"We should have a name," said Smna. "For us."
One autumn, a strange blight fell upon the village well. The water turned bitter, the goats gave sour milk, and a grey dust settled on everything. The elders said a djinn had been angered. But Thmyl, scratching maps in the dirt, disagreed. thmyl aghany mhmd wrdy smna
So, under a fat, nervous moon, the five crept out of their beds. Wrdy carried a pouch of dried mint for courage. Smna held Thmyl's hand, her small feet silent as a cat's. "We should have a name," said Smna
"But the elders forbid us to go," Aghany said, her voice like a soft flute. "They say the path is cursed." The elders said a djinn had been angered
They reached the spring. Just as Thmyl had guessed, a slab of rock had pinched the flow. The pool was a shallow, muddy sigh.
They pushed. They strained. Smna's face turned red as a pomegranate. Aghany's hum became a desperate, high note. And then— grrrr-CRACK —the stone rolled aside.