Trouble in Bèni Khiar, a Short Story

                                               

 1

The cloth was bound once below the chin, twice around the waist and once more at the ankles, while outside, two boys were asked to collect rocks. The boys made their way towards the market with an energy that defied the heat of the sun. Dust rose up as they ran, until their eyes felt gritty and their calves were caked in dirt. They slowed as they reached the outskirts of the market. The taller of the boys chose to navigate the backs of the stalls while his friend slipped in between the jostling crowd, the bicycles and the motorbikes beeping. Past the tangled noise of the market lay a stretch of woods, in which the roots of trees overlapped and sinewy branches were supported by broad, dry trunks. The taller boy knelt in the shade, his straw bag already weighed down with rocks. 

‘Quickly,’ He said as he moved to survey the ground by another tree.
‘Cheater.’ his friend did not quicken his pace, despite his growing desire to be sheltered from the sun. Once he had reached the closest tree, he leant against it and brushed off his feet, dirt sticking to the sweat on his hands. He set his bag down where the taller boy had knelt.
‘Come. Loads here.’
Soon, the straw bags had become full and were being carried back across the market. The shouts of men calling out the prices of fruit were replaced by harsh threats, as the boys knocked over boxes and tripped over the lengths of rope that supported the stalls. At the edge of the market, mounds of red and green chillies lay on large, dusty sheets. Several women leant in for close inspection, asking whether each crop was hot or sweet. The merchants first wanted to know which type they were seeking. The boys had only a short distance left to walk, but the bags were heavy and the straw handles chafed their palms. The taller boy stopped and sat in the shade of a local shop while his friend went inside to buy water. He reached for one of the rocks and tossed it between his hands for a while. He balanced it carefully on top of his head and closed his eyes against the sunlight.

A large slab of wood rested on the shoulders of six men, upon which lay a female body wrapped in a perfumed shroud. The body had been cleansed thoroughly, washed three times with soap and water, starting from the right side on each occasion. The abdomen of the deceased was pressed upon in order to release impurities which were then removed. Water was not poured directly into the mouth or nose. The hair had been loosened, with clips and bands taken out prior to washing. It was combed and shaped into three separate braids that hung over the back. After being covered, the body was left inside a cool, stone room, away from the heat of the midday sun. The men advanced along the road with long, steady strides, the body barely moved at the centre of mourners dressed in white. When confronted with the procession, cars slowed to a crawl or turned towards adjacent streets. On the pavements, onlookers bowed their heads and uttered short prayers while many began to follow. At the entrance of the graveyard, they stopped. The crowd was far larger than it had been at the time of departure, but not all passed the rusted black gates. An elderly man, dressed in a loosely fitted white robe, motioned for the six men to advance.
‘May god bless you,’ he said to those unrelated to the deceased.


The two boys scaled the fence slowly, one at a time. The taller of the two held up one of the bags over the sharp metal points.
‘Take it. Quick. Not from the handles.’
From the other side of the fence, his friend reached out and pushed both his palms against the bottom of the straw bag, transferring the weight onto his arms. The bag wobbled as he bent his elbows to lower it.
‘Careful.’ The rest of the rocks were passed over in the same way and the taller boy climbed the fence, avoiding the spikes. They walked across the dry grass, between marble graves raised high above the ground and those marked only by large rocks. The sun remained bright but the air was less humid. A faint breeze brushed against their arms and under their thin, ragged shirts.
‘This one?’ The shorter boy pointed towards an open grave, already pacing towards it as he spoke.
‘Yes.’
The grave, like the rest, faced the direction of Qiblah. From the outside it appeared to be a simple rectangular hole. Inside, however, a concave hollow had been skilfully dug into the wall of the grave, wide and deep enough to house a body. At ground level lay a pile of leaves and branches, left over from a tree which had been chopped down nearby. 
‘Are we expected to move all this away too? The shorter boy twisted his waist from side to side, stretching his arms behind his back.
‘We can’t leave it here.’
‘But we have nothing to carry the wood in.’
‘We will, once we empty these.’
The shorter boy sighed and tipped over one of the bags, sending several rocks tumbling.

The procession, reduced now to its initial size, flattened the dry grass as it advanced towards the open grave. The six men reached it first. They knelt in unison and slowly placed the body where the pile of branches had been. The mourners faced the grave in three lines. The women stood at the back, followed by the children, with the men further in front. At the head of the lines stood the elderly man, staring inside the grave. The group bowed their heads in silence for some time. Then, the elderly man began to recite prayers aloud. For several minutes he was echoed by the mourners that stood behind him.
‘Please. Now is the time.’
Those who had carried the body stepped forward. One of the men untied the knots of the shroud at the ankles and below the chin, leaving those at the waist. They lifted the body from the wood and knelt as low as they could over the grave, lowering it into the main hole and then carefully moved it to the side, into the hollow. They reached for the rocks at the foot of the grave and placed them inside until the body was no longer visible. The elderly man uttered a final prayer, before the men shovelled soil on top of the rocks.

The crowd of mourners had returned to the rusted black gate and were leaving, when one of the women observed a figure approaching from inside the graveyard.
‘There. Who is that running?’ Those that remained turned their heads and watched silently. As the figure grew closer, a second became visible behind it, running even faster than the first. 
‘That’s my nephew,’ said a cleanly-shaven man of middle age, pointing at the boy closest to the gates. ‘And his friend.’ He began to walk towards the boys, who were now close enough to be heard shouting.
‘Come, someone come!’
‘Quick! Quick! Hurry!’
The uncle of the shorter boy began to run, followed by the other men. The boys pointed frantically behind them, still shouting. The men’s questions went unanswered as they ran across the grass. They stopped at the grave where not long before, their heads had been bowed in prayer. Rocks and lumps of soil were scattered around the surrounding area. Muddied lengths of cloth were strewn closer to the grave. A pale arm and two legs rested above the surface, while the rest of the body, along with the head, dangled inside the hole. From behind the men came the sound of loud, tortured screams.