by Seja Majeed
The oracle watched her attentively. Unbeknown to Sulaf, she possessed a rare and powerful gift; the oracle could hear Sulaf’s thoughts as if she were speaking aloud. She had been born with this gift, and curse; it was the strongest weapon she possessed, for it allowed her to sift through past memories until she found a person’s greatest weakness. Sulaf turned towards the oracle, her heart awakening with new hope. She would seek her powers to grant her the man she adored.
‘Then you know why I’ve come here.’
‘I do, but you must say it out loud so that you give me permission to convince the forces of our universe.’
‘I will,’ said Sulaf. ‘I want you to free the heart of the man who clings to the love of another woman. Kill her from his memory, so he doesn’t think about her or feel for her any more. Let her die in his mind, just as she has died in spirit, and in body.’ Her voice trembled in desperation.
‘Is that all you wish for?’
‘No. Give me his heart, and make him become mine. I want him to fall in love with me and desire me, just as he loved her. Give me his heart, and I’ll reward you with all the gold I have.’
The words have finally been uttered, the oracle thought. Her soul shall soon belong to me …
‘Come, dear child, lay your head to rest upon my lap. I’ve always longed to be a mother and tonight I am proud to be one,’ hissed the oracle. Her smile became all the more frightening for her display of affection. Sulaf began to lower her head. As she did so, she heard a voice crying; it sounded like the girl who had taken her up the mountain. She was calling out to her, warning her to leave this place now. But Sulaf was focused on getting what she wanted, and she would not leave without the oracle’s blessing. The crying ceased as soon as she laid her head upon the oracle’s withered lap. The foul stench of her body pricked her nostrils, but Sulaf would tolerate it as long as the oracle granted her what she desired. She would even come to love her as a mother if she offered Marmicus’s heart and placed it in her hands.
‘Listen carefully, precious child. The man you love is like no other soul that breathes. His soul is chaste and his heart is pure. He’s true to his heart, just as he’s true to his Sword of Allegiance.’ The oracle gently ran her bony fingers through Sulaf’s hair. The dirt from her nails trickled into her hair. ‘The love this noble warrior possesses is rare. It cannot be destroyed or tainted with black magic, for wherever there is true love, my dear, magic has no power or place. As long as the Gallant Warrior thinks his princess to be dead, he shall love and cherish her memory as if she were alive. But the Gallant Warrior carries a guilt which should be laid to rest, for the woman you hate is in fact still living. The princess is alive and she will return to him soon – if you stand back and do nothing.’ The oracle’s thin whisper was barely audible, and she poisoned Sulaf’s ear with her foul breath.
How could the princess be alive if I’ve tossed petals at her burial chariot? The oracle’s lying; she’s deceiving me …
‘Wretched girl, I’m no liar!’ screeched the oracle, in a rage. Sulaf jumped back. The oracle’s murky white eyes filled with blackness, and her long, knotted hair rose up as if caught by a gust of wind. Sulaf wished she could take back her thought. The straw dolls swung erratically, twisting and shuddering as if they were in pain. Their painted eyes were fixed on her, as if trying to warn her not to anger the oracle.
‘Forgive me for thinking that; I’m just desperate for his love,’ Sulaf cried. Begging for forgiveness, she kissed the oracle’s deformed hand. The moment she did so, the oracle’s eyes reverted to their colourless shade. The dolls were still turning.
‘A mother always forgives the wrongs of her child,’ said the oracle as she lifted Sulaf’s chin with her long fingers. ‘Tonight you have become one of my own …’
63
In the blink of an eye the oracle’s anger drained away as though it had never been. It unsettled Sulaf, who tried her best to hide her inner thoughts, but the oracle seemed to possess a sixth sense that could catch her by surprise.
How could the princess be alive when I saw her lying lifeless? Sulaf wondered.
‘Is it so hard to believe in miracles, my child?’
The oracle dragged her deformed body across the floor until she reached a low wooden table in the far corner of the shack. Her long arms pulled the weight of her body, causing her twisted legs to fold over with each movement.
Miracles are words used by those who believe in the gods, not for those who practise the dark art of demons.
‘You’re surprised by my choice of words?’ the oracle mused, turning her head. The bones of her neck cracked like twigs being broken.
‘I’m just a little confused. I never imagined you to believe in the gods or their miracles.’
‘What an absurd remark; every sorcerer believes in the gods, and those who don’t are foolish creatures indeed.’
‘Then why do you practise the art of black magic?’
‘My dear child, I said I believe in gods – but I didn’t say that I side with them. There’s an unseen war going on between gods and their angels, one that shall continue to be fought until the fire of our sun dies out,’ said the oracle. The muscles in her face were twitching. She rested her hands on the wooden table, upon which was a large basin, filled to the brim with water. ‘Come close to me; the time has come for us to call upon the angels of the fire for guidance.’
Sulaf stood up, keeping her intrigue to herself. She had already offended the oracle, and she did not wish to repeat the same mistake.
‘Give me your hand, my child.’
Sulaf presented her hand, uncertain why exactly she wanted it. As soon as she held out her hand, the oracle snatched it and reached for the sharp knife lying on the table.
‘What are you doing? Let go of my hand!’ screamed Sulaf. The oracle’s brittle body was deceptively strong, and her grip sure.
‘Don’t be afraid, child. I’m doing what you’ve asked of me,’ screeched the oracle. Her tongue hung from her thin lips in her excitement.
‘You are hurting me!’
‘Love hurts, my child. If you want it you must be ready for the pain.’
The oracle slid the sharp dagger across Sulaf’s forefinger, cutting into her skin. Her blood poured out into the basin, turning the clear water a cloudy shade of red. The knife was rusty; Sulaf had felt the iron granules enter her skin like grains of salt.
‘Look into your reflection, my child, and tell me what you see.’
Sulaf peered into the water. Instead of seeing her reflection, she saw a dark shadow ripple across the surface of the water. It only appeared for a second or two, but it was long enough for her to notice that it was not her, but some unearthly creature.
‘Who was that?’
‘The master of all angels, the one who’s come to accept your blood and sacrifice,’ said the oracle. She poised herself over the bowl, holding back Sulaf’s hair, then reached for something that lay at the bottom of the basin.
‘What sacrifice are you talking about? I haven’t offered you anything; I thought I’d be paying in gold.’
‘Fallen angels have no need for gold; gold is made by mankind to serve men alone. With your blood you’ve offered me something else entirely, something that is more rare, infinitely more precious. He wanted your soul and you freely gave it to him. The moment you looked into his eyes, you pledged your soul to him. There’s no going back now; you’re one of us.’
The oracle pulled an object from the large basin. She grinned with excitement, revealing her yellow-stained teeth. Sulaf quickly covered her mouth as the foul stench of rotting flesh filled the room, and she moved into the light, wanting to see what excited the oracle so much.
‘A man’s heart is a precious thing; it’s always so sensitive to a woman’s touch, and can be so easily torn apart by her hands,’ said the oracle. She laid the human heart on the table and reached for the rusty knife, then changed her mind, instead reaching for the axe. She hacked through it as t
hough through infested fruit fallen from a tree. Brown blood squirted everywhere, and there was the sound of gentle dripping against the slate floor. Sulaf covered her face with her hands. The oracle showed no sympathy, while Sulaf thought about the person who had died and offered their heart – willingly or unwillingly. Then, in a seemingly haphazard manner, the oracle began to run her bony fingers across the heart’s blue veins, looking for symbols to foretell the future. Sulaf tried not to contemplate whose heart it had been, or whether they had been killed for it.
‘What future do you see?’
The oracle did not reply immediately. She elongated her neck, turning her head from side to side like a mad creature.
‘When the full moon glows with the colour of blood, the war for the Garden of the Gods shall commence. The armies of Babylon will gather together like clouds uniting in a storm. On that day, the winds shall be driven by the screams of men who will die in their thousands fighting for the taste of freedom.’
Her voice had changed from a screech to a lower, unrecognisable, masculine voice, as if she had been possessed by the heart she had sliced apart. ‘Before that happens, there will come to you a child with great innocence in his heart and a powerful message carried within his palms. Make no mistake: this boy is your enemy. In his hands he holds a dagger capable of killing any hope of love offered to you by the Gallant Warrior. Kill the boy or kill his message. Whatever you decide, be sure that Marmicus knows nothing about the golden papyrus, for it is as much your enemy as the princess herself …’
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Sulaf looked back at the Black Mountain with unease. She had journeyed to the oracle for one purpose alone: to obtain a potion that would somehow cure Marmicus’s heart from the disease of love that ravaged it. But her journey had been fruitless. The oracle could provide no such cure, for she had said that, wherever there is true love, magic has no power or place.
However, she would not return to the Garden of the Gods completely empty-handed. The oracle had warned Sulaf to beware of a young boy who possessed a golden papyrus. If revealed to the Gallant Warrior, it would destroy any seed of love that could grow between them. It’s a secret that shall of course remain hidden, Sulaf thought, as she made her way back to the Garden of the Gods.
65
‘Wake up, boy, you’re not here to daydream, you’re here to lead my camel,’ the merchant yelled angrily. He sat comfortably on his camel, gurgling water and spitting it out like a llama. The merchant was a man of moody disposition, and poor Paross was bearing the brunt of it. The little boy had been pulling on the leather reins for two days without any token of appreciation from the merchant; he was allowed to journey with him on the condition that he made himself useful. Paross felt his head thump: he could barely lift it, it felt so heavy. The afternoon sun was at its strongest, sucking all the moisture from his body and leaving him dehydrated. Paross looked up at the merchant, who sat comfortably on his camel, holding a straw umbrella over his head, spinning it around as he sang, without a care in the world. The boy watched him untie the goatskin water bottle, and drink from it again, splashing it all over his face.
‘Are you thirsty, boy?’ asked the merchant.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Good, that means my kindness hasn’t gone to waste.’ The merchant laughed as he poured water over his head, with a dash for his shoulders and a sprinkling for underneath his armpits too.
The boy looked at his hands. They were blistered, the skin peeling off, and yellow pus oozing. Flies flew about him, and he knew he would not last long if he did not wash them.
‘My lord, can you spare a little water for me?’ asked Paross. His voice trembled.
The merchant glared at the feeble boy. He had already been kind enough to let him journey with him, and now the boy was showing selfishness.
‘You want me to spare a little water for you? What do you think I am, a priest? I’m a merchant, we don’t spare anything; we only sell. If I spared you a droplet of water, then all my slaves would want a droplet too, and I’d be left with nothing.’ He pointed his finger at him angrily. ‘Nothing in life is free, not even for a child. If you want my water, you have to offer me something; if you don’t, you can die of thirst for all I care.’
Paross had nothing to trade apart from the clothes on his back and the innocence in his heart, and these were worthless to the merchant, who wanted gold or silver. The only possession Paross carried was the golden papyrus, and the loving words of affection that came with it from his dead grandmother. Knowing this, Paross remained silent; he looked at the merchant with helpless eyes, feeling no anger, but pity.
‘Don’t stare at me, boy, it’s rude. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?’ yelled the merchant. He took off his turban, scratched his bald head, then put it back on. Paross closed his eyes for a while. His legs carried on, one agonising step at a time, the rough granules of sand irritating his tiny feet. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his grandmother being thrown into the fire; the image inhabited his mind like a rippling mirage. Unable to endure the visions in his memory, he opened his eyes and looked at the blisters on his hands. They had dried up and were beginning to peel away, but the leather reins kept rubbing against them, making them bleed.
Paross bent down. Grabbing some sand, he rubbed it into his hands, hoping it would dry up the yellow pus. Maybe that would stop the flies from entering his wounds. It worked for a while, but soon his hands began to throb. The sand irritated his open blisters. Paross knew his life was worth nothing. He took out the papyrus from his pocket and looked at it. He wished he could read; then he would understand what had been written on it. He remembered his grandmother’s words. He knew he would not find peace until he had delivered the letter to the woman known as Sulaf.
‘What’s that in your hand?’ asked the fat merchant. The yellow object had attracted his attention like the flickering of gold.
‘It’s nothing.’
Realising that the child was reluctant to answer his question, the merchant became even more intrigued by the object; self-interest was the quality that seemed to bind all wealthy men. ‘If it’s nothing, give it to me. In return, I’ll give you that droplet of water you wanted.’
The merchant smiled falsely and reached out, his flabby arm flailing in the wind as he tried to take hold of the papyrus.
‘No, it’s not mine to offer you,’ blurted out Paross, shoving his hand away.
‘Give it here, boy, before I give you a thousand lashes!’ the merchant commanded. The lines around his eyes crinkled as his temper rose. Paross stood his ground. He would not trade it in, even if the merchant gave him a jug of cool spring water. His grandmother’s last wishes meant everything to him.
‘Impertinent boys should be taught how to respect their elders. I blame your parents for your rudeness; they’ve brought you up to be spoiled!’ exclaimed the merchant, frothing at the mouth in his temper. The boy had insulted his kindness by denying his trade and snubbing him! In a rush of anger, he grabbed his whip and raised it above his head.
‘You’ll regret this day, boy!’ he said. He swung his whip, using all his might, the sudden action energising him. Paross bravely stood his ground, clenching his fists. The whip came thrashing down, lashing the boy’s back and leaving lacerations that oozed blood. Long red marks appeared beneath his cotton robes; every time the merchant struck him they ripped anew.
‘Now give it here, or I’ll whip you until the sunlight fades!’
‘I can’t – it’s not mine to give you,’ cried the boy. The slaves watched as the boy stood still, enduring every blow like an animal unable to defend itself. Among them was the Shadow, who stared darkly at the merchant, his eyes filled with a smouldering hatred.
‘You stubborn child, I’ll beat you to death. Now give it here!’
The merchant struck him again as he would a stubborn mule. He no longer cared about the papyrus; he just wanted to break the boy’s will. He would not stop until the boy kissed his feet and b
egged for his forgiveness – it was up to him to encourage slaves and children to understand their place in society. He kept raining blows upon the helpless child. ‘You wretched slave, you’ll learn to obey. I swear by the gods you shall be buried here.’
Unable to stand any more, Paross collapsed onto the ground.
‘Now …’ the merchant mused with a childish sense of accomplishment as he jumped off his camel and reached for the papyrus that lay beside Paross. ‘What do we have here?’
66
‘Give it back to me,’ Paross cried. He tossed and turned in agony as he lay on the ground, the sand sticking to his back. It felt as though a thousand wasps had stung him all at once.
‘It’s mine now – you traded it in for a droplet of water, remember?’ said the merchant, who hastily opened the papyrus. He tingled with excitement: the boy was obviously carrying something of importance; no one in their right mind would be prepared to die for a worthless piece of paper. It must be worth something; if not, it will come in handy for my fire tonight …
The merchant read every symbol; the sweat from his forehead formed rivulets on the golden sheet. His eyes widened with every passing second. He learnt of the princess’s infant, and how she planned to pass it off as the Assyrian emperor’s own.
‘Where did you get this?’
Paross remained silent; he knew if he spoke it would only make matters worse. The merchant became agitated. Whatever happened, he would not lose out on an opportunity to trade the letter for gold, but first he needed to know if the letter was real. His palms prickled with impatience. Time was of the essence! If anyone else learnt about the secret, it would lose its value.