The War to Save the Worlds

by Samira Ahmed

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Samira Ahmed

  Illustrations © 2021 by Kim Ekdahl

  Map illustration © 2021 by Kathleen Jennings

  Cover art copyright © 2021 by Kim Ekdahl. Cover design by Karina Granda. Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  Hachette Book Group

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  First Edition: September 2021

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ahmed, Samira (Fiction writer), author.

  Title: Amira & Hamza : the war to save the worlds / Samira Ahmed.

  Other titles: Amira and Hamza

  Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2021. | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Summary: A genie informs twelve-year-old Amira and her younger brother Hamza that they are the chosen ones who must defeat a monstrous demon of Islamic folklore to save the Earth and a parallel dimension.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020043341 | ISBN 9780316540469 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316540490 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316540476 (ebook other)

  Subjects: CYAC: Brothers and sisters—Fiction. | Muslims—United States—Fiction. | Supernatural—Fiction. | Fate and fatalism—Fiction. | Good and evil—Fiction. | Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.A345 Am 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020043341

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-54046-9 (hardcover), 978-0-316-54049-0 (ebook), 9780316416610 (OwlCrate Jr.)

  E3-20210731-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1: When You Wish upon a Star

  CHAPTER 2: Please Do Not Touch (I Mean It!)

  CHAPTER 3: That’s No Moon!

  CHAPTER 4: Bleary Eyes, Scared Hearts, Probably Gonna Lose

  CHAPTER 5: This Is Our What Now?

  CHAPTER 6: I’m on Top of the World!

  CHAPTER 7: It’s Getting Hot in Here

  CHAPTER 8: The Element of No Surprise at All

  CHAPTER 9: Magical Horses Can’t Talk, Duh

  CHAPTER 10: This Illusion Is Real

  CHAPTER 11: Crystal Dragon Breath Really Stabs

  CHAPTER 12: Hindsight Is 40/40

  CHAPTER 13: Who Do You Think You Are?

  CHAPTER 14: Escape Room Rules

  CHAPTER 15: The Jinnternet Is Loading, You’ll Have to Wait

  CHAPTER 16: We’re on a Boat to Nowhere

  CHAPTER 17: Fool’s Gold

  CHAPTER 18: Do You Believe in Magic?

  CHAPTER 19: A Whole New World

  Author’s Note

  Further Reading

  Acknowledgments

  For Lena & Noah.

  You are the magic that brought this story to life.

  (You still can’t have ice cream before bed, though.)

  CHAPTER 1

  When You Wish upon a Star

  I DON’T BELIEVE IN WISHES.

  Not anymore.

  Wishes are for little kids and old-timey cartoon princesses and people who think a star in the night sky is actually a twinkly, enchanted jewel and not just a hot, glowing ball of gas.

  I wasn’t always like this. I used to make wishes when I blew out my birthday candles. And, maaaaybe, I still throw pennies into fountains (but I swear it’s only for very special occasions). And if I ever see an actual shooting star and not a bright speck of light that turns out to be an airplane in Chicago’s night sky, I might make a wish on it, because—hello!—seeing a shooting star in a city full of light pollution would basically be a miracle. But otherwise, I’m declaring that in this, my twelfth year of being alive, I am giving up on hoping and dreaming too hard for impossible things. Officially, precisely, this new life plan began yesterday afternoon at three PM, when I failed my karate test. Again.

  This is the slow-motion rewind that’s been looping through my brain every minute since then:

  I tighten my yellow belt before stepping onto the mat. A mustache of salty sweat paints my upper lip. Sensei approaches, towering above me, eyebrows furrowed. “Focus, Amira. You got this. Third time’s the charm.”

  I cringe. I’ve been trying to forget my other two failures to advance to orange belt. Ignoring my wobbly knees, I walk to the center of the mat and come eye to eye with my opponent. Or rather, eye to hairline, since I’m almost a full head taller than the little nine-year-old in front of me. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail wrapped with a pink glittery bow. I got this. I smile. She scowls back. I swear she almost snarls.

  It’s the longest three minutes of my life.

  “You hesitate, Amira. You make it too easy for your opponents to block you,” Sensei told me after my humiliating defeat. “Attack. Imagine yourself defeating them.”

  “But how? How can I imagine something I can’t do?” I asked.

  Sensei gave me one of his enigmatic smiles. “Stop being scared of your own power. You have the tools, but you need to believe here and here.” He pointed to his chest, then tapped his head.

  It’s the same old, out-of-tune song every adult sings: Believe in yourself. Fine. Okay. I do. My life is a believe-a-palooza. So why isn’t it enough?

  So, no more wishes on pretend stars. Technically, real stars are blazing spheres of plasma held together by gravity, which is not that different from us, really. I’m not giving up on those actual stars. Or the planets. Or the endless mysteries of the universe that I want to solve. Science is real. And failing is built into it. The scientific method expects failure. And failure is something I can succeed at.

  Every evening this summer, I’ve hauled my telescope onto our roof-deck, taking notes on whatever celestial bodies I could find. Chicago’s night skies are not the best for spotting constellations. But I did spy Mars once—a glowing red dot above the roofs in our Hyde Park neighborhood. Mostly, though, I study the moon—its craters, its bumps and bruises, its phases, how sometimes it looks like a wink and other times a sad, old face, full and hazy, low on the horizon over Lake Michigan. The moon is Earth’s BFF. A friend we can count on to always be there.

  All this lunar prep has been in anticipation of tonight. My single chance to experience a once-in-a-century, once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon: a supermoon, a blue moon, and a blood moon. All in one night. A celestial trifecta of awesomeness. An eclipse on the second full moon of the month while the moon is closer to us than at any other time in its orbit. It even looks red, hence the blood part. Personally, I think blood moon sounds a little gross, but it’s not like I named it. Anyway, some ancients thought this rare event predicted the end of the world; some of them thoug
ht it gave people indigestion. Whatever it brings on, I am beyond excited. I may be full-on skeptical about the magical idea of believing in wishes, but the magic of science is real.

  CHAPTER 2

  Please Do Not Touch (I Mean It!)

  “I WILL ANNIHILATE YOU!” I SCREAM AS A VOLLEY OF SMALL foam darts bounce off the back of my head. “Why did you bring that stupid gun to an eclipse-viewing party?” I growl at my younger brother, Hamza.

  Hamza shoves his neon-green plastic toy into his backpack. “It’s not a gun. Duh. It’s a zombie bowcaster, and I hacked two different weapons to build it. It’s genius.”

  “You’re not going to be battling zombies for a telescope,” I say.

  “No,” he says, “I’ll be battling nerds, like, I dunno? My sister? Who dragged me away from a critical point in my Lego Millennium Falcon build to come see a bunch of used tools that belonged to dead Muslim astrologers.”

  I elbow him. “Dude, it’s astronomy, not astrology. You know the difference, right?”

  Hamza scoffs. “I totally know the difference.”

  “Oh yeah, what is it?”

  He pauses for a second before answering. “One is about the study of the stars and planets, and the other is about… well… it’s the study of the stars and planets but with zodiac symbols.” One thing I sometimes kind of admire about my little brother—he never lets not knowing something prevent him from acting like he does. (But other times, it can be super annoying.)

  “Ugh. Read a book, Hamz.”

  “That’s enough, you two.” Ummi whips her head around to deliver her Death Stare™. We had parked the car, and Ummi and Papa were walking ahead of us on the sidewalk, their arms linked, so they didn’t catch Hamza’s foam-dart assault. Since kindergarten, that look of hers has always stopped me cold, made me apologize for things I hadn’t even done. But for some reason, it never works on Hamza. My dad once joked that my brother was made of Teflon, because everything slides right off him, especially rules and consequences. I kinda wish I was that way, too. But then again, my mom won’t cook anything on a nonstick Teflon frying pan because she says it’s toxic. So I guess there’s that, at least.

  “You know, there’s this old desi legend Nani used to tell me and your auntie.” My mom lowers her voice, making us hurry to catch up. “Bickering siblings must resolve their feuds or disputes before an eclipse passes. Or else.”

  “Or else what?” we respond in unison.

  Ummi shrugs and exchanges one of those smiles with Papa—a parent-know-it-all grin annoying to kids across the world. Papa bends down and kisses her on the cheek. He’s a foot taller and towers over our mom, but somehow she never seems small.

  Papa turns, raises an eyebrow at Hamza. “I wouldn’t pick on your sister if I were you; she could knock you out with a couple of well-timed karate blows.” I wince a little when Papa mentions karate.

  “The Dojo Koan says she can use her karate only for the greater good,” Hamza says, as if I need reminding about the oath I take every class.

  “Trust me, little brother, kicking your butt would be for the greater good,” I say, while my parents try to hide their laughter.

  Hamza is, well, Hamza. He has been since birth, so I’m not going to let his Hamza-ness ruin tonight. I’ve been counting down the days since the Islamic Society of Ancient Astronomy announced this exhibit to coincide with its eclipse-viewing party. There’s this medieval astrolabe made by al-Zarqali of Andalusia that is traveling to the United States for the first time. Ever. In, like, a thousand years. And I get to see it tonight. On the same night as the super blue blood moon. My nerd brain is ready to explode with excitement.

  We stop in front of the Medinah Temple—a squat, ornate building crowned by two domes that supposedly look Middle Eastern, I guess? Every time I pass it, it always feels out of place amid the towering glass downtown skyscrapers. Papa once explained that it was constructed over a hundred years ago in a mash-up of different Islamic architectural styles—lots of intricate, floral-patterned grilles and geometric shapes. And even though Arabic script frames the giant entrance, it wasn’t built by Arabs, North Africans, or Muslims, but by white Shriners. Or, as Ummi calls them, “people who freely appropriated other cultures and were probably wildly racist.” The building was actually going to be demolished, but a year ago an interfaith nonprofit bought it to try to build something diverse and inclusive in a space that was once anything but.

  As we enter the building, Hamza cranes his neck to glance upward at the calligraphy framing the doors. “What does the Arabic say again?”

  I know the answer, but I’m distracted by the moon, which seems unusually luminescent in the not-quite-night sky. I check my watch. The time seems off. We shouldn’t be able to see it like this, not yet.

  “There is no God but God,” our mom replies. “The start of the Shahadah? I can see those years of Islamic Sunday school have really paid off.” Can a voice sound like a raised eyebrow? If so, that’s what my mom’s voice is right now.

  I turn my attention away from the moon and to my family. “Can you imagine if actual Muslims wanted to build a building with the declaration of faith carved into it anywhere in America right now? People would totally say it was, like, terrorist headquarters.”

  My dad puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “You’re probably, right, kiddo. I wish it weren’t true. I wish I could snap the racism out of this world. But you know you are loved, and you are enough, and the bigots of the world don’t get to define us.”

  “Snapping away racists would have been an awesome use of the Infinity Stones!” Hamza says.

  I shake my head a little, then look up at my dad and give him a small smile.

  As we step through the entrance and into a grand hall with an enormous rotunda, we are greeted by a life-size wooden statue of a brown-skinned man in painted robes and a turban holding a flute close to his mouth. Hamza reaches out and pulls a lever next to the machine before any of us can stop him—if there is a button to be pushed or a lever to be pulled, count on Hamza to do it. The statue’s arm jerks upward, bringing the flute to its lips. Hamza and I both hop back in surprise. A hissing steam sound comes from inside, and a bright note soars out of the flute. The statue proceeds to play a short tune before stopping.

  Our mom claps her hands. “How delightful.” Then she reads out loud from the plaque at the foot of the automaton. “It’s based on a design from the Banu Musa’s Book of Ingenious Devices. They were brothers who were inventors and astronomers from the ninth century. It’s likely the first programmable machine.”

  “Whoa. That is actually really cool,” Hamza says, his mouth hanging open.

  “Dude, shut your mouth. I can see bits of candy bar stuck in your molars. Gross.”

  Hamza play-punches me in the arm, and I retaliate, perhaps a little stronger than necessary. “Ow!” Hamza yelps. “Mom, did you see that?”

  “Shhhh. You two. What did I tell you about the omen of bickering siblings? Don’t make me unretire the get-along T-shirt.” I can’t believe she’s threatening us with the consequence-of-last-resort so soon in the night. The get-along T-shirt is one of her proudest creations—a sewing machine Frankenstein’s monster of two XXL white undershirts with two heads but also only two armholes. In first and third grades, Hamza and I would fight all the time, so Ummi would make us wear the joint shirt until we at least pretended to like each other.

  We separate, and I head toward a display called Bayt al-Hikmah, or House of Wisdom. The placard says it was an institute for scholars and inventors in the eighth century in Baghdad. I scan the ancient, yellowed documents, and my eyes stop on a page of Arabic writing and what seem to be some calculations—Kitab al-Jabr—the book of al-Jabr, the father of algebra. “Al-Ja-br,” I sound out the name. “Al-ge-bra. No. Wait. Whoa! I could totally use this guy’s help in math next year,” I say aloud, and snort to myself.

  I look up to make sure no one—especially not Hamza—heard me say that. God, I am a nerd.
But Hamza’s attention is absorbed by a spherical astrolabe—a brass globe with metal bands around it. I hear him mutter something about Magneto and reversing Earth’s polarity. I shake my head. The kid is superpower obsessed.

  I see my parents and some other adults heading for the roof, and I quickly join them. There’s a tutorial on the use of the telescopes, and I don’t want to miss anything. The telescopes we are using tonight are way more sophisticated than what I have at home. I practically float up the stairs. I wonder if this is what it feels like when adults say things like they’re giddy with excitement. People are going to write about this night in astronomy books. Everywhere, in every country, millions, maybe billions, of people are talking about tonight’s moon. And I get a front-row seat from the best viewing spot in this hemisphere.

  The rooftop is packed with people, and we’re all crowding toward the stage, where a round-faced, smiling auntie in a dark blue hijab decorated with constellations is welcoming us. My mom leans over and whispers in my ear, “Where’s your brother?”

  I shrug.

  My dad tilts his head toward the door and raises an eyebrow. A sign for me to go find Hamza. Ugh. “I don’t want to miss anything,” I protest.

  “It’s okay, beta,” my mom says, squeezing my hand. “The director is going to say a few words before they start the tutorial. You’ll have time if you hurry.”

  I groan, loud enough for both of my parents to hear. I did not sign up to be my brother’s babysitter. Especially for free.

  I dash down the stairs back to the exhibit hall, which is pretty much empty now. I spy Hamza, bent over a small display case that is pushed up against the far wall as if a busy curator didn’t know what to do with it.

  I trudge over but stop short. Hamza has his back to me, so he hasn’t seen me yet, but he’s glancing around suspiciously. And then he opens the case and reaches in to pluck something out.

  “What are you doing?” I yell.

  Hamza doesn’t react, gazing at the artifact in his hand.