song of silks
The scene was as lovely as usual. The sun was out and the wind teased the docks, ropes swaying by the wood and saltwater staining all it touched. Various ships, no matter their size, were majestic, these creations that held so many people and secrets. There were stories on those ships, the boats exchanging them with each other in a language only they knew. Seabirds cried, settling on the siding, posts, and whichever they could get a hold of.
Essam had sat, able to have enough in the market for a small bit of food, trying to consume an apple and stuffed grape leaves as quickly as he could, wanting the seagulls to leave him be. He would tear off chunks and remove stuffing, tossing it into the air for the birds to eat. He still ate enough to where he wouldn't be starving by nightfall. He cleaned his hands in the water, washing the food residue away before starting to play. Sea shanties worked best and he did his best to recall those from memory. Some of the drunkards in the taverns came around, at first to harass him for playing around their area. But eventually, their inebriation softened them and they soon joined him, singing along off-key drunkenly and giving him whatever little bits of pocket change they felt were satisfactory.
It looked to be an alright day. He idly wondered where that man, Cross, was, before continuing.
In the upstairs studio with the best of his looms, Jesame found himself being pulled out of a trance with the noise of a loud chorus of off-key singing down on the street. Baffled, he lifted his hands from the loom, rising slowly to keep the blood from rushing to his head, and shuffled to his window.
There was a crowd below in the street, wheeling about enthusiastically. Curious, he pulled the window open to look down at them. They were mostly drunk sailors, enthusiastically singing and dancing as a man played the violin in their midst.
A violin.
Jesame hissed in air, eyes going wide with excitement. It was rare to hear music in this part of town outside of drunk singing, so an actual violin and player was a rare joy. Torn between indulging himself and going back to a particularly fine work of jet black satin, he gnawed anxiously on his lip. The crowd didn’t appear too large- he would probably be fine. Making up his mind, he threw on a halfway decent shirt and his boots, and slid outside. The day was bright, and the normal crowd of people were gone. He slipped cautiously down the street, standing at the edge of the dancing singers, watching the violinist in fascination.
Essam balanced himself on his toes and danced and swayed, weaving in and out between the crowd. A few of the men teased that he was surprisingly feminine in his demeanor and took to twirling him around like a lovely lady in a dance hall. He found his way from the corner to behind the group, worming his way back to be near his case where anything of value was.
He ended his tune with a little hum and a note, bowing gently.
"Would you lot like me to play another number?" he asked politely, opening himself to requests. Usually the sea dogs would oblige him by humming a song and letting him follow, going by ear alone. He saw a newcomer in the crowd and pointed at him with his bow, tilting his head and gave a sweet, submissive little smile. "Do you have any songs you'd like to hear, sir?" heronfem@yahoo.com: (21:12:47) Jesame shrank back, startled. It was rare for anyone to notice him in a crowd- he was the epitome of average, and had spent a good three years trying to be invisible. People were staring at him expectantly now. Oh, blast, he was going to have to say something, he needed to do something, what was he going to do? He didn’t even know any music, just the whistle calls they used along the docks. His father had hated music, banned it from the house. OH. The docks. Idiot, Jesame.
“Do you know the song of the Lorelei?” He asked, a bit nervously.
Several people perked up. It was a popular song along the docks, one that was sung to young children still.
Essam blinked and tilted his head in a bit of confusion, the word not sticking to him. One of the sailors perked up, "Aye, a lad's song? I 'member it some."
Some of the sailors laughed and hooted as well, talking about singing the tune in childhood and started humming at various stanzas until agreeing on one: "Legend's faded storyline / tried to warn us all. Oh, they called her Loreley / Careful, or you fall..."
He took the cue, his fiddle carrying the notes and following the beat from the clapping and foot-stomping. The beat was jolly, much like the tune, regardless of the lyrics. He smiled, enjoying the people dancing and the added percussion of coins dropping into his case.
Jesame smiled to see the dancers and singers. The men were happy, faces flushed from drink and dance, and he slipped further into shadows to watch. This wasn’t his place, to be out in the open. He was supposed to be hiding inside, away from the bright lights and cheerful voices, but today…today could be forgiven. Besides, it wasn’t as though he had any pressing work to do.
At the end of the tune, several bells started to ring, certain ships readying to leave port and set sail. Essam looked forward, seeing several majestic ships still docked and tethered, knowing one of them had to be the one Cross was on. After all, he had said he was in the service of the Caroveres and the Tidecallers. A part of him wasn't sure why he held onto the notion that Cross would actually go through with it, but a much smaller part felt like he needed to believe in the soothsayer since they shared a very uncommon thread.
As the crowd thinned, Essam looked at the lanky, scruffy man with a little grin. "Sorry about putting you on the spot back there, you just don't look like a sailor or anything."
Jesame moved shyly out, looking at the man in fascination. “I-it’s alright, I need to…well, relearn boldness, I suppose.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “I’m not exactly out much.”
He eyed the violin curiously. “That is a beautiful instrument. How long have you been playing?” His eyes ran over the tattered gear the man wore- motley, mostly, the left over and worn out clothing of a man who had been on the road for a long amount of time. The fabric was well made, but definitely well worn.
Essam shuffled a little at the gaze, not certain why the other man was staring and instead went to his questions.
"About...goodness, fifteen years," he said with a nostalgic grin. "It's one of the only things I have left from the Wastelands."
He tilted his head, looking at the other man. He had a Western accent, knowing full well he was from Thellondel, but from where, he couldn't say. However, as prickly as he was prone to being around these white men, this man seemed cordial enough to be around the Easterners. He decided to place his prejudices on hold.
"What about you? I can see your own callouses from here," he said with a little tease. He had better eyesight than most, spending a good portion of his childhood and adolescence hunting vipers and scorpions with his mother out in the desert.
Jesame turned his hands over, ducking his head. The Arosian had clearly noticed them, and honestly it'd be hard not too- they were broad and scarred, the callouses wide on his hands. “I weave,” he explained shyly. “It tends to leave you with odd looking hands.”
He shifted, looking back through his lashes. It was interesting, seeing the man’s own hands. They bore a good deal of scars as well, though the fingers were long and deft from years of practicing. He was handsome, but the clothes detracted a bit from his face. The cloth was beginning to fade with age.
"Forgive me, but how long have you had these?" he asked meekly.
Essam blinked. "These?"
He followed the man's gaze to his attire, lifting up his arm. "Oh, these?"
He had to admit, it was a bit embarrassing, wearing clothes that were better suited for a growing teenage boy of eighteen than a young man of twenty-three, the pants hovering over his ankles a few inches. He turned a bit red at that, rubbing behind his head sheepishly. "Oh, uh, since I was...god, maybe fifteen?"
He kept them washed to the best of his ability, but he had no capacity for stitching. Whenever his mother brought out her meager sewing kit, he tended to stitch his hands more than the hems of his pants.
He knew he needed to buy clothes but making sure he had a roof over his head, tied with food and sometimes alcohol, gave him rather poor practice in prioritizing.
Jesame looked over him, taking in all the tiny tears and wear that had accumulated along the sleeves. The man definitely needed new pants as well, that was certain, and…well. After his encounter with Dalit, he was more inclined to believe that there were people everywhere who deserved to be gifted with his material.
Which, thinking of…there had been a beautiful dark green cotton he’d made not too long ago that would go beautifully with the man’s skin, and another warm blue that’d match it as well.
“Would you care to come back to my house for a spot of lunch?” he asked shyly. “I don’t normally have money on me, but…there is perhaps something else I could give you, that is worth considerably more. I think I’ve been holding onto it for you.”
Essam felt his heart skip a bit, surprised at the Westerner's offer. Today was turning out to be a rather good day after all. bibyechan: (01:07:03) "That would be rather nice actually," he replied, packing up his violin and giving himself a break. "Do you live around here?"
Jesame actually managed a smile, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "Right there," he said, pointing three houses down. "I heard you in the studio and decided to brave the crowds."
Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to send one of the children who played on the street to go and needle one of the tailors who owed him later. Cloth was fine, but a tailor was necessary at some point to make it into proper clothing.
Essam looked up, surprised and a little jealous. He wished he could live in an upstairs studio, but he had no idea who to speak to about that. At the notion of the man coming down to hear him play, he was more than a little flattered. It cheered him up to know people enjoyed his playing, giving him a reason to smile a bit wider on some days.
"Would you mind leading the way, sir?"
Jesame smiled a bit shyly. "It's Jesame, not sir," he said warmly, and motioned for the other man to follow.
"Jesame, then, thank you," he said, his Arosian accent tripping over the pronunciation slightly.
He followed the other man, making his way up the stairs and taking note to remove his shoes at the door.
The house was set up oddly- immediately inside the door was a staircase, and an open sitting room where a long box had been leaned against the wall. It was obviously not used often, the chairs and sofa an ugly mint green that seemed to have been coated in dust. A cabinet of books (these more commonly used, going on the lack of dust) was set against the far wall, with the light of two windows streaming in. Directly past the sitting room was the kitchen, and Jesame led him in, feet padding on nearly silently on the old wooden floors.
"Forgive me if I seem skittish, it's rare for me to have company of any kind."
Essam took note of everything. He was definitely a little jealous, given how large the area was for just one person. He must've come from some form of money given the roominess of everything, the collection of books, and furniture. He fiddled with his sleeves and shook his head. "O-oh no, it's fine, completely understandable."
He kicked off his shoes at the door. "Is it alright if I take off my shoes? It's customary where I'm from. No sense in tracking dirt outside into the home."
Jesame smiled. "Of course. It would hardly be my place to impose on anyone's customs." He lifted the kettle to the stove, where a low fire burned constantly. "Do you care for tea?"
Essam nodded, the enthusiasm of a little boy showing through his body language. "What sort? Black, green?"
He recalled old times of his mother coming home with milk and spices, making masala chai with her own variation of licorice root and apple blossoms. He missed it so, how perfect it was for cold desert nights.
Jesame ducked his head guiltily, opening one of the cabinets. "Tea is sort of guilty pleasure of mine- you're free to go through and find whichever you'd like."
He stepped aside, settling at the worse of the two wooden chairs around the small, circular table in the kitchen.
Essam tip-toed up to reach for a canister of black tea leaves, opening it up and pouring a tiny spoonful at the bottom of the chipped cup. "May I help myself to the cream and sugar as well?"
He couldn't imagine drinking tea straight. It tasted like hot water to him otherwise.
"Go right ahead," Jesame told him, rising to fetch the slices of ham and the herbs from another cabinet. "I can make sabzi polo for you, if you don't mind it with ham rather than fish like normal," he offered.
The violinist was surprised at the offer to say the least. No one really offered to make him food before.
His stomach growled. On one hand, he and his mother never ate pork, considering pigs filthy animals unfit for human consumption. They had their uses, yes, but their meat tasted of all the waste and excrement they ate, or so they believed. However, he'd be willing to try pork just this once.
"That would be wonderful, thank you. I- haven't had food cooked for me since my mother was alive, thank you."
The tiny shack he dared to call his domicile was by far too much of a fire hazard for him to cook with, let alone the fact that fire put him at enough of an edge as it was to cook with. He was so careful when he was outdoors traveling; however, inside was another story.
Jesame smiled, tension sliding from his shoulders as he settled a pan on the stove, and went picked up the covered pitched of water to cook the rice. As he poured in the water, he said softly, “It’s been quite a few years since I’ve been able to host anyone from the South. The last time was maybe a few months before my wife died. A weaver of fine rugs came through the village we were staying in, and her mother convinced him to stay with us rather than at the inn. He was very gifted.” He let the rice settle in the pot of water, and set the pitcher back on the counter.
The kitchen was rather cramped, a plain square with a long counter, multiple cupboards, the stove at a right angle to it, and the door just past it. The table was settled by a broad ledge that ran the length of the other side, on which various trinkets and baubles had been set. Bits of multicolored glass, scraps of glittering materials that had had mistakes he’d liked, and bowls of smooth driftwood. Jesame was a bit of a magpie.
Essam looked around in the tiny, cramped kitchen, mostly admiring the stability of a settler's life. As much as he enjoyed being in a tent with his mother, he liked having a long standing place to live, if only to keep him safe from the various elements of Thellondel. As the man relayed the story, he smiled. Perhaps not all Westerners were the pigs he had seen from D'Iacrit, with their pompous swagger and tendency to look down upon others.
"I'm sorry about your wife, sir," he said in a gentle whisper. He vaguely wondered if he and his cousin would've been betrothed if he hadn't left the Wastelands almost immediately after his mother died. A part of him had hoped so since she was virtually the only woman he ever found himself attracted to.
It did make his heart sing when others commented about the gifted people of his land. He may've met him once upon a time - after all, they had a rug with them to sleep on during the cold nights. The baubles and various knick-knacks came into his line of vision, and he resisted the temptation to touch and play with them, also mesmerized by their pretty colors and shapes. His mother would've liked them for she too collected various bottles to store spices and home remedies for them when she was alive.
Jesame’s smile twisted a bit in pain, but he inclined his head in gratitude all the same. “Thank you. She was a wonderful woman, and still remains in my heart to this day.” Clearing his throat and blinking back a few tears, he took out the thin bladed knife he kept in one of the drawers and began chopping some of the herbs.
“It occurs to me, maestro, that I still don’t know your own name,” he said.
Essam knew that pain rather well. After his visit to the twins, the pain dulled some, but his mother still remained close in his heart. Some might say her ghost held onto her boy not to haunt, but to protect.
"Maestro?" the Arosian replied with a little laugh. "You flatter me. Ah, I'm Essam."
He looked around, suddenly feeling rather restless. He wanted to do something, anything, mostly because he had always been a productive sort. His mother had instilled a sense of industry in him, not wanting her boy to become lazy or unable to do for himself. It had worked to a degree, apparently.
Jesame caught the shifting and smiled to himself. He knew the look, the need to be doing something productive. It was the same look that he got every time he spent time just sitting in his bedroom reading. Soon, always far too soon, he would grow restless and the looms would be thumping and clacking again.
"Would you care to see the rest of the house?"
Essam perked up at that and nodded. "I'd like to help but I'm kind of skittish around fires and such."
Plus it was considered rude where he was from. The host knew best when it came to entertaining. "Is it alright if I wander around?"
"Certainly," Jesame smiled. "Here, I'll show you to the other half of the house." He set the knife down, padding back to the sitting room a the door. Next to the stairway, set into the wall was an almost hidden sliding door. There was only two copper plated holes to use as a handle, and he pulled it back with two fingers. It slid soundlessly, and revealed the other half of the house.
"This was once the home of two different families," Jesame explained as they stepped into the much more used part. "There was a bit of a tragedy and they both left. I scraped together enough money to buy both and had the door put in."
The other side was the larger of the two, though it mirrored the living area. The kitchen had been turned into a room full of dye vats, the sitting room holding a cutting table and various other implements for upkeep. A small bathing room had been put inbetween the two.
Jesame pointed up the stairs. "On the second level, there are three small rooms, and above that is the room of my largest and most valuable loom."
Essam remained impressed, looking at the massive vats of ink. They smelled awful but it didn't matter as the dyed water had splashed out from uses, rending them in myriads of tones, everything from scarlet and saffron to emerald and indigo.
"Magnificent," he whispered to himself, never seeing a weaving studio before. He had been in shops, yes, but the makers kept their secrets under lock and key, and their instruments tucked away from viewers for fear of thieves and saboteurs.
"I'd like to see your looms, but I don't want to keep you from the kitchen. Food is expensive, after all."
Jesame smiled. “The rice will keep, and my neighbor grows the herbs. She treats me like the son she never had, and in turn I give her cotton for her dresses. I rarely buy food these days.”
He turned and headed up the stairs. They creaked under his bare feet, the only part of the whole house that still did. He liked to know if people were coming up the stairs. “Speaking of cotton, I think I have some for you. It’s been sitting in the cotton room for a while now- I couldn’t bring myself to sell it.”
Essam blinked at the offer, more than a little surprised at the insinuation. "I- I have no use for cotton. I'm not a seamstress or a tailor, unfortunately."
He meekly gestured to his outgrown garb. "Otherwise I'd have been keeping this up better than I have."
He followed nevertheless.
Jesame turned, hand trailing along the banister as he made his way to the last door along the landing. “I have tailors who owe me a few favors. I’ll send one of the street children to needle them until they’ll do it for you.”
He pushed the door open, revealing the smaller of the cotton looms, as well as a row of multiple colors of fabrics.
"Needle?" the violist replied with a laugh and followed him through, amazed with the various choices of fabric and colors. Was this how children were towards confections because he could see why.
He tried not to let childish want and greed over-take him but the choices amazed him.
Jesame smiled at the look on his face. Going to the far corner, he dug through some of the bolts, gingerly handling some of them until he came across a warm blue and deep green, as well as a soft tan. Smiling, he turned and proffered them to Essam.
"I believe these are yours."
Essam wasn't sure what to say at the sight of the fabrics or the colors. They were beautiful. He saw clothes in those very garments once, when he was just a boy at the market with his mother. She only pulled his by his arm and he realized years later it was because they couldn't afford things like that. He was still very stuck in the frugal mindset he had inherited from his mother.
"Th-there's no way. I don't know if I can accept these, with all due respect, sir," he said softly. A part of him deeply wanted to because he knew his mother would've wanted her child to not look like the poor nomads that they were. But she was a proud woman and wouldn't have accepted the offering until it was literally forced into her person.
"They're beautiful but- I don't know what to say or, gods, I..."
Jesame's eyes softened, and he headed out of the room, still carrying the fabric. "I want to show you something, Essam."
He headed up the stairs, pushing open the door to the large, airy studio.
The violinist followed behind, now feeling apprehensive and embarrassed for being so divided over a simple gift.
"Yes?"
Jesame set the bolts of cloth on the table, and pulled open his cabinest, revealing the gleaming specialty fabrics.
"If I sold these," he said softly, "I would be rich three times over. These kinds of materials have women drooling in their sleep, and noblemen dreaming longingly." He turned back to Essam. "But I will never, ever sell them. I am an artist, Essam, not a salesman. I sell my cottons and my broadcloths to stay afloat, to buy more thread to make more materials, but I am an artist above all else, and I produce like a madman. I stay here, in my self-imposed exile, rarely going outside save to draw water from my well. These are the least I can do, the smallest show of gratitude I can give for bringing beauty and light into what has become a very dreary life of late."
Essam had never seen colours so rich in his life. He couldn't describe the luxurious purples, violets, and fuchsias that were laid before him. He saw the detailing, at first mistaking the thread for plain yellow, but it glistened like gold. There were metallic brown yellows, reminiscent of bronze and sterling silvers fit for swords and heirlooms. The material, just by the sight alone, were of a luxury nobility had the audacity and privilege to grant themselves with while those of simple faith and simpler lifestyles were promised in the afterlife and no sooner.
He wasn't sure what to say in response to his declaration, fiddling with his hair and ears. "A-are you certain?"
It was rare that he was offered gifts, and even rarer that he had been allowed to accept them. Is this alright, Mother? May I?
When you are a man, Hakki, you will take what you earn and what you are given. You will ask me for guidance still, but you will be able to make your own choices without my being there, Mahin had told him once, when he couldn't sleep, when he fretted about the idea that she wasn't as eternal as he had once believed.
"Is there any way I can repay you for this? I'm not a rich man. I never have been, growing up as a nomad; my mother feared of days I'd put myself in debt," he whispered, not entirely certain why he was telling an absolute stranger these things.
"Essam," Jesame said gently. "You've already repaid me. You're here, speaking with me, and this morning you brought a great deal of light into my life. I don't hear much music lately, just the singers on the dock. You gave me a great gift- the least I can do is give you one in return."
Essam bit his lip, looking at the floor and the back at the man and nodded. "Thank you."
His voice was barely audible, but his submissive demeanor spoke volumes. Just this once, it would be alright, he assuaged himself, hoping no god above would frown on him for this momentary lapse into selfishness.
Jesame reached over, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. "Come now. There is nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to fear. This is a thanks, a gift, and if I may be so proud, an honor."
He sighed, moving to touch the cottons. The soft fibers gave lightly under his fingers, the warp and weft of tan, green and blue warming. "It is...rare, for me to have people here, let alone have people out and about that I genuinely like."
Essam looked at the man and nodded. "Well, thank you, again. It's just- my mother was a proud woman and perhaps that's where my aversion to accepting such things comes from. But I do thank you, from the bottom of my heart for this."
He thought over what he said about being liked and grinned. People usually told him that, but he always presumed it was out of niceties and rarely genuine - which was only fair, he played music for the sole intent to extract money. That was technically a lie, his music brought him joy like weaving brought the artist; it was easier to say otherwise though since this was how Essam ate and slept.
"You're a good man, sir," he said with a bow. "It's...definitely strange for me to accept such a gift from a Westerner, but life should have exceptions, right?"
A silence fell over him and suddenly, a little squirming sound echoed in the room. He smacked his forehead in embarrassment.
Jesame actually grinned, eyes crinkling in amusement. "Come now. I may be a Westerner, but I'm far less Western than the rest of this blasted land. And life should certainly have exceptions- I should know, I am one."
He waved his hand, picking up the bolts of fabric to take downstairs. "Shall we have lunch? The rice is about done, I'd imagine."
Essam looked at him and nodded, following the weaver with a newfound sense of resolve. He made a note to come back and play songs for Jesame as well when he came by the docks again.