from the pitiless sun.
A swishing sound caught the naked Amir off guard. He looked out the portal in time to see a slender woman ablaze in the fading light of day. She wore an unorthodox ankle-length dress. The dress was a maze of Egyptian patterns in blue and black, contrasted with orange and yellow. Her short and rapid steps set the creases of her dress, rippling in slow motion. A scarf covered her head, marking her as an unmarried woman. On top of her head was a hand-woven basket filled with fresh vegetables and fruit from the market.
She was alone. Amir felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, and his breath came in short, rapid gasps. As he watched her disappear from view through the opening in the wall, his fingers trailed down his chest to his aching genitals; he felt compelled to cover himself in shame from unwelcome thoughts.
Hyperion Sky 
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