The Scorpions of Zahir

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  “Why is it terrible to be unforgettable?” she asked, curious to hear more.

  “According to Bedouin tribes who roam the desert, whoever looked upon the city of Zahir could think of nothing else,” he said in his egghead professor’s voice, “and the image only sharpened with time. In the end, the memory of Zahir drove them mad.” He gave one of his philosophical sighs.

  “Hmm, that’s really interesting, Dad.” Zagora’s mind went back to the ghostly oryxes she’d seen from the train the night before. “Do you think there are still scimitar oryxes around?”

  “Scimitar oryxes have been extinct in Morocco for many years, unfortunately.” He smoothed out the map. “Unless, of course, you choose to believe the old legends.”

  Zagora looked up. He’d never mentioned any legends before.

  “According to my friend Pitblade, the Legend of the Oryxes says that one day the oryxes will return to Zahir and the city will rise again, but only after great chaos.”

  “I hope it’s true,” said Zagora. She thought a moment. “Did he say anything about the Oryx Stone?” It surprised her that the stone wasn’t famous throughout the world or, at the very least, locked up in a museum somewhere.

  “Pitblade once told me the stone has the power to attract oryxes,” said her father. “The stone also has the power to repel scorpions. Not bad, eh?”

  “Cool, Dad. And does the stone give its wearer superpowers?” she asked. “The stone’s magic, right?” Silence. “Dad? Is the Oryx Stone magic?”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, leaning over his map. “Something like that, yes.”

  But the moment was gone. Her dad was lost in his map again.

  Noticing her father’s backpack on the floor, she nudged it with her foot, and it toppled sideways. A tattered drawstring pouch fell out and she glimpsed the Oryx Stone, winking in the sunlight, grains of sand spilled around it. Why hadn’t he tucked the stone safely away in one of his zip-up compartments? Then she remembered that her dad sometimes got a bit distracted when he packed, especially if it was for a last-minute trip.

  Feigning a yawn, she reached out, bending down, her fingers closing around the stone. It radiated a dark, intense energy and felt as smooth as a nomad’s compass, as perfect as an Arabic symbol. It felt, somehow, right.

  “See you later, Dad,” she said, casually pushing the backpack under the table with her foot.

  “Sure thing,” said her father, uncapping his pen. “Have fun.”

  Clutching the stone, she beat a hasty retreat downstairs to the lobby. There was no sign of Duncan, so she sat by the fountain, water splashing over her hair and shoulders. She opened her hand and looked down at the Oryx Stone, rubbing her thumb over its surface; the shape of it was as spare and elegant as the poetry Mrs. Bixby called haiku. The oryx shimmered, light-struck and mystical, as if it were alive, moving in time with her heart.

  Zagora placed the stone around her neck, wishing she could keep it forever.

  The stone had belonged to Zahir, then to a thief; then it had vanished for centuries, until Edgar Yegen found it in Marrakech. Now it was hers—well, not really, but it was fun to pretend. Pitblade Yegen was the stone’s true owner, but he’d been missing for years.

  What had happened to him out in the desert? All she knew was once you went in, there was no turning back. Hadn’t her father told her that a hundred times? That was the desert’s secret rule, from Desert Survival 101: the desert always changes you, no matter how strong you are, no matter how smart.

  No matter, even, how brave.

  Slamming the door behind her, Zagora stepped out into the dazzling light. Freshly scrubbed after a hot bath and smelling of soap and watermelon (a lady in a silken head scarf had given her a slice), she was dressed in a pale pink T-shirt and Capri pants. A spangled scarf, wrapped twice around her neck, fluttered in the wind. Hidden beneath the scarf, the Oryx Stone lay snug against her throat. Edgar Yegen’s comment about pickpockets had made her extra cautious.

  Her dad had promised to take her and Duncan to the casbah, but right then he was busy planning their journey to Zahir. Too impatient to wait, she’d decided to go solo—and secretly—instead. Nobody needed to know, and anyway, she wouldn’t be gone long.

  When she thought about her dad, with his quirky smile and humble nature, she knew he really was her hero—even if he was different from her friends’ fathers. Her dad was an explorer, and he had weightier things on his mind, like translating glyphs and setting up expeditions to faraway places, so he wasn’t always free to do father-daughter-type things. But that was okay with her.

  Though sometimes, just sometimes, she wondered what it would be like to have a mother to do fun things with: someone she could confide in, who would take her shopping and help pick out clothes for school, someone who’d fix her hair so it didn’t always look so messy. It saddened her to think that it would never happen.

  Traipsing through the zigzag alleys, Zagora darted around piles of garbage and hissing cats, imagining Edgar Yegen walking down these streets. She pictured him in the casbah, bartering for a blue stone that looked almost supernatural. Edgar had described it this way:

  I happened upon a shabby backstreet square in the magnificent city of Marrakech, crowded with so many wooden stalls it was almost impossible to thread one’s way through.

  Now, eager to discover more, Zagora was intent on retracing Edgar’s steps.

  She charged across a dusty road to the Djemâa el Fna, dodging taxis, bicycles and horse-drawn carts. In the packed marketplace, the sun beat down and the air vibrated with nonstop babbling. Trying to get her bearings, she hurried past tarot card readers, snake charmers and a waiflike girl drawing henna tattoos on the arms of tourists. Three small children tugged at Zagora’s arm, refusing to let go. Unsure what to do, she handed them each a coin.

  At the far end of the marketplace stood hotels made of weather-beaten wood, painted in pale colors. Men wearing turbans and long robes she knew were called djellabas sat at outdoor tables with cups of coffee. Behind them, light sizzled on the walls of the cafés.

  Taking a deep breath, Zagora stepped out of the sundrenched square and into a labyrinth of streets, into the ancient quarter: the casbah. She scampered along alleys no wider than footpaths, enchanted by the green-painted doorways, the flat-roofed shops, the jumbled houses and clay walls jutting out above her head. There were tiny stores no bigger than closets, where merchants hawked perfumes, olive oil, pistachios, salt scrubs and caftans. So many odd and offbeat things were for sale she didn’t know where to look. Everything in the casbah seemed to be exactly as Edgar Yegen had described.

  Turning a corner, Zagora heard a low, haunting wind—she was sure it was coming from the desert. Sparkling grains of sand drifted down to the street. She felt the hairs on her neck rise as she saw a hazy copper glow ahead, at the far end of the alley. More curious than frightened, she stepped forward. The light, altogether a different quality from sunlight, was turning the air a powdery gold.

  A shadow moved toward her and she saw—or thought she saw—a glowing oryx, its long, lithe body filling the alleyway. This is crazy, she thought, staring at the curved horns and golden fur. Oryxes are extinct.

  The oryx threw back its head and snorted, blowing plumes of dust through its nostrils. Somehow its presence calmed her, lifting away her fears, and she felt her heart melt just a little. The creature was beautiful beyond description, airy and translucent, like the oryxes she’d seen from the train. She longed to throw her arms around its neck.

  “Oryx?” she whispered, certain that she was seeing a ghost. “Why are you here? Hey, do you want to see the Oryx Stone?”

  As she reached for the stone, shouting and laughter echoed through the alley, along with the sound of running feet. Startled, the ghost oryx backed away. Zagora watched as the golden light dimmed. The outline of the creature grew smoky, then it began to fade, as if a giant eraser were rubbing it out. Moments later the oryx was gone—as if it had never been there at all.<
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  Somewhat dazed, she tramped down the alley. From nearby came a high-pitched giggling, and with a chill of unease, she walked a little faster, feeling alone and vulnerable. As she navigated through the dark warren of streets, she heard the giggling again. The sound seemed to be coming from all around her. Unable to shake the sense of being followed, she began to run, surprised to discover that she was truly frightened.

  She sprinted around a corner and up a flight of crooked stone steps. Here the mud houses were built so close together that no light fell between them. Ducking through a gateway with puzzle-shaped carvings, Zagora stumbled into a courtyard of whirling red dust. The small square was crowded with shoppers, vendors and wooden stalls.

  This could be where Edgar had found the stone! He’d written about going through a gateway, and this matched the bustling marketplace he’d described—more or less. Excited, Zagora hurried from one stall to the next, mouth watering as she breathed in the smells of roasted peppers and grilled fish. Her stomach lurched as she spotted the head of a sheep swinging from a plastic rope and, next to it, an eel swarming with flies.

  At the center of the square a bearded man knelt on the ground, hammering out silver bracelets, each one with a different design. He set down his hammer and gave her a kind smile.

  “Please, have a look at my beautiful silver,” he said.

  Reaching into her pockets and finding them empty, except for the dead scorpion, Zagora realized she’d given away all her coins. She eyed the bracelets longingly and said, “Next time I’ll bring my money.”

  Once again she had a sense of being followed. Her scalp prickled when she saw a gang of kids scuff through the dust, throwing savage glances her way. In the lead was a tall, skinny girl, robes billowing, hair swirling, arms whipping at her sides.

  Leaning forward, the silversmith whispered: “Take care, my little friend, they have their eyes on you.” He nodded toward the band of children, who were dawdling from one stall to the next. Goggle-eyed, they sniggered and pushed one another, stirring up the dust; a woman selling fruit shouted and they danced away laughing.

  The man went back to hammering bracelets. Zagora noticed the tall girl staring at her with a cold, hard gaze. Determined not to act frightened, she glared back, taking in the sharp cheekbones, the copper skin and inky eyes. Coils of henna-red hair floated around her face, not quite covering a purple bruise on her forehead. There were tiny silver stars sewn into the girl’s veils and robes.

  She stepped forward, grinning, and Zagora caught a strong whiff of mint.

  “Give it over,” demanded the girl, holding out her hand.

  “I don’t have any money,” said Zagora, trying to sound brave. She saw that the bruise on the girl’s forehead was a tattoo: a scorpion with its stinger in the air. The image made her shiver in spite of the warm sun.

  With a crooked finger the girl pointed to the scarf wrapped around Zagora’s throat. “There is something there,” she said darkly, “around your neck.”

  Zagora felt a thrill of fear. There was no way the girl could know about the Oryx Stone—or could she? If she goes near it, I’ll scratch her eyes out, Zagora thought fiercely.

  “I am not here to take away your treasure,” said the girl, as if reading her thoughts. “I only want to have a look.” She smiled, showing a row of small, uneven teeth.

  Those teeth could use a good brushing, thought Zagora. Then she tried to unthink it, just in case the girl really was a mind reader. “Why do you have that tattoo?” she blurted out, pointing to the scorpion.

  “Because I am not like the others.” The girl pushed back her hair with long fingers. “I have powers that others do not. I know how to tame scorpions and I keep spells in the palms of my hands, like a sorceress. I can speak to swarms of bees. Sometimes I see great distances through the eyes of the oryx.”

  Impressed, Zagora stared wide-eyed at the girl. What did it mean to see through an oryx’s eyes? She supposed magic was involved. This girl was a wild card, as her dad would say, unlike anyone she’d ever known: super-wired, edgy, ready to fly apart—maybe even slightly insane.

  “I have more scorpions. See?” The girl lifted her foot, wriggling her mud-caked toes. Around her thin ankle were tattoos of scorpions and oryxes, interlinked. “Evil and good, good and evil,” murmured the girl. “It is important to balance the two.”

  Zagora stared, transfixed, thinking of Marietta von Stollen, a girl who had worn dresses with frilly collars to Mrs. Bixby’s class and had a dragonfly birthmark on her wrist. Some kids said Marietta was a prophet, and others swore she knew antigravity spells. Marietta had once predicted the flattening of a chicken farm by a hurricane and the next day it had really happened.

  This girl was mysterious, too, but in a scarier way.

  “Who are you?” asked Zagora, feeling her mind grow foggy, as if the gears inside her head were jamming. “Do you know magic?”

  “My name is Amina Ash-Shaulah,” said the girl. “Yes, of course I know magic.” She rolled her eyes, as if Zagora had asked a silly question. “Please, call me Mina. Mee-na. I am named after an ancient Muslim princess,” she added in a haughty tone. “It is an Arabic word meaning ‘trustworthy.’ ”

  Zagora wasn’t so sure about that. She thought she remembered a character named Mina in Duncan’s comic-book version of Dracula. Not wanting to be outdone, she boasted, “My dad named me after a town in Morocco, and nobody in the whole U. S. of A. has my name.”

  Mina’s eyes shrank to dark holes. “You are Zagora, yes?”

  Zagora’s mouth fell open. This girl was ten times freakier than Marietta von Stollen.

  “I know many things.” Mina’s lips curved into a thin smile. “I learn from my grandmother, who is a seer; her magic comes from the stars.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “We are a desert tribe, very old, very powerful—we are beyond memory.”

  The raggedy group of kids crowded behind Mina, smirking and elbowing one another.

  Magic from the stars sounded strangely familiar to Zagora. Then she remembered: she’d read it in Edgar Yegen’s journal. She leaned forward, intrigued. “You mean you’re off the map?” Her father used the phrase off the map when referring to remote desert settlements never charted by cartographers.

  Mina lifted her bony shoulders. “Not on the map, no.” Then a greedy look crossed her face and she snapped her fingers. The kids shuffled in closer, throwing off waves of horrid smells—unwashed clothes and dirty feet—that settled over Zagora in a cloud of dust.

  “Give me the stone,” said Mina in a quiet voice. “I must take it to Grandmother. She will know if it is the one we seek.”

  Zagora, frightened, sensed she was in over her head. “You can’t have it,” she said defiantly. “I borrowed it from my dad and he’ll hit the roof if anything happens to it.”

  Mina’s eyes flashed. “If it is the stone of the oryx, it belongs to my tribe.” Mina’s hand flew out and she grasped the leather ribbon. “You have no right to keep it.”

  “Let go!” shouted Zagora, giving the girl a push.

  Mina lost her balance and one of the boys crowding around her caught her before she fell. Swiftly she righted herself, hissing through her teeth, her eyes going black, and for one heart-stopping moment Zagora glimpsed a face that was light-years from human. She backed away, her stomach twisting into knots.

  “Get it!” Mina shouted to the boys.

  Zagora screamed as they flew at her, tackling her to the ground, dust flying. Eyes shut, she clenched the stone, thinking, I’ll never give it up, never.… Before they could grab it, she heard shouts and the thud of bare feet on the ground. Opening her eyes, she saw Mina and her gang tearing through the marketplace, the bearded silversmith chasing close behind.

  Moments later he returned to Zagora. “Go quickly, little one.” He helped her up off the ground. “You are not safe here. They will be back.”

  Clutching the precious stone to her chest, Zagora darted out of the square and under the gateway, rac
ing through the maze of streets, anxious to return to the fever-spiked chaos of the Djemâa el Fna.

  “Where the heck have you been?” asked Duncan as Zagora burst into the hotel lobby. He was sitting on an overstuffed divan, leafing through Sky & Telescope magazine. “Dad thought you got kidnapped! He’s a nervous wreck.”

  “I wasn’t gone long—was I?” she said, feeling her heart sink.

  Duncan peered over his magazine. “Long enough.”

  On her way back she had gotten lost. Surprisingly, the name and address of her hotel had flown completely out of her head. A fatal mistake when you were an explorer: if you lost your way, your expedition was doomed.

  Upstairs in her room she fell onto the bed, exhausted. How had she gotten mixed up with an off-the-wall girl like Mina? It was obvious that the girl had intended to steal the stone.

  To calm herself, Zagora dug Edgar Yegen’s journal out of her backpack and began to read.

  We leave the town of Sumnorum at the crack of dawn, the fajr, when the sky is turning an ashen pink. Mohammed, my guide, has dark eyes and a quick smile; he wears a turban, a homespun burnoose and sandals of goat leather. Our camels raise clouds of red dust and the sand crumbles underfoot, shifting as we make our way deeper into the desert. Mirages float in the distance, suspended between sky and earth.

  We reach a tract of sand where the earth has been baked by the wind and sun. The sky is the deepest blue imaginable. In the distance I can make out a stone tower, high on an outcropping: the infamous Tower of the Enigmas, built looking over Zahir, guarding the city. I can see what look like scimitar oryxes, luminous and glowing, ranged around the base of the tower—as if waiting for me to arrive. Their appearance is unearthly.

  Edgar had seen oryxes in Morocco, too? His phrase luminous and glowing described exactly her ghost oryx! How freaky was that?

  Suddenly there was a pounding on her door. “Zagora, open up!” boomed her father, sounding like a crime scene investigator.