The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  The forge was well sized but windowless. The stifling heat came from the large furnace and kiln, built into the far corner of the forge, which according to Mika’il, had never run cold for nearly three decades. Two wooden benches ran the length of the forge on either side, equipped with stone grinders, anvils, and vices. The walls were covered with a variety of tools, from hammers and chisels to stencils and templates. At the front was a low counter that opened out to the street, behind which his uncle, Mika’il Abaraina, sat on an old and weathered stool, hunched over his ledgers.

  Saif was at his usual station by the stone grinder. His duties were primarily to restore old weapons, and was given repairs such as straightening and sharpening. Faraj, a man almost as old as Mika’il, sat on the opposite side, using his wooden dummy to shape an iron chest-brace. He looked up when Mukhtar shut the door, and gave him a ‘your-uncle-is-not-pleased’ look, but said nothing more. He was known to be a man of few words and a very skilled blacksmith, having worked with Mika’il and Harun from the very beginning.

  Mukhtar knew that his uncle was upset, but whatever the matter, there was nothing he could do about it, and would just need to take it in its stride. He would delay the inevitable if he could, silently slithering to where Saif was working.

  Saif and Mukhtar knew each other since they were children, growing up in the same Madrassa. He was shorter than Mukhtar, slightly hunched, with a much darker complexion, curly hair and beard. “Where have you been?” he asked over the sound of the grinder. “You were meant to be here early and help me finish sharpening these arrowheads!”

  “I overslept,” Mukhtar said, simply trying to push aside his earlier experience and focus his mind on work. “What have we to do?”

  Faraj was still hammering away on the other side, and the noise from the grinder masked their voices so that Mika’il remained hunched over his ledger.

  “Much work!” Saif responded urgently. “Abunaki was promised till noon because you failed to finish his arrowheads yesterday!”

  “We have just about two more hours then,” Mukhtar prepared himself for work. “We should manage—”

  “Alas! His royal highness has decided to avail himself!”

  The grinder halted. Saif’s arrowheads fell with a clatter, Faraj stopped hammering his chest-brace, and a stony silence filled the forge. Mukhtar swallowed and turned, slowly and deliberately, to face a fuming Mika’il.

  “Explain yourself!”

  “Khal...” Mukhtar’s ears reddened, “I meant no disrespect—”

  “Disrespect?” Mika’il’s voice became dangerously quieter, and Mukhtar struggled with the sudden constriction in his throat.

  “Forgive me, Khal!”

  “You do not deserve forgiveness!” Mika’il remarked. “You deserve a taste of reality! Khalidans roam these streets every day to find decent work, and here you are, taking everything for granted!”

  Short, broad-chested, heavy-armed and balding, Mika’il was usually kind despite his grumpy attitude and formidable, chiseled features. His beady glittering eyes and thin lips, combined with a wrinkled forehead, made him look very stern. Under the ferocious glare that was usually reserved for him in situations such as these, Mukhtar thought the world may have vanished beneath his feet. Within moments, he was drenched in sweat, and the fiery furnace behind him did nothing to prevent the perspiration.

  “Khal, are you not overreacting—?”

  “Just because your uncle runs this forge, does not mean you can march in here whenever you feel like!” Mika’il yelled. “And let me tell you something—” pointing at him with a thick, weathered finger, “—were it not for the pleas of your Khala and your mother, I would see you rot in a ditch somewhere, because you deserve nothing more!”

  Several Khalidans passing by, drawn by his booming voice, could not resist stopping and watching.

  “Khal! How can you say that?” Mukhtar gasped, genuinely abashed.

  “This forge only survives on hard work and commitment. Discipline!” Mika’il’s voice was steadily becoming louder. “Where is your discipline, if you cannot— even — wake— up— early— in— the— morning!”

  Mukhtar’s fists clenched. To be ridiculed by his own uncle, in the presence of his peers, was convulsing and infuriating. He could think of an array of excuses to explain his lateness, but he would not speak them, nor the one truth. His uncle’s reaction would be no different. Perhaps even worse. There were hundreds, if not thousands of retorts that were longing to escape his lips, but he bit them back. There was no sense in taking this any further than it had already gone.

  Mika’il, however, was not done. “The world does not circle you, Mukhtar! You are not here to entertain us, and as you can see, we are hardly entertained!”

  Except for your audience at the counter! Mukhtar thought, stealing a glance at the front of the forge. He spotted some of their neighbors, craning their necks over others, trying to get a proper view.

  “It is time you grew up, Mukhtar! Grow some roots, so that one day you can stand on your own!”

  Mukhtar’s jaw was set, his gaze focused on a jagged piece of metal under his bench.

  “If Abunaki returns —” Mika’il said.

  “Who?”

  “Do not interrupt me!” Mika’il yelled again. “If Abunaki returns, and his arrowheads are not done—”

  “Oh, that Abunaki,” Mukhtar mumbled. He wondered if Mika’il would have been any less angered if he hadn’t had the urgency of work to push him to the edge.

  “—and I have to give them to him free of charge, it will be coming out of your wage!”

  Mukhtar nodded grumpily.

  “And if you ever set foot into this forge any later than daybreak, you will be without work!” Mika’il brought his finger frightfully close to Mukhtar’s nose. “Do you understand?”

  Mukhtar had very few memories of confrontations with his uncle, all with unpleasant outcomes. Their most recent conflict was a few months back, involving Zaki, and a physical battle had almost ensued between his uncle and his brother. Over time, Mukhtar had come to learn that in matters involving a family member, it is much simpler to just apologize and walk away, rather than create unpleasant memories that tended to last for years.

  “Forgive me, Khal,” he repeated his apology, keeping a straight and impassive face.

  The effect was immediate. The harshness in Mika’il’s voice dropped. “Every morning, I want to see you at the entrance of the forge awaiting my arrival, and I care not how great a calamity you must overcome for that to happen!”

  “Yes,” Mukhtar mumbled.

  Mika’il returned to his seat by the counter. “And I will be having a word with your mother about this!”

  Surely not! Mukhtar felt the world vanish beneath his feet once more. “Khal, is not my apology enough? You really needn’t—” he began.

  Mika’il silenced his feeble pleas with a careless wave of his hand.

  TWO

  UNDER THE PALM TREE

  If only he knew sorcery. He desired nothing but to vanish, perhaps sink into the ground, or even become one with the wall. A glaring glance in Mika’il’s direction was all he could muster, and some of his thoughts may have shown on his face.

  “Do not even think it,” Saif warned him.

  “How can you know what I think?” Mukhtar asked him curiously.

  “The look on your face says it all,” Saif replied. “An evil eye is a treacherous deed, and a most heinous form of sorcery imaginable. You know this!”

  Mukhtar glanced at his uncle again. With a cold shoulder, Mika’il sat on his stool, arms crossed, brow furrowed, and a glare that radiated more heat than the forge’s furnace, telling off any who passed by, doing whatever it was that they shouldn’t. A young boy, playing with wooden blocks just a few feet away from the counter, received the fright of his life when Mika’il unleashed his fury and sent him running for his mother’s aid, and she arrived with retaliation.

  “The street does
not belong to you, Mika’il Abaraina!” she shrieked from across the street. “My child has every right to —”

  “Do not preach to me of right and wrong, woman!” Mika’il retorted readily. “I know very well how much ‘right’ you have been doing with your husband’s business!”

  Her husband, Jaul the carpenter, had been gone for several weeks with a trade caravan. Much of his business had suffered during this time, as his wife knew very little about carpentry.

  She cast him a look of pure loathing. “Curse you, Mika’il! May misfortune befall you and yours!” she snapped and disappeared into her shop with her son.

  “Why they even bring their children to their workplaces, is a wonder!” Mika’il grunted to himself. “Irresponsible parents...”

  Mukhtar and Saif snickered to themselves, while Faraj indulged him. “Why are you so troubled, brother?”

  “Forgive me,” Mika’il shook his head slowly. “I have been plagued with an unsettling feeling all morning.”

  They continued to converse in low voices, and although Mukhtar couldn’t hear much, he suspected his name may have come up more than once. He and Saif continued their work, sharpening Abunaki’s arrowheads. Abunaki was a renowned swordsman and archer, and all his weaponry and armor had very precise specifications. Aside from Faraj, Mukhtar’s eye for detail marked his skill-set, and any work that required such precision was his responsibility. It was with great relief when they completed all the arrowheads, and Abunaki arrived only moments after to collect them.

  He was a long-standing client of Mika’il’s, well built for his age, with small watery eyes, and a graying beard.

  “Are they ready?” he asked with a wide grin on his face. “I hope so for your sake, Mika’il!”

  Mika’il laughed confidently. “I know you expected unpaid service if delayed, but not today!”

  Mukhtar brought forward the finished arrowheads, and Abunaki’s smile faded. He then scrutinized as many as he could, and upon finding no fault, signaled to his son to pick up the goods.

  The boy was young and scrawny, his fluffy, curly hair riddled with dirt. Mukhtar half expected him to collapse under the weight of the box, which he lifted with surprising strength. Abunaki cleared his throat and puffed out his chest as he always did before taking out his coin purse, pouring the contents over the counter and separating his money.

  “I am curious,” Mika’il eyed Abunaki’s imperious display of affluence. “Why not just have the arrowheads mounted? I have excellent timber to fashion you sturdy arrows, balanced to your liking.”

  Abunaki shook his head without looking at him. “No need. Alulim here will do it. I wish him to learn the art of weapon-craft. Very ambitious he is. Claims that he will one day be King!”

  He laughed loudly at his own joke, and Alulim’s cheeks reddened. Mika’il gave a small chuckle. “Keep alive the dream,” he added to the boy, “and you may yet be surprised! I for one would heartily agree that we need a new King.”

  “Careful what you wish for, Mika’il. Better the devil you know than the angel you don’t. Here you are then,” Abunaki handed Mika’il his payment, “Fourteen copper coins as agreed. Although I must say, I really did not expect you to complete the order this time. I see you have Mukhtar here. Perhaps he is the reason you managed?”

  He laughed again at his own joke, but before Mukhtar could even break into the smile he was yearning to display for his recognition, he was put down by the dark look on his uncle’s face.

  “Come now, Mika’il,” Abunaki seemed to have understood, “let not your anger blemish his youth! He is but a young man with the world at his feet!”

  “Take him with you to work your own mediocre of a forge then!” Mika’il snarled. “Rid me of his idiocy. Even with the world at his feet, he himself has turned the other way! What use is he then?”

  Fists clenched, jaw set, and with an immense muster over furious emotions, Mukhtar skulked back to his own workbench and focused his gaze on a rusty nail to keep himself restrained.

  “They are young, Mika’il Abaraina,” Abunaki gave a casual wave. “Have you forgotten your own days?”

  “He is old enough to carry the weight and responsibility of a family, yet he behaves like a child sometimes,” Mika’il argued. “At his age, I was already married! And what of Alulim here, would you speak the same of him?”

  Abunaki’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Perhaps you are right. There is much our children should learn from the burdens we have faced in life and the sacrifices we have made for their sake.”

  Mika’il sighed. “If only.”

  Abunaki gave a small, thoughtful nod, and decided to change the subject. “Have you not heard the news, Mika’il? Immorkaan has sanctioned greater powers to the Chief of the Souk As-Silaah.”

  “Do not speak to me of that place!” Mika’il spat. “Curse the day Immorkaan appointed Ghulam Mirza as the chief! He is nothing but a warlord in the hide of a false leader who has always oppressed the city’s artisans. ”

  “Ease your temper, Mika’il,” Abunaki lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder. “You never know who might be listening.” He leaned in closer. “I, for one, have greatly considered approaching him to build an alliance. Rather than contend with them, having such men as allies does tend to have some benefits!”

  “Indeed?” Mika’il’s eyes narrowed. “Much like your friendship with Thamir, the merchant? You do what you must, Abunaki. I will not partake in their corrupt ways. Will you be needing anything else?”

  “Yes, there is one more thing,” Abunaki said, quickly noting Mika’il’s dismissive tone, “a dear friend has a few things he needs repaired. I highly recommended your name.”

  “I appreciate the referral,” Mika’il acknowledged. “I will take good care of him. And if our transaction bears fruit, I promise to lower the rate for your next order.”

  Abunaki bade them farewell, and left with his goods, Alulim struggling to keep up with his stride.

  Later that hour, Mukhtar was glad to escape the confines of the forge. He and Saif crossed the dusty street to the cooling shade of a palm tree squeezed into a small gap between Jaul the carpenter, and an eatery belonging to one of Mika’il’s oldest friends, Tasseem. They had an arrangement that Saif and Mukhtar could eat anything worth two copper coins, paid for by Mika’il. He and Faraj preferred to have their meals in the forge in case a customer required attention.

  The sun was at its peak, sweltering without a single cloud to tarnish the blue sky. Mukhtar settled down in his usual spot and watched the citizens of Khalidah pass by in their long, sweeping robes and thaubs of brown, white, and the occasional colorful shade of red or blue.

  Mukhtar and Saif discussed Abunaki’s warning about the Chief of Souk-As-Silaah while they waited for Adil Babak to join them. The young guard was about the same age of nineteen as Mukhtar and Saif, tall and muscular, with sharp handsome features that construed royalty despite his simple Khalidan Guard uniform. His blue eyes, straight nose, and lightly tanned skin were an exact replica of his father’s, even though Mukhtar rarely had the opportunity of personally meeting General Aarguf Babak, the appointed leader of the Royal Army and older brother to the King.

  “Salaam,” Adil greeted them as he approached. He was accompanied by members of his squadron, and equally his closest neighbors among the wealthy families of the Rich District. Mukhtar and Saif’s least favorite.

  “Look here, boys! It is the muck of the city!” Their leader, Yael Varda, sneered at the top of his voice, followed by the laughter of the minions who never left his tail, Nabun, Qurais, and Jubair. Bullies and vandals they were known to be, abusers of the authority of their uniforms.

  “Leave them be!” Adil waved them off. It always seemed strange to Mukhtar that he would roam the streets with the likes of Yael, yet he would sit down to eat only with Mukhtar and Saif.

  They bade him farewell, threw Mukhtar and Saif dirty and loathsome looks, and disappeared down the street. Adil set his s
pear against the wall and sat down across from Saif and Mukhtar, who were already halfway through some vegetable stew and rice.

  A nearby minaret announced the call for prayer, and Saif stood up as he always did when it was time for prayers. “Coming, Mukhtar?”

  “Go,” Mukhtar replied without looking at him. “I will follow.”

  “Never pay heed to Yael,” Adil told Mukhtar when they were alone. “He is quick on the tongue, but a good soldier.”

  Mukhtar was not listening. With Saif gone, his thoughts had drifted to that morning’s events.

  “Mukhtar?” Adil waved at him when he didn’t reply. “What troubles you?”

  Mukhtar leaned back comfortably against the wall, as a waiter came out to offer them another pitcher of water.

  “He was late this morning, and had to face his uncle’s wrath!” The waiter chuckled. “I have been watching his face melt from across the street!”

  “Oh, you have, have you?” Mukhtar snarled at him. “Mind your own business, Halim!”

  “I tell you, Adil,” Halim continued enthusiastically, ignoring Mukhtar’s warning, “I have never seen the mighty Mukhtar so helpless before.”

  “Adil, might I interest you in a gripping tale?” Mukhtar raised his voice.

  “I would be very much pleased!” Adil remarked.

  “It is a tale of bravery and valor,” Mukhtar claimed. “The tale of a young man and his quest to become most skilled with a short blade and a potato!”

  Mukhtar paused for a moment, allowing the words to sink in. Adil was confused, but Halim understood immediately, and his expression became grim.

  “Wait— that is not— you vowed never to—!”

  “I made no such vow!” Mukhtar pressed mockingly. “Oh, how very tempted I am!”

  Halim, red around the ears, glared at Mukhtar, left the pitcher of water, and rushed back to the eatery, cursing under his breath.

  “What was that all about?” Adil frowned.