Migration with Immortals

Fiction  |  From Legends in My Blood, Book 2: Benamor, Chapter Four

“Of ancient historical origin, Ksar Sghir became important, thanks to its strategic position on the Strait of Gibraltar and its good port. The root of its name, the prefix Ksar—castle—leaves no doubt as to its nature… Ksar Sghir (Alcácer Ceguer in Portuguese)—small castle—which since the 14th century under the Merinid dynasty has been the name that it is known by and that reflects the minor, military and urban status that it later assumed within the wide complex of the fortified cities in the area of the Strait…

“In July 1550, after the failed attempt to save the stronghold with the construction of a new fortification on the hill near Seinal, Ksar Sghir was abandoned and its walls blown up with explosives. Unoccupied and abandoned it soon fell into ruin. Its memory and history were recovered by archaeologists a few decades ago. At present the area is closed and occupied by military forces as a control post in the fight against illegal emigration and drug trafficking.”

— Joaquim Manuel Ferreira Boiça, “Ksar Sghir,” article published in hpip.org

SOME twenty-odd years before the Portuguese ultimately abandoned Ksar es Seghir in 1550—after deeming that it had outlived its usefulness, and was no longer worth the expense of its upkeep and defense—there were already surprisingly few actual Portuguese guarding its borders. Most of the guards were locals, usually Amazighs, who were more often than not simply thugs or retired soldiers who couldn’t really care less about their job beyond the fact that the were getting paid, and so continued Dhiya.

“On the day that a wandering falconer arrived at the border crossing at Tetouan, at that point where the Rif mountains could be clearly viewed, the Portuguese guard and his two Amazigh companions had become much too bored. The guards that were supposed to replace them were to arrive in the evening, and as of yet, the sun was still about to set. The wandering falconer seemed to have arrived just in time to provide the listless guards something that would perk them up.

“The falconer, of course, had his pet raptor with him. And after warmly smiling at the guards and greeting them, and wishing upon them the blessings of Allah (Praise Him), proceeded to entertain the three brusque-looking men with his trained falcon’s magnificent tricks. Simply having the falcon fly from the falconer’s gloved arm and then upwards to the sky at a dizzying height, and for the bird to return to perch upon its master’s arm, all upon the latter’s voiced commands—that was amazing enough. But the guards were even more amazed at the aerial tricks that the raptor, called a peregrine falcon, performed. It soared, did somersaults, folded its wings so that it dropped like a stone from the sky—and made the guards wonder if the raptor would smash its own body on the rocky ground. But always, seemingly at the last moment, the raptor quickly spread its wings and resumed flying, returning to the falconer. Each time the raptor obeyed its master’s commands, the latter would fish out one or two pieces of dried meat as the bird’s reward.

“Then the falconer asked the Portuguese guard to draw his sword; the guard was puzzled but acceded to the request. The falconer took out a small piece of meat from the pouch and stuck it on the tip of the blade; he then asked the Portuguese to hold the sword upright and stand still. The falconer then uttered a command, after which the raptor shot upwards, higher and higher until the Portuguese and the two Amazighs could no longer see it. After a few moments, before the three men could notice, the falcon had swooped down and snatched the piece of meat from the sword’s tip—it returned to the falconer, who inspected the bird to check if it had wounded itself in the process. He then showed the guards that the falcon was unharmed.

“Then, one of the Amazighs, with a malicious grin that did not escape the sharp eyes of the falconer, said, “That’s a neat trick. I suppose it also places your bird in danger; one wrong move and it could impale itself on the sword. May we try that again? I’ll hold the sword this time around.”

“The falconer nodded silently as a yes. Before he repeated the trick however, he stroked the falcon’s head and neck, and seemed to whisper something to the bird. The falconer threw a piece of meat, this time larger than the first one, in the Amazigh’s direction. Instinctively, the Amazigh caught the meat; he then stuck it firmly on the sword’s tip. And since it was a larger piece of meat, he pushed it further into the blade, so that the sharp tip now protruded.

Uttering the usual command, the falconer launched the raptor up in the air. As before, the raptor flew so high that it disappeared from sight. The Amazigh held the sword aloft but did not keep still; instead, he was thrusting the sword upward repeatedly, as though teasing the bird—or perhaps even hoping to injure or even kill it once it swooped down to snatch the meat from the sword’s tip.

“Be careful that you do not mock the bird too much,” the falconer warned, but in a gentle voice, with no trace of hostility, “The falcon might not like it and instead pluck your eye out.” In response to the falconer, the Amazigh merely smiled, and then chuckled. He then tried to make, with his deep, gruff voice, what he imagined to be a sort of bird call, which ended up sounding hilarious, if not grotesque. All four men waited; it seemed as though the falcon was taking longer than usual. Then suddenly, a shadow fell from the sky, then a blur, and then the Amazigh cried out in pain, “Aaaiiieee! It took my eye! Your damned bird snatched out my eye!”

The Amazigh had let go of the sword and was now clutching his face where his right eye should be. There was blood on the fingers of his right hand, and blood was streaming down his face. The falconer rushed to the Amazigh’s side and with gentle words tried to calm the man down: “Let me see, let me see. Maybe we can still save your eye.”

“Yes! That will teach him a lesson!” said Moustafa.

The Amazigh ended up seated on the ground, with his left eye closed, and his right hand still over his right eye. The falconer gently pulled the guard’s right hand away from his face. “You are all right,” said the falconer to the Amazigh, “Look. Look at your hand. Open your eyes. Look.” The Amazigh did so, and he realized that he could still see out of his right eye, out of both eyes—and when he stared at his bloody right hand, he did see an eyeball—but it was not his own. Perhaps it belonged to some animal? But then his cheek below his right eye began to hurt, and indeed, there was a wound there, not very deep, but enough to draw some blood. The Amazigh realized the falcon had expressed its ire with its talon, after all. There was a loud screech, and then everyone saw the falcon, standing upon a rock, with the large raw meat in its beak; it had snatched its target from the sword-tip even as it exacted revenge upon its mocker, the Amazigh.

Instead of getting sympathy from the two other guards, the Amazigh heard his companions laughing heartily. Not with derision but in amazement over what the falcon did. “That will teach you a lesson, you oaf,” said the Portuguese to the Amazigh, who had now stood up and was holding some sort of poultice over his injured cheek—a remedy that the falconer had handed him.

“Forgive my companion’s insolence and disrespect, dear falconer; he was very foolish in trying to mock or even hurt your falcon. I would punish him right now—but I think your bird already took care of that task,” said the Portuguese. The falconer nodded and replied, “Let’s see if the falcon is as forgiving as I am.” Then the falconer looked ahead in the distance, towards some bushes, seemingly eyeing something there. He then picked up a large stone and threw it towards the plants; shortly after the stone hit, a large shape leaped out; it was a large, white hare. The falcon, even without any command, launched itself towards the hare and snatched it up. Then the falcon once again disappeared from sight. After a some moments, the falcon returned and dropped the hare at the feet of the Portuguese, dead; its neck broken, and a huge ripped-out hole in its chest where its heart should have been.

“Well, the falconer said, “There’s your dinner. You have been forgiven.” The Portuguese picked up the freshly-killed hair by its large ears and tossed it to the other Amazigh, the one who did not mock the falcon. “Dress that thing up and cook it on a spit. Hurry up, now,” commanded the Portuguese guard, who was obviously the Amazighs’ superior officer. He then said to the falconer, “Please join us for dinner, falconer. It would be our honor.”

The falconer nodded. Soon enough, the smell of the roasting hare filled the air and the four men sat down to dinner. The falcon was gone; its master said that the bird would be doing its own hunting for now.

The Portuguese brought out a cask of rum. He and the two Berber guards imbibed but the falconer, being Muslim, declined. The men turned to various topics of conversation, until the Portuguese, perhaps because the rum had loosened his tongue, said: “I had thought about becoming a Muslim, years ago.” The two Amazighs, who were not Muslim, exchanged a look, as though this revelation surprised them; the falconer smiled and said, “Please, do go on.”

The Portuguese revealed that years ago, he had been posted in Al-Andalus, where he met a lovely young lady and they became friends. She was a Muslim. “This was already after the Reconquista had banished Muslims and Jews from Al-Andalus—but this lady was permitted to stay because she was learned in many languages, literature, music, and in scholarly and business matters. Perhaps she was a slave? A mamluk? At least, that’s what I suspected.

“We spoke with each other several times, over the course of a month. I was posted as a guard in some rich man’s house—a trader who supplied one of the souks. And this lady had dealings with the rich man on matters that I didn’t bother to inquire about. I was only too happy that I had the chance to speak to the lady. I fell in love with her and I thought, if I need to become a Muslim as well and we were to get married, I would do it.”

Then the Portuguese cast his eyes downward and in voice that turned suddenly forlorn, said:

“But then I was unexpectedly assigned another posting at some other place, also here in Tetouan. I waited for her to return but she never did. If ever she did return to the rich man’s house, she only did so after I had already left. I still remember her name. Aisha.”

“But why,” the falconer interjected, “don’t you go back to Al-Andalus? If she means so much to you, you could simply quit your job here and go to her.” To which the Portuguese replied, “I thought of that. But for some reason, I was too afraid to do so. This life is all I know. I was afraid that if I had to give this up, only to find that she had already married someone else, or that she had been kicked out of Al-Andalus as well, then my life would be ruined. I would feel utterly useless and defeated. There would be no reason to go on living.”

“What?!” said the gruff Berber who thought the falcon had taken his eye, “You’re afraid to give up this life? Anything is better than guarding this crappy place!” Somehow, this remark made all four men laugh, and the shared laughter somewhat melted any awkwardness or even guardedness between them.

“What would then convince you to find this woman back in Al-Andalus?” asked the falconer. “I do not know,” replied the Portuguese, “A miracle, perhaps. A miracle from God. From Allah.”

The falconer drew a deep breath and raised his arm; and then the falcon swooped down and landed on it. The falconer, looking at the two Amazighs and then the Portuguese, said, “My good fellows. Thanks for sharing your dinner with me. I am on a journey that would take me far from here. I was thinking that the border guards would give me a difficult time—but I am glad that you all did not do so. Thank you so much. Dear sir,” and here the falconer addressed the Portuguese, “perhaps you will see your miracle. Or perhaps not. But I pray to Allah, Praise Him, that you do find your beloved, and perhaps even become a Muslim and marry her. I believe that would be a good thing.”

The Portuguese, who had by then, along with the two Amazigh, become slightly tipsy from the rum, then asked the falconer, “Falconer. What is your name?” All three guards heard the reply, “I am Omar. Omar bin Abdelkader bin Yahya.” But then when the three guards looked towards the falconer, there was no one there. Instead, they saw a pile of clothes that, even in their tipsy state, they recognized as the falconer’s. Then they heard a screech. No, two screeches, one answering the other. They looked up and saw two falcons hovering above them. The two raptors flew up and away, until they both disappeared towards the Rif mountains. A week later, the Portuguese resigned from his post and left for Al-Andalus. The two Amazighs simply abandoned their duties, not bothering to talk to their superiors.”

–

Old Man Yahya in Zerhoun

Two nights later, Dhiya resumed her tale.

“I have to tell you this tale, Moustafa. It’s about Grandpa Yahya’s journey from Ksar es Seghir to Zerhoun on the way to Ifriqiya.

“Contrary to what Grandfather Yahya had predicted, he did live long enough to join the family’s migration during its second stage. The first stage of the migration was done by Omar. Since they had to make their migration a secret, they told the Portuguese authorities who administered Ksar es Seghir that the family was going on a pilgrimage to Mecca. To make this clandestine migration more believable as a pilgrimage, Old Man Yahya could not give any signs that the family was uprooting itself and moving to settle someplace else. Ibrahim was assigned to take care of the fishing business as though nothing had changed. But Ibrahim would also follow Old Man Yahya’s family later on; he was fiercely loyal to the Sharifs and this family in particular and he vowed to go wherever they settled—he just had to figure out how.”

“It was decided that Omar had to leave six months earlier than his grandfather, father, and the rest of the family. His job was to arrive in Al-Matwiya first and establish a home for the family. As to how he would accomplish going through the borders of Ksar es Seghir and other places en route to Algeria and Libya, then on towards Cairo to join the caravan route to Mecca—Omar simply shrugged his shoulders and said he’d find a way. “Do not,” Grandfather Yahya said firmly, “try any of the tricks that Amastan taught you. Remember, you are no jinn. Not even half-jinn. What happens if you change back to human form as you are flying? Amastan says a mere mortal man cannot sustain the transformations for long. You’d fall to the ground and get killed. Then what happens to us? Dear boy. Listen to me. Please.”

Six months after Omar had gone ahead, and despite his advanced age, Old Man Yahya managed to travel with his sons, grandsons, and extended family, all the way to Zerhoun. Zerhoun is a town in the Meknes-Fes region of Northern Morocco and is the site of a holy shrine: the tomb of Idris the First, founder of the City of Fes, and Old Man Yahya’s ancestor.

By the time the family left Ksar es Seghir, a year had already passed since their mentors Amastan and Dhiya had left. Those two warriors however, promised that they would meet Grandfather Yahya’s family somewhere along the caravan route—but could not say where and when, exactly.”

It was the old man himself who wanted to make the trip to Zerhoun and later on, to the City of Fez; he reasoned to his family that it was the city built by Idris the First, the most illustrious of their ancestors, and their family’s link all the way back to Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet, and the Prophet Muhhamad himself, Peace and Blessings Be Upon Him. And so, their family travelled to Tetouan, then Chefchouen, and the old Roman town of Volubilis. Surprisingly, it was in Volubilis that Grandfather Yahya and his family found Dhiya waiting for them. But where was Amastan?

He will join us when the time comes,” was Dhiya’s simple reply. Then she approached Old Man Yahya, kissed both his cheeks and hands, and then hugged him. This made the grown-ups exchange puzzled looks—such a display of affection from their warrior-mentor was a surprise, albeit a welcome one. Dhiya continued to dote on Grandfather Yahya for the rest of the journey, always staying by his side and talking about various matters but mostly, it seemed, focusing first on the history of Volubilis; then on the history of the Sharifs, the Idrisids, the Maghreb; and the vagaries and mysteries of human civilization and its bloody history, especially the Reconquista. But their conversations also always seemed to end with a discussion on what human life and history meant in light of Islam and the revelations in the Holy Quran—this was a topic that Old Man Yahya thoroughly enjoyed throughout the latter years of his life. Finally, they continued their journey until they reached Meknes and then, the town of Zerhoun.

Their family stayed in Zerhoun for three weeks. During this time, they visited its holiest site, the mausoleum—also serving as a shrine visited by the faithful—of the City of Fes’ founding ruler: that of Idris the First. Zerhoun is at the Fes-Meknes region of northern Morocco, and the town is spread over two hills that crop up at the base of its namesake, Mount Zerhoun. The visit to the shrine of Idris had a profound effect on Grandpa Yahya, and the night after they returned to the house they were renting as their quarters, he read the Holy Quran and prayed more fervently than ever.

And then, over dinner one night, after giving thanks to Allah for His blessing, Grandfather Yahya raised his hand, gestured for silence across the table and looked at Dhiya. He then said, “I know who you really are Dhiya. You are, in truth, Al-Kahina the Berber Warrior Queen. I’ve known since a few years back but I never let you in on that discovery of mine. We are honored that you are providing aid to our family, dear Al-Kahina. May Allah (Praise Him) continue to bless you with long life and good health. I can’t say I envy your immortality. I, for one, am looking forward to my rest in the afterlife.”

This surprised everyone, and most of all, Abdelkader who just stared, open-mouthed, at Dhiya. He knew the stories about Al-Kahina, the Warrior-Queen of the Amazighs; how she was the first to resist and repulse the first wave of Arab conquerors in the Maghreb. But she was supposed to have been executed, beheaded, after her defeat in the next wave of Arab conquest. In contrast, the grandsons were ignorant about Al-Kahina’s legend; still, they were no longer so shocked. After meeting centaurs, moving, talking trees and their tree lord, and then helping destroy a mad king in the land of dreams, the brothers no longer felt so surprised that their mentor was an immortal.

How did you know that secret of mine, dearest Yahya? I never told you about my past life. All along, I thought you only knew of me as Dhiya your longtime friend and caravan guide,” she told the old man.

In response, Grandfather Yahya said, “I am an old man, and I know the difference between history and memory. Most of the stories you share, I could tell, were not learned from books nor passed on to you by another; they were your personal remembrances of experiences over hundreds of years. And not only that, I also know that your work as caravan guide does not only extend to humans—but also to creatures from other worlds, to jinns and all manner of creatures from the many worlds that Allah, Praise Him, has created.”

With this, Dhiya acknowledged the truth of Grandfather Yahya’s words and said, “Then you are truly a wise man, dear Yahya. Perhaps that knowledge comes to you because it was granted by Allah, Praise Him.” Then Dhiya said that even she is at a loss to explain her continuing longevity. She did say that on the day when she was to be executed after her defeat by the Arabs, a great light shown from above and struck down her executioners, who took flight in fear.

And then she heard a great voice, telling her to leave the Maghreb and start a new life; she was to be given a new mission and her time on the earth would not end until this mission has been fulfilled. “My enemies likely found some other dead female and sent her head to their ruler as proof of my death. But oh, I’m sorry to mention that, young Hammou.” Everyone at the table had come to a unanimous yet unspoken agreement: the mystery of Dhiya’s immortality should be a secret kept between among them.

The next morning, Abdelkader found Grandpa Yahya lifeless in his bed—he had called on the old man to join them for breakfast and, when the call was met with silence, Abdelkader entered the room and found that his father had passed on. Grandfather Yahya’s death was met with much grief and sorrow. As prescribed by Islamic teaching, Old Man Yahya was buried in Zerhoun—which in a bittersweet way, was fitting and in keeping with how his faith led him to make a last pilgrimage to Idris the First’s tomb—before sunset. The wake was held for three days, and sadness darkened the days of Yahya’s son, grandsons, and the entire family.

Even so, the family continued travelling until they reached the border to Algeria, where they met up with a large caravan that was on its way to Mecca. The caravan would cross Algeria to Libya, and then to Cairo where it will merge with yet another caravan on its way to Medina and then Mecca. Of course, the now orphaned AbdelKader, his brothers, and and their sons, would not be going that far; they would separate from the caravan once they reached Tunisia and proceed to Al-Matwiyah, their new home. Dhiya, however, would be proceeding to Mecca, for reasons she could not reveal.

–

The Tale of the Accursed Oasis

“After two months on their journey crossing Algeria on their way to Ifriqiya,” continued Dhiya, “the caravan finally reached a town called Bir el-Kahen. Dhiya knew the place well, of course: seven hundred years since her supposed death as Al-Kahina, the place now has a famous well known as the Queen’s Well. It is so named in remembrance of the Al-Kahina’s exploits, and also of her final defeat and death in the hands of the Arabs.”

Upon arriving at the Queen’s Well, Dhiya said to Abdelkader, “I sense something amiss. The caravans usually do not pass through this place. I wonder why the caravan master led us here. Stay put and stay alert. I will have a word with him.” When Dhiya confronted the caravan master to ask why they passed through the place, the man apologized and said that he was even surprised that the caravan ended up at the Queen’s Well.

“My lady, I am as befuddled as you are. But there’s an even greater mystery. I have tried, along with my men, to take the caravan out of this place. And yet, everywhere we try to go, we end up here. I know this place, but there are some odd things I have seen since we arrived. Look,” and the caravan master pointed to a spot behind Dhiya.

Dhiya turned to look and was surprised—it does not take much to surprise an immortal, but this time around, she gasped in shock—to see a cave. She knew of course, that there was no cave near the Queen’s Well. After a moment or two, Dhiya figured out what was happening. “Secure your men,” she told the caravan master sternly. “You have heard of the Wandering Oasis?” she asked him, and the caravan master’s eyes widened in fear, and then he replied “Yes, my lady. You don’t mean…”

“Yes,” replied Dhiya, “we are trapped inside it. The Wandering Oasis is a magical place that had become cursed. Being a place that is neither here nor there, sometimes it imitates places as taken from the memories of the travelers that get trapped there. In this case, the Wandering Oasis has replicated Bir Al-Kahina taken from our memories of the place. Let us warn the travelers in the caravan. Explain to your men what has happened and tell them to take courage. With Allah’s help, Praise Him Eternally, we will escape this accursed place.” The caravan master did as he was told. Dhiya then returned to AbdelKader, Adhim, and Hammou to tell them about what happened.

There were around two hundred travelers in the caravan, with a hundred camels, and many supplies. As a valued adviser of the caravan, Dhiya conferred with the caravan master, Abdelkader, and the men of the family and formulated plans and strategies to keep everyone in the caravan safe—because, as Dhiya explained, the accursed oasis’ magic would prevent anyone from leaving its confines. Those trapped simply needed to stay until, on its own, the accursed oasis vanishes and wanders to another place. This could last, Dhiya said, anywhere from several days to a few weeks.

“But how do you two know all of this?” the caravan master asked. To which Dhiya replied that she had each been trapped in the same wandering oasis twice before, on different occasions. In the meantime, Dhiya advised that everyone should conveniently enjoy the oasis’ shade, fruits, and water—these were, thankfully, safe. But there were always other threats, Dhiya warned, and so, they all had to stay on guard until the accursed oasis vanished and they could resume their journey.

The caravan master was a wise, crafty old hand at protecting large caravans, and he had under him some thirty brave and fierce guardsmen on camels. He ordered them to stand by on the ready, with some of them making regular patrols through the throngs of travelers. On the third day of the caravan’s stay at the oasis, a sandstorm arrived.

Fortunately, there were some otherworldly creatures that had joined the caravan, creatures with supernatural powers and abilities. These creatures, who were all known to Dhiya—were disguised as mortal men and women. But they, as they had done many times before, had joined the humans’ caravan when they found out that Dhiya was one of the guides helping the caravan master. One of these otherworldly creatures was Hafez the Jinn, who could see farther than any mortal man.

Hafez had spotted the formation of the storm while it was still far-off, some two hours away. He reported this to Dhiya, who then informed the caravan master. The caravan master had no clue how Dhiya could have known about the coming sandstorm—but he had worked with her before and trusted her judgment without reservation. Dhiya also informed Sharif Abdelkader, his brothers, his sons, and the rest of the family, so they could all use the remaining time to prepare the travelers for the storm’s onslaught. The three Sharifs took on leadership roles as they made sure that shelters were built, and the proper coverings and protections were spread over people, animals, and possessions. The storm arrived and lasted for nearly six hours—quite unusually long, noted the caravan master, who chalked it up to the place being accursed.

Two days later, they had another set of challenges. A pack of leopards and lions arrived at the oasis and tried to target children and the animals. These were driven off by the armed guards. And then came the locusts. Such swarms, although numbering in billions of locusts, were usually not fatally serious, and the peoples of North Africa would even catch many of the insects to turn them into roasted, crunchy, protein rich delicacies. However, the travelers soon realized that these locusts were far from ordinary: each insect seemed to be encased in a metallic carapace and blood-red in color. They had bright green eyes and sharp mandibles. They bit the skin of both animals and humans, painfully. Soon, the people were on the verge of panic after the terrible swarm descended on them and seemed bent on causing as much pain, injury, and terror as possible.

Now, it so happened that there were jinns who secretly traveled with the caravan—they were old friends of Dhiya, and she conscripted their help.The jinns’ skins were impervious to the armored, biting swarm and so they were able to capture and kill large numbers of the insects but there were still too many despite their superhuman efforts. But the heroine of the day was an houri named Suha. Suha the Houri had, for some inexplicable reason, lost her way from heaven into the mortal world. [And what a tale that is, the tale of Suha the Houri—but that is a tale for another time and place.] Suha had joined the caravan so that, with Dhiya’s help, she could somehow find her way back to heaven, or so she hoped. During her stay in the mortal world, she became friends with Hafez, and it was through him that she learned of Dhiya and the humans’ caravan.

After learning from the jinns that the armored locusts—who were endemic to the jinn world but somehow, had managed to enter and swarm the oasis—were vulnerable to water, Suha began to sing. As Suha sang, rain, copious, cool, refreshing rain, poured down from the clouds. Each droplet of rain that struck the monstrous locusts burned like acid through the insects’ blood red carapace, and the insects fell to the ground, with their limbs and wings twitching. Finally, the rains subsided and everyone was amazed to see that the armored insects were not only dead but looked like they had rusted through and through; so much so that even touching a locust slightly caused it to collapse into fine, blood-red powder that somehow sank into the ground.

Five more days passed nearly without incident, although the guardsmen did spot a group of Amazigh nomads that seemed to want to try and rob the travelers; these men, according to the head of the guards, eventually retreated, perhaps giving up after seeing the number of well-armed men guarding the caravan. What the caravan master and his head guard didn’t know was that, during the night, the trio of Dhiya, Abdelkader, and Adhim stealthily raided the would-be bandits’ camp and terrified the brigands with so fierce an attack that the men thought they were being waylaid, or worse, by a pair of demons. No brigand could manage to fight back against the immortal Dhiya and her two apprentices, and the group decided to flee.

On their seventh day at the oasis, early in the morning, Dhiya, Abdelkader, Adhim, and Hammou were preparing breakfast when they heard the screeching of raptors. Four falcons were swooping down from the sky and dropped behind their tent. A moment later, from behind the tent emerged Amastan and Omar, each with a falcon on their shoulders. Abdelkader, Adhim, and Hammou all cried with joy and surprise upon seeing Omar. It was a happy reunion for them and they had a hearty breakfast together. Of course, Amastan eventually told the others, “Omar and I are here to help you escape this accursed place. This is the appointed time when we will all help to end the curse.”

Amastan then confessed his connection to the Wandering Oasis. He told the group: “Seven hundred years ago, when I was a foolish young man, I hated the world. I felt rejected by both the jinn, my mother’s kind, and my human father’s people. As guardian of the magical cave, I watched over treasures left there for safekeeping by travelers from this world and from other worlds. I would keep those treasures safe until their owners returned for them. But I betrayed my duty.

“I was eventually conscripted by a group of bandits, ten bloodthirsty and greedy men, to help them steal the magical cave’s treasures. I agreed, foolishly. When the bandits started robbing the cave, they were seen, purely by accident, by a family of Sharifs. A man, his wife, and their two children, a girl and a boy. The bandits killed the Sharif family and I did nothing to stop them. That has been my burden and my sin; God did not turn a blind eye upon this heinous event. There were so many treasures in the magical cave, it took the bandits three days to bring out all the treasures.

“On the morning of the third day, the Tall Man arrived. The bandits tried to kill him but the Tall Man defeated them all, and they ran back into the cave in fear. For some reason, all of the bandits never made it out of the cave again. The Tall Man said that the killing of the Sharif family had put a curse on the oasis. It had been cursed to vanish and reappear from place to place, waylaying unsuspecting caravans. Some travelers escape, others, tragically, get lost and left behind by their caravans. I was also cursed with immortality. Cursed to go on living until my soul has been cleansed of my sin. I looked at all the treasures that the bandits brought out but these had all turned to sand and a great wind came and scattered them.” Abdelkader and his sons Omar, Adhim, and Hammou all fell silent after Amastan’s confession. Dhiya, who seemed to already know of Amastan’s backstory, remained impassive.

The final threat to the caravan came on the eighth day at the oasis, and it was in the form of the ten bandits who emerged from the cave. These were the very same bandits that conscripted a much younger Amastan seven hundred years ago, when the latter was the steward and guardian of the magical cave in the oasis—and resulted in Amastan’s foolish conniving with the bandits to steal the treasures in the magical cave, culminating in the tragic death of a Sharif family back then, hundreds of years ago.

It all started at high noon, when a gruff loud voice yelled out Amastan’s name, and the bandits began to emerge from the cave. The leader of the bandits kept yelling that wanted Amastan dead. When confronted by Amastan, Dhiya, and the guards, the bandit leader said that Amastan tricked the bandits hundreds of years ago. Instead of carting away the cave’s treasures, the bandits had become trapped there for seven hundred years. Their leader believed that killing Amastan would break the curse and allow them to leave the cave and the oasis.

“Finally, you have wandered into the accursed place,” the bandit leader said, “and now you must meet your fate and thus set myself and my companions free!”

Instead of fighting back, Amastan surprisingly surrendered and crouched on the ground, offering his neck to the bandit leader’s sword. Trembling with rage and his desire for vengeance, the bandit leader drew his scimitar to sever Amastan’s neck—but this act was foiled because all of a sudden, an Ababil, a great three-headed, eagle-like creature, one of the otherworldly creatures that were secretly journeying with the caravan, swooped down and snatched the bandit leader with its talons. The bandit leader probably never knew what happened—the Ababil was preternaturally swift; it flew back into the sky, tossed up the bandit leader, and chomped on him with its three great beaks. The other nine bandits, upon seeing this, fled in fear back towards the magical cave—but Amastan’s falcon suddenly swooped down and plucked out the eye of one of the bandits. He screamed.

Then Dhiya, along with Abdelkader, Omar, Adhim, and Hammou attacked the bandits. The guards of the caravan and the caravan master were strangely absent throughout this conflict—and it was discovered later on that they were instructed by Dhiya to stay close to and protect the other travelers of the caravan instead. Soon enough, all nine bandits were defeated, and they all ran back inside the cave. The mouth of the magical cave then collapsed, trapping all the bandits inside.

Then, a melodious voice wafted through the air. “Goodness, Al-Kahina. Seven hundred years of mystical and spiritual searching, and yet here you are, still, as the 20th century idiom would express it: Hardcore.” After these words were spoken, the Metatron, archangel and Voice of God, suddenly appeared before Dhiya and Amastan. The houri Suha was beside him. The caravan master and his guards stood stock still, as though in a trance, or rather, as though they were sleeping while standing upright and their eyes wide open.

“Thank God your voice has recovered,” Suha piped in, and then she blushed, realizing that she had just interrupted the Voice of God while it, or he, spoke! But the Metatron didn’t seem to mind, and seemed to remember something. Finally, the archangel addressed Suha:

“Dear Suha, yes, thanks for noticing. My voice has not regained the numinous, soul-trembling beauty it’s supposed to have—but at least I’m neither hoarse nor coughing anymore. Ah, yes. Your time on earth is at an end, my dear. Off back to Heaven with you—but no longer as a Houri. As I will be taking my old post back as the Voice of God, the Heavenly Division of Righteous Reception and Records—as I’ve renamed our department—will need a new managing director. And that is you, my dear Suha! Congratulations on your promotion!” and most unusually, the Metatron actually smiled and seemed quite happy for Suha.

“Promotion? Managing Director? What is that, my lord? You are speaking gibberish again,” Suha asked, greatly puzzled, “I don’t understa…” but then the Metatron simply replied, “Hush now. Off you go!” and with a wave of his hand, Suha vanished and was sent back to Heaven.

Dhiya recognized the voice—it was the very same one that she heard when she was saved from decapitation by her Arab foes; this was back when she had been defeated by the Arabs in her previous life and identity as Al-Kahina, the Amazigh Warrior Queen. Dhiya fell on her knees and bowed, but the Metatron took her hands and stood her back up. “You have done well, Queen of the Amazighs. Thanks for taking care of the migrants from this world and other worlds. I know you wish for your long life to end, to rest, but you have yet one quest to fulfill. I am sorry, but that is the Will and Purpose of God, Praise Him Eternally,” said the archangel.

It was then that Amastan collapsed on the sand. He was—he knew it, felt it—dying. Then the Metatron spoke again: “You have been forgiven, dear Amastan. Let your soul rest and receive its reward. But you will not die here. You, Al-Kahina—I’m sorry, Dhiya—and Omar will be sent forthwith to Mecca to join the Hajj there.

The wandering oasis vanished and the caravan master, his guards, and all the other travelers in the caravan had no memory of the miraculous events that happened to them. With the exception of Abdelkader and his sons, of course. They were all surprised to find themselves already just a mile or two away from Al-Matwiya. Upon reaching the village, Abdelkader saw that Omar had successfully prepared a home and a large tract of land for them. More than enough space for the entire family to plant crops and orchards, and even raise goats and sheep. Thus, their family successfully migrated from Ksar es Seghir to Al-Matwiya to rebuild their lives and spawn their descendants. Well, except for Hammou, who stayed unmarried and without sons or daughters, devoting himself to the ascetic and spiritual life.

With this, Dhiya, the dearest nurse of Moustafa, ended her tales. And then Moustafa asked her, finally: “Now, are you that same immortal Dhiya in your tales?”  The nurse then paused, and with a gleam in her eye replied, “Yes. Of course, that’s me, dear boy.”  Moustafa stayed silent, squinted his eyes, and then crossed his arms over his chest. The boy then said, “You are such a kidder, nurse Dhiya! You almost had me! I almost believed you!” And then Moustafa bin Mohamed bin Amor Asharif Al Mitwi ran to his nurse and hugged her, both of them laughing.

–

Woman at the train station

The trader, who looked to be in his mid-to-late 30s, was tall and thin. He was dressed in a Western-style suit and tie, and looked clean and dapper. Even his moustache was trimmed and styled. Having finished his business for the week—he regularly travelled between France and Tunisia—he had passed by the marketplaces to purchase bottles of French perfume, most of them were Chanel, and scarves. He also saw a white mink coat that, surprisingly, was priced much lower than expected. These, he all packed in two medium-sized suitcases that he brought along specifically for such items. They were not for sale; instead, they were special gifts.

He met an old woman as he boarded the train to Marseille. The trader was at the train station by 8:00 a.m., thirty minutes before departure time. It was a damp, rainy, overcast morning. The smells of carbon coal and grease-on-gears permeated the air thickly, and this made the trader sneeze, his upper lip and moustache twitching in the aftermath. The rain-splashed wood, dark iron, and steel of the train station, as well as the locomotive itself, produced a wave of nostalgia for the trader, as though the scene stirred something from his childhood—but it was a fleeting feeling, and was, in the end, broken by a woman’s voice, that said: “Would you help an old woman up these steps?”

The trader snapped his head to the right and he saw, indeed, an elderly woman. But she still had this youthful quality to her, as though her appearance—short wavy hair, purple hat with flowers ornamenting it, and a pristine white dress—were but an affectation. She certainly didn’t look or move as though she needed help. There was a spring in her steps, an almost feline litheness in her arms, legs, and body. Nevertheless, she held out her hand for the trader, and the trader, always the gentleman, took her hand and helped her up the train steps.

The old woman thanked the trader and, after both of them had proceeded inside the train’s car, it so happened that they were to share a cabin, after all. The train conductor made his inspection and asked the trader for his ticket. Strangely, the conductor didn’t bother to ask the old woman for her ticket—this struck the trader as odd, but then he dismissed it. Just one of the flukes one observes during travel. The trader was seated across the old woman, and with his two suitcases checked in, all he carried was a leather handbag. A beautiful, dark blue scarf, with rose patterned design, was tied around the bag’s handle. After the trader laid the bag beside him, it snapped open, giving a glimpse of its contents.

“So, who is the lucky lady?” the old woman asked the trader.

“Wha-what? Excuse me?” replied the trader, surprised by the old woman’s question.

“You have that scarf tied to your bag. And inside, and please forgive me for noticing, you have a Chanel Parfum Grand Extrait. I have never seen that particular one, so it must be new. And these items tell me you are carrying gifts for your beloved—all the way from France to Tunisia,” said the old woman, who, the trader suddenly noticed, was speaking to him in French. But then, wasn’t she speaking to him in Tunisian dialect back at the train station?

“You are quite the observer, Madam,” replied the trader, who didn’t feel as though the old woman had intruded upon his privacy. Rather, he felt pleased that someone else had noticed his meticulously chosen gifts for his beloved, the lovely Beyya, who was waiting for him in Tunis.

“I am newly married. Well, nearly two years along—but it still feels as though we are newlyweds, to be honest. These gifts are for my wife, of course. I am away from her on business far too often, I know. And these gifts, well, I hope they make up for the times that I have to leave her side,” replied the trader, who surprised himself, realizing that he had said quite a lot to the old woman, a complete though charming stranger.

The old woman smiled. “It’s all right. I know how that feels. I also loved someone in that way, once. Once across many lifetimes ago, it seems. We were married, of all places, in Mecca. This was near the end of his life. Our love was never meant to stay put in one place. We spent many years, centuries, it seems, away from each other, loving each other across time, across continents. Saying goodbye, saying hello, again, over and over.”

“Such a poetic way of putting it, Madam,” said the trader, who felt an almost otherworldly tone in the old woman’s words. Then the trader noticed the old woman cross her arms on her chest, seemingly feeling cold. The trader excused himself and went out of the cabin. When he returned, he was holding a mink coat. He handed it to the old woman. “You are cold. Please put this on.”

The old woman smiled, looked straight at the trader and said, “Dear boy. This is for your wife. I could never…”

“Do not worry about it,” said the trader. “It’s not like I’m giving it to you,” he smiled, kindly, and said, “But wear it in the meantime. It is quite cold because of the non-stop rains. But to be honest, if you forget to return it to me, I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Nonsense. Of course, I will return it to you. Your wife will love this. Such a lovely coat. She will wear this for the rest of her life, I tell you”, said the old woman. And with that, the ice was broken, and she and the trader had a fascinating conversation about France, Tunisia, and other places they happened to have travelled to.

The trader, perhaps on account of his tiredness from his business dealings, or because of the relentless, rainy weather, fell asleep. And as he slept, he dreamed. Such a strange dream. He saw a man on his deathbed, and a woman, a beautiful woman with a faint scar down her right cheek. Long, dark wavy hair. Deep dark brown eyes. The man’s eyes, on the other hand, were of a piercing blue. Like the ocean on a sunny morning. “I will come to you,” said the man. “Only my human half dies today. The rest of me returns to the world of jinns. But I will return when your life on this earth, when your quest is over.” And then the man died. The woman wept, saying softly as the touched the man’s cheek, “See you again, Amastan, my dearest.”

And then the dream changed. But still, there was also a man on his deathbed. In a hospital. He was dying of what? Cancer. The word, the illness was being spoken about by others in the dream, but the trader in his dream could not make out who the other people were. They were phantoms, twisting and floating, changing shape like smoke. Then a beautiful woman with red hair and bright green eyes came and sat by the man. She wanted to weep, to beat her chest, to scream against fate. She didn’t know how to live on after her husband died. But she could only look at him in silence. Her soul was falling into an abyss of sorrow, falling endlessly in a well of darkness.

And then a woman’s voice was speaking to the trader in his dream. She said, “When you were a boy, I gave you the gifts of remembrance and forgetting. Remember your ancestors, I told you. Remember, always, you are Asharif. Be true to your heritage.  And then, I gave you the gift of forgetting. And so, you have forgotten me. But you have not forgotten the tales. Your mind does not remember but your heart, your heart now holds all those tales in safekeeping. That’s why you chose Beyya. She is a wonderful storyteller. Her stories call out to the tales in your heart. In those stories, you and Beyya will live on together, beyond sorrow, sickness, and oblivion. Goodbye, Moustafa bin Muhammad bin Amor Asharif al Mitwi. I am nothing but a creature made of stories now. And so, I am free to join my dear Amastan.”

Inside the train cabin, the trader stirred in his sleep, talking in his slumber. He said, “Yes. Lovely Beyya. She tells such wonderful stories.” An hour later, the trader awoke, surprised that he had been clutching the mink coat around him, using it as a blanket. He had no memory of getting the coat from one of his checked-in suitcases. He had no memory of the old woman he met and shared a cabin with. The trader shivered with cold and went out of the cabin to get some hot tea.

After arriving at the port in Marseilles, the trader took the ferry to Tunisia. As he climbed on board, he saw a curious sight: a man, who turned out to be the ship’s first mate, was carrying two dead birds by their feet. The trader became curious and asked the man about what happened. The birds were a pair of Peregrine falcons, said the first mate, who happened to be an avid bird watcher and amateur ornithologist. “One of the deckhands found this pair—such beautiful creatures, unfortunately already dead—on the floor near the wheelhouse. Strange how these birds, a pair of them, maybe mates, male and female, ended up there. The deckhand wanted to throw these overboard but I stopped him. They’re too beautiful to be treated as garbage. I’ll see if I can have them stuffed at the taxidermist’s,” said the first mate. The trader thanked the man for sharing the tale. The trader thought, “That story might be something interesting to share with Beyya.” And then he proceeded to his seat on the ferry.

______