by ILIL ARBEL
This was not an airplane ride. They flew crazily through the tree branches which lashed at Donna’s face, over the dirt road and into the dark blue night. Camellia swayed and dipped as she flew, the way normal camels do when they walk. Donna shut her eyes and tightened her grip as Camellia swerved around an electric line. They rose higher, the trees and lights became smaller, and the earth slanted and dropped back. The moon and the stars, gigantic, luminous and undisturbed by city lights, washed the trio with a river of white light as they flew with immense speed.
Hours later, the moon was at their back and Donna’s numb body sensed that they were descending. They flew no longer above the trees, but between their heavy trunks, painted white on one side. Dark shadows striped the forest’s floor like the pelt of a white tiger. The trees spread out, and the animals floated to the steep edge of a river bank, covered with white mists. Finally landing, Camellia crouched on the bank and Donna stepped down, every bone and muscle stiff and hurting.
“This is it,” said Camellia. “The Reality Barrier. We must go quickly. Follow me and hold tightly to my neck.” They stepped into the mist. Donna felt the dank air surround and touch her with wet, warm fingers, as if testing whether to allow her through. Head down and with heavy tread, she trudged against the resisting wall of a wet substance. Her face felt cold and clammy, with drops of the unknown liquid condensing on it, and at every step the rocky ground became more slippery. She could barely see through the fogged lenses of her glasses. Worse, her mind felt muffled, confused, as if time stopped and she had been plodding on for an eon, hypnotized by the mist.
Suddenly Donna heard a cry and a heavy thud – Camellia stumbled and fell on the wet ground. “Don’t panic!” grumbled Bartholomew. Supporting Camellia from one side, he directed Donna to do the same from the other. She pushed with all her might, and together they managed to raise the injured camel, and helped her hobble forward on three legs, as she leaned on them with her wings.
Through the haze of sluggishness that descended on her, something tagged at Donna’s consciousness. Her hand went automatically to her jacket pocket to touch the Cinnabar box. “Stop!” She screamed. “I lost the box!” crawling on all fours, she searched the wet ground desperately. Back and forth, she ran her hands over the slippery surface of the ground, shaking and crying. Then her glasses fell off her wet face, and she heard the soft thud as they hit the ground just beneath her. Picking them up, she felt the rough, carved surface of the Cinnabar box right under her bruised hand. She stuck it in her pocket, sobbing and trembling, and they walked on.
At last the mist began to thin, and suddenly vanished as if it had never existed. On the other side of the Reality Barrier Donna saw the desert. She had visited deserts before, and expected to see the beautiful colors and interesting rock formations she had encountered there, but this desert was different. The immense, empty plain stretched into infinity, baked to an even dusty gray, and tormented by a constant, burning wind. Clouds of fine sand settled on Donna’s glasses. The dry air hurt the inside of her nose and mouth. She gasped, struggling to adjust her breathing, and turned back to see what the Reality Barrier looked like from the desert’s side. It swirled like an ominous wall of gray dust, made of hundreds of whirlwinds blown together. She shuddered and averted her eyes.
“Is the whole place like this?” she asked, coughing as she spoke.
“Well,” said Bartholomew, “here and there we have an oasis, but that’s it. This is the problem, you see. The desert is taking over the entire land. If Camellia’s leg is not broken, we will go to an oasis right now.”
“It is not broken, just bruised. I can fly,” said Camellia.
“Not so fast,” said a scratchy, high voice behind them. They were surrounded by a group a lizard-like beings. They had gray-green, scaly skin, much like the dark armor they were wearing. They stared at the travelers with large, dark eyes with no pupils.
“Not you again,” sighed Bartholomew contemptuously. “Give it a break, reptile. Once again you are detaining us against our will and the queen will object.”
“Shut up, Ben-Harun,” said the soldier. “You know who wants to see you. He has every right – you and Baat-Laila are trespassing in his land with this small ugly human. But what makes you think we are holding you against your will? The Vizier is so hospitable! He just wants you to pay a social visit before you go to your precious queen. Have a nice meal.”
“We don’t want to see him,” said Bartholomew. “You can tell your renegade Vizier that we are in a hurry and not interested in his gracious hospitality. And this land, reptile, is not his and never will be.”
The soldier produced a weapon that looked like a carved ivory stick and pointed it at the donkey. Bartholomew shut up. Silently, the lizards tied Camellia’s and Bartholomew’s wings with a heavy rope and led them away, motioning Donna to follow. They walked for hours, and Donna, exhausted, kept stumbling and falling. Finally one of the lenses of her glasses broke. The lizards laughed.
~~~
“Is there anything we can do?” asked the prime minister. “The Vizier will kill them!”
“What can we do, my friend?” said the queen resignedly. “We have no weapons, no soldiers, not even strong magic is left in our hands. Let’s continue searching the crystal ball for Senior Witch Yolanda. I am sure she has been brought here. Her power is our only hope.”
“Your Majesty, zoom first on the travelers, though. I want to check how they are.”
The queen obligingly adjusted the black buttons. A small picture appeared. They hovered over the ball together, and saw the lizards, sound asleep, and the two animals tied up, huddled together. One lizard stood guard at a little distance. It was obvious that the soldiers did not bother to restrain Donna, probably assuming she could do nothing to save herself in the middle of the desert.
“What is the girl doing?” whispered the prime minister, puzzled.
“She is pulling something out of her pocket,” said the queen. “I can’t tell what it is. She is crawling toward Camellia. Wait, I’ll adjust the sound.”
She played with the black buttons. “Camellia,” they heard Donna whisper, “I saved the broken lens from my glasses. Let me cut the ropes they tied you with.”
The queen and the prime minister looked at each other.
“True Wicca resourcefulness,” said the queen. “Senior Witch Yolanda will be proud of her.”
“If Senior Witch Yolanda is alive,” said the prime minister sadly, as he watched Donna cutting Bartholomew’s ropes.
“In my heart I feel she is alive,” whispered the queen. “I truly do.”
The two animals quietly stretched their sore muscles. Donna climbed silently on Bartholomew’s back, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Then the animals spread their wings simultaneously and took to the air. The sentry started running toward them, screaming, and one of the other lizards woke up and grabbed Camellia’s bruised leg. She dragged him with her into the air, wobbling, kicking and fighting to shake him off. However, much of her strength was lost through the injury, and the reptile managed to hang on. The queen and the prime minister saw him pull a short knife from his belt, and attempt to stab Camellia’s leg. At that moment, Bartholomew dived directly under Camellia, almost losing Donna, and aimed a powerful kick at the lizard with his back leg. The lizard let go, screaming as he fell to the ground, and the animals flew away into the gray distance, their image vanishing from the crystal ball.
Chapter Four
Afew spindly date palms, nine black tents, and a small water hole did not fulfill Donna’s expectations of a lush, romantic desert oasis. In the old movies she liked to watch, a respectable oasis flaunted silk curtains, gleaming jewels, lovely princesses and transparent veils. Most important, an impossibly handsome sheik invariably made an appearance, preferably on a silvery-white or charcoal-black horse. Nevertheless, she heartily welcomed this inappropriate oasis when the animals finally landed. Her body, already unaccustomed to such rigorous exercise a
s the hike with the lizards, clearly indicated a strong dislike toward the second opportunity of flight on the backs of winged animals.
Instead of the expected handsome sheik, an old woman came out of a tent, carefully closing the flap again behind her, probably to protect the inside from the ever-present, blowing sand. A charming, welcoming smile illuminated her tired, deeply lined face.
“Agents Camellia and Bartholomew,” she said, her voice rich and melodious, “what joy to see you again, and with a lovely young guest, too. It’s an honor to meet you, Donna. Come in and rest.”
“How do you know my name?” asked Donna, surprised.
“I have received the news from my cousin, the prime minister,” explained the woman, handing Donna an earthenware mug full of unexpectedly cold water. “He saw you in the queen’s crystal when you escaped from the Vizier’s soldiers, and realized that you will come to this oasis to rest, as it is the nearest to the enemy’s territory. So of course he transmitted to my crystal immediately.”
Donna was too hungry and tired to even pretend to understand, so she gulped the water down, took a sweet date-cake from a reed basket and furtively looked at her surroundings. The tent had almost no furnishing. A threadbare carpet on the floor, a few pillows to sit on, jars, pots, and cooking utensils on a wooden workbench, and an old leather storage trunk, were the only objects she could see. A large crystal ball stood on the trunk, with a black cloth half covering it. This doesn’t make sense, Donna thought. Why would the cousin of a prime minister live in a tent and be so poor? Before she could ask any further questions, a young girl quietly entered the tent, carrying a tray laden with a big pile of flatbread, a jar of fragrant olive oil mixed with herbs, and a plate of hard white cheese.
“My granddaughter Jessamine,” said the old woman to Donna. “Shall we have dinner? I apologize for offering so little, but our land is extremely poor.” She handed hot, moist towels to the guests to clean their hands and hooves.
“We are grateful for the gracious hospitality,” said Camellia, daintily picking a piece of bread with her freshly cleaned hoof. She dipped the bread in the oil and tasted it. No one would have guessed, observing her impeccable manners, how hungry and sore the poor camel really felt.
“What’s good enough for our queen, when she visits here, is surely more than sufficient for this untrained small Wicca,” said Bartholomew, winking cheerfully at Donna. She laughed. Restored freedom obviously returned Bartholomew to his usual rude style, but Donna did not mind it anymore.
She bit into a piece of cheese, full of sharp spices that brought tears to her eyes, and quickly stuffed her mouth with flatbread to relieve it. “It’s delicious,” she said enthusiastically, forgetting herself and speaking with her mouth full. Jessamine laughed. “I made it from our goat’s milk,” she said. “I am so glad you like it.”
“You can cook?”
“Certainly. I baked the flatbread too. Most of the people are away, tending our camels and looking for fresh grazing grounds. Only Grandmother and I are here to look after the camp, so she teaches me how to do everything.”
“I always wanted to learn, particularly how to bake cherry pies,” said Donna, impressed.
“I have never seen cherries,” said Jessamine sadly, “only in books. We can grow dates, olives, and pomegranates, because they can stand the dryness. Once in a while a fig tree makes it.”
“You have the same plants we do in our reality,” commented Donna. “It’s a very similar world, even the language is the same. You know, it’s funny, but I’m getting used to the idea of alternate realities.”
“You must be tired,” said Grandmother kindly after the ravenous trio finished eating. “Jessamine, take Donna to your tent for the night, and I will arrange for Agents Camellia and Bartholomew.”
Jessamine’s tent was similar to her grandmother’s, slightly smaller, and just as neat and clean. Instead of cooking supplies, the workbench supported baskets of yarn and needlework supplies and tools – a sewing basket, knitting needles, a lap loom, a spinning wheel, and crochet hooks, all arranged in perfect order. Donna leaned comfortably on a soft floor pillow, watching the girl take out blankets from a beaten leather trunk.
“Jessamine, are you very tired? Before we go to sleep, can you tell me a little about your country?”
“Of course,” said the girl. She lit a small oil lamp, sat cross-legged on the floor, and pulled a basket filled with yarn toward herself. “I will work as we talk, though. This blanket must be finished.” She started manipulating a bone-colored, delicately carved crochet hook with incredible speed. The hovering light of the little flame illuminated the dark blue blanket, magically growing under the skillful hands, and Jessamine’s neatly braided black hair. “You can do so many things, Jessamine,” said Donna admiringly. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” said Jessamine. “I should be learning other things, since Grandmother is Wicca, too, but the magic has been torn from our land by the Vizier. He is so incredibly powerful, Donna. Even the queen cannot exercise her magic. She tried to work against him with all our Wicca, in organized groups, but even their combined power failed. He controls magic by sound, with a different system from the one we use. It is actually named Sound Magic.”
“I don’t know much about any system yet,” confessed Donna. “What is Sound Magic?”
Jessamine sighed. “It’s awful. Sound Magic is very old, some even call it primitive. Grandmother told me that in your reality, for example, Sound Magic was used by Northern wizards who practiced power over the ocean. A wizard’s shriek, or wail, could produce a storm. Different sounds create different results.”
“What kind of results?”
“Well, even without magic, you must have seen the trick of shattering glass by a very high-pitched scream or even a song? And you know that the tremendously loud noise produced by powerful bells can deafen, or even kill you, if you are too close to them? And surely you know that the vibrations of many people marching in unison over a bridge could destroy it? Think what can be done when the element of magic is added to such power.”
“And the Vizier uses it to hurt people?”
“Yes. Without Wicca controls. We hoped to gain help from Senior Witch Yolanda –”
“My aunt!” shouted Donna, jumping to her feet. “What do you know about her whereabouts?”
“Nothing. When we tried to contact her, he must have intercepted the message. Perhaps that is why she was kidnapped. We may bear the blame, Donna.”
Donna sat down again. Sadly, she listened to the sound of the wind beating against the tent.
“No, Jessamine. I don’t think so. Camellia said he kidnapped her because of me – I am carrying the Cinnabar box.”
“That is possible, too. The Cinnabar box must contain something crucial to the return of the water, and the Vizier wants the planet to remain a desert.”
“Why? Even if he wants to rule the planet, wouldn’t he be better off with food, and water, and forests, and animals?”
“No. Only when the land is dry he can dig our planet for the precious minerals it contains in such quantity. And he doesn’t live here all the time, you know. He takes the treasures to his real home in a different reality.”
“Did he actually manage to take away the water with his power?”
“Well, we don’t know, but we think so. You must understand that in this reality some people and animals live a very long life –”
“I heard Camellia and Bartholomew talk about being a few thousand years old, but I thought they were joking.”
“No, it’s true. Grandmother, who is really my great-great-great-something grandmother, is over three-hundred years old. She remembers how green our land used to be, though I, of course, have only known it as a desert. The water supply of our entire planet depends on a great river that periodically overflows. You have rivers like that in your own reality – I learned about them when I met Senior Witch Yolanda. Our great river connects to and feeds every other water
source. If the river does not overflow, nothing can grow. At some point, after the Vizier left the queen’s service, the river changed its habits. One year it didn’t overflow. Another year it sank deeper into the ground. Finally, it disappeared. Other water sources followed, and by now, we are near total collapse.”
“What’s the great river’s name?” asked Donna.
“It is just called the great river – funny, I never thought of it, it’s the only body of water we have that has no name,” said Jessamine slowly. “Perhaps – no. It can’t be. The queen would have figured it out, wouldn’t she?”
“Figure what out?” said Donna curiously.
“In Wicca, much depends on naming things. To know the true name is to know the essence of a thing, to be able to manipulate it. Perhaps the Vizier can control the river because we didn’t protect it. I just don’t know what to think,” said Jessamine.
“I see,” said Donna thoughtfully. “You know a lot about magic, Jessamine.”
“Well, I have been studying the Wicca books with Grandmother for over two years. We can’t practice, but some day, if the magic returns, I will know the theory and then I can start working on the practical matters.”
“So you can help me,” said Donna with sudden determination. “If we work together, you will tell me what to do, and I will be able to do it. Since I come from a different reality, contact with the Vizier has not yet drained my magic away, if I have any to begin with.”
Jessamine stared at her. “What do you want to do?”