“Then what is to be done?” I demanded.
“First we must get her someplace to rest,” Dabir suggested. When I asked her if she wished aid to stand, Najya shook her head no, then tripped into me as she tried to rise. She was wobbly as a newborn colt, and I swept her into my arms with little complaint. Allah, but she was cold. I wanted then to brush her hair and reassure her that all would be well, which was a mad thing, and improper.
Dabir and I followed Jibril, who led us into the back rooms of his house, and Najya settled with her head against my chest. It was then that I felt a yearning ache within my breast, long absent, like unto hunger. Something changed then in the way that she looked up at me. I could not see through her veil in that dark hall, but her eyes gentled, and I knew that she returned my smile.
More than four years had passed since my first wife’s death, may peace be hers, and a little more than three since I had divorced my second, the she devil. I was not unacquainted with the ways of women. Yet I was a stranger to the strength of passion that crept up to me on that moment, and it left me shaken. All unconsidered, Najya had lit embers in the darkened chambers of my heart, and of a sudden they blazed to a brilliance that blinded me.
7
With reluctance I set Najya down in a back room, attended by a sweet young woman with a prominent forehead mole. This was apparently one of Jibril’s daughters-in-law, and she promised she would see to Najya’s comforts.
I did not truly wish to depart, and I think by Najya’s look that she did not desire to be left, yet I followed Dabir and Jibril, my head still spinning. It was as though a spell had been laid, for I could not stop thinking of her eyes and her long dark hair. I scarcely noticed even the scent of roasting lamb rising from somewhere nearby, despite that I had not eaten since morning.
“Jibril,” Dabir said as we wound our way back toward the front of the house, “where is Afya?”
Jibril turned at the curtained entrance to the storefront, his mouth a grim line.
“Who is Afya?” I asked.
I came to a halt behind Dabir, whose hand tightened on the spear haft as he leaned up on it. “His wife. She would have come the moment she heard I was here. And she surely would have taken charge the moment she heard of Najya’s distress.”
Jibril paused with his hand upon the brown curtain fabric. Several times he opened his mouth to speak, but he seemed stricken.
“Oh.” Dabir sounded as though he had been struck. “Jibril, I’m so sorry. Please tell me…”
“She is dead these three years,” Jibril said in a tight voice, and pushed through the curtain.
Dabir’s voice was strained as he followed his mentor into the room. “Why did you not mention this in your letters?”
“Your news was so good,” Jibril answered gruffly. “And I could not bear…” He mastered himself and faced us. “That is not important now. We need to talk about the young lady.”
Dabir’s desire to learn more about Afya’s death was a palpable force, writ not only in his face but in his carriage, yet he did not press for details. This was unlike him, and a sure measure of the high regard in which he held Jibril. I had grown curious myself to learn why she was so important to him. But then the older man said something that seized the whole of my attention.
“I do not think I can save Najya.”
Ah, I have taken sword strokes that troubled me less.
“I don’t know how she has kept the spirit at bay for so long. She must have tremendous strength.”
“Or the spirit’s strength is growing,” Dabir ventured.
“Is there no way to get rid of it?” I asked. “No greater magic?”
“There may be.” Jibril sounded doubtful. “I can give her this amulet.” He touched the thing that he still wore about his neck. “I fashioned it to protect the wearer from the influence of spirits and it saved my life once. It may be enough to protect her from the thing’s control, for a little while at least.” He trailed off and led the way deeper into the rambling house, where we sat down, at last, to eat. Troubled as I was, I scarcely recall any details. Our host’s family was kind and gracious, but Jibril, Dabir, and myself were hard put to speak, each for our own reasons. I believe Dabir modestly answered admiring inquiries and politely asked after each relative.
Once we were finished, Dabir and I joined the men of the family for afternoon prayers. Then Jibril rather curtly suggested it was time to look at the spear Dabir had brought with him from room to room, and so we carried it once more to the front of the house, where Dabir set it on the shop’s counter.
He unwrapped the weapon, and Jibril ran his hands over the old, old bone and its figures, flinching a little as he did so. He confirmed that a symbol Dabir had seen was that for the Sebbiti known as Erragal. It looked like nothing but a squiggle to me until Dabir said it was a flame within a cave, at which point I recognized the pattern, as though I had been staring at the stars before being told by my father of the pictures they made.
Dabir pointed at the mark. “Does it mean Erragal made the spear, or that the makers revered him?”
“I cannot say.” Jibril sounded tired. “But the weapon retains an immense amount of magical energy for something crafted an eon ago. It fairly vibrates with power.”
“Can you siphon it off?” Dabir asked. “Or break it?”
Jibril considered this for a long moment before answering. “It is like looking at a well-locked door. Perhaps if I study it longer.” He nodded. “It might be possible, although…” He looked glum. “I’ve never seen anything this strong. Never.”
“Strong how?” Dabir prodded.
“Oh … I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.” He sighed.
“Try.”
“Say that you are on a ridge at night and see a campfire in the distance. That is what it is like to hold most items touched with magic. Now say you are on that ridge looking into the sun when it rises. That is this spear—but only when you touch it. Most of its magic is concealed somehow, probably by the same spell that locks off access to it.”
“You say that it is powerful,” I said, wanting more useful information. “Can we use it to force the wizards to undo Najya’s curse?”
“Not exactly,” Jibril said.
I frowned. “What is it good for, then?”
“What is it good for?” Jibril repeated. “Well. Magic might make this weapon very sharp, or accurate, if the right word is whispered. Or, it might be like a magical storehouse. The use of magic drains life, for magic creates, and you cannot create without destruction, lest you be God. Wizards sometimes store their power so that they can call upon it at need to cast their spells. It is like keeping a flame handy in case you need to set something on fire.”
“A peculiar analogy,” Dabir mused.
“You say that Najya senses other devices such as this?” Jibril asked.
“Three more,” Dabir answered.
Jibril slowly rubbed his hand through his beard, then stared down at his fingers.
“Jibril,” Dabir began, “you had me read the Persica of Heracleides. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” Jibril said slowly. He still contemplated his fingertips.
“Heracleides mentioned some legends of early kings, but didn’t discuss them in detail. He suggested both Staphylus and Ocnus as sources. You didn’t have any Staphylus, and you said Ocnus was dreadful.”
“Your memory’s better than mine,” Jibril said, “though you’re right about Ocnus.”
“Would that I had the memory of my best pupil, who forgets nothing once she has read it, down to the placement of words upon the page.”
This, I knew, was Sabirah. Yet my friend was not long distracted by thoughts of her. He instead was like a leopard straining at the leash, a sentiment I shared. We needed answers, and we needed them now, so that we might act.
“Do you have the Ocnus texts?” Dabir asked.
“No one’s ever bought them. Why do you want them?”
“I seek in
formation about the time when Greeks said the Titans roamed the earth.”
“What are Titans?” I asked.
Dabir briefly faced me. “Great manlike giants.”
Jibril frowned speculatively. “Ocnus said the old Medes fought back strange monsters and spirits that had ruled the wastes since God fashioned the world. They chased men from their villages and hunted them in the snows, like beasts.”
I brightened. “That sounds like the vision I had when I touched the spear!”
“We can look at him, but I don’t know how much good he will be,” Jibril warned. “He mentioned that in brief and then went on for a page or two with different spellings other historians had for the names of the monsters, and why his were best.”
Jibril then beckoned us to follow. I knew firsthand how long it took scholars to find things, so I asked if I might bring groups of the men in to rest, warm themselves, and to eat, and Jibril distractedly said his home was ours. I then spoke to Abdul and arranged for him to allow the men inside in groups of three—we set three men watching from the second floor of the home, three from the alley, and three in front, with one from each group to come inside to relax in shifts. Also I spoke with Ilias and Muhsin about keeping their families inside while we were here. I did not tell them about a shape-changing assassin, but I did emphasize that we had enemies. Muhsin was none too pleased with this news and said little in response. By contrast, toothy Ilias seemed excited about the whole thing, pressing for details I could not provide. He arranged for food to be brought to the soldiers in the front room, and I made sure to hand over generous compensation for the humble fare.
Once everything was arranged, I went to look in on Najya, thoroughly unsure what I might say to her. I was so lost in thought I nearly ran into the woman I now knew for Muhsin’s wife walking on tiptoes from the room. She told me the Persian woman was sleeping. Disappointed, but a little relieved, I decided not to intrude, and resigned myself to joining the scholars.
The whole place was like a library, stuffed with old things. Shelves were built into walls, and chests upon chests were stacked one upon another in hallways, each with labels denoting contents. Many of these labels were quite faded, so that I wondered if they had been written by Jibril’s father, or grandfather, or some other more remote relative.
The layout was somewhat confused, so I had to ask directions from a young girl, who led me by the hand to a shelf. She did not speak, but pointed to an unused lantern set there. I took it, then she grasped my right hand once more and guided me to a narrow arched opening.
It was only when I beheld the steps beyond that I realized just how old the house must truly be. The stone centers were worn smooth and depressed from the passage of many feet over countless years. The little girl seemed uninclined to venture further, so I lit the lantern and waved farewell. Descending into that place felt much like venturing into a crypt until my light fell upon what lay beyond.
I had arrived in a cavernous space supported every few feet by rough pillars of earth and stone. Between each pillar were shelves, and each was stacked with mounds of scrolls. Upon a few of the shelves were paper labels in handwriting too faint for me to make out. If I had thought the scent of parchment and old stone was strong above, it was only because I had never known this place.
Two lanterns glowed dimly ahead of me, and as I walked forward I saw a scholar sitting near each one with a stack of scrolls and tablets.
I cleared my throat to announce myself, shifting uneasily, for the darkness could conceal too many things. “Is there any other way in?” I asked.
Both men looked up. Jibril answered. “There is an old, sealed exit, in the north wall.”
“But it is secure?”
“It should be,” Jibril said carelessly.
Clearly he was no more martial than Dabir. “I shall check it.”
Finding that door was no easy matter. I passed case after case crossed by thick boards. Many of them held rows of clay tablets the size of platters. As the light from my lantern spilled over them I realized that they were covered with the peculiar symbols and scratches I had seen upon other old stones.
The door was almost completely hidden by a big pile of discarded wood and broken shelving, which did a fine job of barricading, but also rendered the backup exit nearly useless. The beam holding it closed felt secure to me, so I returned to find Dabir and Jibril sitting together on the stone floor, poring over a set of tablets. I passed over the lantern so that they might have better light to read by.
I sank down on the cold floor and my mind turned over many things while the two of them searched. I wondered first and foremost whether Najya could be freed from the spirit, but found that speculation profitless and frustrating, as there was so little I could do. So instead I turned to wondering what it would be like to have her in my home. I had fully expected to marry again someday, but had never really considered what that would be like in Mosul, where my duty was to guard Dabir. Would we have to maintain two households if I took a wife? If not, would we have to retain Buthayna, or might Najya do the cooking? She probably had servants to do such things for her. What sort of life could I offer?
Occasionally I heard voices from above, and thought each time that someone might come down to say Najya had requested us.
No one ever did. Closer at hand was only the occasional clatter of clay tablets as Dabir and Jibril shifted them, or sometimes a thoughtful or irritated grunt from one or the other as they read.
Time crawled in that place, and when a man has no answers to his worries, it is easy to brood. Some devil came to me and tortured me with fears; whether a Persian noblewoman would think a soldier beneath her, no matter how highly regarded I was by the caliph, and what her family might say to such a pairing even if I did not imagine the look in her eyes. Then I woke to the fact that these thoughts, too, were pointless, because none of us were likely to last the week. We had only survived the last Sebitti attack because the spirit had fought with us. If it turned against us, or if the Sebitti attacked in greater force, we were probably doomed, and the best I could hope for would be to go down fighting.
And then—and I knew later that it must have been an hour or more after I had descended—Dabir suddenly called Jibril to him. His voice was thick with concern.
Jibril rose and hurried over. Dabir handed a tablet up.
I came closer myself, though there was nothing I could learn even reading over the crouching scholar’s shoulder, for the words they studied were wedges and squiggles and the like, all tightly jammed together.
I watched Jibril’s gnarled finger trace over the antique symbols etched into the stone. I saw his mouth open in surprise and heard the breath catch in his throat.
“I have not misunderstood, have I?” Dabir’s voice was taut as he asked the question.
“What is it?” I asked.
Dabir and Jibril chattered back and forth about the meaning of certain words on the tablet, and I grew impatient, for no one had explained a thing.
“What is it?” I demanded once I had lost almost all patience. “What does that old stone say?”
Dabir finally took pity upon me. “It is the account from an Assyrian scribe, foretelling that one day the ice will creep down from the mountains and the northlands.”
“‘And the trees will be brought low with snow,’” Jibril read slowly, sounding like an imam intoning words from the book-to-be-read, “‘and the desert sands will once more know the touch of frost. Over them shall drift the women who chill the blood of men, and after them will come the mountain hordes and the beasts from beyond the gates…’” Jibril’s voice faltered, and he glanced up at Dabir. “It may mean beyond the door, or the pass. It is hard to be sure.”
I thought of the door to the spirit realm he said was attached to Najya, and the snow women she had already summoned. “Speak on,” I said, my throat dry.
“This writer makes mention of the flood,” Jibril said, “though he speaks not of Nuh, but of Utnapishtim,
and God’s promise that he would never again destroy the earth with water.”
“Why does he speak of the flood?” I asked.
“Because he speaks of the world’s end,” Dabir explained. “The Khazars believe that the world will end not in fire, but—”
“—in ice,” Dabir and Jibril finished as one.
“So…” I hesitated. “The Assyrian was talking about what had happened?”
“No,” Dabir said. “He predicts what will happen. What is happening. Right now. I may,” he added reluctantly, “owe Shabouh an apology. The scribe also writes about the positions of planets in the giant’s constellation, Al-Jabbar.”
That provided me no comfort, and I doubted Shabouh would be especially pleased either. While I struggled to absorb that, Dabir looked up at Jibril. “I have found nothing about the bones, though,” he said.
“I have. Give me a moment.” Jibril handed back the tablet and carried the lantern to the place he’d been sitting some fifteen paces distant. He returned with a worn piece of parchment wrapped about a dark wood rod. Both men knelt down again by the lantern as Jibril unrolled it. I peered over their shoulders and saw this time that the text was in Greek, which I recognized but could not understand.
“Ocnus,” Jibril said. “And he’s just as long-winded as I remember. But look here.” He tapped a little picture drawn at the top of the page, a bearded head with a crown. A similar image appeared near each corner. “These are the five kings of men who fought the old ones. They discovered that fire and weapons fashioned from bones of their enemies worked best against these Titans.” He paused, then read with flair: “‘Most useful of all were the weapons carefully fashioned from the bones of their awful enemies, as you may remember that I described previously…’” Here Jibril paused. “I’m going to skip ahead,” he told us, “because Ocnus goes on a bit about how important it is to cite you sources. Here we are. ‘Their enemies were sorcerous enemies that would drink the blood of men if they wished, and they wished often to do so, which was very frightening, and many people were slain by them over many years, and much blood was spilled.’” Jibril glanced up briefly. “I told you he was bad,” he said, then returned to reading the text aloud. “‘When the monsters and spirits drank of the blood they took form, and awful magic gathered within, with which heroes could, after delivering death, thus fashion weapons to defeat their source and thereby to bring hurt to those without form.’”
The Bones of the Old Ones (Dabir and Asim) Page 11
