by Samira Ahmed
“Hamza, hang on. Wait,” I say, but he either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t want to listen and steps through the cascading water.
“What the… guys! Get in here!” We hear Hamza yell back at us. We rush through the waterfall and into a damp cave.
The walls are smooth black stone, and above us, a hole in the rock allows a ray of brilliant sunlight to pool on the cave floor. In the very center of that circle of sun is a bright gold cage. Big enough for a lion. But there’s not a lion in the cage. There’s a girl, cowering, crying in the corner. She’s thin, and her skinny brown arms are wrapped around her legs. A thick black braid runs down her back, tied with a worn red ribbon. The braid… the ribbon… they’re so familiar. Too familiar. Goose bumps spring up all over my wet skin. It looks like… but how?
“Are you okay?” Hamza asks, approaching the golden bars.
I stay behind, frozen in place, as the others step forward into the dank cavern. For a moment, they block my view, and I can’t see the girl anymore. But I hear her grunt and rise. Then Hamza gasps. “Help me,” the voice says.
The others move aside, each turning to look at me, their eyes wide with shock. I step closer to the cage, the voice, the girl. And it’s… me. I mean… it… she looks like me but with slightly distorted features—eyes too far apart, nose narrower. Like a Silly Putty face impression. And she—it?—looks younger than I am, maybe seven or eight years old. It can’t be. How can it possibly be? I shake my head, blink, try to make myself see correctly. But the image doesn’t change. The girl doesn’t go away. She approaches the bars, and Hamza presses himself closer. She’s speaking. In my voice. Or sort of a higher-pitched imitation of my voice. “My father sold me to Ifrit. I can help you find and defeat him! That will release me. Please,” she begs, pointing to a rusty lever Excalibured into the rock.
It’s a trap! I want to scream, but my voice sticks. My whole body sticks. Like I’m trapped in a giant glob of Jell-O. Some thing is blocking me. Every hair on my arms stands up, my breathing loud in my ears. Why isn’t anyone doing anything? Saying anything? Their eyes look glazed over like some thing is affecting them, too. I watch as Hamza leaps to the lever and pulls it down. The entire front of the cage rises in the air like it’s being lifted by invisible puppet strings.
The little girl falls into Hamza’s arms, thanking him. The others crowd around her. The force holding me back releases me, and I wonder if it was something mystical or just me, freezing up, caught in the headlights, not sure what to do. It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, I stay back. Maqbool offers her some water. When she drinks, she stretches her neck so far back it doesn’t seem… normal, natural. When she returns the bottle to Maqbool, she holds my gaze; I swear the color of her eyes blinks from brown to red for a second.
“How come you’re here? How can—” I finally manage to pluck words out of my throat.
“I told you.” She giggles. “My father sold me to Ifrit.”
“But you’re human. There’s no humans in Qaf. And why do you look like me but younger? How is that even possible?”
Hamza looks at me and then back at the girl, whose features begin to shift. He starts to back away from her. “You said you could take us to Ifrit.”
The girl turns her head away and, in a flash, short, crimson-colored wings erupt from her shoulder blades. She whips back around, crooked fang-like teeth bared in a face that has more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei. Small blue horns sprout from her forehead. “And I shall, with pleasure,” she says, her voice a shriek.
“Whoa. She even got your squeaky voice right!” Hamza blurts. Before I can even roll my eyes at him, the terrifying imposter-me flies at him, her hands reaching for his throat.
I scream.
Maqbool pushes her back with his arm. She falls to the ground. Laughing, she raises two fingers to her mouth and whistles. It’s an awful, screeching sound and so loud they probably heard it all the way back in the Garden of Iram.
“She ensnared us with an enchantment!” Abdul Rahman bellows, then turns to the fake-me. “Your life will be forfeited for your deception!”
“I… I… don’t understand. Who are you? Why did you look like… me?”
The impostor-me laughs. “The ghul you encountered when you first set foot in the Garden replicated your likenesses for Ifrit’s troops that we would know you from all jinn.”
“What, like wanted posters in old movies?” Hamza asks. “He’s a pretty bad sketch artist if you ask me; Amira’s nose doesn’t—”
“Enough!” Abdul Rahman yells.
Maqbool grabs the crimson-winged peri by the arm while Abdul Rahman yells at us to run out of the cave. There’s no time to argue or think. Aasman Peri extends her wings and flaps them, creating a wind at our backs, pushing us forward. We emerge soaking wet and slog to the bank of the pond. A blast of hot air from Abdul Rahman’s flame dries us off.
That’s when I hear it. A drumbeat. A sound like a million hooves thudding the ground.
Maqbool hands over the imitation-me fairy to Aasman Peri. Is she really a peri? Her wings are short, not like those of the other fairies we’ve met in Qaf, and she has horns like some dev. “An army. She summoned an army,” Maqbool spits.
Without speaking and without answering the jumble of questions and the freaked-out What? What? What? falling from my lips, Abdul Rahman and Maqbool begin felling trees in front of us, creating a barrier between us and whatever army the peri has summoned. The only way through to us is along a narrow pass that bottlenecks about a hundred yards from where we are, so I guess they’re hoping this will give us more time. But time to what?
The thunder of the march grows louder. Hamza and I start piling smaller branches and any stones we can find onto the wall. Zendaya flies off, and Hamza yells out to her as she rises into the sky.
“She will scout the advancing army,” Maqbool says without stopping his movements. “She will find if the way to leave is open and fly the two of you out of here.” Now he’s tying stones to the ends of the vines hanging down from the trees. Weapons, I guess?
“We can’t leave you,” I say.
“You can and you will. We pulled you into a battle that wasn’t yours to fight,” Maqbool says.
“It is now,” I whisper. In my heart, I know it’s true even if I secretly wish it weren’t. We’re here. And all my wishing isn’t going to change that.
Abdul Rahman is digging a pit fifty feet in front of us at a speed too impossible to follow, covering it with brush. A booby trap. To trap some of them when they make it past the barrier. To give us time to escape. Neither of them says so, but it doesn’t seem like we can fight off an entire army. Two old jinn who need reading glasses, a spunky fairy, and two kids with no powers. The odds are definitely not in our favor. Escape is our only chance.
I rush forward to help Abdul Rahman while Hamza piles up rocks we can use to throw at shape-shifting monsters made of smokeless fire. I’m guessing the message on the Magic 8 Ball jade tablet would not be reassuring right now, so I don’t even bother asking it about our chances.
The sound is getting louder, and I swear I can feel my heart lodged in my throat like a sideways chicken bone.
“Hey! Ow!” I whip my head around when I hear Aasman Peri cry out.
The evil peri has wriggled her way out of Aasman Peri’s grip and is wielding a small, sharp dagger that she apparently kept hidden in her boot. Aasman Peri pulls out her sword and advances, pushing the peri back toward the pond.
I drop the branches and run back to the barrier, holding Hamza back, out of the way, as the two peris eye each other.
The evil peri jabs forward with her dagger, forcing Aasman Peri to take a few steps back as she lashes out with her sword. The peri dodges her slashes and laughs. “You are no match for me, young one. I am Arwa, a do-nasli, a half-clan. I have survived hundreds of years, cast out from the society of my mother’s peri tribe and my father’s dev kinfolk. Reviled by all. Alone until Ifrit gave me a home. I owe him my allegianc
e. I have survived it all. And today is not my end.”
They circle each other almost like a dance. I scream at Maqbool and Abdul Rahman, but they keep setting the traps, assuming, I guess, that Aasman Peri can handle herself. But her worried-looking face doesn’t make me feel so sure.
Hamza bends down, grabs a rock, and hurls it right at Arwa’s body. The stone connects, and there’s a crack as it hits her rib cage. Dang. I guess the rocks as surprise weapons are more effective than I thought. Arwa screams, and in that instant, Aasman Peri lunges forward and uses her sword to disarm her. I hurry over to grab Arwa’s dagger before she can pick it back up. When Aasman Peri kicks her in the chest, the peri-dev falls to the ground, clutching her side and rolling over.
“Yes!” Hamza shouts, and gives me a fist bump. But our joy from this tiny victory doesn’t last long. In the distance, we hear the screams and shouts of the devs and ghuls as they approach. They’re getting closer. And I’m absolutely pee-in-my-pants, puke-up-my-guts terrified.
“Jinn! Hello! What’s the plan? Wait here to be devoured by ghuls?” Aasman Peri asks, taking her eyes off Arwa, who is still on the ground. In that moment, the peri-dev rolls over, pulls a small knife from the sash at her waist, and whips it in Hamza’s direction.
“Nooooooooo!” I scream, and watch as the knife somersaults through the air directly toward my little brother. I hear the roar of my voice muffled in my ears. My feet feel like they’re stuck in molasses as I reach out toward Hamza, who can only stare forward, frozen with fear, as the knife hurtles toward him.
A flash of orange blazes in front of me, and when it slows, I see it’s Maqbool, who has thrown himself in front of Hamza, catching the knife right in his chest as he’s fully corporeal. Maqbool crumples at my brother’s feet. Arwa laughs and claps her hands. Aasman Peri kicks her forward and steps on her back as Arwa curses at her. I don’t see anything else as I leap toward Maqbool, who is bleeding on the ground, his hand clutching his chest. Hamza is crouched over him, shaking his head and muttering, “No, no, no, please no.”
Abdul Rahman drops the branches and flies to Maqbool’s side. He lifts Maqbool’s head and cradles it in his lap.
“Do something!” I scream. “Use your powers. Seal the wound with your flame.”
Abdul Rahman merely looks at me and gently shakes his head.
This can’t be it. These jinn are like thousands of years old. Could a knife kill them? There has to be…wait. The Flask of Endless Water. Yes! That’s it! Pulling open the backpack, I grab the flask and dump its water all over Maqbool’s chest. He coughs and sputters and opens his eyes. It’s working. He’s going to be okay. But when I look at his hand clutching his chest, I see the blood still flowing from his wound.
Arwa laughs, and when I twist my body to glare at her, my eyes fill with tears. Aasman Peri has bound the peri-dev’s hands and feet. But not her mouth. “Your healing waters will make no difference. The tip of that knife was dipped in poison from Shaytan’s well—it writhes through his body right now. No balm or blessed water will heal it.” The devil’s well?
A tidal wave of anger unlike anything I’ve ever felt sweeps through my body, lifts me from the ground like a balloon being filled with helium. I rise and stride toward Arwa, who is now standing, one wing half broken and drooping. Aasman Peri holds onto her with one hand, her other hand gripping her sword. Aasman Peri’s teeth are clenched as she looks at Maqbool.
I punch the cruel peri-dev in the face.
“Ow!” we both yell. Yellow-green blood and snot spurt from her nose, and I clutch my right fist. I had no idea punching someone could hurt so bad but also feel so good.
A small cough-laugh erupts behind me. It’s Maqbool. “I see you’ve found your power. Humans never cease to surprise or amaze me,” he whispers, and beckons me and Hamza to his side.
“It has been a great privilege to meet you,” he says. Hamza and I both kneel, gently placing our hands on Maqbool’s arms. “You are all that heroes should be.”
“But—” I begin to say.
Maqbool quiets me with a little shake of his head. “Never mind what some dusty scroll says. It does not matter what the prophecy claims. I know in my heart who you are. You are my Chosen Ones. You are the champions of Qaf. The ones who will set this world and yours right. It is always the old who push our young into battles they should never have to fight. I am sorry for this. But you have risen to the challenge with aplomb. Peace be with you, children, always.” Turning his eyes to Abdul Rahman, he says, “My Vizier, it has been an honor to serve with you.”
“The honor has been mine, my friend. You have served with courage and much-needed humor. Your name will be written in the history of Qaf for all jinn to know, for eternity. May God light your path home.”
Maqbool’s eyes begin to close, then open slowly again. Tears splash down my cheeks, and I bury my head in his shuddery arm. “One last request, my Vizier,” he sputters.
“Anything, my friend.” Abdul Rahman kneels, bending close to Maqbool.
“Please, please, remember to wear your reading glasses.” Maqbool looks to me and Hamza and turns his lips up in a small smile. He winks his left eyelid. Then both slowly close.
Abdul Rahman says something, but I don’t hear any of the words. He rises and takes our hands and bends his head in prayer. We join, closing our eyes. But the moment is not silent because the thundering is getting closer. When I open my eyes, Maqbool’s body has disappeared; only ash is left in its place.
A shadow passes high over us; Zendaya is returning, wings beating furiously as she descends.
“The way out is open,” Abdul Rahman says, apparently understanding her neighs. “Children, you must leave at once. Aasman Peri and I will hold them off until you can escape.”
“No. You’ll die, too,” Hamza yells.
“Don’t be dumb, silly humans,” Aasman Peri says as she ties Arwa to a tree and gags her. “The horde is too close, and they’ll shoot us down or soar up and battle us in the sky if they catch all of us trying to escape. We’ll distract them. But as soon as Zendaya touches down, jump on and fly, you fools!”
Hamza wipes away the tears at the corners of his eyes. “Did you just quote Gandalf?” he asks.
“Ha! As if! More like that J.R.R. Tolkien guy quoted me. He’s always stealing my lines.” She shares a small smile and unsheathes her sword as she and Abdul Rahman take up positions behind our barrier.
Hamza and I also pull out our blades but hang back. His shoulders slump, and I feel like I should say something to him; something, I don’t know, big sisterly, assuring, inspiring. But no words come because all my thoughts are for Maqbool and what he gave for us. I do the only thing I can do—I put my hand on Hamza’s shoulder. He knows what I want to say.
At that moment, an arrow whizzes through the air and sticks in a trunk in one of the trees in our barrier wall. Then another. Through the woods, we see them coming, screaming devs and ghuls, shoving one another down, hurtling toward us.
I look up, and Zendaya is only a few feet above us. Grabbing Hamza’s hand, I drag him closer to the pond by a clearing wide enough for Zendaya to land. We move toward her, but she neighs as she approaches and shakes her head and pulls up her front hooves like she means to kick someone.
Then we’re yanked from behind, lifted up by our collars, and thrown into a tremendous black pot by a terrifying yellow dev, who looks down at us, snarling. The pot levitates, then lifts us into the sky, away from our friends.
CHAPTER 14
Escape Room Rules
I SCREAM.
Not words. Not demands. Only a high-pitched cry that’s part sadness, part rage and is totally ripping me in two.
The yellow dev, who I now see is covered in contrasting darker green spots, doesn’t even turn to the sound. He’s leaning out of his huge black cauldron as the ground falls away. It’s exactly like one of the pots the Supahi flew in when we were on Earth, except much larger. I’m still slightly confused about how the aero
dynamics work, even though Razia explained that the cauldrons were formed from cavorite—an antigravity substance that I thought was fictional! She also said they’re controlled by the creature flying it—so the dev is his own literal internal-combustion engine. Maybe that’s why the floor of the cauldron feels hot—the heat coming off this dev’s ginormous feet. If I could figure out the formulas and harness all this for Earth, I’d be, like, the youngest Nobel Prize winner ever.
I pinch myself. For real. Because I realize what I’m doing—ignoring that Maqbool was killed and that we’re not the Chosen Ones but are here because of some dumb Scooby-Doo case of mistaken identity. I’m pretending we weren’t just kidnapped. We learned about this in S.E.L., social emotional learning discussions the school counselor leads that are cringey but also kind of real. This whole thing that I’m doing? Avoiding the problem? The counselor would say that it’s denial and that I’m using dreams of my future science glory to push reality out of my mind because our reality is totally FREAKING ME OUT! I bite my lip, and when I turn to see Hamza huddled on the floor, legs pulled into his chest, forehead resting on top of his knees, every part of me grows cold. Denial is not going to get us out of this. Maybe nothing can, but I have to try. I drop down next to my brother and gently shake his shoulder. “Hamz, are you okay?”
He looks up, his eyes red and rimmed with tears. “Okay? No. I’m not okay. Maqbool is dead. We got taken away from Aasman Peri and Abdul Rahman and Zendaya. And that thing”—he points at the distracted dev—“kidnapped us. And is, I don’t know, going to make us into his servants or dinner or something. We’re not the Chosen Ones. We’re nothing.”
I brush away my own tears. “We’re not nothing,” I say. “And we’re not alone. We have each other.” But we don’t have our weapons. The dev disarmed us, and our sword, dagger, and bow and arrows lay at his big feet. The only way to get them is to go through him. He’s burly and big—his upper body seems two sizes too big for his legs; I’m not even sure how they hold him up. I don’t really think we’re going to win a cage match… er, a cauldron match… with him. I imagine he’d rebuff my mawashi geri kick with a flick of his fingers. My mind wanders to Maqbool and to what he said about us, to what he found so funny about humans. I realize we do have one thing going for us. Our big mouths.
