Dreams of the Alhambra

Coastal al-Ándalus, 1426

A kestrel’s keening cry sends me flying to the arched window, heedless of the book that slips from my lap to the plush carpet. I press against the wooden latticework until I spot the hunter soaring far above the wind-rippled waters of the Roman Sea. I follow the bird’s lazy flight as it circles upward, wishing I too had wings that would take me far beyond the confines of this hilltop alcázar and my eagle-eyed dueña. The kestrel tightens its circle, then, pointing its head, plummets downward, taking my spirits along with it.

My fingers tighten around the latticework as I ask myself for the hundredth time, Where is Aminah? She’d promised me an outing today, yet here I am, stuck in my tower, the sun already halfway to its peak. I glance at the distant pavilion perched on the tip of La Roca. Surf splashes against the rocky headland that splits the long stretch of shingle beach in two. Summer has arrived, and with it, an oppressive heat—far more intense up here on the hill than on the windblown promontory below. I envy the soldiers who guard the watchtower, the only other structure on the barren outcrop. It’s been weeks since I felt the bracing sea breezes upon my face, felt the spray from the waves as they crashed against the rocks.

With a huff, I strip away my pleated tunic and pantaloons and reach for the riding outfit lying on my bed. I wrap the voluminous folds of my haik around my head and shoulders, and with my veil in place, I rush from my room. I bound down the staircase and am rounding the last corner when I almost collide with Aminah, a tray of honey-drenched sweetmeats gripped in her veined hands.

“Mistress Zahra! How many times do I have to tell you not to rush around like a cat on fire? I almost spilt the baklava, which took all morning to make.”

I sweep past her, my head held high, my nose turned away from what I know to be another bribe.

“And just where do you think you’re going, young woman?”

“To La Roca.”

The metal tray clangs as she drops it on a nearby table. “Not without me, you don’t.”

Almost at a run, I dash through the door, leaving behind the muttered curses of my dueña.

I round the entrance to the stables and pull up short to avoid bumping into the stable boy. “Saddle Rafiq for me,” I demand.

By the time Aminah waddles into the courtyard, already short of breath, I’m astride my jennet.

“See you down below.” Laughter bubbles as I canter past, secure in the knowledge it will be some time before she catches up and lacerates me with her sharp tongue.

But today, I’m too restless to care.

I extend my arms and urge my four-legged companion into a gallop, away from the alcázar. Sturdy horseflesh ripples beneath me as we fly down the hill, the wind tugging the folds of my haik, my veil whipping against my face. My body thrums with energy, as if in anticipation of something momentous, hoping for something—anything—to happen.

But nothing will. It never does.

“Mistress Zahra!”

A glance behind reveals Aminah, mounted on her mule, starting down the hill. I spur Rafiq toward the beach, where white tendrils of foaming surf crash against the stone shingle. At the headland, I vault from the saddle, startling the tower guards, who immediately turn their backs—woe betide any man who looks directly at me.

With no regard for my brand-new kid-leather boots, I bound up the stone staircase, tear around the watchtower, and race for the pavilion. Its oval wooden door opens at my touch, and I fly across the floor to a divan beneath a latticed window. I kneel on the plump cushions and peer through at a sea that seems as restless as I am. As crashing waves send sea spray high into the air, I pull back, laughter bubbling up, revelling in these precious moments of freedom.

In no time at all, Aminah’s heavy steps announce her arrival.

“How many times must I tell you that you’re no longer allowed to go out alone?” she hollers, her chest heaving.

I cross my arms. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about . . . all because I started my monthly courses a few weeks ago.”

“Don’t play ignorant with me, young woman, for that is exactly what you are now. A young woman who needs to be chaperoned, especially as all we have for company here at the alcázar are soldiers.”

“To whom I’m suddenly not allowed to speak!”

I turn to face the water once more, my arms tight around my waist. “Have you had any word from my father recently?” I wince at the wistful tone.

Aminah sighs. “No, but I expect he’ll send greetings when he can. He is a very busy man.”

I mouth the last words as she says them, a refrain I’ve heard all my life. Motherless since my birth, I was removed at age five from the most famed palace in the land to live in exile in the coastal town of Cora Elvira. And all because of the ramblings of a bunch of old soothsayers who, upon my birth, stressed the need for vigilance when I reached marriageable age. My father, in all his wisdom, took their warnings to an extreme, sequestering me in this gilded fortress years ahead of my pending womanhood. Vigilance from what? I wonder bitterly whenever Aminah extols the splendours of my father’s palace that far eclipse the beauty of my castle prison.

My eyelids are heavy with sleep as I wake from my siesta to what sounds like the measured beat of a drum. The pavilion’s latticework windows now cast long shadows that stretch across the room. Moving so as not to disturb Aminah’s afternoon rest, I kneel once again on the divan and look through the window’s carved woodwork.

My fingers tighten on the windowsill at the sight of a galley making its way along the coastline. Pennants flutter from the tops of masts as the curved bow cuts through the waves, its oars rising and falling to a steady drumbeat borne on the wind. I straighten as the ship manoeuvres into our small harbour and drops anchor, towering over the resident fishing boats bobbing in the sparkling sunlit waters. Moorish soldiers lower a smaller vessel into which they force a contingent of Christian captives, their bare heads exposed to the punishing Andalusian sun. A slim man, a head taller than the others, watches over the proceedings. Gold embroidery edges his ankle-length silk robe. The last to step into the boat, he stands with his hand on the hilt of his sword, gaze steady on the water, as the captives bend to their oars. As the boat draws nearer, I see the patchy beard along the nobleman’s jaw—he is younger than I first thought, only a few years older than me. With an unfamiliar stirring in my breast, I note that with a Roman nose and fair skin, he bears a stronger resemblance to the Christian captives than to the swarthy Moorish soldiers. The boat glides close to La Roca’s rocky shoreline, affording me an even closer look through the latticework at the young man. Mesmerized by the sight of his fine figure, I startle when the proud head swivels in my direction.

My breath hitches as two different-coloured eyes—one green, the other bright blue—seem to gaze at me before looking away again. Unusual as his eyes are, it’s the white forelock peeking from beneath his turban that has me invoking the name of Allah. I reach for my nazar, the glass eye amulet at my wrist, wondering whether the kiss of the devil or the hand of God has marked the young man in this singular way.

I’m still staring after the boat as it heads toward the shore when a rough hand grasps my shoulder. I flinch as I look over my shoulder to meet Aminah’s furious gaze.

1

Granada, Spain, 2014

Visions of a rippling sea, a stately galley, and a handsome Moorish nobleman lingered as Mackenzie stretched. Only half awake, she pondered why a recurring childhood dream would return after all these years. Not that she had a problem reuniting with the spirited young woman clad in her Aladdin-style costume. A girl who, like herself, chafed at the confines of her sheltered life, dreaming of adventure and escape from her mundane existence.

Lounging in the dream’s afterglow, it took Mackenzie a minute or two to register the unusual silence. The incessant traffic on Derby Road, one of Nottingham’s busiest streets, had vanished, as had the steady drip-drip from her bathroom’s leaky faucet. Even the room was darker than usual, with no urban streetlight seeping through the crack between the curtains.

Memory returned with a rush. She was in Granada, Spain, in a hotel on the grounds of the Alhambra, the ancient Moorish palace that was the subject of her master’s thesis.

The adrenaline-fuelled anticipation of exploring the palace was a mere flash when her chest tightened.

She was alone in a foreign country, barely able to speak the language.

Her stomach clenched.

Deep breath in, long breath out. In . . . out.

Mackenzie’s heart rate was beginning to settle when she bolted upright.

“Shit!”

She scrambled for the bedside table, almost knocking over the lamp in her haste to flick the switch. She scanned the table’s surface.

Not there.

She stumbled into the minuscule bathroom and rifled through her cosmetic bag. Still empty-handed, she re-entered the room and dug through her backpack once, twice, three times, until its contents were strewn across the floor.

There was no trace of the plastic bottle still sitting on the bathroom shelf of her studio flat back in Nottingham.

With a swift kick to the backpack, she crumpled as tears began to flow. After a long day of travel, she collapsed onto her bed last night without realizing that she’d forgotten her sleep meds. It had been months since she’d fallen asleep without them.

The tightness in Mackenzie’s chest returned as her thoughts leapfrogged to the upcoming night. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back nightmare images of her search for her missing friend, Copper—a frantic scramble along a dim, checkerboard hallway bordered by an infinite line of locked doors.

Her nails sank into her palms.

This was ridiculous. She had to get a grip. She fell asleep without a pill last night, and rather than the usual nightmares, a long-forgotten childhood dream had returned.

Mackenzie took another deep breath. She didn’t want to admit to any dependence on the little green pills, or “jellies” as they were known on campus. Traumatized after her English friend disappeared three months earlier during their holiday in Istanbul, she found jellies were the only thing that took the edge off.

Mackenzie jumped as her phone alarm chimed the one-hour warning for her 8:30 a.m. tour of the Alhambra. Her stomach grumbled as she dragged herself off the floor. At this rate, she’d be lucky to make breakfast.

Short of breath, Mackenzie scanned the lapel pin of a young woman who stood at the gate to the Alhambra’s gardens. “Juana Morente?” she asked, chest heaving.

The attractive brunette nodded. “Sí, that’s me. And you must be Mackenzie Douglas.” She pronounced the last name as “Dooglas.”

Mackenzie shook the girl’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“And I, you.” Juana’s brow creased. “I hope the walk up the hill was not too much.”

Mackenzie grimaced. “Nah. Strenuous exercise first thing in the morning is good for you, right?” She smiled to show she was kidding.

Juana returned her smile. “Sure. Hope you don’t mind the early start. Much better than navigating the crowds.” She gestured with her hand. “Come. We begin with a walk through the gardens to the Generalife, the summer palace.”

“Ah, that’s how you pronounce it.” Mackenzie repeated the name. “Hen-a-ra-lee-fay. I won’t embarrass myself by repeating my mangled version.”

“I take it you are not familiar with my language?”

“No, lo siento. Sólo un poco.” No, sorry. Only a little.

“Then we make do with my poor English,” Juana quipped with a smile.

Mackenzie followed Juana through the ticket scanners and along a shaded path lined with tall cypress trees. Birdsong and the gurgle of running water filled the air, and she felt a serenity she hadn’t experienced in months. She slowed her pace to linger on the tranquil pathway. “The sound of babbling water is so relaxing.”

“Sí, the channels beside the path carry water from aqueducts high above the Generalife.”

Mackenzie pulled a pen and a pad from her tote bag and began to scribble.

Juana cast her gaze over the palace gardens. “Coming from North Africa’s desert regions, the Moors treasured water, which served four sacred purposes: sustaining the body, irrigating the land, purifying for prayer, and soothing the soul.”

Mackenzie exchanged her pad for her digital camera and began to take pictures.

Juana glanced at her. “I was told you are from England and that you are studying the Alhambra for your master’s. What’s your degree in?”

Mackenzie lifted her gaze from the screen. “Well, for starters, while I am studying at a university in England, I’m actually from eastern Canada; Nova Scotia, to be more precise.”

“Ah,” Juana replied, nodding. “I was wondering about the Scottish name with an American accent.”

Mackenzie laughed. “Yes, well, Nova Scotia is littered with Scottish heritage. And my area of study is tourism and travel marketing. I’m doing a thesis on the impact famous works of literature have had on their settings, such as tourist spending, employment, and infrastructure development.”

Juana’s eyes brightened. “And you get to travel to some of these famous settings?”

Mackenzie chuckled. “Well, the ones in England are easier to access, for sure. It was pure luck that my supervisor is originally from Granada and secured funding for the Alhambra just as I began my program. Once I agreed to pitch in for travel expenses, I got the project.” She shrugged at Juana’s raised eyebrows. “Like I said, pure dumb luck.”

“Luck indeed,” Juana replied. “Here in Granada, we thank Washington Irving for placing our magnificent Alhambra on the map. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have this wonderful job that helps cover the cost of my history degree,” she added with a wink.

Juana’s reference to the famous nineteenth-century writer made Mackenzie thankful she’d chosen Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra to read on the plane, the only research she’d done prior to her assignment. Written in the first half of the nineteenth century, the book was a collection of short stories based on legends about the Alhambra. An instant success, it attracted visitors from far and wide to admire the crumbling Moorish palace that had inspired Irving’s poetic writings.

Juana began walking again, and Mackenzie hurried behind. They soon left the shade and stepped into the rising heat.

“Wow.” Mackenzie drank in the view before her.

Juana smiled and pointed. “The whitewashed building on the far hill is the Generalife. It was the summer retreat of the Nasrid kings, the last of the Moorish dynasties to rule the Kingdom of Granada.”

After a quick survey of the sprawling structure that straddled the hill to their right, Mackenzie turned to the hillside on their left. Nestled within a grove of trees, a crenellated ochre wall curved along the hill, punctuated by a series of square stone towers.

“It’s bigger than I thought,” she murmured, gazing at the expanse of tiled roofs and the church spire that rose above the treetops.

“Sí,” Juana replied. “The Alhambra is a complex with several palaces.”

As she scanned the view, Mackenzie’s eyes settled on one tower in particular.

Like the other towers, its stone walls were flecked with patches of brick and plaster, scarred and pitted from centuries of assault.

“Anything special about that tower, the one with the cupola?”

Juana followed the line of Mackenzie’s outstretched arm. “Ah, the Tower of the Princesses. According to one of Irving’s tales, it was a residence for three sisters who returned to the Alhambra after spending their childhood at an alcázar—a castle—on the coast. The king had the rooms remodelled to the same level of opulence as the main palaces.”

Mackenzie nodded. “Right … the ‘Legend of the Three Beautiful Princesses.’” The story was one of the more romantic tales about royal triplets born to a Christian mother, sequestered away from the Moorish court for their safety. They’d returned to the Alhambra in their early adolescence for their father to oversee their transition to womanhood, the king unaware the girls had already lost their innocent hearts to three young, handsome Spanish captives.

Her curiosity piqued, Mackenzie raised her camera and captured a round of pictures of the innocuous-looking tower.

With one hand shading her eyes, Juana gestured with the other. “The woods above the Generalife were once a vast hunting reserve, while the valley below was used for agriculture.” She pointed to the orchard in the hollow. “Are you familiar with the fruit on the tree over there?”

Mackenzie looked at the round, red fruit and shook her head.

“It’s a pomegranate. After King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella defeated the Moors in 1492, they selected the pomegranate as the symbol of Granada. ‘Granada’ is Spanish for pomegranate.”

“In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue,” Mackenzie recited. “Ferdinand and Isabella were the ones who sponsored Columbus’s voyages, right?”

Juana nodded. “They changed not only the map of southern Europe but of the world.”

In the distance, between the Generalife to the right and the Alhambra to the left, lay a cluster of white-walled, red-roofed buildings that sprawled along a valley floor and clambered up a series of hills to the north. A carillon of bells rose from the valley, marking the hour as they had for centuries.

Mackenzie gestured with her chin. “I’m guessing that’s Granada.”

“Sí. Directly ahead is the Albaicín, or Old Quarter, the main tourist area. It is at least as old as, if not older than, the Alhambra. With its narrow streets and alleyways, it maintains the look and feel of its medieval Moorish past. You must see it while you are here. I can take you if you like. There are many restaurants, bars, and hotels.”

“Sure, that would be great. I met a German girl on the plane, and I think she’s staying at a hostel with friends in that area.”

“Ah. Well, I can show you all the true Granada, the Granada of my ancestors.”

Mackenzie smiled. “I’d love that.”

Juana glanced at her watch. “Come, let me take you through the gardens and the palace. Today, we have time only for the Generalife.”

Pebbled mosaic pathways wound through rose gardens bordered by towering, manicured cypress hedges. Dotted with water features, the gardens ended at the palace courtyard.

Though the marble fountains and reflecting pools were picturesque, little else in the palace echoed the grandeur of what had been one of Europe’s wealthiest kingdoms. The North Pavilion, thought to have housed the king’s rooms, was the only section of the palace to retain the delicate arabesque stucco wall panels for which the Alhambra was renowned.

Mackenzie stepped back to get a better view of the repeating motifs of sculpted fruits, flowers, vines, and shells that covered the cream-coloured walls and arches. Something about the stucco designs seemed vaguely familiar.

“Mackenzie?”

Following Juana’s voice, she stepped from the sun-drenched garden into the cool interior of the Regal Room. Believed to have been the Sultan’s audience chamber, the room was now an empty shell. Sculpted arched windows provided commanding views of Granada, the surrounding plains, and the distant mountains to the north.

Mackenzie lingered at the window, transfixed by a sense of déjà vu.

“Hey Mackenzie, over here.”

Mackenzie turned toward Juana, who stood with her face tilted upward. She followed her gaze.

An intricately carved cedar ceiling, featuring a recurring pattern of stars, arched overhead. A rim of cream-coloured prismatic stucco, or muqarna—an exquisite form of crown moulding—offset the dark hue of aged wood.

“Wow, impressive,” Mackenzie murmured.

As she tilted her head back to admire the detailed artistry, the ceiling wavered. For a brief instant, the cream muqarna glittered with gold, and the faded arabesque panels transformed into reliefs of brilliant white set against painted backgrounds of royal blue, ruby red, and aquamarine.

She stumbled, and Juana grasped her elbow.

“Mackenzie. You all right? You look . . . how you say in English . . . as white as a ghost.”

Mackenzie blinked. “I don’t know.” She looked upwards once more, where all traces of colour had vanished, the dark wooden ceiling once more offset by beige stucco. “The walls . . . for a split second, they were alive with colour.” Blushing, she shook her head and let out a light laugh, turning away from Juana’s puzzled frown. “I’m fine, really, nothing to worry about. Probably the heat.” She gestured with her hand. “Lead on, maestro.”

With a chuckle, Juana led her from the audience chamber to a walled garden dominated by a picturesque square pond. From the corner of her eye, Mackenzie glimpsed a man loitering behind the entrance door to the Regal Room, a baseball cap pulled low over a nose buried in a guidebook. The keeners were catching up—time to pick up the pace.

She was about to suggest as much to Juana when a closer look at the enclosed garden left her reeling. She knew this place. Knew this walled garden, with its large square pond, in the middle of which was a smaller garden, complete with trees and groomed hedges.

Bewildered, she followed the pebbled path that skirted the pond. The tinkling of water jets and the buzzing of bees were the only sounds in the secluded garden.

“The Courtyard of the Sultana,” Juana said, her voice lowered. “There is a very tragic story attached to it.”

Mackenzie looked around, confused about why the setting seemed so familiar. Even as part of her brain struggled to deal with the absurdity of knowing a garden she’d never laid eyes on, the other half registered that something was off. Something seemed out of place, perhaps even missing from the garden.

She shook her head, wondering what was up with her this morning. Maybe it was the heat or, worse yet, withdrawal symptoms from not taking a jelly last night. She hated to think she’d become dependent on them, that she needed them to function like a normal human being who didn’t hallucinate while admiring antiquities or suffer déjà vu in sunny Spanish gardens.

“The legend,” Juana continued, “is that a sultan saw a favourite concubine kiss a nobleman of the powerful Abencerrajes family under an old cypress tree that once dominated this garden. This so angered the sultan that he used this act of betrayal as an excuse to behead thirty-six male members of the illustrious family, already under suspicion of conspiring to overthrow him.”

“The cypress tree!” Mackenzie turned to Juana, her eyes alight. “That’s it. I thought something was missing.” Scanning the enclosed garden, her gaze came to rest on a gnarled tree trunk leaning at a precarious angle over the pond. A black metal strap secured it to the wall. She frowned. “What happened to it?”

Juana stared at Mackenzie. “It died a few years ago. How did you know about it? Did you see a picture somewhere?”

Mackenzie stared at her. “I . . . I don’t know.” She looked around the garden once again. “It just seemed so open, as if something was missing. And when you mentioned the cypress . . . an image popped into my head. I must have seen a picture of it somewhere . . .” Unease prickled along Mackenzie’s spine. She glanced up to find Juana looking at her with a quizzical expression.

“What?” Mackenzie demanded, her cheeks flushing at the thought of looking like a complete nutcase.

Juana averted her gaze. “Nada, nothing.”

Mackenzie laid a hand on the young woman’s arm, relieved when Juana looked back without flinching. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me today. I’ve been having trouble sleeping and realized this morning that I’d forgotten to bring my sleeping pills. It’s probably that, combined with this heat, that’s making me see things.” Her smile wavered.

Juana’s unease shifted to concern. “So sorry to hear this. If you need something, my grandmother makes a tisane that helps you sleep.”

Mackenzie smiled ruefully, doubtful that a herbal tea would have the same impact as her jellies. “Thanks for that, Juana. Hopefully, I won’t need it, but if I do, I’ll let you know.”

“De nada.” Juana looked at her watch. “My time is almost up. I have a private tour beginning at eleven. I’ll leave you to explore the upper gardens. Don’t miss the water staircase. We’ll meet tomorrow at the entrance to the Nasrid palaces at three o’clock.”

Mackenzie wandered alone for a while, but her heart was not in it. The morning had been long and, at times, strange, and she was past ready to return to the hotel. With the sun beating down on her head, she tied her long hair into a topknot and hurried back along the pebbled paths, propelled by images of the hotel’s shaded courtyard and a pitcher of iced sangria.

✦

He watched as she hesitated at the leafy entrance to the hotel’s courtyard, just beyond the reception desk. She’d tied her dark hair in a messy bun, exposing her slender neck and bare shoulders. A fresh, natural beauty, she looked better in real life than in her picture. After a glance at the tables of chatting tourists, she engaged in a brief conversation with the front desk clerk, then trudged up the staircase.

He pushed back his baseball cap and wiped the sweat off the nape of his neck. What he wouldn’t give for an ice-cold beer right now. Seeking the shade of a nearby tree, he pulled out his phone and punched in a number.

“She spent the morning with a guide touring one of the palaces . . . Yeah, I’m sure they didn’t know each other . . . No, they didn’t see me. There was a lot of cover in the gardens. Trickier in the palace . . . Don’t worry. I told you, they didn’t make me. I kept my head buried in a guidebook and looked the part. Even had one of those audio guides . . . Yes, of course, I had the volume turned down . . . No, nothing changed hands, and I only overheard conversations about the palace’s history.” He paused, debating whether to mention the conversation about the tisane. He decided against it, knowing how foolish he’d look when it turned out to be just that—an old woman’s brew. “She’s back in her room now . . . Okay. Will do.”

He hung up and shoved the phone into a pocket. It would be so much easier to email a report than to have to deal with that dickhead every day.

He scanned the hotel, a charming three-story building set against a backdrop of tall, slender cypress trees. Climbing trellises of jasmine and bougainvillea framed the entrance. The window at which he’d seen her earlier, one that opened onto a small Juliet balcony above the front door, was now closed. Perhaps she was taking a siesta. An image flashed of her lying on her bed, a sheen of sweat on her pale skin. He shook his head, annoyed at himself for feeling even a tiny pull of attraction. He’d better smarten up and stick to his job.

He waited another ten minutes, catching up on messages on his phone. When she didn’t emerge, he adjusted his aviators and hurried off in search of a cold beer and a bite to eat.