Katarif

Once, long ago in the land of Kadus-Shar, there lived a a poor woman named Katarif
Now Katarif had been strikingly beautiful when she was quite young, but her father had been poor. So poor, some said that the local beggars had dropped some of their coins into his rag cart.
Because of their poverty, the rag-picker was never able to assemble even a single silver coin for his daughter's dowry. Katarif was unable to marry without a dowry and, as she had passed through her second decade working in whatever jobs she could find, the striking beauty had gradually faded into something more quiet, refined and alluring.
Assuming that one took the time to look past her poor attire to see the person wearing the much-patched garment.
One day, Katarif returned to her father's home after a day working the boilers and pumps at the baths to find the door of the house open.
Her father would never leave the door open! Katarif ran to her father's house and entered it to find the place a shambles. Every utensil, pot and kettle was gone. Every piece of furniture, even the firewood was missing!
The only things remaining were the tattered baskets where they had stored their grain and lentils, the chipped and cracked clay pots and bowls they had eaten and served in and the pile of rags that had been too poor to even sell.
She had started a few days ago to tie those rags into a rug. Her father had needed something softer than the ground to sleep on. He had insisted that he was fine, but she had seen how he moved slower and more gingerly over the years.
Where was her father?! He should have been home by now! Katarif's eyes darted back and forth, searching the tiny hovel.
There, at the rag pile! Something was sticking out!
She darted over to the pile and began tossing the rags aside. She quickly uncovered her father, cool to the touch, but not yet stiff. His face was peaceful, almost serene, as if he were transported by a blissful dream. Seeing the expression on her father's face shocked Katarif. What had her father seen or felt to cause him that level of joy? What would lead him to feel that way, knowing he was leaving her alone in this land? A land that had broken and consumed him, just as it would her?
"How could you?" she choked out through her sobs. "How could you look so happy about leaving me?" She weakly punched her father's bony chest.
A wooden 'thock' sounded, rather than the bony thump she'd expected.
Katarif quickly loosened the laces on her father's tunic and reached inside. She was astounded to see a small, carved and gilded board emerge.
What in the world? She slowly turned the board over to see a much younger, healthy and smiling version of her father painted next to a radiantly beautiful woman who appeared to be just st the dawn of her second decade.
Cradled in the woman's arms was an infant who, judging by the clothes it wore, was female.
Katarif stared. Was that infant her? Could that be her mother? Her father had never talked of her mother except to say that she had died.
She examined the painting again, looking for any clues that might tell her more.
The clothes were well made and embroidered. The woman had gold earrings and a strand of white gems around her neck.
In the background was a vinyard, an orchard of palm trees and a villa
Behind the villa lay a patchwork of green and gold fields
The woman! Yes, there was something... odd about her. Katarif looked more closely. The eyes! The eyes were green...with a wild look about them. The eyebrows also had an odd, upswept appearance. Either the painter had taken liberties with the image, or her mother (if that was her mother) was not a person from this land.

Hearing voices outside, Katarif quickly placed the board inside her blouse and allowed the tears and cries she'd held bottled inside to burst forth.