Nomad's Dream

by August Li

  Sehrish took out her small flashlight. “I guess I’m going.”

  “Nonsense.” Flicker knelt and picked up Isra’s ibex-hide canteen. “You will get yourself turned around out there and never be seen again. The desert can play tricks on the mind of one who is not used to it. I’ll go. But first I need to make sure our bloodthirsty friend doesn’t launch another magical attack the moment she realizes I’m not here to combat it. I can manage to put up a ward, at least.”

  He slung Isra’s waterskin over his shoulder, bowed his head, and chanted in that archaic language that Janan could almost recognize. In a circle about twenty feet in diameter, flames sprung from nothing, rising a dozen feet in the air, the heat and light overwhelming, before they fizzled as suddenly as they’d appeared. They left a glowing gold ring in their wake, but within half a minute, it, too, faded.

  Flicker seemed satisfied as he stepped across the threshold of the enchantment and began walking away. After a few steps, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder at them. “I suggest you sleep in shifts if you sleep. Magic isn’t the only thing out here that probably wants to kill you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  ISRA WOKE from a dream about his mother singing while she worked at a loom, to a bright, cold dawn. He tried to grasp the few verses—something about treasure beneath the tamarisk tree—because he couldn’t recall those words ever gracing his memories while conscious. The first thing he noticed was the throb and swell of the injuries on his right side—literally from head to foot—and the second was that the four of them were not alone. The people of the towns and the cities often traveled the roads, unaware that someone was watching from a cliff above them, but it was not so with the Bedouin, and Isra sensed another presence like a shimmer at the boundary of his perception. With some effort and a bit of pain, he propped himself up on his elbow and looked around.

  Nearby, in the shallow indent Janan had made, he and Sehrish slept close, sharing Janan’s burnoose.

  Flicker sat cross-legged a few feet away. When Isra met his gaze, Flicker arched his brows and muttered, “We have guests.”

  To the east, as if they had just come down from the road, four men sat atop camels, backlit by the citrine sun. Shemaghs covered their faces, and the one at the front of the group held a long machete next to his thigh.

  Isra fumbled for his knife, but before he could draw the blade, Sehrish hurried around him and stood between him and the strangers, her feet planted in a wide stance and her uncovered short hair fluttering in the chilly breeze.

  For a few gravid moments, they faced each other while Flicker sat grinning, his long fingers wrapped around his ankles and his heels drawn up to his groin. The distended silence finally broke when the lead man on his camel hooked a finger in the cloth stretched over his nose and mouth and peeled it aside.

  “Isra? Isra al-Grayjaab?”

  Isra squinted into the astringent light, and when shapes and shadows sharpened into recognizable features, he cried out with relief, “Salih, you old billy goat! What in the world are you doing all the way out here?”

  Salih spoke to his camel, and it knelt so he could dismount. Isra, with the aid of Janan’s stick, got to his feet and made his way over to his brother. He winced as they embraced. Afterward, Salih held him at arm’s length and said, “God be merciful! You look awful, my friend. What’s happened here?”

  Isra shook his head. “I’m afraid that is a long story.”

  “In that case, we might as well talk over breakfast! Why don’t you start a fire?”

  The others dismounted—Isra’s uncle Jibril and two of his many sons. They led their camels over to the trees and hobbled them while Salih explained Jibril’s son Hassan was sweet on a young lady whose clan was camped near Wadi Umm Dhalfa, not far to the north. They’d been to visit her family and were on their way back to the Qena-Safaga Road. Apparently there would be another wedding come spring.

  With bread, tea, and lentils set to cook, Isra told his clan the story of how Sehrish had found them in Cairo, how she’d filled them in as to Janan’s identity and how they’d been on their way to speak to his sister when the sudden storm had driven them from the road and caused the accident. He left out any mention of Flicker’s contributions, though his family weren’t fools, and they eyed the arafrit with suspicion.

  “It’s fortunate we came along when we did,” Jibril said. “Salih and Hassan can take Isra back to the camp, and I’ll see that Janan gets to Safaga.”

  Isra stiffened. “No, I can’t go back to the camp. I have to stay with Janan, see this through.”

  “My friend, you can hardly stand,” Janan said, placing a hand over Isra’s forearm. “You must take care of yourself, heal. I’ll go on with Sehrish and….” His gaze landed on Flicker.

  “No.” Isra shook his head. “No. We started on this road together, and that’s how we’ll get to the end. It will take much more than a few bruises to keep me from your side, especially when we could be walking into danger.”

  Salih paused in stirring the tiny iron pot. “Danger?”

  Sehrish nodded. She’d replaced her hajib, but her posture remained tense, ready for a fight. “We have reason to believe someone is trying to get Sheikh Mu’awiyah. It could be someone who covets his control of the corporation. They could be trying to kill us. I’m sure they are responsible for the car accident.”

  Jibril tilted his head. “Who?”

  Janan quickly explained the revelations about his identity and what they’d faced since leaving Cairo.

  “But how is that possible?” Jibril asked. “This person… he caused a storm? Directed it to… what? Attack you? How could he—?”

  “She did it through dark magic,” Flicker said as easily as if he were noting a change in the weather. “What happened was the result of a powerful spell, and it likely won’t be the last attempt. We must find the one responsible and put a stop to it or we won’t be safe. It’s likely the same caster who is responsible for Janan’s memory loss.”

  To Isra’s surprise, Jibril just nodded. “I can’t say this is completely unexpected. The nomads camped near here have been telling some strange stories lately—things combing the desert as if they’re searching for someone. It seems the situation is more serious than we guessed.” He dipped his head once, as if settling on a decision. “We will get you to Janan’s sister.”

  “I cannot ask you to do that,” Janan said. “You’d be putting yourselves directly in the path of whatever is intent on destroying me. It’s too dangerous.”

  Isra knew that when his uncle chose a course of action, it was as futile to try to dissuade him as to divert the Nile. “I am the leader of this clan,” Jibril said. “And you are a part of it. You need help. There can be no other choice, and that is the end of it.”

  “We do not have far to go,” Salih said. “We’ll stay off the road, travel by night. We will not be detected if we don’t wish to be, and if it comes to a fight, well, we are hardly helpless.”

  “There is strength in numbers,” Sehrish said. “But at least send the young men home. There’s no need to put them at risk.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Hassan said, and his brother nodded. “Especially not when an upstanding lady such as yourself is in need of assistance. No man with any honor or decency could simply walk away.”

  Isra would’ve laughed if his ribs hadn’t hurt so badly. The boy certainly took after his father, and every girl in the Eastern Desert would have to beware.

  “Now,” said Flicker, “fill your bellies, and then you can get into your packs for some of that salve I know you’re carrying and put it on Isra’s wounds. In the meantime, I’ll scout ahead, survey the surrounding area for signs of anything amiss.” He stood and secured his shemagh over the lower half of his face. “I will return soon. We have much to plan.”

  No one expressed concern over Flicker’s safety as he went off into the desert alone.

  TRUE TO their word, the Bedouins saw Janan, Isra, and Sehrish
safely to the resort community on the coast of the Red Sea. The group had departed their camp just after sunset and arrived—if Janan judged the positions of the moon and stars correctly—a little after midnight. Salih and Jibril had insisted Isra and Sehrish ride two of the camels, which left the rest of them to take turns—except for Flicker, who refused to ride and who made the camels skittish. Janan would never understand how the Bedouins could walk for miles without a backache or sore feet. He kneaded the back of his neck as he looked out at the ridiculously lavish homes in various states of completion.

  Hassan helped Isra to dismount, then Sehrish. “I still think we should stick together,” he said.

  Janan shook his head. “You have done more than enough, and I’m sure we’re safe now.” He didn’t like lying to them, but he would like it even less if they got hurt. A smaller part of him was also afraid of what they might see, learn… not just about the magic being used, but about him.

  “As long as you are sure,” Jibril said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “I’m sure. We’ll go straight to my family’s home, and we’ll certainly be sitting down to a meal before an hour has passed. Thank you again for all your help.”

  “Well, we’ll expect to see you at Hassan’s wedding, Sheikh, if not before. You’ll always be a part of the clan. That will never change.”

  With that, the four men mounted up and guided their camels away from the settlement. Janan watched as they grew smaller and smaller until the desert and the darkness swallowed them up, a strange ache in his heart as he realized he wanted nothing more than to go with them, go with Isra to their cozy tent, forget all of this.

  But people needed him. So many people, and not least of all his own sister.

  He drew in a deep breath and pushed his shoulders back as he surveyed the large homes on their expansive plots. One of them was clearly much older than the others; its lawn was lush and thick, the trees and bushes lining the walkway mature. It was also one of the biggest and fanciest: a sprawling compound of red stone with domed roofs, vine-covered pergolas, long walkways lined by glistening columns, balconies, and gazebos. It looked like a palace from a storybook, and it almost rivaled Saladin’s fortress back in the city. A black iron fence surrounded the entire property. Janan pointed. “What are we waiting for?”

  Sehrish stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “We should be careful. Don’t forget, there are rumors that your sister is under guard. Perhaps it would be smarter for us to approach… covertly.”

  “Leave this to me,” Isra said. The poor man still walked with a limp as he led them around the fence, keeping to the shadows and carefully testing the terrain. Janan knew he was in pain, yet he still managed to move without making a sound, even while putting half of his weight on Janan’s stick. Part of Janan wished Isra had returned to camp with the others, but God forgive him, a larger part was so grateful to have the man by his side. Whether it was true or not, in his heart he believed that if they stood together, they couldn’t possibly fail. They’d found each other across distance, time, and dreams, against impossible odds, and nothing could tear them away from each other now.

  God could not be so cruel.

  “I will go on ahead,” Flicker announced before departing. As always, guilt rose in Janan at the relief he felt at the arafrit’s absence. It was an instinctive response he couldn’t quite suppress, despite all Flicker had done for them.

  They continued around the edge of the fence, taking advantage of the cover of the many large palm trees on both sides of it, until they reached the beach, where tide roared, and huge waves crashed against the sand, sending up sprays of white spume.

  Soon they came to a place where a rivulet of seawater had eroded the sand and white stones beneath the fence. Isra pointed, and both Janan and Sehrish nodded, understanding that this was their way inside. The three of them knelt and began to dig, Isra with the staff and Sehrish and Janan by hand. In about a quarter of an hour, they’d excavated a trough large enough to allow them to crawl under the fence.

  They emerged onto the lawn, and Isra quickly guided them behind some bushes, where they crouched and hid as three men in fatigues and carrying rifles passed by. Janan balled his hands into fists. When Sehrish had mentioned guards, he hadn’t imagined soldiers—mercenaries, he supposed. What would happen if they were discovered? Would they be shot?

  “What are we going to do?” Isra whispered. “If we time their rounds, we can try to sneak past them.”

  Sehrish shook her head. “You’re still wounded. If we need to run, we’ll be in trouble. Maybe we should try to take them out.”

  “Take them out?” Janan hissed. “They have guns.”

  “We might have a chance if we can surprise them,” she argued.

  Janan shook his head. “It’s a bad idea.”

  “I mean no disrespect, sir, but do you have a better one?”

  “Perhaps we can lead them away.”

  Janan flinched, as he hadn’t heard Flicker come up behind them. “How?”

  “Leave it to me,” Flicker said. “Just be ready to cross that lawn while they’re distracted, and quickly.”

  He rubbed his palms together and then swiped the pad of his thumb across his fingertips. The swirling channels in his skin filled with light, and his eyes glowed like torches. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, then blew out a delicate plume of golden flame. It twisted, eellike, through the night air, twining around the hand Flicker held out and trailing brilliant prismatic sparks. Sehrish gasped, and all of them sat entranced by the beauty until the guards came around again and Flicker whispered, “Showtime.” He muttered to the slinky stream of fire that rubbed against his arm like a cat, and it broke away and glided out into the grounds.

  Janan held his breath as it moved like liquid, illuminating strips of lawn as it went. What could Flicker have planned? These men might be mercenaries, but the idea of killing them, setting them on fire, made Janan nauseated. They were probably just doing a job and knew little of the circumstances. Flicker had said distract, but his conjuration didn’t seem big enough to accomplish that….

  Until it got within a dozen feet of the guards and began to expand upward into a twisting column, undulating enticingly, moving in a way that was almost hypnotic. Watching it made Janan feel strange, like he wanted to get closer, like everything paled in comparison to that goal. He suppressed a shudder just as the fire-thing sprouted appendages that could only be graceful arms, followed by lithe legs, a full bosom, rounded hips that shimmied and swayed—dancing. A woman dancing. In seconds she formed voluminous skirts, tiny pointed slippers, and scarves edges with jangling coins. Janan could see the rings on her fingers, the flowing strands of her hair, and she continued moving in a seductive, serpentine pattern.

  One of the soldiers looked in the fire-woman’s direction, and he stopped midstep, quickly gesturing to the others and pointing. Janan waited to see what they would do—perhaps lift their guns to fire on Flicker’s creation.

  Instead they simply stood spellbound, mouths hanging open, arms lax at their sides, rifles forgotten.

  The woman lifted an arm and motioned to them. Then she pirouetted on the ball of her foot and sauntered toward the back gate, which stood not far from where they’d entered. With a wave of her hand and a spray of sparks, the heavy gate swung open even though it had been locked, and the woman continued her sensuous journey toward the beach, the soldiers following.

  Janan could only sit spellbound. Something like jealousy rose, and he envied the soldiers for getting to watch the woman’s dance, for being close to her. He stared at the bubble of orange light on the beach and the woman moving at the center, unable to look away, content to spend the rest of his life watching….

  A sharp elbow connected with his ribs, the jolt of pain knocking him out of his reverie. He turned to find Flicker smiling, taking too much enjoyment in accosting him. “I know it’s pretty,” the arafrit said with a sigh, “but I did not create it for your benefit. We shoul
d get where we need to go before the spell is broken and those men return their attention to their task.”

  “Agreed,” Isra said. Of them all, he alone seemed unaffected. Even Sehrish looked dazed and drowsy, a little smile playing at the corners of her full lips. Luckily the effect dissipated as they hurried across the expansive lawn and gardens toward the front door.

  It was beneath a long pergola, where huge pots sat beneath a dozen archways on each side. Beneath them, rust and gold tiles had been arranged into elaborate geometric patterns, and at the end of it all, a set of heavy double doors—behind another locked gate.

  Janan blew out a breath, exasperated at the way one obstacle after another rose up in their path. He turned to Flicker and pointed. “Open it.”

  The arafrit’s lantern eyes grew comically wide. “Well, well. Someone is growing into his role as sheikh. However, I am not one of your servants, and you’d do well to keep that in mind.”

  “Of course.” Janan shook his head. “Please. Please open the gate. If you would be so kind.”

  They stood staring at each other until Sehrish pushed past them. “Ridiculous. Not only will that scare Nawra to death, it’ll likely set off a security system.” She went to the panel by the door and pressed a button.

  “Hello?” said a female voice.

  “Nawra?”

  “Yes? Who on earth is it at this hour?”

  “It’s Sehrish.”

  “S-Sehrish? Is it really you? Oh, praise God. Praise God!”

  “Listen to me, Nawra. We need to talk. It’s… very important. An emergency. Are you alone? Can you come to the gate and let us inside?”

  Nawra snorted. “Of course I’m alone. Ma’shal trusts no one to be around me, not even my personal assistant or the old woman who comes to do the laundry. I’ll be right there. Are… are you alone, Sehrish?”