The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  Joined by his cavalry, Ghadan cackled loudly. “You wish to fight us when you cannot even wield a blade?” he shrieked. “I warn you, blacksmith. Leash your dog before he loses his head!”

  “There is no need for this to end in bloodshed,” Mika’il’s voice trembled slightly. “Perhaps we can come to a peaceful agreement?”

  “Your forge,” Ghadan replied simply. “And all your wares!”

  Mukhtar glared at him through watery eyes, his lips curled in a furious attempt to keep from screaming in pain. “We cannot allow them to do this!” he muttered through gritted teeth. “We cannot give in to their injustice! We must fight back! We must take a stand!”

  “And we will!” Mika’il assured him, his voice heavy with disdain. “At the right time. In the right place.”

  FOUR

  THE SOUK AND THE BEGGAR

  The midday sun tore through clear skies, scorching his slumped shoulders as he walked home, sullen that the forge had been taken, angered that it was Hassin and Ghadan who instigated it, and frustrated that he, Mukhtar, failed to prevent it. He still had the urge, the strong compulsion to turn back, confront and force them to undo what they had done.

  What would it achieve though? More hatred? More conflict? Will revenge on Hassin and Ghadan bring him comfort, or only more despair? Perhaps Mika’il was right. Perhaps there were other ways of pursuing the matter without hostility.

  “Salaam, Mukhtar,” came his mother’s voice.

  He jumped and looked around. So occupied were his thoughts, that he had already reached home and was standing in the center of the courtyard, with nearly no recollection of the journey.

  “Salaam, Ummi,” he responded with an exhausting yawn, took off his cloak, and threw it over the fountain in the middle of the courtyard.

  “How many times have I told you not to do that?” she asked rhetorically.

  “When has it ever sprung water?” Mukhtar responded irritably. “It is a useless pile of stone!”

  “It is also the foundation of the house of your father and forefathers. Remove your cloak!”

  “Fine!”

  The cloak swept the ground behind him, as he fumed up the stairs and slammed the door. He did not wish to leave his room. Suha called for him twice more, but he did not reply. He knew that he would eventually have to break the news to her, and at dawn the following day, he would have to trek the city streets to find work. A weary prospect in and of itself.

  He hung his cloak on a nail behind the door, sat down against the edge of his bed, and buried his face in his hands. What was the reason? What was the purpose behind it all? Perhaps it was a sign, for him to make a change, to pursue a newer course, and find an ambition larger than toiling a forge until old age, like his uncle.

  “Mukhtar!” Suha called.

  Why must there be so much loss and destruction for change to occur? Such absurdity. Such oppression. The strong continue to impose, and the weak give in because they believe themselves to be weak. Were they weak? Mika’il was never weak, so why did he surrender? Mukhtar raised his head slowly and blinked in the light.

  “Mukhtar?”

  Did Mika’il know something that Mukhtar did not?

  “I have prepared food for you!”

  A mere argument. Only a marginal effort and not even a fight? Mika’il was a man who did not tolerate any form of misbehavior or mischief. A man known to stand up to authority, and defend his own. Mika’il, the real Mika’il, would never have allowed anyone to step over him. And yet…

  “Mukhtar? Hurry, or it will become cold.”

  Something was afoot. Something was amiss, and Mukhtar had to find out. For now, he would behave as if nothing had happened. He would say nothing to Suha, until he himself had a clear understanding of things, and right after dawn the following day, he would go to Mika’il and demand some answers. His livelihood depended on it.

  “Mukhtar!”

  “Coming!”

  At the crack of dawn, Mukhtar rose sharply out of bed, and with a strong sense of purpose, he left home.

  A hazy, purple sky loomed overhead, while a crisp morning chill ensured that everyone was cloaked. The streets were just about showing signs of early activity as he walked to Mika’il’s, a dwelling much smaller than his own, south of the Souk As-Silaah, the weapons market. Some of the neighbors were already awake and about with their chores and duties, and those who recognized the blacksmith’s nephew, sent him greetings. An eight-guard patrol marched boldly down the street, and Mukhtar waited until they had turned the corner before knocking on Mika’il’s door. Since his encounter with Ghadan and Hassin, he did not trust any man in uniform.

  A small latch opened and closed, the lock was undone, the weathered door swung open, and Mukhtar gazed upon the ever smiling face of his mother’s elder sister, Fariebah.

  “Mukhtar!” She beamed.

  “Salaam, Khala,” he greeted her.

  Although five years older than Suha, she simply looked like a taller and slimmer version of her sister. Her hair was streaked with silver and plaited like Suha’s, and she even wore her headscarf in the same manner. “Salaam,” she led him into their tiny living room. “Have you come to wake your Khal?”

  “Is he still abed at this hour?” Mukhtar asked.

  “Odd, I know,” her smile faded and she lowered her voice. “Last night, he spoke of giving up his trade. He did not even wake for prayer this morning. I must admit, I am concerned.”

  “What does he intend?”

  “Little do I know,” she shrugged. “He has been rather strange of late.”

  “Stranger than usual?” Mukhtar raised an eyebrow.

  She seemed uneasy to him. “He eats little, sleeps little, and spends more time alone, billowing clouds of smoke from his hukah.”

  Mukhtar would not have seen cause for alarm if circumstances were otherwise, and coming from his aunt in a manner that seemed to trouble her deeply, he felt the need to assure her. “I will speak with him, Khala. Perhaps he will reveal what plagues him.”

  She gave him a warm smile. “Oh, you need not concern yourself with the worries of an old man. Whatever it is, I am certain it will come to pass. He will be up momentarily. Will you have some breakfast?”

  Mukhtar did not have to wait long. Mika’il’s shadow soon appeared in the doorway, a silhouette that was slouched and carried itself in a weary manner.

  “Salaam, Khal,” Mukhtar aired a greeting, trying his utmost to sound as respectful as he could.

  “Salaam,” Mika’il replied indifferently and settled down on a cushion. His voice was croaky, and as the light fell on his face, his eyes were dark, sunken and exhausted.

  Mukhtar assured himself not to be the first to speak. It was the only way to force his uncle into disclosure. Silence trailed while Fariebah brought in a tray of Kaymak and bread with black tea, and left to carry on her daily chores. More silence followed while they ate. Then Mika’il took a sip of his tea and spoke.

  “I know why you have come,” he said without looking up.

  “Do you?” Mukhtar responded without thinking.

  Mika’il threw him a warning look. “I am beginning to dislike your tone.”

  He had always been stern and demanding, but Mukhtar was no different. This was no longer a moment for niceties. “And I dislike your deception,” he kept his gaze on Mika’il.

  It was a bold statement, but one he felt was necessary. He waited patiently for a response.

  “Who are you to question my decisions?” Mika’il’s voice became harsh.

  “Your nephew!” Mukhtar countered. “And I do not question. I demand you speak to me openly!”

  Another bold statement. A daring move. Either he will get the answers he sought, or he will be shown the door, and it would be a long while before they would speak to each other again.

  Mika’il said nothing, and so Mukhtar was driven to press him further. “I heard Hassin’s threat. You cannot deny it. Their objective was set beforehand. They wer
e sent!”

  “Yes, you heard Hassin,” Mika’il replied. “Ghulam Mirza has need for skills such as mine and—”

  “Enough!” Mukhtar slapped the moth-eaten rug they were seated upon. His wound from the previous day had hardly healed, and it was forced open again, bleeding through the dirty bandage wrapped around it. “If you cannot be honest with me, then where is the sense in calling ourselves kin?” The cut seared terribly, and he wished he hadn’t done that, but there were more pressing matters to be concerned with, and Mika’il’s reaction distracted him from the pain. There was anger on his face, and a distinct fear in his eyes.

  He took a sip of tea, lowered his cup, and gazed out the door. He sighed deeply.

  “True. They were sent. Their motives were ulterior but unclear, perhaps even to themselves. They have been misguided like ignorant puppets, and their puppeteers are true masters of deception.”

  Mukhtar blinked.

  “Unknown to them, Hassin, Ghadan, and so many others, share a secret bond,” Mika’il continued. “One that I have remained oblivious to for a long time.”

  “How do you know this?” Mukhtar asked, unable to hide his surprise.

  “Your father knew,” Mika’il replied. “And he tried to warn me. But he has been away for the last decade, and his warnings have faded. Alas, would I have paid heed, I would not have had to see this day!”

  Confusion was etched on Mukhtar’s face. “You speak in riddles, Khal. I do not understand.”

  Mika’il stared at the open door, into the light pouring from the small courtyard outside. He toyed with the obsidian-stoned ring on his finger. His brow was furrowed and his eyes narrowed. He was thinking deeply.

  “As you very well know, your father began the forge under debt from your grandfather,” he finally spoke. “Together, he and I worked to bring about the best in us. It has never been an easy struggle. Your grandfather, more adept as a fisherman, could not work the forge, but he partook in assisting us regardless. What you do not know, is that Harun had accepted an offer from Ghulam Mirza. This was during the Great War, when all the cities were once nations, ruled by their own leaders, and Aarguf Babak was Sultan of Khalidah.”

  “Adil’s father was Sultan?” Mukhtar gaped. “He never spoke of this!”

  “Indeed,” Mika’il nodded. “And perhaps he does not speak of it with good reason. The politics between brothers at the time, as it is today, was kept secret, but it is widely known that Azhar Babak brought together all the Kings and Sultans and Emperors, and united them under a single banner called Ahul-Hama. It was with this unity that the war was won.”

  Mukhtar nodded, “I know of this tale, but I fail to see its relevance.” Everyone, from the very old to the very young, knew of Azhar Babak’s triumphs. Songs and ballads were a capstone of every festivity. Pledges were recited by children in every Madrassa. Monuments erected around the city were all engraved with praises and poems. The endless praises and accolades to Immorkaan and Azhar Babak meant little to Mukhtar. “Tell me more about Ghulam Mirza.”

  Mika’il gave him a sideways glance. “As Azhar’s lieutenant at the time, Ghulam Mirza tasked Harun and I as quartermasters of their Legion…”

  Mukhtar’s thoughts were drawn away while Mika’il narrated his tale. Upon defeating the Dark Prince’s forces, Azhar Babak had declared his throne to be in Khalidah, and reduced his elder brother, Aarguf, to a General. Harun was raised to a seat on his council, and Ghulam became overshadowed by a simple blacksmith.

  Mika’il took another sip of his tea. “Aarguf never retaliated, but those he recruited did. Ghulam was appointed quartermaster of the Royal Army, and was given all the influence and power he needed to build his Souk, but that was never enough for him. His enmity toward your father never diminished.”

  Mukhtar was stunned. He could only imagine how deep the murky waters ran. So intricate were his father’s relationships with the likes of Aarguf, Ghulam, and the King, yet none of them had ever stopped to consider the family he had left behind. None of them had ever stopped to care for Suha and her sons. Mukhtar was filled with an even grimmer thought; all of them, to a remarkable extent, would have had a hand in his imprisonment.

  Mika’il cleared his throat, and Mukhtar gave a small start.

  “What I have said is not meant to stir you,” Mika’il said in a calmer and softer tone, “but to help you understand, so that your choices will be wiser. So that you are not misguided by bitterness and anger.”

  Mukhtar nodded calmly, acknowledging his uncle’s advice. “What will we do now, Khal? How will we survive?”

  Mika’il gave him a reassuring smile. “I will find us work. Do not despair, for we will find a way to reopen the forge. Mika’il Abaraina is not without friends in this city.”

  Mukhtar had sensed Suha’s dubiety when he returned home and informed her (as Mika’il instructed) that he had been allowed a few days to recuperate from the strenuous work they recently did for Immorkaan. At the time, she did not prod much, but Mukhtar knew that she would dig deeper, and he only hoped that Mika’il would find a resolution before the truth unearthed. He wondered whether Fariebah had also been kept in the dark. How much longer would his uncle be able to keep his secrets?

  The days, however, turned to weeks, with little or no success in their efforts. Eventually, those acquainted with the trade, came to learn that Mika’il Abaraina had been bullied into surrendering his prized forge to the Souk As-Silaah. Driven by shame and desperation, Mika’il and Mukhtar attempted to seek audience with Ghulam Mirza, but without a written consent from the Chief himself, they were barred entry into his fortified Souk. Mukhtar even pleaded with Adil to arrange a hearing with his father, assuming that the General of the Royal Army may have enough influence to turn the tide in their favor. Rather than meet with them, Aarguf Babak sent Adil with a curt message, stating that the affairs of the Souk were not his, and without Immorkaan’s sanction, he could do nothing.

  Mukhtar made every attempt to keep the matter secret from his mother, leaving early in the morning and pretending to return home in the evening after a long day at the forge. Instead, he and Saif trekked the city streets in search of work, earning meager wages, only enough to sustain their livelihoods. As his resource of coin depleted, Mukhtar desperately struggled with withholding from Suha, yet he could not bring himself to depriving her the necessities of their lifestyle. One hot and humid afternoon, with nothing else to do, Mukhtar reluctantly accompanied her to the Souk Al-Huda, the largest sheltered market in Khalidah, named after King Azhar Babak’s late wife.

  The Souk was a hive of activity, even more so as the rainy season drew closer. As soon as they crossed the large open gates into its bustling threshold, they were engulfed by a turbulent medley of sights and sounds quite unlike the city streets. There were noises, both strange and familiar, accents and dialects both local and foreign, belonging to people from lands far and wide. All kinds of scents greeted their nostrils, oils, perfumes, incense, vegetables, meats, and fruits.

  Aside from the chaos and the stifling heat of the Souk, what irritated Mukhtar the most were the stragglers and brokers who attacked the moment anyone stepped into the market. They were swindlers who blended with crowds to avoid suspicion, picking out vulnerable shoppers. Typically, they earned through commissions or frauds, and the guards would leave them be, as long as they received their share of the profits.

  Mukhtar and Suha had to push and pull their way through a group of near seven or eight of them.

  “Look at this!” said one, with an accent that may have been from somewhere far north, possibly Rhudah. The filthy-robed man was brandishing a tiny glass bottle with very suspicious looking contents. “It is a medicine for the cure of rash. Simply apply on rash, and rash go away. Only two silver!”

  “I am not interested!”

  “This is pure white gold. Look, it is pure!” said another, almost shoving a ring up Mukhtar’s nose.

  “No, we don’t want—”

  An
other one grabbed his shoulder from behind and wheeled him around. “What of your sandals, young man? Do they embarrass you? Are they the reason why the women do not come closer? Take these instead! Look at the craftsmanship. Look at the stitching!”

  “Get off me!” Mukhtar shoved him angrily. The man staggered back, stepped on the hem of his own thaub and fell to the hard, dusty ground.

  “Mukhtar!” Suha pulled him away before the man had any time to react.

  “What?” Mukhtar protested, checking his waistline to make sure his money-bag was still there.

  “Perhaps he is right,” she glanced over her shoulder nervously. The man was craning his neck over the crowds, searching for Mukhtar, but they had already taken a different path now. “Perhaps if your sandals were in better shape, it would be easier to find you a wife!”

  She had been mentioning his marriage one too many times of late. Rather than give a grumpy scowl, he smirked. “Were you attracted to Abha’s sandals before you married him?” he asked, gently nudging her arm with his elbow. He distinctly noted her cheeks flushing, before she was drawn away by a merchant selling cloth.

  They trailed along narrow and twisted pathways, looking into different stalls and shops, as their owners shouted out their wares and special prices.

  “Three for the price of only two, sister!” said one.

  “There is not a better quality in all of the Souk! Shall I make it ready for you?” said another.

  And another, “If you can bring me a better price, I will throw my uncle into the Hubur!”

  Suha was beside herself with excitement, admiring different wares, and bargaining to her utmost to get whatever she wanted, while Mukhtar dragged along behind her, carrying everything they bought. He did enjoy her company for a while, but was now becoming bored and frustrated, wanting nothing but to get out of the market as soon as he could. He hated the overcrowded alleys between stalls; hot, sweaty, and noisy. All afternoon, he continued to spot rather conspicuous drug-dealers, squatting around corners, vigilantly offering potential clients merchandises such as Hashish, Blue-Lotus, and Opium. He kept a wary eye out, for such felons were prone to having mercenaries lurking about, safeguarding their trades, and the consequences could be grave if he mistakenly wrong-footed them.