Shadows of Marrakech

by Tim Kindberg

  Morchid watched impassively, his muscular arms folded over his massive chest, as the brutality and suffering continued around him. What they did to the animals they did to one another in different ways, with the same selfishness and disregard. Why should he care about any of them? He thought about the world beneath the carpet, where he had visited only once. The peace of it. If only he had managed to turn it into what he needed, if it had made real the thoughts he wanted made real… Stop, he told himself. Forget. It had rejected him. Ejected him. It was done.

  Perhaps his son had already returned, been brought back and grown here. But he’d had this place scoured. He’d scoured it himself many times — at least, in the souks to which he was bound.

  The chances were his son was still down there. And those imbeciles — the hunter and the ones he sent with him — could not find him. None of them could. A baby where no other baby could be. They’d pretended to find him — seizing some screeching infant from here and then bringing him before him. But he had known immediately of the deception.

  Now there was the girl, who had the eyes he needed. And who would not lie. But she was clever. If she found his son, would she use him against him?

  He was surrounded by such fools. Now the girl was quite possibly lost for good, had forgotten everything in the other world and become a part of it. He’d have to send more men back to find her. And he didn’t even know she was there for sure.

  He’d have Ali brought to him. Ali knew where she came from: where she might return to.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “YOU DARE TO question me?” Morchid did not look at Camel-breath, his hunter. He didn’t see the bruises on the sickly face.

  “I’m only saying,” said Camel-breath, “that the place is more of a problem than an opportunity. What with the girl back there. Who knows what she’s capable of.”

  “More than you. You’ve come up with nothing.”

  “I say we destroy the carpet. Can’t you box it? I’m sick of searching down there; sick of seeing all those robots wheeling around as though it meant anything. I don’t know what I’m looking for. It’s folly. And in the meantime we already know you can’t get an easy supply of slaves out of there. It seems to pick and choose who can be brought here and disposes of any it won’t let go through, as though they shouldn’t even have seen the carpet. It’s got a mind of its own, I tell you. And our men are turning into those weird automata down there, forgetting what they’re doing. It affects everyone differently. No one knows when he’ll turn into one of them. And it’s a pain to get them back — finding them, dragging them. You can’t get something for nothing. It was always too good to be true.”

  “You will keep looking for my son.”

  “I’ve looked for a baby but there’s no one. They don’t know what a baby is.”

  “You’re useless to me. I told you to do a simple thing and you’ve failed.”

  Camel-breath averted his eyes in case Morchid looked at him.

  “I … I’ve done everything I could.”

  “They told me you had the eyesight of an eagle. I had you brought here at great expense. You found your way back but you’ve found nothing useful.”

  Camel-breath knew the carpet refused to transport Morchid. But he’d sent all kinds of men through in the search, the raggle-taggle of men who were part of the trade, and it had happily clung to and transported all of them. Morchid was different as far as the carpet was concerned. He knew things, Camel-breath thought, about the place that he wasn’t letting on. Well, then, it was his own stupid fault for losing his own son through the carpet. He could stuff himself and his boy. In the meantime, he had to deal with that youth, Deobia who had turned against him. And maybe the girl and the other little one could help him find the son. Then he could use him to take his rightful place. Better still, he could find him himself. He’d never failed like this before.

  “Let me have one more go.”

  “Have Ali brought to me.”

 

  ****

  Three burly, sweating men walked into the riad and strode into the little courtyard. It didn’t take three but sometimes it was easier, with simple and truculent men like these, to dispatch them together even on a straightforward job. They might just be less stupid than they would be individually.

  They had hardened, thin-toothed faces poking out of hoods. One spoke in a high voice.

  “We’ve come for Ali. That you?”

  They all stared at Rashood, Ali’s friend who had come to visit, and who was leaning back in his chair confidently, as if he owned the place, telling some story that frankly was boring Ali to tears. He wished he had never invited Rashood back.

  They had stopped Rashood in mid-sentence.

  “And who might you be, sir,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve had the —“

  “You Ali or not?”

  “I —” Rashood looked at Ali.

  “Not,” said the leader. “So it’s you.”

  “I am Ali, yes. Who sent you?” As if he didn’t know.

  The man let out a slight whistle, as if for a dog, and curled his index finger to signal Ali to follow them.

  They marched him out, a triangle of them with Ali in the middle. He knew there was no point arguing and kept his mouth shut.

  Rashood knew, too, that he could not protest without incurring a sharp blow at the very least. He has seen many frogmarched off like this, due to some transgression, or because they knew something. You went along and hoped nothing bad would happen. But often something did.

  He waited five minutes. It was important no one would think he was following them, meddling. He left to find his wife and tell her what had happened.

  As soon as they had all left, three figures, who had spied on the proceedings as soon as they had heard the man’s demand for Ali, and who had been keeping out of the way even of Ali’s friends, climbed down the stairs.

  Chemchi bolted the riad door. She exchanged glances with Akimbe. Deobia seemed lost in his own world.

 

  ****

  The market ended before the sun could gain the rooftops of Marrakech. Diesel engines started up in a final thrum, spitting fumes from their exhausts. Some of the white vans were leaving empty, to be filled again, others were taking human traffic onward to Europe for sale.

  “Look at this one,” one of the gang sneered. “No one wants him. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  Morchid examined the figure brought before him, the figure who returned his look without flinching. Ritual scars crossed his cheeks. The heft of his limbs spoke of a warrior. Morchid wondered which of his agents had captured this creature, and how. He must reward him. Or have him removed for stupidity. No wonder no one had bought him. It had taken four of his men to drag him before him.

  “He’s a right animal. What do you want us to do with him?”

  “What are you?” Morchid asked.

  “I demand to be returned to my people.”

  “Which people are they?”

  “None of your business. Free me and I’ll make my own way. Or face the consequences.”

  The men who held him could’t believe their ears. They all looked with glee for Morchid’s response.

  “Where is my hunter?” Camel-breath was brought before him.

  “Well, what is this?”

  “Trouble,” said camel-breath.

  “I can see that. And?”

  “The kind to eliminate. Or who might come in handy. You could send him through the carpet. Perhaps he can find what you want found.”

  Morchid walked up for a closer look. The man’s legs were shackled with heavy chains so that even he was not capable of kicking. Each arm was anchored by two of the gang.

  “Your problem. One of your problems,” he spoke to Camel-breath but with his face just inches from the man before him, “is that you want me to use the other place as a dumping ground. You don’t like the old-fashioned way. To kill. Isn’t that what you peopl
e normally do?”

  One of the gang now had the man by the head so that he couldn’t head-butt Morchid — something he looked inclined to do.

  “Yes, kill me,” the man said. “Do it now.”

  When it rejected him, Morchid had at first tried burning the carpet, and every other way he could think of destroying it. It wouldn’t even let itself be removed from the chamber, but spun out its threads and dug them into the walls. When that didn’t work, he’d had it rolled up and bound. It had always transformed itself, its threads creeping out, finding anchors, re-weaving itself until it lay flat and rectangular again. The powers and resources of whatever — whoever — had made the carpet boggled his mind. But he didn’t fear it.

  Neither did he fear the powerful man, who looked almost capable of tearing himself from his captors any second. “Kill me” was a thought that had entered his own mind many times. But he was like the carpet. It wasn’t an option.

  “What are you waiting for?” the man was straining, glaring at him.

  “No. There’s something about you.” He touched the man’s forehead, which was curdled with rage, sensing for something within him. These fools took him to be a brute but Morchid could see beyond the physical power. The man knew something.

  “Lock him up again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “WHAT DO THEY want with Ali?” said Akimbe.

  “They must want him because of me. It stands to reason,” said Chemchi. Now Ali knew, she thought, what it feels like to be grabbed and dragged who-knows where. As he had dragged her from the mountains, away from her mother. She’d tried to put that drive to Marrakech out of her mind, the drive she hated him for, which he refused to explain. She’d had to rely on him, the only grown-up around. He wouldn’t tell her what she needed and desperately wanted to know. He gave her a room, fed her, didn’t treat her badly, but that didn’t make up for it. One night she didn’t cry anymore. Other girls — she wouldn’t exactly call them friends — felt she was withholding something from them. Well, she was. And from herself. Maybe she should have run away from him. She could have if she’d wanted. And what would she have become? Looking at these two — Akimbe who had lost everything, his family and his home far away, and Deobia who looked as though he would re-enter a craft any minute and fly back to the world he came from — looking at these two, she thought: I wouldn’t have become a bad person, necessarily, but I might have become as lost as these two.

  “Just look at us. We’re clueless,” she said, letting her frustration get the better of her. “We haven’t even found a proper hiding place.”

  “But you said it’s the last place they’ll think of looking,” said Akimbe.

  “For a little while. We can’t stay here long. I need a place to think, to work out what I should do.”

  “What you should do? What about what we should do?”

  “All right, but Morchid is after me, not you. I’m going to need a plan, a plan that doesn’t involve walking into his lair and being eaten for breakfast. And you,” she looked at Deobia, “I’d like you to tell us everything you know.”

  “Me?” Deobia, who had been deep in thought, rubbed his eyes.

  “You know more than you’re letting on.”

  “He’s one of them, the enslavers,” said Akimbe. “At least, he was.”

  “What? You didn’t tell me? Leave this minute!” Chemchi pointed at the door.

  “No, hold on, you have to listen,” said Akimbe.

  “Why would I listen to someone involved in trafficking? And why are you on his side after what they did to your family?”

  “Oh, what did they do to my family?”

  “Well I —”

  “You don’t know so shut up about my family.” Akimbe rose and scraped his chair back. “Shut up for a minute and listen to what Deobia has to say.”

  “Very well. I’m listening,” she said. “But it had better be good.”

  “As I have told Akimbe, they use me to gather intelligence. I talk to the captives and the local customers and the traffickers who come in from afar. The captives trust me. They tell me things they wouldn’t necessarily tell the enslavers, even under torture. But I don’t pass it all on. I’m a courier, too.”

  “Of what?’

  “Money, mostly. Sometimes guns.”

  “They trust you that much? They must have something on you. Who did you deal with: Morchid?”

  “No, his lieutenant. The man you call Camel-breath. Only he never gave me his name. Morchid calls him the hunter.”

  “And Camel-breath put me onto Deobia,” said Akimbe. “ He gave me his address.”

  “Why on earth would he do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Deobia. “I was going to play it straight and ask him but I could tell they meant to do something bad to Akimbe so I got angry.”

  “He beat him up in the other place,” said Akimbe, “look at his knuckles.” The unearthly youth, with his afro hair and his goggles, had delicate hands. But his knuckles were thick and cut, streaked with dried blood.

  Chemchi looked from one to the other. “Something very fishy is going on here. Where do you come from?”

  “From there.”

  “From cracked Marrakech?”

  “Yes. If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “How can you be ‘from’ there? People exist there, people go there. No one’s from there, are they. Although an old woman down there told me people become created from visitors’ thoughts, however crazy that sounds. Were you born there, did you come from someone’s womb there?”

  “Well, no, not exactly.”

  “What then?” Chemchi got up and faced away from them to try to compose herself. Her nerves were ragged. She was right to be suspicious but, at the same time, she wasn’t giving him a chance. “OK. I’m sorry. Tell me your story.”

  “I don’t know where to begin. When you returned here, you knew you belonged here, didn’t you. But when I arrived from what we’re calling cracked Marrakech — it’s strange to give it a name after all this time — this was the weird place. And when I go back there, I can perfectly understand why you would think it so strange. I don’t belong there. I must belong somewhere else.”

  “What’s your earliest memory?” asked Chemchi.

  “Being in that cut-off square — suddenly, as though I’d been dropped there, right on the edge of the desert. But I remembered nothing of where I’d been.”

  “Dropped from where — the desert?” asked Akimbe.

  “I think perhaps so, from the desert, or one of those places you can see, the other fragments. There was this in my pocket.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  DEOBIA SHOWED THEM a battered photograph of a man and a woman in a grey-looking city. They were white people. “There’s a note on the back, saying they were sorry but they couldn’t look after me any more.” He showed them the scrawling handwriting, in blue ink. “So I found myself there but I was unlike anyone else. I didn’t become an automaton like them, and I grew. No one seemed to notice I was different. I ate in the cafes. They served me but never wanted anything in return. They never seemed to recognise me when I came back. I found a riad with an empty room and lived there. I was the only person who ever slept in the whole broken city, as far as I could tell. No one else came to stay.

  “I just about knew what everything was, although I could tell it was different from where I’d been, where those people had looked after me. But the people doing more or less the same things constantly, and the sun never changing its position in the sky — it got to me at first. I don’t believe they could see they were living in more or less the same moment, any more than they knew they lived in a place with an edge. But I slept and woke and did different things and grew taller. I made notches in the doorpost to confirm it. And I was lonely, terribly lonely. I tried starting up conversations but people always had the same things to say.

  “It was the library that stopped me going mad. I found that I could read in
one of the languages in the books there, English. I used the dictionaries and textbooks to teach myself Arabic and French. Then all the other languages. It all came easily.

  “The cut-off square drew me back again and again. I used to look at the dunes, and try to remember where I had been and what had happened to me. Then one day I decided to start up a conversation with the old woman. It was mainly so that I could hear the sound of my voice. I thought she’d just ask me for some dhirams and that would be that. But she was different. She was no friend but I could talk to her. She knew as well I did that people were doing more or less the same things constantly. I could tell she knew more than she was letting on but she was stubborn.

  “So I would sit with her and read my books and both of us would watch people arrive, apparently oblivious of the fractured edge of the city right in front of their noses, and then turn about at the last minute, as though that was what they meant to do all along. One day she told me I’d been dropped there from the desert side, that she’d seen it happen. I asked her to describe who had dropped me, and it was the couple in the photograph but I’d never shown it to her. She obviously knew more but when I asked her, when I insisted on knowing, she would clutch at her heart as though I was making her terribly ill to talk about it.”

  Akimbe said, “Maybe she was making all of that up about you being dropped there. Why should you have believed her? Someone could have planted that photograph on you.”

  “Yes and why didn’t you go over that edge yourself?” Chemchi couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice. And yet she had to admit that Deobia’s story rang a bell in her: Ali refusing point blank to tell her more. She didn’t know why but the similarity made her want to hurt Deobia. “You must have been tempted to head out there. You should have gone looking.”

  “I was scared. I didn’t know what of, but the thought of it made me panic. Then one day I woke up feeling different. I told myself I had nothing to lose. I went to the square and nodded to the old woman but I kept on walking and crossed over the edge to the sands beyond. My feet sank and my steps became so difficult across the dunes.