The War to Save the Worlds

by Samira Ahmed

  “Hamza!” I yell. “Watch it.”

  “Cursing in Urdu doesn’t count,” Hamza snaps back. “Besides… a little busy over here trying not to get skewered.”

  “I didn’t mean the swearing! I meant watch out for the pointy-stick thingy aiming for your eye.”

  “Shush, both of you,” the louder voice booms again. “Or I will instruct the army to subdue you.”

  Hamza and I shut our mouths and stop moving. I do not want to be impaled by levitating skewers wielded by invisible creatures. And, wait, did the voice say army?

  “My Vizier, perhaps a gentler approach?” the kindergarten teacher voice asks.

  There’s a harrumph, and I’m dropped to the ground.

  “Ow!” I yell, standing up and rubbing my backside. “He said gentler.”

  Hamza is placed, standing up, on the ground next to me. He looks at me and grins like getting let down easier means he won the make-the-nightmare-voices-be-nicer-to-us game.

  I open my mouth to speak, but before any words can come out, I see a flash of silver and feel something like a cool gel pen streaking my eyelid. I flinch, my eyelids trying to bat away the, uh, ink? What the…

  “Hey,” Hamza says, “stop with the eyeliner. Wait. Is this poison makeup?” Hamza squeezes his eyes shut and starts rubbing them.

  My own eyes get watery, and as I blink away the tears, blurry shapes slowly come into view.

  “Now, was that so bad?” the kindergarten-voiced, uh… person or whatever, who happens to be holding the silver skewers, asks.

  My jaw drops, like, to the floor, exposing my tonsils to the world. My voice catches in my throat. I blink, then blink again. “Hamza. Hamza,” I whisper, “open your eyes.”

  A creature—twice as big as the tallest person I’ve ever met—is standing in front of the immense, ornate gold throne. He’s dressed similarly to the men in the paintings in the exhibit—a fancy variation on the kurta pajamas we usually wear to Eid. A long navy-blue tunic of raw silk with a pattern of paisleys in gold embroidery, a white silken sash tied at his waist, fitted gold pants ending in maroon velvet khussa slippers with bronze-tipped ends that curl toward his ankles. The entire outfit is topped by a violet cloak with a band collar that reaches to his jaw.

  He has a large face: wide nose and lips drawn into a forced smile. Oh, and he is blue. Bright, royal blue and semitransparent.

  Hamza and I uncharacteristically grab for each other. So either this is an indigestion-fueled Aladdin genie nightmare or we’re dead.

  A hundred or more creatures flank his throne—all of them with skin, if you can call it skin, of varying shades of vivid blues, reds, oranges, and yellows. They’re all ghostlike, their edges bleeding into the air in waves emanating from their bodies, like when you apply too much watercolor to a bumpy canvas.

  This is not how I imagined death. I imagined it all light at the end of the tunnel and light as a feather and less Chicago street at night facing multicolored… umm… creatures. No. I should call them what they are, even if the word scares me. They’re jinn. The loud, bossy voice threatened us with an actual jinn army. So we have a lot more than words to be scared of.

  We’re all staring at one another. Not saying a word. Awkward. Finally, a goose-necked, long-armed, nearly translucent orange jinn—the one holding the silver skewers—steps toward us. Now that I can see them more clearly—they’re not exactly like barbecue skewers—one end is shaped like a leaf and has an engraving on it. It makes me think of the old, tarnished silver kohl pot my nani used to keep on her dresser. She would dip a silver stick into the pot of black eyeliner to spread it across her lids.

  The orange long-necked jinn is also wearing glasses. Thick black plastic, nerdy dad glasses. Hamza and I both lean back at the same time. The orange jinn clears his throat and raises his eyebrows (jinn have eyebrows, I guess?) at the Hulk-large blue jinn, who also clears his throat. I didn’t realize that coming face-to-face with actual, real, live jinn involved this much mucus clearing.

  “Oh… yes. Yes. Introductions. I am Abdul Rahman, jinn Vizier to the Emperor of Qaf, King of Kings, Ruler of the Eighteen Realms, Holder of the Peacock Throne, Protector of the World Between Worlds, the mighty Shahpal bin Shahrukh. I command battalions of his jinn army, some of whom you see before you. Fear not. We do not come to harm you, but to implore you for help.” Simultaneously, the jinn around him take a knee and bow their heads when he speaks the emperor’s name.

  My eyebrows shoot up. WHAT? I mean, I know what jinn are—beings of smokeless fire. Besides Nani’s tales of mysterious moving objects, my great uncle in India told me stories about jinn hauntings. How they shape-shift and can possess people and animals and even trees. After giving me a long grammar lesson about how the word jinn could be both singular and plural, a great aunt told me about an entire jinn city built in an abandoned well of her childhood home in Hyderabad. I was so freaked out I couldn’t sleep the rest of the trip. I was only eight. Then, one of my cousins tried to make me feel better by telling me a story about a protector jinn that took the shape of a snake and slept under his bed. Did. Not. Work.

  But an entire army of jinn? Shape-shifting fire demons with weapons? Not in stories, but in real, actual life? No. No. No. Hard pass. This has to be a nightmare. I can feel my brain circuitry overloading, because there is absolutely no logical explanation for this. None. Zero. Giant neon words flash across my mind: DANGER, AMIRA MAJID. DANGER.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hamza. He’s pulled away from me and is now bent over, shoulders shaking. I step closer to him without taking my eyes off the blue and orange jinn, who, in turn, can’t seem to take their fiery eyes off Hamza.

  “Hamz. Hamz,” I whisper, placing my hand on his back. Oh God. He’s totally losing it. AND SO AM I! But I’m trying to stay calm, using my karate breathing.

  Hamza slowly unfolds himself to standing, and when I look at his tear-streaked face, I realize… he’s laughing. Laughing.

  “I’m sorry.… I’m sorry, but did you say he’s the Emperor of Cough? Cough! Is he also the King of Sneeze?”

  I… I… he’s bananas. The world is probably going to end, and Hamza is cracking jokes and cackling in front of an army of multicolored, flaming-eyed jinn. The only upside to this turn of events is that now I know this is actually real. Reality is something I can deal with. Besides, my brother is never this annoying in my dreams, only in real life. Fear and confusion pulse through me. I eye an alley not far from us. Maybe we can make a dash for it. We have to run, get away. But where would we even go? Who could we run to for help? I try to clear my mind, assess our surroundings and our enemy. (Opponent? Jinn? Army? People?)

  Then I hear soft laughter. It’s not Hamza. His laughter is both infectious and loud. It’s the jinn. The smaller orangey one, the one with glasses, is chuckling. He makes eye contact with Hamza, and suddenly they’re both howling. Oh my God. What is happening? My brother’s soul mate is an orange jinn?

  I elbow Hamza and whisper, “Cut it out.”

  Abdul Rahman turns his enormous head toward the orange jinn and raises his squished-caterpillar eyebrows.

  “My Vizier, the human is making a joke. A joke! How delicious. We simply don’t have enough jokey wordplay in Qaf. So serious. So much drama.” The orange jinn grins wide, and his black plastic half-moon glasses begin to slip from his nose; he pushes them back.

  “Wearing glasses is such a pain,” Hamza says to the orange jinn after their laughter fades away. My brother doesn’t even wear real glasses! Only, like, when he’s cosplaying Clark Kent or something.

  Abdul Rahman and I exchange looks, our eyes wide in disbelief as my brother and the other jinn discuss keeping glasses in place. I think this is what my parents feel like when one of us does something so ridiculous or dangerous that they’re too shocked to speak. (To be clear, it is almost never me who’s risking injury to life and limb.)

  Hamza continues, ignoring my Death Stare™, “Why don’t you get contacts? Or why don’
t you use magic to improve your eyesight? You do have… magic? Or powers? Or something, right?”

  The orange jinn sighs. Looks almost wistful. “Would that we could. Unfortunately, since we’re beings of smokeless fire, we would need flameproof contacts, which no one has invented yet. However, the polymers used for our glasses are highly heat resistant! And, sadly, we don’t have any magic that works against old age. We do age, like humans, but much, much slower. Speaking of elderly ailments, I think my sciatica is acting up.” He rubs his backside.

  “Bummer.” Hamza shrugs. “You should try Tiger Balm. Our nani swore by that stuff. Totally reeks, though.”

  “My deep gratitude for the pain-relief tip. I’m Maqbool, by the way, aide-de-camp to the vizier and eternal servant to the King of Kings.” He bows deeply before us. “It is my honor to meet you.” Then, turning to Abdul Rahman, he adds, “Perhaps my Vizier should also consider wearing his glasses? I find mine quite helpful. You know, for reading things, like recipes, or, perhaps, ancient scrolls with important prophecies.”

  “Glasses are absolutely unnecessary. I have perfect forty-forty vision,” Abdul Rahman scoffs, folding his arms across his barrel chest and sticking out his lower lip like a toddler who’d been denied a second helping of ice cream (or, maaaybe like me, but only when my mom tells me I have to get the kid-size shake, as if).

  Who knew old jinn could be so dramatic?

  Hamza looks at me and mouths, “Forty-forty vision?”

  “Vanity is the enemy of dignity,” Maqbool whispers under his breath as he steps behind Abdul Rahman. “These kids should have seen us immediately,” Maqbool mutters and shakes his head. “They shouldn’t have needed more of the collyrium of Suleiman. The Chosen One was marked at birth. Once in a life is meant to be enough.”

  “What’s collyrium? Who’s Suleiman?” Hamza asks.

  Abdul Rahman whips his head around, like a literal 360 degrees, his nostrils flaring and actual fire in his eyes, clearly about to chastise someone. My mom gets that same nostril flare (flames not included). “Do humans know nothing? Suleiman the Wise, he who could command jinn? His collyrium is a type of ointment for the eyes that expands mortal vision, allowing humans to see jinn and—”

  I shake my head to wake myself up, to get myself into the now, to find my voice, which is apparently hiding in the depths of my belly. I need a bravery falsetto. A bralsetto. Fake it till you make it, Amira. “Stop! Everyone. Now. If this is real… if we’re really not dead, then someone needs to explain themselves. Right. Now. And when I say someone, I’m looking at you, Abdul Rahman. Vizier… Sahib? Sir Jinn?” I’m trying to channel my mom when she is in one of her righteous-anger moods—usually when she’s watching the news and swearing at the TV when she doesn’t think we’re listening to her. But my mom has way more fire than I do, and my flame starts to flicker.

  Hamza jumps in to help. “Yeah. If you really aren’t here to hurt us, then why do you have an army and flames in your eyes? And that jeweled dagger in your belt, uh, sash thingy?” Hamza points to an ivory hilt swirled with pearls and emeralds that hangs at the vizier’s side. “You’re basically a cartoon villain right now.” Hamza has always been drawn to weapons. Even as a kid, somehow every stick he picked up looked suspiciously like a blaster.

  “And why are our parents unconscious on the roof? What did you do to them?” I quickly add.

  Abdul Rahman’s blue face turns a reddish hue, making him look almost purple. Is he… flustered? Are feelings a thing for shape-shifting beings of smokeless fire? As I’m watching his face change shades, I also notice that he and the other jinn seem to be taking on more shape, their edges and lines becoming more defined. They’re still sort of translucent but seem more solid. Real. Earthly. Maybe it’s the effects of our atmosphere or maybe this collyrium thing actually works and I’m finally starting to focus.

  Maqbool turns to Abdul Rahman and then kicks him in the shin.

  “Ow!” the blue jinn yells at his aide-de-camp. (Note to self: Jinn can feel pain.)

  “Oops! A thousand pardons, my Vizier. My foot slipped. This planet’s gravitational pull disrupts my reflex control,” Maqbool says, clearing his throat. “Perhaps we should tell Amira and Hamza the entire story?”

  “You know our names?” I ask. “How?”

  Abdul Rahman takes a deep breath. Do jinn breathe? Oxygen? Fire needs oxygen to burn, so… I guess physics works for supernatural beings, too? “You are the children of Adam and Eve, who will save the land of Qaf—”

  Hamza giggles when he hears the name Qaf, again. I’m really starting to think he can’t help himself. Like it’s a unique humor disorder that only he has. I take a cue from Maqbool and gently kick Hamza in the foot. Maqbool laughs and shakes his head. I have a feeling humans really amuse him. Especially my brother.

  Abdul Rahman continues, “Centuries ago, a prophecy was written in the Everlasting Scroll of a great war that would divide the Eighteen Realms and could very well end life on Earth.”

  “Holy—” Hamza begins.

  “Whoa!” I interject. “Go back. Do you even know how to tell a story? You went from the beginning to the end with literally zero details.”

  “Perhaps my Vizier would permit me to continue?” Maqbool asks as he brings his right hand to his heart. Or heart area, at least? Abdul Rahman nods. Maqbool gazes at us, smiles warmly, and begins. “Forgive my Vizier. He has not interacted with humans for many centuries. And because the land of Qaf is a place where time is not linear, where neither past nor present exist in the ways humans understand them, his storytelling skills are a bit lacking.”

  “You’re hardly a spry young jinn yourself,” bellows Abdul Rahman.

  “With respect, I am still two centuries younger than you and visited with humans but a hundred Earth years ago,” Maqbool continues, winking at us. “Think of Qaf as a parallel dimension—the universe of jinn, peris, devs, ghuls—eighteen realms united under a single king—the great Shahpal bin Shahrukh, who rules with a firm but fair hand that has allowed Qaf to exist in peace. And so, too, the land of mortals.”

  We step closer together. Hamza seems to be shivering, and my fingers feel like ice despite the warmth that grows around us, coming in waves off the jinn.

  “Do I even want to know what all those other things are?” Hamza blurts out.

  “We are all creatures of fire, but with different traits and abilities. Some use the word jinn to encompass all such beings,” Maqbool explains.

  “Oooh! Chaos cousins,” Hamza shouts, then tries for a deep, narrator voice: “A world on fire… a family ablaze.”

  I ignore Hamza’s movie-trailer voice-over attempt. “A peri is kind of like a fairy. Do you seriously not remember any of the Urdu lullabies Mom sang us?” I ask. “Like the sleep fairy one?”

  “Yes. Yes. The Neend Peri!” Abdul Rahman cheers. “She is the one who put your parents and the rest of the world to sleep.”

  “The whole world is asleep?” I gulp. “Every single human? Is that why all the cars are stopped and…” I pause. Oh no. “What about the airplanes? Did they all crash?” I suddenly feel very light-headed.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Hamza says, clutching his stomach.

  “Do not puke on me, bro.” I jump back.

  “My Vizier, you’re scaring them,” Maqbool quickly chimes in. “Children, no one has been hurt. It is as if the world is in suspended animation—nothing has fallen from the sky. All that was in the air is cloaked, if you will. Neend Peri put all earthly beings under a sleep enchantment—consider it a type of pause—so they will seem dead when the ghuls and devs—demons—break through the moon and try to overrun Earth.”

  I think my blood just stopped circulating. “Umm… is this you trying to not totally freak us out? Because it is one hundred percent not working.”

  Abdul Rahman sighs, and the earth beneath us quakes a little. He seems a little exasperated. “The moon is a stopper—a plug between worlds. The Emperor of Qaf is the guardian
of that stopper. He placed it there many millennia ago after the Great Celestial War between the beings of Qaf that ripped the fabric between our worlds. But now Ifrit, a terrible and cruel dev, is leading a rebellion against our king. He has promised each realm a piece of the moon—their own portal to Earth—if they join him. Many have already fallen under his maleficent influence. One portion has already broken asunder. If Ifrit tears the moon apart, devs and ghuls will stream through the membrane between our worlds and wreak havoc on Earth. The emperor is already in retreat. The two of you must face Ifrit in battle and defeat him.”

  What the… I fall to my knees and bury my face in my hands. Hamza plops down beside me and leans his shoulder into mine. I hear him sniffle. This can’t be real. But it is real. It can’t be. It shouldn’t be. My body feels like it’s on fire but also freezing. My brain can’t form a single thought, but also fireworks are going off in my mind. And not the pretty red heart-shaped kind that get set off over Navy Pier every summer weekend, the kind that can malfunction and blow your hand off. I squeeze my eyes shut. I want my mom and dad here so bad right now.

  I hear Hamza choke back a sob. When I open my eyes, it’s still just us. And an army of jinn on an otherwise lifeless street in front of us.

  Maqbool leans over us. “I am deeply sorry, children.” His voice is soft, and he looks into my eyes like he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. Correction—who I’m thinking about. “You’ll have to say goodbye to your parents. Only you can defeat Ifrit and end the war in Qaf. You are the last, best hope for your people and ours.”

  “But… I’m not a warrior.… I’m twelve.” My voice breaks. “All I want is for Ummi and Papa to wake up. Find someone else to help you. Someone more qualified for the position. Maybe someone who actually wants it.”

  “Yeah, like adults. Or, you know, heroes who’ve been strengthened by gamma rays or that have vibranium weapons or are mythical demigods. Not kids.” Hamza stands and takes a deep, shuddery breath, then reaches for my hand and pulls me up. Together we turn to face the hulking jinn—or, rather, his belly.