The Curse of Zohreh

by Sophie Masson

  ‘Find us, yes,’ said Soheila, eyes flashing, ‘to finally destroy us!’

  ‘You thick-headed idiot,’ snapped Kareen, ‘it was to find you and make reparations to you, much as you don’t deserve it.’

  ‘It is time this curse was ended,’ said Husam. ‘It is time Zohreh’s spirit be put to rest. Don’t you see? That is what we are here for, Kareen and I. That is what Khaled and the Shayk want: not only to be safe, but to see that justice is finally done, that your family is compensated for the loss of its goods, and that a full explanation is made, to restore your family’s honour.’

  Soheila stared at him and began to shake. She said, ‘I’ve seen Zohreh, spoken with her – she still wants revenge – for this is the day, a hundred years ago, when she –’

  ‘Today?’ broke in Husam, glancing at Kareen.

  ‘She said Khaled had made a mistake. Today is the anniversary.’ She gulped. ‘But I didn’t want – I didn’t know that – oh, God – I didn’t want Khaled to be hurt – never –’

  ‘Where is he?’ snapped Kareen. When Soheila didn’t answer she screamed, ‘Where is he, you spawn of Jehannem?’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Soheila, quailing before the Jinn’s fury. ‘I was attacked in the garden by a man – Yellow Eyes – Khaled heard, jumped out of the window, tried to help me – I didn’t want – I didn’t know. He took him. He took Khaled.’ She began to shiver uncontrollably, all the accumulated shocks of the last few days rolling over her in a great wave. ‘It’s the truth. The truth, I swear.’ Suddenly, everything swam around her, a roar of black rushed up under her eyelids and she fell into a dead faint.

  Twenty-one

  Khaled could hardly breathe. Though his abductor had taken off the gag before bundling him into the boot of the car, there wasn’t a great deal of air in there. The ropes cut into his wrists and ankles, and prevented him from moving much. And it was completely dark.

  The kidnapper had taken his phone, so he could not call for help. It did not help to yell inside the boot; the solid steel muffled his cries. He had given up on that soon enough, when he discovered it was making him short of breath for no good purpose. Though he had also tried to drum with his feet, especially when he felt the car come to a stop, it had come to nothing. He couldn’t be heard over the roar of traffic outside and the gunning of motorbike, car, bus and truck engines at traffic lights.

  Now he was beginning to feel more than a little fearful that he might suffocate in the boot before arriving at whatever destination they were headed to. Only prayer was left – and that he had done a lot of.

  They had been driving for quite a while. Khaled thought they might be heading north, for once right at the beginning, when they’d stopped at a traffic light, he had heard a voice on a megaphone promoting a big shopping complex in North Jumana. But he wasn’t sure if they were still going in that direction, for they had gone through several roundabouts and intersections after that, and were driving steadily along what must be a highway. They must be well out of the city, on the big highway that cut through the desert.

  His mind kept going back to one thing: who had kidnapped him, and why? His family had been targeted in the past, but not for a long time. When his father was small someone had abducted him and demanded that Khaled’s grandfather pay a large ransom for his safe return. Khaled’s grandfather had refused to pay. He had a retinue of loyal nomadic warriors at his command, and he sent them in search of Khaled’s father. They soon found the kidnapper – he wasn’t a very clever man, a disgruntled former secretary who thought he’d enrich himself the easy way – and rescued Abdullah. As to the kidnapper, Khaled’s grandfather had cut him to pieces and scattered him in the desert for the hyenas and vultures to eat. No-one had ever tried to abduct an al-Farouk again, because the story had become widely known – his grandfather had seen to that.

  But this was no disgruntled former employee. Khaled had never seen the man before. Yet, strangely, his narrow yellow eyes reminded him of something – of someone, and he couldn’t quite work out who.

  A sudden thought struck him, making him shake like a leaf. What if this was the curse striking him? What if all their efforts had been in vain?

  But it wasn’t his birthday today. He mustn’t think that way; it would make him panic, and then he’d never be able to escape.

  He felt the car turn off the highway and start on a much more bumpy road. He thought, ‘We’re heading straight into the desert.’ Some time passed. He began to feel light-headed; his throat felt tight and sore. At last, the car lurched to a stop. Seconds later, the boot was flung open and a veiled face peered in at him. It wasn’t Yellow Eyes but someone else, probably the driver. ‘Still alive, eh?’ growled the man. He reached in, pulled out Khaled and dumped him unceremoniously on the sand behind the car.

  Just as Khaled had thought, they were deep in the desert. Great dunes rose all around them like petrified golden waves. In the distance, under a twisted thorn tree, a black woollen tent, of the kind nomads used, was pitched.

  Khaled took great gulps of air. He felt sick to the stomach, and retched several times. The man laughed. ‘Not quite the luxury you’re used to boy, is it?’ He spoke Aksaran, but with a heavy accent: Mesomian, or perhaps Masrikhan.

  Khaled found his voice. ‘Who are you? I demand you take me back at once.’ He tried to sound haughty and commanding but, to his horror, his voice came out like a rusty squeak.

  The man laughed. ‘Hey, Mahmoud,’ he called to his companion, who was coming around the side of the car, ‘do you hear his Majesty ordering us to let him go? Still thinks he’s in Daddy’s palace, eh?’

  ‘Shut up, you fool,’ said the other man, the one with the coldly cruel yellow eyes. ‘You talk too much.’ Ignoring the other’s glare, he knelt down beside the boy, and despite his protest, gagged him again. Then he cut the ropes around his ankles, and said, ‘Get up. March.’ He motioned towards the black tent. Khaled stood up unsteadily.

  ‘Did you hear him? March!’ said his friend heartily, and gave Khaled a push. He was a big, beefy man and nearly sent the boy sprawling. The man he’d called Mahmoud glared at Khaled again, but said nothing. Khaled had no option but to do as he was told, for both men were armed with very businesslike-looking guns.

  It was hot, and he was panting by the time they reached the tent. They pushed him inside. It was dim and close. There was a worn carpet on the sand, and shabby cushions scattered around. In a corner were several bottles of water and a torch; in another a cardboard box of supermarket food. Khaled’s heart leapt. It seemed as if the kidnappers did not want to kill him, or at least not yet. Maybe it wasn’t the curse. Perhaps they were after a ransom.

  The driver had followed him into the tent. He cut the ropes on Khaled’s hands and took the gag off. ‘You might be here a while,’ he sneered. ‘You might as well make yourself comfortable.’ He gestured at the water bottles. ‘Drink.’

  Khaled folded his arms and glared defiantly at his kidnapper. ‘I want to know what you want with me.’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said the man, smiling faintly. ‘Our boss will be here in a short while to have a little chat with you.’

  ‘Who is your boss?’ snapped Khaled. At that moment, Mahmoud pushed his way in. ‘Tarik, leave him and go and get the fire going. It’s going to be cold out here tonight.’

  Beefy Tarik shrugged, but did as he was told. Mahmoud turned on Khaled, a pendant on a chain around his neck catching the light as he swung around. ‘And you had better save your breath for later.’

  ‘If you’re after money, gangster scum, you’re wasting your time, my family never pays ransom,’ said Khaled fiercely. ‘My father commands the loyalty of a great clan and wherever you hide, you’ll be found and put to death.’

  Mahmoud punched Khaled in the stomach, making him double up in pain. ‘Nobleman of a corrupt and decadent country,’ Mahmoud hissed, looming over the boy, ‘when our boss arrives, you will give him the answers he wants, or by Jehannem,
you will see what I and my friend are most skilled at. We have broken many much stronger, older and braver than you, Ameeratan spawn, with our fire-love.’

  ‘Fire-love?’ whispered Khaled.

  The man pulled a lighter from his pocket. He clicked it on, very close to Khaled’s face. ‘The fire will love you,’ he said, very softly. ‘It will love your hair –’ and here he brought it so close to Khaled’s hair that he could smell the ends of it crisping and singeing – ‘it will love your skin –’ and here he skimmed it along Khaled’s cheek, making the boy flinch in pain and terror – ‘it will love you everywhere. You will die in Lady Fire’s sweet embrace, my boy, screaming her name!’

  Khaled could not speak or move. His stomach ached where he had been punched; his burnt cheek hurt unbearably; his nostrils were full of the burnt-chicken smell of singed hair. But more than all of that, he was terrified by the look of delighted cruelty in Mahmoud’s eyes. No mercy could be expected from this man.

  ‘Please,’ Khaled said, unable to keep the tremor from his voice, ‘why are you doing this to me? I don’t know what you want. I don’t know who you are.’

  The man put his face very close to Khaled’s. His yellow eyes glittered; his breath was curiously hot, sweet and heavy. ‘Don’t tell lies, boy. You know very well what we’re after.’ He grabbed Khaled’s wrist and gave it a painful twist, making Khaled cry out again. ‘And you’d better change your strategy when the boss arrives, or you’ll be very sorry.’

  ‘Mahmoud!’ Tarik was at the tent flap. ‘What are you doing? You know the boss said not to hurt him just yet.’

  ‘Shut up, you fool,’ snapped Mahmoud. Nevertheless, he got up and moved away from Khaled.

  ‘Leave the boy. Come and play cards with me,’ said Tarik. ‘The boss won’t be here for hours yet.’

  ‘You and your cards,’ said Mahmoud, his yellow eyes still on Khaled, who shrank in on himself.

  ‘He’ll keep,’ said Tarik, glancing at the terrified boy. ‘You’ll get your chance, Mahmoud – but right now you’d better stay away from him.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Mahmoud, and gave a horrible little giggle. ‘Think about it, nobleman’s brat. Think about how much fun we’ll have later.’

  And with that, he followed Tarik out of the tent, leaving Khaled alone.

  For a moment he could not move. ‘This is it,’ he thought despairingly. ‘This is the curse: I am to be tortured to death by wicked, cruel men wielding fire. This is to be my fate – no, no, I must not think that way or I will go mad. I must try and get out of here before their boss arrives. But how? I’m miles out in the desert, and they’re just outside the tent, sitting by the fire.’

  His thoughts chased themselves round in his head. At home, they’d know he was missing soon enough. Payem would tell them. That is, if Payem hadn’t died from that blow on the head. Poor Payem, he must have surprised the kidnapper in the garden. He’d fought bravely, but he was so small and skinny. Tears came to Khaled’s eyes and he brushed them away. He looked down at the worn carpet under his feet. If only it were the flying carpet, he thought desperately.

  After a while he got up and went to the tent flap and peered out. Dusk had fallen. Mahmoud and Tarik were sitting some distance away by a thorn-tree branch fire, absorbed in their card game. They had turned on their car radio and bouncy pop music was wafting over the otherwise silent desert. All around them, the great dunes rose – the tent itself was pitched right beside one of them. Khaled returned to his cushions to think. The only method of transport out there was the kidnappers’ car. He’d had a few driving lessons with Omar and could drive a little. But how could he hope to take the car? Mahmoud and Tarik were posted not far from the tent entrance. They couldn’t fail to see him if he tried to run away. Anyway, even if he did manage to get away without them seeing him, what chance was there of survival? If he was right about the direction they had been driving in, this must be the Howling Desert to the north of Jumana, near the border with Mesomia. Hardly any nomads even passed through the Howling Desert. It was real badlands – thirst country with no respite, known to be haunted by evil spirits and carnivorous beasts, and prone to sudden, devastating, howling windstorms that gave the desert its name.

  His thoughts jumped to his captors, to Mahmoud especially. His flesh crept. The man’s eyes were devoid of humanity – yellow as a predator’s, and as blank. And that pendant around his neck – it looked like a wolf’s head. Perhaps it was some gang symbol. He frowned. Mahmoud had spoken about a ‘corrupt and decadent country’. It didn’t sound like the sort of thing someone in a crime gang would say, but more political, more like the rantings of The Vampire, across the border. Perhaps they were agents of The Vampire. But what would Mesomians want with him? His family had never been involved in international politics. Then, with a shock, he remembered what Sharib had said about Mr Harir, the carpet dealer in the bazaar who had disappeared. The old carpet dealer had been killed by Mesomian assassins, and they had been watching the shop …

  A horrible thought struck him then. What if Sharib himself was a spy for the Mesomians? Surely not. He felt in his bones that the dwarf was to be trusted. He was a good man …

  With a jolt he suddenly remembered what was familiar about Yellow Eyes’s face and voice. They were similar to that of the werewolf Gur Thalab. And Mahmoud wore that wolf pendant. ‘Yellow Eyes is a werewolf, too,’ Khaled thought, and stood up in sudden panic. And he must be related to Gur Thalab – the likeness between them was too striking. Perhaps it was Gur Thalab who was Mahmoud’s boss. But if that was the case, why hadn’t the werewolf attacked him back in the Gold Market? But then Husam and Sharib had been with him …

  The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that the men had followed him from the Gold Market. And that could only mean that Gur Thalab had alerted them.

  Heart thumping, he looked feverishly around the tent, trying to think of a means of escape.

  Twenty-two

  The first thing Soheila saw when she recovered consciousness was Farasha hovering above her, his goggle eyes fixed on her face. They looked at each other for an instant, then Farasha squeaked, ‘She’s awake, she’s awake!’

  ‘Are you feeling better, child?’ It was Husam’s voice. Soheila looked around. She was lying on a soft bed. Around her were Husam, Abdullah and the strange little man. She tried to struggle up, but Husam said, ‘You’ll feel dizzy if you try to sit up too quickly. Here –’ and he arranged a heap of pillows behind Soheila’s back.

  Memory was returning jerkily to Soheila. She looked at Abdullah, who was pale as death but otherwise composed. Tears sprang into her eyes. She said faintly, ‘Oh Shayk, I’m so sorry. Khaled –’

  ‘You must help us, Soheila,’ said Abdullah. ‘You must tell us if there was anything – anything that distinguished this attacker at all.’

  Soheila looked down at her hands. She whispered, ‘I remember the man’s eyes – yellow eyes, and so cold, so cruel. He was very strong; he had a grip like iron. He was dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, a shirt – and he wore a pendant on a silver chain – a white pendant shaped like an animal’s head – I remember now, it was a wolf’s head, with red eyes.’

  Husam and Kareen looked at each other. Abdullah gave a little gasp. Farasha, whirring about in fright, squeaked, ‘A wolf, a wolf! Oh, my young master is in terrible danger, he may be dead. Oh, woe is me! Woe is me!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Farasha,’ said Husam, shortly. He turned to Soheila. ‘Are you sure it was a wolf’s head?’

  Soheila nodded. Abdullah gulped, and said, ‘The White Wolves – but why? Why? I do not understand why they would ever …’ He saw their expressions, and explained, almost inaudibly, ‘The White Wolves are the most feared hit squad of the Mesomian secret police.’

  ‘The Mesomian secret police!’ exclaimed Husam. ‘What do they have to do with Zohreh’s curse? What could they want with Khaled?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Abdullah, tiredl
y, ‘but it is said that at least some of the Wolves are not – not natural humans.’

  ‘Werewolves!’ said Husam, whirling on Sharib. The little man looked puzzled and very unhappy.

  ‘Now, don’t think that –’ he began. ‘Don’t think that Gur Thalab –’

  ‘What is it? What are you saying?’ said Abdullah sharply. ‘Is it because of your carpet mechanic that my son is in danger?’

  ‘No, no, I can’t believe that,’ said Sharib. ‘Not all werewolves are the same, my lord. Gur Thalab was tortured by those very same White Wolves in the Black Prison. He is no traitor. Perhaps they have taken Khaled because they saw us the other day in the Carpet Bazaar and assumed we were in contact with Harir, and thus enemies of Mesomia.’

  ‘How can that be?’ said Abdullah angrily. ‘Our family has never been involved in anything to do with Mesomia. We must do something now. Sharib, can’t you and your Jinns show us where the White Wolves have taken Khaled?’

  ‘We can try,’ said Sharib rather doubtfully. He beckoned to Farasha. ‘And I think you can help us.’

  ‘Me?’ squealed Farasha, losing height in his agitation and spiralling to the floor. ‘Me, Jinn master?’

  ‘Yes, you, Farasha. You have shown an unusual initiative for a Jinn of your caste. I think you can help my tame ones to see a little further.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ squeaked Farasha, twitching a whisker at Kareen.

  ‘Because her powers are too great; she would fry up my poor little ones. But you, Farasha, you I think have possibilities. Just think, Farasha, you are one of the great and noble race of Jinn. And you have shown unusual courage and curiosity for one of your usually dull race. Will you not call on every ounce of your powers, every trace of your knowledge, and use it just for these next few minutes? Do you understand?’