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Acupuncture

The treatment room – the same room where I had first awakened after arriving here – was dimmer than the rest of the house, the shutters drawn halfway. Scrolls of neat black characters hung on the walls, and bundles of dried herbs dangled from the rafters, scenting the air with bitterness and earth. The padded table sat in the middle of the room, covered in a clean cloth. A small brazier glowed in one corner, and beside it the candle flame flickered.

“Your pain is behind the eye?” Ma Shushu asked the man.

“Yes,” the man whispered. “Behind the eye, into the neck. Always drumming in my head.”

“Hm.” My uncle’s voice was thoughtful but not sympathetic. “You drink wine. You stay up at night, worrying about profit and loss. You shout at your workers. Your liver is hot, your blood rises to your head.”

The man grimaced. “If you cure it, I will pay anything.”

“You will pay what is fair.” Ma Shushu took another needle, passed it briefly through the candle flame, then cooled it with a puff of breath. His hands were sure and unhurried. “And you will follow my advice.”

He pressed a fingertip gently along the man’s brow, then found a spot at the temple. With a tiny, precise movement, he slid the needle in. The man’s fingers twitched, but he did not cry out.

“If you tense, the qi will knot,” my uncle said. “Breathe slowly. In… and out.” He demonstrated, his own belly rising and falling in time with his words. “Tell me when the drum in your head changes.”

He moved smoothly around the table, balanced and focused. He placed needles at the back of the skull, the base of the neck, and the web between thumb and forefinger. Each insertion was as smooth as a well-executed strike. No wasted motion, no hesitation.

I found myself mapping his movements onto my father’s lessons. The lines of the man’s body were like the meridians in Five Animals forms – paths along which force flowed. These same points were striking targets or pain points in combat. Yet here the force was not a blow, but something invisible within the flesh. I did not understand it, but I could see that there was a system, as strict and exact as any martial form.

“Now?” Ma Shushu asked.

The man swallowed. His face had relaxed a little. “The drum is… softer,” he said. “Farther away.”

“Good.” Another needle. “And now?”

The man’s shoulders sagged. “The pain is gone,” he said, sounding surprised and very relieved.

Divine Wisdom

“Your body wishes to be well, but you poison it daily,” Ma Shushu told the man.

Haaris stood beside me, as silent as I was, though I saw his eyes shine with pride. He had seen this many times before.

Ma Shushu checked the needles, then stepped back. “You will lie like this for a while. When you rise, do so slowly. You will drink no more wine, is that clear? You come from an honored Hui family. You know drinking wine is against our faith, and your pain is proof of the wisdom of Allah’s prohibitions, though Allah’s commands need no proof. Everything that Allah commands is Divine wisdom for our benefit, not for Him. Allah the Most High is independent of all needs and wants. You could drink yourself into the grave, and it would not harm Allah in the least. It’s for you, do you understand?” Ma Shushu punctuated this last comment with a gentle finger tap to the man’s forehead.

“Yes, honorable sir,” the man said.

“You will go to bed early,” Ma Shushu went on. “Tomorrow you will not drink wine. Instead, walk in the fresh air. Send your workers home an hour before Maghreb. They have rights upon you, and if you do not treat them fairly, you will answer to Allah on Yawm Al-Qiyamah.”

“Yes, yes,” the man murmured. His voice was drowsy. “Whatever you say, Master Ma.”

Work for the Mind

My uncle extinguished the candle flame with a pinch of wetted fingers, then turned to us. “Haaris, watch him. If he tries to roll over, stop him. Darius, come with me.”

I followed him into the main room. He closed the door to the treatment room halfway, leaving it open enough that Haaris could call out if needed.

“How much did you understand?”

“A little,” I admitted. “You followed the meridian lines inside his body. Like forms that exist under the skin.”

He regarded me sharply. “How do you know about meridian lines?”

In reality, my father had taught me the meridian lines in order to be more precise in striking. These were the points where strikes and gouges could elicit maximum pain or even cause crippling injury. Stabbing the junction between the front shoulder and chest muscle, for example, or up into the armpit. Punching the solar plexus, or a knife hand chop into the philtrum, which was the groove between the upper lip and the base of the nose. But all I said to Ma Shushu was, “My father taught me.”

My uncle grunted, and I had the feeling he was surprised that my father knew the meridians, but he did not say so. “In this house,” he said, “there is work for the hands, the spirit and the mind. Your hands are capable, I have seen that. Now we must train the other two.”

I bowed my head slightly. “Yes, Ma Shushu.”

He clapped his hands once, lightly. “We will pray, then you may rest for an hour. After that, we will continue your studies.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Do not worry. Needles will not be involved.”

I almost smiled back, but caught myself. I was not yet ready to feel that light. Still, as I returned to bed to nap, I felt some of the weight of the day lifting from my shoulders. There were problems to be solved, secrets to be kept, and personalities to be learned. This was all more than I was used to. But I would figure it out. I had to.

Independent of All Needs

That night after supper, I shared the moon cake with Haaris. He told me he’d already had one in town, but I shared it anyway. He was very happy, and told me a funny story about something that had happened in town. A black horse had come charging through the main street, riderless, and a woman – a milk-seller – fainted with fright. Zihan Ma revived her, and the first thing she said upon waking was, “Don’t let my husband know about us!”

I was scandalized, but I chuckled. I knew from experience that when a person fell unconscious and revived, they might not know where they were, and might even remember having dreams, even if only a few seconds had passed. It was very strange.

Lying in bed that night, my mind drifted to Ma Shushu’s words to the wine-drinking merchant. I had always wondered at the foolishness of the villagers who left offerings of food in front of the statue, only to watch the food rot. What was the point? Yet Ma Shushu said that Allah is independent of all needs and wants. It means, I thought, that our worship is not about Allah’s ego. Our prayer is a way of lifting us out of the misery of this world. I might have contemplated this further, but sleep overtook me.

A Restless Boy

The next day after Fajr prayer Ma Shushu declared that I would join Haaris in the farm work.

“Husband,” Lee Ayi said. “Let him work with me a little longer. I have a lot of work this week, and he’s been very helpful. Besides, I want to get to know him a bit more.”

She spoke this lie very naturally, and Ma Shushu clearly suspected nothing, as he replied, “Certainly, if you wish.”

So I did housework with Lee Ayi for a handful of days, until my shoulder was healed.

One day, we were folding laundry together, standing at the low table by the window. The cloth was warm from the sun, faintly smelling of soap and air.

Lee Ayi shook one tunic out and said, almost idly, “We were not farmers, you know.”

I looked up. “Who?”

“The Lee family.” She smoothed the sleeve flat. “We lived in the city. Your grandfather was a clerk for a trading house when he was young. Later, he kept accounts for the mosque. People trusted him with money. Our family was respected.”

She folded with quick, precise movements.

“Yong was restless even as a boy. Always running ahead, climbing walls, getting in fights.”

I nodded. “That sounds like him.”

She gave a short huff. “He was brilliant, but difficult. My father would correct him, and Yong would listen, but only once. If the correction came twice, he would bristle.”

She stacked the folded cloth neatly.

“He was good at martial arts very early. Better than Jun De ever was.”

I hesitated. “Jun De?”

“Our older brother.” She did not look at me. “He drowned in the river when Yong and I were still young.”

I waited, but she did not elaborate.

Games and Races

When my shoulder was healed, I went out to work in the fields with Haaris.

Haaris worked hard, never complaining, singing to himself as he hauled water or guided the animals. He knew every task by heart. I was bigger and stronger than he was, and once I learned the rhythm of the work, we moved quickly. The fences were repaired, the firewood stacked, the pens cleaned. By the time the sun stood directly overhead, much of what normally took until Asr was already done.

Haaris was delighted. He taught me jianzi, where we took turns kicking a small shuttlecock made of copper coins wrapped in twine, with chicken feathers sticking out of it. The idea was to balance it on one foot and kick it up in place, and keep catching it on the foot. Haaris excelled at it, but the first time I tried it I sent it almost onto the roof of the barn, which made Haaris cackle like a chicken.

Another day, he challenged me to a race to the gate and back. I indulged him and let him win, but he knew what I’d done and stuck his tongue out at me, saying, “Boo!” At times, I found Haaris’s innocence difficult to relate to, but on the whole, he was a sweet boy, unfailingly polite and respectful. And handsome too. He had wide set black eyes and straight black hair that fell to just below his ears. His father was quite dark, and his mother very pale, and Haaris landed in the middle, which gave him a healthy glow.

When he wanted to run off to play tag with the donkeys and feed them oranges, that was too much. I left him to his games and went into the house to watch Ma Shushu work.

Patients Rich and Poor

People came for treatment in a steady stream. Many were of the laboring class: farmers with hands split open from winter soil and cracked wooden plows; muleteers whose backs were knotted hard from sleeping on the ground beside the road; old women with knees swollen like gourds from decades of squatting in the fields; children burning with fever, their mothers’ faces pinched with fear; a charcoal burner coughing black dust into a rag; a silk porter with rope scars cut deep into his shoulders; and others of this kind.

These people brought payment in the form of goods: a basket of eggs, a large bundle of bok choy or daikon radish; or, in one case, a young pig, which Ma Shushu refused, explaining to the man that we did not eat pork. I saw the man return a week later with coins, after selling the pig, I supposed. Often the payment was insufficient, but Ma Shushu treated them all, turning no one away.

This was balanced out by occasional patients from the upper classes: merchants with delicate mustaches and jade rings; the wife of an official carried in on sedan chairs, veiled and silent, suffering from lingering weakness after childbirth; a young scholar with ink-stained fingers and eyes red from studying by oil lamp, tormented by headaches before his examinations; an elderly, heavyset matron attended by two servants, her pulse thin and fluttering from years of rich food and little movement; and once, discreetly at dusk, a high-ranking government official accompanied by two guards. This last one insisted the gate be closed, not wanting anyone to know he was ill.

These people paid in gold, and Ma Shushu spared no expense in their treatment, often using rare and expensive medicines.

Every now and then, there was a patient whom Ma Shushu admitted he could not cure. In these cases, he gave them medicine to relieve pain and alleviate symptoms temporarily. One case that stuck with me was that of a child who was perhaps six or seven years old, carried in by his mother because he no longer had the strength to walk.

He was terribly pale, his skin almost translucent, with faint bruises blooming along his arms and legs, though his mother swore he had not fallen or been struck. His belly was distended, his limbs thin, and his gums bled when Ma Shushu examined his mouth. He tired quickly, and when he smiled, it was with a terrible effort. His mother said he had once been lively, always running, always climbing, but now he slept most of the day and woke drenched in sweat, complaining that his bones hurt deep inside.

Ma Shushu listened, felt the child’s pulse for a long time, and examined his tongue. His face grew grave. He asked gentle questions, then took the mother into another room and spoke to her privately. I followed, standing beside the wall, listening.

“This illness is in the blood itself,” Ma Shushu said softly. “It is like rot in the roots of a tree. I can ease his pain, but that is all. He is dying.”

The mother bowed until her forehead touched the floor, not weeping, only breathing in short, broken gasps. Ma Shushu helped her up and pressed medicine into her hands, refusing payment. He spoke to her quietly about keeping the boy comfortable, about rest and cool water, about praying for patience and mercy.

After they left, the room felt heavy, as if the air itself had thickened. I had seen death before, but this was different. He was just a little boy, and there was no enemy to fight, no mistake to correct, no injustice to rage against. That night, long after the lamps were out, I lay awake thinking of the boy’s smile, and about the fact that even the greatest skill had limits.

Hope and Happiness

The next day, during Islamic studies lessons, sitting cross-legged on the floor with Haaris beside me, I asked Ma Shushu about the boy.

His solemn eyes flicked to mine. “He is very ill. It’s a blood-borne disease that strikes children. I have seen it before. I do not know what causes it.”

“I heard what you said to the mom. It doesn’t seem fair. You taught me that Allah has a plan for everyone, and that our lives have meaning. Why then take away a life so young?”

Ma Shushu rubbed his chin, chewing on one lip. “Part of imaan is to believe in Al-Qadar, Divine destiny, the good and the bad of it. Everyone dies, but why do some die young or suffer? This is the point at which human knowledge fails, and faith steps in. Our own Prophet Muhammad, sal-Allahu alayhi wa sallam, lost more than one child. One of them was Ibrahim, his beloved little son, who became ill when he was eighteen months old. The Prophet held him in his arms as he was ill, kissing him and smelling him. Then, as Ibrahim was breathing his last breaths, the Prophet began to weep silently. AbdurRahman ibn Awf said, ‘Even you, O Messenger of Allah?’ He meant that the Prophet had prohibited wailing and crying excessively over the dead. The Prophet said, ‘O son of Awf, this is mercy.’ Then, the Prophet wept some more, saying, ‘Verily, the eyes shed tears, and the heart is grieved, yet we will not say anything but what pleases our Lord. We are saddened by your departure, O Ibrahim!’”

“He was the Seal of the Prophets,” Ma Shushu went on. “The highest of humanity. Yet even he had to watch his son die. We cannot understand this, but we don’t allow it to affect our faith in Allah. Does that make sense?”

I nodded. I hadn’t really expected any other answer, and Ma Shushu’s words were profound.

“Do you want to ask something else?”

“My life has been difficult, did you know that?” I blurted out these words. I had never spoken of personal subjects to Ma Shushu, never opened up to him before.

“I have gathered that, yes.”

“My mother’s life was sad, and she died painfully. There were times, after my mother died, that I wished I could die as well, to be with her. I would have been jealous of that boy. I would have wanted to take his disease and die instead of him.”

“I’m very sorry. We didn’t know about your situation.”

Haaris often fidgeted during these lessons, but he had gone very still beside me, and I could feel the weight of his gaze upon me.

“I don’t feel that way anymore,” I went on, looking Ma Shushu in the eye. “If I had died, I would not have seen how my father changed before he died. And I would not have met you, and Lee Ayi, and my brother Haaris.”

I had meant to say my cousin, but for some reason my tongue said, my brother. When I said these words, Haaris burst into tears and threw himself upon me, hugging me. I lost my balance and tipped over. I laughed, but I held him to me and patted his back until his father helped him up.

Ma Shushu sat beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Darius. You say your mother’s life was sad, but I am very sure that there was something in her life that gave her hope and happiness. That something was you.”

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Come back next week for Part 8 – Refugees At The Gate

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

Gravedigger: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 7] – Divine Wisdom appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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Training Ground

When the clothes were stacked in a hamper and the lines had been taken down, Lee Ayi said, “Wait here.” She disappeared into the house and returned with a wooden training dao that I had not known existed, as well as my own spear.

I froze, remembering my father’s ruthless training. What was this? Like brother, like sister? The blood rushed to my head, and my face turned hot. I was not that little boy anymore, and even my father had stopped abusing me eventually. My entire body tensed. In that moment, I could hear the cowbells as the animals grazed in the far field. I smelled the faint, sweet musk of the safflowers, and could feel my own heartbeat in the wound on my shoulder.

Lee Ayi handed me the weapons. “Yong trained you, yes?”

I stood mute, one weapon hanging limply in each hand.

“You don’t have to answer. I can see it in every step you take. Even the way you work. Your balance, poise and economy of motion. The subtle flourishes you add when sweeping the floor. The way you shift your weight. Well, my father trained me as well, though not as thoroughly as Yong.”

I swallowed. “Okay, so?” The words came out dry and hoarse.

She waved to the circle of clear earth where the clotheslines had hung. “This is my training ground. I need to practice.” She clenched a fist, a gesture so unlike her that I shifted my weight to the back foot. “It’s part of me,” she continued. “It’s in my blood. But Husband does not approve of martial arts, nor any form of violence. So every Friday I wait until he goes to Jum’ah and I practice alone. This is my secret. Maybe the farmworkers see but they mind their own business. But you are here now. Will you keep my secret?”

“And what do you need me to do?”

“What?” She shook her head. “Nothing. Just keep my secret. Will you do that?”

A Negotiation

“What is the real reason Ma Shushu did not take me to town?”

Lee Ayi tipped her head back, regarding me. A slow smile appeared. “You’re a negotiator, eh? My brother taught you many things.” The smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression. “Can we just say that he wants your shoulder to heal, and leave it at that?”

“Is that the truth?”

“Part of it.”

Lee Ayi looked down, spotted a small stone that had found its way into her training space, picked it up and chucked it. Then she stood straight and looked me in the eye. “Your Ma Shushu does not want the Shahs to know you exist.”

I frowned. I didn’t know what answer I had expected, but this wasn’t it. “Why?”

“Nur was Shah Zheng’s only daughter. He married three wives, but he apparently lost his fertility and could not sire another child. He is an old man now, and you, as his grandson, are his only surviving descendant. You are thus heir to the family fortune. But Zheng has a younger brother, Osman. He now runs the family business in all but name. He is a ruthless, unprincipled man. Husband is afraid that if Osman knew about you, he would kill you.”

The thought that my mother’s family, instead of being happy to know me, might want to kill me, made me feel empty inside. I walked to the washing basin and sat on the stone rim, putting my chin in my hand.

“I’m sorry,” Lee Ayi said. When I did not reply, she said, “And my secret?”

I waved to her to go ahead and practice.

A Single Step

She began with empty hands, and at first I barely watched.

My thoughts were still tangled in what she had told me about the Shahs, about my mother’s family and the danger attached to my very existence. I sat on the stone rim of the washing basin, my chin in my hand, staring at nothing in particular while Lee Ayi stepped into the cleared circle of earth.

Her movements were confident enough, practiced, familiar. She knew the basic Five Animals stances, strikes and forms. Tiger, Crane, Snake, Praying Mantis, Dragon. The transitions were there, but sometimes incomplete. One time she flowed from one posture into the next and forgot the intervening strike entirely, leaving a small emptiness in the form that my eye snagged on instinctively. Her stances were serviceable but shallow, her steps sometimes too short, as if she were reluctant to fully commit her weight.

I watched without comment.

When she stretched a hand and requested the wooden dao, and I tossed it to her, something changed. Her posture straightened. She turned her hips fully into the cuts, using her whole body rather than her arms alone. The blade whistled softly as it passed through the air. She was not elegant, and her repertoire was limited. But she was effective. There was intention behind every strike.

With the spear, however, she struggled. Her grip was too far down toward the end, and her hands did not slide smoothly enough on the wood as she changed grips. She overextended on slashes and used her muscles to slow the spear down at the end of the movement, rather than using her body to bounce it back or whip it around, which resulted in slow recoveries. A couple of times I winced involuntarily. My father would have beaten me if I’d done that.

When she finished, she stood in the middle of the circle, hands on her thighs, breathing hard. Sweat darkened the collar of her tunic and ran down her temples.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”

I gave a half shrug. “You’re strong. And fit.”

She gave me a sharp look. “That’s not an answer.”

“You’re pretty good with the dao.”

“And the rest?”

I threw up my hands and blurted, “Why are you asking me? I’m just a kid.”

She snorted. “You are that. But you know more than you reveal.” She wiped her face with her sleeve and regarded me steadily. “Show me something of your own.”

I felt my shoulder throb in warning. “What do you mean?”

“Something small,” she said. “One form. Slowly. We can’t risk you opening that cut.”

I should have refused. Every lesson my father had drilled into me screamed that this was a mistake. We kept our skills secret, we did not show them off. But something in her gaze held me there, not challenging, not pleading, simply certain. And anyway, she was family.

I stepped into the circle.

Dragon Surveys His Domain

The earth felt different beneath my feet, packed and bare. I took one wide step forward and dropped into a deep stance, sweeping my hands down to one hip, then drawing them up in a wide arc. The movement finished with my hands snapping back into a tight guard, balanced and ready.

I straightened and saluted, one fist against an open palm. The hand of war and the hand of peace.

“Dragon surveys his domain,” I said.

Lee Ayi stared at me. Her face had gone very still. “You are highly trained.”

I did not answer.

She extended the dao, handle toward me. I pursed my lips and grimaced. “You know I’m injured.”

“Your left shoulder is injured. Use your right hand.”

My nostrils widened as I inhaled deeply, then let it out. “Why?”

“I want to see.” Her tone was deadly serious.

I swallowed. “Only a little.” I took the dao and twirled it easily in my hand, closing my eyes, warming up my muscles.

I saluted with the dao, raising it above my forehead and parallel to the ground, then stepped slowly to my left, bringing the dao up in a number one roof block that flowed into a slash to the neck of an imaginary enemy. I continued with this slow motion dance, reaching around with my hand and pulling, slashing, then spinning away into a thrust that was only a feint that turned into another slash.

I stopped and faced Lee Ayi. “Crane circles the hill.”

She regarded me solemnly. “You killed two men.”

Shock widened my eyes as I remembered the two robbers I’d killed and buried in the peanut field. But how could she know? My brain raced, then I realized – feeling like an utter fool – that she meant the movement I had just done. It was a form, a prearranged sequence in which I killed two imaginary opponents.

“Yes.”

She gestured. “More.”

I twisted my mouth to one side. “Why?”

“My father taught me that sequence, but I forgot it. I want to see more.”

River Flow

I let out a breath that was almost a sigh. Then I took a long diagonal shuffle step one way then the other, attacking with a series of slashes from different angles as my feet danced lightly across the dirt.

As I moved, I fell into River Flow. There were no more cowbells, no afternoon sun heating my face. No Lee Ayi, even. Without plan or awareness, my movements sped up. I leaped up and came over the top with a thrust, but it was a feint that pivoted into a cutting diagonal slash at the last instant. My body had missed this. I was a flame of fire, my movements too fast for an untrained eye to follow. The dao was a part of me. Anything I could envision, I could do.

Many mediocre fighters fought with nothing but the blade, but I was better trained than that, and I threw kicks that snapped out and back, punches that made my wounded shoulder ache, and hits with the pommel of the sword that flowed into elbow strikes that flowed into short-range slashes and thrusts. Never was I out of balance, never did I hesitate or falter.

The dao was a shadow that darted behind my back and around my head, surged high and dropped low, and struck from unexpected angles. In River Flow my parents were not dead, and Far Away was not lost. There was only the movement and my imaginary enemies, and I was in harmony with them. When they pushed forward I slipped to the side to let them pass. When the enemy charged I parried and let him run into the point of my sword. When he slashed I side stepped and matched his slash, cutting along the length of his arm. There was no opposition, no clash. My father had repeated this many times: “The enemy tells you how to kill him.”

I forgot that my aunt was there. My movements became more dramatic. I moved as I used to in my solitary practice sessions, after my father had gone. At one point I did a forward somersault in the air, coming down with a vertical slash, which reversed into an upward slash intended to catch the enemy’s hand. These were movements my father could no longer perform himself, but had coached me through, and some were movements I myself had invented when I practiced alone, after he had gone.

I stopped when the pain in my shoulder reminded me where I was. I stood in the circle, breathing deeply but comfortably. I did not know how much time had passed. Perhaps enough to lower a bucket into the well twice and pull it back up.

Turning, I saw Lee Ayi’s face. She looked stricken. I knew immediately I had done the wrong thing. Stepping forward, I bowed deeply and offered her the sword with both hands, the edge facing me.

Not Gentle

She snatched the dao out of my hands. Her face was pale, her jaw tight. “You shame me.”

I looked away, my gaze alighting on the tall elms that sheltered the house. “That was not my intention.”

“I know.” She exhaled once, sharply. “I have never witnessed such skill. Not even from Cai Lee, and he was a grandmaster. How did you learn that?”

I met her eyes. My gaze was uncompromising. “My father trained me from the time I could walk. He was not gentle.”

“Fathers are sometimes not gentle. That doesn’t mean they -”

“Haven’t you seen my scars?” I nearly shouted. My nostrils flared as I yanked my sleeves up, showing her the many scars on my arms, from cuts my father had given me with the spear, the wooden dao and even the live dao. Some were pale and faded, while others were pink and raised.

She blinked. “I thought from the rough peanut vines, or the hoe.”

I pulled my shirt up and threw it on the ground. “And these?” My stomach and chest also bore long scars.

Her anger was gone, replaced by dismay. “Yong did that?”

“I told you. He was not gentle.”

Her lower lip trembled, and a pair of tears rolled down her dusty cheeks, leaving clean tracks. “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

“Your cut has reopened.”

I looked at my shoulder and indeed she was right. The bandage was stained deep red.

Gently, my aunt took my hand, led me into the house, washed my wound and re-bandaged it.

“You rest,” she said. “I will finish today’s housework. Don’t tell Husband about what we did today. Or about your wound.” She began to leave, then turned and said, “I’m sorry.”

When she was gone I lay in my bed, wishing that Far Away was here to cuddle up next to me and purr. I knew I had hurt Lee Ayi in more ways than one. I felt like my past was a heavy chain around my neck. It would always be there. I would never be free.

Moon Cake

In the late afternoon a man came to the house on horseback. He was perhaps thirty, dressed in a merchant’s jacket with brass buttons. His face was pale and slick with sweat. Lee Ayi ushered him into Ma Shushu’s treatment room and had him lie on the padded table and wait.

Ma Shushu and Haaris returned not long after. Haaris said he had a surprise for me and handed me a small box. Opening it, I found a round pastry of some kind.

“What is it?”

Haaris gaped. “You never had a moon cake? It’s filled with sweet bean paste and nuts.”

I wasn’t in the mood for Haaris’s unsullied, childish enthusiasm. I thanked him, deposited the moon cake in the pantry, and went back into the bedroom to lie down. This was not to be, however, as Ma Shushu popped his head into the room and asked me to come to the treatment room.

I found Haaris there as well. Ma Shushu was tending to the merchant. He had long, very thin needles that he heated in a candle flame, then inserted with quick, steady hands into the man’s scalp, neck and the backs of his hands.

The man on the table had his eyes squeezed shut. “My head,” he muttered. “Like a drum being beaten from the inside.”

Ma Shushu glanced up at me. “How was work today?”

“It was fine, sir,” I said, tucking my chin into my chest, feeling the weight of secrets bearing down on me. “How was Jum’ah?”

“Good, alhamdulillah. The masjid was full.”

“I have never been to a masjid, or a Jum’ah. I would like to go.” I waited to see how he would respond.

“Oh. Well. Let’s focus our attention on the patient for now. Darius, what I do is called acupuncture. It is an ancient method of healing. You may watch, but you must remain silent.”

I retreated a few steps, put my back to the wall, and watched. How strange this household was. My father had been a dangerous, half-broken man who abused me, drank, stole, and gambled away what little money he had. But he had never lied to me about anything. I was quite sure of that. Yet here in this beautiful, wealthy household, populated with kind and talented people, everyone lied. They lied to me and to each other, and I lied to them.

Did that mean that I was becoming less like my father, and more like these people? I was very confused.

“Darius, are you paying attention?” I heat the needles first to make sure they do not poison the blood.”

I refocused my attention. For good or ill, this life was my future. I must learn, work hard and do my best to fit in.

“Yes, Ma Shushu.”

* * *

Read Part 7 – Divine Wisdom

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

Gravedigger: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 6] – Dragon Surveys His Domain appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

* * *

Darius’s First Prayer

As ordered, I rose at dawn without prompting – I could almost hear my own cow back home calling, wanting to be milked – and dressed to tend to the morning duties.

As I walked toward the door, Haaris took my hand to stop me. “Not yet,” he said. “We have to pray Fajr.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but Zihan Ma entered from the front door, sleepy-eyed, but with his face and beard dripping water. He said gently, “Make wudu’. Haaris, show him how.”

Haaris led me out into the cold, to the outhouse. It was a long walk, as the outhouse was on the edge of the property next to the safflower fields, in an area where the land sloped downhill. There was a hedge planted in front of it, shielding it from view, and I saw that there were actually two of them. Haaris explained that it was a twin-pit system, in which one pit was allowed to decompose while the other was in use. When fully decomposed, it would be emptied and the waste would fertilize the fields. The latrines stank a bit, of course, and flies buzzed about. That was normal.

We relieved ourselves, then walked back to the house. On the western side of the house there was an open space with clothes lines strung up. The well was there, surrounded by a circle of flat stones, and with a large stone basin beside it. Using a ladle to scoop the water, Haaris showed me how to wash my hands, mouth, nose, face, arms, hair, ears and feet.

“You do this every morning?” I was amazed, for I had typically not bathed more than once every three or four days.

“More than that,” Haaris said.

Inside, a large bamboo fiber mat had been laid down in the living room. We arranged ourselves in a formation, with Ma Shushu in front, myself and Haaris behind him, and Lee Ayi behind us. I understood that we were about to begin a religious ritual of some kind. Lee Ayi had assured me that they did not pray to statues, and that was obvious, as there was no statue in sight. According to her, they prayed to Allah, an eternal, all-powerful being.

“What if I am not yet ready to participate in this ritual?” I asked.

Ma Shushu gazed at me solemnly. “Nothing will happen. There is no compulsion in religion. You will still be a part of the family.”

I remembered my father’s words: “The only one to worship is Allah.” He had not explained, but my heart told me that if he were here, he would not object to this ritual, even if he himself did not participate. I exhaled, feeling my chest relax. “I will pray with you. But I don’t know what to do.”

“Just imitate Haaris’s movements for now. We will teach you the words later.”

I raised my hands as Haaris did, and Ma Shushu began to recite. The words were foreign, but his voice was deep and pleasant, and the rhythm of the chanting was hypnotic. I felt myself falling into River Flow, just as I did when practicing Five Animals. We bowed, stood, prostrated, sat, prostrated, and stood again. At one point we looked right and left, and I did not know the prayer was finished until Ma Shushu turned in his place and sat cross-legged.

“How do you feel?” he asked me.

I felt close to tears, was the truth. All those times I had stopped and watched the people in the temple, and felt envious of them in spite of their stupidity, and felt a pull to join them – now I understood why. I felt small and humble, but not humiliated, and certainly not stupid. Rather I felt elevated, not in a literal sense, but as if my heart had grown in my chest. I could not express any of this, and in the end I only said, “I feel calm.”

Ma Shushu nodded. “That is a good way to feel.”

Women’s Work

I was prepared to go out and start the farmwork, but Ma Shushu stopped me. “Not yet. Your shoulder is not ready. Only light housework for now.”

First I swept the entire house. Then Lee Ayi set me to work at the low table near the window, where the morning light poured in, deep and yellow. I sifted a huge sack of rice to remove small stones, and when that was done I shelled peanuts into a clay bowl, the dry skins crackling softly between my fingers. I worked quickly but methodically, not missing anything. My shoulder still ached, but the work was slow and did not strain it.

The scent of the peanuts reminded me of home, and I found myself missing Far Away and Lady Two. My poor cat. Where was he now? Running from house to house at night, pawing through the garbage for a scrap? A dairy cow was valuable, someone would always care for her. But a stray cat with no parents who loved him, no home, no job? They would throw stones and chase him away. I sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Lee Ayi asked as she rinsed a pile of vegetables.

I shook my head, saying nothing.

Outside, I could hear goats bleating and the dull thump of hooves, the steady noises of a working farm that went on without me.

Lee Ayi moved quietly in and of the room, taking the vegetables outside to dry on woven trays, and lifting lids to check simmering pots. Every so often she glanced at me, not to hurry me, but to be sure I was not favoring the wounded arm too much.

“You work like your father,” she said at last.

I looked up, startled. “Is that good or bad?”

She smiled faintly. “Both.”

She sat across from me and began stripping safflower petals from their heads, her fingers quick and practiced. The petals fell into a shallow basket like small flames.

“I feel bad,” I said, “that I am doing women’s work, while Haaris is outside by himself.”

Lee Ayi gave an annoyed click with her tongue. “There is no men’s work and women’s work. There is only work. All work holds dignity. A cook and a floor sweeper are no less dignified than a horse trainer or an army general. As Muslims, we serve Allah by serving humanity. When you work to benefit others you are working for Allah, and that is the highest calling.”

This was a foreign concept to me. What did humanity have to do with me? My father had never believed in serving anyone nor benefitting anyone except himself, me and my mother. Perhaps a compromise would be to understand it as service to family. By serving this family, I served Allah. I could accept that.

Highway Robbery

“Yong was always restless,” Lee Ayi said, as if reading my mind. “Even as a boy. Cai Lee tried to beat it out of him. It did not work. The harder Father pushed, the more Yong pushed back.”

I said nothing. I had never heard my father spoken of as a child.

“He had no patience for books,” she went on. “Nor for rules. The only things that ever held his attention were fighting and gambling. Martial skill came to him as easily as breathing. Gambling too. He was very lucky. Or perhaps very cursed.”

Her mouth tightened briefly, then relaxed again.

“He never cared for religion. Not even a little. When he began drinking as a teenager, Father said enough was enough. He cast him out. No food, no money, no place by the hearth.”

She did not look at me as she said this, but at the safflower petals.

“I used to meet him in secret,” she said quietly. “I would bring him steamed buns, or rice wrapped in cloth. A few coins. He always said he would pay me back one day.”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “He never did.”

I would have smiled at the ridiculous notion of my father paying anyone back for anything, but the image of him as a hungry youth wandering the roads sat badly in my chest. As my father had lived, so had I as well. Was that the curse my aunt spoke of? Would I pass the same curse on to my own children?

“One day,” she continued, “Yong came upon a carriage stopped on the road, surrounded by three thieves. Highwaymen. Atop the carriage sat a noble Hui family, the Shahs. Among them was their daughter, Shah Nur. She was sixteen years old and beautiful. Yong fell in love at first sight.”

I froze, watching Lee Ayi intently. Shah Nur was my mother. I had never heard this story before, nor did I know anything about my mother’s family.

Lee Ayi went on: “I suspect if not for the beauty of Shah Nur, Yong would not have interfered. But he took it upon himself to attack the highwaymen. He carried nothing but a staff, while the highwaymen were armed with swords. Yet Yong killed one of the robbers in seconds. Seeing this, your grandfather, Shah Zheng, dismounted and joined in, taking the dead robber’s sword. Between them they drove the other two off.”

It was easy for me to imagine my father doing that. In my mind I could picture the entire battle, and could describe precisely what moves Yong had performed. This was the only incident I’d ever heard of in which my father’s fighting skills had been used to help someone. I felt proud of him.

The Shahs

“The Shahs,” Lee Ayi went on, “are descended from Sa’d ibn Abi Waqqas, the companion of the Prophet, peace be upon him, who brought Islam to our land. They are the most noble of us all, and the most wealthy, as they organize and finance huge caravans that carry goods from here to India, Persia and Turkey.”

“I saw a caravan once,” I enthused, pleased to be able to tell Lee Ayi something she did not know. “We passed it on the road from my family’s town to the city. It had fifty horse-drawn wagons, can you believe it? They were loaded up with textiles, spices, armor, pistachios, and other things I could not see. It was guarded by many men. I never thought there could be so many armed men outside of the army.”

“Did the wagons bear an emblem of a mountain peak surrounded by five stars?”

“Yes!” I grinned at her. “How did you know?”

“Those wagons belong to the Five Stars Trading Company. That is the Shah family’s company.”

I gaped. “One family owns all of that?”

“And much more. Anyway, Shah Zhen rewarded Yong well for saving their lives. It was more money than he had ever seen. It happened, however, that as he had fallen in love with Nur, she too was captivated by him. For the Shah family, such a match was out of the question. Yong was nominally Muslim, but he was a nobody, a lout. So Yong met with Nur secretly and convinced her to leave with him. It was madness. But she was young and brave, and ready for an adventure. They used the money to buy a farm in another town. They disappeared.”

She resumed stripping petals.

“After you were born, Yong came back only once, alone, to give us the news. But the Shah family had never stopped looking for Nur. They put a price on Yong’s head. He knew if he stayed, he would bring danger to us all. So he left again and never returned. We knew that you existed, but that was all.”

I set the last peanut into the bowl and rubbed my fingers together, brushing away the skins. A multitude of thoughts swirled in my head. I didn’t think my poor mother had gotten the adventure she dreamed of. My father had never been cruel to her, had never beaten her, but neither had he been the loving husband she must have hoped for. He had a temper, he shouted at times, he went to town to drink and gamble, and he was in and out of jail as far back as I could remember. Our farmhouse was decrepit and non-productive, and we had been very poor. And now Shah Nur, daughter of a great and noble family, was buried in a small flower-lined plot behind an abandoned, broken-down farmhouse.

I must have been silent for a long time, because I found Lee Ayi beside me, rubbing my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said. “What’s done is done. Your mother is with Allah, just as we all will be one day. The best thing you can do is remember her love for you. That is her legacy.”

I nodded. Feeling the need to defend Yong Lee, I said, “My father did better in the end. He changed.”

Lee Ayi nodded. “I believe it. He joined the army to provide for you. That was an act of love.”

My lower lip trembled at that, but I managed to stifle it.

Dhuhr

At that moment, Ma Shushu came in from outside, his arms and face again dripping water. “Time for Dhuhr,” he said simply.

We laid out the mats. Lee Ayi adjusted my cushion so I would not strain my shoulder. Haaris was still out in the fields, his voice carrying faintly as he called to the animals.

“What about Haaris?” I asked.

“He is tending to the animals,” Ma Shushu said. “He will pray on his own.”

I felt a flush of heat rise up my neck. The boy was outside working while I was in here, clean and sheltered, shucking peanuts and sifting rocks out of rice. I reminded myself of Lee Ayi’s words: All work holds dignity.

When the prayer was over, Ma Shushu – seeing my obvious embarrassment – said, “You will be back in the fields soon enough. Do not borrow tomorrow’s pride today.”

After prayer, we ate a simple meal. Rice, greens, a little salted fish. I ate slowly, forcing myself to be mindful.

Lee Ayi made a plate and asked me to take it out to Haaris. I found him in a wide, grassy field on the other side of the outhouses. I hadn’t even known this field existed. The scent of the grass was rich in my nostrils. Haaris sat on a boulder, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, holding a bamboo switch and watching the cows, donkeys, and goats as they grazed. His boots were dirty, and he looked tired. He accepted the plate eagerly and began to devour it.

“Watch the baby goat.” He indicated with the chopsticks. “It keeps trying to headbutt the calf.”

I squeezed in next to him on the boulder and watched. The goat was more than a baby – maybe six months old, I would guess, though my eye was unpracticed – while the cow’s calf was younger but much bigger. As I watched, the goat bleated loudly, reared up on its hind legs and aimed its forehead at the calf, which was busy grazing. At the last instant the calf moved its head to the side and the goat missed. Haaris laughed out loud, spitting a bite of green beans.

I smiled as well. “The goat is a fighter.”

“Say ma sha-Allah.”

“What is that?”

“Oh, it’s like, this is something good that Allah made.”

“Repeat it.”

Haaris repeated the phrase, and I did my best to pronounce it.

“I’d better get back,” I said.

“I’ll see you soon,” Haaris promised. “We have studies.”

Studies

I changed the sheets on the beds then took the food scraps – vegetable peels and such – out to the compost pile. Outside, the sounds of the farm went on. Inside, the day settled around me like a garment I was still learning how to wear.

A few hours later Haaris and I sat on woven mats in Ma Shushu’s study, the afternoon light slanting in through the window and laying a pale rectangle across the floor. A low desk stood before him, its surface worn smooth, with a stack of books neatly arranged at one corner. Haaris sat cross-legged beside me, already alert, his back straight and his hands folded in his lap as if lessons were a form of prayer in themselves.

Ma Shushu began with numbers.

He drew figures in charcoal on a wooden board, simple at first. Counting, grouping, dividing. Haaris answered quickly, eager to please. I was slower, unused to putting numbers to paper, but the logic of it came easily enough. When Ma Shushu shifted from grain tallies to weights and measures, I leaned forward without realizing it. This was useful knowledge. Real knowledge. The kind that kept accounts honest and prevented quarrels.

“Math is justice,” Ma Shushu said, tapping the board once. “If you cannot count, someone else will count for you, and it won’t be in your favor.”

After that came reading and writing. Haaris fetched brushes and ink while Ma Shushu laid out a sheet of paper. He wrote a single character and explained its strokes, the order, the balance. Haaris practiced carefully, tongue caught between his teeth. When it was my turn, my hand felt clumsy around the brush, but Ma Shushu corrected my grip without comment and had me try again.

“Slow,” he said. “Meaning comes from care.”

My father had taught me to read and write by drawing characters in the dirt, using the wooden training dao. I had literally grown up writing with a sword. However, I was not used to the brush, or the small scale. Once my hand became accustomed to the grip, and I learned to ease the pressure and make everything smaller, my hand began to flow. The brush whispered across the page.

“Have you done this before?” Ma Shushu asked. “You pick it up fast.”

“My father taught me using a – “ I stopped myself. “A stick.”

“A stick?” Ma Shushu sounded offended. He shrugged. “Well. Not everyone has resources.”

I stiffened for a moment, not sure if my father was being criticised. Then I took a breath and relaxed. I did not want to see my father and Zihan Ma as opposites or opponents. My father’s lessons in Five Animals had literally saved my life. Once, at the town fair, I had seen a relay race, where the teammates passed a red ribbon from one to the next. I imagined my father passing a ribbon on to Zihan Ma. I was that ribbon. That was my hope, anyway.

When the ink was set aside and the brushes rinsed, Ma Shushu poured water into three small cups. He drank first, then gestured for us to do the same.

“Now,” he said, “we speak of deen.”

Haaris shifted closer, his expression changing. This was his favorite part, I could tell.

Ma Shushu did not open a book. He rested his hands on his knees and looked at us, first at Haaris, then at me.

“All of it begins with tawheed,” he said. “The Oneness of Allah.”

He did not raise his voice or dramatize the words. He spoke as if stating a fact as simple as the sun rising in the east.

“There is one Creator. Not many. Nor should anything else in the creation be worshiped. When you understand this, many other questions become smaller.” He went on to explain the concept of tawheed and its many applications to our lives. I began to understand that this central belief of Islam was deep and all-encompassing.

“That is enough for today,” he said eventually. “Tomorrow we continue.”

“What do you think?” Haaris asked me when the lesson was over.

“I think I have a lot to learn.” That was the best I could offer.

Jum’ah

The next day was Friday. Once again I was relegated to housework. Once the early morning tasks were done, Ma Shushu and Haaris began hitching the donkeys to the carriage. The carriage was piled high with safflowers that the farm laborers had harvested yesterday.

“Are we going to town?” I asked.

“Haaris and I are going,” Ma Shushu said. “It’s market day, and it’s Jum’ah, the main day of prayer for Muslims. We will deliver the safflowers to my sister and a few others, then attend prayer.”

“What about me?”

Ma Shushu did not meet my eyes. “Your shoulder is not healed yet. The jostling of the carriage would not be good for you.”

As they departed, all I saw was the back of the wagon and a heap of flowers. I waved, but no one saw me. The whole thing was very strange, and I couldn’t feeling there was something I wasn’t being told.

They were hardly out of sight when Lee Ayi called me to the west side of the house. She nodded to the clothes on the lines.

“Help me take these clothes down and fold them,” she said, speaking quickly. “Then take the lines down.”

“Some of the clothes are still damp,” I remarked as I took down a pair of Haaris’s trousers.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lee Ayi replied. “We’ll put them back up later.”

This made no sense to me, but I did as ordered. Lee Ayi worked fast, rushing, which was not like her at all.

* * *

Read Part 6 – Dragon Surveys His Domain

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

The post Far Away [Part 5] – There Is Only Work appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

* * *

Safe

I drifted in and out of a gray place. Sometimes I was in my father’s house and the rats were chewing at my shoulder instead of the crop. Sometimes I was in the temple pool, and the carp had human faces and they were all my father, all of them judging me in silence.

Once I woke up enough to feel something sharp slide into my skin near the wound, and I tried to fight, but a strong hand pressed my good shoulder down and a calm voice said, “Lie still. I am drawing the heat out. Do you want to keep the arm or not?” Then the darkness pulled me under again.

When I finally woke properly, I lay on a narrow pallet in a small, clean room. My shoulder throbbed dully. The air smelled of herbs, smoke, and something bitter I did not recognize. Light filtered in through a paper-covered window, soft and white. Shelves on the walls held clay and glass jars containing herbs, and I knew not what else. A rectangular plaque on the wall displayed words in a flowing script that I could not read, and an ornate wooden desk and chair stood beneath the window, with a stack of books atop the desk.

I had never seen so many books, and thought that this family must be very wealthy. I saw my traveling pack in the corner, but there was no sign of my weapons. My tunic had been washed and repaired.

I suddenly remembered my money kept in a secret pocket inside my tunic. I clutched frantically and felt the purse beneath the shirt, the weight of the money still there. The movement sent a bolt of pain through me so sharp that I gasped.

“Easy.” The word came from my left and just behind me.

I turned my head. A woman sat on a low stool beside the bed. She was short, with strong hands stained faintly with safflower dye. It was the woman who had stood at the doorway, though she no longer seemed as fearsome as she had then. Even if no one had told me, I would have known she was my aunt, as she looked so much like my father she could have been his twin. Maybe she was his twin, for all I knew. She was a beautiful woman, lean and strong, with smooth features and high cheekbones. It occurred to me for the first time that if she was beautiful, perhaps my father was handsome. I had never thought of him that way.

“Your purse is intact,” she said. “We are not thieves. You are safe here.” She held a damp cloth, and now she reached out and wiped my face with it, as if I were a much younger child. Then she helped me sit just enough to sip from a cup. The water was cool and tasted faintly of some bitter root. I grimaced.

“It will help,” she said. “My husband boiled it with herbs for the fever. Now stay here, do not move.” She rose and stepped out of the room, and a moment later, the man I’d encountered at the door earlier stepped into the room. His face was dark and handsome, with a thick black mustache and inquiring black eyes. His hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves. Behind him peered the boy I had seen behind him at the door, his eyes bright and curious.

“Hi,” the boy said. “I’m Haaris.”

Questions

“Hush, do not speak to him,” the father said. He nodded to me. “I am Zihan Ma. I am a healer. How is the shoulder?”

“It hurts,” I said honestly.

“That’s normal.” He stepped forward and laid a hand on my forehead. “The fever has broken, alhamdulillah.” Gently, he pulled the tunic off my shoulder. A strip of cloth was wrapped around my upper arm to hold the bandage in place. With quick, practiced fingers, he loosened the cloth around my arm and lifted the edge of the bandage.

Cool air touched the wound. I hissed.

“Hold still.” He studied it for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “The flesh is no longer angry. It will leave a scar, but you will keep the arm.”

The boy edged closer. “Can I see?” he whispered.

“Let him breathe.” Zihan Ma glanced down at me. His eyes were measuring, weighing me as my father used to weigh a prospective victim with a single glance. “You can stay another day and night to rest, but then you must leave. This is not a hospital, nor an orphanage. We cannot care for you.”

“But -” I stammered. I felt as if I’d just been struck in the stomach. “Where will I go? I have no one else.”

Jade Lee touched my arm gently. “Where are your parents?”

I breathed deeply, trying to get myself under control. “My mother died when I was seven. My father, Yong Lee, went to fight the invaders. They say he is dead. I came here to find you.”

Jade Lee drew her head back, staring at me. “What is your name?”

“I am Darius Lee, son of Yong Lee, son of Cai Lee.” That was all I knew of my ancestry.

“Eh?” Jade Lee seized me by the shoulders. “Darweesh? Is it really you? Of course it is, look at you! You look just like your mother. I am your aunt!” She seized me and embraced me tightly, and I went completely stiff. No one had ever hugged me except my mother, and my father just that one time. Sensing my discomfort, she pulled away again. “You say Yong is dead?” Her voice softened. “Was it the drinking?”

I shook my head. “He quit drinking in the end. He enlisted in the army and died fighting the invaders. The Mayor would not let me stay on the farm alone, even though I brought in the peanut crop by myself.”

She looked stunned. “He enlisted? But why? He never cared about anything but himself, and certainly never cared about politics or patriotism. He did not even care about his faith.”

“Rats destroyed our crop. I believe… I think he wanted to do something for me. To provide me with a future.” I shrugged. “We never spoke of such things.”

“How did you get the shoulder wound?” Zihan Ma asked. His tone was firm but not accusatory.

“Two robbers attacked me in the town. A constable stopped them.” I did not mention that I had sliced a man’s face open.

“You smelled strongly of wine. Are you a drunk like your father?”

“Husband!” Jade Lee rebuked. “That is no way to speak of the dead.”

“It is the living I am worried about. You know what Yong was like.”

Zihan Ma’s words angered me, but I restrained myself and spoke calmly. “I do not drink. I poured wine over the wound to clean it. And my father was more than what you say.”

“Why do you carry weapons?”

“The dao was a parting gift from my father. The spear, too, was his.” I did not tell him that I had killed two men with the dao. That was definitely not something he needed to know.

A Plea

It was obvious that Zihan Ma was not happy about me being here, and suspected that I brought trouble to his door. Maybe he was right. My whole life had been a struggle. I was like a piece of metal being shaped by a blacksmith. There might be a moment of quiet, but another hammer blow was coming soon enough.

But I sensed that Zihan Ma was a good man. Judging by Haaris’s health and apparent innocence, and Jade Lee’s overall well-being, I knew that I would not be beaten here, I would not be cursed. I would be fed and treated decently, and I needed that so badly, I was desperate for it. I had told myself that I could take to the road and survive on my own, stealing and grifting, but now that I sat in this comfortable home, with hot food on the table, I cringed at the thought of leaving.

“Sir,” I said. “Ma Shushu.” (It was hopeful of me to address him formally as Uncle Ma). “If you’ll let me stay, I won’t be a burden. I brought in two peanut crops on my own, without help. I had a cow. I’m used to hard work. I know what my father was like, everyone does. But I won’t steal from you or make trouble.”

I reached into my coat, took out my purse, and tried to empty it onto the bed. But my hand shook, and the nine gold coins spilled out, some onto the bed and some rolling across the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I was growing increasingly panicked. “This is the money from my father’s enlistment, and the monthly salary he sent, and from my last peanut crop. You see, I have no need to steal. You can take it. You’ll see how hard I work. Please.”

With the last word, my voice broke, and I began to sob. I was deeply ashamed of this, and pulled my tunic over my face. I had not even wept for my father’s death, and here I was crying to be allowed to stay in the home of virtual strangers. My aunt leaned in quickly and pulled me to her.

“You poor boy,” she said. “Of course you can stay. Isn’t that right, husband?”

I pulled out of my aunt’s embrace and wiped my nose and eyes with my coat.

“Please, Daddy,” Haaris said. “Let him stay.”

Zihan Ma gave a slight nod. “All this pleading is unnecessary. You are family, Darweesh. Of course, you may stay; that is a given.” Haaris had already picked up the fallen money, and Zihan Ma returned it to me. “Keep your money, put it away.”

From that moment on, I was part of the family. I always addressed my aunt as “Lee Ayi” – Aunt Lee – and Zihan Ma as Ma Shushu.

Recovery

They let me sleep again after that, and the rest of the day blurred. In the evening, Lee Āyí changed my bandage, then fed me a delicious chicken soup that, by itself, nearly made the entire ordeal worthwhile.

After that, Haaris sat cross-legged on the floor and told me stories of the goats and the donkeys and the cat named Bao, as if he had decided that words alone could keep me alive. The younger donkey, he said, loved to eat watermelon. “He takes huge bites,” he laughed. “Gobbles it right down to the rind.” I tried to imagine this, and found myself smiling. At the same time, I was a bit jealous, as I had never eaten watermelon myself!

The next morning, I woke to feel thin, hot needles pricking the skin around my shoulder; I tensed, but Ma Shushu’s voice came calm and unhurried: “Breathe. In and out. Let the qi move.” I did not know what qi was, but I obeyed. I felt vastly improved. The pain in my shoulder was down to no more than a slight ache. By lunch time, I was out of bed and walking. My head felt clear, and my limbs were my own again.

My aunt helped me sit on a cushion in the main room, then proceeded to set food on the table. It was a low wooden table polished smooth by years of elbows and bowls, and on it were dishes that made my stomach clench with hunger. Steamed greens glistening with sesame oil, soft white rice piled in a clay bowl, slices of beef in a dark, fragrant sauce, pickled radish, braised eggplant, and a tureen of soup filled with mushrooms and tofu. To me, it looked like a feast for a noble.

Home Now

We sat on woven mats. The warmth of the room seeped into my bones, and for a moment I simply breathed in the scents – ginger and garlic, simmered broth, cooked meat. Lee Āyí took her seat beside Haaris, and Ma Shushu settled across from me, his knees cracking softly as he folded his legs.

Before anyone lifted a bowl, he raised his hands slightly and said, “Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem.” Then he spoke a short prayer in a steady, calm voice, asking Allah to bless the food and the family and the guest who had come into their home.

I stared blankly, unsure if I should bow my head. I desperately wished not to offend these people, but I could not bring myself to worship something that, for all I knew, was yet another statue. My aunt noticed. Something in her eyes softened – not pity exactly, but a recognition of what had been missing in my life all these years.

“Darweesh,” she said gently, “your father taught you nothing of our faith, did he?”

Her tone was neither surprised nor harsh; rather, it held the sadness of someone confirming what they already suspected.

“No, he did not,” I said quietly. “I once heard the name Allah, but I do not know what it means. My father… disliked the worship of statues. If that is what you do, I cannot participate. I do not mean to offend you, truly. Please forgive me.”

Ma Shushu said, “Statues?” and his face reddened. I had indeed offended him. But my aunt put a hand on his arm to still him, and spoke to me: “We do not worship statues. We are Hui people, you, me, and both your parents, and their parents, and so on. Our people have been Muslim for over a thousand years. We worship Allah, the Creator of all. The One who gave us life, provides this food, who has always existed and will always exist, and who knows all things. Unlike the idols, we did not create Him. He created us.”

I mulled this over, trying to conceive of such a being. “But,” I finally said, “if this – Allah – created all things, then who created him?”

“No one. He is Eternal. This world, the sun and moon” – she waved a hand – “and the stars in the sky are like grains of sand in Allah’s Hand. He is a merciful God, full of generosity and forgiveness. He hears our prayers and is closer to us than our own jugular veins.”

I swallowed, not knowing what to say. This sounded like a wonderful fairy tale. On the other hand, I’d had a lifelong fascination with temples, and a yearning to lose myself in the worship of a deity who was actually worthy of my adoration. Wasn’t that a sign of some knowledge inherent in my soul? Some recognition that such a being must exist?

Ma Shushu put up a hand. “It does not matter for now if you believe as we do. You will be required to learn this religion, which is called Islam, but you will not be forced to practice it. Now let us eat while the food is hot.”

“Yes, Darweesh,” my aunt said. “Husband is right. You will learn. You are home now.”

The word home struck me strangely. I did not know what to do with it, so I pretended not to hear.

We began to eat. The cat, Bao, appeared as if by magic, and sat beside Haaris, licking her lips. As we ate, Haaris dropped small pieces of beef fat for Bao, who chewed them so noisily that I almost laughed. I tried to restrain myself and to eat in a civilized way, but after the first few bites, my hunger overcame my manners – what few I had. The food was soft and warm and rich in ways I had forgotten were possible. When I devoured a bowl of rice and tofu too quickly, Haaris grinned and pushed the pot toward me. “We always cook plenty,” he said. “Mama says growing boys eat like wolves.”

Aunt Lee swatted him lightly. “Do not tease Darweesh.”

I cleared my throat. “Actually, Lee Ayi, my name is Darius. That is what my father always called me.”

She smiled. “Very well. Darius. You gave us quite a fright, you know. You arrived at our door stinking of wine and rot, then fell like a sack of millet. We didn’t know what to think. And your wound was already poisoned. One more day and you would have lost the arm. Alhamdulillah that you got here when you did.”

“I… walked,” I said. “I saw Auntie Ming in the town. She gave me directions.”

“And gave you a few sharp words I imagine,” said Ma Shushu. “She never liked your father.”

“Never mind that,” Lee Ayi said. “We’re just glad you didn’t walk yourself into an early grave. Here. Eat.”

Duties

As we ate, Ma Shushu wiped his mouth with a cloth and cleared his throat. “Darius,” he said, “you will have duties here, as every member of this household does. Work must be done properly.”

I nodded, a piece of beef half-chewed in my mouth.

“For now, we will give you light work only. But when you are recovered, you will rise at dawn with Haaris. First task: milk the cows. They must be calm, so move slowly and speak softly. When they are milked, let them and the donkeys out to graze in the west field. After that, shovel the dung from the stalls—take it to the compost heap behind the barn. Then feed the chickens and collect the eggs before the sun grows strong. The goats receive their feed as well, and check that none have wandered into the safflower rows.”

I was nodding along. “Yes, Ma Shushu.”

“Good. When the morning tasks are done, you will return to the house for lessons. Reading, writing, arithmetic, and the basics of our deen.”

I had no idea what he meant by deen, but I remained quiet, and he went on:

“In the afternoon, you are free. The hired hands tend to the fields. You may help them if you wish, but it is not required.”

Nothing he said dismayed me. Compared to fighting off rats with a shovel, killing thieves in my doorway, or tending a field alone from dawn until darkness, these tasks felt almost light. The idea of studies was strange, but not frightening.

“I understand,” I said. “I can do all of it.”

“Certainly you can,” he replied. His voice held no doubt, only calm assurance.

My Lee Ayi refilled my bowl again, and this time I forced myself to eat slowly. Haaris asked questions about my father, my farm, crops, cow, and my dao. I answered what I wished and ignored the rest. The soup warmed my chest; the rice softened the edges of my hunger; the quiet murmur of family around a table – something I had never known – settled over me like a heavy blanket I did not want to shrug off.

For the first time since leaving home, the tightness in my chest eased.

“Your God, Allah,” I asked. “Does He have a temple?”

“We call it a masjid,” Ma Shushu replied. “There are many. There is one in town, you probably walked past it.”

“Does it have a pool with carp?”

Haaris grinned widely. “It does! How did you know? And there’s a cat that sleeps there too. And it has soft carpets and pretty designs on the walls.”

Old Friends

When the meal was finished, Lee Ayi brought out a small plate of sweetened peanuts, roasted and glazed. I stared at them, at the familiar shape and smell. My father had grown peanuts with his bare hands, cursing the heat and the rats and the soil itself. He had tried to build something that would provide. These peanuts were nothing like ours, for they were larger, sweeter, and coated with honey. But they brought my father’s face to my mind in a way that hurt with a sweet kind of pain.

“You are safe here,” my aunt said again, as if answering a question I had not spoken.

I lowered my gaze and nodded. I believed her, though some part of me was sure that something would happen to wreck it. Such comfort, food, and care were not meant for me; they never had been.

That night, the cat, Bao, tried to climb into my small bed. I pushed her away. I was still mourning the loss of Far Away, and was not about to replace him with some old farm cat. Bao hissed, and went to Haaris’s bed instead.

When everyone was asleep, I crawled out of bed and padded silently to the small storage room where my weapons had been placed. I took the dao in its scabbard and strapped it to my back. My aunt said this was a safe place, and I believed her, but I couldn’t truly comprehend that word, safe. How could anyone guarantee that? I had been on my own for a long time, and had killed men in my own home; men who had come to murder me. Safety was in my hands, not anyone else’s. Safety was something I purchased with daily training, sweat, blood, and aching muscles. Sleeping without a weapon felt like sleeping with my hands tied behind my back.

Returning to bed, I pulled the blanket over me. My shoulder still ached, but pain and I were old friends. Pain, hunger, fear, loneliness. These were real things, things I believed in and trusted, because they were honest.

I thought about the – what had Ma Shushu called it – the masjid? The Muslim temple, with its thick carpets and outdoor pool. The concept of childhood was alien to me, but when I imagined it, I thought of sitting beside the pool, trailing my fingers in the water, and watching the fish, without worry or fear. Perhaps I could go to the masjid one day and watch the carp, and listen to the prayers, and be a child for a while. If such a thing was ever meant for me.

My eyelids grew heavy, and I slept.

* * *

Read Part 5 – There Is Only Work

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

The post Far Away [Part 4] – A Safe Place appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Each year, the MBA judges dedicate their time to going through books by Muslim authors and illustrators, for audiences of all ages. Our mission is to find the best books of the year, combining Islamic values with storytelling craft, creativity, and publication quality. Whether self-published, Muslim-published, or traditionally published, MBA holds every Muslim story to the standard of Ihsaan… because Muslim readers deserve the best!

After many hours spent poring over the 2025 submissions, we present the 2025 Muslim Book Awards Finalists!

Many of the books can be ordered from our sponsor, Crescent Moon Bookstore, and a link has been provided for each title. Read through the whole post to find our special Coupon Code at the end, and get a discount off your order!

[Note: This year, we did not receive enough submissions for the Early Reader/ Chapter Book and Middle Grade categories to include them in the finalists.]

Toddler Books

Street Puppy, Masjid Cat is sweet picture book all about a street puppy and masjid kitten, who live very different lives – yet cross paths unexpectedly. The simple rhymes contrast the street puppy’s life to that of the pampered cat in the masjid, and the vibrant illustrations evoke the lushness of Southeast Asia.

Dark Nights and Light Hearts: A Muslim Book of Opposites continues Hena Khan’s series of toddler books introducing colors, shapes, and now opposites! The heartfelt rhymes, the centering of Islam, and the enveloping illustrations make these books timeless, sought after, and beloved.

Momo & Bronty’s First Book About Allah is a sturdy board book that uses bright illustrations and simple language to introduce the concept of Allah to the youngest members of the Ummah. This book covers concepts like the oneness of Allah, Allah as the Creator and the All-Hearing, and our ultimate goal of reaching Jannah.

My First Book About Charity is also a continuation of a great Muslim board book series that teaches little Muslims the basic fundamentals of Islam. The soft, glowing illustrations creates a loving positive relationship between young readers and what they’re learning about, establishing the beginnings of a lifelong connection to Islam, inshaAllah.

Here’s Our Religion is a unique giant-sized board book that kids will turn to over and over again! Rather than telling a story, this book introduces images and short descriptions of important Islamic concepts and themes, such as Ummah, Qur’an, Salah, Ramadan, Zakat/Sadaqa, Hajj, and Sunnah.

Picture Books

The City of Jasmine is a celebration of a land beloved to Muslims, one which has finally been freed from decades of tyranny. Nadine Presley’s gorgeous descriptions of the Umayyad masjid, Qal’at Dimashq, the Barada river, marketplaces and bookstores and kitchens and courtyards, are a love letter to the blessed lands of Shaam.

Hilwa’s Gifts is a beautiful slice of Palestinian life, showcasing joy and tradition. Ali is visiting his family in Palestine, and it’s olive harvest season! Seedo teaches Ali the traditional method of harvesting olives, with love and care, and the journey that the olives will take into becoming gifts that keep on giving.

Saif’s Special Patches is about a little boy who is shy – but also much more than “just shy”! The patches in his special quilt represent all the different instances that Saif has been persistent, helpful, brave, and smart – and remind him that even though it’s not easy learning how to swim or knowing how to help out at the masjid, he can do it!

All the Ways to be Pretty provides an Islamic approach to internal beauty to counter the societal emphasis on external appearance, by drawing on the examples of Ai’shah (RA), Khadija (RA), Sumayyah (RA), Maryam (RA), Hajar (RA), and Rufaidah (RA), may Allah swt be pleased with them all.

Young Adult Books

Huda F Wants to Know? does a lot more than just crack jokes. This latest installment in the Hua F series starts with Huda preparing for her junior year of high school, with laser focus on ACT exam prep, applying for scholarships, and getting her driver’s ed done. What she didn’t expect was her parents telling her that they’re getting a divorce. This graphic novel does what I never expected a comic series to do: explore mental health, friendship, and family relationships with care and nuance.

“Odd Girl Out”  is a Muslamic take on quintessential YA: a teenager going through big life changes, dealing with the drama… and in this case, also facing Islamophobia. Maaryah Rashid’s life is uprooted by her parents’ divorce, in more ways than one. She has to leave behind her glamorous life in Dubai to live in the middle of nowhere, Essex; she’s the only hijabi at her school and the target of a nasty Islamophobic bully; and her mom is so busy falling apart after the divorce that she doesn’t seem to notice Maaryah’s own grief, loneliness, and struggles. There are repeated references to salah, hijab as an act of worship, and what being Muslim means in the West.

As with all Muslamic YA that touches on various teenager-y things (boys, parties, various haraamness), I recommend this for 15+ and for parents to be willing to have discussions with their children on these topics.

Hand Me Down Your Revolution is a collection of short stories, poems, and memoir essays produced by Muslim Youth Musings, a fantastic literary organization for aspiring Muslim writers. From the magical realism of “Where the Crimson Roses Bloom” to the amusing “Jamal’s Kufi,” the deeply moving “A Love Letter to Muslim Kids in Public Schools” the gorgeous prose of Rituals for the Grieving” and “Mother Wound,” there’s a little something for everyone.

Adult Fiction

“The Slightest Green” is a multi generational novel weaves a narrative that will stay with the readers for the warmth and depth it explores of a fictional Palestinian family. The characters and their stories, their trauma and dreams are very tied to Palestine and the occupation, but the focus on the individual and the ripple effects will linger.

“Detective Aunty” is on the case! Kausar Khan is a widow who’s always had a knack for figuring things out, and when her daughter is accused of murder, she knows she has to do more than cook, clean, and keep an eye on her granddaughters. The problem is… no one else, including the real killer, is happy that she’s investigating! Billed as a cozy mystery, this book also touches on larger themes of grief and loss, estranged family relationships and healing, and even thoughtful reflections on growing older as a desi woman.

“A Mouth Full of Salt” is a tale of long-ago (and yet not that long ago) Sudan that meanders like the Nile, but with a powerful undercurrent that pulls you to its end. A little boy drowns in a village, setting off a chain of tragedies and discoveries that uncover generational secrets. The women at the peripherals of the village are much more than sideline observers; their lives underscore the village’s past and future.

“Far Away from Home” is a brilliant debut that brings us the story of three Black Americans Muslims in New Orleans, set after Hurricane Katrina. Weaving together spiritual journeys, personal struggles, and the history of Black Muslims in the American landscape, this book is deeply immersive and reminds readers of the power of faith in Allah.

Holiday Books

“The Eidi Bag” isn’t just a story about celebrating Eid al-Fitr; it’s a story of culture, faith, anticipation, disappointment, change, and appreciation. It is Sarah’s first Eid in a new country and she has made herself a new Eidi bag just for the occasion! But it turns out that Eid traditions in this different place aren’t quite the same as back home. Sarah longs for Pakistan and the traditions that she is used to, but she slowly realizes that different traditions can also be fun and filled with love and joy.

“Ramadan on Rahma Road: A Recipe Storybook” introduces us to Rahma Road, where Muslims of many diverse backgrounds get together to observe Ramadan together. Each spread features a glimpse of a family’s iftar prep, and a recipe for the meal that comes from the diverse backgrounds: roti bom for Malaysians, koshary for Egyptians, and even South African rep with bunny chow!

“Ibraheem’s Perfect Eid” is a sweet story about a little boy realizing there is more to Eid than presents. While Ibraheem is very worried about whether he got presents or not, this also incorporates references to the Sunan of Eid, shows Eid salah (and Ibraheem actually listening to the khutbah!), and niqabi rep in the illustrations.

Juvenile Non-Fiction

“40 Hadiths for Children” covers 40 short, easy-to-understand ahadith about good actions, good character, worship, and daily life. The hadith text is featured on the left page, while the next page briefly explains the hadith in child-appropriate language, alongside practical tips on how to implement the hadith. This is great for parents to read with their kids (short and sweet to incorporate into a daily khaatira), and madrasah teachers

“Eliyas Explains What Prophet Muhammad (sallAllahu ‘alayh wa sallam) Was Like” continues Zanib Mian’s unique storytelling style of goofy-but-relatable kid escapades as a vehicle to delve into Islamic themes and discussions. Eliyas learns all about RasulAllah (sallAllahu alayhi wa sallam) from his parents and uncle – and how to apply the Prophet’s character to his own everyday life. As with every Eliyas Explains book, this one is perfect for kids who have otherwise short attention spans. It’s an easy to read early chapter book, there are different fonts and little illustrations to engage young readers’ attention.

“Shining Hearts: Sahabah Stories for Kids” by Marium Uqaili introduces both male and female companions (five of each) in a way that isn’t dry or too detail-heavy. The text is spaced out well on the pages, with small side facts and questions laid out as well. This is excellent for 5+ as a learning resource!

“Game Changers: Stories of Hijabi Athletes from around the World” features Muslim women (specifically hijabis) from around the world, engaged in a wide variety of sports. From hockey to archery, parkour to skateboarding, it was impressive to see all the fields Muslimas have excelled in. Detailed backmatter discusses why Muslim women wear hijab, and touches on related issues such as modest sportswear and perseverance.

“The Prince of Stars: Ulugh Beg’s Quest to Map the Stars and Seasons” is a rich, visually stunning exploration of a figure of Islamic history. Ulugh Beg was a Timurid Muslim prince whose true passion lay in studying astronomy, leading to discoveries that would change the course of science forever. While this is targeted at 4-8 year olds, even older children go back to this book to read, learn, and re-live the adventure!

Adult Non-Fiction

“One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This” is a blistering reckoning of the genocide of Palestinians, and the larger geopolitical context in which Zionist occupation and Western imperialism have become the status quo. This book is for a generation that understands the west can no longer be trusted to police and guide the world, or its own cities and campuses. It draws on intimate details of Omar’s own story as an emigrant who grew up believing in the western project, who was catapulted into journalism by the rupture of 9/11.

“Bigger Than Divorce: A Muslim Woman’s Path to Healing and Purpose” is unique contribution to non-fiction, tackling the difficult subject of divorce and its aftermath. The book’s approach is pragmatic; there is no wallowing in angst and self-pity, but rather acknowledging the hard emotions of divorce, and then moving forward in a spiritually and emotionally healthy way. The author grounds her work  in spiritual wellbeing, beginning with considering one’s purpose in life as a slave of Allah, and using our relationship with our Creator as the foundation of building the next chapter of our life post-divorce.

“The Heart of Design: Spirituality, Creativity and Entrepreneurship” is a brilliant examination of Islamic principles in the context of design, business, creative pursuits, and more. The book connects personal spiritual lessons with external practice, highlighting how one can cultivate a holistic higher praxis. Lush in layout and rich in content, this book will linger with readers long after they’re done, inviting them to return over and over again.

Illustrations

“Lulu in the Spotlight” is a delightful romp through a typical desi wedding! Lulu is finally old enough to have a plan of her own for winning the prize during joota chupai, and Natasha Khan Khazi’s illustrations truly convey the excitement, emotions, and colors of South Asian weddings.

“Animals Love Qur’an” is the official songbook for the classic Dawud Wharnsby Ali nasheed of millennial childhoods! Azra Momin’s signature illustrations bring the classic lyrics to life, evoking nostalgia in us parents and passing on this beloved childhood song to the next generation.

“Dear Moon” is a visually gorgeous book that serves as the perfect coffee table book or gift to loved ones. Characterized by soft colour schemes, sweet hijabi characters, and Islamic reminders, this book is a delight to the eyes and the heart. This book is a collection of Zayneb Haleem’s best work, quoting Quranic ayaat and other gentle Islamic reminders. Whether you’re an adult who just needs a glimpse of joy, or a young one who loves pretty illustrations, this book will definitely be picked up and flipped through often.

“Ibraheem’s Perfect Eid” is a sweet story about a little boy realizing there is more to Eid than presents. Nabila Adani’s illustrations show important parts of the story, like Ibraheem listening to the Eid khutbah, and the wide diversity of the Ummah being represented.

“Sunflower Kisses” might be another hijab story for girls, but Hatice Kubra Erkut’s bright illustrations create vivid imagery of a magical glow flowing from Ayah’s hijab. Celebrating Muslim illustrators and artists starts with appreciating their work in all its forms, and “Sunflower Kisses” is a lovely way to witness Erkut’s work for the first time.

Bookseller’s Choice

Check back on January 9th to see our reveal for the Bookseller’s Choice book this year!

Don’t forget to stay tuned for our announcement of the winners next week, inshaAllah!

[SPECIAL COUPON CODE: Use the coupon code “MBR” for 15% off all products ordered from Crescent Moon Bookstore!]

Related:

The Muslim Bookstagram Awards 2024: Meet The Finalists!

The post Muslim Book Awards 2025: Finalists appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1 | Part 2

* * *

Both Sides Match

Criminals were criminals wherever one went. Having been a low-level criminal myself, I knew the culture, expectations, and rules. These men saw me, a 13-year-old boy, as an easy score in a town that was apparently lawless.

My father had taught me never to reveal my skills before the fight begins. In this way, I could catch the enemy off guard. But I didn’t want to engage in a public brawl that could end up with either me dead, or the blood of these men on my hands. Perhaps if I were to demonstrate my ability to defend myself, these ruffians would seek easier prey.

I settled on a compromise. I already had the spear in my hand. I would strike one of the men hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to kill, and then wait to see what the other would do.

A piercing sound made me flinch. A constable came running up, blowing a silver whistle and swinging a baton. So the town was not lawless after all. Like me, the constable wore dark trousers, a knee-length jacket, and cloth shoes with white socks, but he also wore a tall, cone-shaped hat. A badge hung from his waist identifying him as an officer of the law. The overall effect was comical, and I smiled. The constable was not coming for the ruffians or me, but for the two brawling men.

As I was distracted by this spectacle, the thug with the scarred mouth lashed out with a kick aimed at the inside of my knee. I reacted instinctively, sweeping the spear across the front of my body to redirect his kicking leg. Scar Mouth was fast, however. The kick had only been a feint to distract me from the knife, and he now lashed out with the blade, aiming for my neck. I tucked my head and took the cut across my shoulder, and at the same moment brought up the point of the spear and raked it across the attacker’s face, opening a deep wound from the corner of his mouth to his temple. He cried out and stumbled back, blood pouring from the wound.

“There,” I said savagely. “Now both sides match.” Even as I said these words, I knew I sounded like my father – cold rage was the essence of his personality – yet I did not care. I was furious, more at myself than at Scar Mouth. Like a fool, like a day-one novice, I had allowed myself to be distracted from an imminent threat, and it had nearly cost me my life. Nor had I entered River Flow, the combat state of mind my father had taught me, in which one moved without thought or emotion. What a debacle. My father would be ashamed.

The other ruffian, the red-eyed one, drew his knife and stepped forward, but at that moment another constable came running, whistle piping. Red Eyes picked up his companion, who had fallen to the ground, and tried to hustle him away, but the constable caught them and struck Red Eyes on the back of the head with a wooden baton. He collapsed like a dead man, and the constable proceeded to beat them both.

A Bloody Grin

I took the opportunity to walk quickly away, clutching my wounded shoulder. I ducked into a narrow alley between two shops, where laundry hung on ropes overhead, and the ground was littered with broken tiles and scraps of paper. Pressing my back to the wall, I drew a slow breath to steady myself, then removed my jacket – which was now sliced open across the shoulder – and peeled my shirt down to get a look at the wound. The cut ran like a bloody grin across the top of my shoulder. It was long but not deep, yet the edges already looked angry and dirty. Blood ran freely down my arm and abdomen. I was sure the ruffians’ knives were filthy. If I left the cut alone it would surely get infected, and I had no wish to lose an arm… or my life.

The alley was not as empty as I’d hoped. A woman paused at the far end, a basket of scallions on her hip, and stared at me with wide eyes. A pair of boys lingered nearby, whispering to each other, one pointing at the blood on my arm. An old man shuffled past slowly enough to make it clear that he was taking his time so he could watch. He grinned in embarrassment and looked away. Soon, two more people stopped. The city, it seemed, always had eyes.

I had been cut many times while training with my father. My father had always washed the wounds, poured rice wine over them – his drink of choice – and wrapped them in clean cloth.

I ignored the watchers and went to a public water pump at the end of the alley. The water smelled faintly of iron, but water was water.

I gritted my teeth and splashed it over the wound, rubbing gently with the corner of my shirt to wash out any dirt. Blood and water ran down my chest. It stung so badly that my hands shook, but I kept going until the water ran mostly clear.

A vendor’s stall stood just beyond the alley. I pressed a coin onto the counter without meeting the owner’s eye. He frowned at my age, at the blood, but handed me a small clay bottle of liquor. I uncorked it and poured it over my shoulder.

The pain roared up my arm like a wildfire. I might have collapsed if not for the fact that I had been through this before and knew what to expect. My breath hissed out between clenched teeth; my vision wavered. Someone gasped. Someone else muttered that I was mad. I braced my good hand against the wall and waited. When the fire subsided, I dared to look. The blood had slowed. Good enough.

Trust No One

As I tore a strip from the bottom of my shirt, a shadow fell over me. A woman — middle-aged, with a face like weathered bark and kind eyes — crouched beside me.

“Child,” she said gently, “you’ll ruin that shoulder if you leave it like that. Come to my house. My husband was a soldier. I know how to treat these things properly.”

I hesitated. She did not smell of wine or filth. Her hands were clean. There was nothing cruel in her eyes, only concern. For a heartbeat, I wanted desperately to go with her — to be tended to, spoken kindly to, looked after.

But I did not know her. I trusted no one in this place. My father had drilled this into me quite literally, that no one in this world could be trusted but family, and even then, with reservations. “Do not trust even me,” he used to say, and I knew he meant it, for he had been my tormenter as well as my caretaker.

“My aunt is nearby,” I lied. “She’ll see to it.”

She studied my face, as if weighing my words. Then she sighed, nodded once, and pressed a hand briefly — almost motherly — to my uninjured arm.

“Make sure you keep it clean,” she said. “And change that bandage in the morning.”

She left, and the little audience, sensing the show was done, drifted away. Only the boys remained long enough to give me a last curious stare before running off.

I pressed the folded strip of cloth to the wound and tied it in place with another strip looped under my arm and across my chest. It was clumsy work, but it held. The bandage soon grew warm and damp with blood, but not soaking. I could still move my arm. It was painful, but it moved.

“There,” I muttered under my breath. “So much for my first day in the city. Get it together, Darius.”

I pulled my bloodstained jacket back on, though the movement made me wince, and tightened the spear strap. I smelled like wine, sweat, and copper. I needed to find my aunt. This town was too much for me. The noise, stink, and sense of danger were overwhelming. I felt as out of place as one of the temple carp would be if taken out of the pond and placed upon a horse charging into battle.

For a moment, the image made me smile. A giant carp riding horseback, wearing battle armor and holding the reins, its mouth working as it gasped for air. I laughed out loud, drawing a few open stares from passers-by. The sound of my own laughter, as much as anything that had happened to me so far, frightened me. I sounded like a crazy person.

A woman passing by slowed at the sound. She held the hand of a little girl, perhaps ten years old, who was chewing thoughtfully on a glossy brown sweet skewered on a thin stick. The girl stopped to stare at me openly, her steps lagging until her mother tugged at her hand.

“Come on,” the woman said sharply, not unkindly but with impatience.

The girl resisted, craning her neck to look at me as if I were something curious washed up from the river. Then, to my surprise, she pulled free. Before her mother could stop her, she trotted toward me, the sweet bobbing in her hand.

“Lihua!” the woman called, startled, hurrying after her.

The girl stopped a few paces from me. She did not come too close. She looked at my bandaged shoulder, then at my face, then held out the sweet without a word, her arm fully extended, her eyes lowered in sudden shyness.

I stared at it, uncertain. No one had ever offered me food unprompted before. I took it carefully, as if it might vanish if I moved too fast.

The mother caught up, breathless. I braced myself for her to snatch the child away, to scold her, perhaps to curse me for frightening her daughter.

Instead, she looked at me and said sternly, “What do you say?”

I did not understand. I stood there holding the sweet, mute. “Hello?” I said finally. I looked the girl up and down. “Your dress is pretty.”

The girl giggled, but the mother frowned. “You say, ‘thank you,’” she snapped.

“Oh.” Heat crept up my neck. I had not been raised with such polite expressions. “Thank you,” I said quickly. I bowed deeply to the girl, deeper than necessary, the movement tugging painfully at my shoulder. The girl giggled again, pleased, and allowed her mother to take her hand.

They went on their way, the girl glancing back once, smiling.

I stood there holding the sweet until they were gone. Then I ate it slowly. It tasted of sesame and sugar, and might have been the best thing I had ever eaten. My heart lightened a bit.

I had been told by the Mayor that my aunt’s name was Jade Lee, her husband was Zihan Ma, and they had a child whose name the Mayor did not know. I walked through the streets asking about them. People waved me off, shook their heads, provided conflicting answers, offered to sell me things, and, in the case of one noble, spat on me.

Ming

When I presented my question to an old woman who owned a stand heaped with some kind of orange flower, she looked me up and down skeptically. “Are you Darwish Lee?”

I frowned. “No. I am Darius Lee.”

She snorted derisively. “How does someone not know how to pronounce his own name? Your father is that miserable lout, Yong Lee?”

I was stunned. How could someone know my father’s name in this town? “He’s not a lout,” I said hotly. “He was a peanut farmer, and he is in the army fighting the invaders. He’s… well… the Mayor says he died.”

The woman’s face softened. “I am sorry. To Allah we return. I will not speak ill of the dead.”

So this woman too worshiped the God called Allah. Before I could ask about it, she went on: “Your auntie’s husband, Zihan Ma, is my brother. My name is Ming.” She studied me more carefully. “You have been wounded.”

I tipped my head to the side as if to say, “I suppose so.”

“I am working now,” Ming said, “but if you are hungry you can go to my house and my daughter will feed you.”

I was, in fact, hungry, tired, and hurt, but I had come this far, and I wanted to meet my aunt. I told Ming so, and she gave me directions. I should follow the main road, then turn right when I reach a huge elm tree that shades the entire road. Continue past the temple, walk until I can no longer hear the temple bells anymore, then turn left. From there, it would be a quarter day’s walk. My aunt’s house was set back from the road, but they were the only farm on that road growing safflower, so when I saw the safflower, I should enter through the gate. There I would find my aunt’s house.

“I don’t know what safflowers look like,” I said.

Ming shook her head sadly. “You have a wooden head, don’t you?” She picked up one of the stalks heaped on her stand and shook it in my face. It had small green leaves and a roundish orange flower with spiky petals. Its scent was sweet but mild. “This is a safflower, strings-for-brains. From your auntie’s farm, in fact.”

A Long Walk

Before setting out, I bought a wedge of cheese and filled my gourd flask at a public well. I slung the spear over my good shoulder and started down the road Ming had described.

The town fell away behind me, swallowed by dust and distance. The sounds of carts and hawkers faded, replaced by the quiet tapping of my own footsteps and the soft slosh of water in the gourd. The road was lined here and there with elms and poplars, their leaves whispering in the breeze. Fields stretched on either side, some green and thriving, others bare and brown, like my father’s land in the bad years.

After a while, the cut in my shoulder began to throb – slowly at first, then harder, beating in time with my heart. The bandage felt hot against my skin. I shifted the spear and immediately regretted it. Pain shot down my arm like fire. I took the jacket off and tied it around my waist, then lifted my shirt and checked the bandage. The cloth was dark with fresh blood, and something thicker and sticky seeping through. I re-tied it as tightly as I could manage and kept walking.

By midday, the world seemed brighter than it should have been. The sun pulsed like a fevered eye. I felt sweat trickling down my back, but at the same time a strange chill crawled over my arms, raising gooseflesh. My mouth tasted bitter, my head felt stuffed with wool, and my shoulder was as hot as a coal burned beneath the skin. I tried rolling my arm to loosen it and nearly cried out. I could not lift the arm properly anymore. I noticed that my jacket had come undone from around my waist and was gone. It had fallen somewhere on the road. I could not go back for it.

I thought of Far Away and Lady Two. Were there thieves in my house even now, digging up the bare earth floor, searching for gold that did not exist? Would the Mayor sell the house, or simply take it? Would some stranger sleep on my straw mattress, or would it all be left to rot? I had worked so hard to bring that land back from the dead. The thought of it slipping from my hands made something tight form in my chest.

To distract myself, I ran through the Five Animals forms in my mind. Tiger claw to the throat, crane beak to the eyes, leopard fist to the ribs, snake flick to the groin, dragon kick to the head. I pictured my father correcting me, rapping my legs with a stick when my stance was not deep enough, shouting at me to sink, sink, sink. Now I could barely keep myself upright.

The truth that my father was almost certainly gone pressed up from the inside of my mind like hot, bubbling mud. He had been the foundation of my life as well as its bane. He had beaten me, starved me, and abandoned me, yet he had also trained me, fed me when there was food, and wept when he saw what his absence had done to me. Now there was no one between me and the world but myself. I felt sorry for myself in a way I never had before. The feeling was like a weakness in my legs, as if they had turned to noodles.

Step, step, step. One foot in front of the other. I tried to imagine my aunt, Jade Lee, and her husband, Zihan Ma. What kind of people were they? Would they welcome me, or see me as a burden? More beatings, more shouting, more nights going to bed hungry? If that proved to be the case, I decided, I would not stay. I knew how to steal without getting caught, how to move quietly, how to run. I could live as a thief if I must. I did not want that life, but I would survive. I had already survived worse.

By the time the sun tilted toward late afternoon, every step was an effort. My feet were sore, my back ached from the weight of my pack and the dao, and my shoulder burned as if dipped in boiling water. A faint buzzing filled my ears. The world swam slightly if I walked too fast. Twice I stumbled, and once I had to stop and lean against a poplar tree until the dizziness faded.

I followed Ming’s directions as best I could: past the great elm that shaded the road, past a small roadside shrine, past a temple whose bells I could hear faintly behind me even after it vanished from sight. The sound seemed oddly distant, like something heard underwater. At last, I saw a field blazing with orange flowers – safflower, I knew now – from which rose the low hum of bees. I hoped my aunt’s door was not far beyond it, because I was no longer certain how much farther I could walk.

Farmhouse

A low stone wall bordered the road. A gate of rough-hewn wood stood open. As I stepped through, a man in a blue jacket and soft shoes was coming out, leading a horse by the reins. He had the soft hands and weak shoulders of a city man, and he smelled faintly of incense and wine.

“He’s in fine form today,” the man said to no one in particular. “Totally cured my gout. His needles are blessed by heaven.”

I stepped aside to let him pass. As he passed me, he got a better look, or perhaps a whiff, and reeled back, covering his mouth with a sleeve. He mounted his horse with a grunt and rode off toward town.

Inside the gate, I found myself on a working farm. A few young men – hired hands, I guessed – were out in the fields tending the safflowers, wearing wide-brimmed hats, and moving carefully between the rows with baskets slung from shoulder poles. In a nearby pen, goats cropped at a low wooden trough, their bells tinkling softly. From a barn with wide double doors came the sound of cows mooing, deep and content. A henhouse squatted beside it, chickens scratching in the dust around the door. Two gray-brown donkeys grazed freely near a stack of bundled firewood, occasionally flicking their tails at flies.

An old gray and white cat lay perched atop a carriage near the barn, paws tucked under its chest, watching me with half-lidded eyes as if it had seen a thousand boys like me and expected nothing new.

It was a far wealthier farm than that which my father and I had owned. The buildings were straight and well-kept, the fences repaired, the tools neatly stacked under the eaves. Smoke rose from the chimney of the main house in a steady plume, carrying with it the faint smell of cooked vegetables and something savory.

I stood there in the yard, dust on my shoes and sweat drying on my back, and thought that they must be eating supper. I felt as weak as a newborn calf. My clothing was drenched in sweat, and my heart beat too hard as I stepped up to the heavy wooden door, and heard voices talking inside. I raised my hand to knock, hesitated, and dropped it. Then I took a breath, let it out, and knocked on the door.

Unwelcome

The man who answered was of average height but stocky and a bit chubby, with muscular arms and shoulders. His face was dark and handsome, with a thick black mustache and inquiring black eyes. His hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves – very unlike my father, who had kept his hair short or shaved.

He did not look like a native of this land, and I wondered for a moment if he was an invader, but that was silly. The invaders were said to be tall and ivory-skinned, wearing armor that shone like moonlight. This man was of average height, and darker-skinned than me.

Close behind him stood a woman, and a boy of perhaps 10 years old. The boy was lean and used to hard work, I judged, but nevertheless had a softness about his face, as if he had never faced any great hardship, never been abandoned, never been beaten. I almost hated him for that.

As for the woman, she was short, and her eyes had pronounced folds. Her teeth were white, and even from the way she stood I could tell that she was martially trained, as there was a restrained power in her posture. Even relaxed, she appeared poised to strike.

The man’s eyes shot to the dao on my back and spear in my hand, then roamed over me, perhaps taking in my calloused hands, young but muscular body, and my altogether wretched condition. The torn and bloodstained shirt, the sweat and grime.

“Are you here for treatment?” His voice was not welcoming. “I do not work after sundown. And if it’s trouble you’re looking for, you’re in the wrong place.”

I tried to speak, but what came out was a croak. A bout of dizziness washed through my head, and I planted the spear to steady myself.

Someone said something, but I didn’t understand the words. My vision had gone entirely gray. I felt myself falling. I dropped the spear and reached out for purchase, but found only air. And then I was aware of nothing.

* * *

Read Part 4 – A Safe Place

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

The post Far Away [Part 3] – Wounded appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1

* * *

The Mayor’s Account

The Mayor lived in a narrow wooden house behind the tax office. Its roof tiles were mottled with moss, and two faded lanterns hung by the door. I knocked and waited. Through the thin walls I heard the clack of an abacus, then footsteps.

He opened the door wearing a simple hemp robe, belted high on his waist. His eyes flicked to the dao on my back, then to the calluses on my hands, then to my face. Something in his expression softened. Perhaps he saw how I had grown.

“Darius Lee,” he said, according me an unusual degree of respect. “Have you harvested already?”

“Yes,” I replied. “And I have come for my father’s salary.”

He hesitated, just for a heartbeat. A man with nothing to hide does not hesitate.

“Salary?” he repeated. “Boy… Darius… the army sends what it can. There are many delays. Your father may have-” He lifted his hand vaguely. “You understand. He might have fallen. Or the messengers may have been robbed. Highway bandits prey on couriers these days. You must consider -”

“I have considered,” I said.

He fell silent. Behind him, in the dim interior, I saw a low table with a tea set arranged neatly on a lacquer tray. Steam curled gently from the spout. The smell of roasted barley drifted through the doorway.

“What I mean,” he continued more firmly, “is that many soldiers’ families never see a coin. There are piles of unclaimed payments at the garrisons. Dead men whose names no one remembers. I am sorry, but it is likely your father is dead.”

I was only a boy. Another child might have been frightened by this commentary, or intimidated into submission. But my father had been a proud man, unafraid of anyone. He had always spoken his mind, could never be bullied, and would never, ever walk away from what was rightfully his, even as he stole from others what was rightfully theirs.

I had learned from my father what it meant to be a man. So I nodded and said, “Of course, if he were dead, I would not expect anything, Mayor. But you know what my father is like. If he is alive, and someone has withheld his pay…” I lifted my gaze to meet his. “He would come for it. And whoever kept it from him would not fare well.”

The Mayor swallowed. His hand twitched once, then settled on the doorframe.

“Well,” he said with a thin smile, “now that you mention it… I do recall something. A delivery arrived last month. A single gold coin, marked for your household. I must have… misplaced the record.”

He stepped away from the doorway with unconvincing haste. I heard drawers sliding open, the rustle of papers, a quiet curse under his breath. Then he returned, holding a coin between two fingers as though it burned him.

“Here.” He dropped it into my palm. “This belongs to you.”

The coin was cool and heavy. I closed my hand around it.

“Thank you, Mayor.”

He gave a stiff nod. “If any further payments arrive, I will notify you at once. Immediately. You have my word.”
I inclined my head politely, though I did not believe him.

As I stepped out into the street, the sunlight glinted off the coin in my fist. I slipped it into the hidden pouch sewn inside my tunic and walked away without looking back.

Down the street, I paused to observe the people entering the temple of the statue. I went to the door and watched. I was fascinated by them. They left food or coins in front of the statue, then sat before it cross-legged, chanting. Their chants were mesmerizing. Part of me wanted to join them. I had money, I could leave a few coins for the statue. I would be part of something bigger than myself.

Just inside the temple gates stood a small stone-lined pool, its surface broken only by the slow glide of bright orange carp beneath broad lotus leaves. Now and then, a ripple spread across the water as one of the fish snapped at a drifting petal, while the lanterns hanging above reflected in wavering, fractured lines. A few children lingered at the edge, tossing crumbs and laughing softly. I wondered at the lives of those fish, living all their lives in that small pool, but then I realized that there was nothing to wonder about, as my life was just the same.

The interior of the temple was peaceful and hushed. It was inviting. I could relax there a bit, and be among other people without conflict or expectations.

But I could not do it. I knew my father was right, that the statue was no more than an inanimate object. If I were to walk up and slap it, it would do nothing. No evil would befall me, no curse would tumble onto my head. Well, the worshipers would hang me from the nearest tree, but that was entirely physical and real.

I sighed. My father considered these people fools. I walked on.

I knew that the God my father had mentioned – Allah – could never be a statue, or my father would not have believed in him. And he must not have a temple, or I would have seen it. So I put the matter aside and turned to things more solid and immediate.

Lady Two

With the profit from the harvest, I bought a cow, whom I named Lady Two. She was large and was white with large brown patches, and was a lot of work.

I was already fatigued to exhaustion most of the time, not to mention distracted by the incessant gnawing of hunger in my belly. Certainly, I had food, but it was mostly a meager diet of rice and vegetables, and it did not sustain me well. Now, on top of my other work, I had to purchase and haul hay for Lady Two to eat, shovel her manure from the barn, and cart it out to the field to be used as fertilizer. I had to brush her coat, let her out to walk – I bought a cowbell to keep track of her – and milk her in the mornings.

Ah, but the milk! The first time I milked Lady Two and drank, I smiled and teared up at the same time, because it tasted so good, and it took me back to my younger years when I used to help my mother milk our cow, Lady, before my father sold her for drinking money.

Within a week of drinking her milk each morning and evening, I began to feel changes I had not expected. The constant trembling in my limbs eased, and the dull ache in my bones softened. I no longer felt as if I might topple over if I worked too long in the sun. My head felt clearer as well; I did not lose myself so easily in hunger and weariness, and I could think, plan, and even hum to myself sometimes as I worked. I slept more deeply too, without waking in the night to the pangs in my stomach.

After two months, the change was even more profound. I was startled to notice that my pants, which had previously come down to my ankles, now only reached midway down my calves, while my shirt was tight across my shoulders. I no longer dragged myself through each day but plowed and sowed the field with newfound strength. I had the energy to train with the dao in the evening. My movements were fast, and the occasional bruises from training faded faster.

I maintained my mother’s grave, just as my father had done. The flowers flourished, and I kept the plot clear of weeds. Often, when my work was done in the evening, I would sit beside her grave and look at the distant mountains, or the stars in the sky. Where was my mother now? I did not remember her well, but I remembered her gentleness, the songs she used to sing, and the small sesame cakes she made every Friday. I would like to be able to say that I missed her, but what I missed was the idea of her. The idea of being loved and cared for. But it seemed very distant now, and did not sadden me.

Far Away

A stray cat came to the house, an orange tabby that I named Far Away. My father had no patience for animals, but he was not here, so I took Far Away in, let him sleep with me on the straw mattress, and gave him a saucer of milk every morning. I found myself talking to him at times, just random things about farming, Five Animals, and memories of my mother. When I talked to Far Away, he winked and purred, and this made me happy, which was a strange sensation that I never truly got used to. I had never had a friend, and didn’t understand what friendship entailed, but it occurred to me that Far Away was my first ever friend.

The Mayor continued to send my monthly coin, to my surprise, yet another confirmation that my father was still alive. I didn’t talk about my father to Far Away nor anyone else. If I did not talk about him, he must stay alive, for the dead must be honored and remembered, but the living can be ignored. It became a superstitious rule that I imposed on myself.

The next crop came in even better, and I sold it for a pretty penny. I saw people whispering as I collected my coins, and noticed more than a few envious and even angry glances. The Mayor, when he handed over my father’s salary, was surprised to see the changes in me. “You are taller than your father,” he said. I had not realized this, and I felt embarrassed. Somehow, it seemed a betrayal of my father that I should surpass him in any way. I knew objectively that I had done more with the farm than he ever had, and this made me feel guilty. I was also ashamed that my mental image of him was growing dim.

I let the field lie fallow through winter, as my father had told me to do. I spent the winter days running through my Five Animals forms, and training with the dao and spear until the ground in front of the house became muddy with my pouring sweat. Far Away watched me, sometimes with interest, other times grooming himself as if all my leaping, striking, and kicking were meaningless. Perhaps it was.

Sent Away

I planted again when spring came. This time, however, at the 100-day mark, the Mayor came to my house in a horse-drawn wagon and informed me that my father had died in the war, and that I would be sent to live with my aunt. I did not truly believe that my father was dead, and knew that I must be here when he returned. Besides, I had been caring for myself for two years.

The Mayor produced the cloth badge that had been sewn onto my father’s uniform, indicating his unit, rank, and duty. It did not bear his name, but the Mayor explained that badges never carried names. I asked about the iron chain my father wore around his neck bearing the symbol of Five Animals style – a dragon clutching a golden ball in one clawed hand and a dao in the other – for my father had worn it every day and night since I had known him. The Mayor replied that no such chain had been sent, and that the sad reality was that bodies on the battlefield were often looted.

Yet I noticed that the Mayor would not look me in the eye. If he was lying about my father’s death, there would be much for him to gain. He could keep my father’s salary for himself. And I suspected that now that my land was producing a healthy cash crop, the Mayor wanted it for himself.

I refused to go, but the Mayor said it was against the law for a 13-year-old to live alone, and that if I did not go willingly, he would send soldiers to take me.

Anger coiled in my belly. I was tired of this man and his deceptions. I remembered how easy it had been to kill the two robbers, and pictured myself doing the same to the Mayor. The image repelled me. I was not a murderer. Besides, I could fight the Mayor, but I could not fight the soldiers who would come if I hurt him. I had no wish to be whipped and sent to prison.

There was nothing I could do. I mentioned the cow I’d purchased, and the Mayor reimbursed me half of what I had paid for her.

I told the Mayor. “If… if a mistake has been made, and my father turns out to be alive, tell him where I went.”

The Mayor nodded but still did not meet my eyes, and I knew he would not do as I asked.

I filled a peanut sack with my meager belongings, strapped the dao to my back, and concealed my purse within my clothing. The spear I took as a walking stick. I put Far Away in another sack and took him with me. Before leaving, I turned to look at my home one last time. It was a sad, pathetic place. The house had chinks in the walls through which the wind entered, and one of the walls of the barn was listing. The parcel was small, and if we had been a full-sized family living here, it would barely have sustained us.

Yet it was the only home I had ever known, and it had provided for me. I walked to the back of the house, stood beside my mother’s grave, and inhaled the cold morning air. I did not speak to her out loud. My chest rose and fell. I would have said a prayer if I knew one, and knew who to direct it to. Who would maintain her grave now? Who would water the flowers, and pluck the weeds? I shook my head helplessly, then turned and left with the Mayor.

I was put on a transport carriage bound for a city three days’ journey away.

Thoughts of my father swam through my head like the carp in the temple pool, circling endlessly. Was he truly dead, or was that a lie? And if he was dead, how had it happened? Had he killed any of the invaders? Where was his body buried? Was his spirit with Mother now? And if so, was he treating her better than in the past? Yet I did not weep for him. Alive or dead, he would not have liked to see me cry.

Loss of a Friend

When Far Away ran away, however, I did weep.

He was constantly unhappy in the sack, yowling and scratching, and the other three passengers on the carriage complained incessantly. The carriage always camped overnight, and when I woke up the second morning and opened the sack to feed Far Away, he was not there. Either he escaped, or someone let him out.

I walked through the woods, calling and calling for him, then finally fell on the ground sobbing. I felt as if my heart was a crop that had died on the vine. For my father I did not cry, but losing Far Away nearly broke me, for he had loved me with nothing but tenderness and gratitude. He was the only friend I’d ever had, and the only truly good and sweet thing in my life. Why had he left me? I was only trying to keep him safe. Why did he have to go?

I remember very little about the rest of the voyage.

The town where my aunt lived was large and bustling. I found myself disoriented by the sounds of carriages rumbling through, hawkers calling out wares, two men brawling in the street, the stink of garbage and sewage, and music drifting through the open doors of a saloon. I had never seen anything like this town, nor imagined so many people so close together.

My sweet mother used to play the flute, and I could hear one now, along with a lute, erhu, cymbals, and drums. They played a slow, sentimental tune that pulled at me. I might have gone in to listen. I was still deeply sad over the death of my father and the disappearance of Far Away, and I even missed Lady Two, and the way she greeted me by nuzzling her head against mine when I entered the barn. A little music would have been a welcome distraction, but as I took a step in that direction, two young ruffians stepped up, blocking my path.

They were thin in the way hungry dogs are thin, all sharp bones and restless movement. Their hair was greasy and tied back with filthy strips of cloth, and their clothes hung in mismatched layers that smelled of sweat and smoke. One had a scar that pulled down the corner of his mouth so that even when he wasn’t smiling, his face looked cruel.

The other had red-rimmed, feverish eyes, and filthy hands with long nails. The two of them reached into their jackets, no doubt ready to draw knives. They stood too close to me, and I could smell the alcohol on their breaths.

The one with the scarred mouth said, “That’s a pricey looking sword on your back.” And the other snarled, “Let us have a look at it.”

* * *

Read Part 3 – Wounded

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

No, My Son | A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 2] – Alone appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

* * *

Author’s Preface

I woke up recently with the idea for this story in my head, and immediately sat down and began to write. Maybe it was a dream I had, I don’t know. I’ve never been short of ideas, alhamdulillah. I have more ideas than I know what to do with.

If you’re a long-time reader of mine, you’ve noticed that my early novels focused heavily on action and international intrigue. Later stories, such as Day of the Dogs, The Things He Would Say, and the most recently completed Moonshot, were more about family dynamics. All That Is In The Heavens is, of course, straight-up sci-fi. I do plan to return to that, by the way.

I like changing things up. I’m not one of those writers who churns out dozens of novels based on a single formula. Maybe I should be, since some of those authors make a lot of money. Speaking of which, I met Danielle Steele once at a charity auction at Fort Mason in San Francisco, and bought her old antique typewriter. Another time, I made a delivery to her mansion, which occupies an entire block in Pacific Heights. There’s someone who took a formula and alchemized it into pure gold.

But no, I prefer to push myself and explore new fictional territory. This next story is a first. I hesitate to call it a fable. It is based in the real world, and rooted in the culture and historical circumstances of 1700’s rural China, featuring a Hui Muslim family. The Hui are an East Asian ethno-religious group that is predominantly Muslim. Today, the official Chinese census says there are 10 million of them. They are not segregated, but live intermixed with Han Chinese, and their practice of Islam tends to be low-key.

I did a lot of research to keep the story historically accurate. However, I never name China as such.

The narrator’s tone is brutally honest yet distant, as if narrating these events from a time many years removed. As such, it is not extremely detailed. That’s why I almost call it a fable.

It won’t be a full novel. Maybe 20,000 words, of which 10,000 are already written. Eight to ten chapters. I hope you enjoy it. – Wael Abdelgawad, Author

* * *

Father and Son

When my father, whose name was Yong Lee, wasn’t in prison, he taught me to fight and to steal. He was a small man and a drunkard, and he treated my sweet mother badly. I despised him. When Mother died of a breathing disease, all I could think was that instead of taking me with her into the realm of silence, she had left me behind. I was seven years old. I remember that I cried for many days, and struck my father, blaming him for Mother’s death. He was a violent man, yet, when I hit him he did not react.

Someone had taught my father to fight very well – not street brawling, but a fighting style that he called Five Animals, that consisted of rapid, fluid movements, deep stances, dramatic leaps and kicks, and the use of the spear and sword.

The sword was curved, single-edged and about as long as my young arm. My father called it a dao. He had long since sold his genuine dao to buy wine, but he’d made two replicas out of hardwood, and a pair of spears as well. We owned a small rice paddy that had gone to seed, and was a rat-filled nest of weeds and mud.

The only spot of color and beauty on the entire farm was my mother’s burial plot behind the house. My father had planted flowers over the grave, and circled it with small river stones. We did not pray for her, nor did we venerate her spirit, as my father said that was wrong-headed superstition. But now and then – seemingly at random moments – my father would lead me to her graveside, and we would stand in silence for some time.

Failed Defiance

Every day my father took me out to the paddy and ran me through dao and spear forms, and then we would fight. He was not gentle, and by the end of the session I was always bleeding and bruised.

One time I defied him, throwing down the dao and screaming that I hated him and would not do it anymore. He seized my shirt with both hands and put his face very close to mine. His breath reeked of wine. “This is the only thing of worth I have to give you, Darius,” he said. “You will take it, or I will kill you, then kill myself.”

I believed him, and I never refused to train after that.

Once, when we went into town to steal, the Mayor approached us. He looked me up and down – my ragged clothes, split lip, cut cheek, and a gash on my arm – and told my father plainly that if he did not treat me better, they would take me away and send me to live with my aunt. This was the first time I knew that I had an aunt.

My father raged that the Mayor could not do that. The Mayor cowered, for everyone knew my father’s fighting prowess, but to his credit, he held his ground and said that he would do it anyway. After that, my father treated me a little better, for though he still forced me to train, he did so less violently.

My father stole food from local vendors, cheated at card games, and picked pockets. He excelled at these things, and on the rare occasions he was caught, the locals would decline to press charges, for they knew my father’s temper and abilities.

In the town there was a temple with a great statue, and the people went there to pray, meditate, and leave offerings. My father scoffed at this, saying these people were brainless idiots, and he would sooner stab himself in the eye than waste his time and money on a hunk of bronze that could not see, speak, nor even defend itself. “The only one to worship is Allah,” he said, but when I asked him about the meaning of this word, and who was Allah, and where was his temple, my father fell mute.

Wake Up Hungry, Sleep Hungry

My father was not foolish enough to steal from nobles, but some traveling nobles dressed plainly so that you did not know their status, and every now and then, my father would be caught stealing from such a one; or from a traveling businessman or functionary. These people had no fear of him and always pressed charges, whereupon my father would be whipped and sent to prison.

Whenever this happened, I was left to fend for myself. After seeing my father whipped, I was not brave enough to pick pockets, so I confined myself to going out at night and stealing corn, potatoes, and tomatoes from local farms. The amounts I stole were so small that either no one noticed or they pretended not to, for they feared my father even in his absence. When I was younger, I had sometimes helped my mother cook, and I knew enough to boil the vegetables, which I ate plain with a bit of salt.

I was very thin, and my clothes were so tattered they were nearly falling off. I was lonely, but I did not despair. My days of crying myself to sleep were long past, and I knew my father would return. I did not know how far away the prison was, but I did not feel that my father was far away. His presence was commanding and inescapable, even in his absence. In addition, I was long since used to waking hungry and sleeping hungry. To me, it was a normal state of existence, and in fact I could not imagine what it might be like to have companionship and a belly full of food.

Hiding

Three times, the Mayor and a few others came to the house looking for me, but each time I hid. I barred the door with a chair, doused the candle, and crawled beneath the straw mattress, which was silly because if they managed to enter they would see my form anyway. I held my breath and watched the movement of shadows beneath the door as the men stood outside calling, “Darius Lee!” But they did not enter, for they knew better than to enter the house of Yong Lee without permission, even in his absence. Eventually, they went away.

I did not know if they wanted to punish me for stealing, or to send me to live with my aunt. I did not want to be sent away. Though I hated my father, I also loved him and missed him. I cannot explain this except to say that he was all I knew, and I felt a strange loyalty to him. He had spent countless hours teaching me Five Animals style, and though he was brutal, it was personal and intense. In his twisted way he cared about me and perhaps even loved me, though he had never expressed such a thing, and I had only ever heard that word – love – from my mother.

There was an enemy invading our lands from the south. It was said that they came on great ships, and wore armor of a kind our weapons could not penetrate. Wherever they went, they massacred our people and burned our homes. They were said to be tall and ivory-skinned, and fought with long, straight swords. I had never seen such a person, and could not imagine why they wanted our hardscrabble rice and corn fields. But every time I went into town to beg for a little money to buy salt, I saw more and more refugees either passing through or living in shacks on the outskirts of town.

There were posters in the shop windows. I knew how to read and write, as my dear mother had taught me. The posters said that anyone who volunteered to fight the invaders would be paid five gold pieces upon inscription, and one gold piece a month. The minimum age was fifteen, however, and at that time I was only eleven.

Return

My father came home from prison. He’d always been a strong and hard man, yet he returned from prison with new scars, and a terrible rage in his eyes. I thought he might take his anger out on me, in training, but when he saw my condition – I was so thin that my cheeks were hollow and my ribs protruded – he squatted down, covered his face, and wept. I had never seen my father crying, and did not know what to do. Torn between comforting him – how would I do that exactly? – and walking away to preserve his dignity, I sat down in front of him and said nothing. He suddenly seized me. I tensed up, ready to fight or flee, but he only embraced me and whispered, “I am sorry.” At this, I did flee, for it confused and saddened me more than all the beatings.

My father had quit drinking. He was not an affectionate man, and he still stole from time to time – but our training, though still exhausting, was no longer bloody. Furthermore, he began working the land. He would wake me up at dawn, and we would labor and sweat, clearing weeds, planting peanuts, and fertilizing. My father worked feverishly, as hard as any horse or donkey, and I understood that this was his way of pouring out of himself the terrible anger that – like a horse carrying a millstone – he had carried home from prison.

When the first peanut crop came in, he took me into town, where we sold the crop to a merchant. Then he took me to an eatery, where we sat at a table like normal citizens. My father ordered a huge quantity of food, and we gorged ourselves on rice, beef, green beans, sesame buns, bean cake, broccoli, and egg noodles. I had never even tasted some of these things.

When we could eat no more, my stomach felt like it would burst. I felt sleepy and content for the first time in many years. “So,” I thought. “This is what it’s like to be full.” I felt something I could not identify, which I later came to understand was contentment, and it frightened me because I knew it could not and would not last.

Infestation and Enlistment

My fear was premonitory. An infestation of rats destroyed our crop, and we were left destitute. My father stomped through the field, hacking at the rats with a plow and screaming foul words. He seemed not angry but despairing, and this shocked me, as I had never imagined my father this way.

The next day, he went into town by himself. I was afraid he had gone to drink and would return to beat me as in the past, but no. When he returned, he wore a scabbard hanging from his hip. He sat me down and handed me a small purse. I looked inside and saw five gold pieces, shining like the sunrise. “I have enlisted to fight the invaders,” he told me. “With this money you can buy traps and poison to kill the rats, then plant a new crop. You know how to raise the crop, how to harvest, and where to sell it. You will be fine. I will send my salary home to you.”

Then he removed the scabbard from his hip and drew a shining steel dao with a razor-sharp edge and a pommel wrapped in green cord. He re-sheathed it and handed it to me with both hands. “I bought this for you,” he said. “Never let anyone take what is yours.”

I begged my father not to go. I debased myself, throwing myself on the ground, crying and clutching his legs. But he left.

Robbers

I killed the rats and planted the crop. I lived simply, never wanting to let anyone know of the gold I had. The dao remained with me at all times, on my back when I worked in the fields, and by my side as I slept. At times, I took it out and practiced. It was lighter than the wooden version I had trained with, and was very sharp. Once, I cut my own thigh by accident. The cut became infected, and I passed two days in a fever, thrashing on the little straw-stuffed mattress, until I got up and dragged myself to the medicine man in the village. He cleaned my wound and slathered it with something sweet-smelling, and I paid in gold, receiving some silver and copper coins in return.

That night, two men broke into my house seeking the gold. They were young, rough-looking men who wore no masks, and were armed only with knives. I was still unsteady on my feet. Nevertheless, I drew my dao. The men laughed. “A boy with a shiny toy,” one said. “That will soon be mine.” He lunged at me with a knife. I parried it easily with the dao, and in a single smooth motion, thrust the sword into his throat. The other, shocked, took a step back. When I went after him, he threw the knife at me. I dodged it, then leaped forward and slashed him across the belly. Clutching his hands to his belly, he turned and stumbled away, and I let him go.

Evil Banners

The floor of the house was no more than baked earth, and was now stained heavily with blood. I went out to fetch a bucket of water from our small well, to clean the floor, and saw a blood trail from the second man leading into the peanut field. I found his dead body in the field, his hands still clutching his belly as his entrails hung out like evil banners, and a portent of bad things to come.

Leaving the man in the field for the moment, I scrubbed the floors inside. Seeing in my mind the point of the sword entering the man’s throat, remembering the slight resistance as it penetrated, I vomited, then cleaned that up as well.

Then I dug a deep hole in the field and buried both men. This took two days of labor, as I had to use a pickaxe to get through a layer of limestone and shale. When it was done, I collapsed into bed and slept for three days and nights, waking only to drink water. When I recovered, my leg wound had healed. No one ever came to ask about the dead robbers.

New Songs

I continued to practice with the dao. I cycled through all the moves my father had taught me, then improvised. If movement were a song, then I broke the words apart and put them back together in random ways, creating new songs that sometimes made no sense, and other times struck my own soul like gongs, leaving it shivering. I cut myself a few more times, but not seriously, until there came a point where that was no longer a concern. The dao was part of me. I would no more cut myself with it than I would poke myself in the eye, or punch myself in the stomach.

My father had taught me to count the days from planting, and harvest the peanuts at 130 days. The crop came in full and heavy, and I sold it for a good price. While I was in town, I went to see the Mayor. My father had said he would send my salary, but it had not arrived.

* * *

Read Part 2 – Alone

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

No, My Son | A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 1] – Five Animals appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28| Part 29 | Part 30  | Part 31

* * *

“Every being on earth is bound to perish. Only your Lord Himself, full of Majesty and Honor, will remain.”
– Surat Ar-Rahman, 26-27

A New World

The next morning, Deek woke up newly born, as if he’d fallen through the black depths of the river, passed through an underground tunnel, and risen into a new world where the sun shone, he was loved, and miracles happened every day.

Of course, he realized, that was how the world had always been. He simply hadn’t appreciated it as he did now.

He was still weak from his near-death experience, and at moments felt like his legs might not hold him up. But he was back with his family. Sunlight, the color of egg yolks, streamed in through the windows, bathing his skin and warming him, as if to remind him that there was more than one kind of natural flow, and that life went on. Looking out of the window, he saw Marco’s incredible sculpture hovering in the front yard like a sign of unimaginable things to come.

Bagila bil-Dihin

Rania and the girls were still asleep. Deek padded into the kitchen in his pajamas and slippers and started pulling ingredients out of the pantry and fridge. A half hour later, he’d prepared bagila bil-dihin, a slightly heavy Iraqi breakfast dish consisting of fried eggs over broad beans and soaked pita bread, topped with hot oil. Alongside it, he prepared thin-sliced Hollandaise cheese, black olives, a few sweet pastries he’d found in the fridge and warmed up, and fresh dates.

The girls trickled out, awakened by the smell of the food, and helped him set the table, and Rania came out last, rubbing her eyes.

“MashaAllah ya Deek,” Rania said. “You made breakfast for a queen.”

“And you are that queen?”

“Obviously.”

“How do you know it was me?” Deek said. “It might have been the girls.”

“Sanaya would have made a vegetarian omelette, and Amira would have heated up a frozen bean burrito.”

“Whatever, Mom,” Amira objected. “It’s not my fault nobody taught me to cook.”

“I could never tear you away from the video games long enough to learn.”

Ah, yes, Deek thought. I’m definitely home again.

As they ate, Rania kept reaching out to caress Deek’s shoulder or rub his back. It was odd but sweet.

After breakfast, he said, “I need help. I’m not feeling all the way back to normal strength, but I need to check out of the hotel and bring my stuff home.”

“Good idea,” Sanaya said. “It’s about time you checked out of that palatial dreamland.”

“Is it a palatial dreamland?” Rania asked. “I’ve never seen it.”

Wacky Symbolism

“I have another favor to ask,” Deek said. “I want to invite our friends and family to a picnic at Lost Lake Park. And my office staff too. It will be catered, but I want to ask them to bring potluck dishes as well.”

“What office staff?” Rania asked, and Deek saw that sharpness again, that sense of being excluded.

“You’ll see. I’ll take you there.”

“At Lost Lake?” Sanaya said incredulously.

Amira smiled. “That’s a bad-ass power move. A picnic on the spot where you died.”

“He didn’t die,” Rania said firmly. “And don’t say ass.”

Amira giggled at this. “You just said it, Mom.”

“Sanaya,” Deek said. “Could you organize it with one of those online event organizers? And mail invitation cards too?”

“You should ask Amira. She’s the event organization whiz. All our friends ask her to organize their birthday parties.”

“I had no idea.”

An Uninvited Guest

The doorbell rang, interrupting Deek’s last few bites. He found a 20ish Arab-looking brother standing there, holding a plastic portfolio case. He was the color of cafe au lait, with curly black hair and an off-the-rack suit.

“As-salamu alaykum akhi,” the man began, and continued in Arabic, asking Deek if he was Mr. Saghir, the wealthy investor.

Deek held up a hand and spoke in English. “I don’t know you, and I didn’t invite you here. If you have a proposal, contact my finance manager, Zakariyya Abdul Ghani. Don’t come here again.” He shut the door, even as the guy was trying to speak.

He was barely at the table when the doorbell rang again. Anger rose inside him like a volcano as he strode to the door. “Habibi,” Rania called in alarm. “Take it easy.”

Flinging the door open, Deek seized the man’s shirt in two hands and took a step forward, causing the man to stumble and pinwheel his arms. “Get away from my door,” Deek hissed, “before I call the police.” He shoved, and the man fell to the ground, just missing Marco’s sculpture. The portfolio opened, and papers scattered across the lawn. Deek felt guilty, but held his ground, even as the man rose, collected his papers, and began to curse him, telling him he was not a real Muslim, and that Allah would make him suffer.

When he was back at the table, his face as dark as a thundercloud, Rania said, “That happens sometimes. I usually just keep the door locked.”

“We can’t live like that. Contact your contractor and tell them to build a wall around the house, with a secure gate. Tell him it’s a top priority.”

Rania nodded. “I’ll do it today. We can’t have you tussling with strangers on the doorstep.” Deek shot her a sharp glance, thinking she was rebuking him, but her gentle smile said otherwise.

The Venetian Suite

Before they left the house, Deek pulled Rania aside. “Honey, are you sure you don’t want to stay home and rest? The girls told me how much your back has been hurting.”

She patted his chest. “It’s the weirdest thing. Since I dove into the river and saved your life, I haven’t had the slightest twinge of pain.”

That’s because you traded the pain, Deek thought, for the right to remind me for the rest of our lives that you saved my life. But he didn’t say this out loud, for she truly had saved his life, and had earned the right to say so.

* * *

As Deek drove, Rania continued reaching out and touching his shoulder. Finally, he glanced at her and raised his eyebrows.

Rania blushed. “You’re so handsome now. I think you’re in better shape than when we met.”

What he saw in her gaze made Deek blush as well, and he returned his eyes to the road.

A half hour later, the family stood in the living room of Deek’s suite at the Marco Polo hotel. Rania walked slowly around the suite, marveling at the size, the designer furniture, and the Venetian decor.

“No wonder you didn’t want to come home,” she said. She walked to the bed, shed her shoes and climbed in. “I could get used to this. When is it paid until?”

Deek followed her and sat on the edge of the bed. “I did so want to come home,” he insisted. “Anyway, it’s paid for another three days.”

“Does it come with free breakfast?”

“Yes. I usually ate in the room. Sometimes they’d set it up on the balcony for me.”

“Really? What would they bring you?”

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Deek answered. “Whatever I wanted. Omelets, smoked salmon, avocado, cheese, espresso, and fruit. Once they got to know my tastes, they started bringing me shakshuka, fresh mango, berries, and Turkish coffee.”

Rania sat up in the bed. “No donuts?”

Deek winced, understanding the barb: you enjoyed all this, while I was at home alone and in pain. He shifted nervously. “I don’t eat that stuff anymore. I’ve changed a lot of things.” Forgive me, he meant to say, but let it lie.

“How about if we stay here a few days?”

“But honey,” Deek pleaded. “I’m tired of this place. Lately, it feels like a prison. I want to go home.”

Sanaya had already begun packing Deek’s clothing into the two large suitcases they’d brought with them, while Amira sat on the edge of the fountain, letting the water splash off her hand.

“Mom,” Sanaya said, “Why don’t you go soak in the jacuzzi for a while? There are robes in the bathroom. Amira and I will pack, and when we’re done, we’ll order room service for lunch.”

“There’s a jacuzzi?” Rania brightened at that and slipped off into the bathroom. Sanaya gave Deek a wink. “Mom deserves a little pampering,” she said. “You don’t have to give her the moon and the stars. Just a little luxury for a day.”

Deek chuckled. When had his daughter become so wise?

The Saghir Building

Just north of a small shopping center near the river, Deek pulled into a parking lot and parked in front of a six-story white office building with mirrored windows.

“Where are we?” Rania asked.

The Saghir Building

Deek only smiled. “Come.” Exiting the car, they walked forward into a wide open-air plaza, a welcoming forecourt paved in pale stone and framed by neat rows of olive trees and tall ornamental grasses. A low burbling fountain provided a soft, rhythmic backdrop. The air smelled faintly of rosemary, as someone had planted herbs along the walkway.

Off to one side stood a metal bench, and beside it a large bronze sculpture of several children clustered around an open book, their faces intent, their postures relaxed and natural. The details were exquisite—the folds of clothing, the smooth curve of a child’s cheek, the sense of motion captured in stillness.

Rania pointed at the sculpture. “That’s a Clement Renzi! He was a Fresno sculptor. I’ve seen a few of his pieces at Fresno State and in the Tower District.” She walked her fingers lightly along the edge of a bronze sleeve. “This is a nice space. Whoever owns this building has good taste.”

Sanaya spun in a slow circle, taking it all in.

Amira hopped up onto the low fountain wall and stuck her hand in the water. “Why are we here, Baba? Are we meeting someone?”

Rania turned back toward Deek, smiling but puzzled. “Yes. What is this?”

Deek pointed behind her.

Mounted on a column of black marble, just a few steps from where she stood, was a brushed-steel plaque.

Rania read it aloud:

THE SAGHIR BUILDING
Offices & Executive Suites

She blinked. Then frowned at the plaque. Then at Deek.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why is our name on here?”

Sanaya’s mouth fell open. “No, Baba, really?”

“Really what?” Rania demanded.

“This is legit, Baba,” Amira said.

Rania looked back at Deek. “Did someone dedicate it? Is this a coincidence?”

Deek shook his head softly. “No, honey. We own it.”

Rania’s mouth opened slightly. “We what?”

A Different Reality

“I bought it,” Deek said gently. “Well, technically, the family office did. One floor is ours. The other floors are leased to tenants.”

Rania stared at him as if the words were rearranging themselves in the air and refusing to land.

“You bought… a building.” Her voice was faint. “A six-story building.”

“Uh-huh.”

Color drained from her face, not in fear, but in overwhelmed disbelief.

She sank onto the bench, one hand pressed lightly to her cheek. “La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah… I need a moment.”

The girls exchanged a look – half amused, half concerned – and flanked her on the bench.

Rania let out a long breath. “Habibi… I thought you meant an office. A suite. Maybe some desks. She gestured helplessly at the smooth white facade, the mirrored windows, the plaza blooming around them. “Not this.”

Deek sat beside her. “I should have told you earlier. I know that. But I didn’t want to tell you while we were fighting. And then… everything happened at the river.”

Rania covered his hand with both of hers. “Deek… this is enormous.”

Deek made a half-apologetic face. “Not really. Commercial real estate is in a slump right now. I got it for only three million. That’s a drop in the bucket.”

“Three million dollars is a drop in the bucket?”

“I get that you’re having trouble adjusting. But I need you to try. Our reality is very different now. This is part of what we need to talk about. There are decisions that need to be made. Anyway, let’s go upstairs.”

She studied his face for a long moment—and finally nodded. “Okay. I’m ready. Show me.”

The girls stood, grinning, and the four of them stepped inside. The lobby smelled faintly of eucalyptus and fresh paint, and the noonday sun sliced in through the wide front windows, reflecting off cream-colored marble tiles. A small waterfall bubbled along one wall, and a receptionist sat behind a sleek walnut desk.

She stood as they approached. “Good morning, Mr. Saghir.” She offered a radiant, professional smile. “Welcome back.”

Rania blinked. “She knows you?”

“We met recently,” the receptionist explained.

“What button do we press?” Amira asked in the elevator.

“Four,” Deek said.

Sanaya frowned. “You’re the owner, you don’t get the top floor?”

“This building had existing renters. Architecture firm on one, medical billing on two, call center on three, law offices on five and six. Four was available so that’s what I took.”

“Wow.” Amira pressed the glowing four with ceremonial reverence. “Baba, you’re like—an actual big shot.”

Deek laughed, embarrassed. “I only have what Allah gave me. It doesn’t make me a big shot. It’s an obligation. It’s important that we understand that.”

Family Office

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened onto a hallway lined with framed black-and-white cityscape photographs. A frosted glass door stood ahead, the lettering elegant and understated:

Saghir Family Office
Private Investments & Philanthropy

Rania put a hand on her hip. “You started a family office without telling your family?”

Deek grimaced, embarrassed. “It evolved very quickly. Even I have only been here twice.”

Inside, the reception area was bright, modern, and every design choice intentional. A long teal sofa hugged one wall, beneath a painting of the San Joaquin River at sunset. A coffee table held a bowl of fruit and a wrapped tray with a selection of baklawa.

A mid-twenties African-American woman in a beige hijab stood from her workstation. “Alhamdulillah, you’re well, Mr. Saghir!” Her smile was genuine and warm. “We’ve all been making dua for you. Hi Sanaya, Amira.”

“Naeema?” Sanaya laughed. “You work for my dad now?”

“She’s our administrative coordinator,” Deek said. “She keeps the office from collapsing into chaos, or so I’m told.”

Naeema beamed.

“This is my wife, Rania,” Deek said.

Naeema shook hands graciously. “We’ve met, I don’t know if you remember.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you have time, try the cafeteria downstairs. Your husband switched the menu over to halal Mediterranean food. Everyone loves it, even the other tenants.”

Rania raised an eyebrow at Deek. “Mm-hmm. That’s nice.”

From another office, a young man stepped out—tall, with wire-rim glasses and a short beard. Crisp blue shirt, sleeves rolled up.

“This is Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani,” Deek said. “Our CFO.”

“And admirer of your husband’s ability to perform ten impossible tasks at once,” Zakariyya said with a polite nod. “Sister Rania, it’s wonderful to meet you. The girls, too. Deek, we have a few additions to the staff. Do you want to meet them?”

“Not right now. Where’s Marcela?”

“Out scouting. Plus, city inspection on the church property. She said she’ll text with updates.”

Deek nodded, then turned to the family. “Marcela is the real estate director. She wants to buy a lot more commercial property while prices are low. Anyway, come, I want to show you something.”

Those Whose Hearts Tremble

He led them down a short hallway to another door with frosted glass. The sign read:

Executive Suite — Private

He opened it.

The room was larger than their living room at home, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the slow bend of the San Joaquin River. Sunlight danced across the water and flashed across the polished hardwood floors.

A massive U-shaped desk dominated the center. A second seating area with a plush sofa and armchairs occupied one corner. Bookshelves lined a wall, still mostly empty except for a Qur’an on a stand, a model of a dhow ship, a sculpture of a lion mid-stride, and one of Sanaya’s kindergarten paintings, framed and labeled “Baba #1.”

Rania covered her mouth with her hand.

Amira ran straight to the window. “Baba! You can see the river. Like, the exact part where-” She stopped herself, glancing back at him.

“It’s okay,” Deek said gently. “It’s good to see it from a different angle.”

Rania walked a slow, reverent circle around the office.

“It’s not finished,” Deek said quickly. “Some art still needs hanging. And I want something representing Iraq, and -”

Rania cut him off with a sharp wave. “It’s astonishing.” Yet when she looked at him, her face registered something other than pleasure. “Makes the home office I’m building for you look quaint.”

Deek went to her, took her hand. “No, honey, you’re wrong. The home office is a thousand times more precious to me than all of this. I’ll drop by this office frequently, but I’ll work from the home office.”

“You don’t have to do that, Deek. This is obviously where you belong.”

Deek sighed. “Let’s go to the conference room.”

The conference room was glass-walled and sunlit, with a long walnut table, eight modern chairs, and a Quranic selection – ayahs 2 and 3 of Surat Al-Anfal – framed on the far wall:

“The believers are only those whose hearts tremble at the remembrance of Allah, whose faith increases when His revelations are recited to them, and who put their trust in their Lord. Those who establish prayer and donate from what We have provided for them.”

Quiet Apprehension

They took their seats, the four of them clustered near one end of the long table. Deek pressed a small console button.

A soft chime sounded. “Yes, Mr. Saghir?” Naeema’s voice came through a ceiling speaker.

“Naeema, could we have coffee, water, and a plate of muffins? Whatever’s fresh.”

“Of course. Be there in two minutes.”

Amira slouched comfortably in the chair. “Wow. You can just… call people and ask for muffins.”

Rania gave her a pointed look. “Your father has always been able to ask for muffins. He just never did.”

Deek didn’t even know what that meant, but he let it pass. He looked around at his family. Their faces – all three – showed a quiet apprehension. They felt the seriousness of the moment.

Deek folded his hands on the table. “I don’t think you all grasp how much money we really have. And yes, it’s we, not me. Whatever Allah has blessed me with belongs to this family, and to your future children, girls, and their children after them.”

“Okay…” Sanaya tapped on the table with a fingernail. “How much do we have? Millions, right?”

Deek chuckled nervously. “Some of the investments I made just recently have done well. Our net worth now stands at about six hundred million dollars.”

Rania simply sat, wide-eyed. Sanaya whistled. Amira put her hands together, threw them out suddenly, and made the sound of an explosion. “Sound – of – mind – blowing,” she said.

Sanaya nodded slowly. “It’s pretty wild.”

“Say alhamdulillah,” Deek reminded them.

“Alhamdulillahi rabbil aalameen,” Rania whispered.

“I wanted to bring you here,” Deek said, “because our lives are changing. And before they change any further, I want us to decide together what that future looks like.”

The girls exchanged a quick look. Rania stared at him steadily.

“Baba,” Sanaya said carefully, “what does that mean?”

Deek gave her a warm, reassuring smile. “It means that everything you’ve worked for still matters. Nothing you’ve done is wasted. Sanaya, you’ve studied hard in pharmacy. You are brilliant. And if you truly want to continue and become a pharmacist, I will support you fully.”

She nodded, though uncertainty flickered in her eyes.

“But,” Deek continued gently, “I want you to know that our reality is different now. You don’t have to work in a pharmacy for the rest of your life. You could own a chain of them. You could build something far bigger than what pharmacy school prepares you for.”

Sanaya looked stunned – not flattered, not dismissive – just stunned.

Amira frowned thoughtfully. “Does that mean… I shouldn’t go into event organizing anymore?”

“No,” Deek said, turning to her. “It means you don’t have to settle for being someone people hire to run their parties. You could own an entire venue. A banquet hall, a wedding garden, a conference center – whatever you dream.”

Amira’s eyes widened. “Own a venue?” She sat straighter. “Actually… that sounds kind of amazing.”

Rania touched Amira’s hand, smiling. “We’ll help you think it through.”

Deek took a breath. “And your mother… I know she’s taken leave from the hospital. And I know she’s exhausted.”

Rania’s eyes softened, but she said nothing.

“I thought,” Deek continued, “she might want to take on something meaningful, something that uses her compassion, her insight, her organizational strength. The family office needs a philanthropic director. Someone to oversee our charitable work, guide big decisions, partner with masajid and relief groups… someone with a heart like hers.”

Rania stared at him for a moment, then looked down, overwhelmed.

“And Sanaya,” Deek added, “you could intern under her. Learn the ropes. Run projects. Continue school if you want, or explore other paths. You’re at the right age to shape something new. I’m not telling you what to do. These are options.”

Sanaya swallowed hard. “This is… a lot.”

“It is,” Deek agreed. “But that’s why I wanted us here. I don’t want what happens next to feel like something happening to you. I want it to be something we build together.”

The New House

“Last thing,” Deek said. We need to talk about the new house.”

“I haven’t even seen it,” Rania stated flatly. “As usual.”

“It’s unfinished. But it’s 50 acres of prime land, with a view of the river. I paid a good chunk of money for it. But I don’t want to move there. The girls say it’s spooky and too far away, and I’m happy in our current house.”

“Fifty acres,” Rania mused, elbows on the table. “I’ve been enjoying the process of building the home office. Learning about the codes, dealing with the architect, all of that. What if I were to finish that house, then we sell it? Could you finance that?”

“Would you really want to take that on?”

“I think it would be fun.”

“Then knock yourself out. Build a mansion, pool, jacuzzi, tennis court, horse stables… Whatever you can dream of. But consult with Marcela, she’ll tell you what features are popular with buyers.”

Rania sat back, smiling.

Stay Grounded

Muffin and latte art

A soft knock came, and Naeema entered with a tray—coffee, tea, water, and a basket of warm muffins. She set them down, smiled, and slipped out. Rania snatched up a muffin and bit into it without hesitation, and the girls followed suit. Still munching, Rania poured coffee for the four of them, her hands steadier now.

“Yummy and hot,” Amira commented.

“And there’s one more thing,” Deek said. “We have properties in San Francisco that need oversight. Someone has to visit occasionally. Check the books, monitor development. Whoever does that will have a driver – I have someone in mind, an amazing driver and bodyguard. I’m just mentioning this because Sanaya, I know you don’t like to drive on the highway, and Amira, you don’t have a license yet. To cut to the chase… Long-term, one of you will be running the family business. I’m not choosing who. I want you to grow into it at your own pace.”

The girls looked at each other again—this time not with confusion, but dawning awareness.

“However,” Deek added firmly, “none of this means becoming one of those spoiled rich families who winter in the Caribbean and summer in Europe, and whose hardest decision is which designer outfit to wear.”

Rania raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “Yes. Wouldn’t that be terrible.”

The girls laughed.

Deek squeezed her hand under the table. “I’m serious. We live normally. We stay grounded. We serve Allah. We help people. We stay humble. I’m telling you. My stay at the Venetian didn’t make me happier. I’ve seen what the other side is like – rich and lonely. It’s not pretty.”

Rania leaned back in her chair, her expression softening into something proud and resolute.

Amira reached for another muffin. “So, Baba… what you’re saying is…”

“Yes?”

“We’re leveling up. Like in a video game.”

Deek laughed. “Yes, habibti. But we’ll do it one step at a time. You know what happens when you level up?”

“It gets harder,” Amira said solemnly.

“Right. And stop eating muffins, already.”

Sanaya reached across the table and put a hand on his. Rania laid hers atop Sanaya’s, and Amira slapped hers on top, making her mother grimace.

For the first time since the river, Deek felt wholly, completely steady. The future was no longer something to fear. It was something they would walk into together.

Bengal Beanz

That evening, Deek texted Faraz.

Can you meet for coffee? I’ll pick you up.

Faraz replied immediately: Of course, akhi. I am ready.

When Deek pulled up, Faraz climbed into the passenger seat, brushing bits of rice off his shirt and adjusting his crown-style kufi.

“Where we going?” he asked.

“You’ll see.”

When they pulled into the parking lot of a newly renovated café called Bengal Beanz, Faraz leaned forward, studying the freshly painted sign depicting a Bengali tiger wearing round spectacles, reading a book while sipping a steaming mug of coffee.

Faraz grinned. “Ahh, Bengali pride! This used to be Fresno Roast, akhi. I guess they go out of business. But look! Bengali tiger and book. Now this is respectable coffee shop.” He chuckled, pleased.

Inside, they found themselves at the tail end of a long line, but the assistant manager behind the counter – a short, thin blonde woman who looked like she ran marathons – spotted them and waved. “Evening, Mr. Saghir!”

Faraz raised his eyebrows. “The barista know you? You coming here a lot?” He looked around. The place was packed, nearly all the tables occupied, mostly with young hipsters and college students, some working busily on their laptops.

Studying the menu, Faraz winced. “Seven dollar for coffee? Astaghfirullah. How a college student pay that? When I am in college I live on rice and dried lentils that I pick up from the street.”

Deek gave his friend a skeptical look. He very much doubted that Faraz had collected lentils from the street. He seemed to remember that Faraz’s father was an official in the Bangladeshi foreign ministry.

“Don’t worry,” Deek said. “I invited you, remember? It’s my treat.”

“Even so… We could have free coffee in the masjid kitchen, like old days. You remember after Isha we sit and talk crypto for hours, and eat those French cookies you like.” Then, embarrassed, he cleared his throat. “I mean, I forget you are… you know.” He waved vaguely. “Rich now. But still. Wasting money is wasting money.”

Deek smiled. “You should be glad so many people are willing to pay seven dollars for a coffee.”

“Why you say that?”

“It’s money in your pocket.”

“What pocket we talking?”

Instead of answering, Deek pointed to an item on the menu. A stylized tiger paw print labeled a specialty blend:

Bandarban Arabica — Bright, Floral, Single-Origin

Faraz leaned in, incredulous. “Bandarban? Is a district in Bangladesh! How they get beans from my homeland all the way here?” He slapped the counter. “Okay, I take that one! With hazelnut syrup.”

Deek ordered a Turkish latte for himself.

They took their drinks to a small corner table. Steam curled upward; the shop hummed with quiet conversation and soft instrumental music.

Rough Time

“So,” Deek said, blowing over his cup, “how are you doing, akhi?”

Faraz sipped his coffee. “Unbelievable! Is real Bangladeshi coffee. Is like I am home again. Really blowing to my mind.”

“I asked how you are doing.”

Faraz waved a hand. “Fine, fine.”

“No.” Deek touched his friend’s arm. “I really want to know.”

Faraz hesitated, cleared his throat. “Rough time. I lose all my savings in crypto. Not only crypto but bank savings. We sell one of the cars. I have to convince my wife to move to one-bedroom apartment. With three kids, imagine? But rent is killing us. Masjid Madinah don’t pay that much, you know. I been doing handyman jobs… whatever comes. Alhamdulillah for everything, but…” His voice cracked. “Is been hard.”

Deek frowned. “Have you actually moved yet?”

“No. Looking for cheap place.”

Deek nodded. “You should hold off on that.”

“Hold what?”

“I mean, don’t move.”

“Why? We can’t afford -”

“Come with me.”

They went through a door marked Employees Only as the barista gave Deek a knowing smile. Walking down a short corridor, they stepped into the small manager’s office.

Partners

Faraz stopped dead.

Two framed photographs hung on the wall, side by side. One showed Deek, smiling and holding a steaming mug beneath the Bengal Beanz sign. The other was a photo of Faraz, taken at a masjid barbeque, laughing with a half-burnt skewer in hand. Each photo had a plaque beneath it.

DEEK SAGHIR — Partner
FARAZ AHMED — Managing Partner

Faraz stared. His lips parted. His throat bobbed. “Akhi,” he whispered. “What… what is this?”

Deek placed a hand on his shoulder. “This shop is yours and mine. I invested, but you run the place and we split the profits. My people have looked over the books. This place is a money machine. You can pay yourself a salary of one hundred K per year to start. Honestly, when you’re ready, we could open a second location and double your salary.”

Faraz only stared. “One hundred what? Dollars? Per day?”

“No, my friend,” Deek said gently. “One hundred thousand dollars per year. I’m trying to tell you, this place is yours. We’re co-owners. Both of our names are on the deed.”

Faraz covered his face with both hands as tears came. Soft at first, then shaking. Deek stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

“You deserve this, brother,” Deek said. “You dedicated your life to caring for the masjid and the people there. Now it’s your turn.”

When Faraz finally calmed, Deek guided him gently into the manager’s chair.

“Try it,” Deek said softly. “Get comfortable.”

Faraz obeyed hesitantly, like someone touching a dream that might evaporate. He sank into the chair, palms flat on the desk, staring around the small office.

“When you’re ready,” Deek told him, “the assistant manager will teach you everything—inventory, payroll, scheduling, espresso machines. You’ll pick it up fast.”

Faraz nodded, unable to speak. Deek let himself out quietly, closing the door behind him.

Lift As You Climb

Walking back through the plaza, Deek felt a lump grow in his own throat. It hit him suddenly, sharply, like a slap to the chest: If not for the insane, impossible moonshot of the New York Killa coin—if not for that miracle that set everything else in motion – he would have been where Faraz was now. Overworked, broke, and ashamed. Still sitting in that stifling closet, the little fan trying to keep him cool, eating too much junk food, and losing money. Fighting with Rania, losing the respect of his family.

Allah had saved him from all of that. SubhanAllah, alhamdulillah. He had no illusions about that. Of course, he had worked very, very hard, but nothing happens without the help and will of Allah. He never could have imagined the life he had now.

Faraz had been his partner in a way. The two of them had hung out almost every night, sharing strategies and knowledge. So what kind of man would Deek be if he didn’t share his good fortune with his partner?

November Evans

What had the driver said? November Evans, the fierce little bodyguard who took down a whole squad of North Korean soldiers single-handedly. “Lift as you climb. As you progress in life, as you climb the ladder, you bring your people with you. You don’t leave them behind. You lift them up along with you.”

This was why Allah had saved him, and he must never forget it. He whispered under his breath as he stepped into the cooling Fresno night. “Ya Allah, let me be worthy.”

Lost Lake

One week later, Lost Lake Park was alive with people and food and laughter. The air smelled of pine sap and grilling meat. Two halal food trucks and a dessert truck were parked side by side beneath the trees, their windows open, their griddles hissing. A sign on each read, “Free food while it lasts.”

In addition, nearly everyone had brought food, and a wide variety of Arab, American, and Pakistani food was laid out on two picnic tables, along with a multitude of desserts.

A handmade banner strung between two trunks read:

WELCOME, FRIENDS & FAMILY
Potluck Picnic – Lost Lake

Amira had chosen the font and colors herself, and it showed; even the little doodled stars around the edges looked professional.

There were about forty people in all. When Deek and his family first arrived, he walked to the edge of the river and gazed out, spotting the overhanging tree branch he’d strapped himself to, until he slipped and fell beneath the water. And there, just downstream, where the river was as wide as an anaconda’s mouth, and as dark as a desperate man’s thoughts, was where Rania must have found him, drowning and essentially dead, not knowing who he was, or at which point in time he existed.

It was astounding that she’d found him underwater in a pitch-black river on a dark night. It was not a coincidence or luck. Deek no longer believed in such things. It was Divine providence. It was Allah saying, “Go back to the living for now. I have things in mind for you.”

The ground still bore the tracks of emergency vehicles. He jerked in surprise as someone touched his shoulder, but it was Rania.

“That was a moment,” she said, “that has passed, and will not return. Everything that happens is a barakah if it teaches you something. Turn around.” She grasped his shoulders and turned him to face the lively picnic. “All these people are here because they care about you. They’re not here for the free food. They would have come without that. They’re here for you.”

Deek nodded, shaking off the ghosts of yesterday and of the more distant past. He gave his wife a hug, then pulled back. “Your back still doesn’t hurt?”

Rania shook her head. “Not a twinge. I can’t explain it.”

“Alhamdulillah. Let’s not look a gift back in the spine.”

Rania laughed. “That doesn’t even make sense.” She took his hand. “Come on, let’s talk to your guests.”

They moved from group to group, hugging people, trading jokes, accepting dua,s and well-wishes. Every plate of food, every smile, felt like a small, shining proof that he was still alive.

Walk With Me

Lubna and her husband sat on a blanket, hats pulled over their eyes, napping. Their kids were under a pop-up canopy with Zaid Karim, Safaa, Hajar, and Anna, the gaggle of kids playing and occasionally running to the food trucks, while Zaid and Safaa talked quietly and stuffed themselves with heaping plates of food.

Marco held court at a picnic table with Naeema, Marcela, Zakariyya, and a few of the other family office staff, arguing cheerfully about how monetary policy would affect the price of gold and whether BRICS would displace the dollar in international trade. Tariq and his wife were sitting with Imam Saleh, probably talking about the Seerah of the Prophet , or the lives of the Sahabah. A group of Rania’s nursing friends chatted in the shade, and Rania stayed to talk to them while Deek moved on.

Faraz’s wife, Saadiyah, and their three kids sat at one of the picnic tables eating, but Faraz was not there. He was at Bengal Beanz, no doubt. He was taking the job very seriously, putting in a lot of work. Saadiyah had already come to Deek’s house once, bringing multiple platters of food, sobbing and thanking him. It had been extremely awkward. He waved, but gave them a wide berth and walked on.

A knot of teenage girls—Sanaya’s and Amira’s friends—hovered around the drinks cooler, laughing at something on a phone. Deek waved to them and walked on.

He spotted Zaid. He’d left his group and was wandering around, scanning the area, looking more like a security guard than a guest. Deek caught up with him.

“Come walk with me a bit,” Deek said quietly.

Lost Lake Park, Fresno

They strolled around the perimeter of the picnic. There was a Hispanic family sitting at a nearby picnic table: a young couple, an older white-haired woman with a cane, and three kids lying on a nearby blanket, looking bored. Deek noticed the envious glances they cast toward the larger group. He approached them.

“Hi guys, how’s it going?”

“Hey, good, wassup?” the father said. He was muscular, with thick black hair and a white brimmed hat, and dressed in what Deek sometimes thought of as a Chicano outfit – baggy shorts, white t-shirt under an oversized flannel shirt, white knee-high socks, and white sneakers.

“My name’s Deek.” He gestured. “That’s my party.”

“Is it your birthday?” the young mother asked.

“I almost drowned in the river right there.” He pointed. “My wife saved me. I guess I’m celebrating being alive.”

The Hispanic family made surprised sounds. “Our Lady of Angels, Mary, mother of Jesus, saved you,” the grandma said.

Deek smiled, not wanting to debate the issue. “Anyway, the food trucks are free. No cost at all. Why don’t you go over and get something? If anyone asks, tell them Deek said it’s okay.”

“Dude, that’s what’s up,” the father said. “God bless you, man.” The kids dashed toward the food trucks while the mother helped the grandma onto her feet. Deek and Zaid walked on.

“Zaid,” Deek said. “I haven’t forgotten what you did. You risked your life for me. You’ve been there for me in a lot of ways, and you never asked for anything.”

“Actually,” Zaid said, grinning. “I asked for my daily fee plus expenses. You gave me a whole lot more.”

“I gave you nothing,” Deek said firmly. “Nothing like you deserved. If you ever need anything at all, you call me. I mean that.”

Zaid smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “It’s the other way around, big man. You’re carrying a boulder now. If you need anything, you call me. Day or night.” He tapped Deek’s chest. “That’s what family is for.”

Moved, Deek pulled his savior and friend into a hug.

Shoulder to Shoulder

From the middle of the meadow where the picnic was going on, a clear voice rose, calling the adhaan for Dhuhr, the sound threading through the trees. Conversations faded. Some of the teenagers fell quiet mid-laugh. Deek and Zaid hurried to join. Imam Saleh stepped forward to lead salat on a flat patch of grass the youth had cleared. Men and women lined up. Picnic blankets became ad-hoc prayer rugs.

Deek found himself shoulder to shoulder with Marco in the first row.

“Allahu akbar,” Imam Saleh called, and the jama’ah followed suit.

Deek raised his hands and felt the familiar settling that came with the opening takbir. Beside him, Marco did the same. When they bowed together in ruku, Deek’s eyes stung unexpectedly. How many times had he and Marco sat in dingy apartments or greasy spoons, arguing about God, meaning, randomness, the cruelty of the world? And now here they stood, shoulder to shoulder, foreheads touching the same patch of earth for the sake of the same Lord.

When Deek recited, “Alhamdulillahi rabbil-aalameen,” the words hit hard. There was so much to be grateful for.

After the salat, the lines dissolved. Kids sprinted away, and young men began organizing teams for a soccer game. Someone produced a ball, and someone else laid out makeshift goals using folding chairs.

Still Got It

“Deek!” Tariq called. “You’re on my team!”

Deek laughed and joined in. At first, he jogged cautiously, worried that his lungs or legs might give out. But as the game went on, he found himself cutting, feinting, even managing a decent sprint as he drove the ball before him, finally passing it to Zakariyyah, who shot a clean goal.

The youth cheered as Deek and Zakariyya jogged away with arms raised, Deek nearly tripping over a tree root but staying upright.

“Still got it, Baba!” Sanaya called.

“Barely,” he panted, grinning.

After twenty minutes, his chest burned pleasantly, and sweat cooled on the back of his neck. He waved himself off the field, wandered to the edge of the clearing, and sank down with his back against a broad oak. The bark pressed solidly between his shoulder blades. Above, leaves whispered in soft conversation. The scents of grilled meat and fried onions drifted over on the breeze. In the distance, he saw Imam Saleh sitting with the Hispanic family, eating and chatting.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

Dream Visitors

He was still under the tree when he opened them again. The light had changed. The sky above was deeper, an almost-indigo blue, and the edges of the world felt too sharp, too crisp. The children’s shouts had faded to a distant hum.

Someone sat down on his right.

He turned and saw a small, thin woman in a plain wool garment, her face lined but luminous, eyes dark and unwavering. It was his ancestor and conscience, Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah, the great saint and ascetic. On his left, in a beach chair, Queen Latifah lounged in a sweatsuit and sneakers, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of cold apple juice in her hand.

Deek huffed a laugh. “Long time no see.”

Queen Latifah tilted her head. “You’ve been busy, baby.”

On his right, Rabiah watched him with a gaze that seemed to look straight through his skin and bones. She spoke softly, her voice carrying like the river. “Kullu man alayha fan, wa yabqa wajhu rabbika dhul -jalali wal-ikram.”

He knew these ayahs from Surat Ar-Rahman: “Every being on earth is bound to perish. Only your Lord, full of Majesty and Honor, will remain.”

Rabiah said nothing else. She didn’t need to. Her silence weighed more than any lecture. In her eyes, he saw a white, six-story building crumbling, phones going dark, bank accounts erased like chalk in the rain. He saw graves closing over the richest and the poorest alike. He saw the river, black and cold, and the moment when nothing mattered except the state of a man’s heart with his Lord.

Queen Latifah gave a low chuckle. “Sister Rabiah be hittin’ you with the heavy truth,” she said. “But she’s right. All that paper?” She flicked her fingers, scattering imaginary bills. “What sticks is love and charity.”

She leaned back against the tree, took a slow sip of her juice, and added, “It don’t mean you can’t enjoy a little mac n’ cheese. We’ll always be here for you, dog.”

Deek blinked, and woke.

A thin line of drool dampened his cheek. The football game raged on in front of him, the shouts of youth rolling across the field. He pushed himself upright, stretching his back. After a moment, he rose and scanned the clearing.

He found Tariq seated beneath a cottonwood tree near the water, earbuds in, gently rocking as he listened to Qur’an recitation on his phone and repeated the ayaat under his breath.

“Hey,” Deek said, approaching.

Tariq pulled out one earbud. “As-salamu alaykum, brother.”

“Wa alaykum as-salam.” Deek paused. “Did you bring any of that mac n’ cheese?”

Tariq grinned proudly. “You’re a man on a mission, aren’t you?”

Deek chuckled. Then his expression softened, thoughtful, as if considering the words more deeply. “I suppose I am.”

THE END

***

Author’s Note: I broke into tears when I wrote the words, “The End.” It’s not that I was sad. Just that I’ve been writing this book since April. I pour my heart into my work, I lose sleep, I dream about it, and I think about it all the time. So that moment of culmination, when the project is realized, is emotional.  I feel that Deek is on a good path from here. I don’t think he will be corrupted by his wealth, for he will always have his ancestor Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah in his dreams, reminding him of what matters. Even if he were to somehow lose all the money, I think he’d be okay. There won’t be a sequel to this book, but there will be more Zaid Karim novels inshaAllah, so we may well see how Deek’s life progresses through that lens. I hope you enjoyed this book. If anything in it benefited you, make dua’ for me and my family. I appreciate your loyalty as readers. You mean a lot to me. Jazakum Allah khayr.

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

Breakfast With The Khans [Act One] – A Play

The post Moonshot [Part 32] – FINAL CHAPTER: A Man On A Mission appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28| Part 29 | Part 30

* * *

“Your Lord has not forsaken you… and the future will be better for you than the past.”

— Surah Ad-Duha, 93:3–4

“In the heart of every winter is a trembling spring.” – Khalil Gibran

Stranger Every Day

The first morning after the harrowing experience at the river, Deek lay in the hospital bed, still deeply tired, barely able to keep his eyes open. He was covered in layers of blankets, though the nurse assured him his core temperature was normal. Rania sat on the bed beside him, her head bandaged from the blow she’d taken, and the girls in chairs by the wall. Dr. Ali, the tall British-Pakistani doctor who had previously treated his gunshot wound, studied Deek critically.

“You do live a strange life, Mister Saghir,” she said.

“Stranger every day,” he agreed.

Deek knew that he should be grateful and happy that he had survived that terrible ordeal, and he was indeed grateful, yet the terror clung to him like a layer of mud he could not wash off. A part of him was still in the roiling river, fighting for his life, not knowing whether he was himself or his uncle.

“You suffered something terrible,” Rania said, rubbing his hand between hers. “Give yourself time. You’ll be back to your normal, crazy self in no time, inshaAllah.”

The constant visitors did not help. Deek didn’t know how word of his hospitalization had gotten out, but the stream of people wanting to visit him was unending. They brought flowers and gifts, asked for loans, grants or investments, or simply wished him well. Some he knew – including some of the same wealthy physicians from Masjid Umar who used to ignore him in the past – and some he did not.

Deek had no patience for this nonsense, nor for these fair-weather friends and bloodsuckers. At his request, the hospital installed a security guard outside his room, and admitted no one without his permission. They billed him for this service, of course.

Many of the visitors, though, were welcome. Dr. Rana, his wife and their daughter Maryam were at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, but Dr. Rana’s sister in law brought spicy Pakistani food, which Deek loved.

Rania was there most of the time of course, while the girls came and went.

Mac N’ Cheese

At one point the security guard informed him that a man named Tariq was there. “Short black guy in a colorful shirt,” the guard said. Deek’s mood immediately brightened. Tariq was a recent convert, an elementary school teacher who had only been Muslim for a year. The day he took his shahadah Deek gave him his own musalla that he had with him, and ever since then, whenever they saw each other they always talked. Occasionally they played chess on a table in the masjid’s yard. Tariq was a defensive player, the kind that built up ranks of connecting pawns that were like a fortress. Sometimes Deek won, sometimes Tariq.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Send him in.”

“As-salamu alaykum.” Tariq had a quiet, soft voice. Today he wore a colorful daishiki over jeans, and an embroidered green kufi. Tariq presented a casserole dish, and Rania took it from him.

“What is it?” Deek asked.

“Southern style mac n’cheese. I don’t know if ya’ll Arabs eat that, but it’s pretty good, I have to say.”

“I want to try!”

Tariq laughed. Rania fed Deek a large spoonful. It was dense and rich, with a creamy, almost custard-like texture, and a deep cheese flavor.

“Oh my goodness, subhanAllah. This is so good.” He licked his lips. “You’re not related to Queen Latifah by any chance, are you?”

“Matter of fact, my cousin’s wife is one of her personal trainers. But we ain’t related, nah. Why?”

“Brother, you can come visit anytime.”

What School?

Lubna and her husband came, though without the kids, as children were not permitted. The husband spent most of the visit out in the hallway on his cellphone, and Deek found himself missing Hammurabi, oddly enough.

There was something different about Lubna that Deek could not put his finger on. She wore a beautiful cream-colored pantsuit and a double-breasted white coat that made her look like a fashion model, and her face seemed… what? Relaxed, Deek realized. The worry and frown lines that often creased her visage were gone. She looked happy, and this happiness gave her a radiance that he had not seen shining from her since they were children. This made him very happy, and he found himself beaming as she reported the progress on the school.

“I’m missing something,” Rania interrupted. “What school?”

Lubna looked surprised. “Well… Your husband is founding an Islamic school. It’s called Renaissance Islamic Academy, and will combine traditional learning with progressive teaching methods.”

“Oh.” Rania looked back and forth between Deek and his sister. In her eyes he saw hurt, then bewilderment, then a brief flicker of disappointment she didn’t quite hide. A lot had happened during their time apart, and he hadn’t had a chance to fill her in.

“We have a property,” Deek announced. Which was true. Marcela Gómez, the feisty Colombian who was now his family office real estate director, had texted him just an hour ago. She’d found a large church complex in a great neighborhood in north Fresno. It had classrooms, a cafeteria, a football field, basketball courts… Church membership was declining and they couldn’t afford to keep the property. It was valued at $10 million but Marcela thought the owners would go as low as 7.

“Do it,” Deek texted her. “Negotiate the best price you can and start the process.” Then he texted Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani, the young financial advisor – who was now CFO of Deek’s family office – to approve the purchase.

He informed Lubna of this now.

“You bought a church for ten million dollars?” Rania exclaimed. She seemed shocked by the idea.

“No,” Deek said defensively. “For seven million. If Marcela says she can get it down to seven, she can.” He reached out and took Rania’s hand. “Our reality is different now, honey. When we get home we’ll sit down and talk.”

Rania said nothing.

“Fantastic.” Lubna shook her head in amazement. “It’s really coming together. Part of me believed it was all a fantasy. You should also know, by the way, that I interviewed your friend Marco and checked out his references, and found him to be highly qualified and generally a cool guy. I have hired him to teach science. He wants to revamp the curriculum slightly to include the contributions of Muslim scientists. I’ll be paying him well. He asked me for a small advance, by the way. I’m not too crazy about that. But I know he’s poor, so I gave it to him.”

“Marco Tirado?” Rania said incredulously. “You’re hiring Marco? Wouldn’t you want a Muslim instead? And someone… well… reliable?”

Deek gave Rania a sharp glance. Her comment reminded him of the Rania of the last few years: sharp tongued, judgmental and critical of Deek and everything around him, including his friends.

“That’s not very nice,” Deek said, “Marco’s a good man. And he is Muslim now. You should hear him recite the Quran. His voice is as beautiful as a bird on the wind.”

Rania said, “Allah Akbar,” and sat back in her chair, looking dazed.

A Terrible Story

“Lubna,” Deek said. “I want to tell you something.”

She sensed the change in his tone. “Uh-oh. What is it?”

“Pull up a chair.” When she did, he continued. “Do you know why we left Iraq?”

Lubna frowned. “I was very small obviously, but I remember Mama saying that Iraq was a poor country, and that we would have a better life in America. It surprised me, because I never thought we were poor.”

What about our uncles, Khalid and Tarek?

Lubna squinted quizzically. “Ammu Khalid died in a car accident, and Ammu Tarek moved to England to open a bakery.”

“None of that is true.”

Lubna sat up straight. “Why are you telling me this? Is this something I need to know?”

“Maybe not. But it’s about me too. If you don’t want to know, it’s okay.”

Lubna made a displeased clucking sound with her tongue – a very Arab gesture – and shook her head. Then she rubbed her face with both hands.

“SubhanAllah,” she said. “Go ahead and tell me.”

Deek proceeded to relate the whole story: Tarek’s political activities, the arguments in the house, Tarek’s arrest, and the rescue, where young Deek himself helped to pull his father and a wounded Ammu Tarek out of the river. As he told the story he saw his wife leaning forward, listening intently. He had never narrated these events to her.

“The dissident movement smuggled Ammu Tarek out of Iraq to Turkey. He spent a year there, and made his way to England. We fled Iraq in the back of a panel truck with a false wall. You were allowed to take only one suitcase with you. You cried because you had to leave most of your dolls behind. I held you and told you that you’d find better dolls in America.”

Lubna sat back. She had tears in her eyes, and her hands were shaking slightly. Rania had come to sit beside Deek during the story, and massaged his shoulder with one hand.

“I remember that trip in the truck,” Lubna breathed. “I thought it was a bad dream I’d had.” She looked at Deek sharply. “And Ammu Khalid? You said that was not true either.”

“He committed suicide. He didn’t leave a note, but I heard Baba and Mama talking about it one time. Baba believed Khalid had been involved in political killings, and that the experience forced him to confront his own history. Mama thought it was probably the guilt over killing his fellow soldiers.”

Lubna stood up and walked to the far wall of the small hospital room. “This is all horrible. Why did you tell me this?”

“Those events traumatized me. I became withdrawn and moody. I blamed Baba, because there was no one else to blame. Tarek stood up for what he believed in, and Khalid at least was a strong man of action, but who was Baba? A quiet Quran teacher with no convictions. I know it’s ridiculous. But it’s why I changed. I became unkind to you too, and I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t seem to help it.”

Lubna nodded slowly. “I remember that you changed after we came to America. I used to think that America made you bad. I’m sorry you went through that.”

“I’m not asking for sympathy. It’s your forgiveness that I need. I told you these things so you would understand that I never hated you. You’re my little sister. I always loved you. I was just messed up by the weight of the past.”

Lubna came to the bedside and patted Deek’s hand. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

After she left, Deek spoke to Rania. “She wasn’t happy that I told her that story. Notice she didn’t say that she forgives me?”

Rania massaged his shoulder. “Give her time. It’s a lot to take in. And on anyone and everyone’s behalf, I forgive you.”

Allah Saved You

Zaid Karim and Safaa came to visit. Unlike the strangers and halfway acquaintances who only wanted to take, Zaid always made life easier. He and his assistant, Jalal, had retrieved Deek’s and Sanaya’s cars from the riverside, and had arranged a tow to take Rania’s mini-SUV to the shop. Zaid apologized that he had not been able to help when Rania called.

“Your dua was help enough,” Rania said. “For when Allah wishes a thing, he only says to it, “Be!” and it is.”

Zaid, tanned and with his beard growing out, told them about his trip to Jordan, Baby Munir’s funeral, and his visit to the Palestinian refugee camp. “Imam Saleh gave me $100,000 to donate to the camp, and he didn’t say so, but I know that money came from you, Deek. So you are helping people without even knowing it, mashaAllah.” He came close to Deek and spoke in a low voice. There was no one in the room at that moment except for Zaid, Deek, Rania and Safaa. “This is why Allah saved you twice, brother. He has a mission for you, and don’t you ever forget it. Don’t get comfortable, don’t get lazy. Ask Allah what He wants you to do, and do it.”

Deek swallowed and nodded. Zaid was right, of course. He should have been dead at least twice, or five times if you wanted to count the encounter at the riverside when he was young, the very risky escape from Iraq, and the gunshot graze to the head he’d received recently, which Zaid did not know about.

He gripped Zaid’s arm and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Not Over

Two days after Deek’s brush with death, Dr. Ali entered his room.

“Do you want to give me the information I asked for?”

She meant the identity and contact information of the Namer, Deek knew. He smiled and gave a slight shake of the head. A secret was only a secret if you didn’t tell anyone.

The doctor harrumphed. “In any case, your tests are good. I wanted to make sure there was no water remaining in your lungs, or you could become very ill. But you’re all clear. You can go home.”

Rania drove Deek’s Kia. It was a warm morning, but it had rained briefly, and a rainbow hung in the sky like a giant welcome home sign. The girls chattered in the backseat about mutual friends and their doings. Amira in particular seemed giddy with happiness, and often laughed. Rania was reserved, keeping her eyes on the road.

“I’m sorry,” Deek said quietly. “I shouldn’t have left home. You just pushed me too far. And by the way, I didn’t care for your comments about Marco. He’s been a good friend to me, and he saved my life recently.”

Rania shot him a hard glance. “So did I, remember? Anyway I apologize for my comment. But you’re right that you shouldn’t have left, and certainly not for so long. It’s been a bad time for me, and you weren’t there to help. And you’ve made a lot of major moves without me. You bought a house and a church!”

“I’ve been calling you and texting you, but you don’t answer. You shut me out completely. I had to go ahead and make choices on my own. But habibti, when I was drowning in the river, all I wanted was an opportunity to make things right with you. Allah granted me that.”

Rania glanced at him. “How do I know this won’t happen again?”

Deek smiled. “We made it through twenty years before this blowup. Let’s agree not to do it again for another twenty years.”

Rania snorted. “Not funny.” A few minutes later, she added, “This isn’t over. We have a lot more to talk about, and a lot more work to do. I need to know that you’re with me for real, for good.”

Deek nodded. “I know. And I am.”

Weariness overcame him, and he fell asleep. He dreamed that he had a highly intelligent pet monkey that could talk, and was also very good at predicting the weather. An all around genius, like Marco. They had such fun together, playing chess blindfolded and throwing peanuts at passers-by. But the government kidnapped the monkey, taking him away in a bus with dark windows. Deek followed the bus on his motorcycle, looking for an opportunity to rescue the monkey. A truck passed between them, and when it was gone, the bus had vanished. He was angry and sad.

Rania touched his shoulder. “We’re home, habibi.”

Deek rubbed his eyes sullenly. “It’s not nice to steal anyone’s monkey.”

The girls laughed, but Rania only patted his cheek and said, “You’re right. It’s not nice.”

Welcome Home

Exiting the car, they all stopped in their tracks. In the front yard, floating calmly above the grass, was a crescent moon. Not a lawn decoration. Not an inflatable. A hovering crescent moon — silver, smooth, and suspended four feet above the ground with no wires or platform visible. In front of it stood a small handwritten sign that read:

WELCOME HOME SAGHIR FAMILY

(It won’t explode).

Sanaya and Amira ran forward, Rania close behind them.

“Careful,” she warned, though her voice carried more awe than caution.

The girls circled the sculpture, inspecting it from every angle. Amira crouched low, squinting beneath it.

“There’s nothing under it,” she exclaimed. “It’s actually floating.”

Sanaya pointed. “Wait… look here.” Along the inner arc, a faint thread of something transparent ran upward to a slim rod staked into the ground behind a bush. “This is a tensegrity structure!”

“A what?” Rania asked.

“It’s a physics thing,” Sanaya said, voice rising with excitement. “Floating structures that stay up because tension forces cancel gravity in just the right places. You have to calculate every vector perfectly or it collapses.”

Amira tugged gently on the thin lower wire. “This one’s not holding it up… it’s holding it down.”

Sanaya nodded. “Yeah. It’s balanced. Suspended by tension. Whoever built this did serious math.”

Deek stared at the glimmering crescent, its shadow faint on the wet morning grass. Balanced perfectly, precise to the millimeter, playful yet genius-level engineering.

He let out a soft laugh.

Rania raised an eyebrow. “You know who did this?”

“Of course,” Deek said. “Only one person we know would greet me with a floating moon, use enough physics to launch a satellite, and make it look effortless.”

The girls turned to him.

“Well?” Amira asked. “Who?”

Deek smiled. “The only man who thinks love should be explained with equations. This is what he spent his advance on.”

“Marco,” Rania said.

“Indeed.”

“Well. It’s beautiful. But he stole my thunder.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come.”

Rania took his arm and gently tugged. Deek resisted for a moment, eyes still on the floating crescent moon. “Can we keep it?” he asked, aware that he sounded like a child begging to adopt a pet.

“Of course. But ask Marco to move it to the backyard, so no one steals it. Speaking of which, come on.”

Deek’s Office

This time. Deek let himself be led toward the side gate. To his surprise, Deek saw that the side gate and fence were gone, and the ground bore tracks of heavy vehicles.

He stopped. “What is this? What happened?”

The girls giggled.

“You’ll see.” Rania tugged on this arm, leading him to the backyard.

When Rania stopped and pointed, he followed her gaze—and stared.

A wide rectangle of earth had been cleared and leveled, the grass and brush stripped away down to clean, fresh soil. Wooden cement forms framed the outline of what would become the foundation, neat and sharp-edged. Bright metal rebar lay inside in a tight grid, bound and ready for the concrete pour. Orange construction flags fluttered in the breeze, marking the corners like a surveyor’s promise.

But what struck him hardest wasn’t the work that had been done. It was the sign.

Just a plank of wood mounted on two posts and hammered into the soil at the near corner. The lettering painted on in Rania’s elegant, looping handwriting:

DEEK’S OFFICE

Bismillah.

His breath hitched in surprise, and his knees nearly gave out. “You’re building me an office?”

Rania slipped an arm around his waist. “Quite a nice one. I didn’t know how long it would take you to come home,” she said softly. “But I knew you’d need a place of your own to land when you did. Now come inside, there’s something else.”

Inside the house, he saw that the living room had been transformed. The sofas, love seat, coffee table and end tables were gone. Instead, the room was dominated by a gorgeous L-shaped wooden desk that would have been at home in a CEO’s office. A large black office chair stood behind it, with two blonde chairs in front of the desk, facing it. On the desk stood a framed photo of the entire family together. Deek recognized it from a trip they’d taken to San Francisco a few years back.

Behind the desk, a huge hutch dominated the wall, with spaces for books and computer equipment. On one wall hung one of Rania’s quilts, and on the other wall was a large, Mondrianesque painting, consisting of blue, red, yellow and black squares.

Deek’s mouth hung open. “This is amazing,” he said. “It’s a beautiful office. But where will guests sit?”

“I don’t care about guests,” Rania replied. “I only care about you.”

A Monumental Force

That night, Deek and Rania prayed Ishaa together. The girls had gone to a youth lecture at Masjid Madinah. When they were done with the salat, Deek turned to face Rania and sat cross legged, saying his dhikr. After a few minutes, Rania crawled to him and sat facing him, knees to knees. She reached for one of his hands and held it between hers.

“Habibi,” she said. “Why did you go in the river?”

Deek’s eyes moved from side to side. He didn’t want to talk about this. “I was checking out the new property. I wanted to see the riverside access.”

Rania shook her head. “That doesn’t explain why you would physically step into the river at night, alone. Sanaya said she thought she heard shouting. It’s why she turned the car around.”

“Does it matter?”

She nodded solemnly. “Very much.”

Deek’s hand, still held between his wife’s, was sweating. He wanted to pull it away but did not. “I was angry and lonely. Everyone abandoned me. Sometimes I think of a river as a purifying force. I imagine that it will wash out all the ugliness and pain.”

“But that’s not your history,” Rania pointed out. “I heard the story you told Lubna. Rivers to you are not purification, but death. Or perhaps the purification of death. When you feel rage toward someone, you talk about drowning them in the river. I think you had another reason for going into the river.”

Now Deek did withdraw his hand. His jaw clenched. “What are you saying?”

He fidgeted as Rania watched him silently for a long time. Then, to his surprise, she said, “I was impressed at the hospital. Astounded, even.”

“What do you mean?”

“You helped a lot of people in ways I didn’t know about. You saved Maryam Rana’s life, you’re starting a school with Lubna as principal, you got Marco a good job, you’re helping Palestinian refugees, you gave money to Masjid Madinah, and probably others I don’t know about. And you didn’t tell me about any of it, because it’s not about fame or praise for you. You are a monumental force for good in this world. People adore you. You are a hero to them. And I realized that people don’t really fundamentally change. You have always been a force for good. People have always loved you. You have always been a hero. I knew that, but I forgot it for a while.”

“And the one who loves you most,” Rania went on, “aside from Allah, who is Al-Wadud – is me. And then your daughters. We adore you too. You are a hero to us too.”

Deek’s face turned hot and he felt tears behind his eyes. He didn’t know what to say, but he realized that the chill he had felt ever since the near-drowning was lessening. He’d thought that upon returning, he would feel like an outsider in his own home, but Rania had done and said everything possible to make sure that wasn’t the case. She’d done more than he could have imagined.

Rania rose onto her knees, leaned forward and gripped his thobe in two hands, bringing her face close to his. He found himself looking into her eyes, as dark as the depths of the river, yet at the same time as bright as the sun breaking fiercely through the clouds on a winter afternoon.

“Listen to me,” she said intensely. “You are not nine years old anymore, dragging your father and uncle out of the Euphrates. You are not alone, abandoned or forgotten. Leave your ghosts behind. Wake up to the world in front of you. Death will come for you at the time appointed, not a moment sooner or later. Until then embrace every moment of your life as if it is the last bite of food you’ll ever eat. And don’t you ever do anything like that again. Promise me.”

Hypnotized by his wife’s mile-deep eyes and pressing tone, Deek nodded slowly. “I promise.”

Rania gripped even tighter, and came so close that her nose touched his. “Because if you ever do something like that again, I will drown you in the river myself.” She kissed him hard, leaning all her weight on him. He fell back onto the musalla, laughing, then pulled her to him.

“Forget the river,” he said. “I’m already drowning in your love.”

***

Read the FINAL chapter – A Man On A Mission

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

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The Deal : Part #1 The Run

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