The Curse of Zohreh

by Sophie Masson

  She spoke at length to Hamarajol and Farasha – knowing it would be no good trying to pull rank on Bikaj again – and at last got a name: Ebon Zarah, the Jinn of the Skyflower Fountain, an oasis many hours south of Jumana, on the Riyaldaw road. According to the House-Jinns, Ebon Zarah was a good Jinn who had a great deal of deep power: he often spoke with the dead and he had encountered the most mysterious Jinn of all, the Recorder of the Emerald Mountain of Kaf.

  The source of the al-Farouks’ thorny problem lay within the world of the dead: Zohreh and Kassim. In Jehannem Kassim might well be – and she had no intention of visiting him there – but nobody had said which province of the afterlife Zohreh had gone to. The Jinn of the fountain might know. Anyway, it was worth a try. Kareen could not bear to sit jabbering with Husam and Abdullah, endlessly rehashing the ghoul’s taunting words in the cemetery; or sifting through mountains of books in the library, searching for the Talisman and the answer to Bikaj’s riddle; or trying to comfort Khaled, who as the hours wore on, was becoming more and more paralysed by fear and a sense of helplessness. She would set out at once, without telling anyone where she was going, for she had no idea if Ebon Zarah would prove to be of any use at all and she did not want to get anyone’s hopes up in vain. Anyway, it was night, and likely she’d be back long before anyone had even realised she had gone.

  Sixteen

  Khaled lay unmoving on his bed. Shadows gathered in the corners of his room, but still he did not turn the light on. He was heartsick, not only with the gathering fear of what might happen in just two days’ time, but because he had been profoundly shaken by the experience at the cemetery. It was partly the horror of being confronted by the evil, unclean ghoul that had affected him. Even more so, it was the realisation that his ancestor had been a man so wicked that only ghouls frequented the resting place of his bones: a man so evil that he’d been damned to the eternal fire of Iblis’s realm. Though Khaled had known that with his mind before, now he knew it with his heart and his spirit, and that was much worse. So dispirited did he feel that he almost wished he had not tried to undo the curse; he felt almost as if he deserved it, merely because Kassim was his ancestor. If only he could have found Zohreh’s family! If only he could have begun to undo the wrong that was done. ‘Dear God in Heaven,’ he prayed, ‘please, bring peace to our sad world, preserve us from the evil of evil men, and the evil that lives after them.’

  The other thing that troubled him was the presence of Payem at the cemetery. The boy had strange eyes – full of light, yet also with a curious blankness. A little shiver rippled over his skin. Payem had been hiding behind the curtain in the library when Bikaj had spoken of the graveyard; it must be why he had known to follow them there. But why had he? And why had he been looking at that book on the Akamenians?

  Another shiver rippled over Khaled. He should tell his father and Husam and Kareen about it, but he couldn’t bring himself to, remembering the light in the boy’s eyes, his thin face, his frail body in its shabby clothes. Kareen already hated the boy; why make things worse for him? Perhaps he should try and talk to the child, directly, on his own, try and find out – gently, kindly – what it was that the boy sought. The thought made him feel much better, and he relaxed enough to drop into a light, fitful sleep.

  In the library, Sharib worked busily away into the night with the clerks. He’d pointed his tame Jinns at this or that book, trying to find a shortcut to the question of just who Albalhol was, without success. Until, at last, just before midnight, the Jinn of the Glasses had lighted on a thin little book that had fallen behind one of the shelves. This cheap booklet – half-eaten by starving silverfish, for it had been overlooked by General Bikaj’s platoons – was a souvenir from a trip someone in the family had taken long ago to the Royal Tombs at Teban, a remote site in the ancient country of Faraona, across the Narrow Sea. Reading what was left of the book, they discovered that Albalhol was a legendary monster from those remote parts: a monster with a snake’s head, a lion’s body and an eagle’s wings who, so the story had it, lay in wait for unwary travellers on the road. Grabbing them in its huge paws, it asked them a riddle; and if they couldn’t answer, it crushed them to death then ate them. Albalhol had in the end been defeated by a young magician-prince who had not only answered the riddle correctly, but had turned the monster to stone. The stone monster was still to be seen in those parts; the bad photograph accompanying the story in the booklet showed a huge statue in rather poor repair, with one of its wings half broken off.

  Well, that discovery had caused a lot of excitement, with Husam and Abdullah summoned to share in it. As Albalhol was a creature of legend, surely the phrase ‘in the arms of riddling Albalhol’ was some kind of proverb or saying, they decided. Finding out its meaning should therefore point them in the right direction. Alas! There was no mention made of any such saying in what was left of the book. And because Teban was such an obscure place, there was nothing about the legend of Albalhol in any other book. Husam suggested that ‘the arms of riddling Albalhol’ might mean being in great danger, or perhaps even deliberately placing yourself in great danger. That seemed to have the ring of truth to it, but it did not greatly help them. Still, at least they had a lead now; they would concentrate tomorrow on books about Faraona, its culture, history and legends. No more work would be done that night. Everyone was too tired, the clerks’ eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, and even bouncy Sharib drooping a little. Rest, and night, might bring better counsel.

  In her long wanderings through the human world in search of new songs Kareen Amar had almost forgotten how pleasant the company of her fellow Jinns could be. She liked her life, mostly, and her human friends a great deal, but the fact remained that sometimes she felt very much like a stranger – an immortal in the world of mortals, an elemental creature of power in the limited, but cosy, world of the Clay People. Yet she did not seek out the company of fellow Jinns. The wandering ones like herself were just as fiercely independent as she, the settled tribes or clans too haughty or provincial.

  But the Jinn Ebon Zarah was a different sort of creature, neither lone wanderer nor jealous clansman. He was the spirit of the oasis known as the Fountain of the Skyflowers, which, because it was irrigated by underground springs, was unusually lush. It was carpeted in green grass studded with star-shaped flowers the colour of a deep blue winter sky. Time seemed to stand still in this beautiful place, which radiated an air of utter peace and tranquillity.

  Ebon Zarah manifested as a very handsome young man, tall, black-haired and golden-skinned, with almond-shaped, long-lashed eyes of the same blue as the flowers. He wore a graceful sky-blue robe, and over that a silk coat in a slightly darker shade of blue, edged with gold. Instead of a headcloth he wore a kind of cap made of living flowers and sweet-smelling herbs. He carried a lute, around the neck of which were twined flowers. Not only was he handsome – Jinn, too, can be susceptible to good looks, and Kareen was no exception – but he was charming, gentle and interested in music. Also, he was very interested in Kareen’s stories, which was another point in his favour. Kareen found herself not asking him questions but instead recounting all her exploits as they walked amongst the date plantations and wild-flower and herb gardens of the oasis, and then amongst a flock of fat-tailed sheep and a gathering of haughty camels that stared at the two Jinns in wary curiosity as they went past. They stayed away from the human camps, where weary nomads rested after long stints in the desert, but saw little girls in bare feet gathering armfuls of the skyflowers, and little boys in knee-length tunics having wrestling competitions on the soft grass. It was a place of sheer, peaceful magic and Kareen could feel herself relaxing and slowing down as she walked and talked with Ebon Zarah. They even sang a couple of songs together, Ebon Zarah accompanying Kareen on his lute. Her restless anxiety left her completely.

  So it was a considerable time before Kareen finally bethought herself of why she’d come. She told Ebon Zarah the whole story, and he listened to her as attentively as he�
�d listened to all her other tales. When she finished, he was silent for a little while, then said, ‘I would like to help you directly but I cannot, for I am limited in time and space to this place, and to the tribes that frequent this oasis. Neither Zohreh nor Kassim are in my sphere of influence. But I will give you this advice: it is true that the Recorder of the Emerald Mountain of Kaf can annul this curse. There is no one way to go to the Emerald Mountain, for it is a place that exists out of time and space. The journey is different in each case; it depends on the person who made the curse or the wish. You must find the right path from Zohreh herself. It will not be easy, for she must want to help.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ said Kareen gloomily. ‘I can feel her there, in the palace. Her presence grows stronger all the time. And it does not feel like a benign presence.’

  ‘If that is so,’ said Ebon Zarah, ‘then she must be persuaded somehow to give up her revenge. The child Khaled is right: this kind of curse is most potent on a significant anniversary such as this one. The vengeful spirit will know it is likely her last big chance, and her potency will be at its most dangerous on the day of his birthday.’

  ‘And that’s the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you know at what time he was born, exactly? That does make a certain difference.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Kareen, ‘but I will find out.’

  ‘The worst would be if his birth time was close to the time Zohreh pronounced her curse, a hundred years before.’ Ebon Zarah put a hand up to his hair and gently pulled out a flower, held it for a moment, murmuring words over it, and passed it over to Kareen. ‘Take this with you back to the palace. It must be a human being who speaks to the ghost of Zohreh, not you, Kareen. Wearing this flower in their hair, they will be protected from harm, at least until the flower fades. Take care, though: the calling out of the ghost must be done when the power of the protective flower is at its height, at precisely midnight tomorrow night. The power will only last for a short time after that, for then the flower will wither and die, and its protection die with it. The ghost must be persuaded within that time.’

  ‘Should it be Khaled who speaks to Zohreh?’

  ‘Yes. He will be the best person to do so, except for a member of Zohreh’s family. And you tell me they are all vanished.’

  ‘That appears to be so,’ said Kareen.

  ‘Remember: the link will be strongest of all tomorrow night, at midnight. Later than that, Zohreh’s curse will have much more potency than the flower could ever protect against.’

  ‘I will remember,’ said Kareen Amar, getting up.

  ‘You do not need to go yet, Kareen Amar,’ said Ebon Zarah, smiling enticingly up at her. ‘It is a long time till tomorrow midnight, and the flower will last better here than outside. Stay with me a little longer, and teach me some of your songs. Your friend Khaled will be quite safe for the time being. Zohreh cannot strike yet.’

  ‘Well –’ said Kareen hesitantly, ‘I am not sure that I –’

  ‘I will tell you when it is time you must go,’ said Ebon Zarah gently. ‘You will be more useful to your friends if you are truly rested; your powers will be all the stronger. Being here, in this place where the living and the dead congregate in peace and safety, will give you strength to face the ghost, too, if it becomes absolutely necessary for you to do so. I promise you that, on my honour as a Jinn who can speak with the dead.’

  ‘You are very persuasive,’ said Kareen Amar, sitting down again with a sigh. Truth to tell, she was very glad to stay here a while longer, in the company of this charming and intriguing Jinn.

  In the silent palace library, many miles away, Soheila stared into the carved mirror again, holding her ancestor’s ashes.

  ‘Zohreh, honoured one,’ she murmured, ‘will you grace me with your presence?’

  The mirror stayed clear, but the air began to feel freezing cold again. Soheila’s heart beat fast, and painfully.

  ‘Grandmother of Grandmothers,’ she whispered, ‘please don’t be angry with me. Please tell me what I must do.’

  Suddenly the figure appeared in the mirror, unhooded, the ghastliness of it somehow diminished. Was it Soheila’s imagination, or was the thing gaining more solidity, more form? Or perhaps she had become more used to the sight? But no, the face seemed less shapeless, and now there were lips, opening and closing on silent words. And the eyes – the eyes – they were more intense than ever, full of burning hatred, of rage, and of something else, something that looked rather like despair. The recognition of that suddenly made Soheila feel less afraid. A great tenderness flooded over her.

  ‘Oh, Grandmother Zohreh,’ she whispered, ‘do not be sad. Justice will be done. I promise you that. I will not abandon you, ever.’

  It seemed to her then that the cold in the room lessened. And all at once, in her mind came a murmured word. Just one: ‘Talisman’.

  ‘Must I do that first?’ she asked the ghost in the mirror. ‘Must I find the Talisman?’

  Slowly, the figure nodded. Soheila’s heart leapt. She said, ‘Please, tell me more. How will I find it? And what should I do with it when I have it?’

  ‘Talisman,’ said the voice again, insistently in her head. Soheila stared into the mirror. ‘But I do not know where it is. They have been looking for it, the al-Farouks, and they have not found it either. Don’t you know where it is?’

  The figure shook its head, very sadly. Soheila stood for a moment in thought. ‘I should use them to find it. I must find out what they have discovered.’ She looked into the mirror again. ‘Is that right?’

  But the figure of Zohreh had vanished. The mirror was clear once more. Soheila was alone.

  Seventeen

  Just before breakfast the next morning, Husam cracked the riddle of Albalhol. Or at least, he did so with the inadvertent help of Lotfi, a young Faraonan baker who had come to deliver fresh bread to the kitchens. The old swordsman had been on an early-morning stroll in the gardens, trying hard to think his way through the riddle, when Lotfi came whistling cheerfully in through one of the side gates, carrying a basket of new-baked bread that smelt very good indeed. He hailed Husam in a friendly manner. ‘Up early, friend?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep well,’ Husam agreed. ‘Head rather sore.’

  ‘In the arms of riddling Albalhol, eh?’ laughed Lotfi. Husam was about to say something vague and noncommittal when suddenly the full import of what Lotfi had said struck him. ‘What did you say?’

  Lotfi looked puzzled. ‘An old saying from my village, friend, that’s all.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ said Husam excitedly.

  Lotfi looked even more puzzled. ‘It means to feel like you’ve got a cracking headache. Like when you have a hangover. It comes from a legend – the monster Albalhol, who used to like telling head-breaking riddles, and who would then crush his victims to death when they couldn’t answer.’

  ‘Light save us, it was Bikaj’s little joke,’ said Husam, staring at Lotfi; then without another word, he walked swiftly away, leaving an extremely puzzled Lotfi to shake his head over the strangeness of some people.

  In the library, Husam, Abdullah and Khaled waited silently as Sharib adjusted his tame Jinn. Khaled’s heart was beating fast; for the first time in hours, hope was rising in him again. Perhaps there might yet be time to forestall Zohreh’s curse, once they had the Talisman.

  ‘Jinn of the Glasses,’ shouted Sharib at last, ‘you must find the books here which are real head-breakers, so that those who read them feel as if they are in the arms of riddling Albalhol. Find me those books at once!’

  ‘Oh Master, I hear and obey,’ said the voice of the far-seeing Jinn. The glasses on Sharib’s nose hopped up and down twice. The lenses shimmered and shook, and then resolved into rather blinding optical patterns, swirling round and round, colours changing. This went on for a few seconds, then gradually the glasses stilled, and the lenses stopped changing colour and became reflective. The voice of the Jinn said, ‘Master, th
ere are two such books in this place.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Sharib, as the others held their breath. ‘Take me to them.’

  The lenses revolved once; beams of light shot from them; and Sharib walked to the spot where the light was focused, on one of the bookshelves. He pulled out two slim books: one was in Parsarian, the other in Aksaran. Ceremoniously, he handed them to Khaled.

  ‘This is a volume of poetry called Songs of the Wanderer,’ said Khaled, opening the Aksaran book. ‘Why would this be the right thing?’

  ‘It’s by a famous poet – it’s said that he must have been frequently drunk, or a devotee of kalfkat,’ said his father a little uncomfortably. ‘The poems don’t always make sense, you see.’

  ‘Perhaps the Talisman is hidden in this,’ said Khaled, excited. He flipped the book open and flapped the pages to see if anything fluttered out. But nothing did. He checked the thin binding and the paper jacket. Nothing. He took up the next book, which was a sermon against the use of kalfkat. Again he flapped at the pages, but nothing came out. This binding was thicker, the cover more sturdy – but there was nothing there.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Husam, ‘this appears to be another joke. Or perhaps a riddle, appropriately enough.’

  Sharib had been standing with a pleased smile on his lips but now he came forward, frowning. ‘There must be some kind of mistake,’ he said. ‘My Jinn was quite sure these books fit the description. You don’t appear to have any books on wine or wine-growing in here, either, which might also fit, or collections of drinking songs.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Abdullah a little stiffly. ‘I never drink, and neither does any of my household.’