The 13th Tablet

They walked on in silence. After a while Jack cleared his throat, ‘As I was saying earlier, I won’t be working tonight as you are here, and I think we should join the villagers for a small feast they’ve organised to commemorate this special day’.

‘That would be wonderful.’

They continued to walk side by side, slightly self conscious and all too aware of their proximity. When they finally arrived at the village, the women were crying out the joyful and guttural sound which one hears all across the Middle East, at weddings or occasions of great mirth. A magnificent fire, set up near the biggest house, was blazing up to the stars. The men and children sat down on thick woollen blankets, while the women cooked and brought food. There was laughter, chattering and loud calls for more food. All of it was almost drowned by the sound of traditional Arabic music. Someone had brought a stereo cassette tape player. Jack and Mina were guests of honour and were seated on cushions laid out on the richly-patterned rugs. Mina was beaming with pleasure.

The music was turned down a little as an old woman walked towards the fire, holding something wet wrapped in a white cotton cloth. She opened the cloth ceremoniously and brought out a fish. She then sliced off the fish’s head and tossed it into the fire all the time muttering words in some long forgotten language. The men clapped and the women cried out. The old woman walked back slowly, and vanished into one of the neighbouring houses. The music came back on again, as though the scene had never taken place.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Mina.

‘Neither have I. I was hoping you might be able to tell me more about it,’ replied Jack, looking quite surprised.

‘Not really. Maybe it’s an old ritual which has passed down through the ages. The old name of the capital of this region is Nineveh, the city of the goddess Nina.’

‘And?’

‘She’s the goddess of fish. The cuneiform symbol for Nineveh is a fish pictogram.’ Jack seemed at a loss, so Mina added, ‘cuneiform, you know, the most ancient and common writing form in this part of the world’.

‘I’ve heard of cuneiform. Tell me more,’ he said, leaning back on one elbow to look at her.

‘The word comes from the Latin cunei for wedges, as the writing takes the shape of permutations of wedges or nails in soft clay tablets or inscribed on stone.’

‘Wow. That was a pretty clear and concise explanation. Do you speak like that to your students?’

She laughed and thought of friends back home, anthropologists who would have killed to witness the fish sacrifice scene. She imagined how they’d be writing theories on the ‘anthropology of fish’, fighting epic scholarly battles over the bones of an ephemeral custom.

She looked up at the stars and sighed, ‘I’d love some wine right now.’

‘Yup. So would I, but you won’t get any of it here!’ She knew as much, but it was still disappointing.

‘Wait a second, you Christian heathen. I’ve got an idea. Stay put. I think I have a bottle in my house. You pinch two glasses, and meet me at your car in ten minutes’.

He walked off, chatting with a few villagers on the way, thanking them for their hard labour all day. She waited a few more minutes before casually picking up two glasses and then sauntering off in the direction of her car. Jack was already there, hiding a bottle of wine under his jacket and carrying a shawl. ‘You don’t propose we sit in my car and hope no-one notices us?’ she asked.

‘No, no. They’re lovely people, but they wouldn’t like that much. We need to be out of sight. Let’s walk a little way away from the village. It’s a bit of a steep walk up some rocks but there’s an amazing view when we get to the top. The moon and stars can be our drinking buddies.’

The walk was steeper than she thought but they eventually reached the top. He was right, the landscape was breathtaking. As there was no man-made light for miles, the stars shone like beacons in the night sky and the moon illuminated the desert in a mesmerising way. They sat down on his jacket and Jack proceeded to open the bottle of red wine. He poured her a glass, then one for himself.

‘What shall we toast to?’ he asked.

‘To the cleanliness of the desert,’ she answered looking out over the sands.

He laughed, ‘To the cleanliness of the desert,’ he echoed, smiling.

‘What a place. Do you come here often?’ she asked.

‘Not that much. Sometimes at the end of the day to gather my thoughts.’

‘How did you end up here? I mean, here in Iraq?’ she asked.

‘It’s a long story. What about you?’

She told him about her despair when the lootings began in the museums in Baghdad and Mosul, how she’d flown out here and had worked at the university ever since.

‘What do you think of the war?’ he asked.

‘I hate war.’

‘Who doesn’t?’ he answered with a sigh.

‘I don’t understand how anyone would want to be a soldier. How could anyone want to learn how to maim and kill other human beings?’

He remained silent, but pulled out a heavy embroidered shawl with which he covered Mina and himself.