The Map of Salt and Stars

by Jennifer Zeynab Joukhadar

  Khaldun laid a hand on her arm. “Knock,” he said. “Knock and return home.”

  And so Rawiya of the desert and the stars laid her hand on the wood and rapped at the door.

  Nothing.

  Rawiya frowned. No candles shone in the inner rooms. The door was locked, and for a moment, terror gripped Rawiya that the house had been abandoned. “My God, do you think . . . ?”

  Khaldun walked behind the house, searching for light. They passed low words between them, both reluctant to say aloud what might have befallen Rawiya’s mother in the intervening years. But Rawiya stalked back to the road, for she knew that if her mother were still alive, there was only one place she would go each evening, when sorrow and loneliness became unbearable.

  Rawiya took off at a run for the olive grove. Khaldun flew after her, stumbling and throwing up dust.

  She reached it first, panting. The moon hung low and fat as a turnip. The breeze carried the rustling hiss of waves. Rawiya crossed between the olive trees, darting glances through the branches. All was empty.

  She came out of the grove onto the rocky shore where she had stood many times with her father. This was the place she had stood after his death, waiting for her brother’s ship to come in. Her feet shuffled pebbles from their nooks, clicking seashells into stones. As she squinted down the beach, her toes nudged seaweed.

  A dark figure near the surf stiffened at the sound of stones moving. The figure turned, clutching a scarf around its neck. The shape of a woman emerged from the night, moonlight damp on her shoulders. The years that had come between them fell away, and it was as though not a day had passed since Rawiya had bid farewell to her mother that day the wind came strong off the strait.

  “Mama?”

  Rawiya’s widowed mother, bent and white-haired, began to run. She dashed across the rocks, her arms outstretched.

  Rawiya rushed toward her mother’s wide grin. The waves drowned out their voices until they were almost upon each other.

  “Rawiya!”

  Her mother’s face seared itself into shock and joy and wonder. She opened her arms wide, and Rawiya fell into them like deep water, warm and full and breathless.

  “I thought I would never see you again,” Rawiya said.

  Her mother stroked away the tears on her daughter’s cheek with her thumb and smiled. “I never gave up hope.”

  Rawiya kissed both her mother’s cheeks and the top of her head. “It is late,” she said. “You should be at home. Were you waiting for Salim? The ships were in the harbor hours ago.”

  “I was waiting for you.” Her mother touched her face with both hands. “They told me you had been kidnapped, sold to brigands, killed. They told me you had run away. I never believed a word.”

  “I promised you I would come home.” Rawiya pulled back and opened the leather bag slung around her chest. She tugged out Bakr’s red-and-blue silk scarf and pressed it into her mother’s hands. “A gift from someone who wanted to be here,” she said. “Someone who would want you to know I never abandoned you.”

  They walked back through the olive grove, and Rawiya told her mother of her companions and her journey: Palermo, Bilad ash-Sham, Cairo, the battle at Barneek.

  As they came to the road, they met Khaldun coming toward them. He called, “Did you find her?”

  Rawiya’s mother gathered her long skirt in her fist and hurried across the ten-pace distance between them. She wrapped her arms around Khaldun. “Poet,” she said, “tonight you are a guest in my house. Tonight, you are family.”

  Rawiya’s mother pushed open the door, and the hinges creaked and wobbled. And though she had promised to tell Rawiya everything, Rawiya held her breath. The bite of salt had invaded the house, and the sharp smell of the sea had settled on the tile and the curtains. The scent conjured Rawiya’s brother, Salim, and even though she knew he must have perished at sea long ago—why else would her mother have given up waiting for him at the shore, and waited for Rawiya’s return instead?—it felt as though Salim was still in the house, the salt smell of his rough hands coating everything.

  Rawiya’s mother lit a candle, and they shook off the chill. The bedrooms were full of shadows. As Rawiya took off her cloak, her mother called out into the darkness: “Come out,” she said. “Come and see the wonders God’s hands have worked!”

  From the bedroom, a bent figure shuffled out, aided by a walking stick. His beard had turned an early gray, and his face was gaunt, but Rawiya would have known him anywhere.

  “Salim!” She ran to her brother, hugging him around his ribs. Salim hugged her to him with one arm, balancing himself with his walking stick, for he had been injured at sea and ended his career as a sailor a year before. Salim kissed his sister’s cheek. For several long minutes, neither of them could get out a single word, so heavy with joy was their weeping.

  Rawiya’s mother sat them down and brewed a pot of mint tea. She brought out the best food she had: fine flour and a fat jug of oil, fresh bonito wrapped in linen. The fish’s scales glimmered, its gills red.

  While her mother cooked, Rawiya spoke of her journeys with al-Idrisi, of their meeting in the market, of visiting King Roger’s palace in Palermo, of the defeat of the roc, of how she and her friends had fought their way through giant snakes and three armies to retrieve al-Idrisi’s book from the Almohad general, Mennad. She touched the spot where the roc had cracked her ribs, the skin over her heart that had healed into a crooked scar.

  When she had finished her tale, Rawiya and Khaldun hauled a chest full of gems and coins from their luggage and set it on the floor. It was Rawiya’s share of Nur ad-Din’s treasure.

  “I have no use for it now,” Rawiya said. “It is better that it goes to you.”

  Salim, who had never seen such wealth in all his life, touched the top of the chest with his walking stick. The chest was inlaid with hundreds of jewels. “This chest alone could feed us for the rest of our lives,” he said.

  “And you will never have to take to the sea again,” Rawiya said, and she embraced him.

  Rawiya’s mother set before them steaming clay bowls of couscous and pomegranate seeds and broad dishes filled with pastel de bonito, a fish pie Rawiya had been raised on. Tonight was a night of celebration, and Rawiya’s mother had prepared the best she had.

  When they were all seated, Rawiya cleared her throat and spoke again. “The poets say God rains riches on us even in the wasteland,” she said, “and they speak truth. No king could make me any richer.” She reached over and caught Khaldun’s hand. “We wish to be wed here, where I was born.”

  Her mother bowed her head. “My child,” she said, “you have been blessed with great honor and returned to me. How can I tell God the depths of my joy?”

  At her words, Rawiya wept, for she knew how painfully her mother had missed her. “I promise I will never leave you that way again,” Rawiya said. “I would have never left that way had I known—”

  Rawiya’s mother waved her words away. “What does that matter to me now,” she said, “when God has given me back my lost child?” High above the house, the last of the gulls rode the sea wind toward their night roosts, calling at the moon. Rawiya’s mother grasped both Rawiya’s and Khaldun’s hands. “My daughter is called mapmaker’s apprentice, brave warrior, roc slayer. Throughout the village of Benzú and the city of Ceuta, you will be known as an enemy of tyrants for years to come. If this is the one you love—the poet-warrior Khaldun of Bilad ash-Sham—no other match for you could be so brave and noble. We have been richly blessed.”

  “They say the desert is barren and blank as a person’s palm,” Rawiya said. “But the desert, like a difficult year, is alive with blessings.” She kissed her mother’s fingers. “I found more there than I was looking for. I found myself.”

  ZAHRA AND I go to the showers to wash my shorts until the blood comes out. It’s almost morning. The madres patrol the CETI, and the lady who finds us gives me a box of pads. I scrub the brown smudge with a hunk of soap an
d cold water, and my fingernails collect pink foam. The pulsing ache in my belly makes me feel powerful and strong.

  I sit down on my cot and swing my legs. “I know what we have to do. I know what we’re looking for.”

  “All you have is a guess, and you can’t search a whole city on a guess.” Zahra takes Yusuf’s pocketknife and begins to cut, pulling the last of our money from the tongues of my sneakers. “This isn’t a game. It’s not like Uncle Ma’mun’s house is on the map with an X-marks-the-spot.”

  I roll up Mama’s prayer rug and pack it with the map. I say, “Guessing is better than nothing.”

  Zahra moves toward the door without looking up. “I’m not leaving things up to chance anymore.”

  I spring up with my backpack and follow her out past the other bunkhouses, the empty plaza. Outside, the morning is gray like old chocolate, and the wind drags warmth from the south.

  “You stay here while I go to the city offices,” Zahra says. “Maybe they can tell me Uncle Ma’mun’s address. Someone must know him.”

  “Why won’t you listen to me?” I grab her wrist, then her hand. Her bony knuckles bruise the last of the baby fat in my palms. “I know what to do.”

  She twists to face me, trying to pull herself free, but I won’t let go. Fifteen paces ahead of us, a long-jowled man pulls a key ring from his pocket and unlocks the CETI gate.

  “Let me go,” she says.

  We plant our feet and curl our bodies, leaning in and back in an awkward tug-of-war. Zahra fights to extricate herself from my grip. As we scuffle, one of the madres saunters over and watches us. She carries a wary look on her face, her eyes still half-lidded with sleep, her pocket bulging with a box of cigarettes.

  “I’m telling you I know,” I say.

  Zahra pushes my hands, ringing her wrist with her own fingers like a cuff. “Do you know what would have happened to us if they hadn’t opened that truck?” she whispers. “Do you have any idea?”

  I lock my knuckles against Zahra’s, the damp salt of her sweat oiling my hands. The humid morning strokes the red-and-white blisters on my legs, the cold’s fingerprints. Zahra stares me down, slipping my hands off her wrist like invisible bracelets. Her scar ripples her jaw like a bruise on the skin of an olive, the same way these blisters will leave pale opals of scar tissue on my shins. I think to myself, life draws blood and leaves its jewelry in our skin.

  Just like Mama’s, the veins in Zahra’s bloodshot eyes are a roadmap of fear.

  “You can’t go without me,” I say. I plant my feet and clamp my hand down on Zahra’s arm. I tug her toward me, away from the gate.

  “Let go.” She wrestles with me. We shuffle dust with our sneakers. “Let go!”

  “Hey!” The madre intervenes, pulling us apart. “What is going on here?”

  Zahra moves off at a clip toward the gate.

  “My sister wants to leave me here by myself,” I say.

  It doesn’t work. “If she has something to do,” the madre says, “we will watch you.”

  The madre keeps a firm grip on my shoulder. I watch Zahra’s shoulders disappear beyond the CETI entrance.

  “Your sister will be back,” the madre says.

  I say, “You don’t know that.”

  The madre studies me, then laughs. “The small ones always have the biggest mouths on them.” She thumbs the box of cigarettes in her pocket.

  “I’m going after her.” I start for the gate, shifting my backpack. “She needs my help.”

  “Hey, now. Oye!” The madre grabs the strap of my backpack. “Little girls don’t leave the CETI by themselves. Breakfast is at eight. Until then, you can watch television in the canteen.”

  Between my legs, the pad is a heavy, scratchy lump. Fine hairs dust the madre’s upper lip, the kind that started appearing on mine in the last few weeks. I scratch my belly through the waistband of my shorts and know that I will never wear a belt with a metal buckle again.

  I say, “I’m not a little girl.”

  The madre shifts her weight and puts her hands on her hips. “Come upstairs with me, then.”

  I follow the madre into one of the offices. She opens her desk, takes out a few pieces of hard candy, and drops them in my hand.

  “Go on,” she says. “They’re sweet.”

  The tail of my nerves flicks against my ribs. I am too hungry to say no, so I unwrap a candy and pop it in my mouth. But I haven’t had a hard candy in so long that instead of sucking on it, I chew. The madre laughs.

  “We were away so long,” I say with my mouth full. “We didn’t always have food.”

  “Pobrecita,” the madre says, and under her unimpressed air, I can tell she really does feel sorry for me. “All that is over. You will have three meals every day, and tomorrow the bus will come and take the children to school. You are here now, safe.”

  “But I have to go,” I say. “I have to find my uncle who lives in Ceuta—”

  I see a curl of teal and pops of gray when a voice rises to the window from the courtyard below. I turn my face to the window, following the colors. The teal and gray belong to a throaty voice I can’t forget. Below the window, by the CETI gate, it spills out from a lanky boy’s ribs and shoulder blades.

  “Yusuf!” I run to the window. I struggle to yank it open, but it’s locked. I bang on the glass. “Yusuf!”

  His black locks bob toward the CETI entrance as he nods hello to one of the guards. Then he passes by and lets his shoulders slump, his hands in his pockets. He’s still wearing the same gray tee shirt he had on when I watched him slip away down a Benghazi street.

  I bolt for the door and clang down the steps. I’m halfway down by the time the madre calls for security. The policemen come running, blocking the bottom of the stairs.

  I turn around and run back up, breezing past the madre.

  “Oye,” she calls. “Don’t run! Do you hear?”

  A guard grabs for me. I dodge to one side, slamming my thigh into the side of the bunkhouse wall. Something snaps and cracks in my pocket, but I don’t have time to look to see what it is.

  The opposite set of stairs is swarmed with security guards. The windows fill with the curious faces of other CETI families. In the courtyard, people playing soccer stop and look up.

  I run along the railing on the upper level, looking for another way down. I come to a spot where a couple of laundry lines are tied from the railing to a balcony below. Below me is a flat bunkhouse roof.

  The madre and the security guards huff toward me. Above their heads, a gray-and-black bird leaps from a rooftop into the air, its tiny toes curling.

  Where is Zahra now, drifting through the world that swallowed my family and marked us all?

  I grab the railing and haul myself over. The metal is cool as a river bottom. Taking hold of the laundry line, I fling myself off.

  It holds my weight at first. Halfway to the bunkhouse, the line buckles. I reach out with both arms and grab the roof. I pull myself up, scraping my elbows on the concrete.

  On the ground, the guards rush down the stairs toward me. The men have spread a carpet in the courtyard for morning prayers. As the guards run by, the kneeling men look up at me, silent and confused.

  I run to the opposite edge of the roof. The bunkhouse comes right to the green fence that marks the edge of the CETI. Beyond is the side of a hill with scattered bushes and pine trees. It looks close enough that I could jump, with a little luck and a running start.

  Below me, between the fence and the hill, is a sharp drop. A canyon has been sliced into the cliff to make room for the CETI wall, leaving an open gash. The drop is about six feet wide and more than twenty feet deep.

  “Stop!” The madre jogs toward me.

  I back up a few steps.

  “Come down,” the madre shouts. “Wait until your sister comes. Climb down from there.”

  I bend my knees, and heat fills my blistered calves.

  I get a running start and jump from the roof, over the fence and the w
ide drop. I hang in the air, my legs flailing, my arms stretched out to catch the hillside. Sunlight tangles in the half inch of my hair, my scars stretching.

  It’s the opposite of being in the dark bushes. Electricity pummels every bone in my body. I throb with heat. I am alive.

  I land hard, my backpack slamming into my shoulder blades. I slide a few feet down the hill before I catch hold of the roots of a pine tree. I scramble up, scraping my nails in the dirt, scattering orange pine needles.

  I run for the forest, leaving the shouting behind.

  I jog out to the road that leads away from the CETI entrance. I don’t know how far down I am or where I’ve popped out, but I push on. My worn sneakers pound the pavement, the asphalt burning calluses on the bottom of my feet. I am surrounded by pine forest. I listen for that teal-gray voice, for any voice. I hear nothing.

  I stop to catch my breath. I call out, “Yusuf?”

  White birds call from the shore, crossing the strait.

  I’ve lost him.

  I zigzag from one side of the path to the other, peering into the forest. I climb into the forked elbow of a tree to get a better look down the road, but I can’t reach the high branches.

  I cup my hands to my mouth and yell. “Yusuf!”

  My voice echoes between the pine trunks.

  I sit down in the middle of the road and put my head between my knees. Dead pine needles stick to my shorts and glue themselves between my shoelaces.

  I reach into my pocket and feel shards of wood, slicing my finger on naked metal. I hiss and wince and pull out the pieces of Yusuf’s broken pocketknife. When I slammed into the bunkhouse wall, the impact must have cracked apart the wood and steel. My finger bleeds.

  Tears come hot in my throat. If I had been faster, if I had been smarter, if I had been bigger—I felt so big hanging in the air. Why do I feel so small?

  Footsteps crunch the asphalt behind me. I turn, bracing a hand on the pavement.

  “Nour?”

  A teal-gray voice. A gray tee shirt. A three-week beard.