IGMS Issue 42 Read online

  Taksheel's feeble gasps and protests echoed through her chambers as she made her way back to him. Pani fussed and fawned over the babe, praying in a steady stream of foreign water words as she held the milk-soaked cloth for Taksheel to suck.

  Chahna leaned against the doorway, the stone cool against her cheek. She must be strong. He should not suffer for her stupidity. Once she put him out of his misery, she would end her own life and send her soul to join him and his father in the water depths of hell.

  She drew upon her fire, bringing it forth in a rush of sound that sent Pani scrambling aside with a cry. Taksheel began to wail, and with every step closer he howled louder, barely able to gasp a breath in between, little body stiff with terror, and still she moved closer, and closer, body enveloped in flame.

  The tiny wisps of hair on his head shriveled away. His silk wrap began to curl and darken at the edges, his skin reddened, and blisters rose on exposed flesh. She stepped closer still, forcing her body forward, wanting to close her eyes and scream but knowing she deserved to watch this . . . and that it would haunt her all her days.

  The smell of burnt hair filled her nostrils.

  Pani screamed somewhere to her right. Chahna faltered.

  It was too late. He already burned.

  Then water arced through the air, gathering and growing. Chahna looked to Pani for its source and saw that Pani's tears flowed away from her face. But there was more. From her. Tears, the saltwater of the soul, flowing from both women, became a sheet winding through the air to settle over Taksheel and wrap him, dousing the fire, soothing his burns. His cries abated.

  What magic was this? Chahna stood quiet, her fire gone, and stared at her son. Pani fell to the floor to press her forehead to the tiles.

  But she did not bow at Chahna. No, she bowed to Taksheel. She chanted a word in her own language again and again.

  Waterlord. Her mother was right.

  Chahna's fear rose to new heights. There was no saving him from her father now. He was a threat to all Firelord people, and she could never change him. She stepped forward, ready to battle the water of this tiny being, turn it to steam and end it all.

  "Please, Mistress, please."

  "Please what?" She did not mean to sound so sharp, but grief engulfed her in a terrible wave, and her weakness made her angry.

  "Please, Kumara, you must not kill him."

  "And what would you have me do?" Chahna demanded. "He is no watersnake like you -- he is powerful. My father will do worse than burn him alive. Why make him suffer so? Death would be a blessing," she said, echoing her mother's words.

  Taksheel cooed, a tiny sound that caught in her heart.

  Pani beseeched her. "If you will free me from my bond to you, and let me take him to my lands, Kumara, he will be all you are here, and I will serve him to my dying day. I can sneak him --"

  "So he can grow to be one who can douse my people's fire?"

  Pani recoiled from Chahna, shaking her head but unable to voice her protests.

  Chahna leaned over the woman, the heat rolling off her making the girl flinch. "I will fix this, not you," she said, unable to constrain her anger.

  Pani's mouth tightened. Chahna's gut twisted in shame. Pani loved and cared for Taksheel as well -- or better -- than she ever could.

  Chahna left them, the fires of guilt and grief trailing off her to blister the flowers of her gardens. She would have to kill Taksheel if she could not purge his waterlord birthright and replace it with a firelord status.

  Chahna paced the city streets again, only this time wearing flames and expensive silk. The way cleared before her, many bowing or prostrating on the ground.

  She needed a child, an infant boy. A firelord. How would she possibly gain one? She made her way along the richest streets, remembering a cousin and his pregnant wife.

  At the cousin's palace she heard the cries only a woman in labor could make. Chahna's own memories were only too fresh, and she flinched with remembered pain. Guards stood at the ornate gate, but let her pass without a glance. She was a cousin, after all. She didn't doubt the expression she wore discouraged them just as much as her caste and family ties.

  Once out of their sight she slipped into the side gardens, passing trees laden with fruit and flower before finding a quiet doorway in. All attention in the hall was focused on the celebrating father.

  The cries from within the room beyond quieted.

  Chahna waited, her heart as hard as sunbaked earth. She would fix her son, make him a firelord as he was meant to be, raise him and love him and feed him . . .

  A slave brought the precious wrapped bundle to the firelord and he took it into his arms. His gaze lowered, his face softened, all firelord gone to reveal only adoration and joy.

  That is what Jalesh could have looked like, holding Taksheel.

  Chahna stood in the shadows a long time, unable to move. Finally she retreated, returning to the streets.

  There was only one way left to her.

  She returned to the market and purchased a small sharp blade that could be strapped onto her arm beneath her sari. Then she sought out the cinder boy. She saw him talking with his friends, his back to her. She walked up to them, the others scattering as she approached, and tapped the boy on his shoulder.

  He turned, irritated look melting away to awe, and then fear as he recognized the woman he had helped the day before. Falling to his knees, he shoved his face into the dirt, his muffled voice begging her forgiveness.

  "I did not know, Kumara, I did not know," he repeated like a mantra. Chahna bent to touch his head and quiet him.

  "Take me back to the ramanah."

  He guided her back to the hovel, the streets now crowded with vendors and carts in the heat of the day. Children ran shouting after monkeys, chasing them from the fruit carts in return for a mango. A donkey brayed close by, loud to her ears but ignored by everyone else. Some stared to see a firelord walking through their streets. Others simply bowed and backed away.

  If the ramanah was surprised to see her as she really was, he let nothing show. Again she sat on the only chair, folding her hands in her lap.

  "I am at your service, fire princess." He licked his lips as his eyes travelled over her sari, no doubt noting the missing babe. "Have you found a suitable fireborn child so soon?"

  "You are despicable, and the fires of heaven will shun you," she said with no emotion at all. She knew she spoke out of her own guilt, yet it felt good to scorn him in her place.

  His eyes widened only a little. "My apologies for my presumptions, princess. Please, this one begs to know how to serve you."

  Fire trailed unbidden along her fingers, as if it made its own protest at what she considered doing. "You must have clients interested in rising to the firelord caste."

  He only hesitated for the barest moment. "Of course. There are always those who would buy what birth did not give them, although it is rare to find one who will sell it. But your son has nothing to sell, Kumara. Why do you trouble me?"

  An insult she could not let pass. "Your veils are so thin, Sandeep, I see right through to the greed in your heart. No matter. Bring your client that they may buy my birthright. You will pay me the full price that they pay, and not a coin less."

  Shock froze his tongue. He blinked a few times. "My princess?"

  "No, I am not yours and never will be." Fire danced over her, licking dangerously close to the wood shelves and wall hangings. She did not have time for this man's greedy thoughts to work it through. "Do it, now, as I command!"

  Sandeep tripped and scrambled for the doorway, shouting for the boy. For now she ruled him with fire -- how would it be once her fire was gone? Chahna stepped out of the tiny room and looked to the sun in the sky. Her time was running out, and soon she would have no fire at all. She watched Sandeep yelling at the cinder boy and pointing up at the palaces of firelords. The boy glanced once at her, only to receive a blow to the side of the head. He scrambled aside, dodging the second swing,
and took off up the hill.

  Chahna hid her fear deep within, burying it in ashes, and readied herself for what must come.

  Sandeep ushered her back into his room and laid out a mat for her. He lit incense, praying under his breath, and laid out gold nuggets in star burst patterns over her heart and on her third eye. Then he mixed bits of this and that into a marble mortar, releasing a horrid smell when he ground it with the pestle.

  Chahna met his gaze as he sat back. "It is ready," he said.

  "Where is your client, ramanah? My time runs short."

  "Soon, soon," Sandeep said, licking his lips. He rose and paced outside the doorway, muttering quietly. Chahna shivered. This was her only chance, and the gold from it as important as the change it would wrought in her. She must be ready. She must be brave. She must be quick.

  Finally Sandeep led a pretty young girl and a firelord prince she vaguely recognized into the small room. The cousin fell to his knees beside her, palms pressed together. "Thank you, Kumara," he said, his own eyes smoldering. "My family would never allow us to be together otherwise."

  Chahna studied the two faces that hovered over her. She recognized the love that filled the air between them, just as it had with her and Jalesh, and the pain of that loss was soothed in knowing she could at least give these two a chance.

  Sandeep crouched at her other side. "Make it so, ramanah," she said.

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment. He dipped a trembling finger into a bowl of foul paste and marked her. Pain seared along her skin, heat flaring high, and she bit her tongue so hard blood filled her mouth. Sandeep chanted breathlessly as he marked her again and again, each time more painful than before.

  Chahna's awareness faded, and some small voice within screamed at her to stay conscious. She must not let the ramanah take her coin, and she must not die, not here, not like this, not after such a sacrifice. Only she could rescue her son.

  "You must let go now, Kumara," Sandeep said in a whisper at her ear. The girl knelt at her other side, her hands pressed to Chahna's belly, her eyes closed and arms swathed in fire. "Let the fire go."

  He dipped his finger, steady now, a small smile creeping over his face, and drew the final mark.

  Chahna's back arched and the girl screamed. Every bit of Kumara fire poured out of her in a rush, leaving her cold as death. Sandeep let out a happy sigh.

  "It is done."

  With a flick of her wrist Chahna bared the steel of her hidden blade and thrust it up to nestle under Sandeep's chin. "Slowly now, ramanah," she choked out. "Help me up so that I may not slice your neck by mistake."

  Sandeep, his face pale as limestone, took her other hand and pulled her to her feet. The young firelord prince and his newly gifted girl backed away, eyes wide.

  "Drop your payment there, cousin," Chahna said, counting on his gratitude and family loyalty to save the moment. He hesitated, and Chahna wondered if all was lost, until the girl elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted, pulled out a bulging pouch of bright red fabric, and let it fall. It made a satisfying clink.

  Chahna pushed the tip of her blade hard enough to draw blood, then shoved Sandeep back so he tripped over his own stool with a cry of dismay.

  Scooping up the bag of coin, Chahna ran full tilt, praying to every god she knew that the cinder was not lying in wait, that Sandeep would not follow, that her father would not have returned home yet. She dashed through lines of saris hung for sale, past crowds that stared, around donkeys and monkeys and children. She reached the gardens outside her room, scattering birds in every direction, and burst into her chambers. Pani looked around, eyes wide, and Chahna saw Taksheel beside her. A rush of love nearly took her to her knees.

  "Quickly, Pani," she gasped, her fingers tight around the heavy pouch of gold. "We must go before we are found."

  Pani gaped at the markings still painted on Chahna. "What have you done?"

  "What had to be done. Quickly, or it will be all for nothing."

  Soon they rode through the gates of the city on newly bought camels and headed west into the desert. Chahna gazed at her son, and his wide eyes regarded her back. She opened the stopper on her waterskin, and dipped her finger to place it on her babe's forehead. He blinked and sighed, content. Peace washed over her.

  Fire no longer sprouted from her fingertips.

  Pani led them west and south and west again, on towards the legends of great waters beyond the sand. And when Taksheel, their waterlord, cried out to the world his demanding, Chahna smiled and open her sari to his questing mouth so he could nestle up against her full breast to feed.

  On the Winds of the Rub' Al-Khali

  by Stephen Gaskell

  Artwork by M. Wayne Miller

  * * *

  Part 1

  Praise be to Allah, the Creator of heaven and earth!

  My name is Ismail Dhu-Nuwas. I am Bedouin. My clan is the al-Ghafran, part of the mighty al-Murrah tribe. For thousands of years we have skirted the fringes of the Rub' al-Khali desert in the southern reaches of Arabia, living a simple life tending our herds, seeking new pasture, leading trading caravans.

  Obedience to the Sunnah -- the customary law of the ancestors -- has preserved our way of life through the centuries. It stresses the values of loyalty, generosity, cunning, and honor.

  When I was four years old an object cut a blazing trail down from the heavens into the heart of Africa.

  Although I couldn't understand the import of this event -- couldn't know how it would irrevocably alter my path -- I already knew that whatever befell me, I would live as Bedouin.

  The professor came six years later.

  The little rains had been especially feeble that season, vanishing almost as quickly as they had arrived, and I was encouraging the famished goats to feed on cacti when he shimmered into view. He rode a lone camel, and was led by a single guide. It was not my place to announce visitors, so as they drew closer, disappearing and then appearing again as they rose and fell with the undulating dunes, I simply watched.

  The guide was Bedouin, but not of a tribe I was familiar with, and the camel was an Arabian breed, one of the finest I'd had the fortune to set my eyes on. As for the man, he was dressed in a dark suit with a blue bow tie, utterly inappropriate for the blistering heat. His only concession to the sun was a white keffiyya wrapped around his head.

  As they passed by, despite the fact that he was clearly suffering -- thick beads of sweat peppering his brow -- the man gave me a respectful nod of the head and a warm smile. I think I might've smiled back, but I'm not entirely certain.

  They proceeded into the heart of our encampment, where one of the majlis -- the tribal elders -- was already waiting. At their arrival the customary hospitalities were begun: the camel was led to a shaded water trough; the guide to one of the communal tents; the visitor to the sheikh's residence.

  I turned my attention back to the bleating goats, still speculating as to the purpose of the man's visit, but already anticipating that he would be just another in the long line of infrequent, seemingly unimportant, guests that passed through. Much like the occasional sandstorms that blew hot rains of stone through our camp, I fully expected no trace of him to remain in a day or two.

  "Ismail," called one of the older boys an hour or so later. "You're wanted in the sheikh's tent."

  I kneeled on the sand, picking ticks out of one of the goat's patchy hides. I'd been wondering how the pests flourished, and whether isolating the goats might help rid the herd of them. I turned my head, shielding my eyes from the sun's brilliance. "Me?"

  "Yes you, Ismail."

  My skin tingled from the tips of my buried toes to the roots of my shorn hair. Perhaps the feeling was more akin to nerves than excitement, but whatever the feeling, I felt truly alive then. An invitation to the sheikh's tent was something few adult tribesmen got, never mind a gangly, awkward ten year old.

  What could the sheikh -- and by extension the ill-clothed visitor -- want with me?

  I stood
up, brushed the sand from my 'abya, and skittered down the slope.

  Many eyes were upon me as I ran between the long, black tents, and as I grew close to the sheikh's -- the largest in the camp -- I eased up to a respectful walk. As is usual during the hottest part of the day, the sides and back of the tent were rolled up to allow what little breeze there was through. Between the short poles I could see a tightly-bunched row of men's backs. They sat cross-legged, revealing the leathery soles of their feet. Hearty chatter spilled out.

  As I went inside, the smell of cardamom-laced coffee rich in the air, the voices went quiet. I blinked, my eyes getting used to the dark. My father was present. His face was grave, and I realized the conversation had been confrontational rather than genial.

  Everybody's eyes were on me.

  "Come, sit, Ismail," the sheikh said, patting an empty cushion to his right. I sat, joining the circle of men which was only broken by the coffee hearth. Everything about the sheikh's tent from the rugs to the serving implements was grander, more luxurious than I was used to, but I had little time to appreciate it. "Ismail, I want you to meet someone," he went on, turning his palm to the mysterious visitor. "This is Professor al-Wahab."

  "Please, call me Muhammad." The professor started to offer his hand, thought the better of it, and simply nodded, his mouth creasing into a smile. He spoke with a thick accent, but I was still able to understand his Arabic.

  My gaze met my father's. His eyes flashed.

  "I am humbled," I said quickly, dipping my head as befit a child greeting an elder.

  A beautifully embossed egg-shaped cup was placed before me, coffee poured. I am ashamed to say that pride swelled in my chest, my father's distress easily forgotten.

  The sheikh went on. "Professor al-Wahab has a few questions for you, Ismail. Answer them to your best of your ability." I noticed that as he said those words he glanced at my father. Perhaps if I was older I would've understood what that look meant, and what was at stake.

  "Ismail," the professor begun, "I understand you help entertain the tribe. Is that right?"