The Sand Fish by Maha Gargash Page B

children’s voices earlier,” she said, nodding west. “It came from the other side of that mountain.”
    Her brother cranked his head this way and that, trying to get his bearings. “I think we are right by Nassayem. You see, it makes sense.” He drew the direction vaguely in the air with his arm. “We continued through the wadi and then took a shortcut when we climbed this mountain.”
    Before he could continue, Noora pointed up. Once again, they’d been spotted by children.

9
    T he boys of Nassayem were pretending to be an army. Their mission was to escort Noora and Sager safely along the slant that led to the edge of the village.
    “Avoid that bush; it’s full of snakes,” ordered the leader, a spindly limbed boy with generous lips, taller than the rest. The group, now following him in single file, walked around it, careful not to touch the unruly tips.
    “That’s Faraj Al-Mugami,” Sager whispered to his sister. “He’s Sheikh Khaled’s youngest son.”
    Noora nodded and tugged the donkey along. “I guess that’s why he’s barking his commands like the chief of a warring tribe.”
    Faraj gave his next command. “This way, this way, not too close to that big rock. If it tumbles down, we’ll get crushed under it.”
    No sooner had they avoided the ominous curved arm of rock that jutted over them than Faraj stopped. His fleshy lips parted. “Look,” he said, pointing down the valley. “There she is—the witch.” He lifted his arms and the boys took cover, crouching behind what stones they could find. “And what are you two waiting for?” Faraj hissed, signaling to Noora and Sager. “Take cover before she sees you.”
    “Now this is too much,” Sager grumbled, though he let Noora pull him behind an ocher slab of stone. She kept hold of the donkey’s reins so that the animal didn’t wander off. Then they watched.
    Of course, the witch was Zobaida, a black-clad bundle hobbling up a distant hill. Perched on top of the hill was her hut, looking friendless under two dried-up palm trees.
    “When are we going to see her?” Noora asked.
    “As soon as this stupid game is finished,” Sager said.
    Noora yawned and let her gaze drift to the boys’ peering faces. What a mixture of sorts they were. Her father was never impressed with Nassayem’s people. He called them “bastards, untrue to their origins.” They were made up of sailors from distant ports and towns who had stayed behind, dwellers of the nearby hills, and mountain men who preferred to stay close to the opportunities the sea brought. With the years, they married each other, and now the population was a concoction of many races and colors: black, brown, olive, and white faces with straight, wavy, and frizzy crowns. Nassayem accepted them all, but her father would not. He always told her that when tribes mixed, they got mixed up. They lost their goodness and purity.
    “What do you want with her?” Sager called to the boys, as Faraj signaled the boys to rise from their hiding places. “She’s just the same as us.”
    “That’s what you think,” squeaked a mousy-haired lad. “She talks to invisible people all the time.”
    “Yeah,” added a pink-cheeked boy. “And she has got smelly things in her house.”
    “Not only that,” Faraj said, his voice beaming with knowledge. “She turned her son into a dog.”
    Noora rolled her eyes with exaggerated surprise. “A dog?” The waves of the sea certainly lapped a strong imagination into their minds. She was about to laugh when she noticed Faraj’s bottom lip flip to his jaw in a scowl.
    “That son! From outside he looks like a person but inside he’s really a dog. She even took away his tongue.”
    Finally, Noora laughed. “Oh, a dog that can’t speak or bark.”
    Now the inside of Faraj’s mouth bloomed into a gleaming hoop. “Laugh if you want,” he said, “but we’ve watched her. She’s the master; he’s the dog.”
    “Dur-Mamad the dog!” the pink-cheeked boy