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‘… and, of course, the Guardian, peace be upon him, is too literal in his understanding. A wise man–’ The man by the fire’s stressing of this does not lend belief to his claimed credence. ‘–but all too literal in his interpretation of the texts. Women are just naturally less civilized, more ruled by their emotions than by the truths revealed by the scholars and the stars. I mean no offence to you and your sex of course, lalla Kandicha, may you ever be blessed by your ancestors and guided by their wisdom.’
Beautifully couched. The poetry of a scholarly education. And yet I have yet to discover a time that a sentence that assured no intent for offence did not, in fact, deliver it.
That Zakariya feels confident enough to say such things in front of a woman capable of setting his brain on fire is due to three reasons:
One, his standing as the Guardian’s assigned successor. As the wisest of the Druze elders, his wisdom is respected throughout the Arabic world. As the Guardian of the Aab-Al-Hayaat? The whole talented world respects his talent and power.
Two, his drinking of the Aab-Al-Hayaat, the Waters Of Life, which has given him immortality. Indestructibility. Any damage wrought on his form heals. Instantly.
Three, what dangles between his legs. Which is why I remain firmly of the opinion that jolting them –hard– remains the best course of correction for the faults in his education.
I am beyond wearied by my time in the company of this man. Of men in general. They have rarely stood themselves in good stead in my eyes. Not in my first life – before I found magic, discovered my talent. When the swaying of my hips swayed the Portuguese raiders who’d come to slaughter my people. Who found their own throats slit by my cold blade instead.
I saved them all. And my reward? The cold closure in my husband’s eyes when he saw me after. Naked and blood-bathed. So glad to be alive. So sickened by the sight of me.
Hypocrite.
“… areas of strength, of course. The culinary arts for example. A form of poetry all of its own…”
Zakariya drones on, as he finally gets the fire going. His voice isn’t unpleasant. He’s a skilled orator – the voice of the Guardian, fulfilling his day-to-day roles. Guiding the tribes. Protecting the Druze. Keeping the Aab-Al-Hayaat secret and safe. He’s the Guardian’s trusted right hand. The man all go to if they seek his guidance.
It’s funny what a hundred years of gifted authority will do to the male ego though. Not that it takes much to inflate it.
I’ve been with the Druze, as outsiders call this most recent offshoot of Islam that flourishes in this region, for almost as long now. Found a form of peace here. Dark roads brought me. I’ve studied talent when offered. Demanded to learn it when it was denied, forcing their acquiescence. Learned by blade and book. And often?
I’ve needed to correct a learned man’s education.
I’m not a Druze. Not of the tribes. Not born Tanoukhiyoun. Not truly of the al-Muwahhidun. But they’ve accepted me. And in their strange faith, I’ve found a truth that resonates. Of a life lived over and over. Many lives. Souls reborn into new forms. Memories forgotten but unchanged. A path to enlightenment.
A path to peace.
At least until Zakariya opens his mouth.
‘… even you must accept that, eh, lalla? The natural superiority of the male?’
Fascinating. Nearly a hundred years we’ve known each other. Nearly a hundred years since the Guardian opened his door to a half-wild woman demanding teaching. Even then, the flames leapt to my fingers on demand. The earth shook when I danced if I desired. The winds wailed like a grief-stricken widow to rend the clothes of any I marked for the grave.
Nearly a hundred years of living this close. And still he sees only a woman.
He doesn’t see the wild.
I steady myself. Check my rising ire. Remind myself of the love I bear for the Guardian. That he has asked me to accompany Zakariya, to guide him on this journey, to keep him safe. Even from his own idiocy and my temper. Of course, he can heal. But he can’t fight. Not like I can, anyhow. Healing doesn’t keep you from being captured, used as a tool in forced negotiations. We cannot seem weak. Thus I am here. For now. Once the Guardian goes – once he chooses to move on, I, too, will move on, I think. The idea of living under Zakariya’s purview doesn’t suit my temperament. I shall seek enlightenment elsewhere.
Although I may educate Zakariya before I do so. Remind him of the humble, intelligent scholar he was when we first met. His ego has inflated at a rate greater than his waistline after having gained the stature of anointed successor.
The mountain air carries the indescribable freshness of a crystal-clear stream, running untamed despite winter’s grip. That same cleanness. Snow over the tracks of forgotten feet. That’s what it makes me think of. So different from the hot, cleansing smell of the sands I crossed on my way here from the coast of Casablanca, which is angered at being disturbed. Hungry when stirred. Quick to flense.
The trees are still so exotic for me. Permanently cloaked in greens. Oaks and pines make me think of the Atlas Mountains. I only walked those after Al-Jadida turned its collective back on me. Where once I was duchess, princess, protector of my people. A people who rejected me just as my husband did. They drove me away from my home for using my body to save them from being razed to the ground by Portuguese pirates. A leader must bear the cost even when her people would never pay it.
These are not those forests. Any more than those mountain-side forests were the palm groves of my Casablancan coast.
The ignorance of men, however, appears universal.
‘Zakariya.’ I draw breath. Refuse him his honorific of “anointed”. His addition of lalla to me, supposedly to pay me homage? A form of deceit. Dishonest. I’ll not play his game. If I cannot perform the physical act I wish, then I shall castrate him verbally. No lies told.
Except. Except, as I inflate my lungs to deflate his ego, I see something. A glimpse of flashing blond. An ivoried spear, unimaginable in magnitude. Too long for a lancer. Too high for a spear-bearer to hoist.
And it is not a spear either. Not a smooth tapering blade-length. Instead, along it are nobbles, as though the remnants of sawn-off branches from a tree of bone, each with a hollowed hole in its centre. Those breaks along the blade do not disguise the weapon which I can now see is coming out of a creature’s forehead as it steps daintily out from among the darkened trees.
