The Serpent's Daughter

by Suzanne Arruda

  “Who are you?” Jade asked in French. “What do you want?”

  “I can help you get to Marrakech.” The man stepped forward one pace into the dim light. Both hands were empty.

  “You! You’re the man who showed me the tunnels in Azilah.” She sprang forward, gripped the man by the neck with her left hand and pushed him against the wall, her knife at his throat. “What have you done with my mother?”

  The man closed his eyes and held one hand in front of his face, muttering something in a language Jade didn’t recognize. “By all that is holy, Alalla,” he said in French, but using the Arabic equivalent of “Madame,” “I have done nothing with your mother.”

  “Then why are you following me?”

  The man opened his eyes but kept his head turned so he never met Jade’s piercing stare. “I have been told to bring you back with me. I heard you talk with this woman. You want to go to Marrakech. I can help you.”

  Jade relaxed her grip on the man’s neck and stepped away, her knife still poised for defense. “Why should I trust you? And what did you mean when you said you were told to bring me back? Back to where?”

  “To . . . to Marrakech.”

  Jade scowled. “How convenient,” she mumbled to herself in English. “Look me in the eyes!” she commanded. “Did you leave a note for me in my room?” She pushed the knife tip closer to the man’s throat.

  The Berber forced himself to meet her intense gaze. “No. I swear by all that is holy, I left no note for you.”

  Jade studied his eyes. He didn’t look aside when he answered. If anything, he seemed terrified to look at her at all. Either he was telling the truth or was very experienced in lying. She wasn’t convinced she could trust him. Still, she reasoned, it might not be such a bad idea to go with this man. If he was an enemy, it was better to have him in her sight than dogging her steps. If he was a friend, well, she needed all the help she could get right now.

  She released him and motioned with the knife for him to precede her. “I will take you with me, but do not try to trick me.” She picked up her carpetbag from the cobbled pavement and tossed it to him. “Go crank the car.” She tucked her knife into her belt where she could retrieve it instantly and climbed in on the right on the driver’s side.

  The Panhard started up easily enough and, after her companion climbed into the passenger’s side, Jade drove out of the alley. She maneuvered the silent streets uphill to the Kasbah, paid the gatekeeper to let her out, then exited from the Bab el Kasbah. Once outside the gate, she headed downhill, the great souk with sleeping camels and donkeys to her left and the Atlantic to her right. “What is your name?” Jade asked in French. She noticed he kept his eyes averted again.

  “Bachir.”

  “Well, Bachir,” she continued in French, “I am not taking you to Marrakech or anywhere else until you answer some questions.” Jade stopped the car and turned to him. “Who sent you to find me and why? How do you know who I am, how did you find me in Azilah, and why did you leave before I came out of the tunnel?”

  Bachir turned partway towards her, still avoiding her eyes. “I will answer all, Alalla, but not here. We must move on. You will be discovered if you stay here.”

  As much as Jade hated to admit it, he was right. By morning, Deschamp would expect word from his watchdog. After he reported that she hadn’t come down to breakfast, someone would go up to her room. Then they’d know she’d slipped away. She searched her memory for anything she’d told him. Nowhere did she remember mentioning Marrakech. She’d received that message later.

  “I agree, for now. But once we are safely away, I expect answers.” Bachir didn’t bother to reply.

  Jade put the car in gear again and followed the track to Azilah. The acetylene headlamps didn’t work and they drove in the dark with little more than the sound of the surf to their right until the moon rose half an hour later. Three days past full, the still-swollen orb spilled its creamy light across the road from behind her left shoulder, illuminating every hole and bump. When she reached the far side of Azilah without meeting or overtaking another living soul, Jade decided it was time for some answers.

  “Now, who sent you?” she asked, still driving west.

  Bachir kept his eyes ahead. “The kahina.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The stories of the Berbers’ origins are as fanciful as a tale from Arabian Nights.

  Some people claim they were chased from Israel when David overthrew

  Goliath. Others align them with ancient Egyptians or the Phoenicians. No one

  asks the Berbers. They call themselves Imazighen, or in its adjectival form,

  the Amazigh people. It means the “free people.”

  —The Traveler

  THE PANHARD SLID SIDEWAYS as Jade hit the brakes. In her head she again heard the voices in the tunnel and the word kahina. Her hand gripped her knife hilt and her voice dropped to a low rumble. “Who, in the name of all that is holy, is this kahina?”

  “She is our leader, Alalla.”

  “My name is Jade. So, this kahina of yours leads the Berbers? ”

  The man’s chin went up, an expression of pride. “That is what others call us. It is an insult. We are not barbarians. We are the Imazighen.” To Jade’s ear, it sounded like Im-ah-Zirren , the r sound being made as a deep, throaty rasp. “My own tribe traces itself back long before even the Roman people came. Our leaders were mighty people.”

  “I see. And what was your kahina doing in the Azilah tunnels?”

  The man’s ruddy face paled and he gripped a silver talisman around his neck. “She was not in the tunnels, Alalla Jade.” He brought his left hand up as an open-handed shield between himself and Jade as he muttered something in his own language.

  “Why do you do that?” asked Jade, as she raised her hand in imitation of his. “There was another Amazigh man and a boy outside Azilah. The man did that and he also hid the boy’s eyes and mumbled something like an incantation. Why?”

  “This sign is the hand of the kahina. It has much baraka because the hand has five fingers. Five is a holy number,” replied Bachir. “It is protection against the evil eye and he would say, ‘five in your eye’ to stop you. He feared that you would look at his son’s eyes and make him ill with the evil eye. Tell me, Alalla Jade, about your walk in the tunnels.”

  Jade hesitated, not sure whether or not she could trust this man. Raised in relative isolation on a New Mexico ranch, Jade always approached strangers with caution, viewing them as possible threats until proven otherwise. Her opinion of people in general hadn’t changed during the war, but she had learned to read character more readily. That, and that blasted, odd shrapnel wound in her knee didn’t ache. It always seemed to hurt when something was trying to kill her. She decided in Bachir’s favor, mainly because she needed an ally right now. But if he tries anything, the evil eye is the least of his worries. “I went inside and found an Arab man dead, stabbed in the back.”

  “Is that all?” Bachir seemed to suggest that the dead man was of no consequence to him.

  “Is that all?” echoed Jade. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “You were inside a long time,” he explained. “Did you not go in deeper?”

  “Yes, I did. I heard voices and I followed them. I thought my mother was with them.”

  “These voices, what did they say?”

  “Nothing to do with my mother.”

  Bachir persisted. “What did they say?”

  Jade felt her irritation rising. When this man told her he’d been sent to take her to Marrakech, she naturally assumed it was to lead her to, or help her find, her mother. But he didn’t express interest in any details pertaining to her mother’s kidnapping.

  “They said foolish things,” she snapped. “There was a man and a woman. The woman wanted the man to take something from her, a . . .” She searched for the correct word in Arabic or French to convey a talisman and decided on “charm” in Arabic. As she said it, she heard Bachir’s sudden gasp.
“The man did not want it. He said something about the woman’s death. He called it Elishat’s charm.”

  Bachir muttered soft phrases under his breath, and Jade saw him grip something under his robe. Clearly the man was spooked. “What else did you hear, Alalla Jade?”

  “The woman said it was not her time to die. She talked about a daughter. I think the man was surprised about her daughter. I don’t think he knew she existed. Now, what,” Jade demanded, “does this have to do with my mother?”

  “I do not know,” Bachir replied. “Did the woman give her name?”

  “I don’t think so. But,” Jade added after a moment’s reflection, “I think the man did. He called her Dahia, but he also called her kahina. That means this Dahia sent you to find me?”

  Bachir’s face paled to an ashy gray, as though the blood had drained from his head. For an instant he reminded Jade of the corpse in the tunnel, enough so that she forgot her irritation in concern for the man’s health. “Are you ill?” she asked.

  Bachir shook his head. “Have you told me all?”

  “Yes. But I was in longer than I thought. When that man and woman quit talking, I found I was standing in a circle of salt, and it was morning. The dead man’s body was gone, too.” She stared at the man, hoping to intimidate him as she often did others with her deep green eyes. Apparently she didn’t need to stare here. People were afraid enough about the evil eye, Bachir among them. He would not look at her. “You were gone when I came out. Did you take the body, Bachir? Did this kahina woman take my mother?”

  “No.” He shook his head again. “I followed you inside once I made my protection. I carried iron and salt and burned white benzoin to frighten away the jinni. I saw the body and I saw by your light that you did not go the way the man pointed. When I found you, you were standing still as a rock, barely breathing, your eyes open and fixed on nothing. I put the circle of salt around you to guard you from the jinni. When I left, the body was already gone.”

  “You put the salt around me?”

  “Yes, Alalla. As I told you, the jinni prefer to live in the old ruins and tunnels. But they do not like salt or iron. I knew I had to protect you, but I feared I was too late.”

  “If you were in the tunnels, Bachir, then you must have heard those people talking, too.”

  “No, Alalla. I heard no one.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  “I did not have enough benzoin to last very long. I went and hid in the back of the automobile.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jade exclaimed, remembering the low-riding rear end on the first trip to Azilah. It occurred to her that the car didn’t ride that way this time. “You hid in the back and rode from Tangier, didn’t you? Then you jumped out when I came to Azilah. You were the person following me in Tangier.”

  “Yes, but I did not ride inside. I hung on to the back, my feet on the metal crosspiece.”

  “This woman in the tunnels, the one I heard, do you know where she went? Maybe she knows who took my mother.”

  Bachir’s hands trembled as he again gripped whatever protection he wore under his striped cloak. “You heard the voice beyond the dead, Alalla Jade. The Dahia kahina led our people in rebellion against the Arabs six hundred and eighty years after your Nazarene prophet was born.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Morocco, while now a French protectorate, is still ruled by a Sultan,

  who has opulent palaces in many cities including Marrakech, the red city.

  The city’s rust-red, earthen ramparts carry a grandeur amplified by the cooling

  beauty of palm groves in the middle of desert and the looming magnificence

  of the nearby Atlas Mountains. It’s a splendid setting worthy of any ruler.

  —The Traveler

  NOTHING MADE SENSE ANYMORE, and as Jade grew more and more tired, she entertained the idea that she had actually died during the war and gone to hell. Why else would she be driving an old French car without lights through the Moroccan night with a lunatic Berber at her left? Any hope she had of getting assistance from him vanished as soon as he explained she’d heard a 1,240-year-old disembodied queen talk. Then he clammed up, turning his face to the blackness around them, the scalp-lock dangling behind his right ear. Eventually she saw his head droop, and heard a gentle snore. She’d debated shoving Bachir out the door at one point, then decided he might still prove useful as an interpreter, and left him to doze on.

  The Panhard had half a tank of fuel when she left Tangier and a full spare can strapped to the sideboard. It wouldn’t be enough to get to Marrakech, though. The problem would be getting more. Most likely only the French authorities had any gasoline, and once Deschamp spread the word that she was on the run, she couldn’t very well afford anyone knowing where she’d gone.

  For that matter, she needed to sleep. That’s why, when she finally made it to Rabat, she drove around and parked a half kilometer away from the city. Once again she enveloped herself in her black cloak and stole into the European sector, a siphon hose from the toolbox and the now empty fuel can in tow.

  Jade found a likely government vehicle parked away from any others and promptly siphoned off enough gasoline to fill the can. She started to leave when the truck’s own spare can caught her eye. She nabbed it, as well. Then, feeling guilty, she pulled three francs from her pocket and placed them on the seat, anchored with a rock.

  From Rabat, Jade drove another hour southwest along the coast and pulled off the track to sleep. She awoke at dawn to something nibbling on her shirt collar.

  “What the . . .” she exclaimed as she bolted upright in the seat. A brown nanny goat with its forehooves on the chassis stared back at her with its unreal-looking horizontal pupils. The goat maaed and stretched its neck for her collar. Jade pushed it aside, and it dropped down to the ground as she got out of the car. She found herself in a small herd of the inquisitive beasts. “Shoo. Back off,” she scolded as a white nanny made a grab for her overskirt. She looked around for Bachir and found him bartering for fresh goat’s milk and one flatbread with a small, woven bag. He appeared to be unsuccessful.

  Jade offered them francs, only to find they had no interest in the French money, either. Fine, we’ll find something else to barter with. She opened her carpetbag, found the wrapped parcel of ground coffee she’d thrown in lest she be caught without her precious brew, and tossed it to Bachir.

  “Maybe they will take that,” she said.

  The goat herder, a nomadic Berber judging by his short, black-and-red striped robe, sniffed the packet. He grinned, exposing more open gums than teeth. In a moment Bachir was back, followed by a boy leading one of the nannies and a little girl carrying two clay pots and the bread. The girl handed the bread to Jade, taking care never to look her in the eyes. Then she milked the goat while her brother held its head. She poured half the milk into the second jar and handed both to Jade. Jade passed one on to Bachir along with half the bread.

  “Shukran,” said Jade, thanking the girl. “Besmellāh, in the name of God,” she added, giving the proper invocation used before just about any activity. She guzzled the warm milk, her hunger taking over all sense of decorum. “Bachir,” she said between mouthfuls of bread, “ask them if they have seen another car, one with a woman in it.”

  Bachir translated her question into Tashelhit, the language of the Atlas Berbers. Judging by the goatherd’s confusion, he spoke a different dialect, but with the insertion of the few Arabic words that the herder recognized and a lot of gestures, the man finally comprehended. The same process repeated itself in reverse until Bachir had the answer.

  “He says he saw a car yesterday morning with two men.”

  Jade’s shoulders slumped until it occurred to her that her mother might have been bound and gagged, lying down and out of view. “Can he describe the men or the car?”

  After another painstaking exchange, Bachir gave the exhaustive report: “Black.”

  Jade cranked the car and climbed back in. As she reach
ed over the side to release the brake, the boy approached her. He pointed first to his upper lip then made several strokes across it with his finger.

  “A mustache?” Jade murmured in English before saying “nose hair” in Arabic. It seemed the boy understood some Arabic, for he nodded. Jade recited possible colors beginning with black, followed by brown and yellow. The boy shook his head at each, looked around, and picked up a kid whose creamy tan fur was coated in the red dust of the bled, or wasteland desert, turning parts of it a pale rusty-butter mix.

  “This color?” asked Jade. The boy nodded. She rewarded him with a franc.

  They drove on to Casablanca, where Jade hid while Bachir purchased two cans of fuel from one merchant and food from another, then headed due south across the expansive wasteland towards Marrakech.

  Except for one lone well where Jade tinkered with the car’s engine, refilled the radiator, and emptied her own in a much-needed personal stop, there was little to interest her. There were no villages, no trees, nothing but a flat land of rock and brick-colored dirt. Under the track itself the earth had submitted to so much pressure from countless hooves and feet that it had been pressed into a polished red rock, as hard as any stone floor. Bachir’s reticence increased each time Jade asked any more questions or attempted to engage him in conversation. Instead, he watched the never-changing landscape and sang in an atonal tenor voice a mournful-sounding tune. Perhaps he missed his distant home somewhere up in the Atlas Mountains.

  Around noon, she skirted the military post at Zettát, careful to avoid detection. She sent Bachir into the post with the empty gas can and some of her few remaining francs to purchase much-needed fuel. She only hoped they wouldn’t ask too many questions of him, such as, Why do you need gasoline? But the soldiers at the post seemed too bored with inactivity to be concerned about Bachir’s request. Perhaps, Jade thought, they were in the habit of acting as a refueling station for the few people crossing the rocky desert.