Introduction to The Hidden Realm of the Enchanters

by
Heather Allam

When I first came to Morocco as a ‘tourist’, touring

the country took a backseat to what was really an
exercise in self-discovery. My life as a
forty-something divorcee had known little success;
my career of choice, my relationship with my family,
and ultimately my marriage had all crashed and
burned with no hope of recovery. It sounds cliche,
but I decided that a fresh start and forgiveness were
the gifts I would give myself because I’ve always felt
in my bones that living, with all its ups and downs is
a bestowal from the creator and really, who am I to
snub the universe?
I greeted the arid climate with glee and was
mystified by the peppery clouds of fragrance that
permeated the bustling souks. The tiresome
xenophobic microaggressions based on a person of
color’s superficial appearance that plagued my
American experience were happily in my rearview
mirror. I greeted these new attractions delightfully
and with open arms. During my wanderings of this
new and amazing world, I was caught off-guard
when I discovered a thoughtful and spiritually deep
young man. In short order he became my partner in
every way, firstly introducing me to his family, then
opening my mind to the spiritual teachings of the
Sunni. He honored me by guiding me safely through
his country as if I were a dignitary of sorts which I
found to be a humbling experience.
As a writer, I’m a collector of stories and as a
Northern Cheyenne tribal member I understand the
importance of recording family and tribal legends for
posterity. Living with these incredibly kind and
hospitable people for three years has inspired me to
not only write but to give their valuable familial sagas
the space to be enjoyed by those in the Western
world. Given the challenges associated with any kind
of language barrier, I utilized my new-found
significant other (Zakaria) to be the mechanism that
aided this objective. Zakaria would deliver the most
ethereal quranic renditions and his ancestral fables
were so climatic that with bated breath I would
commit them to memory. For the past three years I
have been launching myself into amassing these
stories as a youngster would gleefully gather
iridescent seashells and shimmering agates on a
sandy beach at low tide.
I hastily discovered that for my newly adopted family,
heirlooms were thin on the ground but their
assemblages of folk tales were abundant in number
and fodder for my penning. These age-old arabic
myths are living, breathing entities that require a
proficient narrator and a heart full of love to dress
them in language that befit their noble suitability as
tales portraying an underrepresented people in
modern American literature .
I sincerely hope the following narration will be able to
facilitate a new understanding and respect of Arab
(Moroccan) tribes. Inshallah they will have the
potential capacity to foster a de novo mindset in
those of us that are thousands of miles away from
their culture, literally and figuratively. The following
adaptation is the first legend that I have committed
to paper with additional fables looming on the
horizon.
*****************************************

The hidden realm of the Arabic Enchanters

Heather Allam

“This was a happening that dramatically changed my

mothers perception of the world.” My mother-in-law
Melika’s voice crackled with emotion as she recalled
her mother’s disturbing recollection of the haunted
event that a few of her relations underwent in the
early spring of ‘54. At that time, her dear grandfather
sought the comfort that came with sharing a meal
with his jovial brother, Yusuf. It also didn’t hurt that
his sister-in-law was a renown master of tagine
cuisine.
With the local mosque’s predictably comforting
Azan (call to prayer) echoing majestically off of the
surrounding hilltops, Grandpa Mustafa sipped away
at the steamy tea in an earthen clay cup that was
fashioned by his own weather-beaten and calloused
fingers. He was debating with himself about what to
bring to his brother’s brood. As he was an amiable
and considerate soul, he settled on some extra
sugar for the children and a new tagine that he had
successfully haggled for a bargain price at the local
souk. With a chuckle at the mental picture of the
children’s faces once they laid their eager eyes on
the typically unattainable sugar, he lightly packed a
bag with these items he knew would be welcomed
by his most cherished clansmen. Mustafa set off for
the relatively short 3 kilometer hike to the humble
dwelling of his kinsmen, mindful of the fast
approaching grey clouds that were blanketing the
sky toward the west. His many years as a tribal
herdman had schooled him on the importance of
maintaining a determined weather vigil at all times.
The atmospheric conditions notoriously change on a
dime in these parts of Morocco, due to how the
nearby Atlas mountains affect the fluctuating climate.
He loved to inhale the fresh-smelling breeze that
permeates the air of this season, Spring being a
long-awaited reprieve from the dark, inhospitable
conditions of winter. This past winter had been
especially severe, and not just because of the
foreseeable cold gloominess. The colonizing
French officials were purloining the most basic of
life’s necessities from all Moroccan people. Their
treacherous demands were increasing to the point
that many in the countryside were beginning to not
just feel the pinch of such partisan demands, but
actual hunger could be read in the eyes of their
neighbor’s children due to the lack of bread and
legumes.
Feeling the stirrings of anger that usually followed
such contemplations, Grandpa Mustafa consciously
pushed these thoughts back into the recesses of his
mind with an air of determination. Tonight he would
be the good-humored uncle to his nieces and the
rock that his brother and sister-in-law needed to lean
on. He took his responsibility as the elder brother
seriously, and with the death of his father, Mustafa
was now the head of their clan. With a cautious
upward glance at the inky black clouds that rimmed
the not-too-distant bluffs, he descended the first hill
almost robotically, so accustomed were his feet to
the well-used footpath that wound through the
rugged landscape.
As he set about scaling the closely-laid adjacent hill,
Grandpa began to hum a traditional folk song under
his breath while stifling his urge to whistle. Twilight
was fast approaching and the words of his long-dead
beloved mother rang in his consciousness, so clear
was his memory of her speech that it was almost
audible to his ears now as it had been back when
the words had first been uttered. “Don’t whistle after
the ishat prayer has been given. The jinn wake to
begin their ‘day’ at that time and to whistle is to
beckon them to join you.” Grandpa was a gifted
whistler whose talent was on par with a professional
flutist. However, he was also a devout muslim and
feared no one but Allah. Even so, grandpa was of
the opinion that he would be testing his piety by
overriding his mother’s guidance and that would be
flippantly sacreligious. So he suppressed his desire
to let out a melodic reverberation through his teeth
and instead began crooning a tribal ballad of his
youth.
Just as Grandpa crested the second hill he was able
to see the progress of the approaching storm. “I
must hurry if I don’t want to get drenched,” he
advised himself. Navigating his way through the
rocky terrain, he thought that he began to hear
music of some kind, carried by the wind of the
advancing weather system. For a few minutes he
assumed that he imagined it, as music was an
intrical part of his daily existence and he commonly
sang without knowingly doing it. Music brought both
a beauty to his soul and of late, an escape from
constant worry about the scarcity of food.
State-driven poverty was being foisted upon him and
his countrymen and it was starting to become
unbearable. When he, often with his family members
joining in, harmonized regional melodies, hope
seemed to be once-again within reach.
Grandpa continued downward with the simple goal
of making good time in order to outrun the clouds
that were beginning to bear down on the little hills
with determination. Shifting the weight of the sack
that was carelessly slung over his shoulder, he could
distinctly make out the warblings of a wedding chant.
In traditional Moroccan society, songs of marriage
that have been around since time immemorial are
played at all weddings to not only entertain guests,
but to accompany the happy couple into a blessed
life together. To play them at other times would be
inappropriate, to say the least. Despite this
knowledge, the music was now easily discernible as
wedding songs. Fighting his own rationale, he began
to question his sanity. “Am I so tired as to be
dreaming this into existence?” he wondered. The
realization that this was not a figment of his
imagination kick-started his mind into high-gear.
Immediately grandpa began looking for a source of
these misplaced tunes, but to no avail. All at once,
appearing before him was a confusing scene of
what, he was unsure. He was able to register a
campfire of sorts and beings of a diminutive stature.
“What a curious troupe of misfits,” he thought. The
mundane was what was expected and familiar to
him. This was anything but. However, the path of his
journey would inevitably take him past the site of this
strangeness, so he mustered all of his courage and
dauntlessly ploded ahead.
Grandpa approached the group while averting his
eyes so as to not inspire any irritation at his
potentially perceived intrusion in the group’s doings.
His curiosity was jarringly piqued when a
high-pitched wail yowled and he turned to face the
ensemble. He reflexively gasped at what he saw. In
the light of the dancing flames he beheld the
creatures of every nightmare he could recall, and
also the once lost to waking memory.
His eyes flitted from one figure to the next in rapid
succession. He saw horns above a squashed face.
“Horns!” he inwardly screamed. The next demon had
an extra eye dotting his forehead like a misplaced
bleeding wound, as all three were distinctly red. If
gender was a quality that the last two beings had,
the next one was surely female, however
grotesquely so. Her hag-like appearance sent
shockwaves through his perception of reality. She
had three misshapen breasts that jiggled with every
bounce of her hips, in perfect time to the beat of the
drum. The drummer was the most fear inspiring of all
with his gleaming white iris-less eyes and wide
malicious grin full of pointed amber-colored teeth,
which were still visible in the waning gleam of twilight
and the dancing beam of the fire.
Grandpa stood dumbstruck, his thoughts were
snarled together like the woolen yarn that his mother
had once tasked him with untangling. His mind
reeled a million miles an hour, even as his body was
frozen as if in a state of rigor mortis. Perhaps it was
a flight or fight response that caused one thought to
scream over the rest of the chaos in his brain. “RUN
OR YOU WILL DIE” shrieked with so much authority
that he felt as though it left aftershocks of the
command vibrating through every cell in his body.
Grandpa was running, for where, that didn’t even
occur to him. His mind continued to play that
unimaginable scene on a loop as legs carried him
back to the earthen stone hovel that was his home.
Now, my great-uncle was worried when his brother
didn’t show. He didn’t wait for the morning light to
look for him. He knew that if grandpa was injured
somehow that he must get to him quickly. In such a
state his life would be in peril for this was an
unforgiving and rough country.
Great-uncle pushed open the roughly-hewn door of
Grandpa’s hut while hollering his name. Quickly, his
fumbling fingers found the rusted oil lamp that was
placed on a hook near the entrance as he scraped a
match against the wall. He lit it and a warm glow
emanated from the rusty lamp and filled the cramped
little room. He was wholly unprepared for the sight
that met his eyes as he approached the stone
structure’s only bed and pulled off the worn quilt
covering the quivering mass of what he believed to
be his brother. He discovered his brother Mustafa,
who was lying in a fetal position. Grandpa was
convulsing slightly, his deathly-pale skin glistening
with sweat with mouth agape and crying like a man
in mourning.
“What happened to you? Are you sick?,” Great-uncle
Yusuf gently inquired. Grandpa Mustafa opened his
mouth to speak, but the words seemed to catch in
his throat even though his mouth continued to
rhythmically open and close like that of a fish on dry
land. Yusuf was determined to aid his only living
brother, so he stayed with him throughout the night.
In the morning, he fetched his wife and children and
as a family they resolved to stay with Mustafa for as
long as it took to see him on his feet again.
On the third day, Great-uncle’s wife had informed
him that Mustafa’s hair was falling out and the
remaining hair was turning a shocking white. What
was more concerning was that he could not yet eat
on his own and his speech had not yet returned.
This was a mystery illness and they were quite
baffled as to how to treat it.
In two weeks time Grandpa’s hair was now solid
white and he was still extremely lethargic but he
began to mumble a few words, much to the relief of
his family. He was now growing stronger day by day.
The night before Great-uncle and his family were to
leave for their own abode, Grandpa revealed the
frightening events to them. Great-uncle’s wife had
heard her own families tales of such encounters and
said as much in order to lend credence to Mustafa’s
telling and assure her brother in law that she
believed his story. With his head on a salah mat,
Great-uncle stayed up all night praying that his
family would never again be targeted by evil.
Melika stared wistfully out of the window. She
explained that her Grandpa grew to become much
more religious as a result of this experience and his
devotion did not go unrewarded by Allah. He was
able to earn so much revenue from his crops that he
secured the hand of a local pious girl. “He lost the
ruddy handsomeness of youth but gained a deep
understanding and respect for the power of God
which served him well throughout all his days.” She
wiped a tear from her eye as she smiled. “Sharing
this story with you is such a gift to me. After I’m in
my grave, Inshallah this tale will live on.”

Yes, Melika. Inshallah.