The Wild Ones

by Nafiza Azad

  Paheli pokes at the trunk of the tallest palm tree and we wait. Nothing happens. She deflates and pulls Sevda to the front. “You do it. He likes you best.”

  Sevda wrinkles her nose and touches the bark softly. Sure enough, there is an immediate response. A thin sheet peels off from the bark; it has two eyes and fleshy lips. Paheli dumps a bottle of water on it, and with a pop, it gains a vaguely humanoid form. An unclothed humanoid form. He is short, barely up to our shoulders. His hair is a bright green and his tummy is a large pouch hiding his genitalia.

  Not all middle worlders have human forms; we have learned to accept them in all the ways they express themselves.

  “Oh?” The creature we call the Greenich looks at us with eyes full of avarice. “Look at what the wind blew in.” He blows a raspberry at us. “If you want information, you need to pay.”

  “If you want magic, you need to give us something worthy of it,” Paheli replies promptly.

  The Greenich chuckles. His long tongue snakes out and he licks his eyebrows. Okay, we lied. Some things are easier to accept than others. No one should have a tongue that long. “I was wondering when you would get here.”

  “Why?” Sevda asks.

  “How much will you pay me?” The Greenich won’t budge.

  “One Between diamond,” Paheli replies.

  “Two,” the creature counters.

  “One. If you don’t want to trade, there are others who will tell us what we want to know,” she says to him with a firmness we are not used to.

  “Oh fine. You are stingy as usual,” the Greenich says with a huff.

  “Thank you,” Paheli replies with a sweet smile. “Talk.”

  “Here’s what I know,” the Greenich says. “A predator has emerged from the depths of the dark where he was imprisoned for a long while. Don’t ask me the details because I won’t say. I can’t say. All you need to know is that those who imprisoned him have disappeared, though whether it is by their own design or his is unknown.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” Kamboja asks.

  “He is obsessed with the Between, or to be more precise, the Keeper of the Between. You are of the Between, and thus, he is interested in you. Don’t let him catch you, girlies. He will chew you up and spit you out before you know what’s going on.” The Greenich looks us up and down and shakes his head as if grieving. We hiss; we are no one’s prey. The sound carries enough magic that the creature loses his color. He rushes back to the palm tree, perhaps to disappear into the tree trunk once again, but Paheli grabs him by his shoulder.

  “What about a creature with very sharp teeth and feathers on her head instead of hair?” she asks.

  “A Cheraj?” The Greenich turns back, his eyes wide and his fear forgotten. “Have you seen one? If you have, pluck a feather from her head!”

  “Why?” Daraja asks. She sounds horrified by the idea.

  “A Cheraj feather is said to attract luck! Pure luck! Guaranteed luck! Maybe pluck two feathers and give me one?” the Greenich wheedles.

  With a curl of her lips, Paheli takes a Between diamond out from a bag and throws it to the creature. Without another word to him, she turns her back and walks away. We, of course, follow. None of us look back.

  This is not the first time we have sought out the Greenich for information, and it probably won’t be the last. But this is the first time he has given us information that has so thoroughly disturbed us.

  “Oh look. Stuffies.” Areum stops and points. We look. We don’t know who Jack is, but we buy stuffed animals from his gift store, ostensibly for Ghufran, but the truth is, we all need a hug right now.

  From the Book of MEMORIES

  SEVDA

  CITY OF ORIGIN: MARMARIS

  Listen.

  This is a story about a careful construction of helplessness. Of futility

  dressed in blue.

  I? Merely am. But you? You are plural. You are in my hair, in my eyes. You are of tomorrow and you linger from yesterday. You remain while I become ephemeral.

  You appear in front of me with your hands already dipped in blood and ask,

  “How shall I break your heart today?”

  And I, dressed in blue, stand up to die.

  These are the wanderings of a mind prone to winter.

  You see? I built this helplessness in three stages.

  First: I let myself love you.

  Then: I perfected the art of crying without tears.

  And finally: I learned to like the space a broken heart occupies in a chest.

  I.

  Why can’t we look into mirrors without flinching?

  Why can’t we look at our reflections without finding things that could be thinner, smoother, or prettier?

  Why is meeting our own eyes in the mirror an exercise in despair?

  Why are we never enough as we are?

  II.

  Here, have this with your cup of tea:

  They come for you in the dark or in the light, but only when you are alone, isolated from anyone whom you can call an ally. Even though you want to yell when they take you, you are too frightened to make a sound. Because what if this is your fault? What if, somehow, you are the architect of your own misfortune? What if it was something you said or did? Or didn’t say and didn’t do? What if it is the clothes you are wearing or the smiles you gave them or didn’t? You know what people will say.

  It is too late when the pain becomes worse. Your lips already know the shape of silence. Your voice has shrunk to a gasp. You are left with a mouth full of screams and a silence that binds them within you. The screams you didn’t scream echo in your mind and in your body. They remain long after the incident. They pollute your days. Take the luster from your sunshine. Until all you can hear are the screams you didn’t scream. The rest of the world goes on, oblivious to the din in you.

  The Reappearance of the Boy Made of Stars and the Plight of the Girl by the Oleander Lane.

  The City of Byblos, now known as Jbeil, is about thirty-seven kilometers from Beirut. We cannot, of course, travel there in any other way except by the Between.

  We exit the Between in the historic quarter of Jbeil. The City of Byblos is one of the oldest cities in the world and one of the only cities that has been continuously inhabited ever since she was built. If cities had voices, Jbeil would have one like good wine, with layers, notes, and depths granted to her by her age.

  Perhaps it is due to her age that Byblos was declared a sanctuary city by the Magic Council. No middle worlders, no matter how severe their enmity to each other, are allowed to spill blood in Byblos. All conflicts may be peacefully resolved, but no conflicts are to be created here. We don’t know what punishment is given to those who break this law, but the ones who govern the middle world aren’t known for their grace. The city is as close to safe as the middle world can get.

  It is afternoon and the cobbled streets of the historic quarters are filled with sunshine. We breathe deep of the air scented by flowers and spices as we slowly take in the beauty of the city. The old souk is not far from where we are.

  But first, food.

  We fuel up with shawarma, mezze, and a host of other local delicacies, the most memorable among them, baklava. Licking our fingers and feeling a rare peace with the world, we set out to walk through the streets of the old souk. The magic is strongest in the narrow alleys of the marketplace, so it’s no stretch of the imagination to assume that the gathering Assi told us about will most likely be held there.

  We pass through an oleander lane on the way. The oleander trees curve toward each other above us, forming a sort of tunnel filled with flowers and green. What can we say about the beauty with which the light fills the lane? Probably nothing the poets haven’t already.

  Jbeil is rich with stories. Every step we take has been taken by countless others, thick in the middle of their own tales. The history steeped into the stones of the streets gives the place a resonance that young cities do not have. When we emerge from
the lane, the sky is streaked with the colors of a gentle dusk. Some early stars glint in the darkening sky. We stop walking to fully appreciate the spectacle of a world clad in the colors of both day and night. At that moment, a soft sniffling sounds, breaking our hard-found serenity.

  A girl, about seventeen, is not quite hidden in the shadows of an oleander tree. Her face is damp with tears. The area is deserted of all other humans, but we’re sure there are a few middle worlders here. A place this thick with magic would not be overlooked by them. We look to Paheli; do we listen to this girl’s story or do we keep moving? The world is full of crying girls, and though we try, we cannot listen to all of them.

  Paheli steps forward and at her signal, we shimmer into visibility. She clears her throat. The girl looks up, sees us, and opens her mouth as if her first instinct is to scream. We tend to evoke that reaction in people. In the end, she contains herself and looks at us with wide eyes as if not understanding how we came upon her so suddenly.

  “Who are you?” she whispers in Arabic.

  “That is not yet important,” Paheli responds in kind. “Why are you crying?”

  At the reminder, the girl’s eyes fill with tears again. Angrily, she wipes them away. “What does it matter to you if I cry?”

  “Why shouldn’t it matter to us?” Ligaya demands hotly. “Wouldn’t you ask someone who is crying why they are grieved?”

  “Is it so odd that we might be moved to offer you aid?” Etsuko asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Why would you help me?” the girl spits out. “Even my family has no time for me. Why would strangers care?”

  “Because we can,” Paheli replies. “You are, of course, welcome to reject our help. If you do not wish us to intrude upon your pain, we will leave now.” We turn to go.

  “Wait!” the girl calls out. We knew she would. “Don’t laugh, okay?” She tries to glare at us, but the tears in her eyes ruin the effect. “I have a dream. It’s not a particularly impressive one, but it’s mine.” Her voice slips into a whisper. “I’m good at studying. My grades are excellent. I was at the top of the school the last exam, and my teachers say I will easily get into a top university in Beirut, but my father, he insists on sending my brother to university instead. My brother, who spends his time hanging out with his friends, playing pool instead of attending school. Him.” She laughs bitterly. “We only have enough money for one of us to go, and it should obviously be me, but my father, he says that a girl is like spilled milk when married, so he sees no point in investing in me. And my mother, who should understand me best, says that if I win in this, I will start wanting other things. Why is it so wrong to want things? Why is it so wrong to win in things?” She looks at us. “Is it because I’m a girl?”

  “What do you want to do?” Paheli asks instead, her question curling around the breeze in the air.

  “What can I do?” the girl bursts out. “I live in this small place with no jobs I can do. If I don’t go to school, I will be married off to some man who will think I am a replacement for his mother or his maid. I will have children and spend the rest of my life wishing for all the things I didn’t do and didn’t learn.

  “I thought about running away, but where would I go?” the girl asks. “I do not want to bring shame to my parents. I love them. I just want to study more. Why is that too much to ask for?”

  If you are a woman, any desire you have that is yours alone is too much to ask for. Everything you do must benefit the family, the community, the country, or the world. You never simply belong to yourself.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not like you can help me.” Her voice falters in the darkness.

  Paheli takes out the pouch in which she keeps her money. She removes two bundles of cash from it and holds them out to the girl. “This should be enough for your tuition.”

  The girl gapes at Paheli’s outstretched hand. “How can you just give this to me so easily?”

  “Money is one thing we don’t have to worry about. Take it,” Paheli urges. “You might change your mind about school. We don’t mind if you do. Consider this a gift.”

  “I… How do I trust you?” The girl makes no move to take the money.

  “Look, if you don’t want it, don’t take it,” Kamboja says impatiently. “We are not asking to move in with you or anything. We just want to help you in the only way we know how. We can only give you the money, not fight your parents for you.”

  “Also, we aren’t asking you to trust us.” Talei is gentler. “In fact, you will probably never see us again after today.”

  “I pay my debts,” the girl says, taking the money. “I will repay this one too.”

  “What is your name?” Valentina asks.

  The girl hesitates, then looks at us and says, “Sadia.”

  “Well, Sadia,” Valentina says, “if you consider this money a debt, you can repay it by helping some other girl who needs it. Give her your faith, love, or money when she needs it. Like we have helped you, help her. When you do that, your debt will be repaid. Sound good?”

  “I… thank you,” Sadia says. The sound of the azaan breaks into the darkness, and the girl starts. “I have to go!” She turns to us, her face a canvas of questions, gratitude, and disbelief. “I don’t know what will happen in the future, but I will never forget what you have done for me. I will pay the debt I owe. Thank you.” She looks at us one last time and slips off into the darkness, gone as suddenly as she appeared.

  We stand silently for a bit.

  If all the troubles we seek to resolve were of the financial kind, our work would be so much easier. Still, it cannot hurt anyone if we consider this encounter a success.

  A few minutes later, we walk farther up the path and enter the souk. Most of the human vendors have closed up for the night, though a few eateries remain open. Light spills out from open doors and lamps placed at intervals; the cobbled streets glisten softly. The power in the stones of this place takes our breath away. The Between pulses behind the walls; the barrier between it and the old souk is very thin.

  As the evening deepens, magic asserts a stronger presence. The smell of it, like freshly cut grass, becomes prominent. Humans think they are alone in this souk, not realizing that the stranger who just passed them has skin the color of the sea at noon or the person they just smiled at is dressed in clothes made of cobwebs. Slowly, the souk empties of humans and fills with middle worlders. We stand, leaning against a wall under the shade of a tree heavy with purple blossoms, ready to bolt into the Between at the least provocation.

  Opposite us is a human-shaped middle worlder whose skin is made of the silver scales of a fish. We do not intend to find out if he smells like one too. He keeps a marked, but fixed, distance from us. We, who have worn all shades of danger on our bodies, recognize his stare for what it is. He fancies himself a predator and thinks us prey. However, bound by the rules of this city, he can make no move on us.

  A few minutes pass and the streets get busier with middle worlders.

  We see Assi first, or perhaps she sees us. Paheli is practically thrumming with tension. Valentina and Talei stand protectively on either side of her. Assi, the creature with silver eyes, feathers instead of hair, and a mouth full of sharp teeth, moves toward us with a smile, perhaps of welcome, on her lips. Behind her is a motley group of middle worlders, each wearing their battle scars on their faces or their bodies. One of them has a gouged-out eye, the empty socket inviting both horror and sympathy. Another one has green thorns around her neck; she winces with each step.

  “Follow me,” Assi says. When we don’t move, she looks back at us and her lips quirk. “We mean you no harm.”

  There’s absolutely no reason to believe her, but we do anyway. She leads us to a small house with a walled garden. It seems empty of people; the windows are dark. The fierce middle worlders accompanying her don’t speak, so we make no attempts at conversation either.

  The night is soft and pliant. We fill the garden of the small
house, leaning against the wall without care for the empty garden beds beneath our heels. We keep a distance from the group of middle worlders, not an unfriendly distance but one marked by caution.

  They, in turn, seem more at ease once the gates between the house and the streets outside are closed. As we watch, they shift away from each other. It is then that we see the boy they were hiding in the middle. He has dark skin through which pinpricks of light peek out. Each of his eyes has a five-pointed star gleaming in its dark depths. His face is beautiful, and his attention is trained solely on us.

  We look at Paheli and find her with a shuttered face. No light sparkles in her eyes. She has retreated somewhere deep inside.

  Paheli: An Interlude in Blue

  What do you do when your past pops up into your present to say hello? If you are me, you pretend you don’t see him for at least three whole minutes. A lot can happen in three minutes. Lives can get ruined. People can disappear. What was right can become wrong. When it becomes clear that none of these (especially the second) things is going to happen, I change my strategy. I try to blend in with the scenery. What is one more girl in a madness of girls? Right?

  It is not my night.

  The boy’s eyes calmly assess all of us. When it is my turn, he looks as if he is peering through my skin and bones right into that dark place where I hide all the things I don’t want to remember. The stars in his eyes brighten. He recognizes me as that broken creature he offered an escape to so many years ago. How, I don’t know. I don’t exactly resemble her anymore. She is gone now, that broken girl.

  I am lying.

  She is still here. Slumbering in the depths of me. Pro tip: You don’t ever get rid of your broken pieces. You just bury them as deeply as you can.