Nahri drummed her fingers on the tambourine, growing inspired by the group’s mood. She grinned; maybe it was time to give them something a little different.
She closed her eyes and hummed. Nahri had no name for her native tongue, the language she must have shared with her long-dead or forgotten parents. The only clue to her origins, she had listened for it since she was a child, eavesdropping on foreign merchants and haunting the polyglot crowd of scholars outside El Azhar University. Thinking it similar to Hebrew, she’d once spoken it to Yaqub, but he’d adamantly disagreed, adding, unnecessarily, that his people had enough problems without her being one of them.
But she knew it sounded unusual and eerie. Perfect for the zar. Nahri was surprised she hadn’t thought of using it before.
Though she could have sung her market list and no one would have been any the wiser, she stuck to the zar songs, translating the Arabic into her native language.
“Sah, afshin e-daeva . . . ,” she started. “Oh, warrior of the djinn, we beseech thee! Join us, calm the fires in this girl’s mind.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, warrior, come to me! Vak!”
A bead of sweat snaked past her temple. The courtyard grew uncomfortably warm, the press of the large group and crackling fire too much. She kept her eyes closed and swayed, letting the movement of her headdress fan her face. “Great guardian, come and protect us. Watch over Baseema as if—”
A low gasp startled Nahri, and she opened her eyes. Baseema had stopped dancing; her limbs were frozen, her glassy gaze fixed on Nahri. Clearly unnerved, Shams missed a beat on the darbuka.
Afraid of losing the crowd, Nahri struck her tambourine against one hip, silently praying Shams would copy her. She smiled at Baseema and picked up the incense brazier, hoping the musky fragrance would relax the girl. Maybe it was time to wrap things up. “Oh, warrior,” she sang more softly, returning to Arabic. “Is it you who sleeps in the mind of our gentle Baseema?”
Baseema twitched; sweat poured down her face. Closer now, Nahri could see that the blank expression in the girl’s eyes had been replaced by something that looked a lot more like fear. A bit unsettled, she reached for the girl’s hand.
Baseema blinked, and her eyes narrowed, focusing on Nahri with an almost feral curiosity.
WHO ARE YOU?
Nahri blanched and dropped her hand. Baseema’s lips hadn’t moved, yet she heard the question as though it had been shouted in her ear.
Then the moment was gone. Baseema shook her head, the blank look reappearing as she began to dance again. Startled, Nahri took a few steps back. A cold sweat erupted across her skin.
Rana was at her shoulder. “Ya, Nahri?”
“Did you hear that?” she whispered.
Rana raised her brows. “Hear what?”
Don’t be a fool. Nahri shook her head, feeling ridiculous. “Nothing.” Raising her voice, she faced the crowd. “All praise is due to the Almighty,” she declared, trying not to stammer. “Oh, warrior, we thank you.” She beckoned for the girl holding the chicken. “Please accept our offering and make peace with dear Baseema.” Her hands shaking, Nahri held the chicken over a battered stone bowl and whispered a prayer before cutting its throat. Blood spurted into the bowl, spattering her feet.
Baseema’s aunt took the chicken away to be cooked, but Nahri’s job was far from over. “Tamarind juice for our guest,” she requested. “The djinn like their sours.” She forced a smile and tried to relax.
Shams brought over a small glass of the dark juice. “Are you well, kodia?”
“God be praised,” Nahri said. “Just tired. Can you and Rana distribute the food?”
“Of course.”
Baseema was still swaying, her eyes half closed, a dreamy smile on her face. Nahri took her hands and gently pulled her to the ground, aware that much of the group was watching. “Drink, child,” she said, offering the cup. “It will please your djinn.”
The girl clutched the glass, spilling nearly half the juice down her face. She gestured at her mother, making a low noise in the back of her throat.
“Yes, habibti.” Nahri stroked her hair, willing her to be calm. The child was still unbalanced, but her mind didn’t feel as frantic. God only knew how long it would last. She beckoned Baseema’s mother over and joined their hands.
There were tears in the older woman’s eyes. “Is she cured? Will the djinn leave her in peace?”
Nahri hesitated. “I have made them both content, but the djinn is a strong one and has likely been with her since birth. For such a tender thing . . .” She squeezed Baseema’s hand. “It was probably easier for her to submit to his wishes.”
“What does that mean?” the other woman asked, her voice breaking.
“Your daughter’s state is the will of God. The djinn will keep her safe, provide her with a rich inner life,” she lied, hoping it would give the woman some comfort. “Keep them both content. Let her stay with you and your husband, give her things to do with her hands.”
“Will . . . will she ever speak?”
Nahri looked away. “God willing.”
The older woman swallowed, obviously picking up on Nahri’s discomfort. “And the djinn?”
She tried to think of something easy. “Have her drink tamarind juice every morning—it will please him. And take her to the river to bathe on the first jumu’ah, the first Friday, of every month.”
Baseema’s mother took a deep breath. “God knows best,” she said softly, seemingly more to herself than to Nahri. But there were no more tears. Instead, as Nahri watched, the older woman took her daughter’s hand, looking more at peace already. Baseema smiled.
Yaqub’s words stole into Nahri’s heart at the tender sight. You’ve no family, no husband to stand up for you, to protect you . . .
Nahri stood up. “You’ll excuse me.”
As kodia, she had no choice but to stay until the meal was served, nodding politely at the women’s gossip and trying to avoid an elderly cousin whom she sensed had a mass spreading in both breasts. Nahri had never tried to heal anything like that and didn’t think it was a good night to experiment—though that didn’t make the woman’s smiling face easier to stomach.
The ceremony finally drew to a close. Her basket was flush, filled with a random assortment of the various coins used in Cairo: battered copper fils, a scattering of silver paras, and a single ancient dinar from Baseema’s family. Other women had put in small pieces of cheap jewelry, all exchanged for the blessings she was supposed to bring them. Nahri gave Shams and Rana each two paras and let them take most of the jewelry.
She was securing her outer wrap and ducking the repeated kisses of Baseema’s family when she felt a slight prickling at the back of her neck. She’d spent too many years stalking marks and being followed herself not to recognize the feeling. She glanced up.
From the opposite side of the courtyard, Baseema stared back. She was completely still, her limbs in perfect control. Nahri met her gaze, surprised by the girl’s calm.
There was something curious and calculating in Baseema’s dark eyes. But then, just as Nahri really took notice, it was gone. The younger girl pressed her hands together and began to sway, dancing as Nahri had shown her.