Two hours later, his father and his brothers returned. They brought with them the lifeless body of his older sister. He almost started to cry again when he saw her hanging limp and lifeless over his older brother’s shoulder, a rag doll who apparently weighed no more than a sack of grain. His brother pushed open the door to the women’s quarters and tossed his sister’s body inside. Then he shut the door behind him and returned to stand by his father.
“What happened?” Hamish managed, his voice coming out far higher than he would have liked. Under the stern cold gazes from his brothers and his father, he made an effort to lower his voice. “Is she really dead?”
There was no need to answer that question. He’d seen dead bodies often enough.
All three fixed him with that stern stare. No one spoke. Finally, his father said, “Her name will never be mentioned again.” With that, he walked to the women’s quarters, pounded on the door, and told his mother and the cook to get his dinner. All voices behind the heavy door ceased. The two women came out, moving slowly, their faces averted from men. They slipped quietly into the back, ghosts — the way they should be.
Later that night, Hamish got part of the story from his other brother, who was only three years older. The twelve-year-old was clearly shaken by what he’d seen.
They had gone to the marketplace, to the alley where the younger sisters had last been. His sisters had been walking down the way when a group of soldiers had suddenly come upon them. They’d tried to get past, but had been grabbed, touched, their veils stripped away from their faces. The strangers, pale men with loud voices talking in an unknown language, ran their hands over the sisters, laughing and snarling at one another. The girls instantly froze.
Mistaking lack of resistance for some sort of acquiescence, the soldiers had dragged them up a flight of stairs and into a dirty room with a few blankets strewn across the floor. There, the girls had finally started to fight back, screaming in protest. The bruise and the split lip were the results.
His older sister fought the hardest, and it had taken two men to hold her while a third ripped off her clothes. Grabbing the opportunity, his younger sisters had fled. The men, occupied with his oldest sister, had not followed. The younger sisters had made their way home, shamed for all the neighbors to see by their condition, running as fast as they could to get off the dark streets. It was a miracle they had not been picked up by a patrol.
“My sister — why did they kill her?” Hamish asked, his voice agonized. At nine, he was just barely beginning to glimpse the possibilities inherent in the difference in the sexes.
His brother turned away, his face an immature imitation of his father’s. Hamish felt tears well up again and panicked. It would not do to let them see that, no. Never.
He concentrated on his father’s face, letting it replace his sister’s in his memory. The high, hard cheekbones, the strong nose and full beard. He felt comforted by the strength he saw there, by the absolute surety. Around his father, there could be no weakness. No doubts. And especially, no crying. That was one reason the women had their separate quarters, wasn’t it? Because they were given to those displays of emotion that distracted men from the important things in life.
With his brother, he returned to the main area of the house where his father and brother were. Hammish approached, cleared his throat, and said, “I sent the women to their quarters,” his voice more unsteady than he would have liked initially, but firming it as he spoke. “They were too loud.”
A faint trace of amusement flashed across his father’s face, followed by an approving nod. “You did well.” He turned to his brothers, and said, “Wash. We will pray.”
So whatever those men had done to his sisters was too despicable to be discussed. Hamish decided that was it, and turned to follow his brothers to wash.
Three years later, he realized how wrong he had been. Their neighbor had come running over, asking for help. He had no sons of his own, only three daughters. The oldest one was gone, last seen in the company of a foreigner. He thought he knew where they were.
Without discussion, his father had summoned Hamish and his two brothers to join him. They proceeded to a poor outlying neighborhood, one where the houses were crowded close together, the rooms often rented to strangers. The smells were unfamiliar, the looks of the women far too bold. Hamish felt himself growing angry as they stared at him.
Without knocking, the men opened the door to a house and proceeded upstairs. Hamish brought up the rear. As the rear guard, Hamish was unable to see what initially happened. All he heard was a high, thin scream, followed by his neighbor’s voice shouting. His brothers crowded into the room, his father lingering in the doorway to watch for anyone who followed. He summoned Hamish to him with a slight flick of his finger, then shoved him into the room.
His older brother had already grabbed the foreigner and jerked his head back, but the stranger was muscular and was fighting. His younger brother clung to one arm, trying to pull it back, and Hamish grabbed the other one. His neighbor crowded in, then suddenly drew his knife and slashed the foreign man’s throat. Then he plunged the dagger into the man’s heart. His brothers let the body drop to the floor.
Hamish stared, dumbstruck. Blood, so much blood. The body on the floor twitched, and air bubbled out of the ruined throat, forming a froth. There was a sudden stench, as the man’s bladder and bowels let go. There was one final convulsion, and then all the joints relaxed into unnatural angles.
Then his brothers and his neighbor turned to the daughter. She was much easier to hold than the man had been, although fear and certain knowledge gave her strength and she fought them. Years of tradition fell away in the face of imminent death, and she screamed, kicked, and fought back, scratching at their eyes with her fingers.
Her struggles seemed to merely give the men strength, exciting them in some way that Hamish only felt an echo of. His father shouted encouragement from the doorway.
After a brief struggle, they held her spread-eagled on the bed. The father withdrew the bloody knife from the man’s heart and advanced on her, rage consuming his face. He touched the knife to her throat, holding it there. She froze, a small animal caught in headlights. He spoke quietly, his voice dripping venom. The words were seared into Hamish’s memory.
“You are dishonored. You are no longer of my house. You are no longer of my blood. By your actions, you are consigned to burn in everlasting hell. Let your fate serve as an example to others.” With that, the father pressed the blade home slowly, puncturing skin. Blood welled, cascading down her throat and to the bed as he bore down. She jerked, trying to escape the sharp metal blade separating her flesh, but it was no use. All she did was twist the knife, making the cut wider.
Her father stared into her eyes, vengeance in his face as he watched her panic. An ugly smile curved his lips. She groaned, air rushing out of the ruined throat, trying to speak or scream or pray — Hamish would never know.
With one final movement, the man pressed the dagger up. It rammed through her throat and under her chin, reaching up higher behind her face to the brain. He saw her open her mouth to scream, and caught a flash of the blade deep in her throat. Her father gave the knife one final twist, then jerked it out of her throat.
Her body spasmed, the death throes giving her strength to toss his brothers away. She convulsed again, then rolled over on her side, her fingers slightly curled in protectively toward her palms. Her nails were red where she’d made contact with his brothers’ faces, and one brother sported long, bloody welts.