The Scorpions of Zahir

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  “I’m not scared,” said Zagora, but she felt a sudden chill, wondering what he meant by unnatural creatures.

  With a shrug the boy let his stick fall to the ground.

  “I’m going to be an explorer when I grow up.” She swirled her foot in the dust. “I want to spend my whole life in the desert.”

  The boy looked surprised. “You will give up your country? That is very brave.”

  Zagora blushed. No one had ever called her brave before.

  “One day I will live in the desert again,” said the boy, his voice filled with longing, “because that is where I was born.” He straightened his shoulders, clearly trying to appear dignified despite his ragged clothes. “My name is Razziq Q’na Nasir. And you? What is your name?”

  “I’m Zagora,” she said, smiling shyly. “Zagora Maeve Pym. Maeve was my mother’s name—but I never knew her.”

  The boy nodded, as if he understood perfectly. She gazed hard at him, with his lean wiry limbs and solemn eyes, and knew he was a dreamer—like her. He had courage, too; she could see it in his eyes and in the way he stood with his back very straight.

  “Come, Zagora Maeve Pym,” said Razziq with a grin. “I will show you something.”

  She followed him behind the café to a scrubby yard where chickens and goats picked through the garbage. Two wooden crates covered with wire mesh had been pushed against the wall of the building. “Go, look inside,” he urged, pointing to one of them.

  Running up to the crate, Zagora pressed her face against the mesh door. The interior was dark, and it smelled of dirt and straw. She heard a rustling at the back, where a shadow seemed to be moving; then she gasped, seeing a bird unfold its wings.

  “A falcon,” said Razziq proudly. “My cousin trains him to deliver messages.” He unlatched the door and reached inside, stroking the bird’s head. “I am helping to train him. This falcon is strong and smart. And he is very beautiful, no?”

  “He’s super,” said Zagora, staring at the bird’s fierce white face and glittering eyes. She imagined Razziq riding a camel over the dunes, the falcon tethered to his wrist.

  “He flies through the desert like the wind,” the boy went on, his eyes growing brighter as he talked. “He also is my friend. I leave his door open sometimes because I know he will not fly away.”

  “I’d give anything to have a pet like that,” she said, “but my brother’s allergic to feathers and dander. We had goldfish but they died, and once Duncan took care of a classroom hamster, but that died, too.” She didn’t add that she’d been responsible for Galileo’s sad exit from this world.

  “What’s in there?” she asked, peering into the other crate, pinching her nose because it smelled so bad. Feathers littered the floor, and she could see a shadowy mass huddled in the corner. “Is this the falcon that got attacked in Zahir? Poor thing, his feathers are all droopy.”

  Razziq gave a sad nod, and Zagora felt a chill go through her. Hadn’t Olivia told them that Pitblade Yegen sent his letter by falcon? But before she could say more, an earsplitting shriek cut through the air.

  “Duncan!” she cried. Had he fallen down the ravine?

  Zagora and Razziq sprinted around to the front of the café, where Zagora saw her brother hopping from one foot to the other, shouting crazily. Her father, looking distraught, was wrestling with the lid of the trunk.

  “Duncan!” she called, running over to him. “What happened?”

  “Snakes!” His face was flushed and his eyes were wide with terror. “Three snakes, right there on the front seat.” He pulled out his inhaler and took a puff. “I almost sat on one!”

  For once, Zagora realized, Duncan wasn’t being paranoid. This was real.

  “Dad, do we have a snakebite kit?” her brother shouted.

  “I packed a medical kit, but I’m afraid it won’t be of much use,” said their father. “There’s no antidote for desert horned vipers.”

  “Vipers are very dangerous,” said Razziq, looking a bit queasy. “They are deadly creatures.”

  The café owner stumbled over, gripping a heavy pot. “Vipers jump quickly,” he said to Duncan and Zagora. “If one bites, you turn black—and you die very fast.”

  Zagora felt her stomach go cold. Where were the snakes now?

  “Who the heck would put killer snakes in somebody’s rental car?” wheezed Duncan.

  Recalling that she’d been sitting in the front seat, Zagora wondered uneasily if the snakes had been meant for her. Or … had they been intended for her father?

  From beneath a chair came a soft rasping, like water sizzling on a hot plate. Zagora froze. The sound rose and fell in soft waves; it might have been the wind, but somehow she knew it wasn’t. A long, thin shape slid by, moving almost impossibly fast. To her horror, a snake the color of dust coiled around Duncan’s leg.

  He let out a shriek. “Get it off me, get it off!” he howled, shaking his leg. But the yellow-gray snake squeezed tighter, flicking its tongue and hissing.

  Staring at the creature’s pale eyes, Zagora screamed.

  “Viper!” shouted the café owner.

  Zagora stood trembling with fear, waves of nausea rushing through her. The snake had weird horns like a snail’s, only bigger, and its skin was smooth and iridescent. Swaying to and fro, the creature fixed her with its eyes, which were vertical slits.

  Placing two fingers between his teeth, Razziq gave a high whistle. The viper reared up, hissing wildly, whipping its triangular head from side to side, poised to strike at any second. Zagora stopped breathing, not daring to move, watching Duncan’s mouth open wide with terror. No sound came out.

  Looking anxiously toward the café, Razziq whistled again, the sharp sound reverberating in the air around them. The viper ceased its frantic rhythm, as if sensing danger. Then, without warning, from behind came a loud whoosh and a flash of brown-and-gray feathers. Zagora saw the falcon plummet swiftly, take hold of the snake with its hooked beak and shake it violently. Moments later the snake went limp and thumped into the dirt.

  With a triumphant cry the falcon soared skyward, blood dripping from its beak.

  “My falcon killed the snake!” yelled Razziq, jumping around excitedly. “I whistled for my falcon and he killed the snake!”

  Zagora watched the falcon in awe as it wheeled high above their heads, wings flashing in the sunlight. Relieved and overwhelmed, she turned to her brother. His face was a chalky gray, and his mouth hung open in an expression of horror. Tears filled Zagora’s eyes. Duncan had never gone through a life-threatening experience like this before. The worst thing she could remember happening to him was falling off his bike and dislocating his shoulder.

  The thought that Duncan had been inches from death made Zagora’s heart crack wide open. Sobbing, she threw her arms around him. “I thought you were a goner, Duncan!” she said, hugging him hard, astonished to find how precious her brother really was. Sure, he was annoying, but in a way, he couldn’t help it, because, well, he was Duncan.

  “It’s all right, son,” said their father, gripping Duncan’s shoulders. “The viper’s dead. And I’ve checked the car: there’s no sign of the other snakes.” He turned to Razziq. “Calling your falcon was a stroke of genius—you saved my son’s life.”

  “I know he would have done the same for me,” said Razziq humbly.

  Wide-eyed, Duncan stepped up to Razziq. “Hey, I owe you my life.”

  “His name’s Razziq,” said Zagora.

  “Thanks, Razziq. Thanks for what you did,” said Duncan, awkwardly shaking the boy’s hand. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.” He stared admiringly at Razziq, as if he’d just discovered a new superhero. Zagora supposed that, in a way, he had.

  As her father and Duncan headed back to the car, she saw Razziq kneel down beside the snake, stroking its belly and black-tipped tail. Zagora stared at the viper, thinking how it seemed almost elegant in death, and strangely beautiful. The sight of it lying there saddened her, even though she hated i
t for almost killing her brother.

  “I know your falcon isn’t supposed to be a killer, Razziq,” she said, kneeling down next to him. “But if he hadn’t killed that snake, my brother would be dead now.”

  The boy nodded, and she thought she saw a tear glistening in one eye, which made her like him even more.

  Zagora’s father drove down, down the mountain, and as they bumped along the road, she felt a rush of vertigo. In the distance she could see dry riverbeds and oases filled with palm trees shimmering in the heat, as if floating underwater. The incident with the snake had left her exhausted. Her stomach somersaulted every time she thought of the viper, with its icy cold eyes and space-invader horns.

  Houses flew by, squat and chopped off, reminding her of the milk carton villages Mrs. Bixby’s class had glued together for their Colonial New England diorama. But the towns here in Morocco, with their one-story adobe houses, wide dusty streets and lack of traffic lights, were different from American towns. There were no malls here, either, no billboards or megastores along the road. Zagora loved how each town had its own distinct archway, painted with trapezoids, diamonds and oblong shapes, and how all the signs pointed south to the desert—as if east, west and north didn’t count.

  She could hear Duncan and Razziq chattering in the backseat, discussing cowboy movies, video games and how to train birds to carry messages. Her dad had offered Razziq a ride to Sumnorum, where he was delivering a package for his uncle and visiting cousins. In return, Razziq had promised Dr. Pym that he’d find them a desert guide. Zagora was incredibly happy to have this cool misfit hero riding along with them. It was a shame they couldn’t have brought the falcon, too.

  “Did you know scorpions kill more people than any other predator except for—guess what?—snakes!” she heard Duncan say.

  “ ‘Beware small scorpion, waiting in the dark,’ ” murmured Razziq. “This is an old Arab saying.”

  “I guess you should know, right, Razz?” said Duncan. “My book says scorpions can adapt to anything: freeze ’em, nuke ’em, whatever, they won’t die! If they lose a leg or pincer, they grow a new one. We’ll all get blown off the planet and scorpions will still be here, hah!”

  Hmm, thought Zagora. Maybe that explained why her scorpion hadn’t actually been dead: it had adapted to the outside of the envelope. Twisting around in her seat, she asked, “What about scorpions growing bigger, like when you put them in water?”

  Razziq gave her a quizzical look. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “An old Berber once told me that to kill a scorpion you have to trap it inside a circle of fire,” said her father. “The scorpion will sting itself to death to escape the heat and flames. Fire is the only thing they fear.”

  Desert Survival 101, thought Zagora: Carry matches to protect yourself from scorpions.

  “Where are your parents, Razziq?” her father asked, clearly trying to make conversation. “Do they live in the High Atlas?”

  “I have no parents anymore,” said the boy.

  Razziq was an orphan? Zagora bit her lip. That was so sad. She found it hard to imagine a life without any parents at all.

  “I was very young when my parents died,” he told them. “We were living in the desert. My uncle Jamal came for me and brought me back to his mountain café.”

  “Geez,” said Duncan in a low voice. “Sorry, Razz.”

  Zagora saw her father nod sympathetically. Maybe that was why the café had seemed so dreary. Razziq had been taken away from the desert, the place he loved most, and now he lived in a run-down house in the mountains on the edge of nowhere, waiting tables in a café. Not exactly a fun life.

  They ate lunch at a restaurant in the town of Zagora, ordering veggie kebabs and fresh orange juice, and took pictures of one another next to Zagora’s famous road sign. The sign read TOMBOUCTOU 52 JOURS, which, loosely translated, meant “fifty-two days by camel to Timbuktu.” Although her namesake city was an ancient crossroads, Zagora was disappointed to find that hardly any old buildings had survived. Her dad said the town was a stopover for people going to the desert. They could buy maps and stock up on supplies, or rent quad bikes or camels for desert trekking.

  On the road again, she watched the landscape grow more desolate: stone and sand and windblown trees, a white-hot sun overhead. Leaning back, she closed her eyes, imagining the desert, described by Edgar Yegen as “vast and endless and crackling with light.”

  She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, her father was announcing, “Sumnorum ahead!”

  She sat up, wide-awake and alert, staring at a green-and-blue archway with yellow diamonds painted down the sides. She sensed her vision growing clearer, heightened, as if she could see beyond Sumnorum, miles and miles into the desert. The heat’s having a strange effect on me, she thought. They rolled into town on a wide street, past terra-cotta houses and arcaded shops grouped around a square, veiled in a haze of dust.

  Had Sumnorum looked like this in 1937, wondered Zagora, when Edgar Yegen arrived?

  Without warning a metallic zing! ricocheted under the hood, and the car swerved, tires squealing. She stifled a scream as her dad just missed a woman on a donkey.

  “Steering’s locked!” he shouted, jamming on the brakes. The car kept going. He pulled the emergency brake and they shuddered to a stop.

  “I knew it,” said Duncan. “Faulty brakes and an antiquated engine.”

  “At least we made it to Sumnorum,” said Zagora. And Dad didn’t crash the car.

  Flinging the door open, she tumbled out into the scorching white sunlight. The heat was all sharp edges. She could see the woman on the donkey disappearing down a side street. The square seemed to be deserted. Her dad jumped out and opened the hood, peering at the engine with a worried expression.

  “I go now to see my cousins,” said Razziq. “Tell your father many thanks, and please assure him I will find him a guide. My older cousin perhaps; he is a desert guide.” He glanced at Zagora. “Okay, maybe he will not go all the way to Zahir—but close enough.”

  “Hold on,” said Duncan. “You’re coming with us to the desert, right? Come on, Razz, we need you in case we run into any more vipers. It’s only for two days.”

  “No, no, I cannot,” said the boy, shaking his head.

  “Please, Razziq,” said Zagora. She’d envisioned the three of them as a team of explorers in the desert, guided along by her archaeologist dad. “We’ll have a real desert adventure!”

  “Don’t worry, Razz,” said Duncan, “nothing dangerous is going to happen. We can go hiking and explore stuff together. It’ll be mega cool.”

  “Okay, I will think about it,” promised Razziq. “So long, see you!”

  Watching him run off, Zagora wished she could meet his cousins. There were many questions she wanted to ask them. She’d love to find out what kids who lived near the desert were like.

  Now the place was filling up with people, mostly men in caftans, talking in low voices, eyes fixed on the smoke billowing out of the tailpipe. At the other end of the square she saw the turquoise spray-painted car nosing its way through the crowd, and a creepy feeling came over her. What if somebody really was following them?

  “I think the electric system blew,” said her father. He looked up, and for a second Zagora saw panic on his face. “And the radiator’s leaking. Everything seems to have overheated.”

  Duncan didn’t say anything, but his round face looked ready to cave in. No wonder he’s a mess, thought Zagora. Imagine being attacked by a desert horned viper and almost dying. She wished Razziq were there to cheer them up.

  “Don’t worry, Dunkie,” she said, forcing a smile. “How many kids from America get to go to the Sahara? Not many, right? When you get home, you can tell your friends how you narrowly escaped death.” Not that Duncan had many friends; he was a pretty solitary kid.

  “Yeah, I guess.” He wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand. “But I should be at astronomy camp now, and
gearing up for debate club and—hey, who’s this character?”

  A tall, delicately featured man with a walnut complexion was making his way toward their father. He wore a soft-looking hooded white caftan and a black turban. Perched on one shoulder was an iridescent green bird—exactly the kind Zagora imagined a pirate would own.

  “Monsieur! One moment please!” called the man, hurrying across the dusty square. “Hello, I am Abdul.” She watched him bow slightly. In a smooth, silky voice Abdul said, “I speak English. Perhaps I can help you, yes? My cousin, he will fix your auto good as new.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Charles Pym.” Zagora could see that her father was doubtful. “Is your cousin a trained mechanic? This is a rental car, so I have no idea—”

  “Please, do not worry.” Abdul smiled, showing a set of dazzling white teeth. He looks like a sultan, Zagora thought, or maybe a rock star. “Come out of the sun, my friend. Please, come to my house with your family. I will make you a nice couscous and you will have a place to stay for the night.”

  “Tell him yes, Dad,” said Duncan. “We have to eat something!”

  “Duncan’s right, Dad,” added Zagora. “We need to get out of the heat and rest.”

  “Come, have a glass of tea,” insisted Abdul. “My cousin will fix your auto, no problem.”

  Their father gave a defeated shrug. “Hmm. Guess I haven’t much choice.…”

  Zagora and Duncan gave each other high fives. Awesome, she thought, we’re going to the home of a real Moroccan.

  Tall and rangy, Abdul led them through the crowd of curious onlookers, out of the square, past fruit trees and date palms that grew wild along the streets. Zagora was mesmerized by the parrot hopping on Abdul’s shoulder. It cackled madly as they passed beneath archways and shadowy arcades. She wondered if the bird knew any swear words.

  Abdul stopped before an adobe building with a sign above the door that read BIENVENUE/WELCOME TO MAISON TUAREG. She grinned, remembering the fierce blue men she’d seen in Marrakech.