Page 14 of The Guardian's Promise

The light thrum of strings began to filter into the night. Mira often played the lyre for her father to soothe his ailing health, which always amazed Ari given the condition of her disjointed fingers. He’d never asked what had caused the scarring and curling of her fingers, but he’d heard the servants speak of an accident when she was a child, one where a wild dog had attacked her. If their stories were true, that made her rescue of him all the more courageous.

Tonight it was as if she played for him and him alone. The chords, a soft, yet whimsical tune clashed through his conscience. It spoke to the warring emotions within his soul. When he went home, would he long for this isolated place? Would he long for a glimpse of the beautiful Mira? Would he long for her scorn and her outspoken ways?

Perhaps.

* * *

Mira uncurled her legs and rose from the woven rug. She leaned her lyre against the stone wall and tiptoed from her father’s chamber. His snoring assured her he slept soundly. Entering the courtyard, she massaged the gnarled joints of her fingers on her maimed hand and recalled the incident that had altered her life. She’d been naught but a young girl with the thought to protect her father’s sheep from the wild dogs. She’d never forget the vicious attack. The way the dog clamped down on her hand, jerking, twisting all the while clawing at her flesh. How could she, the scars she bore had kept her from an appealing marriage.

“You play with sorrow, my daughter.” Her mother sat in the center of the courtyard in front of the hand mill. Several oil lamps illuminated the lines of age around her eyes.

Mira dropped her hands to her sides, hoping she had not been caught massaging her fingers. “Do you ever wonder, Ima, if God truly hears us?” she asked, sitting across from her mother. Mira scooped a handful of wheat from the pottery bowl and dropped it into the center of the mill. She gripped the wooden pin extending upward from the round stone just above her mother’s hand.

“Of course He does,” she replied tilting her head to the side. The little coins, depicting her mother’s status as wife, adorned the headdress she wore and jingled with the slight movement. Mira had done away with her own simple veil once the servants had sought their beds, and so her hair hung freely down her back. A light breeze brushed across her cheeks, lifting her hair off her neck. She liked to imagine the wind was the Lord’s way of approving her slight rebellion.

“What if we do not know our own hearts?” Using the wooden pin to turn the stone, together, they ground the grain to a fine flour.

“What is it you ask, child?”

“I desire something, here,” she said, tapping her heart with her free hand. “What if my desires are selfish? What if they go against God’s will? What if He hears my prayers and it causes another’s prayers to go unanswered?”

Her mother halted the grinding. She brushed her fingers along Mira’s jaw as she smoothed back a lock of hair. “My child, you must trust God and His infinite wisdom. Prayers never go unanswered, but if they are not answered the way we think they should be, it is because God has something better for you.”

Mira considered the wisdom of her mother’s words. She knew she was right, but at times it was difficult to trust. For years she despised Ari for making her feel weak. But today he made her feel protected, cherished. Not an object to be pitied. She’d found herself daydreaming at the well, daydreaming of a union     between her an Ari. The more she considered the idea, the more she longed for a marriage with him. But it was more than just wanting Ari for her husband, and that is what she did not understand. Why would God open her eyes to a glimpse of who Ari was only for her father to demand she marry Esha?

“You should rest, Mira. It is late.” Her mother curled her hand around her fingers. The warmth and tenderness of her touch brought momentary relief to her aching joints.

“I should—”

“Rubiel will be here soon to help. Now go on.”

“Yes, Ima.” Leaning across the mill, Mira pressed her lips to her mother’s sun-kissed cheek. She rose and started for her chamber.

“And, Mira,” her mother called.

“Yes, Ima?” Hope bubbled in her chest. Would her mother tell her she didn’t have to marry at all?

“Not all is ever as it seems. That is why you must trust God. If God wills it, then it will be so. Have faith.”

“Sleep well, Ima.” Mira slipped off her sandals outside her door and entered the women’s sleeping chamber with a heavy heart. The urge to fall prostrate overwhelmed her, an urge driven not only by her thoughts of Ari but from some sudden weight of fear that her life was about to change. Soon her father would pass from this life, and it seemed, soon she’d be the wife of a man who could not stand the sight of her.

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