by N. H. Senzai
“Pray,” said Tarek, wringing his hands. “We all need to pray. . . .”
Nadia stood clutching the silver brooch, a gift that represented the great expectations that Ms. Darwish had had for her. Misplaced expectations, she thought bitterly.
“We also need guns,” muttered Basel, arms empty. His grandfather’s rifle was back on the cart. “Or an army or something . . .”
Something. The word caught in Nadia’s mind. What would Scheherazade do? She would come up with a clever story to distract the king. . . . “A story, we need a story,” she whispered.
The boys looked at her like she’d lost her mind.
“A story?” grumbled Basel. “That’s worse than just sitting around and praying!”
“No, no, we need to come up with a diversion, a kind of story to distract those jerks so we can take Jamila and the cart back.” Nadia’s shoulder’s straightened. She took a deep breath and glanced at Ammo Mazen, then to the bag he was leaning on. Phosphate . . . it’s phosphate, she thought, remembering her brother’s crazy experiments. “I have an idea,” she gasped, “but I need your help.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
October 13, 2013 12:11 a.m.
Nearly two hours later, everything was ready. At least, Nadia hoped and prayed it was. Basel had sneakily surveyed the parking lot half an hour before; the men had been cursing and fighting, trying to find a can opener. For now, Jamila was safe. But they had to act before the sun rose; their plan depended on the cover of darkness.
“You feeling okay about your part?” she asked Basel.
“Uh-huh,” he replied, patting the backpack slung over his shoulder.
“And you?” she asked Tarek.
“As ready as I’m going to be,” he said, nervously juggling the CD player and speakers.
Nadia nodded, hefting the dummy they’d constructed using burlap sacks from the warehouse. They exited the warehouse and headed into the darkness.
• • •
Thirteen minutes later, Nadia sat on the roof of the new building, overlooking the parking lot, the men, Jamila, and the cart. In another seventeen minutes their plan would go into action. For those brief minutes, she sat still, staring south, back toward her beloved Haleb, Aleppo, home. . . . Without power, the city was dark except for a few pinpricks of light, indicating the lucky neighborhoods with generators. What had taken five thousand years to build had taken less than two to ravage. What centuries of sieges, roving armies, mad kings, and natural disasters hadn’t been able to destroy had been demolished by its own people.
She wiped away a hot tear that ran down her cheek, and she turned back to the lot. There’s work to do. She adjusted the sheet over the dummy one last time. It looked nothing like the plain, dirty stretch of cotton she’d picked up at the souq to use as a cover. Under Basel’s magical fingers, it was a masterpiece: a frightful figure with blazing eyes, jagged teeth, and claws, drawn with pieces of charcoal. She double-checked the ropes that they’d used to rig it to the crane that leaned against the top of the building, and she peeked over the edge to see that the teens were still bickering, having finished off the cans of food. Thankfully, Jamila stood quietly, tied at the edge of the lot.
Somewhere down there Tarek was setting up the CD player and speakers while Basel was busy with his task, transporting the six aluminum packets, each the size of a Pepsi can, in his backpack. The packets contained a mixture of sugar and phosphate, carefully cooked in an iron skillet they’d found at a tea shop; they’d also scavenged aluminum and other supplies, from the abandoned restaurants. The recipe was simple, one Jad had found on the Internet the day Nadia had helped with their experiment. Once the sugar and phosphate cooked down to a dark bubbling mass, Tarek had poured the goop into aluminum foil packets. Basel then quickly inserted a length of long rope to serve as the fuse before the substance hardened.
Nadia hoped Basel had made it around the perimeter of the lot and placed the packets under the broken-down cars. After he completed his task, he was to get as close to Jamila as he could.
“Come on,” whispered Nadia, looking for the telltale sign that he’d succeeded. Only then could she and Tarek put their part of the plan in play. The seconds passed with agonizing slowness, but there, down below, Nadia spotted six flames flicker to life.
Basel had lit the ends of the fuses. Sparks ran along the lengths of rope toward the aluminum packets, which erupted in flames. Adrenaline raced through Nadia as she moved toward the crane, watching plumes of thick white smoke rise from the parking lot. Then Nadia heard the screaming, coupled with harsh, guttural howls: the heavy metal CD, played on slow mode. The sound wasn’t as loud as she’d hoped, but it caught the attention of the men below.
Good, she thought, pushing the dummy out over the parking lot and letting the rope swing it back and forth.
“Hey,” shouted a confused voice. “What’s going on?”
“Get up, you idiots!” the leader bellowed.
Nadia couldn’t help but grin as the frightful figure flew through the thick smoke, seemingly screaming like an evil jinni. Shouts and coughing filled the parking lot, then the loud crack of a gunshot.
“Don’t shoot, you idiot,” someone shouted through the howls and screams. “You’ll hit one of us.”
Time to go, Nadia thought, racing down the stairs. As she exited the empty building toward the warehouse, a truck engine rumbled to life in the vicinity of the parking lot. Before she could step out onto the road, someone pulled her into the shadows.
“It’s me,” whispered Tarek, just as a truck careened past, packed with cursing, coughing teens. Once the taillights of the truck disappeared, Nadia and Tarek raced toward the dark warehouse.
Light from the flashlight revealed Ammo Mazen where they’d left him. And beside him, curled up, was Mishmish. Before Nadia could grab the cat for a hug, a familiar brown muzzle slipped through the door, followed by the cart and Basel.
“You did it!” cried Nadia, running to give him a tight hug.
“Yeah,” he said, voice muffled in her coat. “It was easy. I just cut her loose and we snuck back through the smoke.”
“Way to go, kid,” Tarek said, thumping him on the back.
Nadia moved to pet Jamila and held out a bit of sugar she’d saved from making the smoke bombs. But before Jamila took it from her hand, the faithful donkey hurried to the old man’s side, nuzzling his face, her ears twitching.
“He’ll be okay, girl,” said Nadia, with more confidence than she felt. “Let’s get him on the cart and covered with blankets.”
Tarek nodded. “They might come back looking for us.”
Jamila gently stepped forward, as if she knew she shouldn’t jostle her precious cargo.
“You’re a good girl,” Nadia whispered into her ear, rubbing her shoulder. “The best companion.”
• • •
Nadia remembered Ammo Mazen’s warning to avoid the main roads as she pulled out the compass. They stayed parallel to the main highway, leaving the industrial complex behind. This route was familiar, as her family had come this way to picnic in the countryside for generations. Those picnics seemed like a lifetime ago.
“No towns or villages,” said Tarek, squinting toward a sign for the city of Andan. “We don’t know who’s controlling them, and we don’t want to find out.”
“Come on, girl,” Nadia whispered in Jamila’s ear, as the sun rose along the horizon. “Let’s get your master to safety.” Ignoring the ache in her leg, she led them along a dusty path that wound its way through fields and olive groves, taking cover when they heard the sound of helicopters or the scream of jets above.
“Anything happening to the north?” asked Nadia.
“There is action over there,” said Basel, pointing east. Clouds of black smoke billowed into the sky, and they could see a MiG fighter jetflying high above.
They heard, then felt, the thud of bombs falling, which Nadia quickly calculated was over ten miles away. Once the sky was clear, they
moved on, the only living thing in their path a herd of sheep.
After they had walked for what seemed like hours, the terrain turned rocky and they spotted a village sitting on a low hill.
“Wait,” said Nadia, stopping behind a line of scraggly bushes. She shielded her eyes and squinted at the small group of buildings.
“It looks deserted,” said Tarek, eyeing a well at the village’s edge.
Nadia licked her parched lips. They hadn’t had time to load up on water.
Basel doodled in the sand with his finger as a tiny head popped up from beneath upturned roots. “Look, it’s a rat,” he muttered.
“No,” said Nadia, staring at the familiar honey-colored fur. “It’s a hamster.”
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“My cousin Razan told me,” explained Nadia, aching at the thought of her bossy cousin. “She was studying to be a veterinarian at the university and was always bringing home weird stuff like bones and pelts. Once she brought a hamster skeleton and told me they’re native to Syria but ended up as pets all over the world.”
“Do they taste good?” asked Basel, causing her and Tarek to burst out in laughter.
“Come on,” said Nadia. “It’s abandoned.”
It was a small farm village, empty of inhabitants. With a few empty plastic bottles in hand, they filled up on water.
“His breathing is becoming more strained,” said Tarek as Basel dribbled a few drops on Ammo Mazen’s lips. Nadia pressed her ear against his chest to hear his heart—faint but beating. His breathing had become shallower and he was still unconscious.
“Come on,” she said.
They ascended another gentle hill, and Nadia paused as she looked down into the narrow valley, rubbing her leg to try to squeeze out the pain.
“Wow,” said Basel, staring down at the ruins of an ancient stone city that spread out below them.
“I’ve heard of places like this,” mused Tarek. “Dead cities. There’s supposed to be hundreds of them on the outskirts of Aleppo.”
“This one is called Kharab Shams,” said Nadia, jaw clenched. “That church, from Byzantium times, is nearly two thousand years old.”
Basel examined the gray stone shell of the two-story church, with its sloping triangular roof and curved arches, and whistled. “That’s pretty old.”
“My family used to come here for picnics,” continued Nadia, staring at the series of homes, bathhouses, and temples. “All of us sat there,” she added, pointing to a grassy knoll where they’d sat on a blanket, eating sandwiches and playing cards, afterward exploring the ruins.
“What wonderful memories you have,” said Tarek, a contemplative look on his face.
Startled, Nadia looked at him. “Yes, I do have those.”
Basel scooted over to her and gave her a one-armed hug. Before he could step away, Nadia ruffled his hair and wiped her nose with a sniff.
• • •
They had been walking for more than eight hours, with a break to rest in between. Now the sun was high in the sky. They’d skirted the nondescript town of Ibbin, which they’d spotted on the map, and were nearing a highway, which they needed to cross to continue north. Tarek recited a prayer as they approached the dusty black strip of road, where a line of wrecked military vehicles lay abandoned.
“Do you see anything?” asked Nadia, squinting from one end of the road to the other.
“It looks clear,” said Basel.
“We just need to get across,” said Nadia. About a mile down they could see a grove of trees.
“Let’s go, then,” said Tarek, gently patting Jamila.
Over the lip of the road they went, crossing the lanes until they’d made it to the other side. Exhausted but feeling hopeful, they found a flat, chalky road that wove alongside a vacant farm. Nadia grabbed a wild stalk of barley and chewed on one end, enjoying the fresh, herby taste.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” announced Basel, as they veered toward the privacy of the trees.
They wove through a set of heavy pines, then abruptly stopped. In a clearing stood two army tanks, Jeeps, and over two dozen bedraggled men. A red, white, and black flag flew above them, identifying them as a Syrian army battalion.
Chapter Thirty-Three
October 13, 2013 10:48 a.m.
Children,” called out a surprised voice.
Nadia saw a man in the stained khaki uniform of a high-ranking officer, a line of badges pinned to his chest, push through the men. We’re going to die . . . , she thought bleakly as he strode toward them.
“Should we run?” whispered Basel.
“No,” hissed Nadia, clutching her father’s olive-green cap. “It’ll make it worse.”
“Children,” repeated the mustached officer as he hurried toward them. “What are you doing here?”
Knees shaking, Nadia stepped forward. “We . . . we’re lost. And our grandfather is sick. . . . We need a doctor.”
The man took off his cap and sighed, a look of strain pulling down his cheeks. He glanced back at his men. They looked exhausted and . . . and something else. Heartbroken. The officer moved toward the cart to look at the old man. “You should not be here,” he said. “A battle is coming, and there are foreign fighters pushing in from the east.”
Nadia nodded, not knowing what to say. She hoped he’d just tell them to get lost.
“There is a village about two hours’ walk north of here,” he said. “It is called Shams. There is a healer there who may be able to help your grandfather.”
Nadia’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “A healer?”
“Yes, up that way,” he said, pointing past the trees, beyond the barley fields. “Just follow the dirt road and take a right at the cemetery. If you see the outskirts of the city of Azaz, you’ve gone too far.”
“Thank you,” stammered Nadia.
“We can go?” asked Basel incredulously.
“Yes, yes,” said the man, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Go quickly. And watch out for the black flags flown by those ruthless foreign bastards. If you see them, hide.”
• • •
It was late afternoon when they came upon the village of Shams. It wasn’t much more than a cluster of small buildings and homes constructed of mud bricks. Nadia pulled Jamila to a halt at the edge of an overgrown field so they could investigate. It was similar to all the other farming villages they’d passed, idle and rundown. Empty. She would have thought this one was abandoned too, if it hadn’t been for the threads of smoke coming from a few of the houses. Slowly, they walked on, noticing curtains rustling in the windows as they passed. When they neared the middle of town, doors cracked open, revealing half a dozen elderly souls with wary eyes.
A stooped woman in a long colorful dress came out of her house at the end of the street. Her white scarf framed a face that was a road map of deep grooves. “What are you children doing here?” she asked, voice raspy.
“Salaam alaikum, grandmother,” said Nadia. “Our grandfather, he was taking us to Turkey, but he got sick. We were told there is a healer here.”
“I am Umm Anous, the healer,” said the woman. Slowly she approached the cart, and inspected Ammo Mazen. He had woken once, taken a sip of water, and fallen back into a deep sleep. “Bring him to my house,” the woman ordered.
She soon had Ammo Mazen in a low wooden bed. Jamila brayed and kicked at the door until she too was allowed inside. She stood watch over the old man, nuzzling his head while Mishmish curled up against his side.
“How is he?” asked Tarek.
“Can you give him some medicine?” added Basel.
“From what I can see, this is no simple ailment,” said Umm Anous, holding Ammo Mazen’s wrist.
“Wait,” said Nadia. She ran out to the cart, praying it was still there. She dug through the back of the cart, now a disorganized jumble. Shoving aside his tools and equipment, she found the familiar leather bag. She paused and stared at the secret compartment. Then she pull
ed it open and removed everything, including the gun, and tucked it into her coat pocket.
As the old woman examined the bottles, Nadia quietly put Ammo Mazen’s possessions inside her backpack and pushed it under the bed.
“These are pain relievers and sedatives,” said Umm Anous. “Barely a balm for what truly ails him.”
“What’s wrong with him?” croaked Nadia, remembering all the times she’d seen him take pills over the past few days.
“It looks like he has been ill for a long time,” said Umm Anous.
Basel squeezed Nadia’s hand. “But will he be okay?” he asked.
“I do not have anything that will cure him,” said Umm Anous with a sigh.
“We have to get him to Turkey,” said Nadia. “They will have doctors that can help him there.”
“You must let him rest while I make him a restorative broth,” said the woman, drawing a thick quilt over him. “When he wakes, we can make a plan.”
• • •
The old woman led them into a field behind the village. A small garden lay hidden behind shrubs and wooden lattices, which served as protection from marauding soldiers. While Umm Anous and the boys dug through the rich soil, the color of henna, for potatoes and beets, Nadia stood still, her mind on Ammo Mazen, who’d woken up long enough to swallow the broth of restorative herbs. He’d asked where they were and, upon learning that they were safe, dropped back to sleep. Elated that he was getting better, she took in a deep, calming breath, catching a familiar scent. Petrichor, her father had called it, she remembered from their conversation on the balcony so long ago. It was the scent produced when rain reacted with the earth. The word had Greek roots—petra, “stone,” and ichor, “blood.”
“Before the drought, you could see lush fields of wheat and barley for miles in every direction,” said the old woman, lost in the memory.
“My father said the drought is caused by climate change,” said Nadia.
“I do not know about such fancy words,” said the woman, smiling. “All I know is that nearly seven years ago, it stopped raining. And once the water disappeared, my son and other young people went to the city to find jobs.”
