The Stone Lions (6 page)

“Su’ah,” Ara called, “have you seen
Suleiman?”

“There’s no need to shout,” Su’ah said. The
shuttle of her loom moved steadily back and forth. “I’m not deaf
yet. He and Layla were looking for you.” She stopped her work.
“They couldn’t find you in the garden. A girl-child has a talent
for disappearing, it seems,” she added with a purse of her
lips.

Ara frowned. “But I need to speak with
Suleiman.”

“Why should one such as I know the mind of a
Turk?” Su’ah sighed, then tapped her fingers against the front beam
of her loom. “He can’t be far, though I heard he may be leaving in
a few days on an errand.”

Ara wiggled her sandaled toes in
impatience.

“You’re a mess again,” Su’ah remarked
abruptly. “Your hair needs rebraiding, and there is dirt on your
face.” She rose to get a hairbrush and a sponge. “Does studying
require you to roll on the ground? Or do you—is that blood on your
cheek?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh. No, it’s just a crumb of food.” Ara
hurriedly wiped at the splotch of beet juice. “I’ll go find them,”
she said, anxious to be off.

“Always hurry and rush,” Su’ah scolded,
fussing with her hair. “You should slow down, be more like your
cousin. That child is a pleasure to care for, calm and orderly. Her
clothes are always neat and folded—not strewn about as some I won’t
mention. You’re looking a little flushed, child. Did you get too
much sun, or are you coming down with a fever?” She placed her hand
on Ara’s forehead, then nodded, assuring herself. “Just too much
fun, I think.

“The call to prayer is soon. It’s nearing
twilight. Don’t forget your prayer rug,” Su’ah admonished as Ara
rushed off.

Chapter 8

Tahirah felt the palace shudder. Someone was
practicing black mathemagics. Symmetry was being pulled from the
Alhambra’s walls, and the palace seemed closer to its breaking
point with each change. Every day she saw subtle hints of evil as
she walked through the gardens: tiles twisted, garden pathways
slightly offset—but most of all, an unsettled feeling within the
walls.

She had kept to herself these few weeks,
hoping to discover who was creating this havoc without appearing to
pry. Through prayers and fasting, she gained a murky glimpse of the
wrongdoer, but never a clear image. The palace’s protection was its
magic, hidden in the symmetries and inscriptions that covered wall
after wall. If many more symmetries were destroyed, the Alhambra
would fall. And if the Alhambra fell, Granada would fall, and
Islamic Spain with it. Tahirah recoiled at the images of war and
bloodshed that washed over her, and she uttered a silent prayer.
She must uncover the culprit. The evil must be contained.

The building writhed in pain as it twisted
and turned in on itself. Again and again, Tahirah came upon an
unexpected asymmetry. A corner would whisper of crooked lines as
she passed, a ceiling would murmur of warped beams. The stone lions
must know, but they were silent. They stood as guardians of the
Alhambra—fierce, incorruptible and steadfast. There was no sign of
one standing by the sultan. How could he govern without a lion by
his side?

She called to them, and their silence was
more ominous than any roar of rage.

Meditation and prayer had told her the key to
repairing the damage was tied to one born in the Alhambra. But
who?

She recalled the hidden presence she had
sensed before, a girl teetering on the edge of womanhood. Was she
one whom the Alhambra would trust? Could she be entangled in this?
Perhaps she should take an interest in the girl. Would that put her
at risk to the evil? So difficult a problem.

Tahirah sighed—she must put this aside for
the present. The sultan had asked her to join him and his household
for a reading, and she must not delay. The sultan seemed pleased
with her request to meet in the Court of the Lions. For all its
beauty, she had another reason for going there. If the stone lions
would but speak with her, she might be able to resolve the danger
quickly.

Four palace guards arrived outside her
chamber. As soon as she had covered her hair, her handmaidens
ushered them in. She took her place among them and walked toward
the Palace of the Lions. She planned to read some of Rumi’s poetry
and, perhaps, one piece of her own. A small discussion about the
wonders of symmetry and geometry would round out the afternoon.

The sultan and his court joined her at the
entrance. His wives and many children were waiting for her, but
none of these stood out as the key that would unlock the Alhambra’s
mistrust. He dropped back to speak with the wazir and two other
advisers. More of the harem’s eunuch guards came to take their
places along the walls, vigilant as always. A troop of servants
followed, carrying trays of pomegranates, olives, artichokes,
roasted goat and lamb. Rugs and cushions had been placed about for
the comfort of all. Blind musicians played in the background.

The Court of the Lions was lovely in any
light. In the early morning, it was the color of lavender honey.
Now, with the stars glittering in the sky above and torches
lighting the side walls, it was bathed in orange and gold. In the
Hall of the Two Sisters, it was written, “The stars themselves long
to spend their time in the Court of the Lions,” and well could she
believe it. Though the room was muted by the evening sky, she could
see the lions standing frozen around the center fountain. The
waxing moon’s glow danced on the splashing water. She moved closer
to read part of the inscription around the fountain: “He who
beholds the lions in menacing attitude, knows that only respect for
the Emir contains their fury.”
So
, she
thought,
they are ready.

She stepped around the fountain, passing a
portly slave; Suleiman, she recalled.

All of a sudden, a woman gasped, startling
Tahirah out of her thoughts. “Blood,” a woman screamed. “Blood on
the lions’ chests.” Another took up the alarm, crying. “Evil has
come down on us.”

What were the women shouting about? No blood
had been shed here. She would know instantly. The eunuch guards
leapt to attention and milled about in search of an enemy. Mothers
gathered their children and stared in horror at the fountain. The
sultan stood his ground.

“What’s this?” the sultan inquired, frowning
slightly, as he stepped over to the fountain to peer into the
red-streaked water. Tahirah stuck her finger in the water, rubbed
it against a dark red line of grout before placing it to her mouth.
She smiled. “Beet juice, it seems. Not blood.”

“Beet juice?” repeated Suleiman, his clothes
indicating status of some importance. As she watched, his hat
teetered on the verge of falling off.

At the edge of the group, a girl with big,
gentle eyes clapped her hands over her mouth
.
Layla, wasn’t that her name? Suleiman pulled Layla to
the side, mouthing the words “Where’s Ara?” to the girl. Whatever
she replied had him turn and abruptly depart.

“This is merely a mistake,” the sultan
soothed. “Not blood, just dye. There is nothing to fear.”

Tahirah watched the rest of the people. The
wazir had moved away from the crowd and now paced anxiously around
the room. Now, he walked up to one of the other advisors, and after
a brief conversation, he also left the room. The women grew
calmer—some even laughed.

The sultan turned to Tahirah. “Please excuse
this disturbance. Someone must have accidentally spilt dye in our
water upstream.” He glanced toward Layla and frowned. “It would be
carried through to here. No harm has been done.

“Perhaps you would tell us a story, a simple
story, from Scheherazade’s
The Book of the
Thousand and One Nights
. I think no one could fully
appreciate poetry or geometry just now.” He smiled and almost
casually strode over to Layla, engaging her in a conversation.

Tahirah sat on a cushion. The
black-enshrouded women and brightly clothed children gathered about
her. The sultan, his men and servants stood beyond that circle.
“Sire,” she began, “there was once upon a time a fisherman.…”

Chapter 9

Early evening Ara returned to the garden. She
had not found Suleiman or Layla. She stood before the wazir’s room,
examining the tiles that surrounded the door. They had been
identical, she was sure, but now each one was slightly twisted from
the one below. They had become warped. What could have caused
that?

And then there was the wazir. Maybe something
in his room could explain his odd behavior. She wouldn’t be spying,
exactly. The door was closed. Ara stared at it. How many times had
she been told that, “Curiosity is a trap for the unwary?”

Girls were not permitted to open closed
doors, but how was she to understand the wazir without
entering?

She hesitated, then gently pulled the
doorknob.
If it’s locked, then I wasn’t meant to
go in.

The door opened easily with a slight creak,
and she stepped in. Mirrors filled every wall, and every single one
was cracked or broken. Her astonished face repeated in mirror after
mirror, broken by fractured lines that distorted and reflected her
image, twisting it, again and again. On the floor and the ceiling
spirals seemed to swirl as she stared at them. A profusion of glass
jars stood on a shelf, holding many small dead animals.

Ara turned slowly around, watching as her
fractured image followed. A mirror image of triangles and circles
wavered across her vision.
Symmetries
, she
thought, her stomach reeling as she looked about. An elaborate
tapestry-covered screen stood in the right corner of the room
portraying a hunting scene with dead and dying animals. The dank
air in the windowless room made her head feel funny. Torqued
geometric shapes repeated in the mirrors before her: squares and
triangles and circles. Her head throbbed.

I don’t like this
place
.

The door swung open and then slammed shut.
Heart thumping, she spun around.

“There you are. What trouble are you…”
Suleiman stopped in mid-speech. His face turned a pasty white as he
looked around the room. The mirrors now reflected two astonished
faces. “No,” he gasped. “Not the evil that repeats.” He grabbed
Ara’s hand, tugging her frantically toward the door. “We must leave
here now.” Too late! Both heard the sound of approaching
footsteps.

“Hide, quickly,” Suleiman whispered. “Don’t
move. Say nothing.” He shoved her behind the tapestry screen as the
door opened with a snick.

Ara froze behind the screen as the wazir
spoke, his voice sounding like rough stone, “On whose word are you
here in my room uninvited?”

“No one’s. I…”

She heard the scrape of a sword pulled from
its scabbard, and Ara clamped her hands tightly over her mouth so
she wouldn’t scream.

Even from behind the screen she could hear
the venom in the wazir’s voice. “You’re spying on me! You’ve been
too interested by far in my doings, stepping into what you
shouldn’t.”

“No! I’m not…the door was ajar. I was
concerned, nothing more.”

“I can see it in your eyes, you want my
magic. You can’t have it. It’s mine.” His voice rose. “I’ve worked
too hard for this.”

“Please, for Allah’s sake, for your own, let
us leave here. Come, it will be well, no one will know.”

The wazir laughed. “You’re right. No one will
know, and no one will heed your disappearance. You ran back to
Turkey. Another slave gone. Yes, you’re no longer a difficulty for
me.”

Ara listened, terrified.

“You must not do this. It’s evil. Turn back
before you yourself are lost. Allah is watching.”

“You threaten me, you who are lower than
low!” The wazir laughed, a grating noise with no joy. “The answer
is here. You will be tied to this palace forever. Chained to the
symmetries themselves.”

Ara remained locked in place while Suleiman
pled. The wazir began chanting again, just as he had with the
frogs. Ara heard a loud gurgling pop and then the wazir’s shrill
laugh.

“How fitting and fortunate. The blood of a
servant of the Alhambra will speed the Alhambra’s doom. And you,
you will crawl on your belly until you die. Should I kill you or
let you live a hopeless life in your new form?”

The call to Maghrib, evening prayer, sounded.
He laughed mockingly, “Perhaps Allah Himself has spoken and granted
you a reprieve. Farewell, lizard. I must attend prayer or someone
might notice and wonder.” The door slammed.

Ara closed her eyes tightly and silently
prayed to Allah that Suleiman would call to her. Only silence
answered. Finally, she inched sideways to look around the screen.
Suleiman’s clothes lay in a heap on the floor, and a dark puddle of
blood stained the tile. Ara shuddered, then started as the tip of
Suleiman’s hat moved. As she watched, a green lizard crawled
stiffly out from under the pile of clothes.

“No,” Ara murmured, pushing herself back
against the wall. “This did not happen.”

I’m not really here
.
I’m out in the garden sleeping. I’ll wake and tell
Layla this dream, and we’ll both laugh. Please, please, let me be
dreaming! Any moment Suleiman will come for me and tell me to go
inside for the evening meal.

Onto her lap crept a plump lizard with a
crest that shivered in the air. “Oh, Suleiman, what am I to do?”
The lizard looked up pleadingly at his mistress and curled into a
tight miserable ball.

Run. Return to the safety of
the harem before the wazir returns
, a voice inside her head
compelled.
Run
. Violet eyes, so like the
ones she had seen at the Sufi’s arrival, seemed to urge her. Ara
gathered her courage.

Her hands shook so hard she could barely tuck
the lizard into her caftan hood before tensely peering out again
from the screen. All that remained were her own shattered
reflections. She ran to the door and eased it open. The garden was
empty. She leaped out of the room and raced for the palace
doors.