Brushing dust off her sandals, Zagora followed Abdul into a shop filled with all sorts of amazing treasures: beaten copper pots, necklaces strung with coins, bowls of colored beads, jewel-encrusted bracelets. Enchanted by everything she saw, she decided that these things must have come from the desert: incense burners, woven silver headbands, a mirrored-glass globe, carpets woven with arabesque designs. This was definitely the kind of shop a desert explorer would own.
“An astrolabe,” said Duncan, holding up a gold disc with inscriptions on it. “I’ve always wanted one of these. It was used in ancient times for astrological measurements.”
“Neat,” said Zagora, half listening as she rummaged through a jar of coins, hoping to find one with an oryx stamped on it—an impossible search, she knew, since her dad said oryx coins from Zahir were priceless and found only in museums.
“Is this your shop?” she asked Abdul, wondering why he’d brought them there.
He smiled. “Yes, it is.” He gestured toward the hanging carpets. “Authentic Berber wool, very good price. And over there is Uncle Ali. He is my favorite uncle and he helps me in the shop.”
Across the room she saw a man in white robes and a white turban sitting cross-legged on a mat, his face as wrinkled as a dried fig. With a start she noticed that one of his eyes was opaque.
Duncan paid for the astrolabe and Abdul motioned for them to follow. Uncle Ali nodded as they all trooped past. “As-Salāmu ‘Alaykum,” said Zagora’s dad, and she repeated it, smiling at the old man. He lifted a gnarled hand in greeting, his one good eye twinkling.
They entered a room furnished with luxurious cushions, tapestries and rugs. Fragrant incense wafted through the air. Carpets of every shape and texture hung from the rafters and were piled in corners, some rolled up, others folded into tall stacks. There was no ceiling; when she looked upward, all Zagora could see were rows of carpets, sunlight filtering down between them.
Abdul gathered an armful of cushions and placed them on the floor around a low table. “Rest here. I will make tea for you.”
“It better not be mint,” Duncan whispered to Zagora. “I’m really sick of mint tea.”
“Quite a place, eh?” murmured their father, raising an eyebrow at Duncan. “Serving mint tea is a customary ritual with the Arab people. If you are offered tea, you should always accept.”
“Yeah, you have to say yes to everything they give you, no matter how disgusting,” said Zagora, trying to sound knowledgeable. “Even if it’s fried octopus suckers or boiled sheep’s eyes.”
Duncan fell silent.
High above the carpets floated a lonely patch of sky. Zagora stretched out on a green cushion embroidered with gold camels and imagined Edgar Yegen stepping off a bus, hoisting his bag over one shoulder as he strode into the dusty square of Sumnorum, blinking in the sunlight.
Flourishing an ornate brass and silver teapot, Abdul poured with his arm held high. The tea landed perfectly each time. Zagora kept an eye on the parrot, nodding sleepily on his shoulder. She expected it to fall off any minute.
“My wife and daughters are taking our goats to the mountains.” Abdul handed them each a glass of steaming mint tea. “Many days they are gone.”
Zagora tried to imagine climbing mountain paths with a mother who was smart and adventuresome, sort of like Freya Stark, and sisters, too, herding goats and sleeping in tents. What a life that would be.
“I stay here at the shop with Uncle Ali.” He settled on a leather hassock and she watched the parrot doze off. “Our kilim carpets are tapestry woven by desert craftspeople.”
Abdul launched into a history of his family’s business and Zagora sat, chin in hands, listening. His father and grandfather had been traders, crisscrossing the desert by camel caravan, bartering with nomads for jewelry, carpets, pottery, whatever. Back then they’d navigated by the stars, using hand-drawn maps and dead reckoning to find their way around.
“I too traveled many years through the desert,” he concluded, “but now I run my shop with Uncle Ali, while my younger brothers travel to distant parts of the Sahara. Only there is one difference: they have satellite GPS, ha-ha!” He gave a hearty laugh.
“Have you heard of the Oryx Stone?” Zagora blurted out. He was bound to know something, she thought, having traveled all over the desert. “The stone belonged to the Azimuth, but it was stolen, and then the scorpions invaded Zahir.”
Abdul threw her a piercing look, the kind her vice-principal, Mr. Porter-Jones, used to give, and she felt color rise to her cheeks.
“Ah yes, the Azimuth are a part of Moroccan folklore.” Abdul’s smile looked pasted onto his long, bony face. “In Morocco we have many desert myths, such as the Legend of the Oryx Stone. My uncle Ali knows many of these stories. Perhaps you should be asking him.”
“The Azimuth tribe isn’t a myth,” said Zagora. “They’re totally real. And the Oryx Stone is real, too.” She turned to her father. “Ask my dad. He studies ancient desert tribes and he knows a lot of stuff.”
Dr. Pym gave a scholarly nod. “The Azimuth once inhabited the city of Zahir and there is evidence that such a stone existed. Anthropologists believe, however, that the tribe has died out.”
“No, not true, Dad!” said Zagora, jumping up excitedly. “Remember I told you about Mina, the girl I met in Marrakech? She told me there are Azimuth people living in the desert—near Zahir!”
“Azimuth?” Her father leaned forward with a wide smile. “This is truly amazing news, Zagora. Extraordinary. You may just have made a groundbreaking discovery.”
Zagora beamed. “I know, Dad, I know.”
“Is Mina the girl you met in the marketplace?” asked Duncan. “The one with the freaky grandmother and the scorpion tattoos?”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “That’s her.”
Abdul fell quiet, as if piecing this information together. “In this part of the world scorpions bring bad fortune,” he said darkly. Zagora watched as he scrunched his beetle-shaped eyebrows together. “Have you not heard of the Time of the Scorpions?”
She sat up, suddenly alert. The phrase sounded slightly ominous.
“In the Time of the Scorpions, the world as we know it will change,” he continued in a gloomy voice. “Uncle Ali has often spoken of this foretelling. A great battle will take place in the desert between oryxes and scorpions. Uncle Ali believes the oryxes will be defeated and the desert will fall into eternal darkness. If such a thing happens, scorpions will rule the desert.”
Zagora went clammy all over.
“So it’ll be night twenty-four-seven and scorpions will be in charge?” said Duncan. “Sounds pretty grim.”
Lacing his fingers together, Abdul moved on to the next topic. “You are here on tourist holiday, taking in the sights of Morocco?”
“We’re not tourists,” huffed Zagora. “We’re travelers! We’re going to the desert on camels. To Zahir,” she added, hoping to impress Abdul. “Our dad was there eleven years ago, translating glyphs.”
Abdul turned to her father. “And you go a second time to Zahir? I think you must be very brave, my friend, or perhaps very foolish. Has no one told you about this ruined city beneath the sand? There are dark creatures in Zahir, and they do not sleep. No one goes to the buried city, for what lies in Zahir is beyond imagining.”
Zagora heard Duncan suck in his breath next to her. She listened with growing apprehension, wondering for the first time what kind of trouble Pitblade Yegen had gotten himself into—and what exactly they would find when they got to Zahir.
“Threats and warnings won’t stop me from going to Zahir,” said her father determinedly. “This journey is about friendship, and I suppose you could say loyalty, too.”
Zagora smiled. She’d always admired her father’s steadfastness. Right then he sounded like an olden-day knight entrusted with a sacred duty.
“We’re on a mission to rescue our dad’s friend,” she said importantly. “We have to return an artifact.”
; “You have a Moroccan artifact?” Abdul fixed his dark eyes on her and she winced, realizing she’d spoken without thinking. “We are growing tired of losing our treasures to outsiders,” he went on heatedly. “Europe, America, Russia, they fill their museums with Moroccan artifacts that do not belong to them.”
Realizing she might have just made a mistake, Zagora looked to her father. He gave her a reassuring nod, as if to say he knew sometimes her emotions got away from her and she said things she regretted later, but not to worry.
“People travel here from all over the world,” said Abdul, “and we are pleased to take their money—because, as you have no doubt seen, in Morocco life is difficult. But we are not so happy when they take away our treasures.”
Zagora thought of the ragged children begging for coins in Marrakech, and of Mina and Razziq, whose lives were impossible to comprehend. Life was hard, all right, for lots of people.
“You have a point, Abdul, artifacts are stolen all the time, and it is wrong, absolutely,” said Dr. Pym. “But this particular object has been in the Yegen family for generations.”
“It’s not really an artifact,” said Zagora. “It’s a meteorite.” She heard Duncan clear his throat and realized too late that hadn’t been a smart thing to say, either.
“There is a black market here in Morocco for meteorites,” said Abdul in a cold, quiet voice. “There has been much looting of meteorite sites in the desert. It is, of course, illegal.”
An awkward silence fell over the room. Zagora started to feel panicky, wondering if Abdul would report them to the authorities.
“Perhaps Zahir is best left under the sand, its dark secrets forgotten,” murmured Abdul, rising to his feet.
Zagora watched as he left the room in a flurry of white robes, the green parrot clinging to his shoulder. Uh-oh, she thought, I hope we still have a place to sleep tonight.
In the evening Abdul was calm and pleasant, serving Zagora and her family a delicious meal of chicken and almonds wrapped in phyllo pastry, with spicy roasted plums to finish. They dined in an upstairs salon where the walls were filled with tapestries of nomads, camel caravans and desert scenes. Over the fireplace hung a curved sword that Zagora recognized as a scimitar.
They sat on cushions on the floor, eating at a low table of dark wood inlaid with ivory. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed. Dr. Pym talked with Abdul about American baseball and Abdul explained how to roast plums, while Zagora and Duncan heaped their plates with food and, encouraged by Abdul, took seconds (and thirds, in Duncan’s case).
“Excuse me, but do you have any new information on Nar Azrak?” asked Duncan, digging into his bowl of plums.
Abdul stared intently at Duncan. It looked to Zagora as if he didn’t have good news.
“You have not heard?” he said. “I thought Americans were always in the know, as they say, ha-ha.”
“Yeah, but our dad’s BlackBerry doesn’t work this far south,” said Zagora, bristling. “And our car radio doesn’t get English stations.”
“Since we left Marrakech, we’re, like, off the grid,” said Duncan. “Way off.”
“There is much fear in Morocco at the moment, and much confusion.” Abdul’s voice was grave. “It seems there are changes in the night sky over our desert—changes no one could have predicted in the planet Nar Azrak.”
Zagora, Duncan and her father leaned forward, hanging on his every word.
“They are saying Nar Azrak comes closer each day, and at a speed that is increasing by the hour.”
Zagora heard a sharp intake of breath from Duncan, and she herself nearly choked on a plum.
“You mean Nar Azrak really is heading for Earth?” said Duncan. “But our dad said the reports are bogus. The planet’s light-years away!”
Dr. Pym set down his fork. “I find it hard to believe that the effect of the Earth’s gravitational field on Nar Azrak is changing.”
Zagora couldn’t quite interpret the expression on her father’s face, but she was sure Abdul had it wrong. He’s just a gloom-and-doom kind of guy, she thought.
“Well, this is what our astronomers are now telling us.” Abdul lowered his voice and Zagora had to strain to hear what he said next. “No one knows precisely how near to Earth the planet will come, but it is a fact that Morocco lies directly in its path. In five days Nar Azrak will cross before the moon, and our astronomers worry that this will be the defining moment.”
“A lunar eclipse?” said Duncan. “Oh man, this really is like a science fiction movie!”
“I don’t believe there’s any need to panic,” their father reassured them. “Not all the evidence is in, but I don’t believe it would ever …”
Zagora wasn’t convinced.
“Exactly how serious do you think this is, Abdul?” asked her father.
Abdul dabbed his mouth with a silk napkin. “Extremely serious. Permit me to take you to a café tonight where there is a television. We can listen to our national astronomer on the BBC. We will find out more, yes?”
“Sounds good,” said Dr. Pym.
“Can we go with you, Dad?” asked Zagora, not wanting to be excluded.
“Sorry, but it’s already past your bedtime,” he told her. “We leave at the crack of dawn, and you both look exhausted. I’ll give you the details on Nar Azrak tomorrow.”
“Upstairs we have a rooftop courtyard for sleeping,” said Abdul, rising from the table. “Come, I will take you.”
Until then Zagora had been wide-awake, but her eyelids felt suddenly heavy. She kissed her father good night and gave him an extra hug, and Duncan hugged him, too. Grabbing their backpacks, the children followed Abdul down a hallway and up a twisting staircase. Abdul carried a metal container he called a brazier, which smelled of hot oil and smoke. I remember those, thought Zagora sleepily. Edgar Yegen wrote about braziers in his journal.
At the top of the stairs, Abdul went through a curtain of wooden beads, ushering them into the coolness of the evening, onto a walled-in terrace. Zagora was impressed by the beads: they clattered around her like small insects as she walked through them. Out on the terrace she stood listening to the distant wail of a radio and the hum of crickets. The town looked mysterious in the moonlight, its wide streets dark and deserted. She felt a warm wind, smelling of desert flowers, on her face and was thrilled to be spending the night in such an exotic setting.
Duncan looked over the terrace and said, “Hmm, interesting, no streetlights. Wow, fantastic—I can see constellations! Look, Zagora!”
She gazed past rooftops and a stately minaret at a confusion of stars. “Where’s Nar Azrak?”
“The planet of blue fire will show itself later,” said Abdul, unrolling two carpets. “After the moon has risen.” Zagora noticed that his manner had become almost formal again.
“We have no lights in Sumnorum,” Abdul continued. “We prefer to see the stars.”
“I’m with you there, Mr. Abdul,” said Duncan, smacking his leg. “I find the night sky totally fascinating.” He swatted at mosquitoes buzzing around his head.
“My brother’s crazy about planets and constellations,” said Zagora proudly. “He’s won all kinds of computer science fair ribbons for his astronomy projects.”
She was about to ask if they had computer science fairs in Morocco when Duncan said, “Any chance we could have some spray for bugs?”
“Forbugs? I do not understand this word.” Abdul was quiet a moment; then Zagora saw him reach into his robe and pull out a small bottle. “Ah, I understand.… Here is cedar oil, to keep away the insects. It comes from cedar trees in the High Atlas.”
“Great,” said Duncan. “Thanks, Mr. Abdul.”
“Laila sa’eda wa ahlaam ladida,” said Abdul. “Good night, and pleasant dreams.”
Zagora whispered the phrase. She loved hearing the enigmatic sounds of the Arabic language. Abdul raised a hand in farewell, and Zagora listened to the wooden beads clacking behind him as he glided away.
“Man, th
ere are bugs all over the place. I hope this stuff does the trick,” said Duncan, opening the vial and rubbing the oil into his arms. “Hmm, smelly stuff.”
Zagora stretched her arms high, arching her back like a cat.
“Do you believe what Abdul said about Nar Azrak?” asked Duncan, handing her the bottle. “I think he’s an alarmist.”
“Maybe he wants to scare us a little,” said Zagora, inhaling the sweetish scent of the oil. “Or he likes to exaggerate. Don’t worry, Dad’s going to find out what’s really happening.”
“I wish my pal Razz was here,” Duncan muttered drowsily.
“Me too,” Zagora said, thinking how Razziq’s light-hearted nature might calm them down.
Smoothing oil into her skin, she began to worry. Their father had clearly looked upset, and she knew how brave and unflappable he usually was. Edgar Yegen had written about Nar Azrak: even in the 1930s, the planet had been acting strangely. She was tempted to tell her brother. But no, maybe later. Right now it seemed important to keep the journal a secret.
“I’d set up my telescope, but I’m too wrecked,” said Duncan, crawling under his blanket.
Two seconds later he was snoring. Snapping on her mini flashlight, Zagora dug Edgar’s book out of her backpack. Things had been too hectic since their dinner at Café Meknes even to open the journal. She read:
Mohammed tells me that certain desert nomads are superstitious about dreams. Some believe that whoever appears to you in a dream, whether from the land of the dead or from the living, is seeking you out because they have a fervent desire to communicate.
That was an odd little entry, she thought, flipping to another page.
Last night, in the soft glow of moonlight, I saw a shadow outside the window. My heart thudded; my knees quaked. I saw a face that was not human, with multifaceted eyes. The creature peered in through the window and our eyes locked. Mohammed and I fled to the room of ancient inscriptions and barred the door. The most frightening thing about the scorpion was not its size, but my sense that the creature possessed an intellect.
The Scorpions of Zahir Page 9