Sami ascended the narrow spiral staircase, each step coaxing a groan from the ancient wooden floor of the attic, as though it whispered the voices of five generations past. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of aged timber, dust, and the faint, faded traces of perfumes long forgotten by time. Wooden crates stood piled in haphazard stacks, some draped in tattered cloths, others cradling yellowed papers and weathered notebooks.
As he brushed dust from a dark wooden shelf, something caught his eye in a shadowed corner. It was a book, its leather cover worn and cracked at the edges, bearing the ghostly imprints of countless fingers on its faded spine. The pages within were yellowed, some corners folded and frayed from repeated opening and closing, exuding a scent of ancient ink and preserved paper—a blend that drew the eye almost against one's will. The book protruded slightly from its crate, as if beckoning him.
And so, Sami reached for it slowly, his original purpose for venturing into the attic—merely to clean and seek items of material worth—forgotten. He settled on the edge of a wooden crate, the book in his hands, its surprising heft immediately apparent.
The cover bore no title, not a single word, only strange carvings and symbols etched along its borders. They resembled the intricate patterns one might find on antique furniture, soothing to the eye yet stirring the mind with their unfamiliarity, distinct from any ornamentation he knew. His fingers traced the symbols, carved directly into the leather, their clarity astonishing despite the cover's wear.
He began to flip through the pages swiftly, but paused at the first. It was nearly blank, save for two words written in dark ink, penned by hand, their clarity defying the passage of time.
A name and a surname.
The name, Yusuf, stirred no echo in his memory; it was not one associated with literary renown.
But the surname… it was familiar.
It belonged to his family's lineage.
Was there an author named Yusuf in his family? There was his nephew's son, but that child had yet to master reading, let alone writing.
Sami sneezed several times, shattering the attic's silence, as dust swirled defiantly from the corners. He slapped his hand through the air, as if to challenge it, then lifted the book with care and prepared to descend. His footsteps drew soft creaks from the wooden floor, mingling with the faint echo of the slanted beams, his touch gliding along the edges of the crates.
He crossed the upper hall, where a tattered rug muffled the creak of his steps, before making his way to his room. On his small desk, he found a worn sheet of paper, its delicate lines tracing the family tree in faded ink. He picked it up, its texture reminiscent of the attic's tattered notebooks, then moved quietly toward the marble staircase connecting the first floor to the ground.
In the kitchen, the air was lighter, tinged with the faint scent of charred wood from the clay hearth and the gleam of polished copper pots. Wooden shelves bore small metal tins and jars, silent witnesses to lives once lived here. He opened a shelf, retrieving a small loaf and a handful of grapes, then sat on a slanted chair beside the table. Placing the family tree and the book beside a bowl of grapes, he began to eat, the silence broken only by the sound of his chewing.
Having finished the remnants of yesterday's bread, Sami drew the parchment before him and spread it across the table, unfurling with it a history as long as a shadow stretching from a distant past. He read the names one by one, pausing now and then to pop a grape into his mouth, tricking his hunger into believing this would suffice until morning. He was searching for 'Yusuf Nu'man,' the name he had glimpsed in the book.
Yet the parchment was crowded with similar names, repeating across generations like the familiar features in old photographs. Twenty generations of blood and custom, many bearing the same name. His finger traced the lines, trying to gauge the distance between antiquity and modernity, dismissing all who preceded his great-grandfather's time, for though the book's cover seemed older than the paper itself, its craftsmanship suggested techniques not of ancient eras.
He began to rule out every Yusuf he knew with certainty: cousins, nephews, and all those with no connection to literature or writing, until the path narrowed between the lines of the parchment, leaving only two possibilities: an uncle of his own, or an uncle of his forebears.
The handwriting did not resemble his uncle's—or so it seemed to him. His memory, frayed at the edges like the parchment itself, could not settle on certainty. Abandoning the comparison, he gently set the paper aside at the table's edge and pulled the book towards him.
This time, he opened its pages slowly. The book felt akin to an ancient lexicon; rows of single words, meticulously arranged in alphabetical order, their letters clear and untouched by dust, flowing as if penned by a single, steadfast hand. So it remained until the midpoint, where everything changed. No explanations or examples clarified the meanings; instead, short lines, like commands, followed each word, written in a finer script, as if each were a small incantation.
He read some in astonishment. Beside simple words were 'instructions': draw a circle of salt around an ant, set fire to a cat's tail, or dip a lemon leaf in cold ink and leave it beneath the moon. Instructions no mind could reconcile, yet each promised some outcome, like recipes for something undefined, crafted with the care of someone not trifling.
He lifted his gaze from the page, glanced at the cover and its carvings, then leaned back in the wooden chair, grappling with a thought caught between question and wonder. But the tilt was more than the old chair could bear.
It shuddered suddenly under his weight and tipped backward, sending him crashing to the floor with a muted clatter. His foot struck the table's edge as he fell, toppling the bowl of grapes, its contents scattering across the tiles.
Sami groaned in pain, propping his elbow on the table's edge to regain his balance.
Had an ant sensed his desire to encircle it with salt?
He looked at the book in his hands, then at the broken chair. One of its ancient legs had split at the joint, like a bone weary from bearing the weight of an entire house's memory.
This chair, which had served the family generation after generation, had belonged solely to his father. None dared sit in it while he lived. Even Sami, the curious child, had passed it with caution. Six months since his father's death, the chair had remained empty.
And now, when Sami had dared to sit in it for the first time, it had broken.
With no task to occupy his time, and the sun sinking towards dusk, its light fading until shadows crept between the doorframes, he had no desire to return to the attic in this state. Not only would his lantern consume fuel he preferred not to waste on something that could wait, but the shame of leaving the house's chair broken weighed heavier still. He rose quietly, his steps leading to the back passage through a low side door beside the kitchen—a narrow corridor unseen by guests, its old shelves laden with metal tins and relics of household service.
He opened the door to the back passage, where an old toolbox rested on the lowest shelf beside the cellar steps. From it, he took a hammer with a greased wooden handle and reassuring weight, a handful of nails wrapped in yellowed newspaper, and a short piece of wood that might mend the chair's broken leg. Carrying his finds, he returned to the kitchen, placing them carefully on the table. He sat for a moment, contemplating the broken chair before him, then lifted the hammer, recalling the simple repair he had known since childhood. But something stopped him.
He looked at the chair, then at the hammer, then at the book resting on the table's edge. He looked again, in the same order.
A wry smile flickered within him at an unformed thought, and he shook his head. 'Utter nonsense,' he muttered.
He glanced around to ensure no one saw him. The place was empty, yet he felt a pang of embarrassment.
Slowly, he reached for the book, opened it cautiously, and began turning its pages with his finger, one by one, searching for a word he had glimpsed earlier. At the letter 'raa,' he paused. His eyes scanned the words until they settled on what he sought.
There it was, clear in bold script like the others.
'Raghba.'
Certain he had found his quarry, he lifted the chair with care, as if it held a secret, and propped it on the table along with its broken leg. He opened the bundle of nails, selecting those unmarred by rust or damage, and placed them on the seat with the hammer and the small piece of wood.
Folly fit for a man without work or wealth, living in a house of ghosts, contemplating magic from an unknown book. He lit the lantern, its faint glow rising to reveal the scattered grapes on the floor. Bending down, he picked one up in his right hand, staring at it for a long moment. Then, raising his eyes warily, he ensured no one watched.
He extended his left forefinger towards the chair and murmured in a low, halting voice, the words resisting as if shy to emerge:
"What you desired… let it desire me as I desired it."
Then he crushed the grape in his palm and…
He stood there, hand stained, pointing his left finger at the broken chair as if chastising a wayward spouse, an eerie silence filling the kitchen, weighing on him and deepening his embarrassment.
He stepped back, trying to restore order around him, wiping his hand on the table's edge and scolding himself for the folly of his thoughts.
Why did he always act so strangely at night?
Suddenly, a sharp, strange sound pierced the kitchen's silence. He spun around.
The hammer, nails, and piece of wood were no longer on the chair—they were floating in the air.
His heart trembled, and he fell back onto his haunches, hiding his face in his hands, certain these objects would rain down upon him.
When his face remained uncrushed, he dared to open his eyes. To his astonishment, no harm came. The hammer did not fly to strike his head. Instead, he watched, dumbstruck, as the chair's leg returned to its place beneath the seat. The piece of wood settled over it, and the nails positioned themselves with uncanny precision. The hammer began to tap the nails gently, as if it knew the exact path to secure the leg, while Sami remained seated on the floor, frozen in place.
When the tools completed their task, they fell as if their strings had been cut, the sound of their impact snapping Sami from his stupor.
Sami crawled towards the table, his eyes fixed on the tools, wary they might spring upon him. Reaching the table slowly, he grasped its leg, then its surface, hoisting himself onto trembling legs.
He approached the chair, touching it here and there. Nothing happened. He lifted it, turning it slowly, inspecting it from every angle, his gaze lingering on the mended leg and the nails driven in without his touch.
He set the chair on the floor and sat upon it for a silent moment.
A faint sound escaped him, growing slowly until his lips burst into a wide grin, followed by laughter that filled the room, its echo reverberating off the kitchen walls.
He stood abruptly, striking the table with all his might, the sounds ricocheting through the space around him, harmonising with his strange, joy-filled cries.
"Waaah, yeeee!"
Then he seized the chair, hoisting it above his head, waving it wildly in every direction, shouting, "Yes, yes!"
He carried on until his strength waned, then returned the chair to its place and collapsed onto it.
Sami took several deep breaths, then turned to the scattered grapes on the floor. He picked one up in his right hand, his eyes sweeping the room for a sign of what to do next, until they settled on the bowl lying on the ground.
He crushed the new grape between his fingers, wiping it on the table's edge to ensure its complete destruction, and repeated the same phrase, this time pointing at the bowl with greater confidence:
"What you desired… let it desire me as I desired it."
He watched in astonishment as the bowl slid through the air, moving lightly towards the sink, dipping itself into the bucket, then heading straight for the wooden cupboard, as if following a path chosen without human hands.
Searching for what else he might do, he found nothing until his eyes rested on a crack in the wall beneath the marble counter, where a piece of wood had bent outward, its securing nails dislodged.
He repeated the process, pointing at the wood. Nothing happened. Then, still, nothing changed. He stared at his hand in confusion, then inspected the chair and the bowl, certain what he had seen was no illusion. He took another grape, repeated the ritual, but nothing occurred. He tried again and again, until every grape was spent… and still, silence reigned, unbroken by movement.
He opened the book once more, rereading the instructions, having initially skimmed only the steps and their promised outcomes. But the pages offered only the rules of the word—how it worked, and how a desire could not be fulfilled if one did not know its execution.
Yet he knew how to repair a wooden plank, so the fault did not lie there.
He could find no reason for its failure. Was there a limit to the number of times it could be used each day? Or a finite reserve, like a lantern's flame that gutters out when its fuel is spent? He scratched his chin in perplexity, finding no satisfactory answer. Exhaustion weighed upon him, and as his excitement faded, sleep began to call.
He lifted the book with care and trudged wearily towards his room, leaving the kitchen behind.
As Sami departed, lantern in hand, the room sank into a damp, heavy darkness, where old scents lingered and shadows curled between the corners.
Suddenly, a faint rustling broke the silence, whispering from a distant corner.
It was followed by a subtle movement.
The wooden plank began to bend slowly, its creak slicing through the stillness.
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Raghba/desire:
Place the object of your desire before you.
Point to it with your right finger.
In your left hand, hold something you long for but have yet to attain.Say: "What I desired, let it desire me as I desired it."
Beware, you cannot desire what you do not master.