The Serpent's Veil

Interlude

Stranger

The boy was standing in the courtyard and staring at the cracked, sun-baked ground. It was the third day in a row, Yahya noticed. He had seen him before with the other women and children, but always at a distance, behind the protective wall of his tall, proud mother. Her hair was long and her eyes big as moons as they darted from door to door, window to balcony at all times of the day. Yahya, at just six years old, did not have a mother, but he and his sister were well taken care of by the rest of the women. They got to wear fine clothes, got to serve themselves bigger helpings at mealtimes, and they rarely had to do any chores. This boy, however, was even more privileged than he, Yahya had realised. Of all the children, he wore the best clothes. He was served food first, even before the elders and women. And he never lifted a finger, even to fold his own prayer mat. His mother did it for him.

The only other sign of life in the courtyard was a lone olive tree, drooping beneath the high Kufa sun. Yahya could not understand what compelled the boy to stand there in this heat, dressed in all black that too. What was he looking at?

Yahya felt the weight of the emerald talisman around his neck. Without it, he could have easily compelled the boy to tell him what he was doing, even from this distance. But he also knew the pain of taking it off. Drowning in the thoughts and emotions of everyone around him. He decided to try a different approach.

"What are you doing?" he called from the edge of the pillar he had been hiding behind.

The boy's curls bounced as he swivelled his head around. He seemed to notice Yahya but looked back at the fissures in the ground. "Nothing," came his glib reply.

The olive tree twitched from a phantom breeze, daring Yahya to go on. He stepped into the clearing, and immediately cringed as the heat of the blistering earth cut through his thin leather shoes. "Here," he said, pulling out a date from his pocket and offering it to the boy. He glanced at Yahya's hand, then up at his face. For a moment he seemed stunned, perhaps he had never seen someone with grey eyes before.

"I'm not hungry, thanks." He looked back at the ground. He didn't seem annoyed by Yahya's presence, merely disinterested. He had all the time in the world to stare at the ground. One disturbance was not going to change that.

Yahya's fingers clenched in annoyance. He put his hand back into his pocket and pulled something else out. "What about this?"

It was a trinket, a block of wood carved into the shape of a horse. The boy's eyes seemed to glow when he laid eyes on it, and Yahya proffered it to him. When he reached out to take it, their hands inadvertently touched. That was all Yahya needed.

His mouth fell open in surprise, and he looked back at the ground. Suddenly, the random cracks in the scorched earth turned into coherent boundaries, borders, roads, and rivers. "Amazing," he exclaimed, "It's a map of the Caliphate."

The boy's eyes narrowed as he pocketed the toy. "How did you know that?"

Yahya's pulse jumped in his wrist. His father had warned him to hide his ability and be discreet; he had not yet learned the silent art of quiet observation. "My father says I'm very smart," he said, crossing his arms. The boy was not convinced, but he had nothing substantial to accuse him of.

"So, why do you spend so long looking at this imaginary ground-map instead of a paper one?" asked Yahya after a short beat of silence.

The boy continued to gaze at the map. "This one is bigger, I can draw on it, and no one else can see it."

Yahya looked back at the ground. Indeed, there were some scratchings, probably made by a stick, which didn't fit the natural lines.

"Why does it matter if other people can see it?"