Over the past year she’d received a number of letters from Pitblade Yegen. He had gone to see Mina’s grandmother Noor at the Azimuth Caves, and Noor had treated his eyes with roots, herbs and what he surmised were desert spells. He was now able to see again, and—even more amazing—he’d regained his desert sight.
For the past four months, her father had been in Morocco with Pitblade, excavating Zahir. Aunt Claire had lived with Zagora and Duncan while they’d finished out the school year. Their dad wrote that the frequent sandstorms hadn’t slowed them down and the giant scorpions had disappeared for good. Every week he sent photographs of relics they’d dug up in Zahir. The most exciting photo was of the tomb of Xuloc, unearthed when they’d destroyed the scorpions’ nest beneath the pyramid.
Zagora couldn’t wait to see all the treasures her father had found, especially a stash of coins stamped with the sign of the oryx. And Duncan had gone bananas when he heard about the astronomical instruments Pitblade had discovered in one of the palace rooms.
Please reassure your brother, Pitblade had written, while telling them about his plans to turn the palace into a museum, that we will not turn Zahir into a theme park.
A crew was rebuilding the irrigation ducts to water the oases around Zahir. Soon the city would be habitable again, with running water, electricity, shops, a small hospital and a school. The Azimuth, including Mina and her grandmother, were preparing to move into the restored buildings. The Azimuth Caves had been declared part of the World Heritage Trust and would forever be protected.
Pitblade had planned to import oryxes from Saudi Arabia, but there was no need for that now, because oryxes were flocking from all over northern Africa to the green oases of Zahir. In one letter, Pitblade attributed their sudden resurgence to the mysterious powers of the Oryx Stone, and Zagora was sure he was right. Razziq, hired for the summer as assistant oryx keeper, had attended the births of three baby oryxes.
Faithful to his promise, Razziq had returned to Maison Tuareg, where he found out that Uncle Ali had survived the scorpion attack. After Razziq explained in detail to Abdul the treachery of Olivia Romanesçu, Abdul had apologized profusely, inviting the Pyms to come to Maison Tuareg the next time they were in Morocco. Zagora was pleased to have Abdul as a friend again.
She would be seeing Sophie again, too. Razziq promised she could ride Sophie, because he said Sophie was really her camel, after everything they’d gone through. Zagora had packed a special brush to keep Sophie’s fur shiny, along with her secret journal. The journal was genuine leather, just like Edgar Yegen’s. Inside the cover she’d written The Journal of Zagora M. Pym, Intrepid Explorer/Desert Adventurer.
Zagora stepped off the plane. In the airport, waiting among the crush of people for her luggage, she unfolded the newspaper clipping she’d cut out, and read it for the millionth time.
Members of a Tuareg tribe in a remote part of southeastern Morocco claim to have found the remains of a gigantic scorpion approximately six feet long. The creature is thought to have floated down an underground river and washed up inside an earthen tunnel. Police are investigating.
Extraordinary things in an ordinary world.
She saw her father elbowing his way through the crowd, waving excitedly to her—as if she wouldn’t recognize his silvery hair, or the yellow shirt with blue parrots she’d bought for him, to replace his old one.
For a moment she heard the desert wind, low and haunting, and a shimmer of sparkling sand fell before her eyes. Running to meet her father, she thought, Here I am, in Morocco again. For the last eleven months she’d dreamed of returning to Zahir—the ancient desert city with the name her dad said meant “obsession”—and now it was really happening.
The desert, she knew, was waiting for her.
And this time she would be ready for it.
CHRISTINE BRODIEN-JONES is the author of The Owl Keeper, a dystopian fantasy for middle-grade readers. She studied writing at Emerson College in Boston and has been a reporter, an editor, and a teacher. A journey to the Moroccan desert with her family sparked her interest in the mythology of the Sahara Desert and inspired her to write The Scorpions of Zahir. Christine and her husband, Peter, live in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and Deer Isle, Maine.
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