Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (7 page)

“Who?”

“The young man you met, of course.”

“Ahiram told you about Karadon?”

“Karadon, that’s a nice name. I like that. No, your brother would never betray your secrets.”

“Then, how—”

“Hoda, I was a young woman once. I know you enjoy Syreen’s company, but everyone has been talking about her dashing mysterious cousin. Then out of the blue, you want to visit her, and you’re tense and impatient. So, off you go, but remember—”

“Yes, Mother, don’t you worry. Father would have to meet him first. What am I saying? I just met him.”

Hoda ran out of the house before her mother could reply. She crossed the short distance to Byblos by walking on the beach, constantly on the lookout for the mysterious stranger, but he was nowhere to be seen. Syreen opened the door and the two friends went into the expansive kitchen.

“No one is here now,” said Syreen as they sat around a large table by a window that overlooked an enclosed garden. “My parents have gone to a function at the Temple with our three maids, so we can speak freely. Tell me what you found out while I prepare tea. Would you like a piece of namoorah? It’s fresh from this morning.”

Hoda could not help but smile at the mention of the treat. “No, thanks, Syreen. I’m not hungry.”

“Did something happen with the medallion?” prompted her friend.

Hoda related how her brother had suddenly became so very sick and recovered just as quickly once she returned the medallion to him.

“Then I guess there is no time for tea,” said Syreen, taking the pot of water off the stove. “Hoda, my source told me that if this were to happen, if Ahiram were to fall ill when you took the medallion away, then I must take you to him at once. Your entire village is in mortal danger. We must go now.”

“Really?” whispered Hoda. “I didn’t think it would be this serious.”

“Come with me,” said her friend.

They went back to the young woman’s room, where she snatched a scarf and resolutely faced Hoda. “I need to blindfold you. I am sorry.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I cannot show you the way to my contact. He likes his privacy.”

“But Syreen, I won’t talk—you know me.”

“Sorry, Hoda, his orders. You
need
to talk to him, and I will take you there, but I have to blindfold you first.”

Hoda sighed and gave her consent. Expertly, Syreen tied the scarf around her eyes. As they left the room, Hoda felt that her life would never be the same. The echo of her footsteps on the marble reminded her of the sound of an anchor being lifted just before a ship leaves beloved shores for an unknown voyage.

“Some say Baher-Ghafé means ‘the slumbering giant who keeps watch in his dreams.’ The name is ancient, predating the Wars of Riharon and the coming of Tanniin. Sureï the Sorcerer told me the mighty Baal stood on the shores of this little village, after having subdued Yem, and ordered him to sleep.”

–
Teachings of Oreg, High Priest of Baal

Syreen led her blindfolded friend down a corridor Hoda did not know existed, then down some stairs. The air was damp, and she heard water trickling all around her.

“Where is the water coming from?” asked Hoda, a tremor in her voice. “Are we walking under the sea?”

Syreen laughed, for she knew what her friend was thinking.

“The first time I took this passage, I was blindfolded too, and also thought I was below the Great Sea on my way to the eternal abode of the dead.”

“Well, this is unnerving.”

“To say the least, but it is a short passage, and we’re coming to the end of it. Careful now, there’s a step ahead of you.”

They began walking onto a hard surface with hot air wafting about them. Hoda breathed a sigh of relief when she no longer heard the sound of water. Syreen led them through a maze of left and right turns. Throughout their journey, Syreen would direct her friend to bend down, lower her head, cross over a crevice, or climb onto a step. Eventually, they reached the top of a long flight of stairs. Hoda, judging by the echo of her feet on the stony floor, determined that they were inside a wide room. The air was fresh and dry. Syreen took Hoda’s blindfold away, and she blinked a few times until her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Across from her, a hooded figure sat cross-legged behind a low table with a simmering cup of tea. The silence in the room was complete.

“Hoda, welcome. Please, have a seat.”

The voice was masculine, soft-spoken, strong but not threatening.
Most likely, a man my father’s age,
thought the young woman as she slowly sat down.

“Please forgive the secrecy, but it cannot be helped. While we do not doubt your sincerity, let us just say that there are others, less scrupulous, who would like to find me by any means necessary, including torture.”

Hoda winced and glanced at Syreen, as though saying,
What have you gotten yourself into, and why did you drag me into all this?

“Indeed,” continued the mysterious man, “by bringing you here, Syreen exposed you to danger. But this danger, I am afraid, is nothing compared to the dire situation your entire village is in as we speak. Once you understand the nature of your brother’s medallion, you will better appreciate the great service your friend has rendered you and your loved ones.”

“Sir, if as you assert, my brother, my family, and my entire village are in grave danger,” replied Hoda with carefully chosen words, “I would want to know absolutely everything about this threat to help protect Baher-Ghafé.”

“Spoken like Jabbar’s true daughter,” chuckled the hooded man. “Your heart is in the right place, Hoda, keep it that way.”

“You know my father, then?” asked Hoda.

“Yes, indeed. He is a good man. Now tell me this, young one, have you ever heard of the Island of Libra or the Cave of Andaxil?”

Hoda shook her head.

“That’s very good,” continued the hooded man. “Most folks along these coasts would not have heard of them either; after all, why visit the wonders of the world when you live on El’s footstool?”

Despite her anguish, Hoda smiled. As a daughter of Fineekia, she had a visceral attachment to her homeland. She believed, like the rest of her kin, that Fineekia, with its harmonious unity between snow-covered peaks, a fertile high plain, and an emerald seashore, was a miniature of what El—first among the gods—intended the world to be. Thus, the sons and daughters of Fineekia were content to live within these boundaries and leave the affairs of the world to mighty kingdoms and powerful temples.

“There are two other medallions identical to your brother’s: one on the Island of Libra and the second in the depth of Andaxil. The former is protected by a deadly curse, while the latter is lost with the entire treasure of the dwarfs; for Andaxil is sealed and no one can open it.”

Silence fell on the hall while Hoda tried to understand what her interlocutor had just told her. Libra and Andaxil seemed fantastical places, suited for dangerous quests. She was the daughter of a fisherman whose greatest adventure was measured by the size of their daily catch. The thought that strange objects hidden thousands of miles away could determine the fate of her entire village was revolting. Still, she could not deny that Ahiram fell ill when she took the medallion away from him and recovered quickly when she brought it back. If there was one thing she had learned from fishing with her father, it was to adapt to a changing situation.

Hoda remembered her father’s words: ‘
To catch a shark, my daughter, you must be fluid like a wave, nimble like a pelican, patient like a lion, and above all, be ready to lose the bait in order to save your life.’

Hoda took a deep breath.
Alright,
she thought,
Andaxil, Shmandaxil, what do I care? Ahiram, my family, and my village
t
hat’s what matters.

“Three medallions then,” she said. Determined to get some answers, she dared to ask the mysterious man: “Why three? What do they do? And how did Ahiram end up with one of them?”

“Excellent questions. These medallions are known as the Merilians—the origin of their name remains a mystery. They are thought to be powerful, beyond anyone’s understanding. The source of their power is unknown, and they are very ancient.”

“Mother said she bought this medallion from Master Kwadil. Why don’t we just give it back to him? His caravan makes a stop in Byblos every Feast of Light.”

The man chuckled dryly. “I highly doubt the famed dwarf merchant had such a piece in his possession, and if he did, he would not have sold it to your mother. Besides, the third medallion, the one in the possession of your brother, is supposed to be hanging on a wall deep within the temple of Babylon. The truth, my dear child, is that someone stole this third Merilian from the Temple of Baal.”

“What? Stolen? From… who?” cut in Hoda, aghast. “Wait. If that’s the case, the Temple would have been searching for it—“

“Unless the thief—cunning and highly capable—replaced the real medallion with a fake, which must still be hanging in the temple of Babylon as we speak.”

“But why would anyone give this medallion to my brother? I mean, we are fishermen from a small town that no one outside of Fineekia has even heard of.”

“That is the most troubling question of them all, is it not?” said the man pensively. “A very troubling question indeed.”

He fell silent. Hoda glanced at Syreen, who shook her head, professing ignorance. Her eyes now fully accustomed to the light, Hoda glanced around and noticed four men dressed in black standing discreetly in the corners, their faces hidden beneath thick cowls.

“Leave us, everyone,” ordered her interlocutor. His voice, now deep and commanding, shook Hoda. “Now.”

Syreen got up and bowed. By the time Hoda glanced again at the figures in the shadows, they were already gone.

“Hoda, I am going to ask you two questions, and upon your answers rests the fate of your brother, your village, and so much more than your village. Are you ready?”

Hoda was confused. What could she possibly know that would affect anything or anyone beyond the boundaries of Baher-Ghafé?

“Here is my first question: did Ahiram ever scribble? Has he ever written anything?”

Hoda blanched. “How did you know?” she asked, dread seizing her.

“As I feared,” sighed the man. “Do not worry, child, we are here to help you. Please answer my questions and do not omit any details.”

For over a millennium now, the Temple of Baal had been the guiding, moral force for most kingdoms of the world. In this long span of time, the Temple had—for reasons all its own—outlawed writing, proclaiming it a capital crime. Further, if one member of a community lent assistance to a
Katiib (
a writer or scribbler) as the Temple called them—then the High Riders would mercilessly cut down the entire community, down to its last member.

As the years wore on, people forgot what “writer” meant, and accusing one of being a Katiib became an expedient means to be rid of a competitor or a family member. Depending on the magnanimity of the local high priest, the High Riders would either launch a proper investigation to determine if the accused was indeed a scribbler, or summarily abduct him. In the latter case, they would also turn a blind eye if the accuser wound up dead, a dagger between his shoulders. Therefore, the charges of writing were not brought up lightly.

“When Ahiram turned ten,” started Hoda, with a shaky voice.

“On his birthday, or some time before or after?” clarified the man. “This is important, child, be specific.”

Hoda nodded. “I will do my best. The incident happened at the end of the Festival of Light, so yes, it took place on my brother’s birthday. I remember this because we were roasting chestnuts on the beach…”

“And chestnuts are out of season in the month of Tébêt,” added Ashod pensively.

“Exactly. It was a surprise from Umnis. He brought them with him.”

“The Zakiir?”

“Yes.”

Since the written word was outlawed, people needed a different method to faithfully recall important events or transactions. A
Zakiir
(a memory man), consigns to memory every utterance entrusted to him, word for word. His league, the
Zakiruun
, was the indispensable intermediary in every commercial or sentimental dealing, remembering everything and forgetting nothing. Friends of all, and friends of none, they were the keepers of all secrets.