by RobCharters
Ismael didn't bother to guess. Blind faith in strict interpretations of the Quran and things like Jihad were the order of the day. This was his bread and meat.
Because women were no longer allowed to hold jobs, and most of the teachers were women, their school was closed. As an alternative, Uncle Rasheed invited the twins to move to Jalalabad for Islamic studies.
For Ismael this was a step closer to paradise. Besides instruction in the Quran, each boy was given a replica of a Kalashanikov, and jihad training began.
For Ibrahim, at least this was an opportunity to learn more about the world and of Allah. Papa would have granted them that. Here, Arabic was taught as a spoken language, so they could speak with their Moslem brothers of other countries. Even some English was taught, because after all, a jihad warrior will have to rub shoulders with the infidels during his missions for Allah.
Ibrahim had learned some Arabic during early Quranic studies as a small child, and also some English at school, so this wasn't all new. Being fluent in two languages already, Dari and Pashtun, made it that much easier to pick up a third and a fourth; but the emphasis on jihad only made him think about Papa's words.
Ibrahim wasn't a fighter. To him, it was a matter of conforming to Allah's will. The more he tried to do so, the more he seemed to fall short. He also saw the same shortcomings in the others, but they didn't appear as concerned about it as he.
Papa always said, 'Listen first, and then speak.' 'Don't give out advice you ought to be listening to yourself.' This made Ibrahim a quiet boy.
As for being chosen for more intense training, that was for the louder boys, who showed themselves fully for the cause. For that, Ismael's word carried for the two of them. The two looked so much alike, and Ibrahim was usually so quiet, that whenever Ismael spoke it was assumed that it was on behalf of the pair. So it was that Ibrahim and his brother were numbered in the ranks of those chosen for advanced training.
More emphases than ever was on jihad, and the more Ibrahim heard that word, the more he thought about what his father said, and of his own struggle. Five times a day, at prayers, he would ask for inner compliance to Allah's will. Throughout Ramadan, the fasting month, again he sought inner peace.
What went on outside and the struggles inside were so different, he began wondering if he weren't an abnormal 'head in the stars' child after all. His brother would call him that, and then of course, so would the other boys, and then the teachers.
To Ismael, life was easy. Just follow the leader, and go.
Everyone cried 'Jihad,' and he cried, 'Jihad.' Everyone cried 'Allah aqbar,' and so did Ismael.
Ibrahim knew 'Allah is great', but somehow, he had the feeling that He was much greater than everyone pictured Him as being.
Ibrahim didn't have a way with words like his father did. As long as he didn't know what to say he just shouted in unison with everyone else.
Then, he began having the dreams. He'd dream about the stars.
Something about this reminded him of what he had once said to Mama, about having travelled passed many stars and the moon.
Then, he dreamed of a large greenish crystal that would speak to him.
In a way it wasn't so strange, as dreams are usually crazy anyway, but these ones would return night after night. This only made him even dreamier in the daytime. It was increasingly difficult to concentrate on his studies.
One day, the teacher slapped him out of his stupor.
'Hah! Ibrahim Zalman, the boy with his head in the stars! Next week you go to training camp in the mountains. That will cure you!'
Training camp in the mountains! That was where military preparation for jihad took place in earnest!
Ismail was overjoyed about the prospect. Real jihad warriors!
Ibrahim thought, maybe if it's truly jihad, they would teach him about attaining peace with Allah in his soul. That began to cheer him up -- but not for long. Try as he might, he just wasn't good at hiding things from himself.
Chapter 14
The morning they were to set off, Ibrahim was slow in getting up. The other boys were already dressing themselves and packing their things while Ibrahim just sat.
'Hee! Ibrahim!' said his twin. 'Your head's in the stars again! You'll never be a jihad warrior!'
This time, the answer came spontaneously from his heart.
'How can we be jihad warriors when nobody knows who the enemy is!'
'Nobody? Don't you listen in class? It's the great satan! America and Israel!'
'They're fighting the same enemy as us. The enemy is inside us. You and me.' He said it exactly as Papa had once.
'Inside you, maybe, but not me!' said Ismael, as he hit Ibrahim in the face.
Ibrahim had just stood up, so the blow caught him off balance. He fell, knocking over the table set with the morning tea. Immediately, attention was drawn towards them. The superior came in, and someone told them the twins were fighting.
'Fighting among yourselves! How can you?' he scolded. 'You're brothers from the same womb, and brothers in the jihad!' He gave them both a whack on the behind with his rattan switch.
'He spoke blasphemy,' said Ismael.
'I did not!' returned Ibrahim.
'You two, be at peace. Soon we depart for the training camp. They will show you who your brothers are.'
So it was that later that day, a group of boys, along with an instructor, jumped of the back of an old pick-up and set out on foot into the desert. Most of their supplies were tied to a pack mule, and each boy carried a water skin, a bed role and a few personal items. Ibrahim was at the tail end of the group while Ismael walked with a crowd of his friends. The two still hadn't made up since the scuffle that morning.
Now they were climbing along a path dug into a steep cliff, as a flood of doubts went through Ibrahim's mind. He was less confident than ever that he would learn true inner jihad at the training camp.
Everything was so crazy! Things sounded right on the outside, but inside it was all backwards! The teachers said one thing, and his dreams told him something altogether different. What would Papa have said?
Now, something on the inside seemed to say, 'Allah's will is the other way.'
He stopped.
The group ahead kept walking.
The path ahead of them curved around the mountain so his mates quickly disappeared from sight.
Ibrahim just stood still.
His mind told him he really ought to move on and follow the others. His heart said go back.
His feet did nothing.
He could still run and catch up with the others. Then, again, he could also make it to the village on the highway before nightfall, if he started walking now.
Walk to where?
What about robbers?
Another party overtook him. Soon, they were also out of sight.
Now, to catch up with his mates, he would have to overtake this last party.
He broke into a run.
Just as he came around the bend, he saw that there was shoulder in the mountain where the road forked. There were footprints going in both directions. No one was in sight.
The footprints of his schoolmates would be smaller, being mostly boys, but they had been covered by those of the party that just passed.
He tried the path that went up over the next ridge. He climbed until he got to the top, where he saw another fork.
Now what?
He retraced his steps back to the first fork. By now, he had lost so much time he thought he'd never catch up even if he did know where they were. In a panic, he ran down the lower road and continued around two bends, where again, he saw a turn-off, and still no indication of who had been there.
Sobbing and out of breath, he ran back towards the first fork until he was too tired to run any more. Then he sat down by the road to rest, and wept.
Soon, he could hear footsteps. They were coming from the direction of Jalalabad. Maybe they could help.
He dried
his eyes and calmed down.
Just as they arrived in sight, they stopped. It was a group of five men and three mules. One checked the position of the sun, while another looked at his watch. They agreed it was time for afternoon prayers.
Ibrahim would have his prayers with them, and then ask for help.
After he finished the usual memorised portions of the prayers, he added a few words of his own.
'Please help me find my way back to my brother and my mates.'
Again, came the voice deep inside. 'Allah's will is not in that direction.'
Everyone was finished their prayers.
One man in the party looked at Ibrahim, and said, 'Are you going our way?'
'No,' he answered, with a renewed boldness. 'That way.' He pointed towards Jalalabad.
As he began walking he heard them talking: 'All by himself?' 'Is it safe?'
Ibrahim assured himself, 'It's Allah's will,' and kept walking.
As afternoon drew on, so did the doubts, but now it was too late. He had parted ways with his school mates, and there was only one direction for him -- that of Allah's will.
He thought about his brother, to whom he hadn't even said farewell. They hadn't spoken a word to each other since their scuffle that morning.
'I'm sorry Ismael,' he said as he walked. 'When I find Allah's will, I'll come back and tell you about it -- I promise.'
Ismael wasn't the only one he missed.
'Papa,' he began. 'I'm off to find Allah's will for me. I'm on a jihad, but I'm walking in the opposite direction from Ismael and the boys who say they're off for jihad training.'
Of course, neither Papa nor Ismael could hear him, so he began talking to the only One who could from such a distance.
The afternoon was uneventful. When he was tired, he stopped and drank water from the skin that hung about his shoulder.
At evening he arrived at a small town on a gravel road. It was the village to which they had been brought by lorry, from which they had set off on foot.
There was a sort of inn/stable there, where travellers with mules or motorcars had to pay, but those on foot didn't. It was simply a matter of finding a spot and putting down ones bedroll.
A large travelling party was sitting near where he settled down. There were men, women and a few children dressed just like his own family and relations used to. They were speaking Dari with the same intonations. He made friends with them, and found they were on their way to Peshawar, on the Pakistani border.
'What about you?' said the man who looked like the patriarch of the clan.
'I'm going there too,' Ibrahim found himself saying.
'Well, good! Travel as one of us!'
They shared what food they had with him, and he moved his bedroll closer to them, and slept.
Again, his dreams were about the stars. There was a creature in his dream whom he knew well, named Phondesh. Another, of a feminine sort, was named Zhondri. One of them called him Tsav.
When he woke up in middle of the night, he could remember the names as though he had known them for many many years -- longer than he knew the name 'Ibrahim' -- though he couldn't remember what he had talked to them about.
He closed his eyes again, and soon he was wandering through mountains and valleys and through many many villages, looking and looking for just the right ones to be his papa and mama. Somehow, in the dream, he found them, and the last thing he heard before waking up, was his papa saying, 'The most important thing in life, Ibrahim, is to conform to the will of Allah, and to find the purpose for which He had you born to this world.'
Chapter 15
The trip to Don Muang airport went without a hitch. Ernie and May Lin found the next flight to Karachi, and managed to get the last two available seats.
May Lin withdrew as much money as she could from the ATM using her credit card, and got it changed to US dollars. It would be too easy for Dr. Stanovitch to trace them if they used the card later.
Then they checked in, took their seat assignments and went straight through passport check, and into the departure lounge.
There were still forty-five minutes to go. They walked slowly to the boarding gate.
Ernie saw some baseball caps for sale, with 'Thailand' written across the front. He had an idea. He tried one on with the beak facing backward.
'It's too big la,' said May Lin.
Ernie stuck a few fingers between his forehead and the netted fabric of the cap.
'No, it's just right.'
They entered the boarding gate area and sat down.
'Something not right la,' said May Lin.
'Why?' returned Ernie.
'Ah beng is going to cut us off, I know.'
'The -- who?'
'Ah beng, Stanovitch. He has connections here, you know? Big fish.'
'What should we do?'
'I think we have a bit of time. But once we board...'
She trailed off just as a western man and his Thai girlfriend came and sat next to her. The man plopped his carry-on bag down next to May Lin. The boarding passes were sticking out the side pocket.
'Quick -- your boarding pass,' whispered May Lin to Ernie.
He gave it to her, and she quickly and discreetly swapped theirs with the ones in the bag.
Apparently the couple were the last to check in, and there weren't any available seats next to each other. This was all the better for Ernie and May Lin, to avoid notice.
Now it was time to board.
Ernie kept his eye on where the other couple sat. They looked pleasantly surprised to find themselves sitting together after having apparently been told it wouldn't be possible. They didn't appear to suspect anything.
The door was shut and the plane left the terminal. Then, it stopped alongside the taxi way.
A delay of some sort.
After a ten-minute wait, the door opened, and in walked three uniformed men. They went discreetly up different aisles, finally converging on the couple who occupied the seats that should have been Ernie's and May Lin's. The two grabbed their hand luggage and accompanied them out.
Then, the plane took off.
After the 'fasten seat belt' sign went off, Ernie and May Lin met near the toilets.
'Maybe by now they know they caught the wrong couple,' said May Lin, in a low voice.
'Will they give them a complementary meal?'
'Ha ha! Probably just hold them a long time to save face.'
'I hope this means we're out of the soup,' said Ernie.
May Lin shrugged.
They finished their business and went back to their seats. It was time for the meal.
Since failing to even taste the tom yam and fried rice at the guest-house, and then, not bothering to order anything but drinks at the Hard Rock Cafe, Ernie was famished.
That finished, he put his seat back and prepared for a nap.
He was interrupted by May Lin rushing down the aisle towards him, pointing at her purse. Ernie recognised the humming of the crystal.
'Do it in the toilet,' Ernie whispered.
'Ah, ah,' May Lin responded as she continued down the aisle.
Ernie waited for the familiar sensation.
It came. He knew something was following the aircraft, not too far to the left.
He went to a window on that side and looked out. The darkness made whatever it was visible to the normal human eye. It was a glowing object, like a ball of light following just a little bit behind and to the left of the plane. But he needed to see more.
He communicated his intention to Zhondri and went to his seat to fetch the baseball cap.
Zhondri met him at the window.
Just as he thought, the hat fit snugly over the crystal, and the compound eyes could see through the netted fabric without any problem. People wouldn't notice that he had a crystal stuck to his head -- or they'd just think it was a new fashion in hats.
Phondesh looked.
Some of the other passengers w
ere gazing at the light as well.
What Pondesh saw now was a pyramid shaped crystal emitting a dyni beam towards a point in the forward section of the plane.
He walked up as close as he could get to where the beam was directed, while Zhondri remained at the window.
Because atoms consist mostly of empty space, it's possible to see through solid objects when using the kinds of energy rays that aren't wholly absorbed into the atoms. The ability to see such rays is called meefa vision. Excess energy from a dyni beam provides such a ray, and just enough of it bounces off molecular matter to provide a view of what's happening, and where.
Looking forward to the front, Phondesh could see that the target was a group of instruments used for navigation, including the altimeter, the compass and the GPS receiver.
Just then, the craft began to tilt this way and that.
He looked at the flight captain and his crew. He could see the sound waves in the air caused by their voices.
'What in heaven's name was that?' said one of them.
'I can only say that was no turbulent. Rajiv, you'd better check the auto pilot.'
'Something has gone haywire! The instruments!'
'I'll hold her steady. You try to see what's wrong with the instruments.'
Phondesh communicated to Zhondri. 'Can you keep track of the crystal probe following us?'
'Yes.'
'Try to deal with it somehow, while I fix the plane's navigation system.'
'All I can do is produce interference and weaken its effect.'
'Okay.'
Almost immediately, the dyni beam began to weaken. But just then the plane took a dip.
'Oh God! Captain! Pull the nose up!'
'I'm trying! Something's...'
'My God! There's a strange light following us. Do you think a UFO is trying to ...'
'There, I got it.'
The dyni beam was suddenly refocused on a network of fuel lines in a section that Phondesh knew would start a major fire in the cabin were they to explode. The beam, however diminished, was strong enough to do just that.
With a beam of his own, Phondesh applied equal and opposite force. He kept it up until the Glaat probe turned around and sped back to its sender.
Phondesh went to work on the navigation system. He was able to manipulate the positioning device by replacing the GPS signal with those of his own, and then repair some of the damage done by the Glaat dyni beam.
To give an accurate reading, the receiver had to be reset. On an impulse, Phondesh decided to adjust it so that instead of Karachi, they would now land in Peshawar. The plane was just small enough to land at the airport there.
