Lost in Felarya

Chapter Nine: The real world

Previously, on Lost in Felarya:

= = = = =

Majed […] mulled it over for a while.

“I wonder if he's married,” he said at last. “Or a widower. And why he was travelling at all, at his age.”

“I don't think he's married.” Laila smiled. “But you are. Why weren't you travelling with your wife?” Majed looked at her, sharply, startled. Her eyes widened a little at the expression on his face. “I'm… sorry,” she said. “I didn't… Did I say something wrong?”

“No, I… Uh, I just…” He shook his head, stood, and walked over to the door, looking at towards al-Hafez. “How do you know I'm married?” he asked, Laila, with his back to her.

“You have a ring,” she pointed out, gently. He turned part-way to look at her, and found himself glancing automatically at her hands. She noticed, smiled, and held them up for him to see. No ring.

“How old are you, anyway?” he asked. He had wondered before, but never asked her.

“Twenty.” She picked up another vegetable. “Or at least I will be, in a few days.”

“It's your birthday soon?” He did not know why that surprised him, but it did. She nodded, and smiled, a little awkwardly perhaps.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Not quite old enough to be my father.” Her smile was lighter, more confident now.

= = = = =

They covered the short amount of ground leading to the edge of their `sector'. A light, warm breeze blew dust around their legs, and teased the small plants and grasses growing through the cracks in the cobbled streets. As they entered a familiar area, they slowed. There was no-one in sight. No sound of voices. Bao walking ahead, frowned, and looked back at them.

“They… are not here,” he said, in slow, careful English.

“They must be.” Mabel looked a little pale. Surely they hadn't all left? Or worse… “We haven't been gone that long!”

Gwynn blinked, against the thin dust in the air, and tried to quash her instinctive worry. It should have occurred to her that everyone might leave, but it hadn't.

“Damn…” she whispered. “All right, let's have a look around.”

Even as she spoke, she caught sight of a figure appearing from a sidestreet. He walked slowly, shuffling his feet, and stopped, looking at them. Gwynn squinted against the sunlight, trying to make out his face. She walked up to him.

She found an old Arab man, his wrinkled face bearing an expression of surprise, and smiling. She smiled back at him.

“Monsieur al-Hafez.”

“I was told you were dead,” he replied, in French, smiling softly.

“Not all of us.” A sad look tinged the warmth in her eyes. “It's good to see you.” She glanced round, at the breeze-swept, empty streets. “Speaking of which… Where is everyone?”

= = = = =

Rajan stopped, as he saw a neko appear from behind the angle in the wall. Unheard, Hirem, the third guard, had slunk round from the back of the structure, and stood now with his bow armed, pointed at them. Rajan opened his mouth to shout out a warning, but Palaye had seen him too. With a startlingly quick reflex, she spat, a gob of slime hurtling the short distance through the air and splatting into the neko's face, knocking him down. Rajan pushed past Lohai, and ran to the fallen guard. He tossed the man's weapon aside, then leaned down and punched his slime-sticky face repeatedly, until the neko lay still.

He straightened, and looked back at group of survivors.

“Lohai, where are the other guards?”

The Papuan frowned, and shook his head, not understanding.

“Not matter. Come on, everyone. We move.” The survivors nodded, relieved but still visibly tense, and Rajan looked at Michel's body, carried once more by a grim-faced Fabrice and Andrew. Sorrow gripped him, but there was no time for it now. They needed to leave, before any nekos returned, and move on again towards the great tree. The solemnity was partly dimmed by the urgency in his voice. “We will bury him when we are far enough away.”

= = = = =

And now, the continuation…

Al-Safirah, Syria, nine years ago

“But I want it!”

The plaintive shout of an eleven year-old girl rang loudly in the ears of her tired mother, as she dragged the child through a busy, noisy street. The hot sun, beating down on the crowd in one of the largest cities of northern Syria, did little to improve the woman's patience, or silence the girl's whinge. The child was neatly dressed, her dark hair impeccable, hinting at a wealth that most of the street's shoppers could only dream of. The woman, equally well dressed, adjusted her veil, and tightened her grip on her daughter's hand.

“Laila, do be quiet.” Passers-by glanced at them, and moved on without a word. Spoilt little bitch, some of them thought. Words which passed briefly through her mother's mind as well. But then, she had been the one doing the spoiling.

Little Laila sulked, pouting and glaring at her mother.

“I want it!” she insisted. “Come on, mommy, let's go back and buy it!”

“You had a nice doll for your birthday yesterday,” the woman said, her tone reasonable and as patient as she could make it. “You don't need another one already. Be grateful for what you've got.”

“It wasn't a nice one! It was all horrid and silly. The one in the shop was much better. That would be a real birthday present. Why can't I have it? I'll ask daddy!”

Her mother sighed, and turned to look down at her. A middle-aged man jostled into her as she stood still in the moving crowd, and muttered an apology. The woman wiped her brow, flustered.

“Laila, just shut up! You're not having that doll. I should never have taken you shopping!”

Stung by the rebuke, the girl scowled. “You're mean!” She pulled her hand free from her mother's, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I want it!” she shouted, her high-pitched voice drawing several more glances - and a tut-tut from an old lady, casting them both a look of disapproval. Laila's mother looked down into her daughter's eyes.

“You're causing a scene. What are these people going to think of you?”

“I don't care,” the child said stubbornly.

“What would your father say?”

“He's not here.” Laila looked back over her shoulder, in the direction they had come from. “I'm going back to the shop.” She turned, and began to walk away, half-running, through the crowd.

“Laila!” Aghast, her mother hurried after her. She pushed past strolling shoppers, apologising in haste as she kept her eyes on her child. “Laila!” Within moments, a helpful young woman had caught the girl, and held her for the few seconds it took her mother to catch up. With a breathless, embarassed `thank you', she grabbed her daughter's forearm, and held her tight. Laila winced, and put on a mock struggle, scowling.

“Ouch! Mommy!”

Her mother crouched down to face her, her expression serious.

“Never, ever run off in a crowd like that! Ever, Laila! Understand?”

The girl's face was the very image of a sulk.

“Don't care!” she whined. Her plaintive expression turned to one of shock as her mother suddenly slapped her. Her eyes widened, and she could only stare as she processed what had just happened.

“You're just spoilt!” her mother snapped, her voice hard, tinged with disappointment. “When we get home, you're going straight to your room. And I'm taking away the doll you had yesterday! You're not having two dolls; you're having none at all. Maybe you'll learn to be grateful. Now hold my hand, and be quiet!”

Stunned, Laila followed as her mother dragged her through the busy street, towards the quieter, richer area of the city. When she finally found her voice, her spiteful scream echoed above the buzz of the crowd.

“I hate you, mommy! I hate you!”

* * *

The long shadows of crumbled buildings swept across the wider streets of Ur-Sagol. Lengthening in the dusk, they offered the only hint of motion on the roads of the ruined city. Its thirty human residents were all indoors, and most of them had gathered in the gutted theatre hall, where they sat or stood together on the dusty stone floor. Among them, Laila Malki -an attractive young Syrian whose fashionable clothes now looked much the worse for wear- sat on the edge of the stage, dangling her legs as she listened to the others. She bit idly into a crunchy, raw, pale green vegetable. The ghost city's residents had assembled for an evening meal - but mostly for a talk.

The return of four survivors taken by the giant predators had caused quite a stir, and had given them cause for some small measure of rejoicing… dampened by the thought of all those who had died. The lucky survivors were here now. Gwynn, the dark blond British reporter in her late forties, seemed to be the centre of attention at that moment, as she answered questions which she had already replied to earlier. Mabel, the American, stood close to her, as though to offer quiet support, yet uncertain whether she should say anything herself. The two male survivors were silent, avoiding the focus of the others' gaze. Mr. Han stood close to a wall, looking at nothing in particular, while Qasem sat with his back against the stage block, his gaze lowered between his feet. Laila bit into her vegetable again, and glanced at him as she chewed. She had heard he'd lost his boyfriend to one of the predators. She felt a quiet wave of sympathy, but said nothing, leaving him to his grief.

“We are choose to stay here,” Majed said, drawing her attention. He was standing near Gwynn, facing her. “Nothing is change.”

“We weren't here when the choice was made,” Mabel replied, speaking up at last. “And we know it's not safe here.”

“It is not safe anywhere,” Majed pointed out. “But we are better here than… out.”

“How do you know?”

“Please.” Calm as ever, Gwynn held up her hands. “Nobody's saying we should all go out into the jungle. But I think it's important to be aware that whatever we choose to do, it's going to determine the course of the rest of our lives.” She looked round at them, serious. “As I understand it, you all individually chose to remain. There wasn't much of a talk about this.”

“What is it you want us to do?” a middle-aged man with a French accent asked. “You want us to go with you into the forest?”

“No,” Gwynn explained, patiently. “I want us all to be clear on what we're doing; on what our future's going to be.” She tried to meet the gaze of as many people as she could. “It may be too late, anyway, to go after the main group. But if we're going to stay here, perhaps we should get ourselves organised. As a community. Work together for food, water. Maximise our chances of survival.”

“What are they saying?” Mr. al-Hafez whispered, in Arabic. He was sitting on the edge of the stage, beside Laila. Despite his age, and the fact that he understood virtually no English, he had insisted on being present. She looked at him, and gave a slight smile. She liked the old man. He had been kind to her.

“They're talking about our future,” she explained, and translated the essence of what had been said. Al-Hafez nodded.

“How many languages do you speak, Miss Malki?” he asked, somewhat unexpectedly.

“Um…” She gave him a look of surprise. “Well, Arabic, of course, French, English… Quite a bit of Turkish.”

“I'm impressed.”

“My parents had the means to get me a good education.” She shrugged, looking rather uncomfortable.

“Why the cringe, young lady?” he asked kindly. “It's nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the contrary. Knowing several languages here makes you useful.” He nodded towards Majed. “You might want to help our friend. I think he's struggling with English.”

Laila winced. “He's doing ok. I wouldn't want to embarrass him. He's just not been… as lucky as I have.”

“You mean, he's poor and uneducated, and might resent you.” The old man's tone was thoughtful. The young woman grimaced.

“When you put it like that…” She sighed. “He's remarked on it before, you know. That we don't come from the same background.” She looked into his wrinkled, kindly face. “But it shouldn't matter here, should it? We're all equal now. Money, out here… It means nothing.” She gave a quick, awkward laugh. “I mean, what's the point of my credit card here? Seriously? If we're not going to leave…” She paused. “If anything, sir, you and Majed are a lot more experienced in life than I am. You're… well, you're older, and I've been… kind of sheltered.”

Mohamed Al-Hafez smiled, and put his rough, aged hand on her young, delicate one.

“That's why we help each other out. You and Majed are doing a lot for me, Laila. And I'm grateful.”

She held his gaze, then returned the smile, still somewhat uncomfortable.

“We're missing the conversation. I'll translate the rest.”

The meeting broke up once it became too dark to see much. They had no artificial means of light, other than two precious electric torches whose batteries nobody wanted to waste. The consensus had been to stay in the ruins, and a vague agreement had been reached to work together more as a group. As far as Laila was concerned, it had mostly been a waste of time.

She walked Mr. al-Hafez back `home', with Majed, then stood for a while in the main room of the empty building they used for shelter. Once the old man was settled, Majed looked at her. He motioned for her to follow him back outside, where they could talk without disturbing Mohamed.

“You've had this pensive expression on your face all evening,” he remarked, in a whisper. The dark night air cast shadows over his face. She shrugged.

“That little gathering was supposed to make us think, wasn't it? About what we're doing here.” She paused. “And we seem to be doing nothing. Though I can't see how we could do anything other than… nothing.”

Majed looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.

“Are you tired?” he asked at last.

“Not really.”

“Then let's go for a walk. It's a warm night… as always.” He gestured down the street. “As we go, you can tell me what's on your mind…”

* * *

The high canopy of the giant trees filtered the last rays of the sun, and the faint glow of moonlight spreading across the dark sky. On the forest ground below, forty-five human beings and one slug girl had gathered, in sombre silence, around a shallow, freshly dug grave.

It had taken a while for several of the men to carve out Michel's final resting place in the earth, using a large, curved sheet of hard treebark as a makeshift spade. Fabrice and Oscar had lowered the young man gently into the ground and, amidst the heavy atmosphere which weighed on the survivors, had covered him over. They had nothing but earth to put over his grave. No slab of stone, to mark the site or keep out wild beasts. Only a wooden cross, made of twigs, which Andrew had insisted on laying there. But it would have to do.

It was better than what any of their other dead had received, swallowed whole and digested by giant predators.

Rajan coughed, lightly. He was not used to speaking at funerals. But then, he was having to do many things that he was not used to. Perhaps if he had done some of them better, Michel would still be alive.

“Michel Jardin's passport says he was twenty-three years old, and born in a small town near Amiens, in France,” he began, his voice solemn and subdued. He spoke in French, not wishing to fumble with the difficulties of English. Not at a moment like this. His voice was little more than a whisper, not just out of respect, but because he was acutely aware that any noise might draw more predators. They would have to keep the ceremony -such as it was- brief. They had spent too long here already digging the grave.

“We know, as well, that he was a medical student. Beyond that, he was a stranger to us. He walked part of our difficult journey with us…” He paused. “We did know him, a little bit. He leaves us with the memory of a brave, generous young man who always volunteered to help, in any way he could. And who saved at least one of our lives, possibly more, before… before he died.” Another pause. Not a sound came from the small crowd. “Rest in peace, Michel.” There was a sniffle from Maram, standing close to the grave. Rajan looked at his fellow survivors. “If anyone would like to say anything… Please make it brief.”

“We can say something now?” Suvi, the Finnish woman whom Michel had prevented from stepping into a trap, asked in a small voice. She understood Rajan's tone, and look, if not his words in French. He nodded, and stepped away, standing beside Palaye as Suvi walked up to the foot of the grave. After her, no doubt Maram and Oscar would also want to speak. Perhaps Fabrice and Manon, too. And Andrew had made it clear he wanted to say a few words, as their only priest. Rajan had agreed, although nobody knew whether Michel had been a Christian. Again, it seemed better than nothing.

“This is a mistake, you know,” Palaye whispered, softly enough so that only he would hear.

“What is?” He kept his eyes on the grave rather than look at her.

“Staying here all this while. Talking so much. Encouraging everyone to speak out.” She glanced at him. “The man you've just buried is dead. He can't even hear what you're saying.”

“It's what we do,” he replied, somewhat sharply. “We honour the dead. It's a matter of respect.”

“Yes, so do we… when we can do it safely. Look at me, Rajan.” Reluctantly, he faced her. By the grave, Maram was saying, in an emotional voice, what a good person Michel had been. The look in Palaye's green eyes was serious. “You're still behaving as though you weren't in mortal danger here, right now. I understand you wanting some sort of ceremonial for the dead man, but ask yourself this… If a predator shows up now and eats five or six or your people, will it have been worth it?”

Rajan said nothing for a moment, gazing into the strange young woman's pretty, worried face. After a while, he shook his head.

“No. You're right. Of course.”

Palaye breathed out a soft sigh. “Then tell them to be quiet.” She nodded towards Maram, Oscar and the others. Again, Rajan hesitated.

“I'll… let them finish. And then I'll tell them to be quiet. This is important.”

Palaye's face turned grim, her eyes tinged with rebuke.

“There's another thing,” she said. “Your group is too big. Even if they do learn to stop talking, we'll still make a noise just moving around. We're too visible.”

“Yes, well, that can't be helped,” he muttered.

“Actually, I think we should split them up.”

He looked at her, quickly. “What?” She held his gaze.

“Split them into… I don't know, eight or nine groups. We can meet up again at the tree.”

“Are you crazy?” he whispered. “A lot of them won't make it!”

“They'll have a better chance than if we all stay together,” she whispered back. “I don't know who lives here, Rajan; I can't help you avoid the predators. But if there are any close by, they can probably hear us, smell us, from quite a distance. Imagine a group of three or four nagas attacking us in one go. If they eat half a dozen people each…”

“If we stay together, we run less of a risk of encountering predators. If we split up, some of us are bound to run into danger. I'm going with the option that gives me the best chance of losing no-one.”

Palaye looked at him for a short while, then shrugged. “All right. I was just suggesting an alternative.”

“I'm responsible for everyone, Palaye. I can't let most of them just wander off without me.”

“You left some behind in the ruins.”

“That was different. They chose to stay behind. I couldn't be in two places at once. I'll go back for them as soon as I can.” He looked round. “Is this a good place for us to sleep?”

The slug girl considered it. “It's as good a place as any. As I said, I don't know the territory. But most predators that I know of tend to be diurnal. There's a fair chance we'll be all right… if we get up and move before dawn.”

Rajan nodded again, quietly. As Andrew finally wound down his sermon, he stepped forward to address the group.

“You can get out your blankets; we'll be staying here for the night. As always, I'll need volunteers to help me stand watch.” There were nods, and survivors began taking off their backpacks, pulling out the thin aeroplane blankets. “But before we all settle down,” he added, just loud enough for them all to hear, “there's something I'd like to make clear. I'll say it in three languages, to be sure you all understand.” He paused, having obtained their attention. “I'll keep it short and simple,” he began, in French. “From now on, I want absolutely no talking at all, except when it's absolutely necessary. No talking at night, or during the day, while we're walking… At any time, except when someone has something important to say. No chatting; not even in whispers. I'm sorry about this, ladies and gentlemen, but it's for your safety. We're not as silent as we should be, and there are creatures out there that can hear us.” He paused. “To be blunt, I don't want any more of you to die.” He stopped, while they looked at him without a word, then switched to Arabic, and repeated the same.

A few metres away, Fabrice listened while he helped Manon select a resting spot for the night, and stretched out their two blankets. He saw her glance several times at the freshly filled grave, pain in her eyes. Gently turning her face away from it, he held her gaze in his.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, sadly. “I tried my best.”

Her soft hands moved in a quick flurry of signs. `I know. It's not your fault. You did everything you could, my love. Nobody could have saved him.'

Fabrice sighed, half-closing his eyes. That first sight of Michel's dead face haunted his mind's eye. Gently, Manon took his hands. She held them long enough for him to gaze into her face once more, then gave him a sad, caring smile, and released him so that she could communicate again.

`At least he had someone there for him. I'm sure it helped. He didn't feel alone, hopeless.' Tears welled up in her warm, troubled eyes, and he brushed at them very softly.

“Manon…”

She smiled, weakly. `We shouldn't be talking. The pilot said… Use sign language, my love.'

He nodded, and gulped against a lump of emotion in his throat. `Are you hungry, love? I'll find us something to eat.' She shook her head, pained, and he sighed. `No, neither am I… But you have to keep your strength up here. I'll see what I can find.' Leaning down, he kissed her lips, softly. `Wait here.'

Manon gave him a gentle smile, and watched him leave. She wondered, not for the first time, what she would do here without him. And what he would do without her. Although he was doing his best to care for her, Fabrice was a constant worrier, always doubting himself. Having her to look after gave him something to focus on… while she looked after him, too.

She turned to watch the pilot, who stood a short distance away, observing the survivors who had found themselves entrusted in his care. He, too, was unsure of himself, Manon knew. She hesitated, cast a glance in the direction Fabrice had left in, then fished her notepad and pencil out of her pocket, and scribbled a few words. She walked up to Rajan, smiled politely, and showed him the pad.

He returned the smile, just as politely, and looked at the note. `What's the plan, long term?', she had written. Lack of space, and a habit of getting her point across quickly, had made her perhaps a little more blunt than she had intended. She softened the words with an apologetic smile, as she saw him frown, thoughtful. He opened his mouth to speak, then remembered his own instructions a bare moment ago, and gestured at her pencil. She handed it to him.

`You mean, after we get to the tree?' he wrote. She nodded, and he wrote some more, in smaller letters. `We'll work that out when we get there, and see the land around.' Manon bit her lip, thinking about that. She held out her hand, Rajan returned the pencil to her, and she scribbled quickly:

`Can you climb a giant tree?'

The pilot gave her a look of surprise. After a moment's hesitation, he shrugged, and shook his head. That, too, they would have to deal with when they go there. Surely, after all this, climbing a tree would pose no unsurmountable obstacle. Manon sighed, quietly. There was so much she wanted to ask, and say. She wanted to tell this man that, although her husband seemed content to trust his judgement and follow him without question, she herself felt they were wandering deeper into dangerous territory with no clear objective in sight. Finally, she wrote: `What are our chances?'.

Rajan looked at the words for a while, gravely. She handed him the pencil, her expression just as serious, but he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. He looked her in the eyes, and what she saw there was not the confidence she had hoped for. Breaking his own rule, he whispered, very quietly:

“Does it matter? We have no alternative…”

A little chill ran down Manon's back, as she put her notebook back in her pocket.

* * *

“I was just thinking, what horribly bad luck it was that brought us here.” Laila's foot nudged at a pebble, untroubled perhaps for hundreds of years, as she and Majed walked down a narrow sidestreet in the dark. The faint moonlight cast stark shadows on the crumbled walls of empty buildings; clouds passing above distorted the shadows into a formless dark mass.

“I suppose we always think these things happen to other people.” Majed shrugged. They both kept their voices down, even here in the ruins. “At least we're alive…” He paused. “Of course, our resident priest would probably say God brought us here for a reason.”

Laila looked at him quickly. “What reason?”

“Knowing Father Andrew, probably to punish us for our ways. I don't know; I never talked to him much.”

Laila seemed troubled, slowing a little. “You don't believe that, do you?”

“What?” Surprised, Majed gave a quick laugh. “No, of course not! I don't think God does things like that.” He stopped, as he noticed Laila was not smiling. “Are you ok?”

She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I'm just…” She looked up at him, and managed a slight smile. “Sorry. Just thinking. Let's keep going.”

* * *

Paris, France, several months earlier

Music blared in Laila's ears, so loud she could barely hear half the words one of her friends was shouting beside her. She merely nodded, without bothering to listen. Thin smoke billowed through the grey room, carrying a chemical smell vaguely reminiscent of apples. It was beginning to irritate her throat, but she did not care. Lights flashed and swept across the dance floor, occasionally illuminating her as she twisted her body to the deafening beat of sound. Despite the late hour, the nightclub was still almost full. Shadowy strangers shifted and danced in the half-light. The lithe young Syrian flexed her tired arms, moving them gracefully, enticingly. Her weary legs moved of their own accord, like an automaton pushing past its limits, refusing to wind down.

Her friend stepped up to face her, catching her eyes. Laila gave her a questioning look.

“Another drink?” the girl shouted over the noise. Laila nodded, absently.

“I'll pay you later,” she shouted back, her voice a little slurred, and returned to her dancing.

She was not even sure where all her friends were by now. If you could call them friends. They were acquaintances, really; fellow students, with whom she went out to have a good time. They gave her something akin to a social life, in this foreign city. None of them would really confide in one another. Lucie was getting the drinks, while Marie-Jo seemed to be standing off to one side with a man. St�phanie… well, goodness knew where she had got to. Laila paused to wipe a bead of sweat from her forehead, while the track changed, and a similar, thunderous beat filled the room once more.

She smiled a quick thanks when Lucie returned with her drink. As she handed it to her, the French girl leaned in to shout in her ear, and Laila stopped dancing, paying attention for a moment.

“Those guys are buying us our drinks.”

She turned her head, following Lucie's gesture, and saw three young men, perhaps a few years older than herself, at the bar with Marie-Jo. One of them waved. Laila grinned, a bit dizzy, and downed a gulp from her bottle. It mixed with the liquid in her stomach, the effects of which were coursing through her veins. One of the guys, at least, looked rather cute.

“Who are they?” she shouted back.

“Who cares?”

“Where's St�ph?”

“What?”

“Where's Steph?”

“No idea!”

“OK.” She shrugged, stifled a rather un-ladylike burp, and followed her fellow student to the bar.

She giggled, light-headed, as she slumped clumsily onto a barstool, and nodded at what sounded like a question from one of the guys. The young man grinned, about as inebriated as she was, and clinked his bottle against hers. She laughed, hiccoughed, and took another swig…

When she and the girls finally staggered out of the nightclub, into the cold night air, at some time after three in the morning, Laila dimly remembered the boys having left earlier. Her legs ached, and her nose and throat were sore with smoke. She coughed, as she followed Lucie and Marie-Jo down the street. None of them were walking steadily. Marie-Jo had received a text message from St�ph earlier, apologising for leaving without warning. Whatever that was about. Laila's mind was, by now, distinctly blurred.

“I need to pee again,” she mumbled.

“You'll have to hold,” Lucie said, her voice slurred.

Laila groaned, and rubbed at her smoke-sore eyes. “Ish cold out here. Who turned the cold on?” She giggled. “Whoah. I'm not walking straight…”

Marie-Jo laughed. “Turn the cold off!” she shouted drunkenly down the mostly deserted street, and laughed again.

“Shh,” Lucie chided, perhaps a little less drunk then the other two. She put an arm round Laila, steadying her as best she could, and almost knocking them both down together. Laila flinched a little at the alcohol on her breath. “Hey, haven't you got an exam at uni, tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Laila shrugged. “Shorright. Itsh afternoon.”

“You sure?” Lucie yawned. “Mmthink it's in the morning.”

“Right. Maybe.” Laila tripped over herself, and stumbled against a parked car, bringing Lucie down with her. The two of them giggled. Laila leaned back, wondering whether she would even be able to stand up. And did it matter? She gazed up into the night sky, the stars blurred out by the haze of the street lights. An exam… At uni… She stifled another drunken hiccough. “I would've flunked it anyway.”

* * *

“Nothing wrong with thinking,” Majed said, as they turned into another short street. Here, some of the buildings were larger, and a tree seemed to have burst between two of them, wrenching through the now crumbled stone.

Laila smiled. “I haven't been doing much of it, these past few months. Or these past few years, perhaps. So I've got some catching up to do.”

Majed returned the smile, warmly. “Well, I won't pry.”

She breathed in the cool night air. “Doesn't everything seem simpler to you here?”

“May-be,” he said, cautiously, and gave her a curious look. “How do you mean?”

She considered that for a short while. “I'm not sure myself. It just seemed like the right thing to say.”

Majed smiled again. “Something more for you to think about, then.”

“Yes.” She laughed, a gentle, comfortable laugh. “I suppose so.”

Majed shook his head, still smiling. They made their way down the long-deserted street, their footfall almost quiet on the weather-worn stone. “There's a lot I don't know about you, Miss Laila Malki.”

She looked into his kind, thoughtful face, and tried to decipher the strange, warm flicker in his eyes.

“Well,” she smiled back after a moment, “we're going to be here forever, aren't we? You'll have time to get to know me…”

* * *

It was a remarkably silent group which made its way between the tall, massive trees of the Felaryan jungle. The thick trees cast gigantic, cool shadows over the ground, causing some of the survivors to shiver despite the warm air. Following Palaye's advice, Rajan had successfully persuaded the passengers to suspend all conversations until it was safe to talk again. Whenever that might be. It was going to be a long, depressingly quiet trek through the forest.

The only two able to communicate with each other were the doctor and his wife, using sign language. Some of the others glanced at them with mild irritation, as though somehow they were cheating and breaking the rules.

Lohai, their new mystery companion, walked alongside the group, not quite mixing with it. He had caught onto their habits, however, and helped along with the rest, gathering food with them at mealtimes. Rajan had given up trying to puzzle out where the man came from. Lohai had quite possibly saved all their lives by rescueing them from the nekos, and he was a human being, lost here just like the crash survivors. There were far stranger -and more important- questions to worry about.

Rajan held back a sigh. They were counting on him, following him as though he were a lifeline. Yet he felt as though he were stumbling through the dark, advancing into the unknown, with no clear outcome in sight. The passengers knew that he had no precise plan to save them, but they seemed to accept that there was no easy solution to their predicament. His own lifeline was the sight of the giant tree, looming above all others, majestic and immense almost beyond belief. They were drawing closer to it now. It would not be very long before they reached it.

He hoped it would be a milestone. A sense of achievement, to spur them on further. And an answer to some of their questions.

“What, the…?” Shattering the silence, a cry of surprise rang out from up ahead. Rajan looked up, quickly, gripped in a sudden sense of dread. Surprises out here were never good ones. With a brief glance at Palaye, he hurried towards the front of the group. Everyone there had stopped, and some were even stepping back, wary. Murmurs of concern drifted on the light breeze.

The pilot pushed his way through the small crowd, expecting the worst. He found four of the passengers several steps ahead of the rest… and stuck in place. Right up front were a youngish, brown-haired couple, the man trying to help the woman pull her leg up from whatever was holding them down. Behind them, a man in his late thirties carried a young boy on his shoulders, and was trying to keep the child calm with reassuring whispers. Rajan looked at their feet. A sheen of transparent, glistening slime covered the ground. He frowned. It seemed familiar. He looked back towards Palaye, who was slithering up as fast as her slow body would permit.

“Everyone stay quiet,” he instructed in a low voice. The four trapped in the slime, with their backs to him, turned to look at him, as best they could. “Don't move,” he told them, his tone purposefully calm. The man with the boy -a lean-faced Arab with thin eyebrows and short-cropped hair-, nodded, trying to mask his fear.

“Take my son, please, and I can get myself out.”

“Of course.” Rajan stepped up to the edge of the slime trail, and held out his arms. Carefully, the man took the child from his own shoulders, and passed him to the pilot. Rajan gave them both a smile of reassurance. “Good. Now, don't step on the sticky stuff, ok?” he told the boy. The latter nodded, his face filled with concern, his eyes fixed on his father. He could not have been much older than eight. Ten, at most. “Right, sir,” Rajan addressed the father. “I think you'll have to untie your shoes, and step out here.”

“That sounds doable.” The man gave a somewhat forced smile. “It was silly of me… I saw the other two get stuck, but I didn't stop fast enough.” He looked over at the two in question. “Are you ok? Maybe I can help you.”

“Just focus on yourself for now, sir,” Rajan advised him. “Madam, sir, please just hold still for a mo-” The man, intent on pulling the woman's leg free from the slime, had tugged a little too hard. As Rajan spoke, he slipped, lost his balance, flailed his arms and fell. With a slick splat he found himself lying in the slime, having narrowly avoided knocking the woman down with him. She let out a cry of dismay, and reached down to grab his hand. The man tried to lift his own, but he had used both his hands to dampen his fall, and they were now stuck in the slime. His eyes widened as he realised he could not move, and his gaze turned from the woman to Rajan.

“Uh… I…”

“Slug girl slime,” Palaye said, grimly, as she slithered up beside Rajan. He looked at her.

“But there's so much of it.”

“That's because it must come from a giant-” She stopped, sniffing the air. Her eyes peered into the shadows between the trees, her antennae tense and alert. “Move your people back,” she whispered, very quietly.

Rajan knew better than to argue. “Everyone, move back, out of view,” he instructed. “Take the boy,” he told Maram. Her expression worried, the flight attendant nodded, and picked the child up with a warm, gentle whisper. The boy squirmed, his eyes still on his father.

“But Dad…”

“Your daddy will join you soon,” Maram soothed him. “Come on.”

“Sir,” Rajan told the boy's father, who by now had untied his shoelaces, and held out his hand. “Try to step out of your shoes, without your feet touching the slime.”

There was a rustling sound, and he turned his head to see a giant creature emerge from between the trees. It slithered confidently into view, eyeing them hungrily. He stared. The being was unmistakably a slug girl, but she was about twenty-five metres tall, gigantic compared to the human-sized Palaye. Her thick, flowing hair was a dark brown, the colour of her faintly gleaming eyes. Her bare, sun-tanned skin was a very light brown, at least down to her waist; below, she had the body of a slug, brown with a reddish tinge. She licked her pretty pink lips.

“Now that's what I call a big lunch! Thank you so much for coming by.” She grinned. Although her smile was chilling, there was nothing cruel about it; if anything, she merely looked pleased and excited.

The woman trapped in the slime gasped, then screamed in fright. The slug girl's head snapped round to look at her, and the gigantic predator spat a gob of slime with slapped into the human's face, muffling her yell. Spluttering, panicking, the woman clutched at her face and tumbled onto her husband - irrecoverably stuck in the simple, lethal trap.

“Come on!” A male flight attendant stepped forward to grab the third prisoner of the slime; too late, he realised that he had just stepped into the sticky substance himself. Panic gripping him in turn, he yanked himself back, trying to pull his foot free of his shoe. The slug girl giggled, and spat another gob, pinning him down.

Struggling to remain calm, Rajan looked back behind him. Not all of the passengers had fled yet, and two other flight attendants were urging them back. Now, at last, they all broke into a run. The predator smiled, and spat twice more, bringing two of the passengers down in mid-run.

“There!” she said, satisfied. “That should be enough for now.” She slithered up to her slime trail, and casually plucked the woman out, ignoring the fleeing humans.

Only Rajan and Palaye remained upright beside the trap. The pilot gripped the arm of the boy's father, and was finally able to help him step out of the slime. The giant slug girl glanced at them, and spat again, bringing the man down with frightening ease. He gasped as he fell, enslimed in the sticky gob. Rajan jumped back on instinct, then steadied himself and glared up at the predator.

“No!” he shouted, firm and angry. “You don't!”

“Rajan…” Palaye slipped her arm through his, worried. “Come on…” He shook his arm free, his gaze fixed on the predator. She met his eyes with mild curiosity.

“Why aren't you running away? You should be, you know. Excuse me…” She lifted the struggling woman to her lips, and sucked her in with a wet, sticky slurp. “Mmm…” A smile of satisfaction lit up her pretty face, as she savoured her first catch.

Incensed, Rajan moved forward.

“Let her go!”

The girl swallowed her prey with a gulp, and licked the slime off her lips, before picking up the woman's trembling, shell-shocked husband. She observed Rajan and the smaller slug girl with heightened interest.

“So what's your story?” she asked, as she popped her second human into her mouth. “A lishle shlug girl and a shuman, tohether,” she added, speaking round the food in her mouth.

Palaye groaned. As Rajan glanced at her, he saw she had turned a little pale. She knew they were at the predator's mercy.

“We're just passing through,” she said, in a subdued voice.

The giant slug girl gulped down her second human, and picked up the third.

“So are you their guide?”

“Not really. This isn't my territory.”

Rajan looked from one to the other, then up at the man struggling between the predator's fingers.

“Wait, please!” the pilot called, frantic. “That man has a young son!”

For a moment, the slug girl looked at him. Then she shrugged, and slurped her prey into her mouth.

“Don't!” Rajan screamed, desperate.

“Rajan!” Palaye snapped, urgently. She put her hand on his arm. “If you want to survive this, don't yell at her!” Again, Rajan shrugged her off, furious.

“Spit him out, and you can have me instead!”

That caught the predator's attention. Her eyebrows rose in surprise over her lovely brown eyes. Then she smiled, warmly, and swallowed the boy's father.

“No!”

The girl licked her lips, and gave Rajan a look of sincere respect.

“You're stupid, but you're brave,” she commented, her tone almost gentle. “Now run along, and stick close to your little slug girl friend.” With that, she picked up the slime-stuck flight attendant. Frantically, Rajan lunged forward, trying to grab his screaming colleague as the man was lifted into the air. He missed, and watched, helpless, as the man disappeared into the hungry slug girl's mouth. Moments later, he was nothing but a brief lump passing down her throat. “You'd better go,” the girl said, sounding almost apologetic. “Just in case I'm still hungry after lunch.”

Rajan stared at her, stunned, shivering with hopeless fury.

“How can you?”

“Rajan…” Palaye took his arm and, this time, held on to it tight. “Come on. I'm sorry, but we have to go…” He tried to shrug her off once more, but she was surprisingly strong. “Rajan, don't be stupid! I swear, if you don't come with me, I'll slime you and drag you away!”

He turned to glare at her, furious. “I have two people here still stuck! If I can.. If I…” He struggled for words. “How can you not care?”

“I care,” she said, her voice firm and gentle. “But this slug girl is hungry, and she's caught her lunch. You can't save them. You can only save yourself now, and I'm not going to let you waste your life for nothing. Come on.” She looked him in the eyes. “Please.”

Rajan broke her gaze, glaring at the larger slug girl again. “What can I do to save them?” he asked, desperately. “Maybe I can-”

The girl sighed, and spat. The large gob caught him in the face and chest, silencing him and knocking him down. Palaye exhaled a little gasp of shock.

“Relax,” the predator said, with a shrug, as she slithered forward to pick up another human. “He's annoying, but I admire foolish self-sacrifice.” She smiled. “I won't eat him unless I'm still hungry after the others.” Plucking one of the last two humans off the ground, she looked at Palaye. “You know, you're lucky I don't like the taste of slug girls.”

“Stop it, please!” the human in her hand howled, struggling frantically. “Don't eat me!” She ignored him, her eyes on the little slug girl.

“I suppose you've got a name?”

“Yes, I'm-” the human yelled.

“Not you.” With no regard for his horrified pleas, she put him in her mouth. Palaye's face turned even more grim, but remained outwardly calm.

“I'm Palaye.”

“Palaye.” The girl smiled, and swallowed her food. “I'm Niella. Nice to meet you.” She picked up her final prey, a woman. “What are you doing out here with all these humans?”

Palaye glanced, nervous, at Rajan, who was struggling to wipe the slime off himself and get up. It was incredibly effective, holding him down despite his legs being free. Then she turned to Niella, her gaze travelling up past the giant slug girl's now bulging tummy. Beneath the skin, she could see the wriggling struggles of the humans trapped inside. She gulped.

“Sometimes I'm not too sure myself…” she admitted in a whisper.

“Well, you'd better work it out. It's not a good idea to wander around here without knowing what you're doing.”

“Oh, God, please, no!” the human woman screamed, beside herself with terror. “Please, please, please, I don't want-” Niella slurped her into her mouth, and smiled faintly as she savoured her.

“Shee you around, lishle Palaye,” she said. “Shtay shafe.” She glanced down at Rajan, and casually wiped her slime off him, then turned, and slithered back off between the trees, still sloshing her last human round her mouth…

* * *

Gwynn Parry ran.

She ran faster than she could ever remember running before. Her partly torn skirt caught on brambles, holding her back, and she lurched on desperately, legs and heart pumping in a blind rush. She had been out picking fruit with Qasem; hopefully, he had got away. The half-humanoid, half-spider creature had clearly decided to pursue her rather than him. Which was not much consolation, since at any moment now she might end up dead. Her pursuer was young, barely more than an adolescent, a little clumsy perhaps - but gigantic, eager, hungry, and very, very dangerous.

She skidded, on ground damp and muddy with rain, her hand striking out to steady her against a tree. Gasping for breath, she pushed on, running as hard as she possibly could. A feminine laugh rang out behind her, horribly close - not unkind, yet taunting her. Tears of despair rose to her eyes.

She had survived once, against the odds, after being captured by that giantess. But in this harsh habitat, surviving once was no protection against further danger. The predators of the forest were constantly hungry, and since the few humans huddling in the ruined city needed to venture into the forest for food…

Panting, she kept running, her legs pumping over damp ground, acutely aware that the creature behind her was catching up on eight giant, balanced, chitinous legs. She gasped, struggling for breath as she ran. She did not like to think of herself as `middle-aged' yet, but she was not as young and athletic as she might once have been. She could not keep this up very l-

She screamed, as she was suddenly swept off her feet, a gigantic hand closing around her. She was lifted up, dizzyingly fast, and stared, horrified, into an equally gigantic, female face. Out of the frying pan, into the fire… The thought, particularly unfortunate in this context, flashed through her mind. She had run straight into the reach of a dryad. Huge, greenish brown eyes observed her curiously for a moment, then the dryad's mouth opened wide, pink and glistening with saliva.

There was nothing in the world except that mouth.

It was the end of everything.

A few moments later, a young dridder skittered into view of the dryad, just in time to see the tree-woman swallow, and lick her lips with satisfaction. The dridder sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. The dryad looked at her, green-brown eyes gentle and questioning.

“Did you just….” The dridder hesitated. It was clearly too late to retrieve her prey, and she did not want to make a dryad irritable. “Did you just eat a human?” she asked, cautiously.

The dryad smiled, nodded, then noticed the frustration on the young dridder's face. She gave her an apologetic look. The dridder was a pretty little thing, with her shortish black hair, rosy face and lively, forest green eyes. It seemed almost a shame to have deprived her of her food. Still…

“Never mind,” the girl said, trying not to sound too disappointed. “I'll find something else.” She gave a somewhat forced smile. “I hope you enjoyed it.”

The dryad smiled again, and nodded without a word. The dridder half-turned to leave, then paused, and looked back at her. Something about the way she was behaving… Their eyes met, and the young dridder searched the calm, confident gaze of the adult tree woman. She hesitated for a moment, then realised she was staring, blushed, and skittered away with a mumbled apology and an awkward wave. The dryad watched her leave, her kind face cool and impassive.

Only when the spider-girl was out of sight did she bring her hand up to her mouth, and gently spit out the human she had pretended to eat.

Gwynn coughed, inhaling great gulps of breath, and wiping the dryad's saliva from her face. She sat up quickly on the palm of the giant hand, and gazed up in wary confusion at the tree woman's gentle face. The giant, hybrid being had smooth, light green skin, a flow of black hair, and deep, dark eyes which observed her with quiet interest.

“Are you going to let me live?” Gwynn asked, cautiously, as soon as her shaken nerves had settled enough for her to speak. There was still a tremble in her voice. The hot, squishy dampness in the dryad's mouth, along with the certainty that she was about to be swallowed, had left her in a state of shock that would take a while to wear off.

The dryad smiled, reassuring her.

“Yes, you're quite safe. The dridder's gone. She thinks I ate you.” Her smile broadened. “She's just a young one, who must have strayed a bit from her territory. She doesn't know me.”

Gwynn nodded, mechanically, and ran her hand through her saliva-soaked hair.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, you're welcome. But you can count yourself lucky. If you'd run past out of my reach…” She paused. “I'm Shelny, by the way.”

“Gwynn.” Somehow, introductions helped her regain her calm. It seemed the tree woman was not going to eat her, and they were having a civilised conversation instead. “I'd shake your hand, but I'm sitting on it, so…” She managed a smile. “You'll have to excuse me a moment while I catch my breath. I'm not used to running. Or being hunted. Or being shoved into the mouth of a giant woman who's saving my life.”

Shelny laughed - a gentle sound.

“Take your time. You can stay here as long as you want.”

“Thank you,” Gwynn said again, simply. She sighed, and took several deep breaths to steady herself. She decided not to look down and see how high she was above the ground. Instead, she kept her eyes on the dryad's face. “I don't suppose you have a towel?” she quipped.

Shelny grinned. “Sorry, no. But…” With her free hand, she plucked one of her own leaves, large and thick enough to serve as a human's towel, and handed it to her. “You can dry yourself with this.”

“Thanks.” Gwynn hesitated, while she began to wipe her arms. “That… didn't hurt, did it?”

“What, picking one of my leaves?” Shelny smiled, amused. “No, not at all. Don't worry about that.” Gwynn returned the smile, and the dryad gazed at her with gentle curiosity. “How about telling me who you are? It's not often I get accidental visitors.”

“Ah, well `accidental visitor' pretty much described what I'm doing here.” She wiped her face dry. “I crashed here, in an aeroplane.”

“A what?”

“A… uhm, a big machine that flies, and carries people around.”

“I fly, and carry people around,” a bright, female voice piped up behind her. She turned, quickly, and found herself looking at a young woman, human in appearance, hovering at her altitude in mid-air. Daintily, the woman came to land on Shelny's outstretched palm, and sat facing Gwynn with a pretty smile. The human tried not to stare at her, fascinated.

The woman was young, seemingly in her twenties, and looked human in most ways. She was of human size, just a little shorter than Gwynn herself. She had very dark skin, partly covered in light, short, dark green clothing of an unfamiliar material. Her green eyes held Gwynn's gaze, bright with a curious, playful intelligence. But her long hair was a pale green, and attached to her back were four delicate, transluscent wings, shimmering beautifully in the sunlight.

“You're a fairy…” Gwynn whispered in awe. The girl smiled. She was lovely beyond words, dainty yet exuding warmth, a bubbling liveless which suggested she might flit off into the air at any moment. Yet Gwynn could not help but notice that her little tummy was quite full, bulging with faint ripples as something moved inside it, and the sight gave her a chill which quite dispelled the warmth of the fairy's smile.

“That's right.” The woman giggled, then looked at Shelny.

“Gwynn, this is Enita,” the dryad said, smiling. “She is indeed a fairy. Enita, this is Gwynn. I rescued her from a dryad.”

“Snatching food from hungry mouths again?” Enita teased. Her dainty wings folded and unfolded gracefully, catching the light in soft patterns of colour.

“Something like that,” Shelny laughed.

Gwynn tried not to feel uncomfortable, as she looked from one to the other.

“I take it you eat people, Enita?” She kept her voice surprisingly calm. Her career as a journalist had led her to interview people whose views and practices disgusted and frightened her. The fairy's nod, though, confirmed that, for the first time, she was talking to an eater of human flesh.

“I'm a vegetarian,” Shelny explained with a gentle smile. “Enita… isn't.”

“Right.” Gwynn looked at the fairy's belly, feeling extremely ill-at-ease. “Have you…?”

“Have I…” Enita repeated, puzzled. “Have I what? Oh!” As she understood the implicit question, she smiled, and patted her tummy, looking quite pleased with herself. “No, I haven't had any humans today. I had nekos for breakfast. It took me a while to catch them, too.”

“You know,” Shelny chided softly, “you could eat berries.”

The fairy giggled. “Berries don't wriggle inside me.” Her tone as she said it was quite innocent, without the faintest hint of malice. She laughed, and darted up into the air, her graceful legs stretching out, wings beating daintily. With a little swirl, she flew up to kiss Shelny's cheek, then giggled again. “Bye, bye!” she said cheerfully, swooped in a playful pirouette, and flew off into the treetops. Gwynn watched her leave, stunned.

Shelny gave a fond smile. “She's a lovely little thing, isn't she? And all that energy… I call her my little bundle of sunshine.”

“Ah, right.” There was silence for a moment, as Gwynn wondered whether to ask. Her instinct prompted her. “Doesn't it bother you?”

“That Enita's so full of energy?”

“That she eats people,” Gwynn clarified, dryly.

“Oh.” The dryad shrugged. “I've told her what I think of it. But I'm not going to lecture her. She does whatever she wants. Besides, fairies don't see things the same way as you do.” She gave a patient smile. “This is the way things are, in Felarya. I'm a bit of an anomaly, you see.”

“So you… I mean, have you helped other people before?”

“Oh, yes. I do what I can. Little people who know about me sometimes come here for the night when they're travelling, and I keep them safe.”

“That's very kind of you. Especially considering the attitude of most… of other beings your size. I've seen a tree woman eat humans.” She winced at the memory.

“Most of them do,” Shelny said with a nod. “We're carnivorous by nature.”

“But you're not.”

“Not any more, no.” Again, a gentle smile. “To be honest, I prefer to talk to you, and help you, rather than feel you struggling in my tummy. Enita thinks I'm being silly. But we get on well all the same.”

“So I see…” Gwynn trailed off, feeling a little dazed.

“Speaking of which, where were you off to, Gwynn?”

“Nowhere in particular. I was looking for breakfast.”

“Are you here on your own?” Catching the human's hesitation, she gave a little laugh. “Ah. You don't trust me enough to answer that.”

“No offence.”

“None taken. Though if you told me what you were doing, I might be able to help. Are you trying to leave Felarya?”

Gwynn nodded.

“There's a dimensional gate not far from here.”

“I know. But it doesn't go to where I want to go. There's no such gate on my world.” She paused, hesitated, then added: “I arrived here with several other people. Some have gone on towards the giant tree.” She pointed off into the distance, towards the immense tree towering over much of the forest. “They hope to get a view of the land by climbing it.”

“Oh…” Shelny followed her gaze. She looked faintly worried. Which made Gwynn instantly worried, too.

“Is something wrong?”

“Well…” The dryad sighed. “You're not going to like this. The tree is quite famous, of course. It's the home of a particularly voracious naga.”

Gwynn's face turned pale.

“I'm sorry,” Shelny said, and looked as though she meant it. “If your friends aren't prepared, they're very likely to get eaten.”

“Oh, God…” the human whispered. She sat silent for a moment, then shook her head, pulling herself together. “Is there any way I can warn them? If they haven't already got there, that is…”

The dryad seemed dubious. “I wouldn't advise running after them. I could ask other dryads to look out for them, but I'm not sure that would be a good idea.” She paused. “I could ask Enita to go.”

“The fairy?” Gwynn frowned. “Uhm… I hate to say this, but…”

“Don't worry. She wouldn't eat your friends if I asked her not to.”

The Welshwoman felt a glimmer of hope. “And she wouldn't mind helping?”

Shelny smiled. “She's pretty much my best friend.”

Still tense, Gwynn breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” she said, for the third time that morning. “I don't know how I can repay you. Either of you.”

“Oh, don't be silly,” Shelny said, and beamed at her. Her leaves rustled softly, the sun warming her light green skin. “Though if you're not in any hurry, I'd enjoy having your company for a while. Just make yourself comfortable…”

* * *

Paris, France, a few days earlier

Laila turned the plane ticket in her hands without looking at it, then sighed, and slipped it with her passport into her expensive handbag. She slumped back in her hard seat in the airport departure lounge. She felt utterly miserable.

She had only herself to blame, of course, but the gnawing sense of guilt was hardly suited to cheering her up. Here, now, in her final minutes before flying home, she could find little solace looking back at the past year.

A year in Paris, paid for by her parents, and she had made a complete mess of it. With the thrill of adolescent freedom, she had indulged to excess in every opportunity for fun, letting her studies sort themselves out by themselves. But of course, they hadn't. Her final exams had been a disaster. A year wasted, her parents' money thrown away on petty pleasures, and -worst of all- the prospect of their crushing disappointment when she got home. When the guilt had hit her, belatedly, it had done so with the weight of a ton of bricks.

She wanted to cry. She had cried, repeatedly, her selfish sobs rocking her to sleep on her last night in the City of Lights. The shame she had experienced over the past few weeks was like nothing she had ever felt before. She had had to force herself to the airport. She was still not certain where she would find the courage to face her parents. Not that they would say much, but she could already picture the look in their eyes.

Selfish, spoilt little bitch. They had never called her that. Those were the words she had screamed at herself, crying her flood of emotions into her pillow. The shock of her own failure, the realisation of her own behaviour, had opened those floodgates, and twisted her round to stare at the past. Almost twenty years of her life stretched out behind her, and she saw herself taking, constantly taking from her family, taking them for granted, too, and giving so little in return. She had lived in a bubble of her own making, her own little world, in which nobody mattered but her. Her self-image burned in her mind, reflecting what so many others, no doubt, thought of her.

And now she would crawl home, carrying nothing but the burden of shame and her expensive purchases, and… what?

She could not undo the past. Nor did she know how to change. She felt trapped in a limbo. She had built who she was, selfishly, and now that she faced the image of what she had made herself, she felt lost in the absence of any alternative.

If she was not the girl she despised, then what was she? Life did not give you second chances.

Tears rose to her eyes once more. Only the announcement coming over the loudspeakers stopped her from crying.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first boarding call on flight AS-705 to Damascus. Calling business class passengers only at this point. I repeat, this is the first call for passengers to Damascus, flight AS-705. Passengers in business class may now proceed to gate fourteen.”

Sniffling, wiping her eyes, Laila picked up her hand luggage, and walked over to join the queue. Around her, men and women shuffled in line, talking to one another, joking, laughing. She hung her head, alone in her self-inflicted misery.

Boarding the plane, she followed instructions to her seat, stored away her bag, and sat down, her face sombre. After a moment, she glanced at the man seated beside her. He was an Arab like herself, but old, well over eighty. His eyes were closed, and to her surprise she saw dried tears staining his cheeks. So he had something to cry about, too…

The thought gave her pause. The man, whoever he was, was near the end of his life. Whatever might have made him cry, he was not going to fix it. But her past was still short, and she still had a future. Maybe she could-

She stopped, brushing that thought aside, angry at herself.

I bet he's just crying with joy at going home. Or something.

She slumped in her seat, sullen, looking at no-one, and allowed herself to sink into her own misery.

* * *

The light rain pattered on the stone street, the sound travelling through the open door and window frames as Laila gradually awoke. She yawned, and moaned softly at the stiffness in her limbs. The thin airline blanket offered little protection from the hard stone floor she was sleeping on. She sighed, stretched lazily, and forced herself to sit up. The air was fresh, but warm; it was well past dawn. She had slept in, despite the discomfort.

As her sleep-blurry eyes adjusted to the sights around her, in the bare stone room of the abandoned house, she found Majed and Mr. al-Hafez looking at her, smiling. They both seemed rather pleased about something, and Laila blinked, rubbing her eyes to chase away the vestiges of sleep.

“Good morning,” she said, and yawned again. A pleasant scent drifted to her. “Something smells good. Am I late for breakfast?”

“Happy birthday, Laila,” al-Hafez said, much to her surprise. He smiled at her, his aged eyes crinkling with gentle warmth.

“Happy birthday,” Majed put in, with a grin. “The big twentieth.”

She looked from one to the other, startled. Then her face bloomed into a lovely smile.

“You remembered! I didn't even think…”

“It wasn't very long ago that you told me,” Majed said, with a quick laugh.

“Majed has made breakfast for you,” the old man added, as he sat facing her.

“It's just a fruit salad, I'm afraid. I had to make do with what I could find. But I did find some more of those squishy things Palaye showed us, and squeezed some fruit paste onto the salad for you. Well, Mr. al-Hafez squeezed it. He helped me chop the fruit. And I tried to make some mixed juice. As best I could. Anyway… a birthday breakfast, for what it's worth. Don't move; I'll get it.”

“It sounds lovely,” Laila laughed. “I wasn't expecting anything, so it's a nice surprise in itself.” She ran her hand through her hair, tidying it as best she could. Majed disappeared into a back room, leaving her with Mohamed. The old man watched her, smiling.

“Thanks,” she said to him, warmly.

“It was our pleasure. Twenty years old… Goodness, that takes me back. When I was twenty… It seems like another life ago. It's nice to see you so young and full of life.” He smiled at her soft blush. “Oh, I mustn't forget… Go and look in your handbag.”

She gave him a curious look, stood, and made her way over to her smallish handbag. A book had been wedged inside, and she picked it up carefully. Its condition demanded care; it was old and worn, its cover partly faded, stained with a washed-out splodge of dark ink; it had obviously been read many times, the corners of the pages worn and turned. She read the title out loud, in Arabic. “Laila and Majnun.” She turned to look at al-Hafez, and smiled. “I've heard of this. It's a classic.”

“Ah, but have you ever read it?” His eyes twinkled gently.

“No…” she admitted, blushing, and he gave a warm, frail laugh.

“Good.” He paused. “I'm sorry I could offer you nothing else. It's an old edition. Printed in the thirties, I think. It may not be the kind of gift a modern young lady would like for her twentieth birthday…”

“You're giving it to me?” she said, touched, and looked down at the fragile book in her hands. “You must have kept it for years… held on to it… I'm not sure I can-” She stopped, and smiled, grateful. “It's perfect. Thank you. I'll treat it with the utmost care.”

“You're very welcome. Ah…” He gestured towards Majed, who had re-entered the room, carrying a stone bowl filled with chopped fruit.

“Well?” He presented it to her with a grin and a mock flourish. “Aren't we the best cooks in the whole city?”

She laughed, putting the book down carefully and accepting the bowl. “I'm sure you are. It looks delicious!” She looked at them both. “You must have got up early to prepare it.”

“Which we wouldn't have if we'd known you were going to sleep in so long,” Majed smiled. Laila stuck her tongue out at him playfully.

“I'm allowed to sleep in. Birthday girl's privilege.”

The old man chuckled. His hands free, Majed fished into his pocket.

“Ah, by the way, I…” He withdrew something. “I'm sorry I'm not able to give you something… of my own, but… yeah.” They both knew he had been travelling with no luggage, even if they did not know why. “All I've got is my watch, but it's kind of… made of plastic, so…” She looked at him with a curious, gently playful smile, encouraging him to continue. “So,” he said, “I went out looking. Long story short, in one of the houses, I found this.” He handed her a small pendant, carved into a once polished and painted, now worn and faded mineral. “I'm sorry there's no necklace to go with it, I was thinking maybe you could… clip it to one of yours. It has a little… clip… thing.” He trailed off, and sighed. “Sorry. I know it's kind of pathetic.”

Laila looked at him, then put her bowl down and took the small object, her slender, dainty hands brushing softly against his larger ones. A soft smile caressed her lips.

“It must have been very pretty, once…” She gazed up into his eyes. “Thank you, Majed. It's a nice thought.”

He gave an awkward but pleased smile, and shrugged, without a word. She sat down, and began eating her breakfast. A strange sense of warmth filled her, for a moment at least, but as the two men watched her in silence, other feelings crept in on her, stealing the comfort of their simple but lovely surprise. She chewed at her fruit, her delicate young face troubled, and sighed.

“You aren't happy,” the old man observed.

“Oh, it's…” She looked at him, feeling guilty without quite knowing why. “It's nothing.”

“If it were nothing, you wouldn't look that way.”

She gave a forced smile, and shook her head.

“I was just thinking…” She hesitated. “I don't really deserve this. Your kindness.” She looked at them both, her dark eyes reflecting a heavy jumble of emotions. “You don't know me. I'm not… I don't deserve people being so nice.”

The men glanced at each other.

“Rubbish,” Majed said, firmly.

“No, I mean… really,” Laila insisted. “I'm…” She stopped. Something in her mind seemed to click. She gave him a warm but troubled smile. “I'm grateful.”

Majed returned the smile, gently, and al-Hafez gave a light cough.

“Whatever's on your mind, young lady, there's no reason fot it to affect your life here. We know you for what we're seeing of you now. Anything else… Well, I would say here you get a fresh start.”

She considered that for a moment, before shaking her head.

“No, I don't. The rest of the world… It's still there, even if we can't reach it. Out there, in the real world, the people who care about us… They're still there. Thinking that we're dead, or perhaps clinging on to hope.” A lump of emotion began to form in her throat, and she gulped against it. “You know, thanks to you both, I woke up this morning to a lovely surprise. But my parents… God, they must have woken up thinking about me too, and for my twentieth birthday, I'm not there. They think I'm dead. They have… They have nothing but grief.” Tears welled up in her eyes, her voice choking a little, and she lowered her head. “I'm sorry…”

“Shh, it's all right.” Very gently, Majed sat beside her, and put an arm round her. Grateful, she sank into him, resting her head against his shoulder. “Don't be sorry. It's all right…”

She gulped again, and nodded, quietly. Her eyes strayed over to the old man, who wore a soft, thoughtful look on his wrinkled face.

“You said, `out there in the real world',” he echoed. Laila nodded, sniffling. “But…”

“But what?” Laila asked, in a whisper. Al-Hafez met her gaze, and looked almost apologetic.

“But for us, this is the real world now,” he said, very gently.

Laila said nothing. In the comfort of Majed's arms, she merely nodded, and shivered.

[To be continued…]