The Curse of Zohreh

by Sophie Masson

  He called to his guards to drag the body out and leave it in the guardroom. Then he went, in disguise, to where Zohreh had been staying. He searched her room from top to bottom, and took away all the notes she had made and all the information she had compiled. He also found the Talisman, wrapped in the turban. He had no idea what it was – to him it was just a little box with a filthy bit of rag inside it. He would have destroyed it along with the rest of Zohreh’s possessions but something told him it must be valuable. After all, the box itself was a most beautiful little thing, even if the rag was disgusting, and why would the old woman have brought it with her from Parsari if it wasn’t some kind of good-luck charm? Perhaps the luck of the Melkiors would be his now. Back at the palace, he wrapped it carefully in several layers of silk and placed it in the hollow spine of a book in his vast library, where it would be well hidden.

  It all happened exactly as Kassim had hoped. The Prince of Ameerat viewed Zohreh’s body, still in its male Mujisal disguise, and talked to several men, all Kassim’s agents, who swore on the Holy Book of Light that the infidel foreigner had been trying to convert them. He was saddened. He had liked Zohreh. She must have gone mad, he decided. He ordered that her and Orman’s bodies be burnt and the ashes sent back to Parsari, with a letter explaining what she had been guilty of. He allowed Kassim to seize Zohreh’s ship and all the cargo that had not yet been sold, as well as the money Zohreh had already made on that trip. He also wrote to the Governor of Shideh, the city Zohreh had come from, informing him that the Melkior clan was no longer welcome in Ameerat.

  The Emperor of Parsari, on hearing what had happened, ordered that Zohreh’s family must be made to pay for her crime, and imposed such heavy penalties on them that they lost all their money and standing. Zohreh’s letter was useless, for by the time it reached the family they were already in deep disgrace. Zohreh’s son knew that his mother’s accusations against the great nobleman Kassim al-Farouk would simply not be listened to. The Melkior clan slid into debt-ridden obscurity. Eventually, they had to abandon their grand mansion in Shideh, never to return. They settled in the poor, remote town of Sholeh, in the grim mountains to the north, where they hid their origins and eked out a hard-scrabble existence as farmers and small traders. They knew nothing of the curse Zohreh had called down on Kassim and his family.

  Besides, even if they’d known, they would have thought the curse had been ineffective, for Kassim al-Farouk prospered greatly after the death of his enemy. If the Melkior clan’s luck was connected with the ownership of the Talisman of the Star, then it had certainly transferred to the clan of al-Farouk. Kassim hardly ever thought of Zohreh and her curse, and when he did, would smile mockingly to himself. That old fire-breather had just been a stupid old woman. And besides, his firstborn had been long past his fifteenth birthday when she placed the curse. It meant nothing. It was without any power at all.

  And then came the day when a mysterious fire started in Kassim’s bedchamber in the middle of the night. His son, Ghazi, pulled him out, but he was already far too badly burnt to survive. With his last breath, his eyes wide open and staring on a vision of unimaginable horror, Kassim groaned, brokenly, ‘She did it – the witch did it – the curse of Zohreh – the curse, my son – eternal fire to descend on us – guard your firstborn – beware – beware – beware the fifteenth birthday.’ And then he was dead, before Ghazi could ask him any more.

  No-one ever worked out exactly what had caused the fire in Kassim’s bedchamber that day; indeed, the manner of his horrible death was completely hushed up. Ghazi made a few discreet investigations and found out from one of the guards who Zohreh was, and what had happened between her and his father. Ghazi had no children, as yet, but he had recently married, and it would surely not be long before his wife had a baby. Was the child doomed before he or she was even born?

  Now Ghazi was not at all like his father. He was horrified by what had been done to Zohreh. He would have liked to make it up to her family, but he lacked the courage to do so. He was reluctant to court disgrace by trying to right the wrong that had been done. Devoutly hoping the curse had somehow been accomplished with the terrible death of his father, he kept silent.

  It was a fatal silence. He did have children, and his firstborn, a beautiful young girl, was struck by lightning coming out of a clear sky, on the very day of her fifteenth birthday, and died, horribly burnt and disfigured. Ghazi was inconsolable, and died of a broken heart several months later. On his deathbed, he told his oldest son Faisal about the curse of Zohreh, and begged him to try and find Zohreh’s family and make reparation.

  Faisal tried hard to find the Melkior clan but nobody was able to tell him where they had gone. They had disappeared. When his own child was born he waited in terror for the curse to hit him and took every possible precaution, but the child passed his fifteenth birthday without mishap and grew to be a healthy and lively young man. Perhaps the curse had exhausted itself, with the deaths of Kassim and his grandaughter?

  Curses were notoriously erratic, even those like Zohreh’s. If the curse had been that of a supernatural being, like a Jinn’s, it would have been much more reliable. But a human witch or sorcerer, however powerful, could not guarantee the hundred per cent effectiveness of a curse. Or so Faisal hoped.

  Still, he passed on the story to his son, who passed it on to his son, for it was better to be prepared.

  One

  ‘This has to stop, my son!’ Shayk Abdullah al-Farouk furiously waved a scrap of paper in the air. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  His son, Khaled, stared back impassively. ‘You weren’t meant to see it, Father. The servants took it from my room without asking.’

  ‘That’s not the point!’ roared the Shayk, his usually kindly eyes almost popping out of his head with frustration. ‘You’ve not been eating properly, not been sleeping properly, and wandering about in a daze for months – now this!’ He read out loud from the piece of paper: ‘In demons’ fire, the soul twists – going into the fire – forever fire – fire and flame – the realm of fire.’ In a paroxysm of rage, he threw the paper on the floor. He pounded the floor with his walking-stick. ‘Have you gone mad, Khaled? You used to write such beautiful poetry – now all you write is this crazy, devilish gibberish.’

  Khaled had gone quite white. ‘Father,’ he said quietly, ‘in ten days’ time I’ll be turning fifteen.’

  Abdullah closed his eyes briefly. When he spoke again his voice was softer, gentler. ‘Don’t you think I know that, Khaled? My own brother, the first born, died on his fifteenth birthday in a terrible fire at the bazaar. I am well aware of the curse, my son. But you know that we have taken steps to prevent it happening, through prayer and fasting, and the protection of holy men – unlike my father, who ignored the curse as a mere superstition. And we …’

  ‘Father,’ interrupted Khaled, ‘do you know that my birthday will mark exactly the hundredth anniversary of Zohreh’s curse?’ Seeing his father’s puzzled expression, he went on, ‘I’ve been reading up about these kinds of curses. They are always erratic, and their power seems to wane considerably after a hundred years, though not end completely. Some writers think that on the hundredth anniversary the curse is at its most powerful and dangerous since the time it was first pronounced. And that means me, Father. It will be in its full force against me.’

  It was Abdullah’s turn to go white. He limped to his son’s bed and sat down. ‘Perhaps – perhaps it’s not true. Perhaps they’re just guessing.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Khaled. ‘But Father, we can’t just hope for the best. We’ve got to do something about it, permanently. Not only for my sake, but because what was done to Zohreh all those years ago was horrible, Father. It was shameful. Kassim tainted our family honour. And that shame needs to be wiped right away.’

  ‘But you know we tried to find the family, and failed.’

  ‘I know, Father. But maybe we’ve been looking for them the wrong way.’ He picked up the scrap of pape
r. ‘You see, what I was actually trying to do with this is compose a password. I thought of it only yesterday.’

  Abdullah stared at him in utter astonishment. ‘A password?’

  ‘Yes, a password, to enter other worlds … It came to me yesterday that perhaps, as Zohreh was from a faith that venerates fire as the symbol of God, and as fire of some kind has been the cause of death in those of us who were killed by the curse, then it’s in the realm of fire that we must seek answers: to end the curse, and to find Zohreh’s family. And you know who comes from the realm of fire.’

  ‘The Jinn,’ whispered Abdullah, his eyes fixed on his son’s handsome face. The Jinn, supernatural beings created out of fire by God, are shape-shifters whose magical powers range from the vast to the modest, and who can be evil, good, or in-between.

  ‘That’s right, the Jinn! And more specifically, the most powerful spirits amongst them, the wild Desert-Jinn, who are closest of all to the fiery element.’

  Abdullah shook his head. ‘My son, I’m not sure you know what you’re saying. The Jinn are unpredictable at the best of times, especially those from the desert. They are not human, remember; we don’t always understand them. Tame House-Jinns are one thing. Those wild ones you speak of – why, to meet them unawares is bad enough, but to deliberately seek them out, password or no password, is sheer madness.’ He gulped. ‘Have you thought that calling on the aid of a Jinn might be a way the curse could come down on you – what if an evil Jinn should decide to burn you?’

  Khaled nodded slowly. He took his father’s hand. ‘I have thought of that, Father. I promise I will be careful. I will write the sacred word “adhubilah” on a wristband and wear it always. That has always been a good protection against the evil ones amongst the Jinn. And I will carry a vial of holy zummiyah water with me. I do not think the wicked Jinn will dare to hurt me. And I may persuade a good Jinn to help me. Father, will you give me your blessing in this undertaking?’

  ‘Oh, Khaled, my dear, dear son,’ said Abdullah, tears in his eyes, ‘you are a brave, clever child. You have thought of good protections. But I still fear that these things may not be enough to protect you.’

  ‘Father, time is short. I must at least try. I cannot wait for the curse to fell me, or not. I’ve lived in enough fear as it is. Can’t you see, I must do something myself.’

  Abdullah’s heart swelled with pride. Khaled reminded him so much of his dear, dead wife Leyla – in his looks, in his intelligence, his character, determination and unusual insights. Abdullah had been well into middle age when he married her, and crippled already by the riding accident that had smashed his left leg. He had been amazed that she loved him, and heartbroken when she died when Khaled was only two. But she lived again in her son. It was typical of Leyla’s child to want to attempt what others would be too frightened to even think about. And why not? You couldn’t change the past, but maybe you could change the future. He sighed deeply. ‘I do understand, my dearest Khaled. And I do give you my blessing. But I have only ever known one person who has consorted with the wild Jinn and lived to tell the tale.’

  ‘Oh, Father, who is it? Perhaps this person could advise me.’ Khaled’s dark eyes were filled with sudden hope.

  Abdullah clapped his hands. ‘You’re quite right! He could most likely advise you very well. We grew up together, Husam al-Din and I. He came from a noble family, but they were poor. Husam had to earn his living as a swordsman, and eventually he became the Chief Executioner for the Sultan of Jayangan, way across the eastern ocean. I have kept in touch with him over the years, and I know he is now retired. I will get a message to him at once.’ He picked up the telephone on Khaled’s bedside table, and dialled. ‘This is Shayk Abdullah al-Farouk. I want a telegram sent immediately to an address in Jayangan. Mark it as extremely urgent …’

  They received Husam al-Din’s reply the very next day. He would set off straightaway and would be in Ameerat within three days. And he would bring with him someone who would greatly help in their task. ‘She is a free Desert-Jinn, a red-headed songstress by the name of Kareen Amar. Forget about passwords, they aren’t necessary in this undertaking! No, I haven’t enslaved her, dear friend,’ he had scrawled, ‘she chooses to be with humans.’

  Two

  A century after the terrible events that had claimed the life of Zohreh the Akamenian, the Melkior clan had melted away to almost nothing. Misfortune had followed misfortune. Hiding under another name, not daring to even practise their religion in public, they were poor and lived in utter obscurity in remote Sholeh. But they never forgot Zohreh, and her cruel fate. Her ashes, enclosed in a silken sachet, rested in a little box which stood on the altar of the family’s household shrine; the last letter she had written was locked away in a secret drawer; and the sad story of her death, and the loss of the Talisman, was told through all the generations. They did not know about the curse that Zohreh had called down on the al-Farouk family, for the al-Farouks had kept it very quiet indeed.

  The youngest member of the family, thirteen-year-old Soheila, knew the story inside out, like all her kin. As far back as she could remember, she had wept about it, like the others. But with the sadness had also come a huge anger. She burned with rage at the thought that the al-Farouks had got away scot-free with the crime. Their doings were reported every now and then in the papers, as Abdullah al-Farouk was not only very rich but also an important man. He was one of the top councillors to the Prince of Ameerat. How could the descendants of a murderer, a liar and a thief prosper so spectacularly, while the descendants of his victim lived a life of struggle and poverty so far removed from their previous luxury? It wasn’t fair that the Melkior clan was so reduced and dependent on the goodwill of others, while the al-Farouks did just as they pleased, in ease and comfort. She simmered with the injustice of it.

  It was a few months ago that the idea had first come to her. She had woken from a vivid dream in which she’d been following a hooded figure through a bright desert – yellow sand, blue sky – and then suddenly, there was a white palace, shimmering in the light. She heard a voice, whispering, ‘It is time. You must come.’ The hooded figure beckoned to her so she went through the palace’s imposing gates, and there, suddenly, her heart began to beat so fast that it woke her up. She was bathed in sweat, her heart was still beating fast, but she knew at once what the dream meant. She had to stop weeping and raging over Zohreh’s fate, and with it, the fate of her family. A new urgency drove her. The figure – it must be Zohreh – had said it was time. She had to go to the desert principality of Ameerat, find the al-Farouks in their white palace, and make them pay, in blood and tears.

  Soheila was not by nature a vengeful person. But she had more than a trace of her ancestor’s defiant spirit and determination. The rest of her family believed that it was better to keep your head low and your mouth shut, both as members of a disgraced clan and as adherents to a minority religion that had been more and more persecuted in recent times. Soheila could not live like that. She wanted to hold her head high, to look people in the eye, not creep along like a kicked dog, hoping no-one would notice her.

  Though her heart was full of excitement, she did not breathe a word of her plans to her parents or her older brother. They were all too meek, too ground-down by life, to even try to rebel. Her mother, Tara, was an invalid. She couldn’t walk any more, and spent her days embroidering fine shawls for the few wealthy women of Sholeh. Her father, Atash, had taken refuge long ago in sweet wine. A gentle, trusting dreamer, he had tried many times to revive the family fortunes, but had failed. Earning money for the family was left to Tara, with her sewing, and Soheila’s brother, Aslarn, who worked in their uncle’s small store in Sholeh.

  Soheila did not yet earn her living. She went to school and worked on weekends helping out at her uncle’s shop. It was Tara’s wish for her daughter not to work full time, for she was afraid no man would want to marry her if she grew old before her time, working her fingers to the bone. Soheila was a beaut
iful girl, slight and delicate, with black hair, olive skin, and startling blue-green eyes that she had inherited from Zohreh herself. And she was clever, graceful and musical; she might well make a good marriage one of these days. She might even marry into a wealthy family, or at least one of the merchants of Sholeh, if she played her cards right. That was Tara’s dream for her daughter. But it wasn’t Soheila’s for herself, not at all.

  Once, she might have said she hoped to be a great singer, but music did not interest her any more. All she thought about was revenge on the al-Farouks. Soheila loved her parents and brother dearly, but she wished that they would stand up and look fate full in the face, and spit in its cruel eye. Human beings were not puppets. They could act on their own. They could take their fate in their own hands. And so she would. She would redress the stain on the family honour. She would do as Zohreh wanted.

  Over a few months, she researched possibilities, taught herself some Aksaran, and learnt as much as she could about Ameeratan ways, history and customs. She made her plans. She would leave Sholeh and travel across the sea to Ameerat. She would go disguised as a Parsarian boy with an Ameeratan mother, and find employment in some capacity in the al-Farouks’ palace. She would try to find out what had happened to the Talisman. And then she would strike when she was ready – hard, without mercy. There had to be a merciless death to avenge Zohreh’s. Tragedy had to strike the al-Farouks, to pay for the tragedy that had struck the Melkiors. She had to close the circle.