Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  Ashallah closed her eyes in frustration as the imam chanted over and again. Even here, they observe the call to prayer, she told herself.

  Ashallah opened her eyes. She saw the crowds amongst the tents disperse. Many headed to the large white pavilions that bore the sun and seven stars, the symbol of the House of Jaha. Those that did not file into the temples to pray collected outside their tents on prayer mats to face

  Rilah. Within moments, all were on their knees, bowing their heads and chanting. Even the women.

  “Why do you not pray?”

  Ashallah turned to find Darya behind a clothesline, a single sheet between them flapping in the breeze. In her hand, she held her sack, which now bulged with goods. How long she had been there, staring, Ashallah could not say.

  “What?” Ashallah asked.

  “Why don’t you pray?” Darya repeated. “I understand that Yasem is full of the devout. Even the Shadya, for all their insolent beliefs, stop at midday to pray alongside men.”

  “I am neither a man nor Shadya, so I don’t know why you would have any expectation of me to pray.”

  “Do you not believe in Jaha, the Creator of All, Master of Heaven and Earth?”

  Ashallah chuckled. “Keep speaking like that, and soon you’ll sound like an imam yourself.”

  “What would be the matter with that?”

  Ashallah gave Darya a queer look. She is as innocent as Orzala. Either that or she is dense.

  “You sound ignorant of the Scrolls of Jaha, and the codes of His House. You mustn’t presume to challenge things you know little about.”

  Then Ashallah spotted a tinge, a quality foreign to Darya, and an emotion she never expected: anger.

  “You are the one who presumes too much,” Darya replied curtly. “I am well-versed in the Scrolls of Jaha, and the codes of how to worship in His temples. ‘From days on end, on mountains high, I will speak praises of Him, I will declare His glory.’”

  “You can quote the Scrolls. Good. Then tell me, how is it you can pray to a temple, bow down when an imam tells you, all in the name of a religion and a state that would sooner see you hang than let you speak out against a man?”

  Darya raised a brow, but her stare remained on Ashallah. Her eyes failed to blink. “My beliefs in Jaha have never relied on men. Ever. Their sins are their own. I believe in the Master and the Glory because my beliefs are of sound mind and body. Perhaps, in my youth, some forced them upon me. Now I am a woman capable of choice. And I chose to believe.”

  “A bold statement,” Ashallah reflected, a bit impressed. “Some of the men down there would say it is too bold. If ever you were to make such a statement before them, you would be stoned to death.”

  “I don’t fear them.” Darya strolled to the edge of the roof to watch those below bow and pray. “I don’t even hate them. Such men have my pity.”

  “Pity?”

  “Yes. Pity. The masses are, shall we say, weak-minded. Like a herd led to slaughter. They are not like you. Or me. So many have been told since birth what to believe. They do not even know why they believe what they do. Just that they should.

  “But for all their faults, men do possess the ability to change, to embrace a better way of life. Men even possess the ability to treat women as equals.”

  Ashallah gripped her torso as she leaned over and laughed. “I think you’ve spent too much time in that dreamscape of yours.”

  “I beg to differ.” Rahim said as he ascended the stairs behind Darya. “Not all of us with a cock between our legs envy those who can bear children.” He turned to Darya. “We’re ready.”

  Ashallah looked to Rahim, then Darya. Darya met her look. “We have a way to travel. It would be best if we left now. Without drawing attention to ourselves.”

  Ashallah lifted her chin, raising her head higher. “I know you intend to show me more truths. I want you to know my resolve remains. I refuse to dress as a submissive woman.”

  Darya frowned. This time, Ashallah noted there was a sense of acceptance in her eyes, even if they retained some frustration.

  “Rahim...” Darya started.

  “I don’t need your gift of dreamscape to know what you’re going to say next.” At that, Rahim removed his shirt, revealing the turquoise stripes across his chest. He tossed it to Ashallah and then reached for the drawstring of his trousers.

  “What are you doing?” Ashallah asked.

  “If you refuse to dress in a niqab or a burqa or an abaya, then we have no choice than to dress you like a man.”

  “Then what will you wear?”

  Rahim looked to Darya, who reached into her sack to remove the hermit’s mask. She tossed it to Rahim, followed by her sack, before facing Ashallah. “You are not the only one who knows what it’s like to hide oneself.”

  In the hour that followed, Ashallah wove between the tents of Yago, trailing behind Darya and Rahim. They had eventually convinced her to sport a man’s scarf across her face. Ridiculous, she thought, for few men would do so unless a sandstorm were approaching. Nonetheless, Ashallah obliged, with her scarf drawing little attention to herself or their group.

  It was not until she spotted the same tent of a camel trader - with its distinct green tassels and banners embroidered with images of white camels - that she stopped.

  “We’ve been here before,” she said.

  “Yes, Rahim.” Darya said. “I thought you said you knew the way.”

  “I do. I did.” Rahim snapped. “It’s that damn scribe. He changes the location of his tent at random, to avoid being targeted. His paranoia will be his downfall.”

  “It’ll be ours as well. No one expects a hermit in a mask to be among people for long. Let alone a turquoise. And yet I sense our presence is being noticed. I can feel it.”

  So could Ashallah. Perhaps it was her unfamiliarity with Yago, or her powers of observation from years of warrior training, that made her suspicious. No one in particular stuck out in her mind. Still, she could feel her sense of urgency growing.

  “Wait!” Rahim exclaimed.

  “You found him?” Darya asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why did you say something?”

  “That papyrus trader over there. No scribe would stray far from one. He must be close.”

  Although not much further by comparison, the one they sought was hardly close. Another twenty minutes passed before Rahim recognized the banner outside a tent in the northern part of the town. It bore a number of written languages, including Dylian, to read:

  Enter those in need of the wisdom of words.

  Ashallah scoffed. She thought little of the learned. Some of the midnight warriors of Yasem were women from noble families, who had taught their kin the art of literature. Such academics in her ranks were often the last to join in fighting and the first to die in the field of battle. She had little hope that a man of learning would be able to help their cause. Nonetheless, she ventured into the tent after Darya and Rahim.

  The scribe’s pavilion was much more accommodating than the exterior would lead one to imagine. Tent poles supported each of the pavilion’s seven points and held oil lamps that cast a soft glow throughout. Thick rugs lined every inch of the floor, with padded chairs and pillows spread out at intervals. Even more impressive were the piles of scrolls which lined the better part of the canvas wall, numbering several hundred. Rahim removed his mask as Ashallah pulled off her scarf so that the two of them could take in the scent of aged paper.

  “You expect us to believe that this tent was moved?” Ashallah asked.

  “Well, perhaps,” Rahim replied apprehensively. “I mean, it could be done.”

  “Yes, in days. Not hours.”

  Rahim’s mouth curled into a wry grin. Darya laughed.

  “Just a second,” said a man.

  A moment later, from a hidden tent flap, an elderly man appeared. Immaculately trimmed in every way, he had an air of a nobleman rather than a scribe. His green kufi hat, velvet robe, and soft-le
ather shoes were all spotless, as though purchased that day. His beard was neat and his skin had a light application of oil, helping to give him the look of a man much younger than his gray hair suggested.

  The man paused upon seeing Rahim. “You made your way back. With your companions.”

  “I apologize for the delay. I lost my way.”

  “No need for apologies. The way to my pavilion is difficult for a reason. Although I cannot move my pavilion often, my neighbors have more freedom to do so. I make sure they are well-compensated to move their tents so as to throw off those who may want to find me for less than scrupulous reasons.”

  “It makes for a poor way to stay in business,” Ashallah added.

  The scribe looked at her, seemingly impressed. “Yes, it would. If I was only a scribe relying on the work of those of Yago.” He extended his hand to the tea table off to the side. “May I offer any of you some tea?”

  “For my brother and I, yes.” Darya answered. “We need its spices to stay awake. But for her, no.”

  “I will take a drink,” Ashallah countered.

  “No, you won’t. You must drink only water with your meal.” Darya nodded to the scribe, who bowed his head and knelt beside his tea table. From underneath, he produced a plate topped with a knife. Darya set it on a large, flat pillow. From her bulging sack, she produced a loaf of black bread, a few strips of salted camel meat, a wheel of aged cheese and a handful of olives.

  “Sit and eat,” she insisted.

  Ashallah obliged, however, her eyes never left the scribe. He continued looking after her, as did Rahim, as the two sipped their tea.

  Ashallah reduced the plate of food to crumbs. Believing she had finished, she made to rise. Darya ushered her to remain seated as she produced two meat pies, a small clay tray of hummus, pickled carrots and candied dates. Ashallah consumed those as well.

  “Satisfied?” Darya asked.

  “Very,” Ashallah responded. “I’m even a bit uncomfortable.”

  “Good. You can pause then. When you have a bit more room in you, let me know so you can eat again.”

  “I suspect the food is for my energy later,” Ashallah guessed. “So when will you tell me why I am here? With him?” she asked as she nodded to the scribe.

  “He will show us the way to Yago’s catacombs. There, a few tunnels lead to caverns, a vast expanse that provides the town’s water... and the necessary spring for your next dreamscape.”

  Ashallah emitted a sound something like a moan and a sigh. “Oh, please, not that again.”

  “It will not be like before,” Darya promised. “Your first dreamscape was a shock. Your second, admittedly, was too sudden. For that, I hold myself responsible and I am sorry. That is why we are doing all this preparation, to ensure that your third session will be different. It will require much from you, yes, and you will find your body and mind tested. However, when it is over, you will come away from it stronger and wiser, so much more than you could ever imagine.”

  “My sister knows what she speaks,” Rahim added. “The first two sessions readied your spirit for what is to come.”

  Ashallah knew not what to say. As a warrior, she feared no pain or opponent. The prospect of dismemberment or death had become a constant for her. The dreamscape sessions were an entirely matter altogether though. They altered her sense of reality, complete jarring her memories by infusing others. With such new thoughts from various minds came all their emotions, ranging from bliss to hope to fear to sorrow. The latter were foreign to Ashallah. Although not afraid of the prospect of dreamscape per se, she was wary of the effects another session would have on her.

  If the moment of silence betrayed Ashallah’s otherwise stoic demeanor, Rahim and the scribe did not perceive it. Darya, however, brushed the top of Ashallah’s hand ever so slightly. She offered no words. Just a moment – a sympathetic look – from those hazel eyes of hers.

  The routine chant of the imam raised all their eyes. The scribe looked to Darya.

  “The men and women of Yago will be at prayer within moments,” the scribe said as he readied a pack with quills, inkwells, and rolls of camel skins. “I can expect no visitors. Now is the best possible time.”

  Darya stood. She and Rahim stepped to the edge of the pavilion, ushering Ashallah to join them. Ashallah did so as the scribe approached the rear of the tent, disappearing momentarily as he stepped behind a shelf of scrolls. From there, a set of hinges creaked. The scribe peeked his head from behind the shelf, waving. Rahim stepped forward first, followed by Darya then Ashallah.

  A two-by-two foot door laid propped open on the floor. One at a time, the four descended into a pitch-black room. Instantaneously, Ashallah’s senses heightened. She felt the puddles and clay beneath her feet. She heard the way her companions’ breathing echoed off the walls, which tipped her that they were of limestone. Her sense of smell and taste alerted her that the underground path she was to travel led to a wellspring, the very lifeblood of Yago.

  “Do you need a torch?” asked the scribe.

  “No,” Darya answered. “Just lead the way. We will follow.”

  The path led through stone-lined walls before the echoes changed. Ashallah smelled a change in the air too and knew that the catacombs were near. By the time they reached walls stacked high with bones, they had waded knee-deep into brackish water. Their journey through the underground caverns of the dead ceased with them waist-deep and shivering. Ashallah could hear the chattering of Darya’s teeth, but neither she nor Rahim nor the scribe made any complaint. They pressed on, so Ashallah followed.

  The water they traversed became cooler still. The echoes of their breathing grew faint as the heights above them rose. Soon Ashallah felt steps beneath her feet, lifting her and her companions from the cold. Then she felt land and heat. The air is dry, she realized. We are moving away from the water source. Toward what?

  Her eyes had adjusted completely. In the darkness, she saw all. The scribe, although sure-footed, appeared to be moving by memory of a trail he had taken hundreds of time before. Darya moved with confidence as well, inspired by some gift still foreign to Ashallah. Rahim, for his warrior prowess, groped at the darkness with one hand as he held a sash connected to his sister with the other.

  Their journey through the underground continued until they came upon an anomaly in their darkness: a single shaft of light. Like a razor of the sun cutting through the black, it shone as a singular white stroke. The scribe paused, his hand extended toward them to stop their progress.

  “Is she ready?” he asked.

  Through the darkness, Ashallah felt Darya’s hand in her own. She looked down to find Darya cradling her fingers, the way a mother does when about to coax a child.

  “She is,” Darya replied.

  “I am,” Ashallah added, not knowing whether she spoke the truth or not.

  “I will stand by,” the scribe said as he unfurled his pack and began to remove his tools.

  “As will I,” said Rahim. “In case you need me, sister.”

  “Thank you,” Darya replied. “But Asha and I will be fine.”

  With that, their dreamscape began.

  All erupted into a blur for Ashallah. Darya reached out to her. Hand in hand, the two strode to the shaft of light, their steps abating as they drew near. Darya, caution spiking, held back. Ashallah, noting her apprehension, offered a firm and comforting squeeze of her hand.

  The two of them stopped only feet from the light. Ashallah had never seen such a spectacle before. It reminded her of the tales her ommah would tell of Rilah, of its many palaces of polished limestone that glistened like walls of white diamonds in the sun. Such was the light before her, a venerable glowing column, a ray from the heavens.

  Darya dropped Ashallah’s hand as she approached the shaft. She circled it once, studying the shaft as a general reads a battlefield or a captain takes in the sea. She circled it a second time, in which she traced the outline of light on the floor with her foot. At the third cir
cling, she reached toward the line she had traced. Her fingers dug into the sand to find an edge. She struggled to lift it. She found the object failed to budge. Ashallah stood opposite of her to lift the object from the other side. Dense and a few inches thick, the round body was difficult to handle. However, with their combined effort, Ashallah felt the disc move upward. She and Darya tried lifting it again. The second time the disc rose up and stabilized as the hinges beneath it clicked into place. The center of the disc bulged upward, as if a convex shield laid on its back. Ashallah stepped away as she watched the sand on the disc slide to the sides and fall away, revealing the bronze sheen beneath.

  It was then, with the parting of the grains, that the brilliance around them was exposed. The shaft of light reflected off the convex disc to illuminate the high walls around them. Rows of calligraphy came to life, stretching to the ceiling thirty feet above, as their black ink reflected a brilliant sheen. While Ashallah did not recognize the written characters, she could not help but stare at them for all their curves and lines. They were hypnotic to look upon, entrancing to consider. She wondered what they said, who wrote them and why.

  So much I do not know.

  “Asha.”

  Ashallah saw that Darya was beside her, extending her hand.

  “Are you ready for your next dreamscape?” Darya asked.

  Ashallah looked to the calligraphy all around them. The letters, while still a mystery, appeared to move. No, Ashallah thought. They cannot. It is not possible.

  She looked back to Darya, who saw the hesitation spread across her face.

  “Just stare into my eyes. Take my hand.”

  Ashallah, in a rare leap of faith, did just that.

  ***

  As though granules in a sandstorm, images rushed all around and past Ashallah, each one a memory from distant past brought to life. She caught only glimpses of them, recognizing only the outline of figures in various situations. One image that flashed by showed two opponents locked in swordplay, while another showed a man and woman in a loving embrace. Ashallah could make neither sense nor reason of what she saw. She could only assume that it was all connected.