Chapter 17
Man of Skins
A wicked man once chased a maiden, who sought refuge in a sacred place. And, oh, the things he did to her there, the shame and the disgrace.
The spirits bore witness to his crimes, and though they did not intervene, An animal departed that place, and the man never again was seen.
Gifted horns and a whip-thin tail and sprouting pelt where naked flesh should be, He henceforth wore his deeds in outward form, for all the world to see.
—from Rhymes of Rage: A Poetry Collection
Shadi's hair has grown out, dark curls hugging tightly to his earlobes. But his gapped smile—the one making everything in Shay's stomach melt in what surely must be some allergic reaction—is as big and annoyingly irresistible as ever.
“Do you two know each other?” Khawla asks, her voice sounding unnaturally innocent.
“No,” Shay says.
“Yes,” Shadi says at the same time.
“Not well,” Shay attempts to clarify. Her face feels heavy and stiff beneath her makeup. If Shadi knows who she is, so could anyone else. She frowns at him. “How did you recognize me?”
“Your eyes …” Shadi clears his throat. “They're, um, brown.”
“Yes, I have brown eyes.” Shay nods slowly as though speaking to an easily distracted child. “As does more than half the population.”
“Right.” Shadi gulps. With half his face bathed in moonlight, half secreted in shadow, Shay can't determine whether he's embarrassed or confused. “But yours have this touch of dusty gray. It's like there are these soft clouds floating in them.”
“Shadi, explain what's going on,” Khawla demands, but her barely suppressed smile suggests the question could just be an act.
“Do you remember the girl I told you about, the midwife's apprentice?” Shadi speaks from the side of his mouth, fiddling with his thumb.
Wait—why would he have told Khawla about her? And why does the idea of it fill Shay's chest with warm flutters instead of the irritation she would prefer?
Khawla rounds her mouth. “Oh right, I must have forgotten about that.”
Shay chooses to ignore whatever Khawla is up to, turning her focus to the satisfying rush of vindication.
She knew Shadi was hiding something. Now she just has to decide whether his being with the Sisterhood makes her trust him more or less.
And she can't let any leaky stomachs or chests palpitations or other conditions cloud her judgement.
She feels the weight of the hjabat along the groove of her clavicle, secured there by a cord hung around her neck and tucked beneath her kaftan's bodice.
Distant pops and bright flashes usurp their attention as festivalgoers burn bamboo bangers filled with gunpowder, steel dust, and iron shavings in the distance.
Shay plasters on a smile that threatens to crack the paint around her lips. “Let's go see what this festival is all about, shall we?”
“Yes!” Shadi and Khawla agree.
The hooves on the girls’ bracelets clink softly as the trio makes its way up the central hill to the medina.
Up top, the louder sounds of beating tbilat and trilling ghayyat take over, and then they descend into a sea of singing voices that usher them through the festival entrance.
By the time they reach the main thoroughfare, the very air has turned charged.
The clamor of laughter and chanting and the aromas of spit-roasted meshwi and fried rings of sfenj swirl in a sensory stew.
Colorful lanterns and bright torches abound.
Children weave through the crowd, waving small rattle drums. Old men hand out bowls of snails in steaming broth, and women pour tea for passersby.
Dancers form lines and circles and twirl colorful flags or clack handheld iron qraqeb as they take turns performing acrobatic kicks and mesmerizing spins to the hypnotic rhythm.
Elaborate sheepskin and cowhide costumes and wooden masks render anyone Shay might know unrecognizable, easing her fears that someone else may identify her with the same ease that Shadi had.
She keeps a cautious eye out for Moulays, but even they seem to have been given the night off from their duties.
Shay holds both Shadi's and Khawla's hands to keep one of them from getting lost in the fray.
The three move as a unit, like boats tied together on the ocean.
They stop in front of a fire pit where Shadi grabs them a skewer of lamb each.
The street food is a treat Ghita never allowed Shay due to her poor digestion.
She digs her teeth into the meat, savory spices tingling over her taste buds.
They devour the qotban and lick the grease from their fingers.
Still uneasy, Shay searches the shop windows and street signs, looking for the posters Aidi described. The fact that she doesn't find any gives her hope. Maybe her alleged crime has been forgotten, replaced by the passage of time with matters more current and of greater urgency.
Would she return to her old life if she discovered herself to be free? Or would she go somewhere new? Become something new? The thought is daunting. Shay wonders if a newly hatched butterfly ever wishes it could go back to the familiar confines of its cocoon.
Khawla pulls her toward one of the small bands scattered throughout the festival.
The rebel girl lifts her arms high and dances with graceful swirls and shimmies.
Her body moves the way water cascades from a precipice, like it's only natural.
Shadi dances too, unencumbered by his heavy headdress, his enthusiasm making up for any lack of grace. He throws Shay a shy smile.
The steady pulse of music builds to a pounding in her core.
The revelry around her tangles with her memories of the long-ago hanging, the rabid heckling of the crowd.
Her chest squeezes. She recalls the bone-eaters’ frequent warnings that she stay inside and not open the door.
Perhaps she should not have come here, where everything feels too colorful, too loud, and too … much.
“Are you well, Lalla?” Shadi asks, concern creasing his brow. “Can I get you something to drink?”
His sudden nearness momentarily steadies her. She nods, managing to say, “Yes, please.”
But as he rushes off, the crowd closes in again.
Shay stumbles back. She bumps into woman draped in heavy furs.
A mask that looks like a real animal skull covers her face.
And behind the gaping socket holes, her eyes are sheets of white.
The apology on Shay's lips evaporates as the woman grabs her arm for balance.
“Have a look at you,” she slurs, crooning. “Your makeup looks amazing. Did you do that yourself?”
“N-no,” Shay sputters, still overwhelmed, as Khawla steps up beside her. “My friend helped.”
Despite her misgivings about the festival, the word friend tastes sweet on Shay's lips. It feels true. Or at least possible.
“Arbia, come see how utterly creepy this costume is,” the first woman calls to a second woman wearing a purple feathered mask. Shay flinches at the sharp hook of its beak, too close in resemblance to the bird form the bloodsucker once wore.
“Look at those teeth,” Arbia exclaims, approaching and admiring Khawla's makeup. “I'm so impressed. Come here so I can see you better.”
The women draw Khawla apart from the crowd, fawning over her as they go. And Shay follows along, relieved to escape the jostling dancers.
“I think we should invite them to our private party,” the first woman says, to which Khawla casts Shay a wary glance.
“Yes!” Arbia yells before noticing Khawla and Shay's mutual hesitation. She nudges her companion with her elbow.
“How rude of me,” the first woman says. “We're Labiba and Arbia.” In turn, they each lower their heads. “And who are you lovely beasties?”
“I'm Loubna, and this is Houda,” Khawla supplies, thinking on the spot.
“So pleased to meet you,” Arbia says. “Now that we've been properly introduced, it would be our great honor invite you to a private party we're hosting.”
“It's very exclusive,” Labiba interjects.
“What kind of party?” Khawla asks, her voice clipped. She retreats a step from the women. Alarmed, Shay wonders if Khawla's disguise may not be working after all.
“Tell me, Lalla, have you ever delved into the lustrous dark?” Labiba asks with all the warmth of melted sugar. She shifts her fur pelt to the side and runs a long fingernail across the belt that loops her narrow waist. Its straps hold a multitude of tiny bottles.
Shay knows as soon as she sees them—the woman aren't plotting to turn her in at all; they're touched ones peddling liquid magic. Bottled pleasure. And, for those whose hearts are broken beyond repair, those all out of wishes, a ready means of escape.
“Not interested,” Khawla says, glowering at the bottles.
“What about you, Lalla?” The woman quirks her head at Shay.
She opens her mouth, certain her response will echo Khawla's, baffled when her throat falls sterile.
Arbia slides her hand around Labiba's waist. She plucks a shiny bottle from the belt and holds it out.
“The rush is like riding the biggest wave in the Cerabbi or floating upon the highest cloud over Umm Chanala.”
Of course, being blitzed must feel amazing. Why else would a mother choose Snow over her own daughter? Shay glances at Khawla. The rebel girl raises her hand as if to deliver an objection, but only covers her mouth, the disapproval in her eyes speaking volumes.
All Shay can think is that if she knew how it felt for Hind, maybe she'd understand. Maybe her mother's betrayal would hurt a little less. Or maybe she just wouldn't care. “I haven't.”
“Oooh, the first time is the best,” Labiba gushes.
“I wonder what your Shawafa would be?” Arbia giggles. “Would you be a Jinnamin like me?” She extends one arm, and her hand lights with a red glow. A faint crackle, as a small flame blossoms from the center of her upturned palm and hovers in the air above it.