Chapter 14 #2
A frantic nod was her only response, and Aicha squeezed the girl’s shoulder softly before releasing her and standing.
Turning away, Aicha ran back the way they had come, circling a row of crates, weaving between them in the darkness as she tightened the wrap that obscured her face.
Pulling out her sword, she began to use the hilt to smash against the wood.
The sound was deafening in the quiet of the harbour, and when she turned a corner, her eyes zeroed in on the soldier sprinting towards her.
She ran down a stack of crates that deliberately led her away from Rachid and the children.
“Stop, scum!”
Her heart beat loudly in her chest as she reached the opposite end of the docks, where ships moored closely together swayed softly.
A split-second decision pushed Aicha up the ramp of one, climbing over its barrier as she attempted to soften the sound of her steps.
Empty barrels lay scattered across the deck, and she used the darkness between them to her advantage as she hid.
A light glittered from an oil torch at the dock as the soldier began to stalk down the walkway.
She hoped, for a brief moment, that he would simply move on further down the dock until she successfully lost him.
But the realisation that he would return only to find Rachid hit her like an unforgiving wave in the sea.
If he didn’t go after Rachid, he would come back with reinforcements; Naima, Ilham and all the young girls under their care were at risk.
She could not simply outrun him. She had to kill him.
“Show yourself!” he bellowed, walking further down and out towards the ocean.
Aicha descended the ship, crouched low to catch up to him.
Adrenalin pulsed in her veins, her heartbeat erratic and loud enough to bang against her eardrums. She drew her sword and dagger, one in each hand as the feeling she pulsed with soon became excitement.
The same emotions that had engulfed her when Samira had been in danger resurfaced, and when Duarte had placed his hands on her baba; a palpable anger that felt too loud and much too heavy.
That evolved into a voice that belonged to something separate from her, darker.
A voice that sounded oh so inviting when it begged for release, and each time it took residence in her chest, Aicha found fewer and fewer reasons to deny it.
When she was a few paces behind him, a creak in the boards startled him, he turned suddenly with a sword raised but it was too late.
Cut off his hands! Watch him scream!
Giving in to her fury was almost like relinquishing control of her body for someone else to take over.
Using the dagger to block his oncoming attack, Aicha’s sword swiped at the forearm that held his oil torch.
It cut through flesh like warm bread, and his torch fell to the floor, along with his hand.
He screamed, much too loudly for her liking and enough to draw attention as he released his sword.
She silenced him by driving the dagger into his throat, using her weight and grip to push backwards until he stumbled.
Her gaze cold, startling the green-eyed soldier who stared at her in horror as he began to claw at her clothing for air.
Her anger burned, singeing her skin and leaving anyone who dared to touch her scarred.
The unwanted, familiar voice of darkness inside her soared.
More! Take more!
Make him bleed.
As if the flow of blood had released a wave of euphoria that filtered through Aicha’s veins. Satisfaction at his pain seeped through the cracks of her anger. But not remorse, never remorse.
Something compelled her to continue stabbing, to drive her dagger into his throat and chest until a sickening squelching sound emitted from each puncture she made.
Until her arm began to ache and the hilt of the dagger slipped between her fingers from the blood that coated her hand.
Much like after her first kill, Aicha’s chest eased.
The noise that erupted inside her had settled, and her bones felt soft, the tension gone.
When she pulled her dagger out of his throat, blood poured from the wound, blending in with her black cloak.
She made sure to push his body over the deck to be taken by the sea.
Rachid’s gaze cast all over her when she returned, taking in the blood splattered across her cheeks and hands. Yet it did not seem to alarm him, and she noticed how his shoulders sagged ever so subtly in relief.
“Are you all right?” His voice gave no indication that he had been distressed by her sudden diversion. “I heard the scream.”
“I’m fine. Is the child safe?”
He nodded, motioning for her to get into the water. “I’ll return to the Gardens and retrieve the next group. Be quick, we are delayed.”
Aicha’s response was a nod, and she turned away from him as she began to strip herself of her cloak; it would only weigh her down in the water when she was trying to guide a group of children.
When she sank down into the water, she cast one last look to Rachid, his gaze simultaneously hard and concerned.
She knew what it meant, be careful. When she floated beneath the dock, the weathered boards obscuring the brightness of the moon, she could make out the shadows of all eight girls huddled together, holding on to one another as they gently swayed in the water.
“How many of you can swim?”
Silence met her response, and she shook away her irritation.
It was not their fault that this trip had been made so last-minute.
“The waves are kind to us this evening, so the water will not be too deep. You must follow me and grip onto the holes in the walls, we will go slowly so that you do not slip and hurt yourselves.” Her voice was measured, unwilling to sound too hard in that moment but not wanting to sound weak or coddling.
“Warda, you are the smallest, so you will climb onto my back.”
She could hear the faintest of shivers as the cold of the water began to set in their bones, and a twinge of guilt invaded her chest. They were too young to risk their lives this way, too young to have to flee their home in order to feel safe.
“You have nothing to fear,” she said with a confidence she did not entirely feel. “I will keep you safe.”
Aicha continued to spit out as much saltwater as she could while dragging the young girls to the shore.
The tides had picked up a little, which saw them clinging to the walls as it turned a corner and drew them towards the beach, and had them being thrown into nearby clusters of rocks.
Her legs ached from the constant kicking against the water, pulling the last child through the waves until she felt sand beneath her feet and crawled until she collapsed face down on the soaked sand.
The child, Farah—oldest and tallest out of the group—lay beside her.
They lay side by side for a moment, the sensation of wet sand—something Aicha had always hated—pressing into her wet curls.
When she opened her eyes, she noticed that Farah faced the night sky, straight black strands stuck to her face in small clumps.
“It is so quiet out here,” Farah said softly. “I can only hear the sea. It is so peaceful.”
“You cannot even hear the fishermen this far out in the morning,” Aicha responded. “The sunrise here is so beautiful, Subhanallah.”
Sitting up, she turned to focus on the group of girls huddled together, only just illuminated by the moonlight.
Still, Aicha could make out their silhouettes.
She rose to her feet, wavering only slightly, and moved towards them.
The shivers that racked their bodies became evident the closer she got, realising that their wet clothes had done enough to sweep the ice coldness of the sea into their skin and bones.
“I will start a fire,” she promised, throat raw and uncomfortable from the salt that lingered.
As she headed up the sand and towards the brushes beyond, she silently mused over how long it had taken to reach the beach.
Picking up speed, Aicha moved with purpose until she found sizeable dry rocks, and used the dagger sheathed at her thigh to cut out bark and twigs from the dried plants and small trees that lined the beaches.
They were dry enough that she would find it easy to set alight—much like her father had taught her.
The fire would be small, but enough to gradually warm the young girls until she returned.
This close to the citadel walls they had no hidden supplies, no trunks buried beneath the sand which held lanterns and weaponry, or spare cloaks.
She had Farah watch how she sparked the fire, her dark eyes keenly focused on the rocks between Aicha’s hand, so that she would be able to relight it should it go out.
When Aicha returned to the water, pushing through the waves and her feet aching from stepping on the jagged rocks, she vowed that the first thing she would do upon arriving home was to gulp down a jug of clean water.
Then strip herself of her clothes, and sleep for the remainder of the day. Chores could wait.
Returning proved more difficult than anticipated, with the waves working actively against her.
Her arms tired quickly, and her grip against the eroded bricks that lined the oceanfront slipped more.
In moments like that, she wished for her baba, the certainty in his tough encouragement and the yanking of his hand on her tunic collar.
All her life Aicha had wished he would bestow more responsibility on her, and now that the time had come to prove she was worthy of it, she found only a deep ache for his presence.
The sound of crashing waves beat loudly against her eardrums. And with the barest ray of moonlight to guide her, Aicha was taken off guard by a punishing wave dragging her under.
The burn of saltwater flowed through her nostrils and to the back of her throat, forcing her to grip back onto the rocks.
Huddling close to the wall, she urged herself to remember Fouad’s instructions; how to regulate her breathing and calm her mind, how easy it was to fall prey to the deep if she did not pacify her panic.
Pressing her nose against the wet, cold stone, she took a deep breath.
Shivers racked her body as she attempted to focus.
Aicha thought of the countless times, as a child, that Fouad had calmed her heart when in the throes of panic.
When the stamping of soldiers’ boots and Duarte’s screams shook her, causing her to freeze in the streets.
When raids had been as common as pouring afternoon tea for her family, and they had burst into their home, dented the metal in Fouad’s door and ransacked his welding room.
He would kneel down to her height, place his large, callused hands around her head and press a soft kiss to her forehead.
Forcing her to breathe in tandem with him.
Baraka, benti… take a long breath. You can have this moment, let your fear be known… but you must remember to push forward.
Her thoughts lingered on his words, with her body cold and the waves ruthlessly pushing against her. Yet, despite the pandemonium of the deep, grasping at her, determined to pull her into its depths, the memory of her father’s words focused her. Grounding her to the present.
“Push forward,” she repeated, a resolve hardening in her bones as her grip began to tighten. “Push forward.”
And she did.
Rachid was not there when Aicha returned.
Instead, as she swam towards the dock that she had jumped off, she noticed another figure stood there, with their back towards the water.
Before she had emerged from beneath the wooden deck, ready to pull herself up, the familiar feeling of dread revisited her, deep in her chest. A pained scream echoed across the docks as Aicha hid beneath the walkway, her eyes straining to see through the gaps of wood.
It was the second group of girls that Rachid had brought over, four of them.
Barely fifteen in age. A flicker of rage and fear wrapped around her throat, and then tightened its fist as she realised the scream belonged to one of the young girls.
“If you choose to remain silent, she will lose her other hand.” The soldier’s tone was filled with malice towards a girl. A child.
As Aicha heard the soft whimpers scatter across the group, she shifted quietly across the water until she could pull herself halfway up. The soldier stood there hovering over a young girl. Sword out and bloodied. Aicha’s eyes found the severed hand on the floor, delicate and slim fingers.
The rage that felt like a striking match burst into a blaze.
Aicha acted before she had time to think, eyes aflame with ferocity.
She pulled herself up onto the dock, drawing her dagger as she attacked the soldier from behind, dragging him backwards by his shoulders.
As she felt her dagger sink into the skin beneath his clavicle, that same malicious joy erupted within her.
She pulled the dagger out quickly, blood bursting from the wound.
It made her wish she was in front of him, watching her weapon repeatedly puncture his skin.
Stumbling backwards worked in her favour as she drove her dagger into his chest and neck, over and over until both fell back into the water.
More. More.
The voice repeated, nipping at her sides and pressing forward, as if it wished to seize control. It made Aicha want to switch to her fingers, stick them into the gaping wounds in the soldier’s chest and peel it open.
She stabbed relentlessly. Blood surrounded them in crimson clouds.
Even when he had stopped struggling, his shoulders no longer pushing back and forth against her chest, she continued in a frenzy.
It wasn’t until the dead weight of his body threatened to trap her on the shallow seabed, and her chest began to tighten from lack of air, that she pulled away.
She struggled beneath him to swim to the surface, chest burning with desperation to breathe in air.
The haze in her mind cleared the second she broke the surface, sucking in large pockets of air, and pulled herself back up onto the dock.
Her dagger was lost below. Perhaps, when the sun had risen and she could see the rock beds more clearly, she would have time to retrieve it.
But Aicha had two things to do: bind the girl’s wound, and get them all to safety.
One missing soldier was easy enough to go unnoticed, but two? There would be more patrols.