by Samira Ahmed
Ifrit begins descending the stairs toward us. Hamza and I exchange terrified looks and both take a few steps back, but the balcony isn’t that big. There is no place to hide.
He points an accusatory pink finger at us. “How were you able to breach the barriers before you, small humans. You are humans?”
“We are the champions of Qaf.… defenders of Earth. And we’re not that small. The doctor says I’m in the sixtieth percentile for height,” Hamza begins strong, but by the end, his voice is a squeak.
I step in. Fake it till you make it. Fake it till you make it. The simurgh believes, I might as well believe. “We are the ones you’ve been waiting for. I mean, we’re the ones we’ve been waiting for. That’s technically how the saying goes. But you were also waiting for us. And stuff.” Wow. I’m not good at faking it. No wonder I only get cast as “silent townsperson” in school plays.
Ifrit strokes his waist-long indigo beard, then opens his mouth and roars. With laughter. He’s cackling. At us. Rude! He turns his back to us and starts pacing back and forth across the width of the balcony, talking more to himself than us. “These? Children? Are the ones I feared? All these centuries. I waited. Biding my time, building my armies, to throw Qaf into chaos so that I could rip the moon apart. One piece cut away as each realm falls.” Ifrit pauses and passes his fingers lightly over the diamond-crusted hilt of a blade, which I guess must be the Peerless Dagger. He looks back up, narrowing his eyes, and continues, “I made my entire life’s purpose to avenge my father and destroy the human savior, Amir A. Hamza, the storied warrior. The legend. And this”—he points that pink index finger at us again—“this is who Shahpal bin Shahrukh sent to seek me? Defeat me?” He throws his head back and laughs. “Shahpal must be most desperate, indeed.” He’s hooting so much he has to bend over and grab his knees.
I get that this mistaken-identity thing is sort of funny, maybe ironic, but it’s not bend-over, wet-your-pants, cry-your-eyes-out hilarious, which is what, apparently, Ifrit thinks.
Hamza and I exchange glances, and Sensei’s words come back to me: Imagine yourself defeating your opponent. No matter their size, surprise and focus are your friends. Believe in yourself.
While Ifrit is bowled over with uncontrollable fits of laughter—I swear I saw orange snot squirt out of his long, skinny nose (gross!)—I assess our surroundings. The path to the turret stairs is clear, and if one of us can get up there, we’ll have a strategic advantage from the tower. Higher ground gives you an advantage, Sensei says. I motion to Hamza to switch weapons. I grab his dagger and hand him my sword.
Ifrit leans over the balcony. I guess he hasn’t laughed in a million years and really needs to get it out? Tears fill his eyes, making them cloud over. Golden rivulets splash down his face, and his tears plunk to the balcony floor like golden beads; from each bead, a tiny tree begins to grow. Right there, on the balcony. I guess his tears are like fool’s gold. Since Ifrit’s momentarily blurry-eyed, I nudge Hamza—now’s his chance. He flattens himself against the cliff wall and scurries up the stairs to a balcony under a double minaret. The second of the round towers sticks out at an odd angle from the first. Like the landscape, the architecture in this place is all weird and asymmetric.
They told us Ifrit’s mom created this tilism from his tears to hide him from the prophecy after Suleiman defeated his father. I wonder if he was alone here the whole time, if, as a kid, his randomly plunked tears are what made this place so bizarre and misshapen.
Focus, Amira! This might be your only chance. Surprise is your friend.
With Ifrit bent over, wiping away the golden stream of his laugh-crying, I know this is my moment. I swear my heart is going to explode out of my chest; sweat pours down my back. There is no deodorant in the world strong enough to conceal the literal smell of my fear right now. I close my eyes. For a tiny moment, I see my mom and my dad. I see myself pushing Hamza in a baby swing when he was a toddler. I hear my mom cheering as seven-year-old me rides my bike down the block for the first time. I feel my dad’s arm around my shoulder as he looks at the moon through my new telescope on a cool, crisp night. I don’t just see those moments. I feel them. I feel the love bursting out of every single one. I open my eyes.
I take a deep breath and charge.
And then it’s like I’m watching myself outside of my body. Am I dead? Did his golden tears kill me? Wait, have I been dead this whole time? My body moves without my brain even telling it what to do. I feel my right hand curl into a tight fist. Energy pulses through my muscles, my legs like springs, all my rage and fear and anger flowing through my fist, and I shock Ifrit with a hard, high punch, a seiken jodan zuki to the bridge of his nose while he’s still partially bent over, using his vulnerable body positioning and change in center of gravity to my advantage. When my fist connects with his face, I hear a satisfying crack, and a river of green blood bursts from his nose. He howls, and every bone in my hand stings. But I don’t stop. I don’t retreat. While his right hand tries to stop the blood flowing down his face, I press forward with a seiken chudan zuki punch to his solar plexus, which throws his balance off.
I can’t believe this is me. I can’t believe I’m doing it. I’m doing it. From above, I hear Hamza cheering me on. “Finish him, sis!”
With Ifrit flailing around and his nose still bleeding, I feel my adrenaline spike. My heart races, and for a moment, the scene slows. I hear everything—the squish and ooze of his green blood as it pools at his feet, and the swoosh as it flows around the tiny golden tear-trees. I hear the plink of the last of his teardrops that bead up on the balcony floor, and I feel the blood seeping through the faux-gold surface, turning it muddy, softening the structure. There’s a rustle of wind blowing wisps of hair across my face, and I stretch my fingers wide, then recurl them into tight fists and send my energy into my right leg. I blow a puff of air out of my lungs and scream, delivering the one kick that always throws me off balance, the one I can never get right but that I know generates the most power. If he wasn’t so huge, even bent over, I’d be aiming for his head, but I know I can’t reach it. So I aim my spinning roundhouse kick—my ushiro mawashi geri—right where his floating ribs should be, if jinn even have ribs. When my foot meets his burning pink skin, we connect with so much force a shock wave runs up my leg and into my spine, throwing me backward onto my butt. Instinctively, I draw my fists up to protect my face. I don’t even realize my eyes are squeezed shut until I scamper back to standing and whip them open and see that I’ve knocked Ifrit down. His full length takes up nearly half the balcony, but on the floor, he looks smaller, as if the blood pouring out of his nose is shrinking his body.
Ifrit roars and yells and leaps up, like he’s doing a backbend in reverse. I was right; he is smaller, the size of a tall human now, but his teeth are bared. There are literal flames in his eyes. I may have hurt him, but somehow he feels even more ferocious and terrifying. When he’s fully standing, he pushes his right palm against his side where I kicked him—and I hear pops and crackles like he’s shoving his jinn ribs back into place. The sound makes me gag a little; I can taste bile in the back of my throat. I can’t throw up. This would be a really bad time to puke.
He unsheathes his sword, which must be almost as tall as me. I step back, the dagger in my hand looking about as effective as the knife from the Easy-Bake Oven I got for my sixth birthday. I take a deep, shuddery breath. Ifrit is standing there, his chest heaving, shoulders rising. My eyes dart toward Hamza, who is now climbing on the outside of the main turret—he’s fastened the cummerbund into some kind of harness, and he’s leaning precariously over the cliff’s edge. I see him look down and then close his eyes for a second. I want to message him through sibling telepathy: You got this. Don’t look down, Hamz. His stomach must be in knots. He flashes his eyes open and nods at me. When he turns the blade of his sword to the second, extended tower, I know what Hamza needs. Time.
“Hey. Hey, you,” I prod Ifrit. “Do you think standing there all bloo
dy and gross is going to, what, scare me to death?” I close my free hand into a fist so he can’t see my fingers shaking.
He grunts. “You are most unwise, tiny, foolish human. Many far more powerful than you fear me and kneel before me. You are as an ant I can crush underfoot.”
“I believe that. The stink from your hairy feet alone could kill most creatures.” I keep an eye on Hamza as he uses Suleiman’s celestial steel sword to hack and saw through the second tower, tiny bits of the faux gold crumbling as he does.
“Shahpal bin Shahrukh is truly a fool to put his faith in you. If you are the best Earth has to offer, it is hardly a place worthy of conquest,” Ifrit continues.
“Then why bother? Stay here in your City of Gold and do… whatever you do. I dunno, I could maybe hook you up with a Switch or something. Legend of Zelda seems right up your alley. Dungeons, puzzles, paragliding. Or maybe Animal Crossing. You’d probably be ace at bug catching. I’m talking hours of fun to occupy your, uh, eternity.”
Even though every muscle in my body screams not to, I take a step forward, trying to give him my mother’s Death Stare™ to stop him in his tracks, prevent him from moving from his spot. Ifrit needs to be under that tower of gold clay that Hamza is slicing through.
“You think this is a game? It is not. The conquest of Earth is merely one benefit. Once the moon is torn asunder, while my army runs rampant over your home, I shall free my father, who has been entombed by the treacherous Suleiman for all these centuries. Confined so that his suffering would be endless, a lesson for all. Bound in a brass vessel. Brass! How unworthy. We shall search the entirety of time and space, if need be, to find Suleiman’s Ring of Power, and then we shall reign together, father and son, taking rightful dominion over all lesser creations on Earth and Qaf.”
“I only understood like 50 percent of what you said. If you want to rule over Earth, you might want to bring your fancy talk down a notch. Maybe switch up your syntax, use some contractions, shorter sentences. That kind of thing.”
“You mock me? Here? Now? At this time when your only assurance is death? Humans are so weak in body and spirit. So unaware when their doom is upon them.”
I try to ignore him and my wobbly knees, my sweaty palms, and the puke that threatens to spew out of me. “You may also want to consider giving your beard a serious trim. You are way beyond hipster. At that length, you’re beyond Santa. You’ve got a whole haven’t-bathed-or-shaved-in-months vibe. Not a good look.” I shake my head, then cautiously steal a glance up at Hamza. His sword is nearly through the clay tower. I shove my dagger back into my belt.
“You are a very frail and strange little creature.” Ifrit points his finger toward my head, like he’s taking aim.
“Now!” Hamza yells.
Ifrit turns his head to look, and I grab my bow, string it in a flash.
“No!” he yells. “Suleiman’s Scorpion was meant only for the true Chosen One!” I release the arrow while Hamza delivers a final blow to the crumbling tower. Time slows again, and I see the confused look on Ifrit’s face, his eyes bulging as my arrow arcs through the air. The top of the tower teeters and then tumbles in a million pieces toward Ifrit. My arrow hits him in the neck while hunks of clay pile down on him. He twists and tries to reach for the Peerless Dagger before he’s buried beneath the rubble, but a poof of smoke and ash is all that’s left of him.
Hamza hoots and raises a fist in the air. My chest swells up, and for a second, I feel like I could fly. Like I can get my orange belt in karate and plow down any little kid who stands in my way. We did it! WE. DID. IT. It doesn’t seem real even with all this fake-gold dust in my hair and up my nose. We saved Qaf and our parents and the whole world. Us. Together. Best summer vacation EVER.
But while Hamza and I are high-fiving from far away, the balcony shakes and the rail begins to give way. I look out and see the trees falling like they’re being bulldozed, and the cliffs begin crumbling. There’s golden dust and clay flying through the air. A crack splits the balcony and begins pulling it apart, stranding me in one corner.
“The mountain is coming down!” I scream, realizing I can’t make it to the door. “Get out of there!”
Hamza refastens the cummerbund to a balcony rail on the remaining turret and wraps the other end around his hand. My heart leaps to my throat. I know what he’s going to try to do. I look down as the balcony rumbles again. No way we can survive that fall. “You’re not Spidey! Even if you still wear the pj’s!”
“I can do this!” he yells back, and before I can say anything else, he swings down from the balcony, holding tight to the cummerbund. It is incredibly, embiggeningly flexible. And the whole time I’d been thinking Suleiman had made a fashion faux pas by leaving it for us. I guess he did know what he was doing after all.
Hamza flies from the minaret toward me. I step as close as I can toward the widening chasm on the balcony—no way I can jump to the other side—and hold my arms out. This is the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever done, and we’ve done lots of absurd stuff. Ask our parents. Luckily, I barely have time to think, because Hamza smacks right into me and grabs the strap of my quiver while I wrap my arm around his waist. We’re like a two-headed, four-armed, very awkward dev. The cummerbund’s elasticity only stretches so far, and it begins to pull back toward the minaret where it’s tied. As soon as we make it across the chasm so we’re on the door side of the balcony, I yell, “Jump!” We drop down as the cummerbund snaps back and the turret it was attached to disintegrates, raining chunks of clay on us.
We throw ourselves through the door. The entire palace is coming down. We race down the winding stairs barely ahead of the destruction. With the walls starting to give way, we have to skip steps and leap across the giant cracks in the floor. As we fall through the arched entrance of the palace, the entire ceiling behind us caves, and the blast of debris throws us forward in clouds of gold-colored air. Hamza and I both start coughing. I try to wipe the grime off my face and blink it away from my eyes. I turn to look at the palace.… The entire structure is about to go kaboom. I grab Hamza’s hand and yank him forward. The cliffs surrounding the palace are giving way. We have to get out now or that narrow passage that led us here will be blocked.
We race through the tight valley, shielding our heads and faces from dust and clay fragments. That’s when the lightning comes, ripping through the sky, striking cliff tops and the trees ahead of us. Hamza is right behind me; I can hear his labored breathing. But we’re not going fast enough. We need to move faster. This entire tilism is coming down. Maybe without its creator, the magical world can’t hold together? Like the gold, it can’t last because it’s not real.
We make it through the valley, but when I turn back, I can’t even see through to the end. Looking ahead, I stop short. The lightning is striking the ground almost every second now, and the entire forest of gold trees is ablaze as fiery stones fall from the sky.
“Hurry!” I scream. “We have to get to the raft! It’s the only way off the island!”
We race through the trees, zigzagging between flames and dashing up the dunes, but when we get to the top of the dune, I realize there is no escaping. Our raft is on fire.
We slide down the dune, the City of Gold crumbling behind us, flames everywhere. Tears and dust streak my face. I fall to my knees, sinking into the soft sand. We defeated Ifrit. We saved Qaf. We saved the world. But we’ll never be able to tell anyone about it. To see our parents again. Our friends. Our home. Because we weren’t able to save ourselves.
“Sis, c’mon. What are we going to do? How do we get off the island? Maybe we can swim for it?”
I look up at Hamza. It hasn’t hit him yet. He hasn’t realized. “Sure, it’s worth a shot.” I sniffle, wiping away tears and snot on the back of my sleeve. I know neither of us are strong enough swimmers to make it to the other shore, which we can’t even see now because of the clouds of smoke.
Hamza drops the backpack and starts to take off his shoes. Should I say
something? Should I tell him it’s too far? That the lightning makes it even deadlier? That there could be other monsters in the sea? That the current and waves are too strong for us? We’re out of options. This entire place is burning, and soon the fire will push us into the water anyway.
I stare at the stuff that fell out the backpack when Hamza dropped it. Granola wrappers. A bunch of Nerf bullets. The flask and the jade tablet. I reach over to see if it has any final weird, cryptic words. It does: You were born with wings; why prefer to crawl?
Hamza glances at it as he pulls off his socks. “We could really use one of those flying pots right now.” He shrugs.
I sniffle, nod. Start taking off my shoes. Wings. Crawl. Oh my God! It’s actually being literal for once.
“Hamz, the feather! From the simurgh! She said to burn it in an emergency.” I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the coppery feather. It’s a bit bent and smushed, but hopefully that won’t matter. I throw it onto the raft. It flares and shoots a bronze beacon high into the sky.
“It’s like the Bat-Signal! Cool.”
“If it works.” But I barely have time for doubt, because soon I hear a deeper version of the scronking the baby simurgh was making when I found it. Through the smoke and gold-dust-filled air, I can make out the coppery-bronze wings of the simurgh. They’re immense, and I watch Hamza’s face as he catches his first glimpse of the simurgh’s lion paws and dog face. He turns to me; his mouth drops wide open. Iftah ya Simsim.
The simurgh lands on the water’s edge, her wings shooting water droplets into the air when they meet the sea.
“No time to talk. Hurry, children,” she says. “Climb on my back.”
I grab the dagger and sword while Hamza shoves the tablet into the backpack.
“Leave the weapons. We must fly over the Magnetic Sea to reconnect with the Garden of Iram. The sea may draw your weapons—any substantial metals—downward and could sink us.”
I hear the simurgh, but I’m reluctant to throw down the dagger and sword. “What if we encounter other enemies along the way? Allies of Ifrit? How will we fight them?”