The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3)

by Michael Joseph Murano

A horrified look appeared on the young girl’s face. “Is the shemmet getting inside my parents’ minds?”

  “Not yet. Cahloon is protecting them. She is very powerful and she is resisting the attack of the monster. You must go and help them.” The woman leaned over and spoke slowly. “Only you can save them.”

  Aquilina nodded. “How? Tell me what to do.”

  “The shemmet is a parasite that feeds on sounds. It’s a glutton that absorbs as many sounds as it can, and then sits and digests them for a long period of time before moving on. You must overfeed it.”

  Aquilina understood the idea in its general outline, but it sounded very bizarre. A monster that eats sounds? “How do I do that?”

  “There is a way,” replied the woman with a slight hesitation. “It will be painful, and I—”

  “Tell me,” Aquilina commanded. “I will do it.”

  The woman sighed. “Unfortunately, there are no other options. You must walk into the lake of fire, which is the noise from Tirkalanzibar. You must listen to as many sounds as you can, but do not try to listen to each one individually. That is impossible since the lake is constantly fed by all the sounds Tirkalanzibar produces at any given moment. Try to capture as many as you can. Do not listen to the words, do not seek meaning. Let the sounds fill your head. You will have to do this while walking toward the shemmet, so you cannot let the noise overwhelm you. Once you are a few feet away from the monster, simply scream. You should see a ray of light burst from your lips and hit the beast. Hopefully, the creature will move away to avoid the pain. When it does, you will see a passage leading to Cahloon’s tent. Jump in. If the shemmet does not move, flee. Get out of Tyrulan immediately or else it will consume you.”

  “But I don’t know how to listen to everyone in Tirkalanzibar.”

  “Have you never tried to fill your head with so many sounds at once?”

  Aquilina shrugged her shoulders. “Normally, I touch one of the plants to hear what someone is saying, but I can’t touch everything so quickly.”

  “There is a faster way. Tyrulan obeys your command. Step into the lake and simply say ‘listen’, and all the sounds will come to you at once.”

  “Really? Wow, I didn’t know I could do that.”

  “But as soon as you speak, the shemmet will become aware of your existence, and so you will have only a short moment to act.”

  “Won’t I hurt the real people and animals in Tirkalanzibar?”

  “No. They have already spoken the words and produced the sounds. You will not hurt anyone. Drink some more of the water I gave you. It will help ease your pain when you try to listen to all these sounds at once.”

  Aquilina closed her eyes. She hated the idea of sharing Tyrulan with a monster, a creature bent on destroying her and her parents. She looked at the mystery woman with unbending eyes and simply said, “I will not run, I will not back away. I will not give in. Tyrulan is mine and mine alone. I will destroy this monster. I do not give up.”

  She drank another long draft. When she set the goblet down, she saw that it was empty. “The mug says I am ready,” she said, grinning. “Thank you for everything, but we are not done, you and I. I will be back.”

  Before the woman could reply, Aquilina took a step and vanished.

  “Amazing,” the woman muttered. “Simply amazing. And quite terrifying.” She got up and walked outside onto the circular balcony where she opened a low wooden gate, and crossed another bridge. It led her to a stone staircase carved into the mountain face behind the tree. Ponderously, she went up the white polished steps and reached the wide grassy esplanade surrounding Tessarah, the Unseen Tower. The wind, gentle and fresh, greeted her, and she stood for a short while with eyes closed and arms wide open to its embrace. Slowly, she continued to the gate of the outer wall surrounding the tower. It opened quietly and let her in. Stepping inside, she veered left and went a few steps down a sturdy wooden staircase, and bending down, she walked beneath branches of olive trees that were as old as time itself. The shaded path led her to a tall, unadorned stone building with a glass-covered rooftop. Inside, in the streaming light of a golden sun, she found Lorinelle using a small gold hammer and chisel, meticulously finishing the carving of a statue out of a block of granite. The features of the face were emerging from the stone.

  “Good morning, My Lady,” said the woman, bowing.

  The Lady of Eleeje turned and greeted her with a warm smile. “Good morning, Lorelay, how did it go?”

  Lorelay cocked her head and smiled. “I did as you instructed, My Lady. I told Aquilina about the shemmet and how to defeat it.”

  Lorinelle smiled. “Are you worried, Lorelay?”

  “I am afraid of what the beast will do to her, but,” she quickly added, “you have shown me time and time again the wisdom of your designs.”

  The Lady of Eleeje smiled and resumed her chiseling. Lorelay stood and watched her, and for a moment, the gentle tapping was the only sound inside the solarium. Lorelay took a deep breath and smiled.

  “How do you do it, My Lady?” she asked after a while. “I mean, how do you keep your peace in the midst of these calamities?”

  After a moment of silence during which only the sound of the chisel was heard, the Lady of Eleeje answered. “Peace is the fruit of hope that endures, no matter the storm.”

  “Have we asked too much of Aquilina? She is twelve years old.”

  “Maturity is one measure of strength,” replied the lady as she worked carefully to clean up the edge of the stone nose. She dusted the marble cheeks with her fingers. “Yes, this will do just fine.” She turned to Lorelay and smiled again. “What matters is the heart, my daughter, and Aquilina’s heart is a profound sea of wonders that will surprise you. She is a true gift whose name will echo down the centuries. Do not fear, Lorelay, the power of the Letters flows true in her. Her command of Tyrulan is greater than it seems.”

  Lorelay breathed a sigh of relief, “Thank you, My Lady, I needed to hear you say those words.”

  “Do not forget, Lorelay, that Aquilina is not alone. She has you.” Pointing to the sculpture, she added, “And, she has another strong ally, who is the most wonderful, unexpected gift we could have asked for.” She looked at the face in the marble and nodded with satisfaction. “The choir will be calling us to the midday service.”

  They walked toward the door in silence. Lorelay turned around and gazed at the face in the marble statue. “She is truly beautiful, My Lady.”

  “Yes, indeed. And she always will be.”

  They stepped outside and closed the door, leaving behind the sun’s golden rays lighting up the resplendent face of Noraldeen.

  “All across the land, there are old temples, forsaken, and desolate. These structures are hidden in remote caves, deep within canyons and away from view. Even though they have been gutted out and destroyed by the forces of Baal, one should never underestimate the magic exercised by the deity worshiped in these sanctuaries and the power they are willing to bestow on followers too greedy to understand the mortal risk they take when they dabble with magic outside the protection of Baal.”

  –Sayings of Jehdi, Great Priest of the Temple of Baal.

  “Are you certain?” Karadon asked.

  “Yes, that’s him,” Hoda replied, pacing the length of the soldier’s room they were holed up in. “I will never forget his name, Karadon. A few days before the High Riders razed Baher-Ghafé, Arfaad asked my father for my hand in marriage. It’s him, I tell you.”

  “But, Hoda, Arfaad is a common name. This man may be a different officer. Did he look familiar?”

  Hoda stopped her pacing, sat on a straight-backed chair, and glanced at Vily sitting next to her. The young girl’s hands were folded in her lap, and she gazed at the stone wall across from them with an empty expression. At least she has stopped vanishing. Aquilina did the right thing to give her the medallion. I hope she’s managed to find Amaréya and Corintus.

  “I admit, I didn’t recognize him at first.
Besides, it’s been over six years now and while in Baher-Ghafé, I saw him less than a dozen times and only briefly, so it’s not like I have a perfect memory of him either. Still, hearing that name sent chills down my spine.”

  “I get that. But you’ve got to admit that our situation is much better now than it was a few hours ago. We’ve managed to avoid the mob, Vily is still alive, and if this Arfaad of yours wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now, don’t you think? I mean, he’s the captain here. He could jail us and then who knows what would happen to us.”

  Reluctantly, Hoda conceded to the point. “You may be right, but I can’t shake this sense of danger … we should stay vigilant.”

  “Absolutely. After all, we are in a High Rider’s barracks.”

  Hoda sighed. “Even if it is the same Arfaad, he may not have recognized me.”

  “That, I would find hard to believe,” Karadon replied with a beaming smile. “When you meet the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth, it’s hard to forget her.”

  She shot him a brief smile. He could see she was on edge and wished he could do something to diffuse the tension, but glancing around the room, he saw nothing he could use to distract his wife. It only contained a square table, four chairs, and two steel High Riders’ shields.

  A small bell hanging by the entrance chimed, and when Karadon opened the door he saw two slaves holding platters of food, waiting in the corridor. He let them in, and working efficiently and silently, they placed the trays on the table. When their set-up was done, they bowed and left the room, closing the door behind them. Karadon drew closer to the table and inspected the food.

  “Hmm … roasted meat … camel most likely, and a cauliflower salad with olives and cilantro. Over here, baked potatoes with green onions and yogurt, and a basket of apples. Not bad for a soldier’s food ration,” he said smiling. He extended his hand to grab a piece of meat when Hoda stopped him.

  “Don’t touch the food,” she hissed. “It could be poisoned.”

  He glanced at her and quietly sat down. “Do you think?”

  “I’m not positive, but we should test it first.”

  “Here?” he nearly shouted. “We’re in a barrack full of High Riders,” he added under his breath, “and you want to use magic?”

  “Either that or we don’t eat.”

  “If we don’t eat, the captain will be insulted.”

  “Not if we tell him we’re from Kemet, and that we are undergoing a rite of purification.”

  “We can’t, Hoda. We’ve told the soldiers we’re Finikians.”

  “I know that, but Finikians are spread all over the world. There are Finikians in Kemet.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “No, but who will be checking? Kemetians are preparing for the feast of purification and renewal. He’ll buy that.”

  Karadon leaned against the chair and eyed the food. “Are you sure we need to go to such extremes?”

  The little bell rang again. Karadon shuffled his feet and pushed the chair backward using his full weight. The four wooden legs complained loudly by screeching on the stone floor as he got up and opened the door.

  “Evening of lilies and serene stars.” The young Finikian soldier that had apprehended them earlier greeted Karadon. “Can we come in?”

  “Of course. Please, please do come in.”

  The young man walked in, followed by a second, younger soldier.

  “Evening of joy and grateful hearts,” Hoda said, already standing.

  “I never tire of hearing the greetings from back home,” replied the first soldier. His companion could not tear his eyes away from Hoda.

  “Hey, sentry,” called the first soldier, “I know she’s Finikian, but her husband is standing behind you.” The sentry turned a bright red and instantly lowered his gaze. “Don’t pay much attention to turnip-head over here,” said the first soldier. “He’s also from back home, and when I mentioned to him I met a Finikian who looks like his beloved, he wanted to meet you as well.” He turned and grinned at Karadon. “I’ve got my Enyam waiting for me back in Baalbek, and sentry over there has set his eyes on Lamia, Enyam’s sister, so, no competition here.” Both soldiers bowed as a sign of respect. “Looking at your wife, who’s right now the closest thing to home, makes us misty eyed.”

  “What’s your name, soldier?” Karadon asked.

  “I’m Merial and this one over here is—”

  “Shrennoh,” the sentry said hastily. “The name is Shrennoh.”

  Merial gave Shrennoh a curious glance and shrugged. “Anyway, the two of us, you might say we’ve got some singing talent. So we’d love nothing more than to sing a few songs from back home to someone who’d appreciate them.” He scratched his head, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Most soldiers here don’t get it, and I know it sounds strange, but us Finikians, we’re like one family, ain’t that so, Mrs. Hoda?”

  Hoda smiled and nodded. “Indeed we are,” she replied, relaxing. “So you sing the zajal?”

  Merial’s eyes brightened immediately. “Best pair of zajal singers you’ll ever hear anywhere,” he said.

  Karadon noticed how Hoda felt more at ease. She seemed to enjoy the exchange. “Food any good?” he asked.

  “Prepared it myself with these hands,” Merial replied. “Comes straight from our kitchen. Not the greatest, but not too shabby either.”

  “Well, it would be an honor to hear you sing while we eat,” Hoda said. “You’re welcome to join us as well.”

  They both shook their heads. “Sahtein,” Merial replied, which loosely translated meant enjoy and may this food make you healthy twice over. “We’ve just finished our meal, so we’re all good. Go ahead.”

  Hoda leaned over, took a piece of meat, and tasted it. Then, she brought another piece close to Vily’s mouth, but the girl did not react to the food. Hoda withdrew her hand.

  The two singers stood side-by-side. Merial opened his arms wide and started the zajal, a form of poetic jousting where the singers create the lyrics following a fairly specific musical meter. The Zajal was akin to an improvised debate between poets. Normally, the poets sang accompanied by percussion instruments, and a chorus of men sang part of the refrain.

  “Oooff, ooOOff, OOoooooff,” Merial perorated, modulating his powerful voice to express a deep longing.

  “If your eyes are the dawn of my expectant night,

  If your eyes, your beautiful eyes,

  Are the dawn of my expectant night,

  Then the fat nose of this turkey next to me,

  Is a vision far worse than blight.

  Yes indeed, the nose of this fat turkey next to me

  Is a vision far worse than blight.”

  Hoda and Merial chorused twice, as was the custom with the zajal. Merial had fired the first salvo and cast the mold: the last verse of every zajal stanza they would sing had to rhyme with the word ‘night’.

  “Oooooooff, OOooff, Off, Oooff,” replied Shrennoh, whose voice was higher with a merry tonality. And pointing at Merial, he sang,

  “If he is, my beloved, like a peacock in the wind,

  Then a flabby peacock he is,

  A scared and flabby peacock

  As clumsy as a pig that takes flight.

  But your eyes, oh my goddess from on high,

  Are like a splash of heaven,

  A tender splash of heaven that turns darkness into light.”

  Hoda blushed as if these words were addressed to her, but she willfully ignored the sentiment, and the four of them picked up the second verse together and repeated it at a faster tempo, doing what a quartet of musicians would normally do when the zajal was sung in the villages of Finikia. Karadon smiled wistfully, for he understood their longing for home, a place where they could all live in peace.

  Merial had been challenged. His companion called him a coward and ratcheted up the praise of the beloved. Now he had to respond to that challenge. Even though the form of the zajal was fixed, the content was always improvised
.

  “OOOooOOff, OOff, oooooofff,” he began with a booming voice. The door opened and six curious soldiers peeked in. Having heard the singing, they invited themselves in and stood in the back of the room, eager to cheer and sing the refrain.

  “You’re like a dreary day for my tired horse,

  You’re like a dreary day for my tired horse,

  And my sword, my ringing sword

  Has seen far worse.

  The brilliance of my blade

  Could turn your dreary face into that of a horse,

  But you’d rather run than stand and fight.”

  Karadon leaned over and whispered in his wife’s ear, “Is he calling his beloved a horse?”

  “No, silly, he’s addressing this jibe to his opponent, Shrennoh over there. Now hush and listen.”

  Clapping rhythmically, the soldiers, now an improvised choir, picked up the last verse from Merial and repeated it twice.

  “Oooooff, ooOOoooff, OOooff,” replied Shrennoh, a glint in his eyes,

  “You’re like a dreary horse in the middle of my day,

  You’re like a fat, dreary horse in the middle of my day,

  A flabby horse that was a piglet yesterday,

  Or a plum peacock running away

  Before the heavenly chariot of my beloved,

  Who will run into my arms at your sorry sight.”

  The soldiers roared and applauded with renewed energy, picking up the last verse at the top of their lungs.

  “Why are you applauding?” asked Karadon, confused.

  “Shrennoh did a successful inversion,” Hoda explained. “Merial called Shrennoh a dreary day for his tired horse, and Shrennoh called Merial a dreary horse in the middle of his day, you see?”

  Karadon nodded in understanding, if not in enthusiasm. Wow, this zajal thing is more complex than I thought.

  Merial puffed up and was about to return the salvo when the door was flung open. Captain Arfaad walked into the room and the soldiers stood immediately at attention. He barely glanced at them as he stood in front of Hoda. She tensed but did not get up. Karadon did not move.

  “Apologies for barging in like that,” he said with a slight nod, “but you are in danger if you stay in Tirka. We must leave at once.”