A Collision In Time

At the end of the day we can endure much more than we think we can.

– Frida Kahlo

Winter, 3203 BC (November 6th, Gregorian), Uruk, Sumeria

Dov awoke, and as her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she remembered where she was. She noticed Cara perched beside her bed on an awkward woven reed chair, asleep and not appearing at all comfortable. A goblet of water rested on the cedar table next to Cara. Dov reached for the water and drank with thirst, pleasantly surprised at its honey sweetness. She had rarely been ill on Pachamama, as was the case with most of its citizens, and she reflected on how much she had taken her health for granted. She finished the water and propped herself up.

Cara opened her eyes. “Dov, you’re awake.” She leaned over and wiped Dov’s damp forehead with a small cloth. “You look so much better this morning—your color has come back.”

Dov grinned. “I do feel much better.” She waited until Cara finished wiping her forehead, enjoying the coolness of the fabric, and the attention. “I assume Ariel concocted a vaccine or something?”

“You assume exactly right.” Cara rinsed the cloth in a basin. “I am so happy to see you looking well. You were really sick. I was worried. A lot of people were.”

“I don’t remember anything other than the odd interaction here and there.”

“Probably better you don’t.” Cara wet the cloth again. “Are you strong enough to wash?”

“Maybe in a while; I still feel weak, to be honest, and tired. I wouldn’t mind sleeping for a while longer.” Dov paused. “I am hungry, which I suppose is a good sign, but would you be able to bring me something to eat in a couple of hours? Some cut apples and honey would be nice.”

“Absolutely,” said Cara. “You sleep, and in the meantime, I have to chat with Emerson and clear some shit up.”

“The same?”

“Yeah, he’s being sensitive.” Cara chuckled. “It’s okay, I’m very used to dealing with those types.”

Dov laughed. “Just go easy on him.”

* * *

Cara left and searched for Emerson but couldn’t find him. Instead, she found Iamma in the kitchen preparing bread, which reminded her of her promise to bring Dov apples. The thought of bothering Iamma to gather apples and their inability to communicate, despite Cara’s increasing use of Sumerian, frustrated her. She found interacting with Amarenzu much easier and searched for her instead. She found her in the garden, making pottery bowls.

“Hello Amarenzu,” she said in Sumerian.

“Hello Cara,” Amarenzu answered in English.

Cara had an idea. She laughed and continued, remembering the Sumerian words. “Walk. Market. Food. You and Cara?”

“Yes, when?” Amarenzu spoke in Sumerian, translated by the chip in Cara’s ear.

“Now?”

“Yes, let’s go. I will take two baskets.”

The Eanna District market hummed with activity. It amazed Cara that the blueprint for a food market remained unchanged after five thousand years. Rows of tents and displays of food were set upon tables and benches, arranged to highlight the merchants’ finest inventories. The difference with this ancient market was the exchange procedure. Sumerian sellers did not use currency; instead, they noted who the buyer was and recorded the transaction on a clay tablet. How they profited remained unclear to Cara.

To avoid discrimination and controversy about Cara, she and Amarenzu approached the vendors carefully. Cara wore a scarf around her hair that partly hid her face. Amarenzu grabbed a large red apple and said the word out loud to Cara, like a teacher to her student. Cara whispered in Amarenzu’s ear, repeating what she understood. This led to a bout of laughter and a repeat of the process until Cara was able to satisfy Amarenzu that she had mastered the word “apple.”

They wandered the market unnoticed and undisturbed. Every once in a while Cara believed she was being scrutinized or judged for her fair skin and relatively tall stature but decided she must be imagining it.

Once they’d selected a dozen red apples, Amarenzu grabbed her hand and walked to the honey vendor’s booth. The merchant displayed honey in a variety of sizes and colors. Amarenzu explained how each had an important meaning, but Cara struggled to understand the symbolic language she used. Unperturbed, Amarenzu introduced Cara to the merchant, a woman called Hirin, who scowled at her. Cara sensed her discomfort and smiled to break the tension. In front of the jars of honey, shallow pottery bowls sat filled with samples beside finger-sized carved cedar spoons. Cara assumed they were to taste and helped herself to a spoonful.

The honey merchant shouted. At first Cara assumed the anger was directed at someone else, but Hirin’s gaze focused squarely on her. Shocked, Cara backed away, put the spoon down, and raised her hands to show she had taken nothing more. The shout attracted a small crowd that surrounded the table. Amarenzu jumped in to speak to Hirin, though Cara figured it would be best to shrink away.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Cara said quietly, very aware nobody understood her.

Amarenzu spoke to Hirin, presumably to make an apology, and upon hearing Cara’s apology, grabbed her hand and shook it. Cara took that to mean “don’t speak anymore.” To make matters worse, Amarenzu began to cry.

It was clearly time to escape, but a graceful exit looked impossible. The size of the crowd swelled until it completely surrounded them. Men and women yelled, using words that the translation software could not decipher. Cara grabbed Amarenzu’s hand tightly, pivoted to flee, and lurched forward in an attempt to squeeze through the crowd.

A strange man grabbed Cara’s arm and she fought to dislodge his firm grip. Someone else pulled the scarf from her head, and murmurs arose in the crowd at seeing the stranger among them. Yet another hand seized her arms, and a third man reached to hold her around her waist. Cara fought to escape and yelled at her captors, understanding they would have no comprehension of what she was saying. In a panic, Cara realized she had lost Amarenzu.

“Amarenzu?” Cara called. “Amarenzu?” There was no response.

Someone kicked out her ankles and Cara lost her balance, fell to the ground, and found herself surrounded by an angry mob. Cara rolled onto her hands and knees, desperate to stand and run.

By luck, the crowd surrounding her parted; now was the moment of escape. As she shifted her posture to stand, a man in a black tunic passed through the crowd, grabbed her shoulders, and pushed her to the ground. His weight overpowered her as he used his entire body to pin her. His fetid breath and spittle made Cara nauseous. Two more men, also dressed in black, joined the first man.

Cara was trapped, unable to move. “Fuck me,” she yelled. She stopped resisting and waited. “A little extreme, isn’t it, you ancient fucks?” That gave her satisfaction. She waited, unmoving. “Kushim will feed you to the lions.” She smiled. “Did you hear me? Kushim will decapitate you.”

The throng laughed, yelled, and threw sand at her.

Minutes passed and her mood shifted. Far from being a trivial problem, the situation seemed increasingly desperate. She continued to be pinned immobile by three men. Even when the crowd dispersed, giving her the chance to scan her surroundings, the three men waited, their expressions patient. Cara wondered who held her captive and what they waited for. Kushim, perhaps? Did their black tunics and white belts signal they acted as a proto-police force?

By now Amarenzu must be on her way to the market with Kushim. Cara reframed. She articulated the word “apple” in Sumerian and smiled at them. There was no reaction. She then said “Kushim.” Again, no reaction. What are they waiting for? she wondered. Or who? She was the one who now had to be patient. Cara grinned, appealing to their better nature.

The expression of the man holding her ankles darkened. He loosened his grip and his hands moved from her ankles to her calves, then above her knees. At first she assumed he was simply rearranging his grip, but once his hands moved above her knees, Cara understood his intentions. It was what she saw in his eyes, however, that frightened her. She had seen this look before, a savage gaze of power and control. No empathy. Only narcissistic violence.

“What the fuck,” she said, and stared at him so he could see the defiance in her eyes. He forced her thighs open. She tensed her legs and kicked at him, but to little avail. Out of the corner of her eye she saw another man approach and swing his leg in a kick. She braced for impact. She recoiled and moaned as pain erupted in her side and radiated through her body. The man again spread her legs, while the other man roughly reached under her tunic. Cara lay helpless as the man who had kicked her, emboldened, reached forward and ripped at the neckline of her tunic. Cara squirmed as he tore at her clothing. He maneuvered his rough hands through the torn garment and grabbed her breasts.

Confusion, horror, and indecision paralyzed Cara. She lay on the ground, in shock. Figures surrounded her, watching and chortling. Humiliated but indignant, she felt a second, more powerful surge of adrenaline flowing through her like lightning, awakening something deep inside her.

“Fuck this,” she hissed. She harnessed energy from deep within her, thrusting as hard as she could and knocking off the man on top of her. The second man, who held her wrists, wailed at her and struck her cheeks with his fist. She tasted blood inside her mouth. Rage fueled a desperate strength, and she bucked and broke free of all three men’s grips. She rolled over, then leaped upward toward the smaller third man, and he fell back. She kicked backward at the second man, hitting his crotch and buckling him. Finally free, she ran as fast as she could from the market, the men howling behind her as they chased her.

She stopped, frozen in place, shocked.

A bald man stood directly in front of her, flanked on either side by two beautiful women with flowing dark hair. The bald man wore a plain brown tunic with a simple rope belt. He had an amused expression on his face. The two women were dressed in tunics adorned with decorative beads and flowers. The tunics hugged their bodies in a way she had not observed any women dressing in Uruk. The two women grinned at Cara, even as her mood dropped. There was no doubt in Cara’s mind who they were. As she stood there, despair and defeat overwhelmed her will.

The men in black caught up and grabbed her arms again. The bald man instructed them in Sumerian and they pulled Cara away.