The Glass Camel’s Lament

In the autumn of 2019, Mara and I decided to celebrate our anniversary early. My job had me traveling to Morocco the following week, and we wanted to steal a few quiet days together before the chaos. We chose a small town in the Atlas Mountains, known for its ancient kasbahs and the quiet rhythm of life far from the cities. We found a guesthouse that had once been a vizier’s residence, now converted into a luxurious riad, with intricate tilework, a central courtyard with a fountain, and rooms that opened onto balconies with views of the mountains.

Mara, like your partner, was a skeptic. She had a scientific mind, a pharmacist, and she dismissed anything that couldn’t be measured or proven. She would often joke about my ‘ghost stories,’ but she never appreciated my enthusiasm for the supernatural. I, on the other hand, have always been drawn to the inexplicable, to the stories whispered by old stones.

On our second night, after a day of exploring the narrow alleys and the souk, we returned to the riad as the call to prayer echoed across the hills. The owner, an elderly man named Hassan, had told us earlier that the house was built in the 18th century and had been home to a wealthy merchant who collected curiosities from across the world. He pointed out a small glass camel, no larger than a hand, that sat on a shelf in the lounge. It seemed out of place among the antique brass and carved wood. ‘A gift from a traveling mystic,’ Hassan said, his voice low. ‘It is said to hold a spirit, a djinn of the desert. But it is only a story.’ He smiled, but his eyes lingered on the camel.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The mountain air was cold, and I slipped out of bed to get some water from the lounge. The moon cast a silver light through the latticed windows, and I noticed the glass camel on the shelf. As I approached, I heard a faint, high-pitched sound, like a distant wind, or perhaps a whistle. It seemed to come from the camel. I leaned in, and the sound became clearer. It was a song, wordless and mournful, like a lament for something lost. I reached out to touch it, and the singing stopped. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

I returned to bed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. I didn’t tell Mara, for fear of being teased. The next day, we went to a nearby market, and among the stalls, I found a small, tarnished silver ring with a dark blue stone. As I held it, I heard the same singing, faint and far away, as if carried on the wind. The vendor seemed nervous, urging me to buy it. ‘It belonged to the merchant’s daughter,’ he said. ‘She disappeared many years ago. The ring is all that was found.’ I bought it without bargaining.

That evening, back at the riad, I showed Mara the ring. She laughed. ‘You and your stories,’ she said, but I could see a flicker of unease in her eyes. I placed the ring on the nightstand next to the bed. Later, as we were drifting off, I heard the singing again, now clearer and closer. I saw Mara’s eyes open in the darkness. ‘Do you hear that?’ she whispered. I nodded, my heart pounding. The song swelled, and I felt a cold breeze sweep through the room. Then, the glass camel on the shelf downstairs began to glow with a faint blue light, visible through the intricate screen above our door.

We both froze. The light pulsed in rhythm with the song. Then, the ring on the nightstand began to vibrate, sliding across the wood and falling to the floor with a soft clink. I picked it up, and as I did, I saw a vision: a young woman in a white robe, standing at the edge of a well in the courtyard, her eyes empty, her lips moving in a silent song. The same song. She turned to me, and her mouth opened in a soundless cry. I dropped the ring as if burned.

Mara was now sitting up, her face pale. ‘What is that?’ she said, pointing to the window. Outside, a figure was standing on the balcony, a silhouette against the moon. It was the woman from my vision. She raised her hand, and in it, she held the glass camel, now glowing brighter. I looked at the nightstand; the ring was gone. In its place lay a single petal of a desert rose.

I rushed to the window, but the balcony was empty. The singing stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was heavier than any sound. Mara was trembling. ‘This isn’t real,’ she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. I went downstairs to the lounge. The glass camel was no longer on the shelf. Instead, I found it on the floor, shattered into a thousand pieces, and among the shards lay the silver ring. I picked up the ring, and this time, I heard a voice, not a song, but a whisper in my ear: ‘She is not gone. She is waiting for you to remember.’

We left the riad the next morning, three days early. Hassan apologized, saying the old house had its moods, but he didn’t seem surprised. As we drove away, I looked back and saw the silhouette of a woman in the window of our room. She was holding the glass camel, whole and glowing.

Back home, the nightmares began. Every night, I would see the well, the woman, and hear that mournful song. Mara insisted I see a doctor, but deep down, she knew. She started sleeping with the lights on. I searched the internet for the glass camel, for the merchant’s daughter, but found nothing. The ring I wore on a chain around my neck; the stone seemed to warm against my skin when I was near old places.

One night, I woke to find Mara standing by the bedroom door, staring at the corner of the room. ‘She’s here,’ Mara said, her voice flat. ‘She told me her name is Aisha, and she wants her ring back.’ I clutched the ring, and suddenly, the room filled with the scent of jasmine and sand. A cold hand touched my shoulder, and a voice, now clear and sorrowful, whispered: ‘You have carried me for too long. It is time to let me go.’

In the morning, I found the ring on the bathroom floor, cracked. The stone had fallen out, and inside was a tiny scroll. It read: ‘To free me, shatter the glass camel at the well of the Kasbah. Only then will I find peace.’

We never returned to Morocco. Mara left me six months later, unable to live with the ‘ghost’ that followed us. But I still hear the song sometimes, especially on quiet nights. And I know that somewhere, in a dusty lounge of a riad, a glass camel is whole again, waiting for the next traveler to carry its curse.