Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) Read online

Hoda took it back and placed it gently in his lap. “I know,” she said, kissing his forehead.

  “It will be the Feast of Light, and I get to rest for once,” replied Jabbar. “And, as I told you before, you won’t set any bait with that temper of yours.”

  “Father, I would like to walk with you outside. I have something to ask you,” said Hoda, as she slid her arm under the tall man’s arm and led him out.

  Unable to resist, Jabbar followed, and they stepped outside of their comfortable home into the sunlight. They strolled down the main avenue lined with two-story houses with smooth stone facades, sturdy wooden doors, and windows shaded by oak and pine trees. Rows of thyme, parsley, and coriander were interspersed with lavender bushes and rock roses. All the roads in the village were paved, for Baher-Ghafé was a prosperous town. Nestled in the foothills of the Lebanon Mountain Chain, the villagers fished—shark mostly—and farmed the narrow, fertile plain at the edge of the wood-covered hills. Over the years, they had learned the secrets of the vine and produced a clean, balanced wine with a fruity taste, which nicely complemented the shark meat they cooked over charcoal fires.

  “See,” said Jabbar, pointing at one of the houses. “The Sherabys are getting ready for Auline’s wedding,” he said with a tinge of envy. “You know, Arfaad is the captain of the Lightning Division of High Riders, and he and I have been talking about you…”

  Hoda smiled. “Auline is a wonderful girl, and Meenar is a village boy. They will be happy together.”

  “But what about you, my daughter,” asked Jabbar, gazing at her with all the tenderness of his generous heart.

  Hoda laughed, “Hear, hear, the powerful and mighty Jabbar is anxious. This is a first, Father.”

  “Laugh all you want,” replied Jabbar gruffly. “It doesn’t—”

  “Father,” cut in Hoda nervously, “forgive me for interrupting, but I am worried about Ahiram.”

  “So am I,” said Jabbar. “So is your mother.”

  Reaching the shore, they veered left and started walking toward the main beach where the boats lay. “Did you know his nightmares are becoming more frequent?” she asked.

  “Yes, your mother and I are worried.” He sighed. “Honestly Hoda, we do not know what to do.”

  “Father, you must listen to what I have to say now. You and I know how much Ahiram delights in anything that is good and true.”

  “I know, Hoda. That boy is without guile…”

  “He is never jealous and…”

  “…is generous to a fault,” said her father. “We know how much the two of you love each other, and it warms our hearts. We wanted more children but were blessed with only two. But what does it all have to do with…”

  “…his bad temper?” Jabbar and his daughter were accustomed to completing each other’s sentences. “Father, you know that Syreen is the second maid to the first priestess of Baalbeck?” Jabbar nodded. “Well, she spoke to High Priestess Bahiya about Ahiram’s temper.”

  “She did?” Jabbar was impressed. “Normally, it takes months to get an audience with the high priestess.” He slapped Hoda gently on the back. “Ha! Who knew? My daughter has connections.”

  “Father…”

  “So, what did the high priestess say?”

  “She suggests we find someone who could give Ahiram military training—adapted to his age, of course—but rigorous. She believes the training will go a long way to help him control his temper. If that does not work, then Syreen might be able to grant us an audience with the high priestess…”

  “Military training? I see. So the high priestess thinks that the discipline he’s getting at home is not enough?” Hoda held her breath, waiting for her father to reach a conclusion. “It’s not a bad idea, after all, but who? Wait, I know,” he added triumphantly, and before she could reply, answered, “Arfaad, of course. He would be the perfect teacher.”

  “Captain Arfaad is certainly qualified,” said Hoda. Inwardly, she shuddered at the idea. “But this training must be daily and needs to last three months.”

  “Three months? Three months?” Jabbar was visibly shocked.

  “The high priestess said that for the training to form good habits, it must last at least three months and must be rigorous.”

  “That won’t do; Arfaad can’t be solely focused on Ahiram for that length of time.”

  Hoda sighed inwardly. “Exactly, Father, but I know the perfect man who can do just that, and here’s the best part: he will gladly train Ahiram for free.”

  “Really? Who?” asked Jabbar, pleasantly surprised. Then his surprise turned into queasiness. “Oh no,” he said, as the feeling of queasiness transformed into dread. “You cannot be serious,” he added as an image, long repressed, popped in his head. “You don’t mean going to Tanooreen?”

  “But don’t you see it, Father? Uncle Mil is a retired High Rider. He lives alone in Tanooreen, a remote village where Ahiram won’t be taunted and provoked by kids who know him. We can all go there for a vacation. Uncle Mil will be delighted to see Mother. Then you and she can come back here, and I will stay with Ahiram for three months. When we come back, you will have a trained and mild-tempered son, ready to become a great shark fisherman like his father.” Secretly, Hoda wished she could train with her brother, partly to be near him and partly to learn to defend herself.

  “Ahiram will never be a fisherman,” said Jabbar, his voice brimming with pride.

  “What do you mean, Father?”

  “Don’t you see, Hoda? He has the makings of a king. Boys his age should already be imitating their elders: they pretend to set the bait, to lower a net, to prod a shark. These are the gestures they need to do over and over again to be good fishermen. Your brother, on the other hand, plays at diving in the water and riding a shark. He has turned more sticks into swords than the entire neighborhood. That boy has a deep sense of honor and virtue, and let us not say anything about his fighting skills. No, he will become a High Rider and will become a commander…”

  “Like Uncle Mil,” completed Hoda, smiling. Victory was close. She pushed forward. “All the more reason to ask Uncle Mil to train him.”

  “I know, Hoda, I know. Ahiram deserves the best, but me, go back and ask that curmudgeon cockalorum to help us? That cranky miserable smellfungus, that snollygoster? That’s tough, Hoda, that’s really tough.”

  “Think of Mother then,” urged Hoda.

  “Speaking of your mother, are you sure this whole thing is not a ruse of hers to get us to go see Uncle Mil?”

  “Mother knows nothing of this. You can surprise her later,” she added with a beaming smile. “Besides, Tanooreen is not all that bad at this time of the year.”

  “Not that bad?” cut in Jabbar. “How could it be ‘not that bad’ when your uncle lives there, watching every coming and goings like a vulture waiting for fresh carrions? That man told everyone at our wedding that I was born bald with a polka-dotted scalp and that my aim would miss a whale even if it were staring me in the eye. He humiliated me.”

  “Strictly speaking, we are all born bald, and furthermore, anyone would run away if a whale stared him in the eye.”

  “Hoda…”

  “Father, it is to help Ahiram. Surely, you can put up with Uncle Mil for a few days?”

  “Hoda, this,” he said pointing at the sea and beach, “the village, the sea, fishing, these are my roots. It is hard to uproot an old tree.”

  “Thankfully, you are not a tree, and all that you need to do is set one foot after the next.”

  “So, now what?”

  “In a week’s time, at the close of the Feast of Light, you will let the villagers know that it is high time for you to visit Uncle Mil and make amends before his passing away…”

  “Pass away? Pah! That mumpsimus will bury us all.”

  “Father—”

  “Fine, fine, then what? You and Ahiram spend spring there and you are back before fall?”

  “You mean summer,” corrected Hoda.

 
“Exactly,” replied Jabbar sighing. “You are right. Ahiram deserves the best.” He sighed once more. “You know, we have never taken time off from fishing. Your mother has always wanted to rest for a week or two from the hustle and bustle here. She’s a mountain girl, and by the name of all the gods, you are right. Your mother deserves a bit of a break. Let’s do it.”

  “This will be a great occasion to renew your wedding vows while Uncle Mil is still alive…”

  “Hoda, don’t you push it.”

  “Alright, alright. Father, on the morning of the Feast of Light, I will help Ahiram set up bait for the first time. I am certain,” she added over her father’s objections, “that the prospect of setting up bait will keep him in a good mood and make the trip and the stay in Tanooreen much more bearable.”

  “Hmm… you are right. You know, if I didn’t know you were my daughter, I would wonder if you were not secretly working with the merchant Kwadil because you could sell a whale to a man crossing the desert and make him believe it’s a camel.”

  Ahiram was doubly delighted when he found out that they would bait the shark on the morning of his twelfth birthday and that his sister would do it with him. His joy knew no bounds when he found out that she would not leave his side for the rest of the week; and for one full week, Ahiram was truly happy. He and Hoda spent most of their time on the beach swimming. They stayed up late watching the stars and enjoyed fresh, roasted fish over a small fire. Thus, the week went by peacefully, and it was the eve of the Feast of Light, the last day before their travel to Tanooreen. Hoda had told Ahiram the same story she had told her father, and he was eager to start his training if it meant that he would be able to join the fishermen on their boats.

  “I love this beach,” said Ahiram, yawning. “It is so quiet and secluded. We are about five miles from home, right?”

  “Yes,” said Hoda, “it’s peaceful here.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Ahiram, sighing. “I don’t remember the last time I spent a day not being afraid,” he added. He flopped onto the sand, his fingers entwined behind his head. “I sure hope this military training will help me so I can be with people and not hurt them, and you can get to spend more time with Karadon.”

  “Are you not happy with me?” asked his sister, teasing.

  He set his gaze on her, and she saw how serious he was, far more than what would be expected of a child his age. “I don’t really know what happy means, Hoda. All I know is that you’re the only person I can be around without my temper flaring. There is this part of me I can’t control, and it trusts you blindly. And when I am with you, I feel light, and life is not complicated.”

  “You can be with me as long as you want.”

  “No, I can’t, and you know it. One day, you will go away…”

  “Shush, Ahiram,” she said. “I won’t ever leave you, ever. I will always be by your side, at least until you have learned to control your temper. Then you will cross the seven seas and see the wonders of the world.”

  “I don’t want to cross the sea,” replied her brother. “All I want is to become a shark fisherman like my father and live next to you, Hoda. That’s all I want.”

  She nearly cried, but decided to play tag instead. Their laughter echoed in the nearby forest, while four hooded figures, craftily hidden by the trees, followed their every move.

  “Filthy piece of magic,” screamed Rahaak. “Be still.” Ignoring the command, the flying orb jittered so violently that the priest feared the worst. He willed for the dark sphere to stabilize. Instead, an ominous red light flashed beneath its glassy surface. The orb hung listlessly in the air.

  Sweat rippled down the man’s flaccid chin. Pain shot from his swollen joints, as if unseen hands were tearing him apart, and a long, mournful moan escaped his sealed, bluish lips.

  “My Lord,” pleaded Jethro, cowering in a corner behind him, “the red light, that’s the Shandirak, the sign that Sureï’s curse is about to be unleashed. It will level the entire island. Everyone who lives on Libra will die. The children,” he pleaded, “the innocent children…”

  The wave of pain receded. Rahaak, a member of the Inner Circle, was all too familiar with the rhythm of suffering that every act of magic begets. He straightened his posture and breathed deeply to clear his throbbing head.

  “Shut your mouth, Jethro,” he barked. Bending forward, he twisted his arms almost to the breaking point and spoke quickly in an abrasive, foreign tongue. He looked like a withered, bony tree about to snap. Slowly, the dangerous, reddish glow vanished, and the recalcitrant orb steadied its flight. It rose into the air to join the other eleven orbs already circling the priest, each along its own orbit.

  “There,” said the man of the Temple, breathless. He relaxed his stance, “There is nothing to worry about.” He wiped his sweaty forehead with the sleeve hem of his priestly garment and eyed the old man angrily. “I know what I am doing, warden of the office of the Librarian.” Jethro did not reply.

  “And the next time you dare call the Light of Desolation by its Arayatian name, I will drag your miserable self into the Arayat and let the Nephral take you.” Jethro recoiled and began crying like a child. Ignoring the whimpering man, Rahaak gazed at the medallion hanging above the empty Seat of the Librarian. He grinned with anticipation.

  “There is enough power in these twelve orbs to break any of Sureï’s curses. Jethro, you shall witness my greatest victory: I will free the medallion, sit on the Seat, and the Library shall yield its secrets to me.”

  Furtively, Jethro glanced at a leather-bound book gently floating a few feet below the high, glittering ceiling of the Library. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was so dry he thought Sureï’s curse had been unleashed and had turned his tongue into a pile of ashes and dust.

  “My tongue, my tongue…” he stammered. “The curse, it’s… it’s upon us,” and having realized what he had said, he nearly died of fright. His legs gave out, and he fell on his face, his jaw clattering so quickly a woodpecker would have been jealous.

  “What are we doing?” he muttered, “No one has ever dared defy Sureï the Sorcerer before. Fool!” he yelled, unable to contain himself. “This is sheer madness. I command you to stop.”

  Ignoring the warden, Rahaak focused on the twelve orbs circling around him.

  “Twelve orbs, Jethro,” he said with glee. “No other priest of Baal, not even the great Sureï has done this.” He glanced back at the warden curled behind a twisted column of the strange building, and laughed a wiry, maniacal laughter.

  “Tonight, the medallion is mine,” he roared. Not waiting any longer, he summoned Baal’s power. Immediately, the twelve orbs formed a line from the priest to the medallion.

  Jethro whimpered, covered his ears and shut his eyes.

  The wave of pain came back with a vengeance. This time, Rahaak thought his veins had been filled with razor sharp nails. Still, his training prevailed, and slowly, carefully, he snapped open the cover of a small, silvery tube hanging by a thick chain around his neck. Two small blue spheres shot up and began circling the aligned orbs. Each time they passed by him, the priest shut his eyes and held his breath, for the stench of the concentrators was unbearable. Gradually, the fast moving objects drew closer to the orbs until their orbit brought them mere inches from the orb farthest from Rahaak.

  “A little closer,” croaked Rahaak.

  Jethro wished the ground would open and swallow him, but he knew the Library was indestructible. No, there would be no hole to swallow him up. He would have to see this madness through.

  “Steady now,” said Rahaak, “steady…”

  The concentrators were about to graze the farthest orb. Jethro had sufficient knowledge of Baal’s magic to know that orbs were channels of power requiring energy to function: energy provided by the concentrators through the intermediary of the priest. It was the duty of the priest to release the lethal power locked within a concentrator and make it available to an orb by flowing it through his body. The pain he fel
t was excruciating, compounded by the number of orbs he was willing to use. The energy transfer must happen quickly, before the priest exhausts himself, loses control, and dies in sheer agony. Many did die. Worse still, if during this transfer, the priest allows a concentrator to touch an orb, reality would shatter and Arayatian creatures would materialize.

  By now, Jethro realized that his strategy had turned Rahaak into an ambitious fool, a madman, willing to stand twelve revolving orbs in a straight line—the most potent formation for these objects—and let them be fed by not one, but two, concentrators.

  “I am the fool,” muttered Jethro, “an utter fool. What fit of madness led me to believe I could be the master of the Libre Aharof? What have I done? What have I done?” Jethro glanced at Rahaak and bit his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.

  Rahaak willed for Sureï’s formidable curse to be broken. Feverishly, Jethro entreated Baal to let him live through the night.

  “Now,” roared the priest.

  The two concentrators stopped their flight in front of the farthest orb and sparked a thin, blue arc of intense heat that sizzled and crackled between them. Quickly, the arc broke into a multitude of tendrils resembling a miniature thunderstorm. One of the otherworldly stems licked the surface of the orb. The priest stammered as if hit in the stomach. He bent forward, cried out in a loud voice, and pushed against an invisible barrier.

  Like an unstoppable wave, the blue light covered the surface of the orb and moved toward Rahaak in a straight line, turning the twelve orbs into an eerie, iridescent chain. When the strange light engulfed the orb closest to Rahaak, the priest flung his head back and screamed words that curdled Jethro’s blood and made him wish he had never been born.

  The concentrators shattered and the orb in front of the priest burst into a bubble of magma, nearly scalding him. The hot liquid seeped along the blue ray of light without harming it and swallowed the second orb, turning it into magma; it continued until it reached the farthest sphere. Slowly, the spheres of magma began to shrink while the eerie blue and red magma ray thickened until the spheres disappeared.