Ali
Children of mercy himself
find themselves fleeing to all corners of earth
early survivors make it to mountain tops
and those who don't become shrines
sons carrying their father's knowledge stacked in their mind
and others, the voice and eloquence of Ali
enough to sign off multiple death sentences.
Daughters born like Fatima
dolls of infallibility becoming smaller
to hide their ancestry.
But these things cannot be hidden
not even after centuries
be it the stubborn ground of Hijaz
or the ungrateful mountains of Ray
this earth seems thirsty.
Musabah's favourite poem had woven its way into the very fabric of Ali's soul. Musabah, an enigmatic figure in the village, was Ali's first introduction to a world of wonder. A serial liar with no worldly desire was what the villagers thought of him. Blind in both eyes yet full of stories, Ali could not help but love the man who was his father's uncle. He had no living memory of his own grandfather, so this was the closest he would get to the age-old wisdom and the never-ending tales of Hijaz that coloured his childhood.
As Ali sat beside Musabah, listening intently to him recite the poem in his deep, gravelly voice, he could feel the magic of the words surging through him. The desert came alive in his mind, the sand dunes rising and falling like waves on the ocean. The sky was vast and endless, the stars sparkling in the darkness like precious gems in a vast black velvet jewellery box. The vivid imagery transported Ali to a different world, leaving the mundane reality of their village far behind.
"Tell me about how you lost your eyes again, 'Ami," he would say as he leaned back against the mud brick wall. "No, Ali, you know it already, and your father will call me a liar again. Besides, I must head back to Kuh-e-Ray before prayer. I can feel the sun setting in my bones."
Kuh-e-Ray was where Musabah lived, in a small cave dwelling in the heart of the mountain that housed the grave of Shahrbanu, the Sassanid princess, a supposed daughter of Yazdegerd III, the last Sassanid emperor of Persia. She was also the wife of Hussain Ibn Ali, the one martyred on the plains of Karbala, and the mother to Ali Ibn Hussain, the sage and apparent third Imam of the followers of the Ahlulbayt. But more importantly, "she was our Mother," Musabah would remind his nephew time and time again, much to the family's dismay.
Musabah and Ali's grandfather arrived in Ray, alone with nothing but their donkey Kafeel. They were of Arab origin, but despite the fact that many in Ray spoke some Arabic thanks to centuries of Abbasid rule, Ali's grandfather refused to converse with the local population until he met Mowza, a freed slave of African Zanj heritage who was originally captured in Sindh. She taught him Bantu, and he taught her Arabic. Through this language exchange, Ali's father was born. His grandfather would remain a man of few words. In fact, Ali's father would always remember how the whole family would gather around him on the nights of power during Ramadhan. "The only time he would open his mouth was in supplication," his father would smile, reminiscing. Musabah, on the other hand, could pass off as the official spokesperson for the entire village if anybody paid attention to anything he actually said.
"Before you leave, please! The story about your eyes, please, 'Ami," Ali implored.
Ali's mother, observing from the other end of the room, interjected cautiously. As much as she valued Musabah's comforting presence and the captivating distraction he provided for Ali, she was all too aware of how the surge of excitement could precipitate Ali's troubling episodes. These fits would strike once, sometimes twice a day, each time casting Ali into a disorienting fog where time seemed to bend and twist around him. When he emerged, he would find his memory of the ordeal was as nebulous as a dream, but the raw panic etched on his parents' faces was brutally tangible. The spectacle remained startling, no matter how many times they witnessed it, and the village children were no exception. "The jinn stole Ali's mind!" they would declare with a mix of fear and fascination. Their voices would ring out in a chorus as they danced around him, their young eyes wide with intrigue, while Ali's own eyes glazed over, a mirror reflecting a world unseen.
Musabah's stories, however, were a potent enchantment, weaving an intricate tapestry of wonder that allowed Ali to momentarily escape his affliction and the dreariness of the everyday world. Immersed in the tales, he felt as if he was swept up in an epic adventure, a journey that promised to transport him to the farthest reaches of the known world, and perhaps even beyond. As the words of the old man faded into the ambient sounds of the evening, a profound realisation dawned upon Ali - these stories had irrevocably altered him, shaping him into someone new.
Ignoring Ali’s mothers request, he continued. "I lost my eyes to love, you know this, much like our other grandfather Abbas Ibn Ali," Musabah said, rolling his absent eyes back as if rolling back the years. "Except the arrows that took mine provided me with a river of understanding, but it gave Abbas a river in heaven, yes, that would be the best way to put it."
Despite hearing this story at least ten times in the past three years, this part always confused him. "What does that even mean?"
"It means that I too faced a decision, caught between love and failure, life and death." Ali loved this tale because it was perhaps the only one he really believed to be true. True, because it was the only memory that would make Musabah cry while retelling it. Musabah's gem-like tears fell from his gray, waterfall eyes again and Ali could almost taste them.
"After your grandfather passed away, I could not eat, and I could not think. He was the only family I had, the only person I had left. Yes, he did not speak much, but our eyes would converse just by looking at each other. That is when I could still see, of course," suddenly remembering them, he wiped his tears before continuing. "So I fled to the mountain; it was calling me, or I was calling it, I cannot remember, but I remember wanting the mountain to swallow me whole that night. I wanted to be darkness wrapped in darkness because that is how I felt inside."
Ali waited for it, this is normally when Musabah would pick up his walking stick and use it to hit the floor violently. "BANG, I heard an explosion in the mountain wall. I saw nothing, but then a voice appeared, oh, and she had the most beautiful voice. And a tongue of saffron. "Why are you so upset, Musabah, my beloved? She asked me."
"I don't like this part, 'Ami. Say the part where she takes your eyes," Ali would say while standing up for the climactic ending.
"Okay, okay, I forgot you're a gruesome one." Ali's eyes fixed on Musabah's lips, knowing exactly what came next, he murmured along to the words silently. "One eye for my beauty," one eye for my beauty. "And one eye to see me," and one eye to see me. "Oh, she was too beautiful. I could not say no, and I loved her with all my being, despite meeting her for just an instant, my eyes felt like market change in exchange for all that she was. And that, my dear Ali, is the story of how I met your Khala Ahlam."
"Woah, and can she see us right now?"
"No, Ali, how could she see us if she's not here? She's waiting for me at Kuh-e-Ray, and I'm late."
Walking out the door gingerly, walking stick in hand like a magician after a party trick, Musabah was the only man Ali knew to have married a jinn.
Qamoos
"Sayedi, I think you need to see this. There's a new celestial object in the sky," Mamluk said, looking through a night mapper, concern laced in his voice. Sayedi, meaning Master, was not something Qamoos ever got used to hearing, but he never prevented his apprentices and colleagues from referring to him as such.
Qamoos hated new celestial objects; they only served to rouse the Cloaked Ones—the secret order of the King. He did not need them meddling in his affairs again. The last time a new celestial object appeared—or at least shone brighter than usual—was at the birth of the earth people's oracle in the land of Hijaz. Before that, it was the birth of the talking infant of Nazareth, who would be crucified by his own people.
Two beings who could see the world of fire without the dimensional veils being lifted, without even an invitation. Something normal earth beings were incapable of doing—unless, of course, they were conjoined with a fire being. This rare breed was unwelcome, as far as Qamoos was concerned. The very thought that anything made of fire would conjoin with anything made of earth was revolting.
In fact, it was difficult to say if such unions had ever truly existed. The conjoining of two elements was almost mythical, for the last recorded sighting of such a union predated even the ash records. And yet, the punishment still remained enshrined in law—just in case.
It was the year 27,653 of the Exodus Calendar. Today, Qamoos was 388,000 solar rotations old. Slightly older than his colleagues but the fire in his belly was still raging with an insatiable hunger to do more than just wait out the years. He was born a few hundred thousand solar rotations after the Exodus to a noble family, descended from one of the Seven Fire Kings, Al-Abyadd. The White One. There was a time this connection would have granted him access to the palaces in the mountains, but now it brought only shame. Al-Abyadd was one of the great seven Kings and one of the frontline generals in the fire army; to many, he was solely responsible for the retreat of the fire beings into the Mountains – a slovenly defeat inflicted upon his kin. Now the earth people roamed the land, unaware of the Great War that paved the way for their inheritance, protected by the fire beings' arch nemeses, the light beings – or as they preferred to call themselves, Angels.
The once-great fire kingdom now lay in ruins, its cities reduced to smouldering ash, while the surviving fire beings took refuge in the Mountains of Eternity. These mountains were majestic and held a deep significance for Qamoos and his people. They were home to ancient temples, hidden caverns, and enchanted forests, each filled with secrets and powerful magic. The fire beings had spent generations adapting to their new lives in the mountains, learning to harness the energies and minerals found within, creating a unique culture and society that was both beautiful and tragic.
"Have you counted the solar rotations since the last meteorite, Mamluk?" Qamoos asked.
"Yes, I expect the next landing to occur in exactly five solar rotations, 89,000 flames away in distance," replied Mamluk, his young apprentice, whose job was to report on future meteorites, the primary weapons harnessed by the light beings. Qamoos did not command him to do any more than that, though. Mainly because Mamluk wasn't the smartest flame in the room, and overworking young flames was now frowned upon.
King Uday - a revolutionary mind who initiated the first mountain portal to connect many tribes together also believed in the Resting Flame Philosophy, a philosophy centred around keeping young fire beings fresh and full of energy for the war to come. Qamoos did not really believe in the war of the end times; he thought it was just a political exercise engineered to rally hope. Qamoos was far more concerned with ensuring the safety of his own kin from the occasional meteor shower.
The science was simple: the only way to limit casualties was to sound the ox horn the night before. This complicated effort was run by Qamoos and his night sky team of observers and celestial schematic scientists. A pioneering effort that changed the way the fire beings sought refuge. Eons ago, this field was dominated by the sorcery and devilry factions of the Kingdoms – fire beings who relied heavily on the occult world to predict and prevent attacks. This science was unreliable, reckless, and backward, Qamoos had once informed King Uday a few days after his coronation. Not expecting him to agree, Qamoos was surprised when the King disbanded the sorcery teams all together, reassigning them to menial tasks. This change wasn't taken lightly by many in the Kingdom, especially since it was lobbied by a cursed descendant. Further reinforcing the idea that the descendants of Al-Abyadd should never be trusted, let alone be offered high-ranking positions.
"Shall we report this to the Cloaked, Sayedi?" Mamluk asked hesitantly.
"No," Qamoos replied firmly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the new celestial object.
Khalil
The vibrant colours of the city melded with the verdant hues of the marshlands, forming a rich tapestry that shimmered in the hazy, sunlit air. It was here in the southernmost corner of Basra where the air hung heavy with the scent of brine that Khalil first laid eyes on the world.
His first memory was an old woman's voice, cracked with age, carrying the weight of prophecy. Cloaked in the shadows of their humble abode, she whispered, "Your son," her eyes clouded with visions of the future, "will one day be killed in battle, under a sky lit by a burning star." Her gnarled hands trembled, as if grasping the threads of fate itself.
His mother, stricken with grief, held Khalil close to her bosom, her tears tracing salty paths down her weathered cheeks. Her eyes, pools of sorrow and love, held him tightly, even as she resigned herself to the fates that were not to be trifled with, and accepted that her son's destiny was written in the stars.
"You have no business bringing witches into our home!" yelled his father, a storm of indignation brewing behind his fierce gaze. He disliked his wife's overbearing protective nature which tipped her into fits of anxiety and paranoia. He was a superstitious man himself but he would never reveal it. A proud man. The proudest enslaved person in Basra, Khalil grew up to realise.
Abu Khalil, his father, had youthful features despite his age and an imposing stature. As a child, Khalil would often accompany him to the marshes, watching from a distance as his father toiled under the relentless sun. Khalil observed how his father's ebony skin glistened, a testament to his Zanj ancestry. Witnessing how Marwan, their Arab master, a scrawny man with a cruel smirk, would rally the marshland workers by picking on a single enslaved a day to set an example. He would never reprimand his father though. He tried, but his father's eyes would always stare back, fierce as the desert winds. Marwan would turn away, ashamed of his momentary cowardice.
Khalil never saw the danger in his father's eyes; instead, he saw the wisdom of generations past. He saw a poet, a dreamer, and a teller of tales that could make even the most stoic of warriors weep.
While his father toiled in the marshlands, Khalil would shadow him from a distance. It felt like his own escape. A freed bird circling a caged one. He did not need much as the marshlands were vast enough to capture his imagination as if they were a character unto their own in his mind. A character made up of reed fingers, a body connected by the bones of the waterways and its organs were the dotted islands of verdant green pulsing with the heartbeat of life itself. He would listen to the ancient songs of birds wondering who taught them their melodies. This was the music of his childhood.
As the sun fell into its sunset red, Khalil navigated the narrow channels on the small wood boat built by his father's hands. The Friday boat they called it, because it was the only free time his father had. Every Friday morning before juma prayers when Marwan and his overseers would quietly disappear to thank the Lord for their blessings. Ironically it is the only time Khalil could use the boat too. His father had always promised that one day they would use the boat to sail to the very end of the marshlands, to travel further than they have ever dreamed. Since then, Khalil had decided to manifest this dream on his own by travelling a little further out each Friday.
He imagined the marshes to be the sea and the small boat to be a crew carrying dhow, like the stories of fisherman and pearlers from Bahrain. He would dip his hands to the side of the boat every now and again pretending to grab a fish or a pearl from the water drenched reeds. As Khalil guided his boat through the labryinthine waterways he couldn't help but venture in deeper ignoring the twilight songs of the marsh birds singing their sunset warnings. This was normally his cue to turn back.
Navigating a new narrow channel that he had never seen before, the bottom of the boat scraped against something causing it to momentarily leap. Something was clearly submerged beneath the murky water and his curious pearl seeking hands lowered themselves without a second thought. But they did not come back empty. They came back slick with blood. He looked to his palms and found a clean cut right next to his life line, the line that his mother's friend once said determined how long he would live. He plunged his hands back into the water and then lowered half his body this time to peer over the side, squinting into the depths trying to discern what object could possibly cut him this way. With a triumphant gasp he pulled two shiny objected linked together with a small chain. He looked at them closely and the cut finally made sense, They were a sword and a dagger, well preserved somehow except for the edge of the blades encrusted with mud and some tangled reeds. What caught his eye though, was the intricate engravings, barely visible beneath the layers of muck but even then he could tell that this blade was far older than he was, possibly even older than his father.
Excitedly, Khalil cleaned the weapons until they revealed a craftsmanship that his young eyes could not comprehend. Gemstones were placed perfectly on the hilt of the sword as if they were stars placed in the darkness of the night sky and each gemstone was complete with rune-like inscriptions as if each one had a name. It distracted him from the blade but soon the blade pulled him in, in its own way. An energy, one that he had never felt before pulled him closer. He looked to the dagger and the blade of the dagger was even more polarising in aura and power, drawing Khalil in like a moth to a flame.
He held the dagger aloft and it felt like a moment of utter completeness. He started the boat journey as a fisherman from Bahrain and now he was a warrior from a great Islamic conquest. Khalil whispered a prayer in thanks, Shukran Ya Allah, to the heavens as he ran his fingers along the engravings of the dagger. As he did that, he felt a sudden warmth emanating from one of the gemstones and he could swear the burning gemstone reversed the sunset, as a bright light swept across his face, blinding him momentarily.
