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“Beware the wild rushes,” your mother says as you walk out of the house one morning. You roll your eyes and click your tongue. You know , you’ve heard her tell you a thousand times. You aren’t going anywhere near the marshes. You may be young, but you aren’t stupid.
Your father scoffs when he hears, launching into his well-worn tirade about how “there is no ifrit in the marshes, love. Our people have made this village home for generations, here in the delta. Why would we stay if there was some ifrit luring people into the water? Besides, it’s always ‘my cousin’s cousin knows someone who lost a son’ or ‘my wife’s sister’s aunt lost a daughter’. Does anyone actually know someone who lost a child to the waters? No, no one ever does!”
“Well,” your mother replies archly, “I don’t want to be the first, do you?”
Secretly you think your father has a point, but you stay away from the wild rushes all the same.
Some nights, when your mother can sense that you want to be scared just a little, she will come and sit on your cot and tell you about the ifrit, the water spirit who haunts the marshes.
“He was a Roman, you know,” she whispers conspiratorially, “came here with Caesar, they say, which makes him very old and very powerful. His skin is white like the moon, and his teeth are sharp like knives, and his eyes are pale like the sky. If you get too close to his waters — ha!”
You gasp as your mother reaches out and grabs your leg, shaking it a little to frighten you.
“He pulls you down and drowns you, and there you will live, haunting the marshes with him forever!”
“Hmph,” you say, trying to be brave even though your heart is pounding. “I’m not afraid of him.”
Your mother reaches out and tousles your hair as she sighs. “You should be,” she says. “You should be.”
Two summers later, your Aunt and Uncle bring their children for a visit -- three loud, smelly boys who refuse to listen to you because you are “just a girl .” They make you so angry you want to spit, but your mother taught you better than that, so you silently seethe instead.
They want to explore the marshes and will not take no for an answer, even when you try to tell them that summer is when the marshes are at their fullest and therefore most dangerous. The bugs bite painfully, the pools are deep, the reeds are tall and strong — perfect for concealing crocodiles and all manner of things that long to devour.
It just seems to spur them on, foolish things that they are.
Still, they are family, and you feel somewhat responsible for the safety of guests in your house, so you follow along when they go out exploring, to make sure they don’t drown themselves.
They are city boys, unused to the sounds of the delta, so inevitably one of them gets startled by a frog jumping into the water, and he falls into a deceptively deep pool. His brothers try to grab him, but he slips through their grasp. None of them can swim, so they shout and shout and shout — so loudly you can still hear them when you dive under to find the stupid boy yourself.
You open your eyes when you are fully submerged, but you cannot see him in the murky water
Instead you see a pale man with eyes the color of the sky, just like your mother said. His long hair floats around him like a veil, if veils were the color of dead reeds. He smiles at you, and his mouth tugs lower on one side, revealing sharp, knife-like teeth.
Ifrit.
You know without a doubt, as the adrenaline surges through your body, that you will die here today. Your last thought is of your mother, and how you wish you could tell her she was right.
The ifrit’s smile widens further and he reaches out to clasp your hand in his. You shiver because his fingers are webbed, and his skin is clammy and cold, far colder than the sun-warmed water around you. He tugs at you once, twice, and you stop fighting because there’s no point; the ifrit is too strong. You let him pull your hand where he wants it to go. Your lungs are starting to burn as you feel the ifrit wrap your hand around your cousin’s ankle. He smiles again, that eerie lopsided smile, and suddenly you’re being thrust to the surface, pulling your cousin behind.
You suck in rasping lungfuls of air when you emerge, and your other two cousins shout and wade into the water up to their waists, so they can grab their brother and help pull him to shore.
He coughs out brackish water but he’s breathing. When he’s recovered enough, you hurry them out of the marsh, a whisper on the wind trailing behind you.
“ Ras el-’alqa, ” it says.
“ Ras el-’alqa ,” it warns.
The boys tell the story of what happened when they return, and everyone praises you roundly, but when your mother smiles, it doesn’t meet her eyes.
“What happened truly?” she asks later that night, when the men are arguing over something or other, who can keep track. You hesitate a moment before telling her the full story because you still don’t know why the ifrit spared you. Your mother grows pale as you speak.
“And what did the wind say?” she asks when you’ve told her everything. “Did it call to you?”
“‘Ras el-’alqa,’ it warned,” you tell your mother true.
She curses and brings out her nazar so she can kiss it. She sighs and reaches out to brush the hair off your forehead, whispering “Mashallah, Mashallah” as she does.
You stay well away from the wild rushes after that. But some summer days, when the sun or moon is high in the sky, if you stand on the edge of the marshes you can feel something watching you, and you’ll shiver just before the wind whispers “ ras el-’alqa. ”
Word of your bravery spreads, and you gain a reputation for being clear-headed and strong: a fine thing in a wife if you are not a stupid man. Your father finds you a nice boy from a good family a few villages over, and everyone agrees to the match. You find yourself betrothed.
When you are old enough to be married, you meet this nice boy from a few villages over and find you like him. You did not expect to, but you do. His hair is curly, his eyes glitter like gems, and he smiles freely and laughs deeply. You find it isn’t nearly so difficult to marry him and move to his village as you thought it would be.
You settle into your new home, and it’s much the same as your old house, both nestled into the edge of the marshes. It’s a little bigger and nicer, but familiar in a satisfying way. You have a handful of beautiful children with your nice man who laughs all the time and still kisses you sweetly, and you find you are happy.
You smile as your youngest wanders into the kitchen to clutch at your legs as you cook. He’s five now, your sweet darling boy, with his curly hair and glittering eyes and wide, dimpled smile. His smile is like sunshine, just like his father’s. You know you aren’t supposed to have a favorite child, but he is your youngest, and though his temper sometimes flares bright and burns out quickly, like a star streaking across the sky, he’s the most wonderful child, and you love him dearly.
You laugh when he tries to sneak a sweet behind your back, and you push him outside to go run off some of his energy. “Beware the wild rushes,” you tell him as he goes.
You frown when you realize he hasn’t come back in for dinner, and you wipe your hands on your apron as you head out of the house. You call for him but he doesn’t answer, so you start wandering around, looking for him. You call his name, again and again, but still he doesn’t answer. You start to panic and run toward the marshes. He knows not to go in there, but maybe… maybe…
You gasp when you part some tall reeds and find him standing in a pool up to his ankles. You grasp his shoulders and pull him out of the water, more forcefully than you should, but he doesn't make a sound. His bright eyes are dull, unseeing things. You feel like screaming but you choke it back. He eyes clear as he blinks when you say his name once more. He frowns as you run your hand through his curls.
“Mama?” he says, confused, as your heart beats wildly in your chest, like a caged bird fighting to break free.
“Come, love,” you tell him as you pick him up, heavy and solid in your arms. “Come away from the marshes.”
A bird startles into the sky as you walk back. Its cries sound suspiciously like laughter.
You find your youngest son in the marshes up to his knees when he’s eight, up to his thighs when he’s ten. You weep in the night for him each time, tears silently streaming down your face as your husband sleeps next to you, blissfully unaware.
When your son is a lanky thirteen, you find him up to his waist. It takes an hour before his dull eyes clear and sparkle like they’re supposed to.
That night, when the moon is full and high in the sky, you slip out of bed and walk to the edge of the marsh to run your hands through the wild rushes.
“Please,” you ask aloud. “Please,” you beg. “He’s my dear, sweet boy, please don’t take him.”
The night is still and calm as you hold your breath and wait. When the wind finally stirs, it whispers “ ras el-’alqa. ”
You fall to your knees and weep.
In the morning, you ask your husband to send your youngest away with your brother-in-law, the merchant, to learn the trade. “It will be good for him,” you say. “You know he’s too bright and big for this place. He deserves to see some of the world, learn what it has to offer.” You don’t mention the ifrit. You know your husband wouldn’t believe you.
He dithers, but your son agrees with you and spends the entire day trying to convince your husband to let him go. It’s his exuberance that finally convinces his father.
“You will be gone for years at a time, son,” your husband says.
“Inshallah,” you whisper under your breath. “Inshallah.” You pull your nazar from under your shirt when they aren’t looking and kiss it, hoping the amulet will do its job this time.
Your son is gone for ten years, as it turns out, and comes home a man grown. He’s tall and devilishly handsome, with a thick beard on his jaw, his curly hair brushing his shoulders. His eyes still sparkle and his smile still rivals the sun and his laugh still lights up the room. He seems happy, and you know in your heart sending him away was the right thing to do.
Your husband pulls him aside to talk, so you smile and let them have some time together. You head to the kitchen to start preparing for dinner. The window is open, and on the breeze you hear a familiar cry.
Ras el-’alqa.
You stumble. Suddenly you know, deep down in your bones, that you will lose your son to the marshes tonight.
So you cook all the foods that used to be his favorite and coo at the thoughtful gifts he has brought and listen to him tell the tale of his last ten years without you. He is gifted with his words and laughs easily, and the time passes quickly, so quickly. Too quickly. Ten years you bought when you sent him away, but it wasn’t enough. It will never be enough.
Soon he’s yawning and thanking you for the meal as he leans down to kiss your forehead. He’s been running his hands through his curls, so his hair is all fluffy, and he looks achingly young. You hold him tightly and don't let him go for a long while, too long if his gentle laugh is anything to go by.
“Mama,” he chuckles. “It’s all right, I’m just tired from my journey, and from all the delicious food you made me! You know how sleepy I get when I’m full. Many things have changed, but not that. I’ll see you in the morning, all right?”
You sigh and tell him you love him before letting him go, pretending everything is fine for his sake.
You slip out of bed as soon as your husband starts snoring and head quickly to the marshes. The moon is full in the sky, casting shadows upon the ground. It’s quiet, deathly quiet; the ground squelching under your feet the only sound you hear.
You walk slowly, methodically, carefully, so you don't sink into the marshes yourself. After what seems like an age, you push through some tall papyrus and freeze.
Your beloved son is standing naked up to his waist in the water, his clothes haphazardly strewn behind him. They darken and sink as the water soaks them through and pulls them under, like some sort of bloated offering to its depths.
“I’m here,” he whispers, casting his gaze around the moonlit marsh. He holds his breath. For a brief, halting moment, you think about running to your son and dragging him home and sending him far, far away, never to return. You try to take a step, but you find you cannot move, paralyzed by fear and something more sinister. All you can do is stand and watch.
“I’m ready,” he tries again after long minutes when nothing stirs, not even the wind. “I know it has been a few years, but I want…”
You see the first ripple appear in front of him as soon as his words fade away. The pale ifrit with the eerie eyes emerges slowly from the water, his crooked smile splitting his face. You choke back a sob as your son reaches out and brushes the ifrit’s reedy hair off his forehead before cupping his face gently, his thumb chasing away errant drops of water as they slide down the ifrit’s face.
Ras el-‘alqa, you think, just before your son whispers: “Nicolò.”
The ifrit hums and slides closer so he can draw your son into his arms and kiss him tenderly. You turn your head away. You cannot bear to watch.
“Yusuf,” the ifrit sighs, and you look back. They separate, and the ifrit holds out his webbed hand. Your Yusuf takes it and allows himself to be led further into the water, deeper and deeper until only his long curls are left, floating on the moonlit surface of the water.
Then they too disappear, and the water stills once more.
He is gone. He is your Yusuf no longer. He belongs to the ifrit now.
When you can move again, you make your way home and change your clothes before crawling back into bed. In the morning, your husband raises the alarm, and the men of the village search the marshes. They find Yusuf’s clothes at the bottom of a pool.
They never find his body.
Months later, you are out gathering mallow leaves for the evening’s soup. The sun is high in the sky, making the nearby marshes sparkle like gems. The birds suddenly stop their cries, and the insects grow quiet. You still and turn toward the marshes, listening for a whisper upon the wind.
“Ras el-‘alqa, ras el-‘alqa,” it says. One becomes two becomes one.
You see ripples upon the water out of the corner of your eye. When you turn your head, there are your Yusuf and his ifrit, waist deep in the water. There is an agonizing void in the center of your chest that burns and aches at the loss of your son.
Your son, the now-ifrit. Your son, who looks happier than you have ever seen him. It makes you wonder what you missed when you thought he was happy before.
They look at you, and their eyes are pale and milky, like froth upon the river bank. They smile at you, and their teeth are sharp. They wave at you, and their hands are webbed. They call to you, but all you can hear is the rush of blood pounding in your ears.
They wait patiently for your reply, but you find you cannot speak, so you say nothing. Your son’s smile widens, that same familiar sunshine smile, as if he expected your silence. He turns toward his ifrit, and as they sink beneath the surface again, they kiss and laugh and tug playfully at each other.
When the last ripple has faded, you pick up your basket full of mallow leaves and turn towards home. A solitary tear trails down your cheek.
Years pass, as years do, and the void in the center of your chest grows smaller but no less painful. Every now and again, when the sun is high in the sky and you’re alone in the marshes, the birds and insects grow quiet and still.
You stop and straighten, listening for the wind. “ Ras el-’alqa, ras el-’alqa, ” it whispers. You stand there and breathe shakily as you think about your mother’s warning from long, long ago.
Beware the wild rushes.
Then they rise out of the water, unaged and happy, and you shudder to think why. They smile and wave at you, but you never raise your hand back. Not even once.