CHAPTER TWO: KINDLING THE RAIN (PT. 1)
(v.) arouse or inspire (an emotion or feeling).
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In the morning of the departure to the Yaqizah Ceremony, at the ancient pillar that observed the sky, a young boy sat solemnly by the window, watching the rain. It was silent, yet it was loud; it was light, yet it was heavy. It paid heed to nothing; not to the mellow sun shrouded in the clouds; to the youth splashing puddles in the streets; and not even to the old bunch barking downstairs. This rain was dull, empty, without meaning. Louay liked the rain, it helped him focus.
Behind him was a fleeting waterway steered by a wooden wheel that spun around and out of sight, each one of its turns quaking louder than the one before. It was a crooked old thing; one shuddered to think what would happen if it were to start a flood. After all, this aberrant clock tower was only but a study, riddled with books and machines; not a place for games, Louay would think.
A girl called his name; fawn of skin and bright of eyes. She sat opposite to him, paper in hand, her glare piercing through his eyes (when she wasn’t struggling to hold in a giggle). Louay knew this girl very well. This was Youna, his twin sister — the star of the two.
“I got one! I got one!” The bronze-haired girl jumped to her feet.
But Louay only scoffed at the face of her excitement, as he usually would, and looked out the window once again.
Only the rain soothed his thoughts. Its collective nature to devour reminded him of a light that once flooded the sky. Though he was but a year old when he saw that light, he could not forget about it; and especially, not the golden dust that caused it all.
Long ago (and this was on account of his nana’s retellings), Louay’s mother Dounia often spoke about the golden dust. During the misty nights and under the lamplight of fireflies, where she felt safe in the comfort of her children as did they in her embrace, Dounia spoke of the dust as if she were telling an old tale long overdue its beginning.
It was hailed as a “gift”— well, not really a gift when everyone and their mothers had it. It was what once brought his mother fame; that breathed life into his very own house; and the gift that cleared the skies and called upon the light that night fourteen years ago.
It was the art — of writing.
Now The Word (as it was most commonly known) was no ordinary assortment of letters scribbled on parchment, and no witchcraft nor wizardry either, yet it was still magic. By the Law of Wordcraft, it was the mystical art of understanding, maintaining and creating the structure of all things. Be it real matter or pure concept, it worked with the inherent power of the literal word through writing and conceiving an outlet of imagination to reality. If studied and mastered properly, even the wildest dreams were possible to conceive.
Unlike traditional magic told in old fairy tales, however, it thrived on new creation; regenerative spells offering empowerment that was ever-changing and evolving rather than reciting old spells that a fool with a pylon hat could conjure up to appease the ignorant.
For the most part, Louay didn’t care much for The Word; he wasn’t particularly bothered by lacking the talent for it either, so long as his sister wasn’t robbed of having it.
Whenever his sister Youna spoke about The Word, her eyes would sparkle, a sour sight if she were to suffer the same fate as him, but thankfully, that wasn’t the case. Oftentimes her words would turn to reality just at the click of her tongue, and God forbid the chaos caused if she was in a fit of rage. Simply put, if she wasn’t going to awaken her talent for The Word, then she certainly wasn’t going to be a witch. I sure would like to see that though, Louay would often lose himself to his mischievous thoughts.
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As the game the twins were playing came to a close, and Youna stood out as the victor, Louay quietly tore the piece of paper in his hand. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands together.
“Today, I choose violence.”
Reason told him to release his anguish and howl like a wolf at dawn, but then again, reason never spoke of such childish madness, and Louay Ashmoun “always” followed his reason; even when he would rather, more than anything, throw a tantrum over losing a game of crossword puzzles again.
“Oh, come on, it’s just a game, silly,” his sister laughed.
“‘Oh, come on, it’s just a game, silly,’” the boy made a mockery of her words, “Yeah well, for once, I’d like to win something please!”
“Not my fault you’re just bad,” the girl stood up to tidy up the mess on the floor. Other than the array of crossword sheets torn apart here and there, there were several cards thrown about and even a playing board without a dice cube in sight. It seemed the crossword game was but the last of many that day. “Maybe you should read a little more.”
“‘Maybe you should read—’”
“Will you stop making fun of me!” Youna snapped at her brother and the room grew silent.
Before any gravity could swallow the room whole, however, the girl’s lip curled to a smile and, together with her brother, she quickly burst into a fit of laughter.
Louay and Youna were a peculiar bunch. At fourteen, Youna was much the same as she was at five when it came to being infatuated with tales and whatever flourished her mind with knowledge (be it drunkards’ stories or old myths from the deep). Louay was much the same but sometimes had himself wavering between calm and meaningless reclusion.
Despite their slight differences; they were still twins, and twins were always together whenever in whatever illogical scheme they chased.
If Youna wanted to slide down the giant slider with her brother at the same time, then so be it, even if it would spark some injuries in their elbows, but she wouldn’t mind, Youna was built like a brick — a fact not matching with her slender physique — and her brother would very much agree. One late night when they were occupied with homework they were supposed to submit the following morning at school, Louay recalled asking his sister for help with a question, only to find her dropping her head quicker than a blink on the desk. He would have thought her dead had she not let out a snore right after.
Still, Youna wasn’t all kicks and laughs. If one were to determine who was the more responsible twin, then she would certainly take the prize. “We should hurry back home,” she said with a sombre look out the window.
Though the weather report mentioned nothing of rain that morning, there seemed to be nothing but the rain that day. There was hardly a soul in the streets and the twins’ house was some few miles further away from the clock tower they rested in. How they would get back home was a question for the divine.
“I doubt that the tram’s still working,” Louay sighed. “Ah, I guess no breakfast for us today. Should give mum a call and tell her — I wouldn’t wanna miss out on Aunt Nora’s rice pudding.”
“No!” Youna snapped before Louay could reach for the telephone. This was a day she wouldn’t dare mess up; not for the life of her. Everything needed to be perfect; down to the very little details — even breakfast with the family. “It’s still a quarter past eight, we could make it. We will make it!”
Louay couldn’t oppose her train of thought. Though he would like more than anything to be cooped up in the tower all day if he could, he couldn’t deny that his sister had a point.
This was a very important day. It was the day of the Yaqizah Ceremony, the day of her full awakening to The Word.
“Come on, come on, please…” Youna grabbed his hand. Her blue eyes (almost crystalline) begged for a positive response; yet for her brother, they seemed to be the most devilish pair he had ever witnessed. Because that was all she was to him: an impish devil luring him down a road that would end in their demise.
A quick breath escaped the boy’s lips, “Fine…”