“Spoken like Jabbar’s true daughter,” chuckled the hooded man. “Your heart is in the right place, Hoda, keep it that way.”
“You know my father, then?” asked Hoda.
“Yes, indeed. He is a good man. Now tell me this, young one, have you ever heard of the Island of Libra or the Cave of Andaxil?”
Hoda shook her head.
“That’s very good,” continued the hooded man. “Most folks along these coasts would not have heard of them either; after all, why visit the wonders of the world when you live on El’s footstool?”
Despite her anguish, Hoda smiled. As a daughter of Fineekia, she had a visceral attachment to her homeland. She believed, like the rest of her kin, that Fineekia, with its harmonious unity between snow-covered peaks, a fertile high plain, and an emerald seashore, was a miniature of what El—first among the gods—intended the world to be. Thus, the sons and daughters of Fineekia were content to live within these boundaries and leave the affairs of the world to mighty kingdoms and powerful temples.
“There are two other medallions identical to your brother’s: one on the Island of Libra and the second in the depth of Andaxil. The former is protected by a deadly curse, while the latter is lost with the entire treasure of the dwarfs; for Andaxil is sealed and no one can open it.”
Silence fell on the hall while Hoda tried to understand what her interlocutor had just told her. Libra and Andaxil seemed fantastical places, suited for dangerous quests. She was the daughter of a fisherman whose greatest adventure was measured by the size of their daily catch. The thought that strange objects hidden thousands of miles away could determine the fate of her entire village was revolting. Still, she could not deny that Ahiram fell ill when she took the medallion away from him and recovered quickly when she brought it back. If there was one thing she had learned from fishing with her father, it was to adapt to a changing situation.
Hoda remembered her father’s words: ‘To catch a shark, my daughter, you must be fluid like a wave, nimble like a pelican, patient like a lion, and above all, be ready to lose the bait in order to save your life.’
Hoda took a deep breath. Alright, she thought, Andaxil, Shmandaxil, what do I care? Ahiram, my family, and my village that’s what matters.
“Three medallions then,” she said. Determined to get some answers, she dared to ask the mysterious man: “Why three? What do they do? And how did Ahiram end up with one of them?”
“Excellent questions. These medallions are known as the Merilians—the origin of their name remains a mystery. They are thought to be powerful, beyond anyone’s understanding. The source of their power is unknown, and they are very ancient.”
“Mother said she bought this medallion from Master Kwadil. Why don’t we just give it back to him? His caravan makes a stop in Byblos every Feast of Light.”
The man chuckled dryly. “I highly doubt the famed dwarf merchant had such a piece in his possession, and if he did, he would not have sold it to your mother. Besides, the third medallion, the one in the possession of your brother, is supposed to be hanging on a wall deep within the temple of Babylon. The truth, my dear child, is that someone stole this third Merilian from the Temple of Baal.”
“What? Stolen? From… who?” cut in Hoda, aghast. “Wait. If that’s the case, the Temple would have been searching for it—“
“Unless the thief—cunning and highly capable—replaced the real medallion with a fake, which must still be hanging in the temple of Babylon as we speak.”
“But why would anyone give this medallion to my brother? I mean, we are fishermen from a small town that no one outside of Fineekia has even heard of.”
“That is the most troubling question of them all, is it not?” said the man pensively. “A very troubling question indeed.”
He fell silent. Hoda glanced at Syreen, who shook her head, professing ignorance. Her eyes now fully accustomed to the light, Hoda glanced around and noticed four men dressed in black standing discreetly in the corners, their faces hidden beneath thick cowls.
“Leave us, everyone,” ordered her interlocutor. His voice, now deep and commanding, shook Hoda. “Now.”
Syreen got up and bowed. By the time Hoda glanced again at the figures in the shadows, they were already gone.
“Hoda, I am going to ask you two questions, and upon your answers rests the fate of your brother, your village, and so much more than your village. Are you ready?”
Hoda was confused. What could she possibly know that would affect anything or anyone beyond the boundaries of Baher-Ghafé?
“Here is my first question: did Ahiram ever scribble? Has he ever written anything?”
Hoda blanched. “How did you know?” she asked, dread seizing her.
“As I feared,” sighed the man. “Do not worry, child, we are here to help you. Please answer my questions and do not omit any details.”
For over a millennium now, the Temple of Baal had been the guiding, moral force for most kingdoms of the world. In this long span of time, the Temple had—for reasons all its own—outlawed writing, proclaiming it a capital crime. Further, if one member of a community lent assistance to a Katiib (a writer or scribbler) as the Temple called them—then the High Riders would mercilessly cut down the entire community, down to its last member.
As the years wore on, people forgot what “writer” meant, and accusing one of being a Katiib became an expedient means to be rid of a competitor or a family member. Depending on the magnanimity of the local high priest, the High Riders would either launch a proper investigation to determine if the accused was indeed a scribbler, or summarily abduct him. In the latter case, they would also turn a blind eye if the accuser wound up dead, a dagger between his shoulders. Therefore, the charges of writing were not brought up lightly.
“When Ahiram turned ten,” started Hoda, with a shaky voice.
“On his birthday, or some time before or after?” clarified the man. “This is important, child, be specific.”
Hoda nodded. “I will do my best. The incident happened at the end of the Festival of Light, so yes, it took place on my brother’s birthday. I remember this because we were roasting chestnuts on the beach…”
“And chestnuts are out of season in the month of Tébêt,” added Ashod pensively.
“Exactly. It was a surprise from Umnis. He brought them with him.”
“The Zakiir?”
“Yes.”
Since the written word was outlawed, people needed a different method to faithfully recall important events or transactions. A Zakiir (a memory man), consigns to memory every utterance entrusted to him, word for word. His league, the Zakiruun, was the indispensable intermediary in every commercial or sentimental dealing, remembering everything and forgetting nothing. Friends of all, and friends of none, they were the keepers of all secrets.
“Continue,” said the man.
“Ahiram was sitting on the sand, playing with a stick, when Umnis jumped from his seat. He swept the sand with his feet, and pulled Ahiram’s ear so hard he cried. Then Umnis sent him to his room.”
“A friend of the family, I take it?”
“He is family, on my mother’s side, but like all other relatives of a Zakiir, we’re not supposed to mention that. Then, he told my parents that Ahiram had been scribbling. None of us understood what he meant, but we could see that he was scared. He told my father never to allow Ahiram do this again.”
“Very wise counsel,” commented the strange man, “Now, on to my second question: does your brother have a birthmark on the left side of his neck, just below the hairline?”
Hoda looked at him, aghast. She felt as if she had uncovered a complex web of intrigues that had been surrounding her brother since his birth. “How did you know?” she asked, “and how are these questions going to help my brother and save Baher-Ghafé?”
“What you just told me might change the face of the world.”
“How? Why?”
“I am not yet certain,” replied th
e man absentmindedly as if he was thinking out loud. “Now listen, child, if you wish to save your village, you must follow my command and do it quickly: tell your father that you shared your concern about Ahiram’s explosive temper with Syreen, and that Syreen has asked Bahiya’s advice.”
“You are asking me to lie to my father,” cut in Hoda.
“To save your village? Yes. The less anyone knows about this medallion, the safer they will be. Tell him the high priestess’ advice is to find someone willing to train Ahiram—as if he were in the army—for three months. This is not a lie; your brother requires extensive training to subdue his temper. As you guessed, the medallion has probably exacerbated his boisterous nature, and after twelve years of continued exposure, the boy is no longer able to control it. Military training, suited for his age, will help.”
“Training? Really?” replied Hoda, elated. “At last, one bit of good news. But who could train my brother in that way?”
“Why do we not ask Syreen then?”
He rang a small bell. They did not have long to wait. Syreen walked back in and settled next to Hoda.
“Syreen,” asked Hoda, “Do we know anyone who could possibly train Ahiram? Someone we could trust?”
“Of course, Hoda,” replied Syreen, “your great-uncle, Mil.”
“My great uncle? Oh no! My father would have a fit; he and Uncle Mil are—”
“Mil?” cut in the man. “A retired commander of the High Riders? You are related?”
“Yes, he is my mother’s uncle.”
“And,” continued Syreen, “he lives in Tanooreen.”
“Excellent,” said the hooded man, satisfied. “Tanooreen is secluded: a perfect training ground for your brother.”
“But Uncle Mil is old. He may not have any desire to train my brother.”
“He will not have to,” replied the mystery man. “I will.”
“You will go up to Tanooreen? Just to train my brother?”
“If your brother is who I think he is, then yes, I would go to the ends of the earth to train him.”
Hoda shook her head in disbelief. She could see the same shock on Syreen’s face.
“But never mind this now. What matters is to get Ahiram out of Baher-Ghafé as soon as possible.”
“Mother has always wanted to visit Uncle Mil; she won’t object.”
“Perfect. Make it a family visit. That is even better,” said the man. “Once your brother is settled in Tanooreen, I will take care of the rest, and after three months of intensive training, he will be able to return to Baher-Ghafé, without the medallion.”
“That’s not a bad solution,” said Syreen. “You protect your village, you free Ahiram from the medallion, and he learns to control his temper. Think of what would happen if the Temple finds out that the medallion Ahiram is wearing is a magical artifact stolen from the Temple of Baal in Babylon. To find out who stole it, the High Riders will resort to torture.”
“I suppose there is no harm in spending some time in Tanooreen,” conceded Hoda. She looked at them and explained: “I have never lied to my father before. Ever. But…” she said with a deep sigh, “I can see why it would be a good thing not to share too much with him, or anyone else. Fine, I will speak to my father as soon as I go back home.”
“Excellent,” said the man, relieved. “Do it and do it quickly. Your family should be out of Baher-Ghafé no later than the Feast of Light.”
“It will be difficult, but I will do my best,” replied Hoda.
She rose to leave. The man grabbed her arm.
“One more thing: if the medallion activates—”
“Activates?” asked Hoda. “I don’t understand.”
“If the medallion’s temperature changes, or if its surface lights-up—”
“It can do these things?” Hoda was positively frightened. If this magic was seen by Arfaad and his men, her village would be entirely destroyed.
“And then some,” said the man, “and then some. Listen carefully to what I am about to tell you: If this medallion activates before you leave Baher-Ghafé, the High Riders will know it is a Merilian medallion they are searching for. They will come looking for your brother first. They will want him dead or alive. Save him, Hoda. He must not die, nor fall into the hands of the Temple. Find a safe place where Baal’s soldiers will not look for him, and then hide with him there. If you have to choose between the entire village and Ahiram, save your brother.”
“But sir,” protested Syreen, “this is too hard. She can’t…”
“She must!” cut in the man with a terrible voice that shocked them. He sighed and regained control. “She must,” he added softly. “You know how much I hate the spilling of blood and the destruction the Temple leaves in its wake, but if the Temple lays its hands on Ahiram, destruction, the likes of which we have never seen, will be upon us. Now go. Time is of the essence.”
The last image Hoda saw before Syreen blindfolded her was that of the cloaked man hunched over the small table, like a man hiding tears of sorrow.
After the departure of the two friends, one of the men, who had been standing in the shadows, walked briskly over and knelt.
“Forgive me for intruding,” said Karadon to the former priest of Baal, his voice quivering with anger, “but when I agreed to bring Hoda to you, I didn’t expect you to treat her the way you just did, Ashod. You were supposed to help her, not terrify her.”
Ashod pushed the hood off his face. His bald head glittered in the dim light, and his steel-blue eyes gazed at Karadon with a gentle determination.
“I am sorry, lad, but our choices are limited. Her brother may be far more dangerous than anyone imagined.”
“Dangerous? He’s a sweet kid with a bad temper.”
“Yes, that he may be, but he may also be far more than that. Still, to allay my suspicions, I will need to travel to Babylon.”
“Babylon?” exclaimed Karadon, surprised. “If they catch you…”
“It cannot be helped. I must be sure that the boy Ahiram is who I think he is. Now, what of the stranger who wanted to purchase the medallion?”
“We are trailing him discreetly,” replied Karadon. “We are keeping an eye on Baher-Ghafé from a small observation post in the woods, in case he attempts to steal the medallion.”
“He has access to some powerful spells,” said Ashod, worried. “If he sees you before you see him, you and your men will be in grave danger.”
“Understood, Ashod. If Baal has taught the Black Robes anything, it is to be careful. I can’t wait for Hoda to be with us.”
“Be careful, Karadon. We do what is best for the victims of Baal, not what is best for us. Otherwise, how different would we be from the Temple? Right now, she has a village to save and a brother to worry about. Be patient, lad.”
“Understood,” said Karadon, with a sheepish smile. “I guess I was getting a bit ahead of myself.”
“No harm is done. After all, love has reasons that reason most often ignores. Now let me be, lad, I have much thinking to do.”
“You say he was able to resist a Control Spell?” asked the disembodied voice. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I said. Is it possible that the medallion came to his assistance?” asked the turbaned man.
“Highly unlikely, unless, of course, this child is the…” the face floating over the mist wavered, then came back steady and strong. “Change of plan; let no harm come to him or his family. Instead, bring them all to me safe and sound, and under no circumstances shall you harm his sister, to whom the young boy is very attached. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
“Further, do not rely on any spells when you abduct them. Instead, use potions.”
“This might prove difficult; this village of theirs functions like a close-knit tribe. Everyone knows everyone, and it will be nearly impossible to move four warm bodies without raising suspicions.”
“Wait for the Festival of Light. The entire area will
be in celebration and bustling with people. No one will be surprised to see drunkards helped by friends.”
“This might work, but it will require—“
“Do not worry about the cost. Bring them to me safe and sound.”
“Very well, sir. Consider it done.”
After the mist dissipated, the turbaned man wondered what it was that his master saw in that boy. No matter, he thought pragmatically, he wants the entire family alive; he will get them alive.
When Hoda reached Baher-Ghafé, she heard her father’s voice and knew that, once more, Ahiram was in trouble. She stepped through the door just when Jabbar stood up, lifted his hands to the heavens, and exclaimed again, “What am I to do with this reckless son of mine? One more fight, and four more boys are injured. Ahiram, what am I to do with you?”
Ahiram was sitting in the kitchen with his mother, who was tending his light wounds, while his father towered over him. “They insulted your name, Father,” protested Ahiram.
“You beat these boys badly and nearly caused an incident between the villagers of Ghazir and us,” chided Jabbar, visibly upset. “Remember, son, a strong man is weighed in silver. A strong man who controls his temper is weighed in gold.”
“You should listen to your father, my son,” continued his mother. “I know those worthless boys insulted your father, but you conducted yourself shamefully. Do you think you can fish shark if you do not control your temper?”
Hoda walked in with a bag of apples she had picked up from Byblos on the way home, a good excuse in case her parents asked her why she was late.
“He got into another fight.” Jabbar, whose anger was flaring again, told her. Hoda sighed, and gave an apple to her brother. “May you live until you see your great-great-grandchildren smiling upon your face,” she told him.
“It’s not my birthday yet,” said Ahiram, setting the apple on the kitchen table. “My birthday is on the Feast of Light, which is in seven days. I will be twelve then, and Father still won’t let me set up bait.”
Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) Page 5