“The midwife.” His smile slackens. “Hmm. I expect I should introduce myself. I'm Mukhtar Jawad. It's been some years since I presided over Nezjar. Why, you would have been a baby yourself last time I was here.”
“Welcome, Sidi.” Shay inches imperceptibly toward the door. The mukhtars all make her anxious, with good reason. If anyone cared to search for her name in that massive book the young page is bowing beneath the weight of, they would find that Shuika Fulan does not officially exist. “We are most pleased to host you in our beautiful medina.”
“Yes, yes. It feels good to be back.” He nods a few times. “I suppose we will be seeing each other again soon enough. A healthy specimen we were graced with this day. Keep up the good work.”
He shuffles off, to Shay's relief, his page scurrying behind him. Who calls a baby aspecimen? She rests her head against the solid plane of the door, closing her eyes for a moment. Her exertion catches up with her like a wolf drooling over felled prey. The toxic herbs in her bloodstream drag against her bones.
Her hand drifts to her depleted satchel, and her heart plummets. After everything, she's forgotten to fetch Ghita's apple grass.
2
If you have irises of unmatched color,
hurry to your mother.
If your hair is light like the sun,
You'd best know how to run.
If your palms have lines that cross or your tongue splits down the middle,
If one eye wanders thither or your skin by spots is riddled,
The hunters will detect you by the signs,
They'll spill your blood, hidden treasure to find,
They'll snatch you when you least expect.
Your poor parents will never see you again.
They'll bleed you to conjure spirit guides.
Oh, hizoura children, you must hide.
Pray you get home safe,
Pray they leave you be,
Pray your death is quick,
And then you will be free.
—a schoolyard rhyme
This is Shay's favorite time of day, right before sunset, when she slips through the back of the apartment she shares with Ghita and into the narrow alley behind it. Fading light makes ripples on the blue-textured walls, giving the illusion of being submerged below the Cerabbi Sea's cool waters.
The strays hear her coming before she's fully closed the door. Shay lifts a finger to her lips in a vain attempt to deter the shuffle of paw steps, the litany of meows as cats of all shapes and sizes leak out from under bushes, within shadowed nooks, and behind pails of garbage, spilling over one another in a bid to be the first to rub against her legs.
“Salaams, Mishmish, Beesoo, Louloua.” She crouches to greet a tomcat with a faded orange coat, a tabby missing half an ear, and a white female with a crooked tail, distributing an abundance of pats, strokes, and ear scritches among them. A gray cat with a small white crescent marking his forehead, whom she hadn't caught sight of in a moon quarter, head bonks her for attention. “Oh, Qamar! Good to see you're back, kbida! You had me worried.”
Qamar paws the straw tote looped around her elbow. Shay withdraws a thin cloth tied in a bundle and stuffed with a mix of fish bones, chicken skins, and crusts of khobz gone stale. Ghita would be appalled to see Shay “wasting” these leftovers instead of saving them for broth or sausage. She'd further maintain that the cats are better left to fend for themselves, saying Shay is doing more harm than good by conditioning them to rely on humans, abandon their hunter instincts, and become vulnerable to people with inclinations less tender than hers.
Shay tells herself—because there's no arguing with Ghita—that the affection she gives the strays has value. It enhances their well-being rather than makes them weak. In her core, she believes being loved feeds the hunger of the soul. And every creature has a soul.
So, each night after cleaning up from dinner, she waits for Ghita to settle into her corner chair with a book in hand—typically a collection of mystic poetry or scholarly essays—lest anyone accuse her of indulging in something as unproductive as a nap. She won't awaken until Shay goes back in and brews a pot of tea, and then she will uphold the pretense that she was reading all along, an accomplishment for anyone with their eyes firmly closed.
“The offerings are slim tonight,” Shay whispers. Delayed by the birth, she missed stopping at the nearest sandwich shop, the one whose kindhearted owner often sets aside a medley of meat bits and trimmings.
