Tomorrow arrives and finds Layala sick in bed with a fever. Abu Illyas insists on calling for the town healer, but I wave him off.
“I’m a healer too, you know. My job isn’t just with the dead.”
Abu Illyas tsks and paces Layala’s room in his house. “You should leave her here,” he says, eyeing me coolly.
“I wouldn’t want to move her home when she’s so sick.” I chew on my lip, thinking about Kamuna. She expects to speak to Layala today, and I know it is wiser to give her what she wants when she wants it, if only to avoid making matters worse.
“I mean, leave her,” he says.
I bite back stinging words. Instead, I get up from my daughter’s side, and though I am a head shorter than Abu Illyas, I look him right in the eye when I say, “No.”
He steps back, his face red, jaw tight. He stands taller than I’ve seen him stand in a while. “I know what’s best for my granddaughter,” he sputters, jabbing his finger into his chest.
“Marrying her off to the highest bidder isn’t what’s best for her, Sheikh Hamadi. It’s what’s best for you. I am her mother, and she and I will both decide what’s best for her.”
“Then why bring her here?” he says. “Why bring her to my house and leave her behind?”
I force my voice to sound even. “I brought her here because I know you will keep her safe.” I pause, then make a decision.“But I am taking her back home to be with me. She will sleep in her own bed tonight.”
I turn back to my sleeping daughter and dab a wet cloth against her skin. “I know you love her, Sheikh Hamadi. But I am her mother, and she will live with me.”
Abu Illyas says something so low under his breath that I’m not sure I heard right, but the chill down my back tells me I did.
“She can’t go home if her mother is dead.”
I keep my mouth shut and continue pressing a cool cloth against Layala’s hot face. Her skin is flushed, and a light sheen sits closely against her skin. Abu Illyas’s footsteps recede as he leaves the room, and Layala’s eyelids flicker open as soon as he shuts the door.
“Hiyati, my darling,” I say. “How are you feeling now?”
She sits up in bed and pulls the covers aside. “Well enough to leave this place.” She’s already reaching for her bag and slipping on her boots, though she is unsteady on her feet.
“Wait, Layl, why the rush?” I try to pull her back into bed, but she’s headstrong and pulls out of my grasp. “You’re still running a fever and it’s chilly outside. You’ll catch your dea—”
“I’d rather catch my death in the cold than stay here another hour.”
“But you love being at your jido’s. Layl, tell me, what’s happened?”
“Jido,” she says. “He’s been giving me a new dress each night now and parading me in front of those rich buffoons he calls friends and business partners. It’s only this fever that’s been a blessing, because he sent me right to bed when he realized I wasn’t feeling well.”
I pull her in for a hug, brushing her hair with my fingers. “He just wants what he thinks is best for you.”
“Well, maman, like you said, you and I will decide that, not him.”
“Your jido loves you, Layl. You know that.” Illyas would want me to tell her that.
“I know, but he has an odd way of showing it. He’s too …” She makes a gesture like she’s choking someone. “I can see why baba left as soon as he could.”
“No, Layl, stop. Don’t say that. Your father never left home; he stayed under his father’s roof until you were born.”
“But he didn’t spend much time here, did he? Jido said that once. He said he hopes I’d spend more time with him than his own son ever did. That’s why I visit him, you know, because he’s lonely.” Her face melts at the thought. “And I think he’s afraid of dying alone in this house.”
Her skin is too warm from the fever as I cup her cheek in my palm. “You’re doing a good thing, Layl. He loves you, and he cares for you. You should spend time with your grandfather.” I kiss the top of her head and take her bag from her hand.
“What is it, maman?” she asks.
I sigh and raise my eyes to the blue painted ceiling. I trace the gold paint with my eyes before I reply. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Her eyes light up. “Who?”
“That woman, she spoke to you the day the men came. She has some questions to ask.”
Layala’s gaze narrows at me. “What questions?”
I don’t answer her, but instead say, “You know of a jinn boy, Rami.” I don’t ask, but tell her.
Layala’s cheeks redden, and she sinks back onto the bed. “He was sick, and I gave him some herbs. I’ve been checking up on him, you know, just to make sure he’s fine.”
Her cheeks glow a brighter red that isn’t from the fever.
“I see. And what do you know about this boy?”
“Not much. I know he’s jinn, or part jinn. But that confused me because, maman, didn’t you tell me most jinns are dead or imprisoned?”
“Yes, Layl, I did. I thought the remaining ones were scattered across the earth, more in hiding than anything. But maybe I’ve been wrong all this time.”
“Mmm,” she says, chewing her lip like she does when she’s thinking. “He said his parents are dead, and he had three younger siblings, but they all died, too. I don’t know how, though. And he said he came from some village where there are other jinns.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
She shrugs and picks at the threads of her blanket.
“I worry about you, about you falling with child from some boy who won’t stay around to care for you. Or someone hurting you, like those village boys. You need to tell me these things, Layl.”
“Baba stuck around.”
“Your father and I … well, we were soulmates, I think. Most people, even if they’re in love, aren’t.”
Layala doesn’t say anything for a few breaths. “I don’t think this boy is my soulmate, maman. But there’s something off about him.”
My breath hitches in my throat. “Off?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. I’ve been trying to figure him out, but he’s tougher than a chestnut and I can’t seem to crack him.”
“Even a chestnut will crack under some heat,” I say. “I’d tell you to stay away from him, but I know you won’t listen.” I half-smile, even as I sigh.
Layala laughs. “I’m only stubborn because you are.”
“The one trait I’d have preferred not to pass on.”
She moves toward the door. “I will feel better if you tell me more of that story you started, maman. About you and baba and the jinns.”
I follow her out the door, shifting the weight of her bag over my shoulder. Her skin is flushed, but she is walking well. I consider asking the sheikh for a carriage, but decide not to.
“Tell your jido goodbye, Layl, before we leave.”
She pouts, but goes off to find her grandfather. I wait by the door for her, the manservant glaring at me. But I don’t move until I see Layala again, and we turn our backs on the house.
“Are you sure you are well enough to walk?” I ask as we step out into the cold air.
“I feel well enough to walk,” Layala says. She stumbles forward, then catches herself. A guard darts out for her, but she waves his hand away. “I have a fever, not broken legs,” she says with a smile.
The guard takes a step back, but his hand stays halfway out, ready to catch her if she stumbles again. But Layala doesn’t, and I walk beside her. I match my pace to hers, and it takes twice the time to get home with all the breaks she needs.
“Well, where did I end last time?” I say, as we step onto the path leading to town. “Ah, yes, the babe and its mother were spared from imprisonment.”
The babe’s father begged the child to be spared. “She’s not yet born,” he told his father.
“She? Our men do not produce girls. They make boys.”
“Nadine and I feel it’s a girl. And a girl is no less than a boy, baba.”
The sheikh laughed, shaking his head at what he considered his son’s foolishness. “A girl will give you future heirs, but the boy is the heir. Their worth is not the same.”
The man stood against his father, man to man now, rather than son to father. “Sheikh Hamadi, spare the life of my child and her mother, or you will lose me.”
“Lose you?” the sheikh said, fear stabbing his heart at the thought of losing his only son. His only child. “How could you say such a thing?”
“Speaking as a father, to a father, I beg you, spare my child and her mother. Do what you will to me, but spare them.”
The sheikh was angry, not used to being commanded or having things demanded of him. But he gave in to his son and spared the mother and the child.
Until, that is, the babe was born.
It was a girl, and the son insisted on giving her a jinn name. The sheikh grew furious, demanding the child’s name be changed to something respectable, a human name. The mother and son refused, and they named their newborn daughter, Layala. Of the night.
The three lived in the sheikh’s house, but they lived in fear. More and more jinns were being slaughtered or imprisoned, and the babe’s mother knew her time was coming.
So, they stole into the night, wrapping their months-old daughter in warmth and keeping off well-trodden paths. They reached as far as seven villages away before the sheikh’s men caught them and forced them to return.
They did, and the sheikh promised no retribution.
But the mother knew better. Maybe it was her jinn magic, or maybe it was a new mother’s intuition, but she knew a storm was brewing.
And brew it did.
The sheikh imprisoned the mother’s family, leaving her alone with just her child and her child’s father. And then the sheikh turned on the mother.
Her child could be weaned, he said. What need for a mother was there? He knew he couldn’t kill her, for his son would slay any who harmed her. But she was Hakawati, the last one, for he had imprisoned the one before her, and he knew her work was important. Instead of killing her, he imprisoned her. He used not metal, but wood, to keep her bound to the trees, to the cabin in the woods.
The mother could not leave the cabin, not three steps from it. Not at first. But as she grew into her jinn powers, she could go another step further each day, until weeks passed and she could step into the forest to gather herbs and mushrooms to feed her family.
Then the sheikh made a mistake: he took the daughter away from her parents and demanded he raise her away from jinn magic.
The parents fought hard to steal their child back, but the sheikh was powerful, with men beside and behind him. None could stand against him and win.
The son said he would die without his child, but the sheikh did not listen. The son demanded the return of his only daughter or he would drink a vial of poisoned herbs and take her with him.
The sheikh did not believe the son. He kept the daughter hidden away. The parents begged and pleaded, but the sheikh would not budge.
The son then forged a plan with his love, the jinn. She could pass the dead along, yes, but she could raise them too, as Hakawati. But, she warned him, she was still new to her powers, and there was no guarantee.
The son argued that there was no guarantee they’d ever get their daughter back, and dire situations called for dire measures.
Together, they planned; they planned he would drink poisoned herbs before the sheikh. He would die, and the jinn would promise to bring back the son to life if the sheikh returned their daughter.
They both knew she would bring him back from the dead even if their daughter was not returned. But they wagered the sheikh would be too distraught to consider that.
And so, they planned and they executed.
But the execution went wrong.
The son drank the poison, and he died, frothing at the mouth and in convulsions, as his father watched. The jinn demanded the return of her daughter—in exchange for bringing the son’s life back.
The sheikh acquiesced, and the babe was returned to her mother’s arms. The jinn, though she was powerful, was too green in her magic. She could not bring the body back, but she could hold the soul in death, to keep it from passing on to Jahannam, the realm of eternal suffering.
At first, the son visited the sheikh, spending scarce minutes a few mornings of the week with his father. But as time passed, he grew angry at the man who had raised him, who had taken his love’s freedom and his daughter from him.
The sheikh begged the jinn to bring his son back to him, even if just for a minute each week. But the son refused, and the sheikh grew bitter. He regretted not killing the jinn, but knew he couldn’t dare, not with the babe still young and his son still angry.
And so, he left them on their own in the little cabin in the woods with a half-jinn for a granddaughter and a dead son who refused to forgive him.
Layala doesn’t say a word for a good minute. But when I touch her face, it is hot and wet.
“Layl,” I say. “Layl. It’s just a story.”
“But it’s your story. Our story.”
“Everyone’s life is a story, Layl.”
“But this one is cruel. And it’s because of jido.”
“No, Layl. Your grandfather, he’s … in pain. I think he’s always been since your tita, your grandmother, died. And people in pain either grow bigger hearts to bring more love in to replace the pain, or their hearts shrink to protect themselves from more pain.” I don’t tell her that I’d have slit his throat years ago given the chance, to prevent the murder and imprisonment of my kind. But I didn’t; for love of her father, I didn’t. And I regret it every day. The only thing stilling my hand now is her.
“I think jido’s heart shrunk. I’m not even sure he has a heart.”
“Oh, Layl,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “You are his heart. And don’t forget that. Don’t turn yourself away from him because you’re angry at something that happened in the past. Keep your heart open to him; he needs you.”
“How are you not angry at him?”
“I am, Layl. But what good is that anger when I have you to think about?”
“What do you mean?” Her tone is airy like a cloud and, in that moment, I envy her youthful ignorance.
“You, Layl, you are my moon, my sun, the earth at my feet, the sky above my head, the air in my lungs. If I hurt your grandfather, I hurt you. And I could never do that.”
“But—”
“Shh,” I say, and rest a finger against her lips. “I am angry, yes. I hate him, yes. But anger and hate consume the one who carries them, not the one they’re meant for. Remember that, Layl, and carry it to your grave.”
Layala sniffles, but then nods against my chest. “You’re right, maman.”
“It’s been a long time since I heard you say that, kushtbani.”
She snorts, rolls her eyes, then snuggles in against my side, even as we walk. “I promise I won’t make it a habit.”