The Prophetess and the Power Cell

The Bio-Saga [Book One|Chapter One]

Chapter One

It wasn’t the bombs in the distance that awoke Orella, nor the smell of gunfire. The shouting of men amidst the screaming women and crying children didn’t rouse her either. It was the panicked steps of her mother, Nora. Her heels pattered from one end of the room to the next, frantically entering the small enclave they used as a kitchen.

She returned with a loaf of stale bread and a vial of olive oil, then stuffed it into the hand-woven bag she used to carry produce home from the market. Finally, she wrapped a handful of family heirlooms in a sheepskin satchel, clutching them close to her chest as she carried them. The bundle of items was set upon the stool at the entrance with a dull clatter. Two pairs of shoes were lined up, ready for ease of escape.

Nora stopped at the edge of the room, interrupted by the reminder of her faith, as the misbaha¹ hanging on the wall glinted in the dying ember of candlelight.

She carefully removed the smooth blue and gold beads off the hook and cradled them. Holding the string of beads in her hands, she meticulously counted each glossy sphere between her fingers, a silent prayer accompanying every touch.

Lifting the precious stones up to the center of her forehead, she whispered, “Bismillah.²”

Though her pleas were mere whispers, Orella could sense the urgency of her mother’s voice.

In the tangle of rushed prayer, she could only make out a few words.

“...ḥimāyah³… raḥmah⁴… hidāyah⁵…”

Nora wrapped the misbaha around her wrist and continued her urgent stride while the sound of bombs continued at a closing distance. Before Orella could submit to the overwhelming sense of fear turning her inside out, she remembered her father’s words:

“The disruption of war makes no exceptions for little girls and their dreams.”

There was a pause between them. Words of comfort or explanation never fell from Nora’s lips. She caught the sheen of her daughter’s frightened eyes.

Orella lifted the sheet away from herself as she rose up from the mattress, placing her tiny feet upon the floor.

“Mama?” She whimpered; her utterance barely audible.

“We must leave, habibti⁶. It is not safe. They are coming!”

“Who?” Orella asked, a slight tremble in her voice. Nora didn’t answer with words of comfort or prayer. Turning to face Orella, her mouth opened, releasing an inaudible scream as she tried to reach out for her daughter. Orella looked down, witnessing glowing sigils spread across the surface of her skin with a piercing heat. Soon after, Orella was consumed by a wall of smoke and rubble.

Her father’s voice, a distant echo… Then a shout.

“Nora, Orella, run…!”

* * *

Orella inhaled sharply, opening her eyes to the tangible world around her.

That dream again.

She calmed her nerves the way she always did, by counting down from ten to zero. Every morning was an endeavor for Orella—an endeavor to recall the night her father died. As she pieced together the frayed memories of that night, like mismatched swatches in a patchwork quilt, she remained still. Settling in the warmth of the bedding which adorned her body, while her search for answers remained cold.

Repressed trauma from the night she couldn’t remember remained fragmented, recurring in sharp, jagged pieces like broken glass, too dangerous to pick up with bare hands. So instead, she picked up a pen. Orella resisted the pang of guilt and sat up, reaching for her journal hidden beneath the pillow. Flipping it open, her nib landed on the next blank page after yesterday’s entry.

Deliberate details were included without hesitation. Like the way debris caked onto her hair from the collapsed buildings, and the choking warmth of chemical gasses viciously coating her throat. The only reliable source of discerning her memories from her dreams was her beloved mother, who encouraged her to write them down from a young age, when the night terrors were most prolific.

The pleasant dreams were sparse, while the nightmares refused to relent. Even so, Orella willed the lucidity of her dream to linger, capturing rapidly fading details onto the page, like pulling at a stray thread before it unraveled into nothing. She despised the event of waking, the way limbs prickled and bent, as if lifted by uneven puppet strings. But the worst part was forgetting her dreams before she could record them.

Orella recalled the last of the sigils from last night’s dream, and added them to the codex she had started years ago. Pages upon pages of sharp lines, curves, and dots. Though she still wasn’t any closer to translating them or identifying their linguistic origin. The sigils were nothing more than souvenirs she’d collected without certainty she’d ever understand them.

The codex took up the last few pages of her reference notebook, which contained a collection of objects, animals, and other figures she’d find in her dreams. Complete with definitions and examples directly from her own experience, it served as an effective means of tracking every element of her dreamscape. As she rummaged between the two notebooks, a folded leaf of a magazine fell from between the stretched open pages.

She plucked it from her lap in no rush to return it. Her fingers traced the faded edges of folded paper while the delicate ritual of unfolding overtook their movements. Once opened, the dark colors and sharp photography absorbed her. In thin blue letters the word Nvision occupied the center. Beneath it, a glass chamber big enough to fit a person wearing a pair of sleep external reality headgear, like a crown you never want to take off. A machine that can record your dreams and allow you to watch them? The audacity—and convenience alone—made Orella envious.

Since its conception, the Nvision had been solely used for entertainment purposes by those who could afford such luxury. However, after one data breach too many, users’ subconscious minds were exposed to the public, leaving them vulnerable. After a series of investigations and a hefty lawsuit, the Nvision was discontinued, never to be abused again. Its mysterious existence was brief, and from then on, it remained shrouded in controversy.

Following the same pattern as unraveling the page, Orella folded it back into the small square it was, and slipped it between the leaves of paper of her notebook, marking her place at the codex of sigils. Disrupting her line of thought, but not her progress, Nora’s hurried steps rushed through the door. Her abaya⁷, a rich shade of burgundy with golden appliqués, flashed in the light as she moved. Tasks and responsibilities awaited Orella, and who else but her mother knew it to be true.

“Ai, Orella, by the time you decide to get up I’ll have all the chores done! Everyone is already here, make sure you’re presentable.”

Nora paused and searched Orella’s face to see if she was listening, and noticed her daughter’s hand feverishly writing. Her eyes unmoving from the page. Nora picked up the nearby bowl of cold water where a rag was soaking. Her steps were now hushed and deliberate as she met her bedside, opposite of the original pace with which she entered the room.

“Did you have another nightmare?” Nora inquired with a gentle coo.

She squeezed the excess water into the bowl before lightly pressing the cool cloth against Orella’s forehead. She took hold of the rag herself and continued the endeavored gesture of comfort. Orella understood the caregiver never dies in a woman as soon as she’s borne children, but she despised being infantilized. Now, at nearly twenty-three years old, she felt more than capable of taking care of herself.

“Yes,” Orella started, careful not to expose her offense through her tone, “but this time the sigils were all over my body. A burning glow, like the sun does when it hits your eyes after hiding in a dark room. It was blinding.” Orella’s voice faded as she revisited the moments again, flicking through them like a projector in her mind.

“That sounds frightening…” Nora’s voice trailed off as she moved away, her silence speaking louder than her words. She retrieved her daughter’s clothes, draping them carefully over her arm before placing them neatly on the bed. Nora then collected a wooden hair brush and frameless mirror, handing them both to Orella before she drifted across the room once more, returning the bowl of water to its usual place.

While Orella understood her mother's discomfort, she made it a point to reassure her. “I wrote it down, hoping it would stop haunting me." Gathering her dark hair over one shoulder, she steadied the strands with her palm as the brush worked through the tangles, the bristles ticking audibly from ends to scalp. "You taught me that.” Orella smiled at her mother through the mirror but realized too late that her mother's gaze, worrisome and distant, remained fixed in a frown. Nora fidgeted with the corner of her robe, her fingers tracing the embroidery as if searching for security in its delicate stitching.

Raising a daughter plagued by the haunting dreams of her past came at a cost she could barely afford. Now that Orella had grown, she had learned to manage them herself, but the toll on her mother was unmistakable. Nora’s eyes, weathered and sullen, bore the mark of countless sleepless nights spent at her daughter’s bedside, gently easing her through each panic-stricken episode. Empathy welled in Orella, replacing the annoyance she had felt moments ago. Guilt swelled, but so did gratitude. The greatest gift any child could offer their own mother.

“You’re getting older. I figured you would have grown out of it by now." Nora set down the mirror and sighed. "The dreams, or the habit." Ungluing her lingering eyes from the floor, she placed a hand on Orella's shoulder. "Perhaps I had selfishly hoped for both. If only so you can have a peaceful night’s rest, at last.”

Orella caught the disappointment in her mother’s voice. As though the nightmares over time devoured any possibility of what would be considered a normal life. What worried Orella most is that as she’s gotten older, rest has been easier, while progressing past the dream seemed harder. Growing up as a victim of the regime, displaced by their own country, meant normalcy was never an option thereafter.

Nora opened Orella’s sketchbook to an illustration of her father’s face. Nora paused, tracing the outline of his strong, angular features with her eyes, while following the contours of his expression with the tips of her fingers. The crinkled corners of his deep, umber eyes, were framed by thick eyebrows. His hair, dark and wavy, was drawn and shaded with deliberate charcoal strokes.

“A perfect resemblance. You’re so talented, habibti.” She exhaled, pressing her left hand over her heart where it remained broken. “Oh, how I miss that smile.”

The weight of nostalgia became a bittersweet ache that lingered like the faint scent of his cologne. She could almost hear his laughter echoing through the room, a ghostly reminder of when they thought they were safe. Delicate moments of tenderness, taken too soon, left her in a perpetual state of mourning. She remembered sitting together under the olive trees, sunlight filtering through the leaves, while he told stories of his childhood adventures to Orella long before she could walk or talk.

The memory came vividly to her, and she found herself smiling along with the illustrated glow of her lost husband. Nora shut her eyes, letting the past wash over her like a warm breeze in the chill of night. Comforting yet ephemeral, fleeting yet everlasting. Even as tears threatened to spill upon the clay floor, she refrained from muddying the moment of blissful resonance.

She opened her eyes, closed the notebook, and carefully tucked it back under Orella’s pillow. Her fingers lingered on the cover, as if holding onto her beloved a little longer. As she pulled away, she smoothed the fabric, wishing she could iron out the creases of loss and longing in her own heart.

Shaking the residual feelings of grief, Nora waved Orella out of bed. “Now, let’s get to work. Up, up, up!”

Orella groaned and stretched as she stood up from the mattress and wrapped herself in the blue-gold abaya. Its deep hues complemented her olive skin as it draped around her shoulders. Orella moved with an understated grace. The soft silk loosely hugged her body, accentuating her slender frame silhouetted against the warm glow of the morning sun spilling through the small stone window. Orella tucked her long, golden-brown hair beneath the soft, embroidered hijab⁸ that framed her face, accentuating her amber eyes.

After securing the final pin, making sure her dark brown hair was fully concealed, Orella took a moment to survey the small, modest room she shared with her mother. Everything had its place—simple, organized, and yet, it was a reflection of the home they had to abandon thirteen years ago. She watched as her mother excused herself without speaking, stepping out to return to their company. Not wanting to distract them from their work, Orella slipped out of the house unnoticed, though she was just as eager to avoid being distracted by them in return.

She stepped outside, the early light stretching across the abandoned ruins that had become their home. The cool morning breeze was a welcome respite from the relentless heat that would soon dominate the day. Life in their secluded refuge wasn’t simple or easy. Solar lanterns had to be cycled every few months, while open fires were kept to a minimum for the sake of discretion. The modified solar generator intuitively followed the sun, a lifeline for devices like portable stoves and other necessities.

As Orella crossed the threshold of their dwelling, she joined the other women who had already begun their work. Orella adjusted her pace, falling into rhythm with the others, as they harvested native plants and checked on their livestock, who brayed for their breakfast. She took a deep breath, grateful for the familiar routine that anchored them in harmony.

Lifting a wooden plank with two buckets secured to either side, Orella began her trip to the well, beginning with a hidden trail outside the ancient steps of their tiny village. A path she walked nearly every day since they sought refuge here. The well had appeared numerous times in her dreams prior, but she didn’t dare tell anyone. They’d sooner believe she was a witch or the mistress of a haughty djinn.

Though she wore sandals of leather and nylon, the sand at Orella’s feet welled to the tips of her toes. She lowered the plank and buckets down a moment to pull the edges of her hijab closer around her face. The fabric offered some comfort and protection against the building heat. She rested the lumber on her shoulders again, adjusting her weight as the empty buckets swayed in the gusts of wind. Maintaining her balance against the elements.

The ropes reinforcing the buckets rappled, twisting and releasing like park swings. Orella planted her feet firmly into the earth, bracing herself against its push and pull. From the first step to the last, she inhaled the mysterious beauty of the rural desert, captured in colors only brought out by the painted skies of sunrise and sunset. It was said among them that only God’s palette could turn desolation into beauty.

Her gaze followed the golden lace edges of the distant dunes, tracing the silhouette as it stretched further into the sands. The acacia trees dotting the path offered little shade, but Orella purposely drifted beneath their canopies, seeking relief from the harsh rays above. Finally, Orella arrived at the edge of the well, stepped to the side, and lowered the buckets onto the ground. The main bucket, tethered to a sturdy rope looped through a simple pulley system, hung above it.

Peering into the basin, she admired the way sunlight reflected off the water. Ribbons of light and shadow danced across the stone walls and flickered against her face. Orella released the rope, lowering the bucket into the well. The wooden rim dipped into the cool, clear effervescence, sending ripples across its surface. As her mirrored expression floated in the water below, she began to pray.

“Ya Allah⁹, You are the Source of all mercy and compassion.

In Your infinite grace, we seek refuge.

Guide our hearts towards Your light and shield us from despair.

Ya Rahman¹⁰, fill this water with Your blessings, and let it nourish our bodies and souls.

Make us instruments of Your peace, and grant us the strength to overcome our trials with patience and faith.

Ya Allah, in Your wisdom, help us understand the signs You send us, and in Your love, keep us united. Ameen.”

Concluding her prayer, Orella used her arm and leg strength to retrieve the full bucket of water to the surface. In its heaviness, it swayed and spun, yet she was careful not to sacrifice a single drop. She relished the idea that were she to spare any, at least there would be more water tomorrow. She then took the second bucket and repeated the same pattern as the first.

With care and attention, she managed to support the weight of the buckets, bracing the teetering heft with her small bony wrists, and returned to her path home. Giving way to the sounds around her, Orella could hear the screech of the Saker falcon high above, and the cries of the jackal pups following their mother to safety, back to the cool shade beneath the olive trees. This terrain built off survival was embellished with the persistence of life, reminding Orella that she too must persist.

1. Misbaha: A string of prayer beads commonly used in Islamic traditions for reciting prayers or performing dhikr (remembrance of God). It typically consists of 99 or 33 beads, symbolizing the names of God or acts of devotion.

2. Bismillah: An Arabic phrase meaning “In the name of Allah,” used by Muslims to invoke God’s blessings before starting any task or activity.

3. Ḥimāyah: Protection or safeguard, often used in the context of seeking divine protection and security from harm.

4. Raḥmah: Mercy or compassion, signifying the kindness and benevolence of Allah towards His creation.

5. Hidāyah: Guidance, referring to the divine direction and enlightenment provided by Allah to lead individuals on the right path.

6. Habibti: term of endearment that translates to “my beloved” or “my darling” when addressing a female.

7. Abaya: a traditional, loose-fitting cloak worn by women, particularly in some Muslim-majority countries, to maintain modesty in accordance with cultural or religious practices. It typically covers the entire body except for the face, hands, and feet

8. Hijab: A traditional head covering worn by some Muslim women as a symbol of modesty and privacy, usually covering the hair, neck, and sometimes the shoulders. It reflects an individual's devotion and respect for cultural or religious practices.

9. Ya Allah: “O God” or “Oh Allah,” often used in moments of supplication, distress, or reverence. It is a direct appeal to God in Islamic tradition.

10. Ya Rahman: A name derived from the Arabic word Rahman, meaning “The Most Merciful.” It is one of the 99 names of Allah in Islam, signifying divine compassion and mercy.