Chapter 21
Whoever said women's magic has died has never attended a birth. For what is a womb but a magic portal? What is breastmilk but a life-giving elixir? And what is a midwife but an earth-bound angel? A shepherdess of souls?
—from The Womb is a Garden: Essays on Midwifery
Ghita's body has never looked so small. She's been laid on the huge dining room table, and her white funeral sheets wriggle with the movement of crawling beetles.
At Shay's request, the brothers provided burning oud, assorted flowers, and beeswax candles, the pleasant scents of which almost mask the oddly cheese-like smell of decomposition.
Shay offers a special prayer for the dead.
She supplicates for the soul of the woman who was, for all intents and purposes, her foster mother, asking she be forgiven for any wrongdoing, pleading she be spared any punishment in the life that follows, and that she's granted nothing but eternal happiness and peace.
Once finished, Shay stands beside the body. From a logical standpoint, she understands the midwife's spirit no longer resides in this world. But it isn't logic that compels her to speak.
“Ghita Bensultana.” Shay's barely begun when the tears overwhelm her.
“I should have listened to you. I should have been there.
I should have thanked you while I had the chance.
I should have told you … should have said …
I love you. Even if I know you'd never have said it back.
I'm sorry, khalti, for what I've done, and for what I'm about to do.
“I know it's wrong, allowing your remains to be desecrated, but I need to know what happened. Who did this. And if Sami is well. Nothing makes sense anymore. A world without you in it, God forgive me, is like a world with no gravity. Whoever killed you, they have killed me. But when I find them, I will become a living haunting.”
Her hand trembles as she lifts the edge of the sheet to glimpse Ghita's face one last time, her keen eyes permanently closed, nimble body forever stilled.
She presses a kiss against the cool purpling skin of her forehead.
Not drying her cheeks, Shay staggers to the salon, her world painted black.
Deebi helps her to sit on the seddari as the other brothers stand around her.
“Are you sure about this, Lalla?” Aidi asks.
“Yes, Sidi.” Shay stares ahead into the shadows of the empty hearth. The weather has warmed to the point where it seldom needs lighting. A single lantern stands alone on the center table, shedding a thin globe of light to hold back the darkness.
She hears the shuffle of feet as the brothers migrate from the salon to the dining room. She listens to every crunch of bone that follows. Each slurp and swallow of flesh. The squelch and splatter of limbs ripped asunder.
She pretends the noises belong to something else.
Just her stray cats devouring their daily scraps. Only the market butcher at his stall, trimming fat and hacking meat into thick cubes for stew.
When the illusions crumble, Shay bolts to the washroom.
Bile ravages her throat, splashing up the sides of the shiny basin.
But this time, an empty stomach brings no relief.
Her eye sockets ache, nearly swollen closed from crying.
She washes her face and locks her mind against the rising memory of the mysterious red stain on Ghita's wall.
She tells herself she's made the right choice.
She must face what happened, even if that means accepting it was her fault.
At last, the awful noises cease. Shay returns to the salon, as ready as she'll ever be to hear what the brothers will reveal. She wishes Khawla were holding her hand, imagines she feels the subtle squeeze of it, as though their friendship could circumvent such trivialities as time and space.
She sits opposite the brothers. The cadaverous creases of their faces are drawn more deeply than usual, their gaunt lips pulled in grim lines.
“Ready?” Aidi takes off his pom-pom hat and sets it on the low table between them.
Shay grips the cushions beneath her, the tips of her nails lacerating the fabric.
A thought starts to form, something about how she will need to sew them later—but she stops herself, seized by the desire to rip holes in the world if that's what it takes to get justice for Ghita. “What happened to her?”
“It started with a knock at the door,” Dasri begins.
“In the middle of the night. An urgent pounding that could have indicated the arrival of a pregnant woman or the family member of one, but the midwife's senses weren't detecting any need for her services. It was another sense, a profound foreboding, that led her to wrap Sami in blankets to protect him from the cold and hide him in the cellar nook beneath the floorboards.”
“When she opened the door,” Kabeer continues, “she wasn't entirely surprised by the four-armed Moulays who pushed their way inside the dwelling.
They instructed her to sit and stood over her as Mukhtar Jawad entered the dwelling last. Jawad questioned the midwife about the baby's whereabouts, which she stoutly denied any knowledge of.”
“The Mukhtar stayed with the midwife while the Moulays searched the dwelling.” Aidi takes over the story.
“They discovered the bassinet. But even then, the midwife claimed she kept it around for emergency cases—the women who sometimes appeared at her door already deep in labor and stayed to rest following their births.”
“All this time, the midwife marveled that Sami didn't make a peep,” Hammu says.
“She even worried he could have suffocated in his blanket.
But she refused to admit to his presence.
And then the mukhtar gave her an ultimatum.
If she continued to withhold information, she'd be killed, but if she told him where the baby was, she'd be spared.
“Why do you care about this particular baby?“ Beni says, his voice taking on a high, feminine quality as though the midwife is speaking through him. “There are tons of orphans living in the squalor of the Bib who'd much appreciate your compassion.”
“His mother was a touched one,” Deebi answers gruffly, and Shay understands he has taken on the role of Jawad. “It's rare for addicts to birth sons, you know? The child might be a hizoura.”
“Not unless he identifies differently when he is able to. Men don't have Shawafa, silly,” Beni says as Ghita, who seems to have then reconsidered whether adding silly to the statement was a step too far. “Respectfully.”
“Just because something hasn't happened before, doesn't mean it can't happen,” Deebi says with an arrogant tone. “The entire point of science is to expand the realm of what is possible.”
“You want to do experiments on a baby?“ Beni asks bluntly, this time without apology.
Shay sucks in a breath. Khawla was right. Al-Mukhtar really are jealous of women's magic, and for Mukhtar Jawad at least, his desire to harness it has led him to forsake all morality.
“What I do with the child is none of your concern,” Deebi says dismissively. “We are benevolent leaders, with abundant resources to care for the helpless orphaned and bereft children of our realm.”
“Ah. And seeing as you are so benevolent,” Beni says as Ghita, “I suppose you plan on just letting me go once you have the child? Or maybe I should even get a reward.“
“I am certainly willing to offer you leniency for hiding the child.” Deebi stands and begins to pace the room, clasping his hands behind his back. “A chance to repay your debt to society. And yes, once that debt is repaid, you will be granted freedom. Just tell me where the child is.”
“Forgive me, Sidi,” Beni says, his sarcastic tone a rival to the one Ghita uses—used to use—when someone rubbed her wrong. “I'm an old woman and feeble of mind. I need things explained to me in simple terms. What manner of repayment are you suggesting?”
Deebi turns and faces Beni. “A magical debt. We will provide the means for you to mine your Shawafa and wield it for the good of our beloved realm.”
Beni gasps, and so does Shay. Luring girls into using Snow and taking credit for the results of their magic is horrible enough, but forcing it upon women as some twisted form of remediation?
It took a lot to surprise Ghita, but by the look on Beni's face, Jawad succeeded.
“Did you just offer to give me Snow? And suggest I use magic? I must have misheard you, since we both know those things are categorically illegal.”
Deebi smiles, and he looks more evil impersonating a human than he ever has as his bone-eating self.
He shrugs. “There are times, habibti, when the end justifies the means.
It's a lot for your, as you called it, feeble mind to comprehend, I know. Which is why you should trust your leaders, whom God Himself has appointed.”
“Let's cut through the political jargon and see if I'm getting this right.” Beni rubs his chin, the gesture chilling Shay with its familiarity.
“You want to arrest me and force me into drug-indentured servitude. Which leads me to believe the rumors are true. Instead of arresting the criminals who make Snow, you help them distribute it, and then coerce touched ones to use their Shawafa as it suits your purposes.”
“Close,” Deebi says dryly. “Except we're the ones who make Snow. Consider this: How do you think we ensure your crops are always plentiful and your medinas remain free of illness? We manipulate magic for the greater good, and by controlling it, we prevent its misuse.
“Now, do think carefully about the generosity of my offer. Perhaps I can sway you with the knowledge that your midwifery skills are needed at the kasbah. A member of our entourage is with child. I believe you may have a history with her. Does the name Hind Hibachi ring a bell? Though you will find you are unable to run off with the child. This time.”