APEX MAGAZINE

Issue 18

November, 2010

COPYRIGHTS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“The Green Book” Copyright 2010 by Amal El-Mohtar

“50 Fatwas for the Virtuous Vampire” Copyright 2010 by Pamela K. Taylor

“The Faithful Soldier, Prompted” Copyright 2010 by Saladin Ahmed

“Me and Rumi’s Ghost” Copyright 2010 by Samer Rabadi

“Tur Disaala” Copyright 2010 by Abdul Jawad Elhusuni

“Al Manara Dirge” Copyright 2010 by Sara Saab

“Kamer-taj, the Moon-horse” from Forty-four Turkish Fairy Tales collected by Dr. Ignácz Kúnos, 1913

Publisher—Jason Sizemore

Fiction Editor—Catherynne M. Valente

Senior Editor—Gill Ainsworth

Submission Editors—Zakarya Anwar, Ferrett Steinmetz, Martel Sardina, Chris Einhaus, Mari Adkins, George Galuschak, Deanna Knippling, Laura Long, Sarah Olson, Tommy Delk, Lillian Cohen-Moore, Patrick Tomlinson, Katherine Khorey

Cover designed by Justin Stewart

Cover art by Edmund Dulac

ISSN: 2157-1406

Apex Publications

PO Box 24323

Lexington, KY 40524

Please visit us at http://www.apexbookcompany.com

Submission Guidelines are listed at the end of the issue.

Table of Contents

Short Fiction

—§—

“The Green Book”

by Amal El-Mohtar

“50 Fatwas for the Virtuous Vampire”

by Pamela K. Taylor

“The Faithful Soldier, Prompted”

by Saladin Ahmed

“Kamer-taj, the Moon-horse”

from Forty-four Turkish Fairy Tales collected by Dr. Ignácz Kúnos

Poetry

—§—

“Me and Rumi’s Ghost”

by Samer Rabadi

“Tur Disaala”

by Jawad Elhusuni

“Al Manara Dirge”

by Sara Saab

—§—

Submission Guidelines

The Green Book

byAmal El-Mohtar

MS. Orre. 1013A Miscellany of materials copied from within Master Leuwin Orrerel’s (d. Lady Year 673, Bright Be the Edges) library by Dominic Merrowin (d. Lady Year 673, Bright Be the Edges). Contains Acts I and II of Aster’s The Golden Boy’s Last Ship, Act III scene I of The Rose Petal, and the entirety of The Blasted Oak. Incomplete copy of item titled only THE GREEN BOOK, authorship multiple and uncertain. Notable for extensive personal note by Merrowin, intended as correspondence with unknown recipient, detailing evidence of personal connection between Orrerel and the Sisterhood of Knives. Many leaves regrettably lost, especially within text of THE GREEN BOOK: evidence of discussion of Lady Year religious and occult philosophies, traditions in the musical education of second daughters, and complex reception of Aster’s poetry, all decayed beyond recovery. Markers placed at sites of likely omission.

My dear friend,

I am copying this out while I can. Leuwin is away, has left me in charge of the library. He has been doing that more and more, lately–errands for the Sisterhood, he says, but I know it’s mostly his own mad research. Now I know why.

His mind is disturbed. Twelve years of teaching me, and he never once denied me the reading of any book, but this–this thing has hold of him, I am certain plays with him. I thought it was his journal, at first; he used to write in it so often, closet himself with it for hours, and it seemed to bring him joy. Now I feel there is something fell and chanty about it, and beg your opinion of the whole, that we may work together to Leuwin’s salvation.

The book I am copying out is small–only four inches by five. It is a vivid green, quite exactly the color of sunlight through the oak leaves in the arbor, and just as mottled; its cover is pulp wrapped in paper, and its pages are thick with needle-thorn and something that smells of thyme.

There are six different hands in evidence. The first, the invocation, is archaic: large block letters with hardly any ornamentation. I place it during Journey Year 200-250, Long Did It Wind, and it is written almost in green paste: I observe a grainy texture to the letters, though I dare not touch them. Sometimes the green of them is obscured by rust-brown stains that I suppose to be blood, given the circumstances that produced the second hand.

The second hand is modern, as are the rest, though they vary significantly from each other.

The second hand shows evidence of fluency, practice, and ease in writing, though the context was no doubt grim. It is written in heavy charcoal, and is much faded, but still legible.

The third hand is a child’s uncertain wobbling, where the letters are large and uneven; it is written in fine ink with a heavy implement. I find myself wondering if it was a knife.

The fourth is smooth, an agony of right-slanted whorls and loops, a gallows-cursive that nooses my throat with the thought of who must have written it.

The fifth hand is very similar to the second. It is dramatically improved, but there is no question that it was produced by the same individual, who claims to be named Cynthia. It is written in ink rather than charcoal–but the ink is strange. There is no trace of nib or quill in the letters. It is as if they welled up from within the page.

The sixth hand is Leuwin’s.

I am trying to copy them as exactly as possible, and am bracketing my own additions.

Go in Gold,

Dominic Merrowin

[First Hand: invocation]

Hail!

To the Mistress of Crossroads, [blood stain to far right]

The Fetch in the Forest

The Witch of the Glen

The Hue and Cry of mortal men

Winsome and lissom and Fey!

Hail to the [blood stain obscuring] Mother of Changelings

of doubled paths and trebled means

of troubled dreams and salt and ash

Hail!

[Second Hand: charcoal smudging, two pages; dampened and stained]

Cold in here–death and shadows–funny there should be a book! the universe provides for last will and testament! [illegible]

[illegible] I cannot write, mustn’t [illegible] they’re coming I hear them they’ll hear scratching[illegible] knives to tickle my throat oh please

They say they’re kind. I think that’s what we tell ourselves to be less afraid because how could anyone know? Do [blood stain] the dead speak?

Do the tongues blackening around their necks sing?

Why do I write? Save me, please, save me, stone and ivy and bone I want to live I want to breathe they have no right [illegible]

[Third Hand: block capitals. Implement uncertain–possibly a knife, ink-tipped.]

WHAT A BEAUTIFUL BOOK THIS IS. I WONDER WHERE SHE FOUND IT. I COULD WRITE POEMS IN IT. THIS PAPER IS SO THICK, SO CREAMY, IT PUTS ME IN MIND OF THE BONES IN THE IVY. HER BONES WERE LOVELY! I CANNOT WAIT TO SEE HOW THEY WILL SPROUT IN IT–I KEPT HER ZYGOMATIC BONE, BUT HER LACRIMAL BITS WILL MAKE SUCH PRETTY PATTERNS IN THE LEAVES!

I COULD ALMOST FEEL THAT ANY TRACE OF INK AGAINST THIS PAPER WOULD BE A POEM, WOULD COMFORT MY LACK OF SKILL.

I MUST SHOW MY SISTERS. I WISH I HAD MORE OF THIS PAPER TO GIVE THEM. WE COULD WRITE EACH OTHER SUCH SECRETS AS ONLY BONES GROUND INTO PULPY PAPER COULD KNOW. OR I WOULD WRITE OF HOW BEAUTIFUL ARE SISTER-GREEN’S EYES, HOW SHY ARE SISTER-SALT’S LIPS, HOW GOLDEN SISTER-BELL’S LAUGH

[Fourth Hand: cursive, right-slanted; high quality ink, smooth and fine]

Strange, how it will not burn, how its pages won’t tear. Strange that there is such pleasure in streaking ink along the cream of it; this paper makes me want to touch my lips. Pretty thing, you have been tricksy, tempting my little Sisters into spilling secrets.

There is strong magic here. Perhaps Master Leuwin in his tower would appreciate such a curiosity. Strange that I write in it, then–strange magic. Leuwin, you have my leave to laugh when you read this. Perhaps you will write to me anon of its history before that unfortunate girl and my wayward Sister scribbled in it.

That is, if I send it to you. Its charm is powerful–I may wish to study it further, see if we mightn’t steep it in elderflower wine and discover what tincture results.

[Fifth Hand: ink is strange; no evidence of implement; style resembles Second Hand very closely]

Hello?

Where am I?

Please, someone speak to me

Oh

Oh no

[Sixth Hand: Master Leuwin Orrerel]

I will speak to you. Hello.

I think I see what happened, and I see that you see. I am sorry for you. But I think it would be best if you tried to sleep. I will shut the green over the black and you must think of sinking into sweetness, think of dreaming to fly. Think of echoes, and songs. Think of fragrant tea and the stars. No one can harm you now, little one. I will hide you between two great leather tomes–

[Fifth Hand–alternating with Leuwin’s hereafter]

Do you know Lady Aster?

Yes, of course.

Could you put me next to her, please? I love her plays.

I always preferred her poetry.

Her plays ARE poetry!

Of course, you’re right. Next to her, then. What is your name?

Cynthia.

I am Master Leuwin.

I know. It’s very kind of you to talk to me.

You’re–[ink blot] forgive the ink blot, please. Does that hurt?

No more than poor penmanship ever does.

Leuwin?are you there?

Yes. What can I do for you?

Speak to me, a little. Do you live alone?

Yes–well, except for Dominic, my student and apprentice. It is my intention to leave him this library one day–it is a library, you see, in a tower on a small hill, seven miles from the city of Leech–do you know it?

No. I’ve heard of it, though. Vicious monarchy, I heard.

I do not concern myself overmuch with politics. I keep records, that is all.

How lucky for you, to not have to concern yourself with politics. Records of what?

Everything I can. Knowledge. Learning. Curiosities. History and philosophy. Scientific advances, musical compositions and theory–some things I seek out, most are given to me by people who would have a thing preserved.

How ironic.

...Yes. Yes, I suppose it is, in your case.

[[DECAY, SEVERAL LEAVES LOST]]

Were you very beautiful, as a woman?

What woman would answer no, in my position?

An honest one.

I doubt I could have appeared more beautiful to you as a woman than as a book.

...Too honest.

[[DECAY, SEVERAL LEAVES LOST]]

What else is in your library?

Easier to ask what isn’t! I am in pursuit of a book inlaid with mirrors–the text is so potent that it was written in reverse, and can only be read in reflection to prevent unwelcome effects.

Fascinating. Who wrote it?

I have a theory it was commissioned by a disgruntled professor, with a pun on “reflection” designed to shame his students into closer analyses of texts.

Hah! I hope that’s the case. What else?

Oh, there is a history of the Elephant War written by a captain on the losing side, a codex from the Chrysanthemum Year (Bold Did it Bloom) about the seven uses of bone that the Sisterhood would like me to find, and–

Cynthia I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.

No matter. It isn’t as if I’ve forgotten how I came to you in the first place, though you seem to quite frequently.

Why

Think VERY carefully about whether you want to ask this question, Leuwin.

Why did they kill you? ...How did they?

Forbidden questions from their pet librarian? The world does turn. do you really want to know?

Yes.

So do I. perhaps you could ask them for me.

[[DECAY, SEVERAL LEAVES LOST]]

If I could find a way to get you out...

You and your ellipses. Was that supposed to be a question?

I might make it a quest.

I am dead, Leuwin. I have no body but this.

You have a voice. A mind.

I am a voice, a mind. I have nothing else.

Cynthia... What happens when we reach the end of this? When we run out of pages?

Endings do not differ overmuch from each other, I expect. Happy or sad, they are still endings.

Your ending had a rather surprising sequel.

True. Though I see it more as intermission–an interminable intermission, during which the actors have wandered home to get drunk.

[[DECAY, SEVERAL LEAVES LOST]]

Cynthia, I think I love you.

Cynthia?

Why don’t you answer me?

Please, speak to me.

I’m tired, Leuwin.

I love you.

You love ink on a page. You don’t lack for that here.

I love you.

Only because I speak to you.Only because no one but you reads these words. Only because I am the only book to be written to you, for you. Only because I allow you, in this small way, to be a book yourself.

I love you.

Stop.

Don’t you love me?

Cynthia.

You can’t lie, can you?

You can’t lie, so you refuse to speak the truth.

I hate you.

Because you love me.

I hate you. Leave me alone.

I will write out Lady Aster’s plays for you to read. I will write you her poetry. I will fill this with all that is beautiful in the world, for you, that you might live it.

Leuwin.no.

I will stop a few pages from the end, and you can read it over and over again, all the loveliest things...

Leuwin.no.

But I

STOP. I WANT TO LIVE. I WANT TO HOLD YOU AND FUCK YOU AND MAKE YOU TEA AND READ YOU PLAYS. I WANT YOU TO TOUCH MY CHEEK AND MY HAIR AND LOOK ME IN THE EYES WHEN YOU SAY YOU LOVE ME. I WANT TO LIVE!

And you, you want a woman in a book. You want to tremble over my binding and ruffle my pages and spill ink into me. No, I can’t lie. Only the living can lie. I am dead. I am dead trees and dead horses boiled to glue. I hate you. Leave me alone.

[FINIS. Several blank pages remain]

You see he is mad.

I know he is looking for ways to extricate her from the book. I fear for him, in so deep with the Sisters–I fear for what he will ask them–

Sweet Stars, there’s more. I see it appearing as I write this–unnatural, chanty thing! I shall not reply. I must not reply, lest I fall into her trap as he did! But I will write this for you–I am committed to completeness.

Following immediately after the last, then:

Dominic, why are you doing this?

You won’t answer me? Fair enough.

I can feel when I am being read, Dominic. It’s a beautiful feeling, in some ways–have you ever felt beautiful? sometimes I think only people who are not beautiful can feel so, can feel the shape of the exception settling on them like a mantle, like a morning mist.

Being read is like feeling beautiful, knowing your hair to be just-so and your clothing to be well-put-together and your color to be high and bright, and to feel, in the moment of beauty, that you are being observed.

The world shifts. You pretend not to see that you are being admired, desired. You think about whether or not to play the game of glances, and you smile to yourself, and you know the person has seen your smile, and it was beautiful, too. Slowly, you become aware of how they see you, and without looking, quite, you know that they are playing the game too, that they imagine you seeing them as beautiful, and it is a splendid game, truly.

Leuwin reads me quite often, without saying anything further to me. I ache when he does, to answer, to speak, but ours is a silence I cannot be the one to break. So he reads, and I am read, and this is all our love now.

I feel this troubles you. I do not feel particularly beautiful when you read me, Dominic. But I know it is happening.

Will you truly not answer? Only write me down into your own little book? Oh, Dominic. And you think you will run away? Find him help? You’re sweet enough to rot teeth.

You know, I always wanted someone to write me poetry.

If I weren’t dead, the irony would kill me.

I wonder who the Mistress of the Crossroads was. Hello, I suppose, if you ever read this–if Dominic ever shares.

I am going to try and sleep. Sorry my handwriting isn’t prettier. I never really was myself.

I suppose Leuwin must have guessed, at some point. Just as he would have guessed you’d disobey him eventually. I am sorry he will find out about both, now. It isn’t as if I can cross things out. No doubt he will be terribly angry. No doubt the Sisters will find out you know something more of them than they would permit, as I did.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt sorry for someone who wasn’t Leuwin, but I do feel sorry for you.

Good night.

That is all. Nothing else appears. Please, you must help him. I don’t know what to do. I cannot destroy the book–I cannot hide it from him, he seeks it every hour he is here—

I shall write more to you anon. He returns. I hear his feet upon the stair.

Bio

Amal El-Mohtar is a Canadian-born child of the Mediterranean, currently pursuing a PhD in English literature at the Cornwall campus of the University of Exeter. She is the author of The Honey Month, a collection of poetry and prose written to the taste of 28 different kinds of honey, and the winner of the 2009 Rhysling Award for Best Short Poem. Her work has appeared in many print and online venues, including Weird Tales, Strange Horizons, Stone Telling, Ideomancer, and Mythic Delirium. She also co-edits Goblin Fruit, an online quarterly dedicated to fantastical poetry, with Jessica P. Wick. Find her online at Voices on the Midnight Air.

THE APEX BOOK OF WORLD SF

Edited by Lavie Tidhar

The world of speculative fiction is expansive; it covers more than one country, one continent, one culture. Collected here are sixteen stories penned by authors from Thailand, the Philippines, China, Israel, Pakistan, Serbia, Croatia, Malaysia, and other countries across the globe. Each one tells a tale breathtakingly vast and varied, whether caught in the ghosts of the past or entangled in a postmodern age.

Featuring: S.P. Somtow, Jetse de Vries, Guy Hasson, Han Song, Kaaron Warren, Yang Ping, Dean Francis Alfar, Nir Yaniv, Jamil Nasir, Tunku Halim, Aliette de Bodard, Kristin Mandigma, Aleksander Ziljak, Anik Menon, and Melanie Fazi.

Available in ePub/mobi/PDF formats from http://www.apexbookcompany.com/the-apex-book-of-world-sf-ebook-pdf-epub

Also available from the Amazon Kindle and BN nook eBook stores.

50 Fatwas for the Virtuous Vampire

By Pamela K. Taylor

SheikhaYasmin al-Binawi writes in the first chapter of her book, Culinary Etiquette for the Islamic Undead, “It is commonly believed among the living that the Qur’an forbids all Muslims from eating blood. What the Qur’an actually says, is ‘He has forbidden to you only carrion, and blood, and the flesh of swine, and that over which any name other than God’s has been invoked; but if one is driven by necessity–neither coveting it nor exceeding his immediate need–no sin shall be upon him: for, behold, God is much-forgiving, a dispenser of grace.’ (Chapter 2, The Cow, verse 173) Clearly, as the vampire requires blood for survival, it is completely permissible for him to consume his natural food, so long as he does not become gluttonous, gorging himself and going to extremes. God is indeed most Gracious, His Favor upon us Most Complete!”

The woman smelled good–very, very good. Ibrahim trailed her scent through the Suq al’Ala, following her fragrance amid the stench of vendors who had been standing in the hot sun since dawn, the stink of rotting vegetables, the pungent odors of coriander and cinnamon hanging above tables of stacked apples and lemons, the fumes of oil and gas from passing cars, the musk of donkeys and camels and fowl destined to be dinner.

Ibrahim paused at a stall of watermelons, catching a whiff of perfume. It was late, and the woman was hurrying, leaving only the faintest of traces as she passed through the market. She was, he surmised, looking for merchants who had begun packing up their wares for the night, trying to get a good bargain, hoping to stretch her few guineas into a full meal for her family. His pulse quickened, agitated by the challenge of tracking her amid the riot of odors.

The adhan for sunset prayers rang out from a dozen mosques, echoing down the narrow alleys of Cairo, and a collective sigh seemed to go up from the suq. Evening was falling; soon it would be time to rest. The streets began filling with men hurrying to worship, a press of white thobes, sheesha smoke, and cologned mustaches. A cripple hobbled by, seeking alms, swinging a hazy censor of myrrh. For a moment, he lost her scent in the onslaught, and Ibrahim thought that he should let her go anyway. He knew better than to track such a woman. There were plenty of easier marks, and plenty more suitable. He could smell half a dozen men who would not trouble his conscience afterwards.

But, as he turned to follow the men, he caught a waft of her scent again. His nostrils flared, and his mouth watered at the thought of her taste. She didn’t just smell good, he knew. She was good. The good always smelled–and tasted–the best, their blood sweetened by devotion, by kindness and patience and pure intentions. He wavered for a moment, and then turned to follow her. He simply couldn’t resist, despite his better intentions.

He caught up with her near the edge of the suq. She had paused to purchase flat bread from a skinny, browned boy. He fell in behind her as she hastened down darkening alleys toward her home, picking up the hem of her abaya so she could lengthen her steps. He could have taken her any time he wanted. But he waited. He didn’t want to deprive her family of their food. And he knew that she’d come out of her house after dinner, if for nothing more than to throw the dirty dishwater in the street.

Besides, Ibrahim preferred not to pounce on his meals the moment he found them. It made him feel more virtuous, more devout, if he waited. If he was patient, he was able to feel that just maybe he had complied with God’s command not to covet his food.

In the introduction to The Rules and Regulations of Halal Harvesting’ Sheikha al-Binawi writes, “It would seem ideal for the Muslim vampire to partner with the Islamic Butcher. After all, one of the essential elements of Islamically sound slaughter is the removal of all extractible blood from the carcass. And who better to remove said blood than a vampire upon whom one can rely to fulfill all the other Zabiha obligations! Unfortunately, vampires require human blood. That of chickens, sheep, goats, cattle and other humanly consumable creatures is of little nutritional value to the undead, and, naturally, human meat is completely unsuitable for human consumption. Nonetheless, the virtuous vampire can take much comfort in the knowledge that he has fulfilled his duty to God by taking life in accordance with Divine Law– pronouncing the name of Allah over the intended individual, making the kill quickly and compassionately, and completely draining all blood. Fulfilling the requirements for halal butchery can indeed ease the conscience of the devout vampire who worries that his very constitution propels him to sin!”

The woman’s home was quite literally a hole in the wall of the grand compound where a branch of the Minshawi family lived, and her entire family served. She ducked into the hovel, and Ibrahim took a position across the alley where he could keep watch through the open doorway.

“Look, Safa, Marwa!” she cried out, greeting her children. “Chicken and bread and fresh mulukia!” Her haggling had gone well today, and tonight they would feast.

She turned to her parents and an elderly aunt, kissing them one by one on the cheek and receiving warm hugs in return. She pulled a blanket across the doorway, and Ibrahim lounged against the wall, listening to the rattle of pots as she helped her mother prepare the food, and to the soft rise and fall of her voice as she shared the gossip of the market. When her daughters complained of the spoiled and slovenly children they waited upon, the woman merely laughed, and teased them gently. “If we were as rich as the Minshawis, I dare say you’d be just as lazy as them, bossing around whole troops of servants.”

Ibrahim felt a prick of conscience when he thought about how the woman’s family would feel when they discovered her body. She was clearly the pillar that helped them all survive the deprivations of being poor and Egyptian. He turned to go, but a peal of laughter turned him back. The sound of her happiness was as irresistible as her scent.

In Chapter Three of Ethical Eating: Seven Steps to a Godly Diet’ Sheikha al-Binawi explains, “Selecting the appropriate individual for dining upon can seem quite a daunting prospect. However, the Muslim vampire can take heart, for God does not leave us without guidance. The Qur’an, in a most appropriately titled chapter–The Table Spread–tells us that ‘whoever slays a human being, except for murder or spreading corruption on the earth, it is as though he had killed all of humankind, and whoever saves a life, it is as though they had saved all of mankind.’ Keeping these words firmly in mind, a righteous vampire can not only have his cake but eat it, too! His heart can rest at ease as he dines upon murderers, arsonists, rapists, philanderers and other nasty criminals, knowing that he is not only ridding the Earth of those who would corrupt it, but also saving innocent lives in the process! Truly, we must be deeply grateful for the double blessing the Lord has showered upon the Everliving!”

Ibrahim was beginning to think he’d have to wait all night when the aroma of an overfed woman assailed his nose. If the woman he’d followed was a slice of basboosa, this woman was a bowl of flat beans and dirty rice. She lumbered down the road toward him and stopped in front of the hovel. “Lina,” she bawled, “Sidi Ahmed is calling for you!”

The woman–Lina–came to the door. Her dark eyes glistened in the light of the streetlamps. Her face was pale, and her long hair fell across her bosom in a mass of inky curls. Ibrahim realized that he hadn’t even noticed she was as beautiful as she was good.

“Tell him I have a headache. I worked in the garden all day in the ferocious heat.”

“Three days in a row, Lina! You can’t avoid him forever, you know. Already he is getting impatient. Your reluctance may have seemed charming and coy for a while, but if you don’t go to him soon, your defiance will anger him, and then things will go worse for you.”

Ibrahim stiffened, and so did Lina. She stared at the older woman in silence for a moment, and then choked out, “Just tell him.”

“It’s your hide,” Beans-and-Rice muttered. “Too bad you didn’t remarry after Hamza died.”

“Like that would stop him,” Lina said. “Just like it stopped him with Maha.”

The older woman shrugged, shook her head slowly, and headed back toward the main gate. Lina collapsed against the wall, sobbing. Ibrahim licked his lips slowly. He could solve her problem. One quick bite, a few moments of lightheadedness, and all her worries would come to an end.

If only it weren’t so unjust. Lina wasn’t the one who deserved to die.

Ibrahim grimaced. Sidi Ahmed was sure to smell like a slab of mutton forgotten in the back of the icebox, and to taste like a head of cabbage left too long in the sun. And worse, killing him wouldn’t really solve Lina’s problems. She would be spared the ignominy of an unwarranted beating, of being forced into this man’s bed, but her family would still be poorer than fellaheen. Worse, blame for his death might fall on Lina’s father, or her brother, or herself even, given the conversation with Beans-and-Rice. And then they would all be thrown out on the street or end up in jail. And if not, the man’s son would take over the household, or his wife, and there would be new depredations, or maybe more of the same old ones. He had to admit, no matter what he did, there was no way he could save Lina from the life God had chosen for her.

At least, Ibrahim thought, if he dined on Sidi Ahmed, he could take comfort in the knowledge that he’d ridded the world of one more scumbag. Except…what pleasure could there be in an act that might make the life of an innocent woman even bleaker than it already was?

Ibrahim scowled. He was tired of rancid blood and moral conundrums. He should go back to Israel, to Palestine, where the pious so often veered into extremism. Muslim or Jewish, he didn’t care; both sides were liable to self-righteous fury. If he caught them quickly enough after they turned, they still smelled sweet, and he had no doubt he was preventing murder–a noble end in itself. If only conditions weren’t so grim. It was hard to blame people who lashed out after missiles fell in their backyards or tanks bulldozed their homes.

Sometimes he wished he hadn’t been born with a conscience at all, that his heart didn’t so easily swell with empathy. At least that way he wouldn’t be standing in the dark, utterly ravenous and unable to decide which course of action would cause the least harm.

He should have known better than to follow Lina home. He had long ago promised not to take the good, to cull only society’s dregs. But temptation was strong, and this wasn’t the first time he’d stood outside the home of a good person, unwilling to take an innocent life. Nor was it the first time ethical quandaries had paralyzed him into inaction.

He turned to go. It would take six hours to reach the border of Gaza, six long, hungry hours, but at least he wouldn’t have to face the choice between killing the man and making Lina’s plight all the worse, or taking her life and damning his soul to hell in the process.

His foot scuffled against a loose paving tile, and Lina looked up toward him, her dark eyes wide and frightened.

“Who’s there?” she asked, her voice trembling, barely above a whisper. Her eyes found his in the dark, and she shrank back against the wall, so scared, so vulnerable.

Ibrahim knew he was in trouble. Deep trouble.

Sheikha al-Binawi’s’Until the End of Time, or, What the Qur’an has to Teach the Undying about Living begins with the following words, “Every vampire must come to terms with death. By this, I do not mean the death he causes–although that is a matter for serious moral contemplation–but rather his own death. Immortality, I’m sad to inform you, is not forever. Every human being, even those who have become vampires, will meet his Maker on the Day of Judgment. The wise vampire prepares for this meeting by sending ahead a wealth of good deeds, and by holding back his hand from all the sins that tempt us every day. To do otherwise is to court eternal damnation.”

He couldn’t resist her. So helpless. So defenseless. Her eyes beckoned to him. Her voice. Her skin. Her blood. He wanted her. Wanted to sink his teeth into the softness of her neck, to taste the ferrous syrup of her in his mouth, to drink her down into the very core of his being, mingling her life with his own. And yet, at the same time, every fiber of his being wanted to protect her. To keep her safe, sheltered, at his side. Forever. Free from any harm the world could do her. To destroy and to preserve. The predator and the protector both welled up inside him, instincts grappling for supremacy in the fleeting moment before impulse impelled him forward.

He was at her side in an instant, his mouth upon her throat, his hands on her shoulders holding her against him, his canines piercing through to veins. He drew greedily at the wound. Oh God, she was good! After so many years of fetid blood, she tasted so incredibly good.

The thought pushed through the haze of desire, and Ibrahim jerked away. He mustn’t kill her! She was an innocent, as pure a human as he’d ever met. He stumbled down the street a few steps and leaned against the thick stucco of the compound wall, grasping his hair in his hands and pulling hard, hoping the pain on his scalp, the coolness of the wall would quash the thirst that threatened to overwhelm him again.

She made a soft gasping sound, and he turned back toward her. Her hand was on her neck, staunching the flow, her eyes wide with shock. The sight of crimson leaking between her pale fingers hit Ibrahim like a kick in the kidneys. He knew what it meant, what he had done. It was a horrible transgression, one he couldn’t take back, one he couldn’t even begin to atone for.

Fatwa number1: Do Not Despair! There is no sin so great that Allah will not forgive it. Does He not say “O you servants of Mine who have transgressed against your own selves! Despair not of God’s mercy: behold, God forgives all sins, for, verily, He alone is much-forgiving, a dispenser of grace!’ (Surah Zumar, verse 53) Even if you have feasted on a hundred virgins, sent to their deaths a thousand imams, and reveled in the terror our kind is able to wreak upon the living, God will forgive you. All you have to do is admit your errors, beg for clemency, atone for the wrong you have done, and start living the life you know you should, the life of a Believer, the life of Good Deeds.

~From Sheikha al-Binawi’s 50 Fatwas for the Virtuous Vampire

Ibrahim took a step toward Lina and sank to his knees. “I’m so sorry,” he said, covering his eyes with both hands. He couldn’t bear to look at her. “So, very, very sorry.”

She didn’t say anything, and when he looked up, she seemed to be dazed, her eyes unfocused, staring down the alley at the spot where he had stood only a few moments ago. She could have no idea what was happening to her, how the microbes that made him what he was were even now infecting her, swirling through her veins, altering her DNA irrevocably. It was the suddenness of his attack, the unexpectedness of his withdrawal that had stolen her voice and stunned her into passivity, he knew. He remembered.

It would take several days, a week perhaps before she realized what she had become, what he had done to her.

Maybe it would be better to kill her after all.

He shuddered in revulsion at that thought, the predator thoroughly suppressed, his thirst abated by the mouthfuls of blood he had taken. He wanted nothing more, now, than to fold her in his arms and keep her safe. How could he ever forgive himself for what he had done to her? How could she ever forgive him when she realized he had made her into a vampire, a killer of humankind, a drinker of human blood?

“Whenever you bring a new vampire into this world–whether in a well-planned act of love or through a casual encounter that went in unexpected and unintended directions–you must fulfill the parental obligations required of all Muslim parents. Primary of these is providing a sound moral and religious education. Without proper guidance, a newborn vampire, like any other human child, is liable to fall into a spiritual morass, to develop a multitude of unsavory habits, an unhealthy deficiency in self-esteem, an unwholesome attitude toward the Divine, and an entirely amoral dietary regimen. Thankfully, Islam is a complete way of life and offers direction for every detail of human existence, making the education of the newly undead much simpler than you might imagine. Nonetheless, such an education should not be taken lightly; indeed, the responsibility for moral and spiritual guidance is a lifelong obligation, the right of the child over the parent for as long as you, or he, should live.”

~From Sheikha Al-Ninowi’s Family Dynamics for the Undead Mom and Dad chapter 1, “The Cultivation of Character”

He stepped forward again, touched her shoulder briefly, respectfully. “I want to help you, Lina,” he said.

Confusion clouded her eyes, and she reached vaguely toward her neck, where the trail of blood had already dried.

“You what?”

“I want to help. I can protect you from Sidi Ahmed.”

“You know about him? What he wants?”

“I overheard.”

She was his responsibility. And she would need to feed soon enough. Sidi Ahmed could be her first kill. He had an unexpected vision of the two of them hunting together, the thrill of the chase, the cool, clean night air in their lungs, fresh, strong blood on their lips, blood shared lip to lip, tongue to tongue. A shudder of desire coursed through his veins. Her scent, her voice, the sweetness of her blood still in his mouth, the softness of her skin under his fingers, the joy in her laughter, the purity of her soul. He wanted her in more ways than he had ever known before.

“What can you do? We depend on him for everything. We’re completely under his thumb.”

“I can marry you,” he said, surprising himself. It was impulsive, unexpected, but the thought was a good one, a fitting one. He knew in his bones it was the right thing to do. “I can give you a good dowry. Enough for your family to open a little shop by the suq, or perhaps a taxicab operation.” He wanted so badly to please her, to see her smile.

“But you don’t even know me,” she protested.

But he did know her, he realized. Her scent, her taste, told him everything he needed to know about her. She was good. Profoundly, deeply, to the core. She could give him the peace he so desperately sought. The surety of her moral compass would guide him through his ethical dilemmas.

“Even so, I want to make you an honest woman,” he said, and then gave a crooked grin. “Well, help you stay an honest woman.”

It was not just the right thing to do; it was the only thing to do. The attentions of an unknown male benefactor would certainly raise the eyebrows of the gossips. People would assume relations that did not exist. Even her family might assume she had given away what a good Muslim woman did not give.

Besides, they were bound together by blood, by fate. He had made her a vampire; it was his duty to stand by her, to help her. The idea of a lifetime with Lina at his side was growing more and more appealing by the second. He hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been since he’d run away from the vampire who had made him. Yousif had not been a good man; he’d delighted in his own depravity, sinking further and further every day into decadence and vile, corrupt behavior. Despite the many shortcoming of Ibrahim’s moral probity, he had known from the start that he would live his life as a vampire much the same way he had lived his life as a normal human–trying to be good, even if he failed miserably most of the time.

Lina squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head lightly as if he were a dream she could chase away.

“This is just so sudden,” she said when he refused to disappear.

“We have all the time in the world to get to know one another.” She’d find out soon enough that he meant that quite literally.

“Lina? Who are you talking to?” a man’s voice called from within the house.

“No one, Baba.”

“Is that Sidi Ahmed?”

“No, Baba. I was just talking to myself. Go back to sleep. I’m coming in soon.”

Ibrahim touched her shoulder fleetingly again. “Get some rest, Lina. And don’t go to work tomorrow. I…I couldn’t bear it if he tried to…to harm you in any way. I’ll come for you after dinner. I’ll talk to your father, and we can go for a walk in the park, get to know each other better.” There was no need to rush her, or her family. As he’d said, they had all the time in the world.

“I have to go to work or my whole family will lose their jobs.”

“Once we’re married–” she gasped again, but he ignored the sound “–they won’t have to work here anymore. None of you will. I’m going to take care of you, all of you.”

It felt so right that, for once, Ibrahim had no second thoughts.

Bio

Pamela Taylor's stories have appeared in Citizen Culture Magazine, Tales of the Slug, and A Mosque Among the Stars. Her speculative poem, Foreign Thoughts, was nominated for the 2006 Rhysling Award. Her daytime job is as a panelist for On Faith (http://newsweek.washingtonpost.com/onfaith/ModernMuslim).

The Faithful Soldier, Prompted

by Saladin Ahmed

If I die on this piece-of-shit road, Lubna’s chances die with me. Ali leveled his shotgun at the growling tiger. In the name of God, who needs no credit rating, let me live! Even when he’d been a soldier, Ali hadn’t been very religious. But facing death brought the old invocations to mind. The sway of culture, educated Lubna would have called it. If she were here. If she could speak.

The creature stood still on the split cement, watching Ali. Nanohanced tigers had been more or less wiped out in the great hunts before the Global Credit Crusade, or so Ali had heard. I guess this is the shit end of “more or less.” More proof, as if he needed it, that traveling the Old Cairo Road on foot was as good as asking to die.

He almost thought he could hear the creature’s targeting system whir, but of course he couldn’t any more than the tiger could read the vestigial OS prompt that flashed across Ali’s supposedly deactivated retscreens.

God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will report for uniform inspection at 0500 hours.

Ali ignored the out-of-date message, kept his gun trained on the creature.

The tiger crouched to spring.

Ali squeezed the trigger, shouted “God is greater than credit!”

The cry of a younger man, from the days when he’d let stupid causes use him. The days before he’d met Lubna.

A sputtering spurt of shot sprayed the creature. The tiger roared, bled, and fled.

For a moment Ali just stood there panting. “Praise be to God,” he finally said to no one in particular. I’m coming, beloved. I’m going to get you your serum, and then I’m coming home.

A day later, Ali still walked the Old Cairo Road alone, the wind whipping stinging sand at him, making a mockery of his old army-issued sandmask. As he walked he thought of home–of Free Beirut and his humble house behind the jade-and-grey-marble fountain. At home a medbed hummed quietly, keeping Lubna alive even though she lay dying from the Green Devil, which one side or the other’s hover-dustings had infected her with during the GCC. At home Lubna breathed shallowly while Ali’s ex-squadmate Fatman Fahrad, the only man in the world he still trusted, stood watch over her.

Yet Ali had left on this madman’s errand–left the woman who mattered more to him than anything on Earth’s scorched surface. Serum was her only hope. But serum was devastatingly expensive, and Ali was broke. Every bit of money he had made working the hover-docks or doing security for shops had gone to prepay days on Lubna’s medbed. And there was less and less work to be had. He’d begun having dreams that made him wake up crying. Dreams of shutting down Lubna’s medbed. Of killing himself.

And then the first strange message had appeared behind his eyes.

Like God-alone-knew how many vets, Ali’s ostensibly inactive OS still garbled forth a glitchy old prompt from time to time

God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will pick up your new field ablution kit after your debriefing today.

God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will spend your leave-time dinars wisely–at Honest Majoudi’s!

But this new message had been unlike anything Ali had ever seen. Blood-freezingly current in its subject matter.

God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will go to the charity-yard of the Western Mosque in Old Cairo. She will live.

Ali’s attention snapped back to the present as the wind picked up and the air grew thick with sand. As storms went, it was mild. But it still meant he’d have to stop until it blew over. He reluctantly set up the rickety rig-shelter that the Fatman had lent him. He crawled into it and lay there alone with the wail of the wind, the stink of his own body, and his exhausted, sleepless thoughts.

When the new prompt had appeared, Ali had feared he was losing his mind. More than one vet had lost theirs, had sworn that their OS had told them to slaughter their family. Ali had convinced himself that the prompt was random. An illustration of the one-in-a-trillion chance that such a message could somehow be produced by error.

But it had repeated itself. Every night for a week.

He’d told the Fatman about it, expected the grizzled old shit-talker to call him crazy. Half wanted to be called crazy. But Fahrad had shrugged and said “Beloved, I’ve seen a few things in my time. God, who needs no credit rating, can do the impossible. I don’t talk about this shit with just anyone, of course. Not these days, beloved. Religion. Hmph! But maybe you should go. Things sure ain’t gonna get any better here. And you know I’ll watch over Lubna like my own daughter.”

So now Ali found himself following a random, impossible promise. It was either this or wait for the medbed’s inevitable shutdown sequence and watch Lubna die, her skin shriveling before his eyes, her eyewhites turning bright green.

After a few hours the storm died down. Ali packed up his rig-shelter and set back to walking the ruined Old Cairo Road, chasing a digital dream.

There was foot traffic on the road now, not just the occasional hover-cluster zipping overhead. He was finally nearing the city. He had to hurry. If he was gone too long, Ali could count on the Fatman to provide a few days of coverage for Lubna. But Fahrad was as poor as Ali. Time was short.

Running out of time without knowing what I’m chasing. Ali blocked out the mocking words his own mind threw at him. He took a long sip from his canteen and quickened his pace.

Eventually, the road crested a dune and Old Cairo lay spread before him. The bustling hover-dock of Nile River Station. The silvery spires of Al-Azhar 2.0. The massive moisture pits, like aquamarine jewels against the city’s sand-brown skin. Lubna had been here once on a university trip, Ali recalled. His thoughts went to her again, to his house behind the jade-and-grey marble fountain, but he herded them back to the here-and-now. Focus. Find the Western Mosque.

The gate guards took his rifle and eyed him suspiciously, but they let him pass. As he made his way through the city, people pressed in on every side. Ali had always thought of himself as a city man. He’d laughed at various village-bumpkin-turned-soldier types back when he’d been in the army. But Old Cairo made him feel like a bumpkin. He’d never seen so many people, not even in the vibrant Free Beirut of his childhood. He blocked them out as best he could.

He walked for two hours, asking directions of a smelly fruit-seller and two different students. Finally, when dusk was dissipating into dark, he stood before the Western Mosque. It was old, and looked it. The top half of the thick red minaret had long ago been blown away by some army that hadn’t feared God. Ali passed through the high wall’s open gate into the mosque’s charity-yard, which was curiously free of paupers.

God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will remember to always travel with a squad mate when leaving the caravansarai.

“Peace and prosperity, brother. Can I help you?” The brown, jowly man that had snuck up on Ali’s flank was obviously one of the Imams of the Western Mosque. His middle-aged face was furrowed in scrutiny.

Ali stood there, unable to speak. He had made it to Old Cairo, to the charity-yard of the Western Mosque as the prompt had said, and now... Ali didn’t know what he hoped to find. A vial of serum, suspended in a pillar of light? The sky splitting and a great hand passing down cure-money? He was exhausted. He’d faced sandstorms and a tiger to get here. Had nearly died beneath the rot-blackened claws of toxighuls. He’d traveled for two weeks, surviving on little food and an hour’s sleep here and there. He started to wobble on his feet.

Why had he come here? Lubna was going to die and he wouldn’t even be there to hold her.

The Imam stared at Ali, still waiting for an explanation.

Ali swallowed, his cracked throat burning. “I...I...my OS. It–” his knees started to buckle and he nearly collapsed. “It told me to come here. From FreeBey. No money. Had to walk.” They were a madman’s words, and Ali hardly believed they were coming from his own mouth.

“Truly? You walked all that way? And lived to tell the tale? I didn’t know such a thing was possible.” The Imam looked at Ali with concerned distaste and put a hand on his shoulder. “Well... The charity-yard is closing tonight for cleaning, but I suppose one foreign beggar won’t get in the way too much. You can sleep in safety here, brother. And we can talk about your OS tomorrow.”

Ali felt himself fading. He needed rest. Food. Even a vet like him could only go so long.

He sank slowly to the ground and slept.

In his sleep he saw the bloody bodies of friends and children. He saw his squadmates slicing the ears off dead men. He heard a girl cry as soldiers closed in around her.

He woke screaming, as he had once done every night. His heart hammered. It had been a long time since he’d had dreams of the war. When they were first married, Lubna would soothe him and they would step into the cool night air and sit by the jade-and-grey marble fountain. Eventually, the nightmares had faded. Her slender hand on the small of his back, night after night–this had saved his life. And now he would never see her again. He had abandoned her because he thought God was talking to him. Thinking of it, his eyes began to burn with tears.

God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will deactivate the security scrambler on the wall before you. She will live.

Ali sucked in a shocked breath and forgot his self-pity. His pulse racing, he scrambled to his feet. He looked across the dark yard at the green-glowing instrument panel set in the mosque’s massive gate. But he did not move.

God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will deactivate the security scrambler on the wall before you. She will live.

The prompt flashed a second time across his retscreens. I’ve lost my mind. But even as he thought it, he walked toward the wall.

Screen-jacking had never been Ali’s specialty. But from the inside interface, the gate’s security scrambler was simple enough to shut down. Anyone who’d done an army hitch or a security detail could do it. Ali’s fingers danced over the screen, and a few seconds later it was done.

Then a chorus of angry shouts erupted and an alarm system began droning away. Two men in black dashed out of the mosque and past him, each carrying an ornate jewelry box.

Thieves.

By the time he decided to stop them, they had crossed the courtyard. He scrambled toward them, trying not to think about him being unarmed. Behind him, he heard the familiar clatter of weapons and body armor.

“Thanks for the help, cousin!” One of the thieves shouted at Ali. Ali was near enough to smell their sweat when they each tapped their h-belts and hover-jumped easily over the descrambled wall. Infiltrators waiting for their chance. They used me, somehow. He panicked. What have I done? His stomach sank. They’ve been using my OS all along! How and why did they call him all the way from FreeBey? He didn’t know and it didn’t matter.

I’m screwed. He had to get out of here. Somehow he had to get back to Lubna. He turned to look toward the mosque–

–And found himself staring down the barrel of the jowly Imam’s rifle. The holy man spat at Ali. “Motherless scum! Do you know how much they’ve stolen? You helped them get out, huh? And your pals left you behind to take their fall? Well, don’t worry. The police will catch them, too. You won’t face execution alone.” He kept the weapon trained on Ali’s head. Ali knew a shooter when he saw one. This was not good.

“I didn’t–” Ali started to say, but he knew it was useless.

A squad of mosque guardsmen trotted up. They scowled almost jovially as they closed in. Ali didn’t dare fight these men, who could call on more. He’d done enough security jobs himself to know they wouldn’t listen to him. At least not until after they’d beaten him. He tensed himself and took slaps and punches. He yelped, and they raked his eyes for it. He threw up and they punched him for it. His groin burned from kicks and he lost two teeth. Then he blacked out.

He woke in a cell with four men in uniforms different from the mosque guards’. Cairene police? They gave him water.

God willing, Faithful Soldier, you will report to queue B7.

Ali ignored the prompt. The men slapped him around half-heartedly and made jokes about his mother’s sexual tastes. Again,

He pushed down the angry fighter within him. If he got himself killed by these men he would never see Lubna again.

They dragged him into the dingy office of their Shaykh-Captain. The old man was scraggly and fat, but hard. A vet, unless Ali missed his guess.

“Tell me about your friends.” the Shaykh-Captain said.

Ali started to explain about being framed but then found the words wouldn’t stop. Something had been knocked loose within him these past few days. He talked and talked and told the old man the truth. All of the truth. About Lubna and the messages, about leaving Free Beirut, about the toxighuls and the tiger, the Western Mosque and the thieves.

When he was done he lowered his eyes, but he felt the old man glare at him for a few long, silent moments. Ali raised his gaze slowly and saw a sardonic smile spread over the Shaykh-Captain’s face.

“A prompt? Half the guys with an OS still get ‘em–what do they mean? Nothing. I got one that said I fucked your mother last night. Did she wake up pregnant?” The men behind Ali chuckled. In the army, Ali had hated the Cairenes and their moronic mother jokes. “Sometimes I don’t even know where the words come from,” the old man went on. “Random old satellites squawking? Some head-hacker having a laugh? Who knows? And who gives a shit? I got one a couple weeks back that told me to find some guy named Ali, who was supposed to tell me about ‘great riches lying buried beneath a jade-and-grey marble fountain.’”

For a moment, Ali listened uncomprehendingly. Then he thought his heart would stop. He did everything he could to keep his face straight as the Shaykh-Captain continued.

“Do you know how many fountains like that there are here in OC? And how many sons of bitches named Ali? What’s your name, anyway, fool?”

“My name? Uh, my name is F-fahrad, Shaykh-Captain, and I...”

“Shut up! I was saying–I told my wife about this prompt and she said I should go around the city digging up fountains. As if I don’t got enough to do here.” He gestured vaguely at a pile of textcards on his desk. “‘In the army,’ I told her, ‘I got a prompt telling me about some pills that could make my dick twice as long. Did I waste my pay on them?’” The old man gave Ali an irritated look “Y’know, you and my wife–you two fucking mystics would like each other. Maybe you could go to her old broads’ tea hour and tell them about your prompts! Maybe she’d even believe your donkey-shit story about walking here from the north.”

The Shaykh-Captain stood slowly, walked over to the wall, and pulled down an old-fashioned truncheon. “But before the teahouse, we have to take you back downstairs for a little while.”

Ali felt big, hard hands take hold of him and he knew that this was it. He was half-dead already. He couldn’t survive an Old Cairo-style interrogation. He would never see Lubna again. He had failed her, and she would die a death as horrible as anything he’d seen in the war.

Faithful Soldier, she will live.

The prompt flashed past his retscreens and he thought again of the Shaykh Captain’s words about riches and the fountain.

This was no head-hacker’s trick. No thieves’ scheme. He did not understand it, but God had spoken to him. He could not dishonor that. He had once served murderers and madmen who claimed to act in God’s name. But Lubna–brilliant, loving Lubna–had shown him that this world could hold holiness. If Ali could not see her again, if he could not save her, he could at least face his death with faith.

He made his voice as strong as he could, and he held his head high as he uttered words that would seal his fate with these men. “In the name of God, who needs no credit rating, Shaykh-Captain, do what you must. But I am not lying.”

The Shaykh-Captain’s eyes widened and a twisted smile came to his lips. “So that’s it! In the name of your mother’s pussy, you superstitious fool!” The big men behind Ali grumbled their southern disgust at the fact of Ali’s existence and started shoving him, but the old man cut them off with a hand gesture. He set down the truncheon, pulled at his dirty grey beard, assumed a mock gravity. “A genuine Free Shi’ah Anti-Crediteer. The scourge of the Global Credit Crusaders. Hard times for your kind these days, even up north, I hear.”

The Shaykh-Captain snorted, but there was something new in the man’s voice. Something almost human. “You think you’re a brave man–a martyr–to show your true colors down here, huh? Pfft. Well, you can stop stroking your own dick on that count. No one down here gives a damn about those days any more. Half this city was on your side of things once. Truth be told, my fuck-faced fool of a little brother was one of you. He kept fighting that war when everyone knew it was over. He’s dead now. A fool, like I say. Me? I faced reality. Now look at me.” The old man spread his arms as if his shabby office was a palace, his two goons gorgeous wives.

He sat on the edge of his desk and gave Ali another long look. “But you–you’re stuck in the fanatical past, huh? You know, I believe this story about following your OS is actually true. Not a robber. Just an idiot. You’re as pathetic as my brother was. A dream-chasing relic. You really walked down the OC Road?”

Ali nodded but said nothing.

A sympathetic flash lit the Shaykh-Captain’s eyes, but he quickly grimaced, as if the moment of fellow-feeling caused him physical pain. “Well, my men will call me soft, but what the fuck. You’ve had a rough enough trip down here, I suppose. Tell you what: We’ll get you a corner in steerage on a hover-cluster, okay? Those northbound flights are always half-empty anyway. Go be with your wife, asshole.”

Ali cold not quite believe what he was hearing. “Thank you! Thank you, Shaykh-Captain! In the name of–”

“In the name of your mother’s hairy tits! Shut up and take your worn old expressions back to your falling-apart city. Boys, get this butt-fucked foreigner out of my office. Give him a medpatch, maybe. Some soup. And don’t mess him up too bad, huh?”

The big men gave him a low-grade medpatch, which helped. And they fed him lentil soup and pita. Then they shoved him around again, a bit, but not enough to matter.

When they were through they hurled him into the steerage line at the hover-docks. Ali was tired and hurt and thirsty. Both his lips were split and his guts felt like jelly. But war had taught him how to hang on when there was a real chance of getting home. Riches buried beneath the jade-and-grey-marble fountain. Cure-money. Despair had weakened him, but he would find the strength to make it back to Lubna. He would watch as she woke, finally free of the disease.

Faithful Soldier, you will

The prompt cut off abruptly. Ali boarded the hover-cluster and headed home to his beloved.

Bio

Saladin Ahmed has been a finalist for the Nebula and Campbell Awards. His fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, IGMS, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Clockwork Phoenix 2, PodCastle, and other venues. His fantasy novel Throne of the Crescent Moon is forthcoming from DAW books. His website is http://saladinahmed.com/

Kamer-taj, the Moon-horse

fromForty-four Turkish Fairy Tales collected by Dr. Ignácz Kúnos

There was once a Padishah who one day found a little insect.

The Padishah called his lala and they both examined the tiny creature. What could it be? What could it feed on? Every day an animal was killed for its sustenance, and by thus living it grew and grew until it was as big as a cat. Then they killed it and skinned it, hanging up the skin on the palace gate. The Padishah now issued a proclamation that whoever could guess correctly to what animal the skin belonged should receive the Sultan’s daughter in marriage.

A great crowd collected and examined the skin from all sides, but no one was found wise enough to answer the question. The story of the skin spread far and wide until it reached the ears of a Dew. “That is exceedingly fortunate for me,” thought he to himself, “I have had nothing to eat for three days; now I shall be able to satisfy myself with the Princess.” So he went to the Padishah, told him the name of the creature, and immediately demanded the maiden.

“Woe is me” groaned the Padishah, “how can I give this Dew my only daughter?” He offered him, in ransom for her, as many slaves as he liked, but all in vain! The Dew insisted on having the Sultan’s daughter. Therefore the Padishah called the maiden and told her to prepare for the journey, as her kismet was the Dew. All weeping and wailing were fruitless. The maiden put on her clothes, while the Dew waited for her outside the palace.

The Padishah had a horse that drank attar of roses and ate grapes; Kamer-taj, or Moon-horse, was its name. This was the creature on which the Sultan’s daughter was to accompany the Dew to his abode. A cavalcade escorted her a portion of the way and then, turning, rode back. Now the maiden offered up a prayer to Allah to deliver her from the fiend.

Suddenly the Moon-horse began to speak: “Lady, fear not! shut both your eyes and hold my mane firmly.” Hardly had she shut her eyes when she felt the horse rise with her, and when she opened her eyes again she found herself in the garden of a lovely palace on an island in the midst of the sea.

The Dew was very angry at the disappearance of the maid. “Still, never mind!” he said, “I will soon find her,” and went his way home alone. Not far from the island a Prince sat in a canoe with his lala. The Prince, seeing on the calm surface of the water the reflection of the golden-hued steed, said to his lala that perhaps someone had arrived at his palace. They rode to the island, got out of the canoe, and entered the garden. Here the youth saw the beautiful Princess, who, however much she essayed to veil her face, could not succeed in hiding from him her loveliness.

“Oh, Peri!” said the Prince, “fear me not; I am not an enemy!” “I am only a Sultan’s daughter, a child of man and no Peri,” announced the Princess, and told the Prince how she had been delivered from the Dew. The Prince assured her that she could not have come to a better place. His father also was a Padishah; with her permission he would take her to him, and by the grace of Allah he would make her his wife. So they went to the Padishah, the Prince told him of the maiden’s adventure, and in the end they were married, merriment and feasting lasting forty days and forty nights.

For a time they lived in undisturbed bliss, but war broke out with a neighbouring kingdom and, in accordance with the custom of that period, the Padishah also must set out for the campaign. Hearing of this the Prince went to his father and asked permission to go to the war. The Padishah was unwilling to consent, saying: “you are young, also you have a wife whom you must not forsake.” But the son begged so assiduously that in the end the Padishah agreed to stay at home and let Prince go in his stead.

The Dew discovered that the Prince would be on the battlefield, and he also made the further discovery that during his absence a son and a daughter had been born to him.

At that time Tartars were employed as messengers and carried letters between the Padishah at home and the Prince at the seat of war. One of these messengers was intercepted by the Dew and invited into a coffee. house. There the Dew entertained him so long that night came on. The messenger now wished to be off, but was persuaded that it would be better to remain till morning. At midnight, while he was asleep, the Dew searched his letter-bag and found a letter from the Padishah to the Prince informing the latter that a baby son and daughter had come to the palace during his absence. Tearing up this letter, the Dew wrote another to the effect that a couple of dogs had been born. “Shall we destroy them or keep them till your return?” wrote the Dew in the false letter. This missive he placed in the original envelope, and in the morning the Tartar arose, took his sack of letters, and went into the Prince’s camp.

When the Prince had read his father’s letter he wrote the following answer: “Shah and father, do not destroy the young dogs, but keep them until I return.” This was given to the Tartar, who set out on his return journey.

He was again met by the Dew, who enticed him into a coffeehouse and detained him till next morning. During the night the Dew abstracted the letter and wrote another, which said: “Shah and father, take my wife and her two children and throw them down a precipice, and bind the Moon-horse with a fifty-ton chain.”

In the evening of the day following the Tartar delivered the letter to the Padishah. When the Princess saw the Tartar she hastened joyfully to the monarch that he might show her her husband’s letter. The Padishah, having read it, was astonished and dared not show it to the Princess, so he denied that any letter had arrived. The woman answered: “I have indeed seen the letter with my own eyes; perchance some misfortune has happened to him and you are keeping it from me.” Then catching a glimpse of the letter she put forth her hand quickly and took it. Having read it the poor woman wept bitterly. The monarch did his best to comfort her, but she refused to remain longer in the palace. Taking her children she left the city and went forth into the wide world.

Days and weeks passed away and she was without food to appease her hunger or bed on which to rest her tired body, until worn out with fatigue she could go no step farther. “Let not my children die of hunger!” she prayed. Behold! instantly water gushed forth from the earth and flour fell from the skies, and making bread with these she fed her children.

In the meantime the Dew heard of the woman’s fate and set out immediately to destroy the children. The Princess saw the Dew coming and in her terrible agony she cried: “Hasten, my Kamer-taj, or I die!” In the far-off land the magic horse heard this cry for help; he strained at his fifty-ton fetters but could not break them. The nearer the Dew came the more the poor Princess’s anguish increased. Clasping her children to her breast, she sent up another despairing cry to the Moon-horse. The fettered steed strained still more at his chain, but it was of no avail. The Dew was now quite close upon her, and for the last time the poor mother shrieked with all her remaining strength. Kamer-taj, hearing it, put forth all the force he could muster, broke his chain, and appeared before the Princess. “Fear not, lady! “ he said, “shut your eyes and grasp my mane,” and immediately they were on the other side of the ocean. Thus the Dew went away hungry once more.

The Moon-horse took the Princess to his own country. He felt that his last hour had now come, and told his beloved mistress that he must die. She implored him not to leave her alone with her children. If he did, who would protect them from the evil designs of the Dew? “Fear not,” the horse comforted her, “no evil will befall you here. When I am dead, off my head and set it in the earth. Slit up my stomach, and having done this, lay yourself and your children within it.” Saying these words the magic horse breathed his last.

The Princess now cut off his head and stuck it in the ground, then opened his stomach and laid herself and her children in it. Here they fell fast asleep. When she awoke she saw that she was in a beautiful palace; one finer than either her father’s or her husband’s. She was lying in a lovely bed, and hardly had she risen when slaves appeared with water: one bathed her, others clothed her. The twins lay in a golden cradle, and nurses stood around them, soothing them with sweet songs. At dinnertime, gold and silver dishes appeared laden with delicious food. It was like a dream; but days and weeks passed away, weeks passed into months, and the months into a year, and still the dream–if dream it was–did not come to an end.

Meanwhile the war was over and the Prince hastened home. Seeing nothing of his wife he asked his father what had become of her and her children. The Padishah was astonished at this strange question. The letters were produced, and the Tartar messenger was sent for. Being closely questioned he related the account of his meeting with the Dew on both occasions. They now realized that the Dew had tampered with the messenger and the correspondence. There was no more thought of peace for the Prince until he had discovered his wife. With that intention he set out in the company of his lala.

They wandered on and on unceasingly. Six months had passed already, yet they-continued their way-over hill and down dale, never stopping to rest. One day they reached the foot of a mountain, whence they could see the palace of the Moon-horse. The Prince was entirely exhausted and said to his lala: “Go to that palace and beg a crust of bread and a little water, that we may-continue our journey.

When he reached the palace gate, the lala was met by two little children, who invited him in to rest. Entering, he found the floor of the apartment so beautiful that he hardly dared set his foot upon it. But the children pulled him to the divan and made him sit down while food and drink were set before him. The lala excused himself, saying that outside waited his tired son, to whom he wished to take the refreshment.

“Father Dervish,” said the children, “eat first yourself, then you can take food to your son.” So the lala ate, drank coffee, and smoked, and while he was preparing to return to the Prince, the children went to tell their mother about their guest.

Looking out of the window, the Princess recognised the Prince her husband. She took food with her own hands, and putting it in golden vessels sent it out by the lala. On receiving it the Prince was struck with the richness of the service. He lifted the cover of one of the dishes, set it on the ground, and it rolled back to the palace of its own accord. The same happened with the other dishes, and when the last had disappeared, a slave came to invite the stranger to take coffee in the palace.

While this was happening the Princess gave each of her children a wooden horse, and sent them to the gate to receive the guests. “When the dervish comes with his son,” said their mother, “take them to such and such an apartment.” The dervish and his son came up, the two children on their wooden horses greeted them with a salaam and escorted them to their apartments. Again the Princess took dishes of food and said to the children: “Take these to our guests and press them to eat. If they say they have already had sufficient and ask you to partake of the food, answer that you also are satisfied, but perhaps your horses are hungry, and put them to the table. They will then probably ask, how can wooden horses eat? And you must reply” (here she whispered something into the children’s ears).

The children did as their mother had commanded them. The food was so delicious that the guests tried to eat a second time, but becoming satisfied very soon, they asked: “Will you not eat also, children?” “We cannot eat,” answered the children, “but perhaps our horses are hungry,” so saying they drew them up to the table. “Children,” remonstrated the Prince, “wooden horses cannot eat.” “That you seem to know,” answered the children, “but apparently you do not know that it is impossible for little dogs to become human children such as we are.” The Prince sprang up with a cry of joy, kissed and embraced both his children. His wife entering at the moment, he humbly begged her pardon for the suffering she had experienced. They related to each other all that had befallen them during the time of their separation, and their joy knew no bounds. Now the Princess and her children prepared to accompany the Prince back to his own kingdom. After they had gone some distance, they turned to take a farewell look at the palace, and lo! the wind swept over the place as though no building had ever been there.

The Dew was lurking on the wayside, but the Prince caught him and killed him, and after that they arrived home without further adventure. Soon afterwards the old Padishah died, and the Prince became chief of the land.

Three apples have fallen from the sky. One belongs to the storyteller, the second to the listener, the third to me.

Editor’s Note: This version taken from http://www.sacred-texts.com/asia/ftft/ftft20.htm#page_141

Me and Rumi’s Ghost

bySamer Rabadi

One day, sitting in a café with Rumi’s ghost

over mint tea and biscuits, he told me about Shams;

rhapsodized over his eyes, his fine voice,

his heart that opened like a flower

breathing in and out his lover’s scent;

the whole body responds to that kind of ephemeral fragrance.

On and on he went, until finally,

“Rumi, my friend, you have to stop.

This is a poem about you, not Shams.”

“Samer, my dear, we are one and the same.”

Bio

SamerRabadi was born in Jordan, but his parents soon traded one desert for another, making their way to Los Angeles. Years later, he finds himself in Santa Clara, CA where he lives with the love of his life and works to change the world. Even though he writes for a living, “Me and Rumi’s Ghost” is his first published piece.

TurDisaala

byJawad Elhusuni

If Tordesillas were TurDisaala

And the ‘New World’ were Moorish

Would the yearning have been so tacit

for the treasures of an unknown empire

The sailing ships westward from Al-Ishbuna

Would the gold have been so tainted

Pizarro’s venture to El Dorado

A mosque in Cartagena

And a madrassa dedicated instead

To questioning the value of ‘yellow stones’

If Wounded Knee were Al-Rikba Almu’aafa

Hoh-pong-ge-le-skah

may not have left us

with a void.

Koyaanisqatsi.

Would it be Requerimiento

To accept the Pope’s ‘Holy Faith’

The vanquished slaves of Yucatan

instead as princes in the enclaves

of Gharbiyya

I wonder, if Pocahontas were Abu Qahanta

Would she have been so submissive

as a Powhatan speaking Muslima

Dying not in Kent

But settled, in Matoaka

Bio

JawadElhusuni is an architectural designer and writer from Libya. He has contributed political writing for the Sunday Tribune in Ireland, but prefers to write about history and architectural history and theory. He is currently working on a research project at the Bartlett School of Architecture at UCL London to redesign and re-imagine new hygiene narratives for a future Marseille. Apart from architecture, he is greatly fascinated by the nuances of Islamic Law, Reason, Theology and History which he studies in Eastern Libya.

Al Manara Dirge

by Sara Saab

Al Manara Dirge: Beirut, 10pm, lighthouse enduring power outage.

Twelve hours in the city of my infancy on a night endeavoring to portents.

Without its sweeping beam, the flinty stack of Al Manara lighthouse wears the night. It juts among seaside apartment buildings like stale loaves, but there is no pterodactyl wing of light to chase away the heavy shadows of these rooftops. Somewhere below, waves gnaw at Pigeon Rock.

I put the sea at my back. Contrary to rickety traffic, I head up Caracas Descent.

Beirut my precious and new thing, blood of my blood, you are more ancient than my bones and ashes, and I love you harder than my surprised heart could bear to admit.

I stride.

My legs tense against Caracas, muscles recalling this street, a remarkable paved cliff, a severe angle. My sterile everyday lungs are fierce and musical like twin accordions; I gain ground and grief in perfect symphony. When I tire I pause to mourn upon the shoulder of geography as though it were a reverend cassocked in decay. In the rubble of the cat lady’s estate I spy my own broken body, curled like a slug or a doused tabby.

This is my heart-street, its alleys aortas. Like this I seep at the center of the world, a ruffian, all my animal ducts stirred by the unthinkable silence.

Heartbreak is toxic in my plasma.

§

Beirut, your crevices and pocks dare students of science to enumerate them. There is a whole astrology of your bullet marks and crumbs, and it is through you that I come to know – love-letters are made for cities, not men.

I walk.

In a bull’s-eye the size of my heart sit an elderly couple in neon supernova, half-hidden by merchandise. Mayan pyramids of apples and oranges shimmer in tungsten, but my fingertips reveal that sticky dust blankets everything. Here I swap crumpled bills for brittle chocolate.

Beirut, your oldest lady turns to me.

“Track the tributaries of my cheeks, little daughter. Souls upon souls rest, fearful of rot, in a netting of cabbages and cactus fruit, powdered baby formula, mosquito repellent.” A smile ripples like a fish in two underwater irises.

“Go out into rivulet streets, turncoat princess. Seek penance, though you were born forgiven. My souls like housefly eyes forgave you the day your birth cries sanctified road dividers and clotheslines. That day you promised me a warble of suffering in the songs you would sing.”

“Grandmother, I’ve learned.” I say.  “Sadness grieved hard enough becomes solid and smooth, and when you cast these stones to bounce upon the rolling of the Mediterranean, what splashes up is not seawater, but a choir of reanimated tears.”

I gesture at boxes stacked behind the Marlboro Reds until she brings down a tin of pebbles with her ploughing hand.

I lay more alien currency on the counter, near coils of mosquito repellent arranged in point-of-sale displays.

Toxic heartbreak laces my plasma, nostalgia is ballooning in my joints. It is a night to be with the sea.

§

Oh my oldest friend, we never did save each other from the dark.

Bio

Sara Saab came wailing into the world at Al Najjar Hospital, Beirut, Lebanon, in the winter of 1984. The prime witnesses each recall a single stand-out feature of the event: her mother, the musk of hard liquor on the skin of the attending obstetrician, and her father, the worrying Klingon dent scoring the tiny nose of the ruddy and slick infant. This crease soon disappeared, but little Sara didn’t. Nowadays Sara works too hard and—embarrassingly—aches too much in the heart whenever confronted by rock anthems or perfect sentences. Aside from dabbling in software in San Francisco, Sara is one half of The Shuttertext Project (shuttertext.tumblr.com) and has recently had work appear in Arct, Fantasy Magazine, and Electric Velocipede.

AN OCCUPATION OF ANGELS

Great fantasy from Lavie Tidhar!

After Archangels materialise over the bloodbaths of WWII, they take up residence in most of the world’s major cities. But what would happen if, more than quarter of a century later, something somehow managed to kill these supreme beings? Killarney knows and, as an agent working for the Bureau, a British agency that’s so secret it doesn’t officially exist, she finds herself embroiled in the consequences as, one by one, the Archangels die.

Assigned to trace a missing cryptographer thought to have information on the murders, she travels from England, through France, heading for the frozen wastes of the USSR. But there’s an unknown third party intent on stopping her, and there’s God, who also has an agenda. Not knowing who is friend and who is foe, and with only a brief glimpse of a swastika on angel wings as solid information, Killarney struggles to remain alive long enough to glean sufficient information to put together the pieces of the puzzle and complete what is, without them, an impossible mission.

“Sharp, brutal, cool–yet also stunningly imaginative and perfectly realised.”

–Michael Marshall, bestselling author of The Straw Men trilogy

Available from the Apex Store: http://tinyurl.com/2d5kq8r

Also available from the Amazon Kindle and BN nook eBook stores

Submission Guidelines

Short Story Guidelines:

1) Mail submissions to apex.submission@gmail.com.

2) Maximum word length a firm 7,500 words.

3) Payment is .05 per word. Paid within 30 days of publication.

4) Please submit either a Microsoft Word Doc or RTF file.

5) Use standard manuscript formatting as outlined by William Shunn. Essentially–double space, 12 pt. Courier or Times New Roman, 1″ borders.

6) We accept reprint submissions. However, your story must have been sold to a highly respected semi-professional (think Interzone, Weird Tales, and so forth) or professional publication (FSF, Analog, and so on). Payment is a flat $10. Mark your story as a reprint in the subject heading of your email. Word limit for reprints is 10,000.

Poetry Guidelines:

1) Send no more than five poems at a time. No simultaneous submissions with other publishers.

2) Payment is $0.25 per line or $5 per poem, whichever is greater, paid within 30 days of publication.

3) Format your submission professionally (Writers Digest format). Single-space within stanzas.

4) Poems formatted flush left are preferred over those requiring special formatting (concrete poems, poems with staggered indentation, etc.). We’re looking for creativity of expression rather than of page layout.

5) Mail submissions to Dmitri@apexbookcompany.com.

Rights and Rules:

1) No simultaneous submissions.

2) Average response time is 20-30 days. Please do not query until after 60 days have passed.

3) We buy first world rights, exclusive for three months, nine months of non-exclusive e-rights after those three months, and non-exclusive anthology rights for three years.

4) Stories are required to contain a dark speculative fiction element.

What are we looking for here at Apex Magazine?

We do not want hackneyed, clichéd plots or neat, tidy stories that take no risks. We do not want Idea Stories without character development or prose style, nor do we want derivative fantasy with Tolkien’s serial numbers filed off.

What we want is sheer, unvarnished awesomeness. We want the stories it scared you to write. We want stories full of marrow and passion, stories that are twisted, strange, and beautiful. We want science fiction, fantasy, horror, and mash-ups of all three—the dark, weird stuff down at the bottom of your little literary heart. This magazine is not a publication credit, it is a place to put your secret places and dreams on display. Just so long as they have a dark speculative fiction element—we aren’t here for the quotidian.

Keep in mind that the search for awesome stories is as difficult as writing them. If you are rejected, don’t get angry—instead, become more awesome. Write something better, and better, until we have to accept you, because we have been laid low by your tale. It really is that simple.

–Catherynne M. Valente, fiction editor

Table of Contents

“The Green Book”

“50 Fatwas for the Virtuous Vampire”

“The Faithful Soldier, Prompted”

“Kamer-taj, the Moon-horse”

“Me and Rumi’s Ghost”

“Tur Disaala”

“Al Manara Dirge”

Submission Guidelines