by Mhani Alaoui
The cockroach hurried down her outstretched arm, and Maryam lowered her head into the darkness.
~
Zohra was in the garden. She stood squarely in front of the ancient orange tree that was its center. She could swear its leaves were trembling with laughter. The tree shook, and its bark opened to reveal Sheherazade sitting in its soft, green core, legs crossed, palms pressed togther in the meditative pose of a yogi. Zohra turned her arms upward.
“This is no time for theatrics. Heed my call, Old Mother. The child is gone. Where is she? I must find her. I believe she may be in grave danger.”
“She is in a place beyond my realm.”
“There is no place beyond your realm, and if it were, it would be because you willed it into existence. You have woven it into your realm.”
“It may be so. But that place comes with a scribe, and that scribe has powers I cannot control.”
“Then tell me where she is.”
“In your heart, you already know. She is in a place beyond words. In a place whose very name means the Well of Silence.”
“Birsoukout!”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Her heart yearned for Mehdi. Aoud Errih was available, the little bastard, so she went.”
“Her destiny lies elsewhere. You and I know the great tasks ahead of her, the great battles she has yet to wage and win.”
“Do we now? Perhaps she has decided otherwise.”
“Mockery of the sacred. It has all been decided since time immemorial. The world is dying, and she is our only hope. She is too frail now. She will only be ready once she is an adult, in full possession of her gifts.”
“Who are you, Zohra Ait Daoud, to presume you know it all? Do not mistake your dreams for the truth written in the stars. Go find your godchild before it’s too late. She is in Birsoukout, in an unnatural hole built on its premises to keep her prisoner there forever.”
Zohra bowed low and returned to the house. She poured cold water from a wooden cup onto her head, face, hands, and feet. She burned incense, chewed on cloves, and put a drop of henna in the small of her wrists and ankles. She then went to the toolshed and took out a dusty broomstick. She mounted the broomstick and flew to Birsoukout. Whoosh, whoosh was the sound the broomstick made, the crisp air of fading day on her hair and skin. Zohra forgot about her confusion and frustration. She was relishing that pleasure of flight that is the forbidden, universal gift of the witch.
She flew south. Soon, she saw below her the walls of Birsoukout. The broomstick rushed toward the asylum and landed on its broken pathway. Holding the broomstick erect in her hand like a mighty sword, Zohra advanced toward the building. Her black-and-gold scarf rang as she walked, its ringing a war cry in the empty silence of Birsoukout. She called out the Scribe.
“I am Zohra of the Ait Daoud, descendant of the mighty line of Solomon and Sheeba, and I order you to release Maryam Tair.”
The faint click and swoosh of a typewriter filled the air, and the small man with the round glasses appeared in front of her. He stopped writing and looked up, his unreadable eyes fogging up his glasses.
“A witch in my domain, and willingly so. I have broken many powerful witches before you, since time immemorial. You will be a prized addition to my roster.”
Zohra stood very still, sensing the dangerous power emanating from the bureaucrat. She understood that he was not a mere scribe or the administrator of a damned asylum. He was the creator of borders and margins. He was the grand inquisitor who judged, boxed, packed, and threw away. His experimental treatments on his patients stripped them of all the attributes that made each one uniquely human. He spun scenarios where good and evil were banal and interchangeable. His words wrought the most frightening nightmares ever conceived. His daily notes meticulously traced the breakdown of the human spirit into its smallest components until dissolution was reached. His mission was a most terrible one, for its goal was to distill suffering and alienation in the marginalized few so that the majority might believe in its own self-righteous truths.
“You are...”
“Yes, I am.”
“You have crucified, burned, and drowned my people throughout the ages.”
“It seems I have not fully succeeded yet.”
“You will never succeed. Do you not know who it is you are holding? Her very existence is proof that your end is near.”
“Night will be here in the blink of an eye. It’s too late, old woman. Time has come, and the war is over.”
He raised his thin, white hands to the keyboard, but Zohra was too quick for him. She sprang forward and rammed her broomstick into the typewriter. The scribe screeched his anger, but it was too late. Words had disappeared from the keyboard: the words Maryam Tair. Zohra held the broomstick against his neck.
“Tell me where she is, Scribe.”
“She’s in a hole in the building on the left. The veil is lifted for you to see. You can now find her, but it’s too late. Now get out of my domain.”
“Not yet. Write, Scribe, write that today marks the decline of Birsoukout and that this was accomplished by a female child and a witch. Write, Scribe, the judgment that was pronounced!”
Lightning struck, thunder rumbled, and Zohra’s hair stood on end, Medusa herself. As she ran toward the building, night fell and darkness was all around. She was too late. But as the wolves began to howl and nondescript creatures began to appear on the horizon, she saw Maryam. And Maryam was holding a tired old man in her arms. It was Mehdi Nassiri.
“Quick, we must leave this place before the creatures come.”
“Umi Zohra, what about the others? There are so many. We cannot just leave them behind.”
“They will be free, in due time. This hell is at its end.”
Zohra held Mehdi on the broomstick in front of her, as Maryam ran to the gates. She called out to Aoud Errih, and soon she was rising through the air on her bicycle behind Zohra’s broomstick. Aoud Errih let his bells ring, while fresh rain fell down to the earth. Looking down at Birsoukout, Maryam saw water springing from the faucets on the brick walls and orange trees lining the previously barren courtyard. Zohra ululated in the night, a wild woman freed from all social constraints except the one she imposed on herself, which was to care for a ten-year-old girl who brought exhilaration and purpose to her life.
~
They arrived at the Nassiri house in the dead of night and hid trembling bicycle and overheated broomstick in the toolshed. They then called to the people of the house to open the front door that they may enter. Aisha opened the door to see, standing in the rain, Maryam, Zohra, and an old man she did not recognize.
“What refugees has the stormy night brought back to me? Allah be blessed, for I thought I had lost you forever.”
“We ask for your hospitality for this man.”
Aisha looked at the old man and thought she recognized him. Her instincts warned her that if she did not agree to Zohra’s plea, she could lose Maryam forever. She drew the doors open wide.
“Your companion is welcome in this house, for as long as he needs to remain.”
Only when they were safely inside and the light shone on their faces did Aisha recognize the man with Maryam and Zohra. Ibrahim, startled from his sleep, was pleased beyond words.
“What has the rain brought in, indeed? Has my crumbling house become Noah’s Ark?”
Mehdi had aged decades in a few months. He looked fragile and emaciated. Only his face retained traces of his past elegance, his subtle intelligence. The hospital had taken its toll on him. No, he thought, not the hospital. The accusation and the humiliation that followed. The guilt was there, it has always been there. For it is a disease, is it not? So why then am I convinced that I am not ill and that I can only be pure if I succumb to who I am? But the proof of my own secret affliction, spread out into the open for all to see, that is unbearable.
The hospital was a death-prolonging punishment, but Mehdi had already resigned himself
to his fate. Suddenly, the scent of orange blossom, fresh and full, filled his soul and triggered his brutal awakening from surrender. Then he saw a little girl. Who was she? She looked familiar. She had helped him up and urged him to flee with her. He whispered to her, “All poetry is gone from my life. It will never return.”
“You must rest, brother. Stay and rest awhile.”
“Am I welcome here?”
“You are welcome.”
“You are a member of this house, and this house is reclaiming you as one of its own.”
Mehdi was carried to a room, bare and small, but with a window overlooking the fragrant garden curling around its wrought-iron bars. The night was short and good. When Mehdi woke up, the memory of his humiliation swept over him. The ache seeped into his bones and translated into pain as it touched his limbs. It was difficult for him to distinguish between the mental ache and the physical pain of broken hands and crushed limbs. It is all gone. I will never be who I am again. Poor, old fool with your silly boy crushes. He too was feeling the bitter taste of rind in mouth, like Leila once did. He called for Ibrahim and Maryam, and they came.
“Why are you helping me, Ibrahim?”
“I am helping my brother, Mehdi Nassiri. I am the head of this family, and my duty is to protect you when you ask for my protection. Who dare they think they are, to touch one of us! We do not bend or die that easily.”
“How about you, Maryam? Why did you help me?”
“I helped you because I was told you needed my help, and I knew that I could help you, Uncle.”
“Ah...Who told you so?”
“You wouldn’t understand...It’s a voice, but not one that you can hear—it’s a sensation, a feeling. I don’t quite know how to express it myself. But it often guides me.”
“Then perhaps I didn’t dream the wind in my ears, my hands on a broomstick, and my back against the chest of a whooping witch!”
Her eyes twinkled.
“And Aoud Errih ringing in the rain.”
“And here I thought poetry was dead.”
“Only if you believe it to be, Uncle.”
“I thank you, Maryam Tair, for you were brave in a way no adult would ever have dared to be. I am forever in your debt.”
“I am simply returning your gift. There is no debt between us.”
“A gift?”
“I met a man in the asylum of Birsoukout who knew you. He said you had called for me, for a child you had once given a gift to. What is that gift? Have I returned it properly?”
“A gift to a newborn child whose destiny appeared to me the moment I laid eyes on it. Yes, indeed. I gave you, I saw for you, perception. I prayed for you to know the true meaning of perception, for at that moment I felt alone in the world, and I needed to be perceived. And you did. You came to a place beyond the world, you lifted the veils that hide the margins from view and you found us. You have ignited a spark, and it will grow until Birsoukout falls. You are perception. You are truly who they say you are.”
Disillusionment
The Old Woman of the mountain is silent. She is sweating as though from drug withdrawal. The little girl interrupts her silence. She feels alone.
“Forgive me, Old Mother. How sad their victory is. Maryam learns that her destiny has been written for her and that she is not free, while Mehdi is freed only to find that what he loved most about his life is forever lost.”
“It’s a story of triumph and sacrifice. That is as it must be.”
“When Maryam rode Aoud Errih through the clouds, I hoped that she would break her trajectory and fly over the moon.”
“That isn’tfreedom you’re describing, little one. It’s annihilation.”
“Her loneliness is a slow annihilation. Her godmother protects her without understanding her. She is truly alone. Perhaps you too do not understand her.”
“Do you doubt my knowledge of the tale? Your instincts guide you to a place you believe to be beyond my reach. That may be so. You will be free soon enough, to my great despair and probably your own. But for now, I am your mother, the mother of all storytellers. And you must keep me for a while longer.”
“I want to bury my head in your lap and find sleep. Old Mother, I don’t want to leave just yet. I must hear the story till the very end lest it unravel in my mind forever.”
“Mothers are archives. When they’re gone, we must organize our memories ourselves. Are you ready to pay the price of freedom?”
“I’m filled with discomfort. I’m troubled. But as I lie here breathing in your scent of wildfire, parchment, and dust-filled flowers, I’m beginning to awaken. Let me linger for a moment more, Old Mother. The world is out there.”
“The world is in here. Inside my mouth is the entire universe.”
“Then guide me.”
“Guide you away from my mouth, from the words I breathe and the stories I weave.”
“No, Old Mother. Guide me through them that I may recognize my story in the tapestry of stories.”
“I am guiding you, my child. I, Sheherazade, am putting my power at your service, out of love for you.”
“I’m lost. If you are guiding me, why am I lost?”
“That is the paradox. The existence of the guide is our greatest myth, a front, a lie, a role created to hide one’s own fear, doubt. A life wish in a sea of death. It cannot be free or pure. Why should it be? We need to draw lines, divide, encode, and recode. But I am guiding you, beloved.”
“Yet I am lost.”
“No, you are learning. You are beginning to see. And now you must be patient, as well. We must return to our story. It’s waiting. Hear the rumble below.”
“Wait, Old Mother. First ease my pain: tell me about Mehdi Nassiri.”
“Do you want me to tell you that he is a broken man who will succumb to his fractured life?”
“If that is his fate.”
“His fate is a peculiar one. What happens to Mehdi Nassiri is another story that has yet to be written. But this I can tell you. He is a child of the Cycle. His ancestry holds a phoenix of purple-blue and red hue. He has fire and ashes in his veins. The nostalgic blood of Boabdil has consumed most of the royal bird’s passion, but the ashes continue to burn. He will rise from the ashes of his existence, and his broken body will emerge anew. But that’s another story. Now, come close to me. Listen to the hammer falling in the courtroom and the rumble of the audience.”
“I hear the tearing sound made by a thin fabric as it is being ripped.”
“It’s the grinning of the devils. Their scissor-like smiles are cutting the air through and through. They are taking pleasure in her judgment.”
“We must help her.”
“No, we must be patient. The judgment must be pronounced. Its absolute injustice will explode in the cosmos and reveal the unbalance at the core of the world. We are at her side. Look, there we are sitting on those benches near the heavy doors. She’s beginning to sense us. We are there with her. Let’s resume, for she’s waiting for us.”
The little girl buckles her boots and ties her hair in a knot. She paints her eyes with kohl and sets her face in stone. She then sits on her haunches like an animal in wait. As for the Old Woman, she suddenly grabs her pipe, lights it, and pumps it furiously. She breathes a sigh of relief and, immediately invigorated, stands up and begins gathering the large black feathers falling from the sky. She makes wings of the feathers and slides them onto her body to become a most mysterious bird of midnight black.
Grand Tribunal
Clockmakers’ Town
Casablanca, February 2011
The charges roll on. Maryam sighs and looks down at her great, shattered blue boots. She sees how they are changed, and sadness engulfs her. They were not any boots: they were her chosen paths in a world of thorns and evil intentions. When the cold-eyed demons came for her in her cell, they tried to tear the blue boots away from her, but couldn’t.
“Witch, witch,” they had hissed. “You deserve what’s coming to yo
u.”
The boots are my second skin, they are made of stardust, velvet sky, and resilience, her eyes flashed back at them. They take me where I must go in the darkest nights and protect me from the vagaries of time. A witch you call me, if you say so. But if I am a witch, I am the greatest witch in the world. And you will soon tremble before my power. No words came out of her mouth, and for those guards who could not see into her eyes, she was mistaken for a terrified young woman defined by her frailty.
There were many others like her, they commented. For the past year, since late 2010, young men and women had gone to the streets and defied the existing order. They had woken suddenly, without any warning sign, and risen against their superiors, the price of bread, the price of injustice, the price of tyranny. But they had also risen up because they believed that no price would be paid for their insubordination. They swung joyfully through the barbed wire erected by the law and were convinced it was all play. There was a youthful quality to all this latter-day subversion that was incapable of recognizing consequences. Here was another flighty subversive who would appear stunned at the heaviness of the penal machine. The surprise would soon turn into terror and a dry-mouthed, yellow-hearted fear.
Most of them bailed, dropped, or asked for their families. But, for most, it was too late. The dungeons could not hear their childhood yearnings, and the cold stones swallowed their tears crying for light-heartedness and green fields. There were times, the guards admitted to themselves, but these were rare and few, when one such twenty-first-century hippy would surprise them with his or her resilience. They would watch and wait for that moment when the individual would break and the soul would be taken away by the surrounding horror, but it would not come. They would watch for days and longer days, they would become masters of cruelty and invent the most creative of tortures, but all in vain. They would persevere, and their perseverance would pay off. After a lengthy, doubt-filled wait, the prisoner would finally break. There was even a couple they had freed to serve as an example to other hot-headed, naïve idealists.