by Nafiza Azad
We reach the steep steps leading up the hill to the store, and the infrequent streetlamps choose this moment to flicker out. My heart quakes once; oh, the familiar stench of fear. I squeeze Valentina’s hand tightly, and we creep up the stairs, walking lightly. There is a big tree in front of the store; its branches spread outward in a silent supplication to the sky. It must look beautiful during the day, but right now, it is sinister. Still, it casts deep shadows that shelter us from the eyes of the middle worlders we see standing in front of the conjury store.
Two not-human middle worlders are having an intense conversation while eight scaled creatures stand beside them. Four of these scaled creatures have blue scales (or what looks like blue in the semidarkness), and four have silver scales. We’re far enough away for them to not notice us and close enough to make out some of their words.
“… a coincidence. How did you know this shop sells conjuries?” one not-human middle worlder says to the other one.
“We’re… keeper… here.” Valentina and I straighten when we hear the words. We don’t need to fill in the blanks to understand who the middle worlder is talking about. “The Dar’s servants… smell… conjury.” Well, that’s bad news.
“Where’s the shopkeeper?” Baarish’s servant has thin lips and narrow eyes.
“He isn’t in town,” the other middle worlder replies.
“That’s too bad. If he returns, have someone remove him.” Is “remove” a euphemism for murder? Because that’s what it sounds like.
“Set the place on fire. Everything in the store must burn,” the other middle worlder commands the blue-scaled creatures. I’d like to see them reduce the aluminum, iron, and steel to ashes. “Can we help you hunt down the keeper as thanks for informing us about this conjury store?”
“Please,” Baarish’s servant replies.
“It’s the least we can do. Our master considers Baarish a close friend. If you’ll follow me, I will take you to dinner at the mansion, and tomorrow morning, we’ll begin our hunt.” The middle worlder nods at the blue-scaled creatures and turns to go, and Baarish’s servant and the silver-scaled minions follow him. We duck behind the tree trunk and stand still, not even daring to breathe when they pass the tree. Nonetheless, both middle worlders stop; we hear their footsteps cease. My arm itches unbearably at this moment.
Someone steps closer to the tree and I ready my scream. At this moment, there’s an explosion inside the store, and the place catches fire. Whoever was trying to look into the shadows of the tree changes their mind, and we hear the sound of people walking away quickly.
Then we feel the heat emanating from the building. It is a magically set fire, so it doesn’t spread. We feel the moment the magic that was cast around the area breaks; it feels like a bubble popped. We can suddenly hear things that we couldn’t before. The sound of the TV, radios, and soon, someone’s scream. Doors open and people come streaming out, holding buckets of water.
Not that the water will help. This is not a fire set by humans, so it’s not a fire that can be put out by humans. Everything will burn, though not everything will turn into ashes.
We find an elderly woman sniffling outside the store, her large eyes reflecting the flames currently consuming the old building.
“Do you know the shopkeeper, Grandma?” I ask her.
“Yes, I do. Poor Mahmoud. First he lost his wife, and now he’s lost his store. He’s going to be devastated.” The old woman wipes her tears away.
“Do you know where he is at this moment?” I ask carefully. The old woman gives me a look at the question. Perhaps I look harmless, because she tells me.
“He’s with his son, Farroukh, in Marrakech. Farroukh runs a store in the old market, and the old man often makes trips to spend time with him and his grandchildren now that his wife is gone. Poor man.” The old woman sighs heavily and shakes her head.
“Do you have the contact for Mahmoud’s son, Grandmother?” I ask. The old woman shoots me a suspicious glare.
“It’s just that we think the fire was deliberately set with the intent to hurt the shopkeeper. We think it might be safer for him to stay at his son’s house for the time being instead of returning to Chefchaouen,” Valentina says in a gentle voice.
“I understand that you have no reason to trust anything we say, Grandmother, but we mean the old man no harm. In fact, we want to keep him out of harm’s way,” I tell her.
Perhaps we convince her, because she nods and leaves to make the call. We watch until we can no longer see her before we swiftly make our way back to the house. We need to be gone before the new day dawns and Baarish’s servants begin their hunt.
The Politics of a Body, the Politics of Pleasure
Once, in the early hours of a pale London morning, we ran into two girls fleeing their home. This was nothing out of the norm for us. Running into girls fleeing from places they called home is a specialty of ours. It is the reasons they run away that keep us listening, keep us shocked.
The elder of the girls was called Dawa and the younger one, Zainab.
Over cups of hot cocoa we brewed in the kitchen of our apartment, we listened to their story.
Dawa told us of midnight and a conversation heard through the cracks of a door. Her parents spoke of home, of Sierra Leone, of a place where their childhoods resided, and of their plan to take the girls back. For a vacation, they said. To learn your roots, they insisted.
And perhaps they did intend that, but the biggest reason they were taking the girls “home” was to get them circumcised.
Genital mutilation.
“My sister doesn’t know what it means,” Dawa said. “I have heard stories, though. One of our cousins died after the procedure because the tools used weren’t sterilized. My mother called it an accident. A mistake.”
Uncircumcised women are considered dirty. As if a woman’s ability to achieve sexual pleasure makes her unnatural or deviant.
Do they not consider that if the God they profess to serve wanted women to live without sexual pleasure, they would be born without clitorises?
We gave aid to Dawa and Zainab, but what about those countless others? Who hears their screams? Who answers their pleas for help?
What rhetoric convinces people, mothers, to perpetuate this particular violence against girls?
The world continually tries to steal a woman’s right to her own body—who she allows to touch her and who she doesn’t. They take it one step further and try to remove the pleasure that belongs wholly to her.
Does this not make you angry?
Can you blame us, then, for wanting to burn the world down sometimes?
* * *
Even when the break is in the heart, the body bears evidence of it. You know what we’re talking about. Of course you do. Being a girl, a woman, means being fluent in the languages of pain and power. Knowing what hurts and how much and if you have the ability to endure it.
* * *
Ever notice how many derogatory terms are actually words that describe female bodies? Yes, we are talking about words that you may have used yourself despite being a girl or a woman, perhaps not realizing that all you are doing is being complicit in the way the world recognizes women not as people but as bodies: bodies to objectify and to police.
Feminism isn’t a four-letter word.
You know what is?
Rape.
The Medina, the Riad, and the Red City
If cities have hearts and pulses, the ones belonging to Marrakech would be ticking frenetically. Time, so as not to be squandered, is defined by haste here. We, still drunk on the blue of Chefchaouen, are disarmed entirely by the chaos in the Medina of Marrakech. The Medina, in case you don’t know, refers to the part of a Moroccan city that belongs to the Arabs.
The door leading to Marrakech is, thankfully, not too far from where we enter the Between. Still, we are on high alert as we walk the short distance. Paheli and Valentina told us of the events that occurred the night before. We’re all a
nxious, and though at this moment we see no enemies, we can feel them, nipping at our heels and hastening our steps. Funnily enough, it seems as if the Between is as tense as we are; the sound of it is muted, and the golden light in it shines so bright that no corners are left unilluminated. Taraana, as usual, is glowing like the sun at noon in the Between.
We keep an eye out for a burning door. Perhaps we will encounter one and Taraana will bleed on it, forging a bond with the Between. But alas, we are disappointed. However, we reach the Marrakech door without incident and walk through it into a narrow street in the Medina, not far from the Jemaa el-Fna where people gather to buy and sell goods and food. It is midmorning and the air is filled with the scent of exhaust, food, and spices. To blend in better, before leaving Chefchaouen, we changed into caftans, while Taraana is wearing a cotton djellaba with a pointed hood that he refuses to pull up. He has his spectacles on, however, so we are somewhat reassured of his disguise.
Though the city is entirely new to Taraana, it is familiar to us. Returning to Marrakech always feels like putting on a well-loved dress. We have spent a lot of time in this city, learning its softness. Enough time that it has acquired the tangy flavor we associate with home. It’s true. We look for the scent of home in every city we travel to.
An abundance of middle worlders call Marrakech home. Something about the Red City makes the magic here intoxicating. The Medina is like a wonderland. Not the pale and cultured Wonderland Alice walked in, but a Wonderland that is wilder, one whose song gets underneath your skin and heats your blood. The streets of the Medina are labyrinthine, bordered on either side by mud-brick ramparts often shaded red by dust or paint.
We navigate the alleys and pathways of the Medina, avoiding mopeds, bicycles, and carts pulled by donkeys or horses. The streets are crowded. We’re visible to humans at this moment as we walk quickly, in twos and threes, drawing glances from the middle worlders present but nothing more. We keep our eyes empty of recognition, and no matter how fantastic the physical expression of the middle worlder, we don’t look. We won’t look at what the humans can’t see.
The muezzins have started the call for Zohr prayer when we finally leave the main thoroughfare for the emptier streets of the residential areas. Here, we can smell food cooking and hear voices in the middle of conversations. Our steps quicken. Taraana keeps pace as we all but run around a corner, through an alley, and out onto the other side, before finally coming to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door that leads to the riad we call home in Marrakech.
A riad is a traditional Moroccan house built around an inner courtyard. Ours is a particularly large one. Paheli steps forward and bangs on the door, which opens a minute later. A human woman stands on the other side. Her name is Ahlam; when she sees us, her lined face becomes wreathed in smiles. Ahlam and her family are the custodians of the riad and the administrators of the halfway home we run from it. She welcomes us and ushers us inside without asking any questions.
Ahlam’s grandmother, Bushra, was a Wild One. She didn’t want to forget us when she left the Wild Ones, so we asked Eulalie for a spell that would allow her to remember. It wasn’t a decision we made easily, but we don’t regret that we did. Working with Bushra and with the money we earned by selling Between diamonds, we purchased this riad, which became a home for us and a haven for those who have nowhere else to go. Here, like in other halfway homes we run around the world, we employ therapists, doctors, and other staff who help women seeking aid without asking questions or making judgments.
We watched Bushra as she found love, had children, grew old, and finally crossed the veil. Out of all the halfway houses we have opened, this one is the most precious to us because it belonged to Bushra, who lives on in the legacy this place represents.
We enter the riad and Ahlam closes the door behind us. We follow her through the front door, through a hall, and into the inner courtyard that is an even mix of tiled floors surrounding garden beds. The house has three floors as well as an accessible roof. The second and third floors have verandas with railings that look out onto the inner courtyard.
The courtyard garden is Ahlam’s pride and joy. Lemon and orange trees have been planted strategically in the corners. The floor of the pool in the middle of the courtyard is decorated with Zellige tiles. The air is heavy with the scent of oranges. Benches and rugs laden with cushions are strewn all around the courtyard.
“How long will you be staying, bibi?” Ahlam asks Paheli once we are seated and inquiries about her and her family’s health have been made.
“Not very long,” Paheli replies. “Have there been any problems here?”
Ahlam shakes her head. Her husband and sons usually keep to their section of the riad and function as security when there is need for it. “Half of the rooms are empty. Sadly, I don’t think that will remain the case for long.”
Though not on any official list of halfway homes, word has spread among humans of this place’s existence, and oftentimes there will be a knock on the door at odd hours of the night followed by a soft plea for assistance. No one is ever turned away.
Ahlam returns to us after asking the kitchen to prepare a meal, and we talk to her. She understands, perhaps as much as she can, that we’re not strictly human, but she doesn’t ask questions that she knows we won’t answer. That’s why, apart from a second look at Taraana, she doesn’t mention his presence. We’re familiar with each other, however, so there’s a world of things to talk about. We spend an hour in conversation.
“Could you do us a favor, Ahlam?” Paheli asks the woman as she is about to return to the kitchen to check on the progress of the meal.
“Of course,” Ahlam replies with a sweet smile.
“Could you ask around and see if there’s someone called Farroukh selling goods in the old souk? Could you let us know where exactly his store is?” Paheli asks.
“I will, bibi. The information should be ready for you by tomorrow morning,” she answers readily.
Paheli thanks her and she leaves. A few minutes later, she returns with the first of the many dishes the chefs in the kitchen have crafted for us.
We indulge our appetites and our senses on freshly baked bread, bastille, kefta, meat skewers, salads, and couscous. Sated, we make our way to the wing of the riad reserved for us.
Instead of individual rooms, our space in the riad is a long, wide room with beds and bedside tables separated by screens at intervals. Sort of like a high-level dormitory. A separate living room furnished with chairs and a dining table located right beside the dormitory is set aside exclusively for us. We gather in this room while Ahlam has the dormitory freshly cleaned.
“It is obvious from the middle worlders’ actions that human conjuries present very real threats to them,” Valentina says, returning to the conversation we have been having since we left the city.
“I told you, Assi said human conjury unravels middle worlders,” Taraana says.
“That’s probably the reason Yasmine wanted to use it against them,” Kamboja says, mentioning the keeper whose object we read in the Library of the Lost.
“It makes sense now,” Etsuko says, tapping her lips.
“What makes sense?” Areum raises an eyebrow.
“The disappearance of the old woman who sold potions in Moscow. The old man in Tunisia who went missing after his stall caught fire. The witch whose body was found hanging from a tree in her backyard,” Ligaya says. “And these are only the ones we know of. Who knows how many conjury makers they’ve killed so far?”
“They’re ruthless,” Talei whispers.
We slip into silence again.
“I’d like to talk to you all,” Sevda says when five minutes have passed. We know she is unhappy, has been unhappy ever since we decided to throw in our lot behind Taraana, but she didn’t say anything, so we kept our silence. Perhaps she is ready to speak, so we give her all our attention.
Sevda takes a deep breath and looks at Paheli. Her smile is wobbly. “I have spent a lo
t of time agonizing about this and I…” She stops and hesitates, biting her lips, collecting her thoughts. “I’m ready to leave.” She stops again. “I am pretty certain I am. I can’t—I mean, I no longer want to live like this.”
“What do you mean by ‘this’?” Kamboja says in a dangerously low voice.
Sevda clenches her hands into fists and squares her shoulders. “Returning to the real world will be scary, and I’m honestly not sure I’m ready to, but”—she bites her lips again—“it’s much scarier to live as a Wild One right now. Running from one place to another without knowing if we’re going to get caught. Having to hide. Feeling powerless. This kind of life is way scarier. I can’t do it. I’m sorry. You’ve all given me so much love and support, and I know I should suck it up and stick around, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.” Sevda’s eyes are full of tears. “Do you hate me?”
“Why would we hate you, Sevda?” Paheli says before anyone else can speak. “Being here, being wild, is not a permanent way of living.” She looks at the rest of us, and we all avoid her gaze. “The Wild Ones is sort of like a bus. We get you from one point of your life to another.” She pauses. “At least it’s supposed to be.”
We glance at Taraana; he looks stricken by guilt when this isn’t his fault.
“I said in Agra that it’s never wrong to put yourself first. You have the right to your fears, to your desires, to your dislikes. It is never wrong to want to be safe.” Paheli smiles at Sevda.
Sevda’s light brown eyes overflow with tears. “I feel like I’m betraying you all.”
“Just a little,” Etsuko says, and we glare at her. “I’m being honest!”
“I’m sorry.” Sevda bows her head.
“Don’t be sorry,” Kamboja says. “Be brave.”
“She is being brave,” Daraja replies. “Do you think it was easy for her to speak up right now?”