The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  For a moment, Mukhtar thought Halim would return with a rolling pin or a wooden spoon as a weapon, but when he didn’t, Mukhtar gave a casual wave and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Indeed?”

  Mukhtar gave him a sideways glance. “This morning, I stumbled upon an illegal slave trade on Rayis Street.”

  Adil eyed him cautiously. “And what does that entail?”

  “I freed the slaves,” Mukhtar told him.

  Adil slowly raised both his eyebrows. “You did? How?”

  Mukhtar gave him the details and watched Adil’s face become grimmer by the moment, that when he was done, the young guard only nodded silently.

  “Will you say nothing to that?” Mukhtar demanded.

  “What is there to say?” Adil shrugged. His expression was mildly contemptuous, to which Mukhtar became slightly disturbed, wondering if he had made a mistake by telling him. “You toyed with fire, Mukhtar,” he asserted. “Slave traders are not to be trifled with. You need not have involved yourself with them.”

  Mukhtar’s brow furrowed with fury and disbelief. “So turn away from such brutality? Abandon them to be used and abused?”

  Adil took a deep breath, chose his words carefully, and gave Mukhtar a stern look. “Did it ever occur to you, that even as slaves, they would still be given food and shelter, provided for by their masters? They now have nothing but the rags on their backs, and by nightfall they will steal, or do worse, just to diminish their hunger. Consider this, Mukhtar— you have endangered not just theirs, but your life too, for if those slavers were to pick up your scent,” he paused, “pray, they never find you!”

  Mukhtar leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes, as a loaded cart rattled by, its mule braying loudly, shamelessly complaining of its burden. Whatever Adil said, made sense, and Mukhtar had not given it much thought. He knew he was stepping into the wolf’s den, but he had escaped undetected. Would the consequences truly follow him so far?

  “Say nothing to my mother,” he requested, and Adil responded with a reassuring nod. Saif emerged from the Masjid along with other devotees who were now returning to their places of work. “And nothing to Saif either?”

  “I shall keep it secret for as long as it remains so,” Adil assured him.

  They both stood up as Saif approached them. “Salaam. You missed prayers, Mukhtar. What kept you?”

  “I kept him, Saif,” Adil replied instead, and Mukhtar gave him an appreciative look, for he did not want the rest of his day to be all about how big a mistake he had made. “I am still curious, however. Why was Halim displeased with your tale?”

  “The tale of a blade and a potato?” Mukhtar grinned and glanced over his shoulder. “Halim Al-Kanaan comes from a long line of miners, but has it never occurred to you why he would work at an eatery?”

  “Unskilled with a pickaxe?” Saif shrugged.

  Mukhtar shook his head. “A year back, he came across some decent coin, entertained friends at a tavern, and later came to Tasseem’s Eatery for a meal. Unknown to him, his coin purse was lost along the way, and they foolishly ate to their fill, but had no money to make payment. He then pleaded and promised to pay later.”

  “That must have made Tasseem’s day,” Saif grinned and glanced at the eatery.

  “Tasseem simply showed him the kitchen door,” Mukhtar gestured at the door of the forge as they approached it. “He had to peel a pail of potatoes to pay his debt, but the man was so frightened and distracted, he peeled an entire sack, twice his size, in one night, and given that he did it in a state of drunkenness, Tasseem was impressed and offered to hire him!”

  Saif and Adil burst out laughing in the alley just as Halim, oblivious to them, appeared across the street serving more customers with enthusiasm in his every step. For a moment, Mukhtar felt a distant remorse for backbiting him, and his laughter fizzled away.

  With no objection from Mika’il, Adil spent the afternoon at the forge, making jokes to keep them entertained, and only left when a squadron of higher ranking guards patrolled by.

  That evening, Mukhtar left the forge hurriedly, wanting nothing but to isolate himself in his room. He had felt as though the day could not possibly be any worse than it had become. Mika’il was in such a bad mood, that Mukhtar wondered if his uncle might even reach home safely without ending up in a fight somewhere along the way.

  Everywhere around him, shops were closing, and merchants were packing up their stalls and wares. The city’s distinct buzz quietened down to a lower decibel, while the sounds of music drifted into the streets through the now open doors of inns, taverns, and brothels. Small flickers of light were appearing in various homes, as people lit their lanterns, oil lamps, and candles. He passed the alley where the slave traders had parked their ox-driven, caged cart. All that remained were the darkened residuals of dried blood against the stone, sand, and dirt, further down the street.

  He turned his gaze and dragged his feet along, slightly hunched due to exhaustion, as the events of the day reenacted in his mind. Later that afternoon, the most unwelcome of customers had arrived at the forge; representatives from Immorkaan. Captain Ghadan and his Lieutenant, Hassin. Orders from the Elder Council were scarce since much of the Royal Army’s requisitions came from the Souk As-Silaah, but on such rare occasions, they were Mika’il’s least favorite. Never had any dealings with Immorkaan been on fair terms.

  Unfortunately, they found Mika’il at a bad time, and he wasted no effort in tolerating them. He blatantly scorned them, demanding that they must first pay off their previous dues, and pay him in advance for the new order before he embarked on it. The delegates, just as intolerant, threatened to tax them heavily if Mika’il did not comply. Compelled to defend his livelihood, Mika’il was forced to bow his head in shame and adhere to their demands.

  Mukhtar and Saif’s morale shattered to bits when Mika’il curtly announced that neither of them would be receiving the day’s wages because he now needed the money to requisition supplies. For this, he needed to journey to his hometown of Mirzaan, a single day’s ride and a two-day return by caravan, slower with the goods. Hopefully, they would have completed their work by the end of the seventh day, as per the terms.

  Mukhtar crossed the street and paused before the doors of his house. Suha would eventually discover Mika’il’s four-day absence, and would ultimately learn everything from her sister, including Mukhtar’s encounter with Mika’il. He was ardently debating whether or not to disclose anything to her, when someone excitedly called his name.

  “Mukhtar!”

  Startled, he turned and smiled when he saw...

  “Misbah!” He scooped her up into a hug. Nine-year-old Misbah, with her neat headscarf and smiling eyes, had always been fond of Mukhtar. He put her down gently and greeted her mother.

  She responded respectfully as she came closer, holding a large dish covered in a plain cloth. Along with a headscarf, and eyes very like her daughter’s, Mukhtar noted a darkening bruise on her left cheek. The origin of it was not unknown, but he respectfully refrained from showing discern. Her husband, Gizwani, was known to be a drunk and violent man, and the only reason why Samiya and their daughter would be out at that hour, was if Gizwani himself was away, perhaps drowning in wine at a tavern. She drew her headscarf closer to hide the bruise and again, Mukhtar pretended not to notice.

  Misbah chatted merrily, telling him all about her day at the Madrassa, and what she and her friends did the previous week. He responded with silent nods and led them into the small courtyard with a non-functioning stone fountain in its center, over which he threw his cloak and followed the aroma of food to the tiny kitchen. Before the small fire pit, Suha stirred a boiling, steaming pot, and sang to herself, unaware of Mukhtar’s arrival.

  “Salaam, Ummi,” he greeted her softly, and she gave a small start. Despite being slightly alarmed, her smile was so warm and welcoming, he could not have asked for anything else in that moment.

  “Salaam,” she placed a hand
on her chest and heaved slightly. “You startled me. Why are you late?”

  “It has been a long and trying day.”

  Her smile fell. “Was there trouble at the forge? Did your Khal punish you?”

  “I will tell you later, Ummi,” Mukhtar lowered his voice. “Samiya and Misbah are here, and—” he lowered his voice further, “—she has a bruise on her cheek—”

  “Mukhtar!” Suha’s voice descended to a bare whisper, and she threw a cautious glance out the kitchen door. “Have I not told you before? It is not our concern!”

  “Gizwani is becoming relentless, Ummi!” he argued. “How much more must she endure before it becomes our concern?”

  Suha reached out and ran her hand through his hair. “There is much that you do not understand.” She stepped out into the courtyard, and he trailed behind, looking slightly crestfallen. “Go. Rest. I will call when food is ready. And remove your cloak from the fountain!”

  The two women greeted and hugged each other. “I bought pastries from Falami’s bakery, and thought of you,” Samiya said.

  “Oh Samiya, may the Almighty bless your warm heart!” Suha fretted.

  “And yours, Suha,” Samiya returned the compliment.

  Mukhtar left Misbah with a final smile and ascended the short staircase up to the landing above. The two women exchanged more pleasantries down below, and their voices carried away into the kitchen.

  Their stay was not long, and Mukhtar knew that Samiya would have to return home before Gizwani found out that she had left.

  “Did she tell you then?” Mukhtar prodded Suha for answers when they settled down for their meal. “Did she confirm that Gizwani raised his hand on her?”

  Suha’s nostrils flared. “How many times must I tell you? This does not concern you!”

  Mukhtar fell silent and decided not to prod further. Suha would only become angrier.

  “What is the matter, Mukhtar?” She sensed his agitation and softened her voice. “Why are you so troubled today?”

  Mukhtar narrated to her the events of the day, taking caution not to mention the slave traders. Having witnessed Adil’s response, he was not quite ready to share that secret with her just yet. However, he did not hold back his frustrations with Immorkaan. Their unjust way of conducting business had long remained unchallenged, and he had more cause than many to detest them.

  “How do they justify their actions? They bring nothing but despair with them! We must stand for ourselves! We must challenge their tyranny!”

  He had spoken the wrong words without realizing it. Ever since her husband had been taken away by the authorities, Suha absolutely refused to entertain such rebellious talk in her household.

  “God forgive me, your tongue be tied and silenced!” She threw a nervous glance over her shoulder, as though expecting the authorities to be listening in. “Have I only raised rebels? It pains me, just as much as anyone else, but this is the life we have all chosen, and we must survive it! I too have lost much, your father, your brother—”

  “Zaki is still alive, Ummi,” Mukhtar said irritably. “You did not lose him. He serves the Red-Guard, remember?”

  “Do not argue with me!” she snapped at him. “Now, you listen to me, Mukhtar, or so help me, I will walk you to Aztalaan and leave you with your rebellious brother. The two of you can bask in all the glory in the world!” She took a strained breath and calmed down. “Your father was a brave man, and so is your brother, but they have always forgotten that their family’s needs are greater than their ambitions. Ever have they craved glory and honor, and in the end, it did not matter what they liberated, because the oppression continued, while your father, and others like him, lost more than their lives.”

  Mukhtar knew why she was upset. Only recently had they received a letter from Zaki, stating that he had been quested to hunt down the fabled Assassins of Ghuldad, a notion that had been greatly opposed by everyone in the family.

  A light breeze lazily floated into the room and frisked the flame of the oil lamp. A cricket chirped from somewhere outside. Suha stared at her empty plate and Mukhtar gazed out into the deserted courtyard, wondering if that was indeed what his father and elder brother had done, that they had disregarded their kin for selfish endeavors. The very thought filled him with sorrow. Little did he have, but his father’s memory to look up to, and even that seemed to diminish before his very eyes.

  Later that night, he lay on his bed, staring at the dark cracks against the whitewashed ceiling of his room, listening to a dog barking in the distance. Too much had happened that day for him to just sleep off and forget. Why would Suha declare her husband’s ambitions foolish? Did I free those slaves for a desire of valor and glory? He thought.

  Was his act of nobility, a weak trait of his father’s? He shook his head. No. Not Glory. Pity. He had stopped to consider, even doubt his actions, and yet, it was purely out of mercy for a fellow human being.

  However, that was not what truly troubled him. It was what Mika’il had said to him about being irresponsible, and Mukhtar’s reaction to his uncle’s words, regardless of how they were spoken. He felt a pang of guilt in his stomach. Mika’il was like a father to him, and despite his anger, Mukhtar was deeply fond of him. He should not have to bear Mukhtar’s irresponsibility. No one should.

  He turned over on his side, straightened his pillow, and made a silent vow to improve himself. He knew his uncle. If he showed signs of change, Mika’il would forgo his anger.

  The thought gave him some comfort, as he drifted off to sleep and almost immediately fell into a dream.

  It was an endless cycle of absurd activities that involved Mika’il crouched inside a cage, yelling at him in a strange language. Then Abunaki appeared behind him, laughing loudly. ‘This time he will be for free! Those slavers promised me!’ He pointed at two men who turned out to be Saif and Faraj, cackling away like a pair of jesters.

  He was woken by a Mu’adhin’s call for prayer in the distance, and he reached out for a cup of water by his bedside. Then he turned the other way and fell back to sleep. The dream was different this time.

  THREE

  RULE OF THE UNJUST

  A sense of exhilaration filled him purposefully. There was something here he needed to see, something he needed to do, and its outcome would either benefit or destroy him. The desert storm had engulfed him whole, shifting and unsettling sands, thick and obliterating. Static and lightning flashed high above him, followed by the sounds of thunder, deep and roaring.

  Ahead of him was a shimmering bright light, peering through the gaps in the blowing sands. There was a purpose to that light. A firm and resolute purpose. Its existence was divine, yet he sensed its wickedness. Its purpose was bound to an evil beyond anything imaginable, and yet he was drawn to it. Why was he drawn to it? He had to go to it— what if he never reached it?

  Something emerged amidst the shifting sands. Eyes subtly glowing behind clouds of dirt and dust, eyes that were blank and milky white. To what did they belong? What devilry was at play here? Fear gripped him. Not the fear of death, but that of loss. The presence will deny him his innermost desire to do good, but will ignite and fulfill his deepest temptations of wickedness. It would not allow him to cross to the other side and reach the light.

  The creature had someone. Or something, bound in chains, lying at its feet. It was struggling against its bonds and it spoke...

  ‘Wake up, Mukhtar! Wake up!’

  There was a loud knocking. It pounded heavily against the inside of his skull. He pried his eyes open, but remained still, trying to contemplate his surroundings. Sunlight was pouring through his open window with a welcoming, crisp morning breeze and the unmistakable yelling of his neighbor, Gizwani Al-Shura. Perhaps Samiya’s venture last night did not go unnoticed. Where was Misbah, he wondered? He hoped that the innocent girl was nowhere about to witness the cruelty inflicted upon her mother.

  “Mukhtar? Wake up or you will be late again!” Suha’s voice sounded from outside hi
s door.

  His window overlooked Misbah’s, and there were times, unknown to her, that he had seen her cry in a corner by herself.

  Suha called again. Groggy and a little feverish, he mustered the strength to get up and open the door.

  “Mukhtar!” she gasped, her expression solemn. “You are pale and drenched in sweat! What is the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he mumbled and shook off her hand as she tried to feel his forehead.

  “Are you unwell?”

  “I am fine, Ummi.”

  The look of a mother, worried for her son, was too much for him to bear, especially when he wanted nothing but to be left alone. Left alone to dwell a while longer on his nightmare. The image of a figure bound in chains at the mercy of some creature, deeply troubled him— had been troubling him since he was a child, an affliction he had struggled to keep secret even from his mother.

  He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. Shifting sands. Lightning. Gleaming eyes. Flashing images now seeped through the gaps in his fingers. The more of reality that materialized around him, the more of the dream that disappeared. He shuffled to the basin of water and rinsed his mouth with salt and mint leaves. He then dressed while listening to the sounds of conflict drifting in through his window. Perhaps, he thought, Samiya should ask for Talaaq. How much longer was she willing to endure her husband’s continuing abuse? And where were the damned authorities? Surely, a passing guard patrol should have heard the commotion by now? Why had no one intervened? Why hadn’t he?

  Should he? He certainly felt the urge. To bring Gizwani to justice. To free Samiya from her burden. His thoughts went back to the slaves. Was it really his place to intervene?

  Suha had prepared a cup of spicy cardamom tea, which scathed his tongue and throat as he gulped it down and hastily left for work.

  A groggy and rather disgruntled Saif greeted him when he entered the forge, and Mukhtar had a feeling that he was not the only one who had a restless night.

  “Nightmares?” he asked.