The shuffle of soft-soled shoes on the garden’s cobblestone walk caught her attention. She peeked between the branches of the bushes. The wazir again! Ara watched closely, scarcely daring to breathe. His back was to her as he stood in the entrance of a small room tucked into the side of the palace. Shadows clung to him like birds of prey, and Ara thought of Rabab’s words. Was Abd al-Rahmid an evil mathemagician? As he opened the door, the glint of many tinned mirrors caught her eye from the room beyond. He turned slightly, and she could see that he again held a mirror—only this time it was a lizard that flailed in his other hand.
She couldn’t quite make out his words as he turned and rotated the mirror.
One lizard became two, both now lying stunned in his hand. He swiftly dropped one lizard on the ground and stepped on it, crushing its head. The other he flung into the bushes. The tiles on the side of the door writhed. Ara rubbed her eyes. That wasn’t possible. The walls of the Alhambra couldn’t change pattern, and yet they were. Her stomach turned as she watched the tiles move. The sameness was gone. The four tiles on the wall no longer matched. The fourth tile was tilted and curved in on itself—as if in pain.
Ara shut her eyes against the impossibility. A stench of smoke burned her nose as its gray cloud crawled by. When she opened her eyes again, the wazir was gone. She crept from behind the hedge and examined the tiled wall. There had been identical patterns before the wazir chanted—she was positive of that—and now they were different, the patterns distorted. This can’t be right. I must not be remembering correctly.
She backed away and stowed the bucket behind the bushes before racing toward her rooms. With each step, Ara debated what she had seen. And with each step, she became more unsure. If I tell, Zoriah will say I am bearing tales. She gnawed a fingernail as she thought about the problem. “I’ll tell Suleiman. He’ll know what to do.”
“Su’ah,” Ara called, “have you seen Suleiman?”
“There’s no need to shout,” Su’ah said. The shuttle of her loom moved steadily back and forth. “I’m not deaf yet. He and Layla were looking for you.” She stopped her work. “They couldn’t find you in the garden. A girl-child has a talent for disappearing, it seems,” she added with a purse of her lips.
Ara frowned. “But I need to speak with Suleiman.”
“Why should one such as I know the mind of a Turk?” Su’ah sighed, then tapped her fingers against the front beam of her loom. “He can’t be far, though I heard he may be leaving in a few days on an errand.”
Ara wiggled her sandaled toes in impatience.
“You’re a mess again,” Su’ah remarked abruptly. “Your hair needs rebraiding, and there is dirt on your face.” She rose to get a hairbrush and a sponge. “Does studying require you to roll on the ground? Or do you—is that blood on your cheek?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh. No, it’s just a crumb of food.” Ara hurriedly wiped at the splotch of beet juice. “I’ll go find them,” she said, anxious to be off.
“Always hurry and rush,” Su’ah scolded, fussing with her hair. “You should slow down, be more like your cousin. That child is a pleasure to care for, calm and orderly. Her clothes are always neat and folded—not strewn about as some I won’t mention. You’re looking a little flushed, child. Did you get too much sun, or are you coming down with a fever?” She placed her hand on Ara’s forehead, then nodded, assuring herself. “Just too much fun, I think.
“The call to prayer is soon. It’s nearing twilight. Don’t forget your prayer rug,” Su’ah admonished as Ara rushed off.
Chapter 8
Tahirah felt the palace shudder. Someone was practicing black mathemagics. Symmetry was being pulled from the Alhambra’s walls, and the palace seemed closer to its breaking point with each change. Every day she saw subtle hints of evil as she walked through the gardens: tiles twisted, garden pathways slightly offset—but most of all, an unsettled feeling within the walls.
She had kept to herself these few weeks, hoping to discover who was creating this havoc without appearing to pry. Through prayers and fasting, she gained a murky glimpse of the wrongdoer, but never a clear image. The palace’s protection was its magic, hidden in the symmetries and inscriptions that covered wall after wall. If many more symmetries were destroyed, the Alhambra would fall. And if the Alhambra fell, Granada would fall, and Islamic Spain with it. Tahirah recoiled at the images of war and bloodshed that washed over her, and she uttered a silent prayer. She must uncover the culprit. The evil must be contained.
The building writhed in pain as it twisted and turned in on itself. Again and again, Tahirah came upon an unexpected asymmetry. A corner would whisper of crooked lines as she passed, a ceiling would murmur of warped beams. The stone lions must know, but they were silent. They stood as guardians of the Alhambra—fierce, incorruptible and steadfast. There was no sign of one standing by the sultan. How could he govern without a lion by his side?
She called to them, and their silence was more ominous than any roar of rage.
Meditation and prayer had told her the key to repairing the damage was tied to one born in the Alhambra. But who?
She recalled the hidden presence she had sensed before, a girl teetering on the edge of womanhood. Was she one whom the Alhambra would trust? Could she be entangled in this? Perhaps she should take an interest in the girl. Would that put her at risk to the evil? So difficult a problem.
Tahirah sighed—she must put this aside for the present. The sultan had asked her to join him and his household for a reading, and she must not delay. The sultan seemed pleased with her request to meet in the Court of the Lions. For all its beauty, she had another reason for going there. If the stone lions would but speak with her, she might be able to resolve the danger quickly.
Four palace guards arrived outside her chamber. As soon as she had covered her hair, her handmaidens ushered them in. She took her place among them and walked toward the Palace of the Lions. She planned to read some of Rumi’s poetry and, perhaps, one piece of her own. A small discussion about the wonders of symmetry and geometry would round out the afternoon.
The sultan and his court joined her at the entrance. His wives and many children were waiting for her, but none of these stood out as the key that would unlock the Alhambra’s mistrust. He dropped back to speak with the wazir and two other advisers. More of the harem’s eunuch guards came to take their places along the walls, vigilant as always. A troop of servants followed, carrying trays of pomegranates, olives, artichokes, roasted goat and lamb. Rugs and cushions had been placed about for the comfort of all. Blind musicians played in the background.
The Court of the Lions was lovely in any light. In the early morning, it was the color of lavender honey. Now, with the stars glittering in the sky above and torches lighting the side walls, it was bathed in orange and gold. In the Hall of the Two Sisters, it was written, “The stars themselves long to spend their time in the Court of the Lions,” and well could she believe it. Though the room was muted by the evening sky, she could see the lions standing frozen around the center fountain. The waxing moon’s glow danced on the splashing water. She moved closer to read part of the inscription around the fountain: “He who beholds the lions in menacing attitude, knows that only respect for the Emir contains their fury.” So, she thought, they are ready.
She stepped around the fountain, passing a portly slave; Suleiman, she recalled.
All of a sudden, a woman gasped, startling Tahirah out of her thoughts. “Blood,” a woman screamed. “Blood on the lions’ chests.” Another took up the alarm, crying. “Evil has come down on us.”
What were the women shouting about? No blood had been shed here. She would know instantly. The eunuch guards leapt to attention and milled about in search of an enemy. Mothers gathered their children and stared in horror at the fountain. The sultan stood his ground.
“What’s this?” the sultan inquired, frowning slightly, as he stepped over to the fountain to peer into the red-streaked water. Tahirah s
tuck her finger in the water, rubbed it against a dark red line of grout before placing it to her mouth. She smiled. “Beet juice, it seems. Not blood.”
“Beet juice?” repeated Suleiman, his clothes indicating status of some importance. As she watched, his hat teetered on the verge of falling off.
At the edge of the group, a girl with big, gentle eyes clapped her hands over her mouth. Layla, wasn’t that her name? Suleiman pulled Layla to the side, mouthing the words “Where’s Ara?” to the girl. Whatever she replied had him turn and abruptly depart.
“This is merely a mistake,” the sultan soothed. “Not blood, just dye. There is nothing to fear.”
Tahirah watched the rest of the people. The wazir had moved away from the crowd and now paced anxiously around the room. Now, he walked up to one of the other advisors, and after a brief conversation, he also left the room. The women grew calmer—some even laughed.
The sultan turned to Tahirah. “Please excuse this disturbance. Someone must have accidentally spilt dye in our water upstream.” He glanced toward Layla and frowned. “It would be carried through to here. No harm has been done.
“Perhaps you would tell us a story, a simple story, from Scheherazade’s The Book of the Thousand and One Nights. I think no one could fully appreciate poetry or geometry just now.” He smiled and almost casually strode over to Layla, engaging her in a conversation.
Tahirah sat on a cushion. The black-enshrouded women and brightly clothed children gathered about her. The sultan, his men and servants stood beyond that circle. “Sire,” she began, “there was once upon a time a fisherman.…”
Chapter 9
Early evening Ara returned to the garden. She had not found Suleiman or Layla. She stood before the wazir’s room, examining the tiles that surrounded the door. They had been identical, she was sure, but now each one was slightly twisted from the one below. They had become warped. What could have caused that?
And then there was the wazir. Maybe something in his room could explain his odd behavior. She wouldn’t be spying, exactly. The door was closed. Ara stared at it. How many times had she been told that, “Curiosity is a trap for the unwary?”
Girls were not permitted to open closed doors, but how was she to understand the wazir without entering?
She hesitated, then gently pulled the doorknob. If it’s locked, then I wasn’t meant to go in.
The door opened easily with a slight creak, and she stepped in. Mirrors filled every wall, and every single one was cracked or broken. Her astonished face repeated in mirror after mirror, broken by fractured lines that distorted and reflected her image, twisting it, again and again. On the floor and the ceiling spirals seemed to swirl as she stared at them. A profusion of glass jars stood on a shelf, holding many small dead animals.
Ara turned slowly around, watching as her fractured image followed. A mirror image of triangles and circles wavered across her vision. Symmetries, she thought, her stomach reeling as she looked about. An elaborate tapestry-covered screen stood in the right corner of the room portraying a hunting scene with dead and dying animals. The dank air in the windowless room made her head feel funny. Torqued geometric shapes repeated in the mirrors before her: squares and triangles and circles. Her head throbbed.
I don’t like this place.
The door swung open and then slammed shut. Heart thumping, she spun around.
“There you are. What trouble are you…” Suleiman stopped in mid-speech. His face turned a pasty white as he looked around the room. The mirrors now reflected two astonished faces. “No,” he gasped. “Not the evil that repeats.” He grabbed Ara’s hand, tugging her frantically toward the door. “We must leave here now.” Too late! Both heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Hide, quickly,” Suleiman whispered. “Don’t move. Say nothing.” He shoved her behind the tapestry screen as the door opened with a snick.
Ara froze behind the screen as the wazir spoke, his voice sounding like rough stone, “On whose word are you here in my room uninvited?”
“No one’s. I…”
She heard the scrape of a sword pulled from its scabbard, and Ara clamped her hands tightly over her mouth so she wouldn’t scream.
Even from behind the screen she could hear the venom in the wazir’s voice. “You’re spying on me! You’ve been too interested by far in my doings, stepping into what you shouldn’t.”
“No! I’m not…the door was ajar. I was concerned, nothing more.”
“I can see it in your eyes, you want my magic. You can’t have it. It’s mine.” His voice rose. “I’ve worked too hard for this.”
“Please, for Allah’s sake, for your own, let us leave here. Come, it will be well, no one will know.”
The wazir laughed. “You’re right. No one will know, and no one will heed your disappearance. You ran back to Turkey. Another slave gone. Yes, you’re no longer a difficulty for me.”
Ara listened, terrified.
“You must not do this. It’s evil. Turn back before you yourself are lost. Allah is watching.”
“You threaten me, you who are lower than low!” The wazir laughed, a grating noise with no joy. “The answer is here. You will be tied to this palace forever. Chained to the symmetries themselves.”
Ara remained locked in place while Suleiman pled. The wazir began chanting again, just as he had with the frogs. Ara heard a loud gurgling pop and then the wazir’s shrill laugh.
“How fitting and fortunate. The blood of a servant of the Alhambra will speed the Alhambra’s doom. And you, you will crawl on your belly until you die. Should I kill you or let you live a hopeless life in your new form?”
The call to Maghrib, evening prayer, sounded. He laughed mockingly, “Perhaps Allah Himself has spoken and granted you a reprieve. Farewell, lizard. I must attend prayer or someone might notice and wonder.” The door slammed.
Ara closed her eyes tightly and silently prayed to Allah that Suleiman would call to her. Only silence answered. Finally, she inched sideways to look around the screen. Suleiman’s clothes lay in a heap on the floor, and a dark puddle of blood stained the tile. Ara shuddered, then started as the tip of Suleiman’s hat moved. As she watched, a green lizard crawled stiffly out from under the pile of clothes.
“No,” Ara murmured, pushing herself back against the wall. “This did not happen.”
I’m not really here. I’m out in the garden sleeping. I’ll wake and tell Layla this dream, and we’ll both laugh. Please, please, let me be dreaming! Any moment Suleiman will come for me and tell me to go inside for the evening meal.
Onto her lap crept a plump lizard with a crest that shivered in the air. “Oh, Suleiman, what am I to do?” The lizard looked up pleadingly at his mistress and curled into a tight miserable ball.
Run. Return to the safety of the harem before the wazir returns, a voice inside her head compelled. Run. Violet eyes, so like the ones she had seen at the Sufi’s arrival, seemed to urge her. Ara gathered her courage.
Her hands shook so hard she could barely tuck the lizard into her caftan hood before tensely peering out again from the screen. All that remained were her own shattered reflections. She ran to the door and eased it open. The garden was empty. She leaped out of the room and raced for the palace doors.
Once safe in the sleeping room, she huddled in a corner, cradled the lizard, and sobbed.
Chapter 10
When her tears had finally dried, Ara lay in her bed, numb with shock. She gently soothed the still stunned lizard before settling him back in her caftan hood. Night came and, with it, the normal life of a harem. People moved through her room getting their bedding and preparing for sleep. On her finger, Layla’s ring reminded of her folly.
“Child, what is wrong? Are you ill? I was told you were sick and in bed.” Su’ah leaned over Ara and stroked her hair. Layla hovered beside her, stepping from one foot to the other.
“I have a headache,” Ara said as she turned restlessly in her bedding. She wished they wou
ld go away. How could she explain all that had happened? Suleiman was a lizard because she had misbehaved. The tears rolled again.
“You’re crying,” Su’ah stated with alarm. “What happened? Did you get into trouble? Are you hurt?” She sat on the edge of the bed and checked her charge’s forehead.
“My head aches,” Ara repeated. Why won’t they go and leave me alone? “I just want to sleep.”
“I knew you were coming down with something. You shouldn’t have gone traipsing around this evening.” Su’ah tucked the blankets around. “Why, you’re still in your caftan. Let me help you off with this.”
“No, please.” Ara feared for the lizard in her hood. “I’m fine. It’s only a headache. I’ll undress for sleep. Please, Su’ah, get me some mint tea. I think that will help.”
“Of course, dear. Let me go find a kitchen servant and order you tea. I’ll be right back. Layla, maybe you should sleep with me tonight. I don’t want you and the other children catching this,” Su’ah added over her shoulder as she left the room.
“Ara, can I do anything?” Layla asked quietly.
From beneath the covers, Ara pulled the ring from her finger and handed it to Layla. “I found it. Please, go away. I don’t want to talk. Can’t everyone leave me alone?”
Layla stared at the ring in her hand. “Oh Ara, thank you.” She hesitated then turned to leave, saying, “May your rest be easy.”
“Wait.” Ara sat up, suddenly alert to the difficulty of hiding the lizard Suleiman in the harem. “You must promise to tell no one,” she whispered, reaching into the hood of her caftan.
“Tell what?” Layla leaned over to listen. She jumped and gave a little yelp when Ara held out the lizard. “What are you doing with that lizard?”
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