She's heard the tales of children disappearing, of course. They're the biggest reason Ghita began administering the moon pepper to Shay when she was so young. Though, in most of those cases, the culprits aren't rebels, but rather treasure hunters or practitioners of witchcraft. Men and women who steal the children off to the desert, believing the magic in their blood will aid their search for buried riches. And the children—who are later found dead, if at all—are often not even true hizouras. Just normal children bearing some unfortunate physical feature that makes them a target of the uneducated.
To bypass the congested detour, Ghita rings a large bell at the head of the cart, identifying herself as a health practitioner. True to the groom's words, Jarjeer carries them swiftly to the medina's outer walls. The midwife recites a blessing under her breath as they pass the soaring minaret of the worship house, where up until a few solar cycles back, citizens gathered quarterly for congregational prayer. The callers’ melodious invocations once echoed daily, reaching every corner of the medina.
That was before Al-Mukhtar commandeered the building to house Moulays in training, the best of whom will become mukhtars themselves. Ghita said she fears their next step will be taking away people's right to pray in their own homes. Shay used to doubt this could happen, back when she believedAl-Mukhtar's powers to be proof of God's anointing. But what if the CNM's accusations are true?
What if Al-Mukhtar really are employing touched ones?
Jarjeer clears the gates. A sudden expanse of land opens before them, spurring the donkey to an even faster pace. Its speed rivals that of a horse. To Shay's relief, their gravel path veers away from the looming silhouette of Al-Ghaba Mayita, a place where trees shoot from the earth like a mouth overcrowded with teeth, every one of them a canine. Even after hundreds of foraging trips, she breathes easier when its hulking border is put well behind her.
A smoke pillar rises over an open field to the west, likely a campfire of the Hazmaggi tribe she pretends to descend from, perhaps making their way to Lahat to visit the Cerabbi Sea while the weather is at its most pleasant. Chants and ululations carry across the hills. A switchback leads the cart through groves of stocky fig and olive trees.
They're passing a rocky pasture dotted with sheep when Shay spots the farmhouse, kindling her anxiety. Will Ghita insist she deliver the baby even if there are complications? Or will she decide the apprentice isn't ready? Shay isn't sure which option unsettles her more.
Stepping from the cart, she's taken aback by a thick earthy scent. It's not unusual for the country air to smell fresh and sweet, but this is more cloying. Something lush and wild and not entirely pleasant. The donkey brays. Shay slips him a small carrot and pats his nose while Ghita unloads the cart. “Good job, boy.”
She helps Ghita carry her bags, raising a lantern in her free hand and absorbing the building's miserable state. Vines smother the rough walls. Rogue tree branches jut through cracks in the roof and the missing panes of broken windows. A cry, at once human and not, erupts from inside, starting as a deep bellow that rises to a scream.
Ghita quickens her steps, making Shay jog to keep up. At their approach, the front door flings wide. An old woman runs out, swatting a few insects that buzz around her head. Jagged scratches run the length of both her arms.Her torn dress hangs loose off one shoulder. She glances back at the building fearfully before she notices Shay and Ghita.
“God is great,” the woman shouts, barreling toward them. “Help has arrived.”
“Are you well, Sayeda?” Ghita drops her bags and reaches toward the distressed woman.
“Don't worry about me.” The woman shakes her head, not bothering to wipe her tearstained cheeks. “There's no time. You must save my niece's baby.”
“Of course.” Ghita peers nervously at the farmhouse. Through the lens of moonlight, dense moss in colors of mold seems to slither across its stones. “Go rest on the donkey's cart and wait. We'll return and assist you shortly, God willing.”
The potent, overripe scent intensifies as Shay and Ghita pass through the door and search the dim room for the pregnant mother. Finding her, Shay releases her own startled scream.
The woman stands on a table, arms raised. Tendrils of green smoke swirl from her glowing fingertips. A wide bloodstain spreads like a red sash across her dress. Her feet are bare, more blood puddled around them. Her face bears so many wrinkles, its other features blend together. Her skin tinges gray to green. Her eyes run milky white, voiding her pupils, the hollows around them pitted black, like kohl smeared by weeping.
A touched one? This makes the situation profoundly worse. There's simply no possible good outcome. The baby is unlikely to survive, and if it does, it will be at the mother's expense, either case casting a black mark on Shay's reputation.
The woman moans harshly. Her gaze darts about, unseeing, as though she's lost in some hallucination. There's a muffled cry across the room, where an argan tree—an actual full-sizetree—grows right through the floor and sprawls like a greedy guest trying to finger every object within reach.
In fact, the whole room is overrun with plants and bushes of all varieties. They hang long and loose from the ceiling and spill in waves out of cabinets. High in the leafy folds of the tree, Shay spots the source of the cry and gasps. She slaps a hand to her mouth.
Covered in creamy film, the newborn Shay was meant to deliver lies curled inside a large, round nest. A nest surrounded by branches hung with thorns. Thorns the size of butcher knives. And just above the baby, a floppy purple flower with yellow flecks dangles like a canopy. Shay doesn't recognize the flower, not from the fields around Nezjar, not from the bowels of Al-Ghaba Mayita, and not from any of Ghita's books.
She doesn't move. Her shock is too heady. Then the yellow flecks on the petals begin to vibrate. A low buzz reaches her ears, a sound so out of place in the shade of night that it takes Shay a beat longer than it should to place it.
“Bees!” she shouts in abject horror. “Devil be damned. The baby's surrounded by bees!”
The second she steps toward the tree, the touched one swings around with sudden focus. She thrusts one arm in Shay's direction, smoke pulsing in green flashes from her fingertips. The room shudders. The floor ripples, tiles splitting. A giant root shoots up. It whips around, and before Shay can react, it belts her in the stomach. She stumbles into the wall.
“The baby will die,” the feral woman screeches. She leans forward and balls her fists, the table shaking beneath her. A glass frame clatters off the wall and breaks.
“Why, Sayeda?” Ghita sets down her bags and raises her palms beseechingly. “Is something wrong with the baby?”
The woman frowns. For a moment, she looks uncertain. “The moon tells me things. It says my baby is a monster.”
“Sayeda.” Ghita takes a hesitant step toward the woman. “Your baby is beautiful. You should be proud. Please, let us help.”
Shay painfully pulls herself upright, ready to jump to Ghita's aid if it's required.
“Stop right there,” the touched one warns, and Ghita freezes. “The moon is my friend. It wouldn't lie. I must kill the little monster.”
She thrusts both hands out, and the tree shakes violently. The swinging thorns slice the air around the nest, barely missing the infant tucked inside. The buzzing pitches louder. The baby kicks into crying, every high, spasmodic sob twisting Shay's chest tighter. And tighter.
