The Curse of Zohreh

by Sophie Masson

  Soheila had saved the small amount of money her uncle gave her for her weekend work. Her mother had refused to allow her to put it into the family finances – Soheila was to keep it for her eventual wedding, she said. It would be enough to get to the port of Shideh, to buy some second-hand boys’ clothes, a bit of food, and find passage on one of the wooden sambuks that plied the gulf.

  She waited for the right moment to leave. Finally, a day came. Her parents were out of the house because Aslarn had picked them up in his rickety old car to take them to the hot springs where her mother went often in the vain hope of a cure. Soheila had pleaded off the trip by claiming she needed to study. As soon as the car had disappeared in a cloud of dust up the road, Soheila gathered together her few things and wrote a brief note to her parents saying that she was going to seek her fortune and that they were not to worry about her. She was about to leave the house when she suddenly thought of something. The Talisman was lost to her, but maybe Zohreh’s ashes would help to protect her, and help her to stay true to her task. So she took Zohreh’s ashes, in their silken sachet, out of the box and carefully put them in her clothes, next to her heart. She breathed a silent prayer, asking Akamenia to protect her family, and left.

  She only looked back once, when she was almost at the end of the street. The little two-roomed mud-brick house crouching amongst its fellows on the dusty road already looked to her eyes like it belonged in the past. She closed her mind to the pictures of her childhood – of her mother, frail even then, but walking, smiling as she held her in her arms, and her father, still hopeful back then, throwing her up and down while she crowed with delight. She must not become homesick, must not regret, must not doubt. She must be strong. She must cast away all soft feelings. She must only focus on the need for revenge and justice.

  She walked a few blocks to the bus stop, where there were quite a few people waiting. The bus would take her to Shirinah, a bigger town some distance away, and there she would catch a connecting all-night bus to Shideh, the faraway port city where ships left for Ameerat. She told idly curious neighbours she saw while waiting for the bus that she was going to pick up something for her uncle in Shirinah. No-one thought anything of it. She had gone to Shirinah by herself before.

  It was only an hour to Shirinah. Someone jammed a crate of chickens next to her at one stop, and then baskets overflowing with vegetables, but she did not mind. She gazed out of the window as the bus lurched and jolted along the bumpy road, and her heart was filled with a fierce excitement. She was doing it at last! Her fate was in God’s hands now.

  In Shirinah, she made straight for a second-hand clothes shop she had noticed on her last visit there. No-one knew her in Shirinah, but because the shopkeeper looked mildly curious about the fact she was buying boys’ clothing, she spun him a soft-voiced story about a nonexistent little brother. Her sweet, innocent-seeming face and modest attitude put to rest any doubts he might have had.

  Clutching her parcel of clothes, she made her way to a nearby park, which was little frequented at that time of the day. She hid behind a bushy shrub, and quickly changed into the loose grey tunic and pants she had bought. She put Zohreh’s ashes in the pocket of the tunic, over her heart. Then she took scissors she had brought from home and roughly hacked off her shining hair close to her scalp, rubbed some dirt into her face, and rolled her old clothes into a ball and shoved them under the bush. She took out her small pocket mirror and looked critically at herself: yes, she would pass as a boy. A small, slight, beardless boy, it was true, but a boy. She had studied the way boys walked and talked, and she would take care never to show any girlish feelings. Her studies in music would come in useful, for she had trained her voice and her register was wide. She would speak in the light, pleasant tones of a tenor, and no-one would know she was a girl.

  She experienced a strange, exhilarating yet hollow feeling standing there in the dusty park, knowing that everything she’d known till then – even her own self – would have to be left behind. Soheila the Akamenian had vanished. In her place stood Payem the Parsarian, street urchin, who was off to seek his fortune in wealthy Ameerat, like so many young Parsarians had done before him. From now on, not only would she think like him and speak like him – she would be him.

  Three

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, it will not do at all,’ said Kareen Amar, shaking her head most decisively. The red-haired Jinn stalked away from the bazaar stall, her motley collection of jewellery jangling, her ramrod-straight back expressing great disapproving disappointment. Husam al-Din sighed, shrugged and, pacifying the cranky carpet dealer with a crumpled banknote and a muttered excuse, set off, black robes billowing in the sea breeze, after his unpredictable friend. The long, wearisome trudge through the famous Market Fair of Kapalau had long since lost any allure it might once have had. Famous it might be, but in the end, it was a bazaar like all others – hot, dusty, noisy and unbearably crowded. Already, Husam missed his quiet beach, and his fishing line, and his black woollen tent, back home at Siluman. If it had not been for the great affection he bore his old friend back in Ameerat, he would almost have felt like cutting short the whole enterprise.

  Kareen Amar had heard there was a flying carpet being offered for sale in the market – not an ordinary flying carpet, but a rare thing indeed, for it had been made by one of the legendary Carpet Enchantresses of Mesomia. ‘We must go to Kapalau and find it,’ she had said firmly. ‘It will transport us to Ameerat much more quickly than any other thing.’ And she hadn’t listened to any of Husam’s protests about planes being perfectly all right. Truth to tell, Husam didn’t like planes much, but flying carpets made him even more nervous, after a bad experience with one over the deserts of Ameerat, when he was a child. They could be as unpredictable as horses, possessing spirits of their own, not obedient slaves like machines.

  Kareen Amar had merely snorted at Husam’s protestations. ‘This one is made by a Carpet Enchantress,’ she said. ‘It will be good and reliable. I can guarantee that.’

  The carpet was not for sale openly. It was contraband and had to be sold in secret. And Kareen Amar did not know where in the market she’d find it. Hence the trudge, and the questioning of stallholders.

  Husam became aware that the Jinn was gesturing triumphantly at him from across one of the crowded aisles. Her eyes glowed, like Jinns’ eyes do when they are deeply moved in some way. ‘I told you that I, Kareen Amar, would find it, no matter how well it was hidden from plain sight,’ she said smugly, when Husam joined her. ‘And so I have, my friend. Come with me. You will see what I have seen and will regret your lack of faith in Kareen Amar!’

  ‘Oh, Kareen,’ sighed Husam, ‘I never thought you –’ But his words fell on deaf ears, for Kareen Amar was already shouldering her heedless way through the pressing crowds, and it was all he could do to keep up with her. Excitement was beginning to build in him. Much as he distrusted flying carpets generally, it was true to say that if this one was really made by a Mesomian Carpet Enchantress, then it would be a real treasure. Such carpets were rare at the best of times, and even more so now that the great and ancient Guild of Carpet Enchantresses had been practically destroyed by Haroun bin Said al-Alakah, better known as The Vampire, the wicked tyrant of Mesomia. Its remaining members had scattered into the impenetrable Southern Marshlands of Mesomia, where they lived in great secrecy and hardship. You almost never saw a carpet from their looms these days, and when you did, it was immediately snapped up and jealously guarded by its new owners. The rumour was that this one was a prototype, made by one of the younger members of the guild, and that it had been stolen from her workshop. It would be sold as far away from Mesomia as possible; and this dusty fair at the western tip of Jayangan was a long, long way from the Southern Marshlands of Mesomia.

  Husam stared at it, this legendary carpet, in the midst of the grimiest stall at the far end of the bazaar, with one of the most villainous-looking stallholders in the whole of Jayangan, dressed in dirty robes and a filthy tur
ban, smiling in an oily fashion at them both. ‘Yes, yes, you come here,’ he was saying. ‘You look, sir, madam.’

  Husam stared at it in disfavour. The carpet was garishly coloured and clumsily made. Badly drawn long-tailed, bright red birds with yellow eyes cavorted on a background of luminous green. Its fringe was ragged and its shape a little uncertain. ‘What a disappointment!’ the old man thought, sadly.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ said Kareen Amar, affectionately stroking it. ‘I knew it at once.’

  ‘Wonderful indeed,’ smarmed the stallholder, ‘and a good price for you, lovely lady, and your friend.’ He put his head on one side, and smilingly named a price that made Husam’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. The Jinn took no notice; she was too busy stroking the carpet, with a ‘listening’ look on her face, as if it were speaking to her.

  ‘Ten thousand ruyiahs! You, sir, are a highway robber,’ fumed Husam, with a glare at Kareen Amar’s too-obvious preoccupation. ‘It’s just a cheap, ugly carpet. Worth one hundred ruyiahs at the most.’

  The stallholder looked warily at the old executioner’s tall, powerful form and strong face. ‘Oh, no, sir,’ he said, his ugly smile showing many teeth were missing, ‘it’s worth its weight in gold, and well your friend knows it. It’s not the design or colours that are important, sir, it is what the carpet does. And where it’s come from.’

  ‘Flying carpets are lovely things,’ said Husam, frowning. ‘I’ve seen one or two. This one’s ugly as your face, you old rogue. You are tricking us.’

  ‘Sir!’ said the stallholder, drawing himself up in mock outrage. ‘Look at the lady; she knows it’s the real thing.’

  Kareen Amar was crooning to the carpet now; squatting on her heels, she had a faraway look on her face. She said quietly, ‘It’s ugly because the Enchantress is very young and hasn’t yet learnt to create something that is beautiful as well as useful. But I can feel this carpet’s spirit, and it’s woven of fire, the best element of all.’

  ‘And it has all kinds of modern features,’ said the seller eagerly. ‘Tell your lord, madam, that he should know how lucky he is to be allowed to purchase this unique piece.’

  ‘Now look here –’ began Husam angrily, but Kareen interrupted him gently.

  ‘This is how it works. The carpet is imbued with firebird-spirit. This gives it the energy to fly long distances; it is the driving engine of the carpet.’ She touched one of the birds, on its yellow eye, and muttered something under her breath. At once, the eye swivelled and lit up, almost like a tiny round computer screen. A map appeared on it, with dots moving around. ‘This is the navigation system,’ Kareen said, as proudly as if she had made it herself. ‘Is it not very modern and new?’ She touched another bird on its eye, and all at once there was a rustling sound, like a parachute opening, and suddenly, making them all jump, around the edges of the carpet leapt up a translucent, tall cover of some shimmering material, giving rather the effect of a pop-up caravan. Kareen grinned at the looks on their faces. ‘This will protect us from the weather; it’s woven from thread made by air-spiders, immensely strong and flexible. The beauty of this carpet is that you get both old and new, both spirit and human world represented here. It’s perfect.’ She touched the material and said a few words, and instantly it fell back again, melting away like dew on the grass.

  ‘Like the lady said so perceptively,’ said the stallholder, quickly chiming in, ‘it’s perfect, and perfection needs to be paid for. I will not sell this marvel for less than – ten thousand ruyiahs.’

  Husam spluttered, ‘Keep your blinking carpet, you robber, you braying donkey, you ape’s cousin!’

  ‘A curse on your moustache!’ said the stallholder, furious, his hand jumping to the short dagger at his side. ‘You can’t just insult a man like that, you –’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Kareen Amar quietly. She turned to look at the stallholder, full in the face, her eyes suddenly glowing very red. At the sight, he went pale, sweat stood out on his forehead, and he took a step back. ‘You named a price to me when I first saw it, and that is what we will pay, no more, no less. Two thousand ruyiahs.’ She reached into her pockets and drew out a wad of crumpled notes. ‘Take it. The carpet is worth far more than that, but you are a thief. Count yourself lucky I do not send word to the workshops of the Marshlands that it is you who have stolen one of the new carpet prototypes. You know the fate the Marshlanders reserve for thieves and traitors.’ The man stared fearfully at her as though he’d been turned to stone. Kareen Amar shoved the money into his unresisting hand. Then she got down on her knees and rolled the carpet up briskly. She put the bundle under her arm and looked crossly at Husam. ‘What’s the matter, goggling at me with great eyes? Time is pressing, my friend, and we have already spent too much time in this place. We must get down to the beach right away.’ She turned her attention back to the stallholder. ‘And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, grubby thief, be assured, on my honour as a free Desert-Jinn, that the Carpet Enchantresses of Mesomia will know where to find you.’

  Leaving the terrified stallholder looking as if he wanted to disappear to the furthest ends of the earth, she stalked off, Husam following resignedly in her steps. ‘Ah well,’ he thought, ‘if the carpet’s driving element is fire, it should be all right. As Jinns are of that element, too, if the worst comes to the worst, Kareen Amar’s own reserves will make the carpet stay up. Still, it’s a wonder the carpet looks so clumsy and garish. Its creator must be a mere apprentice. God protect us, I’ll have to bring my protective zummiyah water with me!’

  ‘It can’t fail,’ said Kareen Amar over her shoulder, seemingly aware of what he was thinking. ‘It was fated to be, that we would find this perfect thing. Besides, you know that the spirit Queen of the Southern Sea, Rorokidul, has promised to speed us on our way to Al Aksara. As she controls not only the waters but the sea winds, these have been directed to help us. From the beach at Kapalau, the winds will take us west over the ocean, skirting Alhind, then north to the lands of Al Aksara, up over the Gulf of Parsari and the Shining Sea, to land in the Ameeratan city of Jumana.’

  ‘You seem to have been consulting your maps, Kareen,’ said Husam dryly.

  ‘I’ve thought of everything. All you have to do is bring your things, relax, and let me do the driving.’

  ‘That’s just the trouble. I’m not sure relaxing and letting you do the driving aren’t mutually exclusive activities, Kareen Amar,’ said Husam, laughing.

  Four

  The palace of the al-Farouks was bustling. Everywhere he went, Khaled ran into servants running hither and thither, with paint pots, new carpets and furniture, and armfuls of ingredients for exotic dishes to tempt the palates of the eagerly awaited guests. Abdullah directed the operations. He seemed to have found some measure of relief from the worry of the fast-approaching deadline by throwing himself into all kinds of activity. Khaled kept out of the way, for he found it all rather unnerving. He wasn’t sure of himself any more. Doubts filled his mind. How could a pair of strangers help in what was really a private family matter? Would they be in needless danger, these strangers on whom family burdens were to be placed? Why should any Jinn care about what might happen to him? Could you do anything about fate, anyway? Every morning he woke up with dread in the pit of his stomach, thinking: ‘It’s one more day closer to my birthday.’ He couldn’t concentrate on anything.

  His head full of fears and doubts, he wandered through the palace, escaping the crowds and activity. In one of the furthest wings he came to a deserted, cramped corridor, at the dark end of which was a little door. He opened the door and peered in. Beyond was a small room, crammed with boxes. Everything was covered in a fine film of dust. He couldn’t remember having been here before. For something to do, for something to help him forget the questions that crowded into his head, he decided to investigate.

  The doorway was low and he had to duck to go in. The ceiling was low, too, and he had to hunch his shoulders to walk about. The little
room had an air of waiting, like a person holding their breath. There were no footprints on the floor, no handprints on the boxes. ‘No-one has been in here for a very long time,’ Khaled thought.

  He went over to one of the boxes and opened it, sending a shower of dust to the floor. He peered in. The box was stacked with books. He picked one up. It had a mud-coloured jacket, with a title on it in gold: Bricks and their Makers through the Centuries. ‘Well,’ thought Khaled, ‘that sounds like the dullest book you could ever read.’ He opened the book; its pages crackled. ‘No-one’s ever opened it before,’ he thought. He put it down and picked up another one. A Short History of the Comma, it was entitled, in silver letters on green. ‘But it isn’t short at all,’ thought Khaled, hefting the heavy thing in his hand. ‘And it looks very boring indeed.’ He looked at its first page. It had been presented to his grandfather, when he had been Ambassador of Ameerat to the Rummiyan Empire, far to the west. Khaled shook his head. ‘Fancy writing such books, let alone reading them,’ he murmured, aloud. ‘Who on earth would waste their time?’

  ‘You are an ill-mannered, ignorant child,’ said a squeaky, thin voice. Khaled was so startled that he dropped both books on the floor. A cloud of dust rose from them.

  ‘Can’t you be more careful?’ said the squeaky voice, peevishly. Khaled spun around to face the door. But there was no-one else in the room with him. It was quite empty. He was quite alone.

  ‘Am I going mad?’ he cried. ‘I thought I heard –’

  ‘I can’t answer as to your mental state,’ said the voice, even more sharply. Khaled stared as he caught sight of the thing hovering in the air just above him. It was a moth – or at least something that at first sight looked like a moth. It was about the size of one, and had a moth’s wings, ragged and dark, and a moth’s six legs, waving crankily at Khaled. But it was plain this was no ordinary moth: it had no insect features, but a humanish face with strange yellow, red-pupilled eyes and stiff, splendid whiskers. It had a segmented, dark brown and ochre furry body that was clad in what looked at first like oddly patterned cream silk but Khaled soon realised was actually paper covered with diagrams and figures.