The Candlemaker

By Cassandra Hamm

Hot wax seared Asiya’s nostrils as she knelt before the candlemaker. She touched her face to the dirt, then lifted her gaze. “Alnisa hakim.” Wise woman. “I come to you today to ask that my candle be restored.”

Asiya held out her cupped hands, revealing a candle stump. Its thin tallow was milky green and smelled faintly of saffron and cinnamon.

Munira studied her for a long moment. Her uncovered head revealed pepper-dark hair cropped close to her brown skin—a style only acceptable on the memory keeper.

Asiya hadn’t seen her since the previous year, when she’d come weeping to Munira’s shop and left with a candle infused with her most precious memory. The wise woman hadn’t changed since then, but the candle was a mere stub clutched in Asiya’s shaking hands.

“Asiya.” This close, Munira smelled fresh, clean, like sand and sky. “You know that I cannot stretch out a memory beyond one candle. It strains the limits of my magic.”

“But you must. Today is the anniversary of—” The words caught in Asiya’s throat. Her mind recalled rotting flesh, feces, and her son’s gasping cries.

She focused on the warm richness of camel meat and cardamom drifting from the market. Slowly, her breathing eased.

Even those scents brought pain. Once they had been as familiar as the hot, dry air around her. Now, she had not consumed kabsa since Safi’s death. Too many memories. Too much pain.

When had she last eaten? Her stomach was as hollow as a gourd.

“My condolences, Asiya,” Munira said. “But it does not change the limitations of my abilities.”

Asiya bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. For the past year, she had lived on the comfort the candle gave her. What would happen when it was gone? “Please, alnisa hakim! This is all I have left of my son!”

“You still have your memories.” Munira tapped her shaved temple. “And that is worth much.”

“It is not enough!”

Munira sighed. “I can form a new candle for you if you have the coin.”

When had Asiya last worked? “I do not.”

“Then I cannot help you, sadiq.”

Friend. How could Munira call her that after rejecting her plea?

She grabbed Munira’s sleeve, but the candlemaker jerked away. Asiya stumbled backward, her hijab sliding from her head.

A gasp hissed along the line of those waiting for the candlemaker. Asiya ignored her shame, crying, “Please, Munira!”

Munira lifted the gray cloth and draped it across Asiya’s hair. “Adhhab bisalam, Asiya.” Go in peace.

“Wait!” Asiya said, but a man shoved her aside.

There would be no peace in Asiya’s heart. Not today. Not ever.

She cradled the candle in her palms. The air reeked of unwashed bodies and manure, smothering the faint saffron emanating from the small, waxy remains.

My son, the treasure of my heart and my womb. Her heart cracked. How I miss you.

She looked up. A man was watching her—one she had known as well as the recipe for kabsa. Pity flashed in the dark eyes of her ex-husband, Imad, before he slid his arm around his new wife, Tasnim.

He pretends as though our son never existed!

Tasnim shrugged away Imad’s arm, clasped her hands, and gave a quick bow to Asiya—an expression of respect and condolence. Asiya’s eyes widened. A flash of memory came to her—Tasnim, too, had lost a child.

Then they disappeared into the crowd.

Brittle hair limp against her shoulders, Asiya sat cross-legged on the messy floor. One last time. Her eyes stung.

With a deep breath, Asiya touched the flame to the wick. Instantly, the scent of saffron transported her to another time.

Safi stirs the rice into the kabsa mixture, his brow furrowed in concentration, his movements deliberate. I breathe in the round, warm scent of camel meat, the woody nuttiness of the cardamom, the sweet spice of the cloves. “It smells wonderful, habibi.”

Safi turns a blinding white smile on me. “I want to be a cook, Umi.”

“And so you shall be,” I say as he adds the final ingredient—musky, sweet saffron. I press a kiss to the top of his head, and we survey his masterpiece—the first of many.

Asiya sat blinking in shadow. The candle was a pool of wax in her palm, its flame gone, its wick nothing more than a charred thread. Ignoring the pain, she pressed her nose to the remains, straining for the last hint of saffron.

A sob burst from her lips, and she stood abruptly, hurrying to the door. The sultry night air filled her nostrils and brought back a time when she had fled here to escape the scent of rotting flesh.

She needed no memory candle to remind her of such things, no matter how desperately she longed to forget.

Asiya tore the eviction paper off her door and flung it into the sweltering night. It spun lazily to the ground. Then she crushed the melted candle in her palm, longing to fall against the dry dirt and never rise.

Spotting a woman in the twilight, Asiya hid her face. Was it just a year ago that she was someone to be envied?

“Asiya?”

Asiya frowned. Imad’s new wife had come to see her on the anniversary of Safi’s death?

“I know today is…” Tasnim trailed off. “I brought you some kabsa.”

Asiya recoiled. Then the scent hit her nostrils—the tart zestiness of dried lime; the floral, bitter bay leaves; the peppery wood-smell of nutmeg. Her stomach rumbled as she eyed the chunks of camel meat and basmati rice, swirled with pungent vegetables and spicy cinnamon.

And that scent made other memories flood to the surface—Safi’s brilliant smile, his mellow voice, his body tucked against hers—bringing pain, yes, but also joy. Not the conjured joy of a candlemaker’s magic, but actual joy. Deep joy that pulled forth tears not of pain and loss, but of hope and healing.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassandra Hamm has always been fascinated by the inner workings of the human mind. She received her B.S. in psychology and continues to apply her knowledge to her characters. Her love of writing prompts has spurred her to start blogging, submit stories to amazing websites like this one, and host flash fiction contests on Instagram. She is obsessed with cats, jigsaw puzzles, movie soundtracks, and Broadway musicals.

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