The War to Save the Worlds

by Samira Ahmed

  “Hamza!” I scream. “Wake up. Are you okay?” I look at Maqbool, both eyes open, trying to ignore how every muscle in my body is freaking out. “What happened?”

  “Huh? Oh, him. Nothing. The Neend Peri gave me a temporary sleep potion for the trip. And Hamza mentioned to me that he was scared of heights. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, too, what with turbulence or unexpected bird strikes into the protection shield.”

  “Why didn’t you give some to me so I could sleep, too?”

  Maqbool’s mouth falls open. “I only had a drop left in the vial—more than enough for a solid nap for a human child, but only a single one. Sorry. Besides, look around. Would you really want to miss this?” He gestures widely. “You’re okay. You can’t fall out. Even if an evil jinn could disrupt the shield with a well-timed volley of a poisoned arrow and you fell out, one of the Supahi would fly down and grab you up in her pot! No worries at all.”

  Yeah. Sure. No worries, except that an evil jinn might shoot me with POISONED ARROWS. Hahahaha. I’m totally calm. I take a deep breath. Try to remember the breathing Sensei taught us. Breathe in. Hold at the top of the breath for three seconds. Exhale for five seconds. And repeat. I keep breathing as I glance at Abdul Rahman, whose head is resting against the side of the throne, his eyes closed. What? Does everyone else get to sleep on throne rides?

  Since I don’t have much choice, and who knows when I might possibly fly in a throne again, I find a drop of courage and glance down. Chicago has fallen away and is now nothing but twinkling lights in the dark night sky. As we rise higher and higher, Earth, my home, falls into shadow. And as we pass the bright, broken moon, I see the deep cracks in its surface, ready to shatter my world.

  CHAPTER 6

  I’m on Top of the World!

  WE HIT THE GROUND WITH A SOFT THUMP. I’D CLOSED MY eyes when one of the Supahi told us to get ready for landing. Now, as I open them, they’re shocked with the brightest green that’s ever blasted its way onto the cones of my eyeballs. I step off the throne while Maqbool rouses Hamza, and Abdul Rahman starts talking to the Supahi in a language I don’t understand. We’re in a valley of green grass surrounded by sky-high, skinny pines growing on slopes that eventually rise up to rocky, snow-tipped peaks, some of them hidden by clouds.

  It’s pin-drop silent. I stuff my eyes with the wonder of the Himalayas. My dad saw them when he was a kid, but none of his descriptions can compare with the real thing. It’s like I’ve been photoshopped into the perfect postcard.

  “Epic!” yells Hamza as he spins around to take a look. So much for that quiet. “Sis, we flew on a throne to the Himalayas. Flew!” he says, then turns to Maqbool. “Can we ride it up Mount Everest? I bet I’d set a world record for youngest to climb it.” He points at the high peak in front of us.

  “Ahem,” says Maqbool, turning him around and directing his finger to a mountaintop completely covered in clouds. “First, save Qaf, then we can discuss it. But I must say, I hardly think flying on a throne powered by mystical beings counts as climbing. Though it might not be that different from the Sherpa guides who do all the work and get very little credit and next to no money for risking their lives.” Maqbool harrumphs, and small flames shoot out his nostrils.

  Hamza and I jump back.

  “Sorry. Sorry. Not to worry. It’s okay,” Maqbool says, trying to soothe us. “Those flames don’t burn. Maybe singe, the tiniest bit.”

  Wow. No third-degree burns, only minor singeing. I feel perfectly safe. (Not.)

  Razia, the Supahi who spoke with us earlier, approaches with two bowls of some kind of soup and a round flatbread that looks like the rotis our mom makes. Razia hands us the food. “Eat now. The journey is long. The Himalayan nettle and fern shoots gathered in the foothills will give you strength.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice,” Hamza says. “I’m pretty much always hungry.”

  We sit cross-legged on the ground while Razia and Maqbool join Abdul Rahman out of our earshot.

  I grab hand sanitizer from my bag and rub it into my palms and fingers—tips and nails included—but Hamza dives right into the soup. Ugh. Who knows what germs jinn have and who has sat on that throne.

  Ripping off a piece of the roti, I’m reminded of how Ummi makes it on her tawa, a kind of shallow, round cast-iron skillet with sloping sides and no handle. It belonged to her nani. And it’s one of her most prized possessions. She pours a thin stream of oil in a spiral on the pan and then adds the dough that she flattened by hand into a thick pancake shape. My chest tightens thinking about her and Papa and everyone else we’ve left behind. I look at Hamza’s face. He’s staring deeply into his bowl, his eyes a little shiny. I can guess what he’s thinking.

  “Do jinn eat?” he asks, blinking as he looks up at me. “Like, do they have stomachs? Intestines?”

  Okay, I guess I didn’t know what he was thinking.

  “I don’t know, dude. The jinn digestive system hasn’t exactly been the first thing on my mind. But since they’re not eating the soup… um, maybe they don’t eat human food? Or only one meal a day? A week?”

  “Did you notice that none of them had to use the bathroom before we left? Isn’t that weird? I mean, I know I always complain when Mom tells us to pee before we go anywhere in the car, but I almost always have to go. She’s always right about my bladder.”

  “Why are you so strange?” I chuckle. “The moon is breaking, the world is asleep, and we’re supposed to be some kind of superhero warriors—and your most insightful observation is about how jinn toilet habits are different from yours?”

  “My brain can have lots of thoughts at the same time. You should try it,” he snips. Then adds, “Burn!”

  “Whatever. It’s not like you’re special. Everyone’s brains think about more than one thing at the same time. That’s just… brains!”

  “Children, please come,” Maqbool calls as we sop up our last drops of broth with our rotis.

  We walk over and hand our bowls to Razia, who takes them and pushes them into the dirt; they move right through it like the mud is a thin layer of not-yet-firm Jell-O. When she sees our surprised faces, she says, “Those bowls are made from earth, and to the earth they shall return.”

  “So… zero-waste recycling,” I say. “Awesome.” She smiles.

  “Enough talk! No time to discuss recycling. That’s something you humans should’ve been thinking about for the last several hundred years. Too much dillydallying,” Abdul Rahman scolds. I get it. We’ve wrecked the entire Earth by polluting the ocean, skies, and land.

  “Is dillydally a technical jinn term, or…” Hamza giggles. Maqbool joins him. He’s basically the perfect audience for Hamza. He laughs at all his jokes, even when they’re not funny. And weirdly, Maqbool seems to have matched Hamza’s high-pitched chuckles. My brother’s laugh is literally infectious.

  Abdul Rahman clears his throat. “Beyond those trees lies the village of Kalap.” He points to the tall pines ahead of us. “There, cloaked in the hills, is the Arena of Suleiman. Under the dome are gifts he left for you, three millennia before your birth.”

  “Gifts? Yes! What are we talking about here? Like a Lego birthday-gift situation? Or like something more in the hero category, like a Lasso of Truth, maybe, huh? No. Wait. Wait. Don’t tell me. I prefer a surprise.”

  “And surprised you certainly shall be, my young Hamza.” Maqbool places a hand on my brother’s shoulder.

  I have a feeling it’s not going to be the surprise he’s hoping for. And Hamza missed the most important point. Left for us like three thousand years ago? By Suleiman? How could that even be possible?

  We set off through the pines with the Supahi surrounding us, protecting us. But it doesn’t make me feel safer when I look up into the daylight and still see a hunk of the moon, floating anchorless in the blue sky, like it’s ready to drop at any moment. I know that technically, it’s still really far from us. On a normal day, the moon is over two hundred thousand miles away. But nothing
about this day is normal, so who knows if regular laws of physics work anymore.

  “We are still in the land of men,” Abdul Rahman explains as we reach the tree line and step into the dense woods. I feel the temperature drop immediately.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I think you mean the land of humans.” He might be an all-powerful creature made of fire, but that doesn’t mean Abdul Rahman can’t be called out for being sexist. I’m teaching an old jinn new tricks!

  “Humans,” he corrects, and nods at me. “Once you have retrieved your necessary objects, we shall proceed with haste to Qaf.”

  “They’re superhero weapons, aren’t they?” Hamza asks, his voice full of glee. “This is how we get our powers, I bet. I want a hammer only I can wield, and, let’s see… a shield. Of course. Vibranium. Top of the line. Also, Black Panther gloves with claws and—”

  Hamza stops mid wish list. We’ve stepped out of the woods and into a clearing where the sun shines like a spotlight on an immense domed structure. It’s round and looks like it’s made of some kind of rough deep brownish-black stone that glimmers in the sun. Its dome looks like it’s ten times bigger than the Taj Mahal’s. And it feels ancient. I don’t know how else to put it. But it’s like this building has an energy, a spirit, that is waking up from a very, very long, longer-than-Rip-Van-Winkle, nap. Goose bumps pop up all over my skin.

  Abdul Rahman assumes his double-human-size stature again and pushes open the giant iron doors—they must be two stories high—then shrinks back. As we step through the doorway, every jinn grimaces a little, like it hurts to walk in. The outline of their bodies blur and waver, a flicker of flame, like when we first glimpsed them. The inside of the building is dark, but the black walls sparkle here and there with little flecks of light. Looking up into the dome, it feels almost like night. Torches circle the wall, and as the Supahi take position around the circular building, they light them with flames that leap from their fingertips.

  With the torches ablaze, I walk toward the center of the massive room, spinning around, in awe of the size of this place, and when I look straight above me, I see what looks like a very large treasure chest floating above us—it must be three stories high.

  I yelp and dash to the side, terrified it will fall and crush me.

  “How… how… is that thing in the air and why?” I say aloud to anyone listening.

  “That is a question that has gone unanswered for millennia. And that’s where your necessary objects are—your gifts,” Abdul Rahman says.

  Hamza, who has been walking around the room and probably only half paying attention, approaches the center, turns to the jinn, and says, “Can you make yourself tall again and grab it? I’m dying to see what we got. Let’s goooo!” Hamza’s eyes sparkle with the possibilities, but I get that queasy feeling in my stomach. The kind I get right before a test when I know I can’t study for it anymore and have to hope I’ve done enough. Except I never got a chance to prepare for this… test.

  “We are unable to assist you in that exact manner,” Abdul Rahman says. “This structure is a strange place, existing in the world of men—”

  I clear my throat, really loudly.

  “Pardon. Existing in the world of mortals yet imbued with some magic we have not been able to ascertain or conquer.” He shakes his head.

  “Okay, but can you say it in simple English words that actually make sense?” Hamza asks the same question I’m thinking.

  Maqbool steps in. “What my Vizier means is that our powers under the dome are limited. We cannot shift. We cannot rise. In here, we are constrained to the essence of our most elemental self—fire. Our energy is nearly fully consumed to hold our countenance and shape as you see before you.”

  “So basically you’re no help?” I ask. “All you can do is stand around, without powers, and try not to torch us?”

  “I would say that, in his infinite wisdom, Suleiman the Wise created this challenge for the champion alone,” Abdul Rahman says with a raised, bushy eyebrow.

  “You mean, champions,” Maqbool adds, emphasizing the plural.

  Abdul Rahman ignores him. “Suleiman the Wise, the last human warrior to enter the gates of Qaf, knew what was written in the Everlasting Scroll, of the saviors to come. Of you. To ward off false heroes—those loyal to Ifrit who might act as spies—he set challenges forth that only the Chosen One… er… Ones… can figure out. You must collect the chest and its contents to continue. To gain the tools you will need to battle Ifrit and the obstacles he has set in your path.”

  “Besides, no jinn has figured out how Suleiman was able to levitate the chest for these many years,” Maqbool says.

  We have to solve a problem that thousand-year-old shape-shifters can’t figure out. Excellent. We’re really off to a great start. Help.

  “Hold up now. We have to meet challenges from the good guys to overcome the obstacles from the bad guy?” I shake my head. “You don’t have any idea how to help us, and Suleiman thought this would be a great way to give us what we need? If he was so wise, why couldn’t he have made this more straightforward or, you know, easy? And what the heck happens if we can’t get this magically levitating chest down from up there?” I point. “Do we go back home? Is there a reset? A time-turner type situation?” I tuck my hands into my pockets as I say this; I don’t want Hamza or anyone else to see them trembling, but I’m sure everyone can hear it in my voice.

  “Yeah!” Hamza adds for emphasis. “Plus, no one should have to work for a gift. It should be given freely or else it’s not a gift.… It’s a… penalty.”

  No one responds immediately, but I think I already know the answers to my questions. Abdul Rahman looks up toward the ceiling and the floating chest. Maqbool looks down at the ground. I want to scream, Answer me! But I don’t. Why bother? Even if there was an answer, it wouldn’t make any of this better. Maqbool and Abdul Rahman start bickering in their jinn language, and I chew my lip, imagining how much worse everything could get.

  “I got this, sis!” Hamza shouts. When I turn to the sound of his voice, he’s thrown his backpack onto the floor and is starting to climb the roughly hewn walls of stone. The toes of his sneakers wedge into little grooves, and his fingers grasp some corners jutting out of the stone. Oh God. No. He’s not going to make it. It’s way higher than the walls he climbs at the gym, and he never makes it more than ten or twelve feet up a wall before he falls. And he’s not wearing a harness or helmet, and there’s no cushy mat beneath him.

  “Hamza,” I whisper-shout, because I don’t want to startle him. I rush over to the wall he’s climbing—his ankle is a little beyond my reach. “Climb down right now,” I order. “You know I’m in charge when Ummi and Papa aren’t around.”

  Hamza pauses and turns his head ever so slightly. “It’s okay! I mean, I flew through the air on a golden throne, and I didn’t even puke. I think part of my new powers is being over my fear of heights.”

  “You don’t have to prove anything,” I say without reminding him he was snoozing while we were flying because of a sleep potion. “Climb down so you don’t get hurt.”

  “Sis, I’m fine.” His voice wobbles a little when he says this.

  “What are you going to do if you manage to get level with the treasure chest thingy? It’s still floating in the middle of the room. Did you also magically get Spidey web shooters?”

  “No, but that would’ve been so cool. I’ll figure it out when I get there. Stop distracting me.”

  I shut up and step away from the wall. I don’t want him to fall because of me. And maybe he’s right. Maybe he didn’t need the sleep potion. Maybe he’s over his fear of heights. He has been going to a therapist about it. She gave him a mantra to say when he climbs. I hope he’s saying the words now.

  My hands tingle from fear for my brother. If he falls… no. No. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about Ummi and Papa. Don’t think about Hamza smashing his head against this stone floor ten thousand miles away from our parents. Dang it. E
very time I tell myself not to think about the worst possible scenario, it’s the only thing I can think about. My fingers are ice-cold. My blood must’ve rushed to my head, because now I feel dizzy watching him.

  He’s pretty high up. Definitely higher than fifteen feet. Higher than he’s ever climbed at the gym. He’s doing it! I watch as he finds one toehold after another. One little edge to grip. I don’t take my eyes off him. He looks up, reaching for a corner that I can barely even see. But he stops, pulls his hand back, hesitates. Oh no. No. He’s panicking. I can feel it. His free hand is struggling to find a gap in the stone or grasp any little point. It slips from one edge.

  I hear a gasp, which isn’t my own. It’s Maqbool. Staring at Hamza, everyone else simply fell away. “Help him,” I whisper to Maqbool.

  “I don’t… I cannot increase my size to reach him. The cauldrons don’t fly in here. I am at a loss.” Maqbool hangs his head.

  “So if he… if we… are not the Chosen Ones… or even if we are, he could fall to his death? Even without your powers, there has to be some—”

  Hamza screams.

  The world stops. Everything stops, except for the sound of Hamza’s voice that echoes off these dark, cold walls and the sight of my brother’s hands slipping from the rocks. Him falling backward through the air like a leaf, so small and fragile. While I’m standing here, helpless.

  Before I can move my feet, before I can even scream, the Supahi slide across the floor below Hamza and form a tight circle, joining hands in the center so they look like the spokes of a giant wheel. They break Hamza’s fall, but a few of their arms flicker in and out from corporeal to phantomlike as he drops the final few feet to the floor with a thud.

  “Ow!” he yelps as he lands on his butt. He’s going to be sore, but it could have been so, so much worse.

  I race forward and pull Hamza up off the floor and give him a big hug for a second. My parents would love to see this. The hugging part, not the Hamza-almost-falling-to-his-death part. His knees buckle, but I hold him up. I hear the blood rushing in my ears and the thumping of my heart.