A/N: Just quickly, whenever there are authors notes, I advise that you read them. They clear up a lot of things. Thanks, enjoy!
"They say science and religion don't mix, they also say that politics and religion don't mix. Yet it can be proven that more than half of the world conflicts up to date are due to religion mixing with anything. It is the age-old, power-hungry, radical politician tactic that tries to force their beliefs on people who do not wish to get involved.
Religion is a totally different branch of the tree of the world's equilibrium-"
Is this an A-level essay piece? I wondered thoughtfully, staring blankly at my screen. Grade 10 Religion had to be my most controversial religion class so far. It was my favorite subject of the day, just because of the heated discussions that we got to participate in during class. I love arguing.
My mother says I enjoy it far too much for it to be healthy. I mean, no one ever got a heart attack from arguing. But there is no need to tell her that. Besides, this is religion class. While I don't enjoy the company of my classmates, I enjoy the class.
But I don't enjoy the writing aspect of it. Who does? Essays are basically opinionated pieces of bullshit that get graded for how well you can write and prove an argument. I never loose an argument. But something happens when I write essays and then that is where I loose the argument.
The world works in mysterious ways.
Now don't get me wrong I like religion. I am an active member of the Coptic-Orthodox Christian congregation. I fast, I dress modestly, I defend my religion, and so it goes.
Support your answer in three to five paragraphs.
This is bullshit, I thought venomously.
Now, unto Fate, just because I was reading about the three Fates from Greek Mythology.
Fate is a bunch of bull, and I have no other way to support that answer; unless you count how Fate made me a biological mistake (I wasn't really planned with my parents, they planned to stop at my only sibling). Sure my parents love me, but my mom seems to enjoy reminding me how I was never really planned, it got funnier as I grew older.
Just as my parents didn't really plan my existence, it seemed that God didn't nearly put in as much effort in the planning of my physical merits.
I have nice features, to say the least, standard dark Arabic features; dark hair, tan, olive-toned skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, and big lips. The only thing I actually liked about myself are my cheekbones. Apparently, they were a trend now, contouring and all that (although that was more of a Western thing.)
Sure my features are nice, but they fit together all wrong. The little things that only one notices about themselves. Pimple scars, a slightly off-center nose, and a big forehead (my ex-nun, drug-addict counselor referred to it as an elegant, high forehead). That is only the most flattering part of the many unfortunate features I seemed to have accumulated over the years. No need to scare anyone off by revealing all of it at once.
But I guess I should mention the inevitable now. I am not skinny. Call me chubby, or be mean and call me fat, but it is all good. That is what I get for being a really good cook. Mind you I wasn't all that fat. I mean, if wearing size 14 clothes is what you consider fat then fine.
It was getting darker just as it was getting colder, I noted dolefully. I still didn't even harvest the tomatoes in our back yard. Deciding I'd better get on with it before my parents come, I turned off my computer and grabbed a hand-woven basket from the corner, brushing out my worn, red khaleegy dress. Tomatoes and corn are expensive in the winter, so my parents grow them in the summer and store them during the winter.
It was smart but exhausting because I have to take care of it. Preferably before my parents find out that I didn't take care of it.
You live in this house, don't you? My mother's voice sounded in my head. I rolled my eyes. The number of times I heard that phrase is unbelievable. I am sure every child heard it at least once in their life as a guilt-trip to actually work around the house.
Stepping outside into our modest backyard (neatly trimmed rose bushes along the fence, bird fountain in the middle surrounded by yellow and red tulips, ceramic vases filled with white lilies and lavender, a sinewy apple tree next to our farm-so it continues...) I managed to weave through the maze of bushes to our little farm.
My foot suddenly sank into the mud. I looked down, surprise making me drop my basket. Generally speaking, water was precious and expensive in Europe. My parents didn't make it a habit of soaking the ground with it. So much that they exchanged the grass for stone pavement, skirting around the flowers and farm. I made sure to walk on pavement.
Instead of stone, it was a hole filled with dark, swamp-like mud. My eyes widened in shock. That was never there, to begin with.
It all happened so fast. One minute I was stuck, and the next, I was getting dragged down the hole at such an alarming speed, I didn't have time to scream.
My mouth and vision filled with sand, I suffocated.
I sat up straight, gulping in the cleanest oxygen I have ever smelled. My stomach was still spazzing, my heart was pounding and my mouth felt grainy still.
Unfortunately, the ground underneath me was not solid. I was in the rapid water, it's tentacles wrapping around me and dragging me beneath the surface. I was sinking, again.
This time, I really did scream. But my screams were muffled by a huge gulp of water. I began to choke. I heard a splash nearby and I felt a something grab onto my wrist and pull me up. Someone was dragging me away and soon I felt ground underneath on my feet. Several hands pulled my up again and soon I was on soft grass, coughing up my guts.
I was rolled over to my back and my vision was met by four men, aging with poorly kept beards, surrounding me.
"Ey, lass, wat'chu tink you're doin' 'ere, dressed like this? Where's yer 'uzband?" the man said, in a Scottish accent, so prominent, I had to strain to listen. My husband, I thought with a start, I was fifteen.
I then took a moment to scan them. They were not dressed in the fashion that I expected them to be dressed in. They wore rags, farmer's rags in the Medieval ages.
"Where am I?" I asked groggily, coughing up again, turning away from him.
"Why" another man laughed "you's in Whitby o'coarse!" the man laughed incredulously.
"You ain't from around these parts, are ye, little girl—where's you from then?" another man demanded. Their faces all blended in together.
Well clearly I am not from here, I am as Egyptian as it got.
Whitby? Isn't that in England? It is a beautiful Seaside Town in Yorkshire, England. I went there once. But now, it certainly didn't look like a touristic seaside town. It was rugged, wild, and overgrown with forests and unkempt landscapes from what I could see.
"I'm from Egypt," I said, groggily sitting up, shivering as my body got wind of the cool climate.
"Egypt? Where's dat?" a man said, scratching his head thoughtfully, another man slapped him over his head.
"Egypt, the where the Israelis ran too."
"No you wanker, Egypt where the Israelis ran from," another argued.
"Yes, that Egypt," I said.
"You's a long way from home," the man observed, "now I know nothin' much about land an' all that but I know it's far."
I wasn't even in Norway anymore. I wanted to cry.
"Iz dat how yer women dress in Egypt?" another man asked, all four of them curiously looked on.
I looked down at my Khaleegy dress, it was wet, no trace of mud on it, still a vibrant red, the only popping color around here, where all else blended in together, even the people.
"For the most part," I said, struggling to my feet, but promptly fell back to my knees. My legs wouldn't support me.
"You talks very good Anglish," the man next to me observed, "shouldn't you be talking Egyptian now?"
"Arabic you mean?" I corrected, "I speak both, what year is this?"
Everybody looked at her, weirdly even.
"You must'a taken a mighty blow to your pretty little 'ead if you dinna remember."
"It's 866 the year of 'r Lord."
I really burst into tears this time.
"Dinna worries little lark," the old man said kindly as he led me away from the three other men, who decided I wasn't all that interesting. "Father Ulric at the Chapel will find a place for ye to stay"
I was too shocked to protest. I was in the medieval ages. I was at the epoch where they burned people for being witches, I was in the age where the church believed that water was impure, I was in the age where the Vikings attacked.
I was in the epoch where I would not survive, for sure.
I looked around, then noticing that there were not many young men, only old men, old women, and perhaps a few young women, and very few children, all turned to look at me in varying degrees of wonder, disgust, horror, and open hostility.
"Why do they look at me like that?" I asked wearily.
"They ar'na used to people who look 'nd dress like you," The man said and soon they reached a small church, it was extremely plain, with only a wooden cross to vouch for its status as a church.
"Father Ulric," the old man said humbly, bowing his head. I looked at the altar and saw a small man, dressed in brown robes, a white sash around his waist and the top of his head was entirely bald, and the rest of his dark hair surrounded him like a halo.
"Ah, Peter, have you come for confession?" the priest, Father Ulric said to the old man. Peter blushed and shook his head.
"No, father, I am 'ere for her. I 'ave found her on the Esk. She dinna know how she end up so."
"Ahh," Father Ulric nodded in understanding. He assessed me from head to toe, his eyes lingering on my hair.
"Where are you from Child?" Father Ulric asked demurely.
"Egypt, sir," I said.
"I heard it is warm there," Father Ulric said, he seemed pleasant enough.
"It is," I said, unsure what else to say.
"What is your name, Child?" he asks again, gesturing for her to sit down on one of the benches.
"Yasmeen, sir."
"I am no Ser, Yasmeen, I am a priest, you will address me as Father or Father Ulric, " he said shortly, I flushed in embarrassment."Yes, father," I said.
"Tell me; how you can speak our language, can you speak your language too? Arabic, is it not?"
"I speak my language Father Ulric, but my father also taught me other languages, he is a merchant see," I was lying in church so heavily, I could feel the sweat breaking out.
"What other languages do you know then?" Father Ulric asked pleasantly.
"Norwegian and a bit of Swedish," I said hesitantly, I felt a bit of discomfort pool in my stomach. The priest tensed.
"How did your father learn such barbaric languages?" he said, his voice lost a bit of its pleasantness.
"I am not sure, my father travels a lot, and he is very intelligent too," I said, I resisted the urge to shrug.
"Who is your God?" the priest certainly cut to the chase.
"My God is Jesus Christ."
Father Ulric turned to her, derision in his eyes.
"Don't lie, girl. I know you Arabs worship your false god, Allah, is it not?" he sneered. I was so shocked with his change in mannerisms that my eyes were watering up. I furiously shook my head.
"No, there are churches too, monasteries in the desert, we worship God, I promise you," I said, m voice sounded shrill, even to my ears.
"Do you read Latin?" Father Ulric asked.
"No father, I don't,"
"Good, then I am sure you will be able to read the Bible, is that correct?" Father Ulric asked testily. I stared at him, I just said I couldn't read Latin, was he deaf, or was he just plain stupid. Before I could think anymore about this, a sharp pain erupted in my cheek and I toppled over the floor. Father Ulric just slapped me.
"No, father."
"Tell me, are you familiar with the story of the prodigal son?" Father Ulric asked, looking annoyed.
"Yes, father."
"Tell me the story then."
I had spent so long in the church, enduring the Bible interrogation of the not-so-nice priest, which by the time nightfall had arrived; I was struggling to fight my weariness.
"You have not given me a reason yet to question your integrity. Now tell me, girl, have you bled yet?"
The question was so direct and blunt that the words struggled to form in my mouth.
"Y-yes father," I stuttered.
"How old are you, Yasmeen?"
"Fifteen, father."
"Are you a virgin, are you wed?"
"Yes, father. No I am not wed, father."
"Good, that will make placing you much easier. For now, you will stay in the chambers I will give you in the house of God. You will get rid of that dress and wear something more appropriate instead of that demonic color. Tomorrow, you will wake up for mass at dawn and after that, we will see what comes next"
"Yes sir—"
Suddenly, Father Ulric's hand came down on my face so hard; I was thrown off the bench.
"Insolent girl," Father Ulric hissed "I told you to call me father did I not?"
"Yes Father, forgive me, Father," I said, trying to hide my tears. I just wanted my mother and father. I forced myself to become meek.
"Go, now. Godiva will take you"
Godiva was the sternest woman I had ever seen. Her hair stuck tightly to her scalp and it collected at the base of her neck in a tight, neat widow's knot. She was wearing a black, unflattering dress and whatever sign of beauty in her youth was long diminished if it ever existed.
She quietly led me to a room. It was a small room, with only a small cot that would barely just fit me; some sheets were neatly folded on the trunk on the foot of the cot. There was barely enough room for me to walk. Next to the bed was a lampstand and a small candle. There were no mirrors and there was only a jug on a bowl. Like what they used to wash with, in the medieval times. I almost smacked myself silly; I was in the medieval times.
"Change into this," Godiva said, her voice clipped and harsh to my ears. She gave me folded brown cloth, piled on folded gray cloth, white string, and smaller, white cloths.
"Yes ma'am," I said.
"Why do you call me ma'am, I am not married. Call me Miss Godiva or simply Miss. Understood?" Godiva said, raking me with a disapproving stare.
"Yes, miss."
"Good."
She left me, closing the door quietly, but I did not hear her footsteps go away. I sighed and set the clothes on the bed. I took off my dress, neatly folding it on the pillow of my cot. The dress was brown and shapeless; the sleeves were long and bell-shaped. The material of the dress was woolen and scratchy. Underneath I wore what had to be underwear, but I suppose they would be called small clothes. Overtop the dress I had to wear a plain white pinafore. She had given me a gray cloak too. I wrapped the girdle around my waist and knocked on my door.
The door opened.
Godiva looked stern as ever.
"You are dressed. Good, I had hoped they would fit. These will be your night clothes. Now change into that and that will be it. Go to sleep. Do not light the candle. We don't have any others."
Godiva then walked away after shoving neatly folded gray cloth in my arms.
I wanted to roll my eyes.
I opened my trunk and neatly put my Khaleegy dress in there, the cloak, the dress, the girdle and the small clothes in there and I shut the trunk. I then put the wool nightgown on. It was thick, which was good. I could already feel a chill.