The War to Save the Worlds

by Samira Ahmed

  Abdul Rahman exchanges a look with Maqbool, who merely nods as a shadow passes over the blue jinn’s face. He bends forward slightly and places his overly large palms gently on our heads. An electric shiver runs through me. “In this last millennium, I have learned something about the capacity of mortals—God’s greatest creation. Your true heroes aren’t the ones who are fearless. They’re the ones who are scared but fight anyway. This is your strength,” the jinn whispers. “This is who you are. This is your destiny.”

  CHAPTER 5

  This Is Our What Now?

  “UHHH… EXCUSE ME?” I MUTTER AS MAQBOOL LOOKS SOLEMNLY at me, his smile erased. Meanwhile, Abdul Rahman is grinning and nodding madly. This bad jinn, good jinn routine is a little whiplash-y. I’m about to launch into my understanding of Qadr, or fate, the way I learned it—which is that we all have freedom of choice.

  “Wait. Wait.” Hamza jumps in before I can get another word in. “Are you saying this is our one true destiny? That we are being called to go on a celestial journey to save our world and yours? We. Are. The. Chosen. Ones?” Hamza’s voice cracks a little, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. I give him a gentle nudge, an understanding smile. Even if he’s annoying, he’s still my little brother, who is bravely trying not to cry.

  Abdul Rahman keeps nodding. Maqbool allows a small grin to cross his face.

  “YES! This means… this means we’re going to get powers, right? Interstellar weapons? Mind-control abilities? Epic! The Majid siblings, ready to kick butt and take names!” Hamza practically levitates with glee. A minute ago he was holding back sobs, and now this? Meanwhile, I feel like I’m sinking into wet cement and the ground is going to swallow me whole.

  “Well, we did think you’d be, perhaps, older. And it’s technically Chosen One, not Ones.” Maqbool raises an eyebrow at Abdul Rahman.

  The blue jinn raises his palm to Maqbool’s face. “One? Ones? We have no time for these Earth semantics. What’s the difference, anyway?”

  “Singular versus plural,” mutters Maqbool. “Which you would know if you only wore your reading glasses and honed your English language skills.”

  “Pishposh! Enough arguing. You sound like those cantankerous brother inventors.… What were their names? The Banu Musa! Yes, that’s it! See, I am still sharp as a celestial steel blade.”

  “We saw their stuff in the exhibit!” Hamza adds. “They seemed super smart.”

  “Indeed, they were geniuses,” Maqbool says to Hamza, then turns back to Abdul Rahman. “Perhaps they didn’t take well to your sharp, jinn-splaining criticism, my Vizier.”

  “Humph. I was trying to be helpful! But none of this is the point. Adhere to the point!” the jinn vizier booms, clearly irritated at his sidekick. “These children are the ones. That is all.”

  Maqbool rolls his eyes. “That’s debatable.”

  “Take note.” Abdul Rahman raises both of his giant, blue, heat-emanating hands and points at the moles that Hamza and I have around our right temples. When we were little, our relatives thought it was so cute we had the same mole in the same spot. They all called it the Majid Mark. “They bear the signs. The mole, the curly tresses.”

  “I would describe mine more as wavy, but, hey, no need to split hairs. Get it?” Hamza laughs. Maqbool joins him. He actually slaps his knee. I mean, the joke isn’t even funny. Save me. I’m caught between destiny-imposing jinn and a bad-punning brother. I’m doomed either way.

  “My Vizier, sometimes a mole is merely a mole, not a marker of sacred duty.”

  “Yeah, what he said,” I add.

  “And what of the Box of the Moon? Al-Biruni clearly states it is made for The One. When it comes to life, our hero will rise. And so it has passed.”

  “Or heroine,” Maqbool says, nodding at me. At least he’s a feminist.

  While we’re talking—or more like when Maqbool and Abdul Rahman are bickering—Hamza drops to the ground and digs through his backpack. He stands back up with the Box of the Moon in his hand. He’s beaming.

  I glare at him. Anger fills me. Hamza’s fiddling with that thing—our fighting over it—is what set this entire disaster off. We’re not heroes. We’re agents of catastrophe. I ball my hands into fists at my side. Trying so hard not to pummel my brother right now or scream bloody murder into the night where the entire world is asleep, except us. And if we’re heroes, if these jinn have magic, why aren’t we on the roof waking up our parents?

  Hamza opens the lid, and Maqbool and Abdul Rahman draw closer. The gears move slowly. And so does the tiny moon.

  Maqbool gasps. Abdul Rahman straightens to his full height, which seems even taller than before. “There is no time to waste. We must leave. Now. Or this will be the end of everything you know. It is written.”

  I didn’t have a smart-alecky reply for the this is the end of it all, you have to do this, the pen of destiny commands you speech from a giant blue jinn. And the seriousness in his voice kind of, at least temporarily, knocked the wind out of Hamza’s do-I-get-to-have-a-mythological-hammer-because-I-alone-am-worthy clamoring.

  We slowly trudge up the stairs to the roof. I don’t want to leave without saying goodbye, even if our parents are asleep. I have no idea what to expect or what’s ahead or where we’re going or when, or if, we’ll be back. And it’s like the only reason I’m walking forward is because my body is doing it automatically. This must be what the lamb feels like when it’s going to the slaughter. I know it’s only a metaphor, but at some point, there was a real lamb. An innocent lamb that was walked to its death and asked no questions. Dumb lamb.

  Maqbool follows us in. For our protection, he said, in case any of the ghuls slipped through. Ghuls. Ghouls! Maybe those old, scary fire-spirit stories Nani used to tell weren’t tall tales.

  My feet are like lead, and each step up feels impossibly hard to make. A tiny part of me wants to believe that I’ll walk through that door, onto the roof, and everything will be normal. And my parents will give Hamza the classic disappointed-but-kind-of-amused look they’ve perfected. I make that wish. I hold it in a tiny place in my heart. But with each step closer to the roof, I remind myself I don’t believe in fairy tales. I don’t believe in wishes. I don’t believe in magic. So how can I possibly explain everything that’s happened in the last… I dunno… ten minutes? Hour? Hours? I have no idea how much time has passed. Or has it stopped since the jinn said they exist outside of time? My brain is about to explode. It’s too much stuff to fit inside my head. For now, all I need to do is wrap my hands around this doorknob and push.

  I gasp.

  They’re all still here. Lying on the ground in the same position. Like dolls. I walk over and kneel next to my parents. Hamza does the same. They look… calm. Like they’re having sweet dreams. My dad even has a slight smile on his face. No furrowed brows. No tense muscles. Whatever that sleep fairy—the Neend Peri—did, it must be working. I bend over to hug my mom, but for the first time ever, she doesn’t hug me back. She can’t. I choke back a sob and kiss her on the cheek and do the same to my dad. I see Hamza whisper something in their ears. I don’t know what words to say. All my words are stuck. But something floats through my brain, and I grasp the small silver capsule-shaped locket at my throat, strung around my neck by my DIY paper clip necklace. In that capsule is a tiny rolled-up scroll with writing on it. The Ayatul Kursi. The throne verse. The protection prayer. Before she died, Nani would always tell us to recite this prayer before bed so angel guardians would watch over us. I always thought of it as a metaphor, but now I hope it’s real. We need all the help and protection we can get.

  I hear sniffles over my shoulder. It’s not Hamza, because he’s next to me. I turn and see Maqbool wiping his glasses with the ends of his kurta. Little smears of ash dot his cheeks. When he sees me staring at him, he quickly puts his glasses back on and wipes the soot off his face with the back of his hand. He clears his throat, “Sometimes we… uh… our eyes, I mean… drip… ash. You know, downside of being m
ade of smokeless fire.”

  I knit my eyebrows together, a little confused. But I’m a carbon-based life-form, not flame-based. What do I know?

  Wait… jinn must be carbon-based, too, though! They’re made of fire, which is mostly carbon dioxide, oxygen, nitrogen, some water vapor, like us. He was… crying? Maqbool was crying ash. Whoa. Jinn have feelings. Like people.

  I stand up. Since I don’t seem to be asleep—or at least not waking up anytime soon—I guess we’re going to do this. I guess we don’t have any other choice. It doesn’t feel brave, but the chain reaction started, and I can’t do anything to stop it at this point. My choice is either to be swept along into it, trying to fight an immovable object, or to figure out how to make myself the unstoppable force.

  I rub my silver pendant between my thumb and forefinger, then tap Hamza’s shoulder so he’ll stand up next to me.

  “Are you ready?” I ask him.

  A wave of fear crosses his face. Hamza rarely shows when he’s scared—he doesn’t like to, anyway. But he’s only ten. Of course he’s scared. I’m twelve and terrified out of my mind.

  “Yes,” he says, straightening himself as if he heard my dad utter the command, posture! “We got this, sis.”

  I nod. “But first, we have to use the bathroom. I have no idea if there are rest stops along the way or what the plumbing situation is in Qaf. And you know if you hold your pee too long, you can get a bladder infection.”

  “Amira. Oh my God. You’re not our doctor!”

  “What? We’re Indian, dude, we were basically born half doctor.”

  After our necessary pit stop, I sneak into the employee break room and get some snacks from the vending machine and stuff them into my tiny cross-body purse. I’m really regretting not bringing a bigger bag that could hold more than hand sanitizer, lip balm, and a few treats. Like the status of bathrooms, I have no idea what food is like in Qaf. Do smokeless-fire beings eat? (Note to self: Ask how fire without smoke works—could be a possible science fair project.) Is their food good or even consumable by humans? I mean, our digestive tracks are probably very different. And you can never be too prepared. Before heading back out, I down a giant handful of M&Ms, because if two kids are all that stand between now and the end of the world, I think eating too much candy and not flossing tonight are the least of my worries. Still wish I had a flosser, though.

  When I step out onto the street again, I see a figure of giant flame standing in front of Hamza. I scream, and the flame immediately disappears. In its place is Maqbool.

  “Relax, sis. Maqbool was showing me some tricks.”

  “These are no mere tricks, young hero,” Abdul Rahman bellows. “The flame is the essence of who we are. And as such, should not be used as entertainment.” He looks down at Maqbool with a raised eyebrow.

  Maqbool shrugs and winks at me. I shake my head.

  “Please, children. Take a seat,” Maqbool says, and gestures toward the enormous… uh… golden throne. It’s the shiniest yellow gold, its arms bejeweled with rubies and pearls like my mom’s guluband—the thick choker necklace she wore at her wedding.

  A line of jinn soldiers—there must be over a hundred of them—kneels in front of the throne. They were kind of hanging back before, and in all the chaos and my terror earlier, I didn’t get a good look at them. So I give myself the moment now. They’re all wearing brightly colored outfits that resemble a pishwaaz—basically a dress with a twirly, pleated skirt worn over tight pants. Each of them has long silver braids draped over their left shoulders and daggers glinting in sashes at their waists. Their bright, jewel-toned skin shimmers with flecks of silver. They’re magnificent. And they’re all girls. Women. At least, I think they are. Have no idea how gender works in the jinn world. One who kneels directly in front of the throne looks up and catches my eye. She stands and raises a cupped palm to her forehead in greeting, like I’ve seen people do in the old seventies Bollywood movies my parents watch. “Adab,” she says. Respect. Her voice is like music. “I am Razia. We are the Khawla ki Supahi—the Khawla Warriors. It is our sacred duty to protect you on your journey to the land of Qaf.”

  Hamza snickers when she says “Qaf.” I elbow him. “Uhh, sorry,” he says sheepishly. “You’re girl soldiers. There’s girl jinn?”

  “Really, Hamz?” I ask, and elbow him again, this time a little stronger.

  “Ow. That actually hurt.”

  A mysterious smile spreads across Razia’s face. “Jinn are ever-changing. We are not bound by human understandings of boy and girl, of gender as fixed. We are shape-shifters. We are fluid. Some, as those of us who swear allegiance to the memory of the magnificent warrior Khawla, commander of the Rashidun Army in the Seventh Conquest, choose this female form to honor one of the greatest military leaders in history—human or otherwise. Others shift to be in harmony with themselves.”

  Razia steps aside and gestures for us to sit on the golden throne. It’s really like a couch, if couches made of gold existed. Hamza and I take a couple of hesitant steps forward. I stop and turn to Maqbool and Abdul Rahman; I crane my neck to look up at them. Abdul Rahman seems to grow taller every time I speak to him. “Can you please share, like, a travel plan? Itinerary? Do we need ID? Does our TSA precheck work? Obviously, no way to get a signed permission slip right now. I mean, how do we get where we’re supposed to go?”

  “Yeah, where exactly is this Qaf place?” Hamza fake-coughs for effect.

  Abdul Rahman scrunches his eyebrows at Hamz and opens his mouth to speak, but Maqbool jumps in with directions. “First, we fly to the Himalayas and then walk through a door in a giant wall.”

  “We what now? Fly on that thing? With you? There’s no walls, no engine… and I’m… I’m…” Hamza can’t finish his sentence, but I know what he’s going to say. He’s scared of heights. He tries to play it off like it doesn’t bother him—he even joined a rock-climbing gym to try to get over it—but I see his hands tremble. I know how scared he is.

  “Have faith. There’s simply not enough time in the world to explain every detail to you. For now, understand that we, the jinn, and our constant combustion act as an engine. We must make haste. Look!” Maqbool points at the piece of the moon that is floating in the sky and seems to be getting bigger. That means closer. In the absolute chaos since we hid behind the dumpster, I was distracted from the absolutely wild situation of the moon breaking apart.

  “But I… I…” Hamza begins.

  “It’s okay,” Maqbool says as he shrinks to our size. “It’s impossible to fall out. A force field surrounds the throne. It is impenetrable to all forms of human weapons. Nothing will hurt you. If you get really scared, let me know; I might have something to help you.”

  Hamza nods. He seems okay with this explanation. I guess I don’t have much choice but to be okay with it, too. Still, I’m dragging my heels until large hands lift us up and deposit us on the sofa-size seat of the throne. It’s Abdul Rahman; his head is maybe two stories off the ground now.

  Before I can protest being rudely jinn-handled, he quickly shrinks to human size. It’s so fast and disconcerting, it makes me a little dizzy and nauseated. Hamza is getting that yellow-green inside-of-an-avocado look again.

  Maqbool and Abdul Rahman arrange themselves on either side of us—like we’re sitting down to family movie night—and the golden throne seats us all comfortably. Surprisingly, it doesn’t even hurt my butt to sit on it. Then the Khawla ki Supahi get in formation behind the throne. I crane my neck and see them step into their black cauldrons. I do a cartoon double take. But even on second look, it doesn’t change: Ethereal jinn warriors are still standing in black iron pots that almost blend into the surroundings. This story gets weirder and weirder. Maybe we’re going to teleport to Qaf, and that’s what the jinn call flying, because I don’t see how any of this apparatus can fly, even though we saw the throne approach us in the air. Maybe it was all an illusion? What did Maqbool mean when he said the jinn were basically the engines? How does a
giant golden throne have any lift? There are no wings on a cauldron. How does the air circulate above and below? If these things do manage to break the bonds of gravity, how is the weight and shape not going to send us plummeting down? I mean, the jinn can survive it, I guess? But Hamza and I are flesh and bone, not smokeless fire.

  “Ud jao!” Abdul Rahman stomps his foot and commands. He might be human-size now, but his voice is still giant. Also, it sounded like he was speaking Urdu. Ud jao. Fly! Or… whoa. Maybe I speak jinn now? Jinni? Jinnglish? Janglais? (Note to self: Does osmosis work with languages? Could be an independent study for science.)

  We lurch forward, then the throne is propelled down the street like it’s a runway. One that’s way too short! We’re going to bite it on the Eataly building. We were supposed to get gelato there tonight. Their mango ice cream is the best. Seriously, so smooth and creamy. And… oh my God! We’re on a collision course! I close my eyes. I can’t look. It doesn’t matter if we’re in the care of magical creatures. This is not normal. Humans are not supposed to do any of this. We’re not even supposed to see jinn unless we’re like… possessed. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. We’re possessed. That’s the only logical explanation, and by logical, I mean illogical and…

  Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!

  We’re in the air. My stomach has dropped. I really have to pee again. I should’ve peed twice before leaving. Oh no. I can feel actual wind on my face. I thought this invisible shield was impenetrable. Why is there wind? Can birds hit us? Are all the birds asleep, too? Why is it winddddyyyy?

  Keep your eyes closed, Amira.

  Don’t look down.

  Don’t look down.

  I looked down. Big mistake.

  I let my left eyelid hover half open to sneak a peek at Hamza. Poor kid must be terrified. I have to be brave. For him. I turn my head ever so slightly and see Hamza, totally zonked out on Maqbool’s shoulder.