The Curse of Zohreh

by Sophie Masson

  ‘Thank you, sir. You will not regret it.’

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘It is Payem.’

  ‘Very well, Payem. We want to leave as quickly as possible, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Soheila. ‘You will leave quickly.’

  ‘Thank you, Payem.’

  Soheila managed a small smile, and hurried off on her task. She made the sign of the Truthteller – two fingers against her chest – and breathed a prayer to Lord Akamenia, Flame of the World, to protect her. She touched the little silken sachet of ashes at her heart, and whispered, ‘Soon, Zohreh, soon. The die is cast now.’

  It didn’t take long to find a suitable ship. The Eagle was a trim little dhow, painted blue, with a cargo of salt and cloth, a chugging, eager engine, and a cheerful captain named Hassan who seemed delighted to earn a little pocket money by taking on a few passengers. He bade Husam and Kareen welcome – and ignored Payem, for he was just a servant, after all – and rolled out a comfortable carpet for them to sit on. They were on their way.

  Seven

  The trip across the gulf was short and sweet, the sea glassy and smooth, and though Soheila’s stomach churned a little at the unaccustomed motion, a real sense of excitement filled her. Within two hours, the great shimmering white towers, the golden sands, turquoise harbour and gleaming glass buildings of the fabled desert city of Jumana the White appeared on the horizon.

  Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything quite as splendid as this city. Jumana the White was the richest city in all of the oil-rich kingdoms of Al Aksara, not only because of the black gold that had transformed the modest port into a great metropolis in the last fifty years, but because of its ancient trading networks. Indeed, it was fair to say Jumana was the richest city in all the lands of el ’Jisal. That much she knew from books. It’s one thing to read about something in a book, however, and quite another to see it. In its shimmering white beauty and glittering grandeur, it looked like an enchanted place, like something conjured by the powerful Jinn of the Lamp, in the old story of Aladdin. As the dhow glided towards its anchorage point on the harbour wall, the urchin Payem just kept staring, as if spellbound by the sight.

  But Kareen and Husam, not at all impressed – after all, both of them knew Jumana of old – bustled around getting all their bags together. During the voyage, Kareen Amar had managed to wash the carpet and dry it in the sun, and it was now safely rolled up in a hessian bag sold to them by kind Captain Hassan. Its workings would have to be fixed, but it should not be too difficult to find flying carpet doctors and mechanics in Jumana – the place attracted great craftsmen from everywhere, and there were many Mesomian refugees here.

  The wooden gangplank clattered onto the quay. Captain Hassan farewelled them, shook their hands, and accepted their thanks – and Husam’s extra banknote with a twinkling, but dignified, pleasure. ‘Good luck, and may the Light bless you, my friends,’ he said. ‘I think you will have a wonderful time in Jumana. It is one of the wonders of the world.’ He looked at Payem, bringing up the rear. ‘And you, boy – here, all your dreams can come true. You can go from rags to riches in a year, it is said, if you work hard enough. Perhaps next time I see you, you will have rings on your fingers and a fine suit on your back, and you will own a fleet of ships?’ He laughed uproariously, slapped Payem, not unkindly, on the back, and turned back to ordering his crew to unload.

  The quay was wide, very white and scrubbed, and the street that ran beside it was lined with large, graceful palm trees and bright shrubs. When you saw such lushness it was hard to remember Jumana was built directly on the desert sands, and that all its water was purified sea water. But they didn’t have much time to think about it, for just then a car drew up before them, in a rush and hiss of tyres. It was a big, gleaming black car, with a carving of a golden eagle prominent on its hood, like a figurehead on the prow of a ship. A tall, uniformed chauffeur got out. He was dressed in black and gold livery, with a golden eagle emblazoned on the left side of his chest. On his head was a snowy white cloth, with a thick black silk cord holding it in place, and on his hip, discreetly but unmistakeably, was a gun in a black leather holster. He looked impressive, but also rather like a character in a film, and his words did nothing to dispel that impression.

  ‘Good afternoon to our honoured guests. I am Omar al-Sayara, personal driver to Lord Abdullah al-Farouk,’ he said in a deep, resonant voice. ‘You are most welcome to Jumana.’ His face showed no reaction to the rather motley sight they presented; obviously, he’d been well briefed. ‘My master sends his apologies for not coming to meet you himself; he only just received your telegram. Please, sirs and ladies, step this way.’ He opened the car door with a flourish, and stood back to usher them in.

  Kareen Amar went in first. Just before Husam got into the car, out of the corner of his eye he saw Payem hovering, with a naked look of wistful longing on his face. An impulse of pity made him say to the driver, ‘Friend Omar, is there any work at your master’s palace?’

  Omar controlled his expression with an obvious effort. ‘Work, sir?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Omar,’ said Husam with a little chuckle, ‘it’s not for me – it’s for that ragamuffin over there. He helped us get our passage on the Eagle. And he’s come to Jumana looking for work.’

  ‘I happen to know the second cook is urgently looking for a kitchen boy,’ Omar allowed, with a glance at the boy. ‘What is the boy’s name? And where is he from?’

  ‘Payem,’ said Husam. ‘He’s from Parsari, but I think he might have Ameeratan blood too – he speaks the language quite well, if with an accent.’ He beckoned to Payem. ‘You didn’t have any particular work in mind, friend, when you said you wanted to obtain employment here?’

  A timid hope flared in the child’s face. He scuffed a battered shoe at the ground. ‘No, sir. I’m prepared to do anything.’

  ‘Well, this man says there’s a kitchen boy urgently wanted, in the palace of the al-Farouks.’

  ‘Oh, sir!’ said the boy, his thin face flushing, his pleading eyes on the imperturbable Omar. ‘I have done much of this kind of work, for my family. I would work very hard indeed, if you should give me this chance.’

  ‘It is not for me to give you the chance,’ said Omar, ‘but for the second cook. However, I am of the mind she will be grateful if you came.’ He looked down his aquiline nose at the boy. ‘Take the bus at the Gold Market stop,’ he went on, not unkindly, motioning to a bus stop in the distance, ‘and ask the driver for the al-Farouk corner. Everyone knows it. Go around to the back gate and ring the bell. Tell the gatekeeper I, Omar al-Sayara, sent you, and tell them you have come for the kitchen boy post.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much, sir,’ said Payem, humbly bending his head. Husam saw he still looked uncertain.

  ‘I’ll warrant you don’t have any fare for the bus, is that right?’

  Payem nodded. Husam pulled some coins out of his robe pocket and gave them to Payem. The boy flushed again, to the roots of his hair.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he murmured. ‘You are very kind.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Husam, ‘just realistic. Good luck, friend. And take care.’

  But he spoke to thin air. Payem was already haring off down the street, as fast as his skinny legs could carry him.

  ‘What were you doing,’ hissed Kareen to Husam, when he got into the car, ‘passing the time of day with that little thief?’

  ‘He’s no thief,’ said Husam crossly, ‘just a poor boy who needs a job.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Kareen, her eyes narrowing, ‘there’s something about that boy I don’t like at all, something sly and devious. You should have let him be.’

  Husam shrugged, unwilling to argue with the Jinn. She often got strange ideas in her head, and she had no notion of human pity. That was the way she was made, it couldn’t be helped. In any case, he’d done what he could for the boy. It was up to him now.

  Soheila fought her way on
to a crowded bus. As it jerked away from the stop, she thanked Akamenia under her breath for having looked after her so well. She was actually on her way to a job at her enemy’s house. Truly, the Lord Akamemia was great!

  As the bus rattled through the streets, though, her sense of exultation gave way to a growing sense of mixed awe and resentment. This city was so wealthy, so fortunate, so clean and shining. Though there was a lot of traffic, the size and sweep of the great broad streets meant it flowed well. She pressed her nose against the window, taking in all the sights they were passing: the Gold Market, under its vast, burnished blue and gold cupola of a roof; the gleaming white and clear glass towers that were homes to banks and businesses dealing in oil and gold and diamonds; the Cloth Markets, where silks and brocades and linens and wools of the finest quality shimmered in great streaming shining rivers from wooden stalls; the enormous Carpet Bazaar; the golden roofs and slender white towers of the many beautiful houses of worship; the vast shopping complexes of white stone and green glass; and the large white and pale pink and blue and yellow mansions lining the road.

  The streets were full of people enjoying the cool early-evening air. There were tall Ameeratan men in snowy-white robes and elegantly placed and folded headcloths, black or gold silk cords holding the cloth down; many of them were talking on tiny, jewel-like mobile phones that flashed in the sun. There were flocks of black-clad, gauze-veiled Ameeratan women, elegant high-heeled shoes protruding from under the hems of their sober long coats as they walked. There were flurries of little girls in colourful dresses, and little boys in noisy gangs. There were proud desert women, peering fiercely from behind gilded leather masks that made them look for all the world like hooded falcons; and tall black men and women from Aswadd with heavy gold jewellery around their necks. There were swaggering warlords from the far, wild tribal areas in the high mountains many weeks’ journey to the north-west, in clothes of savage elegance: woollen tunics and pants, black fur-trimmed cloaks, and powder-blue turbans. One or two of them even had the skin of wild beasts flung over their shoulders, the heads still grinning in death. There were haughty Parsarian noblemen; and tourists from the Rummiyan Empire, in light clothes and enormous hats, faces red from the sun, astonished eyes peering everywhere. There were stern-faced Pumujisal preachers in pure white robes and black cloaks; and traders from Faraona and Masrikhan in sharp suits and even sharper haircuts.

  But Soheila saw that there weren’t only the rich, the leisured and the comfortable here on display in the streets of Jumana: there were also crowds of henna-bearded men from the dirt-poor villages of Alhind, pushing carts, sweeping streets, tending gardens, working on roads, and unloading ships and vans. There were young girls in crisp maids’ uniforms, who from their features looked like they were from Jayangan, or the islands around it, hurrying on errands; and Mesomian refugees and other poor exiles from the four corners of the Mujisal world, trying to eke out a living by selling cheap watches, mobile phones and sunglasses from trays slung around their necks.

  Soheila shivered a little, remembering where she was bound. She was to be a lowly servant in the house of her family’s enemies. How would they treat her, the descendants of wicked Kassim? What was she doing, putting her head into the lion’s –

  ‘Al-Farouk corner!’ yelled the driver, as the bus swung into a quiet street. ‘Al-Farouk corner!’ Her heart thumping in her chest, Soheila jumped up. This was it. Now she could not even think of turning back.

  Eight

  They were here at last! Khaled felt his heart beating fast with nervousness as the great doors opened, and the head footman announced the arrival of their guests. Though he thought Husam was a fine figure of a man, Khaled was taken aback by Kareen Amar’s appearance, not having imagined that a Jinn might look like a mad Rummiyan wanderer, of the kind you occasionally saw in the street. Abdullah limped towards them with hand outstretched, and welcomed them in the fullest possible manner, with every elaboration of Ameeratan courtesy and politeness. Khaled nervously waited for his father to finish the preliminary politenesses so he could be introduced in his turn.

  He jumped as a voice spoke in his ear. ‘Bikaj will see you now.’

  Farasha! What a time to choose. ‘It’s not possible,’ Khaled mouthed. ‘Not right now.’

  ‘What do you mean, not right now?’ The little creature’s wing was tickling his ear, just under the folds of his headcloth. Khaled gave an involuntary shudder. ‘We have guests, Farasha,’ he whispered.

  ‘I can see that. Who are they?’

  ‘My father’s friend, Husam. And the other is a Jinn, a Desert-Jinn.’

  ‘Well!’ said Farasha, giving an excited hop. ‘We have not had one of those in the house for a long time.’ Then he seemed to remember what he’d come for. ‘But you must come. Brother Bikaj wants to see you now.’

  ‘I can’t, Farasha,’ whispered Khaled, desperately.

  ‘Oh, but you must. I moved heaven and earth to prevail upon Bikaj to talk to you. He doesn’t like to talk to humans, normally.’

  ‘I can’t!’ yelled Khaled, goaded beyond endurance. Now everyone was staring at him. He went bright red and mumbled, ‘I’m sorry – forgive me – a moth crawling along the back of my neck –’

  His father was looking at him in astonished dismay. He said sharply, ‘Khaled, you forget yourself. Kindly remember who and where you are.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Khaled miserably. He felt cautiously at his ear. Farasha was gone. Khaled went through all the customary courtesies with a strong sense that he had really blown it. The guests would think he was a rude fool; and he had missed his opportunity with Bikaj. Nothing was going right.

  Refreshments were brought, and then the doors were shut, and Abdullah turned to his son. ‘I’ve already written to Husam and Kareen to tell them everything I know about the curse,’ he said, ‘but now you can explain what you have worked out yourself.’ Khaled began to tell them about the various books he’d read, and the insights that had come to him. Husam and Kareen listened without interrupting. When Khaled had finished, they looked at each other and Husam said, ‘It’s not going to be easy to break the curse, is it, Kareen?’

  ‘No,’ said the red-headed Jinn.

  ‘But it’s possible?’ said Abdullah anxiously.

  ‘It might be. It just might be,’ said Kareen.

  ‘And what of Khaled’s notion that he is in extra danger because this is the hundredth anniversary?’

  Kareen glanced at Khaled. ‘He is right,’ she said.

  ‘But the last thing you must do is give in to fear,’ said Husam gently. ‘We are here, and we will do all we can to protect you.’

  Kareen looked at Khaled. ‘Nothing will happen till the appointed day,’ she said, ‘but you must still be careful. And trust in Husam. He has faced more unearthly things than any other man I know. Now then, if you will excuse me, I will start my investigations at once, among the House-Jinn. They are foolish and limited creatures, no match at all for a powerful magician such as Zohreh must have been, but they might know one or two useful titbits.’

  And with that she was gone. Husam turned to Khaled. ‘Don’t worry. We still have time. And in that time, we will find out a great deal.’

  ‘I am sure we will,’ said Khaled, gulping, trying to sound brave and unruffled and sure. He was glad to see his father looked much happier. But as for him, the doubts had not quite disappeared. He couldn’t help thinking that with each moment that passed he got closer and closer to what Kareen had called the ‘appointed day’.

  A little later, he asked to be excused in his turn. Deep in rather gloomy thought, he wandered outside, down the path that led to the rose garden. He sat for a while, inhaling the fragrance of the beautiful flowers that made him think of his mother. His father said this had been her favourite spot. Tears pricked at his eyes. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘if it is all useless, if in a few days I will die, at least I have the consolation that I might see Mother again, in the lands beyond death.’
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  ‘Sir,’ said a small voice, ‘excuse me, sir, but I was told to go to the kitchens, through the garden. I seem to have lost my way.’

  Khaled started. He saw a very thin, rather ragged youth, with burning, enormous blue eyes, standing humbly some distance away. Their eyes met. A strange shiver came over Khaled, though for the life of him he didn’t know why. Turning his eyes away, he said hastily, ‘You will need to go down this path, turn right into the almond grove, and then left into the orange orchard. There you will see the herb garden, and directly in front of you, set in the wall, the back door to the kitchens.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the boy, turning to leave.

  ‘Stop,’ said Khaled impulsively, ‘you’re new here, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you around before. What’s your name?’

  A strange expression leapt into the boy’s eyes. ‘I’m – I’m Payem –’ he stammered. ‘I’m – I’m going to work in the kitchens. Omar al-Sayara said –’ Khaled saw that the boy looked fearful – of him – and he felt ashamed. He hadn’t meant to bully the child. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘forgive me, I didn’t mean to –’

  But the boy had gone, scampering along the way Khaled had indicated to him.

  Soheila could hardly believe she was actually in the place where it had all begun. As she raced through the massive gardens of the al-Farouks she hardly saw anything of the beauty around her. She was now on enemy territory and it would take all her guile and courage to honourably fulfil the task she’d set herself. Was the spirit of her ancestor still here, in this place where she had been so foully slain? If it was, that spirit would be looking to see whether her descendant was worthy of being her avenger.

  She didn’t think twice about the boy in the rose garden. No doubt he was a member of the household – and that meant he was someone she couldn’t look at as she’d look at another human being, or her heart might fail her. She did not dare to think on the kindness she’d encountered so far, from Omar to the gatekeeper to the boy in the rose garden; she was here to carry out revenge. The easy way in which she’d found herself in the heart of enemy territory must mean that her mission was blessed by Lord Akamenia himself, and therefore holy.