Hear The Whispers Sing.

Ch.11: Don't Look Down On A Deadbeat's Advice, You Idiot

The Maalim threw a fist at Abdirahman Kulow. The latter dodged. The fist landed on the water rationer's face. Screeching like a deranged vulture, she leapt at the Maalim of aqal architecture. More clattering sounded. Now, all of their backs swayed before the pots. Istahil looked around for a distraction. She saw a cooking stick and handed it between the two pots. A hand snatched it from her. She peeked out at them.

The water rationer jumped at the Maalim. The Maalim tried to run. Abdirahman Kulow grabbed him and held him at the line of fire. He twisted and bit his arm. Abdirahman Kulow shrieked and threw him.

He skidded and landed, his nose inches from Istahil's sandal. She whipped it back further into her hiding place. His eyes followed it.

'Sug waxier,' he said to his companions. 'I think I saw...'

Another voice sounded at the door. Istahil had never thought she'd be happy to hear the newspaper editor's voice, but, as his weasely timbre filtered through, she gasped a silent prayer to heaven.

The wings on her heart disappeared quick enough though, as with his voice, came the memory of the vitriol he had printed. And here he stood, in a meeting with all of Biacadey's greats. Because, as much as she hated him, Istahil had to give it to him. The newspaperman took no prisoners in his campaign of dominance.

And she had given him the perfect weapon. She'd always been a disappointment. Of course, at some point, people would begin to point fingers, not at her, but Hoyo.

A lump grew in her throat. Why had God given someone like Hoyo someone like her as a daughter?

As the newspaper man entered, Istahil went to stuff her fingers in her ears. She couldn't bear hearing the welcome they'd give to that mouse.

'Leave,' came the water rationer's voice. Istahil froze while sliding back to the floor.

'What?' said the newspaper editor, 'but I have to print out all you decided.'

'Then we'll send someone to tell you,' said the Maalim, 'but for us, there are three types of people we don't talk to. Liars, cowards and men who've failed their initiation.'

And on prayer days, they wore blue.

'Failed my...' the newspaper editor sounded as if someone had stuffed stale camel excrete into his mouth, 'how...'

'You must have, with that nonsense you've shown us,' said Abdirahman Kulow. Istahil had thought he looked down on the Maalim, but the way he talked to the newspaper editor, you would have thought he had decided to exchange words with a latrine pit. 'How do you...a man has left his wife and children alone. Instead of saying, "this family is incomplete for now. Let me take care of them until they are together again," you start removing, removing, your teeth at them, how? You're worse than those jackals in the forest. Go. Kac. We don't want you here.'

The newspaperman turned to leave, 'I'll remember this,' he hissed.

'We already have to see what goes on in that empty head of yours when we read your newspaper,' said Abdirahman Kulow, 'so don't torture me by giving me more than that. That girl you slandered...'

'I didn't...'

'Amus. If you wanted to discipline her, don't you have a mouth? Couldn't you have taken her aside and lectured her? Why try to paint something that everyone has already seen blacker than it already is? Listen, that girl you slandered is the student of a teacher I know. It's like I've raised her myself...'

That math didn't add up, but Istahil knew no one could tell him any different.

'...start on her again and you'll see. Sagal was right. Your parents refused to touch you, somaha? Remind me of that again and I'll do their work for them. Now leave. We actual humans have things to discuss and I doubt animals like you will understand. Leave.'