Chapter 23 #2
Pink boughs of bougainvillea festoon the outer walls, stands of laden date palms rising behind them.
Farther back, a building washed in ivory gleams, seeming to soar straight into the clouds.
Shay recognizes the home of the sayeda from the birth she didn't know at the time would be the last she attended as Ghita's apprentice.
That is, the last before Sami's, to which they arrived post-delivery.
Khawla makes a bleating sound that is a remarkable approximation of a goat. She repeats this every few beakers until Shadi appears at the gate.
The first thing he does is to hug Shay. It's only the second time their bodies have been in close contact, but it feels strangely natural, as if they are two parts of a matching set.
As though he is perfect in the same places she is flawed, and she is whole where he is broken.
Shay doesn't know about love at first sight, but she wonders if a body can recognize the sameness in another skin.
Some of the despair Shay is holding onto seeps out of her, like Shadi is somehow absorbing it.
Shay never knew physical touch could be so healing.
She can't fathom why Ghita, whose life's work was so intertwined with healing, never touched her. But maybe she was protecting herself, after the loss of her daughter, afraid of letting Shay get too close in case she lost her, too.
“Shay?” Shadi's worried voice breaches her thoughts. “Are you crying?”
“I'm sorry.” Shay pulls away and wipes her cheeks, which are indeed damp with tears. “I'm fine.”
“Hey.” Khawla brings the edge of her shawl to Shay's face and gently dries it. “Never be sorry for feeling things strongly. That's what keeps us human despite the attempts of those in power to grind us down until we become numb and docile.”
She's right about the docile part. How else can they get away with wiping out a whole neighborhood? Shay turns to Shadi. “What do you know about the fires?”
Shadi opens his mouth to speak, but his eyes wince closed instead.
His lips curl inward as he struggles to collect the emotions on display across his face.
He exhales through his nose and, after recovering, beckons Shay and Khawla to follow him down the street to a door tucked between two shops.
The door opens to a small room where passersby are free to stop and offer prayers throughout the day.
The room is divided by a curtain into two sides, for male and female worshippers.
Since the female side is currently unoccupied, Shadi dons a prayer garment provided for women, and they all sit together at the back, where the quivers of sunlight from the small window carved into the ceiling can't reach.
“Nice garments.” Shadi nods toward Shay's vest and gauntlets, looking at her admiringly in the hard-edged shadows. She hopes they're dark enough to hide her blushing.
“Did we come here to discuss serious matters or so you two could flirt?” Khawla asks teasingly.
“Oh, right. Uh, the fires … Skirmishes between Al-Mukhtar and Naturalists are intensifying,” Shadi whispers, keeping a watchful eye on the entrance. “The raids are not as effective of a deterrent as they once were.”
Khawla nods with understanding, but Shay is still confused.
“Why Dounia's? Why the Bib?”
“The Bib was something of a resistance stronghold,” Shadi explains.
“I believe the Naturalists felt safe hiding there, because they thought the touched ones would be something of a shield for them.
Most of the addicts are still provided with Snow so long as they act as recruiters, racing to create the next crop of touched ones before the drugs kill them.
As for Dounia's, I don't know, but the owners were not the pickiest about the clientele that frequented their establishment.”
“It's more than that,” Khawla says, and she looks angry enough to spit, but she swallows instead. “With the prayer house gone, the brewery was one of the last places where people could meet and engage in political debate, where perspectives could be shared and new ideas put forth.”
Shay remembers passing Dounia's on the night of the festival, how packed it was with people.
Not every customer was a rebel. Most were simply victims of circumstance.
Shadi and Khawla have explained why Al-Mukhtar did it, but she still doesn't understand how.
How could they treat innocent humans as collateral damage, not caring how many died or where the survivors would go?
They were probably already making plans for what high-rent building or new training complex for Moulays they could build on top of the bones of the dead.
She smashes the heels of her hands into her eyes. She's tired of crying. She's tired of being tired.
A light rain patters on the glass above them, the subsequent dimming of the sun leaving them ensconced in shadows.
She remembers the last time she saw her mother, how she found her that day in a darkened alley of the Bib.
If Al-Mukhtar make and distribute Snow, then who was the man Shay saw threatening Hind?
“What do you know about the touched ones who live at the kasbah?”
“Technically nothing.” Shadi frowns. He braids the tassels of the rug in front of him in a way that seems more efficient than a boy with short hair should be able to.
Unless, of course, said boy grew up with two sisters.
“The three mukhtar who currently reside in Nezjar—Jawad, Farouk, and Kamel—have invited prominent local businessmen and those of influence to the kasbah on several occasions to prove that the entourage of resident touched ones the Naturalists accuse them of keeping doesn't exist. These citizens were allowed to tour the entirety of the property and have reported in public statements that they found no evidence suggesting anyone other than the legally employed servants and guards reside there.”
Shay holds back the scream that claws up her throat. “That's not true.”
“I don't believe it is either,” Shadi agrees.
“No,” Shay clarifies. Either the mukhtars bribed their visitors into giving false testimony, or they're keeping the touched ones well-hidden and God knows under what conditions because whatever Shay thinks her leaders are capable of, they continue to prove they can do worse. “I know it isn't true.”
“Oh?” Shadi stops styling the edges of the rug and lifts his eyebrows.
Shay fills him in about Ghita's last moments, how Mukhtar Jawad's words confirmed the existence of the entourage. She goes on to tell him about her future sibling and her decision to rescue Hind from the kasbah.
Shadi takes in the goriest of these details with minimal queasiness apparent on his face. He nods firmly. “Count me in.”
Shay blinks a few times, confused, then flattered, then teetering, like she could fall right into that look of devotion she thinks she sees in his eyes.
But the Morchidat's admonition about their “relationship” comes back to her like a cold splash of water.
It's bad enough that she's already involving Khawla in her affairs; she can't entangle Shadi in them, too.
“I'm sure you have more important things to do, like, you know, rebellion things.”
“But this mission aligns with the Sisterhood's objectives,” Khawla posits. “After all, if Hind was able to acquire one of the hjabats, it stands to reason that she may know where the other three are. If we can narrow them down to even a general location, I can use my affinity to home in on them.”
“What she said.” Shadi crosses his arms.
“More importantly, we're your friends now. Like it or not.” Khawla grabs her hand. She stares at Shay, her brown eyes rich with light, the kind that can either make someone feel warm and cozy inside or set their soul on fire.
They emerge to find the cobblestoned streets glistening wetly, a coolness in the air that smells fresh.
Everything looks softer in a way that makes Shay realize she really has missed her medina of blue-painted walls and steep, winding alleys.
But does she love it enough to join the fight for its future?
A fight that extends to the whole of Mekchaouen?
She's not entirely convinced such a fight can be won, but she's starting to think that isn't a good enough reason not to try.
The kasbah lies at the heart of Nezjar, a short walk from the medina's square, and is fortified by high adobe walls topped with barbed crenellations.
About a block out, Khawla hands Shadi a pair of field glasses from her hip bag, and he climbs to the highest branch of a twilight oak.
The device is impressive. Such specialized equipment isn't easy to come by.
After shimmying back to the ground, he gives them the rundown of his observations. “Two Moulays pass the front gate every thirty beakers. The
complex consists of four residential buildings, likely one for each mukhtar and the fourth used for staff, arranged around a central courtyard. There was also a slightly smaller building, not far from the back gate. Not sure what that one is for.”
“The touched ones could be anywhere.” Khawla nibbles her thumbnail, the stairwell they're hunkered behind swathing her face in shadow.
“If we can get inside the central courtyard, I can use my affinity to create a mental map of the complex.
Once I do that, I'll be able to sense irregularities, like the heat of human bodies, or the shimmer of Shawafa, in the vicinity and pinpoint their location. If there really is a whole entourage of touched ones in there, their combined Shawafa should be easy to pick up on.”