[b]A proper introduction.[/b]

[indent]Shahid stands next to the men in the courtyard. He sticks his chin out just so and stares at each new member, appraising their weapons and clothing and gait. He is nothing like them. For starters, he is missing a sleeve. Torn at the shoulder, the fabric is lost in a pile of bloody, wet cloth once used to soothe the pain of burn victims. The clothes he’s wearing aren’t even his. Also, he is unarmed. Not even a grand stick. And with most of Sintra reduced to sticks, he had his pick of them. Due to circumstances beyond his control his must crane his neck to see any of the wrinkles or graying hairs of the men, reminding him of the great height distances between him and—well—[i]everyone else[/i]. Oh, and there’s the detail that he’s seven years old and fearing the wrath of his mother once she realizes he slipped away. The temporary hospital set up in the back of the castle is no place for a boy like him anyways. 

Shahid tries not to stare too long at one man, but every where he looks he sees Captain Sharkas lurking below the face of each person gathered. Whether it is the twitch of a sword hand or a side glance that doesn’t show any whites of the eyes, Shahid imagines the captain of the [i]Al-Qari’a[/i], a ship who’s namesake comes from a description from God through his messenger Mohamed (peace and blessings be upon him). Captain Sharkas is dead though. Another person who mother could not save. Like his father, Othman. She couldn’t save him either. 

Shahid spends his time in the courtyard gawking, mouth slack and tongue tracing the tops of his teeth, tasting ash from last night. He thinks about the reds and purples and golds. Colors. Black. Is that still a color? 

He likes the way the newest man stands with loose joints and in clothes with none of the flair as others. Shahid forgets about why he is here in this courtyard and instead tries to mimic the confidence each of these men portray in how they stand (maybe it’s through having one should cocked a tick higher or by standing with feet directly beneath their hips). 

[center])o([/center]
[i]They are not men.[/i]

Esra dribbles water between cracked lips by twisting a damp rag over the faces of her patients. Some are women and she can’t explain to the monks and nuns that she can’t take care of the men. It would be easy to use her religion as an excuse. (”I am Muslim, thus I cannot handle a man’s body who is not my husband or son or father.” If she could speak Portuguese fluently, this is what she would say to them.) But that’s an [i]excuse[/i]. Six years of medical training and she does not have the experience nor the confidence in caring for male patients. Yet she straps Deena, her youngest, to her back, orders Shahid to watch his twin brothers where she stashed them in a horses stall with warm manure shoved in the corner, and moves from bed to bed offering what assistance she can while stopping to adjust her scarf.

The monks only stop her to point to another patient or to give her smelling salts to help awaken a mother who still holds the remaining half of her baby’s body against her tit.
Deena pushes her feet against Esra’s back. How long has it been since she’s eaten? Last night. In a private dining room that was offered to Captain Sharkas and his accompaniments during his stay at Sintra until his business was completed with whomever man had the money to fund the castle. She grunts as she rises from her crouch next to an older woman who twitches with the brush of the wind against her burned skin. Her sagging breasts were burned off. Esra doesn’t expect her to survive until the night. 
Trailing back into the horse stalls that are now occupied by humans (some alive, some dead), she searches out her children. A monk is already there, handing them chunks of bread and fish. When he sees her, he give her extra helpings, smiling at her stomach. She cannot hide six months of pregnancy by sewing more and more fabric into her [i]djellaba[/i]. When she takes the food she does not smile. She does not sit until the man leaves. Samy and Ahmad, the twins with good curling hair, peer at their sister who sits in her basket, content as her mother feeds her chewed bits of bread. It’s a peaceful procedure for Esra. Quiet. A few moments pass. It is quiet. 

[b]“Where is your brother, Shahid?”[/b] Esra asks the twins in Arabic. Samy smiles, flecks of fish on his tongue. 

Even as she makes her way through the castle, her five year olds trailing after their mother who grapples to hold both her daughter and her scarf in place, those gathered in the courtyard are being briefed, including her eldest son. She will not be able to stop what has already been done. Like the death of her husband. Like the death of her lover.
[/indent]