by Samira Ahmed
“Yeah,” Hamza adds. “Those weapons are the only reason we even got this far.”
The simurgh bows her muzzle. “Dear ones. It was not the weapons that made you champions. It is your hearts. Your love and belief in each other and yourselves. The way will be clear. Ifrit has fallen, his troops are scattering and being taken into custody by the emperor’s army. As you helped my child, so I now help you. This is how I repay my debt to you.”
I nod and throw down the weapons—the dagger, the sword, and the bow and arrows. I gasp and put my hand to my neck. My necklace. No. I can’t leave it. I pause for the tiniest second, then quickly pull off the silver pendant and toss the paper clip chain to the sand. The simurgh nods an okay—it’s small enough. I clasp my hand tightly around it, our protection prayer.
“Climb on my back. We must make haste. This tilism will fall, and if we are here when it collapses, we will be trapped between realms forever.”
She bends her neck so we can slide down it onto her back. We barely settle in when she takes off, rising up at an angle so steep I’m afraid we’ll fall off. Her beautiful, immense bronze wings flap against the smoke. I turn to take one last look at the City of Gold in flames, smoke rising, and watch as it disappears in a snap, like it’s been swallowed into a pocket of air.
CHAPTER 18
Do You Believe in Magic?
FLYING BACK OVER THE INTERCONNECTED REALMS OF QAF, little fires dot the land, and I can see where battles were fought. There’s rubble, broken trees, and what look like giant cracks in the ground. But I also hear music and see 3D fireworks over some of the realms we didn’t stop in. We swoop closer, and jinn and peris look up at us and wave. Hamza hoots and hollers and shoots finger guns at the celebrations. It’s finally sinking in. We did it. We weren’t what they expected. We weren’t what Ifrit expected. And we weren’t what I expected. But I guess sometimes unexpected things can change the world.
I keep replaying those moments with Ifrit in my mind. How I was terrified but somehow didn’t melt into a puddle of goo. How I kept saying I didn’t have a choice. But I did. You always have a choice. And I made a choice. Lots of them—some of them were even good ones. This warm feeling wells up inside me. I guess I shouldn’t have underestimated me.
Circling lower and lower, we approach the Garden of Iram. There’s music—drums and horns—and cheering and clapping that grows louder as we get closer. It’s for us. The simurgh lands in the stone courtyard where we took off from. It feels like a million years ago but also like we just left. Maybe that’s what they meant by time working differently here. Time flies when you’re trying to prevent an apocalypse.
The simurgh lowers her neck, and we slip off. Throngs of multicolored jinn—spotted and striped, horned and hairy—surround us. Then we hear a high-pitched voice through the crowd. “Took you long enough. I guess you’ll be wanting a parade and, what, like, a feast in your honor, too?” Aasman Peri steps into the center of the courtyard, her wings unfurled, her arms crossed in front of her chest, and a small smirk on her face.
“Did you say feast?” Hamza asks. “Excellent, because I’m starving.” He and Aasman Peri high-five and work their way through the crowd to a table filled with sweets.
I shake my head. I turn to say thank you to the simurgh. “Without you, we would’ve been dusted or snapped up into the void of that tilism,” I say. “Thank you.”
The simurgh bows her head to me, and I bow mine in response. “As you showed a kindness to my child, so I showed one to you. My debt is repaid. May your journey home be safe. Peace be with you.”
“And also with you,” I say. The simurgh’s child scronks in the distance, and she turns her muzzle to the wind and sniffs, a smile crossing her lips as she heads off to find her baby.
I hear someone clear their throat behind me. I’d know that deep, telltale throat clearing anywhere: Abdul Rahman. “So the heroes return.” He gives me a small smile as I face him. “Perhaps he had some doubts at first, but once our dear friend Maqbool really knew you and saw the courage of your hearts, he believed in you to his dying breath. I only wish he could have been here to witness your triumph.” An ashy tear drips out of Abdul Rahman’s right eye.
I cast my eyes down and nod, a lump welling in my throat. “I know,” I whisper. “But I kind of feel like he is here.”
Abdul Rahman clears his throat. “Of course… I believed, too. Perhaps you were not what the prophecy intended—”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Fine. Indeed. We may have only crossed paths because I am vain and refused to wear my reading glasses, for which my dear friend correctly chastised me. And, which, by my troth, I shall wear from this moment forward. I might have been mistaken in my reading of the prophecy, but there is no mistake that you were… you are… the true champions of Qaf.”
Abdul Rahman meets my gaze and bends low, stretching out his arms. I step into them and hug him. He’s warm—literally, because he’s made of smokeless fire. And I can feel both sadness and joy in his embrace. Because I feel the exact same thing.
A whiff of sandalwood passes through the courtyard, and all eyes turn to the dais and the throne as the emperor enters, fully ablaze. I squint. Aasman Peri, who is standing next to my brother several feet away from me, makes a pinching gesture at her dad with her thumb and forefinger, and immediately the flames lessen and we can see him. A crown of emerald and ruby leaves on his head, his deep blue, gold-embroidered velvet robes sweeping the ground. All the creatures in the courtyard, except me and Hamza, bow. With his subjects’ heads bent, the emperor meets our eyes and silently thanks us, placing a hand on his heart as he takes his seat on the throne.
“Rise. My family, we have waged a great war so that all creatures of Qaf may continue to dwell in peace. We have lost many beloveds to the armies of Ifrit. We shall have justice, but let us not seek vengeance on those who in our very lifetimes were not merely allies, but friends. More than friends—family. We shall heal the rifts in the realms of Qaf. Once again, the barrier between worlds, the luminous moon, is in its rightful place. Shining on the people of Earth each night, incandescent to us even in our days.”
The emperor points at a distant round object, now uncloaked, in the sky. There it is. Our tiny, faraway moon. Their moon. “We have much rebuilding to do, but on this day, we give thanks and celebrate our two warriors come from their home to save ours, and, in turn, save theirs. To you, Amira and Hamza, champions of Qaf, we are forever indebted. Songs shall be sung and tales shall be told of the storied descendants of Suleiman the Wise.”
I almost speak up to correct him, to tell him we’re not really the heirs of Suleiman, that we were never the true Chosen Ones. But Abdul Rahman taps my shoulder and gives me a look like, don’t even think about it. No point now anyway, I guess?
“You two siblings, mere children of Earth, have shown us the power of bravery and the unbreakable bond of love. You shall be known forevermore in the land of Qaf as Amira the Valiant and Hamza the Brave.” With that, Emperor Shahpal bin Shahrukh rises from his throne, and all the jinn and all the other creatures in the courtyard turn to face us and place their hands on their hearts and say, Jazāk Allāhu Khayran. I know this phrase. My nani used to say it to me all the time when I would bring her tea or help her get up when she was getting too old and too frail to do it by herself. It’s a super-nice way of saying thank you: May God reward you with goodness. A little lump wells in my throat at the memory and for this moment, too. Because, even though I desperately want to be home right now, this is also a goodbye. One thing I learned about goodbyes when my nani died was that sometimes they really hurt even when you know one’s coming.
“Before Amira and Hamza depart for their world, let us pray for all those that we have lost.”
We join the others filing away to say our prayers to the fallen, our goodbyes to Maqbool. I don’t know what we would have done without him. He died saving Hamza. And I never really got to thank him for that, for believing in us, for givi
ng us hope when we didn’t have it. I hope he can hear me now.
Only Aasman Peri, Abdul Rahman, and Zendaya accompany us to the Obsidian Wall. The door is clearly outlined in the dark oobleck surface. When Abdul Rahman opens it, we spy a golden sand beach, an endless blue lake lapping at the shore. Far, far in the distance are the blurry, glittering outlines of… buildings… skyscrapers. “Wait, is that—”
“Chicago!” Hamza yells, pointing to the soaring skyline as it focuses into shape before our eyes. “How?”
“The emperor reigns over the portal, silly. Now that the enchantments are lifted, he can place it where he wishes,” Aasman Peri smirks. “Still not quite getting the hang of this whole Qaf thing?”
Hamza shrugs. “Sorry I couldn’t wrap my mind around your bizarro world geography while I was focusing on saving my butt! And the butts of all the world!”
Aasman Peri shakes her head. “Humans are really weird.”
“Weird is awesome!” Hamza says, and laughs.
Abdul Rahman raises both of his bushy eyebrows. “Now that order and peace are restored, when you step through this door, you will be returned to the moment and place before we first crossed paths, before the moon broke. All will be as it was. The sleep song of the Neend Peri will have spared humanity from the horrors of watching the moon break, and the humans of Earth shall have no recollection of what transpired. There will be new fissures in the moon, evident only to you. For the rest, it will be as if they had always been there.”
I grin. A time slip! Which shouldn’t be possible, because time travel requires that space-time be bent, and we’d need a vacuum in space to bend time back on itself, creating a closed time loop, but the gravity required to do that would crush us and… science still rules, but I guess I’m starting to believe in impossible things, too. Or at least that some things can’t quite be explained by the science we know, so far. I want to say something, but my words all get stuck and I choke back a few tears. I don’t know why I’m sad. I mean, I can’t wait to be back home. To see my parents. To be normal. But I’ll miss Qaf, too. I look up at Abdul Rahman and Aasman Peri. Abdul Rahman’s face is crinkled as he wipes away his ash tears. Behind all the fire and raised eyebrows, he’s a total softie. Even Aasman Peri looks… affected; she’s making that bit-into-a-sour-lemon face again. “I don’t know how to say goodbye and thank you. This place—” I begin.
“Is absolutely murderous bonker balls?” Hamza jumps in.
“Well, yes, okay. That. But also, it’s a place where I made friends.” I hug Abdul Rahman. I can tell Aasman Peri is not a big hugger, so we high-five. My brother does the same.
Then his backpack buzzes. We all turn to look at him. He pulls out the jade tablet. “The simurgh only said we couldn’t bring weapons, so I didn’t think I needed to throw it away.” We lean in to read the message: Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. For those who love with their hearts, there is no such thing as separation.
It’s something my dad wrote to me once in a card. Before he had to go away for an extra long work trip. It’s like the other sayings that vaguely reminded me of something… Oh. My. Poetry. “I got it!” I yell. “All the messages on the tablet. They’re sayings from Rumi. Or rough translations, anyway.”
“That poet Dad is always talking about?”
“Yeah! I knew they all felt familiar. Weird coincidence.”
Abdul Rahman raises a bushy eyebrow. “There are no coincidences. The messages must always have been meant for you.” He smiles.
“So we get to keep this thing?” Hamza asks.
I elbow him.
“What? We got to travel to an entire other universe, and I want a souvenir. I don’t think there’s a gift shop with snow globes.” Hamza quickly stashes the tablet back in his bag.
“You will always have the memory of me. That should be souvenir enough.” Aasman Peri grins.
“You’re right,” I say. “I definitely won’t forget you. Any of you.”
Aasman Peri gestures to the door, and Hamza and I step through, waving. As it closes, we hear Abul Rahman’s voice booming, “Don’t forget to return the Box of the Moon!”
The door closes. We watch as the wall vanishes into the night around us. And when we turn around, we find ourselves back on the doorstep of the Medinah Temple.
CHAPTER 19
A Whole New World
I GENTLY PINCH HAMZA’S ARM.
“Ouch! Why did you…” Hamza doesn’t complete his sentence because he spies his zombie bowcaster lying on the ground by the dumpster right where he dropped it and rushes to grab it.
“Because I wanted to see if I was dreaming,” I whisper to myself. Obviously, I’m not, because no way Hamza’s bowcaster is going to ever make a cameo in my dreams. We’re here. We’re really here. I look up at the ornate carvings along the archway of the Medinah Temple. Listen to the honking and traffic noise as the bright lights of a plane blink in the sky. I take a deep whiff of the Chicago night air, which smells like a mix of chocolate and stale hot dog water. It’s home. And it’s perfect.
“Give me the Box of the Moon,” I say as Hamza stuffs his bowcaster into his backpack. He hands it to me, and I flip it open. The moon and sun and Earth are all back where they should be. The gears seem totally dead again. Like they were before. “We have to put this back.”
Hamza casts his eyes downward. He looks disappointed. I want to keep it, too, but it is an ancient artifact and should be in a museum. I snap the lid shut and hear a little crack. Oh no. I used too much force.
“Oh my God,” Hamza says. “If you broke that thing, now? After yelling at me about it? That would be… epically hilarious!”
I frown at Hamza. “I didn’t mean to. I swear I was trying to be gentle!” I hold up the Box to inspect it under a streetlight. It’s not cracked. But the bottom seems to be popped open the tiniest sliver. Wedging my fingernail into what looks like a seam, a little drawer snaps out. “What the heck?”
Hamza edges in next to me, and I pull out a tiny scroll and unroll it.
“Please don’t let it be a doomsday prophecy. I’ve had enough of almost being eaten by brightly colored ghuls with sharp teeth!”
“Sshhh,” I hush him as I hold the tiny piece of paper open by the edges. First the letters look like Urdu. But I blink, and I swear they turn to English. Hamza and I exchange looks because… can that be real? I guess my sense of what is real has changed forever now. I read the words on the scroll:
To my brother,
Amir A. Hamza
“It’s for him. The real Chosen One!”
I continue.
I fashioned this from the celestial alloy you bestowed upon me, its properties as mysterious as they are miraculous, bound by neither laws of Earth nor Qaf. As per your wishes, the Box will come alive only for your descendants, when hate begins to tear the moon asunder. May love prove to be the balm that heals the fractures.
“How can love be a balm? Like lip balm? Tiger Balm? You need something way stronger than that to heal the moon’s fractures.” Hamza steps away and begins to walk up the stairs as I continue to stare at the words.
I whisper. “It’s a metaphor. And maybe it means the Box was meant for us. Maybe we’re like the spiritual descendants of Amir A. Hamza?”
“But the scroll said he was the Chosen One. The one to defeat Ifrit.”
“Right, but we knew that and defeated Ifrit anyway.”
Hamza lifts his palms up and shrugs, confused.
I don’t blame him. “Don’t you see? We only thought we were the Chosen Ones because Abdul Rahman told us we were. Then we found out we weren’t because of the prophecy on the Everlasting Scroll.”
“Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. I know,” Hamza says.
“Well, what if it’s not a jinn or a musty, yellowy parchment that decides if we’re the Chosen Ones. What if we decided that for ourselves? It wasn’t destiny. It was us.”
“Is that supposed to be, like, deep and philoso
phical and stuff?”
“Oh my God. Whatever. Let’s go in. I’ll put the Box back, you cover me,” I say as I tuck the scroll into my pocket and push the secret drawer back into place. My mind whirs and could spin on about this all night, forever. We were the Chosen Ones. Then we weren’t. Even though we still kind of were. Huh?
I take a huge breath and walk in the doors. It’s quiet. I panic for a second, then realize that everyone is on the roof for the viewing party like when we left. I hurry to the exhibit case where the Box of the Moon was, and Hamza walks ahead, first putting a finger to his lips and then doing that pointing, two-finger V at his eyes and then around the room so I know he has an eye out. As if this is the most dangerous situation we’ve been in all night. All night? Was it only one night? Technically, it’s been no time at all. Can’t quite get my brain around that, either.
With the Box back in place, Hamza and I race up the stairs to the roof. We burst through the doors. For a moment, I close my eyes and hold my breath. There’s no sound but my heart beating in my ears. When I open my eyes, there are Ummi and Papa leaning over a telescope, then turning to see us as we barrel into their arms.
“What’s wrong?” my mom asks as she looks down and gives me a kiss on the cheek, then tousles my brother’s head, which is buried in my dad’s chest.
“Nothing,” I say. “I guess… thank you… for bringing us here tonight.”
“Yeah,” Hamza adds. “Everything’s awesome. It’s not like we were swept away by a jinn army and taken through an oobleck wall to a parallel universe where we had to fight a very scary pink-and-gold creature with sharp teeth to save the world.”
I give Hamza my raised eyebrow, chin jutting out, really? look.
My dad laughs and says, “You really have quite the imagination, Hamz. And of course, where else would we take our favorite astronomer?” He rubs the back of his index finger across my cheek.
