The Secret of Ka (14 page)

I worried about what my father was going through right then. Unless Amesh had contacted him to say I was okay—"Sara's fine, Mr. Wilcox, just hanging out on an island that's not on any map"—he would be frantic. What could I do?

My bed was firm, narrower than I was used to. I was given a small pillow for my head. It didn't matter. I was totally exhausted. I suspected I would sleep deeply.

Yet as I began to drift off, my thoughts turned toward Amesh and the djinn and I could no longer relax. My friend had left the island after making two wishes. He had departed with two hands. He had left after promising to return, but he had also left after swearing vengeance upon those who had wronged him. It was the last statement that troubled me the most. Because it meant my guess had been right, and someone
had
cut off his hand. With Darbar whispering in his head, how long would it take before Amesh made a third wish to destroy that someone?

I sensed the third wish would be the most dangerous.

His djinn knew it was. It was why the creature had volunteered to take up the carpet and fly Amesh back to Istanbul—free of charge, so to speak. The djinn was sly. It knew it had but to bide its time. It didn't matter how much I had told Amesh about the danger. His hatred for those who had hurt him was too powerful.

Hot tears rolled over my cheeks and stained my pillow. Yet I refused to accept that Amesh was lost. I had spent half the day cursing him, but I swore I would not rest until I had saved him.

I fell into a restless slumber.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I awoke to pure silence. It was remarkable how still the house felt, inside and out. I could have been all alone, the only one on the island. For a long time I lay there thinking about how much my life had resembled a dream since I had found the carpet.

But I had to get up; I had to pee. I ran into Aleena on my way to the outhouse. She had on a plain blue dress that reached almost to her ankles. She gestured to her mouth, and for me to follow when I was done with my business. I assumed I was going to get breakfast.

After last night's feast, the meal was light: yogurt flavored with the island's berries, thick brown bread and butter, and pears. It was odd but the water struck me the most. Ordinarily I would have said water had no flavor, but this liquid tasted like the water that flowed around the temples. It was cold and yet it had power. I was not particularly thirsty but I drank two glasses and felt more alert afterward.

Hara appeared in blue pants and a short-sleeved shirt and had breakfast with us. Aleena had yogurt and nothing else.

Then it was chore time. They did not ask for help; it was assumed I would give it. Hara hiked away from the house—west, a direction I had yet to explore—while Aleena led me to the barn animals. The female goats needed to be milked. Aleena pulled up two stools, placed them behind a goat with an udder as large as a five-gallon bottle, and gestured for me to sit. Shaking my head, I pointed to a broom and dustpan.

"Goats aren't really my thing," I said. "Can't I clean up?"

Aleena shook her head, pointed to the stool. Her politeness remained but there was a firmness to her bearing. As if she was saying, Sit, girl. I sat.

My first milking. I would love to say it was messy at first, but I soon found my rhythm and enjoyed myself.

Not!

Aleena demonstrated. I was supposed to close off the teat from the udder, then squeeze the teat starting at the top and move the squeezing motion downward, pushing the milk out. It looked simple when she did it. A nice warm spray of milk flew into her bucket. But when I did it, I must have pinched too hard. Before I could even get to squeezing its teat, the goat growled and kicked my shin.

"Ouch!" I cried while Aleena laughed silently. A kick from an annoyed goat might sound like a minor problem. It is not; my leg hurt. I moved my stool back to leave, but Aleena would have none of that. She pulled it forward and demonstrated again. Slide hand over nipple, move up to swollen breast, squeeze, then yank down firmly and quickly.

"Okay, I'll do it," I said. A minute later, my other shin was sporting a bruise, and I made a vow not to touch that particular goat again, except maybe to eat it. Ignoring Aleena's protests, I moved my stool behind a smaller goat and tried a third time. You know what they say about the third time being the charm? I did not get a thick stream of milk, but I got something, and the goat didn't kick me, which was all I really cared about.

I ended up milking three goats—Aleena did twenty in the same amount of time. When we were done, my back ached from bending over. It was then Aleena handed me the broom and dustpan. She chased the animals out and gestured for me to sweep up. Yes ma'am. Now I understood why they had been so happy to see me the night before. I was their new slave.

Before we ate lunch, Aleena led me to a stream not far from the house, where I was able to wash and cool off. The sun was straight overhead and the temperature was warm. Aleena was tactful and left me alone, and I stripped off my clothes and washed them as well. Leaving them to dry on some rocks, I floated on my back in the stream and stared up at the sky. It looked a much deeper blue than I remembered.

Lunch was more interesting than breakfast. I was starving from all the hard labor, and Hara had returned with several rabbits, which he appeared to have caught in traps. I helped Aleena peel potatoes, so I wouldn't have to watch Hara skin the animals. But once they were roasting outside over the fire—the smell made my mouth water—I forgot all about where they had come from. I was pleased to find they tasted almost identical to chicken.

During the day, for a time, I'd forget about Amesh and the carpet and the djinn. Then the feeling of being stranded would return, and the danger of my predicament would crash down on me. How was I to escape this island?

Aleena wanted me to take a nap after eating. I said I was not sleepy, and tried exploring the remainder of the house. That was the first time I saw her face darken. She showed me three closed doors that led to the rest of the house, and indicated that I was not to pass through them.

"Why not?" I asked.

Aleena shook her head. For a moment I swore she was reading my lips. But she did not speak English. Or did she? Hara did not.

"Are you keeping other kids hostage in there?" I asked.

Aleena frowned and shook her head. So she did understand me! Why would one know English but not the other?

"Is that where you keep their skeletons?" I asked.

I was just joking, but Aleena threw up her hands and led me outside.

On the far side of the house, beyond the barn, they had a garage of sorts. Not for cars or bikes—or even horses, which would have been nice—but for tools where Hara did carpentry work and Aleena molded clay and painted.

Aleena took her hobbies seriously. She had several pottery wheels that she drove with her feet, and a kiln where she fired her pots to make them hard as rock. She showed me her work and I was dazzled. Not just because of her great skill, but because her style reminded me of the art on the carpet. Same color scheme, same lines, identical creatures and people.

It was like one had inspired the other.

Was it possible the carpet had led me to her?

Aleena wanted to teach me how to make a pot. The task was infinitely more appealing than milking a goat. I watched attentively as she lifted a lump of clay onto the wheel and sprinkled it with water, then massaged it into a circular mass. She did this before she moved the wheel an inch.

I was stunned to see how much water the clay absorbed, and gestured for her to pour the water on it and get it over with. She shook her head. That wouldn't work. I did not really appreciate that fact until she kicked the wheel into motion and I saw what she could do with the clay.

The power for the wheel came from twin pedals, one on either side. They duplicated the motion of riding a bicycle. But she had to lean forward to stay above the clay while she worked it.

Then the magic began, right before my eyes. She dug her right hand into the center and the clay spread out. Just as quick, her left hand stopped it from expanding, and she pushed upward until a bulge grew in the center. It took Aleena three minutes to create a pot.

Yet she wanted more from her design. Whether it was because she wished to teach me or because she needed a tall container for the kitchen, she continued to add pieces of damp clay until the pot grew into a vase. She coaxed the bulge higher and higher. Soon it floated near the top.

I was amazed. I tried to tell her.

She smiled and pointed to the wheel beside her. To the clay.

Pull up a chair, girl, and get to work, she was saying.

I dove in, and I was a disaster. A small pot seemed a wise way to start, but Aleena insisted I use a fair amount of clay. Not as much as she was using, but nearly five pounds' worth. Naturally, I rushed the preliminary steps. I was anxious to get the wheel spinning, and because I didn't take time to moisten the clay—to let the material absorb the water at its own pace—it refused to respond to my touch.

Actually, it responded too much. Once I had it spinning, I had only to place a finger on it and it would assume one grotesque shape after another. Yet Aleena was happy with my progress. She did not like the way I milked goats, but seemed confident that I could make pots.

So went my first full day with Aleena, and my third day on the island. After we washed up and had dinner, I prepared for bed but found I couldn't sleep. Without my BlackBerry, without even a book to read, I found it hard to relax. I never went to bed without reading something.

It was late—I was sure Hara and Aleena were asleep—when I heard a knock on my bedroom window. At first I assumed it was the wind pushing a branch against the glass. But the knock returned, more insistent, and I finally lit a candle and stepped to the window.

"Hello?" I said.

There was another bump. Yes, I thought, a bump, not a knock. It bumped twice more while I stood there with my heart pounding in my chest. After all I had been through, I was terrified to pull away the curtain. There was something about a mysterious noise late at night that rattled the deepest part of my brain.

I gathered my courage and pulled aside the curtain, but couldn't see outside. Finally—what could I do?—I opened the window. What was outside did not wait to be invited inside. It almost gave me a heart attack at first, but then I squealed with plea sure.

It was the Carpet of Ka.

It flew inside and landed on my bed and lay there as though it was resting after a long flight. Smiling, I knelt beside it and studied the stars in the center field. They were still bright, still moving, and I thought, even though we were not outside, the carpet might still answer my questions. The night stars were, after all, shining through the open window.

"Hi," I said.

The stars moved quickly. "Hi," it replied.

"Did you take Amesh and his djinn to Istanbul?"

"They were taken there."

"Why did it take you so long to return?"

"The carpet returned quickly."

My questions were off. I was forgetting what it had told me the other night. I was not actually speaking to the carpet, but to someone else.

"Was the carpet detained in Istanbul?" I asked.

"No."

"Then why didn't it fly right back?"

"Time is not a constant."

"What does that mean?"

"You will see."

"Is Amesh all right?"

"He is in grave danger."

"Has he made another wish yet?"

"He will."

"Can you tell me what happens when a mortal makes three wishes to the same djinn?"

"Seek, and you will find the answer."

"But you were about to tell me that first night we spoke."

"I was about to tell you that I could not tell you."

"It doesn't matter. I know if he makes another wish, he's screwed."

The carpet did not respond. Not even one comforting word.

"Why did you obey his djinn and fly them to Istanbul?" I asked.

"I obey no djinn."

I kept forgetting how to phrase the questions.

"How was the djinn able to fly the carpet to Istanbul?"

"Djinn know how to fly carpets."

"But that night, I begged the carpet not to leave."

"The djinn's will was more powerful."

"I thought you said I was a Kala."

"I said no such thing."

"You said I was descended from a royal line."

"That does not make you a Kala. That title must be earned."

"Can you take me back to Istanbul?"

"Yes."

"Can you take me now?"

"Yes"

"Great! Should I go tell Aleena and Hara I'm leaving?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why do you want to leave?"

"To stop Amesh from making any more wishes."

"Can you stop him? Can you stop his djinn?"

The two questions, put together, seemed to ask many questions at once.

"Are you saying I lack the power to save Amesh?"

"Yes."

"Are you saying if I stay here I can gain the power to save him?"

"What is the best way to remove a thorn?"

I was familiar with the old adage. "With another thorn."

"Then you know what you must do."

"No. Wait. I don't know."

It did not respond. Of course, I had not asked a question, so it was not required to respond. But I knew what it was trying to tell me; I just didn't want to face the truth.

"To save Amesh from his djinn, do I need to invoke my own djinn?"

"A djinn of greater power."

"But you keep saying how dangerous they are. I saw how dangerous they are!"

"They are dangerous in the wrong hands."

"But I don't have time to learn how to invoke a djinn. I have to stop Amesh before he makes another wish. Isn't it as simple as that?"

"It would be that simple if time were a constant."

"But my dad will be frantic. He'll report me missing to the police, and they'll end up talking to the woman at the hotel counter who was working the day Amesh came in with the package. They'll question Rini, too. That will lead them to Amesh, but he won't talk to them. How can he? If he starts talking about magic carpets, they'll throw him in jail."