by Wayne Price
Is it dangerous? he asked abruptly.
Alone, yes, of course. Alone, not permitted. But with me – not dangerous.
For a short while the boy considered the offer, but underneath his curiosity the prospect of Ibrahim’s company all afternoon, of any company in fact, repulsed him. Just the effort of listening seemed to chafe at his brain. Centougrade, Augoust, of coorse, pourmitted. Like a hambourger, he recalled again, and felt the sweat come fresh to his face and scalp. He waited grimly for the bitterness to pass, listening to his tormentor puffing patiently at his kif. Well, this Ibrahim could go with him into the mountains if he wanted. It wasn’t his problem if he expected to be paid at the end of it. It would be useful to get fresh water at the spring, and if some local bum insisted on keeping him company – fine. They needn’t speak to each other. He hadn’t hired him and he wouldn’t pay, even if he had to give him the slip somehow. It was a strangely satisfying thought in fact and a new liveliness, a feeling of strength and self-righteous resolve, lifted the boy to his feet.
A good rest, said the voice at his side, as if to praise him. Ibrahim rose also and began immediately to climb the slope ahead of him, quick and sure-footed. Come. See the chapel, he called back. Very old. Many visitors.
The boy followed him slowly, up through the trees and out into the glare of the hilltop.
The ruin was roofless and in the main cavity of the building the remains of its white stone walls seemed to magnify the sun’s heat from all sides. It’s like a furnace in here, the boy said, more to himself than to Ibrahim. On his exposed forearms, pin-heads of white blisters were rising and prickling even as he watched, and when he rubbed them they flattened into smears of clear liquid. The boy looked around him. How old is this place?
Very old. Very old, said Ibrahim solemnly. First Mosque, centouries ago, then Spanish – Católico – then Mosque again, then ruin. See – the crosses. They are broken to make Mosque again. He pointed to one of the small, deep-set windows above their heads. It was clear that the arch had been bricked in at some point to form a cross, but at some later date again knocked through leaving just the extremities of the arms. Framed by the oddly shaped opening the hard, bright blue sky glittered like a gem.
The central tower of the Mosque was also ruined but its windows had not been blocked in; their shapely Muslim arches looked west towards the town, north and east to the tall, jagged Rif and south to the distant, hazy foothills of the Middle Atlas, rounded and blue-green. Without another word, Ibrahim disappeared inside the tower’s crumbling narrow stairway. Emerging near the top he called the English boy up after him.
On the narrow balcony where the stairs opened out the boy took photographs of the town and the sharp grey horns of the Rif beyond, Ibrahim offering advice on the views and then, finally, pointing out the graveyard.
I walked up that way, the boy said.
Yes, said Ibrahim. Before, I stand here – he tapped the stone parapet in front of his stomach – and watch you walk there. Grinning, he made a walking motion with his fingers, then turned to climb back down the tower steps.
A qualm of distaste passed over the boy as he watched the narrow shoulders dropping from view. He imagined himself as he must have appeared from the vantage point of the tower, toiling up through the white stones and tussocks of grass like some tiny, noiseless insect. From the distant white bricolage of the town the long, faint cry of the midday call to prayer drifted up to him. It carried to the chapel in unpredictable fragments, the stretched, sombre phrases arriving or failing depending on the faint breeze. For a while he enjoyed the last of his solitude, then picked his way carefully down through the tower.
They left the chapel in single file, following a narrow path that wound steeply up towards the broken slopes of the nearest peaks. Here and there, stands of thorn and cacti hid rasping crickets, their dry clamour rising around the walkers like a protest as their feet crunched past. Soon, the boy was too parched and winded to speak even if he’d wanted to, and when Ibrahim stooped to gather up a handful of brittle herbs – good for the hort, he said earnestly, slapping his narrow chest – all the boy could do was nod, bow his head dutifully over the fistful of dusty stems and breathe in the pungent, eucalyptus scent. Very good for the hort, he repeated before scattering what he’d gathered and once more clambering on ahead.
After an hour or so they reached a tree – the first of any size since the slopes beneath the chapel – perched, incongruous, on a narrow terrace of rubble. Ibrahim waited in its shade for the boy to join him, then pointed out the deepest patch of shadow for him to rest in. Obediently, stunned by the high sun and the steepness of the climb, the boy sank down on the spot. When he closed his eyes tightly, squeezing the burning sweat from them, liquid lights writhed behind the lids. He reached out for the rough trunk of the tree to keep his balance.
Cooler here, he heard Ibrahim murmur, as if from behind a barrier of some kind that muffled the words. Good shade. A little water now, yes?
He drank to the last inch of fluid in the bottle, then offered it to Ibrahim, who refused with a smile and a shake of his head. Closing his eyes again the boy finished the water off and then leaned back uncomfortably against the tree’s rough bark, still gasping from the climb. Even in the shade the air felt scorched. Each ragged breath seemed to parch his body further, as if he were being stripped of moisture from within. How long had he been exposed to this heat now? he wondered, dazed. It was at least four hours since he’d left his hostel and set off wandering through the quiet alleys and dead ends of the medina. He thought of the drinking fountains, their stone bowls painted white and powder blue, which he’d found from time to time on street corners and drunk greedily from. One of them had been jammed open and a band of small children had been splashing and laughing in the cool mud around the overflow. Everything about the water – the noisy spatter of it onto the packed dirt of the street, its cool touch on his bare legs, its almost salty limestone flavour – tormented him now.
Ibrahim was moving about under the tree. There was a rustle of dry leaves, the scrunch of footsteps on scree and then a tap on his forearm. The boy opened his eyes.
Taste, said Ibrahim, offering him a green pod. Carob, he said.
The tough husk was bitter and seemed to parch his mouth even more. He grimaced and spat the fragment away.
Not ready, Ibrahim agreed. Very… he made a puckering motion with his fingers in front of his mouth.
Sour, the boy said curtly.
Yes – soor. He flung away a second pod and stared wordlessly down the big, rock-strewn valley they had climbed up from. Very high, he said at last.
The boy nodded. To the side of the path a dry gulley had followed their course all the way from the chapel, its floor filled with a long, winding column of close-packed, pink flowers. For the first time now the boy stared over at them, curious. They seemed to grow without moisture or soil, not just in the gulley at hand but in every distant scar and parched streambed on the mountainsides round about them.
Wedding flowers, said Ibrahim, noticing his interest. He waved a hand towards the massed shrubs. When they come, it is the season to marry.
Oh, said the boy. Under the fleshy blossoms the dark, straight stems stood stiff and fairly tall – at least throat high – and grew as dense as maize. They would be easy to hide amongst.
Ibrahim said something in Arabic, naming them properly, the boy guessed.
You have a wife? asked Ibrahim.
The boy laughed. God, no – I’m too young for that. I’m just a student. He tossed away the bitten carob pod. It bounced high off a rock, like rubber. You? he asked.
Yes, a wife. I have five sons.
Five! How old?
The oldest – ten and four.
Fourteen?
Yes. Fourteen. The oldest.
The English boy looked again at the flowers. Their dark leaves and pale blossoms seemed oddly solid in the brightness and heat, like china, or enamel. How much farther to the spring now?
Not far now. Not even one hour. Rest more, yes? Ibrahim advised, and began filling his sebsi. When it was lit he offered it to the boy.
No. Mouth too dry, he mumbled.
Ibrahim nodded. Water soon. There, he said – pointing out a sharp stone ridge high above them and to the north.
That’s where it is?
The spring, yes.
This spring – it never dries up, yes? It always has water?
Yes, yes. Summer, winter. Under the rocks – always water. He pointed to the flowers lining the gulley again. For the flowers, in the hot summer – always water. Allah provides, he announced.
There was silence for a while. Ibrahim smoked one pipeful, then lit another.
You guide many people up here?
Many visitors, yes. This year, not so many. Spanish, French, South African – still many. American, English – not so many. He streamed smoke through his nostrils. George Boosh, he said, and shrugged. To me, all visitors welcome.
The boy laughed. But Americans and English not quite so welcome?
Ibrahim laughed in return. To me, Americans, English, all welcome. My English – not so good. But very welcome, still. To me – yes. Always – as-salam wa alaikum, peace be upon you. Christian, Muslim – as-salam wa alaikum. Welcome.
Well, I’m not anything, the boy said.
Yes, not anything, Ibrahim repeated cheerfully. All welcome. He shrugged. Many visitors, they ask me to hire mules for journeys in the mountains. A thousand dirham every day. Sometimes, gifts too. All welcome. Two South Africans, a man and a wife, they come many years for seven days and nights in the mountains. The man, always photographing. The wife, always – he mimed writing, scribbling a ghost pencil over his palm. Many gifts from them, he finished.
The boy nodded and fell silent again while Ibrahim smoked. The mention of money and gifts was vexing, but now as he rested it fed his determination to be alone and at peace again. He glanced across at Ibrahim. His round, stony, close-cropped head was turned away towards the gulley. Okay, I’m ready, he announced, and eased himself upright. A cooler breath of wind was stirring – he could feel it on his face when he stood up though it was too gentle to move the compact leaves of the carob tree. Now that he was on his feet he could see the Spanish chapel again, white and tiny, its square tower like a stick of sugar or salt in the distance below them. They’d climbed a hell of a way, he thought – much higher than the mountain had seemed from its foot. And they still had almost as far again to go.
Ah! said Ibrahim, also noticing the breeze. Grinning at the boy, he spread his arms wide to embrace it. Alhamdullillah, he said. Thank God, yes? When there is a gift from God: alhamdullillah.
Alhamdullillah, the boy repeated dully.
Ibrahim nodded approvingly, then turned and left the shelter of the tree. Come, he said.
The boy had no idea how long they had been climbing before Ibrahim next stopped and led him, almost reeling with dizziness, into a narrow strip of shade. Very close now, very close, he could hear Ibrahim saying, but his mouth, even the deep connections in his brain, felt too clumsy and numb to master any words of his own.
Gradually, after what felt like many minutes, he realised they must be in the shade of the ridge they’d been aiming for. The path was nothing more than a goat track now, littered here and there with their smooth, pebble-like droppings, and the gulley with its long river of flowers was just a stumble away to the left, its sides almost sheer and its bed shrunk to a narrow cutting, though still packed tight with the tall, stubborn, pink-headed stems that had lined their long climb. Ibrahim was smoking again, but peering anxiously at him as he puffed his kif. Very close now. Five minutes, then water, very cool, he urged.
The boy shook his head. Listen, can you fill the bottle and bring me back some water? I need to rest. No more sun. He dug the empty water bottle out of his satchel and handed it to Ibrahim. The spring – it’s just along the path, yes? Easy to find?
Yes – very easy. I come here many times for water. Many times. Always water here.
Okay, said the boy thickly. That’s good. He rested his head on his knees, hiding his face. Already he felt a little stronger at the thought of escape.
He listened until the sound of Ibrahim’s footsteps faded completely, then stood and checked that he was out of sight. Not far ahead, the track curved sharply around a bulge in the ridge. Quickly, his heart pounding, the boy scrambled down from the path into the steep-sided gulley. Within minutes he was buried deep amongst the stiff-stemmed, waxy-leaved flowers, ducking to keep his head below the level of the blossoms. The going was noisy and difficult – his feet slithered and twisted on jagged stones and the stems gave way reluctantly – but he forced himself to climb through the undergrowth for another hundred yards or so before stopping breathlessly. If Ibrahim searched for him, he would probably assume he was heading back down the mountain, the boy guessed, and anyway, from the point he had worked up to he could, if he needed to and if he dared, stand straight and get an overview of the path. Weakly he settled himself on a burning slab of rock and waited.
The flowers provided much less shade than he had imagined – the spearing sun was still too high to be blocked by the stems and leaves – and he cupped his hands around the back of his head. There was no sweat on his palms, he realised then, a ripple of nausea passing through him; they burned like cinders on the back of his neck, but both neck and palms were completely dry. He frowned and tried to swallow, feeling his throat grip unpleasantly on nothing.
The first shout was a much longer time coming than the boy had anticipated and, confusingly, there seemed no urgency or anger in it. The long, wavering call was calm – almost mournful – and weirdly penetrating, though he could make nothing of the words. It was like the call to prayer, he thought hazily, and remembered the narrow balcony of the tower again – Ibrahim’s lookout – the bleached town and graveyard spread out below, and himself, watched from above, floundering up the slope, each movement tiny and ridiculous in the shimmering heat. Time after time, more times than he could keep count of in his exhausted daze, the long, wailing call rang out, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther.
Then, abruptly, it stopped, and when he struggled to his feet, swaying, all feeling gone from his legs, there was no sign of Ibrahim anywhere on the path. He forced his way out of the undergrowth with far more difficulty than he had entered, his head swimming now as he stumbled on the rocks underfoot, stiff leaves cutting across his hands and face. He paused to wretch but only a hot, bitter mouthful of clear fluid came. The final effort to clamber the steepest few yards back onto the track was beyond him at the first attempt, and as he slid helplessly backwards into the gulley he felt the first glimmerings of real horror at his vanished strength and coordination. It took a great effort of will not to call fearfully down the mountain after Ibrahim, and only the knowledge that the spring must be very close now persuaded him to rest on his knees, silently, and re-gather his energy instead.
Working more slowly and attacking the slope at an angle, he finally made the shade of the path, panting, almost sobbing with weakness and thirst. He would have to rest again, he realized, no matter how parched he was, and he slumped against the jagged wall of the ridge. When he closed his eyes he had the sensation of a giant oval pupil opening wetly at the back of his head, dilating and contracting with the rhythm of his pulse, black and glossy, and cool maybe, if he could just fall back a little, slip backwards into it, away from the pounding heat. If he opened his eyes, the ranks of flowers he had come from seemed to ripple and sway, though there was no wind to move them. They snaked away like a carpet of upturned faces, flat and naked to the sun.
Two days passed before Ibrahim was able to find more business at the chapel. A friendly, talkative young Dutch couple asked if they could hire him, very much wanting to see the view from the mountains and then to visit the cannabis farms. He had to speak English with them, which was tiring, but the girl spoke a little French, too, and even claimed to be l
earning Arabic. She had fallen in love with Chefchouen already, she said. She would like to learn Arabic and buy property there. It would be very cheap compared to Holland. Did the mountains around the town have names? she wanted to know.
Both the boy and girl had long, matted blond hair and they were dressed almost identically in loose cotton trousers and linen blouses. They held hands even in the worst of the heat, kissing and touching without embarrassment whenever they rested in the shade. When they were not whispering or caressing one another they were happy to share Ibrahim’s kif, though the boy had a sebsi of his own which he passed sometimes to the girl. They could be twins, Ibrahim thought, watching them sidelong, amused and a little uncomfortable.
They found the body just beyond the tiny spring where they had stopped to rest and drink. For a moment Ibrahim was simply startled and angry at the thought of some other guide bringing tourists to his spring; then he saw the boy’s spoiled face and understood. He heard a loud, wordless shout, and realised it had come from his own mouth. Behind him, the girl too seemed to recognise suddenly what she was looking at and shrieked once, sharply. The English boy had come looking for the water and missed it, Ibrahim guessed at once, perhaps passing it again and again, not realizing that it was nothing more than a palm-sized, shallow pool hidden in the shadow of a flat rock. There was no running stream to give it away.
The boy’s scorched forehead was open where he had collapsed onto a sharp stone and the blood had encouraged mountain dogs to take the eyes, ears and lips. A dark line of large, glossy ants was streaming in and out over the exposed white teeth. The ants were quick and purposeful, but here and there they reared up and wrestled where they collided, their long black forelegs rising and waving. They seemed like moving symbols when they stopped and jostled, as if a line of script had come evilly to life. Ibrahim suddenly recalled listening as a child to his grandfather’s stories of the ruthless jinns of the mountains and a swelling panic began to knock his heart against his ribs. The ants could be the language of the jinn, he thought, and had to look away for a long moment before he could reassure himself that it was only the kif in his head making a child of him. The girl was at his side now, stooping and shaking one of the boy’s stiff bare legs as if to try and wake him, moaning and babbling something – the same few words in her own unpleasant language – repeated over and over. Finally, the boyfriend took her free arm and pulled her roughly away.