Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXXIX. Come Hell & High Water

17
Voltaire
Rabat, Morocco
The Djinnʼs Riad
Territory: Hijazi & Maghrebi
August 1st, 2004
Time: 7:30 AM
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    The morning sun gilded the heavens when Voltaire awoke.

    The Moorish waves of the shoreline shined bright refulgent beams; Mahmoud El Idrissiʼs Saa Saida teased Voltaireʼs ears with its musical breath.

    As the happy hour caressed Voltaire with its warmth, Voltaireʼs ears were flooded with the poetry of Arabic, French, and Amazigh, being murmured as the waves yawned their reprieve. Voltaireʼs escape from Tonoho Oʼodham had been a bloody one, co-opting Oroʼs death and la Volta Grandeʼs invasion to slaughter enough of the Queen Teresaʼs Glory crew to steal the vessel, sailing to the Spanish enclaves that greeted the Maghrebi ports. Now, as the salt of the Atlantic cried its bitter tears and the dust settled, the Sahara shipwrecked Voltaire, mooring him to the Kingdom of Morocco with a mysterious hunger.

    A single breath, with teeth sinking into his birth name:

    "Marhaba, Volubilis."

    The Djinn of Barbados was a wolf in sheepʼs clothing, sizing up its prey. The coastline of Rabat made his mouth salivate, and as Voltaire walk towards the Djinnʼs riad, he took in the sights and sounds. The Djinn of Barbados wore the face of a devilishly handsome Middle Eastern men, with the sapphire blue markings of the djinn: deeply etched scars of the damned and doomed glowing like gold against his deathly paled skin. He wore a midnight black thobe and ghutra, accentuating his snake-like icy blue eyes and midnight blue beard, carrying himself with the poise of an Emirati or Qatari or Saudi, but the cruelty of a hellhound thirsty for blood.

    The Djinnʼs riad, however, was the golden signal of luxury, of cold opulence. Crafted from porcelain, the riad formed the shape of an Evil Eye, with a tiled marble courtyard, pillared galleries, pointed arches, and pre-Islamic Arabian caricatures etched into the ground. Orange and clementine trees, as well as cherry trees, sat by the courtyard coquettishly. The Djinn smiled at him, sitting on an artisinal chair with a Moroccan breakfast prepared for him: mint tea, black olives, an assortment of honeyed breads, eggplant spreads, and French patisseries.

    The smoke beckoned him closer, ghosting through the souls of Rabat, and in their wake, a singular crystal orb sat on the Djinnʼs breakfast table, choking on the perfumed fumes.

    Volaire began sizing up the Djinn, restless and inexplicably angry.

    "You know my birth name–"

    "–I know many names, my friend."

    "And yet, I do not know yours, my friend."

    "You will in time."

    A beat.

    "Please sit. Help yourself."

    The Djinn smirked, like he knew a little secret.

    "The Ifrit from Versailles shouldnʼt have to wait for anyone, after all."

    The chorus sounded and the happy hour descended upon them, and Voltaire watched the Djinn move like the instruments in the background, with haunting repose.

    "Fate would have you slit my throat and poison my veins. Drink me and my blood."

    The Djinn laughed and his laughter felt knives carving into his ears. Voltaire stilled, watching with alert as the Djinn grabbed a knife and began spreading a bloody jam onto his bread.