“Here is where the Nile pours into the sea. There are two ways forward. Farther west, or farther east.” Nadira sketched a simple map on a sheet of papyrus. “This sea is surrounded by land, so if you sail on it, you’ll only end up coming back to the same places.”

  Everyone leaned in to peer at the papyrus Nadira had drawn.

  “And what lies beyond?” a woman’s voice asked from deeper inside.

  The shamaness who led the tribe was already very old. She listened from her bed, lying still. Seated beside that bed was the voice of Nadira’s older sister, Samara, the one chosen to become the next shaman.

  “I’m still studying,” Nadira said. “If we go west, there’s a boundary where this sea meets the great ocean. Beyond that, there are kingdoms again.” She added more lines to the map.

  “If we go east, there’s the Levant. It’s dangerous, always at war. But if we go around this peninsula, we can reach Baghdad with less risk,” Nadira went on.

  “Baghdad,” someone murmured. “A great city everyone knows.”

  “And in the west there’s another great city,” Nadira said. “Cordoba.”

  Voices rose at once as people began to argue, comparing what they had heard of each place.

  “We don’t have to decide yet,” the old woman said. Even lying down, her voice still carried strength.

  “That’s right. We don’t need to decide yet,” Samara concluded. “We have more to learn. We’ll keep working, keep trading, and keep preparing for the road.”

  Soon, it would be time for everyone to take what they had prepared before dawn and head to the market.

  Outside, the sea smelled of salt and fish. Gulls cried overhead. Samara hurried through the streets to the market and to the corner where she always set up. It wasn’t a permanent stall, but there was a simple roof and a low table, and behind it a shared oven she rented by the turn. She pulled off the coverings, assembled the table, and quickly laid out her bread. She was late today, but she’d still made it before the regular customers began to gather.

  Others earned their living the same way, selling snacks and fortunes, small crafts, or singing and dancing when hired. This was how they had come down the Nile—trading among locals, gathering money and information, always searching for a place that could become home. Mother, grandmother, great-grandmother. For generations the tribe had traveled under the leadership of a shamaness, always looking for ground that could become home.

  But the road had ended here.

  West or east, they would have to choose.

  The woman who had used the shared hearth before her called out, “Done.”

  Samara laid salted mackerel in a shallow iron pan and set it over the fire.

  She had to hurry. He would be coming.

  *

  Nadira slung a sack of papyrus bundles over her shoulder and climbed the academy’s white stone steps with a light tread, slipping into the dim interior.

  “Good. I made it,” she breathed, relieved. She sat in the shadow of a column along the arcade. In the courtyard a scholar stood speaking, while students sat around him, listening. Everyone wore loose, undyed robes and kept leather or hemp bags at their feet.

  Nadira glanced at the students’ headcloths and adjusted her own. Tall and slender, with the tribe’s distinctive build, she could pass for a poor student from the Nubian countryside. No one had ever challenged or suspected her.

  The lecture ended. Students rose and flowed back into the academy in a long stream. Nadira followed, then slipped away at a corner and vanished from the line.

  Her destination was the library.

  The air smelled of papyrus and ink, sharp and metallic. Shelves ran as far as she could see, crammed with papyrus bundles, clay tablets, and books. She went to the section on geography and pulled out the book she’d been reading since yesterday. A narrow strip of cloth marked her place like a ribbon.

  With the book in hand, she entered the adjoining room where copyists worked, sat at an empty desk, and began to take notes on papyrus. Before her eyes, the world kept widening.

  *

  The man always bought two of Samara’s mackerel sandwiches. She wrapped them quickly in scraps of papyrus, added pickles, then hesitated and slipped in an extra piece.

  “On the house,” she said. “Because you always come.”

  He accepted them, pleased, and looked up at her.

  “Azul.”

  “Azul?” Samara repeated, her expression puzzled.

  “My name.”

  Samara’s face broke into a smile.

  “Azul. I’m Samara.”

  “Samara,” he repeated.

  They looked at each other, smiling.

  *

  That day, her sister seemed strangely buoyant.

  Nadira noticed a small pink seashell on a shelf. She picked it up and held it to the light. Through it, the world turned pink.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “A gift,” Samara answered.

  Her voice was different. Nadira studied her face. Samara’s cheeks looked faintly flushed.

  Nadira was about to press her, when the old woman called from the next room.

  “Oh. I’m coming,” Nadira said, stepping toward the voice.

  Crack.

  The shell broke beneath her foot.

  “Ah, sorry. I stepped on it,” Nadira said, sounding apologetic.

  “It’s fine. It’s fine,” Samara replied, hiding her disappointment. It couldn’t be helped. Nadira had always been careless.

  Nadira only shrugged and left the room.

  As Samara gathered the shell’s fragments, she remembered Azul’s smile. Shell or no shell, her heart stayed warm.

  *

  Every night, Nadira told her sister and the old woman what she’d learned at the academy.

  These days Samara listened while embroidering a small pouch, her needle moving steadily. Was she even listening? Nadira broke off mid-sentence.

  “You’re awfully diligent, Sister. Is that for someone?”

  “Oh, no,” Samara said quickly. “I just like to keep my hands busy.”

  There was a lie in her voice. Nadira felt it at once.

  “Suspicious,” Nadira teased. “Is it him?”

  “No!” Samara answered too fast. Too fast, and her cheeks had gone red.

  “Oh, come on. That’s far too suspicious. Grandmother, what do you think?” Nadira flopped onto the edge of the old woman’s bed.

  “What’s wrong with it?” the old woman said, as if she found it all tender and amusing. “She’s young.”

  *

  Watching the sea and the ships, Azul ate a steaming mackerel sandwich. It was delicious, and it filled his belly.

  Then he saw a dark-skinned boy coming from the market, eating the same sandwich. Their eyes met. Realizing they were chewing the same thing, they both made a crooked little smile.

  The boy sat down on the stone beside Azul.

  “I like this mackerel sandwich,” the boy said, boldly familiar.

  “I eat it almost every day,” the boy said.

  “Me too,” Azul replied.

  The boy studied at the academy nearby.

  “The sea is good,” the boy went on, tossing a crumb of bread to a seabird. “I like the sea.”

  “Me too,” Azul said.

  “We get along,” the boy said with an open grin.

  And after that, Azul and the boy became companions who ate mackerel sandwiches together.

  *

  That day it rained.

  Azul thought the boy wouldn’t come. The scent of tide and rain mingled in the air. From the ship where he was docked, he looked out and saw a figure standing at the spot where they always ate.

  “Oh—” Azul blurted, and leapt down from the ship. He ran to the boy. The boy must have been waiting a long time; he was soaked through. Azul hurried him into his cabin, told him to strip off the wet clothes and dry himself, and handed him cloth.

  The boy tugged off the drenched headcloth. Long black hair spilled out, wet and heavy, thick with soft waves.

  He pulled off the robe he wore and let it fall at his feet. Wet fabric fell to the floor with a dull sound.

  The boy was not a boy.

  The sound of rain hammering the deck suddenly felt sharp enough to split Azul’s ears.

  *

  The tribe’s opinions were divided. West or east. Days passed in that undecided life.

  Azul came at his usual hour, bought two mackerel sandwiches as always, exchanged a few words, and left. The only difference was the embroidered pouch hanging from his belt now, the one Samara had made.

  Since yesterday, Samara had switched the pickles to red turnip. Azul had said he liked them. He was delighted, leaning in close, and he hugged her.

  Then Samara heard her sister retch. She sprang up at once.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know… I wanted your pickles, so I opened the jar, and suddenly I felt sick.”

  The jar of red turnip pickles had fallen, spilling across the floor.

  “Did you eat something bad?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling well lately.” Nadira clung to Samara, trembling with worry.

  “Lie down. I’ll bring medicine.”

  After Nadira swallowed it, Samara cleaned up the spill. Red turnips weren't always easy to get. Looking at her sister’s drawn face, Samara wondered what she should say to Azul.

  *

  At the usual hour Azul came to the stall, bought two sandwiches as always, chatted briefly, and left. Around Samara’s neck hung the little ceramic dove necklace Azul had given her.

  Slowly, she told herself. This was enough.

  She felt a rising impatience about Nadira’s health, but she wanted to taste her happiness for as long as she could.

  *

  Her sister’s voice was bright with excitement. Instead of dressing like a boy, Nadira wore an embroidered cloth like a girl.

  “How do I look?” Nadira twirled in front of Samara.

  “You look lovely,” Samara said, smiling.

  “Sister, lend me that,” Nadira said. “The necklace. The one with the little ceramic dove.”

  “What? That one…” Samara hesitated.

  Nadira clung to her, coaxing. “Please. It’s so cute. I’ll absolutely give it back.”

  Samara gave in and fastened the necklace around Nadira’s throat.

  Nadira flew out of the room as if she were made of spring air. She’s in love, Samara thought. That child, who used to be so small. Something in Samara’s chest pricked, just a little.

  *

  Azul stared at the necklace bouncing against Nadira’s chest.

  “That—”

  “Cute, right?” Nadira said innocently. Her blue-gray eyes, contrary to her tone, fixed on Azul with a challenging light. “I borrowed it from my sister.”

  “No,” Azul breathed. “That can’t be—”

  Panicked, he caught Nadira’s arm, and Nadira wound herself around him.

  “Azul,” she whispered. “I like you.”

  She leaned in close. She smelled of something sweet and dry, some powdered perfume. Dizzy, Azul’s hand closed at her waist, pulling her to him.

  Samara’s nails bit into the window frame. Plaster crumbled into the skin beneath her nails. Down in the dim alley, seen from the second-floor window, Azul and her sister were locked together in an embrace.

  *

  Nadira was summoned by the old woman. At times like this, her sister was always there. But not today.

  The old woman’s face was gentle.

  “Whose child is it?” Her voice was gentle too.

  “Did my sister tell you?” Nadira asked.

  The old woman waved a hand, as if to say she didn’t need to be told. She beckoned Nadira closer.

  “Which will you choose? West or east?”

  The question meant the same as saying: you should not go with your sister.

  “I could go either way,” Nadira said. “But… the west, I suppose. It suits me.”

  The old woman laid her sinewy hand over Nadira’s and stroked it softly.

  “You’ve made a painful decision,” she said.

  It was as if she understood everything.

  Tears spilled from Nadira’s eyes.

  “Grandmother… I—”

  Nadira began to sob. The old woman stroked her head.

  “Well done,” she murmured. “Well done. You are the pride of our blood.”

  The old woman knew the sisters well. The younger loved the older with her whole heart. The older cherished the tribe and her sister above all. Those who love with a whole heart are the ones most easily torn at a crossing of paths. The old woman had seen many such souls.

  *

  Not long after that, the old woman died.

  Her wish was granted: she had seen the sea once.

  After the rites, Samara called the tribe together again.

  “From here, the road splits in two,” she told them. “West or east. From here on, you may decide together.”

  A few families chose the west. The rest chose the east. With their destinations set, each group began to prepare.

  On the day of departure—

  “We’ll return to Fustat first, then go to Suez. From there, Baghdad,” Samara said.

  Nadira nodded.

  “We’ll sail from here to Tunis,” Nadira said, “then pass through a few ports, and on to Cordoba.”

  Samara nodded. Somehow, Nadira’s belly seemed a little fuller than before.

  “You have medicine? Food? Water?” Samara asked, trying not to let her worry show. “You’ll be able to resupply in port, I think.”

  Nadira smiled.

  A man appeared at the doorway.

  “Nadira.”

  “I’m coming.” Nadira slipped past him. “Goodbye, Sister.”

  Samara faced the man.

  “Azul,” she said, “make my sister happy.”

  Azul looked as if he didn’t know where to put his eyes.

  “Samara, I—”

  “You chose,” Samara said.

  Azul lowered his head. Then he left the room.

  There had been happiness. There had been bitterness too. But now, Samara thought only of this: let my sister be happy.

  *

  The ship eased out of the harbor.

  Those left on the pier raised their hands; those on the ship waved back.

  Nadira was shouting something. Samara ran without thinking to the edge of the pier. Her sister’s voice reached her on the wind.

  "My sister would wound her own heart to give up love," Nadira cried. "She'd tear herself to pieces and live on bleeding. I can’t allow it. I won’t allow it!”

  Samara stopped.

  Only then did she understand her sister’s true intent.

  It wasn’t that Samara had yielded. Nadira had saved her. The realization struck so hard Samara couldn’t move. The ship was already far away.

  “Why?” Samara whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The ship blurred, smeared by tears.

  She drew in a breath and turned back. The people who had chosen the east were waiting for her. She would think about this later.

  “Come,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  And with Samara at the front, the tribe’s new journey began.