One Night

Chapter Twenty Eight

Every time I think I'm taking a step forward, some nonsense happens that puts me one thousand steps back. Now the idea of getting back to my mom seems like a distant dream.

All I hope is that she doesn't think I abandoned her. Surely she knows that I never would.

Strong hands grip onto my arms, and suddenly I am being dragged across the slippery stone floor. That same woman who ran out before is now dragging me with the strength of two horses.

There is nothing to grab onto, and with the way she is pulling me I can't do anything. This must be the hundredth time I'd wished someone taught me to fight.

Then again, Zayen was trained his entire life on how to fight and yet there were many situations that even he could not escape.

I shout, even though I can't hear myself fully. She ignores me, continuing to drag me. I have a feeling she is going to lock me up somewhere.

All of the floors and ceilings here are the same black stone. Almost like we are in a cave, only it is perfectly polished.

I stop fighting when I realise the light that brightens the passages that she pulls me through isn't fire or sunlight—it is that same, strange blue light that Zayen saw in the souk; the same blue light that seemed to dance while I was drowning.

"What is that?" I try to ask, but I don't hear the muffled sound of her response. She has resorted to ignoring me now.

We stop in a dimly lit, hot room. Steam rises from a basin in the center of the room. Wooden panels line the walls like benches.

I stand, against my bodies wishes, when the heat of the floor starts to burn. The woman starts tugging off the robe I was given back in Diyar. Stepping away, I shake my head. My ears unblock and the sound of hissing steam is all I can hear.

She knocks my hands away and pulls off the robe, so that I have nothing covering me. My arms cross over my private parts, and she rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath that I don't catch.

Finally, she turns her focus towards a bucket lying in a tub of water. She fills it to the brim and—My eyes squeeze shut as I am drenched, yet again, in water. Seriously?

At least the clean water takes away the burn of salt in my eyes. I rub the water off my face, as the woman rubs some strange, gooey brown substance between her hands and starts rubbing it all over me.

I jump back, nearly slipping. It's soap. She's washing me. "What are you doing?"

She continues, but I push her hands away. She gestures to my body and speaks with a frustrated tone, but . . . But I don't understand a word. I didn't think that was possible.

She continues to wash me, and I stand frozen in the hottest possible room. She gestures with her hands for me to sit on the bench that lines the walls. I stare at her, doing as she says.

She seems normal. Her facial features are soft and delicate, with pale skin and plush red cheeks—most likely from the heat.

But she couldn't possibly be from Qadura, Wadi, Ardifa or Diyar if she can't speak the language.

Once she's done, she throws a bucket of warm water over my body and starts rubbing a strange light creamy-white substance on my skin. It's slightly watery and smells earthy. Clay.

She says something in her language, and then gestures that I must wait. Then she turns and leaves, locking the door to the room.

Now I'm alone and naked in a dark, hot room with no way to escape and no way to understand what she wants.

If I'm being completely honest, I wouldn't be surprised if I had died in the ocean and now I'm in . . . whatever this place is.

I don't think they'd clean me and coat me in clay if they're going to send me to hell, right?

Finding a towel laying underneath the benches, I cover myself. "Astaghfirullah. Astaghfirullah. Astaghfirullah." I begin to pray, asking God for forgiveness. I wish I had never had to steal.

I stand and try the doors to see if they will budge open. It's so hot. I need water.

I search around, but find nothing. There is writing on the walls. It's the same writing from inside the cave in the mountain that I used before, to pass to get from Wadi to Qadura.

The woman comes back in and I quickly hide the towel back and sit. She watches me warily, looking around the room for changes as if, what? I'd place a hidden bomb somewhere?

She has very high hopes of my skills. Unfortunately, I have none, except stealing.
She takes a glove and slips it over one hand, then starts roughly scrubbing at my body like she is trying to remove five layers of skin. I clench my jaw, glad that she is working fast.

Once she's done, I'm hit in the face with another bucket of warm steamy water. I wipe my face with my hand, my body dropping.

Ah. My skin feels amazing. I can't stop rubbing my hands over my body. It feels smooth and glossy, as if I have been soaked in the most incredible oils every day since birth and now I have skin equal to those of royalty—those with the pleasure of time to care for themselves.

She hands me a fluffy robe which I wrap myself with and then holds out a white plain piece of cloth, which she uses to wrap around my eyes.

She tries to explain something to me, but I only understand one or two words—one being 'bad' and the other being 'meet'.

Am I going to meet someone bad?

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