Angel's Trumpet

She looked just like her.

She had almond eyes, midnight-dark, each reflective shine a star in her iris. She had dimples, damp with the remnants of her resolve. Those same double-toned lips bit themselves in fear, stifling a sob. The girl looked about the same age as when he last saw her. But her hands . . . they weren’t right. They weren’t laden with the burn scars that resulted from their childhood antics in her father’s workshop. They were clean sheets, like freshly pressed papyrus.

So it wasn’t her.

Thank god.

Thank god she wasn’t the one on her knees before him, chained around the neck and limbs, fingertips dipped in red and black blossoming under her eyes. But it didn’t change the fact someone was. A girl dragged away from her dead parents, slaughtered in cold blood by the man in front of him holding the chains. A talwar was gingerly rolled between the man’s fingers, the cursed blade gleaming in the candlelight. 

“Boy, you know the drill,” said a deep, raspy voice. It wasn't the kind of deep rasp that was like a whisper of comfort in the middle of night, but the foreboding type that beckoned warnings of a nightmare. “Do your job, and the girl lives another night.”

The week before, it was a boy the girl’s age. The month before, it was another girl half as old as both of them combined. Every mission a new kid, a new chain around Zahran’s neck, every addition pulling tighter around him. The Einari regiments had hot iron where their hearts should have been, burning anyone’s organs that were made merely of flesh. Yet as burnt as he was, Zahran’s heart was still as soft as ever.

“What is it this time?” said a cold, emotionless voice from Zahran’s throat. A voice he had, but didn’t own.

“The Dawa Saz.” The apothecary. “She is the one brewing the poisons that the rebels are using for the troops in Southern Jandal. We have located her.” The man’s voice hissed, like the snake he was. “Get rid of her.”

Zahran’s golden eyes couldn’t bear to meet the child’s. Not her eyes. Not when he became . . . this. So with a respectless nod, he turned on his heel and left the room. A whimpering cry slipped and stuck to his boots, making every step heavy like he was stuck in mud. 

But he had no choice but to trudge through the swamp anyways.

***

Muzhirah gingerly took off her black gloves to reveal hands she never let anyone else see. Glossy, pale pink scar tissue stretched along her knuckles and joints, thin but stiff. The burn marks plagued the back of her hands, like grotesque paint was poured all over them. They didn’t hurt anymore, but she would feel the ghosts of the heat whenever her skin tingled with contact. It took her a while to go near a hot pot again, but the necessity came when she was the only one to carry her father’s alchemic legacy. She sighed as she heaved the basket of freshly picked herbs from the floor to the counter, rolling up her sleeves to get to work.

She picked tufts from the mess of shrubs and sorted them into piles to be packaged into old labeled vials. Out of habit, a smooth voice that never came out other than in moments like this sang a lullaby she heard a lifetime ago. “Beyond the blue lake’s sway, they’ll bring a boat of gold so bright, and turn stars into diamonds of light. My little one, sleep tonight . . .” 

Muzhirah never heard her own voice in those lyrics, but her father’s. Her father, who used to sort these very herbs in this workshop; who was forced to become a medic in the Einari invasion, and lost his life rebelling the only way he knew how. The way that Muzhirah makes a living off of now.

The young apothecary squished a bud of lavender between her fingers and inhaled the scent, hoping it would calm her restlessness, just as it had calmed the babies of some of her customers. To cover the stench of certain other customers, who sought to take revenge on the soldiers who took their children. Muzhirah stuffed a few flowers into her pocket, which would aid her sensitive nose in distracting her from the imaginary blood reeking from her hands.

Her right hand bore leaves that could heal: aloe vera for burns, comfrey for the bones, and mullein for the lungs. The left held nature’s weapons: belladonna, mandrake, hemlock, and angel’s trumpet, herbs that could disable and drive a man mad to his death. 

After sorting them into their respective vials, she inspected the basket for anything left over. Muzhirah knew what it was before she even got a glimpse; her nose and her chest knew it all too well: sandalwood. It was the scent of the earth, the scent of a boy during simpler times. The scent she cherished, but couldn’t handle.

“Muzhi!”

Laughter. Mischief. Early mornings in the woods, late nights beneath the stars. Even after all these years, she remembered it all—vivid, bittersweet. Like the rings of a tree cut long ago. Muzhirah breathed in the sandalwood and held her breath, wanting to relive it all for a little longer.

But then, as always, she had to let it go.

He was dead. Taken by the Einaris. Those soldiers took a past Muzhirah with them and buried it with the boy with golden eyes. 

The apothecary closed her tired eyes that burned with exhaustion, a headache stinging her temples with the realization of a mistake. 

Ugh, I forgot the charcoal.

Whatever, I’ll get it tomorrow.

*** 

Zahran slipped a khanjar onto his leather belt covered by his cloak, the dagger laced with an odorless poison. He put up his hood and bandaged his hands in leather wraps. It will be a simple in-and-out mission. Act as a customer, stab her when she turns around to let him in, and leave before he can see the life seep out of her eyes. Worst case scenario, she somehow poisons him and he doesn’t have to feel his chest get heavier with every passing second anymore.

But . . . the girl.

He let out an exasperated huff as he slid a hand down his face. Fine, let’s avoid the worst case scenario. 

After walking out of the cell he had been living in since his capture—his only comfort for the last ten years—he made his way to the southern forests as his superior had instructed him to. His boots thudded against the dusty path, never flinching at the rocks digging into his heels. Branches smacked his face and scratched his wrists, but they were nothing compared to the whips and cuffs Zahran had to endure for so long. Squirrels rushed up trees, rabbits hurried between bushes, and robins sang their melancholies for him. 

When he started, the sun hadn’t even risen yet, but the crickets were already deep in their chorus with fireflies as their audience when he found the cottage shrouded in ivy. It has been a long time since he could smell something there other than smoke and blood. He missed the scent of earth and petrichor enveloping him in their warm embrace. It had been ten years since he was able to really soak it in like this.

When did everything go wrong? No, Zahran thought. It’s still going wrong, and you’re not doing anything about it, you cowardly dog.

But I am so damn tired.

With a heavy exhale, Zahran knocked on the ebony door, heart pounding, cursing him that it still worked. 

Only for it to go silent when he met gloved hands.

*** 

The scent of sandalwood flooded her senses. Golden irises peered into her own and Muzhirah could feel her heart drop to her stomach. It couldn’t be. He was so much taller, his face sharper, his eyes exhausted. He wasn’t anything like the boy she knew, yet he was everything like him.

“Dawa Saz?” said the man, voice velvety thick.

“Yes?” Muzhirah cursed herself for absentmindedly confirming her identity. This could have been an assassin for all she knew. 

“I’m here to request some poison,” the man held up a sack of money. “To retaliate against the troops in the north.”

Muzhirah narrowed her eyes at the stranger. “Which rebel group are you from?” she said, trying to hide her suspicion. 

“Azaad.”

“Who sent you?”

“Malik Khan.”

Frankly, Muzhirah did not believe him. Malik Khan never sent anyone for his orders; he always came himself. The man was already peering behind her, not to the wall of jarred herbs, but to the windows and the back door. She also noticed a subtle bump in his robe, presumably a weapon. It was not unusual for a traveler to be carrying a weapon, but none of her customers actively hid them from her. It would have been in her best interest to get this man to leave, to grab for the khanjar she keeps at the hilt of the door lock . . .

But some part of her wanted to—needed to—know who this man really was.

Muzhirah slipped the khanjar to the medicine belt on her punjabi and, against her better judgment, pulled the door open.

“Come in.”

*** 

She looked just like her.

The eyes, the dimples, the crevices of her face, even the subtle surprise in her expression. An apothecary. She was the daughter of an apothecary . . .

“Come in.”

Zahran snapped out of his thoughts and opened his mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out. What could he say? After all this time? It might not even be her. The woman had already spun on her heel to let him in and he found his hand reaching out for her, but not daring to touch her. She turned her head over her shoulder, voice older than the friend he remembered, “Sit down, I’ll make you a cup of tea.” And with that, the woman disappeared into her herbarium within a blink.

He missed his mark.

She should have been dead by now. 

But he just . . . couldn’t.

It was then he realized he couldn’t bear feeling any more skin going cold. Any more chests cease heaving. Any more open eyes that couldn’t see, any more slit throats that couldn’t speak. Any more nights hearing their voices, cursing him in his restless sleep. He felt this way every time he was assigned a new target, but they never made him want to tuck his head into himself and scream until he was sore as much as he did now. 

As if in a trance, Zahran entered the cottage and sat himself down on the old couch. He only noticed the surface he was sitting on when a soft voice brought him back to the present. 

“Beyond the blue lake’s sway . . .”

They’ll bring a boat of gold so bright, he finished in his head, not fully registering what this could have meant just yet.

“. . . turn stars into diamonds of light . . .”

“My little one, sleep tonight.” He whispered to himself, chest buzzing, something tugging at the corners of his lips. 

It is her! She hummed that lullaby to herself whenever she needed comfort. She sang it as he bandaged her injured hands after experimenting with her father’s tools. He memorized it for her after her father passed. It was their unintended little secret. It can’t be anyone else.

His leg bobbed, foot drumming on the floor. Sweaty palms held each other for support. What should he do? It’s been ten years. He wasn’t the same person anymore. Hell, he came here to kill her; like how he did for many others.

How do I live with myself?

Zahran clenched his knuckles together, as if making some intense prayer. I’ll stop. I’ll start now. I’ll get out of this. I’ll change. I’ll save that girl somehow. 

I’ll stop being afraid.

He strained his head to look past the pillar blocking Muzhirah’s back, her still humming to herself.

After a cup of tea.

*** 

Muzhirah rushed to her workspace and propped her elbows on the counter, head in her hands, fingers combing her hair. She reached into her pocket for the stashed lavender buds and crushed them with shaky hands, trying to lose herself in the scent. I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die.

Not if I can do something about it. 

Head throbbing, Muzhirah reached for the gas burner and heated up a pot of water. It’s not him. Hesitantly, she reached for the vial of angel’s trumpet. It’s. Not. Him. 

She smashed the herb with a pestle and mortar. He’s dead. Vines hung down the wall of bottled herbs the Dawa Saz owned. From the corners of her eyes, they threatened to strangle her, but she violently shook her head and pushed on with her task. The young apothecary grabbed for some old, dried belladonna concentrate, and then more angel’s trumpet. It’s just a coincidence. 

Muzhirah compiled the herbs in a porcelain cup, adding a few strands of lemongrass and rosemary, a petal of hibiscus, and a dash of crushed cinnamon. She then added some honey as sweetener. After washing her hands of the toxins, the young woman had to physically step back to take a breath, reaching for more lavender in her pocket. The stench of death was too much for her.

It’s not him.

But who is he?

***

I’ll drink the tea and tell her it is good. Try some small talk. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just straight ask if her name is Muzhirah. If she tries to kill me, I’ll tell her about her burnt hands. Then she’ll believe me. Or she won’t . . . and kill me anyways . . .

The young man sighed into his hands, closing his eyes in hopes of grounding himself. How will I get her to believe me? Does she even care anymore? Zahran peeked out of his little refuge and his mind buzzed with a different issue. How will I change? How will I get those kids out of there?

His foot began tapping as he drifted back into deep thought. That was until the young apothecary entered the room with gloved hands gripping a delicate saucer holding a beautifully painted porcelain cup. The smell of hibiscus and honey filled Zahran’s nostrils, and he felt like it was the first time he breathed since he had entered this cottage. He glanced up and met the apothecary’s eyes, catching a glimpse of the girl he knew before she averted her gaze. 

It was then he was able to notice the little things. The dangle of gold earrings from various piercings, the kajal that lined her lashes, the beauty mark below her lips. She was taller, leaner, an almost feline-like figure. Yet, he still saw the little girl with missing teeth, messy hair, and scrapes on her knees. Zahran looked down at his own calloused hands, bigger palms and longer fingers than they once were. Time really passed.

The ex-assassin graciously accepted the cup and saucer, planning on how he should make his expression to look pleased to proceed with his plan. Perhaps he would be able to pull it off, as it was the first time in a long time he felt genuine joy.

Zahran blew on the steaming cup filled with the rich auburn drink. Take a sip and smile, and then—

The glass shattered to pieces at Zahran’s feet, the saucer rolling to the other side of the room. The burning never left his lips, but he couldn’t feel anything in his fingers. Light hurt, and he could feel every spark of candlelight seer through his skull. He closed his eyes, but he didn’t see black; he saw his cell. 

Cold, dark, empty. 

Zahran could feel his stomach rise to his throat as he gripped his ribs and doubled over.

No. 

Light flashed underneath his eyelids, the sound of whips in one ear, and children laugh in his other. 

No. 

The hazy image of a girl smiling as she weaved dandelions into a crown. Him patting her shoulder after he teased her too much. A race to who could get to the end of the field first.

No, no, no . . . 

Zahran clamped his palms against his ears, hoping it would somehow muffle the sharp ringing. Unable to bear reliving moments he will never experience again, the young man dared to open his eyes. In the corner of the room next to the one who had done this to him, he saw another woman.

Mama.

She was bleeding from the ribs, eyes rolling to the back of her head, talwar straight through her chest. 

Exactly as he last saw her. 

He couldn’t take it anymore.

Zahran felt everything falling backwards as he gripped his throat, willing himself to speak. He wanted to say so much, yet all he could was sputter one word.

“Muzhi . . .”

*** 

No!

She can’t have heard it right. Maybe I inhaled some of the angel’s trumpet extract, because there is no way this is—

Her limbs didn’t care, for they propelled her into the herbarium before she could establish her resolve. Air rushed so hard into her lungs that it burned. Bottles were knocked over, remnants everywhere. Charcoal, charcoal . . . where the hell is it?! 

Muzhirah frantically searched, hoping—praying—to find even one pebble of charcoal. Until the realization slapped her in the face.

She didn’t have any. 

Her chest constricted, and she grabbed her kameez, forcing her chest to cooperate with her. Childhood rivalry, fighting with sticks, jumping into the lake—it all raced through her head. 

“My little one, sleep tonight.”

No. She jerked her head. God, please. Please. I won’t touch angel’s trumpet again. No more poisons. Just please—

And before she could fall to her knees, his body met the earth.