The single main road that ran through the town of Jorash was one of hard packed, dry dirt. It was wide enough for two camel-driven carts to pass by each other without incident, and that was all the people needed.
It was all Al-Khayzuran needed.
She emerged from one of the winding lanes with a water jug at her hip. The market was bustling as usual, with vendors of all kinds laying out their wares on carts, wooden tables, and rough woven mats on the ground. The air was saturated with the smell of saffron, sandalwood, and roasting meat. Khayzuran caught a whiff of it, and her mouth began to water. She hadn't eaten since before dawn. As she walked down the road, eyeing the colourful fabrics hanging from hooks on one seller's cart, and the bangles arranged neatly below, she was careful not to sway so the water wouldn't spill. It had taken her more than an hour to get it.
"Khaya!" A voice called out to her from a ways off, and she turned around to see who it was.
A young girl of about twelve years bounded up to her, dodging a hunched old man and a stray dog. Her short, tangled hair had been pushed out of her face haphazardly, probably by her mother, and she had a playful smile on her pink lips.
"Hi Salsal, where were you?" Khaya's voice came out slightly muffled by her headscarf.
"I was at the well with Ghatrif. You came back so fast today." Salsal was panting, as if she had just run a league.
"Not as fast as you." Khaya chuckled. "Shouldn't Ghatrif be helping mother?" She clicked her tongue.
Her brother was as incapable as ever, choosing to waste time at a dried up well with his illiterate twelve year old sister rather than help their mother with her work. It was hard work harvesting the sap from the acacias without the aid of a strong hand. The least Ghatrif could do was lend it to their mother once in a while. The water sloshed around as Khaya continued walking, now with Salsal by her side. As they walked a number of heads began to turn in their direction, watching intently. By now Khaya was used to it, but not yet immune to it. She was glad she was wearing a veil.
Khaya's hips swayed with a natural, unpractised elegance that was hard to ignore. Though her face was covered, the way she moved, with a delicate, almost fragile grace, made people look. There was no one in Jorash who could not recognize that gait, whether it was the smallest child or the oldest crone. She did not know whether she liked or hated her notoriety as yet.
Their mother's shop was one of the few that had an actual roof over it. It was small and smelled of burnt acacia wood and clean sheets of papyrus. There were soot stains all over the stone walls, but the work surfaces remained clean. Their mother was particular about that. Keeping the water jug firmly in her grasp, Khayzuran stepped around the dividing wall to see her mother sitting on a stool, hunched over a small wooden table.
"Khayzuran, you're here earlier than expected," her mother said, almost in a whisper, as if too loud a sound would change the colour of the ink she was making. Khayzuran peered over her mother's shoulder to watch her hands work. There was a large stone bowl in which her mother was mixing gum arabic and soot. All that remained to be added was the water Khayzuran had brought, and the final product would be an ink as dark as the night. She placed the jug on the table beside the bowl and lifted the lid. The jug was still more than three quarters full despite the pace she had been running at. She heaved a sigh of relief and stepped back, letting her mother fill up a cup and pour it into the bowl.
"Salsal, get me the ink pots," she said, without looking up from the bowl. She used a wooden spoon to mix everything until it turned into a thin, murky liquid.
Khaya loved ink. It was so simple to make and yet so important. Khayzuran had tried explaining it to Ghatrif, but he had simply shaken his head and said, "Sister, you think too much. Ink is ink, nothing more."
She stepped aside so her sister had way to give their mother the ink pots. As she did, her mother looked up at her and gave her a curious look. Her eyes were deep set, though she was not old, and her skin was much darker than Khaya's. Her eyes were the same though, an uncommonly light shade of hazel. Rare and beautiful.
"Khayzuran, come help with these," their mother said.
She poured the fresh ink into the pots, which Khaya then capped and sealed with soft glue. Once all the pots were filled and put away, Khaya wiped sweat off her brow and sighed.
"I'm going home," she called out behind her as she stepped outside.
She made her way down the road back the way she came, passing by the same shops and the same vendors, feeling the gazes of people on her back, and finally turned into the alley that led to her house. Aside from the market road most of Jorash was quiet and tranquil, with only the occasional child, goat, or chicken causing a ruckus. Their own goat, named Qadi, was probably wreaking havoc at the moment, given that he hadn't eaten for a whole day.
The alley eventually widened into a larger clearing, at one end of which was her house. The door stood ajar, though Khaya was sure she had closed it after tying up Qadi. She frowned, approaching the door with a certain degree of caution.
"Hello?" she called out, but there was no answer. With delicate steps she slid through the crack in the door and shut it with her foot soundlessly. There appeared to be no one at home after all. She heaved a sigh, not sure if it was in relief or exhaustion, and set to lighting a few candles. Their house was always dark, even during the day. Her mother always kept the curtains drawn.
From a drawer in the room she shared with Salsal, Khaya pulled out her most prized possession: a collection of stories bound together haphazardly. The sheets were brown and tattered along the edges now, but Khaya cherished them all the same. She flopped onto the bed and began reading. Each story mesmerised, with tales of djinn and princesses far and wide, it took her to every corner of Arabia and back. With each sentence the light in her eyes grew brighter, her fingers clenched in excitement and anticipation for what was coming next.
The text was written in a continuous cursive with fine black ink, far superior to her mother's ink. Beneath the candle light the papers cast shadows upon each other, making the bundle look bigger than it was. Khayzuran could only wish so.
Sometimes she showed the stories to Ghatrif, who was the only other one of them who could read, but he did not seem particularly moved, as she did. Khaya often grumbled about her brother's lack of interest in the written word. It was a waste for a man to be able to read, but never to do so. She wished her mother could read instead of Ghatrif. Then she wouldn't need Khaya's help with transcribing formulas for her ink, or reading ones that others had sent, or writing material lists. It would be a relief to Khaya, to say the least.
She had volunteered to teach her mother a year ago, but she had shaken her head and smiled.
"I have you, don't I?"
Khaya pulled off her headscarf, folded it, and put it away in a drawer.
Ж
A shrill whimpering sound pulled Khayzuran from her thoughts. She jerked her chin up towards the curtain drawn over the entrance to her room, listening before she made a move to stand up. It came again seconds later. In haste she stuffed the bundle of Hadiths back into the drawer, leaving her papyrus and ink on the table. She swished the curtain aside and headed for the back door without waiting for another cry. It was Qadi, she was sure of it.
Her hands were balled into fists when she emerged from the door, her eyes wide with worry. At first she saw nothing, but the sound of Qadi's whine cut through the silence like a blade through water. Khayzuran bounded to the post he was tied to, behind a pile of firewood. Her bare feet hit the ground with force, raising dust clouds. Qadi lay on the ground, his legs shaking and his eyes darting around with fear. Khayzuran fell to the ground, her knees bruising from the impact through her thin sirwal. Before laying a hand on Qadi she looked him over. Her fingers shook but her eyes were focused, inspecting each area for any signs of injury.
"Qadi, tell me what is wrong," she mumbled. His panic seemed to dull at the sound of her voice, though his body was still shaking intermittently. Khayzuran's hands skimmed his side and she let out a grunt of frustration.
"Khayzuran?"
She jumped at the sound of her brother's voice from behind, then stood up. Her sirwal was stained, but she took no notice of it.
"Ghatrif," she stammered, "I don't know what's wrong with Qadi. He is moaning and flailing and I just-" her voice caught in her throat. She hated saying it, but now was not the time to preserve her dignity.
"I don't know what to do."
Ghatrif was already moving, stepping around Khayzuran and approaching the goat. By its head he spotted blood. Just as he bent down to have a closer look, Khayzuran sucked in a sharp breath. She took a careful step forward and placed a gentle hand on her brother's shoulder.
"Ghatrif, don't move."
Ghatrif's body stilled and he held his breath. He turned his chin to the left, his hand hovering just over Qadi's still-quivering body. Khayzuran slowed her breaths till she wasn't sure if she was breathing at all.
Before them was a snake, poised to strike. Its hiss filled the clearing, making Qadi utter another pained sound. Khayzuran's face contorted in fear, her lips pressed together so hard she couldn't feel them. The snake had crystal clear eyes, like water, and golden scales. Its head was as big as Khayzuran's palm. As it shifted, its scales glowed softly, almost beautifully. Khayzuran could see the muscles pulsing and contracting beneath its skin. She had never seen such a monster in all her life, and she was sure Ghatrif hadn't either. He was still in the same half-crouch, though his hand was resting on Qadi now. His eyes focused on the serpent's, and he drew in an audible breath.
"Sister, step-"
Before he could finish the sentence, the snake hissed violently, baring its fangs, and pulled back to strike. Without thinking, Khayzuran stepped forward and pushed her brother back with her hand.
"Ghatrif run!" she managed to yell, before putting her foot out to trample the snake. She brought her foot down with an audible thud.
It was over too quickly for Ghatrif's eyes to register anything. One moment his sister stood above him, blocking out the sun, her foot firmly planted on the snake, and the next she was on the ground, the snake's golden body curling around her leg.
Ghatrif screamed and scrambled to his feet, stumbling as he stepped back. Khayzuran was grunting and groaning with effort against the snake's hold, but in vain. Ghatrif's eyes darted from her to Qadi, and then to the snake.
Khayzuran heard her brother shriek, but barely registered the sound as she felt the snake's hold growing tighter and tighter around her leg. She arched her back and thrashed, but the snake remained fixed in place. She heard it hiss, and saw its head lift above her, blocking out the sun for a moment. The snake's clear eyes met hers, and it was as if she was looking through glass into nothing. It struck, sinking its wet fangs into her shoulder through the flimsy material of her qamis. A pained cry escaped her lips, and her body writhed. She felt the warm blood soak through her qamis, then wet her hair. The snake's weight was making it harder to breath. From somewhere behind, Khayzuran heard her brother cry her name.
Don't waste your voice, Ghatrif. I'm already dead.
The serpent finally pulled back, causing more blood to ooze from the wound. Khayzuran was losing sensation in her legs, and after a moment she found she couldn't move at all. It was the poison.
The sky above Khayzuran was bright and cloudless. She felt cold.
She closed her eyes.
XXXX
DISCLAIMER: Some events and actions portrayed in this book are not always correct in the view of Islam and should not be considered as correct just because the characters are Muslim.
This book is suitable for all readers and does not require extensive knowledge of the Islamic faith.