The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  “In a manner of speaking,” Saif replied. “A talk for another time, though. We have much work. Faraj wants us to clean the forge before embarking on the council’s order.”

  Mukhtar glanced at Faraj, who was scanning through some sort of list by the counter.

  “Seven spears and seven wooden shields,” Saif responded to his unasked question. “He has called for one of Kaka Jaffar’s cart-boys to bring us wood from the lumber yards.”

  “But that will take all day!” Mukhtar complained. “When has Kaka Jaffar ever delivered anything on time?”

  Saif shrugged. “Mika’il has left instructions. He has already informed most of his customers that he will be unavailable for a few days, and Faraj will do the same in his absence. While we await all the material, he wants us to clean the entire forge.”

  “Indeed?” Mukhtar felt his throat twitch slightly. “With whom did he leave instructions?” And as soon as he said it, he realized how foolish he might have sounded. Was he becoming envious that Mika’il would now entrust instructions to all but him?

  “Does it matter?” Saif gave a small chuckle. “The filth of this forge will need several days to scrub clean!” he stated. “It is truly strange how your uncle thinks at times, if I may be so bold.”

  “Strange indeed,” Mukhtar muttered. It seemed his uncle had not forgone their previous day’s argument, and would perhaps brood over it his entire journey. He kept any further displeasure to himself and picked up his leather apron from behind the door.

  With the forge being a constant hive of activity, it was rare that either of them had the time to grab a sweeper. The floor was littered with pieces of metal and wood shavings. Broken items and random tools were scattered all over. Layers upon layers of dust covered underutilized areas, especially Mukhtar and Saif’s bench, unlike Faraj’s workbench, which was neat and tidy, tools well-oiled and accounted for.

  Mukhtar and Saif practically waged war on the forge, while Faraj focused his efforts on attending to customers who were unwary of Mika’il’s absence.

  Several months’ worth of effects were unearthed along with old and almost forgotten fabrications of various designs, plates of armor, swords and knives, spearheads and arrowheads. An array of broken tools like hammers, mallets, and chisels, were exhumed from mounds of dirt and the darkest, most deserted corners of the forge. Most of all these treasures ended up in a large pile in the alley behind the forge.

  Their battle was not without casualties. At some point during the morning, all three of them had suffered at least an injury each. Within the first two hours, Faraj had tripped and fallen over a small crate that Mukhtar had pulled out from under his bench, and had to sit down on Mika’il’s stool, massaging his lower back. Shortly after, Saif had unknowingly thrust his hand into the same crate and caught his forearm on a sharp metal piece. In an attempt to stop the bleeding, Mukhtar had rushed across the street to procure honey and garlic paste from Tasseem, which he applied on the wound, and dressed it up with a piece of cloth.

  Mukhtar was no exception. At noon, while they ate, Adil and Saif laughed shamelessly at Mukhtar’s face. Below his left eye, a large lump was steadily bruising where a fist had made contact. He had been trying to winch an arrowhead that was stuck to the bottom of the same wooden crate responsible for Saif and Faraj’s injuries.

  Saif was clutching his ribs with his good arm, strained with laughter. “His hand slipped, and he hit himself right in the face!”

  Mukhtar threw him a scathing look. “My hand was sweaty!” he argued, but that only aggravated their laughter.

  Later that afternoon, Kaka Jaffar sent a messenger to inform them that the wood would not arrive until the following morning. Hardly in any physical state to get much work done, Faraj awarded them the remainder of the day to rest their injuries.

  Saif suggested waiting for Adil’s shift to end so they could walk home together. Mukhtar agreed wholeheartedly, wanting to reach home when it was already dark, so that no one else would see his face. They spent the rest of the day discussing politics and playing games of chance to pass the time.

  When Mukhtar arrived home in the evening, Suha was knitting in the courtyard, and she shrieked when she saw his face.

  The battle that followed was one of many. First, they argued about why, and with whom, he was fighting. Then, they quarreled about his behavior with Mika’il the previous day. His uncle, it seemed, had spared enough time to disclose everything to his aunt before he left and naturally, the sisters conversed. They settled the argument with Mukhtar’s numerous apologies and vows to change his ways, after which he had to contend with Suha’s insistence to treat his wound.

  “Hold still, Mukhtar!” she snarled at him, her voice as dangerous as the warning of a rattlesnake.

  “Get it away from me!” Mukhtar protested frivolously. “It reeks!”

  “Mukhtar Harun Zafar!” She slapped his wrist. “You had better hold still if you know what is good for you!”

  It was all he could do not to push away her hand and vomit on the side. It truly did emit a pungent smell, and stung his eye as she applied it.

  “Why were you fighting?”

  “Have we not discussed this already? I was not fighting!”

  Despite their previous argument, she still raised a silent and suspicious eyebrow.

  “Why would I lie about something this obvious?” he argued.

  “You expect me to believe you were hurt at work?” she asked accusingly. “What sort of blacksmith are you?”

  “Believe what you want then,” he mumbled.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing!” he replied quickly, not wanting another argument. “I am tired. I must rest.”

  “Not until you have eaten,” she said, as she finished applying the ointment. “And I have something to show you,” she added in a kinder tone.

  “What is it?” he asked distractedly. The medicine had a strong effect on his eye, and he used the edge of his sleeve to scoop up the tears flowing through. She reached forward and slapped his wrist again. He scowled at her.

  “Wash and come down. And don’t you dare touch that eye!” she warned.

  When he went down, his stomach gave a low rumble as an inviting aroma of fresh flatbread and chicken, roasted with spices and yogurt, reached his nostrils.

  “Is there a special occasion?” he smiled and sat down on his favorite murky-brown, moth-eaten cushion.

  “Does a mother need an occasion to dote upon her son?” she placed a large, glistening piece of chicken on his plate, and pushed forward a bowl of Humus and Tahini.

  “Such food is fit for a wedding!” he commented enthusiastically.

  “Perhaps we shall serve it at your wedding!” she hinted smartly, and his smile fell. “If and when you finally decide to marry!”

  He gave her a look usually reserved for when she brought up such suggestions or complained about how much she longed for grandchildren. Not at all willing to deliberate it any further, he changed the subject.

  They ate and discussed their day’s activities. Mukhtar told her about how tasking it was to clean the forge, while Suha told him about what had happened while he was at work. Samiya had visited again that afternoon, with another bruise on her cheek. Mukhtar did not meet Suha’s eye while she spoke, and his silent protest became evident.

  “It is not that we are ignorant or selfish, Mukhtar,” she explained. “Samiya herself has forbidden our involvement, and until she does not ask, we cannot intervene. She speaks to me of what happens behind their walls, for she has none other to confide in, and what you hear or see, you must keep to yourself. Understood?”

  He nodded sincerely.

  “What did you want to show me?” he asked her while they put away the remnants of their meal.

  “Wait here,” she retreated up the stairs and returned a few moments after, with a small, black, wooden box, bound in dark leather and embossed in gold embroidery, roughly the size of her hands put together.


  “What is this?” he received it with a curious frown.

  “Open it!” she said excitedly.

  Mukhtar opened the box. Padded silk lined the inside, its contents neatly packed beside each other. A scroll, a wrapped object, a bone, feather, claw, what looked like the tail of a scorpion, and a lock of dark hair.

  “These items are so peculiar,” he held up each one to examine it.

  “I questioned your father about them,” Suha said, “but he offered no explanation. He only made me vow to keep them safe.”

  The dirty, tightly bound scroll emitted a putrid scent, far more pungent than the medicine around his eye. To keep from vomiting into the box, he pushed it aside and picked up the object wrapped in dark silk.

  At the end of a short, golden chain was a triangular pendant, boasting an embedded, glimmering, icy-blue gemstone, unlike anything he had ever seen. Perfectly circular in shape, it seemed to be emitting a mesmerizing bluish glow from within itself. A strange emotion overcame him; a conflict between love and hate, good and evil, right and wrong, and part of him wanted to fling it across the room, yet another triggered an inner sense of deep possession.

  “Your father brought it with him,” Suha explained. “A relic he found during his expedition to Ninya,” her tone became apologetic, and Mukhtar noted her ears blush ever so slightly. “I felt terrible about what I said last night. Your father was many things, but he truly cared about us. You and Zaki were the jewels of his eyes. I realize that perhaps it is time for me to relinquish what I have been clinging to for all these years. Keep the box and his contents. May they remind you of his strengths, and caution you from his weaknesses.”

  “Ummi—” Mukhtar began, but was unable to bring the words together.

  She acknowledged his emotions with a warm smile, and urged him to indulge in the contents of the box.

  Mukhtar returned the Amulet to the box, and turned his attention to the bound scroll. With difficulty, using his one good eye to find a nook, he dug into the knot and eventually loosened the binding.

  The scroll was filthy, faded in some areas, and had a familiar scent, acrid like that of a resin he used to bind string on sword handles, only stronger and far more putrid than any resin he had ever used. The writing was in a dark, crimson ink, and a language he could not read. Strange symbols and markings filled-in the edges of the scroll, and emanated a peculiar sense of exhilaration, much like the Amulet kept with it. Absentmindedly, he bade Suha farewell when she retired to bed, and continued to stare at the piece of parchment. He held it up at different angles and tried to decrypt its meanings.

  The hour was late when he finally doused the candles and oil lamps, and made his way to bed, tired and exhausted. He moaned as he wrapped himself up in his sheets, remembering that the following day promised to be full of toiling with hammer and anvil.

  Under the supervision of Faraj, he and Saif spent the following three days preparing handles for the spears and the backings for the shields, to be completed when Mika’il would arrive with the rest of the materials. This was no simple task, for they would usually give such work to Jaul the Carpenter, who would complete it sooner and better. He was, however, unavailable, and without Mika’il’s approval, Faraj was unable to negotiate a trade with other carpenters in the city.

  It seemed that misfortune would not cease to follow them. When Mika’il arrived, he did not bring with him readily forged steel. Instead, he had a cartload of ingots, and Mukhtar screamed with frustration when he realized that he and Saif would have to spend the night by the furnace and keep it burning at its hottest in order to melt the metal before forging and fabrication.

  “Steel has almost become as rare as gold,” Mika’il tried to explain. “Alas, I could not afford it without having to sell an arm and a leg. Jawad Banu-Darr was kind enough to loan me these ingots.”

  It was only on the sixth day, did they finally begin to beat and shape the metal, but the day ended sooner than expected, and with much disappointment. At the eleventh hour, unable to bear the heat and fumes of the furnace anymore, they put down their tools and gathered in the alley behind the forge. Mika’il commended their efforts, and reluctantly assured them that he would be able to bargain for more time, but Mukhtar knew that it was an impossibility. Immorkaan did not understand leniency.

  Barely an hour after reopening the forge the following morning, Hassin and his superior, Ghadan, arrived with a cavalry of five other guards, to collect seven spears and seven shields, and they were not at all pleased. With blatant mockery and scorn, they scrutinized and criticized everything, from the materials used, to the poor craftsmanship.

  “You were given a simple task, blacksmith!” Ghadan barked at Mika’il. He was shorter than Mukhtar, bald and hairless, except for his thick, bushy eyebrows that seemed to meet in the middle of his round face. “A spear and shield a day! And I come to find wares that could have been made by children!”

  Even Mukhtar had to admit to the poor quality and finish of the items. Given more time, they may have done much better. They always did.

  “Seven days could never have been enough,” Mika’il pleaded. “I made it very clear, but you were adamant.”

  Mukhtar pleaded alongside his uncle. The wood was untreated, and the metal was in no shape to do battle. Improvements could be made if they were given more time.

  “Immorkaan does not care for your inadequacy,” Ghadan remarked. “I would not pay a dime for such poor instruments!”

  “And we do not care for your coin!” Mukhtar retorted. “Take your business elsewhere!”

  “Leash your dog, blacksmith!” Ghadan warned.

  Mika’il raised a hand to silence Mukhtar. “Hassin, you once worked this same forge. Will you not understand? We ask only for a day more to finish. Will you not show leniency for your former companions?”

  Light-skinned, curly-haired, and a year older than Mukhtar, Hassin’s eyes remained cold and unyielding. Leniency would not cross his mind, not on this day. With fair reason.

  Hassin was once a blacksmith, a prodigy of Mika’il’s, and he worked hard, with determination and skill, earning the title of Hassin the Iron-Heart, one who understood the metal and how to bend it to his will. All but a short-lived title. Hardly a year back, Mukhtar had destroyed his reputation by accusing him of selling arms to mercenaries, an act frowned upon by any distinguished and respectable weapon-maker across the city.

  The battle was lengthy and brutal. Both Hassin and Mukhtar were left with bleeding lips and wounded souls, their friendship disbanded, their unity destroyed, and despite Mika’il’s willingness to forgive, Hassin left. Mukhtar did not care then, nor did he care now, and it was because of this bitter memory that they both found themselves on opposite sides of the forge’s counter, with little else but hatred for each other.

  “You are pleading with a traitor, Khal,” Mukhtar scoffed. “He has become an advocate of the corruption of Immorkaan.”

  Ignoring Mukhtar altogether, Hassin stepped forward. “Do not force their hand, Mika’il. Give them what they want,” he spoke very softly, and with an edge to his voice. “You know of whom I speak,” he added in an undertone.

  It was only meant for Mika’il’s ears, but the words carried, and Mukhtar overheard.

  “You treacherous—! I knew you were up to no good!” Mukhtar growled.

  Mika’il’s eyes narrowed. “Return to your masters, and take your threats with you!”

  Hassin stepped away from the counter, looking very grim. “Do not contend with them, Mika’il. They have much power and authority.”

  “Then they have more to lose than I!” Mika’il declared.

  “What will it be, Mika’il?” Ghadan demanded, and Hassin stepped aside wearing a rather triumphant expression.

  “You either pay us in fair for the work we have done,” Mika’il folded his arms, “or allow us more time to finish.”

  “Or take your unworthy trades elsewhere, and never darken our doorstep again!” Mukhtar added angri
ly.

  By now, a small crowd had gathered. Mika’il’s neighbors had left their own places of work to come and watch what was happening. Ghadan began to laugh, and his cavalry followed suit. “You speak as if you have a choice, blacksmith!”

  “You have no authority!” Mika’il retorted.

  “Don’t I?” Ghadan smirked. “I bear the Khalidan Seal of Immorkaan,” he touched the branded insignia on his uniform, a five-pointed star, bearing the symbols of the Five Cities. “I advocate the rule of the Elder Council. Under my charge were you given this task, and by my measure, you have failed miserably!”

  “I do not see what that has to do with seven spears and shields!” Mika’il argued. “They are hardly a speck in the Royal Army’s arsenal!”

  “No, you do not,” Ghadan began pacing back and forth as he spoke, addressing everyone in the vicinity. “If you had such intellect, you would have foreseen this,” he whispered to Mika’il, and then raised his voice again, “allow me to enlighten you. Your inadequate weapons could prove fatal in battle, endangering the lives of our citizens. As per the laws of the land, whosoever places the life of another citizen in jeopardy, be it by his own actions, directly or indirectly, is considered a traitor and a threat to society and—”

  “And has every right to a fair trial!” Mika’il interrupted. “I know what you are doing, you traitorous imp!”

  “These are my streets!” Ghadan growled. “Here, I am judge and executioner! I am your fair trial! Surrender this mediocre forge and all your shoddy wares, or by the King’s name and the laws of this great Empire, all your heads shall be cleaved and hung before the gates of the Souk As-Silaah!”

  There was an odd ringing in Mukhtar’s ears. The injustice had gone too far for too long. Without giving it any thought, he reached under the counter, pulled out a rusty old scimitar and charged forward, clumsily clambering over the forge’s counter. Both Mika’il and Saif instinctively grabbed hold, and tried to pull him back. Ghadan took several surprised steps back, and allowed his guards to come forward, all drawing swords with menacing, bloodthirsty snarls, and growls. It took the combined efforts of Mika’il, Faraj, and Saif, to restrain Mukhtar. Hands trembling uncontrollably, he fumbled the scimitar and cut himself. Only then did he allow them to draw him back, clutching his bleeding hand.