Initiates, Philip Spires [best motivational books of all time .txt] 📗
- Author: Philip Spires
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that was just to prepare for the wedding. I hope she’s not ill, or had an accident…”
The couple then turned to the right of the room. The entourage that had followed the new husband’s entrance was assembled there, and the battery of photographic artillery was charged. And, sure enough, now he noticed that when Nora moved, her feet took only the slightest of steps, while her expression, though proud and content, displayed clear discomfort.
For ten minutes the couple paraded around their dais while albums of photographs were processed. Nora’s shuffling gait became more pronounced the further she moved. Ted suggested he might try to ask her if she was feeling all right, but Sylvie gave him one of her looks, a glance he knew to mean he was again being impossibly stupid.
“I think it’s time we left,” said Sylvie.
“I agree,” replied a suitably controlled Ted who, in the same instant, set off towards Haji to shake hands. Ted was now the initiator and his assertion of Australian manner provoked a little comment, some banter and a few smiles, as thanks and other pleasantries were exchanged. He then took Sylvie’s arm and headed for the door.
“I will go as well,” said Zubaidah directly to Sylvia as she passed. “We will be late already,” she continued, grabbing her mother’s bony forearm with some force. The four walked from the room and back outside maintaining the group identity within which they had entered.
At the base of the steps, breathing refreshment after the clammy confinement of the interior, Sylvie turned to Zubaidah to ask her double question, her motivation mere concern for her husband’s colleague. “Do you know Nora well? She could hardly move. Has she had an accident?”
“It’s us young women,” Zubaidah answered, with definite Lancastrian vowels enhancing the non-sequitur. “We can be a problem. She is married now. There has to be blood. It’s part of the contract.”
Sylvie looked at her again, rendered speechless by her earthy directness.
Zubaidah sensed confusion as she steered her mother towards her car. She paused and faced her new friend. “You Westerners do not understand our traditions,” she said. “You live lives with no duty because you have no culture of your own. Nora has made sure that there will be blood. She loves her husband. Her new life must start today. So out with the old life and in with the new. She has made sure there will be blood tonight.” And with that she again grasped her mother’s frail but heavily jewelled forearm in a manacle grip and set off towards the parked cars.
The last of the guests were still under the awnings. The ceremony complete, their duty of attendance and witness done, the previously sombre faces now smiled, men and women mixed a little and there was some relaxation. A duty was done. A new world was glimpsed.
Imprint
The couple then turned to the right of the room. The entourage that had followed the new husband’s entrance was assembled there, and the battery of photographic artillery was charged. And, sure enough, now he noticed that when Nora moved, her feet took only the slightest of steps, while her expression, though proud and content, displayed clear discomfort.
For ten minutes the couple paraded around their dais while albums of photographs were processed. Nora’s shuffling gait became more pronounced the further she moved. Ted suggested he might try to ask her if she was feeling all right, but Sylvie gave him one of her looks, a glance he knew to mean he was again being impossibly stupid.
“I think it’s time we left,” said Sylvie.
“I agree,” replied a suitably controlled Ted who, in the same instant, set off towards Haji to shake hands. Ted was now the initiator and his assertion of Australian manner provoked a little comment, some banter and a few smiles, as thanks and other pleasantries were exchanged. He then took Sylvie’s arm and headed for the door.
“I will go as well,” said Zubaidah directly to Sylvia as she passed. “We will be late already,” she continued, grabbing her mother’s bony forearm with some force. The four walked from the room and back outside maintaining the group identity within which they had entered.
At the base of the steps, breathing refreshment after the clammy confinement of the interior, Sylvie turned to Zubaidah to ask her double question, her motivation mere concern for her husband’s colleague. “Do you know Nora well? She could hardly move. Has she had an accident?”
“It’s us young women,” Zubaidah answered, with definite Lancastrian vowels enhancing the non-sequitur. “We can be a problem. She is married now. There has to be blood. It’s part of the contract.”
Sylvie looked at her again, rendered speechless by her earthy directness.
Zubaidah sensed confusion as she steered her mother towards her car. She paused and faced her new friend. “You Westerners do not understand our traditions,” she said. “You live lives with no duty because you have no culture of your own. Nora has made sure that there will be blood. She loves her husband. Her new life must start today. So out with the old life and in with the new. She has made sure there will be blood tonight.” And with that she again grasped her mother’s frail but heavily jewelled forearm in a manacle grip and set off towards the parked cars.
The last of the guests were still under the awnings. The ceremony complete, their duty of attendance and witness done, the previously sombre faces now smiled, men and women mixed a little and there was some relaxation. A duty was done. A new world was glimpsed.
Imprint
Publication Date: 08-26-2008
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