Heart of Flame

by Janine Ashbless

There was a thump nearby and a low haunting whistle, as if from a flute. Rafiq raised his head, too numb with shock to be scared.

  Sitting a few feet away was the huge copper-colored bird they’d seen in the treetop. The peacock-like tail lay behind it like the train of a king’s cloak. Its eyes were as golden orange as an owl’s. Only it was not a bird, because it had pricked ears like a massive dog—a dog’s head with a curved bird’s beak, a beak with teeth in it.

  Rafiq stared. The thing was bigger than he was by some way, but he felt no particular inclination to draw his sword and defend himself from this hybrid, only a sense of bewilderment. Taqla’s fate seemed at least as much an offense against nature.

  The creature trilled, a sweet, low note.

  “Step back.” The words arrived in Rafiq’s head without passing through his ears. It didn’t even sound like someone else’s voice, he simply knew that the words had been spoken. He rose to his knees, eyes locked on the creature, mind in a spin. The thought of what it might intend made his stomach clench. Among the Faithful, dogs had a bad reputation. They were scavengers and grave robbers and as unclean as an animal could be. But he was vaguely aware that this had not always been the case here in Persia, that they’d once had a higher status.

  He withdrew slightly, with reluctance.

  The bird hopped forward and stooped over Taqla’s body. Its inhuman eyes flickered. Then it lifted its long tail from the earth, and with a series of shakes spread the feathers into a fan. Rafiq’s jaw sagged. An ordinary peacock tail was magnificent enough in its blues and greens. This bird was adorned in golds and reds and purples, though dozens of colors scintillated there. Royal colors, he thought, dazzled. And as it shivered those feathers, the bird stooped and brushed its spread wings over Taqla’s motionless breast and her colorless lips, and made a noise like the lowest note of a Sufi flute.

  “Wake up, daughter.” The words, unspoken, were perfectly clear.

  A flush of blood rose to her cheeks. She took a deep breath.

  Taqla tried to stay burrowed away from the cold for as long as she could, but in the end it woke her. She had never in her whole life been so cold. Every bit of her was stiff and protesting, except for her back—that was warm. And her left hand. Someone had taken that hand and was rubbing it between their own warm ones, from fingertips to forearm. She cracked open her eyes and mistily recognized her bent knees, and beyond them a fire burning. Almost everything else was in darkness. The fire had been laid on a raised bed of baked mud and there were earthenware pots on trivets in the hot embers. Her clothes, she realized with distaste, were soaked through and clammy. She shut her eyes again, tired by the effort of waking.

  Her back was warm. She was sitting in front of a fire, propped up by someone else. As the realization sank in, Taqla’s eyes shot open again. Her legs were framed by another pair. She was sitting between someone’s knees and she didn’t recognize the dark shirtsleeve she could see on the hand chafing her wrist. Weakly, she tried to sit up. Pain twinged in every joint and a forearm went round her, pinning her in place.

  “It’s all right, it’s me,” said Rafiq’s voice right in her ear. “You’re safe.”

  She twisted in his embrace so that she could see his face at least partly, and managed to groan, “What’s happening?”

  “We’re in a village of the Madan. In their guesthouse. It’s all right.”

  Her head was bare. Her head was bare and she was sitting in Rafiq’s embrace and she could hear a murmur of nearby voices in the gloom. Her limbs convulsed in a panicked attempt to roll away from him. At once his arm clamped tighter.

  “Don’t worry, it’s just the women in here.”

  “Let go!” she gasped.

  “Don’t.” He’d dropped abruptly into Syriac. “I told them you were my wife.”

  “What?”

  “What else was I supposed to say?” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Lie still.”

  She went limp, largely because she had no strength to fight him, and stared round. She could see shadowy forms beyond the fire’s light, and hear muffled giggles and whispers. His arm was warm. She couldn’t think of anything to do but go along with his plan.

  “There,” he murmured. “You know, I think they’re pleased to have a chance to come into the guesthouse. It’s usually men only.”

  “What happened?” she asked, licking her lips. “Why am I wet?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I remember…” She searched the muddled pictures in her head. “The Tree.”

  “And the Anfish?”

  “What?”

  “That’s what the people here call it. It came out of the swamp and swallowed you up like a piece of bread.”

  Another memory surfaced. “Something hit me—so hard that I couldn’t breathe.”

  “Yes. It pulled you down into the water. So I jumped in after you and stabbed it in the eye and it spat you right out again.” His tone was light. “Do you remember the great bird?”

  “Uh… Yes. I think so.”

  “It healed you.” There was momentarily an odd unsteadiness to his voice. “Then it led me here to this village. The people took us in because of the bird. They call it the Simurgh and believe it’s holy.”

  “The Senmurw,” she said faintly. “The Bird of Compassion. The one who nursed Prince Zal in the old Persian story.”

  “Ah. Well, it saved you.”

  She decided she would think about that when she was feeling better. “And the Horse Most Swift?” she asked, suddenly fearful.

  “Don’t worry—it’s in the hut here. I couldn’t work out how to ravel it up though.”

  She nodded. “I’m cold,” she whispered. “I can hardly feel the fire.” She could hardly feel her hands either. She had to lift them up to count the rings on her fingers and check they were all still there. Misunderstanding the gesture, Rafiq folded his hands around hers. She was grateful for the warmth, however self-conscious it made her feel. Shutting her eyes, she felt herself begin to slide back into sleep.

  “Taqla?”

  Muzzily she lifted her head from where it had fallen back against his shoulder, to see a woman bending before them holding out a steaming bowl.

  “Here. Soup,” said she, passing it to Rafiq’s hand. Then she laid a folded wad of cloth at Taqla’s feet. “And dry clothes for you.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Rafiq cupped the bowl before her chest. “Can you hold this?” But when she tried to take it from him, her fingers were too stiff and clumsy. “It’s all right,” he repeated, “just drink.” Then he held the bowl to her lips for her to sip the broth. It was a fish stew, it turned out, bulked out with rice. Taqla’s stomach seemed to unfurl from its tight knot as its heat and richness seeped into her. She wanted to cry with gratitude, so good was the taste. Nevertheless it took her a long time to empty the bowl.

  “Do you want some?” she remembered to ask Rafiq after the first mouthfuls of fish-meat.

  “I ate while you were asleep.”

  It was funny how his holding her bowl for her took her back to being a child again. When she’d been ill as a little girl, Lelia had fed her and stroked her hair. Taqla wondered wistfully if Rafiq would stroke her hair, and then caught herself in a moment of lucidity and thrust the idea away.

  But when she’d eaten, he wouldn’t let her doze off again. “You need to get changed now,” he told her. “Those wet clothes can’t stay on.”

  “Then you need to leave the hut,” she said in Syriac, feeling more resolved now there was some heat in her belly.

  “That would look very strange,” he replied in kind, “if I really were your husband. Come on, on your feet.” He half lifted, half pushed her to her feet and she staggered, shocked at how weak her legs were.

  “You can’t look,” she said through gritted teeth, pulling out of his arms. She nearly fell then, but one of the women came forward and caught her.

  “Do you need help?” She spoke accented Arabic
.

  “Yes. Please.”

  Rafiq took the opportunity to squat down near the fire, toasting his hands and the front of his shirt and trousers, which were damp from her touch. Casually he turned his face away. Taqla found herself in the charge of three women. “Get out!” she hissed to him in Syriac, but he ignored her.

  “What’s wrong?” one of the villagers asked her.

  “Nothing.” She fought a wave of dizziness and they had to support her as she swayed. Luckily that seemed to take their minds off the agitation she’d been displaying toward her husband. They worked her out of Zahir’s revoltingly clingy shirt and baggy trousers, clucking and commenting on how foreign women seemed to dress just like their men. Taqla just concentrated on staying on her feet and simply hoped that Rafiq wasn’t watching. Her skin was so cold the slightest movement of air felt like it were cutting her, and she was shocked to find tears brimming in her eyes, tears that felt hot enough to scald her cheeks.

  The women bundled her into a long cotton robe that smelled strongly of smoke. “Get into bed,” they ordered her. One went and spread her wet clothes out over a framework of dried cane next to the fire. Rafiq’s own clothes were already toasting there, she saw, and steaming. So was her headscarf.

  “Bed?” Taqla wrapped her arms around herself. The eldest of the women pointed at the heap of woven rush mats Rafiq had been sitting on as he held her, with a blanket carefully folded at one end.

  “We’ll leave you two to warm each other up.”

  Then the whole group of them filed out, leaving only their blessings for a safe night. Taqla stood speechless with discomfort, then stumbled to the fire and hunched over it. Rafiq had hardly moved, it seemed. He knelt there with his chin in his hand, looking drawn and thoughtful.

  “No way are we sleeping in the same bed,” she whispered.

  His gaze flicked toward her. “You see more than one bed? More than one blanket?” He eased himself to his feet, moving with effort.

  “Then you’ll have to—”

  “Taqla, I’m cold and I’m tired—and you’re even worse. I’m going to lie down and turn my back, and you can lie down and turn your back, and we can share the blanket and it’ll be fine.”

  “No. Never.”

  “What,” he asked wearily, “have I ever done that you should distrust me?”

  “Apart from having being born a man, you mean?”

  “Well, you can’t blame me for that. It’s hardly something I could help.”

  “Yes. And it’s all the other things that men ‘can’t help’ that have got me worried.”

  She regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth, but his response was to break into a crooked chuckle. “You’re feeling better then, I see.”

  Taqla crossed her hands over her breast, trying to stop the shivering that was taking possession of her body. “I wish I was.”

  “Believe me,” he said, going over to the blanket and unfurling it decisively, “I’m so tired, Taqla, that all the houris of Paradise couldn’t get anything out of me tonight. I’m going to lie down now and you…you do what you want. I’ll see you in the morning.” He stretched out full length, turned his back to the fire and covered himself with the thick woollen blanket. Taqla opened her mouth to protest, but got no further. She stayed huddled over the glowing embers for a few minutes as if she’d like to press herself to their warmth, feeling the exhaustion wash through her in waves.

  He’d left her with the fire side of the mattress, she noted blearily. That was kind of him.

  Very soon his breathing became slow and regular, and almost inaudible over the chattering of her teeth. Giving up in despair, she forced her aching limbs from the fire’s glow and slipped in under the blanket, her back to his, her jaw clenched. She settled with her shoulder blades nearly touching his, her legs curled up, her fists crushed into the pit of her stomach. The blanket was heavy and promised warmth in time, but the rush matting beneath her was chilly. She thought it would be a long time before she slept—if she ever dared.

  It was moments.

  Taqla woke gradually, slipping in and out of awareness. So gradually that there was no feeling of shock as she came fully awake, just a sense of calm and ease and comfort. And warmth. She was warm again, even down to her toes.

  There was, she realized, good reason for that. She lay partly on her side, leaning back against Rafiq, her head cradled on his arm. His other arm was draped around her, heavy and comforting, and his face was buried in her hair. She could feel the slow tide of his breath as his chest rose and fell. She could feel the curl of his fingers against her ribs. The warmth and the peace of him had soaked into her bones, and for a while she did nothing but blink her eyes slowly into focus, and breathe and listen to him breathing, as if those things made up the whole world.

  A pale light illuminated the interior of the hut, the great hooped pillars and barrel vault of the roof they supported—all made out of rushes. She could faintly hear voices and the lowing of cattle outside. It must be morning. It must be time to get up. This quiet moment was something she’d somehow stolen from the harsh reality of the day.

  She could just lie there, she told herself. She could just lie in his arms until he woke too and then he would kiss the back of her neck and pull up the robe that had already ridden up to her thighs and then… Her imagination failed her at that point. Heat stirred deep down in her, a hungry ache, and she pressed her lips together to stop an animal noise of need escaping them. She wondered how her body could be so stupid as to persist in hoping. This self-indulgence was insane. And dangerous.

  As softly as she could, she tried to slide out from under his arm and the blanket. She almost made it, but Rafiq stirred as the first cold draft thrust into their warm nest, made a grumbling noise and pulled her firmly back against him, working her backside into his crotch. His hand slipped up to cup a breast and her nipple tightened deliciously in response. Worse than that—Taqla suddenly had hard evidence that a physical quirk she’d noticed on the few occasions she’d both fallen asleep and woken up in male shape was not unique to Zahir. Her eyes flew wide open.

  “Rafiq—get off!” she said in a strangled voice. He jumped.

  “What?” His arm recoiled. As he released her, she rolled out from under the blanket and ended up hunched on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest with one arm, the other crooked over her mouth. “What?” he repeated, looking around and blinking as he struggled to sit up. “I was asleep.” He focused on her and ran his fingers over his face and through his tousled hair. “Oh…”

  “Get up and out,” she ordered him. “I need to get dressed.”

  “Taqla, I’m sorry—”

  “Go!”

  “Right.” He half rose then a look of consternation flitted across his face. “You won’t mind me taking the blanket,” he muttered, furling it about him before heading for the doorway.

  She got dressed as quick as she could, changing the borrowed robe for Zahir’s spare clothes from the Bag That Holds the World—which were as dry as if the little sack had never been dunked in the swamp. She tried not to think about Rafiq’s embrace and tried not to miss its lost warmth. She failed on both counts.

  When she was ready to face him, she drew back the roll of matting that served as a door and stepped outside. The air was damp. She saw that they were right on the edge of the water, and under her feet the leafy ground was eerily soft and springy. To her right, a small group of men sat on their haunches, Rafiq among them. They seemed to be talking and eating. There were no women in sight. Of course, she thought, the women would be working.

  It would have been unthinkably brazen to approach the group of men without being called over, so she turned the other way and went to sit by the edge of the water. In among the shoots of growing rushes, a couple of black oxen stood chest deep in the swamp and munched at leaves with the dreamy look of cows everywhere.

  This was an upside-down world, she thought to herself, staring out at the little isla
nds that dotted the marsh nearby, each a precarious-looking foundation for a hut or two. It was as different as imaginable from her homeland. Here water was common and dry land precious. Here the colors were green and silver, not brown. Here the sky was enclosed by tall walls of reed and cows swam and fish—

  Memory surfaced from a haze as thick as swamp mud. She’d been standing on the island. That was the last thing she remembered.

  Here fish attack on dry land. She shuddered. It must have knocked her clean out when it hit, to leave everything since such a blank.

  Rafiq broke her reverie by squatting down beside her, and put a flatbread into her hand. Surprised, she thanked him and slipped the bread under her veil.

  “Feeling a bit steadier?”

  She nodded, her mouth already full of dough. The bread was stuffed with salted curd cheese, making it sticky. “Are we going back today?” she mumbled, swallowing. “To the Tree, I mean. I have an idea how I can hold off the Anfish, you see, and—”

  “We’re not going back. We can go forward.”

  She looked at him questioningly, still chewing hard. Rafiq scratched his stubbled chin and stared out across the water. “The Senmurw spoke to me,” he said, sounding self-conscious. “Not like a man speaks…but when it sang, the words were there in my head. It asked me why we’d come to the Tree, and I said it was for one of the fruit, and it said it would give us one if…if we brought its egg back to it. It laid its only egg years ago, you see, and it was stolen and taken away to the Temple of Yaghuth. It wants it back.”

  Taqla ran her tongue over her teeth, unable to speak for a moment. The word Yaghuth sounded naggingly familiar but she couldn’t place the name. “You said yes?” she asked at last.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re not upset?”

  “I wasn’t in a position to be ungrateful. The bird saved your life.”

  That was an unsettling thought. She tore her piece of bread into smaller pieces. “Do you know where this temple is then?”

  “It’s in the Abu Bahr, it said. Which happens to be an area in the Empty Quarter.”