Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  Ashallah looked upon her. She felt a stirring within her, an unknown emotion. It was far different from the times she witnessed her midnight sisters in mourning or pain following a battle or the loss of a fellow soldier. The wound she witnessed was not fresh. It was a scar. One that would not heal. A pain from the past, one that would continue to hurt long after the night had passed.

  Ashallah crossed the cave to sit next to Darya. She stared at her first, and then placed her had on her knee. Darya turned into Ashallah to dig her face into her shoulder. Startled, Ashallah remained frozen. Besides her sister and mother, no other woman had ever confided in her as Darya did just then. Her tears wetted the skin of her shoulder. Ashallah did not mind. She felt oddly comforted as well, somehow won over by Darya’s vulnerability.

  She lifted Darya’s head from her shoulder. She gazed into her eyes. Bright green they were, they dazzled. Ashallah raised a hand to her veil, to tug at it.

  Darya’s hand met hers. “Don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is not right.”

  “I am not a man. I can look upon you. It is acceptable.”

  “What you, what we want, is not acceptable.”

  “By whose authority? You said so yourself. The Law of Jaha is of men, not us.”

  Ashallah pressed her lips against Darya’s niqab, to feel her underneath. Her breath, much like her scent, was sweet.

  “But you don’t... understand,” Darya started.

  “Tell me.”

  “I am not even... Like you. I am like my brother. I am a turquoise.”

  “And I am midnight,” Ashallah responded. “Like no one.”

  Ashallah leaned in again but stopped when Darya stood. Ashallah was about to press her further when the steps of one on gravel caught her attention. She straightened but Darya rose her hand. Rahim, dappled with sweat, turned the corner into the cave.

  “Brother!” Darya exclaimed. “Are you well?”

  “I’m fine. But we must leave.”

  “Questions later.”

  Rahim took his sister by the hand to draw her from the cave. Ashallah, in haste, followed.

  “What is the matter?” Darya asked.

  “The scouts. They were closer than we thought. We need to hurry.”

  “How long ago did they...”

  “I spotted them north of the dry riverbed. A band of scouts trying to track us. I hurried back to our fire, and then ran east, making sure my tracks were easy to follow. I made it to a rocky slope, where I went north, to make them think that we had turned back. I then hid until they passed, before coming here. But then...”

  Rahim glanced back at Ashallah. Ashallah caught his gaze in hers. His look was not to ensure that she was still following. It had a pained expression.

  Rahim looked away.

  “What?” Ashallah asked.

  “Just keep up,” Rahim insisted.

  “Something happened.”

  “It is nothing.”

  “After you thought you lost them. Something happened. You were off your guard.”

  Rahim released his sister’s hand. He swung around to face Ashallah, his eyes ablaze like blue flames. “Are you deaf? I said stop!”

  “Rahim!” Darya exclaimed.

  Rahim stared at Ashallah. Ashallah, never one to be intimidated, stared back at him. Never mind that he was turquoise. In her mind, he was also a male and Ashallah refused to show any fear before one – turquoise, man or otherwise.

  Then it dawned on Ashallah. Not necessarily due to Rahim’s behavior, but because of the hour.

  “Only a chosen few could track you at this time of night. Either a janissary, which is unlikely as the nearest ones went off to protect the vizier. Perhaps one of my sisters-in-arms. A midnight warrior.”

  Rahim remained stoic. He did not flinch.

  “How many?”

  “Asha...” Darya said.

  “Do not call me that!” Ashallah fired back. She turned to Rahim again. “One?”

  Rahim lowered his gaze.

  “Two?”

  Again, Rahim averted his eyes.

  “Three? Four?”

  Rahim looked up at her.

  Four, Ashallah realized. He killed four of my midnight warriors.

  Ashallah’s mind raced with the possibilities. He is skilled in combat. Superior to me in every fighting art and weapons mastery. The code of midnight demands I avenge my sisters. But he saved me. He needs me. For what? I still do not know.

  Her thoughts were but an instant. They ceased, coming to a sudden end, with a touch upon her temple. Soft fingers they were, their caress everlasting. Ashallah, at once light-headed, turned to find Darya’s hazel eyes staring back at her. Followed by a curtain of darkness.

  Chapter 14

  Rahim looked so young.

  He stood shoulder to shoulder with others like him. Line upon line of turquoise. Many had the sapphire-colored eyes Rahim did. Only a few had his blonde hair or the blue-colored streaks across his chest. More had skin of blue hues throughout their bodies. Even more had dark features. Only those toward the front, where it seemed the most seasoned stood, had the grotesque features Ashallah had seen in the catacombs. Teeth like razors. Fingernails sharpened like blades. As well as scars all along their bodies, each a testament to either intense training sessions or past engagements.

  Seven lines of eleven males stood at attention, their eyes forward, and their backs straight. Seventy-seven in all.

  A horn sounded. Then from the shadows of the cliff before them, a call rang out. It was in an ancient tongue, one spoken in a firm tone.

  The seventy-seven responded. In unison, they swung their arms and bent their knees. They all took on a defensive stance, before raising their rear legs and stepping forward to punch. A flurry of kicks and hand strikes followed. Along with blocking motions and stances. Back and forth they moved. Then side to side. Each movement was precise, the result of months of discipline. Every motion was in unison, reflecting not only practice but also a bond between them all.

  Before the seventy-seven, on the precipice that overlooked their training yard, sat a jinni. Even seated he was nearly eye-level to those males and females around him. His skin was black, not like ash, but polished, as if a prized piece of ebony. Script –written calligraphy more beautiful than one could ever imagine – ran down the length of his arms, across his back and torso, even a few phrases on his cheeks. All the lettering glowed bright, a golden hue that was pleasing to study.

  The majority of the crowd around the jinni was regal in appearance, dressed in fine silks and jewels, with each dignitary accompanied by a handful of janissaries. Had they been any others, they might have displayed approval or awe at the display of seventy-seven turquoise. However, as royalty, they carried an air of the superfluous, so that no sight or spectacle seemed worthy of their praise or admiration. Still, they looked on, watching the exercises of the turquoise with feigned interest.

  None in the audience around the jinni was extraordinary. Except one. A girl, an adolescent. Unlike the other women and girls, her clothing was practical – a simple beige abaya dress, with a black niqab veil covering the lower part of her face. Only her eyes were noteworthy, as they were green, nearly glowing.

  More importantly, the girl stood apart from the crowd not for her garb but for her proximity. She remained at the side of the jinni from the start of the fighting display. The jinni, for his part, sat unfazed, his face as much as stone as the lion statues that ringed the yard below. Though for all his cold-hearted presence, the girl seemed oddly at ease around him. She took turns watching the yard below and glancing at the jinni. Her eyes scanned the script on his arms, and with each of her gazes, the calligraphy on his body shone a little brighter.

  The exercises ended, the finality marked by the bows of the seventy-seven to the jinni. The regal audience responded with polite applause and nods before dispersing, leaving the jinni and the adolescent beside him. Whether or not the performance pleased the
jinni could not be ascertained, for he continued sitting, his gaze unflinching. It was not until the turquoise in the yard left that he finally rose, towering over the girl by his side by more than three lengths.

  The girl craned her neck to look up at the creature, her green eyes wide and full of anticipation. Then, unexpectedly, she reached for his hand.

  “Quasim,” the girl whispered.

  Ashallah awoke to faint flute music. She sat up and made to rise, but her feet were without balance. As soon as they reached the floor, she fell.

  Ashallah turned on her back. Her head spun, not from the fall, but from her sleep. A deep sleep, one she did not remember laying down to take. Then she recalled her last memory before her slumber.

  “Darya,” she said aloud.

  She lifted herself onto her elbow before reaching for the bed. She propped herself up to scan her surroundings. Aside from the bed, there was a chamber pot and an oil lamp on an end table. A lone window across from her opened to the exterior of another building. From the street below, music continued to stream into her room, the singular feature that told Ashallah that others were near.

  Ashallah gripped the bedpost to rise. She stood for several minutes, shifting her weight from one foot to the next until she felt confident enough to move. With slight trepidation, she walked from her bed to the door, which opened to a narrow staircase.

  By the time Ashallah made it downstairs, enough of her strength had returned so that she no longer felt the need for support. She stepped into the street to find a chill in the air, as well as the sights and sounds of a midnight bazaar.

  Ashallah meandered past the street vendors and pedestrians of this unknown village, searching for some indication of where she was. All those she encountered spoke in tongues she was unfamiliar with and wore nomadic garb, suggesting they were visitors here themselves. In fact, aside from the building she had exited and a few she had passed, the whole town appeared to be a series of tents and pavilions. Their conditions ranged from dusty patches sewn together to grand palatial structures of finely spun clothe complete with awnings, braziers and other seemingly permanent accommodations.

  Although no men walked the streets, the women Ashallah saw wore abaya dresses and many covered their hair. All were conservative in dress and nature, hardly her type. Nonetheless, Ashallah found herself desiring several of them, as days had passed since she had laid with a woman. She continued to weave her way through the narrow passageways of this tent village until finally more alluring attractions caught her attention. Women in loincloths, with shawls draped over their breasts. Painted eyelids and lips. Bejeweled ears. Oiled skin, that glistened in torchlight, appearing alluring and seductive. None of it went unnoticed by Ashallah. She desired it all.

  Amidst this hedonistic display, Ashallah found the unexpected: Darya.

  Dressed in her same niqab veil and abaya dress, Darya appeared out of place in the sea of flesh. Ashallah ducked under the canvas awning of a pleasure tent, before peering out to study her. Darya seemed not to have seen Ashallah.

  Ashallah watched as Darya approached a few harlots. For a moment, a sense of jealousy welled in Ashallah, coupled with dread. Both feelings passed, however, when the harlots caressed Darya’s arms. Darya stared at their fingers, seeming annoyed rather than aroused, and then continued to talk to them. The harlots, taken aback, looked at each other before moving on to more promising pedestrians and potential clientele. Darya, undeterred, approached yet another set of harlots, then others.

  She is questioning them, Ashallah realized, as Darya turned to scan the rows of tents. Darya peeked inside a select few, in search of something. Or someone.

  As Darya continued down the street, Ashallah approached the two harlots she had turned away.

  “What is your desire?” one of the women cooed.

  “To know what that veiled woman asked you,” Ashallah replied.

  “Oh, her. I think you will find her a difficult prospect.”

  “We, on the other hand, are more cooperating,” said the other harlot as she brushed Ashallah’s forearm.

  “If she didn’t desire your services, then what did she want?” Ashallah pressed.

  “She was looking for one of our clients, I believe,” responded the first. “Her brother.”

  Ashallah nodded, not waiting for them to say more before she went on after Darya. Rahim, a warrior, here? The thought puzzled her. Why? Does he have the same desires I do? Is he satisfied with visits to pleasure tents? He is a warrior, after all.

  She pressed on through the lines of tents, searching for Darya’s abaya dress. She turned a corner, thinking that she had spotted her. Only when she looked, the hazel-eyed was not there. Ashallah then ducked into another tent. Incense and hookah smoke hit her nose instantly, as laughs and raucous conversation struck her ears. She scanned the hazy interior, finding a sea of hedonism, but no Darya.

  “You!”

  Ashallah swung around to find Rahim in a loincloth, bare-chested as he emerged from the arms of two harlots. Unsteady on his feet, he appeared inebriated though somehow remained focused on Ashallah. The turquoise strips across his torso seemed inflamed, not from disease but from rage.

  “I have some words for you,” Rahim yelled.

  Other patrons in the pleasure tent prodded him. Ashallah, having not forgotten their last conversation, was in no mood for antics. “Your sister is looking for you,” was all she said.

  “Let her look. She’ll soon find me here, with you.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “After what you did, can you blame me?”

  “What I did? Do you forget yourself?”

  “Not likely. I’m standing right here.”

  That last comment elicited roars of laughter from the tent crowd. Embarrassed, Ashallah reached for Rahim’s arm. “We are leaving.”

  “Are we now? We’re going to have some fun, aren’t we?”

  “You’re not my type.”

  “Why? Because I have a cock? Because if you were with me, you’d actually have to lie on your back and enjoy it? Tell me, what is it? Do you even know? Do you have a type? What about her?” Rahim pointed to a black-haired concubine. “Or her? That brown-eyed one? Or my sister? You desire her?”

  “Enough!” Ashallah grabbed his bicep and held it hard, to make certain that he could not pull away. Although he tried. After two attempts, Rahim drew his curved knife. He held the edge to Ashallah’s throat.

  “I’ll do it!” Rahim threatened.

  “Go on,” Ashallah taunted him.

  “Rahim!”

  Rahim glanced to his side to find his sister, having just ducked beneath the tent flap. Others had gathered from outside too, so that the crowd within had grown. The additional people seemed to thicken the already hazy air, so that Ashallah felt as though fingers were closing in on her neck. She remained defiant, though, not wanting to show any discomfort or weakness before Rahim.

  Rahim, for his part, seemed unconcerned with putting on airs and graces. Beads of sweat had collected to stream down his brow. In the presence of his sister, his eyes darted. He swallowed his breath. His drunken stupor continued to make him unsteady. These are not the actions of a soldier or warrior, Ashallah told herself. This is not who Rahim is. Darya was searching for him for a reason. Something is wrong.

  Ashallah, in an uncharacteristic move, stepped away from Rahim. It was an action not of fear or pity. She did it not for Rahim. It was a concession for Darya.

  Rahim studied Ashallah, staring into her eyes, suspecting that Ashallah’s motion was not one he should take lightly. He lowered his blade before looking over his shoulder at Darya.

  “She is a mistake.” Rahim turned back to Ashallah. “You aren’t worth the sacrifice. We could have escaped, into the darkness, had you not been dead weight, a mere mortal.”

  Rahim threw his curved knife past Ashallah. It struck the tent pole behind her. Ashallah grimaced. She leaned to step up to Rahim, but her eyes fell to Darya first.


  Darya’s expression carried the same sense of sadness and hurt that Rahim did. It was subtle. Almost too much for anyone else to notice.

  Ashallah relented.

  Rahim, seeing that no one was moving as all were watching him, stormed out of the tent.

  “Are you going after him?” Ashallah asked.

  “In a minute,” Darya replied. “I’m just glad I found him for now, and that he is safe.”

  Ashallah pulled his curved blade from the wood of the tent pole. “What troubles him? Or you? And do not respond by putting me to sleep. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”

  Darya’s eyes perked. She is smiling beneath that veil, Ashallah knew. The same way Ommah or Orzala would.

  “Your questions and concerns are fair,” Darya said. “I was hoping that Rahim and I would be able to tell you together. It doesn’t appear that will happen, though.” Darya ushered Ashallah out of the pleasure tent. “Come.”

  The two weaved their way through the narrow corridors of the tents until the rows of canvas and animal hides began to thin. Once the ranks of temporary shelter lessened, Darya led Ashallah towards a small rise outside the town. A goat herder’s path weaved up the hill, to a clearing of mountain grass.

  “Will you join me?” Darya asked when they had found a patch of short grass.

  Ashallah’s heart leaped before she realized Darya was only asking her to sit. “Yes,” was all that she replied.

  Darya settled on the dew-covered blades. “Take a long look at all before you,” Darya said. “Tell me what you see. What it means to you.”

  Ashallah stared down at the sea of tents. Flames – from torches, braziers, cook fires and rings – cast light on all of it. Hues of orange and yellow danced, as did the shadows. Deeper shades – the violets, blues, and greens of daylight – appeared so dark as to be mistaken for blacks or grays. Lighter tones blended well with the soft light though, creating a feast of colors present only at that moment, midnight. As if to shine in approval of the dance of light below, the stars shined brighter than Ashallah had ever seen them before.