Maulava gasped as a strong gust of red dirt swirled around her legs,
             and up through the many layers of her garments. The air was hot; stifling,
             and her gasp did little more than fill her parched mouth with another layer
             of dry, gritty soil. Like most Muslim women, Maulava was dressed
             conservatively. There were no flashing, gold ornaments on her neck, in her
             hair, or on her thin, sinewy arms. Finery was not befitting a women of her
             religion - to serve Mohammed was to accept her place in the order of
             things, to subjugate herself to her husband and society. Her dress was
             thick linen, soft with wear, and dyed a soft brown, worn on the hems but
             still functional. The openings of her dress, around her neck and wrists
             had a subtle red and brown stitching - the practice had been handed down
             from antiquity to prevent dangerous demons from entering (al-Rakkasa), but
             Maulava didn't know that. To her, the openings were simply reminders of
             her mother, dead for years now, who had so painstakingly created this dress
             and stitched the hems. Maulava gave thanks for her mother's skill, for
             without her expert touch, the garment would never have lasted, and Maulava
             would be without clothing; exposed in shame.
             She was so tired; so hungry; so insanely worn out from this endless
             marching through the fields and the deserts and the towns. In the
             beginning, she paid attention to her surroundings. She could remember the
             smells and sights of the first weeks of her journey with perfect clarity.
             Each town was different, each landscape a revelation, each day brought
             something new. She was uncertain and terrified of her path - and yet,
             somehow, she had relished each new day. The sound of the footsteps of her
             companions in this march was hypnotizing, intoxicating; it filled her soul,
             somehow. To Maulava, this was not the march of the slave, it was somehow
             the march of escape, the march of a so...