THE GIRL WHO FELL FOR A GOAT HERDER IN THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS
THE GIRL WHO FELL FOR A GOAT HERDER IN THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS. ********** The first time I saw him, I was holding a copper basin full of sheep’s milk and trying not to cry. My name, though no one remembers it anymore, was Yamina. I was the daughter of a man who had once traded dates to the Moors and figs to the French. But now our orchard was dry, our father mostly silent, and our mother long buried. We lived in a Berber village tucked inside the folds of the Middle Atlas Mountains. The year was 1724, though we didn't say years that way. We counted the passage of time in olives—how many presses we could do before the rains came—and in love potions. Yes, we made love potions. Or at least, we believed we did. It was my grandmother, Leila, who gave me the jar. It was small, with a blue stopper and something that looked like burnt sage tied around its neck. She had whispered that it contained a blend of saffron, orange peel, salt from the Dead Sea, and dried bee stingers—though I thin...