The Hour of the Oryx Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Farah Zaman

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this

  book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

  permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles

  and reviews.

  Book Power Publishing, a division of Niyah Press

  Books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use.

  ISBN: 978-1-945873-32-4

  The Moon of Masarrah Series, Book Three

  Bulk purchases are available for schools and groups.

  For information, please email the author at [email protected]

  FarahZamanAuthor.com

  www.bookpowerpublishing.com

  Cover Design by Anis Puteri

  Praise and Gratitude to

  the One who continues to grant me life.

  Thank you to my family for their love and support,

  and to my readers who gives me the impetus to go on.

  And for all those who played a part

  in the publication of this book,

  you have my most heartfelt thanks.

  I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.

  THE MOON OF MASARRAH SERIES

  Book 1 – The Moon of Masarrah

  Book 2 – The Sign of the Scorpion

  Book 3 – The Hour of the Oryx

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One: The Orphanage

  Chapter Two: The Button in the Bushes

  Chapter Three: At the Marzuqah Mall

  Chapter Four: A Scare and a Sketch

  Chapter Five: The Solidarity Visit

  Chapter Six: Mahmood and Muk-Muk

  Chapter Seven: Light Across the Lake

  Chapter Eight: Discovery at Dawn

  Chapter Nine: A New Twist

  Chapter Ten: A Clandestine Meeting

  Chapter Eleven: The Legend of Mehrshad

  Chapter Twelve: The Stolen Oryx

  Chapter Thirteen: Talking with Ms. Tubaa

  Chapter Fourteen: Walking with Ms. Yusra

  Chapter Fifteen: Orphans Evening Out

  Chapter Sixteen: The Clippings Connection

  Chapter Seventeen: A Daring Plan

  Chapter Eighteen: Monkey Business

  Chapter Nineteen: Moving by Moonlight

  Chapter Twenty: Desperate Run

  Chapter Twenty-One: Mystery at Midnight

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Solomonic Circle

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Searching for Secrets

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Book, The Boy and The Oryx

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Moonglow and Magic

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Enlightenment

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Trial by Fire

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Fighting with Fiends

  Epilogue

  COMING NEXT!

  REVIEWS!!

  Glossary

  Prologue

  Clad in a hooded cloak, I set forth into the silent night. Tendrils of gray clouds cover a thin moon, turning my path into a shadowy tract. Even blindfolded, I would have still found my way in the gloom. I’ve trod this lonely trail many times before. But this time is different. This time, my heart is hammering, and my hands are clammy. I glide along like a phantom, ears pricked, and eyes peeled. The whisper of my breath and the crunch of gravel beneath my feet sound like thunder to my ears.

  At long last, I come to the house I seek. It’s almost hidden by trees. Perfect for my purpose. I hug the bushes as I creep to a copse in the back. Concealed by the dense foliage, I drop my hood and fix my eyes on the house. A window is open, the curtains drawn. A man is hunched over a desk, framed in a halo of light.

  “The fool is burning the midnight oil,” I mutter. “I hope he goes to bed soon so I can make my move.”

  I pace back and forth under the overhanging branches, clenching my fists and gritting my teeth as time drags on. Leaning against a scraggy trunk, I breathe deeply. The steamy air is thick with the scent of jasmine and the bitter tang of vines growing in wild tangles around me. In the sky, clouds still clutch at the moon while a few stars sparkle here and there. My eyes sharpen as the man in the room leans back and kneads the nape of his neck.

  “He’s going to bed now,” I murmur. “My wait is finally over.”

  When he slumps over the desk, I hit the trunk with my fists, hissing in pain as my knuckles sting. I can wait no longer. I must go in and look for it while he’s sleeping. “And if he wakes up,” I mutter, “it will be a rude awakening indeed. I’ve come prepared to leave with my prize.” I caress the knife in my pocket, taking comfort in the cold feel of the steel.

  An insect crawls over the nape of my neck. Light as a feather, it burrows between my shoulder blades and slithers down my spine. The sensation is maddening. I twist and turn, trying to brush it off but the creature continues its relentless course down my back.

  Flinging off my cloak, I grasp the shoulders of my working clothes and flail at the creeping menace. I breathe a sigh of relief when I finally evict it. It has cost me precious time. I must make my move now. But first, I have to don my disguise. I do it quickly before streaking over to the window and peering in. The man is still sleeping. So far, so good.

  I lift the window screen and climb noiselessly into the room. It’s warm and musty with the overwhelming odor of books. Every conceivable space is crammed with them. I glide over to the desk. The man’s right cheek is pressed against the surface, his arms cradling his head like a pillow. Soft snores are bubbling from his half-opened mouth.

  Where is it? It must be close by. He’d only gotten it today. My heart leaps when I spy it next to a spiral notebook. I smile in triumph, thinking how easy it has been after all. As I pick it up, a heavy silver pen slips out, hitting the desk like a cannon firing. The man awakens and stares up at me in shock. I rush for the window, but he springs up and comes after me.

  Before I can make my escape, he grabs my arm and cries, “Thief, Thief!”

  I struggle to break free, but the man’s grip is strong. Trapping me against the wall, he tries to rip off my disguise. Panicked, I reach for the knife in my pocket and pull it out. I strike at his arm, but he turns aside, the knife sinking deep into his stomach. With a choked cry, he topples to the floor with a heavy crash. I yank out the knife, shuddering at the sight of the glistening scarlet stains on it.

  A door creaks open down the hallway. Footsteps hurry towards the room. I must flee now. Shoving the knife into my pocket, I run to the window and leap out. I crouch below, my heart beating like a drum in my chest. A scream comes from inside. I rise on my toes and peek into the room. A young woman is crouching by the fallen man, her eyes wide with horror. She shakes his shoulder, asking him what’s wrong.

  He struggles to open his eyes. Life is already fading from them. Gripping one of her hands, he gasps, “The hour…of the oryx.”

  As she stares at him in bewilderment, his eyes close and his head lolls to the side. Then he becomes as still as a stone.

  I’ve killed him.

  Chapter One:

  The Orphanage

  Adam Horani leaned over the rails of the Alhambra as it glided over the rippling waves. All he could see for miles around was the blue expanse of sea and the silken skies above. He lifted his face to the wind, enjoying the steady rush of spray, tempered by the warm caress of the sun. His eyes widened as a dark line appeared on the horizon.

  “Land ahoy,” he called out to his sister Layla and their friends, Zaid and Zahra Alkurdi.

  The three teenagers c
ame over to stand next to Adam. They stared eagerly at the shadowy sprawl of a city looming closer and closer.

  “This is how explorers of old must have felt when they saw new lands,” Layla said, her green eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare.

  “Four hours ago, we were home in Midan,” Zahra marveled, a smile on her chubby face. “Now we’re almost in Wijdan.”

  “When we visited nine years ago with our parents, we flew,” Zaid said, his dark eyes lit with pleasure. “It’s much more fun traveling by boat.”

  “Yeah,” Adam agreed. “It’s the more scenic route.”

  Hassan and Hakeem, Adam and Layla’s eight-year old twin brothers, ran out from the shade to stand next to the teenagers. Their parents, Dr. and Mrs. Horani, and the twins’ nanny, Mouna, followed more slowly. They all remained at the rails as the ship pulled into the port city of Gilad.

  After clearing customs, they were met by their white-robed guide, Jawad. As they waited for him to bring the bus, Adam’s ears tingled. He turned to see two shady-looking men staring at him from amidst a throng of people on the sidewalk.

  Were they pickpockets?

  He kept a wary eye on them, but they remained motionless, their eyes coming to rest on him occasionally. They were still there when Jawad pulled up in a sleek white minibus. The men and youths loaded the luggage while the women, girls and twins boarded the vehicle.

  After their suitcases were stowed away, Jawad went around to the driver’s side while Adam followed his dad and Zaid to the passenger door. As they passed by the waiting crowd, a hand fastened on Adam’s arm. Wrenching free, he turned to glare in disbelief at the two creeps who had been staring at him. When they tried to grab him again, he recoiled and scrambled into the bus.

  “Adam, what’s the matter?” His mother frowned as he almost plowed into his dad in the aisle.

  “Two men tried to pick my pocket just now,” he panted as he plopped into the seat next to Zaid.

  “What?” his father exclaimed, in the act of taking a seat. “Where are they?”

  Adam looked out the window. “They’re gone now.”

  “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” His mother asked anxiously. Adam had inherited her wheat-colored skin and dark eyes, the coloring of her Egyptian forebears.

  “No, I’m fine.” He patted his pocket to make sure his wallet and cell phone were still there. “I saw them staring at me. I never thought they’d be so brazen with so many people around.”

  Why did they choose me out of everyone else?

  Jawad edged the bus into the heavy traffic. As they gathered speed and buildings rushed past, the tension left Adam’s shoulders. He stretched out his long legs as far as they could go in the narrow confines of the seat and gazed out the window. The city gleamed with shiny new structures and a few well-seasoned old ones in between.

  “I’d like to see more of Gilad,” he said as they whizzed by a shimmering skyscraper. “It looks very interesting.”

  “It would be nice to spend a day here,” Layla said, her nose pressed to the window.

  “Honey, ask Jawad if he can bring the kids one day during the week,” Mrs. Horani said to her husband.

  Obligingly, Dr. Horani called out, “Jawad, can you bring the kids to Gilad one day during the week?”

  “Na’am, on Tuesday, insha Allah,” came the reply.

  “Can we come too?” Hakeem asked.

  “Of course.” Their father smiled. The twins had inherited both his red hair and green eyes.

  “Super,” Hassan said, his eyes shining.

  An hour later, the bus came to a stop in the driveway of a two-story, biscuit-colored building.

  “Marhaban. Welcome to Villa Wadha,” Jawad said. “I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

  Waiting at the front door was his smiling wife, Umm Kifah. After ushering the visitors inside and making sure they were comfortably settled in, the couple got ready to leave.

  “Everything you need for breakfast is in the kitchen,” Umm Kifah said. “As arranged, lunch and dinner will be delivered from the village at your request.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Horani said. “We really appreciate your help.”

  “I’ll be back in the morning to take you over to the orphanage,” Jawad said. “It’s just a few minutes by foot through the sidra grove across the street.”

  “We’ll be ready and waiting, insha Allah,” Dr. Horani said.

  The next morning, Adam stared up at a hulking brick building. Dark brown. Not a most welcoming color. In the bright sunlight, it appeared battered and bruised, its box-like shape reminding him of a towerless citadel from the Middle Ages. A sign on the front lawn said, Dar-as-Sakinah International Orphanage.

  “The House of Tranquility,” he murmured. “What a sweet name.”

  “Let’s hope it lives up to it,” Zahra said as she studied the structure.

  “If buildings could talk, I’m sure this one would have a lot of dark secrets to spill,” Layla said.

  “It’s kind of isolated, isn’t it?” Zaid said. “Almost like a prison.”

  “Yeah, you won’t hear horns blowing or car alarms going off here,” Adam said.

  A stone walkway took them to the front door. Unlocking it, Jawad ushered them into an entrance hall with soaring ceilings. Sunlight filtered through a circular glass skylight etched with geometric patterns.

  “This is the atrium,” he told them. “I’m taking you to the conference room. The administration will be waiting there.”

  He led them across the scuffed beige tiles to a dim corridor on the left. In a rectangular room, a group of people in uniforms were sitting around a table. A man and a woman stood up and came to them. They made an incongruous pair, the man tall and thin, and the woman short and stubby.

  “Salaams. This is Dr. Horani and his family,” Jawad said to the duo.

  “Thank you for bringing them,” the man said. He was in his early forties, like Dr. Horani. “We appreciate it.”

  Jawad smiled. “It was my pleasure. I’ll see you children on Tuesday, insha Allah.” With a wave, he was gone.

  The man shook Dr. Horani’s hand. “I’m Mr. Mazin, the Director.” His dark blue uniform consisted of a thigh-length shirt and matching pants. “Welcome to Dar-as-Sakinah.”

  “I’m Ms. Tubaa, the Assistant Director,” the woman said, shaking Mrs. Horani’s hand. “I’m pleased to meet you and your family.” She was somewhere in her mid-fifties, with a long face that reminded Adam of a camel. Her uniform was a white scarf and a gown in the same dark blue material as Mr. Mazin’s.

  “Ta’al. Come, sit down and meet our teachers.” Mr. Mazin beckoned them to the table.

  He introduced the two men and three women by their names and the subjects they taught. Among them was a married couple. They gave a chorus of welcomes to the newcomers.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Horani smiled.

  “We’re fortunate to have another doctor and nurse team like you cover while Dr. Qalaam and his wife are away,” Mr. Mazin said. “They’re expecting their first grandchild and want to be there for the birth.”

  “It’s our privilege to be here,” Dr. Horani said. He was dressed in khaki slacks and a brown-striped shirt. “We’ll do our best for the students while we’re here.”

  “How many do you have at present?” Mrs. Horani asked. She had paired her green gown with a lightweight black blazer and matching floral scarf.

  “A hundred and twenty-five, our full capacity,” Ms. Tubaa replied. She had a rather deep voice. “For those four and above, we have a daily structured schooling program. For the younger children, we have a nursery staffed with two childminders.”

  “It must be difficult with so many students and just a few teachers,” Dr. Horani said.

  “We had another teacher but he…died several months ago.” There was a tight look about
Mr. Mazin’s dark eyes. “Ms. Tubaa and I are filling in until we hire someone else.”

  Adam glanced at the teachers. Instead of the usual stoic expression he had come to expect when death is mentioned, their faces wore the same expression of disquiet as Mr. Mazin’s. Odd. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Ms. Tubaa and the teachers left.

  “They’ve got to get to class,” Mr. Mazin said. “We start at nine. Would you like to have some breakfast?”

  “We ate already, thank you,” Mrs. Horani said.

  “Let me take you to the clinic then.”

  He led them to the other side of the building and into a spacious suite. “You can take your time and look around,” he said to his new employees. “There’s a private room at the back for you to rest during the midday break. You don’t need to go home until you’re done for the day.”

  “That’s wonderful, thank you,” Mrs. Horani said.

  Turning to the teenagers, Mr. Mazin asked, “Would you like a tour?”

  “Oh yes, that would be great,” Layla said, her eyes shining with pleasure.

  “I’ll send one of the students to show you around.” Looking down at the twins he said, “We have a nice playroom for you boys to hang out in. There’s lots of fun stuff to do there.”

  “When can we see it?” Hakeem asked.

  “Anytime you like.”

  “Can we play there?” Hassan said.

  “Na’am. You surely can.”

  “Can you show Mouna where it is?” Mrs. Horani asked. “The boys can go play there for a bit.”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, come on boys,” Mouna sing-songed in her Desi accent as she hustled the twins out behind Mr. Mazin.

  “After you children finish the tour, you can go home with Mouna and the boys,” Mrs. Horani said, dusting the top of the reception desk. “I’ll order lunch from the village for you.”