Chapter 16
Aicha had spotted the smoke before she reached the docks, just as she had begun her journey back in the water.
It billowed up into the air in dark clouds, as if it were a symbol of horror for the day ahead.
Dread weighed as heavy as stones in her stomach.
The last time smoke had blown from the town square, the military had burned Maghrebi bodies.
Her breath hitched in her throat, thoughts of Rachid and his sudden disappearance flooding her mind. Baba. Samira. She needed to hurry home.
The beginnings of the morning rush, of fishermen starting to load their boats, did not greet Aicha’s ears when she returned.
It would have been busy enough for her to slip past them between crates and barrels, despite her soaked clothing.
Instead, Aicha could only see a handful of Maghrebis preparing to head out.
It seemed the Portuguese fisherman had also fled.
The carnage she had left behind had barely been noticeable, the darkened stains of dried blood that had seeped into the wooden walkway would have only been spotted if deliberately sought.
It perplexed Aicha, that despite everything that had occurred overnight, the docks felt brand new.
As if the sun had erased its previous memories and begun rebuilding a cleaner, fresher memory.
She remained in the shadows as she made the journey to the square, her damp shirt sticking to her back as she weaved between narrow alleyways.
The shade provided a welcome reprieve from the heat, as did the quiet.
The rest of the citadel was yet to wake, its stillness more unsettling than usual for Aicha.
Dread tied endless knots in her stomach as the barren streets began to feel more and more unnatural.
By now, children she had known since their births should have been sitting by their windows, watching passers-by.
Instead, there was nothing as she rounded a corner, as if each neighbour had been instructed to remain inside, windows and doors tightly shut.
The market stalls of her own people, forced to operate in alleyways and corners, never allowed to trade in the square, were also missing.
Then, as Aicha hurried closer, the stench of burnt flesh and hair invaded her senses.
“Ya Allah!” she gasped, bile escaping her throat as she hunched over and expelled what little she had eaten the night before.
Her worst fears were confirmed. They had burned people, her people.
Unable to be buried in order to pass on.
Aicha lingered in an alley, her view of the square obscured as she crouched down to avoid being seen.
Soldiers lingered by the gallows, as bodies hung from the nooses.
The soldiers moved in groups, lifting bodies to throw onto the piles of already burnt ones. The embers had subsided for now.
The stench was overwhelming, and tears streamed down Aicha’s cheeks from the smoke. No amount of furious blinking would stave off the unbearable sting beneath her eyelids. Fighting the urge to cough, she flitted her gaze about, desperation paralysing her limbs.
But even if her baba and Samira were there, would she know? Would the bodies already burned in the pile be distinguishable? Bile ascended her throat again, but this time she swallowed it down.
Shouted orders echoed from the square.
“Sweep the eastern areas! If you see Aicha Sanhaji, you bring her alive.”
They were after her. Only her.
Her chest seized and her throat burned. If they only wanted one Sanhaji… It could only mean one thing. Aicha shoved her hand to her mouth as a sob escaped, because understanding what she had to do pierced her chest as sharply as a blade.
She waited until the soldiers left the square, and then crawled on her hands and knees towards the gallows. Trying to stay out of sight, between bodies and empty stalls.
Don’t look away. She told herself. You have to know. You have to know.
Steeling herself, Aicha bit down on her tongue to hold off any sobs that ached to be released.
She looked up, first at the bare, bloodied feet that dangled, and then slowly, slowly up to the torsos.
Every second was accompanied with a prayer that she wouldn’t find her baba’s face, or Samira’s, or Rachid’s staring back at her blankly. Neck bent at an unnatural angle.
She knew all four faces. Four faces that she had spent her youth with.
None were her family.
Allah forgive her, but Aicha couldn’t help the tinge of relief that cut through.
She turned to the pile of ash and half-burnt bodies, gagging at the charred flesh and bitter taste that lodged in the back of her throat.
If she survived, Aicha would never be able to forget the smells and tastes that overwhelmed her senses at that moment.
It would follow her every step, like a shadow.
Her mind played the soldier’s words over and over again in her head. If you see Aicha Sanhaji, you bring her alive. It batted against her like a relentless wind in a storm, unwilling to let her breathe or see clearly.
Tears that weren’t from the smoke began to track down her cheeks as Aicha’s fingers dug into the ashes.
She braced her knees on the ground, pushing half-burnt corpses aside as she tried to look for something—anything—that would indicate if she had found who she was looking for.
Digging through the dust and determined not to linger on the fact that the dust had once been people.
If there was nothing, she would stop.
If there was nothing, Aicha would go home.
She really wanted to go home.
Her throat ached when she found a small hand, small enough to belong to a five year old, but she pushed on. Aicha never thought she would have to hope that a burnt body would still be at least half intact, so she could tell who it was.
Duarte would pay for this.
Her breath hitched when her fingernails caught onto something solid, metallic. It was coated in ash, and Aicha blew at it until the glint of gold came into view. A necklace with a five-point star.
She dropped it, choking on her own sob.
No, she thought. Please, no.
She kept digging, as if something else would dispute what she had just found. That was when Aicha’s fingers caught onto the sleeve of a still intact arm. Brushing up against something tied around their wrist.
A woven band, the colour of blue and orange.
What shattered in Aicha could not be held at bay with force or fear.
It did not care for the danger of being caught.
It did not care for self-preservation, or safety, and Aicha found her heart splitting apart as her lungs stopped contracting.
Whatever hope that lingered diminished as quickly as a lost flame.
Sobs racked her chest, slowly at first, a gradual patter like the first signs of rain, before the heavens opened.
She curled in on herself, never letting go of her sister’s wrist, as anguish welcomed her with open arms.
Soreness made itself known despite the weight in Aicha’s chest.
She stumbled away, tears an unstoppable force, as she realised she would never say goodbye.
Never hold Samira’s hand, or feel irate at her nagging. That the last time her baba had held her would be the last time she would ever feel his embrace at all.
She would never sit side by side with Samira in the forge cleaning daggers and arrow heads again. Her baba, who had shown her how to peel a prickly pear, and who had dreams and fantasies that saw the end of their settlers, would never see those dreams come to life.
Samira would never again wake to the sound of gulls in the bay, or the smell of the sea as the wind blew in the early morning. She would never again see the brightness of the stars on nights clear of storms. She had not even been granted peace in death.
Her father’s last smile, emerging through his greying beard, flashed through her mind, and Aicha could not hold back the cry that clawed its way out of her throat.
Pausing in her stumblings to lean against a wall in an alley, the distant thought that she had to be careful was difficult to latch onto. She could not get caught yet.
She still needed to find Rachid.
As she made her way back towards her home, the rage that slowly began to resurface wrestled with her despair. It did not fully take hold of her until she reached the corner that led onto her small street, her eyes focusing on her home.
There was no longer a door.
A gaping opening, an eyesore to onlookers, was all that remained.
The sounds of smashing and chaos echoed from inside.
Those knots that had tightened in her stomach only moments before snapped loose, only to reform around her lungs and heart.
Her voice was unable to escape as she choked on her own fear.
She felt the weight of multiple gazes from behind the curtains of her neighbours as she moved, none who would dare come out and tempt their executioners.
As she stepped inside, Aicha reached for her remaining sword. Fingers wrapping around the hilt. Her feet moved over strewn, destroyed pieces of furniture, and she found the instigator of carnage, the destroyer of her home.
The soldier turned, startled for just a moment before pale eyes narrowed in malice. Aicha had shifted into a sprint.
Teeth were bared in rage—as she barrelled into him violently, shoulder colliding with his chest. His fist slammed into her cheek, her teeth clattering. Aicha fell beside him, tasting the metallic tang of her own blood, rolling away and standing.
“Brat,” he spat out, climbing to his feet and rubbing at the shoulder he had landed on. “I’ll have you meeting your firan of a father and sister soon.”
There was an extra layer of venom in the foreigners who had gone to such lengths to learn her own language to insult her. A fraction of a second later, her heart stuttered in her chest.