NEW BOOK ALERT!

I’m working on a new book and want YOUR feedback! Each week, I’ll post a new chapter, and want you to provide your thoughts, opinions, feeling, and feedback on the chapter.

Be brutally honest.

I awake before the sun is bright enough to cut across the horizon. 

The dead have been dropping all night. I gather the pomegranate seeds – each one a soul who has died in the last day – scattered across the front of my house into a basket, my hands red and sticky with juice. 

Layala is still sleeping as I sit down, setting the basket on the table. My joints click, a side effect of the curse. I age faster than I should. Already I have white streaks in my hair, and some of my eyebrow hairs are white. Just thirty, but I look a decade older, at least. 

I press the seeds and let the juice seep into a bowl. Each seed contains the story of the person the soul belonged to. My job as mutahida is to tell each soul’s story, to write each soul’s tale. It’s the only way for a soul to leave the waiting place in between life and death, and enter true death, or Mote. 

I take a sip of the pomegranate juice and wrinkle my nose. “Bitter today,” I say to myself, pouring honey into the bowl. I stir then take another drink. The stories come in flashes, too quick for my mind to understand, and I’m too tired to try, but my magic is fast enough to catch them. 

I write, my fingers weaving stories in the air, words curling into smoke. I’m a hakawati jinn, and the stories I weave return to death and to the souls they belong to. Once a soul’s story is told, they can take it to Mote’s gatekeeper and pay for their safe passage into Mote. From there, they will have eternal bliss and peace. 

I drink more of the juice, weaving smoky tales in the air with my other hand. The stories disappear almost as soon as they form, getting swallowed back into death. 

Layala stirs behind me, slipping out of her bed and padding behind me. She says nothing as she sets a pot of tea to boil and begins making our breakfast. 

I thank the heavens for her every day, the one good thing in my life. 

I drink the last of the juice and, more out of habit, I glance at the lone pomegranate seed I keep in a small glass jar on a shelf. 

Layala’s father. Those who have died by their own hand have no place in Mote. They are banished to jehinam, to suffer eternal cold and perpetual executions. 

It was the only love I could show him after his death – to keep him in the waiting place, rather than write his tale and send him to suffer. 

He visits us sometimes, as happy as any dead could be. 

As if thinking about him conjured him, he steps into the cottage, his body more smoke and ash than flesh and blood. 

“Illyas,” I say, rising to my feet. 

He kisses me, soft and, if not warm, then not the cold expected with the dead. And though his face fades through mine, I pretend I feel his solid flesh. 

“Sabah al kheer, baba,” our daughter says, throwing her arms around him. Good morning, father. Her arms collide with his body, the only few minutes of a day he is made of enough flesh to touch, though her skin is streaked with ash when she lets go. I reach out to touch him and he takes my hand. 

He can only keep his form a few minutes in a day, in the moments when the sun’s light turns from red and orange to its day colors. 

“And how are my girls today?” he says, as he does every visit. 

“Good,” Layala says. “I’m going to see jido again today.”

My dead lover’s face stiffens, but he forces a smile onto his face. “You should spend more time at home, with your mother,” he says, and I throw him a grateful look. 

But before Layala could respond, Illyas disappears as the sun’s light breaks through our windows and the morning is fully awake. 

We both sigh, always wishing for just one more minute with him. 

“I wish we could go into death,” Layala says. “You’re a jinn, you’re made of death itself. Are you sure there’s no way–”

“No, Layl. I’ve told you before. Jinns manage death, they don’t enter it or keep its company, not if they can help it.”

I hate lying to my daughter’s face, but her questions have plagued me for years. Ever since she was a child, she wanted to know: what was death like, was it something you could take trips to?

It’s better she knows as little as possible, even if she is half-jinn. She’ll likely never have my magic, and it’s best she doesn’t. 

“I’m going to jido’s,” she says with a sigh. “I’ll be gone all day.”

“Your father is right, you know. You should stay home more, learn a craft so you can support yourself when I die.”

“You’ll be around for many more years, maman. You just don’t like jido much,” she teases, kissing me on my head as she darts off to get dressed. 

I glance back at that lone pomegranate seed on the shelf. He’s nothing like his father, and thank the heavens for that. 

My daughter leaves the house in a flurry of color and voice. “Bye Maman!” she yells, barely throwing me a parting look. I give her a headstart, grabbing an empty bottle and one filled with honey, and a canteen of water. 

Then I take the stony pathway at the back of the house, and head straight for the cemetery. It’s filled with chipped tombstones sporting moss shoulders and spiderwebs. No flowers or notes mark any grave anymore – the cemetery has long been forgotten. 

Which is why it’s perfect for my escapes into death. I lean back against a tree and spy a fox watching me. 

“Come to see me walk into death, little one?” I say. 

The fox cocks its head at me, his snout curled up in a characteristic smile. Then it dashes off, its bushy tail following. 

I fill the empty jar with dirt from a grave, mix in the honey and water, and drink the mix. My mouth fills with granules of stone and sand and I try not to chew any, only swallow. The honey does little to mask the taste, but it’ll do. 

When the dirt water settles in my stomach, I press my hands to the ground and let the cold of the earth seep into my skin. It’s familiar, this feeling of being one foot in the warmth of life and the other in the cold of death. 

My dead lover greets me. He’s a shadow first, then the smoke curls in around him and I can just make out his features. He’s smiling, as usual, his hand outstretched me. I take it and like lightning striking me, my body jolts and my soul is in death. 

“Hakawati,” he says, calling me by my title rather than my name. “Hiyati.” My life. 

“Illyas,” I say, letting him guide me to a bench. Death surprisingly has small comforts for those who can’t or won’t pass on to Mote or jehinam. “How are you?”

He laughs, the sound gravelly but warm, like honey mixed with sand. I want to hold him like he used to hold me, when he was alive. But bodies move and fit differently in death, less flesh and more ash. “As good as can be. How are my girls?”

“Well enough. Your daughter threw animal shit at some boys who were bothering her yesterday. I don’t know if I should encourage her fiery personality or douse it,” I say, laughing. 

Illyas laughs, but there’s a tightness in his face. “She should be careful,” he says. “She’s still your daughter, and they don’t take kindly to that.” He brushes a hand across my face, and though I don’t feel skin, there’s still a trail of warmth. I lean my cheek into his touch, and he lets me rest my weight against him. 

“There’s so much I want to tell her,” I say, “But I don’t know if I should. And I’ve told her so many lies over the years. How do I undo that?”

Illyas says nothing, but when he tries to pull me in closer to his chest, we fade into each other, smoke curling into smoke. We pull back, our bodies regaining substance. 

“Hakawati, tell her a story. You’ve spun her tales since she was in a cradle, she will feel your meaning, even if she doesn’t understand it. Weave her a story, see what she says.”

“She’ll roll her eyes and ask to go to her grandfather’s house. She’s had little patience for me lately.”

Illyas laughs, shaking his head. “She reminds me of me when I was her age. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“I loved you at that age,” I say, reaching out for his hand. I let mine hover over his, so we feel each other’s warmth. 

“Loved?” he teases. “Not anymore?”

I crack a smile, “You know you’re my one and true love.”

He chuckles again, then sobers. “You shouldn’t be alone anymore. Layl is getting older, she will one day leave home to start her own. What will you do then?”

“Visit you more often,” I say. 

Illyas shakes his head. “You should find someone.”

“I remember you being rather jealous of a certain Ihab in the village,” I tease, “When he gave me flowers during the midsummer festival.”

Illyas barks out a laugh. “I was young and unsure of your affection. And I seem to recall you encouraging him, just to make me jealous.”

“I might have,” I say with a smile. “I don’t remember.”

“Lies. You remember everything as if your brain is a stone and someone’s carved words into them.”

“Speaking of stone,” I say. “Layala found a tombstone, with someone’s name on it. Hasim Hasan. Do you know it?”

Illyas’ shoulders tense. “Tell her keep away from that grave. Even in death, I wouldn’t trust him.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“He was an assassin, a jinn hunter, in my great-grandfather’s time. My father is his godson, you know. When baba imprisoned the jinns, he did so with Hasan’s grandson’s help.”

I nod, getting to my feet. “I should return. The sun will be setting soon.”

“I’ll walk you home,” Illyas says, and we both smile, because we know the dead fear the dark, and there’s no leaving death for Illyas tonight.

I hover my lips at his cheek in the mimicry of a kiss. Anything more, and we’d fade into each other. 

“Goodbye, Hakawati,” Illyas says. “I’ll miss you until next time.”

NEW BOOK ALERT!

I’m working on a new book and want YOUR feedback! Each week, I’ll post a new chapter, and want you to provide your thoughts, opinions, feeling, and feedback on the chapter.

Be brutally honest.

“Maman!” my daughter yells. She comes running up the stony pathway to our hut on those long colt legs. “Maman, look what jido gave me!”

I force the tension out of my jaw and smile at her instead, wiping my hands, still sticky with pomegranate juice, on the front of my dress. 

She waves a bundle of papers and a shiny pen – a gift from her grandfather. “He said he is going to send me books,” she says, twirling in front of our home. 

I smile at her excitement, and reach out for the pen.

“It’s lovely,” I say, holding its golden body in my fingers. “What will you write with it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, pursing her lips in thought. “Stories. Like you do, except I’ll put them on paper.”

 “Your stories and mine are different, bintay,” I tell her. My daughter. 

She rolls her eyes in all the exasperation of a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Still, she’s just fourteen, and I pull her in for a hug. She smells the same as she did when she was a baby – of powder and sweet skin. I breathe in her scent, keeping her in my arms for as long as she’ll let me. But soon enough, she’s unwrapping herself out of my arms and running into the house. 

I follow and watch my child sit down at our table, scribbling on those blank sheets. She glances up when she senses my staring and rolls her eyes again. 

“What else did you do today?” I say. “Were you in the cemetery again?” I add, staring pointedly at her dirt-covered knees. 

“I don’t get why you hate me being around dead bodies so much when you’re always spending time with souls.”

“It’s my job,” I say, though I want to say punishment instead.

“Well, I did find an old tombstone,” she starts. “A really old one. Older than jido, even.”

“Oh? Whose name was on it?” I say as I pull out a few potatoes and bread and some dried thyme and sesame seeds from our stores. 

“The letters were too faded. But,” she said, holding up a sheet of her grandfather’s paper. “I rubbed this name. It looks like one of the original elders.”

I take the paper from her, glancing at the name. “Hasim Hasan,” I read. “I don’t know it. Your grandfather might.”

“He’ll just say ‘a young lady shouldn’t be rolling around in dirt like a hog in heat,’” she says, furrowing her eyebrows and making her young voice as gruff as she can. She even wags her fingers, just as I imagine her grandfather would. 

I giggle with her, and she pushes aside her papers to draw herbs towards her. Small knife in hand, she begins chopping at them. I take the second knife and dice potatoes. 

“What else did you do today?” I say.

The smile fades from her face and she shrugs.

“Layala,” I say, “What is it?”

She looks up at me with those eyes so dark and wide like her father’s, my breath stutters. “I went into town.”

“Oh, Layl,” I say, pulling her into my side for a quick hug. “You know what the townspeople are like. Just stay away.”

“I wanted to see the books. Jido said Kitabi Kitab got a new shipment of books from the far west,” she said, delight brightening her face. “And they were so beautiful, maman. You should have seen the covers. Velvet and silk and so many pretty colors. I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“But?” I say.

“But a few of the boys chased me off. They called me witch and deathbringer.”

I sigh, the knife in my hand in midair. “I hope you didn’t throw stones at them.”

“Of course not,” she grins. “I threw horse shit.”

“Layl!”

She laughs, and I can’t help but laugh with her. “You know you shouldn’t have.”

“I know, but they deserved it.”

“Yes, but their parents might now come to our house, and what good would that do for us?”

She sobers, her face screwing up in anger. “They have no right–!”

“Many people have no right to say or do the things they do, but the difference is, some get away with it, and some don’t. We’re in the second group, Layl.”

She picks at the herbs, ripping off leaves and tossing the stems aside. “It’s not fair. And it’s not fair you’re stuck all the way out here, just because the townspeople needed a mutahida to deal with their dead.”

I don’t say anything, only cut the potatoes into blocks and dump them into a bowl of oil. Layala takes the bowl and rubs in the herbs, releasing fragrance into our small cottage. Soon, we have a fire growing against the cold of the oncoming night, and food cooking over it. 

“I wish–” she starts to say when we’ve eaten and she’s getting ready for bed. But my daughter doesn’t finish her sentence, only shakes her head and slips into her cot, her back towards me. 

“I have wishes, too,” I whisper. “But they never come true.”