Chapter 1: al-Quds
NOTE: This is a rewritten chapter of Bukhoor – Incense. The introduction is the same, but the rest is different.
Belonging to the Order meant all your possessions were also your brothers' and theirs were yours. Upon the moment of death, possessions transferred from one person to another that very instant. If you had a room in the fortress, a new recruit would be glad to have it. In times of war, everything was temporary, even ownership. This meant unpacking his trunks would not take long; after all, Malik no longer had a need for swords or armor. People would never bother to admire the swordsmanship of a man with one arm. He wondered how much medicine would deflate his pain tonight.
Haroun, the Assassin who accompanied Malik on his journey to Jerusalem, set the last of three trunks on the ground. "Is there anything else you may need, Dai?" he asked. "I can have a woman requested from Masyaf to care for the Bureau if it would please you."
"I do not want a woman in the Bureau," Malik snapped, "There is only so much to clean, and then she will nag me until I throw myself into the Dead Sea."
"I guess this is true," Haroun laughed half-heartedly, trying to lighten the atmosphere. It was very hard around the newly made Dai. Malik lost what little humor he had after his amputation. Usually, any man would agree to a woman's presence, but Haroun felt that perhaps the amputation, combined with grief for Kadar's death, and partial failure of the mission made him feel deficient.
Once on the way to Jerusalem, Malik had mumbled that he should have died in place of Kadar—of course, Haroun was too stunned to respond. What could he say? He was afraid to offend Malik. "I will take my leave now. Peace be upon you, Malik." With nothing less than silence, the Assassin disappeared through the roof hatch.
Malik was alone, enclosed in four dusty, crumbling walls.
Alone as the sun was low in the sky, with silence save for the outdoor ambience and the twin fountains on opposite sides of the rooms, bubbling more water into a tub of algae-infested water. Dusty carpets hung on the walls and bore the symbol of their Creed. The plants sitting in the corner were pale and yellowed from lack of care. This was one room, he realized. Perhaps there was more to the maintenance of this Bureau than he thought.
Suddenly, shrieks of excitement came from next door. He did not understand them immediately, but eventually it became familiar. In Masyaf, they taught him a number of languages. This one sounded like Persian. Malik walked directly under the roof hatch and listened carefully to the voices…
Kazhal and her younger sister, Shelan glanced between their baggage and the small storefront that stood tall before them. Through a small window, they could see a variety of scarves, abayat, shirts and other clothing readily available for purchase; women in black trailed by uninterested husbands or other male relatives. Despite the busyness of the storefront, Kazhal and Shelan had yet to see the very person they were looking for—their sister. "Do you think we were given the wrong directions, Kazhal?" Shelan asked in Persian as she tucked her chador under her arms. "I do not see Leyla in the shop."
Kazhal shrugged. "Go into the shop and ask. I will wait here with our things," she said, waving her hand at the possessions in sacks and trunks at their feet.
A month ago, their father Nehroz decided to take up arms and fight in Saladin's army. His wife had already died long ago, and he could not leave behind two women to care for themselves. Instead, he sold the house, sold most of their belongings—save for the things the girls valued most—and departed for the army. Nehroz gave his daughters a portion of the money from their sold things to move to Jerusalem. Most of it was bundled up in Kazhal's pocket that very moment, cold pieces of metal that meant to replace the home she grew up in, the beautiful Lake nearby. She missed the beautiful garden her mother left after her passing, the pale blue and white room they all prayed in, her friends, her fellow Kurds. Instead, she was here in Jerusalem.
While this was the place where the Blessed Prophet Muhammad ascended to Heaven, Jerusalem still appeared a hostile environment. The girls only knew Arabic from the Qur'an, which was not enough to get by in the city. They doubted there were many Persians or Kurds living in this city, so making friends and acquaintances would be hard. Buying things would prove just as difficult. In fact, everything would be plain difficult.
Shelan poked her head out the shop door and beckoned Kazhal to pass her things. "Leyla is upstairs—they live above the shop."
Leyla was the eldest of the three siblings. She married a few years ago, to a man named Rahim ibn-Maroun. Shelan remembered him being a quiet but stern man. He said only what he needed to during his time in Urmia, but nothing more. Perhaps now, living under his roof, the girls will get more out of him.
They climbed the stairs to first level of the building, where they would live with their sister and her husband. The architecture of the home was similar but greater than the one in Urmia. Walls were decorated with arabesques and geometric patterns. The external windows were maroon in color, though only transparent one way. The windows and doors leading to the inner courtyard were also geometrically painted in reds, blues, and greens.
Leyla was found in the receiving room on a sofa. A brown tabby sat above her on the back, licking and swiping its paws over its face in an effort to bathe. The moment the cat caught sight of visitors, it abandoned the couch for a place to hide, alerting Leyla to the arrival of her sisters.
She rose from the couch with a large smile, "Peace be upon you sisters. Salaam and welcome home."
"You have a cat," Kazhal noted, dropping her stuff on the floor to unwrap her cloak. "I did not take you for an animal person."
"Muhammad—Peace be upon him—was spoken of having a cat. Cats are clean. In fact, mine is named after his. Her name is also Muezza," Leyla's black hair spilled over and mixed with Kazhal's brown waves as she drew her in for a hug. "How I've missed you, the both of you."
Shelan came next, saying, "This place is beautiful. Rahim is a tailor?"
"Yes, he runs the store downstairs. I help every now again, but you know…I have a son to care for. Speaking of which, Saeed! Come here, habibi."
From the bedrooms emerged a tiny boy, eying the newcomers apprehensively. Saeed's gaze never left them as he raised his arms high, a gesture of wanting to be picked up. Leyla happily obliged her son, placing her on a round hip. In Arabic, she cooed at Saeed, earning a weak grin; then, she set him down to show the girls to their room. They would have to share, she said, because there were not enough for them to each have their own.
The room was already furnished with one large, cushioned bed, a curtain-drawn window facing the colorful courtyard outside, and a small alcove decorated with rugs for prayer. A small bench was placed before the bed, and another alcove held a lengthy mirror. Lastly, on the opposite wall sat a large closet for their things to be placed in. "While you settle in, I will tell Rahim you are here and start dinner," Leyla grabbed Saeed by the hand and led him out of the room.
"I have good feelings about this place, Kazhal," Shelan said, throwing her bags on the bed and unpacking her trunks. "I already like it. It's so different from living in Persia."
Kazhal rested on the bench before the bed, "To me it is similar. Our sister is here, but we are living above a store." She stared long and hard at her hennaed hands, remembering how carefully she applied it to Shelan's hands, then her own. There were flowers among leaves and knots, interwoven in a muddy brown color to their wrists. She had also hennaed Shelan's feet, but left hers bare out of personal preference.
Dinner was the first time Kazhal and Shelan saw Rahim in years. He nodded to them politely before seating himself, but said nothing. Instead, they focused on the dishes provided by Leyla. They were all Levantine, a contrast to the Persian palette the younger girls knew. There were no sour and tangy flavors, herbs or many fruits; the Levantine was more about bulgur and meats, bread, and things like baba ghanoush. It tasted dull and lifeless to Kazhal. Eventually she asked, "Leyla, where did you learn to cook the local food?"
Leyla looked to Rahim, eyes connecting in an initially intense gaze and then softening with time. "My husband taught me. He learned from his mother."
"Really? That's incredible. The food is sensational!" Shelan exclaimed, shoveling in another hasty bite.
Conversely, the middle sister quietly abandoned her food, and reached for the tea at the center of the table. Saeed began to babble in infant Arabic to his parents, occupying their attention long enough that they did not see Kazhal's face of disgust when she swallowed her first sip. "Leyla, do you make any Persian food for Rahim?"
Before Leyla could answer, Rahim responded coldly, "She may have to, since you are not yet accustomed to our food here."
"I'm just not hungry. I am tired, if anything." Kazhal stiffened, as if the slightest movement would betray her words. Of course she did not like the food. She favored the things her neighbors made back in Urmia for their family, the desserts and pastries she learned to make from their aunt, and even the room in which the family ate. She missed the house, the city, the lake, and the language. This was not home.
But Rahim could see through Kazhal's weak deception. "It is very different from Urmia. I understand." He leaned forward and balancing himself with an arm on the table. "But this is your home now and I am head of this household. Here we speak Arabic, not Persian; local food, not Persian. You should get used to this place because, unless you marry, you are under my rules. Understood?"
He stared hard at Kazhal, and she glared back. Her mouth was a firm line, and the desire to throw her plate at him boiled her blood. Out of respect for Leyla, however, Kazhal behaved, instead softening her features to feign terror. Shelan did not have to pretend. Pita bread fell into her lap as a result of her hands trembling terribly.
Leyla slid a hand across the table to lay on Rahim's. "My dear husband, I believe you are scaring the girls. Need you be so harsh? So much has changed for them, and there is a chance our father may never return from war."
The girls could not understand the conversation thereafter, for it had melted into rhythmic Arabic. Shelan finally returned the neglected piece of pita to her hand, nibbling listlessly. Kazhal mumbled gratitude for the meal and climbed to her feet; she had finished eating and wanted to go to her room.
Malik could not sleep yet again, the phantom pains spiking up what remained of his left arm. He took to walking around the cartography room, making a mental list on the work to be done tomorrow within the Bureau. The incense burners leaked ashes as the wind gently fell through the lattice of the glowing receiving room, illuminated by the full moon outside. Only the bubbling fountain could be heard in the dead of night.
Just as Malik turned for his living quarters, he spotted a shadow leaping through the lattice and across the floor. Then, he heard, "Peace be upon you, Dai."
"Upon you as well," he answered gruffly, "What do you want? Please let it be anything other than a map. Cartography is not a learned skill of mine, and I have yet to make sense of this Bureau altogether."
The white shadow reached for his hood, revealing a man of tall stature, dark hair and hazel eyes that seemed to glimmer in the moonlight. "I am Munzir. I seek a place to sleep tonight, and your Bureau was closest."
"Munzir?" Malik lit an oil lamp to brighten the room. "If I am correct, that is a Kurdish name."
"Yes, I am a Kurd. So are your new neighbors, it seems." Munzir followed the Dai down a hall where the few sleeping quarters were. When Malik raised the flap of one, he winced at how dingy the room was. The previous Dai did not care enough to clean anything before he was replaced, Malik realized, gritting his teeth. "Do not worry about the room—I can sleep in the receiving room. There are plenty of pillows and rugs to sleep on that are much cleaner."
"I apologize for the inconvenience."
"Again, not problematic…I can help you clean tomorrow, if you want."
Malik twisted around to spit at Munzir, "Do you think I require your assistance to clean this damned Bureau?"
Normally his brothers would recoil from Malik's temper, but Munzir held steadfast. While only an apprentice, Munzir did not fear any man. The only person he should fear, he learned through his time on Earth, was Allah himself. "Not at all. It is simply payment for your kindness so late at night."
The response disarmed the cross Dai. He could do nothing but clear his throat, hand over the lamp and bid Munzir a decent rest. "We'll begin after fajr."
So if you couldn't tell, I rewrote the chapter. I couldn't help myself. I had hit a road block on what I wanted to have happen, and I portrayed Kazhal as a character that was a little static. Also, I found out the pronunciation of Kazhal's name. It's pronounced (this is close but not exact) 'kha-ZAL'. It means gazelle, if that helps any. Shelan means "attractive". And of course Leyla means "born at night". They have no specific contribution to the character, though.
Rahim seems a little hard on the girls, yes? And also, I've tried to clean up the overwhelming amount of culture facts given in the previous version. I hope this is more readable. Review, if you will! I love feedback.