Shams started on her darbuka, banging out a fierce beat on the old skin drum. Rana took up her pipe and handed Nahri a tambourine—the one instrument she could use without making a fool of herself.
Nahri tapped it against her leg. “I will sing to the spirits I know,” she explained over the music, though there were very few southern women who didn’t know how a zar worked. Baseema’s aunt took up an incense burner, waving plumes of aromatic smoke over the crowd. “When her spirit hears its song, it will make her excitable, and we can proceed.”
Rana started on her pipe, and Nahri beat the tambourine, her shoulders shaking, her fringed scarf swaying with every movement. Transfixed, Baseema followed her.
“Oh, spirits, we beseech thee! We implore and honor thee!” Nahri sang, keeping her voice low so it didn’t crack. While legitimate kodia were trained singers, Nahri was anything but. “Ya, amir el Hind! Oh, great prince, join us!” She started with the song of the Indian prince and moved on to that of the Sea Sultan and then the Great Qarina, the music changing for each one. She’d been careful to memorize their lyrics if not their meanings; she was not particularly worried about the origins of such things.
Baseema grew more animated as they went on, her limbs loosening, the tense lines in her face gone. She swayed with less effort, tossing her hair with a small, self-contained smile. Nahri touched her every time they passed, feeling for the dim areas of her mind and pulling them closer to calm the restless girl.
It was a good group, energetic and involved. Several women stood, clapping their hands and joining the dance. People typically did; zars were as much an excuse to socialize as to deal with troublesome djinn. Baseema’s mother watched her daughter’s face, looking hopeful. The little girls clutched their prizes, jumping up and down in excitement as the chicken squawked in protest.
Her musicians also looked to be enjoying themselves. Shams suddenly struck out a faster beat on the darbuka, and Rana followed her lead, playing a mournful, almost unsettling tune on the pipe.
Nahri drummed her fingers on the tambourine, growing inspired by the group’s mood. She grinned; maybe it was time to give them something a little different.
She closed her eyes and hummed. Nahri had no name for her native tongue, the language she must have shared with her long-dead or forgotten parents. The only clue to her origins, she had listened for it since she was a child, eavesdropping on foreign merchants and haunting the polyglot crowd of scholars outside El Azhar University. Thinking it similar to Hebrew, she’d once spoken it to Yaqub, but he’d adamantly disagreed, adding, unnecessarily, that his people had enough problems without her being one of them.
But she knew it sounded unusual and eerie. Perfect for the zar. Nahri was surprised she hadn’t thought of using it before.
Though she could have sung her market list and no one would have been any the wiser, she stuck to the zar songs, translating the Arabic into her native language.
“Sah, afshin e-daeva . . . ,” she started. “Oh, warrior of the djinn, we beseech thee! Join us, calm the fires in this girl’s mind.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, warrior, come to me! Vak!”
A bead of sweat snaked past her temple. The courtyard grew uncomfortably warm, the press of the large group and crackling fire too much. She kept her eyes closed and swayed, letting the movement of her headdress fan her face. “Great guardian, come and protect us. Watch over Baseema as if—”
A low gasp startled Nahri, and she opened her eyes. Baseema had stopped dancing; her limbs were frozen, her glassy gaze fixed on Nahri. Clearly unnerved, Shams missed a beat on the darbuka.
Afraid of losing the crowd, Nahri struck her tambourine against one hip, silently praying Shams would copy her. She smiled at Baseema and picked up the incense brazier, hoping the musky fragrance would relax the girl. Maybe it was time to wrap things up. “Oh, warrior,” she sang more softly, returning to Arabic. “Is it you who sleeps in the mind of our gentle Baseema?”
Baseema twitched; sweat poured down her face. Closer now, Nahri could see that the blank expression in the girl’s eyes had been replaced by something that looked a lot more like fear. A bit unsettled, she reached for the girl’s hand.
Baseema blinked, and her eyes narrowed, focusing on Nahri with an almost feral curiosity.
WHO ARE YOU?
Nahri blanched and dropped her hand. Baseema’s lips hadn’t moved, yet she heard the question as though it had been shouted in her ear.
Then the moment was gone. Baseema shook her head, the blank look reappearing as she began to dance again. Startled, Nahri took a few steps back. A cold sweat erupted across her skin.
Rana was at her shoulder. “Ya, Nahri?”
“Did you hear that?” she whispered.
Rana raised her brows. “Hear what?”
Don’t be a fool. Nahri shook her head, feeling ridiculous. “Nothing.” Raising her voice, she faced the crowd. “All praise is due to the Almighty,” she declared, trying not to stammer. “Oh, warrior, we thank you.” She beckoned for the girl holding the chicken. “Please accept our offering and make peace with dear Baseema.” Her hands shaking, Nahri held the chicken over a battered stone bowl and whispered a prayer before cutting its throat. Blood spurted into the bowl, spattering her feet.
Baseema’s aunt took the chicken away to be cooked, but Nahri’s job was far from over. “Tamarind juice for our guest,” she requested. “The djinn like their sours.” She forced a smile and tried to relax.
Shams brought over a small glass of the dark juice. “Are you well, kodia?”
“God be praised,” Nahri said. “Just tired. Can you and Rana distribute the food?”
“Of course.”
Baseema was still swaying, her eyes half closed, a dreamy smile on her face. Nahri took her hands and gently pulled her to the ground, aware that much of the group was watching. “Drink, child,” she said, offering the cup. “It will please your djinn.”
The girl clutched the glass, spilling nearly half the juice down her face. She gestured at her mother, making a low noise in the back of her throat.
“Yes, habibti.” Nahri stroked her hair, willing her to be calm. The child was still unbalanced, but her mind didn’t feel as frantic. God only knew how long it would last. She beckoned Baseema’s mother over and joined their hands.
There were tears in the older woman’s eyes. “Is she cured? Will the djinn leave her in peace?”
Nahri hesitated. “I have made them both content, but the djinn is a strong one and has likely been with her since birth. For such a tender thing . . .” She squeezed Baseema’s hand. “It was probably easier for her to submit to his wishes.”
“What does that mean?” the other woman asked, her voice breaking.
“Your daughter’s state is the will of God. The djinn will keep her safe, provide her with a rich inner life,” she lied, hoping it would give the woman some comfort. “Keep them both content. Let her stay with you and your husband, give her things to do with her hands.”
“Will . . . will she ever speak?”