The Serpent's Daughter (5 page)

The twenty-eight-mile road to Azilah was in surprisingly good condition, the French doing their level best to bring order into Morocco, beginning with its coastal cities. Madame Laferriere’s Panhard Sport was another matter. The machine had once been a thing of beauty, with gleaming black hood and cedar side panels. Now rips ran the length of the convertible top, the split leather seats belched out stuffing, and the cedar was cracked. The infernal thing rode low in the rear, probably, Jade thought, due to a worn-out suspension. She may have been the best mechanic in her ambulence unit during the war, but she’d be blasted if she’d stop and work on this woman’s car now. Instead, she gave it the gas and sped on to Azilah.

Other than a nearly constant view of the Atlantic to her right and an occasional Moroccan on a donkey in front of her, the trip had little to recommend itself. It didn’t matter. Jade’s single focus was her mother. Inez was proper to a fault, often domineering, always aggravating, yet Jade loved her and, despite their clash of personalities, respected her.

Mother would have assembled the entire valley if I were missing
. In fact, Jade recalled, she did once. Jade had been only six then, and her father was away selling livestock. Before he left, he took his family to the high pasture where they’d camped under the stars. Jade’s mother, suitably attired in a full, overlapping wrap skirt of her own design, rode astride without exposing any improper limbs. Even up in the mountains her mother reigned over the campfire with as much dignity and grace as she did the household. Two weeks later, Jade, bored with life at the house, decided to have her own camping adventure. She just didn’t bother to tell anyone else. Two days later she woke to thirty-seven assorted ranchers and hired hands approaching on horseback. Her mother sat at the head of the column like some warrior queen. Once they got home, her mother thanked everyone for their help, offered them refreshments, said good-bye to each personally, then proceeded to “explain” to Jade in the woodshed what she’d done wrong. Jade couldn’t sit a horse again for a week.

Jade spied the ancient stone walls of Azilah and headed for them, wondering where to look for the tunnels. She had had only two months of intensive study with an Arabic-speaking shopkeeper before leaving Nairobi, only to discover that the Arabic spoken here had strong Berber influences. Still she decided to attempt her rudimentary Arabic and ask directions of a ragged-looking man and a boy leading a donkey ahead of her. Judging by their knee-length white tunics, partially shaven heads and lock of hair behind an ear, they were Berbers. She hoped they also spoke Arabic. As she drove closer, her car suddenly lurched, the back end rebounding and slamming down again.
Blasted hole. Didn’t see that one.

“S-salamū alekum,
peace be upon you,” she greeted as they turned to see what had caused such a commotion. “I’m looking for …”
Oh, tarnation. What’s the word for “tunnels”?
She tried the word for “holes,” then, getting no response, said “
Jinn
,” hoping they’d point the way to the nearest haunted location. Hopefully, it would be the tunnels.

The boy’s black eyes widened and the man scowled. He covered his son’s eyes with one hand and held up a small silver charm shaped like an eye around his neck with the other. Then after muttering something, he turned and headed for the nearest gate, driving the donkey and the boy in front of him.

Well, that didn’t go well
. Had the man covered the boy’s eyes because she was an unveiled woman? Then she remembered that Berber women didn’t wear a veil. Was he afraid she would give his son the evil eye? Perhaps he held up that charm for protection. She turned at the sound of approaching footsteps behind her. The man’s lone lock of hair, knitted white skullcap and his shortened
djellaba
labeled him as another Berber. He wore a black-and-white striped robe over his dirty white
djellaba
. Judging by his black beard, he was relatively young, perhaps in his thirties.
“S-salamū alekum,”
Jade said.

The man returned the greeting.
“Wa alaykum s-salam.”

This time Jade decided to avoid the dreaded invocation of
jinn,
flipped through an Arabic phrase book she’d pulled from her bag, and tried for a combination of “ground” and “holes” instead. The man smiled.
Probably just asked him where the toilet is.
“Parlez-vous Français?” she tried.

He held out a hand, index finger and thumb close together and said,
“Petit.”

A little French, thought Jade.
Now we’re making progress.
She kept her French very simple and asked him how to find the tunnels.

“You look for where the night people live?” asked the Berber man in moderately good French.

Jade assumed that “night people” was a euphemism for
jinni
and nodded.

The man motioned for her to follow him. She parked the car against the stone wall in an angled recess where the wall jutted out near a set of stone steps, grabbed her canvas bag and followed. Jade noticed the diamond-shaped symbol woven in red and brown on the back of his hooded robe. He led her along the towering wall towards a city gate protected by a round, crenelated tower left from the Portuguese occupation nearly four hundred years ago.

“Through here,” he said, then passed inside. Jade followed. Azilah did not wear its age as gracefully as did Tangier. Inside the fortress walls stood tightly clustered houses made primarily of
pisé
, a dried mud similar to adobe. Most were crumbling. All wore a peeling coat of whitewashed plaster. The high walls blocked the early evening sun and painted the interior in darkness, relieved only by the occasional glow from a second-floor window. As in Tangier, the narrow alleyways zigzagged without any discernable pattern until Jade could tell direction only by the muted sounds of the ocean surf to her back.

Jade stopped, her eyes darting back and forth in the gloom, watchful for any sudden shifting of muted shadows. She listened for the telltale sounds of an ambush: the soft brush of a body against the wall, and the deep intake of breath. A rat braved the town’s feline population and scuttled past her boot. Above her, a stork settled in on the adjoining rooftop.
Nothing
. Most importantly, Jade’s left knee didn’t ache, and while she didn’t want to admit that it was able to predict imminent danger, she had to admit the connection went beyond coincidence. Somewhere close by, one of the Moroccan owls known as the Little Owl sounded its questioning
kee-uhk
. Her guide turned back to her and motioned her on. She followed.

At the backside of the city, the houses abutted the wall, or perhaps considering the age of some of the dwellings, formed the wall. The Berber paused to collect his bearings, then led Jade to an ancient wooden doorway, partially broken, tucked into a narrow recess. A stylized black hand, fingers touching and pointing down, marked the door. Inside the hand was a red diamond shape. Remnants of stonework indicated that this had once been an interior doorway, the surrounding structure long gone. None of the nearby dwellings showed signs of habitation or other use. Clearly people shunned this area. Even the local cats avoided it. Her guide nodded towards the door.

“Inside?” asked Jade in French. The man nodded again. She pointed to the man’s chest. “Will you come, too?” This time he shook his head and stepped back a pace.

“The people who shun salt and iron live inside,” he said.

The man feared the spirits he believed dwelled within. Well, spirits or no, Jade needed to find her mother, and if she was still inside, Jade meant to go in after her. She removed her portable flashlight from the bag and switched it on.

The dirt by the door showed signs from where the door had been dragged open over it. Footprints overrode some of the drag marks. The question was, How recently were they made? In this alcove the air smelled stale, as though it didn’t circulate often. There probably wasn’t enough wind then to blow the sandy dirt, which meant the door could have been opened today or last month. She squatted down and tried to sort through the number of footprints but couldn’t make out anything clearly. Rising, she tugged on the door and forced it open.

Her guide tapped her shoulder. When she turned, he pressed a chunk of iron into her hands, the remains of a worn knife. “It has
baraka,
” he said.

Jade had read about
baraka,
a term for the holiness attached to certain objects, people, or deeds. It seemed to be fragile, easily lost by doing something harmful. Jade acknowledged his gift with a nod, then stepped into a wall of stale air, redolent of decay and earth. A hint of ammonia wafted past her, an indication of stale urine. Startled by the door’s noise and the sound of her footsteps, a family of mice scurried past. Jade caught a brief flashing of some object in one mouse’s mouth. Packrats of some sort, she thought, and paid no more attention. She scented dampness in the air, perhaps moist sea air collected and held in the stone and earthen walls. Once more she turned her head to silently question her guide. He stood pressed against the opposite wall of abandoned dwellings, as far from the doorway as possible, his right hand raised in front of his face, fingers splayed in some sign to ward off evil. His left hand held a piece of iron.

“Wait there,” she said in French, then added, “please.”

Her flashlight played across the floor and the stucco walls, but did little to penetrate the gloom beyond. She walked slowly, pausing every ten steps to listen and to sweep the floor with her flashlight beam. Someone had walked in here, but how long ago was still unclear. She stooped and examined the prints, hoping to find something indicating her mother. Then it hit her. She had no idea what type of shoe or boot her mother had on. There was certainly a print here that looked small enough to belong to her.

“Mother,” she called into the black recesses. Her voice echoed off the walls and disturbed a few bats hanging near the entrance. They fluttered past, their wings brushing against her hair.
Probably just woke up some jinni
. She wondered if they’d frighten her guide into vacating his post. Jade decided she’d follow these footprints as far as she could before heading back. If she didn’t find her mother soon, she’d return to Tangier and demand help from the American Consulate.

The tunnel led straight back for fifty yards before it turned left and angled down. Stone walls replaced the stucco as she descended beneath the floor of the present city. The air smelled dank with mold, the walls moist and green. It turned cooler as she continued, like entering into a cave. The tunnel took a sharp right down a flight of worn stone steps, their surface polished by countless feet. Another right, and Jade knew she was heading back under the city.

A new odor tickled her nostrils, a human smell. She sniffed, testing the air. She detected stale perspiration and something else; something cloying, reminiscent of a meat market.
Blood.
She hastened forward and saw that the tunnel forked ahead. In her haste, she nearly tripped over the body.

There, at her feet, lay a Moroccan on his right side, a knife in his back. His length spanned the width of the tunnel, his left arm pointing to the right fork.

CHAPTER 3

The Atlantic coastline bears witness to the multitudes of cultures that have laid
claim to Morocco at one time or another. Portuguese fortresses sit on top of Roman
foundations, which sit on top of Phoenician storage cellars. Most of the underground
levels have been filled in or forgotten by everyone except the
jinni
. The ones
who shun iron and salt seem to favor caves, ruins, and dirt, rather like children.

—The Traveler

A STRONG SENSE OF SELF-PRESERVATION, honed by Jade’s service driving an ambulance at the front lines during the Great War, quickly replaced her initial shock and disbelief. She instantly crouched against the wall and switched off her light. If the murderer lurked nearby, she didn’t need to present herself as the next target. After several uneventful minutes, she risked turning her light back on and scrambled over to the body.

Jade put her fingers to the man’s neck below the jawline.
No pulse
. His gray, waxy face verified what she already knew.
Definitely dead
. The right side of his face had turned a purplish red where the blood pooled after death. The blood from the knife wound spread down, a macabre blossoming in his otherwise white robe. She turned her attention to the knife, or at least the hilt, since most of the blade was deep in the man’s back. The intricate filigree design on the hilt looked Arabic and continued up into the fan-shaped end. The empty scabbard tucked into the man’s waistband hinted that this was his own weapon.

She tried to move his left arm, the one pointing into the tunnel. It moved, but reluctantly.
So he’s been dead for only a few hours, maybe three or four.
Surely, she thought, he didn’t land in this position. Someone must have placed his arm that way to leave a message, and they did it not long after killing him. These tunnels weren’t the most popular tourist spot, but someone counted on the body being found and wanted the discoverer to go farther into the right tunnels.
Is Mother in there? Is it a trap?

She tiptoed eight paces to the fork, stood with her back to the left branch, and played her light along the floor of the right one. A slight breeze wafted over her face as another bat fluttered past her on its nocturnal flight. Jade opened her mouth to call once more for her mother when she heard voices murmuring from deep within. She cocked her head to hear better. They came from the left tunnel, and one voice belonged to a woman. Jade pivoted and entered the left branch.

Jade tugged her handkerchief from her skirt pocket and covered the flashlight to dull the beam. She could still see, but with less risk of being seen. Then she tiptoed along the narrowing passageway. Again the echo of a woman’s commanding voice, followed by whispered murmurs.
Not Mother’s voice
. This one was higher in pitch, although maybe the tunnel’s acoustics played with it.