The Serpent
The wind howled through the narrow stone alleys, rattling shutters and tugging at worn awnings. Wooden doors groaned on their hinges as the gusts swept past, carrying with them the dry scent of dust and distant spices. In the half-light of dusk, a lone figure strode purposefully down one of the shadowed lanes — his name was Abdelsalam.
He adjusted the folds of his dark cloak as he approached an aging stone building tucked behind the crowded labyrinth of the market. Its weathered facade bore the marks of centuries: chipped limestone, faded blue paint, and rusted ironwork. The wooden door creaked open beneath his hand, and instantly, the warm, familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted toward him — sharp, bitter, and comforting.
Inside, the soft clatter of the bustling souq dulled to a muffled murmur. Abdelsalam crossed the room and settled into the worn leather chair behind his desk. The dim light slanted across scattered papers and inkpots as he unfolded the day's newspaper.
The headline stretched across the page in bold black letters: "KIDNAPPINGS PLAGUE THE CITY!"
He frowned, his finger trailing under the words. "Kidnappings…?" he muttered under his breath. Unusual. Jerusalem's tightly knit communities rarely let such things go unnoticed — and rarer still without motive or ransom.
SWOOSH! The door flung open with a sharp gust.
A tall, pale man stepped inside, his frame broad under a finely woven thobe, his beard neatly combed but flecked with gray. His dark eyes flickered with urgency as he placed a hand over his chest and greeted softly,"السلام عليكم."
"وعليكم السلام," Abdelsalam replied, inclining his head.
The man lowered himself onto the wooden chair opposite, glancing over his shoulder as if wary of unseen eyes. His voice, low and strained, broke the silence.
"Please… I need your help. My daughter — Leila — she has vanished. No ransom note, no witnesses. Nothing but silence. A relative told me… you handle discreet matters."
A missing person? Simple, on the surface — but in the intimate quarters of Jerusalem's old quarters, disappearances were rare and whispers traveled fast.
Abdelsalam studied the man for a long moment, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. His tone, when he spoke, was measured and precise. "Your daughter — did she meet anyone recently? Perhaps… someone new?"
The father's gaze darkened, lips pressing into a thin line.
"Yes. A scribe. His name is Faris. She spoke fondly of him… often."
A love affair gone awry? Perhaps. But something tugged at Abdelsalam's instincts — that quiet hum in his chest he'd learned not to ignore.
His eyes drifted downward, narrowing ever so slightly.
Since the man's arrival, a glint had caught the detective's eye: pinned discreetly at the man's waist sash was a small ornament — elegant and weathered by time. A jasmine flower, delicate and pale… entwined sinuously with a serpent wrought in dark metal.
Abdelsalam's brow furrowed deeply. That symbol — he knew it well.
It had haunted him since his youth, when he first fled Cádiz, his family torn from their Andalusian home. The Jasmine and the Serpent. A sigil that whispered of forgotten societies, of ancient vendettas, and secrets older than empires.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leaned forward. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, eyes sharpening.
"Tell me, sir… has anyone else asked about your daughter?"
The man's eyes flinched — a slight, involuntary twitch — but his lips held steady.
"No," he answered, gaze flickering momentarily to the floor. "Not that I know of."
A lie. Clean, practiced — but not clean enough for Abdelsalam's seasoned eye. Years of reading merchants, smugglers, and spies had taught him to catch these hairline fractures in truth. Too quick. Too rehearsed.
Yet, he did not press. His face remained composed, even faintly sympathetic, as he slowly nodded and reached for the small brass pot on his desk. The dark coffee poured smoothly into two porcelain cups, steam curling lazily upward. Hospitality — an old tradition, but also a tactician's tool. Nothing loosened tongues like warmth and patience.
He slid a cup gently toward the man. "Then perhaps you can tell me," Abdelsalam began, his tone casual, almost detached, "does your daughter keep journals? Letters, perhaps? Any habits that might help me understand where she may have gone?"
The father wrapped his fingers around the cup, knuckles tense despite the pretense of calm. He shook his head again — slower this time, more deliberate.
"She wrote. Always wrote. Poetry… fragments. But I haven't seen her journals lately."
Interesting. Abdelsalam let the statement hang in the air, as though satisfied, all the while cataloguing the man's discomfort with precision. His eyes drifted once more to the jasmine and serpent emblem, committing its exact pattern to memory. Not a common sigil. And certainly not harmless decoration.
He eased back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other."I'll begin with the scribe then — Faris," he said smoothly. His gaze sharpened slightly, though his lips curved with faint politeness. "I'll also need access to her room. With your permission, of course."
The father hesitated, something flickering behind his eyes — hesitation, fear, or calculation, Abdelsalam could not yet tell. But after a pause, the man gave a stiff nod.
"Of course. Anything that helps bring her back."
He rose from the chair abruptly, draining the last of his coffee with practiced ease.
"I will leave you to your work. You will find me at the spice merchant's stall by Bab al-Silsila. Ask for Hamdan."
As he turned to leave, the sigil swayed gently against his robe, catching the dying amber light filtering through the shutters. Abdelsalam's eyes narrowed further, the old embers of suspicion fanned to life.
Only once the door creaked shut and the man's footsteps faded into the alley, Abdelsalam exhaled quietly and reached into the small drawer beneath his desk. His fingers closed around a worn leather notebook — the one he'd carried since his days in Cádiz — filled with sketches, symbols, and old ciphered notes. He flipped to a page near the middle, aged paper crackling softly.
And there it was.The Jasmine and Serpent. Drawn by his own hand years ago, annotated carefully beneath:
"Order of the Perfumed Viper — active Andalusian secret society, last traced to Jerusalem, 1764. Vanished from record."
Not vanished anymore.
He tapped his finger against the inked emblem, brows furrowed deep in thought.
A simple missing person case…?No, my friend. You've brought something older, darker, and far more tangled into my office.
Abdelsalam rose from his chair, draping his cloak over his shoulders. The wind outside had not abated; it hissed through the alleyways like an omen. As he locked the door of his office behind him, the first stars blinked into the orange-and-indigo dusk.
Time to find Faris, the scribe.
And perhaps… begin uncoiling the serpent's nest that had followed him across continents.
As Abdelsalam fastened the buttons of his long coat and adjusted the fold of his scarf, a sound rose gently through the thickening evening air — clear, resonant, and timeless.
"الله أكبر… الله أكبر…"Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…The Adhan, the call to prayer, echoed from the slender minaret of the neighborhood masjid, its melodic cadence rippling through the ancient stones of Jerusalem's Old City. The voice of the muezzin soared over the rooftops, weaving between domes and arches, mingling with the distant clang of closing market stalls and the soft shuffle of feet in narrow alleys.
Abdelsalam stilled, letting the familiar syllables settle over him like a balm. His heartbeat softened. Five times a day, all the noise, all the layers of intrigue and toil, were peeled away — leaving only man, sky, and his Lord.
Quietly, he reached for the small leather satchel he always kept ready near the desk. Inside, nestled neatly, were the tools of his craft:– His notebook, thick with worn pages and ink blotches– A slim reed pen and vial of black ink– Folded sheets of tracing parchment– A small brass magnifier, tarnished at the edges
He slung the satchel over his shoulder and stepped into the cool air. The street had shifted subtly — shopkeepers closing shutters, lanterns flickering to life, and men walking briskly toward the masjid. Bab al-Silsila, the Chain Gate area, bustled with quiet purpose as neighbors exchanged nods and soft greetings.
The masjid's courtyard lay open and welcoming. White limestone glowed amber under the fading sky. Abdelsalam left his shoes neatly at the threshold, stepping onto the cool, worn rugs within. The lines of worshippers straightened with practiced ease. As he raised his hands and folded them over his chest, the world outside dimmed — for a time, only presence and peace remained.
When the prayer concluded, soft murmurs of duʿāʾ rose around him. Men exchanged subdued greetings, palm to palm, shoulders brushing lightly in camaraderie. As Abdelsalam moved to retrieve his bag, a familiar voice, warm and slightly nasal, cut through the hushed air.
"Abdelsalam! SubhanAllah, I haven't seen you at the masjid for Fajr the past few mornings."
He turned to see Detective Yusuf, straightening his long robe with awkward precision. Yusuf was a broad-shouldered man, his thick mustache carefully trimmed, eyes perpetually tired beneath heavy lids. His reputation in the Ottoman police bureau was… complicated. Known for being eager, but rarely effective, Yusuf's investigations often unraveled faster than they began. Many whispered that he solved cases more by accident than method.
But Abdelsalam neither judged nor concerned himself with such chatter. Other people's ordeals were theirs to carry.
He nodded politely.
"Yusuf. Work keeps me busy."
The detective smiled, brushing dust from his cuffs.
"Of course, of course. Always after shadows and secrets, aren't you?" He chuckled, the sound echoing faintly off the high arches.
Abdelsalam gave a thin smile but said nothing more. Conversation, to him, was currency — spent sparingly.
Yusuf, unfazed by the quiet, tapped his chest lightly.
"Well, if you ever need a man on the inside, you know where to find me. The bureau's as busy as ever these days… strange happenings."
He left the words hanging deliberately, perhaps fishing for curiosity. But Abdelsalam only inclined his head in acknowledgment, slung his bag over his shoulder, and made for the exit.
Before dusk fell that day, Abdelsalam made his way to the souk al-Qattanin, the famed market of cotton merchants, where scribes and poets often gathered to draft love letters and legal petitions for the illiterate. His inquiries led him to a modest stall tucked beneath a shaded arch, where Faris — a thin, sharp-eyed man of perhaps thirty — sat meticulously copying Qur'anic verses in fine Maghrebi script.
Abdelsalam approached quietly, his boots tapping against the worn limestone.
"You are Faris, the scribe?"
Faris glanced up, his dark irises narrowing slightly, a flicker of cautious calculation behind them.
"Yes. How may I help you, Effendi?"
"I am looking into the disappearance of Leila Hamdan. I understand you were acquainted."
For a breath, Faris's reed pen froze mid-sentence. His Adam's apple bobbed subtly before he set the pen aside.
"Acquainted… yes. We spoke often. She enjoyed poetry. I lent her some books. That is all."
Abdelsalam studied him silently. Faris's fingers twitched slightly, smudges of ink betraying restless energy.
"Did you see her recently?"
Faris exhaled through his nose, gaze drifting down to the parchment before him.
"Not in the past week. Her father forbade her from visiting the market after he discovered we had spoken frequently. He said I was—"A small, bitter smile tugged at Faris's lips,"—a bad influence for a merchant's daughter."
There was no overt malice in his tone — only resignation. Yet something in his posture betrayed deeper knowledge. His fingers grazed a small object at his side — a silver locket resting beneath his tunic.
"You cared for her," Abdelsalam stated evenly.
Faris's lips pressed into a thin line.
"I did."
Silence lingered heavily between them. Around them, the market bustled on, oblivious.
"Do you know where she might have gone?" Abdelsalam asked finally.
Faris hesitated. His jaw flexed, conflict flashing across his face.Then, with a reluctant nod, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
"She often mentioned… an old fig grove near Bab al-Silsila. She went there when she wanted to be alone. Or when her father's temper flared."
Abdelsalam nodded, his face unreadable.He left Faris to his work, his mind already turning as he set off towards the fig grove — where, as we know, he would find Leila.
The shadows stretched long as Abdelsalam departed the market, his pace brisk but measured. The sky had begun its descent into warm hues — ochre bleeding into deep amber — as the minarets cast slender silhouettes over the crumbling limestone rooftops.
Following Faris's lead, he wove through the ancient alleyways of Bab al-Silsila, where soft chants of evening supplications drifted from the houses. The scent of jasmine curled faintly through the air, mixed with dust and the distant spice stalls. A fig grove—overgrown and half-forgotten—lay beyond a crumbling wall near an abandoned caravanserai.
There, beneath the gnarled branches of the oldest tree, he found her.
Leila sat hunched upon the earth, her back to the world, her frame delicate and still like a glass figure on the verge of shattering. The hem of her lilac dress, though once finely embroidered, was now dulled and frayed. Wisps of dark hair escaped her loose scarf, cascading down her shoulder.
Her fingers absently twisted around a single jasmine flower, petals bruised and wilting.
Abdelsalam approached cautiously, mindful of startling her.
"Leila?"
She flinched faintly — her breath catching — but did not flee. Slowly, as though weighed by unseen burdens, she turned her head. Her face, framed by the waning light, bore hollow shadows beneath her eyes. Her lips were parted slightly, dry and pale, but it was her expression that struck him most:A look of deep weariness… and quiet surrender.
"Your father asked me to find you," Abdelsalam said gently, his voice stripped of judgment. "He has been searching."
Her gaze drifted downward, lashes lowering like a curtain drawn against some unbearable sight. Her shoulders slumped as though the very air pressed too heavily upon her.
For a moment, Abdelsalam hesitated. His instinct gnawed at him — something was wrong. Gravely wrong. But she gave no protest, no explanation, no plea. Only a silent nod as she rose unsteadily to her feet, clutching the thin shawl around her arms.
They walked back through the labyrinth of Jerusalem's Old City, the muffled sounds of the Maghrib adhan echoing from the minarets, painting the moment with solemn reverence. Though the streets teemed with merchants and travelers, they passed unnoticed, two figures adrift in their own isolated quiet.
When they reached Hamdan's house, the man emerged swiftly from behind the iron-grilled door. His tall, austere figure framed by the flickering lantern light.
"Leila!" he exclaimed, voice coated with rehearsed relief.
She stopped at the threshold. Her body stilled, her arms tightening around herself once more. The scent of oud and spice drifted faintly from the house's courtyard, but Leila did not seem to notice.
Hamdan stepped forward, pulling her into a swift, firm embrace. His grip was too tight to be tender.
"You have done well, Effendi," he told Abdelsalam, his smile thin and brittle."You have restored my family's honor."
Leila's eyes, over her father's shoulder, met Abdelsalam's for a fleeting second. Wide. Hollow. And burdened with something ancient and unspeakable.Then, as quickly as it appeared, her gaze fell.
The door closed behind her with a muted clack of the iron latch.
Abdelsalam stood for a long moment beneath the lantern's dim glow, unease coiling slowly in his chest.
Something is wrong.But what?
turning on his heel, he made his way back through the labyrinthine souks toward his office.
By the time he pushed open the weathered door of his office, the Jerusalem sky had dimmed to deep gold and violet. The market's din had softened into a gentle murmur.Abdelsalam slipped off his shoes by the door, hung his coat carefully on the peg, and moved toward the small burner nestled beside the window.
The copper cezve clinked gently as he spooned fresh coffee grounds into it. Soon, the rich aroma of dark roast filled the air, curling into the corners of the dimly lit room.He poured the thick brew into his clay cup, the bitter scent steadying him.
Lowering himself into his worn leather chair, Abdelsalam unfolded that evening's newspaper, the pages soft and crinkling beneath his fingers.The usual fare: reports of Ottoman officials squabbling, news of a caravan arriving from Damascus, a scandal of two merchants quarreling over spice debts.
Nothing of urgency. Nothing troubling.
He sipped his coffee slowly, the dark liquid grounding him as his sharp eyes skimmed through columns and articles.Eventually, he folded the paper neatly, placed it beside his inkwell, and rose to extinguish the burner's soft flame.
Moving to his narrow cot, he laid his notebook and pen on the small table within reach and eased himself under the worn wool blanket. The coolness of the sheets against his skin was familiar, anchoring.
For the first time in many long days, his breath slowed evenly.Sleep took him swiftly and without resistance.
The next morning, the sharp trill of distant roosters and the growing murmur of market vendors stirred Abdelsalam awake. Pale sunlight filtered through the wooden slats of the window.He rose, dressed in silence, and soon found himself once again at the corner coffeehouse.
As always, he retrieved the fresh morning edition from the boy who hawked them outside the souk, nodding his thanks. He settled at a corner table, cup of thick coffee steaming in front of him.
Unfolding the crisp paper, his eyes were immediately drawn to the headline —The ink was bold, merciless:
"Merchant's Daughter Found Dead — Tragedy Strikes Prominent Hamdan Family"
His throat tightened. The world around him seemed to dim and narrow.He read — once, then again.Leila Hamdan. Found lifeless at dawn. A physician declared suicide by poison.The family, the report said, would not be answering questions. The father had vanished.
Abdelsalam's fingers curled into the newspaper's edges, crumpling them.
His jaw clenched hard. His coffee, untouched, grew cold.
I brought her back to her deathbed.I failed her.
A long silence stretched as the clamor of the city went on unbothered, unaware of the weight pressing on the man at the table.
The serpent and jasmine lingered in his thoughts — dark, coiling.And guilt took root, deep and enduring.