Whisperwind

If the city of Marrakech is a living beast, Djemaa El-Fna is its heart. It is known as The Assembly of the Dead in my tongue, and no name suits it better. A vast plaza, edged on one side by the souk, the labyrinthine markets of Marrakech, it is home to snake charmers and merchants of spice and story, ill-kept monkeys chained to their eager pimps, tourists easily plied from their money and locals eager to part them from it.

Djemaa El-Fna is a wondrous sight, and I love it still, though I have not returned since I was first stolen from its streets. The whispers of its stories are sweet nothings in my ear, as the charming chaos of the souk’s stalls and the milling crowd of Djemaa El-Fna beckons me back to the haunts of my childhood. Those streets were the only parents I had, other orphans my only siblings.

It was in the maelstrom crowd of Djemaa El-Fna that I first found Whisperwind, or, rather, where she first found me. I would not know the importance of that day for many years to come. Even now, I do not understand that first meeting.

A young girl wandered through Djemaa El-Fna, a foreigner with ivory skin and black hair flowing out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. She looked lost.

I didn’t care. I cared only about him.

Though dark of skin, my mark stood out worse than a fat, sunburned American. Despite the angry sun and the endlessly swirling dust devils, he was dressed in an suit. A suit that spoke of money. The price on his sunglasses alone could probably feed me and my brothers for a week. He could not hide his foreign body language behind that dark skin. I could see through it no problem, just like any of my brothers could. Easy prey, no? I followed him with my eyes, never losing sight as I lounged in the shadows cast by a vendor’s stall on the edge of the souk, the perfect place to ply my trade.

You might think there’s no pride in being a pickpocket. I’d say you’re wrong. We work hard, regardless of honour. I’d take food in my belly over pride in my heart any day. Wouldn’t you?

Working in the gangs wasn’t always easy, but it was better than being alone. You wouldn’t last long on your own. I was middle of the pack in my gang, just where I wanted to be. You have to find that balance, be useful to the gang, but not draw too much attention from those stronger than you, from those who’ll take you out if you’re a threat. I could be better, I could be at the top, if they knew about my power, but I liked it in the middle, it was safe.

He was moving, and fast. Chewing on a brochette, he left the food vendor’s stall. He scanned the crowd, searching for the next lucky fool who’d get a taste of his western money. Any luck and it’d be me, and he’d be parting with more of it than he was hoping. As I guessed, he started towards the souk, hoping to take in the sights and sounds of Marrakech’s biggest market.

He passed by my spot of shade, so close I could have reached out and grabbed the leg of his pants. I waited a moment, so he wouldn’t see me, then stood and followed him into the mess of stalls and the ebb and flow of people flowing through the veins of my city. The thick smell of steaming food mixed with the endless dust of the market, a heady mixture as comforting to me as the hug of any mother. I would welcome the man to my home the only way I knew how.

“Stop.” The voice was soft and childlike, but pitched just right to drift out from the cacophony of vendor’s catcalls, grilling food, angry bartering, shrieking monkeys and the raucous yells of wild-eyed transvestite dancers. A chill climbed my spine, and I stopped and turned to the young girl, who was hiding in the cotton drapes of a pottery stall. Her skin was white as the finest porcelain, yet her hair was dark as mine. Her face and eyes were lost in the shadows of her hat. Still, I could feel the chill of her gaze. A foreigner, but she spoke my language as if she was born to it.

“Do not,” she said, pointing toward my rapidly disappearing mark.

I turned and ran. I told myself, as I ran, that I didn’t want to lose my mark. That was a lie. I ran from her.

The man wound deeper through the souk. Most tourists enter and take their time, stopping at each vendor to catch their eye, trying on fake Nikes or getting high on majoun. This man, though, moved through the stalls like a local, like he knew where he was going.

I had trouble keeping up with him. He would disappear from sight, lost behind clouds of steam, or amongst a throng of shoppers, but around every twist and turn I would catch a further glimpse before losing him again. An uneasy feeling was tickling the back of my neck, like hidden eyes were watching from every shadow. We were near the outskirts of the souk now, away from the cloth stalls and back within the garden of stone buildings.

I called on the power within me, my little bit of magick, and wrapped myself in the calming thrum of its energy. The power came to me naturally as breathing. It pulsed with every beat of my heart and danced along the tips of my fingers, a cerulean flame invisible to others. It was my one bargaining chip in life.

With that power flowing through my veins, I did not fear the man. I pushed harder through the crowds, keeping him just at the edge of sight.

I could hardly believe when he turned the corner, heading into a quiet alley. I knew that turn, that alley, every one of my brothers did. Our gang used it as a drop spot, to ambush rival gangs or intimidate unsuspecting tourists.

Why would he go there? I wondered, swallowing the unease that swarmed just under the buzz of my magick. Who is he? I thought of turning back, of giving up on the mark. Someone else could have him. Or maybe I should go back, get some of my brothers, find the man again. We could share the profits.

I thought about it, but I didn’t listen. I don’t know why. I was greedy, I guess.

I hauled myself up onto the roof of one of the buildings that lined the alley. My brothers and I had long since established a series of hiding spots among the rooftops of the souk, hidden from anyone who did not know where to look.

The flat roof was empty except for one corner, where a tarp-covered bundle lay in the shadows cast by the sun. It contained simple tools and weapons, anything my brothers might need for a job. If I could quietly get behind the man in the suit, he’d be out before he even knew I was there. I’d have to be quick, though.

I knew there was a club there, a splintered baseball bat. We didn’t like to hurt the foreigners we robbed — it upset the balance in the souk and Djemaa El-Fna — but sometimes exceptions had to be made. It was safer than using my magick. I pulled back the tarp. The club was gone. All the things were gone.

Gravel crunched behind me, and I swung about, startled.

“Do not,” she said, pointing down to the alley. “He is a bad man. He will take you.”

The girl was standing in the middle of the roof. Her skin was flawless, a blazing beacon even against the sun-bleached horizon of Marrakech rooftops. Her hat was gone. She had the lifeless face of a doll. Her black eyes were like eerie pools of ink, and caught none of the sun’s harsh light. There was a wisdom in that stare that shook me deep.

She looked like a child, but she was not. She was older than this city, than the language I spoke. I can’t explain how I knew this. It was in the language of her body, in the words left unspoken on her lips. Her hands were enveloped in flame. The same magick that licked eagerly up my own arms.

A soft wind whipped the girl’s hair, whispering promises of what horrors lay in that alley below, at the hands of the man in the suit.

Again, I turned and ran. I dropped from the rooftop, landing hard on the street at the outskirts of the market. My knees buckled, but I scrambled back up. I ran as if Shaitan and all his demons were at my back. I fled for the safety of the souk, shoving through the crowds, leaving a trail of angry calls at my back, to find my brothers in Djemaa El-Fna.

Many years would pass before I saw Whisperwind again, but that is a story for another day.

Copyright © Aidan Moher, 2010